The Scrolls of the Ancients tcobas-3

by Robert Newcomb

  Once Wigg had been put to bed, Faegan had told the others all he could of their amazing journey. The bag of herbs and the vial of oil that had been taken from the floating gardens lay safely on a nearby table.

  "Is it really true that you cannot use the herbs the watchwoman gave you until they have dried out?" Shailiha asked as she rocked Morganna's carriage with one hand. The baby gave a soft coo.

  The princess was very anxious for Abbey to try to find her brother by way of the gazing flame. There still had been no news from the flying Minion patrols that stubbornly refused to give up looking for the prince, or from the Minion fleet that had supposedly left Parthalon several days earlier, under the joint command of Geldon and Traax.

  But at least Faegan's stores of herbs and oils were now all here in Tammerland rather than remaining in his mansion in Shadowood. Just before leaving for the Chambers of Penitence Faegan had ordered a contingent of Minions to fly Abbey, Celeste, and Shailiha back to Shadowood to oversee the return of the goods.

  Abbey had been speechless at what she had seen there. But she had taken it all in stride, helping make sure that everything was packaged up and transported as ordered. Faegan's stores now resided safely below ground level, locked in one of the laboratories of the Redoubt.

  As he considered the princess' question, Faegan turned to look at the bag and the vial. Then an unexpected smile crossed his lips, and he turned his chair toward Abbey.

  "Tell me," he asked the herbmistress, "can you effectively produce and employ a gazing flame through the exclusive use of oils, rather than dried herbs?"

  Taking a deep breath, Abbey searched her memory. "Herbs work much better for that purpose," she answered carefully. "That is why oils are rarely used for viewing. There is one that will work, but the results are often unclear. The oil is called unction of scythegrass root, and it is very rare. Do you know it?"

  Smiling, Faegan nodded. "It awaits us in the Redoubt, mixed with the others."

  "I don't understand," Shailiha interjected. "I thought we had to wait for the herbs to dry."

  "No," Faegan answered. "The watchwoman told me that we could use the oil she gave me to separate the other oils right away." Smiling, he looked around the room. "That being the case, I therefore suggest we descend to the Redoubt."

  Celeste turned her attention back to Wigg. "I will stay here, in case Father awakens," she said adamantly.

  "Very well," Faegan agreed, smiling at her. Thinking, he turned to the princess. "I think the child should stay here with Celeste," he added. "I am not entirely sure what might happen. Best not to take any unnecessary chances." He turned back to Celeste. "If you need us, you know where we will be."

  He gazed down into the craggy face of the wizard who had risked everything for their cause. "Sleep well, my friend," he said softly.

  Turning his chair away from the bed, he wheeled himself over to the nearby table and placed the vial and the bag into his lap. Shailiha rolled the carriage over to Celeste. Bending over, she gave Morganna a kiss good-bye. The baby grabbed playfully at Shailiha's blond tresses, causing her mother to cry out in mock consternation. Then the princess and Abbey followed Faegan out of the room.

  They had a long way to go to get to the laboratory. Down numerous corridors they went, the oil sconces on the walls surrendering a soft, even glow, the heels of the women's shoes ringing out crisply against the shiny marble floor.

  Faegan finally stopped before one of the seemingly innumerable doors of carved mahogany. Narrowing his eyes he called the craft, and Shailiha heard the lock in the door turn over once, then twice more. Abbey opened the door and went through, Faegan and the princess following along behind her. The massive, carved door closed behind them heavily.

  The laboratory looked as if it had not been used in some time. It reminded Shailiha of a teaching chamber, complete with text- and scroll-filled bookcases, a long table near the far wall, and rows of dusty mahogany, desk-topped chairs. Shailiha found herself smiling as she thought of days gone by, when the room would have been filled with dozens of eager consuls listening to Wigg or some other member of the Directorate lecturing on some arcane topic of the craft.

