Robert Newcomb - The Scrolls of the Ancients

Prologue:

Relinquishment

"D o not tell me your name, my dear. But by what name shall we call the child? And remember, first name only, please."

The matron's voice was neither condescending nor harsh. She waited patiently, her squat, bulky frame blocking the doorway to the building behind her.

But the young mother standing before her in the rain had no ready answer. She had not given her child a name, for doing so would only further cement the bond she already felt with him and make the act she was about to perform even more impossible. Tightening her arms around his little body, she lowered her eyes in sadness and shame.

She had come here to give up her baby.

As she tried unsuccessfully to protect the squirming infant from the driving rain, she craned her neck to peer over the matron's shoulder. An inviting glow emanated from the rooms beyond, and she could hear the sounds of laughing children. The smells of warm food drifted to her nostrils, reminding her of how long it had been since she had eaten. Perhaps if she could just go inside for a moment, she might feel better about it all

"May I come in before deciding?" she asked.

"No, my dear, it is forbidden," the matron responded. Her older, wiser heart was breaking, just as it always did for the sad, desperate ones who journeyed here. But the wizards had made their conditions very plain, and as headmistress of this place she had to respect them.

"If you are here to give us your child, surely you must know that you cannot enter," she added gently. "Not now, not ever." She extended her arms. According to Eutracian law, once the baby was handed over, there could be no going back.

Still, the young woman hesitated. She pulled the infant closer to her breast, attempting to cover him further with the worn blanket she had wrapped around him.

"And which of the three categories of blood does this child possess?" the matron asked, hoping to move things along. "Fully endowed, unendowed, or partial?" The weather was worsening, and if this was to be done, she wanted the baby protected from the elements as quickly as possible.

"Fully endowed," the young mother responded quietly.

The matron raised an eyebrow. It had been some time since she had been offered a child of fully endowed blood. Giving one up was a rare thing, usually indicating that the mother's situation was dire, indeed. "And do you have the child's verified blood signature to prove this claim?" she asked.

The mother nodded. From beneath her hooded cloak she produced a parchment, which she handed to the woman before her. Backing away from the rain, the matron unrolled it. She glanced at the blood signature, noted the child's date of birth, then verified that two of the consuls of the Redoubt had witnessed the formation of the signature, as required. The black ink stamp in the shape of the Paragon-the stone that powered the craft of magic-was in place, proof that the child was illegitimate. At last she checked the blood quality rating, also stamped at the bottom of the document. Its numerical value indicated the highest blood quality she had ever seen. Stunned, she simply stood there for a moment. Finally she found her voice.

"And the required parental blood signatures?" she asked, trying to mask her surprise.

The younger woman produced two more parchments. The matron looked intently at them. After noting their signed confirmations by the consuls, she carefully compared them to the first document.

"Very well," she said finally, "I accept the fact that the child is of fully endowed blood. He will be treated accordingly."

Except for the actual handing over of the infant, their business was concluded. All of the permissible questions had been asked and answered, and the necessary documents provided.

The young mother trembled, clearly torn.

The drops from the sky combined with those from her eyes to run down her reddened cheeks. The baby had fallen asleep; the only sound was the cold rain splattering down on the street and the unassuming house that hid so many secrets.

Turning, the young mother looked hesitantly to the rain-soaked carriage-of-four that had brought her here. She saw the kind, elderly faces of her parents as they sat inside, waiting for her to decide.

She thought back to when she had first met Eric. He had swept her off her feet, and she had fallen madly in love. At first her parents-simple commoners-had approved of him: handsome, charming, and of fully endowed blood, just as she was.

But then he had shown his true colors. Upon learning of her pregnancy he had abandoned her, never to be heard from again. Despite his cruel treatment, she still missed him, and feared she always would.

That had been the first time her young heart had been truly broken. Standing here, on this anonymous stoop in the rain, trying to make her fateful decision, was the second.

The voices had come just after she had discovered she was pregnant.

You must abort the child, they had said.

But she had defied them, carrying the baby to term and then giving birth despite the terrifying warnings searing through her mind. The voices had grown stronger and more insistent, continuing to demand the death of the infant. They had finally become so resonant and powerful that she thought she would go irretrievably mad if the child stayed with her; she was terrified that such madness would cause her to harm the baby, despite her love for him. And so she had come here-to this place many knew about but few talked of-to give her firstborn away.

"I ask you a final time," the matron said. "What name shall be given to this child?"

Tears streaming down her face, the young mother looked down into her baby's face for what she knew in her heart would be the final time. She saw his wispy, sandy hair, and the small mole at the left-hand corner of his mouth. With trembling hands, she handed the infant over to the matron. She thought for a moment.

"Wulfgar," she whispered at last. She covered her face in grief.

"Then Wulfgar it shall be," the matron answered compassionately. Her face hardened slightly. "You are never to visit here again, nor try to discover the whereabouts of the child. Do you understand? The wizards' penalties for disobeying can be quite severe."

The young woman standing before her could only nod.

"Go now," the matron said quietly, her voice kind once more. "And may the Afterlife look over you." Turning, she carried the infant into the house, closing the door behind her.

Sobbing, the young mother collapsed.

She felt her father's strong arms lift her to her feet, felt herself being carried back to the carriage and placed upon the seat. She continued to cry as her mother stroked her hair, as their driver, snapping his whip, charged the horses noisily down the slick, cobblestoned street.

Morganna of the House of Desinoor wept in her mother's arms. Then she felt her mother press something into her hand. It was a lock of sandy-colored hair tied with a red ribbon. It had been cut from the head of her son only this morning, and was now all she had to remember him by.

It would be another three years before she would meet and marry Nicholas of the House of Galland, the true love of her life, and become queen of Eutracia. She would then go on to have twins, whose birth would be heralded by a strange, azure glow and watched over anxiously by ancient wizards.