The Thirteenth Scroll Read online

  What clue was she missing, she wondered, and what was supposed to come next on their journey? Would she even know it if she saw it? If she did not, would they still be able to find the child they sought?

  No, she told herself as she unrolled the scroll onto the little table in the back corner of the local pub, failure is one thing I will not accept.

  Giraldus was up at the bar talking with the innkeeper. His voice had grown more strident with the ale he had consumed. It easily filled the near-empty room and grated on Aurya’s nerves.

  She could order him to silence and he would obey—but what a waste of magic that would be, she thought. She tried to make herself ignore Giraldus’s voice—but it continued to cut into her thoughts until the last thread of her patience snapped. Willpower was not enough; she would have to take more active measures. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply. Two… three… four times, each breath taking her more deeply within, down to that silent place where magic dwelt. Six… seven… eight breaths… she could feel the power within her start to throb in answer to her call. Ten… eleven… twelve.

  There, power wielded and wielder met and merged. It was only a little need she called upon, but the power within her was like a living thing. The feeling of it, like sweet fire in her veins, made Aurya smile.

  She brought the power upward with her, out of its resting place. She wrapped herself in it, willing that any observer would look unseeing past her. Most of all, it would muffle the sounds she did not wish to hear. She needed to be undisturbed—nor did she care to have any curious eyes light upon the scroll. With the spell in place, even Giraldus would not bother her.

  Under her breath, Aurya began to chant the spell she needed.

  “Light that is bidden now shine,

  Reveal the knowledge to most eyes blind.

  Folly bound and wisdom freed,

  Hide no truth away from me.

  Of Ancient words on parchment

  Penned by the seer’s hand,

  Let me with Tambryn’s eyes behold,

  To see and understand.”

  Aurya rolled the scroll out farther, confident that she would now be granted a fresh understanding of its contents. She had thought her years of study would be enough and magic would not be needed to read the meanings of Tambryn’s words. But she had not known that Tambryn wielded magic along with his prophetic gift. Her failed Spell of Binding had taught her otherwise. And if Tambryn had set a magic seal upon his words, she would use magic to unlock it.

  Wrapped now in magic, Spell of Seeing cast, she went back to the prophecy of the Three Sisters, expecting sudden insight to flood her. Instead, the words became garbled in her mind. Sentences written in words she knew suddenly made no sense. It was as if some unseen hand was taking the words and rearranging them into incoherent nonsense.

  Magic; she could nearly smell it wafting up from the ink, nearly see it outlining the letters in power. Well, she was not undone yet. If more power was needed, she had more—much more—to call upon. She would break whatever spell of protection Tambryn had laid upon and around his words.

  Once more Aurya closed her eyes, calling up the magic within herself. It came, ready at her call. She spread her hands out, fingers extended, over the scroll and began again to chant.

  “Magic bound by Seer’s hand,

  I summon thee to my cause.

  Magic set on thee today

  Be stronger than the spell that was.

  Old magic broken, Seer’s power

  Dimmed by death and time now gone.

  I claim the vision here revealed

  And to my spell it now belongs.”

  Again, Aurya looked down at the scroll. The words upon it started to glow, as if the ink with which they had been written had been made of pure gold—been made of fire. The sight brought a look of triumph to Aurya’s face.

  Then, to her horror, the glow of the ink became true flame, burning the parchment before her eyes.

  She slapped at the scroll, heedless of the heat that scorched her palms. At the same time she quickly muttered a Spell of Breaking, aimed not at Tambryn’s magic but at her own.

  She felt the power she had sought to use begin to fade, taking the flames with it. As they died, Aurya understood what spell had been set upon the scroll. Understood and knew there was no way around it.

  Tambryn had set a Mirror Spell upon the scroll. Any magic she used in attempting to unlock its secrets would be reflected away and turned backward. A Spell of Seeing resulted only in the words being confused; the attempt to gain insight, illumination, only caused the meaning to be lost and burned away. Aurya, though angered that she had been so impugned, could not help but feel a grudging admiration at Tambryn’s cleverness.

