The Thirteenth Scroll

by Rebecca Neason

“I thought only that here might be a penitent in need of spiritual guidance,” Elon replied.

  There, he thought, the seeds Aurya so thoughtfully laid can now be harvested.

  The Archbishop nodded. “Such a thought does you credit,” he said. “And is that how you found Lady Aurya? Penitent?”

  “I found her angry at first, from the many exaggerated rumors spread about her,” Elon answered, somewhat truthfully, for the best lie is a carefully selected portion of the truth. “But I believe she is a lady who has been much maligned by such tales, many of which she lays firmly at the Church’s door. Finding spiritual guidance has not been easy, it seems. Many have turned away from her because of these tales of her ‘unholy practices,’ as you call it. Rather than chance encountering her anger, they have condemned her without hearing, without trying to answer her questions that might lead to her repentance. That, too, is why I put aside my other business for the day and went to see her myself. Should she return to the Church, I know Baron Giraldus will as well—and two souls will be saved. Is that not our highest duty?”

  Move and countermove, Elon thought. With this last question he had backed the Archbishop into a corner.

  Again, the old man nodded. “It is indeed. And I hoped—nay, I was sure—your reason would be one such as this. I am glad to have it confirmed and to know my faith in you is not misplaced. But remember, there are many in this world who do not look with the eyes of charity. They seek always to find fault with those who lead. As shepherds of this flock of human souls, we must have a care that the appearance of our actions does not lead others onto a path of destruction.”

  With the Archbishop’s words, Elon knew he had won, though not a complete victory. There still remained some little question in the old man’s mind and Elon would have to find a way to set it to rest if he was to gain Colm apBeirne’s support.

  But now was not the time. The next move was his, but it must be subtle and come at an unexpected moment. It was his turn to catch his opponent off guard.

  For now, he changed the subject. “The College meets tomorrow,” he began. “Have you heard anything to indicate a favored candidate for the throne?”

  Colm sighed. “Nay,” he said. “We are indeed a house divided on this subject. Each bishop favors his own Baron as the best qualified, the strongest leader… and truth be told, there’s not much difference between any of them. The people, I think, just want to see the matter settled before Aghamore erupts into civil war.”

  “Whom do you favor?” Elon asked. He kept his tone casual, but inside he felt his muscles tighten. The Archbishop’s answer now would name the one who posed the greatest threat to Elon’s plans.

  But the old man raised his hands in a gesture of bewilderment. “That, I cannot answer,” he said. “It is clear that the House of Baoghil is ended and by right, each of the Barons is equally in line of succession. But who would be best for this kingdom? That I do not know, not this time. I thought I knew last time with Anri, but I was wrong, and the people of this kingdom paid the price. If only…”

  These words were spoken softly, as if to himself, but they were not lost on Elon. The implication was clear: If only the problem of Aurya did not exist, then Giraldus would have the Archbishop’s support for High King. And Elon intended to make certain the problem was either controlled or removed—at least long enough for Giraldus to be crowned. The artful deception that they so publicly played out during his last visit to the Baron’s fortress would continue to serve them well, though Elon knew that any embellishments must be carefully considered and even more carefully added. Then, once Aurya and Giraldus returned, he had no doubt that her own intelligence would convince Aurya of the necessity of formalizing both her relationship with Giraldus and her public image of religious contrition. Once that was done, there would be nothing in all of Aghamore that could stop them, no one could stand in their way.

  Elon wanted to shout out loud. Instead, he hid his feeling of triumph-glimpsed behind an expression of concern, one he had carefully developed over the years.

  “If only?” he said to the Archbishop, opening the door for further confidences, and inviting the Archbishop to confirm what Elon believed he had meant. But the Archbishop was too experienced to make such a slip again.

  He shook his head. “Nothing, my son,” he said. “Just an old man’s meanderings. When you get to be my age, life is full of ‘if-onlys.’ Let us speak no more of it. How are things in Kilgarriff? What do the people there say about the succession?”

