The Thirteenth Scroll

by Rebecca Neason

Genres: Fantasy

Synopsis

At 17, Lysandra witnessed the brutal murder of her family and lost her sight. Ten years later, she is a master healer and clairvoyant. Lysandra encounters Father Renan, who explains that the two of them are chosen to install the rightful queen of Aghamore on the throne. If they fail, the kingdom will be plunged into a millennium of darkness and tyranny.

Release date: August 1, 2001

Publisher: Aspect

Print pages: 451

Sample

193rd year in the reign of the Line of Baoghil

Ruling House of the Eighth Province, Kingdom of Aghamore

Old King Osaze was dead, only a month dead, and already the kingdom of Aghamore was near to erupting in violence. The King
had left no bodily issue to inherit the crown, and now each of the Barons who ruled the eight outer provinces thought himself
the best allied—by family and wealth or by strength and greed—to lay claim to the throne.


The Church, whose power in Aghamore rivaled that of the Barons, supported the late King’s nephew, Anri. But the people thought
Anri too young and untried, not a leader to inspire confidence or imbue the kingdom with an aura of strength in the minds
of their enemies. Yet even he was preferred to the threat of civil war.


The Barons knew Anri for what he was—greedy in his tastes, perverse in his pleasures, and interested in the throne of Aghamore
only for the riches it could provide. Unlike the people, the Barons thought civil war was preferable to Anri.


The specter of that threat hung like a shadowed veil across the kingdom. As the throne remained unfilled, the people of Aghamore
looked with desperation to the Church, praying that it would find the means to exercise
its authority in the matter of the succession and control the Barons’ predilection for war.


It was, therefore, on Ballinrigh, Aghamore’s capital, that the eyes and the hearts of the kingdom were fixed.

In that great city, the law of the land still held sway and the people still walked the streets in safety, going about their
daily business while waiting to see which way the winds of change would blow. But such was not true away from the larger cities.
All through the eight provinces that encircled Urlar, Aghamore’s central province, bands of soldiers roamed through towns
and villages, sought out hamlets and farms, conscripting every able-bodied young man into service of the Barons. Rather than
be pressed into the army and forced to fight a war no one but the Barons wanted, many men fled from their homes to hide out
in the forests and hills until the dangers of the conscription gangs—or the war—had passed.


With the law’s attention focused elsewhere and so many men either in the army or in hiding, outlaws were growing in numbers
and boldness. They marauded unchecked, taking whatever they wanted wherever they found it.


In the Fifth Province of Camlough, in the once-prosperous town of Scorda, Lysandra lay on her bed sobbing, crying with all
the passion of her seventeen-year-old heart. Her mother sat next to her, trying to give her comfort. But Lysandra wanted none.
She wanted life as she had planned it.


“You can’t ask Ultan to stay,” her mother said gently. “Not when the conscription gangs have reached Lamford already. They
could ride into Scorda any day.”


“But why now?” Lysandra still sobbed. “Our wedding is only a week away. It’s not fair.”

Her mother’s low chuckle made Lysandra furious. She sat up quickly, trying to glare—but her blue eyes were
too swollen and red. Her puffy, tear-streaked cheeks made her look like a cross and fretful child.


“Oh, Lysandra,” her mother said, reaching out to softly wipe away the tears that still lingered on her cheek, “no one, in
any place or at any time, has ever said life was going to be fair. Life isn’t fair—life simply is.”


“But—”

“No, Lysandra,” she continued, taking her daughter’s hands into her own, “you’re not a child anymore to think life must behave
a certain way just because you wish it so. Life comes when and as it will, and we—especially we women—must make the best of
it, without ever giving up hope that all will eventually be well.”


There was scant comfort in her mother’s words, but there was truth and, still heart-sore, she slowly nodded. Her mother gave
her a smile and brought a handkerchief out of her apron pocket to dry Lysandra’s eyes.


“That’s better,” she said, her tone turning brisk and matter-of-fact, a tone Lysandra knew well. “Now go splash some cold
water on your face and comb your hair. Go to Ultan as a strong, courageous woman. Show him that he can leave here knowing
that you will be all right until he returns.”


Lysandra blew her nose. “Where will he go?” she asked.

“Well, if he leaves now,” her mother replied, “he will have time to join with the other men who are going into the Great Forest—as
so many have already. I swear Scorda will be a sad and empty place with so many gone. But”—she sighed—“better they go like
this, on their own terms, than be forced away.”


The net under which Lysandra had so neatly bound her hair this morning was hopelessly askew. She yanked it off and with quick
fingers, gathered her wheat-colored
hair back into a single braid that fell nearly to her waist. Then Lysandra’s mother pulled her into a quick hug.


