Stone of Tears (27 page)

Pasha’s fingers covered her mouth as she gasped. She took them away. “But … that means … one of the Sisters …”

She nodded solemnly. “It is a price we are all prepared to pay. We bear a heavy responsibility.”

“But why wouldn’t the parents make him accept the offer?”

She leaned closer, lowering her voice. “In the report I saw, the one with the gift was grown. A man.”

Pasha stared in wide-eyed disbelief. “A man …?” she whispered. “If a boy can be difficult to control … what of a grown man?”

She gave the novice an even look. “We are here to serve in the Creator’s work. You can never tell what the Creator has in his plan, why you are given what you have. A novice in charge of a new one must use whatever the Creator has given her. The collar is not always enough. You can never tell what you might need to do. The rules don’t always work.

“Do you still want to be a Sister of the Light? Even knowing you may be given a new one who could be more difficult than any any other novice has ever been given?”

“Oh, yes! Yes, Sister! If the new one is difficult, I know it is a test from the Creator himself, to see if I am truly worthy. I will not fail. I will do whatever must be done. I will use everything I have learned, everything the Creator has given me. I will be on guard that he may be from a strange land, or have strange customs, and be afraid, or troublesome, or difficult. And that I may have to make my own rules to succeed.” She hesitated. “And if you are so kind as to mean what you said about helping me, then I know I will have your wisdom backing me, and I will not fail.”

She nodded with a smile. “I have given my word. It holds, no matter the difficulty.” She frowned in thought. “Perhaps, it could be that you are graced with your looks so a new one might see the beauty of the Creator through you, through his work. Perhaps, this is how you are to show a new one the way.”

“It would be an honor, in any way, to show a new one the light of the Creator’s hand.”

“You are right in that, my dear.” She straightened, clasping her hands. “Now. I want you to go to the Mistress of the novices, and tell her that you have too much free time, and that starting tomorrow, you need to be assigned some chores. Tell her you have been spending too much of your time looking out windows.”

Pasha bowed her head and curtsied again. “Yes, Sister,” she said meekly.

She smiled when the novice looked up. “I too, have heard that three of the Sisters are searching for one with the gift. I think it will be a while before they return with him, if at all, but when they return, and if they bring him, I will remind the Prelate that you are next in line, and are ready for the task.”

“Oh thank you Sister! Thank you!”

“You are a fine young woman, Pasha. The Creator has truly shown the beauty of his work in you.”

“Thank you, Sister,” she said without blushing.

“Thank the Creator.”

“I will, Sister. Sister? Before the new one is brought in, could you teach me more about what the Creator has intended for me? Help me to understand?”

“If you wish.”

“Oh, I do. I really do.”

She patted Pasha’s cheek. “Of course, my dear. Of course.” She stood up straight. “Now, off to the Mistress of the novices with you. I won’t have soon-to-be-Sisters with nothing better to do than stare out windows.”

“Yes, Sister.” Pasha curtsied with a smile and rushed off down the hall. She stopped and turned. “Sister … I am afraid I don’t know your name.”

“Go!”

Pasha flinched. “Yes, Sister.”

She watched the swell of Pasha’s hips sway as she walked quickly off down the hall, kicking the rolled edges of carpets back down as she went. The girl had exquisite ankles.

Grown into a man.

She collected her thoughts and started off again, down the halls and stairs. As she descended, the wooden stairs changed to stone. The heat lessened, although not the stuffiness, or the smell of the tide flats. The warm glow of lamps was replaced by the flickering shadows of widely spaced torches. The cowering Palace staff diminished in number until she saw no one. She continued down to the lowest floors, below dusty storerooms, down below the servants’ quarters and workshops. The torches became more widely spaced until there were no more. She ignited a ball of flame in her palm, and held it up to see by as she continued on.

When she reached the proper door, she sent the flame into a cold torch set in a bracket next to the doorway. The stone walled room was small, an abandoned cellar of some sort, empty except for moldy straw on the floor, a lit torch, and the two wizards. The smell was unpleasant: burning pitch and damp mold.

