Robert Newcomb - The Scrolls of the Ancients

As the great doors closed with finality, Wulfgar heard the bolt scratch its way across on the other side.

His chest was heaving. Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath. He stood there that way for some time, listening to the crashing of the waves as they broke on the rocky shore hundreds of feet below. For a short, delicious moment, he thought he could still smell the perfume she had been wearing. Then he opened his eyes and walked to the balcony.

Looking down, he saw the plate and teacup Serena had just used. As if it could somehow bring her back, he took a sip. It was still warm.

Even so, his loneliness was already again so great that it was almost as if she had never been here. He hung his head for a moment. Some of what he had just said and done to her sickened him, but it had been necessary. And despite it, he still had no idea whether he would ever see her again, or whether he had helped her plight.

Looking out over the sea, he watched sadly as the white-sailed masts of yet two more ships broke over the western horizon.

Fifteen

K rassus looked at the ancient parchment lying on the table before him. The oil lamp hanging from the ceiling cast its golden light down upon it as it countermatched the ceaseless, rhythmic swaying of the ship. The beautiful script on the dry, ancient document seemed to call to his blood, beckoning him to enter its timeless, infinite wonder.

The fabled document was truly majestic, just as Nicholas had promised. About one meter long and half a meter in diameter, it was rolled around a solid gold rod with a fluted, golden knob at each end. A wide gold band engraved in Old Eutracian secured the massive document around its middle. Heavy marble bookends kept it from rolling off the table.

He stood and stretched, then walked across the sumptuous room and swung open one of the stained-glass windows that lined the curved, graceful stern of his flagship. Dappled sunshine bounced off the froth-tipped waves, and the salty sea air immediately invaded the room. The air was brisk, and the Sojourner was making good time as she ran before the wind.

He smiled. He already had the male of the Chosen Ones-and the Scroll of the Vagaries. Two prizes remained to be secured: Wulfgar, the bastard son of Morganna, late queen of Eutracia, and the Scroll of the Vigors.

Obtaining the first scroll had been simple enough. Indeed, had its mate been there with it as Nicholas had promised, he would now have them both. But when he had finally found and entered the glowing, enchanted base of one of the destroyed Gates of Dawn, he had been shocked to find only the Scroll of the Vagaries present. The other had obviously been taken, but by whom? And why hadn't this one been taken, as well? The gold that made up their center rods and end knobs alone was worth a king's ransom. These confounding questions had plagued him ever since that fateful day, and he meant to have his answers.

The mystery had led him to two frightening conclusions. First, whoever had taken the other scroll probably had no idea of its overall importance, or he would have returned to steal the second one. And second, if the thief truly did not know what he had, then the missing scroll could be in grave danger-the gold in it melted down, for instance, and the pages tossed away or destroyed outright.

His need to find the other scroll intensified with each passing day. But he also needed to get to the Citadel as soon as possible, to begin the other part of his task.

Only one loose end remained to be dealt with. As he had learned when invading the wizards' minds, there was yet another place in Eutracia where the herbs, blossoms, and roots used in blaze-gazing had been collected in abundance-and his plan for that problem would be accomplished this very day, far away from where the Sojourner sailed toward the secret island in the sea.

Turning from the window, Krassus looked at the two other persons in the room. Grizelda sat in a chair on the opposite side of the table. She looked tired and worn. Under Krassus' orders, she had been using her gazing blaze to try to locate the Scroll of the Vigors. Her approach had been to employ bits of blank vellum taken from the edges of the scroll already in their possession in the hope that they would be enough of a match to let her view the whereabouts of its mate. So far she had been unsuccessful.

This greatly angered Krassus, for it might also mean that there was no way to find the missing scrolls from a distance. Or, worse, it might indicate that the scroll he sought had already been destroyed. These were not scenarios he was willing to accept.

The other person seated at the table was Tristan. Bound to his chair, he was still unconscious due to the spell cast over him. He looked pale and drawn, and the dark stubble on his face was becoming thicker by the day. His head slumped down toward his chest.

Krassus looked back at Grizelda. "I think it's time for the good prince to rejoin the world," he said simply.

The herbmistress' face darkened with worry. "Begging your pardon, my lord, but are you sure this is wise? You said yourself that he can be very dangerous, even though he is still untrained. And the scroll is here, in this very room. Do you really want him to see it?" Her face suddenly pinched with fear that she had just overstepped her bounds.

"What difference could it possibly make?" Krassus replied confidently. "Given his situation, he cannot possibly harm us. And I want him to see it. I want the Chosen One to know how close we are to vanquishing his wizards before he is forever confined within the purgatory that is the Citadel." Pausing for a moment, Krassus' face became harder.

"Besides, he is of little importance," he continued. "If he dies, he dies. And if he survives the voyage, he will live out his days as a slave on the Citadel-unless I finally decide to kill him, of course. Either way, I win."

With that Krassus narrowed his eyes, and the glow of the craft began to surround the prince. Moaning softly, Tristan began to stir.

Weakly, he lifted his face. His eyes were glazed, and his jaw was slack. Drool dripped from the corners of his mouth.

"Welcome back, Chosen One," Krassus said quietly. "You have been gone five days. You are groggy, but you are basically well, and should suffer no lasting effects from my ministrations. I trust your dreams were pleasant."

Trying to focus his eyes, Tristan looked blankly around the room. Through the haze of his vision he saw Grizelda, and the scroll resting on the table before him. But his first concerns were not for them, or for himself.

"Faegan… and Shailiha," he croaked anxiously, his throat so dry it might have been made of paper. "Are they-"

"Dead?" Krassus smiled. "No, I'm sorry to say they are not. But it wasn't for my lack of trying. The bridge Faegan so cleverly conjured allowed them to get away, but it seems the poor quality horse you were on didn't make it to the other side. Your sister and the crippled wizard were lifted into the air by your Minions just as my slavers began to corner them in the woods."

Tristan turned his attention to the haggard woman seated next to him at the table. "And this must be your partial adept," he rasped. "The woman you bragged about… in the palace… She was with you on the docks. She's lovely…" His head slumped forward again.

"How droll," Krassus said. "But I suggest you save your sense of humor. Where you're going, you will surely need it." As he smiled, the creases in his thin cheeks deepened.

Raising his head, Tristan tried desperately to clear his mind. He looked at the majestic scroll on the table.

"The Scroll of the Vagaries?" he asked.

"Yes," Krassus answered simply.

"And my brother, Wulfgar?" Tristan asked. "What of him?"

"Unfortunately, he still eludes my grasp." Krassus sighed. "But it is only a matter of time until we find him."