The Thirteenth Scroll (19 page)

“No need,” Lysandra called back.

A moment later she pushed their packs through. Renan quickly moved them out of the way. Cloud-Dancer came next, then Lysandra
herself eased through the gap in the stone.

He hastened toward her to help her stand, but she waved him away. Looking at her face, now smudged and dirty—no doubt like
his own—he could tell that the
Sight
was still with her. Her eyes continued to stare in the unfocused manner of the blind, but there was a watchfulness to her
expression that showed in the twitch of her eyebrows and the tightening of her lips.

And there was something more, something Renan tried
to define and failed. The only word he could think that came close was
Otherness
—and he wondered if mystics wore the same expression when divine visions were upon them.

“What is this place?” Lysandra asked as she stood.

“I don’t know,” Renan replied. “This ledge, the trail leading down, must have been artificially made. I’d guess we’ve just
crawled in through the airhole of an abandoned mine.”

“Why would a place like this be abandoned?” Lysandra asked. “It’s so beautiful.”

And beautiful it was. Veins of crystal—some clear, some colored—shimmered and sparked as if a fire had been lit within their
heart. The natural angles and facets threw the light outward in all directions, making it dance to creation’s still whispered
song.

The effect was breathtaking. But, finally, Renan tore his eyes away and reached for his pack. With his movement, Lysandra
did the same, and soon they started down the stone ramp. It was only when they reached the cavern floor, however, that Renan
realized the full magnitude of the place. The tall spires on which the glowing phosphorous clung were easily five times the
height of a man—and they reached less than halfway to the ceiling. It was like walking through a land of giants as he and
Lysandra followed what felt like a natural path between the spires.

“
’Many, O Lord, are the wondrous works which thou hast done’
,” he breathed in reverence of the hand that had placed such things within the earth—and that had granted him the privilege
of seeing them.

As they walked through the cavern, Renan leading the way with the torch, he slowly realized that the air was a comfortable
temperature, quite unlike any of the caves he had explored as a boy. Soon he began to notice the bright
veins of what could only be gold streaking the cavern walls. Seeing these, his mind echoed Lysandra’s earlier question—why
would such a place be abandoned?

“
That which is forgotten
,” the prophecy had said, and that certainly described this place. Nowhere could Renan remember hearing tales of its existence,
not even among old legends or fairy stories told to children. Nor, he decided, would he tell anyone. Greedy hearts and hands
would soon reduce this beauty to rubble if the world ever heard of the wonders he was seeing.

But wonder was giving way to hunger and fatigue. They had hiked many miles today before finding the cavern, and more walking
underground. It was time for food and a night’s slumber.

Upon finding a wide, flat place between the stalagmites, Renan once more shrugged his pack from his shoulders. He wished they
could have a fire, but there was no wood. Which meant that when the torch guttered out, there would be nothing more to replace
it.

“At least the air is warm,” he said to Lysandra when she stopped beside him and also dropped her bundle to the ground. “And
we’ve food and water enough for a while. I hope—“

“We will,” Lysandra said. Her voice held no hint of doubt. “If we’re in the right place and if this journey means everything
you say, then we will find the way out. We must—“

“Have faith?” Renan said with a smile. “I suppose I should have been the one to say that first. Oh well—sometimes the spirit
is as weak as the flesh. At least mine is. Now, let’s make what camp we can, then eat and get some sleep. Maybe tomorrow we’ll
find… whatever we’re supposed to find here.”

Renan leaned the torch against a stone and turned toward
his pack to bring out a canteen of water. The torch stayed propped for a moment—then fell to the side, as if pushed by an
unseen hand. It sputtered and went out before Renan could turn again and grab it.

But the cave did not plunge into darkness, as he expected. Instead, the luminous substance covering the walls, which Renan
had assumed was merely reflecting the light of the torch, continued to glow on its own. It cast a light bright enough to reveal
their surroundings, yet the light itself was softer than torchlight, easier on the eyes and mind.

