The Scrolls of the Ancients

by Robert Newcomb

  Then a blinding white light seared through his consciousness, and he collapsed to the dirt.

  CHAPTER

  Ten

  Abbey walked down through the gently sloping field of flowers. The light of day was gone, and the stars had come out. Moonlit shadows created by the yellow-and-turquoise-leaved chirithium trees slowly lengthened out over the waving grasses, blossoms, and herbs she walked through on her way home. Carried by the wind, light, fluffy clouds danced to and fro in the night sky, as if struggling to escape their banishment into the darkness. The blooming fragrances of the Season of New Life swirled everywhere about her.

  She stopped for a moment to tie up her gray-streaked dark hair, and smiled, taking in the smells, the colors, and the breeze. Then, gripping her straw basket a bit tighter, she continued up the hill.

  She had been out foraging today, just as she had done for the last three days, trying to replace at least some of what the mysterious robbers had taken from her. It had been a good day, and her large, hinge-topped basket was full. When she returned home, she would meticulously dry, store, and catalogue what she had reaped. But first she’d enjoy a cup of sallow blossom tea, she decided.

  Abbey had no idea who the intruders had been, or how they had found her, but she was concerned that she had not recognized the cruel woman who had so obviously been an herbmistress. So few of their kind remained, and they had always tried to stay in contact with one another. Even more astonishing was the fact that the unknown woman had been traveling with a wizard. After all, the wizards had banished those of her kind—both males and females alike—from their presence long ago.

  As she crested the hill, her cottage came into view. She took a quick breath.

  Smoke was curling up from the chimney, and light shone from the cottage windows.

  She stood in the field for some time, trying to figure out what to do. She could run, but there was no safe place nearby that she could easily reach. Finally she decided to approach the cottage from the rear, where there were no windows, then creep around to one side and try to peek in without being seen. Walking over to the edge of the field, she entered the dense cover of the drooping chirithium trees and started down.

  The glade surrounding the cottage seemed deserted; she saw no horses tied nearby. She carefully set down her basket by a tree, then made her way as silently as possible to the rear wall. Keeping low, she crept around the corner and squatted beneath the first of the leaded windows. Slowly she raised her head up as far as she dared and looked in.

  A young, beautiful woman with brilliant red hair was lying on Abbey’s bed. Her eyes were closed; her face was very pale. The staggered rising and falling of the thin blanket that covered the woman told the experienced herbmistress that the stranger was having great difficulty breathing. A man’s hand, with long, elegant fingers, rested flat on the woman’s forehead. Abbey could not see the rest of him.

  Slipping quietly around the back of the cottage, she retrieved her precious basket and then made her way to the front. She gathered her courage, took a deep breath, and walked in, allowing the rusty door hinges to announce her entrance. The man sitting by the bed turned to face her.

  Abbey dropped her basket, and its contents spilled to the floor. Her hands flew to cover her open mouth.

  “Hello, Abbey,” the man said gently. “It’s been a long time. Please pardon my intrusion, but I very much need your help.”

  Abbey, her eyes locked on his face, staggered toward a chair and sat down clumsily. It was difficult for her to speak, to think, or even to breathe as a flood of conflicting emotions coursed through her.

  Wigg waited, maintaining an outward calm. But inside, he, too, was bubbling with unexpected emotions. But as he watched, her expression changed from one of astonishment to anger.

  Finally Abbey pointed to the woman in the bed. “Who is she?” she asked. She was chagrined to hear her voice crack. “After all these years, why are you here?”

  At first Wigg did not answer. He pointed to the basket and the plants lying on the stone floor. The scattered clippings rose into the air and floated over to the basket, where they fell into a neat, contained pile. The refilled basket floated up to the table beside the stunned herbmistress and came to rest. Wigg took another long breath, letting it go slowly before placing his hands into the opposite sleeves of his robe.

