“But as to how the child must be found and what will ‘unlock’ the Font of Wisdom—I’m not sure. There are directions here in the Thirteenth Scroll that indicate a journey north. But it also says that only through the ’blinded Sight of Prophecy’s Hand can the Font of Wisdom be seen.’”
Lysandra put her hands to her head, trying to stop her whirling thoughts. She must decide what to do, but she could not—not right now. She was too tired. She had wanted Ballinrigh to be the end of her journey, not the beginning of a new one.
Father Renan came over to her. He put his hands on her shoulders in a gentle, comforting touch.
“Have you found a place to sleep yet?” he asked. She shook her head.
“Then stay here,” he offered. “The guesthouse is small and not lavishly furnished—but it is clean and warm. You and Cloud-Dancer could be quite comfortable there.”
The offer was more than welcome, Lysandra realized. It was a prayer answered before it was voiced. “Thank you,” she said.
Father Renan smiled. “I’ll show you there so you can rest,” he said gently. “A tired body often makes the mind see things as darker and more difficult than they are.”
The priest retrieved Lysandra’s bag. Cloud-Dancer had been lying next to it, silently watching Lysandra’s movements. Now he rose and followed Father Renan. When he brushed against her, Lysandra’s hand automatically came down to rest on the top of his head.
“I’ve never heard of a wolf so tame,” Father Renan said, his voice filled with both marvel and admiration, “or of an animal and master being so close.”
“We are both family and pack for one another,” Lysandra affirmed, “though I doubt the men he ran off tonight would call him tame.”
Father Renan chuckled. “Then I shall have to be careful to remain in your good graces.”
He led the way across the small churchyard to a little freestanding house. Once they were inside, he turned his attention to starting a fire. With her Sight, Lysandra looked around her temporary residence, quickly memorizing its furnishings for the time when her Sight again faded. It was, as Father Renan had said, a small house. The main room, in which they stood, opened onto a cooking area to her right. To her left was a half-closed door into the bedroom.
The fire started with a blaze of light and heat. Father Renan stood, dusting off his hands on his cassock, leaving handprints that he completely ignored as he turned to her.
“There,” he said, “that will soon put this place to rights. I’ll bring some food over from the rectory. There’s a garderobe through the bedroom and a personal midden—and the fire heats a small cistern, if you want to bathe.”
“Thank you,” Lysandra said. “This is far more than I expected.”
“As I said, it’s nothing fancy—but you’ll be warm and safe here. I’ll return in just a few minutes with those provisions, then I’ll leave you so you can rest. We’ll talk more in the morning, or whenever you’re ready.”
He left, and stillness descended. The only noise was the sound of the fire crackling on the hearth. It was a homey sound, full of comfort for both body and soul, and Lysandra felt some of the tension within her drain away. She went over and stood before the fire, letting the heat of it lick her legs, slowly travel up and warm the rest of her body.
There were two large chairs positioned a comfortable distance from the flames. She sank into one and let out a deep sigh of relief, of gratitude, of being safe within walls after so many days of travel, of finding a haven—for however brief a time—such as she had not thought a city like Ballinrigh would offer.
And the enticement of a bath, of hot water and being clean from the dirt of her travels—ah, that thought made Lysandra smile. It would take a while for the water to heat; while she waited she could close her eyes and absorb the silence, the peace.
Lysandra awakened to her own heart beating wildly, as if in panic or flight. She opened her eyes. All around her, the room seemed shrouded in a thick, swirling fog. The only light came from the embers of the dying fire and the half-full moon shining through the window.
Lysandra knew the dimness before her had nothing to do with the hour. Her Sight could make midnight bright as a summer day. This fog was trying to tell her something, as was the sense of fear and foreboding coursing through her body and mind. She forced herself to take a couple of deep breaths, trying to get past the grip of sensation and open herself to its meaning. Why was she so panicked? She was still in the guesthouse, safe and warm; there was no threat, no harm within these walls.
Then she realized it was not for herself that she was afraid. Who then? Cloud-Dancer? Father Renan? But no—they were safe; she knew with perfect certainty that her fear was not for them either.
Her Sight began to expand in a way it had never done before, taking her with it. Lysandra felt as if she were flying, and wondered, briefly, if she were still dreaming.
But this was too real to be a dream—and she found herself too stunned to be truly afraid. It was unlike anything she had ever experienced. How could she be sitting in her chair and yet be unconfined in her body?
A sense of urgency began to tug at her mind, pulling her along to newer and greater heights. She was higher than any bird could have flown, with all of Aghamore displayed beneath her like a patchwork quilt smoothed across a wide bed.
Across the kingdom a gathering fog swirled—sometimes thick and impenetrable, other times as barely a wisp. Here and there, bright lights shone like beacons or like stars come to Earth; the greatest of these lights was far to the north, where the land’s end of Aghamore met the sea.
But a bitter darkness was also present. It sent swirling ribbons of danger inward, like fingers grasping through the fog. The darkness had the taint and smell of evil. Some of it, too, came out of the north—but the greater darkness was gathered in the west, pouring out over the land in a foul and steady stream. If it was not stopped and soon, it would extinguish the lights, and all hope would die in Aghamore.
