The Thirteenth Scroll

by Rebecca Neason

  Lysandra heard the little note of surprise in Eiddig’s voice as he said this. She wondered if Renan was aware that his status among the Cryf had just been elevated. That could help us, she thought.

  “To thee, then, be these Words spoken,” Eiddig continued. “‘Thou art the Eyes of Guidance, for thou hast journeyed long upon the Path of Light. But past secrets follow thee and can not remain hidden. The Light shineth on all. All that was, is, and the Holy Hand hath not given in vain. To wound can be to heal; to strengthen can destroy.’”

  Lysandra heard Renan’s sharp intake of breath. What past secrets could the priest be hiding? She realized again how little she knew about the man with whom she was traveling. Yet their paths seemed locked together, at least for now, and she did not doubt that it was right.

  Eiddig now turned to her. “To thee, Healer, do the Holy Words also speak,” he said. “’Thou art the Hand of Prophecy, for thou hast walked a path of tears and knowest both the good and the evil that liveth in human hearts. Though thy tears be now unshed, they keep thee from receiving all the Hand of the Divine waiteth to give. A heart filled with fear and anger hath room for little else. Thy true self lies hidden in the darkness of thy choosing. Choose instead Light, that another may also See.”’

  These words cut like a sword into Lysandra’s soul. Although she recognized their truth, they also filled her with new questions. What more was she supposed to receive? The gifts she now possessed had already turned her life upside down and taken her far from the peaceful life she craved.

  But was it peace—or was it hiding? What Light was she, a blind woman, to choose, and how could she make anyone see, who could not see herself?

  “Of thy third companion,” Eiddig continued, barely pausing in his recitation, “are these words given, but to thee, Healer, not to thy beast. ‘Here, in the Heart of Truth, be the treasure which thou must guard, for such hearts be not given in vain and they come as teachers as well as friends. Learn, and much thou seekest will be revealed… and not unto thee alone…’”

  Eiddig was not finished. He now turned to the Elders. “To the Cryf doth Dewi-Sant now say ‘… The Strong have been Guardians throughout the ages and Guardians ye shall remain. Unto ye must the Travelers come, if they be true, and unto ye they return. They shall bring the One in whom the Core of Wisdom awaiteth release. Fear not to lend your aid, for the Wisdom cometh not for the Up-world alone. Wisdom is given of the Divine and is given that all may walk again together in peace. The arms of the Strong must carry Wisdom unto your midst, and the ears of the Strong shall hear the first Words that arise from Wisdom’s Core. Ye shall hear and know that they be Truth.

  “’But if in your fear, born of past sorrows, you have turned from the Words of the Divine, then shall fear and sorrow forever be your Way. Your hidden doors shall be opened, your hallowed places destroyed, your men shall know of death and your women bondage and tears. What awaiteth ye, awaiteth all. Now is the time of Choosing.’”

  Finally, Eiddig’s voice grew silent. Lysandra was aware of the sound of her heart pounding in her chest. Then she became aware of something else. The world before her looked again like gray fog lifting in the early morn; her Sight was returning.

  Lysandra wanted to shout with the joy of the moment, to get up and dance around the room. She did neither. Instead, she gave Renan’s hand a little squeeze. When he turned his head toward her, she saw the movement—not clearly, still as through a fog, but she saw.

  From the entry to the cave, there came a noise. All, including Lysandra, turned toward it. Each second lessened the fog clouding Lysandra’s Sight and when a young male Cryf entered the cave, she could see him.

  The newcomer knelt before Eiddig, and the Elder put a hand upon his bowed and waiting head. A prayer? A blessing? Lysandra wondered. Then the elder Cryf reached down and by the elbow, raised the younger one to his side.

  Lysandra’s Sight was continuing to clear; details were coming into focus. This Cryf looked barely into adulthood. His posture was straighter than any of the Elders’; the hair that covered his body was finer, shinier, and less dense, and his face was more visible and unlined. He seemed to radiate youth, health, and strength.

