The Scrolls of the Ancients

by Robert Newcomb

  Celeste stirred, coming up on one elbow. “You still haven’t told me why we’re here,” she said, smiling at him.

  “We have come to see someone,” he told her.

  “Who?”

  He pursed his lips. “Someone I knew a long time ago—someone Krassus referred to that day when he appeared to us in the game room. A woman I was . . . friendly with . . . just after the Sorceresses’ War.”

  For several moments he explained to her the world of the partial adepts, just as Faegan had done for Tristan and Shailiha. He also went on to discuss how their kind had, for better or worse, been banished by the Directorate, both the women and the men. When he finished, Celeste’s sapphire eyes were alight with curiosity.

  “But why did you bring me with you, Father?” she asked. Sitting upright, she wrapped her hands around her raised knees and placed her chin upon them. “You know how much I love to be with you, but wouldn’t you have preferred to see her alone? Especially after all these years?”

  “If she still lives, I want her to meet you,” he answered. “And truth be known, you and I have had precious little chance to be alone. Besides, if there is anyone in the world I would wish to share this encounter with, it is you.”

  Deciding to change the subject, Wigg selected another blade of grass to worry. “You care for Tristan very much, don’t you?” he asked.

  At her father’s blunt, unexpected question, Celeste blushed. Then the rose of her cheeks faded, and her expression became more somber, perhaps even bordering on mild confusion.

  “I care for all of you,” she answered simply. “You know that.”

  Gently grasping her chin, Wigg turned her face to his. “But you care for the prince in a different way than you do for the rest of us, do you not?” he asked softly.

  Celeste lowered her eyes. “I would like to,” she said hesitantly.

  She tilted her head slightly as if in pain, not knowing how much her next words would sear her father’s heart. She was trembling, and tears came to her eyes. “Yes, I would like to care for him. But, you see, I really don’t know how,” she whispered, so softly he could barely hear her.

  Grasping her shoulders, Wigg pulled her close. “I know,” he answered.

  For a long time they sat that way in the grass, simply holding each other: the father who had never known he had a daughter, and the daughter who had never learned how to love.

  Finally, Celeste lifted her face. She looked across the glade, alert, head cocked. Narrowing her eyes, she asked, “Tell me, Father, do you hear that?”

  “Of course.” He smiled. “I first heard it when we sat down. I have wizard’s ears, remember?”

  “What is it?”

  Across the clearing, a swarm of bees anxiously tended a massive comb nested in the crook of a tree branch. Each of the bees was at least the size of a man’s fist. As they swirled and danced in the air, the familiar green-and-purple striping upon their backs was highlighted by the climbing sun.

  “They’re Eutracian honeybees,” he said, smiling again. “They’re protecting their hive. They are usually not dangerous, so long as they are left alone.”

  “What’s honey?” she asked.

  Realizing anew just how many things Celeste had not experienced that the rest of the world took for granted, he leaned in conspiratorially. “Watch,” he whispered. His right hand came up.

  As she watched, an azure glow began to form around the comb, trapping the bees inside. They started buzzing even more furiously. Then a nearby dried branch on the grassy floor of the glade rose to penetrate one of the openings in the comb. It withdrew then, one end covered with a sticky, amber-colored substance that dripped lazily to the ground. Then the branch slowly coasted across the clearing, coming to rest patiently in the air before them.

  The glow surrounding the comb slowly began to dissipate, finally vanishing altogether. The honeybees went about the business of repairing the rent in the comb.

  Wigg grasped the clean end of the branch and held the sticky end out to her. “Taste it,” he said with a smile.

  “Really?” she asked, her eyes alight with curiosity. “Is it good?”

  Still holding the branch, Wigg made a mocking little bow and chuckled. “On my honor as lead wizard of the Directorate.”

  Celeste took the branch, and tentatively touched her tongue to the honey. Her face lit up.

  “I have never tasted anything so wonderful!” she exclaimed brightly. Enjoying the moment, the lead wizard smiled.

  But it was that single, innocent action that would cause Celeste’s world, and the world of her father, to be changed forever.

