The Scrolls of the Ancients

CHAPTER

Ten

A bbey walked down through the gently sloping field of flowers. The light of day was gone, and the stars had come out. Moonlit shadows created by the yellow-and-turquoise-leaved chirithium trees slowly lengthened out over the waving grasses, blossoms, and herbs she walked through on her way home. Carried by the wind, light, fluffy clouds danced to and fro in the night sky, as if struggling to escape their banishment into the darkness. The blooming fragrances of the Season of New Life swirled everywhere about her.

She stopped for a moment to tie up her gray-streaked dark hair, and smiled, taking in the smells, the colors, and the breeze. Then, gripping her straw basket a bit tighter, she continued up the hill.

She had been out foraging today, just as she had done for the last three days, trying to replace at least some of what the mysterious robbers had taken from her. It had been a good day, and her large, hinge-topped basket was full. When she returned home, she would meticulously dry, store, and catalogue what she had reaped. But first she'd enjoy a cup of sallow blossom tea, she decided.

Abbey had no idea who the intruders had been, or how they had found her, but she was concerned that she had not recognized the cruel woman who had so obviously been an herbmistress. So few of their kind remained, and they had always tried to stay in contact with one another. Even more astonishing was the fact that the unknown woman had been traveling with a wizard. After all, the wizards had banished those of her kind-both males and females alike-from their presence long ago.

As she crested the hill, her cottage came into view. She took a quick breath.

Smoke was curling up from the chimney, and light shone from the cottage windows.

She stood in the field for some time, trying to figure out what to do. She could run, but there was no safe place nearby that she could easily reach. Finally she decided to approach the cottage from the rear, where there were no windows, then creep around to one side and try to peek in without being seen. Walking over to the edge of the field, she entered the dense cover of the drooping chirithium trees and started down.

The glade surrounding the cottage seemed deserted; she saw no horses tied nearby. She carefully set down her basket by a tree, then made her way as silently as possible to the rear wall. Keeping low, she crept around the corner and squatted beneath the first of the leaded windows. Slowly she raised her head up as far as she dared and looked in.

A young, beautiful woman with brilliant red hair was lying on Abbey's bed. Her eyes were closed; her face was very pale. The staggered rising and falling of the thin blanket that covered the woman told the experienced herbmistress that the stranger was having great difficulty breathing. A man's hand, with long, elegant fingers, rested flat on the woman's forehead. Abbey could not see the rest of him.

Slipping quietly around the back of the cottage, she retrieved her precious basket and then made her way to the front. She gathered her courage, took a deep breath, and walked in, allowing the rusty door hinges to announce her entrance. The man sitting by the bed turned to face her.

Abbey dropped her basket, and its contents spilled to the floor. Her hands flew to cover her open mouth.

"Hello, Abbey," the man said gently. "It's been a long time. Please pardon my intrusion, but I very much need your help."

Abbey, her eyes locked on his face, staggered toward a chair and sat down clumsily. It was difficult for her to speak, to think, or even to breathe as a flood of conflicting emotions coursed through her.

Wigg waited, maintaining an outward calm. But inside, he, too, was bubbling with unexpected emotions. But as he watched, her expression changed from one of astonishment to anger.

Finally Abbey pointed to the woman in the bed. "Who is she?" she asked. She was chagrined to hear her voice crack. "After all these years, why are you here?"

At first Wigg did not answer. He pointed to the basket and the plants lying on the stone floor. The scattered clippings rose into the air and floated over to the basket, where they fell into a neat, contained pile. The refilled basket floated up to the table beside the stunned herbmistress and came to rest. Wigg took another long breath, letting it go slowly before placing his hands into the opposite sleeves of his robe.

"Her name is Celeste," he answered softly. "She is of endowed blood, and has been adversely affected by the craft. In all my years I have seen this phenomenon occur only one other time-quite recently, in fact-to another woman who means just as much to me. The other woman, however, managed its effects much more handily. I cannot be sure, but I think it was because of the greater strength of her blood. In any event, this woman needs our help. I have been unable to awaken her by myself, and I fear that if she does not return to consciousness soon, I may lose her for all time. Will you help me?" The wizard's eyes were shiny with unshed tears.

