A March into Darkness, page 3
She smiled for the first time since the death of her family. “What do you wish of me?” she asked. “My life is yours.”
“We know, Daughter,” they responded. “Your mission will be a complicated one, and must be accomplished in steps. Listen as we tell you what to do first.”
As she lay near death, Serena was astounded by what she heard. Nonetheless it all made perfect sense. The task before her would be enormous. But the rewards would be, as well.
When the Heretics had finished speaking to her, she bid them good-bye. From that moment on, her strength and vitality had returned quickly. That had been seven weeks ago. She had accomplished much since then.
Reaching her destination, the queen of the Vagaries stopped before a pair of tall twin doors. A wreath of flowering red cat’s paw hung on each one. She pointed an index finger. At her bidding the heavy locks turned over and the doors parted. Serena walked into the room. The doors shut heavily behind her.
She paused for a moment to look around. Everything was just as she had left it. The room was to be perfectly maintained at all times. If she found the slightest thing disturbed, the handmaidens responsible for maintaining this place would die.
The chamber was large and well lit. Sunlight streamed in through numerous skylights; songbirds could be heard warbling in the outer yard. The brick floor was covered with fresh red rose petals. On the dawn of each new day the old petals were removed, then carefully replaced. Their familiar aroma permeated the air. Two specially chosen handmaidens stood in the far corners. As Serena looked at them, they bowed.
Finally satisfied, she again lifted her gown to stride through the lush foliage and toward the center of the room. When she reached the altar she stopped to look down. Her eyes immediately filled with tears.
The pink marble altar was just large enough to support a small body. An azure glow surrounded it. Reaching through the aura, the bereaved sorceress stroked her daughter’s cold cheek.
The tiny body was covered by a black silk sheet. More rose petals littered the shroud and surrounding altar top. Small and frail-looking, the dead baby girl lay peacefully atop the stone. The child’s eyes were closed in death. A small wisp of downy brown hair adorned the crown of her head. Had she lived, she would have been named Clarice.
In memory of the child’s father, Serena had ordered the floor covered with rose petals of the same variety Wulfgar had chosen to signal his demise. The glow she had conjured over the little corpse would ensure that the body remained perpetually preserved. The spell’s calculations had been purposely convoluted to avoid tampering, and Serena was sure that only she could unravel it. She turned and looked at her handmaidens.
“These petals upon which I stand,” she said. “They were fresh this morning?”
One of the handmaidens bowed. “Yes, Your Grace,” she answered.
Serena returned her gaze to her daughter’s lifeless form. “Good,” she replied. Silence filled the room again.
She suddenly heard someone knocking on the double doors of the crypt. Earlier this morning she had summoned the only two other people she would allow into this room without killing them outright.
“Enter,” she called out.
The doors parted to show two men. She bid them entrance.
Two servants walked into the room. They bowed to their queen, then to the little corpse. “When you are in this sacred place you are to bow to my child as well,” Serena had warned them. Given their queen’s mental state, they knew better than to disobey.
Serena looked commandingly at them. Einar, her senior consul, was dressed in his familiar dark blue robe. Tall and whippet lean, his dark brown eyes stared back at her with confidence. She watched him lower the hood of his robe to expose his sharp features and cruel-looking mouth. Serena trusted and respected Einar. His loyalty to her late husband had been unshakable.
Reznik was another matter. Serena found his kind to be greasy, unpleasant creatures, but she tolerated the partial adepts here on her small island because she found their gifts useful. At fifty Seasons of New Life, Reznik had a wrinkled face, a thick middle, and a balding head. A circular fringe of graying hair fell to his shoulders. Yellow teeth, a hooked nose, and limpid brown eyes finished the unappealing picture. As if suddenly needing something to do, he nervously ran his wet palms down the front of his bloody smock.