Renan heard Lysandra gasp, and he turned. The look of wonder on her face could only mean that her miraculous gift of
Sight
was with her once more, and she was also witnessing the strange beauty of this place. Renan picked up the extinguished torch
and put it with his pack. He would carry it with them in case they reached a place where this luminance did not exist.

“Where do you think this place goes?” Lysandra asked. “Does the scroll say anything about it?”

Her questions brought Renan’s thoughts back to the many unknown problems that might still be ahead of them. “I don’t know,”
he answered. “I thought I understood the scroll’s words—but now I’m not so sure. I would never have found those stones—
The Three Sisters
—if you had not pointed us upward. How did you know?”

He handed Lysandra the canteen, which she gladly accepted. While she drank, he found a comfortable place to sit, his back
resting against a stone while he pulled some food out of his pack for their dinner.

Lysandra did not reply at first. She half turned away, looking poised for flight or condemnation.

“You’ll think I’m mad if I tell you,” she said.

“No, Lysandra,” he said quietly, seriously. “No, I won’t.”

“I… I
saw
someone… up on the rock… gesturing for us to follow.” Her words came haltingly, as if pulled from her.

Renan felt there was something more, something she was not saying. But from what he had already learned of her life, he realized
how difficult it must be for her to let down her defenses. So he would not push; whatever she shared with him must be by her
choice.

“Then I’m grateful your
Sight
was functioning just then,” he said, “or we’d still be outside in the cold night air. Who knows how far we would have walked
and never realized we were on the wrong path.”

Renan could see Lysandra relax as she heard the acceptance in his words. She looked so unsure of herself, so like a little
girl that he wanted to take her hands and tell her not to worry, that he knew she would not lie and that he would always believe
her.

But she was not a little girl, he reminded himself—and he was a priest who must be careful that such gestures were not misunderstood.

“Come, sit and have some supper,” he said to her instead. “I think there’s enough light in here to read well enough, and after
supper I’ll check the scroll again. Maybe it will give us some clue about what might be ahead.”

I don’t remember any such thing
, he thought silently.
But I could have read it and not understood. Whatever this place is, I hope we can pass through it quickly. We have food,
but after three days we’ll have no more water. Beautiful as this place is, I don’t want it to be our tomb
.

T
is an accursed time of year to be traveling through mountain passes,” Giraldus grumbled. “I don’t care
what
waits on the other side.”

Aurya said nothing. Giraldus had been grumbling all day and she was tired of trying to placate him. She, too, could wish they
were making this trip in… oh, July would be nice. Then nature would have cleared the roadway; the meadows would be bright
with alpine flowers and alive with the bees and hummingbirds come to drink the sweet nectar.

But the Spring-Fest in Yembo took place every year on May 1st—two days hence. The road through this pass, being one of the
lowest and most wide, was kept tolerably free of snow in winter with plows pulled by teams of great Shire horses. They should
be over the crest before nightfall and into Yembo by the following evening, the night before the festival.

Aurya had not told Giraldus of her failure with the spirit of Tambryn, nor her vision of them riding with armed escort through
the streets of Ballinrigh. For the latter, she still had no true interpretation; as for the former, Tambryn’s dismissal of
her Summoning still rankled. Although
she hated to admit it, even to herself, the ease with which he had defied her frightened her a little.

While Giraldus mumbled and complained about the weather, the condition of the roads, the lack of entourage, and anything else
that struck his fancy today, Aurya brooded over her failure. Time and time again she reviewed the spell, but she could think
of nothing she had done wrong. Tambryn’s spirit had appeared as called; how had he been able to shatter it at will? Tales
called him a monk, a mystic and prophet, even a heretic—but never a sorcerer. How much more about him did she not know?

The question was unanswerable, at least for now, yet Aurya’s mind worried over it like a hungry dog with a bone. If that spell
had not worked on Tambryn, perhaps she could Summon someone else from his time in history. But whom? Ah, that was a question
more worthy of her attention than her failure in the past.

