The Thirteenth Scroll (11 page)

Slowly, Lysandra turned in the direction of Cloud-Dancer’s stare. There, amid the trees just beyond the small circle of light
given off by her lowing campfire, stood the vision from her garden. The green aura that encased him sent out flares like tongues
of flame—deeply brilliant green flame.

Lysandra found it at once beautiful and terrifying. Gently, she put a hand on Cloud-Dancer, to reassure them both that they
were real, that all—she hoped—was well. Then, slowly, she raised herself to her knees, facing her vision.

This time she
saw
him in greater detail. He was dressed in an old, much-mended monk’s robe, of an Order she did not recognize. And he was old,
ancient to her eyes. His beard, which reached to the middle of his chest, was thin and scraggly with age, as were the wisps
of hair that only partially covered his head. His forehead and eyes were lined with furrows.

But his eyes captured and held her. They were kind eyes, full of both sorrow and compassion, and as their gazes locked, Lysandra
understood that he knew much about her she had yet to discover. She understood, too, that in some undiscerned way, he was
trying to help and guide her.

In his arms she
saw
that it was not one object he carried, but several in a bundle. Try as she might, she could not bring them into focus. It
was as if they were something she was not yet meant to see; though all else before her was clear, these objects were wrapped
in a fog that wavered and shifted before her eyes.

Lysandra felt an urgent need to get closer to this man—even, perhaps, to touch him. She wanted to see what he
carried, to talk with him and hear his voice. Yet, just as before when he stood in her garden, as soon as these thoughts entered
her mind, he began to fade.

Lysandra scrambled to her feet, but the man held up a wizened hand to stop her. As she watched, he became more and more dim.
The green aura around him began to sputter like an untrimmed candlewick. Then, just before he vanished completely, he reached
into the midst of the objects he cradled and retrieved one. He held it out toward Lysandra.

Of its own accord, her hand reached toward it. She could not touch it, but the man seemed satisfied. A slow smile spread across
his vanishing face. Somehow, without words spoken, Lysandra felt his assurance within her mind, telling her that soon she
would understand.

Then he was gone.

Though the vision was gone, Lysandra’s
Sight
remained, clear and full. Off in the east, she
saw
the first streaks of golden dawn washing the sky. Around her, birds gave their first, tentative awakening calls to herald
the day. A new day, one more full of promise than Lysandra had felt since she began this journey. Today she would reach Ballinrigh
and, if her vision’s promise was to be believed, soon she would understand.

But understand what?
she wondered again as she put her arms around Cloud-Dancer’s neck and hugged him close for comfort.

“It’s almost over,” she said to him, hoping that her words were true. “And once it is, then we can go home. Right, boy?”

As if in agreement, Cloud-Dancer licked her cheek and leaned into her. They sat there together, letting the world slowly lighten
around them.

B
ishop Elon entered the capital city with all the pomp and ritual his Office demanded. The journey here had been excruciatingly
slow, but summoned to the Archbishop’s presence and certain of spies set to undermine all his plans, he knew all proprieties
must be strictly and carefully observed. It was a game he played well, though his spirit sometimes chafed with impatience.

Upon his arrival in Ballinrigh, Elon sent a note to the Archbishop, via Brother Naal. Elon knew that the young monk would
be questioned regarding his impressions of traveling amid Elon’s retinue. The bishop had carefully arranged all facets of
this journey with just such a report in mind, and he wanted it delivered while it was still fresh in Brother Naal’s memory.

Having done all he could, Elon now awaited the Archbishop’s summons.

It had come this morning as a casual handwritten invitation to dinner. Elon was not fooled by the friendliness of the words
on paper. This was an inquiry of conduct and nothing less; he only wished he knew who, besides the Archbishop, would be attending,
which of his enemies had been whispering in his superior’s ear.

He dressed with special care, wearing his second-best
cassock of purple watermarked silk and matching mozzetta. His best one, the one with the gold buttons, he would save for High
Mass in the cathedral, which he hoped to be asked to concelebrate. With the entire College of Bishops sitting in attendance,
only a select few would be granted such an honor—and Elon planned to be one of them. This act of recognition before his peers
was the first overt step on his journey to the Archbishop’s triple mitre.

