The Scrolls
of the
Ancients
VOLUME III
of
The Chronicles of Blood and Stone
Robert Newcomb
BALLANTINE BOOKS • NEW YORK
Contents
Title Page
Dedication
Prologue: Relinquishment
PART I
Recollection
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
PART II
Revelation
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
PART III
Regret
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
PART IV
Rebirth
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
PART V
Retribution
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
About the Author
Other Books by Robert Newcomb
Copyright
This one’s for
my hugely supportive agent, Matt Bialer,
and my amazingly understanding editor, Shelly Shapiro.
Without them, my books might never have seen
the light of day.
Prologue:
Relinquishment
“And there shall come unto Eutracia one who shall willingly forsake her firstborn . . . And the child cast away shall haunt her dreams for her entire life. Yet it shall be this same child, temporarily lost and alone in the maze that is the craft, who shall also become known as one of its greatest wielders.”
—PAGE 866, CHAPTER TWO OF THE PROPHECIES OF THE TOME
Do not tell me your name, my dear. But by what name shall we call the child? And remember, first name only, please.”
The matron’s voice was neither condescending nor harsh. She waited patiently, her squat, bulky frame blocking the doorway to the building behind her.
But the young mother standing before her in the rain had no ready answer. She had not given her child a name, for doing so would only further cement the bond she already felt with him and make the act she was about to perform even more impossible. Tightening her arms around his little body, she lowered her eyes in sadness and shame.
She had come here to give up her baby.
As she tried unsuccessfully to protect the squirming infant from the driving rain, she craned her neck to peer over the matron’s shoulder. An inviting glow emanated from the rooms beyond, and she could hear the sounds of laughing children. The smells of warm food drifted to her nostrils, reminding her of how long it had been since she had eaten. Perhaps if she could just go inside for a moment, she might feel better about it all . . .
“May I come in before deciding?” she asked.
“No, my dear, it is forbidden,” the matron responded. Her older, wiser heart was breaking, just as it always did for the sad, desperate ones who journeyed here. But the wizards had made their conditions very plain, and as headmistress of this place she had to respect them.
“If you are here to give us your child, surely you must know that you cannot enter,” she added gently. “Not now, not ever.” She extended her arms. According to Eutracian law, once the baby was handed over, there could be no going back.
Still, the young woman hesitated. She pulled the infant closer to her breast, attempting to cover him further with the worn blanket she had wrapped around him.
“And which of the three categories of blood does this child possess?” the matron asked, hoping to move things along. “Fully endowed, unendowed, or partial?” The weather was worsening, and if this was to be done, she wanted the baby protected from the elements as quickly as possible.
“Fully endowed,” the young mother responded quietly.
The matron raised an eyebrow. It had been some time since she had been offered a child of fully endowed blood. Giving one up was a rare thing, usually indicating that the mother’s situation was dire, indeed. “And do you have the child’s verified blood signature to prove this claim?” she asked.
The mother nodded. From beneath her hooded cloak she produced a parchment, which she handed to the woman before her. Backing away from the rain, the matron unrolled it. She glanced at the blood signature, noted the child’s date of birth, then verified that two of the consuls of the Redoubt had witnessed the formation of the signature, as required. The black ink stamp in the shape of the Paragon—the stone that powered the craft of magic—was in place, proof that the child was illegitimate. At last she checked the blood quality rating, also stamped at the bottom of the document. Its numerical value indicated the highest blood quality she had ever seen. Stunned, she simply stood there for a moment. Finally she found her voice.
“And the required parental blood signatures?” she asked, trying to mask her surprise.
The younger woman produced two more parchments. The matron looked intently at them. After noting their signed confirmations by the consuls, she carefully compared them to the first document.
“Very well,” she said finally, “I accept the fact that the child is of fully endowed blood. He will be treated accordingly.”
Except for the actual handing over of the infant, their business was concluded. All of the permissible questions had been asked and answered, and the necessary documents provided.
The young mother trembled, clearly torn.
The drops from the sky combined with those from her eyes to run down her reddened cheeks. The baby had fallen asleep; the only sound was the cold rain splattering down on the street and the unassuming house that hid so many secrets.
Turning, the young mother looked hesitantly to the rain-soaked carriage-of-four that had brought her here. She saw the kind, elderly faces of her parents as they sat inside, waiting for her to decide.
She thought back to when she had first met Eric. He had swept her off her feet, and she had fallen madly in love. At first her parents—simple commoners—had approved of him: handsome, charming, and of fully endowed blood, just as she was.
