The Scrolls of the Ancients

by Robert Newcomb

“I know what you are,” he answered quietly. “You may fool the simple, unendowed peasants in the streets, but not me.”

  “What are you talking about?” she shot back. “Go away and leave me alone.”

  Krassus smiled. “This is what I’m talking about, crone,” he answered. He raised one hand, and the azure glow of the craft appeared about her. As he moved his index finger slightly, a small incision began to form in her right palm. Several drops of her blood fell to the floor of the alleyway. Looking down, Krassus watched them twist their way through the thirsty dirt, forming signatures.

  As he had suspected, they were partials.

  Only the softer, curvier halves revealed themselves. The woman’s mother had been her only parent with endowed blood.

  “You’re a partial,” he said calmly. “And because your blood reveals a signature without the aid of waters from the Caves, it is also clear that you have been trained. That makes you a partial adept. Tell me, what are your skills? I may have need of you.” He was becoming more certain of his find by the moment.

  The old woman shook her head. “I have no such skills,” she said sullenly. “I am but a poor street performer, trying to make a living. Go away and leave me be.” She inched farther backward a bit, closer to the wooden box. Her knuckles whitened from her tight grip around the coin bag.

  “Oh, you are far more than a simple woman of the street,” Krassus countered. “The blood signatures prove that.” His jaw hardened. If he was forced to use violence against her in order to learn the truth, then so be it. All he cared about was getting his answers. “What is your name?” he asked harshly.

  “Grizelda. What of it?”

  “Tell me, Grizelda, are you really what you seem?”

  No answer came.

  “Are you a trained herbmistress, perhaps?” he asked.

  Again, only silence reigned.

  His patience growing thin, he took another step closer. “Are you a blaze-gazer, as well?”

  “The answers to your questions depend,” she said, sensing an opportunity. She stood up, and he saw that she was taller than he had first thought.

  “On what?” he asked, knowing full well what her answer would be.

  She took a step toward him. “On what you’re willing to pay,” she answered craftily. “As you can see, I do not eat well. My stomach has long pressed emptily against the insides of my ribs.” For the first time, she smiled crookedly at him.

  Krassus had suddenly had enough. He raised his arm, and the familiar azure glow of the craft appeared in the air between them and coalesced into a recognizable shape: a human hand.

  With a twitch of one of Krassus’ fingers, the hand tore across the remaining distance to the woman and wrapped its glowing fingers around her wrinkled throat. The force of the impact was so great that it lifted her off her feet, slamming her hard against her wooden box. She began to choke. Drool frothed at one corner of her mouth, spilled over to snake crazily down her chin. Her body shook with the convulsions rattling her starving lungs.

  Twisting and turning his hand slightly, Krassus pointed to her shoes. The laces began to untie themselves. Then the shoes slowly slipped from her feet and fell to the ground. With a simple turn of his head, Krassus caused the small fire the old woman had lit to rise slowly into the air and come to rest just below her. Burnt-orange shadows darted across the darkness of the alleyway.

  Krassus turned his hand again, and the flames licked upward at the soles of her feet. Her scream came out as a rasp.

  “Now then,” he said quietly. “Let’s try again. Are you a blaze-gazer?”

  The old woman nodded.

  “Very good,” Krassus answered. “You are now one-third of the way toward staying alive. Tell me, and do not lie. Believe me, you don’t have the time. Are you a trained herbmistress?”

  Again came a single nod. Her face was turning from red to light blue, and her toes were twitching involuntarily, trying to escape the flames.

  “I’m impressed,” he said. “Two out of three.” Just to see her suffer, he paused before asking his final question. The moments ticked by slowly, dangerously, as the flames scalded her naked feet.

  “And are you protected by someone’s time enchantments?” he asked intently.

  She shook her head.

  Finally satisfied, he extinguished the flame and let her go. She tumbled hard to the dirt of the alley, her feet badly burned and her lungs crying out for air.

