The Scrolls of the Ancients tcobas-3

by Robert Newcomb

  She stood there quietly for a moment watching his tortured death throes and listening to the last bit of breath rattle from his lungs. Calmly, slowly, she stepped before the third of them.

  "Hopefully you are bright enough to have learned by example," she said, pressing the bloody point of her dagger up against the base of his right eye. "I'll keep this simple," she snarled. "Where is my brother-the man you took away that night in the alley fight in Farpoint?"

  The slaver smiled up at her. "He is off to the place that is the most horrible on earth," he said softly. "Some even say it is the birthplace of the craft. It is a place from which your brother will never return. And even if he did, you would find him quite unrecognizable, Your Highness." He paused for a moment and smiled again, showing pointed, black teeth.

  "So kill me if you must," he hissed, "for I will tell you no more. No death by your hand could ever match the horrors that would be visited on me by Krassus should I talk."

  Her mind made up, Shailiha took a step backward. Resheathing her dagger, she drew her sword and grasped it with both hands. Then she walked around behind the slaver and raised the sword high.

  Swinging it down and around with everything she had, she beheaded the thing with a single stroke.

  Celeste dropped her tired arm, and they looked at each other. Shailiha held her sword limply, its point hanging toward the ground. Thunder rumbled softly across the sky. Then the wind picked up, blowing the debris of the battle around in little maelstroms.

  Shailiha cast her tired eyes upward. The clouds had become darker, and the rain suddenly began. As the water collected on the ground, it swept up the fresh blood of both the tortured and the tormentors into little red rivers flowing through the grass.

  Shailiha sheathed her sword, and then she and Celeste walked into the charred remains of Tree Town.

  CHAPTER

  Seventeen

  "Y ou're worried, aren't you?" Abbey asked.

  Wigg took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He had, of course, known that Celeste and Shailiha had been trying to maneuver him into letting them go to Shadowood. He knew, too, that his eventual agreement to their request had perhaps not been altogether prudent. But he also understood their frustration at being virtual prisoners here in the palace while Tristan remained missing. And so, knowing how much each of them cared about the prince, he had finally relented.

  Wigg sighed. On the surface of it, letting the two strong-willed women go alone had at first seemed safe enough, especially given the emergence of Celeste's Forestallment. In his more than three hundred years of experience in the craft, he had never seen bolts so dynamic as those his daughter could now command. While it was true that she needed more training, the degree of power she already possessed was unmistakable. But now that they were gone, he was having misgivings about his decision.

  He scowled. If Celeste and Shailiha did not exit Faegan's portal tomorrow by the end of the appointed hour, he would enter the enchanted passageway himself and bring them back by their ears, if he had to. Would that retrieving Tristan could be as simple.

  Four Seasons of New Life before, Wigg had himself chosen Krassus for the position of first alternate-a fact that added heavily to the lead wizard's increasing sense of guilt. At the time, Krassus had been everything the wizards could have asked for. He was very powerful and learned for a consul, and seemed humbly, steadfastly devoted to the exclusive practice of the Vigors. Famous among the Brotherhood for the number of good deeds he had performed, he was well known for his compassion and patience-so much so that Wigg had nominated him to the post without the slightest reservation.

  The Directorate had heartily agreed, installing him into the lofty position by unanimous vote. Even when Nicholas had begun abducting the consuls to help him construct the Gates of Dawn, Wigg had hoped that Krassus might be among those who had eluded his grasp.

  But all that had changed that day in the gaming room when Krassus appeared with his evil demands.

  The Krassus that Wigg had observed that day had been far more than simply evil. He had also been angry, impatient, and quick to employ force without thinking-much the same way the sorceresses of the Coven had been. Not only had he become far more powerful than ever before, but he clearly now had a wild, unpredictable side, making him the worst possible kind of enemy. And his new illness-the sudden, violent coughing up of endowed blood-remained a mystery.

