The Scrolls of the Ancients

by Robert Newcomb

  Krassus’ powerful light shards had caused the walls to crack and tumble in many places, and the ceiling was torn by a number of great, ragged holes through which the encroaching night sky could be seen. Glass, dust, and smashed furniture lay everywhere. A work party of male and female Minions was already going about the business of trying to return the room to its former glory, but that would take time, Tristan realized, if it ever came about at all.

  Wigg walked slowly through the rubble, bits of glass crunching beneath his boots. With a great sigh, he shook his head and turned back to Faegan and the prince.

  “Such a shame,” he said. “But at the time it was all I could think of to contain the lights. Even then I had no way of knowing whether Krassus’ enchantments might take the entire palace down. In a way, we were very lucky.”

  “The power behind his spell was great indeed,” Faegan added thoughtfully. “And very cleverly wrought. Your solution worked. Had the shards impacted anything softer than stone, the results would have been catastrophic.” After a last look around, the three of them finally proceeded to the Redoubt.

  As they came to stand before the doors, Faegan called the craft and unlocked them. Inside, Grizelda was still trapped within the azure wizard’s warp. When she saw them enter, her lips turned up into a sneer.

  Tristan looked at the herbmistress. She had changed little since that day on Krassus’ flagship. He took in the long, dry, gray hair that hung haphazardly down around her weather-beaten face; her long, hooked nose; and the tattered, dirty brown robe wrapped around the gaunt body. She glared back at the prince with venom in her eyes.

  “Good evening,” Tristan said politely. “I hope you find the accommodations to your liking. At least here we don’t force anyone to row. But should you prove uncooperative, I’m sure something like it could be arranged.”

  “So you escaped after all.” Grizelda sneered. “My compliments. But your capture of me won’t do you any good, Chosen One. I will never give up the things you so desperately need to know. I have a new lord now, and I won’t betray him. Your days are numbered, and are dwindling rapidly. Soon I shall be free again, and you are in wizards’ warps.” To emphasize her point, she spat wetly against the inside of her cage.

  “Your manners leave something to be desired,” Tristan answered back. He turned around to face the wizards for a moment. “Charming, isn’t she?”

  Faegan and Wigg came the short distance to Tristan’s side. “Is Krassus holding Wulfgar prisoner at the Citadel?” Faegan asked her bluntly. “Has the lost brother of the Chosen Ones been turned to the Vagaries?”

  Grizelda smiled again. “That much I will answer, because of the joy I shall feel when I see the looks on your faces. Besides, it does not matter, for you can never stop him now.” Obviously relishing her next words, she paused for a moment.

  “You are quite wrong in assuming that Wulfgar is a prisoner of the Citadel,” she answered at last. “By now he is most certainly its master—as well as the master of all the demonslavers and the other creatures of the Vagaries that have been newly conjured for his use.” Raising one of her long, thin arms, she pointed an accusatory finger at the three of them.

  “Blasphemers!” she whispered ominously. “Would-be destroyers of the sacred side of the craft! You can never defeat Wulfgar, for he already possesses powers that you could only dream of! He will soon set things right, just as they should have been eons ago. Things have been set into motion that you, in your feeble, exclusive practice of the Vigors, couldn’t possibly begin to understand. Things that even Nicholas himself left undone. Wulfgar is coming for you, of that you may be assured. And no power on earth can stop him.”

  “Why is it that you follow the Vagaries?” Wigg asked.

  Grizelda smiled. “You are familiar with the concept of Forestallments?”

  Wigg nodded.

  “Krassus imbued my partial signature with the Forestallments that finally brought my blood and mind to the light,” she answered proudly. “Just as I am sure he has also done for Wulfgar by now. And Wulfgar may do the same for you.” Pausing, she smiled again. “Assuming he doesn’t kill you outright, of course.”

  She looked at the prince, and her smile widened. “It seems we shall soon see whether endowed blood is truly thicker than water.”

  “Who was the Harlequin?” Tristan asked. “I had never seen him before.”

