Blood of the Fold (Sword of Truth 3)

From a dim corner of his mind, Richard knew he was in a dance with death, and this time his sword couldn’t save him. He also knew he had no choice.

21

Sister Philippa made the most of her already ample height as she stiffened her back while managing to look down her thin, straight nose without making it seem as if she were really looking down her nose. But she was.

“Surely, Prelate, you have not considered this matter thoroughly enough. Perhaps if you were to reflect on it a bit more you would realize that three thousand years of results attests to the need.”

With her elbow on the table, Verna rested her chin in the heel of her loose fist while scanning through a report, making it impossible to look at her without seeing the gold sunburst-patterned ring of office. She glanced up just to make sure Sister Philippa was, in fact, looking at her.

“Thank you, Sister, for your wise advice, but I have already considered the matter at length. There is no need to put any more digging into a dry well; it just makes you thirstier, which raises your hopes, but not any water.”

Sister Philippa’s dark eyes and exotic features rarely showed emotion, but Verna detected a tightening in the muscles in her narrow jaw.

“But, Prelate… we won’t be able to ascertain if a young man is progressing properly, or has learned enough to be released from his Rada’Han. It’s the only way.”

Verna grimaced at the report she was reading. She set it aside for later action and gave her full attention to her advisor. “How old are you, Sister?”

Sister Philippa’s dark gaze didn’t waver. “Four hundred seventy-nine, Prelate.”

Verna had to admit to herself that she felt a bit of envy. The woman looked hardly older than she, yet she was in fact on the order of three hundred years older. The twenty-odd years away from the palace’s spell had cost Verna time she could never recover. She would never have the life span to learn what this woman would.

“How many of those years at the Palace of the Prophets?”

“Four hundred seventy, Prelate.” The inflection on the title was hard to detect, unless one had been listening for it. Verna had been listening.

“So, you are saying, then, that the Creator has granted you a span of four hundred and seventy years to learn his work, to work with and teach young men to control their gift and become wizards, and in all that time, you have failed to be able to come to a determination of the nature of your students?”

“Well, no, Prelate, that’s not exactly what—”

“Are you trying to tell me, Sister, that a whole palace full of Sisters of the Light are not smart enough to determine if a young man, who has been under our charge and tutelage for near to two hundred years, is ready for advancement, without subjecting him to a brutal test of pain? Do you have so little faith in the Sisters? In the Creator’s wisdom in choosing us to do this work? Are you trying to tell me that the Creator chose us, gave us, collectively, thousands of years of experience, and we are still too stupid to do the work?”

“I think that perhaps the Prelate is—”

“Permission denied. It’s an obscene use of the Rada’Han, giving that kind of pain. It can tear the fabric of a person’s mind. Why, young men have even died in the test.

“You go tell those Sisters that I expect them to come up with a strategy for accomplishing the task without blood, vomit, or screaming. You might even suggest they try something revolutionary, like… oh, I don’t know, maybe talking to the young men? Unless the Sisters think they would be outwitted, in which case I would like them to admit as much to me in a report, for the record.”

Sister Philippa stood silent a moment, probably considering the worth of further arguing. Reluctantly, she at last bowed. “Very wise, Prelate. Thank you for enlightening me.”

She turned to leave, but Verna called her back. “Sister, I know how you feel. I was taught the same as you, and believed as you. A young man of a mere twenty-odd years taught me how wrong I had been. Sometimes the Creator chooses to bring His light to us in ways we don’t expect, but He does expect us to be ready to receive His wisdom when it’s presented to us.”

“You speak of young Richard?”

Verna picked with a thumbnail at the disorderly edges in the stack of reports awaiting her attention. “Yes.” She abandoned her official tone. “What I learned, Philippa, is that these young men, these wizards, are going to be sent out into a world that will test them. The Creator wants us to determine if we have taught them to endure with integrity the pain they will see, and feel.” She tapped her chest. “In here. We must determine if they can make the painful choices the Creator’s light sometimes requires. That is the meaning of the test of pain. Their ability to endure torture tells us nothing of their heart, their courage, or their compassion.

