The Scrolls of the Ancients

CHAPTER

Thirty

S tirring from her nap, Celeste yawned, then stretched her back and arms as she lay on the huge, four-poster, canopied bed. The large hourglass on the nearby stand told her that a little less than two hours had gone by since she had left Shailiha and Abbey to make their way down into the Redoubt and to the Hall of Blood Records.

She rose up on her elbows and looked out through one of the four open, stained-glass windows lining the exterior wall of her private quarters. The soft indigo that always preceded dusk had begun to encroach on the turquoise edges of the sky and would soon overtake it altogether. Then the many lights from the Minion campfires would begin to flicker like stars in the night. Beautiful and reassuring. But then the usual frightening thoughts crowded in again, and she lay back down on the bed, staring at the red velvet canopy above her.

She was desperately worried, as was everyone remaining here at the Redoubt. Tristan had been gone for days, and there had been no success in the search launched by the Minions. Even Ox's hopefulness seemed to deteriorate with each passing hour, despite the fact that he was trying to act like a warrior and not let his concern show.

Wigg and Faegan had not returned from their journey to the place the Tome called the Chamber of Penitence, and her fear for her newfound father and the crippled wizard was great. But it was Tristan upon whom her heart dwelled the most.

She rose from the bed and padded in her slippers to the other side of the room to retrieve her pearl-handled hairbrush from the dresser, then mechanically began brushing her hair, her worry for Tristan still filling her thoughts.

She wanted desperately to be near him again, to see him, to know that he was safe. Sometimes she thought she might burst with the conflicted feelings that surged through her whenever the prince was near. But it was easy to simply miss him and worry about him when he was gone, especially now that he was in danger.

As she ran the brush through her long, deep red hair, she heard the evening wind comfortingly rustling the trees outside her window. Then she heard the squeak of a window hinge. The wind was stronger than she'd thought, and she turned to shut the windows, in case a storm was rising.

Her heart leapt into her throat, and she dropped the brush.

Three of the four windows were shut and locked, and the last one was hauntingly closing by itself.

Before she could run for the door, an azure beam appeared out of nowhere, snaked itself around her waist, and threw her across the length of the room, back onto her bed. She raised an arm to counter with a bolt of her own, but the glow had her pinned to the bed. She was caught in a wizard's warp, she realized, just like the one Krassus had used against them all that day in the card room, when he had assaulted Wigg and violated the wizards' minds.

She tried to scream, but found to her horror that her voice carried no sound. Terrified, she turned her eyes as best she could to look over at the windows.

The last of them had finished closing, and the latch was slowly coming down, locking itself into place. Her heart pounded relentlessly as she waited and watched, unable to do anything else.

Now another glow was building in the room, growing brighter and brighter until it began to take on a shape. Her terrified mind convinced her that it must be Krassus, come back to the palace for some reason. But as she looked closer, she began to recognize the shape standing so dangerously close to the edge of her bed. Tears welled up in her eyes and cascaded maddeningly down her cheeks.

The thing spoke.

"Hello, my darling," it said in a deep, melodious voice. "It has been far too long since we have lain together. I have missed you dearly."

She was going to faint-she knew it. But then her mind was touched by that of the being standing before her, and she was fully conscious once more.

It was Ragnar, the half wizard, half blood stalker who had for over three hundred years kept her his prisoner, abusing her incessantly.

She saw the bald, shiny head, dangling earlobes, and the long, yellow incisors that that jutted down just below his smiling bottom lip. His white robe was untied and slightly open down the center. He was clearly aroused. The mad, bloodshot eyes looked up and down her body with a hunger that seemingly knew no bounds. The small wound in the side of his head was still there, and as a drop of yellow ooze dripped from it, he reached up to wipe it away. Then he placed the wet fingertip into his mouth and smiled.

"So many questions, aren't there, my love?" he asked, lowering his awful face closer to her own. The smell of his fetid breath brought back horrible, mind-numbing memories of her times with him.

"Did you and the wizards actually believe that Nicholas, my beloved master, would really want me dead?" he added. "Or did any of you, as you reveled in the destruction of the Gates of Dawn, actually see my corpse? No. I now serve Krassus, and together he and I carry on a part of Nicholas' glorious work. But first I am going to take you back to the Caves with me. And this time you will never leave, I promise you."

As he spoke, he ran the long, pointed fingernails of one hand down the side of her face. "You always were my favorite." Then a strange look came over him, and he lowered himself even closer.

"And one other thing, my love," he added softly. "Krassus has very kindly imbued me with the Forestallment that, after three hundred years of failed attempts, shall finally grant me the power to make you pregnant. I can't wait to see what our children will look like." He stood up again, his robe falling open obscenely.

"Before we leave here together, I shall take you right here in this very bed," he added menacingly. "A fitting insult to Wigg, my dearest enemy, don't you think? To luxuriate in his only daughter yet again, in the very seat of his power! With both the wizards and the Chosen One gone, there is no one left here of any consequence to stop me. And who knows-you might even conceive here in the royal palace this very night! Deliciously ironic, wouldn't you agree?"

As she watched in helpless horror, he reached down and parted his robe fully. Reaching out, he caressed her face once more.

"It shall be just as you remember it," he said smoothly. "Long and slow, and again and again. And this time, my sweet, it shall go on for eternity. I may even allow enough of your powers of speech to return so that I might hear you softly whimper." Again the wicked smile came. "Surely you remember how much I enjoyed hearing you weep."

Ragnar held out a finger and pointed it at the bodice of her dress. She heard a slow, deliberate ripping sound, and looked with horror as a rip parted her dress at the top and began to tear its way down. Her body wanted to shake with fear but couldn't, locked as she was within the monster's unyielding warp.

Saying nothing more, his bloodshot eyes gleaming, Ragnar knelt by the side of her bed, placed his wet, pink tongue against the inside of one of her thighs, and began moving it upward.

Screaming, Celeste bolted from the bed and fell to the floor. For a moment she remained on all fours, her chest heaving and sweat running down her face. Then, finally, she dared to look about the room.

Amazingly, everything was just as it should be. The windows were open, and the night breeze was caressing the tree branches outside. The Minion campfires were lit, sending their glow upward into the dark of the night sky.

And there was no Ragnar. It had been another nightmare.

Lowering her head in shame, she sobbed mightily, wondering when she would ever be free of her horrific memories. At last she rose to stand on shaky legs, walked to the mirror, and slowly lifted her head to regard the stranger staring back at her. The eyes were red; the long dark red hair was disheveled; and the woman staring back at her was shaking uncontrollably. She placed her quivering hands over her face so that she couldn't look any longer.

This is what he still does to you, even though he is dead, she heard her mind whisper. Suddenly, though, several more words floated to the surface-unusually defiant, challenging words that, after three hundred years of torment finally transformed her life.

But I will allow it no more!

And then something in her psyche snapped.

She stamped to the door, tore at the doorknob, and sprinted down the hallway. Her newfound rage intensifying with every stride, she went faster and faster, trying to dispel her energy. When she reached one of the secret passageways leading down into the Redoubt, she opened the door, went through, and practically ran down the circular staircase.

Her fury was limitless. Soon she found herself banging on the door of the Hall of Blood Records and screaming relentlessly, demanding to be let in.

A startled Shailiha came to the door, only to have the exhausted, furious Celeste embrace her desperately, the tears coming yet again.

The princess quickly dismissed Abbey and Lionel, and the two women sat and talked until dawn.