Blood of the Fold

Chapter 18

As she had feared, she was a prisoner. She flipped another page over after making the appropriate entry in the ledger book. A prisoner of the highest station, a prisoner behind a paper lock, but a prisoner nevertheless.

Verna yawned as she scanned the next page, checking the records of palace expenses. Each report required her approval and had to be initialed to show that the Prelate herself had certified the expenses. Why it was necessary was a mystery to her, but having only held the office for a few days she was loath to declare it a waste of her time, only to have Sister Leoma, or Dulcinia, or Philippa divert their eyes and explain under their breath, so as not to cause the Prelate embarrassment, why it was indeed necessary, and go on in great detail to explicate the dire consequences of not doing such a simple thing that would require hardly any effort on her part, but would be of such benefit to others.

She could anticipate the reaction should she declare she was not going to bother to check the tallies: Why, Prelate, if the people didn’t fear that the Prelate herself was concerned enough to be watching their work orders, they would be emboldened to gouge the palace. The Sisters would be thought wasteful fools without an ounce of sense. And then, on the other side, if the work orders weren’t paid while waiting the Prelate’s directive, the poor workers’ families would go hungry. You wouldn’t want those children to go hungry, would you, simply because you didn’t want to pay them the courtesy of approving payment for their hard work already done? Just because you don’t wish to glance at the report and go to the trouble of initialing it? Would you really want them to think the Prelate so callous?

Verna sighed as she skimmed the report of expenses for the stables: hay and grain, the farrier, the tack upkeep, replacement of lost tack, repair to the stable after a stallion staved in a stall, and repair needed after several horses apparently panicked in the night, broke down a fence, and bolted off into the countryside. She was going to have to have a talk to the stable personnel and insist they keep better order under their roof. She jammed the pen in the ink bottle, sighed again, and initialed the bottom of the page.

As she turned the stable tallies over on top of the pile of other tallies she had already perused, initialed, and entered in the ledger, someone knocked softly at the door. She pulled another paper from the stack of reports yet to be worked, a lengthy reckoning from the butcher, and started scanning down the figures. She had had no idea how expensive it was to run the Palace of the Prophets.

The soft knock came again. Probably Sister Dulcinia or Phoebe wanting to bring in another stack of reports. She was not initialing as fast as they could bring them in. How did Prelate Annalina manage to get it all done? Verna hoped it wasn’t Sister Leoma, come again to bring to her attention news of some calamity the Prelate had caused by an unthinking action or comment. Maybe they would think her too busy and go away if she didn’t answer.

Along with her old friend, Phoebe, Verna had named Sister Dulcinia to be one of her administrators. It only made sense to have a Sister of Dulcinia’s experience at hand. It also allowed Verna to keep an eye on the woman. Dulcinia herself had requested the job, citing her “knowledge of palace business.”

Having Sister Leoma and Philippa as “trusted advisors” was at least useful in keeping them in sight, too. She didn’t trust them. For that matter, she didn’t trust any of them; she couldn’t afford to. Verna had to admit, though, that they had proven themselves willing advisors who always scrupulously kept the best interest of the Prelate and the palace uppermost in their advice. It vexed her that she could find no fault in their counsel.

The knock came again, polite, but insistent.

“Yes! What is it?”

The thick door opened enough to admit Warren’s head of curly blond hair. He grinned when he saw the scowl on her face. Verna could see Dulcinia craning her neck to see past him, checking the Prelate’s progress on the stacks of paper. Warren let himself the rest of the way in.

He peered about in the somber room, scrutinizing the work done on it. After the losing battle her predecessor had had with the Sisters of the Dark, the office had been left in ruins. A crew of workmen had hurriedly repaired it, putting it back to order as quickly as possible so that the new Prelate wouldn’t be inconvenienced for long. Verna knew the cost; she had seen the expense tally.

Warren strolled up to the opposite side of the heavy walnut table. “Good evening, Verna. You look to be hard at work. Important palace business, I presume, to be up this late.”

Her lips pressed into a thin line. Before she was able to launch into a tirade, Dulcinia took the opportunity, before closing the door behind the visitor, to poke her head in.

