The Scrolls of the Ancients

by Robert Newcomb

  “Indeed,” Faegan replied. “This is one of the few times in more than three centuries that I can honestly say I am sorry my deductions have proven correct. But there is most certainly another reason why Wulfgar will come.”

  “And what is that?” Tristan asked, lifting his head.

  “He will try to take the Scroll of the Vigors from us—if for no other reason than to keep us from gifting your blood signature with more Forestallments. The more power you gain, the greater the danger to him and to what he wishes to accomplish.”

  “And Grizelda and this Harlequin, whoever he was, were supposed to retrieve the scroll for him and take it to the Citadel,” Wigg added soberly. “But they failed, and are both dead.”

  “What do these orbs look like?” Shailiha asked. “And what purpose do they serve? I have heard you speak of them before, but I don’t really understand them.”

  “Nor do I,” Celeste added. “What are they, exactly?”

  “Magic is everywhere,” Wigg answered. “Even though it cannot be seen. In this aspect it is very much like the air we breathe, constantly surrounding us but invisible. In truth, however, magic has substance and shape, as does the air. Let me be clear: I’m speaking of the craft itself, of what it really is. There is a true, interwoven consistency to its energy and its existence, and it can be literally seen, each of the two sides, both the Vigors and the Vagaries. This is the reason we asked you to meet us here on the balcony, rather than in the depths of the Redoubt. So we could show you this wondrous thing firsthand, that you might better understand what it is we must bend every effort to try to protect.” Wigg then closed his eyes and raised his arms, as if in supplication.

  The sky began to lighten. As it did, a gigantic glow began to coalesce before them in the air of the courtyard. Slowly it started to spin and turn on its axis. It was becoming a brilliant, golden orb, with offshoots here and there of the palest white radiating outward from its center. From time to time golden droplets of energy would trickle down from the revolving orb and fall to the courtyard, dissipating into nothingness. For the second time in his life, Tristan found himself looking in awe at the Orb of the Vigors.

  Wigg raised his arms again, and a darker image began to form. As it grew in size to match the other orb, it too began to coalesce into an orb and spin, but rather than being beautiful and awe-inspiring, the dark orb gave off a distinctly menacing aura—frightening, even horrifying.

  As they watched the dark orb grow to the size of the Orb of the Vigors, it began to try to push the other orb aside, as if attempting to make room for itself. It was as frightening as the Orb of the Vigors was beautiful. Droplets of dark energy dripped from its pitch-black, shining sides, and bright scratches of lightning shot through the ebony orb’s center. The Orb of the Vagaries, Tristan thought. The dark side of the craft in all its ghastly splendor.

  Completely entranced, the people at the table watched as the two great orbs began to move about the afternoon sky. They would slowly, repeatedly attract one another, as if somehow needful of each other. But then, just as they were about to touch, they would unexpectedly, violently repel one another, and the process would continue. In some ways it was almost a pitiful thing to watch, the never-ending attempts to join, only to be thrust apart, over and over again.

  Wigg opened his eyes. “Each thing in nature has its opposite,” he explained. “Male and female, light and dark. And so it goes through the entire scheme of the world as we know it. The two sides of the craft are no different. For as long as we have known of their existence they have been in this perpetual state of struggle with each other.” Pausing, he looked around the table at the amazed faces.

  “It is believed that the two orbs must never touch,” he continued. “Should that happen, the result would be calamitous—a rent, or tear, if you will, in the fabric of each. If the tears were large enough, it is believed that their powers would be released, to join uncontrollably, and that such an occurrence would be the end of all we know. It is also believed that there are invisible corridors in the fabric of the craft that might one day be called upon to finally, safely join the orbs, and that until these corridors are traversed by one or more of the Chosen Ones, neither side of the craft, no matter how powerful it may seem to be individually, has even a smattering of the dynamism it would if properly joined with the other.” Lifting his arms again, Wigg closed his eyes, and the two orbs began to dissipate, finally vanishing altogether.

