Holy Sister Page 5

  A downpour greeted her exit from the refectory. She ran to Blade Hall, head bowed, crashing through the main entrance to stand dripping in the foyer. Ara waited in the shadows by the doors, a practice blade in each hand.

  “Thought you might want some help warming up.” She offered one sword, hilt first.

  “Thanks.” Nona smiled, slipped off her shoes, and moved across the sand towards the changing room, skirting the area marked off for the test to come.

  She emerged a short while later, wearing a white exercise habit to match Ara’s. The pair of them began the blade-kata side by side, the slow version first, stringing together all the core movements of the form in a way that gradually warmed and stretched the muscles. Nona watched Ara move as she made her own forms. Although Nona knew her own kata met Sister Tallow’s exacting standards, somehow there was a beauty to Ara’s that made her heart ache.

  “You’ll be fine.” Ara grinned, her breath now quickened following the double kata.

  They crossed blades. Normally they would both be wearing the heavy blade habit with a wire facemask. Today wasn’t going to be normal. Nona hadn’t any real concern that she would fail to meet the required performance. The question in significant doubt concerned her sword. She would receive her blade on taking orders, just like any other Red Sister. It should be an Ark-steel sword like Sister Tallow’s, a weapon that in the right hands could shatter a lesser blade and cleave a block from a castle wall in two. But Nona knew that none of the most recent novices to graduate to the Red had been given Ark-steel. Over the years swords had been lost and the Red Sisters’ ranks had grown. These days sisters new to their names were most often given a fresh blade. The steel for these came from the forges of the Barrons witches. As fine a steel as could be made within the Corridor, but nothing compared to that of the ancients.

  “Ready?” Nona asked. When the time came, she would miss sparring with her friend.

  Ara attacked by way of answer and Nona barely turned the thrust from her face. She replied with an immediate counter-cut.

  If Nona made a sufficiently good impression today she might have one of the few Ark-steel swords awarded to her on her first day in the Red rather than having to wait for an older sister to die or to set down her weapon and retire to prayer as a Holy Sister. New Reds without Ark-steel were known as “pinks” in certain quarters.

  Ara’s blade crashed against Nona’s, flickered away, sliced in, parried, cut. A stillness always settled on much of Nona’s mind when she sparred, and in that stillness a realisation reached her.

  “Pink.”

  “What?” Ara paused, and Nona attacked with renewed vigour.

  No matter how tightly she held herself against thread-work Joeli could still pull her strings, in the way that required no magic. Just dropping the word “pink” into the conversation around the breakfast table earlier had nearly made Nona bite Ghena’s head off for daring to wish her good luck . . .

  Nona rocked back to avoid Ara’s slash and spun in behind the swing. She drew on her anger at the Namsis girl, feeding the fire that already burned there. Joeli thought to spoil her concentration, to put her out of the cold centre of her serenity where a Red Sister was supposed to dwell in the heat of battle. What Joeli failed to appreciate was that Nona had never followed that part of Mistress Blade’s instructions. When she fought in earnest she fought angry, and her rage seldom wanted for fuel.

  Nona kicked out at Ara’s knee and leapt in as the girl jumped back. At the very limit of her speed Nona got her off hand to block Ara’s wrist, deflecting the downward blow that should have felled her, and brought her own blade up, into Ara’s side, managing to turn the iron flat just before it hammered into her ribs.

  “Good . . . one.” Ara stumbled back, clutching her side, sword dropped to indicate surrender. “Ah.” She hugged her ribs. A black line would show there tomorrow. “Did anyone ever tell you you look scary as hell when you fight for real?”

  “Never.” Nona stuck her tongue out. “Are you all right?” She moved forward to check Ara’s side, suddenly concerned. She set a gentle hand to Ara’s ribs.

  “Fine.” Ara pushed her off. “I hope you don’t make faces that scary in other kinds of . . . battles.”

  “What do you—”

  “The late-night sort you might get into with Regol . . .” Their eyes met, and for a moment Nona wondered if she saw something hidden . . . something hurt? The look vanished as quickly as it showed, replaced with Ara’s impression of Nona’s expression.

