Someone was there; she knew it as a certainty—and yet, throughout the last decade of this often useful, often unwanted sensitivity to the thoughts and feelings of others, she had rarely been near another human without hearing something, some echo of their mind.
But from this person there was still nothing. It was as if a shield was dropped between them, a barrier of protection. For whose benefit? she wondered.
Shadow within shadow moved. A moment later a man stepped out into the softly flickering light. Suddenly, Lysandra’s Sight blazed to new clarity, as if the candle flames were tiny suns, illuminating the room with the brilliance of midday. As the man walked from within the sanctuary of the altar toward her, all the color and detail that had once been such a rarity to her Sight came upon her again.
Lysandra let her Sight extend to envelop him. He was a priest, dressed in the long black clerical cassock that was the basic garb of his Office. He had left a neat pile draped over the altar rail as he passed, and Lysandra saw that they were the vestments he would don before service.
Although she could not feel his mind—a sensation that was both welcome and disconcerting—she could see him clearly. He was perhaps ten years older than she, the first strands of silver sprinkled among the dark brown hair at his temples. His eyes, deep brown with tiny flecks of green and gold, were full of gentleness and compassion. His face was clean-shaven, his lips full and drawn back in a small smile, the kind that invited confidences without fear of recrimination.
He slid into the pew in front of Lysandra, turned so he could face her. “Hello,” he said. “I’m Father Renan. That’s a beautiful animal. What’s his name?”
Father Renan spoke as if the sight of a wolf in his parish was commonplace. It startled Lysandra—but not as much as the sound of his voice. It was familiar, yet Lysandra knew she had never met him before.
“This is Cloud-Dancer,” Lysandra answered as her hand slid down his shoulders. Her Sight told her of Father Renan’s reaction to Cloud-Dancer; by her touch, she was trying to feel the wolf’s reaction to the priest.
Cloud-Dancer sat peacefully. His ears were pitched slightly forward, but with an attitude of listening curiosity, even eagerness. He seemed completely at ease with this man’s presence.
In fact, Lysandra realized, Cloud-Dancer was exhibiting less wariness than he ever showed around anyone, save herself; gatekeepers or shepherd boys, Cloud-Dancer always gave off a feeling of watchfulness, a vigilance in her protection that Lysandra had come to trust. But here, with Father Renan, the wolf was silently telling her of his total acceptance. Lysandra knew she could trust this priest as well.
“He’s quite beautiful,” Father Renan was continuing, though he made no move to pet the wolf as he might a family dog. “Now that I have met your companion, will you tell me your name, too?”
“Lysandra,” she answered him. “We did not mean to disturb you. There were… men… outside.”
Lysandra was uncertain what to say; she was no longer used to small talk. But she knew she wanted to hear more. With each word, Father Renan’s voice became more familiar; and she was certain that if he spoke long enough she would know where she had heard it before.
“No need for apologies,” he said. “You are, of course, welcome here. What good is a church if no one enters? And I am always glad to see a new face among our small numbers.”
Father Renan’s voice was pleasant, light, as if he was truly glad to see her. Although a part of Lysandra was glad to be here, Surely, she thought, I wasn’t drawn to Ballinrigh just so I could sit and make idle conversation.
From the way he was watching her, Lysandra had the feeling Father Renan knew something she did not. Before she could say anything else, however, he rose.
“Evensong will start soon, and I must finish getting ready,” he said. “Please stay. We’ll talk more after the service.”
Before Lysandra could reply, he turned and went back to the altar, leaving her still wondering who he really was and why she was here.
While Father Renan busied himself at the altar, Lysandra looked again around the little church. The clarity of her Sight was failing; colors were turning to indeterminate shadows, details giving way to misty outlines. With a sigh, she accepted the change.
Then, as the first of the parishioners came quietly through the door, outlines were swallowed by darkening fog. Blindness came to her again. She did not try to change it by borrowing Cloud-Dancer’s vision. As her Sight withdrew, she felt a need for the darkness, a need to have external distraction cease so that she could find herself again.
Only half-listening, she heard other feet shuffle through the door, some pausing at the statue in the narthex as she had done, before coming into the nave and finding their places to sit or kneel. Lysandra smelled the odor of bodies coming from their day’s labor, heard the whisper of personal prayer.
Finally, Father Renan turned toward the congregation. His voice, full and melodious now, began the first chant of Evensong.
“The Lord is in his holy temple; let all the earth keep silence before Him.
“Let my prayer be set forth in thy sight as incense; and let the lifting up of my hands be an evening sacrifice.…”
The evening Office continued. Lysandra’s eyes were closed as the ancient words and chants washed over her. Their timeless simplicity filled her soul, and carried her, floating, to a place were questions no longer existed and answers no longer needed to be found. The parishioners chanting, soft and uncertain even in their familiarity, held together by the confident thread of Father Renan’s voice.
Father Renan’s voice…
Suddenly Lysandra knew. This was the voice she had heard in her dream, night after night, sometimes as soft as a breath, sometimes loud with urgent pleading. Father Renan’s voice…
It was all too strange. Lysandra wanted to get up, leave this church and this city, to turn her back on whatever perverse fate had governed her life thus far. But she could not make her body move.
