The Thirteenth Scroll (15 page)

As Aurya watched, the air before her began to shimmer and stir.
It is working
, she thought jubilantly. Soon she would have the answers to all the hidden messages in the scroll. With the path made plain,
the objective clear, nothing would stand in the way of the throne.

The disturbed air began to coalesce into the outline of a man. Before Aurya’s eyes, the outline became more and more substantial.
And it began to glow—first soft, and then the brilliant green of a woodland glade in summer sunlight.

The glow took Aurya by surprise. No reference to this Working had mentioned such a thing. Then she noticed an aroma filling
the room. It was sweet, like flowers and growing herbs, with no stench of decay, no smell of the blood or the fire.

Now she was truly bewildered. She had prepared herself
for the sight of death, the smell of rotting flesh. Instead, as the specter before her continued to solidify, she saw one
who though old, exuded health and vigor, and who smelled of lush growing things.

“I come to your Summoning by my own choice, not yours,” the image spoke to her, startling Aurya further. Its power to speak
was supposed to be under her command.

“Are you the one whom history calls Tambryn the Seer?” she asked.

“Tambryn was my earthly name,” he replied. “I was called many things—Seer, prophet, heretic, healer… and others. They do not
matter now.”

“Then, with the fire and blood by which I called thee forth, I now bind thee here, a spirit to serve the living. By fire and
blood, I order thee to give me the answers I desire.”

The spirit of Tambryn began to laugh. “I warned you that I came not at your Summoning. Your power cannot hold me. I came to
teach you the price of your arrogance.”

Tambryn waved his hand. On the table the candle toppled, hitting the scroll. The ancient parchment immediately caught flame.
Aurya scrambled to put it out, smothering it with her hands and shirt. Though the flames burned her fingers, she did not dare
pull away. If the scroll was lost, so was the crown.

Again she heard Tambryn’s laughter. She looked up and saw his specter dissolving into the air, and she knew there was nothing
she could do to stop him.

“Blind eyes see clearer than a darkened heart,” he said, his voice still strong, though his image was almost gone. “And Prophecy’s
Hand lights the flame of Truth.”

Then there was silence. It was more than silence, it was emptiness. Aurya felt as if, for the present at least, all the magic
in the room—in her—had been drained away.

With the candle out, the only light in the room came from the fire. Aurya relit the lamps, grimacing as her burned fingers
and sliced palm struggled with matches. She could do nothing to banish their pain now, not until her magic returned.

Once the lamps were lit, she wet a towel from the pitcher of washwater in the corner and wiped the table clean. Then she turned
the chair back toward the fire and sat, needing to think.

She reviewed the steps she had just taken, trying to understand what had just happened and how the Summoning could have failed
so miserably. She could find no mistakes; every word and action was performed exactly as it should have been.

Why then?
she wondered again.
How did I fail?
She knew of nothing, neither history nor legend, that called Tambryn a worker of magic—and yet he had just shown a power
few sorcerers could have claimed.

And what did his final words mean?
she also asked herself.
What are these blind eyes and what do they see? And what is this Prophecy’s Hand?
It was the same title used in the scroll, and it was just as frustrating—no, more frustrating to hear it from Tambryn himself
and still not understand.

The charred scroll lay on the table. Aurya rose and went to it. Slowly, carefully, she unrolled it to examine the damage.
The outer edges were burned away and there were holes where sparks had eaten into the parchment. But they had not penetrated
all the way. The inner two-thirds of the scroll, including most of the directions she needed, was untouched.

Aurya breathed out a deep sigh of relief—and she could feel her magic returning. She still had what she needed to make certain
Giraldus became King… and no spirit
from the netherworld was going to stop her, no matter how powerful it might be.

L
ysandra sat at the small kitchen table, talking with Father Renan. He had fed Cloud-Dancer, who now slept contentedly on a
rug before the hearth, and the two of them had also finished their supper. So far, nothing of import had been revealed. In
fact, Lysandra had done most of the talking, prompted to tell her tale by Father Renan’s questions.

