The Scrolls of the Ancients

by Robert Newcomb

  “What about the traitorous consuls he commanded?” Shailiha asked. “They remain a threat to us, do they not?”

  Faegan scowled. “That is impossible to say,” he answered grimly. “We must accept the possibility that, in addition to those he controlled at the Citadel, some of them remain in Eutracia. With Wulfgar dead, there will be a power vacuum within their ranks. Sadly, that may make them even more dangerous than before. There are few things as unpredictable as a zealous army without a leader.”

  Tristan looked over at his sister to find the same mixed expression on her face that he knew was on his own. Wulfgar had been a monster—that much was certain. But part of Tristan wanted to believe that somewhere, sometime, Wulfgar had once been a kind, honorable man, before Krassus’ demonslavers had come for him.

  Silence reigned for moment, and then Tyranny spoke up. “Forgive me, Tristan,” she said. “My brother awaits me, and I need to check on the condition of my wounded crewmembers and my ships.”

  Smiling slightly, Tristan looked over at the highly competent, tousle-haired privateer. “I understand,” he said quietly. “But before you go, I have something for you. Several things, actually, that I believe will come in handy. They should be here by now.”

  Walking over to the door, Tristan opened it and looked out into the hallway. At a sign from him, K’jarr led six Minion warriors into the room.

  Tyranny’s mouth fell open. Everyone else in the room seemed equally surprised. Wigg scowled a bit, and Faegan gave a soft cackle.

  “Do you mean to say—”

  “Yes,” Tristan interrupted her. “I am giving you command of these six warriors. They were each handpicked by Traax, chosen by him from a large group of volunteers. It seems, dear lady, that you have made quite an impression on them. They are to sail with you, two weeks from now, and not before. For reasons you will discover later, I do not wish you to depart until then. I also ordered the construction of a special litter for you, and it awaits you in the courtyard. K’jarr has kindly offered to be an ongoing part of this, both to act as an overseer of the warriors in any orders you might give them, and to more fully brief you on Minion customs and tactics. These warriors are to be rotated with others every six months. You will find that they make especially good scouts. But I have a selfish motive in all of this, as well. With both these warriors and a litter aboard the Reprisal, you will be able to reach the palace far more quickly, should you need to.” Seeing her still-amazed expression, he gave her a short, knowing smile.

  “And given your natural proclivities for trouble, I think you will need them rather a lot,” he added slyly.

  Still stunned, Tyranny walked over to him and embraced him warmly. Then she looked into his face. “I don’t know what to say,” she said softly.

  Smiling, he raised his right hand and spat into his palm. “Yes, you do,” he said. He raised his hand a bit higher. “Done,” he said.

  Smiling broadly, Tyranny spat into her right hand and slapped her palm into his. “And done,” she answered back warmly.

  Tristan turned back to face the room. “And now, I wish to be alone with my wizards,” he told everyone. Then he looked at Faegan and Wigg and grinned widely. “I have a proposition for them.”

  Wigg raised an eyebrow, and Faegan’s normally impish, curious countenance returned. The remaining people in the room walked to the door. As they did, the prince gave Celeste and Shailiha a smile of good-bye.

  After they had all left, Wigg scowled and folded his arms over his chest.

  “What is this about?” he asked skeptically.

  Saying nothing, Tristan bade the two wizards to join him out on the sunlit balcony. As they did, he took a chair at the table, crossed one of his long legs over the other, and poured himself a cup of tea.

  And then, in quiet, measured tones, he told them of his plan.

  CHAPTER

  Seventy-four

  As Tristan walked down the colorful hallways of the Redoubt, his boot heels rang out against the marble floor, once again reminding him of what a lonely, massive place this underground labyrinth could be. While it was true that many of the previously wandering acolytes had passed the wizards’ examinations and now called this place home, their numbers were still too few even to begin returning the Redoubt to its former level of activity. Still, he realized, it was a start.

  New beginnings, he thought to himself as he crossed through yet another of the Redoubt’s intersections. Snapping his heels together, the Minion warrior on guard came to stiff attention as his lord passed by. Not wishing to be late, Tristan only nodded and kept on going.

  Two weeks had passed since the day when Rebecca’s foot had been cured, and Tristan’s subsequent time alone with the two wizards had gone well. He had spent the remainder of that morning with them out on Wigg’s balcony explaining in great detail what he wished to do. It was time, Tristan had told them, and in the end they had agreed.

  When he had finished, the prince thought he had seen some shininess in their eyes. But being the indomitable mystics that they were, each had caused it to vanish as quickly as it appeared. The wizards had then informed everyone of Tristan’s decision and asked them all to meet at the appointed day and hour.

  Finally approaching the elaborately carved double doors, he saw the two Minion warriors standing guard on either side. Each of them held a long, gold-tipped spear in one hand, the spear’s end planted firmly by the heel of his foot, the point held away from his body. As the prince approached they snapped their heels together and pulled their spears toward them, into an upright position. Stopping before them, Tristan nodded his approval.

  “Has the furniture I ordered been brought here?” he asked.

  “Yes, my lord,” one of them answered. “Minion artisans finished it only this afternoon, and it was moved into the room several hours ago.”

  “And everyone who was asked to attend,” Tristan said. “Are they present?”

  “All except for Commander Traax,” the warrior answered.

