There was more than terror in her eyes. This woman was also grieving some awful loss. The little boy came to stand by her side. A worn haversack lay slung over one of his shoulders. Awestruck by royalty, he respectfully removed his weathered cap, then looked to the floor.
“Something terrible has happened, my liege,” the woman said in a quavering voice. “Charningham-our village-so many dead…” Her voice trailed off into more weeping.
Tristan turned to look at Wigg.
“I am Wigg, the First Wizard,” Wigg said gently. “What is your name?”
Trying to compose herself, the woman scrubbed her face with her palms. “I am Annabelle,” she answered weakly. “This is my son, Brent. My husband and four others were tortured and killed four days ago by a strange being of the craft. He told us to come here, to give the Conclave a warning. I have never seen anything like him. He wasn’t human…”
Tristan helped the woman to her feet; she buried her face into his shoulder. He ordered Ox to fetch chairs from the chamber floor. Soon all ten visitors sat on the dais, facing the Conclave members.
“Please tell us what happened,” the prince said. “Leave nothing unsaid.”
For the next hour, the refugees related the tale. Brent told about seeing the Darkling-Xanthus-cross the Sippora River, and then how he and his father had been taken back to Charningham. The adults described the savage torture, the senseless killings, and the Darkling’s bizarre self-mutilation. Finally Annabelle recounted the warnings Xanthus had given them, and how they were to be conveyed to the Conclave. When the group finally finished, the only sound came from the swishing window curtains as they obeyed the afternoon breeze.
Tristan looked over at Wigg, Faegan, and Jessamay. If anyone knew what these beleaguered people were talking about, it would be they. “What is a Darkling?” he asked.
“I do not know,” Wigg answered. The First Wizard looked at Faegan, then Jessamay. They both shook their heads. Wigg looked back at Annabelle.
“Did Xanthus say where he was going next?” he asked.
The widow shook her head. “Only that if the prince did not obey, there would be more sacrifices,” she answered. “But he did say that there was no use trying to find him, for he could become ‘dust on the wind.’ As he rode out of town, all the foliage in his path died. Then he simply disappeared.”
His eyes alight with curiosity, Faegan wheeled his chair closer. “What did you just say?” he asked anxiously. “About the foliage, I mean.”
“All the plants around him die,” Brent answered for his mother. “Even big trees wither. It was the same with the Sippora when his horse came wading toward father and me. It simply stopped flowing.” His eyes filled with tears, and he bravely brushed them away.
Just then Brent remembered something. After fishing about in his haversack, he produced a section of tree branch and a rolled-up scroll. The branch, hardy Eutracian maple, was about twice as thick as a grown man’s thumb. One end was ragged, showing where it had been ripped away from its host. The other end was cut diagonally, its severed edge smooth as glass. The scroll was bound by a bloodred ribbon.
Brent handed the branch and the scroll to the prince. “Xanthus told me to give these to you. He said that you would know what they meant.”
Tristan took them. He placed the scroll in his lap, then closely examined the branch. A grim expression came over his face. He realized that he wouldn’t need to unroll the scroll. Lowering his head, he said nothing.
Shailiha gave her brother a puzzled look. “It’s only some freshly cut maple,” she said. “How important could it possibly be?”
Tristan looked over at his sister. “Frederick never told you?” he asked.
The princess shook her head. Frederick had been her husband, and Morganna’s father. He had also been Tristan’s best friend and the commander of the Royal Guard. He had fallen at the hands of the Coven on the night of Tristan’s aborted coronation.
Shailiha looked curiously at the tree branch. She had no idea what Tristan was talking about. “What does it signify?” she asked again.
“Indeed,” Wigg added. “Enlighten us all.”
Tristan had heard stories, but that was all: Even though he knew what the items symbolized, he couldn’t believe they had been presented to him. Looking back at Brent, Tristan held up the branch.
“Did you see Xanthus cut this?” he asked.
The boy nodded. “It was amazing.”
Tristan nodded. “I can only imagine,” he whispered. He turned to face the Conclave.
“This is a warning,” he said simply. “Xanthus is coming for me. He is telling me that he can best me in combat. He therefore expects me to surrender to him without a fight.”
Faegan wheeled his chair closer. “Tell us,” he said.
“These two symbols involve a tale of the Royal Guard,” Tristan explained. “Anyone who has taken Guard training is familiar with the fable. Wigg likely knows of it, too. It goes something like this:
“Long ago, an arrogant young Royal Guard captain challenged his elderly sword instructor to a duel. He apparently felt embarrassed for having his technique harshly criticized before his fellow officers. He sent a servant with a message for the instructor to meet him at dawn, with his second and his broadsword.”
Tristan looked over at the wizards. “Duels were once commonplace, weren’t they?” he asked.
“Yes,” Wigg answered. “A barbaric custom, more often about revenge than honor. The Directorate eventually outlawed the practice.”
Tristan nodded. “Anyway, when the young servant found the master and repeated his captain’s demands, the sword master said nothing. Instead, he chose to reply physically, rather than verbally.”
Interested as she was in all combat-related knowledge, Tyranny edged her chair closer. “What did he do?” she asked.
“The master tore a branch from a Eutracian maple tree, then tossed it into the air. With one swift movement, he pulled his sword from its scabbard and cleaved the branch before it touched the ground. The branch was sliced diagonally, just as this one has been. The cut was perfect in every respect. Since then, it is said that every Royal Guard member has tried to successfully duplicate that feat. To this day, no one has ever done so.”
“And then?” Shailiha asked.
“Saying nothing, the master picked up the cut branch and handed it to the captain’s servant. He also gave him a scroll, bound by a red ribbon. Then he simply turned and walked away. When the captain heard the story and saw the perfect cut, he wisely rescinded his challenge.”
“I understand the branch’s meaning,” Abbey said, “but what purpose does the scroll serve?”
Tristan handed it to her. “The red ribbon signifies the recipient’s spilled blood, should the scroll’s message not be heeded,” he said. “Read it for yourself.”
As Abbey untied the ribbon and unrolled the document, several eager Conclave members left their seats to come peer over her shoulder. After looking at the unrolled scroll, Abbey scowled. The scroll was blank.
“Why send someone a blank scroll?” she asked. “It communicates nothing.”
Tristan shook his head. “You’re wrong,” he said softly. “To those of us who understand, it says everything.”
He took the scroll back from her. “Just as in the story I told you, this blank scroll presented to me represents the other half of Xanthus’ message,” he said.
“And that is…?” Traax asked.
“That he has mastered the final stage of his weapons training,” Tristan answered. “Its teachings have supposedly never been put into writing. To keep this highest instruction secret, it was only handed down orally, from master to student. It is also said that such teachings are long lost. The Old Eutracian word for this final stage isK’Shari. Roughly translated, it means ‘The Eye of the Storm.’
“The blank scroll tells me that he has attainedK’Shari, with the axe being his apparent weapon of choice. In other words, his technique has become effortless. Like this parchment’s serene emptiness, during battle his mind remains as placid as a hurricane’s eye while violence swirls all about him. The cut tree branch represents his prowess’s physical side. The empty parchment signifies the mental discipline he has gained. Xanthus might well be the foremost weapons master in the world.” He paused to let that sink in.
“There was supposedly a saying among those few who had reached the state ofK’Shari, ” he went on. “‘My ears hear no begging. My eyes see no pain. My heart feels no remorse.’ This was their credo.”
