The Thirteenth Scroll (27 page)

E
lon was becoming tired of unproductive meetings—and
very
tired of the company of his brother bishops. Day after day, he listened while the others argued, each extolling the virtues
of his Baron and explaining why he should have the Church’s support as the next High King. Every Baron in Aghamore, it seemed,
was godly and devout, mindful of his people’s welfare before his own, a leader of men, gentle at home…

And no doubt beloved of animals and small children
, Elon thought with sarcasm as he listened yet again to Awnan of Dromkeen drone on about Baron Curran.

Elon had still said nothing about Giraldus. The other bishops, aware of Lady Aurya’s open hostility toward the Church, seemed
to expect that the Baron of Kilgarriff was not a choice for the throne—or at least not for the Church’s support in obtaining
it.

The Archbishop, however, had accepted Elon’s tale of Aurya’s changing attitude. As their confessor, only Elon could know how
much of this “conversion” could be told, and every once in a while Elon found the old man’s eyes upon him, silently questioning
why he did not speak up. But Elon had been hoping to receive some word from Giraldus
and Aurya before he went any further with their plan.

Glancing around the room, Elon saw his boredom mirrored in most of the other faces. A few wore the set expression of minds
determined to see their own way served. As things stood, the College of Bishops had reached an impasse. Without some new element
introduced, they would talk in circles indefinitely.

It’s time
, Elon thought.
They’re ready to listen
.

He glanced over and waited until he caught the Archbishop’s eye. Once he was certain of the old man’s attention, he gave a
little nod. Then, without waiting for Awnan to finish, he stood. Immediately, the room quieted. Awnan stopped mid-sentence,
which caused Elon to suppress a sardonic smile. At least he had succeeded in quieting the loquacious bishop of Dromkeen; that
alone should win him some support, he thought as he saw the surprised expressions all around him.

“We recognize Elon, our brother from Kilgarriff,” the Archbishop said, using the royal pronoun as befitted a Prince of the
Church. “You have been too long silent. Elon. Speak now and without hesitation, for we are all brothers here, united in service
of Our Lord, His Church, and of this land—though at the moment, we seem to be united in little else,” the Archbishop added
with a gentle, fatherly smile.

Elon gave a slight bow to his superior. “Your Eminence,” he began, “my brothers—we have all listened to each other for many
long days. I must say that we in Aghamore are certainly blessed to have so many worthy leaders to care for the welfare of
the people. But what we do not have is a
King
.

“It is a heavy burden to know that the one to whom we give our support may indeed become the one to wear
the crown. We, whose lives are dedicated to the welfare of souls, must now look to the worldly welfare of this land and people.
To do so, we must call upon every bit of wisdom we possess and our prayers provide.

“This, of course, you all know—but I ask you to truly think again what it means.
Worldly
welfare of a kingdom is not necessarily won or maintained by the same virtues as
spiritual
welfare. The one who wears the crown must be able to both pray
and
fight. He must be able to keep his soul at peace with Our Lord
and
keep his kingdom in peace from its enemies.

“All of you, my brothers, have spoken on behalf of the Barons of your sees—and rightly so. But as I have listened, I have
asked myself each time whether this is the man who possesses both the virtue and the strength this kingdom needs. The late
King Anri left Aghamore much weakened, and the threat from our old enemies cannot be overlooked. Of virtue, I have heard much;
of
strength
, I have heard far too little. Therefore, I must now speak the name few of you thought to hear at this gathering. I say that
Giraldus of Kilgarriff is the only Baron who possesses the strength and the worldly understanding necessary to rule this kingdom
into peace and prosperity again.”

Immediately there was the eruption of voices Elon expected. He let it continue, waiting for someone to have the courage to
stand and give voice to the objections most of them were feeling.