  Faegan wheeled his chair over to the corner that held the bags of herbs and the vat of oils. Before attempting to use the goods obtained in the Chambers of Penitence, it was vital that he employ his power of Consummate Recollection to recall exactly the instructions the watchwoman had given him. He had to be supremely careful, he knew, for he would only have one chance of returning the oils to their previous states. Taking a deep breath, he closed his eyes. The watchwoman's words came floating back to the surface of his consciousness.

  Faegan opened his eyes and looked around the room. They would need many glass containers, he realized. After a good deal of searching the three of them finally found some in an abandoned cupboard, but were forced to scour other nearby rooms to collect the rest. It took some doing, but when they were finished, several hundred glass beakers stood in neat rows on one of the dusty, abandoned tables.

  Beckoning the women to one side, the wizard raised an arm and caused the heavy vat of mixed oils to rise and move through the air to land gently just behind the rows of waiting glassware. He caused the hinged top of the vat to open, exposing the oils within, then wheeled his chair to the opposite side of the room, indicating that Abbey and Shailiha should join him.

  "What happens now?" Shailiha asked in a hushed tone, as if her voice might somehow upset things.

  "Now I am to mix the oil from the floating gardens with those in the vat," Faegan answered softly. He pursed his lips. "After that, even I do not know what will occur, so stay alert."

  Raising an arm again, the wizard caused the vial in his lap to rise into the air and float directly above the open vat. The vial opened and slowly poured its contents into the mixture of other oils. Shailiha held her breath.

  Precious seconds ticked by, but nothing happened. Then the entire vat took on the azure glow of the craft and began to revolve. At first its movements were slow and gentle, as if some unseen force were trying to stir its contents. But soon it was rocking violently, spinning on the edge of its bottom, occasionally leaving the surface of the table. Faegan's eyes went wide with worry that the vat might spill, rendering his oils forever unusable.

  There came a great howling noise, and the contents of the vat rose into the air in a whirling, multicolored maelstrom of oil. On and on it came, until all of it had cleared the vat. Free of its container, it spun faster yet. Then centrifugal force began forcing the oil to fly outward, gradually separating into individual pools that hovered just above the lips of the glassware.

  Finally the howling stopped, and the oil pools poured themselves into the various containers all at once. Then things went silent, the oils settling into their containers and finally growing still.

  But surprisingly, the vat began to shake again. As it did, elegant, glowing letters rose from it, snaking their way up in a column, like smoke rising from a campfire. On and on they came, separating into groups, each group finally collecting itself before one of the various beakers. Then the groups of letters began to swirl, rearranging themselves into Old Eutracian words that landed on the sides of the glassware. The azure glow finally departed. Stunned, Faegan wheeled himself over to the table. Abbey and Shailiha followed him.

  It was a very rare thing to see the master wizard surprised, but he was clearly awestruck by what had just occurred. He picked up one after another of the full beakers and slowly examined them. After reading each of the labels he would hold the beaker to the light, then carefully smell its contents. After randomly regarding about a dozen of them he let go a happy cackle and gleefully slammed one hand down on one arm of his chair. In a display of pure joy, he levitated his chair a bit, then spun it around in the air.

  "We've done it!" he shouted. "The oils have been separated and labeled. This is unprecedented! Had I been forced to use the equalizing spoons, the hue harmonizer, and the Chart of Herbal Hue
s, this task could have taken a lifetime! What we have just witnessed will change herbmastery forever!"

  Shailiha was pleased that Faegan was so impressed, but her overriding concern was still the search for her brother. "Can Abbey now use the oil you mentioned to look for Tristan?" she asked eagerly.

  "Yes, yes, of course," Faegan answered absently, almost as if he had forgotten the real reason why they had just gone through all of this.

  Wheeling his chair up and down the rows of beakers, he began searching for one labeled "Unction of Scythegrass Root." After a good bit of searching he finally gave another cackle and held up a beaker that contained a dark violet oil.

  "This must be it," he said. He held it carefully to the light, then took a long, expert sniff. After a moment, he grinned broadly.

  "Unction of scythegrass, all right," he announced happily. "I'd bet my life on it!" He looked back at the two women. "Now we go up to the courtyard!" And taking the precious oil, he led the way back up through the labyrinthine passages of the Redoubt.

