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NEVER PICK A FIGHT you can’t win.
—Arbuckle Kyte, Lord of Ravenhold
* * *
ASIDE FROM THE TIME spent collecting fallen fruit and digging up the saplings she’d promised to bring back for Brother Bastian, the return trip to Ohmahold was a blur. Brother Vaughn seemed to sense Gwendolin’s need for isolation because he kept the sailors away from her while they were aboard the ship that took them around the southern tip of the Greatland and up the Endland coastline to the Northern Wastes. He brought hot food to the small cabin they shared and respected her unspoken request for privacy, remaining outside the cabin except for when they slept. Gwen’s thoughts ran at full speed, and the visions she’d had played over and again in her dreams, and she’d awaken covered in perspiration and breathless. She tried to still her mind by meditating, but she couldn’t focus on quieting the voices in her head—hers, Benjin’s, Wendel’s, and Elsa’s. Cursed Elsa. The beautiful woman who had no appreciation for the heart she’d captured, the heart of the only man Gwen could ever love.
She tolerated the mule ride from the coastal port to Ohmahold, but once she saw the eastern mountain range, the end of which they’d skirt to access the great crevice protecting the entrance to Ohmahold, she longed to reach the serenity of the Inner Sanctuary. Impatience stamped every step the mules took, and by the time they arrived at the entrance to the Outer Sanctuary, emotional exhaustion had left her spent.
Sister Brunhilda was among the monks who greeted them, and Gwen handed her the baskets and bags of herbs and roots she’d collected. The monk wasted no time in peeking into the containers.
“What fine specimens, Sister Gwendolin! You’ve exceeded all expectations.”
“Be careful with the double-bagged one, Sister Brunhilda. Wear gloves when you handle it. It’s mother’s root.”
The old monk gasped and clapped her hands in delight. “I’ve read about it, but I never in my wildest dreams hoped to have a sample.”
“It’s more than a sample. I collected the entire plant.” Sister Brunhilda’s eyes sparkled with excitement, and it warmed Gwen’s heart to see the old woman express such joy. “I’ll transcribe my notes about it for you. But first, I need rest. Have you anything to help me sleep . . . without dreaming?”
Sister Brunhilda nodded. “You do realize you’ll be sleeping in the Outer Sanctuary until you’ve undergone purification again, right?”
“No. I hadn’t realized that.”
“Not to worry. I’ll have the guard lead you to one of the guest chambers. If you need any of your belongings, just let him know, and I’ll arrange to have them collected and brought to you.” Then the woman did something Gwen hadn’t expected. She wrapped her arms around her and hugged her as if she’d missed her. “I’ll send over some of my special tea. You’ll sleep as peacefully as the dead.”
Gwen thought the analogy should disturb her and felt odd that it didn’t.
“Welcome home, Sister Gwendolin.”
A guard waited patiently nearby while she arranged to have Brother Bastian’s saplings and fruit specimens delivered to him. Then the guard led her to a sleeping chamber. Soon thereafter, the tea arrived, and Gwen drank it quickly while it was still warm. Lying on the bed, she remembered Sister Brunhilda’s welcoming hug and her final words before they parted. Home, she thought. Yes. This was home, the home she’d chosen.
As the old monk had promised, Gwen slept the sleep of the dead. She awoke without any memory of dreaming and felt refreshed. She’d have to ask which sedative Sister Brunhilda had used.
Once she’d washed up and put on another blue robe, which someone had placed in the washroom while she slept, the door to the hallway opened. Mother Seema peered around the edge of the door and smiled. “I hope you rested well, Sister Gwendolin.”
“I did, thank you.”
Mother Seema slipped into the room and closed the door. “Brother Vaughn tells me you had quite the fright while he was in Drascha Stone.”
“It was a little scary, yes, but more for the outpost’s visitor than for myself.” She felt a pang of guilt because she knew she’d omitted Benjin’s name to save herself the pain of saying it aloud.
“The Zjhon know the Cathuran remain neutral in government affairs. That is likely the main reason they don’t harass us more than they do.”
“Is neutrality the wisest course with the Zjhon? They strike me as dangerous and increasingly intolerant.”
Mother Seema’s expression showed approval, and Gwen appreciated the support for her questions and opinions.