Abbey stood and walked to the bed. First she looked into each of Celeste's eyes; then she cautiously examined her strangely scorched fingertips.

"Her mind has gone deep. For the moment she is stable," the herbmistress told Wigg cautiously, "but she is in a bad way. Although I am not sure how much help I can be, I will do what I can. But hear this first, Lead Wizard." Her gray eyes bored directly into Wigg's. "What I do, I do for her, and her alone. Not for you."

"Thank you," Wigg said gratefully. "And I cannot blame you for the way you feel." Silence reigned for a moment.

"First I want to know who she is," Abbey said. She wanted to prepare a tea, but the fire had gone down. She walked to the hearth and bent over to stoke the flames. But before she could, Wigg pointed, and the logs blazed again. Then two more from the nearby pile rose into the air and floated over to fall upon the ones already burning.

Abbey sighed. "I had almost forgotten how much easier life can be for certain trained males," she commented as she began to prepare some tea. One corner of Wigg's mouth came up: He could hardly disagree.

"I asked you a question," she added without turning around. "Who is she?"

"She is my daughter," the lead wizard answered softly, knowing the effect his words would have.

For several long moments Abbey stopped what she was doing. "So you finally remarried," she said softly, once more busying herself with the teakettle. Wigg thought he heard her voice crack again.

"No," he answered gently. "Failee was apparently pregnant when she left me. Celeste was protected by time enchantments and is nearly as old as you and I." He paused. "A great many things have transpired in our land since we were last together. Much of which, I'm sure, you remain unaware of. It would be a very long story."

Abbey, her face emotionless, placed two cups of tea on the table and took a seat. She beckoned Wigg to join her. "You and I are each blessed with the enchantments granting eternal life," she said flatly. "I think we can spare the time."

Wigg's mouth came up into a short smile.

As succinctly as he could, the lead wizard told her of the workings of the Paragon. He also described the Tome and its several volumes. After explaining the importance of Tristan and Shailiha, he then told her of the unexpected return of the Sorceresses of the Coven, and how he and Tristan had ventured across the Sea of Whispers to defeat them in the previously unknown land of Parthalon. He told her everything: the story of Nicholas, Ragnar, and Celeste, and the destruction of the Gates of Dawn.

Abbey listened intently, searching for any scrap of information that might help her unravel the secret to helping Wigg's stricken daughter. He explained the recent discovery of the Forestallments in the blood signatures of Shailiha, baby Morganna, Tristan, and Celeste. These spells took the form of crooked branches leading away from the main pattern of the blood signature, and had apparently been placed into their blood by the Coven-for what purposes Wigg and Faegan could only guess and would likely never know. It had been such a Forestallment that had resulted in Shailiha's highly unusual ability to commune with the fliers of the field. And the Forestallment he had unwittingly helped activate in Celeste had enabled her to save their lives by killing the saber-toothed bear.

At the mention of Celeste's Forestallment, Abbey's eyes lit up. She stood and walked quickly back to the bed. Lifting Celeste's hands, she again examined her blackened fingertips and broken nails.

"You say the bolt she sent against the bear-this 'Forestallment,' as you call it-was unusually strong?" she asked. "And that it happened just after she began to convulse?"

"Yes," Wigg answered. "Her bolts were the most powerful I have ever seen; they literally ripped the creature apart. Then she collapsed. And now…" He paused, one eyebrow rising, "I think I know why."

"Explain," Abbey said, returning to the table.

"You just said it yourself," he replied. "Her first use of a Forestallment came quickly, immediately after its activation, so her blood had no time to adjust to its new state. No doubt it was Failee's intention to activate Celeste's gifts one by one, and train her in their use gradually, in a controlled environment. But given the desperate situation, Celeste acted instinctively. This proved to be too much for her untrained blood, and plunged her into this deep, twilight state." He turned sadly, looking back over at the bed. "There is another wizard with me at the palace. His name is Faegan. He would have been able to help, for he is also an herbalist. But your cottage was much closer."

"And so you brought her here," Abbey answered skeptically. "But what were the two of you doing in these woods to begin with?"

"We were coming to see you about a different matter," Wigg said rather apologetically. "I was hoping, after all of these years, to gain your help. Eutracia needs you."

