The Thirteenth Scroll

by Rebecca Neason

  Then Lysandra saw his eyes.

  They were the eyes she had seen so often in her dream—and yet they were different, too. Older, sadder, they were the eyes of someone who had seen too much and laughed far too little.

  Although he still did not move, and no sound was uttered, Lysandra could feel that he was calling her. She felt herself start to rise, ready to leave the house and go into the garden. But even as she did so, he vanished. Her Sight did not fade; all was as clear to her in the moonlight as to a sighted person in the light of day, but he was no longer there… and with his passing the green light also disappeared.

  To Lysandra’s relief, Cloud-Dancer stopped howling. She again put her hands on his fur and found that he no longer trembled. His hackles were down and his muscles relaxed; his posture was neither threatened nor threatening. Finally, Cloud-Dancer shook himself and went to the foot of her bed, as if to say all was well and it was time to go back to sleep.

  Lysandra almost laughed aloud with her relief that Cloud-Dancer was all right—but what was it he had sensed that caused his strange reaction? And who, or what, had she glimpsed in the garden?

  She knew there would be no more rest for her that night. “Sleep if you want to,” she told Cloud-Dancer, stopping to pet him. “But you gave me quite a fright.”

  She gave a small smile as, leaving the bedroom, she heard Cloud-Dancer jump on the bed. She wished she could do the same, but instead she headed for the kitchen and placed some fresh wood onto the well-banked fire in her stove. Once the wood caught flame, she moved the ever-ready pan of water onto the heat.

  While she waited for it to boil so that she could cook her breakfast of porridge and tea, she went to the back door and opened it. She stood in the doorway, breathing in the cool air and listening to the calls of the night birds and the rustling scurry of nocturnal creatures. Everything seemed normal, undisturbed by the strange presence that had been there such a short time ago.

  Once more, Lysandra stilled her thoughts and with her Sight searched her garden. There was no trace that anyone had stood there—no trampled leaves or newly smudged dirt along the paths. Nor did any internal resonance remain. Lysandra extended her Sight as far as she was able and still found nothing.

  Whatever had once been there was gone, leaving her with only more questions.

  Chapter Four

  Like all the bishops of Aghamore, Elon Gallivin, Bishop-ordinary of Kilgarriff, had two residences—one in Ballinrigh and one here, in Ummera, the cathedral city of Kilgarriff. Ballinrigh was where he stayed when either the business of the court or the Church required his attendance—but it was in Ummera he kept his secrets.

  The Bishop’s Residence in Ummera was palatial. It had been enlarged several times over the last three centuries and its heart, the oldest part of the building, had been built during a time when the Church’s hold in Aghamore was not yet strong and persecution came often and without warning. It was filled with hidden rooms and secret passages. Through the years, as the Church’s position became more secure, those rooms fell to disuse and were soon forgotten—until Elon discovered them again.

  Only two of his servants knew of their existence and Elon’s use of them. One of those servants had been dead these last two years. The other, Thomas, had been with him for nearly a quarter century, since Elon’s rise in the Church demanded he employ a staff. Thomas was the one person whom, for various reasons, Elon trusted with his life.

  That was what he was doing by giving Thomas this knowledge. Had his brother bishops found out the contents of the secret rooms, his life within the Church would have been over—and his physical life might well have been forfeit. Elon would have been burned as a heretic and blasphemer, an agent of the devil sent to poison the Church from within.

  Even knowing this, he could not keep away. The writings of Tambryn, though proscribed by the Church, were nothing compared to many other books and scrolls in Elon’s collection. Tambryn’s words had been banished because they held things the Church did not want to hear. Tambryn had offended too many people in positions of authority—but his “heresy” had been only a lack of prudence. He dared to tell the truth.

  The other writings Elon owned were the works of countless minds and hands, meticulously gathered from every land possible, spanning many centuries and many faiths. These were the gateway to magic and to arcane knowledge, to the occult—to power that fascinated Elon.