  Once in the open expanse of the courtyard, Faegan turned to Abbey. "A drop of Shailiha's blood should work, shouldn't it?" he asked her. Abbey nodded.

  Faegan turned to Shailiha. "Please hold out one hand," he said.

  She immediately did so. Pointing an index finger toward her, he caused a tiny pinprick to form, and a single drop of her blood was released. It rose from her finger and came to hover before them in the stillness of the late afternoon air. Satisfied, Faegan handed the beaker of violet oil to Abbey.

  "You may begin," he said.

  After pouring a small amount of the oil onto the ground, Abbey produced flint and steel from one of the pockets of her dress. As she struck them together, the resulting spark launched itself obediently toward the pool of oil, and a small flame erupted.

  After releasing a few more drops of the precious oil down into the flame she stood back, using her gift to force the azure fire higher and higher. When it was at last about two meters wide and five meters tall she crooked one finger, causing the flame to divide into two distinct but unequal-sized branches. Curling her finger again, she pointed to the right, and the smaller of the two flames flattened itself out, coming dangerously close to scorching her hands and her face.

  Reaching into the air, she collected the single drop of Shailiha's blood onto one of her fingertips and held it high.

  A rectangular window began to form midway up the body of the undulating blaze. Hoping against hope, Shailiha came as close to it as she dared, trying to see what was forming within its midst. Equally mesmerized, Faegan wheeled his chair nearer.

  At first Shailiha thought she could see Tristan, sitting in a chair and surrounded by other men and women. But the view was maddeningly fuzzy.

  She turned to look at the herbmistress. As she did, the suddenly terrified look on Abbey's face told her that something had just gone horribly, dangerously wrong. For a moment Shailiha saw the herbmistress turn her eyes from her creation to look strangely at the princess; then she immediately gazed back at her flame, her mouth open with horror, and gestured at the blaze as if she were desperately trying to change something about it.

  Then, as if in slow motion, she used every bit of her strength to turn and lunge at the wizard and the princess, knocking Shailiha down and sending Faegan's chair tumbling over backward.

  Amidst a great thunderclap of heat and fire, Abbey's gazing flame exploded.

  CHAPTER

  Forty-five

  S itting next to the sailmaker, with the deafening, palpable tension of the Wing and Claw raining down around him, Tristan felt his heart racing. Horrified, he helplessly watched the man he assumed to be Rolf pull even harder on Tyranny's hair in an effort to force the prince to reveal himself. Even though she refused to cry out, Tristan could see that she was in desperate pain, and there was nothing that Scars could do to help her. If the three of them were to somehow survive this, it would be completely up to Tristan.

  Tyranny's former lover was everything Tyranny and Scars had said he would be. He was tall, hard-muscled, and somewhat older than the prince-perhaps thirty-five Seasons of New Life. Sandy blond hair fell haphazardly down around his face and shoulders. Part of it was woven into two narrow, tight braids that hung alongside the left jaw, their ends capped with small onyx ornaments. His dark blue eyes were hard and unforgiving. He wore a bright red, sleeveless shirt; tight-fitting tan breeches; black knee boots; and a bright red sash around his waist. Numerous tattoos and scars could be seen on his chest and his chiseled arms. At his left hip he wore a saber; an empty dagger sheath was at his right, tied down to his thigh.

  "Come forward now!" Rolf screamed again, yanking Tyranny's face a bit higher. Tristan saw Tyranny wince, then close her eyes against the pain.

  Remembering the piece of ancient vellum still hidden in his boot, an idea came to Tristan.

  He stood up, roughly pushing his chair out of the way. The chair legs screeched loudly on the floor.

  Everyone turned to look at the tall, dark-haired man with the strange weapons lying across his back. His eyes never leaving Rolf, Tristan slowly replaced his throwing knife into its quiver, opened his hands to show they were empty, and started across the floor. As he did, many in the crowd smiled greedily. They were sure someone was about to die, and their money was on Rolf.

