The Thirteenth Scroll Read online

  A COMPANY OF FRIENDS

  Talog was warming toward his companions, especially the healer Lysandra. She had the Hand of the Divine upon her—even if she knew it not.

  It was part of his training as a Guide to read the clues others revealed about themselves. Many things about his companions still puzzled him, however. Why were Renan and Lysandra not Joined—because she was a healer? Little as he knew about Upworlders, it was plain that they had the same feelings for each other that meant a male and female of the Cryf would go to the Guide to say the words of Joining.

  But Renan and Lysandra each tried to hide their feelings from the other. To Talog, it made no sense.

  Copyright

  WARNER BOOKS EDITION

  Copyright © 2001 by Rebecca Neason

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

  Aspect® name and logo are registered trademarks of Warner Books, Inc.

  Warner Books, Inc.

  Hachette Book Group

  237 Park Avenue

  New York, NY 10017

  Visit our website at www.HachetteBookGroup.com

  First eBook Edition: October 2009

  ISBN: 978-0-7595-2566-5

  Contents

  A COMPANY OF FRIENDS

  Copyright

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Chapter thirty–five

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Epilogue

  Appendices

  Acknowledgments

  This book is dedicated

  To my mother

  Shirly Matilda

  1923–1999

  Who instilled within all her family

  a deep and abiding love for the written word,

  and who was truly

  “One of a kind.”

  193rd year in the reign of the Line of Baoghil

  Ruling House of the Eighth Province, Kingdom of Aghamore

  Prologue

  Old King Osaze was dead, only a month dead, and already the kingdom of Aghamore was near to erupting in violence. The King had left no bodily issue to inherit the crown, and now each of the Barons who ruled the eight outer provinces thought himself the best allied—by family and wealth or by strength and greed—to lay claim to the throne.

  The Church, whose power in Aghamore rivaled that of the Barons, supported the late King’s nephew, Anri. But the people thought Anri too young and untried, not a leader to inspire confidence or imbue the kingdom with an aura of strength in the minds of their enemies. Yet even he was preferred to the threat of civil war.

  The Barons knew Anri for what he was—greedy in his tastes, perverse in his pleasures, and interested in the throne of Aghamore only for the riches it could provide. Unlike the people, the Barons thought civil war was preferable to Anri.

  The specter of that threat hung like a shadowed veil across the kingdom. As the throne remained unfilled, the people of Aghamore looked with desperation to the Church, praying that it would find the means to exercise its authority in the matter of the succession and control the Barons’ predilection for war.

  It was, therefore, on Ballinrigh, Aghamore’s capital, that the eyes and the hearts of the kingdom were fixed.

  In that great city, the law of the land still held sway and the people still walked the streets in safety, going about their daily business while waiting to see which way the winds of change would blow. But such was not true away from the larger cities. All through the eight provinces that encircled Urlar, Aghamore’s central province, bands of soldiers roamed through towns and villages, sought out hamlets and farms, conscripting every able-bodied young man into service of the Barons. Rather than be pressed into the army and forced to fight a war no one but the Barons wanted, many men fled from their homes to hide out in the forests and hills until the dangers of the conscription gangs—or the war—had passed.

  With the law’s attention focused elsewhere and so many men either in the army or in hiding, outlaws were growing in numbers and boldness. They marauded unchecked, taking whatever they wanted wherever they found it.

  In the Fifth Province of Camlough, in the once-prosperous town of Scorda, Lysandra lay on her bed sobbing, crying with all the passion of her seventeen-year-old heart. Her mother sat next to her, trying to give her comfort. But Lysandra wanted none. She wanted life as she had planned it.

  “You can’t ask Ultan to stay,” her mother said gently. “Not when the conscription gangs have reached Lamford already. They could ride into Scorda any day.”

  “But why now?” Lysandra still sobbed. “Our wedding is only a week away. It’s not fair.”

  Her mother’s low chuckle made Lysandra furious. She sat up quickly, trying to glare—but her blue eyes were too swollen and red. Her puffy, tear-streaked cheeks made her look like a cross and fretful child.

  “Oh, Lysandra,” her mother said, reaching out to softly wipe away the tears that still lingered on her cheek, “no one, in any place or at any time, has ever said life was going to be fair. Life isn’t fair—life simply is.”

  “But—”

  “No, Lysandra,” she continued, taking her daughter’s hands into her own, “you’re not a child anymore to think life must behave a certain way just because you wish it so. Life comes when and as it will, and we—especially we women—must make the best of it, without ever giving up hope that all will eventually be well.”

  There was scant comfort in her mother’s words, but there was truth and, still heart-sore, she slowly nodded. Her mother gave her a smile and brought a handkerchief out of her apron pocket to dry Lysandra’s eyes.

