The Scrolls of the Ancients

CHAPTER

Sixty

S tanding atop a grassy knoll, Tristan gazed out over the Cavalon Delta and the sea beyond. The wind was high again, just as it had been for the last seven days. A contingent of Minion warriors led by the ever-faithful Ox stood some distance away by the litter that had carried Tristan here, waiting obediently in the midday sun.

The Minion fleet had arrived four days earlier with the captured pirate vessels in tow, and all of them were now anchored offshore. More than four hundred ships-some long, narrow, and built for speed, and others wide and slow, but made for carrying heavy loads-lurched gently up and down against their moorings. All of the red banners that had once graced the pirate ships' mainmasts had now been removed, and the ships had all been repaired.

For her part Tyranny had not been content simply to stand by at the palace, like some dainty lady-in-waiting. Three days of uselessly prowling the rooms and grounds had been quite enough for her, despite finding herself immersed in their relative luxury. Tristan smiled. It seemed that no matter how much Tyranny hated traveling by Minion litter, the wonders of the palace had clearly been no match for the constant, intoxicating lure of the sea. Scars had, of course, accompanied her here.

Tristan had been here for the last three days as well. He had brought with him not only the kisa he had promised Tyranny, but also the letters of marque the lead wizard had prepared, both of which were now safely aboard the frigate she had chosen as her personal flagship.

In truth, Tristan had been glad to come here, for there had been little for him to do in Tammerland. With Grizelda and the Harlequin dead and Marcus already questioned, there was no one left to interrogate. Since Wigg, Faegan, and Celeste were the only three among them who could read Old Eutracian, they had vanished into seclusion in the depths of the Redoubt in order to attempt to unravel the mysteries of the Scrolls of the Ancients. They were all desperate to discover the purpose it served, and why Wulfgar was on the way with his demonslaver fleet.

As he looked out over Tyranny's fleet, Tristan smiled. The mainsails of the twelve frigates she had chosen now carried a bright red image of the Paragon painted squarely in their centers. In addition, each also flew his blue-and-gold battle flag high atop its mainmast.

He took a deep breath of sea air and knew he would miss being out there again. A part of him longed simply to cast away his responsibilities and go with her and Scars. The sea had quickly become a part of his blood, and he had greatly enjoyed the freedom and sense of adventure that had come with it.

Looking down the knoll, he saw Tyranny and Scars approaching. As she came nearer, the privateer smiled.

"Traax told us we'd find you here," she said quietly as she turned to look out over the fleets. The breeze was having its way with her short, dark hair. "We'll be leaving soon," she said, her voice cracking a bit. "I want to clear the delta before the evening winds abate."

"I understand," Tristan answered quietly.

There was a genuine look of both sadness and admiration in Scars' eyes as he held out one of his huge, meaty paws. "It has been a pleasure," he said sincerely.

Taking the giant's hand, Tristan gripped it firmly. "And for me," he said. Then he smiled. "If you come across any more demonslavers, twist a couple of them apart for me, will you?"

Smiling, Scars nodded back. Then he turned and walked slowly back toward the shore, where Tyranny's personal skiff lay waiting.

"Have you picked out a name for your new flagship?" Tristan asked her.

"Yes," she answered. "She is now the Reprisal. Appropriate, don't you think?"

Looking down to the sea, Tristan's eyes finally found the ship. She was tall and proud, just like her new captain, and his battle flag snapped back and forth atop her mainmast.

"Yes," he answered softly. "Yes, I do. Where will you go first?"

"Farpoint. It is a short sail from here. There we will release the slaves and hire the additional crew we need to man the ships properly. It shouldn't take long. Then it will be on to the open sea to search again for my brother and begin patrolling for you and your wizards. Whatever demonslavers or remaining pirates we run across we will do our best to make short work of, I promise you." Then she looked down at the ground and began using the toe of one boot to push some grass back and forth, as if she suddenly needed something to do.

"She's lovely, Tristan," she said softly, as if it was suddenly difficult for her to get the words out. "Celeste is a very lucky woman."

Not quite knowing what to say, Tristan nodded.

Then Tyranny smiled again, and looked back up. "But this isn't good-bye forever, you know," she added. "You can't get rid of me that easily. I still have to come back to the palace every three months to split the booty and give you my report, remember? So it seems I'll still occasionally be in your hair. At least for a while, anyway."

