Rise of the Blood Royal dobas-3

by Robert Newcomb

  “What is it?” the prince demanded.

  “It’s Master Faegan!” Shannon said, trying to catch his breath. “He told me to fetch you three straightaway! He needs you in the Archives of the Redoubt! All the other Conclave members are already there, saving Tyranny, Traax, and Sister Adrian, who are still in Parthalon!”

  Standing, Tristan hurriedly arranged his weapons over his right shoulder.

  “What’s wrong?” Shailiha demanded, also rising.

  “I doubt that even Master Faegan could describe it!” Shannon replied. “He wants everyone to see it with their own eyes! You must come now!”

  “For the Afterlife’s sake, tell us what’s going on!” Tristan shouted as he and the two women hurried for the door. But Shannon had already entered the hallway and was waddling away as fast as he could.

  Shailiha was the last one to leave the room. As she reached the doorway, she abruptly stopped to look first at Morganna and then at Shawna.

  Shawna smiled back reassuringly. “You know that I will,” she said gently. With a quick nod of thanks, the princess hurried after the others.

  Running down hallway after hallway, they made their way through the secret passageways leading down into the Redoubt, the labyrinth of hallways and rooms that served as the Conclave’s area of craft instruction and research. Even at this late hour the Redoubt was a mass of confusion, with busy consuls and acolytes running this way and that on various arcane errands. Tristan considered stopping one of them to demand what was going on, but then decided not to use up valuable time. Several minutes and a few properly negotiated hallways later, he and the others found themselves standing before the majestic Archive doors.

  A crowd of bewildered consuls and acolytes stood before the entryway, obstructing the view. Tristan shouted to everyone to step aside, and they parted to make way for theirJin’Sai.

  The Archive doors were wide open. No sound came from the room, but a nearly blinding azure glow was pouring through the doors and flooding the hallway. With a worried look, Tristan drew his dreggan and charged in.

  CHAPTER III

  “O BLESSED FLAME, WE PRAY THAT YOU WILL REMAIN constant in your strength. Fear not that we of the Priory will let your light fail, for as long as our virtue remains unblemished and we are pledged to your everlasting light, your spirit will endure. For wherever your flame lives, so too does the immense power of the Vagaries. In your name and toward that end I deliver this spell of strength.”

  Her prayer finished, the Femiculi of the Priory of Virtue remained on her knees with bowed head and closed eyes. Now she would perform the second and final part of the all-important ritual. Slowly she opened her eyes and looked up.

  As it had done for aeons, a great flame burned in an enormous marble bowl in the Rotunda of the Priory. Like the woman who knelt before it, the flame was pure, serene, and powerful. It burned without heat, smoke, or sound-just a flame so high that it reached halfway to the occulum, the circular hole in the apex of the chamber’s domed ceiling.

  As the firelight burst through the occulum into the dark night, it reassured Ellistiumites moving about the city that their precious flame still lived. Viewing the heavens above the rotunda each evening was the only way for the citizens to be sure, for admittance to the dome was strictly limited to the emperor, the empress, thePon Q’tar, and the twenty Priory virgins.

  The magnificent Priory Rotunda sat atop one of seven hills that surrounded Ellistium. A host of krithian centurions, their weapons always at the ready, continuously prowled the Rotunda’s beautifully landscaped grounds.

  The Rotunda served three purposes. It housed the eternal flame, provided sanctuary for the women who had dedicated their lives and their chastity to ensure that the flame never died, and housed the ritual known as the auguries. It was believed that the sacred flame empowered the Vagaries. If the flame died, so would the side of the craft worshipped by all Rustannicans. Should the Vagaries die, so too would the nation, for the barbaric Shashidans would surely succeed in crossing the Borderlands and wiping out all that the Rustannicans held dear. ThePon Q’tar had commissioned the construction of the Rotunda long ago, soon after Rustannica had seceded from Shashida. Legend had it that another perpetual flame burning in Shashida empowered the Vigors.

  It was also said that during the first tenuous days of the empire, thePon Q’tar clerics stole the Vagaries flame just before announcing Rustannica’s independence. Those brave clerics had also tried to extinguish the Vigors flame at the same moment, but failed, and thus the civil war began. With the coming of Vespasian and his supremely endowed blood, everyone believed that final victory would soon be within their reach.

