The Thirteenth Scroll (39 page)

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.

The activity around her increased to a fever pitch while she thought of Aghamore—the
new
Aghamore under her rule. Someday, and soon, the entire kingdom would be rebuilt, reborn, into
her
vision of what it should be.

And that vision began here, now, with the obedience she commanded.

She smiled as the noise began to fade away. Rhys approached, leading her horse.

“M’lady,” he said, breathlessly, “Lord Giraldus is waiting for you.”

Aurya nodded, then mounted and wheeled her horse to the side of a soldier carrying one of the torches that would light their
ride. She was not going to be held back by someone else’s pace. On this ride, she intended to
lead
the way.

Without ceremony, she took the torch from out his hand and lifted it high. “To Caerryck,” she shouted.

Then she dug her heels into her horse’s sides and it sprang forward, swiftly moving into the gallop she craved. Torch held
aloft, she sped down the road, racing to meet the destiny she had come to claim and would not be denied.

T
hey did not hear Cloud-Dancer’s first soft whine. But his second, third, his fourth—each growing louder—finally interrupted
the hesitant interview between Renan and the young novice who named herself Selia.

Renan’s eyes flew to Lysandra. He saw her fingers digging their way into Cloud-Dancer’s fur as if trying to hold on to the
life she was in danger of losing. The wolf’s blue eyes looked up and met Renan’s own.

And Renan
knew
.

He did not care now about Selia; he did not care about the scroll, about their mission or their goal or who Selia might or
might not be. He cared only that Lysandra needed him. Dropping to his knees beside her, Renan took her hand into his own and
began calling Lysandra’s name, urging her to come back—to life, to this place…
to him
.

A few seconds later, Talog was also there. He, too, began to call to Lysandra, speaking to her in the strangely melodic language
of the Cryf. Renan absently recognized a few of the words—but it did not matter what Talog was saying. Renan could feel how
the young Cryf, too, was doing all he could for Lysandra’s sake.

But it was not enough. Though the fingers of her hand moved, though Cloud-Dancer’s whine and actions all seemed to promise
Lysandra was still there, buried inside her inert form but wanting to be freed—nothing more happened. Renan wanted to scream,
to rage with his frustration that he could do no more; he wanted to weep at his own helplessness to save the woman he loved.

Then, suddenly, Selia was there. Without a word, she knelt beside him and took the hand Renan had been holding. Then, still
saying nothing, she bowed her head and closed her eyes.

Everyone in the room became silent. Like Renan, all they could do now was wait.

Inside Lysandra, the war for her life continued. She heard Cloud-Dancer’s whine; loud and glorious, it was the beautiful sound
of his love for her. It became her one
channel of strength and she tightened the grip of her fingers in his fur.

Then came another sound, sweet and welcome, too. Renan’s voice was calling her, speaking her name over and over. His touch
on her hand was like fire and ice; burning and then soothing the burn, freezing and then warming away the cold.

His voice, his touch, also empowered her to fight. She demanded back the possession of her body, her life—her soul.

Finally, she heard Talog’s voice added to Renan’s. Though she did not understand all of his words, she heard him call her
Healer,
Meddig
, and speak the name of the Divine,
Diwinydd Creawdwr
. But it did not matter what else he said or that she did not understand him, for she heard him with her heart rather than
her ears. He put a hand upon her arm, lending his strength to her battle.

Soundlessly, Lysandra’s soul screamed into the blackness, demanding her right to
Be
. Motionlessly, she clawed and kicked, gouged and fought the suffocating pressure that was telling her to give up. It whispered
into her with thoughts more felt than heard, that she had nothing waiting,
was
nothing; told her to let go of the struggle, to let herself float where she was free of pain and need and sorrow.

Then, suddenly, Renan’s voice and touch were gone. All was silence again.

Into the silence, into the Darkness, came a presence. It was unknown to Lysandra, and yet…

… It called to her from the spark of Light in the distance; it beckoned to her, giving her new strength to fight again.

Lysandra felt the Darkness lift a little. The Light strengthened. It came, pouring hope into her weariness.
And with that hope, Lysandra recognized the Light for what it was.