  “That’s better,” she said, her tone turning brisk and matter-of-fact, a tone Lysandra knew well. “Now go splash some cold water on your face and comb your hair. Go to Ultan as a strong, courageous woman. Show him that he can leave here knowing that you will be all right until he returns.”

  Lysandra blew her nose. “Where will he go?” she asked.

  “Well, if he leaves now,” her mother replied, “he will have time to join with the other men who are going into the Great Forest—as so many have already. I swear Scorda will be a sad and empty place with so many gone. But”—she sighed—“better they go like this, on their own terms, than be forced away.”

  The net under which Lysandra had so neatly bound her hair this morning was hopelessly askew. She yanked it off and with quick fingers, gathered her wheat-colored hair back into a single braid that fell nearly to her waist. Then Lysandra’s mother pulled h
er into a quick hug.

  “I promise you, Lysandra,” she said, “all this will pass more quickly than you think. You and Ultan have a long life ahead of you—and it will be made all the sweeter because of your separation now.”

  The smile Lysandra gave her mother was still forced and a little crooked, but, at least for now, her tears were spent. There were more tears to be shed, but they would wait until after Ultan had departed.

  “Do you know where he is?” she asked, her voice still wavering slightly.

  “He’s with your father down at the stables. Your father’s lending him one of the packhorses—but I know he’s waiting for you.”

  Lysandra nodded as she took a deep breath. Then, giving her mother one more quick embrace, she left their home in the back of her father’s wool-and-dye shop and headed for the stables that served this part of the town.

  She gave barely a glance to the long, twisted ropes of brightly dyed wool that hung in the shop’s window, nor did she stop to look at the other shops as she passed. The weaver next door, with the lengths of beautiful cloth; the seamstress’s window, full of coats and dresses; the cobbler’s shop, with the giant wooden boot over the door; and, across the street, the ironwright’s shop, standing next to the silversmith’s whose window display of platters and goblets, buckles and jewelry always caught the morning sun—all those and more were as familiar to Lysandra as her own home. She gave them no more thought than she did the sound of neighbors’ voices or the playful barking of some of the town’s dogs. Her mind was filled with only one thought—Ultan.

  She walked briskly, her mind so busy with thoughts of him that at first she paid no heed to how the noise behind her had changed. Dogs now barked fiercely and over them, Lysandra heard the sound of galloping hooves—far too many to be a casual ride.

  Her first thought was of the conscription gangs. She started to run. I’ve got to get to Ultan, her thoughts now came in a whirl, matching the rhythm of her feet. Tell him to get away. It’s my fault—he should have gone yesterday or last week… he only stayed for me…

  She threw a glance over her shoulder. Just then, the first scream hit her ears. Lysandra’s stomach contracted in true fear—for this was no conscription gang. These riders, at least twenty strong, rode behind the most dreaded man in the province, perhaps in the kingdom.

  They rode with Black Bryan.

  Black Bryan was a bull of a man, with coal-dark hair and eyes to match. It was said that he used to be a blacksmith until ruinous taxes had claimed his smithy. Having lost his means of honest living, he now took what he wanted. The law had been after his gang for more than five years, but they remained elusive and unstoppable.

  And now into Scorda they rode, knowing they could take what they wanted and caring nothing for the screams or the lives of those in their way.

  Black Bryan stayed on his horse while his men fanned out in search of plunder, some on horseback, some already pushing their way into shops and houses. Lysandra saw all this in a scant moment. Her one thought was to reach the stables, now closer than her home. If she could get to Ultan and her father, she might be safe.

  The air around her rang with the wails of children and the screams of women. Such violence was inconceivable in this town, this place filled with her childhood memories of sunlight and laughter. This cannot be real, her mind cried.

  But it was. Lysandra heard the hoofbeats. They were close—too close. Her heart was pounding more wildly than the horses’ hooves, pounding with the fear of an only half-recognized premonition, as she slipped into a small alleyway to hide. But it was too late; she had been seen. She was trapped with no way to escape the four men who had leapt down from their horses and were closing in upon her. Their eyes shone with a light that left Lysandra little doubt of their intent.

  “No,” she heard herself say as she slowly backed away. “No, please—let me go.”

  The men kept coming. One of them laughed. “She’s a pretty one, don’t you think, m’lads?” he said.

  “Aye, right fair—and ripe for the pickin’ too.”

  Lysandra started to scream. But her fear meant less than nothing to the men. Her helplessness fed their lust as they grabbed at her, easily holding her arms though she struggled with all her strength. One man grasped her bodice, ready to rip it apart. Suddenly, he was hit from behind. He stumbled, his fingers slipping from her as he turned toward his attackers.

