The Scrolls of the Ancients

by Robert Newcomb

“Because ‘similar’ does not mean ‘equal’!” Abbey exclaimed. “This is a delicate process, not a parlor trick! We’re trying to ignite a gazing flame, you old fool, not make rabbits scurry out from under your robes!” Exasperated, she ran one hand through her dark, gray-streaked hair.

  “Why don’t you come and sit down?” Wigg asked Abbey. Startled, she glanced at him at last, and he pulled out the chair next to him.

  With a loud sigh, Abbey relented and walked over. Just before she sat down, she placed her lips next to Wigg’s ear.

  “And I used to think that you could be difficult,” she whispered.

  Fighting back a smile, the lead wizard turned his eyes to Faegan. “Is there a problem?” he asked politely.

  “Indeed,” Faegan answered. “It seems your herbmistress is being uncooperative regarding my proposed substitution of certain ingredients needed for igniting her gazing flame. After careful review, it seems we do not possess all of the required elements. I was only trying to save us a trip back to Shadowood, where my selection of such goods is far greater. And I need remind none of you that time is not on our side.”

  “Is he right?” Wigg asked Abbey. “Can we make substitutions to save time?”

  Abbey’s attitude softened a bit. “At first glance, I can understand how Faegan might jump to that conclusion,” she said. Leaning forward, she placed her forearms on the table. “But what both of you must realize is that the ingredients don’t just help create the flame—they also serve as its ongoing fuel. The formula must be perfect. In addition, if you wish me to perform the ritual more than once, I shall need quite a lot of these substances. If substitutes are allowed, it simply will not work.”

  Leaning back in her chair, she looked at the group. “It seems someone must go to Shadowood, wherever that is,” she said simply.

  “This means that we must wait even longer before Abbey can use her gift to find Tristan, doesn’t it?” Shailiha asked. Her lovely face had grown hard with frustration and anger. She was sick of waiting, and she was willing to do anything, risk anything, to bring her brother back.

  Wigg looked at her. Shailiha had always been strong-willed, but until the recent past there had been very little reason for her to display that trait. Now, especially with Tristan missing, things were vastly different.

  First had come the awakening of her Forestallment allowing her to communicate with the fliers of the fields. Then she had accompanied Tristan and Faegan to Farpoint, fighting alongside them as well as any man could have. She had taken her first lives, and Wigg suspected sadly that they would not be her last.

  Shailiha tossed back long, blond hair and turned her determined eyes to Faegan. “I’m tired of hearing you blather on about herbs and roots,” she countered. “If you and Abbey must go to Shadowood, then do so, and quickly. But first I have questions, and I want the answers now.”

  “As always, Princess, I will do my best,” Faegan answered respectfully.

  “First of all,” she began, “that night at the docks. I know the slaves were being branded, but why? What did the two branding irons say?”

  Pursing his lips, Faegan laced his gnarled fingers and tried to think of where to begin. “Wigg and I think we have part of the puzzle pieced together. But certainly not all of it,” he said.

  “Please go on,” the princess said.

  “One of the branding irons—the one that was used most often—said Talis. That is the Old Eutracian word for ‘unendowed.’ The other one read R’talis, or ‘endowed.’ The men in the blue robes sitting at the table were no doubt consuls of the Redoubt; some of those who were turned by Nicholas and swore allegiance to him. They are now unquestionably under the leadership of Krassus. We also believe that the person with Krassus that night was his partial adept—the one he bragged about the day he infiltrated the palace and attacked Wigg. When I described her to Abbey, she agreed that the woman sounded like the one who helped Krassus ransack her cottage.”

  “What were the consuls at the table doing?” Shailiha asked.

  “Testing the blood of the slaves,” Faegan answered. “If he or she was unendowed, as most of them would be, they were branded accordingly. If they were endowed, they were branded with the other iron.”

  “But the consuls were doing more than that,” Shailiha remembered. “There were strange tools on the tables before them. I couldn’t make out what they were.”

