The First Wizard looked grimly at them both. “Could either of you imagine a worse fate?” he asked.
Looking back at Jessamay, Tristan felt his hatred of the Coven rise again. Given the seemingly never-ending effects of their horrific deeds, he often found it difficult to believe that they were really dead. His admiration for the woman trapped in the light grew.
“We’re wasting time,” Wigg whispered. “We must free her, and get her to the surface. Her sanity hinges upon it if, indeed, she is not mad already.”
Celeste looked at her father with concern. Tilting her head toward the far side of the room, she beckoned Tristan and Wigg to accompany her.
“What is it?” Wigg asked.
“Do you really think that freeing her is wise?” Celeste asked nervously. “She already admits to having been experimented upon. How do we know that she hasn’t somehow become another of Failee’s traps?”
Wigg gazed sadly back over at Jessamay. Her eyes looked frightened, but hopeful. He turned back to Tristan and Celeste.
“I understand your concerns,” he said. “We knew that this trip would have its dangers. Freeing her is simply the right thing to do.” His expression darkened. “I know that if our roles were reversed, she would attempt it for me,” he added quietly. “Can I do less?”
Tristan took a deep breath. “Very well,” he agreed. “Free her if you can. But before that, please tell us something. Just who was she, all of those years ago?”
Wigg looked back to the cruel, azure prison. Tears welled up in his eyes again.
“She was quite simply the bravest woman I ever knew,” he said. “If it hadn’t been for her, I wouldn’t be here today.”
Saying nothing more, he walked back to Jessamay. Tristan and Celeste followed.
“I am going to try to help you,” Wigg told her. “Tell me, do you still command any of your gifts?”
Jessamay shook her head. “My powers deserted me the moment Failee forced me into the cone.”
Thinking, Wigg pursed his lips. “Do you know the calculations required to dissipate the cone?” he asked.
“No,” she said. “But you may be able to find them in Failee’s grimoire.”
Wigg’s jaw dropped. “Do you mean to say that you know where it is?” he breathed. “I hadn’t dared hope that we might find it.”
Jessamay nodded again. “I saw her remove it from its hiding place many times. It should still be there.”
“Where is it?”
“Walk to the chandelier nearest the door,” she said. “Conjure an azure beam, and then use it to pull the chandelier down a bit. The grimoire will be revealed.”
Wigg hurried over to stand beneath the chandelier. Raising one hand, he produced a beam. It rose from his fingertips and secured itself around the base of the fixture. Then the wizard drew back on the beam and the chandelier lowered. The beam disappeared.
There was a grating sound, and then one of the blocks in the wall slowly pivoted to reveal a dark space behind it.
Wigg walked over and looked inside. At first, all he could see was blackness. Conjuring some light, he looked in again. His face lit up with joy as he pulled out a book. Cradling it in his arms, he walked to a nearby desk and set it down.
The book was large, bound in tooled leather that shone a deep, lustrous red. Wigg carefully opened it. The ancient, gilded pages made crinkling sounds as he turned them over.
“What’s a grimoire?” Tristan asked.
“It is a book of magic,” Wigg answered, as he scanned the pages. “They contain the owner’s favorite spells, incantations, calculations, and formulas. Sometimes they have even been known to record personal correspondence. Failee destroyed her first grimoire near the end of the Sorceresses’ War, to keep it from being captured. That was a great loss for the Directorate. This second book is also Failee’s. I can tell by the handwriting. This grimoire may contain all of the knowledge she amassed after she was banished to Parthalon, and perhaps a good deal more. Finding it is a great victory.”
“Can you use it to free Jessamay?” Tristan asked.
“Perhaps,” Wigg answered, “assuming that Failee properly recorded the calculations that will reverse the spell. She was nothing if not thorough.” He turned another page.
“Now give me some peace and quiet,” he said gruffly.
Tristan smiled over at Celeste and she grinned back.