Finally, Gairiad of Sylaun stood. “We all know that Elon believes he speaks of the good of Aghamore,” he began, looking around
the room but carefully avoiding Elon’s eyes. “But I must ask our brother how we can be expected to give our support to a Baron
whose enmity toward this Church and whose open ungodliness is known across the kingdom? Only two centuries ago, there were
still places in this land where heathen practices existed and those who followed the True Faith were persecuted. Are we willing
to turn this land and its people, who look to us to guard and protect their
souls
, back into the hands of one such as Giraldus of Kilgarriff—or more importantly, to his godless concubine Lady Aurya, who
practices the devil’s own tool of magic? Surely, our brother cannot mean this.”

Thank you, Gairiad
, Elon thought as murmurs of agreement rose around him.

“I do
not
mean that we should give the crown to the ungodly or Aghamore into the hands of the heathen,” Elon affirmed. “I say instead,
that we must
prevent
such a thing by having a strong ruler upon the throne.

“As you all know, Aghamore is a haven of the True Faith, surrounded by enemies who still worship false gods. Without a King
who gives the land strength again, we become a target for invasion. Do I need to remind this assembly of the terrible wars
in our past, particularly with the people of Corbenica, who still give blood sacrifice to their gods? Do we want this for
Aghamore? No, I say. For this reason, I again state that Giraldus of Kilgarriff
must
be our choice for King.”

Still, the shocked and angry whispers ran through the room. Elon watched Dwyer of Camlough begin shifting his quite considerable
bulk, as if gathering strength to stand. Before he could convince his overtaxed legs to bear his weight, Elon held up his
hand for silence. He had one more surprise to offer before he sat down again.

“As Bishop of Kilgarriff, I, more than any of you, am aware of the past hostility of the Baron and his lady. But, to answer
more fully the concerns our brother Gairiad so rightly put forth, I will tell you this. Not long before this council was convened,
I was called to the home of Baron
Giraldus to meet with him—and especially with the Lady Aurya. Although, as their confessor, there is much I cannot say of
that meeting, even to you my brother bishops, I can tell you that they are now on a pilgrimage of contrition and reparation.
When they return, Lady Aurya has asked to be baptized into the Faith and their union will be legitimated by the Sacrament
of Holy Matrimony.”

“Are we to believe that after so many years, the Lady Aurya has renounced her evil practices of magic?” Dwyer of Camlough’s
disbelief was obvious.

“I, myself, heard her confession,” Elon responded, “and I tell you that her repentance is real. Do you think, Dwyer, that
I and all the faithful in Kilgarriff have not prayed throughout the years for just such a thing? Do you no longer believe
that prayers are answered or that miracles can occur?”

There
, Elon thought,
that should silence them—at least for now
.

As Elon resumed his seat, the Archbishop thumped his crozier three times on the floor. Immediately, the room grew still, and
all eyes turned to the old man.

“I seems that our brother Elon has brought us news that we must all carefully and prayerfully consider. For myself, I congratulate
him, and give thanks to Our Lord, that by Elon’s prayers and example he has tamed the ungodly and led the Lady Aurya to Grace.
The Church may now thrive in Kilgarriff greater than ever before. I admonish all of you to take heed of this example and follow
it, so that all the ungodly within this kingdom may be brought unto the converting and healing Grace of Holy Mother Church.

“Let us adjourn now and go into the chapel for our Evening Prayer. Tomorrow, we shall not meet. Tomorrow shall be a day of
retreat, of prayer and contemplation.
Perhaps then, when we gather again on the following day, the decision we must soon make will have become clear.”

The Archbishop rose to lead the way into the private chapel adjoining this conference room. He motioned to Elon.

“Come, my son, and give me your arm to lean upon. My old bones have grown weary from these long days.”

Elon hid his smile of triumph as he hastened to the Archbishop’s side. The meaning of this act was not lost on Elon—or on
the others in the room. Without saying a word, the Archbishop was letting it be known that he was ready to support Elon…
and
Giraldus.

“Tell me, my son,” the old man said softly. “Why did you not mention the reason for this pilgrimage undertaken by the Baron
and his lady?”

“As I said, Your Eminence, I was their confessor. This pilgrimage is part of the penance that came out of that long meeting
and confession. I prayed for many days before reaching the decision to mention it here… and I would not have done so were
I not certain the future of Aghamore depended on sharing this knowledge.”

