The Scrolls of the Ancients

by Robert Newcomb

  Adrian of the House of Brandywyne was of the craft, and a graduate of a place known only to a privileged few. A place called Fledgling House.

  Listening to her horse’s shoes strike the cobblestones, she regarded the drab city of Tanglewood as it passed slowly by. It was not one of Eutracia’s more prosperous places, and probably never would be. And since the unexpected return of the Coven of sorceresses and the deaths of the wizards of the Directorate, she feared the city’s plight would only worsen.

  The houses in this section were made of dark wood and had shabby thatched roofs. They all seemed to look the same somehow, and had a crooked, fragile, ramshackle quality about them. It was almost as if they needed to lean up against one another just to remain upright, and if the first of them fell, the rest would also give up the effort and tumble down with it.

  She had been trying to save the dying infant all night, and it was now just after dawn, the rising sun smothered somewhere just over the horizon among inky, dark rain clouds. Around her, Tanglewood seemed to be slowly waking up. Low, muffled conversation could be heard here and there, and smoke was rising from the tops of the chimneys. The occasional chamber pot could be seen held out of a window, its contents unceremoniously dumped on the nearby ground. Men in worn work clothes began appearing from doorways to kiss their wives good-bye and go about their daily labors. The enticing aromas of peasant food—plain, but good—hung in the damp morning air.

  Adrian’s stomach growled, reminding her of how long it had been since she had eaten. Trying to save the baby girl had taken all her strength, and she was exhausted. She reached into one pocket of her robe and counted her kisa. There should be enough, she reasoned. She would stop at the first inn she came across, allowing herself a rest before returning to her village.

  Sometimes she felt very alone in the world, despite the number of people she always seemed to encounter who needed her help. At thirty Seasons of New Life she found herself neither young nor old. She was not yet married, but that did not trouble her too much. And she had been an only child, her mother dying while giving her life. Her father had not visited her modest cottage—the one he had built for her with his own two hands—for nearly a year now, and because of that she feared greatly for him. He was a consul of the Redoubt, and it had often been said that he knew the lead wizard personally. But for some time it had been widely rumored that Wigg was dead, along with all of the other wizards of the Directorate. A shudder went through her as she wondered anew about the fate of her father and the other members of his discipline.

  She had not come across any of the Brotherhood for some time now, and that was unusual. She would certainly have known them, just as she always had, by their simple dark blue robes, quiet manners, and the tattoo of the Paragon on their shoulders, should any of them deign to reveal it to her. It seemed something sinister had happened not only to the Directorate but to the Brotherhood as well, leaving her and her sister acolytes lost and alone in the craft.

  But Adrian was a hardy, stalwart woman. And she would continue to uphold her vows, regardless of the nation’s plights. She would gladly perform the good deeds she had promised the headmaster and matron of Fledgling House the day they had pronounced her trained and set her and her classmates free at the age of twenty-one.

  She had been a proud member of the first such group to be given their tattoos and then sent forth. She had always yearned to return to Fledgling House, to see again the modest, charming castle sitting next to the base of the northern Tolenka Mountains. But she never had. She also longed to see Duncan again—the wizard with the long gray hair who had taught her so much. And Martha, Duncan’s wife—the kindly, rotund matron who had always seen to the girls’ other needs. She remembered the couple fondly and hoped they were both well. Fledgling House was the only real home she had ever known, and Duncan and Martha were more her parents than her father and late mother had ever been.

  Perhaps I will return one day, she thought. When times are not so cruel, and the need for my gifts is not so great.

  As she rode along, Adrian clutched an errant lock of her hair that had somehow escaped the hood of her robe and hooked it behind one ear. As she did, she smiled gently to herself. She knew she was not beautiful. But she possessed the strength of heart to know that the quality of her femininity mattered far less than the quality of her service to the craft. What she may have lacked in appearance she more than made up for with not only her intelligence, but with the goodness of her heart.

