The Scrolls of the Ancients

by Robert Newcomb

  Tristan’s jaw hardened again. So am I, he thought.

  They walked on in silence for a time. The narrow, rutted path wound back and forth, and Tristan noted by the position of the sun that they were traveling west. After a while, he saw the first pieces of marble.

  The huge sections of broken, fluted column were the largest he had ever seen. He estimated that it would have taken at least thirty men, arms outstretched and holding hands, to surround even the smallest of them. They looked very old, and were fashioned of a rare rose marble shot through with swirls of deeper red. Lying here and there on both sides of the trail, they looked as though they had been randomly cast off by giants.

  “How did these get here?” he asked Tyranny, quickening his pace to catch up.

  “You tell me,” she answered, without turning around. “As I told you, it’s all the Directorate’s doing. They’re your wizards, aren’t they?”

  With a soft laugh, Tristan shook his head and just watched for the marble pieces. They were gradually increasing in frequency and number. There were not only column pieces but entire columns, as well, sometimes standing alone and complete with their decorative capitals, and he could see that they were built to the same proportions as typical Eutracian columns.

  He also saw freestanding sections of wall, their surfaces adorned with intricate alcoves and pilasters, waiting to form buildings that would never be constructed. There were statues in evidence, too, representing both animals and humans.

  Finally Tyranny slowed and held up one hand. As Tristan and Scars came up alongside her, the prince looked past her and down into the valley before them.

  At the far side of the valley, the Sea of Whispers crashed up against the shore. Dozens of ships, their sails furled, bobbed gently at anchor just beyond the wooden piers that jutted arrogantly out into the sea. And nestled in between, in the heart of the lowlands, lay Sanctuary.

  It looked to be something more than a town, yet less than a city. With nothing surrounding it, it was as if it had become somehow lodged forever in-between—like a stunted child that never reached adulthood, long since abandoned by its parents and forced to survive on its own.

  Expecting nothing more than a series of hastily constructed, ramshackle shanties, Tristan quickly realized that he couldn’t have been more wrong. Despite the fact that Sanctuary had apparently been built long ago, its structures, sparkling like precious jewels in the noonday sun, had a timeless, pristine quality about them.

  They were laid out in neatly patterned order. A great, rose-colored marble-floored plaza lay at their center, inlaid with a bloodred representation of the Paragon, its image vibrant and commanding.

  Tristan could now see people milling about the town. As the three of them finally came closer and began walking among them, he saw that things were not as genteel as they had first appeared from atop the hill. The exteriors of the buildings were absolutely beautiful, but as many of them had their doors open to the sun, he could see what the pirates had done to them. Trash, personal items, and ale bottles lay everywhere. It was almost as if animals lived here, rather than human beings. Tristan felt disgusted.

  Men and women alike seemed to be in a constant state of revelry. For the most part, Tristan and his companions were ignored, so he studied the people without interference. By and large the men here were a dirty, slovenly bunch. Most of them wore sparse, brightly colored clothing, often parted to reveal intricate tattoos. They bristled with weapons and shiny jewelry, and were, for the most part, clearly in various stages of drunkenness. But Tristan could see a careful, ruthless glint in their eyes whenever one of them looked his way.

  He had been among their kind before, in Tammerland, just after the return of the Coven and the decimation of the Royal Guard. War bred such men like flies. Tyranny had been right, he realized. These pirates were not only thieves of the sea, but cold, calculating killers, as well. Now he could easily understand the attraction that a place like this, far away from civilization and its demands, would hold for such rebels.

  As they walked on, the noise level increased. Barkers loudly tried to entice them into wagering on games and contests; from the balconies above, courtesans in various stages of undress called out coy obscenities, trying to entice passersby to come upstairs. Sometimes Tristan could hear the shameless, crude sounds of urgent intercourse coming from the alleyways as he walked by.

