The Truest Power

by Rebecca Neason

Genres: Science Fiction

Synopsis

In this sequel to The Thirteenth Scroll, Aghamore is rulerless and teeters on the brink of civil war, even though the blind seer Lysandra and her companions have found Selia, the young girl who possesses the innate wisdom to save the land. In order to see Selia crowned as the Font of Wisdom and put on the throne to save Aghamore from destruction, the truest power must be discovered.

Release date: September 26, 2009

Publisher: Grand Central Publishing

Print pages: 480

Sample

Lysandra sat on the stone bench at the center of her garden, enjoying a moment of stillness. This was one of those rare spaces
in activity where it felt as if the whole world was holding its breath. No bee buzzed or bird chirped; no creature, human
or animal, moved; no tree rustled in the afternoon breeze. There was nothing but warmth and silence and peace. These moments
never lasted more than a few heartbeats. Soon, the waiting world would exhale, and the activity of life would begin again. But for this brief instant, Lysandra's spirit basked in the preternatural silence and was refreshed.


There, a bird made the first call… a bee flew to the next flower… the moment was gone in a soft but unmistakable passing.
Lysandra, too, exhaled. From within her cottage, she heard the sound of voices—first Selia's, then Renan's response. Soon,
footsteps entered the growing richness of being, ones Lysandra recognized as much with her heart as with her ears.


She moved slightly to one side, making room for Renan to join her on the bench. She did not bother to call upon her Sight; although once it was a spurious gift that came and went by a pattern she could neither name nor control, now she had but
to need it, and it was there. But she did not need it for Renan. His footsteps, like his presence, were now almost as well-known
to her as her own.


When they had met, his thoughts and emotions had been completely shielded from her. It had been a unique relief to Lysandra.
For the last ten years, the nearness of other humans had been a painful experience in which her mind was bombarded by all
the thoughts, all the needs and hopes, fears and sorrows humans unwittingly projected. Most human minds were like a sieve
through which all these, and more, ran in a constant, unstoppable flow—and she caught them all. It was a large part of why
she chose and protected her solitude.


But now, like her Sight, this had changed. Now she could control the thoughts she let touch her—and with that control, she no longer had to fear
the presence of people in her life. It was a gift that promised her a freedom she thought she had lost ten years ago, when
she lost all the other pieces of the life she had always known.


Just as her mind was shielded from unwelcome contact, Renan's was open to her. His thoughts and feelings ran along the current
of their deep and mutual feelings for each other, so that Lysandra could feel the inner essence of the man sitting by her
side.


At the moment he was confused—and a little discouraged. As he sat there quietly in the sunlight, neither of them said a
word for a long moment. Then, finally, she felt him beginning to relax.


Lysandra turned toward him. “Selia?” she said, asking a number of questions with that single word.

“Selia,” Renan replied, answering them all.

During the last three weeks, as they rested from their long journey past and for the task ahead, Selia had withdrawn more
and more into herself. Lysandra, knowing the shock of losing the life one thought to have, had at first given the younger
woman supportive silence in which to make her adjustments of mind and heart. But that luxury was past. June was now upon them,
and the summer months of dry weather meant the Barons would be on the move.


It was time they were moving as well—back to Ballinrigh. Both she and Renan felt a deep certainty that whatever was next
on Selia's path to the throne could only be accomplished in the kingdom's capital city.


At least this time we know where we're going, Lysandra thought as she stood. Someone needed to point that out—again—to Selia… and Lysandra knew that this time it had
to be her.


Renan, kind and solicitous, was a great one to offer comfort. With him, Lysandra did not hesitate to share her worries and
fears. But comfort was no longer what Selia needed. She needed to put aside both sentiment and personal choices, and look
ahead with a clear, determined eye. There was too much at stake for any of them to let personal preferences interfere with
what had to be done. Selia had shown her strength in the Realm of the Cryf, when dealing with Aurya and Giraldus—it was
time she did so again. Lysandra only hoped she could emulate the gentle firmness her own mother had so often used with her.