“You yourself, Philippa, have passed a test of pain. You would have fought to be Prelate. You’ve worked for hundreds of years toward the goal of being at least in serious contention. Events cheated you out of that chance, yet you have never said one bitter word to me, though you must feel the pain every time you look at me. Instead, you have done your best to advise me in the post, and have worked in the interest of the palace, despite that pain.

“Would I be better served had I insisted you be tested by torture to become my advisor? Would that have proven anything?”

Sister Philippa’s cheeks had mantled. “I won’t lie by pretending to agree with you, but at least I now understand that you have indeed been shoveling dirt out of the hole, and are not simply abandoning it as dry because you didn’t want to sweat. I will carry out your directive at once, Verna.”

Verna smiled. “Thank you, Philippa.”

Philippa betrayed the slightest hint of a smile. “Richard created quite an upheaval around here. I thought he was going to try to kill us all, and he turns out to have been a greater friend to the palace than any wizard in three thousand years.”

Verna barked a laugh. “If you only knew how many times I had to pray for the strength not to strangle him.”

As Philippa left, Verna could see through the door into the outer office that Millie was awaiting permission to enter and do the cleaning. Verna stretched with a yawn, picked up the report she had set aside, and went to the door. She waved Millie into her office as she turned her attention to her two administrators, Sisters Dulcinia and Phoebe.

Before Verna could speak, Sister Dulcinia stood with a stack of reports. “If you’re ready, Prelate, we have these in order for you.”

Verna took the stack, about the weight of an infant, and rested it on a hip. “Yes, all right, thank you. It’s late. Why don’t you two be off.”

Sister Phoebe shook her head. “I don’t mind, Prelate. I enjoy the work, and—”

“And tomorrow is another long day of it. I won’t have you nodding off because you don’t get enough sleep. Now, be off, the both of you.”

Phoebe scooped up a sheaf of papers, probably to take to her own office so she could continue working. Phoebe seemed to think that they were in a paper race; whenever she suspected there was even a remote chance Verna might actually catch up, she worked frantically, producing more of the stuff, almost as if by magic. Dulcinia plucked her cup of tea from the desk, leaving the papers. She worked at a measured pace, never lowering herself to scrambling to stay ahead of Verna, but she still managed to produce stacks of reports, sorted and annotated, almost at will. Neither needed to fear that Verna would catch up with them; every day set her further behind.

Both Sisters bade their farewells, offering their hope that the Creator would grant the Prelate a restful sleep.

Verna waited until they had reached the outer door. “Oh, Sister Dulcinia, I have a little matter I’d like you to take care of tomorrow.”

“Of course, Prelate. What is it?”

Verna placed the report she had brought on Dulcinia’s desk where it would be the first thing she would see when she sat down in the morning. “A request for support from a young woman and h

er family. One of our young wizards is to be a father.”

Phoebe squealed. “Oh, that’s wonderful! We pray that, with the Creator’s blessing, it will be a boy, and have the gift. There hasn’t been one born with the gift in the city since… well, I can’t even remember the last time. Maybe this time…”

Verna’s scowl finally brought her to silence. Verna turned her attention to Sister Dulcinia. “I want to see this young woman, and the young man responsible for her condition. Tomorrow, you will arrange an appointment. Perhaps her parents should be there as well, since they are requesting assistance.”

Sister Dulcinia, a blank expression on her face, leaned in a little. “Is there a problem, Prelate?”

Verna hiked the load of reports up higher on her hip. “I should say there is. One of our young men got the woman pregnant.”

Sister Dulcinia set her tea down on the corner of the desk as she took a step closer. “But Prelate, we allow our charges to go into the city for this very reason. It not only lets them dissipate their impulses so they may devote themselves to their studies, but it also, on occasion, nets us one with the gift.”

“I will not sanction the palace meddling in creation and the lives of innocent people.”

Sister Dulcinia’s blue eyes glanced the length of Verna’s simple, dark blue dress. “Prelate, men have uncontrollable urges.”

“So do I, but with the Creator’s help I’ve so far managed not to strangle anyone.”

Phoebe’s laugh was cut short by a scalding glance from Sister Dulcinia. “Prelate, men are different. They can’t control themselves. Allowing this simple diversion keeps their minds focused on their lessons. The palace can well afford the recompense. It’s a small price to pay in view of the fact that it on occasion results in gaining us a young wizard.”