Then he remembered Marcus and Rebecca. “What about the two children?” he asked. “Where are they?”
“They’re in the combined company of Shawna the Short and a Minion overseer,” Abbey told him with a quick laugh. “Rebecca is so sweet. But Marcus has proven to be quite a handful. He has already tried to make off with some of the palace silver. But you know Shawna. She put him back in his place quickly. I think he’s more frightened of her than he is of the Minions.” She smiled. “I don’t think Marcus likes it here very much.”
Sighing, Tristan gave Abbey a little nod of acknowledgment. Then he turned to Celeste. “Well, I suppose if we’re going to go, then we should do so,” he said. He relieved her of the basket and took one of her arms into his. Whatever she had packed smelled wonderful, and his stomach growled again.
After pursing his lips at Shailiha, he gave a patronizingly deep bow to his sister and the herbmistress and began guiding Celeste down the halls of the palace. Head high, he pretended he didn’t see the wide grins on Shailiha’s and Abbey’s faces.
The walk to the stables was short and uneventful. Geldon was there as usual, tending to the horses. He saddled a bay mare for Celeste, while Tristan, his face somber, began a rather sad, quiet search for a new mount. When Geldon made a move to help him, Celeste touched the dwarf’s arm and placed one finger over her lips. Sighing, Geldon nodded. Celeste was right, he realized. This was something Tristan would want to do—need to do—on his own.
Finally selecting a sturdy tan stallion, Tristan glumly avoided the familiar saddle and bridle he had always used on Pilgrim, and chose others instead. As he turned with the reins in one hand, he saw Celeste tying the basket to the back of her saddle. He looked at her quizzically.
“What’s going to keep everything from breaking?” he asked as he mounted. “Or at the very least getting all mixed up?”
Smiling, Celeste gave him a wink. “Father enchanted the containers,” she told him. Placing one boot into a stirrup, she easily mounted her horse, then grinned at him. “Want to race?”
Without waiting for an answer, she wheeled her mare around and galloped out of the barn, her red hair flying. Laughing out loud, Tristan spurred his stallion and went after her.
Tristan had never seen Celeste ride, and he was impressed by how confidently she sat her horse. She galloped hard across the stable yard and the palace grounds, then pushed her mare noisily up and over the drawbridge. Several Minion warriors gaped at her as she went by. Then came another quick, skidding left, and she went tearing off into the countryside, charging away so fast she nearly lost him.
Tristan’s stallion was not as quick as Pilgrim; in truth, few had ever been. But the horse was surefooted, and it felt good to Tristan to be away from the troubles of the palace and feel the wind hitting his face.
Celeste pointed her mare across an open meadow, Tristan following. The tall grass teased the bottoms of their stirrups, and they left two lanes of crushed grasses in their wake. Then she leapt directly over a section of broken rail fence, splashed unerringly across a small stream, and ran along its opposite bank for a time. As she approached another bend in the river, she stopped, her mare panting hard.
Tristan pulled up next to her. Her chest heaving, Celeste leaned one arm down on the pommel of her saddle, looked at him, and laughed lightly.
Jumping down, Tristan held her reins as Celeste dismounted. She untied the basket from her saddle, and he walked the two panting horses to the stream, allowing them to drink a small sip of water. Later, when they’d cooled down, he’d allow them to drink their fill. After tying the horses to two trees that were a good distance apart, he walked back to Celeste. By then she had removed her gloves, laid out a plaid blanket, and set out the food.
Tristan removed his weapons, tossed them to the ground, and sat down on his heels next to her. He saw spotted quail eggs again—hard-boiled this time—fresh fruit, cheese, dark bread, and what looked like unfermented mintberry juice.
He took an egg and began to peel away its shell. As he did the morning breeze came up, the stream burbled, and they could hear the songs of the triad larks. Looking around at the idyllic scene, Tristan wished he could stay here with Celeste forever, with no wizards, magic, or enemies to interfere with their lives.
“You spoil me,” he said quietly. “I could become quite used to this.” He popped the tiny egg into his mouth.
