The Thirteenth Scroll (20 page)

Yes, there it was again, so soft not even Cloud-Dancer stirred. But as she listened, Lysandra grew certain… it was the sound
of a foot moving across stone.

Quietly, she put a hand on Cloud-Dancer and felt him awaken to her touch. Using her fingers, she signaled him to stay and
to be silent. Then, moving as quietly as she could and staying low to the ground, she slithered over to Renan’s sleeping body.

He was not a heavy sleeper and came awake with a start when Lysandra gently shook his shoulder. Before he could sit up or
say anything, she put her fingers across his mouth and leaned close to whisper in his ear.

“I heard footsteps… coming closer. Don’t move, but be ready.”

She felt his single nod. Then, softly and silently as possible, she returned to her own sleeping place and resumed her recumbent
position. She put out her hand and found Cloud-Dancer’s head. Then, familiar contact made, she used his eyes to look around
the cavern. Although her hearing still confirmed that… something… was moving their way, even Cloud-Dancer’s vision revealed
nothing.

Listening closely, scarcely breathing, she was now certain there was more than one set of footsteps. Five, no six, she was
sure of—but there could easily be more; stone
muffled sound. She tensed her body, ready to spring to her feet.

There
, she thought she saw something, a moving shadow within shadow. There again… and there… she did not doubt it now.

Get ready
, she told herself.
Ready… now
.

As the… beings… slipped silently out of the deep shadows, Lysandra leapt up. Cloud-Dancer came with her, staying in contact
so their shared vision was not broken. Renan, too, was on his feet.

For a single moment, she felt too stunned to move as, through Cloud-Dancer’s eyes, she saw what was approaching. They walked
upright like humans, though the tallest was an inch or two shorter than she. They wore no clothes except folded and tied loincloths,
but their small, compactly muscular bodies were covered with hair. Their faces looked as if beards and eyebrows had grown
to meet each other, leaving only eyes and noses clear. Their noses were small, with wide and flattened, barely noticeable
nostrils.

But their eyes were remarkable. They were large, twice the size of any human’s, round and as light as Cloud-Dancer’s. They
had huge, black pupils that could open to let in light humans could not see and that were already contracting as they stepped
into the cavern whose only illumination was the soft glow emanating from the stones.

Lysandra saw all of this in an instant—and she saw the weapons these creatures carried. Cloud-Dancer recognized that here
was danger; Lysandra’s mind gave the danger names: picks and axes, sharpened iron stakes and broad serrated blades with shapes
somewhere between a sword and a shovel.

“Cloud-Dancer, hide,” she ordered sharply. She would
not risk his injury—and his uncaptured presence might eventually provide their means of escape.

As he jumped to obey and their contact broke, Lysandra’s world went once more into darkness. She still had her walking stick
in her hand; she lifted it and swung with more hope than direction—then felt the shock run up her arm as it made contact.
She kept swinging until her arms became as leaden as her spirit, but with no more lucky blows.

Any vestige of hope died as strong hands gripped her arms from behind. Fingers pressed sharply into her flesh, making her
wince and cry out. Her walking stick was torn from her grip.

Lysandra did not struggle. The strength of the hands holding her told her that such an action was more than futile—it could
result in herself or Renan being injured. Instead, she grew very still. She sent her attention inward, feeling each breath,
each heartbeat, trying to find that place where her
Sight
dwelt and call it forth.

Nothing happened.
Oh, please
, she prayed with the faith of the desperate as the hands began forcing her to walk. Her footfalls dragged, but she was no
match for the strength of her captors. They pushed and pulled her until her only choice was to move or fall and be carried.

Lysandra’s only defense was to emotionally detach herself from what was happening. Her body still moved under the forced guidance
of the unseen gripping hands, stumbling now and then over stones or bits of uneven ground. But her mind, her awareness, her
concentration continued to look inward, striving to call her
Sight
to aid her as it had so often in the past. She tried with all her strength to find a way to control that which usually came
or went only of its own accord.

She heard Renan beside her, struggling against his capture.
His occasional grunts of pain told her that his efforts were no more successful than hers.

