The Scrolls of the Ancients

by Robert Newcomb

  Janus sauntered to the heavy stone door and opened it. “Bring him,” he said casually over his shoulder.

  The slavers lifted Twenty-Nine and dragged him toward it on his toes. As the remaining slaves and demonslavers watched, the four of them went through. The door closed behind them.

  Still dazed, held upright by the slavers, Twenty-Nine at first couldn’t make out the scene before him. But he could hear the insane pleading and screaming well enough. It was coming from men and women alike, and never seemed to pause. As his vision swam into focus, he raised his head and looked.

  The first thing he did was scream. Then warm urine ran uncontrollably down the insides of his thighs, forming a puddle at his feet.

  Closing his eyes, Twenty-Nine tried desperately to free himself from the slavers and bolt for the door, but he was powerless in their grip. He began to tremble, and then to cry.

  “Hold him!” Janus ordered. Removing an ornate dagger from his belt, he came to stand before Twenty-Nine and placed the cool, sharp tip of the blade to the blacksmith’s throat. Cold sweat beaded on Twenty-Nine’s forehead.

  “Either look at what I brought you here to see, or join those in this room,” Janus said softly, menacingly. “The same fate awaits you should you shirk your labors or try to take your life again. Do you understand?”

  Twenty-Nine opened his eyes. As he did, the men in the dark blue robes he had seen at the docks looked calmly back at him from their slow, deliberate labors. Several of them smiled.

  Another, even more terrified scream came from him, mixing with the others still echoing horrifically through the room.

  Finally he could take no more. He felt his mind slipping, and he fainted away, hanging limply in the grasp of the demonslavers.

  Smiling, Janus put away his knife.

  PART III

  Regret

  CHAPTER

  Twenty-six

  “Regret . . . such a simple, easy word to say. And yet—for so many of us—so difficult to dismiss from our memories. What other single word conjures up not only such sublime sorrow, but also the sweet, forlorn loss of what might have been? Act upon act, regret upon regret, turning with the time enchantments forever. Even so, it is not the wise man who casts away such memories, but rather the foolish one.”

  —FROM THE PERSONAL DIARIES OF WIGG, ONETIME LEAD WIZARD OF THE DIRECTORATE OF WIZARDS

  Lately I have noticed a distinct twinkle in your eye that I had not seen since my return to Tammerland,” Faegan told Wigg wryly, with a wink and a smile as the Minion litter bounced them along through the sky. “My compliments, by the way. While it’s true she and I have had our differences regarding the art of herbmastery, Abbey is certainly a lovely and intelligent woman. You’re a very lucky man.”

  Wigg pursed his lips, then turned from the window to scowl at the wizard sitting across from him. The morning air was cold at this altitude, and Wigg defiantly thrust his hands into the sleeves of his robe to warm them. He hoped they would arrive at the coast soon.

  Wigg had expected Faegan to bring up the subject of his relationship with Abbey long before this, especially given the way the other wizard loved to tease him. At least Faegan had chosen a private moment between them to broach the subject.

  Sighing, Wigg pushed his tongue against the inside of one cheek. “Is it that obvious?” he asked back.

  “Oh, yes,” Faegan answered happily. “There is a boyish spring in your step and a recurring smile on your face that I have not seen for three centuries. The others may not notice, but I do.”

  “Abbey and I would very much like to leave the others uninformed. At least for the time being,” Wigg said sternly. His face reddened uncharacteristically.

  “I understand completely,” Faegan said, smiling mischievously.

  Shaking his head, Wigg gave a short, derisive snort and returned to watching the ribbon of the Sippora River snaking through the landscape far below.

  They had been traveling for the better part of two hours and were very close to their destination. Their goal was to reach the coast by midday. Ox flew point a short distance ahead, while six other Minions carried the litter through the air and four more flew guard. The morning was bright, cold, and cloudless, and the lush greenery of the Eutracian landscape passed below them peacefully, belying the many troubles the nation still suffered.

