Blood of the Fold (Sword of Truth 3)

“Phoebe, how would you like to do a task that Prelate Annalina always trusted to her administrators?”

Sister Phoebe’s fingers stilled. “Really? What is it?”

Verna gestured back toward her office. “I’ve been out in my garden, praying for guidance, and it has come to me that in these trying times I should consult the prophecies. Whenever Prelate Annalina did the same, she always had her administrators clear the vaults so that she wouldn’t feel encumbered by prying eyes watching what she read. How would you like to order the vaults cleared for me, like her administrators did for her?”

The young woman bounced on the balls of her feet. “Really, Verna? That would be splendid.”

Young woman indeed, Verna thought in annoyance, they were the same age, even if they didn’t look it. “Let’s be off then. I have palace business to attend to.”

Sister Phoebe snatched up her white shawl, throwing it over her shoulders as she bolted through the door.

“Phoebe.” The round face peeked back around the doorframe. “If Warren is in the vaults, have him stay. I have a few questions, and he would be better able to direct me to the proper volumes than any of the others would. It will save me time.”

“All right Verna,” Phoebe said in a breathless voice. She liked doing paperwork, probably because it made her feel useful in a way she never would have until she had another hundred years of experience, but Verna had cut that time short by appointing her the Prelate’s administrator. The prospect of wielding orders, though, seemed to be of even more interest than paperwork. “I’ll run ahead and have them cleared by the time you get there.” She grinned. “I’m glad it was me here, instead of Dulcinia.”

Verna remembered how she and Phoebe used to be of such like personalities. Verna wondered if she really had such an immature temperament when Annalina had sent her on her journey. It seemed to her that in the years she had been gone she had grown older than Phoebe in more than just appearance. Perhaps she had simply learned more out in the world, rather than in the cloistered life of the Palace of the Prophets.

Verna smiled. “Almost seems like one of our old pranks, doesn’t it?”

Phoebe giggled. “Sure does, Verna. Except it won’t end in us stringing a thousand prayer beads.” She dashed off down the hall, her skirts and shawl flapping behind.

By the time Verna had made it down into the heart of the palace, to the huge, round, six-foot-thick stone door leading into vaults carved from the bedrock atop which sat the palace, Phoebe was just leading six Sisters, two novices, and three young men out. Novices and young men were given lessons at all hours of the day and night. Sometimes they were even awakened in the dead of night for lessons, such as ones down in the vaults. The Creator didn’t keep hours; they were expected to learn that in His work they didn’t, either. They all bowed as one.

“The Creator’s blessing on you,” Verna said to them as a group. She was about to apologize for chasing them from the vaults when they were busy, but she cut herself off, reminding herself that she was the Prelate and didn’t need to make excuses to anyone. The Prelate’s word was law, and was followed without question. Still, it was hard not to explain herself.

“All clear, Prelate,” Sister Phoebe said in an august tone. Phoebe inclined her head toward the room beyond. “Except the one you asked to see. He’s in one of the small rooms.”

Verna nodded to her assistant and then turned her attention to the novices, who were in a state of wide-eyed awe. “And how are your studies coming?”

Trembling like leaves on a quaking aspen, both girls curtsied. One swallowed. “Very well, Prelate,” she squeaked, her face going red.

Verna remembered the first time the Prelate had addressed her directly. It had seemed as if the Creator Himself had spoken. She remembered how much the Prelate’s smile had meant to her, how it had sustained and inspired her.

Verna squatted down and in each arm hugged a girl to herself. She kissed each forehead.

“If you ever have a need, don’t be afraid to come to me, that’s what I’m here for, and I love you like all the Creator’s children.”

Both girls beamed, and performed curtsies more steady the second time. Their round eyes stared at the gold ring on her finger. As if it had reminded them, they each kissed their own ring finger, whispering a prayer to the Creator. Verna did the same. Their eyes widened at the sight.

She held her hand out. “Would you like to kiss the ring that symbolizes the Light we all follow?” They nodded earnestly, going to a knee in turns to kiss the sunburst-patterned ring.

Verna squeezed each small shoulder. “What are your names?”

“Helen, Prelate,” one said.

“Valery, Prelate,” the other said.

“Helen and Valery.” Verna didn’t need to remind herself to smile. “Remember, novices Helen and Valery, that while there are others, such as the Sisters, who know more than you, and will teach you many things, there is no one closer to the Creator than you, not even me. We are all His children.”

Verna felt more than a little uncomfortable being the object of veneration, but she smiled and waved as the group headed off down the stone hall.

After they had rounded a corner, Verna pressed her hand to the cold metal plate set in the wall, the plate that was the keyway to the shield guarding the vaults. The ground shook beneath her feet as the huge, round door began to move. It was rare for the main vault door to be closed; except under special circumstances, only the Prelate ever sealed the entrance. She stepped into the vault as the door grated closed behind her,

leaving her in tomblike silence.

Verna passed the old, worn tables with papers scattered all over them, along with some of the simpler books of prophecy. The Sisters had been giving lessons. The lamps set about the carved stone walls did little to diminish a feeling of perpetual night. Long rows of bookcases stretched off to ether side among massive pillars supporting the vaulted ceiling.

Warren was in one of the back rooms. The small, hollowed-out alcoves were restricted, and so had separate doors and shields. The room he was in was one with the oldest prophecies written in High D’Haran. Few people knew High D’Haran, among them Warren, and Verna’s predecessor.

When she stepped into the lamplight, Warren, slouched against the table with his arms folded atop it, only glanced up. “Phoebe told me you wanted to use the vaults,” he said in a distracted voice.

“Warren, I need to talk to you. Something has happened.”

He flipped a page in the book before him. He didn’t look up. “Yes, all right.”

She frowned and then drew a chair to the table beside him, but didn’t sit. With a flick of her wrist, Verna brought a dacra to her left hand. The dacra, with a silver rod in place of a blade, was used the same as a knife, but it wasn’t the wound it caused that killed; the dacra was a weapon possessing ancient magic. Used in conjunction with the wielder’s Han, it drained the life force from the victim, regardless of the nature of the wound. There was no defense against its magic.

Warren looked up with tired, red eyes as she leaned closer. “Warren, I want you to have this.”

“That’s a weapon of the Sisters.”

“You have the gift, it will work for you as well as me.”

“What do you want me to do with it?”

“Protect yourself.”

He frowned. “What do you mean?”