  “Tools like this?” Faegan asked. Unlacing his fingers, he reached under the table, and brought out two odd-looking objects.

  The first was a wooden frame holding an hourglass and a small vial. The vial contained what looked to be the vibrant red water of the Caves of the Paragon. The hourglass held what seemed to be no more than a dozen tiny black spheres.

  The second device was a three-legged wooden tripod, about half a meter in height, with a magnifying lens at its top. Embedded into the lens were dark, wire crosshairs. The two upper quadrants created by the wires were marked off on each side by degrees, from the vertical axis outward.

  Stymied, all the princess could do was look and wonder. She turned to Celeste, but the look on Celeste’s face made it plain that she was as lost as Shailiha.

  Wigg pointed to the frame holding the hourglass and the vial. “This is called a blood criterion. Its purpose is to assay the quality of endowed blood. The lower the assay number, the higher the quality of the blood that is being examined. The plans for this device were found in the Tome of the Paragon during Faegan’s first reading of it. The Ones Who Came Before, through their dictates in the Tome, ordered us to construct it and assay your blood immediately following your births. Just like the azure glow surrounding your deliveries, your blood ratings were further proof to the Directorate that you and Tristan were indeed the Chosen Ones.”

  At the mention of Tristan, Shailiha’s face darkened again. “How does it work?’ she asked.

  “It’s really quite simple,” Wigg explained. “First, the criterion is placed upon a piece of parchment. Then a drop of the subject’s blood is placed on the parchment a specific distance from the criterion. The hourglass is turned over at the exact moment a single drop of cave water is released from the vial and lands on the parchment. As you have already been taught, endowed blood and water from the Caves immediately attract, but to varying degrees, depending upon the quality of the blood. The stronger the blood, the faster the two seek each other out and join to form a signature. The number of spheres that drop in the time it takes for the two fluids to meet equates to the number of the blood quality.”

  “Ingenious,” Celeste said.

  Shailiha reached out and drew the tripod device toward her. Standing, she closed one eye and looked down through the lens.

  “Although simpler in design, this tool is as valuable as the criterion,” Wigg went on. “The plans for it were also found in the Tome. Called a signature scope, it is used to determine whether the blood signature on the parchment beneath it leans to the left or the right, and to what degree. A high blood quality rating, coupled with a severe degree of lean one way or the other, results in a person of very great potential power, indeed.”

  Reaching out, Shailiha took up one of the parchments on the table that held a blood signature. Sliding it beneath the tripod, she squared it up as best she knew how, then looked down again. Sure enough, she could see a slight tendency to the right. She raised her face back up to Wigg.

  “And you have said that both my signature and Tristan’s lean to the right,” she mused.

  “Correct,” the lead wizard answered.

  “And Wulfgar’s blood signature leans as far to the left as you have ever seen.”

  “Regrettably, also correct. And his blood assay is one and one-half—equal to yours and second only to your brother’s, which has a blood-quality rating of one. Wulfgar’s blood, given these particular traits, is most probably the most dangerous in the world.”

  “Is there a copy of his signature registered here?” she suddenly asked.

  No
dding, Wigg caused the appropriate drawer to slide open. But this time, instead of only the parchment floating over to the table, the entire drawer did. As it landed, Shailiha could see that it contained not only a copy of a blood signature, but a lock of sandy-colored hair bound together with a red ribbon.

  She picked up the lock of hair. “This came from Wulfgar, didn’t it?” she asked.

  Wigg nodded. “It was taken from him the morning of the day your mother gave him up,” he replied softly. “It was one of her most prized possessions, and she felt it rightly belonged here, alongside his blood signature.”

  “Wulfgar is the reason why the R’talis are being taken, isn’t it?” she asked. “They are searching for him.”

  “Yes,” Wigg said, “we believe so. In truth, they may already have found him.”

  “But why also take the unendowed?” Celeste asked, looking over at her father. “Or the endowed women, for that matter? If Wulfgar is the only one they seek, then what they’re doing doesn’t make any sense.”

  “That is still unknown,” Faegan said. “But considering all of the effort it takes, they must have a reason.”