  Nona shoved Ara who fell, laughing, until she hit the sand and jolted her injured ribs. Nona was helping her up, still apologizing, when Sister Tallow entered the hall.

  * * *

  • • •

  THE ABBESS AND sisters superior followed Sister Tallow out into the hall, turning to take their seats in the stands. Tallow approached Nona and Ara, her weathered face inscrutable. A nun Nona had never seen before dogged Mistress Blade’s heels. She looked a good twenty years younger than Tallow, tall, slim, skin the colour of old leather though smooth save for the scars on both her cheeks. The twin wounds might be ritual markings or perhaps their curious symmetry had arisen by chance. The newcomer fixed Nona with a piercing gaze. She had a beauty to her, but there was nothing soft about it, her cheekbones almost sharp enough to cut you if you slapped her.

  “Novice Arabella, you may leave.” Sister Tallow nodded to the doors. The final Blade-test never had any audience but the abbess and her sisters superior. Novices who attempted to watch through the windows had been whipped in the past, even expelled from the convent. Ara gave up her practice blade and ran off with a last encouraging glance.

  Tallow waited between Nona and the unknown nun until the doors closed. Nona stood a hand taller than both women and was of heavier build. Some said she had gerant in her but if so it wasn’t more than a touch. There had been no blood-war as there had been when her marjal traits started to show.

  Tallow lifted a hand to indicate the other nun. “This is Sister Iron, Nona. She is to be the new Mistress Blade. She takes over today.”

  “No—”

  “I am getting old, child. We hunska do that fast too. I will join the Holy Sisters and give the Ancestor my full attention as the abbess instructs.”

  Nona shot a glance towards the stands. The sisters superior flanked the abbess. Sister Rose sat to Wheel’s left. Wheel, the older looking of the two, though they were of an age, glared at Nona with those pale, watery eyes just as always.

  “You will fight Sister Iron for the Red, novice.” Tallow drew a sword from a second scabbard at her left hip. A Red Sister’s blade, Barrons-forged. She handed it to Nona. “Control. Restraint. Respect.” Tallow folded Nona’s fingers around the hilt. “You’ll be judged on these. But in the Corridor . . . winning is also quite important.”

  “I’ll win then.” Nona stepped back, circling away from Sister Iron. She didn’t want a new Mistress Blade, though she couldn’t quite suppress the relief that she wouldn’t have to face Sister Tallow with sharp iron in hand in an earnest fight.

  Sister Iron drew her blade, a sword identical to Nona’s since pitting Ark-steel against Barrons-steel would damage the latter and likely ruin it. The nun made no move, only cocked her head to the side and watched how Nona positioned her feet. Her gaze slid up the length of Nona’s body, coming to rest on her wrist and the fingers around the sword hilt. Nona felt as if she was being judged and found wanting.

  “You’re ready?” Nona asked, unsettled by the woman’s stillness.

  Back against the wall Sister Tallow rolled her eyes.

  Nona came forward, sword extended before her. She didn’t reach for her speed but instead waited to react, a lesson she had learned from Zole. Sister Iron did nothing, only watched her move, her own blade loose in her hand, the point in the sand.

  Nona came closer. Closer still. The point of her sword j
ust two feet from the nun’s chest. She could lunge and run the woman through. She glanced towards Sister Tallow, uncertain.

  The moment Nona’s eyes moved from her Sister Iron pushed Nona’s sword away, the back of her hand flat against the side of the blade. The nun released her own sword and slapped Nona across the face, hard enough to rattle her teeth. Nona leapt away and by the time she was clear Sister Iron had kicked her falling sword back into the air and snatched hold of it once again.

  “You think this one is ready?” Sister Iron asked Sister Tallow.

  Nona spat blood into the sand. A dozen sentences wanted to escape her tongue, some bitter, some angry, but she swallowed them all. The fault was hers. There were no rules. “Try me again.”

  Sister Iron came forward, blade extended as Nona’s had been. Nona let her get just as close. The nun’s gaze never faltered. She lunged, showing no reservation about skewering a novice. Nona sank into the moment and made to push the sword away as Iron had, only to find the cutting edge angled towards her hand. She pushed it anyway, sparks flying as Barrons-steel scraped over flaw-blades. She made to slap the woman but Iron proved swift, Nona’s fingertips missing her cheek by a hairsbreadth.