Abbey shook her head slowly. "It seems you suddenly require a great deal of help, Lead Wizard," she replied stiffly. The herbmistress thought for a moment. Then she leaned closer, her face dark.

"Tell me," she said sternly, "after more than three hundred years of surviving without my services, how is it that the lofty nation of Eutracia suddenly needs one of those who was so summarily banished?"

Trying to think of a way to broach the subject, Wigg looked around the unkempt cottage. Bottles lay overturned and shelves had been torn down; much of the glassware that should have contained Abbey's hard-won treasures was conspicuously empty. His eyes went back to the herbmistress. "I don't remember you being such a poor housekeeper," he said simply.

"What does that have to do with anything?" she shot back.

"This mess is not like you, and we both know it," Wigg said gently. And then he took a breath and asked, "He was here, wasn't he? The man in the two-colored robe. And he had a woman with him-a partial adept, possibly trained both as an herbmistress and a blaze-gazer. They took much from you, didn't they? Not the least of which was a sizable portion of your rather infamous pride."

The herbmistress' hard shell seemed to crack a bit, and a tear came to one eye. Taking a chance, Wigg placed one of his hands over hers. Surprisingly, she did not pull away.

"Did they hurt you?" he asked softly.

"No," she said, looking down. "But the woman knew exactly which herbs and compounds she wanted. Many of them were among my most prized. I cannot say for sure whether she was a gazer, since she practiced no such art in my presence. But given her knowledge of my stores, she was certainly an herbmistress. The man was ill with some disease of the lungs. He put me in some kind of bizarre, glowing cage, and I couldn't stop him. All I could do was watch as they destroyed a lifetime of work." She raised her face back up. "But how did you know?"

"His name is Krassus, and he was once first alternate to the Directorate of Wizards," Wigg answered. "Ironically, I appointed him to that position myself. He is now apparently a full wizard of some power, his gifts perhaps imbued by Nicholas through Forestallments. But we do not know who the woman is. Krassus claimed she is a blaze-gazer, but we have no proof of that. He came to the palace demanding information. He searches for a man named Wulfgar. His other quest is for something called the Scrolls of the Ancients. Tell me, are you familiar with either?"

"No."

"When I could not answer his questions, he beat me and violated my mind," Wigg said angrily. "He also gloated about having been here, and leaving you in a bad way. Then, after promising to kill Faegan and me, he left. I simply had to come, to see if you were all right. But I must admit that I had other reasons for visiting you."

"I knew you lay ill," she said unexpectedly.

Wigg's eyes sharpened at Abbey's unexpected statement. "What?" he asked.

"After they left, I went to my gazing flame and searched for you," she answered. "I admit that it was not the first time I have done so. You were lying in a bed, with people standing around you whom I did not know."

"So you have a gazing flame here?" Wigg asked.

Abbey nodded.

"But what is there of mine that you could possibly have kept all of these years?" he asked, clearly puzzled. "Don't you need something personal of your subject in order to properly view the image?"

Abbey reached for the locket around her neck and opened it. Curled up inside was a short braid of dark brown hair. She placed it on the table. Wigg's eyes went wide.

"Mine?" he asked. "But how could that be?"

"I took it from you in bed one night, more than three hundred years go," she answered, placing the braid back into the pendant and locking it again. "You always slept so deeply." A slight smile finally appeared on her face: the coming of some memory, perhaps. But then it was quickly overtaken by another look of anger.

"And then you voted with your brotherhood to banish all the partial adepts," she whispered angrily. "Yet another of the Directorate's knee-jerk reactions to anyone or anything of the craft not directly controlled by them." She turned her face away. "You hurt me deeply, Wigg. You hurt all of us with partial blood. To this day I am not sure I will ever be able to forgive you. It was so unfair…"

Wigg sighed. If he could have taken back parts of those days, he would.

"I voted for my nation," he said sadly. "In hindsight, I've come to see that many of our decisions were wrong. But both Eutracia and her monarchy were new, and still in great distress. The survival of our land and the foretold coming of the Chosen Ones were far more important than the two of us, or what we may have wanted for ourselves. Surely you can see that. And like you, I have suffered much. I'm not naive, Abbey, so I won't ask you to forgive me. But the best, most personal gift I could bestow upon you before you left was the time enchantments. Had the Directorate discovered what I had done, there would surely have been a great scandal; perhaps even my own banishment from the Directorate, given the harsh, reactionary attitudes of those days. But now all of my friends of that august body are dead."