“I’ve just finished ordering the day’s reports, Prelate. Would you like to have them now? You must be near to finished with the others.”

Verna flashed a villainous grin as she crooked her finger at her aide. Sister Dulcinia flinched at the smirk. Her penetrating blue eyes swept the room, lingering on Warren, before she entered, brushing back her gray hair in a submissive gesture.

“May I be of assistance, Prelate?”

Verna folded her hands on the table. “Why, yes, Sister, you may. Your experience would be valuable in this matter.” Verna lifted a report off the pile. “I would like you to immediately go on an mission to the stables. It seems we have trouble there, and a bit of a mystery.”

Sister Dulcinia brightened. “Trouble, Prelate?”

“Yes. It would seem there are some horses missing.”

Sister Dulcinia leaned forward a bit, lowering her voice in that tolerant manner of hers. “If I remember the report you speak of, Prelate, the horses were frightened by something in the night and bolted. They’ve simply not turned up yet, that’s all.”

“I know that, Sister. I would like Master Finch to explain how it is that horses that broke down his fence were able to run off, and not be found.”

“Prelate?”

Verna lifted her eyebrows in mock wonder. “We live on an island, do we not? How is it that the horses are no longer on the island? No guard saw them gallop across a bridge. At least I’ve seen no report of it. This time of year the fishermen are out on the river day and night, eeling, yet none saw any horses swimming to the mainland. So where are they?”

“Well, I’m sure they simply bolted, Prelate. Perhaps . . .”

Verna smiled indulgently. “Perhaps Master Finch sold them, and just said they ran off in order to cover their loss.”

Sister Dulcinia straightened. “Surely, Prelate, you would not want to accuse—”

Verna slapped a hand to the table and shot to her feet. “Tack is also missing. Did the tack also bolt in the night! Or did the horses decide to put it on themselves and go for a jaunt!”

Sister Dulcinia blanched. “I . . . well, I . . . I’ll see—”

“You go down to the stables right now and tell Master Finch that if he doesn’t find the palace’s horses by the time I decide to inquire of the matter again, their cost will come out of his pay and the tack out of his hide!”

Sister Dulcinia bobbed a quick bow and scurried from the room. When the door banged closed, Warren chuckled.

“Seems you’re falling right into the job, Verna.”

“Don’t you start with me, Warren!”

The grin left his face. “Verna, calm down. It’s just a couple of horses. The man will find them. It’s not worth you getting yourself in a state of tears over.”

Verna blinked at him. She touched her fingers to her cheek and felt that they were indeed wet. She let out a tired groan and flopped down in her chair.

“I’m sorry, Warren. I don’t know what’s come over me. I guess I’m just tired and frustrated.”

“Verna, I’ve never seen you like this, letting a matter like some silly pieces of paper get you so worked up.

“Warren, look at this!” She snatched up the report. “I’m a prisoner in here, approving the cost of hauling away manure! Do you have any idea how much manure those horses produce? Or how much food they eat, just to make all that manure?”

“Well, no, I guess I would have to admit that . . .”

She pulled the next report off the stack. “Butter—”

“Butter?”

“Yes, butter.” Verna scanned the report. “Seems it went rancid and we had to buy ten peck to replace it. I’m to consider this and determine if the dairyman has asked a fair price and is to be retained in the future.”

“It must be important to have these matters checked.”

Verna picked up the next paper. “Masons. Masons to fix the roof over the dining hall that leaks. And slate. A lightning bolt broke the slate, they say, and near to a square had to be torn off and replaced. Took ten men two weeks, it says here. I’m to decide if that was timely, and approve payment.”

“Well, if people do work, they’ve a right to be paid, haven’t they?”

She rubbed a finger on the gold, sunburst-patterned ring. “I thought that if I ever had the power, there would be changes in the way the Sisters do the Creator’s work. But this is all I do, Warren: look at reports. I’ve been in here day and night reading the most mundane of things until my eyes glaze over.”

“It must be important, Verna.”

