still rejected them as boring and tedious.
As he neared the Great Hall he started to see guests. Each of their costumes seemed more sumptuous than the last. Even the Minions were in disguise-a rather incongruous notion, because it was impossible to hide their dark wings. It gladdened his heart to see Eutracians and Minions mixing so well. Less than two years ago, this gathering would have been impossible.
At first he was surprised to find the Minion women so stunning. Their body armor gone, they were dressed in human, female attire. Despite the obvious alterations for their wings, they wore the garments well. He smiled to himself as he wondered how Ox, Traax, and Duvessa would be dressed.
As he made his way through the crowd, he realized that wearing no mask put him at a disadvantage. As expected, guests began recognizing him. Disguised as they were, it was difficult to know how to respond to their greetings. After an older man lowered his mask to show Tristan that he was in fact Tammerland’s mayor, the rather embarrassed prince decided it was time to even the odds.
Ducking into a room off the hallway, he closed the door. He put down his wineglass, then reached beneath his vest to produce his only concession to the masquerade-a simple black mask that covered the upper half of his face. He quickly tied its string around the back of his head. Picking up his glass, he walked to a mirror hanging on the opposite wall.
The image staring back at him looked far more like some menacing highwayman than it did a member of the royal house. Then his memories crept in again, and he looked to the floor. Closing his eyes, he rolled the half- empty wineglass back and forth between his palms, thinking.
If only Celeste was here. How ravishing she would look! If she was on my arm, I wouldn’t care how long the ball lasted. Doing his best to shelve his sadness, he squared his shoulders, then reentered the busy hallway.
The crushing flow of people and warriors had become even stronger, but at least this time nearly everyone was going in the same direction. The ball would start soon, and the Great Hall would be packed with revelers. With his mask on, fewer people recognized him. But he would still be late. As he wended his way through the crowd, his thoughts turned to earlier that day.
When today’s second Conclave meeting had adjourned, he had stayed behind for a time, thinking. Although the members had been able to talk freely, no one had been able to offer an explanation about Xanthus. Even Wigg, Faegan, and Jessamay were at a loss. Glad to finally be alone, Tristan had gazed into the fireplace and come to some conclusions of his own.
The deaths in Charningham had been horrific and unprovoked. Clearly, Xanthus needed to be stopped and his motives brought to light. But how did one do that when the quarry was a ghost, able to vanish at will? Then there was the disturbing matter of the freshly cut branch and the blank scroll. Their meanings clear, the two symbols sat quietly atop the meeting room table.
He soon found his mind returning to that awful day in Parthalon, when he had killed Kluge and become the lord of the Minions. Kluge had been the strongest opponent he had ever met. Tristan had barely escaped with his life.
But where Kluge’s technique had been that of a raging beast, Xanthus’ would not be. When his axe was in his hands, Xanthus would become the consummate warrior-a veritable magician of the combative arts. Kluge had reveled in his kills. But Xanthus’ attainment ofK’Shari would keep his heart and mind placid, unfeeling, and perfect in his deadliness. In the end, Xanthus would be far more dangerous.
Tristan turned to see his dreggan and throwing knives hanging over his chair back. The weapons gleamed beautifully in the firelight. Then he looked into the fire again.
I cannot beat this creature, this Darkling, he realized. If he comes for me and I resist him, I will die.
Even so, one thing had become abundantly clear. Xanthus was of the Vagaries. The dark side of the craft was again on the march in Eutracia, and it had to be stopped.
The sound of music returned Tristan’s mind to the present as he finally neared the Great Hall. Knowing better than to try to go through the giant doors and fight his way across the room, he opened a nearby alcove door and quickly closed it behind him.
He was soon standing in a well-lit antechamber just off the hall’s dais. With luck, he might be able to slip into his chair without too many guests noticing that he was late. Walking across the chamber, he opened the door and stepped onto the dais.
Other than on the day of his ill-fated coronation, Tristan had never seen the Great Hall decorated so beautifully. The room was covered by a domed ceiling of stained glass through which light cascaded in a dizzying array of colors. The floor was a vast sea of black-and-white checkerboard marble squares. Giant variegated columns, so thick around that it would take ten men holding hands to surround just one, flanked the entire length of two opposing walls from ceiling to floor. Thick garlands of purple ginger lily were wound around each one, and strung from one to the next. Scores of golden chandeliers and standing candelabras provided light from their glowing flames. Several large indoor fountains playfully shot water streams into the air. The water tumbled back into surrounding pools holding fish of every color and description. A musicians’ pit near one end of the dais held twenty men and women. The musicians were busily playing melodies for the whirling dancers.
While hundreds of costumed revelers wheeled to the music, liveried waiters and waitresses mingled politely on the sidelines, offering up silver trays laden with food and drink. Against the room’s walls sat many buffet tables that were loaded with yet more delicacies.
Shaking his head, Tristan snorted. Each table had to be twenty meters long. The moment a platter became empty, palace cooks or gnome wives quickly bustled in, carrying ever-more-sumptuous treats.
Meant only for the Conclave members, ten high-backed chairs sat atop the dais. A line of citizens and warriors eager to greet the Conclave stretched from the room’s far reaches, all the way forward along one wall, then up and across the dais. As the people and the warriors approached, another liveried servant accepted their engraved invitations, then loudly announced their names. As he took in the line’s length, Tristan groaned. Then he smiled behind his mask as he heard the servant struggle, trying to correctly pronounce one of the Minion warriors’ more exotic names.
Four Conclave members’ chairs were conspicuously empty-those that had once belonged to Geldon and Celeste, plus Tyranny’s and his own. Tyranny must also be late, he assumed. Although Geldon and Celeste could not be present, Tristan had insisted that their chairs be included as a sign of their sacrifices to the Vigors. He walked across the dais, to sit down between Wigg and Shailiha.
Like Tristan, it seemed that Wigg had granted no concession to the masquerade besides his highly ornate mask. How much teasing had the First Wizard been forced to endure from Abbey before finally donning it? Tristan wondered. For a moment he considered whether it was real or conjured, then decided that it didn’t matter. It was beautifully made of crinkled gold foil, with black, sweeping eyebrows that gave it a rather disparaging expression. How appropriate, Tristan thought with a smile.
Wigg looked at him and said nothing. He didn’t have to-Tristan knew full well that the expression on the wizard’s face and mask would match perfectly.
Shailiha was stunning. She was dressed in a dark blue gown, and her long blond hair graced either shoulder. Her matching blue shoes were decorated with indigo sapphires. Her gold medallion exactly matching his hung brightly around her neck. One edge of her mask was attached to a handle. The full mask was bloodred, adorned with white feathers where the eyebrows would normally be. The eye holes slanted up at the far corners, giving it a seductive quality. Tristan smiled at her from behind his mask; she smiled back.
“You’re late!” she whispered. “In the name of the Afterlife, can’t you ever be on time? Wigg must be furious!”
“Naturally,” Tristan answered back. “That’s his job.”
He gladly drank in his twin sister’s beauty once more. She would have no lack of suitors tonight, and for that he was glad. She had been lonely since Frederick’s death, and enough time had gone by. Tristan knew that no one would deny her the right to be happy again.
Holding the mask before her face, Shailiha smiled as a man approached from the receiving line. As the man lowered his mask, the princess immediately remembered the handsome fellow as Count Tomasso, from the province of Ephyra.
When the count bowed, his blue eyes flashed in the candlelight. As Shailiha extended her hand, he lightly brushed his lips across the back of her satin elbow glove.
“Good evening, Your Highness,” he said smoothly. Then he turned to Tristan. “My liege,” he said.
