“Richard will have to take care of himself. He’s a smart boy. You are partly responsible for that. That’s why I let him grow up with you.”
“The boy needs my help! He needs to know how to use his power. If I don’t get to him, he could come up into the Keep. He doesn’t know the dangers here. He doesn’t know how to use his gift. He could be killed. I can’t let that happen. We need him.”
“Richard has already been up to the Keep. He spent most of yesterday there, and he left unharmed.”
“‘Once lucky,’” Zedd quoted, “‘twice confident, and thrice dead.’”
“Have faith in your grandson. We must help him in other ways. There is no time to waste. We must be going.”
“I’m not going anywhere with you.”
“Wizard Zorander, I’m asking you to help. I’m asking you to cooperate and come with us. Much is at stake. Please do as I ask, or I will be forced to use the collar. You would not like that.”
“Listen to her, Zedd,” Nathan said. “I can testify that you won’t like it. You don’t have a choice. I understand how you feel, but it will be easier if you just do as she asks.”
“What manner of wizard are you?”
Nathan stood a bit taller. “I’m a prophet.”
At least the man was honest. He hadn’t recognized the light bond for what it was, and didn’t know what Zedd could read from it. “And are you happy about being held in slavery?”
Ann laughed aloud. Nathan didn’t; his eyes betrayed the composed, simmering, deadly fury of a Rahl. “I assure you, sir, it is not by my choice. I’ve been railing against it most of my life.”
“She may know how to subjugate a wizard who is a prophet, but she is going to find out just why I hold the rank of First Wizard. I earned the rank in the last war. Both sides in that war called me ‘the wind of death.’”
It had been one of the fingers he counted.
Turning away from Nathan, Zedd fixed the Prelate with a look of such cold menace that she swallowed as she retreated a step. “By breaking the truce, you have condemned any Sister caught in the Midlands to death. By the terms of the truce, they have just been sentenced. Each of you has lost the right to trial or mercy. Any of you caught will be executed on sight without prejudice.”
Zedd thrust his fists into the air. Lightning laced from the clear sky, hammering the Keep above them. A deafening howl rose, and a ring of light expanded outward, racing through the sky, leaving a trail of clouds like smoke from flame.
“The truce is ended! You now stand in enemy territory, and upwind of death.
“If you take me away by this collar, I promise you that I will go to your homeland and lay waste to the Palace of the Prophets.”
Stone faced, Prelate Annalina Aldurren regarded him silently for a moment. “Don’t make promises that you can’t keep.”
“Try me.”
A distant smile touched her lips. “We really must be going.”
With a grim glare, Zedd nodded. “So be it.”
Verna only incrementally became aware that she was awake. It was as dark with her eyes open as with them closed. She blinked, trying to ascertain if she really was conscious.
Deciding that she really was awake, she called her Han in order to light a flame. It wouldn’t come. She sank deeper into herself, and pulled more power.
Straining with all her might, she at last managed to light a small flame in her palm. There was a candle on the floor beside the pallet where she sat. She sent the flame into the candle wick, sagging with relief that she could see at last without the monumental effort required to hold forth a flame with her Han.
The room was bare except for the pallet, the candle, a small tray with bread and a tin cup of water, and what looked to be a chamber pot against the far, plastered wall. Not too far—the room was not very big. There were no windows, only a heavy wooden door.
Verna recognized the room; it was one of the rooms in the infirmary. What was she doing in the infirmary?
Looking down, she realized she was naked. She turned to the side, and saw her clothes in a pile. When she turned, she felt something at her throat. Reaching up tentatively, she groped at her neck.
A Rada’Han.
Her flesh went atingle. Dear Creator, she had a Rada’Han around her neck. Panic washed through her in a dizzying rush. She clawed at her neck, trying to get it off. She heard a cry coming from her own throat as she was whimpered in terror while yanking frantically at the unyielding ring of metal.
In horror, she realized what the boys felt to have this instrument of domination bound to them. How many times had she, herself, used a collar to make someone do as she wished?
But only to help them, only in their best interest—only to help them. Did they feel this same helpless dread?
She remembered with shame using the collar on Warren.
“Dear Creator, forgive me,” she cried. “I only wanted to do your work.”
Sniffling back the tears, she brought herself back under control. She had to figure out what was happening. She knew that this collar wasn’t around her neck to help her; it was to control her.
Verna fumbled at her hand. The Prelate’s ring was gone. Her heart sank; she had failed in her guardianship. She kissed the naked finger, beseeching strength.
She pounded her fist against the door when the handle produced no movement. She summoned all her power, focusing it on the handle, trying to make the lever lift. It wouldn’t budge. She lashed out at the hinges she knew to be on the other side. Furiously, she concentrated, applying her Han to the task. Tongues of light, green with mental bile, lashed at the door, licked through the cracks and flickered under the gap at the bottom.
Verna cut the impotent flow of Han, remembering seeing Sister Simona trying the very same thing hour after hour, with the same ineffectual results. The shield on the door couldn’t be broken by one in a Rada’Han. She knew better than to waste her strength on useless effort. Simona might be crazy, but she was not.
Verna slumped back down on the pallet. Her fists pounding against the door would not get her out. Her gift would not get her out. She was trapped.
Why was she here? She looked down at her finger, where the Prelate’s ring belonged. That was why.
With a gasp, she remembered the real Prelate. Ann had given her a mission, and was depending on her to get the Sisters of the Light away before Jagang arrived.
She dove for her clothes, searching frantically through them. Her dacra was gone. That was probably why they had stripped her: to make sure she had no weapon. That was what had been done to Sister Simona, for her own protection, to be sure she wouldn’t hurt herself. They couldn’t let a crazy woman have a deadly weapon.
Her fingers found her belt. She yanked it from the pile of clothes and, fumbling along its length, found the bulge in the thickness of leather.
Trembling with hope, Verna held the belt near the candle. She pulled open the false seam. There, nestled inside the secret pocket, was the journey book. She clutched the belt to her breast, thanking the Creator as she rocked on the pallet, holding her belt tight to her. She had at least this much.
When she had finally calmed, she pulled her clothes close to the weak light and dressed, feeling better, at least, not to be naked and helpless. She was no less helpless, but at least she didn’t have to suffer the indignation of being a naked prisoner. She was beginning to feel the least little bit better.
Verna didn’t know how long she had been unconscious, but she realized she was ravenous. She devoured the crust of bread, and gulped down the water.
After her belly was at least partially satisfied, she turned her thoughts to how she had come to be in this room. Sister Leoma. She remembered Sister Leoma and three others waiting for her in her office.