The Scrolls of the Ancients

by Robert Newcomb

  “Of course,” Wulfgar answered calmly. “But before I do, there is something I would like the two of you to know. It will pain you to hear it, I’m sure. But then again, making my brother and sister happy isn’t really why I have come.”

  “What is it?” Tristan asked.

  Looking over to one side, Wulfgar pointed down at the Scroll of the Vigors.

  “That scroll,” he began, “the one you held in your possession so briefly, holds many of the answers you seek. Yes, Jin’Sai, it even tells of the potential coming of your azure blood, and of how you might eventually rid yourself of it. But now, with the scroll in my possession, none of those things will ever happen. For until your blood reverts you cannot be trained, cannot wear the Paragon, and cannot read the Tome, and you will be unable to fulfill your so-called destiny. You will even be barred from siring children, for your tainted blood would be far too dangerous for any woman’s to join with. Have your friends the wizards told you that yet? Your famous, all-powerful blood that was to have empowered you above all others is now the very thing you must most despise.” The wicked smile came again.

  “Aside from me, of course,” he added knowingly. He turned to look at the orbs.

  “How can one of our blood be so evil?” Shailiha shouted at him. “Doesn’t any part of you care about the horrific, irreparable damage you are about to cause?”

  Turning back from the orbs, Wulfgar looked directly into his sister’s eyes.

  “Evil, you say?” he asked her. “Don’t you understand? I have no concept of the word ‘evil.’ As Krassus was so fond of saying, we of the Vagaries simply have a different point of view.”

  Turning again, he raised his hands. Almost immediately the orbs began burning brighter.

  Never taking his eyes from his bastard brother, Tristan turned his thoughts toward the hill.

  Abbey saw Wulfgar turn toward the orbs and saw them glow even more brightly. She levitated the parchment Wigg had given her so that it hovered in the air before her. Opening the cinch bag at her waist, she took out a pinch of precious herbs and placed them on the tinder she had prepared and lit. Then she stood back and used her gifts to force the fire higher and higher. When it was at last about two meters high and a meter wide, she crooked a finger toward her, ordering the flame to divide into two unequal branches. Curling her finger again, she pointed to the right, and the smaller of the two flames flattened out, coming dangerously close to scorching her hands and face. Looking down, she blessed the Afterlife that Wulfgar’s back was still toward her.

  She threw another pinch of herbs into the branch of flame, then reached for and opened the silver locket that hung around her neck. The usual dark locket of hair, the one belonging to the lead wizard, still lay inside as always. But now there was another with it. It was sandy colored, and secured around its center with a red ribbon.

  It was Wulfgar’s—the lock of hair that she had first seen in the Hall of Blood Records when Wigg had explained Wulfgar to them and shown them his blood signature. The lock of his hair that his grandmother had taken from him before her daughter gave him over to the orphanage, thirty-four years ago.

  She removed the ribbon and divided the lock of hair into two halves, than dropped one half into the lower of the two flames and held the other half high. She was ordering her flame to find Wulfgar, even though he was in plain view.

  She knew she was risking her life by doing so. She was only a partial, and so her attempt to find Wulfgar, one of those of the womb of Queen Morganna, would undoubtedly call forth the Furies—the same phenomenon that she had experienced that day in the courtyard when she, Faegan, and Shailiha had nearly been killed while trying to find the prince by employing a drop of his twin sister’s blood.

  But this time, she prayed, she had the answer.

  As the orbs and the Isthmus joining them glowed ever more brightly, Wulfgar smiled. Even though the Forestallment required to accomplish his task was immensely refined, the concept behind his mission was exceedingly simple. He could still hear Krassus explaining to him how it was to be done, as though it were only yesterday.

