The Thirteenth Scroll

by Rebecca Neason

  The priest turned to greet his tiny congregation, his eyes widening slightly with surprise as they lit upon Renan. The congregation, including himself, numbered only six in all, and Renan smiled. The “Faithful Remnant,” he thought, familiar with celebrating the daily Offices in a church far more empty than full. It gave him a feeling of immediate kinship with this parish priest. No one who served in a large parish could understand the disappointments—and the rich rewards—of ministering to a congregation such as this one or Renan’s own.

  Renan enjoyed the morning Office. The priest, for all his age, proved to be a loud, joyful celebrant who entered into the prayers with exuberance and greeted his tiny congregation with a hearty welcome. When the service concluded and the people left with the quick footsteps that would take them into the demands of their day, the priest came toward Renan with his hand extended in greeting.

  Renan was happy to shake the hand of this brother-priest, whose eyes were as warm as his hand. His words during the short homily had shown that here was a man with an encouraging spirit and a joyful heart. After the long days and nights of travel and his current worries, Renan felt his heart growing lighter just being in this man’s company.

  “I am Father Peadar,” the priest said, eyes twinkling in a face as lined as old leather. His voice at close quarters did not soften. “Welcome to the Parish of Saint Peter the Fisherman, and to Caerryck, Father—?”

  “Renan,” he supplied, a bit more loudly than was his usual wont, wondering whether Father Peadar’s volume came from being hard of hearing or from a lifetime of shouting over the sound of wind and surf.

  “Father Renan, welcome,” Peadar said again. “Are you here on retreat or visitin’ family—or has the bishop finally granted Mother Bedina’s request and sent a priest to take up residence? I know the Sisters at Saint Gabriel’s will be very relieved. I do what I can, but—“

  “No,” Renan stopped Father Peadar, who seemed not only content to hear his own voice but happy to supply all the conversation. “I’m not from the bishop. I’m sorry.”

  “Well, the bishop’s most likely too busy with settlin’ the succession, God grant him wisdom, to mind the needs of a small convent like ours. Still, Mother Bedina’s a formidable woman who doesn’t like to be overlooked. If you’re not bound for the convent, have ye time to stop for a bit of breakfast w’ me? I get aweary o’ eatin’ alone.”

  Renan could not imagine that this man’s joyful spirit grew weary of much of anything, and he happily accepted. In a town this size, where everyone was well-known and secrets could not survive, Father Peadar would be the best source of information he could find.

  The rectory of Saint Peter the Fisherman reflected the occupation of its congregation and was little like the neatly appointed quarters that were Renan’s own. Fishing nets were draped across the walls in a way Renan supposed was meant to be decorative. The furniture was crafted of driftwood, giving such mundane articles as chairs a wild and primitive look. More driftwood, oddly shaped and colored stones mixed with round glass floats, and assorted shells of all sizes and shapes scattered across most of the flat surfaces in the room and the floor had a dusting of sand that crunched beneath Renan’s feet. All in all, it looked—and smelled—far more like the home of a fisherman than of a priest.

  Father Peadar laughed as they entered, giving explanation without apology for the mess and the decor. “The children like to bring me things,” he said, waving his hand toward the odd clutter. “I haven’t the heart to tell them I already have countless ‘pretty shells’ and such. The wee ones give with such pure hearts, I’ll not take the joy from them.

  “Now, sit ye down, Father Renan, and I’ll put the kettle on the fire. Soon there’ll be a good, strong cuppa to drink while our food cooks.”

  Three hours later, remnants of their meal lay ignored upon the table, and they were just finishing their fourth pot of tea.

  Renan had found that for all his jovial demeanor, Father Peadar was an extraordinary listener. However, Renan insisted that Father Peadar don the purple stole of the confessional. Now, everything that passed between them was sealed under the protection of one of the most sacred laws of the Church and secular as well as sacred authorities recognized its inviolate rule.

  Father Peadar’s knowledge of ancient writings—including the Scrolls of Tambryn—surprised Renan. It had taken little convincing to enlist his aid.