  Nona kicked her falling blade back into the air and caught it as Iron had but with far less grace. The pair of them ended two yards apart, gazes locked, one on the other.

  “No claws today, novice.” The abbess’s voice from the stands. “Just the blade you hope to earn.”

  Nona nodded her acknowledgement. She moved smoothly into attacking. No more playing, no more games. She told herself that Zole stood before her. With the exception of Yisht and Sister Tallow, Zole had been her most lethal opponent, faster than thinking, merciless, efficient.

  Sister Iron replied with a storm of blows, feints, and counterattacks every bit as swift and ruthless as Zole’s had ever been. She had more than that, though. Something in her touch, a kind of mastery that let her tame a blow on her blade, guide it, twist it. At every exchange Nona felt on the edge of having her sword torn from her grasp. Sister Iron used combinations that Nona hadn’t seen before, series of moves that drove Nona step by inexorable step into the wrong place, her balance lost, her momentum stolen, sword unready.

  Sister Iron ended a lengthy combination attack with a rising slice. An extravagance of speed saved Nona from being struck, though she would not have been surprised to find a thin line of blood across her front had she the time to look down. She spun away, sliding to a halt on one foot, spraying sand.

  “Ah!” Nona staggered; her heel felt as if a hot wire had sliced part way through it.

  Sister Iron came forward, pressing her attack. Nona defended with desperation, hobbling back before launching sideways on her good foot to win space. She rolled across the sand, biting down a scream as something cut into her just above the elbow. Coming to her feet she expected to find blood sheeting down her arm but the skin lay unmarked despite the agony.

  Nona got to her feet, wincing, sword raised, injured arm held close to her body. As Iron came in Nona saw it. Where the sand had been scuffed away almost to the stone she glimpsed something, a nearly invisible distortion running over the slab beneath. If she had time to defocus she knew her Path-sight would show a thread, lurid green no doubt, as so many of Joeli’s curse-threads were.

  As Sister Iron drew close Nona swept away the sand in front of her with one foot. It proved a useless endeavour: pressed to defend, she had no time to clear more ground or study the area exposed. Their swords met and met again, beating out a high-tempo tattoo. Sweat flew from the ends of Nona’s hair, sparkling droplets mired in the moment, unable to fall in the space between half a dozen strikes.

  Another pain-thread caught Nona’s foot and she fell backwards with a cry, turning a thrust and a swing as she dropped. Nona rolled through three more pain-threads, evading Sister Iron stamping at her. Finally the nun backed off, perhaps remembering that the exercise was a test rather than murder.

  Nona stood slowly, meeting Sister Tallow’s puzzled frown.

  “It’s only pain.” She muttered the words, forcing her hunched body to straighten, relaxing the tight muscles of her arms and legs. She had suffered worse. Thuran Tacsis had pressed his sigil-marked toy called the Harm against her. It had hurt more than a thousand pain-threads. Later she had glued it to his flesh. He hadn’t been found for over a day. They said he sat drooling upon his lord’s chair now, ruler of the Tacsis in name only. Why his remaining son, Lano, didn’t have him quietly killed nobody could say.

  “Only pain.” Spoken loud enough for Sister Iron to take note. Nona thought of Joeli creeping out in the dead of night to lay her threads in the Blade Hall sands, each full of malice and carefully attuned just to Nona. It was a work of art really. Nona doubted there were six thread-workers in all the empire who could match it. Maybe not so many. A red anger rose through her, its heat burning through the agony that lanced from her invisible wounds. Lips curled back from teeth, a savage grin.

  Nona threw herself back across ground already trodden, the potency of the thread-traps there now spent. She attacked Sister Iron not with the calm efficiency Sister Tallow taught but with the honest and savage desire to do her opponent harm, acknowledging the beast that dwelt within her, the hot core of her that Tarkax the Ice-Spear had seen. Passion lent her a strength that Sister Iron had to grit her own teeth to turn. Rage put an edge on a quickness that was already blinding, and Sister Iron was forced back for the first time, weaving her defence within the depth of her own serenity.

