The Scrolls of the Ancients tcobas-3

by Robert Newcomb

  Smiling, Wigg nodded. "When the brown color reaches the ink line, the temperature is right," he mused. "Very clever."

  "There's more to it than that," she answered. "Not only does the right temperature activate the potion, but it also assures that we will not burn her throat."

  Saying nothing more, the two of them watched quietly as the brown stain gradually climbed higher and higher. When it finally met the ink line, Abbey swung the pot around and took it off the hook. She very quickly poured the entire potion into a cup.

  "Now!" she ordered. "Before it cools! You understand what you must do?" she asked. "As soon as the potion starts down her throat, begin your work. And be warned, she may become difficult to control."

  He nodded quickly and went to his daughter. He tilted up her head and carefully parted her lips.

  As Abbey poured the mixture into Celeste's waiting mouth, he employed the craft, attempting to reach into the depths of his daughter's consciousness. At first, things seemed to go well. After a few moments Celeste began to stir and moan. Then, unbelievably, she opened her eyes, looked beseechingly up at her father, and started to cry.

  It was just then that Wigg suddenly realized what both he and Abbey should have done, but had not.

  Coming partly out of her stupor, Celeste suddenly bolted upright. Her eyes wide, she screamed, and her body began shaking uncontrollably. As if possessed, she began to raise both trembling hands at once. Understanding, Wigg tried to force her hands back down, but she was too strong for him.

  "Hold her!" Abbey shouted.

  Wigg briefly thought of using the craft to hold Celeste, but that would mean stopping the flow of his power into her, to help her. With a final, purely physical effort, Wigg was able to force Celeste's arms back down onto the bed. But suddenly her wrists turned up. Just as the azure bolts shot forth, Wigg let go of her, grabbed Abbey, and threw the herbmistress to the floor. Covering her body with his own, he closed his eyes, knowing that all he could do was continue to aid Celeste's mind and hope that it soon would be over.

  A deafening cacophony of destruction came from every corner of the house: the sounds of breaking glass and falling stone.

  Then, blessedly, it was over. Wigg carefully stood and gave Abbey a hand up. He found himself choked by dust. As his eyes cleared, he looked around.

  The devastation was amazing. Only two of the walls were still standing, but one of them suddenly gave up the effort and collapsed inward, crashing to the cottage floor. Most of the roof was gone, revealing the stars twinkling innocently in the early evening sky. In the dim light he could see that the vast majority of Abbey's bottles and other containers had been blown out of the house and lay broken or open, scattered haphazardly across the nearby woods and fields. Wigg realized that they were probably quite unrecoverable. Almost every stick of furniture was demolished, and even the hearth had been rent in two, its bricks scattered across the floor like abandoned children's toys. Most of the chimney somehow still rose toward the sky like a crooked, broken finger, trying to point to the stars.

  Miraculously, the wall still standing was the one holding the shelves full of Abbey's books, scrolls, and ledgers. For the most part, they and the others scattered about behind them seemed unharmed. The wind began whistling coldly through the remains of the cottage, swirling the dust and debris into little maelstroms as it went.

  Celeste had collapsed on the bed. Her eyes fluttered once, then twice, before finally staying open. Rising weakly up on her elbows, she looked aghast at the remains of the cottage. She looked down at her fingertips and began to cry.

  Wigg instinctively knew that she was crying not because of her physical pain, but at the sudden, inescapable realization of what she had done. Abbey-walking stiffly, mechanically, through the rubble of what had once been her home-was also crying.

  Standing shakily, Celeste embraced her father. He held her tightly, knowing how close he had come to losing her.

  "I did this, didn't I?" she asked, looking around again in horror. "Somehow, I just know it. But the last thing I remember is having tasted some honey. Did that really happen?" She looked quizzically around the smashed cottage once more.

  "Where are we, Father?" she asked softly. Then her eyes closed again, and she collapsed into his arms.