“Important?” She selected another report with exaggerated reverence. “Let’s see . . . seems two of our ‘young men’ got drunk and set fire to an inn . . . the fire was put out . . . the inn sustained quiet a bit of damage . . . they would like die palace to reimburse them.” She set the report aside. “I’m going to have a long, loud talk with those two.”

“Seems the right decision, Verna.”

She selected another report. “And what have we here? A seamstress accounting. Dressmaking for the novices.” Verna picked up another. “Salt. Three kinds.”

“But Verna—”

She plucked another. “And this one?” She waved the paper with mock solemnity. “Grave digging.”

“What?”

“Two gravediggers. They want to be paid for their work.” She scanned the tally. “And I might add that they think highly of their skill, by the price they’re asking.”

“Look, Verna, I think you’ve been cooped up it here too long and need a little fresh air. Why don’t we go for a walk.”

“A walk? Warren, I don’t have time—”

“Prelate, you’ve been sitting in here too long. You need a little activity.” He canted his head while rolling his eyes in an exaggerated gesture toward the door. “How about it?”

Verna glanced toward the door. If Sister Dulcinia did as she was told, then only Sister Phoebe would be in the outer office. Phoebe was her friend. She reminded herself that she could trust no one.

“Well . . . yes, I guess I would like a bit of a walk.”

Warren marched around the desk and lifted her by the arm. “Oh, good, then. Shall we go?”

Verna pulled her arm away from his grip and shot him a murderous glare. She gritted her teeth as she spoke in a singsong voice. “Why yes, why don’t we.”

At the sound of the door, Sister Phoebe hastily stood to bow. “Prelate . . . do you need something? Perhaps a bit of soup? Some tea?”

“Phoebe, I’ve told you a dozen times now that you don’t need to bow every time you lay eyes on me.”

Phoebe bowed again. “Yes, Prelate.” Her round face flushed red. “I mean . . . I’m sorry, Prelate. Forgive me.”

Verna gathered her patience with a sigh. “Sister Phoebe, we’ve known each other since we were novices. How many times were we sent to the kitchens together to scrub pots for . . . ?” Verna glanced to Warren. “Well, I can’t remember for what, but the point is that we’re old friends. Please try to remember that?”

Phoebe’s cheeks plumped with a smile. “Of course . . . Verna.” She winced at calling the Prelate “Verna” even if it was under order.

Out in the hall Warren asked why they were sent to scrub pots.

“I said I don’t remember,” she snapped as she glanced back down the empty hall, “What’s this about?”

Warren shrugged. “Just a walk.” He checked the hall himself, and then flashed her another meaningful look. “I thought that maybe the Prelate would like to visit Sister Simona.”

Verna missed a step. Sister Simona had been in a deranged state for weeks—something about dreams—and had been kept in a shielded room so she couldn’t hurt herself, or some innocent.

Warren leaned close and whispered. “I went to visit her earlier.”

“Why?”

Warren jabbed his finger up and down, pointing at the floor. The vaults. He meant the vaults. She frowned at him.

“And how was poor Simona?”

Warren checked the corridor to the right and left when they reached an intersection, then looked behind again. “They wouldn’t let me see her,” he whispered.

Outside, the rain roared in a downpour. Verna pulled her shawl over her head and dove into the deluge, dancing over puddles, trying to tiptoe across the stepping-stones set in the soggy grass. Yellow light from windows flickered in the pools of standing water. The guards at the gates to the Prelate’s compound bowed as she and Warren trotted by, making for a covered walkway.

Inside, under the low roof, she shook the water from her shawl and draped it across her shoulders as the two of them caught their breath. Warren shook rain from his robes. The walkway’s arched sides were protected only by open lattice thick with vines, but the rain wasn’t driven by wind, so it was dry enough. She peered into the darkness, but couldn’t see anyone. It was quite a ways to the next building: the squat infirmary.

Verna slumped down on a stone bench. Warren had been ready to be off, but when she sat, he did, too. It was cold and the heat of him right next to her felt good. The pungent smell of rain and wet dirt was refreshing after being inside for so long. Verna was not used to being inside so much. She liked the out-of-doors, thought the ground made a fine bed, the trees and fields a fine office, but that part of her life was over now. There was a garden just outside the Prelate’s office, but she hadn’t had time to put her head out to see it.

