The Scrolls of the Ancients Page 4

  Slowly collecting himself, Wigg looked through half-closed eyes at the consul. Somehow, he smiled.

  “Is that the best you can do?” he asked drunkenly. “Even the first mistress of the Coven struck me harder.”

  “As I told you, I’m ill,” Krassus answered sarcastically. His fist came around again, smashing into the point of Wigg’s chin and driving the wizard’s head into the back of his chair.

  “Stop it, you bastard!” Tristan screamed. He tried again to move his sword arm, but it was no good. Looking for a glimmer of hope, he turned his eyes to Faegan. But all the great wizard could do was shake his head back and forth angrily.

  “And the two Scrolls of the Ancients,” Krassus went on blithely. “I suppose you know nothing of them, either? Actually I need only find one. The other, the Scroll of the Vagaries, is already in my possession.” A nasty grin spead slowly across his face.

  “I have no idea what you’re babbling about,” Wigg answered thickly. “Perhaps all of your time with Nicholas has . . . addled your brain . . . So you now apparently detest the Vigors.” Exhausted from his beating, he ran out of breath, and his chin slumped forward to his chest.

  Krassus bent over Faegan. “And you, cripple,” he said insultingly. “I suppose you also know nothing of either Wulfgar or the scrolls?”

  Summoning up all of the saliva he could muster, Faegan spat it at the hem of Krassus’ robe. “That is the only answer I shall ever have for you,” he whispered venomously. “Go find whatever it is you’re looking for by yourself! Assuming, of course, you’re intelligent enough to do so.”

  Straightening, Krassus smiled. “The famous wizards, recalcitrant to the end!” His laugh turned into a single, short, diseased cough. “Very well, then. It seems I shall have to find out for myself whether the two of you are lying.”

  He closed his eyes, and a soft glow began to surround the wizards’ chairs, slowly increasing in intensity. Suddenly Wigg’s and Faegan’s heads simultaneously snapped back. Their eyes were wide open, but seemed to observe nothing. Watching, Tristan realized that Krassus had succeeded in entering at least a portion of their minds—testing them just as they had once tested Geldon, before allowing Tristan to go to Parthalon to rescue Shailiha from the Coven. They desperately fought the intrusion by the consul. Sweat broke out on each of the three struggling faces as Wigg and Faegan fought to keep from having their minds violated, and Krassus tried desperately to enter. After several long, agonizing moments, the glow faded away, and the consul opened his eyes. Wigg and Faegan were breathing heavily in total exhaustion.

  “So,” Krassus said softly, half to himself. “It seems Wigg still does not know the location of Wulfgar, after all. Such a pity. Now I must find him the hard way. But that’s why I travel with a partial adept, isn’t it?”

  He turned to Faegan. “Such a strong mind,” he said in a conversational tone. “I have never experienced its like. You were partially successful in blocking my intrusion, weren’t you? No matter. Although you are aware of scant references to the scrolls, I can tell you have no real knowledge of either where they may be, or of their vast importance. And you, unlike the lead wizard, have absolutely no idea who Wulfgar is.”

  Krassus made a sarcastic, clucking sound with his tongue. “Don’t the two of you know that it isn’t polite to keep secrets from each other? Even the Chosen Ones do not know of Wulfgar! How deliciously ironic!”

  Wigg summoned the strength to look up at Krassus. His face was already swelling. “But why?” he asked, still sounding drunk. “Why do you turn your back on your teachings . . . follow the darkness of the Vagaries? And how is it that you have defeated the death enchantments put on all the consuls? They should have killed you the first time you attempted to practice the Vagaries.” The battered lead wizard paused to catch his breath. “A prospect that I must say would no longer disappoint me,” he added softly.

  “Ah, so you wish to make a guessing game of it, do you?” Krassus asked nastily. “Very well then. Let’s play!”