He smiled to himself as he looked in the mirror, making a slight adjustment to the wide cincture that girded his waist. He
was pleased by what he saw. The long, straight line of the cassock accentuated his height, as well as the broad shoulders
and narrow hips he still possessed even though he was nearing sixty. He had not allowed himself to grow fat. The people of
Aghamore, so used to looking at bishops either portly or fragile, could look at him and see a man of vigor, a man fit and
strong enough to be their leader.

For one last adornment, Elon added his pectoral cross, made of gold, amethyst, and onyx. Fittingly attired to show the prosperity
of his see, he grabbed up his long black cloak and left for the Archbishop’s residence.

He arrived precisely on time—a half hour earlier, it turned out, than the other guests who were to join them.

“I thought we might use this time for a private talk,” the Archbishop said after he had shown Elon into his personal study.
It was a cluttered, informal room in the back part of the house, rather than the richly furnished official room in which the
Archbishop received Kings or supplicants.

Archbishop Colm apBeirne had always been a scholar. Open books, half-rolled scrolls, and papers were scattered
like fallen leaves over desk, carpet, and chairs. But the well-trimmed lamps and the bright fire in the fireplace kept the
room from looking gloomy. Instead, it had a homey feeling, as if to say that the occupant was always happiest here.

Before the fire sat two winged-backed chairs, mercifully cleared of the clutter that covered nearly every other available
surface. On a little table between the chairs, a decanter of chambried wine waited next to two crystal goblets.

“Please, please, have a seat, Elon,” the Archbishop said, absently waving toward a chair and using Elon’s familiar name void
of title. “We’ll not stand on ceremony here, in this room, eh? This is not an inquiry, just a talk.”

As he spoke, he poured them both a glass of wine. Elon noticed the slightly palsied shake of his hands and how the Archbishop’s
body bent forward, stooping unconsciously toward the fireplace, as if his old bones were seeking the heat. To a person of
Elon’s temperament, his movements were aggravatingly slow, and it was all Elon could do to make himself sit still, to keep
smiling and not take the decanter from the old man’s hand and complete the task himself.

Finally, the Archbishop slowly lowered himself into the remaining chair. He took a sip of wine and closed his eyes for a moment.

“Ah, the heat feels good, doesn’t it?” he said.

Actually, Elon was beginning to feel the room was too close and overheated. “Yes, Your Eminence,” he said nevertheless. “A
fire is always a welcome comfort.”

“More so at my age, I daresay,” the Archbishop replied, opening his eyes.

Elon could see there was a bit of a sparkle in them; the old man, for all his physical frailties, still possessed
a sharp mind and a wry wit. Elon reminded himself to tread carefully and not underestimate his opponent—especially not when
he hoped to turn opponent into ally.

The Archbishop studied Elon for a moment. The younger man did not flinch under the scrutiny. This was a game of nerves, and
Elon knew he played it well. Too bold, and he would appear offensive, belligerent; too timid, and the Archbishop would think
he had not the stuff in him to stand beside Kings.

The Archbishop, the Primus of the Church in Aghamore, was the spiritual ruler of the Kingdom. He must be willing to give deference
and obedience to his sovereign in all things temporal—so long as they did not compromise the spiritual well-being of the souls
within his care. For that, he must have the courage to stand by his convictions even in the face of royal anger.

All this, Elon knew he could do. For this he had trained all his adult life. He knew the canons and bylaws of the Church and
the spiritual precepts on which those were built, knew them as well as he knew his own mind. Outwardly, in every way that
would matter to this kingdom, Elon could fulfil the role of Archbishop better than any other man in Aghamore.

As for what he
believed
—ah, that was a different matter entirely.

The scrutiny of the old man’s gaze went on for a long, unspoken moment. Had it not been for the intelligence in Colm apBeirne’s
watery eyes, Elon might have thought the old man had drifted off in some senile playground of the mind. But Elon would not
make the mistake so many did and think that the Archbishop’s wits were as atrophied as his muscles.

