19
“GET YOUR COAT on!”
Nona looked up from the desk beside her bed. All around the dormitory novices stopped their preparations for sleeping or laid down their quills. Sister Kettle stood in the doorway, pale-faced, darkness smoking off her skin.
“Me?” Nona stood up, touching a hand to her chest.
“You.” Kettle stepped into the room, glancing left and right. “You have to come with me.” The points of a throwing star glimmered from the closed fist at her side. “Now!”
Nona glanced down at her feet. The slippers she had on were a gift from Ara, lined with blue-squirrel fur. She stepped out of them and reached for her shoes.
“What’s the matter?” Darla rose from her bed, towering over the approaching nun. She rolled her neck, clicking bones.
“Gather what you need for a journey.” Kettle knelt and started to rummage in Nona’s cupboard. “We’re leaving in two minutes.”
Zole raised her head from between her bed and Mally’s, abandoning her press-ups. “There is a problem.” Not a question. “I will help.”
“You have your own problem,” Kettle said, still stuffing Nona’s possessions into a hemp sack. “Tarkax is here to escort you to Sherzal’s palace.”
“No!” Nona had one arm into her range-coat and was struggling with the other. “Zole’s one of us now!”
Kettle stood, tying the sack closed. “Not if her mother disagrees. Church over parent is Scithrowl heresy. The abbess can’t afford to argue the case.”
“Can’t afford!” Nona realized she was shouting. “Can’t afford?”
“I have no mother,” Zole said. “And I wish to remain here.” She stood by her bed now, a solid six-foot of killing machine, hard-eyed and ready.
“You stay there then.” Kettle reached for Nona’s hand and began to pull her towards the door.
“Wait.” Darla stepped forward. “Where are you going?”
“Away.” Kettle swept the room with dark eyes and shadows swirled. “I wasn’t here.” She set a finger to her lips. Her gaze settled on Crocey and Elani beside Joeli’s empty bed. “There are worse things, novices, than the Inquisition. Consider that.” A tug of her hand and she had Nona stumbling towards the door.
Together they hurried down the stairs. Nona dug her heels in as they drew level with the door to Grey Class. “What’s going on? I don’t want to leave!”
“We can talk about it outside.” Kettle started towards the main door.
“Can’t I say goodbye?” Nona jerked her arm free. She couldn’t just go. “What about Ara and the others?”
“Ara and the others aren’t in trouble.” Kettle cocked her head as if hearing something. “Quick, come here!” She backed into the corner behind the main door, gathering shadows to her.
“Trouble?” Nona went to join Kettle and the nun drew her close, both arms tight around her as the darkness clotted.
“You were in the undercaves,” Kettle whispered. “Joeli had trip-threads there.”
“But . . .” A cold realization reached into Nona. “The shipheart wasn’t thread-guarded . . . It washes those magics away.”
“The shipheart isn’t there any more.”
Kettle put her hand to Nona’s mouth as the door opened. Four watchers marched in, boots loud on the stone floor, a freezing wind whipping around them. They carried on up the stairs, not bothering to close the door.
“Stay close.” Kettle tossed something out through the doorway. Nona heard it clatter on the flagstones off to the left. “Now.” Kettle moved with hunska swiftness, wearing darkness like a robe. They slipped from the doorway, veering to the right, then pressed themselves to the wall. With the sun having set and night having fallen most of the way the two of them presented little target. “Over by the scriptorium,” Kettle murmured. Nona saw a fifth watcher there, tight against the corner of the building. Her head turned towards the spot where Kettle’s noise-maker had landed.
That one at least you should kill. Keot rose with the pounding of her heart.
“Move slowly. Keep close,” Kettle instructed. “If I tell you to run then run. Get off the Rock. Don’t come back.”
“Don’t come back?” Nona felt lost. “I need to say goodbye . . . to Ara.”
Kettle pursed her lips in sympathy but shook her head. “They mean to kill you, Nona.”
Let them try! Keot attempted to force her blades into being.
“Can’t the abbess—”
“The abbess isn’t in charge here any more, Nona. You have to go. Hide. Make a life somewhere else. Change your name.” Kettle started to edge along the wall.
“Change my eyes?” Nona kept her place.
“If you stay here you will die.”
Kettle moved off, the shadows flowing with her. Nona followed.
They reached the pillar forest before Bitel began to ring atop the Ancestor’s dome, its voice harsh with accusation. Kettle led through the towering stonework, Nona close behind, eyes slitted against the wind-borne grit. The Corridor wind was re-establishing itself after the longest ice-wind Nona had ever known.
Neither spoke as they descended the long back and forth of the Seren Way, treacherous by day, foolish by dark. Nona slipped at the last turn, scattering loose rock over the fall. Kettle caught her hand. “Got you.”
Nona regained her feet and shook free. “And now you’re kicking me out?” The trail before them led down to level ground where field and forest stretched away from the Rock of Faith. The rising moon tinged it all with blood.
“They’re after me too, Nona. Everything is falling apart. The abbess can’t help us.”
“We can fight them!” Nona rounded on Kettle. “They’re just nine against us. I’ve killed more men than that by myself.”
“And I wish you hadn’t had to.” Kettle looked down. “We can’t fight them. They’re the Church.”
“We’re the Church!” Nona shouted. “The Inquisition is nothing.”
Kettle shook her head. “It’s all one. All joined. What do you think Abbess Glass did before she came to Sweet Mercy? She ran the Inquisition. High Inquisitor Shella Yammal. That was before her son died . . .”
“No! I don’t believe that.” Nona backed away.
“We can’t fight the Church.” Kettle followed her. “What else would we have left?”
“Each other?” Nona said, eyes hot and prickling.
“Nona. You
