Stone of Tears

Chapter 5

As Sister Margaret turned the corner at the top of the stone steps, an old maidservant carrying a mop and bucket saw her and fell to her knees. The Sister paused momentarily to touch the top of the old woman’s bowed head.

“The Creator’s blessing on His child.”

The woman looked up, her face wrinkling into a warm, toothless smile. “Thanks be to you, Sister, and blessings to you in His work.”

Margaret smiled back and watched as the old woman lugged her heavy bucket on down the hall. Poor woman, she thought, having to work in the middle of the night. But then, here she was herself, up and about in the middle of the night.

The shoulder of her dress pulled uncomfortably. She looked down and saw that in her haste she had misaligned the top three buttons. She redid them before pushing open the heavy oak door out into the darkness.

A pacing guard saw her and came at a run. She held the book over her mouth to hide her yawn. He lurched to a halt.

“Sister! Where’s the Prelate? He’s been yelling for her. Runs shivers up my spine, it does. Where is she?”

Sister Margaret scowled at the guard until he remembered his manners and dropped a quick bow. When he came back up she started off down the rampart with the man at her heels.

“The Prelate does not come simply because the Prophet roars.”

“But he called out for her specifically.”

She stopped and clasped her hand over the one holding the book. “And would you like to be the one to bang on the Prelate’s bedchamber door in the middle of the night and wake her, simply because the Prophet shouts for it?”

His face paled in the moonlight. “No, Sister.”

“It is enough that a Sister must be dragged out of bed for his nonsense.”

“But you don’t know what he’s been saying, Sister. He’s been yelling that . . .”

“Enough,” she cautioned in a low tone. “Need I remind you that if a word he says ever touches your tongue, you will lose your head?”

His hand went to his throat. “No, Sister. I would never speak a word of it. Except to a Sister.”

“Not even to a Sister. It must never touch your tongue.”

“Forgive me, Sister.” His tone turned apologetic. “It’s just that I’ve never heard him cry out so before. I’ve never heard his voice except to call for a Sister. The things he said alarmed me. I have never heard him speak such things.”

“He has contrived to get his voice through our shields. It has happened before. He manages it sometimes. That is why his guards are sworn on an oath never to repeat anything they should happen to hear. Whatever you heard, you had best forget it before this conversation is over, unless you want us to help you forget.”

He shook his head, too terrified to speak. She didn’t like frightening the man, but they couldn’t have him wagging his tongue over a mug of ale with his fellows. Prophecies were not for the common mind to know. She laid a gentle hand on his shoulder.

“What is your name?”

“I am Swordsman Kevin Andellmere, Sister.”

“If you will give me your word, Swordsman Andellmere, that you can hold your tongue about whatever you heard, to your grave, I will see about having you reassigned. You are obviously not cut out for this duty.”

He dropped to a knee. “Praise be to you, Sister. I’d rather face a hundred heathens from the wilds than have to hear the voice of the Prophet. You have my oath, on my life.”

“So be it, then. Go back to your post. At the end of your duty, tell the captain of the guards that Sister Margaret ordered you reassigned.” She touched his head. “The Creator’s blessing on His child.”

“Thank you for your kindness, Sister.”

She walked on, across the rampart, to the small colonnade at the end, down the winding stairs, and into the torchlit hall before the door to the Prophet’s apartments. Two guards with spears flanked the door. They bowed together.

“I hear the Prophet has been speaking out, through the shield.”

Cold, dark eyes looked back at her. “Really? I haven’t heard a thing.” He spoke to the other guard while holding the Sister’s gaze. “You hear anything?”

The other guard leaned his weight on his spear and turned his head as he spat. He wiped his chin with the back of his hand. “Not a thing. Been quiet as a grave.”

“That boy upstairs been waggin’ his tongue?” the first asked.

“It has been a long time since the Prophet found a way to get anything other than a call for a Sister through our shields. He has never heard the Prophet speak before, that’s all.”

“You want we should make it so’s he don’t hear nothin’ again? Or speak it?”

“That won’t be necessary. I have his oath, and have ordered him reassigned.”

“Oath.” The man made a sour face at the word. “An oath is nothin’ more than babbled words. A blade’s oath is truer.”

“Really? Am I to assume that your oath of silence is nothing more than ‘babbled words,’ too? Should we see to your silence, then, in a ‘truer’ way?” Sister Margaret held his dark gaze until it at last broke with a downward glance.

