She leaned closer, and whispered. "They have found him."
"You saw the book?"
She nodded slowly. "I saw it. At dinner time. 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 is 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 am 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 am sure of what it said. I am 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. As she pulled a knife from a drawer, she 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 bannister 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 girl 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 girl'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 see 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, or been able to defend against it; it was not the way she had been taught.
Sweat ran down the girl'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 is 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 am 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?"