  Laying her back down on the bed, Wigg placed a palm on her forehead. For a time he closed his eyes, then smiled. He and Abbey had done it. This time Celeste's sleep was genuine, natural. When she finally awakened, she would be herself again.

  With the exception of her first activated Forestallment, he mused. He would have to train her in its proper use as soon as possible.

  He went to Abbey. In her trembling hands she was clutching a dusty book she had retrieved from the floor. He put a hand on her shoulder.

  "I don't know what to say," he said softly. "I'm so sorry."

  Abbey turned to him, her eyes wet. Then she did something unexpected. Stepping nearer, she put her arms around him and lay her head upon his shoulder. His gray robe soon became soaked with tears.

  They stood that way for some time as the wind rustled through the remains of the cottage and the sounds of the night creatures came softly to their ears. Finally she took her head from his shoulder and looked into his eyes.

  "It seems I will be coming with you after all," she said, her voice so small he could barely hear her. "I never expected to see you again."

  Wigg pulled her closer.

  "Nor I, you," he said softly. "Nor I, you."

  PART II

  Revelation

  CHAPTER

  Eleven

  It is within one of the Scrolls of the Ancients that those of the Vagaries shall procure a great weapon. The reading and employment thereof shall bring a shift in all things, including the lives of the Chosen Ones. Just as those who find and control the Scroll of the Vigors come yet another step closer to combining the two sides of magic, those controlling the Scroll of the Vagaries shall also be nearer their goal of complete, never-ending rule over the craft.

  – PAGE 774, VOLUME II, OF THE VIGORS OF THE TOME

  W ulfgar turned over luxuriously in the great bed. Even though he remained a prisoner, he could escape into his dreams of better times.

  "And how are you this evening, Traveler?" his dream-self asked. Pushing aside the stallion's forelock, the boy briskly rubbed the horse's white-starred forehead. The black stallion snorted softly, eagerly stretching his neck for yet more of his keeper's attention.

  From behind his back, Wulfgar produced a bright red apple. Traveler snorted again, and his ears pricked up. Wulfgar was about to play a game with him, and the horse knew it.

  Wulfgar backed away slightly and held the apple higher, just out of Traveler's reach. The stallion pushed forward against the unforgiving oak door to his stall and let go a loud, impatient whinny.

  Wulfgar smiled. "Not so fast," he said gently. "You know what you have to do first."

  The horse impatiently shook his head, forelock and mane flying haphazardly. Finally there came the sound of a single shod hoof banging loudly, one time only, on the floor of the stall.

  Smiling, Wulfgar produced a folding knife and began slicing the apple into pieces. As he held the first of the apple slices out, Traveler took it between his long, uniform teeth and munched contentedly.

  Turning away from the stall for a moment, Wulfgar took a piece of apple for himself and looked down the length of the barn. For as long as he could remember he had loved the sights, smells, and sounds of this place more than any other.

  His father, Jason of the House of Merrick, owned these barns and presided over the combination of stables and blacksmith shop. Thanks to the Directorate of Wizards, peace and prosperity had reigned for more than three centuries, and Jason's business was good. Even so, the Merrick family was by no means wealthy. But father, mother, and son were happy in the ways that money could not buy.

  The young man of thirteen looked down the length of the barn. It was full to capacity. Yello
w straw lay everywhere, and the smell of green hay, amber grain, horses, and saddle soap combined with the sooty smoke and char of the blacksmith's hearth in the next room to create a familiar scent he breathed in gladly. A soft, low light came from the many lanterns lining the aisle between the rows of stalls. To his ears came the occasional snorts and whinnies of the horses and the comforting double clangs of his father's hammer on the anvil. These sounds and smells had become an integral part of his life.

  Wulfgar gave Traveler another piece of apple. Then he noticed that the clanging of his father's hammer had ceased. Turning, Wulfgar saw his father approaching. Jason looked tired, but he grinned affectionately at Wulfgar as he approached. His weathered face and hands were covered with dark soot, as was the worn leather blacksmith's apron tied around his middle.

