The Thirteenth Scroll

by Rebecca Neason

  “Come on, boy,” she said softly to Cloud-Dancer. “Let’s find what we need and get out of this place.”

  Continuing to share his vision, she began to examine the storefronts as they walked down the straight main road. At last Lysandra saw a store where she might be able to sell her meager supply of possessions.

  The window of the shop displayed a myriad of goods, the majority designed to catch a woman’s eye. Hopeful, Lysandra entered. She had only taken a few steps when a man’s voice shouted from the back of the store.

  “You—girl,” he boomed, his voice stern, “no animals in here. Leave your dog outside.”

  Lysandra kept walking, silently using the language of touch to signal Cloud-Dancer. She needed the man behind the counter, whom she hoped was the owner of the store, to see both her blindness and her need for Cloud-Dancer’s presence. This would be a trial run for what she was certain to face in Ballinrigh.

  Through Cloud-Dancer’s eyes, Lysandra could see the man. He was portly and florid, with a bulbous nose and big muttonchop whiskers that added even greater dimension to his already rotund face. He stood with his hands on his hips, staring angrily. He opened his mouth to bellow at her again.

  Then, as Lysandra watched, his expression changed. Though he remained wary of Cloud-Dancer’s presence, he had now taken note of Lysandra’s sightless stare. The anger in his eyes slowly changed to pity. He cleared his throat as Lysandra and Cloud-Dancer neared, and he looked decidedly uncomfortable. But he stood his ground, not backing way from the sight of the wolf.

  “What are you doing with that animal, girl?” he asked sharply. “Is it maging you’ve used to tame the wildness from him?”

  Lysandra saw the man’s fingers flash in the ancient sign to ward off evil, and she almost smiled. His thoughts were easy to hear as he wondered if she was a witch with her familiar.

  She rummaged deep inside her bundle until she found the little packet of linen in which she had wrapped her mother’s finery. She placed the package on the counter-top. Then, silently signaling Cloud-Dancer to sit, she released her hold on him and reached to untie the cloth.

  As soon as her fingertips left Cloud-Dancer’s head, his vision left her mind. She was plunged into complete and immediate darkness. For one brief instant, she felt a wave of panic. She fought it—and won—but her fingers still trembled slightly as she untied the knot and spread the jewelry on the counter.

  “I want to sell these,” she said. “I thought you might buy them, or tell me someone who will.”

  Lysandra’s hand quickly dropped back to Cloud-Dancer’s head. She rubbed him affectionately behind one ear and opened her mind to the gift of his vision.

  The storeowner was eyeing the jewelry before him, picking up one piece then the next to examine them closely.

  “Where did you get these, girl?” he asked. “Are they stolen? I’ll have nothing stolen in my store.”

  “I didn’t steal them. They belonged to my mother.”

  “If she wants them sold, why didn’t she bring them here herself? Did she think a blind girl would trick more money out of me? I’ll tell you now, girl—pity is pity, business is business, and I’ll not mix up the two.”

  “My mother is dead,” Lysandra stated matter-of-factly, “and my father… and I don’t want your pity,” she added as she reached to scoop up her possessions.

  She did not want the storekeeper’s pity—just his money in a fair price. It seemed, however, she would have to go somewhere else. Then, just as her hand touched the corner of the linen, the man stopped her.

  Despite his statement, his face did wear a look of pity. “I’ll buy your baubles,” he said, “and for a good amount. I’m an honest businessman, and to my mind that works in both the selling and the buying.”

  Lysandra could feel there was no deceit in the man; he meant what he was saying and was proud of the honesty he proclaimed. Lysandra nodded, accepting his word.

  “How much then?” she asked.

  “Well now, these are all of an older style—but they’re well made and of quality materials. I’ll give you one gold angel and two silver sovereigns for them.”

  Lysandra considered. It was a good sum; a silver sovereign was worth twenty silver pennies or one hundred copper ones, and a gold angel—that was worth one hundred silver pennies or twenty-five gold ones. It seemed a fortune—but would it be enough to buy food and lodging in Ballinrigh?

