The Thirteenth Scroll Page 14

  She walked around the area, using her touch to tell her what her eyes could not. Then she nodded. “It’s a good choice,” she told him. “The stone will keep us out of the wind, and it will reflect back some of the heat from our fire—once we find some dry wood, that is.”

  Renan left Lysandra to build a ring of stones for the fire and pile up layers of fir needles and bracken for their beds while he went to find the wood they would need. It was a task easier started than accomplished, however. Although the weather was warming, it had been a wet winter and an equally damp early spring.

  Renan did manage to find an armload of burnable wood, enough to get their meal cooked and give them a bit of comfort through the night. But when he returned to camp he found that Lysandra had not moved. She stood looking up at the top of the little stony ridge, as if transfixed by something she alone could see.

  “We need to go up there,” she said when Renan neared. She raised her hand and pointed. “Up there, to the top.”

  “Why?” Renan asked. “I know I’m not as trained in the wilds as your life has made you, but I’m fairly certain this is a better place to camp.”

  Lysandra continued to stand as one transfixed. Her hand did not lower; her sightless eyes did not turn away.

  This is not about the camp, Renan thought as he looked around for the best path upward. They would have to make the climb in a series of switchbacks, and even then it would be steep. But it was better than trying to scale the stone’s face—something he doubted he could have done ten years ago and certainly could not now. And Cloud-Dancer was a wolf, not a mountain goat. As for Lysandra, he was beginning to think she could do almost anything.

  He lifted his pack and once more slung it onto his shoulders, grunting a little as the weight settled onto his tired, protesting muscles. “This way, then,” he said. “We go back to go forward, eh?”

  Renan kept his voice light. So far, all the smiles she had given had been timid, unsure, as if they were something she was just rediscovering… and he had not heard her laugh at all.

  Just how deep do the wounds from her past go? he found himself wondering. He hoped that a way for her true healing could be found—perhaps even by this journey. He did not know exactly what lay in store for them along the way, but his faith told him that everything happens for a reason. He would trust that; just as he believed Lysandra was Prophecy’s Hand, he believed everything she had endured had prepared her for this destiny. Perhaps, given time, she would come to believe it, too, and the belief would bring her comfort.

  Lysandra said nothing on the upward trek. There was a sense of expectation about her that Renan did not want to disturb. She moved as if in a daze, unaware of her actions. Renan watched, but surreptitiously, afraid that too open a stare might make her self-conscious and she would lose the sense of whatever was guiding her.

  They finally reached the top of the outcropping, a shelf of stone. Where it pushed out from the hillside stood three large, straight stones. Suddenly, another line from the scroll dropped into place for Renan. Could these be the Three Sisters looking West Tambryn’s words had described? He drew forth the words from memory and whispered them to himself.

  “Three Sisters looking West, sentinels between two worlds. Prophecy’s Hand shall point the way; a companion is the key to that which is forgotten.”

  Lysandra had indeed pointed the way, but what was the key and what had been forgotten? What were the two worlds of which Tambryn spoke?

  Renan walked over to examine the tall stones. The first of them revealed nothing more remarkable than moss and lichens. He moved on to the next one, standing in the center. This stone stood out a little more from the hill, far enough that by dropping his pack, he could squeeze behind it. Dirt and woodland debris had piled up over the years, and Renan began using his feet to kick the way clear.

  The pile of leaves and dead branches did not move easily. Renan had to kneel and use his hands to break the knot time had woven. Little by little, he cleared the debris, revealing a small opening in the face of the hillside. It was only about three feet tall and maybe as wide—but it was big enough for a person to crawl through if he tried.

  First he needed a torch. He came quickly out from behind the stone and began to gather up some of the deadwood he had just cleared, concentrating on long, thin branches that he hoped would burn well. Once he had a good handful, he began to rummage in his pack for something to tear into strips to bind the branches together and to keep the wood from burning down too quickly.