  “Her name is Celeste,” he answered softly. “She is of endowed blood, and has been adversely affected by the craft. In all my years I have seen this phenomenon occur only one other time—quite recently, in fact—to another woman who means just as much to me. The other woman, however, managed its effects much more handily. I cannot be sure, but I think it was because of the greater strength of her blood. In any event, this woman needs our help. I have been unable to awaken her by myself, and I fear that if she does not return to consciousness soon, I may lose her for all time. Will you help me?” The wizard’s eyes were shiny with unshed tears.

  Abbey stood and walked to the bed. First she looked into each of Celeste’s eyes; then she cautiously examined her strangely scorched fingertips.

  “Her mind has gone deep. For the moment she is stable,” the herbmistress told Wigg cautiously, “but she is in a bad way. Although I am not sure how much help I can be, I will do what I can. But hear this first, Lead Wizard.” Her gray eyes bored directly into Wigg’s. “What I do, I do for her, and her alone. Not for you.”

  “Thank you,” Wigg said gratefully. “And I cannot blame you for the way you feel.” Silence reigned for a moment.

  “First I want to know who she is,” Abbey said. She wanted to prepare a tea, but the fire had gone down. She walked to the hearth and bent over to stoke the flames. But before she could, Wigg pointed, and the logs blazed again. Then two more from the nearby pile rose into the air and floated over to fall upon the ones already burning.

  Abbey sighed. “I had almost forgotten how much easier life can be for certain trained males,” she commented as she began to prepare some tea. One corner of Wigg’s mouth came up: He could hardly disagree.

  “I asked you a question,” she added without turning around. “Who is she?”

  “She is my daughter,” the lead wizard answered softly, knowing the effect his words would have.

  For several long moments Abbey stopped what she was doing. “So you finally remarried,” she said softly, once more busying herself with the teakettle. Wigg thought he heard her voice crack again.

  “No,” he answered gently. “Failee was apparently pregnant when she left me. Celeste was protected by time enchantments and is nearly as old as you and I.” He paused. “A great many things have transpired in our land since we were last together. Much of which, I’m sure, you remain unaware of. It would be a very long story.”

  Abbey, her face emotionless, placed two cups of tea on the table and took a seat. She beckoned Wigg to join her. “You and I are each blessed with the enchantments granting eternal life,” she said flatly. “I think we can spare the time.”

  Wigg’s mouth came up into a short smile.

  As succinctly as he could, the lead wizard told her of the workings of the Paragon. He also described the Tome and its several volumes. After explaining the importance of Tristan and Shailiha, he then told her of the unexpected return of the Sorceresses of the Coven, and how he and Tristan had ventured across the Sea of Whispers to defeat them in the previously unknown land of Parthalon. He told her everything: the story of Nicholas, Ragnar, and Celeste, and the destruction of the Gates of Dawn.

  Abbey listened intently, searching for any scrap of information that might help her unravel the secret to helping Wigg’s stricken daughter. He explained the recent discovery of the Forestallments in the blood signatures of Shailiha, baby Morganna, Tristan, and Celeste. These spells took the form of crooked branches leading away from the main pattern of the blood signature, and had apparently been placed into their blood by the Coven—for what purposes Wigg and Faegan could only guess and would likely never k
now. It had been such a Forestallment that had resulted in Shailiha’s highly unusual ability to commune with the fliers of the field. And the Forestallment he had unwittingly helped activate in Celeste had enabled her to save their lives by killing the saber-toothed bear.

  At the mention of Celeste’s Forestallment, Abbey’s eyes lit up. She stood and walked quickly back to the bed. Lifting Celeste’s hands, she again examined her blackened fingertips and broken nails.

  “You say the bolt she sent against the bear—this ‘Forestallment,’ as you call it—was unusually strong?” she asked. “And that it happened just after she began to convulse?”

  “Yes,” Wigg answered. “Her bolts were the most powerful I have ever seen; they literally ripped the creature apart. Then she collapsed. And now . . .” He paused, one eyebrow rising, “I think I know why.”

  “Explain,” Abbey said, returning to the table.

