The Thirteenth Scroll

by Rebecca Neason

  When he turned around, he found Father Peadar slowly circling Talog, a smile of wonder creasing his already-lined and aged face as his eyes kept going from the Cryf to Cloud-Dancer and back again.

  “By all the saints, ‘tis a wonder—that’s the truth of it,” he said with enthusiasm. “A tame wolf and a whole ‘nother type of being whose people live underground, ye said. What be ye called, m’lad?”

  Talog shot a bewildered, slightly pleading glance at Renan. “His name is Talog,” Renan reminded Father Peadar, “and his people are the Cryf. You’ll have to speak a bit more… simply.” Renan chose the word with a smile; he had almost said normally. “Talog’s vocabulary in our language is still growing.”

  “Aye, to be sure. I didna think o’ that. I’m sorry, m’lad,” he said to Talog, curbing his excitement a bit.

  Talog still looked confused. “What be ‘mlad’?” he asked. “I am Cryf.”

  Father Peadar let out a bark of a laugh that caused Talog to step back. Cloud-Dancer rose, his posture showing he was ready to spring into defense of Lysandra—or Talog and Renan—if this stranger showed the slightest sign of threat.

  While Peadar clamped a contrite hand over his mouth, Renan touched Cloud-Dancer’s head, as he had seen Lysandra do so often, signaling the wolf that all was well.

  “M’lad is another way of saying ‘young man,’ “ Renan explained to Talog. He kept his voice soft to reassure the Cryf.

  “Aye,” Father Peadar said, lowering his voice to a gruff whisper. “Young man be my meanin’, and I’ve never seen yer like. I’d ask ye more about yerself and yer people, but I know yer time be short. Mayhap someday we’ll meet again and ye can tell me then.”

  Renan cleared his throat. The night was getting away from them and the danger coming closer. He lightly touched Talog’s arm before the young Cryf could reply.

  “We don’t have much time,” he said to Father Peadar. “You said you might be able to help us find the child—“

  “Do ye swear by Our Lord and his Blessed Mother, and by yer vows as a priest, that what ye’ve come here for be not evil?” Father Peadar said sternly. “Swear that, or I’ll no’ help ye further.”

  Renan turned to the altar. He picked up the large crucifix and brought it to his lips.

  “I do so swear, by the broken body of Our Lord and by all the angels and company of heaven,” he said. “Now, Peadar, please. There is evil following us and could be here anytime.”

  “Aye, then,” Father Peadar said. “That be a vow no priest would take lightly, and I believe ye. I’ll help ye.”

  The weathered little priest went to the door just off the sanctuary that led into the sacristy and opened it. “Come along, child,” he said softly, speaking to someone on the other side. “These be the people I brought ye here to meet.”

  Renan braced himself. Without realizing he was doing it, he held his breath as he waited for a child—the child, if Father Peadar was correct.

  But the person who walked out of the sacristy was not a child. It was a young woman; she came with her head bowed, wearing the habit and short white veil of a Benedictine novice.

  For a few seconds, Renan was too stunned to say anything. “Peadar,” he said, finding his voice again but unable to keep the disappointment from it. “I think you misunderstand. The scroll said a child, not a grown woman.”

  “Did it?” Father Peadar asked, “or did it say ‘an innocent’? Did it speak of one with a pure heart, one who had not yet learned the ways o’ the world? I’ve always known there was something about her, and when ye told me yer tale, I knew immediately who ye were here to find.”

  Father Peadar was right, Renan thought, remembering those very words from the passages of the scroll that spoke of the Font of Wisdom. But how did he know the words so exactly? Before he could ask, Peadar pushed the novice a bit forward.

  “This be Father Renan, child,” he said, his voice gentle and encouraging—but the young woman made no response.

  Renan took a step toward her. “What’s your name?” he asked, keeping his own voice low.

  “I am Selia,” she replied, still not lifting her head.

