The Scrolls of the Ancients

by Robert Newcomb

“I’m listening,” Wigg answered compassionately.

  “Part of it is about my azure blood,” Tristan said quietly. “I have come to hate it. Not only can my enemies immediately recognize me by it, but it also makes me feel distinctly isolated from the rest of the world. And the fact that it is azure keeps you and Faegan from training me, and also from allowing me to wear the Paragon, so that I might finally read the Tome. And as long as that is the case, my destiny can never be fulfilled. Nor can that of my nation.” He rubbed his brow in frustration.

  “I don’t blame the two of you for not training me,” he went on softly. “How could I? But sometimes my blood makes me feel like an outcast, especially when I am among the ones I love the most. I’m not angry that my blood is endowed. I still cherish that fact with all my heart. And my desire, my need to learn the craft burns as hotly within me as ever. But if I don’t soon find a way to return my blood to what it once was, sometimes I think I’ll go mad.” Leaning back in his chair, he looked to the ceiling. He suddenly realized that simply telling all of this to someone he cared about had made him feel a bit better.

  “I understand,” Wigg said. “I can see it in you. We all can. But there simply hasn’t been time to properly search for the solution to your problem. And to tell you the truth, we don’t really know how. But I know your answer is out there, somewhere. And together, one day we will find it. But just now I must tell you that we have far greater concerns to worry about.”

  Tristan placed his forearms on the table and looked into the wizard’s eyes. “You’re talking about the Scroll of the Vigors, aren’t you?” he asked. “What have you learned?”

  Wigg’s face darkened. “We would prefer to inform everyone at once, after we are sure,” he answered. “As you know, during her time in the caves, Celeste was forced by Ragnar to learn Old Eutracian. We will never know what use for that he had planned—but it is without a doubt the single good to come out of those years of torture. Anyway, she, Faegan, and I have been deciphering the scroll for a week now, and we have never seen anything like it. It is absolutely amazing. It opens up entire new vistas of the craft that had been previously closed to us. But please be patient for just a bit longer. We hope that by tomorrow’s dawn, we will be sure. And if what we suspect is true, then what we have found in the scroll represents the greatest peril we have ever faced.” A short silence followed as Tristan looked down at the azure signature again and considered the import of the wizard’s words.

  “You intimated that there was more than one thing you wished to discuss,” the lead wizard said. “What is it?”

  As Tristan looked into Wigg’s aquamarine eyes, he knew that once it had been said there would be no going back. But he also knew in his heart that he had to be truthful. He closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them again.

  “I love your daughter,” he said softly, irrevocably. “Forgive me, Wigg, but I do.”

  Wigg smiled. “I know,” he answered gently.

  “You do?”

  “Of course. Everyone in the palace knows. They also know how she feels about you. Only a fool could miss the way the two of you look at each another.”

  “I’m sorry,” Tristan replied carefully, not knowing exactly what to say. “I know how damaged she was. And I stayed away, because I wanted to respect that. But she tells me she is much better now. I’m glad for her, and I’ve never seen her so vibrant and alive. But I also know how little time the two of you have had to come to know each other, and I didn’t want to intrude on that, either.” Pausing, he looked down at his hands. “Despite how much I cared, being with her seemed impossible. For so many reasons.

  “Still, I couldn’t help but love her,” he went on. “When I first saw her that night on the cliffs, the feeling swept over me like a storm, and it simply won’t go away.”

  Wigg looked over thoughtfully at the man he loved so much. From the time he had watched Tristan come into the world, he had done everything in his power to prepare him for the teachings he would eventually impart into his blood, and for the destiny the prince was chosen to fulfill. But not even the lead wizard could have foreseen the turmoil and loss that would accompany Tristan and Shailiha on their unexpectedly dangerous journey to enlightenment. And now, in the midst of it all, had come Celeste. Reaching out, Wigg put a hand on Tristan’s shoulder.

  “You have my blessing, if that’s what you’re asking for,” he said quietly. “Nothing would make me happier than to see the two of you together. And I mean that. She loves you, Tristan. And with an ardor I have seldom seen over the course of my three centuries.”

