Blood of the Fold

by Terry Goodkind

  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.”

  “The charge of the palace is to teach our young men to use their gift in a responsible fashion, with restraint, and knowing full well the consequences of wielding their ability. When we encourage them to act in the exact opposite fashion with regard to other aspects of their lives, it undermines our teachings.

  “As to the occasional result of one with the gift being born from these indiscriminate couplings, there is no evidence that it’s of benefit. Who is to say that were they to act with more responsibility and control, the results of meaningful couplings in their future wouldn’t produce more than a dismal percentage of offspring with the gift. For all we know, their lascivious indiscretion could be diluting their ability to pass on the gift.”

  “Or developing it to its highest chances, poor though they are.”

  Verna shrugged. “Perhaps. But I do know that those fishermen out on the river don’t spend their entire lives fishing the exact same spot because they once caught a fish there. Since we are netting few fish, I think it’s time for us to move on.”

  Sister Dulcinia clasped her hands in an effort to be patient. “Prelate, the Creator blessed people with their nature, such as it is, and there is no way we can alter it. Men and women are going to go on doing what gives them pleasure.”

  “Of course they are, but as long as we pay the cost of the results, we encourage more of it. If there are no consequences, then there will be no self-control. How many children have grown up without the benefit of a father because we give pregnant young women gold? Does that gold replace nurturing? How many lives have we altered, to their detriment, with our gold?”

  Dulcinia spread her hands in dismay. “Our gold helps them.”

  “Our gold encourages the women in the city to act irresponsibly, and to bed our young men because it means a life of support without qualifications.” Verna swept her free hand around, indicating the city. “We are demeaning these people with our gold. We have rendered them little more than breeding stock.”

  “But we have used this method for thousands of years to help augment those with the gift we can find. Hardly any with the gift are born anymore.”

  “I realize that, but we’re in the business of teaching people, not breeding them. Our gold reduces them to creatures acting out of want of gold, instead of people having a child out of love.”

  Sister Dulcinia was stricken mute for only a moment. “How can we be seen as so heartless as to deny the help of a little of our gold? Lives are more important than gold.”

  “I’ve seen the reports; it’s hardly a ‘little’ amount of gold. But that’s beside the point; the point is that we are breeding our Creator’s fellow children like livestock, and in so doing, we are breeding contempt for values.”

  “But we teach our young men values! As the Creator’s highest creation, people respond to the teaching of values because they have the intellect to understand its importance.”

  Verna sighed. “Sister, suppose we preached truthfulness, and at the same time gladly handed out a penny for each lie told. What do you venture would be the result?”

  Sister Phoebe covered her mouth as she laughed. “I’d venture we’d soon be penniless.”

  Sister Dulcinia’s blue eyes were ice. “I didn’t realize you were so heartless, Prelate, as to let the Creator’s newborn children go hungry.”

  “The Creator gave their mothers breasts so they might suckle their children, not so they could wile gold from the palace.”

  Sister Dulcinia’s face went crimson. “But, men have uncontrollable urges!”

  Verna’s voice lowered with heat. “The only time a man’s urges are truly uncontrollable is when a sorceress casts a glamour. No Sister has cast a glamour spell over any of the women in the city. Need I remind you that were a Sister to do so, she would be lucky to be put out of the palace, if not hanged? As you well know, a glamour is the moral equivalent to rape.”

  Dulcinia’s face had gone white. “I’m not saying—”

  Verna glanced to the ceiling in thought. “As I recall, the last time a Sister was caught casting a glamour, was… what? Fifty years ago?”

  Sister Dulcinia’s gaze sought refuge but found none. “It was a novice, Prelate, not a Sister.”

  Verna kept her glare on Dulcinia. “You were on the tribunal, as I also recall.” Dulcinia nodded. “And you voted to hang her. A poor young woman who had only been here for a few brief years, and you voted to put her to death.”

  “It’s the law, Prelate,” she said without looking up.

  “It is the maximum of the law.”

  “Others voted the same as I.”

  Verna nodded. “Yes they did. A tie, six-six. Prelate Annalina broke the deadlock by voting to have the young woman banished.”

  Sister Dulcinia’s penetrating blue eyes finally came up. “I still say she was wrong. Valdora vowed undying vengeance. She swore to destroy the Palace of the Prophets. She spat in the Prelate’s face and promised someday to kill her.”

  Verna wrinkled her brow. “I always wondered, Dulcinia, why you were selected to be on the tribunal.”

  Sister Dulcinia swallowed. “Because I was her instructor.”

  “Really. Her teacher.” Verna clicked her tongue. “Where do you suppose the young woman ever learned to cast a glamour?”

  The color returned to Sister Dulcinia’s face in a rush. “We were never able to establish that with certitude. Probably her mother. A mother often teaches a young sorceress such things.”

  “Yes, I’ve heard that, but I wouldn’t know. My mother wasn’t gifted; she was a skip. Your mother was gifted, if I recall…”

  “Yes, she was.” Sister Dulcinia kissed her ring finger while whispering a prayer to the Creator, a private act of supplication and devotion done frequently, but rarely in front of others. “It’s getting late, Prelate. We don’t wish to keep you any longer.”

  Verna smiled. “Yes, good night, then.”

  Sister Dulcinia bent in a formal bow. “As you command, Prelate, tomorrow I will see to the matter of the pregnant woman and young wizard, after I clear it with Sister Leoma.”

  Verna lifted an eyebrow. “Oh? And now Sister Leoma outranks the Prelate, yes?”

 
“Well, no, Prelate,” Sister Dulcinia stammered. “It’s just that Sister Leoma likes me to… I just thought you would want me to inform your advisor of your action… so that she would not be caught… unawares.”

  “Sister Leoma is my advisor, Sister, I will inform her of my actions, if I deem it necessary.”

  Phoebe’s round face tilted from one woman to the other as she silently watched the exchange.

  “As you wish, Prelate, it will be done,” Sister Dulcinia said. “Please forgive my… enthusiasm, in assisting my Prelate.”

  Verna shrugged, as best she could with the load of reports. “Of course, Sister. Good night.”

  Thankfully, they both departed without further argument. Grumbling to herself, Verna lugged the stack of reports into her office and dumped them on her desk beside the ones she had yet to get to. She eyed Millie, off in a corner scrubbing with a rag at a spot no one would ever see were it to be left there for the next hundred years.

  The dimly lit office was silent but for the swishing of Millie's rag and her mumbling to herself under her breath. Verna ambled over to the bookcase near where the woman was on her knees working and ran a finger along the volumes without really seeing the gold-leafed titles on the worn spines of the ancient leather covers.

  “How are your old bones, tonight, Millie?”

  “Oh, don’t get me started, Prelate, or I’ll soon have your hands all over me trying to heal what can’t be healed. Age, you know.” Her knee nudged the bucket closer as her hand moved on to scrub at another place on the carpet. “We all get old. The Creator Himself must have intended it, as no mortal can heal it. Though I’ve had more time than most are granted, working here at the palace, I mean.” Her tongue poked out of the corner of her mouth as she applied more force to the rag. “Yes, the Creator has blessed me with more years than I know what to do with.”

  Verna had never seen the sinewy little woman in anything other than a resolute state of movement. Even when she spoke, her rag constantly wiped at dust, or a thumb rubbed at a spot, or a nail picked at a crust of dirt no one else could see.