  “What is it?” Lysandra asked, stepping close to him. “What did you find?”

  “I’m not sure yet,” Renan told her. “It might be nothing more than a small cave. I’m going to find out.”

  “How can I help?”

  “I’m trying to make a torch. Do you have anything that might help?”

  “Yes,” Lysandra replied, swinging her bundle off her shoulder. From it she produced a roll of cloth cut for bandages and a small vial.

  “Here,” she said. “The vial is an antiseptic I brew myself. It’s quite flammable. You won’t need much to keep your torch burning.”

  Renan accepted the offering gratefully. “What other wonders do you have in there?” he asked as he wound some of the cloth around the top of his torch.

  “Medicines,” Lysandra replied. “Herbs that I’ve grown or gathered, a few little pots of salves, some ground roots and the like… just what I thought I might need on such a journey. I thought I was bringing too much—now I’m glad I did.”

  Renan had always wanted to know more about the healing properties of plants; he had little opportunity to learn, living as he did in the kingdom’s largest city. But the torch was now ready to be lit. There will be other times, he told himself, other evenings, other campfires and conversations. I’ll ask her more then.

  From his pocket Renan withdrew the little box of matches he carried. Matches were relatively new to Aghamore. They had been brought by a trader about ten years ago, but they had swept through the country with the speed of their own blaze and were now easily accessible. Renan, like most people, carried them wrapped in oilcloth to keep them dry. The second the tiny flame touched the torch it ignited the spirits he had drizzled on the cloth, producing a fine steady light.

  “Wonderful,” he said to Lysandra. Then he headed again toward the back of the stone.

  This time, Lysandra and Cloud-Dancer accompanied him. She held the light while Renan cleared away the last of the debris from the front of the little opening. There was not enough room between the standing stone and the face of the hillside to lie flat and squirm through the entrance, as Renan would have preferred. Instead he knelt; his knees were so hardened by his life as a priest that he hardly noticed the bits of coarse dirt and little twigs and stones beneath them.

  Lysandra handed him the torch. Renan pushed that through the opening first, followed by his head and one shoulder. It was a bit of a tight fit, but before he squeezed the rest of his body through, he wanted to see what awaited him on the other side.

  Directly before him was a ledge, perhaps four feet wide by ten feet long. It ended in a series of wide and gently sloping switchbacks that led into a huge cavern below. The presence of what was so obviously a trail puzzled him; he could think of nothing in nature that would have produced such a wide and regular pattern—and nothing about the entrance had suggested it was hand hewn.

  Perhaps this is an abandoned mine, he thought as he squeezed the rest of his body through the opening.

  Now he stood and held the torch high. The sight that greeted his eyes astonished him with its beauty. Veins of crystal ran through the walls, reflecting the flickering light of his torch. Some sort of glistening element also covered the stone itself, amplifying the brightness of the torch so that the cavern looked as bright as day. It would have been easy to stand and stare, lost in wonder. But time was pressing, and Lysandra was awaiting his word.

  Renan turned and called back to her. “It’s safe,” he said.
“I’ll come back out to help you through.”

  “No need,” Lysandra called back.

  A moment later she pushed their packs through. Renan quickly moved them out of the way. Cloud-Dancer came next, then Lysandra herself eased through the gap in the stone.

  He hastened toward her to help her stand, but she waved him away. Looking at her face, now smudged and dirty—no doubt like his own—he could tell that the Sight was still with her. Her eyes continued to stare in the unfocused manner of the blind, but there was a watchfulness to her expression that showed in the twitch of her eyebrows and the tightening of her lips.

  And there was something more, something Renan tried to define and failed. The only word he could think that came close was Otherness—and he wondered if mystics wore the same expression when divine visions were upon them.

  “What is this place?” Lysandra asked as she stood.

  “I don’t know,” Renan replied. “This ledge, the trail leading down, must have been artificially made. I’d guess we’ve just crawled in through the airhole of an abandoned mine.”

