The Thirteenth Scroll

by Rebecca Neason

  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.

  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.

  Chapter Five

  It 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.

  Lysandra held herself still a moment longer. Slowly, her Sight came to her and gifted her with a last look around the interior of her small cottage. Though she already knew it as well as life within her own skin, her heart memorized anew every part of it, as if afraid she would never see it again. Then, finally, she stepped out and firmly closed the door.

  I will not think of what I am leaving, she told herself, only of where I am going. Still, when she reached her garden gate, she could not help but repeat the process. Her heart embraced every stand of flowers, clump of herbs and vegetables that fed her, the little table where she spread out crumbs for the birds, the stone bench where she so often sat in the warmth of the sun. All these, like the forest beyond, were so much a part of her that the thought of leaving them was like losing an arm or a leg—or her sight.

  Then, with a flash of memory so intense she automatically took a step backward, her mind filled with the vision of the man in the worn monk’s robes. Once more it seemed as if her garden was shaded in moonlight through which rich green light radiated. As if to spur her on her way, Lysandra felt an urgency coming from the man and from the odd cylindrical object he carried.

  Once again she saw the man’s eyes, so full of pain and pleading. For an instant they reminded Lysandra of the eyes of all the sick and injured animals she had helped over the years.

  But with that thought came the memory of the young shepherd and his sick ewe. Would she be just as ineffective this time? But if so, why would she feel this need to go? she wondered. If she was going to fail, why not stay here and let someone else answer this call?

  The intensity of the man’s gaze doubled, trebled, telling Lysandra that this was more than a memory. He opened his mouth; though her ears heard no sound, his voice filled her—mind and body—telling her that she could do what must be done.