He paused, wondering how his next words would be received, then laced his long fingers together and placed his hands on the table.

"As I said, Abbey, we need you," he continued softly. "When I leave here, I want you to come back to Tammerland with me."

Stunned, she looked at him with wide eyes.

"No!" she said flatly. "I won't do it! Why should I? My life is good here, and the people here have come to rely on me for healing. Here, at least, I am allowed to practice my arts in peace."

"Until four days ago, that is," Wigg reminded her gently. "I can make you come back with me, and we both know it. I won't do that, but hear me out. If Krassus truly has a partial adept with him, and if we are ever to even the odds of defeating him, then we must have one, too. I have a feeling these scrolls he referred to are extremely important, and that if we don't find them and Wulfgar before Krassus does, our world may irrevocably change-for the worse. And what if Krassus comes back? With us you would be far safer."

The twinkle returned to his eyes, and he smiled knowingly. "Besides," he added, "wouldn't you like a chance to get even?"

Abbey thought for a time, her jaw clenching. "I will consider your words," she said finally. "But how could I be of help, while all of my stores and books remain here?"

"My friend Faegan has a great many herbs growing in an atrium in his mansion in a place called Shadowood," Wigg told her. "And we can have all of your books and charts brought to Tammerland." He smiled, thinking of the Archives of the Redoubt. "And you'll have more scrolls and books than you can imagine at your disposal."

Wigg smiled to himself. If he could convince Abbey to come, it would be very interesting to see someone teach Faegan something for a change. Abbey turned to look at Celeste, though, and her face darkened.

"We have talked too long," she said urgently. "We must attend to your daughter."

Celeste's breathing had become more labored, and beads of sweat stood on her pale forehead.

The herbmistress thought for a moment. "It's the honey," she said at last, half to herself.

"Of course," Wigg answered. "Her ingestion of the honey was the trigger that activated her first Forestallment. So simple an act…"

"No, no-you don't understand," Abbey said. "There is more to it than that."

"What do you mean?"

"Honey is the key to our problem," she told him. "But first I must find my charts of opposites."

Perplexed, Wigg watched her walk to the far wall of the cottage. She pushed on one side of it, and the entire wall rotated on a hidden pivot to reveal a bookcase lined with ledgers, texts, and scrolls. A much smaller room could be seen beyond, containing a desk and many piles of reference materials, as well as a store of additional herbs and oils. Luckily, this room seemed to have been untouched by Krassus. Abbey selected a text from one of the shelves, blew the dust from it, and returned to the table. The binding read Charts of Opposites, Letters H-I.

Wigg waited patiently as she leafed through the book. Finally she stopped, running one finger down a dog-eared page. On it was a drawing of a wheel divided into equal-sized, pie-shaped sections.

"What are 'charts of opposites'?" Wigg asked.

"Just as the craft has its dark and light aspects, every other thing existing in the universe also has its direct opposite," she answered. "And in some cases, more than one. Look at this."

She passed the book over to Wigg. "This page is only one of dozens whose words begin with the letter 'h,' " she said. "Run your finger around the circle until you find the word 'honey.' Then go directly to the opposite side, and read aloud what it says."

Wigg did as she asked, finally finding and speaking the words "powdered tetturess," and "oil of hibernium: Leaf Only." He looked up at Abbey.

"Are you saying these two substances are nature's direct opposites to honey?" he asked skeptically. "How can you be so sure?"

"By way of hundreds of years of careful experimentation," she answered simply. She raised an eyebrow. "I wrote this book myself."

Walking to her shelves, she began her search. After some time, she returned to the table with a green bottle. When Abbey uncorked it, Wigg saw that it contained a violet oil.

"I still don't understand," he said, furrowing his brow. He watched as she began measuring out a portion into a thick porcelain cup. "This problem is of the craft. How are these substances going to help?"

"The honey she ingested is no doubt still in her bloodstream," Abbey answered as she concentrated intently on her work. "And from what you told me, it was the catalyst that set everything else in motion. The direct opposites of honey are hibernium-just the oil squeezed from the leaf, mind you, not from the wood-and powder of tetturess blossom. They are even more potent when combined. If she ingests them in both the proper ratios and amounts, they should neutralize the honey in her system."