The Archbishop nodded. “A difficult decision,” he said, “but wisely made. If Baron Giraldus’s and Lady Aurya’s repentance
is as sincere as you believe, then I think we will soon come to an accord in this matter. Yes, it was well done, Elon,” he
assured him, “well done, indeed.”

If you only knew
how
well done
, Elon thought, congratulating himself on a well-played bit of fantasy. The tale about a pilgrimage not only struck a chord
within the hearts of traditionalists such as the Archbishop, but was a brilliant way to explain why Giraldus and Aurya were
not in Kilgarriff during this time when the future of the whole kingdom was so unsettled.

Now, if only I would hear from them
, his thoughts continued.
Though no one else need know
, I
should he kept informed of their progress. The others will want to know when they will return. If they’re gone too long, they’ll
lose everything I’ve won today
.

But for today, the cause was won. Elon contented himself with that as he entered the chapel and helped the Archbishop into
the Cathedra, the tall, thronelike chair reserved for the Primus of the Church. Then, before Elon could turn away to leave
the sanctuary within the altar rail, the Archbishop stopped him. The old man motioned to the nearby lectern on which stood
the large missal, opened and waiting.

“I am weary, my son,” the Archbishop said softly—but not too softly, allowing himself to be overheard. “I would deem it an
act of charity if you would take my place and lead us in the Office tonight, so that I may rest while we pray.”

“It would be my joy to do so,” Elon replied.

He knelt to receive the old man’s blessing, carefully appearing the soul of piety. Then, standing, he kept his expression
controlled and humble, making certain the others thought him surprised—even overwhelmed—by the honor. His heart jumped and
pounded with glee as he approached the lectern, but before beginning, he glanced out over the assembled bishops.

The marked favor of the Archbishop had not been lost upon them. Bresal, Bishop of Rathreagh, looked thunderous; he had disliked
Elon as far back as seminary days. Tavic of Farnagh looked surprised. The rest wore expressions of resigned acceptance, signaling
their recognition that the Archbishop had done more than give his support to Giraldus. He had just publicly picked his preferred
successor.

Elon kept his face a model of proper humility as he
slowly lifted his hands in the ancient attitude of supplication.

“Let my prayers be set forth as incense,” he intoned the opening line of the Office, chanting in his preferred mode, one as
familiar to the others as it was to him.

“And the lifting up of my hands be evening sacrifice,” came the response in the rich tones of well-practiced male voices.

Elon continued, confidently leading the others through the chanted prayers. He let his elation slowly bloom across his face
in a careful timing that let the others think he was responding to the ecstasy of prayer. In truth, as he mindlessly, automatically,
conducted the ritual that had long ago ceased to have any meaning for him, he could already feel the weight of the triple-crowned
mitre upon his head.

L
ysandra and Cloud-Dancer, Renan and now Talog, prepared to leave the Realm of the Cryf. They would travel as far as possible
on the Great River, in boats provided by the Cryf. Their provisions had been restocked and, much to Lysandra’s delight and
relief, so had her herbs and medicines.

The Cryf had been lavish with their gift of supplies. Eiddig, speaking for the Healers, also promised Lysandra that after
she and the others returned, she would have both seeds and live cuttings of several plants to take back to her own garden.

Now the Council of Elders, along with many of the other Cryf, were gathered to see the travelers off. One group of a dozen
or so were clustered around Talog, embracing him by turns. With the resurgence of her
Sight
, Lysandra’s empathic abilities were also renewed, and she could feel the fear with which Talog’s family was sending him forth.
She wanted to give them words of comfort, assurances that their loved one would be all right, but she could not. She knew
no better than they what might await.

Renan was talking with Eiddig. He had the scroll rolled out and propped open with rocks while the two of them squatted and
drew in the sand.
Like little boys playing a secret game
, Lysandra thought, hoping that the old one and his Holy Words had insights that would clarify the journey ahead.