  Celeste dropped the branch and gripped her throat. Shaking violently, she convulsed into Wigg’s arms, her hands reaching up to his face in a pitiful, beseeching gesture of helplessness.

  The lead wizard was stunned, unsure of what to do or of what could be causing such a violent reaction. He narrowed his eyes, about to use the craft in an attempt to relieve her suffering.

  But he never got the chance.

  The sound of snapping branches startled him, and he looked up from the face of his struggling daughter to see the tall grasses across the glade gently, slowly part. Then a large, bulky form emerged from the woods. Wigg froze, and a shiver went down his spine. He heard a soft, menacing growl.

  A large, sandy creature, walking on all fours, gracefully stepped from the edge of the clearing, not far from the swarming honeybees. It glared at Wigg with yellow eyes as he tried to quiet his stricken daughter. Lifting its head, the beast flared its nostrils, testing the air; then it leveled its deadly gaze once more at Wigg and Celeste and snarled again, this time more loudly.

  It was a saber-toothed bear.

  The vicious creatures had roamed Eutracia for centuries. They resembled an odd cross between a bear and a lion. Two long, upper fangs ran well down below the lower jaw. A bearlike face, snout, ears, and intense, yellow eyes made up the head. The leonine body had padded feet with long, pointed claws. The long, slim tail ended in a small ball of fur. The mottled tan-and-black hide had long been prized by Eutracian hunters—provided they lived to tell the tale. Few did.

  Unlike many other creatures of these woods, many of the saber-tooths were man-eaters—an acquired, not natural, taste. Once one had devoured the meat of a human being—usually out of desperation—it rarely, if ever, returned to its previous feeding habits. Its heightened sense of smell and unusually keen eyesight were legendary. This one was clearly a male, by far the heavier but not necessarily the deadlier of the two sexes.

  It seemed clear that this saber-tooth had already feasted upon humans at least once, and wished to do so again.

  And then, quite unexpectedly, the saber-tooth’s mate quietly, smoothly appeared at the opposite side of the glade. She padded silently to a spot just inside the circle, and crouched in the grass, her long muscles clenched. Her hungry, yellow eyes missed nothing.

  Wigg held his breath, trying to remain as still as possible with the struggling Celeste in his lap. He had heard tales of unarmed woodsmen who had come upon these beasts, only to remain stock-still and have them blessedly saunter away. But now, with the female squarely at the opposite end of the clearing, Wigg knew that his luck had run out. He had heard enough about them to know that first the male would attack, grasping his victim in his jaws. Then the female would rush in from the opposite direction to deliver the deathblow—either with a powerful swipe of her claws, or by impaling the prey on her curved, white fangs. After that, their prize secure, the leisurely feasting would go on for a long time.

  Then the sudden realization hit him: It was the honey that had brought them! What an idiot he had been to break open the comb!

  If they were to have any chance of surviving this, he must act immediately. It was highly unlikely he could kill both animals, even using the craft. He wouldn’t have the time.

  Standing and sliding Celeste down to the grass behind him, he cautiously raised his right hand toward the male.
>
  The saber-tooth charged.

  Bounding across the field, its teeth exposed in a vicious snarl, the monster leapt into the air.

  Wigg loosed an azure bolt from his hand. It struck the creature squarely in the forehead. With a loud crack the saber-tooth’s skull parted. Dead, he crashed to the earth just feet from where the wizard stood.

  Wigg whirled around, robes flying, and raised his arm again. But the female was already on the move. He was too late.

  Suddenly several azure bolts came soaring out of nowhere, crashing into the female saber-tooth. They were the most brilliant, powerful beams Wigg had ever seen. Striking the beast almost simultaneously, they literally ripped her apart. Her head exploded, her legs were severed from her body, and then her torso blew apart, blood and innards flying across the field. What was left of the creature skidded sloppily to a stop less than a meter from his boots. Whirling around again, Wigg looked to see who had commanded such awesome power. His jaw dropped.

  It was Celeste.

