Blood of the Fold tsot-3

by Terry Goodkind

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

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

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

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

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

  The knock came again, polite, but insistent.

  “Yes! What is it?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “May I be of assistance, Prelate?”

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

  Sister Dulcinia brightened. “Trouble, Prelate?”

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

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

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

  “Prelate?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Don’t you start with me, Warren!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Butter?”

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

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

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

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

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

  “It must be important, Verna.”

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

  “Seems
the right decision, Verna.”

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

  “But Verna—”

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

  “What?”

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

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

  “A walk? Warren, I don’t have time—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Why?”

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

  “And how was poor Simona?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “What’s this about, Warren?”

  “Do you think we’re alone?”

  “How should I know?” she snapped.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “How many are behind this door?”

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

  “Are there any Sisters attending her?”

  “No. They’ve gone for the night.”

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

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

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

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