The Thirteenth Scroll (13 page)

The statues, like the rest of the church, showed their age. Though the parish was obviously poor and refurbishments rare,
it was a place where care had been taken with such things as were here. The frontal on the altar, though somewhat threadbare,
was clean and precisely hung; the pews, where hands and bodies had over the years worn away the finish, had been cleaned and
polished with beeswax that added its sweet scent to the room. The floors were swept and the candles new. The air held a hint
of old incense, as if over the years it had been absorbed by the wood and stone. It was pleasant to breathe, like a whisper
of spice barely tasted on the tongue.

Lysandra sat back and closed her eyes, breathing in deeply, taking in the atmosphere of human care and divine peace; this
church felt like a spiritual home.

A little sound, a shuffling of feet across the floor, disturbed
the silence that cradled Lysandra’s thoughts. Suddenly she knew she was not alone. Yet she felt no threat—nor was Cloud-Dancer
wary; relaxed and content, he sat by her side, leaning familiarly against her legs as if they had been sitting in the sunlight
or before the fire at home.

Lysandra’s blind eyes could tell her nothing, but her
Sight
explored the shadows by the altar. There to the left, by the little door that led into the sacristy—that shadow held a physical
presence. Like Cloud-Dancer, she could sense nothing sinister. In fact, she sensed nothing at all except silence and peace.

Someone
was
there; she knew it as a certainty—and yet, throughout the last decade of this often useful, often unwanted sensitivity to
the thoughts and feelings of others, she had rarely been near another human without hearing something, some echo of their
mind.

But from this person there was still nothing. It was as if a shield was dropped between them, a barrier of protection.
For whose benefit?
she wondered.

Shadow within shadow moved. A moment later a man stepped out into the softly flickering light. Suddenly, Lysandra’s
Sight
blazed to new clarity, as if the candle flames were tiny suns, illuminating the room with the brilliance of midday. As the
man walked from within the sanctuary of the altar toward her, all the color and detail that had once been such a rarity to
her
Sight
came upon her again.

Lysandra let her
Sight
extend to envelop him. He was a priest, dressed in the long black clerical cassock that was the basic garb of his Office.
He had left a neat pile draped over the altar rail as he passed, and Lysandra saw that they were the vestments he would don
before service.

Although she could not feel his mind—a sensation that
was both welcome and disconcerting—she could
see
him clearly. He was perhaps ten years older than she, the first strands of silver sprinkled among the dark brown hair at
his temples. His eyes, deep brown with tiny flecks of green and gold, were full of gentleness and compassion. His face was
clean-shaven, his lips full and drawn back in a small smile, the kind that invited confidences without fear of recrimination.

He slid into the pew in front of Lysandra, turned so he could face her. “Hello,” he said. “I’m Father Renan. That’s a beautiful
animal. What’s his name?”

Father Renan spoke as if the sight of a wolf in his parish was commonplace. It startled Lysandra—but not as much as the sound
of his voice. It was familiar, yet Lysandra knew she had never met him before.

“This is Cloud-Dancer,” Lysandra answered as her hand slid down his shoulders. Her
Sight
told her of Father Renan’s reaction to Cloud-Dancer; by her touch, she was trying to feel the wolf’s reaction to the priest.

Cloud-Dancer sat peacefully. His ears were pitched slightly forward, but with an attitude of listening curiosity, even eagerness.
He seemed completely at ease with this man’s presence.

In fact, Lysandra realized, Cloud-Dancer was exhibiting less wariness than he ever showed around anyone, save herself; gatekeepers
or shepherd boys, Cloud-Dancer always gave off a feeling of watchfulness, a vigilance in her protection that Lysandra had
come to trust. But here, with Father Renan, the wolf was silently telling her of his total acceptance. Lysandra knew she could
trust this priest as well.

“He’s quite beautiful,” Father Renan was continuing, though he made no move to pet the wolf as he might a
family dog. “Now that I have met your companion, will you tell me your name, too?”