She found herself telling more than she had planned. By the end of their meal, he knew not just about her past, but about
her dreams and her
Sight
, and about why she had come to Ballinrigh.

Finally, Lysandra had nothing more to say. Suddenly, Father Renan rose and left the room, leaving her bewildered.

A few minutes later he returned. “I have something to show you,” he said, “something important. Give me your hand.”

Something to
show
me?
her thoughts sneered.
He can’t
show
me anything
.

Then she realized that she was being petulant, her
thoughts peevish. But she was
tired
, physically and emotionally. She was tired of this journey and all the uncertainty; she just wanted to know what she had
to do so that she could go
home
.

She held her hand out to Father Renan. He took it in his own and started to guide it toward something on the table. Instantly,
Lysandra’s
Sight
flooded her. There was no gentle lifting of fog this time, no slow lightening of shadows. Its force stunned Lysandra, leaving
her breathless.

Father Renan placed her hand upon a scroll. As her fingers touched it, her
Sight
focused upon it.
This
was what all of her dreams and visions had been about—
this
was why she was in Ballinrigh.

“This is the Thirteenth Scroll of Tambryn,” Father Renan said as he carefully unrolled the parchment. “It was written in his
own hand over six hundred years ago. It is very rare—and very important.”

“Who is Tambryn?” Lysandra asked. “I’ve never heard of him.”

Father Renan chuckled mirthlessly. “Few people have anymore,” he said, “and of those who have, few will speak his name.”

He ran his fingers lightly, gently, across the parchment. For the first time there was a little chink in his well-armored
emotions, and Lysandra could feel how much this scroll meant to him.

“Tell me about him,” she said.

Father Renan did not speak at once, but sat as if trying to decide where to begin. Finally, he shook his head.

“Tambryn’s story is a long one,” he began, “and, perhaps, best kept for another time when the hour is not so late. In short,
he was a monk, a man holy and true. He began his life as a Religious as an herbalist and healer.
But then, shortly after he turned thirty, his visions began. At first, he was proclaimed a Seer with the gift of divine prophecy—until
he offended the wrong people. After that, he was named a heretic. But he escaped his captors and fled—no one knows where.
The rest of his visions, if there were any, are lost to us. His writings were burned by those who did not want the people
to learn the truth in Tam-bryn’s words. Very few copies now survive… this is one of them.”

“How did you get it?”

“That’s not important,” the priest replied. “What is important is the words this scroll contains.”

As Father Renan spoke of Tambryn, the carefully maintained wall around his mind continued to slip little by little, giving
Lysandra the barest glimpse of the man underneath. With her question, however, it snapped firmly back in place. On the one
hand, it was a relief to be around a person whose inner thoughts and emotions did not constantly pound at her, disquieting
each moment. But this unyielding control also made Lysandra wonder what Father Renan was hiding.

“Why is this scroll so important?” she asked him. “What does it have to do with me?”

Once more Father Renan ran his hand over the scroll, as if drawing some strength from touching it.

“Because,” he said at last, “I believe you are the one whose coming was foretold. I have waited and watched carefully… and
from the moment I saw you enter the church, something told me that my waiting had ended. You are the Prophecy’s Hand whom
Tambryn’s writings say will find the Font of Wisdom. Together you will bring Aghamore back from the precipice of destruction
before all is lost to darkness and evil.”

Lysandra felt a shock run through her, a current containing
both recognition and disbelief. She jerked suddenly to her feet, knocking her chair over.

“No, you’re wrong,” she said, backing away. She did not want to hear this; she just wanted to hear that she could go home.

“Am I?” Father Renan answered. “Tambryn’s scroll says that Prophecy’s Hand will be one who has lost everything to the instruments
of destruction and who has walked in darkness, as one dead. Yet out of this death, a new life is born, so that Prophecy’s
Hand can
‘Look through the Eyes of Blindness with a Sight that is more than seeing. Prophecy’s Hand will know the ways of the wild
ones and dwell among them. They will he both guide and companion. Only Prophecy’s Hand can unlock the Font of Wisdom that
will be the salvation of Aghamore
.’”

