The Thirteenth Scroll (34 page)

“But why here?” Renan asked.

“Thou truly knowest not?” Talog asked in return, his voice both sad and surprised.

Renan shook his head.
When all of this is over
, he promised himself,
I’m going to return to the Realm and ask Eiddig to tell me all the stories. If they’re not already written down, they should
be
.

“Onto this place thou callest Ag-ha-more,” Talog continued, “was the Hand of the Divine laid and power given. There be but
few places in this world where such power
abideth. It dwelleth within the land, the water, the air, the plants, and all that doth live.

“In the first times, when the Voice of the Divine was heard by all, the power that dwelleth in this land was freely felt and
freely used. When the greed was born unto thy kind and many turned away from the Path of the Divine, then did some use the
power of this land unto their own evil deeds. Then were born such places as we did encounter. Deed upon evil deed did gather
the darkness unto these places, and the darkness twisteth the Gift of the Divine, marring the beauty that was first created
and meant to dwell there.

“The Divine speaketh not to those who will not hear nor taketh the heart withheld. Thus did the Voice of the Divine cease
to be heard, save by the few, and the power within this land was soon forgotten, for what hath been forgotten may not in evil
be used.

“But the Cryf remember, for unto us was it given to remember, and always we guard the Truth. The Divine Hand is laid upon
the Realm of the Cryf. No power may enter unto the Realm nor touch upon the Cryf. This hath the Divine given unto us. Thus
Darkness may not enter unto our hearts and we remain ever true unto the Will of the Divine.”

Power
, Renan thought, wondering at Talog’s use of the word.
What kind of power is in the land, the air… does he mean
magic?
There is magic in everything here, but it cannot touch the Cryf? If that is true, Talog may have just saved… everything
.

Renan smiled and leaned forward as he began to question the young Cryf, wanting to know everything Talog could tell him.

* * *

Another day lost
, Aurya thought with frustration. It had taken all day to ride from Fintra to outside Diamor, where Giraldus’s men were waiting.
Now it was too dark to travel, and the time they were losing made Aurya fume with annoyance.

She begrudged every second lost not looking for the child. A part of her whispered to use the spell and force Giraldus to
order his men to break camp and head north with her at once. But there were no fresh mounts waiting along the road for them.
These horses, which they had ridden across the kingdom and halfway back, had to be treated with care.

At least there’s fire and food
, she thought as she and Giraldus entered the soldiers’ camp. In truth, she was glad of both, and glad to see that the soldiers
had erected tents—including the large one bearing Giraldus’s arms with which he usually traveled. Although it would proclaim
Giraldus’s identity to any who saw it, it would also provide shelter and far more comfort.

The weather had been cool and damp all day, and two hours earlier it had begun to drizzle. The soft but constant rain had
saturated Aurya’s cloak and begun to seep through her clothes. It was not unseasonable weather for the northern part of the
kingdom, but it was uncomfortable.

As they entered the camp, the soldiers scrambled to their feet, two of them rushing to take the horses. Their leader, Sergeant
Maelik, did not rush. He swaggered a bit, as if confident of his master’s approval.

Which he had. He and Giraldus greeted each other as the old friends and comrades-in-arms that they were. They had known each
other since childhood, had been often partnered when training as young men, whether with sword or bow or staff, or lance and
quintain. Side by side
they had also fought in such campaigns as a kingdom most often at peace had to offer—which was not enough for either of them.

When she and Giraldus had first become lovers, Aurya had felt a little jealous of the special bond the years had forged between
them. But now, after nearly a decade, she regarded Maelik with a sense of familiar ease, even trust.

“God’s Blood—it’s good to see you, Maelik,” Giraldus said as he all but vaulted from his stallion’s back and strode forward
to grasp the sergeant by the shoulders. “What a time we had getting here, I tell you.”

“Aye?” Maelik replied, gripping Giraldus’s shoulders just as warmly in the rough male substitute for an embrace. “My men and
I’ve been ‘ere for two days, waitin’.”

“My stallion threw a shoe in some God-forsaken hole,” Giraldus explained as he went to help Aurya from her saddle. “It might
not have been so bad if the local ale had tasted better. Like warm horse piss it was—and the food was little better.”