“I promise you, Lysandra,” she said, “all this will pass more quickly than you think. You and Ultan have a long life ahead
of you—and it will be made all the sweeter because of your separation now.”


The smile Lysandra gave her mother was still forced and a little crooked, but, at least for now, her tears were spent. There
were more tears to be shed, but they would wait until after Ultan had departed.


“Do you know where he is?” she asked, her voice still wavering slightly.

“He’s with your father down at the stables. Your father’s lending him one of the packhorses—but I know he’s waiting for you.”

Lysandra nodded as she took a deep breath. Then, giving her mother one more quick embrace, she left their home in the back
of her father’s wool-and-dye shop and headed for the stables that served this part of the town.


She gave barely a glance to the long, twisted ropes of brightly dyed wool that hung in the shop’s window, nor did she stop
to look at the other shops as she passed. The weaver next door, with the lengths of beautiful cloth; the seamstress’s window,
full of coats and dresses; the cobbler’s shop, with the giant wooden boot over the door; and, across the street, the ironwright’s
shop, standing next to the silversmith’s whose window display of platters and goblets, buckles and jewelry always caught the
morning sun—all those and more were as familiar to Lysandra as her own home. She gave them no more thought than she did the
sound of neighbors’ voices or the playful barking of some of the town’s dogs. Her mind was filled with only one thought—Ultan.


She walked briskly, her mind so busy with thoughts of
him that at first she paid no heed to how the noise behind her had changed. Dogs now barked fiercely and over them, Lysandra
heard the sound of galloping hooves—far too many to be a casual ride.


Her first thought was of the conscription gangs. She started to run. I’ve got to get to Ultan, her thoughts now came in a whirl, matching the rhythm of her feet. Tell him to get away. It’s my fault—he should have gone yesterday or last week… he only stayed for me…


She threw a glance over her shoulder. Just then, the first scream hit her ears. Lysandra’s stomach contracted in true fear—for
this was no conscription gang. These riders, at least twenty strong, rode behind the most dreaded man in the province, perhaps
in the kingdom.


They rode with Black Bryan.

Black Bryan was a bull of a man, with coal-dark hair and eyes to match. It was said that he used to be a blacksmith until
ruinous taxes had claimed his smithy. Having lost his means of honest living, he now took what he wanted. The law had been
after his gang for more than five years, but they remained elusive and unstoppable.


And now into Scorda they rode, knowing they could take what they wanted and caring nothing for the screams or the lives of
those in their way.


Black Bryan stayed on his horse while his men fanned out in search of plunder, some on horseback, some already pushing their
way into shops and houses. Lysandra saw all this in a scant moment. Her one thought was to reach the stables, now closer than
her home. If she could get to Ultan and her father, she might be safe.


The air around her rang with the wails of children and the screams of women. Such violence was inconceivable in this town,
this place filled with her childhood memories
of sunlight and laughter. This cannot be real, her mind cried.


But it was. Lysandra heard the hoofbeats. They were close—too close. Her heart was pounding more wildly than the horses’ hooves,
pounding with the fear of an only half-recognized premonition, as she slipped into a small alleyway to hide. But it was too
late; she had been seen. She was trapped with no way to escape the four men who had leapt down from their horses and were
closing in upon her. Their eyes shone with a light that left Lysandra little doubt of their intent.


“No,” she heard herself say as she slowly backed away. “No, please—let me go.”

The men kept coming. One of them laughed. “She’s a pretty one, don’t you think, m’lads?” he said.

“Aye, right fair—and ripe for the pickin’ too.”

Lysandra started to scream. But her fear meant less than nothing to the men. Her helplessness fed their lust as they grabbed
at her, easily holding her arms though she struggled with all her strength. One man grasped her bodice, ready to rip it apart.
Suddenly, he was hit from behind. He stumbled, his fingers slipping from her as he turned toward his attackers.


In that same instant, through her screams and her fear-blurred vision, Lysandra saw what he saw. It was Ultan—the boy she
loved, the boy she planned to marry. Her father was with him. Her mother, too, suddenly appeared, running from the other direction,
come to find her and fight for the safety of her only child. Ultan wielded a length of board; Lysandra’s father grasped a
hayfork, and her mother clutched a kitchen knife. Lysandra knew they would be no match for the swords of the men who held
her.


“No!” she screamed again, renewing her struggles. She
kicked, she hit, she tried everything she could to break free and save those she loved.


