The Thirteenth Scroll (8 page)

Aurya had heard the tales of Kizzie long before they met, but it was from Kizzie that she learned the truth. The old woman
was not mad at all. She had once been one of the goodwives of the village. She had once renounced her powers in order to marry—but
when he had died young in a hunting accident, Kizzie had been left penniless. Her only choices then were to live as a poor
widow begging alms from the Church, to take the veil as many widows did to ensure a future of food and housing—or to return
to the Earth-magic of her youth and live in the ways of her ancestors.

Kizzie chose the latter almost fifty years before Aurya was born. By the time twelve-year-old Aurya stumbled upon Kizzie’s
little hut in the hills, Kizzie was old and grizzled, bent with age, but content with the life she lived.

Even in that first meeting, Kizzie acted as if she had been expecting Aurya. And it was under Kizzie’s tutelage that Aurya
felt first the stirrings of magic within. She left
her mother and her unhappy life and went to live in the hills with Kizzie, for already at that age Aurya possessed the strength
of will to do what was needed to get what she wanted. From Kizzie, she wanted to learn.

Soon it became obvious that Aurya’s powers would soon be far greater than Kizzie’s had ever been. Aurya did more than learn—she
had
absorbed
, soaked in every last drop of magic and learning her mentor had to teach and wanted more. Still she stayed, for it was from
Kizzie that Aurya had her first taste of approval, the first feeling of belonging her young life had ever contained.

Aurya stayed until the old woman died.

She was then seventeen, a young woman full of promise yearning to be recognized and expressed. Yet, even with Kizzie gone,
Aurya did not leave her mountain home immediately. Instead, she cast a spell of protection over Kizzie’s body and waited three
nights, until the full moon of the winter solstice when the power of the Great Goddess whom Kizzie had served would be at
its height.

Aurya laid Kizzie out on a pyre of rowan branches, a tree sacred to the Goddess. She felt her heart racing as she prepared
herself to dare an incantation such as she had never tried before, even when Kizzie was alive to guide her. This was the magic
of the old ways. Aurya did not know if she had the power to succeed on her own—but she did possess the courage to
try
.

Raising her arms toward the ether, the spirit realm, she first drew her mind inward to find her silence, as Kizzie had taught.
When the stillness had come, and she felt the first stirring of magic, she began her incantation, calling on forces she did
not know if she could control.

But youth dares where age will not. Her voice was low and uncertain at first, her command of the language stilted,
but even from the first utterance she knew she would—she
must
—continue.

“
Ignus. Incendium Sanctore. Meus iplore cura. Elementus numen, tuus ipse convocare. Tuus ipse convocare ut serva. Tuus ipse
capere ut arbitera. Incendiu Sanctus, Exire
.

With each word her voice became stronger, more certain, and with that certitude she felt those first stirrings build and become
the fire upon which she was calling. She had only to stretch forth her hands…

Flame flew from her fingers like streamers of molten gold. It enveloped Kizzie’s body, burning it as easily as a bonfire consumes
a brittle twig.

When Aurya lowered her arms, all that was left of Kizzie’s body was a pile of ash. Now Aurya would complete the ritual she
had come here to perform. She gathered the ash up as best she could into a small mound at her feet. She then walked withershins
around the mound three times, chanting as she stepped.

“To the Heart of the Universe I give thy heart. To the Breath of the Universe I give thy breath. To the Soul of the Universe
I give thy soul.”

At the head of the circle, Aurya stopped again. She bowed to the four directions, the four pathways of powers. First to the
northern quarter, the place that held and gave forth the Powers of the Fire; then West, to the Powers of Water. Still traveling
withershins, she bowed to the South, the place of Earth. Finally she bowed to the East and the Powers of the Air. Then, raising
her arms once more, she cried out the final words of command.

“Receive thy servant. Now.”

Though the night was calm and still, around Aurya a wind gathered. From all four corners it came and met as a swirling tempest
that encompassed the pile of ashes,
lifting them higher and higher, gathering them up, then sending them outward to be scattered throughout the four quarters.

