Терр?Гудкайнд. Вера падших (engl)
Терр?Гудкайнд. Faith Of The Fallen
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Rev 0.0 (please up the revision and repost if you make corrections)
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A novel of the nobility of the human spirit.
A novel of ideas.
New York Times bestselling author Terry Goodkind returns with an
extraordinary new novel of the majestic Sword of Truth. Richard, the Lord
Rahl and the Seeker of Truth, has returned to his boyhood home, Hartland.
When a Sister of the Dark captures Richard, he makes a desperate
sacrifice to ensure that his beloved Kahlan remains free. Taken deep into
the old World and forced to labor for the tyrannical evil he's sworn to
defeat, he is determined to remain defiant even in the heart of darkness.
Kahlan, left behind and unwilling to abandon the cause of the Midlands,
violates prophecy and breaks her last pledge to Richard. Finally she will
come face to face with the architect of the terror sweeping her land-the mad
dreamwalker, Emperor Jagang.
While Kahlan faces Jagang's vast horde, Richard discovers the truth of
the Imperial Order's rule. Forced to endure his ordeal without magic,
without the Sword of Truth, without his love, he stands against the despair
and soulnumbing regime of the Old World, his hope kept alive only by the
knowledge of the rightness of his cause.
She didn't remember dying.
With an obscure sense of apprehension, she wondered if the distant
angry voices drifting in to her meant she was again about to experience that
transcendent ending: death.
There was absolutely nothing she could do about it if she was.
While she didn't remember dying, she dimly recalled, at some later
point, solemn whispers saying that she had, saying that death had taken her,
but that he had pressed his mouth over hers and filled her stilled lungs
with his breath, his life, and in so doing had rekindled hers. She had had
no idea who it was that spoke of such an inconceivable feat, or who "he"
was.
That first night, when she had perceived the distant, disembodied
voices as little more than a vague notion, she had grasped that there were
people around her who didn't believe, even though she was again living, that
she would remain alive through the rest of the night. But now she knew she
had; she had remained alive many more nights, perhaps in answer to desperate
prayers and earnest oaths whispered over her that first night.
But if she didn't remember the dying, she remembered the pain before
passing into that great oblivion. The pain, she never forgot. She remembered
fighting alone and savagely against all those men, men baring their teeth
like a pack of wild hounds with a hare. She remembered the rain of brutal
blows driving her to the ground, heavy boots slamming into her once she was
there, and the sharp snap of bones. She remembered the blood, so much blood,
on their fists, on their boots. She remembered the searing terror of having
no breath to gasp at the agony, no breath to cry out against the crushing
weight of hurt.
Sometime after-whether hours or days, she didn't know-when she was
lying under clean sheets in an unfamiliar bed and had looked up into his
gray eyes, she knew that, for some, the world reserved pain worse than she
had suffered.
She didn't know his name. The profound anguish so apparent in his eyes
told her beyond doubt that she should have. More than her own name, more
than life itself, she knew she should have known his name, but she didn't.
Nothing had ever shamed her more.
Thereafter, whenever her own eyes were closed, she saw his, saw not
only the helpless suffering in them but also the light of such fierce hope
as could only be kindled by righteous love. Somewhere, even in the worst of
the darkness blanketing her mind, she refused to let the light in his eyes
be extinguished by her failure to will herself to live.
At some point, she remembered his name. Most of the time, she
remembered it.
Sometimes, she didn't. Sometimes, when pain smothered her, she forgot
even her own name.
Now, as Kahlan heard men growling his name, she knew it, she knew him.
With tenacious resolution she clung to that name-Richard-and to her memory
of hint, of who he was, of everything he meant to her.
Even later, when people had feared she would yet die, she knew she
would live. She had to, for Richard, her husband. For the child she carried
in her womb. His child. Their child.
The sounds of angry men calling Richard by name at last tugged Kahlan's
eyes open. She squinted against the agony that had been tempered, if not
banished, while in the cocoon of sleep. She was greeted by a blush of amber
light filling the small room around her. Since the light wasn't bright, she
reasoned that there must be a covering over a window muting the sunlight, or
maybe it was dusk. Whenever she woke, as now, she not only had no sense of
time, but no sense of how long she had been asleep.
She worked her tongue against the pasty dryness in her mouth. Her body
felt leaden with the thick, lingering slumber. She was as nauseated as the
time when she was little and had eaten three candy green apples before a
boat journey on a hot, windy day. It was hot like that now: summer hot. She
struggled to rouse herself fully, but her awaking awareness seemed adrift,
bobbing in a vast shadowy sea. Her stomach roiled. She suddenly had to put
all her mental effort into not throwing up. She knew all too well that in
her present condition, few things hurt more than vomiting. Her eyelids
sagged closed again, and she foundered to a place darker yet.
She caught herself, forced her thoughts to the surface, and willed her
eyes open again. She remembered: they gave her herbs to dull the pain and to
help her sleep. Richard knew a good deal about herbs. At least the herbs
helped her, drift into stuporous sleep. The pain, if not as sharp, still
found her there.
Slowly, carefully, so as not to twist what felt like double-edged
daggers skewered here and there between her ribs, she drew a deeper breath.
The fragrance of balsam and pine filled her lungs, helping to settle her
stomach. It was not the aroma of trees among other smells in the forest,
among damp dirt and toadstools and cinnamon ferns, but the redolence of
trees freshly felled and limbed. She concentrated on focusing her sight and
saw beyond the foot of the bed a wall of pale, newly peeled timber, here and
there oozing sap from fresh axe cuts. The wood looked to have been split and
hewn in haste, yet its tight fit betrayed a precision only knowledge and
experience could bestow.
The room was tiny; in the Confessors' Palace, where she had grown up, a
room this small would not have qualified as a closet for linens. Moreover,
it would have been stone, if not marble. She liked the tiny wooden room; she
expected that Richard had built it to protect her. It felt almost like his
sheltering arms around her. Marble, with its aloof dignity, never comforted
her in that way.
Beyond the foot of the bed, she spotted a carving of a bird in flight.
It had been sculpted with a few sure strokes of a knife into a log of the
wall on a flat spot only a little bigger than her hand. Richard had given
her something to look at. On occasion, sitting around a campfire, she had
watched him casually carve a face or an animal from a scrap of wood. The
bird, soaring on wings spread wide as it watched over her, conveyed a sense
of freedom.
Turning her eyes to the right, she saw a brown wool blanket hanging
over the doorway. From beyond the doorway came fragments of angry,
threatening voices.
"It's not by our choice, Richard... We have our own families to think
about... Wives and Children
Wanting to know what was going on, Kahlan tried to push herself up onto
her left elbow. Somehow, her arm didn't work the way she had expected it to.
Like a bolt of lightning, pain blasted up the marrow of her bone and
exploded through her shoulder.
Gasping against the racking agony of attempted movement, she dropped
back before she had managed to lift her shoulder an inch off the bed. Her
panting twisted the daggers piercing her sides. She had to will herself to
slow her breathing in order to get the stabbing pain under control. As the
worst of the torment in her arm and the stitches in her ribs eased, she
finally let out a soft moan.
With calculated calm, she gazed down the length of her left arm. The
arm was spitted. As soon as she saw it, she remembered that of course it
was. She reproached herself for not thinking of it before she had tried to
put weight on it. The herbs, she knew, were making her thinking fuzzy.
Fearing to make another careless movement, and since she couldn't sit up,
she focused her effort on forcing clarity into her mind.
She cautiously reached up with her right hand and wiped her fingers
across the bloom of sweat on her brow, sweat sown by the flash of pain. Her
right shoulder socket hurt, but it worked well enough. She was pleased by
that triumph, at least. She touched her puffy eyes, understanding then why
it had hurt to look toward the door. Gingerly, her fingers explored a
foreign landscape of swollen flesh. Her imagination colored it a ghastly
black-and-blue. When her fingers brushed cuts on her cheek, hot embers
seemed to sear raw, exposed nerves.
She needed no mirror to know she was a terrible sight. She knew, too,
how bad it was whenever she looked up into Richard's eyes. She wished she
could look good for him if for no other reason than to lift the suffering
from his eyes. Reading her thoughts, he would say, "I'm fine. Stop worrying
about me and put your mind to getting better."
With a bittersweet longing, Kahlan recalled lying with Richard, their
limbs tangled in delicious exhaustion, his skin hot against hers, his big
hand resting on her belly as they caught their breath. It was agony wanting
to hold him in her arms again and being unable to do so. She reminded
herself that it was only a matter of some time and some healing. They were
together and that was what mattered. His mere presence was a restorative.
She heard Richard, beyond the blanket over the door, speaking in a
tightly controlled voice, stressing his words as if each had cost him a
fortune. "We just need some time . . ."
The men's voices were heated and insistent as they all began talking at
once. "It's not because we want to-you should know that, Richard, you know
us .... What if it brings trouble here? . . . We've heard about the
fighting. You said yourself she's from the Midlands. We can't allow . . . we
won't . . ."
Kahlan listened, expecting the sound of his sword being drawn. Richard
had nearly infinite patience, but little tolerance. Cara, his bodyguard,
their friend, was no doubt out there, too; Cara had neither patience nor
tolerance.
Instead of drawing his sword, Richard said, "I'm not asking anyone to
give Me anything I want only to be left alone in a peaceful place where I
can care for her. I wanted to be close to Hartland in case she needed
something." He paused. "Please . . . just until she has a chance to get
better."
Kahlan wanted to scream at him: No! Don't you dare beg them, Richard!
They have no right to make you beg. They've no right! They could never
understand the sacrifices you've made.
But she could do little more than whisper his name in sorrow.
"Don't test us .... We'll burn you out if we have to! You can't fight
us all-we have right on our side."
The men ranted and swore dark oaths. She expected, now, at last, to
hear the sound of his sword being drawn. Instead, in a calm voice, Richard
answered the men in words Kahlan couldn't quite make out. A dreadful quiet
settled in.
"It's not because we like doing this, Richard," someone finally said in
a sheepish voice. "We've no choice. We've got to consider our own families
and everyone else."
Another man spoke out with righteous indignation. "Besides, you seem to
have gotten all high-and-mighty of a sudden, with your fancy clothes and
sword, not like you used to be, back when you were a woods guide."
"That's right," said another. "Just because you went off and saw some
of the world, that don't mean you can come back here thinking you're better
than us."
"I've overstepped what you have all decided is my proper place,"
Richard said. "Is this what you mean to say?"
"You turned your back on your community, on your roots, as I see it;
you think our women aren't good enough for the great Richard Cypher. No, he
had to marry some woman from away. Then you come back here and think to
flaunt yourselves over us."
"How? By doing what? Marrying the woman I love? This, you see as vain?
This nullifies my right to live in peace? And takes away her right to heal,
to get well and live?"
These men knew him as Richard Cypher, a simple woods guide, not as the
person he had discovered he was in truth, and who he had become. He was the
same man as before, but in so many ways, they had never known him.
"You ought to be on your knees praying for the Creator to heal your
wife," another man put in. "All of mankind is a wretched and undeserving
lot. You ought to pray and ask the Creator's forgiveness for your evil deeds
and sinfulness-that's what brought your troubles on you and your woman.
Instead, you want to bring your troubles among honest working folks. You've
no right to try to force your sinful troubles on us. That's not what the
Creator wants. You should be thinking of us. The Creator wants you to be
humble and to help others-that's why He struck her down: to teach you both a
lesson."
"Did he tell you this, Albert?" Richard asked. "Does this Creator of
yours come to talk with you about his intentions and confide in you his
wishes?"
"He talks to anyone who has the proper modest attitude to listen to
Him," Albert fumed.
"Besides," another man spoke up, "this Imperial Order you warn about
has some good things to be said for it. If you weren't so bullheaded,
Richard, you'd see that. There's nothing wrong with wanting to see everyone
treated decent. It's only being fair minded. It's only right. Those are the
Creator's wishes, you've got to admit, and that's what the Imperial Order
teaches, too. If you can't see that much good in the Order-well then, you'd
best be gone, and soon."
Kahlan held her breath.
In an ominous tone of voice, Richard said, "So be it."
These were men Richard knew; he had addressed them by name and reminded
them of years and deeds shared. He had been patient with them. Patience
finally exhausted, he had reached intolerance.
Horses snorted and stomped, their leather tack creaking, as the men
mounted up. "In the morning we'll be back to burn this place down. We'd
better not catch you or yours anywhere near here, or you'll burn with it."
After a few last curses, the men raced away. The sound of departing hooves
hammering the ground rumbled through Kahlan's back. Even that hurt.
She smiled a small smile for Richard, even if he couldn't see it. She
wished only that he had not begged on her behalf; he would never, she knew,
have begged for anything for himself.
Light splashed across the wall as the blanket over the doorway was
thrown back. By the direction and quality of the light, Kahlan guessed it
had to be somewhere in the middle of a thinly overcast day. Richard appeared
beside her, his tall form towering over her, throwing a slash of shadow
across her middle.
He wore a black, sleeveless undershirt, without his shirt or
magnificent gold and black tunic, leaving his muscular arms bare. At his
left hip, the side toward her, a flash of light glinted off the pommel of
his singular sword. His broad shoulders made the room seem even smaller than
it had been only a moment before. His cleanshaven face, his strong jaw, and
the crisp line of his mouth perfectly complemented his powerful form. His
hair, a color somewhere between blond and brown, brushed the nape of his
neck. But it was the intelligence so clearly evident in those penetrating
gray eyes of his that from the first had riveted her attention.
"Richard," Kahlan whispered, "I won't have you begging on my account."
The corners of his mouth tightened with the hint of a smile. "If I want
to beg, I shall do so." He pulled her blanket up a little, making sure she
was snugly covered, even though she was sweating. "I didn't know you were
awake."
"How long have I been asleep?"
"A while."
She figured it must have been quite a while. She didn't remember
arriving at this place, or him building the house that now stood around her.
Kahlan felt more like a person in her eighties than one in her
twenties. She had never been hurt before, not grievously hurt, anyway, not
to the point of being on the cusp of death and utterly helpless for so long.
She hated it, and she hated that she couldn't do the simplest things for
herself. Most of the time she detested that more than the pain.
She was stunned to understand so unexpectedly and so completely life's
frailty, her own frailty, her own mortality. She had risked her life in the
past and had been in danger many times, but looking back she didn't know if
she had ever truly believed that something like this could happen to her.
Confronting the reality of it was crushing.
Something inside seemed to have broken that night-some idea of herself,
some confidence. She could so easily have died. Their baby could have died
before it even had a chance to live.
"You're getting better," Richard said, as if in answer to her thoughts.
"I'm not just saying that. I can see that you're healing."
She gazed into his eyes, summoning the courage to finally ask, "How do
they know about the Order way up here?"
"People fleeing the fighting have been up this way. Men spreading the
doctrine
of the Imperial Order have been even here, to where I grew up. Their
words can sound good-almost make sense-if you don't think, if you just feel.
Truth doesn't seem to count for much," He added in afterthought. He answered
the unspoken question in her eyes. "The men from the Order are gone. The
fools out there were just spouting things they've heard, that's all."
"But they intend us to leave. They sound like men who keep the oaths
they've sworn."
He nodded, but then some of his smile returned. "Do you know that we're
very close to where I first met you, last autumn? Do you remember?"
"How could I ever forget the day I met you?"
"Our lives were in jeopardy back then and we had to leave here. I've
never regretted it. It was the start of my life with you. As long as we're
together, nothing else really matters."
Cara swept in through the doorway and came to a halt beside Richard,
adding her shadow to his across the blue cotton blanket that covered Kahlan
to her armpits. Sheathed in skintight red leather, Cara's body had the sleek
grace of a falcon: commanding, swift, and deadly. Mord-Sith always wore
their red leather when they believed there was going to be trouble. Cara's
long blond hair, swept back into a single thick braid, was another mark of
her profession of Mord-Sith, member of an elite corps of guards to the Lord
Rahl himself.
Richard had, after a fashion, inherited the Mord-Sith when he inherited
the rule of D'Hara, a place he grew up never knowing. Command was not
something he had sought; nonetheless it had fallen to him. Now a great many
people depended on him. The entire New World-Westland, the Midlands, and
D'Hara depended on him.
"How do you feel?" Cara asked with sincere concern.
Kahlan was able to summon little more voice than a hoarse whisper. "I'm
better."
"Well, if you feel better," Cara growled, "then tell Lord Rahl that he
should allow me to do my job and put the proper respect into men like that."
Her menacing blue eyes turned for a moment toward the spot where the men had
been while delivering their threats. "The ones I leave alive, anyway."
"Cara, use your head," Richard said. "We can't turn this place into a
fortress and protect ourselves every hour of every day. Those men are
afraid. No matter how wrong they are, they view us as a danger to their
lives and the lives of their families. We know better than to fight a
senseless battle when we can avoid it."
"But Richard," Kahlan said, lifting her right hand in a weak gesture
toward the wall before her, "you've built this-"
"Only this room. I wanted a shelter for you first. It didn't take that
long just some trees cut and split. We've not built the rest of it yet. It's
not worth shedding blood over."
If Richard seemed calm, Cara looked ready to chew steel and spit nails.
"Would you tell this obstinate husband of yours to let me kill someone
before I go crazy? I can't just stand around and allow people to get away
with threatening the two of you! I am Mord-Sith!"
Cara took her job of protecting Richard-the Lord Rahl of D'Hara-and
Kahlan very seriously. Where Richard's life was concerned, Cara was
perfectly willing to kill first and decide later if it had been necessary.
That was one of the things for which Richard had no tolerance.
Kahlan's only answer was a smile.
"Mother Confessor, you can't allow Lord Rahl to bow to the will of
foolish men like those. Tell him."
Kahlan could probably count on the fingers of one hand the people who,
in her whole life, had ever addressed her by the name "Kahlan" without at
minimum the appellation "Confessor" before it. She had heard her ultimate
title-Mother Confessor-spoken countless times, in tones ranging from awed
reverence to shuddering fear. Many people, as they knelt before her, were
incapable of even whispering through trembling lips the two words of her
title. Others, when alone, whispered them with lethal intent.
Kahlan had been named Mother Confessor while still in her early
twenties-the youngest Confessor ever named to that powerful position. But
that was several years past. Now, she was the only living Confessor left.
Kahlan had always endured the title, the bowing and kneeling, the
reverence, the awe, the fear, and the murderous intentions, because she had
no choice. But more than that, she was the Mother Confessor-by succession
and selection, by right, by oath, and by duty.
Cara always addressed Kahlan as "Mother Confessor." But from Cara's
lips the words were subtly different than from any others. It was almost a
challenge, a defiance by scrupulous compliance, but with a hint of an
affectionate smirk. Coming from Cara, Kahlan didn't hear "Mother Confessor"
so much as she heard "Sister." Cara was from the distant land of D'Hara. No
one, anywhere, outranked Cara, as far as Cara was concerned, except the Lord
Rahl. The most she would allow was that Kahlan could be her equal in duty to
Richard. Being considered an equal by Cara, though, was high praise indeed.
When Cara addressed Richard as Lord Rahl, however, she was not saying
"Brother." She was saying precisely what she meant: Lord Rahl.
To the men with the angry voices, the Lord Rahl was as foreign a
concept as was the distant land of D'Hara. Kahlan was from the Midlands that
separated D'Hara from Westland. The people here in Westland knew nothing of
the Midlands or the Mother Confessor. For decades, the three parts of the
New World had been separated by impassable boundaries, leaving what was
beyond those boundaries shrouded in mystery. The autumn before, those
boundaries had fallen.
And then, in the winter, the common barrier to the south of the three
lands that had for three thousand years sealed away the menace of the Old
World had been breached, loosing the Imperial Order on them all. In the last
year, the world had been thrown into turmoil; everything everyone had grown
up knowing had changed.
"I'm not going to allow you to hurt people just because they refuse to
help us," Richard said to Cara. "It would solve nothing and only end up
causing us more trouble. What we started here only took a short time to
build. I thought this place would be safe, but it's not. We'll simply move
on."
He turned back to Kahlan. His voice lost its fire.
"I was hoping to bring you home, to some peace and quiet, but it looks
like home doesn't want me, either. I'm sorry."
"Just those men, Richard." In the land of Anderith, just before Kahlan
had been attacked and beaten, the people had rejected Richard's offer to
join the emerging D'Haran Empire he led in the cause of freedom. Instead,
the people of Anderith willingly chose to side with the Imperial Order.
Richard had taken Kahlan and walked away from everything, it seemed. "What
about your real friends here?"
"I haven't had time . . . I wanted to get a shelter up, first. There's
no time now. Maybe later."
Kahlan reached for his hand, which hung at his side. His fingers were
too far away. "But, Richard-"
"Look, it's not safe to stay here anymore. It's as simple as that. I
brought you here because I thought it would be a safe place for you to
recover and regain your strength. I was wrong. It's not. We can't stay here.
Understand?"
"Yes, Richard."
"We have to move on."
"Yes, Richard."
There was something more to this, she knew-something of far greater
importance than the more immediate ordeal it meant for her. There was a
distant, troubled look in his eyes.
"But what of the war? Everyone is depending on us-on you. I can't be
much help until I get better, but they need you right now. The D'Haran
Empire needs you. You are the Lord Rahl. You lead them. What are we doing
here? Richard. . ." She waited until his eyes turned to look at her. "Why
are we running away when everyone is counting on us?"
"I'm doing as I must."
"As you must? What does that mean?"
Shadow shrouded his face as he looked away.
"I've . . . had a vision."
A vision?" Kahlan said in open astonishment.
Richard hated anything to do with prophecy. It had caused him no end of
trouble.
Prophecy was always ambiguous and usually cryptic, no matter how clear
it seemed on the surface. The untrained were easily misled by its
superficially simplistic construction. Unthinking adherence to a literal
interpretation of prophecy had in the past caused great turmoil, everything
from murder to war. As a result, those involved with prophecy went to great
lengths to keep it secret.
Prophecy, at least on the face of it, was predestination; Richard
believed that man created his own destiny. He had once told her, "Prophecy
can only say that tomorrow the sun will come up. It can't say what you are
going to do with your day. The act of going about your day is not the
fulfillment of prophecy, but the fulfillment of your own purpose."
Shota, the witch woman, had prophesied that Richard and Kahlan would
conceive an infamous son. Richard had more than once proven Shota's view of
the future to be, if not fatally flawed, at least vastly more complex than
Shota would have it seem. Like Richard, Kahlan didn't accept Shota's
prediction.
On any number of occasions, Richard's view of prophecy had been shown
to be correct. Richard simply ignored what prophecy said and did as he
believed he must. By his doing so, prophecy was in the end often fulfilled,
but in ways that could not have been foretold. In this way, prophecy was at
once proven and disproved, resolving nothing and only demonstrating what an
eternal enigma it truly was.
Richard's grandfather, Zedd, who had helped raise him not far from
where they were, had not only kept his own identity as a wizard secret. In
order to protect Richard, he also hid the fact that Richard had been
fathered by Darken Rahl and not George Cypher, the man who had loved and
raised him. Darken Rahl, a wizard of great power, had been the dangerous,
violent ruler of far-off D'Hara. Richard had inherited the gift of magic
from two different bloodlines. After killing Darken Rahl, he had also
inherited the rule of D'Hara, a land that was in many ways as much a mystery
to him as was his power.
Kahlan, being from the Midlands, had grown up around wizards; Richard's
ability was unlike that of any wizard she had ever known. He possessed not
one aspect of the gift, but many, and not one side, but both: he was a war
wizard. Some of his outfit came from the Wizard's Keep, and had not been
worn in three thousand years-since the last war wizard lived.
With the gift dying out in mankind, wizards were uncommon; Kahlan had
known fewer than a dozen. Among wizards, prophets were the most rare; she
knew of the existence of only two. One of those was Richard's ancestor,
which made visions all
the more within the province of Richard's gift. Yet Richard had always
treated prophecy as a viper in his bed.
Tenderly, as if there were no more precious thing in the whole world,
Richard lifted her hand. "You know how I always talk about the beautiful
places only I know way back in the mountains to the west of where I grew up?
The special places I've always wanted to show you? I'm going to take you
there, where we'll be safe."
"D'Harans are bonded to you, Lord Rahl," Cara reminded him, "and will
be able to find you through that bond."
"Well, our enemies aren't bonded to me. They won't know where we are."
Cara seemed to find that thought agreeable. "If people don't go to this
place, then there won't be any roads. How are we going to get the carriage
there? The Mother Confessor can't walk."
"I'll make a litter. You and I will carry her in that."
Cara nodded thoughtfully. "We could do that. If there were no other
people, then the two of you would be safe, at least."
"Safer than here. I had expected the people here to leave us to
ourselves. I hadn't expected the Order to foment unrest this far away-at
least not this quickly. Those men usually aren't a bad lot, but they're
working themselves up into a dangerous mood. "
"The cowards have gone back to their women's skirts. They won't be back
until morning. We can let the Mother Confessor rest and then leave before
dawn."
Richard cast Cara a telling look. "One of those men, Albert, has a son,
Lester. Lester and his pal, Tommy Lancaster, once tried to put arrows into
me for spoiling some fun Tommy was about to have hurting someone. Now Tommy
and Lester are missing a good many teeth. Albert will tell Lester about us
being here, and soon after, Tommy Lancaster will know, too.
"Now that the Imperial Order has filled their heads with talk of a
noble war on behalf of good, those men will be fancying what it would be
like to be war heroes. They aren't ordinarily violent, but today they were
more unreasonable than I've ever seen them.
"They'll go drinking to fortify their courage. Tommy and Lester will be
with them by then, and their tales of how I wronged them and how I'm a
danger to decent folks will get everyone all worked up. Because they greatly
outnumber us, they'll begin to see the merit in killing us-see it as
protecting their families and doing the right thing for the community and
their Creator. Full of liquor and glory, they won't want to wait until
morning. They'll be back tonight. We have to leave now."
Cara seemed unconcerned. "I say we wait for them, and when they come
back, we end the threat."
"Some of them will bring along other friends. There will be a lot of
them by the time they get here. We have Kahlan to think about. I don't want
to risk one of us being injured. There's nothing to be gained by fighting
them."
Richard pulled the ancient, tooled-leather baldric, holding the
gold-and-silverwrought scabbard and sword, off over his head and hung it on
the stump of a branch sticking out of a log. Looking unhappy, Cara folded
her arms. She would rather not leave a threat alive. Richard picked his
folded black shirt off the floor to the side, where Kahlan hadn't seen it.
He poked an arm through a sleeve and drew it on.
"A vision?" Kahlan finally asked again. As much trouble as the men
could be, they were not her biggest concern just then. "You've had a
vision?"
"The sudden clarity of it felt like a vision, but it was really more of
a revelation."
"Revelation." She wished she could manage more than a hoarse whisper.
"And what form did this vision revelation thing take?"
"Understanding."
Kahlan stared up at him. "Understanding of what?"
He started buttoning his shirt. "Through this realization I've come to
understand the larger picture. I've come to understand what it is I must
do."
"Yes," Cara muttered, "and wait until you hear it. Go ahead, tell her."
Richard glared at Cara and she answered him in kind. His attention
finally returned to Kahlan.
"If I lead us into this war, we will lose. A great many people will die
for nothing. The result will be a world enslaved by the Imperial Order. If I
don't lead our side in battle, the world will still fall under the shadow of
the Order but far fewer people will die. Only in that way will we ever stand
a chance."
"By losing? You want to lose first, and then fight? . . . How can we
even consider abandoning the fight for freedom?"
"Anderith helped teach me a lesson," he said. His voice was restrained,
as if he regretted what he was saying. "I can't press this war. Freedom
requires effort if it is to be won and vigilance if it is to be maintained.
People just don't value freedom until it's taken away."
"But many do," Kahlan objected.
"There are always some, but most don't even understand it, nor do they
care to-the same as with magic. People mindlessly shrink from it, too,
without seeing the truth. The Order offers them a world without magic and
ready-made answers to everything. Servitude is simple. I thought that I
could convince people of the value of their own lives, and of liberty. In
Anderith they showed me just how foolish I had been."
"Anderith is just one place-"
"Anderith was not remarkable. Look at all the trouble we've had
elsewhere. We're having trouble even here, where I grew up." Richard began
tucking in his shirt. "Forcing people to fight for freedom is the worst kind
of contradiction.
"Nothing I can say will inspire people to care-I've tried. Those who
value liberty will have to run, to hide, to try to survive and endure what
is sure to come. I can't prevent it. I can't help them. I know that now."
"But Richard, how can you even think of-"
'I must do what is best for us. I must be selfish; life is far too
precious to be casually squandered on useless causes. There can be no
greater evil than that. People can only be saved from the coming dark age of
subjugation and servitude if they, too, come to understand and care about
the value of their own lives, their freedom, and are willing to act in their
own interest. We must try to stay alive in the hope that such a day will
come."
"But we can prevail in this war. We must."
"Do you think that I can just go off and lead men into war, and because
I wish it, we will win? We won't. It takes more than my wishing it. It will
take vast numbers of people fully committed to the cause. We don't have
that. If we throw our forces against the Order, we will be destroyed and any
chance for winning freedom in the future will be forever lost." He raked his
fingers back through his hair. "We must not lead our forces against the army
of the Order."
He turned to pulling his black, open-sided tunic on over his head.
Kahlan struggled to give force to her voice, to the magnitude of her
concern.
"But what about all those who are prepared to fight-all the armies
already in the field? There are good men, able men, ready to go against
Jagang and stop his Imperial Order and drive them back to the Old World. Who
will lead our men?"
"Lead them to what? Death? They can't win."
Kahlan was horrified. She reached up and snatched his shirtsleeve
before he could lean down to retrieve his broad over-belt. "Richard, you're
only saying this, walking away from the struggle, because of what happened
to me."
"No. I had already decided it that same night, before you were
attacked. When I went out alone for a walk, after the vote, I did a lot of
thinking. I came to this realization and made up my mind. What happened to
you made no difference except to prove the point that I'm right and should
have figured it out sooner. If I had, you would never have been hurt."
"But if the Mother Confessor had not been hurt, you would have felt
better by morning and changed your mind."
Light coming through the doorway behind him lit in a blaze of gold the
ancient symbols coiled along the squared edges of his tunic. "Cara, what
would happen if I'd been attacked with her, and we had both been killed?
What would you all do then?"
"I don't know."
"That is why I withdraw. You are all following me, not participating in
a struggle for your own future. Your answer should have been that you would
all fight on for yourselves, for your freedom. I have come to understand the
mistake I've made in this, and to see that we cannot win in this way. The
Order is too large an opponent."
Kahlan's father, King Wyborn, had taught her about fighting against
such odds, and she had practical experience at it. "Their army may outnumber
ours, but that doesn't make it impossible. We just have to outthink them. I
will be there to help you, Richard. We have seasoned officers. We can do it.
We must."
"Look how the Order's cause spreads on words that sound good"-Richard
swept out an arm-"even to distant places like this. We know beyond doubt the
evil of the Order, yet people everywhere passionately side with them despite
the ghastly truth of everything the Imperial Order stands for."
"Richard," Kahlan whispered, trying not to lose what was left of her
voice, "I led those young Galean recruits against an army of experienced
Order soldiers who greatly outnumbered us, and we prevailed."
"Exactly. They had just seen their home city after the Order had been
there. Everyone they loved had been murdered, everything they knew had been
destroyed. Those men fought with an understanding of what they were doing
and why. They were going to throw themselves at the enemy with or without
you commanding them. But they were the only ones, and even though they
succeeded, most of them were killed in the struggle."
Kahlan was incredulous. "So you are going to let the Order do the same
elsewhere so as to give people a reason to fight? You are going to stand
aside and let the Order slaughter hundreds of thousands of innocent people?
"You want to quit because I was hurt. Dear spirits, I love you Richard,
but don't do this to me. I'm the Mother Confessor; I'm responsible for the
lives of the people of the Midlands. Don't do this because of what happened
to me."
Richard snapped on his leather-padded silver wristbands. "I'm not doing
this because of what happened to you. I'm helping save those lives in the
only way that has a chance. I'm doing the only thing I can do."
"You are doing the easy thing," Cara said.
Richard met her challenge with quiet sincerity. "Cara, I'm doing the
hardest thing I have ever had to do."
Kahlan was sure now that their rejection by the Anderith people had hit
him harder than she had realized. She caught two of his fingers and squeezed
sympathetically. He had put his heart into sparing those people from
enslavement by the Order. He had tried to show them the value of freedom by
allowing them the freedom to choose their own destiny. He had put his faith
in their hands.
In a crushing defeat, an enormous majority had spurned all he had
offered, and in so doing devastated that faith.
Kahlan thought that perhaps with some time to heal, the same as with
her, the pain would fade for him, too. "You can't hold yourself to blame for
the fall of Anderith, Richard. You did your best. It wasn't your fault."
He picked up his big leather over-belt with its gold-worked pouches and
cinched it over the magnificent tunic.
"When you're the leader, everything is your fault."
Kahlan knew the truth of that. She thought to dissuade him by taking a
different tack.
"What form did this vision assume?"
Richard's piercing gray eyes locked on her, almost in warning.
"Vision, revelation, realization, postulation, prophecy . . .
understanding--call it what you will, for in this they are all in one the
same, and unequivocal. I can't describe it but to say it seems as if I must
have always known it. Maybe I have. It wasn't so much words as it was a
complete concept, a conclusion, a truth that became absolutely clear to me."
She knew he expected her to leave it at that. "If it became so clear
and is unambiguous," she pressed, "you must be able to express it in words."
Richard slipped the baldric over his head, laying it over his right
shoulder. As he adjusted the sword against his left hip, light sparkled off
the raised gold wire woven through the silver wire of the hilt to spell out
the word TRUTH.
His brow was smooth and his face calm. She knew she had at last brought
him to the heart of the matter. His certainty would afford him no reason to
keep it from her if she chose to hear it, and she did. His words rolled
forth with quiet power, like prophecy come to life.
"I have been a leader too soon. It is not I who must prove myself to
the people, but the people who must now prove themselves to me. Until then,
I must not lead them, or all hope is lost."
Standing there, erect, masculine, masterful in his black war wizard
outfit, he looked as if he could be posing for a statue of who he was: the
Seeker of Truth, rightfully named by Zeddicus Zu'1 Zorander, the First
Wizard himself-and Richard's grandfather. It had nearly broken Zedd's heart
to do so, because Seekers so often died young and violently.
While he lived, a Seeker was a law unto himself. Backed by the awesome
power of his sword, a Seeker could bring down kingdoms. That was one reason
it was so important to name the right person-a moral person-to the post.
Zedd claimed that the Seeker, in a way, named himself by the nature of his
own mind and by his actions, and that the First Wizard's function was simply
to act on his observations by officially naming him and giving him the
weapon that was to be his lifelong companion.
So many different qualities and responsibilities had converged in this
man she loved that she sometimes wondered how he could reconcile them all.
"Richard, are you so sure?"
Because of the importance of the post, Kahlan and then Zedd had sworn
their lives in defense of Richard as the newly named Seeker of Truth. That
had been shortly after Kahlan had met him. It was as Seeker that Richard had
first come to accept all that had been thrust upon him, and to live up to
the extraordinary trust put in him.
His gray eyes fairly blazed with clarity of purpose as he answered her.
"The only sovereign I can allow to rule me is reason. The first law of
reason is this: what exists, exists; what is, is. From this irreducible,
bedrock principle, all knowledge is built. This is the foundation from which
life is embraced.
"Reason is a choice. Wishes and whims are not facts, nor are they a
means to discovering them. Reason is our only way of grasping reality-it's
our basic tool of survival. We are free to evade the effort of thinking, to
reject reason, but we are not free to avoid the penalty of the abyss we
refuse to see.
"If I fail to use reason in this struggle, if I close my eyes to the
reality of what is, in favor of what I would wish, then we will both die in
this, and for nothing. We will be but two more among uncounted millions of
nameless corpses beneath the gray, gloomy decay of mankind. In the darkness
that will follow, our bones will be meaningless dust.
"Eventually, perhaps a thousand years from now, perhaps more, the light
of liberty will again be raised up to shine over a free people, but between
now and then, millions upon millions of people will be born into hopeless
misery and have no choice but to bear the weight of the Order's yoke. We, by
ignoring reason, will have purchased those mountains of broken bodies, the
wreckage of lives endured but never lived."
Kahlan found herself unable to summon the courage to speak, much less
argue; to do so right then would be to ask him to disregard his judgment at
a cost he believed would be a sea of blood. But doing as he saw they must
would cast her people helpless into the jaws of death.
Kahlan, her vision turning to a watery blur, looked away.
"Cara," Richard said, "get the horses hitched to the carnage. I'm going
to scout a circle to make sure we don't have any surprises."
"I will scout while you hitch the horses. I am your guard."
"You're my friend, too. I know this land better than you. Hitch the
horses and don't give me any trouble about it."
Cara rolled her eyes and huffed, but marched off to do his bidding.
The room rang with silence. Richard's shadow slipped off the blanket.
When Kahlan whispered her love to him, he paused and looked back. His
shoulders seemed to betray the weight he carried.
"I wish I could, but I can't make people understand freedom. I'm
sorry."
From somewhere inside, Kahlan found a smile for him. "Maybe it isn't so
hard." She gestured toward the bird he had carved in the wall. "Just show
them that, and they will understand what freedom really means: to soar on
your own wings."
Richard smiled, she thought gratefully, before he vanished through the
doorway.
All the troubling thoughts tumbling through her mind kept Kahlan from
falling back to sleep. She tried not to think about Richard's vision of the
future. As exhausted as she was by pain, his words were too troubling to
contemplate, and besides, there was nothing she could do about it right
then. But she was determined to help him get over the loss of Anderith and
focus on stopping the Imperial Order.
It was more difficult to shake her thoughts about the men who had been
outside, men Richard had grown up with. The haunting memory of their angry
threats echoed in her mind. She knew that ordinary men who had never before
acted violently, could, in the right circumstances, be incited to great
brutality. With the way they viewed mankind as sinful, wretched, and evil,
it was only a small step more to actually doing evil. After all, any evil
they might do, they had already rationalized as being predestined by what
they viewed as man's inescapable nature.
It was unnerving to contemplate an attack by such men when she could do
nothing but lie there waiting to be killed. Kahlan envisioned a grinning,
toothless Tommy Lancaster leaning over her to cut her throat while all she
could do was stare helplessly up at him. She had often been afraid in
battle, but at least then she could fight with all her strength to survive.
That helped counter the fear. It was different to be helpless and have no
means to fight back; it was a different sort of fear.
If she had to, she could always resort to her Confessor's power, but in
her condition that was a dubious proposition. She had never had to call upon
her power when in anything like the condition in which she now found
herself. She reminded herself that the three of them would be long gone
before the men returned, and besides, Richard and Cara would never let them
get near her.
Kahlan had a more immediate fear, though, and that one was all too
real. But she wouldn't feel it for long; she would pass out, she knew. She
hoped.
She tried not to think of it, and instead put her hand gently over her
belly, over their child, as she listened to the nearby splashing and
burbling of a stream. The sound of the water reminded her of how much she
wished she could take a bath. The bandages over the oozing wound in her side
stank and needed to be changed often. The sheets were soaked with sweat. Her
scalp itched. The mat of grass that was the bedding under the sheet was hard
and chafed her back. Richard had probably made the pallet quickly, planning
to improve it later.
As hot as the day was, the stream's cold water would be welcome. She
longed for a bath, to be clean, and to smell fresh. She longed to be better,
to be able to do things for herself, to be healed. She could only hope that
as time passed, Richard, too, would recover from his invisible, but real,
wounds.
Cara finally returned, grumbling about the horses being stubborn today.
She
looked up to see the room was empty. "I had better go look for him and
make sure: he's safe."
"He's fine. He knows what he's doing. Just wait, Cara, or he will then
have toy go out and look for you."
Cara sighed and reluctantly agreed. Retrieving a cool, wet cloth, she
set to mopping Kahlan's forehead and temples. Kahlan didn't like to complain
when people; were doing their best to care for her, so she didn't say
anything about how much it hurt her torn neck muscles when her head was
shifted in that way. Cara never complained about any of it. Cara only
complained when she believed her charges were in needless danger-and when
Richard wouldn't let her eliminate those she viewed as a danger.
Outside, a bird let out a high-pitched trill. The tedious repetition
was becoming, grating. In the distance, Kahlan could hear a squirrel
chattering an objection to something, or perhaps arguing over his territory.
He'd been doing it for what seemed' an hour. The stream babbled on without
letup.
This was Richard's idea of restful.
"I hate this," she muttered.
"You should be happy-lying about without anything to do."
"And I bet you would be happy to trade places?"
"I am Mord-Sith. For a Mord-Sith, nothing could be worse than to die in
bed." Her blue eyes turned to Kahlan's. "Old and toothless," she added. "I
didn't mean; that you-"
"I know what you meant."
Cara looked relieved. "Anyway, you couldn't die-that would be too easy.
You never do anything easy."
"I married Richard."
"See what I mean?"
Kahlan smiled.
Cara dunked the cloth in a pail on the floor and wrung it out as she
stood. "It` isn't too bad, is it? Just lying there?"
"How would you like to have to have someone push a wooden bowl under
yours. bottom every time your bladder was full?"
Cara carefully blotted the damp cloth along Kahlan's neck. "I don't
mind doing it for a sister of the Agiel."
The Agiel, the weapon a Mord-Sith always carried, looked like nothing
more; than a short, red leather rod hanging on a fine chain from her right
wrist. A Mord~. Sith's Agiel was never more than a flick away from her grip.
It somehow functioned: by means of the magic of a Mord-Sith's bond to the
Lord Rahl.
Kahlan had once felt the partial touch of an Agiel. In a blinding
instant, it could inflict the kind of pain that the entire gang of men had
dealt Kahlan. The touch of a, Mord-Sith's Agiel was easily capable of
delivering bone-breaking torture, and just as easily, if she desired, death.
Richard had given Kahlan the Agiel that had belonged to Denna, the
Mord-Sith
who had captured him by order of Darken Rahl. Only Richard had ever
come to understand and empathize with the pain an Agiel also gave the
Mord-Sith who '? wielded it. Before he was forced to kill Denna in order to
escape, she had given . him her Agiel, asking to be remembered as simply
Derma, the woman beyond the appellation of Mord-Sith, the woman no one but
Richard had ever before seen a understood. 28
That Kahlan understood, and kept the Agiel as a symbol of that same
respect for women whose young lives had been stolen and twisted to nightmare
purposes and duties, was deeply meaningful to the other Mord-Sith. Because
of that compassion-untainted by pity-and more, Cara had named Kahlan a
sister of the Agiel. It was an informal but heartfelt accolade.
"Messengers have come to see Lord Rahl," Cara said. "You were sleeping,
and Lord Rahl saw no reason to wake you," she added in answer to Kahlan's
questioning look. The messengers were D'Haran, and able to find Richard by
their bond to him as their Lord Rahl. Kahlan, not able to duplicate the
feat, had always found it unsettling.
"What did they have to say?"
Cara shrugged. "Not a lot. Jagang's army of the Imperial Order remains
in Anderith for the time being, with Reibisch's force staying safely to the
north to watch and be ready should the Order decide to threaten the rest of
the Midlands. We know little of the situation inside Anderith, under the
Order's occupation. The rivers flow away from our men, toward the sea, so
they have not seen bodies to indicate if there has been mass death, but
there have been a few people who managed to escape. They report that there
was some death due to the poison which was released, but they don't know how
widespread it was. General Reibisch has sent scouts and spies in to learn
what they will."
"What orders did Richard give them to take back?"
"None."
"None? He sent no orders?"
Cara shook her head and then leaned over to dunk the cloth again. "He
wrote letters to the general, though."
She drew the blanket down, lifted the bandage at Kahlan's side, and
inspected its weak red charge before tossing it on the floor. With a gentle
touch, she cleaned the wound.
When Kahlan was able to get her breath, she asked, "Did you see the
letters?"
"Yes. They say much the same as he has told you-that he has had a
vision that has caused him to come to see the nature of what he must do. He
explained to the general that he could not give orders for fear of causing
the end of our chances."
"Did General Reibisch answer?"
"Lord Rahl has had a vision. D'Harans know the Lord Rahl must deal with
the terrifying mysteries of magic. D'Harans do not expect to understand
their Lord Rahl and would not question his behavior: he is the Lord Rahl.
The general made no comment, but sent word that he would use his own
judgment."
Richard had probably told them it was a vision, rather than say it was
simply a realization, for that very reason. Kahlan considered that a moment,
weighing the possibilities.
"We have that much luck, then. General Reibisch is a good man, and will
know what to do. Before too long, I'll be up and about. By then, maybe
Richard will be better, too."
Cara tossed the cloth into the pail. As she leaned closer, her brow
creased with frustration and concern.
"Mother Confessor, Lord Rahl said he will not act to lead us until the
people prove themselves to him."
"I'm getting better. I hope to help him get over what happened-help him
to see that he must fight."
"But this involves magic." She picked at the frayed edge of the blue
blanket. "Lord Rahl said it's a vision. If it is magic, then it's something
he would know about and must handle in the way he sees it must be done."
"We need to be a little understanding of what he's been through-the
loss we've all suffered to the Order-and remember, too, that Richard didn't
grow up around magic, much less ruling armies."
Cara squatted and rinsed her cloth in the pail. After wringing it out,
she went back to cleaning the wound in Kahlan's side. "He is the Lord Rahl,
though. Hasn't he already proven himself to be a master of magic a number of
times?"
Kahlan couldn't dispute that much of it, but he still didn't have much
experience, and experience was valuable. Cara not only feared magic but was
easily impressed by any act of wizardry. Like most people, she couldn't
distinguish between a simple conjuring and the kind of magic that could
alter the very nature of the world. Kahlan realized now that this wasn't a
vision, as such, but a conclusion Richard had arrived at.
Much of what he'd said made sense, but Kahlan believed that emotion was
clouding his thinking.
Cara looked up from her work. Her voice bore an undertone of
uncertainty, if not despairing bewilderment. "Mother Confessor, how will the
people ever be able to prove themselves to Lord Rahl?"
"I've no idea."
Cara set down the cloth and looked Kahlan in the eye. It was a long,
uncomfortable moment before she finally decided to speak.
"Mother Confessor, I think maybe Lord Rahl has lost his mind."
Kahlan's immediate thought was to wonder if General Reibisch might
believe the same thing.
"I thought D'Harans do not expect to understand their Lord Rahl and
would not question his behavior."
"Lord Rahl also says he wants me to think for myself."
Kahlan put her hand over Cara's. "How many times have we doubted him
before? Remember the chicken that-wasn't-a-chicken? We both thought he was
crazy. He wasn't."
"This is not some monster chasing us. This is something much bigger."
"Care, do you always follow Richard's orders?"
"Of course not. He must be protected and I can't allow his foolishness
to interfere with my duty. I only follow his orders if they do not endanger
him, or if they tell me to do what I would have done anyway, or if it
involves his male pride."
"Did you always follow Darken Rahl's orders?"
Cara stiffened at the unexpected encounter with the name, as if
speaking it might summon him back from the world of the dead. "You followed
Darken Rahl's orders, no matter how foolish they were, or you were tortured
to death."
"Which Lord Rahl do you respect?"
"I would lay down my life for any Lord Rahl." Cara hesitated, and then
touched her fingertips to the red leather over her heart. "But I could never
feel this way for any other. I . . . love Lord Rahl. Not like you love him,
not like a woman loves a man, but it is still love. Sometimes I have dreams
of how proud I am to serve and defend him, and sometimes I have nightmares
that I will fail him."
Cara's brow drew down with sudden dread. "You won't tell him that I
said I love '; him, will you? He must not know."
Kahlan smiled. "Cara, I think he already knows, because he has similar
feelings about you, but if you don't wish it, I won't say anything."
Cara let out a sigh of relief. "Good."
"And what made you come to feel that way about him?"
"Many things .... He wishes us to think for ourselves. He allows us to
serve him by choice. No Lord Rahl has ever done that before. I know that if
I said I wished to quit him, he would let me go. He would not have me
tortured to death for it. He would wish me a good life."
"That, and more, is what you value about him: he never pretended any
claim to your lives. He believes no such claim can ever rightfully exist.
It's the first time since you were captured and trained to be Mord-Sith,
that you have felt the reality of freedom.
"That, Cara, is what Richard wants for everyone."
She swished a hand, as if dismissing the seriousness of the whole
thing. "He would be foolish to grant me my freedom if I asked for it. He
needs me too much."
"You wouldn't need to ask for your freedom, Cara, and you know it. You
already have your freedom, and because of him you know that, too. That's
what makes him a leader you are honored to follow. That's why you feel the
way you do about him. He has earned your loyalty."
Cara mulled it over.
"I still think he has lost his mind."
In the past, Richard had more than once expressed his faith that, given
a chance, people would do the right thing. That was what he had done with
the Mord-Sith. That was also what he had done with the people of Anderith.
Now . . .
Kahlan swallowed back her emotion. "Not his mind, Cara, but maybe his
heart."
Cara, seeing the look on Kahlan's face, dismissed the seriousness of
the matter with a shrug and a smile. "I guess we will simply have to bring
him around to the way things are going to be-talk some sense into him."
Cara dabbed away the remnant of a tear as it rolled down Kahlan's
cheek.
"Before he comes back, how about getting that stupid wooden bowl for
me?"
Cara nodded and bent to retrieve it. Kahlan was already fretting,
knowing how much it was going to hurt, but there was no avoiding it.
Cara came up with the shallow bowl. "Before those men came, I was
planning on making a fire and warming some water. I was going to give you a
bed bath-you know, with a soapy cloth and a bucket of warm water. I guess I
can do it when we get where we are going."
Kahlan half closed her eyes with the dreamy thought of being at least
somewhat clean and fresh. She thought she needed a bath even more than she
needed the wooden bowl to relieve herself.
"Cara, if you would do that for me, I would kiss your feet when I get
better, and name you to the most important post I can think of."
"I am Mord-Sith." Cara looked nonplussed. She finally drew the blanket
down. "That is the most important post there is-except perhaps wife to the
Lord Rahl. Since he already has a wife, and I am already Mord-Sith, I will
have to be content with having my feet kissed."
Kahlan chuckled, but a stab of pain through her abdomen and ribs
brought it to an abrupt halt.
--}----
Richard was a long time in returning. Cara had made Kahlan drink two
cups of cold tea heavily laced with herbs to dull the pain. It wouldn't be
long before she was in a stupor, if not exactly asleep. Kahlan had been just
about to yield to Cara's desire to go look for Richard, when he called from
a distance to let them know it was him.
"Did you see any of the men?" Cara asked when he appeared in the
doorway.
With a straight finger, Richard swiped glistening beads of sweat off
his forehead. His damp hair was plastered to his neck. "No. They're no doubt
off to Hartland to do some drinking and complaining. By the time they come
back we'll be long gone."
"I still say we should lie in wait and end the threat," Cara muttered.
Richard ignored her.
"I cut and stripped some stout saplings and used some canvas to make a
litter." He came closer and with a knuckle nudged Kahlan's chin, as if to
playfully buck up her courage. "From now on we'll just let you stay on the
litter, and then we can move you in and out of the carriage without. . ." He
had that look in his eyes-that look that hurt her to see. He showed her a
smile. "It will make it easier on Cara and me."
Kahlan tried to face the thought with composure. "We're ready then?"
His gaze dropped as he nodded.
"Good," Kahlan said, cheerfully. "I'm in the mood for a nice ride. I'd
like to see some of the countryside."
He smiled, more convincingly this time, she thought. "You shall have
it. And we'll end up at a beautiful place. It's going to take a while to get
there, traveling as slow as we must, but it will be worth the journey,
you'll see."
Kahlan tried to keep her breathing even. She said his name over and
over in her head, telling herself that she would not forget it this time,
that she would not forget her own name. She hated forgetting things; it made
her feel a fool to learn things she should have remembered but had
forgotten. She was going to remember this time.
"Well, do I have to get up and walk? Or are you going to be a gentleman
and carry me?"
He bent and kissed her forehead-the one part on her face that the soft
touch of his lips would not hurt. He glanced at Cara and tilted his head to
signal her to get Kahlan's legs.
"Will those men be drinking a long time?" Kahlan asked.
"It's still midday. Don't worry, we'll be long gone before they ever
get back', here."
"I'm sorry, Richard. I know you thought these people from your
homeland-"
"They're people, just like everyone else."
She nodded as she fondly stroked the back of his big hand. "Cara gave
me some of your herbs. I'll sleep for a long time, so don't go slow on my
account-I won't feel it. I don't want you to have to fight all those men."
"I won't be doing any fighting just traveling my forests."
"That's good." Kahlan felt daggers twist in her ribs as her breathing
started getting too fast. "I love you, you know. In case I forgot to say it,
I love you."
Despite the pain in his gray eyes, he smiled. "I love you, too. Just
try to relax. Cara and I will be as gentle as we can. We'll go easy. There's
no rush. Don't try to help us. Just relax. You're getting better, so it
won't be so hard."
She had been hurt before and knew that it was always better to move
yourself because you knew exactly how to do it. But she couldn't move
herself this time.,
She had come to know that the worst thing when you were hurt was to
have someone else move you.
As he leaned over, she slipped her right arm around his neck while he
carefully slid his left arm under her shoulders. Being lifted even that much
ignited a shock of pain. Kahlan tried to ignore the burning stitch and
attempted to relax as she said his name over and over in her mind.
She suddenly remembered something important. It was her last chance to
remind him.
"Richard," she whispered urgently just before he pushed his right arm
under her bottom to lift her. "Please . . . remember to be careful not to
hurt the baby."
She was startled to see her words stagger him. It took a moment before
his eyes turned up to look into hers. What she saw there nearly stopped her
heart.
"Kahlan . . . you remember, don't you?"
"Remember?"
His eyes glistened. "That you lost the baby. When you were attacked."
The memory slammed into her like a fist, nearly taking her breath.
"...Oh...
"Are you all right?"
"Yes. I forgot for a moment. I just wasn't thinking. I remember, now. I
remember you told me about it."
And she did. Their child, their child that had only begun to grow in
her, was long since dead and gone. Those beasts who had attacked her had
taken that from her, too.
The world seemed to turn gray and lifeless.
"I'm so sorry, Kahlan," he whispered.
She caressed his hair. "No, Richard. I should have remembered. I'm
sorry I forgot. I didn't mean to . . ."
He nodded.
She felt a warm tear drop onto the hollow of her throat, close to her
necklace. The necklace, with its small dark stone, had been a wedding gift
from Shota, the witch woman. The gift was a proposal of truce. Shota said it
would allow them to be together and share their love, as they had always
wanted, without Kahlan getting pregnant. Richard and Kahlan had decided
that, for the time being, they would reluctantly accept Shota's gift, her
truce. They already had worries enough on their hands.
But for a time, when the chimes had been loose in the world, the magic
of the necklace, unbeknownst to Richard and Kahlan, had failed. One small
but miraculous balance to the horrors the chimes had brought had been that
it had given their love the opportunity to bring a child to life.
Now that life was gone.
"Please, Richard, let's go."
He nodded again.
"Dear spirits," he whispered to himself so softly she could hardly hear
him, "forgive me for what I am about to do."
She clutched his neck. She now longed for what was coming-she wanted to
forget.
He lifted her as gently as he could. It felt like wild stallions tied
to each limb all leaped into a gallop at the same instant. Pain ripped up
from the core of her, the shock of it making her eyes go wide as she sucked
in a breath. And then she screamed.
The blackness hit her like a dungeon door slamming shut.
C H A P T E R 4
A sound woke her as suddenly as a slap. Kahlan lay on her back, still
as death, her eyes wide, listening. It wasn't so much that the sound had
been loud, but that it had been something disturbingly familiar. Something
dangerous.
Her whole body throbbed with pain, but she was more awake than she had
been in what seemed like weeks. She didn't know how long she had been
asleep, or perhaps unconscious. She was awake enough to remember that it
would be a grave mistake to try to sit up, because just about the only part
of her not injured was her right arm. One of the big chestnut geldings
snorted nervously and stamped a hoof, jostling the carnage enough to remind
Kahlan of her broken ribs.
The sticky air smelled of approaching rain, though fits of wind still
bore dust to her nostrils. Dark masses of leaves overhead swung fretfully to
and fro, their creaking branches giving voice to their torment. Deep purple
and violet clouds scudded past in silence. Beyond the trees and clouds, the
field of blue-black sky held a lone star, high over her forehead. She wasn't
sure if it was dawn or dusk, but it felt like the death of day.
As the gusts beat strands of her filthy hair across her face, Kahlan
listened as hard as she could for the sound that didn't belong, still hoping
to fit it into a picture of something innocent. Since she'd heard it only
from the deepness of sleep, its conscious identity remained frustratingly
out of her reach.
She listened, too, for sounds of Richard and Cara, but heard nothing.
Surely, they would be close. They would not leave her alone-not for any
reason this side of death. She recoiled from the image. She ached to call
out for Richard and prove the uninvited thought a foolish fear, but instinct
screamed at her to stay silent. She needed no reminder not to move.
A metallic clang came from the distance, then a cry. Maybe it was an
animal, she told herself. Ravens sometimes let out the most awful cries.
Their shrill wails could sound so human it was eerie. But as far as she
knew, ravens didn't make metallic sounds.
The carriage suddenly lurched to the right. Her breath caught as the
unanticipated movement caused a stitch of pain in the back of her ribs.
Someone had put weight on the step. By the careless disregard for the
carriage's injured passenger, she knew it wasn't Richard or Cara. But if it
wasn't Richard, then who? Gooseflesh tickled the nape of her neck. If it
wasn't Richard, where was he?
Stubby fingers grasped the top of the corded chafing strip on the
carriage's side rail. The blunt fingertips were rounded back over grubby,
gnawed-down little halfbutton fingernails. Kahlan held her breath, hoping he
didn't realize she was in the carriage.
A face popped up. Cunning dark eyes squinted at her. The man's four
middle upper teeth were missing, leaving his eyeteeth looking like fangs
when he grinned.
"Well, well. If it ain't the wife of the late Richard Cypher."
Kahlan lay frozen. This was just like her dreams. For an instant, she
couldn't decide if it was only that, just a dream, or real.
His shirt bore a dark patina of dirt, as if it was never removed for
anything. Sparse, wiry hairs on his fleshy cheeks and chin were like early
weeds in the plowed field of his pockmarked face. His upper lip was wet from
his runny nose. He had no lower teeth in front. The tip of his tongue rested
partway out between the yawning gap of his smirk.
He brought up a knife for her to see. He turned it this way and that,
almost as if he were showing off a prized possession to a shy girl he was
courting. His eyes kept flicking back and forth between the knife and
Kahlan. The slipshod job of sharpening appeared to have been done on rough
granite, rather than on a proper whetstone. Dark blotches and rust stained
the poorly kept cheap steel. But the scratched and chipped edge was no less
deadly for any of it. His wicked, toothless grin widened with pleasure as
her gaze followed the blade, watching it carve careful slices of the air
between them.
She made herself look into his dark, sunken eyes, which peered out from
puffy slits. "Where's Richard?" she demanded in a level voice.
"Dancing with the spirits in the underworld." He cocked his head to one
side. "Where's the blond bitch? The one my friends said they saw before. The
one with the smart mouth. The one what needs to have her tongue shortened
before I gut her."
Kahlan glared at him so he would know she had no intention of
answering. As the crude knife advanced toward her, his stench hit her.
"You would have to be Tommy Lancaster."
The knife paused. "How'd you know that?"
Anger welled up from deep inside her. "Richard told me about you."
The eyes glittered with menace. His grin widened. "Yeah? What did he
tell you?"
"That you were an ugly toothless pig who wets his pants whenever he
grins. Smells like he was right."
The smirking grin turned to a scowl. He raised up on the step and
leaned in with the knife. That was what Kahlan wanted him to do-to get close
enough so she could touch him.
With the discipline borne of a lifetime of experience, she mentally
shed her anger and donned the calm of a Confessor committed to a course of
action. Once a Confessor was resolved to releasing her power, the nature of
time itself seemed to change.
She had but to touch him.
A Confessor's power was partly dependent on her strength. In her
injured condition, she didn't know if she would be able to call forth the
required force, and if she could, whether she would survive the unleashing
of it, but she knew she had no choice. One of them was about to die. Maybe
both.
He leaned his elbow on the side rail. His fist with the knife went for
her exposed throat. Rather than watching the knife, Kahlan watched the
little scars, like dusty white cobwebs caught on his knuckles. When the fist
was close enough, she made her move to snatch his wrist.
Unexpectedly, she discovered she was snugly enfolded in the blue
blanket. She 35
hadn't realized Richard had placed her on the litter he'd made. The
blanket was wrapped around her and tightly tucked under the stretcher poles
in order to hold her as still as possible and prevent her from being hurt
when the carriage was moving. Her arm was trapped inside what was about to
become her death shroud.
Hot panic flared up as she struggled to free her right arm. She was in
a desperate race with the blade coming for her throat. Pain knifed her
injured ribs as she battled with the blanket. She had no time to cry out or
to curse in frustration at being so unwittingly snared. Her fingers gathered
a fold of material. She yanked at it, trying to pull some slack from under
the litter she lay atop so she could free her arm.
Kahlan had merely to touch him, but she couldn't. His blade was going
to be the only contact between them. Her only hope was that maybe his
knuckles would brush her flesh, or maybe he just might be close enough as he
started to slice her throat that she could press her chin against his hand.
Then, she could release her power, if she was still alive-if he didn't cut
too deep, first.
As she twisted and pulled at the blanket, it seemed to her an eternity
as she watched the blade poised over her exposed neck, an eternity to wait
before she had any hope of unleashing her power-an eternity to live. But she
knew there was only an instant more before she would feel the ripping slash
of that rough blade.
It didn't happen at all as she expected.
Tommy Lancaster wrenched backward with an earsplitting shriek. The
world around Kahlan crashed back in a riot of sound and motion with the
abrupt readjustment to the discontinuation of her intent. Kahlan saw Cara
behind him, her teeth clenched in a grim commitment of her own. In her
pristine red leather, she was a precious ruby behind a clod of dirt.
Bent into the Agiel pressed against his back, Tommy Lancaster had less
hope of pulling away from Cara than if she had impaled him on a meat hook.
His torment would not have been more brutal to witness, his shrieks more
painful to hear.
Cara's Agiel dragged up and around the side of his ribs as he collapsed
to his knees. Each rib the Agiel passed over broke with a sharp crack, like
the sound of a tree limb snapping. Vivid red, the match of her leather,
oozed over his knuckles and down his fingers. The knife clattered to the
rocky ground. A dark stain of blood grew on the side of his shirt until it
dripped off the untucked tails.
Cara stood over him, an austere executioner, watching him beg for
mercy. Instead of granting it, she pressed her Agiel against his throat and
followed him to the ground. His eyes were wide and white all around as he
choked.
It was a slow, agonizing journey toward death. Tommy Lancaster's arms
and legs writhed as he began to drown in his own blood. Cara could have
ended it quickly, but it didn't appear she had any intention of doing so.
This man had meant to kill Kahlan. Cara meant to extract a heavy price for
the crime.
"Cara!" Kahlan was surprised that she could get so much power into the
shout Cara glanced back over her shoulder. Tommy Lancaster's hands went to
his throat and he gasped for air when she rose up to stand over him. "Cara,
stop it. Where's Richard? Richard may need your help."
Cara leaned down over Tommy Lancaster, pressed her Agiel to his chest,
and gave it a twist. His left leg kicked out once, his arms flopped to the
side, and he went still.
Before either Cara or Kahlan could say anything, Richard, his face set
in cold ferocity, sprinted up toward the carriage. He had his sword to hand.
The blade was dark and wet.
The instant Kahlan saw his sword, she comprehended what had awakened
her. The sound had been the Sword of Truth announcing its arrival in the
evening air. In her sleep, her subconscious recognized the unique ring of
steel made by the Sword of Truth when it was drawn, and she instinctively
grasped the danger that that sound represented.
On his way to Kahlan's side, Richard only glanced at the lifeless body
at Cara's feet.
"Are you all right?"
Kahlan nodded. "Fine." Belatedly, yet feeling triumphant at the
accomplishment, she pulled her arm free of the blanket.
Richard turned to Cara. "Anyone else come up the road?"
"No. Just this one." She gestured with her Agiel toward the knife on
the ground. "He intended to cut the Mother Confessor's throat."
If Tommy Lancaster hadn't already been dead, Richard's glare would have
finished him. "I hope you didn't make it easy on him."
"No, Lord Rahl. He regretted his last vile act-I made certain of it."
With his sword, Richard indicated the surrounding area. "Stay here and
keep your eyes open. I'm sure we got them all, but I'm going to check just
to be certain no one else was holding back and trying to surprise us from
another direction."
"No one will get near the Mother Confessor, Lord Rahl."
Dust rose in the gloomy light when he gave a reassuring pat to the
shoulder of one of the two horses standing in their harnesses. "Soon as I
get back, I want to get going. We should have enough moon-for a few hours,
anyway. I know a safe place to make camp about four hours up the road. That
will get us a good distance away from all this."
He pointed with his sword. "Drag his body past the brush over there and
roll him off the edge, down into the ravine. I'd just as soon the bodies
weren't found until after we're long gone and far away. Probably only the
animals will ever find them way out here, but I don't want to take any
chances."
Cara snatched a fistful of Tommy Lancaster's hair. "With pleasure." He
was stocky, but the weight gave her no difficulty.
Richard trotted soundlessly off into the gathering darkness. Kahlan
listened to the sound of the body scraping across the ground. She heard
small branches snapping as Cara pulled the dead weight through the brush,
and then the muffled thuds and tumbling scree as Tommy Lancaster's body
rolled and bounced down a steep slope. It was a long time before Kahlan
heard the final thump at the bottom of the ravine.
Cara ambled back to the side of the carnage. "Everything all right with
you?" She casually pulled off her armored gloves.
Kahlan blinked at the woman. "Cara, he nearly had me."
Cara flicked her long blond braid back over her shoulder as she scanned
the surrounding area. "No he didn't. I was standing right there behind him
the whole time. I was nearly breathing down his neck. I never took my eyes
from his knife. He had no chance to harm you." She met Kahlan's gaze.
"Surely, you must have seen me."
"No, I didn't."
"Oh. I thought you saw me." Looking a little sheepish, she tucked most
of the cuffs of the gloves behind her belt and folded the rest down over the
front. "I guess maybe you were too low in the carriage to see me there
behind him. I had my attention on him. I didn't mean to let him frighten
you."
"If you were there the whole time, why did you allow him to nearly kill
me?"
"He did not nearly kill you." Cara smiled without humor. "But I wanted
to let him believe it. It's more of a shock, more of a horror, if you let
them think they've won. It crushes a man's spirit to take him then, when
you've caught him dead to rights."
Kahlan's head was swimming in confusion and so she decided not to press
the issue. "What's going on? What's happened? How long have I been asleep?"
"We have been traveling for two days. You have been in and out of
sleep, but you didn't know anything the times you were awake. Lord Rahl was
fretful about hurting you to get you into the carnage, and about having told
you . . . what you forgot."
Kahlan knew what Cara meant: her dead baby. "And the men?"
"They came after us. This time, though, Lord Rahl didn't discuss it
with them." She seemed especially pleased about that. "He knew in enough
time that they were coming, so we weren't taken by surprise. When they came
charging in, some with arrows noched and some with their swords or axes out,
he shouted at them-once-giving them a chance to change their minds."
"He tried to reason with them? Even then?"
"Well, not exactly. He told them to go home in peace, or they would all
die."
"And then what?"
"And then they all laughed. It only seemed to embolden them. They
charged, arrows flying, swords and axes raised. So Lord Rahl ran off into
the woods."
"He did what?"
"Before they came, he had told me that he was going to make them all
chase after him. As Lord Rahl ran, the one who thought he would cut your
throat yelled at the others to `get Richard, and finish him this time.' Lord
Rahl had hoped he would draw them all away from you, but when that one went
after you instead, Lord Rahl gave me a look and I knew what he wanted me to
do."
Cara clasped her hands behind her back as she scrutinized the gathering
darkness, keeping watch, should anyone try to surprise them. Kahlan's
thoughts turned to Richard, and what it must have been like, all alone as
they chased him.
"How many men?"
"I didn't count them." Cara shrugged. "Maybe two dozen."
"And you left Richard alone with two dozen men chasing after him? Two
dozen men intent on killing him?"
Cara shot Kahlan an incredulous look. "And leave you unprotected? When
I knew that toothless brute was going after you? Lord Rahl would have
skinned me alive if I had left you."
Tall and lean, shoulders squared and chin raised, Cara looked as
pleased as a cat licking mouse off its whiskers. Kahlan suddenly understood:
Richard had entrusted Cara with Kahlan's life; the MordSith had proven that
faith justified.
Kahlan felt a smile stretch the partly healed cuts on her lips. "I just
wish I'd , known you were standing there the whole time. Now, thanks to you,
I won't need the wooden bowl."
Cara didn't laugh. "Mother Confessor, you should know that I would
never let R anything happen to either of you."
Richard appeared out of the shadows as suddenly as he had vanished. He
stroked the horses reassuringly. As he moved down beside them, he quickly
checked the neck collars, the trace chains, and the breaching to make sure
it was all secure.
"Anything?" he asked Cara.
"No, Lord Rahl. Quiet and clear."
He leaned in the carnage and smiled. "Well, as long as you're awake,
how about I take you for a romantic moonlight ride?"
She rested her hand on his forearm. "Are you all right?"
"I'm fine. Not a scratch."
"That's not what I meant."
His smile vanished. "They tried to kill us. Westland has just suffered
its first casualties because of the influence of the Imperial Order."
"But you knew them."
"That doesn't entitle them to misplaced sympathy. How many thousands
have I seen killed since I left here? I couldn't even convince men I grew up
with of the truth. I couldn't even get them to listen fairly. All the death
and suffering I've seen is ultimately because of men like this-men who
refuse to see.
"Their willful ignorance does not entitle them to my blood or life.
They picked their own path. For once, they paid the price."
He didn't sound to her like a man who was quitting the fight. He still
held the sword, was still in the grip of its rage. Kahlan caressed his arm,
letting him know that she understood. It was clear to her that even though
he'd been justly defending himself, and though he was still filled with the
sword's rage, he keenly regretted what he'd had to do. The men, had they
been able to kill Richard instead, would have regretted nothing. They would
have celebrated his death as a great victory.
"That was still perilous-making them all chase after you."
"No, it wasn't. It drew them out of the open and into the trees. They
had to dismount. It's rocky and the footing is poor, so they couldn't rush
me together or with speed, like they could out here on the road.
"The light is failing; they thought that was to their advantage. It
wasn't. In the trees it was even darker. I'm wearing mostly black. It's
warm, so I'd left my gold cape behind, here in the carriage. The little bit
of gold on the rest of the outfit only serves to break up the shape of a
man's figure in the near-dark, so they had an even harder time seeing me.
"Once I took down Albert, they stopped thinking and fought with pure
anger until they started seeing blood and death. Those men are used to
brawls, not battles. They had expected an easy time murdering us-they
weren't mentally prepared to fight for their own lives. Once they saw the
true nature of what was happening, they ran for their lives. The ones left,
anyway. These are my woods. In their panic, they became confused and lost
their way in the trees. I cut them off and ended it."
"Did you get them all?" Cara asked, worried about any who might escape
and bring more men after them.
"Yes. I knew most of them, and besides, I had their number in my head.
I counted the bodies to make sure I got them all."
"How many?" Cara asked.
Richard turned to take up the reins. "Not enough for their purpose." He
clicked his tongue and started the horses moving.
Richard rose up and drew his sword. This time, when its distinctive
sound rang out in the night, Kahlan was awake. Her first instinct was to sit
up. Before she even had time to think better of it, Richard had crouched and
gently restrained her with a reassuring hand. She lifted her head just
enough to see that it was Cara, leading a man into the harsh, flickering
light of the campfire. Richard sheathed his sword when he saw who Cara had
with her: Captain Meiffert, the D'Haran officer who had been with them back
in Anderith.
Before any other greeting, the man dropped to his knees and bent
forward, touching his forehead to the soft ground strewn with pine needles.
"Master Rahl guide us. Master Rahl teach us. Master Rahl protect us,"
Captain Meiffert beseeched in sincere reverence. "In your light we thrive.
In your mercy we are sheltered. In your wisdom we are humbled. We live only
to serve. Our lives are yours."
When he had gone to his knees to recite the devotion, as it was called,
Kahlan saw Cara almost reflexively go to her knees with him, so ingrained
was the ritual. The supplication to their Lord Rahl was something all
D'Harans did. In the field they commonly recited it once or, on occasion,
three times. At the People's Palace in D'Hara, most people gathered twice a
day to chant the devotion at length.
When he'd been a captive of Darken Rahl, Richard, often in much the
same condition as Tommy Lancaster just before he died, had himself been
forced to his knees by Mord-Sith and made to perform the devotion for hours
at a time. Now, the Mord-Sith, like all D'Harans, paid that same homage to
Richard. If the Mord-Sith saw such a turn of events as improbable, or even
ironic, they never said as much. What many of them had found improbable was
that Richard hadn't had them all executed when he became their Lord Rahl.