  The girl’s hesitation to speak was obvious, as was her reluctance to be here. Though lacking Lysandra’s empathic abilities, Renan still felt these emotions as surely as if they had been his own. She wants no part of us or of this world, he thought with absolute certainty, recognizing in Selia emotions were ones he had felt once, long ago.

  * * *

  While Talog and Renan were staring at the newcomer, they were not watching Lysandra. They did not notice the fingers of her left hand slowly twitch open and closed. They did not see the little movement of her head or hear the sigh that escaped her.

  But Cloud-Dancer did. After Renan’s touch of assurance, the wolf’s attention had returned to Lysandra. He saw her movement, sensed the beginning of her inward battle and, as always, went to her side to lend his aid.

  There was not much he could do against this enemy, but he could be near her. Lying close by her side, he gently nosed his way beneath Lysandra’s fingers. At last her hand lay in its usual place on top of his head.

  Ignoring all others in the room, Cloud-Dancer settled down to wait.

  Inside Lysandra a silent battle had begun to rage, pitting Light against the thick, pervasive darkness that held her. She did not know from where the spark of Light had come—but it was there. Growing stronger, giving her a single thought of hope toward which her mind and soul could aim.

  Again, as if by their own power and not any will of hers, her fingers twitched. But this time she felt something beneath them. Cloud-Dancer. His name flowed into her thoughts like a welcome scent upon a breeze. Cloud-Dancer was here; he was with her. Always.

  But where was she? She did not know. She knew only that for this brief instant she felt a breath of Life enter her. For as long as she could, she would aim toward the Light and not give up.

  Once more, she moved her fingers. This time it was at her command and though the movement was small, it was a triumph. She moved them again and again, slowly down into Cloud-Dancer’s fur.

  Though the darkness still claimed her, the Light—that single, beautiful, crystalline spark—had not left her. Lysandra wanted now what the darkness had stolen from her.

  Lysandra wanted to live again.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Some of the roads Rhys remembered from his childhood looked as if they had not been cleared in that long. The sun had set, and they were still five miles from Caerryck. The horses were tired, and so were the men. So, in truth, was Aurya. It was easy to let herself be persuaded to stop and make camp for the night. Tomorrow, by midday at the latest, they would reach the little fishing village that was their goal.

  Aurya gratefully lowered herself to the ground, then took a few halting steps to stretch the stiffness from her knees and inner thighs. Even a gait as smooth as her gelding’s became wearying after too many hours.

  Five miles, she thought, and we’ll arrive tomorrow, rested and stronger than ever. She allowed herself a smile of triumph, one she did not care if the soldiers saw.

  The first hour of darkness passed with firelight and camp chores. By the passing of the second hour, food was eaten and cleared, animals tended, and the camp was quieting with welcome slumber.

  The moon once again cast its Goddess-light upon the world below; Aurya decided that now was the moment to set her spell one last time. By tomorrow night, when the child was in her possession and they were on their way back to Kilgarriff, the protection of the soldiers would be all that was needed.

  Tonight, however, she would take no chances.

  It was not Rhys who stood watch this time, but Sergeant Maelik. Had she cared to take the time, Aurya had no doubt that she could bring Maelik as much under her control as Rhys—or Giraldus. But Maelik had a stronger mind and sense of self than his junior counterpart, and the lure of returning to her bed was too strong for Aurya to want to take the long mom
ents that would be necessary to subdue Maelik’s will.

  As it was, when he noticed her emerge from her tent, she waved away his attention. He gave her a knowing grin and a nod, erroneously assuming he understood the reason for her venture into the night air. He turned away to give her privacy.

  Aurya took herself off a little way from the camp, where she could not be overheard. Then, slipping behind a tall stone, she stood with her face turned upward in the moonlight and dropped her blanket, letting the silver Goddess-light bathe her as she lifted her arms in an attitude of supplication.

  For a long moment she stood there, caressed by the silver moonlight, remembering all the times she had stood this way beside old Kizzie, giving worship to the Queen of the Night, Great Mother of All. What would Kizzie think of her now, she wondered briefly, of the power she wielded and the power she was soon to claim? Would she say she had always known Aurya was destined for such great things? Or would she warn her erstwhile student to be careful where and how she used her power—that power ill-used offends the Goddess and what has been given can also be taken away?

