“No,” she said, “not yet. I think we should stay here—listen to what the people are saying. When you are High King, you’ll need to know the minds of your people and you’ll not be able to go out so easily among them. This is an opportunity, Giraldus. Learn to seize them when they come along.”
At this moment, Giraldus did not care about the people or the throne. He only wanted her. And he knew she saw the hunger in his eyes, for again she laughed.
“Later,” she said, her voice full of promise. “It will be worth the wait.”
Reluctantly, Giraldus accepted that he would have to be satisfied with that. He drained his mug of wine and stood. “If we’re going to join the festivities,” he said, “then let’s add to them.”
He cast a quick glance around the room, estimating the number of people, then reached for the pouch of coins he kept securely tied to his belt beneath his leather vest. He drew out two silver sovereigns and headed toward the bar.
“Innkeep,” he said with a loud voice, “a round of your fine wine here for everyone. Let us celebrate our good fortune in finding this place of warm beds, hot food and drink, and good company. ‘Tis a fine place to pass the cold hours of the night.”
Around the room, a cheer went up. Giraldus smiled broadly, feeding upon the approval of the crowd. As fast as the innkeeper poured mugs of his steaming spiced wine, Giraldus grabbed them and started delivering them to tables—and soon he had other willing hands to help him.
Across the room, someone started an old familiar drinking song. More voices picked up the tune, and still more. Giraldus was in the middle of it all—swinging his mug in time to the music and happily adding his rich, deep voice to the tune.
The first song died and a second was taken up. Giraldus was glad to see the fey light remain on Aurya’s face as she, too, joined in the song. He relaxed a little and sang with gusto, roaming through the room. People made places for him to sit, but he shook his head good-naturedly and continued his circuit.
In time, he noticed that not everyone was singing or drinking. At a corner table, far from the center of the festivities, four men sat hunched over their barely touched mugs. Their posture made it clear that they wished no intrusion upon their privacy and most of the people, caught up with their own pleasures, were happy to oblige them.
Giraldus accepted a seat at the table nearest them. Now that the singing was holding the room’s attention, the men were not bothering to whisper. Listening carefully, Giraldus could overhear them well enough.
“Hueil’s army is two thousand strong already and growing greater each day,” one voice said. Giraldus did not dare turn to see who had spoken, but he recognized the name of the Baron of Rathreagh, and that was enough.
“But why should my master join him?” a new voice said, a voice with an arrhythmic rise and fall that told Giraldus this speaker was not from Aghamore. “What is to be gained in this for us?”
The first speaker laughed. “You mean besides the gold that he has been paid already? How does the hand of Hueil’s daughter, Margharite, sound to sweeten the bargain? As Hueil’s only child, she is also his only heir. When he is King, she—and her husband—will have the province of Rathreagh to rule… and the throne of Aghamore to inherit. Tell your master this as well—when my master sits upon the High Throne in Ballinrigh with the crown firmly upon his head, he will not forget those who have helped put him there. Once those who stand against him have been punished, then those who have been his friends shall gain their rewards.”
“Done,” said the foreign man. “The great Wirral of Corbenica, my master, can be ready to sail within the month.”
“No,” again the first voice spoke. “The timing of this must be exact. Baron Hueil is not the only one in Aghamore who seeks to occupy the throne. Your ships must reach the harbor of Owenasse on the night after the summer solstice.”
Giraldus sat a moment longer, finishing his wine and putting up a show of jolly conversation. But his mind was whirling with what he had just heard. Hueil, Baron of Rathreagh, the northernmost province of Aghamore, was conspiring with the Corbenicans, their ancient and mortal enemies.
This changed everything. Giraldus knew he now had a supportable reason to amass an army and march on Ballinrigh. He could draw upon every province for men and resources… and who else would they crown as High King but the Baron who had just led them in saving the kingdom?
Giraldus had to force himself not to rush back to Aurya and tell her what he had just overheard. But he knew he must not; if the men had any suspicion that their plan was no longer secret, it might force them to move before he had time to prepare, or give up the venture altogether. Knowing their timetable gave him an advantage he intended to put to full use.
Under the loudly proclaimed pretense of refilling his mug, he left the table, blessing Aurya’s insistence that they join the festivities with every step he took. He stopped at the bar, refilled his mug and another one for Aurya, and went to their table. Someone pulled out a fiddle and struck up a lively tune. Feet began to pound and hands to clap in time; chairs and tables were shoved back to make room for dancing.
Perfect, Giraldus thought as he grabbed Aurya’s hands to pull her out onto the floor. He let his balance appear just a little impaired, like a man on the verge of a touch too much wine but full of the frolic of good humor. His performance was perfect; for the first moment they began to dance, even Aurya believed it.
But he was, in fact, quite sober. All effect of the wine had been banished by the hot surge of energy that had rushed through him when he realized what he was overhearing.
“Look in the corner,” he whispered into Aurya’s ear as they danced, turning her so that her view would not be obvious. “Do you see the four men sitting there?”
He felt her tiny nod.
“After this dance we must go to our room. I have news… important news.”
