The Scrolls of the Ancients tcobas-3

by Robert Newcomb

  Wasting no more time, he walked up the marble steps and went in.

  The moment he passed through the doors, he knew he was in trouble.

  CHAPTER

  Forty-one

  F aegan, alone and desperately worried, sat in the small boat by the shore. The oppressive silence of the stone chamber only added to his anxiety. Ever since Wigg and the watchwoman had disappeared into the tunnel, Faegan had been overtaken by a nearly crippling sense of dread. A long time had passed since they had walked away and left him here-at least it felt like a long time. Here, alone in this tomb of rock, time had no meaning.

  He looked back across the lake at the latticed floating gardens and the azure waters that flowed so peacefully down out of the wall above them. Such an amazing manifestation of the craft, he thought. But would Wigg survive his ordeal, so that they might finally go home and make use of the garden's secrets? Or would he never see his friend the lead wizard again?

  Faegan turned back to face the tunnel entrance, and his sharp eyes finally caught some movement. He froze. It was the returning watchwoman. In her outstretched arms she carried the body of the lead wizard.

  Faegan's breath caught in his throat. Wigg's face was blanched, and his arms dangled. His head hung to one side; his slack, open mouth was flecked with foam. Faegan immediately levitated his chair over the side of the boat and came to sit before the watchwoman. She laid Wigg down in the sand before him.

  "Your friend lives," she said, "but barely. He is one of the very few to have ever survived the psychic price demanded. His regrets run deep, but his heart and blood are of great goodness. It was that goodness which sustained him through his travails."

  Faegan reached down to touch his friend's cold forehead. Closing his eyes, he called on the craft. Wigg's heartbeat was faint, and his mind had gone deep. Faegan looked back up at the robed apparition.

  "Will he recover?"

  "His blood is strong," she answered. "In time, he should return to normalcy. But his soul will forever wear the imprint of what happened to him this day." Raising her hand, she indicated that Faegan should levitate the lead wizard back into the boat.

  He did so, guiding Wigg's body to lie on one of the seats. Then, once Faegan also entered the boat, the watchwoman took up her place in the stern and used her staff to push the craft toward the opposite shore. She beached the vessel near the floating gardens and then turned to him.

  "It is time to grant what you came for, wizard," she said calmly. "Leave your friend here, and follow me."

  Levitating his chair, Faegan followed her as she slowly climbed one of the stone paths that wound its way up and around the latticed, glowing pools. He could hardly contain his excitement at the mesmerizing sight.

  Every herb of the craft seemed to be represented here, plus a great many that he had never seen before. Looking closer at the surface of one of the pools, he saw such esoteric plants as muscle root, gingercrinkle, blossom of malcathion, and even a smattering of the very rare everscent. Finally the watchwoman stopped her climb beside one of the largest of the glowing ponds. Faegan lowered his chair.

  "Was all this left here by the Ones?" he asked.

  "All things of magic are a direct result of either the Ones or the Heretics," she answered simply. "Or of what came even before them-namely the two glowing orbs of the craft. The bright, golden Orb of the Vigors and the dark, sizzling Orb of the Vagaries forever power the twin but opposite sides of magic, always attracting each other, but never touching. Surely by now you have learned to call them into your presence, and have witnessed their majesty and power. Nonetheless there remains much for you to learn. Not only of the craft, but of those masters and their orbs who were here so long before you."

  Faegan bent over to study the pool. "And the items I require to separate my herbs, roots, blossoms, and oils-are they here in this pool?" he asked. There were several beautiful plants lying atop the water. But despite his great knowledge, he had to admit that he had never seen any of them before. He could feel the water calling out to his endowed blood. Even as learned and disciplined as he was, he found its allure intoxicating, its entreaty irresistible. His breath coming quickly, his mind nearly overcome, he let his hand creep closer to the pool.

  "Stop, you fool!" the watchwoman screamed, just as his fingers were about to break the surface of the water. With amazing speed and surprising strength, she grabbed his wrist with her white, lifeless hand. Stunned, he looked up into the dark, faceless hood.

