Legends: Stories By The Masters of Modern Fantasy by Robert Silverberg Page B

“It’s sad such a promise can never be kept. Ye’ll never see her again, pretty man.” She took the bowl. “Big Sister has decided.” She stood up, still smiling. “Why not take that ugly gold sigul off?”
    “I think not.”
    “Yer brother took his off—look!” She pointed, and Roland spied the gold medallion lying far down the aisle, where it had landed when Ralph threw it.
    Sister Tamra looked at him, still smiling.
    “He decided it was part of what was making him sick, and cast it away. Ye’d do the same, were ye wise.”
    Roland repeated, “I think not.”
    “So,” she said dismissively, and left him alone with the empty beds glimmering in the thickening shadows.
    Roland hung on, in spite of growing sleepiness, until the hot colors bleeding across the infirmary’s western wall had cooled to ashes. Then he nibbled one of the reeds and felt strength—real strength, not a jittery, heart-thudding substitute—bloom in his body. He looked toward where the castaway medallion gleamed in the last light and made a silent promise to John Norman: he would take it with the other one to Norman’s kin, if ka chanced that he should encounter them in his travels.
    Feeling completely easy in his mind for the first time that day, the gunslinger dozed. When he awoke it was full dark. The doctor-bugs were singing with extraordinary shrillness. He had taken one of the reeds out from under the pillow and had begun to nibble on it when a cold voice said, “So—Big Sister was right. Ye’ve been keeping secrets.”
    Roland’s heart seemed to stop dead in his chest. He looked around and saw Sister Coquina getting to her feet. She had crept in while he was dozing and hidden under the bed on his right side to watch him.
    “Where did ye get that?” she asked. “Was it—”
    “He got it from me.”
    Coquina whirled about. Jenna was walking down the aisle toward them. Her habit was gone. She still wore her wimple with its foreheadfringe of bells, but its hem rested on the shoulders of a simple checkered shirt. Below this she wore jeans and scuffed desert boots. She had something in her hands. It was too dark for Roland to be sure, but he thought—

    “ You ,” Sister Coquina whispered with infinite hate. “When I tell Big Sister—”
    “You’ll tell no one anything,” Roland said.
    If he had planned his escape from the slings that entangled him, he no doubt would have made a bad business of it, but, as always, the gunslinger did best when he thought least. His arms were free in a moment; so was his left leg. His right caught at the ankle, however, twisting, hanging him up with his shoulders on the bed and his leg in the air.
    Coquina turned on him, hissing like a cat. Her lips pulled back from teeth that were needle-sharp. She rushed at him, her fingers splayed. The nails at the ends of them looked sharp and ragged.
    Roland clasped the medallion and shoved it out toward her. She recoiled from it, still hissing, and whirled back to Sister Jenna in a flare of white skirt. “I’ll do for ye, ye interfering trull!” she cried in a low, harsh voice.
    Roland struggled to free his leg and couldn’t. It was firmly caught, the shitting sling actually wrapped around the ankle somehow, like a noose.
    Jenna raised her hands, and he saw he had been right: it was his revolvers she had brought, holstered and hanging from the two old gunbelts he had worn out of Gilead after the last burning.
    “Shoot her, Jenna! Shoot her!”
    Instead, still holding the holstered guns up, Jenna shook her head as she had on the day when Roland had persuaded her to push back her wimple so he could see her hair. The bells rang with a sharpness that seemed to go into the gunslinger’s head like a spike.
    The Dark Bells . The sigul of their ka-tet. What —
    The sound of the doctor-bugs rose to a shrill, reedy scream that was eerily like the sound of the bells Jenna wore. Nothing sweet about them now. Sister Coquina’s hands faltered on their way