The Thirteenth Scroll (18 page)

When he had first read those words, he thought they might refer to all the people of the kingdom whose voices were never heard
at court; the farmers and shepherds, the hunters, merchants, crofters, craftsmen, and all the others who went about their
business living quiet, simple lives. These were the “common folk” whose generations knotted the kingdom together, and who
suffered most in the game of politics played by those who had vowed to undertake their care. Yet, as the miles went by, Renan
began to believe that Tambryn meant something else entirely.

He possessed copies of all thirteen of Tambryn’s scrolls. They were precious to him, reminders of both good and evil, and
the only things from his previous life that he had kept when he entered the Church. Although some priests first join an Order,
feeling the call to the priesthood
only after life as a Religious, Renan had never felt compelled to become a monk, and therefore personal possessions were not
banned to him. Still, the scrolls being what they were in the sight of the Church, they were the one thing he owned that he
kept carefully out of sight.

Having a small parish in a poor area of the city allowed him to continue studying the scrolls without fear of discovery. Most
of his parishioners could barely read, and none, he was certain, understood the ancient language in which Tambryn had written.
Nor was the Archbishop likely to appear at his rectory door; like every other parish in the cathedral city, when the people
had episcopal needs they went to the cathedral,
to
the Archbishop, not the other way around.

But though he had read all thirteen of Tambryn’s scrolls it was this final one that time and again compelled him to unlock
its secrets. It was almost as if a voice whispered constantly in his ear, demanding that each night, when all of his other
duties were done, he turn again to the scroll. In these last seven months, since King Anri died, the whisper had oft times
felt like a shout.

Yet there had been so much he did not understand—until Lysandra appeared. As they had talked, piece after piece had fallen
into place. And as understanding had dawned, a new compulsion filled him, telling him not only that here indeed was Prophecy’s
Hand, but that he must go with her and help her as she undertook the fulfillment of Tambryn’s visions.

But how? For that he still did not have the answers. Yes, he could read the scroll for her, as he had said, and help ease
the journey as best he was able—but the same small voice that had directed him to study Tambryn’s words now told him there
was something more for him to do. He hoped he would have the strength for whatever
lay ahead, and yet he feared it, too; he feared he might be called to break the one vow he had made in his life before the
Church, the vow he held more dearly than his life.

But did he hold it more dearly than hers? More dearly than this kingdom’s? How many lives were worth his vow?

They kept off the main roads and away from the heavy traffic, traveling by back routes as much as possible. By the third day
they reached the more rural areas of Urlar. Here, many of the roads were little more than cart tracks, and buildings became
dots viewed from a distance amid large tracts of farmland where trees had been cleared.

By the fifth day, they had reached the foothills where the mountains curved west like a hand cupped around Urlar. To the east,
these mountains created the border between Urlar and Lininch; to the north, the direction they were now headed, the mountains
extended part of the way along the Urlar and Rathreagh border as well.

There were well-traveled passes leading through the mountains, and, until he knew better, Renan was heading in their direction.
But he did so reluctantly, still feeling they would do best to avoid being seen.

The more time he spent traveling with her, the more fascinating Renan found Lysandra. At their first meeting, during their
long talk after Evensong, Lysandra had told him all about her blindness and its cause, about the inner
Sight
that helped her function as a healer, and about the wondrous gift of being able to share Cloud-Dancer’s vision. But hearing
of them was different than witnessing the abilities in action.

It is often as if she sees better than I do
, he found himself thinking on more than one occasion.
I can only see a thing’s form—she can see its Truth. She has the experience
of beholding how this world is “beautifully and wonderfully made.” I envy her that joy
.

Renan also admired Lysandra’s tenacity. Walking all day was proving to Renan that he had spent far too much time in the city
and in his church. He no longer had the muscular vitality of his youth.

Lysandra, on the other hand, trudged along as if covering twenty miles in a day was nothing out of the ordinary. With her
bag slung over her shoulder, her walking stick in one hand and the other usually resting on Cloud-Dancer’s head, she walked
as if fatigue was something unknown to her.

Well, it’s known to me
, Renan thought as he adjusted the weight of his pack, silently apologizing to his body for all the exercise he had not given
it over the years.

It was time to call a halt—and not just for the sake of his aching muscles. Renan felt the need to consult the scroll again.
Now that they were entering the foothills, he could not shake the feeling that there was something near, something for which
they should be watching. Unfortunately, he had no idea what that something might be.

As they finally neared the large stone outcropping Renan had been using for a reference, he called the day’s halt.

“What do you think of this for our campsite?” he asked Lysandra while he gratefully eased the burden from his shoulders.

She walked around the area, using her touch to tell her what her eyes could not. Then she nodded. “It’s a good choice,” she
told him. “The stone will keep us out of the wind, and it will reflect back some of the heat from our fire—once we find some
dry wood, that is.”

Renan left Lysandra to build a ring of stones for the fire and pile up layers of fir needles and bracken for their
beds while he went to find the wood they would need. It was a task easier started than accomplished, however. Although the
weather was warming, it had been a wet winter and an equally damp early spring.

Renan did manage to find an armload of burnable wood, enough to get their meal cooked and give them a bit of comfort through
the night. But when he returned to camp he found that Lysandra had not moved. She stood looking up at the top of the little
stony ridge, as if transfixed by something she alone could see.

“We need to go up there,” she said when Renan neared. She raised her hand and pointed. “Up there, to the top.”

“Why?” Renan asked. “I know I’m not as trained in the wilds as your life has made you, but I’m fairly certain this is a better
place to camp.”

Lysandra continued to stand as one transfixed. Her hand did not lower; her sightless eyes did not turn away.

