Blood of the Fold (Sword of Truth 3)

Verna gathered her patience with a sigh. “Sister Phoebe, we’ve known each other since we were novices. How many times were we sent to the kitchens together to scrub pots for…?” Verna glanced to Warren. “Well, I can’t remember for what, but the point is that we’re old friends. Please try to remember that?”

Phoebe’s cheeks plumped with a smile. “Of course… Verna.” She winced at calling the Prelate “Verna” even if it was under order.

Out in the hall Warren asked why they were sent to scrub pots.

“I said I don’t remember,” she snapped as she glanced back down the empty hall. “What’s this about?”

Warren shrugged. “Just a walk.” He checked the hall himself, and then he flashed her another meaningful look. “I thought that maybe the Prelate would like to visit Sister Simona.”

Verna missed a step. Sister Simona had been in a deranged state for weeks—something about dreams—and had been kept in a shielded room so she couldn’t hurt herself, or some innocent.

Warren leaned close and whispered. “I went to visit her earlier.”

“Why?”

Warren jabbed his finger up and down, pointing at the floor. The vaults. He meant the vaults. She frowned at him.

“And how was poor Simona?”

Warren checked the corridor to the right and left when they reached an intersection, then looked behind again. “They wouldn’t let me see her,” he whispered.

Outside, the rain roared in a downpour. Verna pulled her shawl over her head and dove into the deluge, dancing over puddles, trying to tiptoe across the stepping-stones set in the soggy grass. Yellow light from windows flickered in the pools of standing water. The guards at the gates to the Prelate’s compound bowed as she and Warren trotted by, making for a covered walkway.

Inside, under the low roof, she shook the water from her shawl and draped it across her shoulders as the two of them caught their breath. Warren shook rain from his robes. The walkway’s arched sides were protected only by open lattice thick with vines, but the rain wasn’t driven by wind, so it was dry enough. She peered into the darkness, but couldn’t see anyone. It was quite a ways to the next building: the squat infirmary.

Verna slumped down on a stone bench. Warren had been ready to be off, but when she sat, he did, too. It was cold and the heat of him right next to her felt good. The pungent smell of rain and wet dirt was refreshing after being inside for so long. Verna was not used to being inside so much. She liked the out-of-doors, thought the ground made a fine bed, the trees and fields a fine office, but that part of her life was over now. There was a garden just outside the Prelate’s office, but she hadn’t had time to put her head out to see it.

In the distance, the incessant drums thundered on, like the heartbeat of doom.

“I used my Han,” he said at last. “I don’t feel the presence of anyone else near.”

“And you can feel the presence of one with Subtractive Magic, yes?” she whispered.

He glanced up in the dark. “I never thought of that.”

“What’s this about, Warren?”

“Do you think we’re alone?”

“How should I know?” she snapped.

He looked around again and swallowed. “Well, I’ve been doing a lot of reading lately.” He pointed again toward the vaults. “I just thought we should go see Sister Simona.”

“You already said that. You still haven’t told me why.”

“Some of the things I’ve been reading have been about dreams,” he said cryptically.

She tried to gaze into his eyes, but she could only see the dark shape of him. “Simona has been having dreams.”

His thigh was pressed against hers. He was shaking with the cold. At least she thought it was the cold. Before she realized what she was doing, she had put her arm around him and pulled his head to her shoulder.

“Verna,” he stammered, “I feel so alone. I’m afraid to talk to anyone. I feel like everyone’s watching me. I’m afraid everyone is going to ask me what I’m studying, and why, and under whose orders. I’ve only seen you once in three days, and there’s no one else I can talk to.”

She patted his back. “I know, Warren. I’ve wanted to talk to you, too, but I’ve been so busy. There’s so much work to do.”

“Maybe they’re giving you work to keep you occupied and out of their hair while they go about… business.”

Verna shook her head in the murk. “Maybe. I’m afraid, too, Warren. I don’t know how to be Prelate. I’m afraid I’ll bring the Palace of the Prophets to ruin if I don’t do the things that need to be done. I’m afraid to say no to Leoma, Philippa, Dulcinia, and Maren. They’re trying to advise me in how to be Prelate, and if they really are on our side, then their advice is true. If I don’t take it, I could be making a big mistake. If the Prelate makes a mistake everyone pays for it. If they aren’t on our side, well, the things they ask me to do don’t seem as if they could cause any harm. How much ruin can reading reports cause?”

