The Sisters were assembled for their morning meditation—an hour of silence, followed by singing, followed by a quick sparring session. Ethyne and Mae entered the room just as the first notes of song began to drift down the stone hallways. The Sisters’ voices stopped as Ethyne stepped into their midst. The baby gurgled and cooed. The Sisters stared with open mouths. Finally one Sister spoke.
“You,” she said.
“You left us,” said another.
“No one ever leaves,” said a third.
“I know,” Ethyne said. “Knowledge is a terrible power indeed.” It was the unofficial motto of the Sisterhood. No one knew more than the Sisters. No one had more access to knowledge. And yet here they were. Without an inkling. She pressed her lips together. Well, she thought. That changes today.
“I left. And it wasn’t easy. And I am sorry. But my dear Sisters, there is something I must tell you before I leave again.” She leaned in and kissed the forehead of her son. “I must tell you a story.”
Wyn pressed his back against the wall next to the doorway leading into the Meditation Room.
In his hand he had a length of chain. And a padlock. The key he would press into Ethyne’s hand. His heart pounded at just the thought of it. He had never broken a rule before. But Ethyne was so kind. And the Tower was so . . . not.
He pressed his ear against the door. Ethyne’s voice rang like a bell.
“The Witch is not in the woods,” she said. “The Witch is here. She formed this Sisterhood long ago. She concocted stories about another Witch, a baby-eating Witch. The Witch in this Sisterhood fed on the sorrows of the Protectorate. Our families. Our friends. Our sorrows were great, and they have made her strong. I feel that I have known this for a long time, but a cloud had settled over my heart and mind—the same cloud that has settled over every house and building and living soul in the Protectorate. That cloud of sorrow has, for years, blocked my own knowledge. But now the clouds have burned away and the sun is shining. And I can see clearly. And I think you can, too.”
Wyn had a key ring on his belt. The next step in the plan.
“I don’t want to take up any more of your time, so I will leave now with those who are willing. To the rest of you, I say, thank you. I treasured my time as Sister to you all.”
Ethyne came striding out of the room with nine Sisters following behind. She gave Wyn a brief nod. He quickly closed the door and wound the chain around the handles in a tight knot, securing it with the lock. He pressed the key into Ethyne’s hand. She wrapped her fingers around his own and gave a tender squeeze.
“The novitiate?”
“In the manuscript room. They’ll be doing their copywork until suppertime. I locked the door and they have no idea they are locked in.”
Ethyne nodded. “Good,” she said. “I don’t want to frighten them. I’ll speak to them in a bit. First, let’s release the prisoners. The Tower is meant to be a center for learning, not a tool of tyranny. Today the doors are opening.”
“Even to the library?” Wyn said hopefully.
“Especially the library. Knowledge is powerful, but it is a terrible power when it is hoarded and hidden. Today, knowledge is for everyone.” She hooked her arm in Wyn’s, and they hurried through the Tower, unlocking doors.
The mothers of the lost children of the Protectorate found themselves beset by visions. This had been happening for days—ever since the Head Sister had slid into the forest, though no one knew she had done so. All they knew was that the fog was lifting. And suddenly their minds saw things. Impossible things.
Here is the baby in the arms of an old woman.
Here is the baby with a belly full of stars.
Here is the baby in the arms of a woman who is not me. A woman who calls herself Mama.
“It’s just a dream,” the mothers told themselves over and over and over again. People in the Protectorate were accustomed to dreams. The fog made people sleepy, after all. They sorrowed in their dreaming and they sorrowed in their waking up. This was nothing new.
But now the fog was lifting. And these weren’t just dreams. They were visions.
Here is the baby with his new brothers and sisters. They love him. They love him so much. And he shines in their presence.
Here is the baby taking her first step. Look at how pleased she is! Look at how she glows!
Here is the baby climbing a tree.
Here is the baby jumping off a high rock into a deep pool in the company of cheering friends.
Here is the baby learning to read.
Here is the baby building a house.
Here is the baby holding the hand of her beloved and saying yes, I love you, too.
They were so real, these visions. So clear. They felt as though they could smell the warm scent of the children’s scalps, and touch those scabbed knees and hear those far-off voices. They found themselves crying out the names of their children, feeling the loss as keenly as though it had only just happened, even those to whom it had happened decades ago.
But as the clouds broke and the sky began to clear, they found themselves feeling something else, too. Something they had never felt before.
Here is the baby holding her own sweet baby. My grandchild. Here is her knowing that no one will ever take that child away.
Hope. They felt hope.
Here is the baby in his circle of friends. He is laughing. He loves his life.
Joy. They felt joy.
Here is the baby holding hands with her husband and family and staring up at the stars. She has no idea I am her mother. She never, ever knew me.
The mothers stopped what they were doing. They ran outside. They fell to their knees and turned their faces to the sky. The visions were just images, they told themselves. They were just dreams. They weren’t real.
And yet.
They were so, so real.
Once upon a time, the families had submitted to the Robes and said yes to the Council and given up their babies to the Witch. They did this to save the people of the Protectorate. They did this knowing that their babies would die. Their babies were dead.
But what if they were not?
And the more they asked, the more they wondered. And the more they wondered, the more they hoped. And the more they hoped, the more the clouds of sorrow lifted, drifted, and burned away in the heat of a brightening sky.
I don’t mean to be rude, Grand Elder Gherland,” wheezed Elder Raspin. He was so old. Gherland was amazed that the geezer could still stand. “But facts are facts. This is all your fault.”
The gathering in front of the Tower started with just a few citizens holding signs, but quickly swelled to a crowd with banners, songs, speeches, and other atrocities. The Elders, seeing this, had retreated into the Grand Elder’s great house and sealed the windows and the doors.
Now the Grand Elder sat in his favorite chair and glowered at his compatriots. “My fault?” His voice was quiet. The maids, cooks, assistant cooks, and pastry chef had all made themselves scarce, which meant there was no food to be had, and Gherland’s gullet was quite empty. “My fault?” He let that sit for a moment. “Pray. Explain why.”
Raspin began to cough and looked as though he may expire right there. Elder Guinnot attempted to continue.
“This rabble-rouser is part of your family. And there she is. Out there. Rousing the rabble.”
“The rabble had already been roused before she got there,” Gherland sputtered. “I paid her a visit myself, her and that doomed baby of hers. Once that baby is left in the forest, she will mourn and recover, and things will return to normal.”
“Have you looked outside lately?” Elder Leibshig said. “All that . . . sunlight. It assaults the eye, is what. And it seems to be inflaming the populace.”