“No, Sister. My oath is true enough.”

She nodded. “Has anyone else been about to hear him yelling?”

“No, Sister. As soon as he started in calling for the Prelate, we checked the area, to be sure there were none of the staff, or anyone else, about. When we found everything was clear, I posted guards at all the far entrances and sent for a Sister. He’s never called for the Prelate before, only a Sister. I thought it should be up to a Sister, not me, to decide if the Prelate was to be awakened in the middle of the night.”

“Good thinking.”

“Now that you’re here, Sister, we should be off to check the others.” His expression darkened again. “To make sure no one heard anything.”

She nodded. “And you had better hope Swordsman Andellmere is careful and doesn’t fall off a wall and break his neck, or I will come looking for you.” He gave an annoyed grunt. “But if you hear him repeat so much as a single word of what he heard tonight, you find a Sister before you stop to take another breath.”

Through the door and halfway down the inner hall, she stopped and felt the shields. She held the book to her breast in both arms as she concentrated, searching for the breach. She smiled when she found it: a tiny twist in the weave. He had probably been picking at it for years. She closed her eyes and wove the breach together, binding it with a barb of power that would thwart him if he tried the same thing again. She was ruefully impressed by his ingenuity, and his persistence. Well, she sighed to herself, what else had he to do?

Inside his spacious apartments the lamps were lit. Tapestries hung on one of the walls, and the floors were generously covered with the local colorful, blue and yellow carpets. The bookshelves were half empty. Books that belonged on them lay open everywhere; some on the chairs and couches, some facedown on pillows on the floor, and some stacked in disheveled piles next to his favorite chair beside the cold hearth.

Sister Margaret went to the elegant, polished rosewood writing table to the side of the room. She sat at the padded chair and, opening the book on the desktop, flipped through it until she came to a clean page at the end of the writing. She didn’t see the Prophet anywhere. He was probably in the garden. The double doors to the small garden were open, letting in a gentle breath of warm air. From a drawer in the desk she took an ink bottle, pen, and a small sprinkle box of fine sand, setting them beside the open book of prophecies.

When she looked up, he was standing in the half light in the doorway to the garden, watching her. He was in black robes with the hood drawn up. He stood motionless, his hands in the sleeves of the opposite arms. He filled the doorway not just with his size, but with his presence.

She wiggled the stopper from the ink bottle. “Good evening, Nathan.”

He took three strong, slow strides out of the shadows and into the lamplight, pushing back the black hood to uncover his full head of long, straight, white hair that touched his broad shoulders. The top of the metal collar just barely showed at the neck of his robes. The muscles in his strong, clean-shaven jaw tightened. White eyebrows hooded his deep, dark, azure eyes. He was a ruggedly handsome man, despite being the oldest man she had ever known.

And, he was quite mad. Or he was quite clever, and wanted everyone to think he was mad. She wasn’t sure which was true. No one was.

Either way, he was probably the most dangerous man alive.

“Where is the Prelate?” he asked in a deep, menacing voice.

She picked up the pen. “It is the middle of the night, Nathan. We are not going to wake the Prelate simply because you throw a fit, demanding she come. Any Sister can write down a prophecy. Why don’t you sit down and we can begin.”

He came to the desk, opposite her, towering over her. “Don’t test me, Sister Margaret. This is important.”

She glowered up at him. “And don’t you test me, Nathan. Need I remind you that you will lose? Now that you have gotten me out of my bed in the middle of the night, let’s get this over so I may return to it and try to salvage a part of a night’s sleep.”

“I asked for the Prelate. This is important.”

“Nathan, we have yet to decipher prophecies you gave us years ago. It could not possibly make any difference if you give this one to me and she reads it in the morning, or next week, or next year for that matter.”

“I have no prophecy to give.”

Her anger rose. “You have called me from my bed for company?”

A broad smile spread on his lips. “Would you object? It’s a beautiful night. You are a handsome enough woman, if a little tightly wound.” He cocked his head to the side. “No? Well, since you have come, and must have a prophecy, would you like me to tell you of your death?”

“The Creator will take me when He chooses. I will leave it to Him.”

He nodded, staring off over her head. “Sister Margaret, would you have a woman sent to visit me? I find I am lonely of late.”