At her entrance, the two stood, swaying slightly. Both wore the plain robes befitting their high rank. Each had a stupid half grin on his face. They weren’t cocky, she realized; they had been drinking. Probably celebrating their last night in the Palace of the Prophets. Their last night with the Sisters of the Light. Their last night wearing the Rada’Han.

The two men had been friends since they had been brought to the Palace as boys, almost at the same time. Sam Weber was a plain man of average hight, with curly, light brown hair and a clean shaven jaw that seemed too big for the rest of his soft face. Neville Ranson was slightly taller, with straight black hair cut short and smoothed neatly down. He wore a short, well kept beard that was just beginning to show flecks of gray. His eyes were almost as dark as his hair. His features seemed all the more sharply formed, standing next to his soft friend.

She had always thought he had grown into a handsome man. She had known him since he had come to the Palace as a small boy. She had been a novice then, and he had been the one assigned to her, put in her care; her final test before becoming a Sister of the Light. That had been a long time ago.

Wizard Ranson swept his arm across his middle and gave a dramatic, although wobbly, bow. He came back up with a widening grin. His grin always made his face look boyish, despite his years and the beginnings of gray.

“A good evening to you, Sister …”

Hard as she could, she backhanded him across the face with her rod. She could feel his cheekbone break. He fell back to the floor with a cry.

“I have told you before,” she hissed through gritted teeth, “never to use my name when we are alone. Being drunk does not excuse the order.”

Wizard Weber stood stone still, his eyes wide, his face white, his grin gone. Ranson rolled over on the ground with his hands to his face, leaving blood on the straw.

The color came back to Weber’s face in a red rush. “How dare you do this? We have passed all the tests! We are wizards!”

She sent a cord of power into the Rada’Han. The impact threw him back against the wall, where the collar stuck to the stone like a nail to a magnet. “Passed the tests!” she screamed. “Passed the tests! You have not passed my tests!” She twisted on the pain until Weber was choking in agony. “Is this how you address a Sister! Is this the way you show respect!”

She snipped off the cord and he fell to the floor giving a grunt when he hit. He pushed himself up on his knees with an effort.

“Forgive me, Sister,” he said in a pained, hoarse voice. “I beg you forgive our disrespect.” His eyes rose cautiously to meet her glare. “It was only the drink speaking. Forgive us? Please?”

With her fists on her hips, she stood watching him. She pointed with the rod at the one rolling and moaning on the floor. “Heal him. I don’t have time for this nonsense. I have come to give you both your test, not to watch him whine and complain about a little slap.”

Weber bent to his friend, rolling him gently over on his back. “Neville, it’s all right. I’ll help you. Lie still.”

He took the man’s shaking hands away and replaced them with his own. He began talking and healing. She waited impatiently with her arms folded. It didn’t take long; Weber was talented at healing. Weber helped his friend sit up and with a handful of straw, wiped the blood from the healed wound.

Ranson pushed himself to his feet. His eyes flashed anger, but he kept any speck of it out of his voice. “Forgive me, Sister. What is it you want?”

Weber came up beside him. “Please, Sister, we have done everything the Sisters have asked. We are finished.”

“Finished? Finished? I don’t think so. Have you forgotten our talks? Have you forgotten what I told you? Did you think I would forget? Simply let the two of you dance out of here? Free as birds? No man walks out of here without seeing me or one of mine. There is the matter of an oath.”

The two glanced at each other, retreating a half step.

“If you will just let us go,” Weber offered, “we will give you our oath.”

She watched them a moment, her voice coming quietly at last. “My oath? It is not an oath to me, boys. It is an oath to the Keeper. You know that.” They both paled a little. “And the oath comes only after one of you has passed the test. Only one of you has to give the oath.”

“One of us?” Ranson asked. He swallowed. “Only one of us has to give the oath, Sister? Why only one of us?”

“Because,” she whispered, “the other will have no need to give an oath. He is going to die.”

They both gave a little gasp and moved closer together.

“What is this test?” Weber asked.

“Take off your robes, and we will begin.”

They glanced at each other. Ranson lifted his hand a little. “Our robes, Sister? Now? Here?”

She looked to each. “Don’t be bashful, boys. I have seen you both swim naked in the lake since you were only this big.” She held her hand out just below her waist.