  The entire city of Sanctuary seemed to be nothing more than one great, roiling mass of perversion, drunkenness, and greed. As far as Tristan was concerned, the sooner they got what they needed and left, the better. Finally, Tyranny led them down a narrower, quieter street and stopped before a nondescript shop.

  “This is where we can order our spars,” she told Tristan. “Jonah, the owner, was a friend of my father’s. We will be safe here for the time being.”

  Tyranny walked in, Tristan and Scars in tow. As they did, the bell atop the door announced their presence.

  The store was small, with a door in the back that looked out onto a woodworking shop. Several men could be seen quietly fashioning spars and other ships’ necessities. The pleasant smell of shaven wood came to Tristan’s nostrils as he looked at the man bent over the short, businesslike counter.

  He was older than the prince had expected, and he wore large spectacles. Fashioned above one side of them was a smaller, more highly powered lens that could be swiveled down for close work. Tan wood dust covered his curly, iron-gray hair and the striped apron that stretched across his abundant middle; arm garters secured his sleeves.

  “Jonah,” Tyranny said as he approached the counter. “I need help.”

  Without looking up, he rudely waved her away with one of his fat, callused hands. “Yes, yes, doesn’t everybody these days. The whole damnable island needs my services lately. Seems the screechlings have been more active than ever, for some reason. Go away, and come back when I’m not so busy,” he said gruffly, his attention still planted firmly between the pages of his ledger.

  Tyranny smiled a bit. “Jonah,” she said with a bit more insistence. “It’s me—Tyranny.”

  Jonah’s head snapped up, his face overcome with delight. He ran from behind the counter and hugged Tyranny so tightly that her toes left the floor. She grinned widely.

  “It’s so good to see you, my dear!” he bellowed, finally putting her down. “How long has it been? Three, four months?” Then his face darkened. “You should never have come back, you know. Ever since you left, Rolf’s anger has been terrible. Have you lost your mind? Why are you here?”

  Before she could answer, he looked at Tristan. “And who is this nasty-looking character?”

  “He is a friend,” Tyranny told him.

  Jonah looked Tristan over again, then gave him a nod. Tristan nodded back.

  “You need spars, you say?” Jonah asked. He looked concerned. “Screechlings?”

  “Three maelstroms at once,” she answered. “We barely survived.”

  His eyes wide, Jonah ran one hand through his hair in disbelief. As he did, bits of shaved wood rained down. “No one has ever survived three maelstroms,” he whispered, half to himself. “They have been far more active of late, and no one seems to know why. Do you have any idea?”

  Tyranny shook her head.

  Taking a deep breath, Tristan held his tongue. He knew very well why, but he also knew that now was not the time to speak of it.

  “Do you have your specifications?” Jonah asked her.

  Taking a piece of parchment from the pocket of his trousers, Scars handed it over. With a quick, automatic movement, Jonah swiveled the single lens down over one side of his spectacles and looked over the list.

  “Hmm,” he mused. “Five new spars, all of unequal thickness and length,” he murmured. “This will take some doing. But if I put everything on hold, I can have them for you tomorrow morning. Say, two hundred kisa? That’s at no profit to me, child. Given Rolf’s attitude, you need to be gone from here as soon as you can.” He swiveled the sin
gle lens back up into place.

  Tyranny nodded to Scars. The first mate reached for the leather cinch bag tied at his waist, counted out a down payment of one hundred kisa, and handed the coins over to Jonah. After slipping them into the pocket of his apron, the shopkeeper looked back at Tyranny with concerned eyes.

  “If you suffered three maelstroms, you must also require sails, then.”

  “Yes.”

  “That may be a problem.”

  Tyranny’s face fell. “Why?” she asked.

  “Because a new arrival named Ichabod is now the only sailmaker on the island,” Jonah told her. “He paid hired thugs to kill the other two, so as to have a little monopoly of his very own. Things have changed since you were last here, Tyranny. There used to be at least some honor among thieves. But ever since Rolf took over, all that has gone by the wayside. Rolf gets a cut not only of everything Ichabod sells, but from many of the other vendors here, as well. The likelihood of you getting your sails and leaving here without him knowing are slim, at best.”