“It is not the task of the Sisters to procure harlots for you.”

“But they have seen to a courtesan for me in the past, when I have given prophecies.”

With deliberate care, she set the pen on the desk. “And the last one left before we could talk to her. She ran back half naked and half mad. How she got through the guards, we still don’t know.

“You promised not to speak prophecies to her. You promised, Nathan. Before we could find her she had repeated what you had told her. It spread like a wild fire. It started a civil war. Nearly six thousand people died because of what you told that young woman.”

His worried, white eyebrows went up. “Really? I never knew.”

She took a deep breath and spoke in a soft voice to control her anger. “Nathan, I myself have told you this three times now.”

He looked down with sad eyes. “I’m sorry, Margaret.”

“Sister Margaret.”

“Sister? You? You are far too young and attractive to be a Sister. Surely you are but a novice.”

She stood. “Good night, Nathan.” She closed the cover on the book and started to pick it up.

“Sit down, Sister Margaret,” came his voice, again full of power and menace.

“You have nothing to tell me. I am returning to my bed.”

“I did not say I had nothing to tell you. I said I had no prophecy to give.”

“If you have had no vision and have no prophecy, what could you possibly have to tell me?”

He withdrew his hands from his sleeves and placed his knuckles on the desk, leaning close to her face. “Sit down, or I won’t tell you.”

Margaret contemplated using her power, but decided that it was easier, and quicker, to simply make him happy and sit down. “All right, I’m sitting. What is it?”

He leaned over even more, his eyes going wide. “There has been a fork in the prophecies,” he whispered.

She felt herself rising out of the chair. “When?”

“Just today. This very day.”

“Then why have you called me in the middle of the night?”

“I called out as soon as it came to me.”

“And why have you not waited until the morning to tell us this? There have been forks before.”

He slowly shook his head as he smiled. “Not like this one.”

She didn’t relish telling the others. No one was going to be happy about this. No one but Warren, that is. He would be in a state of glee to have a piece to fit into the puzzle of the prophecies. The others, though, would not be pleased. This meant years of work.

Some prophecies were “if” and “then” prophecies, bifurcating into several possibilities. There were prophecies that followed each branch, prophecies to foretell events of each fork, since not even the prophecies always knew which events would come to pass.

Once one of these kind of prophecies came to pass and resolved which fork was to be true, and one of the alternatives took place, a prophecy had forked, as it was called. All the prophecies that followed down the path that had been voided now became false prophecies. These themselves multiplied, like the branches of a tree, clogging the sacred prophecies with confusing, contradicting, and false information. Once a fork had occurred, the prophecies they now knew to be false had to be followed as far as could be traced, and pulled out.

It was a formidable task. The further the event in question was from the fork, the more difficult it was to know if it was of the false fork, or of the true. Worse, it was difficult to tell if two prophecies, one following another, belonged together or if they were to happen a thousand years apart. Sometimes the events themselves helped them to decipher where it was to be placed chronologically, but only sometimes. The further in time from the fork, the more difficult was the task of relating them.

The effort would take years, and even then, they could be sure only of accomplishing part of it. To this day, they could not know with confidence if they were reading a true prophecy, or the descendant of a false fork in the past. For this reason, some considered the prophecies unreliable at best, useless at worst. But if they now knew of a fork, and more importantly, knew the true and the false branches, they would have a valuable guide.

She sank back into the chair. “How important is the prophecy that forked?”

“It is a core prophecy. There could be none more important.”

Decades. It wouldn’t take years, it would take decades. A core prophecy touched almost everything. Her insides fluttered. This was like going blind. Until the tainted fruit of the false fork could be culled, they couldn’t trust anything.

She looked up into his eyes. “You do know which it was that forked?”

He smiled proudly. “I know the false fork, and the true. I know what has come to pass.”

Well, at least there was that. She felt a ripple of excitement. If Nathan could tell her which fork was true, and which was false, and the nature of each branch, it would be valuable information indeed. Since the prophecies were not in chronological order, there was no way to simply follow a branch, but this would be a very good start: they would know right where to begin. Better yet, they had learned of it as it happened, and not years later.

“You have done well, Nathan.” He grinned like a child who had pleased his mother. “Bring a chair close, and tell me of the fork.”

