The Scrolls of the Ancients

CHAPTER

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."

His mind finally clear, Tristan thought for a moment. Looking down, he saw that he was bound hand and foot with heavy strands of rope, and he could not reach his weapons. That was when he first realized that either the room was rocking, or his mind still was. Then the oil lamp swinging from the ceiling and the sounds and smells coming from the open window finally told him they were at sea. As his powers of concentration strengthened, so did the anger in his heart.

He focused his eyes on Krassus. Something the wizard had just said had sparked a question within him.

"You mentioned Farpoint," Tristan said slowly. "What makes you think Wulfgar is there?"

Krassus smiled. "I see no harm in answering that," he said. "Your son Nicholas told me to search there, just before he met his untimely death atop the Gates of Dawn. Surely you remember that day."

Tristan's brows came together in a frown. "How could Nicholas have known?"

"The Heretics of the Guild told him," Krassus said. "Your esteemed son's magnificent powers allowed him mental communication with the Heretics-or didn't you know that?" The wizard's expression was one of wicked glee.

"From their place in the heavens, they see everything," he added. "In fact, due to my illness I will soon be joining them. It is a reward I look forward to."

"Where are you taking me?" Tristan growled.

"To a place that is almost as old as the craft itself," Krassus answered. "Nicholas told me of it, and it is said that many of magic's greatest secrets can be found there. Some even say it is one of the places where it all began. If the winds hold, we should arrive there in less than a fortnight."

Tristan tried to twist his hands back and forth, testing his bonds. They were completely unforgiving. He turned his eyes back to Krassus.

"This ship is full of slaves you branded that night on the Farpoint docks, isn't it?" he asked.

"Of course."

"And the consuls seated at the tables-they were testing the slaves' blood, weren't they? Then you ordered them branded accordingly, so that it would be easier to tell them apart later on."

Smiling, Krassus turned to Grizelda. "See, my dear," he said. "I told you he was clever." He turned back to Tristan. "Meet Grizelda, Chosen One. She is my personal partial adept, blaze-gazer, and herbmistress. She is the one who will find the Scroll of the Vigors for me."

"Unless Wigg and Faegan find it first," Tristan said menacingly.

"Oh, that will be quite impossible after today," Krassus answered happily. "Before we sailed, I ordered something be done in Eutracia. It is happening as we speak, and it will change everything."

Tristan's blood went cold. "What are you talking about?" he demanded. No reply came. "Tell me, you bastard!"

"Oh, no, Chosen One," Krassus said gently, almost as if he were talking to a child. "That would be revealing too much." Silence settled over the room for a moment.

"Why do you need all of these slaves?" Tristan finally asked. "Of what possible use could they be to you?"

"For much the same reason I require your brother." Krassus smiled. "But you will probably go to your death never having learned the answer." Then the look in the wizard's eyes intensified and he leaned forward, lovingly placing his hands on either side of the massive scroll.

"You have yet to ask the one question that I thought would be foremost in your mind, Chosen One," Krassus said.

"And that is?" Tristan asked skeptically.

"Why I allow you to live," the wizard answered quietly.

For a time, Tristan continued to glare at Krassus. Then he glanced at the haggard herbmistress. Grizelda only smiled back wickedly, exposing the absence of several teeth.

"Very well," Tristan finally said. "Why?"

"Because I want to bear witness as you pay for your sins," Krassus hissed softly. "The sin of killing your only son, Nicholas, the messiah who was also my master. That's why we're having this little talk. As you find yourself suffering by my hand today and in the future, I want you to know why."

Tristan's jaw hardened. The wizard's continual mentions of Nicholas conjured up conflicting emotions within him. He glared hatefully at the wizard across the table.

"I would see him die a thousand times again, if need be," Tristan whispered venomously. "He was of my seed, that much I cannot deny. But he was conceived in an act of violence, and against my will. His azure blood was adulterated with Forestallments placed there by the Heretics of the Guild, forcing him to cherish only the Vagaries. Much the same way I suspect he tainted your blood."

Seeing the anger rising in Krassus' face, Tristan smiled. Having nothing to lose, he decided to press. "But in truth, how perfect could Nicholas have been? After all, his blood failed him just when he needed it most, did it not?" He again paused for a moment, allowing the import of his words sink in.

"I didn't kill Nicholas," he finished. "I didn't have to. His own imperfections did that job for me, while I watched. And I enjoyed it."

Krassus' temper suddenly reached the boiling point. Standing up, he pointed an angry finger at the prince.

"Liar!" he screamed. Standing, he walked around the desk.

He slammed his fist into Tristan's face with a force so great that the prince's head hit the back of the chair. Azure blood snaked down from one corner of Tristan's mouth as he shook his head, trying to clear his mind. Grasping Tristan's hair, Krassus violently jerked the prince's face up to meet his. Tristan's eyes fluttered open. Bruises were already showing beneath the dark stubble.

"You're… very good at beating people who… can't fight back… aren't you?" Tristan croaked. "Why don't you just use… the craft… to do it, traitor?"

Krassus bent over the prince until their noses almost touched. "Because sometimes this is far more enjoyable," he whispered. "And as I told the lead wizard that day in the palace, I've been ill."

"I will kill you," Tristan snarled through his pain. "I swear it. You represent nothing but evil, like Nicholas… I will watch you die, just as I watched him. And I will enjoy that, too."

Krassus wrenched the prince's head up farther. "Evil?" he replied. "He who has yet to be trained dares to call me evil? Don't you know that there is no such thing as 'good' or 'evil,' Chosen One? There is only the Vigors or the Vagaries. There is still so much your wizards have not told you. But I would have thought your experiences with the Coven of Sorceresses would have taught you something. Tell me, dear prince, do you really believe Failee was 'evil'? Or was she simply doing what she was born to do, compelled to do? Given the undeniable call of her left-leaning signature, did she truly have a choice? Don't you see, you fool? It is the same with me. I'm not 'evil.' I don't even know the meaning of the word." Once again, he smiled wickedly. "You see, my dear prince, I simply have a different point of view."

With that, Krassus again slammed his fist-with a force supplemented by the craft-into Tristan's face. This time the blow was even harder. It launched the chair off its feet and sent it crashing backward to the floor. The prince immediately went unconscious.

Wasting no time, Krassus walked to the door and violently threw it open. Several demonslavers entered immediately, swords drawn.

"Get this abomination of the craft out of my sight!" Krassus ordered them, pointing down at the prince. "Signal the Wayfarer and order her to come alongside. Transfer this refuse to her. I want him immediately ordered to the Wayfarer. He is to man an oaring station. And keep him in his clothes-I want him easily singled out from the rest. It should be most interesting to observe how that famous azure blood of his holds up." Looking down at the bloodied prince, the wizard smiled again.

"We'll see how much he likes to row," he added softly.

"Begging your pardon, my lord," one of the slavers said. "What shall we do with his weapons?"

As Krassus looked at the prince's dreggan and throwing knives, his lips came up into a sneer. "Strip him of them," he answered. "Have them transferred to the other ship. I want nothing of this bastard left around to remind me of him."

Untying Tristan from his chair, the slavers lifted him up as if he were a rag doll and dragged him from the room on his toes.