Verna knew the Prelate's hand. When she had been on her journey to recover Richard, and after she had found him but was forbidden to interfere with him in any way, or to use his collar to help control him, yet was expected to bring him back, a grown man, unlike any other they had ever recovered, she had sent an angry message to the palace: / am the Sister in charge of this boy. These directives are beyond reason if not absurd. I demand to know the meaning of these instructions. I demand to know upon whose authority they are given.

She had received back a message: You will do as you are instructed, or suffer the consequences. Do not presume to question the orders of the palace again. — In my own hand, The Prelate.

The message of reprimand the Prelate had sent her was burned in her memory. The handwriting was engraved in her memory. The hand on the piece of paper was the same.

That message had been a thorn in her side, forbidding her to do the very things she had been trained to do. It was only back at the palace that she discovered that Richard had Subtractive Magic, and had she used the collar he would have very likely killed her. The Prelate had been saving her life, but it nettled her that once again she had not been informed. Verna guessed that was what annoyed her the most; the Prelate not telling her why.

She understood, of course. There had been Sisters of the Dark at the palace, and the Prelate could not take any risk or the whole world would be consumed; but emotionally it still vexed her. Reason and passion were not always in agreement. As Prelate, she was coming to see that sometimes you couldn't convince people of the need of something, and the only option was simply to give an order. Sometimes you had to use people to do what what must be done.

Verna dropped the paper in the bowl and ignited it with a flow of Han. She watched it burn, just to be sure it was entirely reduced to ash.

Vema squeezed the journey book, her journey book, tightly in her hand. It was good to have it back. Of course, it wasn't really hers, it belonged to the palace, but she had carried it so many years that it felt like hers, like an old, familiar friend.

The thought struck her abruptly — where was the other one? This book had a twin. Where was its twin? Who had it?

She regarded the book with sudden trepidation. She was holding something potentially dangerous, and once again Annalina was not telling her all of it. It was entirely possible that its twin was held by a Sister of the Dark. This could be Annalina's way of telling her to find its twin, and she would find a Sister of the Dark, But how? She couldn't simply write, 'Who are you, and where are you? in the book.

Vema kissed her ring finger, her ring, and then stood.

Guard this with your life.

Journeys were dangerous. Sisters had been captured, and on occasion killed, by hostile peoples who were protected by magic of their own. In those instances, only her dacra, a knifelike weapon with the ability to instantly extinguish life, could protect her, if she were quick enough. Verna still had hers up her sleeve. On the back of her belt Verna had long ago sewn a pouch to secret the journey book and keep it safe.

She slipped the little book into its glovelike pouch. Verna patted her belt. It felt good to have the journey book back there.

Guard this with your life.

Dear Creator, who had the other?

When Verna burst through the door to her outer office, Sister Phoebe jumped up as if someone has stuck her in the rump with a sharp stick.

Her round face went red. "Prelate.. you startled me. You weren't in your office…. I thought you had gone to bed."

Verna's gaze swept the desk scattered with reports. "I thought I told you that you had done enough work for one day, and to go get some rest."

Phoebe twisted her fingers together as she winced. "You did, but I remembered some tallies I had forgotten to verify, and I was afraid you would see them and call me to account, so I ran back to check the numbers."

Verna had somewhere to go, but rethought how she had planned to go about it. She clasped her hands.

"Phoebe, how would you like to do a task that Prelate Annalina always trusted to her administrators?"

Sister Phoebe's fingers stilled. "Really? What is it?"

Verna gestured back toward her office. "I've been out in my garden, praying for guidance, and it has come to me that in these trying times I should consult the prophecies. Whenever Prelate Annalina did the same, she always had her administrators clear the vaults so that she wouldn't feel encumbered by prying eyes watching what she read. How would you like to order the vaults cleared for me, like her administrators did for her?"

The young woman bounced on the balls of her feet. "Really, Verna? That would be splendid."

Young woman indeed, Verna thought in annoyance, they were the same age, even if they didn't look it. "Let's be off then. I have palace business to attend to."

Sister Phoebe snatched up her white shawl, throwing it over her shoulders as she bolted through the door.

"Phoebe." The round face peeked back around the doorframe. "If Warren is in the vaults, have him stay. I have a few questions, and he would be better able to direct me to the proper volumes than any of the others would. It will save me time."

"All right Verna," Phoebe said in a breathless voice. She liked doing paperwork probably because it made her feel useful in a way she never would have until she had another hundred years of experience, but Verna had cut thai time short by appointing her the Prelate's administrator. The prospect of wielding orders, though, seemed to be of even more interest than paperwork. "I'll run ahead and have them cleared by the time you get there." She grinned. "I'm glad it was me here, instead of Dulcinia."

Vema remembered how she and Phoebe used to be of such like personalities. Verna wondered if she really had such an immature temperament when Annalina had sent her on her journey. It seemed to her that in the years she had been gone she had grown older than Phoebe in more than just appearance. Perhaps she had simply learned more out in the world, rather than in the cloistered life of the Palace of the Prophets.

Verna smiled. "Almost seems like one of our old pranks, doesn't it?"

Phoebe giggled. “Sure does, Verna. Except it won't end in us stringing a thousand prayer brads." She dashed off down the hall, her skirts and shawl flapping behind.

By the time Verna had made it down into the heart of the palace, to the huge, round, six-foot-thick stone door leading into vaults carved from the bedrock atop which sat the palace, Phoebe was just leading six Sisters, two novices, and three young men out. Novices and young men were given lessons at all hours of the day and night. Sometimes they were even awakened in the dead of night for lessons, such as ones down in the vaults. The Creator didn't keep hours; they were expected to learn that in His work they didn't, either. They all bowed as one.

"The Creator's blessing on you," Verna said to them as a group. She was about to apologize for chasing them from the vaults when they were busy, but she cut herself off, reminding herself that she was the Prelate and didn't need to make excuses to anyone. The Prelate's word was law, and was followed without question. Still, it was hard not to explain herself.

"All clear, Prelate," Sister Phoebe said in an august tone. Phoebe inclined her head toward the room beyond. "Except the one you asked to see. He's in one of the small rooms."

Verna nodded to her assistant and then turned her attention to the novices, who were in a state of wide-eyed awe. "And how are your studies coming?"

Trembling like leaves on a quaking aspen, both girls curtsied. One swallowed. "Very well, Prelate," she squeaked, her face going red.