The memory of her mother came easily now. The long years in which her heart was dead and cold, buried beneath the crushing
weight of her sorrow, were over. Grief was healed, as was the guilt that she had unwittingly carried for so long—guilt that
she should still live while those she had loved died trying to save her.


The healing had come from many places, had worn many faces—three of whom were with her now. There was Cloud-Dancer, first
and always. From the day he had come into her life, an abandoned six-week-old wolf pup with a broken leg, his joyous devotion
and loyalty had begun to chip away the hard shell in which she had encased her inner self. Guard, companion, friend—he had
been the first and only being she loved in a long, long time.


Then Renan came into her life—or she into his. Although, at first, she had hated the compulsion that drove her to leave
this cottage, that led her first to Ballinrigh and then to Rathreagh to find Selia, she knew now it had been a gift from the
Divine Hand. In Ballinrigh she had met Renan—Father Renan, priest of the little parish in which she had sought refuge only minutes after entering the city.


Viewed in hindsight, the events of that long trek to the kingdom's great capital, and of the even longer one that followed,
were nothing short of miraculous. True, she had her Sight to guide her and Cloud-Dancer's presence to keep her safe. But she was still a blind woman walking alone, save for the wolf's
company. There could have been danger behind every tree or around any bend in the road.


Instead, she had encountered only honesty and beauty as she traveled. When she did reach Ballinrigh and faced the one truly
dangerous moment of her journey, the place of sanctuary at hand contained the one person she needed to find. If those two
men had not tried to attack and rob her—gaining only the protective fury of a wolf for their troubles—she might have wandered
the streets of Ballinrigh until, money gone, she was forced to abandon her search without ever finding Renan or discovering
why she was there.


But she had found Renan. He alone, of all the city's inhabitants, had known what she did not—who she was and the purpose
behind her presence there. He revealed to Lysandra the Thirteenth Scroll of Tambryn and explained to her what it meant. But
that was not the greatest gift he had brought to her life. Although it seemed so at the time, Lysandra now knew that what
Renan had truly given her was love.


Somewhere, somewhen, along their difficult journey, helpful stranger had turned to friend—and friendship had blossomed into that rarest flower
of true and everlasting love. The dark wall behind which she had hidden the deepest part of herself, where she had once believed
it would and must always remain, had crumbled bit by bit.


But the pieces, so long in place, had not come easily down. It was not until she had to battle her way back from the depths
of dark magic cast by their enemy, back into the light of life again, that she had finally let the wall around her heart tumble.
Within the Light that had become her chosen reality, no Darkness—of magic or of self—could survive.


But Renan was still a priest; the love Lysandra felt for and from him would remain unspoken. Lysandra told herself that did
not matter. Love existed—and the friendship, which they could share, was all the deeper for it.


There were other places and people through whom her healing had come. There was Eiddig, the aged Guide and leader of the Cryf,
the forgotten beings who lived in their wondrous Realm beneath Aghamore's mountains and whose souls were as beautiful as their
appearance was strange. Their name meant the Strong, and that is what they were—possessed of amazing strength in their compact,
hair-covered bodies and, above all, strong in their belief of the One whom they called simply the Divine.


No one had demonstrated this strength more surely than Talog, the young Cryf Guide-in-Training who had left the underground
Realm to travel with Lysandra and Renan as they searched for Selia. While all of the Cryf had impressed Lysandra with the
faith and the compassion that created their amazing, harmonious society, none had done more than Talog. Terrified to travel
Up-world, as the Cryf called the surface land of Aghamore, and in physical pain from the brightness of the sun he had never
before seen, Talog had proved himself invaluable time and again. Lysandra knew they would never have succeeded in finding
or getting Selia to safety without him.