  He leaned over again and placed his mouth close to Wigg’s ear. “Tell me, Lead Wizard. Each time a creature of the Vagaries or one of the Coven died, do you really know why there were such strange atmospheric disturbances? The wind howling until you thought your ears might burst, and lightning across the sky so bright that night seems as day? You always taught us that it was simply to mark their passing into the Afterlife. Not true! And do you know why I seek Wulfgar, the lost one? Again, the answer is no. It seems that even the lead wizard of the not-dearly-departed Directorate still has a great deal to learn about the true workings of your nation, and your craft.

  “Because you refused to help me, we are now enemies,” he continued brazenly. “I know I do not possess the strength to destroy both of you here today at the same time. Therefore I am forced to wait. But your individual times will come, I promise you. And one last thing: Should any of you doubt the seriousness of my words, I suggest you take a little journey to Farpoint, three days from now. What you shall witness there is of Nicholas’ planning and my execution, and should be of great interest to you.”

  Krassus paused for a moment, obviously relishing his temporary dominion over them all. “Still so much for you to learn, Wigg. And so little time for either of us to accomplish our ends. You, because part of the plans Nicholas imagined still remains in motion. And I, because I will soon perish. My duties done, I will then gladly go to the Heretics—the reward promised to me by the son of the Chosen One.”

  Smiling, he stretched out his arms. “And now I am forced to bid you all farewell,” he said quietly. “Until next time.”

  The azure glow of the craft began to form again. Amazed, Tristan watched as the consul melted away into nothingness, the glow disappearing with him. He could hear the sound of the intruder’s boot heels as they defiantly marched across the gaming table and jumped to the floor. Then, as if completely of their own accord, the balcony doors swung wide open, closing again after a brief pause.

  No one had to tell the prince that Krassus had just escaped the palace as easily as he had entered.

  The warps surrounding them disappeared, Wigg fell unconscious from his chair, landing hard on the cold marble floor.

  CHAPTER

  Four

  She had lain there on the stone floor of her cottage for some time, sobbing softly. The cruel man in the two-colored robe and his equally cruel companion had departed, and slowly the wizard’s cage surrounding her had dissolved. Her home was a wreck of smashed and battered vials, jars, bottles—even furniture was broken—and she knew it would take many days to repair the damage. But the most difficult task would be replacing the herbs, roots, blossoms, and seeds they had stolen. Some represented the work of more than three centuries, now vanished in a single day. The intruders had known exactly what to take, and her loss was unimaginable.

  But because she was the recipient of time enchantments, time was the one thing on her side.

  Abbey of the House of Lindstrom slowly came to her feet. After brushing off her burgundy peasant’s dress, she stoked the hearth and decided first to prepare herself a cup of nerveweed tea.

  Looking to her shelves, she hoped it would still be there. Then she saw it and let out a sigh of relief. The herb had long been known for its calming effects, and she could use a good dose of it just now.

  After placing the water into the pot and hanging it over the gathering fire, she righted the table and chairs and sat, despondently, before the hearth. Soon the bone-soaking warmth and sooty smell of the flames started to give her some small measure of comfort. She looked down at her hands and saw that they were still shaking. Closing her eyes for a moment, she tried to fathom the meaning of what had happened here today.

  Why would anyone do such a thing? she wondered. We who possessed these esoteric arts were so few, even before the Sorceresses’ War. And now, three centuries later, our numbers have surely dwindled even farther due to the ban by the Directorate. I should have recognized the wom
an, but I didn’t.

  The whistling teakettle suddenly interrupted her thoughts. Removing it from the flames, she set it on the table. Then she filled a tea basket with dried nerveweed leaves and lowered them into the kettle to steep.

  Something glinted on the floor, and, bending down, she identified it as a rather large shard of broken mirror. She picked it up and gazed into it. The face reflected back to her was awash with great sadness, and even greater confusion.

  Although her dark hair was streaked with gray, she remained a very handsome woman. Gray eyes looked back at her with intelligence, and the dark eyebrows arched highly, almost seductively over them. Her jaw was strong yet feminine; her cheeks were still blessed with the rosy bloom of her long-faded youth. Sighing, she carefully put down the mirror.

