The Thirteenth Scroll Read online

  Lysandra found nothing but confusion in Eiddig’s words and if the other messages were as cryptic as this, she could understand why Renan and Selia stood with their heads bowed.

  Eiddig stepped back. He touched his palm to Lysandra’s forehead. “Farewell, Lysandra-Sant,” he said, “and to thee, Cloud-Dancer, whose heart is Loyalty. Remember thy home is now also among the Cryf and return to us.”

  Eiddig was tiring visibly. Lysandra wanted to ask him what his words had meant but she knew, as they all did, the time had come to go. And she suspected that even if they were to stay, Eiddig would offer no explanations. If the words were for her ears alone, then she, alone, must find their meaning.

  After Talog escorted Eiddig to the foot of the dais, he then lifted the belongings Lysandra and the others had left in their sleeping chambers.

  “Come,” he told them. “The Cryf shall escort you on your way.”

  “Talog,” Lysandra said, “come with us, continue to help us. Our task is not completed yet.”

  “My task be here,” he replied, “but when She-Who-Is-Wisdom cometh at last unto her throne, I shall come.”

  There was nothing more to say. Talog saluted each in turn as they walked from the dais. They left the Great Cavern, taking the passage that would lead them once more to the hidden entrance between this Realm and the land above.

  The passageway was lined with Cryf. All the way back through the caverns and tunnels, they were never alone. Finally, they stood once more upon the stone ledge that was the way out. Renan was the first to leave, then Selia. But before Lysandra followed them, she turned and looked back, letting her Sight embrace these beings whose strangeness had turned to beauty in her heart.

  She raised her hand in a silent farewell. Then, to the sound of the Cryf’s shrill cry, she placed it once more on Cloud-Dancer’s head and followed the others into the Up-world.

  Epilogue

  In Ummara, cathedral city of the province of Kilgarriff, Elon was celebrating a Solemn High Mass of Thanks-giving. It was the first Sunday since his return from Ballinrigh and the mighty cathedral was filled to overflowing. Billows of incense flowed from the huge thurible swinging from the transept crossbeam, swung on its chain by the two robed acolytes given that duty today. Now, pulled up out of the way, it still rolled out billows of scented smoke that gathered like a bank of fog along the vaulted and corbelled ceiling.

  The smaller, handheld thurible had been handed to him at the appropriate moments throughout the Mass so that he could cense the altar, paraments and vessels, the dean, deacons, and acolytes in symbolic purification at various times during the Mass. Elon was grateful for the smell of the incense, masking the odor of so many human bodies jammed into the cathedral on a warm and sunny day.

  With so many concelebrants eager to take over the job, Elon rarely bothered himself with sermons anymore. Happily, the days of that particular responsibility had passed, though many other duties had taken its place. Nor were the papers in his hand a lapse into that old pattern. As in every other parish and cathedral throughout the kingdom over the next weeks, he carried the proclamation sent out by the College of Bishops, the proclamation he had helped draft, announcing the Church’s choice and support of Giraldus DeMarcoe, Baron of Kilgarriff, as the next High King of Aghamore.

  Elon mounted the narrow stairs that led into the elevated pulpit. Raised on high this way, he could be seen and heard even by those crowded into the back of the nave and overflowing into the narthex. As he looked out over the sea of upturned faces, Elon could imagine all the faces in Aghamore turned and waiting for this statement of guidance from their spiritual leaders. All except two—the two most important ones.

  Aurya and Giraldus had still not returned. They could still lose everything he had gained. The story of your pilgrimage will not hold forever. A few more weeks at most—and then the vultures will close in. They are already circling. If you don’t have the child by now, then you’ve failed… and I must find another path to the Archbishop’s throne.

  And he would, he thought with unwavering determination as he cleared his throat and prepared to speak. He could feel the anticipation pouring from the people below—and he was now ready to give them what they had come to hear.

  “It is a great day for all the people of Aghamore,” he began, “but especially so for us, the people of Kilgarrif….”

  It took them nine days to reach the Great Forest and another two before they reached Lysandra’s cottage. She was weary beyond measure with all this traveling, but what she felt as they walked beneath the canopy of branches now leafed out in the full glory of new growth and breathed the air that to Lysandra seemed sweeter than anywhere else in the kingdom transcended joy.

  She was home.

  They had bypassed Ballinrigh completely as they traveled south. Although they all knew that they would eventually have to return to the capital, they first had to form a plan. Neither Renan nor Selia were ready to face what entering Ballinrigh represented. Decisions must be made and changes take place once they began to walk the path ahead; these they would face soon enough and for the rest of their lives. But first they needed to rest—and Lysandra just wanted to get back to her own cottage, her own bed, her own life at least for a little while.

