more ribs snapped, and both his shoulders dislocated. His heart, crushed, beat its last. A final death rattle escaped his lungs. His eyes were open wide, but unseeing.
Annabelle fainted; a nearby man caught her in his arms. For several long moments, Brent’s wailing was the only sound in the square.
Suddenly a man rushed from the crowd. He was brandishing a sword, which he pointed directly at the Darkling.
“You’re insane!” he growled. “If you don’t stop this madness, I’ll kill you!”
Xanthus didn’t say a word. Raising one arm, he used the craft to levitate the fellow into the air. The man’s fingers opened, and his sword clattered to the ground. His body stiffened; his eyes rolled back in his head. As if he were controlled by some unseen puppeteer-and in a way, he was-his body started dancing about wildly. Then his limbs began to break.
First the arms then the legs snapped, their glistening bones rupturing the skin in grisly, compound fractures. Blood flew, spattering the crowd nearby.
Suddenly the man’s eyes went wide. His body arched, and then, with a sudden, swift motion, his back broke.
The body fell to the ground. Xanthus wheeled his horse around and glared at the crowd. Some sobbed; others hung their heads in shame. An elderly matron pulled Brent close to her.
“Is there anyone else who dares to be heroic?” Xanthus shouted. Silence filled the square.
“Good,” he said simply, and walked his mount back toward the remaining captives.
It took three more hours to kill the four others. When it was done, Xanthus climbed down from his horse and removed the clothing covering the upper half of his body.
He was no longer the ghostly apparition the unfortunate Minion warriors had fought at the azure pass. He now appeared human, his body flesh and blood. Kneeling on the ground, facing west toward the Tolenkas, he removed a black, knotted line from his discarded clothing and began to flagellate himself.
Those in the crowd who had not already fainted watched, frozen by the Darkling’s spell, though shock and horror would probably have kept them silent and unmoving even without the use of the craft.
As the cords ripped into his back, he showed no pain, no slacking in his self-discipline. On and on it went, his strokes perfectly spaced, until he had finished one hundred lashes. As the moonlight beamed down, his blood ran into the thirsty dirt lying between the square’s remaining stones.
The Darkling stood and placed the bloody cords into a pocket, then donned his clothing again. The azure glow revisited him, returning his body to its original form. Xanthus released the crowd from his spell. The dazed citizens cowered as he walked back toward them.
“My work here is done,” he said, “but yours is not. My mandate to you is this: Assemble a group of your most trusted citizens, then ride hard for Tammerland. You are to request an emergency audience before the Conclave of Vigors. Tell them what happened here by the power I, a Darkling, hold. Tell theJin’Sai that it will do no good to try and find me, because I can vanish like dust on the wind. I will visit him soon enough. If you disobey me, I will return to this place and more of you will die.”
He pointed to a nearby tree, and one of its branches tore loose to float in the air. As the flying branch approached, Xanthus drew his axe and cut it in half with a single motion. The two pieces fell to the ground. From a pocket he withdrew a white scroll bound with a bloodred ribbon. He tossed the scroll to the ground.
“See that theJin’Sai is given the scroll and one of the cut branches,” he ordered. “He will understand.”
With a final glare at the crowd, Xanthus mounted his horse and headed out of town. As if bowing in shame, the foliage lining the street withered as he passed.
Just as the monster slipped into the darkness, he vanished.
CHAPTER VI
THREE DAYS LATER, TRISTAN SAT ALONE ON HIS PRIVATEbalcony, looking out on the newly landscaped grounds of the rebuilt palace. It was morning in Eutracia, and he wore only a blue silk robe. He was tired; sleeping had been difficult again last night. A lavish breakfast brought by Shawna the Short sat untouched before him. Shawna would be beside herself when she learned that he hadn’t eaten, but he just wasn’t hungry. He took a sip of lukewarm tea, then returned his gaze to the palace grounds. He sat there for some time, remembering.
Finally he stood and walked into the rooms that he had briefly shared with Celeste. The familiar scent of myrrh still clung to the bedsheets and pillowcases. It often caused haunting memories of her to enter his dreams. He sometimes awakened in the night, expecting to find her lying there beside him. When he remembered that she was no more, the tears always came, making him feel even more alone in the darkness.
He shrugged off his robe and dropped it onto an empty chair, then dressed. As he took up his dreggan a thought struck him. He slowly slid the sword from its scabbard.
The Conclave was convening this morning to discuss the impending attack on the Citadel and other important matters. How much longer would he need physical weapons like this? he wondered as he stared at the shiny, razor-sharp blade.
Faegan, Wigg, and the late Redoubt Wizards had abandoned the use of physical weapons once their gifts had become fully realized. When he was trained, would he do the same? He always felt naked without his sword and knives, and couldn’t imagine being without them. Sheathing the blade, he tossed the sword onto the four-poster bed.
He walked to the fireplace. On the mantel rested the urn containing Celeste’s ashes. Beside it lay her farewell letter. There was no reason to read it again-he knew it line by line. He closed his eyes for a moment, then turned away and walked back to the balcony to lean against the railing.
His recent behavior was hurting people he loved. He knew that, but sometimes the pain welled up so much that he couldn’t help it. Had his sorrow been only for Celeste, it would have been devastating enough. But when he also remembered the many others who had sacrificed their lives to the Vagaries, his sorrow morphed into sullenness, his sullenness sometimes deteriorating into outright rage.
Worse, until the Acolytes of the Redoubt learned to empower the Black Ships, there seemed little for him to do. Since the return of the Coven, Tristan had been a man of action, intent on destroying Vagaries practitioners wherever he found them. Whenever there was no enemy to fight, his restless spirit died a little. Eutracia was enjoying a peaceful time, and for that he was grateful. But without an enemy to face, this newfound peace was frustrating him.
The question that had haunted him since his experiences in the Well of Forestallments again came to mind. Who would she be, this woman the Scroll Master said would finally capture his heart? Where would she come from; what would she be like? Could he ever love someone more than he had loved Celeste? The mere thought was almost unbearable.
A knock came on the door, firm, insistent.
“Enter!” he called.
The doors parted to show Shailiha and Tyranny. Shailiha was wearing a simple green gown, with matching slippers and a Eutracian freshwater pearl strand. Her long blond hair caressed her shoulders. Tyranny was dressed as she had been since Tristan first met her, in black knee boots; striped, formfitting trousers; and a short leather jacket, its collar reaching nearly to her jaw. A sword hung at her left hip; a sheathed dagger lay tied down to her right thigh. Her short, dark, urchinlike hair looked as unruly as ever.
Tristan nodded to them. Shailiha gave her twin brother a cheerful smile.
“We’ve come to collect you!” she announced. “The meeting starts soon.”
“I’m aware,” he answered. He walked to the bed to take up his weapons.
A sudden idea came to the princess. Crooking a finger at Tyranny, Shailiha smiled and beckoned her to stand by Tristan’s wardrobe. Quietly she opened the double doors and looked inside.
Since the Coven’s return, it seemed that Tristan lived in nothing but his simple scuffed knee boots, black trousers, and matching leather vest. The wardrobe was full of beautiful finery that had hung unused for far too long. After examining the abandoned garments, she turned to her brother. There was an impish look on her face.