Evensong is not a long service. It is a gentle closing down toward sleep, a time of quiet thanksgiving for having made it through the demands and confusions of another day. Even with Father Renan’s homily, the last prayer was soon said, and the people began to leave the church with the same respectful silence they had entered.
All through Evensong, Lysandra had tried to sense Father Renan. The other people around her were easy to understand. She felt emotions; she knew who was here from devotion and who from habit. But Father Renan remained as closed to her as if he were not there. Only his voice confirmed his continuing presence.
Lysandra had found the service refreshing to her tired spirit, and although most of the thoughts and emotions around her had been focused on the single, peace-filled purpose of worship, she was glad to have the people go. Now, perhaps, some of her questions might be answered.
As the last of the congregation exited, a state of nearly perfect silence descended on the church. The thick stone walls blocked the noise from the city and the only sound within was that of Father Renan finishing his post-service ablutions at the altar.
Lysandra put her hand on Cloud-Dancer’s head to borrow his vision. When the moment of transition passed, she saw Father Renan coming down the central aisle. He still wore that half-expressed smile on his face. Now it broadened slightly as he again slipped into the pew in front of her and turned around to face her.
“I’m glad you stayed,” he said. “I believe we have things to talk about.”
He knows, Lysandra’s thoughts exploded in glad circles.
“My rectory behind the church is small, but it’s clean and well provisioned, thanks to the generosity of the people who worship here. Let us go find something to nourish our bodies before we fill our minds.”
“Please,” Lysandra began, not wanting to wait a moment longer. “I need to know.”
“And so you shall,” Father Renan replied, his voice both patient and encouraging. “But what I must tell you will take some time.
It is best done where we can be comfortable.”
Lysandra could tell there would be no rushing Father Renan in his tale. She stood, ready to follow the priest. After so long, she told herself, what was a few more minutes, even an hour’s further wait?
It is an eternity, her heart cried as she and Cloud-Dancer walked behind Father Renan toward the little set of rooms he called home.
Chapter Nine
Aurya and Giraldus had left the province of Kilgarriff. They were passing through the northern portion of Urlar, carefully avoiding the larger towns where they might be recognized, on their way to the mountain passes between Urlar and Lininch. Aurya was certain that their final destination was to be Rathreagh, the northernmost province of Aghamore, and there were certainly more direct routes. But she was carefully following the directions from the scroll and was just as certain it was directing them to Lininch.
Or so she hoped. The words of Tambryn were often ambiguous at best. Using all her past experience, she thought she understood most of them and kept any doubts she still felt to herself.
They had taken rooms in the little town of Wexlay. Aurya sat with the map of Aghamore spread out before her… and once more Giraldus was arguing about her decisions.
“I don’t understand you,” he was saying, his voice a snarl of impatience. “First you say we must hurry to find this… this… Wisdom-something—“
“Font of Wisdom,” Aurya supplied quietly. Giraldus just grunted in response.
“Whatever,” he said with a dismissive wave. “And you say we must go north—but you’re taking us a damnedably roundabout way to get there. If we must go with such haste, then let’s go directly.”
“No,” Aurya said with a sigh. She would again try to explain.
“Tambryn gave these directions for a reason, Giraldus,” she said, trying to sound more patient than she felt. “I don’t know what the reasons are—yet—but there must be something we’re supposed to find or do by going this route, something that will make a difference.”
“What could we possibly gain by going into Lininch to get to Rathreagh? I still say it doesn’t make any sense.”
“Make sense or not, it’s the way we’re going,” Aurya snapped, finally losing the fragile hold on her temper. She closed her eyes and breathed in deeply, slowly… once… twice…
Once she felt herself becoming centered again, she opened her eyes and looked again at Giraldus. “We must go into Lininch, to Yembo. The scroll clearly states that we must find ’the water that runs between the tall hollows where the children sing.’ Think, Giraldus—Yembo is known for the river that flows through the heart of the town. Every year in the spring, when the birds return from their winter lands, Yembo holds a festival at the entrance to the city. I’ve been there and seen it. The Eastern Gate of the city, that they call the Water-Gates, are built over where the river flows into the harbor. The Gates form a great arched bridge and on either side are tall, carved columns, hollowed to make homes for the returning birds. At the base of the columns, the city meets for the opening of their spring festival. The biggest event is the city’s children’s choir. They sing at dawn on the first of May. We must get to Yembo, and we must get there in time for the festival.”
Giraldus did not look pleased as he headed for the door. “If you’re wrong,” he said, his hand on the latch, “it had better not cost me the throne.”
He jerked the door open and left, pulling it shut with a slam behind him. Aurya was glad to see him go. The downstairs of this inn was a public house, and there he could drink himself into a better humor while she studied the scroll and the map in peace, trying to be certain she had missed nothing.
Although her words to Giraldus had sounded sure, the truth was that this was one of the places in the scroll that Aurya was working on guesses and probabilities. She was taking them by the only route she could connect with the descriptions in the scroll. The festival at Yembo was famous throughout Aghamore, but had it been so during the time of Tambryn? If not, was the description based on some vision of the future the prophet had seen?
