The Scrolls of the Ancients

by Robert Newcomb

  The snakes Marcus had freed from the canvas bag were especially large, hungry, and highly agitated.

  Long, thick, and brightly patterned, these snakes were known as slickribbons, and they were very quick. Marcus had boldly stolen an entire wire cage full of them from the front shelf of one of the exotic animal vendors in the square, and then had run for his life, narrowly avoiding being caught. Black, shiny, and menacing-looking, slickribbons had triangular yellow markings on their backs, making them highly prized for their skins. They were not venomous or harmful to humans in any way, but right now the terrified people in the shop didn’t care about that. All they wanted to do—the proprietor included—was get out.

  As the customers swarmed toward the front door, Marcus calmly picked up the rug he wanted. It was rolled up and secured by twine, but he guessed by its thickness and the length of the roll that its size would do for what he had planned. Hoisting it over one shoulder, he sauntered through the open back door and went out into the alley.

  Walk, he reminded himself. Walk as if you own this rug. Whatever you do, don’t run.

  Suddenly enjoying herself immensely, Rebecca let out another earsplitting scream just for fun, jumped down off the pile of rugs, and joined the rush for the open doors.

  CHAPTER

  Twenty-eight

  Seated at the ancient, ornate desk in the Scriptorium of the Citadel, Krassus took a moment from his labors to enjoy the feeling of success. Four uneventful days of sailing had passed since he had cleverly avoided the unidentified frigates bearing down on him on the Sea of Whispers. Only an hour earlier he had descended the gangway of the Sojourner and been told by Janus that his consuls believed they had finally identified the bastard son of the late Queen Morganna. Overjoyed, Krassus had immediately come to the Scriptorium to examine the supposed authenticity of the blood signature for himself before going to view the prize from which it had come.

  He carefully drew the tripod toward him yet again, then adjusted the parchment squarely under the crosshairs of the lens. This was the fourth time he had done so, as if with each new attempt the results would somehow change. But of course they hadn’t. Having already compared the upper and lower shapes of the signature to those of Queen Morganna and Eric, her onetime lover, he looked down through the lens, no less stunned at what he saw this time than the times before.

  Nicholas had told him that Wulfgar’s signature would be a thing of wonder. But nothing had prepared Krassus for the likes of what now lay before him.

  Never before had he seen such a left-leaning signature. Only two others were known to deviate so widely from the vertical axis. Those belonged to the Chosen Ones themselves, and they both leaned to the right.

  Taking his eye from the lens, he looked at the assay mark written on the corner of the parchment: 11⁄2. The blood quality was equal to that of Princess Shailiha, and second only to that of Tristan himself.

  Krassus smiled. Janus and his consuls had been right. The slave this signature came from was indeed Wulfgar, the bastard son of Morganna.

  Krassus now possessed not only the half sibling of the Chosen Ones, but also the Scroll of the Vagaries. Much of his work could finally go forward. If and when he got hold of the Scroll of the Vigors, he would be unstoppable.

  He looked around this part of the Scriptorium. Built of the palest tan marble, the room was light and airy, and its floor was partially covered with highly patterned rugs. The stained-glass windows—now open to let in the sun and the salt air—were numerous. Bookcase after bookcase lined the walls. The texts and scrolls on their shelves were dusty from long neglect, but they would not remain that way much longer. The Scroll of the Vagaries lay nearby on another desk, the engraved gold band around its middle still tightly imprisoning the knowledge contained within.

  Smiling, Krassus rose and walked out to the spacious balcony that overlooked the ocean. Standing there feeling the wind on his face, he thought of how honored he had been when Nicholas had told him of this place and what his mission would be. It had been eons since the Citadel had been inhabited and used for purposes of the craft. His endowed blood sang with the excitement that was soon to follow, and his pride at having been chosen as the new master of this fortress isle knew no bounds. For a moment, his mind turned back to the circumstances that had made it so.

  He had been captured one day by Nicholas’ great birds of prey, and then taken to the Caves of the Paragon, along with other consuls of the Redoubt. But as sole first alternate to the late Directorate of Wizards, Krassus had been kept isolated from Nicholas’ other servants, and his blood imbued with the Forestallments required to turn him to the Vagaries.

