“Well that was a mistake, peasant.” Joeli came to stand before Nona.
“Mistakes are how we learn.” Nona looked expectantly past Joeli’s shoulder towards an empty bed.
“Perhaps I should teach you another lesson.” Joeli raised a hand, fingers spread. A white haze of lines filled Nona’s Path-sight. Some said Joeli was the best thread-worker in the convent, and since Hessa’s death Nona supposed it could be true. Using any kind of Path-power outside a lesson however was a surefire way to get your back shredded with a wire-willow cane, no matter which family name you bore.
Nona looked up, meeting the green slits of Joeli’s stare, and spoke with all the sincerity she could muster. “I love you as a sister, and when we die we will be together in the Ancestor, our bloods mixed.” A warmth spread across her back as Keot sank into her flesh. A moment later he had wrapped himself around her tongue. “But I must warn you, sister, that a sickness runs in me, and if you fashion yourself my enemy I will make a ruin of your life, for I am born of war.”
Joeli stared at Nona, eyes widening as if recognizing a promise rather than a threat. Then laughter burst from her in a clean, controlled peal, confidence pushing aside sensible fear. “What dramatics! ‘I am born of war.’” Joeli mimicked Keot’s words accented heavily towards the peasants’ dialect. “You were born of a mud hut in the wilds.” She glanced at her friends. “What a strange creature this novice is. I can see why Sister Hearth was keen to get her out of her class.” She turned away.
Nona resisted the urge as Keot tried to make her arm rise to seize the girl’s neck. Instead she turned towards an empty bed with a snarl, angry at the lapse of concentration that had let Keot speak for her.
“I will make a ruin of your life,” Keot?
You should let me. That bitch means trouble for you.
Nona sat on the bed she had chosen, one of a pair too neat to belong to anyone. She pushed her small bag of possessions under the desk, spare clothes mainly. Joeli was already in animated conversation with three novices across the room, laughter and glances in her direction punctuating their conversation. A fourth girl returned from the stairwell with the sheets Nona had thrown.
If you kill one of them the others will respect you.
Shut up.
The door opened again and Zole walked in, arms folded across the bag she had brought from the Grey dormitory. When Nona had left the classroom where Sister Hearth had examined her merit certificates Zole had been waiting outside the door. They had both nodded acknowledgement but it wasn’t in the ice-triber’s nature to volunteer information.
“Another one?” Joeli raised her voice in complaint.
Zole’s face registered no expression as she scanned the room, eyes dark above broad cheekbones. She wore her face like a mask. Nona could count on one hand the times she had seen her smile or scowl.
“I—” Joeli seemed about to expand upon her displeasure but for once her supposedly forgotten aristocracy fell short, eclipsed by Zole’s celebrity. Novices rose on all sides along with an excited babble of voices as they moved to welcome the Argatha. Nona decided against shielding her, though she was sure Zole would rather see the novices knocked down than endure their attentions.
Zole made slow but sure progress towards the bed beside Nona, answering questions and flattery with curt nods. On the few occasions she did reply she offered only single words. Most of them “no.” Outside the convent it was far worse. Her secret had been uncovered just months after they had returned from the ranging. Some said Sherzal herself had spread the news, but whatever the truth all of Verity soon whispered that Zole was the four-blood spoken of in the Argatha prophecy, the Chosen One come to drive back the ice and bring salvation! And the rest of the empire knew within another month. Pilgrims came to sit in vigil beyond the pillars even on days when the abbess stationed a sister at the base of the Vinery Stair to tell them there was no chance of an audience with Novice Zole.
Zole reached the bed and drove the last couple of novices away with a glower. The Argatha prophecy had been a constant in Sister Wheel’s Spirit classes for almost three years now, and she had managed to infect a fair proportion of the convent with her zeal, including most of the novices. At least the ones who didn’t know Zole.
“You’re making friends almost as quickly as I am.” Nona stood and stripped off her habit.
Zole shrugged. “None of them are bleeding.”
Nona knelt to dig in her bag for her nightdress. Keot could sink from view for a few moments and knew enough not to be seen. Nona had explained to him that the nuns would seek to burn him out before throwing her from the convent—over a cliff if she were unlucky. Nobody tainted by a devil could stay in service to the Ancestor, even after the taint had been driven from them with hot irons. Sister Wheel’s lessons had left no room for doubt on that account.
“Welcome to Mystic, shrimp.” Darla came to the foot of Nona’s bed, somewhat comical in her tent of a nightdress, her arms, thick with muscle, straining out of short frilly sleeves. “Nice entrance.”
“I do my best.” Nona stepped out of her underskirts and pulled her own nightdress over her head as fast as possible. In Grey dorm they mocked her for being shy, but it was Keot who prompted the haste. Also she was shy.
“She threatened to kill