  As Tristan looked up, Wigg could see a tear in his eye. Realizing that the same thing was about to happen to him as well, the wizard promptly stood, cleared his throat, and busily rearranged his robes.

  “Now then,” he said, his wizardly demeanor apparently having retuned, “I must get back to Faegan and Celeste. They’ll be wondering where I’ve been.” One eyebrow came up. “And you know how Faegan can be.”

  As Wigg turned to go, Tristan reached out and gently took the wizard by one arm. “Thank you,” he said softly.

  “There is no reason to thank me,” Wigg answered back. “In truth, I doubt there is any power on earth that could keep the two of you apart. All I ask is that you continue to treat her well.”

  “I will,” the prince answered back, his voice cracking a bit.

  With a final, comforting smile, Wigg left the room.

  His mind awash with the memories of everything he had been through and thoughts of all that might still lie ahead, Tristan remained there in silence for some time before he finally ordered the parchment back to its drawer. Suddenly exhausted, he left the room and began the long walk to his chambers.

  Very soon now, he knew, he and the others would hear what the wizards had to say about the Scrolls of the Ancients.

  CHAPTER

  Sixty-one

  From his place in the bow of his warship, Wulfgar watched and listened as the oncoming waves split noisily against the prow. Looking higher out over the breadth of the nighttime sea he felt his long, sandy hair sway behind his back in the wind, in time with the ceaseless rocking of the ship.

  The voyage of the last seven days had been uneventful, and the cold winds had remained brisk, allowing his fleet to make good time. The screechlings and sea slitherers had kept pace well, following dutifully behind in the wake of his vast armada. Demonslavers prowled the decks, the ships’ running lamps pointing up their lifeless white skin. As the ship swayed beneath him, Wulfgar took a deep breath of the crisp sea air.

  Looking at the reflections of the rose-colored moons in the ever-surging waves, his thoughts turned back to Serena and Krassus. He had no doubt that the diseased wizard was dead. Watch for the lightning and the wind, he had told Serena. Then shall you know that he has truly expired. When it happens, order a contingent of slavers to lay his body in a small skiff and set it ablaze as they push it out to sea. Wulfgar and Serena owed everything to Krassus, and he deserved to be well remembered. Then Wulfgar’s thoughts drifted to his beautiful new queen.

  He loved her deeply, and missed her as he missed nothing else in the world. Since she had been turned to the Vagaries, she had never been away from his side until now. He missed how she looked, how she smelled, and the supple touch of her skin. He wanted to hold her in his strong arms and take her over and over again, making her beg, then gasp, and finally cry out in joy, just as she always did. And already he missed the daughter she carried, even though her pregnancy was still without outer evidence. He would finish Nicholas’ work quickly, and return home to the Citadel in triumph.

  Nicholas, he thought. The nephew he had never seen. What a magnificent being he must have been! How he would have loved meeting him, conversing with him, planning with him. Part of Wulfgar could even understand how Krassus had been so willing, almost eager, in fact, to die and go to him, even though it had been Nicholas himself who had made it so.

  But Nicholas’ plans lived on�
��first in the blood of Krassus, and now in Wulfgar’s. He would reign supreme, he swore. The practitioners of the Vigors would soon know the exquisite sting of their defeat, as would the entire world.

  Then the wind stopped completely, and he knew. Even though there was no land in sight, Wulfgar’s fleet had arrived at the first of their destinations. And the new lord of the Vagaries was prepared.

  Wulfgar turned to his first mate. “Furl the sails, tie off the wheel, and signal that the same be done to every other ship in the fleet,” he ordered. “There are to be absolutely no exceptions. Have the forty remaining Talis slaves brought up out of the hold.” Pausing, he smiled. “We are about to have guests.”

  With a nod, the first mate went off to perform his duties.

  Then the fog rolled in over the night sea from seemingly nowhere and everywhere, quickly engulfing the entire fleet. Thick and gray, it clung to his clothes and his skin. With the arrival of the fog, the temperature plummeted, and soon Wulfgar could see his breath.