  Aurya shook her head against the thought. What was hers was hers and nothing would take it from her. Old Kizzie might have lived her life by such restrictions, but Aurya would not. She closed her eyes, ready to speak the words of her spell.

  She felt the power build within her, welcome as a lover’s touch. Speaking softly, she recited the words she had said into the moonlight these last few nights, building on them as she had each time, to deepen the magic they contained.

  But, though she stood in the Goddess’s light, though the words—and their intent—were correct, though the power in her swelled and rose as strongly as ever… nothing happened.

  Nothing.

  There was no flaring release as magic was given form and function. There was none of the now familiar feeling of her spirit soaring on the wings of power, coupled to that universal flame that gave birth and sustained magic’s life.

  Nothing.

  Aurya’s heart was suddenly racing, pounding, making the blood ring in her ears and her breath catch in her throat. Her magic had not been merely turned aside, it had been stopped entirely.

  She fell to her knees in fear and confusion; such a thing had never happened to her before, and she was not certain what it meant. She felt a burst of fear as she thought again of Kizzie.

  No, her mind screamed. She had not lost her magic; the power had been there. Her magic had been stopped by magic. And that meant only one thing—

  They had to ride on to Caerryck. Now.

  Aurya turned and ran back to camp. At the sound, Sergeant Maelik came rushing toward her.

  She wasted no time to explain. “Raise the camp,” she ordered as she pushed past him and into her tent.

  She shook Giraldus until he came awake with a start. “What… what is it?” he asked with groggy concern, his voice rough with sleep.

  “Get up,” Aurya ordered as she threw his clothes at him, then reached for her own. She began to pull them on with hurried, shaking fingers.

  Glancing over, she saw that Giraldus still had not moved. “Aurya—what’s going on?” he demanded. “We’re not under attack—and you can’t tell me we are or Maelik’d sound the alarm. Why can’t you leave a man to sleep?”

  “We are under attack, you fool—“

  “By who? What army?” Giraldus countered. His voice was rising, growing as angry as hers.

  Aurya let out a bark of a laugh. “Army… an army you, your men, could fight. This attack is by magic and against magic—my magic. Now get dressed. There’s no more time to waste.”

  Giraldus threw his clothes across the room at her. “Magic—I’m sick of the very word. If your magic is under attack, then you fight it. Make a spell or kill a bird—or do whatever it is you need to do. Just leave me and my men alone. In the morning we’ll ride into that village—on horses, not magic—and get the child you insist we need—again, not by magic—then finally go home, to Kilgarriff where we belong. Then we can march on Ballinrigh. No magic, Aurya. It’s an army—my army—that will get us the throne. And an army needs sleep.”

  Aurya had become more and more angry as Giraldus talked. Now she had listened enough. She would show him magic. She had invoked the Spell of Obedience only once since casting it. She had used it carefully, letting him think that continuing on their quest for the child had been his own decision, to humor her.

  Now, she cared only that he obey her before the child was lost to them. Under her breath she began to chant, once more calling up her powers. She began slowly, softly… letting her voice rise in volume as the magic mounted and flowed from her into her victim. Into Giraldus.

  “Power come and power claim,

  In voice of storm, of wind, of rain;

  Power strong and power fast,

  Within my voice find home at last.

  Turn stubborn mind and stubborn heart

  Willing now to do his part;

  To hear my voice is to obey

  And from obedience never sway.”

  Aurya turned and pointed at Giraldus. “Get up,” she ordered, “and get dressed. Now.”

  Immediately, the angry defiance left Giraldus’s eyes. But his awareness remained. Had Aurya wished it, she could have subdued that, too—as she had with young Rhys. But she was angry enough with Giraldus not to care and too hurried to take the time.

  Let him know, she thought. Let him realize and remember that I am in command. I’ll take no more argument from him than he would from his lowliest soldier. His army—ha! I’ll show him just how little his army counts…for anything.