  “Like the people everywhere, they are worried that Aghamore has no King—many of them have lived through such a time before. And, like the people everywhere, they would like to see their own Baron on the throne. They know him to be a good leader and a strong warrior who could protect this kingdom from civil war, or from invasion—both of which they fear will happen if the throne remains empty much longer.”

  The old man nodded. “I, too, fear such things. Tell me, Elon, do you have plans to meet again with Lady Aurya?”

  Elon shook his head. “She and Baron Giraldus have undertaken a retreat, a pilgrimage you might call it—a time of withdrawing from cares and demands of the kingdom to consider the things we talked about during my visit.”

  The Archbishop’s face lit up at the news, both pleased and astonished. “I should like to have heard that conversation,” he said. “The Spirit must have truly been guiding your words to have had such a profound effect. Can you tell me more of what was said?”

  “Alas, I cannot,” Elon replied. “Most of our discussion was ‘Under the Stole,’ and so I may not divulge it even to you. As for my words and their effect—I believe it was only because I found receptive hearts awaiting.”

  The clock on the mantel sounded the hour. The Archbishop looked up at it sharply, then sighed as he put his empty wineglass aside.

  “The other guests will be arriving,” he said, “and I should be there when they come in. We must return to the front of the house before Gregory comes looking for us. Thank you, Elon, for indulging an old man’s need for good company and quiet conversation.”

  “I have enjoyed it as much as you,” Elon replied humbly.

  Indeed more, he thought as he stood. He put out an arm to help the Archbishop to his feet, pretending at the same time to take little notice of the arthritic manner in which the old man moved.

  When the succession was settled, Elon was certain, Colm apBeirne would retire. He would want to be away from drafty cathedrals and long hours at court, retired to a place where he could spend his last years sitting before a fire with his books. Between now and then, Elon would do whatever it took to make certain to be the one named as his preferred successor.

  Then, with Giraldus on the throne and the retiring Archbishop giving his approval and backing, the College of Bishops would have no choice but to place the golden triple mitre on Elon’s head. With that certainty filling him, Elon walked by the old Archbishop’s side, heir-apparent, into dinner.

  Elon enjoyed his evening at the Archbishop’s residence. The game was still going on, he knew, with the other guests unwittingly serving as part of the players. In attendance were Bishop Sitric of Lininch, Bishop Tadhg of Farnagh, Aileen, Abbess of the convent attached to the cathedral, and Bishop Mago of Tievebrack.

  Were these his biggest rivals? Elon wondered. Did they have aspirations as high as his own, or were they happy as little more than sheep themselves, never caring to become the shepherd? Only time would tell him—but before the College of Bishops was dismissed a final time, he intended to know it all.

  For the rest of the evening, Elon appeared relaxed. It was a careful façade, but an effective one. Even while he smiled and pleasantly chatted on inane topics in which he had no interest, his mind was watching, measuring, looking for openings he might later exploit. By the end of the dinner, he realized that any serious threats would come from other quarters.

  As Elon rode home in the formal carriage he kept here in Ballinrigh, he finally permitte
d himself the triumphant smile he had kept hidden all evening. He had played the game well, and he knew it. If this evening had been a test, then he had more than passed… he had excelled.

  Elon Gallivin, Archbishop of Aghamore—yes, he liked the sound of that.

  Chapter Eight

  Footsore and weary, Lysandra approached the great walled city of Ballinrigh, the capital and heart of Aghamore. In this city stood the great cathedral and its library, which housed all the records of the kingdom. Here, like a walled city within a city, the High King’s palace lifted its cream-colored turrets toward the sky.

  It was near dusk by the time she reached the city gates. The bright energy of the morning had long ago left her, as had the Sight. Now, feeling the long journey in every muscle and relying once more upon Cloud-Dancer’s vision to guide her, Lysandra faced an obstacle she had not expected… the gatekeeper.

  “You, girl—I’m talking to you,” he snarled, stepping in front of her. “I said you can’t bring that beast in here.”

  Crossing his large, hairy arms over his chest, he glared at her in self-important anger. For a moment Lysandra just stared back at him, letting her sightless eyes do their own talking while she searched for the right words. She found herself too tired for eloquence.

