Robert Newcomb - The Scrolls of the Ancients

"Bring two chairs over here," she said.

"What good does the feather do?" Wigg asked curiously.

"Tell me something, Lead Wizard," she said, her eyes still locked on the feather. "Despite all of your knowledge of the craft, without the goose quill, how would you know how long to let the mixture cook?"

Smiling, Wigg nodded. "When the brown color reaches the ink line, the temperature is right," he mused. "Very clever."

"There's more to it than that," she answered. "Not only does the right temperature activate the potion, but it also assures that we will not burn her throat."

Saying nothing more, the two of them watched quietly as the brown stain gradually climbed higher and higher. When it finally met the ink line, Abbey swung the pot around and took it off the hook. She very quickly poured the entire potion into a cup.

"Now!" she ordered. "Before it cools! You understand what you must do?" she asked. "As soon as the potion starts down her throat, begin your work. And be warned, she may become difficult to control."

He nodded quickly and went to his daughter. He tilted up her head and carefully parted her lips.

As Abbey poured the mixture into Celeste's waiting mouth, he employed the craft, attempting to reach into the depths of his daughter's consciousness. At first, things seemed to go well. After a few moments Celeste began to stir and moan. Then, unbelievably, she opened her eyes, looked beseechingly up at her father, and started to cry.

It was just then that Wigg suddenly realized what both he and Abbey should have done, but had not.

Coming partly out of her stupor, Celeste suddenly bolted upright. Her eyes wide, she screamed, and her body began shaking uncontrollably. As if possessed, she began to raise both trembling hands at once. Understanding, Wigg tried to force her hands back down, but she was too strong for him.

"Hold her!" Abbey shouted.

Wigg briefly thought of using the craft to hold Celeste, but that would mean stopping the flow of his power into her, to help her. With a final, purely physical effort, Wigg was able to force Celeste's arms back down onto the bed. But suddenly her wrists turned up. Just as the azure bolts shot forth, Wigg let go of her, grabbed Abbey, and threw the herbmistress to the floor. Covering her body with his own, he closed his eyes, knowing that all he could do was continue to aid Celeste's mind and hope that it soon would be over.

A deafening cacophony of destruction came from every corner of the house: the sounds of breaking glass and falling stone.

Then, blessedly, it was over. Wigg carefully stood and gave Abbey a hand up. He found himself choked by dust. As his eyes cleared, he looked around.

The devastation was amazing. Only two of the walls were still standing, but one of them suddenly gave up the effort and collapsed inward, crashing to the cottage floor. Most of the roof was gone, revealing the stars twinkling innocently in the early evening sky. In the dim light he could see that the vast majority of Abbey's bottles and other containers had been blown out of the house and lay broken or open, scattered haphazardly across the nearby woods and fields. Wigg realized that they were probably quite unrecoverable. Almost every stick of furniture was demolished, and even the hearth had been rent in two, its bricks scattered across the floor like abandoned children's toys. Most of the chimney somehow still rose toward the sky like a crooked, broken finger, trying to point to the stars.

Miraculously, the wall still standing was the one holding the shelves full of Abbey's books, scrolls, and ledgers. For the most part, they and the others scattered about behind them seemed unharmed. The wind began whistling coldly through the remains of the cottage, swirling the dust and debris into little maelstroms as it went.

Celeste had collapsed on the bed. Her eyes fluttered once, then twice, before finally staying open. Rising weakly up on her elbows, she looked aghast at the remains of the cottage. She looked down at her fingertips and began to cry.

Wigg instinctively knew that she was crying not because of her physical pain, but at the sudden, inescapable realization of what she had done. Abbey-walking stiffly, mechanically, through the rubble of what had once been her home-was also crying.

Standing shakily, Celeste embraced her father. He held her tightly, knowing how close he had come to losing her.

"I did this, didn't I?" she asked, looking around again in horror. "Somehow, I just know it. But the last thing I remember is having tasted some honey. Did that really happen?" She looked quizzically around the smashed cottage once more.

"Where are we, Father?" she asked softly. Then her eyes closed again, and she collapsed into his arms.

Laying her back down on the bed, Wigg placed a palm on her forehead. For a time he closed his eyes, then smiled. He and Abbey had done it. This time Celeste's sleep was genuine, natural. When she finally awakened, she would be herself again.

With the exception of her first activated Forestallment, he mused. He would have to train her in its proper use as soon as possible.

He went to Abbey. In her trembling hands she was clutching a dusty book she had retrieved from the floor. He put a hand on her shoulder.

"I don't know what to say," he said softly. "I'm so sorry."

Abbey turned to him, her eyes wet. Then she did something unexpected. Stepping nearer, she put her arms around him and lay her head upon his shoulder. His gray robe soon became soaked with tears.

They stood that way for some time as the wind rustled through the remains of the cottage and the sounds of the night creatures came softly to their ears. Finally she took her head from his shoulder and looked into his eyes.

"It seems I will be coming with you after all," she said, her voice so small he could barely hear her. "I never expected to see you again."

Wigg pulled her closer.

"Nor I, you," he said softly. "Nor I, you."

Revelation

Eleven

It is within one of the Scrolls of the Ancients that those of the Vagaries shall procure a great weapon. The reading and employment thereof shall bring a shift in all things, including the lives of the Chosen Ones. Just as those who find and control the Scroll of the Vigors come yet another step closer to combining the two sides of magic, those controlling the Scroll of the Vagaries shall also be nearer their goal of complete, never-ending rule over the craft.

– PAGE 774, VOLUME II, OF THE VIGORS OF THE TOME

W ulfgar turned over luxuriously in the great bed. Even though he remained a prisoner, he could escape into his dreams of better times.

"And how are you this evening, Traveler?" his dream-self asked. Pushing aside the stallion's forelock, the boy briskly rubbed the horse's white-starred forehead. The black stallion snorted softly, eagerly stretching his neck for yet more of his keeper's attention.

From behind his back, Wulfgar produced a bright red apple. Traveler snorted again, and his ears pricked up. Wulfgar was about to play a game with him, and the horse knew it.

Wulfgar backed away slightly and held the apple higher, just out of Traveler's reach. The stallion pushed forward against the unforgiving oak door to his stall and let go a loud, impatient whinny.

Wulfgar smiled. "Not so fast," he said gently. "You know what you have to do first."

The horse impatiently shook his head, forelock and mane flying haphazardly. Finally there came the sound of a single shod hoof banging loudly, one time only, on the floor of the stall.

Smiling, Wulfgar produced a folding knife and began slicing the apple into pieces. As he held the first of the apple slices out, Traveler took it between his long, uniform teeth and munched contentedly.