  “Merely an unendowed servant of Krassus’,” Grizelda replied. “He had his uses, but was of no real consequence. In truth, I cannot say I am sorry he is dead.”

  “What purposes do the Scrolls of the Ancients serve?” Wigg asked urgently.

  Grizelda shook her head adamantly. Then she smiled again and made a clucking sound with her tongue. “Clearly, you haven’t been listening,” she answered. “No more questions.”

  Wigg looked over at Faegan.

  “Would you like to do the honors, or should I?” Faegan asked.

  “I will,” Wigg answered. “Because she is only of partial blood, it shouldn’t prove too difficult.”

  The lead wizard walked closer to the gleaming cage. As he did the herbmistress’ eyes widened, and she scrabbled toward the back of the cube.

  Wigg closed his eyes and began to call the craft. Tristan recognized what the lead wizard was doing: He was employing his powers to probe her mind, in an attempt to glean the answers to their many questions. Fascinated, Tristan watched the process unfold. As Grizelda felt the power of the wizard’s consciousness entering her own, a look of horror crossed her face. And then, somehow, things started to go terribly wrong.

  Placing her hands on either side of her head, she screamed. On hearing her cry out, Wigg opened his eyes and immediately ceased the spell. But by then it was already too late. Tristan watched in horror as the herbmistress shook her head violently and screamed again, insanely. He couldn’t believe his eyes.

  Her face was beginning to melt away.

  Tristan gasped. As Grizelda bent over in exquisite agony, the skin ran from her face in steaming rivulets to reveal the barren, white skull beneath. Her green eyes drooled their way out of the sockets and flowed down what was left of her cheeks. Dead, she collapsed to the floor of the warp. Then her blood started to run from the remains of her mouth, ears, and empty eye sockets, to gather in steaming pools on the floor of the cube.

  The blood rushed from Wigg’s face. Stunned, he took a halting, tentative step toward the cube. “What have I done?” he gasped. “What in the name of the Afterlife just happened?”

  Wheeling his chair closer, Faegan looked carefully down at the roiling blood, and then examined the rest of what used to be Krassus’ herbmistress. Apparently satisfied, he wheeled his chair back a bit and looked up at Wigg.

  “It wasn’t your fault,” he said. “This would have happened no matter which one of us had employed our gifts on her.”

  “What do you mean?” Tristan asked.

  “I suspect that this was yet another of Krassus’ safeguards, designed to keep us from getting too close to the truth,” he answered. “Do you see how her blood steams? She admitted that Krassus laid a Forestallment into her signature to bring her to the Vagaries. I now think he gave her another one, as well—one specially designed to make her blood boil the moment her mind was invaded. Particularly the blood that was collected in her brain—the very seat of the answers we needed so badly, but will now never possess.” Pausing for a moment, he thought to himself.

  “How clever,” he added softly. “The Tome makes mention of such blood-boiling devices of the craft, but I am not adept at them. Had I been, I might have been able to stop this. But even then, I doubt that what would have been left over could have been much good to us.”

  Tristan finally tore his eyes away from the horror in the cube and looked at the wizards. “Krassus has been ahead of us every step of the way, hasn’t he?” he asked sadly.

  Placing his hands into the opposite sleeves of his robe, the lead wizard nodded slowly. “And if Grizelda was tel
ling the truth, then Wulfgar is now of the Vagaries, and returning to Eutracia with his demonslavers.”

  “Do you believe what she said?” Tristan asked anxiously.

  With a deep sigh, Wigg nodded. “I believe her because it’s too dangerous not to.”

  Saying nothing more, all three looked at one another. Then they made their way out of the Archives and back to the palace above.

  There were plans to be made, and they were clearly running out of time.

  CHAPTER

  Sixty

  Standing atop a grassy knoll, Tristan gazed out over the Cavalon Delta and the sea beyond. The wind was high again, just as it had been for the last seven days. A contingent of Minion warriors led by the ever-faithful Ox stood some distance away by the litter that had carried Tristan here, waiting obediently in the midday sun.

