Stone of Tears

Chapter 13

Cause of death. She looked up in thought, pressing the round end of the plain, wooden-handled pen to her lower lip. The small, modest room was dimly lit with candles set among and on top of the disheveled piles of papers on her desk. Scrolls were balanced precariously in stacks between fat books. The dark patina of the desktop was only visible in a small area in front of her, framing the waiting report.

Odd objects of magic stood jammed together collecting dust on the shelves behind her. The ever-present and diligent cleaning staff was not allowed to touch them, and so the task of dusting them was left to her, but there was never enough time, or inclination. Besides, they looked less important to curious eyes when covered in a mask of dust.

Heavy drapes were drawn against the night. The only splash of color in the room was one of the local blue-and-yellow carpets she had placed on the other side of the desk. Visitors usually spent their time in her office staring down at it.

Cause of death. Reports were such a bother. She sighed. But a necessary bother. For now, anyway. The Palace of the Prophets required reams of reports. There were Sisters who spent their whole lives in the libraries, cataloging reports, pampering them, keeping records of every useless word they thought might someday be important.

Well, there was nothing for it but to think up a suitable cause of death. The truth would never do. Her Sisters would have to have a satisfactory explanation as to the cause of death. They valued highly those with the gift. Fools.

Training accident? She smiled. Yes, a training accident. She hadn’t used that one in many years. She pursed her lips as she dipped the pen in the ink bottle and began writing. The cause of death was a training accident with the Rada’Han. A twig, as I have often warned the other Sisters, no matter how young and tender, will break if bent too far.

Who could question? Let them wonder where among them the fault lay. It would keep them from digging too deeply, lest the blame fall on them. As she blotted the paper, there was a soft rap at the door.

“One moment, please.” She touched the corner of the boy’s letter to the candle flame and, when it was nearly consumed, tossed it in the cold hearth. The broken seal melted into a molten red puddle. He would be writing no more letters. “Come.”

The heavy, round-topped door opened enough to admit a head.

“Sister, it’s me,” came a whisper from the shadow.

“Don’t stand there like a novice, come in and close the door.”

The woman entered, closing the door quietly, after putting her head back out to check the hall. She didn’t look down at the carpet. “Sister . . .”

With a finger across lips, and an angry scowl, she was silenced. “No names when we are alone. I’ve told you before.”

The other looked about at the walls, as if expecting someone to pop out. “But surely you’ve shielded your room.”

“Of course it’s shielded. But it is always possible the breeze could carry words to the right ears. If that ever happened, we wouldn’t want our names carried with the words, now would we.”

The other’s eyes flicked around at the walls again. “Of course not. Of course you are right.” She scrubbed her hands together. “Someday this won’t be necessary. I hate that we must remain hidden. Someday we will be able to . . .”

“What have you found out?”

She watched as the woman straightened her dress at the hips and then put her fingers to the desk, leaning over a little. Her eyes had a fierce intensity. They were strange eyes, pale, pale blue, with dark violet flecks. She always found it hard not to stare at those eyes.

She leaned closer, and whispered. “They’ve found him.”

“You saw the book?”

She nodded slowly. “I saw it. At dinnertime. I waited until the others were at dinner.” She gave an even look. “He refused the first offer.”

She slapped her hand down on the desk. “What! Are you sure?”

“That’s what the book said. And not only that, there was more. He’s grown. Grown into a man.”

“Grown!” She took a heavy breath as she watched the Sister standing before her. “Which Sister was it?”

“What difference does it make? They are all ours.”

“No, they weren’t. I wasn’t able to send three of our own. Only two. One is a Sister of the Light.”

The other’s eyes widened. “How could you let that happen? Something as important as this . . .”

She slapped her hand down on the desk again. “Silence!”

The other straightened, knitting her fingers together. A small pout came to her face. “It was Sister Grace.”

She closed her eyes and leaned back in the chair. “Sister Grace was one of ours,” she whispered.

The other leaned over the desk again. “Then, only one of the two remaining is ours. Who is it? Sister Elizabeth, or Sister Verna?”

“That is not for you to know.”

“Why not? I hate never knowing. I hate not knowing if the Sister I’m talking to is a Sister of the Light, or one of us, a Sister of the Dark . . .”

She slammed her fist on the desk and gritted her teeth. “Don’t you ever say that out loud again,” she hissed, “or I will send you to the Nameless One in pieces.”

This time the other stared down at the carpet as her face paled. “Forgive me,” she whispered.

“There isn’t a Sister of the Light alive who believes we are anything but myth. If that name ever reaches their ears, they could begin to wonder. That name is never, ever, to be spoken aloud by you! If the Sisters were to ever discover you, or who you serve, they would have a Rada’Han around your neck before you had a chance to scream.”

The other’s hands went to her throat as she let out a small gasp. “But I . . .”

“You would claw your own eyes out, for fear of seeing them come to question you every day. That is why you are not to know the names of the others: so you can’t give them over. That is why they don’t know your name: so they can’t give you over. It is to protect us all, so we may serve. The only name you know is mine.”

“But Sister . . . I would bite my own tongue off before I ever gave them your name.”

“You say that now. But were there a Rada’Han around your neck, you would be begging to give me up just to have it off . . . And it isn’t my forgiveness that matters. If you fail us, the Nameless One will not be forgiving. When you meet his eyes, it will make whatever could be done to you with the Rada’Han while you were alive seem a pleasant time at tea.”

“But I serve . . . I am sworn . . . I have given the oath.”

“Those who serve well will be rewarded when the Nameless One is free of the veil. Those who fail him, or fight him, will have an eternity to regret their mistake.”

