Despite Tristan's order, the huge warrior seemed locked in place. Wondering why Ox hadn't obeyed, Tristan steadied himself, then grabbed Ox by his massive shoulders.
"Fly back to the roof!" Tristan commanded him. "You must go now! Even I am not sure of what is about to happen! What I must do here, you cannot be a part of!"
As the flames roared all around them, Ox looked sadly into Tristan's eyes. He opened his mouth to speak, but then closed it again. Then Ox did something that no Minion warrior had ever dared to do.
Taking a step forward, he embraced his Jin'Sai in his wings.
Both honored and surprised, for several precious moments Tristan embraced him back. Saying nothing, Ox released Tristan and took to the air.
Tristan looked around. He was near the banks of the Sippora, about thirty meters upriver from the palace. Buildings as yet untouched by the approaching inferno stood nearby, the fires' shadows crawling along their walls-a haunting portent of things soon to come. The stinking heat and choking smoke were nearly overpowering. Feeling faint, Tristan placed one hand before his face. He couldn't go any farther or he would die before he did what he had come here to do. And so he was forced to wait for the awful thing to come to him.
Finally, the dark, stinking mass of superheated pollution in the Sippora drew closer. The ever-changing cracks in its surface shot poison and hungry flames high into the air. In moments it would be alongside the palace. It was time to act, Tristan knew, and there wasn't a moment to lose.
He reached over his right shoulder and took one of his throwing knives from its scabbard. Just as the Scroll Master had instructed him, he made a small incision in his left palm. He replaced the knife, then braved the heat to struggle to the edge of the river. He held his wounded hand out. Making a fist, he squeezed the wound until his blood dripped into the water. He stepped back from the bank, looked at the blood, and narrowed his eyes.
Almost at once the blood expanded, billowing outward, and began to flow upstream, against the current. As if it had a life of its own, it sought out the dark pollution coming its way.
The two substances touched.
The clouds of red blood slowly snaked their way around the mass. As Tristan concentrated with all of his might, the blood formed red tentacles that left the water and, like a spider's web, reached up and around the mass. Once the mass was encased, the tentacles started to squeeze. As the mass flowed down the river, an azure haze formed around it.
The explosion that followed ripped through the heavens. Blinding rays of pure white light burst upward, illuminating the burning city. The mass disintegrated, cracking and splintering noisily. Its remaining fragments rained down harmlessly on the river and its banks.
And then it was gone. Amazingly, the river had returned to its natural state.
Exhausted, Tristan lowered his hands. The Scroll Master had been right, he realized. But there were still two Forestallments that remained to be employed. As he stood there among the flaming ruins, he could feel them calling out to him, begging to be released.
Turning to face the river, he raised his hands again. The Scroll Master had warned him that, due to his growing fatigue, each of the two successive Forestallments would be progressively more challenging to dominate. If he lost control, they could turn on him, killing him. Wondering whether he was about to die, Tristan looked to the water and concentrated all of his newfound power upon it.
Slowly, agonizingly, the waters of the Sippora started to rise. The plume that was being generated soared high into the sky. As the onrushing river water continued to feed it, the whirling maelstrom of water flattened out at its top until it reached from one end of the city to the other.
Tristan's body shook and the flames licked at his boots. He tried with all his might to enlarge the whirling plume. As he felt the power slipping away from him, he knew that it was time. He dropped his arms.
The plume broke apart, sending a torrential downpour crashing into the city. It flooded through buildings, rushed down the streets, and fell upon every fire. Jubilant citizens rushed out of hiding places to lift their arms and embrace the downpour.
In every part of the great city, the fires went out. Steam plumes rose into the air, blanketing everything for a time. Much of Tammerland lay in ruins, but the eastern half of the metropolis had been spared. And the Sippora River-once destined to annihilate everything it touched-now flowed clean and strong again, just as it had for untold centuries.
Trying desperately to see through the rising steam, Shailiha searched for her brother. At first she couldn't see him. Then some of the haze lifted, and there he was. She stared in horror.
Curled up into a fetal position, Tristan lay unmoving on the bank of the river. His eyes were closed, and it was impossible to tell whether he was dead or alive. It looked like his hands were badly scorched from his untrained use of the craft.
Mad with worry, Shailiha turned to Ox. "You must take me to him!" she shouted. "He could be dying!"
Ox was about to obey when Wigg stopped him. His expression held no room for compromise.
"It's true that he may be dead," Wigg said, "and no one dreads that more than you and me. But under no circumstances are we to go near him. The Scroll Master warned Tristan of this, and the prince explained it to me. His wishes must be obeyed to the letter. If the Jin'Sai still lives, then what he must do, he must do alone."
Putting one arm around her, Wigg looked sadly into Shailiha's glistening eyes. "I'm sorry, Princess," he said. "At this moment in the history of the craft, we are but pawns in the struggle between light and dark. The Jin'Sai's destiny shall be what it shall be. We must accept that." Tristan's mind was feverish and his breathing was irregular, as his body fought to stay alive. Time after time his consciousness struggled to resurface and join the world, only to be dragged back under again. And then-for the first time in his life-Tristan heard the voices of the Ones Who Came Before. They revealed themselves to him gently, soft tones in his mind.
"Tristan…"
His breathing shallow, his heartbeat slow and weak, Tristan did not move.
"Tristan," they called again, more insistently. "You must rise, our son. As the reigning Jin'Sai, you have done well. But you must discover whether you still possess the strength to perform this last deed. The release of your last Forestallment will bring you the acceptance and trust of your subjects that you have so long desired. Rise up, Jin'Sai. Rise and employ this last forestallment, to take your rightful place in your world."
Groaning, Tristan moved slightly. With a supreme effort of will, he raised himself up to his knees. He was exhausted. His body and clothing were both soaked with rain and charred and dirty from the fires. But he bowed his head and answered the call of the Ones Who Came Before.
"I am here," he told them silently.
"You and your sister are the strongest Jin'Sai and Jin'Saiou ever to walk the earth," the voices said. "Our hopes run high that it shall be you and she who finally join the two sides of the craft. But, in truth, your travails have only just begun. If you live through the application of your final Forestallment, you know what your next deed must be, for the Scroll Master has told you. Do not tarry in that mission, Jin'Sai, for there is so little time."
"It shall be as you say," he answered silently.
Tristan got wavering unsteadily to his feet. He pushed his dark, wet hair away from his eyes.
Trying to reclaim his senses, he again drew a knife. He hardly felt the fresh cut he made in his palm. No longer caring what became of the knife, he let it slip from his hand and fall to the wet ground. He closed his wounded fist to squeeze more of his blood onto the ground.
Raising his arms, he closed his eyes.