  "What's wrong?" he asked thickly.

  Letting go of him, she raised the bones of her hand directly before his eyes.

  "Tell me, wizard," she said caustically, "how do you suppose I came to be this way? Do you wish to suffer the same fate?"

  And then he understood. The azure waters here in the Chambers of Penitence were so powerful that they were literally toxic, and eons ago her endowed blood had caused her to succumb to the same temptations he had just experienced. She had paid for her mistake with the flesh of her hands, perhaps even with that of her entire body. And so the Ones had somehow asked that she stay here for eternity, to help safely guide other supplicants in their quests.

  Saddened for her and humiliated for himself, he swallowed hard. "I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't understand."

  "Nor did I, once," she answered back. For a few moments the only sound was the trickling of the water into the glowing pools.

  "This is indeed the pool that holds what you require," she finally said. "But for obvious reasons, it shall be neither you nor I who harvest it."

  She raised both her staff and her free hand into the air. "Come to me, my pretties," she ordered.

  Faegan heard a grating sound coming from the wall behind them. As he turned to look, he saw that one of the holes in the wall had stopped pouring forth its water and was widening dramatically, until it was a full meter in diameter.

  A bird popped its head out of the hole, cautiously looked around, and finally took to the air. Three more appeared, and they began to circle overhead. Faegan watched, spellbound. He had never seen anything like them.

  The multicolored birds glowed with the azure of magic. Their necks were long and graceful, as were their wide, brightly feathered tails. They stood on long, spindly legs, like storks, but their shiny bodies were more compact, and their feet were webbed and yellow, like those of a duck. They had gullets beneath their long, wide bills, such as one might see on birds that lived near the ocean and fed on fish. The watchwoman slowly lowered her hands. As she did, the creatures landed gently, one by one, next to Faegan's chair and stood there obediently, as if waiting for the watchwoman to speak.

  But she did not utter a word. Instead, she pointed to the pool and the birds walked into it and began to swim carefully through the plants, using their long, wide bills to harvest leaves and flowers and stems. Faegan marveled at their quiet, elegant efficiency.

  Reaching into her robe, the watchwoman produced a glass vial with a hinged top. Opening it, she handed it down to one of the birds. The bird took it into its bill, the open side of the vial facing away from its head. Then it dipped the vial into the water, collecting the light green oil that lay in another part of the pool.

  After a little while, the birds made their way back out of the glowing pool and, one by one, came to drop their treasures at the wizard's feet. With a sure, slow motion of its head, the bird that had collected the oil put down the vial and shut the lid with its bill.

  Smiling broadly, Faegan looked back up at the watchwoman. "How is it that they are not affected by the waters, as you were?"

  "Simple," she replied. "They are a product of the Ones, placed here for just this purpose. After my tragedy, the Ones conjured them and left them here to help me harvest the bounty of the floating gardens. They have been my only companions ever since." She then looked back at them and nodded.

  One by one they took to the air and flew back through the hole in the wall. The opening returned to its original size, and water began spilling o
ut from the hole once more. Faegan looked down at the treasures lying at his feet.

  "May I touch them now?" he asked.

  "No," she answered. "They are still wet, and are just as dangerous as ever." The watchwoman reached into her robe again and removed a small, azure-glowing bag. She opened it and held it wide before the wizard.

  "Use your gift to place the plants and vial into this bag," she told him. "It will protect your flesh from them until you arrive home. It is also enchanted to absorb the water and render it harmless. Later you will be able to touch them. I have cast a spell of accelerated drying over the herbs; they will be usable soon."

  Hearing that such a remarkable spell existed, Faegan was almost overwhelmed by curiosity and the desire to learn, but he managed to drag his attention back to the situation at hand. Doing as she bade him, he focused on the plants and vial and, using the craft, caused them to levitate. They slowly entered the bag, and the watchwoman pulled the cinch tight. She placed the bag on Faegan's lap.

  "Thank you," he said sincerely. "You have no idea how much you have just helped preserve the practice of the Vigors."