  Krassus’ instructions had come to him the very day the Chosen One and Nicholas had first met, deep in the bowels of the Caves. Not only had Nicholas asked Tristan to join his cause, but he had also promised him a lifetime of ecstasy practicing the Vagaries. But in his ridiculous loyalty to the insipid Vigors and the inferior wizards he commanded, the prince had not only refused Nicholas’ gracious offer, but had threatened to kill him, as well.

  And Krassus had been there the entire time, hiding in a small alcove to one side of the room, listening to every word. After the traitorous prince left, Nicholas had bid his new servant to join him. For Krassus, it had been like standing before a god.

  “You heard?” Nicholas asked simply. Incensed by the words of the foolish, traitorous prince, Krassus had nodded angrily.

  Nicholas placed a hand on one of Krassus’ shoulders. “So now you understand how it is I am treated,” he whispered. “My own blood means not only to stop what I have planned at the Gates of Dawn, but to see me dead in the bargain.”

  It was then that Nicholas had first told him of the Scrolls of the Ancients, and Krassus had begun to understand that the construction and employment of the Gates were but one facet of his master’s plans. Then Nicholas had dismissed him, and had never spoken to him again.

  And so, after hearing of his master’s failure at the Gates of Dawn, Krassus had zealously begun his work. He had sought out the glowing base of one of the Gates, just as Nicholas had ordered. Finally finding it, he had been infuriated to see the secret door in its side already open, and only one of the fabled scrolls present. Luckily, the one remaining was the scroll he needed the most.

  Then he had used his new powers to create the demonslavers, steal a fleet of ships and begin capturing slaves in his search for Wulfgar. At the thought of all those Talis and R’talis slaves, his mouth turned upward at the corners. When all was said and done, those hiding in the Redoubt of the Directorate would pay, and pay dearly.

  Taking himself away from his memories, he looked quietly out over the sea. It was midday, the sun having just reached the zenith of its golden, luminescent arc. Sighing, he took a great breath of salt air. But then, as his lungs convulsed, he realized it had been too much for him.

  Coughing up blood, he reached for the cloth in his robes and covered his mouth. Several small drops escaped, however, and fell to the marble floor to twist their way into his familiar blood signature. Cursing under his breath, he wiped them away with the sole of his boot. Looking back out to sea, the reccurring, frightful realization once again gripped his heart.

  He was dying.

  He knew he must complete his work before he succumbed, his lungs eventually drowning in their own blood. And to be absolutely certain of success, he had to have the other scroll.

  Suddenly there came a knock on the door. Krassus wiped his face and stuffed the bloody cloth back in his robes before answering it.

  The wide, double doors at the opposite end of the Scriptorium opened, and Grizelda and Janus walked in, accompanied by two demonslavers. Janus seemed to be especially pleased for some reason. As they approached the desk, Krassus came in from the balcony and sat back down, at the same time motioning his guests to chairs on the opposite side. The armed slavers retreated to take up guard in the hallway, closing the doors behind them.

  “I have more good
news, my lord,” Janus said excitedly. “The frigate loaded with the herbs and oils taken from the raid on Shadowood has just arrived—well ahead of schedule. The goods are being unloaded as we speak.” Then his painted smile melted into a partial frown.

  “I am told that some of the slavers in the raiding party never returned,” he added glumly. “Those remaining aboard their frigate waited as long as they dared, then finally set sail. It is possible that the missing slavers were intercepted, perhaps even killed by the Chosen One’s wizards.”

  Scowling, Krassus considered Janus’ news carefully. True, it was possible that Wigg and Faegan had interrupted the raid. But if they had, it appeared they had been too late to keep his slavers from taking what his herbmistress required. The loss of a few more of his servants made no difference one way or the other.

  He looked back at Janus. “And our very special guest?” he asked. “How does he fare?”