Aurya watched, exalted at what she was seeing—at what
she
was doing. Here, at last, she found the sense of fulfillment that had eluded her until this moment. Her father’s identity
did not matter; her mother’s rejection did not matter. Even Kizzie’s death—though for that, at least, Aurya felt a twinge
of grief—no longer mattered. She had her purpose and knew who she was at last.

Aurya was so filled with exultation, she almost did not notice when her arms began to tremble. Then, with what seemed impossible
speed, the trembling spread through her body. Her arms came down of their own accord, and she collapsed, spent, upon the ground.

The wind stopped. Aurya lay in silence, hearing only her own heart beating wildly. She could not move; she barely had the
strength to breathe. Yet she was happy… no, more than happy, much more. She had honored her teacher in the way she knew Kizzie
would have wanted, and that in itself pleased Aurya. But she also knew that this night she had crossed over the threshold.
No one could hurt her now—not in body or in spirit. She would learn to master the power she had now tasted until no one dared
stand in her way.

This older Aurya had learned. She was a master now, self-taught and self-proclaimed. Yet she knew that in the silent depths
of her soul, she still yearned for
more
.

Suddenly impatient, she pushed back the cover under which she lay. She would gain only more
nothing
by staying in her bed.

She had to call twice before a servant answered, bleary-eyed
and only half-awake. “What time is it?” Aurya demanded.

“Near two hours past midnight, m’lady,” the girl answered. “Everyone be sleeping—even Lord Giraldus.”

Aurya tapped her foot while she thought. She was awake now and eager to get under way.

“Fill my bath,” she ordered. “Then rouse the household—including Lord Giraldus. Tell him to come here. Then go to the kitchen,
wake the cook, and get the fires stoked. There’ll be no more sleep here this night.”

“Yes, m’lady,” the girl answered softly.

Aurya heard the weary edge to her voice but chose to ignore it. They could all sleep their lives away once she and Giraldus
had departed. Until then, there was work for them to do.

Finally, her bath was ready. Aurya dismissed her servant to carry out the rest of her instructions, then lowered herself into
the steaming water. Giraldus, she knew, would not be pleased at being roused from his bed, but his mood would improve once
he heard what Aurya had to tell him. Many of the things that had perplexed her tired mind now, after her long sleep, seemed
clear. She knew where they were going and what they would find when they got there.

Lying back in the water, surrounded by the warm, rich scent of ambergris, the only scent she ever wore, Aurya laughed out
loud. It would all be hers—soon the entire kingdom would be at her command and hers for the taking. At that moment she saw
only success ahead.

“I’m glad
you
can laugh at such an hour,” came Giraldus’s voice behind her.

Aurya did not bother to turn. “I have much to laugh about,” she replied, “and so do you.”

“Now is not the time for riddles, Aurya,” Giraldus
growled. “You may have just awakened from full, restful sleep, but I have not.”

Aurya could not help but laugh again, and this time she did turn to face him. “More than restful, Giraldus. It was enlightening.
I understand it—the prophecy. I know where it wants us to go.”

Aurya watched the grogginess leave Giraldus’s eyes and his face light up at her words. “As simple as that?” he said. “Just
follow the scroll’s instructions?”

“As simple as that,” she answered. “Tambryn’s prophecies are gone, his writings banished and destroyed. Were it not for Elon,
we
would not have them. But we do—we alone, of all the kingdom. With them to guide us and the courage to do what we must, we
will succeed.
You will be King
… and I know you do not lack courage for that.”

“Or anything else,” Giraldus assured her. “Come, my heart, and show me. I am now as eager to hear what you have learned as
you are to tell it.”

Aurya rose and stepped from her bath. Then, after toweling off quickly and wrapping herself in a warm dressing gown, she led
the way back into their chamber to call for maps so she could trace for Giraldus the trail that they must follow.