  Adrian was rather short and plain. Her wide, level eyes were deep brown. Her sandy, curly, shoulder-length hair always seemed to be getting in the way. The sleeves of her dark red acolyte’s robe fell loosely down around her wrists, and the hem gently swished across the tops of her boots when she walked. A black, knotted cord secured the robe at its middle, its tasseled ends falling down along the outside of her right thigh.

  Finally she saw an inn, with a sign proclaiming it the bear and finch. But as she approached it, she felt a strange sensation and pulled her horse up short. Breathing heavily, she began to sweat noticeably, even though it was certainly not warm on the street. She had never felt anything remotely like this. It was not painful. It was more . . . needful. Yes, she thought. That was the word she was looking for: needful. But needful of what? she asked herself.

  As if suddenly possessed, she turned and looked southeast, over the roofs of the houses. Tammerland, she thought. The royal palace was there. She felt compelled to go to the palace. She had never been so drawn to anything in her life.

  But visiting the royal residence was forbidden to acolytes. The wizards’ punishment for such a transgression was said to be severe. But how could something her heart of hearts was so desperately telling her to do be so very wrong? She didn’t know, for what she was experiencing went against every iota of her training. But the urge was irresistible, and she realized that if she did not go, her heart might burst from the longing.

  As if in a dream, Adrian found herself turning her horse around and pointing him down the road leading to Tammerland.

  She could not know that all her sisters in the craft were experiencing the same thing—being drawn to Tammerland, the country’s capital and seat of the craft.

  Exhausted, Wigg opened his eyes and lowered his arms. It was just after dawn, and he and Faegan had been working through the night, trying to make use of one of the calculations they had found in the scroll. The lamps of the Redoubt burned brightly, and the Scroll of the Vigors hovered nearby, partially unrolled, glowing with the power of the craft.

  “Is it done?” Faegan asked quietly. He sat at a nearby table, in his wheeled chair. Nicodemus lay across his lap, purring contentedly.

  “It is as done as I can make it, old friend,” the lead wizard answered tiredly. Shuffling his way around the table, he took a seat next to Faegan. “Only time will tell whether it will truly work.”

  Faegan decided to change the subject. “Have you talked to them yet?” he asked. “Have you told Tristan and Celeste about the warning we found this morning?”

  “No,” Wigg answered with a sigh. “Frankly, I don’t know how to bring myself to do it. They love each other so much . . .”

  Faegan’s face darkened, and he rolled his chair a bit closer. “You cannot wait any longer, Wigg!” he said sternly. “You know it as well as I! I will do the deed for you, if you cannot. But either way, they must be told. I know it will break their hearts, and that they have already suffered far more loss than any two people should ever have to endure. But we owe it to them, nonetheless.”

  The lead wizard looked down at his hands, as if wishing to somehow avoid the issue entirely. A tear came to one of his eyes. Tristan and Celeste had both been through so much already, he thought. How could he do this to them? Still, for the good of the craft, he had to.

  Finding his resolve, Wigg stood. He walked over to one corner of the room and tugged resolutely on a velvet pull cord. In a few moments the expected knock came on the massive, double
doors. With a word from Wigg they opened, and a Minion warrior appeared. Upon entering the room, he clicked his heels together.

  “I live to serve,” he said.

  Wigg looked back at Faegan, but knew he would win no reprieve from his old friend. Faegan glared back at him sternly and nodded. His mind finally made up, Wigg turned back to the obediently waiting warrior.

  “Bring the Jin’Sai and my daughter here at once,” he said simply.

  The warrior clicked his heels again and promptly left in search of the prince.

  Wigg walked sadly back to the table, sat down heavily next to Faegan, and waited in silence.

  CHAPTER

  Sixty-five

  When the strong, familiar knock came on the door, Wigg stiffened. Looking over at Faegan, he took a deep breath, then glanced back toward the doors again.

  “Enter,” he said simply.