Also known as the Corporeals, his group had been granted sanctuary by Wulfgar. There were nearly two hundred of Reznik’s kind here on the island. Corporeals possessed partial, left-leaning blood signatures. They specialized in producing dark wares of the craft that they sold for profit. With no market left in Eutracia for their deadly wares, they gladly served the new queen of the Vagaries at the Citadel. Despite how much Serena looked down on them, even she had become impressed by their unique abilities.
As the leader of the Corporeals, Reznik was an expert herbmaster, potion blender, and cutter-healer. But he had little experience with royalty, and now he made the mistake of speaking first.
“Has the new Vagaries servant entered Eutracia?” he asked.
Serena glared angrily at him, then turned to look at the handmaidens. They each quickly looked at the floor. She turned back to glare at the Corporeal.
“Not here, you fool!” she admonished him. “Follow me.”
She strode past the two men, then caused the doors to open. As she walked out into the daylight, her servants followed. The twin doors shut heavily behind them. Saying nothing, Serena led them through the Citadel’s inner ward.
The island fortress was a majestic place. The Citadel walls rose straight up from the island’s rock. The many interior buildings and turrets were interconnected by an ornate series of catwalks suspended high in the air. Manicured gardens and majestic fountains dotted the grounds. There had been many nights when she and Wulfgar had walked these grounds, talking and dreaming of the day when they would rule the craft, and watch their daughter grow to womanhood. But those days were no more.
Her mind often drifted back to her early captivity in this remote place—days that later led to her enlightened worship of the Vagaries. She loved following their dark teachings. Before departing for Eutracia, Wulfgar had granted her the Forestallment that allowed her communion with the Heretics. She knew her gifts were easily a match for those of the Redoubt wizards. And as the Heretics had told her, not one of her Conclave enemies could commune with the Ones—an advantage she would use wisely in the days ahead.
Still, disadvantages loomed. The demonslavers—the macabre army Wulfgar had employed to invade Eutracia—were all dead, leaving the Citadel largely unguarded. The majestic Black Ships in which Wulfgar had transported his army had also been lost to her. But she still had nearly one hundred consuls at her command, plus the Corporeals. Most important, she possessed the Scroll of the Vagaries—the ancient document containing every Vagaries Forestallment calculation known to man.
She knew that the Conclave would try to take the scroll from her. But by then she would be ready for them. Soon the Redoubt wizards would be dealing with an entirely new host of problems, the likes of which they had never seen.
Choosing a stone bench beneath a willowberry tree, she sat down. As the breeze ruffled her mourning gown she reached down to smooth out the dress. Einar and Reznik came to stand before her. When she was satisfied, she looked up at Reznik.
“Never discuss our plans before my handmaidens,” she said. “You and your people are merely guests here. I will kill you without remorse if you violate my confidence again.”
The blood rushed from Reznik’s face. “Yes—yes of course, Your Grace,” he stammered. “You have my deepest apologies.”
Serena nodded. “Now to answer your question,” she said. “Yes, the Darkling has arrived in Eutracia. By now he should be about his mission.”
Einar smiled. “That is indeed good news,” he said.
“Yes,” Serena answered. “The Jin’Sai and his Conclave are about to get the shock of their lives. I wish I could be there to see it.” She suddenly remembered the little corpse lying in state in the crypt, and her face darkened. “Though it will never make up for Clarice’s death,” she added softly. Einar and Reznik waited while she composed herself.
“Is there news regarding the project I entrusted to you?” she asked her consul at last.
Einar sighed. “The issues are complex,” he answered. “We have done almost all that can be accomplished here at the Citadel. Once we have traveled to Parthalon, the real research can start. But as you know, before we leave we must be sure that the Citadel is protected. The Redoubt wizards and the Jin’Sai and Jin’Saiou will soon come for the scroll—and for you.”
Serena nodded. “Keep me informed. Your work is vital to the Heretics’ plan.” She again looked at Reznik.
“And you?” she asked. “Have you and your group been helpful to my consuls?”