  She drew a deep breath. “All right,” she said aloud, “I’ll take it… and, thank you.”

  The man before her began rummaging through a drawer behind the counter. Lysandra could hear the chink of coins of different sizes, weights, and metals. Finally, he held them out to her.

  “I said I’m an honest man and I meant it,” he began, “but there’s many you’ll meet who won’t be. You’d best memorize the feel of these coins well, so you know what you’ve been given and what’s due you in return.”

  He placed one, then another of the coins into Lysandra’s outstretched palm, pointing out their differences. She ran her sensitive fingers over them, feeling the size and weight, tracing the images on their fronts and backs.

  “Do you know the feel now, so that no one can fool you?” he asked.

  “I do,” Lysandra replied with confidence.

  “Then put them somewhere safe, girl, where clever fingers can’t steal them. As I said, there are many about with dishonesty in their hearts—and not all of them travel as outlaws.”

  “How can I thank you for your honesty?” Lysandra asked. His kindness was an unlooked-for boon.

  “No need, no need,” the shopkeeper replied gruffly. “In my day a man was expected to be honest, in all his dealings. You could count on a man’s handshake same as a contract, and his word was a sacred vow… and to cheat someone afflicted—you’ll pardon my bluntness, ‘tis but the truth—was nothing less than a sin against society and before God. All that’s changed these last years, and there’s no telling where it’ll end. You best keep that in mind.”

  Thanking the man again, Lysandra left the store. She felt somewhat better, more prepared for what might wait ahead.

  On her way through the town, she stopped at a vendor’s stall and spent some of her new money on supplies, things it was too early to harvest from the land but that would keep her a few days when she reached Ballinrigh.

  The road beyond Granshae was a busy one, and at night the other travelers made camp wherever they stopped. But Lysandra and Cloud-Dancer left the road to find a wilder place to rest, in quiet and in peace, glad to be under trees once again.

  Cloud-Dancer ran down a rabbit for his supper; Lysandra nibbled on the fare she had just bought. Then, with a small fire beside them for warmth and a pile of bracken underneath their bedding to keep them from the damp, they settled to their rest.

  At first her sleep was peaceful, with neither dreams nor memories to plague her. Then suddenly, a snarl close to her face shattered her slumber.

  Lysandra’s eyes flew open—but not to darkness. In the full impact of her Sight, she was confronted with Cloud-Dancer standing over her, teeth bared and hackles raised. For one brief instant, her heart thumped wildly against her chest.

  Then she saw that he stood not in the attitude of attack, but of protection. Everything else around them was silent. No night bird called or leaf rustled; even the fire gave forth no crackle of ember or flame. The silence was filled with eerie anticipation.

  Slowly, Lysandra turned in the direction of Cloud-Dancer’s stare. There, amid the trees just beyond the small circle of light given off by her lowing campfire, stood the vision from her garden. The green aura that encased him sent out flares like tongues of flame—deeply brilliant green flame.

  Lysandra found it at once beautiful and terrifying. Gently, she put a hand on Cloud-Dancer, to reassure them both that they were real, that all—she hoped—was well. Then, slowly, she raised herself to her knees, facing her vision.

  This time she saw him in greater detail. H
e was dressed in an old, much-mended monk’s robe, of an Order she did not recognize. And he was old, ancient to her eyes. His beard, which reached to the middle of his chest, was thin and scraggly with age, as were the wisps of hair that only partially covered his head. His forehead and eyes were lined with furrows.

  But his eyes captured and held her. They were kind eyes, full of both sorrow and compassion, and as their gazes locked, Lysandra understood that he knew much about her she had yet to discover. She understood, too, that in some undiscerned way, he was trying to help and guide her.

  In his arms she saw that it was not one object he carried, but several in a bundle. Try as she might, she could not bring them into focus. It was as if they were something she was not yet meant to see; though all else before her was clear, these objects were wrapped in a fog that wavered and shifted before her eyes.

