Blood of the Fold

The woman who had smiled at her when she was little, filling her with inspiration, had broken her heart.

Verna drew the comforter up as she blinked at the watery walls of the sanctuary. AH she had ever wanted was to be a Sister of the Light. She had wanted to be one of those wondrous women who used her gift to do the Creator's work here in this world. She had given her life and her heart to the Palace of the Prophets.

Verna remembered the day they came and told her that her mother had died. Old age, they said.

Her mother didn't have the gift, and so was of no use to the palace. Her mother didn't live close, and Verna only rarely saw her. When her mother did travel to the palace for a visit, she was frightened because Verna didn't age to her eyes, the way a normal person aged. She could never understand it, no matter how many times Vema tried to explain the spell. Verna knew it was because her mother feared to really listen. She feared magic.

Though the Sisters made no attempt to conceal the existence of the spell about the palace that slowed their aging, people without the gift had difficulty fathoming it It was magic that had no meaning to their lives. The people were proud to live near the palace, near its splendor and might, and although they viewed the palace with reverence, that reverence was edged with fearful caution. They didn't dare to focus their minds on things of such power, much the same way as they enjoyed the warmth of the sun, but didn' t dare to stare at it.

When her mother died, Verna had been at the palace for forty-seven years, yet appeared to have aged only to adolescence.

Verna remembered the day they came and told her thatLeitis, her daughter, had died. Old age, they said.

Vema's daughter, Jedidiah's daughter, didn't have the gift, and so was of no use to the palace. It would be better, they said, if she were raised by a family who would love her and give her a normal life; a life at the palace was no life for one without the gift. Verna had the Creator's work to do, and so acquiesced.

Joining the gift of the male and the female created a better, though still remote, chance of the offspring being born with the gift. Thus, Sisters and wizards could look forward to approval, if not official encouragement, should they conceive a child.

As per the arrangement the palace always made in such circumstances, Leilis didn't know that the people who raised her weren't her real parents. Verna guessed it was for the best. What kind of mother could a Sister of the Light be? The palace had provided for the family, to insure Verna wouldn't worry for her daughter's well-being.

Several times Verna had visited, as a Sister merely bringing the Creator's blessing to a family of honest, hardworking people, and Leitis had seemed happy. The last time Verna had visited, Leitis had been gray and stooped, and was able to walk only with the aid of a cane. Leitis didn't remember Verna as the same Sister who had visited when she was playing catch-the-fox with her young friends, sixty years before.

Leitis had smiled at Verna, at the blessing, and said, "Thank you, Sister. So talented, for one so young."

"How are you, Leitis? Have you a good life?"

Verna's daughter smiled distantly. "Oh, Sister, I've had a long and happy life My husband died five years ago, but other than that, the Creator has blessed me/ She had chuckled. "I only wish I still had my curly brown hair. It was once a^ lovely as yours, yes it was — I swear it."

Dear Creator, how long had it been since Leitis had passed on? It had to be fifty years. Leitis had had children, but Verna had scrupulously avoided learning so much as their names.

The lump in her throat as she wept was nearly choking her.

She had given so much to be a Sister. She had just wanted to help people. She had never asked for anything.

And she had been played a fool.

She hadn't wanted to be Prelate, but she was just beginning to think she could use the post to better the lives of people, to do the work for which she had sacrificed everything. Instead, she was again being played for a fool.

Vema clutched the comforter to herself as she cried in racking sobs until the light was long gone from the little windows in the peaks and her throat was raw.

In the heart of the night, she finally decided to go to her bed. She didn't want to stay in the Prelate's sanctuary; it only seemed to be mocking her. She was no: the Prelate. She had finally exhausted all her tears, and felt only numb humiliation She couldn't get the door to open, and had to crawl around on the floor until she found the Prelate's ring. After she had closed the door, she put the ring back on her finger, a reminder, a beacon, of the dupe she was.