The Thirteenth Scroll Read online

  The bishop had made it very clear that gold was not his only price for helping put Giraldus on the throne. Elon did not care about Aurya’s magic, how much or against whom she and Giraldus used it, as long as in the end the Archbishop’s crozier was in his hand and the golden triple-crowned mitre upon his head. As Aurya and Giraldus were using him, so the bishop was using them.

  Self-serving as it was, Elon’s aid suited Aurya’s purpose completely. With Elon as Archbishop, she might indefinitely forestall both the marriage she did not desire and the public renunciation of magic necessary for that marriage to take place. Once Giraldus was crowned High King, she would formally be named his Chief Advisor and head of his Privy Council. Then, though he wore the crown, she would be the true power in Aghamore—as she was now in Kilgarriff.

  “Welcome, my lord Bishop.” Aurya spoke loudly enough for the many listening ears to overhear. “It was kind of you to come here in person to answer my questions. I had expected you to send someone with less pressing duties.”

  “I would not send someone else on such an important mission,” Elon said, taking his cue from her. “Holy Mother Church has no more important business than to bring one of her lost children home.”

  There, Aurya thought, that will give the gossiping tongues something to wag about—and Elon an acceptable reason for being here. All is going exactly as I planned.

  Aurya stepped to the side to let the men precede her into the fortress. There was a cold luncheon set out for them in the main hall and she, herself, would make certain the best wines were served. Nothing must go wrong this day as they began their final journey toward the throne.

  * * *

  It was late before they got down to their true business. All through the afternoon and early evening, they had kept up the pretense for Elon’s visit. But finally, after Giraldus had sent away the last of the servants, Elon pulled out the true reason for the message he had sent.

  It was a scroll, yellowed with age, and Elon handled it as gently as the precious relics of a saint.

  “This scroll is from the writings of Tambryn,” he said, “his thirteenth and last.”

  “I thought Tambryn and his writings were condemned by your Church.” Aurya’s eyes narrowed; the Church had condemned so much of the old lore and ancient truths.

  “That is true, m’lady,” Elon agreed. “Nonetheless, I have been studying his words for many years. I have seen what my brother clerics refuse to admit—that what Tambryn prophesied is true. It is how I know that Giraldus will come to the throne… if he can find and destroy the one person who stands in his way.”

  “Who is this person?” Giraldus demanded.

  “A child, my dear Baron, a child you must find and… remove. That is why I have brought this scroll to you. You are fortunate that Lady Aurya is so learned. Given her other… studies… she should be well able to read this rather archaic language and understand its images. At least, you had best hope. Prophecies, by their very nature, are filled with images and subtexts often difficult to understand, and even those who study such things cannot always agree about their meanings. Tambryn’s are even more so. As I said, I have studied these scrolls, this one in particular, for more than a decade, and I still cannot say I fully understand it.

  “Nevertheless, this scroll contains your greatest hope for success. If you fail to destroy the child of whom Tambryn writes, then our mutual goal will be lost. It will be the child and not yourself who will be next to wear the crown of Aghamore. Or so Tambryn says,” he added with a slight lifting of one shoulder.

  Aurya found her fingers itching to take the scroll from the bishop’s hands. The Writings of Tambryn were as famous—or as infamous—as the man himself. Six centuries ago he had been a monk. Some stories said he had risen high in the Church and was in line for the Archbishop’s mitre.

  Then his visions had begun.

  Like nearly all mystics, Tambryn was convinced of Divine revelation so, being a learned man, he wrote everything down and presented it to his beloved Church. At first, his visions were indeed heralded of Divine origin. But when they began to make statements the Church did not want to hear—to tell of the Church’s greed, its perversions, its often-cruel demands in the guise of false, pietistic words and to predict its eventual downfall—Tambryn’s writings were banished. The man himself was declared a heretic, in league with the devil, and his visions changed from being a “gift from God” to the work of hell.