“We have been as much aid as our limited gifts allow, Your Grace,” Reznik answered. “The going is slow, but Einar and I believe that we are on the right track. Every Valrenkian is doing what he or she can to aid the cause.”
Serena nodded. “Good,” she said. “Leave me. I have much to consider and I wish to be alone.” With deep bows, the two men left for their respective research areas.
Finally alone, Serena looked around. The birds were singing again, and the early-afternoon sun felt good on her face. Standing, she looked up to the barbican surrounding the fortress. She gently levitated herself.
Higher and higher she soared as the sea breeze billowed her black gown. She landed gently atop one of the wall guard paths, then turned west to look out over the Sea of Whispers.
The dark blue ocean tide was high. From where she stood she could smell the salt air and hear the waves crashing in their endless assault against the shore. The white gulls called noisily to one another as they sought out their next meal.
Enjoy what peaceful time you have left, Jin’Sai, she thought. You will soon pay for your crimes.
CHAPTER IV
_____________________________
“NO, NO, NO!” WIGG CRIED OUT, RAISING HIS HANDS IN frustration. “You’re losing her again!”
Seeing that it was already too late, the First Wizard braced himself.
The great ship fell a good ten meters through the air, then slammed mightily back down onto the ocean. The impact shot seawater plumes high into the sky, and the vessel heeled hard to starboard. Faegan’s chair on wheels nearly tipped over. Wigg slipped to one knee. Seawater fell down, drenching everyone again.
It was plain to see that the two wizards were becoming furious. For her part, it was all Jessamay could do to keep from howling outright. Twice this morning she had already laughed uproariously, adding to the wizards’ growing aggravation and embarrassment.
Sister Adrian stood nearby with a sheepish look on her face. Her red acolyte robe lay soaked against her skin, making her plump figure look thinner. Her sandy hair lying wet on her shoulders, she pursed her lips, then looked toward the deck.
She would have to try harder next time. If she didn’t succeed soon, she feared that the First Wizard’s head might explode with frustration.
It was a sunny day in Eutracia, and the sea winds were light. It was a perfect time to start the acolyte’s training, the two wizards had decided. But as they stood on the drenched deck, they were starting to have their doubts about this project.
With the consuls’ safe houses finally dealt with, the group had returned to Tammerland two days ago. They were all glad to be home, but many important actions still awaited the Conclave’s attention. By mutual agreement, the most vital of these was to devise the plan of attack against the Citadel.
There was more than one reason why capturing the Vagaries scroll had become so important. Without it, Serena and her traitorous consuls would be far less powerful. Wigg and Faegan were acutely aware that the longer she held the document, the greater the likelihood that she would imbue herself with yet more Forestallments. And with the scroll safely in the hands of the Conclave, other Vagaries practitioners would find themselves at a distinct disadvantage. But no matter the Conclave’s battle plan, the siege of the Citadel would be problematic. With the bulk of the Minion armada destroyed, the Black Ships would have to take them there.
Providing I ever get these monstrous vessels to obey my commands, Adrian thought. She had to admit that as the morning wore on, she was becoming less and less optimistic.
Fuming and stamping about like a wet hen, Wigg angrily shook the water from his robe. Then he reached over one shoulder to grasp the braided queue of gray hair falling down his back. After squeezing out the seawater, he tossed the braid back again.
Adrian heard a strange noise. She turned to see several fish flopping around on the deck. Pointing a finger at them, she called the craft and tossed them overboard.
Faegan tilted his head. Inserting a finger into one ear, he tried to free some trapped seawater from his ear canal. His gray hair lay all about his shoulders. Finally overcome, Jessamay just had to laugh again. Wigg scowled.
“What’s so funny?” he demanded. “This is serious work!”
“That might be,” she answered, “but I just can’t help it!”
The blond-haired sorceress was as wet and frustrated as the others, but it didn’t seem to bother her. Smiling, she placed her arms akimbo.
