“Not because he brings it,” Warren protested. “Richard is a war wizard; he fights for what’s right, to help people. If he hadn’t done as he did, the Prelate and Nathan would have only been the beginning of all the death and destruction.”
She squeezed his arm; her tone softened. “Of course you’re right; we all owe Richard a great debt. But needing him and finding him are two different things. My wrinkles attest to that.” Sister Verna let her hand drop. “I don’t think we can count on anyone but each other. We’ll think of something.”
Warren fixed her with a dark expression. “We had better; the prophecies hold ominous portent about the next prelate’s reign.”
Back in the city of Tanimura, they were once again surrounded by the incessant sound of drums coming from various directions; a booming, low-pitched, steady cadence that seemed to vibrate deep in her chest. It was unnerving and, she supposed, meant to be.
The drummers and their guards had arrived three days before the prelate’s death, and in short order had set up their huge kettledrums at various stations around the city. Once they had started the slow, steady beat, it had not stopped, day or night. Men took shifts at the drums so that they never ceased, even for a moment.
The pervasive sound had slowly set the people’s nerves on edge, making everyone irritable and short-tempered, as if doom itself were lurking in the shadows, just out of sight, waiting to pounce. Instead of the usual shouting, talking, laughing, and music, a backdrop of eerie quiet added to the brooding mood.
At the outskirts of the city, the indigent people who had erected lean-to shelters cowered in them, instead of engaging in conversation, hawking small items, washing clothes in buckets, or cooking on small fires as they usually did. Shopkeepers stood in doorways or at simple plank tables set up to display their goods, their arms folded and scowls on their faces. Men pulling carts bent somberly to their tasks. People needing goods made their purchases quickly, making no more than a perfunctory examination of the wares. Children kept a hand clutched to their mother’s skirts as their eyes darted about. Men whom she had seen playing at dice or other games in the past huddled against walls.
In the distance, at the Palace of the Prophets, a single bell tolled every few minutes, as it had all the night before and would until the sun set, announcing to all that the Prelate was dead. The drums, however, had nothing to do with the Prelate’s death; manned by soldiers, they announced the impending arrival of the emperor.
Sister Verna met the troubled eyes of people she passed. She touched the heads of the scores who approached, seeking solace, and offered the Creator’s blessing. “I only remember kings,” she said to Warren, “not this Imperial Order. Who is this emperor?”
“His name is Jagang. Ten, maybe fifteen years ago, the Imperial Order started swallowing up the kingdoms, joining them together under its rule.” With one finger, he rubbed his temple in thought, “I spent most of by time in the vaults studying, you understand, so I’m no sure of all the details, but from what I gather, they swiftly came to dominate the Old World, joining it all under their rule. The emperor hasn’t ever caused any trouble, though. At least not way up here in Tanimura. He stays out of palace business, and expects us to stay out of his.”
“Why is he coming here?”
Warren shrugged. “I don’t know. Perhaps just to visit this part of his empire.”
After conferring the Creator’s blessing on a gaunt woman, Sister Verna stepped around a trail of fresh horse dung as she resumed walking. “Well, I wish he would hurry up and get here so that infernal drumming would cease. They’ve been at it four days now; his arrival must be imminent.”
Warren glanced around before speaking. “The palace guards are Imperial Order troops. As a courtesy, the emperor provides them, since he allows no men at arms but his own. Anyway, I talked to one of the guards, and he told me that the drums are only meant to announce that the emperor is coming, not that he will be here soon. He said that when the emperor visited Breaston, the drums sounded for nearly six months beforehand.”
“Six months! You mean we must endure this racket for months!”
Warren hitched up his robes and stepped over a puddle. “Not necessarily. He could arrive in months, or tomorrow. He doesn’t deign to announce when he will arrive, only that he will.”
Sister Verna scowled. “Well, if he doesn’t arrive soon, the Sisters will see to it that those infernal drums stop.”
