The Scrolls of the Ancients

CHAPTER

Twelve

"Y ou had best be successful this time, Grizelda," Krassus said sternly. "I am growing tired of your failures."

Swaying on her knees, the haggard herbmistress looked up at Krassus. As she did, her stomach lurched again.

She had been seasick for the last four days, and even a dose of nerveweed had not helped. But she was not too ill to understand that the next few moments could mean either the continuance of her life, or a torturous death at the hands of the wizard, should she displease him.

After vomiting into the nearby bucket for what seemed the thousandth time, she slowly wiped her mouth on the sleeve of her tattered robe. Regaining her composure, she surveyed the shifting deck of the Sojourner, her lord's flagship, as she made her way east across the Sea of Whispers. Alabaster-skinned demonslavers hurried about their duties, crewing the ship and keeping the hundreds of slaves chained belowdecks under tight control. Sojourner's bright, white sails were full, and seawater occasionally splashed up over her decks as she pitched up and down in the restless sea. Two other frigates, the Wayfarer and the Stalwart, followed in her wake.

After the herbs and potions Krassus and Grizelda had stolen from Abbey's cottage had been loaded aboard, the three ships had departed Farpoint. They were making good time running before the steady, westerly winds.

Krassus turned to the demonslaver standing next to him. The monster immediately came to attention.

"Make sure all the crow's nests remain manned upon each of our vessels," Krassus ordered. "Signal them to continue keeping an especially sharp lookout, not only on the sea, but also in the sky. With the capture of the prince, I have no doubt that the wizards have sent their Minions after us. I believe we are already well beyond their flying range, but Wigg and Faegan are nothing if not resourceful."

The demonslaver nodded curtly. "My lord," he answered with a bow. He then left to fulfill his orders. Krassus returned his attention to the woman on her knees.

He and Grizelda were on the aft deck, the mizzen sail having just been furled. This would reduce their speed somewhat, but it couldn't be helped. What Grizelda was about to attempt was hazardous, especially with a full sail directly overhead: an uncontrolled fire on board ship in the middle of the Sea of Whispers was something to be avoided at all costs. Besides, performing these rituals in the confines of the chambers belowdecks was unthinkable.

When Tristan had been rendered unconscious in the alley by the slavers, he had been immediately taken to Krassus, then placed aboard the Sojourner. There Krassus had induced a deep sleep over him, and the prince was being force-fed liquid nourishment. The beard Faegan had conjured for him had since disappeared, and in its place there was now a shorter, two-day growth of dark, natural stubble. Still dressed in his usual clothes but his weapons gone, he lay peacefully belowdecks in a windowless stateroom guarded by demonslavers.

Krassus smiled. Capturing the prince had been an unexpected treat-a gamble risked and won. Satisfied, he took a deep breath of the nighttime sea air. But the cold, clear saltiness was too much for his lungs, and he let go a small cough. Several droplets of his blood spewed forth to hit the deck, where they immediately began twisting their way into familiar signatures. Sighing angrily, he wiped them away with the sole of his boot.

Thinking, he turned again to look out over the whitecapped ocean, where waves danced continually in the moonlight. Although Tristan was still untrained in the ways of the craft, Nicholas had warned Krassus that the prince's blood-the strongest in the world-possessed Forestallments that had been placed there by Failee, the failed first mistress of the Coven.

Krassus had been well trained by Nicholas in the art of imbuing Forestallments. The powers imparted thusly into the blood were delayed, or "forestalled," to be brought to life later, either activated at a predetermined time or catalyzed into being by the performance of certain specified acts by their possessor. If the Forestallment was time activated, there was no way to know when it might show itself, unless one knew the nature of the spell to begin with. If it was event activated, it could manifest at any time, provided that the correct action or sequence of actions had been taken by the person in whose blood the Forestallment had been placed. Krassus had no way of knowing the nature of the Forestallments that Failee had placed in Tristan's blood. Her did not want to accidentally activate one of those as-yet-untapped gifts. He would have to be exceedingly careful in his handling of the prince.

His plans were proceeding well, but he could not afford to become complacent. The two ancient wizards of the Redoubt remained very powerful. To defeat them and also accomplish his other goals, he would have to be very clever indeed. And he would have to get his hands on both the Scrolls of the Ancients and Wulfgar, Morganna's bastard son.

True, he still did not have the Scroll of the Vigors, and leaving Eutracia without having found it gave him great pause. But he had the Scroll of the Vagaries, and the work of his consuls back at the Citadel needed to begin. Besides, once his herbmistress was finally able to view the other scroll, he could always instruct his demonslavers to retrieve it for him, wherever it might be.