“You should see yourselves!” she exclaimed. “Wigg, I haven’t seen you this perplexed since you were a boy! You had just accidentally blown up your father’s laboratory. As I remember, Faegan was in on it with you. You two were inseparable, even then! Let me remember—what was it that you miscreants were trying to do? Ah, yes—something about perfecting a spell that would allow you the power to turn lead into gold. I thought your father was going to kill you both!”
“I remember,” Wigg grumbled. He looked down at Faegan to see the crippled wizard still trying to drain his ear.
“They were your calculations, you know!” Wigg hollered at him.
Faegan looked up crookedly. “Oh?” he shot back. “Just who can remember back that far, eh?”
Wigg quickly pointed a bony index finger. “You can!” he thundered back. “Or have you forgotten about your power of Consummate Recollection?”
“Uh, excuse me,” Adrian said as she walked nearer. “With all due respect, this isn’t getting us anyplace. Our goal was to teach me how to empower the Black Ships—not to fight among ourselves, remember?”
Sighing, Wigg rubbed his brow. “Yes, yes, I know,” he said. “But you aren’t grasping the concept.”
All morning, Wigg, Faegan, and Jessamay had been trying to teach Adrian how to fly one of the Black Ships. Six of the huge vessels had survived Wulfgar’s attack on Tammerland. The five others lay quietly at anchor nearby. If the Conclave’s plans were to succeed, the ships would be needed soon.
Each ship was easily four or five times the size of the largest that had once served the Eutracian fleet. Every part, including the sails, was solid black. Each of the ships’ five black masts rose dozens of meters into the air. Eight full decks lay below their topsides. Despite their huge size, these potent vessels could not only rise from the sea, but fly through the air with great speed. Due to other enchantments, they were nearly impervious to traditional forms of attack. One Black Ship is easily the equivalent of many normal vessels, Wigg was fond of saying.
Several weeks earlier, Tristan had ordered that a bright red image of the Paragon be painted onto each ship’s huge foresail. It had taken an entire Minion host more than a week to finish the job. When freed to the wind, they were an amazing sight.
The ships were all more than three hundred years old. Once the mainstays of the Directorate of Wizards’ battle fleet, they had been sunk by the Coven during the Sorceresses’ War. Using a Forestallment found in the Scroll of the Vagaries, Wulfgar had raised them and pressed them into his service. Now spoils of war, they were again firmly in the control of the Conclave. But the specialized gifts of those trained in the craft were required to unleash their amazing abilities.
Walking back over to her three teachers, Adrian looked at them humbly. Seawater still dripping from his robe, Wigg shot her a questioning glance.
“Are you ready to try again?” he asked.
Adrian nodded. “Yes, but I believe it would help if you explained the theory once more.”
“Very well,” he answered. Taking a deep breath, he looked into her eyes.
“As I have told you, this is a binary spell,” he started, “and they can be tricky. ‘Binary’ means two parts. As you can imagine, tri-spells and quadra-spells are even more difficult. In this case you are not trying to levitate the ship, then push it forward over the waves. Instead, you must change the atmospheric conditions surrounding her. Using the calculations we provided, first you must create a strong vacuum, just above the ship. If the spell is strong enough, the vacuum will attract the ship, causing her to rise.
“Performing the second part of the spell—while also maintaining the first—is the truly delicate part,” he went on to say. “You must simultaneously enlarge the vacuum and cause it to flow down toward the bow. Only then will she hover while being pulled forward. Instead of the wind pushing her from behind, this vessel is pulled into the emptiness of the morphing vacuums. And as we have already seen, if both parts of the calculations are not properly maintained, then the spell fractures, and the ship falls back into the sea. Now then, shall we try again?”
Nodding, Adrian recalled the complicated series of calculations. She raised her arms.
At once the ship started to rise. She wobbled a bit as her massive hull laboriously left the ocean surface. Dripping seawater from bow to stern, she slowly climbed about twenty meters into the air.
Wigg, Faegan, and Jessamay could see the strain on Adrian’s face. Walking closer, the First Wizard knew that the most difficult moment had again come.