  The fog coalesced into hundreds of great columns that rose up out of the sea. And then, just as Krassus had told him would happen, the columns morphed into giant hands, each pair of them grasping a ship by the opposite ends. All his ships were thus caught. The demonslavers looked up in awe but remained disciplined, ready to carry out any commands their master might order.

  Wulfgar stood in sheer joy at this example of the Vagaries. To his enlightened mind it was not only magnificent, but was also something to take advantage of—and he would be the first being in the history of the world to do so.

  Turning to look down the deck, Wulfgar saw that the forty Talis slaves had been brought topside. They stood in four neat lines of ten each, shivering from both the cold and their sense of foreboding.

  As Wulfgar expected, the sea around the fleet began to bubble and roil, as if something was trying to come to the top. Then faces began to form on the surface of the ocean. They were the Necrophagians—the endowed, ages-old Eaters of the Dead.

  And I am the only living being who both truly knows what they are and can also call them into his service, Wulfgar thought as he greedily looked over the side of the ship.

  He stared at the faces. There seemed to be hundreds of them, their flesh a horrible mixture of sea green and dark red, streaked with ancient wrinkles and boils. Where eyes and mouths should have been there were only dark, empty holes. And then came the expected demand.

  “Pay us our bounty, or we shall take both your bodies and your ships,” the faces whispered in the strangest of voices. There were many speaking at once in complete conformity, yet so softly that they could barely be heard.

  The new lord of the Vagaries knew full well that the Necrophagians were referring to the forty cowering slaves on deck. To allow safe passage across the sea, the Eaters of the Dead were demanding to be fed. It was known as the bargain of tenfold times four—the pact made with them by Failee, first mistress of the Coven, as she tried to save her life and the lives of her sisters after having been banished by the Directorate of Wizards more than three centuries before. But this time, Wulfgar knew, things would be different.

  Leaning over the side of the vessel, Wulfgar raised his arms. “Eaters of the Dead!” he shouted out over the sea. “I honor you, and come prepared to pay your bounty! Or you may choose a different path this day. I suggest that a new bargain be struck—one that will release you from your ages-old bondage and allow you to follow me!”

  A deathly silence followed as Wulfgar’s entire fleet waited, dead in the water. Finally, the eerie whispering came again.

  “Who are you to bargain with us?” came the voices. “And who are you to speak of our freedom? Even Failee, the one with whom we struck our agreement so long ago, did not possess such power. No one can free us of our torment except he or she who shall eventually command the Scroll of the Vagaries.”

  “I am that man,” Wulfgar replied calmly. “I am also the only living being in the world who knows who you truly are, and why you were condemned to this purgatory in the sea. I and the Heretics of the Guild need you now, and your penance can finally be over, should you choose. But first you must follow me, and serve me in my mission.” Silence reigned again.

  “Do you mean to say that the Scrolls of the Ancients have finally been loosed upon the world?” the voices asked, their combined tones even more hushed this time.

  “Yes,” Wulfgar replied, determined to stand his ground.

  “We require proof,” the voices replied. “It is said that he or she who would eventually command the sacred Scroll of the Vagaries would have the proof of it in his blood. Show us your proof now, or be devoured for wasting our time. If you are not that person, we tire of your foolishness.”

  Smiling, Wulfgar narrowed his eyes and called on the craft. Raising his arms, he levitated himself up and over the warship’s gunwales and came to hover only inches above the sea, directly over the horrific faces in the water. Extending his right arm, he turned up his wrist and caused an incision to form. A single drop of red blood dripped from the wound and hovered in the air.

  Almost immediately Wulfgar’s blood signature began to form. Raising his arms, he caused it to increase in size until it seemed to take up the entire night sky. Hundreds of Forestallments could be seen branching away from the main body of the signature, but there was one among them that clearly stood out, its massive length and width overshadowing all of the others. The magnificent Forestallment seemed to surge with life, as if impatient to fulfill its destiny.

