As they rode back through the field of waving grain, the Minion warriors still patiently circling above, Shailiha closed her eyes and called for Caprice. Silently, softly, the beautiful flier of the field came fluttering down to land obediently on her mistress’ outstretched arm.
CHAPTER
Thirty-seven
Drop anchor!” Scars shouted loudly.
The anchor went in with a splash, and The People’s Revenge, all of her sails furled, drifted for a moment before coming to a halt. Not far from them, the other two ships in their little fleet likewise dropped anchor and came to a rest. Satisfied, Scars looked back to his captain and nodded.
Tristan stood on the bow next to Tyranny, wondering how she could be so sure they had arrived at the Isle of Sanctuary. It was midday, and the sun was high, but a dense fog bank blocked the view ahead of them. But then, through the salty sea air, he was surprised to realize he could distinguish another odor: the smell of land.
Tristan was not the only one who welcomed the chance to stand on firm ground again. Tyranny’s crew seemed extremely anxious to go ashore. For some reason still unknown to the prince, Tyranny had ordered the slaves to stay aboard for the time being. A smattering of crewmen, chosen by lot, stayed behind to watch over the ships as they lay at anchor. The others were all joyously clambering into the skiffs hoisted along the length of the hull, lowering themselves down into the water as quickly as they knew how, and paddling off into the fog.
Tyranny stood watching her crew depart with a distinct look of concern on her face. The bandage Tristan had wound around her forehead yesterday had been removed, as had the ones on her hands. Only the cloth around her left thigh remained, since that wound had been deeper and still tried to bleed through from time to time. Tristan wondered what she was waiting for.
“Aren’t we going ashore?” he asked her. On hearing his words she seemed to come out of some kind of personal reverie, and she turned her wide, blue eyes toward him.
“Yes, yes, of course,” she answered rather absently. At a gesture from her, Scars walked to the gunwale and prepared to lower the captain’s personal skiff into the sea. Tyranny started to join him, but Tristan gently took her by one arm, stopping her.
“I think it’s time you gave me some answers about all of this, don’t you?” he asked, jaw hard with determination.
Tyranny nodded. “You’re right,” she said simply. “Climb into the skiff, and I will explain on the way.”
But as the skiff made its way into the gloom, Scars rowing, Tyranny was silent. The dense fog was cold and clammy against Tristan’s skin, and so thick that he could barely see Tyranny next to him. If it hadn’t been for the reassuring sound of the oars slicing through the sea, he wouldn’t have known that Scars was there at all. Tristan scowled.
“What is it about this place that has unnerved you so?” he asked. “That isn’t like you. And why do you seem so hesitant to go ashore, when the rest of your crew was so eager?”
She closed her eyes for a moment, and a short, rather sad smile crossed her face. “You’re very observant,” she answered. “I don’t fear this place, Tristan. There is nothing in this world that I truly fear, including the screechlings that attacked us. But there are reasons why I do not wish to see this place again.”
He edged closer and put an arm around her, not only to help ward off the cold, but also, he hoped, to inspire a sense of trust. She did not shy away from his touch. “May I know what these reasons are?” he asked.
“The Isle of Sanctuary is a haven for pirates,” she said. “Not privateers such as Scars and myself, mind you, but true marauders of the seas. These men, and in some cases women, make their living by plundering the honest merchant vessels that ply the coast of Eutracia. Whenever they take a ship, those captives who refuse to join them are immediately put to the sword. Because of this practice, their ranks have swollen quickly. On discovering this island they made it their base. Even the name of Sanctuary that the wizards gave to this place suits the needs of the pirates. Ironic, wouldn’t you say?”
But something else occurred to Tristan. “How is it possible that you know of the connection between this place and the Directorate of Wizards?”
“A great library was found here—only one of numerous structures. The texts within held the plans for the island. The Directorate was clearly the force behind it. The construction apparently began sometime just after the end of the Sorceresses’ War. But although the buildings were finished, it seems they were never occupied.”