“Of course, Sister.” She was staring furiously at the carpet now. “I live only to serve.” She knitted her fingers back together. “I will not fail our Master. On my oath.”

“On your soul.”

Her defiant, violet flecked eyes came up. “I have given my oath.”

She nodded as she sank back in the chair. “As have we all, Sister. As have we all.” She stared at the other’s eyes a moment. “Did the book say anything else?”

“I didn’t have time to search it thoroughly, but there were some other things I caught. He is with the Mother Confessor. He is promised as her mate.”

She frowned. “The Mother Confessor.” She waved her hand. “That is no problem. What else?”

“He is the Seeker.”

She slapped her hand on the desk. “Curse the Light!” She let out a noisy breath. “The Seeker. Well, we can deal with that. Anything more?”

The other nodded slowly, leaning closer. “He is strong, and grown, yet only two days after he triggered the gift the headaches made him unconscious.”

She rose slowly out of her chair. This time it was her eyes that went wide. “Two days,” she whispered. “Are you sure? Two days?”

The other shrugged. “I am only telling you what the book said. I’m sure of what it said. I’m not sure it is true. I don’t see how it could be.”

She sank back into her chair. “Two days.” She stared at her desk. “The sooner we get a Rada’Han around his neck, the better.”

“Even the Sisters of the Light would agree with you about that. There was a message sent back. From the Prelate.”

She lifted an eyebrow. “The Prelate herself sent orders?”

The other nodded. “Yes.” Under her breath, she added, “I wish I knew if she was with us, or against us.”

She ignored the comment. “What did she say?”

“That if he refuses the third offer, Sister Verna is to kill him herself. Have you ever heard of such an order? If he is really this strong, and he refuses the third time, he would be dead in a few weeks anyway. Why would she give such an order?”

“Have you ever heard of anyone refusing the first offer?”

“Well, no, I guess I haven’t.”

“It is one of the rules. If one with the gift refuses all three offers, they are to be killed, to spare them the suffering at the end, the madness. You have never seen such an order before because you have never heard of anyone refusing the first offer.

“I have spent time in the archives, looking through the prophecies. That is where I saw reference to the rule. The Prelate knows all the obscure rules, the old rules. And she is afraid; she has read the prophecies too.”

“Afraid?” she asked, wide-eyed. “The Prelate? I have never seen her afraid of anything.”

She nodded up at the woman. “She is afraid now. Either way suits our purposes. Either he is collared, or he is dead. If he is collared, we will deal with him, in our way, as we have always done. If he is dead, we won’t have to. Maybe better he were dead. Maybe better he were dead before the Sisters of the Light find out what he is, if they don’t already know.”

The other leaned over the desk again, lowering her voice. “If they know, or find out, there are those among the Sisters of the Light who would kill him.”

She studied the violet flecks a moment. “Indeed there are.” A smile spread across her face. “What a dangerous dilemma for them. What a glorious opportunity for us.” Her smile faded. “What of the other matter?”

The woman straightened. “Ranson and Weber are waiting where you wanted them.” She folded her arms beneath her breasts. “They were pretty cocky, because they have passed all the tests, and tomorrow are to be released.” A sadistic grin came to her thin lips and flecked eyes. “I gave them a little reminder that they still wear the collar. I’m surprised we can’t hear their knees knocking together all the way up here.”

She ignored the other’s smile. “I have lessons to give. You will go in my place. Tell them I had reports to work on. I’ll go see to our two friends. They may have passed all the Prelate’s tests, but they have not yet passed all of mine. One has an oath to give. And the other . . .”

She leaned halfway over the desk, hunger in her flecked eyes. “Which one? Which one are you going to . . . Oh, I so wish I could watch. Or help. Promise me you will tell me everything?”

She smiled at the other’s eagerness. “Everything. I promise. From beginning to end. Every last scream. Now go see to my lessons for me.”

The woman danced through the doorway like a giddy schoolgirl. She was too eager. That kind of eagerness was dangerous. That kind of lust made one forget to be careful, made one take chances. She pulled a knife from a drawer, and made a mental note to use her less in the future, and keep an eye on her.

She tested the edge gingerly with a thumb and, satisfied it was razor sharp, tucked the knife up her sleeve, the sleeve without the dacra. She plucked a small, dusty statue from the shelf, and slipped it into a pocket. Before she was around the desk and through the door, she remembered one more item, and turned back to pick up the stout rod leaning against the side of her desk.

It was late, and the halls were quiet and mostly empty. Despite the heat, she pulled her short, thin, blue cotton cloak tighter across her shoulders. Thoughts of this new one with the gift gave her a chill. Grown. A man.

She shook her head as she walked silently over the long carpets, past lamps set in wall brackets centered in the raised cherry paneling, past tables set with dried flowers, and past heavily draped windows looking out over the bailey and courtyard below. Lights of the city in the distance twinkled like a carpet of stars. Slightly rank air drifted in the windows. Must be near low tide, she thought.

The cleaning staff, polishing a chair-rail molding here, or a banister there, dropped into deep curtsies as she swept past. She hardly noticed them, and certainly didn’t acknowledge them. They were beneath her attention.

Grown. Into a man.

Her face heated with anger at the thought. How could this be? Someone had made a serious mistake. A mistake. An oversight. It had to be that.

A maidservant on her hands and knees, concentrating on wiping at a spot on a carpet, looked up just in time to leap back out of the way with a “Forgive me, Sister.” On her hands and knees, she touched her head to the floor with another apology.

Grown. It would have been difficult enough to turn this one if he were still a boy. But a man? She shook her head again. Grown. She smacked the rod against her thigh in frustration. Two maidservants nearby jumped at the sound and fell to their knees, burying their tightly closed eyes behind prayerful hands.