In the distance, the incessant drums thundered on, like the heartbeat of doom.

“I used my Han,” he said at last. “I don’t feel the presence of anyone else near.”

“And you can feel the presence of one with Subtractive Magic, yes?” she whispered.

He glanced up in the dark. “I never thought of that.”

“What’s this about, Warren?”

“Do you think we’re alone?”

“How should I know?” she snapped.

He looked around again and swallowed. “Well, I’ve been doing a lot of reading lately.” He pointed again toward the vaults. “I just thought we should go see Sister Simona.”

“You already said that. You still haven’t told me why.”

“Some of the things I’ve been reading have been about dreams,” he said cryptically.

She tried to gaze into his eyes, but she could only see the dark shape of him. “Simona has been having dreams.”

His thigh was pressed against hers. He was shaking with the cold. At least she thought it was the cold. Before she realized what she was doing, she had put her arm around him and pulled his head to her shoulder.

“Verna,” he stammered, “I feel so alone. I’m afraid to talk to anyone. I feel like everyone’s watching me. I’m afraid everyone is going to ask me what I’m studying, and why, and under whose orders. I’ve only seen you once in three days, and there’s no one else I can talk to.”

She patted his back. “I know, Warren. I’ve wanted to talk to you, too, but I’ve been so busy. There’s so much work to do.”

“Maybe they’re giving you work to keep you occupied and out of their hair while they go about . . . business.”

Verna shook her head in the murk. “Maybe. I’m afraid, too, Warren. I don’t know how to be Prelate. I’m afraid I’ll bring the Palace of the Prophets to ruin if I don’t do the things that need to be done. I’m afraid to say no to Leoma, Philippa, Dulcinia, and Maren. They’re trying to advise me in how to be Prelate, and if they really are on our side, then their advice is true. If I don’t take it, I could be making a big mistake. If the Prelate makes a mistake everyone pays for it. If they aren’t on our side, well, the things they ask me to do don’t seem as if they could cause any harm. How much ruin can reading reports cause?”

“Unless it’s to keep you distracted from something important.”

She stroked his back again before pushing away. “I know. I’ll try to go for more ‘walks’ with you. I think the fresh air is doing me good.”

Warren squeezed her hand. “I’m glad, Verna.” He stood and straightened his dark robes. “Let’s go see how Simona is faring.”

The infirmary was one of the smaller buildings on Halsband Island. The Sisters could heal many common injuries with the aid of their Han, and illnesses beyond the power of their gift usually ended all too quickly in death, so mostly the infirmary housed a few elderly and feeble of the staff who had spent their lives in their work at the Palace of the Prophets, and now had no one to care for them. It also was where the insane were confined. The gift was of limited use for sickness of the mind.

Near the door, Verna sent her Han into a lamp and carried it with her as they moved through the simple painted corridors toward where Warren said Simona was confined. Only a few of the rooms were occupied, their residents sending snores, wheezes, and coughs echoing through the dim halls.

When they reached the end of the corridor that housed the old and feeble, they had to pass through a series of three flimsy doors, each shielded with powerful webs of varied composition. Shields, however, might be broken by those with the gift, even the insane. The fourth door was iron, with a massive bolt protected by an intricate shield designed to deflect attempts to open it from the other side with the use of magic; the more force applied, the lighter the bolt held. It had been set in place by three Sisters, and so could not be broken by one on the other side.

Two guards came to attention when she and Warren rounded the corner. They bowed their heads, but didn’t move away from the door. Warren greeted them pleasantly and motioned with a flit of his hand for them to lift the bolt.

“Sorry, son, but no one is allowed in.”

Her fiery eyes fixed on the guard, Verna pushed Warren aside. “Is that right, ‘son’?” He nodded confidently. “And who gave those orders?”

“My commander, Sister. I don’t know who gave the orders to him, but it had to be a Sister of some authority.”

Scowling, she thrust the sunburst ring in front of his face. “More authority than this?”

His eyes widened. “No, Prelate. Of course not. Forgive me, I didn’t recognize you.”

“How many are behind this door?”