  When he returned from his visit with Aurya and Giraldus, Elon gave orders not to be disturbed and hurried to his secret library. Aurya fascinated him in the same manner as did the writings he had collected. Although she could only guess at her parentage, he knew she was his daughter.

  He had carefully searched the records of the province to find her mother, Aileen. From parish records, he knew there was magic in her maternal ancestry; a century before, her grandmother’s grandmother had been driven from their village under the accusation of witchcraft. This information, coupled with the fact that Aurya’s mother had been an only daughter, the last and seventh child, born on the night of a lunar eclipse, meant she met all of the requirements of the ritual Elon was set upon attempting.

  Whether she possessed magic herself was something Aileen’s unprepossessing nature would not allow her to explore. The potential was there and that was all Elon needed; already downtrodden by a domineering father and six older brothers, she was far more easily controlled than Elon had expected. That she also possessed a gentle beauty added an unforeseen pleasure to his task.

  It took but little attention from him for the affection-starved Aileen to lower her guard without even realizing she had done so. Then, using the power of his voice, he had entranced and then seduced her, taking her to bed at a precise time and day and dedicating the act to an ancient god in order to conceive a creature of magic.

  And it had worked. It was this fact, and not any form of fatherly affection, that fostered Elon’s fascination. For all the Church’s claim that no other gods existed, this had worked. Aurya was, in every way, a creature of magic. Elon sometimes felt as if the magic in her radiated all around her, making even his old bones tingle.

  Although Elon made use of many hidden rooms, each having its own purpose, this library was his favorite. Tonight, a lamp burned on the table, casting shifting shadows through the room. The room was without window or chimney, yet somehow the air was not stagnant; in some places it felt as if the air was actually moving, as if that place contained another entrance or unseen portal. Although he had searched, Elon had found no hidden doors or air shafts—nothing to explain the freshness of the air he breathed or the drafts he sometimes felt upon his skin.

  He did know, however, that the house had been erected over a place the ancient religion of this land had dedicated to its god of divination. Just as there were places in this room where moving air could be felt, there were others that sent a chill down his spine.

  The lamp gave enough light for him to find what he wanted. Open before Elon was a tome from the ancient land of Kaitrue, half the world away. It told of the dark god Leshtau and his consort Parumia. Together they ruled the underworld, gathering living souls to be their minions here on Earth. It was from this book that Elon had taken the ritual when he seduced Aurya’s mother. Now he searched for a way to bring the daughter as much under his control as the mother had been. If something in their plan went awry, he wanted to be certain he had the means to protect himself.

  Gingerly, Elon turned the time-brittled pages, concentrating as he scanned the faded ink. It had taken him years to learn this language, and still he was not certain he understood all of its nuances and applications.

  But he knew that Aurya’s will was too strong and her magic too powerful for her to be entrapped by a simple trick of voice. He found the pages for which he was searching, the words just following the ritual he had used all those years ago on Aileen. Now he began to read more carefully, his mind translating it into the familiar.

  “…and in the child of this unio
n the strength of Leshtau will be found. Mortal concerns will trouble it not. Power shall rain from its fingers; the mighty darkness of Leshtau shall fill its soul.

  But beware, for such power as Leshtau gives can destroy the weak-hearted and all those who have called his power forth. Be therefore warned. Do not call upon Leshtau with less than a heart of mighty courage. Once called forth, the power of Leshtau cannot be banished. Take care, then, to control what has been created.

  Yes, Elon thought, control was what he wanted.

  If thou wilt control the creature of this union, it is a fearful undertaking. Leshtau requires sacrifice of soul and of blood; and let the sacrifice be made in this manner and none other. To falter in the sacrifice is eternal death and pain in the belly of the all-consuming Leshtau.

