The Scrolls of the Ancients tcobas-3

by Robert Newcomb

  "The Tome mentioned a psychic price to be paid for the knowledge that we seek," Faegan said cautiously. "What does that mean?"

  "How long have each of you been alive?" she asked.

  Confused, the two wizards looked at each other. "We are each more than three centuries old," Faegan answered honestly. "But why do you need to know?"

  "Only three centuries," she mused. "Still so young. Mere children in the intricate tapestry that is the craft. Due to your youth, you may not possess the depth of experiences required to pay the price, and trying to do so might well cost you your lives."

  "I don't understand," Wigg interjected. "What do our ages have to do with the psychic price that you demand?"

  "To acquire what you seek, the price to be paid is not money nor other physical goods of any kind. The payment demanded is that one of you must leave behind a piece of your very soul. To do so, you must be forced to relive your greatest regret, as if you were experiencing it for the very first time. Therefore, the longer you have lived, the greater the chances that you possess regrets that will satisfy the price. As you make payment, the psychic pain you experience in your soul shall be accompanied by an equally severe, physical pain in your heart-the very seat of such regret. And should your endowed blood not be strong enough to persist, your heart will burst, and you will die. If that occurs, you will never leave this place. I realize your need is great. Therefore the price demanded shall be, also."

  "How could you possibly know what each of our greatest regrets might be?" Faegan asked. "We might try to trick you."

  "I do not need to know. Only you do."

  "But why must we pay such an awful price?" Wigg asked. "Why can't you simply give us what we need? Are our goals not the same-the preservation of the Vigors?"

  "That is not my place to say," she answered. "The Ones Who Came Before built these chambers and others like them before they perished, hoping they would be found by those who value only the Vigors, just as you obviously found both the Tome and the Paragon. But in their wisdom they also dictated the price to be paid, so that what might be given to you will not be taken lightly, or squandered. The nature of the price therefore demands that only those of exceptionally strong blood will prevail, and be able to use that which they have been given. As you will soon see, many of your kind have tried over the ages, and failed."

  "Do those of the Vagaries know of these chambers?" Faegan asked, practically bursting with curiosity.

  "That does not matter just now."

  "Why not?"

  "Because possession of the Paragon is required to enter, and you are its current wearer," she answered simply. "The others of your race who have come here seeking answers over the eons were, like you, in possession of the stone. It is hoped that finally, after all this time, the Chosen Ones will accomplish what so many others have failed to do, and at the same time will learn all that there is to know of what has gone before. And with that shall dawn a new age."

  His eyes alive with questions, Faegan looked into the dark recesses of her hood. "Are you one of the Ones Who Came Before?" he breathed.

  "I am, and I am not," she said cryptically. "I have been here in this place for eons, doing their bidding. As you can see, my flesh has fallen away, but my mind remains. But I will tell you that eons ago, I was a woman of the craft. Tell me, do women still practice the arts in the world above?"

  "For a long time it was forbidden, but now there are again such women," Wigg answered. "They are known as the Acolytes of Fledgling House. But they are only newly trained, and remain scattered across the land. We would like to call them all home, but we do not know how."

  The watchwoman remained still for a time as she considered his words. "If the threat to the Vigors is as great as you say, you will need these women in your service," she said. "I suggest you call them back immediately."

  "But as I said," Wigg protested, "we don't know how."

  "If you are able to find the Scroll of the Vigors, examine it carefully, looking for the formula that invokes the River of Thought," she told him.

  "The River of Thought?" Faegan repeated. "What do you mean?"

  "No more talk," she said flatly. "Your questions are legion, and I have accommodated you long enough. It is time for you to make your decision. Do you wish to pay the psychic price for what you seek? Understand that if you agree, and pass this portal into my world, you are bound by your blood to keep your end of the bargain. There can be no turning back."

  Faegan looked up to Wigg with questioning eyes. After a long pause, the lead wizard nodded.

  "We agree," Faegan said.