  Before starting the needed spell, the Femiculi took a moment to look around the Rotunda. She had been a member of the Priory since she was twenty years old. That had been twelve years ago, and even now she remained awed by the structure that was her home.

  The massive dome was fifty meters wide at its base and more than thirty meters high. The occulum in the dome’s center was ten meters across, and its circumference was ringed with gold. When the flame was at its lowest ebb, stars could be seen sparkling through the occulum. The interior of the dome was made of pure ivory blocks. As the firelight struck the blocks it created shimmering shadows of red, silver, and white.

  The huge black altar that supported the bowl and the flame sat in the middle of the floor. A freestanding fluted column of pure gold rose from each of the altar’s four corners, and each column was topped by a jewel-studded capital. The floor surrounding the altar was made of highly polished rose and black quartz checkerboard squares.

  A second, smaller altar stood between the Femiculi and the bowl. As she looked at it, she shuddered, trying not to think about its grisly purpose.

  Now it was time for Julia Idaeus, the reigning Femiculi of the Priory, to commence the spell that would empower the flame through another moon. Slowly she came to her feet and raised her arms. Then she closed her eyes and summoned the craft.

  Some said that the wind she summoned had a life of its own, and that it wandered the world as it chose until being called forth on each new moon. Others insisted that each time it came, it drifted to the Rotunda from a secret sanctuary nestled somewhere among the dark peaks of the enchanted Tolenka Mountains. Only thePon Q’tar knew for certain, yet it remained a part of the legend that they refused to share. Nor did it matter, for no one dared to question the clerics’ wisdom.

  Wherever it came from, the wind always served the same purpose: It fanned the embers at the base of the flame, allowing the flame to burn brightly again for another full moon.

  As she called the craft, Julia watched the familiar azure glow fill the Rotunda. She heard the haunting wind arrive and swirl down through the occulum. As it neared her, it parted the folds of her white gown and stirred her hair. Soon the gathering tempest howled so loudly that it hurt her ears and its power nearly took her off her feet. Then the wind turned to fan the flame’s embers.

  As Julia struggled to control the tempest, her arms shook and her power began to ebb. Soon the embers at the base of the flame glowed brightly again, as if they had been reborn.

  The flame strengthened and grew higher. With the last of her powers Julia forced the wind to caress the embers one last time. Then she slumped to the floor. Its job done, the wind whistled hauntingly as it soared back through the occulum and left the Rotunda for parts unknown.

  Julia heard footsteps approaching. As she struggled to her knees, several other Priory virgins came to help her up. Agrippina Sertorius, Julia’s most trusted Priory Sister, gave her a worried look. Unlike when they appeared in public, inside the Rotunda the women were allowed to go without their veils. Agrippina was five years Julia’s junior, with brown eyes and short red ringlets.

  “It is done?” Agrippina asked.

  Julia looked back at the flame to see that it again roared with life, nearly reaching the occulum. She nodded to her friend. Over the next month the embers surroundi
ng the base of the flame would again dim and the flame would fade, forcing Julia once again to perform the sacred rite of the wind. The ritual had been performed thousands upon thousands of times here in this same place, by Priory Femiculi too numerous to name.

  Because the Priory virgins were not protected by time enchantments, Julia would one day become too old to perform the ritual. When that day came, Agrippina Sertorius or another Priory virgin like her would be selected to become the reigning Femiculi. According to custom, Julia would be freed from her duties to live her final days as a highborn Rustannican krithian, with a substantial pension to provide for her living expenses and if she chose, she would be free to marry.

  “Let us help you back to your quarters,” Agrippina said. “We need our rest-you above all. Vespasian’s meeting is to start in less than eight hours. He will want our counsel.”

  Julia nodded. “I know,” she said. As she recalled the day’s occurrences, a pensive look crossed her face. “Vespasian seemed different today,” she said. “Did you notice? I suspect that he has some important issue that he wishes to discuss.” She sighed. “In any event, we will know soon enough.”