  “So you see,” Renan concluded, “now that we’re here, I don’t know what else to do. Do I wander the streets questioning each child until I find the right one? That seems nothing more than a great waste of time we don’t have. And there’s Lysandra’s condition—“

  “Aye,” Peadar said, “the blind healer. Do ye think ye can get her here, to the church?”

  Renan nodded. “Though not without attracting some attention.”

  “Aye,” Peadar said again. “And that ye’ll not be needin’. But folks in Caerryck rise early—and sleep early. If ye come an hour after the Vespers’ bell, the town’ll be dark and most folks fast sleepin’. I just might have somethin’ for ye then.”

  Renan rose and held out a hand to Father Peadar. “I’m not sure how to thank you,” he said. “Just talking with you has been a blessing.”

  “Thank me later,” Peadar said, “after ye return and we see if what I’m thinkin’ be right. Now, if ye take this door instead of goin’ through the church, ye can cut around back o’ the town.”

  Renan heard Peadar’s soft “Benedicite” as he turned away. Grateful for the blessing, he slipped out the back door of the rectory and onto an empty back street.

  With most of the men out fishing, the women of Caerryck were too busy with the chores of home and family to pay much mind to a priest of unremarkable form or attire. Still, Renan tried to be inconspicuous as he again traveled the winding streets of the little fishing village. Then, being fairly certain no one was watching, he headed out across the countryside.

  When he reached the stone-covered hollow, he was surprised to find Talog not only awake, but watching for him anxiously. “What is it?” he said as he eased himself down into their hiding place.

  “The Healer,” Talog answered. “Her sleep be not natural. She waketh not for food nor drink. Nor doth her companion’s cry waken her. I fear she may be now lost unto us. Or if not now, soon.”

  Lysandra lay unmoving and still curled as he had left her. Her chest was rising and falling with her breath, but her lips and cheeks were far too pale.

  “Only Prophecy’s Hand can set free the Font of Wisdom,” the words of Tambryn’s scroll echoed in Renan’s mind.

  If she is lost, then so are we all, his thoughts came in a tumble. Lysandra—hold on. Don’t leave us. We need you; Aghamore needs you.

  I need you…

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  You look very pleased with yourself, m’dear,” Giraldus said as he handed Aurya onto her mount.

  “I am—and why not?” Aurya returned. “Everything is proceeding well… better than well.”

  “I was just commenting,” Giraldus said. “A mood like this one, so early in the day, usually heralds good things.”

  As Giraldus turned toward his own horse, Aurya settled herself more comfortably into the saddle for the long hours of riding ahead. And she smiled a very private little smile. She was pleased… with herself and all she had done to ensure their success.

  She had spoken in passing to Rhys this morning, asking him how long it would be before they reached Caerryck. The young man assured her they would be there either late that night or, if she preferred not to ride past dark, by early morning. While he talked, Aurya had watched him closely for any residual effects from the previous night. Aside from a little fatigue that showed around his eyes, something easily dismissed as the result of having late watch, he gave no sign.

  She assured Rhys that she did not mind riding in the dark as long as he was certain of the way.

  “Oh, yes, m’lady,” he told her confidently,
proud of the role she had given him to play. “I’d never forget that road. It was the joy of m’ childhood each time we traveled it. I know every foot of it.”

  Tonight, Aurya thought. She could barely contain her excitement as she waited for the signal to move out. She wanted to dig her heels into her gelding’s side and gallop forward, gallop all the remaining miles to the north. But while she might show such a wild side to Giraldus, now that they were in the company of his soldiers she would retain her implacable façade. Nothing that they would see or hear would give any indication that she was other than completely calm—and in complete control.

  Giraldus, however, was neither controlled nor illusory in his feelings. He brought his well-trained stallion sidestepping nearer to her until he could easily place one of his hands over her own where they rested on the pommel.

  “By this time next month we’ll awaken in the royal bedchamber,” he said, his voice caressing her. “You’re a wonder, Aurya, and soon all of Aghamore will be at your feet.”

