The Scrolls of the Ancients

by Robert Newcomb

  “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

  Whump! . . . 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 occurred 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.

  Just then a demonslaver came down the stairway from the deck above. “Raise oars!” he shouted. At once, the relentless pounding of the hammer stoppe
d. As a group, the slaves lifted their oars from the Sea of Whispers and held them still, just a few feet above the waves.

  Tristan knew what was about to happen, for he had seen this ritual before. A fresh beatmaster had come to take the place of the one who had just served. It seemed to happen every four hours or so, during which time the slaves did not row.

  Tristan obediently pushed down on the handle of his oar as best he could, muscles burning, keeping the paddle well out of the ocean. He wanted no undue attention, and the only way to ensure that was to keep doing an especially good job.

  Tristan’s dark eyes watched as the seated beatmaster laid down the two great hammers and the other slaver walked across to replace him. In truth, Tristan had been waiting and hoping for this precise moment.

  He harbored no illusions about escape. He knew there was no way he could ever overpower the slavers, and freeing himself from his chains was impossible. But this rare moment would provide the precious seconds of quiet distraction that he needed. He simply had to know the answer to the mystery that had plagued him ever since he had awakened here, and the time to find out was now.

  Slowly, he turned his head toward the slave seated on his right. The fellow was balding, sullen, and perpetually quiet. They had said very little to each other, and Tristan had immediately distrusted him. He had no choice, though. Soon the incessant pounding would begin anew, and Tristan’s chance would be lost. He would simply have to make his attempt, and trust to luck.

  Feigning another attack of nausea, Tristan forced his weight onto the handle of the oar, at the same time surreptitiously slipping his right hand free of the handle and down toward the top of his right boot.

  As Tristan had intended, the man next to him turned his head away from the sight of a fellow slave going through another bout of seasickness while trying not to drop the oar.

  Straining with everything he had but not wanting to hurry, Tristan let go another series of false retches, at the same time gradually moving his hand closer to the top of his boot. Turning his head slightly, he could see that he was nearly there.

  Finding the top of his boot, his first two fingers slipped inside.

  Tristan froze. There was nothing there.

  Unsure of what to do, he nearly panicked. But with yet another great effort, he pressed the oar handle a bit lower, allowing his fingers deeper access inside the boot. Raising his eyes, he saw that the beatmaster had risen from his seat. Only seconds remained before the new slaver would call out the order to lower oars, and he would have to begin rowing again.

  And then his fingers touched metal. The brain hook—the slim, razor-sharp stiletto with the tiny, curved hook at the end—that he had carried hidden in his right boot ever since the death of Nicholas and the destruction of the Gates of Dawn was still there, undiscovered by Krassus and his demonslavers! Tristan was overjoyed.

  But then, just as he was about to grip it, his fingers touched something else—something pliable and scratchy. It was tucked away farther back, near his calf. Whoever had put it there probably hadn’t noticed the brain hook, driven so far down as it had been.

  Risking everything, his muscles straining to the breaking point, he captured its upper edge between his fingertips, lifted it gently to the top of his boot, and looked down.

  It was a piece of vellum, and he immediately recognized it as being a fragment of the Scroll of the Vagaries, the ancient document Krassus had had lying on his desk aboard the Sojourner.

  Who would have put it in his boot? And why?

  But there was no time now to ponder this new mystery. Muscles shaking with fatigue and effort, he leaned against the oar while using his fingertips to push the piece of parchment back into the deep recesses of his boot.

  But the strain of holding the oar in place for so long with only one hand finally became too great. Just as he started to sit back up, the oar handle slipped from his grasp, and the other slaves in his row cried out as they attempted to keep the oar in place without his added strength.

  The demonslavers immediately snapped their heads around and leveled their vacant eyes at him, and several of them trotted over to where Tristan sat chained, trying to catch his breath.

  The demonslaver who was to have become the new beatmaster reached him first. He smiled, showing his black, pointed teeth. When Tristan looked up at him, he saw a large ring of keys hooked to the top of a leather belt running around the monster’s waist.

  “Krassus told me you would become a problem, Number One,” the slaver said softly, menacingly. “And so you have. It didn’t take you long to live up to our expectations, did it?”

  Reaching out, he took a nine-tails from one of the other slavers standing nearby and began coiling it up slowly.

  “You shall of course be punished,” he said. “And the best method I can think of is to give you something that will remind you of your new place in life every time you bend forward to pull on your oar. We still have a long way to go, and with every new stroke you will be reminded of me.” He smiled again.