But then he had shown his true colors. Upon learning of her pregnancy he had abandoned her, never to be heard from again. Despite his cruel treatment, she still missed him, and feared she always would.
That had been the first time her young heart had been truly broken. Standing here, on this anonymous stoop in the rain, trying to make her fateful decision, was the second.
The voices had come just after she had discovered she was pregnant.
You must abort the child, they had said.
But she had defied them, carrying the baby to term and then giving birth despite the terrifying warnings searing through her mind. The voices had grown stronger and more insistent, continuing to demand the death of the infant. They had finally become so resonant and powerful that she thought she would go irretrievably mad if the child stayed with her; she was terrified that such madness would cause her to harm the baby, despite her love for him. And so she had come here—to this place many knew about but few talked of—to give her firstborn away.
“I ask you a final time,” the matron said. “What name shall be given to this child?”
Tears streaming down her face, the young mother looked down into her baby’s face for what she knew in her heart would be the final time. She saw his wispy, sandy hair, and the small mole at the left-hand corner of his mouth. With trembling hands, she handed the infant over to the matron. She thought for a moment.
“Wulfgar,” she whispered at last. She covered her face in grief.
“Then Wulfgar it shall be,” the matron answered compassionately. Her face hardened slightly. “You are never to visit here again, nor try to discover the whereabouts of the child. Do you understand? The wizards’ penalties for disobeying can be quite severe.”
The young woman standing before her could only nod.
“Go now,” the matron said quietly, her voice kind once more. “And may the Afterlife look over you.” Turning, she carried the infant into the house, closing the door behind her.
Sobbing, the young mother collapsed.
She felt her father’s strong arms lift her to her feet, felt herself being carried back to the carriage and placed upon the seat. She continued to cry as her mother stroked her hair, as their driver, snapping his whip, charged the horses noisily down the slick, cobblestoned street.
Morganna of the House of Desinoor wept in her mother’s arms. Then she felt her mother press something into her hand. It was a lock of sandy-colored hair tied with a red ribbon. It had been cut from the head of her son only this morning, and was now all she had to remember him by.
It would be another three years before she would meet and marry Nicholas of the House of Galland, the true love of her life, and become queen of Eutracia. She would then go on to have twins, whose birth would be heralded by a strange, azure glow and watched over anxiously by ancient wizards.
The carriage plunged on through the night.
PART I
Recollection
THIRTY-FOUR YEARS LATER
CHAPTER
One
And a great calamity shall befall the nation after the second earthly death of the Chosen male’s seed, for the endowed and the unendowed alike of the already beleaguered land shall find themselves in chains, with little hope of return.
—PAGE 553, CHAPTER ONE OF THE PROPHECIES OF THE TOME
Whump! . . . whump! . . . whump! . . .
The two massive sledges came down on the large, simple block of wood in perfect unison, one after the other, monotonously marking out the beat. Its cadence rarely varied. A sledge in each hand, the awful, barely human creature continued to bang out the mind-numbing rhythm as the filthy slaves seated in rows before him toiled endlessly.
Whump! . . . whump! . . . whump! . . .
Built for war, maneuverability, and speed, the ship was unusually large. Christened the Defiant, she carried four full masts and a hundred oars. The cramped oaring stations lay one deck down, and smelled of sweat, urine, and slow death.
Fifty such rows stretched down the dark interior of the hull, a single, wide walkway separating them into two equal halves. Six male slaves toiled in each of the divided rows, making six hundred of them on this deck alone. They had few breaks. They were forced to row whenever the wind was directly behind them, or the ship was in the doldrums, or simply, it seemed, when impatience overcame their new taskmasters. And even when they were allowed a few moments of rest, they remained chained in place, unable to stretch their muscles to rest their weary backs.
The slaves wore nothing but soiled loincloths. Their callused, bleeding hands were chained together and their feet were in shackles, communally chained to the deck. Escape was impossible. Even if one or more of them somehow freed themselves of their bonds, there would be nowhere to go except overboard, to drown in the icy waters of the Sea of Whispers.
They had been at sea for fifteen days. Legend had it that no ship had ever sailed farther than that—ships that tried never returned home.
One of the slaves looked down at the number carved into his oar handle. Number Twenty-Nine. That was his name now—a number, assigned by his captors. It was meant to be dehumanizing, he was sure, but he had seized on it as a symbol, a reminder that his life was not his own, that the slave manning this oar was not his true self. Twenty-Nine. He would use that as his name as long as he remained captive. But someday, somehow, he would be freed, and then he would take up his family name once again with pride.
He glanced out the small oar slot near his station. More ships like this one were out there. Occasionally he could see them, their sails full and their oars slicing through the restless, froth-tipped waves—an inexplicable armada of shame.