Though it was not easy, Lysandra forced thoughts of him aside to concentrate on the single purpose of regaining her
Sight
. She felt the sweat pool on her forehead, under her arms, and run down the middle of her back, as if her strain was physical.
Though it was her mind and not her body that strove and struggled, her already-meager reserves of energy were quickly being
exhausted.

There
… she thought she sensed the first small glimmer. Was it only a desperate hope, or was it true? Yes… there again… this time
more bright, more detailed. Lysandra wanted to shout an hurrah but she did not allow herself to show either elation or relief.

Suddenly, her
Sight
opened up the world before her—just as she and Renan were pulled into a cavern that dwarfed anyplace they had seen thus far.
All around this huge arena ran ledges, row upon row, circling upward toward the ceiling in rings too regular to be natural.
And filling these ledges were more of these… creatures. Hundreds, perhaps thousands—a community, a civilization, underneath
the kingdom of Aghamore.

In the center of the cavern, a delegation was assembled and waiting. These were obviously the Elders of the tribe; the hair
covering their bodies was streaked and mottled with gray. Lysandra counted thirteen, male and female. Twelve of them were
dressed in similar fashion, with long cloaks about their shoulders that closed at the necks with great golden clasps, each
one in a slightly different design.

Standing in the center was the eldest and obviously most revered among them. The hair covering his body was pure white. Around
his neck he wore a great chain of braided gold-and-silver ropes; it was nearly as big
around as Lysandra’s wrist. Suspended from the chain was a diamond the size and shape of a duck’s egg, encircled by precious
stones of different colors. Emeralds and rubies, sapphires and amethysts, garnets, peridots, bright opals, and yellow topaz
all sparked vivid fire around the shimmering diamond heart. He leaned on a staff the size of Lysandra’s walking stick, but
his was wound and crisscrossed with braids of gold and silver, like the thick necklace he was wearing.

The beings who encircled this great meeting place began to slap their feet upon the stone, uttering strange chirping sounds
at the sight of Lysandra and Renan. The eldest leader now raised his staff above his head; all became suddenly silent in a
way Lysandra found eerie and ominous.

The entire Council of Elders came toward them and encircled them. Lysandra had a chance now to look at their faces more clearly.
She
saw
the bright intelligence that coupled with suspicion in their eyes.

While the tribal leaders stood their ground in the entrapping circle around Lysandra and Renan, the eldest one walked around
them three times, looking them over from head to toe.

“Ye are Up-worlders,” he said finally, “and be not welcome in our realm.”

His voice had an odd burr to it, with rolled r’s and slurred ess’s—but Lysandra was relieved to know there existed the hope
of communication. Where there was communication, there might also be understanding.

“We have not come to do you harm or take anything from you,” Renan said, obviously sharing Lysandra’s hope. “We are only seeking
passage. We did not know you or this place existed.”

“Lies,” the old one shouted, bringing his staff down
sharply upon the stone floor. “Always Up-worlders speak lies. Always come they to dig and to destroy.”

Again, the cavern erupted in the strange chirping cries of the onlookers.

“We do not lie,” Renan shouted to be heard above the din. “We want
nothing
from your world. Show us the way out, and we will leave.”

“Enough of thy lies,” the old one said, again raising his staff for silence. “Up-worlders may
not
come unto the Realm of the Cryf—nor may they leave here to carry forth tales of our Realm unto others.
That
be our Law. To break this law is to forfeit thy life. Take them unto the Black Waters.”

Where is Cloud-Dancer?
Lysandra wondered as their captors started to close in again. She hoped her dearest companion would be able to escape and
find his way back home to the Great Forest. She had no such hope for herself and Renan.

Suddenly she felt the wolf’s nearness, felt the touch of his mind and his sight in a way she never had before.
Run
, she sent the thought to him, hoping he could sense or hear her as she was now sensing him.
Run… run and find the way out… run and be free… run
.

