"You still have not told us about the state of the gardens," Wigg pressed. "Our need for your help is very great. Yet another threat to the Vigors walks the land, and has the potential to become the most potent danger we have ever faced."
The figure in the robe glided over to Faegan's chair. Reaching down to his chest with a skeletal hand, she picked up the Paragon and examined it closely. Even at this proximity, Faegan could see nothing within the dark confines of her hood. Finally she let go of the stone, allowing it to fall back into place.
"The gardens are not as they once were because all things of the craft take their sustenance from the power granted by the stone," she answered. "As the stone neared its death, so too did the gardens that I tend. They have only just begun to rejuvenate. Because of this, what you have traveled so far to find may no longer exist, but we shall try. What exactly is the nature of your request?"
"Agents of the Vagaries have mixed our stores of herbs and precious oils," Faegan explained. "They must be separated again, reclassified, and their potency revalued so that they might be employed by our herbmistress to use her gazing flame. The Chosen One is missing, and we must find him. We also seek the Scroll of the Vigors. Can you help us?"
Her answer was both frightening and immediate. "Do you mean to say that the Scrolls of the Ancients have been loosed upon the world?"
"Yes," Wigg answered. "Can you tell us why they are so important?"
"No," she told them, "for I have not been blessed with such knowledge. But I do know that the importance of the scrolls is on a par at least equal to that of both the Tome and the Paragon. For the Vigors to survive you must recover the scrolls at once, or all that we have worked for so long to preserve will perish."
"The Tome mentioned a psychic price to be paid for the knowledge that we seek," Faegan said cautiously. "What does that mean?"
"How long have each of you been alive?" she asked.
Confused, the two wizards looked at each other. "We are each more than three centuries old," Faegan answered honestly. "But why do you need to know?"
"Only three centuries," she mused. "Still so young. Mere children in the intricate tapestry that is the craft. Due to your youth, you may not possess the depth of experiences required to pay the price, and trying to do so might well cost you your lives."
"I don't understand," Wigg interjected. "What do our ages have to do with the psychic price that you demand?"
"To acquire what you seek, the price to be paid is not money nor other physical goods of any kind. The payment demanded is that one of you must leave behind a piece of your very soul. To do so, you must be forced to relive your greatest regret, as if you were experiencing it for the very first time. Therefore, the longer you have lived, the greater the chances that you possess regrets that will satisfy the price. As you make payment, the psychic pain you experience in your soul shall be accompanied by an equally severe, physical pain in your heart-the very seat of such regret. And should your endowed blood not be strong enough to persist, your heart will burst, and you will die. If that occurs, you will never leave this place. I realize your need is great. Therefore the price demanded shall be, also."
"How could you possibly know what each of our greatest regrets might be?" Faegan asked. "We might try to trick you."
"I do not need to know. Only you do."
"But why must we pay such an awful price?" Wigg asked. "Why can't you simply give us what we need? Are our goals not the same-the preservation of the Vigors?"
"That is not my place to say," she answered. "The Ones Who Came Before built these chambers and others like them before they perished, hoping they would be found by those who value only the Vigors, just as you obviously found both the Tome and the Paragon. But in their wisdom they also dictated the price to be paid, so that what might be given to you will not be taken lightly, or squandered. The nature of the price therefore demands that only those of exceptionally strong blood will prevail, and be able to use that which they have been given. As you will soon see, many of your kind have tried over the ages, and failed."
"Do those of the Vagaries know of these chambers?" Faegan asked, practically bursting with curiosity.
"That does not matter just now."
"Why not?"
"Because possession of the Paragon is required to enter, and you are its current wearer," she answered simply. "The others of your race who have come here seeking answers over the eons were, like you, in possession of the stone. It is hoped that finally, after all this time, the Chosen Ones will accomplish what so many others have failed to do, and at the same time will learn all that there is to know of what has gone before. And with that shall dawn a new age."
His eyes alive with questions, Faegan looked into the dark recesses of her hood. "Are you one of the Ones Who Came Before?" he breathed.
"I am, and I am not," she said cryptically. "I have been here in this place for eons, doing their bidding. As you can see, my flesh has fallen away, but my mind remains. But I will tell you that eons ago, I was a woman of the craft. Tell me, do women still practice the arts in the world above?"
"For a long time it was forbidden, but now there are again such women," Wigg answered. "They are known as the Acolytes of Fledgling House. But they are only newly trained, and remain scattered across the land. We would like to call them all home, but we do not know how."
The watchwoman remained still for a time as she considered his words. "If the threat to the Vigors is as great as you say, you will need these women in your service," she said. "I suggest you call them back immediately."
"But as I said," Wigg protested, "we don't know how."
"If you are able to find the Scroll of the Vigors, examine it carefully, looking for the formula that invokes the River of Thought," she told him.
"The River of Thought?" Faegan repeated. "What do you mean?"
"No more talk," she said flatly. "Your questions are legion, and I have accommodated you long enough. It is time for you to make your decision. Do you wish to pay the psychic price for what you seek? Understand that if you agree, and pass this portal into my world, you are bound by your blood to keep your end of the bargain. There can be no turning back."
Faegan looked up to Wigg with questioning eyes. After a long pause, the lead wizard nodded.
"We agree," Faegan said.
"Then follow me," the watchwoman ordered. Turning, she walked into the darkness.
Wigg and Faegan followed tentatively behind, wondering what lay waiting for them on the other side.
CHAPTER
Thirty-two
"C an I have one, Marcus?" Rebecca asked. She was fairly jumping up and down, excited almost beyond words. "Please, Marcus," she pleaded, pulling on the sleeve of his shirt. "Please, can I?"
Marcus looked up and down the street to which he had carefully guided them. Like Bargainer's Square, it was teeming with passersby and street vendors. But this section of Tammerland was infinitely more appealing, not to mention safer. The area they were standing in was known as the Plaza of Fallen Heroes, and here and there could be seen marble statues erected to those who had fallen over the centuries in the service of the crown.
By Marcus' side stood the wheelbarrow that had lain up against the shed he and his sister lived in, and lying in the wheelbarrow was the scroll. Marcus was strong for his age. Even so, he found the scroll, with all of its gold adornments, difficult to lift. Finding the discarded wheelbarrow had been a great stroke of luck.
The patterned rug they had stolen was wound tightly around it, hiding it from view. The open ends of the rug were stuffed with rags. Marcus hoped that these simple measures would be enough to hide the scroll-at least until he had concluded his business with the man they were supposed to meet. He prayed to the Afterlife that it would not start glowing again. He and Rebecca had already survived several close scrapes, and they didn't need another one.