  Well, she still had her knowledge and her wits. She unrolled the scroll once again to see how much damage had been done. It was more than she hoped but not as much as she feared. She would draw upon her well-trained memory to fill in what had been destroyed.

  You haven’t defeated me yet, Tambryn, she sent her thought out to his ancient spirit…

  … and thought she heard the echo of his laughter in return.

  It was Talog’s turn on watch. Daylight was dwindling toward darkness; the Great Light that burned his eyes had moved until it was behind both trees and hills, bringing the Cryf a great feeling of relief. He hated this land of the Up-worlders more with every hour he spent in it. The open air made him feel exposed and vulnerable, and he had seen nothing to compare with the beauty of the Realm of the Cryf.

  But Talog was warming toward his companions, especially Lysandra. He knew she had the Hand of the Divine upon her—even if ofttimes she did not.

  It was part of his training as a Guide to be silent, to watch and wait and listen. Each person revealed themselves more than they knew. It was true for the Cryf, and Talog was learning that it held true for Up-worlders as well.

  Many things about his companions still puzzled him, however, and he pondered them now while he was alone. Cloud-Dancer puzzled Talog; he had never before seen such a creature. Did all healers have such companions? he wondered. Was that why Renan and Lysandra were not Joined—because she was a Healer? Little as he knew about Up-worlders, 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. It made no sense to Talog. The only thing he could guess was that it was forbidden for Healers to Join and that having a creature like Cloud-Dancer to protect her, proclaimed her Healer status to all.

  Talog shook his head. The ways of these Up-worlders made no sense at all.

  The Great Light had sunk even lower and the soft darkness had begun. It was time to awaken the others. Talog had heard nothing during his turn at watch except the calls of the Children of the Air and the scurry of small creatures searching for food. He would have let Renan and Lysandra sleep on until the brightness of the Great Light was completely gone—but Renan had been insistent that they not sleep overlong.

  Talog wondered about these soldiers of whom Renan spoke. It was not a word he and Lysandra had shared during their language lessons. Perhaps they were like the Up-worlders who had long ago invaded the Realm of the Cryf, filled with hearts of greed and destruction.

  If so, then Renan is right to fear them, Talog thought. He said Up-worlders are not like that, but he fears them, too. I do not know if I want to find this One-Who-Is-Wisdom, who will unite our two worlds. The Cryf do not need the Up-worlders.

  But, perhaps, the Up-worlders need the Cryf, he decided. We walk always with the Divine, and our hearts do not lie. Eiddig-Sant has said it is right for us to be again united, as in the first times. Eiddig-Sant is Guide and hears the Voice of the Divine. His words are always Truth.

  Talog stood and turned to awaken the others, knowing he would obey the directions of Eiddig. He would help Renan and Lysandra find the one for whom they searched. He would
help them even to the point of sacrificing his own life for their safety, for that was his duty. But in his deepest heart and for the first time in his life, he had doubted the wisdom of the Holy Words—and that doubt shook him to the very core of whom he had always thought he was.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  The College of Bishops had just voted again by secret ballot. The count had come up five to four. Elon needed only one more vote to make the six he needed to affirm Giraldus as the Church’s choice for the throne.

  One more vote, Elon thought as he looked around the room, studying the faces of his brother bishops. But whom? Which ones do I need to woo and win—and how much longer will this take?

  Most of their faces remained impassive, telling him nothing. The Archbishop’s support he knew he had, and he was fairly certain of Farnagh, Dromkeen, and Lininch. They would vote for whomever the Archbishop favored. And, of course, he voted for Kilgarriff. That was five—who still voted against him?

  He looked at them individually. Bresal of Rathreagh was ever his enemy and would vote against him no matter the cause. Elon dismissed him completely. But what of the others? he wondered.