  Perhaps no battle so ugly had ever played out across the Blade Hall sands before. But the simple fact was that Sister Iron, the presumptive Mistress Blade, retreated before the sword of Nona Grey, her own hair wet with sweat now. Sister Iron’s own swordwork was now stretched to extravagant lengths, all within a packed handful of seconds that few possessed the vision to follow.

  Another thread snagged Nona’s foot. She hardly winced but in the missed quarter-beat Sister Iron parried her wide, kicked the inside of her left knee, and punched her square in the face before following up with the hilt of her sword to the side of her neck. Nona fell hard, and trying to rise found the point of Sister Iron’s sword inches from her face.

  “Enough, novice.” The woman stood, apparently calm but with her chest heaving.

  Nona repressed a snarl and let her head fall back against the sand.

  “Sister Tallow taught me to fight,” Sister Iron said. “She did not teach me to fight like that.” She stepped back, allowing Nona to sit.

  Sister Tallow stepped forward, offering Nona her hand and then pulling her to her feet. “You seemed to be in pain while fighting, novice. Did you sustain some injury sparring with Arabella?”

  “No, Mistress Blade. Just an old injury returned to haunt me.” Nona sealed her lips. Joeli’s reinstatement was a matter of palace politics. Even if the abbess could be convinced of her guilt, a Namsis would not be punished or sent from the convent. Not with the Scithrowl in the east advancing mile after mile and the Durns raiding from captured ports on the shores of the Marn.

  Sister Iron studied Nona with evident displeasure. “The question is whether the Ancestor would be properly represented by such a warrior. Where was your serenity? You fight like a wild animal. I cannot recommend you be given an ancient blade. Would it even be proper for you to wear the Red?”

  Nona ground her teeth. Revealing Joeli’s tricks might change the judgment but she wanted nothing of the Namsis girl in her trial. Others would say Joeli’s actions earned her the Red, then stand between her and her revenge.

  “She is to be denied the Red then. Sister Iron has said so!” Wheel called down from the stands, her cracked voice reverberating with long-sought triumph.

  “When we leave this hall Sister Iron will be Mistress Blade.” Sister Tallow raised her voice, a thing Nona had heard on maybe three occasions in the half of her life spent at Sweet
Mercy. “But she is not yet.” Tallow set her hand on Nona’s shoulder. She had to reach up. Once she had seemed so tall. She had no recollection of the woman touching anyone except to adjust a fighting stance or deliver a stinging reprimand. The hand remained on her shoulder. “Nona has passed the Blade-test. If she accepts ordination and takes on her new name, then when I take up the devotions of a Holy Sister she shall have my sword.” Tallow turned towards Iron, her voice low now, conciliatory. “Many of the lessons I tried to teach this girl have not stuck. But the important ones have. And when the ice presses we need sisters in the Red who can win, however ugly that victory may be.”

  What followed passed in a blur. The bows given to, and reciprocated by, the sisters superior, the required formal embrace with the abbess, the long march from the hall. Before she knew it Nona found herself hurrying from the building, the Blade-test behind her. With her arms raised against the sharp burden of ice carried on the wind she set off to find her friends.

  * * *

  • • •

  NONA CAME DRIPPING and shivering to the well-head. It lay in a seldom-used back chamber to the rear of the laundry wing, a structure that formed one arm of the novice cloister. She defocused her sight to check for any traps Joeli might have placed. She didn’t think the girl knew of the oubliette beneath the centre oak, but then again there were clues if one paid attention, and in past weeks she had seen Joeli gazing at the laundry wing, her brow furrowed.

  Nona went down the rope hand over hand, not using her legs. The Blade-test had left her muscles tired and aching but not so weak she couldn’t climb a rope. At the bottom she swung, released her hold, and landed on the rocky edge of the subterranean pool. Jula, Ruli, Ara, and Ketti waited to one side of the chamber, hunched around a single candle. Glimmers of their light picked out the descending, stone-clad forest of the centre oak’s roots.