Temple of the Winds

Of those, Verna had named Phoebe one of her administrators. Only Phoebe was with them, now. Christabel, Verna's dearest friend, had turned to the Keeper of the Underworld; she had become a Sister of the Dark, and had been captured by Jagang. The last two of Verna's friends, Amelia and Janet, had been taken by Jagang, too. Janet had remained loyal to the Light, Verna knew, but she wasn't sure about Amelia. If she was still loyal..

Verna pressed trembling fingers to her lips at the thought of her two friends, two Sisters of the Light, being slaves to the dream walker. In the end, that decided her.

Verna peeked into Warren's tent. Unbidden, a smile came to her lips when she saw his shape on his blankets in the darkness, probably pondering some young prophet's thoughts. She smiled at how much she loved him, and at knowing how much he loved her.

Verna and Warren, having both grown up at the Palace of the Prophets, had known each other nearly their whole lives. Her gift as a sorceress was destined to be used to help train young wizards, while his gift as a wizard destined him toward prophecy.

Their paths didn't cross in a serious way until after Verna returned to the palace with Richard. Because of Richard and his huge impact on life at the palace, events brought Verna and Warren together, and their friendship grew. After Verna was named Prelate, during their struggle against the Sisters of the Dark, she and Warren had depended on each other for their very lives. It was during that struggle that they had become more than friends. After all those years in the palace, only now had they really found each other, and found love. At the thought of what she had to tell him, her smile faded. "Warren," she whispered, "are you awake?" "Yes," came a quiet reply.

Before he could have a chance to rise and take her into his arms and she lost her nerve, she stepped into his tent and blurted it out.

"Warren, I've made my decision. I'll have no argument from you. Do you understand? This is too important." He was silent, so she went on. "Amelia and Janet are my friends. Besides being Sisters of the Light in enemy hands, I love them. They would do the same for me, I know they would. I'm going after them, and any others I can rescue." "I know," he whispered.

He knew. What did that mean? Silence dragged on in the darkness. Verna frowned. It wasn't like Warren not to argue about such a thing. She had been ready for his argument, but not his calm acceptance.

Using her Han, the force of life and spirit through which the magic of the gift worked, Verna lit a flame in her palm arid passed it to a candle. He was huddled on his blanket, his knees pulled up and his head resting in his hands. She knelt down before him. "Warren? What's wrong?" His face came up. His blue eyes were rimmed with red. His face was sickly pale. Verna clutched his arm. "Warren, you don't look well. What's wrong?" "Verna," he whispered, "I have come to realize that being a prophet is not the wonder I had imagined."

Warren was the same age as Verna, but looked younger because he had remained at the Palace of the Prophets, under its spell that retarded aging, while she went on her twenty-odd-year journey to find Richard. Warren didn't look so young at the moment.

Warren had only recently had his first vision as a prophet. He had told her that the prophecy came as a vision of events, accompanied by words of the prophecy. The words were what were written down, but it was the vision that was the true prophecy. That was why it took a prophet to truly understand the meaning of the words; they invoked the vision that was being passed on from another prophet.

Hardly anyone knew this; everyone tried to understand prophecy by the words. Verna now knew, from what Warren had told her, that this method was inadequate at best and dangerous at worst. Prophecy was meant to be read by other prophets.

She frowned. "Have you had a vision? Another prophecy?" Warren ignored the question, and asked one of his own. "Verna, do we have any Rada'Han with us?"

"The collars around the young men who escaped with us are the only ones. We didn't have time to bring any extras. Why?" He put his head back in his hands.

Verna shook a finger at him. "Warren, if this is some trick to try to get me to stay here with you, it won't work. Do you hear me? It won't work. I'm going, and I'm going alone. That's final."

"Verna," he whispered, "I have to go with you."

"No. It's too dangerous. I love you too much. I won't risk anyone else. If I have to, I will order you, as Prelate, to stay here. I will. Warren." His head rose again. "Verna, I'm dying." Icy goose bumps tingled across her aims and thighs. "What? Warren-"

"I'm having the headaches. The headaches from the gift." Verna was choked silent with the realization of the deadly nature of what he had just said.