  “You’ll do,” he said simply. “You’re coming with me. I have need of your services.” With the toe of one boot, he lifted her chin. “Provided, of course, you have been telling the truth,” he added. “But that we will discover later, won’t we, Grizelda?”

  The haggard herbmistress managed to come to all fours. “How do you . . . know . . . I won’t run . . . away?” she gasped. With a cry, she collapsed again and curled up on the dirt of the alley, protectively gripping her tortured feet.

  “That’s simple,” Krassus answered almost politely. “I traveled halfway across Eutracia to find you. Do you really believe I could not search you out again, especially given the short distance you might travel before I discovered you had fled? We have a great mission to fulfill, you and I. Disobey me, or fail in the demands I shall make of you, and you will die. Do as I say, remain successful in the arts you have admitted to possessing, and you shall live.”

  All she could do was give him a short nod.

  From that moment on, she was his. He had then gone on to use the craft to heal her feet. Not because he wished to be kind, but because a partial adept who could not keep up would surely prove more of a hindrance than a help. And there remained a great deal to do.

  “I am ready, m’lord,” the herbmistress said now, breaking into the wizard’s reveries once more. He turned from the sea to look at her.

  Several open bottles of herbs sat on the table next to her, their contents spilled out and combined into a pile in the center of the large iron bowl next to her feet.

  “You may begin,” Krassus said. “But first, tell me: Will we be able to hear what they say?”

  “No,” she said with certainty. “For that, I would need something truly personal of one of those we wish to view. And we still do not know who possesses the other scroll.”

  She reached down into the basket again and produced steel and flint. Without hesitation, she struck them together, and the pile of herbs came ablaze.

  Krassus watched as the flame grew into a bonfire. Grizelda motioned with one hand, and part of the fire separated itself from the main body—a lesser offshoot that would allow her to work in closer proximity to her creation. That arm of fire lengthened, and flowed parallel to the deck of the ship. Grizelda tossed a few more herbs into the branch of the flame.

  Standing as close to it as she dared, she held out a piece of blank parchment recently taken from the Scroll of the Vagaries. Then she closed her eyes.

  Almost immediately, an azure window began to form in the main body of the flame. The partial adept opened her eyes and stared into the window in the fire.

  Eager to see the results, Krassus stepped up beside her and looked in. What he saw disappointed him, and his mouth twisted into a sneer.

  As had been the case every time before when trying to locate the Scroll of the Vigors, all that the gazing window revealed was blackness.

  CHAPTER

  Thirteen

  Twin azure bolts, so strong and brilliant that they could barely be looked upon, seared across the expanse of the courtyard and smashed into the upright marble column with an earsplitting explosion. The ground shook from their impact.

  Once again the target had been destroyed, rent in two by the sheer force of the magic. As the smoke and dust cleared, it could be seen that the two huge chunks of marble had been thrown several meters apart. Many smaller fragments lay nearby, their shattered ends still smoldering from the heat.

  “Well done,” Wigg said. “But your control over the bolts is still not all it could be. Rem
ember, they are malleable, and their shape can be altered to suit your needs. Once you have mastered this stage, it will serve as the foundation for the finer applications of your gift, such as slicing through an object, manipulating an object, or even actually grasping something and lifting it into the air.” In truth, he was stunned by the amazing progress his pupil had made in so short a time.

  “Now then, let’s try again,” he pressed. “But I want you to attempt a smaller target this time; say, the piece of column lying on the right.” Smiling, he gave her a wink.

  “And this time,” he continued, “use only one hand. Fold the thumb and last fingers of your right hand inward, and point only the remaining three. Using those three fingers alone, try to sustain the life of the bolts and slice the marble column into three equal segments, rather than simply destroying it. Remember,” he added, “almost anyone trained in the craft can use the bolts to destroy. But only a master can employ them in a useful way, to create something that was not there before.” A short smile graced his lips. “Whenever you’re ready,” he said quietly.

  “Yes, Father,” Celeste answered.