Nathan seemed drawn up in the excitement as he pulled a chair to the side of the desk. He flounced down in it, squirming like a puppy with a stick. She hoped she wouldn’t have to hurt him to get this stick out of his mouth.

“Nathan, can you tell me the prophecy that has forked?”

His eyes twinkled with mischief. “Are you sure you want to know, Sister Margaret? Prophecies are dangerous. The last time I told one to a pretty lady, thousands died. You said so yourself.”

“Nathan, please. It’s late. This is very important.”

The mirth left his face. “I don’t remember the words, exactly.”

She doubted the truth of that; when it came to prophecies, Nathan’s mind saw the words as if they were written on a stone tablet. She put a reassuring hand on his arm. “That is to be understood. I know it is difficult to remember every word. Tell it as best you can.”

“Well, let’s see.” He looked at the ceiling as he stroked his chin with his thumb and fingertips. “It is the one that says something about the one from D’Hara who would shadow the world by counting shadows.”

“That’s very good, Nathan. Can you remember more?” She knew he probably remembered it word for word, but he liked to be coaxed. “It would be a tremendous help to me.”

He eyed her a moment and then nodded. “By winter’s breath, the counted shadows shall bloom. If the heir to D’Hara’s vengeance counts the shadows true, his umbra will darken the world. If he counts false, then his life is forfeit.”

“A forked prophecy indeed. This had been the first full day of winter’s season.” She didn’t know what the prophecy meant, but she knew of it. This one was the matter of much study and debate down in the vaults, and worry over which year this prophecy might come to pass. “And which fork has the prophecy taken?”

His face turned grim. “The worst one.”

Her fingers fumbled with a button. “We are to fall under the shadow of this one from D’Hara?”

“You should study the prophecies closer, Sister. The following prophecy goes on to say: Should the forces of forfeit be loosed, the world will be shadowed yet by darker lust through what has been rent. Salvation’s hope, then, will be as slim as the white blade of the one born True.” He leaned closer and whispered, “The only one of darker lust, Sister Margaret, would be the Lord of Anarchy.”

She whispered a prayer. “May the Creator shelter us in his light.”

His smile was mocking. “The prophecy says nothing about the Creator coming to our aid, Sister. If it is protection you seek, you had better follow the true fork. It is in that way He has offered you a glimmer of hope for defense from what will be.”

She smoothed the folds of her dress on her lap. “Nathan, I don’t know what this prophecy means. We can’t follow the true and false forks if we don’t know what it means. You said you know those forks. Can you tell me? Can you tell me a prophecy on each fork, one that leads each way, so we may follow their path?”

“Vengeance under the Master will extinguish every adversary. Terror, hopelessness, and despair will reign free.” He peered at her intently with one eye. “This one leads down the false fork.”

She wondered how it was possible for the true prophecy to be worse. “And one of the true fork?”

“A close prophecy after the true fork says: Of all there were, but a single one born of the magic to bring forth truth will remain alive when the shadow’s threat is lifted. Therefore comes the greater darkness of the dead. For there to be a chance at life’s bond, this one in white must be offered to her people, to bring their joy and good cheer.”

Margaret pondered these two prophecies. She didn’t recall either. The first seemed simple enough to understand. They could follow the false branch, for a ways, anyway, from this one. The second was more oblique, but seemed as if it could be deciphered with a little study. She recognized it as a prophecy about a Confessor. The reference to “one in white” meant the Mother Confessor.

“Thank you, Nathan. This will make the false fork easier to follow. The other, the true fork, will be a little harder, but with this prophecy to lead the way, we should be able to reason it out. We will just have to look for prophecies leading away from this event. Somehow she is to bring happiness to her people.” That brought a small smile to her lips. “It sounds as if maybe she is to be wed, or something of that nature.”

The Prophet blinked at her, then threw his head back and howled. He rose to his feet, roaring in laughter until he coughed and choked. He turned back to her, his face red.

“You pompous fools! The way you Sisters strut around as if what you do is meaningful, as if you even knew what you were doing! You remind me of a yard of chickens, cackling to one another as if they thought they understood higher mathematics! I cast the grain of prophecy at your feet, and you cluck and scratch at the dirt, and then peck at gravel!”

For the first time since she became a Sister, she felt small and ignorant. “Nathan, that will be quite enough.”

“Idiots,” he hissed.