  Elon’s heart was pounding now, and his mouth had gone dry. He took a sip from the goblet of wine at his elbow, both intrigued and repelled by what he was reading. But he could not turn his eyes away. Blood sacrifice was one area into which he had not delved. The idea now captured his imagination. What would it be like, he wondered, to hold a living creature in his hands and know its life or death was solely his undertaking?

  Could he do it? Did he have the courage to plunge a knife into a living breast, to feel the blood run body-hot upon his hands and give sacrifice to this god who claimed all dark power as his own? The question raised a hunger for arcane power that was like a living, gnawing creature inside his belly.

  But this hunger was not an answer of itself. So far in his life the only power close to magic he had exhibited was the ability to use his voice and entrance those who were weak-willed or already predisposed to believe in and follow him. Blood sacrifice to summon and then control dark power might well need a magic he did not possess.

  Or it might give it, a little voice within him whispered. The channel to all you desire might be on these next pages.

  Late into the night Elon studied the text, but nothing he found assured him that without already wielding magic, he could either summon or command the power of which it spoke. Yet he could not give up on the idea. He had many other sources through which he could search; somewhere within them, he would find the secret that would allow him to manipulate even Aurya, should the need arise.

  Finally, his eyes now gritty and refusing to focus, he stumbled to his bedchamber and threw himself, still fully clothed, across the bed. But sleep eluded him. His mind was churning with all he had read and the many possibilities stretching before him.

  He had long ago realized that he lacked the type of faith he saw in his brother clergy. Their simpering timidity nauseated him. What they called humility, he called the lack of courage to live… and to accept the consequences. He had entered the Church not for any true vocation, but as the only path to power, to education, riches, and authority open to him as a younger son of a merchant. Such a practice was not uncommon, and Elon’s keen mind and sharp wit had quickly realized that if he played the game carefully, he would eventually gain everything he craved.

  He did acknowledge the existence of God—perhaps of all the gods. He also believed that the Power of Darkness, and its minions, was present and active in this world. Experience had shown him that in the eternal battle between the Light and the Dark, Darkness most often won. In this life, anyway… and this life was all Elon cared about. His immortal soul, if indeed he had one, did not concern him. He wanted power now, while he could make it serve him.

  When at last he arose, bleary-eyed and irritable from lack of sleep, he had made a reluctant decision. To learn the way of the blood sacrifice, to perfect and understand its many nuances, would take time he did not have. If one Baron did not rise supreme—and quickly—Aghamore would surely erupt in civil war. Now that Elon had so firmly thrown his support behind Giraldus, he intended to make certain that Kilgarriff was the next High King and ruling House of Aghamore.

  Of course, Giraldus was a warrior, a formidable one, and in such a war he might well be the victor. But men are killed in wars, Elon thought as he finished his breakfast and went into the official study to begin the work of the day. And Giraldus is not invincible.

  But Giraldus was not the problem. It was Aurya—beautiful, powerful, and stubborn Aurya. If he was not going to try the dark ritual, he must still find some way to ensure his control of her. Even after they found and destroyed the child, she could still cost them the throne, and if she continued in her refusal to at least publicly conform—in private she could do as she wished, as he did—she could put them all in danger.

  He hoped he had made that clear enough the last time they had met. Of course, he had tried to say it in temperate, if logical, terms so that her inflexibility did not ruin everything before it had begun. Years of dealing with royalty and Ruling Houses had taught him that necessity—and though Aurya was not royalty yet, she certainly had the temperament for it.

  Yes, the time to act was Now, as soon as was possible. When Aurya and Giraldus returned, he must have found a means of mastery—and if other spells failed, the blood sacrifice would be waiting.

  Seated now at his desk, he surveyed the pile of correspondence before him and curled his lip in disdain. These letters, petitions for some gift or favor, were generally ones his secretaries had sent on to him because they required his personal attention. This morning, however, he was in no mood for such trivial duties. He wanted to return to the ancient writings and to the search that had so fascinated him last night.