  Janus smiled again, the edges of his red, painted mask crinkling up as he did so. “Very well,” he answered. “He remains quite rebellious, however, just as we expected from one of his unique bloodline.” He looked eagerly at the tripod and parchment on Krassus’ desk. “You have had time to examine the document, my lord?” he asked. “Is he really Wulfgar?”

  “One and the same,” Krassus replied. “And the woman named Serena—the two of them have become close?”

  “Indeed,” Janus assured him. “As planned, she is reviled by the other slaves for the superior treatment she receives during mealtimes, and Wulfgar has asked that she be allowed to stay with him at all other times. I have allowed it, of course.”

  Satisfied, Krassus turned to Grizelda. “Now that you have the herbs and oils you require, I will expect you to successfully view the Scroll of the Vigors and give me some reference point in Eutracia from which to begin the search. Then I shall send you, Janus, and a group of my best slavers to recover it, no matter where it might be. Is that understood?”

  Bending forward slightly in her chair, Grizelda smiled greedily. “It shall be an honor, my lord.”

  “Very well,” Krassus replied. Standing up, he made it clear that the meeting was over. “I go to converse with Wulfgar.” His smile deepened the creases in his hollow cheeks. “He and Serena are about to begin understanding the nature of their fates. Their reactions should prove to be most interesting.”

  The three of them walked to the double doors and went out into the hallway. Janus left to escort Grizelda to what would soon become her new workplace, while Krassus went down the opposite length of the hall.

  On and on Nicholas’ servant of the Vagaries went, as he wound his way up through the labyrinthine halls and spiral staircases of the Citadel. Tiring, he resorted to the craft to carry him up the remaining flights.

  Then he continued on to the marble doors that marked the entrance to Wulfgar’s quarters. At a single nod from their master, the guards slid back the iron bolt. Then, before he could enter, one of the slavers spoke.

  “Forgive me, my lord, but the man inside is very strong. Shouldn’t at least one of us accompany you inside?”

  Krassus simply smiled. “I am a wizard of the craft,” he said patiently, as if he were addressing a confused schoolboy. “What can he do to me that I would not allow?”

  With that Krassus opened the double doors and walked into the room. Behind him, he heard the doors close and bolt.

  Surprised by the sudden entry of a stranger, Wulfgar and Serena looked up from the balcony.

  CHAPTER

  Twenty-nine

  The wind in his hair and the sea air in his lungs, Tristan leaned against the pitching gunwale of The People’s Revenge as the great frigate plowed her way west through the Sea of Whispers. His dreggan and his throwing knives had been returned to him, and it felt good to have them lying across his back again.

  The ship seemed amazingly alive, the seamen and the many grateful slaves she was bringing home swarming over her decks. Tyranny’s crew did all they knew how for the newly freed captives. But her men were not professional healers, and their gifts in such matters were limited. Now, after having had the opportunity to look them over more closely, Tristan sadly concluded that many of these poor souls would not survive even the relatively short voyage to Eutracia, no matter how well the crew cared for them.

  So far, Tyranny seemed to be keeping to their bargain of heading straight for the Cavalon Delta. But the winds had proven fickle, and the frigates had been forced to tack in order to stay on course, something that Tristan soon learned would make the voyage longer.

  Four uneventful days had passed since he had made his bargain with the highly interesting sea captain, and sometimes his great desire to be home convinced him that he could almost smell the rich, fertile soil of the Eutracian coast. Soon he would set foot on dry land and see his loved ones again.

  One corner of his mouth turned up as he thought of parading the brash Tyranny and the huge colossus named Scars unannounced through the royal palace and finally introducing them to everyone. Then he would live up to his part of it, demanding that the wizards not only pay her a ransom of one hundred thousand gold kisa, but that they award her with the letters of marque she so valued. In his mind’s eye, he could already see the vein in the lead wizard’s right temple throbbing, and Faegan’s ever-curious, gray-green eyes flashing with mischief.

  Tristan had encountered Tyranny often during the last four days as she inspected the decks and spoke with both her crew and the slaves she had rescued. Sometimes it seemed to him that she had spent time with every slave aboard, and he thought he knew why: She was trying to glean from them any information she could about her lost brother. Twice she had graciously invited him to take his evening meal with her in her quarters, where they had talked at length about their respective backgrounds. Tristan had used the opportunity to tell her about his past, and bring her up to date with all that had happened in Eutracia since the return of the Coven. He soon found that he not only respected this rather admirable outlaw, but genuinely liked her, as well.