  “But… but I must,” she stammered. “He’s my guide. I… I need him.”

  She kept her voice soft and meek, an easy thing to do in her present condition. Her weariness draped her like a cloak, and, after so many days on the road, she could only guess at the picture she presented. Nor did she, for pride’s sake, try to present any other. She would gladly sacrifice her pride in order to keep Cloud-Dancer by her side.

  Her helpless attitude was having some effect. She could feel the gatekeeper’s resolve wavering.

  “He’s well trained,” she continued. With a gentle move of her hand, Cloud-Dancer immediately sat, proving her words.

  “What be your business in Ballinrigh, then? Where be your people?”

  Here was the tricky part, Lysandra realized. She did not want to lie, but how could she tell him what she did not know herself?

  “My family is dead—killed by outlaws. Black Bryan,” Lysandra said. Still watching the gatekeeper through Cloud-Dancer’s vision, Lysandra saw by the look that flashed across his face that he knew the outlaw’s reputation. She pressed on.

  “I’m here searching,” she continued, still the truth. “The cathedral has copies of all the kingdom’s records, and I must have family somewhere.”

  Still she knew she had not lied—not exactly. She had not said she was going to the cathedral.

  “If there’s a fee for bringing my… dog… into the city, I have money,” she said eagerly. Fishing into the small purse she had made of the linen that once held her mother’s jewelry and tied around her neck for safety, she drew out one of the silver sovereigns.

  A look of greed blossomed on the gatekeeper’s face. Seeing it, Lysandra knew she had won. She carefully kept the triumph from her face and voice as she held the coin out to him.

  “Please,” she said, her voice pleading. Suddenly, all of her weariness overwhelmed the spurt of hope she had just felt. Tears, born mostly of exhaustion, welled in her eyes. The sight was too much for the gatekeeper. He took the coin and quickly pocketed it.

  “All right,” he said. “But if there be any trouble from that beast, I’ll deny that I was the one what let you enter. I’ll not forfeit my job here for his sake—nor yours neither.”

  “Thank you,” Lysandra said humbly. “And there will be no trouble. That I can promise.”

  In this she spoke only the truth. At another silent signal from her fingers, Cloud-Dancer stood and stayed by her side as they walked through the gate. It was nearly dark now, and Lysandra knew that at any moment the gate would be pulled closed behind her. But before she passed completely through, she turned back toward the gatekeeper once more.

  “Please,” she said softly, “where do I go to find lodging?”

  The man considered for a moment. “Go straight ahead five blocks, then turn right. Another three blocks and turn right again. At the end of that street you’ll find an inn—The Crowing Cock. It be not fancy, mind, but it’s clean. The innkeeper be named Gavin and he likes animals. He’ll likely let your beast in there.”

  “Thank you,” Lysandra said again. Then, drawing a deep breath, she and Cloud-Dancer at last entered Ballinrigh.

  They followed the directions the gatekeeper had given. Tired as she was, Lysandra was forced to deal with the onslaught of city-minds all around her. This was far worse than the town of Granshae had been; she felt as if she was walking through a mire that dragged at her, slowing her mind as well as her body. So many people, all living their separate lives filled with hopes and fears, loves and hates, anger and laughter.

  Lysandra was glad it was nighttime, when most people had withdrawn behind their closed doors. Weary with traveling, she did not think she could have faced this city amid the tumult of midday. At least now she would have some rest to strengthen her before tomorrow when, she knew, she must begin her earnest searching for why she had been drawn here.

  Her mind was so intent on shutting out the mental noise that she did not feel the approach of the two men behind her. Suddenly, beneath her hand, she felt Cloud-Dancer’s hackles rise. He emitted a single, low growl. This sound penetrated the mental and emotional fog that had encased Lysandra. Suddenly, she saw again.

  She turned just as the men were nearly upon her. In that brief instant she recognized them as men she had seen upon the road. They must have been at the gate at the same time she was and seen the coin she gave to the gatekeeper.