  “What will happen to the craft if Wulfgar is successful in destroying the Orb of the Vigors?” Abbey asked.

  Reaching out for the cup of tea before him, Faegan thoughtfully took a sip and then replaced it on its saucer. “In truth we cannot be sure, for so many of the concepts of the craft we once thought to be inviolate now seem subject to review—such as our long-held theory that one side of the craft couldn’t exist without the other, for example. But at the very least the Vigors would cease to exist. As will you, Wigg, Celeste, and myself, for our time enchantments are each supported by that side of the craft. Not a very happy prospect.” He took another sip of the tea. “At the very least, the world would be plunged into the dark side of the craft, perhaps forever, with Wulfgar as its master.”

  Another thought occurred to Tristan. “Why can’t we simply beat him to it?” he asked hopefully.

  “I don’t understand,” Wigg said, his expression skeptical. “What are you talking about?”

  “You believe that the scroll in our possession contains the calculations for the destruction of the Orb of the Vagaries, correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then why can’t we destroy the Orb of the Vagaries first, and render Wulfgar powerless? That would solve all of our problems, would it not?”

  Wigg sighed. “We thought of that, and it is a very tempting proposition. But it wouldn’t be wise. Assuming, of course, that such a situation is even possible.”

  “How so?”

  “You’re forgetting something,” Wigg explained. “The Tome states that it shall be your mission, and then the mission of your sister should you either fail or perish in your attempt, to combine the two sides of the craft for the good of all humankind. If we purposely destroy the Orb of the Vagaries and thereby allow only the Vigors to exist, you will never be able to fulfill the destiny that the Tome says you must.” Wigg gave a small sigh and looked down at his hands.

  “Perplexing, isn’t it?” he continued a moment later. “It seems we have been placed in the unwelcome position of having to preserve both sides of the craft, no matter how repellent we find the Vagaries. While Wulfgar, on the other hand, is left completely unbridled, and quite untroubled by such a conflict of interest. In many respects, his task is far easier than ours.”

  “How will it happen?” Geldon asked.

  “How will what happen?” Wigg responded.

  “When Wulfgar employs the Forestallment to destroy the orb, I mean,” Geldon answered. “What will actually happen?”

  Wigg laced his long fingers together. “That is impossible to say,” he replied. “The Scroll of the Vigors provides the calculations, but does not actually describe the unfolding of the event. It does, however, make mention of something called the ‘Isthmus.’ ”

  “What is that?” the dwarf asked.

  “We’re not sure. Perhaps more research will tell us. But for now we believe it to be a manifestation of the craft that somehow allows the partial joining of the orbs, without the two of them actually touching each other. And we believe this Isthmus may be an inherent part of what Wulfgar has planned. But there is one advantage we do have over Wulfgar in all of this.”

  “And what is that?” Tristan asked, eager to hear a scrap of good news.

  “Over the centuries, it has been our experience that the two orbs reside only over the landmass of Eutracia,” Wigg answered. “Although they exist within the fabric of the craft, and we believe the craft to exist everywhere, every attempt to move the orbs either out over the Sea of Whispers or over the height
s of the Tolenka Mountains has always failed. We never discovered why, but it seems quite impossible to do. The only reason we could ever discern was that the Tome stated that Tristan and his sister would one day arrive in Eutracia, and for the Chosen Ones to fulfill their destinies, eons ago the orbs were somehow enchanted to remain imprisoned here, in our homeland, thereby helping to ensure Tristan’s or Shailiha’s success. But that is still only a theory; as with so many things of the craft, no one can be absolutely sure. But this is why Wulfgar cannot simply call the Orb of the Vigors to the Citadel and destroy it there.”

  Traax’s strong, commanding voice rang out. “We will beat him back, I swear it,” the Minion said sternly. “No fighting force on earth can overcome our warriors. We will give him a reception he shall never forget.”