  “Why Farpoint?” Shailiha mused quietly.

  “What?” Wigg asked.

  “Why Farpoint?” Shailiha repeated. “Why would Krassus concentrate his search there, and not elsewhere?”

  “We don’t know that he has,” Wigg answered. “But your question is a good one. For the moment, we can only suspect that Nicholas told him to search there, just before he died.”

  “And where did the demonslavers come from?” Celeste asked. “From what everyone tells me, their like has never been seen in Eutracia before now.”

  “Another unknown,” Faegan answered. “But from what the princess and I saw that night in Farpoint, I think it safe to assume that though they appear to be a product of magic, they have no command of it. Much like the Minions, they represent only a blunt instrument—one that is most useful when wielded by others. They may be what remained of the consuls, mutated by Krassus. Or they may have sprung from another source entirely—conjured, perhaps. Be that as it may, it is abundantly clear that they serve only him.” He paused and sighed. “Unfortunately, only time will answer your questions. And as I said, time is not on our side.”

  Something suddenly occurred to Shailiha. “Can Abbey locate Wulfgar?” she asked quickly. “If he has already been captured, perhaps he and Tristan are together.”

  Wigg raised an eyebrow. “Well done,” he answered. He turned to Abbey. “Can you view Wulfgar from the blood dried on this certificate, or from the lock of his hair? I’m afraid it’s all we have of him.” He passed them over to her.

  Abbey looked intently at them. “Perhaps,” she answered. “How old are these samples?”

  “Thirty-five years,” Wigg answered.

  Abbey sighed. “I won’t know until I try. Blood tends to lose its vibrancy far more quickly than hair, so the latter will afford the better chance of success.”

  Gently touching the locket that hung around her neck, she gave Wigg a coy smile. A slight blush spread across the lead wizard’s face.

  “But as I said before, all of this is academic until I have a sufficient quantity of the right ingredients,” she added.

  Wigg looked at Faegan. “Clearly, our first priority must be to secure from Shadowood the goods Abbey needs to construct her gazing flame.”

  “There is something else that must be done,” Shailiha said adamantly. “I want to lead a party of Minions to Farpoint. We’ll turn the city upside down, if we have to, to find my brother and bring him home—if he’s still there.” Sitting back in her chair, she angrily folded her arms over her breasts.

  Wigg looked at Faegan. They had been expecting something like this from her, and they also knew that under no circumstances could they allow it. In the first place, should Tristan already be dead, it was vital that they not put Shailiha in harm’s way. And second, it might well be exactly what Krassus wanted: the opportunity to capture the second of the Chosen Ones, and perhaps to take the palace, which would be far too vulnerable without sufficient Minion guards to protect it.

  Taking a deep breath, Wigg placed his hands flat on the table and calmly explained to the princess why they could not go through with her plan. As he did, it was easy to see the anger and frustration build in her face once more.

  For a long time she sat there seething. Looking down, she gently touched the gold medallion lying around her neck. Then she finally spoke.

  “Very well,” she said softly. “But I refuse to sit here and do nothing while my brother is out there somewhere, and in danger.” She looked at Abbey, and the herbmistress felt Shailiha’s hazel eyes go straight through her.

  “Give me a list of things you need, and I’ll go to Shadowood myself,” the princess said. “I’ve already been there once—the gnomes know me. The journey is safe enough. Even you and Faegan can agree with that much, I should think!”

  “And I will go with her,” Celeste announced enthusiastically. “Together we will be stronger.”

  A slight smile came to Shailiha’s lips.

  “Absolutely not!” Wigg thundered. He glared at the two women as if they were completely mad. The telltale vein in his right temple had begun to throb again.

  “I can use my gift to protect us, if need be,” Celeste said quickly. “And if we employ Faegan’s portal, we won’t be gone long at all. What could be safer?” Smiling, she mischievously tugged the sleeve of her father’s robe—a gesture she knew always softened his heart.