He lurched toward her so quickly it frightened her. Before she knew it, she had released a bolt of power. It dropped him to his knees. He clutched at his chest as he gasped. Margaret recalled her power almost instantly, sorry she had reacted in this manner: out of fear.

“I apologize, Nathan. You frightened me. Are you all right?”

He grasped the chair back, drawing himself up into it as he gasped. He nodded. She sat still, ill at ease, waiting for him to recover.

A grim smile spread on his lips. “Frightened you, did I? Would you like to be really frightened? Would you like me to show you a prophecy? Not tell you the words, but show it to you? Show it to you the way it was meant to be passed on? I have never shown a Sister before. You all study them and think you can decipher their meaning from the words, but you don’t understand. That is not the true way they work.”

She leaned forward. “What do you mean that is not the way they work? They are meant to foretell, and that is what they do.”

He shook his head. “Only partly. They are passed on by ones with the gift, ones like me: prophets. They are intended to be read and understood through the gift, by ones with the gift, ones like me, not to be picked over by the likes of your power.”

As he straightened himself, pulling the aura of authority around himself again, she studied his face. She had never heard of such a thing. She wasn’t sure if he was telling the truth, or just talking out of anger. But if it was the truth . . .

“Nathan, anything you could tell me, or show me, would be a great help. We are all struggling on the side of the Creator. His cause must prevail. The forces of the Nameless One struggle always to silence us. Yes, I would like you to show me a prophecy the way it is meant to be passed on, if you can.”

He drew himself up, peering at her with burning intensity. At last he spoke softly. “Very well, Sister Margaret.” He leaned toward her, his expression so grave it nearly took her breath away.

“Look into my eyes,” he whispered. “Lose yourself in my eyes.”

His gaze drew her in, the deep, azure color spreading in her vision until it seemed she was looking up into the clear sky. She felt as if he were drawing every breath for her.

“I will tell you the prophecy of the true fork again, but this time, I will show it to you as it is meant to be.” She floated as she listened. “Of all there were, but a single one born of the magic to bring forth truth will remain alive . . .”

The words melted away, and instead, she saw the prophecy as if seeing a vision. She was pulled into it. She was no longer in the palace, but in the vision itself.

She saw a beautiful woman with long hair, dressed in a satiny white dress: the Mother Confessor. Margaret saw the other Confessors being killed by quads sent from D’Hara and she felt the blinding horror of it. She saw the woman’s best friend and sister confessor die in her arms. She felt the grief of the Mother Confessor.

Then, Margaret saw the Mother Confessor before the one from D’Hara who had sent the quads to kill the other Confessors. The handsome man in white stood before three boxes. To Margaret’s surprise, each box cast a different number of shadows. The man in white robes performed rituals, cast evil spells, underworld spells, late into the night, through the night, until the sun rose. As the day brightened, somehow Margaret knew that it was this day. She was seeing what had happened this very day.

The man in white had finished with the preparations. He stood before the boxes. Smiling, he reached out and opened the one in the center, the one that cast two shadows. Light from within the box bathed him in its brilliance at first, but then in a flash of power, the magic of the box swirled about him and snuffed out his life. He had chosen wrong; he forfeited his life to the magic he sought to claim.

She saw the Mother Confessor with a man. A man she loved. She felt her happiness. It was a joy the woman had never experienced before. Margaret’s heart swelled with the bliss the Mother Confessor felt at the side of this man. It was a vision of what was happening at this very moment.

And then Margaret’s mind swept forward in a swirl. She saw war and death sweep across the land. She saw death brought by the Keeper of the underworld, to the world of the living with a wicked lust that choked her with terror.

Again the prophecy swept her forward to a great crowd. At the center was the Mother Confessor, standing on a heavy platform. The people were excited and in a celebratory mood.

This was the joyous event that would bring the fork of the prophecy, one of the forks that must be passed correctly to save the world from the darkness snatching at it. She was caught up in the festive mood of the crowd. She felt a tingle of expectant hope, wondering if the man the Mother Confessor loved was to be the one she was to wed, and if that was the happy event the Prophecy spoke of that would bring joy to the people. Her heart ached for it to be so.

But something wasn’t right. Margaret’s warm delight cooled until her flesh prickled with icy bumps.

With a wave of worry, Margaret saw that the Mother Confessor’s hands were bound, and next to her stood a man, not the man she loved, but a man in a black hood. He held a great axe. Margaret’s worry turned to horror.