Then she came closer, looked deeply into his eyes, and gave him a soft, slow kiss on one cheek.

"Farewell, Chosen One," she said softly. "I shall always remember you." Saying nothing more, she turned and followed Scars to the shore.

Tristan stood on the knoll and watched as they climbed into the skiff, and the giant first mate rowed them out. Shortly thereafter, the freshly painted sails of the Reprisal snapped open, and she gracefully moved away from the delta. The eleven others in the newly formed fleet followed suit, as one by one they heeled southeast, toward Farpoint. Slowly the Paragon image on their sails shrank, until they finally crept over the horizon and were gone.

B y the time the Minions returned him to Tammerland, night had fallen. Tristan walked from the courtyard into the palace and directly down into the Redoubt. Eventually he found himself standing before the doors of the Hall of Blood Records.

Just before Tristan had departed for the coast, Wigg and Faegan had mentioned that they were going to enchant all of the doors in the Redoubt to temporarily open without the use of the craft, so that Celeste might be able to come and go among these chambers more freely, without a wizard present. They had also made mention of the fact that they would do the same for the thousands of drawers containing the blood signature records, should they need someone to fetch one or more of the documents for them. Time was precious, and the wizards were striving to be as efficient as they could.

Hoping that the two mystics had been true to their word-but also that he would not find them here working-Tristan grasped one of the gold doorknobs and gave it a turn. The massive mahogany doors obediently parted, and he walked in. There was no one there.

As he had expected, all of the oil lamps in the great room were burning. Looking over to one side, he found what it was he had come to see: the Tome of the Paragon.

The massive, gilt-edged, white leather book lay open on its pedestal, the special light in the ceiling shining down on it as always. As he ran his hand lovingly over the ancient, wrinkled pages, he tried both to understand everything that had happened to him, and to beat back the disappointment he felt in his heart. The beautifully penned words in Old Eutracian stared back up at him uselessly, their meaning completely hidden from his mind.

He had, of course, known he wouldn't be able to read it without wearing the Paragon around his neck; that was not why he had come. But for some reason he had suddenly felt an unexplainable, irresistible urge to be near the great book. And as he stood there looking down at it, he realized that this was the first time he had ever been truly alone with it.

He finally took his eyes from the Tome and looked over to the many long, flat drawers that held the blood signatures. After staring at them for several quiet moments, he decided to give it a try.

"Prince Tristan of the House of Galland," he said loudly, much the same way he had heard Wigg and Faegan do several times before. At first he felt immensely foolish, speaking out alone into the room this way. Foolish, that was, until one of the drawers obediently opened and a sheet of parchment rose from it, to float over and land on the nearby meeting table. Tristan sat down in front of it.

Taking a deep breath, he looked at the azure signature on the page. It was the one made most recently, when Wigg and Faegan had been trying to determine whether Nicholas had indeed been Tristan's son. He immediately recognized the soft, fluid lines at the top that had come from his mother Morganna, and the harder, sharper lines at the bottom from the blood of his father, Nicholas I. But no one else in the world possessed a signature that was azure.

Except for Nicholas, he reminded himself. And he is dead. As Tristan continued to regard the swirling, azure lines, the feelings of disdain for his blood surfaced again.

Then he heard the door hinges creak a bit, and he turned to look. Wigg stood quietly in the door frame. There was no telling how long he had been there.

"Tristan," he said gently. "Are you all right?"

The prince nodded.

"I was walking by and saw the open door," Wigg went on as he came to sit next to him. He looked down at the parchment on the table. "What are you doing here all by yourself?"

As Tristan turned to look at him, Wigg could see the concern in his eyes. "There are things you need to know," the prince said softly. "I've changed, Wigg. And I have to tell someone."

"I'm listening," Wigg answered compassionately.

"Part of it is about my azure blood," Tristan said quietly. "I have come to hate it. Not only can my enemies immediately recognize me by it, but it also makes me feel distinctly isolated from the rest of the world. And the fact that it is azure keeps you and Faegan from training me, and also from allowing me to wear the Paragon, so that I might finally read the Tome. And as long as that is the case, my destiny can never be fulfilled. Nor can that of my nation." He rubbed his brow in frustration.

