The Scrolls of the Ancients

by Robert Newcomb

  Wigg waited patiently as she leafed through the book. Finally she stopped, running one finger down a dog-eared page. On it was a drawing of a wheel divided into equal-sized, pie-shaped sections.

  “What are ‘charts of opposites’?” Wigg asked.

  “Just as the craft has its dark and light aspects, every other thing existing in the universe also has its direct opposite,” she answered. “And in some cases, more than one. Look at this.”

  She passed the book over to Wigg. “This page is only one of dozens whose words begin with the letter ‘h,’ ” she said. “Run your finger around the circle until you find the word ‘honey.’ Then go directly to the opposite side, and read aloud what it says.”

  Wigg did as she asked, finally finding and speaking the words “powdered tetturess,” and “oil of hibernium: Leaf Only.” He looked up at Abbey.

  “Are you saying these two substances are nature’s direct opposites to honey?” he asked skeptically. “How can you be so sure?”

  “By way of hundreds of years of careful experimentation,” she answered simply. She raised an eyebrow. “I wrote this book myself.”

  Walking to her shelves, she began her search. After some time, she returned to the table with a green bottle. When Abbey uncorked it, Wigg saw that it contained a violet oil.

  “I still don’t understand,” he said, furrowing his brow. He watched as she began measuring out a portion into a thick porcelain cup. “This problem is of the craft. How are these substances going to help?”

  “The honey she ingested is no doubt still in her bloodstream,” Abbey answered as she concentrated intently on her work. “And from what you told me, it was the catalyst that set everything else in motion. The direct opposites of honey are hibernium—just the oil squeezed from the leaf, mind you, not from the wood—and powder of tetturess blossom. They are even more potent when combined. If she ingests them in both the proper ratios and amounts, they should neutralize the honey in her system.”

  As she spoke, she finished measuring out the oil. Then she looked around her smashed cottage, and her face darkened.

  “This oil remained safe in the other room,” she said. “But my bottle of tetturess blossom was taken by Krassus. Turn to the back of the book until you find the pages labeled ‘Diagrams of Substitutions,’ and tell me what the substitution is for tetturess blossom. I could probably guess, but I’d rather be sure.”

  Wigg thumbed to the back of the book and found the diagram. “Dried stalk of widow’s wart,” he answered without looking up. “It also says that if widow’s wart is not available, then flakes of dried newt’s skin will also suffice.”

  Abbey nodded. “My widow’s wart was also taken,” she said angrily, “but I think I still have the newt’s skin. The widow’s wart would have been better, but we’ll just have to make do with what we have.”

  Rising from her chair, she walked to one of the shelves that was broken at one end and had half fallen to the floor. After a good bit of rummaging around she finally produced a small tin, which she brought back to the table. She opened the lid and removed what appeared to be a small, square patch of dried leather. It was gray, with pink spots. She scraped some of the skin off with a knife, and dropped the resultant flakes into the cup with the oil. Satisfied for the moment, she looked back at Wigg.

  “We are fortunate that the necessary ingredients for this potion survived the destruction here,” she commented. “Still, that is only half the battle.”

  Wigg understood. “As the mixture counteracts the honey, I must also use my powers, trying to bring her consciousness back to the surface,” he mused.

  “Correct.”

  Abbey went to a sideboard to retrieve a copper pitcher, and filled it with water. She transferred the ingredients from the mortar into an iron pot, poured in a measure of water, and stirred it slowly with a wooden spoon. Then she placed the iron pot on the hearth hook and swiveled it over the flames.

  She went back to the bookshelves and picked out another volume. As she brought it to the table, Wigg glanced at the title: Combinations and Potions: Times and Instruments for the Application of Heat and Cold, and the Subsequent Reactions Thereof. She began to read.

  “Now what are you doing?” he asked. His interest in the process had gradually become more genuine. But Abbey, her thoughts obviously lost in the volume, didn’t answer.

  She finally put down the book. “White feather of male highland goose,” she said softly to herself. “It seems nothing else will do. Now where did I put those?”