  The early-morning sun shone down on the courtyard of the royal palace, where she and her wizard father stood. She was growing tired, and Wigg knew it. But he also knew that her fatigue was an invaluable part of her learning that would serve to build her endurance.

  Celeste raised her right arm and trapped her little finger beneath her thumb. Aiming the three remaining fingers at the piece of marble, she loosed three azure bolts, one from each fingertip.

  Concentrating, she turned her head slightly as she forced them to change shape, turning them into slim, razor-sharp edges of gleaming azure. They tore across the courtyard in a flash, easily finding their marks. Straining with every fiber of her being, she guided the bolts up and down against the column’s fluted surface, trying to slice through the marble, rather than destroy it.

  For a short time she continued to move them successfully up and down against the polished, unforgiving surface of the stone. But then her aim slipped, and with it, her concentration. The bolts widened out again, and the column exploded loudly. It shattered into a thousand tiny pieces that flew high into the air before finally falling to the earth like dry, dusty rain.

  Exhausted, she sighed and lowered her arm.

  Shailiha walked up. Caprice, her violet-and-yellow flier of the fields, sat perched on her right forearm, the way a hunting hawk might.

  “You almost did it that time,” she said, trying to reassure Celeste. “Surely it won’t be long now before you grasp it.”

  Celeste looked back at Shailiha with tired eyes. “Somehow, it doesn’t feel that way,” she answered back. Knowing the pain Shailiha was suffering over Tristan, she tried to give her a reassuring smile.

  Then she looked down to examine her fingertips. They were red and sore again. The effect would lessen over time, her father had told her. But right now it was one of the prices to be paid for learning to control her gift.

  Wigg put an arm around her shoulder. He knew he must take the time to teach her to control her Forestallment as quickly as possible. Under no circumstances could he allow another disaster such as the one that had occurred at Abbey’s cottage. But it was hard for her to concentrate these days—and hard for him, too. Worry for Tristan filled all their hearts.

  When Wigg and Celeste had learned of Tristan’s capture, their shock had given way to tears, their tears then pushed aside by anger and frustration. Faegan and Shailiha could offer no idea as to where the prince might be, or what he might be enduring at the hands of Krassus and his slavers. Worse yet, they didn’t even know whether he still lived.

  After Tristan’s defeat, Shailiha and Faegan had fled back to the campsite and their Minion guards, knowing the demonslavers couldn’t be far behind. Upon learning of the prince’s fate, Ox had gone nearly wild with grief. He begged to take his troops, few as they might be, and fly straight for Farpoint. In his rage he vowed to tear the town inside out, if necessary, to find the prince.

  But despite how much he desperately wished to see Tristan returned, Faegan couldn’t allow it. A dozen Minion warriors, no matter how brave and skillful, would have had little chance against the untold numbers of demonslavers under Krassus’ command. Besides, there was no time. As it was, the Minions had lifted their litter into the sky just as the slavers entered the moonlit glade, swords waving. With heavy hearts the winged warriors had flown north, safely returning the princess and the wizard to Tammerland.

  After everyone had returned to the Redoubt and told their stories, the lead wizard introduced Abbey to the group. The others did all they could to make her feel welcome, but it was obvious that she was wary of her new situation. Clearly, her trust was something that would have to be earned.

  Minion warriors were dispatched to her smashed cottage, and they returned with her entire collection of books, scrolls, and ledgers. Simply cataloguing them again had taken the better part of the last two days.

  Their first priority was to find Tristan. Abbey was the key, Wigg knew, to viewing subjects over great distances. But the herbs she required to ignite her gazing blaze were in short supply here in the Redoubt, despite the various species Faegan had growing in his atrium. For the last several days he and the partial adept had been trying to discover the most efficient way to overcome the shortfall.

