The Thirteenth Scroll (16 page)

“Thank you,” Lysandra said. “This is far more than I expected.”

“As I said, it’s nothing fancy—but you’ll be warm and safe here. I’ll return in just a few minutes with those provisions,
then I’ll leave you so you can rest. We’ll talk more in the morning, or whenever you’re ready.”

He left, and stillness descended. The only noise was the sound of the fire crackling on the hearth. It was a homey sound,
full of comfort for both body and soul, and Lysandra felt some of the tension within her drain away. She went over and stood
before the fire, letting the heat of it lick her legs, slowly travel up and warm the rest of her body.

There were two large chairs positioned a comfortable distance from the flames. She sank into one and let out a deep sigh of
relief, of gratitude, of being safe within walls after so many days of travel, of finding a haven—for however brief a time—such
as she had not thought a city like Ballinrigh would offer.

And the enticement of a bath, of hot water and being clean from the dirt of her travels—ah, that thought made Lysandra smile.
It would take a while for the water to heat; while she waited she could close her eyes and absorb the silence, the peace.

Lysandra awakened to her own heart beating wildly, as if in panic or flight. She opened her eyes. All around her, the room
seemed shrouded in a thick, swirling fog. The only light came from the embers of the dying fire and the half-full moon shining
through the window.

Lysandra knew the dimness before her had nothing to do with the hour. Her
Sight
could make midnight bright
as a summer day. This fog was trying to tell her something, as was the sense of fear and foreboding coursing through her body
and mind. She forced herself to take a couple of deep breaths, trying to get past the grip of sensation and open herself to
its meaning. Why was she so panicked? She was still in the guesthouse, safe and warm; there was no threat, no harm within
these walls.

Then she realized it was not for herself that she was afraid.
Who then? Cloud-Dancer? Father Renan?
But no—they were safe; she knew with perfect certainty that her fear was not for them either.

Her
Sight
began to expand in a way it had never done before, taking her with it. Lysandra felt as if she were flying, and wondered,
briefly, if she were still dreaming.

But this was too real to be a dream—and she found herself too stunned to be truly afraid. It was unlike anything she had ever
experienced. How could she be sitting in her chair and yet be unconfined in her body?

A sense of urgency began to tug at her mind, pulling her along to newer and greater heights. She was higher than any bird
could have flown, with all of Aghamore displayed beneath her like a patchwork quilt smoothed across a wide bed.

Across the kingdom a gathering fog swirled—sometimes thick and impenetrable, other times as barely a wisp. Here and there,
bright lights shone like beacons or like stars come to Earth; the greatest of these lights was far to the north, where the
land’s end of Aghamore met the sea.

But a bitter darkness was also present. It sent swirling ribbons of danger inward, like fingers grasping through the fog.
The darkness had the taint and smell of evil. Some of it, too, came out of the north—but the greater darkness was gathered
in the west, pouring out over the
land in a foul and steady stream. If it was not stopped and soon, it would extinguish the lights, and all hope would die in
Aghamore.

In an instant, Lysandra was back in her chair. All sense of Far-Seeing vanished. With it, her
Sight
went, too. She was left within her physical blindness, made all the more complete because of what she had just experienced.

She called for Cloud-Dancer, not knowing that he was already standing by her side until she felt his head press itself beneath
her fingers. She welcomed his presence and his comfort. As she ran her fingers through his fur, a certainty she did not welcome
filled her.

“We have to go, don’t we?” she said to him.

Cloud-Dancer pressed against her. He laid his head on her lap in silent reassurance. At least she would not be going anywhere
alone.

But where was she going? Father Renan had mentioned north, and so had the vision she had just witnessed—but north was a big
place in which to look for a single child. Father Renan had also said that the scroll contained directions… but she could
not read them; the words she had
seen
meant nothing to her.

Lysandra found herself wanting to scream her fury at God or the Fates or… whatever… that found it such a cosmic joke to send
her on a quest where her only guide was something she could not understand.