  In that same instant, through her screams and her fear-blurred vision, Lysandra saw what he saw. It was Ultan—the boy she loved, the boy she planned to marry. Her father was with him. Her mother, too, suddenly appeared, running from the other direction, come to find her and fight for the safety of her only child. Ultan wielded a length of board; Lysandra’s father grasped a hayfork, and her mother clutched a kitchen knife. Lysandra knew they would be no match for the swords of the men who held her.

  “No!” she screamed again, renewing her struggles. She kicked, she hit, she tried everything she could to break free and save those she loved.

  But the men were too strong, their reflexes too swift. While two still held her, two turned on her family. Lysandra saw the quick parry and thrust of their swords flashing in the sunlight. She saw the looks of surprise, terror, and then death, come to the faces first of Ultan, then of her parents. She saw the blood gush and flow, staining the clothes, their bodies deep crimson. She saw their bodies crumple to the ground. She saw all that was life and love to her die.

  She saw…

  The men turned back around. The swords in their hands still glistened, wet and red. In horrified fascination, Lysandra saw the blood run down the blade, drip by drip, onto the ground. She tore her eyes away and looked into their faces again. She saw how the violence had only sharpened their lust.

  Suddenly the world spun around her. It went black as Lysandra’s body crumpled, unconscious, in the grip of her attackers.

  When, at last, consciousness returned, Lysandra did not know how long it had been. She knew only that she was alone.

  The pains in her body told her that the men had carried through their intent. But at least they had left her behind and not dragged her off for further violation at the hands of their leader.

  Lysandra could smell the blood and death that lay only a few feet from her; she could hear the cries, the wails of sorrow and agony from elsewhere in her village. With them, the horror of the day flooded her anew and made permanent wounds upon her soul.

  She crawled toward the bodies of Ultan and her parents. Although the pain each movement cost her assured her that consciousness had indeed returned, her world remained in darkness.

  Lysandra was blind.

  Ten years later:

  203rd year of the reign of the House of Baoghil

  Ruling House of the Eighth Province, Kingdom of Aghamore

  Chapter One

  Deep in the heart of the Great Forest, twenty-seven-year-old Lysandra knelt in her garden, feeling the warmth of the spring sun upon her shoulders. At that moment she felt wrapped in peace. But it was a peace that had come hard-earned. Time had taught that such moments were to be cherished but never trusted; security was more delicate than a butterfly’s wing—and even more easily destroyed.

  She had been in this cottage for almost nine years now. It was a place she had come across by accident, an old hermit’s home standing alone and abandoned deep in the forest. She had at once sensed an affinity for the place; her own heart had felt just as empty as this house, just as overrun by brambles and weeds as its garden.

  For the first few days of her blindness, Lysandra had stayed in her family home. Although the villagers were kind in their pity of her, she could not stand the silence of the house that had once been filled with her mother’s singing and her father’s hearty laughter.

  And there was Ultan’s death, the death of her love, of her future. Without him, her heart felt as empty and bare as the void her eyes could not see. The only thing that filled them both was the memory of blood and fear.
r />   The memory of death.

  The decision to leave Scorda was not one she made consciously; reasonable thought would have told her that, blind now and needy in her infirmity, she must remain where life was familiar. But Lysandra could not stay in that empty place that had once been her home. As she packed those few belongings she could comfortably make into a bundle and headed for the door, leaving felt as inevitable as her next breath.

  She did not care where she went as long as it was far away from the reminders of what she had lost. She wandered, somehow finding her way to the Great Forest. She fully expected to die there, of loneliness and starvation. She accepted that fate without care or regret—perhaps, even, with eagerness.

  It was instinct that kept her alive as she learned to rely upon her senses other than sight. Touch and hearing kept her from falling down ravines or stumbling into brambles; smell and taste told her what food she had found; and it was the feel of the sun and the sounds of the birds or crickets that separated daylight from the night.

  But time did not matter. She ate when she was hungry and found food; she slept when she was tired, beneath some tree or in the shelter of a thicket. None of it mattered to her. Though she walked and moved and breathed, life was only a façade; she felt as dead as her murdered family.

  Lysandra had no sense in which direction she wandered or for how long, but she kept herself away from any human contact. Twice she stumbled upon a crofter’s home whose goodwife took her in, fed and cleaned her, and for pity’s sake offered her a place to stay. But these acts of kindness only deepened the wounds upon Lysandra’s heart until she ran from them, back into the forest and her solitude.

  Spring became summer, that faded into autumn. Rumors spread throughout the Province of the crazed woman roaming the forest. She was crazed then—crazed with the pain of her grief and her loss, crazed with guilt that she should live while those whom she loved had given their lives to save her.