  Some said he went into the Great Forest, other rumors claimed he left Aghamore completely; all agreed that he lived out the rest of his days in hidden solitude and died a silent, unmarked death. The Church searched the land, gathered up every copy of his writings it could find, and sent them into the flames his body had escaped. But for six hundred years tales had persisted that some of Tambryn’s writings had survived.

  Aurya had never hoped to see them. Yet here they were—and being given to her by a bishop. She almost laughed aloud at the irony.

  “Oh, we shall succeed, Bishop,” Aurya said softly. “We shall succeed. You just be certain of your part. We must know we can count on you when the time comes.”

  “Have no fear, m’lady,” Elon said as he laid the scroll in her hands. “Already the seeds have been planted and are being nourished. Baron Giraldus’s name is being whispered among the people, and not only in this province. Soon, the College of Bishops will meet to take up the question of the succession. You may trust that at the right time and in the right way, the name Giraldus of Kilgarriff shall be part of those proceedings.”

  “What of Aurya?” Giraldus demanded. “Does she have any support yet to become my wife?”

  Elon shot Aurya a quick glance. “Alas, no,” he said apologetically, “she does not—though our little ruse of earlier today might well change all that. It was most astutely played, m’lady,” he added, looking at her.

  Aurya inclined her head in acknowledgment, but Giraldus was not satisfied. “If they want me, they’ll have to accept Aurya. I’ll not give up one to gain the other.”

  Aurya gently laid a hand on Giraldus’s arm. “Peace,” she said. “If we all play our parts well, there will be no need for such talk. Never fear—I shall remain by your side, as I ever am.”

  Giraldus’s high temper was, as always, mollified by her words. He put his hand atop hers and looked at her with an adoration Aurya often found disturbing. Useful, but disturbing.

  Obviously, the bishop did as well. He cleared his throat purposefully and Aurya turned toward him, not ungrateful for the interruption.

  “I’m afraid, m’lady,” Elon said, “that though the deception today was most astutely played, it will not be enough to carry the Baron to the throne. The people of Kilgarriff may accept you as the Baron’s consort—but the people of the kingdom will not, and neither will the Church. We must all continue in the roles established today, and build upon them, but after this last decade of uncertainty, neither the people nor the Church will accept a King who cannot produce a legitimate heir. A legitimate heir. If Giraldus is to be High King, you must at least appear to renounce your powers and to marry. Or, Giraldus must marry someone else….”

  The bishop raised his hands slightly, as if handing her the choice of which future she would have.

  “I’ll not marry elsewhere,” Giraldus said before Aurya could reply, almost shouting at the bishop. “It’ll be Aurya or no one.”

  “Without marriage, there will be no crown,” Elon returned, his voice as soft as Giraldus’s had been loud, and just as emphatic.

  The contrast was not lost on Aurya, nor did she miss the hopeful light that sparked in Giraldus’s eyes. It made her angry—the entire subject made her angry, but especially that Giraldus would be so happy to see her forced into marriage when he knew how she felt.

  But after marriage comes the crown, a voice inside her whispered. That might—might—make the marriage tolerable, as long as it was on her terms from the beginning. But, thankfully, she did not have to act on that deci
sion today.

  She laid a hand on Giraldus’s arm. “Let us see to one thing at a time,” she said. “You may, of course, my lord Bishop, embellish our deception as the situation demands—but do not give too much of me away.”

  Elon inclined his head toward her in a gesture of agreement and acceptance. Then he met her eyes and gave a little half smile that communicated his understanding quite well.

  “Let us see what Tambryn’s scroll has to tell us,” Aurya continued. “Perhaps it will be enough to secure all our futures without too many sacrifices from anyone.”

  Trying not to let her fingers tremble or show the eagerness she felt, Aurya stood and, to all appearance calmly, began to uncurl the scroll across the table before them.