“But that was when we were boys.” Weber complained. “Not since we have grown into men.”

Her brow set into a glower. “Don’t make me have to tell you again. The next time, I will burn them off you.”

They both flinched and began pulling their robes over their heads. She made a deliberate point of looking each up and down, just to show them her displeasure with their argument. Each man’s face turned red in the torchlight.

With a flick of her wrist, she brought the knife to her hand. “Up against the wall. Both of you.”

When they didn’t move quickly enough, she used the collars to slam them against the wall. With a thin stream of power to each Rada’Han, she immobilized them against the stone. They were flattened against the wall and helpless to lift a finger.

“Please, Sister,” Ranson whispered, “don’t kill us. We’ll do anything. Anything.”

She looked over at him. “Yes, you will. One of you anyway. But we haven’t gotten to the oath yet. Now still your tongue or I will do it for you.”

As the two were held helpless, she moved to Weber first. Putting the knife tip against his upper chest, she drew it slowly down, carefully cutting through the skin and no more. Sweat poured from Weber’s face as he gritted his teeth. His jowls shook. After she had made a cut, about a forearm long, she went back to where she had begun and made another next to it, so the two cuts were about a finger’s width apart. Small, high pitched sounds escaped from the man’s throat as she drew the knife along. The ends of the parallel lines drew together to a point. Small trickles of blood ran down his chest. She worked the knife point under the top, between the cuts, separating the skin from him until there was a generous flap of it hanging down.

She moved over to Ranson and made the same twin cuts, with a flap of skin hanging away at the top. Tears ran down his face with the sweat, but he said nothing. He knew better. When finished, she straightened and inspected her work. They looked the same. Good. She tucked the knife back up her sleeve.

“One of you two is going to have the Rada’Han taken off tomorrow, and be free to go. As far as the Sisters of the Light are concerned, anyway. Not as far as I, or more importantly, the Keeper, are concerned. It will be the beginning of your service to him. If you serve well, you will be rewarded when he is free of the veil. If you fail in your tasks … well, you wouldn’t want to know what would happen to you if you should fail him.”

“Sister,” Ranson asked in a shaky voice, “why only one of us? We could both give the oath. We could both serve.”

Weber’s eyes snapped to his friend. He didn’t like being spoken for. He always had been obstinate.

“The oath is a blood oath. One of you will have to pass my test to earn the privilege of taking it. The other is going to lose the gift tonight, lose his magic. Do you know how a wizard loses the gift?”

They both shook their heads.

“When they are skinned, the magic bleeds from them.” She said it as if she were discussing peeling a pear. “Bleeds away until it is all gone.”

Weber stared at her, his face gone white. Ranson closed his dark eyes and shook.

At the same time, she wrapped the flap of skin on each man around her first fingers. “I’m going to ask for a volunteer. This is just a little demonstration of what is in store for the one who volunteers. I don’t want either of you to think dying is going to be the easy way out.” She gave them a warm smile. “You have my permission to scream, boys. I believe this is going to hurt.”

She yanked the strips of skin off their chests. She waited patiently for the screams to stop, and even a little while longer while they sobbed. It was always good to let a lesson sink in.

“Please, Sister, we serve the Creator, as the Sisters have taught us,” Weber cried. “We serve the Creator, not the Keeper.”

She regarded him cooly. “Since you are so loyal to the Creator, Sam, I will give you first choice. Do you want to be the one to live, or to die tonight?”

“Why him?” Ranson demanded. “Why does he get to choose first?”

“Keep your tongue still, Neville. You will speak when spoken to.” She slid her gaze back to Weber. She lifted his chin with a finger. “Well, Sam? Who dies, you or your best friend?” She folded her arms across her breasts.

He looked up at her with hollow eyes. His skin was ashen. He didn’t look over at his friend. His voice came in a flat whisper.

“Me. Kill me. Let Neville live. I won’t give an oath to the Keeper. I would rather die.”

She looked back into his empty eyes a moment and then turned to Ranson. “And what have you to say, Neville? Who lives? Who dies? You, or your best friend in the world. Who gives the Keeper their oath?”