"I don't blame the two of you for not training me," he went on softly. "How could I? But sometimes my blood makes me feel like an outcast, especially when I am among the ones I love the most. I'm not angry that my blood is endowed. I still cherish that fact with all my heart. And my desire, my need to learn the craft burns as hotly within me as ever. But if I don't soon find a way to return my blood to what it once was, sometimes I think I'll go mad." Leaning back in his chair, he looked to the ceiling. He suddenly realized that simply telling all of this to someone he cared about had made him feel a bit better.

"I understand," Wigg said. "I can see it in you. We all can. But there simply hasn't been time to properly search for the solution to your problem. And to tell you the truth, we don't really know how. But I know your answer is out there, somewhere. And together, one day we will find it. But just now I must tell you that we have far greater concerns to worry about."

Tristan placed his forearms on the table and looked into the wizard's eyes. "You're talking about the Scroll of the Vigors, aren't you?" he asked. "What have you learned?"

Wigg's face darkened. "We would prefer to inform everyone at once, after we are sure," he answered. "As you know, during her time in the caves, Celeste was forced by Ragnar to learn Old Eutracian. We will never know what use for that he had planned-but it is without a doubt the single good to come out of those years of torture. Anyway, she, Faegan, and I have been deciphering the scroll for a week now, and we have never seen anything like it. It is absolutely amazing. It opens up entire new vistas of the craft that had been previously closed to us. But please be patient for just a bit longer. We hope that by tomorrow's dawn, we will be sure. And if what we suspect is true, then what we have found in the scroll represents the greatest peril we have ever faced." A short silence followed as Tristan looked down at the azure signature again and considered the import of the wizard's words.

"You intimated that there was more than one thing you wished to discuss," the lead wizard said. "What is it?"

As Tristan looked into Wigg's aquamarine eyes, he knew that once it had been said there would be no going back. But he also knew in his heart that he had to be truthful. He closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them again.

"I love your daughter," he said softly, irrevocably. "Forgive me, Wigg, but I do."

Wigg smiled. "I know," he answered gently.

"You do?"

"Of course. Everyone in the palace knows. They also know how she feels about you. Only a fool could miss the way the two of you look at each another."

"I'm sorry," Tristan replied carefully, not knowing exactly what to say. "I know how damaged she was. And I stayed away, because I wanted to respect that. But she tells me she is much better now. I'm glad for her, and I've never seen her so vibrant and alive. But I also know how little time the two of you have had to come to know each other, and I didn't want to intrude on that, either." Pausing, he looked down at his hands. "Despite how much I cared, being with her seemed impossible. For so many reasons.

"Still, I couldn't help but love her," he went on. "When I first saw her that night on the cliffs, the feeling swept over me like a storm, and it simply won't go away."

Wigg looked over thoughtfully at the man he loved so much. From the time he had watched Tristan come into the world, he had done everything in his power to prepare him for the teachings he would eventually impart into his blood, and for the destiny the prince was chosen to fulfill. But not even the lead wizard could have foreseen the turmoil and loss that would accompany Tristan and Shailiha on their unexpectedly dangerous journey to enlightenment. And now, in the midst of it all, had come Celeste. Reaching out, Wigg put a hand on Tristan's shoulder.

"You have my blessing, if that's what you're asking for," he said quietly. "Nothing would make me happier than to see the two of you together. And I mean that. She loves you, Tristan. And with an ardor I have seldom seen over the course of my three centuries."

As Tristan looked up, Wigg could see a tear in his eye. Realizing that the same thing was about to happen to him as well, the wizard promptly stood, cleared his throat, and busily rearranged his robes.

"Now then," he said, his wizardly demeanor apparently having retuned, "I must get back to Faegan and Celeste. They'll be wondering where I've been." One eyebrow came up. "And you know how Faegan can be."

As Wigg turned to go, Tristan reached out and gently took the wizard by one arm. "Thank you," he said softly.

"There is no reason to thank me," Wigg answered back. "In truth, I doubt there is any power on earth that could keep the two of you apart. All I ask is that you continue to treat her well."

"I will," the prince answered back, his voice cracking a bit.

With a final, comforting smile, Wigg left the room.

His mind awash with the memories of everything he had been through and thoughts of all that might still lie ahead, Tristan remained there in silence for some time before he finally ordered the parchment back to its drawer. Suddenly exhausted, he left the room and began the long walk to his chambers.

Very soon now, he knew, he and the others would hear what the wizards had to say about the Scrolls of the Ancients.