  The memory of the unmistakable glint of depravity in those eyes made Wigg more fearful for Tristan's welfare with each passing moment. They simply had to have the goods from Shadowood as quickly as possible if there was ever to be any hope of finding the prince and bringing him home alive.

  "A kisa for your thoughts," Abbey said, breaking into his reveries.

  Turning over in Wigg's huge, four-poster bed, she raised herself up on one elbow and smiled. Lifting his left hand, he gently ran the backs of his fingers down her cheek.

  "You surprised me this night," he said softly. "Although I cannot say I am disappointed."

  "Three hundred years is a long time, Lead Wizard," she teased, "in spite of the time enchantments." Moving her face closer to his, she smiled again. "A girl shouldn't have to wait forever, you know, simply because forever has been made available to her."

  Wigg smiled back at her.

  It was well after midnight, and from the open doors of his balcony came the gentle peeping of the tree frogs and the sound of the breeze as it rustled through the palace's once well-tended gardens. The night sky was clear, and the stars twinkled brightly, as if winking to the lovers that the heavens knew of their secret, and approved. Occasionally the form of a silent, patrolling warrior could be seen eerily silhouetted in black, flying across the triplet spheres of the rose-colored moons.

  In his worry over Tristan, Shailiha, and Celeste, Wigg had been unable to sleep. It had already been late when the door to his chambers had unexpectedly opened, then quietly closed again. He had sat up in bed and raised his arm, ready to defend himself. Then he'd seen Abbey's form move silently across the doorframe of the open, moonlit balcony.

  He had tried to speak, but she'd moved to the bed and placed a finger delicately across his lips. She'd dropped her robe to the floor and stood for a moment, her body shining in the rose-colored light. Then she lowered herself into his bed. Wigg had taken her into his arms, and their three hundred years of separation had finally, truly come to an end.

  Turning, Wigg looked into her eyes. "I am most worried about the prince," he said. The herbmistress felt warm next to him, and she smelled pleasantly of the many fragrances of her art. The long-missed sensations were both familiar and good. "Tell me truly," he asked. "If you have the right supplies, will you be able to find him?"

  Narrowing her eyes with thought, she shook her head and sighed. "It would be far better if I had something truly of his body, like a lock of his hair or a clipping of toenail," she answered. "But he and the princess are twins, so her hair may be sufficient. Or perhaps a drop of her blood. But remember, even if the flame allows us to see him, unless you or the others can identify some landmark or city, we still will not know where he is. I will do all I can, of course, but it may not be enough."

  "And this ancient scroll Krassus spoke of-what of that?"

  "Viewing that will be much more difficult. Even impossible, I dare-say. I would need something of the scroll itself, and we do not have such a sample. Attempting to view that document will be like trying to find a needle in a sneezeweed stack, while wearing both a blindfold and pair of mittens."

  "And Wulfgar?"

  "Hopefully, the lock of his hair will work. I will only know for sure once I try. I know this is not what you wanted to hear, but that's how things are, nonetheless." Silence reigned for a moment as they each retreated into their private thoughts.

  "They love each other, don't they?" Abbey asked unexpectedly.

  "Who?" he asked back.

  "Tristan and Celeste," she replied. She smiled again. After having known the l
ead wizard for so long, she could easily tell when he was being purposely obtuse, and she wasn't about to let him get away with it.

  "Only a fool could miss the attraction they have for each other," she went on. "Although I am not sure even they realize how strong it is. Oddly, it is sometimes the lovers themselves who are the last to know, wouldn't you agree?"

  Wigg remained silent for a moment; then one corner of his mouth turned up.

  "Yes," he answered softly. "You're right. About a great many things."

  "But still they do not act upon it," she said. "Why is that? Do they think it might displease you?"