It was Richard, though, who had discovered that the devotion to their
Lord Rahl was in fact a surviving vestige of a bond, an ancient magic
invoked by one of his ancestors to protect the D'Haran people from the dream
walkers. It had long been believed that the dream walkers-created by wizards
to be weapons during that ancient and nearly forgotten great war-had
vanished from the world. The conjuring of strange and varied abilities-of
instilling unnatural attributes in people-willing or not, had once been a
dark art, the results always being at the least unpredictable, often
uncertain, and sometimes dangerously unstable. Somehow, some spark of that
malignant manipulation had been passed down generation after generation,
lurking unseen for three thousand years-until it rekindled in the person of
Emperor Jagang,
Kahlan knew something about the alteration of living beings to suit a
purpose. Confessors were such people, as had been the dream walkers. In
Jagang, Kahlan
saw a monster created by magic. She knew many people saw the same in
her. Much as some people had blond hair or brown eyes, she had been born to
grow tall, with warm brown hair, and green eyes-and the ability of a
Confessor. She loved and laughed and longed for things just the same as
those born with blond hair or brown eyes, and without a Confessor's special
ability.
Kahlan used her power for valid, moral reasons. Jagang, no doubt,
believed the same of himself, and even if he didn't, most of his followers
certainly did.
Richard, too, had been born with latent power. The ancient, adjunct
defense of the bond was passed down to any gifted Rahl. Without the
protection of the bond to Richard-the Lord Rahl-whether formally spoken or a
silent heartfelt affinity, anyone was vulnerable to Jagang's power as a
dream walker.
Unlike most other permutations conjured by wizards in living people,
the Confessor's ability had always remained vital; at least it had until all
the other Confessors had been murdered by order of Darken Rahl. Now, without
such wizards and their specialized conjuring, only if Kahlan had children
would the magic of the Confessors live on.
Confessors usually bore girls, but not always. A Confessor's power had
originally been created for, and had been intended to be used by, women.
Like all other conjuring that introduced unnatural abilities in people,
this, too, had had unforeseen consequences: a Confessor's male children, it
turned out, also bore the power. After it had been learned how treacherous
the power could be in men, all male children were scrupulously culled.
Kahlan bearing a male child was precisely what the witch woman, Shota,
feared. Shota knew very well that Richard would never allow his and Kahlan's
son to be slain for the past evils of male Confessors. Kahlan, too, could
never allow Richard's son to be killed. In the past, a Confessor's inability
to marry out of love was one of the reasons she could emotionally endure the
practice of infanticide. Richard, in discovering the means by which he and
Kahlan could be together, had altered that equation, too.
But Shota didn't simply fear Kahlan giving birth to a male Confessor;
she feared something of potentially far greater magnitude-a male Confessor
who possessed Richard's gift. Shota had foretold that Kahlan and Richard
would conceive a male child. Shota viewed such a child as an evil monster,
dangerous beyond comprehension, and so had vowed to kill their offspring. To
prevent such a thing from being required, she had given them the necklace to
keep Kahlan from becoming pregnant. They had taken it reluctantly. The
alternative was war with the witch woman.
It was for reasons such as this that Richard abhorred prophecy.
Kahlan watched as Captain Meiffert spoke the devotion a third time,
Cara's lips moving with his. The soft chant was making Kahlan sleepy.
It was a luxury for Kahlan to be able to be down with Richard and Cara
in the sheltered camp, beside the warmth of the fire, rather than having to
stay in the carriage, especially since the night had turned chilly and damp.
With the litter they could move her more easily and without causing her much
pain. Richard would have made the litter sooner, but he hadn't expected to
have to abandon the house he had started to build.
They were far off the narrow, forsaken road, in a tiny clearing
concealed in a cleft in a steep rock wall behind a dense expanse of pine and
spruce. A small meadow close by provided a snug paddock for the horses.
Richard and Cara had
pulled the carriage off the road, behind a mass of deadfall, and hidden
it with spruce and balsam boughs. No one but a D'Haran bonded to their Lord
Rahl had much of a chance of ever finding them in the vast and trackless
forest.
The secluded spot had a fire pit Richard had dug and ringed with rocks
during a previous stay, nearly a year before. It hadn't been used since. A
protruding shelf of rock about seven or eight feet above them prevented the
light of the campfire from shining up the rock wall, helping keep the camp
hidden. Its slope also kept them snug and dry in the drizzle that had begun
to fall. With a fog closing in, too, it was as protected and secure a
campsite as Kahlan had ever seen. Richard had been true to his word.
It had taken more like six hours than four to reach the campsite.
Richard had proceeded slowly for Kahlan's sake. It was late and they were
all tired from a long day of traveling, to say nothing of the attack.
Richard had told her that it looked like it might rain for a day or two, and
they would stay in the camp and rest up until the weather cleared. There was
no urgency to get where they were going.
After the third devotion, Captain Meiffert came haltingly to his feet.
He clapped his right fist to the leather over his heart in salute. Richard
smiled and the two men clasped forearms in a less formal greeting.
"How are you doing, Captain?" Richard grasped the man's elbow. "What's
the matter? Did you fall off your horse, or something?"
The captain glanced at Cara, to his side. "Ah, well, I'm fine, Lord
Rahl. Really."
"You look hurt."
"I just had my ribs . . . tickled, by your Mord-Sith, that's all."
"I didn't do it hard enough to break them," Cara scoffed.
"I'm truly sorry, Captain. We had a bit of trouble earlier today. Cara
was no doubt worried for our safety when she saw you approaching in the
dark." Richard's eyes turned toward Cara. "But she still should have been
more careful before risking injuring people. I'm sure she's sorry and will
want to apologize."
Cara made a sour face. "It was dark. I'm not about to take any foolish
chances with the life of our Lord Rahl just so-"
"I would hope not," Captain Meiffert put in before Richard could
reprimand her. He smiled at Cara. "I was once kicked by a stalwart warhorse.
You did a better job of putting me down, Mistress Cara. I'm gratified to
find Lord Rahl's life is in capable hands. If sore ribs are the price, I
willingly accept it."
Cara's face brightened. The captain's simple concession disarmed a
potentially nettlesome situation.
"Well, if the ribs bother you, let me know," Cara said dryly, "and I'll
kiss them and make them better." In the silence, as Richard glowered at her,
she scratched her ear and finally added, "Anyway, sorry. But I didn't want
to take any chances."
"As I said, a price I willingly pay. Thank you for your vigilance."
"What are you doing here, Captain?" Richard asked. "General Reibisch
send you to see if the Lord Rahl is crazy?"
Although it was impossible to tell in the firelight, Kahlan was sure
that the man's face turned scarlet. "No, of course not, Lord Rahl. It's just
that the general wanted you to have a full report."
"I see." Richard glanced down at their dinner pot. "When's the last
time you ate, Captain? You look a little drawn, besides having sore ribs."
"Well, ah, I've been riding hard, Lord Rahl. I guess yesterday I must
have eaten something. I'm fine, though. I can have something after-" 42
"Sit down, then." Richard gestured. "Let me get you something hot to
eat. It will do you good."
As the man reluctantly settled down on the mossy ground beside Kahlan
and Cara, Richard scooped some rice and beans into a bowl. He cut a big
piece of bannock from what he'd left to cool on the griddle off to the side
of the fire. He held the bowl out to the man. Captain Meiffert saw no way to
prevent it, and was now mortified to find himself being served by none other
than the Lord Rahl himself.
Richard had to lift the food toward him a second time before he took
it. "It's only some rice and beans, Captain. It's not like I'm giving you
Cara's hand in marriage."
Cara guffawed. "Mord-Sith don't marry. They simply take a man for a
mate if they wish him-he gets no say in it."
Richard glanced up at her. Kahlan knew by Richard's tone that he hadn't
meant anything by the comment but he didn't laugh with Cara. He knew all too
well the truth of her words. Such an act was not an act of love, but
altogether the opposite. In the uncomfortable silence, Cara realized what
she'd said, and decided to break some branches down and feed them to the
fire.
Kahlan knew that Derma, the Mord-Sith who had captured Richard, had
taken him for her mate. Cara knew it, too. When Richard would sometimes wake
with a start and cling to her, Kahlan wondered if his nightmares were of
things imaginary or real. When she kissed his sweat-slicked brow and asked
what he had dreamed, he never remembered. She was thankful for that much of
it.
Richard retrieved a long stick that had been propped against one of the
rocks ringing the fire. With his finger, he slid several sizzling pieces of
bacon off the stick and into the captain's bowl, and then set the big piece
of bannock on top. They had with them a variety of food. Kahlan shared the
carnage with all the supplies Richard had picked up along their journey
north to Hartland. They had enough staples to last for a good long time.
"Thank you," Captain Meiffert stammered. He brushed back his fall of
blond hair. "It looks delicious."
"It is," Richard said. "You're lucky: I made dinner tonight, instead of
Cara."
Cara, proud of being a poor cook, smiled as if it were an
accomplishment of note.
Kahlan was sure it was a story that would be repeated to wide eyes and
stunned disbelief: the Lord Rahl himself serving food to one of his men. By
the way the captain ate, she guessed it had been longer than a day since he
had eaten. As big as he was, she figured he had to need a lot of food.
He swallowed and looked up. "My horse." He began to stand. "When
Mistress Cara. . . I forgot my horse. I need-"
"Eat your food." Richard stood and clapped Captain Meiffert's shoulder
to keep him seated. "I was going to check on our horses anyway. I'll see to
yours as well. I'm sure it would like some water and oats, too."
"But, Lord Rahl, I can't allow you to-"
"Eat. This will save time; when I get back, you'll be done and then you
can give me your report." Richard's shape became indistinct as he dissolved
into the shadows, leaving only a disembodied voice behind. "But I'm afraid I
still won't have any orders for General Reibisch."
In the stillness, crickets once again took up their rhythmic chirping.
Some dis-
tance away, Kahlan heard a night bird calling. Beyond the nearby trees,
the horses whinnied contentedly, probably when Richard greeted them. Every
once in a while a feather of mist strayed in under the overhang to dampen
her cheek. She wished she could turn on her side and close her eyes. Richard
had given her some herb tea and it was beginning to make her drowsy. At
least it dulled the pain, too.
"How are you, Mother Confessor?" Captain Meiffert asked. "Everyone is
terribly worried about you."
A Confessor wasn't often confronted with such honest and warm concern.
The young man's simple question was so sincere it almost brought Kahlan to
tears.
"I'm getting better, Captain. Tell everyone I'll be fine after I've had
some time to heal. We're going someplace quiet where I can enjoy the fresh
air of the arriving summer and get some rest. I'll be better before autumn,
I'm sure. By then, I hope Richard will be
of the war."
The captain smiled. "Everyone will be relieved to know you're healing.
I can't tell you how many people told me that when I return they want to
hear how you're doing."
"Tell them I said I'll be fine and I asked for them not to worry
anymore about me, but to take care of themselves."
He ate another spoonful. Kahlan saw in his eyes that there was more to
the man's anxiety. It took him a moment before he addressed it.
"We are concerned, too, that you and Lord Rahl need protection."
Cara, already sitting straight, nevertheless managed to straighten
more, at the same time making the subtle shift in her posture appear
threatening. "Lord Rahl and the Mother Confessor are not without protection,
Captain; they have me. Anything more than a Mord-Sith is just pretty brass
buttons."
This time, he didn't back down. His voice rang with the clear tone of
authority. "This is not a matter of disrespect, Mistress Cara, nor is
presumption intended. Like you, I am sworn to their safety, and that is my
proper concern. These brass buttons have met the enemy before in the defense
of Lord Rahl, and I don't really believe a Mord-Sith would want to deter me
from that duty for no more reason than petty pride."
"We're going to a remote and secluded place," Kahlan said, before Cara
could answer. "I think our solitude, and Cara, will be ample protection. If
Richard wishes it otherwise, he will say so."
With a reluctant nod, he accepted her answer. The last of it, anyway,
settled the matter.
When Richard had taken Kahlan north, he had left their guard forces
behind. She knew it was deliberate, probably part of his conviction about
what he felt he had to do. Richard wasn't opposed to the concept of
protection; in the past, he had accepted troops being with them. Cara, too,
had been insistent on having the security of those troops along. It was
different, though, for Cara to admit it directly to Captain Meiffert.
They had spent a good deal of time in Anderith with the captain and his
elite forces. Kahlan knew him to be a superb officer. She thought he must be
approaching his mid-twenties-probably a soldier for a decade already and the
veteran of a number of campaigns, from minor rebellions to open warfare. The
sharp wholesome lines of his face were just beginning to take on a mature
set.
Over millennia, through war, migration, and occupation, other cultures
had mixed
in with the D'Haran, leaving a blend of peoples. Tall and
broad-shouldered, Captain Meiffert was marked as full-blooded D'Haran by
blond hair and blue eyes, as was Cara. The bond was strongest in
full-blooded D'Harans.
After he had finished about half his rice, he glanced over his
shoulder, into the darkness where Richard had gone. His earnest blue eyes
took in both Cara and Kahlan.
"I don't mean it to sound judgmental or personal, and I hope I'm not
speaking out of turn, but may I ask you both a . . . a sensitive question?"
"You may, Captain," Kahlan said. "But I can't promise we will answer
it."
The last part gave him pause for a moment, but then he went on.
"General Reibisch and some of the other officers . . . well, there have been
worried discussions about Lord Rahl. We trust in him, of course," he was
quick to add. "We really do. It's just that . . ."
"So what are your concerns, then, Captain?" Cara put in, her brow
drawing tight. "If you trust him so much."
He stirred his wooden spoon around the bowl. "I was there in Anderith
through the whole thing. I know how hard he worked-and you, too, Mother
Confessor. No Lord Rahl before him ever worried about what the people
wanted. In the past, the only thing that mattered was what the Lord Rahl
wanted. Then, after all that, the people rejected his offer-rejected him. He
sent us back to the main force, and just left us"-he gestured around
himself-"to come here. Out in the middle of nowhere. To be a recluse, or
something." He paused while searching for the right words. "We don't . . .
understand it, exactly."
He looked up from the fire, back into their eyes, as he went on. "We're
worried that Lord Rahl has lost his will to fight-that he simply no longer
cares. Or perhaps . . . he is afraid to fight?"
The look on his face told Kahlan that he feared reprisal for saying the
things he said, and for asking such a question, but he needed the answer
enough to risk it. This was probably why he had come to give a report,
rather than send a simple messenger.
"About six hours before he cooked that nice dinner pot of rice and
beans," Cara said in a casual manner, "he killed a couple dozen men. All by
himself. Hacked them apart like I've never seen before. The violence of it
shocked even me. He left only one man for me to dispatch. Quite unfair of
him, I think."
Captain Meiffert looked positively relieved as he let out a long
breath. He looked away from Cara's steady gaze and back into his bowl to
stir his dinner.
"That news will be well received. Thank you for telling me, Mistress
Cara."
"He can't issue orders," Kahlan said, "because he unequivocally
believes that, for now, if he takes part in leading our forces against the
Imperial Order, it would bring about our defeat. He believes that if he
enters the battle too soon, we will then have no chance of ever winning. He
believes he must wait for the right time, that's all. There's nothing more
to it."
Kahlan felt a bit conflicted, helping to justify Richard's actions,
when she wasn't entirely in favor of them. She felt it was necessary to
check the advance of the Imperial Order's army now, and not give them a
chance to freely pillage and murder the people of the New World.
The captain mulled this over as he ate some bannock. He frowned as he
gestured with the piece he had left. "There is sound battle theory for such
a strategy. If you have any choice in it, you only attack when it's on your
terms, not the enemy's."
He became more spirited as he thought about it a moment. "It is better
to hold an attack for the right moment, despite the damage an enemy can
cause in the interim, than to go into a battle before the right time. Such
would be an act of poor command."
"That's right." Kahlan laid her arm back and rested her right wrist on
her brow. "Perhaps you could explain it to the other officers in those
words-that it's premature to issue orders, and he's waiting for the proper
time. I don't think that's really any different from the way Richard has
explained it to us, but perhaps it would be better understood if put in such
terms."
The captain ate the last bite of his bannock, seeming to think it over.
"I trust Lord Rahl with my life. I know the others do, too, but I think they
will be reassured by such an explanation as to why he is withholding his
orders. I can see now why he had to leave us-it was to resist the temptation
to throw himself into the fray before the time was right."
Kahlan wished she was as confident of the reasoning as the captain. She
recalled Cara's question, wondering how the people could prove themselves to
Richard. She knew he would not be inclined to try it through a vote again,
but she didn't see how else the people could prove themselves to him.
"I'd not mention it to Richard," she said. "It's difficult for him-not
being able to issue orders. He's trying to do what he believes is right, but
it's a difficult course to hold to."
"I understand, Mother Confessor. `In his wisdom we are humbled. We live
only to serve. Our lives are his.' "
Kahlan studied the smooth lines and simple angles of his young face lit
by the dancing firelight. In that face, she saw some of what Richard had
been trying to say to her before. "Richard doesn't believe your lives are
his, Captain, but that they are your own, and priceless. That is what he is
fighting for."
He chose his words carefully; if he wasn't worried about her being the
Mother Confessor, since he hadn't grown up fearing the power and the rule of
such a woman, she was still the Lord Rahl's wife.
"Most of us see how different he is from the last Lord Rahl. I'm not
claiming that any of us understands everything about him, but we know he
fights to defend, rather than to conquer. As a soldier, I know the
difference it makes to believe in what I'm fighting for, because. . ."
The captain looked away from her gaze. He lifted a short branch of
firewood, tapping the end on the ground for a time. His voice took on a
painful inflection, "Because it takes something precious out of you to kill
people who never meant you any harm."
The fire crackled and hissed as he slowly stirred the glowing coals.
Sparks swirled up to spill out from around the underside of the rock
overhang.
Cara watched her Agiel as she rolled it in her fingers. "You . . . feel
that way too?"
Captain Meiffert met Cara's gaze. "I never realized, before, what it
was doing to me, inside. I didn't know. Lord Rahl makes me proud to be
D'Haran. He makes it stand for something right .... It never did before. I
thought that the way things were, was just the way things were, and they
could never change."
Cara's gaze fell away as she privately nodded her agreement. Kahlan
could only imagine what life was like living under that kind of rule, what
it did to people.
"I'm glad you understand, Captain," Kahlan whispered. "That's one
reason he
worries so much about all of you. He wants you to live lives you can be
proud of. Lives that are your own."
He dropped the stick into the fire. "And he wanted all the people of
Anderith to care about themselves the way he wants us to value our lives.
The vote wasn't really for him, but for themselves. That was why the vote
meant so much to him?"
"That's why," Kahlan confirmed, afraid to test her own voice any
further than that.
He stirred his spoon around to cool his dinner. It no longer needed
cooling, she was sure. She supposed his thoughts were being stirred more
than his dinner.
"You know," he said, "one of the things I heard people say, back in
Anderith, was that since Darken Rahl was his father, Richard Rahl was evil,
too. They said that since his father had done wrong, Richard Rahl might
sometimes do good, but he could never be a good person."
"I heard that too," Cara said. "Not just in Anderith, but a lot of
places."
"That's wrong. Why should people think that just because one of his
parents was cruel, those crimes pass on to someone who never did them? And
that he must spend his life making amends? I'd hate to think that if I'm
ever lucky enough to have children, they, and then their children, and their
children after that, would have to suffer forever for the things I've done
serving under Darken Rahl." He looked over at Kahlan and Cara. "Such
prejudice isn't right."
In the silence, Cara stared into the flames.
"I served under Darken Rahl. I know the difference in the two men." His
voice lowered with simmering anger. "It's wrong of people to lay guilt for
the crimes of Darken Rahl onto his son."
"You're right about that," Cara murmured. "The two may look a little
alike, but anyone who has ever looked into the eyes of both men, as I have,
could never begin to think they were the same kind of men."
Captain Meiffert ate the rest of his rice and beans in silence. Cara
offered him her waterskin. He took it with a smile and his nod of thanks.
She dished him out a second bowlful from the pot, and cut him another piece
of bannock. He looked only slightly less mortified to be served by a
Mord-Sith than by the Lord Rahl. Cara found his expression amusing. She
called him "Brass Buttons" and told him to eat it all. He did so as they
listened to the sounds of the fire snapping and water dripping from the pine
needles onto the carpet of leaves and other debris of the forest floor.
Richard returned, loaded down with the captain's bedroll and
saddlebags. He let them slip to the ground beside the officer and then shook
water off himself before sitting down beside Kahlan. He offered her a drink
from a full waterskin he'd brought back. She took only a sip. She was more
interested in being able to rest her hand on his leg.
Richard yawned. "So, Captain Meiffert, you said the general wanted you
to give a full report?"
"Yes, sir." The captain went into a long and detailed account on the
state of the army to the south, how they were stationed out on the plains,
what passes they guarded in the mountains, and how they planned on using the
terrain, should the Imperial Order suddenly come up out of Anderith and move
north into the Midlands. He reported on the health of the men and their
supply situation-both good. The other half of General Reibisch's D'Haran
force was back in Aydindril, protecting the city, and Kahlan was relieved to
hear that everything there was in order.
Captain Meiffert relayed all the communications they'd received from
around the Midlands, including from Kelton and Galen, two of the largest
lands of the Midlands that were now allied with the new D'Haran Empire. The
allied lands were helping to keep the army supplied, in addition to
providing men for rotation of patrols, scouting land they knew better, and
other work.
Kahlan's half brother, Harold, had brought word that Cyrilla, Kahlan's
half sister, had taken a turn for the better. Cyrilla had been queen of
Galea. After her brutal treatment in the hands of the enemy, she became
emotionally unbalanced and was unable to serve as queen. In her rare
conscious moments, worried for her people, she had begged Kahlan to be queen
in her stead. Kahlan had reluctantly agreed, saying it was only until
Cyrilla was well again. Few people thought she would ever have her mind
back, but, apparently, it looked as if she might yet recover.
In order to soothe the ruffled feathers of Galea's neighboring land,
Kelton, Richard had named Kahlan queen of Kelton. When Kahlan first heard
what Richard had done, she had thought it was lunacy. Strange as the
arrangement was, though, if
suited both lands, and brought them not only peace with each other, but
also into the fold of those lands fighting against the Imperial Order.
Cara was pleasantly surprised to hear that a number of Mord-Sith had
arrived at the Confessors' Palace in Aydindril, in case Lord Rahl needed
them. Berdine would no doubt be pleased to have some of her sister Mord-Sith
with her in Aydindril.
Kahlan missed Aydindril. She guessed the place you grew up could never
leave your heart. The thought gave her a pang of sorrow for Richard.
"That would be Rikka," Cara said with a smile. "Wait until she meets
the new Lord Rahl," she added under her breath, finding that even more to
smile about.
Kahlan's thoughts turned to the people they had left to the Imperial
Order-or more accurately, to the people who had chosen the Imperial Order.
"Have you received any reports from Anderith?"
"Yes, from a number of men we sent in there. I'm afraid we lost some,
too. The ones who returned report that there were fewer enemy deaths from
the poisoned waters than we had hoped. Once the Imperial Order discovered
their soldiers dying, or sick, they tested everything on the local people,
first. A number of them died or became sick, but it wasn't widespread. By
using the people to test the food and water, they were able to isolate the
tainted food and destroy it. The army has been been laying claim to
everything-they use a lot of supplies."
The Imperial Order was said to be far larger than any army ever
assembled. Kahlan knew that much of the reports to be accurate. The Order
dwarfed the D'Haran and Midland troops arrayed against them perhaps ten or
twenty to onesome reports claimed more than that. Some reports claimed the
New World forces were outnumbered by a hundred to one, but Kahlan discounted
that as outright panic. She didn't know how long the Order would feed off
Anderith before they moved on, or if they were being resupplied from the Old
World. They had to be, to some extent, anyway.
"How many scouts and spies did we lose?" Richard asked.
Captain Meiffert looked up. It was the first question Richard had
asked. "Some may yet turn up, but it appears likely that we lost fifty to
sixty men."
Richard sighed. "And General Reibisch thinks it was worth losing the
lives of those men to discover this?"
Captain Meiffert cast about for an answer. "We didn't know what we
would discover, Lord Rahl; that was why we sent them in. Do you wish me to
tell the general not to send in any more men?"
Richard was carving a face in a piece of firewood, sporadically tossing
shavings into the fire. He sighed.
"No, he must do as he sees fit. I've explained to him that I can't
issue orders."
The captain, watching Richard pick small chips of wood from his lap and
pitch them into the fire, tossed a small fan of pine needles into the
flames, where it blazed in short-lived glory. Richard's carving was a
remarkably good likeness of the captain.
Kahlan had, on occasion, seen Richard casually carve animals or people.
She once had strongly suggested that his ability was guided by his gift. He
scoffed at such a notion, saying that he had liked to carve ever since he
was little. She reminded him that art was used to cast spells, and that once
he had been captured with the aid of a drawn spell.
He insisted this was nothing like that. As a guide, he said he'd passed
many an
evening at camp, by himself, carving. Not wanting to carry the added
weight, he would toss the finished piece into the fire. He said he enjoyed
the act of carving, and could always carve another. Kahlan considered the
carvings inspired and found it distressing to see them destroyed.
"What do you intend to do, Lord Rahl? If I may ask."
Richard took a smooth, steady slice that demarcated the line of an ear,
bringing it to life along with the line of the jaw he had already cut. He
looked up and stared off into the night.
"We're going to a place back in the mountains, where other people don't
go, so we can be alone, and safe. The Mother Confessor will be able to get
well there and gain back her strength. While we're there, I may even make
Cara start wearing a dress."
Cara shot to her feet. "What!" When she saw Richard's smile, Cara
realized he was only joking. She fumed, nonetheless.
"I'd not report that part of it to the general, were I you, Captain,"
Richard said.
Cara sank back down to the ground. "Not if Brass Buttons, here, values
his ribs," she muttered.
Kahlan struggled not to chuckle, lest she twist the ever present knives
in her ribs. Sometimes, she felt as if she knew how the chunk of wood
Richard was carving felt. It was good to see Richard, for once, get the best
of Cara. It was usually she who had him flustered.
"I can't help you, for now," Richard said, his serious tone returning.
He went back to his work with his knife. "I hope you can all accept that."
"Of course, Lord Rahl. We know that you will lead us into battle when
the time is right."
"I hope that day comes, Captain. I really do. Not because I want to
fight, but because I hope there to be something to fight for." Richard
stared into the fire, his countenance a chilling vision of despair. "Right
now, there isn't."
"Yes, Lord Rahl," Captain Meiffert said, finally breaking the
uncomfortable silence. "We will do as we think best until the Mother
Confessor is better and you are then able to join us."
Richard didn't argue the time schedule, as the captain had described
it. It was one Kahlan hoped for, too, but Richard had never said it would be
that soon. He had, in fact, made it clear to them that the time might not
ever come. He cradled the wood in his lap, studying what he had done.
He ran his thumb along the fresh-cut line of the nose as he asked, "Did
the returning scouts say . . . how it faired for the people in Anderith . .
. with the Imperial Order there?"
Kahlan knew he was only torturing himself by asking that question. She
wished he hadn't asked; it could do him no good to hear the answer.
Captain Meiffert cleared his throat. "Well, yes, they did report on the
condiions.
"And . . .?"
The young officer launched into a cold report of the facts they knew.
"Jagang set up his troop headquarters in the capital, Fairfield. He took
over the Minister of Culture's estate for himself. Their army is so huge
that it swallowed the city and overflows far out onto the hills all around.
The Anderith army put up little resistance. They were collected and all
summarily put to death. The government of Anderith
for the most part ceased to exist within the first few hours. There is
no rule or law. The Order spent the first week in unchecked celebration.
"Most people in Fairfield were displaced and lost everything they
owned. Many fled. The roads all around were packed solid with those trying
to escape what was happening in the city. The people fleeing the city only
ended up being the spoils for the soldiers in the hills all around who
couldn't fit into the city. Only a trickle mostly the very old and
sickly-made it past that gauntlet."
His impersonal tone abandoned him. He had spent time with those people,
too. "I'm afraid that, in all, it went badly for them, Lord Rahl. There was
a horrendous amount of killing, of the men, anyway-in the tens of thousands.
Likely more."
"They got what they asked for." Cara's voice was as cold as winter
night. "They picked their own fate." Kahlan agreed, but didn't say so. She
knew Richard agreed, too. None of them were pleased about it, though.
"And the countryside?" Richard asked. "Anything known about places
outside Fairfield? Is it going better for them?"
"No better, Lord Rahl. The Imperial Order has been methodically going
about a process of `pacifying' the land, as they call it. Their soldiers are
accompanied by the gifted.
"By far, the worst of the accounts were about one called `Death's
Mistress.' "
"Who?" Cara asked.
" `Death's Mistress,' they call her."
"Her. Must be the Sisters," Richard said.
"Which ones do you think it would be?" Cara asked.
Richard, cutting the mouth into the firewood face, shrugged. "Jagang
has both Sisters of the Light and Sisters of the Dark held captive. He's a
dream walker; he forces both to do his bidding. It could be either; the
woman is simply his tool."
"I don't know," Captain Meiffert said. "We've had plenty of reports
about the Sisters, and how dangerous they are. But they're being used like
you said, as tools of the army-weapons, basically-not as his agents. Jagang
doesn't let them think for themselves or direct anything.
"This one, from the reports, anyway, behaves very differently from the
others. She acts as Jagang's agent, but still, the word is she decides
things for herself, and does as she pleases. The men who came back reported
that she is more feared than Jagang himself.
"The people of one town, when they heard she was coming their way, all
gathered together in the town square. They made the children drink poison
first, then the adults took their dose. Every last person in the town was
dead when the woman arrived-close to five hundred people."
Richard had stopped carving as he listened. Kahlan knew that unfounded
rumors could also be so lurid as to turn alarm into deadly panic, to the
point where people would rather die than face the object of their dread.
Fear was a powerful tool of war.
Richard went back to the carving in his lap. He held the knife near the
tip of the point, like a pen, and carefully cut character into the eyes.
"They didn't get a name for her, did they? This Death's Mistress?"
"I'm sorry, no, Lord Rahl. They said she is simply called by everyone
`Death's Mistress.' "
"Sounds like an ugly witch," Cara said.
"Quite the contrary. She has blue eyes and long blond hair. She is said
to be one
of the most beautiful women you could ever lay eyes upon. They say she
looks like a vision of a good spirit."
Kahlan couldn't help notice the captain's furtive glance at Cara, who
had blue eyes and long blond hair, and was also one of the most beautiful
women you could ever lay eyes upon. She, too, was deadly.
Richard was frowning. "Blond. . . blue eyes . . . there are several it
could be .... Too bad they didn't catch her name."
"Sorry, but they gave no other name, Lord Rahl, only that description
.... Oh yes, and that she always wears black."
"Dear spirits," Richard whispered as he rose to his full height,
gripping his carving by its throat.
"From what I've been told, Lord Rahl, though she looks like a vision of
one, the good spins themselves would fear her."
"With good reason." Richard said, as he stared into the distance, as if
looking beyond the black wall of mist to a place only he could see.
"You know her, then, Lord Rahl?"
Kahlan listened to the fire pop and crackle as she waited along with
the other two for his answer. It almost seemed Richard was trying to find
his voice as his gaze sank back down to meet the eyes of the carving in his
hand.
"I know her," he said, at last. "I know her all too well. She was one
of my teachers at the Palace of the Prophets."
Richard tossed his carving into the flames.
"Pray you never have to look into Nicci's eyes, Captain."
Look into my eyes, child," Nicci said in her soft, silken voice as she
cupped the girl's chin.
Nicci lifted the bony face. The eyes, dark and wide-set, blinked with
dull bewilderment. There was nothing to be seen in them: the girl was
simple.
Nicci straightened, feeling a hollow disappointment. She always did.
She sometimes found herself looking into people's eyes, like this, and then
wondering why. If she was searching for something, she didn't know what it
was.
She resumed her leisurely walk down the line of the townspeople, all
assembled along one side of the dusty market square. People in outlying
farms and smaller communities no doubt came into the town several times a
month, on market days, some staying overnight if they had come from far
away. This wasn't a market day, but it would suit her purpose well enough.
A few of the crowded buildings had a second story, typically a room or
two for a family over their small shop. Nicci saw a bakery, a cobbler's
shop, a shop selling pottery, a blacksmith, an herbalist, a shop offering
leatherwork-the usual places. One of these towns was much the same as the
next. Many of the town's people worked the surrounding fields of wheat or
sorghum, tended animals, and had extensive vegetable plots. Dung, straw, and
clay being plentiful, they lived in homes of daub and wattle. A few of the
shops with a second story boasted beam construction with clapboard siding.
Behind her, sullen soldiers bristling with weapons filled the majority
of the square. They were tired from the hot ride, and worse, bored. Nicci
knew they were a twitch away from a rampage. A town, even one with meager
plunder, was an inviting diversion. It wasn't so much the taking as the
breaking that they liked. Sometimes, though, it was the taking. The nervous
women only rarely met the soldiers' bold stares.
As she strolled past the scruffy people, Nicci looked into the eyes
watching her. Most were wide with terror and fixed not on the soldiers, but
on the object of their dread: Nicci-or as people had taken to calling her,
"Death's Mistress." The designation neither pleased nor displeased her; it
was simply a fact she noted, a fact of no more significance to her than if
someone had told her that they had mended a pair of her stockings.
Some, she knew, were staring at the gold ring through her lower lip.
Gossip would have already informed them that a woman so marked was a
personal slave to Emperor Jagang-something lower even than simple peasants
such as themselves. That they stared at the gold ring, or what they thought
of her for it, was of even less significance to her than being called
"Death's Mistress."
Jagang only possessed her body in this world; the Keeper would have her
soul
for eternity in the next. Her body's existence in this world was
torment; her spirit's existence in the next would be no less. Existence and
torment were simply the two sides of the same coin-there could be no other.
Smoke, rolling up from the fire pit over her left shoulder, sailed away
on a fitful wind to make a dark slash across the bright blue afternoon sky.
Stacked stones to each side of the communal cooking pit supported a rod
above the fire. Two or three pigs or sheep, skewered on the rod, could be
roasted at once. Temporary sides were probably available to convert the fire
pit into a smokehouse.
At other times, an outdoor fire pit was used, often in conjunction with
butchering, for the making of soap, since making soap was not something
typically done indoors. Nicci saw a wooden ash pit, used for making lye,
standing to the side of the open area, along with a large iron kettle that
could be used for rendering fat. Lye and fat were the primary ingredients of
soap. Some women liked to add fragrance to their soap with herbs and such,
like lavender or rosemary.
When Nicci was little, her mother made her go each autumn, when the
butchering was being done, to help people make soap. Her mother said helping
others built proper character. Nicci still had a few small dots of scars on
the backs of her hands and forearms where she had been splashed and
blistered by the hot fat. Nicci's mother always made her wear a fine
dress-not to impress the other people who didn't have such clothes, but to
make Nicci conspicuous and uncomfortable. The attention her pink dress
attracted was not admiration. As she stood with the long wooden paddle,
stirring the bubbling kettle while the lye was being poured in, some of the
other children, trying to splash the dress and ruin it, burned Nicci, too.
Nicci's mother had said the burns were the Creator's punishment.
As Nicci moved past, inspecting the assembled people, the only sounds
were the horses off behind the buildings, the sporadic coughs of people, and
the flags of flame in the fire pit snapping and flapping in the breeze. The
soldiers had already helped themselves to the two pigs that had been
roasting on the rod, so the aroma of cooking meat had mostly dissipated on
the wind, leaving the sour smells of sweat and the stink of human
habitation. Whether a belligerent army or a peaceful town, the filth of
people smelled the same.
"You all know why I'm here," Nicci announced. "Why have you people made
me go to the trouble of such a journey?" She gazed down the line of maybe
two hundred people standing four and five deep. The soldiers, who had
ordered them out of their homes and in from the fields, greatly outnumbered
them. She stopped in front of a man she had noticed people glancing at.
?Well?"
The wind fluttered his thin gray hair across his balding, bowed head as
he fixed his gaze on the ground at her feet. "We don't have anything to
give, Mistress. We're a poor community. We have nothing."
"You are a liar. You had two pigs. You saw fit to have a gluttonous
feast instead of helping those in need."
"But we have to eat." It was not an argument, so much as a plea.
"So do others, but they are not so fortunate as you. They know only the
ache of hunger in their bellies every night. What an ugly tragedy, that
every day thousands of children die from the simple want of food, and
millions more know the gnawing pain of hunger-while people like you, in a
land of plenty, offer nothing but selfish excuses. Having what they need to
live is their right, and must be honored by those with the means to help.
"Our soldiers, too, need to eat. Do you think our struggle on the
behalf of the people is easy? These men risk their lives daily so you may
raise your children in a proper, civilized society. How can you look these
men in the eye? How can we even feed our troops, if everyone doesn't help
support the cause?"
The trembling man remained mute.
"What must I do to impress upon you people the seriousness of your
obligation to the lives of others? Your contribution to those in need is a
solemn moral dutysharing in a greater good."
Nicci's vision suddenly went white. With a pain like scorching hot
needles driven into her ears, Jagang's voice filled her mind.
Why must you play this game? Make examples of people! Teach them a
lesson that 1 am not to be ignored!
Nicci swayed on her feet. She was completely blinded by the pain
bursting inside her head. She let it wash through her, as if watching it
happen to a stranger. Her abdominal muscles twitched and convulsed. A rusty,
barbed lance driven up through her, ripping her insides, could not have hurt
more. Her arms hung limp at her sides while she waited for Jagang's
displeasure to end, or for death.
She was unable to tell how long the torture lasted. When he was doing
it, she was never able to sense time-the pain was too all-consuming. She
knew, from what others told her when they saw it done to her, and from
seeing it done to others, that it sometimes lasted only an instant.
Sometimes it lasted hours.
Making it last hours was a waste of Jagang's effort-she couldn't tell
the difference. She had told him as much.
Suddenly, she was unable to draw a breath. It felt like a fist squeezed
her heart to a stop. She thought her lungs might burst. Her knees were about
to buckle.
Do not disobey me again!
With a gasp, air filled her lungs. Jagang's discipline ended, as it
always did, with an impossibly tart, sour taste on her tongue, like an
unexpected mouthful of fresh raw lemon juice, and pain searing the nerves at
the back of her jaw under her earlobes. It left her head ringing and her
teeth throbbing. As she opened her eyes, she was surprised, as she always
was, not to see herself standing in a pool of blood. She touched the corner
of her mouth, and then brushed her fingers to an ear. She found no blood.
She wondered in passing why Jagang had been able to come into her mind
now. Sometimes, he couldn't. It didn't happen that way for any of the other
Sisters-he always had access to their minds.
As her vision cleared, she saw people staring at her. They didn't know
why she had paused. The young men-and a few of the older ones, too-were
sneaking peeks at her body. They were used to seeing women in drab,
shapeless dresses, women whose bodies exhibited the toll taken by endless
hard work and almost constant pregnancy from the time they were old enough
for the seed to catch. They had never before seen a woman like Nicci,
standing straight and tall, looking them in the eye, wearing a fine black
dress that hugged a nearly flawless shape marred by neither hard work or the
labor of birth. The stark black material contrasted the pale curve of
cleavage revealed by the cut of the laced bodice. Nicci was numb to such
stares. Occasionally, they suited her purposes, but most of the time they
didn't, and so she disregarded them.
She began walking down the line of people again, ignoring Emperor
Jagang's orders. She rarely complied with his orders. She was, for the most
part, indifferent to his punishment. If anything, she welcomed it.
Nicci, forgive me. You know I don't mean to hurt you.
She ignored his voice, too, as she studied the eyes peering up at her.
Not everyone did. She liked to look into the eyes of those courageous enough
to risk a glimpse of her. Most were filled with simple terror.
There would soon be abundant justification for such apprehension.
Nicci, you must do as I tell you, or you are only going to end up
forcing me to do something terrible to you. Neither of us wants that.
Someday, I am going to end up doing something from which you will be unable
to recover.
If that is what you wish to do, then do it, she thought, in answer.
It was not a challenge; she simply didn't care.
You know 1 don't want to do that, Nicci.
Without the pain, his voice was little more than a fly annoying her.
She paid it no heed. She addressed the crowd.
"Do you people have any concept of the effort being put into the fight
for your future? Or is it that you expect to benefit without contributing?
Many of our brave men have given their lives fighting the oppressors of the
people, fighting for our new beginning. We struggle so that all people will
be able to share equally in the coming prosperity. You must help us in our
effort on your behalf. Just as helping those in need is the moral obligation
of every person, so, too, is this."
Commander Kardeef, displaying a look of sour displeasure, planted
himself in front of her. The sunlight slanting across his lined face cast
his hooded eyes in deep shadows. She was not moved by his disfavor. He was
never satisfied with anything. Well, she corrected herself, almost never.
"People can only achieve virtue through obedience and sacrifice. Your
contribution to the Order is to implement their compliance. We are not here
to hold civic lessons!"
Commander Kardeef was confident in his privileged mastery over her. He,
too, had given her pain. She endured what Kadar Kardeef did to her with the
same detachment with which she endured what Jagang did to her.
Only in the furthest depths of pain could she begin to feel anything.
Even pain was preferable to the nothingness she usually felt.
Kadar Kardeef was probably unaware of the punishment Jagang had just
completed, or his orders; His Excellency didn't use Commander Kardeef's
mind. It was an arduous undertaking for Jagang to control those who didn't
possess the gift-lu could do it, but it was rarely worth his effort; he had
the gifted to control people for him. A dream walker somehow used the gift
in those who possessed it in order to m help complete the connection to
their minds. In a way, the gifted made it possible
for Jagang to so easily control them.
Kadar Kardeef glowered down at her as she gazed up at his darkly tanned
creased face. He was an imposing figure, with the studded leather straps
that crossed his massive chest, his armored leather shoulder and breast
plates, his chain mail, array of well-used weapons. Nicci had seen him crush
men's throats in one of big, powerful hands. As silent witness to his
bravery in battle, he bore a number scars. She had seen them all.
Few officers ranked higher or were more trusted than Kadar Kardeef. He
been with the Order since his youth, rising through the ranks to fight
alongside ' Jagang as they expanded the empire of the Imperial Order out of
their homeland Altur'Rang to eventually subjugate the rest of the Old World.
Kadar Kardeef was the hero of the Little Gap campaign, the man who almost
single-handedly
the course of the battle, breaking through enemy lines and personally
slaying the three great kings who had joined forces to trap and crush the
Imperial Order before it could seize the imaginations of the millions of
people living in a patchwork of kingdoms, fiefdoms, clans, city-states, and
vast regions controlled by alliances of warlords.
The Old World had been a tinderbox, waiting for the spark of
revolution. The preachings of the Order were that spark. If the high priests
were the Order's soul, Jagang was its bone and muscle. Few people understood
Jagang's genius-they saw only a dream walker, or a ferocious warrior. He was
far more.
It had taken Jagang decades to finally bring the rest of the Old World
to heel-to put the Order on its final path to greater glory. During those
years of struggle for the Order, while engaged in nearly constant war,
Jagang toiled building the road system that allowed him to move men and
supplies great distances with lightning speed. The more lands and peoples he
annexed, the more laborers he put to the construction of yet more roads by
which he could conquer yet more territory. He was thus able to maintain
communications and to react to situations faster than anyone would have
believed possible. Formerly isolated lands were suddenly connected to the
rest of the Old World. Jagang had knitted them together with a net of roads.
Along those roads, the people of the Old World had risen up to follow him as
he forged the way for the Order.
Kadar Kardeef had been part of it all. More than once he had taken
wounds to save Jagang's life. Jagang had once taken a bolt from a crossbow
to save Kardeef. If Jagang could be said to have a friend, Kadar Kardeef was
as close as any came to it.
Nicci first met Kardeef when he had come to the Palace of the Prophets
in Tanimura to pray. Old King Gregory, who had ruled the land including
Tanimura, had disappeared without a trace. Kadar Kardeef was a solemnly
devout man; before battle he prayed to the Creator for the blood of the
enemy, and after, for the souls of the men he had killed. That day he was
said to have prayed for the soul of King Gregory. The Imperial Order was
suddenly the new rule in Tanimura. The people celebrated in the streets for
days.
Over the course of three thousand years, the Sisters, from their home
at the Palace of the Prophets in Tanimura, had seen governments come and go.
For the most part, the Sisters, led by their prelate, considered matters of
rule a petty foolishness best ignored. They believed in a higher calling.
The Sisters believed they would remain at the Palace of the Prophets,
undisturbed in their work, long after the Order had vanished into the dust
of history. Revolutions had many times come and gone. This one, though,
caught them up.
Kadar Kardeef had been nearly twenty years younger, then-a handsome
conqueror riding into the city. Many of the Sisters were fascinated by the
man. Nicci never was. But he was fascinated by her.
Emperor Jagang, of course, did not send such invaluable men as
Commander Kardeef out to pacify conquered lands. He had entrusted Kardeef
with a much more important task: guarding his valuable property-Nicci.
Nicci turned her attention away from Kadar Kardeef and back to the
people.
She settled her gaze on the man who had spoken before. "We cannot allow
anyone to shirk their responsibility to others and to our new beginning."
"Please, Mistress . . . We have nothing-"
"Disregard of our cause is treasonous."
He thought better of disagreeing with that pronouncement.
"You don't seem to understand that this man behind me wants you to see
that the Imperial Order is resolute in their devotion to their cause-if you
don't do your duty. I know you have heard the stories, but this man wants
you to experience the grim reality. Imagining it is never quite the same.
Never quite as gruesome."
She stared at the man, waiting for his answer. He licked his
weather-cracked lips,
"We just need some more time .... Our crops are doing well. When the
harvest comes in . . . we could contribute our fair share toward the
struggle for . . . for. . ."
"The new beginning."
"Yes, Mistress," he said, bobbing his head, "the new beginning." When
his gaze returned to the dirt at his feet, she moved on down the line.
Her purpose was not really to collect, but to cow.
The time had come.
A girl gazing up at her snagged Nicci to a stop, distracting her from
what she had intended. The girl's big, dark eyes sparkled with innocent
wonder. Everything was new to her, and she was eager to see it all. In her
dark eyes shone that rare, fragile, and most perishable of qualities: a
guileless view of life that had yet to be touched by pain or loss or evil.
Nicci cupped the girl's chin, staring into the depths of those
thirsting eyes.
One of Nicci's earliest memories was of her mother standing over her
like this, holding her chin, looking down at her. Nicci's mother was gifted,
too. She said that', the gift was a curse, and a test. It was a curse
because it gave her abilities others didn't have, and it was a test to see
if she would wrongly exert that superiority. Nicci's mother almost never
used her gift. Servants handled the work; she spent most of her time nested
among her clutch of friends, devoting herself to higher pursuits.
"Dear Creator, but Nicci's father is a monster," she would complain as
she wrung her hands. Some of her friends would murmur their sympathy. "Why
must he burden me so! I fear his eternal soul is beyond hope or prayer." The
other women would ask in grim agreement.
Her mother's eyes were the same dull brown as a cockroach's back. To
Nicci's mind, they were set too close together. Her mouth, too, was narrow,
as if fixed is -. place by her perpetual disapproval. While Nicci never
really thought of her mother as homely, neither did she consider her
beautiful, although her friends regularly reassured her that she most surely
was.
Nicci's mother said beauty was a curse to a caring woman and a blessing
only to whores.
Puzzled by her mother's displeasure of her father, Nicci had finally
asked why had done.
"Nicci," her mother had said, cupping Nicci's small chin that day.
Nicci eagerly awaited her mother's words. "You have beautiful eyes, but you
do not yet see with .them. All people are miserable wretches, that is the
lot of man. Do you have any idea how it hurts those without all your
advantages to see your beautiful face? That , is all you bring to others:
insufferable pain. The Creator brought you into the world 1 for no reason
but to ease the misery of others, and here you bring only hurt." Ha mother's
friends, sipping tea, nodded, whispering to one another their sorrowful b `
firm agreement.
That was when Nicci had first learned that she bore the indelible stain
of so shadowy, nameless, unconfessed evil.
Nicci gazed into the rare face looking up at her. Today this girl's
dark eyes would see things they could not yet imagine. Those big eyes
eagerly watched without seeing. She could not possibly understand what was
to come, or why.
What kind of life could she have?
It would be for the best, this way.
The time had come.
Before she could begin, Nicci saw something that ignited her
indignation. She whirled to a nearby woman.
"Where is there a washtub?"
Surprised by the question, the woman pointed a trembling finger toward
a two story building not far off. "There, Mistress. In the yard behind the
pottery shop are laundry tubs where we were washing clothes."
Nicci seized the woman by her throat. "Get me a pair of scissors. Bring
them to me there." The woman stared in wide-eyed fright. Nicci shoved her.
"Now! Or would you prefer to die on the spot?"
Nicci yanked free a well-worn, reserve studded strap bunched with
several others and secured over Commander Kardeef's shoulder. He made no
effort to stop her, but as she gathered up the strap, he seized her upper
arm in his powerful grip.
"You had better be planning on drowning this little brat-or maybe
cutting off hunks of her hide and then stabbing out her eyes." His breath
smelled of onion and ale. He smirked. "In fact, you start in on her, and
while she's screaming and begging for her life, I'll begin separating out
some young men, or perhaps I'll select some women to be an example. Which
would you prefer, this time?"
Nicci turned her glare down at his fingers on her arm. He removed them
as he growled a warning. She turned to the girl and whipped the strap twice
around her neck to serve as a collar, twisting it into a handle in the back
so she could control the girl with it. The girl squeaked in choked surprise.
She had probably never been handled so roughly in her entire life. Nicci
forced her ahead, toward the building the woman had pointed out.
Seeing how angry Nicci had suddenly become, no one followed. A woman
not far off, undoubtedly the girl's mother, began to cry out in protest, but
then fell silent as Kardeef's men turned their attention on her. By then
Nicci already had the perplexed girl around the corner.
Out back, drab laundry, deformed and crumpled from its ordeal on the
washboard, and now stretched and pinned to lines, twisted in the wind as if
struggling to escape. Smoke from the fire pit peeked over the top of the
building. The nervous woman waited with a large pair of shears.
Nicci marched the girl up to a tub of water, drove her down on her
knees, and shoved her head under the water. While the girl struggled, Nicci
snatched the scissors from the woman. Her chore completed, the woman held
her apron up over her mouth to muffle her wails as she ran off in tears, not
wanting to watch a child being murdered.
Nicci pulled the girl's head up out of the water, and while she
sputtered and gasped for air, began clipping her dark, soaking wet hair
close to the scalp. When
Nicci had finished cutting it off in sodden clumps, she dunked the girl
again while leaning over and scooping up a cake of pale yellow soap from the
washboard on the ground beside the tub. Nicci hauled the girl's head up and
then began scrubbing. The girl screeched, flailing her spindly arms and
clawing at the strap around her neck by which Nicci controlled her. Nicci
realized she was probably hurting her, but from within the grip of rage, it
was only a dim realization.
"What's the matter with you!" Nicci shook the gasping girl. "Don't you
know you're crawling with lice?"
"But, but-"
The soap was harsh and as rough as a rasp. The girl squealed as Nicci
bent her over and put more muscle into the scouring.
"Do you like having a head full of lice?"
"No--"
"Well, you must! Why else would you have them?"
"Please! I'll try to do better. I'll wash. I promise!"
Nicci remembered how much she hated catching lice from the places her
mother sent her. She remembered scrubbing herself, using the harshest soap
she could find, only to again be sent off to another place, where she would
get infested with the hated things all over again.
When Nicci had scrubbed and dunked a dozen times, she finally dragged
the girl to a tub of clean water and swished her head about in it to rinse
her off. The girl blinked furiously, trying to clear her eyes of the
stinging, soapy water as it streamed down off her face.
Gripping the girl's chin, Nicci peered into her red eyes. "No doubt
your clothes are lousy with nits. You're to scrub your clothes every
day-underthings, especially-or the lice will just be right back." Nicci
squeezed the girl's cheeks until her eyes watered. "You are better than to
be filthy with lice! Don't you know that?"
The girl nodded, as best as she could with Nicci's strong fingers
holding her face. The big, dark, intelligent eyes, although red from the
water and wide with shock, were still filled with that rare sense of wonder.
As painful and frightening as the experience was, this had not dispelled it.
"Burn your bedding. Get new." Given the way these people lived and
worked, it seemed a hopeless challenge. "Your whole family must burn their
bedding. Wash all their clothes."
The girl nodded her oath.
Task completed, Nicci marched the girl back toward the gathered crowd.
Forcing her along by the studded strap used as a collar, Nicci was
unexpectedly struck by a memory.
It was a memory of the first time she had seen Richard.
Nearly every Sister at the Palace of the Prophets had been gathered in
the great hall to see the new boy Sister Verna had brought in. Nicci
lingered at the mahogany rail, twining around her finger a lace dangling
from her bodice, only to pull the lace straight and then to twine it again,
when the pair of thick walnut doors opened. The rumbling drone of
conversation, sprinkled with bright laughter, trailed to an expectant hush
as the group, led by Sister Phoebe, marched into the chamber, past the white
columns topped by gold capitals, and in under the huge vaulted dome.
The birth of gifted boys was rare, and a cause of expectant delight
when they were discovered and finally brought to live at the palace. A grand
banquet was planned for that evening. Most of the Sisters, dressed in their
finery, stood on the
floor below, eager to meet the new boy. Nicci remained near the center
of the lower balcony. She didn't care whether she met him or not.
It came as something of a shock to see how Sister Verna had aged on her
journey. Such journeys typically lasted at most a year; this one, beyond the
great barrier to the New World, had taken nearly twenty. Events beyond the
barrier being uncertain, Verna had apparently been sent off on her mission
too far in advance.
Life at the Palace of the Prophets was as long as it was serene. No one
at the Palace of the Prophets appeared to have aged at all in so trifling a
span of time as two decades, but away from the spell that enveloped the
palace, Verna had. Verna, probably close to one hundred and sixty years old,
had to be at least twenty years younger than Nicci; yet she now looked twice
Nicci's age. People outside the palace aged at the normal rate, of course,
but to see it happen so rapidly to a Sister . . .
As the roaring applause thundered on in the huge room, many of the
Sisters wept over the momentous occasion. Nicci yawned. Sister Phoebe held
up her hand until the room fell silent.
"Sisters." Phoebe's voice trembled. "Please welcome Sister Verna home."
She finally had to raise a hand to again bring the clamor of applause to a
halt.
When the room had quieted, she said, "And may I present our newest
student, our newest child of the Creator, our newest charge." She turned and
held an arm out in introduction, wiggling her fingers, urging the apparently
timid boy forward as she went on. "Please welcome Richard Cypher to the
Palace of the Prophets."
Several of the women stepped back out of the way as he strode forward.
Nicci's eyes widened; her back straightened. It was not a young boy. He was
grown into a man.
The crowd, despite their shock, clapped and cheered with the warmth of
their welcome. Nicci didn't hear it. Her attention was riveted by those gray
eyes of his. He was introduced to some of the nearby Sisters. The novice
assigned to him, Pasha, was brought before him and tried to speak to him.
Richard brushed Pasha aside, a stag dismissing a vole, and stepped out
alone into the center of the room. His whole bearing conveyed the same
quality Nicci beheld in his eyes.
"I have something to say."
The vast chamber fell to an astonished hush.
His gaze swept the room. Nicci's breath caught when, for an instant,
their eyes met, as he probably met countless others.
Her trembling fingers clutched the rail for support.
Nicci swore at that moment to do whatever was necessary to be named as
one of his teachers.
His fingers tapped the Rada'Han around his neck.
"As long as you keep this collar on me, you are my captors, and I am
your prisoner."
Murmurs hummed in the air. A Rada'Han was put around a boy's neck not
joust to govern him, but to protect him as well. The boys were never thought
of as prisoners, but wards who needed security, care, and training. Richard,
though, did not set ' it that way.
"Since I have committed no aggression against you, that makes us
enemies. We are at war."
Several older Sisters teetered on their heels, nearly fainting. The
faces of half the women in the room went red. The rest went white. Nicci
could not have imagined
such an attitude. His demeanor kept her from blinking, lest she
overlook something. She drew slow breaths, lest she miss a word. Her
pounding heart, though, was beyond her ability to control.
"Sister Verna has made a pledge to me that I will be taught to control
the gift, and when I have learned what is required, I will be set free. For
now, as long as you keep that pledge, we have a truce. But there are
conditions."
Richard lifted a red leather rod hanging on a fine gold chain around
his neck. At the time, Nicci hadn't known it to be the weapon of a
Mord-Sith.
"I have been collared before. The person who put that collar on me
brought me pain, to punish me, to teach me, to subdue me."
Nicci knew that such could be the only fate of one like him.
"That is the sole purpose of a collar. You collar a beast. You collar
your enemies.
"I made her much the same offer I am making you. I begged her to
release me. She would not. I was forced to kill her.
"Not one of you could ever hope to be good enough to lick her boots.
She did as she did because she was tortured and broken, made mad enough to
use a collar to hurt people. She did it against her nature.
"You . . ." His gaze swept all the eyes watching him. "You do it
because you think it is your right. You enslave in the name of your Creator.
I don't know your Creator. The only one beyond this world who I know would
do as you do is the Keeper." The crowd gasped. "As far as I'm concerned, you
may as well be the Keeper's disciples."
Little did he know that some of them were.
"If you do as she, and use this collar to bring me pain, the truce will
be ended. You may think you hold the leash to this collar, but I promise
you, if the truce ends, you will find that what you hold is a bolt of
lightning."
The room was as silent as a tomb.
He was alone, defiant, in the midst of hundreds of sorceresses who knew
how to harness every nuance of the power with which they were born; he knew
next to nothing of his ability, and was collared by a Rada'Han besides. In
this, he may have been a stag, but a stag challenging a congregation of
lions. Hungry lions.
Richard rolled up his left sleeve. He drew his sword-a sword!-in
defiance of the prodigious power arrayed before him. The distinctive ring of
steel filled the silence as the blade was brought free.
Nicci stood spellbound as he listed his conditions.
He finally pointed back with the sword. "Sister Verna captured me. I
have fought her every step of this journey. She has done everything short of
killing me and draping my body over a horse to get me here. Though she, too,
is my captor and enemy, I owe her certain debts. If anyone lays a finger to
her because of me, I will kill that person, and the truce will be ended."
Nicci couldn't fathom such a strange sense of honor, but somehow she
knew it fit what she saw in his eyes.
The crowd gasped as Richard drew his sword across the inside of his
arm. He turned it, wiping both sides in the blood, until it dripped from the
tip. Nicci could plainly see, even if the others could not much as she saw
in his eyes a quality others did not see-that the sword united with, and
completed, magic within him.
His knuckles white around the hilt, he thrust the glistening crimson
blade into the air.
"I give you a blood oath!" he cried out. "Harm the Baka Ban Mana, harm
Sister
Verna, or harm me, and the truce will be ended, and I promise you we
will have t, war! If we have war, I will lay waste to the Palace of the
Prophets!"
From the upper balcony, where Richard couldn't see him, Jedidiah's
mocking voice drifted out over the crowd. "All by yourself?"
"Doubt me at your peril. I am a prisoner; I have nothing to live for. I
am the t flesh of prophecy. I am the bringer of death."
No answer came in the stupefied silence. Probably every woman in the
room knew of the prophecy of the bringer of death, though none was certain
of its intended meaning. The text of that prophecy, along with all the
others, was kept in the vaults deep under the Palace of the Prophets. That
Richard knew it, that he dared declare it aloud in such company, augured the
worst possible interpretation. Every lioness in the room retracted her claws
in caution. Richard drove his sword home into its scabbard as if to
punctuate his threat.
Nicci knew that the profound importance of what she had seen in his
eyes and in his presence would forever haunt her.
She knew, too, that she must destroy him.
Nicci had to surrender favors and commit to obligations she never
imagined she would have willingly done, but in return, she became one of
Richard's six teachers. The burdens she had taken on in return for that
privilege were all worth it when she sat alone with him, across a small
table in his room, lightly holding his hands-if one could be said to lightly
grasp lightning-endeavoring to teach him to touch his Han, the essence of
life and spirit within the gifted. Try as he might, he felt nothing. That,
in itself, was peculiar. The inkling of what she felt within him, though,
was often enough to leave her unable to bring forth more than a few sparse
words. She had casually questioned the others, and knew they were blind to
it.
Although Nicci could not comprehend what it was about his intellect
that his eyes and his conduct revealed, she did know that it disturbed the
numb safety of her indifference. She ached to grasp it before she had to
destroy him, and at the same time ached to destroy him before she did.
Whenever she became confident that she was beginning to unravel the
mystery of his singular character, and thought she could predict what he
would do in a given , situation, he would confound her by doing something
completely unexpected, if not impossible. Time and again he reduced to ashes
what she had thought was the foundation of her understanding of him. She
spent hours sitting alone, in abysmal misery, because it seemed to be in
plain sight, yet she couldn't define it. She knew only that it was some
principle important beyond measure, and it remained beyond her .: grasp.
Richard, never happy about his situation, became increasingly distant
as time passed. Forlorn of hope, Nicci decided that the time had come.
When she went to his room for what she meant to be his final lesson and
his end, he surprised her by offering her a rare white rose. Worse, he
offered it with a smile and no explanation. As he held it out, she was so
petrified that she could only manage to say, "Why, thank you, Richard." The
white roses were from only one kind of place: dangerous restricted areas no
student should ever have been able to enter. That he apparently could, and
that he would so boldly offer her the proof of his trespass, startled her.
She held the white rose carefully between a finger and thumb, not knowing if
he was warning her-by giving her a forbidden thing-that ? he was the
bringer of death, and she was being marked, or if it was a gesture of
simple, if strange, kindness. She erred on the side of caution. Once
again, his nature had stayed her hand.
The other Sisters of the Dark had plans of their own. Richard's gift,
as far as Nicci was concerned, was probably the least remarkable and by far
the least important thing about him, yet Liliana, one of his other teachers,
a woman of boundless greed and limited insight, thought to steal the innate
ability of his Han for herself. It sparked a lethal confrontation which
Liliana lost. The six of them, their leader, Ulicia, and Richard's five
remaining teachers-having been discovered, escaped with their lives and
little else, only to end up in Jagang's clutches.
In the end, Nicci understood that quality in his eyes no better than
the first moment she had seen it.
It had all slipped through her fingers.
--]----
The girl ran for her mother when Nicci released her grip on the studded
strap around her neck.
"Well?" Commander Kardeef shrieked. He planted his fists on his hips.
"Are you through with your games? It's time these people learned the true
meaning of ruthless!"
Nicci stared into the depths of his dark eyes. They were defiant,
angry, and determined-yet they were nothing at all like Richard's eyes.
Nicci turned to the soldiers.
She gestured. "You two. Seize the commander."
The men blinked dumbly. Commander Kardeef's face went red with rage.
"That's it! You've finally gone too far!" He wheeled to his men, a whole
field of them-two thousand of them. He pointed a thumb back over his
shoulder at Nicci. "Grab this lunatic witch!"
Half a dozen men nearest to her drew weapons as they rushed her. Like
all Order field troops, they were big, strong, and quick. They were also
experienced.
Nicci thrust a fist out in the direction of the closest as he lifted
his whip to lash out and entangle her. With the speed of thought, both
Additive Magic and Subtractive twined together in a lethal mix as she
unleashed a focused bolt of power. It produced a burst of light so hot and
so white that for an instant it made the sunlight seem dim and cold by
comparison.
The blast blew a mellon-sized hole through the center of the soldier's
chest. For an instant, before the internal pressure forced his organs to
fill the sudden void, she could see men behind through the gaping hole in
his chest.
The afterimage of the flare lingered in her mind's eye like lightning's
arc. The acrid smell of scorched air stung her eyes. The clap of her power's
thunder rumbled out across the surrounding green fields of wheat.
Before the soldier hit the ground, Nicci unleased her power on three
more of the charging men, taking off one's entire shoulder, the wallop
whirling him around like a ghastly fountain, the dangling limb flinging off
into the crowd. A third man was cut almost in two. She felt the concussion
of the following bolt deep in her chest and, amid a blinding flash, the
fourth man's head came apart in a cloud of red mist and bony debris.
Her warning gaze met the eyes of two men with knives gripped in
white-knuckled
fists. They halted. Many more took a step back as the four reports, to
her so separate yet so close atop one another that they almost merged into
one ripping blast, still echoed off the buildings.
"Now," she said in a quiet, calm, composed voice that by its very
gentleness betrayed how deadly earnest was the threat, "if you men do not
follow my orders, and seize Commander Kardeef, I will seize him myself. But,
of course, not until after I've killed every last one of you."
The only sound was the moan of wind between the buildings.
"Do as I say, or die. I will not wait."
The big men, knowing her, made their decision in the instant they knew
was all she would grant them, and leaped to seize the commander. He managed
to draw his sword. Kadar Kardeef was no stranger to pitched battle. He
screamed orders as he fought them off. More than one man fell dead in the
melee. Others cried out as they took wounds. From behind, men finally caught
the deadly sword arm. Additional men piled on the commander until they had
him disarmed, down on the ground, and finally under control.
"What do you think you're doing?" Kadar Kardeef roared at her as the
men pulled him to his feet.
Nicci closed the distance between them. The soldiers held his arms
twisted behind his back. She stared into his wild eyes.
"Why, Commander, I am merely following your orders."
"What are you talking about!"
She smiled without humor just because she knew it would further madden
him.
One of the men glanced back over his shoulder. "What do you want done
with him?"
"Don't hurt him-I want him fully conscious. Strip him and bind him to
the pole."
"Pole? What pole?"
"The pole that held the pigs you men ate."
Nicci snapped her fingers, and they began pulling off their commander's
clothes, She watched without emotion as he was finally stripped. His gear
and prized weapons became plunder, quickly disappearing into the hands of
men he had commanded. They grunted with effort as they fought to bind the
struggling, naked, hairy commander to the pole at his back.
Nicci turned to the stunned crowd. "Commander Kardeef wishes you to
know how ruthless we can be. I am going to carry out those orders, and
demonstrate it for you." She turned back to the soldiers. "Put him over the
fire to roast like a pig."
The soldiers bore the struggling, furious Kadar Kardeef, the hero of
the Little Gap campaign, to the fire pit. They knew that Jagang watched them
through her eyes. They had reason to be confident that the emperor would
stop her if he wished to. After all, he was the dream walker, and they had
seen him force her and the other Sisters to submit to his wishes countless
times, no matter how degrading those wishes were.
They could not know that, for some reason, Jagang did not have access
to ha mind right then.
The wooden ends of the pole clattered into the sockets in the stone
supports to each side of the fire pit. The pole sprang up and down with the
weight of its load The weight finally settled, leaving Kadar Kardeef to hang
facedown. He had little choice but to watch the glowing coals beneath him.
Even though the fire had burned down, it wasn't long before the heat of
the wavering, low flames began causing him distress. As people watched in
silent dismay, the commander twisted as he shrieked orders, demanding that
his men take him down, promising them punishment if they delayed. His
diatribe trailed off as he began gasping for control of his growing dread.
Watching the eyes of the town's people, Nicci pointed behind her.
"This is how ruthless the Imperial Order is: they will slowly,
painfully, burn to death a great commander, a war hero, a man known and
revered far and wide, a man who has served them well, just to prove to you,
the people of an insignificant little town, that they will not hesitate to
kill anyone. Our goal is the good of all, and that goal is held more
important than any mere man among us. This is the proof. Now, do you people,
for any reason, still think that we would shrink from harming any or all of
you if you don't contribute to the common good?"
Nearly everyone shook their heads as they all mumbled, "No, Mistress."
Behind her, Commander Kardeef writhed in pain. He again yelled at his
men, commanding them to bring him down, and to kill "the crazy witch." None
of the soldiers moved to comply with his orders. To look at them, they
didn't even hear him. These men had no notion of compassion. There was only
life, and death. They chose life; that choice required his death.
Nicci stood watching the eyes of the people as the minutes dragged on.
The commander was up a good distance from the low flames, but there was a
expansive bed of broiling hot coals. She knew that, from time to time, the
gusty breeze diverted the fierce heat to give him a fleeting reprieve. It
would only prolong his ordeal; the heat was inexorable. Still, it would take
some time. She didn't ask for more firewood. She was in no hurry.
People's noses wrinkled; everyone could smell his body hair burning. No
one dared speak. As the ordeal wore on, the skin across Kardeef's chest and
stomach reddened, and then darkened. It was a good fifteen minutes before it
finally began to crack and split open. He shrieked in pain nearly the entire
time. The smell turned to a surprisingly pleasant aroma of cooking meat.
In the end, he gave in to wailing for mercy. He called her name,
begging her to bring it to an end, to either free him or to finish him
quickly. As she listened to him sob her name, she stroked the gold ring
through her lower lip, his voice little more to her than the buzzing of a
fly.
The thin layer of fat that lay over his powerful muscles began melting.
He grew hoarse. Fueled by the fat, flames flared up, scorching his face.
"Nicci!" Kardeef knew his pleas for mercy were falling on indifferent
ears. He betrayed his true feelings. "You vicious bitch! You deserved
everything I did to your"
She casually confronted his wild gaze. "Yes, I did. Give my regards to
the Keeper, Kadar."
"Tell him yourself! When Jagang finds out about this, he'll tear you
limb from limb! You'll soon be in the underworld, in the Keeper's hands!"
His words were once more but a trifling drone.
Sweat beaded on people's foreheads as the spectacle dragged on. They
needed no spoken orders to know she expected them to remain and watch the
whole thing. Their own imaginations, should they consider disobeying her
unspoken orders, would dream up punishments she never could. Only the boys
were fascinated by the remarkable exhibition. Knowing looks passed among
them; torture such as this was
a treat to the minds of young immortals. Someday, they might make good
Order troops-if they didn't grow up.
Nicci met the glare of the girl. The hatred in those eyes was
breathtaking. Even though the girl had been afraid of the dunking and
scrubbing, her eyes, at the time, had shown that the world was still a
wondrous place, and she was someone special. Now, her eyes betrayed her lost
innocence.
The whole time, Nicci stood tall, with her back straight and shoulders
square, to take the full blow of the girl's bright new hatred, feeling the
rare sensation of experiencing something.
The girl had no idea that Commander Kardeef had taken her place in the
flames,
When the commander finally went silent, Nicci turned her eyes from the
girl and spoke to the town's people.
"The past is gone. You are part of the Imperial Order. If you people
don't do the moral thing by contributing toward the well-being of your
fellow citizens of the Order, I will return."
They did not doubt her. If there was one thing they obviously wanted,
it was never to see her again.
One of the soldiers, his fists trembling at his sides, tramped forward
in halting steps. His eyes were wide with bewildered pain. "I want you back,
darlin," he growled in a voice that didn't match the startled expression in
his eyes. The voice turned deadly. "And I want you back right now."
There was no mistaking Jagang's voice, or the rage in it.
It was difficult for him to control the mind of one without the gift.
He had the soldier in a tenacious grip. Jagang would not have used a
soldier, thereby betraying his impotence, had he been able to reach in and
control Nicci's mind.
She had absolutely no idea why he had suddenly lost the link to her. It
had happened before. She knew he would eventually reestablish his ability to
hurt her. She had merely to wait.
"You are angry with me, Excellency?"
"What do you think?"
She shrugged. "Since Kadar was your better in bed, I would think you
would be pleased."
"Get yourself back here right now!" the soldier roared in Jagang's
voice. "Do you understand? Right now!"
Nicci bowed. "But, of course, Excellency."
As she straightened, she yanked the soldier's long knife from the
sheath at his belt and slammed it hilt-deep into his muscled gut. She
`gritted her teeth with the effort of pivoting the handle sideways, sweeping
the blade in a lethal arc through his insides.
She doubted the man felt his messy death writhing at her feet while she
waited for her carriage to make its way around the square. He died with
Jagang's chuckle on his lips. Since a dream walker could only be in a living
mind, for the time being, the afternoon returned to quiet.
After her carriage rocked to a dusty halt, a soldier reached up and
opened the door. She leaned out from the step, turning back to the crowd,
holding the outside handrail in order to stand straight so that they all
might see her. Her blond hair fluttered in the sunny breeze.
"Do not forget this day, and how your lives were all spared by Jagang
the Just!
The commander would have murdered you; the emperor, through me, has
instead'
shown his compassion. Spread the word of the mercy and wisdom of Jagang
the Just, and I will have no need to return."
The crowd mumbled that they would.
"Do you want us to bring the commander with us," a soldier asked. The
man, Kadar Kardeef's loyal second, now wore Kardeef's sword. Like
vegetables, fidelity's fresh vitality was fleeting, its final fate stench
and rot.
"Leave him to roast as a reminder. Everyone else will return with me to
Fairfield."
"By your command," he said with a bow. He circled his arm and ordered
the men to mount up and move out.
Nicci leaned out farther and looked up at the driver. "His Excellency
wishes to see me. Although he has not said as much, I'm reasonably sure he
would like you to hurry."
Nicci took her place on the hard leather cushion inside, her back
straight against the upright seat, while the driver let out a shrill whistle
and cracked his whip. The team leaped forward, jerking the carriage ahead.
With a hand on the windowsill, she steadied herself as the ironbound wheels
bounced over the hard, rough ground of the town square until they reached
the road, where the carnage settled down into this familiar jolting ride.
Sunlight slanted in the window, falling across the empty cushion opposite
her. The bold bright patch glided off the seat as the carriage negotiated a
curve in the road, finally slipping up to come to rest in her lap like a
warm cat. Darkly clad riders to each side, ahead, and behind stretched
forward over the withers of their galloping mounts. A rumbling roar along
with billowing plumes of dust lifted into the air from the thundering
hooves.
For the moment, Nicci was free of Jagang. She was surrounded by two
thousand men, yet she felt totally alone. Before long, she would have pain
to fill the terrible void.
