Sister Apple devoted two lessons to a dissection of Nona’s tactics in the trial, keeping the resentful focus of the class on the origin of their distress.
“If you can’t disguise yourself as someone else, then disguising others as you is sometimes an option. Keep this fact in mind. If you’re set to trailing a target you might be tempted to fixate on one marker they can’t discard. Perhaps their height. Perhaps they’ve lost an arm. These can be reliable when the target doesn’t suspect they are being followed—but if they are suspicious then these seemingly unique markers can be the very thing they use to make you fail. You might find yourself pursuing another very tall man, another one-armed woman, offered up to take advantage of your laziness.” She concluded with the box. “The box is there to teach a lesson. Its secret is revealed when sisters take the Grey. We will need a new way to teach that lesson now. At least for enough years to outlast the convent’s memory. It’s there to teach Sisters of Discretion that whilst there is a time to be subtle, a time for stealth, deception, and the lightest touch, there is also always when the seconds are running out and we come to the sharp end of things the possible need for violent and direct action. Never be so focused on picking a lock that you forget kicking down the door is also an option.”
In Blade sword training continued but Sister Tallow took half a lesson to talk about the upcoming Ice Trial. “Sister Egg will be staying with us for four weeks to instruct you on surviving the ice. You’ll need more than range-coats and convent shoes out there. You’ll need to learn the nine basic types of snow, how to spot and traverse a crevasse, how to build shelters, cook food . . . four weeks will just scratch the surface. More novices have died on the Ice Trial than any other, so pay attention! Even if you take the ordeal of the Shield you will have Sister Rose on hand to try to fix whatever holes might get put through you. On the ice you will be alone, no matter how many novices are with you.”
Nona’s days rolled by: lessons amid the sullen regard of her classmates, nights in a dormitory full of rumbling stomachs, breaks in the cloister where her victory was replayed by Ara and the others over and over. And through it all Joeli Namsis watched her, with just the hint of a mocking smile on her lips. She didn’t have to say it. Hessa. Nona could triumph in as many convent games as she liked. The real world lay outside, and on the one occasion that world had reached into Sweet Mercy Nona’s friend had died. Yisht walked free out there. Sherzal had the shipheart. Nona’s success meant nothing.
* * *
• • •
WHEN THE SUMMONS came to present herself before Abbess Glass Nona had no idea what to expect. She took herself to the door of the abbess’s house and her knock was answered by Sister Pail who led her to Glass’s office.
The abbess sat behind her desk with a welcoming smile and eyes that took Nona’s measure. In a convent full of women honed into athletes by Blade training, and deadly with their hands, it often surprised Nona that ultimate authority rested in the palm of a motherly woman, somewhat overweight, hair streaked with grey, who wouldn’t last more than moments against the youngest hunska half-blood. But then Nona would remember how that old lady’s palm came to bear such a mass of burn scars and her question would be answered.
“Nona, have a seat.”
Nona sat and waited.
“Your performance in the Shade Trial was a triumph.”
Nona waited for the “but.”
“But I want you to think about what role awaits you in the wider world, however narrow it might be when you leave our convent. Out there you can’t always win. No one person, no matter what amount of physical skill they might have, can change the tide of a war, or deflect the uprising of a political movement. Not even the most famed of Mystic Sisters, with the power of the Path running through their veins, were single-handedly responsible for defeating nations or able to steer the populace.
“From the outside Sweet Mercy looks very small. Our job here is to teach you to deal with failure as much as it is to teach you to win. We have failed to teach you about failure. I tell you this as I fear time is running out and simply hearing the lesson may have to stand in for being shown it.”
Nona opened her mouth to explain how she had learned that lesson when she failed Hessa, but her lips couldn’t shape the words.
“You’re powerful Nona, and you’ve come into your power at an early age. The understanding that power corrupts is an idea older than the language we repeat it in. All of us in positions that afford authority over others are susceptible, be we high priests, prime instigators, even abbesses.”