While they waited, the prince looked back at the woman trapped in the light and thought about all of the history she must have seen. He wondered what her importance might have been to Wigg and the Directorate. Jessamay had said that she had been brought here by Succiu after the Coven’s attack on Eutracia. Had she known his parents? Or Faegan?
“I have it!” Wigg shouted.
As he picked up the book, Celeste took him by the arm.
“Please be careful, Father,” she said. Wigg nodded.
“I want you two to stay here,” he said. Then he winked at them.
“Don’t worry. I may be more than three hundred years old, but I still have a few tricks up my sleeve.”
Holding the open book in his hands, he walked back to the cone of azure light. He looked into Jessamay’s eyes.
“I am going to try to free you,” he said. “But first—can you manage to cut yourself slightly with your manacles?”
Jessamay nodded. “You wish to be sure that it’s really me, don’t you?” she asked.
Without waiting for an answer, Jessamay carefully used the edge of one of her manacles to scrape the skin of the opposite wrist. Then she did it again. She started to bleed.
Tilting her hand slightly, she allowed a few drops of her blood to fall to the alcove floor. As they landed, they began twisting themselves into matching blood signatures. Coming as close as he dared Wigg bent down and looked at them. Satisfied, he stood back up.
“It’s really me,” Jessamay said. “I swear it to you.”
“I know,” Wigg answered.
“Please promise me something,” she said then.
“Anything.”
“If you see your efforts failing, you must improperly violate the boundaries of the cone and let me die. I would rather join the Afterlife than spend one more moment as Failee’s plaything.”
“I promise,” Wigg answered gravely.
Holding the grimoire before him, he started to read the passage. Tristan and Celeste held their breath.
At first nothing happened. Tristan looked at Celeste, wondering whether the incantation was going to work. Then the cone began to change.
As Jessamay slinked fearfully toward the rear of the alcove, droplets of azure energy began to run down from the cone’s apex. Their paths crisscrossed as they descended in snaking, undulating streaks, and the cone slowly vanished from the top down. Wigg continued to recite the incantation until the prison of light was gone. Only an azure pool remained on the floor.
Wigg closed the book and pointed at Jessamay.
“Spread your arms and close your eyes,” he ordered.
She obeyed, and the rusty chains binding her to the wall rattled.
A bolt of azure light streaked from Wigg’s hand. The chains attached to Jessamay’s right manacle exploded in a cloud of smoke. Then he did the same to the ones on the other side.
“Tristan,” the wizard called out, “come here.”
Tristan and Celeste walked to his side. Wigg handed the grimoire to the prince.
Stepping forward, Wigg looked into Jessamay’s eyes. She was crying freely now and she was barely able to stand. Wigg took her into his arms and carried her out of the alcove.
“You must take Failee’s blood criterion and signature scope!” Jessamay said urgently, her voice a rasping whisper.
Wigg looked around. “Where?”
She waved an arm weakly in the direction of one of t
he tables. “There,” she said.
Although confused by her request, Wigg barked out the order to Tristan, who went to gather the tools. “But why—” Wigg began. He was interrupted by the sudden squeal of rusty hinges.
Tristan spun around. Just as before, the iron door on the far side of the room had begun to close.
Horrified, he shoved the grimoire into Celeste’s hands and ran. He reached the door and tried with all his strength to stop it, but he couldn’t. Through the narrowing gap he could see and hear Alrik and his warriors on the other side.
Shouting frantically at one another, several of the Minions grasped the edge of the door and pulled against it. But even their combined strength could not overcome the craft.
Tristan let go just in time to save his fingers from being crushed. But some of his warriors were not so fortunate. Even as the door closed with a final bang, they never gave up. Severed fingers fell to the floor at Tristan’s feet.
His chest heaving, Tristan turned away from the door. Then he froze. The pool of azure liquid left by the cone was growing…and fast. “Look out!” he shouted.
