Blood of the Fold (58 page)

Cara laid a gentle hand to his shoulder. “We understand, Lord Rahl. It shall be as you say. When this is over, we can be free of not only those enemies from without, but within, too.”

Richard nodded. “Until then, we must be strong. We must be the wind of death.”

In the silence, Richard wondered what mriswith were doing in Aydindril. He thought about the one that had killed Cathryn. It was protecting him, it had said. Protecting him? Impossible.

As he thought about it, though, he couldn’t recall a mriswith actually attacking him, personally. He remembered the first attack, outside the Confessors’ Palace, with Gratch. Gratch had attacked them, and Richard had come to the aid of his friend. They had been intent on killing “green eyes,” as they had call the gar, but they never specifically attacked him.

The one tonight had had the best chance of all—Richard had been without his sword—yet it didn’t attack him, and instead escaped without a fight. It had addressed him as “skin brother.” Just to wonder what that could mean gave him goose bumps.

Richard idly scratched his neck.

Cara rubbed a finger on the back side of his neck where he had just scratched. “What’s this?”

“
I don’t know. Just a spot that’s always itching.”

Verna paced indignantly back and forth in the little sanctuary. How dare Prelate Annalina do this? Verna had told her that she had to tell her the words so as to prove it was really her, to say once again that she regarded Verna as an unremarkable Sister of little note. Verna wanted the Prelate to say those cruel words again so she would know that Verna knew she was being used, and of little value to the palace, in the Prelate’s eyes.

If she was going to be used, and follow the Prelate’s orders like an earnest Sister was duty bound to do, it would be knowingly, this time.

Verna was done weeping. She was not going to jump whenever that woman cavalierly crooked a finger. Verna had not devoted her entire life to being a Sister of the Light, worked so hard, for so many years, to be treated with such disrespect.

The thing that made her the most angry was that she had done it again. Verna had told the Prelate that she first had to say the words to prove it was really her, or Verna would feed the journey book to the fire. Verna had set the rules: prove yourself first. Instead, the Prelate had crooked her finger, and Verna had jumped.

She should just throw the journey book in a fire—destroy it. Let the Prelate try to use her then. Let her see that Verna was finished with being played for a fool. See how she liked having her wishes disregarded. It would serve her right.

That was what she should have done, but she hadn’t. She still had the book tucked in her belt. Despite her hurt, she was still a Sister. She had to be sure. The Prelate still hadn’t proved to her that she was really alive, and had the other book. When she was sure, then Verna would throw the book in the fire.

Verna stopped pacing and looked out through one of the windows in the gable ends. The moon was up. This time, there would be no grace if her instructions weren’t followed. She vowed that either the Prelate did as requested, and prove her identity, or Verna was going to burn the book. This was the Prelate’s last chance.

Verna pulled the branched candlestick away from the small altar draped with a white cloth trimmed in gold thread and set it beside the little table. The perforated bowl, in which Verna had found the journey book in the first place, set atop the white cloth on the altar. Instead of the journey book, it now held a small flame. If the Prelate failed again to do as instructed, the journey book was going back into that bowl, into the flames.

She pulled the small black book from its pouch in her belt and set it on the little table as she pulled the three-legged stool close. Verna kissed the Prelate’s ring on her ring finger, took a deep breath, said a prayer beseeching the Creator’s guidance, and opened the book.

There was a message. Pages of it, in fact.

My dearest Verna
, it began. Verna pursed her lips. Dearest Verna indeed.

My dearest Verna, First, the easy part. I asked you to go to the sanctuary because of the danger involved. We cannot take any chance that others will read my messages, much less discover that Nathan and I are alive. The sanctuary is the only place I could be sure no one else would read this, and that is the only reason I failed to follow your reasonable precaution before now. You, of course, should expect me to prove myself, and now that I can be sure that you are alone and safe from discovery, I will provide the proof.

In accordance with this caution of only using the sanctuary to communicate, you must be sure to erase all messages before you leave the protection of the sanctuary.

Before I go on—the proof. As you requested, this is what I told you in my office the first time I saw you after you returned from your journey to recover Richard:

“
I chose you, Verna, because you were far down on the list, and because, all in all, you are quite unremarkable. I doubted you were one of them. You are a person of little note. I’m sure Grace and Elizabeth made their way to the top of the list because whoever directs the Sisters of the Dark considered them expendable. I direct the Sisters of the Light. I chose you for the same reason.

“
There are Sisters who are valuable to our cause; I could not risk one of them on such a task. The boy may prove a value to us, but he is not as important as other matters at the palace. It was simply an opportunity I thought to take.

“
If there had been trouble, and none of you made it back, well, I’m sure you can understand that a general would not want to lose his best troops on a low-priority mission.”

Verna turned the book over on the table and put her face in her hands. There was no doubt—it was Prelate Annalina who had the other journey book. She was alive, as probably was Nathan.

She glanced to the little fire burning in the bowl. The hurt of those words burned in her chest. Reluctantly, with trembling fingers, she turned the book back over, and read on.

