Robert Redick - The Red wolf conspiracy

"But all did not go well. She stoppered a volcano, and three others exploded nearby. She drove the old king of Nohirin from power, and nine evil princes fought for his throne, begging her aid to slay one another. And she found that the stone had begun to burn her palm where she held it. Confused, Erithusmй flew to the sacred isle of Rappopolni, and entered the Dawn Temple there, and knelt before the high priestess.

"Extending her hand, she said, 'I can work miracles; why can I not heal this little burn?' The priestess replied: 'Because even you, my daughter, are not entirely free of fear. No man or woman can be. Through fear the Nilstone is poisoning you, and turning your good deeds to ruin. Your choices are but two: cast it away and become yourself again, or keep it and die.'"

The Mother Prohibitor still held Thasha's hand. Thasha waited, barely breathing.

"A legend," the old woman said at last. "And a warning, for some. You may look up the ending in your spare time. Now then, my other gift is a reminder. A Lorg Daughter is never alone. On the path you are doomed to tread, one of us at least will be near you. Remember, Thasha: in dire need you may call upon her; she cannot refuse. Now I must work. Is there anything you would ask me?"

Thasha blinked. To her amazement, she felt like crying. "My P-Promissory Tree, Your Grace. Must I kill it, with my own hand?"

Every girl entering the Lorg planted a cherry tree in the Promissory Orchard, which filled half the compound and was now in radiant bloom. Dropouts had to uproot their saplings and chop them to bits.

The Mother Prohibitor looked at her for a silent time. Then she raised her hand and made the sign of the Tree over Thasha's head.

"It has taken root, child," she said at last. "I think we must let it grow."

She turned her back without another word. Thasha left the hatchery, nearly blubbering. She loved them! Which was madness! She couldn't wait to be gone. Was it possible the old woman realized that kindness would hurt longer than cruelty as a parting gift? Or was she, Thasha, so plainly ugly inside that she saw even peace gestures as attacks?

Did they know her better than she knew herself?

Almost running, she made her way through the Great Hall. Earlier that day she had sent her belongings by coach, and made her goodbyes, which were bitter. The few friends she had told Thasha she was abandoning them. Could she deny it?

At the gatehouse the ward-sister let her into a small changing room. Alone, Thasha dried her eyes and untied her bundle of clothes. She laughed: there were the man's shirt and breeches, and even the longshoreman's cap. She had worn all these to the gate two years ago, in protest at her banishment. They were a little snug now.

When she had changed, she stepped out of the room and surrendered her school cloak.

"I'll keep it safe for you," said the ward-sister.

This was taking ceremony too far, Thasha thought. But she bowed her thanks, and the woman unlocked a small door in the fanged gate, and Thasha stepped out, free, into an exquisite summer evening and a breeze off the Ool.

She took three happy steps-and froze. A thought struck her like a boot to the shins.

She walked back to the gate. "Ward-sister!" she called. "You say you'll keep my cloak safe? What for?"

The woman looked over her shoulder. "Don't be obtuse, child. For wearing."

Thasha drew a deep breath. "Yes, Sister, for wearing. I apologize for my imprecision."

"Quite so. Good night."

"Sister, please, I meant to ask, who are you keeping-"

"Whom!"

"Whom, whom, yes," said Thasha, squeezing her eyes shut. "Whom are you keeping it for?"

"For whom is preferable, of course. Whatever is the matter, child-are you ill? We shall keep it for you."

"But I'm not coming back."

The Sister clucked impatiently. "The letter from your father's, your father's… from the Lady Syrarys announces quite plainly his request for your temporary removal from-"

"Temporary!" shouted Thasha.

"With the aim of improving your manners, no doubt!" snapped the ward-sister. "Three feet beyond the gate and she starts interrupting! May the Angel forgive you! A charwoman's girl would know better, but not the ambassador's daughter, no, she-"

"Ambassador!"

"Miss Thasha, you are screeching my words back at me like a circus macaw! For the last time I bid you good night!"

Thasha ran as she had not run since fleeing the constable, the leather pouch under her arm. All the bright life of Etherhorde-laughing boys in a fountain, old men throwing knackerballs on a close-trimmed lawn, a sourdough heat from the baker's door, Nunekkam flutes in the shadows like whistlers in a cave-all this she barely noticed despite two years of longing for it. Suddenly the evening made a horrid kind of sense. They meant to send her back! Thasha knew it had never happened before: the Accateo did not grant leaves of absence. It had to be her father. Only he could be influential enough to challenge seven centuries of rust-rigid practice.

Eberzam Isiq was a retired admiral, commander of not just a ship but a whole fleet that had swept down the Chereste Coast five years ago, from Ulsprit to a place called Ormael. What was it all about? Killing pirates, some said. Killing rebels, traitors to the Imperium, said others. Her father had just chuckled and said it was a matter of opinion.

But everyone seemed to agree that it had been a mighty victory, and that her father was the hero of the campaign. At banquets, fat dukes and generals pressed their wine-sour lips to Thasha's cheek. Such an elegant girl! Eberzam has the Gods' own luck! They said her father would make Prefect of Etherhorde one day, or perhaps governor of one of the greater Arquali territories. It made little difference to Thasha. All she knew was that her father had come back wounded-struck in the head by a fragment of cannonball-and that his illness began shortly thereafter.

He was better now, or so the letters from Syrarys claimed (Eberzam himself had written just twice, on her birthdays). But an ambassadorship? That meant sailing beyond the Empire, didn't it? And why send an old warrior across oceans to speak for Arqual?

Obeying a sudden impulse, Thasha crossed the road, climbed a low fence and dropped into Gallows Park. It was darker under the park's old oaks and conifers, but it would save her five blocks. She ran downhill, barely glancing at the famous wishing-well (some girl was always crying there, ostentatiously), or the melted iron lump that was a monument to the Heroic Blacksmiths, or the glowing webs of the torch spiders luring moths into the trees. At last she reached the Ool, flanked here by a ruined wall left over from days when bandits still dared to cross the river into Etherhorde. A few fishermen crouched among the gloomy stones. Otherwise the park looked deserted.

If it was her father who wrote to the Lorg, Thasha decided, it was Syrarys who put the pen in his hand. Every year they were together her influence over the admiral grew. And although she had never spoken of it, Thasha was all but convinced that Syrarys was behind the decision to send her away in the first place.

How long had they told the Sisters she would be gone? A month? A week?

I'll change his mind, she thought. I have to, I-

"Pah! Too easy!"

An arm caught her broadside across the chest. From the corner of her eye she saw a tall man step through a gap in the ruined wall. The arm that had stopped her slid to her throat and jerked her toward the gap.

No time to think. Thasha drove an elbow into the man's side, twisted out from under his arm and flung herself backward and away. Her fists were raised to strike him again. But she was off-balance, winded by his first blow. Some root or stone caught her heel, and she fell.

Instantly the man was on her. A knee pinned her legs to the ground. A dagger! In the fastest act of her life Thasha flailed at the blade as the man stabbed downward. But she was not fast enough. It was over, and she'd barely felt it. The knife was buried to the hilt in her chest.