“That would be fine by me. But this emperor sounds like someone not to be treated casually. I’ve heard that he has an army more vast than any ever assembled.” He gave her a meaningful look. “And that includes the great war that separated the Old World from the New.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Why would he need such an army, if he has already seized all of the old kingdoms? Sounds to me like it’s just idle talk of soldiers. Soldiers always like to boast.”
Warren shrugged. “The guards told me they’ve seen it with their own eyes. They said that when the Order masses, they cover the ground in every direction as far as the eye can see. What do you think the palace will make of it when he comes here?”
“Bah. The palace has no interest in politics.”
Warren grinned. “You never were one to be intimidated.”
“Our business is with the Creator’s wishes, not an emperor’s, that’s all. The palace will remain long after he is gone.”
After walking in silence for a time, Warren cleared his throat. “You know, way back, when we hadn’t been here long, and you were still a novice… well, I was enamored of you.”
Sister Verna stared over incredulously. “Now you’re mocking me.”
“No, it’s true.” His face reddened. “I thought your curly brown hair was the most beautiful I’d ever seen. You were smarter than the others, and commanded your Han with sureness. I thought there was no one your equal. I wanted to ask you to study with me.”
“Why didn’t you?”
He shrugged. “You were always so sure of yourself, so confident. I never was.” He brushed his hair back self-consciously. “Besides, you were interested in Jedidiah. I was nothing to compare to him. I always thought you would just laugh.”
She realized she was smoothing back her hair, and let her arm fall. “Well, perhaps I would have.”
She thought better of the slight. “People can be foolish when they are young.” A woman with a young child approached and fell to her knees before them. Verna paused to bestow the Creator’s blessing on them. As the woman thanked her and then hurried away, Sister Verna turned to Warren. “You could go away for twenty years or so, to study those books you are so interested in, and catch up in age with me. We’d look the same age again. Then you could ask to hold my hand… like I wanted you to, back then.”
They both looked up at the sound of someone calling out to them. Through the throng of shuffling people, she saw one of the Palace Guard waving his arm to get their attention.
“Isn’t that Kevin Andellmere?” She asked.
Warren nodded. “I wonder what he’s so stirred up about?”
A breathless Swordsman Andellmere vaulted over a small boy and stumbled to a halt before them. “Sister Verna! Good! I’ve found you at last. They want you. At the palace. Right now.”
“Who wants me? What about?”
He gulped air and tried to talk at the same time. “The Sisters want you. Sister Leoma grabbed me by my ear and told me to go find you and bring you back. She said that if I was slow about it, I’d rue the day my mother bore me. There must be trouble.”
“What kind of trouble?”
He threw his hands up. “When I asked, she gave me that look Sisters give that can melt a man’s bones, and told me it was Sister business and none of mine.”
Sister Verna let out a tired sigh. “I guess we best return with you, then, or they’ll skin you and use your hide for a flag.”
The young soldier blanched, as if he believed her.
6
On the arched sto
ne bridge that led over the River Kern to Halsband Island and the Palace of the Prophets, Sisters Philippa, Dulcinia, and Maren stood in a row, shoulder to shoulder, like three hawks watching their dinner approach. They clutched their hands impatiently at their waists. The sun at their backs cast their faces in shadow, but Sister Verna could still make out the scowls. Warren walked onto the bridge with her as Swordsman Andellmere, his duty accomplished, hurried off in another direction.
Gray-haired Sister Dulcinia, her jaw set, leaned closer as Sister Verna came to a stop before her. “Where have you been! You’ve kept everyone waiting.”
The drums in the city kept up their beat in the background, like the slow drip of rain. Sister Verna put them from her mind.
“I’ve been for a walk, reflecting on the future of the palace, and the Creator’s work. What with Prelate Annalina’s ashes hardly cold yet, I didn’t suspect the backbiting was to begin so soon.”
Sister Dulcinia leaned even closer, her penetrating blue eyes taking on a dangerous gleam. “Don’t you dare get impudent with us, Sister Verna, or you will quickly find yourself a novice again. Now that you have returned to life at the palace, you had better begin bethinking its ways, and start showing your superiors the proper respect.”
