The Thirteenth Scroll

by Rebecca Neason

  Aurya let Giraldus and Maelik lead the way to the fire, staying quiet and watchful while Giraldus greeted the soldiers. He called each one by name, using the big, blustery voice he only used around his men.

  And the men responded, as they always did to his presence, with a mixture of obedient deference and camaraderie. Here, Aurya knew, was where Giraldus felt most at ease—in the field with his soldiers rather than in a court or conference room. Although he was competent enough when he put his mind to it, the truth was that Giraldus was also quickly bored, and he was only too happy to turn what he considered the tedious matters of government over to Aurya. And in these, she excelled—making them again a perfect match for each other.

  And when Giraldus is King, Aurya thought as she accepted the wine that was brought to her and settled back to watch the interplay between the Baron and his men, he can go off and play soldier all he wants. Perhaps he can invade a neighbor or two and expand the kingdom. That should keep him busy and away from the throne for a while—as long as he names me Regent in his absence.

  “No, m’lord,” Maelik was now telling Giraldus. “We’ve seen no one. Not even the villagers have come out this way. O’ course, there’s naught but bogs if you go much away from ‘ere.”

  Good, Aurya thought. Then we’re still ahead of The Others, whomever they are. This is the only road here, and no one would be foolish enough to travel through boglands. Or, if they were, then no doubt the bogs have taken care of them for me.

  Aurya allowed herself a small, triumphant smile behind the rim of her wine cup. To these soldiers, as to the people of Kilgarriff—and soon all of Aghamore, she thought—she was ever implacable. Enigmatic… mysterious… inscrutable… as unmovable and impenetrable as stone—Aurya did not care which of these or the many other descriptions of herself she had overheard throughout the years, people cared to use. They all meant the same thing to her. They all meant that she had succeeded in her efforts to be unreadable, if she chose… which most often she did. It was only with Giraldus, and sometimes with Bishop Elon, that she would let her guard down—and never often enough for either of them to think they knew her completely.

  Giraldus’s easy, outgoing manner might work well enough with his men—or with the people in a tavern or at a faire—but it would not aid them when he was High King. He might wear the crown, Aurya thought, but I will rule.

  She watched the way the soldiers grew a trifle uneasy beneath her stare. She saw the way even her slightest movement sent them hurrying to appease her needs. They brought her food and more wine without being asked, fetched her a dry cloak and built up the fire for her comfort, all while Giraldus gulped his ale, joked and chatted but was left mostly to fend for his own needs. It was a feeling she liked.

  In those moments Aurya acknowledged a decision her heart had been whispering for several days. She would never fully remove the Spell of Obedience from Giraldus. Oh, she would use it carefully, delicately and skillfully, but she would never remove it.

  And Elon? she asked herself. When Giraldus names him Archbishop, shall I do the same to him?

  Yes, her heart whispered gleefully. Then both thrones of Aghamore, secular and sacred, would be hers to control.

  “Tell me, Sergeant Maelik,” she said, setting her now empty platter aside. It was instantly removed by the soldier sitting nearest her, toward whom she barely spared a glance. “Do you know Rathreagh at all?”

  “Nay, m’lady,” he replied. “But young Rhys ‘ere, ‘e does. That be why ‘e’s ‘ere.”

  The sergeant motioned toward a soldier sitting not too far to Aurya’s left. When she turned to look at him, he immediately blushed, turning the pale skin beneath a myriad of freckles, ruddy—and reflecting the fiery color of his hair.

  “You know Rathreagh?” she asked again.

  “Aye, my… m’lady,” he stammered nervously in a voice that was not too long from cracking. “Me grandda’s from this province, and we’d visit ‘im when we was young.”

  “We’re going north, Rhys,” Aurya continued, “far north, to the tip of land that curves out into the sea. Do you know what towns are out there?”

  “Aye, m’lady. Me grandda’s family was all fishermen, far back afore any could remember. The best fishermen in all of Aghamore come from that part o’ Rathreagh—though there’s not much there what you’d call a town.”