  The wizards had of course considered sending squadrons of Minions aloft to scout for the ships that Faegan and Shailiha had seen at the docks in Farpoint, in case Tristan might be aboard one of them. But if and when they did sight a ship at sea, what were they to do? It had been too dark even for Faegan to read the names of the vessels that night in Farpoint. Having the Minions fly over and board every ship that plied the Sea of Whispers was not only impossible, but might also provoke unnecessary confrontations between the winged ones and what would surely be the terrified, confused seamen who saw the fearsome warriors suddenly descending on them.

  Nonetheless, several thousand of them, with the indefatigable Ox at their head, had volunteered to do just that. Out of sheer desperation, Wigg and Faegan had finally agreed. For the last six days the Minions had flown as far out over both land and sea as they could, only to return exhausted and disheartened, having seen no sign of the prince.

  Suddenly the voice of Shannon the Short broke into his thoughts.

  “Begging your pardon, Lead Wizard,” he said, “but Master Faegan and Abbey have asked that you and the ladies join them in the Hall of Blood Records.” Smoke billowed from the corncob pipe held between his teeth.

  Wigg took in the gnome’s red hair, matching beard, and dark eyes. Shannon was dressed, as always, in his red shirt, blue bibs, and upturned shoes. A black watch cap sat atop his head, and his ever-present ale jug was firmly clamped in one hand. Shannon took a deep, irreverent slug of his brew, then wiped his mouth on his sleeve.

  Despite his outward courtesy, there was always a hint of comic disrespect on the little one’s face—especially where Wigg was concerned. Ever since the lead wizard had met Shannon, there had never been any question that the gnome accepted none but Faegan as his master.

  Wigg had never been fond of the gnomes, but he had to admit grudgingly that they had become trusted allies. Their courage had impressed even the lead wizard when they had helped defeat Nicholas’ birds of prey in the invisible valley that guarded Shadowood, the home they had shared with Faegan for more than three centuries.

  Shannon cleared his throat. “They say it’s important,” he said.

  Wigg raised an eyebrow. Faegan and Abbey had been meeting almost nonstop for the last several days. Much of that time had been spent with Abbey showing Faegan her resource materials and explaining what she would need in the way of herbs, blossoms, and roots, while the crippled wizard tried to ascertain whether they were immediately available.

  Wigg sighed. They needed Abbey’s abilities desperately just now. He hoped with all his heart that they were about to hear good news.


  When they reached the Hall of Blood Records, they found Abbey and Faegan engrossed in fervent conversation. Both looked tired; neither noticed the arrival of the others.

  Faegan was sitting in a newly constructed chair on wheels at the magnificent mahogany table in the center of the room. Abbey stood by his side, looking over his shoulder at a document. Every inch of the huge table was covered with Abbey’s parchments, scrolls, and ledgers. Numerous blood signature documents had also been pulled, their storage left open, drawers yawning rudely before the imposing majesty of the room. Dozens of bottles of dried herbs sat on the table, many of them also open. Their combined odors spoke both of magic and of the ephemeral hope of success.

  Scowling, Wigg looked first at the argumentative Abbey and Faegan, then back to Shailiha and Celeste. Shaking his head slightly, he rolled his eyes.

  For three centuries he had wondered what might happen if the proud partial adept and the eccentric wizard in the chair ever met. He realized he was about to get his answer.

  While Abbey’s and Faegan’s voices continued to rise, Wigg sat down at the table and cleared his throat loudly.

  It didn’t help.

  “And I’m telling you that blossom of sintrinium is no substitute for nectar of oleaster!” Abbey shouted. She threw her hands into the air. “It just won’t work, no matter how much you’d like it to! If any substitutions are made, then either the gazing flame will burn too hot, thereby clouding the view, or there will be nothing to see at all! Trust me; I know what I’m talking about! These are time-honored formulas, and they must be respected! Half of the palace could go up with your tinkering!”

  “And I say you’re wrong!” Faegan countered angrily, slapping one hand down on the arm of his chair.

  Looking at them, Wigg was absolutely certain that this had been going on for some time now, and it showed no signs of stopping.

  “If your charts of similars say sintrinium will work, then why won’t it?” Faegan’s jaw stuck out like the prow of a ship.