  First, call upon your blood and conjure forth the Isthmus. When the Isthmus has appeared and the orbs seem stable, then use your mind to open the gate at the end connected to the Orb of the Vagaries, and allow its dark energy to trickle through. As it begins to reach the Orb of the Vigors, open the other end of the Isthmus and force the dark energy inside the Orb of the Vigors without allowing it to return to its source. The Orb of the Vigors shall therefore become polluted, while the Orb of the Vagaries shall remain pristine. When enough dark energy has finally been transfused, however, the cataclysm will wish to commence, and you must be exceedingly careful lest you risk the destruction of the world, for chaos is the natural order of the universe. But if done correctly, before the great cataclysm occurs the controlled nature of your work will cause the Orb of the Vigors to explode in a great ball of fire and light, and your mission will be complete. The Vigors will be no more, Wulfgar, and you may return to the Citadel and rule in splendor forever.

  Closing his eyes, Wulfgar used his mind to open the floodgate at the end of the Isthmus touching the Orb of the Vagaries. As he did, its destructive energy trickled into the Isthmus and flowed down the length of its interior, making it darker as it went. Any second now, Tristan saw, the energy of the Vagaries would reach the Orb of the Vigors, and everything they treasured would be gone forever.

  Just as it had done that day in the courtyard, the top of Abbey’s gazing flame began to swell. The viewing window also began to form, but that was not her main concern this time.

  Looking at the parchment hovering in the air before her, she began urgently reading aloud the formula that Wigg and Faegan had found in the Scroll of the Vigors only days before—the formula that the community of partial adepts had for centuries whispered would countermand the action of the Furies and send the energy back to the subject a thousandfold.

  With a great explosion her gazing flame burst, throwing her to the ground. But unlike the previous time, that was not the end of it.

  Sheets of pure energy shot from the exploding flame, illuminating everything for leagues around. The night sky erupted in a cacophony of noise and light as the energy streaked down the hill, searching out the subject that was to have been viewed.

  Wulfgar.

  Sensing that something had gone terribly wrong, Wulfgar turned for a moment to look up the hill. As the light shards came nearer, his face contorted into a mixture of confusion and terror. Then the Furies, magnified a thousandfold, found him.

  Ignoring the orbs, Wulfgar turned to confront the Furies in a desperate effort to save his life. Frantically he sent azure bolts against them. But to no avail.

  As the bolts slammed into the energy cascading down the hill, they simply fizzled away against it, dissipating into nothingness. Unaffected, the Furies continued toward him. Tearing across the roof, they passed over the Scroll of the Vigors and headed unerringly for Wulfgar.

  As they approached their target, they began to produce a whirling maelstrom that soon surrounded him, trapping him within its confines. As it closed in on him, Wulfgar could feel the intense heat it emitted. He knew that if he remained inside, he would die. For a few precious moments he turned his hateful gaze on Tristan and Shailiha.

  They heard him scream insanely. Then the scream died away. The maelstrom closed in hard—and exploded.

  As the force of the blast tore through the night air, Tristan, Shailiha, and Tyranny felt the searing heat and power of the dying Furies from the confines of Wulfgar’s deteriorating warp. Trees from the nearby hill were uprooted and sent flying into the air, and parts of the palace roof exploded, sending marble pieces high into the sky. Then the warp finally vanished altogether, and Tristan, Shailiha, and Tyranny collapsed to the roof. Tristan could barely move. Craning his neck, he looked over to see that the two women were either unconscious or dead.

  It was all the prince could do to look up at
the glowing orbs of the craft. Wulfgar’s Isthmus had vanished, and the orbs seemed to be undamaged. Suddenly, they were gone.

  Using what strength he had left, Tristan looked over at the scroll. Blessedly, it still lay on the palace roof, where Wulfgar had left it.

  In horror he saw that the Scroll of the Vigors—the only known document in the world that could provide the answers he so desperately needed about himself—was burning. He tried to crawl toward it. But his strength gave out, and he collapsed back down to the roof.

  The last thing he remembered before passing out was his Minion troops finally landing on the roof beside him, and Traax and Ox running toward the burning document.

  CHAPTER

  Seventy-three

  In the name of the Afterlife, hold still!” Wigg shouted at Rebecca. He had been extremely cranky for the last three days, and it seemed to him that every bone in his three-hundred-plus-year-old body still hurt.