“Indeed. They are both. Neutrality is not the equivalent of ignorance, however, and we have maintained the position that knowledge is power when it comes to the Zjhon. Beyond that, we protect ourselves by not meddling in their affairs and staying within the hold.”
She thought of Benjin. “But how will you protect those who are not Cathuran?”
The monk smiled. “That is a dilemma yet to be resolved, Sister Gwendolin, a question for another day. Tomorrow you begin the purification ritual that will end a month from now with your final vows and acceptance into the Cathuran order—if you’re still of a mind to join us, that is.”
“More than ever,” Gwen replied with utter confidence in the truth of her words.
Mother Seema smiled widely. “I couldn’t be happier for you and for us. I must leave to finalize the preparations. I’ll see you when you have completed the ritual, dear sister.” With that, she turned and left the room, her robes flowing behind her like a bride’s train.
Gwen chose to spend the day and night alone. In her chamber, she penned a letter to her father, carefully thinking through each word and phrase to reassure him of her safety, comfort, and happiness. She also asked him to tell Gilly, Thomlin, and Mignon how she fared and to congratulate the couple on her behalf. She asked the guard who stood outside her door to tell Sister Brunhilda she’d like to have Mignon’s shawl from her tiny apartment in the Inner Sanctuary. By midday, he delivered it, and in the early afternoon, she wrapped the shawl around her and took a stroll through the narrow, winding streets of the city. She wondered at the intricate carvings and statues of animals and the natural world, and by dusk, she’d had her fill of exploring. She’d have the rest of her life to get to know every nook and cranny of Ohmahold. For now, she settled on the peaceful feeling it provided, despite the hubbub of daily comings and goings, purchasing and selling, idle chatter and intense debates not unlike those she’d witnessed in Sutherhold. She returned to her sleeping chamber, and a guard brought her evening meal, along with more of the tea Sister Brunhilda brewed. Gwen drank it with gratitude.
At dawn, someone rapped on her door, and she opened it to find a hooded monk whose head tilted downward at such an angle she couldn’t see a face. She followed the robed figure through corridors she thought she’d seen previously but couldn’t pinpoint her exact location or even vaguely identify the route they’d taken. Being completely lost in the maze of corridors and stairwells didn’t disturb her, though. Gwen knew she would end up in the purification chambers, and eventually, that was precisely where the monk led and left her.
For what she knew subconsciously to be a month, but which seemed to her conscious mind no more than a few days, Gwen once again underwent the varied rituals of purification—this time each segment more intense than she remembered, each period of rest producing a deeper sleep, her thirst more strongly quenched each time the monks brought her water. Or maybe this time, she simply immersed herself more fully in the rituals? She had considered that a possibility as well, but in the end, knowing the reason didn’t matter, and she let the thought go. She did the same with invading thoughts of Benjin and of life outside of the monastery. When she did focus, she centered her thoughts only on the beauty and serenity of the natural world, of plants and animals and the arcane mysteries of seasonal changes, of earth, of sea, and of sky. She allowed her body to remember its place as the tiniest of specks in a vast universe. Yes. That was it. Her body remembered its place.
And when the rituals ended, Gwen dressed in the dark tan robe left for her. She sat alone in the final purification room, soaking in the feeling of a freed spirit and mind.
Mother Seema entered the room and greeted Gwen with a cup of fresh, cool water. “I am so very proud of you, child. You’ve completed the purification with grace and a humble spirit. Your caretakers have reported your progress to me. Indeed, they claimed your transformation so fierce as to show a visible difference daily. I would argue that point,” she said, leaning over and lowering her voice to a whisper, “I would call your glow not fierce but exquisite.”
Gwen smiled. “Brother Vaughn was right about you.”
“Oh? He tattled that I don’t always let others know when I disagree?”
Gwen laughed. “No. He said I would come to love you and cherish your wisdom. He was right.”
Mother Seema wrapped her arms around Gwen. “I can only hope you know how much I love and cherish you too, my dear sister. You mean more to me and to this order than you yet know.” Stepping back and releasing her, the monk took her by the hand. “Come. It is time for you to stand before the Cathurans and exchange pledges.”