  That left the bishops of Sylaun, Tievebrack, and Camlough. Elon dismissed Dwyer of Camlough as he had Bresal of Rathreagh. But Sylaun and Tievebrack might still be won over. One of them must be won over; Elon would allow himself no failure. And it must be done quickly. All must be ready when Aurya and Giraldus returned.

  What did he know of Sylaun and Tievebrack that he could use against them? Mago was young for a bishop, barely past forty, appointed to his See of Tievebrack shortly before King Anri’s death. He was still filled with the ideals that a few more years of politics would dim. Gairiad of Sylaun, by contrast, was not much younger than the Archbishop. Elon would not be surprised to hear of his retirement soon.

  But both were still human. Both had failings and passions just as other men did. Elon intended to find out what they were and use that knowledge any way he must.

  I’ll ask Thomas, he thought. Servants love to talk about their masters. What he doesn’t know yet, he can find out far more easily than I.

  Thomas had already proved himself to be a worthy and willing instrument—now he would become the perfect weapon wielded in a master’s hand.

  * * *

  Lysandra missed her home and her garden. She missed the peaceful rhythm of her everyday existence as it had been. But most of all, she missed her bed.

  She was tired of sleeping on the hard ground. Here in Rathreagh, where stone was barely covered by a layer of poor soil, finding any comfort while she tried to sleep was proving to be impossible.

  Nor were there enough hours of sleep. The necessity of keeping on the move, never knowing how close Giraldus might be, meant that they made camp later, broke camp earlier, and had fewer stops in between. Even though the boats of the Cryf had shortened their journey by several days, each evening when she rose again from sleep that was too brief and far too unrefreshing, the road ahead felt intolerably long.

  They had taken a rest while Talog scoured the path ahead for the ancient Cryf signs left to mark safe passage. He had shown some to Lysandra and Renan. In the light of day, they could not be seen. Even at night, they seemed to her like nothing more than small reflective particles of the rock shining in the moonlight.

  But Talog recognized them and could read the message they conveyed. Without his help Lysandra knew that she and Renan would have been quickly lost. Each day she became more grateful the young Cryf was with them.

  I must tell Talog, she thought in the abstract way of the weary. I don’t think he realizes how important he is to us or how much we need him.

  Talog’s part in this journey was obvious and likewise Renan’s, who possessed and understood both the Scroll of Tambryn and the maps that guided them. But why am I here? Lysandra wondered, as she had numerous times before. Renan and Talog could make this journey faster without me. What is it I’m supposed to do?

  Self-doubt was something Lysandra had learned to face; to be blind and full of doubt would have paralyzed her, even in the secluded life she lived. But ever since the beginning of the journey—called forth by a power she did not understand, to go to a place she did not know—doubts assailed her at every turn. Now, more weary than she would have believed possible, a kingdom away from everything that was home to her and with no end to this journey yet in sight, doubts grew insidious tendrils though her mind, almost overwhelming her before she realized their existence.

  It was as if the darkness of her eyes now dropped a veil over her heart. For all Renan’s talk of her being Prophecy’s Hand, she had done very little—certainly nothing more than, as a healer, she might have done anytime, anywhere. She wanted to curl up beside the rock on which she sat and not move until Renan and Talog completed the rest of the journey and found her on the way back.

  It was Cloud-Dancer who got her moving again. When the others, having consulted the maps, stood and were ready to go, Cloud-Dancer began nudging Lysandra, butting her gently with his nose and head as a female might a recalcitrant pup.

  Lysandra did not stand. She merely ran a hand absently through his fur, continuing to stare sightlessly at nothing. She felt as if iron weights had been tied to her arms and legs. But Cloud-Dancer would not accept her stillness. He became more and more insistent, nudging her harder and, when that did not work, taking the cloth of her sleeve into his teeth and pulling.

  Annoyance finally cut through the fog that had enveloped Lysandra, and she realized what she had been doing. Already once in her life she had dwelt in that place of unremembered blackness. She had vowed never to make it her home again.

