*
Sandreena stood panting, having taken out her bad temper on a pell for nearly an hour. Her right arm ached from the repeated bashing she had given the stationary wooden target. Like all members of her Order, she carried a mace. The tradition of not using edged weapons was lost in time, but believed to be part of her Order’s doctrine to strive for balance. Those she fought were given every opportunity to yield, even to the point of death. Edged weapons spilled blood that could not be given back. She had wondered on more than one occasion whether the original proponent of the tradition knew how much damage could be done to a body with a well-handled mace. A broken skull was as fatal as bleeding.
A girl wearing the garb of the Order, someone’s squire, or a page, approached her. She was very pretty, and for a moment Sandreena dryly considered that she was probably on the Father-Bishop’s personal staff. Sandreena nodded a greeting. ‘Sister.’
The young acolyte held out a small, black wooden box. ‘The Father-Bishop asked me to give this to you. He said you would understand.’
Sandreena laughed. She was on his staff.
The girl looked slightly confused and Sandreena said, ‘Sorry, just an idle thought after a long practice. Are you training for the Order Adamant?’
She shook her head. ‘I am a scribe and cleric,’ she answered. ‘I serve in the Temple library.’
‘Ah,’ said Sandreena. The Father-Bishop had one of his little spies where she could monitor all comings and goings; as well as being the repository for all the Order’s valuable volumes, librams, tomes, and scrolls, the library was where all of the scribes did their superior’s bidding. She took the box. ‘Thank you.’
She watched the slender girl walk purposefully away and for a fleeting moment wondered what her life story had been before coming here; did she have a loving father and a mother who wished for grandchildren? Was she a fugitive from a harsh and uncaring world? Putting aside such pointless thoughts, she opened the box.
She understood immediately what the contents of the box heralded. Within lay a dull, pearl-white stone set within a simple metal clasp and hung from a plain leather thong. She lifted it out with a resigned sigh. It was a soul gateway. Before she departed on her assignment, Sandreena would now have to endure a very long and difficult session with one of the more powerful Brothers of the Order, preparing her stone, so that in the event of her death, her spirit could be recalled to the Temple, and questioned by those who could speak to the departed. If the magic used were strong enough, she could even be resurrected in the Temple. This act was the most powerful magic available to the Temple, rare in the extreme and most difficult to execute. She wondered if her scars would reappear in the event of her resurrection; the scar on her thigh had a habit of itching at the most inconvenient times. Then she considered the stone.
Its presentation meant that whatever she was being sent to discover was important. So important that even if she didn’t survive, the discovery must still be reported to the Temple, even if that report came from her ghost, kept from Lims-Kragma’s Hall for a few additional hours. Or, should the need be great, and if Lims-Kragma were willing, she might escape death entirely.
Despite the heat of the day and her exertion, she felt a chill and a need to cleanse herself.
*
From a window high above the marshalling yard behind the Temple, Father-Bishop Creegan watched the girl regarding the soul gate he had sent to her, and said, ‘She’s young.’
The man standing at his shoulder said, ‘Yes, but she’s as tough as any Knight-Adamant in the Order. If Mathias were still sound, or Kendall still alive, I’d say either of them would do, but right now she’s the best mix of skill, strength, and determination you have.’
Creegan turned to face his companion, a man he had known for most of his life, though only well over the last three years. He was dressed in the garb of a commoner, and a rather dirty one at that, his hair was scruffy and his chin beard surrounded by days of stubble. Even his fingernails were dirty, but the Father-Bishop of the Order of the Shield of the Weak knew that this was but one of several guises employed by James Dasher Jamison.
‘Are you acting on behalf of the Crown?’
‘In a manner,’ said the most dangerous man in the Kingdom from Creegan’s point of view. Not only was he the grandson of the most important Duke in the Kingdom of the Isles, he was also reputed to be the mastermind behind the Kingdom’s intelligence services, and even, according to some, in control of the criminal brotherhood known as the Mockers.
Jim Dasher looked out of the window for a moment longer, then said, ‘An impossibly beautiful woman, that one.’
‘As dangerous as she is lovely,’ said Creegan.