“We know, Daughter,” they responded. “Your mission will be a complicated one, and must be accomplished in steps. Listen as we tell you what to do first.”
As she lay near death, Serena was astounded by what she heard. Nonetheless it all made perfect sense. The task before her would be enormous. But the rewards would be, as well.
When the Heretics had finished speaking to her, she bid them good-bye. From that moment on, her strength and vitality had returned quickly. That had been seven weeks ago. She had accomplished much since then.
Reaching her destination, the queen of the Vagaries stopped before a pair of tall twin doors. A wreath of flowering red cat’s paw hung on each one. She pointed an index finger. At her bidding the heavy locks turned over and the doors parted. Serena walked into the room. The doors shut heavily behind her.
She paused for a moment to look around. Everything was just as she had left it. The room was to be perfectly maintained at all times. If she found the slightest thing disturbed, the handmaidens responsible for maintaining this place would die.
The chamber was large and well lit. Sunlight streamed in through numerous skylights; songbirds could be heard warbling in the outer yard. The brick floor was covered with fresh red rose petals. On the dawn of each new day the old petals were removed, then carefully replaced. Their familiar aroma permeated the air. Two specially chosen handmaidens stood in the far corners. As Serena looked at them, they bowed.
Finally satisfied, she again lifted her gown to stride through the lush foliage and toward the center of the room. When she reached the altar she stopped to look down. Her eyes immediately filled with tears.
The pink marble altar was just large enough to support a small body. An azure glow surrounded it. Reaching through the aura, the bereaved sorceress stroked her daughter’s cold cheek.
The tiny body was covered by a black silk sheet. More rose petals littered the shroud and surrounding altar top. Small and frail-looking, the dead baby girl lay peacefully atop the stone. The child’s eyes were closed in death. A small wisp of downy brown hair adorned the crown of her head. Had she lived, she would have been named Clarice.
In memory of the child’s father, Serena had ordered the floor covered with rose petals of the same variety Wulfgar had chosen to signal his demise. The glow she had conjured over the little corpse would ensure that the body remained perpetually preserved. The spell’s calculations had been purposely convoluted to avoid tampering, and Serena was sure that only she could unravel it. She turned and looked at her handmaidens.
“These petals upon which I stand,” she said. “They were fresh this morning?”
One of the handmaidens bowed. “Yes, Your Grace,” she answered.
Serena returned her gaze to her daughter’s lifeless form. “Good,” she replied. Silence filled the room again.
She suddenly heard someone knocking on the double doors of the crypt. Earlier this morning she had summoned the only two other people she would allow into this room without killing them outright.
“Enter,” she called out.
The doors parted to show two men. She bid them entrance.
Two servants walked into the room. They bowed to their queen, then to the little corpse. “When you are in this sacred place you are to bow to my child as well,” Serena had warned them. Given their queen’s mental state, they knew better than to disobey.
Serena looked commandingly at them. Einar, her senior consul, was dressed in his familiar dark blue robe. Tall and whippet lean, his dark brown eyes stared back at her with confidence. She watched him lower the hood of his robe to expose his sharp features and cruel-looking mouth. Serena trusted and respected Einar. His loyalty to her late husband had been unshakable.
Reznik was another matter. Serena found his kind to be greasy, unpleasant creatures, but she tolerated the partial adepts here on her small island because she found their gifts useful. At fifty Seasons of New Life, Reznik had a wrinkled face, a thick middle, and a balding head. A circular fringe of graying hair fell to his shoulders. Yellow teeth, a hooked nose, and limpid brown eyes finished the unappealing picture. As if suddenly needing something to do, he nervously ran his wet palms down the front of his bloody smock.