Well, grown or not, he would have a Rada’Han around his neck, and a whole palace full of Sisters to watch over him. But even wearing a Rada’Han, he was still grown into a man. And the Seeker. He might be difficult to control. Dangerously difficult.

If necessary, she guessed, he could always have a “training accident.” If not that, there were certainly enough other dangers to one with the gift, dangers that could leave a man worse than dead. But if she could turn him, or use him, that would make all the trouble worthwhile.

She turned into a hall she at first thought empty, then noticed a young woman standing in the shadows between lamps, gazing out a window. She thought she recognized her. One of the novices. She stopped behind the young woman and folded her arms. The novice tapped her toe on the carpet as she leaned on her elbows through the opened window, looking at the gates below.

She cleared her throat. The young woman spun, gasped, and dropped into a curtsy.

“Forgive me, Sister, I didn’t hear you coming. A good evening to you.”

When the big brown eyes came up, she put the end of the rod under the young woman’s chin and lifted it a little more. “Pasha, isn’t it?”

“Yes, Sister. Pasha Maes. Novice, third rank. Next in line to be named.”

“Next in line,” she sniffed. “Presumption, my dear, does not befit a Sister, and less so a novice. Even one of the third rank.”

Pasha cast her eyes down and gave a curtsy, as best she could with the rod still under her chin. “Yes, Sister. Forgive me.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Just watching, Sister. Watching the night.”

“Watching the night. I would say you were watching the gates. Am I wrong, novice?”

Pasha tried to look down, but the rod lifted her chin, keeping her eyes to her superior. “No, Sister,” she admitted, “you are not wrong. I was watching the gates.” She licked her full lips several times.

At last she spilled out the words. “I heard the talk, the talk among the girls. They say, well, they say three of the Sisters have been gone a long time now, and that could only mean they are bringing back one with the gift. A new one. In all the years I have been here, I have never seen a new one brought in.” She licked her lips again. “Well, I am . . . I mean . . . I hope to be next in line. And if I am to be named, I will have to be assigned a new one.” She knitted her fingers together. “I so want to be named a Sister. I have studied hard, worked hard. Waited and waited. And no new one has come yet. Forgive me, Sister, but I just can’t help being excited, and hopeful, that I will be worthy. So . . . yes, I was watching the gate, hoping I would see him brought in.”

“And you think you are strong enough to handle the job? To handle a new one?”

“Yes, Sister. I study and practice my forms every day.”

She looked down her nose at the novice. “Is that so? Show me.”

As they stared at each other, she felt her feet rise off the ground a few inches. Solid grip of air, strong. Not bad. She wondered if the novice could handle interference. With that thought, fire ignited at both ends of the hall, sweeping with a howl toward the two women. Pasha didn’t flinch. The fire hit a wall of air before reaching them. Air was not the best for fire. A small error Pasha quickly corrected. Before the fire burned through, the air became moist, dripping. The fire hissed out.

Although she didn’t try to move, she knew she couldn’t. She could feel that the grip held her firmly. She turned it cold, brittle, with ice, and broke it. When she was free, she lifted Pasha from the floor. Defensive webs from the girl wove through her snaking onslaught, but failed to break the grip. Her feet rose again. Impressive—the girl could counter even while being held.

Spells tangled together, conflicting, fighting, snarling into knots. Each matched and defended, striking back at any opportunity. The silent, motionless battle raged on for a time, the two of them hanging inches off the ground.

At last, she tired of the sport and severed herself from the webs, tying them to the girl, locking them on. She settled gently to the ground, and left Pasha with the whole weight of the load to juggle. A simple, if devious, escape: giving the opponent not only the attacking spells to deal with, but dumping her own back on her. Pasha hadn’t been expecting this, and wasn’t able to defend against it; it was not the way she had been taught.

Sweat ran down the novice’s face as she grimaced slightly. The force radiating through the hall made carpets curl up at their corners. Lamps chattered in their brackets. Pasha was getting angry. Her brow wrinkled. With a loud crack that shattered a mirror far off down the hall, she broke the spells. Her slippered feet settled to the ground.

Pasha took a few deep breaths. “I have not seen that done before, Sister. It is not . . . by the rules.”

She put the rod back under the other’s chin. “Rules are for children’s games. You are no longer a child. When you are a full Sister, you must deal with situations where there are no rules. You must be prepared for that. If you always stick to somebody’s ‘rules,’ you may find yourself at the point of a very sharp knife, held by a hand that doesn’t know about your ‘rules.’ ”

Pasha didn’t flinch. “Yes, Sister. Thank you for showing me.”

She smiled inwardly, but kept it off her face. This one had a spine, if a small one. A rare commodity in a novice, even one of the third rank.

She let her eyes take in Pasha again: soft brown hair that just touched her shoulders, big brown eyes, attractive features, lips of the sort men stared at, proud, upright shoulders, and a sweep of curves that even a novice’s dress failed to conceal.

She let the rod trail from Pasha’s chin, down her neck, down into the heart of her exposed cleavage.

Grown into a man.

“And since when, Pasha,” she said in a quiet voice that could have been taken for either threatening, or kind, “have novices been allowed to wear their dresses unbuttoned like this?”

Pasha blushed furiously. “Forgive me, Sister. It’s such a warm night. I was alone . . . I didn’t think there was anyone about. I just wanted to let the breeze cool my skin.” Her face turned a deeper red. “I sweat so, there. I never meant to offend anyone. I’m so embarrassed. Forgive me.”

Pasha’s hands rushed to the buttons. With the rod, she gently pushed the hands away from the swell of the young woman’s bosom.