Stunned, Tristan turned to look back out into the fog. For a moment his mind was teased by the idea that he might find the Scroll of the Vigors here, but then he quickly dismissed the notion. If the scrolls had been hidden here, Wigg and Faegan would surely know. He turned back to Tyranny.
“Tell me,” he asked. “Are these records still intact?”
“As of my last visit here, yes,” she answered. “The pirates have little use for such things. Many of them can’t even read. But now I have a question for you. I have been sailing these waters all of my life, and I would bet my last kisa that despite the evidence contained in the library, this island did not exist until the return of the Coven. So how is it that it has so suddenly sprung up from the depths, so to speak, for the pirates to use?”
“I have no idea,” Tristan replied. “All I can tell you is that the wizards often have their own inexplicable ways of doing things . . .” He shook his head. “But you still haven’t told me your reasons for not wanting to come here,” he reminded her gently.
“First of all, I always lose a number of good crewmembers to this place,” she answered sadly. “The temptations here are too great for many of them to resist. That is surely the only reason my ships are allowed entry here—because I lose so many of my people to their cause. It profits the pirates to let me visit.”
“If that’s the case, then why do you let your crew go ashore at all?” Tristan asked.
Tyranny snorted. “It’s easy to see you have never captained a sailing vessel, my dear prince,” she scoffed. “Just what would you have me do to stop them, eh? You, Scars, and I certainly aren’t enough to keep them from going ashore, are we? These are basically good people, Tristan, and when we are at sea, they follow my orders to the letter. But like all people they have their weaknesses, especially after having been out for weeks on end. When a vessel at sea is stopped by pirates, the crew is forced into service—they have no other option. But here, once a crewmember goes ashore and learns what Sanctuary has to offer, many of them join the pirates willingly. And the pirates are smart enough to know that someone who has joined them of his or her own accord will probably serve them better than one who has not.”
Tristan shook his head. “And the other reason?” he asked gently, hoping to finally come to the heart of the matter.
“There is one here who is in charge of it all,” she answered softly, sadly. “His name is Rolf of the House of Glenkinnon. At one time he worked for my father, in our fishing concern. That’s how we met. Later on, he became not only my partner in my pursuit of the demonslavers, but my lover, as well. But once we found this place and he set foot ashore, all of that changed.”
“Is Sanctuary really that alluring?” Tristan asked.
Tyranny nodded.
“I see,” he mused. “So this man was persuaded not only to leave you, but to become an important part of what you despise. I’m sorry, Tyranny. That must have been difficult.”
Turning to him, she placed a hand over his. “You must be very careful in this place, Tristan,” she warned him. “My common crew are welcome, even accepted in this place. But needless to say, you look and act very different. Even though Rolf and I are no longer together, he can be insanely jealous, especially when he is drinking. We will not require his permission to buy our sails and spars from the tradesmen here. But he could just as easily tell them not to deal with us, should the mood strike him. And they would obey him without question. He rules by intimidation an
d is a quick and efficient killer—the best swordsman I have ever seen. So give him a wide berth, and let me do the talking. I want to be in and out of here as quickly as possible.”
She allowed herself a small half smile. “Besides,” she whispered, leaning in closer toward his ear, “you and I have business to conclude in Eutracia. I still haven’t forgotten about my money, you know. I must admit that I gave serious thought to having Scars tie you up and then leave you aboard with the freed slaves until we could be done with our business here. That way I could have better protected my investment in you. But after coming to know you as I have, I decided that as Scars and I shopped for the things we need, we were safer with you and your strange sword than without you.”
This time it was Tristan’s turn to give a snort. Tyranny was nothing if not clever, he reminded himself. He turned his attention forward again. As he did, he thought he saw the fog start to thin. Then the skiff plunged headlong out the other side of it, and the Isle of Sanctuary suddenly lay before him.