  Coming to stand before the pirate, Tristan looked hard into his eyes. "Let her go," he said. "She's with me now."

  Looking Tristan up and down, Rolf let go a derisive laugh. "My men in the street said ya wore a black vest and carried childish lookin' weapons, but they forgot to mention how ugly y'are," he said. Tristan immediately recognized his accent as coming from the Eutracian highlands, just north of Ilendium.

  "They also told me that they saw Tyranny kissin' ya in the street," Rolf went on. "So who are ya, then? I would surely like to know, before I order the men in this room to tear y'apart. Then the lass and I would like to be alone." Rolf smiled wickedly. "It seems she and I have some catchin' up to do."

  Steeling himself, Tristan decided to take his gamble. He put a snide look on his face, then pointed down at Tyranny. "This bitch and that idiot giant of hers are my partners now, and I want them back."

  Tristan held his breath, praying that neither Tyranny nor Scars would say anything. They remained silent.

  "What's that ya say?" Rolf demanded, screwing his face up. "And just how did all this come about?"

  "The same way everything does," Tristan said calmly, playing up to the pirate's greed. He took another step forward. "I promised to pay for her knowledge, and her ships. She and the giant work for me now."

  "Oh, they work for ya, is it?" Rolf asked sarcastically. "Just why should I believe all of this rubbish-not that it matters? And out of idle curiosity, just how much did ya supposedly promise to pay, eh? It would take a fine price indeed for Tyranny to give up her ships, even if she did steal them from someone else!" Smiling, he looked down at her pain-stricken face. "Isn't that right, lass?" he asked her nastily. Then he turned his dark blue eyes back up to the prince.

  Tristan smiled at him. "I paid one hundred thousand kisa," he answered calmly.

  The moment the words left his mouth, he heard a hush come over the crowd. "If you don't believe me, just ask her for the promissory note I signed," he added. "She always keeps it hidden between her breasts." Holding his breath, he hoped against hope that is was still there.

  Rolf looked narrowly at the prince, then finally let go of Tyranny's hair. Bending over, he grabbed her under one arm and roughly pulled her to her feet. "Is this true?" he demanded.

  Confused, uncertain what Tristan was doing, she reached into her jacket and pulled out the note the two of them had signed that day in her cabin. She handed it over to Rolf.

  Upon reading it, the color drained from Rolf's face for a moment. Clearly, he was intrigued. But his knife remained steadily at Tyranny's throat. "And just why would a man of your means want to be out there on the ocean, eh?" he asked. "
Or in a place the likes of Sanctuary?"

  "The answer is simple," Tristan said. "She and I have each lost a brother to the demonslavers. We want to find them. She had the ships, and I had the money. Even you ought to be able to understand that, you dumb bastard."

  A slight chuckle came from the crowd. Few had ever insulted Rolf that way and lived to tell about it.

  Smiling greedily, Tristan let the insult stand, hoping that he hadn't just succeeded in getting the three of them killed. A tense silence held court for several moments.

  Rolf turned back to Tyranny. "And just where is this money now?" he asked.

  So far, the greedy pirate was doing exactly as Tristan had hoped he would. "I'm the only one who knows," Tristan said quickly, before Tyranny could speak. "It's hidden, buried on the coast of Eutracia. Tyranny has seen it-that was necessary, to prove that I actually had it. But before I paid her I wanted a first voyage, to see what she could do against the slavers. That's why I signed the note. Before we set sail I moved the money, making sure I was the only one who knew the location. But soon after entering these waters we were attacked by screechlings, and we had to dock here for fresh spars and sail. Do you really think we would be here in this dirty hole unless we needed to be?"

  Rolf looked narrowly at the prince, then cast his eyes down at the note.

  This twenty-second day of the Season of New Life, I promise to pay Teresa of the House of Welborne one hundred thousand kisa upon the successful completion of this voyage.

  At the bottom of the page lay two signatures. One belonged to Tyranny, and the other was the false name Tristan had signed that day in her cabin, when they had struck their original bargain. His knife still at Tyranny's throat, Rolf looked back up at the prince.