“And during your time with one another, did either of you see an azure glow form, then disappear?”
Tristan looked over at Celeste. He took her hand, then looked back at Wigg. “I may have,” he said tentatively.
“That’s not good enough,” Wigg shot back impatiently. “Either you did, or you didn’t.”
“I was half asleep,” Tristan answered. “And that’s the best answer I can give you. Even now I cannot be sure whether it was a dream or whether it was real.”
“What is all of this about?” Celeste asked anxiously. “Is there something wrong?”
Wigg’s expression softened a bit, and he held one hand out to her. “Please stand, and come to me,” he asked her quietly. She did so.
Wigg looked to the table at large. “Everyone please be still,” he asked. “What I am about to do is very important.”
Reaching out with his free hand, he placed his palm onto Celeste’s lower abdomen and closed his eyes. Silence reigned as Wigg gently moved his long fingers to and fro, as if searching for something. After a time he removed his hand, opened his eyes, and bade Celeste to sit back down.
Faegan leaned anxiously over the table and looked at Wigg. “Well?” he asked.
A sad look overcame the lead wizard’s face. “I can’t tell,” he answered softly. “My attempts were blocked, exactly as the scroll said they would be.”
Wasting no time, Faegan wheeled his chair over to where Celeste sat. Placing his hand upon her as Wigg had just done, he also closed his eyes. When he opened them again, his face registered an equal look of surprise.
“Do you now see?” Wigg asked him sadly. “Just as I told you. Inconclusive. And to my knowledge, this has never happened before.”
“But how can that be?” Faegan whispered, half to himself.
Cleary frustrated, Wigg ran his hands down his face. “I have no idea,” he answered slowly. “But the influence of Tristan’s presence has clearly been at work here. Did you sense it? It was almost as if our powers were being overcome somehow. It seems that once again, as has also been true with so many of the questions concerning his azure blood, we can find no clear-cut answer.”
Tristan looked quizzically at Celeste, then back to the wizards. “What in the name of the Afterlife are you two talking about?” he asked. “What were you doing to Celeste?”
“The two of you have done nothing wrong,” Wigg said compassionately. “But you have been caught up in something not of your own making, and there are things that must be said. Things the two of you will find very difficult to hear. And they have to do with the scroll.” Turning to Faegan, the lead wizard nodded. Faegan nodded back.
Wheeling his chair away from the table a bit, the old wizard raised his arms in the direction of the hovering scroll. Almost at once a short section of text in Old Eutracian lifted itself from the body of the scroll and came to hover over the center of the table. It glowed magnificently.
Looking over at Celeste, Tristan saw that she was reading the text. Then a sudden look of horror overcame her, and the blood ran from her face. She placed her hands over her eyes, as if looking at it had somehow become unbearable. Not knowing what else to do, Tristan put an arm around her.
“In the name of the Afterlife, will one of you please tell me what is going on here?” he shouted at the wizards. “Can’t you see you’re upsetting her?”
“Perhaps the best way is to read the passage for you, since you cannot do so for yourself,” Faegan answered him softly. Turning his chair, he looked up at the glowing, hovering script and began to read aloud.
“ ‘And should the Chosen One make use of his gifts before he is trained to do so, the ordeal shall alter the nature of his blood, changing it from red to azure. But with this change shall come a price. For should his seed then mingle with that of any female, the child they might produce would be horrible beyond description, for the blood of the Jin’Sai shall be tainted. And no endowed female in the world, except for the twin of the Jin’Sai, shall carry a blood signature strong enough to keep such a child from possessing the left-leaning signature that shall without question emerge. Such shall always be the case, until the blood of the Jin’Sai can be returned to red. Thus, no seed of the Jin’Sai may be allowed to walk the world at any price, and no practice of the craft shall be able to determine whether the Jin’Sai’s mate is with child. Only nature’s way of revealing the answer shall be available to those who shall both worry, and wonder . . .’ “
His mind stunned and drifting, Tristan slumped down into the chair. Finally, slowly, he looked over at the wizards. Their faces were very concerned.