In an instant, Lysandra was back in her chair. All sense of Far-Seeing vanished. With it, her Sight went, too. She was left within her physical blindness, made all the more complete because of what she had just experienced.
She called for Cloud-Dancer, not knowing that he was already standing by her side until she felt his head press itself beneath her fingers. She welcomed his presence and his comfort. As she ran her fingers through his fur, a certainty she did not welcome filled her.
“We have to go, don’t we?” she said to him.
Cloud-Dancer pressed against her. He laid his head on her lap in silent reassurance. At least she would not be going anywhere alone.
But where was she going? Father Renan had mentioned north, and so had the vision she had just witnessed—but north was a big place in which to look for a single child. Father Renan had also said that the scroll contained directions… but she could not read them; the words she had seen meant nothing to her.
Lysandra found herself wanting to scream her fury at God or the Fates or… whatever… that found it such a cosmic joke to send her on a quest where her only guide was something she could not understand.
Then Cloud-Dancer turned his head and licked the palm of her hand. The gentle action made Lysandra smile. Then she sighed, realizing that her anger could neither help her nor change the course of what was to come.
She put her arms around Cloud-Dancer’s neck and laid her head on top of his, sitting there for a moment and letting the last of her frustrations drain away. Tomorrow would take care of itself. Tonight, she had comfort, and she intended to avail herself of it. The embers of the fire were still warming the water. She would have a bath and sleep in a bed—and then tomorrow, clean and rested, she would leave Ballinrigh for the road once again, trusting in whatever had brought her thus far to guide her once again.
In the morning, Lysandra awoke shortly after dawn. The daylight noises of the city were already building, filtering in through the windows and walls of the little guesthouse
. It was noise such as she had not heard before, even on market day when she was a child in Scorda.
It took her a quick moment to remember where she was. Then everything came flooding back—and with it came the same angry frustration she had felt last night. She tried to push that feeling from her as she pushed back the bedclothes, but it was not so easily removed. She would have to ride out this internal storm and try not to be drowned by its fury. It might even serve to push her farther down the direction she needed to go.
Resigned, if not happy, she dressed, and entered the main room of the little house. She had no Sight to guide her today as she got herself oriented, then found the cooking area and the food Father Renan had brought last night while she slept. Leaving out enough to feed herself and Cloud-Dancer, she used the rest to replenish the provisions in her bag, hoping Father Renan would not mind. Then, after fueling her body for the upcoming trek into the unknown, she again shouldered her bag, took up her walking stick, and, with Cloud-Dancer by her side, left her safe, if temporary, haven.
Father Renan was not in the rectory when she knocked, so Lysandra headed for the church. She entered through the back door of the sacristy through which they had exited last night. The thick stone walls of the church once more blocked the outside noises of the city, and, as the door closed behind her, Lysandra was again enveloped in the silence she had found when she entered this building the evening before.
Lysandra felt the anger drain and a new strength come from being in this quiet place. She still did not understand why this task should have fallen to her, nor did she feel qualified to accomplish it. But she realized that understanding might well be less important than acceptance after all.
Entering from the sacristy into the sanctuary of the altar, Lysandra tried to sense Father Renan’s presence. Though she thought he must be here, she received no more impression of his nearness now than she had last night, and again she realized that he was the only person who had ever been so totally shielded to her.
She put out her hand for Cloud-Dancer, and when he put his head beneath her fingers, she again borrowed his vision to look around the little church. Father Renan sat in the same back pew Lysandra had occupied last night. He was deep in contemplation or prayer, his eyes closed and his face lit with a look of peaceful listening. Lysandra did not want to disturb him at such a moment.
She did not have to say anything, however, for he immediately looked up as she approached and gave her a smile. She saw that he had changed his cassock for warm traveling clothes and stout shoes, and that on the pew next to him rested a bag of provisions similar to hers.
“Ah, there you are,” he said. Standing, he slung the bag over one shoulder. “Are you ready to go, then?”
“Ready?” she replied. “I am, certainly—but you? You have this church and its people to care for.”
Father Renan shook his head. “I have sent a letter to the office of the Archbishop explaining that I have been called away on urgent business. Another priest will be sent in my absence. I believe we all have a task ahead, if Aghamore is to be saved. Mine, like Cloud-Dancer’s, is to walk by your side. You cannot read the scroll, but I can. I will read it and try to interpret its meaning. I will also try, to the best of my ability, to give you what help and strength I can.”
Lysandra felt herself humbled and moved by his generosity. In this instant, there seemed a chance they might succeed after all.
“Thank you,” she said softly. “So, where are we to go now?”
“North,” Father Renan replied. “North lies all hope of the future for this land—and may God in His mercy direct our feet.”
“Amen,” Lysandra whispered, meaning the word with all her heart.
Chapter Eleven
The College of Bishops had been convened and, as Elon had expected, nothing was being accomplished. Everyone had plenty to say; Elon often thought that some of his brother bishops had only gone into the Church because they were in love with the sound of their own voices and it gave them authority to use them—too often and too loudly.