  "Enough for one day," he said, his voice gravelly and strong. He smelled like hot charcoal. As usual, his massive strength was both comforting and familiar to Wulfgar, like standing next to a favorite old oak tree.

  "Dinner must be ready by now," Jason added as he folded his apron and looked out from the barn. Warm, inviting lights came from the small house lying just beyond. "You know how your mother gets when we let her creations go cold." He winked.

  "I'm not hungry," Wulfgar countered gamely. "Besides, I still have tack to polish. The customers will expect it done by morning, when they arrive for their mounts."

  Jason smiled. "There's another reason why you don't want to leave the stables, isn't there?" he asked.

  Wulfgar looked down at some straw near the toes of his boots and didn't answer.

  "The tack can wait until morning," his father said. "You still have schoolwork to do, and that must come first. Given the fact that we're full up, if some of the tack doesn't get polished, I'm sure the customers will understand."

  Wulfgar's face fell. He liked his lessons well enough-indeed, he was one of his school's best students-but he had always been something of a loner, with a fiercely held sense of independence that set him apart from the other boys. Having schoolmates was fine, but it was the horses that continually came and went from these barns that truly possessed his heart.

  "Suppose I told you that dinner tonight is veal pie-your favorite," Jason said, as he draped a muscular arm over his son's shoulders and turned the boy toward the far doors of the barn. Sighing, Wulfgar nodded. With a final look back at Traveler, he tossed the remains of the apple into the stall. Then, side by side, father and son left the barn and headed for-

  Wulfgar suddenly started awake, all of his senses coming alive at once. He shot upright. Sweaty and breathing heavily, he glanced wildly around the room, trying to remember where he was.

  He had been dreaming again, he realized, rubbing the back of his neck. He wished he had not woken up. The dream was infinitely preferable to his current reality.

  He had been locked within these rooms-supposedly the personal quarters of the one called Krassus-for the last four days. During that time, he had seen no one, save for the demonslavers who supplied him with food, toilet articles, and clean clothing. Not one of them had spoken to him.

  Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, he retied his long sandy hair behind him with the worn leather strip and then turned to look out the open balcony doors. Morning was dawning, the sky sunny and clear.

  Reluctantly he took the frantically patterned silk robe from the settee at the end of the bed and put it on. He felt like a fool. He acutely missed his simple leather breeches, boots, and matching sleeveless shirt, the one that had been so forgiving when he used to swing the heavy hammer down on the anvil. He walked sleepily to the spacious balcony and sat down in one of the overstuffed chairs.

  His velvet cage-as he had come to think of his prison-was indeed sumptuous, but there was absolutely no way to escape it. The only exit was through double doors of solid marble, locked from the other side. Two armed, white-skinned slavers stood perpetual guard in the hall.

  The chambers consisted of a bedroom with a gigantic four-poster bed, an adjoining drawing room with shelves full of books and a large fireplace, and a huge, ornate bath. The rooms were of highly polished marble, as was the open, low-walled balcony where he now sat. Below, the sea crashed against the nearby shore, and he could smell the crisp, salty sea air.

  Looking toward the west and out over the seemingly endless Sea of Whispers, he was again reminded that his quarters were hundreds of feet in the air, and surely comprised but a small part of the massive building in which he was being held. One corner of his mouth came up knowingly. No one guarded him on this side of his quarters, for there was no need to. The exterior walls were slick and smooth. Any attempt to escape that way would mean a fall and certain death on the jagged rocks that lined the shore.

  Tall, white-sailed ships arrived daily-no doubt transporting yet more slaves-and each time the swaying masts and graceful sails appeared on the horizon, the view steeled his resolve to escape-someday, somehow. But not before killing Janus, he promised himself, and as many of the grotesque slavers as he could.

  During the last four days there had been little to do except sit and watch the restless ocean. He had tried to read the books in the drawing room, but they were all written in a beautiful-looking but utterly foreign language. The only words he recognized were Talis and R'talis, and they seemed to be repeated over and over. He was alone with unanswered questions. Why was he was being treated like a king, while his fellow slaves were supposedly confined somewhere else, somewhere far less comfortable? Why had such excitement accompanied his arrival at the docks? Things had been said and done to him there that he couldn't even begin to understand.