  “Here be Talog,” Eiddig announced, “son of the Twelfth Clan. In him, the Voice of the Divine is strong. Although he hath seen but twenty cycles, already he traineth in the Way of the Guide. I, Eiddig, say now that the Cryf remain true. Never hath any of our kind forsaken the Ways of the Divine nor hath our heart closed unto the warnings of the Holy Words. I, therefore, say that Talog must now join these Travelers, to be the Arms of the Strong that carrieth Wisdom’s Core back unto our Realm.”

  “So say the Twelfth Clan,” came a voice from among the Elders.

  “So say the Third Clan.”

  “So say the Fifth Clan.”

  Soon all of the voices clamored their agreement with Eiddig’s words.

  Renan leaned close to Lysandra. “I don’t think they’re going to ask us,” he whispered. “But I’ve no objection. Do you?”

  Lysandra shook her head. “You keep saying the scroll brought us here for a reason,” she whispered back. “This must be it.”

  As if to give lie to Renan’s words, Eiddig brought the young Cryf to stand before Renan and Lysandra.

  “Ye are the Travelers whom the Cryf have long awaited, and our Choosing has been made. But from ye must come the final words. Thou art the Eyes of Guidance who findeth the pathways through the darkness of unknowing; thou art the Hand of Prophecy that holdeth the power to release Wisdom’s Core; thou art the Heart of Loyalty and Truth whose ways contain a lesson for us all. Do ye accept Talog as your companion, to guide ye through the Realm of the Cryf and the hidden places that await, and to give the strength of the Cryf unto your moments of need?”

  Renan spoke first. Being familiar with the old tongue and the language of prophecy, he used some of Eiddig’s stylized manner of speech.

  “I, whom thou hast named Eyes of Guidance, accept Talog as one of our number. From this time forth we shall be four, as are the four directions to the earth from which all things arise. Now we are complete.”

  After he had finished, he nudged Lysandra gently. She, too, tried to fit her words to the tone now established.

  “I, whom thou hast called the Hand of Prophecy,” she began, the words coming far more hesitantly to her lips than to Renan’s, “accept Talog as one of our number. He will be our companion and our brother. Together we shall walk through both darkness and light.”

  She could think of nothing more to say. Instead, she lifted her hand from Cloud-Dancer’s head to see the wolf’s reaction to Talog. If Cloud-Dancer would not accept him, then no words mattered.

  Cloud-Dancer crept forward. Lysandra kept a close watch, using the full powers of her restored Sight to notice any warning signals and quickly call the wolf back if necessary. Cloud-Dancer, however, seemed more curious than threatening. He reached Talog and began to sniff, walking around the young Cryf three times.

  Then, suddenly, the wolf stood on his hind feet and placed his paws on Talog’s shoulders, tongue hanging out one side in a relaxed canine grin. Cloud-Dancer had given his approval.

  Lysandra laughed, and the sound dissolved the tension that had filled the cave ever since their arrival. Everyone grinned at Cloud-Dancer’s antics as he licked the young Cryf’s face before returning to sit beside Lysandra.

  “So be it,” said Eiddig, his voice lighter than it had ever sounded to Lysandra. “Talog shall go Up-world with the Travelers… and may the Hand of the Divine guide and protect ye all. All that the Cryf possess that might give ye aid shall now be prepared. Rest and gather your strength, trusting that all shall be done that may be done.”

  Lysandra, her hand once more resting on Cloud-Dancer’s head, gave a sigh of relief. Her Sight had returned and they would soon be on their way again. That meant this was all one step closer to being over—and she and Cloud-Dancer were that much closer to going home.

&
nbsp; Chapter Nineteen

  Elon was becoming tired of unproductive meetings—and very tired of the company of his brother bishops. Day after day, he listened while the others argued, each extolling the virtues of his Baron and explaining why he should have the Church’s support as the next High King. Every Baron in Aghamore, it seemed, was godly and devout, mindful of his people’s welfare before his own, a leader of men, gentle at home…

  And no doubt beloved of animals and small children, Elon thought with sarcasm as he listened yet again to Awnan of Dromkeen drone on about Baron Curran.

  Elon had still said nothing about Giraldus. The other bishops, aware of Lady Aurya’s open hostility toward the Church, seemed to expect that the Baron of Kilgarriff was not a choice for the throne—or at least not for the Church’s support in obtaining it.