  “Tristan!” he growled softly, trying not to frighten the young girl any more than she already was. “Can you get her to calm down somehow? I simply cannot do this properly if she won’t stay still!”

  Smiling with one corner of his mouth, Tristan took Rebecca by the shoulders and gently pushed her back down onto the table. Then he whispered something into her ear, and she giggled. She promised to remain still as best she could, then gave Wigg a curious look and giggled once more.

  Narrowing his eyes, Wigg called the craft and again started employing the process that would begin healing her clubfoot. As he did, Rebecca seemed to calm down. He cast a wary eye toward the prince. “What did you say to her?” he asked.

  “Oh, nothing,” Tristan answered casually. “Just that whenever you become irritated, the vein in your forehead starts to throb. I suggested she watch it to pass the time, and count how many times it did before you finished.”

  Sighing, Wigg shook his head, then snorted a laugh and went back to his work.

  Tristan, Wigg, Faegan, Abbey, Shailiha, Celeste, and Tyranny were all in attendance here, in Wigg’s personal drawing room. The stained-glass windows had been swung open to let in the fresh morning air and the songs of the birds.

  Marcus stood next to the lead wizard, and Shailiha held Morganna on her hip. Shawna stood to one side, watching the process unfold. She had become quite attached to Rebecca and her brother, even though Marcus had proved to be quite a handful. Looking around the room, Tristan felt a great sense of thankfulness. He wondered briefly how the wizards would react to what he had planned.

  They had all somehow managed to stay alive during their recent ordeal, but just barely. Tristan, Tyranny, and Shailiha had acquired some burns with the onslaught of the Furies, but had been protected for the most part by Wulfgar’s warp. Abbey had also been burned, but not more so than the first time the Furies had erupted. Wigg, Faegan, and Celeste, however, had suffered far worse.

  Wigg had been deeply injured by Wulfgar’s bolts; beneath his robes he was a mass of black and blue, and would be for weeks. But after a few sessions of Abbey’s healing skills he was finally feeling better and would continue to improve.

  Celeste had also survived, but her left forearm had been broken in Wulfgar’s attack, and it was wrapped in a sling. It was only the high quality of her and her father’s blood, it was later assumed, that had kept the lead wizard and his daughter alive. Celeste sat in a chair along one wall as her father tended to Rebecca.

  Faegan’s case was different. His injuries had been physical, to be sure. But they had also been psychological. It was plain by the look on his face that he was ashamed at having been broken by Wulfgar’s torture, even though he had succeeded in keeping secret their plan with the Furies. Knowing Faegan as they did, the others realized that it would take the old wizard some time to get over what he considered to be so great a personal failure. Then Tristan was reminded of the time enchantments, and he smiled slightly. If there was one thing the wizards had plenty of, it was time.

  As for the Scroll of the Vigors, it had been once again locked away in the Redoubt, awaiting further research. And true to form, ever since Wulfgar had been defeated the two wizards had chosen to rest, rather than make explanations.

  Tristan was determined to get his answers, as soon as Wigg finished with Rebecca and while everyone was still here, whether the wizards felt like talking or not. And he had a special request to put before them, one that had been on his mind for some time now. But for that he would wait until the three of them were alone.

  Almost a full hour later, Wigg finally stopped what he was doing. After another quick examination of Rebecca’s foot, he seemed pleased.

  “You may get up now,” he said to her. “Place your weight on your foot, and see how it feels.”

  Rebecca sat up, slipped her legs over the side of the table, and tentatively stood. As she did, her face registered pure joy.

  “Marcus!” she shouted gleefully. “Come and look!”

  Marcus ran to her side of the table and looked down. His sister’s misshapen foot looked completely normal. For the first time in her young life, Rebecca was finally without pain. With tears of joy in her eyes, she began skipping around the drawing room.

  She finally stopped in front of the lead wizard. She looked up into his eyes with a humble expression. Then she crooked a finger at him, beckoning him closer. With a characteristic rise of one eyebrow, he did as she asked. Before he knew it she had wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him on the cheek.

