The Thirteenth Scroll (38 page)

“No,” Bresal of Rathreagh shouted, coming to his feet. “I’ll not support putting a witch upon the throne—and make no mistake
all of you, it will be his witch we have ruling us if Giraldus wears the crown.
’Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live.’
I’ll not hand her the kingdom.”

“Bresal,” the Archbishop said sternly, “I call you to the vow of obedience you took at your ordination.”

“Obedience be damned,” Bresal said, his voice hard and final, “for damned is what this kingdom shall be if Giraldus is made
King.”

He turned and stormed from the room, Dwyer of Camlough following as quickly as his immense size would allow. In the shocked
silence, Elon stood. The Archbishop nodded once, giving Elon the floor.

“My brothers,” he said loudly, drawing their attention over the murmurs. “We must not let our brother of Rathreagh’s ill-advised
action overshadow the great thing we have accomplished here today. I know he is doing what he believes to be right, and a
month ago I would have gone with him. But each of us knows the power of redemption and the change that God can cause in a
life. I have seen this change in Baron Giraldus—and especially in Lady Aurya. The Holy Spirit has borne witness to that change
by moving your hearts to support Baron Giraldus as the next High King. We must pray that our brothers of Rathreagh and Camlough
will be also led by the Spirit to
return to their vow of obedience, for the good of the Church, this kingdom, and their own souls.”

Elon sat down again, bowing his head in an attitude of humility and concern. But his thoughts were not on the bishops—not
on those who had left or those still assembled. They were on Giraldus and Aurya, from whom he still had heard nothing.

I’ve done my part
, he thought.
Now just be sure you do yours
.

All through the long day Renan remained awake, guarding the safety of their hidden camp. He did not awaken Talog to take his
turn at watch, but let the Cryf enjoy his unbroken and well-deserved rest. Renan was not certain, by contrast, if Lysandra’s
state could be called slumber—or if it was, as he feared, something different and far more dangerous. She did not adjust her
position on the hard ground; only the rise and fall of her chest showed she still breathed—and that was becoming more and
more shallow.

But if this was magic, why was he not affected? And, if it was not magic, then what else could it be? They had all consumed
the same food and drink, slept in the same places.

As daylight turned to dusk, deepening the darkness in the stone-covered hollow, he gently shook Talog awake. He had thought
about starting a small fire and trying to brew some of the strengthening tea with which Lysandra had started their days, but
he found he had not the heart. Somehow it seemed wrong, like giving up on her, to take over this act she had chosen as a personal
duty.

Instead, he and Talog breakfasted on some of the travel-bread and preserved fish given them by the Cryf, washed down with
plain water. Renan shared their food with
Cloud-Dancer so that the wolf did not have to hunt—not that he showed any inclination to leave Lysandra’s side.

Finally, Renan heard the bell for Vespers. The long sleepless day of waiting made the sound all the sweeter and more welcome.
Only an hour now, he told himself, an hour that, at the end, could mean life or death for Aghamore. But what was more important
to Renan—it could mean life again for Lysandra.

Lysandra slept now without dreams, for even dreams demanded a state of awareness she no longer possessed. Somehow she had
kept moving throughout the night, but when at last they reached the outskirts of Caerryck and she had lain down to rest, she
had fallen into a place where not even dreams existed. She did not have a body or a mind… perhaps, even, for those hours she
did not have a soul.

Lysandra did not stir as the long hours passed. She knew nothing of light or darkness, morning or evening. She did not feel
Renan and Talog carefully maneuver her out of the hollow in which they had made their camp or Renan’s arms as he carried her
into Caerryck.

But something stirred in Lysandra as they entered the little parish church of Saint Peter the Fisherman, and she began the
long upward struggle back toward the light.

Father Peadar was watching, and he quickly motioned them into the church as Renan and the others neared. Then he locked and
barred the door behind them.

“Best take no chances,” he said, turning around to lead the way from the ill-lit narthex into the nave. Here, oil lamps burned
in niches built into the walls, giving a golden illumination to the room that filled it with a charm it lacked in the harsher
light of day.