She felt no joy, no fear. She sometimes wondered why she felt nothing
but the need to hurt.
As the carriage raced toward Jagang, her thoughts were focused instead
on another man, trying to recall every occasion that she had seen him. She
went over every moment she had spent with Richard Cypher, or as he was now
known-and as Jagang knew him-Richard Rahl.
She thought about his gray eyes.
Until the day she saw him, she had never believed such a person could
exist.
When she thought about Richard, like now, only one haunting need burned
in her: to destroy him.
C H A P T E R 9
Huge garish tents festooned the prominent hill outside the city of
Fairfield, yet despite the festive colors erected amid the gloom, despite
the laughing, the shouting, the coarse singing, and the riotous excess, this
was no carnival come to town, but an occupying army. The emperor's tents,
and those of his retinue, were styled in the fashion of the tents used by
some of the nomadic people from Jagang's homeland of Altur'Rang, yet they
were embellished far beyond any actual tradition. The emperor, a man vastly
exceeding any nomadic tribal leader's ability to imagine, created his own
cultural heritage as he saw fit.
Around the tents, covering the hills and valleys as far as Nicci could
see, the soldiers had pitched their own small grimy tents. Some were oiled
canvas, many more were made from animal skins. Beyond the shared basics of
practicality, there was uniformity only in their lack of conformity to any
one style.
Outside some of the shabby little tents, and almost as large, sat
ornate upholstered chairs looted from the city. The juxtaposition almost
looked as if it had been intentionally done for a comical effect, but Nicci
knew the reality had no kinship to humor. When the army eventually moved on,
such large, meticulously crafted items were too cumbersome to take and would
be left to rot in the weather.
Horses were picketed haphazardly, with occasional paddocks holding
small herds. Other enclosures held meat on the hoof. Individual wagons were
scattered here and there, seemingly wherever they could find an empty spot,
but in other places they had been set up side by side. Many were camp
followers, others were army wagons with everything from basic supplies to
blacksmith equipment. The army brought along minimal siege equipment; they
had the gifted to use as weapons of that sort.
Brooding clouds scudded low over the scene. The humid air reeked of
excrement from both animals and men. The green fields all around had been
churned to a muddy morass. The two thousand men who had returned with Nicci
had disappeared into the sprawling camp like a sprinkling of raindrops into
a swamp.
An Imperial Order army encampment was a place of noise and seeming
confusion, yet it was not as disorderly as it might appear. There was a
hierarchy of authority, and duties and chores to attend. Scattered men
worked in solitude on their gear, oiling weapons and leather or rolling
their chain mail inside barrels with sand and vinegar to clean it of rust,
while others cooked at fires. Furriers saw to the horses. Craftsmen saw to
everything from repairing weapons to fashioning new boots to pulling teeth.
Mystics of all sorts prowled the camp, tending impoverished souls or warding
troublesome demons. Duties completed, raucous gangs gathered together for
entertainment, usually gambling and drinking. Sometimes the diversions
involved the camp followers, sometimes the captives.
Even surrounded by such vast numbers, Nicci felt alone. Jagang's
absence from her mind left a feeling of staggering isolation-not a sense of
being forsaken, but simply solitude by contrast. With the dream walker in
her mind, not even the most intimate detail of life-no thought, no
deed-could be held private. His presence lurked in the dark mental corners,
and from there he could watch everything: every word you spoke; every
thought you had; every bite you took; every time you cleared your throat;
every time you coughed; every time you went to the privy. You were never
alone. Never. The violation was debilitating, the trespass complete.
That was what broke most of the Sisters: the brutal totality of it, the
awareness of his constant presence in your own mind, watching. Worse,
almost, the dream walker's roots sunk down through you, but you never knew
when his awareness was focused on you. You might call him a vile name, and,
with his attention elsewhere, it would go unnoticed. Another time, you might
have a brief, private, nasty thought about him, and he would know it the
same instant you thought it.
Nicci had learned to feel those roots, as had many of the other
Sisters. She had also learned to recognize when they were absent, as now.
That never happened with the others; with them, those roots were permanent.
Jagang always eventually returned, though, to once again sink his roots into
her, but for now, she was alone. She just didn't know why.
The jumble of troops and campfires left no clear route for the team, so
Nicci had left her carriage for the walk the rest of the way up the hill. It
exposed her to the lecherous looks and lewd calls of the soldiers who
crowded the slope. She supposed that before Jagang was finished with her,
she might be exposed to far more from the men. Most of the Sisters were sent
out to the tents from time to time to be used for the men's pleasure. It was
done either to punish them or, sometimes, merely to let them know it could
be ordered on a whim-to remind them that they were slaves, nothing more than
property.
Nicci, though, was reserved for the exclusive amusement of the emperor
and those he specifically selected-like Kadar Kardeef. Many of the Sisters
envied her status, but despite what they believed, being a personal slave to
Jagang was no grace. Women were sent to the tents for a period of time,
maybe a week or two, but the rest of the time they had less demanding
duties. They were valued, after all, for their abilities with their gift.
There was no such time limit for Nicci. She had once spent a couple of
months sequestered in Jagang's room, so as to be there for his amusement any
time of day or night. The soldiers enjoyed the women's company, but had to
mind certain restrictions in what they could do to them; Jagang and his
friends imposed on themselves no such limits.
On occasion, for reason or not, Jagang would become furious at her and
would heatedly order her to the tents for a month-to teach her a lesson, he
would say. Nicci would obediently bow and pledge it would be as he wished.
He knew she was not bluffing; it would have been a lesser torment. Before
she could be out the door to the tents, he would turn moody, command her to
return to face him, and then angrily retract the orders.
Since the beginning, Nicci had, measure by measure, inch by inch,
acquired a certain status and freedom afforded none of the others. She
hadn't specifically sought it; it just came about. Jagang had confided to
her that he read the Sisters' thoughts, and that they privately referred to
her as the Slave Queen. She supposed Jagang told her so as to honor her in
his own way, but the title "Slave Queen" had meant no more to her than
"Death's Mistress."
For now, she floated like a bright water-lily flower in the dark swamp
of men. Other Sisters always made an attempt to look as drab as the men so
as to go less noticed and be less desirable. They only deceived themselves.
They lived in constant terror of what Jagang might do to them. What
happened, happened. They had no choice or influence in it.
Nicci simply didn't care. She wore her fine black dresses and left her
long blond hair uncovered for all to see. For the most part, she did as she
wished. She didn't care what Jagang did to her, and he knew it. In much the
way Richard was an enigma to her, she was an enigma to Jagang.
Too, Jagang was fascinated by her. Despite his cruelty toward her,
there was a spark of caution mixed in. When he hurt her, she welcomed it;
she merited the brutality. Pain could sometimes reach down into the dark
emptiness. He would then recoil from hurting her. When he threatened to kill
her, she waited patiently for it to be done; she knew she didn't deserve to
live. He would then withdraw the sentence of death.
The fact that she was sincere was her safety-and her peril. She was a
fawn among wolves, safe in her coat of indifference. The fawn was in danger
only if it ran. She did not view her captivity as a conflict with her
interests; she had no interests. Time and again she had the opportunity to
run, but didn't. That, perhaps more than anything, captivated Jagang.
Sometimes, he seemed to pay court to her. She didn't know his real
interest in her; she never tried to discover it. He occasionally professed
concern for her, and a few times, something akin to affection. Other times,
when she left on some duty, he seemed glad to be rid of her.
It had occurred to her, because of his behavior, that he might think he
was in love with her. As preposterous as such a thought might be, it didn't
matter one way or the other to her. She doubted he was capable of love. She
seriously doubted that Jagang really knew what the word meant, much less the
entire concept.
Nicci knew all too well what it meant.
A soldier near Jagang's tent stepped in front of her. He grinned
moronically; it was meant to be an invitation by means of threat. She could
have dissuaded him by mentioning that Jagang waited for her, or she could
even have used her power to drop him where he stood, but instead she simply
stared at him. It was not the reaction he wanted. Many of the men rose to
the bait only if it squirmed. When she didn't, his expression turned sour.
He grumbled a curse at her and moved off.
Nicci continued on toward the emperor's tent. Nomadic tents from
Altur'Rang were actually quite small and practical, being made of bland,
unadorned lambskin, Jagang had re-created them rather more grandly than the
originals. His own was more oval than round. Three poles, rather than the
customary one, held up the multipeaked roof. The tent's exterior walls were
decorated with brightly embroidered panels. Around the top edge of the
sides, where the roof met the walls, hung fistsized multicolored tassels and
streamers that marked the traveling palace of the emperor. Banners and
pennants of bright yellow and red atop the huge tent hung limp in the stale,
late-afternoon air.
Outside, a woman beat small rugs hung over one of the tent's lines.
Nicci lifted aside the heavy doorway curtain embellished with gold shields
and hammered silver medallions depicting battle scenes. Inside, slaves were
at work sweeping the expanse of carpets, dusting the delicate ceramic ware
set about on the elaborate furnishings, and fussing at the hundreds of
colorful pillows lining the edge of the floor. Hangings
richly decorated with traditional Altur'Rang designs divided the space
into several rooms. A few openings overhead covered with gauzy material let
in a little light. All the thick materials created a quiet place amid the
noise. Lamps and candles lent sleepy light to the soft room.
Nicci did not acknowledge the eyes of the guards flanking the inside of
the doorway, or those of the other slaves going about their domestic duties.
In the middle of the front room sat Jagang's ornate chair, draped with red
silks. This was where he sometimes took audiences, but the chair was empty.
She didn't falter, as did other women summoned by His Excellency, but strode
resolutely toward his bedroom in the rear section.
One of the slaves, a nearly naked boy looking to be in his late teens,
was down on his hands and knees with a small whiskbroom sweeping the carpet
set before the entrance to the bedroom. Without meeting Nicci's gaze, he
informed her that His Excellency was not occupying his tents. The young man,
Irwin, was gifted. He had lived at the Palace of the Prophets, training to
be a wizard. Now Irwin tended the fringe of carpets and emptied the chamber
pots. Nicci's mother would have approved.
Jagang could be any number of places. He might be off gambling or
drinking with his men. He could be inspecting his troops or the craftsmen
who attended them. He might be looking over the new captives, selecting
those he wanted for himself. He might be talking with Kadar Kardeef's
second.
Nicci saw several Sisters cowering in a corner. Like her, they, too,
were Jagang's slaves. As she strode up to the three women, she saw that they
were busy sewing, mending some of the tent's gear.
"Sister Nicci!" Sister Georgia rushed to her feet as a look of relief
washed across her face. "We didn't know if you were alive or dead. We
haven't seen you for so long. We thought maybe you had vanished."
Being that Nicci was a Sister of the Dark, sworn to the Keeper of the
underworld, she found the concern from three Sisters of the Light to be
somewhat insincere. Nicci supposed that they considered their captivity a
common bond, and their feelings about it paramount, overcoming their more
basic rifts. Too, they knew Jagang treated her differently; they were
probably eager to be seen as friendly.
"I've been away on business for His Excellency."
"Of course," Sister Georgia said, dry-washing her hands as she dipped
her head.
The other two, Sisters Rochelle and Aubrey, set aside the bag of bone
buttons and tent thread, untangled themselves from yards of canvas, and then
stood beside Sister Georgia. They both bowed their heads slightly to Nicci.
The three of them feared her inscrutable standing with Jagang.
"Sister Nicci . . . His Excellency is very angry," Sister Rochelle
said.
"Furious," Sister Aubrey confirmed. "He . . . he railed at the walls,
saying that you had gone too far this time."
Nicci only stared.
Sister Aubrey licked her lips. "We just thought you should know. So you
can be careful."
Nicci thought this would be a poor time to suddenly begin being
careful. She found the groveling of women hundreds of years her senior
annoying. "Where's Jagang?"
"He has taken a grand building, not far outside the city, as his
quarters," Sister Aubrey said.
"It used to be the Minister of Culture's estate," Sister Rochelle
added.
Nicci frowned. "Why? He has his tents."
"Since you've been gone, he's decided that an emperor needs proper
quarters," Sister Rochelle said.
"Proper? Proper for what?"
"To show the world his importance, I suppose."
Sister Aubrey nodded. "He's having a palace built. In Altur'Rang. It's
his new vision." She arced an arm through the air, apparently indicating,
with the slice of her hand, the grand scale of the place. "He's ordered a
magnificent palace built."
"He was planning on using the Palace of the Prophets," Sister Rochelle
said, "but since it was destroyed he's decided to build another, only
better-the most opulent palace ever conceived."
Nicci frowned at the three women. "He wanted the Palace of the Prophets
because it had a spell to slow aging. That was what interested him."
All three women shrugged.
Nicci began to get an inkling of what Jagang might have in mind. "So,
this place he's at now? What is he doing? Learning to eat with something
other than his fingers? Seeing how he likes living the fancy life under a
roof?"
"He only told us he was staying there for now," Sister Georgia said.
"He took most of the . . . younger women with him. He told us to stay here
and see to things in case he wished to return to his tent."
It didn't sound like much had changed, except the setting.
Nicci sighed. Her carriage was gone. She would have to walk.
"All right. How do I find the place?"
After Sister Aubrey gave her detailed directions, Nicci thanked them
and turned to go.
"Sister Alessandra has vanished," Sister Georgia said in a voice
straining mightily to sound nonchalant.
Nicci stopped in her tracks.
She rounded on Sister Georgia. The woman was middle aged, and seemed to
look worse every time Nicci saw her. Her clothes were little more than
tattered rags she wore with the pride of a fine uniform. Her thin hair was
more white than brown. It might once have looked distinguished, but it
didn't appear to have seen a brush, much less soap, for weeks. She was
probably infested with lice, too.
Some people looked forward to age as an excuse to become a frump, as if
all along their greatest ambition in life had been to be drab and
unattractive. Sister Georgia seemed to delight in dowdiness.
"What do you mean, Sister Alessandra has vanished?"
Nicci caught the slight twitch of satisfaction. Georgia spread her
hands innocently. "We don't know what happened. She's just turned up
missing."
Still, Nicci did not move. "I see."
Sister Georgia spread her hands again, feigning simplemindedness. "It
was about the time the Prelate disappeared, too."
Nicci denied them the reward of astonishment.
"What was Verna doing here?"
"Not Verna," Sister Rochelle said. She leaned in. "Ann."
Sister Georgia scowled her displeasure at Rochelle for spoiling the
surprise-and a surprise it was. The old Prelate had died-at least, that was
what Nicci had been told. Since leaving the Place of the Prophets, Nicci had
heard about all the other
Sisters, novices, and young men spending the night at the funeral pyre
for Ann and the prophet, Nathan. Knowing Ann, there was obviously some sort
of deception afoot, but even for her, such a thing would be extraordinary.
The three Sisters smiled like cats with a carp. They looked eager for a
long game of truth-and-gossip.
"Give me the important details. I don't have time for the long version.
His Excellency wishes to see me." Nicci took in the three wilting smiles.
She kept her voice level. "Unless you want to risk him returning here, angry
and impatient to see me."
Sisters Rochelle and Aubrey blanched.
Georgia abandoned the game and went back to dry washing her hands. "The
Prelate came to the camp when you were gone-and was captured."
"Why would she come into Jagang's midst?"
"To try to convince us to escape with her," Sister Rochelle blurted
out. A shrill
titter jittery, rather than amused-burbled up. "She had some silly
story about the chimes being loose and magic failing. Imagine that! Wild
stories, they were. Expected us to believe-"
"So that was what happened . . ." Nicci whispered as she stared off in
reflection. She realized instantly it was no wild story. Pieces began
fitting together. Nicci used her gift, the others weren't allowed to, so
they might not know if magic had failed for a time.
"That's what she claimed," Sister Georgia said.
"So, magic had failed," Nicci reasoned aloud, "and she thought that
would prevent the dream walker from controlling your minds."
That might explain much of what Nicci didn't understand: why Jagang
sometimes couldn't enter her mind.
"But if the chimes are loose-"
"Were," Sister Georgia said. "Even if it was true, for a time, they now
have been banished. His Excellency has full access to us, I'm happy to say,
and everything else concerning magic has returned to normal."
Nicci could almost see the three of them wondering if Jagang was
listening to their words. But if magic was returned to normal, Jagang should
be in Nicci's mind; he wasn't. She felt the spark of a possible
understanding fizzle and die. "So, the Prelate made a blunder and Jagang
caught her."
"Well . . . not exactly," Sister Rochelle said. "Sister Georgia went
and got the guards. We turned her in, as was our duty."
Nicci burst out with a laugh. "Her own Sisters of the Light? How
ironic! She risks her life, while the chimes have interrupted magic, to come
and save your worthless hides, and instead of escaping with her, you turn
her in. How fitting."
"We had to!" Sister Georgia protested. "His Excellency would have
wished it. Our place is to serve. We know better than to try to escape. We
know our place."
Nicci surveyed their tense faces, these women sworn to the Creator's
light, these Sisters of the Light who had worked hundreds of years in His
name. "Yes, you do."
"You'd have done the same," Sister Aubrey snapped. "We had to, or His
Excellency would have taken it out on the others. It was our duty to the
welfare of the others-and that includes you, I might add. We couldn't think
only of ourselves, or Ann, but had to think of what was good for everyone."
Nicci felt the numb indifference smothering her. "Fine, so you betrayed
the Prelate." Only a spark of curiosity remained. "But what made her think
she could escape with you for good? Surely, she must have had some plan for
the chimes.
What was she expecting to happen when Jagang once again had access to
your minds?-and hers?"
"His Excellency is always with us," Sister Aubrey insisted. "Ann was
just trying to fill our heads with her preposterous notions. We know better.
The rest of it was just a trick, too. We were too smart for her."
"Rest of it? What was the rest of her plan?"
Sister Georgia huffed her indignation. "She tried to tell us some
foolishness about a bond to Richard Rahl."
Nicci blinked. She concentrated on keeping her breathing even. "Bond?
What nonsense are you talking about, now?"
Sister Georgia met Nicci's gaze squarely. "She insisted that if we
swore allegiance to Richard, it would protect us. She claimed some magic of
his would keep Jagang from our mind."
"How?"
Sister Georgia shrugged. "She claimed this bond business protected
people's minds from dream walkers. But we aren't that gullible."
To still her fingers, Nicci pressed her hands to her thighs. "I don't
understand. How would such a thing work?"
"She said something about it being inherited from his ancestor. She
claimed that we had but to swear loyalty to him, loyalty in our hearts-or
some such nonsense. To tell the truth, it was so preposterous I wasn't
really paying that much attention. She claimed that was why Jagang couldn't
enter her mind."
Nicci was staggered. Of course . . .
She had always wondered why Jagang didn't capture the rest of the
Sisters. There were many more still free. They were protected by this bond
to Richard. It had to be true. It made sense. Her own leader, sister Ulicia,
and Richard's other teachers had escaped, too. But that didn't seem to make
sense; they were Sisters of the Dark-like Nicci-they would have had to swear
loyalty to Richard. Nicci couldn't imagine such a thing.
But then, Jagang was often unable to enter Nicci's mind.
"You said Sister Alessandra has vanished."
Sister Georgia fussed with the collar of her scruffy dress. "She and
Ann both vanished."
"Jagang doesn't bother to inform you of his actions. Perhaps he simply
had them put to death."
Georgia glanced at her companions. "Well . . . maybe. But Sister
Alessandra was one of yours . . . a Sister of the Dark. She was caring for
Ann-"
"Why weren't you caring for her? You are her Sisters."
Sister Georgia cleared her throat. "She threw such a fit about us that
His Excellency assigned Sister Alessandra to look after her."
Nicci could only imagine that it must have been quite a fit. But after
being betrayed by her own Sisters, it was understandable. Jagang would have
thought the woman valuable enough that he wanted to keep her alive.
"As we marched into the city, the wagon with Ann's cage never showed
up," Sister Georgia went on. "One of the drivers finally came around with a
bloody head and reported that the last thing he saw before the world went
dark was Sister Alessandra. Now the two of them are gone."
Nicci felt her fingernails digging into her palms. She made herself
relax her fists. "So, Ann offered you all freedom, and you chose instead to
continue to be slaves."
The three women lifted their noses. "We did what is best for everyone,"
Sister Georgia said. "We are Sisters of the Light. Our duty is not to
ourselves, but to relieve the suffering of others-not cause it."
"Besides," Sister Aubrey added, "we don't see you leaving. Seems you've
been free of His Excellency from time to time, and you don't go."
Nicci frowned. "How do you know that?"
"Well, I, I mean. . ." Sister Aubrey stammered.
Nicci seized the woman by the throat. "I asked you a question. Answer
it."
Sister Aubrey's face reddened as Nicci added the force of her gift to
the grip. The tendons in her wrist stood out with the strain. The woman's
eyes showed white all around as Nicci's power began squeezing the life from
her. Unlike Nicci, Jagang possessed their minds, and they were prohibited
from using their power except at his direction.
Sister Georgia gently placed a hand on Nicci's forearm. "His Excellency
questioned us about it, that's all, Sister. Let her go. Please?"
Nicci released the woman but turned her glare on Sister Georgia.
"Questioned you? What do you mean? What did he say?"
"He simply wanted to know if we knew why he was from time to time
blocked from your mind."
"He hurt us," Sister Rochelle said. "He hurt us with his questions,
because we had no answer. We don't understand it."
For the first time, Nicci did.
Sister Aubrey comforted her throat. "What is it with you, Sister Nicci?
Why is it His Excellency is so curious about you? Why is it you can resist
him?"
Nicci turned and walked away. "Thank you for the help, Sisters."
"If you can be free of him, why do you not leave?" Sister Georgia
called out.
Nicci turned back from the doorway. "I enjoy seeing Jagang torment you
Witches of the Light. I stay around so that I might watch."
They were unmoved by her insolence-they were accustomed to it.
"Sister Nicci," Rochelle said, smoothing back her frizz of hair. "What
did you do that made His Excellency so angry?"
"What? Oh, that. Nothing of importance. I just had the men tie
Commander Kardeef to a pole and roast him over a fire."
The three of them gasped as they straightened as one. They reminded
Nicci of three owls on a branch.
Sister Georgia fixed Nicci with a grim glare, a rare blaze of authority
born of seniority.
"You deserve everything Jagang does to you, Sister-and what the Keeper
will do to you, too."
Nicci smiled and said, "Yes, I do," before ducking through the tent
opening.
The city of Fairfield had returned to a semblance of order. It was the
order of a military post. Little of what could be said to make a city was
left. Many of the buildings remained, but there were few of the people who
had once lived and worked in them. Some of the buildings had been reduced to
charred beams and blackened rubble, others were hulks with windows and doors
broken out, yet most were much the same as they had been before, except, of
course, that all had been emptied in the wanton looting. The buildings stood
like husks, only a reminder of past life.
Here and there, a few toothless old people sat, legs splayed, leaning
against a wall, watching with empty eyes the masses of armed men moving up
and down their streets. Orphaned children wandered in a daze, or peered out
from dark passageways. Nicci found it remarkable how quickly civilization
could be stripped from a place.
As she walked through the streets, Nicci thought she understood how
many of the buildings would feel if they could feel: empty, devoid of life,
lacking purpose while they waited for someone to serve; their only true
value being in service to the living.
The streets, populated as they were by grim-faced soldiers, gaunt
beggars, the skeletal old and sick, wailing children, all amongst the rubble
and filth, looked much like some of the streets Nicci remembered from when
she was little. Her mother often sent her out to streets like this to
minister to the destitute.
"It's the fault of men like your father," her mother had said. "He's
just like my father was. He has no feelings, no concern for anyone but
himself. He's heartless."
Nicci had stood, wearing a freshly washed, frilly blue dress, her hair
brushed and pinned back, her hands hanging at her sides, listening as her
mother lectured on good and evil, on the ways of sin and redemption. Nicci
hadn't understood a lot d it, but in later years it would be repeated until
she would come to know every word, every concept, every desolate truth by
heart.
Nicci's father was wealthy. Worse, to Mother's way of thinking, he
wasn't morseful about it. Mother explained that self-interest and greed were
like the eyes of a monstrous evil, always looking for yet more power and
gold to feed its insatiable hunger.
"You must learn, Nicci, that a person's moral course in this life is to
help others not yourself," Mother said. "Money can't buy the Creator's
blessing."
"But how can we show the Creator we're good?" Nicci asked.
"Mankind is a wretched lot, unworthy, morbid, and foul. We must fight
depraved nature. Helping others is the only way to prove your soul's value.
It's only true good a person can do."
Nicci's father had been born a noble, but all his adult life he had
worked as
armorer. Mother believed that he had been born with comfortable wealth,
and instead of being satisfied with that, he sought to build his legacy into
a shameless fortune. She said wealth could only be had by fleecing it from
the poor in one fashion or another. Others of the nobility, like Mother and
many of her friends, were content not to squeeze an undeserved share from
the sweat of the poor.
Nicci felt great guilt for Father's wicked ways, for his ill-gotten
wealth. Mother said she was doing her best to try to save his straying soul.
Nicci never worried for her mother's soul, because people were always saying
how caring, how kindhearted, how charitable Mother was, but Nicci would
sometimes lie awake at night, unable to sleep with worry for Father, worry
that the Creator might exact punishment before Father could be redeemed.
While Mother went to meetings with her important friends, the nanny, on
the way to the market, often took Nicci to Father's business to ask his
wishes for dinner. Nicci relished watching and learning things at Father's
work. It was a fascinating place. When she was very young, she thought she
might grow up to be an armorer, too. At home, she would sit on the floor and
play at hammering on an item of clothing meant to be armor laid on an
upturned shoe used as an anvil. That innocent time was her fondest memory of
her childhood.
Nicci's father had a great many people working for him. Wagons brought
foursquare bars and other supplies from distant places. Heavy cast-metal
sows came in on barges. Other wagons, with guards, took goods to far-off
customers. There were men who forged metal, men who hammered it into shape,
and yet other men who shaped glowing metal into weapons. Some of the blades
were made from costly "poison steel," said to inflict mortal wounds, even in
a small cut. There were other men who sharpened blades, men who polished
armor, and men who did beautiful engraving and artwork on shields, armor,
and blades. There were even women who worked for Nicci's father, helping to
make chain mail. Nicci watched them, sitting on benches at long wooden
tables, gossiping a bit among themselves, tittering at stories, as they
worked with their pincers burring over tiny rivets in the flattened ends of
all those thousands of little steel rings that together went into the making
of a suit of chain-mail armor. Nicci thought it remarkable that man's
inventiveness could turn something as hard as metal into a suit of clothes.
Men from all around, and from distant places, too, came to buy her
father's armor. Father said it was the finest armor made. His eyes, the
color of the blue sky on a perfect summer day, sparkled wonderfully when he
spoke of his armor. Some was so beautiful that kings traveled from great
distances to have armor ordered and fitted. Some was so elaborate that it
took skilled men hunched at benches many months to make.
Blacksmiths, bellowsmen, hammermen, millmen, platers, armorers,
polishers, leatherworkers, riveters, patternmakers, silversmiths, guilders,
engraving artists, even seamstresses for the making of the quilted and
padded linen, and, of course, apprentices, came from great distances, hoping
to work for her father. Many of those with skills lugged along samples of
their best work to show him. Father turned away far more than he hired.
Nicci's father was an impressive figure, upright, angular, and intense.
At his work, his blue eyes always seemed to Nicci to see more than any other
person saw, as if the metal spoke to him when his fingers glided over it. He
seemed to move his limbs precisely as much as was needed, and no more. To
Nicci, he was a vision of power, strength, and purpose.
Officers, officials, and nobility came round to talk to him, as did
suppliers, and his workers. When Nicci went to her father's work, she was
always astonished to see him engaged in so much conversation. Mother said it
was because he was arrogant, and made his poor workers pay court to him.
Nicci liked to watch the intricate dance of people working. The workers
would pause to smile at her, answer her questions, and sometimes let her hit
the metal with a hammer. From the looks of it, Father enjoyed talking to all
those people, too. At home, Mother talked, and Father said little, as his
face took on the look of hammered steel.
When he did talk at home, he spoke almost exclusively about his work.
Nicci listened to every word, wanting to learn all about him and his
business. Mother confided that at his core his vile nature ate away at his
invisible soul. Nicci always hoped to someday redeem his soul and make it as
healthy as he outwardly appeared.
He adored Nicci, but seemed to think raising her was a task too sacred
for his coarse hands, so he left it to Mother. Even when he disagreed with
something, he would bow to Mother's wishes, saying she would know best about
such a domestic duty.
His work kept him busy most of the time. Mother said it was a sign of
his barren soul that he spent so much of his time at building his
riches-taking from people, she often called it-rather than giving of himself
to people, as the Creator meant all men to do. Many times, when Father came
home for dinner, while servants scurried in and out with all the dishes
they'd prepared, Mother would go on, in tortured tones, about how bad things
were in the world. Nicci often heard people say that Mother was a noble
woman because of how deeply she cared. After dinner Father would go back to
work, often without a word. That would anger Mother, because she had more to
tell him about his soul, but he was too busy to listen.
Nicci remembered occasions when Mother would stand at the window,
looking out over the dark city, worrying, no doubt, about all the things
that plagued her peace. On those quiet nights, Father sometimes glided up
behind Mother, putting a hand tenderly to her back, as if she were something
of great value. He seemed to be mellow and contented at those moments. He
squeezed her bottom just a little as he whispered something in her ear.
She would look up hopefully and ask him to contribute to the efforts of
her fellowship. He would ask how much. Peering up into his eyes as if
searching for some shred of human decency, she would name a figure. He would
sigh and agree, His hands would settle around her waist, and he would say
that it was late, and that they should retire to bed.
Once, when he asked her how much she wished him to contribute, she
shrugged and said, "I don't know. What does your conscience tell you,
Howard? But, a man of true compassion would do better than you usually do,
considering that you have more than your fair share of wealth, and the need
is so great."
He sighed. "How much do you and your friends need?"
"It is not me and my friends who need it, Howard, but the masses of
humanity crying out for help. Our fellowship simply struggles to meet the
need."
"How much?" he repeated.
She said, "Five hundred gold crowns," as if the number were a club she
had been hiding behind her back, and, seeing the opening she had been
waiting for, she suddenly brandished it to bully him.
With a gasp, Father staggered back a step. "Do you have any idea of the
work required to make a sum of that size?"
"You do no work, Howard-your slaves do it for you."
"Slaves! They are the finest craftsmen!"
"They should be. You steal the best workers from all over the land."
"I pay the best wages in the land! They are eager to work for me!"
"They are the poor victims of your tricks. You exploit them. You charge
more than anyone else. You have connections and make deals to cut out other
armorers. You steal the food from the mouths of working people, just to line
your own pockets."
"I offer the finest work! People buy from me because they want the
best. I charge a fair price for it."
"No one charges as much as you and that's the simple fact. You always
want more. Gold is your only goal."
"People come to me willingly because I have the highest standards. That
is my goal! The other shops produce haphazard work that doesn't proof out.
My tempering is superior. My work is all proofed to a double-stamp standard.
I won't sell inferior work. People trust me; they know I create the best
pieces."
"Your workers do. You simply rake in the money."
"The profits go to wages and to the business-I just sank a fortune into
the new battering-mill!"
"Business, business, business! When I ask you to give a little
something back to the community, to those in need, you act as if I wanted
you to gouge out your eyes. Would you really rather see people die than to
give a pittance to save them? Does money really mean more to you, Howard,
than people's lives? Are you that cruel and unfeeling a man?"
Father hung his head for a time, and at last quietly agreed to send his
man around with the gold. His voice came gentle again. He said he didn't
want people to die, and he hoped the money would help. He told her it was
time for bed.
"You've put me off, Howard, with your arguing. You couldn't just give
charitably of yourself; it always has to be dragged out of you-when it's the
right thing to do in the first place. You only agree now because of your
lecherous needs. Honestly, do you think I have no principles?"
Father simply turned and headed for the door. He paused as he suddenly
saw Nicci sitting on the floor, watching. The look on his face frightened
her, not because it was angry, or fierce, but because there seemed to be so
much in his eyes, and the weight of never being able to express it was
crushing him. Raising Nicci was Mother's work, and he had promised her he
would not meddle.
He swept his blond hair back from his forehead, then turned and picked
up his coat. In a level voice he said to Mother that he was going to go see
to some things at work.
After he was gone, Mother, too, saw Nicci, forgotten on the floor,
playing with beads on a board, pretending to make chain mail. Her arms
folded, she stood over Nicci for a long moment.
"Your father goes to whores, you know. I'm sure that's where he's off
to now: a whore. You may be too young to understand, but I want you to know,
so that you don't ever put any faith in him. He's an evil man. I'll not be
his whore.
"Now, put away your things and come with Mother. I'm going to see my
friends.
It's time you came along and began learning about the needs of others,
instead of just your own wants."
At her friend's house, there were a few men and several women sitting
and talking in serious tones. When they politely inquired after Father,
Nicci's mother reported that he was off, "working or whoring, I don't know
which, and can control neither." Some of the women laid a hand on her her
arm and comforted her. It was a terrible burden she bore, they said.
Across the room sat a silent man, who looked to Nicci as grim as death
itself.
Mother quickly forgot about Father as she became engrossed in the
discussion her friends were having about the terrible conditions of people
in the city. People were suffering from hunger, injuries, sickness, disease,
lack of skill, no work, too many children to feed, elderly to care for, no
clothes, no roof over their heads, and every other kind of strife
imaginable. It was all so frightening.
Nicci was always anxious when Mother talked about how things couldn't
go on the way they were for much longer, and that something had to be done.
Nicci wished someone would hurry up and do it.
Nicci listened as Mother's fellowship friends talked about all the
intolerant people who harbored hate. Nicci feared ending up as one of those
terrible people. She didn't want the Creator to punish her for having a cold
heart.
Mother and her friends went on at great length about their deep
feelings for all the problems around them. After each person said their
piece, they would steal a glance over at the man sitting solemnly in a
straight chair against the wall, watching with careful, dark eyes as they
talked.
"The prices of things are just terrible," a man with droopy eyelids
said. He was all crumpled down in his chair, like a pile of dirty clothes.
"It isn't fair. People shouldn't be allowed to just raise their prices
whenever they want. The duke should do something. He has the king's ear."
"The duke . . ." Mother said. She sipped her tea. "Yes, I've always
found the duke to be a man sympathetic to good causes. I think he could be
persuaded to introduce sensible laws." Mother glanced over the gold rim of
her cup at the man in the straight chair.
One of the women said she would encourage her husband to back the duke.
Another spoke up that they would write a letter of support for such an idea.
"People are starving," a wrinkled woman said into a lull in the
conversation. People eagerly mumbled their acknowledgment, as if this were
an umbrella to run in under to escape the drenching silence. "1 see it every
day. If we could just help some of those unfortunate people."
One of the other women puffed herself up like a chicken ready to lay an
egg. "It's just terrible the way no one will give them a job, when there's
plenty of work if it was just spread around."
"I know," Mother said with a tsk. "I've talked to Howard until I'm blue
in the face. He just hires people who please him, rather than those needing
the job the most. It's a disgrace."
The others sympathized with her burden.
"It isn't right that a few men should have so much more than they need,
while so many people have so much less," the man with the droopy eyelids
said. "It's immoral."
"Man has no right to exist for his own sake," Mother was quick to put
in as she nibbled on a piece of dense cake while glancing again at the
grimly silent man. "I
tell Howard all the time that self-sacrifice in the service of others
is man's highest moral duty and his only reason for being placed in this
life.
"To that end," Mother announced, "I have decided to contribute five
hundred gold crowns to our cause."
The other people gasped their delight, and congratulated Mother for her
charitable nature. They agreed, as they sneaked peeks across the room, that
the Creator would reward her in the next life, and talked about all they
would be able to do to help those less fortunate souls.
Mother finally turned and regarded Nicci for a moment, and then said,
"I believe my daughter is old enough to learn to help others."
Nicci sat forward on the edge of her chair, thrilled at the idea of at
last putting her hand to what Mother and her friends said was noble work. It
was as if the Creator Himself had offered her a path to salvation. "I would
so like to do good, Mother."
Mother cast a questioning look at the man in the straight chair.
"Brother Narev?"
The deep creases of his face pleated to each side as the thin line of
his mouth stretched in a smile. There was no joy in it, or in his dark eyes
hooded beneath a brow of tangled white and black hairs. He wore a creased
cap and heavy robes as dark as dried blood. Wisps of his wiry hair above his
ears curled up around the edge of the cap that came halfway down on his
forehead.
He stroked his jaw with the side of a finger as he spoke in a voice
that almost rattled the teacups. "So, child, you wish to be a little
soldier?"
"Well . . . no, sir." Nicci didn't know what soldiering had to do with
doing good. Mother always said that father pandered to men in an evil
occupation-soldiers. She said soldiers only cared about killing. "I wish to
help those in need."
"That is what we all try to do, child." His spooky smile remained fixed
on his face as he spoke. "We here are all soldiers in the fellowship-the
Fellowship of Order-as we call our little group. All soldiers fighting for
justice."
Everyone seemed too timid to look directly at him. They glanced for a
moment, looked away, then glanced back again, as if his face was not
something to be taken in all at once, but sipped at, like a scalding-hot,
foul-tasting remedy.
Mother's brown eyes darted around like a cockroach looking for a crack.
"Why, of course, Brother Narev. That is the only moral sort of soldier-the
charitable sort." She urged Nicci up and scooted her forward. "Nicci,
Brother Narev, here, is a great man. Brother Narev is the high priest of the
Fellowship of Order-an ancient sect devoted to doing the Creator's will in
this world. Brother Narev is a sorcerer." She cast a smile up at him.
"Brother Narev, this is my daughter, Nicci."
Her mother's hands pushed her at the man, as if she were an offering
for the Creator. Unlike everyone else, Nicci couldn't take her gaze from his
hooded eyes. She had never seen their like.
There was nothing in them but dark cold emptiness.
He held out a hand. "Pleased to meet you, Nicci."
"Curtsy and kiss his hand, dear," Mother prompted.
Nicci went to one knee. She kissed the knuckles so as not to have to
put her lips on the spongy web of thick blue veins covering the back of his
hairy hand floating before her face. The whitish knobs were cold, but not
icy, as she had expected.
"We welcome you to our movement, Nicci," he said in that deep rattling
voice of his. "With your mother's caring hand raising you up, I know you
will do the Creator's work."
Nicci thought that the Creator Himself must be very much like this man.
From all the things her mother told her, Nicci feared the Creator's
wrath. She was old enough to know that she had to start doing the good work
her mother always talked about, if she was to have any chance at salvation.
Everyone said Mother was a caring, moral person. Nicci wanted to be a good
person, too.
But good work seemed so hard, so stern-not at all like her father's
work, where people smiled and laughed and talked with their hands.
"Thank you, Brother Narev," Nicci said. "I will do my best to do good
in the world."
"One day, with the help of fine young people like you, we will change
the world. I don't delude myself; with so much callousness among men, it
will take time to win true converts, but we here in this room, along with
others of like mind throughout the land, are the foundation of hope."
"Is the fellowship a secret, then?" Nicci asked in a whisper.
Everyone chuckled. Brother Narev didn't laugh, but his mouth smiled
again. "No, child. Quite the contrary. It is our most fervent wish and duty
to spread the truth of mankind's corruption. The Creator is perfect; we
mortals are but miserable wretches. We must recognize our wicked nature if
we hope to avoid His righteous wrath and reap our deliverance in the next
world.
"Self-sacrifice for the good of all is the only route to salvation. Our
fellowship is open to all those willing to give of themselves and live
ethical lives. Most people don't take us seriously. Someday they will."
Gleaming, mousy eyes around the room watched without blinking as his
deep, powerful voice rose, like the Creator's own fury.
"A day will come when the hot flames of change will sweep across the
land, burning away the old, the decaying, and the foul, to allow a new order
to grow from the blackened remains of evil. After we burn clean the world,
there will be no kings, yet the world will have order, championed by the
hand of the common man, for the common man. Only then, will there be no
hunger, no shivering in the cold, no suffering without help. The good of the
people will be put above the selfish desires of the individual."
Nicci wanted to do good-she truly did. But his voice sounded to her
like a rusty dungeon door grating shut on her.
All the eyes in the room watched her, to see if she was good, like her
mother, "That sounds wonderful, Brother Narev."
He nodded. "It will be, child. You will help bring this to be. Let your
feelings be your guide. You will be a soldier, marching toward a new world
order. It will be a long and arduous task. You must keep the faith. The rest
of us in this room will not likely live to see it flourish, but perhaps you
will live long enough to one day see such a wondrous order come to pass."
Nicci swallowed. "I will pray for it, Brother Narev."
The next day, loaded with a big basket of bread, Nicci was let out of
the carnage, along with a gaggle of other people from the fellowship, to fan
out and distribute bread to the needy. Mother had attired her in a ruffled
red dress for the special occasion. Her short white stockings had designs
stitched in red thread. Filled with pride to at last be doing good, Nicci
marched down the garbage strewn street, armed with her basket of bread,
thinking about the day when the hope of a new order could be spread to all
so that all could finally rise up out of destitution and despair.
Some people smiled and thanked her for the bread. Some took the bread
without a word or a smile. Most, though, were surly about it, complaining
that the bread was late and the loaves were too small, or the wrong kind.
Nicci was not discouraged. She told them what Mother had said, that it was
the baker's fault, because he baked bread for profit, first, and since he
received a reduced rate for charity, baked that second. Nicci told them that
she was sorry that wicked people treated them as second-rate, but that
someday the Fellowship of Order would come to the land and see to it that
everyone was treated the same.
As Nicci walked down the street, handing out the bread, a man snatched
her arm and pulled her into the stench of a narrow dark alley. She offered
him a loaf of bread. He swiped the basket out of her hands. He said he
wanted silver or gold. Nicci told him she had no money. She gasped in panic
as he yanked her close. His filthy probing fingers groped everywhere on her
body, even violating her most private places, looking for a purse, but found
none hidden on her. He pulled off her shoes and threw them away when he
found they had no coins hidden in them.
His fist punched her twice in the stomach. Nicci crashed to the ground.
He spat a curse at her as he stole away into the shadowed heaps of refuse.
Holding herself up on trembling arms, Nicci vomited into the oily water
running from under the mounds of offal. People passing the alley looked in
and saw her retching there on the ground, but turned their eyes back to the
street and hurried on their way. A few quickly darted into the alley, bent,
and scooped up bread from the overturned basket before rushing off. Nicci
panted, tears stinging her eyes, trying to get her wind back. Her knees were
bleeding. Her dress was splattered with scum.
When she returned home, in tears, Mother smiled at seeing her. "Their
plight often brings tears to my eyes, too."
Nicci shook her head, her golden locks swinging side to side, and told
Mother that a man had grabbed her and hit her, demanding money. Nicci
reached for her mother as she wailed in misery that he was a wicked, wicked
man.
Mother smacked her mouth. "Don't you dare judge people. You are just a
child. How can you presume to judge others?"
Stopped cold, Nicci was bewildered by the slap, more startling than
painful. The
rebuke stung more. "But, Mother, he was cruel to me-he touched me
everywhere and then he hit me."
Mother smacked her mouth again, harder the second time. "I'll not have
you disgrace me before Brother Narev and my friends with such insensitive
talk. Do you hear? You don't know what made him do it. Perhaps he has sick
children at home, and he needs money to buy medicine. Here he sees some
spoiled rich child, and he finally breaks, knowing his own child has been
cheated in life by the likes of you and all your fine things.
"You don't know what burdens life has handed the man. Don't you dare to
judge people for their actions just because you are too callous and
insensitive to take the time to understand them."
"But I think-"
Mother smacked her across the mouth a third time, hard enough to
stagger her. "You think? Thinking is a vile acid that corrodes faith! It is
your duty to believe, not think. The mind of man is inferior to that of the
Creator. Your thoughts-the thoughts of anyone-are worthless, as all mankind
is worthless. You must have faith that the Creator has invested His goodness
in those wretched souls.
"Feelings, not thinking, must be your guide. Faith, not thinking, must
be your only path."
Nicci swallowed back her tears. "Then what should I do?"
"You should be ashamed that the world treats those poor souls so
cruelly that they would so pitifully strike out in confusion. In the future,
you should find a way to help people like that because you are able and they
are not-that is your duty."
That night, when her father came home and tiptoed into her room to see
if she was tucked in snugly, Nicci clutched two of his big fingers together
and held them tight to her cheek. Even though her mother said he was a
wicked man, it felt better than anything else in the world when he knelt
beside the bed and silently stroked her brow.
In her work on the streets, Nicci came to understand the needs of many
of the people there. Their problems seemed insurmountable. No matter what
she did, it never seemed to resolve anything. Brother Narev said it was only
a sign that she wasn't giving enough of herself. Each time she failed, at
Brother Narev's or Mother's urging, Nicci redoubled her efforts.
One night at dinner, after being in the fellowship several years, she
said, "Father, there is a man I've been trying to help. He has ten children
and no job. Will you hire him, please?"
Father looked up from his soup. "Why?"
"I told you. He has ten children."
"But what sort of work can he do? Why would I want him?"
"Because he needs a job."
Father set down his spoon. "Nicci, dear, I employ skilled workers. That
he has ten children is not going to shape steel, now is it? What can the man
do? What skills has he?"
"If he had a skill, Father, he could get work. Is it fair that his
children should starve because people won't give him a chance?"
Father looked at her as if inspecting a wagonload of some suspicious
new metal, Mother's narrow mouth turned up in a little smile, but she said
nothing.
"A chance? At what? He has no skill."
"With a business as big as yours, surely you can give him a job."
He tapped a finger on the stem of his spoon as he considered her
determined expression. He cleared his throat. "Well, perhaps I could use a
man to load wagons."
"He can't load wagons. He has a bad back. He hasn't been able to work
for years because of his back troubling him so."
Father's brow drew down. "His back didn't prevent him from begetting
ten children.
Nicci wanted to do good, and so she met his stare with a steady look of
her own. "Must you be so intolerant, Father? You have jobs, and this man
needs one. He has hungry children needing to be fed and clothed. Would you
deny him a living just because he has never had a fair chance in life? Are
you so rich that all your gold has blinded your eyes to the needs of humble
people?"
"But I need-"
"Must you always frame everything in terms of what you need, instead of
what others need? Must everything be for you?"
"It's a business-"
"And what is the purpose of a business? Isn't it to employ those who
need work? Wouldn't it be better if the man had a job instead of having to
humiliate himself begging? Is that what you want? For him to beg rather than
work? Aren't you the one who always speaks so highly of hard work?"
Nicci was firing the questions like arrows, getting them off so fast he
couldn't get a word through her barrage. Mother smiled as Nicci rolled out
words she knew by heart.
"Why must you reserve your greatest cruelty for the least fortunate
among us? Why can't you for once think of what you can do to help, instead
of always thinking of money, money, money? Would it hurt you to hire a man
who needs a job? Would it Father? Would it bring your business to an end?
Would that ruin you?"
The room echoed her noble questions. He stared at her as if seeing her
for the first time. He looked as if real arrows had struck him. His jaw
worked, but no words came out. He didn't seem able to move; he could only
gape at her.
Mother beamed.
"Well . . ." he finally said, "I guess . . ." He picked up his spoon
and stared down into his soup. "Send him around, and I'll give him a job."
Nicci swelled with a new sense of pride-and power. She had never known
it would be so easy to stagger her father. She had just bested his selfish
nature with nothing more than goodness.
Father pushed back from the table. "I . . . I need to go back to the
shop." His eyes searched the table, but he would not look at Nicci or
Mother. "I just remembered . . . I have some work I must see to."
After he had gone, Mother said, "I'm glad to see that you have chosen
the righteous path, Nicci, instead of following his evil ways. You will
never regret letting your love of mankind guide your feelings. The Creator
will smile upon you."
Nicci knew she had done the right thing, the moral thing, yet the
thought that came to haunt her victory was the night her father had come
into her room and silently stroked her brow as she had held two of his
fingers to her cheek.
The man went to work for Father. Father never mentioned anything about
it. His work kept him busy and away from home. Nicci's work took more and
more of her time, as well. She missed seeing that look in his eyes. She
guessed she was growing up.
The next spring, when Nicci was thirteen, she came home one day from
her work
at the fellowship to find a woman in the sitting room with Mother.
Something about the woman's demeanor made the hair at the back of Nicci's
neck stand on end. Both women rose as Nicci set aside her list of names of
people needing things.
"Nicci, darling, this is Sister Alessandra. She's traveled here from
the Palace of the Prophets, in Tanimura."
The woman was older than Mother. She had a long braid of fine brown
hair looped around in a circle and pinned to the back of her skull like a
loaf of braided bread. Her nose was a little too big for her face, and she
was plain, but not at all ugly. Her eyes focused on Nicci with an unsettling
intensity, and they didn't dart about, the way Mother's always did.
"Was it quite a journey, Sister Alessandra?" Nicci asked after she had
curtsied. "All the way from Tanimura, I mean?"
"Three days is all," Sister Alessandra said. A smile grew on her face
as she took in Nicci's bony frame. "My, my. So little, yet, for such grownup
work." She held out a hand toward a chair. "Won't you sit with us, dear?"
"Are you a Sister with the fellowship?" Nicci asked, not really
understanding who the woman was.
"The what?"
"Nicci," Mother said, "Sister Alessandra is a Sister of the Light."
Astonished, Nicci dropped into a chair. Sisters of the Light had the
gift, just like her and Mother. Nicci didn't know very much about the
Sisters, except that they served the Creator. That still didn't settle her
stomach. To have such a woman right there in her house was intimidating-like
when she stood before Brother Narev. She felt an inexplicable sense of doom.
Nicci was also impatient because she had duties waiting. There were
donations to collect. She had older sponsors who accompanied her to some of
the places. For other places, they said a young girl could get better
results by herself, by shaming people who had more than they deserved. Those
people, who had businesses, all knew who she was. They would always stammer
and ask how her father was. As she had been instructed, Nicci told them how
pleased her father would be to know they were thoughtful to the needy. In
the end, most became civic-minded.
Then, there were remedies Nicci needed to take to women with sick
children. There wasn't enough clothing for the children, either. Nicci was
trying to get some people to give cloth and other people to sew clothes.
Some people had no homes, others were crowded together in little rooms. She
was trying to get some rich people to donate a building. Also, Nicci had
been assigned the task of locating jugs for women to bring water from the
well. She needed to pay a visit to the potter. Soma of the older children
had been caught stealing. Others had been fighting, and a few of them were
beating younger children bloody. Nicci had been pleading on their behalf,
trying to explain that they had no fair chance, and were only reacting to
their cruel circumstance. She hoped to convince Father to take on at least a
few so they might have work.
The problems just kept mounting, without any end in sight. It seemed
like the more people the fellowship helped, the more people there were who
needed help. Nicci had thought she was going to solve the problems of the
world; she was beginning to feel hopelessly inadequate. It was her own
failing, she knew. She needed to work harder.
"Do you read and write, dear?" the Sister asked.
"Not very much, Sister. Mostly just names. I've much too much to do for
those
less fortunate than myself. Their needs must come before any selfish
desires of my own."
Mother smiled and nodded to herself.
"Practically a good spirit in the flesh." The Sister's eyes teared.
"I've heard about your work."
"You have?" Nicci felt a flash of pride, but then she thought of how
things never seemed to get better, despite all her efforts, and her sense of
failure returned. Besides, Mother said pride was evil. "I don't see what's
so special about what I do. The people in the streets are the ones who are
special, because of their suffering in horrid conditions. They are the true
inspiration."
Mother smiled contentedly. Sister Alessandra leaned forward, her tone
serious. "Have you learned to use your gift, child?"
"Mother teaches me to do some small things, like how to heal little
troubles, but I know it would be unfair to flaunt it over those less blessed
than I, so I try my best not to use it."
The Sister folded her hands in her lap. "I've been talking to your
mother, while we waited for you. She's done a fine job of getting you
started on the right path. We feel, however, that you would have so much
more to offer were you to serve a higher calling."
Nicci sighed. "Well, all right. Maybe I can get up a little earlier.
But I already have my duties to the needy, and I will have to fit this other
in as I can. I hope you understand, Sister. I'm not trying to get undeserved
sympathy, honestly I'm not, but I hope you don't need this calling done too
soon, as I'm already quite busy."
Sister Alessandra smiled in a long-suffering sort of way. "You don't
understand, Nicci. We would like you to continue your work with us at the
Palace of the Prophets. You would be a novice at first, of course, but one
day, you will be a Sister of the Light, and as such, you will carry on with
what you have started."
Panic welled up in Nicci like rising floodwaters. There were so many
people who hung to life only by a thread she tended. She had friends at the
fellowship whom she had come to love. She had so much to do. She didn't want
to leave Mother, and even Father. He was evil, she knew, but he wasn't evil
to her. He was selfish and greedy, she knew, but he still tucked her into
bed, sometimes, and patted her shoulder. She was sure she would see
something in his blue eyes again, if she just gave it time. She didn't want
to leave him. For some reason, she desperately needed to again see that
spark in his eyes. She was being selfish, she knew.
"I have needy people here, Sister Alessandra." Nicci blinked at her
tears. "My responsibility is to them. I'm sorry but I can't abandon them."
At that moment, Father came in the door. He stopped in an awkward
posture, his legs frozen in midstride, with his hand on the lever, staring
at the Sister.
"What's this, then?"
Mother stood. "Howard, this is Alessandra. She is a Sister of the
Light. She's come to-"
"No! I'll not have it, do you hear? She's our daughter, and the Sisters
can't have her."
Sister Alessandra stood, giving Mother a sidelong glance. "Please ask
your husband to leave. This is not his business."
"Not my business? She's my daughter! You'll not take her!"
He lunged forward to seize Nicci's outstretched hand. The Sister lifted
a finger and, to Nicci's astonishment, he was thrown back in a sparkling
flash of light.
Father's back slammed against the wall. He slid down, clutching his
chest as he gasped for breath. Tears bursting forth, Nicci ran for him, but
Sister Alessandra snatched her by the arm and held her back.
"Howard," Mother said through gritted teeth, "the child is my business
to raise. I carry the Creator's gift. You gave your word when our union was
arranged that if we had a girl and she had the gift I would have the
exclusive authority to raise her as I saw fit. I believe this to be the
right thing to do, what the Creator wants. With the Sisters she will have
time to learn to read. She will have time to learn to use her gift to help
people as only the Sisters can. You will keep your word. I will see to this.
I'm sure you have work to which you must immediately return."
With the flat of his hand, he rubbed his chest. Finally, his arms
dropped to his sides. Head down, he shuffled to the door. Before he pulled
closed the door, his gaze met Nicci's. Through the tears, she saw the spark
in his eyes, as if he had things to tell her, but then it was gone, and he
pulled the door shut behind himself.
Sister Alessandra said it would be best if they left at once, and if
Nicci didn't see him just now. She promised that if Nicci followed
instructions, and after she was settled, and after she had learned to read,
and after she had learned to use her gift, she would see him again.
Nicci learned to read and to use her gift and mastered everything else
she was supposed to master. She fulfilled all the requirements. She did
everything expected of her. Her life, as a novice to become a Sister of the
Light, was numbingly selfless. Sister Alessandra forgot her promise. She was
not pleased to be reminded of it, and found more work that Nicci needed to
do.
Several years after she had been taken to the palace, Nicci again saw
Brother Narev. She came across him quite by accident; he was working as a
stablehand at the Palace of the Prophets. He smiled his slow smile with his
eyes fixed on her. He told her that he had gotten the idea to go to the
palace by her example. He said he wished to live long enough to see order
come to the world.
She thought it an odd occupation for him. He said that he found working
for the Sisters morally superior to contributing his labor to the evil of
profit. He said it mattered not if she chose to tell anyone at the palace
anything about him or his work for the fellowship, but he asked her not to
tell the Sisters that he was gifted, since they would not allow him to
continue to stay and work in the stables if they knew, and he would refuse
to serve them should they discover his gift, because, he said, he wanted to
serve the Creator in his own quiet way.
Nicci honored his secret, not so much out of any sense of loyalty, but
mostly because she was kept far too busy with her studies and work to
concern herself with Brother Narev and his fellowship. She rarely had
occasion to see him, mucking out horse stalls, and as his importance in her
childhood had faded into her past, she never really even gave him a second
thought. The palace had work they wished her to put her attention to-much
the same sort of work Brother Narev would have approved of. Only many years
later did she come to discover his real reasons for having been at the
Palace of the Prophets.
Sister Alessandra saw to it that Nicci was kept busy. She was allowed
no time for such selfish indulgences as going home for a visit. Twenty-seven
years after she had been taken away to become a Sister of the Light, still a
novice, Nicci again saw her father. It was at his funeral.
Mother had sent word for Nicci to return home to see Father because he
was is
failing health. Nicci immediately rushed home, accompanied by Sister
Alessandra. By the time Nicci arrived, Father was already dead.
Mother said that for several weeks he had been begging her to send for
his daughter. She sighed and said she put it off, thinking he would get
better. Besides, she said, she hadn't wanted to disturb Nicci's important
work-not for such a trivial matter. She said it had been the only thing he
asked for: to see Nicci. Mother thought that was silly, since he was a man
who didn't care about people. Why should he need to see anyone? He died
alone, while Mother was out helping the victims of an uncaring world.
By that time, Nicci was forty. Mother, though, still thinking of Nicci
as a young woman because under the spell at the palace she had aged only
enough to look to be maybe fifteen or sixteen, told her to wear a pretty,
brightly colored dress, because it wasn't really a sad occasion, after all.
Nicci stood looking at the body for a long time. Her chance to see his
blue eyes again was forever lost. For the first time in years, the pain made
her feel something, down deep inside. It felt good to feel something again,
even if it was pain.
As Nicci stood looking at her father's sunken face, Sister Alessandra
told Nicci that she was sorry she had to take her away, but that in her
whole life, she had not encountered a woman with the gift as powerful as it
was in Nicci, and that such a thing as the Creator had given her was not to
be wasted.
Nicci said she understood. Since she had ability, it was only right
that she use it to help those in need.
At the Palace of the Prophets, Nicci was said to be the most selfless,
caring novice they had under their roof. Everyone pointed to her, and told
the younger novices to look to Nicci's example. Even the Prelate had
commended her.
The praise was but a buzz in her ear. It was an injustice to be better
than others. Try as she might, Nicci could not escape her father's legacy of
excellence. His taint coursed through her veins, oozed from every pore, and
infected everything she did. The more selfless she was the more it only
confirmed her superiority, and thus her wickedness.
She knew that could mean only one thing: she was evil.
"Try not to remember him like this," Sister Alessandra said after a
long silence as they stood before the body. "Try to remember what he was
like when he was alive."
"I can't," Nicci said. "I never knew him when he was alive."
Mother and her friends at the fellowship ran the business. She wrote
Nicci joyful letters, telling her how she had put many of the needy to work
at the armorers. She said the business could afford it, with all the wealth
it had accumulated. Mother was proud that that wealth could now be put to a
moral use. She said Father's death had been a cloaked blessing, because it
meant help at last for those who had always deserved it most. It was all
part of the Creator's plan, she said.
Mother had to raise her prices in order to pay the wages of all the
people she'd given work. A lot of the older workers left. Mother said she
was glad they were gone because they had uncooperative attitudes.
Orders fell behind. Suppliers began demanding to be paid before
delivering goods. Mother discontinued having the armor proofed because the
new workers complained that it was an unfair standard to be held to. They
said they were trying their best, and that was what counted. Mother
sympathized.
The battering-mill had to be sold. Some of the customers stopped
ordering armor and weapons. Mother said they would be better off without
such intolerant people. She sought new laws from the duke to require work to
be spread out equally, but the laws were slow in coming. The few remaining
customers hadn't paid their account for quite a while, but promised to catch
up. In the meantime, their goods were shipped, if late.
Within six months of Father dying, the business failed. The vast
fortune he had built over a lifetime was gone.
Some of the skilled workers once hired by Father moved on, hoping to
find work at armories in distant places. Most men who stayed could find only
menial work; they were lucky to have that. Many of the new workers demanded
Mother do something; she and the fellowship petitioned other businesses to
take them on. Some business tried to help, but most were in no position to
hire workers.
The armory had been the largest employer in the area, and drew many
other people employed in other occupations. Other businesses, like traders,
smaller suppliers, and cargo earners, who had depended on the armory, failed
for lack of work, Businesses in the city, everything from bakers to
butchers, lost customers and were reluctantly forced to let men go.
Mother asked the duke to speak with the king. The duke said the king
was considering the problem.
Like her father's armory, other buildings were abandoned as people left
to find work in thriving cities elsewhere. Squatters, at the fellowship's
urging, took over many of the abandoned buildings. The empty places became
the sites of robberies and even murders. Many a woman who went near those
places regretted it. Mother couldn't sell the weapons from her closed
armory, so she gave them to the needy so they might protect themselves.
Despite her efforts, crime only increased.
In honor of all her good work, and her father's service to the
government, the king granted Mother a pension that allowed her to stay in
the house, with a reduced staff. She continued her work with the fellowship,
trying to right all the injustice that she believed was responsible for the
failure of the business. She hoped one day to reopen the shop and employ
people. For her righteous work, the king awarded her a silver medal. Mother
wrote that the king proclaimed she was as close to a good spirit in the
flesh as he had ever seen. Nicci regularly received word of awards Mother
was given for her selfless work.
Eighteen years later, when Mother died, Nicci still looked like a young
woman of perhaps seventeen. She wanted a fine black dress to wear to the
funeral-the finest available. The palace said that it was unseemly for a
novice to make such a selfish request, and it was out of the question. They
said they would supply only simple humble clothes.
When Nicci arrived home, she went to the tailor to the king and told
him that for her mother's funeral she needed the finest black dress he had
ever made. He told her the price. She informed him she had no money, but
said she needed the dress anyway.
The tailor, a man with three chins, waxy down growing from his ears,
abnormally long yellowish fingernails, and an unfailing lecherous smirk,
said there were things he needed, too. He leaned close, lightly holding her
smooth arm in his knobby fingers, and intimated that if she would take care
of his needs, he would take care of hers.
Nicci wore the finest black dress ever made to her mother's funeral.
Mother had been a woman who had devoted her entire life to the needs of
others. Nicci could never again look forward to seeing her mother's
cockroach-brown eyes. Unlike at her father's funeral, Nicci felt no pain
reach down to touch that abysmal place inside her. Nicci knew she was a
terrible person.
For the first time, she realized that for some reason she simply no
longer cared.
From that day on, Nicci never wore any dress but black.
One hundred and twenty-three years later, standing at the railing
overlooking the great hall, Nicci saw eyes that stunned her with their sense
of an inner value held dear. But what had been an uncertain ember in her
father's eyes was ablaze in Richard's. She still didn't know what it was.
She knew only that it was the difference between life and death, and
that she had to destroy him.
Now, at long last, she knew how.
If only, when she had been little, someone had shown her father such
mercy.
Trudging down the road between the edge of the city of Fairfield and
the estate where the three Sisters had told her Emperor Jagang had set up
his residence, Nicci scanned the surrounding jumble of the Imperial Order's
encampment, looking for a specific station of tents. She knew they would be
somewhere in the area; Jagang liked to have them close at hand. Regular
sleeping tents, wagons, and men lay like a dark soot over the fields and
hills as far as she could see. Sky and land alike seemed tinted by a dusky
taint. Sprinkled through the dark fields, campfires twinkled, like a sky
full of stars.
The day was becoming oppressively dim, not only with the approach of
evening, but also from the dull overcast of churning gray clouds. The wind
kicked up in little fits, setting tents and clothes flapping, fluttering the
campfires' flames, and whipping smoke this way and that. The gusts helped
coat the tongue with the fetid stench of human and animal waste, smothering
any pleasant but weak cooking aroma that struggled to take to the air. The
longer the army stayed in place, the worse it would get.
Up ahead, the elegant buildings of the estate rose above the dark grime
at its feet. Jagang was there. Because he had access to Sisters Georgia,
Rochelle, and Aubrey's minds, he would know Nicci was back. He would be
waiting for her.
The emperor would have to wait; she had something else to do, first.
Without Jagang able to enter her mind, she was free to pursue it.
Nicci saw what she was looking for, off in the distance. She could just
make them out, standing above the smaller tents. She left the road and
headed through the crowded snarl of troops. Even from the distance, she
could distinguish the distinctive sounds coming from the group of special
tents-hear it over the laughing and singing, the crackle of fires, the
sizzle of meat in skillets, the scraping rasp of whetstones on metal, the
ring of hammers on steel, and the rhythm of saws.
Boisterous men grabbed at her arms and legs or tried to snatch her
dress as she marched along, picking her way through the disorder. The rowdy
soldiers were but a minor consideration; she simply pulled away, ignoring
their mocking calls of love, as she made her way through the throng. When a
husky soldier seized her wrist in his powerful grip, yanking her around to a
jerking halt, she paused only long enough to loose her power and burst his
beating heart within his chest. Other men laughed when they saw him collapse
to the ground with a thud, not yet realizing he was dead, but none tried to
claim his intended prize. She heard the words "Death's . Mistress" pass in
whispers among the men.
She finally made her way through the gauntlet. Soldiers played dice,
ate beans, or snored in their bedrolls beside the tents where captives
screamed under the agony
of torture. Two men lugged a corpse, dragging some of its innards, out
of a big tent. They threw the flaccid form in a wagon with a tangle of
others.
Nicci snapped her fingers at an unshaven soldier coming from the
direction of another tent. "Let me see the list, Captain." She knew he was
the officer in charge by the blue canvas cover of the register book he
carried.
He scowled at her a moment, but when he glanced down at her black
dress, a look of recognition came over his face. He passed her the grubby,
rumpled book. It had a deep crease across the middle, as if someone had
accidentally sat on it. The pages that had fallen out had been pushed back
in, but they never fit right and their edges stuck out here and there to
become frayed and filthy.
"Not much to report, Mistress, but please let His Excellency know that
we've tried just about every skill known, and she isn't talking."
Nicci opened the book and began scanning the list of recent names and
what was known about them.
"Her? Who are you talking about, Captain?" she mumbled as she read.
"Why, the Mord-Sith, of course."
Nicci turned her eyes up toward the man. "The Mord-Sith. Of course.
Where is she?"
He pointed at a tent a ways off through the disarray. "I know His
Excellency said he didn't expect a witch of her dark talents to give us any
information about Lord Rahl, but I was hoping to surprise him with good
news." He hooked his thumbs behind his belt as he let out a sigh of
frustration. "No such luck."
Nicci eyed the tent for a moment. She heard no screams. She had never
before seen one of those women, the Mord-Sith, but she knew a little about
them. She knew that using magic against one was a deadly mistake.
She went back to reading the entries in the register. There was nothing
of much interest to her. Most of the people were from around here. They were
merely a sampling collected to check what they might know. They would not
have the information she wanted.
Nicci tapped a line near the end of the writing in the book. It said
"Messenger."
"Where is this one?"
The captain tilted his head, indicating a tent behind him. "I put one
of my best questioners with him. Last I checked, there was nothing from him
yet-but that was early this morning."
It had been all day since he had checked. All day could be an eternity
under torture. Like all the rest of the tents used for questioning
prisoners, the one with the messenger stood above the surrounding field
tents, which were only large enough for soldiers to lie in. Nicci pushed the
book at the officer's thick gut.
"Thank you. That will be all."
"You'll be giving His Excellency a report, then?" Nicci nodded absently
at his question. Her mind was already elsewhere. "You'll tell him that there
is little to be learned from this lot?"
No one was eager to stand before Jagang and admit they were unable to
accomplish a task, even if there was nothing to accomplish. Jagang did not
appreciate excuses. Nicci nodded as she strode away, heading for the tent
holding the messenger. "I'll be seeing him shortly. I'll give him the report
for you, Captain."
As soon as she threw back the flap and entered, she saw that she was
too late. The messy remains of the messenger lay on a narrow wooden table
affixed with
glistening tools of the trade. The messenger's arm hung down off the
sides, dripping warm blood.
Nicci saw that the questioner had a folded piece of paper. "What have
you there?"
"A map of what?"
"Where this fellow's been. I drew it all out from what he volunteered."
He laughed at his own humor. She didn't.
"Really," Nicci said. The man's grin was what had her attention. A man
like this only grinned when he had something he'd been seeking, something to
bring him favor in the eyes of his superiors. "And where has the man been?"
"To see his leader."
He waved the paper like a treasure map. Tired of the game, Nicci
snatched the booty from his hand. She unfolded the wrinkled yellow paper and
saw that it was indeed a map, with rivers, the coastline, and mountains all
meticulously drawn out. Even mountain passes were noted.
Nicci could tell that the map was authentic. When she had lived at the
Palace of the Prophets, the New World was a far-off and mysterious place,
rarely visited by anyone but a few Sisters. Any Sister who ventured there
always kept exacting records that were added to maps at the palace. Along
with many other esoteric items, all novices memorized those maps in the
course of their studies. Even though, at the time, she had never expected to
travel to the New World, she was thoroughly familiar with the lay of the
land there. Nicci scrutinized the paper in her hands, carefully surveying
the geography, overlaying everything on it that was new onto the memorized
map in her mind.
The soldier pointed a thick finger at a single bloody fingerprint on
the map. "That there is where Lord Rahl himself is hiding-on that dot, in
those mountains."
Nicci's breath paused. She stared at the paper, burning the line of
every stream and river, every mountain, every road, trail, and mountain
pass, every village, town, and city into her memory.
"What did this man confess before he died?" She looked up. "His
Excellency is waiting for my report. I was just on my way to see him." She
snapped her fingers impatiently. "Let's have it all."
The man scratched his beard. His fingernails were crusted with dried
blood, "You'll tell him, won't you? You'll tell His Excellency that Sergeant
Wetzel was the one who got the information out of the messenger?"
"Of course," Nicci assured him. "You will receive full credit. I have
no need of such recognition." She tapped the gold ring through her lower
lip. "The Emperor is always-every moment of every day-in my mind. He no
doubt this very moment sees through my eyes that you, not I, are the one who
succeeded in getting the information. Now, what did this man confess?"
Sergeant Wetzel scratched his beard again, apparently trying to decide
if be could trust her to credit him, or if he should be sure and take the
information to Jagang. There was little trust among those in the Imperial
Order, and good reason to distrust everyone. As he scratched his beard,
flakes of dried blood stuck in its curly hair.
Nicci stared into his red-rimmed eyes. He smelled of liquor. "If you
don't report everything to me, Sergeant Wetzel, and I mean right now, I will
have you up on the
table next, and I will have your report between your screams, and when
I'm done with you, they will throw you in the wagon with the rest of the
corpses."
He dipped his head twice in surrender. "Of course. I only wanted to be
sure His Excellency knew of my success." When Nicci nodded, he went on. "He
was just a messenger. We had a small unit of six men doing deep scouting
patrol. They went on a circle far to the north, around any enemy forces.
They had one of the gifted women with them to help them remain at a good
distance, so they wouldn't be detected. They were somewhere northwest of the
enemy force, when by chance they came across this man. They brought him back
for me to question. I discovered he was one of a number of regular
messengers sent back and forth to report to Lord Rahl."
Nicci waggled a finger at the paper. "But this, down here, looks like
the enemy force. Are you saying Rich . . . Lord Rahl, isn't with his men?
With his army?"
"That's right. The messenger didn't know why. His only duty was to
carry troop positions and regular news of their condition to his master." He
tapped the map in her hand. "But right here is where Lord Rahl is hiding,
along with his wife."
Nicci looked up, her mouth falling open. "Wife."
Sergeant Wetzel nodded. "The man said Lord Rahl married some woman
known as the Mother Confessor. She's hurt, and they're hiding way up there,
in those mountains."
Nicci remembered Richard's feelings for her, and her name: Kahlan.
Richard being married put everything in a new light. It had the potential to
disrupt Nicci's plans. Or . . .
"Anything else, Sergeant?"
"The man said Lord Rahl and his wife have one of them women, them Mord
Sith, guarding them."
"Why are they up there? Why aren't Lord Rahl and the Mother Confessor
with their army? Or back in Aydindril? Or in D'Hara, for that matter?"
He shook his head. "This messenger was just a low-ranking soldier who
knew how to ride fast and read the lay of the land. That's all he knew:
they're up there, and they're all alone."
Nicci was puzzled by such a development.
"Anything else? Anything at all?" He shook his head. She laid her hand
on the man's back, between his shoulder blades. "Thank you, Sergeant Wetzel.
You have been more help than you will ever know."
As he grinned, Nicci released a flow of power that shot up through his
spine and instantly incinerated his brain inside his skull. He dropped with
a crash to the hard ground, the air fleeing his lungs in a grunt.
Nicci held up the map she had committed to memory and with her gift set
it aflame. The paper crackled and blackened as the fire advanced across the
rivers and cities and mountains all carefully drawn out on it, until the hot
glow surrounded the bloody fingerprint over a dot in the mountains. She let
the paper rise from her fingers as it was consumed in a final puff of smoke.
Ash, like black snow, drifted down onto the body at her feet.
Outside the tent where the Mord-Sith was held, Nicci cast a wary gaze
across the surrounding camp to see if anyone was watching. No one was paying
any attention to the business of the torture tents. She slipped in through
the opening.
Nicci winced at the sight of the woman laid out on the wooden table.
She finally made herself draw a breath.
A soldier, his hands red from his work, scowled at Nicci. She didn't
wait for him to object, but simply commanded, "Report."
"Not a word from her," he growled.