Also known as the Corporeals, his group had been granted sanctuary by Wulfgar. There were nearly two hundred of Reznik’s kind here on the island. Corporeals possessed partial, left-leaning blood signatures. They specialized in producing dark wares of the craft that they sold for profit. With no market left in Eutracia for their deadly wares, they gladly served the new queen of the Vagaries at the Citadel. Despite how much Serena looked down on them, even she had become impressed by their unique abilities.
As the leader of the Corporeals, Reznik was an expert herbmaster, potion blender, and cutter-healer. But he had little experience with royalty, and now he made the mistake of speaking first.
“Has the new Vagaries servant entered Eutracia?” he asked.
Serena glared angrily at him, then turned to look at the handmaidens. They each quickly looked at the floor. She turned back to glare at the Corporeal.
“Not here, you fool!” she admonished him. “Follow me.”
She strode past the two men, then caused the doors to open. As she walked out into the daylight, her servants followed. The twin doors shut heavily behind them. Saying nothing, Serena led them through the Citadel’s inner ward.
The island fortress was a majestic place. The Citadel walls rose straight up from the island’s rock. The many interior buildings and turrets were interconnected by an ornate series of catwalks suspended high in the air. Manicured gardens and majestic fountains dotted the grounds. There had been many nights when she and Wulfgar had walked these grounds, talking and dreaming of the day when they would rule the craft, and watch their daughter grow to womanhood. But those days were no more.
Her mind often drifted back to her early captivity in this remote place—days that later led to her enlightened worship of the Vagaries. She loved following their dark teachings. Before departing for Eutracia, Wulfgar had granted her the Forestallment that allowed her communion with the Heretics. She knew her gifts were easily a match for those of the Redoubt wizards. And as the Heretics had told her, not one of her Conclave enemies could commune with the Ones—an advantage she would use wisely in the days ahead.
Still, disadvantages loomed. The demonslavers—the macabre army Wulfgar had employed to invade Eutracia—were all dead, leaving the Citadel largely unguarded. The majestic Black Ships in which Wulfgar had transported his army had also been lost to her. But she still had nearly one hundred consuls at her command, plus the Corporeals. Most important, she possessed the Scroll of the Vagaries—the ancient document containing every Vagaries Forestallment calculation known to man.
She knew that the Conclave would try to take the scroll from her. But by then she would be ready for them. Soon the Redoubt wizards would be dealing with an entirely new host of problems, the likes of which they had never seen.
Choosing a stone bench beneath a willowberry tree, she sat down. As the breeze ruffled her mourning gown she reached down to smooth out the dress. Einar and Reznik came to stand before her. When she was satisfied, she looked up at Reznik.
“Never discuss our plans before my handmaidens,” she said. “You and your people are merely guests here. I will kill you without remorse if you violate my confidence again.”
The blood rushed from Reznik’s face. “Yes—yes of course, Your Grace,” he stammered. “You have my deepest apologies.”
Serena nodded. “Now to answer your question,” she said. “Yes, the Darkling has arrived in Eutracia. By now he should be about his mission.”
Einar smiled. “That is indeed good news,” he said.
“Yes,” Serena answered. “The Jin’Sai and his Conclave are about to get the shock of their lives. I wish I could be there to see it.” She suddenly remembered the little corpse lying in state in the crypt, and her face darkened. “Though it will never make up for Clarice’s death,” she added softly. Einar and Reznik waited while she composed herself.
“Is there news regarding the project I entrusted to you?” she asked her consul at last.
Einar sighed. “The issues are complex,” he answered. “We have done almost all that can be accomplished here at the Citadel. Once we have traveled to Parthalon, the real research can start. But as you know, before we leave we must be sure that the Citadel is protected. The Redoubt wizards and the Jin’Sai and Jin’Saiou will soon come for the scroll—and for you.”
Serena nodded. “Keep me informed. Your work is vital to the Heretics’ plan.” She again looked at Reznik.
“And you?” she asked. “Have you and your group been helpful to my consuls?”
“We have been as much aid as our limited gifts allow, Your Grace,” Reznik answered. “The going is slow, but Einar and I believe that we are on the right track. Every Valrenkian is doing what he or she can to aid the cause.”