“Lysandra,” she answered him. “We did not mean to disturb you. There were… men… outside.”

Lysandra was uncertain what to say; she was no longer used to small talk. But she knew she wanted to hear more. With each
word, Father Renan’s voice became more familiar; and she was certain that if he spoke long enough she would know where she
had heard it before.

“No need for apologies,” he said. “You are, of course, welcome here. What good is a church if no one enters? And I am always
glad to see a new face among our small numbers.”

Father Renan’s voice was pleasant, light, as if he was truly glad to see her. Although a part of Lysandra was glad to be here,
Surely
, she thought,
I wasn’t drawn to Ballinrigh just so I could sit and make idle conversation
.

From the way he was watching her, Lysandra had the feeling Father Renan knew something she did not. Before she could say anything
else, however, he rose.

“Evensong will start soon, and I must finish getting ready,” he said. “Please stay. We’ll talk more after the service.”

Before Lysandra could reply, he turned and went back to the altar, leaving her still wondering who he really was and why she
was here.

While Father Renan busied himself at the altar, Lysandra looked again around the little church. The clarity of her
Sight
was failing; colors were turning to indeterminate shadows, details giving way to misty outlines. With a sigh, she accepted
the change.

Then, as the first of the parishioners came quietly through the door, outlines were swallowed by darkening fog. Blindness
came to her again. She did not try to change
it by borrowing Cloud-Dancer’s vision. As her
Sight
withdrew, she felt a need for the darkness, a need to have external distraction cease so that she could find herself again.

Only half-listening, she heard other feet shuffle through the door, some pausing at the statue in the narthex as she had done,
before coming into the nave and finding their places to sit or kneel. Lysandra smelled the odor of bodies coming from their
day’s labor, heard the whisper of personal prayer.

Finally, Father Renan turned toward the congregation. His voice, full and melodious now, began the first chant of Evensong.

“
The Lord is in his holy temple; let all the earth keep silence before Him.

“
Let my prayer be set forth in thy sight as incense; and let the lifting up of my hands be an evening sacrifice.…”

The evening Office continued. Lysandra’s eyes were closed as the ancient words and chants washed over her. Their timeless
simplicity filled her soul, and carried her, floating, to a place were questions no longer existed and answers no longer needed
to be found. The parishioners chanting, soft and uncertain even in their familiarity, held together by the confident thread
of Father Renan’s voice.

Father Renan’s voice
…

Suddenly Lysandra
knew
. This was the voice she had heard in her dream, night after night, sometimes as soft as a breath, sometimes loud with urgent
pleading. Father Renan’s voice…

It was all too strange. Lysandra wanted to get up, leave this church and this city, to turn her back on whatever
perverse fate had governed her life thus far. But she could not make her body move.

Evensong is not a long service. It is a gentle closing down toward sleep, a time of quiet thanksgiving for having made it
through the demands and confusions of another day. Even with Father Renan’s homily, the last prayer was soon said, and the
people began to leave the church with the same respectful silence they had entered.

All through Evensong, Lysandra had tried to
sense
Father Renan. The other people around her were easy to understand. She felt emotions; she knew who was here from devotion
and who from habit. But Father Renan remained as closed to her as if he were not there. Only his voice confirmed his continuing
presence.

Lysandra had found the service refreshing to her tired spirit, and although most of the thoughts and emotions around her had
been focused on the single, peace-filled purpose of worship, she was glad to have the people go. Now, perhaps, some of her
questions might be answered.

As the last of the congregation exited, a state of nearly perfect silence descended on the church. The thick stone walls blocked
the noise from the city and the only sound within was that of Father Renan finishing his post-service ablutions at the altar.

Lysandra put her hand on Cloud-Dancer’s head to borrow his vision. When the moment of transition passed, she saw Father Renan
coming down the central aisle. He still wore that half-expressed smile on his face. Now it broadened slightly as he again
slipped into the pew in front of her and turned around to face her.

“I’m glad you stayed,” he said. “I believe we have things to talk about.”

