It was the crones who told her of Coldstone. Jareen was tested at each of the sorcerous skills, and showing no great potential for anything but herblore, was placed into the care of the crones. The eldest of the sisterhood wore robes of gray and white … Jareen and the other few novices selected to work herbs wore blue and black. The gowns were pleasant enough. The ritual of shaving one’s head … you are born without locks and so it is you must come into the sisterhood … was not. Jareen refused to cry about the pale flaxen locks as they fell to the floor, but complained, loudly, that she had not been born thus. She had been born with hair. The crones twittered and chirped, claimed once they’d chewed the arb’ha root, such lies had all the substance of a Fourth Month’s snow. Jareen considered. She knew very little of the arb’ha, but that it was rare, given to the world by the Green Ones, and verily used for sorcery. It was through a brief question and answer that she learned of Coldstone. Jareen wanted to learn the potion’s secrets. She longed for it, yearned for it night and day. But as an acolyte, she spent her days stripping bark from the peregrine plants, cutting her palms on nettle and redthorn, picking elderberries and bryme. The crones alone held the secrets of the arb’ha, and the other acolytes had little interest in doing anything other than what they’d been told. Late one night, after the bell for bed rung, Jareen made for the herbhall. She hid behind the crawling snakevine and waited for the bells to ring on towards Middlemass. When it came, she crept out of her nest and pulled aside the great gold curtains that covered the glassen walls. The moon shown down well and silvery, spreading light all across the lush sea-floor. She waited, awash in the moonlight, holding her breath for nigh on twenty, until she felt sure all were abed and none like to disturb her. She rummaged through the cabinets and bins, seeking out all she would need for the potion. Once all was assembled on the worktable, she slipped off her cowl, bent her shorn head to the moon and lit the wick of a fireoil lamp. It sputtered to life and she took stock of her sorcerous tools, much as a youngchild might take stock of his weapons before running off to war.
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