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It was late, and the halls were quiet and mostly empty. Despite the heat, she pulled her short, thin, blue cotton cloak tighter across her shoulders. Thoughts of this new one with the gift gave her a chill. Grown. A man.
She shook her head as she walked silently over the long carpets, past lamps set in wall brackets centered in the raised, cherry paneling, past tables set with dried flowers, and past heavily draped windows looking out over the bailey and courtyard below. Lights of the city in the distance twinkled like a carpet of stars. Slightly rank air drifted in the windows. Must be near low tide, she thought.
The cleaning staff, polishing a chair rail molding here, or a bannister there, dropped into deep curtsies as she swept past. She hardly noticed them, and certainly didn't acknowledge them. They were beneath her attention.
Grown. Into a man.
Her face heated with anger at the thought. How could this be? Someone had made a serious mistake. A mistake. An oversight. It had to be that.
A maidservant on her hands and knees, concentrating on wiping at a spot on a carpet, looked up just in time to leap back out of the way with a "Forgive me, Sister". On her hands and knees, she touched her head to the floor with another apology.
Grown. It would have been difficult enough to turn this one if he were still a boy. But a man? She shook her head again. Grown. She smacked the rod against her thigh in frustration. Two maidservants nearby jumped at the sound and fell to their knees, burying their tightly closed eyes behind prayerful hands.
Well, grown or not, he would have a Rada'Han around his neck, and a whole palace full of Sisters to watch over him. But even wearing a Rada'Han, he was still grown into a man. And the Seeker. He might be difficult to control. Dangerously difficult.
If necessary, she guessed, he could always have a "training accident." If not that, there were certainly enough other dangers to one with the gift, dangers that could leave a man worse than dead. But if she could turn him, or use him, that would make all the trouble worthwhile.
She turned into a hall she at first thought empty, then noticed a young woman standing in the shadows between lamps, gazing out a window. She thought she recognized her. One of the novices. She stopped behind the young woman and folded her arms. The novice tapped her toe on the carpet as she leaned on her elbows through the opened window, looking at the gates below.
She cleared her throat. The girl spun, gasped, and dropped into a curtsy.
"Forgive me, Sister, I didn't hear you coming. A good evening to you."
When the big brown eyes came up, she put the end of the rod under the girl's chin and lifted it a little more. "Pasha, isn't it?"
"Yes, Sister. Pasha Maes. Novice, third rank. Next in line to be named."
"Next in line," she sniffed. "Presumption, my dear, does not befit a Sister, and less so a novice. Even one of the third rank."
Pasha cast her eyes down and gave a curtsy, as best she could with the rod still under her chin. "Yes, Sister. Forgive me."
"What are you doing here?"
"Just watching, Sister. Watching the night."
"Watching the night. I would say you were watching the gates. Am I wrong, novice?"
Pasha tried to look down, but the rod lifted her chin, keeping her eyes to her superior. "No, Sister," she admitted, "you are not wrong. I was watching the gates." She licked her full lips several times.
At last she spilled out the words. "I heard the talk, the talk among the girls. They say, well, they say three of the Sisters have been gone a long time now, and that could only mean they are bringing back one with the gift. A new one. In all the years I have been here, I have never see a new one brought in." She licked her lips again. "Well, I am... I mean... I hope to be next in line. And if I am to be named, I will have to be assigned a new one." She knitted her fingers together. "I so want to be named a Sister. I have studied hard, worked hard. Waited and waited. And no new one has come yet. Forgive me Sister, but I just can't help being excited, and hopeful, that I will be worthy. So... yes, I was watching the gate, hoping I would see him brought in."
"And you think you are strong enough to handle the job? To handle a new one?"
"Yes, Sister. I study and practice my forms every day."
She looked down her nose at the novice. "Is that so? Show me."
As they stared at each other, she felt her feet rise off the ground a few inches. Solid grip of air, strong. Not bad. She wondered if the novice could handle interference. With that thought, fire ignited at both ends of the hall, sweeping with a howl toward the two women. Pasha didn't flinch. The fire hit a wall of air before reaching them. Air was not the best for fire. A small error Pasha quickly corrected. Before the fire burned through, the air became moist, dripping. The fire hissed out.
Although she didn't try to move, she knew she couldn't. She could feel that the grip held her firmly. She turned it cold, brittle, with ice, and broke it. When she was free, she lifted Pasha from the floor. Defensive webs from the girl wove through her snaking onslaught, but failed to break the grip. Her feet rose again. Impressive—the girl could counter even while being held.