  "Your gratitude is not important now," she said. "It is time for you to leave this place and make use of what I have given you. Do not fail, and do not waste what you have been given. There is only enough to make one attempt to separate your herbs and oils. Time is precious."

  His mind racing, Faegan looked down at the bag. "And how do I use these gifts?" he asked.

  "First make sure the herbs have completely dried. This will require several more days, at least. Then grind them into a fine powder. Mix the powder deeply within your stores, and watch from a distance. Before you do, however, make sure there are sufficient containers waiting nearby. All will be revealed. The oil, however, may be used to separate your other oils right away."

  Faegan looked at Wigg, who still lay unconscious in the boat.

  "Given Wigg's current condition, I may not be able to levitate him all the way back to the surface," he said, thinking of the narrow, confined stairway they had taken here.

  "The Ones understood that anyone who was fortunate enough to survive this place would not possess the strength to leave on their own," she said simply. "There is another way out." She raised her arms.

  Light began to flood down from the ceiling, forming a bright, white circle on the floor of the chamber. "Bring the other wizard with you into the light," she said.

  Faegan placed the bag she had given him securely in his robe. Then he levitated Wigg's inert body up to his lap and floated his chair into the circle of light. As he did, the white light turned to azure, and his chair began to revolve.

  "What is happening?" he asked nervously.

  "You are departing the Chamber of Penitence," she answered. "Farewell, wizard."

  The chair revolved faster, then rose into the air. As it increased in speed, Faegan feared he would not be able to continue holding onto Wigg. Using magic to augment his strength, he held on as best he could as Wigg's legs, arms, and robe went flying in circles with the dizzying, disorienting revolutions of the chair.

  Looking up into the shaft of azure light, Faegan realized that it led all the way to the top, to the fresh air and sunlight of the world above.

  Then the watchwoman raised her arms. "Do not forget what I told you of the River of Thought, wizard!" she shouted from far below. "Farewell!"

  Faegan desperately wanted to ask her more, but before he could the two wizards soared into the gleaming, azure bolt of light, and were gone.

  PART IV

  Rebirth

  CHAPTER

  Forty-two

  In a sense, time has no place in the practice of the craft. For to those who shall grant themselves the time enchantments, sometimes a year shall seem as a day, and a day as a mere moment. And the Forestallments granted into their blood shall give rise to great gifts, some wondrous, and some terrible in their applications.

  – from the Scroll of the Vigors

  A s Tristan walked through the double doors of the Wing and Claw he stopped for a moment, taking in the scene.

  The room before him was very large and very dark, lit only by several dim, oil lamp chandeliers. Tables filled the room, and a long bar sat before the wall to his right. In one corner a stairway could be seen leading to the second floor-to the bedrooms, he assumed. Men and women were cavorting loudly. Some, already in varying stages of undress, were locked in passionate embraces. Others were busy drinking and playing at dice or cards, the losers shouting out obscenities and invectives at the Afterlife. One man sat on a chair in the corner, a pipe held between his teeth as he happily ground out ditties from an ancient-looking squeezebox. The entire place smelled of sweat and stale liquor.

  No one seemed to take any particular notice of Tristan, and for that he was grateful. As casually as he could, he walked up to the bar. The one-eyed barkeep was a thin, greasy-looking creature who walked with a decisive limp. Where his other eye should have been there was only an empty hole, crudely sewn shut with bits of leather. The stitches looked as if they had been there for a long time.

  Forcing down his revulsion, the prince looked steadily into the man's good, blue eye. "Ale," he said simply.

  "Don't got none," the fellow said, almost proudly.

  "Why not?" Tristan asked skeptically. "They're drinking it on the street."

  "Like I said, don't got none," the man repeated. He smiled, revealing the absence of two front teeth. The same man who had taken the bartender's eye had probably gotten the teeth as well, Tristan thought.

  "Then what do you have?" he asked.

  "Mead," the fellow answered simply, as if it was something the prince should know simply because he was standing in the Wing and Claw. "Produced special on the island, and it's all we sell here."