“The Creator made you this way. You should not be embarrassed of what He has chosen, in his wisdom, to bestow upon you. You should never be ashamed, Pasha, of what He has graced you with. Only those of questionable loyalty to the Creator would scorn you for being proud of showing the Maker’s hand in all its magnificence.”

“Why . . . thank you, Sister. I never looked at it in quite that way.” A frown wrinkled her brow. “What do you mean, ‘questionable loyalty’?”

She pulled the rod away and lifted an eyebrow. “Those who worship the Nameless One don’t hide in the shadows, my dear. They could be anywhere. Why, even you could be one. Even me.”

Pasha fell to a knee, bowing her head. “Oh, please, Sister,” she implored, “don’t say such a thing of yourself, even in jest. You are a Sister of the Light, and we are in the Palace of the Prophets, safe, I pray, from the whispers of the Nameless One.”

“Safe?” With her rod, she motioned the novice up. After she was on her feet, she gave her a stern look. “Only a fool assumes she is safe, even here. Sisters of the Light are not fools. Even they must always be alert to the dark whispers.”

“Yes, Sister. I will remember.”

“Remember it, any time someone would make you ashamed of how the Creator has formed you. Ask yourself why they blush at seeing the Maker’s hand. Blush, as the Nameless One would.”

“Yes, Sister . . . Thank you,” she stammered. “You have given me things to think on. I have never thought about the Creator in this way before.”

“He has reasons for the things He does. Is this not true?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, when He gives a man a strong back, what does that say?”

“Everyone knows that. He was given the strong back to use. It means the Creator has given him the strong back so that he might work to feed his family. Work to make his way. Work to make the Creator proud. And not waste the Creator’s gift by being lazy.”

She whisked the rod up and down in front of Pasha. “And what do you think the Creator had in mind when he gave you this body?”

“I . . . don’t know . . . exactly. That I should use it to . . . make the Creator proud of His work . . . in some way?”

She nodded. “You think on it. You think on your reason for being here. Being here at this time. We are all here for a reason. The Sisters of the Light are here for a reason, are they not?”

“Oh, yes, Sister. We are here to teach the ones with the gift, teach them to use it, and guide them so they may not hear the whispers of the Nameless One, that they may hear only the Creator.”

“And how are we able to do that?”

“We were given the gift of being sorceresses, so that we may be able to guide them in their gift.”

“And if the Creator was wise enough to give you that gift, the gift of being a sorceress, do you not think He may have given you your looks for a reason too? Maybe to be a part of your calling as a Sister of the Light? To use your looks to serve Him?”

Pasha stared. “Why, I never thought of it that way before. In what way are my looks to be of aid?”

She shrugged. “We cannot always know what the Creator has intended. When He wishes, it will be revealed.”

“Yes, Sister.” Her voice was unsure.

“Pasha, when you see a man that the Creator has graced with good looks, a finely shaped body, what do you think? What do you feel?”

Pasha blushed. “I . . . sometimes . . . it makes my heart race. I guess. It makes me feel . . . good. Feel longings.”

At last she allowed a small smile. “There is no need to blush, my dear. It is a longing to touch what the Creator’s hand has wrought. Don’t you suppose it pleases the Creator that you appreciate His work? Don’t you think He wants you to like what He has done? To enjoy it? Just as you must know that men enjoy witnessing your beauty and long to touch the work of the Creator’s hand. It would be a crime against the Creator not to use, in your service to Him, what He has given you.”

Pasha smiled shyly. “I never thought about it in that way. You have given me new eyes, Sister. The more I learn, the more it seems I don’t know. I hope that someday I will be a Sister of the Light half as wise as you.”

“Knowledge comes as it will, Pasha. Life’s lessons come at the most surprising times. Like tonight.” She swished the rod toward the window. “Here you are, looking out a window, hoping to learn one thing, and you have learned something more important.”

Pasha touched her arm. “Oh, thank you, Sister, for taking the time to teach me. No Sister has spoken so frankly to me before.”

“This is one lesson, Pasha, that is outside the palace curriculum. It is a lesson the Nameless One would be angry you learned, so keep it to yourself. As you think on what I have told you, and the Creator’s hand is revealed, you will understand better how it is to work for Him. And if you need more understanding, I will always be here to help guide you. But keep our talk from others. As I said, you can never tell who listens to the whispers of the Nameless One.”

Pasha curtsied. “I will, Sister. Thank you.”

“A novice is given many tests. Tests of the palace’s devising.

“There are rules to them. The final test to be named a Sister of the Light is being charged with a new one. In this, the final test, there are not always rules. New ones can be difficult to control. But that does not mean they are bad.”

“Difficult?”

“Of course. They come here, plucked from the only life they knew, and are thrust into a new place, with new demands they don’t understand. They can be rebellious, difficult to control. It is because they are afraid. We must have patience.”

“Afraid . . . ? Of the Sisters? And the palace?”

“Weren’t you afraid, when you first came here? Just a little?”

“Well, maybe just a little. But it was my dream to come. I wanted it more than anything.”

“For the new ones, it is not always their dream. They are confused about their power. With you, it grew as you grew. You were accustomed to it; it was part of you. With them, it is sometimes sudden, unexpected. Not what they planned or wanted. The Rada’Han can ignite the power, and it is new to them. It can be frightening. That fear makes them fight it, sometimes. Fight us.

“Your job, the responsibility of a novice of the third rank, is to control them, for their own good, until they can be taught by the Sisters. In all your other lessons, there have been rules. In this, there sometimes are no rules. The new ones don’t know of our rules yet. They can be difficult to control if you follow only the rules you know. Sometimes the collar is not enough. You must use whatever the Creator has given you. You must be able to do whatever it takes to control the will of these untrained wizards. That is the true, and final test to be a Sister. Novices have failed in this final test, and been put out of the palace.”

