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THE GREATEST BARRIERS are within.
—Mother Seema, Cathuran monk
* * *
GWEN WORKED DAILY TO hold true to her promise and vows. Seeking knowledge from her peers, she pored over tomes and scrolls in the monastery’s vast collections and looked for ways to help others, whether in the city or the monastery. During the winter, she read and meditated and met with other monks, questioning them about ancient beliefs. She explored chambers filled with relics and studied philosophy, spiritual practices, and history. From spring until the first snow of winter, she took short trips out of Ohmahold to survey the plants on the mountains surrounding the valley and brought back specimens to cultivate in a greenhouse Mother Seema had ordered Brother Martyn to build for her. Though she never admitted it and showed nothing but gratitude for having such a perfect space to grow herbs and other medicinal plants, Gwen never stopped preferring to work in Sister Brunhilda’s rickety old potting shed, and she did as much of her work there as she could.
Such was the routine Gwen established for her life among the Cathurans until well into mid life. She was happy and fulfilled, surrounded by Brothers and Sisters she loved. Although she corresponded regularly with her father until she received news that he, like her grandmother, had died peacefully in his sleep, she still carried folded in her pocket all these many years later his first letter to her. It had become a reminder that her life as a Cathuran was a life of choice. Mostly the life she’d chosen—a life of studying, service to others, hard physical labor, and long hours—kept her dreams and visions at bay, but occasionally one would still haunt her. When the one about Rolf with the bloody arrow returned and persisted, Gwen turned to Mother Seema for advice.
“I don’t know how to interpret the dream, Mother. I’d like to know what it means, if anything. This time, it feels more . . . urgent.”
“There is a way you might gain clarity: the viewing ceremony.”
Gwen had heard of it, but one hadn’t been conducted in all the years since she’d entered the monastery. “That’s the ceremony in which the monks chant to raise power while the seeker expands consciousness through a portal?”
“Yes. The ceremony funnels the combined energy of the monks who participate from behind walls into the viewing chamber, and the viewer’s consciousness rides the vibrations out into the world. Some have found the answers to their questions in that manner. If you’d like, I can arrange a viewing ceremony for you.”
“I’d like to try,” said Gwen.
“Then so shall you.”
Gwen underwent a brief purification before the viewing ceremony and was led into a small chamber with a magnificent throne-like chair of umber sitting in the middle of the room. The walls on either side had holes leading into other rooms, and a porthole-shaped window devoid of glass pierced the outer wall of the chamber, which looked out over the western mountains. Gwen took a seat in the chair, and the monk who had accompanied her to the room exited. As soon as he closed the door, the sound of chanting filtered into the room from the holes on either side wall. Gwen closed her eyes and meditated. After a few minutes, she could feel the vibrations. She tried to grasp the energy and send it out through the porthole, but it kept slipping out of her mind. After repeatedly trying, she gave up, and the chanting waned into silence.
“I couldn’t do it,” she told Mother Seema afterward when the order’s leader entered the chamber, followed by a monk who handed each of the women a mug of water.
“There’s no shame in that, Sister Gwendolin. Few can, and truthfully, most give up much sooner than you did.” Her voice was raspy, and she took a drink of water.
“An hour of trying isn’t all that much.”
“An hour?” The monk laughed. “You were there for two days.”
“What? It seemed no time at all.”
Mother Seema nodded. “Time is relative and, though we cannot prove it, it would seem the energy of our consciousness has no respect for time at all. But remember, nothing forbids you from trying again, though I would counsel you not to try too often.”
“Why not? Is it dangerous?”
Mother Seema chuckled. “I doubt it’s dangerous if you’re unable to achieve the result you seek. It is, however, terribly wearing on the vocal cords of the monks who are chanting.”
Gwen gasped. “How thoughtless of me!”
“We aid each other in any way we can, Sister. We are happy to do so if you need us.”
“You were chanting too?”
Mother Seema nodded. “Indeed. I’ve not the stamina I once had, though. But you must try again and again. The chanters need the practice from time to time.” She winked mischievously, and Gwen laughed.
The leader’s words turned out to be an understatement. Within a year, she became frail and made public appearances with waning frequency. One winter evening, Gwen was called to Mother Seema’s apartments. The old woman, whose hair had grown long and as white as the ice caps on the highest peak, lay in her bed, around which monks stood with bowed, hooded heads chanting in barely more than a whisper yet in a sound so full it seemed to envelop the entirety of the space.
“Mother,” whispered Gwen as she knelt beside the bed and kissed the old woman’s forehead. “How may I serve you?”
“You must not give up your attempts in the viewing chamber,” she replied in a weak, airy whisper. “And you must find an apprentice to help you in the greenhouse.”
“I am happy to do the work, Mother. I don’t wish to burden another.”
“You won’t be doing the work anymore, dear, dear Gwendolin.”
Gwen’s heart thudded in her chest. “Have I done something wrong?”
“No,” Mother Seema whispered. “You’ve done much right, but I cannot ask you to work at two specialties. I leave this world tonight, and I wish you to take my place.”