  “Why would a place like this be abandoned?” Lysandra asked. “It’s so beautiful.”

  And beautiful it was. Veins of crystal—some clear, some colored—shimmered and sparked as if a fire had been lit within their heart. The natural angles and facets threw the light outward in all directions, making it dance to creation’s still whispered song.

  The effect was breathtaking. But, finally, Renan tore his eyes away and reached for his pack. With his movement, Lysandra did the same, and soon they started down the stone ramp. It was only when they reached the cavern floor, however, that Renan realized the full magnitude of the place. The tall spires on which the glowing phosphorous clung were easily five times the height of a man—and they reached less than halfway to the ceiling. It was like walking through a land of giants as he and Lysandra followed what felt like a natural path between the spires.

  “’Many, O Lord, are the wondrous works which thou hast done’,” he breathed in reverence of the hand that had placed such things within the earth—and that had granted him the privilege of seeing them.

  As they walked through the cavern, Renan leading the way with the torch, he slowly realized that the air was a comfortable temperature, quite unlike any of the caves he had explored as a boy. Soon he began to notice the bright veins of what could only be gold streaking the cavern walls. Seeing these, his mind echoed Lysandra’s earlier question—why would such a place be abandoned?

  “That which is forgotten,” the prophecy had said, and that certainly described this place. Nowhere could Renan remember hearing tales of its existence, not even among old legends or fairy stories told to children. Nor, he decided, would he tell anyone. Greedy hearts and hands would soon reduce this beauty to rubble if the world ever heard of the wonders he was seeing.

  But wonder was giving way to hunger and fatigue. They had hiked many miles today before finding the cavern, and more walking underground. It was time for food and a night’s slumber.

  Upon finding a wide, flat place between the stalagmites, Renan once more shrugged his pack from his shoulders. He wished they could have a fire, but there was no wood. Which meant that when the torch guttered out, there would be nothing more to replace it.

  “At least the air is warm,” he said to Lysandra when she stopped beside him and also dropped her bundle to the ground. “And we’ve food and water enough for a while. I hope—“

  “We will,” Lysandra said. Her voice held no hint of doubt. “If we’re in the right place and if this journey means everything you say, then we will find the way out. We must—“

  “Have faith?” Renan said with a smile. “I suppose I should have been the one to say that first. Oh well—sometimes the spirit is as weak as the flesh. At least mine is. Now, let’s make what camp we can, then eat and get some sleep. Maybe tomorrow we’ll find… whatever we’re supposed to find here.”

  Renan leaned the torch against a stone and turned toward his pack to bring out a canteen of water. The torch stayed propped for a moment—then fell to the side, as if pushed by an unseen hand. It sputtered and went out before Renan could turn again and grab it.

  But the cave did not plunge into darkness, as he expected. Instead, the luminous substance covering the walls, which Renan had assumed was merely reflecting the light of the torch, continued to glow on its own. It cast a light bright enough to reveal their surroundings, yet the light itself was softer than torchlight, easier on the eyes and mind.

  Renan heard Lysandra gasp, and he turned. The look of wonder on her face could only mean that her miraculous gift of Sight was with her once more, and she was also witnessing the strange beauty of this place. Renan picked up the extinguished torch and put it with his pack. He would carry it with them in case they reached a place where this luminance did not exist.

  “Where do you think this place goes?” Lysandra asked. “Does the scroll say anything about it?”

  Her questions brought Renan’s thoughts back to the many unknown problems that might still be ahead of them. “I don’t know,” he answered. “I thought I understood the scroll’s words—but now I’m not so sure. I would never have found those stones—The Three Sisters—if you had not pointed us upward. How did you know?”

  He handed Lysandra the canteen, which she gladly accepted. While she drank, he found a comfortable place to sit, his back resting against a stone while he pulled some food out of his pack for their dinner.

  Lysandra did not reply at first. She half turned away, looking poised for flight or condemnation.