  "It wouldn't," Wigg answered. "In fact, I would welcome it. To see Tristan, the male of the Chosen Ones whom I have loved with all my heart, and Celeste, the daughter I have only just discovered, finally unite would truly be one of the most joyous days of my life. But part of the reason Tristan does not act on his love for her, I think, is because he fears it might change his relationship with me. And it no doubt would, but not in the ways he probably imagines. The greater worry in this is Celeste, and she troubles me deeply. Tristan understands this other concern, as well. I can see it in his eyes. And I suspect it is yet another reason why he hasn't tried to more deeply enter the recesses of her heart. In short, he is being a gentleman."

  Lowering herself down, Abbey laid one side of her face on Wigg's chest. "I don't understand."

  "Tristan is waiting for her psyche to heal," Wigg answered sadly. "And that may never happen. Celeste never speaks of the abuse she suffered at the hands of Ragnar. It is as if she believes that by denying it, she can erase that part of her past. But until she voluntarily admits those horrors to herself, embraces them as an indelible part of her past, and then finally lets them go, she will never stop hiding behind the shield of denial that she carries. The same shield, I suspect, that bars Tristan from coming closer. I saw all too much of this during the aftermath of the Sorceresses' War, three hundred years ago. I never believed I would ever have children, but I felt sure that if I did, as lead wizard I would be able to protect them. How wrong I was!" Wigg paused for a moment, thinking. "I have two other, equally deep regrets, you know," he said softly.

  "Tell me," Abbey found herself saying, even though she was quite sure she knew what at least one of them would be.

  "The first of them is you," he answered quietly. "You know that. I should never have voted with the Directorate to ban the partial adepts. It was cruel and unnecessary, as were so many of our decisions of those days. Instead, I should have resigned my seat and gone away with you. We could have had the last three hundred years together, and the Directorate could just as easily have gone on without me."

  Raising her head, Abbey looked deeply into his eyes. "No," she said adamantly. "You're wrong. Everything happens for a reason. Your destiny was to rule the Directorate and oversee the birth and growth of the Chosen Ones. And then, with Tristan's help, to save Shailiha and the Paragon from the depravity of the Coven. Just as it was mine to live alone and hone my arts in the Hartwick Woods so that I might return to help you when you needed me most. Had you voted against the Directorate and then deserted Tammerland, the world would today exist only as a plaything of the sorceresses. In your heart you know that. You stayed here because it was your fate; just as we now find ourselves together again, through a different yet similar act of fate. That is clear to me now, and forgiving you is unnecessary. You did what you had to do. Don't you see? And now all is finally as it should be."

  She moved her body a bit closer to his, to ward off the breeze wafting in from the balcony. "Even if it did take you three hundred years to come around," she added impishly. Wigg laughed softly.

  "And the other regret?" she asked.

  "Wulfgar," Wigg said. "The late king and queen charged me and the consuls with the burden of finding him, but we never did. I made a secret pilgrimage to the wizard's orphanage that gave him away, of course, and I spoke to the head matron. But by the time I arrived at the address she had given me, the family had moved, and I never found their trail again. That's understandable, I suppose, given the size of the nation and the passage of time. But I can feel Wulfgar's presence out there somewhere, just as I can feel Tristan's. And my heart tells me that they are both in grave danger. Their paths may even cross someday, without either of them knowing who the other truly is. I must find them both, before it becomes too late."

  Wigg lay back into the luxurious sheets, thinking. "I can only hope that if I find Wulfgar, circumstances will not make it necessary for me to kill him," he said in a low voice. "It is an order from my queen that has plagued me for decades, and I don't think my heart could survive it."

  They lay there together quietly for a time, listening to the wind.

  "So many secrets," Wigg finally said, half to himself. "And each of them more a burden than a blessing, I assure you."

  Abbey smiled knowingly. "And still so many you have yet to share with us, I'm sure."

  "Oh, yes," Wigg answered simply. "Many secrets indeed. There is still so much that Tristan, Shailiha, and especially Wulfgar do not know about themselves. Things that only time will allow me to teach them. And time is running out."

  "And what about our secret?" Abbey asked. "The one we formed here this night. Shall we tell the others?"