  Suddenly the litter banked to the left and began to lose altitude. Through the window, the jagged coastline could be seen, stony cliffs constantly bombarded by the froth-tipped waves of the Sea of Whispers.

  Then Wigg finally saw it: the smooth formation of stone that legend said had been carved out by the restless sea. Shouting out to the Minions, he ordered them to fly up to it and hover just above the waves.

  Both wizards gazed silently at the dark, majestic stone face. It was not a new sight for them—the Woman of Stone had long been an attraction of some note for Eutracian citizens—but no matter how many times one had seen it, viewing it was always an eerie, awe-inspiring experience. Especially now, given the revelation that the image before them apparently held far more secrets than anyone had previously imagined.

  Wigg opened the door of the litter and stepped out into the air, using the craft to hover just above the waves by the imposing edifice. Faegan levitated his chair, exited the litter, and glided up alongside him. The roaring ocean below splashed constantly against the slick stone, and the sea wind pestered the wizards, snatching at their robes and hair. Looking up, Wigg beckoned to Ox to come lower.

  “Order the litter to the cliffs, and wait for us there,” he shouted against the sound of the sea. “There’s no telling how long we might be. If the provisions in the litter run out, order some of the warriors back to the palace for more, or hunt for what you need. But I want at least enough of you here at all times to carry the litter when we come back out.”

  Wigg looked back to the edifice, and his jaw hardened. “If we come back out, that is.”

  Nodding, Ox turned away to carry out his orders. The cold, salty wind continued to whip at the wizards as they hovered just feet above the angry waves. Wigg looked at the Woman of Stone again.

  The face was large—at least ten meters high and another four or five meters across—and impressive. Beautiful, but at the same time commanding. Long strands of stone hair hung down past the shoulders to descend into the sea, and the huge eyes lay peacefully closed behind heavy, seductive lids. The nose was slim; the lips were both sensuous and inviting; the cheekbones were high and elegant. Black as night and polished to a smooth luster by the sea, she seemed the very picture of serene, detached femininity.

  Whether a face of such elegance and detail could have been carved naturally from the waves had been a great subject of debate for as long as Eutracia had existed. There was a distinct minority who insisted she must be a purely natural phenomenon—a freak of nature, as it were. Most, however, argued that she was far too refined, far too perfect to be an accident, and must therefore be the result of some arcane use of the craft from eons earlier. Wigg was entirely convinced it was the latter.

  Wigg looked over to Faegan to comment on the beauty of the face, and stopped, stunned.

  The Paragon was glowing.

  The square-cut, bloodred jewel of the craft lying about Faegan’s neck had always seemed to have a life of its own and tended to be faintly luminous no matter the time of day or the circumstances surrounding it. But this was incredible. The jewel was glowing with blinding red light.

  Suddenly, without warning, two narrow, perfectly straight beams shot from the Paragon and tore toward the Stone Woman’s eyes. Wigg and Faegan hovered, speechless, wondering what would happen next.

  Then, as abruptly as they had appeared, the beams vanished, and the jewel returned to normal. Baffled, the two wizards looked at each other, then back at the Stone Woman.

  The eyes were beginning to open.

  Slowly, the huge, heavy lids parted, revealing piercing eyes of the most intense azure. The eyes regarded
them calmly for a few moments; the lids gently blinked. And then the lips began to move.

  “You are of the craft,” the Stone Woman said, her words coming to them quite clearly over the pounding waves. Her voice was compassionate, yet strong. “You carry the Paragon, and so you may see me for what I truly am. Welcome, and well done.”

  Wigg found his voice first. “Who are you?” he asked. “Are you the watchwoman of the floating gardens?”

  “No,” she replied. “She awaits within. I am but one left by those you call the Ones Who Came Before. I oversee the first of the tests required to successfully enter and leave this Chamber of Penitence. Do you wish to enter?”

  The lips closed again, and the amazing azure eyes continued to regard the two wizards in silence.

  Fascinated, Faegan floated closer to the beautiful, dark face. “Yes,” he said simply. “We wish to enter.”