  "Then follow me," the watchwoman ordered. Turning, she walked into the darkness.

  Wigg and Faegan followed tentatively behind, wondering what lay waiting for them on the other side.

  CHAPTER

  Thirty-two

  "C an I have one, Marcus?" Rebecca asked. She was fairly jumping up and down, excited almost beyond words. "Please, Marcus," she pleaded, pulling on the sleeve of his shirt. "Please, can I?"

  Marcus looked up and down the street to which he had carefully guided them. Like Bargainer's Square, it was teeming with passersby and street vendors. But this section of Tammerland was infinitely more appealing, not to mention safer. The area they were standing in was known as the Plaza of Fallen Heroes, and here and there could be seen marble statues erected to those who had fallen over the centuries in the service of the crown.

  By Marcus' side stood the wheelbarrow that had lain up against the shed he and his sister lived in, and lying in the wheelbarrow was the scroll. Marcus was strong for his age. Even so, he found the scroll, with all of its gold adornments, difficult to lift. Finding the discarded wheelbarrow had been a great stroke of luck.

  The patterned rug they had stolen was wound tightly around it, hiding it from view. The open ends of the rug were stuffed with rags. Marcus hoped that these simple measures would be enough to hide the scroll-at least until he had concluded his business with the man they were supposed to meet. He prayed to the Afterlife that it would not start glowing again. He and Rebecca had already survived several close scrapes, and they didn't need another one.

  The man he was waiting for was supposedly a purveyor of artifacts of the craft. After Marcus had described the scroll to him, the fellow had seemed most anxious to examine it-almost giddy, in fact. Until yesterday Marcus had not known that such vendors existed, and had come upon the fellow's establishment quite by accident, during his latest foray to steal food. Subsequently asking around a bit, he learned that since the demise of the wizards of the Directorate, such places had not only begun to spring up in Tammerland, but were also flourishing.

  Some of these purported merchants of the craft were legitimate, it seemed, and some were not. Selling anything they could get their hands on, they all claimed their wares to be of the craft. But what did appear certain was that with the fall of the Royal Guard and the Directorate, there was no shortage of those now willing to take advantage of a newly curious, souvenir-hungry populace. Many citizens had become morbidly anxious to own something that smacked of magic, or its supposed connection to the fallen House of Galland. It was said that anything that had come from the looted royal palace-and had its authenticity verified-would bring nearly its weight in gold.

  Marcus looked down again at the rolled-up rug in the dilapidated wheelbarrow, thinking of what lay inside it. He had no idea whether it had come from the palace, but he was certain it was of the craft. Nothing else would glow like that-he was sure of it. And he was anxious to turn it into kisa so he and Rebecca could stop hiding and get on with their lives.

  But that was not to say he was willing to sell the scroll to the first interested party who came along. Marcus had made it clear to the man meeting them today that he was merely to give them a price, and that he and his sister were going to entertain other offers before bargaining their item away. If an offer was good today, it would also be good later, he assumed.

  Still, he remai
ned nervous, and his palms were beginning to sweat. Reaching into his pocket, his hand found the cool, comforting handle of his knife.

  "Come on, Marcus!" Rebecca started pleading again. "It only costs one kisa, and I know you have a few in your pocket. I heard them jangling together as you walked!"

  Marcus smiled down at his sister. As he took in her dirty, tattered dress and the clubfoot that she never complained about, he felt his heart slip a bit.

  In truth he would have much preferred to carefully spend all the kisa on food. It had been a long time since he had felt the comforting weight of coins in his pockets, even if they were few in number. And acquiring them had come hard. He had been forced to lounge around almost all afternoon yesterday on a nearby street corner before finding the perfect victim to "accidentally" bump into and relieve of his coins. And after all of that, he had only come up with four.

  "Are you sure that's what you want?" he asked. "I know it's only one kisa. But when you buy one of those, it doesn't seem that you get much for your money. I worked hard for these coins, you know."