  The prince and Celeste walked in. For some unknown reason, Tristan seemed especially eager to see them. Removing his weapons from his shoulder, he slung them over the back of one of the chairs and took a place next to Wigg’s daughter at the table.

  Taking a deep breath, Wigg looked over at them. “I’m glad you’re here,” he said quietly. “We need to speak with you. There is something I must—”

  “And I need to speak to you,” Tristan interrupted excitedly. “Had you not asked for me, I would have sought you out myself.”

  “What is it?” Wigg asked. “Is something wrong?”

  “I have an idea,” Tristan answered quickly. “And I’m afraid that whatever you wanted to say will have to wait for the moment. What I have to tell you is vitally important. But first, please tell me—have the two of you found any possible way to stop Wulfgar?”

  Sitting back in his chair, Wigg raised his eyebrow. “No,” he said. “And time grows short.”

  Reaching into a pocket of his trousers, Tristan took something out. He gently placed it on the table. “This may be our answer,” he said softly. “I was reminded of it yesterday, during our meeting on the balcony.”

  Faegan looked at the item on the table, then back over at the prince. “Of course we recognize it,” he said, as he stroked Nicodemus. “But I still do not understand what you have in mind.”

  “You told us yesterday that the orbs cannot be coaxed out over the sea. And also that if we could keep Wulfgar’s fleet of demonslavers from reaching the coast, we would have a much better chance of stopping him from destroying the Orb of the Vigors, correct?”

  “Yes, that’s true,” Wigg answered, his curiosity growing. “But what are you driving at?”

  For more than the next half hour, Tristan explained to Wigg, Faegan, and Celeste exactly what he wanted to do, and how he would do it. As he spoke, the wizards could hear the optimism rising in his voice. When he was done, the two mystics sat back in silence as they considered his plan. Long moments ticked by as the prince awaited their opinions.

  “I’ll admit that it has its merits,” Faegan finally answered. Tristan could see the wheels turning in the old wizard’s head. “But the logistics and execution would be daunting, to say the least. The timing would have to be perfect, and your idea carries with it absolutely no guarantee of success. Still, it’s the best plan I have seen so far.” He smiled at the prince. “Frankly, I’m impressed.”

  “I agree,” Wigg said. “But tell me, does anyone outside of this room know of your idea?”

  “No.”

  “Good,” the lead wizard said adamantly. “Keep it that way. And leave what you brought here with us. We will consider your plan, and let you know if it is viable.”

  “If that’s what you feel you must do, then so be it,” Tristan countered. “But you’d best hurry. The warning from the Minion scout ships could come at any time, whether you’re ready or not.”

  Satisfied for the time being, Tristan crossed his arms over his leather vest. “Now then,” he asked politely. “What was it you wished to tell us?”

  As was his habit, Wigg placed his hands into the opposite sleeves of his robe. “There are two things, actually,” he began. “And they both have to do with the Scroll of the Vigors.”

  Tristan and Celeste both looked over to where the scroll was hovering in the air. The azure glow of the craft flowed from it, and it was partially unrolled to reveal the elegant, flowing Old Eutracian words and symbols inscribed on it. Its golden center rod and end caps gleamed in the light.

  “What about it?” Celeste asked.

  “Do you remember Faegan and I telling you about something the watchwoman of the floating gardens mentioned to us? She called it the River of Thought.”

  Tristan’s brow furrowed. “Yes, I do,” he answered. “But frankly, I had forgotten. You said little of it.”

  “That’s because at the time, there was very little to say,” Faegan replied. “We wanted to be sure the calculations for it actually existed within the scroll. And we finally found them.”

  “And just what does this so-called River of Thought accomplish?” Tristan asked.

  “Used properly, it can stir certain feelings or sensations in one or more endowed persons at the same time,” Wigg replied. “Faegan imbued its Forestallment into my blood only this morning, and I just used it for the first time.”

  “To do what?” Celeste asked, her voice a whisper.