This is not about the camp
, Renan thought as he looked around for the best path upward. They would have to make the climb in a series of switchbacks,
and even then it would be steep. But it was better than trying to scale the stone’s face—something he doubted he could have
done ten years ago and certainly could not now. And Cloud-Dancer was a wolf, not a mountain goat. As for Lysandra, he was
beginning to think she could do almost anything.

He lifted his pack and once more slung it onto his shoulders, grunting a little as the weight settled onto his tired, protesting
muscles. “This way, then,” he said. “We go back to go forward, eh?”

Renan kept his voice light. So far, all the smiles she had given had been timid, unsure, as if they were something she was
just rediscovering… and he had not heard her laugh at all.

Just how deep do the wounds from her past go?
he found himself wondering. He hoped that a way for her true healing could be found—perhaps even by this journey. He did
not know exactly what lay in store for them along the way, but his faith told him that everything happens for a reason. He
would trust that; just as he believed Lysandra was Prophecy’s Hand, he believed everything she had endured had prepared her
for this destiny. Perhaps, given time, she would come to believe it, too, and the belief would bring her comfort.

Lysandra said nothing on the upward trek. There was a sense of expectation about her that Renan did not want to disturb. She
moved as if in a daze, unaware of her actions. Renan watched, but surreptitiously, afraid that too open a stare might make
her self-conscious and she would lose the sense of whatever was guiding her.

They finally reached the top of the outcropping, a shelf of stone. Where it pushed out from the hillside stood three large,
straight stones. Suddenly, another line from the scroll dropped into place for Renan. Could these be the Three Sisters looking
West Tambryn’s words had described? He drew forth the words from memory and whispered them to himself.

“
Three Sisters looking West, sentinels between two worlds. Prophecy’s Hand shall point the way; a companion is the key to that
which is forgotten
.”

Lysandra had indeed pointed the way, but what was the key and what had been forgotten? What were the two worlds of which Tambryn
spoke?

Renan walked over to examine the tall stones. The first of them revealed nothing more remarkable than moss and lichens. He
moved on to the next one, standing in the center. This stone stood out a little more from the hill, far enough that by dropping
his pack, he could squeeze
behind it. Dirt and woodland debris had piled up over the years, and Renan began using his feet to kick the way clear.

The pile of leaves and dead branches did not move easily. Renan had to kneel and use his hands to break the knot time had
woven. Little by little, he cleared the debris, revealing a small opening in the face of the hillside. It was only about three
feet tall and maybe as wide—but it was big enough for a person to crawl through if he tried.

First he needed a torch. He came quickly out from behind the stone and began to gather up some of the deadwood he had just
cleared, concentrating on long, thin branches that he hoped would burn well. Once he had a good handful, he began to rummage
in his pack for something to tear into strips to bind the branches together and to keep the wood from burning down too quickly.

“What is it?” Lysandra asked, stepping close to him. “What did you find?”

“I’m not sure yet,” Renan told her. “It might be nothing more than a small cave. I’m going to find out.”

“How can I help?”

“I’m trying to make a torch. Do you have anything that might help?”

“Yes,” Lysandra replied, swinging her bundle off her shoulder. From it she produced a roll of cloth cut for bandages and a
small vial.

“Here,” she said. “The vial is an antiseptic I brew myself. It’s quite flammable. You won’t need much to keep your torch burning.”

Renan accepted the offering gratefully. “What other wonders do you have in there?” he asked as he wound some of the cloth
around the top of his torch.

“Medicines,” Lysandra replied. “Herbs that I’ve grown
or gathered, a few little pots of salves, some ground roots and the like… just what I thought I might need on such a journey.
I thought I was bringing too much—now I’m glad I did.”

Renan had always wanted to know more about the healing properties of plants; he had little opportunity to learn, living as
he did in the kingdom’s largest city. But the torch was now ready to be lit.
There will be other times
, he told himself,
other evenings, other campfires and conversations. I’ll ask her more then
.

From his pocket Renan withdrew the little box of matches he carried. Matches were relatively new to Aghamore. They had been
brought by a trader about ten years ago, but they had swept through the country with the speed of their own blaze and were
now easily accessible. Renan, like most people, carried them wrapped in oilcloth to keep them dry. The second the tiny flame
touched the torch it ignited the spirits he had drizzled on the cloth, producing a fine steady light.

“Wonderful,” he said to Lysandra. Then he headed again toward the back of the stone.

This time, Lysandra and Cloud-Dancer accompanied him. She held the light while Renan cleared away the last of the debris from
the front of the little opening. There was not enough room between the standing stone and the face of the hillside to lie
flat and squirm through the entrance, as Renan would have preferred. Instead he knelt; his knees were so hardened by his life
as a priest that he hardly noticed the bits of coarse dirt and little twigs and stones beneath them.

Lysandra handed him the torch. Renan pushed that through the opening first, followed by his head and one shoulder. It was
a bit of a tight fit, but before he squeezed
the rest of his body through, he wanted to see what awaited him on the other side.

Directly before him was a ledge, perhaps four feet wide by ten feet long. It ended in a series of wide and gently sloping
switchbacks that led into a huge cavern below. The presence of what was so obviously a trail puzzled him; he could think of
nothing in nature that would have produced such a wide and regular pattern—and nothing about the entrance had suggested it
was hand hewn.

Perhaps this is an abandoned mine
, he thought as he squeezed the rest of his body through the opening.

Now he stood and held the torch high. The sight that greeted his eyes astonished him with its beauty. Veins of crystal ran
through the walls, reflecting the flickering light of his torch. Some sort of glistening element also covered the stone itself,
amplifying the brightness of the torch so that the cavern looked as bright as day. It would have been easy to stand and stare,
lost in wonder. But time was pressing, and Lysandra was awaiting his word.

Renan turned and called back to her. “It’s safe,” he said. “I’ll come back out to help you through.”