Renan went to the front of the church and, without waiting for Peadar’s permission, took Lysandra inside the sanctuary of
the altar and gently laid her there, pausing for one brief moment to stare down into her face. He hoped for some sign of resuscitation;
he was not certain what else to do except pray that Divine Mercy would accomplish what he could not.

When he turned around, he found Father Peadar slowly circling Talog, a smile of wonder creasing his already-lined and aged
face as his eyes kept going from the Cryf to Cloud-Dancer and back again.

“By all the saints, ‘tis a wonder—that’s the truth of it,” he said with enthusiasm. “A tame wolf and a whole ‘nother type
of being whose people live underground, ye said. What be ye called, m’lad?”

Talog shot a bewildered, slightly pleading glance at Renan. “His name is Talog,” Renan reminded Father Peadar, “and his people
are the Cryf. You’ll have to speak a bit more… simply.” Renan chose the word with a smile; he had almost said
normally
. “Talog’s vocabulary in our language is still growing.”

“Aye, to be sure. I didna think o’ that. I’m sorry, m’lad,” he said to Talog, curbing his excitement a bit.

Talog still looked confused. “What be ‘mlad’?” he asked. “I am Cryf.”

Father Peadar let out a bark of a laugh that caused Talog to step back. Cloud-Dancer rose, his posture showing he was ready
to spring into defense of Lysandra—or Talog and Renan—if this stranger showed the slightest sign of threat.

While Peadar clamped a contrite hand over his mouth, Renan touched Cloud-Dancer’s head, as he had seen Lysandra do so often,
signaling the wolf that all was well.

“M’lad is another way of saying ‘young man,’ “ Renan
explained to Talog. He kept his voice soft to reassure the Cryf.

“Aye,” Father Peadar said, lowering his voice to a gruff whisper. “Young man be my meanin’, and I’ve never seen yer like.
I’d ask ye more about yerself and yer people, but I know yer time be short. Mayhap someday we’ll meet again and ye can tell
me then.”

Renan cleared his throat. The night was getting away from them and the danger coming closer. He lightly touched Talog’s arm
before the young Cryf could reply.

“We don’t have much time,” he said to Father Peadar. “You said you might be able to help us find the child—“

“Do ye swear by Our Lord and his Blessed Mother, and by yer vows as a priest, that what ye’ve come here for be not evil?”
Father Peadar said sternly. “Swear that, or I’ll no’ help ye further.”

Renan turned to the altar. He picked up the large crucifix and brought it to his lips.

“I do so swear, by the broken body of Our Lord and by all the angels and company of heaven,” he said. “Now, Peadar, please.
There
is
evil following us and could be here anytime.”

“Aye, then,” Father Peadar said. “That be a vow no priest would take lightly, and I believe ye. I’ll help ye.”

The weathered little priest went to the door just off the sanctuary that led into the sacristy and opened it. “Come along,
child,” he said softly, speaking to someone on the other side. “These be the people I brought ye here to meet.”

Renan braced himself. Without realizing he was doing it, he held his breath as he waited for a child—
the
child, if Father Peadar was correct.

But the person who walked out of the sacristy was not
a child. It was a young woman; she came with her head bowed, wearing the habit and short white veil of a Benedictine novice.

For a few seconds, Renan was too stunned to say anything. “Peadar,” he said, finding his voice again but unable to keep the
disappointment from it. “I think you misunderstand. The scroll said a
child
, not a grown woman.”

“Did it?” Father Peadar asked, “or did it say ‘an innocent’? Did it speak of one with a pure heart, one who had not yet learned
the ways o’ the world? I’ve always known there was something about her, and when ye told me yer tale, I knew immediately who
ye were here to find.”

Father Peadar was right, Renan thought, remembering those very words from the passages of the scroll that spoke of the Font
of Wisdom. But how did he know the words so exactly? Before he could ask, Peadar pushed the novice a bit forward.

“This be Father Renan, child,” he said, his voice gentle and encouraging—but the young woman made no response.

Renan took a step toward her. “What’s your name?” he asked, keeping his own voice low.

“I am Selia,” she replied, still not lifting her head.

The girl’s hesitation to speak was obvious, as was her reluctance to be here. Though lacking Lysandra’s empathic abilities,
Renan still felt these emotions as surely as if they had been his own.
She wants no part of us or of this world
, he thought with absolute certainty, recognizing in Selia emotions were ones he had felt once, long ago.