CHAPTER
Thirty-eight
As Wigg followed the watchwoman of the floating gardens down the dark, cramped tunnel, his apprehension grew. He was the lead wizard, his knowledge of the craft second only to Faegan’s. As such, he normally had little to fear. But now Faegan was no longer by his side, and Wigg was alone with this strange, dark-robed creature. As she led him along he felt a sense of dread shooting up his spine, coupled with a cold, nervous sweat. As he thought about it, he didn’t know which was worse: having to wait to endure the nature of the psychic price he was about to pay, or facing the possibility of dying alone in this strange underground world should he fail to withstand it.
Finally the watchwoman stopped. Coming up beside her, Wigg could see that he was at the exit to the tunnel, standing on a stone landing. A circular stairway led from the landing to a large, simple room below. The radiance stones here provided unusually soft light, making it difficult to see.
The watchwoman beckoned him onto the top step and raised her hands. Almost immediately the circular stairway started to revolve, lowering itself with each turn like a corkscrew disappearing into a cork. As he and the watchwoman neared the floor, Wigg could see that the room was carpeted in skeletons.
They lay everywhere, in no particular order. All human, of different sizes, and probably genders. And, he saw as he looked closer, they all shared one strange characteristic: every single sternum bone had been completely destroyed, as if it had been forcefully blown apart from within. In many cases the ribs had also been rent asunder, even scattered about the room, leaving gaping holes.
“What happened to them?” Wigg asked as he carefully followed the watchwoman through the shining, white skeletons.
“The answer is simple, wizard,” she replied. “They failed.”
“But how did they fail?” Wigg asked, hoping to gain some precious insight that might help him survive. “Did their hearts burst because they were not strong enough to withstand the regrets you forced them to relive?”
Finally, after having guided him through all of the bones, she stopped and turned to him. “I didn’t force them to do anything,” she answered sternly. “They came here of their own free will, hoping to acquire certain herbs and oils of the craft so that they might better protect the Vigors against the never-ending wrath of the Vagaries. And they ended up forfeiting their lives. Just as you may. And also like you, they understood that chaos is the natural order of the universe, the very principle upon which the Vagaries thrive. In their cases, chaos prevailed. You are all alike. Those of you who come here always believe that what you are about to endure is a test of the strength of your hearts. It isn’t.”
Puzzled, Wigg narrowed his eyes. “Then what is it that is being tested?”
“The inherent goodness of your endowed blood, wizard, such as it may be. Your blood signature was verified as right-leaning by the Woman of Stone before you were allowed entry to this place, was it not?”
She turned to face the far wall of the chamber. Then she raised her wooden staff. “Behold,” she said.
The air before them started to take on the azure glow of the craft. Then the gleaming began to coalesce, forming into a very large, shimmering cube that began to spin slowly.
“What is it?” he asked.
“Tell me, wizard, what is your greatest regret?” she asked, ignoring his question. “And remember, you must answer truthfully.”
Wigg stared at the revolving cube as he considered her question. There had been a great many regrets in his long life. But one stood head and shoulders above all the others. He looked back at the faceless watchwoman.
“My greatest regret is having banished the Coven of sorceresses to the Sea of Whispers, rather than killing them outright,” he said softly. “Had I followed my heart that night and drowned all four of them in the ocean as I was tempted to do, I would have undoubtedly been forced from the Directorate for violating their mandate. But that would have been a very small price to pay. For the Coven eventually returned and laid waste to the land, killing as they went. Thousands of innocents died, including most of the royal family and all of the remaining wizards of the Directorate. It was entirely my fault, for I alone could have prevented it, but did not. It was a mistake for which I shall never forgive myself.” For a long moment, Wigg lowered his head and closed his eyes.
“Very well,” she replied.
He opened his eyes to see that the gleaming cube was still revolving in the air.
“What I say to you now is for your ears alone, and never to be repeated, do you understand?” she asked. Wigg nodded.