  Interesting, she thought for the thousandth time. The one man on earth she still cared for was also the one who had tried to force her into abandoning her art. She had thought of him so many times over the centuries, even employing her art to regard him from time to time. Despite his recent travails, she knew he was well. Many were the times she had been tempted to go to him, to offer her forgiveness. But that would have caused him nothing but more trouble. It was better, she supposed, to simply live with the memories of those long-ago days than to go chasing after what could never be.

  She poured herself a cup of the dark, harsh tea and drank, relishing its warmth as it went down. The nerveweed would soon take hold, and she would then begin the business of straightening up her house. Looking around the thatched cottage, her mind went back to the time she had first come here. She had been alone, ashamed, and angry.

  That had been more than three centuries ago. But after the exile of the Coven to the Sea of Whispers, the newly formed Directorate of Wizards had banned all partial adepts—both male and female—from practicing their arts. Hurt and confused, they had been ordered to scatter, no two being allowed to go in the same direction. And so she had finally chosen this place to be alone, and to carry on in secret. But not before one of the wizards—the one who still had a place in her heart—had secretly granted her the time enchantments, tearfully wishing her well.

  Abbey’s heart skipped a beat. My gazing flame! she thought anxiously. Is it still burning, or did they destroy that, too?

  She put her teacup down and bolted from the cottage.

  Outside, she hiked up her skirt and began running as fast as she could through the woods. Even though the sun had set, the path before her shone clearly by the light of the three red Eutracian moons.

  With huge relief, she saw that the smooth, flat rock was still in place. Chest heaving, she stood before it. She breathed deeply to calm herself, and closed her eyes. Silently, slowly, the rock began to slide to one side across the dewy grass. Opening her eyes, she held her breath.

  Almost immediately a high, golden plume of flame erupted, casting a magnificent light into the dark of the night. Letting out a great sigh, she stood there silently for a moment, blessing her good fortune.

  The single, golden flame coming from the earth was approximately one meter wide, and three meters tall. It was flat and broad. The glade surrounding it had long ago been cleared of all trees and shrubs, and Abbey lovingly saw to it that it remained that way.

  Abbey of the House of Lindstrom was many things, but first and foremost she was a blaze-gazer.

  Reaching into one of the pockets of her dress, she produced a very small bottle. Its contents were so rare and precious that she always carried it on her person, no matter the circumstances. Thankfully, that very habit had kept it safe from the intruders.

  But they had known exactly what to take, and her remaining supply of herbs needed to sustain the flame had gone with them. What was contained in her locket would provide just enough for one more viewing, and no more. When she finished, her flame would slowly die, because she would have no more herbs to replenish it. Even so, she could think of no better time than now to use them up. After what the man in the two-colored robe had told her about the lead wizard, she simply had to know.

  Opening the top, she emptied the bottle into the palm of her hand. Carefully, she walked closer to the roaring fire.

  Raising one arm, she commanded the flame to split into two branches, one far larger than the other. As she curled the index finger of her outstretched hand, the smaller of the branches obediently approached her. As always, the searing heat of the gazer’s flame threatened to scorch her face and dress.

  Quickly, she pointed her hand to the right. The flame flattened out and began to flow horizontally. Its edges licked dangerously close to her outstretched hand. With great discipline she dropped the herbs into the waiting flame.

  The effect was immediate.

  The two branches suddenly rejoined and shot back up toward the sky. Abbey backed away from the searing heat. As she did, she reached for the pendant she wore around her neck. Opening it, she withdrew a short braid of brown hair and held it high. Then she looked back at the flame.

  Midway up the body of the flame, a rectangular, azure window began to form. Closing her eyes, she concentrated intently. Opening them again, she gazed deeply into the chasm surrounded by the roaring flame.

  Her eyes widened. She was not at all pleased with what she saw.

  CHAPTER

  Five

  Faegan sat in his chair by Wigg’s bed, eyes closed, a concerned frown on his face. His ancient hand gently covered the lead wizard’s forehead. Tristan, Shailiha, and Celeste stood behind him, equally concerned. Caprice perched on Shailiha’s arm, slowly opening and closing her wings. Morganna, Shailiha’s baby daughter, had been given over to the care of one of the gnome wives.