And there was Selia herself. She, too, had helped heal Lysandra in ways the older woman was still discovering. Both the Thirteenth
Scroll of Tambryn and the Holy Words of the Cryf named Selia the Font of Wisdom. When their minds had touched that first time, Selia's own gifts—unrecognized and unwanted by the girl—had served as a
catalyst to unlock Lysandra's undiscovered potential. Together, they had been able to banish the Darkness that had so nearly
destroyed Lysandra and bring her back into life again.


It was then that Lysandra's Sight, that wondrous inner vision that had allowed her to live and function as a healer through all the long years of solitude,
had blossomed. But for nearly ten years, her Sight had come and gone of its own accord, and though she had learned to use it, she could find no way to control it.


Nor was what the Sight revealed the same as physical vision. There were moments when it would erupt into colors and images, showing her all that
her eyes had learned to do without—but most of the time her Sight came in patterns of light and shadow that dwelt within the heart of living auras. It had taken her a long time to perfect
her understanding and use.


Now, however, her Sight was under her control, coming or going at her summoning. It also came with color now, and gave her true images whenever she
needed, images she combined with the auras for even greater healing skills.


Along with her Sight, Lysandra now possessed the gift of Far-Seeing, where her inner vision revealed things at a distance. And, as the Scroll of
Tambryn had named her, she was also Prophecy's Hand; her Sight now looked into the future as well as the present.


Amazing as all this was to her, there was one gift so awe-inspiring that Lysandra hardly dared think on it. Each time she
did, she was still stunned that she should have been its instrument. Manifest through both her Sight and touch, it was the gift of true healing, and it had come only once—to heal Eiddig from the wound of Aurya's dagger.


Had this been a gift from the great Divine on whom the Cryf called with such unbending faith, a one-time miracle given for
the sake of a beloved servant? Or, Lysandra scarcely dared to believe, was this given to her, a supernatural fulfillment of who and what she was meant to be?


This question, like so many others, had whirled through her thoughts throughout the three weeks since they had returned to
her cottage. As yet, she had no answer, and she was certain there would be none while they remained here. It had been important
to stop and rest and to regain their strength, as important as it had once been to leave. But now the time to leave had come
again. Lysandra knew it; Renan knew it—it was only Selia who would not accept it.


Cloud-Dancer brushed against Lysandra's thigh as she put her hand to the door latch. As always, his presence made her smile,
and she automatically reached down, running her fingers into the thick, soft silver-and-white fur that covered his head and
neck. Together, they entered the cottage, leaving Renan alone in the sun-washed garden.


Lysandra heard the younger woman in the kitchen. This had become a favorite place of Selia's, the kitchen and the medicine
pantry beyond where Lysandra set the herbs to dry and stored the prepared unguents and syrups, salves and simples for use.
Their production seemed to fascinate Selia. Although Lysandra was grateful for the help and glad to teach both Selia and Renan
what she knew, it was not Selia's destiny to spend her coming years as a healer's apprentice.


While Cloud-Dancer went to curl up in his favorite spot by the fireplace, Lysandra headed for the kitchen. She summoned up
her Sight so that she could watch Selia as they spoke. It was not that she thought the younger woman would try to deceive her—but
she might try to deceive herself, and Lysandra needed to be aware and help her accept the truth.


It would not be easy. Unlike most humans, Selia possessed the ability to keep her inner self carefully hidden away, even from
Lysandra. How much of this was innate and how much had been learned through her pain-filled childhood, Lysandra did not know.
But what her empathy might miss, her Sight would not, and Lysandra intended to make full use of it now. Honed through a decade of practice, Lysandra would be able to
read Selia's true emotions on her face, and in the changes to the aura that surrounded her.


When she entered the kitchen, and Selia turned to greet her, her aura was clear, bright as sunlight reflecting on a mountain
lake. But Lysandra knew it would not last, and she was sorry for that, sorry that she must be the one to destroy Selia's happy,
contented humor.


“The marigold salve is almost finished,” she told Lysandra proudly. “I'll be sealing the pots soon, if you want to look at
it first.”