“Why didn’t you tell us sooner?” he breathed, scarcely able to get the words out. “We could have prevented this . . . That’s why you were examining her, isn’t it? You needed to see if she was carrying my child.” He paused tentatively for a moment. “Is she—”
“We don’t know,” Wigg interrupted softly. “We only discovered this message in the scroll this morning, and then called for both of you straight away. It was the best we could do.”
“But I thought the scrolls were only a compilation of Forestallment formulas,” Tristan countered softly. “Do you mean to say that they speak of other things, as well?”
“Yes,” Wigg answered. “The scrolls are much more than they appeared to be at first glance. Not only are they the repository of the Forestallment calculations, but they are informative, as well, much like the Tome of the Paragon.”
“And you are unable to use your gifts to tell us if she is with child?” Tristan asked.
“That’s right,” Faegan answered. “It is just as the scroll said it would be. The only way we shall know is by the appearance of the traditional, natural signs. And that will take some time. I also regret to say that until Tristan’s blood is somehow returned to normal, the two of you must refrain from physical intimacy. I’m sorry, but being of the craft sometimes also means making sacrifices. For now, that is how things must be.”
Faegan took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Aside from the impending arrival of Wulfgar, it now seems that our most pressing concern is the search to unravel the mystery surrounding Tristan’s blood.” Pausing for a moment, the brilliant wizard thought quietly.
“Who knew?” he asked. “Who knew that Tristan’s answer to defeating the Coven of sorceresses—the only answer available to him, and achieved with such great self-sacrifice—would in turn somehow become the greatest, most dangerous riddle of the craft?”
Finally removing her hands from her face, Celeste looked out over the table. Tristan fully expected to see her eyes full of tears, but they weren’t. Instead, a look of grim determination had overtaken her. Reaching out, she took both of Tristan’s hands into hers and held them tight.
“There has to be a way to remedy this, and we shall find it,” she said softly. Despite the gentleness of her tone, her voice carried so much weight that her words sounded like an oath. She looked deeply into Tristan’s eyes.
“If I am carrying our child, we shall find a way to safely bring it into this world, regardless of what the scroll may say. I swear it to you, my love,” she added.
Tristan tried to speak, but was so overcome he found he had no voice. Narrowing his eyes against the coming tears, he simply nodded.
Then the familiar, hated feeling for his azure blood crept up on him again.
He looked away for a moment, his jaw hardening. And now, it seemed, his blood had caused pain not only to Tristan, but to the woman he loved, and to the child she could be carrying.
His eyes full of tears, he took Celeste into his arms and held her for what seemed forever.
CHAPTER
Sixty-six
The Minion warrior’s name was Osiv, and as his strong wings carried him through the air, his sharp, dark eyes searched the ocean beneath him. About fifty meters away and matching his pace stroke for stroke flew Takir, his scouting partner. The midday sky was only partly cloudy, but heavier, darker clouds loomed
to the east, directly across their flight path. Soon, Osiv knew, they would have to turn back to the scout ship from which they had come, empty-handed once again.
Looking down, all Osiv could see were the reaches of the Sea of Whispers. Five days had passed since the main body of their fleet had taken up its position off the coast and the scout ships had been sent on ahead. This was Osiv’s and Takir’s fourth such mission. They had come upon other vessels, to be sure, but none of them had proved to be slaver ships.
Just then Takir saw a lone frigate plowing her way due west. Running before the wind, she was making very good time. She carried no identifying flag. He signaled his find to Osiv, and the two warriors folded their wings behind their backs and rolled over into free fall, plummeting down to take a closer look.
As Osiv unfolded his wings to slow his descent and make a first pass over the frigate, he thought he must be seeing things. The ship seemed to be completely deserted. There were no sailors on her decks. Nor were there any to be seen in the rigging or in the crow’s nest. Even the ship’s wheel was unmanned. Still she plowed gamely on through the waves as if tended by the best of seamen, her course never varying.