"The prince continues to sleep belowdecks?" Grizelda asked, breaking into Krassus' thoughts.

Krassus placed his hands into the opposite sleeves of his blue-and-gray robe. "Yes," he said. "Although untrained, he can still be quite dangerous, as he has so adeptly proven a number of times. As a precaution, I have decided to have him transferred to one of the other ships. Under no circumstances shall the Chosen One and the Scroll of the Vagaries be allowed to continue sharing the same vessel. Should the scroll fall into the hands of the wizards in Tammerland, our cause might be lost."

He smiled again. "I wonder if the good prince knows how to row," he added nastily. Suddenly impatient, his dark gaze bored its way into her.

"Now then," he said. "I suggest you get on with it."

Krassus smiled. He was gradually finding himself a reluctant admirer of the old woman's talents. Before finding her, he had located several partial adepts, but none had the particular combination of talents he hoped would help him fulfill his oath to Nicholas. As a precaution, he had killed them on the spot. He wished he had killed Abbey, too. But he hadn't dared, fearing he might need her as leverage with Wigg. Should she ever cross his path again, he swore, he would not make the same mistake twice.

In order to accomplish his goals, he needed to find Wulfgar. In addition, there was no telling what other persons or things of the craft he might need to collect while on his path to victory. For this, only a well-trained partial adept would do. He immediately set out to locate one.

He had finally discovered Grizelda in the city of Warwick Watch. She had been doing sleight of hand and other, lesser aspects of her arts for the amusement of the crowds, apparently living on whatever meager offerings they might deign to throw into her bowl. He had watched her for some time, then closed his eyes and reached out to her blood with his specialized senses. Finally sure, he waited until the small crowd had dispersed and the shadows of the day were beginning to lengthen. Picking up her meager things, the haggard woman counted her coins carefully, then tied them up in a dirty rag and scurried into the depths of a nearby alley.

Following her, Krassus saw her stop at the end of the alley, near the protection of its angled, dead end and the large wooden box that sat against one wall. A few rusty cooking utensils lay nearby. Crouching, she set down her makeshift coin bag and began to light a small fire.

Silently, Krassus came to stand before her.

She did not see him until the length of his shadow crawled toward the flames. Looking up, she snatched her coin bag to her breast and scrabbled back toward the false security of the dilapidated wooden box.

Krassus regarded her carefully. She was very old. Her long, gray hair fell crazily over her shoulders, and her face was weather-beaten, presumably from living for so many years out of doors. Wrinkling his nose, he wondered how long it had been since she had bathed. Her plain, black robe, tattered and worn, covered a thin, unremarkable figure.

"Who are you?" she demanded. Her piercing, dark eyes betrayed a sharp intelligence. "What do you want?"

"I know what you are," he answered quietly. "You may fool the simple, unendowed peasants in the streets, but not me."

"What are you talking about?" she shot back. "Go away and leave me alone."

Krassus smiled. "This is what I'm talking about, crone," he answered. He raised one hand, and the azure glow of the craft appeared about her. As he moved his index finger slightly, a small incision began to form in her right palm. Several drops of her blood fell to the floor of the alleyway. Looking down, Krassus watched them twist their way through the thirsty dirt, forming signatures.

As he had suspected, they were partials.

Only the softer, curvier halves revealed themselves. The woman's mother had been her only parent with endowed blood.

"You're a partial," he said calmly. "And because your blood reveals a signature without the aid of waters from the Caves, it is also clear that you have been trained. That makes you a partial adept. Tell me, what are your skills? I may have need of you." He was becoming more certain of his find by the moment.

The old woman shook her head. "I have no such skills," she said sullenly. "I am but a poor street performer, trying to make a living. Go away and leave me be." She inched farther backward a bit, closer to the wooden box. Her knuckles whitened from her tight grip around the coin bag.

"Oh, you are far more than a simple woman of the street," Krassus countered. "The blood signatures prove that." His jaw hardened. If he was forced to use violence against her in order to learn the truth, then so be it. All he cared about was getting his answers. "What is your name?" he asked harshly.

"Grizelda. What of it?"

"Tell me, Grizelda, are you really what you seem?"

No answer came.

"Are you a trained herbmistress, perhaps?" he asked.

Again, only silence reigned.

His patience growing thin, he took another step closer. "Are you a blaze-gazer, as well?"