Serena nodded. “Good,” she said. “Leave me. I have much to consider and I wish to be alone.” With deep bows, the two men left for their respective research areas.
Finally alone, Serena looked around. The birds were singing again, and the early-afternoon sun felt good on her face. Standing, she looked up to the barbican surrounding the fortress. She gently levitated herself.
Higher and higher she soared as the sea breeze billowed her black gown. She landed gently atop one of the wall guard paths, then turned west to look out over the Sea of Whispers.
The dark blue ocean tide was high. From where she stood she could smell the salt air and hear the waves crashing in their endless assault against the shore. The white gulls called noisily to one another as they sought out their next meal.
Enjoy what peaceful time you have left, Jin’Sai, she thought. You will soon pay for your crimes.
CHAPTER IV
_____________________________
“NO, NO, NO!” WIGG CRIED OUT, RAISING HIS HANDS IN frustration. “You’re losing her again!”
Seeing that it was already too late, the First Wizard braced himself.
The great ship fell a good ten meters through the air, then slammed mightily back down onto the ocean. The impact shot seawater plumes high into the sky, and the vessel heeled hard to starboard. Faegan’s chair on wheels nearly tipped over. Wigg slipped to one knee. Seawater fell down, drenching everyone again.
It was plain to see that the two wizards were becoming furious. For her part, it was all Jessamay could do to keep from howling outright. Twice this morning she had already laughed uproariously, adding to the wizards’ growing aggravation and embarrassment.
Sister Adrian stood nearby with a sheepish look on her face. Her red acolyte robe lay soaked against her skin, making her plump figure look thinner. Her sandy hair lying wet on her shoulders, she pursed her lips, then looked toward the deck.
She would have to try harder next time. If she didn’t succeed soon, she feared that the First Wizard’s head might explode with frustration.
It was a sunny day in Eutracia, and the sea winds were light. It was a perfect time to start the acolyte’s training, the two wizards had decided. But as they stood on the drenched deck, they were starting to have their doubts about this project.
With the consuls’ safe houses finally dealt with, the group had returned to Tammerland two days ago. They were all glad to be home, but many important actions still awaited the Conclave’s attention. By mutual agreement, the most vital of these was to devise the plan of attack against the Citadel.
There was more than one reason why capturing the Vagaries scroll had become so important. Without it, Serena and her traitorous consuls would be far less powerful. Wigg and Faegan were acutely aware that the longer she held the document, the greater the likelihood that she would imbue herself with yet more Forestallments. And with the scroll safely in the hands of the Conclave, other Vagaries practitioners would find themselves at a distinct disadvantage. But no matter the Conclave’s battle plan, the siege of the Citadel would be problematic. With the bulk of the Minion armada destroyed, the Black Ships would have to take them there.
Providing I ever get these monstrous vessels to obey my commands, Adrian thought. She had to admit that as the morning wore on, she was becoming less and less optimistic.
Fuming and stamping about like a wet hen, Wigg angrily shook the water from his robe. Then he reached over one shoulder to grasp the braided queue of gray hair falling down his back. After squeezing out the seawater, he tossed the braid back again.
Adrian heard a strange noise. She turned to see several fish flopping around on the deck. Pointing a finger at them, she called the craft and tossed them overboard.
Faegan tilted his head. Inserting a finger into one ear, he tried to free some trapped seawater from his ear canal. His gray hair lay all about his shoulders. Finally overcome, Jessamay just had to laugh again. Wigg scowled.
“What’s so funny?” he demanded. “This is serious work!”
“That might be,” she answered, “but I just can’t help it!”
The blond-haired sorceress was as wet and frustrated as the others, but it didn’t seem to bother her. Smiling, she placed her arms akimbo.