“No,” Lysandra replied, heading for the cupboard where she kept her dishes stored. “I'm sure you've done it right. You've
learned a great deal in the short time you've been here. But come, let's have some tea. There are things we must say.”


Cups now in hand, she turned and saw that Selia's aura had already begun to darken, as if a bank of clouds was moving to block her inner sun. She knows what is coming, Lysandra thought. Of course she does… her own heart is telling her, just as ours are telling Renan and me. How can I get her to listen to what
she knows but does not want to hear?

Lysandra put the mugs down and opened the cupboard where she kept the herbs she used for tea. She chose her favorite, a blend
of wood betony and chamomile she kept already mixed. Betony strengthened both the body and mind, and chamomile relaxed while
promoting clear thoughts and insight.


A kettle of hot water was always on the back of the stove, ready for use. Lysandra bent her attention to the necessities of
the tea, studiously ignoring the continued darkening of Selia's humor. Finally, steaming mugs in hand, she went to the table
and sat, willing her own calm to reach out and at least touch, if not envelop, her companion.


“Bring the honey with you,” she said in an even voice that, though soft, was a tone that left no room for argument. My mother's voice, Lysandra thought with a small and wistful smile, grateful that she could think of her family again. That, too, was part of
her healing.


Selia brought the honey as asked, her footsteps speaking her reluctance as clearly as any word. For a few minutes more, the
silence continued as each woman fixed her tea the way she liked it. Then, finally, Selia drew a deep breath.


“I know what you're going to say,” she began. “Father Renan has already said it. ‘It's time to go, to leave here and continue
with the task ahead.’ But I don't want to go—and I don't want to finish anything that will make me be Queen.”


Lysandra said nothing. She sipped her tea and waited, letting Selia say everything, logical or otherwise, that was boiling
around inside her.


“You live a good life,” Selia continued when Lysandra did not speak. “You help others here—people, animals, anyone who comes
to you. The good you accomplish is tangible. That's something I want—not some abstract ‘good of the kingdom.’ I want to stay here, to learn what you do and help you
do it. I've thought all about it, and I don't see any reason… eventually you'll need someone here. I mean, you're not old
or anything—yet—but what if you were injured or sick? You need to have someone here, instead of living all alone…”


Her voice trailed off into the silence of both women unconvinced. Again, Lysandra waited passively, giving Selia a chance
to continue if she wanted. But now the younger woman said nothing.


“Yes,” Lysandra affirmed softly. “I do live a good life here. Peaceful, meaningful… but it is my life, Selia, and you cannot live it. Your own life awaits.”


Selia pushed her chair back abruptly and began to pace. “I don't want that life,” she said as she walked. “I don't care about prophecies and Holy Words—or about what my being Queen might mean. I don't know how to be a Queen.”


“And that is one of the greatest gifts you'll bring to the people,” Lysandra answered. “This kingdom has had too many rulers
who thought they knew what being a sovereign meant—and to them it meant only power and profit. They ruled with greed instead
of wisdom, and for their own pleasure instead of the people's good.


“But if it is too ‘abstract’ for you,” Lysandra quoted Selia's word back to her, “to think of the mothers who have put their
children to bed hungry because the tax collectors have taken every penny they needed to buy food, or what it will mean to
this kingdom to suffer a civil war until one Baron vanquishes the others and claims the crown—then think of Eiddig, Talog,
and the others. They put their lives in jeopardy for your safety. Will you tell them by your actions that all their efforts,
all the sacrifices of those who died in the battle with Aurya's and Giraldus's soldiers—defending you—was for nothing? Surely you're not that much of a coward.”


“I am a coward,” Selia said sharply. “I'm afraid to leave here, to go to Ballinrigh, to see all those people who might be suffering
just as you said. And I'm afraid to be Queen. What if I'm no good at it, and the people suffer more because of me?”


There, Lysandra thought as she watched the cloud of self-deception lift from Selia's aura. Now the real reason is out, and we can deal with it.