  The Archbishop, however, had accepted Elon’s tale of Aurya’s changing attitude. As their confessor, only Elon could know how much of this “conversion” could be told, and every once in a while Elon found the old man’s eyes upon him, silently questioning why he did not speak up. But Elon had been hoping to receive some word from Giraldus and Aurya before he went any further with their plan.

  Glancing around the room, Elon saw his boredom mirrored in most of the other faces. A few wore the set expression of minds determined to see their own way served. As things stood, the College of Bishops had reached an impasse. Without some new element introduced, they would talk in circles indefinitely.

  It’s time, Elon thought. They’re ready to listen.

  He glanced over and waited until he caught the Archbishop’s eye. Once he was certain of the old man’s attention, he gave a little nod. Then, without waiting for Awnan to finish, he stood. Immediately, the room quieted. Awnan stopped mid-sentence, which caused Elon to suppress a sardonic smile. At least he had succeeded in quieting the loquacious bishop of Dromkeen; that alone should win him some support, he thought as he saw the surprised expressions all around him.

  “We recognize Elon, our brother from Kilgarriff,” the Archbishop said, using the royal pronoun as befitted a Prince of the Church. “You have been too long silent. Elon. Speak now and without hesitation, for we are all brothers here, united in service of Our Lord, His Church, and of this land—though at the moment, we seem to be united in little else,” the Archbishop added with a gentle, fatherly smile.

  Elon gave a slight bow to his superior. “Your Eminence,” he began, “my brothers—we have all listened to each other for many long days. I must say that we in Aghamore are certainly blessed to have so many worthy leaders to care for the welfare of the people. But what we do not have is a King.

  “It is a heavy burden to know that the one to whom we give our support may indeed become the one to wear the crown. We, whose lives are dedicated to the welfare of souls, must now look to the worldly welfare of this land and people. To do so, we must call upon every bit of wisdom we possess and our prayers provide.

  “This, of course, you all know—but I ask you to truly think again what it means. Worldly welfare of a kingdom is not necessarily won or maintained by the same virtues as spiritual welfare. The one who wears the crown must be able to both pray and fight. He must be able to keep his soul at peace with Our Lord and keep his kingdom in peace from its enemies.

  “All of you, my brothers, have spoken on behalf of the Barons of your sees—and rightly so. But as I have listened, I have asked myself each time whether this is the man who possesses both the virtue and the strength this kingdom needs. The late King Anri left Aghamore much weakened, and the threat from our old enemies cannot be overlooked. Of virtue, I have heard much; of strength, I have heard far too little. Therefore, I must now speak the name few of you thought to hear at this gathering. I say that Giraldus of Kilgarriff is the only Baron who possesses the strength and the worldly understanding necessary to rule this kingdom into peace and prosperity again.”

  Immediately there was the eruption of voices Elon expected. He let it continue, waiting for someone to have the courage to stand and give voice to the objections most of them were feeling.

  Finally, Gairiad of Sylaun stood. “We all know that Elon believes he speaks of the good of Aghamore,” he began, looking around the room but carefully avoiding Elon’s eyes. “But I must ask our brother how we can be expected to give our support to a Baron whose enmity toward this Church and whose open ungodliness is known across the kingdom? Only two centuries ago, there were still places in this land where heathen practices existed and those who followed the True Faith were persecuted. Are we willing to turn this land and its people, who look to us to guard and protect their souls, back into the hands of one such as Giraldus of Kilgarriff—or more importantly, to his godless concubine Lady Aurya, who practices the devil’s own tool of magic? Surely, our brother cannot mean this.”

  Thank you, Gairiad, Elon thought as murmurs of agreement rose around him.

  “I do not mean that we should give the crown to the ungodly or Aghamore into the hands of the heathen,” Elon affirmed. “I say instead, that we must prevent such a thing by having a strong ruler upon the throne.

  “As you all know, Aghamore is a haven of the True Faith, surrounded by enemies who still worship false gods. Without a King who gives the land strength again, we become a target for invasion. Do I need to remind this assembly of the terrible wars in our past, particularly with the people of Corbenica, who still give blood sacrifice to their gods? Do we want this for Aghamore? No, I say. For this reason, I again state that Giraldus of Kilgarriff must be our choice for King.”