  Rebecca just gazed up at him with her big, brown eyes, giving him the forlorn look that she knew he could rarely resist.

  As she expected, Marcus finally relented.

  "All right, all right," he said, smiling and reaching into his ragged pocket. "But only one, piglet. Do you understand?"

  Nodding gleefully, she snatched the shiny gold coin and ran over to the stand, followed by Marcus and the wheelbarrow.

  The vendor's stall was a simple, square-roofed affair. An ancient-looking woman sat inside on a stool, taking care of her customers. A young male assistant sat beside her, tending to the wares. Dozens of small wooden cages hung from the roof and lay scattered along the countertop. As Rebecca looked them over, Marcus smiled, reminded of what a nonsensical custom this was. Not to mention a very bad investment. Still, they weren't the only people standing here, willing to spend their kisa on what the crafty woman offered.

  Each of the cages contained a throat lark. The birds were remarkably small: three of them could usually fit into the palm of a grown man's hand. They had presumably acquired their name because of the bright colors adorning their throats. The remainder of the bird was usually a very soft, dappled blue, although that sometimes varied. Well known for their singing voices, they were prized as house pets. As the larks danced happily about in their cages, their twittering combined to create a singularly beautiful harmony, attracting yet more of the curious to the old woman's stall.

  Marcus smiled and shook his head as Rebecca picked out a lark of soft powder blue with a deep green throat. Satisfied, she handed the single, precious coin up to the woman on the stool. Then she took the bird, cage and all, over to where her brother was standing.

  The highly unusual, implied agreement with the vendor was that once the purchase had been made, the cage door was to be opened immediately, and the bird set free. Then the cage was to be returned to the stall.

  Everyone knew, of course, that the birds were trained to fly immediately back to the old woman, only to be caged again by her assistant to await yet another customer. But none of that mattered to the buyers. Eutracian custom said that paying to set a caged creature free, even if for only a moment, would gladden the heart and bring good luck.

  The practice had sprung up after the recent hostilities accompanying the return of the Coven. Mourners had begun freeing birds already in their possession to honor the departed souls of their loved ones, wishing them a safe journey to the Afterlife.

  Smiling from ear to ear, Rebecca gingerly opened the cage door, releasing the throat lark to the sky.

  With a short, clear call, the bird left the cage and went winging straight back to the stall, to land on the countertop. Rebecca turned back to her brother. Her eyes were wet. No one had to tell Marcus whom she had been thinking of when she had opened the cage door.

  "Do you feel better?" he asked softly.

  All she could do was nod. Then remembering her responsibility to the vendor, she hobbled back to the stall with the empty cage. Watching her go, Marcus couldn't help but think how much he loved her-and that he would do anything to make sure that, unlike the birds in the cages, she stayed free. It was just then that his thoughts were interrupted by a deep male voice.

  "Good afternoon. Right on time, I see. I like that in a businessman. Shows proper intent, I always say."

  Turning, Marcus took in the man's tall, plump frame, silver hair, and expensive clothes. His name was Gregory of the House of Worth, which fit him perfectly. Gold jewelry flashed at his fingers and wrists, and a thick, white mustache lay elegantly just above the decisive mouth. His predatory eyes were dark, and seemed never to miss a thing.

  The moment Marcus had first met him, he had taken the fellow for a shrewd bargainer. After making a few polite inquiries, he had learned that Worth seemed to have an honest reputation. Still, Marcus remained nervous as he tried his best to steel himself against whatever first offer Worth might make. Even at the tender age of twelve Seasons of New Life, he knew that someone's first proposal was never the best, and he had no intention of being taken advantage of. He also had a plan.

  With a distasteful grimace, Worth looked down at the rug lying in the wheelbarrow.

  "Perhaps I was mistaken," he said slyly. "I didn't come here to buy a rug."

  "That's good," Marcus answered calmly, "because I didn't come here to sell one."

  Worth smiled. By now Rebecca had joined them, and Marcus bade her nearer.

