The Thirteenth Scroll (7 page)

Gingerly, Elon turned the time-brittled pages, concentrating as he scanned the faded ink. It had taken him years to learn
this language, and still he was not certain he understood all of its nuances and applications.

But he knew that Aurya’s will was too strong and her magic too powerful for her to be entrapped by a simple trick of voice.
He found the pages for which he was searching, the words just following the ritual he had used all those years ago on Aileen.
Now he began to read more carefully, his mind translating it into the familiar.

“
…and in the child of this union the strength of Leshtau will be found. Mortal concerns will trouble it not. Power shall rain
from its fingers; the mighty darkness of Leshtau shall fill its soul
.

But beware, for such power as Leshtau gives can destroy the weak-hearted and all those who have called his power forth. Be
therefore warned. Do not call upon Leshtau with less than a heart of mighty courage. Once called forth, the power of Leshtau
cannot be banished. Take care, then, to control what has been created
.

Yes, Elon thought, control was what he wanted.

If thou wilt control the creature of this union, it is a fearful undertaking. Leshtau requires sacrifice of soul and
of blood; and let the sacrifice be made in this manner and none other. To falter in the sacrifice is eternal death and pain
in the belly of the all-consuming Leshtau
.

Elon’s heart was pounding now, and his mouth had gone dry. He took a sip from the goblet of wine at his elbow, both intrigued
and repelled by what he was reading. But he could not turn his eyes away. Blood sacrifice was one area into which he had not
delved. The idea now captured his imagination. What would it be like, he wondered, to hold a living creature in his hands
and know its life or death was solely his undertaking?

Could he do it? Did he have the courage to plunge a knife into a living breast, to feel the blood run body-hot upon his hands
and give sacrifice to this god who claimed all dark power as his own? The question raised a hunger for arcane power that was
like a living, gnawing creature inside his belly.

But this hunger was not an answer of itself. So far in his life the only power close to magic he had exhibited was the ability
to use his voice and entrance those who were weak-willed or already predisposed to believe in and follow him. Blood sacrifice
to summon and then control dark power might well need a magic he did not possess.

Or it might give it
, a little voice within him whispered.
The channel to all you desire might be on these next pages
.

Late into the night Elon studied the text, but nothing he found assured him that without already wielding magic, he could
either summon or command the power of which it spoke. Yet he could not give up on the idea. He had many other sources through
which he could search; somewhere within them, he would find the secret that would allow him to manipulate even Aurya, should
the need arise.

Finally, his eyes now gritty and refusing to focus, he stumbled to his bedchamber and threw himself, still fully clothed,
across the bed. But sleep eluded him. His mind was churning with all he had read and the many possibilities stretching before
him.

He had long ago realized that he lacked the type of faith he saw in his brother clergy. Their simpering timidity nauseated
him. What they called humility, he called the lack of courage to
live
… and to accept the consequences. He had entered the Church not for any true vocation, but as the only path to power, to education,
riches, and authority open to him as a younger son of a merchant. Such a practice was not uncommon, and Elon’s keen mind and
sharp wit had quickly realized that if he played the game carefully, he would eventually gain everything he craved.

He did acknowledge the existence of God—perhaps of
all
the gods. He also believed that the Power of Darkness, and its minions, was present and active in this world. Experience
had shown him that in the eternal battle between the Light and the Dark, Darkness most often won. In
this
life, anyway… and this life was all Elon cared about. His immortal soul, if indeed he had one, did not concern him. He wanted
power now, while he could make it serve him.

When at last he arose, bleary-eyed and irritable from lack of sleep, he had made a reluctant decision. To learn the way of
the blood sacrifice, to perfect and understand its many nuances, would take time he did not have. If one Baron did not rise
supreme—and quickly—Aghamore would surely erupt in civil war. Now that Elon had so firmly thrown his support behind Giraldus,
he intended to make certain that Kilgarriff was the next High King and ruling House of Aghamore.

Of course, Giraldus was a warrior, a formidable one, and in such a war he might well be the victor.
But men are killed in wars
, Elon thought as he finished his breakfast and went into the official study to begin the work of the day.
And Giraldus is not invincible
.

But Giraldus was not the problem. It was Aurya—beautiful, powerful, and stubborn Aurya. If he was not going to try the dark
ritual, he must still find some way to ensure his control of her. Even after they found and destroyed the child, she could
still cost them the throne, and if she continued in her refusal to at least publicly conform—in private she could do as she
wished, as he did—she could put them all in danger.

He hoped he had made that clear enough the last time they had met. Of course, he had tried to say it in temperate, if logical,
terms so that her inflexibility did not ruin everything before it had begun. Years of dealing with royalty and Ruling Houses
had taught him that necessity—and though Aurya was not royalty yet, she certainly had the temperament for it.

Yes, the time to act was
Now
, as soon as was possible. When Aurya and Giraldus returned, he must have found a means of mastery—and if other spells failed,
the blood sacrifice would be waiting.

Seated now at his desk, he surveyed the pile of correspondence before him and curled his lip in disdain. These letters, petitions
for some gift or favor, were generally ones his secretaries had sent on to him because they required his personal attention.
This morning, however, he was in no mood for such trivial duties. He wanted to return to the ancient writings and to the search
that had so fascinated him last night.

Elon was about to summon his secretary and make
some excuse—
perhaps illness
, he thought—when there was a knock on his office door.

“Come in,” he called, wondering who would be disturbing him at this hour of the morning. He did not usually receive visitors
until afternoon. Elon recognized the young monk who entered as one of the Archbishop’s many clerks.

“Brother Naal,” he said as he rose, employing the talent for remembering names that always worked to his advantage. “What
brings you here?”

The young monk kissed the ring Elon held out to him. His surprise that the bishop had remembered him showed on his face.