Nicci nodded and placed her hand on the soldier's broad back. Wary of
her hand, he began to step away from it, but he was too late. The man fell
dead before he knew he was in trouble. Had she the time, she would have made
him suffer first.
Nicci made herself step up to the table and look down into the blue
eyes. The woman's head trembles slightly.
"Use your power . . . to hurt me, witch."
A small smile touched Nicci's lips. "To the bitter end, you would
fight, wouldn't you?"
"Use your magic, witch."
"I think not. You see, I know a bit about you women."
Defiance blazed up from the blue eyes. "You know nothing."
"Oh, but I do. Richard told me. You would know him as your Lord Rahl,
but be was for a time my student. I know that women like you have the
ability to capture the power of the gifted, if that power is used against
you. Then, you can turn it against us. So, you see, I know better than to
use my power on you."
The woman looked away. "Then torture me if that is what you came to do.
You will learn nothing."
"I'm not here to torture you," Nicci assured her.
"Then what do you want?"
"Let me introduce myself," Nicci said. "I am Death's Mistress."
The woman's blue eyes turned back, betraying for the first time a glint
of hope, "Good. Kill me."
"I need you to tell me some things."
"I'll not . . . tell you . . . anything." It was a struggle for her to
speak. "Nor anything. Kill me."
Nicci picked up a bloody blade from the table and held it before the
blue eyes, "I think you will."
The woman smiled. "Go ahead. It will only hasten my death. I know how
much a person can take. 1 am not far from the spirit world. But no matter
what you do, I'll not talk before I die."
"You misunderstand. I do not wish you to betray your Lord Rahl. Didn't
you hear your questioner hit the ground? If you turn your head a little
more, perhaps you can see that the man who did this to you is now dead. I
don't wish you to tell me any secrets."
The woman glanced, as best she could, toward the body on the ground.
Her brow twitched. "What do you mean?"
Nicci noticed that she didn't ask to be freed. She knew she was well
past the point of hope to live. The only thing she could hope for, now, was
for Nicci to end her agony.
"Richard was my student. He told me that he was once a captive of the
Mord~ Sith. Now, that's not a secret, is it?"
"No."
"That's what I want to know about. What is your name?"
The woman turned her face away.
Nicci put a finger to the woman's chin and turned her head back. "I
have an offer to make you. I won't ask you anything secret that you aren't
supposed to tell. fly
not ask you to betray your Lord Rahl-I wouldn't want you to. Those are
not the things that are of interest to me. If you cooperate" -Nicci held up
the blade again for the woman to see-"I will end it quickly for you. I
promise. No more torture. No more pain. Just the final embrace of death."
The woman's lips began trembling. "Please," she whispered, the hope
returning to her eyes. "Please . . . kill me?"
"What is your name?" Nicci asked.
Nicci, for the most part, was numb to sights of torture, but this she
found disturbing. She avoided looking away from the woman's face, down at
the naked body, so as not to have to consider what had been done to her.
Nicci could not imagine how this woman could keep from screaming, or even
how she was able to speak.
"Hania." The woman's hands and ankles were shackled to the table, so
she was unable to move much other than her head. She stared up into Nicci's
eyes. "Will you kill me? . . . Please?"
"I will, Hania, I promise. Quickly and efficiently-if you tell me what
I want to know."
"I can't tell you anything." In despair, Hania seemed to sag against
the table, knowing her ordeal was to go on. "I won't."
"I only want to know about when Richard was a captive. Did you know he
was once a captive of the Mord Sith?"
"Of course."
"I want to know about it."
"Why?"
"Because 1 want to understand him."
Hania's head rocked side to side. She actually smiled. "None of us
understands Lord Rahl. He was tortured, but he never . . . took revenge. We
don't understand him."
"I don't either, but I hope to. My name is Nicci. I want you to know
that. I'm Nicci, and I'm going to deliver you from this, Hania. Tell me
about it. Please? I need to know. Do you know the woman who captured him?
Her name?"
The woman considered for a moment before she spoke, as if testing in
her own mind whether or not the information was in any way secret, or could
in any way harm him.
"Derma," Hania whispered at last.
"Derma. Richard killed her in order to escape-he already told me that
much. Did you know Denna before she died?"
"Yes."
"I'm not asking anything of secret military importance, am I?"
Hania hesitated. She finally shook her head.
"So, you knew Denna. And did you know Richard at the time? When he was
there, and she had him? Did you know he was her captive?"
"We all knew."
"Why is that?"
"Lord Rahl-the Lord Rahl at the time-"
"Richard's father."
"Yes. He wanted Denna to be the one to train Richard, to prepare him to
answer without hesitation whatever questions Darken Rahl asked him. She was
the best at what we do."
"Good. Now, tell me everything about it. Everything you know."
Hania drew a shaky breath. It took a moment before she spoke again. "I
won't betray him. I am experienced at what is being done to me. You cannot
trick me. I will not betray Lord Rahl just to spare myself this. I have not
endured this much to betray him now."
"I promise not to ask anything about the present-about the war-anything
that would betray him to Jagang."
"If I tell you only about when Denna had him, and not about now, about
the war or where he is or anything else, do you give me your word that you
will end it for me-that you will kill me?"
"I give you my word, Hania. I wouldn't ask you to betray your Lord
Rahl-I know him and have too much respect for him to ask that of you. All I
wish is to understand him for personal reasons. I was his teacher, last
winter, instructing him in the use of his gift. I want to understand him
better. I need to understand him. I believe I can help him, if I do."
"And then you will help me?" There was a shimmer of hope along with the
tears. "You will kill me, then?"
This woman could aspire to nothing more, now. It was all that was left
to her in this life: a quick death to finally end the pain.
"Just as soon as you're finished telling me all about it, I will end
your suffering, Hania."
"Do you swear it by your hope to an eternity in the underworld in the
warmth of the Creator's light?"
Nicci felt a sharp shiver of pain wail up from her very soul. She had
started out near to one hundred and seventy years before wanting nothing but
to help, and yet she could not escape the fate of her evil nature. She was
Death's Mistress.
She was a fallen woman.
She ran the side of a finger down Hania's soft cheek. The two women
shared a long and intimate look. "I promise," Nicci whispered. "Quick and
efficient. It will be the end of your pain."
Tears overflowing her eyes, Hania gave a little nod.
The estate was a grand place, she supposed. Nicci had seen grandeur
such as this before. She had also seen much greater majesty, to be sure. She
had lived among such splendor for nearly one and three-quarters centuries,
among the imposing columns and arches of immaculate rooms, the intricately
carved stone vines and buttery smooth wood paneling, the feather beds and
silk coverlets, the exquisite carpets and rich draperies, the silver and
gold ornamentation, and the bright sparkle of windows made of colored glass
composed into epic scenes. The Sisters there offered Nicci brighteyed smiles
and clever conversation.
The extravagance meant no more to her than the rubble of the streets,
the cold wet blankets laid on rough ground, the beds made in the slime among
greasy runnels in the muck of narrow alleys with nothing but the bitter sky
overhead. The huddled people there never offered a smile, but gaped up at
her with hollow eyes, like so many pigeons cooing for alms.
Some of her life was spent among splendor, some among garbage. Some
people were fated to spend their lives in one place, some in the other, she
in both.
Nicci reached for the silver handle on one of the ornate double doors
flanked by two husky soldiers who had probably been raised in a sty with the
hogs, and saw that her hand was covered in blood. She turned and casually
wiped the hand on the filthy, bloodstained fleece vest worn by one of the
men. The biceps of his folded arms were nearly as thick as her waist.
Although he scowled as she cleaned her hand on him, he made no move to stop
her. After all, it wasn't as if she were defiling him.
Hania had kept her part of the bargain. Nicci rarely resorted to using
a weapon; she usually used her gift. But of course, in this case, that could
have been a mistake. When she had held the knife over her throat, Hania had
whispered her thanks for what Nicci was about to do. It was the first time
anyone had ever thanked Nicci before she had killed them. Few people ever
thanked Nicci for the help she provided. She was able, they were not; it was
her duty to serve their needs.
When she had finished cleaning her hand on the mute guard, she flashed
an empty smile at his dark glaring visage and then went on through the doors
into a stately reception hall. A row of tall windows lining one wall of the
room was trimmed with wheat-colored drapes. Near their tasseled edges, the
curtains sparkled in the lamplight as if they might be embellished with gold
thread. Latesummer rain spattered against tightly shut glass panes that
revealed only darkness outside, but reflected the activity inside. The pale
wool carpets, graced with flowers painstakingly sculpted in relief by means
of different-length yarn, were tracked with mud.
Scouts came and went, along with messengers and soldiers giving their
reports to some of the officers. Other officers barked orders. Soldiers
carrying rolled maps
followed a few of the higher-ranking men as they meandered around the
stuffy room.
One of the maps lay unrolled across a narrow table. The table's silver
candelabrum had been set aside on the floor behind the table. As Nicci
passed the table, she glanced down and saw that it was missing many of the
elements so carefully marked on the map drawn by the D'Haran messenger. On
the map laid out over the narrow table, there was nothing but dark splotches
from spilled ale in the area to the northwest; in the map etched in Nicci's
mind, there were the mountains, rivers, high passes, and streams there, and
a dot, marking the place where Richard was, along with his Mother Confessor
bride, and the Mord-Sith.
Officers talked among themselves, some standing about, some half
sitting on iron-legged, marbletopped tables, some lounging in padded leather
chairs as they took delicacies from silver trays borne on the trembling
hands of sweating servants. Others swilled ale from tall pewter mugs, and
yet others drank wine from dainty glasses, all acting as if they were
intimate with such splendor, and all of them looking as out of place as
toads at tea.
An older woman, Sister Lidmila, apparently trying to be unobtrusive by
cowering in the shadows beside the drapes, snapped upright when she saw
Nicci marching across the room. Sister Lidmila stepped out of the shadows,
briefly pausing to smooth her dingy skirts, an act that could not possibly
produce any noticeable improvement; Sister Lidmila once had told Nicci that
things learned in youth never left you, and were often much easier to recall
than yesterday's dinner. Rumor had it that the old Sister, skilled in arcane
spells known to only the most powerful sorceresses, had many interesting
things from her youth to recall.
Sister Lidmila's leathery skin was stretched so tight over the bones of
her skull that she reminded Nicci of nothing so much as an exhumed corpse.
As cadaverous looking as the aged Sister was, she advanced across the room
in quick, sharp movements.
When she was only ten feet away, Sister Lidmila waved an arm, as if not
sure Nicci would see her. "Sister Nicci. Sister Nicci, there you are." She
seized Nicci's wrist. "Come along, dear. Come along. His Excellency is
waiting for you. This way. Come along."
Nicci clasped the Sister's tugging hand. "Lead the way, Sister Lidmila.
I'm right behind you."
The older woman smiled over her shoulder. It wasn't a pleasant or
joyous smile, but one of relief. Jagang punished anyone who displeased him,
regardless of their culpability.
"What took you so long, Sister Nicci? His Excellency is in quite a
state, he is, because of you. Where have you been?"
"I had . . . business I had to attend to."
The woman had to take two or three steps for every one of Nicci's.
"Business indeed! Were it up to me, I'd have you down in the kitchen
scrubbing pots for being off on a lark when you are wanted."
Sister Lidmila was frail and forgetful, and she sometimes failed to
realize she was no longer at the Palace of the Prophets. Jagang used her to
fetch people, or to wait for them and show them the way-usually to his
tents. Should she forget the way, he could always correct her route, if need
be. It amused him to use a venerable Sister of the Light -a sorceress
reputedly possessing knowledge of the most esoteric incantations-as nothing
more than an errand girl. Away from the palace and it's
spell that slowed aging, Sister Lidmila was in a sudden headlong rush
toward the grave. All the Sisters were.
The round-backed Sister, her dangling arm swinging, shuffled along in
front of Nicci, pulling her by her hand, leading her through grand rooms, up
stairways, and down hallways. At a doorway framed in gold-leafed moldings,
she finally paused, touching her fingers to her lower lip as she caught her
breath. Sober soldiers prowling the hall painted Nicci with glares as dark
as her dress. She recognized the men as imperial guards.
"Here it is." Sister Lidmila peered up at Nicci. "His Excellency is in
his rooms. Hurry, then. Go on. Go on, now." She swirled her hands as if she
were trying to herd livestock. "In you go."
Before entering, Nicci took her hand from the lever and turned back to
the old woman. "Sister Lidmila, you once told me that you thought I would be
the one best suited for some of the knowledge you had to pass on."
Sister Lidmila's face brightened with a sly smile. "Ah, some of the
more occult magic interests you, at long last, Sister Nicci?"
Nicci had never before been interested in what Sister Lidmila had
occasionally pestered her to learn. Magic was a selfish pursuit. Nicci
learned what she had to, but never went out of her way to go beyond, to the
more unusual spells.
"Yes, as a matter of fact, I believe I am at last ready."
"I always told the Prelate that you were the only one at the palace
with the power for the conjuring I know." The woman leaned close. "Dangerous
conjuring, it is, too."
"It should be passed on, while you are able."
Sister Lidmila nodded with satisfaction. "I believe you are old enough.
I could show you. When?"
"I will come see you . . . tomorrow." Nicci glanced toward the door. "I
don't believe I will be able to take a lesson tonight."
"Tomorrow, then."
"If I . . . do come around to see you, I will be most eager to learn. I
especially wish to know about the maternity spell."
From what Nicci knew of it, the oddly named maternity spell might be
just what she needed. It had the further advantage that once invoked, it was
inviolate.
Sister Lidmila straightened and again touched her fingers to her lower
lip. A look of concern crossed her face.
"My, my. That one, is it? Well, yes, I could teach you. You have the
ability-few do. I'd trust none but you to be able to bring such a thing to
life; it requires tremendous power of the gift. You have that. As long as
you understand and are willing to accept the cost involved, 1 can teach
you."
Nicci nodded. "I will come when 1 can, then."
The old Sister ambled on down the hall, deep in thought, already
thinking about the lesson. Nicci didn't know if she would live to take the
lesson.
After she had watched the old Sister vanish around the corner, Nicci
entered a quiet room lit by myriad candles and lamps. The high ceiling was
edged with a painted leaf-and-acorn design. Plush couches and chairs
upholstered in muted browns were set about on thick carpets of rich yellows,
oranges, and reds, making them look like a forest floor in the autumn. Heavy
drapes had been pulled closed across an expanse of windows. Two Sisters
sitting on a couch leaped to their feet.
"Sister Nicci!" one virtually shouted in relief.
The other ran to the double doors at the other side of the room and
opened one without knocking, apparently by instruction. She stuck her head
into the room beyond to speak in a low voice Nicci couldn't hear.
The Sister leaped back when Jagang, in the inner room, roared, "Get
out! All of you! Everyone else out!"
Two more young Sisters, no doubt personal attendants to the emperor,
burst out of the room. Nicci had to step out of the way as all four gifted
women made for the doorway leading out of the apartment. A young man Nicci
hadn't noticed in the corner joined the women. None even glanced in Nicci's
direction as they rushed to do as they were ordered. The first lesson you
learned as a slave to Jagang was that when he told you to do something, he
meant you to do it right now. Little provoked him more than delay.
At the door to the inner room, a woman Nicci didn't recognize ran out,
following close on the heels of the others. She was young and beautiful,
with dark hair and eyes, probably a captive picked up somewhere along the
long march, and no doubt used for Jagang's amusement. Her eyes reflected a
world gone mad for her.
Such were the unavoidable costs if the world was to be brought to a
state of order. Great leaders, by their very nature, came with shortcomings
in character, which they themselves viewed as mere peccadilloes. The
far-ranging benefits Jagang would bring to the poor suffering masses of
humanity far outweighed his crass acts of personal gratification and the
relatively petty havoc he wrought. Nicci was often the object of his
transgressions. It was a price worth paying for the help that would
eventually accrue to the helpless; that was the only matter that could be
considered.
The outer door closed and the apartment was finally empty of everyone
but Nicci and the emperor. She stood erect, head held high, arms at her
sides, relishing the quiet of the place. The splendor meant little to her,
but quiet was a luxury she had come to appreciate, even if it was selfish.
In the tents there was always the noise of the army pressed close around.
Here, it was quiet. She glanced around the spacious and elaborately
decorated outer room, contemplating the idea that Jagang would have acquired
the taste for such places. Perhaps he, too, simply wanted quiet.
She turned back to the inner room. He was just inside, waiting,
watching her, a muscled mass of fury coiled in rage.
She strode directly up to him. "You wished to see me, Excellency?"
Nicci felt a stunning pain as the back of his beefy hand whipped across
her face. The blow spun her around. Her knees hit the floor. He yanked her
to her feet by her hair. The second time, she clouted the wall before
crashing to the floor again. Stupefying pain throbbed through her face. When
she had her bearings, she got her legs under her and stood before him again.
The third time, she took a freestanding candelabrum down with her. Candles
tumbled and rolled across the floor. A long wisp °f sheer curtain she had
snatched as she grabbed for support ripped away and drifted down over her as
she and an upturned table slammed to the floor. Glass shattered. Metal
clattered as small items bounded away.
She was dizzy and stunned, her vision faltering. Her eyes felt as if
they might have burst, her jaw as if it had been shattered, her neck as if
the muscles had ripped.. Nicci lay sprawled on the floor, savoring the
strident waves of pain, wallowing 'n the rare sensation of feeling.
She saw blood splattered across the light fringe of the carpet beneath
her and across the warns glow of wooden flooring. She heard Jagang yelling
something at her, but she couldn't make out the words over the ringing in
her ears. With a shaky
arm pushed herself up onto her hip. Blood warmed her fingers when she
touched them to her mouth. She relished the hurt. It had been so long since
she had felt anything, except for that too brief moment with the Mord-Sith.
This was a glorious wash of agony.
Jagang's brutality was able to reach down into the abyss, not only
because of the cruelty itself, but because she knew she need not suffer it.
He, too, knew that she was here by her choice, not his. That only
intensified his anger, and thus, her sensations.
His rage seemed lethal. She merely noted the fact that she very
probably wouldn't leave the room alive. She would probably not get to learn
Sister Lidmila's spells. Nicci simply waited to discover what fate had
already decided for her.
The room's spinning finally slowed enough for her to once more make it
to her feet. She pulled herself up straight before the silent brawny form of
Emperor Jagang. His shaved head reflected points of light from some of the
lamps. His only facial hair was a two-inch braid of mustache growing above
each corner of his mouth, and another in the center under his lower lip. The
gold ring through his left nostril and its thin gold chain running to
another ring in his left ear glimmered in the mellow lamplight. Except for a
heavy ring on each finger, he was without the plundered assortment of royal
chains and jewels he usually wore around his neck. The rings glistened with
her blood.
He was bare-chested, but unlike his head, his chest was covered in
coarse hair. His muscles bulged, their tendons standing out as he flexed his
fists. He had the neck of a bull, and his temperament was worse.
Nicci, half a head shy of his height, stood before him, waiting,
looking into the eyes she used to see in her nightmares. They were a murky
gray, without whites, and clouded over with sullen, dusky shapes that stole
across a surface of inky obscurity. Even though they had no evident iris and
pupil-nothing but seeming dark voids where a normal person had eyes-she
never had any doubt whatsoever as to when he was looking at her.
They were the eyes of a dream walker. A dream walker denied access to
her mind. Now, she understood why.
"Well?" He growled. He threw up his hands. "Cry! Yell! Scream! Beg!
Argue make excuses! Don't just stand there!"
Nicci swallowed back the sharp taste of blood as she gazed placidly
into his scarlet glare.
"Please be specific, Excellency, as to which one you would prefer, how
long I should carry on, and if I should end it of my own accord, or wait for
you to beat me into unconsciousness."
He lunged at her with a howl of fury. He seized her throat in his
massive fist to hold her as he struck her. Her knees buckled, but he held
her up until she was able to steady herself.
He released her throat with a shove. "I want to know why you did that
to Kadar!"
She offered only a bloody smile to his anger.
He wrenched her arm behind her back and pulled her hard against him.
"Why would you do such a thing! Why?"
The deadly dance with Jagang had begun. She dimly wondered again if
this time she would lose her life.
Jagang had killed a number of the Sisters who had displeased him.
Nicci's safety hIm-such as it was-lay in her very indifference to her
safety. Her utter Ikerest in her own life fascinated Jagang because he knew
it was sincere.
"Sometimes, you're a fool," she said with true contempt, "too arrogant
to see what is in front of your nose."
He twisted her arm until she thought it surely would snap. His panting
breath was warn on her throbbing cheek. "I've killed people for saying much
less than that."
She mocked him through the pain. "Do you intend to bore me to death,
then? If you want to kill me, seize me by the throat and strangle me, or
slash me to a bloody mess so that I will bleed to death at your feet-don't
think you can suffocate me with the sheer weight of your monotonous threats.
If you wish to kill me, then be a man and do so! Or else shut your mouth."
The mistake most people made with Jagang was to believe, because of his
capacity for such profound brutality, that he was an ignorant, dumb brute.
He was not. He was one of the most intelligent men Nicci had ever met.
Brutality was but his cloak. As an outgrowth of his access to the thoughts
of so many different people's minds, he was directly exposed to their
knowledge, wisdom, and ideas; such exposure augmented his intellect. He also
knew what people most feared. If anything about him frightened her, it was
not his brutality, but his intelligence, for she knew that intelligence
could be a bottomless well of truly inventive cruelty.
"Why did you kill him, Nicci?" he asked again, his voice losing some of
its fire.
In her mind, like a protective stone wall, was the thought of Richard.
He had to see it in her eyes. Part of Jagang's rage, she knew, was at his
own impotence at penetrating her mind, of possessing her as he could so many
others. Her knowing smirk taunted him with what he could not have.
"It amused me to hear the great Kadar Kardeef cry for mercy, and then
to deny it."
Jagang roared again, a beastly sound out of place for such a mannerly
bedchamber. She saw the blur of his arm swinging for her. The room whirled
violently around her. She expected to hit something with a bone-breaking
impact. Instead, she upended and crashed onto unexpected softness: the bed,
she realized. Somehow, she had missed the marble and mahogany posts at the
corners-they surely would have killed her. Fate, it seemed, was trifling
with her. Jagang landed atop her.
She thought he might beat her to death now. Instead, he studied her
eyes from inches away. He sat up, straddling her hips. His meaty hands
pulled at the laces on the bodice of her dress. With a quick yank of the
material, he exposed her breasts. His fingers squeezed her bared flesh until
her eyes watered.
Nicci didn't watch him, or resist, but instead went limp as he pushed
her dress up around her waist. Her mind began its journey away, to where
only she alone could go. He fell on her, driving the wind from her lungs in
a helpless grunt.
Arms lying at her sides, her fingers open and slack, eyes unblinking,
Nicci stared at the folds of the silk in the canopy of the bed, her mind
unaffected in the distant
quiet place. The pain seemed remote. Her struggle to breathe seemed
trivial.
As he went about his coarse business, she focused her thoughts instead
on what she was going to do. She had never believed possible what she now
contemplated; now she knew it was. She had only to decide to do it.
Jagang slapped her, causing her to focus her mind back on him. "You're
too stupid to even weep!"
She realized he had finished; he was not happy that she hadn't noticed.
She had to make an effort not to comfort her jaw, stinging from what to him
was a smack, but to the person receiving it was a blow nearly strong enough
to cripple. Sweat
dripped from his chin onto her face. His powerful body glistened from
the exertion she had not perceived.
His chest heaved as he glared down at her. Anger, of course, powered
the glare, but Nicci thought she saw a tinge of something else there, too:
regret, or maybe anguish, or maybe even hurt.
"Is that what you wish me to do, then, Excellency? Weep?"
His voice turned bitter as he flopped onto his side beside her. "No. I
wish you to react."
"But I am," she said as she stared up at the canopy. "It is simply not
the reaction you wish."
He sat up. "What's the matter with you, woman?"
She gazed up at him a moment, and then turned her eyes away.
"I have no idea," she answered honestly. "But I think I must find out."
Jagang gestured. "Take off your clothes. You're spending the night.
It's been too long." This time, it was he who stared off at the walls. "I've
missed you in my bed, Nicci."
She didn't answer. She did not believe that in his bed he missed
anything. She didn't believe she could conceive of him understanding what it
was to miss a person. What he missed, she thought, was being able to miss
someone.
Nicci sat up and threw her legs over the side of the bed as she
untangled herself from the black dress. She pulled it off over her head and
then laid it out across the back of a padded leather chair. She reclaimed
her underthings from the tangles of the bed covering and tossed them on the
chair before drawing off her stockings and placing them, too, on the seat of
the chair. He watched her body the whole time, watched her as she tended to
her dress, smoothing it to straighten what he had done to it, watched the
mysterious allure of a woman acting a woman.
When she had finished she turned back to him. She stood proudly, to let
him see that which he could have only by force, and never as a willing gift.
She could detect the sense of privation in his expression. This, was the
only victory she could have: the more he took her by force, the more he
understood that that was the only way he could ever have her, and the more
it maddened him. She would just as soon die as willingly give him the
satisfaction of that gift, and he knew the brutal truth of that.
He finally forced himself away from his private, bitter longing and
looked up into her eyes. "Why'd you kill Kadar?"
She sat on the edge of the bed opposite him, just out of his easy
reach, but within range of his lunge, and shrugged her bare shoulders.
"You are not the Order. The Order is no single man, but an ideal of
equity. As such, it will survive any one person. You serve that ideal and
the Order, for now, in the capacity of but a brute. The Order could use any
brute to serve its purpose. You, Kadar, or another. I simply eliminated
someone who might one day have been a threat to you before you can rise
above your present role."
He grinned. "You expect me to believe that you were doing me a
kindness? Now you mock me."
"If it pleases you to think so, then do."
Her smooth white limbs were a vivid contrast to the heavy, dark,
variegated verdant bedcover and sheets. He lay back atop them against
several rumpled pillows. immodestly displayed before her. His eyes looked
even darker than usual.
"What's all this talk I keep hearing about 'Jagang the Just'?"
"Your new title. It is the thing that will save you, the thing that
will win for you, the thing that will bring you more glory than anything
else. Yet, in return for elimi-
nating a future threat to your standing, and for making you a hero to
the people, you draw my blood."
He put an arm behind his head. "Sometimes you make me believe the
stories fat people tell, that you really are crazy."
"And if you kill everyone?"
"Then they will be dead."
"I have recently been through towns visited by your soldiers. It seems
they didn't harm the people-at least, they didn't slaughter everyone in
sight, as they did when fey began their march into the New World."
He lunged and seized a fistful of her hair. With a snarl, he yanked her
onto her back beside him. She caught her breath as he rose up on an elbow
and directed his disturbing gaze down into her eyes.
"It is your job to make examples of people, to show them that they must
contribute to our cause; to make them fear the Imperial Order's righteous
wrath. That is the task I assigned you."
"Is that so? Then why did the soldiers not make examples, too? Why did
they let those towns be? Why did they not contribute to striking fear into
the hearts of the people? Why didn't they lay waste to every city and town
in their path?"
"And then who would I rule but my soldiers? Who would do the work? Who
would make things? Who would grow the food? Who would pay tribute? To whom
will I bring the hope of the Order? Who will there be to glorify the great
Emperor Jagang, if I kill them all?"
He flopped onto his back. "You may be called Death's Mistress, but we
can't have it your way and kill everyone. In this world you are bound to the
Order's purpose. If people feel the Order's arrival can mean nothing but
their death, they will resist to the end. They must know that it is only
their resistance which will bring a swift and sure death. If they realize
our arrival offers them a moral life, a life which puts man under the
Creator and the welfare of man above all else, they will embrace us."
"You dealt death to this city," she taunted, forcing him to unwittingly
prove the validity of what she had done. "Even though they chose the Order."
"I've given orders that any people of the city still alive be allowed
to go back to their homes. The rampage is ended. The people here betrayed
their promises and thus invited brutality; they saw it, but now that is
finished and a new day of order has come. The old ideas of separate lands
are over, as it was ended in the Old World. All people will be governed
together, and will enter a new age of prosperity together-under the Imperial
Order. Only those who resist will be crushed-not because they resist, but
because, ultimately, they are traitors to the well-being of their fellow man
and must be eliminated.
"Here, in Anderith, was the turning point in our struggle. Richard Rahl
was at last cast out by the people themselves, who came to see the virtue of
what we offer. No longer can he claim to represent them."
"Yet you came in and slaughtered-"
"The leaders here betrayed certain promises to me-who knows how much of
the general population may have collaborated in that-and so the people had
to pay a puce, but collectively they have also earned a place in the Order
for their courage In emphatically rejecting Lord Rahl and the outdated,
selfish, uninspired morals he offered them.
"The tide has turned. People no longer have faith in Lord Rahl, nor can
he now have any faith in them. Richard Rahl is a fallen leader."
Nicci smiled inwardly, a sad smile. She was a fallen woman, and Richard
was a fallen man. Their fate was sealed.
"Perhaps here, in this one small place," she said, "but he is far from
defeated. He is still dangerous. After all, you failed to gain everything
you sought here in Anderith because of Richard Rahl. He not only denied you
a clear victory by destroying vast stores of supplies and leaving the
systems and services of production in total disarray, but he also slipped
right through your fingers when you should have captured him."
"I will have him!"
"Really? I wonder." She watched his fist, and waited until it relaxed
before she continued. "When will you move our forces north, into the
Midlands?"
Jagang stroked his hand down his woolly chest. "Soon. I want to give
them time to become careless, first. When they grow complacent, I will
strike north.
"A great leader must read the nature of the battle, to be able to
adjust his tactics. We will be liberators, now, as we move north into the
Midlands, bringing the Creator's glory to the people. We must win the hearts
and minds of the unconverted."
"You have decided this change? On your own? You do not consider the
will of the Creator in your campaign?"
He glared at her insolence, as if to tell her she knew better than to
even ask such a question.
"I am the emperor; I need not consult our spiritual guides, but since
their. counsel is always welcome, I've already talked to the priests.
They've spoken favorably about my plans. Brother Narev thinks it wise and
has given his blessing. You had better keep to your job of extinguishing any
ideas of opposition. If you don't follow my orders, well, no one will miss
one Sister. I have others."
She was not moved by his threats, real as they were. By his suspicious
look, he was beginning to understand her vision, too.
"What you are doing is fitting," she said, "but it must be cut up into
little pieces the people can chew. They do not have the Order's wisdom in
seeing what is best for them-the public rarely does. Even one as bullheaded
as you must be able to see that I have anticipated your plans by helping
those you can't afford to kill to understand that you are sparing them out
of your sense of justice. Word of such deeds will win hearts."
He cast her a sidelong glance. "I am the Order's cleansing fire. The
fire is a necessary conflagration, but not the important end-it is merely
the means to the end. From the ashes I, Jagang, create, new order can sprout
and grow. It is this end, this glorious new age of man, that warrants the
means. In this, it is my responsibility not yours-to decide justice, when
and how I will dispense it, and who will receive it."
She grew impatient with his vanity. Scorn seeped into her voice. "I
have simply put a name to it-Jagang the Just-and begun to spread your new
title for you when the opportunity arose. I sacrificed Kadar to that end,
for all the same reasons you've listed. It had to be done now in order for
it to have the necessary time to spread and flourish, or the New World would
soon harden irreversibly against the Order. I chose the time and place, and
by using Kadar Kardeef's life-a war hero's life-proved your devotion to the
cause of the Order above all else. You benefit.
"Any brute could ignite the conflagration; this new title shows your
moral
vision-another manifestation of worth over other men. I have planted
the vital seed that will make you a hero to the common people and, even more
important, to the priests. Are you going to pretend you think the title
inadequate? Or that it will not serve you well?
"What I alone have done will help win what your powerful army cannot:
willing allegiance without a battle, at a cost of nothing. With Kadar's
life, I, Nicci, have made you more than you could make of yourself. I,
Nicci, have given you the reputation of honor. I, Nicci, have made you into
a leader people will trust because they believe you to be just."
He brooded for a time, turning his gaze from her hot glare. His arm
finally fell own and his fingers tenderly trailed down her thigh. The touch
was an admission for him-an admission that she was right, even if he would
not say the words.
After a few moments he yawned, and then his eyes closed. His breathing
evened, and he started to drift off into a nap, as was his way with her. He
expected her to remain right where she was, so that when he awoke she would
be available to him. She supposed she could leave. But it was not time. Not
yet.
He finally awoke an hour later. Nicci was still staring up at the
canopy, thinking about Richard. There seemed to be one piece missing in her
plan, one more thing that she felt needed to fall into place.
In his sleep Jagang had rolled over on his side facing away from her.
Now, he turned back. His dark eyes took her in with a look of lust
rekindled. He drew her close. His body was as warm as a rock in the sun and
only slightly softer.
"Pleasure me," he commanded in a husky growl that would have frightened
any other woman into doing as ordered.
"Or what? You will kill me? If I feared that, I would not be here. This
is by force, not consent. I will not willingly take part in it, nor will I
allow you to deceive yourself into believing that I want you."
He backhanded her, knocking her across the bed. "You take part
willingly!" He seized her by the wrist and dragged her back toward him. "Why
else would you be here?"
"You ordered me here."
He smirked. "And you came when you could have fled."
She opened her mouth, but she had no answer she could put into words,
no answer he would understand.
With a grin of victory, he fell on her and pressed his lips to hers. As
much as it hurt her, for Jagang this was gentle behavior. He had told her
several times that she was the only woman he ever cared to kiss. He seemed
to believe that by expressing those emotions for her, she could have no
alternative but to surrender feelings in kind, as if spoken feelings were
currency with which he could purchase affection on demand.
It was only the beginning of a long night-along ordeal-she knew. She
would have to endure his forceful violation several more times before
morning. His question haunted the distant place in her mind.
Morning came, accompanied by the dull throbbing of a headache from her
succeeding beating, and the sharper aches from the places where he'd struck
her when he came to find that what he thought was her willing submission was
but a delusion that left him more angered than before. The pillows were
stained with her blood. It had
g been a long night of rare sensations experienced. -HIre knew she was
evil, and deserved to be violated in such a brutal fashion. She
could offer no moral objection to it; even in the terrible things he
did to her, Jagang was nowhere near as corrupt as she. Jagang erred in
simple matters of the flesh, and that could only be expected all people were
corrupt in the flesh-but because of her indifference to the suffering around
her, she failed in matters of the spirit. That, she knew, was pure evil.
That was why she deserved to suffer whatever he did to her. For the moment,
that deep dark place within came close to being sated.
Nicci touched her mouth and found the cuts painful, but closed. The
healing of wounds, though, did not offer the warranted sensations of
receiving them, so she resolved to have one of the other Sisters heal her,
rather than give him the satisfaction of witnessing her suffering the
inconvenience of the injures.
With that, her mind turned to thoughts of Sister Lidmila.
Nicci realized that Jagang wasn't in bed beside her. She sat up and saw
him in a chair not far away, watching her.
She pulled the sheet up to cover her breasts, speckled with droplets of
dried blood. "You are a pig."
"You can't get enough of me. Despite what you say, Nicci, you wish to
be with me. If not, why would you stay?"
Those nightmare eyes of his watched her, trying to find a way into her
mind. There was none. He could no longer be a nightmare for her. Richard
guarded her mind.
"Not for the reasons you wish to believe. I stay because the ultimate
cause of the Order is a moral one. I wish it to succeed. I wish the
suffering of life's helpless victims to end. I wish everyone to finally be
equal and to finally live with everything they need. I have worked nearly my
entire life for those goals. The Order can see to it that such a fair world
comes to be. If I must endure you-even aid you-for such an end, then it is
but an insignificant gnat to swallow."
"You sound so very noble, but I think there is something more basic
behind it. I think you would have left if you could, or"-he smiled-"if you
could, you would have left if you really wanted to. Which is it, then,
Nicci?"
She didn't want to contemplate the question. Her head hurt.
"What's all the talk about you building a palace?"
"So you heard, then." He took a deep breath and sighed wistfully. "It
will be the grandest palace ever built. A fitting place for the Emperor of
the Imperial Order, for the man who rules both the Old and the New Worlds."
"The man who wants to rule. Lord Rahl stands in your way. How many
times has he bested you, now?"
Jagang's eyes flashed a rage she knew could turn violent. Richard had
frustrated Jagang a number of times. Even if Richard hadn't been victorious
over Jagang, he had stung him. Quite an accomplishment, really, for such a
tiny force against the
array of the Imperial Order. A man like Jagang hated the humiliation of
a sting almost as much as he would hate to be gored.
"I will eliminate Richard Rahl, don't you worry," Jagang said in a low
growl'
She changed the subject back to what she really wanted to know about.
"Sine when has the all conquering Emperor Jagang turned soft and wanted to
live in splendor?"
"Ali, but I am Jagang the Just, now. Remember?" He returned to the bed
and flopped down beside her. "Nicci, I'm sorry I hurt you. I never want to
hurt you, but you make me do it. You know I care about you."
You care about me yet you heat me? You care about me, yet you never
bothered
to tell me of such an enormous project as the building of a palace? I
am insignificant to you.
"I told you, I'm sorry I hurt you-but that was your own fault and you
know it." He spoke the words almost lovingly. With mention of the palace,
his face had softened into a visionary look. "It's only proper and fitting
that I at last have the prestige of such a monumental edifice."
"You, the man who was content in tents in the, field, now wants to live
in a resplendent building? Why?"
"Because once I bring the New World under the guidance of the Order, I
will owe it to all the people, as their leader, to be seen in a majestic
setting . . . but it will have more than simple splendor."
"But of course," she sniped.
He gathered up her hand. "Nicci, I will proudly wear the title Jagang
the Just. You're right, the time has come for such a move. I was only
angered because you
wrongly made that move without first discussing it with me. But let us
forget that, now."
She said nothing. He gripped her hand more tightly, to show his
sincerity, she supposed.
You're going to love the palace, when it's finished." He ran the back
of the fingers of his other hand tenderly down her cheek. "We will all live
there for a very long time."
The words struck a cord in her. "A very long time?"
For the first time she realized there was something more to this than
simply his vanity of wanting a palace after Richard had denied him the
Palace of the Prophets. He wanted what else Richard had denied him. Could it
be . . .
She looked up into his face, searching for the answer. He simply smiled
at the questions in her eyes.
"Construction has already begun," he said, turning his words away from
those questions. "Architects and great builders from all over the Old World
have gathered to work on it. Everyone wants to be part of such a grand
project."
"And Brother Narev?" she probed. "What does he think of building such a
frivolous monument to one man when there is important work to be done for so
many needy people?"
"Brother Narev and his disciples greatly favor the project." Jagang
flashed her a sly smile. "They will live there, too, of course."
Understanding washed over her.
"He's going to spell the new palace," she whispered in astonishment to
herself.
Jagang only smiled as he watched her, clearly pleased with her
reaction.
Brother Narev had been at the Palace of the Prophets almost as long as
she, nearly one hundred and seventy years, but in all that time he seemed to
have aged only ten or fifteen years-the same as she. No one but Nicci ever
knew he was anything but a stablehand-they didn't know he was gifted.
In all that time, with her, along with everyone else, paying him little
heed, he must have been studying the spell around the palace. From what she
knew, most of Brother Narev's disciples had been young wizards from the
Palace of the Prophets; they had access to the vaults. They, too, could have
added information that helped him. But could he really do such a thing?
"Tell me about the palace," she said, preferring his voice to the
silent scrutiny of nightmare eyes.
He kissed her first, the way a man kisses a woman, not the way a brute
kisses a victim. She endured it with no more favor than any of the rest of
it. He seemed not to notice, this time, and by the smile of his face,
appeared to have enjoyed it.
"It will be a walk of nearly fifteen miles to walk all the halls." He
swept a hand out and began to give shape to the grand palace in the air
before them. As he went on, he stared off at his imaginary outline, hanging
there in space.
"The world has never seen anything to match it. While I carry on with
our work of bringing the hope of the Order to the New World, of bringing the
true word of the Creator to the wicked and the greedy, of banishing the
selfish ideals of the ancient religion of magic, back in my homeland the
work of building the palace will go on.
"Quarries will be busy for years extracting all the rock that will go
into the construction. The variety of stone will leave no doubt about the
glory of the place. The marble will be the finest. The woods will be only
the best. Every material going into the palace will be exceptional. The best
craftsmen will shape it all into a grand structure."
"Yes, but, despite the fact that others may live there," she mocked in
cool disdain, "it will be but a pompous monument to only one man: the great
and powerful Emperor Jagang."
"No, it will be devoted to the glory of the Creator."
"Oh? And will the Creator be taking up residence there, too, then'?"
Jagang scowled at her blasphemy. "Brother Narev wishes the palace to be
instructional to the people. He is contributing his spiritual guidance to
the undertaking, and will personally oversee the construction while I
cleanse the way for the Order."
That was what she wanted to know.
He stared off at the invisible shape still hanging in the air before
them. His voice took on a reverent tone.
"Brother Narev shares my vision in this. He has always been like a
father to me. He put the fire in my belly. His spiritual direction has been
a lifelong inspiration. He allows me to stand at the fore, and take the
glory of our victories, but I would be nothing without his moral teachings.
What I win is only as the fist of the Order, and a fist is but one part of
the whole, as we are all but insignificant fragments of society as a whole.
You are right: many others could stand in my place for the Order. But it is
my part to be the one to lead us. I would never do anything to betray the
trust Brother Narev has placed in me-that would be like betraying the
Creator Himself. He guides the way for all of us.
"I only thought to build a fitting palace for us all, a place from
which to govern for the benefit of the people. It was Brother Narev who took
up the dream and gave it moral meaning by envisioning everyone, when they
see the vast structure, as seeing man's place in the new order-seeing that
man can never live up to the glory of the Creator, and that, individually,
he is but a meaningless member of the greater brotherhood of man and thus
can have no greater part to play than to uplift all his brothers in need so
all will thrive together. Yet, it will also be a place that will humble
every man before it, by showing him his utter insignificance before the
glory of his Creator, by showing man's depravity, his tortured, contorted,
inferior nature, for all men in this world are such as this."
Nicci could almost see such a place when he spoke of it. It would
indeed be a humbling inspiration to the people. He, came near to inspiring
her with such talk, as Brother Narev had at one time inspired her.
"This is why I have stayed," she whispered, "because the cause of the
Order is righteous."
The piece that had been missing was now found.
In the quiet, Jagang kissed her again. She allowed him to finish it,
and then pushed away from his embrace. With a distant smile, he watched as
she rose and began dressing.
"You're going to love it there, Nicci. It will be a place befitting
you."
"Oh? As the Slave Queen?"
"As a queen, if you wish it. I plan to give you the kind of authority
you've never before had. We'll be happy there, you and I, truly happy. For a
long, long time, we'll be happy there."
She drew a stocking up her leg. "When Sister Ulicia and the four with
her found away to leave you, I chose to ignore their discovery and stay,
because I know the Order is the only moral course for mankind. But now I-"
"You stayed because you would be nothing without the Order."
She looked away from his eyes. She tugged her dress down over her head,
poked her arms through the sleeves, and worked the skirt over her hips. "I
am nothing without the Order, and I am nothing with it. No one is. We are
all inadequate, miserable creatures; that is the nature of man; that is what
the Creator teaches. But the Order shows man his duty to make a better life
for the good of all."
"And I am the emperor of the Imperial Order!" His red face cooled more
slowly than it had heated. He gestured vaguely in the hollow silence and he
went on in a more mellow tone. `The world will be one under the Order. We'll
be happy at the palace when it's finished, Nicci. You and I, under the
spiritual guidance of our priests. You'll see. In time, when-'
"I'm leaving." She drew on a boot.
"I will not permit it."
Nicci paused at pulling on her other boot and glanced up into his dark
eyes. She flicked a finger toward a stone vase on a table against the far
wall. Light flashed. The vase exploded in a cloud of dust and chips with a
sound that rocked the room. The draperies shuddered. The panes in the
windows chattered.
When the dust had settled, she said, "You will not permit it?" She bent
forward and began doing up the laces on her boots.
Jagang strolled over to the table and dragged his fingers through the
dust that was all that remained of the stone vase. He turned back to her in
all his naked, hairy, imperial glory.
"Are you threatening me? Do you actually think you could use your power
against me?"
"I do not think it"-she yanked the laces tight-"I know it. The truth is
I choose not to."
He struck a defiant pose. "And why is that?"
Nicci stood and faced him. "Because, as you said, the Order needs you,
or rather, a brute like you. You serve the ends of the Order-you are their
fist. You bring that cleansing fire. You perform that function very well. It
could even be said that you perform that service with extraordinary talent.
"You are Jagang the Just. You see the wisdom in the title I have given
you, and will use it to further the cause of the. Order. That is why I
choose not to use any power against you. It would be like using my power
against the Order, against my own duty to the future of mankind."
"Then why do you want to leave?"
"Because I must." She gave him a look of icy determination, and deadly
threat. "Before I go, 1 will be spending some time with Sister Lidmila. You
are to immediately and completely withdraw from her mind and remain out of
it the entire time I am with her. We will use your tents, since you are not
using them. You will see to it that everyone leaves us entirely alone for
however long it takes us. Anyone who enters, without my express permission,
will die. That includes you. You have my oath, as a Sister of the Dark, on
that. When I'm finished, and after I leave, you may do what you will with
Sister Lidmilakill her if that is your wish, although I don't see why you
would want to bother, since she is going to be doing you a great service."
"I see." His huge chest rose. He let the deep breath out slowly. "And
how long will you be gone, this time, Nicci?"
"This is not like the other times. This is different."
"How long?"
"Perhaps only a short time. Perhaps a very long time. I don't yet know.
Leave me alone to do as I must, and, if I can, I will one day return to
you."
He gazed into her eyes, but he could not look into her mind. Another
man protected her mind, and kept her thoughts her own.
In all the time she had spent with Richard, Nicci had never learned
that which she hungered most to know, but in one way, she had learned too
much. Most of the time she was able to entomb that unwanted knowledge under
the numb weight of indifference. Occasionally, though, it would, like now,
unexpectedly rise up out of its tomb to seize her. When it did, she was
helpless in its grip, and could do nothing but wait for the oblivion of numb
detachment to bury it yet again.
Staring into the long dark night of Jagang's inhuman eyes, eyes that
revealed nothing but the bleakness of his soul, Nicci touched her finger to
the gold ring Jagang had ordered pierced through her lower lip to mark her
as his personal slave. She released a thread-thin channel of Subtractive
Magic, and the ring ceased to exist.
"And where are you going, Nicci?"
"I am going to destroy Richard Rahl for you."
Zeddicus Zu'1 Zorander had been able to talk and smile his way past the
other soldiers, but these were not moved by his explanation that he was
Richard's grandfather. He supposed he should have entered the camp in the
daylight-it would have avoided a lot of the suspicion-but he was tired and
hadn't thought it would be that much trouble.
The soldiers were properly suspicious, which greatly pleased him, but
he was weary and had more important things to do than answer questions: he
wanted to ask them, instead.
"Why do you want to see him?" the bigger guard repeated.
"I told you, I'm Richard's grandfather."
"This is the Richard Cypher, you're talking about, who you now say-"
"Yes, yes, that was his name when he grew up and that's what I'm used
to calling him, but I meant Richard Rahl, who he is now. You know, Lord
Rahl, your leader? I would think being the grandfather of someone as
important as your Lord Rahl would accord me some respect. Maybe even a hot
meal."
"I could say I'm Lord Rahl's brother," the man said, keeping a tight
grip on the bit in the mouth of Zedd's horse, "but that doesn't make it so."
Zedd sighed. "How very true."
As vexing as it was, Zedd, at some dim inward level, was pleased to see
that the men weren't stupid, nor easily duped.
"But I'm also a wizard," Zedd added, drawing low his eyebrows for
dramatic effect. "If I wasn't friendly, I could simply do you up crisp and
be on my way past the both of you."
"And if I wasn't friendly," the man said, "I could give the signal-now
that we've let you venture in this far so that you're completely
surrounded-and the dozen archers hiding all around you in the dark would let
fly the arrows that are at this moment trained on you, as they have been
ever since you approached our encampment."
"Ah," Zedd said, holding up a finger in triumph, "all very well and
good, but-"
"And even if I were to die in a final flame of service to the Lord
Rahl, those arrows will let fly without me needing to give any signal."
Zedd harrumphed, lowering his finger, but inwardly he smiled. Here he
was, First Wizard, and if he weren't entering a friendly camp, he would have
been bested in this game of banter by a simple soldier.
Or maybe not.
"In the first place, Sergeant, I am, as I said, a wizard, and so I knew
of the archers and have already dealt with the threat by spelling their
arrows so they will fly no truer and with no more deadly effect than wet
dishrags. I have nothing to fear
from them. In the second place, even if I'm lying-which is precisely
what you are considering at this very moment-you have made a mistake by
telling me of the threat, which enables me, as a wizard of great repute, to
now use my magic to nullify it."
A slow smile came to the man's face. "Why, that's remarkable." He
scratched his head. He looked to his partner and then back to Zedd. "You're
right, that was exactly what I was thinking: that you could be lying about
knowing the archers were back there in the dark."
"You see there, young man? You're not so smart after all."
"You're right, sir, I'm not. Here I was, so busy talking to you and
being so intimidated by your wizardly powers and all, that I plumb forgot to
tell you about what else was out there in the dark, watching you . . ."-the
soldier's brow lowered-"and it would be a mite more trouble than any simple
arrows, I dare say.
Zedd scowled down at the man. "Now see here-"
"Why don't you do as I ask and come down here in the light, where I can
see you better, and answer some of our questions'?"
With a sigh of resignation, Zedd dismounted. He gave Spider a
reassuring pat on her neck. Spider, a chestnut-colored mare, had a leggy
black splotch on her creamy rump, from which she had acquired her name.
Young, strong, and possessing an agreeably spirited nature, she made a
pleasant traveling companion. The two of them
had been through a great deal together. `
Zedd stepped into the intimate circle of light from the watch fire. He
turned his a hand up and brought a white-hot flame to life just above the
flesh of his palm. The
two soldiers' eyes widened. Zedd scowled.
"But, I have my own fire, if you need to see better. Does this help you
see things better, Sergeant?"
"Uh . . . why, yes it does, sir," the man stammered.
"Yes, it does indeed," a woman said as she stepped into the light. "Why
didn't you simply use your Han and give a display of your craft in the first
place?" She motioned into the darkness, as if signaling for others to stand
down. She turned back with a smile that was no more than courteous.
"Welcome, wizard."
Zedd bowed from the waist. "Zeddicus Zu'1 Zorander, First Wizard, at
your j service . . . ?"
"Sister Philippa, Wizard Zorander. I am aid to the Prelate."
She gestured and the sergeant took the reins from Zedd's hand to lead
the horse away. Zedd clapped the man on the back to let him know there were
no hard feelings, and then gave a similar pat to Spider to let her know it
was all right to go with the men.
"Treat her especially well, Sergeant. Spider is a friend."
The sergeant saluted by tapping his fist to his heart. "She'll be
treated as a friend, sir."
After the soldiers had led Spider away, Zedd said, "The Prelate? Which
one?"
The narrow-jawed Sister clasped her hands together. "Prelate Verna, of
course."
"Oh, yes, of course. Prelate Verna."
The Sisters of the Light didn't know Ann was still alive. At least, she
had been ' alive when Zedd last saw her, several months past. Ann had
written in her journey book, telling Verna that she was alive, but also
asking her to keep that information x private for the time being. Zedd had
been hoping that perhaps Ann had turned up at 1
the D'Haran army camp, with her Sisters of the Light. He was sorry to
learn she hadn't. It boded ill for her.
Zedd held no favor with the Sisters of the Light-a lifetime of
disapproval was not easily forgottenbut he had come to respect Ann as a
woman of self-discipline and resolve, even if he took a dim view of some of
her convictions and past objectives. He knew that, at the least, he and Ann
shared many important values. He didn't know about the rest of the Sisters,
though.
Sister Philippa appeared middle-aged, but with Sisters that meant
little. She might have lived at the Palace of the Prophets for only a year,
or for centuries. With dark eyes and high cheekbones she was an
exotic-looking woman. As in the Midlands, there were places in the Old World
where the people had unique physical characteristics. Sister Philippa moved
the way high-minded women tended to move, like a swan taken to human form.
"How may I be of service, Wizard Zorander?"
"Zedd will do. Is this Prelate of yours awake?"
"She is. This way, Zedd, if you please."
He fell in behind the woman as she glided off toward the dark shapes of
tents. "Got anything to eat around here?"
She looked back over her shoulder. "This late?"
"Well, I've been traveling hard .... It's not really all that late, is
it?"
In the dark, she assessed him briefly. "I don't believe it's ever too
late, according to the teachings of the Creator. And you do look
emaciated-from your travels, I'm sure." Her smile warmed a little. "Food is
always at the ready; we have soldiers who are active through the night and
need to be fed. I believe I could find something for you." She returned her
gaze to the indiscernible path.
"That would be a kindness," Zedd said in a jovial voice as he scowled
at her back. "And I'm not emaciated; I'm wiry. Most women find lean men
appealing."
"Do they`? I never knew that."
Sisters of the Light were a lofty lot, Zedd thought ruefully. For
thousands of years it had been a death sentence for them to even set foot in
the New World. Zedd had always been a little more lenient-but not by much.
In the past, the Sisters only came into the New World to steal boys with the
gift-they claimed to be saving them. It was a wizard's task to train
wizards. If they came for the reason of taking a boy back beyond the great
barrier to their palace, Zedd viewed it as the gravest of crimes.
They had come for that very reason only the winter before, and taken
Richard. Sister Verna was the one who had captured him and taken him to the
Old World. Under the spell of their palace, he could have ended up being
there for centuries. Leave it to Richard to make friends with the Sisters of
the Light, of all people.
Zedd guessed he and the Sisters were even-that they had good reason to
view him in a harsh way. He had, after all, set the spell that Richard had
used to destroy their palace. But Ann had helped, knowing it was the only
way to prevent Jagang from capturing the palace and acquiring the prophecies
therein for his own purposes.
All around, guards, big guards, prowled the encampment. In chain mail
and leather armor, they were an imposing sight. They watched everything as
they slipped through the darkness. The camp was relatively quiet,
considering its size. Noise could give away a variety of information to an
enemy. It was not easy to see to it that this many men kept quiet.
"I'm relieved that our first incursion by someone possessing the gift
turned out to be a friend," the Sister said.
"And I'm glad to see that the gifted are helping to keep watch. But
there are types of enemy forays that the regular sentries could not
identify." Zedd wondered if they were really prepared for those kinds of
troubles.
"If magic is involved, we will be there to detect it."
"I suppose you were watching me the whole time."
"I was," Sister Philippa said. "From the time you crossed the line of
hills, back there."
Zedd scratched his jaw. "Really? That far away."
With a satisfied smirk she said, "That far."
He peered over his shoulder into the night. "Both of you. Very good."
She halted and turned to him. "Both? You knew there were two of us,
watching?"
Zedd smiled innocently. "But, of course. You were just watching. She
was farther away, following, conjuring some little nasty should I prove
hostile."
Sister Philippa blinked in astonishment. "Remarkable. You could sense
her touching her Han? From that distance?"
Zedd nodded with satisfaction. "They didn't make me First Wizard just
because I was wiry."
Sister Philippa's smile finally looked sincere. "I am relieved you came
as a friend, rather than one intent on harm."
There was more truth in that than the woman knew; Zedd had experience
in the unpleasant, dirty business of magic in warfare. When he'd come near
their camp, he saw the holes in their defense and the weaknesses in the way
they used the gift for their purpose. They were not thinking as their enemy
would think. Had lie been intent on harm, the entire camp would be in an
uproar by now, despite what they had done to prepare for one such as he.
Sister Philippa turned back to the night to lead him on. It was
somewhat unsettling for Zedd to walk through a D'Haran camp-even though he
knew they were , now fighting on the same side. He had spent a good deal of
his life dealing with D'Harans as the deadly enemy. Richard had changed all
that. Zedd sighed. He some- t times thought that Richard might make friends
with thunder and lightning and invite them both to dinner.
Dark shapes of tents and wagons loomed all around. Pole weapons were
stacked upright in neat ranks, ready, should they be suddenly needed. Some
soldiers snored, and some sat around in the dark, talking in low voices or
laughing quietly, while x others patrolled the inky shadows. Those passed
close enough for Zedd to smell their breath, but in the darkness he could
not make out their faces.
Well-hidden sentries were stationed at every possible approach route.
There were very few fires in the camp, and those were mostly watch fires set
away from the main force, leaving the mass of the camp a dark whole of
night. Some armies carried. on a considerable amount of work at night,
performing repairs or making things . they needed, and letting the men do as
they would. These men remained quiet ; throughout the night so watching eyes
and listening ears could gain little if any help , for an invading force.
These were well trained, disciplined, professional soldiers. From a distance
it was difficult to tell the size of the camp. It was huge.
Sister Philippa brought Zedd to a sizable tent, one tall enough to
stand in. Light from lamps hanging inside gave the canvas walls and roof a
soft amber glow. She ducked beneath a tent line and poked her head in under
the flap.
"I have a wizard out here who wishes to see the Prelate."
Zedd heard muffled, astonished acknowledgment from inside.
"Go on in." Sister Philippa smiled while giving his back a gentle push.
"I'll see if I can find you some dinner."
"I would be not only grateful, but greatly in your debt," Zedd told
her.
As he stepped inside the tent, the people were just coming to their
feet to greet him.
"Zedd! You old fool! You be alive!"
Zedd grinned as Adie, the old sorceress known as the bone woman in
their adopted homeland of Westland, rushed into his arms. He let out a grunt
as she momentarily squeezed the wind from his lungs. He smoothed her
square-cut, jawlength black and gray hair as he held her head to his chest.
"I promised you'd see me again, now didn't I?"
"Yes, you did," she whispered into his heavy robes.
She pushed back, holding his arms, and looked him over. She reached up
and smoothed down his unruly, wavy white hair.
"You look as lovely as ever," he told her.
She peered at him with her completely white eyes. Her sight had been
taken from her when she was but a young woman. Adie now saw by means of her
gift. In some ways, she saw better.
"Where be your hat?"
"Hat?"
"I bought you a fine hat arid you lost it. I see you still have not
replaced it. You told me you would get another. I believe you promised."
Zedd hated the hat with the long feather she'd bought for him when
they'd acquired the rest of his clothes. He'd rather be wearing the simple
robes befitting a wizard of his rank and authority, but Ache had "lost" them
after he purchased the fancy maroon robes with black sleeves and cowled
shoulders he now wore. Three rows of silver brocade circled the cuffs.
Thicker gold brocade ran around the neck and down the front. A red satin
belt set with a gold buckle gathered the outfit at his thin waist. Such
clothes marked one with the gift as an initiate. For one without the gift,
such clothes befitted nobility or in most places a wealthy merchant, so
although Zedd disliked the ostentatious attire, it had at times been a
valuable disguise. Besides, Adie liked him in the maroon robes. The hat,
though, was too much for him. It had been "misplaced."
He noted that Adie had managed to keep her simple clothes along the
way. Yellow and real beads around the neck of her robes, sewn in the shapes
of the ancient symbols of her profession of sorceress, were the only
ornamentation she wore.
"I've been busy," he said, flicking his hand, hoping to dismiss the
matter, "or I would have replaced the hat."
"Bale," she scoffed. "You be up to mischief."
"Why, I've been-"
"Hush, now," Adie said. Holding his arm in a tight grip, she held out
the long thin fingers of her other hand. "Zedd, this be Verna: Prelate of
the Sisters of the Light."
The woman looked to be in her late thirties, perhaps early forties;
Zedd knew her to be much older. Ann, Verna's predecessor, had told him
Verna's age, and while he couldn't recall the exact number, it was somewhere
close to one hundred and sixty years-young for a Sister of the Light. She
had simple, attractive features
and brown hair with just enough curl and body to add a hint of
sophistication. Her intent, brown-eyed gaze looked as if it could scour
lichen off granite. By the lines of a resolute expression enduringly fixed
on her face, she appeared to be a woman with a shell as tight as a beetle's
and just as hard.
Zedd bowed his head. "Prelate. First Wizard Zeddicus Zu'l Zorander, at
your service." He let her know, by his tone, that it was merely a figure of
speech.
This was the woman who had taken Richard away to the Old World. Even if
she believed it was to save his life, Zedd, as First Wizard, viewed such an
act as abhorrent. The Sisters-sorceresses all-believed they could train
gifted young men to be wizards. They were wrong; such a task could only be
adequately accomplished by another wizard.
She offered her hand with the sunburst-patterned gold ring of office.
He bent forward and kissed it, out of what he thought must be their custom.
She pulled his hand close when he had finished, and kissed it in return.
"I am humbled to meet the man who helped raise our Richard. You would
have to be as rare a person as I found him to be when we helped begin his
training." She forced a chuckle. "We found it a formidable labor, trying to
teach that grandson of yours."
Zedd slightly altered his opinion of the woman, treating her with
greater caution. The air in the tent was stuffy and uncomfortable.
"That is because you are all oxen trying to teach a horse to run. You
Sisters should stick to work more befitting your nature."
"Yes, yes, you be a brilliant man, Zedd," Adie scoffed. "Simply
brilliant. One of these days even 1 may come to believe you." She tugged his
sleeve, turning him from Verna's scarlet face. "And this be Warren," Adie
said.
Zedd inclined his head toward Warren, but the boy was already falling
to his knees and bowing his blond head.
"Wizard Zorander! This is quite an honor." He popped back up and seized
Zedd's hand in both of his, pumping it until Zedd thought his arm might come
undone at the shoulder. "I'm so pleased to meet you. Richard told me all
about you. I'm so pleased to meet a wizard of your standing and talent. I
would be so happy to learn from you!"
The happier he looked, the more Verna scowled.
"Well, I'm pleased to meet you, too, my boy." Zedd didn't tell Warren
that Richard had never mentioned him. But that was not out of disrespect or
neglect; Richard had never had a chance to tell Zedd a great number of very
important things. Zedd thought he could sense through Warren's grip that the
young man was a wizard of unusual talents.
A bear of a man with a curly rust-colored beard, a white scar from his
left temple to his jaw, and heavy eyebrows stepped forward. His grayish
green eyes fixed on Zedd with fierce intensity, but he had a grin like a
soldier on a long march who had spotted a lonely cask of ale..
"General Reibisch, commander of the D'Haran forces here in the south,"
the man said, taking Zedd's hand when Warren at last surrendered it and
stepped back . beside Verna. "Lord Rahl's grandfather! What good fortune to
see you, sir." His
grip was firm, but not painful. It got tighter. "What very good
fortune."
"Yes, indeed," Zedd muttered. "Unfortunate as the circumstances are,
General Reibisch."
"Unfortunate . . . ?"
"Well, never mind, for the moment," Zedd said, waving off the question.
He asked another, instead. "Tell me, General, have you begun to dig all the
mass graves, yet? Or do you intend the few who are left alive to simply
abandon all the bodies."
"Bodies?"
"Why . . . yes, the bodies of all your troops who are going to die."
I hope you like eggs," Sister Philippa sang out as she swept into the
tent, holding out a steaming plate.
Zedd rubbed his hands together. "Delightful!"
Everyone else was still standing in stiff, stunned silence. Sister
Philippa didn't seem to notice all the hanging jaws.
"I had the cook add some ham and a few other things he had about." She
glanced down at Zedd's form. "I thought you could use some substance."
"Marvelous!" Zedd grinned as he relieved her of the plate mounded high
with scrambled eggs and ham.
"Ah . . ." the general began, seemingly befuddled as to how to frame
his question, "might you kindly explain . . . what you mean by that, Wizard
Zorander?"
"Zedd will do." Zedd looked up from inhaling the intoxicating aroma of
the dish. "Dead." He drew the fork across his throat. "You know, dead.
Nearly all of them. Dead." He turned back to Sister Philippa. "This smells
delightful." He again inhaled the steam lifting from the plate of eggs.
"Simply delightful. You are a woman of a kind heart and a skillful mind, to
think to have the cook add such a splendid complement of ingredients. Simply
delightful."
The Sister beamed.
The general lifted a hand. "Wizard Zorander, if I may-"
Adie hushed the burly general. "You be poor competition to food. Be
patient."
Zedd took a forkful, humming his pleasure at the flavor he encountered.
As he took a second forkful, Adie guided him to a simple bench at the side
of the tent. A table in the middle held a few mugs and a lamp that lent the
cozy tent not only its light but its oily odor as well.
Despite Adie's advice to be patient, everyone began talking at once,
asking questions and offering objections. Zedd ignored them as he shoveled
in the scrambled eggs. The large chunks of ham were delicious. He waved a
particular juicy piece of meat to the confounded spectators to indicate his
pleasure with it. The spices, the onions, the peppers, and the warm lumps of
cheese were delightful. He rolled his eyes and moaned in bliss.
It was the best food he'd had in days. His traveling rations were
simple and had long ago become boring. He had often grumbled that Spider ate
better than he did. Spider seemed smug about it, too, which he had always
found annoying. It wasn't good for a horse to be smug with you.
"Philippa," Verna growled, "must you be so pleased about a plate of
eggs?"
"Well the poor man is practically starving." Puzzled by Verna's scowl,
she waggled her hand at Zedd. "Just look at him. I'm simply happy to see him
enjoy his meal, and pleased I could help one of the Creator's gifted."
Zedd slowed when he all too soon approached the end of his meal,
putting off the last few bites. He could have eaten another plate the same
size. General Reibisch, sitting on a bench on the opposite side of the small
tent, had been furiously twisting a strand of beard. Now, he leaned forward,
his intent gaze fixed on Zedd.
"Wizard Zorander, I need-"
"Zedd. Remember?"
"Yes, Zedd. Zedd, the lives of these soldiers are my responsibility.
Could you please tell me if you think they are in danger?"
Zedd spoke around a mouthful. "I already did."
"But . . . what is the nature of the danger?"
"The gifted. You know, magic."
The general straightened with a sober expression. His fingers dug into
his muscular thighs. "The gifted?"
"Yes. The enemy has gifted among them. I thought you knew."
He blinked a few times as he seemed to run it through his mind again,
trying to discover the nugget of invisible danger in Zedd's simple
statement.
"Of course we know that."
"Ah. Then why haven't you dug some mass graves?"
Verna shot to her feet. "In the name of Creation! What do you think we
are, serving wenches? Here to bring you dinner? We are gifted Sisters, here
to defend the army from Jagang's captive Sisters!"
Adie stealthily signaled Verna to sit down and keep quiet. Her voice
came out like gravel in honey. "Why don't you tell us what you have found,
Zedd? I be sure the general and the Prelate would like to hear how to
improve our defenses."
Zedd scraped the small yellow lumps across the plate, collecting them
into a final, pitifully small forkful. "Prelate, I didn't mean to imply a
deliberate inadequacy on your part."
"Well you certainly
"You are all too good, that's all."
"I beg your pardon?"
"Too good. You and your Sisters have spent your lives trying to help
people."
"Well . . . 1, we-why, of course we help people. That's our calling."
"Killing is not. Jagang will be intent on killing you all."
"We know that, Zedd." The general scratched his beard, his gaze darting
back and forth between Verna and Zedd. "The Prelate and her Sisters have
helped us with detecting a number of enemy scouts and such. Just the same as
Sister Philippa, here, found you when you approached our camp, they've found
others intent on harm. They've done their part, Zedd, and without complaint.
Every soldier in this camp is glad to have them here."
"All well and good, but when the army of the Imperial Order attacks, it
will be different. They will use the gifted to lay waste to your forces."
"They will try," Verna insisted, trying to be convincing without
shouting, which she was clearly itching to do, "but we are prepared to
prevent such a thing."
"That's right," Warren said, nodding his confidence. "We have gifted at
the ready at all times."
"That's good, that's good," Zedd drawled, as if he might be
reconsidering. "Then you have dealt with the simple threats. The albino
mosquitoes and such."
General Reibisch's bushy eyebrows wrinkled together. "The what?"
Zedd waved his fork. "So, tell me, then just to satisfy my
curiosity-what are
the gifted planning to do when the enemy charges our forces? Say, with
a line of cavalry?"
"Lay down a line of fire before their cavalry," Warren said without
hesitation. "As they charge in, we'll incinerate them before they can so
much as launch a spear."
"Ah," Zedd said. "Fire." He put the last forkful in his mouth. Everyone
silently watched him chew. He paused in his chewing and looked up. "Big
fire, I presume? Colossal gouts of flame, and all?"
"What mosquitoes is he talking about," General Reibisch muttered under
his breath toward Verna and Warren beside him on his bench opposite Zedd and
Adie.
"That's right," Verna said, ignoring the general. He sighed and folded
his arms across his barrel chest. "A proper line of fire." Verna waited
until Zedd swallowed. "Do you find something unsatisfactory about that,
First Wizard?"
Zedd shrugged. "Well . . ." He paused, then frowned. He leaned toward
the general, peering more closely. Zedd wagged a bony finger at the man's
folded arms.
"There's one now. A mosquito is about to suck your blood, General."
"What? Oh." He swatted it. "They've been thick this summer. I think the
season for them is drawing to an end, though. We'll be happy to be rid of
the little pests, I can tell you."
Zedd waggled his finger again. "And were they all like that one'?"
General Reibisch lifted his forearm and glanced down at the squashed
bug. "Yes, the bloodthirsty little . . ." His voice trailed off. He peered
more closely. With a finger and thumb he gingerly lifted the tiny insect by
a wing, holding it up to have a better look.
"Well I'll be . . . this thing is"-his face lost a shade of
color-"white." His grayish-green eyes turned up toward Zedd. "What was that
you were saying about . . . ?"
"Albino mosquitoes," Zedd confirmed as he set his empty plate on the
ground. He gestured with a sticklike finger at the general's flat assailant.
"Have you ever seen the albino fever, General? Have any of you? Terrible
thing, albino fever."
"What's albino fever?" Warren asked. "1 never heard of it. I've never
read anything about it, either, I'm sure."
"Really? Must be just a Midlands thing."
The general peered more closely at the tiny white insect he was holding
up. "What does this albino fever do to a person?"
"Oh, your flesh turns the most ghastly white." Zedd waved his fork. "Do
you know," he said, frowning in thought as if distracted by something as he
looking up at the ceiling of the tent, "that I once saw a wizard lay down a
simply prodigious font of flame before a line of charging cavalry?"
"Well, there you go," Verna said. "You know its value, then. You've
seen it in action."
"Yes . . ." Zedd drawled. "Problem was, the enemy had been prepared for
such a simpleminded trick."
"Simpleminded!" Verna shot to her feet. "I don't see how you could
possibly consider-"
"The enemy had conjured curved shields just for such an eventuality."
"Curved shields?" Warren swiped back a curly lock of his blond hair.
"I've never heard of such a thing. What are curved-'
"The wizard who laid down the fire had been expecting shields, of
course, and
so he made his fire resistant to such an expected defense. These
shields, though, weren't conjured to stop the fire"-Zedd's gaze. shifted
from Warren's wide eyes to Verna's scowl-"but to roll it."
"Albino fever?" The general waved his bug. "If you might, could you
explain-"
"Roll the fire?" Warren asked as he leaned forward.
"Yes," Zedd said. "Roll the fire before the cavalry charge-so that
instead of a simple cavalry assault, the defenders now had deadly fire
rolling back at them."
"Dear Creator . . ." Warren whispered. "That's ingenious-but surely the
shield would extinguish the fire."
Zedd twirled his fork as he spoke, as if to demonstrate the shield
rolling the flames. "Conjured by their own wizard for the expected defense,
the fire had been hardened against shields, so instead of fizzling, it
stayed viable. That, of course, enabled the curved shield to roll the fire
back without it extinguishing. And, of course, being hardened to shields,
the wizard's own quickly thrown up defensive shields couldn't stop his own
fire's return."
"But he could just cut it oft!" Warren was becoming panicked, as if
seeing his own wizard's fire coming back at him. "The wizard who created it
could call it and cut it off."
"Could he?" Zedd smiled. "He thought so, too, but he hadn't been
prepared for the peculiar nature of the enemy's shield. Don't you see? It
not only rolled the fire back, but in so doing rolled around the fire as it
went, protecting it from any alteration by magic."
"Of course . . ." Warren whispered to himself.
"The shield was also sprinkled with a provenance-seeking spell, so it
rolled the fire back toward the wizard who conjured it. He died by his own
fire-after it had seared through hundreds of his own men on its way to him."
Silence settled into the tent. Even the general, still holding out the
albino mosquito, sat transfixed.
"You see," Zedd finally went on, tossing his fork down onto his plate,
"using the gift in war is not simply an act of exercising your power, but an
act of using your wits."
Zedd pointed. "For example, consider that albino mosquito General
Reibisch is holding. Under cover of darkness, just like right now, tens of
thousands of them, conjured by the enemy, could be sneaking into this camp
to infect your men with fever, and no one would even realize they were under
attack. Then, in the morning, the enemy strikes a camp of weak and sick
soldiers and slaughters the lot of you."
Sister Philippa, over on the other side of Adie, swished her hand in
alarm at a tiny buzzing mosquito. "But, the gifted we have could counter
such a thing." It was more a plea than an argument.
"Really? It's difficult to detect such an infinitesimal bit of magic.
None of you detected these minuscule invaders, did you?"
"Well, no, but . . ."
Zedd fixed a fierce glare on Sister Philippa. "It's night. In the
night, they simply seem to be ordinary mosquitoes, pesky, but no different
from any other. Why, the general here didn't notice them. Neither did any of
you gifted people. You can't detect the fever they carry, either, because
it, too, is such a tiny speck of magic you aren't watching for it-you're
looking for something huge and powerful and fearsome.