Sister Dulcinia returned her back to straight, as if retracting claws, now that the threat had been delivered. She expected no argument. Sister Maren, a stocky woman with muscles like a woodsman, and a tongue to match, smiled with satisfaction. Tall, dark, Sister Philippa, her prominent cheekbones and narrow jaw giving her an exotic look, kept her dark eyes on Sister Verna, watching from behind an expressionless mask.
“Superiors?” Sister Verna said. “We are all equal in the Creator’s eyes.”
“Equal!” Sister Maren sniffed irritably. “An interesting concept. If we were to call an assembly of review to consider the matter of your contentious attitude, you would find out just how equal you are, and would likely find yourself once again doing chores with the rest of my novices, only this time you wouldn’t have Richard here to intercede and get you out of it!”
“Really, Sister Maren?” Sister Verna lifted an eyebrow. “Is that so.” Warren inched behind her, into her shadow. “I seem to recall, and correct me if I’m mistaken, that the last time I ‘got out of it,’ you said it was because you had prayed to the Creator and it had come to you that I would best serve Him if I were returned to Sister. Now you say it was Richard’s doing. Am I mistaken in my recollection?”
“You would question me?” Sister Maren pressed her hands together so tightly that her knuckles turned white. “I was punishing insolent novices two hundred years before you were born! How dare you—”
“You’ve now told two versions of the same event. Since both can’t be true, that means that one would have to be untrue. Yes? It would seem you have been caught in a lie, Sister Maren. I would think that you, of all people, would work to keep herself from falling into the habit of lying. The Sisters of the Light hold honesty in high regard, and abhor lying—even more than they abhor irreverence. And what penance has my superior, the headmistress of the novices, prescribed for herself to make amends for lying?”
“My, my,” Sister Dulcinia said with a smirk. “Such boldness. Were I you, Sister Verna, and thinking of placing myself in contention for prelate, as you seem to be doing, I would get that presumptuous notion right out of my head. When Sister Leoma was through with you, there wouldn’t be enough left for her to pick her teeth with.”
Sister Verna returned the smirk. “So, Sister Dulcinia, you intend to back Sister Leoma, yes? Or are you just trying to conjure a task to get her out of your way while you seek the post?”
Sister Philippa spoke up in a quiet, authoritative voice. “Enough. We have more important matters to attend. Let’s get this sham over with so we can get on with the selection process.”
Sister Verna planted her fists on her hips. “And just what sham would that be?”
Sister Philippa turned gracefully toward the palace, her simple but elegant yellow robe flowing behind. “Follow us, Sister Verna. You have delayed us long enough. You are the last, and then we can be on with our business. We will take up the matter of your insolence at a another time.”
The other two Sisters fell in beside her as she glided off over the bridge. Sister Verna and Warren exchanged a questioning look, and then started after them.
Warren slowed his pace, letting the three Sisters lengthen their lead to a dozen paces. With a frown, he leaned close so he could whisper without them hearing.
“Sister Verna, I sometimes think you could make a sunny day angry with you! It’s been so peaceful around here for the last twenty years that I had forgotten how much trouble that tongue of yours could cause. Why do you do this? Do you just enjoy making trouble to no good end?”
He rolled his eyes at her withering scowl and changed the subject. “What do you suppose those three are doing together? I thought they would be adversaries.”
Sister Verna glanced to the three Sisters, to make sure they couldn’t hear. “If you want to put a knife in the back of your opponent, so to speak, you must first get close enough.”
1 line #
In the heart of the palace, before the thick walnut doors to the great hall, the three sisters came to such an abrupt halt that Sister Verna and Warren almost ran up onto their heels. The three turned. Sister Philippa put the fingertips of one hand to Warren’s chest and forced him back a step.
She lifted one, long, graceful finger to his face, letting it hover an inch from his nose as she fixed him with a cold glare. “This is Sister business.” She glanced to his bare neck. “And after the new prelate, whomever she may be, is installed, you will have to have a Rada’Han put back around your neck if you wish to remain at the Palace of the Prophets. We will not abide boys who cannot be properly controlled.”
