Blood of the Fold (Sword of Truth 3)

“I would guess that everyone views it in their own unique way, but I can tell you what it means for me. Yes, it hurts a bit, Phoebe, to know that something is gone and can never be recovered, as if I was somehow not paying attention and my youth was stolen from me while I was waiting for my life to start, but the Creator balances it with good, too.”

“Good? What good could come of it?”

“Well, inside I’m still myself, but wiser. I find that I have a clearer understanding of myself and what I want. I appreciate things I never did before. I see better what’s really important in doing the Creator’s work. I suppose you could say I feel more content, and worry less about what others think of me.

“Even though I’ve aged, that doesn’t diminish my longing for others. I find comfort in friends, and yes, to answer what you’re thinking, I still long for men much the same as I always did, but now I have a wider appreciation for them. I find callow youth less interesting. Men need not simply be young to stir my feelings, and the simple hold less appeal.”

Phoebe’s eyes were wide as she leaned forward attentively. “Reeeally. Older men stir longings in you?”

Verna checked her tongue. “What I meant by older, Phoebe, was men older like me. The men that catch your interest, now? Fifty years ago you wouldn’t have considered walking with a man the age you are now, but now it seems natural to you because you’re that age, and men now the age you were back then seem immature to you. See what I mean?”

“Well… I guess.”

Verna could read it in her eyes that she didn’t. “When we first came here as young girls, like the two down in the vaults last night, novices Helen and Valery, what did you think of women who were the age you are now?”

Phoebe covered a giggle with her hand. “I thought them impossibly old. I never thought I’d be this age.”

“And, now, how do you feel about your age?”

“Oh, it isn’t old at all. I guess I was just foolish at that young age. I like being this age. I’m still young.”

Verna shrugged. “It’s much the same for me. I view myself in much the way you view yourself. I no longer see older people as simply old, because I now know that they’re the same as you or I; they view themselves the same as you or I view ourselves.”

The young woman wrinkled her nose. “I guess I see what you mean, but I still don’t want to get old.”

“Phoebe, in the outside world you would have lived nearly three lives by now. You, we, have been given a great gift by the Creator to be able to have as many years as we do, living here at the palace, in order to have the time necessary to train young wizards in their gift. Appreciate what you were given; it’s a rare benevolence that touches only a handful.”

Phoebe nodded slowly and behind the slight squint Verna could almost see the labor of contemplative reasoning. “That’s very wise, Verna. I never knew you were so wise. I always knew you were smart, but you never seemed wise to me before.”

Verna smiled. “That’s one of the other advantages. Those younger than you think you wise. In a land of the blind, a one-eyed woman could be queen.”

“But it seems so frightening, to have your flesh go limp and wrinkly.”

“It happens gradually; you become somewhat accustomed to yourself growing older. To me, the thought of being your age again seems frightening.”

“Why’s that?”

Verna wanted to say because she feared walking around with such an underdeveloped intellect, but she reminded herself once again that she and Phoebe had shared a good part of their lives as friends. “Oh, I guess because I’ve been through some of the thorn hedges you have yet to face, and I know their sting.”

“What sort of thorns?”

“I think they’re different for each person. Everyone has to walk their own path.”

Phoebe wrung her hands as she leaned over even more. “What were the thorns on your path, Verna.”

Verna stood and pushed the stopper back into the ink bottle. She stared down at her desk, not seeing it. “I guess,” she said in a distant tone, “the worst was returning to have Jedidiah look at me with eyes like yours, eyes that saw a wrinkled, dried-up, old, unattractive hag.”

“Oh please, Verna, I never meant to suggest that—”

“Do you even understand the thorn in that, Phoebe?”

“Why, to be thought old and ugly, of course, even though you are not that.…”

Verna shook her head. “No.” She looked up into the other’s eyes. “No, the thorn was to discover that that was all that ever mattered, and that what was inside” —she tapped the side of her head— “didn’t hold any meaning for him, only its wrapping.”

Even worse than returning to see that look in Jedidiah’s eyes, though, was to discover that he had given himself over to the Keeper. In order to save Richard’s life as Jedidiah was about to kill him, Verna had buried her dacra in his back. Jedidiah had betrayed not only her, but the Creator, too. A part of her had died with him.

Phoebe straightened, looking a bit puzzled. “Yes, I guess I know what you mean, when men…”

Verna waved her hand in a dismissive gesture. “I hope I’ve been of help, Phoebe. It’s always good to talk to a friend.” Her voice took on the clear ring of authority. “Are there any petitioners to see me?”

Phoebe blinked. “Petitioners? No, not today.”

“Good. I wish to go pray and seek the Creator’s guidance. Would you and Dulcinia please shield the door; I wish not to be disturbed.”

Phoebe curtsied. “Of course, Prelate.” She smiled warmly. “Thank you for the talk, Verna. It was like old times in our room after we were ordered to be sleeping.” Her gaze darted to the stacks of papers. “But what about the reports? They’re falling further behind.”

“As Prelate, I cannot ignore the Light that directs the palace and the Sisters. I must also pray for us, and ask for His guidance. We are, after all, the Sisters of the Light.”

The look of awe returned to Phoebe’s eyes. Phoebe seemed to believe that in assuming the post, Verna had somehow become more than human, and could somehow touch the hand of the Creator in a miraculous way. “Of course, Prelate. I will see to the placement

of the shield. No one will disturb the Prelate’s meditation.”

Before Phoebe went through the door, Verna called her name in a quiet tone. “Have you learned anything yet about Christabel?”

Phoebe’s eyes turned away in sudden disquiet. “No. No one knows where she went. We’ve had no word on where Amelia or Janet have disappeared to, either.”

The five of them, Christabel, Amelia, Janet, Phoebe, and Verna had been friends, had grown up together at the palace, but Verna had been closest to Christabel, though they were all a bit jealous of her. The Creator had blessed her with gorgeous blond hair and comely features, but also with a kind and warm nature.

It was disturbing that her three friends seemed to have vanished. Sisters sometimes left the palace for visits home, while their families were still living, but they requested permission first, and besides, the families of those three would all have passed away of old age long ago. Sisters, too, sometimes went away for a time, not only to refresh their minds in the outside world, but also to simply have a break from decade upon decade at the palace. Even then, they almost always would tell the others that they had to leave for a time, and where they were going.

None of her three friends had done that; they had simply shown up missing after the Prelate died. Verna’s heart ached with the worry that they simply couldn’t accept her as Prelate, and had chosen instead to leave the palace, but as much as it hurt, she prayed it was that, and not something darker that had taken them.

“If you hear anything, Phoebe,” Verna said, trying to hide her concern, “please come tell me.”

After the woman had gone, Verna placed her own shield inside the doors, a telltale shield she had devised herself; the delicate filaments spun from the spirit of her own unique Han, magic she would recognize as her own. Should anyone try to enter, they probably wouldn’t detect the diaphanous shield, and would tear the fragile threads. Even if they did manage to detect it, their mere presence and the act of probing for a shield would still unavoidably tear it, and if they then repaired the weave with Han of their own, Verna would know that, too.