Blood of the Fold

He flipped his crimson cape back over his shoulder and straightened his sash of rank. "Come, break fast with me. We'll have a talk. I'll tell you about the dream I had last night."

Her eyes widened with excitement. "Another one, my lord general? Yes, I should like very much to hear about it. You honor me."

"Indeed." She followed as he marched through the tall brassbound double doors, into the Nicobarese palace. "We have matters to discuss. You will listen attentively, won't you, Lunetta?"

She shuffled along at his heels. "Yes, my lord general. Always."

He paused at a window with a heavy blue draper Drawing his dress knife, he sliced a good-sized piece from the side, including a strip of edging with gold tassels.

Licking her lips, Lunetta rocked from side to side, shifting her weight from one foot to the other as she waited.

Brogan smiled. "A pretty for you, Lunetta."

Eyes glistening, she clutched it excitedly to herself before holding it in one place, then another, searching for the perfect spot to add it to the others. She giggled with glee. "Thank you, Lord General. It be beautiful."

Be marched off, Lunetta scurrying to follow behind. Portraits of royalty hung from the rich paneling, and underfoot sumptuous carpets ran into the distance. Gold-leafed frames surrounded round-topped doors to either side. Gilt-edged mirrors reflected the passing flash of crimson.

A servant in brown-and-white livery bowed his way into the hall, holding out his ann to indicate the direction to the dining hall before scuttling along, looking sideways to be sure he kept himself clear of harm, and bowing every few steps.

Tobias Brogan was not a man who had ever frightened anyone with his size, but the servants, staff, Palace Guard, and partially dressed officials who charged into the hall to see what was causing such a fuss all paled at the sight of him — at seeing the lord general himself, the man who commanded the Blood of the Fold.

At his word banelings burned for their sins — whether they be beggars or soldiers, lords or ladies, or even kings.

CHAPTER 5

Sister Verna stood transfixed by the flames, their depths loosing transient whorls of glittering colors and shimmering rays alive with swaying movement, fingers twisting in a dance, luring in air that flapped their clothes in passing, and casting forth heat that would have driven them all back, if not for their shields. The huge bloodred sun hung half emerged at the horizon, at last abating the glory of the fire that had consumed the bodies. A few of the Sisters around her still sobbed softly, but Sister Verna had drained all the tears she had to give.

Well over one hundred boys and young men stood in a ring around the fire, with twice as many Sisters of the Light and novices circled inside them. Except for one Sister and one boy symbolically standing watch over the palace, and of course the one Sister who had become deranged and was locked in an empty, shielded room for her own good, all were on the hill above Tanimura watching the flames leap skyward. Even with this many people standing together, each was touched by profound loneliness, and stood withdrawn in introspection and prayer. As prescribed, no one spoke at the funeral rite.

Sister Verna's back hurt from standing ward all night over the bodies. Through the hours of darkness they had all stood, praying, and maintaining the linked shield over the corpses in symbolic protection of the revered. At least it was a relief to be away from the incessant drumming down in the city.

At first light the shield had been dropped and each had sent forth a flow of their Han into the pyre, igniting it, Fire, fed by magic, had raced through the stacked logs and the two heavily shrouded bodies, one short and squat, the other tall and powerfully built, creating an inferno of divine power.

They had had to search the vaults for guidance as no one living had ever participated in the ceremony; it had not been performed in almost eight hundred years — 791, to be precise: the last time a prelate had died.

As they had learned in the old books, only the Prelate was to have her soul released to the Creator's protection in the sacred funeral rite, but in this case the Sisters had all voted to grant the same privilege to the one who had struggled so valiantly to save her. The books had said that dispensation from the exclusion could only be granted by unanimous consent. It had taken heated persuasion to make it so.

By custom, as the sun finally and fully gained the horizon, washing the fire with the complete spectacle of Creator's own light, the flow of Han was withdrawn. Their power recalled, the pyre collapsed, leaving only a stain of ash and a few charred logs to mark the site of the ceremony on the green hilltop. Smoke curled upward, dissipating into the silent, brightening day.

Grayish white ashes were all that was left in the world of the living of Prelate Annalina, and the prophet Nathan. It was done.