  She stood before him, swaying, with a strange, determined look on her face. Her sapphire eyes had rolled up into their sockets. Her skin was pale, her body shaking. The fingertips of her right hand were scorched and black. Smoke was rising from them, drifting away on the morning breeze. She took a single, weak step forward.

  “Father . . .”

  And then she collapsed.

  Wigg scooped her up in his arms and began running back into the forest as fast as he could, in search of the one person he hoped might be able to help.

  CHAPTER

  Nine

  By the time Tristan had hidden the dead demonslavers in the alley behind the apothecary shop and the three travelers were ready to go on, the streets seemed even more deserted. The few people who did venture out glared and pointed at the prince and his sister, as if the two of them had no right to be any part of the city’s population.

  Faegan searched out a clothing shop and, leaving Tristan and Shailiha waiting in the shadows of a nearby alley, went in alone to purchase two hooded robes to cover the bodies and heads of the Chosen Ones. Not perfect disguises, but the best he could do without the aid of the craft. Tristan worried that the robe covered his weapons, making it nearly impossible for him to grasp them quickly, but he kept his concerns to himself. There seemed little other choice.

  They then proceeded to a stable, where Faegan was forced to pay the suspicious stablemaster handsomely for three run-down horses, a dilapidated cart, and extra tack. Tristan harnessed one of the mounts to the cart and hoisted Faegan atop its seat, and at last the three of them made their way to the harbor area of Farpoint.

  Although the sun was beginning to set, the docks were alive with people. A large crowd had gathered here, and it was clear they were eagerly waiting for something to happen. The air was full of the smells of salty sea air and freshly caught fish.

  Tristan slid off the swaybacked roan mare, and as Shailiha dismounted her aged gelding, he went around to the back of the cart and got out Faegan’s chair. Shailiha held the chair while Tristan lifted Faegan from the buckboard seat and got him settled.

  Then he turned to study the inn where Faegan had directed them to stop. Many of its shutters were broken and peeling from the constant exposure to the strong, salty winds. Some of the windows were cracked, and the steps to the lobby were in disrepair. The place had clearly seen better days.

  “Why are we stopping here?” Shailiha asked. She was eager to get to the oceanfront. “The carriage driver said we needed to get to the docks. Can’t we just quietly wend our way through the crowd?”

  “No,” Faegan answered adamantly as he looked around. “This inn is perfect for what I have in mind—the kind of place where few questions will be asked. Besides, Krassus may be near, not to mention more of the demonslavers. Tristan, I want you to go around back and tell me what you find. In particular, I want to know whether there is any way up to the roof, and a secure place where we might tie the horses.”

  Tristan nodded. After a smile to his sister, he was gone.

  The alley behind the inn was inconspicuous enough, with the usual iron rings embedded in the building’s rear wall to secure bridle reins. Several mounts were already tied there, telling the prince that the shopworn inn had at least a few customers. An iron fire ladder reached from the ground all the way to the roof, with platforms at each of the inn’s four levels. Backing farther into the shadows, Tristan observed the inn quietly, branding the scene into his memory. Finally satisfied, he returned to the street.

  “Bridle rings and a ladder,” he said quietly to the wizard.

  “Does the ladder go all the way to the roof?” Faegan asked.

  “Yes.”

  “And does the roof appear to be flat?”

  “From what I could see, yes.”

  “Good,” Faegan answered. Tristan and Shailiha could see mischief coming to the ancient wizard’s eyes as his plan continued to form.

  “I want you and Shailiha to walk the three horses around back,” he said. “Leave your two saddled. Unharness the cart and put it to one side. Take the extra saddle and bridle from the cart and put them on my horse. Tie all the horses to the wall. Then return. Do it quickly.”

  Tristan and Shailiha carried out the wizard’s orders as swiftly as they could, then returned to the front of the inn.

  “Is it done?” Faegan asked. Tristan nodded.

  “Very well,” the wizard said. “Follow me into the inn. Whatever you do, do not lower your hoods. Stay quiet, and follow my lead. Try to act as though you do not exist.” He pointed to one of the loose boards of the inn steps. “Tristan, if you would?” he asked.