  The stone lips parted again. “And do you both know that there is a psychic price to be paid for what can be learned here? Be warned, for it may be a demand that your human minds find too dear to survive.”

  “What is this psychic price?” Faegan asked.

  “That is not my place to say,” she answered softly. “The watchwoman of the gardens will tell you more, should I deign to let you enter.”

  “And how may we enter?” Wigg asked.

  “You must pass my test,” she answered. The beautiful face remained expressionless. “I must first be sure that you are not practitioners of the Vagaries. The knowledge kept within must never be allowed to pass into the hands of those who would prefer to practice the darker aspects of the craft.”

  For the first time she showed emotion, her lips turning up slightly at the corners. “There is still so much neither of you understand about the craft, or the true history of this land,” she answered softly.

  His eyes gleaming with curiosity, Faegan leaned forward in his chair. “Tell us more,” he implored. “I beg you.”

  “No,” she answered. “Educating you is not my mission. It is now time for you to be tested.”

  “What is it we must do?” Wigg asked.

  “Nothing,” she answered. “I shall do it all. Each of you please expose one of your wrists.”

  Wigg and Faegan did as she asked. Almost immediately the familiar, azure glow of the craft coalesced around their bare wrists. In each, a small incision appeared painlessly, allowing a single drop of blood to escape. As the incisions closed and the azure glow disappeared, the two blood droplets, hovering in the air, immediately began twisting into their respective blood signatures.

  The eyes in the black face then narrowed slightly, and the glow of the craft appeared again, this time surrounding the two blood signatures. The signatures began to enlarge, until each of them was about two meters across in length.

  Spellbound, the wizards stared in awe until the huge blood signatures faded and then disappeared.

  “Clearly, you are both of the Vigors,” the Stone Woman said. “So now it is time for you to decide. Do you still wish to enter this Chamber of Penitence?”

  Faegan turned to the lead wizard. Wigg took a deep, apprehensive breath, then nodded. Faegan looked back into the lovely, azure eyes.

  “We do,” he said.

  “Very well,” she answered. “Behold.”

  Her mouth opened wider, exposing perfect, white teeth. Farther and farther her lips parted, until the opening was about two meters high. Only fathomless darkness could be seen beyond, its depths occasionally interrupted by haunting, eerie flashes of azure light, like lightning across a night sky. Then her eyes closed, and she remained still.

  Faegan again looked at Wigg, who responded with a raised eyebrow. Without speaking further, the two wizards glided forward, entering the Chamber of Penitence.

  From where they stood on the sea cliffs above, Ox and the other Minions of Day and Night watched in horror as the wizards disappeared into darkness and the lovely stone mouth closed behind them.

  CHAPTER

  Twenty-seven

  I’m afraid, Marcus,” Rebecca said quietly. “I’ve never done anything like this before. Are you sure this is going to work?”

  She shivered in the cold of the early morning, as she held tightly onto her brother’s strong, comforting hand. Her stomach growled again. She hadn’t had enough to eat this morning, and this place Marcus had led her to scared her. Hoping her brother knew what he was doing, she limped alongside him through the human carnival known as Bargainer’s Square.

  With the demise of the Royal Guard, Bargainer’s Square had become a hotbed of vice and crime. It seemed to Marcus as if all of the wicked of Eutracia had for some reason suddenly descended on this single spot. It had been Bargainer’s Square where he had accidentally found himself the night he had narrowly evaded the old harlot and her partner, running for his life down the dark, lamplit street. But from that wayward experience had also come an unexpected blessing: the rug shop where he had finally stopped running to catch his breath.

  He had taken little notice of it at the time, but now, two days later, he had suddenly realized how the little shop might be of great help with his problem regarding the scroll. And so he had visited the shop once it was open and had formulated his plan. Yesterday he had brazenly stolen the contents of the canvas bag now slung over his shoulder. Today he would act. Looking into ’Becca’s trusting brown eyes, he gave her an encouraging smile.