  Agrippina and three other Priory Sisters escorted Julia to the single doorway that led to their quarters. Julia paused to confirm that the flame roared strongly in the center of the beautifully constructed dome.

  Satisfied, she left the Rotunda at last.

  CHAPTER IV

  AS TRISTAN, SHAILIHA, AND JESSAMAY RUSHED TOWARD the Archives entryway, the intense white light coming through the open doors nearly blinded them. Groping about with his free arm, Tristan found one of Shailiha’s hands and gripped it.

  Just then the wondrous light began to dim. His vision clearing, Tristan saw the crippled wizard Faegan sitting in his wooden chair on wheels, his arms upraised. His face showed intense concentration; sweat had broken out on his brow. His arms shook from the great effort he was expending as he summoned the craft.

  Aeolus, Wigg, and Abbey stood by Faegan’s chair, their arms also raised.

  “What’s happening?” Tristan whispered to Jessamay. He let go of Shailiha’s hand and quietly sheathed his dreggan.

  “I don’t know,” Jessamay whispered back.

  After tense moments, the azure glow vanished at last, and Tristan gazed in amazement at the scene before him.

  Books, scrolls, and parchments had been ripped from their shelves and covered the first floor in massive piles. Tristan couldn’t begin to imagine how long it might take to set things right.

  Tristan beckoned Jessamay and Shailiha to follow him. Trying as best they could not to trample any documents, they slowly walked over to where Wigg, Aeolus, and Abbey stood beside Faegan’s chair.

  “What happened here?” Tristan asked.

  Faegan twisted around and looked sadly into Tristan’s face. The ancient wizard wore his familiar black robe. His unruly gray hair lay parted down the middle and reached nearly to his shoulders. Much of his face was covered by a shaggy gray beard, and his lustrous green eyes seemed to bore straight into Tristan’s soul. The prince could see that the normally mischievous wizard had been deeply sobered.

  “I don’t know exactlywhat, ” Faegan answered. “But I believe I knowwhy. ”

  Faegan swiveled his chair around and pointed to the wall on the far side of the room. Everyone turned to look.

  Tristan knew that Faegan had brought the Tome-the primary treatise outlining the study of the craft-and the Scroll of the Vigors and the Scroll of the Vagaries here to the Archives for safekeeping. The wizard had used the craft to magically secure them within a five-sided transparent wizard’s box high against the marble wall. Only the Conclave mystics had been entrusted with the complex formula that could dismantle the dimly glowing box.

  Tristan had approved of Faegan’s elegant solution. To the best of Faegan’s knowledge, the azure box was impervious to everything except the spell that allowed for its dismantling. Butsomething had gotten through. More than the box was illuminated. The Tome and both scrolls were glowing with the same bright white light that had only moments earlier engulfed the chamber. As Tristan gazed at the unprecedented glow, trepidation grew in his heart.

  Fascinated, Shailiha stepped nearer. “What is that light?” she breathed.

  Wigg shook his head. He was dressed in his customary gray robe. His iron-gray hair was pulled back from his widow’s peak into a braid that fell down his back. Despite his advanced age, his tall form remained lean and muscular. His strong hands were gnarled and elegantly expressive, and his craggy face and aquamarine eyes showed deep concern. Sighing, he placed his hands into the opposite sleeves of his robe, then turned to the princess.

  “As Faegan said, we don’t know,” he answered. “Logic dictates that the glow coming from the Tome and the Scrolls has something to do with whatever made such a mess of this room. It took a mighty force to do this. But only the Afterlife knows how or why.”

  Wigg turned his gaze back toward the glowing box that held the three precious documents. “We can only hope that the box protected them,” he added. “Luckily, it seems to be intact. And except for the glow, they appear unharmed. But I suppose that there is only one way to know for sure.”

  He turned back to look at his old friend. “What say you, Faegan?” he asked. “Do you think it prudent that we dismantle your invention and take a look?”

  Faegan, lost in concentration, didn’t reply. His eyes were closed and his head was bowed slightly as he pressed his fingertips against his temples.