  The Minion fleet had arrived four days earlier with the captured pirate vessels in tow, and all of them were now anchored offshore. More than four hundred ships—some long, narrow, and built for speed, and others wide and slow, but made for carrying heavy loads—lurched gently up and down against their moorings. All of the red banners that had once graced the pirate ships’ mainmasts had now been removed, and the ships had all been repaired.

  For her part Tyranny had not been content simply to stand by at the palace, like some dainty lady-in-waiting. Three days of uselessly prowling the rooms and grounds had been quite enough for her, despite finding herself immersed in their relative luxury. Tristan smiled. It seemed that no matter how much Tyranny hated traveling by Minion litter, the wonders of the palace had clearly been no match for the constant, intoxicating lure of the sea. Scars had, of course, accompanied her here.

  Tristan had been here for the last three days as well. He had brought with him not only the kisa he had promised Tyranny, but also the letters of marque the lead wizard had prepared, both of which were now safely aboard the frigate she had chosen as her personal flagship.

  In truth, Tristan had been glad to come here, for there had been little for him to do in Tammerland. With Grizelda and the Harlequin dead and Marcus already questioned, there was no one left to interrogate. Since Wigg, Faegan, and Celeste were the only three among them who could read Old Eutracian, they had vanished into seclusion in the depths of the Redoubt in order to attempt to unravel the mysteries of the Scrolls of the Ancients. They were all desperate to discover the purpose it served, and why Wulfgar was on the way with his demonslaver fleet.

  As he looked out over Tyranny’s fleet, Tristan smiled. The mainsails of the twelve frigates she had chosen now carried a bright red image of the Paragon painted squarely in their centers. In addition, each also flew his blue-and-gold battle flag high atop its mainmast.

  He took a deep breath of sea air and knew he would miss being out there again. A part of him longed simply to cast away his responsibilities and go with her and Scars. The sea had quickly become a part of his blood, and he had greatly enjoyed the freedom and sense of adventure that had come with it.

  Looking down the knoll, he saw Tyranny and Scars approaching. As she came nearer, the privateer smiled.

  “Traax told us we’d find you here,” she said quietly as she turned to look out over the fleets. The breeze was having its way with her short, dark hair. “We’ll be leaving soon,” she said, her voice cracking a bit. “I want to clear the delta before the evening winds abate.”

  “I understand,” Tristan answered quietly.

  There was a genuine look of both sadness and admiration in Scars’ eyes as he held out one of his huge, meaty paws. “It has been a pleasure,” he said sincerely.

  Taking the giant’s hand, Tristan gripped it firmly. “And for me,” he said. Then he smiled. “If you come across any more demonslavers, twist a couple of them apart for me, will you?”

  Smiling, Scars nodded back. Then he turned and walked slowly back toward the shore, where Tyranny’s personal skiff lay waiting.

  “Have you picked out a name for your new flagship?” Tristan asked her.

  “Yes,” she answered. “She is now the Reprisal. Appropriate, don’t you think?”

  Looking down to the sea, Tristan’s eyes finally found the ship. She was tall and proud, just like her new captain, and his battle flag snapped back and forth atop her mainmast.

  “Yes,” he answered softly. “Yes, I do. Where will you go first?”

  “Farpoint. It is a short sail from here. There we will release the slaves and hire the additional crew we need to man the ships properly. It shouldn’t take long. Then it will be on to the open sea to search again for my brother and begin patrolling for you and your wizards. Whatever demonslavers or remaining pirates we run across we will do our best to make short work of, I promise you.” Then she looked down at the ground and began using the toe of one boot to push some grass back and forth, as if she suddenly needed something to do.

  “She’s lovely, Tristan,” she said softly, as if it was suddenly difficult for her to get the words out. “Celeste is a very lucky woman.”

  Not quite knowing what to say, Tristan nodded.

