"Rebecca Neason - 13th Scroll 02 - The Truest Power" - читать интересную книгу автора (Neason Rebecca)

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.



Chapter Two

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
Lininch 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