  It was full dark when they arrived, but Lysandra needed neither her Sight nor Cloud-Dancer’s vision to know how it looked and where everything would be. Her mind—and her heart—saw all that was needed.

  Lysandra let Renan set a fire to chase the chill from the cottage while she visited each room, as if to assure herself that everything was as it should be. Cloud-Dancer followed her, his happy prancing telling its own tale of homecoming.

  She walked around her cottage, grazing the walls and furniture with light, unrealized caresses. She had not known until she walked through the door, how tightly held her heart had been or how heavily the longing to return had weighed upon her soul. From the moment she entered the forest, the bands around her heart had begun to loosen, and now, finally, the weight had lifted and she breathed free at last.

  Despite the darkness, she felt compelled to walk one time through her garden, stopping briefly to sit upon the stone bench that marked its center and listen to the sounds that were unlike any heard in all her travels. These, too, were part of being home. She needed not Sight to recognize them all: the owl that lived in the hollowed spur of the larch that had fallen five years ago, the scurry of badgers and foxes whose kits must be half-grown by now, the startled scamper of mice and other prey, and the sudden sharp call of birds shaken from somnolence by the activity below. Nowhere else, in all of Aghamore, had the night sounded so sweet, so full, so right.

  Finally, with a sigh that breathed contentment into the night, Lysandra stood and turned again toward her home. Tomorrow she would return to her garden and tend the plants that were no doubt in need of care after her absence. But it would be a labor of joy and of love. Perhaps, too, she thought as she walked toward her door, she would begin teaching Renan about the herbs that he wanted to learn.

  She was not forgetting the task that lay ahead for all of them, but its planning could be accomplished as well in the garden as in the cottage.

  Once she was back indoors, they dined on the last of the food the Cryf had sent for their journey, washed down with mugs of chamomile tea. Then, finally, came sleep, and it came quickly and deeply for them all.

  The moon had fully risen and was shining on the garden, turning the green to silver with its touch. No noise drifted out from the closed shutters of the cottage; even the sounds of the forest had grown silent once again.

  But the garden was not empty. At its center, on the little stone bench that Lysandra had earlier occupied, sat the spectral vision of a man. He was outlined in a gentle aura of green, and his clothes appeared the worn, much-mended habit of a monk. On his lined and ancient, bearded face, was a knowing smile as he sat looking at the cottage.

  Finally, he nodded as if satisfied with what he saw and what he
knew to be inside. Then he stood and began to walk the garden paths, stopping to touch the plants as if greeting old friends. When he reached the garden gate, he turned and looked back at the cottage yet again. Once more the knowing smile; again the nod. Then he passed through the gate and out into the forest.

  But the green did not immediately fade from the garden air. It rose gently from beneath the bench, as if something there responded to his presence. Now that he was gone the light slowly faded, taking its secret with it.

  Appendices

  Provinces and Houses:

  Founded by King Liam Roetah I, the Kingdom of Aghamore, which means “The Great Field,” is divided into The Nine Provinces. These Provinces were ruled by Liam’s sons, now by their descendants, and the Houses each bear their founder’s name.

  Urlar is the central and capital Province; it was inherited by Liam II, who became High King upon his father’s death. The Provinces are counted in this order:

  Urlar, “the level place,” First Province and House, House of Roetah;

  Tievebrack, “the speckled hillside,” Second Province and House, House of Gathelus

  Kilgarriff, “the rough wood,” Third Province and House, House of Lidahanes

  Dromkeen, “the beautiful ridge,” Fourth Province and House, House of Caethal

  Camlough, “the crooked lake,” Fifth Province and House, House of Nuinseann

  Sylaun, “place of sallows,” Sixth Province and House, House of Niamh

  Farnagh, “place of alders,” Seventh Province and House, House of Ragenald

  Lininch, “the half island,” Eighth Province and House, House of Baoghil

  Rathreagh, “the gray fort,” Ninth Province and House, House of Cionaod

  Barons of Aghamore:

  Urlar: Central and Capital Province, direct rule of the High King

  Tievebrack: Baron Phelan Gradaigh, House of Gathelus

  Kilgarriff: Baron Giraldus DeMarcoe, House of Lidahanes

  Dromkeen: Baron Curran OhUigio, House of Caethal

  Camlough: Baron Oran Keogh, House of Nuinseann

  Sylaun: Baron Ardal Mulconry, House of Niamh

  Farnagh: Baron Thady Cathain, House of Ragenald

  Lininch: Baron Einar Maille, House of Baoghil

  Rathreagh: Baron Hueil Ruairc, House of Cionaod

  Bishops of Aghamore

  Urlar: Archbishop Colm apBeirne

  Tievebrack: Bishop Mago Reamonn

  Kilgarriff: Bishop Elon Gallivin

  Dromkeen: Bishop Awnan Baroid

  Camlough: Bishop Dwyer Tuama

  Sylaun: Bishop Gairiad apMadain

  Farnagh: Bishop Tavic Laighin

  Lininch: Bishop Sitric Annadh

  Rathreagh: Bishop Bresal Ciardha

  Pronunciation Guide to Cryf Words: The Cryf language is phonetic; if a letter is there, it is pronounced. The Cryf alphabet and sounds are as follows:

  A, soft as in apple

  B, as in boy

  C, always hard, as in cat

  Ch, breathy back of the throat sound as in Scottish loch

  D, as in dog

  Dd, soft ‘th’ as in bath

  E, long “A” sound, as in able

  F, “v” sound, as in very

  Ff, “f” sound as in friend

  G, hard, as in goat

  H, as in heard

  I, hard “e,” as in east

  L, as in long

  LI, breathy sound made by placing tongue behind front teeth and blowing air out the sides

  M, as in man

  N, as in nice

  O, long as in open

  P, as in peace

  R, rolled

  S, as in safe

  T, as in toy

  Th, long, as in bathe

  U, soft “e", as in every

  W, double “oo” sound, as in moon

  Y, soft “i” sound, as in inch

  Acknowledgments

  Writing is, by its very nature, a solitary profession. No one else can pick up the pen for me or turn the idea in my mind into written form. But outside that immediate solitary circle, there exists a web of support without which this writer could not function. It is, therefore, from the deepest truth of my heart that I give my respect, my gratitude, and my affection to all those who have granted me the gift to call them Friend.

  I wish I could name you all, individually, but that is something time and page constraints will not allow. However, there are a precious few I must acknowledge, for without them this book would not exist:

  To Jenn, my wonderful agent, who is a joy both to work with and to know;

  To Betsy, my equally wonderful editor, who applies her skill to give encouragement—and humility;

  To Kata, healer and compassion-made-flesh, who has gotten me through some difficult times and whose skill at the healing arts is out-measured only by the beauty of her soul;

  To Steve B., whose concern, encouragement, and respect are precious jewels I treasure more than I can say;

  To Mike and Ellen, who have helped me with both friendship and information;

  To Diana, whose gifts of music and laughter bring me much needed respite;

  To Lori, Tristan, and Mario, for all the friendship, pets, purrs, moments of silence and of companionship;

  And to those whose presence gives purpose, strength, and joy not only to my work, but to my life:

  To Donna, dearest friend of my heart, who reads and rereads, shares the triumphs and disasters, the laughter and the sorrows, and who, through the years, has given me more than any paper has room to hold or any words the skill to express;

  To Mary, who also reads and rereads, who has blessed my life in countless ways for over four decades, and is the living proof that a sister can also be a dear and beloved friend;

  And most of all, always and all ways, to Stephen, husband, truly the other half of my soul, without whom all that I am would not exist—the past two decades are only the beginning, for only an eternity can hold my love for you.

  To all of you, named and unnamed, you are the steady rock upon which the house of my life is built. I give you all my continual and everlasting thanks… and all my love.

  -R-

  REBECCA V. NEASON is the author of the bestselling STAR TREK: The Next Generation novel, Guises of the Mind, as well as two HIGHLANDER novels, The Path and Shadow of Obsession. She also has published numerous non-fiction articles which, along with her poetry, have been featured in regional, national and international publications. In 1988 she was awarded a Certificate of Recognition for Outstanding Literary Merit by the Pacific Northwest Writers Conference, and she is a graduate of the Clarion West Writers Workshop. A frequent speaker at science fiction conventions, Ms. Neason also lectures on pre-Christian through Medieval British History, Middle English, and the development of English as a written language.

  Ms. Neason lives on ten wooded acres in rural Washington, sharing her home and her life with a husband and a large number of cats and dogs, all of whom are rescues—a cause to which Ms. Neason is extremely dedicated.

  THE THIRTEENTH SCROLL

  In the grand tradition of Andre Norton and Katherine Kurtz, here is a thrilling adventure in a world of fantasy and magic . . .

  WOMEN OF THE PROPHECY

  Nine barons vie for the throne of Aghamore, but the sorceress Aurya believes that the secrets encoded within an ancient, enigmatic text will make her lover, Giraldus, the next High King. The prophecies in the forbidden Thirteenth Scroll of Tambryn the Heretic suggest that whoever seizes the throne must first dispose of a child it names the Font of wisdom.

  Meanwhile, in the distant Great Forest, a blind healer names Lysandra, who wields a mystic inner Sight, is suddenly beset by dark dreams. Guided by the Scroll, Lysandra and two companions find themselves compelled to seek and save the unknown child—before Aurya can plunge the kingdom into a future of unending darkness.

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