  Tristan looked up hatefully. “You aren’t as good as you think you are, you know,” he growled. “I killed several of your kind back in Farpoint. It was easy, and I enjoyed having their blood on my hands. There will be many more of you dead before I am finished, I swear it. And you will be one of them.”

  The slaver placed the handle of his whip beneath Tristan’s chin and viciously forced the prince’s face up. “Really,” he mused. “Tell me, how many of my brothers did you kill?”

  Tristan’s reaction was immediate. “At least five,” he retorted without thinking. It was only after saying it that he realized his mistake.

  The thing standing before him smiled again. “Thank you,” he said, almost politely. “Then five it shall be.” Removing the whip from beneath Tristan’s chin, he nodded shortly to the slavers standing next to him.

  Two of them grabbed the prince’s hands, while another of them began to unlace the ties at the front of his black leather vest. Before he knew it, the vest had come over the top of his head, and was lying on his forearms. Then he was grabbed again and forced to bend over at the waist. Everyone had gone silent, and the only sound was the creaking of the Wayfarer’s hull as she rocked back and forth on the Sea of Whispers.

  Tristan knew what was coming, and there was nothing he could do to prevent it. All he had to fight them with was his mind. For every lash of the whip, he decided, he would think of someone he cared for. And whatever happened, he would not give these abhorrent monsters the pleasure of hearing him scream.

  The nine-tails whistled through the air and broke the skin of his naked back. The leather strips sent shock waves through his body, causing him to convulse.

  Shailiha, he thought, the sister I brought back from Parthalon.

  Again the lash came down, rupturing the skin at a right angle to the first cuts. Crossroads of azure blood began to drip down. His body jangled like a marionette.

  Wigg, my teacher. The one who will someday instruct me in the ways of the craft.

  The nine leather strips came yet again, opening up part of his lower back. Glowing, azure blood ran down in earnest now, collecting eerily upon the rough-hewn, wooden seat and the unforgiving, rusty chains that bound him.

  Faegan . . . the rogue wizard from Shadowood . . . with his violin and his blue cat . . .

  Again the strips came around, this time deepening the first set of gashes. Gritting his teeth desperately, he almost cried out. Sweat dripped down his face, and his breath came in short, ragged puffs. He closed his eyes, trying to brace himself for the next assault.

  Geldon, my friend . . . so small in stature . . . but with so . . . great . . . a heart . . .

  The fifth and final stroke came down with the greatest intensity of all, sending azure blood splattering wildly across the slaver’s face and hands. Smiling, the monster began to retract the whip, coiling it up slowly. As the bright, glowing blood flowed from Tristan’s back down onto the deck, slaves and demonslavers
alike stared at the strange, wondrous substance as if it had just come from another world.

  And Celeste . . . my love . . .

  Suddenly he felt an unexpected rush of cold, salt-laden seawater splash against his wounds. It was more than he could bear.

  Groaning softly, Tristan lost consciousness and collapsed to the filthy deck.

  CHAPTER

  Nineteen

  Welcome to the herb cubiculum!” Lionel said without turning around. Faegan’s diminutive caretaker seemed to be searching urgently for something. “Now where on earth did I put my equalizing spoons?”

  He began rummaging about anxiously on the top of the broad, cluttered table. “If I can’t find them, it will make things far more difficult for us, yes it will,” he chattered nervously. “And I know Master Faegan has a deadline, that he does.”

  Pulling with frustration at the single tuft of hair on the top of his head while at the same time trying to keep his broken spectacles in place, Lionel the Little jumped down off the stool that seemed far too high for him and began scurrying about the room on his short, bowed legs as though everyone’s lives depended upon it. In many ways, the princess thought, perhaps they did.

  After Shailiha had killed the slavers in the glade, she and Celeste had made their way to Faegan’s tree house mansion. There they were directed to a secret door in the trunk of the ancient, gnarled tree, and had come up the spiral staircase to the foyer. They were greeted immediately by a rotund, gracious gnome who curtsied, then politely introduced herself as Samantha the Squat. Beckoning them to follow her, she turned and led the way down a series of dark, highly polished, wooden-paneled hallways. The mazelike quality of the place reminded Shailiha of the Redoubt—albeit a smaller, wooden version. After climbing two flights of stairs, another hallway led at last to a set of double doors of inlaid mahogany. Samantha knocked twice. After hearing a welcoming call from Lionel, she smiled, curtsied again, and took her leave.