He knows
, Lysandra’s thoughts exploded in glad circles.

“My rectory behind the church is small, but it’s clean and well provisioned, thanks to the generosity of the people who worship
here. Let us go find something to nourish our bodies before we fill our minds.”

“Please,” Lysandra began, not wanting to wait a moment longer. “I need to know.”

“And so you shall,” Father Renan replied, his voice both patient and encouraging. “But what I must tell you will take some
time. It is best done where we can be comfortable.”

Lysandra could tell there would be no rushing Father Renan in his tale. She stood, ready to follow the priest. After so long,
she told herself, what was a few more minutes, even an hour’s further wait?

It is an eternity
, her heart cried as she and Cloud-Dancer walked behind Father Renan toward the little set of rooms he called home.

A
urya and Giraldus had left the province of Kilgarriff. They were passing through the northern portion of Urlar, carefully
avoiding the larger towns where
they might be recognized, on their way to the mountain passes between Urlar and Lininch. Aurya was certain that their final
destination was to be Rathreagh, the northernmost province of Aghamore, and there were certainly more direct routes. But she
was carefully following the directions from the scroll and was just as certain it was directing them to Lininch.

Or so she hoped. The words of Tambryn were often ambiguous at best. Using all her past experience, she thought she understood
most of them and kept any doubts she still felt to herself.

They had taken rooms in the little town of Wexlay. Aurya sat with the map of Aghamore spread out before her… and once more
Giraldus was arguing about her decisions.

“I don’t understand you,” he was saying, his voice a snarl of impatience. “First you say we must hurry to find this… this…
Wisdom-something—“

“Font of Wisdom,” Aurya supplied quietly. Giraldus just grunted in response.

“Whatever,” he said with a dismissive wave. “And you say we must go north—but you’re taking us a damnedably roundabout way
to get there. If we must go with such haste, then let’s go
directly
.”

“No,” Aurya said with a sigh. She would
again
try to explain.

“Tambryn gave these directions for a
reason
, Giraldus,” she said, trying to sound more patient than she felt. “I don’t know what the reasons are—yet—but there must be
something we’re supposed to find or do by going this route, something that will make a difference.”

“What could we possibly gain by going into Lininch to get to Rathreagh? I still say it doesn’t make any sense.”

“Make sense or not, it’s the way we’re going,” Aurya
snapped, finally losing the fragile hold on her temper. She closed her eyes and breathed in deeply, slowly… once… twice…

Once she felt herself becoming centered again, she opened her eyes and looked again at Giraldus. “We must go into Lininch,
to Yembo. The scroll clearly states that we must find
’the water that runs between the tall hollows where the children sing.’
Think, Giraldus—Yembo is known for the river that flows through the heart of the town. Every year in the spring, when the
birds return from their winter lands, Yembo holds a festival at the entrance to the city. I’ve been there and seen it. The
Eastern Gate of the city, that they call the Water-Gates, are built over where the river flows into the harbor. The Gates
form a great arched bridge and on either side are tall, carved columns, hollowed to make homes for the returning birds. At
the base of the columns, the city meets for the opening of their spring festival. The biggest event is the city’s children’s
choir. They sing at dawn on the first of May. We
must
get to Yembo, and we must get there in time for the festival.”

Giraldus did not look pleased as he headed for the door. “If you’re wrong,” he said, his hand on the latch, “it had better
not cost me the throne.”

He jerked the door open and left, pulling it shut with a slam behind him. Aurya was glad to see him go. The downstairs of
this inn was a public house, and there he could drink himself into a better humor while she studied the scroll and the map
in peace, trying to be certain she had missed nothing.

Although her words to Giraldus had sounded sure, the truth was that this was one of the places in the scroll that Aurya was
working on guesses and probabilities. She was taking them by the only route she could connect with the
descriptions in the scroll. The festival at Yembo was famous throughout Aghamore, but had it been so during the time of Tambryn?
If not, was the description based on some vision of the future the prophet had seen?