"Most of the gifted Sisters will be bitten in their sleep, without ever
knowing it happened, until they awake in the pitch blackness with the
shivering chills of a frightful fever, only to discover the first truly
debilitating symptom of this particular fever: blindness. You see, it isn't
the blackness of night they awake to-dawn has already broken-but blindness.
Then they find that their legs won't obey their wishes. Their ears are
ringing with what sounds like an endless, tingling scream."
The general's gaze darted about, testing his eyesight as Zedd went on.
He. twisted a big finger in an ear as if to clean it out.
"By now, anyone bitten is too weak to stand. They lose control of their
bodily functions and lie helpless in their own filth. They are within hours
of death . . . but those last hours will seem like a year."
"How do we counter it?" On the edge of his seat, Warren licked his
lips. "What's the cure?"
"Cure? There is no cure! Now a fog is beginning to creep toward the
camp. This time, the few gifted left can sense that the wide mass of
seething murk is foul with dark, suffocating magic. They warn everyone.
Those too sick to stand wail in terror. They can't see, but they can hear
the distant battle cries of the advancing enemy. In a panic not to be
touched by the deadly fog, anyone able to rise from their bedrolls does so.
Too delirious to stand, a few manage to crawl. The rest run for their lives
before the advancing fog.
"It's the last mistake they ever make," Zedd whispered. He swept a hand
out before their white faces. "They run headlong into the horror of a
waiting death trap. "
Everyone was wide-eyed and slack-jawed by now, sitting on the edge of
their benches.
"So, General," Zedd said in a bright, cheery tone as he sat back, "what
about those mass graves? Or are you planning on any of you left alive just
abandoning the sick for dead and leaving the bodies to rot? Probably not a
bad idea. There will be enough to worry about without the burdensome task of
trying to care for the dying and burying all the dead-especially since the
very act of touching their white flesh will contaminate the living with a
completely unexpected sickness, and then-"
Verna shot to her feet. "But what can we do!" She could plainly see the
potential for chaos all around her. "How can we counter such vile magic?"
She threw open her arms. "What do we need to do?"
Zedd shrugged. "I thought you and your Sisters had it all figured out.
I thought you knew what you were doing." He waggled his hand over his
shoulder, gesturing off to the south, toward the enemy. "I thought you said
you had the situation well in hand."
Verna silently sank back down to the bench beside Warren.
"Uh, Zedd . . ." General Reibisch swallowed in distress. He held out
the mosquito. "Zedd, I think I'm starting to feel dizzy. Isn't there
anything you can do?"
"About what?"
"The fever. I think my vision is getting dimmer. Can you do nothing?"
"No, nothing."
"Nothing."
"Nothing, because there's nothing wrong with you. I just conjured a few
albino mosquitoes to make a point. The point is that what I saw when I came
into this camp scared the wits out of me. If the gifted among the enemy are
at all diabolical,
and with Jagang we have ample reason to believe they are, then this
army is ill prepared for the true nature of the threat."
Sister Philippa haltingly lifted a hand like a schoolgirl with a
question. "But, with all the gifted among us, surely, we would . . . know .
. . or something."
"That's what I'm trying to tell you: the way things are now, you won't
know. It's the things you never heard of, haven't seen before, don't expect,
and can't even imagine, that are going to be coming for you. The enemy will
use conventional magic, to be sure, and that will be trouble enough, but
it's the albino mosquitoes you must fear."
"As you said, though, you only conjured them to make a point," Warren
said. "Maybe the enemy isn't as smart as you, and won't think of such
things."
"The Order did not take over all of the Old World by being stupid but
by being ruthless." Zedd's brow drew lower. He lifted a finger skyward to
mark his words. "Besides, they have already thought of just such things.
This past spring, one of the Sisters in the hands of the enemy used magic to
unleash a deadly plague that could not be detected by anyone with the gift.
Tens of thousands of people, from newborn infants to the old, suffered
gruesome deaths."
Those Sisters, in the hands of the enemy, were a grave and ever-present
danger. Ann had gone off alone on a mission to either rescue those Sisters
or eliminate them. From what Zedd had seen when he had been down in
Anderith, Ann had failed in her mission. He didn't know what had become of
her, but he knew that Jagang still held Sisters captive.
"But we stopped the plague," Warren said.
"Richard stopped it, as only he could." Zedd held the gaze of the young
wizard. "Did you know that in order to save us from that grim fate, he had
to venture to the Temple of the Winds, hidden away beyond the veil of life
in the underworld itself? Neither you nor I can imagine the toll such an
experience must have taken on him. I saw a shadow of the specter in his eyes
when he spoke of it.
"I can't even hazard a guess as to how trifling a chance at success he
had when he started on so hopeless a journey. Had he not prevailed against
all odds, we would all be dead by now from an unseen death brought on by
magic we could not detect and could not counter. I'd not want to again count
on such an auspicious deliverance."
No one could disagree with him; they nodded slightly, or looked away.
The tent had become a gloomy place.
Verna rubbed her fingers across her brow. "Pride is of no use to the
dead. I admit it: those gifted among us have little knowledge of what we're
doing when it comes to using our gift in warfare. We know some things about
fighting, perhaps even a great many things, but I admit we could be woefully
lacking in the depth of knowledge needed.
"Think us fools if you will, but don't ever think us at odds with you,
Zedd; we are all here on the same side." Her brown eyes betrayed nothing but
simple sincerity. "We not only could use your help, we would gratefully
welcome it."
"Of course he will help us," Adie scoffed while giving Zedd a scolding
frown.
"Well, you have a good start. Admitting that you don't know something
is the first step to learning." Zedd scratched his chin. "Every day, I amaze
myself with all I don't know."
"That would be wonderful," Warren said. "If you would help us, I mean."
He
sounded hesitant, but forged ahead anyway. "I would really like to have
the benefit of a real wizard's experience."
Despondent with the weight of his other troubles, Zedd shook his head.
"I would like to-and to be sure I will give you all some advice in the task
at hand. However, I've been on a long and frustrating journey, and I'm
afraid I'm not yet finished with it. I can't stay. I must soon be off
again."
Warren swiped back his curly blond hair. "What sort of journey have you
been on, Zedd?"
Zedd pointed a bony finger. "You don't need to keep that flattened
mosquito, General."
General Reibisch realized it was still between his finger and thumb. He
tossed it away. Everyone awaited Zedd's words. He smoothed the heavy maroon
robes over his twiglike thighs as his gaze absently studied the dirt floor.
He let out a crestfallen sigh. "I was recovering from my own auspicious
deliverance from grappling with remarkable magic I'd never before
encountered, and, as I regained my senses, spent months searching. I was
down in Anderith, and saw some of what happened after the Order swept in
there. It was a dark time for the people. Not only from the rampaging
soldiers, but also from one of your Sisters, Verna. Death's Mistress they
called her."
"Do you know which one it is?" Verna asked in a bitter voice at hearing
of a Sister causing harm.
"No. I only saw her once, from a goodly distance. Had I been fully
recovered, I might have tried to remedy the situation, but I wasn't myself
yet and dared not confront her. She also had a few thousand soldiers with
her. The sight of all the soldiers, led by a woman they had heard of and
feared, had people in a panic. The Sister was young, with blond hair. She
wore a black dress."
"Dear Creator," Verna whispered. "Not one of mine-one of the Keeper's.
There are few women born with the strength of power such as she has. She
also has power acquired by nefarious means; Nicci is a Sister of the Dark."
"I've gotten reports," General Reibisch said. By his grim tone, Zedd
knew the reports must have had it right. "I've heard, too, that it's quieted
considerably."
Zedd nodded. "The Order was at first brutal, but now 'Jagang the
Just'-as they have taken to calling him-has spared them further harm. In
most places, other than the capital of Fairfield where the most killing took
place, people have turned to supporting him as a liberator come to deliver
them into a better life. They're reporting neighbors, or travelers-whoever
they suspect is not an adherent to the noble ideals of the Order.
"I was all through Anderith, and spent a good deal of time behind the
enemy lines searching-without success. I then journeyed up into the wilds
and north to a number of towns, and even a few cities, but I can find no
sign of them. I guess my abilities were a long time in recovering; I only a
short time ago discovered where you all were. I have to commend you,
General, you've kept the presence of your forces well hidden-took me forever
to find your army. The boy, though, seems to have vanished without a trace."
Zedd's fists tightened in his lap. "I must find him."
"You mean Richard?" Adie asked. "You be searching for your grandson?"
"Yes. For Richard and Kahlan, both." Zedd lifted his hands in a
helpless gesture. "However, without any success, I must admit. I've talked
to no one who has seen even a sign of them. I've used every skill I possess,
but to no avail. If I didn't know better, I'd say they no longer existed."
Looks passed among everyone else. Zedd peered from one surprised face
to another. For the first time in months, Zedd's hopes rose. "What? What is
it? You know something?"
Verna gestured under the bench. "Show him, General."
At her urging, the general lifted out a map roll. He pulled it wide in
his callused hands and laid it on the ground at his feet. The map was turned
around so Zedd could read it. General Reibisch tapped the mountains to the
west of Hartland.
"Right here, Zedd."
"Right there . . . what?"
"Richard and Kahlan," Verna said.
Zedd gaped at her face and then down at the map. General Reibisch's
finger hovered over a wild range of peaks. Zedd knew those mountains. They
were an inhospitable place.
"There? Dear spirits, why would Richard and Kahlan be all the way up
there in such a forbidding place? What are they doing there?"
"Kahlan be hurt," Adie said in a consoling tone. ',
"Hurt?"
"She was at the brink of passing into the spirit world. From what we be
told, maybe she saw the world on the other side of the veil." Adie pointed
to the map, "Richard took her there to recover."
"But . . . why would he do that?" With a hand, Zedd flattened his wavy
white hair to the top of his head. His thoughts spun in a confusing jumble
while he tried to take it all in at once. "She could be healed-"
"No. She be spelled. If magic be used to try to heal her, a vile hidden
spell would be unleashed and she would die."
Understanding washed over him. "Dear spirits . . . I'm thankful the boy
knew it in time." Before the horror of memories of the screams could come
roaring to the fore of his thoughts, Zedd slammed a mental door on them. He
swallowed with the pain of those that slipped through. "But still, why would
he go there? He's needed here."
"He certainly is," Verna snapped. By her tone, it was a sore subject.
"He can't come here," Warren said. When Zedd only stared at him, he
explained further. "We don't understand it all, but we believe Richard is
following a prophecy of some sort."
"Prophecy!" Zedd dismissed it with a wave. "Richard doesn't take to
riddles, He hates them and won't pay heed to them. There are times when I
wish he would but he won't."
"Well, this one he's paying heed to." Warren pressed his lips tight for
a moment. "It's his own."
"His own . . . what?"
Warren cleared his throat. "Prophecy."
Zedd jumped to his feet. "What! Richard? Nonsense."
"He's a war wizard," Verna said with quiet authority.
Zedd passed a scowl among all the suddenly circumspect expressions. He
made a sour face and, with a flourish of his robes, returned to his seat
beside Adie.
"What is this prophecy?"
Warren twisted a little knot of his violet robes. "He didn't say,
exactly."
"Here." General Reibisch pulled some folded papers from a pocket. "He
wrote me letters. We've all read them."
Zedd stood and snatched the letters from the general's big fist. He
went to the table and smoothed out the pages. As everyone else sat silently
watching, Zedd leaned over the table and read Richard's words lying before
him.
With great authority, Richard paradoxically turned away from authority.
He said that after much reflection, he had come to an understanding that
arrived with the power of a vision, and he knew then, beyond doubt, that his
help would only bring about certain catastrophe.
In letters that followed, Richard said he and Kahlan were safe and she
was slowly recovering. Cara was with them. In response to letters General
Reibisch and others had written, Richard remained steadfast in his stand. He
warned them that the cause of freedom would be forever lost if he failed to
remain on his true path. He said that whatever decisions General Reibisch
and the rest of them made, he would not contradict or criticize. He told
them that his heart was with them, but they were on their own for the
foreseeable future. He said possibly forever.
His letters basically gave no real information, other than alluding to
his understanding or vision, and making it clear that they could expect no
guidance from him. Nonetheless, Zedd could read some of what the words
didn't say.
Zedd stared at the letters long after he had finished reading them. The
flame of the lamp wavered slowly from side to side, occasionally fluttering
and sending up a coiled thread of oily smoke. He could hear muffled voices
outside the tent as soldiers on patrol quietly passed along information.
Inside, everyone remained silent. They had all read the letters.
Verna's expression was tight with anxiety. She could hold her tongue no
longer. "Will you go to see him, Zedd? Convince him to return to the
struggle?"
Zedd lightly trailed his fingers over the words on paper. "I can't.
This is one time I can be of no help to him."
"But he's our leader in this struggle." The soft lamplight illuminated
the feminine grace of her slender fingers as she pressed them to her brow in
vain solace. Her hand fell back to her lap. "Without him . . ."
Zedd didn't answer her. He could not imagine what Ann's reaction to
such a development would be. For centuries she had combed through prophecies
in anticipation of the war wizard who would be born to lead them in this
battle for the very existence of magic. Richard was that war wizard, born to
the battle he had suddenly abandoned.
"What do you think be the problem?" Adie asked in her quiet, raspy
voice.
Zedd looked back to the letters one last time. He pulled his gaze from
the words and straightened. All eyes around the dimly lit tent were on him
as if hoping he could somehow rescue them from a fate they couldn't
comprehend, but instinctively dreaded.
"This is a time of trial to the depth of Richard's soul." Zedd slipped
his hands up opposite sleeves until the silver brocade at the cuffs met. "A
passage, of sortsthrust upon him because of his comprehension of something
only he sees."
Warren cleared his throat. "What sort of trial, Zedd? Can you tell us?"
Zedd gestured vaguely as memories of terrible times flashed through his
mind. "A struggle . . . a reconciliation . . ."
"What sort of reconciliation?" Warren pressed.
Zedd gazed into the young man's blue eyes, wishing he wouldn't ask so
many questions. "What is the purpose of your gift?"
"Its purpose? Well, I ability."
"It is to help others," Verna stated flatly. She clutched her light
blue cloak more tightly around her shoulders as if it were armor to defend
her from whatever Zedd might throw at her in answer.
"Ah. Then what are you doing here?"
The question caught her by surprise. "Here?"
"Yes." Zedd waved his arm, indicating a vague, distant place. "If the
gift is to help others, then why are you not out there doing it? There are
sick needing to be healed, ignorant needing to be taught, and the hungry
needing to be fed. Why are you just sitting there, healthy, smart, and well
fed?"
Verna rearranged her cloak as she squared her shoulders into a posture
of firm resolve. "In battle, if you abandon the gates to help a fallen
comrade, you have given in to a weakness: your inability to steel yourself
to an immediate suffering in order to prevent suffering on a much greater
scale. If I run off to help the few people I could in that manner, I must
leave my post here, with this army, as they try to keep the enemy from
storming the gateway into the New World."
Zedd's estimation of the woman rose a little. She had come
tantalizingly close to expressing the essence of a vital truth. He offered
her a small smile of respect as he nodded. She looked more surprised by that
than she had by his question.
"I can certainly see why the Sisters of the Light are widely regarded
as proper servants of need." Zedd stroked his chin. "So then, it is your
conviction that we with the ability-the gift-are born into the world to be
slaves to those with needs?"
"Well, no . . . but if there is a great need-"
"Then we are more tightly bound in the chains of slavery to those with
every greater need," Zedd finished for her. "Thus, anyone with a need, by
right-to your mind-becomes our master? Indentured servant to one cause, or
to any greater cause that might come along, but chattel all the same. Yes?"
This time, Verna chose not to dance with him over what she apparently
regarded as a patch of quicksand. It didn't prevent her from glaring at him,
though.
Zedd held that there could be only one philosophically valid answer to
the question; if Verna knew it, she didn't offer it.
"Richard has apparently come to a place where he must critically
examine his alternatives and determine the proper course of his life," Zedd
explained. "Perhaps circumstances have caused him to question the proper use
of his abilities, and, in view of his values, his true purpose."
Verna opened her hands in a helpless gesture. "1 don't see how he could
have any higher purpose than to be here, helping the army against the threat
to the New World-the threat to the lives of free people."
Zedd sank back down onto the bench. "You do not see, and I do not see,
but Richard sees something."
"That doesn't mean he's right," Warren said.
Zedd studied the young man's face for a moment. Warren had fresh
features, but
. guess to . . . well, it just is. The gift is simply an
also a knowing look in his eyes that betrayed something beyond mere
youth. Zedd wondered how old Warren was.
"No, it does not mean Richard is right. He may be making a heroic
mistake that destroys our chance to survive."
"Kahlan thinks maybe it be a mistake," Adie finally put in, as if
regretting having to tell him. "She wrote a note to me-I believe without
Richard's knowledge, seeing as Cara wrote down Kahlan's words for her-and
gave it to the messenger. Kahlan says that she fears Richard be doing this
in part because of what happened to her. The Mother Confessor also confided
that she be afraid Richard has lost his faith in people, and, because of his
rejection by the people of Anderith, Richard may view himself as a fallen
leader."
"Bah." Zedd waved his hand dismissively. "A leader cannot follow behind
people, tail between his legs, sniffing for their momentary whims and
wishes, whining to follow them this way and that as they ramble through
life. Those kind of people are not looking for a leader-they are looking for
a master, and one will find them.
"A true leader forges a clear path through a moral wilderness so that
people might see the way. Richard was a woods guide because such is his
nature. Perhaps he is lost in that dark wood. If he is, he must find his way
out, and it must be a correctly reasoned course, if he is to be the true
leader of a free people."
Everyone silently considered the implications. The general was a man
who followed the Lord Rahl, and simply awaited his orders. The Sisters had
their own ideas. Zedd and Adie knew the way ahead was not what it might seem
to some.
"That's what Richard did for me," Warren said in a soft voice, staring
off into memories of his own. "He showed me the way-made me want to follow
him up out of the vaults. I had become comfortable down there, content with
my books and my fate, but I was a prisoner of that darkness, living my life
through the struggles and accomplishments of others. I never could
understand precisely how he inspired me to want to follow him up and out."
Warren looked up into Zedd's eyes. "Maybe he needs that same kind of help,
himself. Can you help him, Zedd?"
"He has entered a dark time for any man, and especially for a wizard.
He must come out the other side of this on his own. If I take him by the
hand and lead him through, so to speak, I might take him a way he would not
have selected on his own, and then he would forever be crippled by what I
had chosen for him .
. . . But worse yet, what if he's right? If I unwittingly forced him to
another course, it could doom us all and result in a world enslaved by the
Imperial Order." Zedd shook his head. "No. This much I know: Richard must be
left alone to do as he must. If he truly is the one to lead us in this
battle for the future of magic and of mankind, then this can only be part of
his journey as it must be traveled."
Almost everyone nodded, if reluctantly, at Zedd's words.
Warren didn't nod. He picked at the fabric of his violet robes.
"There's one thing we haven't considered." As everyone waited, his blue eyes
turned up to meet Zedd's gaze. In those eyes, Zedd saw an uncommon wisdom
that told him that this was a young man who could gaze into the depths of
things when most people saw only the sparkles on the surface.
"It could be," Warren said in a quiet but unflinching voice, "that
Richard, being gifted, and being a war wizard, has been visited by a
legitimate prophecy. War wizards are different from the rest of us. Their
ability is not narrowly specific, but broad. Prophecy is, at least
theoretically, within his purview. Moreover, Richard has Subtractive Magic
as well as Additive. No wizard born in the last three thousand
years has had both sides. While we can perhaps imagine, we could not
possibly begin to understand his potential, though the prophecies have
alluded to it.
"It could very well be that Richard has had a valid prophecy that he
clearly understands. If so, then he may be doing precisely what must be
done. It could even be that he clearly understands the prophecy and it is so
gruesome he is doing us the only kindness he can-by not telling us."
Verna covered his hand with hers. "You don't really believe that, do
you, Warren?" Zedd noticed that Verna put a lot of stock in what Warren
said.
Ann had told Zedd that Warren was only beginning to exhibit his gift of
prophecy. Such wizards-prophets-were so rare that they came along only once
or twice a millennium. The potential importance of such a wizard was
incalculable. Zedd didn't know how far along that path Warren really was,
yet. Warren probably didn't, either.
"Prophecy can be a terrible burden." Warren smoothed his robes along
his thigh. "Perhaps Richard's prophecy told him that if he is to ever have a
chance to oversee victory, he must not die with the rest of us in our
struggle against the army of the Imperial Order."
General Reibisch, silent about such wizardly doings, had nevertheless
been listening and watching intently. Sister Philippa's thumb twiddled a
button on her dress. Even with Verna's comforting hand on his, Warren, at
that moment, looked nothing but forlorn.
"Warren"-Zedd waited until their eyes met-"we all at times envision the
most fearful turn of events, simply because it's the most frightening thing
we can imagine. Don't invest your thoughts primarily in that which is not
the most likely reason for Richard's actions, simply because it is the
reason you fear the most. I believe Richard is struggling to understand his
place in all this. Remember, he grew up as a woods guide. He has to come to
terms not only with his ability, but with the weight of rule."
"Yes, but-"
Zedd lifted a finger for emphasis. "The truth of a situation most often
turns out to be that one with the simplest explanation."
The gloom on Warren's face finally melted away under the dawning
radiance of a luminous smile. "I'd forgotten that ancient bit of wisdom.
Thank you, Zedd."
General Reibisch, combing his curly beard with his fingers, pulled the
hand free and made a fist. "Besides, D'Harans will not be so easily bested.
We have more forces to call upon, and we have allies here in the Midlands
who will come to aid in the fight. We have all heard the reports of the size
of the Order, but they are just men, not evil spirits. They have gifted, but
so do we. They have yet to come faceto-face with the might of D'Haran
soldiers."
Warren picked up a small rock, not quite the size of his fist, and held
it in his palm as he spoke. "I mean no disrespect, General, and I do not
mean to dissuade you from our just cause, but the subject of the Order has
been a pastime of mine. I've studied them for years. I'm also from the Old
World."
"Fair enough. So what is it you have to tell us?"
"Well, say that the tabletop is the Old World-the area from which
Jagang draws his troops. Now, there are places, to be sure, where there are
few people spread over vast areas. But there are many places with great
populations, too."
"It's much the same in the New World," the general said. "D'Hara has
populous places, and desolate areas."
Warren shook his head. He passed his hand over the tabletop. "Say this
is the Old World-the whole of this table." He held up the rock to show the
general and then placed it on the edge of the tabletop. "This is the New
World. This is its size-this rock--compared to the Old World."
"But, but, that doesn't include D'Hara," General Reibisch sputtered.
"Surely . . . with D'Hara-"
"D'Hara is included in the rock."
"I'm afraid Warren is right," Verna said.
Sister Philippa, too, nodded grim acknowledgment. "Perhaps . . ." she
said, looking down at her hands folded in her lap, "perhaps Warren is right,
and Richard has seen a vision of our defeat, and knows he must remain out of
it, or be lost with all the rest of us."
"I don't think that's it at all," Zedd offered in a gentle voice. "I
know Richard. If Richard thought we would lose, he would say so in order to
give people a chance to weigh that in their decisions."
The general cleared his throat. "Well, actually, one of the letters is
missing from that stack. It was the first-where Lord Rahl told me about his
vision. In it, Lord Rahl did say that we had no chance to win."
Zedd felt the blood drain down into his legs. He tried to keep his
manner unconcerned. "Oh? Where is the letter?"
The general gave Verna a sidelong glance.
"Well, actually," Verna said, "when I read it, I was angered and . . ."
"And she balled it up and threw it in the fire," Warren finished for
her.
Verna's face turned red, but she offered no defense. Zedd could
understand the sentiment, but he would have liked to have read it with his
own eyes. He forced a smile.
"Were those his actual words-that we had no chance to win?" Zedd asked,
trying not to sound alarmed. He could feel sweat running down the back of
his neck.
"No . . ." General Reibisch said as he shifted his shoulders inside his
uniform while giving the question careful thought. "No, Lord Rahl's words
were that we must not commit our forces to an attack directly against the
army of the Imperial Order, or our side will be destroyed and any chance for
winning in the future will be forever lost."
The feeling began to return to Zedd's fingers. He wiped a bead of sweat
from the side of his forehead. He was able to draw an easier breath. "Well,
that only makes sense. If they are as large a force as Warren says, then any
direct attack would be foolhardy."
It did make sense. Zedd wondered, though, why Richard would make such a
point of it to a man of General Reibisch's experience. Perhaps Richard was
only being cautious. There was nothing wrong with being cautious.
Adie slipped her hand under Zedd's and cuddled her loose fist under his
palm. "If you believe you must let Richard be in this, then you will stay?
Help teach the gifted here what they must know?"
Every face was etched with concern as they watched him, hanging on what
he might decide. The general idly stroked a finger down the white scar on
the side of his face. Sister Philippa knitted her fingers together. Verna
and Warren entwined theirs.
Zedd smiled and hugged Adie's shoulders. "Of course I'm not going to
abandon you."
The three on the bench opposite him each let out a little sigh. Their
posture relaxed as if ropes around their necks had been slackened.
Zedd passed a hard look among them all. "War is nasty business. It's
about killing people before they can kill you. Magic in war is simply
another weapon, if a frightening one. You must realize that it, too, in
this, must be used for the end result of killing people."
"What do we need to do?" Verna asked, clearly relieved that he had
agreed to stay, but not to the obvious extent of General Reibisch, Warren,
or Sister Philippa.
Zedd pulled some of his robes from each side of his legs over into the
middle, between them, as he gave the question some thought. It was not the
sort of lesson he relished.
"Tomorrow morning, we will begin. There is much to learn about
countering magic in warfare. I will teach all the gifted some things about
the awful business of using what you always hoped to use for good, for harm,
instead. The lessons are not pleasing to endure, but then, neither is the
alternative."
The thought of such lessons, and worse, the use of such knowledge,
could not be pleasant for any of them to contemplate. Adie, who knew a
little bit about the horrific nature of such struggle, rubbed his back in
sympathy. His heavy robes stuck to his skin. He wished he had his simple
wizard's robes back.
"We will all do as we must to prevent our own people from falling to
the monstrous magic of the Imperial Order," Verna said. "You have my word as
Prelate."
Zedd nodded. "Tomorrow, then, we begin."
"I fear to think of magic added to warfare," General Reibisch said as
he stood.
Zedd shrugged. "To tell the truth, the ultimate object of magic in
warfare is to counter the enemy's magic. If we do our job properly, we will
bring balance to this. That would mean that all magic would be nullified and
the soldiers would then be able to fight without magic swaying the battle.
You will be able to be the steel against steel, while we are the magic
against magic."
"You mean, your magic won't be of direct help to us?"
Zedd shrugged. "We will try to use magic to visit harm on them in any
way we can, but when we try to use magic as a weapon, the enemy will try to
counter ours. Any attempt to use their power against us, we will try to
counter. The result of magic in warfare, if properly and expertly done, is
that it seems as if magic did not exist at all.
"If we fail to rise to the challenge, then the power they throw at us
will be truly horrific to witness. If we can best them, then you will see
such destruction of their forces as you can't imagine. But, in my
experience, magic has a way of balancing, so that you rarely see such
events."
"A deadlock, then, is our goal?" Sister Philippa asked.
Zedd turned his palms up, moving his hands up and down in opposition,
as if they were scales holding great weight. "The gifted on both sides will
be working harder than they have ever worked before. I can tell you that
it's exhausting. The result, except with small shifts in the advantage, is
that it will seem as if we are d doing nothing to earn our dinner."
Zedd let his hands drop. "It will be punctuated with brief moments of
sheer horror and true panic when it seems beyond doubt that the world itself
is about to end in one final fit of sheer madness."
General Reibisch grinned in an odd, gentle, knowing way. "Let me tell
you, war, when you're holding a sword, looks about the same way." He held up
a hand in
mock defense. "But I'd rather that, I guess, than have to swing my
sword at every magic mosquito that came along. I'm a man of steel against
steel. We have Lord Rahl to be the magic against the magic. I'm relieved we
have Lord Rahl's grandfather, the First Wizard, to aid us, too. Thank you,
Zedd. Anything you need is yours. Just ask."
Verna and Warren added silent nods as the general stepped to the
entrance of the tent. When Zedd spoke, General Reibisch turned back,
gripping the flap in one hand.
"You're still sending messengers to Richard?"
The general confirmed that they were. "Captain Meiffert was up there,
too. He might be able tell you more about Lord Rahl."
"Have all of the messengers returned safely?"
"Most of them." He rubbed his bearded chin. "We've lost two, so far.
One messenger was found by chance at the bottom of a rockslide. Another
never returned, but his body wasn't found-which wouldn't be unusual. It's a
long and difficult journey. There are any number of hazards on such a
journey; we have to expect we might lose a few men."
"I'd like you to stop sending men up there to Richard."
"But Lord Rahl needs to be kept informed."
"What if the enemy should capture one of those messengers and find out
where Richard is? If you have no scruples, most any man can eventually be
made to talk. The risk is not worth it."
The general rubbed his palm on the hilt of his sword as he considered
Zedd's words. "The Order is far to the south of us-way down in Anderith. We
control all the land between here and the mountains where Lord Rahl is
staying." He shook his head in resignation at Zedd's unflinching gaze. "But
if you think it's a concern, I'll not send another. Won't Lord Rahl wonder,
though, what's going on with us?"
"What's going on with us is not really relevant to him right now; he is
doing as he must do, and he can't allow our situation to influence him. He
has told you already that he won't be able to give you any orders, that he
must stay out of it."
Zedd tugged his sleeves straight and sighed as he thought about it.
"Perhaps when the summer is over, before the full grip of winter descends
and they're snowed in way up there, I'll go and see how they fare."
General Reibisch gave a departing smile. "If you could talk to Lord
Rahl, it would be a relief for us all, Zedd; he would trust your word. Good
night, then."
The man had just betrayed his true feelings. No one in the tent really
trusted what Richard was doing, except, perhaps, Zedd, and Zedd had his
doubts, too. Kahlan had said that she believed Richard viewed himself as a
fallen leader; these people who claimed not to understand how he could
believe such a thing, at the same time didn't trust his actions.
Richard was all alone with only the strength of his beliefs to support
him.
After the general had gone, Warren leaned forward eagerly. "Zedd, I
could go with you to see Richard. We could get him to tell us everything,
and we could then determine if it really is a prophecy, or as he says, just
an understanding he's come to. If it's not really a prophecy, we might be
able to make him see things differently.
"More important, we could begin teaching him-or you could, anyway-about
his gift, about using magic. He needs to know how to use his ability."
As Zedd paced, Verna let out a little grunt to express her misgivings
about Warren's suggestion. "I tried to teach Richard to touch his Han. A
number of Sisters attempted it, too. No one was able to make any progress."
"But Zedd believes a wizard is the one to do it. Isn't that right,
Zedd?"
Zedd halted his pacing and regarded them both a moment as he considered
how to put his thoughts into words. "Well, as I said before, teaching a
wizard is not really the work for sorceresses, but another wizard-"
"With Richard, I don't think you would have any better luck than we
did," Verna railed.
Warren didn't give ground. "But Zedd believes-
Zedd cleared his throat, bidding silence. "You're right, my boy; it is
the job of a wizard to teach another wizard born with the gift." Verna rose
an angry finger to object, but Zedd went right on. "In this case, however, I
believe Verna is right."
"She is?" Warren asked.
"I am?" Verna asked.
Zedd waved in a mollifying gesture. "Yes, I believe so, Verna. I think
the Sisters can do some teaching. After all, look at Warren, here. The
Sisters have managed to teach him something about using his gift, even if it
was at the cost of time. You've taught others-if in a limited way, to my
view of it-but you couldn't manage to teach Richard the most simple of
things. Is that correct?"
Verna's mouth twisted with displeasure. "None of us could teach him the
simple task of sensing his own Han. I sat with him hours at a time and tried
to guide him through it." She folded her arms and looked away from his
intent gaze. "It just didn't work the way it should have."
Warren touched a finger to his chin while he frowned, as if recalling
something. "You know, Nathan said something to me once. I told him that I
wanted to leam from him-that I wanted him to teach me about being a prophet.
Nathan said that a prophet could not be made, but that they were born. I
realized, then, that everything I knew and understood about prophecy-really
understood about it, in a whole new way-I had learned on my own, and not
from anyone else. Could this, with Richard, be something like that? Is that
your point, Zedd?"
"It is." Zedd sat down once more on the hard wooden bench beside Adie.
"I would love, not only as his grandfather, but as First Wizard, to teach
Richard what he needs to know about using his ability, but I'm coming to
doubt that such a thing is possible. Richard is different from any other
wizard in more ways than just his having the gift for Subtractive Magic in
addition to the usual Additive."
"But still," Sister Philippa said, "you are First Wizard. Surely, you
would be able to teach him a great deal."
Zedd pulled a fold of his heavy robes from between his bony bottom and
the hard bench as he considered how to explain it.
"Richard has done things even I don't understand. Without my training,
he has accomplished more than I can even fathom. On his own, Richard reached
the Temple of the Winds in the underworld, accomplished the task of stopping
a plague, and returned from beyond the veil to the world of life. Can any of
you even grasp such a thing? Especially for an untrained wizard? He banished
the chimes from the world of the living-how, I have no idea. He has worked
magic I've never heard of, much less seen or understand.
"I'm afraid my knowledge could be more of an interference than an aid.
Part of Richard's ability, and advantage, is the way he views the
world-through not just fresh eyes, but the eyes of a Seeker of Truth. He
doesn't know something is impossible, so he tries to accomplish it. I fear
to tell him how to do things, how to use his magic, because such teaching
also might suggest to him limits of his powers, thus
creating them in reality. What could I teach a war wizard? I know
nothing about the Subtractive side of magic, much less the gift of such
power."
"Lacking another war wizard with Subtractive Magic, are you suggesting
it would maybe take a Sister of the Dark to teach him?" Warren asked.
"Well," Zedd mused, "that might be a thought." He let out a tired sigh
as he turned more serious. "I have come to realize that it would not only be
useless to try to teach Richard to use his ability, but it may even be
dangerous-to the world.
"I would like to go see him, and offer him my encouragement,
experience, and understanding, but help?" Zedd shook his head. "I don't
dare."
No one offered any objection. Verna, for one, had firsthand experience
that very likely confirmed the truth of his words. The rest of them probably
knew Richard well enough to understand much the same.
"May I help you find a spare tent, Zedd?" Verna finally asked. "You
look like you could use some rest. In the morning, after you get a good
night's rest, and we all think this over, we can talk more."
Warren, who had just been about to ask another question before Verna
spoke first, looked disappointed, but nodded in agreement.
Zedd stretched his legs out straight as he yawned. "That would be
best." The thought of the job ahead was daunting. He ached to see Richard,
to help him, especially after searching for him for so long. Sometimes it
was hard to leave people alone when that was what they most needed. "That
would be best," he repeated, "I am tired."
"Summer be slipping away from us. The nights be turning chilly," Adie
said as she pressed against Zedd's side. She looked up at him with her white
eyes that in the lamplight had a soft amber cast. "Stay with me and warm my
bones, old man?"
Zedd smiled as he embraced her. It was as much of a comfort to be with
her again as he had expected. In fact, at that moment, if she had given him
another hat with a feather, he would have donned it, and with a smile.
Worry, though, ached through his bones like an approaching storm.
"Zedd," Verna said, seeming to notice in his eyes the weight of his
thoughts, "Richard is a war wizard who, as you say, has in the past proven
his remarkable ability. He's a very resourceful young man. Besides that, he
is none other than the Seeker himself and has the Sword of Truth with him
for protection-a sword that I can testify he knows how to use. Kahlan is a
Confessor-the Mother Confessorand is experienced in the use of her power.
They have a Mord-Sith with them. MordSith take no chances."
"I know," Zedd whispered, staring off into a nightmare swirl of
thoughts. "But I still fear greatly for them."
"What is it that worries you so?" Warren asked.
"Albino mosquitoes."
Panting in exhaustion, Kahlan had to dance backward through the snarl
of hobblebush stitched through with thorny blackberry to dodge the swing of
the sword. The tip whistled past, missing her ribs by an inch. In her mad
dash to escape, she ignored the snag and tug of thorns on her pants. She
could feel her heartbeat galloping at the base of her skull.
As he relentlessly pressed his attack, forcing her back over a low rise
of ledge and through the swale beyond, mounds of fallen leaves kicked aloft
by his boots boiled up into the late-afternoon air like colorful
thunderheads. The bright yellow, lustrous orange, and vivid red leaves
rained down over rocky outcrops swaddled in prickly whorls of juniper. It
was like doing battle amid a fallen rainbow.
Richard lunged at her again. Kahlan gasped but blocked his sword. He
pressed his grim attack with implacable determination. She gave ground,
stepping high as she did so in order to avoid tripping over the snare of
roots around a huge white spruce. Losing her footing would be fatal; if she
fell, Richard would stab her in an instant.
She glanced left. There loomed a tall prominence of sheer rock draped
with long trailers of woolly moss. To the other side, the brink of the ridge
ran back to eventually meet that rock wall. Once the level ground tapered
down to that dead end, the only option was going to be to climb straight up
or straight down.
She deflected a quick thrust of his sword, and he warded hers. In a
burst of fury, she pressed a fierce assault, forcing him back a dozen steps.
He effortlessly parried her strikes, and then returned her attack in kind.
What she had gained was quickly lost twice over. She was once again
desperately defending herself and trading ground for her life.
On a low, dead branch of a balsam fir not ten feet away, a small red
squirrel, with his winter ear tufts already grown in, plucked a leathery
brown rosette of lichen growing on the bark. With his white belly gloriously
displayed, he sat on his haunches at the end of the broken-off deadwood, his
bushy tail raised up, holding the crinkled piece of lichen in his tiny paws,
eating round and round the edges, like some spectator at a tournament eating
a fried bread cake while he watched the combatants clash.
Kahlan gulped air as her eyes darted around, looking for clear footing
among the imposing trunks of the highland wood while at the same time
watching for an opportunity that might save her. If she could somehow get
around Richard, around the menace of his sword, she might be able to gain a
clear escape route. He would run her down, but it would buy her time. She
dodged a quick thrust of his sword and ducked around a maple sapling into a
bed of brown and yellow bracken ferns dappled by glowing sunlight.
Richard, driving forward in a sudden mad rush to end it, lifted his
sword to hack her.
It was her opening-her only chance.
In a blink, Kahlan reversed her retreat and sprang ahead a step,
ducking under his arm. She drove her sword straight into his soft middle.
Richard covered the wound with both hands. He teetered a moment, and
then crumpled into the bed of ferns, sprawling flat on his back. Leaves
lying lightly atop taller ferns were lifted by the disturbance. They
somersaulted up into the air, finally drifting down to brightly decorate his
body. The fierce red of the maple leaves was so vibrant it would have made
blood look brown by comparison.
Kahlan stood over Richard, gasping to catch her breath. She was spent.
She dropped to her knees and then threw herself across his supine body. All
around them, fern fronds, the color of caramel candy, were curled into
little fists as if in defiance of having to die with the season. The
sprinkling of lighter, yellowish, hayscented ferns lent a clean, sweet scent
to the afternoon air. There were few things that could equal the fragrance
of the woods in late autumn. In a spectacular bit of chance, a tall maple
nearby, sheltered as it was by a protective corner in the rock wall, was not
yet denuded, but displayed a wide spread of leaves so orange they looked
tangy against the powder blue sky above.
"Cara!" Putting her left hand to Richard's chest, Kahlan pushed herself
up on one arm to call out. "Cara! I killed Richard!"
Cara, not far off, laying on her belly at the edge of the ridge as she
watched out beyond, said nothing.
"I killed him! Did you hear? Cara-did you see?"
"Yes," she muttered, "I heard. You killed Lord Rahl."
"No you didn't," Richard said, still catching his breath.
She whacked him across the shoulder with her willow-switch sword. "Yes
I did. I killed you this time. Killed you dead."
"You only grazed me." He pressed the point of his willow switch to her
side. "You've fallen into my trap. I have you at the point of my sword, now.
Surrender, or die, woman."
"Never," she said, still gasping for breath as she laughed. "I'd rather
die than be captured by the likes of you, you rogue."
She stabbed him repeatedly in his ribs with her willow practice sword
as he giggled and rolled from side to side.
"Cara! Did you see? I killed him this time. I finally got him!"
"Yes, all fight," Cara grouched as she intently watched out beyond the
ridge. "You killed Lord Rahl. Good for you." She glanced back over her
shoulder. "This one is mine, right, Lord Rahl? You promised this one was
mine."
"Yes," Richard said, still catching his breath, "this one goes for
yours, Cara."
"Good." Cara smiled in satisfaction. "It's a big one."
Richard smirked up at Kahlan. "I let you kill me, you know."
"No you didn't! I won. I got you this time." She whacked him again with
her willow sword. She paused and frowned. "I thought you said you weren't
dead. You said it was only a scratch. Ha! You admitted I got you this time."
Richard chuckled. "I let you-"
Kahlan kissed him to shut him up. Cara saw and rolled her eyes.
When Cara looked back over the ridge, she suddenly sprang up. "They
just left! Come on, before something gets it!"
"Cara, nothing is going to get it," Richard said, "not this quickly.'
"Come on! You promised this one was mine. I don't want to have gone
through all this for nothing. Come on."
"All right, all right." Richard said as Kahlan climbed off him. "We're
coming."
He held his hand out for Kahlan to help him up. She stabbed him in the
ribs instead. "Got you again, Lord Rahl. You're getting sloppy."
Richard only smiled as Kahlan finally offered her hand. When he was up
he hugged her in a quick gesture, and before turning to follow after Cara,
said, "Good job, Mother Confessor, good job. You killed me dead. I'm proud
of you."
Kahlan endeavored to show him a sedate smile, but she feared it came
out as a giddy grin. Richard scooped up his pack and hefted it onto his
back. Without delay, he started the descent down the steep, broken face of
the mountain. Kahlan threw her long wolf's-fur mantle around her shoulders
and followed him through the deep shade of sheltering spruce at the edge of
the ridge, stepping on the exposed ledge rather than the low places.
"Be careful," Richard called out to Cara, already a good distance ahead
of them, "With all the leaves covering the ground, you can't see holes or
gaps in the rock."
"I know, 1 know," she grumbled. "How many times do you think I need to
hear it'?"
Richard constantly watched out for them both. He had taught them how to
walk in such terrain and what to be careful of. From the beginning, marching
through the forests and mountains, Kahlan noted that Richard moved with
quiet fluidity, while Cara traipsed along, bounding up onto and off of rocks
and ledges, almost like an exuberant youngster. Since Cara had spent most of
her life indoors, she didn't know that it made a difference how you walked
in such terrain.
Richard had patiently explained to her, "Pick where to put your feet in
order to make your steps comparatively level. Don't step down to a lower
spot if you don't need to, only to have to step up again as you continue
your climb up the trail. Don't step up needlessly, only to have to step down
again. If you must step up on something, you don't always need to lift your
whole body just flex your legs."
Cara complained that it was too hard to think about where to put her
foot each time. He told her that by walling the way she did, she was
actually climbing the mountain twice for each time he climbed it. He
admonished her to think as she walked, and soon it would become instinctive
and would require no conscious thought. When Cara found that her shin and
thigh muscles didn't get as tired and sore when she followed his
suggestions, she became a keen student. Now she asked questions instead of
arguing. Most of the time.
Kahlan saw that as Cara descended the steep trail, she did as Richard
had taught her and used a stick as an improvised staff to probe any
suspicious low area where leaves collected before stepping there. This was
no place to break an ankle. Richard said nothing, but sometimes he smiled
when she found a hole with her stick rather than her foot, as she used to.
Forging a new trail on a steep slope like the one they were descending
was dangerous work. Potential trails often withered into dead ends,
requiring that you retrace your steps. On less severe slopes, hillsides, and
flatter ground especially, animals often made good trails. In a valley, a
suitable trail that shrank to nothing wasn't a big problem because there you
could beat through the brush to more open ground. Making your own trail on a
rocky precipice, a thousand feet up, was always arduous and often
frustrating. In such conditions, particularly if the hour grew late,
the desire not to have to backtrack a difficult climb tempted people
into taking chances.
Richard said that it was hard work that demanded you put reason before
your wish to get down, get home, or get to a place to camp. "Wishing gets
people killed," he often said. "Using your head gets you home."
Cara poked her stick into a pile of leaves between bare granite rocks.
"Don't step in the leaves here," she said over her shoulder as she hopped
onto the far rock. "There's a hole."
"Why, thank you, Cara," Richard said in mock gratitude, as if he would
have stepped there had she not warned him.
The cliff face they were on had a number of sizable ledges with rugged
little trees and shrubs that provided good footing and the safety of a
handhold. Below, the mountainside dropped away before them into a lush
ravine. Beyond the defile, it rose up again in a steep slope covered with
evergreens and the dull gray and brown skeletons of oaks, maples, and
birches.
The raucous coats of autumn leaves had been resplendent while they
lasted, but now they were but confetti on the ground, and there they faded
fast. Usually, the oaks held on to their leaves until at least early winter,
and some of them until spring, but up in the mountains icy winds and early
storms had already stripped even the oaks bare of their tenacious brown
leaves.
Cara stepped out onto a shelf of ledge jutting out over the chasm
below. "There," she said as she pointed across the way. "Up there. Do you
see?"
Richard shielded his eyes against the warm sunlight as he squinted
higher up on the opposite slope. He made a sound deep in his throat to
confirm that he saw it. "Nasty place to die."
Kahlan snugged the warm wolf fur up against her ears to protect them
from the cold wind. "There's a good place?"
Richard let his hand drop from his brow. "I guess not."
Farther up the slope from where Cara had pointed, the forest ended in a
place called the crooked wood. Above that, where no trees could grow, the
mountain was naked rock ridges and scree. A little farther up, snow, white
as sugar, sparkled in the slanting sunlight. Below the snow and bare rock,
the crooked wood was exposed to harsh winds and bitter weather, causing the
trees to grow in tortured shapes. The crooked wood was a line of demarcation
between the desolation where little more than lichen could survive the
forbidding weather, and the forest of trees huddled below.
Richard gestured off to their right. "Let's not waste any time, though.
I don't want to be caught up here come dark."
Kahlan looked out to where the mountain opened onto a grand vista of
snowcapped peaks, valleys, and the undulating green of seemingly endless,
trackless forests. A roiling blanket of thick clouds had invaded those
valleys, stealing in around the mountains, sneaking ever closer. In the
distance, some of the snowcapped peaks stood isolated in a cottony gray sea.
Lower down the mountains, below those dense, dark clouds, the weather would
be miserable.
Both Richard and Cara awaited Kahlan's word. She didn't like the
thought of being exposed in the crooked wood when the icy cold fog and
drizzle arrived. "I'm fine, let's go and get it done. Then we can get down
lower where we'll be able to find a wayward pine to stay dry tonight. I
wouldn't mind sitting beside a hearty little fire sipping hot tea."
Cara blew warm breath into her cupped hands. "That sounds good to me."
It was on the first day Kahlan met Richard, more than a year before,
that he had taken her to a wayward pine. Kahlan had never known about such
trees in the deep woods of Westland. Wayward pines still held the same
mystic quality for her as they did the first time she saw one silhouetted
against a darkening sky, taller than all the trees around it. Such mature
trees were a friend to travelers far from any conventional shelter.
A big wayward pine's boughs hung down to the ground all around. The
needles grew mostly at the outer fringe, leaving the inner branches bare.
Inside, under their dense green skirts, wayward pines provided excellent
shelter from harsh weather, Something about the tree's sap made them
resistant to fire, so if you were careful, you could have a cozy campfire
inside while outside it rained and stormed.
Richard, Kahlan, and Cara often stayed in wayward pines when they were
out in the mountains. Those nights getting warm around a small fire within
the tree's confines brought them all closer, and gave them time to reflect,
to talk, and to tell stories. Some of the stories made them laugh. Some
brought a lump to their throats.
After Kahlan's assurance that she was up to it, Richard and Cara nodded
and started down the cliff. She had recovered from her terrible wounds, but
they still left it up to her to decide if she was prepared for the effort of
such a descent and climb and then descent again before they found a
sheltered campsite-hopefully in a wayward pine.
Kahlan had been a long time in healing. She had known, of course, that
injuries such as she had suffered would take time to heal. Bedridden for so
long, her muscles had become withered, weak, and nearly useless. For a long
time, it had been hard for her to eat much. She became a skeleton. With the
realization of just how weak and helpless she had become, even as she
healed, she had inexorably spiraled down into a state of abject depression.
Kahlan had not comprehended completely the punishing effort that would
be required if she was to he herself again. Richard and Cara tried to cheer
her up, but their efforts seemed distant; they just didn't understand what
it was like. Her legs wasted away until they were bony sticks with knobby
knees. She felt not just helpless, but ugly. Richard carved animals for her:
hawks, foxes, otters, ducks, and even chipmunks. They seemed only a
curiosity to her. At the lowest point, Kahlan almost wished she had died
along with their child.
Her life became a tasteless gruel. All she saw, day after day, week
after week, were the four walls of her sickroom. The pain was exhausting and
the monotony numbing. She came to hate the bitter yarrow tea they made her
drink, and the smell of the poultice made of tall cinquefoil and yarrow.
When after a time she resisted drinking yarrow, they would sometimes switch
to linden, which wasn't so bitter but didn't work as well, yet it did help
her sleep. Skullcap often helped when her head hurt, though it was so
astringent it make her mouth pucker for a long time after, Sometimes, they
switched to a tincture of feverfew to help ease her pain. Kahlan came to
hate taking herbs and would often say she didn't hurt, when she did, just to
avoid some horrid concoction.
Richard hadn't made the window in the bedroom very big; in the summer
heat the room was often sweltering. Kahlan could see only a bit of the sky
outside her window, the tops of some trees, and the jagged blue.-gray shape
of a mountain in the distance.
Richard wanted to take her outside, but Kahlan begged him not to try
because
she didn't think it would be worth the pain. It didn't take much
convincing for him to be talked out of hurting her. Every kind of day, from
sunny and bright to gray and gloomy, came and went. Lying in her little room
as time slipped away while she slowly healed, Kahlan thought of it as her
"lost summer."
One day, she was parched, and Richard had forgotten to fill the cup and
place it where she could reach it on the simple table beside the bed. When
she asked for water, Richard came back with the cup and a full waterskin and
set them both on the windowsill as he called to Cara, outside. He rushed
out, telling Kahlan as he went that he and Cara had to go check the fishing
lines and they would be back as soon as they could. Before Kahlan could ask
him to put the water closer, he was gone.
Kahlan lay fuming in the silence, hardly able to believe that Richard
had been so inconsiderate as to leave the water out of her reach. It was
unusually warm for late summer. Her tongue felt swollen. She stared
helplessly at the wooden cup setting in the windowsill.
On the verge of tears, she let out a moan of self-pity and smacked her
fist against the bed. She rolled her head to the right, away from the
window, and closed her eyes. She decided to take a nap in order not to think
about her thirst. Richard and Cara would be back by the time she awoke, and
they would get the water for her. And Richard would get a scolding.
Sweat trickled down her neck. Outside, a bird kept calling. Its
repetitious song sounded like a little girl with a high pitched voice saying
"who, me?" Once a "who, me?" bird started in, it was a long performance.
Kahlan could think of little else besides how much she wanted a drink.
She couldn't make herself fall asleep. The annoying bird kept asking
its question over and over again. More than once, she found herself
whispering "yes, you," in answer. She growled a curse at Richard. She
squeezed her eyes shut and tried to forget her thirst, the heat, and the
bird and go to sleep. Her eyes kept popping open.
Kahlan lifted her sleeping gown away from her chest, ruffling it up and
down to cool herself. She realized she was staring at the water in the
window. It was out of her reach-clear over on the other side of the room.
The room wasn't very big, but still, she couldn't walk. Richard knew better.
She thought that maybe, if she could sit up and move to the bottom of the
bed, she might be able to reach the cup.
With an ill-tempered huff, she threw the light cover off her bony legs.
She hated seeing them. Why was Richard being so inconsiderate? What was the
matter with him? She intended to give him a piece of her mind when he got
back. She eased her legs over the side of the bed.
The mattress was a pliable woven mat stuffed with grasses and feathers
and tow padding. It was quite comfortable, and Kahlan was pleased with her
snug bed. With a great effort, she pushed herself up. For a long time, she
sat on the edge of the bed holding her head in her hands as she caught her
breath. Her whole body throbbed in pain.
It was the first time she had sat up all by herself.
She understood very well what Richard was doing. Still, she didn't
appreciate his way of forcing her to get up. It was cruel. She wasn't ready.
She was still badly hurt. She needed to rest in bed in order to recover. Her
oozing wounds had finally closed up and healed over, but she was sure she
was still too injured to be getting up. She feared to test broken bones.
Accompanied by a lot of groaning and grunting, she worked herself to
the bottom
of the bed. Sitting there, one hand holding the footboard to steady
herself, she was still too far from the window to reach the water. She was
going to have to stand.
She paused for a while to have dark thoughts about her husband.
After a day many weeks before, when she had called for a long time and
Richard hadn't heard her weak voice, he had left a light pole beside her so
she would be able to use it to reach out and knock on the wall or door if
she was in urgent need of their help. Now, Kahlan worked her fingers around
the pole lying alongside her bed and lifted it upright. She planted the
thicker end on the ground and leaned on the pole for support as she
carefully slid off the bed. Her feet touched the cool dirt floor. Putting
weight on her legs made her gasp in pain.
She half stood, half leaned on the bed, prepared to cry out, but
realized she was gasping more at the brutal pain she expected than from the
actual pain. It did hurt, but she realized it wasn't too much to endure. She
was a bit disgruntled to learn it wasn't nearly as bad as it had been; she
had been planning on reducing Richard to tears with the torturous suffering
he had so cavalierly forced upon her.
She put more weight on her feet and pulled herself up with the aid of
the pole. Finally, she stood in wobbling triumph. She was actually on her
feet, and she had done it by herself.
Kahlan couldn't seem to make her legs walk the way she wanted them to.
In order to get to the water, she was going to have to make them do her
bidding-at least until she reached the window. Then, she could collapse to
the floor, where Richard would find her. She luxuriated in her mental
picture of it. He wouldn't think his plan to get her out of bed so clever,
then.
With the aid of the stout pole for support and her tongue poked out the
corner of her mouth for balance, she slowly shuffled to the window. Kahlan
told herself that if she fell, she was going to lie there in a heap on the
floor, without any water, until Richard came back and found her moaning
through cracked lips, dying of thirst. He would be sorry he had ever tried
such a pitiless trick. He would feel guilty for the rest of his life for
what he had done to her-she would see to it.
Almost wishing every difficult step of the way that she would fall, she
finally made it to the window. Kahlan threw an arm over the sill for support
and closed her eyes as she panted in little breaths so as not to hurt her
ribs. When she had her wind back, she drew herself up to the window. She
snatched the cup and gulped down the water.
Kahlan plunked the empty cup down on the sill and peered out as she
caught her breath again.
Richard was sitting on the ground just outside, his arms hooked around
his knees, his hands clasped.
"Hi there," he said with a smile.
Cara, sitting right beside him, gazed up without emotion. "I see you're
up."
Kahlan wanted to yell at him, but instead she found herself trying with
all her might not to laugh. She felt suddenly and overwhelmingly foolish for
not trying sooner to get up on her own.
Tears stung her eyes as she looked out at the expanse of trees, the
vibrant colors, the majestic mountains, and the huge sweep of blue sky
dotted with fluffy white clouds marching off into the distance. The size of
the mountains, their imposing slopes, their luscious color, was beyond
anything she had ever encountered before. How could she possibly not have
wanted more than anything to get up and see the world around her?
"You know, of course, that you've made a big mistake," Richard said.
"What do you mean?" Kahlan asked.
"Well, had you not gotten up, we'd have kept waiting on you-at least
for a time. Now that you've shown us that you can get up and move on your
own, we're only going to keep doing this-putting things out of your reach to
make you start moving about and helping yourself."
While she silently thanked him, she was unwilling, just yet, to tell
him out loud how right he had been. But inside, she loved him all the more
for braving her anger to help her.
Cara turned to Richard. "Should we show her where she can find the
table?"
Richard shrugged. "If she gets hungry, she'll come out of the bedroom
and find it."
Kahlan threw the cup at him, hoping to wipe the smirk off his face. He
caught the cup.
"Well, glad to see your arm works," he said. "You can cut your own
bread." When she started to protest, he said, "It's only fair. Cara baked
it. The least you can do is to cut it."
Kahlan's mouth fell open. "Cara baked bread?"
"Lord Rahl taught me," Cara said. "I wanted bread with my stew, real
bread, and he told me that if I wanted bread, I would have to learn to make
it. It was easy, really. A little like walking to the window. But I was much
more good-natured about it, and didn't throw anything at him."
Kahlan could not help smiling, knowing it must have been harder for
Cara to knead dough than for Kahlan to get up and walk. She somehow doubted
that Cara had been "good-natured" about it. Kahlan would like to have seen
that battle of wills.
"Give me back my cup. And then go catch some fish for dinner. I'm
hungry. I want a trout. A big trout. Along with bread."
Richard smiled. "I can do that. If you can find the table."
Kahlan did find the table. She never ate in bed again.
At first, the pain of walking was sometimes more than she could
tolerate, and she took refuge in her bed. Cara would come in and brush her
hair, just so Kahlan wouldn't be alone. She had no power in her muscles, and
could hardly move by herself. Brushing her own hair was a colossal task.
Just getting to the table was exhausting, and all she could accomplish at
first. Richard and Cara were sympathetic, and continually encouraged her,
but they pushed her, too.
Kahlan was joyous to be out of the bed and that helped her to ignore
the pain. The world was again a wondrous place. She was more than joyous to
be able at last to go out to the privy. While she never said so, Kahlan was
sure Cara was happy about that, too.
As much as she liked the snug home, going outside felt like finally
being freed from a dungeon. Before, Richard had frequently offered to take
her outside for the day, but she had never wanted to leave her bed, fearing
the pain. She realized that because she was so sick, her thinking had slowly
become dull and foggy. Along with her summer, she had for a time lost
herself. Now, at long last, she felt clearheaded.
She discovered that the view outside her window was the least
impressive of the surrounding sights. Snowcapped peaks towered around the
small house Richard and Cara had built in the lap of breathtaking mountains.
The simple house, with a bed-
room at either end, one for Richard and Kahlan, and one for Cara, with
a common room in the middle, sat at the edge of a meadow of velvety green
grasses sprinkled with wildflowers. Even though it was late in the season
when they had arrived, Richard managed to start a small garden in a sunny
place outside Cara's window, growing fresh greens for the table and some
herbs to add flavor to their cooking. Right behind the house, huge old white
pines towered over them, sheltering them from the full force of the wind.
Richard had continued his carving, to pass the time as he sat by
Kahlan's bed, talking and telling stories, but after she had at last gotten
out of bed, his carvings changed. Instead of animals, Richard began
sculpting people.
And then one day he surprised her with his most magnificent carving yet
in celebration, he said, of her getting well enough to finally come out into
the world.
Astonished by the utter realism and power of the small statue, she
whispered that it could only be the gift that had guided his hand in carving
it. Richard regarded such talk as nonsense.
"People without the gift carve beautiful statues all the time," he
said. "There's no magic involved."
She knew, though, that some artists were gifted, and able to invoke
magic through their art.
Richard occasionally spoke wistfully about the works of art he'd seen
at the People's Palace, in D'Hara, where he had been held captive. Growing
up in Hart land, he had never before seen statues carved in marble, and
certainly none carved on such a grand scale, or by such talented hands.
Those works had in some ways opened his eyes to the greater world around him
and had made a lasting impression on him. Who else but Richard would
remember fondly the beauty he saw while held captive and being tortured?
It was true that art could exist independent of magic, but Richard had
been taken captive in the first place only with the aid of a spell brought
to life through art. Art was a universal language, and thus an invaluable
tool for implementing magic.
Kahlan finally stopped arguing with him about whether the gift helped
him to carve. He simply didn't believe it. She felt, though, that, having no
other outlet, his gift must be expressing itself in this way. Magic always
seemed to find a way to seep out, and his carvings of people certainly did
seem magical to her.
But the figure of the woman that he carved for her as a gift stirred
profound emotion within her. He called it, an image nearly two feet tall
carved from buttery smooth, rich, aromatic walnut, Spirit. The feminity of
her body, its exquisite shape and curves, bones and muscle, were clearly
evident beneath her flowing robes. She looked alive.
How Richard had accomplished such a feat, Kahlan couldn't even imagine.
He had conveyed through the woman, her robes flowing in a wind as she stood
with her head thrown back, her chest out, her hands fisted at her sides, her
back arched and strong as if in opposition to an invisible power trying
unsuccessfully to subdue her, a sense of . . . spirit.
The statue was obviously not intended to look like Kahlan, yet it
evoked in her some visceral response, a tension that was startlingly
familiar. Something about the woman in the carving, some quality it
conveyed, made Kahlan hunger to be well, to be fully alive, to be strong and
independent again.
If this wasn't magic, she didn't know what was.
Kahlan had been around grand palaces her whole life, exposed to any
number of
pieces of great art by renowned artists, but none had ever taken her
breath with its thrust of inner vision, its sense of individual nobility, as
did this proud, vibrant woman in flowing robes. The strength and vitality of
it brought a lump to Kahlan's throat, and she could only throw her arms
around Richard's neck in speechless emotion.
Now Kahlan went outside at every opportunity. She placed the carving of
Spirit on the windowsill so she could see it not only from bed, but also
when she was outdoors. She turned the statue so that it always faced
outside. She felt it should always be facing the world.
The woods around the house were mysterious and alluring. Intriguing
trails went off into the shadowy distance, and she could just detect light
off at the end of the gently curving tunnel through the trees. She ached to
explore those narrow tracks, animal trails enlarged by Richard and Cara on
their short treks to tend fishing lines and forays in search of nuts and
berries. Kahlan, with the aid of a staff, hobbled around the house and the
meadow to strengthen her legs; she wanted to go with Richard on those treks,
through the filtered sunlight and gentle breezes, over the open patches of
ledge, and under the arched, enclosing limbs of huge oaks.
One of the first places Richard took her when she insisted she could
walk for a short distance was through that tunnel in the thick, dark wood to
the patch of light at the other end, where a brook descended a rocky gorge.
The brook was sheltered on the hillside above them by a dense stand of
trees. An enormous weight of water continuously plunged over that stepped
tumble of rocks, surging around boulders and pouring in glassy sheets over
ledges. Many of the bear-sized rocks sitting in the shady pools were flocked
in a dark green velvet of moss and sprinkled with long tawny needles from
the white pines that favored the rock slope. Flecks of sunlight winking
through the dense canopy shimmered in the clear pools.
At the bottom of that gorge, in that sunny mountain glen off behind
their house where the trail emerged from the woods, the brook broadened and
slowed as it meandered through the expansive valley surrounded by the
awesome jut of the mountains. Sometimes Kahlan would dangle her bony legs
over a bank and let the cool water caress her feet. There, she could sit on
the warm grass and soak up the sun while watching fish swim through the
crystal-clear water flowing over gravel beds. Richard had been right when he
told her that trout liked beautiful places.
She loved watching the fish, frogs, crayfish, and even the salamanders.
Oftentimes, she would lie on her stomach on the low grassy bank, with her
chin resting on the backs of her hands, and watch for hours as the fish came
out from under sunken logs, from beneath rocks, or from the dark depths of
the larger pools to snatch a bug from the surface of the water. Kahlan
caught crickets, grasshoppers, and grubs and periodically tossed them in for
the fish. Richard laughed when she talked to the fish, encouraging them to
come up out of their dark holes for a tasty bug. Sometimes, a graceful gray
heron would stand on its thin legs in the shallow marshes not far away and
occasionally spear a fish or a frog with its daggerlike bill.
Kahlan could not recall, in the whole of her life, ever being in a
place with such
a vibrancy of life to it, surrounded by such majesty. Richard teased
her, telling her she hadn't seen anything yet, making her curious and ever
eager to get stronger so she could explore new sights. She felt like a
little girl in a magical kingdom that was theirs and theirs alone. Having
grown up a Confessor, Kahlan had never spent much time outdoors watching
animals or water tumbling down over rocks or clouds or sunsets. She had seen
a great many magnificent things, but they were in the context of travel,
cities, buildings, and people. She had never lingered in one place in the
countryside to really soak it all in.
Still, the thoughts in the back of her mind hounded her; she knew that
she and Richard were needed elsewhere. They had responsibilities. Richard
casually deflected the subject whenever she broached it; he had already
explained his reasoning, and believed he was doing what was right.
They hadn't been visited by messengers for a very long time. That worry
played on her mind, too, but Richard said that he couldn't allow himself to
influence the army, so it was just as well that General Reibisch had stopped
sending reports. Besides, he said, it only needlessly endangered the
messengers who made the journey.
For the time being, Kahlan knew she needed to get better, and her
isolated mountain life was making her stronger by the day, probably as
nothing else could. Once they returned to the war-once she convinced him
that they must return-this peaceful life would be but a cherished memory.
She resolved to enjoy what she couldn't change, while it lasted.
Once when it had been raining for a few days and Kahlan was missing
going out to the brook to watch the fish, Richard did the most unheard-of
thing. He started bringing her fish in ajar. Live fish. Fish just for
watching.
After he'd cleaned an empty lamp-oil jug and several widemouthed glass
jars that had held preserves, herbs, and unguents for her injuries, along
with other supplies he had purchased on their journey away from Anderith, he
put some gravel in the bottom and filled them with water from the stream. He
then caught some blacknose dace minnows and put them in the glass
containers. They were yellowish olive on top speckled with black, with white
bottoms, and a thick black line down each side. He even provided them with a
bit of weed from the brook so they could have a place to hide and feel safe.
Kahlan was astonished when Richard brought home the first jar of live
fish. She set the jars-eventually four jars and one jug in all-on the
windowsill in the main room, beside several of Richard's smaller carvings.
Richard, Kahlan, and Cara sat at the small wooden table when they ate and
watched the marvel of fish living in ajar.
"Just don't name them," Richard said, "because eventually they're going
to die."
What she had at first thought was an entirely daft idea became a center
of fascination for her. Even Cara, who cited fish-in-a-jar as lunacy, took a
liking to the little fish. It seemed that every day with Richard in the
mountains held some new marvel to turn her mind away from her own pains and
troubles.
After the fish became accustomed to people, they went about their
little lives as if living in ajar were perfectly natural. From time to time,
Richard would pour out part of their water, and add fresh water from the
brook. Kahlan and Cara fed the little fish crumbs of bread or tiny scraps
from dinner, along with small bugs. The fish ate eagerly, and spent most of
their time pecking at the gravel on the bottom, or swimming about, looking
out at the world. After a while, the fish learned when it
was lunchtime. They would wiggle eagerly on the other side of the glass
whenever anyone approached, like puppies happy to see their masters.
The main room had a small fireplace Richard had built with clay from
stream banks he'd formed into bricks and dried in the sun, and then cooked
in a fire. They had the table he'd made, and chairs constructed of branches
intertwined and lashed together. He'd woven the chair bottoms and backs from
leathery inner bark.
In the corner of the room was a wooden door over a deep root cellar.
Against the back wall were simple shelves and a big cupboard full of
supplies. They'd bought a lot of supplies along the way and carried them
either in the carriage with Kahlan or strapped on the back and sides. For
the last part of the journey Richard and Cara had lugged everything in,
since the carriage couldn't make it over narrow mountain passes where there
were no roads. Richard had blazed the trail in.
Cara had her own room opposite theirs. Once up and about, Kahlan was
surprised to find that Cara had a collection of rocks. Cara bristled at the
term "collection," and asserted that they were there as defensive weapons,
should they be attacked and trapped in the house. Kahlan found the rocks-all
different colors-suspiciously pretty. Cara insisted they were deadly.
While Kahlan had been bedridden, Richard had slept on a pallet in the
main room, or sometimes outside under the stars. A number of times, at
first, when she was in so much pain, Kahlan had awakened to see him sitting
on the floor beside her bed, dozing as he leaned against the wall, always
ready to jump up if she needed anything, or to offer her medicines and herb
teas. He hadn't wanted to sleep in bed with her for fear of it hurting her.
She almost would have been willing to endure it for the comfort of his
presence beside her. Finally, though, after she was up and about, he was at
last able to lie beside her. That first night with him in bed, she had held
his big warm hand to her belly as she gazed at Spirit silhouetted in the
moonlight, listening to the night calls of birds, bugs, and the songs of the
wolves until her eyes closed and she drifted into a peaceful slumber.
It was on the next day that Richard first killed her.
They were at the stream, checking the fishing lines, when he cut two
straight willow switches. He tossed one on the ground beside where she sat,
and told her it was her sword.
He seemed in a playful mood, and told her to defend herself. Feeling
playful herself, Kahlan took up the challenge by suddenly trying to stab him
just to put him in his place. He stabbed her first and declared her dead.
She fought him again, more earnestly the second time, and he quickly
dispatched her with a convincingly feigned beheading. By the third time she
went after him, she was a little irked. She put all her effort into her
assault, but he smoothly thwarted her attack and then pressed the tip of his
willow-switch sword between her breasts. He announced her dead for a third
time out of three.
Thereafter, it became a game Kahlan wanted to win. Richard never let
her win, not even just to be nice when she was feeling low because of her
slow progress at getting stronger. He repeatedly humbled her in front of
Cara. Kahlan knew he was doing it to make her push herself to use her
muscles, to forget her aches, to stretch and strengthen her body. Kahlan
just wanted to win.
They each carried their willow-switch swords sheathed behind a belt,
always at the ready. Every day, she would attack him, or he would attack
her, and the fight was on. At first, she was no challenge to him, and he
made it clear she was no challenge. That, of course, only made her
determined to show him that she was no
novice, that it was not so much a battle of strength, but of leverage,
advantage, and swiftness. He encouraged her, but never gave her false
praise. As the weeks passed, she slowly began making him work for his kills.
Kahlan had been taught to use a sword by her father, King Wyborn. At
least, he had been king before Kahlan's mother took him for her mate. King
was an insignificant title to a Confessor. King Wyborn of Galea had had two
children with his queen and first wife, so Kahlan had both an older half
sister and a half brother.
Kahlan wanted very much to make a good show of her training under her
father. It was frustrating to know she was far better with a weapon than she
was showing Richard. It wasn't so much that she didn't know what to do, but
that she simply couldn't do it; her muscles were not yet strong enough, nor
would they respond nearly quickly enough.
Something about it, though, was still unsettling: Richard fought in a
way Kahlan had never encountered in her training, or in the real combat she
had seen. She couldn't define or analyze the difference, but she could feel
it, and she didn't know what to do to counter it.
In the beginning, Richard and Kahlan had most of their battles in the
meadow outside their house, so that Kahlan wouldn't be as likely to trip
over something, and if she did, not as likely to hit her head on anything
granite. Cara was their everpresent audience. As time passed, the battles
lasted longer, and grew more strenuous. They became furious and exhausting.
A couple of times Kahlan had been so upset by Richard's relentless
attitude toward their sword fights that she didn't speak to him for hours
afterward, lest she let slip words she didn't really mean and which she knew
she would regret.
Richard would then sometimes tell her, "Save your anger for the enemy.
Here it will do you no good; there, it can overcome fear. Use this time now
to teach your sword what to do, so later it will do it without conscious
thought."
Kahlan well knew that an enemy was never kind. If Richard gave in to
kindnessawarded her false pride-it could only serve her ill. As aggravating
as such lessons sometimes were, it was impossible to remain angry with
Richard for very long, especially because she knew she was really only angry
with herself.
Kahlan had been around weapons and men who used them all her life. A
few of the better ones, in addition to her father, were on occasion her
teachers. None of them had fought like Richard. Richard made fighting with a
blade look like art. He gave beauty to the act of dealing death. There was
something about it, though, tickling at her, something she knew she still
wasn't grasping.
Richard had told her once, before she had been hurt, that he had come
to believe that magic itself could be an art form. She had told him she
thought that was crazy. Now, she didn't know. From the bits of the story
she'd heard, she suspected that Richard had used magic in something of that
way to defeat the chimes: he had created a solution where it had never
before existed, or even been imagined.
One day, in one of their fierce sword fights, she had been positive she
had him dead to rights and that she was delivering the stroke of victory. He
effortlessly evaded what she had been sure was her killing strike and killed
her instead. He made what had seemed impossible look natural.
It was in that instant that the whole concept came clear for her. She
had been looking at it all wrong.
It wasn't that Richard could fight well with a sword, or that he could
create beautiful statues with a knife and chisel, it was that Richard was
one with the
blade-the blade in any form: sword, knife, chisel, or willow switch. He
was a master-not of sword fighting or carving as such, but, in the most
fundamental way, of the blade itself.
Fighting was but one use of a blade. His balance for using his sword to
destroymagic always sought balance-was using a blade to carve things of
beauty. She had been looking at the individual parts of what he did, trying
to understand them separately; Richard saw only one unified whole.
Everything about him: the way he shot an arrow; the way he carved; the
way he used a sword; even the way he walked with such fluid reasoned
intent-they weren't separate things, separate abilities . . . they were all
the same thing.
Richard paused. "What's the matter? Your face is turning white."
Kahlan stood with her willow sword lowered. "You're dancing with death.
That's what you're doing with your sword."
Richard blinked at her as if she had just announced that rain was wet.
