Robert Newcomb - The Scrolls of the Ancients

As Janus left, several demonslavers gathered around Wulfgar, presumably forming a security squad to escort him to his quarters.

Strong hands suddenly gripped Twenty-Nine from behind. A knee was slammed into his back, and he was muscled around the end of the table.

His foot shackles rattling, he was herded roughly toward the far wall, where two dark, stone doorways waited. Over one was carved the word Talis. Over the other, R'talis. A steep stairway led upward from each, curving around and out of sight.

Just before being shoved through the door marked Talis, he forced his head around one final time to look at Wulfgar. Perhaps he could give him a look of hope, as Wulfgar had done for him.

But Wulfgar was already gone.

A trident at his naked back, Twenty-Nine began climbing the steep, rough-hewn stairway.

Seven

"O x sorry," the huge Minion said, wringing his hands. "Ox should been inside palace with Chosen One, not outside with troops. Not happen again. Ox promise."

Tristan smiled over at the slow-witted but loyal Minion, knowing full well how ashamed the warrior felt. The prince had repeatedly tried to reassure him that what had happened had not been his fault, and that Krassus would have slipped by the Minion troops anyway. But as Tristan's supposed bodyguard, Ox hadn't agreed and had continued to castigate himself.

Deciding there was little more he could do to change the warrior's opinion, Tristan uncoiled his long legs and looked out the window, admiring the Eutracian landscape as it flew by below.

The prince, Ox, Shailiha, and the wizard Faegan were sitting inside one of the Minion litters, being carried through the sky by six of the winged troops. Another six warriors flew alongside as guards. They had been traveling this way for several hours, and it would take at least two more to reach the coastal city of Farpoint.

Sitting directly across from Tristan, Shailiha was obviously nervous. She did not like traveling by flying litter, even if it was with her brother. She would occasionally stick her head out, trying to adjust to the fact that she was soaring along so quickly, several thousand feet above the earth. Tristan gave her a wide smile, reassuring her it would be all right. She smiled back tentatively.

Faegan had immediately fallen asleep-or so it seemed. But Tristan doubted that the wily wizard was actually dozing, suspecting that Faegan was instead absorbed in his wizardly contemplations. The Paragon hung around Faegan's neck, its vibrant, red light shimmering from within as always.

Three days had passed since Krassus had breached the security of the palace. To the wizards' dismay, Tristan and Shailiha had insisted on traveling to Farpoint to witness firsthand whatever it was that Krassus had taunted them about. Wigg, although improving daily, was still too weak to make the trip with them. And so Faegan had come; both to protect them, if necessary, and to lend his experienced wizard's eyes to their observations. Celeste had stayed at the palace to tend Wigg.

The plan was to have the Minions drop them in the woods just outside the city. They would walk into town, and once there, would hire a carriage and tour the streets anonymously, trying to find out what they could. Ox and his Minions would stay in the woods with the litters, waiting for their return.

Tristan rubbed his face, not liking the thick, dark beard Faegan had conjured for him. He had never really had a full beard, and he would be glad to be rid of it.

Faegan had given Shailiha a change of hair color, from blond to black. A simple plaid peasant's dress replaced her gown. These changes in appearance were the results of new craft calculations the old wizard had been trying to achieve, but the calculations were still limited in scope, as were their applications.

Thinking back to the day of Krassus' attack, Tristan scowled. Not only had the traitorous wizard invaded the palace with ease, but his doing so had resulted in several amazing revelations. Over the past three days, Wigg and Faegan had adamantly refused to elaborate on these mysteries. That would be like them: to hold back information, at least until they had figured out more of the pieces to the puzzle.

But Tristan sensed there were other reasons for the crusty wizards' silence. And if Wigg wouldn't talk, perhaps Faegan now would-especially since the lead wizard wasn't here to listen.

Tristan stretched out one leg to nudge Faegan's foot.

"Faegan," he said gently, "are you awake?"

"Of course," the master wizard answered rather sourly, his eyes still closed. "Bouncing along in one of these contraptions, thousands of feet in the air, who could possibly be asleep?"

Looking at Shailiha, Tristan grinned.

"I have a question for you," he said to the wizard.

Faegan sighed, "What is it?" he asked grumpily. The ancient, gray-green eyes remained closed.

"Are partials endowed?" Tristan asked. "I always thought that people were either endowed, or they weren't."

Faegan's left eye suddenly opened, to stare directly at the prince. With another sigh, he opened the other eye and sat up, shaking off his previous thoughts. Taking a deep breath, he raised his arms and stretched his back. "It's not that simple," he said with a smile. "And I suppose that without Wigg here to castigate me, you expect to hear all about it, don't you?"

Tristan grinned, realizing that Faegan was about to give him at least some of his answers-if for no other reason than to eventually annoy the lead wizard.

"Partials are not endowed in the classic sense," Faegan answered, "but given the proper training, some of the more powerful of them can perform certain acts that unendowed persons cannot."

"Such as?" Shailiha asked.

"Skills such as blaze-gazing, or being able to force someone to reveal the truth, even against his or her will. Healing or causing illness. Also, it is rumored that some could perform several arcane forms of beast-mastery. All of these talents require the use of some form of organic life, such as that which comes from the ground or the water. The most gifted of them often became what we called herbmasters or herbmistresses, using specific combinations of plants, herbs, and oils to refine and strengthen their craft even further. Most wizards had little to fear from them, as partial adepts-as we called those partials who practiced the craft-were not particularly powerful."

"But why would a partial's gifts be limited to only certain aspects of the craft?" Shailiha asked. "That doesn't make sense to me."

"I can understand your confusion," Faegan replied. "As is true with so many things of magic, the answer has to do with the Paragon." He held the square-cut, bloodred stone up for inspection.

"If you were to count the facets of the surface of the Paragon, you would find there to be twenty-five in all," he told her. "Just as there are twenty-five major facets of the craft, such as the Kinetic, the Sympathetic, and the Formative. The facet, for example, allows the practitioner certain dynamic uses of the craft, such as the throwing of azure bolts. The Sympathetic facet allows the user certain gifts associated with sound, touch, and vibration. And as you might well guess, the Formative facet has to do with the conjuring and altering of things-or their disappearance. These are but three of the twenty-five."

Neither Tristan nor Shailiha had ever heard this, and it put the Paragon in an entirely new light.

"How do you know all of this?" Shailiha asked.

"This information came to us from the preface to the Tome," Faegan answered. "The Ones Who Came Before constructed the jewel as the living passageway between endowed blood and the orbs of the Vigors and the Vagaries-the two fountainheads of all that is the craft. The twenty-five facets that the Ones cut into the stone represent what they considered to be the most important disciplines of the craft."