"The answers to your questions depend," she said, sensing an opportunity. She stood up, and he saw that she was taller than he had first thought.

"On what?" he asked, knowing full well what her answer would be.

She took a step toward him. "On what you're willing to pay," she answered craftily. "As you can see, I do not eat well. My stomach has long pressed emptily against the insides of my ribs." For the first time, she smiled crookedly at him.

Krassus had suddenly had enough. He raised his arm, and the familiar azure glow of the craft appeared in the air between them and coalesced into a recognizable shape: a human hand.

With a twitch of one of Krassus' fingers, the hand tore across the remaining distance to the woman and wrapped its glowing fingers around her wrinkled throat. The force of the impact was so great that it lifted her off her feet, slamming her hard against her wooden box. She began to choke. Drool frothed at one corner of her mouth, spilled over to snake crazily down her chin. Her body shook with the convulsions rattling her starving lungs.

Twisting and turning his hand slightly, Krassus pointed to her shoes. The laces began to untie themselves. Then the shoes slowly slipped from her feet and fell to the ground. With a simple turn of his head, Krassus caused the small fire the old woman had lit to rise slowly into the air and come to rest just below her. Burnt-orange shadows darted across the darkness of the alleyway.

Krassus turned his hand again, and the flames licked upward at the soles of her feet. Her scream came out as a rasp.

"Now then," he said quietly. "Let's try again. Are you a blaze-gazer?"

The old woman nodded.

"Very good," Krassus answered. "You are now one-third of the way toward staying alive. Tell me, and do not lie. Believe me, you don't have the time. Are you a trained herbmistress?"

Again came a single nod. Her face was turning from red to light blue, and her toes were twitching involuntarily, trying to escape the flames.

"I'm impressed," he said. "Two out of three." Just to see her suffer, he paused before asking his final question. The moments ticked by slowly, dangerously, as the flames scalded her naked feet.

"And are you protected by someone's time enchantments?" he asked intently.

She shook her head.

Finally satisfied, he extinguished the flame and let her go. She tumbled hard to the dirt of the alley, her feet badly burned and her lungs crying out for air.

"You'll do," he said simply. "You're coming with me. I have need of your services." With the toe of one boot, he lifted her chin. "Provided, of course, you have been telling the truth," he added. "But that we will discover later, won't we, Grizelda?"

The haggard herbmistress managed to come to all fours. "How do you… know… I won't run… away?" she gasped. With a cry, she collapsed again and curled up on the dirt of the alley, protectively gripping her tortured feet.

"That's simple," Krassus answered almost politely. "I traveled halfway across Eutracia to find you. Do you really believe I could not search you out again, especially given the short distance you might travel before I discovered you had fled? We have a great mission to fulfill, you and I. Disobey me, or fail in the demands I shall make of you, and you will die. Do as I say, remain successful in the arts you have admitted to possessing, and you shall live."

All she could do was give him a short nod.

From that moment on, she was his. He had then gone on to use the craft to heal her feet. Not because he wished to be kind, but because a partial adept who could not keep up would surely prove more of a hindrance than a help. And there remained a great deal to do.

"I am ready, m'lord," the herbmistress said now, breaking into the wizard's reveries once more. He turned from the sea to look at her.

Several open bottles of herbs sat on the table next to her, their contents spilled out and combined into a pile in the center of the large iron bowl next to her feet.

"You may begin," Krassus said. "But first, tell me: Will we be able to hear what they say?"

"No," she said with certainty. "For that, I would need something truly personal of one of those we wish to view. And we still do not know who possesses the other scroll."

She reached down into the basket again and produced steel and flint. Without hesitation, she struck them together, and the pile of herbs came ablaze.

Krassus watched as the flame grew into a bonfire. Grizelda motioned with one hand, and part of the fire separated itself from the main body-a lesser offshoot that would allow her to work in closer proximity to her creation. That arm of fire lengthened, and flowed parallel to the deck of the ship. Grizelda tossed a few more herbs into the branch of the flame.

Standing as close to it as she dared, she held out a piece of blank parchment recently taken from the Scroll of the Vagaries. Then she closed her eyes.

Almost immediately, an azure window began to form in the main body of the flame. The partial adept opened her eyes and stared into the window in the fire.

Eager to see the results, Krassus stepped up beside her and looked in. What he saw disappointed him, and his mouth twisted into a sneer.

As had been the case every time before when trying to locate the Scroll of the Vigors, all that the gazing window revealed was blackness.