  Aurya waved away the last statement as unimportant. “Can you get us there by the shortest and fastest route?” she asked. “Our map shows the roads, at least the larger ones. But I’m sure the locals have other ways they take, ways only they know.”

  “I ‘aven’t been ’ere in a few years, m’lady,” Rhys began slowly, “but aye—I believe I remember. I can take you by such ways as you mean—and cut a full day or more from the journey.”

  Aurya gave the lad one of her rare smiles and watched the look of wonder and delight spread across his face. Once more a ruddy flush rose up from his neck to his cheeks.

  “Thank you, Rhys,” she said, amused. “That is just what I wanted to hear. I will trust you, then, to lead us.”

  Rhys’s blush deepened and he lowered his eyes. Aurya nearly laughed. She knew she had just made another conquest, and this one needed no more magic than a smile.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  For days now, Elon had spent his evenings courting the favor of Mago of Tievebrack and Gairiad of Sylaun, the two bishops whose votes would assure Giraldus the Church’s backing in his bid for the throne of Aghamore. Unfortunately, he knew that Bresal of Rathreagh and his cohort, Dwyer of Camlough, were working just as hard to keep Giraldus off the throne. And they had far less prejudice to overcome; it is always easier to convince someone that his original opinion is right than to try and make him change it.

  Elon’s one consolation was that the College of Bishops was no nearer giving their support to any other Baron. Perhaps even less near, since he had surprised them all with the story of Aurya’s “conversion.”

  So far, Thomas had been unable to uncover anything useful about either Mago or Gairiad. Gairiad had entered the Religious life at the age of ten, a youngest son promised to the Church at birth, in accordance with tradition. But in Gairiad the vocation seemed to be genuine. He had been ordained a priest at twenty, served as curate, then priest, going happily wherever he was assigned, finally returning to serve as Abbot to his Community before being elected Bishop-Ordinary of Camlough. His life appeared to be just as colorless and uninteresting as Elon found the man to be.

  As for Mago of Tievebrack, his idealism not only bored Elon, it showed just how little Mago knew of the real world and the people in it. But it was this very idealism Elon was now preying upon. It gave him a better chance of success with Mago than Gairiad’s colorless perfection.

  Elon and Mago were seated before a small fire in the study of Elon’s house in Ballinrigh. This was not his private study; this room was on the main floor and displayed all the expected trappings of a Prelate of the Church.

  The decorations were tasteful, if a little bland for Elon’s personal preference, and the chairs were comfortable. The highlight of the room’s contents was a beautiful illuminated manuscript of the Gospels, kept under glass so that the colors of the ink would not fade. Elon had opened it to the third chapter of St. John and the story of the redemption of Nicodemus. Mago had been drawn to the book as soon as they entered the room, as Elon had known he would be, and the connection between the verses and their current situation had not been lost on the young bishop.

  Although the calendar said spring was well advanced, the nights could still be chill and the fire was welcome. As they sat in the comfortable, high-backed chairs, sipping a mellow red wine, it was an easy thing to guide the conversation in the direction he wanted it to take.

  He found that getting Mago to talk about redemption was as difficult as getting a kitten to drink cream. The young bishop, it seemed, had a passion for the subject. All Elon had to do was nod agreeably, occasionally ask a question or
make a comment, and Mago did the rest. He seemed close to convincing himself that Aurya had not only ceased to be a liability to the Church, but had become an asset.

  “St. Paul, of course, is the quintessential example of what I’m saying,” the young bishop continued. He was now leaning forward in his chair, speaking as enthusiastically as if he were trying to persuade Elon. “Paul, when he was still called Saul of Tarsus, was the greatest enemy of the Church—he said so himself. He even held the cloaks of those who stoned St. Stephen, giving his support and approval to that terrible act. Yet look at who he became—Saint Paul, perhaps the greatest saint of the early Church. Why? Because of redemption.”

  Elon bit the inside of his cheek to keep the amusement from his face; Mago was drawing a correlation between Aurya and St. Paul.

  “I think, perhaps, you are being overgenerous,” he said solemnly.