  “Thank you,” she said softly. “I will never forget what you have done for me.”

  “I won’t, either,” Marcus added. “And I’m sorry if I’ve been a lot of trouble.”

  “You’re quite welcome,” Wigg replied simply. As he did, Abbey came up beside him and linked one of her arms through his.

  “Three hundred and sixty times. I’m sure of it,” Rebecca said unexpectedly.

  “I beg your pardon?” Wigg asked.

  “Three hundred and sixty,” she answered back. “That’s how many times the vein in your head throbbed.” Then she looked innocently over to where Faegan sat in his chair, stroking his cat, Nicodemus.

  “If I asked him real nice, maybe Mr. Faegan could fix that for you,” she said helpfully. “Despite how long everybody says you’ve been around, it seems that you haven’t been able to do it for yourself.”

  The entire room roared. Even Wigg, embarrassed as he seemed to be, gave up and erupted into laughter. Abbey leaned over and placed her lips close to his ear.

  “That will be the day . . .” she whispered coyly.

  “Uh, er, that won’t be necessary,” Wigg finally answered Rebecca. “But thank you for offering, just the same.”

  Deciding it was time to get back to business, Tristan looked over at Shawna.

  “Would you please take the children back to their quarters?” he asked her. “We have some matters to discuss.”

  With a quick nod, Shawna herded Rebecca and Marcus from the room, softly closing the door behind them. Wasting no time, Tristan walked over to stand next to Celeste, and then trained his dark eyes on Wigg. Determined, he folded his arms over his chest.

  “I already know that you and Faegan must have found the calculations for reversing the Furies somewhere in the Scroll of the Vigors,” he said. “It’s the only answer that makes any sense. But what I don’t know is when.”

  “And why didn’t you tell us until the last minute, Father?” Celeste asked. Using her good arm, she reached up to take one of Tristan’s hands. “Wouldn’t it have been better if we had all known?”

  “Actually, no, it wouldn’t have,” Faegan answered as he wheeled his chair into the center of the room. Reaching into his lap, he gave Nicodemus a scratch under the neck.

  “Why not?” Shailiha asked.

  “Because the fewer of us who knew, the better,” he answered. “You, Tristan, and Wigg were about to leave, to search out the demonslaver fleet. At the time, Wigg and I thought that we might be at least partially able to fight
off Wulfgar’s use of the craft on our minds, should it come to that. But if you, Celeste, or Tristan had been captured, you never could have resisted his probes, for none of you have been trained to do so. Therefore, we did not tell you of the secret location of the scroll, or the discovery of the calculations. What you did not know could not be tortured from you, no matter how hard Wulfgar might have tried.

  “And as it turned out, even I was unable to resist his torture,” he added softly, “and he ended up taking the scroll anyway. Still, that was better than revealing to him the calculations of the Furies.”

  “But you took a great chance, did you not?” Shailiha asked. “You could have been killed.”

  “True,” Faegan answered. “But remember, at that time we still did not know whether Wulfgar was even coming, or by what route. That is why we decided to leave me and Celeste here, to guard the scroll.” Then he looked down at his hands again.

  “I want to apologize to everyone,” he said softly. “And especially to Tristan. If Wulfgar had not been given the location of the scroll, it would still be intact. But I held out for as long as I could, to make him believe that the location of the scroll was all I had to give him.”

  “And the condition of the scroll?” Tristan asked softly, not daring to hope. “What of that?”

  Placing his hands into the opposite sleeves of his robe, Wigg sighed. “As best we can determine, about two-fifths of the Scroll of the Vigors has been completely destroyed,” he answered sadly. “We have forever lost what were surely some of the most important secrets of the craft. But we will do what we can with the parts that remain.”

  “And do you believe Wulfgar to be dead?” Abbey asked. Snaking her arm a little farther underneath Wigg’s, she edged closer to him.

  “Yes,” the lead wizard answered flatly. “Neither Faegan nor I can see how anyone, no matter how powerful he or she was in the craft, could have survived that. He was undoubtedly vaporized by the Furies.”