  “Will he be all right?” Celeste asked nervously.

  When the wizard didn’t answer, Tristan touched Celeste on the arm. When she looked at him, he placed an index finger to his lips, telling her to remain quiet. From prior experience the prince knew that whatever Faegan was doing, he would be far more effective if silence reigned. Understanding, Celeste nodded.

  Faegan remained that way for some time, his only movement the occasional touch of his palm on a different area of Wigg’s skull. After what seemed an eternity, he removed his hand and opened his eyes.

  “He has been through a great deal,” the old wizard said sadly. “The endowed physical blows were bad enough. When the spell attacking his mind was enacted, he fought it with everything he had. The mental and physical beating together proved more than Wigg could bear, and he went unconscious, his mind shutting down as a protective mechanism. In many respects, it was probably for the best.”

  Tristan looked down at his friend and mentor of so many years. His hands balled into fists, and his knuckles went white with anger at the one called Krassus. So many questions had been purposely, cruelly left unanswered by the consul. But one thing was clearly certain: The lead wizard alone held the answers to many of them.

  “How bad is it?” Tristan asked anxiously.

  “He will recover,” Faegan said with certainty. “But it may take several days for him to regain his strength completely.”

  At that, he replaced his hand on Wigg’s forehead, and the room went silent. Faegan closed his eyes. After a time Wigg’s lids began to flutter; then his eyes slowly opened.

  Opening his own eyes, Faegan peered down at Wigg. He then turned to Tristan and smiled.

  “I still say you cheat at cards,” Wigg said weakly, frowning up into Faegan’s face.

  Faegan smiled. “I never actually denied it,” he answered softly. “Someday I’ll show you how it is done.”

  Bending over, Celeste hugged her father and gave him a kiss. “I was so worried,” she whispered. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

  “Do you think you are strong enough to answer a few questions?” Faegan asked, his usual curiosity returning. “There is much for us to discuss.”

  Wigg nodded. Then, quite unexpectedly, he began to cry.

  Taken aback, Tristan realized that there w
as much more to Krassus’ visit than he had imagined.

  “I can see that this is difficult for you, old friend,” Faegan began with uncharacteristic tact. “But the question simply must be asked.” He paused for a moment, then inquired, abruptly, “Who is Wulfgar?”

  Gathering his resolve, Wigg looked at Tristan and Shailiha. He lowered his eyes for a moment, then slowly raised them again.

  “Wulfgar is your lost half brother,” he whispered to them.

  Tristan’s eyes went wide, his jaw slack. Shailiha gasped. Even the usually unflappable Faegan was taken by surprise.

  It was a moment before anyone spoke. Then Faegan broke the silence.

  “You said half brother,” he murmured. “Do you mean to say—”

  “That’s right,” the lead wizard interrupted, wanting to approach it in a gentler way than the more analytical Faegan might. “Wulfgar is illegitimate,” he continued. “He is Morganna’s first child, four years older than the Chosen Ones, and also of very highly endowed blood. Wulfgar’s father was named Eric. Upon discovering Morganna was with child, Eric refused to marry her. He disappeared, leaving her heartbroken. Morganna gave the baby up for adoption at one of the wizards’ orphanages scattered throughout the realm.

  “Despite the deep secret Morganna always carried, Nicholas loved his queen unconditionally,” he finally added. “They were two of the most amazing people it has ever been my pleasure to know.”

  Tristan looked at Shailiha. As if touching his sister could somehow ease their mutual shock, he took her hand. “But why would Mother give her baby up?” he finally asked, his voice cracking.

  The lead wizard sighed. “Because she heard voices,” he said quietly. “Voices telling her to destroy the child before it came to term.”

  “Do you mean to tell us that our mother was mad?” Tristan whispered.

  “No,” Wigg answered adamantly. “And I wish to make that point abundantly clear. But at the time, you can understand how she might have believed herself to be. The voices grew even stronger after the birth, this time telling Morganna that she must kill her child.”