  Busily wiping her hands on her apron, she returned to the shelves. After some looking, she reached up to grasp a pewter canister. She opened the top, peered inside, and pulled out a long, white feather. She then went to her writing desk and retrieved a quill pen and a small bottle. Finally she returned to the table.

  She opened the bottle. Taking up the quill, she filled it with red ink. She then laid the white feather flat on the table. About two-thirds of the way to the top, she slowly began drawing a straight, red line across it.

  “What in the name of the Afterlife are you doing?” Wigg asked, completely at sea. He was beginning to grow anxious. He turned back to look at Celeste.

  “Still the same old Wigg,” Abbey said, her eyes remaining locked on her artwork. He almost thought he saw a hint of another smile. “With an attitude like that, you must drive this Faegan you speak of to absolute distraction.”

  Saying nothing, Wigg pursed his lips.

  Finally she finished and blew on the feather, drying the ink. Then she walked back to the hearth, swung the pot toward her, and carefully lowered the feather down into it, so that the ink line showed just above the rim. Almost immediately the portion of the feather just above the mixture began to brown from the heat of the potion. She turned back to Wigg.

  “Bring two chairs over here,” she said.

  “What good does the feather do?” Wigg asked curiously.

  “Tell me something, Lead Wizard,” she said, her eyes still locked on the feather. “Despite all of your knowledge of the craft, without the goose quill, how would you know how long to let the mixture cook?”

  Smiling, Wigg nodded. “When the brown color reaches the ink line, the temperature is right,” he mused. “Very clever.”

  “There’s more to it than that,” she answered. “Not only does the right temperature activate the potion, but it also assures that we will not burn her throat.”

  Saying nothing more, the two of them watched quietly as the brown stain gradually climbed higher and higher. When it finally met the ink line, Abbey swung the pot around and took it off the hook. She very quickly poured the entire potion into a cup.

  “Now!” she ordered. “Before it cools! You understand what you must do?” she asked. “As soon as the potion starts down her throat, begin your work. And be warned, she may become difficult to control.”

  He nodded quickly and went to his daughter. He tilted up her head and carefully parted her lips.

  As Abbey poured the mixture into Celeste’s waiting mouth, he employed the craft, attempting to reach into the depths of his daughter’s consciousness. At first, things seemed to go well. After a few moments Celeste began to stir and moan. Then, unbelievably, she opened her eyes, looked beseechingly up at her father, and started to cry.

  It was just then that Wigg suddenly realized what both he and Abbey should have done, but had not.

  Coming partly out of her stupor, Celeste suddenly bolted upright. Her eyes wide, she screamed, and her body began shaking uncontrollably. As if possessed, she began to raise both trembling hands at once. Understanding, Wigg tried to force her hands back down, but she was too strong for him.

  “Hold her!” Abbey shouted.

  Wigg briefly thought of using the craft to hold Celeste, but that would mean stopping the flow of his power into her, to help her. With a final, purely physical effort, Wigg was able to force Celeste’s arms back down onto the bed. But suddenly her wrists turned up. Just as the az
ure bolts shot forth, Wigg let go of her, grabbed Abbey, and threw the herbmistress to the floor. Covering her body with his own, he closed his eyes, knowing that all he could do was continue to aid Celeste’s mind and hope that it soon would be over.

  A deafening cacophony of destruction came from every corner of the house: the sounds of breaking glass and falling stone.

  Then, blessedly, it was over. Wigg carefully stood and gave Abbey a hand up. He found himself choked by dust. As his eyes cleared, he looked around.

  The devastation was amazing. Only two of the walls were still standing, but one of them suddenly gave up the effort and collapsed inward, crashing to the cottage floor. Most of the roof was gone, revealing the stars twinkling innocently in the early evening sky. In the dim light he could see that the vast majority of Abbey’s bottles and other containers had been blown out of the house and lay broken or open, scattered haphazardly across the nearby woods and fields. Wigg realized that they were probably quite unrecoverable. Almost every stick of furniture was demolished, and even the hearth had been rent in two, its bricks scattered across the floor like abandoned children’s toys. Most of the chimney somehow still rose toward the sky like a crooked, broken finger, trying to point to the stars.