A hand forced the Mother Confessor to kneel, seized her hair and laid her face to the block. Her hair was short now, not long as it had been before, but it was the same woman. Tears seeped from the Mother Confessor’s closed eyes. Her white dress shimmered in the bright sunlight. Margaret couldn’t breathe.

The great crescent axe rose into the air. It flashed through the sunlight, thunking solidly into the block. Margaret gasped. The Mother Confessor’s head dropped into the basket. The crowd cheered.

Blood gushed and spread down the dress as the headless, lifeless corpse collapsed to the wooden floor. A pool of bright blood spread under the body, turning the white dress red. So much blood. The crowd roared with elation.

A wail of horror escaped Margaret’s throat. She thought she might vomit. Nathan caught her as she fell forward, crying and sobbing. He held her to him as a father would a frightened child.

“Ah, Nathan, is that the event that will bring joy to the people? Is this what must happen if the world of the living is to be saved?”

“It is,” he said softly. “Almost every prophecy down this true branch is a fork. If the world of the living is to be saved from the Keeper of the underworld, then every event must take the correct branch. In this prophecy, the people must rejoice at seeing the Mother Confessor die, for down the other fork lies the eternal darkness of the underworld. I don’t know why it is so.”

Margaret sobbed into his robes as his strong arms held her tight against him. “Oh dear Creator,” she cried, “take mercy on your poor child. Give her strength.”

“There is no mercy when fighting the Keeper.”

“Ah, Nathan, I have read prophecies of people dying, but it was only words. To see it as real has wounded my soul.”

He patted her back as he held her. “I know. How well I know.”

Margaret pushed herself up, wiping tears from her face. “This is the true prophecy that lies beyond the one that forked today?”

“It is.”

“And this is the way they are meant to be seen?”

“It is so. This is the way they come to me. I have shown you the way I see them. The words, too, come with the prophecy, and those are what are to be written down, so those not meant to see the prophecies will not see them as they truly are, but those who are meant to will see them when they read the words. I have never before shown anyone a prophecy.”

“Then, why have you shown me?”

His sad eyes regarded her a moment. “Margaret, we are in a battle with the Keeper. You are meant to know the danger we are in.”

“We are always in a battle with the Keeper.”

“I think, perhaps, this is different.”

“I must tell the others. I must tell them what you can show them. We must have your help to understand the prophecies.”

“No. I will show no other what I have shown you. No matter the pain they would think to inflict upon me, I will not cooperate. I will never again do this for you, or another Sister.”

“But why not?”

“You are not meant to see them. Only to read them.”

“But that can’t be . . .”

“It is meant to be; otherwise, your gift would work to unlock them. You are not meant to see them, just as you often tell me others with common minds are not meant to hear them.”

“But they could help us.”

“They would help you no more than the one I told that girl helped her, or the thousands who died. Just as you keep me a prisoner here, so others may not hear what they are not meant to hear, so I must keep all but another prophet a prisoner of their ignorance. It is the will of He who has given the gift, and all else. Had He meant you to, He would have given you the key with your gift, but He has not.”

“Nathan, there are others who would hurt you until you revealed it to them.”

“I will not reveal it to them, no matter how much they hurt me. They will kill me before I do so.” He tilted his head toward her. “And they won’t try, unless you tell them.”

She stared at him, seeing him differently than she had ever seen him before. None before had ever been as devious as he. He was the only one they had never been able to trust. All the others had told the truth about their gift and its capabilities, but they knew Nathan lied, knew he was not telling them all he was able to do. She wondered what he knew, what he was capable of.

“I will go to my grave with what you have shown me, Nathan.”

He closed his eyes and nodded. “Thank you, child.”

There were other Sisters who would have hurt him for addressing a Sister so. She was not one of them. She stood and straightened her dress.

“In the morning, I will tell those in the vaults of the prophecy that has forked, and of the ones on the false and on the true branches. They will have to decipher them as best they can, with what the Creator has given them.”

“That is the way it is meant to be.”

She returned the ink, pen, and sand shaker to the desk drawer. “Nathan, why did you want the Prelate to come? I don’t recall you ever asking for her before.”

When she looked up, he was studying her with cool detachment.

“That, too, Sister Margaret, is not for you to know. Do you wish to bring me pain, to attempt to make me tell you?”