The bolt sent a clang echoing down the hall. “Just the one Sister, Prelate.”

“Are there any Sisters attending her?”

“No. They’ve gone for the night.”

Once on the other side and out of earshot, Warren chuckled. “I guess you’ve found some use for that ring, at last.”

Verna slowed to a puzzled stop. “Warren, how do you suppose the ring came to be on that pedestal after the funeral?”

Warren’s grin held, but barely. “Well, let’s see . . .” The grin finally vanished. “I don’t know. What do you think?”

She shook her head. “It had a light shield around it. Not many can spin such a web. If, as you say, Prelate Annalina trusted no one but me, then who did she trust to put the ring there, and spin such a web around it?”

“I can’t imagine.” Warren hiked his damp robes up on his shoulders. “Could she have spun the web herself?

Verna lifted an eyebrow. “From her funeral pyre?”

“No, I mean could she have spun it, and then had someone else just put it there. You know, like investing a stick with a spell, so that someone else can light a lamp with it. I’ve seen Sisters do that so the staff can light the lamps without having to carry around a candle dripping hot wax on their fingers, or the floor.”

Verna raised the lamp higher to look into his eyes. “Warren, that’s brilliant.”

He smiled. The smile faded. “The question remains: who?”

She lowered the lamp. “Maybe one of the staff she trusted. Someone without the gift so she wouldn’t have to worry about them being . . .” She glanced back up the dark, empty hall. “You know what I mean.” He nodded that he did as she started out. “I’ll have to look into it.”

Flashes of light were coming from under the door to Sister Simona’s room: silent little flickers of lightning licking out through the gap under the door. The shield sparkled when the crackles of light managed to reach it, dissipating the power with counterforces, grounding the magic with an opposite. Sister Simona was trying to break the shield.

Since Sister Simona was deranged, that was to be expected. The question was, why wasn’t it working? Verna recognized the shield around the door as simple one used to keep young wizards confined when they were being mulish.

Verna opened herself to her Han and stepped through the shield. Warren followed as she knocked. The flickers of light coming from under the door cut off. “Simona? It’s Verna Sauventreen. You remember me, don’t you, dear? May I come in?”

No answer came, so Verna turned the knob and eased the door open. She held the lamp out before herself, sending its yellowy glimmers ahead to break the darkness within. The room was empty but for a tray with a pitcher, bread, and fruit, a pallet, a chamber pot, and a filthy little woman cowering in the corner.

“Leave me be, demon!” she shrieked.

“Simona, it’s all right. It’s only me, Verna, and my friend, Warren. Don’t be afraid.”

Simona blinked in the light, as if it were the sun just risen. Verna set the lamp behind, so as not to blind the woman.

Simona peered up. “Verna?”

“That’s right.”

Simona kissed her ring finger a dozen times, gushing thanks and blessings on the Creator. She scurried across the floor on her hands and knees to snatch up the hem of Verna’s dress, kissing it, too, over and over.

“Oh, thank you for coming.” She scrambled to her feet. “Hurry! We must escape!”

Verna grasped the small woman’s shoulders and sat her down on her sleeping pallet. With a gentle hand she smoothed back the shock of gray hair.

Her hand froze.

Simona had a collar around her neck. That was why she wasn’t able to break the shield. Verna had never seen a Sister wearing a Rada’Han. She had seen hundreds of boys and young men wearing one, but never a Sister. The sight of it turned her stomach. She had been taught that in the dim past, Rada’Han had been put around the necks of Sisters who had lost their minds. Having one with the gift afflicted with insanity was like loosing lightning in a crowded market square. They had to be controlled. But still . . .

“Simona, you are safe. You’re in the palace, under the watchful eye of the Creator. No harm will come to you.”

Simona broke into tears. “I must flee. Please, let me go. I must flee.”

“Why must you flee, my dear?”

The woman wiped tears from the dirt on her face. “He comes.”

“Who?”

“The one from my dreams. The dream walker.”

“Who is this dream walker?”

Simona shrank back. “The Keeper.”

Verna paused. “This dream walker is the Keeper?”

She nodded so hard Verna thought her neck might come unhinged. “Sometimes. Sometimes, he’s the Creator.”