Verna, I know that those words must have broken your heart to hear. I do know that it broke my heart to say them, because they were not true. It must seem to you that you are being used in a nefarious way. It is wrong to lie, but it is worse to let the wicked triumph because you adhere to the truth at the expense of good sense. If the Sisters of the Dark were to ask me what my plans were, I would lie. To do otherwise is to allow wickedness to triumph.

I will now tell you the truth, realizing that you have no reason to believe that this time, my words are true, but I believe in your intelligence and know that if you weigh my words, you will be able to see the truth in them.

The true reason I chose you to go after Richard is because of all the Sisters, you were the one I trusted with the fate of the world. You know, now, the battle Richard won against the Keeper. Without him, we would have all been lost to the world of the dead. A low priority-mission it was not. It was the most important journey any Sister had ever been sent on. I trusted only you.

Over three hundred years before you were born, Nathan warned me of the danger to the world of life. Five hundred years before Richard was born, Nathan and I knew that a war wizard would come into this world. The prophecies told us some of what must be accomplished. The challenge was unlike any we have faced before.

When Richard was born, Nathan and I traveled by ship, around the great barrier, to the New World. We recovered a book of magic from the Wizard’s Keep in Aydindril to keep it out of Darken Rahl’s hands and gave the book to Richard’s stepfather, securing his promise that he would make Richard learn it. Only through such trials, and events in his life at his home, could this young man be forged into the kind of person with the wits to stop the first threat, Darken Rahl, his real father, and later restore the balance to the world of life. He is perhaps the most important person born in the last three thousand years.

Richard is the war wizard who will lead us in the final battle. The prophecies tell us this, but not whether we will prevail. This is a now a battle for mankind. Our only chance was to make sure, above all else, that he was not tainted in his training as a man. In this battle, magic is needed, but heart must rule it.

I sent you to bring him to the palace because you were the only one I could trust to accomplish the task. I knew your heart and soul, and I knew you were no Sister of the Dark.

I’m sure you are now wondering how I could let you search for him for more than twenty years when I knew where he was all the time. I also could have waited, and sent you after him when he was grown, and at last revealed his whereabouts when he triggered his gift. I am shamed to admit that I was using you, too, much as I used Richard.

For the challenges that lie ahead, I needed to teach you things you could not learn at the Palace of the Prophets, while Richard grew and learned some of the essential things he required. I needed you to be able to use your wits, and not the reams of rules that the Sisters at the palace thrive on. I had to let you develop your innate skills in the real world. The battle ahead lies in the real world; the cloistered world of the palace is no place to learn about life.

I don’t expect you to ever forgive me. That, too, is one of the burdens a Prelate must bear: the hatred of one she loves like her own daughter.

When I told you those awful words, that, too, was to a purpose. I had to finally break you of the palace’s teaching that you must always do as you were trained, and blindly follow orders. I had to make you angry enough to do what you judged was right. Since you were little, I could always count on your temper.

I couldn’t trust that if I told you the reasons, you would understand, or do as was necessary. Sometimes, a person can only properly affect events by using their own moral propriety, and not by carrying out orders. It is so stated in prophecy. I trusted that you would choose right over training, if you came to the conclusion yourself.

The other reason I told you those things in my office was because I suspected that one of my administrators was a Sister of the Dark. I knew my shield would not keep my words from her ears. I let my words betray me so she would attack me, and force their hand. I knew I could very possibly be killed, but I chose that fate over the possibility of the world being plunged into the grip of the Keeper. Sometimes, a Prelate must even use herself.

So far, Verna, you have lived up to my every expectation of you. You have played a vital role in saving the world from the Keeper. With your help, we have thus far succeeded.

The very first time I laid eyes on you, I smiled, because you had an angry scowl on your face. Do you remember why? I will tell you, if you don’t. Every novice brought to the palace was given a test. Sooner or later, we wrongly blamed her for a small offense of which she was innocent. Most cried. Some pouted. Some bore the shame of guilt with stoic resignation. Only you became angry at the injustice. In that, you proved yourself.

Nathan had found a prophecy that said the one we needed would be delivered to us not with a smile, or a pout, or a brave face, but with an angry scowl. When I saw that look on your face, and your little arms folded in a fit, I nearly laughed aloud. At last, you had been delivered into our hands. From that day I have been using you in the Creator’s most important work.

I chose you to be the Prelate in the illusion of my death because you are still the one Sister I trust above all others. There is more than a good chance that I will be killed on my present journey with Nathan, and if I do die, you will be the Prelate for real. That is the way I wish it.

Your justifiable hatred weighs on my heart, but it is the Creator’s forgiveness that is important, and I know I will have that much, at least. I will suffer your scorn as my burden in this life, as I suffer other burdens for which there is no relief. It is the price of being Prelate of the Palace of the Prophets.

Verna pushed the book away, unable to read more of the words. Her head fell to her folded arms as she sobbed. Though she didn’t recall the nature of the injustice of which the Prelate spoke, she remembered the sting of it, and her anger. Mostly, she remembered the Prelate’s smile, and how it made the world right again.

“
Oh, dear Creator,” Verna wept aloud, “you truly have a fool for a servant.”