Jessamay in his arms, Wigg turned around. “I should have known!” he exclaimed. “It’s another trap!”
The fluid was nearly at their toes now.
“Take Jessamay!” Wigg ordered. Handing Celeste the blood criterion and signature scope, Tristan took the sorceress from Wigg. Then Wigg snatched the grimoire from his daughter.
He raised his hands and the glow of the craft appeared. In a moment, Tristan felt his body growing lighter. Soon his toes were off the floor. Wigg raised his hands farther, and they all levitated toward the ceiling.
Tristan looked down at the floor and saw, to his horror, that the fluid was increasing in volume. The temperature in the room was rising; steam began to roil. Rushing waves of the fluid began noisily overturning the furniture.
Two of the bookcases tumbled down. As furniture and books swirled in the strange fluid, they caught fire, sending acrid smoke toward the fugitives hovering near the ceiling.
The fluid was already halfway to the ceiling. Tristan found it difficult to breathe. Coughing, he struggled to hold Jessamay higher. There was now very little space between his head and the ceiling.
He looked toward Celeste. There was so much steam and smoke that he could barely see her face. Then he smelled burning leather. Looking down, he saw that the fluid had reached the toes of his boots.
With his last bit of strength he lifted Jessamay higher. She screamed as the searing, smoking fluid began to reach them. Tristan looked frantically over at Wigg, to see the wizard desperately trying to decipher a page of the grimoire.
The smoke and the heat were suffocating, and Tristan felt close to passing out. He knew he could hold Jessamay for only a few more seconds. Leaning close, Celeste kissed him goodbye.
CHAPTER XXXIV
_____
“PUT YOUR BACKS INTO IT!” SCARS SHOUTED AT THE TOP of his lungs. Even his booming voice could barely be heard above the raging storm. “Pump those handles with everything you have and turn that screw quickly! This is our last chance to stay alive!”
As the Reprise heeled hard to port, the Minions and Tyranny’s crewmen struggled to repair the great ship. Scars watched anxiously as his men turned the screw and K’jarr’s warriors manned the pumps. He knew Tyranny wouldn’t be able to hold her over for long, and they had to get the fresh boards into place before she righted again.
The frigate groaned in protest. Scars cast his gaze upward. He couldn’t imagine what it must be like above decks. He knew the ship wouldn’t be able to take much more of this.
With one of its flat iron braces firmly against a supporting timber, the screw inched the opposing brace toward the damaged hull. Crewmen were busy hammering the fresh-cut planks into place. Finally the brace seated, and the crew slathered on pitch and tar, covering the gaps between the planks. Scars barked out orders, spurring the men on. Their lives depended upon the next few moments. Scars knew they needed just a little more time, if only their captain could give it to them. Then he felt the heavy ship come to starboard again, and he knew he had a decision to make.
As the Reprise came back over, the shifting stress on the hull would transfer through the screw and against the timber. The already weakened timber might well break under the strain. If it did, the freshly seated planks would cave in again, and this time all would be lost.
There were only two choices, and neither was good. He could order the screw removed to protect the mast, and hope that the hull would hold on its own; or he could leave the giant screw in place, and hope that the mast didn’t buckle under the stress. Once the tar had dried, the screw could be removed. Over time, the seawater on the outer side of the hull would swell the fresh wood and seal the boards together, ensuring the job.
But the pitch had just been applied, and they were clearly out of time. As his crewmen began to counterturn the screw, Scars made his decision. He pointed at them.
“Belay that!” he shouted at the top of his lungs. “Leave the screw as it is! The timber will just have to hold!”
As the Reprise settled back down to starboard, they all held their breath.
Seawater slammed against the fragile repairs, and the Reprise let go another tortured groan. The men watched in horror as sharp, twisted bits of timber popped and splintered away to splash into the shoulder-deep seawater. The beam actually buckled a bit, as the ship came over hard. Then the Reprise settled and once again angled into the wind. The mast and the hull repairs held.