  “You’ll think I’m mad if I tell you,” she said.

  “No, Lysandra,” he said quietly, seriously. “No, I won’t.”

  “I… I saw someone… up on the rock… gesturing for us to follow.” Her words came haltingly, as if pulled from her.

  Renan felt there was something more, something she was not saying. But from what he had already learned of her life, he realized how difficult it must be for her to let down her defenses. So he would not push; whatever she shared with him must be by her choice.

  “Then I’m grateful your Sight was functioning just then,” he said, “or we’d still be outside in the cold night air. Who knows how far we would have walked and never realized we were on the wrong path.”

  Renan could see Lysandra relax as she heard the acceptance in his words. She looked so unsure of herself, so like a little girl that he wanted to take her hands and tell her not to worry, that he knew she would not lie and that he would always believe her.

  But she was not a little girl, he reminded himself—and he was a priest who must be careful that such gestures were not misunderstood.

  “Come, sit and have some supper,” he said to her instead. “I think there’s enough light in here to read well enough, and after supper I’ll check the scroll again. Maybe it will give us some clue about what might be ahead.”

  I don’t remember any such thing, he thought silently. But I could have read it and not understood. Whatever this place is, I hope we can pass through it quickly. We have food, but after three days we’ll have no more water. Beautiful as this place is, I don’t want it to be our tomb.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Tis an accursed time of year to be traveling through mountain passes,” Giraldus grumbled. “I don’t care what waits on the other side.”

  Aurya said nothing. Giraldus had been grumbling all day and she was tired of trying to placate him. She, too, could wish they were making this trip in… oh, July would be nice. Then nature would have cleared the roadway; the meadows would be bright with alpine flowers and alive with the bees and hummingbirds come to drink the sweet nectar.

  But the Spring-Fest in Yembo took place every year on May 1st—two days hence. The road through this pass, being one of the lowest and most wide, was kept tolerably free of snow in winter with plows pulled by teams of great Shire horses. They should be over the crest before nightfall and into Yembo by the following
evening, the night before the festival.

  Aurya had not told Giraldus of her failure with the spirit of Tambryn, nor her vision of them riding with armed escort through the streets of Ballinrigh. For the latter, she still had no true interpretation; as for the former, Tambryn’s dismissal of her Summoning still rankled. Although she hated to admit it, even to herself, the ease with which he had defied her frightened her a little.

  While Giraldus mumbled and complained about the weather, the condition of the roads, the lack of entourage, and anything else that struck his fancy today, Aurya brooded over her failure. Time and time again she reviewed the spell, but she could think of nothing she had done wrong. Tambryn’s spirit had appeared as called; how had he been able to shatter it at will? Tales called him a monk, a mystic and prophet, even a heretic—but never a sorcerer. How much more about him did she not know?

  The question was unanswerable, at least for now, yet Aurya’s mind worried over it like a hungry dog with a bone. If that spell had not worked on Tambryn, perhaps she could Summon someone else from his time in history. But whom? Ah, that was a question more worthy of her attention than her failure in the past.

  Huddled down beneath her cloak, she let her thoughts drift to the snow-muffled clop of the horses’ hooves. Somewhere in history had to be the answer and the aid she needed.

  Perhaps, she thought, when we reach Yembo, the Three Sisters will know. The scroll says they will reveal “the forgotten.”

  Aurya still did not know who—or what—the Three Sisters were, but she was confident she would recognize them. And their insight would be the key to the final stage of this journey. Then, armed with the knowledge she gained, she and Giraldus would turn north to find the child whom the scroll called the Font of Wisdom.

  Elon had said the Font of Wisdom must be destroyed. But what, she thought now, if they did not have to kill it? A child could be easily controlled. If she trained the child to suit her purpose, to use its gifts in pursuit of hergoals—would not that in a way be destroying it? It would not then be the Font of Wisdom as Tambryn described, but someone else entirely. And they could always kill it later, if the need arose.