  "Are you alone?" Marcus asked him. He realized that it was a foolish question, for Worth could have any number of confederates waiting here in the plaza to rob him, and Marcus wouldn't recognize any of them. But he hoped the question would set a certain tone, rather than glean reliable information.

  "Of course," Worth answered, stabbing his thumbs into the shiny, expensive vest that stretched its way around his prodigious middle. "That was our agreement, was it not?" Looking down at the rug again, he smiled, then twisted one of the ends of his mustache. "It's in there, isn't it?"

  Checking to see that no one stood too near to them, Marcus beckoned Worth and Rebecca closer, until they all stood crowded around one end of the rug. From this position, even if someone walked directly behind them there would be little to see.

  Slowly, carefully, Marcus removed the rags from the end of the rug, grasped the golden rod at the base of the scroll, then pulled it free a short distance. It was just enough to give Worth a taste of the glories promised within.

  Worth gasped. He had never seen such a treasure of the craft. To his mind it was easily worth tenfold the entire contents of his shop. The glistening, golden rod and its end knobs alone were worth a king's ransom, to say nothing of the historical value of the elegant Old Eutracian script.

  Knowing he had succeeded in whetting Worth's appetite, Marcus quickly slid the scroll back into the relative safety of the rug. "How much?" he asked, coming straight to the point.

  Sweating, Worth ran a pudgy index finger around the inside of his shirt collar. "Six-six thousand kisa," he stammered.

  Marcus thought he might faint. Six thousand kisa was a huge sum-more than he might earn in an entire lifetime of honest labor. Still, he tried to retain his composure.

  "Twelve," he said sternly. Rebecca's eyes went wide. She was quite sure her brother had just lost his mind.

  "You just doubled your price!" Worth exploded. "That's not how we negotiate where I come from!"

  "Then we obviously don't come from the same place," Marcus countered boldly. "Besides, I didn't double my price. I never set one. I simply doubled your offer. Saves time."

  Looking around again, he moved one corner of the rug back a bit to reveal another hint of the golden end knob, letting it shine in the sun. "You're wasting my time, and you're not the only artifacts vendor in Tammerland." He looked hard up into the man's eyes. "The price just went to fourteen."

  "Ten," Worth found himself saying.

  "Sixteen."


  "Thirteen," Worth answered, hardly believing his own bid.

  "Is that your final offer?" Marcus asked him. He began to sense resignation in the other man's eyes.

  "I fear it must be," Worth answered. "It is all I have."

  "Then I shall consider it," Marcus answered. "But as I told you before, I mean to speak to other interested parties." After replacing the rags in the open end of the rug, he picked up the handles of the wheelbarrow.

  Worth took an anxious step forward. "But how will I know if it's mine?" he asked urgently. His forehead was bathed in sweat.

  "I know where you work, remember?" Marcus answered. "You will hear from me. But in the meantime, I am leaving. If you ever wish to see the scroll again, you will now leave the plaza by walking away in the opposite direction."

  Worth nodded. "But if someone outbids me, you will allow me the chance to make a better offer, will you not?" he asked desperately.

  Marcus only smiled. "Why would I bother?" he asked bluntly. "Thirteen thousand kisa is all you supposedly have, remember?"

  Marcus watched as the beaten vendor walked away. As they had planned, he and Rebecca headed the opposite way from their shack, ducked into an alley, and waited there for a long while. When they were sure they weren't being followed, Marcus began pushing the wheelbarrow toward home, his mind roiling with the unimaginable prospect of having thirteen thousand kisa. But he also knew he was playing a dangerous game, and that his luck couldn't last forever.

  It was just then that the scroll began to glow.

  From out of the folds of the rags at each end again came the unmistakable azure hue of the craft. Worried, he picked up the pace as fast as he could with 'Becca limping beside him. As one of the rags in the front came loose, he stole a glance up at the sky, to see that darkness was already falling.

  As the glow bled out into the coming night, it would be a miracle if someone didn't notice.