  Tyranny’s face hardened, and she took a deep breath. “I have no choice. Where will we find this Ichabod?”

  “He’s always at the Wing and Claw. It seems he has become so prosperous that he can now hire others to do all of his work for him, including watching over his shop.”

  Jonah placed a caring hand on one of Tyranny’s cheeks. “Be careful, my child,” he warned. “Ichabod is as slippery and devious as they come. He would love nothing more than to cheat you.”

  Tristan had a thought. “I think the two of you should stay here,” he said to Tyranny and Scars. “This Ichabod doesn’t know me. We will have a much better chance of being successful if I go alone.” Hoping for support, he looked up at the shopkeeper.

  Jonah looked at Tyranny. “Do you trust him?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Then I think you should do as he suggests. I know how much you like to handle your own affairs, but this time it seems the wisest course.”

  Tyranny turned to look Tristan in the eyes. As she did he gave her an encouraging look, telling her it would be all right. After a nod from his captain, Scars reluctantly handed Tristan the leather purse and the list of required sails. Tristan handed the list over to Jonah.

  “How much should I expect these to cost?” he asked.

  Jonah swiveled the single lens back down into place and perused the list. “Four hundred kisa would be fair,” he mused. “But Ichabod is not known for being a fair man. Make it five hundred for a rush job, which this will have to be. But under no circumstances should you pay more than six, even to him.” He handed the list back to the prince.

  “Is there enough money here?” Tristan asked Tyranny.

  “Barely,” Tyranny answered. “It’s all I have. You’d best leave half with me. If you come to any agreement with him, pay him a deposit only.” Counting out three hundred, Tristan handed the rest back to her and tucked the purse into his vest.

  “Stay here,” he said. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.” He looked over at Jonah. “Where do I find this Wing and Claw?”

  “Turn right on this street and keep on going,” Jonah answered. Then his face puckered up with a look of distaste. “Trust me, you can’t miss it.”

  Reaching behind him, Tristan grasped the hilt of his dreggan and gave it a quick tug, making sure its blade would not stick. Then he did the same with the first few of his throwing knives.

  Saying nothing more, he turned and walked out of the shop. But the moment he set foot on the street he heard the door open again, and Tyranny appeared. She had a strange, searching look on her face. Quickly putting her arms around him, she gave him a surprising, soft kiss on the mouth.

  “For luck,” she said.

  Tristan smiled back. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I want to get home too, remember?” Gently removing her hands from his shoulders, he gave them a final squeeze. Then he turned and headed up the street.

  As he walked, he was increasingly hounded by whores, barkers, and thieves. Drunken men lay in the gutters, while others stopped to rifle through their pockets.

  The Wing and Claw was a large, dilapidated building, constructed of the ubiquitous rose marble. The double doors in the front lay wide open. A black wing had been boldly painted on one of them, and a black claw on the other, as if daring passersby to enter. A rail stood just in front, with about a dozen horses tied to it. From inside came a combination of laughter, music, argument, and clinking glass.

  After first looking around, he cautiously took the leather purse from his vest. Removing one hundred kisa, he placed them into his pocket so that if he was required to make a deposit on the sails, he could do so without revealing Tyranny’s remaining cache of coins. With another quick look around, he replaced the purse beneath his vest.

  Wasting no more time, he walked up the marble steps and went in.

  The moment he passed through the doors, he knew he was in trouble.

  CHAPTER

  Forty-one

  Faegan, alone and desperately worried, sat in the small boat by the shore. The oppressive silence of the stone chamber only added to his anxiety. Ever since Wigg and the watchwoman had disappeared into the tunnel, Faegan had been overtaken by a nearly crippling sense of dread. A long time had passed since they had walked away and left him here—at least it felt like a long time. Here, alone in this tomb of rock, time had no meaning.