Despite the fact that he was a Minion officer, Osiv felt a shiver go down his spine. A ghost ship. He had listened to stories about them all his life around Minion campfires, but had never dreamed he might actually see one. Only the graybeards among them had claimed seeing them. As he remembered their stories, one corner of his mouth turned up. As he had grown and become wiser, he had come to realize that the elders always told such stories, the next one always more improbable than the last.
Signaling to Takir, he indicated that they should investigate. Osiv drew his dreggan from its scabbard. Nodding, Takir did the same and warily followed him the rest of the way down.
Buffeting his wings, Osiv landed lightly, carefully, on the pitching stern deck. Takir came down next to him. Still the ship sailed obediently on. The masts and rigging swayed peacefully, and the hull groaned slightly in continual protest as she plowed her way along, the waves parting across her bow. Otherwise, no sound whatsoever came to their ears.
Then they heard a sharp banging noise and they spun around, dreggans held high.
But all they saw was an open stairway, its unsecured door swinging back and forth in the wind. A set of steps led down from the doorway, to the lower deck.
His hand tightening around his dreggan and all of his senses on alert, Osiv went to the door. Takir followed behind. Osiv winced as the boards of the steps creaked, traitorously announcing their presence.
The hallways below were not darkened, as Osiv had somehow expected them to be. All of the wall sconces were burning brightly, making it easy for them to find their way. As they walked forward from the stern, they saw all of the usual trappings of a ship at sea. The larder shelves were stocked with food, and there were signs of crewmen having recently eaten. Freshwater barrels, their contents partially consumed, stood securely roped against the starboard hull in several neat rows. Next they found the crew’s sleeping quarters. The traditional rope hammocks were all still hanging from the rafters, swinging back and forth with the ceaseless rhythm of the abandoned ship.
A further search revealed that there were absolutely no crewmen aboard, anywhere. Yet everything was in its place, just as it should be on a well-run vessel. What strange fate could have befallen them? Osiv found himself wondering. Could the Eaters of the Dead be responsible for this? But if they were, then where was all the blood?
Seeing another set of steps heading topside, he led Takir back up, into the sunlight and the breeze. The scene was just as they had left it. The sails were still full and properly trimmed, and the ship remained duly on course, making her way toward some unknown destination.
Relaxing a bit, Osiv lowered his sword. Looking around, he saw a nearby keg. He went over and sat on it, then placed his dreggan across his knees. Takir came to stand beside him, placing the point of his dreggan on the pitching deck and leaning on the hilt. The wind moaned hauntingly through the lonely, unmanned sails.
“I don’t understand it,” Osiv said quietly. “Where could they all have gone? And this ship! She’s still on course somehow, as if nothing was wrong. How is such a thing possible?”
“I have no idea,” Takir replied. “It’s as if they have all—”
Suddenly Takir heard the familiar, unmistakable sound of a sword blade ripping through bone and flesh. When he looked at his friend, he froze in disbelief.
A long, vertical wound had opened up in Osiv’s head. It literally split his face in two, a vertical cut from chin to top of skull and back down to the nape of his neck. The two halves of his head slowly began to separate and fall away toward the shoulders. Osiv’s eyes went blank; blood and brain matter began to slide from the wound and run down onto his body armor.
Osiv’s body went crashing sloppily to the deck, his dreggan clanging noisily down.
On pure instinct, Takir lifted his dreggan high and turned full circle, searching for Osiv’s murderer. But no one was there. The empty, pitching decks simply yawned back at him, in silent ridicule of his foolishness.
“Show yourself!” Takir screamed in anger as he whirled about again. He viciously slashed his sword through the surrounding air, but its razor-sharp blade bit into nothing. Suddenly, something told him he should unfold his wings and take flight. But the impulse came just a fraction too late.
“If you insist,” a voice said calmly from somewhere. It was a strong, commanding voice.
Takir felt a strange sort of shudder go through him.