  Tristan looked over at him. “Forgive me, my friend,” he said with concern, “but that may not be the case. I have seen the demonslavers fight. While they do not have the gift of flight, they are nonetheless ferocious adversaries, and they care absolutely nothing for their own safety. Our forces were drastically weakened during the battle with Nicholas’ flying creatures over the fields of Farplain. Even worse, the demonslavers will have a full-fledged wizard of Morganna’s blood leading them.” Thinking to himself for a moment, he looked out over the balcony, then back to Faegan and Wigg.

  “If the Minions cannot keep Wulfgar from reaching the coast, can your combined gifts beat him back?” he asked them bluntly. “Is there any way we can win this?”

  “There will be no way of knowing that until it happens,” Wigg answered grimly as he placed his hands into the opposite sleeves of his robe. “The powers of the Enseterat will be great, indeed.”

  Tristan narrowed his eyes. “What are you talking about?” he asked. “What is the Enseterat?”

  “Enseterat is a word found in the scroll, and is the title by which Wulfgar will no doubt wish to be known. It is Old Eutracian for ‘lord of the Vagaries.’ The scroll says that once the Chosen Ones finally mature, and their blood has been gifted with Forestallments, then they are to be known by such names.”

  Tristan looked over at his sister. “So what are Shailiha and I supposed to be called?” he asked softly.

  Wigg looked carefully first at Tristan, then Shailiha. “Tristan, you are to be known in the craft as the Jin’Sai, or ‘The Combiner of the Arts’. And Shailiha is to be known as the Jin’Saiou, the feminine version of the same phrase.

  “We first heard these words spoken by the watchwoman of the floating gardens,” Wigg said. “But when she realized that we were unfamiliar with them, she would tell us no more. Now we know. Or should I say, at least we know more than we did.”

  “But why?” Shailiha asked. “Why would the Ones give us such names?”

  “As is the case with so many things of magic, we do not know,” Faegan answered. “We have theorized that it may be so that future beings of the craft you encounter in your struggles to join the two sides shall know you for who you now are, and therefore willingly accept your aegis over them. Or there may well be deeper, even more meaningful reasons for this. Only time will tell. And time is the one thing we don’t have.”

  Despite all that Tristan had heard, the thought that had been going through his mind since he had sat down needed to be addressed before anything else was done. Wulfgar and his fleet could be there at any time, and they had to be as ready for him as they could.

  “We must deploy the fleet,” he said sternly. “And we need to set up a system of warning, should they see Wulfgar and his slavers approaching.”

  “Our thoughts exactly,” Wigg said. “What do you suggest?”

  Tristan turned back to Traax. “What you must do is to keep the fleet concentrated in strength, so that it can be ordered to move as a unified force at a moment’s notice. I want the fleet maneuverable, without having our backs up against the coastline. Sail east from the delta, but venture no farther from Tammerland than your best warriors can fly without stopping to rest. Hold your position there. Then order a small contingent of scout vessels farther east, but again no farther than the warriors can safely fly back to the main body of the fleet. Send warriors flying out from the decks of the scout vessels to scour the sea as far to the east as they can. When the slavers are finally sighted, send a message to me at once. If we can destroy his fleet and keep him from reaching the coast, we may be able to save the orb.”

  Tristan looked over at the wizards. “Agreed?” he asked. They both nodded.

  Tristan thought to himself for a moment, then looked back over at Traax. “Do you remember the officer named K’jarr?” he asked. “His intelligence and bravery impressed me during the sea battle with the pirates.”

  “Of course,” Traax answered with a smile. “He is one of my best. Still a bit young and impetuous, but very capable.”

  “Good,” Tristan answered thoughtfully. “When you return to the fleet, find him and keep him by your side. He is not to participate in any of the flying search parties. When I finally join you I may have a special use for him, and I want him available. I may also want a special litter built. I will tell you about it later.”

  Traax bowed his head slightly. “I live to serve,” he said. Then his strong, rather menacing-looking smile emerged again. “It shall all be as you order, Jin’Sai.”