“Or emperors,” Nona said.
The abbess winced. “Some truths are better left implied, dear.” She glanced at the door then continued. “The Church has power and the Inquisition is intended to keep it from corruption. The Red and the Grey are a power and among the high priest’s tasks is to ensure those who direct them are not led astray from the righteous path. Each member of the Red and the Grey is a power in themselves and it is my job to ensure they remember their strength is a gift intended for service. And of course there are the shiphearts. Each a source of vast potential . . . but do they corrupt the ones who direct that strength?”
Nona said nothing. She didn’t know the answers, saving that she was already tainted and the stain upon her had his own name.
“I tell you this, Nona, because difficult times are ahead for us all and I want you to have faith in what we’ve taught you here. What I’ve taught you. When strength is in your hands there is a temptation to lash out against what looks like injustice. But our rules are all we have to stop everyone lashing out, each to their own sense of justice. Battles are better fought within the system, even when it seems broken.” The abbess sighed. “You’re young and I’m boring you. Run along. But don’t forget what I’ve told you.”
Nona ran as instructed, but it wasn’t boredom that snapped at her heels, but a host of worries, unused to such young prey.
* * *
• • •
“READY?” THE FOUR of them stood around the well-head in the laundry room. It was now the safest route into the caves. Seven-day trips into Verity had been suspended to allow the Inquisition closer observation of the convent and its inhabitants. Brother Pelter’s watchers numbered eight now, swelled by new arrivals from the Tower of Inquiry.
“Ready.” Ara held the lantern.
“Ready.” Jula peered down the well.
“For Hessa.” Ruli nodded.
“For justice. I’m going to get Sweet Mercy its shipheart back. I’m going to kill Yisht. And Sherzal is going to bleed for her crimes.” Three impossible things, but passing the Grey Trial had seemed impossible just days ago. The abbess had cautioned Nona about failure, but she had also told her to have faith.
Nona clambered over the guard wall and began to climb down the rope. Even if escaping through the pillars unseen was no longer an option the well got them where they wanted to go much more swiftly. They’d dropped any pretence that they were respecting the abbess’s edict against the undercaves. Even Jula hadn’t blinked. It was for Hessa.
A short while later all four of them were standing wet-legged at the pool’s edge in the oubliette beneath the novice cloister.
“Saints’ teeth!” Jula covered her face. “It stinks in here!”
“A gallon of kelp juice will do that.” Ruli went to get the empty tub that Nona had failed to return and placed it beside the pool.
“Let’s go!” Jula took the lantern and led the way.
Although the distance from the novice cloister to the Ancestor’s dome couldn’t be more than a hundred yards it took nearly an hour of twisting passages and tight crawls until Jula stopped them.
“All I’ve got to go on is what you’ve told me. But if the shipheart was under the rear of the dome . . . we want to go up there. It shouldn’t be far.” She pointed up at a fissure in the tunnel’s ceiling, three yards above their heads and fringed with stalactites.
“Tough throw.” Ara frown
ed. She pulled the grapple from her back and twirled it around her hand. “Better hope there’s a good edge at the top.” She sped the twirling and with a grunt of effort released the iron hook vertically, trailing rope. A moment later the novices jumped back as it clattered down the fissure again.
Thirty throws later each of them had taken a turn and not once had the grapple caught even enough of a ledge to support its own weight.
“It’s probably smooth. Coated in flowstone.” Ruli took another throw and stepped away to let the hook fall.
“We need to go back. We can try again another seven-day,” Jula said. “Oil’s low.”
Stealing oil was another thing that had become far more difficult since the Inquisition had tightened their noose. Not only were the watchers watching but the convent’s ledgers were all under scrutiny, as if a nun might be selling off supplies to fill the pockets of her habit with silver.
“We can try a little longer.” Ara reached for the grapple. Nona shot her a thankful glance.