  Then Tyranny smiled again, and looked back up. “But this isn’t good-bye forever, you know,” she added. “You can’t get rid of me that easily. I still have to come back to the palace every three months to split the booty and give you my report, remember? So it seems I’ll still occasionally be in your hair. At least for a while, anyway.”

  Then she came closer, looked deeply into his eyes, and gave him a soft, slow kiss on one cheek.

  “Farewell, Chosen One,” she said softly. “I shall always remember you.” Saying nothing more, she turned and followed Scars to the shore.

  Tristan stood on the knoll and watched as they climbed into the skiff, and the giant first mate rowed them out. Shortly thereafter, the freshly painted sails of the Reprisal snapped open, and she gracefully moved away from the delta. The eleven others in the newly formed fleet followed suit, as one by one they heeled southeast, toward Farpoint. Slowly the Paragon image on their sails shrank, until they finally crept over the horizon and were gone.

  By the time the Minions returned him to Tammerland, night had fallen. Tristan walked from the courtyard into the palace and directly down into the Redoubt. Eventually he found himself standing before the doors of the Hall of Blood Records.

  Just before Tristan had departed for the coast, Wigg and Faegan had mentioned that they were going to enchant all of the doors in the Redoubt to temporarily open without the use of the craft, so that Celeste might be able to come and go among these chambers more freely, without a wizard present. They had also made mention of the fact that they would do the same for the thousands of drawers containing the blood signature records, should they need someone to fetch one or more of the documents for them. Time was precious, and the wizards were striving to be as efficient as they could.

  Hoping that the two mystics had been true to their word—but also that he would not find them here working—Tristan grasped one of the gold doorknobs and gave it a turn. The massive mahogany doors obediently parted, and he walked in. There was no one there.

  As he had expected, all of the oil lamps in the great room were burning. Looking over to one side, he found what it was he had come to see: the Tome of the Paragon.

  The massive, gilt-edged, white leather book lay open on its pedestal, the special light in the ceiling shining down on it as always. As he ran his hand lovingly over the ancient, wrinkled pages, he tried both to understand everything that had happened to him, and to beat back the disappointment he felt in his heart. The beautifully penned words in Old Eutracian stared back up at him uselessly, their meaning completely hidden from his mind.

  He had, of course, known he wouldn’t be able to read it without wearing the Paragon around his neck; that was not why he had come. But for some reason he had suddenly felt an unexplainable, irresistible urge to be near the great book. And as he stood there looking down at it, he realized that this was the first time he had ever been truly alone w
ith it.

  He finally took his eyes from the Tome and looked over to the many long, flat drawers that held the blood signatures. After staring at them for several quiet moments, he decided to give it a try.

  “Prince Tristan of the House of Galland,” he said loudly, much the same way he had heard Wigg and Faegan do several times before. At first he felt immensely foolish, speaking out alone into the room this way. Foolish, that was, until one of the drawers obediently opened and a sheet of parchment rose from it, to float over and land on the nearby meeting table. Tristan sat down in front of it.

  Taking a deep breath, he looked at the azure signature on the page. It was the one made most recently, when Wigg and Faegan had been trying to determine whether Nicholas had indeed been Tristan’s son. He immediately recognized the soft, fluid lines at the top that had come from his mother Morganna, and the harder, sharper lines at the bottom from the blood of his father, Nicholas I. But no one else in the world possessed a signature that was azure.

  Except for Nicholas, he reminded himself. And he is dead. As Tristan continued to regard the swirling, azure lines, the feelings of disdain for his blood surfaced again.

  Then he heard the door hinges creak a bit, and he turned to look. Wigg stood quietly in the door frame. There was no telling how long he had been there.

  “Tristan,” he said gently. “Are you all right?”

  The prince nodded.

  “I was walking by and saw the open door,” Wigg went on as he came to sit next to him. He looked down at the parchment on the table. “What are you doing here all by yourself?”

  As Tristan turned to look at him, Wigg could see the concern in his eyes. “There are things you need to know,” the prince said softly. “I’ve changed, Wigg. And I have to tell someone.”