  Shame washed over him, and he closed his eyes.

  The darkness momentarily brought back his dream, and his thoughts turned to his home in the coastal city of Farpoint, and the parents he loved with all his heart. As far as he knew, Jason and Selene were still alive and well, though surely they missed him. Jason still worked in the stables, but no longer performed the difficult manual labor required by his trade. Wulfgar, now thirty-five Seasons of New Life, had stayed on, taking over the blacksmith shop. His strong, hard body showed the years of hard work, his muscles sculpted by so many strikes of the hammer to the anvil. Although there had been several women in his life, he had yet to marry.

  He had been abducted in Farpoint while making a trip to order grain for the stables. Rumors of the abduction of men and women his age had been circulating for days, but always the independent skeptic, he had ignored them and ventured into the city anyway. It was at the mill that several of the awful, white-skinned things had come at him at once. Sadly, he had been unarmed.

  Nonetheless, Wulfgar had fought back like a lion, badly injuring several of them with his fists and feet before being rendered unconscious. He had awakened to the fire of a branding iron on his shoulder and was then bound in the darkness belowdecks on a ship that tossed its way through the Sea of Whispers for sixteen excruciating days.

  He craned his neck to look at the brand on his left shoulder and was heartened to see that it had almost completely healed. He shook his head again at the insanity of it all. It had taken him three days of twice-daily bathing before he had felt truly free of the filth and stink of the ship's hold. But he would never be free of the bizarre brand.

  As he continued to stare out over the ocean, his thoughts turned to Eutracia, and to the royal family. Most people believed the king and queen to be dead, along with the Directorate of Wizards. It was widely rumored that they had perished in the royal palace on Prince Tristan's coronation day. Some even said that the king had died at the prince's own hand.

  Questions about the survival of the royal twins had stubbornly remained. But if they lived, as so many people thought, why weren't they coming to the aid of their citizens?

  No one seemed to know. But if the other rumors were indeed true about the winged ones that had come and murdered both the royal family and the entire Royal Guard, then perhaps even Tristan and Shailiha could
do little to stem the tide of the slavers-especially without the powers of the Directorate to help them.

  His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the bolt sliding, and the double doors of his bedroom swung open. Breakfast time.

  Two demonslavers entered, swords drawn. A third slaver pushed the now-familiar silver cart loaded with food and drink into the room. Then, unexpectedly, two other persons came through the door. Wulfgar stood quickly and came in from the balcony.

  Janus stood there proudly, dressed in his usual flagrant clothes. The twin iron spheres dangling, as always, from his right hip clanked together menacingly as he walked. The dark eyes surrounded by the red, painted mask surveyed the room cautiously.

  Beside him stood a woman. Janus roughly shoved her forward, as though displaying her for Wulfgar's approval.

  She was beautiful. Tall and shapely, she wore her long, brunette hair in ringlets that twirled down to her shoulders. Her eyes were wide, and bright blue. A magnificent yellow taffeta gown trimmed with white lace draped gracefully from her bare shoulders to the floor, the hem just reaching the tops of her matching silk slippers. On her left shoulder was an angry, healing brand: R'talis.

  As Janus took a few steps closer, Wulfgar cringed. Janus looked Wulfgar up and down, and then nodded his approval.

  "You clean up nicely," he cooed. "A vast improvement over that day at the docks, I must say."

  Without looking around, he raised one hand and snapped his fingers. The two demonslavers immediately grabbed the woman and tossed her onto the four-poster bed as though she were a toy. Surprisingly unafraid, she glared back at them with hate in her eyes.

  "As you might have already guessed, she's for you," Janus said calmly, as if he were giving Wulfgar a birthday gift. "R'talis, of course. Nothing but the best for our honored guest. She pleases the eye, does she not? After four days of boredom, I thought you could use some 'companionship.' In any event, do with her as you will."