As she spoke, she finished measuring out the oil. Then she looked around her smashed cottage, and her face darkened.

"This oil remained safe in the other room," she said. "But my bottle of tetturess blossom was taken by Krassus. Turn to the back of the book until you find the pages labeled 'Diagrams of Substitutions,' and tell me what the substitution is for tetturess blossom. I could probably guess, but I'd rather be sure."

Wigg thumbed to the back of the book and found the diagram. "Dried stalk of widow's wart," he answered without looking up. "It also says that if widow's wart is not available, then flakes of dried newt's skin will also suffice."

Abbey nodded. "My widow's wart was also taken," she said angrily, "but I think I still have the newt's skin. The widow's wart would have been better, but we'll just have to make do with what we have."

Rising from her chair, she walked to one of the shelves that was broken at one end and had half fallen to the floor. After a good bit of rummaging around she finally produced a small tin, which she brought back to the table. She opened the lid and removed what appeared to be a small, square patch of dried leather. It was gray, with pink spots. She scraped some of the skin off with a knife, and dropped the resultant flakes into the cup with the oil. Satisfied for the moment, she looked back at Wigg.

"We are fortunate that the necessary ingredients for this potion survived the destruction here," she commented. "Still, that is only half the battle."

Wigg understood. "As the mixture counteracts the honey, I must also use my powers, trying to bring her consciousness back to the surface," he mused.

"Correct."

Abbey went to a sideboard to retrieve a copper pitcher, and filled it with water. She transferred the ingredients from the mortar into an iron pot, poured in a measure of water, and stirred it slowly with a wooden spoon. Then she placed the iron pot on the hearth hook and swiveled it over the flames.

She went back to the bookshelves and picked out another volume. As she brought it to the table, Wigg glanced at the title: Combinations and Potions: Times and Instruments for the Application of Heat and Cold, and the Subsequent Reactions Thereof. She began to read.

"Now what are you doing?" he asked. His interest in the process had gradually become more genuine. But Abbey, her thoughts obviously lost in the volume, didn't answer.

She finally put down the book. "White feather of male highland goose," she said softly to herself. "It seems nothing else will do. Now where did I put those?"

Busily wiping her hands on her apron, she returned to the shelves. After some looking, she reached up to grasp a pewter canister. She opened the top, peered inside, and pulled out a long, white feather. She then went to her writing desk and retrieved a quill pen and a small bottle. Finally she returned to the table.

She opened the bottle. Taking up the quill, she filled it with red ink. She then laid the white feather flat on the table. About two-thirds of the way to the top, she slowly began drawing a straight, red line across it.

"What in the name of the Afterlife are you doing?" Wigg asked, completely at sea. He was beginning to grow anxious. He turned back to look at Celeste.

"Still the same old Wigg," Abbey said, her eyes remaining locked on her artwork. He almost thought he saw a hint of another smile. "With an attitude like that, you must drive this Faegan you speak of to absolute distraction."

Saying nothing, Wigg pursed his lips.

Finally she finished and blew on the feather, drying the ink. Then she walked back to the hearth, swung the pot toward her, and carefully lowered the feather down into it, so that the ink line showed just above the rim. Almost immediately the portion of the feather just above the mixture began to brown from the heat of the potion. She turned back to Wigg.

"Bring two chairs over here," she said.

"What good does the feather do?" Wigg asked curiously.

"Tell me something, Lead Wizard," she said, her eyes still locked on the feather. "Despite all of your knowledge of the craft, without the goose quill, how would you know how long to let the mixture cook?"

Smiling, Wigg nodded. "When the brown color reaches the ink line, the temperature is right," he mused. "Very clever."

"There's more to it than that," she answered. "Not only does the right temperature activate the potion, but it also assures that we will not burn her throat."

Saying nothing more, the two of them watched quietly as the brown stain gradually climbed higher and higher. When it finally met the ink line, Abbey swung the pot around and took it off the hook. She very quickly poured the entire potion into a cup.

"Now!" she ordered. "Before it cools! You understand what you must do?" she asked. "As soon as the potion starts down her throat, begin your work. And be warned, she may become difficult to control."