  Miraculously, the wall still standing was the one holding the shelves full of Abbey’s books, scrolls, and ledgers. For the most part, they and the others scattered about behind them seemed unharmed. The wind began whistling coldly through the remains of the cottage, swirling the dust and debris into little maelstroms as it went.

  Celeste had collapsed on the bed. Her eyes fluttered once, then twice, before finally staying open. Rising weakly up on her elbows, she looked aghast at the remains of the cottage. She looked down at her fingertips and began to cry.

  Wigg instinctively knew that she was crying not because of her physical pain, but at the sudden, inescapable realization of what she had done. Abbey—walking stiffly, mechanically, through the rubble of what had once been her home—was also crying.

  Standing shakily, Celeste embraced her father. He held her tightly, knowing how close he had come to losing her.

  “I did this, didn’t I?” she asked, looking around again in horror. “Somehow, I just know it. But the last thing I remember is having tasted some honey. Did that really happen?” She looked quizzically around the smashed cottage once more.

  “Where are we, Father?” she asked softly. Then her eyes closed again, and she collapsed into his arms.

  Laying her back down on the bed, Wigg placed a palm on her forehead. For a time he closed his eyes, then smiled. He and Abbey had done it. This time Celeste’s sleep was genuine, natural. When she finally awakened, she would be herself again.

  With the exception of her first activated Forestallment, he mused. He would have to train her in its proper use as soon as possible.

  He went to Abbey. In her trembling hands she was clutching a dusty book she had retrieved from the floor. He put a hand on her shoulder.

  “I don’t know what to say,” he said softly. “I’m so sorry.”

  Abbey turned to him, her eyes wet. Then she did something unexpected. Stepping nearer, she put her arms around him and lay her head upon his shoulder. His gray robe soon became soaked with tears.

  They stood that way for some time as the wind rustled through the remains of the cottage and the sounds of the night creatures came softly to their ears. Finally she took her head from his shoulder and looked into his eyes.

  “It seems I will be coming with you after all,” she said, her voice so small he could barely hear her. “I never expected to see you again.”

  Wigg pulled her closer.

  “Nor I, you,” he said softly. “Nor I, you.”

  PART II

  Revelation

  CHAPTER

  Eleven

  It is within one of the Scrolls of the Ancients that those of the Vagaries shall procure a great weapon. The reading and employment thereof shall bring a shift in all things, including the lives of the Chosen Ones. Just as those who find and control the Scroll of the Vigors come yet another step closer to combining the two sides of magic, those controlling the Scroll of the Vagaries shall also be nearer their goal of complete, never-ending rule over the craft.

  —PAGE 774, VOLUME II, OF THE VIGORS OF THE TOME

  Wulfgar turned over luxuriously in the great bed. Even though he remained a prisoner, he could escape into his dreams of better times.

  “And how are you this evening, Traveler?” his dream-self asked. Pushing aside the stallion’s forelock, the boy briskly rubbed the horse’s white-starred forehead. The black stallion snorted softly, eagerly stretching his neck for yet more of his keeper’s attention.

  From behind his back, Wulfgar produced a bright red apple. Traveler snorted again, and his ears pricked up. Wulfgar was about to play a game with him, and the horse knew it.

  Wulfgar backed away slightly and held the apple higher, just out of Traveler’s reach. The stallion pushed forward against the unforgiving oak door to his stall and let go a loud, impatient whinny.

  Wulfgar smiled. “Not so fast,” he said gently. “You know what you have to do first.”

  The horse impatiently shook his head, forelock and mane flying haphazardly. Finally there came the sound of a single shod hoof banging loudly, one time only, on the floor of the stall.

  Smiling, Wulfgar produced a folding knife and began slicing the apple into pieces. As he held the first of the apple slices out, Traveler took it between his long, uniform teeth and munched contentedly.