“Tell me about the Lady Aurya,” the Archbishop said
without preamble. The abruptness of the question was meant to catch Elon off guard.

But Elon knew the ploy; he used it often himself. Get your opponent somewhere comfortable, let him relax—then strike, suddenly,
when it is unexpected. Silently, he acknowledged a well-played opening move.

“Lady Aurya is not at all what I expected, Your Eminence,” he began.

The Archbishop held up a hand. “Let us not be so formal, Elon,” he said. “Here we talk openly, brothers in the service of
Our Lord and His Church… perhaps, I hope, even as friends. If we keep throwing titles back and forth, we’ll never get anywhere.”

The second move
, Elon thought.
Break your opponent’s train of thought early. Reinforce his sense of security. Very good… well played indeed
.

With a tiny nod that appeared to be deference to the old man’s wishes but was, in fact, an acknowledgement of strategy, a
move within a move, Elon continued.

“I went to see Lady Aurya at her own request. As she is the consort of Baron Giraldus, I thought I must go myself, to find
out why she would send such a request—for his sake, if not for hers. Her… attitude… toward the Church is one she has never
hidden.”

“It is a godless union they share,” the Archbishop said sternly. “Did you not think that by such a visit you might seem to
be condoning her unholy use of magic? It is the devil’s tool, and those who use it are fallen from Grace.”

“I thought only that here might be a penitent in need of spiritual guidance,” Elon replied.

There
, he thought,
the seeds Aurya so thoughtfully laid can now be harvested
.

The Archbishop nodded. “Such a thought does you
credit,” he said. “And is that how you found Lady Aurya? Penitent?”

“I found her angry at first, from the many exaggerated rumors spread about her,” Elon answered, somewhat truthfully, for the
best lie is a carefully selected portion of the truth. “But I believe she is a lady who has been much maligned by such tales,
many of which she lays firmly at the Church’s door. Finding spiritual guidance has not been easy, it seems. Many have turned
away from her because of these tales of her ‘unholy practices,’ as you call it. Rather than chance encountering her anger,
they have condemned her without hearing, without trying to answer her questions that might lead to her repentance. That, too,
is why I put aside my other business for the day and went to see her myself. Should she return to the Church, I know Baron
Giraldus will as well—and two souls will be saved. Is that not our highest duty?”

Move and countermove
, Elon thought. With this last question he had backed the Archbishop into a corner.

Again, the old man nodded. “It is indeed. And I hoped—nay, I was sure—your reason would be one such as this. I am glad to
have it confirmed and to know my faith in you is not misplaced. But remember, there are many in this world who do not look
with the eyes of charity. They seek always to find fault with those who lead. As shepherds of this flock of human souls, we
must have a care that the
appearance
of our actions does not lead others onto a path of destruction.”

With the Archbishop’s words, Elon knew he had won, though not a
complete
victory. There still remained some little question in the old man’s mind and Elon would have to find a way to set it to rest
if he was to gain Colm apBeirne’s support.

But now was not the time. The next move was his, but
it must be subtle and come at an unexpected moment. It was his turn to catch his opponent off guard.

For now, he changed the subject. “The College meets tomorrow,” he began. “Have you heard anything to indicate a favored candidate
for the throne?”

Colm sighed. “Nay,” he said. “We are indeed a house divided on this subject. Each bishop favors his own Baron as the best
qualified, the strongest leader… and truth be told, there’s not much difference between any of them. The people, I think,
just want to see the matter settled before Aghamore erupts into civil war.”

“Whom do
you
favor?” Elon asked. He kept his tone casual, but inside he felt his muscles tighten. The Archbishop’s answer now would name
the one who posed the greatest threat to Elon’s plans.

But the old man raised his hands in a gesture of bewilderment. “That, I cannot answer,” he said. “It is clear that the House
of Baoghil is ended and by right, each of the Barons is equally in line of succession. But who would be best for this kingdom?
That I do not know, not this time. I thought I knew last time with Anri, but I was wrong, and the people of this kingdom paid
the price. If only…”