"But, of course." Richard touched the amulet hanging at his chest. In the
center, surrounded by a complex of gold and silver lines, was a
teardrop-shaped ruby as big as her thumbnail. "I told you that a long time
ago. Are you just now coming to believe me?"
She stood gaping. "Yes, I think I am."
Kahlan recalled all too clearly his chilling words to her when she had
first seen the amulet around his neck, and she had asked him what it was:
"The ruby is meant to represent a drop of blood. It is the symbolic
representation of the way of the primary edict.
"It means only one thing, and everything: cut. Once committed to fight,
cut. Everything else is secondary. Cut. That is your duty, your purpose,
your hunger. There is no rule more important, no commitment that overrides
that one. Cut.
"The lines are a portrayal of the dance. Cut from the void, not from
bewilderment. Cut the enemy as quickly and directly as possible. Cut with
certainty. Cut decisively, resolutely. Cut into his strength. Flow through
the gaps in his guard. Cut him. Cut him down utterly. Don't allow him a
breath. Crush him. Cut him without mercy to the depths of his spirit.
"It is the balance to life: death. It is the dance with death.
"It is the law a war wizard lives by, or he dies."
The dance was art. It was no different, really, from carving. Art
expressed through a blade. It was all one and the same to him. He saw no
distinction, for within him, there was none.
--]----
They shared the meadow with a red fox who hunted it for rodents,
mostly, but wasn't averse to chewing on whatever juicy bugs she could catch
there. Their horses didn't mind the fox so much, but they didn't like the
coyotes that sometimes visited. Kahlan rarely saw them, but she knew they
were about when the horses snorted their displeasure. She often heard the
coyotes barking at night, higher up in the surrounding slopes. They would
let out long flat howls, followed by a series of yips. Some nights, the
wolves sang, their long monotone howls, without the yapping of the coyotes,
echoing through the mountains. Once Kahlan saw a black bear off in the
trees, ambling along, giving them only a passing look, and once a bobcat
passed
near their house, sending the horses off in a panic. It took Richard
the better part of a day to find the horses.
Chipmunks begged at their door, and regularly invited themselves into
the house for a look around. Kahlan often caught herself talking to them and
asking questions as if they could understand her every word. The way they
paused and cocked their heads at her made her suspect they really could. In
the early mornings, small herds of deer often visited the meadow, some
leaving fresh, inverted heart-shaped tracks near the door as they passed.
Lately, aggressive bucks in rut, bearing huge racks, had been showing up.
One of the hides Kahlan wore was from a wolf injured by one of those bucks
up in an oak grove not far away. Richard had spared the wounded animal a
lingering, suffering death.
Beside the sword fights, they went on marches up into the mountains to
help Kahlan strengthen her limbs. Those walks were taxing on her leg
muscles, sometimes leaving her so sore she couldn't sleep. Richard would rub
oil into her feet, calves, and thighs when they hurt too much for her to
sleep. That usually worked, relaxing her and making her drowsy and able to
fall asleep.
She distinctly remembered the rainy night after walking home in the wet
and cold, when she lay on her back in bed, eyes shut, as Richard rubbed warm
oil into her leg muscles. He whispered that her legs finally seemed to have
gotten back all their tone and shape. Kahlan looked up and saw desire in his
eyes. It was an almost forgotten thrill to know his hunger for her. She had
been so startled that she felt tears trickle down her cheeks with the joy of
suddenly feeling like a woman again-a desirable woman.
Richard raised her leg to his mouth and gently kissed her bare ankle.
By the time his soft warm kisses reached her thighs, she was panting with
suddenly and unexpectedly awakened desire. He laid open her nightshirt and
rubbed the warm oil on her exposed belly. His big hands moved up her body to
caress her breasts. He breathed through his mouth as he rolled her nipples
until they were hard between his finger and thumb.
"Why, Lord Rahl," she said in a breathy whisper, "I do believe you are
going to get carried away."
He paused, seeming to check himself and what he was doing, and then
pulled back.
"I won't break, Richard," she said as she caught his hand and pulled it
back. "I'm all right, now. I'd like it if you got carried away."
She clutched his hair in her fists as his kisses covered her breasts
and then her shoulders and then worked up her neck. His panting warmed her
ear. His exploring fingers made her frantic with need. His body against hers
felt wildly erotic. She no longer felt weary. Finally, he tenderly kissed
her lips. She let him know by the way she returned the kiss that he needn't
be all that tender.
As the rain drummed on the roof, as lightning lit the lines and the
clenched-fist strength of the statue in the window and thunder rumbled
through the mountains, Kahlan, without fearing it, without worrying about
it, without wondering if she would be able, held Richard tightly as they
made quiet, gentle, fierce love. They had never needed each other as much as
that night. All her fears and worries evaporated in the heat of overpowering
need welling up through her. She wept with the strength of her pleasure and
the release of her emotions.
When later Richard lay in her arms, she felt a tear roll off his face,
and she asked him if something was wrong. He shook his head and said
distantly that he had for
so long feared losing her that sometimes he had believed he might go
mad. It seemed as if he could finally allow himself release from his private
terror. The pain Kahlan had first seen in his eyes when she couldn't
remember his name was at last banished.
--]----
Their marches into the mountains ranged farther and farther. Sometimes
they took packs and spent the night in the woods, often in a wayward pine,
when they could find one. The rugged terrain offered a never-ending variety
of vistas. In places, sheer rock cliffs towered over them. In other places,
they stood at the brink of sheer drops and watched the sun turn the sky
orange and purple as it went down while wispy clouds drifted through quiet
green valleys below. They went to towering waterfalls with their own
rainbows. There were clear, sunlit pools up in the mountains where they
swam. They ate on rocks overlooking rugged sights no one but they ever saw.
They followed animal trails through vast woods of gnarled trees, and others
among the dark forest floor where grew trees with trunks like huge brown
columns, so big twenty men couldn't have joined hands around them.
Richard had Kahlan practice with a bow to help strengthen her arms.
They hunted small game for stews, or for roasting. Some they smoked and
dried along with the fish they caught. Richard usually didn't eat meat, but
occasionally he did. Not eating meat was part of the balance needed by his
gift for when he was forced to kill. That need of balance was lessening
because he wasn't killing. He was at peace. Perhaps the balance was now
being served by his carving. As time passed, he was able to eat more meat.
When they were out on journeys, they usually ate rice and beans along with
bannock and any berries they collected along the way, in addition to game
they caught.
Kahlan helped clean fish and salt them down and smoke yet others for
their winter stores. It was a job that she had never before undertaken. They
collected berries, nuts, and wild apples and put a lot of those away in the
root cellar along with root crops he had purchased before coming up into the
mountains. Richard dug up small apple trees, when he found any, and planted
them in the meadow by the house so that, he said, someday they would have
apples close at hand.
Kahlan wondered how long he intended to keep them away from where they
were needed. The silent question always hung there, seen by all, but
unspoken. Cara never asked him, but she sometimes made some small mention of
it to Kahlan when they were alone. She was Lord Rahl's guard, and glad to be
close at hand, so she generally offered no objection. He was, after all,
Lord Rahl, and he was safe.
Kahlan had always felt the weight of their responsibilities. Like the
towering mountains all around, looming over them, always shadowing them,
that responsibility could never be completely forgotten. As much as she
loved the house Richard had built on the edge of the meadow, and as much as
she loved exploring the rugged beautiful, imposing, and ever-changing
mountains, with each passing day she mom and more felt that weight and the
anxious need to be back where they were needed most. She fretted at what
could be going on that they weren't aware of. The Imperial Order was not
going to stay put; an army that size liked to move. Soldiers, especially
soldiers of that ilk, became restless in long encampments, and sooner or
later started causing trouble. She worried about all the people who needed
the reassurance of Richard's presence, his guidance-and hers. There were
people who their whole
lives had depended on the Mother Confessor always being there to stand
up for them.
With winter coming on, Richard had made Kahlan a warm mantle, mostly
out of wolf fur. The other two pelts were coyotes. Richard had found one of
the coyotes with a broken leg, probably from a fall, and had put it out of
its misery. The other had been a rogue chased off by the local pack. It had
taken to raiding food from lei little smokehouse. Richard had taken the sly
looter with a single arrow.
They had collected most of the wolf pelts from injured or old animals.
Richard, Kahlan, and Cara often tracked wolf packs as a way of helping to
build Kahlan's strength. Kahlan came to recognize their tracks, and even
learned to know at a glance, if the prints were in mud or soft dirt, their
front paws from the rear. Richard showed her how the toes of the front
spread out more, with a more welldefined heel pad than the rear paw. He had
located several packs in the mountains, and the three of them often followed
one group or family to see if they could do so without the wolves knowing.
Richard said it was a kind of game guides used to play to keep in
practice-to keep their senses sharp.
After Kahlan's mantle was completed, they had turned to collecting
pelts for Cara's winter fur. Cara, who always wore the clothes of her
profession, had liked the idea of Lord Rahl making something for her to
wear-the same as he had made for Kahlan. While she had never said as much,
Kahlan had always felt that Cara saw the mantle he was making for her as a
mark of his feelings, his respect-proof that she was more than just his
bodyguard.
This had been a journey to find pelts for Cara's mantle, and she had
been eager. She had even cooked for them.
Now, coming down off the ridge where Kahlan had finally bested Richard
in a sword fight, Kahlan was in a good mood. For the last two days they had
been following the wolf pack up in the mountains to the west of their house.
It was not simply a hunt, and not simply to get a pelt for Cara, but part of
the never-ending pressure Richard put on Kahlan to keep up.
Almost every day for the last two months, Richard had her marching over
the most difficult terrain, the kind of terrain that made her strain every
muscle in her body. As Kahlan had gotten stronger, the marches had gotten
longer. At first they were only across the house; now they were across
mountains. On top of that, he frequently attacked her with his willow sword
and poked fun at her if she didn't put in her absolute hardest fight.
In a way, finally beating Richard in one of their mock sword fights
puzzled her. He might have been tired from carrying the heaviest pack and
scouting some of the steeper trails by himself first and then coming back
for them, but he hadn't slacked off, and she had still killed him. She
couldn't help but be pleased with herself, even if she did question her
victory. Out of the corner of her eye, she had caught him smiling as he
looked at her. Kahlan knew Richard was proud of her for besting him. In a
way, his losing was a victory for him.
Kahlan thought that she must be stronger, now, after all Richard had
put her through, than at any time in her life. It had not been easy, but it
had been worth at last feeling like the carving in the window of her
bedroom.
Kahlan put a hand on Richard's shoulder as he followed Cara down broken
granite blocks placed by chance like big, irregular steps. "Richard, how did
I beat you?"
He saw in her eyes the seriousness of the question. "You killed me
because I made a mistake."
"A mistake? You mean, perhaps you had gotten too confident? Perhaps you
were just tired, or were thinking of something else."
"Doesn't really matter, does it? Whatever it was, it was a mistake that
cost me my life in the game. In a real fight, I would have died. You've
taught me a valuable lesson to redouble my resolve to always put in my
absolute full effort. It just goes to remind me, though, that I could make a
mistake at any time, and lose."
Kahlan couldn't help but to be struck by the obvious question: was he
making a mistake in staying out of the effort to keep the Midlands free from
the tyranny of the Imperial Order? She couldn't help feeling the pull to
help her people, even though Richard still felt that if the people didn't
want his leadership, his efforts could do no good. As Mother Confessor,
Kahlan knew that while people didn't always understand that what a leader
did was done in their best interest, that was no reason to abandon them.
With winter coming on, she hoped the Imperial Order would choose to
stay put in Anderith. Kahlan needed to convince Richard to return to help
the Midlands, but she was at a loss to know how. He was firm in his
reasoning, and she could find no chink in the armor of his logic. Emotion
did not sway him in this.
Cara led them down the craggy precipice, having to backtrack only
twice. It was a difficult descent. Cara was pleased with herself, and that
Richard had let her pick the route. It was her pelt they were going after,
so he let her lead them across the tangle of undergrowth in the ravine at
the bottom and then up the following lip of the notch where trees clung with
roots like talons to the rocky rise.
The wind coming up the ravine had turned bitter. The clouds had
thickened until they snuffed out the golden rays of sunlight. Their ascent
took them up into a gloomy, dark wood of towering evergreens. Far over their
heads, the treetops swayed in the wind, but down on the ground, it was
still. Their footfalls were hushed by a thick spongy mat of brown needles.
The climb was steep, but not arduous. As they ascended, the big trees
grew farther and farther apart. The boughs became scraggly, allowing more of
the somber light to seep in. For the most part, the rocks higher up were
bare of moss and leaves. In places they had to use handholds on the rock, or
else roots, to help them climb. Kahlan pulled deep breaths of the cold air;
it felt good to test her muscles.
They came out of the forest into the steel-gray light of late afternoon
and the moaning voice of the wind. They were in the crooked wood.
The scree and rock were naked of the thick moss common lower down the
mountain, but they bore yellow-green splotches of lichen outlined in black.
Only a bit of scraggly brush clung to the low places here and there. But it
was the trees that were the most odd, and gave the place at the top of the
tree line its name. They were all stunted-few taller than Kahlan or Richard.
Most of the branches grew to one side because of the prevailing winds,
leaving the trees looking like grotesque, running skeletons frozen in
torment.
Above the crooked wood, few things other than sedges and lichens grew.
Above that, the snowcap held sway.
"Here it is," Cara said.
They found the wolf sprawled on the scree beside a low boulder with a
dark stain of dried blood at the sharp edge. Up higher, the pack of gray
wolves had been trying to take down a woodland caribou. The old bull had
grazed the unlucky wolf with a kick. That in itself would likely not have
been anything more than painful, but the wolf had slipped from the higher
ledge and fallen to its death. Kahlan ran her fingers
through the thick, yellow-gray coat tipped in black. It was in good
condition, and would be a warm addition to Cara's winter mantle.
Richard and Cara started skinning the good-sized female animal as
Kahlan went out to the edge of an overhang. She drew her own mantle up
around her ears as she stood in the bitter wind surveying the approaching
clouds. She was somewhat startled by what she saw.
"Richard, it's not drizzle coming our way," Kahlan said. "It's snow."
He looked up from his bloody work. "Do you see any wayward pines down
in the valley?"
She squinted down to the valley floor spread out before her.
"Yes, I see a couple. The snow is still a ways off. If you're not long
at that, we can probably make it down there and collect some wood before it
gets wet."
"We're almost done," Cara said.
Richard stood to have a quick look for himself. With a bloody hand, he
absently fifted his real sword a few inches and then let it drop back, a
habit he had of checking to make sure the weapon was clear in its scabbard.
It was an unsettling gesture. He had not drawn the weapon from its hilt
since the day he had been forced to kill all those men who had attacked them
back near Hartland.
"Is something wrong?"
"What?" Richard saw where her eyes were looking and glanced down at the
sword on his hip. "Oh. No, nothing. Just habit, I guess."
Kahlan pointed. "There's a wayward pine, there. It's the closest, and
good-sized, too."
Richard wiped the back of his wrist across his brow, swiping his hair
away from his eyes. His fingers glistened with blood. "We'll be down there,
sheltered by a wayward pine, sitting beside a cozy fire having tea before
dark. I can stretch the hide on the branches inside and scrape it there. The
snow will help insulate us inside the tree's boughs. We'll have a good rest
before heading back in the morning. Down a little lower, it will only be
rain."
Kahlan snuggled her cheek inside her wolf fur as a shiver tingled
through her shoulders and up the back of her neck. Winter had snuck up on
them.
When they arrived home two days later, the little fish in the jars were
all dead. They had used the same easier route over the pass that they had
originally used to enter the valley when they had first come in with the
horses, months before. Of course, Kahlan didn't recall that trip; she had
been unconscious. It seemed a lifetime ago.
There was now a shorter trail to their home, one they had blazed down
from the pass. They could have used that alternative route, but it was
narrow and difficult and would have saved them only ten or fifteen minutes.
They had been out for days, and as they had wearily stood in the windswept
notch at the top of the pass looking down at their cozy home far below at
the edge of the meadow, they had decided to take the easier passage, even
though it took a little longer. It had been a relief to finally get inside
the house, out of the wind, and drop all their gear.
As Richard brought in firewood and Cara fetched water, Kahlan pulled
out a little square of cloth with some small bugs she'd caught earlier that
day, intending to give her fish a treat, since they were sure to be hungry.
She let out a little groan when she saw that they were dead.
"What's the matter?" Cara asked as she walked in lugging a full bucket.
She came over to see the fish.
"Looks like they starved," Kahlan told her.
"Little fish like that don't often live long in a jar," Richard said as
he knelt and started stacking birch logs atop kindling in the fireplace.
"But they did live a long time," Kahlan said, as if to prove him wrong
and somehow talk him out of it.
"You didn't name them, did you? I told you not to name them because
they would die after a time. I warned you not to let yourself get
emotionally attached when it can only come to no good end."
"Cara named one."
"Did not," Cara protested. "I was just trying to show you which one I
was talking about, that's all."
After the flames took from his flint, Richard looked up and smiled.
"Well, I'll get you some more."
Kahlan yawned. "But these were the best ones. They needed me."
Richard snorted a laugh. "You've got quite the imagination. They only
depended on us because we artificially altered their lives. Just like the
chipmunks would stop hunting seeds for their winter stores if we gave them
handouts all the time. Of course, the fish had no choice, because we kept
them in jars. Left to their own initiative, the fish wouldn't need any help
from us. After all, it took a net to catch them. I'll catch you some more,
and they'll come to need you just as much."
Two days later, on a thinly overcast day, after they'd had a big lunch
of thick rabbit stew with turnips and onions along with bread Cara had made,
Richard went off to check the fishing lines and to catch some more of the
blacknose dace minnows.
After he'd left, Cara picked up their spoons and put them in the bucket
of wash water on the counter.
"You know," she said, looking back over her shoulder, "I like it here,
I really do, but it's starting to make me jumpy."
Kahlan scraped the plates off into a wooden bowl with the cooking
leavings for the midden heap. "Jumpy?" She brought the plates to the
counter. "What do you mean?"
"Mother Confessor, this place is nice enough, but it's starting to make
me go daft. I am Mord-Sith. Dear spirits, I'm starting to name fish in
jars!" Cara turned back to the bucket and bent to cleaning the spoons with a
washcloth. "Don't you think it's about time we convinced Lord Rahl that we
need to get back?"
Kahlan sighed. She loved their home in the mountains, and she loved the
quiet and solitude. Most of all, she treasured the time she and Richard were
able to spend together without other people making demands of them. But she
also missed the activity of Aydindril, the company of people, and the sights
of cities and crowds. There was a lot not to like about being in places like
that, but there was an excitement about it, too.
She'd had a lifetime to become used to the way people didn't always
want or understand her help, and forging ahead anyway because she knew it
was in their best interest. Richard never had to learn to face that cold
indifference and go about his duty despite it.
"Of course I do, Cara." Kahlan placed the bowl of scraps on a shelf,
reminding herself to empty it later. She wondered if she was to be a Mother
Confessor who forever lived in the woods, away from her people, a people
struggling for their liberty. "But you know how Richard feels. He thinks it
would be wrong-more than that, he thinks it would be irresponsible to give
in to such a wish when reason tells him he must not."
Cara's blue eyes flashed with determination. "You are the Mother
Confessor. Break the spell of this place. Tell him that you are needed back
there, and that you are going to return. What's he going to do? Tie you to a
tree? If you leave, he will follow. He will have to return, then."
Kahlan shook her head emphatically. "No, I can't do that. Not after
what he's told us. That's not the kind of thing you do to a person you
respect. I may not exactly agree with him, but I understand his reasons and
know him well enough to dread that he's right."
"But going back doesn't mean he would have to lead our side. You would
only be making him follow you back, not making him return to leadership."
Cara smirked. "But maybe when he sees how much he is needed, he will come to
his senses."
"That's part of the reason he's brought us so far out in the mountains:
he fears that if he's near the struggle, or if he goes back, he will see all
that's happening and be drawn in. I can't use his feelings for me to force
him into such a corner. Even if we did go back and he resisted the
temptation to help people fighting for their lives and wasn't drawn into the
struggle against the brutality of the Imperial Order, such an overt act of
coercion on my part would create an enduring rift between us."
Kahlan shook her head again. "This is something he believes too
strongly. I won't force him into returning."
Cara gestured with the dripping washcloth. "Maybe he doesn't really
believe it, not really, not deep down inside. Maybe he doesn't want to go
back because he doubts himself-over the Anderith thing-and so he thinks it's
just easier for him to stay away."
"I don't believe Richard doubts himself in this. Not in this. Not for a
second. Not one tiny little bit. I think that if he had any doubt
whatsoever, he would return, because that is really the easier path. Staying
away is harder-as you and I can attest.
"But you can leave at any time, Cara, if you feel so strongly about
going back. He has no claim on your life. You don't have to stay here if you
don't wish to."
"I am sworn to follow him no matter what foolish thing he does."
"Foolish? You follow him because you believe in him. So do I. That's
why I could never walk away, forcing him to follow."
Cara pressed her lips tight. Her blue eyes lost their fire as she
turned away and flopped the cloth back into the bucket of water. "Then we
will be stuck here, condemned to live out our lives in paradise."
Kahlan smiled in understanding of Cara's frustration. While she
wouldn't try to force Richard into something he was dead set against, that
didn't preclude her from trying to change his mind. She drained her teacup
and plunked it down on the counter. That would be different.
"Maybe not. You know, I've been thinking the same thing-that we need to
go back, I mean."
Cara peered over with a suspicious sidelong glance. "So, what do you
think we can do to convince him?"
"Richard is going to be gone for a while. Without him here to bother
us, how about we have a bath?"
"A bath?"
"Yes, a bath. I've been thinking about how much I'd like to get cleaned
up. I'm tired of looking like a backcountry traveler. I'd like to wash my
hair and put on my white Mother Confessor's dress."
"Your white Mother Confessor's dress . . ." Cara smiled
conspiratorially. "Ah. Now that will be the kind of battle a woman is better
equipped to fight."
Out of the corner of her eye, Kahlan could see Spirit standing in the
bedroom window, looking out at the world, her robes flowing in the wind, her
head thrown back, her back arched, her fists at her sides in defiance of
anything that would think to bridle her.
"Well, not exactly a battle the way you're thinking, but I believe I
can state the case better if I'm dressed properly. That wouldn't be unfair.
I will be putting the issue to him as the Mother Confessor. I believe that
in some ways his judgment has been clouded; it's hard to think about
anything else when you're worried sick about someone you love."
Kahlan's fists tightened at her sides as she thought about the danger
hanging over the Midlands. "He's got to see that all of that is in the past,
that I'm healthy, now, and that the time has come to return to our duties to
our people."
Smirking, Cara swiped back a wisp of her blond hair. "He will see that,
and more, if you were in that dress of yours, that's for sure."
"I want him to see the woman who was strong enough to win against him
with a sword. I want him to see that Mother Confessor in the dress, too."
From the corner of her mouth, Cara puffed another strand of hair off
her face. "To tell you the truth, I wouldn't mind a bath myself. You know, I
think that if I stand beside you in a proper Mord-Sith outfit and my hair is
washed and my braid is done up fresh and I'm looking properly Mord-Sith-like
and I speak my agreement with what you say, Lord Rahl will be all the more
convinced that we're right and inclined to see that the time has come for us
to return."
Kahlan set the plates into the bucket of water. "It's settled, then.
We've enough time before he comes back."
Richard had made them a small wooden tub, big enough to sit in and have
a nice bath. It wasn't big enough to lie back and luxuriate in, but it was
still quite the luxury for their mountain home.
Cara towed the tub from the corner, leaving drag marks across the dirt
floor. "I'll put it in my room. You go first. That way, if he comes back
sooner rather than later, you can keep your nosy husband busy and out of my
hair while I wash it."
Together, Kahlan and Cara hauled in buckets of water from the nearby
spring, heating some in a kettle over a roaring fire. When Kahlan finally
sank into the steaming water, she let out a long sigh. The air was chilly,
and the hot bath felt all the better for it. She would have liked to linger,
but decided not to.
She smiled at recalling all the trouble Richard had had with women in
bathwater. It was a good thing he wasn't there. Later, after they had their
talk, she thought she would ask him to take a bath before bed. She liked the
aroma of his sweat when it was clean sweat.
With the knowledge that she would face Richard with her hair washed and
sparkling, and in her white dress, Kahlan felt more confident about the real
possibility of their return than she had in a long time. She dried and
brushed her hair by the heat of the fire as Cara boiled some more water.
While Cara went in to take her bath, Kahlan went to her room to slip into
her dress. Most people feared the dress because they feared the woman who
wore it; Richard had always liked her in the dress.
As she tossed the towel on the bed, her eye was caught by the statue in
the window. Kahlan fisted her hands at her sides and, standing naked, arched
her back and threw her head back, mimicking Spirit, letting the feeling of
it overcome her, letting herself be that strong spirit, letting it flow
through her.
For that moment, she was the spirit of the statue.
This was a day of change. She could feel it.
It seemed a little odd, after being a woods woman for so long, to be
back in her Mother Confessor's dress, to feel the satiny smooth material
against her skin. Mostly, though, the feeling was the comfort of the
familiar.
As Mother Confessor, Kahlan felt sure of herself. On a fundamental
level, the dress was a form of battle armor. Wearing the dress, Kahlan also
felt a sense of importance, in that she carried the weight of history, of
exceptional women who had gone before her. The Mother Confessor bore a
terrible responsibility, but also had the satisfaction of being able to make
a real difference for the better in people's lives.
Those people depended on her. Kahlan had a job to do, and she had to
convince Richard that she needed to do it. They needed him, too, but even if
he would not
issue orders, he needed to at least willingly return with her. Those
fighting for their cause deserved to know the Mother Confessor was with
them, and that she had not lost faith in them or their cause. She had to
make Richard see that much of it.
Once she was back out in the main room, Kahlan could hear Cara
splashing in the tub. "Need anything, Cara?" she called out.
"No, I'm fine," Cara called from her room. "This feels so good! I think
there's enough dirt in this water to plant potatoes."
Kahlan laughed knowingly. She saw a chipmunk casting about outside the
house. "I'm going to go feed Chippy some apple cores. If you need anything,
call out."
Their universal name for all the chipmunks was "Chippy." They all
answered to it; they knew the name augured well for a handout.
"All right," Cara said from her tub. "If Lord Rahl gets back, though,
just kiss him or something to keep him busy but wait until I'm done before
you talk to him. I want to be with you to help you convince him. I want to
be sure we make him see the light."
Kahlan smiled. "I promise."
She plucked an apple core from the wooden bucket of little animal
snacks they kept hanging on a piece of twine where the chipmunks couldn't
get to them on their own. The squirrels loved apple cores, too. The horses
preferred their apples whole.
"Here, Chippy," Kahlan called out through the door in the voice she
always used with them. She raised the bucket back toward the ceiling and
hooked the line to the peg on the wall. "Chip, Chip, you want an apple?"
Outside, Kahlan saw the chipmunk off to the side, foraging through the
grass. The chill breeze caressed the long folds of her dress to her legs as
she walked. It was almost cold enough to need the fur mantle. The bare
branches of the oaks behind the house creaked and groaned as they rubbed
together. The pines, reaching toward the sky where the wind was stronger,
bowed deeply with some of the gusts. The sun had taken refuge behind a
steel-gray overcast that made her white dress all the more striking in the
gloom.
Near the window where Spirit stood watching out, Kahlan called the
chipmunk again. The chipmunks were held spellbound by the soft voice Kahlan
used when she talked to them. When he heard her, the furry little striped
creature stood on his hind legs for a moment, stiff and still, checking that
all was clear, and when he was sure it was safe, scurried to her. Kahlan
squatted and rolled the apple core out of her hand onto the ground.
"Here you go, sweetheart," she cooed. "A nice apple for you."
Chippy wasted no time starting in on his treat. Kahlan's cheeks hurt
from smiling at the way the chipmunk nibbled his way around the apple core
as it rolled along the ground. She rose to her feet, brushing her hands
clean as she watched, captivated by the little creature at his feverish
work.
He suddenly flinched with a squeak and froze.
Kahlan looked up. She was staring right into a woman's blue eyes.
The woman stood not ten feet away in a pose of cool scrutiny. Kahlan's
throat locked the gasp in her lungs. The woman had seemed to appear in the
middle of nowhere, out of nowhere. Icy gooseflesh prickled up the backs of
Kahlan's arms.
The woman's long blond hair cascaded over the shoulders of an exquisite
black dress. She was of such shapely beauty, her face of such pure
perfection, but especially her eyes were of such intelligent lucid witnesses
to all around her, that she could only be a creature of profound integrity .
. . or unspeakable evil.
Kahlan knew without doubt which it was.
This woman made Kahlan feel as ugly as a clod of dirt, and
instinctively as helpless as a child. She wanted nothing so much as to
shrink away. Instead, she stared into the woman's blue eyes for what
couldn't have been more than a second or two, but in that span of time an
eternity seemed to pass. In those knowing blue eyes flowed some formidable,
frightful current of contemplation.
Kahlan remembered Captain Meiffert's description of this woman. For the
life of her, though, Kahlan couldn't just then recall her name. It seemed
trivial. What mattered was that this woman was a Sister of the Dark.
Without speaking a word, the woman lifted her hands out a little and
turned her palms up, as if humbly offering something. Her hands were empty.
Kahlan committed to the vault through space necessary to close the
distance. She committed to unleashing her power. With her resolution, the
act had in a way already commenced. But she desperately needed to get closer
if it was to be meaningful, or effective.
As she began to move, to make that reckless leap, the world went white
in a bloom of pain.
Richard heard an odd sound that stopped him in his tracks. He felt a
thump through the ground and deep in his chest. He thought he'd seen a flash
in the treetops, but it had been so quick he wasn't sure.
It was the sound, though, as if some great hammer had struck off the
top of a mountain, that made his blood go cold.
The house wasn't far off through the trees. He dropped the string of
trout and the jar of minnows, and ran.
At the edge of the woods where it opened into the meadow, he skidded to
a halt. His pounding heart felt as if it had risen up into his throat.
Richard saw the two women not far away, in front of the house, one
dressed in white, and one in black. They were connected by a snaking,
undulating, crackling line of milky white light. Nicci's arms were lifted
slightly with her hands turned palms up and a little farther apart than the
width of her hips.
The milky light went from Nicci's chest, across the space between the
two women, and pierced Kahlan through the heart. The wavering aurora between
the two turned blindingly bright, as if twisting in an agony it was unable
to escape.
Seeing Kahlan trembling with the fury of that lance of light pinning
her to the wall, Richard was paralyzed by fear for her, fear he knew all too
well, from when she had been on the cusp of death. That bolt pierced Nicci's
heart, too, connecting the two women. Richard didn't understand the magic
Nicci was using, but he instinctively recognized it as profoundly dangerous,
not only to Kahlan, but to Nicci as well, for she, too, was in pain. That
Nicci would put herself at such risk gripped him with dread.
Richard knew he had to remain calm and keep his wits about himself if
Kahlan was to have a chance. He viscerally wanted to do something to strike
Nicci down, but he was certain that it wouldn't be as simple as that. Zedd's
oft-repeated expression-nothing is ever easy-flashed into Richard's mind
with sudden and tangible meaning.
In a desperate search for answers, everything Richard knew about magic
cascaded in a torrent through his mind. None of it told him what to do, but
it did tell him what he must not do. Kahlan's life hung in the balance.
Just then, Cara came flying out of the house. She was stark naked. It
somehow didn't look all that odd. Richard was accustomed to the shape of her
body in her skintight leather outfits. Other than the color, this didn't
look all that different. She was dripping wet. Her hair was undone, which
seemed more outlandishly indecent to him than her naked body. He was used to
seeing her with a braid all the time.
Cara's fist clutched the red leather rod-her Agiel-as she crouched. The
muscles of her legs, arms, and shoulders strained with tension demanding
release.
"Cara! No!" Richard cried out.
He was already tearing across the meadow as Cara sprang and slammed her
Agiel against the side of Nicci's neck.
Nicci shrieked in pain that dropped her to her knees. Kahlan cried out
in equal pain and crumpled to her knees as well, her movement a close match
to Nicci's.
Cara seized Nicci's hair in a fist and yanked her head back. "Time to
die, witch!"
Nicci was doing nothing to stop Cara as the Agiel hung only inches from
her throat.
Richard dove toward the Mord-Sith, desperately hoping he wouldn't be
too late. Cara's Agiel just grazed Nicci's throat as Richard tackled her
around the middle, ramming her backward. The feel of her was briefly
surprising-silky soft flesh over iron-hard muscle. The impact drove the wind
from her when they hit the ground.
Cara was so enraged and in such a combative state that she lashed out
with her Agiel at Richard, not really realizing it was him, knowing only
that she was being prevented from protecting Kahlan.
The violent impact of the weapon to the side of Richard's face felt
like a blow by an iron bar followed immediately by a lightning strike. The
crack of pain through his skull was momentarily blinding. His ears rang. The
jolt took his breath, staggering him, and brought back in a single instant
an avalanche of macabre memories.
Cara was riveted on the kill and furious at any interference. Richard
regained his senses just in time to seize her wrists and pin her to the
ground before she could pounce on Nicci. A Mord-Sith was formidable, to be
sure, but such a woman was instilled with the ability to counter magic, not
muscle. That was why she had been trying to goad Nicci into using her power;
only in that way could she capture the enemy's magic and so overpower her.
Cara's writhing naked body under him hardly registered in Richard's
mind. He tasted blood in his mouth. His attention was focused on her Agiel
and making sure she couldn't use it on him. His head throbbed with a painful
ringing, and he had to fight not only Cara, but encroaching unconsciousness.
It was all he could do to hold Cara down.
At that moment, the Mord-Sith was more of a threat to Kahlan's life
than Nicci was. If Nicci intended to kill Kahlan, he was sure she could have
already done so. Richard might not have understood specifically what Nicci
was doing, but by what he had already seen, he grasped the general nature of
it.
Blood dripped down onto Cara's bare chest, vivid red against the
expanse of her white skin.
"Cara, stop!" His jaw worked, if painfully, so he reasoned it wasn't
broken. "It's me. Stop. You'll kill Kahlan." Cara stilled under him, staring
up in angry confusion. "What you do to Nicci happens to Kahlan, too."
"You had better listen to him," Nicci said from behind him in that
velvety voice of hers.
Cara reached up when Richard released her wrists and touched the side
of his mouth. "I'm sorry," she whispered, realizing what she had done. Her
tone told him she meant it. Richard nodded and then stood, pulling her up by
her hand before rounding on Nicci.
Nicci stood tall, in that proud and proper posture she had. Her
attention and her magic was focused on Kahlan. The calm but violent power
from within him had awakened, waiting to be commanded. Richard didn't know
how to use it to stop Nicci. He held back, fearing that anything he did
would only make Kahlan's peril worse.
Kahlan was on her feet, too, but once again pinned to the wall of the
house by the milky rope of light. Her green eyes were wide with the
trembling torment of whatever it was Nicci was doing.
Nicci's hands lifted. She laid her palms to her heart, over the light.
Her back was to Richard, but he could see the light through her, like fire
eating through the center of a piece of paper, the incandescent hole
expanding outward, appearing to consume her. The twisting flare of light was
doing the same thing to Kahlan, seeming to burn through her, yet Richard
could see that she was not being killed by it. She was still breathing,
still moving, still alive-not reacting at all the way a person would if they
were really having holes burned through them. With magic, he knew better
than to believe his eyes.
At the center of Nicci's chest, under her hands, she began to become
solid again, re-forming where the light had spent itself in glowing rays
working out toward the edges of her.
The light cut off. Kahlan, her own hands pressed to the wall behind
her, sagged in relief as it extinguished, her eyes closing as if it was too
much to endure looking at the woman standing before her.
Richard was restrained fury. His muscles screamed to be released. The
magic within was a coiled viper waiting to strike. He wanted almost more
than anything to cut down this woman. The only thing he wanted more was for
Kahlan to be safe.
Nicci smiled pleasantly at Kahlan before turning to Richard. Her calm
blue eyes momentarily took in his white-knuckled fist on the hilt of his
sword.
"Richard. It's been a long time. You look well."
"What have you done?" He growled through gritted teeth.
She smiled. It was a smile a mother gave a child-a smile of indulgence.
She took a breath, as if recovering from a difficult bit of labor, and
lifted a hand to indicate Kahlan.
"I have spelled your wife, Richard."
Richard could hear Cara's breath close behind his left shoulder. She
was staying out of the way of his sword arm.
"To what end?" he asked.
"Why, to capture you, of course."
"What's going to happen to her? What harm have you done?"
"Harm? Why, none. Any harm that comes to her will only be by your
hand."
Richard frowned, understanding her, but wishing he were wrong. "You
mean, if I hurt you, Kahlan will suffer it, too?"
Nicci smiled with the same discerning, disarming smile she used to have
when she came to give him lessons. He could hardly believe that he used to
imagine that she must look like nothing so much as a good spirit in the
flesh.
Richard could sense the magic crackling around this woman. He had come
to know in most cases, through his own gift, when a person had the gift.
What others couldn't see, he saw. He could see it in their eyes, and
sometimes sense the aura of it around them. He had rarely met gifted women
who made the very air about them sizzle with their power. Worse, though,
Nicci was a Sister of the Dark.
"Yes, and more. Much more. You see, we are now linked by a maternity
spell. Odd name for a spell, yes? The name, in part, is derived from the
spell's nurturing aspects. As in lifegiver-the way a mother nurtures her
child and keeps it alive.
"That light you saw was an umbilical cord of sorts: an umbilical cord
of magic. By bending the nature of this world, it links our lives, no matter
the distance between
us. Just as I am the daughter of my mother and nothing could ever
change that, so neither can this magic be altered by anyone else."
She spoke as an instructor, as she had once spoken to him at the Palace
of the Prophets when she had been one of his teachers. She always spoke with
a quiet economy of words that he had once thought added an air of nobility
to her bearing. Back then, Richard couldn't have imagined coarse words
coming from Nicci's mouth, but the words she spoke now were vile.
She still moved with an unmatched, slow elegance. He had always thought
her movements seductive. He now saw them as the sinuous movements of a
snake.
The magic of his sword thundered through him, screaming to be loosed.
The sword's magic had been created specifically to combat what the sword's
wielder considered evil. At that moment, Nicci fit the requirement to such
an extent that the magic of the sword was close to overpowering him, near to
taking command in order to destroy this threat. With the pain from the Agiel
still throbbing in his head, it was a struggle to maintain his control over
the power of the sword. Richard could feel the raised gold letters of the
word TRUTH on the hilt pressing into his palm.
This was a time, perhaps more than any other, that he knew had to be
faced with truth, and not his raw wishes. Life and death hung in the
balance.
"Richard," Kahlan said in a level voice. She waited until his eyes met
hers. "Kill her." She spoke with a quiet authority that demanded obedience.
In her white Mother Confessor's dress, her words carried the unequivocal
weight of command. "Do it. Don't wait another moment. Kill her. Don't think
about it, do it."
Nicci calmly watched to see what he might do. What he would finally
decide seemed no more than a matter of curiosity to her. Richard had no need
to think or to decide.
"I can't," he said to Kahlan. "That would kill you, too."
Nicci lifted one eyebrow. "Very good, Richard. Very good."
"Do it!" Kahlan shrieked. "Do it now, while you still have the chance!"
"Keep still," he said in a calm voice. He looked back at Nicci. "Let's
hear it."
She clasped her hands in the way the Sisters of the Light were wont to
do. Only she was not a Sister of the Light. There looked to be something
deeply felt behind that blue-eyed gaze, but what those feelings could be, he
didn't know and feared to imagine. It was one of those intense gazes that
held a world of emotion, everything from longing to hatred. One thing he was
sure he saw was a dead serious determination that was more important to her
than life itself.
"It's like this, Richard. You are to come with me. As long as I live,
Kahlan will live. If I die, she dies. It's as simple as that."
"What else?" he demanded.
"What else?" Nicci blinked. "Nothing else."
"What if I decide to kill you?"
"Then I will die. But Kahlan will die with me-our lives are now
finked."
"That's not what I mean. I mean, you must have some purpose. What else
will it mean if I decide to kill you."
Nicci shrugged. "Nothing. It's up to you to decide. Our lives are in
your hands. Should you choose to preserve her life, you will have to come
with me."
"And what do you intend to do with him?" Kahlan asked as she edged her
way over to Richard's side. "Torture a sham confession out of him, so that
Jagang can put him on some kind of show trial followed by a very public
execution?"
If anything, Nicci looked surprised, as if such a thought had never
occurred to
her, and she found it abhorrent. "No, none of that. I intend him no
harm. For now, anyway. Eventually, of course, I will most likely have to
kill him."
Richard glared. "Of course."
When Kahlan made a move forward, he caught her arm and restrained her.
He knew what she intended. He didn't know exactly what would happen if
Kahlan unleased her Confessor's power on Nicci while they were both linked
by the spell, but he had no intention of finding out, since he was sure it
could come to no good end. Kahlan was far too ready, as far as he was
concerned, to forfeit her life to save his.
"Just hold on for now," he whispered to her.
Kahlan threw her arm out, pointing. "She just admitted she intends to
kill you!"
Nicci smiled reassuringly. "Don't worry about that for now. If it comes
to that, it will not likely be for a long time. Perhaps even a lifetime."
"And in the meantime?" Kahlan asked. "What plans do you have for him
before you discard his life as if it were insignificant?"
"Insignificant . . . ?" Nicci opened her hands in an innocent gesture.
"I have no plans. I expect only to take him away."
Richard had thought he understood what was going on, but he was less
and less sure with everything Nicci said. "You mean, you want to take me
away so that 1 can't fight against the Imperial Order?"
Her brow twitched. "If you wish to think of it in those terms, I admit
it is true that your time as the leader of the D'Haran Empire is over. But
that is not the point. The point is that everything about your life up until
now"-Nicci glanced pointedly at Kahlan-"is over."
Her words seemed to chill the air. They surely chilled Richard.
"What's the rest of it?" He knew there had to be more, something that
would make sense of it all. "What other terms are there if I want to keep
Kahlan alive?"
"Well, no one is to follow us, of course."
"And if we do?" Kahlan snapped. "I might follow you and kill you
myself, even if it means the end of my own life." Kahlan's green eyes shone
with icy resolve as she cast a threatening glare on the woman.
Nicci lifted her brows deliberately as she leaned ever so slightly
toward Kahlan, the way a mother would in cautioning a child. "Then that will
be the end of it unless Richard stops you from doing such a thing. That is
all part of what he must decide to do. But you make a miscalculation if you
think I care one way or the other. 1 don't, you see. Not at all."
"What is it you intend me to do?" Richard said, pulling Nicci,' s
unsettlingly calm gaze from Kahlan. "What if I get where you're taking me,
and I don't do as you wish?"
"You misunderstand, Richard, if you believe that I have some
preconceived notion of what it is I wish you to do. I don't. You will do as
you wish, I imagine."
"As I wish?"
"Well, naturally you won't be allowed to return to your people." She
tossed her head, flicking back strands of her long blond hair that the wind
had pulled across in front of her blue eyes. Her gaze never left his. "And I
suppose if you were to be in some way impossibly and defiantly contrary,
then in that case, such would obviously be an answer in and of itself. It
would be a shame, of course, but I would then have no use for you. I would
kill you."
"You would have no further use? You mean Jagang would have no further
use."
"No." Once again, Nicci looked surprised. "I do not act on behalf of
His Excellency." She tapped her lower lip. "You see? I removed the ring he
put through my lip marking me as his slave. I do this on behalf of myself."
A yet more disturbing thought surfaced. "How is it that he can't enter
your mind? That he can't control you?"
"You don't need me to answer that question, Richard Rahl."
It made no sense to him; the bond to the Lord Rahl worked for those
loyal to him. He could see no way that this could be construed as an act of
loyalty. This was unequivocally an act of aggression and against his will;
the bond shouldn't work for her. He reasoned that perhaps Jagang was in her
mind and she unaware of it. The thought occurred to him that maybe Jagang
was in her mind, and it had driven her insane.
"Look," Richard said, feeling like they weren't even speaking the same
language, "I don't know what you think-"
"Enough talk. We are leaving."
Her blue eyes watched him without anger. It almost seemed to Richard
that for Nicci, Kahlan anal Cara were not there.
"This doesn't make any sense. You want me to go with you, but you
aren't acting on behalf of Jagang. If that's true, then-"
"I believe I've made it as clear as possible and quite simple, besides.
If you wish to be free, you may kill me at any opportunity. If you do,
Kahlan will also die. Those are your only two choices. Although I believe I
know what you will do, I am in no way certain. Two paths now lie before you.
You must take one."
Richard could hear Cara's angry breath behind him. She was a coiled
spring ready to strike. Fearing she might do something of irredeemable harm,
he lifted his hand just to be sure she knew he meant for her to stay behind
him.
"Oh, and one additional matter, should you think to resort to some plot
or treachery, or, for that matter, refuse to do the simple things I ask of
you: through the spell that joins us, I can at any time end Kahlan's life. I
have but to will it. It is not necessary for me to die. She lives every day
from now on only by my grace, and thus yours.
"I wish her no harm, and have no feelings one way or the other about
her life. In fact, if anything, I wish it to be long. She has brought you a
measure of happiness, and in return for that, I hope she will not have to
forfeit her life. But then, you have some influence over that by your
behavior."
Nicci cast a deliberate glare over Richard's shoulder, to Cara. She
then reached out and with her fingers gently wiped blood from his mouth. She
finished cleaning his chin with her thumb. "Your MordSith has hurt you. I
can help you if you wish."
"No."
"Very well." She wiped her bloody fingers clean on the skirt of her
black dress. "Unless you want to risk other people causing Kahlan's death
without your intending it, I suggest you insure that others don't act
without your consent. Mord-Sith are resourceful and determined women. I
respect their devotion to duty. However, if your Mord-Sith follows us-and my
magic will tell me if she does-Kahlan will die."
"And just how will I know Kahlan is all right? We could get a mile away
from here, and you could use that magic link to kill her. I would never
know."
Nicci's brow creased together. She looked genuinely puzzled.
"Why would I do that?"
A storm of rage and panic pushed his emotions first one way, and then
the other. "Why are you doing any of this!"
She regarded him in silent curiosity for a moment. "I have my reasons.
I'm sorry, Richard, that you must suffer in this. Making you suffer is not
my purpose. I give you my word that I will not harm Kahlan without informing
you."
"You expect me to believe your word?"
"I've told you the truth. I have no reason to lie to you. In time, you
will come to understand everything better. Kahlan will come to no harm from
me as long as I am safe, and you come with me."
For reasons he couldn't fathom, Richard found himself believing her.
She seemed dead honest and completely sure of herself, as if she had
reasoned it all out a thousand times.
He didn't believe that Nicci was telling him everything. She was making
it simple so that he could grasp the important elements and have an easier
time deciding what to do. Whatever the rest of it was, it couldn't be as
devastating as this much of it. The thought of being taken from Kahlan was
agony, but he would do almost anything to save her life. Nicci knew that.
The enigma resurfaced. It was somehow linked to this.
"The spell that protects a person's mind from the dream walker works
only for those loyal to me. You can't expect to be safe from Jagang if you
do this. It's an act of treachery."
"Jagang does not frighten me. Don't fear for my mind, Richard. I'm
quite safe from His Excellency. In time, perhaps you will come to see how
wrong you have been in so many things."
"You're deceiving yourself, Nicci."
"You only see part of it, Richard." She lifted an eyebrow in a cryptic
manner. "At heart, your cause is the cause of the Order. You are too noble a
person for it to be otherwise."
"I may die at your hands, but I will die hating everything you and the
Order stand for." Richard's fists tightened. "You'll not get what you want,
Nicci. Whatever it is, you'll not get it."
She regarded him with great compassion. "This is all for the best,
Richard."
Nothing he said seemed to hold any sway with her, and he could make no
sense of the things she said. The fury inside boiled up. The magic of the
sword fought him for control. He could barely contain it. "Do you really
expect me to ever come to believe that?"
Nicci's blue eyes seemed to be focused somewhere beyond him.
"Possibly not."
Her gaze fixed on him once more. She put two fingers between her lips
as she turned and whistled. In the distance, a horse whinnied and trotted
out of the woods.
"I have another horse for you, waiting up on the other side of the
pass."
Terror clawed at his bones. Kahlan's fingers tightened on his arm.
Cara's hand touched his back. Memories of being captured before and all it
meant, all the things he had endured, made his pulse race and his breath
come in rapid pulls. He felt trapped. Everything was slipping through his
fingers and there didn't seem to be anything he could do about it.
He wanted more than anything to fight, but he couldn't figure how. He
wished it were as simple as striking down his adversary. He reminded himself
that reason, not
wishing, was his only chance. He seized the calm center within, and
used it to quell the rising storm of panic.
Nicci stood tall, her shoulders square, her chin up. She looked like
someone facing an execution with courage. He realized then that she truly
was prepared for whichever way it was to go.
"I have given you your choice, Richard. You have no other options.
Choose."
"There is no choice to make. I'll not allow Kahlan to die."
"Of course not." Nicci's posture eased almost imperceptibly. A small
smile of reassurance warmed her eyes. "She will be fine."
The horse slowed from its trot as it approached. When the handsome
dappled mare halted beside her, Nicci took ahold of the reins near the bit.
Its gray mane ruffled in the cold breeze. The mare snorted and tossed her
head, uneasy before strangers, and eager to be away.
"But . . . but," Richard stammered as Nicci stepped up into the
stirrup. "But, what am 1 allowed to take?"
Nicci swung her leg over the horse's rump and settled into the saddle.
She squirmed herself into position and adjusted her shoulders, setting them
back. Her black dress and blond hair stood out in stark relief against the
iron sky.
"You may bring anything you like, as long as it isn't a person." She
clicked her tongue, urging her horse around to face him. "I suggest you take
clothes and such. Whatever you wish to have with you. Take all you can
carry, if you want."
Her voice took on an edge. "Leave that sword of yours, though. You
won't be needing it." She leaned down, her expression for the first time
turning cold and threatening. "You are no longer the Seeker, or Lord Rahl,
leader of the D'Haran empire, or for that matter, you are no longer the
husband of the Mother Confessor. From now on, you are nobody but Richard."
Cara stepped out beside him, a thunderhead of dark fury. "I am
Mord-Sith. If you think I'm going to allow you to take Lord Rahl, you're
crazy. The Mother Confessor has already stated her wishes. My duty, above
all else, is to kill you."
Nicci curled three fingers around the reins, her thumbs holding them
tight. "Do as you must. You know the consequences."
Richard held out a restraining arm to prevent Cara from going up after
Nicci and dragging her off the horse. "Take it easy," he whispered. "Time is
on our side. As long as we're all still alive, we have the chance to think
of something."
The strain of Cara's weight against his arm eased. She reluctantly
backed a step.
"I have to get some things," Richard said to Nicci, trying to buy that
time. "Wait, at least, until I can get my pack together."
Nicci laid the reins over and stepped her horse back toward him. She
rested her left wrist across the saddle's pommel.
"I'm leaving." With a long graceful finger of her other hand, she
pointed. "You see that pass up there? You be with me by the time I'm at the
top, and Kahlan will live. If I cross over and you aren't with me, Kahlan
will die. You have my word."
It was all happening too fast. He needed to think of a way to stall.
"Then what good will any of this have done you?"
"It will have told me what means more to you." She sat back up in her
saddle. "When you think about it, that is quite a profound question. It is
yet to be answered. By the time I get to the top of the pass, 1 will have
the answer."
Nicci rocked her hips in the saddle, urging the horse ahead into a
walk. "Don't
forget-top of the pass. You have until then to say your good-byes, pack
what you wish to take, and then catch up with me if you wish Kahlan to live.
Or, if you choose to stay, you have until then to say your good-byes before
she dies. Understand, though, when making your choice, that the first will
be as final as the second."
Kahlan struggled to run toward the horse, but Richard clutched her
around her waist.
"Where are you taking him?" she demanded.
Nicci stopped her horse momentarily and gazed down at Kahlan with a
look of frightening finality.
"Why, into oblivion."
As she watched Nicci turn her dappled mare toward the pass and the
distant blue mountains beyond, Kahlan was still struggling to overcome her
dizziness from what the woman had done to her. Off near the distant trees, a
doe and her nearly grown fawn, two of the small herd of deer that frequented
the meadow, stood at alert, their ears perked, watching Nicci, waiting to
see if she might be a threat, Spooked by what they saw when Nicci turned
their way, both deer flicked their tails straight up and bounded for the
trees.
Kahlan refused to allow herself to give in to the disorientation. But
for Richard's iron arms around her waist, she would have thrown herself at
the Sister of the Dark. Kahlan had desperately wanted to unleash her
Confessor's power. No one had ever deserved it more.
Had her senses not still been floundering in a daze, she might have
been able to invoke her power through the Con Dar, the Blood Rage of an
ancient ability she possessed. Such rare magic would have bridged the
relatively small distance, but, reeling from the lingering force of Nicci's
conjuring, the attempt had been futile. It was all Kahlan could do to keep
her feet under her and her last meal in her stomach.
It was frustrating, infuriating, and humiliating, but Nicci had
surprised her and with magic as swift as Kahlan's Confessor's power had
taken her before she could react. Once Nicci's talons clutched her, Kahlan
had been powerless.
She had grown up being trained not to be taken by surprise. Confessors
were always targets; she knew better. Any number of times in similar
situations she had prevailed. Lulled by months of tranquillity, Kahlan had
lost her edge. She vowed never to let it happen again . . , but that would
do her no good now.
She could still feel Nicci's vital magic sizzling through her, as if
her soul itself had been scorched in the heat of the ordeal. Her insides
roiled as waves of the onslaught had yet to settle down. The cold air
rushing across the meadow, bending the brown grass, swept up to chill her
burning face. The wind carried an unfamiliar scent into the valley,
something that her jumbled senses perceived as vaguely portentous. The big
pines behind the house bowed and twisted but stood tall as the wind broke
against them with a sound not unlike waves rushing against stone cliffs.
Whatever sort of magic had been unleashed in her, Kahlan was convinced
Nicci had told the truth about its consequence. Despite how much she hated
the woman, because of the maternity spell Kahlan felt a connection to her, a
connection that she could only interpret as . . . affection. It was a
bewildering sensation. While positively disturbing, it was also, in a way, a
comforting connection to the woman beyond her vile magic and twisted
purpose. There seemed to be something deep within Nicci worth loving.
Regardless of Kahlan's far-fetched feelings, her perception and
reasoning told
her the truth of the matter: such impressions were illusion. If she got
the opportunity, she would not again hesitate for an instant to kill Nicci.
"Cara," Richard said, glaring at Nicci's back as she walked her horse
across the meadow, "I don't want you even thinking about trying to stop
her."
"I'm not going to allow-"
"I mean it. I mean it more than any order I've ever given you. If you
ever brought Kahlan to harm in such a way . . . well, 1 trust you'd never do
such an evil thing to me. Why don't you go get dressed."
Cara growled a curse under her breath. Richard turned to Kahlan as the
Mord Sith marched off into the house. Kahlan only then really noticed that
Cara was naked. She must have been interrupted in her bath. The magic Nicci
used had fogged Kahlan's mind, blurring her memory of recent events.
Kahlan did recall quite clearly, though, the feel of the Agiel. The
shattering torture of the MordSith's weapon had spiked through Nicci's magic
like a lance through straw. Even though Cara had used her Agiel on Nicci,
Kahlan felt it as if it had been used directly against the side of her own
neck.
Kahlan gently touched Richard's jaw in sympathy, then took hold of his
upper arms instead when he gave her a look that suggested no need for
sympathy. His big hands closed on her waist. She stepped into his embrace
and rested her forehead against his cheek.
"This can't be," she whispered. "It just can't."
"But it is."
"I'm so sorry."
"Sorry?"
"That I let her take me by surprise." Kahlan trembled with anger at
herself. "I should have been alert. If I'd done as I should have, and killed
her first, it would never have come to this."
Richard ran a hand gently down the back of her head, holding her to his
shoulder.
"Remember how you killed me in a sword fight the other day?" She nodded
against him. "We all make mistakes, get caught off guard. Don't blame
yourself. No one is perfect. It could even be that she cast a web of magic
to dull your awareness so she could slip up to you like . . . like some
silent unseen mosquito."
Kahlan had never considered that. Caught off guard or not, though, it
made her furious with herself. If only she had not been paying attention to
the stupid chipmunk. If only she had looked up sooner. If only she had acted
without waiting a split second to analyze the true nature of the threat to
decide if it warranted the unleashing of her devastating magic.
Almost from birth, Kahlan had been instructed in the use of her power,
with the mandate of unleashing it only upon being certain of the need. Much
like killing, a Confessor's power was the destruction of who a person was.
Afterward, the person acted exclusively on behalf of the Confessor, and at
the direction of the Confessor. It was as final as death.
Kahlan looked up into Richard's gray eyes. They looked all the more
gray with the gray sky behind him.
"My life is a precious and sacred thing to me," she said. "Yours is no
less to you. Don't throw yours away to be a slave to mine. I couldn't stand
it."
"It's not come to that yet. I'll figure something out. But for now, I
have to go with her."
"We'll follow, but stay well back." He was already shaking his head.
"But, she won't even be aware-"
"No. For all we know, she could have others with her. They could be
waiting to catch you if you follow. I couldn't bear the thought of knowing
that at any moment she could use magic or somehow find out you were
following. If that happened, you would die for nothing."
"You mean you think she could . . . hurt you to make you tell her I
planned to follow."
"Let's not let our imaginations get the better of us."
"But I should be close, for when you make a move-for when you figure a
way to stop her."
Richard cupped her face tenderly in his hands. He had a strange look in
his eyes, a look she didn't like.
"Listen to me. I don't know what's going on, but you mustn't die just
to free me."
Tears of desperation stung her eyes. She blinked them away. She fought
to keep her voice from becoming a wail.
"Don't go, Richard. I don't care what it means for me, as long as you
can be free. I would die happy if doing so would keep you from the enemy's
cruel hands. I can't allow the Order to have you. I can't allow you to
endure the slow grinding death of a slave in exchange for my life. I can't
allow them to-"
She bit off the words of what she feared most; she couldn't bear the
thought of him being tortured. It made her even more dizzy and sick to think
of him being maimed and mutilated, of him suffering all alone and forgotten
in some distant stinking dungeon with no hope of help.
But Nicci said they wouldn't. Kahlan told herself that, for her own
sanity, she had to believe Nicci's word.
Kahlan realized Richard was smiling to himself, as if trying to commit
to memory every detail of her face while at the same time running a thousand
other things through his thoughts.
"There's no choice," he whispered. "I must do this."
She clutched his shirt in her fist. "You're doing just as Nicci
wants-she knows you'll want to save me. I can't allow you to make that
sacrifice!"
Richard looked up briefly, gazing out at the trees and mountains behind
their house, taking it all in, like a condemned man savoring his last meal.
His gaze, more earnest, settled once more on hers.
"Don't you see? I am making no sacrifice. I am making a fair trade. The
reality that you exist is my basis for joy and happiness.
"I make no sacrifice," he repeated, stressing each word. "To be a
slave, even if that is what happens to me, and yet know you're alive, is my
choice over being free in a world in which you don't exist. I can live with
the first. I can't, with the second. The first is painful, the second
unbearable."
Kahlan beat a fist against his chest. "But you will be a slave or worse
and I can't bear that!"
"Kahlan, listen to me. I will always have freedom in my heart because I
understand what it is. Because I do, I can work toward it. I will find a way
to be free.
"I cannot find a way to bring you back to life.
"The spirits know that in the past I've been willing to forfeit my life
for a just
cause and if my life would truly make a difference. In the past, I have
knowingly imperiled both our lives, been willing to sacrifice both our
lives-but not in return for nothing. Don't you see? This would be a fool's
bargain. I'll not do it."
Kahlan pulled her breaths in small gasps, trying to told back the tears
as well as her rising sense of panic. "You're the Seeker. You must find a
way to freedom. Of course you will. You will, 1 know." She forced a swallow
past the constriction in her throat as she tried to reassure Richard, or
perhaps herself. "You'll find a way. I know you will. You'll find a way and
you'll come back. You did before. You will this time."
The shadows of Richard's features seemed dark and severe, cast as they
were in a mask of resignation.
"Kahlan, you must be prepared to go on."
"What do you mean?"
"You must find joy in the fact that I, too, live. You must be prepared
to go on with that knowledge and nothing else."
"What do you mean, nothing else?"
He had a terrible look in his eyes-some kind of sad, grim, tragic
acceptance. She didn't want to look into his eyes, but, standing there with
her hand against his chest, feeling the warmth of him, the life within him,
she couldn't make herself look away as he spoke.
"I think it's different this time."
Kahlan pulled her hair back when the wind dragged it over her eyes.
"Different?"
"There's something very different about the feel of this. It doesn't
make sense in the way things in the past have made sense. There's something
deadly serious about Nicci. Something singular. She's planned this out and
she's prepared to die for it. I can't lie to you to deceive you. Something
tells me that, this time, I may never be able to find a way to come back."
"Don't say that." In weak fingers trembling with dread, Kahlan gathered
his dark shirt into a wrinkled knot. "Please don't say that, Richard. You
must try. You must find a way to come back to me."
"Don't ever think I won't be doing my best." His voice was impassioned,
almost to the point of sounding angry. "I swear to you, Kahlan, that as long
as there is a breath in my lungs, I'll never give up; I'll always try to
find a way. But we can't ignore the possibility just because it's painful to
contemplate: I may never be back.
"You must face the fact that it looks like you must go on without me,
but with the knowledge that I'm alive, just as I will have that awareness of
you in my heart where no one can touch it. In our hearts, we have each other
and always will. That was the oath we swore when we were married-to love and
honor each other for all time. This can't change it. Distance can't change
it. Time can't change it."
"Richard . . ." She choked back her wail, but she couldn't keep the
tears from coursing down her face. "I can't stand the thought of you being a
slave because of me. Don't you see that? Don't you see what that would do to
me? I'll kill myself if I must so that she can't do this to you. I must."
He shook his head, the wind ruffling his hair. "Then I would have no
reason to escape her. Nothing to escape for."
"You won't need to escape, that's just it she won't be able to hold
you."
"She's a Sister of the Dark." He threw open his hands. "She will simply
use another means I won't know how to counter-and if you're dead, I won't
care to."
"But-"
"Don't you see?" He seized her by her shoulders. "Kahlan, you must live
to give me a reason to try to escape her."
"Your own life is your reason," she said. "To be free to help people
will be your reason."
"The people be cursed." He released her and gestured angrily. "Even
people where I grew up turned against us. They tried to murder us. Remember?
The lands that have surrendered into the union with D'Hara will likely not
remain loyal, either, when they see the reality of the Imperial Order's army
moving up into the Midlands. Eventually, D'Hara will stand alone.
"People don't understand or value freedom. The way it now stands, they
won't fight for it. They've proven it in Anderith, and in Hartland, where I
grew up. What more clear evidence could be seen? I hold out no false hope.
Most of the rest of the Midlands will quail when it comes time to fight
against the Imperial Order. When they see the size of the Order's army and
their brutality with those who resist, they will surrender their freedom."
He looked away from her, as if regretting his flash of anger in their
last moments together. His tall form, so stalwart against the sweep of
mountains and sky, sagged a little, seeming to huddle closer to her as if
seeking comfort.
"The only thing I have to hope for is to get away so I can come back to
you." His voice had lost all traces of heat as he spoke in a near whisper.
"Kahlan, please don't take that hope from me-it's all I have."
In the distance she could see the fox trotting across the meadow. Its
thick, whitetipped tail followed out straight behind as the fox made its
inspection for any rodents that might be about. As Kahlan's gaze tracked its
movement, from the corner of her eye she caught a glimpse of Spirit standing
proud and free in the window. How could she lose the man who had carved that
for her when she needed it most?
She could, she knew, because now he needed what only she could give
him. Looking back up into his intense gray eyes, she realized she could not
hope to deny him his earnest plea and only request, not at a time like this.
"All right, Richard. I won't do anything rash to free you. I'll wait
for you. I'll endure it.
"I know you. I know you won't ever give up. You know I expect no less
from you. When you get away-and you will-I'll be waiting for you, and then
we'll be together again. We'll never be apart in our hearts. As you said,
our oath of love is timeless."
Richard closed his eyes with relief. He tenderly kissed her brow. He
lifted her hand from his chest and pressed soft kisses to her knuckles. She
saw then how much her pledge meant to him.
Kahlan pulled her hand back and quickly removed her necklace, the one
Shota had given her as a wedding gift. It was meant to prevent her from
getting pregnant. She turned Richard's hand over and pushed the necklace
into his palm. He frowned in confusion at the small, dark stone hanging from
the gold chain draped over his fingers.
"What's this about?"
"I want you to take it." Kahlan cleared her throat to keep her voice.
She could only manage a whisper. "I know what she wants of you-what she will
make you do."
"No, that's not what . . ." He shook his head. He said, "I'm not taking
this," as if turning it away would somehow deny the possibility.
Kahlan put her hand to the side of his face. His face wavered before
her in a watery blur.
"Please, Richard. Please take it. For me. I couldn't bear the thought
of another woman having your child." Or even the thought of the attempt at
its creation-but she didn't say that part of it. "Especially not after mine
. . . "
He looked away from her eyes. "Kahlan . . ." Words failed him.
"Just do it for me. Take it. Please, Richard. I'm doing as you ask and
will endure your captivity; please honor my request in return. I couldn't
stand the thought of that bewitching blond beast having your child-the child
that should be mine. Don"you see? How could I ever love something I hated?
And how could I ever hate
something that was part of you? Please, Richard, don't let it come to
that."
The cold wind lifted and twisted her hair. Her whole life, it seemed,
was twisting out of her control. She could hardly believe that this place of
such joy, peace, and redemption, a place where she had come to live again,
could be a place where it would all be taken away.
Richard held the necklace out to her, as if it were a thing that might
bite him. The dark stone swung under his fingers, gleaming in the gloom.
"Kahlan, I don't think that's what this is about. I really don't. But
anyway, she could simply refuse to wear it and threaten your life if I
didn't . . ."
Kahlan pulled the gold chain from his fingers and laid it all in a
small neat mound in his palm. The dark stone glimmered from its imprisonment
behind the veil of tiny gold links. She closed his fingers around the
necklace and held his fist shut with both of her hands.
"You're the one who demands we not ignore those things that are painful
to contemplate."
"But if she refuses . . ."
Kahlan gripped his fist tighter in her trembling fingers. "If it comes
to a time when she makes that demand of you, you must convince her to wear
the necklace. You must. For me. It's bad enough for me to think she might
take my love, my husband, from me like that, but to also fear . . ."
His big hand felt so warm and familiar and comforting to her. Her words
came choked with desperate tears. She could do no more than beg. "Please,
Richard."
He pressed his lips tight, then nodded and stuffed the necklace in a
pocket. "I don't believe those are her intentions, but if it should turn out
to be so, you have my word: she will wear the necklace."
Kahlan sagged against him with a sob.
He took her by the arm. "Come on. Hurry. I have to get whatever I need
to take. I've only got a few minutes, or all this will be for nothing. I can
take the shorter trail and still catch up with her at the top of the pass,
but I don't have much time."
Kahlan was aware of Cara, wearing her bloodred leather, standing in the
doorway to their bedroom watching Richard cram his things into his pack.
Kahlan nodded as she and Richard exchanged brief, stilted instructions. They
had already come to terms with the life-and-death issues. It seemed they
both feared to say anything of consequence for fear of disturbing the
delicate, desperate, difficult agreements they had reached.
The meager light coming in the small window did little to brighten the
gloom. Cara, over in the doorway, blocked some of the light. The room had
the feel of a dungeon. Richard, dressed in dark clothes, looked like a
shadow. So many times, as she lay in bed recovering, Kahlan had thought of
it that way-as her dungeon. Now it had the palpable sense of a dungeon, but
with the clean aroma of pine walls instead of the stench of a stone cell
from where trembling, sweating prisoners were taken to their death.
Cara looked forlorn one moment and the next like lightning seeking
ground. Kahlan knew that the Mord-Sith's emotions had to be as torn as her
own, balancing on a knife's edge with despair and grief on one side and rage
on the other. MordSith were not used to being in such a position, but then,
Cara was now more than simply Mord-Sith.
Kahlan watched Richard pack the black trousers, black undershirt, black
and gold tunic, silver wristbands, over-belt with its pouches, and golden
cloak into his pack, where they took up a good portion of the available
space. He was wearing his dark forest garb; he didn't have time to change.
Kahlan hoped a time would soon come when he would escape and again wear the
clothes of a war wizard to toad them against the Order. They all needed him
to lead the D'Haran Empire against the invading horde from the Old World.
For reasons that weren't always entirely clear, Richard had become the
linchpin of their struggle. Kahlan knew his feelings about that-that people
must be willing to fight for themselves and not only for him-were valid. If
an idea was sound, it had to have a life beyond a leader, or the leader had
failed.
As he threw other clothes and small items into his pack, Richard told
Kahlan that maybe she could find Zedd, that he might have some ideas. She
nodded and said she would, knowing Zedd wouldn't be able to do anything.
This terrible triangle was not liable to be susceptible to influence by
outsidersNicci had seen to that. It was just a hope Richard was giving her,
the only bouquet he could offer in the desolate void of reality.
Kahlan didn't know what to do with her hands. She stood twining her
fingers together as tears dripped off her chin. There must be something to
say, something important, some last words while she had the chance, but she
couldn't think of them.
She supposed he knew what she felt, what was in her heart, and words
couldn't add anything to that. She pressed her fist against the aching knot
of anxiety in the pit of her stomach.
A sense of doom crowded in the room like a fourth person, a grim guard
waiting to take Richard away. This was the heart of terror, being controlled
by what you couldn't see, couldn't reason with, couldn't persuade or battle.
The doom waited, implacable, immune, indifferent.
As Cara vanished from the doorway, Richard pulled a fistful of gold and
silver from an inside pocket in his leather pack. He hastily dropped roughly
half back in the pack and then held out the rest.
"Take this. You might need it."
"I'm the Mother Confessor. I don't need gold."
He tossed it on the bed for her anyway, apparently not wanting to argue
with her in their last moments together.
"Do you want any of the carvings?" she asked. It was a stupid question
and she knew it, but she had to fill the awful silence and it was the only
thing to come into her head, other than a hopeless plea.
"No. I've no need for them. When you look at them, think of me, and
remember I love you." He rolled a blanket tight, wrapped it with a small
patch of oiled canvas, and tied it with leather thongs to the bottom of his
pack. "I guess if I were to want any, I could always carve some."
Kahlan handed him a cake of soap.
"I don't need your carving to remind me of your love. I'll remember.
Carve something to make Nicci see that you should be free."
Richard glanced up with a grim smile. "I plan on seeing to it that she
knows I won't ever give in to her and the Order. Carvings won't be
necessary. She thinks she has this all planned out, but she's going to find
out I'm bad company." Richard jammed a fist in his pack, making more room.
"Very bad company."
Cara rushed back in, carrying small bundles with the corners tied in
knots at the top. She plopped them down one at a time onto the bed.
"I put together some food for you, Lord Rahl. Things that will keep for
traveling--dried meat and fish and such. Some rice and beans. I . . . I put
a loaf of bread that I made on top, so eat it first, while it's still good."
He thanked her as he put the small bundles into his pack. He put the
bread to his nose for a deep whiff before packing it away. He gave Cara a
smile of appreciation.
Richard straightened. His smile evaporated in a way that for some
reason made Kahlan's blood go cold. Looking like he was in the throes of
committing himself to some last, grim deed, Richard pulled the baldric off
over his head. He held the goldand-silver wrought scabbard in his left hand
and drew the Sword of Truth in his white-knuckled right fist.
The blade rang out with its unique metallic sound, announcing its
freedom.
Richard drew his sleeve up his arm and wiped the sword across his
forearm. Kahlan winced as she watched. She didn't know if he cut deeply
accidentally, or on purpose. With an icy sensation she recalled that Richard
cut very precisely with any sharp steel edge.
He turned the blade and wiped both sides in gouts of vivid red blood.
He bathed the blade in it, giving it a voluptuous taste, wetting its
appetite for more. Kahlan didn't know what he was doing or why he was doing
it now, but it was a frightening
ritual to witness. She wished he had drawn it before and cut down
Nicci. Her blood, Kahlan would not fear seeing.
Richard picked up the scabbard and slammed the Sword of Truth home.
Blood running over his hand left greasy red smears across the scabbard as he
slid his hand down the length of it, to the tip, and then seized the
sheathed weapon at its center point in his fist. His head bowed, his eyes on
the dull silver and gold reflections lustrous even through his own blood, he
loomed closer to her.
Richard looked up, and Kahlan saw the lethal rage of magic dancing in
his eyes. He had invoked the sword's terrible wrath, called it forth, and
then put it away. She'd never seen him do such a thing before.
He lifted the sword in its scabbard to her. The tendons in the back of
his fist stood out in the strain. The white of his knuckles showed through
the blood.
"Take it," he said in a hoarse voice that betrayed the struggle within.
Spellbound, Kahlan lifted the scabbard in her palms. For that instant,
until he pulled away his bloody hand, she felt a jolting shock as if she
were suddenly welded to the weapon by hot fury unlike anything she had ever
experienced. She half expected to see a burst of sparks. She could feel such
rage emanating from the cold steel that it nearly dropped her to her knees.
She might have dropped the weapon itself in that first instant, had she been
able to let go of it. She could not.