“Not unless you want to try to find the way back in the dark.” Jula held the lantern up. “Next time we’ll get here quicker. We know the way now.”
Nona looked up, biting her lip, glancing first at one wall, then the other. They stood too far apart to touch both let alone brace for a climb. The distance to the fissure was too high to jump, even if Darla were there and Nona stood on her shoulders.
“Let me try . . .” Nona backed against the left wall then launched herself towards the right, leaping as high as she could. When her hands hit the rock the flaw-blades sheathing her fingers sunk into the stone.
The rest of her crashed into the wall, her feet dangling not much more than a yard above the rock-strewn floor.
“Impressive,” Ara said in a distinctly unimpressed voice. “Are you stuck now?”
“I may have broken both knees,” Nona hissed. Certainly they both hurt. A lot.
“Should I help you down?” Ruli asked, not quite able to suppress a smirk.
Nona ignored her, instead hunching her body and walking her feet up the wall until all of her was bunched just beneath her hands. If her claws slipped free she would fall ten feet and her head and shoulders would hit the ground first.
Pushing with her legs, she angled up then launched herself again, backwards this time, releasing her claws. She turned as she flew towards the opposite wall and managed to dig her flaw-blades in again. This time before her body crashed into the wall she braced with her feet. She’d gained nearly a yard in elevation.
On the fifth leap, with every muscle burning, Nona caught the edge of the fissure in the tunnel roof and hung beneath it by her blades, swinging.
Jula applauded.
“Of course, now you really are stuck,” Ara observed.
Nona dangled.
She’s right, you know. Keot ran beneath her hair.
Nona scowled. Air escaped her in short breaths. She had nothing to push against. She released one set of her blades and dangled by one arm. The three novices below hurried into place to try to break her fall. Snarling Nona swung, lunged upwards, and managed to dig her blades in six inches higher. A few panted breaths then she repeated the process with the other hand. Slowly, by degrees, she climbed into the fissure. Three times she hung, sobbing with the pain, her arms growing weaker with each moment, ready to drop, but against the darkness she saw Yisht, from Hessa’s eyes, Yisht as she loomed over Hessa’s broken body, knife in hand. “I am not given to cruelty, child,” the woman had said. “But you reached into my mind, and a violation like that cannot go unanswered.” The strength came from somewhere, and Nona climbed.
Once Nona had her feet inside the fissure and could brace herself against both walls climbing came easy, or would have but for the weakness of her trembling arms. A few minutes later she hauled herself onto flatter ground and lay there gasping.
“How are you going to see anything?” Ara called up.
“We haven’t got time for us all to climb up—even if we can get a rope to you.” Jula’s voice.
“I don’t need the lantern,” Nona called down. “Just give me a minute or two to feel around.”
“Feel around?” Ruli, incredulous.
“It’s too dangerous,” Jula called. “You’ll break an ankle. Or probably vanish down a hole!”
“One minute!” Nona called.
Now do it.
What?
Make me see, like you did when you were scared.
I am Keot! Fear has no meaning to me!
Whatever you say. Make me see. Nona pushed Keot towards her eyes. For a moment he resisted, then, perhaps curious, he flowed into them. The pain made her gasp and brought tears running down her face. She hadn’t noticed the pain the first time: the holothour’s fear had left no room for such things.
Immediately the rocks took on the glow of coals deep in the fire. Nona looked at her hands and found them utterly black, her habit almost as dark with hints of deep grey here and there. The water-carved passage she had climbed into led in two directions. She chose the best one and scrambled off along it. Within twenty yards she stood where Hessa had fallen, at the foot of the shaft Yisht had dug up towards the shipheart’s vault.
Your friend died here?
Yes.
And you still want to kill the one who slew her, as you agreed to?
Yes.
Good. Keot relaxed and the glow of the walls brightened. Hate is good.