“The greatest tragedy of regret is not what one did or did not do to cause it,” she said. “Nor is it what we did or did not experience at the time. It is therefore neither the doing nor the omission of some act that causes the greatest pain and suffering, but rather its aftermath that burns longest in our hearts, and eventually in the hearts of others. The aftermath of your regret spirals down through the years like a plague, infecting everyone and everything it touches. It has always been this way, just as it always shall be. It is therefore this part of that aftermath that you shall now see, for that night in the Sea of Whispers was only the catalyst, not the result. You just said so yourself, did you not? That is truly what the Chamber of Penitence is about, wizard. We are here to observe a small part of the results of what you caused, not simply the lone act that caused them. And may your endowed blood and your wizard’s soul possess enough inherent goodness to survive what you shall witness, for it is only that same goodness, as it struggles within you against the aftermath of your error, that can keep you alive.”
Then the watchwoman turned toward the gleaming, spinning cube and raised her staff. As she did, shapes began to form within it. Then the shapes came into greater focus, forming an all-too-familiar scene.
As the drama unfolded, Wigg was stricken with an intense, excruciating pain that shot through not only his entire nervous system, but cleaved into his very soul, as well. Though transfixed by the view, his pain took him to his knees. Sobbing, he found himself screaming at the watchwoman, begging her to make it stop. But it didn’t.
In truth, it had only just begun.
The scene was of Tristan’s coronation night—the night that everything in the wizard’s world so irrevocably changed. Through his tears, Wigg could see the royal family standing proudly on the dais. Nicholas . . . Morganna . . . Frederick . . . the Chosen Ones . . . And the other members of the Directorate were also there, waiting for him to place the Paragon around Tristan’s neck, sealing the prince’s reign for the next thirty years.
Then came the smashing of the glass dome high above, its sharp, glass shards raining down as the first of the Minions dropped into the great hall and began slaughtering the defenseless guests.
Blood, screaming, severed body parts, and yet more blood . . . always, endlessly. The blood flowed until it seemed there was an entire sea of it, sweeping across the once-beautiful white-and-bla
ck checkerboard floor.
And then, suddenly, he was watching the struggle that had gone on outside of the palace—the one that until now he had never witnessed. The Minions descended on the gathered citizens like madmen, cutting them down as they went. Men, women, and children fell easy prey to the winged monsters wielding the strangely curved swords. By now some of the Royal Guard had begun to fight back, but the Minion army was too strong, and too large.
Some of the monsters picked up severed human body parts and began using their bloody, ragged ends as paintbrushes with which to scrawl obscenities and warnings across the walls. Raising one hand, Wigg tried to summon his gift and stop the vision, but nothing happened. He found himself forced to watch as it went on and on.
Just as had happened the first time, he found himself experiencing the cruel helplessness of not being able to stop any of it.
Then, quite unexpectedly, his mental and physical pain multiplied, searing through his system even more viciously than before. As each Minion sword came flashing down to cut through sinew and bone, as each woman was thrown to the ground and brutally abused, as each husband, wife, sister, and brother bent over slaughtered loved ones and screamed into the night, Wigg was forced to feel their physical and mental agony. His body convulsed with it, his mind was seared by it, and his heart pounded with it.
Crying madly, the exquisite agony wracking every iota of his being, Wigg fell facedown onto the cold stone floor. Nonetheless, some unseen force lifted his face back up so that he had no choice but to continue taking in the horrifying carnival of blood, gore, rape, and death.
And then he heard the beating of his own heart.
As the agony of the victims continued to flood into his being, the beating grew more insistent. Ever louder, ever faster, it became so overpowering that he thought it might burst his eardrums. Blood, pain, the frantic screaming of the innocents, and the pounding of his heart all combined into a massive, unrelenting crescendo that he knew would soon kill him unless it stopped.
The Scrolls of the Ancients Page 35