  “You’ll never even miss us, especially given the fact that you now have an old friend here to keep you occupied, so to speak,” she added coyly. At that reference to Abbey, Faegan grinned widely.

  Wigg blushed, and the vein in his temple throbbed even harder. “You still do not know how to use your gift effectively!” he argued.

  “Really?” Celeste asked. “I already used it once to save your life, didn’t I?”

  Wigg looked beseechingly at Faegan. “And what say you to this madness?” he asked.

  Faegan smiled. “Actually, I say ‘yes.’ Abbey and I will send along a list of our needs to Lionel the Little, the caretaker at my mansion, along with a letter of permission from me to give what we need to the ladies. You will be bringing back only dried herbs, not fresh ones. If time permits, we may send you back for fresh herbs later.”

  “Why do you want only dried herbs?”

  “With rare exceptions, herbs must be dried before they can be of use in the craft,” Faegan answered. “And unlike the process used by ordinary cooks, the drying of herbs for magic can be long and meticulous in its stages—and our needs are immediate. In addition, dried herbs are far easier to mix. I’m sure once you reach Shadowood, Lionel will be happy to tell you more. He can be amazingly talkative.”

  For the first time in days, Shailiha grinned.

  “Very well,” Wigg said reluctantly. “But this little errand of yours should take no more than a single day. If the two of you do not come home on the appointed hour, I am coming to Shadowood myself to get you. Understood?”

  Sighing, the lead wizard sat back in his chair and looked at the two women who had just bested him.

  CHAPTER

  Fourteen

  The woman on Wulfgar’s bed looked him up and down in his robe, her eyes filled with hate.

  “I see you’re already dressed for the occasion,” she said nastily. “Just do whatever you want to me, and get it over with.” Her voice was defiant.

  Wulfgar looked at her. Despite the fact that her sea voyage had made her thin, she remained beautiful. Dark ringlets curled down over her breasts. Her taffeta gown—no doubt supplied by Janus—was stunning, and the yellow complemented her deep blue eyes. Given her situation, he might have expected her to cower before him. But she did not. Only anger showed. He immediately found himself respecting her for it, and wanting to know more about her.

  “No harm will befall you here,” he said quietly
. “I’m a slave, just like you.”

  She let go a short, derisive laugh. “Don’t lie to me, as well as abuse me.” She looked briefly around the room and then shook her head. “No slave has quarters such as these.”

  Taking another step, Wulfgar pulled down the left shoulder of his robe. At first she recoiled, but then she saw the brand—the exact duplicate of her own. Her mouth dropped, and she began to relax a little.

  “We may have to be slaves for them, but we don’t have to be for one another,” he added gently. He gestured to the silver table full of food. When he did so, her eyes greedily followed his.

  “Would you like something to eat?” he asked. “You look very hungry.”

  She nodded, but it was abundantly clear that she wasn’t ready to trust him.

  Sensing that she might feel less threatened out on the spacious balcony, Wulfgar walked over to the breakfast cart and pushed it out into the sun. Sitting down in one of the upholstered chairs, he gazed out over the ever-restless ocean.

  “Come and eat,” he said casually. “I promise not to harm you.”

  She stood tentatively and walked to the balcony. After a cautious look at him, she stared straight down over the balcony wall. Then she raised her eyes and looked out to the west, toward Eutracia, and tears began to form. For some time she stood still, the only movement the gentle swaying of her ringlets in the salty sea breeze.

  “Please sit down,” Wulfgar said. He fixed a generous plate of food and handed it to her. Before she had even sat down, she snatched it from him and then bent over her prize protectively, the way a starving animal might, tearing into it as though she hadn’t eaten for a lifetime. Smiling slightly, Wulfgar waited. As she continued to look warily at him in between bites of cheese, warm rolls, and fruit, Wulfgar poured her a cup of tea. She took it from him greedily. Still trying to gain her trust, he smiled again.

  “What is your name?” he asked. “Where are you from?”

  “I am Serena,” she answered cautiously. Another bite of roll went quickly into her waiting mouth. “Of the House of Winslow.”