Once Richard removed his hand, the sheathed sword lost the passionate
rage and felt no different from any other weapon.
Richard lifted a finger in caution. The dangerous magic still glazed
his eyes. The muscles of his jaw tightened until she could see it standing
out all the way up through his temples.
"Don't draw this sword," he warned in that awful hoarse whisper,
"unless it's a matter of your life. You know the ghastly things this weapon
can do to a parson. Not only the one under the power of the blade, but the
one under the power of the hilt."
Kahlan, arrested by the intensity of his gaze, could only nod. She
clearly recalled the first time Richard had used the sword to kill a man.
The first time he came to learn the horror of killing had been to protect
her.
Using the weapon that first time, unleashing the magic the first time,
had nearly killed Richard as well. It had been a struggle for him to learn
how to control such a storm of magic as the Sword of Truth freed.
Without the rage of the sword's magic, Richard's eyes were capable of
conveying menace. Kahlan could recall several times when his raptor's glare,
by itself, had brought a roomful of people to silence. There were few things
worse than the need to escape the look in those eyes. Now, those eyes
hungered to deliver death.
"Be angry if you must use this," he growled. "Be very angry. That will
be your only salvation."
Kahlan swallowed. "1 understand." She nodded. "I remember."
Righteous rage was the only defense against the crippling pain the
sword exacted as payment for its service.
"Life or death. No other reason. I don't know what will happen, and I'd
just as soon you not find out. But I'd prefer that, to you being without
this terrible defense if you need it. I've given it a taste of blood, it
will come out voracious. When it comes out, it will be in a blood rage."
"I understand."
His eyes cooled at last. "I'm sorry to give you the terrible
responsibility of this weapon, especially in this way, but it's the only
protection I can offer."
With a hand on his arm to gently reassure him, Kahlan said, "I won't
have to use it."
"Dear spirits, I hope not." He glanced over his shoulder, taking a last
look at their room, and then at Cara. "I have to get going."
She ignored his words. "Give me your arm, first."
He saw she had bandages left over from when Kahlan was still
recovering. Without objection, he held out his blood-soaked arm. Cara used a
wet cloth to quickly swab his arm before she wound it in clean bandages.
Richard thanked her as she was finishing. Cara split the end, put the
tails around his wrists, and tied a quick knot. "We will come part of the
way with you."
"No. You will stay here." Richard pulled down his sleeve. "I don't want
to risk it."
"But-"
"Cara, I want you to protect Kahlan. I'm leaving her in your hands. I
know you won't let me down."
Cara's big beautiful blue eyes, glistening with tears, reflected the
kind of pain Kahlan was sure Cara never allowed anyone to see.
"I swear to protect her as I would protect you, Lord Rahl, if you swear
to get away and return."
Richard flashed her a brief smile, trying to ease her misery. "I'm Lord
Rahl-I don't need to remind you that I've wiggled out of tighter spots than
this." He kissed her cheek. "Cara, I swear I'll never give up trying to get
away-you have my word."
Kahlan realized he hadn't really sworn to Cara's words. He wouldn't,
she knew, want to make a promise he might not be able to keep.
Bending to the bed, he pulled his pack close. "I have to go." He held
the strap in a stranglehold. "I can't be late."
Kahlan's fingers tightened on his arm, Cara laid a hand on his
shoulder. Richard turned back and gripped Kahlan's shoulders.
"Listen to me, now. I wish you would stay here, in this house in these
mountains where it's safe for you, but I don't think anything short of my
dying request could convince you to do that. At least stay for four or five
days, in case I'm able to figure out what's going on and can escape Nicci.
She may be a Sister of the Dark, but I'm no longer exactly a stranger to
magic. I've escaped powerful people before. I've sent Darken Rahl back to
the underworld. I've gone to the Temple of the Winds in another world in
order to stop the plague. I've escaped worse than this. Who knows-this might
be simpler than it seems. If I do escape her, I'll come back here, so wait
for a while, at least.
"If I can't get away from Nicci for now, try to find Zedd. He might
have some idea of what to do. Ann was with him the last time we saw him.
She's the Prelate of the Sisters of the Light and knew Nicci for a very long
time. Perhaps she knows something that, along with what Zedd might be able
to come up with, could help."
"Richard, don't worry about me. Just take care of yourself. I'll be
waiting for you when you get away, so just be at ease about that much of it
and put all your effort into escaping from her. We'll wait here for a
while-I promise."
"I will watch over her, Lord Rahl. Don't worry about the Mother
Confessor."
Richard nodded. He turned back to Kahlan. His fingers on her arms
tightened. His brow drew down.
"I know you and I know the way you feel, but you have to listen to me.
The time has not yet come. It may never come. You may think I'm wrong in
this, but if you close your eyes to the reality of what is, in favor of what
you would wish just because you're the Mother Confessor and feel responsible
for the people of the Midlands, then there is no reason for us to bother
hoping we'll be together again because we won't. We will be dead, and the
cause of freedom will be dead."
His face loomed closer. "Above all else, our forces must not attack the
heart of the Order's army. It's too soon. If they-if you-carry an assault
directly into the heart of the Order thinking you can win, it will be the
end of our forces, and the end of our chances. All hope for the cause of
freedom, and all hope to defeat the Order, will be lost for generations to
come.
"It's the same way we must use our heads with Nicci, and not fight her
in a direct attack, or we will both die. You promised you would not kill
yourself to free me. Don't throw that promise away by going against what I'm
telling you now."
It all seemed so unimportant at the moment. The only thing that
mattered was that she was losing him. She would have cast the rest of the
world to the wolves if she could just keep him.
"All right, Richard."
"Promise me." His fingers were hurting her arms. He shook her. "I mean
it. You could throw it all away if you don't heed my warning. You could
destroy the hope of people for the next fifty generations. You could be the
one who destroys freedom and brings a dark age upon the world. Promise me
you won't."
A thousand thoughts swirled in chaotic turmoil through her mind. Kahlan
stared up into his eyes. She heard herself say, "I promise, Richard. Until
you say so, we'll make no direct attack."
He looked like a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders. A
smile spread on his face as he pulled her into an embrace. His fingers
combed into her hair and cradled her head as she rose to his kiss. Her hands
slipped up the backs of his shoulders as she held him. It only lasted a
moment, but in that moment of stolen bliss, they shared a world of emotions.
All too soon the kiss, the embrace, was over. His warm presence swirled
away from her, allowing the awful weight of doom to settle firmly down atop
her. Richard briefly hugged Cara before he hefted his pack onto a shoulder.
He turned back at the bedroom doorway.
"I love you, Kahlan. Never anyone before you, nor ever after. Only
you." His eyes said it even better.
"You're everything to me, Richard. You know that."
"I love you, too, Cara." He winked at her. "Take good care of the both
of you until I'm back."
"I will, Lord Rahl. You have my word as Mord-Sith."
He gave her a crooked smile. "I have your word as Cara."
And then he was gone.
"I love you, too, Lord Rahl," Cara whispered to the empty doorway.
Kahlan and Cara ran into the main room and stood in the doorway
watching him running across the meadow.
Cara cupped her hands around her mouth. "I love you too, Lord Rahl,"
she shouted.
Richard turned as he ran and acknowledged her words with a wave.
Together, they watched Richard's dark figure flying through the dead
brown
grass, his fluid gait swiftly carrying him away. Just before he
disappeared into the trees, he stopped and turned. Kahlan shared a last look
with him, a look that said everything. He turned and vanished into the
woods, his clothes making him impossible to distinguish from the trees and
undergrowth.
Kahlan collapsed to her knees, sitting back on her heels as she lost
control of her emotions. She wept helplessly, her head in her hands, at what
seemed the end of the world.
Cara squatted beside her to put an arm around her shoulders. Kahlan
hated to have Cara see her cry that way, cry in such weakness. She felt a
distant gratitude when Cara held her head to her shoulder and didn't say
anything.
Kahlan didn't know how long she sat on the dirt floor in her white
Confessor's dress, sobbing, but after a time, she was able to make herself
stop. Her heart continued to spiral down into hopeless gloom. Each passing
moment seemed unendurable. The bleak future stretched out before her, a
wasteland of agony.
She finally looked up and gazed about at the house. Without Richard it
was empty. He had given it life. Now it was a dead place.
"What do you wish to do, Mother Confessor?"
It was getting dark. Whether it was the sunset, or the clouds getting
thicker, Kahlan didn't know. She wiped at her eyes.
"Let's begin to get our things together. We'll stay here a few days,
like Richard asked. After that, anything the horses can't carry that will
spoil, we'd better bury. We should board up the windows. We'll close up the
house good and tight."
"For when we return to paradise, someday?"
Kahlan nodded as she looked about, trying desperately to focus her mind
on a task and not on that which would crush her. The worst part, she knew,
was going to be night. When she was alone in bed. When he wasn't with her.
Now, the valley seemed more like paradise lost. She had trouble
believing that Richard was really gone. It seemed as if he were just off to
catch some fish, or hunt berries, or scout the hills. It seemed as if,
surely, he would be coming back soon.
"Yes, for when we return. Then it will be paradise again. I guess when
Richard returns, wherever we are will be paradise."
Kahlan noticed that Cara didn't hear her answer. The Mord-Sith was
staring out through the doorway.
"Cara, what is it?"
"Lord Rahl is gone."
Kahlan rested a comforting hand on Cara's shoulder. "I know it hurts,
but we must put our minds to-"
"No." Cara turned back. Her blue eyes were strangely troubled. "No,
that's not what I mean. I mean that I can't sense him. I can't feel the bond
to Lord Rahl. I know where he is-he's going up the trail up to that pass-but
I can't feel it." She looked panicked. "Dear spirits, it's like going blind.
I don't know how to find him. I can't find Lord Rahl."
Kahlan's first flash of fear was that he fell and was killed, or that
Nicci had executed him. She used reason to force the fear aside.
"Nicci knows about the bond. She probably used her magic to cloak it,
or to sever it."
"Cloaked it, somehow." Cara rolled her Agiel in her fingers. "That's
what it has to be. I can still feel my Agiel, so I know that Lord Rahl has
to be alive. The bond is still there . . . but I cannot feel it to sense
where he is."
Kahlan sighed with relief. "That has to be it, then. Nicci doesn't want
to be followed, so she cloaked his bond with magic."
Kahlan realized that to be protected from the dream walker by the bond
to Richard, people would now have to believe in him without the reassurance
of feeling the bond. Their link would have to remain true in their hearts if
they were to survive.
Could they do that? Could they believe in that way?
Cara stared out the doorway, across the meadow to the mountains where
Richard had disappeared. The blue-violet sky behind the blue-gray mountains
was slashed with blazing orange gashes. The snowcaps were lower than they
had been. Winter was racing toward them. If Richard didn't soon escape and
return, Kahlan and Cara would have to be gone before it arrived.
Bouts of dizzying grief threatened to drown her in a flood of tears.
Needing to do something, she went to her room to take off her Confessor's
dress. She would set to work with the task of closing up the house and
preparing to leave.
As Kahlan pulled her dress off, Cara appeared in the doorway.
"Where are we going to go, Mother Confessor? You said we were going to
leave, but you never said where we were going to go."
Kahlan saw Spirit standing in the window, fists at her sides as she
looked out at the world. She lifted the carving off the sill and trailed her
fingers over the flowing form.
Seeing the statue, touching it, feeling the power of it, made Kahlan
want to reach deep inside for resolve. Once before, she had been hopeless,
and Richard carved this for her. Her other hand fell to her side, and her
fingers found Richard's sword lying across their bed. Kahlan focused her
mind, ordering the turbulent swirl of despair thickening into wrath.
"To destroy the Order."
"Destroy the Order?"
"Those beasts took my unborn child, and now they've taken Richard. I
will make them regret it a thousand times over and then another thousand. I
once swore an oath of death without mercy to the Order. The time has come.
If killing every last one of them is the only way to get Richard back, then
that's what I will do."
"You swore an oath to Lord Rahl."
"Richard said nothing about not killing them, just about how. My oath
was not to try to drive a sword through their heart. He said nothing about
bleeding them to death with a thousand cuts. I won't break my oath, but I
intend to kill every last one of them."
"Mother Confessor, you must not do that."
"Why?"
Cara's blue eyes gleamed with menace. "You must leave half for me."
Richard had stopped to turn back and look at her only once as he ran,
just before he went into the trees. She was standing in the doorway in her
white Confessor's dress, her long thick hair tumbling down, her form the
embodiment of feminine grace, looking as beautiful as the first time he saw
her. They held each other's gaze for a brief moment. He was too far away to
see the green of her eyes, a color he'd never beheld on anyone else, a color
of such heart-piercing perfection that it sometimes would stop his
breathing, and at other times quicken it.
But it was the mind of the woman behind those eyes that in reality
captivated him. Richard had never met her equal.
He knew he was cutting the time close. As much as he hated the idea of
turning his gaze away from Kahlan, her life hung in the balance. His purpose
was clear. Richard had plunged into the woods.
He had traveled the trail often enough; he knew where he could run, and
where he had to be careful. Now, with little time left, he couldn't afford
to be too careful. He didn't try for a glimpse of the house.
He was alone in the woods as he ran, his thoughts but salt in a raw
wound. For once he felt out of place in the woods-powerless, insignificant,
hopeless. Bare branches clattered together in the wind, while others creaked
and moaned, as if in mock sorrow to see him leaving. He tried not to think
as he ran.
Fir and spruce trees took over as the ground rose out of the valley.
His breath came in rapid pulls. In the cold shadows of the forest floor, the
wind was a distant pursuer far overhead, chasing after him, shooing him
along, hounding him away from the happiest place he had ever been. Spongy
mounds of verdant moss lay dotting the forest floor in the low places where
mostly cedars grew, looking like wedding cakes done up in an intense green,
sprinkled over with tiny, chocolate brown, scale-like cedar needles.
Richard tiptoed on rocks sticking up above the water as he crossed a
small stream. As the little brook tumbled down the slope, it went under
rocks and boulders in places, making an echoing drumming sound, announcing
him to the stalwart oaks along his march into imprisonment. In the flat gray
light, he failed to see a reddish loop of cedar root. It caught his foot and
sent him sprawling facedown in the trail, a final humiliation on his
judgment and sentence of banishment.
As Richard lay in the cold, damp, discarded leaves, dead branches, and
other refuse of the forest, he considered not getting up ever again. He
could just lie there and let it all end, let the indifferent wind freeze his
limbs stiff, let the sneaky spiders and snakes and wolves come to bite him
and bleed him to death, and then finally the uncaring trees would cover him
over, never to be missed except by a few, his vanishing a good riddance to
most.
A messenger with a message no one wanted to heed.
A leader come too soon.
Why not just let it end, let silent death take them both to their peace
and be done with it?
The scornful trees all watched to see what this unworthy man might do,
to see if he had the courage to get to his feet and face what was ahead. He
didn't know himself if he did.
Death was easier, and in that bottomless moment, less painful to
consider.
Even Kahlan, as much as he loved her, wanted something from him he
could not give her: a lie. She wanted him to tell her that something he knew
to be so, was not. He would do anything for her, but he couldn't change what
was. At least she had enough faith in him to let him lead her away from the
shadows of tyranny darkening the world. Even if she didn't believe him, she
was probably the only one willing, of her own free will, to follow him.
In truth, he lay on the ground for only seconds, regaining his senses
from the fall and catching his breath as the thoughts flooded through his
mind-brief seconds in which he allowed himself to be weak, in exchange for
how hard he knew everything to come would be.
Weakness, to balance the strength he would need. Doubt, to balance his
certainty of purpose. Fear, to balance the courage he would have to call
upon.
Even as he wondered if he could get up, he knew he would. His
convulsion of self-pity ended abruptly. He would do anything for her. Even
this. A thousand times over, even this.
With renewed resolve, Richard forced his mind away from the dominion of
dark thoughts. It wasn't so hopeless; he knew better. After all, he had
faced trials much more difficult than this one Sister of the Dark. He had
once gotten Kahlan out of the clutches of five Sisters of the Dark. This was
but one. He would defeat her, too. Anger welled up at the thought of Nicci
thinking she could make them dance at the end of her selfish strings.
Despair extinguished, rage flooded in.
And then he was running again, dodging trees as he cut corners off the
trail. He hurdled fallen trees and leaped over gaps in the rock shelves,
rather than taking the safe route down and up. Each shortcut or leap saved
him a few precious seconds.
A broken tree limb snagged his pack, yanking it from his shoulder. He
tried to hang on to it as he flew past, but it slipped from his grasp and
spilled across the ground.
Richard exploded in fury, as if the tree had done it on purpose just to
taunt him in his rush. He kicked the offending branch, snapping it out of
its dry socket. He fell to his knees and scooped his things back into the
pack, clawing up moss along with gold and silver coins, and a pine seedling
along with the soap Kahlan had given him. He didn't have time to care as he
shoved it all back in. This time, he put the pack onto his back, rather than
letting it hang from one shoulder. He had been trying to save time before,
and it had cost him instead.
The path, which in places was no more than sections of animal trails,
began to rise sharply, occasionally requiring that he use both hands to hold
on to rocks or roots as he climbed. He'd been up it enough times to know the
sound handholds. As cold as the day was, Richard had to wipe sweat from his
eyes. He skinned his knuckles on rough granite as he jammed his fingers into
cracks for handholds.
1n his mind's eye, Nicci was riding too swiftly, covering too much
ground, get-
ting too far ahead. He knew it had been foolhardy to take so much time
before leaving, thinking he could make up for it on the trail. He wished he
could have taken more time, though, to hold Kahlan.
His insides were in agony at the thought of how heartbroken Kahlan was.
He felt, somehow, that it was worse for her. Even if she was free, and he
was not, that made it worse for her because, in her freedom, she had to
restrain herself when she wanted nothing more than to come after him. In
bondage to a master, Richard had it easy; he had only to follow orders.
He burst out of the trees onto the wider trail at the top of the pass.
Nicci was nowhere to be seen. He held his breath as he looked to the east,
fearing to spot her going down the back side of the pass. Beyond the high
place where he stood, he could see forests spread out before him with
mountains to each side lifting the carpet of trees. In the distance, greater
mountains yet soared to dizzying heights, their peaks and much of their
slopes stark white against the gloom of heavy gray sky.
Richard didn't see any horse and rider, but since the trail twisted
down into the trees not tar beyond where he stood, that didn't really prove
anything. The top of the pass was a bald bit of open ledge, with most of the
rest of the horse trail winding through deep woods. He quickly inspected the
ground, casting about for tracks, hoping she wouldn't be too far ahead of
him and he could catch her before she did something terrible. His sense of
doom eased when he found no tracks.
He peered out at the valley far below, across the straw-brown meadow,
to their house. It was too far away to see anyone. He hoped Kahlan would
stay there for a few days, as he had asked. He didn't want her going to the
army, going to fight a losing war, endangering her life for nothing.
Richard understood Kahlan's desire to be with her people and to defend
her homeland. She believed she could make a difference. She could not. Not
yet. Maybe not ever. Richard's vision was really nothing more than the
acceptance of that reality. Shaking your sword at the sky didn't keep the
sun from setting.
Richard cast an appraising squint at the clouds. For the last two days,
he had thought that the signs pointed to the first snow of the season soon
rolling down onto their valley home. By the look of the sky and the scent in
the wind, he judged he was right.
He knew he wasn't going to be able to escape Nicci so easily as to be
able to get back to Kahlan within a few days. He had invented that story for
another reason. Once the weather shitted and the snow arrived up in these
mountain highlands, it tended to come in an onslaught. If the storm was as
big as he estimated by the signs it could be, Kahlan and Cara would end up
being stuck in their house until spring. With all the food they'd put up, as
well as the supplies he'd brought in, they had plenty to last the two of
them. The firewood he'd cut would keep them warm.
There, she would be safe. With the army, she would be in constant
danger.
The dappled mare walked out of the trees, coming around a bend not far
away. Nicci's blue eyes were on Richard from the first instant she appeared.
At the time the Sisters of the Light had taken him to the Palace of the
Prophets in the Old World, Richard had mistakenly believed Kahlan wanted him
taken away. He didn't know or understand she had sent him away to save his
life. Richard thought she didn't ever want to see him again.
While in captivity at the palace, Richard thought Nicci was the
personification of lust. He was hardly able to find his voice when around
her. He had hardly been
able to believe a creature of such physical perfection existed, other
than in daydreams.
Now, as he watched her swaying gently in her saddle as she walked her
horse up the trail, her intense blue eyes locked on his, it seemed to him
she wore her beauty with a kind of grim acceptance. She had so completely
lost her stunning presence that he couldn't even envision any reason for his
onetime sentiment about her.
Richard had since learned the true depths of what a real woman was,
what real love was, and what real fulfillment was. In that light, Nicci
paled into insignificance.
As he watched her coming closer, he was surprised to realize she looked
sad. She seemed almost to be sorry to find him there, but more than that,
there seemed to be a shadow of relief passing across her countenance.
"Richard, you lived up to my faith." Her voice suggested that it had
been tenuous as best. "You're in a sweat; would you like to rest?"
Her feigned kindness drove hot blood all the way up to his scalp. He
pulled his glare from her gentle smile and turned to the trail, walking
ahead of her horse. He thought it best if he not say anything until he could
get a grip on his rage.
Not far down the trail they came to a black stallion with a white blaze
on its face. The big horse was picketed in a small grassy patch of open
ground among towering pines.
"Your horse, as I promised," she said. "I hope you find him to your
liking. I judged him to be big and strong enough to carry you comfortably."
Richard checked and found the smooth snaffle bit to his approval; she
wasn't abusing the animals with cruel bits used to dominate, as he knew some
of the Sisters did. The rest of the tack appeared sound. The horse looked
healthy.
Richard took a few moments to introduce himself to the stallion. He
reminded himself that the horse was not the cause of his problems, and he
shouldn't let his attitude toward Nicci affect how he treated this handsome
animal. He didn't ask the horse's name. He let it sniff his hand beneath its
curled muzzle, then stroked the stallion's sleek black neck. He patted its
shoulder, conveying a gentle introduction without words. The powerful black
stallion stamped his front hooves. He was not yet all that pleased to meet
Richard.
For the time being, there was no choice of routes; there was only the
one trail and it ran from the direction of the house where Kahlan was back
to the east. Richard took the lead so that he wouldn't have to look at
Nicci.
He didn't want to jump right on the stallion at first sight and make a
bad impression that would take a lot of work to overcome. Better to let the
horse get to know him, first, if just for a mile or so. He held the reins
slack under the stallion's jaw and walked in front of him, letting him get
comfortable with following this strange new man. Putting his mind to the
task of working with the horse helped divert him from thoughts that
threatened to drag him under a sea of sorrow. After a time, the stallion
seemed at ease with his new master and Richard mounted without any ado.
The narrow trail precluded Nicci walking her horse beside his. Her
dappled mare snorted its displeasure at having to follow the stallion.
Richard was pleased to know that he had already upset the order of things.
Nicci offered no conversation, sensing, he supposed, his mood. He was
going with her, but there was no way she could hope to make him happy about
it.
When it started getting dark, Richard simply dismounted beside a small
brook where the horses could have a drink, and tossed his things on the
ground. Nicci
wordlessly accepted his choice of campsite, and unstrapped her bedroll
from her saddle after she'd taken it down off her horse. She sat on her
bedroll, looking a little downcast, more than anything else, and ate some
sausage along with a hard biscuit washed down with water. After her first
bite, she lifted the sausage to him, meeting his gaze in a questioning
manner. He didn't acknowledge the offer. Nicci assumed he declined, and went
back to eating.
When she was finished and had washed in the brook, she went behind the
thick undergrowth for a time. When she came back, she crawled into her
bedroll without a word, turned away from him, and went to sleep.
Richard sat on the mossy ground, arms folded, leaning the small of his
back against his saddle. He didn't sleep the entire night. He sat watching
Nicci sleep in the light of the overcast sky lit from the other side by a
nearly full moon, watching her slow even breathing, her slightly parted
lips, the slow pulse in the vein at the side of her throat, thinking the
whole time how he might overcome what she had done to them. He thought about
strangling her, but he knew better.
He had used magic before. He had in the past not only felt but
unleashed incredible power through his gift. He had faced situations of
enormous danger involving a wide variety of magic. Richard had called upon
his gift to conjure such power as no one living had ever seen, and he had
watched as it was brought to life at his conscious direction.
His gift was invoked mostly through anger and need. He had an abundant
supply of both. He just didn't know how it could help him. He didn't
understand well enough what Nicci had done to begin to think of what he
might do to counter it. With Kahlan's life at the other end of Nicci's
invisible cord of magic, he dared not do anything until he was sure of it.
He would be, though; he just had to figure it out. Experience told him that
it was a reasonable supposition. He told himself it was only a matter of
time. If he wanted to keep his sanity, he knew he had to believe that.
The next morning, without speaking a word to Nicci, he saddled the
horses. She sat watching him tighten the cinch straps, making sure they
weren't pinching the horses, as she sipped from a waterskin. She took bread
from her saddlebag lying beside her and asked if he would like a piece.
Richard ignored her.
He would have been tired from not sleeping the whole cold night, but
his anger kept him wide awake. Under a leaden sky, they rode at an easy but
steady pace all that day through forests that seemed endless. It felt good
to have a warm horse under him. Throughout the day, they continued their
gradual descent from the higher country, where the house was, down into the
lowlands.
Toward dark, the snow arrived.
At first, it was just a few furtive flakes swirling through the air. As
it steadily increased, it seemed to leach the color from trees and ground
alike, until the world turned white. Visibility steadily diminished as the
snow thickened into a disorienting, drifting, solid wall. He had to keep
blinking the fat flakes from his eyes.
For the first time since leaving with Nicci, Richard felt a sense of
relief.
Kahlan and Cara, up higher in the mountains, would wake in the morning
to several feet of snow. They would decide that it was foolish to try to
leave when, they would believe, it was only an early snow that would melt
down enough in a few days for them to have an easier time of traveling. Up
in those mountains, that would be a mistake. It would stay cold. A storm
would follow on the heels of this
one, and they would soon have snow up to the shutters. They would be
nervous about waiting, but would probably decide that it was now more
important for them to delay until a break in the weather-after all, there
was no urgency.
In all likelihood, they would end up safely stuck in the house for the
winter. When he eventually escaped from Nicci's talons, Richard would find
Kahlan snug in their home.
He decided that it would be foolish to let his anger dictate that they
sleep on the open ground. They could freeze to death. He recalled all too
well that if Nicci died, Kahlan died. When he spotted a big wayward pine, he
walked his horse off the trail. Brushing against branches dumped wet snow on
him. Richard flicked it off his shoulders and shook it from his hair.
Nicci glanced around, confused, but didn't object. She dismounted as
she waited to see what he was doing. When he held a heavy bough to the side
for her, she frowned at him before poking her head inside for a look. She
straightened with an expression of childlike delight. Richard didn't return
her wide grin.
Inside, under the thick boughs caked with snow, was a still, frigid
world. With the snow crusting the tree, it was dark inside. In the dim
light, Richard dug a small fire pit and soon caught fire to the deadwood
he'd carefully stacked over shavings.
When the crackling flames built into a warm glow, Nicci gazed around in
wonder at the inside of the wayward pine. The spoke-like branches over their
heads were cast in a soft orange blush by the flickering light. The lower
trunk was bare of limbs, leaving the inside of the tree a hollow cone with
ample open space at the bottom for them.
Nicci quietly warmed her hands by the fire, looking contented-not like
she was gloating that he'd given in and found shelter and built a fire, but
contented. She looked as if she had been through a great ordeal, and now she
could be at peace. She looked like a woman expecting nothing, but grateful
for what she had.
Richard hadn't had breakfast with her, or anything the day before. His
bitter resolve gave way to his hunger, so he boiled water from melted snow
and cooked rice and beans. Starving wouldn't do him or Kahlan any good.
Without words, he offered Nicci half the rice and beans poured into the
crust of one end of his loaf of bread. She took the bread bowl and thanked
him.
She offered him a sun-dried slice of meat. Richard stared at her thin,
delicate fingers holding out the piece of meat. It reminded him of someone
feeding a chipmunk. He snatched the meat from her hand and tore off a chunk
with his teeth. To avoid her gaze, he watched the fire as he ate his rice
and beans out of the heel of bread. Other than the crackle of the fire, the
only sound was the thump of snow falling in clumps from limbs not stout
enough to hold the load. Snowfalls often turned a forest to a place of eerie
stillness.
Sitting by the low fire after he'd finished his meal, feeling the
warmth of the flames on his face, the exhaustion from the long ride on top
of his vigil the night before finally caught up with him. Richard stacked
thicker wood on the dwindling fire and banked the coals around it. He
unrolled his bedroll on the opposite side of the fire from Nicci as she
silently watched him, climbed in, and, as he thought about Kahlan safe in
their house, fell soundly asleep.
The next day they were up early. Nicci said nothing, but, once they
were mounted, decisively cut her dappled mare in front of the black stallion
and took the lead. The snow had changed to a cold drizzling mist. What snow
was left on the
ground had melted down to gray slush. The lowlands were not quite ready
to relinquish themselves to winter's grip. Up higher, where Kahlan was, it
was colder and would be snowing in earnest.
As they rode carefully along a narrow road at the side of a mountain,
Richard tried to watch the woods to keep his mind on other things, but he
couldn't help occasionally looking at Nicci riding right in front of him. It
was cold and damp; she wore a heavy black cloak over her black dress. With
her back straight, her head held high, and her blond hair fanned out over
her cloak, she looked regal. He wore his dark forest clothes and hadn't
shaved.
Nicci's dappled mare was dark gray, almost black, with lighter gray
rings over its body. Its mane was dark gray, as were the lightly feathered
legs, and the tail was a milky white. It was one of the most handsome horses
Richard had ever seen. He hated it. It was hers.
By afternoon, they intersected a trail running to the south. Nicci,
leading the way, continued to the east. Before the day was out they would
encounter a few more paths, used mainly by an occasional hunter or trapper.
The mountains were inhospitable. Even if you cleared the ground of trees,
the soil was thin and rocky. In a few places closer to Hartland or other
population centers to the north or south, there were grassy slopes that were
able to support thin flocks of sheep or goats.
As he felt the stallion's muscles moving beneath him, Richard looked
out at land he knew and loved. He didn't know how long it would be until he
was home again-if ever. He hadn't asked where they were going, figuring
Nicci wouldn't likely tell him this soon. That they were headed east didn't
mean much just yet because their choice of routes was limited.
In the passive rhythm of the ride, Richard's mind kept returning to his
sword, and how he had given it to Kahlan. At the time it had seemed the only
thing to do. He hated that he had given it to her the way he had, yet he
could think of no other way to afford her any protection. He prayed she
would never have to use the sword. If she did, he'd given it a measure of
his rage, too.
At his belt he wore a fine knife, but he felt naked without his sword.
He hated the ancient weapon, the way it pulled dark things from within him,
and at the same time he missed it. He often reminded himself of Zedd's
words, that it was merely a tool.
It was more, too. The sword was a mirror, albeit one bound in magic
capable of raining terrible destruction. The Sword of Truth would annihilate
anything before it-flesh or steel-as long as what stood before it was the
enemy, yet it could not harm a friend. Therein lay the paradox of its magic:
evil was defined solely by the perceptions of the person holding the sword,
by what he believed to be true.
Richard was the true Seeker and heir to the power of the sword created
by the wizards in the great war. It should be with him. He should be
protecting the sword.
A lot of things "should be," he told himself.
Late in the afternoon they left the eastern path they were on and took
one tending east and south. Richard knew the trail; it would pass through a
village in another day, and then become a narrow road. Since Nicci had
deliberately taken the new route, she must have known that, too.
Near dark they skirted the north shore of a good-sized lake. A small
raft of seagulls floated out near the middle of the rain-swept water.
Seagulls weren't common in these parts, but they were not unheard of,
either. He recalled all the seabirds he had seen when he had been in the Old
World. The sea had fascinated him.
In a cove on the far shore Richard could just make out two men fishing.
On that side of the lake there was a trail worn to a deep rut over many
generations by people coming up to fish from a hamlet to the south.
The two men, sitting on a broad flat rock jutting out into the lake,
waved in greeting. It wasn't often one encountered riders out here. Richard
and Nicci were too far away for the men to make them out. The men probably
assumed they were trappers.
Nicci returned the wave in a casual manner, as if to say, "Good luck
with the fishing. Wish we could join you."
They rounded a bend and finally disappeared from the men. Richard wiped
his wet hair off his forehead as they rode along beside the lake, listening
to the small waves lapping at the muddy shore. Leaving the lake behind, they
cut into the forest as the trail rose on its way across a gentle slope.
Nicci had put her hood up against the intermittent rain and drizzle purring
through the trees. A darkening gloom descended on the woods.
Richard didn't want to do anything that would get Kahlan killed; the
time had finally come when he had to speak.
"When we come upon someone, what am I to say? I don't suppose you want
me telling people you're a Sister of the Dark out snatching victims. Or do
you wish me to play the part of a mute?"
Nicci gave him a sidelong glance.
"You will be my husband, as far as everyone is concerned," she said
without hesitation. "I expect you to adhere to that story under all
circumstances. For all practical purposes, from now on, you are my husband.
I am your wife."
Richard's fists tightened on the reins. "I have a wife. You are not
she. I'm not going to pretend you are."
Swaying gently in her saddle, Nicci seemed indifferent to his words or
the emotion behind them. She gazed skyward, taking in the darkening sky.
It was too warm down in the lowlands for snow. Through occasional
breaks in the low clouds, though, Richard had caught glimpses of windswept
mountain slopes behind them cloaked in thick white drifts. Kahlan was sure
to be dry, warm, and stuck.
"Do you think you could find us another of those shelter trees?" Nicci
asked. "Where it would be dry, like last night? I'd dearly love to get dry
and warm."
Between sporadic gaps in the pine trees, and through the scramble of
bare branches of the alder and ash, Richard surveyed the hillside descending
before them.
"Yes."
"Good. We need to have a talk."
As Richard dismounted near one of his shelter trees at the edge of a
small, slanted, open patch of grassy ground, Nicci took the reins of his
horse. She could feel his smoldering glare on her back as she picketed the
horses to the thick branches of an alder heavy with catkins. The horses were
hungry, and promptly started cropping the wet grass. Without a word, Richard
began casting about, collecting deadwood from under dense thickets of spruce
trees, where, she supposed, it might be a little dryer.
She watched him, not openly, but casually, covertly, from the corner of
her eye as he went about his chore. He was everything she remembered, and
more. It was not so much that he was just big, physically, but he had a
commanding presence that had matured since she had last seen him. Before,
she had been tempted at times to think of him as little more than a boy. No
more.
Now, he was a powerful wild stallion trapped in a pen of his own
construction. She kept her distance, letting him kick at the walls of that
pen. It would bring her no gain to taunt this wild beast. Taunting him,
torturing him in his anguish, was the last thing in the world she wanted.
Nicci could understand his smoldering anger. It was to be expected. She
could plainly see his feelings for the Mother Confessor, and hers for him.
The integrity of the walls of his pen consisted of nothing more than the
gossamer fence rails of his feelings for her. While Nicci sympathized with
his pain, she knew that she, of all people, could do nothing to alleviate
it. It would take time for his hurt to heal. Over time, the rails of his
fence would be replaced by others.
Someday, he would come to terms with what had to be. Someday, he would
come to understand the truth of the things she intended to show him.
Someday, he would come to understand the necessity of what she was doing. It
was for the best.
At the edge of the clearing, Nicci settled herself on a gray slab of
granite that, by the unique angles of its broken face, had once belonged to
the ledge poking out from under the deep green of balsam and spruce behind
her, but over time had been moved away from it by the inexorable effort of
nature, leaving a gap the shape of a jagged lightning bolt between their
once-mated edges.
Nicci sat with her back straight, a habit instilled in her from a young
age by her mother, and watched Richard going about unsaddling the horses. He
let them both eat some oats from canvas nosebags while he collected rocks
from the clearing. At first, she couldn't imagine what he was doing. When he
took them, along with the wood he had collected, in under the boughs of the
shelter tree, she realized he must be going to use the rocks to ring a fire
pit. He was inside a long time, so she knew he must be working on building a
fire out of the wet wood. She could have used her gift to help, had her gift
enough power left to light wet wood. It didn't.
Richard seemed up to the task, though; she had watched him light a fire
the night before, starting it in birch bark, shavings, and twigs. Nicci had
never been one for such outdoor activities. She left him to it and set about
the small chore of repairing her horse's cinch strap. The rain had let up
for the time being, leaving behind the tingle of a fine mist against her
cheeks.
As she worked at knotting the loose cords of the heavy twine strap back
onto its buckle, she heard little crackling sounds coming from under the
tree. The sputtering and popping told her that Richard had gotten the fire
going. She heard the clang of a pot on rock, so she reasoned that we was
leaving water to boil when the fire got hot enough.
Sitting on the slab of granite, Nicci quietly worked a tangle out of
the cinch strap as he came back out to care for the horses. Free of the
nosebags, the horses drank from a pool of water in a depression in the
smooth tan ledge. Though Richard wore dark clothes appropriate for the
woods, they could not diminish his bearing. His gray-eyed gaze swept over
her, taking in what she was doing. He left her to her knot work as he went
about his chore of currying the horses. His big hands worked smoothly, with
a sure touch. She was certain the horses would appreciate having all the
caked mud cleaned from their legs. She would, were she they.
"You said we needed to talk," Richard finally said to her as he stroked
the curry comb over the mare's rump, whisking away a last spatter of mud. "I
presume a talk consists of you dictating the terms of my imprisonment. I
imagine you have rules for your captives."
By his icy inflection, it sounded as if he had decided to provoke her a
little, to test her reaction. Nicci set the cinch strap aside. She met his
challenging tone with one of genuine sympathy, instead.
"Just because something has happened to you before, Richard, don't
assume that means it will again. Fate does not give birth to the same child
over and over. Each is different. This is not like the two times before."
Her response, as well as the compassion in her eyes, appeared to have
caught him off guard. He stared at her a moment before crouching to replace
the curry comb in a pocket in the saddlebag and take out a pick.
"Two times before?" There was no way he could miss her meaning. His
blank expression didn't betray what he might be thinking as he lifted the
stallion's right forefoot to pick its hoof clean. "I don't know what you're
talking about."
Just as he probed the hoof with his pick, she knew he was probing her
as well, wanting to know just how much she knew of those two times, and what
she thought was different, this time. He would surely want to know how she
intended to avoid the mistakes of his past captors. Any warrior would.
He was not yet ready to accept how fundamentally different this was.
Richard worked his way around the big black horse, cleaning its hooves,
until he ended at the left forefoot, close to her. As he finished and let
the stallion's leg down, Nicci stood. When he turned around, she was close
enough to feel his warm breath on her cheek. He fixed her with his glare, a
look that was no longer as unsettling to her as it had been at first.
She found herself, instead of shrinking back, staring into that
penetrating gaze of his, marveling that she had him. She finally had him. It
could have been no more wondrous to her had she somehow managed to bottle
the moon and stars.
"You are a prisoner," Nicci said. "Your anger and resentment are
entirely understandable. 1 would never have expected you to be pleased about
this, Richard. But
it is not the same as those times before." She gently gripped his
throat. He was surprised, but sensed he was in no immediate danger.
"Before," she said in quiet solace, "you had a collar around your neck. Both
times."
"You were at the Palace of the Prophets, where I was taken." She felt
him swallow. "But the other . . ."
She released his throat. "I do not use a collar, as did the Sisters of
the Light, to control you, to give you pain in order to make you obey, or to
put you through their ridiculous tests. My purpose is nothing like that."
She pulled her cloak forward over her shoulders as she smiled
distantly. "Remember when you first came to the Palace of the Prophets?
Remember the speech you gave?"
Richard's words were brittle with caution. "Not . . . exactly."
She was still staring off into the memories. "I do. It was the first
time I saw you. I remember every word."
Richard said nothing, but in his eyes she could see the shadows of his
mind working.
"You were in a rage-not unlike now. You held out a red leather rod
hanging around your neck. Remember, Richard?"
"I guess I did." His suspicious glare broke. "A lot has happened since
then. I guess I'd put it out of my mind."
"You said that you had been collared before. You said that the person
who had once put that collar around your neck had brought you pain to punish
you, to teach you."
His posture shifted to stiff wariness. "What of it?"
She focused once more on his gray eyes, eyes that watched her every
blink, her every breath, as he weighed her every word. It was all going into
some inner calculation, she knew-some inner master analysis of how high was
his fence, and if he could jump it. He could not.
"I always wondered about that," she said. "About what you had said
about having been in a collar before. Some months back, we captured a woman
in red leather. A Mord-Sith." His color paled just a little. "She said she
was searching for Lord Rahl, to protect him. I persuaded her to tell me
everything she knew about you."
"I'm not from D'Hara." His voice sounded confident, nevertheless, she
sensed a subterranean torrent of dread. "A Mord-Sith would know next to
nothing about me."
Nicci reached inside her cloak for the thing she had brought with her.
She let the small red leather rod roll from her fingers to fall to the
ground at his feet. He stiffened.
"Oh, but she did, Richard. She knew a great deal." She smiled a small
smile, not pleasure, nor mockery, but in distant sadness at the memory of
that brave woman. "She knew Derma. She had been at the People's Palace in
D'Hara, where you were taken after Derma captured you. She knew all about
it."
Richard's gaze fell away. On bended knee he reverently picked the red
leather rod off the wet ground. He wiped the thing clean on his pant leg as
if it were priceless.
"A Mord-Sith would not tell you anything." He stood and boldly met her
gaze. "A Mord-Sith is a product of torture. She would say only enough to
make you believe she was cooperating. She would feed you a clever lie to
deceive you. She would die before speaking any words to harm her Lord Rahl."
With one long finger, Nicci pulled a sodden strand of blond hair off
her cheek. "You underestimate me, Richard. That woman was very brave. I felt
great sorrow for her, but there were things I wanted to know. She told it
all. She told me everything I wanted to know."
Nicci could see the rage rising in him, bringing a flush to his cheeks.
That was not what she had intended, or wanted. She was telling him the
truth, but he rejected it, trying to overlay it instead with his own false
assumptions.
A moment passed, and that truth finally found its way into his eyes.
The rage departed reluctantly, replaced by the weight of sadness that made
him swallow at his grief for this woman. Nicci had expected no less from
him.
"Apparently," Nicci whispered, "Derma was very talented at torture-"
"I neither need nor want your sympathy."
"But I did feel sympathy, Richard, for what that woman put you through
for no purpose but to give pain. That's the worst kind of pain, isn't
it?-pain to no benefit, no confession? The pointlessness of it only adds to
its torture. That was what you suffered."
Nicci gestured to the red leather weapon in his fist. "This woman did
not suffer that kind of pain. I want you to know that."
He pressed his lips tight in mistrust as he looked away from her eyes,
gazing out at the gathering darkness.
"You killed her, this Mord-Sith named Denna, but not before she did
unspeakable things to you."
"So I did." Richard's expression hardened with the implied menace of
his words.
"You threatened the Sisters of the Light because they, too, collared
you. You told them they were not good enough to lick the boots of that
woman, Denna, and so they were not. You told the Sisters that they thought
they held the leash to your collar, but you promised them that they would
find that what they held was a bolt of lightning. Don't think for one moment
that I don't understand your feelings in this, or your resolve."
Nicci reached out and tapped the center of his chest.
"But this time, Richard, the collar is around your heart and it is
Kahlan who will be forfeit, should you make a mistake."
His fists, at the ends of his rigid arms, tightened. "Kahlan would
rather die than have me be a slave at her expense. She begged me to forfeit
her life for my freedom. A day may dawn when it becomes necessary for me to
honor her request."
Nicci felt a weary boredom at his threats. People so often resorted to
threatening her.
"That is entirely up to you, Richard. But you make a great mistake if
you think I care."
She couldn't begin to recall how many times Jagang had made solemn
threats on her life, or how many of those times his hands had tightened
around her throat choking the life out of her after he had beaten her
senseless. Kadar Kardeef had at times been no less brutal. She'd lost count
of the times she fully expected to die, starting with the time when she was
little and the man pulled her into the alley to rob her.
But such men were not the only ones who promised her suffering.
"I cannot tell you the promises the Keeper of the underworld has made
to me in my dreams, promises of unending suffering. That is my fate.
"So, please, Richard, do not think to frighten me with your petty
threats. More
savage men than you have made credible promises as to my doom. I long
ago accepted my fate and ceased to care."
Her arms felt heavy at her sides. She felt empty of feeling. Thoughts
of Jagang, of the Keeper, reminded her that her fife was meaningless. Only
what she had seen in Richard's eyes gave her a hint that there might be
something more, something she had yet to discover or understand.
"What is it you want?" Richard demanded.
Nicci returned her mind to the here and now. "I told you. Your part in
fife now is as my husband. That is the way it is going to be-if you wish
Kahlan to live. I've told you the truth about all of it. If you come with me
and do the simple things I ask, such as assuming the role of my husband,
then Kahlan will live a long life. I can't say it will be entirely happy, of
course, for I know she loves you."
"How long do you think you can hold me, Nicci?" In frustration, Richard
ran his fingers back through his wet hair. "It isn't going to work, whatever
it is you want. How long until you tire of this absurd sham?"
Her eyes narrowed, studying his profound innocence, if not ignorance.
"My dear boy, I was born into this wretched world one hundred and
eighty-one years past. You know that. Do you suppose I have not learned a
great deal of patience, in all that time`? Though our bodies may look about
the same age, and in many ways I am no older than you, I have lived near to
seven of your lifetimes. Do you honestly believe that you would have
patience to exceed mine? Do you think me some young foolish girl for you to
outwit or outwait?"
His demeanor cooled. "Nicci, 1
"And don't think to make friends with me, or win me over. I am not
Denna, or Verna, or Warren, or even Pasha, for that matter. I'm not
interested in friends."
He turned a little and ran a hand over the stallion's shoulder when the
horse snorted and stamped a hoof at the smell of the woodsmoke curling out
from the upper limbs of the shelter tree.
"I want to know what vile thing you did to that poor woman to make her
tell you about Denna."
"The Mord-Sith told me in return for a favor."
Frowning his incredulity, he turned to her once more. "What favor could
you possibly do for a MordSith?"
"I cut her throat."
Richard closed his eyes as his head sank with grief for this unknown
woman who had died because of him. He clenched her weapon in his fist to his
heart.
His voice lost its fire. "1 don't suppose you know her name?"
It was this, his empathy for others, even others he didn't know, that
not only made him the man he was, but shackled him. His concern for others
would also be the thing that eventually brought him to understand the virtue
in what she was doing. He, too, would then willingly work for the righteous
cause of the Order.
"I do." Nicci said. "Hania."
"Hania." He looked heartsick. "I didn't even know her."
"Richard." With a finger under his chin, Nicci gently brought his face
up. "I want you to know that I did not torture her. I found her being
tortured. I was not happy about what I saw. I killed the man who did it.
Hania was beyond any help. I offered her release from her pain, a quick end,
if she would tell me about you. I never asked her to betray you in any way
that the Order would want. I asked only
about your past, about your first captivity. I wanted to understand
what you said that first day at the Palace of the Prophets, that's all."
Richard didn't look relieved, as she had intended.
"You withheld that quick release, as you call it, until she had given
you what you wanted. That makes you a party to her torture."
In the gloom, Nicci looked away in pain and anguish at the memory of
that bloody deed. It had long since lost its ability to make her feel
anything more than a ghost of emotions.
There were so many needing release from their suffering-so many old and
sick, so many wailing children, so many destitute and hopeless and poor.
This woman had merely been another of life's victims needing release. It was
for the best.
Nicci had renounced the Creator in order to do His work, and sworn her
soul to the Keeper of the underworld. She had to; only one as evil as she
would fail to feel any fitting feelings, any proper compassion, for all the
suffering and desperate need. It was grim irony-faithfully serving the needy
in such a way.
"Perhaps you see it that way, Richard," Nicci said in a hoarse voice as
she stared into the numb nightmare of memories. "I did not. Neither did
Hania. Before I cut her throat for her, she thanked me for what I was about
to do."
Richard's eyes offered no mercy. "And why did you make her tell you
about me-about Denna?"
Nicci snagged her cloak tighter on her shoulders. "Isn't it obvious?"
"You couldn't possibly make the same mistake Denna made. You aren't the
woman she was, Nicci."
She was tired. The first night, he had not slept, she knew. She had
felt his eyes on her back. She knew how much he hurt. Turned away from him,
she had wept silently at the hate his eyes held, at the burden of being the
one to have to do what was best. The world was such an evil place.
"Perhaps, Richard," she said in a soft voice, "you will someday teach
me the difference."
She was so very tired. The night before, when he had succumbed to his
weariness, and turned away from her to sleep, Nicci had in turn stayed awake
all night, watching him in his sound sleep as she felt the connection of
magic to the Mother Confessor. The connection brought Nicci great empathy
for her, as well.
It was all for the best.
"For now," Nicci said, "let's get inside out of this foul weather. I'm
cold and I'm hungry. We need to get some rest, too. And as I've told you, we
have things to discuss, first."
She couldn't lie to him, she knew. She couldn't tell him everything, of
course, but she dared not lie to him in the things she did tell him.
The dance had begun.
Richard broke up the sausage Nicci gave him from her saddlebag and
tossed it in the pot with the simmering rice. The things she had told him
kept shouting in his mind as he tried to fit them into their proper order.
He didn't know how much of what she had said he dared to believe. He
feared it was all true. Nicci just didn't seem to need to lie to him-at
least not about what she had told him so far. She didn't seem as . . .
hostile, as he thought she would have to be. If anything, she seemed
melancholy, perhaps because of what she had done-although, he had trouble
believing that a confessed Sister of the Dark would suffer a guilty
conscience. It was probably just some bizarre part of her act, some artifice
directed toward her ends.
He stirred the pot of rice with a stick he'd peeled the bark off of.
"You said there were things to discuss." He rapped the stick clean on the
edge of the pot. "I assume that means there are orders you wish to issue."
Nicci blinked, as if he'd caught her thinking about something else. She
looked out of place, sitting prim and straight in a wayward pine, dressed as
she was in her fine black dress. Richard would never before have ever
thought of Nicci out-of-doors, much less sitting on the ground. The very
idea had always seemed ludicrous to him. Her dress constantly made him think
of Kahlan, not only because of it being so completely opposite that it
evoked the comparison, but also because he so vividly recalled Nicci
connected to Kahlan by that awful rope of magic.
That memory twisted him in agony.
"Orders?" Nicci folded her hands in her lap and met his gaze. "Oh, yes,
I have a few requests I wish you to honor. First, you may not use your gift.
Not at all. Not in any way. Is that clear? Since, as I recall, you have no
love of the gift, this should be neither a burden nor a difficult request
for you to follow, especially because there is something you do love which
would not survive such a betrayal. Do you understand?"
Her cold blue eyes conveyed the threat perhaps even better than her
words. Richard gave her a single nod, committing himself to what, exactly,
he wasn't entirely sure at the moment.
He poured her steaming dinner in a shallow wooden bowl and handed it to
her along with a spoon. Nicci smiled her thanks. He set the pot on the
ground between his legs and took a spoonful of rice, blowing on it until it
was cool enough to eat. He watched her from the corner of his eye as she
took a dainty taste.
Beyond her physical perfection, Nicci had a singularly expressive face.
She seemed to go cold and blank when she was unhappy, or when she meant to
convey anger, threat, or displeasure. She didn't really scowl the way other
people did when
they felt those emotions; rather, a look of cool detachment descended
on her. That look was, in its own way, far more disturbing. It was her
impenetrable armor.
On the other hand, she was expressively animated when she was pleased
or thankful. Even more than that, though, such pleasure or gratitude
appeared genuine. He remembered her as aloof, and while she still possessed
a noble bearing, to some extent her air of reticence had lifted to reveal an
innocent delight in any kindness, or even simple courtesy.
Richard still had bread Cara had baked for him. He hated sharing that
bread with this evil woman, but it now seemed a childish consideration. He
tore off a piece and offered it to Nicci. She took it with the reverence due
something greater than mere bread.
"I also expect you to keep no secrets from me," she said after another
bite. "You would not like me to discover you were doing so. Husbands and
wives have no need for secrets."
Richard supposed not, but they were hardly husband and wife. Rather
than say so, he said instead, "You seem to know a lot about how husbands and
wives behave."
Rather than rising to his bait, she gestured with her bread at her
bowl. "This is very good, Richard. Very good indeed."
"What is it you want, Nicci? What is the purpose of this absurd
pretense?"
The firelight played across her alabaster face, and lent her hair a
torrid color it didn't in reality possess. "I took you because I need an
answer which I believe you will provide."
Richard broke a stout branch in two across his knee. "You said husbands
and wives have no need for secrets." He used half the branch to push the
burning wood together before placing the branch atop the fire. "Then aren't
wives, too, supposed to be honest?"
"Of course." Her hand with the bread lowered. She rested her wrist over
her knee. "I will be honest with you, too, Richard."
"Then what's the question? You said you took me because you need an
answer you think I can provide. What's the question?"
Nicci stared oft again. once more looking anything but the grim captor.
She looked as if memories, or perhaps fears, haunted her. It was somehow
more unsettling than the sneer of an armed guard outside of the bars of his
cage.
The rain outside had increased to a dull roar. They'd made camp just in
time. Richard couldn't help but remember the cozy times he'd had in wayward
pines huddled beside Kahlan. At the thought of Kahlan, his heart sank.
"I don't know," Nicci finally said. "I honestly don't, Richard. I seek
something, but I will only know it when I find it. After nearly all my one
hundred and eightyone years without knowing it existed, I finally saw the
first hint of it not long ago . . . ." She seemed to be looking through him
again, to some point beyond. Her voice, too, seemed to be addressed to that
distant place her vision beheld. "That was when you stood in a collar before
all those Sisters, and defied them. Perhaps I will find the answer when I
understand what it was I saw that day, in that room. It was not just you,
but you were its center . . . ."
Her eyes focused once more on his face. She spoke with gentle
assurance. "Until then, you will live. I have no intention of harming you.
You need fear no torture from me. I'm not like them-that woman, Derma, or
like the Sisters of the Light, using you for their games."
"Don't patronize me. You are using me for your own game, no less than
they used me for theirs."
She shook her head. "I want you to know, Richard, that I have nothing
but respect for you. I probably have more respect for you than any person
you have ever met. That's why I took you. You are a rare person, Richard."
"I'm a war wizard. You've just never seen one of those before."
She spurned the notion with a dismissive flick of her hand. "Please
don't try to impress me with your `power.' I'm not in the mood for such
silliness."
Richard knew it was no idle boast on her part. She was a sorceress of
remarkable ability. He doubted he had any hope of outsmarting her knowledge
of magic.
She was not acting the way he had expected a Sister of the Dark would
act, though. Richard put his anger, hurt, and heartache aside for the
moment, knowing he had to face what was, rather than putting his hope in
wishes, and spoke to Nicci in the same gentle fashion she used with him.
"I don't understand what it is you want of me, Nicci."
She shrugged in an involuntary gesture of frustration. "Neither do I.
Until I do, you will do as I ask and everything will be fine. I will not
harm you."
"Considering the circumstances, do you really expect me to take your
word?"
"I'm telling you the truth, Richard. If you were to twist your ankle, I
would, like a good wife, put my shoulder under your arm and help you to
walk. From now on, I am devoted to you, and you to me."
He could only blink at how crazy this was. He almost thought she might
be mad. Almost. He knew that would be too easy an answer. As Zedd always
said, nothing was ever easy.
"And if I choose not to go along with your wishes?"
Again, she shrugged. "Then Kahlan dies."
"I understand that, but if she dies, then you lose the collar around my
heart."
She fixed him with cold blue eyes. "Your point?"
"Then you couldn't get what you wanted from me. You would have no
leverage."
"I don't have what I want now, so I would be losing nothing. Besides,
if you were to do that, then Emperor Jagang would welcome your head as a
gift. I would no doubt be showered with gifts and riches."
Richard didn't think Nicci wanted gifts or riches showered on her. She
was a Sister of the Dark, after all, and he supposed she could manage to be
so showered if she really wished it.
Even so, he was sure his head would have a price, and she could salvage
that much out of it if he proved ungovernable. She might not care for gifts
and riches, but if there was one thing she did want, it had to be power. He
was pretty sure she could gain a good measure of that, should she slay the
enemy of the Imperial Order.
He bent over the pot between his legs and went back to his dinner, and
his dark thoughts. Talking to her was useless. They just went around in
circles.
"Richard," she said in a quiet tone, drawing his eyes to her gaze, "you
think I'm doing this to hurt you, or to defeat you because you are the enemy
of the Order. I am not. I told you my true reasons."
"So, when you finally find this answer you seek, in return for my
`help,' then you will let me go?" It was not really meant as a question, but
as trenchant incrimination.
"Go?" She stared down into her bowl of rice and sausage, stirring it
around as if it might reveal a secret. She looked up. "No, Richard, then I
will kill you."
"I see." He hardly thought that was a way to encourage his cooperation
in her search, but he didn't say so. "And Kahlan'? After you kill me, I
mean."
"You have my word that if I decide I must kill you, as long as I live,
she will, too. I have no ill will toward her."
He tried to find solace in that much of it. For some reason, he
believed Nicci. Knowing that Kahlan would be all right gave him courage. He
could endure what was to happen to him, if only she would be all right. It
was a price he was willing to pay.
"So, `wife,' where are we going? Where is it you're taking me?"
Nicci didn't look at him but instead used her bread to sop up some of
her dinner. She considered his question as she nibbled.
"Who are you fighting, Richard? Who is your enemy?" She took another
small bite of her bread.
"Jagang. Jagang and his Imperial Order."
Like an instructor correcting him, Nicci slowly shook her head. "No.
You are wrong. I think perhaps you are in need of answers, too."
Games. She was playing foolish games with him. Richard ground his
teeth, but held his temper in check.
"Then who, Nicci? Who, or what, am I fighting if it is not Jagang."
"That is what I hope to show you." She watched his eyes in a way he
found unsettling. "I am going to take you to the Old World, to the heart of
the Order, to show you what you are fighting-the taste nature of what you
believe to be your enemy."
Richard frowned. "Why'?"
Nicci smiled. "Let's just say it amuses me."
"You mean we're going back to Tanimura? Back to where you lived all
that time as a Sister?"
"No. We are going to the heart and soul of the Old World: Altur'Rang.
Jagang's homeland. The name means, roughly, `the Creator's chosen.' "
Richard felt a chill run up his spine. "You expect to take me, Richard
Rahl, there, into the heart of enemy territory? I hardly doubt we will be
living as `husband and wife' for long."
"Besides not using your magic, you will not use the name associated
with that magic-Rahl-but instead the name you grew up with: Richard Cypher.
Without your magic, or your name, no one will know you are anyone but a
humble man with his wife. That is exactly what you shall be-what we both
shall be."
Richard sighed. "Well, if the enemy should find I'm more, I guess a
Sister of the Dark can . . . exert her influence."
"No, I can't."
Richard's eyes turned up. "What do you mean?"
"I can't use my power."
Gooseflesh prickled his arms. "What?"
"It's devoted to the link with Kahlan, to keeping her alive. That is
how a maternity spell works. It requires a prodigious amount of power to
even establish such a complex spell, much less maintain it. My power must be
invested into the labor of preserving the living link. A maternity spell
leaves nothing to spare; l doubt I could make a spark.
"If we have any trouble, you will have to handle it. Of course, I can
at any time
call upon my ability as a sorceress, but to do so I would have to draw
the power from our link. If I do that without her near . . . Kahlan dies."
Alarm raced through him. "But what if you accidentally
"I won't. As long as you take good care of me, Kahlan will be safe
enough. If, however, I should fall off my horse and break my neck, her neck
snaps, too. As long as you take good care of me, you are taking good care of
her. This is why it's important that we live as husband and wife-so that you
can be close at hand, and so that I can guide and help you, too. It will be
a difficult life with both of us living without our power, just as any other
married couple, but 1 believe this to be necessary if I am to find what I
seek from you. Do you understand?"
He wasn't sure he really did, but he said "Yes," anyway.
Numb dismay swamped him. He would never have believed this woman would
have willingly given up her power for some unspecified knowledge. The very
idea of it unleashed cold panic through his veins.
Richard couldn't make sense of it. With his mind groping blindly in a
world gone insane, he spoke without even considering his words.
"I'm already married. I'll not sleep with you as your husband."
Nicci blinked in surprise, then let out a dainty titter, covering it
with the back of her hand, not in shyness, but at his presumption. Richard
felt his ears heating.
"That is not the way in which I want you, Richard."
Richard cleared his throat. "Good."
In the quiet of the wayward pine, with the rain outside falling in a
gentle patter and the glowing checkered wood hissing softly, Nicci's
focused, intense, resolute expression turned very cold and very still.
"But if I should decide I do, Richard, you will comply with that, too."
Nicci was a beautiful woman, the kind of woman most any man would
eagerly accept. It was hardly that, though, that made him believe her. It
was the look in her eyes. Never had the vague possibility of the act of sex
seemed so vicious.
Her voice lost the conversational quality. It went on in a lifeless
drone, a thing not human, pronouncing a sentence on his life. A sentence he
himself would enforce, or Kahlan would die.
"You will act as my husband. You will provide for us as any husband
would. You will care for me, and I for you, in the sense of worldly needs. I
will mend your shirts and cook your meals and wash your clothes. You will
provide us with a living."
Nicci's leaden words slammed into him with the deliberate methodical
force of a beating delivered with an iron bar.
"You will never see Kahlan again-you must understand that-but as long
as you do as I wish, you will know she lives. In that way you will be able
to show your love for her. Every day she wakes, she will know you are
keeping her alive. You have no other way to show her your love."
He felt sick to his stomach. He stared off into memories of another
place and time.
"And if I choose to end it?" The weight of such madness was so crushing
that he earnestly considered it. "Rather than be your slave?"
"Then perhaps that is the form the knowledge I seek will take. Maybe
that senseless end will be what I must learn." She brought her first and
second fingers together in a snipping motion, simulating the cutting of the
umbilical cord of magic that sustained Kahlan's life. "One last evil
convulsion to finally confirm the senselessness of existence."
It dawned on Richard that this woman could not be threatened, because
she was a creature who, he was beginning to understand, welcomed any
terrible outcome.
"Of all there is to me in this world," he whispered in dim agony, more
to himself and to Kahlan than to his implacable captor, "there is only one
thing that is irreplaceable: Kahlan. If I must be a slave in order for
Kahlan to live, then I shall be a slave."
Richard realized Nicci was silently studying his face. He met her gaze
briefly, then looked away, unable to bear the terrible scrutiny of her
beautiful blue eyes while he held the image of Kahlan's love in his mind.
"Whatever you shared with her, whatever happiness, joy, or pleasure,
will always be yours, Richard." Nicci seemed almost to be peering inside
him, reading the pages of his past written in his mind. "Treasure those
memories. They will have to sustain you. You will never see her again, nor
she you. That chapter of your life is ended. You both have new lives, now.
You may as well get used to it because that is the reality of the
situation."
The reality of what was. Not the world as he would wish it. He himself
had told Kahlan that they must act according to the reality of what was, and
not waste their precious lives wishing for things that could not be.
Richard ran his fingertips across his forehead as he tried to hold his
voice steady. "I hope you don't expect me to learn to be pleased with you."
"I am the one, Richard, who expects to learn."
Fists at his side, Richard shot to his feet. "And what is it you wish
this knowledge for?" he demanded in unrestrained, violent bitterness. "Why
is it so important to you!"
"As punishment."
Richard stared in stunned disbelief. "What?"
"I wish to hurt, Richard." She smiled distantly.
Richard sank back to the ground.
"Why?" he whispered.
Nicci folded her hands in her lap. "Pain, Richard, is all that can
reach that cold dead thing within me that is my life. Pain is the only thing
for which I live."
He stared numbly at her. He thought about his vision. There was nothing
he could do to fight the advance of the Imperial Order. He could think of
nothing he could do to fight his fate with this woman.
If not for Kahlan, he would, at that moment, have thrown himself into a
battle with Nicci that would have decided it once and for all. He would have
willingly gone to his death fighting this cruel insanity. Except his reason
denied him that.
He had to live so that Kahlan would live. For that, and that alone, he
had to put one foot in front of the other and march into oblivion.
Kahlan yawned as she rubbed her eyes. Squinting, she arched her back
and stretched her sore muscles. The terrible desperate memories swooped in
from the sleep-darkened corners of her mind, leaving little chance for any
other thoughts to long survive.
She was beyond the realm of merciless anguish and crying; she had
entered the sovereign dominion of unbridled anger.
Her fingers found the cold steel scabbard of his sword lying at her
side. It felt alive with icy rage. That, the carving of Spirit, and her
memories were about all she had of him.
There wasn't a lot of firewood, but since they wouldn't be needing much
more anyway, Kahlan put another stick of what was left into the fire. She
squatted, holding her hands close over the top of the feeble flames, hoping
to bring feeling to her numb fingers. The wind shifted a little. Pungent
smoke billowed up into her face, making her cough. The smoke rolled past her
face and followed the rock overhang up and out from their shelter.
Cara was gone, so Kahlan pushed the little pot of water back onto the
fire to warn it for tea for when the Mord-Sith returned. Cara was probably
visiting their makeshift privy. Or maybe she was checking the traps they'd
set the night before for rabbits. Kahlan didn't hold out any real hope that
they would catch a rabbit for their breakfast. Not in this weather. They had
brought enough provisions, in any event.
Through slits in the clouds, the crimson light of a cold crisp dawn
penetrated gaps in the snowcrusted limbs of trees to slant in under the rock
overhang, casting everything in their little campsite in a blush glow. The
two of them had tried without avail to find a wayward pine. The screen of
trees, along with a short wall of boughs she and Cara had cut and placed the
night before to protect them from the wind, as Richard had taught them to
do, shielded the secluded spot. With their improvements it had proven a fit
shelter. They had been lucky to find it in the driving snow. Outside, the
snow was fairly deep, but in the shelter they had had a relatively dry, if
cold, night. Kahlan and Cara had huddled together under blankets and their
thick wolf fur mantles to keep each other warm.
Kahlan wondered where Richard was, and if he was cold, too. She hoped
not. Probably, since he had started out a few days sooner, he had been lucky
and had made it down to the lowlands already, avoiding the snow.
Cara and Kahlan had stayed in their home, as he had asked, for three
days. Snow had arrived the morning after he'd left. Kahlan had been tempted
to wait for a break in the weather before they started out, but she had
learned a bitter lesson from Sister
Nicci: don't wait, act. When Richard didn't return, Kahlan and Cara had
immediately struck out.
It was hard going at first. They struggled through the drifts, leading
the horses at times, riding them occasionally. They couldn't see very far,
and most of the time had to keep the wind from the west at their right
shoulder as their only clue as to which direction they faced. It was
dangerous traveling over the passes in such conditions. For a time, they
feared that they had made a terrible mistake leaving the safety of their
house.
Through a break in the clouds just before dark the night before, as
they were gathering boughs for their shelter, they'd caught a glimpse of the
lower hills; they were green and brown, not white. They would be below the
snow line before long. Kahlan was confident that they were through the worst
of it.
As she stuffed an arm into a sleeve, pulling another shirt on over the
top of the two she was wearing, Kahlan heard the crunch of snow underfoot.
When she realized it was more than one pair of footsteps, she stood up in a
rush.
Cara pushed her way through the boughs of the sheltering trees. "We
have company," she announced in a grim voice. Kahlan saw that Cara's fist
held her Agiel.
A bundled up squat woman came through the trees, following in Cara's
footsteps. Under layers of cloaks, scarves, and other dangling corners of
thick cloth, Kahlan was surprised to recognize Ann, the old Prelate of the
Sisters of the Light.
Behind Ann came a taller woman, her scarves pushed back to reveal
graying brown hair loose to her shoulders. She had an intense, steady,
calculating gaze that had earned her an enduring network of fine wrinkles
radiating out from the corners of her deep-set eyes. Her brow was less
steady, twitching down several times toward her prominent nose. She looked
like a woman who used a switch to teach children.
"Kahlan!" Ann rushed forward, seizing Kahlan's arms. "Oh, my dear, it's
so good to see you!" She looked back when Kahlan glanced up behind her.
"This is one of my Sisters, Alessandra. Alessandra, may I introduce the
Mother Confessorand Richard's wife."
The woman stepped forward and smiled. The pleasant grin completely
altered her face, instantly erasing the severity of it with open good
nature. It was a somewhat disorienting transformation, making her seem like
two different people sharing one face. Or, Kahlan thought, perhaps one
person with two faces.
"Mother Confessor, it's so good to meet you. Ann has told me all about
you, and what a wonderful person you are." Her eyes took in the campsite
with a quick glance. "I'm so happy for you and Richard."
Ann's eyes turned left and right, searching. Her gaze snagged on the
sword.
"Where's Richard? Cara wouldn't say a word." She looked up into
Kahlan's eyes. "Dear Creator," she whispered. "What's wrong? What's
happened? Where's Richard?"
Kahlan finally managed to unclench her teeth. "One of your Sisters took
him."
Ann pushed her scarves back off her gray hair and took ahold of
Kahlan's arm again. The top of Ann's head came up only to Kahlan's chest,
but she looked at least twice as wide.
"What are you talking about? What do you mean, a Sister took him? Which
Sister?"
"Nicci," Kahlan growled.
Ann pulled back. "Nicci . . ."
Sister Alessandra gasped. "Sister Nicci?" She crossed both hands over
her heart. "Sister Nicci isn't one of Ann's. Nicci is a Sister of the Dark."
"Oh, I'm well aware of that," Kahlan said.
"We have to go get him back," Ann said. "At once. He's not safe with
her."
"There's no telling what Nicci might-" Sister Alessandra's mouth
snapped shut.
The wind carried a sparkling gust into their faces, momentarily whiting
out the red dawn. Kahlan blinked the snow away. Cara, in her red leather
with both a cloak and her heavy fur mantle over top, ignored it. The other
two women brushed their heavy woolen mittens across their eyes.
"Kahlan, everything will be all right," Ann said in a reassuring voice.
"Tell us, now, what's happened? Tell us everything. Is he hurt?"
Kahlan swallowed against her rising rage. "Nicci used what she called a
maternity spell on me."
Ann's mouth fell open. Sister Alessandra gasped again.
"Are you sure?" Ann asked in a careful tone. "Are you sure that was
what it was? How do you know for sure?"
"She slammed some kind of magic into me. I've never heard of such a
spell. All I know is that it was definitely powerful magic and she said it
was called a maternity spell. She said that it connects us, somehow, through
that magic."
Alessandra took a step forward. "That doesn't make it a maternity
spell."
"When Cara used her Agiel on Nicci," Kahlan said, "it dropped me to my
knees just the same as if Cara had used the Agiel on me."
Ann and Alessandra shared a silent look.
"But . . . but, if she were to . . ." Ann stammered.
Kahlan voiced what Ann was trying to say without saying it. "If she
were to desire it, Nicci could snip that cord of magic, and 1 would die.
That was the means by which she captured Richard. She promised I would live
if Richard went with her. Richard surrendered himself into slavery to save
my life."
"It can't be," Ann said, touching mitten-covered fingers to her chin.
"Nicci wouldn't know how to use such an unusual spell-she's too young.
Besides, such a rare spell requires great power. She must have done
something else and just said that it was a maternity spell. Nicci couldn't
do a maternity spell."
"Yes, she could," Sister Alessandra said in reluctant disagreement.
"She has the power and ability. It would only have required someone with the
specialized knowledge teaching her. Nicci doesn't have any great passion for
magic, but she is as able as they come."
"Lidmila . . ." Ann whispered to Alessandra in sudden realization.
"Jagang has Lidmila. "
Kahlan turned a suspicious glare on Sister Alessandra. "And how do you
know so much more about Nicci's ability than the Prelate herself?"
Sister Alessandra gathered her open cloak back together. Her face lost
its warmth and reverted to a scowl-this time, though, with bitterness in the
set of her mouth.
"I brought Nicci in to the Palace of the Prophets when she was but a
child. I was responsible for her upbringing, and I guided her training in
the use of her gift; I know her better than anyone. I know her darker powers
because I, too, was a Sister of the Dark. I'm the one who brought her to the
Keeper."
Kahlan could feel herself rocking with the force of her hammering
heart. "So, you, too, are a Sister of the Dark."
"Was," Ann said, lifting a cautionary hand before Kahlan.
"The Prelate came into Jagang's camp and rescued me. Not just from
Jagang, but from the Keeper, too. I once again serve the Light." The
incandescent smile again transformed Alessandra's face. "Ann brought me back
to the Creator."
As far as Kahlan was concerned, the claim was not worth the effort of
confirmation. "How did you find us?"
Ann ignored the terse question. "We must hurry. We must get Richard
away from Nicci before she delivers him to Jagang."
Kahlan kept her glare on Alessandra while she answered Ann. "She isn't
taking him to Jagang. She said she isn't acting on behalf of His Excellency,
but on behalf of herself. Those were her words. She said she had removed
Jagang's ring from her lip and that she wasn't afraid of him."
"Did she say why, then, she was taking Richard?" Ann asked. "Or, at
least, where?"
Kahlan moved her scrutiny back to Ann. "She said she was taking him
into oblivion."
"Oblivion!" Ann gasped.
"I asked you a question," Kahlan said, anger seeping into her voice.
"How did you find us?"