Slowly, Lysandra shook her head. Her stomach contracted into a tight and painful ball, and the sudden lump in her throat made
it difficult to breathe. She wanted to reject everything she was hearing—but her heart and her
Sight
told her it was all true.

“I don’t understand,” she said. She wanted to run away, but instead she began to pace. The movement helped her think. “I’m
no Seer. How can I be this Prophecy’s Hand when I have no gift of prophecy?”

“You may have gifts you’ve not yet realized,” Father Renan said softly. “But the scroll does not say Prophecy’s Hand will
have the gift of prophecy, only that it will deliver
this
prophecy into action.

“‘…
And so shall the way be shown by the clear, unsighted vision of Prophecy’s Hand. Inner Sight shall know what eyes cannot see.
The Font of Wisdom found, unlocked, then Truth embraced shall set free all that has been bound
…’”

The scroll’s words rang in her head.
Unsighted vision
… Inner sight
… She could not deny these had been her reality for nearly a decade. But what was she supposed to do? What could she do, even
with her
Sight
, one woman alone?

“What is this ‘Font of Wisdom’?” she asked. “How is ‘Prophecy’s Hand’ supposed to unlock it?”

“I don’t have all the answers, Lysandra,” he said to her. “I have studied Tambryn’s words half my life, and until I saw you
I didn’t understand much of the description of what Prophecy’s Hand was to be. Tambryn’s prophecies often become clear only
at the moment of their fulfillment. Or so it seems. But everything I do understand says that the Font of Wisdom is a child
who must be found—and soon, before another King occupies the throne. If this latter is allowed to happen, it will mean the
end of Aghamore.

“But as to how the child must be found and what will ‘unlock’ the Font of Wisdom—I’m not sure. There are directions here in
the Thirteenth Scroll that indicate a journey north. But it also says that only through the
’blinded Sight of Prophecy’s Hand can the Font of Wisdom be seen.’”

Lysandra put her hands to her head, trying to stop her whirling thoughts. She must decide what to do, but she could not—not
right now. She was too tired. She had wanted Ballinrigh to be the
end
of her journey, not the beginning of a new one.

Father Renan came over to her. He put his hands on her shoulders in a gentle, comforting touch.

“Have you found a place to sleep yet?” he asked. She shook her head.

“Then stay here,” he offered. “The guesthouse is small and not lavishly furnished—but it is clean and warm. You and Cloud-Dancer
could be quite comfortable there.”

The offer was more than welcome, Lysandra realized. It was a prayer answered before it was voiced. “Thank you,” she said.

Father Renan smiled. “I’ll show you there so you can rest,” he said gently. “A tired body often makes the mind see things
as darker and more difficult than they are.”

The priest retrieved Lysandra’s bag. Cloud-Dancer had been lying next to it, silently watching Lysandra’s movements. Now he
rose and followed Father Renan. When he brushed against her, Lysandra’s hand automatically came down to rest on the top of
his head.

“I’ve never heard of a wolf so tame,” Father Renan said, his voice filled with both marvel and admiration, “or of an animal
and master being so close.”

“We are both family and pack for one another,” Lysandra affirmed, “though I doubt the men he ran off tonight would call him
tame.”

Father Renan chuckled. “Then I shall have to be careful to remain in your good graces.”

He led the way across the small churchyard to a little freestanding house. Once they were inside, he turned his attention
to starting a fire. With her
Sight
, Lysandra looked around her temporary residence, quickly memorizing its furnishings for the time when her
Sight
again faded. It was, as Father Renan had said, a small house. The main room, in which they stood, opened onto a cooking area
to her right. To her left was a half-closed door into the bedroom.

The fire started with a blaze of light and heat. Father Renan stood, dusting off his hands on his cassock, leaving handprints
that he completely ignored as he turned to her.

“There,” he said, “that will soon put this place to rights. I’ll bring some food over from the rectory. There’s a garderobe
through the bedroom and a personal midden—and the fire heats a small cistern, if you want to bathe.”