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‘She and Safira were novices together.’ Ara leaned in to whisper, her hair falling forward over Nona’s shoulder, breath tickling her ear. ‘They bedded together in Holy Class, but then Sister Apple joined the convent and … well, you know. Safira was jealous, there were arguments, and Kettle got stabbed while walking away from the last one.’
The door rattled, Sister Pan unlocking it from within. Ara jerked back as if caught doing something she shouldn’t, and Darla pushed on through.
While Sister Pan moved to unlock the next door Nona, Ara, and Jula hurried in behind Darla and up the staircase, sparing no glances for the portraits. Zole was the last up the stairs, behind the rest of Grey Class, following Sister Pan up the steps asking a question in a low voice.
‘She’s always sucking up to Mistress Path,’ Clera said, sitting at Nona’s left. ‘Probably making notes on everything for when she goes back to Sherzal.’
‘And when will that be?’ Nona kept to a whisper, convinced Sister Pan’s alleged deafness was just the old woman’s ruse so she could keep up to date with novice gossip.
Clera shrugged. ‘She says she’s here to be a nun.’
The first two thirds of the lesson proceeded as usual with meditation and instruction in the vexed business of attaining clarity, serenity, and patience. Clera used to joke that they should all work on patience first because they were surely going to need it to survive the class. But the joke had been old before she was born and now she usually spent the lessons trying to sleep with her eyes open, or badgering Sister Pan to let the class practise blade-path up at the hall while she concentrated on her star pupils.
Nona had never had much greater success with patience than she did with serenity. In fact they seemed almost the same thing to her, though Sister Pan insisted otherwise.
‘Patience belongs to the predator. It waits before the strike. Patience is invaluable to Sisters of Discretion. Those that can weave shadows use patience to settle themselves into the darkness with sufficient depth that they can gather it to them.’
‘You’re saying that if I get this I can do what Sister Kettle did in Blade Hall?’ The image of Kettle rising from nowhere returned to Nona. She saw it again and again – Kettle, trailing shadow, leaping up and carrying her to the sand. ‘I can be invisible like a Noi-Guin?’
‘Noi-Guin aren’t invisible, child.’ Sister Pan’s mouth twisted with displeasure. ‘Their shadow-workers are so good because they focus on nothing else. So narrow an education is of limited use. In any event, the answer to your question is no. Only those with at least a touch of marjal have the potential for dark-work and even some of them never manage it. But whether they have the talent or not they will need to attain the patience-trance to make best contact.’
‘But what can the quantals do with their Path-walking apart from break stuff?’
Sister Pan raised her voice, drawing the attention of those in the class not already listening in. ‘The marjals are conjurers. They touch the world’s power in many separate places, far from the Path. Which parts of the secret world they touch, and how deeply, depends on their individual nature and how thick the marjal runs in their veins.
‘The Path is different. It divides the living from the unliving. Some marjals touch only the living side of the world, others the unliving, a few touch both. Most marjals work with magics that lie far from the Path. The greatest marjals touch areas that lie close. But none touch or walk the Path itself. Their magics are many and usually minor, though often very helpful.
‘But the Path is about power. It is the source of power and the nature of it. Most quantals will only ever gather this power and release it in short, violent bursts. The energy of the Path is dangerous to hold on to. For the rare quantal, however, with sufficient skill, the right training, and years of practice, the energy gathered from the Path may be held and shaped and set to purpose without end. The Path is a line, but it is not straight. It touches and separates all things. The Path gives meaning to identity, to one thing being different and separate from the next. Its power can unravel the world … and create it anew.’
Sister Pan looked around the class. ‘Now, if Clera will oblige me by not breaking any of the furniture in her haste to leave, those novices who want to may practise blade-path until the bell.’ She set her stump to Nona’s shoulder as the chairs clattered and girls started for the stairs in a flutter and flap of habits. ‘You, Nona, will be staying.’
As much as Nona would have liked to chase after the others the stiffness of her scars and the pain when she flexed them were sufficient to keep her seated even without the weight of Sister Pan’s attention upon her. Less than a minute later only Nona, Ara, Hessa, and Darla still occupied their seats, along with Zole and Alata’s pale, red-haired friend, Leeni.
‘Ara and Hessa will accompany me. You too, Nona. Darla, Zole, and Leeni continue your patience work.’
Sister Pan crossed to the great chest and closed the lid before starting off down the spiral staircase. Hessa followed, awkward on her crutch. She glanced back at Nona, stay close!
Nona tucked in behind Hessa, Ara at her back, and the three of them tracked Sister Pan down the tight spirals of the staircase.
‘Picture the Path, Nona. Don’t close your eyes, but see it. Don’t touch it but let it lead you.’ Sister Pan’s voice echoed as if a vast hall held them rather than the narrowness of the steps. ‘Follow me. Not the stairs beneath your feet. Just follow me.’
For a moment Nona saw the bright line of the Path across the dark wool of Hessa’s habit. The Path drew her – a burning crack, one line and many, straight as a spear and yet also twisting, its convolutions and loops filling the space between Hessa’s shoulders, reaching in and through as if she weren’t even there …
‘Here we are.’ Sister Pan’s voice returned to its usual surprisingly youthful tone.
Nona blinked. They were neither in the stairwell nor in the vast hall that she had sensed about her. The chamber curved as if it lived between the tower wall and the staircase, occupying a third of the full circle. It had no windows, only a series of small flames burning in alcoves for light. Six black-wood chairs stood in disorder at the middle of the room and every wall, even the floor and ceiling lay crowded with sigils written in silver, bedded into the stone.
‘Sit.’ Sister Pan waved at the chairs.
Nona sat, staring up at the ceiling, heavy with gleaming silver. The sigils made writing – which had once looked fiendishly complex to her – seem foolishly simple. Each palm-sized symbol was a work of art, a single line folded into a complexity that burned into the back of her eyes and began to fold her mind about it. They almost looked like fragments of the Path frozen into an instant.
‘Don’t stare, Nona. Generally it’s rude. Where sigils are concerned it can be dangerous.’ Sister Pan set her fingers to the nearest wall. ‘These are the work of a marjal void-scribe, a master of the art, now long dead. They ensure that any accidents you have while attempting to walk the Path are confined to this room. I love this tower, just as Sister Tallow loves her hall, and I’d rather not have a reckless novice knock it down.
‘Only the other day … well, before you were born perhaps … Novice Segga touched the Path unexpectedly early upstairs. I’d just shown her the first serenity exercise … Anyway, she screamed so loud it blew the windows out. All my lovely stained glass. We found pieces of it embedded in the Dome of the Ancestor! It was a while before I could hear anything after that …’ Sister Pan turned to Ara. ‘Novice Arabella, who has already heard me express my disappointment in her over the actions that saw Nona beaten, will begin.’ She motioned for Hessa and Nona to join her at the far end of the room, close to the point where the wall’s curvature would hide them from sight.