Warren leaned in. “What?”

Simona flinched. “Is it you? Are you the one?”

“I’m Warren, Sister. A student, that’s all.”

Simona touched a finger to her cracked lips. “You should run, too, then. He comes. He wants those with the gift.”

“The one in your dreams?” Verna asked. Simona nodded furiously. “What does he do in your dreams?”

“Torments me. Hurts me. He . . .” She kissed her ring finger frantically, beseeching the Creator’s protection. “He tells me I must forsake my oath. He tells me to do things. He’s a demon. Sometimes he pretends to be the Creator, to trick me, but I know it’s him. I know. He’s a demon.”

Verna hugged the frightened woman. “It’s just a nightmare, Simona. It’s not real. Try to see that.”

Simona almost shook her head right out of its skin. “No! It’s a dream, but real. He comes! We must run!”

Verna smiled sympathetically. “What makes you think that?”

“Told me, he did. He comes.”

“Don’t you see, dear? That was just in the dream, not when you’re awake. It’s not real.”

“The dreams are real. When I’m awake, I know, too.”

“You’re awake now. Do you know now, dear?” Simona nodded. “How do you know, when you’re awake, if he isn’t there in your head to tell you, like when you dream?”

“I can hear his alert.” She looked from Verna’s face to Warren’s, and back again. “I’m not crazy. I’m not. Can’t you hear the drums?”

“Yes, Sister, we hear the drums.” Warren smiled. “But that’s not your dream. It’s just the drums announcing the impending arrival of the emperor.”

Simona touched a finger to her lip again. “Emperor?”

“Yes,” Warren comforted, “the emperor of the Old World. He’s coming for a visit, that’s all. That’s what the drums are.”

Her brow creased in worry. “Emperor?”

“Yes,” Warren said. “Emperor Jagang.”

With a wild shriek Simona leapt into a corner. She screamed as if she were being stabbed. Her hands flailed. Verna rushed to her, trying to catch her arms and calm her.

“Simona, you’re safe with us. What is it?”

“That’s him!” she screamed. “Jagang! That’s the dream walker’s name! Let me go! Please let me go before he comes!”

Simona tore away, careering around the room, sending flashes of lightning flicking everywhere. It raked the paint off the walls like glowing claws. Verna and Warren tried to calm her, tried to catch her, tried to stop her. When Simona could find no way from the room, she began bashing her head against the wall. Simona was a small woman, but she seemed to have the strength of ten men.

In the end, and with great reluctance, Verna was forced to use the Rada’Han to gain control.

Warren healed Simona’s bleeding forehead after they had quieted her. Verna remembered a spell she had been taught to use on boys newly come to the palace, when they were having nightmares from being taken from their parents, a spell to calm fears and let the frightened child sleep a dreamless sleep. Verna clasped the Rada’Han between her hands and sent a flow of her Han into Simona. At last, her breathing slowed, she went limp, and she slept. Verna hoped it was a dreamless sleep.

Shaken, Verna leaned against the door after she closed it on the dark room. “Did you find out what you wanted to know?”

Warren swallowed, “I’m afraid so.”

That wasn’t the answer Verna had expected. He didn’t offer anything more. “Well?”

“Well, I’m not so sure Sister Simona is insane. Not in the conventional sense, anyway.” He picked at the braiding on the sleeve of his robe. “I’ll need to do more reading. It could be nothing. The books are complex. I’ll let you know what I find.”

Verna kissed her finger, but felt the stilt unfamiliar touch of the Prelate’s ring under her lips. “Dear Creator,” she prayed aloud, “keep this foolish young man safe, for I may snatch his head bald and then strangle him with my bare hands.”

Warren rolled his eyes. “Look, Verna—”

“Prelate,” she corrected.

Warren sighed and at last nodded. “I guess I should tell you, but understand that this is a very old and obscure fork. The prophecies are clogged with false forks. This is doubly tainted, because of its age, and its rarity. That makes it suspect even if it weren’t for the rest of it. There are crossovers and backfalls galore in tomes this old, and I can’t verify them without months of work. Some of the links are occluded by triple forks. Back-tracing a triple fork squares false forks on the branches, and if any of them are tripled, well then, the enigma created by the geometric progressions you encounter because of the—”

Verna put a hand to his forearm to silence him. “Warren, I know all that. I understand the degrees of progression and regression as they relate to random variables in bifurcations of a triple fork.”