  Lysandra felt an urgent need to get closer to this man—even, perhaps, to touch him. She wanted to see what he carried, to talk with him and hear his voice. Yet, just as before when he stood in her garden, as soon as these thoughts entered her mind, he began to fade.

  Lysandra scrambled to her feet, but the man held up a wizened hand to stop her. As she watched, he became more and more dim. The green aura around him began to sputter like an untrimmed candlewick. Then, just before he vanished completely, he reached into the midst of the objects he cradled and retrieved one. He held it out toward Lysandra.

  Of its own accord, her hand reached toward it. She could not touch it, but the man seemed satisfied. A slow smile spread across his vanishing face. Somehow, without words spoken, Lysandra felt his assurance within her mind, telling her that soon she would understand.

  Then he was gone.

  Though the vision was gone, Lysandra’s Sight remained, clear and full. Off in the east, she saw the first streaks of golden dawn washing the sky. Around her, birds gave their first, tentative awakening calls to herald the day. A new day, one more full of promise than Lysandra had felt since she began this journey. Today she would reach Ballinrigh and, if her vision’s promise was to be believed, soon she would understand.

  But understand what? she wondered again as she put her arms around Cloud-Dancer’s neck and hugged him close for comfort.

  “It’s almost over,” she said to him, hoping that her words were true. “And once it is, then we can go home. Right, boy?”

  As if in agreement, Cloud-Dancer licked her cheek and leaned into her. They sat there together, letting the world slowly lighten around them.

  Chapter Seven

  Bishop Elon entered the capital city with all the pomp and ritual his Office demanded. The journey here had been excruciatingly slow, but summoned to the Archbishop’s presence and certain of spies set to undermine all his plans, he knew all proprieties must be strictly and carefully observed. It was a game he played well, though his spirit sometimes chafed with impatience.

  Upon his arrival in Ballinrigh, Elon sent a note to the Archbishop, via Brother Naal. Elon knew that the young monk would be questioned regarding his impressions of traveling amid Elon’s retinue. The bishop had carefully arranged all facets of this journey with just such a report in mind, and he wanted it delivered while it was still fresh in Brother Naal’s memory.

  Having done all he could, Elon now awaited the Archbishop’s summons.

  It had come this morning as a casual handwritten invitation to dinner. Elon was not fooled by the friendliness of the words on paper. This was an inquiry of conduct and nothing less; he only wished he knew who, besides the Archbishop, would be attending, which of his enemies had been whispering in his superior’s ear.

  He dressed with special care, wearing his second-best cassock of purple watermarked silk and matching mozzetta. His best one, the one with the gold buttons, he would save for High Mass in the cathedral, which he hoped to be asked to concelebrate. With the entire College of Bishops sitting in attendance, only a select few would be granted such an honor—and Elon planned to be one of them. This act of recognition before his peers was the first overt step on his journey to the Archbishop’s triple mitre.

  He smiled to himself as he looked in the mirror, making a slight adjustment to the wide cincture that girded his waist. He was pleased by what he saw. The long, straight line of the cassock accentuated his height, as well as the broad shoulders and narrow hips he still possessed even though he was nearing sixty. He had not allowed himself to grow fat. The people of Aghamore, so used to looking at bishops either portly or fragile, could look at him and see a man of vigor, a man fit and strong enough to be their leader.

  For one last adornment, Elon added his pectoral cross, made of gold, amethyst, and onyx. Fittingly attired to show the prosperity of his see, he grabbed up his long black cloak and left for the Archbishop’s residence.

  He arrived precisely on time—a half hour earlier, it turned out, than the other guests who were to join them.

  “I thought we might use this time for a private talk,” the Archbishop said after he had shown Elon into his personal study. It was a cluttered, informal room in the back part of the house, rather than the richly furnished official room in which the Archbishop received Kings or supplicants.

  Archbishop Colm apBeirne had always been a scholar. Open books, half-rolled scrolls, and papers were scattered like fallen leaves over desk, carpet, and chairs. But the well-trimmed lamps and the bright fire in the fireplace kept the room from looking gloomy. Instead, it had a homey feeling, as if to say that the occupant was always happiest here.