Again he felt the single small nod against his cheek. He said nothing more as he twirled and jigged them through the remainder of the dance. When it was over, he made a great show of wine-induced passion though, in fact, these desires had now taken second place to the new reason he had to get Aurya alone.
She caught his lead, as he had known she would. A few minutes later, after they had once again downed the contents of their cups, it was many a knowing laugh that followed them from the room.
They kept up their act as they went to the third floor. It was only with the door firmly closed behind them that Giraldus dropped his inebriated farce. Then he caught Aurya up into his arms and twirled her around.
“All right, Giraldus,” she said with a laugh when he at last put her down, “tell me now. Just what has happened?”
“Do you remember the men I pointed out?” he began. “They’ve just given us the throne, and they don’t know it.”
The interest on Aurya’s face sharpened as Giraldus began to tell her what he had overheard.
“But now we don’t need this… this… Font of Wisdom—or whatever it is we’re after,” Giraldus said impatiently. The news he had brought her had turned from triumph into anger.
“Don’t be a fool, Giraldus,” Aurya snapped in return. “Now the need is all the greater.”
“But going to this festival—and going north after this… wisdom-child… just wastes time when I need to be back in Kilgarriff, strengthening my army and getting the word out to rally the others to our new cause.”
“Think, Giraldus.” Aurya’s tone had an infuriating edge now, as if she thought she was instructing a child—or at least a childish mind. “If you can raise the kingdom, so can any one of the other Barons… and if they have the Church’s backing, it would turn their efforts—theirs, not ours—into a holy cause. Elon hasn’t had time to win the Church’s support for us yet. We must give him the time he needs… and we must have control of the Font of Wisdom to guide us through the threat of war and to back our claim when it is won. It’s all right there in the scroll. ‘The rise of the Third House—’
“
“Damn your scroll,” Giraldus shouted. “It’s just the ancient rantings of some half-mad monk. Even his own kind turned their backs on him. I’ve no time for such nonsense now.”
“You are a fool,” Aurya said back, her voice low and cold, steely hard. “You don’t deserve to be High King. But I deserve to be Queen. If not with you, then with someone else.”
She turned her back on him. Giraldus suddenly felt as if a spear had pierced him. He did not miss the real threat in her voice. Grabbing her arm, he swung her around to face him, fingers digging into the softness of her flesh in a grip that made her wince in pain. He did not care; it could not compare with the pain her words had just caused him.
“No one else,” he said through clenched teeth. “No one.”
He crushed his mouth onto hers, feeling the smoothness and the heat of her lips. He felt her body start to yield, and his hands went from her arms to around her waist, pulling her body more tightly against his own.
In his renewed eagerness to possess her physically, he completely missed the look of triumph on her face.
Aurya’s single threat of finding another partner enflamed Giraldus; their passion lasted through the night. Aurya knew that any thought he might have entertained of abandoning their journey was gone—at least for now. If it arose again later on… well, she would deal with it then.
She knew Giraldus, strengths and weaknesses, as he would never know her, and that made him hers, body and soul, and the perfect tool for her purpose.
They slept late into the morning and ate breakfast at a leisurely pace, preferring to leave the inn on their own rather than in a group with their fellow travelers. The Festival at Yembo did not start until the following day; their only need to rush now was to be certain of finding a room.
As she had tried to explain to Giraldus last night, the conversation he overheard strengthened her certainty that they were on the right path. It also reinforced the necessity of finding the Font of Wisdom. In the cool light of morning, she found that she still relished the idea of controlling the child once it was found, of molding it into what she wanted—and into what Giraldus needed. But she also accepted that if the child could not be controlled, it must be killed.
Could she do it? she asked herself. She knew the task would fall to her; Giraldus would never have the stomach to kill a child, not face-to-face. Certainly, children were inadvertently killed during war and Giraldus’s soldier’s mind accepted that as a sorrowful but undeniable fact of battle.
This, however, would be different—in his mind if not in Aurya’s. To her, this was war… and the prize was supreme power. Those who were not her allies were her enemies, regardless of personal connections, social status, gender—or age.
But can I do it? she asked herself again, as she and Giraldus left the inn. Her mind, her will to succeed said yes; of her heart, she was not so sure. She, however, had an advantage Giraldus lacked.
She could kill from a distance.
It was no easy thing to kill this way. It required every bit of the same courage a warrior takes, like his sword, into battle. The dark power she would have to conjure was just as dangerous. One false step, one missaid word or second of faltered intent and the spell could turn back to destroy the destroyer.
Yet, with sudden and complete clarity, Aurya knew she would do it if she must.
Chapter Fifteen
They have come.” The voice of the eldest Cryf seemed to echo through the great chamber. Then Lysandra realized this was not an echo; the other Cryf, the hundreds upon hundreds of them filling the ledges that were the walls of the cavern, had picked up the words.
Lysandra was confused by the swift change in attitude. One moment, she and Renan were facing death for entering this place, this realm, of creatures they did not know existed—and now, in a sudden turnabout, they were being treated like long-awaited heroes.
But before she could demand an explanation, from the distance came a sound like rolling thunder. It came as sensations as well as sound; Lysandra could feel the sharp vibration through the soles of her feet. All around, the Cryf gave a collective gasp of shock and fear.