The Minions and crewmen cheered. But the next few moments were important, and Scars had no intention of letting them be wasted.
“Stop celebrating like a pack of fallen virgins!” he roared at them.
“There is still work to do!” He raised a beefy arm.
“You men, there. Tighten up that screw until the slack has been taken up! And keep those pumps going until the cabin is completely dry! Slather on that pitch and tar until not a drop of seawater can come through! This night is not yet over!”
Looking over at K’jarr, Scars finally allowed himself a smile. The exhausted Minion warrior smiled back.
“Let’s go topside!” Scars said. “The captain will need a report!”
They waded through the water and started up the gangway. Scars was desperately worried about what they would find above.
As they reached the deck, they could see that the storm had abated. With its passing, the first welcome rays of dawn crept over the horizon. Between the storm and the stresses of Faegan’s portal, the Reprise had suffered badly.
Two of her masts were down, their splintered pieces rolling to and fro across the deck. The sails and sheets that had fallen with them lay in ruins. Many of the sails still aloft had great tears in them, and much of the rigging had come down. The bowsprit was missing altogether. The ship wandered east-northeasterly.
Looking back to the ship’s wheel, they saw that the boatswain had at some point taken control from the captain. He struggled to keep her on a steady course. Most of the crew and warriors who had been below were now topside, hurrying about their duties. Knowing that his captain would be sure to ask, Scars ordered an immediate count of the crew and warriors.
But they could not find Tyranny or Shailiha. Fearing the worst, Scars shouted out their names. After a time he and K’jarr engaged several warriors to help them search.
Soon one of the warriors called out. Scars and K’jarr ran to the aft starboard gunwale and found the women there.
Shailiha lay prostrate on the deck. There was a bleeding gash on her forehead. Although Tyranny did not appear to be injured, it was clear that she was both physically and mentally exhausted. Both women were soaked to the skin, shivering. Tyranny was using a cloth to staunch the princess’ wound.
Calling for a Minion healer, K’jarr knelt beside her, and w
as heartened to see that Shailiha was alert. When she saw him, she managed a smile through the pain. K’jarr took her hand.
“How bad is it?” he asked the captain.
“The wound is deep,” Tyranny said. “When the second mast came down, part of it struck her. Even so, she refused to let go of the wheel. If it hadn’t been for her persistence, I doubt I could have held it over by myself. We owe her much.” Then she stood.
“Where do we stand?” she asked Scars.
“The rent in the hull has been repaired. The screw is still in place, and the new planks seem to be holding. I believe the breach was caused by the added stresses of Faegan’s portal.” Scars surveyed the damage around him. “But it seems that the rest of her hasn’t fared so well.”
“Have we lost any people?”
“I don’t know yet,” Scars said. “They are doing a count as we speak.”
Turning east, Tyranny saw the rising sun. She looked back at Scars.
“Take the princess to my quarters,” she ordered. “Have the Minion healers tend to her there. As soon as she has been treated, I want a report on her condition. And bring me the teak box I keep there. You know the one. Then I want a full report on our damage. We still have a mission to perform, and I intend to see it through.”
She cast her gaze back over the mangled ship. “We might be down, but we’re not out,” she said. A hint of a smile crossed her face. “It will take more than the miscalculations of some crazy old wizard to sink the Reprise.”
Scars smiled back. He picked up the princess as if she weighed nothing, turned, and carried her below decks. As the war frigate plowed her errant way east, Tyranny and K’jarr remained silent.
Scars soon reappeared carrying a large teak box. He set it upon the deck. Tyranny bent down to open it. K’jarr raised an eyebrow.
“What does it contain?” he asked.
“My navigational tools,” the privateer answered. “Faegan supposedly made some alterations to them, so as to make my job easier. I can only hope that the wizard’s calculations for my sextant were better than the ones he used to alter his portal,” she added dryly.
Savage Messiah Page 22