“Good,” she replied, as she handed him a cup of the light green juice. “Spoiling you is one of my favorite pastimes, you know. Besides, someone has to do it. You’re still too thin from your time in captivity.”
Seeing his face darken, she immediately regretted her remark. She reached out and touched his hand in apology. Silence passed between them for a time.
“It was awful, wasn’t it?” she asked finally, softly.
Turning his face away for a moment, Tristan looked out over the meandering stream. “Yes,” he replied simply. “It was. But I was one of the lucky few. I was saved. And what I suffered does not begin to compare with your treatment by Ragnar.” Then he remained quiet for a bit longer.
“You were the one thing on my mind as the demonslaver whipped me, just before I passed out,” he continued softly. “I will always carry these scars on my back. But I had vowed that I wouldn’t scream, and I didn’t. Without knowing it, you helped me accomplish that.”
Celeste lay down on the blanket, her beautiful, dark red hair splayed out around her face. Tristan lay down on his side next to her, propped up on one elbow. He heard the wind rustle the tops of the trees, and he could smell the myrrh in her hair.
Reaching up, she toyed briefly with the laces of his vest. “What is going to happen to us?” she asked. “Do you really believe Wulfgar is coming with his demonslavers?”
“I don’t know what to believe about a brother I have never met,” he answered thoughtfully. “Much less one who has supposedly been turned to the Vagaries. But I do know one thing: If there is a way out of our troubles, your father and Faegan are the ones to find it. You helped them with the translation; is there anything about the scroll that you can tell me?”
“I wish I could,” she answered sadly. “But the truth is that the translations I did for them were nothing but gibberish to me. They were almost exclusively calculations of the craft. I couldn’t understand them. My translations only made their more important work go faster. I not only fear whatever it is they might tell us today, but I am also at a complete loss as to what it might be.”
He was about to tell her of his conversation with her father the previous night when Celeste placed her fingertips gently across his lips. As she looked up at him, her face slowly changed. She placed one palm alongside his cheek, and the lids of her sapphire eyes lowered slightly. Her breathing came a bit harder. Her lips parted as her eyes searched his face. Tristan’s heart beat faster. He was sure he had never seen such a beautiful woman in his life.
Celeste raised up a bit and kissed him on the lips. As she did, one hand slid down and touched him.
“Please,” she asked him softly.
Leaning gently over her, Tristan ran one hand into her thick hair and gazed sharply into her wide, blue eyes. “Are you sure?” he asked.
“More so of this than anything else in my life,” she answered. Her mind made up, a look of needful surrender crossed her face.
“Please, Tristan . . . my love . . . please teach my desire to fly . . . to fly on the wings that you alone bring . . .”
Leaning down closer, he touched his lips to hers.
The wind wafted through the trees, and the birds sang.
Later, Tristan awakened to find the plaid blanket covering them both. Celeste’s naked body felt warm as she slumbered beside him with her head on his shoulder. What had passed between them had been more wonderful than he could ever have imagined.
It was then that he first noticed the soft, azure glow of the craft quietly surrounding them. But it was gone before he could really focus on it. Perhaps
he had imagined it, he thought sleepily. It must just have been a dream.
He closed his eyes and felt himself begin to drift off again.
CHAPTER
Sixty-three
By the time Tristan and Celeste had returned to the palace and found their way to the late king’s quarters, everyone else who had been asked to attend was already there. As the prince walked across the rooms, a profound sense of sadness went through him. He had not visited these chambers in a long time, and part of him—the part that still cried over what he had been forced to do to his father—did not wish to be here now.
As he approached, Tristan could see that the wizards had arranged to have a large meeting table and matching high-backed chairs placed out on the balcony. The Scroll of the Vigors sat on the table, its golden center rod and engraved middle band gleaming in the midday sun. Another table sat nearby holding an abundance of tea and scones, telling the prince that they all might be here for some time. He took a seat, and Celeste sat next to him.
