Blood of the Fold

"Oh please, Verna, I never meant to suggest that — "

"Do you even understand the thorn in that, Phoebe?"

"Why, to be thought old and ugly, of course, even though you are not that…."

Verna shook her head. "No." She looked up into the other's eyes. "No, the thorn was to discover that appearance was all that ever mattered, and that what was inside"—she tapped the side of her head — "didn't hold any meaning for him, only its wrapping."

Even worse that returning to see that look in Jedidiah's eyes, though, was to discover that he had given himself over to the Keeper. In order to save Richard's life as Jedidiah was about to kill him, she had buried her dacra in his back. Jedidiah had betrayed not only her, but the Creator, too. A part of her had died with him.

Phoebe straightened, looking a bit puzzled. “Yes, I guess I know what you mean, when men…"

Verna waved her hand in a dismissive gesture. “I hope I've been of help, Phoebe. It's always good to talk to a friend." Her voice took on the clear ring of authority. "Are there any petitioners to see me?"

Phoebe blinked. "Petitioners? No, not today."

"Good. I wish to go pray and seek the Creator's guidance. Would you and Dulcinia please shield the door; I wish not to be disturbed."

Phoebe curtsied. "Of course, Prelate." She smiled warmly. "Thank you for the talk, Verna. It was like old times in our room after we were ordered to be sleeping." Her gaze darted to the stacks of papers. "But what about the reports? They're falling further behind."

"As Prelate, I cannot ignore the Light that directs the palace and the Sisters. I must also pray for us, and ask for His guidance. We are, after all, the Sisters of the Light."

The look of awe returned to Phoebe's eyes. Phoebe seemed to believe that in assuming the post, Verna had somehow become more than human, and could somehow touch the hand of the Creator in a miraculous way. "Of course. Prelate. I will see to the placement of the shield. No one will disturb the Prelate's meditation.1

Before Phoebe went through the door, Verna called her name in a quiet tone. "Have you learned anything yet about Christabel?"

Phoebe's eyes turned away in sudden disquiet. "No. No one knows where she went. We've had no word on where Amelia or Janet have disappeared to, either."

The five of them, Christabel, Amelia, Janet, Phoebe, and Verna had been friends, had grown up together at the palace, but Verna had been closest to Christabel, though they were all a bit jealous of her. The Creator had blessed her with gorgeous blond hair and comely features, but also with a kind and warm nature.

It was disturbing that her three friends seemed to have vanished. Sisters sometimes left the palace for visits home, while their families were still living, but they requested permission first, and besides, the families of those three would all have passed away of old age long ago. Sisters, too, sometimes went away for a time, not only to refresh their minds in the outside world, but also to simply have a break from decade upon decade at the palace. Even then, they almost always would tell the others that they had to leave for a time, and where they were going.

None of her three friends had done that; they had simply shown up missing after the Prelate died. Verna's heart ached with the worry that they simply couldn't accept her as Prelate, and had chosen instead to leave the palace, but as much as it hurt, she prayed it was that, and not something darker that had taken them.

"If you hear anything, Phoebe," Vernasaid, trying to hide her concern, "please come tell me."

After the woman had gone, Verna placed her own shield inside the doors, a telltale shield she had devised herself; the delicate filaments spun from the spirit of her own unique Han, magic she would recognize as her own. Should anyone try to enter, they probably wouldn't detect the diaphanous shield, and would tear the fragile threads. Even if they did manage to detect it, their mere presence and the act of probing for a shield would still unavoidably tear it, and if they then repaired the weave with Han of their own, Verna would know that, too.

Hazy sunlight filtered through the trees near the garden wall, infusing the quiet wooded area of the retreat with a muted, dreamy light. The small woodlot ended at a clump of sweetbay, their branches heavy with hairy white buds. The trail beyond meandered into a well-tended patch of blue and yellow flowering groundcover surrounding islands of taller lace-lady ferns and monarch roses. Verna broke a twig off one of the sweetbays and idly savored its spicy aroma as she surveyed the wall while striding along the path.

At the rear of the plantings stood a thicket of shining sumac, the ribbon of small trees placed deliberately to screen the high wall protecting the Prelate's garden and give the illusion of more expansive grounds. She eyed the squat trunks and spreading branches critically; they might do, if nothing better could be found. She moved on; she was already late.