But the men were too strong, their reflexes too swift. While two still held her, two turned on her family. Lysandra saw the
quick parry and thrust of their swords flashing in the sunlight. She saw the looks of surprise, terror, and then death, come
to the faces first of Ultan, then of her parents. She saw the blood gush and flow, staining the clothes, their bodies deep
crimson. She saw their bodies crumple to the ground. She saw all that was life and love to her die.


She saw…

The men turned back around. The swords in their hands still glistened, wet and red. In horrified fascination, Lysandra saw
the blood run down the blade, drip by drip, onto the ground. She tore her eyes away and looked into their faces again. She
saw how the violence had only sharpened their lust.


Suddenly the world spun around her. It went black as Lysandra’s body crumpled, unconscious, in the grip of her attackers.

When, at last, consciousness returned, Lysandra did not know how long it had been. She knew only that she was alone.

The pains in her body told her that the men had carried through their intent. But at least they had left her behind and not
dragged her off for further violation at the hands of their leader.


Lysandra could smell the blood and death that lay only a few feet from her; she could hear the cries, the wails of sorrow
and agony from elsewhere in her village. With them, the horror of the day flooded her anew and made permanent wounds upon
her soul.


She crawled toward the bodies of Ultan and her parents. Although the pain each movement cost her assured her that consciousness
had indeed returned, her world remained in darkness.


Lysandra was blind.

Ten years later:


203rd year of the reign of the House of Baoghil

Ruling House of the Eighth Province, Kingdom of Aghamore

Deep in the heart of the Great Forest, twenty-seven-year-old Lysandra knelt in her garden, feeling the warmth of the spring
sun upon her shoulders. At that moment she felt wrapped in peace. But it was a peace that had come hard-earned. Time had taught
that such moments were to be cherished but never trusted; security was more delicate than a butterfly’s wing—and even more
easily destroyed.


She had been in this cottage for almost nine years now. It was a place she had come across by accident, an old hermit’s home
standing alone and abandoned deep in the forest. She had at once sensed an affinity for the place; her own heart had felt
just as empty as this house, just as overrun by brambles and weeds as its garden.


For the first few days of her blindness, Lysandra had stayed in her family home. Although the villagers were kind in their
pity of her, she could not stand the silence
of the house that had once been filled with her mother’s singing and her father’s hearty laughter.


And there was Ultan’s death, the death of her love, of her future. Without him, her heart felt as empty and bare as the void
her eyes could not see. The only thing that filled them both was the memory of blood and fear.


The memory of death.

The decision to leave Scorda was not one she made consciously; reasonable thought would have told her that, blind now and
needy in her infirmity, she must remain where life was familiar. But Lysandra could not stay in that empty place that had
once been her home. As she packed those few belongings she could comfortably make into a bundle and headed for the door, leaving
felt as inevitable as her next breath.


She did not care where she went as long as it was far away from the reminders of what she had lost. She wandered, somehow
finding her way to the Great Forest. She fully expected to die there, of loneliness and starvation. She accepted that fate
without care or regret—perhaps, even, with eagerness.


It was instinct that kept her alive as she learned to rely upon her senses other than sight. Touch and hearing kept her from
falling down ravines or stumbling into brambles; smell and taste told her what food she had found; and it was the feel of
the sun and the sounds of the birds or crickets that separated daylight from the night.


But time did not matter. She ate when she was hungry and found food; she slept when she was tired, beneath some tree or in
the shelter of a thicket. None of it mattered to her. Though she walked and moved and breathed, life was only a façade; she
felt as dead as her murdered family.


Lysandra had no sense in which direction she wandered
or for how long, but she kept herself away from any human contact. Twice she stumbled upon a crofter’s home whose goodwife
took her in, fed and cleaned her, and for pity’s sake offered her a place to stay. But these acts of kindness only deepened
the wounds upon Lysandra’s heart until she ran from them, back into the forest and her solitude.


Spring became summer, that faded into autumn. Rumors spread throughout the Province of the crazed woman roaming the forest.
She was crazed then—crazed with the pain of her grief and her loss, crazed with guilt that she should live while those whom
she loved had given their lives to save her.


If only she had not screamed…

If only she had been stronger…

If only was the voice of her madness…


Lysandra waited for death to claim her and bring welcome reunion with those she had lost. But it was not death that came to
her during those timeless months. Instead her mind began to open in a way so new, so unexpected, it was nearly incomprehensible.


Slowly, creeping on her almost unawares, vague shapes began to form, filling her mind with outlines and patterns that at first
it refused to recognize. This was not vision as she had known before; to her eyes the world remained in darkness, a void unfilled
and unfillable. But into her mind now came images cast in auraed shapes of shadow and brightness.