  Turning away from the stall for a moment, Wulfgar took a piece of apple for himself and looked down the length of the barn. For as long as he could remember he had loved the sights, smells, and sounds of this place more than any other.

  His father, Jason of the House of Merrick, owned these barns and presided over the combination of stables and blacksmith shop. Thanks to the Directorate of Wizards, peace and prosperity had reigned for more than three centuries, and Jason’s business was good. Even so, the Merrick family was by no means wealthy. But father, mother, and son were happy in the ways that money could not buy.

  The young man of thirteen looked down the length of the barn. It was full to capacity. Yellow straw lay everywhere, and the smell of green hay, amber grain, horses, and saddle soap combined with the sooty smoke and char of the blacksmith’s hearth in the next room to create a familiar scent he breathed in gladly. A soft, low light came from the many lanterns lining the aisle between the rows of stalls. To his ears came the occasional snorts and whinnies of the horses and the comforting double clangs of his father’s hammer on the anvil. These sounds and smells had become an integral part of his life.

  Wulfgar gave Traveler another piece of apple. Then he noticed that the clanging of his father’s hammer had ceased. Turning, Wulfgar saw his father approaching. Jason looked tired, but he grinned affectionately at Wulfgar as he approached. His weathered face and hands were covered with dark soot, as was the worn leather blacksmith’s apron tied around his middle.

  “Enough for one day,” he said, his voice gravelly and strong. He smelled like hot charcoal. As usual, his massive strength was both comforting and familiar to Wulfgar, like standing next to a favorite old oak tree.

  “Dinner must be ready by now,” Jason added as he folded his apron and looked out from the barn. Warm, inviting lights came from the small house lying just beyond. “You know how your mother gets when we let her creations go cold.” He winked.

  “I’m not hungry,” Wulfgar countered gamely. “Besides, I still have tack to polish. The customers will expect it done by morning, when they arrive for their mounts.”

  Jason smiled. “There’s another reason why you don’t want to leave the stables, isn’t there?” he asked.

  Wulfgar looked down at some straw near the toes of his boots and didn’t answer.

  “The tack can wait until morning,” his father said. “You still have schoolwork to do, and that must come first.
Given the fact that we’re full up, if some of the tack doesn’t get polished, I’m sure the customers will understand.”

  Wulfgar’s face fell. He liked his lessons well enough—indeed, he was one of his school’s best students—but he had always been something of a loner, with a fiercely held sense of independence that set him apart from the other boys. Having schoolmates was fine, but it was the horses that continually came and went from these barns that truly possessed his heart.

  “Suppose I told you that dinner tonight is veal pie—your favorite,” Jason said, as he draped a muscular arm over his son’s shoulders and turned the boy toward the far doors of the barn. Sighing, Wulfgar nodded. With a final look back at Traveler, he tossed the remains of the apple into the stall. Then, side by side, father and son left the barn and headed for—

  Wulfgar suddenly started awake, all of his senses coming alive at once. He shot upright. Sweaty and breathing heavily, he glanced wildly around the room, trying to remember where he was.

  He had been dreaming again, he realized, rubbing the back of his neck. He wished he had not woken up. The dream was infinitely preferable to his current reality.

  He had been locked within these rooms—supposedly the personal quarters of the one called Krassus—for the last four days. During that time, he had seen no one, save for the demonslavers who supplied him with food, toilet articles, and clean clothing. Not one of them had spoken to him.

  Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, he retied his long sandy hair behind him with the worn leather strip and then turned to look out the open balcony doors. Morning was dawning, the sky sunny and clear.

  Reluctantly he took the frantically patterned silk robe from the settee at the end of the bed and put it on. He felt like a fool. He acutely missed his simple leather breeches, boots, and matching sleeveless shirt, the one that had been so forgiving when he used to swing the heavy hammer down on the anvil. He walked sleepily to the spacious balcony and sat down in one of the overstuffed chairs.