  Chapter Three

  Aurya had read the Thirteenth Scroll of Tambryn four times and still she was not certain she grasped its full meaning. It was not just the archaic language in which it was written; she could read the words easily enough. It was the meanings within and behind the words that perplexed her. Tambryn had written in the poetic language of dreams and, as with all such prophecies and visions, how much was to be taken literally and how much was allegory was her quandary.

  The Thirteenth Scroll, she thought as she sat back and rubbed her tired eyes. If they’re all like this one, no wonder Elon said he’d been studying them for years. Prophecies aren’t supposed to be so… difficult… at least not the others I’ve read. They’re supposed to instruct and guide. They can’t do that if no one can understand them. It could take a lifetime—or more—to understand all the hidden meanings in Tambryn’s words.

  Aurya did not have a lifetime to study the scroll or to search for the key to unlock its mysteries. Now that fair weather had arrived, campaigns could soon be launched, and Giraldus was not the only Baron who thought to occupy the throne of Aghamore. And who else besides the Barons, she wondered, might also have set their sights upon that prize? Events would soon begin to move swiftly—and so must she.

  Once more she rubbed her tired eyes. Her entire body was craving sleep, but that was a luxury she could ill afford. One thing was certain, and Aurya had known it without these writings—the longer Giraldus waited before making his bid for the throne, the more likely he was to fail.

  Moving the candles a little closer, she used her belt knife to trim their wicks for a brighter flame. Then she pulled paper and pen in front of her and began making a list of the things she did understand in the scroll—which would, she hoped, begin to clarify the many things she did not.

  Days passed as Aurya studied the scroll to the exclusion of all else. She kept her chamber door locked except when she opened it to call for food. If she unlocked it, she knew that Giraldus would be at her elbow, distracting her with his impatience and wanting to know what she had learned before she was ready to share it.

  She begrudged even the demands her body made for food and rest. But by the morning of the sixth day, she had a workable knowledge of Tambryn’s prophecy. There were still many undeciphered mysteries, but what she did understand made it clear that she and Giraldus faced something far more dangerous to their plans than all the other Barons combined. This… child, if she and Elon read the prophecy correctly… must be found and destroyed.

  Now.

  All through the past night she had been trying to understand one thing. It was perhaps the most perplexing of all the scroll’s mysteries. Prophecy’s Hand: references to it appeared constantly. Sometimes Aurya thought it must be a person, but at others she was just as certain it must be a talisman of some sort that conveyed unusual powers.

  And it could only be used by the one born to wear the crown.

  That will be Giraldus, Aurya vowed as she forced her exhausted, cramped body out of the chair in which she had spent too many hours and hobbled to the door. While I’ve breath in my body, it will be Giraldus.

  She had no sooner drawn back the bolt than the Baron himself burst through the door, filling the room with the restless energy she was too tired to face right now.

  “It’s about time you let me in,” he began. Then his expression darkened at the sight of her weary eyes and the wan pallor that tinged her skin.

  “You’ll do neither of us any good by wearing yourself out this way.” He reached out to stroke her hair.

  “Ah, but I have,” Aurya said, turning away, back toward the table.

  “You’ve finished with the scroll, then? You know what it says?”

  “Enough of it to know that Ballinrigh may be our final goal, but it is not our first.”

  “Where, then?” Giraldus demanded. “The throne is in Ballinrigh. What benefit can there be in going elsewhere?”

  Aurya sighed, trying to curb her exhaustion-born irritation.

  “Patience,” she said. “How many times have I told you the value of patience? The best way to gain a thing is not always by laying siege to the front gate.”

  Aurya could see the flush rising in Giraldus’s cheeks, as it ever did when he grew angry. But she had no energy for this either.

  “Please, Giraldus,” she said, “I promise I will explain more after I have rested. For now, be content to know that I know.”

  Giraldus opened his mouth to speak. But before he could, Aurya held up a hand and shook her head.

  “Go,” she repeated, pointing at the door. “Have the kitchens start gathering provisions for two weeks, perhaps three. We will leave soon—but right now I must sleep. I can’t think anymore.”