  “And where is he?” Tristan asked.

  “Right behind you,” Tristan heard Traax’s voice ring out. As Traax walked up, he seemed to be trying to force down a smile. “I apologize for being late.”

  “Where have you been?” Tristan asked.

  Smiling, Traax shook his head. “It seems that a situation has developed that required my attention,” he answered wryly.

  At first Tristan stiffened, wondering whether they all might be in danger again. But he realized from the expression on Traax’s face, that he could relax.

  “And what might that be?” he asked.

  “It’s about the two children, Marcus and Rebecca.”

  “What about them?” Tristan asked.

  “They’re gone. And so is the thirteen thousand kisa.”

  Tristan’s eyes went wide. At first he didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Then he looked at the infectious expression on Traax’s face again, and he decided to laugh.

  “How?” he asked. “And when?”

  “We still don’t know how,” Traax answered. “Shawna is beside herself, of course, but she’ll get over it eventually. Feeling that she could finally trust them, she had dismissed the warrior who usually watched over them. What a mistake! As to when, well, it happened sometime during the night. I think that Marcus had this planned for some time now, and the only thing he was waiting for was for Wigg to cure his sister’s foot so that for the first time in her life she could run away as fast as he could!” Pausing for a moment, Traax smiled and shook his head again.

  “Thirteen thousand kisa is a great deal of money,” he said quietly. “But you know, in an odd sort of way, I think they both earned it.”

  Rubbing his forehead, Tristan couldn’t help but laugh again. Partly, he knew, because he found Traax’s news so amusing. And partly because it simply felt so good to laugh long and hard again, after so long. He looked back up at Traax.

  “Do you wish me to send out search parties?” the warrior
asked.

  “No, no,” Tristan said with a wave of one hand. “I think they’ve earned it, too.”

  “Then may I request a favor?” the warrior asked.

  “What is it?”

  “Whenever you finally tell the wizards, might I also be in attendance? The looks on their faces will be worth every bit of that thirteen thousand kisa.”

  Tristan laughed again. “Yes!” he answered. “But until then, this stays just between the two of us.”

  His mood turning more serious, Tristan turned and faced the door. “Are you ready?” he asked Traax. “From this moment on, so many things will change.”

  “Yes, my lord,” Traax replied gravely. His face had suddenly become full of both respect and gratitude. “This is a great thing you have done, and I thank you with all my heart.”

  Tristan nodded at the two warriors flanking the doors, and they obediently opened them. Then the prince and Traax walked in and took their appointed seats with the others.

  The magnificently carved table Tristan had ordered two weeks ago was ten sided, and a matching, high-backed chair sat at each station. An image of the Paragon had been beautifully inlaid in its center. Each chair held a person he cared for very much and who possessed, each in his or her own way, talents that would no doubt serve them all well into the future. Their seating arrangement alternated by gender. Their names had been carved into the tops of their chairs just as the chair of the ill-fated Directorate of Wizards had been. As Tristan looked around the table, he was reminded of why he had selected each of them.

  Wigg and Faegan were here, of course, as full-fledged representatives of the craft. Wigg was wearing his golden ceremonial dagger around his waist, and from Faegan’s neck hung the Paragon, its bloodred facets dancing in the light of the fireplace. Between them sat Abbey as a representative of the partial adepts, the mysterious men and women of the craft whom the prince still knew so little about, but hoped to learn so much more. On Faegan’s left sat a very stunned Adrian of the House of Brandywyne, whom Wigg and Faegan had selected to represent the acolytes of the Redoubt. And on her left was Traax.

  Next to Traax sat Shailiha. Caprice perched quietly at the top of her mistress’ chair, gently opening and closing her violet-and-yellow wings. After her came Geldon, whose knowledge of Parthalon had no equal. At Tristan’s right was Celeste, the love of his life.

  And finally, on the prince’s left, sat Tyranny. With the Minion fleet smashed, she and her small squadron of privateers now represented the only seaborne defenses Eutracia had.

  Looking up, Tristan nodded to the Minion still waiting by the door.

  The warrior walked into the hallway, closed the door behind himself, and took up his post.

  “By my order, the Directorate is no more,” Tristan said solemnly. “We are now the Conclave of the Vigors.”

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Robert Newcomb is the author of The Fifth Sorceress, Volume I of The Chronicles of Blood and Stone. He traveled widely in his youth as a member of the American Institute for Foreign Study, studying at the University of Southampton, England, and aboard a university-sponsored ship in the Mediterranean Sea. After graduating from Colgate University with a B.A. in economics and a minor in art history, he enjoyed a successful career in business. He lives in Florida with his wife, a neuropsychologist and novelist. His Web site is robertnewcomb.com.

  By Robert Newcomb:

  THE CHRONICLES OF BLOOD AND STONE

  The Fifth Sorceress

  The Gates of Dawn

  The Scrolls of the Ancients

  The Scrolls of the Ancients is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  A Del Rey® Book

  Published by The Random House Publishing Group

  Copyright © 2004 by Robert Newcomb

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in the United States by The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and simultaneously in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto.

  Del Rey is a registered trademark and the Del Rey colophon is a trademark of Random House, Inc.

  www.delreydigital.com

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2004092243

  eISBN: 978-0-345-47843-6

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