“She died here.” Nona crouched amid the scatter of broken rock. Yisht, a marjal with a rare talent for rock-work, had brought down part of the ceiling.
“Nona! Nona?” Distant cries from below.
She touched her fingers to the floor beneath the shattered stone. Had Hessa’s blood spilled here? Had the nuns washed it away when they took her body? They had buried her down by the vineyards but left no marker. We are all one in the Ancestor, our bones are nothing.
“Nona?”
Nona reached for her clarity, watching the dance of an absent flame in the shadows of her mind. She looked for the Path and rocked back upon her heels. With Keot’s vision the Path blazed red, written through everything, filling the air, diving into the rock and filling the hidden space beyond, writing itself across the surfaces and bringing each to life. Refusing to be distracted by the wonder of it, Nona strove to look past the Path’s beauty to the periphery where threads stray. There in the depths of the earth she found a thread-scape that competed with Zole’s for sparseness. Sister Pan said humans themselves drew threads from the Path, all life did. In the darkest and loneliest cave within the Rock, in places no person had ever seen, or would ever see, where no rat had scurried, no worm crawled, the Path would lie pure, bound tight. If that cave were broached then the mere act of gazing upon its secrets would set tendrils of thread straying from the Path, just as a foot set into a clear pool will raise silt from the bottom to cloud the waters.
“Nothing.” The word tasted bitter. A faint hope can be nursed so long that when it dies the shock outweighs all reason. “Hessa would have found something in my place. She would have read something in the threads.”
Keot remained silent.
“Nona!” The others sounded increasingly desperate.
“Coming!”
She almost missed it. Something at the corner of her eye as she turned. Perhaps without Keot she would have seen nothing. “What?” She turned back, reaching. A single black thread, so thin she almost thought herself mistaken even as her fingers tried to close around it. A black thread, leading from the spot where Hessa died, up along the shaft Yisht cut.
“There are no black threads.” Nona reached to trap the thread between finger and thumb. Sister Pan said that using your hands was unnecessary, a childish affectation, like moving your lips when you read. Even so, it helped. Nona pinched the thread from the ground. “Ancestor!” Immediately a familiar energy trickled into her. Fingers first, then into her hand making it tingle. A fullness, a potential. It felt like . . . the shipheart?
That is not a thread from a corestone. Keot sounded interested though, moving entirely into her eyes, the pain so bad she had to grit her teeth against it.
What is it then? Nona pulled on the thread and immediately felt a peculiar sense of disquiet. Nana Even would have said, “Someone just walked over your grave.” Nona leaned around the corner of the shaft, trying to see where the thread led, and picked it out easily now that she held it. It vanished into the rock. “That’s where Yisht went!” The murderer had sealed the passage behind her as she went, her rock-working power amplified by the shipheart. Nona had hoped that her disembodied shadow had killed the woman—a hope that had survived only until she returned to the convent from the ranging with the other novices.
Are you so stupid? It’s your own shadow . . . That is why you found it where others could not.
It’s my shadow’s thread? Nona stared at it. Why does it feel like the shipheart, then?
For that Keot had no answer.
“Nona!” Anger mixed with anxiety in the distant voices now.
“I can’t just leave . . .” she whispered. “With the Inquisition here we might not get another chance for ages.”
Take it with you.
What?
It’s your thread. Take it with you.
So Nona did.
18
ABBESS GLASS
HEART HALL HAD always been a lie, more so now the convent no longer housed the shipheart that had been entrusted to its keeping. Abbess Glass placed her hand against the door and frowned. Entrusted to her keeping. Abbess Mace they called “She of the Miracle.” Glass knew what they would call her if her portrait ever joined the others. “She of the Lost Heart.”
The abbess pushed through into the long hall where her sisters sat around the convent table. Tonight they waited beneath the watchful eyes of Brother Pelter and two of his assistants. Three inquisitors to witness eight nuns at table.
“Abbess Glass.” Pelter inclined his head.