Robert Newcomb - Rise of the Blood Royal

Before starting the needed spell, the Femiculi took a moment to look around the Rotunda. She had been a member of the Priory since she was twenty years old. That had been twelve years ago, and even now she remained awed by the structure that was her home.

The massive dome was fifty meters wide at its base and more than thirty meters high. The occulum in the dome’s center was ten meters across, and its circumference was ringed with gold. When the flame was at its lowest ebb, stars could be seen sparkling through the occulum. The interior of the dome was made of pure ivory blocks. As the firelight struck the blocks it created shimmering shadows of red, silver, and white.

The huge black altar that supported the bowl and the flame sat in the middle of the floor. A freestanding fluted column of pure gold rose from each of the altar’s four corners, and each column was topped by a jewel-studded capital. The floor surrounding the altar was made of highly polished rose and black quartz checkerboard squares.

A second, smaller altar stood between the Femiculi and the bowl. As she looked at it, she shuddered, trying not to think about its grisly purpose.

Now it was time for Julia Idaeus, the reigning Femiculi of the Priory, to commence the spell that would empower the flame through another moon. Slowly she came to her feet and raised her arms. Then she closed her eyes and summoned the craft.

Some said that the wind she summoned had a life of its own, and that it wandered the world as it chose until being called forth on each new moon. Others insisted that each time it came, it drifted to the Rotunda from a secret sanctuary nestled somewhere among the dark peaks of the enchanted Tolenka Mountains. Only thePon Q’tar knew for certain, yet it remained a part of the legend that they refused to share. Nor did it matter, for no one dared to question the clerics’ wisdom.

Wherever it came from, the wind always served the same purpose: It fanned the embers at the base of the flame, allowing the flame to burn brightly again for another full moon.

As she called the craft, Julia watched the familiar azure glow fill the Rotunda. She heard the haunting wind arrive and swirl down through the occulum. As it neared her, it parted the folds of her white gown and stirred her hair. Soon the gathering tempest howled so loudly that it hurt her ears and its power nearly took her off her feet. Then the wind turned to fan the flame’s embers.

As Julia struggled to control the tempest, her arms shook and her power began to ebb. Soon the embers at the base of the flame glowed brightly again, as if they had been reborn.

The flame strengthened and grew higher. With the last of her powers Julia forced the wind to caress the embers one last time. Then she slumped to the floor. Its job done, the wind whistled hauntingly as it soared back through the occulum and left the Rotunda for parts unknown.

Julia heard footsteps approaching. As she struggled to her knees, several other Priory virgins came to help her up. Agrippina Sertorius, Julia’s most trusted Priory Sister, gave her a worried look. Unlike when they appeared in public, inside the Rotunda the women were allowed to go without their veils. Agrippina was five years Julia’s junior, with brown eyes and short red ringlets.

“It is done?” Agrippina asked.

Julia looked back at the flame to see that it again roared with life, nearly reaching the occulum. She nodded to her friend. Over the next month the embers surrounding the base of the flame would again dim and the flame would fade, forcing Julia once again to perform the sacred rite of the wind. The ritual had been performed thousands upon thousands of times here in this same place, by Priory Femiculi too numerous to name.

Because the Priory virgins were not protected by time enchantments, Julia would one day become too old to perform the ritual. When that day came, Agrippina Sertorius or another Priory virgin like her would be selected to become the reigning Femiculi. According to custom, Julia would be freed from her duties to live her final days as a highborn Rustannican krithian, with a substantial pension to provide for her living expenses and if she chose, she would be free to marry.

“Let us help you back to your quarters,” Agrippina said. “We need our rest-you above all. Vespasian’s meeting is to start in less than eight hours. He will want our counsel.”

Julia nodded. “I know,” she said. As she recalled the day’s occurrences, a pensive look crossed her face. “Vespasian seemed different today,” she said. “Did you notice? I suspect that he has some important issue that he wishes to discuss.” She sighed. “In any event, we will know soon enough.”

Agrippina and three other Priory Sisters escorted Julia to the single doorway that led to their quarters. Julia paused to confirm that the flame roared strongly in the center of the beautifully constructed dome.

Satisfied, she left the Rotunda at last.

AS TRISTAN, SHAILIHA, AND JESSAMAY RUSHED TOWARD the Archives entryway, the intense white light coming through the open doors nearly blinded them. Groping about with his free arm, Tristan found one of Shailiha’s hands and gripped it.

Just then the wondrous light began to dim. His vision clearing, Tristan saw the crippled wizard Faegan sitting in his wooden chair on wheels, his arms upraised. His face showed intense concentration; sweat had broken out on his brow. His arms shook from the great effort he was expending as he summoned the craft.

Aeolus, Wigg, and Abbey stood by Faegan’s chair, their arms also raised.

“What’s happening?” Tristan whispered to Jessamay. He let go of Shailiha’s hand and quietly sheathed his dreggan.

“I don’t know,” Jessamay whispered back.

After tense moments, the azure glow vanished at last, and Tristan gazed in amazement at the scene before him.

Books, scrolls, and parchments had been ripped from their shelves and covered the first floor in massive piles. Tristan couldn’t begin to imagine how long it might take to set things right.

Tristan beckoned Jessamay and Shailiha to follow him. Trying as best they could not to trample any documents, they slowly walked over to where Wigg, Aeolus, and Abbey stood beside Faegan’s chair.

“What happened here?” Tristan asked.

Faegan twisted around and looked sadly into Tristan’s face. The ancient wizard wore his familiar black robe. His unruly gray hair lay parted down the middle and reached nearly to his shoulders. Much of his face was covered by a shaggy gray beard, and his lustrous green eyes seemed to bore straight into Tristan’s soul. The prince could see that the normally mischievous wizard had been deeply sobered.

“I don’t know exactlywhat, ” Faegan answered. “But I believe I knowwhy. ”

Faegan swiveled his chair around and pointed to the wall on the far side of the room. Everyone turned to look.

Tristan knew that Faegan had brought the Tome-the primary treatise outlining the study of the craft-and the Scroll of the Vigors and the Scroll of the Vagaries here to the Archives for safekeeping. The wizard had used the craft to magically secure them within a five-sided transparent wizard’s box high against the marble wall. Only the Conclave mystics had been entrusted with the complex formula that could dismantle the dimly glowing box.

Tristan had approved of Faegan’s elegant solution. To the best of Faegan’s knowledge, the azure box was impervious to everything except the spell that allowed for its dismantling. Butsomething had gotten through. More than the box was illuminated. The Tome and both scrolls were glowing with the same bright white light that had only moments earlier engulfed the chamber. As Tristan gazed at the unprecedented glow, trepidation grew in his heart.