Looking around, he saw Wigg, Faegan, Abbey, Geldon, Traax, and Shailiha. Morganna’s baby carriage sat by his sister’s side, and the princess gently rolled it back and forth with one hand. For the life of him, Tristan couldn’t imagine why they were meeting on his father’s balcony. It was pleasant here, to be sure. But knowing the wizards as he did, he knew that couldn’t be their reason.
Puzzled, Tristan was about to ask Wigg what was going on, but the lead wizard jumped in first, his face somber. Clearing his throat, Wigg placed his ancient hands flat on the tabletop and came straight to the point.
“It is my sad duty to inform you all that the danger we now face is the most grave in our history,” he said quietly. Everyone around the table became quite still, eyes focused steadily on him.
“I will put this as simply as I know how,” Wigg continued. “As we speak, Wulfgar, the lost half brother of Tristan and Shailiha, may be returning to Eutracia with an army of demonslavers. Faegan and I believe it is his intention to permanently destroy the Orb of the Vigors. In a matter of mere days, all we know and cherish may disappear from the face of the earth.”
Stunned, Tristan sat back in his chair. He could clearly recall that day on the mountain not so long ago, when Wigg had called the two orbs to appear so that Tristan might view them for the first time. The Orb of the Vigors had been bright, shining, and golden, while the Orb of the Vagaries had been black, and literally dripping with the destructive energy of the dark side of the craft.
“But how could such a thing be made to occur?” he breathed across the table, scarcely able to get the words out. “And why?”
“The Scrolls of the Ancients make it possible,” Faegan answered. “They’re what this whole thing has been about from the beginning.”
“Is that what the scrolls are meant to teach us?” Shailiha asked. “How to destroy the orbs?”
“That,” Wigg answered, “and a good deal more. In many ways it is easier to tell you what the scrolls cannot show us, rather than what they can. In essence, the scroll before you holds the calculations for virtually every known Forestallment of the Vigors, just as we believe the scroll in Krassus’ possession does for the Vagaries. By employing the calculations gleaned from the scrolls, one can identify any already existing Forestallment branch that shoots off from a person’s blood signature. The Forestallment branches can now be ‘mapped,’ as it were. In addition, whoever is in possession of the scrolls can actually not only decipher the calculations required for any Forestallment he or she desires, but can also imbue the blood signature with it and activate it at any time of his choosing.”
“But there is even more to the puzzle,” Faegan said, leaning over the table. “The scroll also reveals the answers to many of the mysteries of the craft that have plagued us for centuries. In truth, we have only had enough time to scratch the surface of what the scroll may tell us. Reading the document is an amazing experience—like looking into the very souls of the Ones Who Came Before. We now believe it was they who wrote the Scroll of the Vigors, and the Heretics of the Guild who wrote the other. Neither side expected to use the information to destroy the orb that supported their side of the craft, of course. But by including the opposite formula in each one, it seems they could assure themselves of mutual mass destruction in their struggle against one another, should the need arise. Simply put, each scroll was meant to be both a safeguard and a weapon for future generations of the craft to protect themselves with, should its opposite ever be found and used against them.”
“What do you mean by ‘mysteries of the craft’?” Abbey asked.
“For example, we could never understand how Nicholas had circumvented the death enchantments of the consuls of the Redoubt,” Wigg answered. “But now, after reading part of the scroll, we do. We believe the calculations for their reversal must be contained in the Scroll of the Vagaries. Nicholas imbued them into the consuls’ blood, thereby allowing them to participate in the construction of the Gates of Dawn without violating their oaths and perishing. The Forestallments no doubt exist in their blood to this day, thereby allowing them to serve their new master Wulfgar on the isle of the Citadel.”
“I’ll give you yet another example,” Faegan added. “I believe each of you is familiar with the phenomenon that accompanies the deaths of certain endowed individuals and creatures of the craft. Most of us have seen the lightning and sudden wind that accompanies these events, such as occurred with the deaths of the mistresses of the Coven. The Directorate had always believed these phenomena to be a way for those who had perished to signal their demise to those of their cause who might still live. We now believe we might have been wrong about this—that the atmospheric events might have something to do with only the death of one’s blood, rather than the death of both the blood and the body. Forestallments are, of course, a part of one’s endowed blood. But unlike endowed blood, which is present at birth, Forestallments are conjured and added later. Each is the physical embodiment of a spell—a very potent and complicated one. But I digress. The truth is that we have far greater problems to solve now.”