  “You just said it yourself,” he replied. “Her first use of a Forestallment came quickly, immediately after its activation, so her blood had no time to adjust to its new state. No doubt it was Failee’s intention to activate Celeste’s gifts one by one, and train her in their use gradually, in a controlled environment. But given the desperate situation, Celeste acted instinctively. This proved to be too much for her untrained blood, and plunged her into this deep, twilight state.” He turned sadly, looking back over at the bed. “There is another wizard with me at the palace. His name is Faegan. He would have been able to help, for he is also an herbalist. But your cottage was much closer.”

  “And so you brought her here,” Abbey answered skeptically. “But what were the two of you doing in these woods to begin with?”

  “We were coming to see you about a different matter,” Wigg said rather apologetically. “I was hoping, after all of these years, to gain your help. Eutracia needs you.”

  Abbey shook her head slowly. “It seems you suddenly require a great deal of help, Lead Wizard,” she replied stiffly. The herbmistress thought for a moment. Then she leaned closer, her face dark.

  “Tell me,” she said sternly, “after more than three hundred years of surviving without my services, how is it that the lofty nation of Eutracia suddenly needs one of those who was so summarily banished?”

  Trying to think of a way to broach the subject, Wigg looked around the unkempt cottage. Bottles lay overturned and shelves had been torn down; much of the glassware that should have contained Abbey’s hard-won treasures was conspicuously empty. His eyes went back to the herbmistress. “I don’t remember you being such a poor housekeeper,” he said simply.

  “What does that have to do with anything?” she shot back.

  “This mess is not like you, and we both know it,” Wigg said gently. And then he took a breath and asked, “He was here, wasn’t he? The man in the two-colored robe. And he had a woman with him—a partial adept, possibly trained both as an herbmistress and a blaze-gazer. They took much from you, didn’t they? Not the least of which was a sizable portion of your rather infamous pride.”

  The herbmistress’ hard shell seemed to crack a bit, and a tear came to one eye. Taking a chance, Wigg placed one of his hands over hers. Surprisingly, she did not pull away.

  “Did they hurt you?” he asked softly.

  “No,” she said, looking down. “But the woman knew exactly which herbs and compounds she wanted. Many of them were among my most prized. I cannot say for sure whether she was a gazer, since she practiced no such art in my presence. But given her knowledge of my stores, she was certainly an herbmistress. The man was ill with some disease of the lungs. He put me in some kind of bizarre, glowing cage, and I couldn’t stop him. All I could do was watch as they destroyed a lifetime of work.” She raised her face back up. “But how did you know?”

  “His name is Krassus, and he was once first alternate to the Directorate of Wizards,” Wigg answered. “Ironically, I appointed him to that position myself. He is now apparently a full wizard of some power, his gifts perhaps imbued by Nicholas through Forestallments. But we do not know who the woman is. Krassus claimed she is a blaze-gazer, but we have no proof of that. He came to the palace demanding information. He searches for a man named Wulfgar. His other quest is for something called the Scrolls of the Ancients. Tell me, are you familiar with either?”

  “No.”

  “When I could not answer his questions, he beat me and violated my mind,” Wigg said angrily. “He also gloated about having been here, and leaving you in a bad way. Then, after promising to kill Faegan and me, he left. I simply had to come, to see if you were all right. But I must admit that I had other reasons for visiting you.”

  “I knew you lay ill,” she said unexpectedly.

  Wigg’s eyes sharpened at Abbey’s unexpected statement. “What?” he asked.

  “After they left, I went to my gazing flame and searched for you,” she answered. “I admit that it was not the first time I have done so. You were lying in a bed, with people standing around you whom I did not know.”

  “So you have a gazing flame here?” Wigg asked.

  Abbey nodded.

  “But what is there of mine that you could possibly have kept all of these years?” he asked, clearly puzzled. “Don’t you need something personal of your subject in order to properly view the image?”

  Abbey reached for the locket around her neck and opened it. Curled up inside was a short braid of dark brown hair. She placed it on the table. Wigg’s eyes went wide.

  “Mine?” he asked. “But how could that be?”