“Well, we’ve ale with us,” Maelik said, “and wine for m’lady. Young Rhys here would na’ let us leave without ‘em. ‘E said
you and Lady Aurya ‘ad been traveling long enough and would want a taste of your own. ‘E’s who insisted we bring your tent,
too. We put it up as soon as this blasted rain began. There even be a bit of a fire on the brazier so’s it’d be warm and the
damp’d be gone.”

“Well, bless you for that,” Aurya said as she, now dismounted, nodded a greeting to the sergeant. “But just how many others
know where we are?”

“No ‘un knows exactly, m’lady,” Maelik answered. “I didna even tell my men until we was well under way. I only told young
Rhys we was ordered to ride out and meet you so’s ’e could order up our supplies from the
kitchens. Me orders was to tell no one, and obey them I did.”

“Of course you did,” Giraldus boomed. “I had no doubt otherwise. Now, where’s that ale—and food? We’ve been astride too many
hours, and it’s only my outside that’s wet. My throat’s as parched as an August day.”

Aurya let Giraldus and Maelik lead the way to the fire, staying quiet and watchful while Giraldus greeted the soldiers. He
called each one by name, using the big, blustery voice he only used around his men.

And the men responded, as they always did to his presence, with a mixture of obedient deference and camaraderie. Here, Aurya
knew, was where Giraldus felt most at ease—in the field with his soldiers rather than in a court or conference room. Although
he was competent enough when he put his mind to it, the truth was that Giraldus was also quickly bored, and he was only too
happy to turn what he considered the tedious matters of government over to Aurya. And in these, she excelled—making them again
a perfect match for each other.

And when Giraldus is King
, Aurya thought as she accepted the wine that was brought to her and settled back to watch the interplay between the Baron
and his men,
he can go off and play soldier all he wants. Perhaps he can invade a neighbor or two and expand the kingdom. That should keep
him busy and away from the throne for a while—as long as he names me Regent in his absence
.

“No, m’lord,” Maelik was now telling Giraldus. “We’ve seen no one. Not even the villagers have come out this way. O’ course,
there’s naught but bogs if you go much away from ‘ere.”

Good
, Aurya thought.
Then we’re still ahead of
The Others,
whomever they are. This is the only road here, and no one would be foolish enough to travel through
boglands. Or, if they were, then no doubt the bogs have taken care of them for me
.

Aurya allowed herself a small, triumphant smile behind the rim of her wine cup. To these soldiers, as to the people of Kilgarriff—
and soon all of Aghamore
, she thought—she was ever implacable.
Enigmatic… mysterious… inscrutable… as unmovable and impenetrable as stone
—Aurya did not care which of these or the many other descriptions of herself she had overheard throughout the years, people
cared to use. They all meant the same thing to her. They all meant that she had succeeded in her efforts to be unreadable,
if she chose… which most often she did. It was only with Giraldus, and sometimes with Bishop Elon, that she would let her
guard down—and never often enough for either of them to think they knew her completely.

Giraldus’s easy, outgoing manner might work well enough with his men—or with the people in a tavern or at a faire—but it would
not aid them when he was High King.
He might wear the crown
, Aurya thought,
but
I
will rule
.

She watched the way the soldiers grew a trifle uneasy beneath her stare. She saw the way even her slightest movement sent
them hurrying to appease her needs. They brought her food and more wine without being asked, fetched her a dry cloak and built
up the fire for her comfort, all while Giraldus gulped his ale, joked and chatted but was left mostly to fend for his own
needs. It was a feeling she liked.

In those moments Aurya acknowledged a decision her heart had been whispering for several days. She would
never
fully remove the Spell of Obedience from Giraldus. Oh, she would use it carefully, delicately and skillfully, but she would
never remove it.

And Elon?
she asked herself.
When Giraldus names him Archbishop, shall I do the same to him?

Yes
, her heart whispered gleefully. Then both thrones of Aghamore, secular and sacred, would be hers to control.