This new way of seeing was not easy, nor did it come all at once. It was like the morning sun burning through a thick bank
of fog—slowly, revealing not only an object before her, but its intent, its inner nature. She could see which plants would harm her and which would nourish,
which animals feared her, which were curious, and which might do her injury.


At first, in her heart-numbed state of grief, she felt neither surprise nor fear at this new Sight. She felt nothing, remembered nothing; she merely existed from moment to moment, day to day, not dead but neither truly alive.


She spent that first winter sheltered in a cave she shared with a young female fox. It was there, during the long, snowbound
days, that her sanity began to return—and with it came the first puzzled wonderment at the images filling her mind.


Lysandra was sitting across the fire from the vixen when the spark of true awareness glimmered, changing into a spreading
dawn that came upon her so gently, she was not certain when, between one breath and the next, the darkness had ended and the
light of Self began again. But it was the fire that first caught her attention. She knew, in some vague way, that she had
kindled and maintained it this night as on countless nights before. Yet she had no more direct memory of the action than she
had of taking shelter within this cave.


She felt the fire’s heat—and then, suddenly, she realized that within her mind she saw the dance of light and shadow that was its flame. Across the fire, the vixen regarded her calmly. Now, her wonder growing
with each passing second, Lysandra considered her companion and found she saw much more than the outlined shape of the animal; this was far less distinct than her physical eyes would have seen. Instead,
Lysandra saw the acceptance that shone from the fox’s eyes, and from this she knew they had spent many weeks learning to live together.


And even more amazing, Lysandra found that by concentrating, by listening beyond the silence, she could share
the fox’s feelings. They were not thoughts; at least they did not mirror the individual patterns of human thought. But she
knew that the fox’s wariness of the fire mingled with its comfort in the warmth. Accepting the fire was part of its acceptance
of her.


From that moment, Lysandra never again sank into the blackness of unremembered days. It was now she truly began to wonder
at this new Sight. What was it exactly and from whence had it come? Was it a gift from the God in whom she was no longer certain she believed—some
Divinely ordered recompense for all she had lost?


For this, as for so much in her life now, she had no answers. A part of her, the larger part, did not care. To question was
to invite again the grief-filled darkness that still hovered somewhere close. Instead, throughout the winter, she and the
fox continued to share their cave while Lysandra learned to choose life again. She knew that the person she had been before, the girl to whom laughter came easily and who believed in love and happy
endings, was dead. She had died in that alleyway in Scorda and was part of the dreams that had been buried along with her
parents—with Ultan. She could never be resurrected.


Yet this realization was not only one of endings. With the acceptance of youth forever gone, with the choice of the new life
waiting, Lysandra knew herself reborn; though she wore the same body, this new Lysandra had a very different soul.


Like all the newly born, each moment held things she must learn if her new life was to continue and she was now glad of the
long winter months. Her time in the cave gave her an opportunity to explore the range of her new Sight. She found it was not like physical vision, full of countless hues of bright and muted color. Color in Lysandra’s world was
more felt than seen, though on rare occasions
it would still manifest with sudden and surprising clarity, granting her a glimpse of the world as she used to know it. The
first time her Sight expanded, showing her the vixen in the full beauty of her winter coat, it took Lysandra several seconds to realize what was
before her.


The vision did not last long, and the brilliant detail of it was almost blinding. But in those few seconds, Lysandra saw again
the colors of earth and stone, of flame and fox, of the winter night’s darkness outside the cave’s opening and the golden
glow of the fire’s radiance within. Then, as this revelation of her world began to fade, there came a long awe-filled moment
when the two manifestations of Sight blended, when color and clarity melded with aura and pattern. It was a marvel that almost reawakened the depth of her failed
faith.


Then the moment passed, leaving Lysandra to question again the nature of this Sight.


Those brief glimpses of color returned upon occasion, but never for long or by any reason Lysandra could find. Nor was her
Sight always with her. Sometimes she existed in true blindness once again, as if to remind her of the darkness out of which her
new life had been born—and in which a part of her soul still existed.


When spring came again and the vixen moved on in search of territory and a mate, Lysandra was sorry to see her go. The fox
had been a good companion, and Lysandra would miss her silent presence and the lessons of existence she had taught.


Soon Lysandra also left the cave. For a while she resumed walking through the Great Forest. But this time her travels were
different because she was different. With the fox as teacher, she had learned to be her own companion. There were no more dreams of the future.
She
had learned to live each moment for what it was, and to accept what it—what she—was not. As the forest and its creatures cycled
forward into spring, Lysandra, too, moved on into the life that must be lived by the woman she had become.