“You should see yourselves!” she exclaimed. “Wigg, I haven’t seen you this perplexed since you were a boy! You had just accidentally blown up your father’s laboratory. As I remember, Faegan was in on it with you. You two were inseparable, even then! Let me remember—what was it that you miscreants were trying to do? Ah, yes—something about perfecting a spell that would allow you the power to turn lead into gold. I thought your father was going to kill you both!”
“I remember,” Wigg grumbled. He looked down at Faegan to see the crippled wizard still trying to drain his ear.
“They were your calculations, you know!” Wigg hollered at him.
Faegan looked up crookedly. “Oh?” he shot back. “Just who can remember back that far, eh?”
Wigg quickly pointed a bony index finger. “You can!” he thundered back. “Or have you forgotten about your power of Consummate Recollection?”
“Uh, excuse me,” Adrian said as she walked nearer. “With all due respect, this isn’t getting us anyplace. Our goal was to teach me how to empower the Black Ships—not to fight among ourselves, remember?”
Sighing, Wigg rubbed his brow. “Yes, yes, I know,” he said. “But you aren’t grasping the concept.”
All morning, Wigg, Faegan, and Jessamay had been trying to teach Adrian how to fly one of the Black Ships. Six of the huge vessels had survived Wulfgar’s attack on Tammerland. The five others lay quietly at anchor nearby. If the Conclave’s plans were to succeed, the ships would be needed soon.
Each ship was easily four or five times the size of the largest that had once served the Eutracian fleet. Every part, including the sails, was solid black. Each of the ships’ five black masts rose dozens of meters into the air. Eight full decks lay below their topsides. Despite their huge size, these potent vessels could not only rise from the sea, but fly through the air with great speed. Due to other enchantments, they were nearly impervious to traditional forms of attack. One Black Ship is easily the equivalent of many normal vessels, Wigg was fond of saying.
Several weeks earlier, Tristan had ordered that a bright red image of the Paragon be painted onto each ship’s huge foresail. It had taken an entire Minion host more than a week to finish the job. When freed to the wind, they were an amazing sight.
The ships were all more than three hundred years old. Once the mainstays of the Directorate of Wizards’ battle fleet, they had been sunk by the Coven during the Sorceresses’ War. Using a Forestallment found in the Scroll of the Vagaries, Wulfgar had raised them and pressed them into his service. Now spoils of war, they were again firmly in the control of the Conclave. But the specialized gifts of those trained in the craft were required to unleash their amazing abilities.
Walking back over to her three teachers, Adrian looked at them humbly. Seawater still dripping from his robe, Wigg shot her a questioning glance.
“Are you ready to try again?” he asked.
Adrian nodded. “Yes, but I believe it would help if you explained the theory once more.”
“Very well,” he answered. Taking a deep breath, he looked into her eyes.
“As I have told you, this is a binary spell,” he started, “and they can be tricky. ‘Binary’ means two parts. As you can imagine, tri-spells and quadra-spells are even more difficult. In this case you are not trying to levitate the ship, then push it forward over the waves. Instead, you must change the atmospheric conditions surrounding her. Using the calculations we provided, first you must create a strong vacuum, just above the ship. If the spell is strong enough, the vacuum will attract the ship, causing her to rise.
“Performing the second part of the spell—while also maintaining the first—is the truly delicate part,” he went on to say. “You must simultaneously enlarge the vacuum and cause it to flow down toward the bow. Only then will she hover while being pulled forward. Instead of the wind pushing her from behind, this vessel is pulled into the emptiness of the morphing vacuums. And as we have already seen, if both parts of the calculations are not properly maintained, then the spell fractures, and the ship falls back into the sea. Now then, shall we try again?”
Nodding, Adrian recalled the complicated series of calculations. She raised her arms.
At once the ship started to rise. She wobbled a bit as her massive hull laboriously left the ocean surface. Dripping seawater from bow to stern, she slowly climbed about twenty meters into the air.
Wigg, Faegan, and Jessamay could see the strain on Adrian’s face. Walking closer, the First Wizard knew that the most difficult moment had again come.