Looking down, he saw a vertical slit in his body armor. Then his blood began rushing from it. He absently, drunkenly, reached down and placed one hand over it, but this last act was to serve no purpose. Everything went black and he fell forward.
As the blood from the two Minion corpses joined to run slowly across the deck, the azure glow of the craft appeared. Then it faded in intensity and finally vanished altogether, to reveal Wulfgar.
His long, sandy hair swaying behind him in the wind, he looked casually down at the two dead bodies. He raised one arm, and his demonslaver crew materialized, all of them heavily armed and standing stiffly at attention, awaiting their master’s orders. The sword of the one nearest him dripped with fresh blood.
Wulfgar bent over and picked up the dreggan that had belonged to Osiv. Holding it high, he examined it carefully as the sun bounced off its shiny blade.
“Such fine craftsmanship,” he said, half to himself. “These swords really are a marvel. It is said that even the Jin’Sai himself carries one.” With a sneer on his face, he strode purposefully to the gunwale and threw the beautiful weapon overboard. Pointing back to the slavers, he singled two of them out.
“You!” he ordered sternly. “Throw these dead bodies overboard. The rest of you return to your duties.” With dutiful nods the two monsters he had chosen went about their work.
Wulfgar’s tactical gamble had worked perfectly. He gave silent thanks to Nicholas for providing invaluable information about Minion abilities and customs. Now he had an excellent idea of how far away the Minion fleet was, without them knowing the position of his own. Two days’ flying time, he guessed. One day from the scouting vessels to here, and another from the scout ships to the Minion fleet. That put the Minion position near the coast.
Looking over the side, Wulfgar watched as the slavers tossed the Minion bodies into the sea. The water ran red with blood, and he heard the snuffling, hungry grunts come as the pieces were greedily consumed. As he continued to watch the feeding frenzy, he smiled.
“I’m sorry there wasn’t more, my children,” he said softly. “But soon now, you will have your fill.” Looking toward the stern, he saw the supposedly empty sea behind him, and he smiled. Even the wakes of his ships were unseen.
He silently thanked the late Krassus for gifting him with the Forestallment of invisibility.
Wulfgar closed his eyes. He raised his arms, and t
he familiar azure glow engulfed his flagship. When it faded away, all that remained was the cold, restless sea.
CHAPTER
Sixty-seven
The thirteen confused women sat side by side in the Hall of Supplication, each waiting her turn to approach the lead wizard. Wigg and Faegan sat at a table before them. On the table was a tall stack of parchment documents, and an odd-looking device the likes of which none of the women had ever seen. A group who had already passed the wizards’ exotic tests sat off to one side.
As she waited for her turn to be called, it was plain to Adrian that so far, none of her sister acolytes had failed the wizards’ examinations. Still stunned by the beauty of her surroundings, she looked around again at the sumptuous room. Fledgling House had been beautiful, to be sure, but she had never seen a place like this. Huge stained-glass windows had been swung open slightly to let in more light and fresh air. The black, variegated marble floor was covered with multicolored patterned area rugs, and an ornate mahogany throne sat on a dais at the far end of the room. The room still smelled faintly musty, leading her to believe that it had seen little use of late. She could only imagine what the rest of the palace must look like.
She and the other women had arrived only this morning. They had discovered one another on the way here, and as they shared their experiences, they learned that every single one of them had been overpowered by the same sudden, unexplained compulsion to make the journey to the royal palace in Tammerland.
Adrian, as the senior among them, had been selected to lead them through the palace gates. There they had been greeted by a hunchbacked dwarf who had introduced himself as Geldon. He had explained that the lead wizard himself was responsible for their undeniable need to come here, and that they had done the right thing by doing so. No harm or punishment would befall them.
Greatly relieved, the women had followed the dwarf across the drawbridge, through the courtyard, and into the palace proper. Once in the Hall of Supplication, Geldon had recorded their names and family houses on a piece of parchment, handed it to the wizards, and directed the women to their seats.
The Scrolls of the Ancients Page 58