  On hearing himself called that for the first time, Tristan sighed and shook his head. He had never been one for titles, and now it seemed that still another one had been heaped on him. He looked over to Shailiha, and saw her smile slightly.

  “And for your part, what will you be doing?” Tristan asked the two wizards.

  “What we have been doing for the last week,” Wigg answered. “Specifically, trying to find a way to combat the Forestallment gifted to Wulfgar that will result in the destruction of the orb. But I must tell all of you here that given the quality of his blood and the still-unknown nature of the various gifts he has surely been imbued with, the likelihood of our stopping him will be remote, at best. And if we fail, all that we know and love may soon vanish.” As he finished speaking, a tense silence descended over the table.

  Tristan looked over at Traax. “Go now,” he ordered. “Take the fleet out, but leave a sufficient number of troops here to defend the palace, should it come to that. Once at sea, follow my directions to the letter. I will await your word.”

  Nodding, Traax stood. He walked a short distance to the side of the balcony, snapped open his wings, and took to the air.

  Looking down at the scroll on the table, Tristan took a deep breath. Rising, he stretched his long legs and walked over to the balcony wall. He kept his dark eyes on Traax as the loyal warrior became smaller and smaller against the backdrop of the sky, then finally vanished.

  He knew that if they were not exceedingly fortunate, they would lose this fight. Then the warrior K’jarr crossed his mind again. There might yet be a way—one that he had not discussed with the wizards.

  Suddenly, despite the loved ones sitting just behind him at the table, the newly anointed Jin’Sai felt very much alone.

  CHAPTER

  Sixty-four

  The baby girl coughed yet again as she lay struggling for her life in the plain, wooden crib. As she did, the woman in the robe sensed that this gentle but sinister convulsion would be the child’s last. Long past grief, the baby’s mother and father huddled helplessly near their child, their eyes red and crying as they watched her die.

  Closing her eyes, the woman called upon the craft yet again in her efforts to help the infant breathe, at the same time trying to make sure the familiar azure aura did not form, thereby alerting the parents of her secret abilities. But she knew she was losing this battle, and the end would come soon.

  Almost as quickly as she had thought it, the child’s deep, brown eyes closed, her soft eyelashes fluttering for the last time, like tiny butterflies’ wings. Then came the delicate death rattle from her exhausted lungs, and her head slipped quietly over to one side. The woman
slowly stood back up.

  With tears in her eyes, the woman named Adrian lifted the worn blanket up over the baby’s face. Turning to look at the parents, she shook her head sadly.

  Refusing to believe, the frantic mother snatched the dead child up in her arms, as if by holding her close, she could somehow imbue her with new life. Adrian left the mother to her grief and walked to the father. His name was Inar, and he hadn’t eaten or slept for three days. Near collapse, he leaned his head against the wall and sobbed openly.

  “Please know that I did all I could,” Adrian said softly.

  Reaching out from the sleeve of her hooded robe, Adrian gently touched his hand. It felt cold and lifeless, just as his heart now surely did. Tears running down his face, the father could only nod.

  Knowing there was nothing left to be said, Adrian quietly left the room. Going to the cottage door, she let herself out onto the street, where a light rain had begun to fall. She walked to where her horse was tied, pulling up the hood of her robe as she went.

  As she mounted her roan gelding, she took a final look back at the modest cottage. Smoke wisped up out of the chimney, and she knew that the traditional black silk ribbon of mourning would soon adorn the door.

  What a difference only a few seconds could make, she thought. A body could be warm and alive one moment, and then, in the twinkle of an eye, it was not. After closing her eyes for a time, she slowly opened them again and turned her horse up the slick, cobblestoned street.

  Had the child’s parents somehow had the occasion to see Adrian’s upper left arm, they would have noticed her tattoo: a square, bloodred image of the Paragon. Still, that would not have entirely revealed Adrian’s secret, the one she had promised never to divulge since the age of five, when the wizards of the Directorate had granted her father’s humble request that his only daughter be accepted for training in the craft. But Adrian was more than simply another person of endowed blood.