Spells tangled together, conflicting, fighting, snarling into knots. Each matched and defended, striking back at any opportunity. The silent, motionless battle raged on for a time, the two of them hanging inches off the ground.
At last, she tired of the sport, and severed herself from the webs, tying them to the girl, locking them on. She settled gently to the ground, and left Pasha with the whole weight of the load to juggle. A simple, if devious, escape; giving the opponent not only the attacking spells to deal with, but dumping her own back on her. Pasha hadn't been expecting this, or been able to defend against it; it was not the way she had been taught.
Sweat ran down the girl's face as she grimaced slightly. The force radiating through the hall made carpets curl up at their corners. Lamps chattered in their brackets. Pasha was getting angry. Her brow wrinkled. With a loud crack that shattered a mirror far off down the hall, she broke the spells. Her slippered feet settled to the ground.
Pasha took a few deep breaths. "I have not seen that done before, Sister. It is not... by the rules."
She put the rod back under the other's chin. "Rules are for children's games. You are no longer a child. When you are a full Sister, you must deal with situations where there are no rules. You must be prepared for that. If you always stick to somebody's 'rules', you may find yourself at the point of a very sharp knife, held by a hand that doesn't know about your 'rules'."
Pasha didn't flinch. "Yes, Sister. Thank you for showing me."
She smiled inwardly, but kept it off her face. This one had a spine, if a small one. A rare commodity in a novice, even one of the third rank.
She let her eyes take in Pasha again: soft brown hair that just touched her shoulders, big brown eyes, attractive features, lips of the sort men stared at, proud, upright shoulders, and a sweep of curves that even a novice's dress failed to conceal.
She let the rod trail from Pasha's chin, down her neck, down into the heart of her exposed cleavage.
Grown into a man.
"And since when, Pasha," she said in a quiet voice that could have been taken for either threatening, or kind, "have novices been allowed to wear their dresses unbuttoned like this?"
Pasha blushed furiously. "Forgive me Sister. It is such a warm night. I was alone... I didn't think there was anyone about. I just wanted to let the breeze cool my skin." Her face turned a deeper red. "I sweat so, there. I never meant to offend anyone. I am so embarrassed. Forgive me."
Pasha's hands rushed to the buttons. With the rod, she gently pushed the hands away from the swell of the young woman's bosom.
"The Creator made you this way. You should not be embarrassed of what He has chosen, in his wisdom, to bestow upon you. You should never be ashamed, Pasha, of what He has graced you with. Only those of questionable loyalty to the Creator, would scorn you for being proud of showing the Maker's hand in all its magnificence."
"Why... thank you, Sister. I never looked at it in quite that way." A frown wrinkled her brow. "What do you mean, 'questionable loyalty'?"
She pulled the rod away and lifted an eyebrow. "Those who worship the Nameless One don't hide in the shadows, my dear. They could be anywhere. Why, even you could be one. Even me."
Pasha fell to a knee, bowing her head. "Oh, please, Sister," she implored, "don't say such a thing of yourself, even in jest. You are a Sister of the Light, and we are in the Palace of the Prophets, safe, I pray, from the whispers of the Nameless One."
"Safe?" With her rod, she motioned the novice up. After she was on her feet, she gave her a stern look. "Only a fool assumes she is safe, even here. Sisters of the Light are not fools. Even they must always be alert to the dark whispers."
"Yes, Sister. I will remember."
"Remember it, any time someone would make you ashamed of how the Creator has formed you. Ask yourself why they blush at seeing the Maker's hand. Blush, as the Nameless One would."
"Yes, Sister. ...Thank you," she stammered. "You have given me things to think on. I have never thought about the Creator in this way before."
"He has reasons for the things He does. Is this not true?"
"What do you mean?"
"Well, when he gives a man a strong back, what does that say?"
"Everyone knows that. He was given the strong back to use. It means the Creator has given him the strong back so that he might work to feed his family. Work to make his way. Work to make the Creator proud. And not waste the Creator's gift by being lazy."
She whisked the rod up and down in front of Pasha. "And what do you think the Creator had in mind when he gave you this body?"
"I... don't know... exactly. That I should use it to... make the Creator proud of his work... in some way?"
She nodded. "You think on it. You think on your reason for being here. Being here at this time. We are all here for a reason. The Sisters of the Light are here for a reason, are they not?"
