Robert Newcomb - The Scrolls of the Ancients

Beckoning the women to one side, the wizard raised an arm and caused the heavy vat of mixed oils to rise and move through the air to land gently just behind the rows of waiting glassware. He caused the hinged top of the vat to open, exposing the oils within, then wheeled his chair to the opposite side of the room, indicating that Abbey and Shailiha should join him.

"What happens now?" Shailiha asked in a hushed tone, as if her voice might somehow upset things.

"Now I am to mix the oil from the floating gardens with those in the vat," Faegan answered softly. He pursed his lips. "After that, even I do not know what will occur, so stay alert."

Raising an arm again, the wizard caused the vial in his lap to rise into the air and float directly above the open vat. The vial opened and slowly poured its contents into the mixture of other oils. Shailiha held her breath.

Precious seconds ticked by, but nothing happened. Then the entire vat took on the azure glow of the craft and began to revolve. At first its movements were slow and gentle, as if some unseen force were trying to stir its contents. But soon it was rocking violently, spinning on the edge of its bottom, occasionally leaving the surface of the table. Faegan's eyes went wide with worry that the vat might spill, rendering his oils forever unusable.

There came a great howling noise, and the contents of the vat rose into the air in a whirling, multicolored maelstrom of oil. On and on it came, until all of it had cleared the vat. Free of its container, it spun faster yet. Then centrifugal force began forcing the oil to fly outward, gradually separating into individual pools that hovered just above the lips of the glassware.

Finally the howling stopped, and the oil pools poured themselves into the various containers all at once. Then things went silent, the oils settling into their containers and finally growing still.

But surprisingly, the vat began to shake again. As it did, elegant, glowing letters rose from it, snaking their way up in a column, like smoke rising from a campfire. On and on they came, separating into groups, each group finally collecting itself before one of the various beakers. Then the groups of letters began to swirl, rearranging themselves into Old Eutracian words that landed on the sides of the glassware. The azure glow finally departed. Stunned, Faegan wheeled himself over to the table. Abbey and Shailiha followed him.

It was a very rare thing to see the master wizard surprised, but he was clearly awestruck by what had just occurred. He picked up one after another of the full beakers and slowly examined them. After reading each of the labels he would hold the beaker to the light, then carefully smell its contents. After randomly regarding about a dozen of them he let go a happy cackle and gleefully slammed one hand down on one arm of his chair. In a display of pure joy, he levitated his chair a bit, then spun it around in the air.

"We've done it!" he shouted. "The oils have been separated and labeled. This is unprecedented! Had I been forced to use the equalizing spoons, the hue harmonizer, and the Chart of Herbal Hues, this task could have taken a lifetime! What we have just witnessed will change herbmastery forever!"

Shailiha was pleased that Faegan was so impressed, but her overriding concern was still the search for her brother. "Can Abbey now use the oil you mentioned to look for Tristan?" she asked eagerly.

"Yes, yes, of course," Faegan answered absently, almost as if he had forgotten the real reason why they had just gone through all of this.

Wheeling his chair up and down the rows of beakers, he began searching for one labeled "Unction of Scythegrass Root." After a good bit of searching he finally gave another cackle and held up a beaker that contained a dark violet oil.

"This must be it," he said. He held it carefully to the light, then took a long, expert sniff. After a moment, he grinned broadly.

"Unction of scythegrass, all right," he announced happily. "I'd bet my life on it!" He looked back at the two women. "Now we go up to the courtyard!" And taking the precious oil, he led the way back up through the labyrinthine passages of the Redoubt.

Once in the open expanse of the courtyard, Faegan turned to Abbey. "A drop of Shailiha's blood should work, shouldn't it?" he asked her. Abbey nodded.

Faegan turned to Shailiha. "Please hold out one hand," he said.

She immediately did so. Pointing an index finger toward her, he caused a tiny pinprick to form, and a single drop of her blood was released. It rose from her finger and came to hover before them in the stillness of the late afternoon air. Satisfied, Faegan handed the beaker of violet oil to Abbey.

"You may begin," he said.

After pouring a small amount of the oil onto the ground, Abbey produced flint and steel from one of the pockets of her dress. As she struck them together, the resulting spark launched itself obediently toward the pool of oil, and a small flame erupted.

After releasing a few more drops of the precious oil down into the flame she stood back, using her gift to force the azure fire higher and higher. When it was at last about two meters wide and five meters tall she crooked one finger, causing the flame to divide into two distinct but unequal-sized branches. Curling her finger again, she pointed to the right, and the smaller of the two flames flattened itself out, coming dangerously close to scorching her hands and her face.

Reaching into the air, she collected the single drop of Shailiha's blood onto one of her fingertips and held it high.

A rectangular window began to form midway up the body of the undulating blaze. Hoping against hope, Shailiha came as close to it as she dared, trying to see what was forming within its midst. Equally mesmerized, Faegan wheeled his chair nearer.

At first Shailiha thought she could see Tristan, sitting in a chair and surrounded by other men and women. But the view was maddeningly fuzzy.

She turned to look at the herbmistress. As she did, the suddenly terrified look on Abbey's face told her that something had just gone horribly, dangerously wrong. For a moment Shailiha saw the herbmistress turn her eyes from her creation to look strangely at the princess; then she immediately gazed back at her flame, her mouth open with horror, and gestured at the blaze as if she were desperately trying to change something about it.

Then, as if in slow motion, she used every bit of her strength to turn and lunge at the wizard and the princess, knocking Shailiha down and sending Faegan's chair tumbling over backward.

Amidst a great thunderclap of heat and fire, Abbey's gazing flame exploded.

Forty-five

S itting next to the sailmaker, with the deafening, palpable tension of the Wing and Claw raining down around him, Tristan felt his heart racing. Horrified, he helplessly watched the man he assumed to be Rolf pull even harder on Tyranny's hair in an effort to force the prince to reveal himself. Even though she refused to cry out, Tristan could see that she was in desperate pain, and there was nothing that Scars could do to help her. If the three of them were to somehow survive this, it would be completely up to Tristan.

Tyranny's former lover was everything Tyranny and Scars had said he would be. He was tall, hard-muscled, and somewhat older than the prince-perhaps thirty-five Seasons of New Life. Sandy blond hair fell haphazardly down around his face and shoulders. Part of it was woven into two narrow, tight braids that hung alongside the left jaw, their ends capped with small onyx ornaments. His dark blue eyes were hard and unforgiving. He wore a bright red, sleeveless shirt; tight-fitting tan breeches; black knee boots; and a bright red sash around his waist. Numerous tattoos and scars could be seen on his chest and his chiseled arms. At his left hip he wore a saber; an empty dagger sheath was at his right, tied down to his thigh.