Pasha’s eyes were wide. “I have never heard such things.”

She shrugged. “Then I have been of aid to you. I am pleased the Creator has chosen me to help. Perhaps others have not wanted so strongly for you to succeed, and have held back. Perhaps you would do well to bring to me your questions about any new one you are assigned.”

“Oh, yes. Thank you for your help, Sister. I must admit it worries me to learn that new ones can be difficult. I guess I always imagined they would be eager to learn, and that it would be a joy to show them and to help teach them.”

“They are all different. Some are as easy as a babe in a crib. Let us hope you are given one like that. Some will test your wits. Why, I have even seen old records that tell of ones that have triggered the gift before we could get to them, before we could get a Rada’Han on them and help them.”

“No . . . That must be frightening for them—to have the power awakened without guidance from us.”

“Indeed. And fear can make them troublesome, as I have said. I have even seen an old report of one who refused the collar on the first offer.”

Pasha’s fingers covered her mouth as she gasped. She took them away. “But . . . that means . . . one of the Sisters . . .”

She nodded solemnly. “It is a price we are all prepared to pay. We bear a heavy responsibility.”

“But why wouldn’t the parents make him accept the offer?”

She leaned closer, lowering her voice. “In the report I saw, the one with the gift was grown. A man.”

Pasha stared in wide-eyed disbelief. “A man . . . ?” she whispered. “If a boy can be difficult to control . . . what of a grown man?”

She gave the novice an even look. “We are here to serve in the Creator’s work. You can never tell what the Creator has in His plan, why you are given what you have. A novice in charge of a new one must use whatever the Creator has given her. The collar is not always enough. You can never tell what you might need to do. The rules don’t always work.

“Do you still want to be a Sister of the Light? Even knowing you may be given a new one who could be more difficult than any other novice has ever been given?”

“Oh, yes! Yes, Sister! If the new one is difficult, I know it is a test from the Creator himself, to see if I am truly worthy. I will not fail. I will do whatever must be done. I will use everything I have learned, everything the Creator has given me. I will be on guard that he may be from a strange land, or have strange customs, and be afraid, or troublesome, or difficult. And that I may have to make my own rules to succeed.” She hesitated. “And if you are so kind as to mean what you said about helping me, then I know I will have your wisdom backing me, and I will not fail.”

She nodded with a smile. “I have given my word. It holds, no matter the difficulty.” She frowned in thought. “Perhaps, it could be that you are graced with your looks so a new one might see the beauty of the Creator through you, through his work. Perhaps, this is how you are to show a new one the way.”

“It would be an honor, in any way, to show a new one the light of the Creator’s hand.”

“You are right in that, my dear.” She straightened, clasping her hands. “Now. I want you to go to the mistress of the novices, and tell her that you have too much free time, and that starting tomorrow, you need to be assigned some chores. Tell her you have been spending too much of your time looking out windows.”

Pasha bowed her head and curtsied again. “Yes, Sister,” she said meekly.

She smiled when the novice looked up. “I too, have heard that three of the Sisters are searching for one with the gift. I think it will be a while before they return with him, if at all, but when they return, and if they bring him, I will remind the Prelate that you are next in line, and are ready for the task.”

“Oh, thank you, Sister! Thank you!”

“You are a fine young woman, Pasha. The Creator has truly shown the beauty of his work in you.”

“Thank you, Sister,” she said without blushing.

“Thank the Creator.”

“I will, Sister. Sister? Before the new one is brought in, could you teach me more about what the Creator has intended for me? Help me to understand?”

“If you wish.”

“Oh, I do. I really do.”

She patted Pasha’s cheek. “Of course, my dear. Of course.” She stood up straight. “Now, off to the mistress of the novices with you. I won’t have soon-to-be-Sisters with nothing better to do than stare out windows.”

“Yes, Sister.” Pasha curtsied with a smile and rushed off down the hall. She stopped and turned. “Sister . . . I am afraid I don’t know your name.”

“Go!”

Pasha flinched. “Yes, Sister.”

She watched the swell of Pasha’s hips sway as she walked quickly off down the hall, kicking the rolled edges of carpets back down as she went. The girl had exquisite ankles.

Grown into a man.

She collected her thoughts and started off again, down the halls and stairs. As she descended, the wooden stairs changed to stone. The heat lessened, although not the stuffiness, or the smell of the tide flats. The warm glow of lamps was replaced by the flickering shadows of widely spaced torches. The cowering palace staff diminished in number until she saw no one. She continued down to the lowest floors, below dusty storerooms, down below the servants’ quarters and workshops. The torches became more widely spaced until there were no more. She ignited a ball of flame in her palm, and held it up to see by as she continued on.

When she reached the proper door, she sent the flame into a cold torch set in a bracket next to the doorway. The stonewalled room was small, an abandoned cellar of some sort, empty except for moldy straw on the floor, a lit torch, and the two wizards. The smell was unpleasant: burning pitch and damp mold.

At her entrance, the two stood, swaying slightly. Both wore the plain robes befitting their high rank. Each had a stupid half grin on his face. They weren’t cocky, she realized; they had been drinking. Probably celebrating their last night in the Palace of the Prophets. Their last night with the Sisters of the Light. Their last night wearing the Rada’Han.