He nodded quickly and went to his daughter. He tilted up her head and carefully parted her lips.

As Abbey poured the mixture into Celeste's waiting mouth, he employed the craft, attempting to reach into the depths of his daughter's consciousness. At first, things seemed to go well. After a few moments Celeste began to stir and moan. Then, unbelievably, she opened her eyes, looked beseechingly up at her father, and started to cry.

It was just then that Wigg suddenly realized what both he and Abbey should have done, but had not.

Coming partly out of her stupor, Celeste suddenly bolted upright. Her eyes wide, she screamed, and her body began shaking uncontrollably. As if possessed, she began to raise both trembling hands at once. Understanding, Wigg tried to force her hands back down, but she was too strong for him.

"Hold her!" Abbey shouted.

Wigg briefly thought of using the craft to hold Celeste, but that would mean stopping the flow of his power into her, to help her. With a final, purely physical effort, Wigg was able to force Celeste's arms back down onto the bed. But suddenly her wrists turned up. Just as the azure bolts shot forth, Wigg let go of her, grabbed Abbey, and threw the herbmistress to the floor. Covering her body with his own, he closed his eyes, knowing that all he could do was continue to aid Celeste's mind and hope that it soon would be over.

A deafening cacophony of destruction came from every corner of the house: the sounds of breaking glass and falling stone.

Then, blessedly, it was over. Wigg carefully stood and gave Abbey a hand up. He found himself choked by dust. As his eyes cleared, he looked around.

The devastation was amazing. Only two of the walls were still standing, but one of them suddenly gave up the effort and collapsed inward, crashing to the cottage floor. Most of the roof was gone, revealing the stars twinkling innocently in the early evening sky. In the dim light he could see that the vast majority of Abbey's bottles and other containers had been blown out of the house and lay broken or open, scattered haphazardly across the nearby woods and fields. Wigg realized that they were probably quite unrecoverable. Almost every stick of furniture was demolished, and even the hearth had been rent in two, its bricks scattered across the floor like abandoned children's toys. Most of the chimney somehow still rose toward the sky like a crooked, broken finger, trying to point to the stars.

Miraculously, the wall still standing was the one holding the shelves full of Abbey's books, scrolls, and ledgers. For the most part, they and the others scattered about behind them seemed unharmed. The wind began whistling coldly through the remains of the cottage, swirling the dust and debris into little maelstroms as it went.

Celeste had collapsed on the bed. Her eyes fluttered once, then twice, before finally staying open. Rising weakly up on her elbows, she looked aghast at the remains of the cottage. She looked down at her fingertips and began to cry.

Wigg instinctively knew that she was crying not because of her physical pain, but at the sudden, inescapable realization of what she had done. Abbey-walking stiffly, mechanically, through the rubble of what had once been her home-was also crying.

Standing shakily, Celeste embraced her father. He held her tightly, knowing how close he had come to losing her.

"I did this, didn't I?" she asked, looking around again in horror. "Somehow, I just know it. But the last thing I remember is having tasted some honey. Did that really happen?" She looked quizzically around the smashed cottage once more.

"Where are we, Father?" she asked softly. Then her eyes closed again, and she collapsed into his arms.

Laying her back down on the bed, Wigg placed a palm on her forehead. For a time he closed his eyes, then smiled. He and Abbey had done it. This time Celeste's sleep was genuine, natural. When she finally awakened, she would be herself again.

With the exception of her first activated Forestallment, he mused. He would have to train her in its proper use as soon as possible.

He went to Abbey. In her trembling hands she was clutching a dusty book she had retrieved from the floor. He put a hand on her shoulder.

"I don't know what to say," he said softly. "I'm so sorry."

Abbey turned to him, her eyes wet. Then she did something unexpected. Stepping nearer, she put her arms around him and lay her head upon his shoulder. His gray robe soon became soaked with tears.

They stood that way for some time as the wind rustled through the remains of the cottage and the sounds of the night creatures came softly to their ears. Finally she took her head from his shoulder and looked into his eyes.

"It seems I will be coming with you after all," she said, her voice so small he could barely hear her. "I never expected to see you again."

Wigg pulled her closer.

"Nor I, you," he said softly. "Nor I, you."