Sister Verna anchored an unseen hand on the small of Warren’s back to keep him from retreating. “I took his collar off under my authority as a Sister of the Light. The commitment has been made on behalf of the palace; it will not be reversed.”
Sister Philippa’s dark gaze slid to her. “We will discuss this matter later, at an appropriate time.”
“Let’s be finished with this,” Sister Dulcinia said, “we need to be on with more important business.”
Sister Philippa nodded. “Come with us, Sister Verna.”
Warren stood hunched, looking lost, as one of the Sisters used her Han to cast open the heavy doors, allowing the three to march through. Not wanting to look like a scolded puppy following them in, Sister Verna quickened her pace to walk beside them instead. Sister Dulcinia let out a noisy breath. Sister Maren invoked one of her famous looks, with which unfortunate novices were so familiar, but she didn’t voice a protest. Sister Philippa showed the slightest hint of a smile. Anyone watching might have thought that it had been at her direction that Sister Verna walked beside them.
At the inner edge of the low ceiling, between white columns with gold capitals carved to portray curled oak leaves, they came to a halt where Sister Leoma waited with her back to them. She was about Sister Verna’s size; her shock of straight white hair, tied loosely with a single golden ribbon, hung halfway down her back. She wore a modest brown dress that cleared the floor by a scant inch.
Beyond, the great hall opened into a vast chamber capped with a huge vaulted ceiling. Stained-glass windows behind the upper balcony cast colored light across the ribbed dome painted with the figures of Sisters, attired in the old style of robes, surrounding a glowing figure meant to represent the Creator. His arms outstretched, he looked to be extending his affection to the Sisters, all of whom, in turn, had their arms extended tenderly toward him.
At the ornate stone railings of the two-tiered balconies ringing the room, Sisters and novices stood silently gazing down. Around the polished, zigzag-patterned floor stood Sisters: those, Sister Verna noted, mostly older and of higher status. Sporadic coughs echoed around the huge room,
but no one spoke.
In the center of the room, beneath the figure representing the Creator, stood a single, waist-high, white, fluted column bathed in a faint glow of light. The light had no apparent source. The ring of Sisters stood well back from the column and its obscure shroud of illumination, giving it as much room as possible, as well they should, if the glow was what Sister Verna suspected. A small object, she couldn’t tell what, sat atop the flat-topped column.
Sister Leoma turned. “Ah. Glad to have you join us, Sister.”
“Is that what I think it is?” Sister Verna asked.
A slight smile crooked the creases lining Sister Leoma’s face. “If you are thinking it’s a light web, then it is. Not half of us, I would venture, have the talent, or power, to spin one. Quite remarkable, don’t you think?”
Sister Verna squinted, trying to tell what sat on the column. “I’ve never seen that pedestal before, not in here anyway. What is it? Where did it come from?”
Sister Philippa stared at the white pillar in the center of the room. Her arrogant demeanor had vanished. “When we came back from the funeral, it was here, waiting.”
Sister Verna glanced back to the pedestal. “What’s atop it?”
Sister Leoma clasped her hands. “It’s the Prelate’s ring—her ring of office.”
“The Prelate’s ring! What in Creation is it doing there?”
Sister Philippa lifted an eyebrow. “What indeed.”
Sister Verna could just detect a hint of disquiet in those dark eyes. “Well what is—”
“Just go and try to pick it up,” Sister Dulcinia said. “Not that you will succeed, of course,” she added under her breath.
“We don’t know what it’s doing here,” Sister Leoma said, her voice taking on a more familiar, Sister-to-Sister, intonation. “When we came back, it was here. We’ve tried to examine it, but we can’t get close. In view of the peculiar nature of the shield, we reasoned that before we proceed, it would be wise to see if there are any of us who could get near, and maybe discern the purpose. We’ve all tried to approach, but none can. You are the last to endeavor to reach it.”
Blood of the Fold Page 7