The exchange of vows surprised Gwen. She’d assumed only she would agree to the conditions and requirements of the order. But Mother Seema had instructed her to repeat what each monk said and did, and when she heard the first monk—Brother Vaughn, as it happened—speak the Cathuran oath, she understood why the order thrived. Each monk pledged three things to her: to assist her in gaining the knowledge she thirsted after and needed, to feed her spirit and mind with truth and the sharing of their own knowledge and expertise, and to protect and defend her life and spirit with their very own if need be. Each monk embraced her and whispered the Cathuran promise in her ear, “By all that is sacred and true, I swear it to you, Sister.” And after each did so, Gwen pledged the same three things, embraced her new Brother or Sister, and whispered the promise in return. The ceremony took a full day, and Gwen stood throughout it. When Mother Seema gave the formal induction speech and the ceremony officially ended, Gwen welcomed the celebration feast with heaps of fresh-baked cakes and jugs of summerberry wine, but most of all, she welcomed a chair on which to sit.
That night she lay in the Inner Sanctuary apartment with the view of the Tree of Plenty within sight from her bed. While contemplating the bounty of the tree and the bounty in her life, she drifted into a peaceful, wine-aided sleep.
She awoke to mournful news: Sister Brunhilda had died during the night.
The potting shed duties fell to Gwen by default, as nobody else had ever worked with Sister Brunhilda. After paying her respects to the deceased monk, who looked angelic as she lay on the pyre awaiting cremation, Gwen left the mourning service and went to the potting shed to assess and prioritize tasks requiring her attention. She entered and closed the door, as she always had, and noticed the window panes in the door didn’t rattle. Gwen melted into tears, and although she’d known the monk for only a short time, her passing brought a deep, unexpected sorrow.
Mother Seema’s soothing voice interrupted her sobs. “Why are you crying, Sister Gwendolin?”
“I’m sad she’s no longer with us. She was like a grandmother to me. She spent her life caring for others, and I suppose I feel sad because nobody seemed to care for her in return.”
“Whatever do you mean?” asked Mother Seema, concern contorting her usually calm expression.
Gwen pointed to the panes in the door. “That glass was almost falling out. Nobody bothered to repair it for her. Before I went to the Southland, I asked Sister Lucinda to arrange for someone to do it while I was away.”
Mother Seema chuckled.
“How can you be so cruel to laugh at neglect? She deserved more than that.”
“I’m sorry, Sister. Let me explain. Sister Brunhilda was well aware of the loose panes. Before you came to Ohmahold, when Brother Martyn came around to make repairs during his yearly rounds, she told him to leave the panes alone because she wanted to be able to hear when someone entered the shed. She was hard of hearing, you see.”
Gwen’s hands flew to her mouth, covering it. “I didn’t know. I meant only to—”
Mother Seema stepped forward and wrapped her arms around Gwen, who buried her face in the woman’s shoulder and wept without restraint. When her tears slowed, Mother Seema released her and turned to the potting bench. “That’s the special plant you brought her, isn’t it?”
Gwen recognized it as the mother’s root she’d given Sister Brunhilda. “Yes.”
“When you were undergoing purification, she spoke about it during our evening meal one night. It thrilled her to have it, and it meant so very much to her that you’d thought to bring it to her. Did she ever tell you she believed you have a special gift for recognizing the energy in plants?”
“No,” Gwen replied, shaking her head.
“Well, she did. She said someday you might master sensing disturbances in plant life from a great distance.”
“Really?” Gwen couldn’t imagine what benefit such an ability might have. What could be gained from sensing a blade of grass stepped on or a pussy willow bent by the wind?
Mother Seema chuckled and nodded. “If, and she stressed this part,” the monk said, hesitating before continuing, as if to pile her own emphasis atop Sister Brunhilda’s, “‘if you could master clearing away questions from your overly busy mind.’ Yes. I do believe those were her exact words.”
Gwen was taken aback.
The monk smiled as if amused by Gwen’s expression. “I should add she believed you would be successful in doing so.”
Tears welled in Gwen’s eyes, and she choked out the words, “I promise I’ll try my best to justify her faith in me, Mother.”
“I know you will,” said Mother Seema, “And you will have everything you need, my dear, dear Gwendolin. I promise you.”