Then Cloud-Dancer turned his head and licked the palm of her hand. The gentle action made Lysandra smile. Then she sighed,
realizing that her anger could neither help her nor change the course of what was to come.

She put her arms around Cloud-Dancer’s neck and laid her head on top of his, sitting there for a moment and letting the last
of her frustrations drain away. Tomorrow would take care of itself. Tonight, she had comfort, and
she intended to avail herself of it. The embers of the fire were still warming the water. She would have a bath and sleep
in a bed—and then tomorrow, clean and rested, she would leave Ballinrigh for the road once again, trusting in whatever had
brought her thus far to guide her once again.

In the morning, Lysandra awoke shortly after dawn. The daylight noises of the city were already building, filtering in through
the windows and walls of the little guesthouse. It was noise such as she had not heard before, even on market day when she
was a child in Scorda.

It took her a quick moment to remember where she was. Then everything came flooding back—and with it came the same angry frustration
she had felt last night. She tried to push that feeling from her as she pushed back the bedclothes, but it was not so easily
removed. She would have to ride out this internal storm and try not to be drowned by its fury. It might even serve to push
her farther down the direction she needed to go.

Resigned, if not happy, she dressed, and entered the main room of the little house. She had no
Sight
to guide her today as she got herself oriented, then found the cooking area and the food Father Renan had brought last night
while she slept. Leaving out enough to feed herself and Cloud-Dancer, she used the rest to replenish the provisions in her
bag, hoping Father Renan would not mind. Then, after fueling her body for the upcoming trek into the unknown, she again shouldered
her bag, took up her walking stick, and, with Cloud-Dancer by her side, left her safe, if temporary, haven.

Father Renan was not in the rectory when she knocked, so Lysandra headed for the church. She entered through the back door
of the sacristy through which they had exited
last night. The thick stone walls of the church once more blocked the outside noises of the city, and, as the door closed
behind her, Lysandra was again enveloped in the silence she had found when she entered this building the evening before.

Lysandra felt the anger drain and a new strength come from being in this quiet place. She still did not understand why this
task should have fallen to her, nor did she feel qualified to accomplish it. But she realized that understanding might well
be less important than acceptance after all.

Entering from the sacristy into the sanctuary of the altar, Lysandra tried to sense Father Renan’s presence. Though she thought
he must be here, she received no more impression of his nearness now than she had last night, and again she realized that
he was the only person who had ever been so totally shielded to her.

She put out her hand for Cloud-Dancer, and when he put his head beneath her fingers, she again borrowed his vision to look
around the little church. Father Renan sat in the same back pew Lysandra had occupied last night. He was deep in contemplation
or prayer, his eyes closed and his face lit with a look of peaceful listening. Lysandra did not want to disturb him at such
a moment.

She did not have to say anything, however, for he immediately looked up as she approached and gave her a smile. She saw that
he had changed his cassock for warm traveling clothes and stout shoes, and that on the pew next to him rested a bag of provisions
similar to hers.

“Ah, there you are,” he said. Standing, he slung the bag over one shoulder. “Are you ready to go, then?”

“Ready?” she replied. “I am, certainly—but you? You have this church and its people to care for.”

Father Renan shook his head. “I have sent a letter to
the office of the Archbishop explaining that I have been called away on urgent business. Another priest will be sent in my
absence. I believe we all have a task ahead, if Aghamore is to be saved. Mine, like Cloud-Dancer’s, is to walk by your side.
You cannot read the scroll, but I can. I will read it and try to interpret its meaning. I will also try, to the best of my
ability, to give you what help and strength I can.”

Lysandra felt herself humbled and moved by his generosity. In this instant, there seemed a chance they might succeed after
all.

“Thank you,” she said softly. “So, where are we to go now?”

“North,” Father Renan replied. “North lies all hope of the future for this land—and may God in His mercy direct our feet.”

“Amen,” Lysandra whispered, meaning the word with all her heart.

