She nodded. “And you had better hope Swordsman An-dellmere is careful and doesn’t fall off a wall and break his neck, or I will come looking for you.” He gave an annoyed grunt. “But if you hear him repeat so much as a single word of what he heard tonight, you find a Sister before you stop to take another breath.”

Through the door and halfway down the inner hall, she stopped and felt the shields. She held the book to her breast in both arms as she concentrated, searching for the breach. She smiled when she found it: a tiny twist in the weave. He had probably been picking at it for years. She closed her eyes and wove the breach together, binding it with a barb of power that would thwart him if he tried the same thing again. She was ruefully impressed by his ingenuity, and his persistence. Well, she sighed to herself, what else had he to do?

Inside his spacious apartments the lamps were lit. Tapestries hung on one of the walls, and the floors were generously covered with the local colorful, blue and yellow carpets. The bookshelves were half empty. Books that belonged on them lay open everywhere; some on the chairs and couches, some facedown on pillows on the floor, and some stacked in disheveled piles next to his favorite chair beside the cold hearth.

Sister Margaret went to the elegant, polished rosewood writing table to the side of the room. She sat at the padded chair and, opening the book on the desktop, flipped through it until she came to a clean page at the end of the writing. She didn’t see the Prophet anywhere. He was probably in the garden. The double doors to the small garden were open, letting in a gentle breath of warm air. From a drawer in the desk she took an ink bottle, pen, and a small sprinkle box of fine sand, setting them beside the open book of prophecies.

When she looked up, he was standing in the half light in the doorway to the garden, watching her. He was in black robes with the hood drawn up. He stood motionless, his hands in the sleeves of the opposite arms. He filled the doorway not just with his size, but with his presence.

She wiggled the stopper from the ink bottle. “Good evening, Nathan.”

He took three strong, slow strides out of the shadows and into the lamplight, pushing back the black hood to uncover his full head of long, straight, white hair that touched his broad shoulders. The top of the metal collar just barely showed at the neck of his robes. The muscles in his strong, clean-shaven jaw tightened. White eyebrows hooded his deep, dark, azure eyes. He was a ruggedly handsome man, despite being the oldest man she had ever known.

And, he was quite mad. Or he was quite clever, and wanted everyone to think he was mad. She wasn’t sure which was true. No one was.

Either way, he was probably the most dangerous man alive.

“Where is the Prelate?” he asked in a deep, menacing voice.

She picked up the pen. “It is the middle of the night, Nathan. We are not going to wake the Prelate simply because you throw a fit, demanding she come. Any Sister can write down a prophecy. Why don’t you sit down and we can begin.”

He came to the desk, opposite her, towering over her. “don’t test me, Sister Margaret. This is important.”

She glowered up at him. “And don’t you test me, Nathan. Need I remind you that you will lose? Now that you have gotten me out of my bed in the middle of the night, let’s get this over so I may return to it and try to salvage a part of a night’s sleep.”

“I asked for the Prelate. This is important.”

“Nathan, we have yet to decipher prophecies you gave us years ago. It could not possibly make any difference if you give this one to me and she reads it in the morning, or next week, or next year for that matter.”

“I have no prophecy to give.”

Her anger rose. “You have called me from my bed for company?”

A broad smile spread on his lips. “Would you object? It’s a beautiful night. You are a handsome enough woman, if a little tightly wound.” He cocked his head to the side. “No? Well, since you have come, and must have a prophecy, would you like me to tell you of your death?”

The Creator will take me when He chooses. I will leave it to Him.”

He nodded, staring off over her head. “sister Margaret, would you have a woman sent to visit me? I find I am lonely of late.”

“It is not the task of the Sisters to procure harlots for you.”

“But they have seen to a courtesan for me in the past, when I have given prophecies.”

With deliberate care, she set the pen on the desk. “And the last one left before we could talk to her. She ran back half naked and half mad. How she got through the guards, we still don’t know.

“You promised not to speak prophecies to her. You promised, Nathan. Before we could find her she had repeated what you had told her. It spread like a wild fire. It started a civil war. Nearly six thousand people died because of what you told that young woman.”

His worried, white eyebrows went up. “really? I never knew.”

She took a deep breath and spoke in a soft voice to control her anger. “Nathan, I myself have told you this three times now.”

He looked down with sad eyes. “I’m sorry, Margaret.”

“Sister Margaret.”

“Sister? You? You are far too young and attractive to be a Sister. Surely you are but a novice.”

She stood. “Good night, Nathan.” She closed the cover on the book and started to pick it up.

“Sit down, Sister Margaret,” came his voice, again full of power and menace.

“You have nothing to tell me. I am returning to my bed.”

“I did not say I had nothing to tell you. I said I had no prophecy to give.”

“If you have had no vision and have no prophecy, what could you possibly have to tell me?”

He withdrew his hands from his sleeves and placed his knuckles on the desk, leaning close to her face. “sit down, or I won’t tell you.”

Margaret contemplated using her power, but decided that it was easier, and quicker, to simply make him happy and sit down. “All right, I’m sitting. What is it?”

He leaned over even more, his eyes going wide. There has been a fork in the prophecies,” he whispered.

She felt herself rising out of the chair. “When?”

“Just today. This very day.”

Then why have you called me in the middle of the night?”

“I called out as soon as it came to me.”

“And why have you not waited until the morning to tell us this? There have been forks before.”

He slowly shook his head as he smiled. “Not like this one.”

She didn’t relish telling the others. No one was going to be happy about this. No one but Warren, that is. He would be in a state of glee to have a piece to fit into the puzzle of the prophecies. The others, though, would not be pleased. This meant years of work.

Some prophecies were “if and “then” prophecies, bifurcating into several possibilities. There were prophecies that followed each branch, prophecies to foretell events of each fork, since not even the prophecies always knew which events would come to pass.

Once one of these kind of prophecies came to pass and resolved which fork was to be true, and one of the alternatives took place, a prophecy had forked, as it was called. All the prophecies that followed down the path that had been voided now became false prophecies. These themselves multiplied, like the branches of a tree, clogging the sacred prophecies with confusing, contradicting, and false information. Once a fork had occurred, the prophecies they now knew to be false had to be followed as far as could be traced, and pulled out.

It was a formidable task. The further the event in question was from the fork, the more difficult it was to know if it was of the false fork, or of the true. Worse, it was difficult to tell if two prophecies, one following another, belonged together. or if they were to happen a thousand years apart. Sometimes the events themselves helped them to decipher where it was to be placed chronologically, but only sometimes. The further in time from the fork, the more difficult was the task of relating them.