  Before the fire sat two winged-backed chairs, mercifully cleared of the clutter that covered nearly every other available surface. On a little table between the chairs, a decanter of chambried wine waited next to two crystal goblets.

  “Please, please, have a seat, Elon,” the Archbishop said, absently waving toward a chair and using Elon’s familiar name void of title. “We’ll not stand on ceremony here, in this room, eh? This is not an inquiry, just a talk.”

  As he spoke, he poured them both a glass of wine. Elon noticed the slightly palsied shake of his hands and how the Archbishop’s body bent forward, stooping unconsciously toward the fireplace, as if his old bones were seeking the heat. To a person of Elon’s temperament, his movements were aggravatingly slow, and it was all Elon could do to make himself sit still, to keep smiling and not take the decanter from the old man’s hand and complete the task himself.

  Finally, the Archbishop slowly lowered himself into the remaining chair. He took a sip of wine and closed his eyes for a moment.

  “Ah, the heat feels good, doesn’t it?” he said.

  Actually, Elon was beginning to feel the room was too close and overheated. “Yes, Your Eminence,” he said nevertheless. “A fire is always a welcome comfort.”

  “More so at my age, I daresay,” the Archbishop replied, opening his eyes.

  Elon could see there was a bit of a sparkle in them; the old man, for all his physical frailties, still possessed a sharp mind and a wry wit. Elon reminded himself to tread carefully and not underestimate his opponent—especially not when he hoped to turn opponent into ally.

  The Archbishop studied Elon for a moment. The younger man did not flinch under the scrutiny. This was a game of nerves, and Elon knew he played it well. Too bold, and he would appear offensive, belligerent; too timid, and the Archbishop would think he had not the stuff in him to stand beside Kings.

  The Archbishop, the Primus of the Church in Aghamore, was the spiritual ruler of the Kingdom. He must be willing to give deference and obedience to his sovereign in all things temporal—so long as they did not compromise the spiritual well-being of the souls within his care. For that, he must have the courage to stand by his convictions even in the face of royal anger.

  All this, Elon knew he could do. For this he had trained all his adult life. He knew the canons and bylaws of the Church and the spiritual precepts on which those were built, knew them as well as he knew his own mind. Outwardly, in every way that would matter to this
kingdom, Elon could fulfil the role of Archbishop better than any other man in Aghamore.

  As for what he believed—ah, that was a different matter entirely.

  The scrutiny of the old man’s gaze went on for a long, unspoken moment. Had it not been for the intelligence in Colm apBeirne’s watery eyes, Elon might have thought the old man had drifted off in some senile playground of the mind. But Elon would not make the mistake so many did and think that the Archbishop’s wits were as atrophied as his muscles.

  “Tell me about the Lady Aurya,” the Archbishop said without preamble. The abruptness of the question was meant to catch Elon off guard.

  But Elon knew the ploy; he used it often himself. Get your opponent somewhere comfortable, let him relax—then strike, suddenly, when it is unexpected. Silently, he acknowledged a well-played opening move.

  “Lady Aurya is not at all what I expected, Your Eminence,” he began.

  The Archbishop held up a hand. “Let us not be so formal, Elon,” he said. “Here we talk openly, brothers in the service of Our Lord and His Church… perhaps, I hope, even as friends. If we keep throwing titles back and forth, we’ll never get anywhere.”

  The second move, Elon thought. Break your opponent’s train of thought early. Reinforce his sense of security. Very good… well played indeed.

  With a tiny nod that appeared to be deference to the old man’s wishes but was, in fact, an acknowledgement of strategy, a move within a move, Elon continued.

  “I went to see Lady Aurya at her own request. As she is the consort of Baron Giraldus, I thought I must go myself, to find out why she would send such a request—for his sake, if not for hers. Her… attitude… toward the Church is one she has never hidden.”

  “It is a godless union they share,” the Archbishop said sternly. “Did you not think that by such a visit you might seem to be condoning her unholy use of magic? It is the devil’s tool, and those who use it are fallen from Grace.”