The Scrolls of the Ancients

CHAPTER

Four

S he had lain there on the stone floor of her cottage for some time, sobbing softly. The cruel man in the two-colored robe and his equally cruel companion had departed, and slowly the wizard's cage surrounding her had dissolved. Her home was a wreck of smashed and battered vials, jars, bottles-even furniture was broken-and she knew it would take many days to repair the damage. But the most difficult task would be replacing the herbs, roots, blossoms, and seeds they had stolen. Some represented the work of more than three centuries, now vanished in a single day. The intruders had known exactly what to take, and her loss was unimaginable.

But because she was the recipient of time enchantments, time was the one thing on her side.

Abbey of the House of Lindstrom slowly came to her feet. After brushing off her burgundy peasant's dress, she stoked the hearth and decided first to prepare herself a cup of nerveweed tea.

Looking to her shelves, she hoped it would still be there. Then she saw it and let out a sigh of relief. The herb had long been known for its calming effects, and she could use a good dose of it just now.

After placing the water into the pot and hanging it over the gathering fire, she righted the table and chairs and sat, despondently, before the hearth. Soon the bone-soaking warmth and sooty smell of the flames started to give her some small measure of comfort. She looked down at her hands and saw that they were still shaking. Closing her eyes for a moment, she tried to fathom the meaning of what had happened here today.

Why would anyone do such a thing? she wondered. We who possessed these esoteric arts were so few, even before the Sorceresses' War. And now, three centuries later, our numbers have surely dwindled even farther due to the ban by the Directorate. I should have recognized the woman, but I didn't.

The whistling teakettle suddenly interrupted her thoughts. Removing it from the flames, she set it on the table. Then she filled a tea basket with dried nerveweed leaves and lowered them into the kettle to steep.

Something glinted on the floor, and, bending down, she identified it as a rather large shard of broken mirror. She picked it up and gazed into it. The face reflected back to her was awash with great sadness, and even greater confusion.

Although her dark hair was streaked with gray, she remained a very handsome woman. Gray eyes looked back at her with intelligence, and the dark eyebrows arched highly, almost seductively over them. Her jaw was strong yet feminine; her cheeks were still blessed with the rosy bloom of her long-faded youth. Sighing, she carefully put down the mirror.

Interesting, she thought for the thousandth time. The one man on earth she still cared for was also the one who had tried to force her into abandoning her art. She had thought of him so many times over the centuries, even employing her art to regard him from time to time. Despite his recent travails, she knew he was well. Many were the times she had been tempted to go to him, to offer her forgiveness. But that would have caused him nothing but more trouble. It was better, she supposed, to simply live with the memories of those long-ago days than to go chasing after what could never be.

She poured herself a cup of the dark, harsh tea and drank, relishing its warmth as it went down. The nerveweed would soon take hold, and she would then begin the business of straightening up her house. Looking around the thatched cottage, her mind went back to the time she had first come here. She had been alone, ashamed, and angry.

That had been more than three centuries ago. But after the exile of the Coven to the Sea of Whispers, the newly formed Directorate of Wizards had banned all partial adepts-both male and female-from practicing their arts. Hurt and confused, they had been ordered to scatter, no two being allowed to go in the same direction. And so she had finally chosen this place to be alone, and to carry on in secret. But not before one of the wizards-the one who still had a place in her heart-had secretly granted her the time enchantments, tearfully wishing her well.

Abbey's heart skipped a beat. My gazing flame! she thought anxiously. Is it still burning, or did they destroy that, too?

She put her teacup down and bolted from the cottage.

Outside, she hiked up her skirt and began running as fast as she could through the woods. Even though the sun had set, the path before her shone clearly by the light of the three red Eutracian moons.

With huge relief, she saw that the smooth, flat rock was still in place. Chest heaving, she stood before it. She breathed deeply to calm herself, and closed her eyes. Silently, slowly, the rock began to slide to one side across the dewy grass. Opening her eyes, she held her breath.

Almost immediately a high, golden plume of flame erupted, casting a magnificent light into the dark of the night. Letting out a great sigh, she stood there silently for a moment, blessing her good fortune.

The single, golden flame coming from the earth was approximately one meter wide, and three meters tall. It was flat and broad. The glade surrounding it had long ago been cleared of all trees and shrubs, and Abbey lovingly saw to it that it remained that way.

Abbey of the House of Lindstrom was many things, but first and foremost she was a blaze-gazer.

Reaching into one of the pockets of her dress, she produced a very small bottle. Its contents were so rare and precious that she always carried it on her person, no matter the circumstances. Thankfully, that very habit had kept it safe from the intruders.

But they had known exactly what to take, and her remaining supply of herbs needed to sustain the flame had gone with them. What was contained in her locket would provide just enough for one more viewing, and no more. When she finished, her flame would slowly die, because she would have no more herbs to replenish it. Even so, she could think of no better time than now to use them up. After what the man in the two-colored robe had told her about the lead wizard, she simply had to know.

Opening the top, she emptied the bottle into the palm of her hand. Carefully, she walked closer to the roaring fire.

Raising one arm, she commanded the flame to split into two branches, one far larger than the other. As she curled the index finger of her outstretched hand, the smaller of the branches obediently approached her. As always, the searing heat of the gazer's flame threatened to scorch her face and dress.

Quickly, she pointed her hand to the right. The flame flattened out and began to flow horizontally. Its edges licked dangerously close to her outstretched hand. With great discipline she dropped the herbs into the waiting flame.

The effect was immediate.

The two branches suddenly rejoined and shot back up toward the sky. Abbey backed away from the searing heat. As she did, she reached for the pendant she wore around her neck. Opening it, she withdrew a short braid of brown hair and held it high. Then she looked back at the flame.

Midway up the body of the flame, a rectangular, azure window began to form. Closing her eyes, she concentrated intently. Opening them again, she gazed deeply into the chasm surrounded by the roaring flame.

Her eyes widened. She was not at all pleased with what she saw.