His muscles on fire, Twenty-Nine pulled relentlessly on the accursed oar. His hands cramped sharply. Once they had been those of an accomplished artisan. But he knew they would no longer be capable of such specialized work. He could barely straighten his fingers anymore, on those rare occasions when they happened to be removed from the handle.
Seething with hatred, Twenty-Nine looked up at his taskmasters, the monsters who had captured him, chained him, and forced him to labor on their ship.
They were horrific. Once they may have been human—but no more. They were tall and muscular, and their skin was pure white, alabaster, almost translucent. Even when there was a deficit of light, their pale, flawless flesh seemed to shine, as if their bodies carried no blood whatsoever. Twenty-Nine had often wondered if they would bleed, if cut.
The four fingers and thumb of their hands ended in long, pointed talons, rather than fingernails. Their powerful chests bare, each of them wore an odd, black leather skirt, floor length, and divided down the front for walking. The toes of their black leather boots protruded from beneath the hems. A spiked, black leather collar encircled each one’s neck.
Each creature carried a short sword in a scabbard hung low behind his back in an ingenious arrangement that allowed the hand to reach naturally down along the outer leg to draw the blade. Twenty-Nine had already seen several of them do so, and their speed had been staggering. Somehow they managed never to catch the swords in the bright red capes that were attached to their spiked leather collars.
Their faces were grotesque. The heads were long, angular, oversized. A shiny metal skullcap covered the top of their white, hairless craniums, ran down between the eyes, then split down either side over the bridge of the nose. Each half extended down the sides of the cheeks to the jawbones, running back to encircle each ear before joining again with the top, leaving the creatures’ eyes, mouths, and ears exposed. The ears that protruded from the gaps in the masks were exceptionally high, pointed, and seemed to hear everything. A variety of earrings dangled from them. The wide, wrinkled mouths held black tongues and dark, pointed teeth. For eyes, they had long, narrow slits hiding orbs that were solid white, without irises or pupils, and quite vacant. Still, they missed nothing.
Setting the cadence, the beatmaster among them continued to pummel his twin sledges down on the solitary bloc
k of wood as the slaves pulled relentlessly on their oars. Pacing between the rows, others of the blanched monsters moved up and down the shifting, pitching deck. Carrying knotted nine-tails or long-handled tridents, they would without hesitation lash or stab any slave they felt to be shirking his labors. The slaves called these guards “bleeders.” The deck of the ship was stained with the blood of those who did not keep up the pace.
“Water,” number Twenty-Eight suddenly begged, falling over onto the deck. Twenty-Nine tried, despite his short wrist chains, to help him back onto the bench before any of the bleeders saw what had happened, but he knew he had to continue rowing or be beaten himself.
He looked up to see one of the creatures approaching. It was then that he felt the warmth, smelled the stench. Closing his eyes briefly, he tried to blot out what was happening, but could not. Twenty-Eight was vomiting bile on his feet.
Twenty-Eight retched again, curling his trembling body around one of Twenty-Nine’s vomit-soaked feet. “Help us . . . ,” he sobbed. “Why won’t anyone help us . . .”
The bleeder was standing over them. Without hesitation he shoved the three prongs of the trident into Twenty-Eight’s left calf. The blood gushed forth, flowing down the slave’s leg in bright rivulets. For a long moment, Twenty-Nine thought he might be sick.
Giving the trident a vicious twist, the bleeder yanked it from Twenty-Eight’s leg.
“Back onto the bench—now!” the bleeder shouted. His voice was low, guttural, and commanding. He was standing so close that Twenty-Nine could smell his putrid breath. Somehow Twenty-Eight did as he was told. Seated on the bench once more, he bent over and retched again. His empty stomach had nothing left to expel.
“If this happens again, the prongs will go directly into your worthless eyes,” the bleeder hissed. “Do you understand?” He pointed his trident at the strange brand on Twenty-Eight’s shoulder. “You are not of endowed blood, Talis. Therefore, you are quite expendable. You live only to serve this ship.”
With a sneer, the creature continued down the bloodstained aisle to abuse another man who had fallen behind. Functioning on fear alone, Twenty-Eight somehow resumed rowing.
Twenty-Nine looked over to the left shoulder of his friend, at the word that had been branded into his skin. Talis. He had no idea what it meant, but he believed it to be from a long-lost language his father had told him of, something he had called “Old Eutracian.” His father and his father’s father had all handed down tales of a mysterious, beautiful language, now long since abandoned.
The Scrolls of the Ancients Page 1