  Wigg thought for a moment. "No, I think not," he said, smiling at her. "I have been without you for over three centuries, and I would like to keep this part of our relationship to ourselves, if we can. Call me overbearing if you wish, but you are new to both the palace and the Redoubt. The others will find out soon enough. There is no need for us to hurry that day forward. And when they do discover it, rest assured that their teasing will be merciless. In fact, Celeste and Shailiha have in some ways already started." His infamous right eyebrow arched up, driving home his point.

  "Very well," she said sleepily.

  Wigg lay silent for a moment, thinking. "Faegan will know without being told, of course," he mused.

  "How?" Abbey asked softly. Sleep had finally come padding to her on silent cat's paws, and her eyes were closing.

  As Wigg ran his hand through her long hair, he listened to her breathing deepen. "He's a wizard," he whispered to her softly as she drifted off in his arms. "And wizards always know."

  CHAPTER

  Eighteen

  W hump!… whump!… whump!…

  The incessant sound of the beatmaster's hammer seared through Tristan's head like a dagger as he pulled hard on his oar. The heat in the galley was overpowering, as was the stench. Bound in chains, weaponless, he found himself surrounded by other men in the same straits, trying to row as best they could lest they suddenly be struck with either the lash or the trident.

  For some reason he had been allowed to remain in his clothes, rather than being forced to don the shabby loincloth all the others wore. And the food they gave him was better than that given to the others. This had caused furtive, distrustful glances from his fellow slaves, making him feel like an outcast. Worse, in the increased heat his clothes made him more fatigued and dehydrated. By now he actually envied the others the simple, almost indecent rags they wore.

  As he rowed, doing his best to keep up, sweat poured off him and his muscles felt as if they were about to crack apart. He watched with hatred as the white-skinned slaver before them hammered out the incessant, mind-numbing beat. Other slavers strode arrogantly up and down the alleyway, using their gruesome weapons with impunity. He had not been struck yet, but knew it would only be a matter of time before that happened.

  Tristan was positioned in the front row, in the first seat to the immediate right of the alleyway. As he pulled the oar to his chest over and over again, he looked down at the number that had been so crudely carved into its handle. One. Despite the desperate nature of his situation, his mouth turned up slightly at the irony.

  Suddenly a wave of nausea rolled over him. He had no choice but to bend over toward the pitching deck and just let it happen. By now this had occurre
d so often that nothing but clear bile emerged. The sounds of sick men retching were almost continual, and the unrelenting stench-a combination of vomit, blood, and urine-only added to his queasiness.

  Tristan had not been surprised when he first became seasick, for he was completely unaccustomed to being on the water. In fact, he knew very little about oceangoing vessels. Since the end of the Sorceresses' War more than three hundred years earlier, the monarchy had sponsored no navy. Given the fact that the Sea of Whispers was supposedly uncrossable from any direction, and that no other nation at that time had been known to exist, a seagoing force had been deemed unnecessary.

  But the unexpected return of the Coven and the revelation of how they had crossed the ocean had changed all that. For some time, Tristan had been acutely aware of the vast importance of the Minion armada anchored just off the coast of Parthalon-an armada that he now supposedly commanded. But the ships might as well have been moored on one of the three moons for all the good they could do him. The view out the oar slit in the hull told him that the ship was traveling east. But to where? Parthalon? What in the name of the Afterlife was Krassus trying to accomplish?

  Tristan looked down at his chains. They bound him not only to the deck floor, but to the rest of the oarsmen. Each of them had the word Talis seared into his shoulder. Tristan had not been branded, but he had the distinct impression that they were all expendable, including him. The chain system made that point: should the ship founder, the slaves, linked together as they were, would never be able to get out in time.

  Number One, he thought as he pulled the heavy oar to his chest. Here he was no longer the crown prince of Eutracia, or even the Chosen One. Just Number One. And Number One would be granted no special favors or undue mercy. As of yet, no one seemed to have recognized him. He was simply one of the slaves, trying to stay alive another day. And here there were no wizards to help him escape.