Warren flicked his hand. “Yes of course. I forget what a good student you were. I’m sorry. I guess I’m just rambling.”

“Out with it, Warren. What did Simona say that makes you think she may not be insane, ‘in the conventional sense’?”

“This dream walker she mentioned. In two of the oldest books there are a few references to ‘dream walker.’ These books are in bad shape, hardly more than dust, but the thing that worries me is that because the books are so old, the mention of dream walker might only seem rare to us because we have only two of the texts, when in fact it might not be rare at all for back then. Most of the books from that time were lost.”

“How old?”

“Over three thousand years.”

Verna lifted an eyebrow. “From the time of the great war?” Warren confirmed it was so. “What about the dream walker?”

“Well, it’s hard to understand. When they mention it, it’s not so much a person, as a weapon.”

“A weapon? What kind of weapon?”

“I don’t know. The context is not exactly that of a object, either, but more of an entity, though it could be a person.”

“Maybe it’s meant in the way that a person who is so good at something, like a blade master, that they are often described, with respect, or reverence, as a weapon?”

Warren lifted a finger. “That’s it. A very good way to describe it, Verna.”

“What do the books say this weapon did with this skill?”

Warren signed. “I don’t know. But I do know that the dream walker had something to do with the Towers of Perdition that finally cut the Old and New Worlds apart and kept them separated for the last three thousand years.”

“You mean the dream walkers built the towers?”

Warren leaned closer. “No. I think the towers were built to stop them.”

Verna stiffened. “Richard destroyed the towers,” she said aloud, not intending to. “What else?”

“That’s all I know, so far. Even what I’ve told you is largely conjecture. We don’t know much about books from the time of the war. For all I know, it could simply be tales, and not real.”

Verna rolled her eyes to the door behind her. “What I saw in there looked real to me.”

Warren grimaced. “Me, too.”

“What did you mean about her not being insane ‘in the conventional sense’?”

“I don’t think Sister Simona is having deranged dreams and imagining things; I think something real happened and that’s what made her the way we see her. The books allude to instances where this ‘blade master’ of sorts slipped, and left the subject unable to separate their dreams from reality, as if their mind can’t fully wake from the nightmares, or slip from the world around them when they sleep.”

“That sounds like insanity to me, not being able to distinguish what’s real from what’s not.”

Warren turned his palm up. A flame ignited just above the flesh. “What is reality? I imagined there was a flame, and my ‘dream’ became reality. My wakeful intellect governs what I do.”

She pulled on a brown curl as she thought out loud. “Just as the veil separates the world of the living from the world of the dead, there is a barrier in our minds that separates reality from the imagination, from dreams. Through discipline and our force of will we control what is reality for us.”

She looked up suddenly. “Dear Creator, that barrier in our minds is what keeps us from using our Han when we sleep. If there were no barrier, then the person would have no intellectual control of their Han while they sleep.”

Warren nodded. “We have control of our Han. When we imagine, it can become real. But the conscious imagination is overlaid with the limitations of the intellect.” He leaned toward her, his blue eyes intense. “The sleeping imagination has virtually none of these limitations. A dream walker can bend reality. Those with the gift can bring it to be.”

“Weapon indeed,” she whispered.

She took Warren’s arm and started down the hall. As frightening as the unknown was, it was a comfort to have at least one friend to help. Her head swirled with a confusion of doubts and questions. She was the Prelate now, it was up to her to find some answers before trouble visited the palace.

“Who died?” Warren asked at last.

“The Prelate and Nathan,” Verna said absently, because that was where her thoughts were.

“No, they had the funeral rite. I mean besides them.”

Verna came back from her mind travels. “Besides the Prelate and Nathan? No one. No one has died in quite a while.”

The lamplight danced in his blue eyes. “Then why did the palace hire the services of gravediggers?”