Clera rubbed at her neck where four thin parallel cuts wept blood, and shrugged. She drew a knife and advanced on the fallen with caution. Nona watched as Clera tugged aside the dead and put holes in those who weren’t yet quite finished with living. Nona’s limbs twitched from time to time, like those of the Lightless, and the memory of how close she’d come to being torn apart kept returning, distressingly vivid.
Nona had extracted herself from Kettle’s mind and woken inside her own flesh, still dimly aware of Kettle’s progress. Opening one eye a crack, Nona had found that Clera had dragged her to a place where the tunnel pierced a small natural void. Feigning unconsciousness, Nona had waited until Clera drew near and had reached out for the girl’s neck with all the speed she could muster.
“You’re going to get this collar off me, and I’m going back for Kettle,” Nona had said. The hint of flaw-blade along the middle of each finger had convinced Clera of Nona’s sincerity. Clera had produced an array of square lockpicks, suited to the simple heavy mechanism on the manacles, and in short order the collar had dropped away to clang against the rocks.
* * *
? ? ?
“SHE’S HERE,” CLERA called, standing up.
Nona crawled towards them. She lacked the energy to stand, though strangely her limbs seemed to be buzzing with the stuff, legs twitching, hands atremble, the occasional miniature lightning bolt arcing from one finger to the next. The Path’s gift was raw power, to be shaped and released, as light, as heat, as a blast. Nona’s rage had given the energies form as lightning. It seemed to suit the storm that had built within her over her captivity.
Kettle had been at the bottom of quite a heap of bodies. First those that had been holding her down, then those around her who had been blown forward over their kneeling friends. In two places holes an inch or so across had been burned through her robes, the flesh beneath scorched.
“She looks dead,” Clera said, failing to sound particularly sorry about it.
“She’s not dead.” Nona’s whole body convulsed, nearly pitching her forward onto her face. “I would know.”
Clera squatted again and held her hand against Kettle’s neck. “She’s not breathing . . . and . . . there’s no pulse. That’s pretty dead. Sorry, Nona.” She turned towards the Noi-Guin. “I wish you’d left bigger pieces. I really wanted my own black-skin.”
“She’s not dead.” Nona arrived at Kettle’s side. The nun did look extremely pale. Some of the Lightless corpses looked more lively.
She’s dead. Keot voiced his opinion.
“She’s not dead!” Nona reached out to grab Kettle, intending to shake her awake if need be. But just before her hands made contact fat streamers of lightning arced from each finger, running into Kettle. The nun convulsed, arms, legs, and head jerking up with considerable violence. A heartbeat later she fell back, limp, and in the next moment drew a huge gasping breath as if she had been underwater for far too long.
“Kettle!” Nona touched her shoulder, tentatively at first, then finding no further shocking occurred, gripped it hard. “Kettle?”
Kettle rolled over, choking. Nona noticed that the dark material of the nun’s leggings glistened with blood.
“Tear some strips of cloth, Clera: she’s got a knife wound in her thigh.” Nona returned her attention to Kettle. “Clera’s going to get you out of here. I’m going to get Zole.”
“You’re what?” Clera stopped tearing.
“We can’t just leave her here!”
“What’s Zole even doing— Wait, I don’t want to know. You can’t go after her. Neither of you can walk. Even if you were fighting fit it would be insanity.”
“Well I’m going.” Nona edged to the wall and used it to get to her feet.
You’re insane. Leave her! Keot sounded weak. Not only was he quieter than before, but the voice in her head cracked and trembled.
“We can’t leave her!” Nona snarled, angrier at the truth than at Keot or Clera. A tug at her ankle drew her gaze to the floor. Kettle had reached out to grasp her.
“Zole can hide in the walls. Go where we can’t follow.” Kettle’s voice still vibrated with the shock that had brought her back to life.
“That’s right!” Clera sounded surprised but she jumped on the idea. “If Yisht taught her rock-working she can hide anywhere. We’d turn up and instead of finding her we’d just find half the Tetragode hunting the halls and thirsty for blood.”
Nona wanted to shout, to curse, to grab the front of Clera’s tunic and shake her for her cowardice. But it was true. Zole had made the diversion that had saved them. Whatever it had cost her would be a price wasted if they now staggered into the arms of the Noi-Guin.
“Nona?” Clera had started to bind Kettle’s leg wound. “We fix Kettle, then we go.”
Nona looked away to where the tunnel turned. Beyond it some of the Lightless brought down with the grey mustard were still bubbling out their pain.
“All right.” She bit her lip, frowning. “We go.”
39
ABBESS GLASS
THE LIGHT OF the focus moon found chinks even in Sherzal’s shutters. Moonbeams lanced through, painting brilliant red spots on the far wall of Glass’s small room. Outside the slopes creaked, ice melting, water steaming, even the rocks themselves giving voice in the heat. Glass rose with a sigh. Sera and Melkir would be coming any moment now to escort her to the trial.
When, decades before, she had first been tasked to speak in public Glass had found herself seized by a fear that made no sense. Why did words she would say to any single person without hesitation become so hard to force from her lips when all those single persons were seated side by side? She had, of course, conquered her nerves in time, but even now, after a thousand sermons, a certain anxiety gripped her stomach before every performance. And Glass had, in all her long years, never performed before a crowd so high, mighty, rich, and hostile as the one she faced at midnight.
In such trials, the judges would, on rare occasions, find the accused innocent and they would be free to leave, reputation unblemished. If it was decided there was a case to answer, the accusing inquisitor would be granted licence to put the prisoner to question, using either light, moderate, or severe methods. Light methods included beating and sleep deprivation and were reserved for those deemed probably innocent. Very few prisoners subjected to severe methods during questioning ever failed to confess to the charges against them. Of course a guilty verdict was more often reached, in which case proceedings would simply move swiftly to the execution of the sentence.
The knock came sooner than Glass expected, before the focus had fully waned. At least they did knock though. The two guards treated her with a respect wholly lacking in Brother Pelter.