  This was the Forestallment Krassus and the consuls had worked so long and hard to find in the depths of the scroll—the same one Wulfgar would soon unleash upon his unsuspecting enemies.

  “What say you now, Eaters of the Dead?” Wulfgar asked calmly.

  “Are you truly the Enseterat?” the voices asked reverently. “Has he finally come to us?”

  “He who was to have been the first Enseterat is now dead,” Wulfgar answered. “He was the son of the Chosen One. I am the brother of the Chosen Ones, and have inherited both the mantle and the glorious, unfinished work of the Enseterat.”

  “What would you have us do in return for our freedom, Enseterat?” the voices asked.

  For several long moments, Wulfgar explained his mission and the rewards he would give them for traveling in his service. Another long silence followed.

  “We will serve you, Enseterat,” the Necrophagians finally whispered with one voice.

  Wulfgar turned to look over at the forty cowering, shivering slaves. “Will you be requiring the offering I brought?” he asked.

  “That will not be necessary this time,” they whispered back. “For we now have a new master, and where we are going, there shall be many such offerings. If we succeed, we shall no longer need them. And if you fail we shall soon consume all that you are, in any event.”

  “Very well,” Wulfgar answered. Raising his arms again, he levitated himself back aboard.

  With the new bargain struck, the hundreds of foggy hands released the ships, and the temperature returned to normal. Wulfgar ordered the fleet’s sails unfurled. They snapped open to the easterlies and began moving the ships forward. The terrified slaves were ordered chained belowdecks once again.

  As the fleet plowed through the sea, the screechlings, the slitherers, and the Eaters of the Dead, all under the command of the Enseterat, followed dutifully behind in its wake. Wulfgar gazed west, toward the sacred home of his prize.

  Everything was going according to plan.

  CHAPTER

  Sixty-two

  After sleeping like the dead, Tristan opened his balcony doors to find that a beautiful day had arrived. While bathing and dressing, he realized how hungry he was—not only for a good breakfast from the gnome wives, but for the company of Celeste, as well. He was walking down a hallway contemplating a plan to find her after breakfast when he turned a corner and literally bumped into her, along with Abbey and Shailiha. Celeste was dressed in shiny black knee boots, bl
ack riding breeches, a white, low-cut blouse, and black riding gloves. She was holding a basket. Shailiha was pushing Morganna’s ornate carriage. Caprice circled lazily overhead, in the spacious heights of the hallway. All three women smiled at him as if they all knew something that he did not. The moment he looked into their faces, he knew what it was.

  Celeste had told her friends about the change in her relationship with him. One more thing for Shailiha to tease him about. Things would never be the same.

  Celeste came closer and gave him a kiss on the cheek. The other two women grinned. Tristan blushed.

  “I knew we’d find you on the way to the kitchens,” Celeste said happily. She held up the basket. “So I took the liberty of putting some breakfast together for us.”

  Tristan’s eyebrows went up. “Again? You’re going to make me fat. Besides, I’m on my way to see the wizards. I want to know what they have discovered about the scroll.”

  “Yes, my prince, breakfast again,” Celeste growled back comically, giving him her best look of feigned ferocity. “But a picnic this time. I thought we could go for a ride.” Then her face darkened a bit.

  “In truth, this was Father’s and Faegan’s idea,” she admitted. “They knew you would be demanding answers as soon as you awakened, and they asked me to keep you occupied for a bit. They have released me from my translation duties, but they said that they would like to see us all on the balcony of your late father’s quarters at midday. That’s all I know.”

  “My father’s balcony?” he asked, baffled. “Why in the world would they want to meet us there?”

  Shailiha shrugged. “We don’t know. But they are in a very somber mood—of that there is no doubt. I suggest the two of you get going. Be back by midday at the latest.”

  Tristan never had liked having his day arranged for him by others. But he had wanted to see Celeste, and his stomach was growling. Besides, if the wizards wouldn’t see him, they wouldn’t see him; that would be all there was to it.