  “And yours,” she answered him confidently.

  He leaned over and gave her a hearty kiss, not caring that the eyes of his men were upon them. Then, with a broad grin, he gave the signal to move out.

  Aurya set the pace, using her knees to signal her gelding into the canter that would both eat up the miles and ease some of her impatience. She spared a thought then for Elon, hoping that the bishop was experiencing his own measure of success.

  It won’t be long now, her thoughts went out to him. Have them ready for us in Ballinrigh, and you’ll wear the triple mitre you so covet at the same time I wear the crown.

  * * *

  Elon’s success, however, was by no means assured. Mago of Tievebrack, for all his idealism, remained oddly wary. He had not as yet been willing to change his vote in favor of Giraldus. Nor had Gairiad of Sylaun. The old man blew hot and cold, sometimes seeming convinced by Elon’s persuasions, then in the same day changing his mind again.

  The morning meeting had just been convened, and a new vote was about to be taken to start the day. Elon glanced at his primary opponents, Bresal of Rathreagh and Dwyer of Camlough, then dismissed them again as immovable. Mago refused to meet his eyes, telling Elon silently that he remained unchanged; Gairiad was talking with Awnan of Dromkeen, a contemporary and lifelong friend. From the way the two of them were laughing, Elon was fairly certain their talk had nothing to do with the succession.

  The Archbishop banged his crozier three times upon the floor, signaling for silence. Each bishop had eight white balls and eight black balls in front of him. Soon a closed container would start making the rounds as each of the Barons was named. At the end of each round, the balls would be counted by the Archbishop, who voted last. It was a long—and boring—procedure.

  “Once more, my brothers, we are met over the question of the succession,” the Archbishop began. He did not bother to stand, and his voice showed that he was growing even more weary of these endless days than were the rest of them.

  “Let us put aside our differences and personal feelings,” he continued, “and work together for the good of Aghamore’s people, who look to us for guidance as well as the care of their souls. We have been too long at this question. If we do not reach accord soon, I fear that civil war will tear this kingdom apart. It is the people who will suffer—and we, my brothers, will bear the fault. I pray that you will think of this as we now vote.”

  The Archbishop picked up the ceramic jar with the single hole in its lid. “Baron Phelan of Tievebrack,” he announced as he passed the container to his left.

  They would now go in order through each of the Houses, though all of them knew that most of the votes were moot. Only one vote truly mattered—the Third House, Giraldus of Kilgarriff. Elon picked up his first black ball and waited.

  The first vote concluded with no unexpected surprises and the second—seven black balls and one white, voted for loyalty. Now it was the Third House, and Elon watched each bishop as he voted. Bresal and Dwyer voted defiantly, not trying to hide the black balls they dropped. Mago again refused to look at Elon; he, too, then, had blackballed Giraldus.

  Elon held his breath as the jar reached Gairiad. The old man, still talking with Awnan seated next to him, did not bother to look at his hand. He merely picked up the first ball his fingers contacted and dropped it in the jar.

  The jar finished its round and reached the Archbishop. The old man removed the lid and began bringing out the balls. White… white… black… white… black… black… white… white… Elon took a deep breath. White. He had done it. He now had the two-thirds majority Giraldus needed.

  The Archbishop looked at him and gave a small smile. Then the old man stood and brought his crozier down three times.

  “We need go no further,” he announced. “All that is needed has now been declared. Giraldus, Baron of Kilgarriff, the Third House of Aghamore shall, by the Grace of God, have the support and prayers of the Church to become the next High King of this land. Let us now go together into the cathedral to celebrate a Mass of Thanksgiving for the guidance the Holy Spirit has given us. A proclamation shall be prepared and this Sunday shall be read throughout the kingdom, for the joy and peace of mind of the people.”

  “No,” Bresal of Rathreagh shouted, coming to his feet. “I’ll not support putting a witch upon the throne—and make no mistake all of you, it will be his witch we have ruling us if Giraldus wears the crown. ’Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live.’ I’ll not hand her the kingdom.”