  Still, the shocked and angry whispers ran through the room. Elon watched Dwyer of Camlough begin shifting his quite considerable bulk, as if gathering strength to stand. Before he could convince his overtaxed legs to bear his weight, Elon held up his hand for silence. He had one more surprise to offer before he sat down again.

  “As Bishop of Kilgarriff, I, more than any of you, am aware of the past hostility of the Baron and his lady. But, to answer more fully the concerns our brother Gairiad so rightly put forth, I will tell you this. Not long before this council was convened, I was called to the home of Baron Giraldus to meet with him—and especially with the Lady Aurya. Although, as their confessor, there is much I cannot say of that meeting, even to you my brother bishops, I can tell you that they are now on a pilgrimage of contrition and reparation. When they return, Lady Aurya has asked to be baptized into the Faith and their union will be legitimated by the Sacrament of Holy Matrimony.”

  “Are we to believe that after so many years, the Lady Aurya has renounced her evil practices of magic?” Dwyer of Camlough’s disbelief was obvious.

  “I, myself, heard her confession,” Elon responded, “and I tell you that her repentance is real. Do you think, Dwyer, that I and all the faithful in Kilgarriff have not prayed throughout the years for just such a thing? Do you no longer believe that prayers are answered or that miracles can occur?”

  There, Elon thought, that should silence them—at least for now.

  As Elon resumed his seat, the Archbishop thumped his crozier three times on the floor. Immediately, the room grew still, and all eyes turned to the old man.

  “I seems that our brother Elon has brought us news that we must all carefully and prayerfully consider. For myself, I congratulate him, and give thanks to Our Lord, that by Elon’s prayers and example he has tamed the ungodly and led the Lady Aurya to Grace. The Church may now thrive in Kilgarriff greater than ever before. I admonish all of you to take heed of this example and follow it, so that all the ungodly within this kingdom may be brought unto the converting and healing Grace of Holy Mother Church.

  “Let us adjourn now and go into the chapel for our Evening Prayer. Tomorrow, we shall not meet. Tomorrow shall be a day of retreat, of prayer and contemplation. Perhaps then, when we gather again on the following day, the decision we must soon make will have become clear.”

  The Archbishop rose to lead the way into the private chapel adjoining this conference
room. He motioned to Elon.

  “Come, my son, and give me your arm to lean upon. My old bones have grown weary from these long days.”

  Elon hid his smile of triumph as he hastened to the Archbishop’s side. The meaning of this act was not lost on Elon—or on the others in the room. Without saying a word, the Archbishop was letting it be known that he was ready to support Elon… and Giraldus.

  “Tell me, my son,” the old man said softly. “Why did you not mention the reason for this pilgrimage undertaken by the Baron and his lady?”

  “As I said, Your Eminence, I was their confessor. This pilgrimage is part of the penance that came out of that long meeting and confession. I prayed for many days before reaching the decision to mention it here… and I would not have done so were I not certain the future of Aghamore depended on sharing this knowledge.”

  The Archbishop nodded. “A difficult decision,” he said, “but wisely made. If Baron Giraldus’s and Lady Aurya’s repentance is as sincere as you believe, then I think we will soon come to an accord in this matter. Yes, it was well done, Elon,” he assured him, “well done, indeed.”

  If you only knew how well done, Elon thought, congratulating himself on a well-played bit of fantasy. The tale about a pilgrimage not only struck a chord within the hearts of traditionalists such as the Archbishop, but was a brilliant way to explain why Giraldus and Aurya were not in Kilgarriff during this time when the future of the whole kingdom was so unsettled.

  Now, if only I would hear from them, his thoughts continued. Though no one else need know, I should he kept informed of their progress. The others will want to know when they will return. If they’re gone too long, they’ll lose everything I’ve won today.

  But for today, the cause was won. Elon contented himself with that as he entered the chapel and helped the Archbishop into the Cathedra, the tall, thronelike chair reserved for the Primus of the Church. Then, before Elon could turn away to leave the sanctuary within the altar rail, the Archbishop stopped him. The old man motioned to the nearby lectern on which stood the large missal, opened and waiting.