“Unless it’s to keep you distracted from something important.”

She stroked his back again before pushing away. “I know. I’ll try to go for more ‘walks’ with you. I think the fresh air is doing me good.”

Warren squeezed her hand. “I’m glad, Verna.” He stood and straightened his dark robes. “Let’s go see how Simona is faring.”

The infirmary was one of the smaller buildings on Halsband Island. The Sisters could heal many common injuries with the aid of their Han, and illnesses beyond the power of their gift usually ended all too quickly in death, so mostly the infirmary housed a few elderly and feeble of the staff who had spent their lives in their work at the Palace of the Prophets, and now had no one to care for them. It also was where the insane were confined. The gift was of limited use for sickness of the mind.

Near the door, Verna sent her Han into a lamp and carried it with her as they moved through the simple painted corridors toward where Warren said Simona was confined. Only a few of the rooms were occupied, their residents sending snores, wheezes, and coughs echoing through the dim halls.

When they reached the end of the corridor that housed the old and feeble, they had to pass through a series of three flimsy doors, each shielded with powerful webs of varied composition. Shields, however, might be broken by those with the gift, even the insane. The fourth door was iron, with a massive bolt protected by an intricate shield designed to deflect attempts to open it from the other side with the use of magic; the more force applied, the tighter the bolt held. It had been set in place by three Sisters, and so could not be broken by one on the other side.

Two guards came to attention when she and Warren rounded the corner. They bowed their heads, but didn’t move away from the door. Warren greeted them pleasantly and motioned with a flit of his hand for them to lift the bolt.

“Sorry, son, but no one is allowed in.”

Her fiery eyes fixed on the guard, Verna pushed Warren aside. “Is that right, ‘son’?” He nodded confidently. “And who gave those orders?”

“My commander, Sister. I don’t know who gave the orders to him, but it had to be a Sister of some authority.”

Scowling, she thrust the sunburst ring in front of his face. “More authority than this?”

His eyes widened. “No, Prelate. Of course not. Forgive me, I didn’t recognize you.”

“How many are behind this door?”

The bolt sent a clang echoing down the hall. “Just the one Sister, Prelate.?

?

“Are there any Sisters attending her?”

“No. They’ve gone for the night.”

Once on the other side and out of earshot, Warren chuckled. “I guess you’ve found some use for that ring, at last.”

Verna slowed to a puzzled stop. “Warren, how do you suppose the ring came to be on that pedestal after the funeral?”

Warren’s grin held, but barely. “Well, let’s see…” The grin finally vanished. “I don’t know. What do you think?”

She shook her head. “It had a light shield around it. Not many can spin such a web. If, as you say, Prelate Annalina trusted no one but me, then who did she trust to put the ring there, and spin such a web around it?”

“I can’t imagine.” Warren hiked his damp robes up on his shoulders. “Could she have spun the web herself?”

Verna lifted an eyebrow. “From her funeral pyre?”

“No, I mean could she have spun it, and then had someone else just put it there. You know, like investing a stick with a spell, so that someone else can light a lamp with it. I’ve seen Sisters do that so the staff can light the lamps without having to carry around a candle dripping hot wax on their fingers, or the floor.”

Verna raised the lamp higher to look into his eyes. “Warren, that’s brilliant.”

He smiled. The smile faded. “The question remains: who?”

She lowered the lamp. “Maybe one of the staff she trusted. Someone without the gift so she wouldn’t have to worry about them being…” She glanced back up the dark, empty hall. “You know what I mean.” He nodded that he did as she started out. “I’ll have to look into it.”

Flashes of light were coming from under the door to Sister Simona’s room: silent little flickers of lightning licking out through the gap under the door. The shield sparkled when the crackles of light managed to reach it, dissipating the power with counterforces, grounding the magic with an opposite. Sister Simona was trying to break the shield.