Blood of the Fold

Warren winced in frustration. "But that's who you are. I can call you no less."

She sighed. "The Prelate, Prelate Annalina, asked her friends to call her Ann. If I am the Prelate now, then I ask you to address me as Verna."

Warren thought it over with a frown. "Well… I guess we are friends."

"Warren, we are more than friends; you are the only one I can trust. There is no one else, now."

He nodded. "Verna, then." He twisted his mouth as he thought. "Verna, you're right: I know the books. I know the requirements, and you fit them all. You're young, for a Prelate, but only by precedent; there's no prohibition in law about age. More than that, you have the Han of three Sisters. There is no Sister, no Sister of the Light, anyway, who is your equal. That in itself makes you more than qualified; power, the command of Han, is a prime consideration to be Prelate."

"Warren, there has to be something. Think."

His blue eyes reflected the depth of his knowledge, and regret. "Verna, I know the books. They're explicit. Once lawfully named, they specifically forbid the Prelate from abandoning her duty. Only in death may she cede the calling. Short of Annalina Aldurren coming back to life, and reclaiming her office, there is no way for you to disqualify yourself, or to resign. You are Prelate."

Verna could think of no solution. She was trapped. "That woman has been twisting my life for as long as I can remember. She keyed that spell to me, I know she did. She trapped me into this. I wish I could strangle her!"

Warren laid a gentle hand to her arm. "Verna, would you ever allow a Sister of the Dark to become Prelate?"

"Of course not."

"Do you think Ann would?"

"No, but I don't see — "

"Verna, you said you can trust none but me. Think of Ann. She was trapped, too. She couldn't allow the chance of one of them becoming Prelate. She was dying. She did the only thing she could. She could trust no one but you."

Verna stared into his eyes as his words echoed in her mind, and then she slumped down on a smooth, dark rock beside the water. Her face sank into her hands. "Dear Creator," she whispered, "am I this selfish?"

Warren sat down beside her. "Selfish? Stubborn, at times, but never selfish."

"Oh Warren, she must have been so lonely. At least she had Nathan there with her… at the end."

Warren nodded. After a moment, he glanced over at her. "We're in a lot of trouble, aren't we, Verna."

"A whole palace full of it. Warren, all wrapped up nice and neat with a gold ring."

CHAPTER 7

Richard covered his mouth as he yawned. He was so tired from not getting any sleep the night before, or much, for that matter, in the last two weeks, to say nothing of the fight with the mriswith, that it was a struggle to put one foot in front of the other. The smells ran from foul to fragrant and back again seemingly every few paces as he progressed through the convoluted maze of streets, staying close to the buildings and out of the thickest of the commotion while trying his best to follow the directions Mistress Sanderholt had given him. He hoped he wasn't lost.

Always knowing where he was, and how he was going to get to where he was going, was a matter of honor for a guide, but since Richard had been a woods guide, he guessed it could be pardoned if he did became lost in a great city. Besides, he was no longer a woods guide, nor did he expect he would ever be one again.

He knew where the sun was, though, and no matter what the streets and buildings did in their efforts to confuse him with their teeming thoroughfares, dark alleys, and warrens of narrow, twisting side streets among ancient, windowless buildings laid out to no design, southeast was still southeast. He simply used taller buildings as landmarks, instead of monarch trees or prominent terrain, and tried not to worry about the exact streets he was supposed to follow.

Richard was weaving his way through the throngs of people, past shabbily dressed hawkers with pots of dried roots, baskets of pigeons, fish, and eels, charcoal makers pushing carts and calling out the price in song, past cheesemongers outfitted in crisp red-and-yellow livery, butcher shops with pig, sheep, and stag carcasses hung on spike racks, salt sellers offering different grades and textures, shopkeepers selling breads, pies and pastries, poultry, spices, sacks of grain, barrels of wines and ale, and a hundred other items displayed in windows or on tables outside shops, and past people inspecting the wares, chatting, and complaining about the prices, when he realized the flutter in his gut was a warning — he was being followed.

Suddenly wide awake, he turned and saw a crush of faces, but none he recognized. He held his black cape over his sword so as not to draw attention to himself. At least the ever-present soldiers didn't seem particularly interested in him, although some of the D'Harans looked up when he passed near, as if they could sense something, but couldn't place its source. Richard hurried his steps.