“Tell me, Sergeant Maelik,” she said, setting her now empty platter aside. It was instantly removed by the soldier sitting
nearest her, toward whom she barely spared a glance. “Do you know Rathreagh at all?”

“Nay, m’lady,” he replied. “But young Rhys ‘ere, ‘e does. That be why ‘e’s ‘ere.”

The sergeant motioned toward a soldier sitting not too far to Aurya’s left. When she turned to look at him, he immediately
blushed, turning the pale skin beneath a myriad of freckles, ruddy—and reflecting the fiery color of his hair.

“You know Rathreagh?” she asked again.

“Aye, my… m’lady,” he stammered nervously in a voice that was not too long from cracking. “Me grandda’s from this province,
and we’d visit ‘im when we was young.”

“We’re going north, Rhys,” Aurya continued, “far north, to the tip of land that curves out into the sea. Do you know what
towns are out there?”

“Aye, m’lady. Me grandda’s family was all fishermen, far back afore any could remember. The best fishermen in all of Aghamore
come from that part o’ Rathreagh—though there’s not much there what you’d call a town.”

Aurya waved away the last statement as unimportant. “Can you get us there by the shortest and fastest route?” she asked. “Our
map shows the roads, at least the larger ones. But I’m sure the locals have other ways they take, ways only they know.”

“I ‘aven’t been ’ere in a few years, m’lady,” Rhys began
slowly, “but aye—I believe I remember. I can take you by such ways as you mean—and cut a full day or more from the journey.”

Aurya gave the lad one of her rare smiles and watched the look of wonder and delight spread across his face. Once more a ruddy
flush rose up from his neck to his cheeks.

“Thank you, Rhys,” she said, amused. “That is just what I wanted to hear. I will trust you, then, to lead us.”

Rhys’s blush deepened and he lowered his eyes. Aurya nearly laughed. She knew she had just made another conquest, and this
one needed no more magic than a smile.

F
or days now, Elon had spent his evenings courting the favor of Mago of Tievebrack and Gairiad of Sylaun, the two bishops whose
votes would assure Giraldus the Church’s backing in his bid for the throne of Aghamore. Unfortunately, he knew that Bresal
of Rathreagh and his cohort, Dwyer of Camlough, were working just as hard to keep Giraldus off the throne. And they had far
less prejudice to overcome; it is always easier to convince someone that his original opinion is right than to try and make
him change it.

Elon’s one consolation was that the College of Bishops was no nearer giving their support to any other Baron. Perhaps even
less near, since he had surprised them all with the story of Aurya’s “conversion.”

So far, Thomas had been unable to uncover anything useful about either Mago or Gairiad. Gairiad had entered the Religious
life at the age of ten, a youngest son promised to the Church at birth, in accordance with tradition. But in Gairiad the vocation
seemed to be genuine. He had been ordained a priest at twenty, served as curate, then priest, going happily wherever he was
assigned, finally returning to serve as Abbot to his Community before being elected Bishop-Ordinary of Camlough. His life
appeared to be just as colorless and uninteresting as Elon found the man to be.

As for Mago of Tievebrack, his idealism not only bored Elon, it showed just how little Mago knew of the real world and the
people in it. But it was this very idealism Elon was now preying upon. It gave him a better chance of success with Mago than
Gairiad’s colorless perfection.

Elon and Mago were seated before a small fire in the study of Elon’s house in Ballinrigh. This was not his private study;
this room was on the main floor and displayed all the expected trappings of a Prelate of the Church.

The decorations were tasteful, if a little bland for Elon’s personal preference, and the chairs were comfortable. The highlight
of the room’s contents was a beautiful illuminated manuscript of the Gospels, kept under glass so that the colors of the ink
would not fade. Elon had opened it to the third chapter of St. John and the story of the redemption of Nicodemus. Mago had
been drawn to the book as soon as they entered the room, as Elon had known he would be, and the connection between the verses
and
their current situation had not been lost on the young bishop.

Although the calendar said spring was well advanced, the nights could still be chill and the fire was welcome. As they sat
in the comfortable, high-backed chairs, sipping a mellow red wine, it was an easy thing to guide the conversation in the direction
he wanted it to take.