  “I took it from you in bed one night, more than three hundred years go,” she answered, placing the braid back into the pendant and locking it again. “You always slept so deeply.” A slight smile finally appeared on her face: the coming of some memory, perhaps. But then it was quickly overtaken by another look of anger.

  “And then you voted with your brotherhood to banish all the partial adepts,” she whispered angrily. “Yet another of the Directorate’s knee-jerk reactions to anyone or anything of the craft not directly controlled by them.” She turned her face away. “You hurt me deeply, Wigg. You hurt all of us with partial blood. To this day I am not sure I will ever be able to forgive you. It was so unfair . . .”

  Wigg sighed. If he could have taken back parts of those days, he would.

  “I voted for my nation,” he said sadly. “In hindsight, I’ve come to see that many of our decisions were wrong. But both Eutracia and her monarchy were new, and still in great distress. The survival of our land and the foretold coming of the Chosen Ones were far more important than the two of us, or what we may have wanted for ourselves. Surely you can see that. And like you, I have suffered much. I’m not naive, Abbey, so I won’t ask you to forgive me. But the best, most personal gift I could bestow upon you before you left was the time enchantments. Had the Directorate discovered what I had done, there would surely have been a great scandal; perhaps even my own banishment from the Directorate, given the harsh, reactionary attitudes of those days. But now all of my friends of that august body are dead.”

  He paused, wondering how his next words would be received, then laced his long fingers together and placed his hands on the table.

  “As I said, Abbey, we need you,” he continued softly. “When I leave here, I want you to come back to Tammerland with me.”

  Stunned, she looked at him with wide eyes.

  “No!” she said flatly. “I won’t do it! Why should I? My life is good here, and the people here have come to rely on me for healing. Here, at least, I am allowed to practice my arts in peace.”

  “Until four days ago, that is,” Wigg reminded her gently. “I can make you come back with me, and we both know it. I won’t do that, but hear me out. If Krassus truly has a partial adept with him, and if we are ever to even the odds of defeating him, then we must have one, too. I have a feeling these scrolls he referred to are extremely important, and that if we don’t find them and Wulfgar before Krassus does, our world may irrevocably change—for
the worse. And what if Krassus comes back? With us you would be far safer.”

  The twinkle returned to his eyes, and he smiled knowingly. “Besides,” he added, “wouldn’t you like a chance to get even?”

  Abbey thought for a time, her jaw clenching. “I will consider your words,” she said finally. “But how could I be of help, while all of my stores and books remain here?”

  “My friend Faegan has a great many herbs growing in an atrium in his mansion in a place called Shadowood,” Wigg told her. “And we can have all of your books and charts brought to Tammerland.” He smiled, thinking of the Archives of the Redoubt. “And you’ll have more scrolls and books than you can imagine at your disposal.”

  Wigg smiled to himself. If he could convince Abbey to come, it would be very interesting to see someone teach Faegan something for a change. Abbey turned to look at Celeste, though, and her face darkened.

  “We have talked too long,” she said urgently. “We must attend to your daughter.”

  Celeste’s breathing had become more labored, and beads of sweat stood on her pale forehead.

  The herbmistress thought for a moment. “It’s the honey,” she said at last, half to herself.

  “Of course,” Wigg answered. “Her ingestion of the honey was the trigger that activated her first Forestallment. So simple an act . . .”

  “No, no—you don’t understand,” Abbey said. “There is more to it than that.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Honey is the key to our problem,” she told him. “But first I must find my charts of opposites.”

  Perplexed, Wigg watched her walk to the far wall of the cottage. She pushed on one side of it, and the entire wall rotated on a hidden pivot to reveal a bookcase lined with ledgers, texts, and scrolls. A much smaller room could be seen beyond, containing a desk and many piles of reference materials, as well as a store of additional herbs and oils. Luckily, this room seemed to have been untouched by Krassus. Abbey selected a text from one of the shelves, blew the dust from it, and returned to the table. The binding read Charts of Opposites, Letters H–I.