She picked up the book of prophecy off the desk. “No, Nathan, I will not do that.”

“Then, will you deliver a message to the Prelate for me?”

She nodded, sniffling back the tears that still burned at her eyes. “What would you have me tell her?”

“Will you take this, too, to your grave, and tell no other but the Prelate?”

“If you wish it, although I don’t see why. You can trust the Sisters.”

“No. Margaret, I want you to listen to me. When it is the Keeper you battle, you must not trust anyone. I am taking a dangerous chance in trusting you, and the Prelate. Trust no one.” His bunched eyebrows gave him a frightening look. “Only those you trust can betray you.”

“All right, Nathan. What is the message?”

He peered intently at her. At last his words came in a whisper. “Tell her that the pebble is in the pond.”

Margaret blinked at him. “What does that mean?”

“You have been frightened enough, child. Don’t tempt your endurance again.”

“Sister Margaret, Nathan,” she said softly. “I am not ‘child,’ but Sister Margaret. Please treat me with the respect I am accorded.”

He smiled. “Forgive me, Sister Margaret.” Sometimes his eyes ran shivers up her spine. “One more thing, Sister Margaret.”

“What is it?”

He reached out and brushed a tear from her cheek. “I don’t really know of your death.” She sighed inwardly with relief. “But I do know something else of importance pertaining to you. Of importance in the battle with the Keeper.”

“If it will help me to bring the Creator’s light upon the world, then tell me.”

He seemed to draw himself inward, looking out at her as if from a great distance. “A time will come, soon, when you stumble upon something, and you will have need to know the answer to a question. I don’t know the question, but when you have the need to find the answer, come to me, and that, I will know. This, too, you must tell no other.”

“Thank you, Nathan.” She reached out and touched his hand. “The Creator’s blessing on His child.”

“No thank you, Sister. I do not wish anything more from the Creator.”

She stared at him in surprise. “Because we keep you locked inhere?”

His small smile returned. “There are many different kinds of prisons, Sister. As far as I am concerned, His blessings are tainted. The only thing worse than being touched by the Creator is being touched by the Keeper. And of that, I am not even resolved.”

She took her hand back. “I will still pray for you, Nathan.”

“If you care so much for me, then free me.”

“I’m sorry, I can’t do that.”

“You mean, you won’t do that.”

“Look at it how you will, but you must remain here.”

At last he turned away from her. She started for the door.

“Sister? Would you send a woman to visit me? To spend a night or two with me?”

The pain in his voice almost made her weep. “I thought you would be beyond that age.”

He slowly turned to her. “You have a lover, Sister Margaret.”

She reeled at this. How could he know? He didn’t know; he was guessing. She was young, and thought attractive by some. Of course she would be interested in men. He was only guessing. But then, none of the Sisters knew what he was able to do.

He was the only wizard they couldn’t trust to be truthful about his powers.

“You listen to gossip, Nathan?”

He smiled. “Tell me, Sister Margaret, do you have the day planned out in advance, when you will be too old for love, even if it is only for a time as fleeting as a night? Exactly how old, Sister, is it, when we lose the need for love?”

She stood silent, ashamed, for a time. “I will go myself, Nathan, into the city, and bring back a woman to visit you for a time. Even if I must pay her price myself. I can’t pledge she will be beautiful to your eyes, as I don’t know what your eyes fancy, but I can vow she will not be empty between the ears, as I think you value this more than you will admit.”

She saw a single tear fall from the corner of his eye. “Thank you, Sister Margaret.”

“But Nathan, you must promise me you will tell her no prophecy.”

He bowed his head slightly. “Of course, Sister. I swear it on my word as a wizard.”

“I mean it, Nathan. I do not wish to have a part in being responsible for people dying. Not only men died in those battles, but women, too. I could not bear having a part in it.”

His eyebrows lifted. “Not even, Sister Margaret, if one of those women would bear, had she lived, a boy child who would grow into a brutal tyrant who would go on to torture and slaughter tens of thousands upon tens of thousands of innocent people, women and children among them? Not even, Sister, if you had a chance to choke off this fork of a terrible prophecy?”

She stood stunned, frozen. At last she made herself blink. “Nathan,” she whispered, “are you saying . . .”

“Good night, Sister Margaret.” He turned and strode off to the solitude of his small garden, pulling up his black hood as he went.