Huddled down beneath her cloak, she let her thoughts drift to the snow-muffled clop of the horses’ hooves. Somewhere in history
had to be the answer and the aid she needed.

Perhaps
, she thought,
when we reach Yembo, the Three Sisters will know. The scroll says they will reveal “the forgotten
.”

Aurya still did not know who—or what—the Three Sisters were, but she was confident she would recognize them. And their insight
would be the key to the final stage of this journey. Then, armed with the knowledge she gained, she and Giraldus would turn
north to find the child whom the scroll called the Font of Wisdom.

Elon had said the Font of Wisdom must be destroyed. But what, she thought now, if they did
not
have to kill it? A child could be easily controlled. If she trained the child to suit her purpose, to use its gifts in pursuit
of
her
goals—would not that in a way be destroying it? It would not then be the Font of Wisdom as Tambryn described, but someone
else entirely. And they could always kill it later, if the need arose.

Aurya had never felt any particular maternal stirrings, but now she found that the thought of having a young mind to mentor
and train pleased her. They would not be seeking this child if it were a being without powers—although Tambryn was particularly
oblique on just what those powers were.

This child
, Aurya thought,
must have a wealth of potential waiting to be tapped. And
I
will be the force that taps and trains it
. She wanted to laugh out loud. She wished Tambryn’s spirit were here now so she could tell him that he had dismissed her
too lightly. Using
her powers
, she would make certain that his words and warnings were rendered meaningless. Now, in the “
rising of the Ninth House”
would be the
power
of the Third.

Aurya smiled to think of all that she could teach the child. It would not have to grope and stumble to find its direction
in life, as she had before she met old Kizzie. This child would have a purpose and know it from the beginning—a purpose set
and directed by
her
: to put Giraldus on the throne as High King of Aghamore.

“How can you smile?” Giraldus growled, snapping Aurya’s thoughts back to the present. She had not noticed how the wind had
picked up. But as she turned her face toward her lover, tiny beads of frozen snow slapped into her face like tiny needles,
stinging her eyes and chapping her cheeks.

“I can smile because I see a great future,” she told him.

“All your fine words and fancy predictions will be no good to frozen corpses,” Giraldus replied angrily, “which is what we’ll
be if a storm catches us. Look up, Aurya—the
sky is dark, and the air is shouting a warning. Do you have magic enough to turn the winds aside or cause the snow to miss
us?”

Aurya laughed out loud at his scowl. “The only magic we need is beneath us,” she said.

She dug her heels into her horse’s ribs. It shot forward, the snow giving purchase to its hooves. Aurya laughed, throwing
the sound like a challenge into the wind and back at her companion.

“Come, Giraldus,” she shouted, turning her head to look back over her shoulder at him. “What we cannot turn, we can outrun.”

As she watched Giraldus, still scowling, put his heels to his horse’s side. His stallion, trained to war, soon caught up to
Aurya’s gelding and side by side they raced to beat the weather.

Lysandra was not finding it as easy as Renan obviously did to fall asleep on the hard stone floor of the cavern—even if the
temperature was comfortably warm. She missed the fresh moving air of the outdoors, and the sounds of the night creatures whose
activities were her sweetest lullaby.

Although she had her cloak to cover her and her bundle for a pillow—and, of course, Cloud-Dancer sleeping by her side—she
found no comfort in this place. Something here was keeping her awake, alert, and waiting.

She listened to the darkness, filled only with the sounds of her sleeping companions and with her own thoughts. Even these
seemed designed to keep her from relaxation. Every doubt and question about this journey combined with the aches and stiffness
brought on by long days on the road. She was still no hardened traveler—and all she
wanted, especially during these long, dark, sleepless hours, was to turn around and go home.

Lysandra usually had a reliable internal clock, but tonight—if it was indeed night—she had no idea how much time had passed
or how long it might be before her companions awakened. Turning over yet again and still feeling uneasy and uncomfortable,
she was about to sit up and reach for a drink of water when she heard a sound that made her stop. She held her breath, waiting.