“’Tis my parents’ anniversary and His Holiness the Archbishop gave me leave to go visit them,” he said. “His Holiness asked
only that I deliver this letter on my way.”

The monk reached into one of the deep pockets of his plain brown habit and brought forth a letter. Elon looked at the crest
that had been pressed into the hot wax seal. Beneath the official crest was a smaller indent. It was the Archbishop’s private
seal and meant this letter was from the Primus’s own hand.

Elon made no move to open it. Instead he again held out his hand so that Brother Naal could kiss the ring and be dismissed.

“Thank you, Brother,” Elon said to the monk as he genuflected. “If I might also ask a favor of you….”

“Anything, Your Grace,” Brother Naal said.

“Then after you have seen your parents, will you come back here on your return journey to Ballinrigh. I might have an answer
that needs to be taken to His Holiness.”

“It will not be until tomorrow, Your Grace.”

“Perfect,” Elon replied. “Until tomorrow then, Brother.
Tell your parents I will ask a special blessing upon them in today’s Mass.”

“Oh, thank you, Your Grace,” Brother Naal said, his face beaming with true delight. “I know that will please them greatly.”

What can the old fool want now?
he wondered as he sliced open the letter. Because they carried the Archbishop’s personal seal, letters such as this demanded
his immediate attention—but they were often filled with such trivialities that Elon had grown to hate opening them. He heaved
a small, impatient sigh as he unfolded the letter and scanned it.

This one was not so trivial. He was summoned to Ballinrigh for a special meeting of the College of Bishops concerning the
succession. This he had been expecting, but underneath the official wording of the document, the Archbishop had written a
personal message in his wavering, spidery hand.

I have heard a strange tale, my son
, it began,
that you have been visiting an enemy of the Church. I’m certain there is a good reason, but remember St. Paul says we are
to avoid not only evil, but also the
appearance
of evil. Send word to me as soon as you reach Ballinrigh. I will make certain we have time to talk privately. I want to put
this matter to rest before the meeting begins
.

Elon sat back in his chair and stared at the letter. He had no doubt to what visit it was referring.
So
, he thought,
someone has been carrying tales. I wonder who—and to whom else they have been talking
.

He did not fool himself by thinking he had no enemies; power always came at a cost. He was glad anew that in their correspondence,
Aurya had arranged their plausible—and
witnessed
, yes, that was the important
part—reason for the visit. He now had something that would satisfy even the Archbishop.

The meeting of the College of Bishops was set for four days hence; to get there a day early, he would have to leave tomorrow.
Disappointed, Elon knew he would have to postpone any other, more interesting… activities… until his return. But he would
take some of his books with him and when not otherwise occupied with official business or the Archbishop’s requests, he would
continue his search.

We’ll leave tomorrow after Brother Naal returns
, Elon’s thoughts continued.
Then he can travel with us—and take a report about our piety back to the Archbishop, and to whomever else has employed him
. Elon grinned sardonically.
That was, no doubt, part of the Archbishop’s plan. Well, let the little monk report every detail. He shall see nothing from
me or mine that is the least bit questionable
.

He would let his houseman, Johann, see to the packing, and his body servants would know what clothing, both personal and religious,
must be taken. But there were some articles he would trust to only one other set of hands but his own. Tonight, when the rest
of the household was asleep, he would have Thomas help him with the books he would take with him. He could trust Thomas to
see them safely, and secretly, stored, and just as safely unpacked in Ballinrigh.

His own life was embarking on a journey far more important—and more dangerous—than this trip to Aghamore’s capital. What he
was doing was a gamble. But if he played it right, he could win everything. If he played it wrong… he could lose far more
than his office.

Elon smiled again.
That is what makes it worth doing
,
he thought. A life safe and secure, going through the same motions throughout endless days of boredom, was only death while
still breathing. Elon knew what he wanted. He wanted it all—to
have
it all,
feel
it all,
be
it all… and
risk
it all. Win or lose, only by this would he be satisfied.

Aurya slept nearly twelve hours. When she awoke, she was both ravenous and clearheaded. Her certainty had not left her after
all. She and Giraldus would succeed; he would be King, and she would be at his side—directing, advising,
ruling
the man who ruled the kingdom. Elon’s words about the need for marriage ran briefly through her mind, causing her to frown.
But she dismissed them just as quickly. Time enough to think on them later, once they had taken care of the child—and only
if she was certain there was no other way to succeed.

Ah, yes
, she thought as she stretched beneath the covers, her smile returning,
success is the best revenge
.

It was all her revenge on all those who had made her childhood years a time of sorrow and loneliness… or had until she discovered
her gift. It was magic that became her true and faithful companion—and she needed none other.

She stretched again, knowing she should rise, bathe, and dress, so that she and Giraldus could begin their final preparation
to depart. But the cradling comfort of her warm bed held her. Surely, after all her hard work of the last few days she could
allow herself a few extra moments of luxury. Once they rode away from this fortress, who knew how long it would be before
she again had such an opportunity. She snuggled farther down into the bed and engaged in her favorite—and very private—pastime
of picturing what her life would be like when she and Giraldus had gained the crown.

It was daydreams that had gotten Aurya through her childhood. They were her companions when the cruelty of other children
became too much to bear; they were her comfort when her mother, consumed by the guilt of conceiving a child outside of holy
wedlock, turned away from Aurya as the proof of her sin.

It was her dreams that led Aurya to wander the hills outside the town—and in those hills she had met Kizzie. Some called Kizzie
wild, others said she was mad, but she was the first one to recognize Aurya’s potential.

Kizzie
. Once more Aurya smiled as she pictured the old woman’s coarse gray hair, forever coming free from Kizzie’s attempts to bind
it, giving her a wild, unkempt look that fed the rumors about her madness.