Then there were running feet and a voice shouting in that strange chirping language Lysandra did not understand.
“What is it?” she demanded of the old one as he started to turn away again. “What has happened?”
“A wall hath fallen,” he said sharply. “Many be trapped. Yet, as the Divine is merciful, there may yet be some who live.”
“We will help,” Renan said quickly.
“Ye be Up-worlders,” the old one said with disdain. “What can ye do? Ye know not the ways of the Cryf.”
“I have strong arms and hands,” Renan replied. “I may not know the ways of the Cryf, as you say, but I know how to work hard, and I know what it is to suffer. I will help you so that the Cryf do not suffer any loss another pair of hands might have saved.”
“Ye be Up-worlders,” the old one said again. “Why should ye care if the Cryf suffer?”
“Because I am a healer,” Lysandra said, now joining the conversation, “and because he is one who serves the Creator God. All life is precious to us, whether Upworlder, Cryf… or animal,” she added, running her hand over Cloud-Dancer’s head.
The old one said nothing for a few seconds. Then, again, he nodded, as if her words meant more than she had said.
“Come,” he said finally to Renan. “Thou shalt work beside the Cryf. And thee,” he said to Lysandra, “I shall work with thee. Many Cryf may yet be saved this day, if the Divine giveth power unto thy hands.”
“Our belongings,” Lysandra said. “They are still back where we were sleeping, where your people first found us. We must have them. My medicines, the things I need to heal, are in them.”
“They shall be brought,” the old one said. He called out, and one of the younger Cryf immediately came to answer. The Cryf Elder quickly conferred with him, issuing orders in the same chirping language Lysandra had heard them use twice before. The young Cryf dashed away. The old one led Renan and Lysandra up a ramp off the huge cavern’s floor, to one of the other council leaders.
After a few swift sentences in the Cryf tongue, he turned to the priest. “This one shall take thee unto the digging,” he told Renan. “His words in thy tongue are few, but thou shalt obey his orders. Dost thou understand and agree?”
Renan nodded, then followed his new guide down one of the passages from which Lysandra could hear other voices calling. She waited to hear what the Cryf leader would say to her.
“Art thou truly a healer,” he asked, “though thine eyes be dark?”
“I am,” Lysandra replied.
“Then I shall work beside thee—and if thy words or touch be true, I will know.”
Know what? Lysandra wondered, though she did not question him. It was enough that for the moment she had his trust. She only prayed that the Sight would not leave her and that she would be able to help all those who might need her.
It would take some time before the first of the injured would be brought out. The runner returned with Lysandra’s things and while they waited, the old one helped her set up a hospital area. After laying out her meager supplies, Lysandra shook her head, wishing fervently that she had access to her garden and medicine cupboard at home. She did not know what might be needed during the hours ahead, but she was certain she did not have enough of anything.
The old one, who had watched silently as she arranged her pouches of herbs, the three small pots of salve, and the two rolls of cloth strips in the order she liked, saw her sad look and finally spoke.
“There is worry upon thy face,” he said. “Dost thou fear thou canst not heal the Cryf?”
“I fear there will be too many injured, and I will not have enough to help all who are in need,” she replied. “Do the Cryf have medicines I might add to my own?”
“We do. Come, I shall show thee.”
Cloud-Dancer stayed close by her side, for he would
not leave her again. They walked only a short distance, around a bend to where the underground opened up again. This new cavern held a pool that sent great ribbons of steam swirling upward. She could smell the minerals in the water. It would be a great source of healing, she realized, and a comfort to those with painful joints and tired muscles.
Next to the pool was a great cave. It was there that the Elder led her, and it was like walking into a healer’s fond dream.
The inside of the cave was bright. Here, the strangely luminous stones had been gathered and piled. Some of the piles reached nearly to the ceiling, concentrating the illumination. In other places, stones had been placed inside lanterns of crystal that caught and further amplified the light.
Plants grew in lush abundance, their roots filling troughs of water instead of soil. Mushrooms and other fungi, healing molds and lichens also grew, these carefully shielded from the brightness. The scent of growing things made the air fresh with the aroma of life.
On long stone shelves were pots of unguents and creams, stoppered vials of tinctures and tonics, oils and infusions. Neatly stacked to one side were long poles—some straight and flat, others hollowed out to carefully cup a broken bone. Bandages of every size and width were rolled and placed near coils of rope that ranged from the thickness of her wrist down to the fineness of silk thread.
“How did all these things get here?” Lysandra asked, amazed by it all.
“In times far past,” the old one began, “when thy kind did not yet cover the land, the Cryf were free to go Up-world. There was then many an open way betwixt our Realms, and the Cryf had only to wait until the Great Brightness had passed beyond the far shore. Then, in the time of the Soft Light, would our Healers or Hunters ascend unto the Up-world and bring back all that our Realm could not provide. But as the numbers of thy kind grew and spread like grasping fingers across the land, it became not safe for the Cryf to be seen. Up-worlders name the Cryf as monsters. Thy kind did capture and kill the Cryf whenever they were seen.
The Thirteenth Scroll Page 16