  He looked back across the lake at the latticed floating gardens and the azure waters that flowed so peacefully down out of the wall above them. Such an amazing manifestation of the craft, he thought. But would Wigg survive his ordeal, so that they might finally go home and make use of the garden’s secrets? Or would he never see his friend the lead wizard again?

  Faegan turned back to face the tunnel entrance, and his sharp eyes finally caught some movement. He froze. It was the returning watchwoman. In her outstretched arms she carried the body of the lead wizard.

  Faegan’s breath caught in his throat. Wigg’s face was blanched, and his arms dangled. His head hung to one side; his slack, open mouth was flecked with foam. Faegan immediately levitated his chair over the side of the boat and came to sit before the watchwoman. She laid Wigg down in the sand before him.

  “Your friend lives,” she said, “but barely. He is one of the very few to have ever survived the psychic price demanded. His regrets run deep, but his heart and blood are of great goodness. It was that goodness which sustained him through his travails.”

  Faegan reached down to touch his friend’s cold forehead. Closing his eyes, he called on the craft. Wigg’s heartbeat was faint, and his mind had gone deep. Faegan looked back up at the robed apparition.

  “Will he recover?”

  “His blood is strong,” she answered. “In time, he should return to normalcy. But his soul will forever wear the imprint of what happened to him this day.” Raising her hand, she indicated that Faegan should levitate the lead wizard back into the boat.

  He did so, guiding Wigg’s body to lie on one of the seats. Then, once Faegan also entered the boat, the watchwoman took up her place in the stern and used her staff to push the craft toward the opposite shore. She beached the vessel near the floating gardens and then turned to him.

  “It is time to grant what you came for, wizard,” she said calmly. “Leave your friend here, and follow me.”

  Levitating his chair, Faegan followed her as she slowly climbed one of the stone paths that wound its way up and around the latticed, glowing pools. He could hardly contain his excitement at the mesmerizing sight.

  Every herb of the craft seemed to be represented here, plus a great many that he had never seen before. Looking closer at the surface of one of the pools, he saw such esoteric plants as muscle root, gingercrinkle, blossom of malcathion, and even a smattering of the very rare everscent. Finally the watchwoman stopped her climb beside one of the largest of the glowing ponds. Faegan lowered his chair.

  “Was all this left here by the Ones?
” he asked.

  “All things of magic are a direct result of either the Ones or the Heretics,” she answered simply. “Or of what came even before them—namely the two glowing orbs of the craft. The bright, golden Orb of the Vigors and the dark, sizzling Orb of the Vagaries forever power the twin but opposite sides of magic, always attracting each other, but never touching. Surely by now you have learned to call them into your presence, and have witnessed their majesty and power. Nonetheless there remains much for you to learn. Not only of the craft, but of those masters and their orbs who were here so long before you.”

  Faegan bent over to study the pool. “And the items I require to separate my herbs, roots, blossoms, and oils—are they here in this pool?” he asked. There were several beautiful plants lying atop the water. But despite his great knowledge, he had to admit that he had never seen any of them before. He could feel the water calling out to his endowed blood. Even as learned and disciplined as he was, he found its allure intoxicating, its entreaty irresistible. His breath coming quickly, his mind nearly overcome, he let his hand creep closer to the pool.

  “Stop, you fool!” the watchwoman screamed, just as his fingers were about to break the surface of the water. With amazing speed and surprising strength, she grabbed his wrist with her white, lifeless hand. Stunned, he looked up into the dark, faceless hood.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked thickly.

  Letting go of him, she raised the bones of her hand directly before his eyes.

  “Tell me, wizard,” she said caustically, “how do you suppose I came to be this way? Do you wish to suffer the same fate?”

  And then he understood. The azure waters here in the Chambers of Penitence were so powerful that they were literally toxic, and eons ago her endowed blood had caused her to succumb to the same temptations he had just experienced. She had paid for her mistake with the flesh of her hands, perhaps even with that of her entire body. And so the Ones had somehow asked that she stay here for eternity, to help safely guide other supplicants in their quests.