Elon, himself, had stayed silent and listened. So far there had been much discussion about the last few Kings and the problems with the House of Baoghil in general. Now, finally, the talk was turning to the future of Aghamore. As he had known would happen, each of the bishops was beginning to put forth the Baron of his province as the only right choice for the next High King.
Elon was exceedingly glad when, finally, the meeting was adjourned for Evening Prayer and then for the night. Pleading a headache, he turned down two invitations to dine. All he wanted was some hours free of the pomposity that now filled his days—and would until the bishops came to some consensus.
Once he returned to his house in Ballinrigh, he went straight to his wardrobe chamber where Thomas was waiting to help him divest. Thomas was, perhaps, the only individual to whom Elon could speak his mind freely. Time had proved that Thomas knew how to guard his tongue.
“You should have heard them today, Thomas,” Elon said, as his manservant helped him undo the long row of buttons that closed the front of his purple cassock. “They sat around making as much noise as a bunch of hens in a barnyard—and accomplishing about as much, too. Who cares if the House of Caethal gave us ‘Good King Stephan’ sixteen reigns ago? We need to look to the next King, not the past ones.”
Thomas said nothing as he eased the cassock from Elon’s shoulders, put it aside to be aired and pressed, and held out the bishop’s dressing gown. Elon shrugged it on and knotted the belt around his lean waist.
“And you should hear of the candidates we’re offered,” he continued. “To listen to the bishops talk, you’d have to believe that every one of the Barons is more pious than the last. Each one of them has promised great things for the Church—if we support his right to be King. I say, if they are so very devout, why don’t they make these offerings or build these shrines regardless of the succession?”
Elon turned to see Thomas smiling knowingly. The sight drained away some of Elon’s frustration with the day, and he began to see some of the humor Thomas obviously did.
“Yes, I know,” he said. “I want my Baron on the throne, too. But at least Giraldus doesn’t pretend a piety he does not feel—and we’d get a strong warrior besides. He’d make an adequate King on his own, and with myself and Lady Aurya to back him, he’ll make a great one.”
“Do you think you can get the other bishops to support him?” Thomas asked as he hung up Elon’s mozzetta and brought down the box to put away the bishop’s biretta.
Elon shook his head. “Not yet… but in time. I thought I’d let them argue for a while and keep Giraldus’s name out of it. When it becomes clear that they will reach no other agreement—then I’ll speak out. Perhaps, then, they’ll be ready to hear what I have to say… or enough of them will, anyway.”
“And if they’re not?”
Elon turned and looked Thomas in the eyes. “As I said, Thomas, Giraldus is a strong warrior. He will be King—and I will be Archbishop. If I cannot reason my brother bishops into their support, there are… other means.”
Elon could see that Thomas understood exactly what he meant. In the quarter of a century they had been together, many things had come to be understood between them. Just as Thomas alone, of all Elon’s servants or other acquaintances, knew the bishop’s active interest in the occult, Elon knew the secrets of Thomas’s past.
Quiet, capable, subservient Thomas was the son of an outlaw and had ridden in his father’s band for several years; he had robbed, raped—and murdered—along with them. Then, at twenty-three, Thomas had left that life, changed his name, and set out on his own to find an honest means of living. Through a series of other jobs and chance encounters, he had finally come to Elon’s attention.
The newly appointed Bishop-ordinary of Kilgarriff engaged Thomas as a body servant and dresser. But it was not long before Elon realized there was more to his new hireling than had first appeared. Something in the way he kept himse
lf apart sparked Elon’s curiosity until, finally, he called upon several of the private contacts he already held throughout the provinces to discover the secrets hidden within Thomas’s habit of silence.
Now only Elon knew Thomas’s real name. He also knew that his parents were still alive and just what the law would do if these secrets were ever revealed. This knowledge had ensured Thomas’s trustworthiness in the beginning of his service with Elon. Now, twenty-five years later, they were unnecessary.
Over the years, Thomas had come to share his interest in the occult and it, too, had created a bond between them. They were not friends exactly—Elon did not have anyone to whom he would grant that title, which suited him well. But they were more than employer and servant. They were partners of a sort, unequal but partners.
“Is there a fire in my private study?” he asked.
“Yes, Your Grace,” Thomas replied. “I thought you might want one tonight.”
“Precognitive powers, Thomas—or just a lucky guess?”
“Is there really much difference, Your Grace, if the ends are the same?”
Elon gave a sardonic bark of a laugh. “Perhaps not. Very well, Thomas, that’s where I’ll be. You can bring my supper and some wine there—but see to it yourself. No one is to disturb me. Use whatever excuse you need, but make certain that order is carried out.”
Thomas gave Elon a slight bow. “As you wish, Your Grace.”
Once Thomas had left, Elon headed for the private room next to his bedchamber. Like the room at his Residence in Ummera, the entrance to this room was hidden from casual eyes. Only he and Thomas had a key… and only he and Thomas knew of its contents.
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