  Behind Giraldus’s new look of compliance, Aurya saw his anger, and a touch of fear. She did not care. He was her minion… her soldier… now.

  “Order your men to break camp and prepare to ride,” she told him as he finished dressing. “And tell them to hurry. We’re going to Caerryck now… before the hour is out.”

  Giraldus turned and left the tent, hurrying to do her bidding. She heard him outside barking orders, followed by the sounds of running feet and rustling gear as the men hurried to comply.

  Aurya smiled. Her smile turned to laughter. She knew with certainty now that her powers were not failing. Her control over Giraldus was as strong as ever—and, yes, she liked the feeling.

  Later, when the child was theirs and they were headed back to Kilgarriff, she would let this invocation of her spell die away. She would not remove the spell; tonight had proved how useful it was. But she would let Giraldus think it was removed… until the next time.

  Outside the tent, Giraldus was talking with Sergeant Maelik. That he would be angry—terribly angry—she did not doubt. For a single, brief moment, the mundane female part of her felt a whisper of fear. But it was a feeling quickly subdued. She was no ordinary woman to fear a man’s wrath. She would fear no one and nothing. She was Aurya—soon to be Queen Aurya, she thought as she, too, left the tent. She would deal with Giraldus’s anger… by magic, if necessary. Soon he would learn that he could be her partner or her slave. But either way, she would win—she and the magic he disparaged.

  “Excuse me, m’lady.” Rhys was suddenly standing next to her. “Your horse be saddled and we’ll be ready to ride in a few more minutes. I’m to ask if there be anything else you require.”

  “No, thank you, Rhys.” Aurya favored the young man with one of her rare smiles. His ready deference softened her mood, as did his obvious enthrallment.

  His habitual blush glowed dully in the light of the torches. Yes, she thought, he would be a good tool for the future. When they returned to Kilgarriff, she would have him assigned to her personal guards.

  Each minute that passed felt like an hour, and Aurya’s impatience grew again. She had never liked to be kept waiting, and at that moment, with so much at stake, she wanted to scream her frustration at the night. But even she could see that the men were moving as quickly as human limitation allowed.

  She tapped her fingers on
the pommel of her saddle, counting the seconds as the men folded the tent and packed its furnishings. Finally, she could stand no more. She swung herself back off her horse, slid to the ground, and stormed across the half-denuded campsite to find Giraldus.

  He was still talking with Sergeant Maelik. “What are you doing?” she demanded. “Why aren’t you in there helping? Don’t you understand—we have no time to spare.”

  “Beggin’ your pardon, m’lady,” Maelik said. Though his tone and words were respectful enough, his eyes told her plainly how foolish he thought this nighttime rush. “Me boys know what they’re about, and we’d just slow ’em down. If we be in the great hurry Your Ladyship says, then we’d best all stay out of their way.”

  There was no missing that Maelik’s words were meant to put Aurya in her place—which to Maelik’s mind, she was certain, did not include ordering him or his men around. She did not miss the amused light that gleamed, however briefly, in Giraldus’s eyes.

  That was all Aurya would stand. She once more turned her voice into a weapon of command.

  “Go,” she ordered them. “Get the men moving faster. There’s to be no more time wasted by you or anyone. Go!”

  As Giraldus moved to obey, Maelik had no choice but to follow him. Aurya saw the sergeant’s surprise that Giraldus would let himself be ordered about by a woman. She also did not miss the look of hatred Maelik threw her way.

  So, he fancies himself my enemy now, does he? she thought. Well, he doesn’t know what an enemy is—yet. But he will and soon.

  After this was over, she would get Maelik away from Giraldus. She would think of some mission on which to send him—and make certain an accident awaited him on the way. He would be buried with great honor, as befitting a soldier who died in direct service of the King—but Aurya would have no enemies in her own camp.

  Nor, when she was done, would there be any—alive—anywhere in Aghamore. Once she had the child… she smiled… she would be unstoppable.