  Giraldus stared at her a moment longer. Then, like any good soldier, he recognized the time to retreat. At the door, however, he stopped.

  “Do not rest overlong,” he commanded. “I’ll not have another gain the crown because you were sleeping.”

  Aurya laughed. “I promise you,” she replied, “that will not happen.”

  And as he closed the door, she hoped that she would continue to feel as confident as she had just sounded.

  Nights wore into days into a week as Lysandra discovered anew how very fragile was her peace. Day after day, she tried to forget the news the shepherd had brought; night after night, the dream that was calling her returned, until sleep became a time of dread. She felt as if her entire existence now whirled somewhere between memory and premonition, and she was trapped at the mercy of both in a place where no mercy existed.

  She tossed again upon her bed, trying to find her way past the discomfort that had little to do with her body. But tonight, all the memories of who she had been, of what she had once felt and hoped and wanted, refused to let her rest. She did not want to venture back into the world, where all the things from which she had fled, all the loves and hates, the beauty and the ugliness of human life, would assault her.

  Again her memories whispered; again came the feeling of being summoned from her solitary life. Again her heart asked the question, what could she, one blind woman, do?

  Perhaps, came the answer, she could save one person, one life, from suffering what she had suffered. Perhaps that was enough.

  With that answer, Lysandra knew she had no other choice but to fulfill the persistent call of her dream. Once her decision was made her inner battle ceased. The voices stilled, the memories—and the storm of emotions that came with them—all abated. With her acceptance, Lysandra’s mind was suddenly made silent and free.

  That night, she slept the first dreamless sleep she had known in weeks.

  It was nearly dawn when she heard Cloud-Dancer’s low growl. It brought Lysandra awake with a start. Her Sight, which for the many days of her turmoil had been elusive, was fully upon her from the moment she opened her eyes. This time it was rich with color; the images were sharp and clear.

  As always, the presence of color surprised her, and it took her a moment to realize that her room was bathed in an odd, eerie light. It came in through her bedroom window, turning the room a soft, luminous green, as if all the plants in her garden had started to shine.

  Lysandra sat up quickly. Cloud-Dancer, who usually slept cur
led next to her feet, was standing in front of the window, hackles raised. Suddenly, he raised his head in a long, plaintive howl.

  Lysandra jumped from her bed. This was a sound he almost never emitted and it drove every other thought from her mind. Nothing mattered except Cloud-Dancer as she knelt beside him.

  “What is it, boy?” she asked softly, forcing herself to keep calm as she ran her hands over his body, checking for anything that might be causing the pain she heard in his cry. But as Cloud-Dancer continued to howl, neither her fingers nor her renewed Sight could find anything wrong.

  Lysandra felt fear closing in, carried on the love she bore him. “What is it, boy?” she whispered again. “Show me what’s wrong.”

  She knew he could not understand her words, but she prayed he would sense their meaning through the bond they shared. If he did not, if she failed to help him as she had failed with the ewe…

  Cloud-Dancer’s howling ceased and he began to tremble beneath her hands. Lysandra was becoming desperate, in a way that both instinct and experience told her would do Cloud-Dancer no good. She forced herself to sit back on her heels and release her touch on the wolf. Then she took some long, slow breaths to calm herself so her own fear would not prevent her from helping him.

  Cloud-Dancer began to howl again. The light from outside had grown brighter. The green was almost rich enough to touch. It pulled Lysandra’s Sight from Cloud-Dancer to the window.

  Then Lysandra saw him—a man in worn, much-mended monk’s robes. All around him, coming from him, was the light that filled her garden and poured in through the window. Nor was this light static; it pulsated in time to Lysandra’s own heartbeat.

  He stood, unmoving, at the end of her garden. In his hands he carried something Lysandra could not quite make out. She concentrated upon it, feeling that it was important—but both its identity and its purpose eluded her.