Robert Newcomb - The Scrolls of the Ancients

Tristan had been here for the last three days as well. He had brought with him not only the kisa he had promised Tyranny, but also the letters of marque the lead wizard had prepared, both of which were now safely aboard the frigate she had chosen as her personal flagship.

In truth, Tristan had been glad to come here, for there had been little for him to do in Tammerland. With Grizelda and the Harlequin dead and Marcus already questioned, there was no one left to interrogate. Since Wigg, Faegan, and Celeste were the only three among them who could read Old Eutracian, they had vanished into seclusion in the depths of the Redoubt in order to attempt to unravel the mysteries of the Scrolls of the Ancients. They were all desperate to discover the purpose it served, and why Wulfgar was on the way with his demonslaver fleet.

As he looked out over Tyranny's fleet, Tristan smiled. The mainsails of the twelve frigates she had chosen now carried a bright red image of the Paragon painted squarely in their centers. In addition, each also flew his blue-and-gold battle flag high atop its mainmast.

He took a deep breath of sea air and knew he would miss being out there again. A part of him longed simply to cast away his responsibilities and go with her and Scars. The sea had quickly become a part of his blood, and he had greatly enjoyed the freedom and sense of adventure that had come with it.

Looking down the knoll, he saw Tyranny and Scars approaching. As she came nearer, the privateer smiled.

"Traax told us we'd find you here," she said quietly as she turned to look out over the fleets. The breeze was having its way with her short, dark hair. "We'll be leaving soon," she said, her voice cracking a bit. "I want to clear the delta before the evening winds abate."

"I understand," Tristan answered quietly.

There was a genuine look of both sadness and admiration in Scars' eyes as he held out one of his huge, meaty paws. "It has been a pleasure," he said sincerely.

Taking the giant's hand, Tristan gripped it firmly. "And for me," he said. Then he smiled. "If you come across any more demonslavers, twist a couple of them apart for me, will you?"

Smiling, Scars nodded back. Then he turned and walked slowly back toward the shore, where Tyranny's personal skiff lay waiting.

"Have you picked out a name for your new flagship?" Tristan asked her.

"Yes," she answered. "She is now the Reprisal. Appropriate, don't you think?"

Looking down to the sea, Tristan's eyes finally found the ship. She was tall and proud, just like her new captain, and his battle flag snapped back and forth atop her mainmast.

"Yes," he answered softly. "Yes, I do. Where will you go first?"

"Farpoint. It is a short sail from here. There we will release the slaves and hire the additional crew we need to man the ships properly. It shouldn't take long. Then it will be on to the open sea to search again for my brother and begin patrolling for you and your wizards. Whatever demonslavers or remaining pirates we run across we will do our best to make short work of, I promise you." Then she looked down at the ground and began using the toe of one boot to push some grass back and forth, as if she suddenly needed something to do.

"She's lovely, Tristan," she said softly, as if it was suddenly difficult for her to get the words out. "Celeste is a very lucky woman."

Not quite knowing what to say, Tristan nodded.

Then Tyranny smiled again, and looked back up. "But this isn't good-bye forever, you know," she added. "You can't get rid of me that easily. I still have to come back to the palace every three months to split the booty and give you my report, remember? So it seems I'll still occasionally be in your hair. At least for a while, anyway."

Then she came closer, looked deeply into his eyes, and gave him a soft, slow kiss on one cheek.

"Farewell, Chosen One," she said softly. "I shall always remember you." Saying nothing more, she turned and followed Scars to the shore.

Tristan stood on the knoll and watched as they climbed into the skiff, and the giant first mate rowed them out. Shortly thereafter, the freshly painted sails of the Reprisal snapped open, and she gracefully moved away from the delta. The eleven others in the newly formed fleet followed suit, as one by one they heeled southeast, toward Farpoint. Slowly the Paragon image on their sails shrank, until they finally crept over the horizon and were gone.

B y the time the Minions returned him to Tammerland, night had fallen. Tristan walked from the courtyard into the palace and directly down into the Redoubt. Eventually he found himself standing before the doors of the Hall of Blood Records.

Just before Tristan had departed for the coast, Wigg and Faegan had mentioned that they were going to enchant all of the doors in the Redoubt to temporarily open without the use of the craft, so that Celeste might be able to come and go among these chambers more freely, without a wizard present. They had also made mention of the fact that they would do the same for the thousands of drawers containing the blood signature records, should they need someone to fetch one or more of the documents for them. Time was precious, and the wizards were striving to be as efficient as they could.

Hoping that the two mystics had been true to their word-but also that he would not find them here working-Tristan grasped one of the gold doorknobs and gave it a turn. The massive mahogany doors obediently parted, and he walked in. There was no one there.

As he had expected, all of the oil lamps in the great room were burning. Looking over to one side, he found what it was he had come to see: the Tome of the Paragon.

The massive, gilt-edged, white leather book lay open on its pedestal, the special light in the ceiling shining down on it as always. As he ran his hand lovingly over the ancient, wrinkled pages, he tried both to understand everything that had happened to him, and to beat back the disappointment he felt in his heart. The beautifully penned words in Old Eutracian stared back up at him uselessly, their meaning completely hidden from his mind.

He had, of course, known he wouldn't be able to read it without wearing the Paragon around his neck; that was not why he had come. But for some reason he had suddenly felt an unexplainable, irresistible urge to be near the great book. And as he stood there looking down at it, he realized that this was the first time he had ever been truly alone with it.

He finally took his eyes from the Tome and looked over to the many long, flat drawers that held the blood signatures. After staring at them for several quiet moments, he decided to give it a try.

"Prince Tristan of the House of Galland," he said loudly, much the same way he had heard Wigg and Faegan do several times before. At first he felt immensely foolish, speaking out alone into the room this way. Foolish, that was, until one of the drawers obediently opened and a sheet of parchment rose from it, to float over and land on the nearby meeting table. Tristan sat down in front of it.

Taking a deep breath, he looked at the azure signature on the page. It was the one made most recently, when Wigg and Faegan had been trying to determine whether Nicholas had indeed been Tristan's son. He immediately recognized the soft, fluid lines at the top that had come from his mother Morganna, and the harder, sharper lines at the bottom from the blood of his father, Nicholas I. But no one else in the world possessed a signature that was azure.

Except for Nicholas, he reminded himself. And he is dead. As Tristan continued to regard the swirling, azure lines, the feelings of disdain for his blood surfaced again.

Then he heard the door hinges creak a bit, and he turned to look. Wigg stood quietly in the door frame. There was no telling how long he had been there.