  Understanding, the prince reached down to tear the wide, loose board away from its few remaining nails, then inclined it against the steps of the inn. It made a serviceable ramp. After briefly testing its strength, he wheeled Faegan’s chair up and through the door into the lobby, Shailiha right behind.

  Inside, the inn was dingy, dark, and unappealing. The large front room held several chairs, tables, and a long bar with a mirror behind it. Sullen-looking men, some obviously fishermen, sat hunched over the tables and bar, drinking quietly. Several scantily dressed women walked among the tables, flirting with the men. For hire, no doubt, Tristan thought with a slight shake of his head.

  The thin, greasy-looking man Tristan took to be the innkeeper sat at a small desk in one corner, making notes in a bound ledger. A tankard sat before him. He did not look up. Indeed, no one took any great notice of the newcomers at all, save for a few furtive, curious glances at Faegan’s chair. With a smile, the wizard calmly wheeled himself toward the proprietor.

  “Three rooms, please,” Faegan said politely.

  The man looked up from his arithmetic. His eyes were dark and distrustful.

  “The only rooms I have left are on the top floor,” he said rudely, “but taking you up and down the stairs isn’t included in the rent.”

  Some of the customers laughed aloud.

  Faegan graciously ignored the insult. “Thank you for your worry, but my bodyguard will take care of that. He’s quite used to it, in fact. Now then, how much?”

  “How many nights?” the innkeeper asked. He took a sloppy gulp of stale-smelling ale, then set the tankard back down on the desk. Letting go a wet belch, he wiped his mouth with a stained, gartered shirtsleeve.

  “Three rooms, one night each,” Faegan answered.

  “Twelve kisa,” the man replied. “Fourth floor. The washing facilities are at the end of the hall. Take it or leave it.”

  Twelve kisa was a steep price for such a place, Tristan thought, but clearly Faegan thought it better not to bargain. Reaching into his robes, the wizard took out the necessary kisa and dropped them on the desk. After counting them, the innkeeper produced three keys, which he handed over to the wizard. Saying nothing more, Faegan turned his chair to the stairs, Tristan and Shailiha following behind.

  At the foot of the steps, Tristan leaned in, putting his lip
s to the wizard’s ear. “Are you joking?” he growled quietly. “Four flights of stairs?”

  “No.” Faegan smiled. “Actually, I’m hoping there will be five.” Looking over to Shailiha, he gave her a wink. She smiled back quizzically.

  “What do you mean five?” Tristan argued.

  “We have no friends here, and this is no time for a debate,” Faegan answered urgently. “Let’s go.”

  Sighing, Tristan began pulling the wizard’s chair backward up the steps. After what seemed an eternity, they finally reached the fourth floor. Tristan looked around cautiously. Nothing seemed amiss.

  “What are our room numbers?” Shailiha asked Faegan as Tristan leaned over, breathing heavily from exhaustion.

  “We won’t be using the rooms.” Faegan smiled and looked up at the ceiling. “That was just for show.”

  Before either of the Chosen Ones could ask the obvious question, the wizard found what he was looking for. In the middle of the ceiling was a wooden framework, from which hung a rope ending in a pull handle.

  Faegan wheeled himself to the rope and gave it a tug. Stairs to the roof slowly descended on a pivot, revealing the first stars of the evening twinkling through the opening. Faegan grinned at the prince.

  “As I told you, there are five,” he said impishly. “But again you must pull me up without my using the craft. There might still be people about.”

  Tristan nodded. With a determined grip he pushed the chair to the stairs, and, with some help from Shailiha below, managed to pull it up and onto the roof. Shailiha scrambled up behind them, then pulled the duplicate rope on the other side, wisely lifting the pivoting stairway back into place.

  The gray slate roof was large and flat. The wind had risen, and the smell of the sea came to them again. From here the prince could see much of the city, the flickering streetlamps casting macabre, dancing shadows along the sides of the buildings and down the cobblestoned thoroughfares.