  “Bresal,” the Archbishop said sternly, “I call you to the vow of obedience you took at your ordination.”

  “Obedience be damned,” Bresal said, his voice hard and final, “for damned is what this kingdom shall be if Giraldus is made King.”

  He turned and stormed from the room, Dwyer of Camlough following as quickly as his immense size would allow. In the shocked silence, Elon stood. The Archbishop nodded once, giving Elon the floor.

  “My brothers,” he said loudly, drawing their attention over the murmurs. “We must not let our brother of Rathreagh’s ill-advised action overshadow the great thing we have accomplished here today. I know he is doing what he believes to be right, and a month ago I would have gone with him. But each of us knows the power of redemption and the change that God can cause in a life. I have seen this change in Baron Giraldus—and especially in Lady Aurya. The Holy Spirit has borne witness to that change by moving your hearts to support Baron Giraldus as the next High King. We must pray that our brothers of Rathreagh and Camlough will be also led by the Spirit to return to their vow of obedience, for the good of the Church, this kingdom, and their own souls.”

  Elon sat down again, bowing his head in an attitude of humility and concern. But his thoughts were not on the bishops—not on those who had left or those still assembled. They were on Giraldus and Aurya, from whom he still had heard nothing.

  I’ve done my part, he thought. Now just be sure you do yours.

  All through the long day Renan remained awake, guarding the safety of their hidden camp. He did not awaken Talog to take his turn at watch, but let the Cryf enjoy his unbroken and well-deserved rest. Renan was not certain, by contrast, if Lysandra’s state could be called slumber—or if it was, as he feared, something different and far more dangerous. She did not adjust her position on the hard ground; only the rise and fall of her chest showed she still breathed—and that was becoming more and more shallow.

  But if this was magic, why was he not affected? And, if it was not magic, then what else could it be? They had all consumed the same food and drink, slept in the same places.

  As daylight turned to dusk, deepening the darkness in the stone-covered hollow, he gently shook Talog awake. He had thought about starting a small fire and trying to brew some of the strengthening tea with which Lysandra had started their days, but he found he had not the heart. Somehow it seemed wrong, like giving up on her, to take over this act she had chosen as a personal duty.

  Inst
ead, he and Talog breakfasted on some of the travel-bread and preserved fish given them by the Cryf, washed down with plain water. Renan shared their food with Cloud-Dancer so that the wolf did not have to hunt—not that he showed any inclination to leave Lysandra’s side.

  Finally, Renan heard the bell for Vespers. The long sleepless day of waiting made the sound all the sweeter and more welcome. Only an hour now, he told himself, an hour that, at the end, could mean life or death for Aghamore. But what was more important to Renan—it could mean life again for Lysandra.

  Lysandra slept now without dreams, for even dreams demanded a state of awareness she no longer possessed. Somehow she had kept moving throughout the night, but when at last they reached the outskirts of Caerryck and she had lain down to rest, she had fallen into a place where not even dreams existed. She did not have a body or a mind… perhaps, even, for those hours she did not have a soul.

  Lysandra did not stir as the long hours passed. She knew nothing of light or darkness, morning or evening. She did not feel Renan and Talog carefully maneuver her out of the hollow in which they had made their camp or Renan’s arms as he carried her into Caerryck.

  But something stirred in Lysandra as they entered the little parish church of Saint Peter the Fisherman, and she began the long upward struggle back toward the light.

  Father Peadar was watching, and he quickly motioned them into the church as Renan and the others neared. Then he locked and barred the door behind them.

  “Best take no chances,” he said, turning around to lead the way from the ill-lit narthex into the nave. Here, oil lamps burned in niches built into the walls, giving a golden illumination to the room that filled it with a charm it lacked in the harsher light of day.

  Renan went to the front of the church and, without waiting for Peadar’s permission, took Lysandra inside the sanctuary of the altar and gently laid her there, pausing for one brief moment to stare down into her face. He hoped for some sign of resuscitation; he was not certain what else to do except pray that Divine Mercy would accomplish what he could not.