“So Wulfgar wants to destroy the Orb of the Vigors,” Tristan said, half to himself. “And that is why Krassus so badly wanted the Scroll of the Vagaries, isn’t it? He needed it so that he could imbue Wulfgar’s blood with the proper Forestallment, among others.”
He looked up in horror at both of the wizards. “That’s what this is really about, isn’t it?” he asked. “That’s what it has always been about.”
“Yes,” Wigg answered. “Had he survived, it now seems that Nicholas’ plans were to have gone much farther than simply releasing the Heretics from the heavens. Do you remember how Krassus talked about wanting to carry on Nicholas’ work, but we could never fathom what he meant by that? Well, now we think we know.”
“But how can you be so sure that this is his mission?” Tristan countered. “With so many Forestallments recorded in the scrolls, how can you know that the destruction of the Orb of the Vigors is Wulfgar’s intent, and not something else?”
“An excellent question,” Wigg answered. “While Faegan and I must admit that our conclusions are more educated guesswork than substantiated fact, one thing stands out about the scroll that convinces us we are right.”
“And that is?” Celeste asked.
“Of all the calculations, one seems to rise head and shoulders above the rest in its relative importance and complexity: the formula for the destruction of the Orb of the Vagaries. We must surmise that the scroll in Wulfgar’s possession contains the formula to destroy the Orb of the Vigors.”
With all of this talk of Nicholas and the orbs, Tristan sensed a recent memory trying to float to the surface. He knew it had to do with the day he had visited the Caves of the Paragon, when Nicholas had not only revealed that he was Tristan’s son, but also what his plans were. Finally Tristan took a quick breath of realization and looked over at Faegan and Wigg.
“You’re not wrong,” he said quietly to the t
able at large. “The destruction of the Orb of the Vigors is exactly what Wulfgar has in mind.”
Wigg looked carefully at the prince. “And you are certain of this because . . .”
“Because Nicholas told me so himself, that day in the Caves when he first revealed to me who he really was, and why he had been sent here by the Heretics,” Tristan answered. “He did not tell me of his orders to Krassus should he perish, or of the existence of Wulfgar. Those intricacies of his mission he must have wished to keep secret, should all else fail. But he did tell me of his eventual plans for the orb.”
Closing his eyes, Tristan did his best to recall Nicholas’ words of that day. As they came back to him, he spoke them aloud as best he could remember.
“ ‘After the return of the Heretics, we shall eliminate all the others of the earth . . . Our world shall become one barren of all human life other than that which is sufficiently gifted . . . Together we shall then destroy the Vigors and their orb forever, leaving only the true, sublime teachings of the Vagaries that we have so come to love . . .’ “
“The other half of Nicholas’ mission,” he murmured. Not only to destroy the Orb of the Vigors, but also to kill anyone—other than the consuls he was corrupting—with a right-leaning blood signature, as well! But first Krassus needed two things, didn’t he? He needed Wulfgar because of the quality of his blood and the fact that he has a severely left-leaning signature. Wulfgar was the perfect choice because he would be a far easier subject to turn than Shailiha or I, yet he still possesses the blood of Morganna, the mother of the Chosen Ones. And Krassus also required the Scroll of the Vagaries to provide him with the calculations for the Forestallments he needed to gift into Wulfgar’s blood, the most important of which shall grant Wulfgar the ability to destroy the orb.”
Wigg looked over to where Faegan was sitting, to see that his old friend’s face had become a mask of grave concern. Then, sensing what the prince was feeling, he reached out compassionately and placed one hand on Tristan’s shoulder. “From what you tell us, it seems we were right after all,” he said softly.
The Scrolls of the Ancients Page 55