  “Why?” Mago asked, his enthusiasm mounting. “If Lady Aurya’s conversion is as genuine as you believe, then who can say what might be ahead for her. Do not limit God, Elon. His ways are mysterious and they are also mighty—and He can do unimaginable things in the lives of the redeemed.”

  “I do not believe Lady Aurya aspires to sainthood, Mago.”

  “Did any of the saints set out to be so? Did they as children think, ‘when I grow up I shall be a saint’? No—it was not their hands that so fashioned them. It was the Hands of God. Oh, this will be an exciting time for you, as Lady Aurya’s spiritual advisor, to see what great things happen in her life.”

  “It could be an exciting time for all of Aghamore,” Elon said, “if Lady Aurya were Queen. Think of what an example her redemption would set for the kingdom.”

  As Elon watched, Mago grew instantly wary. His eyes narrowed and lost the brightness that had shone in them this last hour.

  “Yes, perhaps,” was all he said as he sat back in his chair and took a sip of wine.

  I thought I had him, Elon thought as he, too, brought his wineglass to his lips. What am I still missing?

  Tactics demanded he change the subject. “How much longer do you think Colm will continue as Archbishop?” he asked, turning to a common speculation. “I know he longs to return to the monastic life when he retires. I’ve heard him say so.”

  “As have we all,” Mago answered, his body relaxing now that they were back to a safe subject. “Do you ever long for the same, Elon, away from all the duties and responsibilities that come with the mitre?”

  No, Elon’s thoughts screamed, but he kept his face impassive. “The monastic life has its appeal,” he said aloud. “Are you finding your new duties as bishop difficult?”

  “Not difficult, just tiring,” Mago replied. “I’m not sure I’ll ever get used to them all.”

  “Oh, you will,” Elon said. “Tell me what tires you, and perhaps I can help. I’ve carried the crozier for many years now.”

  Elon let Mago again take over the conversation, only half-listening to what the younger man was saying. Elon was trying to hear the message behind the words. Somewhere within them must be the secret that would bring about the support Elon needed. Now he only had to find it.

  The more Talog told them, the more Renan became convinced that the Realm of the Cryf—and the Cryf themselves—were impervious to magic. This surprising knowledge did much to set Renan’s mind at rest. If he and Lysandra were somehow stopped by Aurya’s magic, Talog would still be able to get the child away. He could take the child to Eiddig; the old one would know what to do.

  For the first time since he had overheard Giraldus’s soldiers, Renan was able to sleep through the day and travel the next night with a clearer mind. But though that one worry was relieved, Renan was growing more uneasy about Lysandra every day. She still protested that she was fine, but ever since that sudden lethargy of body and spirit had overtaken her, it was as if the light within her had been extinguished. She moved like she was half-asleep and, even as Renan watched, it seemed as if she was continually striving, unsuccessfully, to throw off the dream-filled fog of slumber.

  Lysandra spoke, but only when spoken to, and often her sentences drifted off before completion, as if the effort tired her too much. She smiled, but there was a new sadness in the expression that turned it wistful. She kept her hand always on Cloud-Dancer now, or if he needed to leave her side, however briefly, her entire body grew tense awaiting his return. By keeping a careful eye on her movements, for she made no complaint nor uttered a word about it, Renan knew that her Sight had not come to her in over two days.

  He did not know whether all of this was a result of some evil humor exuded by a certain place in the land, as Talog insisted, or if Lady Aurya had cast a net of dark magic that had somehow caught Lysandra in its tangles, as he had come to believe. Perhaps the truth was a combination of both. Renan only hoped they could find some way to help Lysandra before it scarred her spirit permanently.

  They had finally cleared the last of the bogs and were now heading to the far north. Tambryn’s words had guided them right so far; now the scroll was sending them to “the place wherein the Ninth House doth begin and end.” Renan believed—hoped, prayed—that the seer meant the little crest of land that the maps showed curled out like a tongue lapping up the waters of the sea. Depending upon which way one traveled, that tiny lay of land either began or ended the province.