She found it here in this cottage, where over the years she had become a healer. The animals came to her and, like the fox,
seemed to know that she was someone they need not fear, whose touch and voice were soft and whose actions were only for their
good. This pleased Lysandra in a way that went far beyond words. Her devotion to these creatures grew, became her focus, and
filled her hours with purpose.


In one section of Lysandra’s garden, she grew the food to keep her alive, for she would eat no animal flesh. But most of the
beds were filled with healing plants that she tended carefully. Eventually, people in the area also came to know of her healing
touch. Crofters and gamekeepers, shepherds and farmers, would occasionally show up at her door, sometimes bringing their animals
to her, other times in need of care for themselves or their families. Lysandra did what she could for them, accepting payments
of eggs or cheese or bread, of wool or cloth, if they chose to offer such. But she never asked for payment or turned anyone
away for the lack of it.


Also over the years, as she learned to use her Sight to heal, she found that other… gifts… were occasionally present, as well. As with the vixen that first winter, she could
often feel the emotions of her patients. With the animals, emotions were simple, primal—fear, confusion, pain, or relief.
But with the nearness of humans came a jumble of thoughts and emotions that bombarded her mind, destroying her hard-won peace.


She was always glad when they left her; she was happier
with the birds and beasts. They were friends Lysandra never tried to tame. She fed those who came to her hungry, healed those
who were sick or injured, and let them go again in their own time.


There was one exception—a wolf she had found, injured, as a small pup. From the first moment she started to care for him,
the pup had touched her heart as nothing had in many years. His trusting nature, the eager way he responded to her nearness,
the unquestioning love he gave her was a balm more potent than any medicine in her cupboard.


She named the pup Cloud-Dancer, partly for the softness of his thick silver-and-white fur, whose beauty she had seen only
upon occasion, and partly for his habit as a pup of dancing on his hind legs, front paws lifted as if trying to reach the
clouds. Now, at two, Cloud-Dancer rarely left Lysandra’s side, except once a day when he needed to hunt. He always returned
to her swiftly—and never did he make a move toward any animal in her care.


She had come to rely upon his presence and his instincts, especially in those times when her Sight left her. Over the last two years this bond of trust between them had become so strong, that when her need for true vision
was great Lysandra could put her hand on Cloud-Dancer and see through his eyes. Like her inner Sight, this, too, was an odd sort of vision, a world of strange perspective seen in tones of sepia, gray, and muted pastels. But,
also like the Sight, her understanding of it had strengthened with use and familiarity.


But Cloud-Dancer was more than just a companion and another pair of seeing eyes. Although Lysandra cared about all the creatures
of the forest, it was to Cloud-Dancer alone that she gave the only love she had to give.


But the reawakening of her heart came at a price. Life
in her cottage moved in a rhythm of simple actions and simpler pleasures, an easy cadence built slowly through the years.
On days like today, kneeling in her garden in the warmth of the sun, feeling Cloud-Dancer’s nearness soft but ever-present
in her mind, the life and dreams of her youth seemed like parts of a fairy story she had once heard before falling asleep—lovely
but unreal.


Yet now that her heart had its own beat again, however soft, into moments of deepest silence a half-and-best-forgotten voice
sometimes whispered. It brought back moments and memories out of her long-dead past—thoughts of home and family, abandoned
yearnings for love, marriage, children.


She had a home, she told herself each time; she neither wanted nor needed another. Her children were her plants, the animals
she cared for; her family was Cloud-Dancer. These were enough.


But, despite her brave resolve, the whispered memories still returned.

Lysandra stood and stretched the ache of the garden hours out of her back. The days were lengthening as summer slowly approached,
and sundown was still two hours away, but it was time to go inside and close down the day.


As Lysandra headed for the door, Cloud-Dancer came to walk beside her, brushing her thigh as he always did. The walkway to
her house was so familiar she needed neither his guidance nor his eyes to find her way, but she reached down and gently ran
her fingers through his fur to signal the gratitude she always felt for his company.


At the door, she stopped. Over the years, Lysandra had developed one final ritual, performed each evening before going in
for the night. She turned back toward the forest and closed her eyes. She waited until her mind and body
stilled, until all she could hear was her breath and the sound of her own heartbeat. When at last that moment of perfect stillness
enveloped her, Lysandra opened her mind and embraced it with all the eagerness of a lover.


The quickly cooling freshness of the spring air blew across her cheeks, and Lysandra sent the full awareness these years had
developed in her outward to soar upon it. Her questing thought touched the wings of the nearby birds in flight, rustled new
sprung leaves, brushed across the creatures of the forest. Her mind reached out, ever farther… listening for the cry of anyone,
animal or human, who might need her help.


All remained silent… and in that silence was her rest, her peace, her home. All was well.