  Perhaps he had promised her too much, he suddenly realized. He gave a quick, derisive laugh. Too much or not, he was sure that taking her and Scars before the crusty, indomitable wizards would be worth it.

  But despite how badly he wanted to get home, he had swiftly come to love the sea, complete with all of its whims and dangers. After Scars had finally come to the conclusion that Tristan was indeed not one of the enemy, he and the prince had arrived at an uneasy truce. The surprisingly eloquent giant had taken him under his wing, instructing him in the ways of the great boat. Tristan had certainly not become a seasoned crewmember, but he was fascinated by what Scars was teaching him; and each day he found himself eager to learn more.

  He now understood the differences between the various sails, spars, and booms, and how the rigging and sheets worked to help steady them and raise and lower the sails. He had learned the various types of maneuvers the ship was capable of, such as running before the wind, tacking, and being in irons. Tristan had even gingerly climbed the rigging all the way to the crow’s nest, to gaze out over the ocean and feel the splendid, exaggerated motion of the ship as she pitched and rolled beneath him, dozens of meters below. Seeing his battle flag flying high atop the mainmast had done his heart good.

  To his great surprise, Scars had suggested that Tristan take the ship’s wheel for a time—under the giant’s watchful eye, of course. If what Tyranny had told him was true, it was the same wheel that had once steered the Resolve, the vessel Wigg had used more than three centuries earlier to banish the Coven of sorceresses from Eutracia. As Tristan had placed his hands on the worn, curved grips that graced the wheel’s outer ring, he almost thought he could feel the gnarled, ghostly hands of those who had gone before, turning it with him. Sensing the great ship obey him had been an experience he would never forget.

  He had found a small plaque mounted below the wheel. On it was inscribed the name of every single person who had commanded the various ves
sels the wheel had served over the course of the centuries. Toward the top, he had seen Wigg’s name. And the last name was Tyranny’s. Smiling, Tristan shook his head and wondered how many other names would be added to the plaque before the wheel was finally lost to the sea or otherwise destroyed. He found himself hoping that would never happen.

  Turning to look toward the bow, he felt the sharp, pulling sting of the whip marks across his back. They were healing, but they still hurt. He knew that when he returned to the palace, the wizards would gladly enact an incantation of accelerated healing over them, and they would soon mend. But in truth he had to admit that it was neither the vicious beating by the demonslaver nor the healed scars that would forever remain on his back that now plagued him so.

  There had recently come to him a new, unexpected form of mental, rather than physical anguish. It was something that had been building inexorably in his soul ever since that fateful day in Parthalon when his blood had suddenly turned from red to azure. It was a foreign, insidious feeling, and one that had finally come to fruition for him not only at the savage whipping, but when Tyranny had pulled him out of the ragged line of slaves to speak to him.

  As the contradictory, rather frightening thought went through his mind, he closed his dark blue eyes for a moment. The unthinkable had happened.

  He was coming to curse his glowing, azure blood.

  He was not distressed by the fact that his blood was endowed. That much of it was his natural heritage, his birthright. But that his blood now glowed, that it had turned the same color that always accompanied any significant use of the craft, was just too bizarre.

  His azure blood kept him from learning the craft, because the wizards were concerned with the unknown ramifications of such a thing, should they try to instruct him. That angered and frustrated him, for his desire to learn burned within him as hotly as ever. Even the Tome, the great book of magic, stated that the male of the Chosen Ones must be trained, so that he could attempt to join the Vigors and the Vagaries together into a single art, thereby putting an end to the eons-old conflict between the two sides of the craft. But as things stood now, even Wigg and Faegan were at a loss over what to do. And with all of the problems that had been thrust upon them since the unexpected return of the Coven, using valuable time to begin his training had clearly been out of the question. Worst of all, he felt guilty because he was no closer to fulfilling his destiny, as the Tome said he must.