  “I know it’s scary here,” he said as he led her through the bizarre maze of people, noises, and vice. “And I’m sorry. But you must trust me. I haven’t steered us wrong yet, have I? Now stay close to me, keep your head down, and try not to talk. We don’t need any undue attention.”

  Nodding and biting her lip, Rebecca tried to smile.

  Bargainer’s Square was actually a huge, circular plaza, paved with cobblestones. A great many streets opened onto the gathering place from various directions.

  Shouting, cursing, and the smells of bad food and cheap liquor wafted on the breeze. Street vendors, each of them trying to holler louder than the next, filled the area. Virtually all of the men and many of the women were armed in some fashion. Seeing two children walking alone in this part of town was highly unusual, and many furtive, lecherous glances came their way. Whores, pimps, and male prostitutes stood on the corners, their leering smiles tacitly promising sex for money. Cockfights and dogfights could easily be found in the alleyways, with men and women crowded around them, eagerly throwing their money away.

  Marcus gripped Rebecca’s hand tighter, and they continued on.

  When they reached the rug shop, he guided Rebecca to the other side of the busy street and into the opening of a relatively quiet alleyway. Peering out, he verified that the store was indeed open for business. From what he could see through the parted double doors, the shop already had a smattering of patrons inside, which he considered a good thing. When the time came, he would need all the distractions he could get.

  Kneeling down before her, he pointed to the store. “That’s it,” he whispered. “I’ll go inside first, while you wait here. After a few moments, if you don’t see me come back out, walk in and begin doing as I instructed you. Keep one eye on me. When you see that I have gone, make your way out and meet me where I told you to, all right?”

  Trying to be brave, Rebecca nodded. Giving her a final, encouraging smile, Marcus started across the street.

  He approached the shop casually, and entered as nonchalantly as he could. Inside, the proprietor was going from one patron to another, eagerly explaining to them why he or she simply could not live another moment without one of his beautiful, most certainly inexpensive rugs. He was a stout man whom Marcus was sure wouldn’t be able to run very well—yet another plus for choosing this place.

  Marcus ambled over to a pile of rugs in one corner, his eyes going to the back of the shop. There was a short counter that ran partway across the back, leaving a space for access to the rear door. A brief smile crossed his lips: everything was in
perfect order.

  The rear door of the shop was wide open to allow a cooling morning draft for the heavy, already sweating proprietor, just as it had been the last time Marcus had visited here. The owner, it seemed, was nothing if not a creature of habit. Feeling the weight of the bag across his shoulder, Marcus thought of its contents and smiled again. Then, turning his head toward the door, he saw ’Becca enter the shop. She looked scared to death.

  As her brown eyes finally found him, he winked at her, letting her know that he was about to proceed. Biting her lip again, she nodded back and walked near the proprietor, just as her brother had told her to do. Marcus then walked to one side a bit, to a little oasis of bare floor.

  Slowly, carefully, he took the canvas bag from his shoulder. Making sure his back was to the others, he untied the top of the bag and turned it over. As the contents came falling out to the floor, he tossed the bag aside and quickly looked over at ’Becca. Then he winked again, telling her to start.

  It has often been said that the high-pitched, earsplitting scream coming from a young girl is unequaled, and Rebecca’s proved no exception. Taking great lungfuls of air, she screamed for all she was worth, sending shock waves through the little shop. The outcry was so piercing that at first Marcus thought the glass panes in the double doors might burst.

  “Snakes!” Rebecca shrieked, pointing frantically across the room and jumping up onto one of the piles of rugs. She pointed again. “Big snakes!” Then, her eyes wide with false terror, she put her hands up to the sides of her head, jumped frantically up and down atop the pile of rugs, and let go another insane scream.

  Pandemonium immediately engulfed the shop. A woman screamed and clambered onto the pile of rugs with Rebecca; then another joined them. Just as Marcus had hoped, the snakes quickly separated and began slithering across the floor, trying to find refuge among the piles of rugs or make for the freedom of the open doors. The startled patrons scattered. Women screamed; men simply stood there, frozen in horror.