* * *

While Talog and Renan were staring at the newcomer, they were not watching Lysandra. They did not notice the fingers of her
left hand slowly twitch open and closed. They did not see the little movement of her head or hear the sigh that escaped her.

But Cloud-Dancer did. After Renan’s touch of assurance, the wolf’s attention had returned to Lysandra. He saw her movement,
sensed the beginning of her inward battle and, as always, went to her side to lend his aid.

There was not much he could do against this enemy, but he could be near her. Lying close by her side, he gently nosed his
way beneath Lysandra’s fingers. At last her hand lay in its usual place on top of his head.

Ignoring all others in the room, Cloud-Dancer settled down to wait.

Inside Lysandra a silent battle had begun to rage, pitting Light against the thick, pervasive darkness that held her. She
did not know from where the spark of Light had come—but it was there. Growing stronger, giving her a single thought of hope
toward which her mind and soul could aim.

Again, as if by their own power and not any will of hers, her fingers twitched. But this time she felt something beneath them.
Cloud-Dancer
. His name flowed into her thoughts like a welcome scent upon a breeze. Cloud-Dancer was here; he was with her. Always.

But where was she? She did not know. She knew only that for this brief instant she felt a breath of Life enter her. For as
long as she could, she would aim toward the Light and not give up.

Once more, she moved her fingers. This time it was at her command and though the movement was small, it was
a triumph. She moved them again and again, slowly down into Cloud-Dancer’s fur.

Though the darkness still claimed her, the Light—that single, beautiful, crystalline spark—had not left her. Lysandra wanted
now what the darkness had stolen from her.

Lysandra wanted to live again.

S
ome of the roads Rhys remembered from his childhood looked as if they had not been cleared in that long. The sun had set,
and they were still five miles from Caerryck. The horses were tired, and so were the men. So, in truth, was Aurya. It was
easy to let herself be persuaded to stop and make camp for the night. Tomorrow, by midday at the latest, they would reach
the little fishing village that was their goal.

Aurya gratefully lowered herself to the ground, then took a few halting steps to stretch the stiffness from her knees and
inner thighs. Even a gait as smooth as her gelding’s became wearying after too many hours.

Five miles
, she thought,
and we’ll arrive tomorrow, rested and stronger than ever
. She allowed herself a smile of triumph, one she did not care if the soldiers saw.

The first hour of darkness passed with firelight and camp chores. By the passing of the second hour, food was eaten and cleared,
animals tended, and the camp was quieting with welcome slumber.

The moon once again cast its Goddess-light upon the world below; Aurya decided that now was the moment to set her spell one
last time. By tomorrow night, when the child was in her possession and they were on their way back to Kilgarriff, the protection
of the soldiers would be all that was needed.

Tonight, however, she would take no chances.

It was not Rhys who stood watch this time, but Sergeant Maelik. Had she cared to take the time, Aurya had no doubt that she
could bring Maelik as much under her control as Rhys—or Giraldus. But Maelik had a stronger mind and sense of self than his
junior counterpart, and the lure of returning to her bed was too strong for Aurya to want to take the long moments that would
be necessary to subdue Maelik’s will.

As it was, when he noticed her emerge from her tent, she waved away his attention. He gave her a knowing grin and a nod, erroneously
assuming he understood the reason for her venture into the night air. He turned away to give her privacy.

Aurya took herself off a little way from the camp, where she could not be overheard. Then, slipping behind a tall stone, she
stood with her face turned upward in the moonlight and dropped her blanket, letting the silver Goddess-light bathe her as
she lifted her arms in an attitude of supplication.

For a long moment she stood there, caressed by the silver moonlight, remembering all the times she had stood this way beside
old Kizzie, giving worship to the Queen of the Night, Great Mother of All. What would Kizzie
think of her now, she wondered briefly, of the power she wielded and the power she was soon to claim? Would she say she had
always known Aurya was destined for such great things? Or would she warn her erstwhile student to be careful where and how
she used her power—that power ill-used offends the Goddess and what has been given can also be taken away?