I
t did not take Lysandra long to gather her provisions. Although she did take a few supplies from the cottage larder, she knew
how to live off the land, and so the main weight of her bundle consisted of a change of clothing, an extra cloak in case the
nights turned cold, a small paring knife, and a larger dagger. With these latter she could easily harvest the plants and roots
on which she would live. She also included a large assortment of dried herbs, a few small pots of prepared medicines, and
strips of bandages. The herbs all had properties she might well need—and many of them made excellent teas.

Finally, Lysandra brought out her mother’s jewelry. She did not remember gathering it before she left Scorda, but she remembered
little of that time. Nor had she brought the pieces out to admire or remember, let alone wear, in all the years since.

Now, Lysandra was glad of them. She would need to pay for food and lodging, and her mother’s jewelry could be traded or sold.
It’s not much
, she thought, trying to be practical. She fingered each piece, trying to guess its worth.

There were five rings, three of gold and two of silver. One of the gold rings was set with a garnet, her mother’s
birthstone—as was the largest of the three brooches. Of the other two, one was silver filigree and the other was heavily enameled.
There were also a few unadorned chains and one from which a large, tear-shaped freshwater pearl was suspended, four hair clasps,
silver—of knotwork design—and two carved-bone hair combs. It had been her father’s pride that, as a dyer and seller of dyes,
he had been prosperous enough to buy such things for his wife.

Well, that doesn’t matter now
, she told herself. Still, she put the combs aside to keep. Her mother had worn them so often… and besides, Lysandra did not
think they would be of much value to sell.

But where am I going?
she asked herself. It was all so confusing, like trying to put a puzzle together with no picture as a guide, and the pieces
just seemed to get smaller and smaller. Lysandra sat in her favorite chair, a steaming mug of tea in her hands, and closed
her eyes. She opened her mind, and her soul, to be as receptive as possible. In slow, deep breaths, she inhaled the scent
of chamomile and wood betony, one of her favorite herb mixtures. It rose from her cup and filled her senses with warm, soothing
fragrance. Soon she could hear her own heartbeat, feel each breath as it entered and escaped her body.

And in this stillness, she waited.

It did not come as
seeing
, as with her moonlit vision in the garden. Nor did words come into her mind. Yet, suddenly, between the space of one breath
and the next, a deep certitude filled her. She
knew
. She must go to Ballinrigh, to the capital city of Aghamore, and somewhere amid the crowded houses and tall spires, the city
noises and the crush of people, she would find the object of her search.

Lysandra still abhorred the idea of rejoining the world,
of again being around people with their whirling jumble of thoughts and needs. Yet it seemed there was no other way to end
the dreams and visions that plagued her. But through whatever awaited, her one true goal would be to return here—to come
home
—to this place, this life, that had given her back the will to live.

The warmth of the sun coming through the windows told Lysandra that the day was bright and fine. She finished the last of
her tea and reluctantly put the mug aside. She wished she could convince herself that the decision she had made was wrong,
that she did not really have to leave at all. She was no adventurer, to go wandering the kingdom. She wanted to believe that
everything she had experienced over the last weeks was the product of an overtired mind giving too much freedom to her imagination.

But all that she had felt and seen and heard defied logic. Though she hated to admit it, what she was doing was not only
right
, it was the only thing that could be done.

Cloud-Dancer came over and laid his head across her knees. It was the signal to go outside they had established when he was
still a pup. He gave a single plaintive whine, as he did when nature’s call was urgent. This time, however, Lysandra knew
it was
her
call to which he was responding.

“All right,” she told him as she ran her fingers through the ruff of thick silken fur that covered his head and neck, “we’ll
go.”

At her words, he stepped back. Even without her
Sight
she could picture him—the eager stance of his body, ears forward and tail high, the happy half-open way he held his mouth
in the excited lupine version of a grin.

Lysandra would trust his instincts; he would never
knowingly lead her into danger. But it took all of her resolve to walk away from her chair and over to the door, to swing
her bag onto her shoulder and wrap her fingers around her walking stick.

She wished she could share Cloud-Dancer’s joy for the adventure ahead. Instead, she continued to stand in the doorway, nearly
paralyzed with the dread of going forward. The battle raged within her, between the fear of going and of staying, between
the known and the uncontrollable.