  She stood, shaking her head to clear it, to deny power to the gloom that threatened to hold her captive. But her inner voice still whispered, telling her to sit down again, sit and do nothing, that the others did not need her and could do just as well without her…

  Once more, Cloud-Dancer took the cloth of her sleeve between his teeth. This time he growled as he tugged. When that did not bring the response he wanted, he sat down and released her sleeve. He tilted his head slightly, looking at her with puzzled eyes for one brief moment, then raised his head and sent out a long howl.

  Lysandra heard it as if from far away. But second by second it grew louder until, finally, it began to pierce its way into her consciousness. Then Renan and Talog were beside her, too. She could not see their faces, but the concern in their voices—especially in Renan’s—she could not miss.

  Once more she shook her head. Everything still felt and sounded muffled. She wanted to respond to the questions the others were asking her; she wanted to throw off their touch and stride forward, showing them and herself that she could emerge from this cocoon of bleakness that somehow held her fast.

  Suddenly, Renan swept her up in his arms and they hurried away from the place where she had been sitting. As the distance grew, Lysandra felt her mind slowly, finally, clearing. Her thoughts became her own again.

  It felt wonderful—warm and safe and comforting—to be held like this in Renan’s arms, and she allowed herself the luxury of it for a few seconds longer. She could hear his heart beating, feel his chest rise and fall with his breath. She felt that she could stay this way indefinitely…

  He’s a priest, she reminded her heart, which kept refusing to remember it.

  She stirred in his arms. “I’m all right now,” she said aloud. “You… you can put me down. I can walk on my own again.”

  “Are you sure?” Renan asked, still holding her.

  Lysandra heard the concern that rang through his voice, but she would not allow herself to read special meaning into it. Being kind and concerned is part of what he is, she reminded herself.

  “Yes,” she answered, “I’m sure. I’m all right now.”

  Renan put her down, setting her carefully on her feet and not truly letting go until he was certain she was steady.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t know what happ
ened. I just suddenly couldn’t think or move or…”

  “That place,” Talog said, startling her. She must still be fuzzy, she thought, to have neither heard his footsteps nor felt his nearness.

  “What about the place?” Renan asked. She heard Talog’s sharp exhale.

  “It is truth, then, as Eiddig sayeth,” the young Cryf replied, his voice both sad and amazed. “Up-worlders know not the power that dwells within the land.”

  “What power?” repeated Renan. “Talog, we don’t understand.”

  “Come,” Talog responded. “Let us go farther away. Then shall I teach ye what all Cryf know as Truth. Hath the Healer strength to walk?”

  “Yes,” Lysandra told him. “But my things, my medicines… I left them.”

  Worry turned Lysandra’s voice sharp and discordant; again she felt Renan’s comforting touch, light and gentle upon her shoulder.

  “Talog has them,” he said softly. “Don’t worry, Lysandra. Let’s do what Talog says and get away from here. Sunrise is not far off—we need to find a place to make camp for the day. Then we can hear whatever it is he says he must teach us. Are you certain you can walk now?”

  “Yes,” she told him again. “I’ll keep up.”

  She put her hand out, and immediately Cloud-Dancer slid his head beneath her waiting fingers. She took a few seconds to caress him, running her hand across his head, ears, and neck, knowing—and letting him know—how lost she would be without him.

  Then, as she heard the others begin to move again, Lysandra wound her fingers deeply into Cloud-Dancer’s fur. She drew again upon their deep and mutual bond, on the love that kept him by her side, until their minds united and she could see through his eyes once more.

  Together, they followed Talog and Renan across the desolate boglands.

  Finally, Aurya thought, as Giraldus mounted his newly shod stallion. Finally we can leave this little hole on the landscape and get moving again.

  Over the last day and a half her patience had been stretched, to its limit and past, while they waited for the blacksmith and farrier to return from their hunting trip. The only thing that had kept her from lashing out—at Giraldus, at this whole uncultured, uncomfortable, backwater village—was the time she spent studying the scroll.