T
he College of Bishops had been convened and, as Elon had expected, nothing was being accomplished. Everyone had plenty to
say; Elon often thought that some of his brother bishops had only gone into the Church because
they were in love with the sound of their own voices and it gave them authority to use them—too often and too loudly.

Elon, himself, had stayed silent and listened. So far there had been much discussion about the last few Kings and the problems
with the House of Baoghil in general. Now, finally, the talk was turning to the future of Aghamore. As he had known would
happen, each of the bishops was beginning to put forth the Baron of his province as the only right choice for the next High
King.

Elon was exceedingly glad when, finally, the meeting was adjourned for Evening Prayer and then for the night. Pleading a headache,
he turned down two invitations to dine. All he wanted was some hours free of the pomposity that now filled his days—and would
until the bishops came to some consensus.

Once he returned to his house in Ballinrigh, he went straight to his wardrobe chamber where Thomas was waiting to help him
divest. Thomas was, perhaps, the only individual to whom Elon could speak his mind freely. Time had proved that Thomas knew
how to guard his tongue.

“You should have heard them today, Thomas,” Elon said, as his manservant helped him undo the long row of buttons that closed
the front of his purple cassock. “They sat around making as much noise as a bunch of hens in a barnyard—and accomplishing
about as much, too. Who
cares
if the House of Caethal gave us ‘Good King Stephan’ sixteen reigns ago? We need to look to the
next
King, not the past ones.”

Thomas said nothing as he eased the cassock from Elon’s shoulders, put it aside to be aired and pressed, and held out the
bishop’s dressing gown. Elon shrugged it on and knotted the belt around his lean waist.

“And you should hear of the candidates we’re offered,”
he continued. “To listen to the bishops talk, you’d have to believe that every one of the Barons is more pious than the last.
Each one of them has promised great things for the Church—
if
we support his right to be King. I say, if they are so very devout, why don’t they make these offerings or build these shrines
regardless of the succession?”

Elon turned to see Thomas smiling knowingly. The sight drained away some of Elon’s frustration with the day, and he began
to see some of the humor Thomas obviously did.

“Yes, I know,” he said. “I want
my
Baron on the throne, too. But at least Giraldus doesn’t pretend a piety he does not feel—and we’d get a strong warrior besides.
He’d make an adequate King on his own, and with myself and Lady Aurya to back him, he’ll make a
great
one.”

“Do you think you can get the other bishops to support him?” Thomas asked as he hung up Elon’s mozzetta and brought down the
box to put away the bishop’s biretta.

Elon shook his head. “Not yet… but in time. I thought I’d let them argue for a while and keep Giraldus’s name out of it. When
it becomes clear that they will reach no other agreement—then I’ll speak out. Perhaps, then, they’ll be ready to hear what
I have to say… or enough of them will, anyway.”

“And if they’re not?”

Elon turned and looked Thomas in the eyes. “As I said, Thomas, Giraldus is a strong warrior.
He
will be King—and
I
will be Archbishop. If I cannot reason my brother bishops into their support, there are… other means.”

Elon could see that Thomas understood exactly what he meant. In the quarter of a century they had been together, many things
had come to be understood between them. Just as Thomas alone, of all Elon’s servants or other
acquaintances, knew the bishop’s active interest in the occult, Elon knew the secrets of Thomas’s past.

Quiet, capable, subservient Thomas was the son of an outlaw and had ridden in his father’s band for several years; he had
robbed, raped—and murdered—along with them. Then, at twenty-three, Thomas had left that life, changed his name, and set out
on his own to find an honest means of living. Through a series of other jobs and chance encounters, he had finally come to
Elon’s attention.

The newly appointed Bishop-ordinary of Kilgarriff engaged Thomas as a body servant and dresser. But it was not long before
Elon realized there was more to his new hireling than had first appeared. Something in the way he kept himself apart sparked
Elon’s curiosity until, finally, he called upon several of the private contacts he already held throughout the provinces to
discover the secrets hidden within Thomas’s habit of silence.