  Elon was about to summon his secretary and make some excuse—perhaps illness, he thought—when there was a knock on his office door.

  “Come in,” he called, wondering who would be disturbing him at this hour of the morning. He did not usually receive visitors until afternoon. Elon recognized the young monk who entered as one of the Archbishop’s many clerks.

  “Brother Naal,” he said as he rose, employing the talent for remembering names that always worked to his advantage. “What brings you here?”

  The young monk kissed the ring Elon held out to him. His surprise that the bishop had remembered him showed on his face.

  “’Tis my parents’ anniversary and His Holiness the Archbishop gave me leave to go visit them,” he said. “His Holiness asked only that I deliver this letter on my way.”

  The monk reached into one of the deep pockets of his plain brown habit and brought forth a letter. Elon looked at the crest that had been pressed into the hot wax seal. Beneath the official crest was a smaller indent. It was the Archbishop’s private seal and meant this letter was from the Primus’s own hand.

  Elon made no move to open it. Instead he again held out his hand so that Brother Naal could kiss the ring and be dismissed.

  “Thank you, Brother,” Elon said to the monk as he genuflected. “If I might also ask a favor of you….”

  “Anything, Your Grace,” Brother Naal said.

  “Then after you have seen your parents, will you come back here on your return journey to Ballinrigh. I might have an answer that needs to be taken to His Holiness.”

  “It will not be until tomorrow, Your Grace.”

  “Perfect,” Elon replied. “Until tomorrow then, Brother. Tell your parents I will ask a special blessing upon them in today’s Mass.”

  “Oh, thank you, Your Grace,” Brother Naal said, his face beaming with true delight. “I know that will please them greatly.”

  What can the old fool want now? he wondered as he sliced open the letter. Because they carried the Archbishop’s personal seal, letters such as this demanded his immediate attention—but they were often filled with such trivialities that Elon had grown to hate opening them. He heaved a small, impatient sigh as he unfolded the letter and scanned it.

  This one was not so trivial. He was summoned to Ballinrigh for a special meeting of the College of Bishops concerning the succession. This he had been expecting, but underneath the official wording of the document, the Archbishop had written a personal message in his wavering, spidery hand.

  I have h
eard a strange tale, my son, it began, that you have been visiting an enemy of the Church. I’m certain there is a good reason, but remember St. Paul says we are to avoid not only evil, but also the appearance of evil. Send word to me as soon as you reach Ballinrigh. I will make certain we have time to talk privately. I want to put this matter to rest before the meeting begins.

  Elon sat back in his chair and stared at the letter. He had no doubt to what visit it was referring. So, he thought, someone has been carrying tales. I wonder who—and to whom else they have been talking.

  He did not fool himself by thinking he had no enemies; power always came at a cost. He was glad anew that in their correspondence, Aurya had arranged their plausible—and witnessed, yes, that was the important part—reason for the visit. He now had something that would satisfy even the Archbishop.

  The meeting of the College of Bishops was set for four days hence; to get there a day early, he would have to leave tomorrow. Disappointed, Elon knew he would have to postpone any other, more interesting… activities… until his return. But he would take some of his books with him and when not otherwise occupied with official business or the Archbishop’s requests, he would continue his search.

  We’ll leave tomorrow after Brother Naal returns, Elon’s thoughts continued. Then he can travel with us—and take a report about our piety back to the Archbishop, and to whomever else has employed him. Elon grinned sardonically. That was, no doubt, part of the Archbishop’s plan. Well, let the little monk report every detail. He shall see nothing from me or mine that is the least bit questionable.

  He would let his houseman, Johann, see to the packing, and his body servants would know what clothing, both personal and religious, must be taken. But there were some articles he would trust to only one other set of hands but his own. Tonight, when the rest of the household was asleep, he would have Thomas help him with the books he would take with him. He could trust Thomas to see them safely, and secretly, stored, and just as safely unpacked in Ballinrigh.