The two men had been friends since they had been brought to the palace as boys, almost at the same time. Sam Weber was a plain man of average height, with curly, light brown hair and a clean-shaven jaw that seemed too big for the rest of his soft face. Neville Ranson was slightly taller, with straight black hair cut short and smoothed neatly down. He wore a short, well-kept beard that was just beginning to show flecks of gray. His eyes were almost as dark as his hair. His features seemed all the more sharply formed, standing next to his soft friend.

She had always thought he had grown into a handsome man. She had known him since he had come to the palace as a small boy. She had been a novice then, and he had been the one assigned to her, put in her care; her final test before becoming a Sister of the Light. That had been a long time ago.

Wizard Ranson swept his arm across his middle and gave a dramatic, although wobbly, bow. He came back up with a widening grin. His grin always made his face look boyish, despite his years and the beginnings of gray.

“A good evening to you, Sister . . .”

Hard as she could, she backhanded him across the face with her rod. She could feel his cheekbone break. He fell back to the floor with a cry.

“I have told you before,” she hissed through gritted teeth, “never to use my name when we are alone. Being drunk does not excuse the order.”

Wizard Weber stood stone still, his eyes wide, his face white, his grin gone. Ranson rolled over on the ground with his hands to his face, leaving blood on the straw.

The color came back to Weber’s face in a red rush. “How dare you do this? We have passed all the tests! We are wizards!”

She sent a cord of power into the Rada’Han. The impact threw him back against the wall, where the collar stuck to the stone like a nail to a magnet. “Passed the tests!” she screamed. “Passed the tests! You have not passed my tests!” She twisted on the pain until Weber was choking in agony. “Is this how you address a Sister! Is this the way you show respect!”

She snipped off the cord and he fell to the floor, grunting when he hit. He pushed himself up on his knees with an effort.

“Forgive me, Sister,” he said in a pained, hoarse voice. “I beg you forgive our disrespect.” His eyes rose cautiously to meet her glare. “It was only the drink speaking. Forgive us? Please?”

With her fists on her hips, she stood watching him. She pointed with the rod at the one rolling and moaning on the floor. “Heal him. I don’t have time for this nonsense. I have come to give you both your test, not to watch him whine and complain about a little slap.”

Weber bent to his friend, rolling him gently over on his back. “Neville, it’s all right. I’ll help you. Lie still.”

He took the man’s shaking hands away and replaced them with his own. He began talking and healing. She waited impatiently with her arms folded. It didn’t take long; Weber was talented at healing. Weber helped his friend sit up and, with a handful of straw, wiped the blood from the healed wound.

Ranson pushed himself to his feet. His eyes flashed anger, but he kept any speck of it out of his voice. “Forgive me, Sister. What is it you want?”

Weber came up beside him. “Please, Sister, we have done everything the Sisters have asked. We are finished.”

“Finished? Finished? I don’t think so. Have you forgotten our talks? Have you forgotten what I told you? Did you think I would forget? Simply let the two of you dance out of here? Free as birds? No man walks out of here without seeing me or one of mine. There is the matter of an oath.”

The two glanced at each other, retreating a half step.

“If you will just let us go,” Weber offered, “we will give you our oath.”

She watched them a moment, her voice coming quietly at last. “My oath? It is not an oath to me, boys. It is an oath to the Keeper. You know that.” They both paled a little. “And the oath comes only after one of you has passed the test. Only one of you has to give the oath.”

“One of us?” Ranson asked. He swallowed. “Only one of us has to give the oath, Sister? Why only one of us?”

“Because,” she whispered, “the other will have no need to give an oath. He is going to die.”

They both gasped and moved closer together.

“What is this test?” Weber asked.

“Take off your robes, and we will begin.”

They glanced at each other. Ranson lifted his hand a little. “Our robes, Sister? Now? Here?”

She looked to each. “Don’t be bashful, boys. I have seen you both swim naked in the lake since you were only this big.” She held her hand out just below her waist.

“But that was when we were boys,” Weber complained. “Not since we have grown into men.”

She glowered at them. “Don’t make me have to tell you again. The next time, I will burn them off you.”

They both flinched and began pulling their robes over their heads. She made a deliberate point of looking each up and down, just to show them her displeasure with their argument. Each man’s face turned red in the torchlight.

With a flick of her wrist, she brought her knife to her hand. “Up against the wall. Both of you.”

When they didn’t move quickly enough, she used the collars to slam them against the wall. With a thin stream of power to each Rada’Han, she immobilized them against the stone. They were flattened against the wall and helpless to lift a finger.

“Please, Sister,” Ranson whispered, “don’t kill us. We’ll do anything. Anything.”

Her cold gaze settled on his dark eyes. “Yes, you will. One of you anyway. But we haven’t gotten to the oath yet. Now still your tongue or I will do it for you.”

As the two were held helpless, she moved to Weber first. Putting the knife tip against his upper chest, she drew it slowly down, carefully cutting through the skin and no more. Sweat poured from Weber’s face as he gritted his teeth. His jowls shook. After she had made a cut, about a forearm long, she went back to where she had begun and made another next to it, so the two cuts were about a finger’s width apart. Small, high-pitched sounds escaped from the man’s throat as she drew the knife along. The ends of the lines drew together to a point. Small trickles of blood ran down his chest. She worked the knifepoint under the top, between the cuts, separating the skin from him until there was a generous flap of it hanging down.

She moved over to Ranson and made the same twin cuts, with a flap of skin hanging away at the top. Tears ran down his face with the sweat, but he said nothing. He knew better. When finished, she straightened and inspected her work. They looked the same. Good. She tucked the knife back up her sleeve.