  "Very well," Tristan said. "Mead it is."

  "Do you want the cheap stuff, or the good stuff?" the bartender asked.

  Tristan reached into his pocket, produced a single kisa, and dropped it on top of the bar. "Cheap," he answered, almost immediately questioning his decision.

  Greedily picking up the coin, the bartender bit into it, testing its worth. Apparently satisfied, he walked down the length of the bar a bit and stopped before a great keg that sat atop it. Turning the spigot, he released a dark, amber substance into a tankard that looked as if it had just been dredged up off the floor of the Sea of Whispers. He walked back and unceremoniously deposited the pungent concoction before the prince.

  Tristan took a swallow.

  Gagging, he immediately spat it back out, sure he was about to vomit. He had had mead before, but never any so vile as this. After a fit of coughing, he glared back up at the man behind the bar. The fellow once again smiled, displaying the dark vacancies between his remaining teeth.

  "Takes a bit of gettin' used to, don't it?" he asked happily.

  As the prince wiped his mouth, he sensed someone beside him. Turning, he found himself looking directly into the bloodshot blue eyes of a blond woman about his own age. She wore a tattered dress and long earrings, and smelled something like a musty, abandoned candy shop. Smiling, she inched a bit closer, at the same time reaching down to touch his groin.

  "You're new here, aren'tcha, love?" she asked. Her hungry, greedy eyes looked him up and down. "Believe me, if I'd been with you before, I'd remember." Brazenly leaving her hand where it was, she looked at Tristan's tankard, then over at the bartender.

  "Now, Caleb!" she admonished him, still smiling. "Don't tell me you served this fellow from the community keg!"

  The bartender's greasy, perforated grin returned.

  Reaching down, Tristan moved her hand away. He was almost afraid to ask. "The community keg?" he inquired, amidst another short cough.

  The blond pointed down the bar, to the keg Tristan's drink had come from. "All of the mead from every partially drank tankard is saved, and poured back into that barrel," she explained. "Then it's aged good 'n' proper, and served as the cheaper stuff
. Rolf-he's the owner, see-he doesn't let a drop go to waste, ya see. Waste none, want none."

  Nauseated, Tristan looked back into her eyes. "I'm not interested," he said simply. "I'm looking for a man."

  "Well why didn'tcha say so, love?" she answered. "I can arrange that, too. But such a waste that is, a fellow the likes of you."

  "Not that kind of a man," Tristan answered. "I'm looking for Ichabod, the sailmaker. I was told that he might be here."

  The whore raised a tattooed arm. "He's sitting right over there," she answered. "Practically lives here now, he does. Loves to play at cards, and always seems to win. You can't miss him. Handlebar mustache and expensive black clothes."

  Then she came closer-so close that Tristan could smell the stale mead on her breath. "And if you change your mind, handsome, I'll be waiting."

  Quickly nodding his thanks, Tristan left both her and his tankard of mead and sauntered across the room. He stopped short of reaching Ichabod, and sat down at an empty table nearby. He wanted to watch and listen first, hoping to form some idea of what the sailmaker might be like before trying to bargain with him.

  Ichabod was seated at a table with three other men, playing a game of dreng. A large pile of coins sat in the center, and the game was very animated. Of the four players, the biggest winner so far looked to be the sailmaker.

  He was tall, and dressed in black breeches, jacket, ruffled white shirt, and vest. Rings adorned nearly every finger. Shiny black knee boots were on his feet, and he sported an equally dark mustache that he worried almost constantly by twisting its curled, waxed ends. Unlike the other men at the table, Ichabod looked very prosperous. He also seemed to be unarmed, but the prince knew that in a place like this, that meant nothing. Tristan smiled to himself, realizing that the sailmaker reminded him of a particularly unctuous Eutracian undertaker he had once had the displeasure to know.

  Watching the game for a few moments, Tristan could see that Ichabod was indeed a very accomplished player. Almost too good, in fact. Then his eyes caught something else, and he smiled to himself.