“Surely there are others more wise and better suited.”
“Oh, yes, there are,” said the monk, who then chuckled and gave her mischievous wink again. “But it is your shoulders upon which I place the fate of Ohmahold. The fate of the Greatland rests with you, Gwendolin, and only by love can you save her.”
The words, first spoken by the gypsy in Vasterberg, echoed as if Mother Seema had screamed them, though Gwen knew she had only the strength to have whispered. She opened her mouth to speak, but Mother Seema placed a finger first on her own lips then on Gwen’s before whispering, “You will have everything you need, my dear, dear Gwendolin. I promise you.” Then the monk lowered her hand to her chest, closed her eyes, and sighed her last breath with a tender, peaceful smile.
The sobbing that rushed out of her came without warning, and Gwen lay with her head on the dead woman’s chest until Brother Vaughn came and lifted her up. He scooped her into his arms and carried her to her apartment, where he gently lowered her onto her bed and tucked the covers around her before extinguishing the lantern and leaving. She watched the shadows of the Tree of Plenty quiver through her tears in the cloud-obscured moonlight, and she fell asleep weeping.
Mother Seema’s mourning began the next day, and none of the monks mourned more fiercely than did Gwen. She had lost her mother not once but for a second time, and her heart ached pitifully.
When the mourning ended and Mother Seema’s ashes were buried beneath the giant tree in the center of the Inner Sanctuary courtyard, the monks convened for an Ascension council. There was much bickering and arguing about Mother Seema’s choice for a successor, and Gwen found no energy to participate in it. She sat silently and grief stricken while some of her peers pointed out her failings and insisted monks much older and wiser would make better leaders than she. It was Brother Vaughn who ended the conflict.
“Whether we see the wisdom of Mother Seema’s choice matters not. Is there one among you who did not trust her?”
No one responded.
“Then trust her now, and follow her final orders, for that is the way of the Cathuran. If any doubts the choice, then I say he or she has an obligation to aid Sister Gwendolin in becoming as wise as our dear, departed Mother. Rejoice in your service to the order, and honor the pledges we’ve given to each other.”
Though some monks grumbled under their breaths, none spoke out.
“Good. Then let the Ascension begin tomorrow,” he said.
When all but Gwen and Brother Vaughan had left the meeting room, Gwen gave him a hug. “I know you mean well. I’m just not sure I’m up to this, Brother.”
For the first time since she’d met him in Sutherhold, she saw his temper flare. His face reddened and he set his jaw so hard Gwen could hear him grinding his teeth. “Then get up to it, Sister. She chose you for a reason. Figure it out.” He turned and left her standing alone in the meeting room.
Those words became for Gwendolin a driving force. Following the ten-day Ascension ceremony, she set to running the order with fervor. She had gained a valuable insight from Mother Seema and from her own time at the monastery: the best way to get anything done was to seek and rely on the superior expertise of her peers. All the order needed was general guidance and someone to settle disputes, but even then, Gwen found most disagreements about policy could be converted into agreement once everyone had shared their unique perspectives on a matter.
She found she did have some ideas about the direction the order should take when it came to the problems of the Greatland, and particularly as they related to the Zjhon. Brother Vaughn proved instrumental in convincing the others that Ohmahold needed fortification and that the Cathuran needed a more reliable means of obtaining information about what was going on in the world outside the hold. He relayed to them the experience he’d had in Sutherhold, and Gwen told them about the way the Zjhon had tricked the people of Vasterberg into sending their sons to Sutherhold, as well as the way they’d barged into the little outpost in the Southland. There had, in addition, been word delivered sporadically but consistent in its message that the Zjhon had taken over areas with resources as needed and had, as Gwen’s father had written, conscripted the population when it suited them. No news they’d received had given them any reason to believe the Zjhon had become less of a threat, and the news of late had been less frequent and informative.
Under Gwen’s direction, the monks of Ohmahold maintained neutrality in government affairs, but they secretly fortified and prepared an emergency shelter deep below the monastery. They built an army from among the loyal citizens of the city outside the monastery walls and contributed to the commerce and education of the families living in the city. They continued to gain knowledge, and Gwen, much more lenient than previous leaders, encouraged them to travel to collect more knowledge while retaining the mysteries of the Cathurans and the closeness of the order. She encouraged them to share what they learned with each other in an effort to more thoroughly understand the world around them. Ohmahold prospered. Brother Vaughn established a communications network using birds trained to fly from one monastery or outpost to another with messages and news.
Throughout the years that followed, Gwen tried time and again to ride the vibrations in the viewing ceremony, but she never managed to achieve more than brief glimpses of men in Zjhon uniforms marching eastward. That information added nothing to her knowledge about the visions, and it only reinforced what Brother Vaughn’s communication network had already confirmed: the Zjhon were depleting the resources of the Greatland, and it would be only a matter of time until they marched on Ohmahold.
Mother Gwendolin intended to be ready for that day.