“One of you two is going to have the Rada’Han taken off tomorrow, and be free to go. As far as the Sisters of the Light are concerned, anyway. Not as far as I, or more importantly, the Keeper, are concerned. It will be the beginning of your service to him. If you serve well, you will be rewarded when he is free of the veil. If you fail in your tasks . . . well, you wouldn’t want to know what would happen to you if you should fail him.”

“Sister,” Ranson asked in a shaky voice, “why only one of us? We could both give the oath. We could both serve.”

Weber’s sudden glare shifted to his friend. He didn’t like being spoken for. He always had been obstinate.

“The oath is a blood oath. One of you will have to pass my test to earn the privilege of taking it. The other is going to lose the gift tonight, lose his magic. Do you know how a wizard loses the gift?”

They both shook their heads.

“When they are skinned, the magic bleeds from them.” She said it as if she were discussing peeling a pear. “Bleeds away until it’s all gone.”

Weber stared at her, his face gone white. Ranson closed his dark eyes and shook.

At the same time, she wrapped the flap of skin on each man around her first fingers. “I’m going to ask for a volunteer. This is just a little demonstration of what is in store for the one who volunteers. I don’t want either of you to think dying is going to be the easy way out.” She gave them a warm smile. “You have my permission to scream, boys. I believe this is going to hurt.”

She yanked the strips of skin off their chests. She waited patiently for the screams to stop, and even a little while longer while they sobbed. It was always good to let a lesson sink in.

“Please, Sister, we serve the Creator, as the Sisters have taught us,” Weber cried. “We serve the Creator, not the Keeper.”

She regarded him coolly. “Since you are so loyal to the Creator, Sam, I will give you first choice. Do you want to be the one to live, or to die tonight?”

“Why him?” Ranson demanded. “Why does he get to choose first?”

“Keep your tongue still, Neville. You will speak when spoken to.” She slid her gaze back to Weber. She lifted his chin with a finger. “Well, Sam? Who dies, you or your best friend?” She folded her arms across her breasts.

He looked up at her with hollow eyes. His skin was ashen. He didn’t look over at his friend. His voice came in a flat whisper.

“Me. Kill me. Let Neville live. I won’t give an oath to the Keeper. I would rather die.”

She looked back into his empty eyes a moment and then turned to Ranson. “And what have you to say, Neville? Who lives? Who dies? You, or your best friend in the world. Who gives the Keeper their oath?”

He glanced to Weber, who didn’t look back. He licked his lips. His dark eyes came back to her.

“You heard him. He chooses to die. If he wants to die, let him. I choose to live. I will give the Keeper my oath.”

“Your soul.”

He nodded slowly, his eyes flashing fierce determination. “My soul.”

“Well then”—she smiled—“it seems you two friends have come to an agreement. Everyone is happy. So be it. I am pleased, Neville, that it is to be you with us. You have made me proud.”

“Do I have to be here?” Ranson asked. “Do I have to see it?”

“See it?” She raised an eyebrow. “You have to do it.”

He swallowed, but the hard look stayed in his eyes. She had always known it would be him. Oh, not that there hadn’t been doubts, but she had known. She had taught him well. She had spent a great deal of time on him, bending him to her way.

“May I be granted one request?” Weber whispered. “May I have the collar off before I die?”

“So that you may make Wizard’s Life Fire and take your own life before we have a chance to take it from you? Do you think I am stupid? A stupid, soft woman?” She shook her head. “Denied.”

She released both Rada’Han from the wall. Weber sank to his knees, his head hanging. He was alone in the room, and knew it.

Ranson stood and straightened his shoulders. He pointed at the bloody wound down his chest. “What about this?”

She turned her gaze to Weber. “Sam. Stand up.” Weber stood, his eyes staying to the ground. “Your good friend has an injury. Heal him.”

Without a word, Weber finally turned and put his hands on Ranson’s chest, and began healing. Ranson stood tall, waiting for the pain to be taken away. She walked to the door and leaned her back against it, watching Weber do his work. His last work.

When he finished, he didn’t look at either her or Ranson, but went to the far wall and slid his back down it until he sat on the floor. He buried his head between his knees and folded his arms around them.

The healed but still naked wizard strode up to her and stopped, waiting. “What is it I am to do?”

She flicked her wrist, bringing the knife to her hand once more. She gave it a quick, sharp toss in the air, catching it by the blade. She held the handle out to him.

“You are to skin him. Alive.”

She pushed the handle against him until his hand came up and took it.

Ranson’s eyes left her steady gaze. He stared at the knife in his hand. “Alive,” he repeated.

She reached into a pocket and pulled out the small item she had brought: a pewter figure of a man on one knee, holding a crystal over his head. His tiny bearded face was turned up to it in wonder. The crystal was slightly elongated, coming to faceted points. Inclusions floated frozen inside, like a sky of constellations. She wiped the dust off it with the corner of her light cloak and held the small statue out to Ranson.

“This is magic, and a receptacle of magic. The crystal is called quillion. It will absorb the magic as it bleeds from your friend, after he is skinned. When, and only when, all his magic has bled into the quillion, it will give off an orange glow. You will bring the crystal to me to prove you have done the job.”

Ranson swallowed. “Yes, Sister.”

“Before I leave tonight, you will give the oath.” She pushed the figure with the crystal toward him until he took it. “This will be your first task after giving the oath. Fail it, or fail any of the tasks to follow, and you will wish you could trade places with your friend. You will wish it for all eternity.”

He stood gripping the knife in one hand and the small figure in the other. “Yes, Sister.” He stole a quick glance over his shoulder at the man crouched on the floor against the wall. He lowered his voice. “Sister, could you . . . could you still his tongue. I don’t know if I could bear him talking while I do it.”

She raised an eyebrow. “You have a knife, Neville. If his words bother you, cut out his tongue.”