  Cloud-Dancer, who had been so well behaved at the gate, did not look docile now. Lysandra lifted her restraining hand; it was all the permission Cloud-Dancer needed. He bared his teeth in a warning snarl and again emitted his low growl. The men hesitated briefly.

  With her Sight, Lysandra scanned the area, looking for an exit or a place of safety for herself and Cloud-Dancer. A few yards away was a small church. The outside was unimpressive—a poor neighborhood parish in the great cathedral city—but a light shone in its windows.

  The man on the left took a couple of steps to the side, trying to draw Cloud-Dancer’s attention away so his companion could reach Lysandra. But the wolf’s instinct of protection was too strong to be fooled by such simple tactics. Seeing it was not working, the men rushed forward together, more intent on the possible gold in Lysandra’s purse than fearful of their own safety. Their eyes were more than greedy—they were desperate.

  But they were no match for Cloud-Dancer’s fury. As the men made their rush, the wolf leapt toward them, biting and snarling. In the same instant, Lysandra made a dash for the church. She heard one of the men cry in agony just as she reached the door. There were more snarls, more cries, all jumbled into a single crescendo of conflict… then the sound of limping, running feet slowly dying off in the distance.

  Lysandra called Cloud-Dancer to her and, dropping to her knees, threw her arms around his muscular neck. He had just saved more than her coins; had she been alone, such men would not have hesitated to take her body—or her life.

  With that thought, Lysandra began to shake. She could not find the strength to stand. She could hardly make her hands work as she reached for the latch of the church door, but she knew she had to get inside. She needed time to sit where it was quiet and safe. Only then would she find the strength to go on.

  From her knees, she finally worked the latch and fell through the door as it opened. She lay panting on the floor for a few seconds, suddenly close to tears of weariness and relief.

  She had not been inside a church since the day she stood beside the coffins of the three people she had loved best in the world. She had thought never to enter one again. But, surprisingly, she found that she wanted to remain here.

  Walking from the narthex into the nave, she took a seat in the back pew and slowly let her Sight extend to brush l
ightly over her surroundings. The place was small, and the shadowed corners were dimly lit in the wavering light of votive candles that burned before cushioned prayer stations and statuaries of patron saints.

  On one side was a statue of the Virgin. She stood with willowy grace, her arms gently outstretched as if waiting to embrace the supplicant kneeling in prayer at her feet. Long years of candle and incense smoke, and of loving hands touching her motionless robes, had given a golden patina to the once-white stone from which she had been carved, softening her appearance and yet, somehow, making her even more ethereal.

  The other was a statute of Saint Anne, the mother of the Blessed Virgin. She had an older but very kind face and stood holding a white lily, symbol of her daughter. Saint Anne was the saint most often invoked against poverty and a fitting patron for a poor city parish.

  The statues, like the rest of the church, showed their age. Though the parish was obviously poor and refurbishments rare, it was a place where care had been taken with such things as were here. The frontal on the altar, though somewhat threadbare, was clean and precisely hung; the pews, where hands and bodies had over the years worn away the finish, had been cleaned and polished with beeswax that added its sweet scent to the room. The floors were swept and the candles new. The air held a hint of old incense, as if over the years it had been absorbed by the wood and stone. It was pleasant to breathe, like a whisper of spice barely tasted on the tongue.

  Lysandra sat back and closed her eyes, breathing in deeply, taking in the atmosphere of human care and divine peace; this church felt like a spiritual home.

  A little sound, a shuffling of feet across the floor, disturbed the silence that cradled Lysandra’s thoughts. Suddenly she knew she was not alone. Yet she felt no threat—nor was Cloud-Dancer wary; relaxed and content, he sat by her side, leaning familiarly against her legs as if they had been sitting in the sunlight or before the fire at home.

  Lysandra’s blind eyes could tell her nothing, but her Sight explored the shadows by the altar. There to the left, by the little door that led into the sacristy—that shadow held a physical presence. Like Cloud-Dancer, she could sense nothing sinister. In fact, she sensed nothing at all except silence and peace.