  Tristan understood what Faegan was doing. The wizard was one of the rare few who commanded the gift of Consummate Recollection, allowing him to perfectly recall everything he had ever seen, heard, or read from his birth more than three centuries ago right up to the present. Faegan was almost certainly mentally reviewing the Tome, to learn whether it might shed light on this evening’s strange turn of events.

  After a time, Faegan raised his head and opened his eyes. His face was pinched with worry.

  “The Tome mentions this phenomenon,” he said quietly. “Truth be told, until this moment I never gave it much importance. That is because the Tome does not specifically name the three documents that when placed side by side will cause this effect. Now the answer has been revealed. It is only by the greatest chance that we possess all three at the same time. This might be the first moment in history when they have been this close to one another.”

  “Do you mean to say that your conjured box caused all this?” Jessamay asked.

  “No,” Faegan answered. “The box is only a means of protection. Still, there is no telling what might happen if it is dismantled. Let me recite the proper Tome passage so that you might better understand.”

  Closing his eyes again, he leaned back in his chair and spoke:

  AND SO IT WILL COME TO PASS THAT IF CERTAIN RELICS ARE PLACED IN

  CLOSE PROXIMITY TO ONE ANOTHER AND LEFT TO REST, THE RESULTS WILL BE

  OF VAST IMPORTANCE FOR THOSE TRYING TO UNRAVEL THE SECRETS OF MAGIC.

  THE AREA SURROUNDING THEM WILL SLOWLY TAKE ON AN AURA THAT WILL

  GRADUALLY ENGULF THE DOCUMENTS, CAUSING THEM TO GLOW. PRECEDING THE

  GLOW A GREAT WHIRLWIND WILL COME, MARKING THE ADVENT OF THE SPELL.

  AFTER THE PASSING OF THE WIND, THE THREE RELICS WILL GIVE UP MUCH WHEN

  THEY ARE OPENED.

  Faegan sighed and sat back in his chair. He opened his eyes.

  “What does it mean?” Abbey asked.

  Abbey was nearly as old as Wigg, Faegan, and Aeolus. She too was protected by time enchantments. Like Jessamay, she did not look her age. The herbmistress and partial adept was wearing a simple plaid dress that covered her shapely figure. Her long dark hair was sparsely streaked with gray and her sensual face showed a strong jaw, deep blue eyes, and dark eyebrows. Three hundred years earlier she had been Wigg’s secret lover, before the late Directorate of Wizards banished all partials from Tammerland. During the dangerous hunt for the Scroll of th
e Vigors, Wigg and Abbey had found each other again, and had been together ever since.

  “As you all know, the Tome is often difficult to understand,” Faegan answered. “I have long believed that the Ones fashioned it to be purposely obscure, so that it would confound friend and foe alike. It seems that we have yet another riddle to unravel.”

  “What is the code to which the quote refers?” Tristan asked. “Could it be that there is much more to the Tome and the Scrolls than we know?”

  Wigg raised an eyebrow. “Have you ever known thatnot to be the case?” he asked. He looked back at Faegan. “You still haven’t answered my question,” he said. “Do we dismantle your box, or not?”

  Faegan turned toward Aeolus. “What say you, Aeolus?” he asked. “We have yet to hear your opinion.”

  Before answering, Aeolus walked toward the glowing box. He stopped about two meters away and looked at it carefully.

  Aeolus was the most recent addition to the Conclave. Once a powerful Directorate Wizard, he had grown tired of war, politics, and the craft and had resigned his membership to pursue a private life teaching martial arts. But by necessity he had become involved in the search for the Scroll of the Vagaries and the struggle against Serena. In the end he had accepted Tristan’s and Wigg’s offers of a seat on the Conclave.

  Three centuries earlier, Aeolus had been granted a time enchantment at the age of eighty Seasons of New Life. Like Wigg, he remained lean and muscular, despite his physical age. His head was shaved and his dark gray beard closely trimmed, and his dark eyes never missed a thing. Out of respect for his late Directorate brothers, he wore a gray robe.

  After regarding the box for a time, Aeolus looked at Faegan. “Does your spell incorporate any dangerous components that might harm the documents if it is reversed?”

  Faegan shook his head. “No,” he answered. “But owing to the need to protect the documents, the spell I conjured is tremendously strong.”