  They were about to set out on what Renan hoped would be their last night of traveling. He had the Cryf map of Rathreagh open before him and was studying it by the dying light of their cooking fire. Across the fire, Lysandra’s shoulders were slumped, as if life had become an unbearable burden. Her eyes stared sightlessly ahead. Her arms were locked around Cloud-Dancer’s neck as if he were her one anchor to safety.

  She looks blind now, as she never did before, Renan thought. Her blindness before was just something that had happened, not the thing she was. His heart ached with his inability to help her.

  Sitting next to Renan, Talog was also looking at the Cryf map. Although Renan had more experience with maps, having traveled and read a great deal in his youth, he valued Talog’s input. The young Cryf could correlate the ancient signs he had found along their journey with the symbols on the map and give them a more exact location and forward route than Renan on his own.

  “We are here,” Talog finally said, using a finger to mark their place. It was just slightly closer to their destination than Renan had guessed.

  “Will we reach this northern tip by sunrise?” Renan asked, hoping his estimation had been correct. There were marks on this map that were self-evident and others whose meanings he did not understand until he reached the spot and saw the area for himself.

  Talog, however, was confident. He nodded, but then his face grew as grave as Renan’s and he glanced at Lysandra.

  “If,” the Cryf said, “our movements be swift.” His voice lowered. “But great evil hath touched the Healer and holdeth her still. Its pull at her doth slow her feet as well as her mind. At such pace, I know not if we can cross the land before the Great Light riseth again.”

  Lysandra knew Renan and Talog were talking about her. She could feel their concern and wanted to respond to it. But she could not. Nothing seemed able to penetrate this thick fog that held her—at least not for more than a few minutes at a time.

  For those few minutes she would think clearly, feeling the spark of the person she had always been. But those moments occurred less and less frequently. Most of the time, Lysandra was a stranger to herself, going through the familiar motions of life but without any connection to the reasons.

  Cloud-Dancer alone was real to her, and she clung to him knowing that without his nearness, his solidity, she would be adrift. If that happened, if she truly lost herself within this… whatever it was that held her… Lysandra feared she might never find her own mind and soul again.

  As for Renan and Talog, each hour they were becoming less real to her. Even when she looked at them using Cloud-Dancer’s vision, they were vague and out of focus, like
shadowy figures glimpsed at twilight. She followed them because she did not know what else to do and because Cloud-Dancer took her in that direction. She ate and drank when food and drink were given to her; she slept when Cloud-Dancer curled up next to her and then arose unrefreshed to begin the cycle again.

  Now, sitting by the last light of the cooking fire, her arms around Cloud-Dancer’s neck, she experienced a moment of lucidity. In a way, it frightened her because she did not know how long it had been since her last one or how long the clarity would last this time.

  “Renan,” she said softly. Immediately, the priest who was now her friend looked up from the map. He handed it to Talog and came over to her side.

  “I’m here,” he said, placing a gentle hand on her arm.

  “Renan, I don’t know if I can go on,” she said. “Something has happened to me, something I don’t understand. But it’s getting worse. I can’t stop it, and my strength is almost gone.”

  “Hold on just a little while longer, Lysandra,” Renan said. “Just one more day. We’re almost there… don’t give up yet.”

  “I’m slowing you down—I know that. Leave me here and go find the child. I’ll be waiting when you return.”

  “No,” Renan said sharply, surprising Lysandra with the force of the word. “No,” he said again, lowering his voice. “We’re not leaving you—or anyone. We stay together. We need you, Lysandra, to find the child. You’re Prophecy’s Hand, remember? It will take all of us to do what we need to do.”

  “But how can I help you find the child when I can barely find myself anymore?”

  “We’re staying together,” Renan said emphatically. “I’m not certain what’s happening to you either, Lysandra, but we’ll find out. And we’ll find a way to stop it—I promise you that. But we have to be together to do it.”

  Lysandra knew there was no arguing with him. He was right; they should stay together. But she was also right—she was slowing them down at a time when speed was important.