Cloud-Dancer did not hear or would not obey. Lysandra could feel him coming closer. His presence was stronger, the link between
them so fixed that it was as if Lysandra now looked through two sets of eyes—her
Sight
and his vision.

Then, as the first set of hands closed upon her arms, Cloud-Dancer came running, leaping, snarling, from out of the passage
and into the arena. He charged at her captors. He bit and snapped, growled and snarled, teeth bared and hackles raised. He
twisted and leapt, darted and moved
like a crazy thing as he evaded the hands and weapons aimed at him.

“Stop,” the old one suddenly shouted. At once, their captors loosed their grip and stepped back. Once they did, Cloud-Dancer
calmed. He came to Lysandra, leaning against her in his familiar way of guard and affection.

Lysandra quickly dropped to her knees. She ran her hands over Cloud-Dancer’s coat, using her fingers and her
Sight
to check the places where blood stained his beautiful fur. Only two were wounds and neither was serious; already the bleeding
had slowed to an ooze. The other blood came from injuries he had inflicted to protect Lysandra.

She would offer to care for those wounds, too, if the—Cryf, had the old one said?—would allow it. Perhaps such an act would
prove to them that she and Renan truly wished them no harm. But first she put her arms around Cloud-Dancer’s neck and hugged
him, glad and grateful that he had disobeyed her and was here.

The old one came toward her. “Lysandra,” Renan said softly to get her attention.

She looked up and saw the Eldest regarding her solemnly. With her
Sight
she could see past his intent expression, into the feeling behind it.
He’s worried
, she realized,
worried and frightened—and about more than just two strangers among them. Cloud-Dancer’s appearance means something to him
.

Lysandra stood. She kept one hand on Cloud-Dancer’s head to maintain the contact of both command and comfort as she faced
the old man. He quickly reached out his splay-fingered hand toward her face. Then, when he saw that the action did not cause
her to blink or flinch, as a sighted person’s instinct would have demanded, he gently touched his fingertips, then his palm,
to her forehead.

He stood that way, eyes closed, for the space of several heartbeats. Then he lowered his hand and nodded.

“Ye are the ones,” he said. He lifted his staff above his head and slowly turned, so that his eyes took in all the Cryf who
looked on in silence. “Time hath reached fullness,” he announced. “They have come.”

T
he storm blew past them to drop its snow on the higher peaks to the north; Giraldus and Aurya spent one more night on the
road. When they awakened, the world around them was still lightening with the dawn. They wasted no time around a campfire,
but ate a quick breakfast of cold rabbit left from last night’s dinner and some of the travel-bread baked by Giraldus’s kitchens
in Kilgarriff. Then they were once more on their way. Aurya again took the lead, racing her gelding into the wind.

Giraldus was content to ride slightly behind and watch her. As always, her beauty took his breath away; her black hair streamed
behind like long ribbons of captured night and her long cloak billowed, its silver threads flashing, giving Aurya the look
of something fey, something not quite mortal.

It was late into the afternoon when they noticed faroff
smoke rising toward the lowering clouds. The sight made Giraldus eager to race forward, for chimney smoke might well mean
shelter for the night.

With the snake and curves of the road, it took them nearly an hour to reach their goal. They found it was a large inn, already
crowded with other travelers on their way to the Spring-Fest in Yembo. As soon as they entered, they felt the jovial holiday
spirit that pervaded the place. That mood seemed to suit Aurya’s, and after taking their belongings to their room, she insisted
that they join their fellow travelers in the celebration of nearing their journey’s end.

Her mercurial nature, as always, caught Giraldus off guard. He would have wagered that the long hours riding against an icy
wind would have sent Aurya into either foul temper or in search of a fire and a hot bath.

Instead
, he thought, as he watched her saunter up to the bar to fetch them each back a mug of the hot mulled wine that was the inn’s
specialty,
just look at her. I swear the ice has raised a fire in
her.
Maybe I should take her into the mountains more often
.

Aurya did look lit from within. Her eyes were shining like dark blue jewels, and she seemed a creature formed out of passion’s
promise. Every male eye in the room turned toward her when she moved; every ear listened when she laughed.