Robert Newcomb: A March into Darkness

“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.

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.

“I have an idea!” It was abundantly clear that she was trying to cheer him up.

“The masquerade ball is tonight! The palace will be full of people. It’s going to be grand, just like the old days! Why not let me help you choose something to wear?”

Having finally adjusted the dreggan baldric and knife quiver to his satisfaction, Tristan turned. He scowled when he saw the open wardrobe full of useless puffery.

He had forgotten all about the ball. In fact, he wished he could cancel it entirely. It had been the wizards’ idea. The nation had finally healed, they said. It was time to celebrate the peace by opening the palace to the populace, even if it was only for one night.

In the end, Tristan had reluctantly agreed. He knew his presence would be mandatory. But that didn’t mean he liked it.

The prince glowered at his sister. She countered his glare by folding her arms across her chest and impatiently tapping one foot on the floor. Tyranny smiled.

Tristan shook his head. “I hadn’t thought about it,” he answered.

Shailiha walked over. Pointing to his worn clothes, she shook her head and made a disapproving, clucking sound.

“Please don’t tell me you’re going to wearthose!” she exclaimed. “There will be more than a smattering of young ladies there, eager for your attention! You have to look your best!”

The moment the words left her mouth, she realized how insensitive she had just been. Tristan’s face darkened. Trying to warn Shailiha, Tyranny cleared her throat.

The princess immediately went to her brother. She took his hands into hers.

“I’m so sorry,” she said quietly. “I should have known better.” She pulled him to her.

He closed his eyes again. “I should know better, too,” he answered gently. “You also understand what it means to lose the love of your life.”

“I know how much you hurt,” she whispered. “But each day gets a little easier. You’ll just have to trust me on that.”

Silent moments passed as he tried to believe her. Finally she let him go.

Gathering himself up, Tristan took a deep breath. “Now then,” he said, “I must oversee the meeting.”

He held out an arm to each of the women.

“By all means,” Shailiha answered.

The princess gave Tyranny a wink; then, with a look of mock ferociousness, she pointed her index finger into the air.

“We must not be late!” she said, imitating Wigg. “Such meetings are of the utmost importance!” Tyranny and Tristan laughed.

It is good to hear him laugh, Shailiha thought as they walked to the door. Especially now that it happens so rarely.

Entering the hallway, the trio headed for the Redoubt.

Tristan looked across the highly polished table, first at Wigg, then at Faegan. “Give me a progress report on the acolytes,” he said. “How soon can the Black Ships sail?”

Wigg placed his gnarled hands flat on the table. The Paragon, hanging on a cord around his neck, twinkled in the candlelight.