Or could she be reading it all wrong? As Giraldus had said, it did not make sense to travel this far out of their way.
Aurya unrolled the scroll and laid it out on the same table as the map. Using her finger to follow the words, she read them aloud, pronouncing each one carefully.
They were to cross the “heart of the flower” to the “farthest high paths.” She was certain that meant Urlar; the eight outer provinces encircled the capital province like the petals of a flower and they were heading toward the mountain passes. But then came several phrases that made no sense, beginning with and containing several of the ubiquitous references to “Prophecy’s Hand.”
“… Prophecy’s Hand shall point the way, and the Three Sisters shall be found. The Three Sisters looking west face not the path but mark the hidden. So shall Prophecy’s Hand again reveal; the forgotten shall be remembered. The unspoken must be heard and with Prophecy’s Hand unite.
“Find then the water that runs between the tall hollows.…”
Here, Aurya once more felt she understood what Tambryn meant. She sat back and closed her tired eyes. Prophecy’s Hand—it was always Prophecy’s Hand that confused her. If only she could find some clue to tell her what, or who, it was, perhaps then the rest of this passage—and all the other oblique places within the scroll—might become clear.
And, perhaps, she told herself, she would not understand until she actually arrived where she was meant to go and saw the things about which Tambryn had written. Either way, they were going to Yembo.
Aurya got up and paced the room. She had ordered a flagon of wine sent up with their meal earlier. Now she stopped and poured some for herself. The feeling that there was something she had failed to see or do nagged at her.
Aurya drained the cup, grimacing at its inferior quality, and poured herself another. This room, while not elegant, did boast the comfort of its own hearth, with chairs set before it. She added more wood to the brightly burning flames and centered one chair before the hearth. She would use the fire as a focus while she attempted a Far-Seeing over time and distance. She hoped her magic would reveal what she was missing and show the future of their travels.
She took one more sip of the wine then put the cup aside. She would need it later. What she was attempting took both strength and courage. Once she entered the tangled skein of lives and times, she might lose the single line that was herself and become endlessly trapped in the etherworld. But with everything they planned depending on this journey, Aurya was willing to face the danger.
Aurya closed her eyes; she had never let fear keep her from what she wanted. She took a deep breath, slowly to the count of four, held it… exhaled just as slowly, and held that as well. She did this three times. Then, with the fourth breath, she felt herself enter her quiet place within, the place where the external world stilled as if it stopped between seconds, and where magic reigned.
Aurya opened her eyes. The fire before her still burned, but its crackle and dance had been slowed, silenced. She stared into the flames, seeing but not seeing, letting her eyes focus both within and beyond. Soundlessly, she began to chant, her lips forming the words only her mind spoke.
Magda, Queen of Darkness and Light; Mother of Time, enfold me.
Anu, Weaver of What Is to Be, take my hand; show me the path I must follow.
Teslaigh, Reiba, first to bring light to the mortal world, I call on ye for aid;
Guide me in my quest and lift the veil from my inner eyes.
Let my eyes become as Your eyes; lift the darkness that shadows the future.
In Your wisdom and Your power, show me all that I must do;
Then will I vow myself Your servant eternally, body and spirit.
Aurya did not have long to wait before she felt the first stirring of those presences on whom she had called. They were ancient forces, gods and goddesses served by the Kings, sages, and sorcerers who had once b
een mighty in this land—before the Church had come to convert the people and banish the old ways.
When Giraldus is King, she promised herself—promised the ones she still served—it will be as it was before.
Aurya felt the shift within herself that told her the magic was building. She whispered the names of power once again: Magda… Anu… Teslaigh… Reiba… She felt first emptied then filled again. Before her eyes, the fire grew dark. Then slowly… slowly… a spark of light began at its center. It expanded, became a bright tunnel down which her awareness flew.
In her peripheral vision, distorted images formed and passed dizzyingly. Seen and not seen; stretched beyond recognition. Spinning. Sliding. Twirling. Aurya’s stomach lurched dangerously close to emptying itself. Still the images sped by.
Then, by the force and strength of her will alone, she finally managed to focus on the path ahead. She wanted to shut her eyes, too, but she dared not. Down the tunnel she sped, riding on light and thought, on will and breath.
The light exploded, shooting outward like shards of splintered glass. Each piece was a new destination, a possibility of fate discarded. Aurya was not interested in possibilities; there was only one outcome she wanted to see.
She was still chanting the names of the old ones under her breath, still calling on the ancient gods to help her. Now, as the sensation of rushing forward began to abate, her words slowed. Though her lips moved, no sound passed them.
Slowly, new images began to form within the window in the flames. They were hazy at first, indistinct like a painting viewed from afar. With each passing second they became clearer until at last she recognized the figures.
But not the setting. She saw herself and Giraldus in a place of stone and of treasure, where gold and gems mingled with granite and limestone to form walls that looked unhewn. It was a place of both wildness and beauty, each strangely augmenting the other.
The Thirteenth Scroll Page 10