He swallowed and closed his eyes for a moment. They came open. “What if he dies before the magic is all bled away?”

“With the quillion present, he will live as long as there is any significant trace of it in him. After it’s all in the crystal, it will begin to glow. In that way you will know it is finished. After that, I don’t care what you do with him. If you want, you may finish him quickly.”

“What if he tries to prevent what I do?” He leaned a little closer. “With his magic.”

She smiled indulgently. “That I will still, with his collar. He will not be able to stop you. After he’s dead, there will be no life force to hold the Rada’Han on him. It will open. Bring it with you and give it to me when you bring the crystal.”

“And what about the body?”

She gave him a hard look. “You know how to wield the Subtractive. I have spent a good deal of time teaching you, as have others.” She darted a glance at Weber. “Use it. Get rid of the body with Subtractive Magic. Every last scrap of it. Every last drop of blood.”

Ranson straightened a little and nodded. “All right.”

“After you have finished here, and before you come to me at dawn, there is one more task you will perform this night.”

Ranson took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. “Another task? Must I do another task this night?”

She smiled and patted his cheek. “This second task you will enjoy. It’s a reward for doing a good job with the first. Serving the Keeper well has its rewards, as you will find out. Failing him has its punishments, as I hope you never discover.”

He looked suspicious. “And what is this second task?”

“You know a novice named Pasha?”

He let out a grunt. “There isn’t a man in the palace who doesn’t know who Pasha Maes is.”

“And how well do these men ‘know’ her?”

Ranson shrugged. “She likes to give a kiss and a cuddle in a corner.”

“Any more than a ‘kiss and a cuddle’?”

“I know a few men who have had their hand up her skirt. I’ve heard them talk about what fine legs she has, how they would give up the gift just to have those legs around them. But I don’t think any have. Some of the men watch out for her, as if she were a defenseless kitten. One in particular, young Warren, keeps a watchful eye on her.”

“Warren is one of the men she likes to kiss and cuddle?”

“I don’t think she would know him if he was standing in front of her.” He chuckled softly. “If he could even work up enough courage to take his nose out of the archives and look her in the face.” He frowned. “So what is the task?”

“When you are finished here, I want you to go to her room. Tell her how you are to be released tomorrow, and that when you passed all your tests, the Creator came to you in a vision. Tell her that the Creator told you in this vision that you were to go to her and teach her how to use the glorious gift of her figure that He had given her, how she was meant to use this gift to please men, so that when the special task He has for her is revealed, she will be prepared.

“Tell her the Creator said it was to help her deal with her new one, as he would be the most difficult any novice has ever been given. Tell her the Creator revealed to you that He made this night hot, so she would sweat between her breasts, over her heart, to awaken her to His wishes.” She gave him a smooth smile. “Then, I want you to teach her how to please a man.”

He stared incredulously at her. “What makes you think she will believe any of this, or go along?”

Her smile widened. “You tell her what I told you to tell her, Neville, and you will have a great deal more than your hand up her skirt. She will probably have her legs around you before you finish talking.”

He nodded dumbly. “All right.”

She glanced deliberately down at him. “I’m glad to see that you are . . . up to the task.” She looked back to his eyes. “Teach her everything you can think of to please a man. At least everything you can teach her by dawn. Teach her well. I want her to know how to make a man happy, and keep him coming back for more.”

He smiled. “Yes, Sister.”

She put the tip of the rod under his chin, lifting it a little. “You be gentle with her, Neville. I don’t want you to hurt her in any way. I want this to be a very pleasant experience for her. I want her to enjoy it.” She looked down at him again. “Well, do the best you can with what you have.”

“I’ve never had any complaints,” he snapped.

“Idiot. Women don’t complain about that to men’s faces; they complain to the backs of their heads. Don’t you dare jump on her, please yourself, then fall asleep. You have until dawn. I don’t want you sleeping tonight. You make sure this is an experience she remembers fondly. You teach her well. Everything you know.”

She pushed up with the rod a little more. “This may be a pleasant task, but it is a task for the Keeper just the same. Fail in this, as in any other, and your service will end abruptly. But your pain will go on and on. Keep alert when you are with her. In the morning, I expect a detailed report of everything you have taught her. You will report every bit of it. I need to know what she knows so I may guide her.”

“Yes, Sister.”

She glanced past him to the man against the wall. “The sooner you finish here, the sooner you can be with Pasha, and the more time you will have to teach her.”

He nodded with a grin. “Yes, Sister.”

She took the rod away and he let out a breath. With a gesture, she made his robe float to her hand. She shoved it at him.

“Put this on. You’re embarrassing yourself.” She watched as he began gathering the material and pulling it over his head. “Tomorrow the real work, the real task, begins.”

His head poked through the robe, his arms following one at a time. “What work? What task?”

“After you are released, you must be off at once, in the service of your homeland. You do remember your homeland, don’t you? You are going to go to Aydindril, as an advisor to High Prince Fyren. You have things to do there. Important things.”

“Like what?”

“We will talk about it in the morning. But now, before you can do the first task, and the second, and the rest of it, you have an oath to give. Is this of your free will, Neville?”

She watched his eyes. They darted briefly to his friend huddled against the wall. Then he turned to glance at the knife and the quillion. She saw his dark eyes go out of focus, and she knew he was thinking about Pasha. He answered her in a whisper.

“Yes, Sister.”

She nodded. “Very good, Neville. Kneel. The time of the oath is upon you.”

As he went to his knees, she lifted her hand. The flame of the torch puffed out, plunging the room into total blackness.

“The oath to the Keeper,” she whispered, “is given in the darkness that is his homeland.”