“Selia,” she said aloud, “sit down and listen to me.”

Reluctantly, the younger woman again came to the table. Once she was seated, Lysandra took her hands, again remembering how
often her mother had sat in such a way with her. The circle now completed as she gave the comfort she had once received.


“Fear of the unknown does not make you a coward—unless you let it keep you from moving forward. And fear of failure can
be what spurs us to our greatest efforts. But both are a choice, made every day. You're not a child to think life is all one
way, always only good or bad. Every day and many times within each day, we are faced with the choice to go one way or the
other, to add success to success or failure to failure—or to turn our failure into success.”


“But—” Selia began.

Lysandra shook her head to stop her from continuing. “You have a great gift within you,” she said, “a Divinely ordered gift.
You are the Font of Wisdom. You know it, as do I, Renan, the Cryf—even Aurya and Giraldus. To leave that gift languishing here
in obscurity would be more than a shame… and that, too, you know. It would be living a lie, and that is the ultimate failure.”


Slowly, through the link of their touch, Lysandra now reached her mind for Selia's. Their minds united, as they had before,
as they ever would. Truth met Wisdom in that place beyond words. Despite what Selia had said earlier, she was not a coward—nor could she turn away from prophecy delivered on the wings of Truth.


Lysandra's Sight suddenly gazed into the future that might yet be, and at the fork in the road upon which their destination relied. Through
that gaze of prophetic Sight, Lysandra showed it all to Selia: if they stayed here, as she said she wanted, death awaited. Not for them—not yet—but
for countless others. Soldiers dying in battle; families torn apart by war; children trampled beneath heedless, galloping
hooves; mothers and sisters raped, fathers killed; all of Aghamore's Provinces turned into one, blood-soaked killing field…


This was civil war. But its aftermath was no less terrible. It mattered not who won the war; even with Giraldus and Aurya
gone, this kingdom would become a place of Darkness. The scars upon the landscape would be as nothing compared to the wounds
on the hearts and lives of the people—and they would not heal for many generations.


And there was the other road, the one that led them now to Ballinrigh. It, too, was filled with danger—to them and to this
kingdom—but the distant end was far different. Lysandra could not see its end clearly; the road twisted and turned, branched and rejoined the main path again with the many choices that might
still be made along the way.


But by the single act of acceptance—of herself, her fate and purpose—by acting in faith and going to Ballinrigh now, the Darkness
that could destroy the kingdom would be averted and Truth would have the chance to take its rightful place.


It was Selia who broke the contact with Lysandra's mind. She withdrew her hands from Lysandra's grasp and stood, going over
to the nearby window that looked out on the garden and the forest beyond. Lysandra waited. All barriers between them were
now down, and she could feel the girl's silent quandary even as she watched it pulsate through the aura surrounding Selia's
body.


The younger woman still did not want to go, but neither was she heartless. Slowly, the turmoil ceased; her own inner civil
war of duty versus desire ended in unconditional surrender.


“How soon must we leave?” she asked.

“Tomorrow, the next day at the latest,” Lysandra answered. “The longer we wait, the closer
the Darkness draws.”


“I'll be ready in the morning,” Selia replied, still not turning from the window.

Lysandra could feel the young woman's deep attraction to the peace that view accorded—and she shared the feeling. She did
not envy Selia's destiny; neither power nor riches held the slightest appeal to Lysandra. Nor did they to Selia, who had thought
to live a quiet life of prayer amid the holy Sisters of St. Gabriel in the little convent outside the fishing village of Caerryck
on the northern tip of Rathreagh.


There will be compensations for that lost life, Lysandra thought, but did not say. She knew Selia was not yet ready to hear it. In time, Selia would rediscover joy—even
amid the duties of a Queen. As the life she was meant to live, in time it would become as fulfilling and as meaningful to
her as Lysandra's had become over the years.


That much Lysandra could see—but such assurances would be meaningless to Selia right now. There was only one thing that mattered to her today, and that
was finding the strength to endure her present task.