  “To call home all of the acolytes of Fledgling House,” he replied. “The Redoubt has been empty for far too long. It needs to be used for the reason it was built—the further training and safe harbor of those who have devoted their lives to go forth in our name and perform good deeds of the craft. As you both know, whatever consuls may still exist have been freed of their death enchantments, turned to the Vagaries, and taken to the Citadel. Sadly, they are now all subject to Wulfgar’s control. But they are not the subjects of our efforts.” Pausing for a moment, he looked into their surprised faces.

  “Instead, we have employed the River of Thought to summon the acolytes here, to what will be their new home,” he went on. “What better place to harbor these valuable souls during such troubled times than the depths of the Redoubt? Their mission will be to take the place of the consuls who have betrayed us.” He looked sadly at Tristan.

  “This was your mother’s lifelong dream,” he added softly. “Equality for women in the craft. Faegan and I wanted to call the acolytes home sooner, but until we learned of the River of Thought, there was no practical way of doing it. Now there is. We are about to make Morganna’s vision for the future come true. The circle shall be complete again, for the first time in more than three centuries.”

  Tristan stared at the two wizards, then smiled broadly, happy beyond words that they had finally arrived at this crossroads in history. But then another thought came to him. “This is wonderful news,” he told them. “Still, how will we know they are who they claim to be? Anyone can acquire a red robe. Couldn’t there easily be traitors among them? This seems like a very dangerous time to be taking strangers into the palace.”

  “First, of course, they will all be women,” Wigg answered, “the oldest of whom should be no more than thirty Seasons of New Life. And, as you point out, each of them should also be wearing the dark red, hooded robe of her station. But clearly, those things alone are not sufficient proof. We shall therefore also be checking their blood signatures against our records for final confirmation before any of them are shown the secrets of the Redoubt. We shall also check them for the presence of Forestallments, to see whether their blood has been tampered with. There should be none. But if any of the acolytes are found to posses them, those women will be segregated and held for questioning.” Pausing for a moment, the lead wizard laced his long fingers together.

  “Tristan, with your permission I want to order the Minions now stationed before the palace entrance to move their campsites immediately,” he said. “I want them out of sight. I think we can safely assume that few of the acolytes have ever seen one of our winged friends before, and I don’t want to scare the wom
en away. Their hearts will already be filled with enough trepidation about what they are doing as it is. For all they know just now, they are breaking their vows simply by coming here. We can only hope that the River of Thought is strong enough to overcome those feelings in them and keep them continuing on the path home. They will be very conflicted when they arrive. They must feel welcome, and know that it was we who called them here.”

  “Forgive me, Father,” Celeste began, “but are you sure this is a good time to be doing this? What about Wulfgar and his fleet?”

  “Now is the best possible time,” Faegan answered. “In other ways, it is also the worst. And Wulfgar is the reason behind both. If he truly is on the way, we want to get the acolytes to safety as quickly as we can, before he can influence them. And if Grizelda was lying and Wulfgar is not advancing on us, then why wait? Your father and I thought long and hard about this, and finally decided to go ahead.”

  Tristan looked over at Wigg, and the lead wizard’s face darkened. “And the other thing you called us here to discuss?” Tristan asked. “What is it?”

  Ignoring Tristan’s question, Wigg looked sternly at both of them. “We are sorry to have to ask you this, but we must know if the two of you have been intimate. And if you have, how many times this occurred.”

  Tristan and Celeste stared at him, shocked. “How could you ask such a thing?” the prince demanded. “Besides, this really isn’t the time for—”

  “Just tell us,” Wigg interrupted sternly. “Trust me when I say that we have our reasons. It is vitally important that we know.”

  Had any other man asked him this, Tristan might well have knocked him down. But these were Wigg and Faegan, and the wizards always had their reasons. Still, he scowled.

  “Once,” he answered. Annoyed, he crossed his arms over his chest. Celeste blushed.

  “When was it?” Wigg asked.

  “Yesterday morning.”