Stone of Tears

Her face heated with anger at the thought. How could this be? Someone had made a serious mistake. A mistake. An oversight. It had to be that.

A maidservant on her hands and knees, concentrating on wiping at a spot on a carpet, looked up just in time to leap back out of the way with a “Forgive me, Sister.” On her hands and knees, she touched her head to the floor with another apology.

Grown. It would have been difficult enough to turn this one if he were still a boy. But a man? She shook her head again. Grown. She smacked the rod against her thigh in frustration. Two maidservants nearby jumped at the sound and fell to their knees, burying their tightly closed eyes behind prayerful hands.

Well, grown or not, he would have a Rada’Han around his neck, and a whole palace full of Sisters to watch over him. But even wearing a Rada’Han, he was still grown into a man. And the Seeker. He might be difficult to control. Dangerously difficult.

If necessary, she guessed, he could always have a “training accident.” If not that, there were certainly enough other dangers to one with the gift, dangers that could leave a man worse than dead. But if she could turn him, or use him, that would make all the trouble worthwhile.

She turned into a hall she at first thought empty, then noticed a young woman standing in the shadows between lamps, gazing out a window. She thought she recognized her. One of the novices. She stopped behind the young woman and folded her arms. The novice tapped her toe on the carpet as she leaned on her elbows through the opened window, looking at the gates below.

She cleared her throat. The young woman spun, gasped, and dropped into a curtsy.

“Forgive me, Sister, I didn’t hear you coming. A good evening to you.”

When the big brown eyes came up, she put the end of the rod under the young woman’s chin and lifted it a little more. “Pasha, isn’t it?”

“Yes, Sister. Pasha Maes. Novice, third rank. Next in line to be named.”

“Next in line,” she sniffed. “Presumption, my dear, does not befit a Sister, and less so a novice. Even one of the third rank.”

Pasha cast her eyes down and gave a curtsy, as best she could with the rod still under her chin. “Yes, Sister. Forgive me.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Just watching, Sister. Watching the night.”

“Watching the night. I would say you were watching the gates. Am I wrong, novice?”

Pasha tried to look down, but the rod lifted her chin, keeping her eyes to her superior. “No, Sister,” she admitted, “you are not wrong. I was watching the gates.” She licked her full lips several times.

At last she spilled out the words. “I heard the talk, the talk among the girls. They say, well, they say three of the Sisters have been gone a long time now, and that could only mean they are bringing back one with the gift. A new one. In all the years I have been here, I,have never seen a new one brought in.” She licked her lips again. “Well, I am… I mean… I hope to be next in line. And if I am to be named, I will have to be assigned a new one.” She knitted her fingers together. “I so want to be named a Sister. I have studied hard, worked hard. Waited and waited. And no new one has come yet. Forgive me Sister, but I just can’t help being excited, and hopeful, that I will be worthy. So… yes, I was watching the gate, hoping I would see him brought in.”

“And you think you are strong enough to handle the job? To handle a new one?”

“Yes, Sister. I study and practice my forms every day.”

She looked down her nose at the novice. “Is that so? Show me.”

As they stared at each other, she felt her feet rise off the ground a few inches. Solid grip of air, strong. Not bad. She wondered if the novice could handle interference. With that thought, fire ignited at both ends of the hall, sweeping with a howl toward the two women. Pasha didn’t flinch. The fire hit a wall of air before reaching them. Air was not the best for fire. A small error Pasha quickly corrected. Before the fire burned through, the air became moist, dripping. The fire hissed out.

Although she didn’t try to move, she knew she couldn’t. She could feel that the grip held her firmly. She turned it cold, brittle, with ice, and broke it. When she was free, she lifted Pasha from the floor. Defensive webs from the girl wove through her snaking onslaught, but failed to break the grip. Her feet rose again. Impressive—the girl could counter even while being held.

Spells tangled together, conflicting, fighting, snarling into knots. Each matched and defended, striking back at any opportunity. The silent, motionless battle raged on for a time, the two of them hanging inches off the ground.