Lysandra finished her tea and stood. She would go back outside to Renan and leave Selia to make her peace with the life to
which she had just committed.


Elon Gallivin, Bishop-ordinary of the Province of Kilgarriff, was worried; he still had heard nothing from Giraldus and Aurya.
Their scroll-guided journey to find the child whom Tambryn's writings had named the Font of Wisdom should have taken no more
than two or three weeks. They had left before the end of April, and it was now June, yet they had neither returned nor sent
him any message to explain their delay.


Elon had sent his spies on errands through the northern part of the kingdom. They had brought back news of places Giraldus
and Aurya had stopped, places like Yembo in Lin-inch and Fintra in Rathreagh—but those sightings had been weeks old. It
was as if Giraldus and Aurya had simply disappeared.


If they did not return soon, all the hard work Elon had done to ensure Giraldus had the Church's support to make him the next
High King would go for naught. Already, he feared, the backing of the other bishops, including the Archbishop, was beginning
to waver.


Elon got up from behind his desk and began to pace the room. This study at his Residence in Ummera was large enough for him
to take several unimpeded steps, despite the ornate furnishings and bookshelves. He walked from the fireplace on one wall
to the bay window that filled the wall directly opposite, and back again. The pacing helped him think—and not about the
many papers piled on his desk.


He knew he had a decision to make, and it was not one that came easily, for it ran contrary to the plan that had been almost
three decades in fomenting. Yet, if Giraldus and Aurya did not return within the next few days, he must find the way to disassociate
himself from them and salvage as much of his reputation—and his plan—as possible.


Twenty-eight years ago, he had seduced Aurya's mother in accordance with a carefully researched and followed ritual of power,
in service to the dark god Leshtau, who had been worshiped centuries ago in a land half the world away. But time and distance
meant nothing to the forces he was summoning in the act—as Aurya herself proved.


Nine months later, she had been born. Of her mother, Elon gave not another thought; he cared only for the child, a creature
of magic destined to wield such power as Elon could only dream. Elon's own power was in his voice, and he had used it to ensure
that Aurya's mother would never betray him. He implanted an order of silence deep within her mind, and it had held throughout
the remainder of her life. Not even Aurya knew that he was her father.


But he knew, and through his spies he had kept watch over her progress. He knew about the early and growing rift between mother
and daughter that had caused Aurya to leave home by the age of twelve. At that young age, she had turned her back on the woman
toward whom she felt only apathy at best, disgust at worst, who was too consumed by her own guilt to give her ill-conceived
child any glimmer of maternal care or affection.


Elon knew, too, about the “witch of the hills,” old Kizzie, who had become Aurya's teacher in the ways of magic. From a distance,
he had kept watch on how Aurya progressed in her studies. He knew when Kizzie died. He had been there personally, hidden in
a thick clump of tree-shaded underbrush, distant enough to be safe from the wild powers she was unleashing, to watch Aurya
as she summoned the fire that consumed her teacher's body and sent her spirit free into the universe.


It had been a turning point in Aurya's life, for with that conjuring of power all the forces by which she was conceived were
awakened. On that day, the magic that was her destiny fully claimed her as its own.


Aurya had been seventeen. For the next year she had lived by her wits, and Elon had neither interfered nor stepped forward
to help her. Eventually, she began to travel with a gypsy band as a fortune-teller. It kept her fed and sheltered, finally
bringing her to the Summer Faire at Adaraith, the capital city of Kilgarriff.


Elon had been there, too, dressed in humble clothes he had borrowed from his manservant, Thomas. Walking unrecognized among
the people, he saw the exceptional beauty Aurya had become, with her long, raven-dark hair, sapphire eyes, and skin of rose
and cream so translucent that it looked lit from within. Nor was he the only one who saw it. Everywhere Aurya went, people—men—stopped to stare at her.


The Baron of Kilgarriff, attending the Faire to open the festivities, was