Ann tapped her waist. "I have a journey book. I used it to communicate
with Verna, back with our forces. Verna told me about the messengers coming
to see you. That's how 1 knew where to find you. Lucky I came as soon as I
did; we nearly missed you. I can't tell you how happy I am to see you have
recovered, Kahlan. We were so worried."
Kahlan saw that Cara, standing behind the two women, still had her
Agiel clenched in her fist. Kahlan didn't need an Agiel; her Confessor's
power boiled but an impulse away. She wouldn't again make an error for the
sake of caution.
"The journey book. Of course. Then Verna would have told you about
Richard's vision that he must not lead our troops against the Order."
Ann nodded reluctantly, apparently not eager to discuss such a vision.
"Then, a few days ago, Verna sent a message when we were almost here, that
the D'Harans are in quite a state because they suddenly lost their sense of
direction to Richard. She said they are still protected from the dream
walker by the bond to their Lord Rahl, but they suddenly lost their sense of
where he is."
"Nicci cloaked his bond from us," Cara said in a growl.
"Well, we have to find him," Ann said. "We have to get him away from
Nicci. He's our only chance. Whatever he's thinking, it's nonsense and we
will have to set him straight, but first we must get him back. He has to
lead our forces against the Imperial Order. He is the one named in
prophecy."
"That's why you're here," Kahlan whispered to herself. "You heard from
Verna about his declining to lead the army or even to give orders. You
journeyed here in hopes of forcing him to fight."
"He must," Ann insisted.
"He must not," Kahlan said. "He has come to realize that if he leads us
into battle, we will lose the cause of liberty for generations to come. He
said he came to realize that people don't yet understand freedom and won't
fight for it."
"He must simply prove himself to the people." Ann's scowl reddened. "He
must prove himself their leader, which he has already begun to do, and they
will follow him."
"Richard says that he has come to understand that it is not he who must
prove himself to the people, but the people who must now prove themselves to
him."
Ann blinked in astonishment. "Why, that's nonsense."
"Is it?"
"Of course it is. The boy was named in prophecy centuries ago. I've
been waiting hundreds of years for him to be born in order for him to lead
us in this struggle."
"Really. Then who are you to try to countermand Richard's decision-if
you are so set on following him? He has come to his decision. If he is the
leader you want, then you must abide by his lead, and therefore his
decision."
"But this is not what prophecy demands!"
"Richard doesn't believe in prophecy. He believes we make our own
destiny. I'm coming to see the grounds of his assertion that the belief in
prophecy artificially alters events. It is the misplaced faith in prophecy
itself-in some mystical outcome-that harms people's lives."
Ann's eyes grew round with dismay, and then narrowed. "Richard is the
one named in prophecy to lead us against the Imperial Order. This is a
struggle for the very existence of magic in this world-don't you understand
that! Richard was born to fight this fight. We have to get him back!"
"This is all your fault," Kahlan whispered.
"What?" Ann's frown changed to a tolerant smile. "Kahlan, what are you
talking about?" Her voice backslid to genial. "You know me, you know our
struggle for the survival of freedom of magic. If Richard does not lead us,
we have no chance."
Kahlan threw her arm out and seized a startled Sister Alessandra by the
throat. The woman's eyes went wide.
"Don't move," Kahlan said through gritted teeth, "or I will unleash my
Confessor's power."
Ann held her hands up, imploring. "Kahlan, have you lost your mind? Let
her be. Calm down."
With her other hand, Kahlan pointed down at the fire. "The journey
book. Throw it in the fire."
"What? I'm not going to do any such thing!"
"Now," Kahlan said through her clenched teeth. "Or Sister Alessandra
will be mine. When I finish with her, Cara will see to it you throw that
journey book in the fire, if you have to do so with broken fingers."
Ann glanced at the Mord-Sith towering over her shoulder.
"Kahlan, I know you're upset, and I completely understand, but we're on
the same side in this. We love Richard, too. We, too, wish to stop the
Imperial Order from taking the whole world. We-"
"We? If it wasn't for you and your Sisters, none of this would be
happening. This is all your fault. Not Jagang's fault, not the Imperial
Order's fault, but yours."
"Have you lost your-"
"You alone bear responsibility for what is befalling the world. Just as
Jagang has his ring through the lip of his slaves, you've had yours through
the nose of yours-Richard! You alone bear responsibility for the lives
already lost, and those yet to be lost in bloody slaughters that will sweep
across the land. You, not Jagang, are the one who has brought it!"
Despite the cold, beads of sweat dotted Ann's brow. "What in the name
of Creation are you talking about? Kahlan, you know me. I was at your
wedding. I have always been on your side. I have only followed the
prophecies to help people."
"You create the prophecies! Without your help they would not have come
to pass! They only come about because you have fulfilled them! You pull the
ring through Richard's nose!"
Ann presented a face of calm to the stone of Kahlan's rage.
"Kahlan, I can only imagine how you must feel, but now you are truly
losing all sense of reason."
"Am I? Am I, Prelate? Why does Sister Nicci have my husband? Answer me.
Why! +
Ann's expression drew tight in a darkening glower. "Because she is
evil."
"No." Kahlan's grip tightened on Alessandra's throat. "It's because of
you. Had you not sent Verna into the New World in the first place, ordering
her to take Richard back across the barrier into the Old World-"
"But the prophecies say the Order will rise up to take the world and
extinguish magic if we fail to stop them! The prophecies say Richard is the
only one to lead us! That Richard is the only one with a chance!"
"And you brought that dead prophecy to life. All by yourself. All
because of your faith in bloodless words rather than your own reasoned
choices. You're here today not to back the choices of your proclaimed
leader, not to reason with him. but to enforce prophecy upon him-to give
that ring a tug. Had you not sent Verna to recover Richard, what would have
happened, Prelate?"
"Why, why, the Order-"
"The Order? The Order would still be trapped back in the Old World,
behind the barrier. Wouldn't they! For three thousand years that
wizard-created barrier has stood invincible against the pressure of the
Order-or those like them-and their wish to swarm up here into the New World,
bent on conquest.
"Because you had Richard captured, against his will, and ordered him
brought back to the Old World, all in slavish homage to dead words in dusty
old books, he was forced to destroy the barrier, and thus the Order now can
flood into the New World, into the Midlands, my Midlands, slaughtering my
people, taking my husband, all because of you and your meddling!
"Without you, none of this would be happening! No war, no mounds of
butchered people in cities of the New World, no thousands of dead men,
women, and children slaughtered at the hands of Imperial Order thugs-none of
it!
"Because of you and your precious prophecies, the veil was breached and
a plague was unleashed on the world. It would never have happened without
your actions to 'save' us all from prophecy. I don't even dare to recall all
the children I saw suffering and dying from the black death because of you.
Children who looked up into my eyes and asked if they would be all right,
and I had to say yes when I knew they would not survive the night.
"No one will ever know the tally of the dead. No one is left to
remember all the small places wiped out of existence by that plague. Without
your meddling, those children would be alive, their mothers would be smiling
to themselves as they watched them play, their fathers would be teaching
them the ways of the world-a world denied them by you for the sake of your
faith in prophecy!
"You say this is a battle for the very existence of magic in this
world-yet your work to fulfill prophecy may have already doomed magic.
Without your intervention, the chimes would never have come to be loosed
upon the world. Yes, Richard managed to banish them, but what irreversible
harm was done? We may have our power back, bent during the time the chimes
withdrew magic from this world, crea
tures of magic, things dependent on magic for their very existence,
surely died out. Magic requires balance to exist. The balance of magic in
this world was disturbed. The irrevocable destruction of magic may have
already begun. All because of your slavish service to prophecy.
"If not for you, Prelate, Jagang, the Imperial Order's army, and all
your Sisters would be back there, behind the barrier, and we would be here,
safe and at peace. You cast blame everywhere but where it belongs. If
freedom, if magic, if the world itself is destroyed, it will all be by your
hand, Prelate."
The low moan of the wind was the only sound and made the sudden silence
all that much more agonizing. Ann stared with tear-filled eyes up at Kahlan.
Snow sparkled in the rays of a cold dawn.
"It isn't like that, Kahlan. It only seems that way to you in your
pain."
"It is that way," Kahlan said with finality.
Ann's mouth worked, but this time no words came out.
Kahlan thrust out her hand, palm up.
"The journey book. If you think I would not destroy this woman's life,
then you don't know the first thing about me. She's one of your Sisters,
helping to destroy the world in the name of good, or else she is still one
of the Keeper's Sisters, helping to destroy the world in the name of death.
Either way, if you don't give me the journey book, and right now, her life
is forfeit."
"What do you think this will accomplish?" Ann whispered in despair.
"It will be a start at halting your meddling in the lives of the people
of the Midlands, and the rest (,f the New World-in my life, in Richard's
life. It's the only beginning I can think to make, short of killing you
both; you would not like to know how close I am to that alternative. Now,
give me the journey book."
Ann stared down at Kahlan's hand open before her. She blinked at her
tears. Finally, she pulled off a woolen mitten and worked the little book
out from behind her belt. She paused a moment, reverently gazing at it, but
in the end laid it on Kahlan's palm.
"Dear Creator," Ann whispered, "forgive this poor hurting child of
yours for what she is about to do."
Kahlan tossed the book in the fire.
With ashen faces, Ann and Sister Alessandra stood staring at the book
in the hissing flames.
Kahlan snatched up Richard's sword. "Cara, let's get going."
"The horses are ready. I was saddling them when these two showed up."
Kahlan dumped the hot water to the side while Cara started quickly
collecting their belongings. They both stuffed items in the saddlebags.
Other gear they slung over their shoulders and carried to the horses to be
strapped back on the saddles.
Without looking back at Ann or Alessandra, Kahlan swung up into her
cold saddle. With a grim Cara at her side, she turned her mount and cantered
off into the swirling snow.
As soon as she saw Kahlan and Cara vanish like vengeful spirits into
the whiteness, Ann fell to her knees and thrust her hands into the fire to
snatch the burning journey book from its funeral pyre in the white-hot
coals.
"Prelate!" Alessandra cried. "You'll burn yourself!"
Flinching back from the ferocity of the pain, Ann ignored the gagging
stench of burning flesh and thrust her hands again into the wavering heat of
the fire. She saw, rather than felt, that she had the priceless journey book
in her fingers.
The entire rescue of the burning book took only a second, but, through
the prism of pain, it seemed an eternity.
Biting down on her lower lip against the suffering, Ann rolled to the
side. Alessandra came running back with her hands full of snow. She threw it
on Ann's bloody blackened fingers and the journey book clenched in them.
She let out a low wail of agony when the wet snow contacted the burns.
Alessandra fell to Ann's side, taking her hands by the wrists, gasping in
tears of fright.
"Prelate! Oh, Prelate, you shouldn't have!"
Ann was in a state of shock from the pain. Alessandra's shrill voice
seemed a distant drone.
"Oh, Ann! Why didn't you use magic, or even a stick!"
Ann was surprised by the question. In her panic over the priceless
journey book burning there in the fire, her mind was filled only with the
single thought to get it out before it was too late. Her reckless action,
she knew, was precipitated by her bitter anguish over Kahlan's accusations.
"Hold still," Alessandra admonished through her own tears. "Hold still
and let me see what I can do about healing you. It will be all right. Just
hold still."
Ann sat on the snowy ground, dazed by the hurt, and by the words still
hammering her from inside her head, as she let Alessandra work at healing
her hands.
The Sister could not heal her heart.
"She was wrong," Alessandra said, as if reading Ann's thoughts. "She
was wrong, Prelate."
"Was she?" Ann asked in a numb voice after the searing pain in her
fingers finally began to ease, replaced by the achingly uncomfortable
tingling of magic coursing into her flesh, doing its work. "Was she,
Alessandra?"
"Yes. She doesn't know so much as she thinks. She's a child-she
couldn't be a paltry three decades yet. People can't learn to wipe their own
noses in that much time." Alessandra was prattling, Ann knew, prattling with
her worry over the journey book, and with her worry over the anguish caused
by Kahlan's words. "She's just a foolish child who doesn't know the first
thing about anything. There's much more to it. Much more. It isn't so simple
as she thinks. Not so simple at all."
Ann wasn't so sure anymore. Everything seemed dead to her. Five hundred
years of work-had it all been a mad task, driven on by selfish desires and a
fool's faith? Wouldn't she, in Kahlan's place, have seen it the same way?
Endless rows of corpses lay before her in the trial going on in her
mind. What was there to say in her defense? She had a thousand answers for
the Mother Confessor's charges, but at that moment, they all seemed empty.
How could Ann possibly excuse herself to the dead?
"You're the Prelate of the Sisters of the Light," Alessandra rambled on
during a pause in her work. "She should have been more considerate of who
she was talking to. More respectful. She doesn't know everything involved.
There's a great deal more to it. A great deal. After all, the Sisters of the
Light don't casually choose their Prelate."
Nor did Confessors casually choose their Mother Confessor.
An hour passed, and then another, before Alessandra finally finished
the difficult and tedious work of healing Ann's burns. Burns were difficult
injuries to heal. It was a tiring experience, being helpless and cold while
magic sizzled through her, while Kahlan's words sliced her very soul.
Ann flexed the aching fingers when Alessandra had finished. A shadow of
the burning pain lingered, as she knew it would for a good long time. But
they were healed, and she had her hands back.
When the matter was weighed, though, she feared she had lost a great
deal more of herself than she had recovered.
Exhausted and cold, Ann, to Alessandra's worry, lay down beside the
hissing remnants of the fire that had so hurt her. At that moment, she had
no desire to ever rise again. Her years, nearly a thousand of them, seemed
to have all caught up with her at once.
She missed Nathan terribly right then. The prophet doubtless would have
had something wise, or foolish, to say. Either would have comforted her.
Nathan always had something to say. She missed his boastful voice, his kind,
childlike, knowing eyes. She missed the touch of his hand.
Weeping silently, Ann cried herself to sleep. Her dreams kept the sleep
from being either restful, or deep. She awoke in late morning to the feel of
Alessandra's comforting hand on her shoulder. The Sister had added more wood
to the fire, so it offered warmth.
"Are you feeling better, Prelate?"
Ann nodded her lie. Her first thought was for the journey book. She
gazed at it lying in the protection of Alessandra's lap. Ann sat up and
carefully lifted the blackened book from the sling of Alessandra's dress.
"Prelate, I'm so worried for you."
With a sour wave of her hand, Ann dismissed the concern.
"While you slept, I've looked at the book."
Ann grunted. "Looks bad."
Alessandra nodded. "That's what I thought. I don't think it can be
salvaged."
Ann used an easy, gentle flow of her Han to hold the pages-little more
than ash-together as she carefully turned them.
"It has endured three thousand years. Were it ordinary paper, it would
be beyond help-ended-but this is a thing of magic, Alessandra, forged in the
fires of magic, by wizards of power not seen in all those three thousand
years . . . until Richard."
"What can we do? Do you know a way to restore it?"
Ann shook her head as she inspected the curled, charred journey book.
"I don't know if it can be restored. I'm just saying that it's a thing of
magic. Where there is magic, there is hope."
Ann pulled a handkerchief from a pocket deep under the layers of her
clothes. Laying the blackened book in the center of the handkerchief, she
carefully folded the handkerchief up to hold it together. She wove a spell
around it all to protect and preserve it for the time being.
"I will have to try to find a way to restore it-if I can. If it can
even be restored."
Alessandra dry-washed her hands. "Until then, our eyes with the army
are lost."
Ann nodded. "We won't know if the Imperial Order decides to finally
leave their place in the south and move up into the Midlands. l can give no
guidance to Verna."
"Prelate, what do you think will happen if the Order finally decides to
attackand Richard isn't there with them? What will they do? Without the Lord
Rahl to lead them . . ."
Ann did her best to move the terrible weight of Kahlan's words to the
side as she considered the immediate situation.
"Verna is the Prelate now-at least as far as the Sisters with the army
are concerned. She will guide them wisely. And Zedd is with them, helping
the Sisters prepare for battle, should it come. They could have no better
counsel than to have a wizard of Zedd's experience with them. As First
Wizard, he has been through great wars before.
"We will have to place our faith in the Creator that He will watch over
them. I can't advise them unless I can restore the journey book. Unless I
can do that, I won't even know their situation."
"You could go there, Prelate."
Ann brushed snow from the side of her shoulder, where she had been
lying on the ground, as she considered that possibility.
"The Sisters of the Light think I'm dead. They've put their faith in
Verna, now, as their Prelate. It would be a terrible thing to do to
Verna-and to the rest of the Sisters-to come back to life in the middle of
such trying circumstances. Certainly many would be relieved to have me back,
but it also sows the seeds of confusion and doubt. Battle is a very bad time
for such seeds to sprout."
"But they would all be encouraged by your-"
Ann shook her head. "Verna is their leader. Such a thing could forever
undermine their trust in her authority. They must not lose their faith in
her leadership. I must put the welfare of the Sisters of the Light above all
else. 1 must keep their best interests at heart, now."
"But, Ann, you are the Prelate."
Ann stared off. "What good has that done anyone?"
Alessandra's eyes turned down. The wind moaned sorrowfully through the
trees. Gusts kicked up blue-gray trailers of snow and whipped them along
through the campsite. The sunlight had vanished behind somber clouds. Ann
wiped her nose on the edge of her icy cloak.
Alessandra laid a compassionate hand on Ann's arm. "You brought me back
from the Keeper, back into the Light of the Creator. I was in Jagang's
hands, and treated you terribly when they captured you, yet you never gave
up on me. Who else would have cared? Without you, my soul would be lost for
all time. I doubt you could fathom my gratitude for what you did, Prelate."
Despite Alessandra's apparent return to the Creator's Light, Ann had
been fooled
by the woman before. Years before, Alessandra had turned to the Keeper,
becoming a Sister of the Dark, and Ann had never known. How could one have
faith in a person after such a betrayal?
Ann looked up into Alessandra's eyes. "I hope so, Sister. I pray such
is really true."
"It is, Prelate."
Ann lifted a hand toward the shrouded sun. "And perhaps when I go to
the Creator's Light in the next world, that one good act will erase the
thousands of lives lost because of me?"
Alessandra looked away, rubbing her arms through the layers of clothes.
She turned and put two sticks of wood on the fire.
"We should have a hot meal. That will make you feel better, Prelate. It
will make us both feel better."
Ann sat on the ground watching Alessandra prepare her hearty camp soup.
Ann doubted that even the pleasant aroma of soup would arouse her appetite.
"Why do you think Nicci took Richard?" Alessandra asked as she put
dried mushrooms from a pouch into the soup.
Ann looked up at Alessandra's puzzled face. "I can't imagine, except to
think that she may be lying, and she is taking him to Jagang."
Alessandra broke up dried meat and dropped it into the boiling pot of
soup. "Why? If she had him, and he was forced to do as she asked-why lie?
What would be the purpose?"
"She's a Sister devoted to the Keeper." Ann lifted her hands and let
them flop back into her lap. "That's excuse enough to lie, isn't it? Lying
is wrong. It's wicked. That's reason enough."
Alessandra shook her head in admonition. "Prelate, I was a Sister of
the Dark. Remember? I know better. That isn't the way it is at all. Do you
always tell the truth just because you are devoted to the Creator's Light?
No; one lies for the Keeper just as you would lie for the Creator-to His
ends, if lying is necessary. Why would Nicci lie about that? She was in
control of the situation and had no need to lie."
"I can't imagine." Ann had difficulty caring enough to consider the
question. Her mind was in a morass of hopeless thoughts. It was her fault
Richard was in the hands of the enemy, not Nicci's.
"I think she did it for herself."
Ann looked up. "What do you mean?"
"I think Nicci is still looking for something."
"Looking for something? What ever do you mean?"
With a finger, Alessandra brushed a measure of spices into the pot from
a waxed paper she'd unfolded. "Ever since the first day I took her from her
home and brought her to the Palace of the Prophets, Nicci continually grew
more . . . detached, somehow. She always did whatever she could to help
people, but she was always a child who made me feel as if I was inadequate
at fulfilling her needs."
"Such as?"
Alessandra shook her head. "I don't know. She always seemed to me to be
looking for something. I thought she needed to find the Light of the
Creator. I pushed her mercilessly, hoping it would open her eyes to His way
and fill her inner need. I allowed her no room to think about anything else.
I even kept her away from her family. Her father was a selfish lover of
money and her mother . . . well, her mother was well intentioned, but always
made me feel uncomfortable. I thought the Creator
would fill that private void within Nicci." Alessandra hesitated. "And
then I thought it was the Keeper she needed."
"So, you think she took Richard to fill some . . . inner need? How does
that make sense?"
"I don't know." Alessandra breathed out heavily in frustration. She
stirred the soup as she drizzled in a pinch of salt. "Prelate, I think I
failed Nicci."
"In what way?"
"I don't know. Perhaps 1 failed to involve her adequately in the needs
of othersgave her too much time to think of herself. She always seemed
devoted to the welfare of her fellow man, but maybe I should have rubbed her
nose in other people's troubles more, to teach her the Creator's way of
virtue through caring more for her fellow man rather than her own selfish
wants."
"Sister, I hardly think that could be it. Once she asked me for an
extravagant black dress to wear to her mother's funeral, and of course I
refused such a profligacy because it was unfitting for a novice needing to
learn to put others first, but other than that one time, l never knew Nicci
to once ask for anything for herself. You did an admirable job with her,
Alessandra."
Ann recalled that, after that, Nicci started wearing black dresses.
"I remember that." Alessandra didn't look up. "When her father died, I
went with her to his funeral. 1 always felt sorry for taking her away from
her family, but I explained to her that she was so talented that she had
great potential for helping others and must not waste it."
"It's always hard to bring young ones to the palace. It's difficult to
part a child from loving parents. Some adapt better than others."
"She told me she understood. Nicci was always good that way. She never
objected to anything, any duty. Perhaps I assumed too much because she
always threw herself into helping others, never once complaining.
"At her father's funeral, I wanted to help her over her grief. Even
though she had that same cool exterior she always had, I knew her, I knew
she was hurting inside. I tried to comfort her by telling her not to
remember her father like that, but to try to remember him as he was when he
was alive."
"Those are kind words to one in such grief, Sister. You offered wise
advise."
Alessandra glanced up. "She was not comforted, Prelate. She looked at
me with those blue eyes of hers-you remember her blue eyes."
Ann nodded. "I remember."
"Well, she looked at me with those piercing blue eyes, like she wanted
to hate me, but even that emotion was beyond her, and she said in that
lifeless voice of hers that she couldn't remember him as he was when he was
alive, because she had never known him when he was alive. Isn't that the
strangest thing you've ever heard?"
Ann sighed. "It sounds like Nicci. She always was one to say the
strangest things at the strangest times. I should have offered her more
guidance in her life. I should have taken more interest in her . . . but
there were so many matters needing my attention."
"No, Prelate, that was my job. I tailed in it. Somehow, I failed
Nicci."
Ann pulled her cloak righter against a bitter gust of wind. She took
the bowl of soup when Alessandra handed it to her.
"Worse, Prelate, I brought her to the shadow of the Keeper."
Ann looked over the rim of the bowl as she took a sip. She carefully
set the steaming bowl in her lap.
"What's done is done, Alessandra."
While Alessandra sipped at her soup, Ann's mind wandered to Kahlan's
words. They were words spoken in anger, and as such, were to be forgiven. Or
were they to be considered in an honest light?
Ann feared to say Kahlan's words were wrong; she feared they were true.
For centuries Ann had worked with Nathan and the prophecies, trying to avoid
the disasters she saw, and the ones he pointed out to her. What if Nathan
had been pointing out things that were only dead words, as Kahlan said? What
if he only pointed them out so as to bring about his own escape?
After all, what Ann had set in motion with Richard had also resulted in
the prophet's escape. What if she had been duped into being the one to bring
about all those terrible results?
Could that be true? Grief threatened to overwhelm her.
She was beginning to greatly fear that she had been so absorbed in what
she thought she knew that she had acted on false assumptions.
Kahlan could be right. The Prelate of the Sisters of the Light might be
personally responsible for more suffering than any monster born into the
world had ever brought about.
"Alessandra," Ann said in a soft voice after she finished her bowl of
soup, "we must go and try to find Nathan. It's dangerous for the prophet to
be out there, in the world that is defenseless against him."
"Where would we look?"
Ann shook her head in dismay at the enormity of the task. "A man like
Nathan does not go unnoticed in the world. I must believe that if we set our
minds to it, we could find him."
Alessandra watched Ann's face. "Well, as you say, it is dangerous for
the prophet to be loose in the world."
"It is indeed. We must find him."
"It took Verna twenty years to find Richard."
"So it did. But part of that was by my design. I hid facts from Verna.
Then again, Nathan is no doubt hiding facts from us. Nonetheless, we have a
responsibility. Verna is with the Sisters, and with the army; they will do
what they can in that capacity. We must go after Nathan. That part of it is
up to us."
Alessandra set her bowl aside. "Prelate, I understand why you believe
the prophet must be found, but, just as you feel you must find him, I feel I
must find Nicci. I'm responsible for bringing her to the Keeper of the
underworld. I may be the only one who can bring her back to the Light. I
have a unique understanding of that journey of the heart. I fear what will
happen to Richard if I don't try to stop Nicci.
"Worse," Alessandra added, "I fear what will happen to the world if
Richard dies. Kahlan is wrong. I believe in what you've worked for all these
years. Kahlan is making a complex thing sound simple because her heart is
broken, but without what you did, she would never even have met Richard."
Ann considered Alessandra's words. The seduction of acquittal was
undeniable.
"But, Alessandra, we don't have the slightest idea where they went.
Nicci is as smart as they come. If, as she says, she is acting on her own
behalf, she will be clever about not being found. How would you even go
about such a search?
"Nathan is a prophet loose in the world. You remember the trouble he's
caused in the past. He could, by himself, bring about such calamity as the
world has never
seen. Nathan boasts when he's around people; he will surely leave such
traces where he goes. With Nathan, I believe we at least have a chance of
success. But hunting for Nicci . . ."
Alessandra met Ann's gaze with grim resolution. "Prelate, if Richard
dies, what chance have the rest of us?"
Ann looked away. What if Alessandra was right? What if Kahlan was
right? She had to catch Nathan; it was the only way to find out.
"Alessandra . . ."
"You don't completely trust me, do you, Prelate?"
Ann met the other woman's eyes, this time with authority. "No,
Alessandra, I admit that I don't. How can I? You deceived me. You lied to
me. You turned your back on the Creator and gave yourself to the Keeper of
the underworld."
"But I've come back to the Light, Prelate."
"Have you? Would not one acting for the Keeper lie for him, as you
yourself only moments ago suggested?"
Alessandra's eyes filled with tears. "That's why I must try to find
Nicci, Prelate. I must prove that your faith in me was not misplaced. I need
to do this to prove myself to you."
"Or, you need to help Nicci, and the Keeper?"
"I know I'm not worthy of trust. I know that. You said we must find
Nathan-but we must also help Richard."
"Two tasks of the utmost importance," Ann said, "and no journey book to
call for help."
Alessandra wiped at her eyes. "Please, Prelate, let me help. I'm
responsible for Nicci going to the Keeper. Let me try to make amends. Let me
try to bring her back. I know what the return journey is like. I can help
her. Please, let me try to save her eternal soul?"
Ann's gaze sank to the ground. Who was she to question the value of
another? What had her life been for? Had she herself been the Keeper's best
ally?
Ann cleared her throat. "Sister Alessandra, you are to listen to me and
you are to listen well. I am the Prelate of the Sisters of the Light and it
is your duty to do as I command." Ann shook a finger at the woman. "I'll
have no arguments, do you hear? I must go find the prophet before he does
something beyond foolish.
"Richard is of utmost importance to our cause-you know that. I'm
getting old and would only slow the search for him and his captor. I want
you to go after him. No arguments, now. You are to find Richard Rahl, and
put the fear of the Creator back into our wayward Sister Nicci."
Alessandra threw her arms around Ann, sobbing her thanks. Ann patted
the Sister's back, feeling miserable about losing a companion, and afraid
that she might have lost her faith in everything for which she stood.
Alessandra pushed away. "Prelate, will you be able to travel alone? Are
you sure you're up to this?"
"Bah. I may be old, but I'm not useless. Who do you think came into the
center of Jagang's army and rescued you, child?"
Alessandra smiled through her tears. "You did, Prelate, all by
yourself. No one but you could have done such a thing. I hope I can do half
as well for Nicci, when I find her."
"You will, Sister. You will. May the Creator cradle you in His palm as
you go on your journey."
Ann knew that they were both going off on difficult journeys that could
take years.
"Hard times lie ahead," Alessandra said. "But the Creator has two
hands, does He not? One for me, and one for you, Prelate."
Ann couldn't help but smile at such a mental picture.
Come in," Zedd grouched to the persistent throat-clearing outside his
tent.
He poured water from the ewer into the dented metal pot that served as
his washbasin sitting atop a log round. When he splashed some of the water
up onto his face, he gasped aloud. He was astonished that water that cold
would still pour.
"Good morning, Zedd."
Still gasping, Zedd swiped the frigid water from his eyes. He squinted
at Warren. "Good morning, my boy."
Warren blushed. Zedd reminded himself he probably shouldn't call
someone twice his own age "boy." It was Warren's own fault; if the boy would
just stop looking so young! Zedd sighed as he bent to forage for a towel
among the litter of maps, dirty plates, rusty dividers, empty mugs,
blankets, chicken bones, rope, an egg he'd lost in the middle of a lesson
weeks back, and other paraphernalia that seemed to collect over time in the
corner of his small field tent.
Warren was twisting his purple robes into a small wad at his hip. "I
just came from Verna's tent."
Zedd halted his search and looked back over his shoulder.
"Any word?"
Warren shook his head of curly blond hair. "Sorry, Zedd."
"Well," Zedd scoffed, "that doesn't mean anything. That old woman has
more lives than a cat I once had that was hit by lightning and fell down a
well, both in the same day. Did I ever tell you about that cat, my boy?"
"Well, yes, you did, actually." Warren smiled. "But if you like, I
wouldn't mind hearing it again."
Zedd dismissed the story with a feeble wave as he turned more serious.
"I'm sure Ann is fine. Verna knows Ann better than I do, but I do know that
that old woman is downright hard to harm."
"Verna said something like that." Warren smiled to himself. "Ann always
could scowl a thunderstorm back over the horizon."
Zedd grunted his agreement as he went back to digging through his pile.
"Tougher than bad meat, she is." He tossed two outdated maps over his
shoulder.
Warren leaned down a little. "What is it you're looking for, if you
don't mind my asking?"
"My towel. I know I had-'
"Right there," Warren said.
Zedd looked up. "What?"
"Your towel." Warren pointed again. "Right there on the back of the
chair."
"Oh." Zedd snatched up the wandering towel and dried his dry face. He
scowled
at Warren. "You have the eyes of a burglar." He tossed the towel in the
pile with everything else, where it belonged.
Warren's grin returned. "I'11 take that as a compliment."
Zedd cocked his head. "Do you hear that?"
Warren's grin melted away as he joined Zedd in listening to the sounds
outside. Horses clogged along the hard ground, men talked as they passed the
tent, other: called orders, fires crackled, wagons squeaked, and gear
clanged and rattled.
"Hear what?"
Zedd's face twisted in vague unease. "I don't know. Like, maybe a
whistle."
Warren lifted a thumb over his shoulder. "The men whistle now and
again, to get the attention of their horses and such. Sometimes it's
necessary."
They all did their best to keep the whistling and other noise down.
Whistles, especially, carried in such open terrain. It was hard to miss
something the size of the D'Harans' encampment, of course, so they moved
camp from time to time to keep the enemy from getting too confident about
their location. Sound could give away more than they would like.
Zedd shook his head. "Must have been that. Someone's long whistle."
"But still, Zedd," Warren went on, "it's long past time when Ann would
have sent Verna a message."
"There were times when I was with Ann that she couldn't send messages."
Zedd waved an arm expansively. "Bags, there was a time when I wouldn't let
her use that confounded journey book. The thing gave me the shivers. I don't
know why she couldn't just send letters, like normal people." His face, he
knew, was betraying his concern. "Confounded journey books. Lazy way of
doing things. I got to be First Wizard and I never needed a journey book."
"She could have lost it. That's what Verna suggested, anyway."
Zedd held up a finger. "That's right. She very well could have. It's
small-it could have fallen from her belt and she didn't nonce until she and
Alessandra made camp. She'd never find the book in a circumstance like
that." He shook the finger. "Makes my point, too. You shouldn't depend on
little trick things of magic, like that. It just makes you lazy."
"That's what Verna thought, too. About it falling from her belt, I
mean." Warren chuckled. "Or a cat could even have eaten it."
From beneath a furrowed brow, Zedd peered at Warren. "A cat? What cat?"
"Any cat." Warren cleared his throat. "I just meant . . . oh, never
mind. I never was any good at jokes."
Zedd's knotted brow lifted. "Oh, I see. A cat could have eaten it. Yes,
yes, I see." He didn't, but Zedd forced a chuckle for the boy's sake. "Very
good, Warren."
"Anyway, she probably lost it. It's probably something as simple as
that."
"If that's the case," Zedd reasoned, "she will likely end up coming
here to let us know that she's all right, or at least she will send a
letter, or messenger, or something. Ever more likely, though, she probably
had nothing to tell us and simply saw no need to bother with sending a
message in her journey book."
Warren made a skeptical face. "But we haven't had a message from her
for nearly a month."
Zedd waved a hand dismissively. "Well, she was way north, up almost to
where Richard and Kahlan are, last we heard. If she did lose the book and
started right out to come here from there, she won't show up for yet another
week or two. If she
went on to see Richard first, then it will be longer, I imagine. Ann
doesn't travel all that fast, you know."
"I know," Warren said. "She is getting up there in years. But that's
just another reason why I'm so worried."
What really worried Zedd was the way the journey book went silent just
as Ann was about to reach Richard and Kahlan. Zedd had been eagerly
anticipating hearing that Richard and Kahlan were safe, that Kahlan was all
healed. Maybe even that Richard was ready to return. Ann knew how eager they
were for word and would certainly have had something to report. Zedd didn't
like the coincidence that the journey book went silent right at that time.
He didn't like it one bit.
The whole thing made him want to scratch as if he'd been bitten by a
white mosquito.
"Now look here, Warren, a month isn't so long not to hear from her. In
the past, it's sometimes been weeks and weeks between her messages. It's too
early to start getting ourselves all worked up with worry. Besides, we have
our own concerns which require our attention."
Zedd didn't know what they could do even if Ann were in trouble
somewhere. They had no idea how to find her.
Warren flashed an apologetic smile. "You're right, Zedd."
Zedd moved a map and found a half loaf of bread left from the night
before. He took a big bite, giving himself an excuse to chew instead of
talk. When he talked, he feared he only let out the true level of his worry
not just about Ann, but also about Richard and Kahlan.
Warren was an able wizard, and smarter than just about anyone Zedd had
ever met. Zedd often had trouble finding something to talk about that Warren
hadn't already heard of, or was intimately familiar with. There was
something refreshing about sharing knowledge with someone who nodded
knowingly at esoteric points of magic that no one else would fathom, someone
who could fill in little gaps in the odd spell, or delighted at having his
own little gaps filled in by what Zedd knew. Warren retained more about
prophecy than Zedd thought anyone had a right to know in the first place.
Warren was a fascinating mix of obstinate old man and callow youth. He
was at once set in his ways, and at the same time openly, infinitely,
innocently, curious.
The one thing that made Warren fall silent, though, was when they
discussed Richard's "vision." Warren's face would go blank and he would sit
without comment while others argued over what Richard had said in his
letters and if there was any validity to it. Whenever Zedd had Warren alone
and asked him what he thought, Warren would say only "I follow Richard; he
is my friend, and he is the Lord Rahl." Warren would not debate or discuss
Richard's instructions to the army-or, more specifically, Richard's refusal
to give instructions. Richard had given his orders, as far as Warren was
concerned, and they were to be swallowed, not chewed.
Zedd noticed than Warren was twisting his robes again.
Zedd waved his bread. "You look like a wizard with his pants full of
itching spells. Do you have something you need to let out, Warren?"
Warren grinned sheepishly. "Am I that obvious?"
Zedd patted the boy on the back. "No, Warren, I'm just that good."
Warren laughed at Zedd's joke. Zedd gestured with his bread toward the
folding
canvas chair. Warren looked behind himself at the chair, but shook his
head. Zedd figured it must be important, if Warren felt he needed to stand
to say it.
"Zedd, with winter upon us, do you believe the Imperial Order will
attack, or wait until spring?"
"Well, now, that's always a worry. The not knowing leaves your stomach
all in knots. But you've all worked hard. You've all trained and practiced.
You'll do just fine, Warren. The Sisters, too."
Warren didn't seem to be interested in hearing what Zedd was saying. He
was scratching his temple, waiting his turn to speak.
"Yes, well, thank you, Zedd. We have been working hard.
"Umm, General Leiden thinks winter is our best friend right now. He,
his Keltish officers, and some of the D'Harans believe that Jagang would be
foolhardy to start a campaign with winter just setting in. Kelton isn't all
that far north of here, so General Leiden is familiar with the difficulty of
winter warfare in the terrain we would fall back to. He's convinced the
Order is waiting for spring."
"General Leiden in a good man, and may be second-in-command, after
General Reibisch," Zedd said in an even voice as he watched Warren's blue
eyes, "but, I don't agree with him."
Warren looked crestfallen. "Oh."
The general had brought his Keltish division down south a couple of
months before to reinforce the D'Haran army, at General Reibisch's request.
Regarding Kahlan as their queen, since Richard had named her so, the Keltish
forces still had an independent streak, even if they were now part of the
"D'Haran Empire," as everyone had taken to calling it.
Zedd didn't do anything to discourage such talk; it was better for
everyone in the New World to be one mighty force than a collection of
tribes. As far as Zedd was concerned, Richard had clearly had the right
instincts in that. A war of this scale would have been ungovernable were the
New World not one. Having everyone think of themselves as part of the
D'Haran Empire first and foremost could only help make it so.
Zedd cleared his throat. "But that's just a guess, Warren. I could be
wrong. General Leiden is an experienced man, and no fool. I could be wrong."
"But so could Leiden be wrong. I guess that puts you with General
Reibisch. He's been pacing his tent every night for the last two months."
Zedd shrugged. "Is there something important to you, Warren, that
hinges on what the Imperial Order does? Are you waiting for them to make up
your mind for you about something?"
Warren held up his hands as if to ward the very notion. "No-no, of
course not. It's just that . . . it's just that it would be a bad time to be
thinking about such things, is all .... But if they were going to lie low
for the winter . . ." Warren fussed with his sleeve. "That's all I meant
.... If you thought they were going to wait until spring, or something . .
." His voice trailed off.
"And if they were, then-?"
Warren stared at the ground while he twisted his robes at his stomach
into a purple knot. "If you think they might decide to move this winter,
then it wouldn't be right for me-for us-to be thinking about such things."
Zedd scratched his chin and changed his approach. "Let's say I believe
the Order is going to sit tight for the winter. Then what might you do, in
that case?"
Warren threw his hands up. "Zedd will you marry Verna and me?"
Zedd's brow went up as he drew back his head. "Bags, my boy, that's a
mouthful to swallow first thing in the morning."
Warren took two big strides closer. "Will you Zedd? I mean, only if you
really think the Order is going to sit down there in Anderith for the
winter. If they are, then, well, then it would be, I mean, we might as
well-"
"Do you love Verna, Warren?"
"Of course I do!"
"And does Verna love you?"
"Well, of course she does."
Zedd shrugged. "Then I'll marry the both of you."
"You will? Oh, Zedd, that would be wonderful." Warren turned, reaching
one hand toward the tent's opening, lifting his other back toward Zedd.
"Wait. Wait there a moment."
"Well, I was about to flap my arms and fly to the moon, but if you want
me to wait-"
Warren was already out the tent. Zedd heard muffled voices coming from
outside. Warren came back in-right on Verna's heels.
Verna beamed from ear to ear, which Zedd found unsettling in its own
way, being so unusual.
"Thank you for offering to marry us, Zedd. Thank you! Warren and I
wanted you to do the ceremony. I told him you would do it, but Warren wanted
to ask you and give you a chance to say no. I can't think of anything more
meaningful than being wedded by the First Wizard."
Zedd thought she was a lovely woman. A little fussy about rules and
such, at times, but well intentioned. She worked hard. She didn't shy from
some of the things Zedd had asked of her. And, she obviously held Warren in
warm regard, as well as respecting him.
"When?" Verna asked. "When do you think would be an appropriate time?"
Zedd screwed up his face. "Do you two think you can wait until I've had
a proper breakfast?"
They both grinned.
"We were thinking more along the lines of an evening wedding," Verna
said. "Maybe we could have a party, with music and dancing."
Warren gestured nonchalantly. "We were thinking something to make a
pleasant break in all the training."
"A break? How much time do you two think you will be needing away from
your duties-"
"Oh, no, Zedd!" Warren had gone as purple as his robes. "We didn't mean
we would-I mean we would still be doing-we would only like-"
"We don't want any time away, Zedd," Verna put in, bringing Warren's
bashful babbling to an end. "We just thought it would be a nice opportunity
for everyone to have a well-earned party for an evening. We won't be leaving
our posts."
Zedd put a bony arm around Verna's shoulders. "You two can have all the
time away you want. We all understand. I'm happy for you both."
"That's great, Zedd," Warren said with a sigh. "We really-"
A red-faced officer burst into the tent without so much as announcing
himself. "Wizard Zorander!"
Two Sisters charged in right behind him.
"Prelate!" Sister Philippa called.
"They're coming!" Sister Phoebe cried.
Both women were white-faced and looked to be on the verge of losing
their breakfast. Sister Phoebe was trembling like a wet dog in winter. Zedd
then saw that Sister Philippa's hair was singed on one side and the shoulder
of her dress was blackened. She had been one of those on far watch for the
enemy gifted.
Now Zedd knew what the whistling sound he thought he'd heard was. It
was very distant screams.
Rolling up from the distance came the note of the secondary waypoint
alarm horns. Zedd felt the faint tingle of magic woven through them, so he
knew they were genuine. Outside the tent, the muted sounds of camp life rose
into a din of activity. Weapons were being yanked from where they were
stacked, fires hissed as they were dowsed, swords were being strapped on,
others were being drawn, horses whinnied at the sudden racket.
Warren seized Sister Philippa's arm and started issuing orders. "Get
the line coordinated. Don't let them be seen-keep behind the third ridge.
Set the trips close-we need to give the enemy confidence. Cavalry?"
The woman nodded.
"Coming in two wings," the officer put in. "But they aren't charging
yet-they don't want to get out too far ahead of their foot soldiers."
"Start the first fire behind them-once they're past the blast point
just like
we've drilled," Warren told Sister Philippa as she nodded heedfully to
his instructions. The intention was to trap any cavalry charge between walls
of violent magic. It had to be focused properly to have any hope of piercing
the enemy's shields.
"Prelate," Sister Phoebe said, still panting, "you can't imagine the
numbers. Dear Creator, it looks like the ground is moving, like the hills
are melting men toward us."
Verna put a comforting hand to the young Sister's shoulder. "I know,
Phoebe. I know. But we all know what to do."
Verna was already ushering the two Sisters out and calling for her
other aides, as yet more officers and returning scouts leaped from horses.
A big, bearded soldier, sweat running down his face, barged into the
tent gasping for his breath.
"The whole blasted force. All of 'em."
"Cavalry with lances-enough to break their way and then some," another
man shouted into the tent from atop a lathered horse, pausing only long
enough to deliver the news to Zedd before charging off.
"Archers?" Zedd asked the two soldiers still in his tent.
The officer with the beard shook his head. "Too far to tell." He gulped
air. "But I'd bet my life they're right behind the pikemen's shields."
"No doubt," Zedd said. "When they get close enough, they'll show
themselves."
Warren grabbed the bearded officer's sleeve and pulled him along behind
as he trotted out of the tent. "Don't worry, when they show themselves we'll
have something to put out their eyes."
The other man ran on to his duties. In an instant, Zedd was standing
alone in his tent, lit from the outside by early-morning winter sun. It was
a cold dawn. It would be a bloody day.
Outside the tent, the racket exploded into the uproar of practiced
pandemonium. Everyone had a job, and knew it well; these were mostly
battle-tested D'Harans. Zedd had snuck close and had seen how fearsome the
Imperial Order troops looked,
but the D'Harans were their match in gristle. For generations, D'Harans
prided themselves on being the fiercest fighters in existence. For a good
part of his life, Zedd had battled D'Harans who had proven their boasts
true.
Zedd could heir someone shouting, "Move, move, move." It sounded like
General Reibisch. Zedd dashed to the tent's opening, pausing at the brink of
a river of men flowing past in a great churning mass.
General Reibisch skidded to a halt just outside the tent.
"Zedd-we were right."
Zedd nodded his disappointment to have surmised the enemy's plans. This
was one time he wished he'd been wrong.
"We're breaking camp," General Reibisch said. "We've not much time.
I've already ordered the advance guard to shift their positions north to
cover the supply wagons."
"Is it all of them-or just a jab to test us?"
"It's the whole bloody lot."
"Dear spirits," Zedd whispered. At least he had made what plans for
this eventuality as could be made. He had trained the gifted to expect this
so they wouldn't be thrown off balance. It would come just as Zedd told them
it would; that would aid their confidence and give them courage. The day
hinged on the gifted.
General Reibisch swiped his meaty hand across his mouth and jaw as he
looked to the south, toward an enemy he couldn't yet see. The early sun made
his rustcolored hair look red, and the scar that ran from his left temple to
his jaw stand out like a streak of frozen white lightning.
"Our sentries pulled back along with the outer lines. No use in them
standing ground, since it's the whole Imperial Order."
Zedd quickly nodded his agreement. "We'll be the magic against magic
for you, General."
The man had a lusty glint in his grayish-green eye. "We're the steel
for you, Zedd. We'll show them bastards a lot of both today."
"Just don't show them too much, too soon," Zedd warned.
"I'm not about to change our plans now," he said over the sound of the
tumult.
"Good." Zedd snatched the arm of a soldier running past. "You. I need
your help. Pack up my things in there for me, would you, lad? I need to get
to the Sisters."
General Reibisch gestured the young soldier into Zedd's tent, and the
young man leaped to the task.
"The scouts said they're all staying on this side of the Drun River,
just as we hoped."
"Good. We won't have to worry about them flanking us, at least not from
the west." Zedd swept his gaze over the dissolving camp as the men swiftly
set about their jobs. He looked back to the general's weathered face. "Just
get our men north into those valleys in time, General, so that we can't be
surrounded. The gifted will cover your tails."
"We'll plug up the valleys, don't you worry."
"The river isn't frozen over, yet, is it?"
General Reibisch shook his head. "Maybe enough for a rat to skate on,
but not the wolf that's after him."
"That should keep them from crossing." Zedd squinted off to the south.
"I have to go check on Adie and her Sisters. May the good spirits be with
you, General. They won't need to watch your back-we'll do that."
General Reibisch caught Zedd's arm. "There's more than we thought,
Zedd. Twice the number at least. If my scouts weren't just stuttering, there
may be three times the number. Think you can slow that many down while
keeping them focused on trying to sink their teeth into my backside?"
The plan was to draw the enemy north while staying just out of their
reach--close enough to make them salivate but not close enough to let them
get a good bite. Crossing the river at this time of year would be
impractical for an army that size. With the river on one side, and mountains
on the other, a force the size of the Imperial Order couldn't so easily
surround and overwhelm the "D'Haran Empire" troops, who were outnumbered ten
or twenty to one.
The plan, too, was designed to keep in mind Richard's admonition about
not attacking directly into the Order. Zedd wasn't sure about the validity
of Richard's warning, but knew better than to so openly tempt ruin.
Hopefully, once they enticed the enemy into that tighter terrain,
terrain more defensible, the Order would lose some of their advantage and
their advance could be halted. Once the Imperial Order was stalled, the
D'Harans could begin working the enemy down to size. The D'Harans thought
nothing of being outnumbered; it just gave them a better opportunity to
prove themselves.
Zedd stared off, imagining the hillsides darkened with the enemy
pouring forth. He was already seeing the lethal powers he would unleash.
He knew, too, that in battle things rarely went as planned.
"Don't you worry, General, today the Imperial Order is going to begin
paying a terrible price for its aggression."
The grinning general clapped Zedd on the side of the shoulder. "Good
man."
General Reibisch charged off, calling for his aides and his horse,
collecting a growing crowd of men around him as he went.
It had begun.
Arms resting on his thighs, Richard crouched in the belly of the beast.
"Well?" Nicci asked from atop her horse.
Richard stood beside a rib bone that towered to well over twice his
height. He shielded his eyes against the golden sunlight as he briefly
scanned the empty horizon behind himself. He looked back at Nicci, her hair
honeyed by the low sun.
"I'd say it was a dragon."
When her mare began to dance sideways, trying to put distance between
itself and the expanse of bones, Nicci took the slack out of the reins.
"Dragon," she repeated in a flat voice.
Here and there dried scraps of meat stuck to the bones. Richard swished
a hand at the cloud of flies buzzing around him. The faint stench of decay
hung over the site. As he stepped out of the cage of giant rib bones
standing belly-up, he gestured toward the head, nestled in a bed of brown
grass. There was enough room to walk between the ribs without them touching
his shoulders.
"I recognize the teeth. I had a dragon's tooth, once."
Nicci looked skeptical. "Well, whatever it is, if you've seen enough,
let's be on our way."
Richard brushed his hands clean. The stallion snorted and stepped away
from him when he approached. The horse didn't like the smell of death, and
didn't trust Richard after having been near it. Richard stroked the glossy
black neck.
"Steady, Boy," he said in a comforting voice. "Easy now."
When she saw Richard finally mount up, Nicci turned her dappled mare
and started off once more. The late-afternoon light cast long, clawed
shadows of the rib bones toward him, as if reaching out, calling him back to
the ghost of some terrible end. He glanced back over his shoulder at the
length of the skeletal remains, stretched out in the middle of an empty,
gently rolling grassland, before urging his stallion into a trot to catch up
with Nicci. His horse needed little encouragement to be away from the dying
place, and happily sprang into his easy loping gallop, instead.
In the month or so Richard had spent with the horse, the two of them
had become used to each other. The horse was willing enough, but never
really friendly. Richard wasn't interested enough to go to the effort of
doing more; making friends with a horse was just about the last of his
concerns. Nicci hadn't known if the horses had names, and didn't. seem
interested in naming animals, so Richard simply called the black stallion
"Boy," and Nicci's dappled gray mare "Girl," and left it at that. Nicci
seemed neither pleased or displeased about him naming the horses; she simply
went along with his convention.
"Do you actually believe it's the remains of a dragon?" Nicci asked
when he caught up with her.
The stallion slowed and, glad to be back in the herd, gave the mare's
flanks a nuzzle. Girl merely turned her closest ear toward him in
recognition.
"It's about the right size, as I remember."
Nicci tossed her head to flick her hair back over her shoulder. "You're
serious, aren't you?"
Richard frowned his puzzlement. "You saw it. What else could it
possibly be?"
She conceded with a sigh. "I just thought it was the bones of some
long-extinct beast."
"With flies still buzzing around it? It still had a few bits of sinew
dried to the bones. It's not some ancient thing. It couldn't be much older
than six monthspossibly much less."
She was watching him from the corner of her eye, again. "So, they
really do have dragons in the New World?"
"In the Midlands, anyway. Where I grew up there were none. Dragons, as
I understand it, have magic. There was no magic in Westland. When I came
here I . . . saw a red dragon. From what 1 heard, they're very rare."
And now there was at least one less.
Nicci was little concerned about the remains of an animal, even if it
was a dragon. Richard had long ago decided that, as much as he lusted to
crush her skull, he would have a better chance of figuring a way out of his
situation if he didn't antagonize her. Battling another person sapped your
own strength, making it more difficult to reason your way out of the
trouble. He kept his mind focused on what was most important to him.
He couldn't force himself to pretend to befriend Nicci, but he tried to
give her no cause to become angry enough to hurt Kahlan. So far, it had been
successful. Nicci didn't seem easily inclined to anger, anyway. When she
became displeased, she submerged back into an indifference which seemed to
smother her distant rancor.
They finally reached the road from where they had spotted the white
speck that had turned out to be the remains of the dragon.
"What was it like growing up in a place with no magic?"
Richard shrugged. "I don't know. That's just the way it was. It was
normal."
"And you were happy? Growing up without magic, I mean?"
"Yes. Very happy." The frown returned to his face. "Why?"
"And yet, you fight to keep magic in the world, so other children will
have to grow up with it. Am I right?"
"Yes."
"The Order wishes to rid the world of magic, so that people can grow up
happy, without the poisonous fog of magic always outside their door." She
glanced over at him. "They want children to grow up much like you did. And
yet you fight this."
It was not a question, so Richard chose not to turn it into one for
her. What the Order chose to do was not his concern. He turned his thoughts
to other things.
They were traveling east-southeast on a road traversed by the odd
trader. They had smiled and nodded at two that day. The road, as it took the
easiest route across the rolling hills, had that afternoon begun to turn
more to the south. As they crested a rise, Richard spotted a flock of sheep
in the far distance. Not far ahead, they had
been told, was a town where they could pick up some needed provisions.
The horses could use some grain, too.
Over his left shoulder, to the northeast, snowcapped mountains turning
pink in the late sunlight rose up out of the foothills. To his right, the
ground rolled off into the wilds. Beyond the town, it wouldn't be too far
until they crossed the Kern River. They were not far at all from what used
to be the wasteland where the great barrier had stood.
They were close to cutting south into the Old World.
Even though there was no longer a barrier to prevent his return once
they crossed over, he felt downhearted about leaving the New World. It was
like leaving Kahlan's world. Like leaving her by one more degree. As
fiercely as he loved her, he could feel her slipping farther and farther
into the distance.
Nicci's blond hair fluttered in the breeze as she turned toward him.
"It's said they used to have dragons in the Old World, too."
Richard brought himself out of his brooding.
"But no more?" he asked. She shook her head. "How long ago was that?"
"Long ago. No one living has ever seen one-and that includes Sisters
living at the palace."
He thought about it as he rode, listening to the rhythmic clop of
hooves. Nicci had proven forthcoming, so he asked, "Do you know why not?"
"I can only tell you what was taught to me, if you would like to hear
it." When Richard nodded, she went on. "During the great war, at the time
when the barrier between the Old and New Worlds was raised, the wizards in
the Old World worked toward revoking magic from the world. Dragons could not
exist without magic, so they went extinct."
"But they still existed here."
"On the other side of the barrier. It may be that the old wizards'
suppression of magic, on their side, had only a local, or even temporary,
effect. After all, magic still exists, so obviously they failed to achieve
their ends."
Richard was getting an uneasy feeling as he considered both Nicci's
words and the bones he had seen.
"Nicci, may I ask you a question, a serious question, about magic?"
She gazed over at him as she slowed her horse to an easy walk. "What is
it you wish to know?"
"How long do you think a dragon could exist without magic?"
Nicci considered his question for a moment, but in the end let out a
sigh. "I only know about the history of the dragons in the Old World as it
was taught. As you know, words written that long ago are not always
dependable. It would only be an educated guess. I would say it could be mere
moments, possibly days-or even longer, but not a great deal longer. It's a
much simplified version of asking how long a fish could live out of water.
Why do you ask?"
Richard raked his fingers back through his hair. "When the chimes were
here, in this world, they drew away magic. All of the magic, or nearly all,
anyway, was withdrawn from the world of life for a time."
She turned her eyes back to the road. "My estimation is that the
withdrawal was total, for a time, at least."
That was what he had feared. Richard considered her words along with
what he knew. "Not all creatures of magic depend on it. Us, for example; we
are, in a way,
creatures of magic, but we can live without it, too. I'm wondering if
creatures that depended on magic for their very existence might not have
made it through until the chimes were banished and magic was restored to the
world of life."
"Magic was not restored."
Richard pulled his horse up short. "What?"
"Not in the way you are thinking about it." Nicci circled around to
face him. "Richard, while I have no direct knowledge with precisely what
happened, such an event could not be without consequence."
"Tell me what you know."
She frowned in curiosity. "Why do you look so concerned?"
"Nicci, please, just tell me what you know?"
She folded her wrists over the horn of her saddle.
"Richard, magic is a complex matter, so there can be no certainty." She
held up a hand to forestall his cascade of questions. "This much, though, is
certain. The world doesn't stay the same. It changes continuously.
"Magic is not merely part of this world. Magic is the conduit between
worlds. Do you understand?"
He thought he might. "I accidentally used magic to call forth the
spirit of my father from the underworld. I banished him back to the
underworld with the use of magic. The Mud People, for example, use magic to
communicate with their spirit ancestors beyond the veil in the underworld. I
had to go to the Temple of the Winds, in another world, when Jagang sent a
Sister there to start a plague which she brought back from that world."
"And what do all of those things have in common?"
"They used magic to bridge the gap between worlds."
"Yes. But there is more. Those worlds exist, but they are dependent on
this one to define them, are they not?"
"You mean, like life is created into this world, and after death, souls
are taken by the Keeper to the underworld?"
"Yes. But more, do you see the connection?"
Richard was getting lost. He hadn't grown up knowing anything about
magic. "We're caught between the two realms?"
"No, not exactly." Her blue eyes flashed with intensity. She waited
until his gaze steadied on hers, then she held up a finger to mark the
importance of her words.
"Magic is a conduit between worlds. As magic diminishes, those other
worlds are not just more distant to us, but the power of those worlds, in
this world, diminishes. Do you see?"
Richard was getting goose bumps. "You mean, the other worlds have less
influence, like . . . like a child who has grown and his parents have less
influence over him. "
"Yes." In the fading light her eyes seemed more blue than usual. "As
the worlds grow more separate, it is something like a child growing and
leaving home. But there is more to it, yet."
She leaned forward ever so slightly in her saddle. "You see, those
other worlds can be said to exist only by their relationship to life-to this
world." At that moment, she seemed like nothing to him so much as what she
really was: a onehundred-and-eighty-year-old sorceress. "It might even be
said," she whispered in a voice that sounded like the shadows speaking,
"that without magic to link those other worlds to this, those other worlds
cease to exist."
Richard swallowed. "You mean, just as the child grows and leaves home,
the parents become less important to his existence. When they eventually
grow old and die, even though they were once vital and strongly linked to
him, when they now cease to exist, he lives on without them."
"Exactly," she hissed.
"The world changes," he said almost to himself. "The world doesn't stay
the same. That's what Jagang wants. He wants magic, and those other worlds,
to cease to exist so that he will have this one all for himself."
"No," she said in a soft voice. "He wishes it not for himself, but for
mankind." Richard started to argue, but she cut him off. "I know Jagang. I'm
telling you what he believes. He may enjoy the spoils, but in his heart, he
believes he is doing this for mankind, not himself."
Richard didn't really believe her, but he didn't see any point in
quarreling with her. Either way, because of the changes taking place, such
creatures as dragons might have already become extinct. Those white bones
could very well have been the remains of the last red dragon.
"Because of events like the chimes, the world may already have
irrevocably changed to a point where creatures of magic have died out," she
said as she stared out over the empty twilight. "In an evolving world such
as I describe, magic, even such as ours, would soon die out, too. Do you
see, now? Without that conduit to other worlds, worlds that may no longer
exist, magic would not come into existence when offspring of the gifted are
born."
One thing was sure: when the time came, he was going to make Nicci
extinct.
As they rode on, Richard gazed back over his shoulder at bones he could
no longer see.
--]----
It was well after dark when they rode into the town. When Richard
inquired of a passerby, he was told that the town, Ripply, was named after
the rippling foothills. It was a quiet place, off in a nearly forgotten
corner of the Midlands, its back to what used to be the wasteland from where
no one ever returned. Many of the people grew wheat and raised sheep to
provide themselves with trade goods, while keeping small animals and gardens
for themselves.
There was a road coming in from the southwest, from Renwold, and other
roads going off to the north. Ripply was a crossroads for trade between
Renwold, the people of the wilds who traded at that outpost city, and
villages to the north and east. Now, of course, Renwold was gone; the
Imperial Order had sacked the city. Now, with only ghosts inhabiting the
streets of Renwold, the people of the wilds who traded their goods there
would suffer. The people from the towns and villages who came to Ripply
would suffer, too; Ripply was falling on hard times.
Richard and Nicci created a small sensation. Strangers traveling
through had become a sporadic event, what with Renwold gone. The two of them
were tired, and there was an inn, but raucous drinking was going on there,
and Richard didn't want to have to deal with that kind of trouble. There was
a well-kept stable at the other end of town from the inn, and the man who
owned it offered to let them stay in the hayloft for a silver penny each.
The night was cold, and it would be warmer in the hayloft out of the wind,
so Richard paid the man the penny each for themselves, and three more for
the horses to be cared for and fed. The taciturn stable owner was so
pleased with the extra penny for the horses that he told Richard he
would tend their shoes while he had them.
When Richard thanked him and told him they were tired, the man smiled
for the first time and said, "I'll be seeing to your horses, then. I hope
you and your wife sleep well. Good night, then."
Richard followed Nicci up the rough wooden ladder at the back of the
barn. They had a cold dinner sitting in the hay as they listened to the
stable owner fetching grain and water for their horses. Richard and Nicci
had only the bare bones of necessary conversation before they rolled
themselves up in their cloaks and went to sleep. When they woke a little
after dawn, they discovered a small gathering of skinny children and
hollow-cheeked adults, come to see the "rich" folks traveling through.
Apparently, their horses, better than any that had boarded at the stable in
a long time, had been the source of gossip and speculation.
When Richard greeted the people, he got back only vacant looks. When he
and Nicci walked to the supply store, not far away past a few drab
buildings, the people all followed, as if it were a king and queen come to
town, and they all wanted to see what such highborn people did with their
day. Goats and chickens wandering Ripply's main street scattered before the
procession. A milk cow cropping brown grass behind the leather shop paused
for a look. A rooster atop a stump flapped his wings in annoyance.
When the bolder children asked who they were, Nicci told them that they
were only travelers, husband and wife, looking for work. Such news was
greeted with skeptical tittering. In her fine black dress, the people took
Nicci for a queen looking for a kingdom. They thought only a little less of
Richard.
When an older boy asked where they were going to look for work, as
there was little to be found in Ripply, Nicci told them that they were going
to the Old World. Some of the adults snatched up children and hurried away.
Yet more remained close on Richard and Nicci's heels.
An older man who owned the supply store gently shooed the people away
from his door when Richard went in. Once Richard had gone inside, he watched
the people grow bolder and begin pawing at Nicci, begging for money, for
medicine, for food. Nicci stayed outside with the people, asking them about
their troubles and their needs. She moved through the crowd, inspecting the
children. She had that blank look on her face that Richard didn't like.
"What can I get you," the proprietor asked.
"Ah, what about those people?" Richard asked instead.
He glanced out the sparkling-clean little window to see Nicci standing
in the middle of the ragged group, talking about the Creator's love for
them. They all listened as if she were a good spirit come to comfort them.
"Well, they're all sorts," the shop owner said. "Most wandered in from
the Old World after the barrier came down. Some are just no-good
locals-drunks and such-who'd just as soon beg or steal as work. When
strangers from the Old World came in, some of the people here joined their
ways. We get traders through here, and men like that, with goods to protect,
find they have less trouble if they're generous with that sort. Some of them
out there are folks who've had trouble-widows with children who can't find a
husband; things like that. A few of them will work for me, when I have work,
but most won't."
Richard was about to give the man a list of their needs, when Nicci
glided in the door.
"Richard, 1 need some money."
Rather than argue with her, he passed her the saddlebag with the money.
She reached in and pulled out a handful of gold and silver. The shop owner's
eyes went wide when he saw how much she had in her fist. She paid him no
heed. Richard stood slack jawed as he watched Nicci, back out with the
crowd, giving away all the money. Arms waved and reached for her. People
cried out all the louder. A few ran off with what she had given them.
Richard pulled open the saddlebag, peering in to see how much they had
left. It wasn't much. He could hardly believe what Nicci had just done. It
made no sense.
"How about some barley flour, some oatmeal, some rice, some bacon,
lentils, dried biscuits, and salt?" he asked the waiting proprietor.
"No oatmeal, but I've got the rest. How much do you want?"
Richard was running calculations through his head. They had a long
journey, and Nicci had just given away most of their money. They'd used up
the better portion of the supplies they had.
He laid six silver pennies on the counter. "Just what that will buy
us." He pulled his pack off his back and set it on the counter beside the
money.
The man scooped up the coins and sighed at the money he had almost
made. He began pulling the items down from a shelf and placing them in the
pack. As he worked, Richard requested a few other small things he remembered
as the man was going about getting the order. He parted with another penny.
Richard had only a few silver pennies, two silver crowns, and no gold
left. Nicci had handed out more money than most of those people had ever
seen in their entire lifetimes. Worried about what they were going to do for
supplies in the future, Richard slung his pack onto his back when the shop
proprietor had finished, and rushed out to see if he couldn't slow Nicci
down.
She was lecturing on the Creator's love of every man and asking the
people to forgive the cruelty of heartless and uncaring people, as she
handed the last gold coin to an unshaven man without teeth. He grinned his
thanks and then licked his parched lips. Richard knew how he would wet them.
There were yet more pleading hands thrusting toward her.
Worried, Richard seized Nicci's arm and pulled her back. She turned
toward him.
"We have to get back to the stables," she said.
"That's what I'm thinking," Richard said, holding his anger in check.
"Let's hope the stableman is done with them by now so we can get out of
here."
"No," she said with a look of grim finality in her eye. "We need to
sell the horses."
"What?" Richard blinked in angry astonishment. "May I at least ask
why?"
"To share what we have with those who have nothing."
Richard was beyond words. He just stared at her. How were they going to
travel? He considered the question briefly, and decided that he didn't
really care how soon they got to wherever it was she was taking him. But
they would have to carry everything. He was a woods guide, and used to
walking with a pack, so he guessed he could walk. He let out his breath and
turned toward the stables.
"We need to sell the horses," Richard told the stable owner.
The man frowned, looked at the horses standing in their stalls, and
then back at Richard. He looked thunderstruck.
"Those are mighty fine horses, mister. We don't have horses like this
around here."
"You do now," Nicci said.
He glanced uneasily at her. Most people were uneasy gazing at Nicci,
either because of her startling beauty, or because of her cool, often
denunciative, presence.
"I can't pay what horses like this are worth."
"We didn't ask you to," Nicci said in a dull voice. "We only asked to
sell them to you. We need to sell them. We'll take what you can give us."
The man's eyes shifted from Richard's to Nicci's and back. Richard
could tell the man was uneasy about cheating them in such a way, but he
couldn't seem to figure out how to turn down such an offer.
"All I can pay is four silver marks for the both of them."
Richard knew they were worth ten times that much.
"And the tack," Nicci said.
The man scratched his cheek. "I guess I could throw in another silver,
but that's all I got to my name. I'm sorry, I know they're worth more, but
if you're bound and determined for me to buy them off you, that's all I
got."
"Is there anyone else in town who might buy them for more?" Richard
asked.
"I don't believe so, but to tell you the truth, son, it wouldn't be
hurting my feelings if you were to go ask around. I don't like swindling
folks, and I know you couldn't call five silver marks for the horses and
tack anything else but a swindle."
The man kept glancing at Nicci, seeming to suspect that this
transaction was beyond Richard's ability to control. Her steady blue eyes
could make any man fidget.
"We accept your offer," Nicci said without any hesitation or
uncertainty. "I'm sure it's quite fair."
The man sighed unhappily at his windfall. "I don't have that much money
on me. I'll go in the house"-he lifted a thumb over his shoulder-"out back
of the barn and get it, if you'd be so good as to wait a minute."
Nicci nodded and he hurried on his way, not so much eager to consummate
the deal, Richard thought, as he was eager to be out from under Nicci's
gaze.
Richard turned to her, feeling his face heating. "What's this all
about?" He saw through the partly open stable doors that the crowd of people
who had followed them were still out there.
She ignored his question. "Get your things-whatever you can carry. As
soon as he comes back, it's time we were on our way."
Richard pulled his glare from her. He stalked over to his gear, sitting
outside Boy's stall, and began stuffing everything he could into his pack.
He strapped the waterskins around his waist and flipped the saddlebags over
his shoulders. He was sure the stable owner wouldn't complain about not
having the saddlebags with the rest of the tack. Richard thought that when
they reached a more prosperous town, he could at least sell the saddlebags.
While he worked, Nicci put her belongings into a pack she could carry.
When the man came back with the money, he offered it to Richard. Nicci
held out her hand.
"I'll take it," she said.
He glanced to Richard's eyes once and then handed Nicci the money. "I
threw in the silver pennies you paid me last night. That's all l have, I
swear."
"Thank you," Nicci said. "That was very generous of you to share what
you have. That is the Creator's way."
Without another word, Nicci turned and strode through the dimly lit
stable and out the door.
"It's my way," the man muttered under his breath to her back. "Creator
had no say in it."
Outside in the sunlight, Nicci began doling out the money she had just
gotten for the horses. The people vied for her favor as she walked among
them, speaking to them, asking questions, until she was out of sight, past
the edge of the barn door.
Richard gave Boy a quick rub on the blaze of his forehead, hoisted his
saddlebags onto his shoulder, and turned to the dumbfounded expression on
the stable owner's face. He and Richard shared a helpless look.
"I hope she's a good wife to you," the man finally said.
Richard wanted to say that Nicci was a Sister of the Dark, and that he
was her prisoner, but in the end he decided that it could serve no purpose.
Nicci had made it clear to him that he was Richard Cypher, her husband, and
she was Nicci Cypher, his wife. She had told him to stick to that story-for
Kahlan's sake.
"She's just generous," Richard said. "That's why I married her. She's
good to people."
Richard heard a woman's cry, and shouting. He bolted for the partly
open door and ran out into the bright morning sunlight. He didn't see
anyone. He raced around to the side of the barn, to where he heard
scuffling.
A half dozen men had Nicci down on the ground, some swinging at her
with their fists as she tried to fend them off with her bare hands. Others
pawed at her, searching for a money pouch. They were fighting over the
unearned before it was even out of her hands. A crowd of women, children,
and other men stood around the scene in a circle, vultures waiting to pick
the bones.
Richard crashed through the ring of people, seized the closest man by
the back of his collar, and heaved him back. He was skinny, and flew through
the air, crashing into the wall of the barn. The whole building shook.
Richard kicked another in the ribs, tumbling him off Nicci and through the
dirt. A third man spun and took a mighty swing at Richard. Richard caught
the fist and bent it down until he felt a snap as the man cried out. At
that, the men all scattered in every direction.
Richard started after one of them, but Nicci suddenly flew at him,
restraining him.
"Richard! No!"
In his rage to get at the men, Richard nearly smashed her face, but,
when he realized it was her, lowered his fists to his sides as he glared at
the crowd.
"Please,, my lord, please, my lady;" one of the women wailed, "have
mercy on us woeful folk. We's just the Creator's miserable wretches. Have
mercy on us."
"You're a bunch of thieves!" Richard yelled. "Thieving from someone who
was trying to help you!"
He made an effort to go after the lot of them, but Nicci held his
wrists down. "Richard, no!"
The people vanished like mice before a hissing cat.
Nicci let Richard's fists drop. He saw then that she had blood on her
mouth.
"What's the matter with you? Giving money to people who would rather
rob you than wait for you to hand it to them willingly? Why would you give
money to such vermin?"
"That's enough. I'll not stand here and listen to you insult the
Creator's chil-
dren. Who are you to judge? Who are you, with a full belly, to say
what's right? You have no idea what those poor people have been through, and
yet you are quick to judge."
Richard took a purging breath. He reminded himself yet again of what he
had to keep uppermost in his mind. It was not really Nicci he had been
protecting.
He pulled a shirtsleeve from the corner of his pack, wet it with water
from a waterskin hanging around his waist, and carefully wiped her bloody
mouth and chin. She winced as he worked but without protest let him inspect
her injury.
"It's not bad," he told her. "Just a cut in the corner of your mouth.
Hold still, now."
She stood quietly as he held her head in one hand while he cleaned the
blood off the rest of her face with the other.
"Thank you, Richard." She hesitated. "I was sure one of them was going
to cut my throat."
"Why didn't you use your Han to protect yourself?"
"Have you forgotten? To do that, I would have to take power from the
link keeping Kahlan alive."
He looked into her blue eyes. "I guess I forgot. In that case, thank
you for restraining yourself."
Nicci said nothing as they walked out of the town of Ripply, carrying
everything they owned on their backs. As cold as the day was, it wasn't long
before his brow was dotted with sweat.
Finally he could stand it no longer. "Do you mind telling me what that
was all about?"
Her brow twitched. "Those people were needy."
Richard pinched the bridge of his nose, pausing in an effort to remain
civil to her. "And so you gave them all our money?"
"Are you so selfish that you would not share what you have? Are you so
selfish that you would ask the hungry to starve, the unclothed to freeze,
the sick to die? Does money mean more to you than people's lives?"
Richard bit the inside of his cheek to check his temper. "And the
horses? You virtually gave them away."
"It was all we could get. Those people were in need. Under the
circumstances, it was the best we could do. We acted with the most noble of
intentions. It was our duty to not be selfish and to joyfully give these
people what they needed."
There was no road going their way as they walked on into what had not
long ago
been the wasteland from which no one returned. -
"We needed what we had," he said.
Nicci glanced up into his eyes. "There are things you need to learn,
Richard."
"Is that right."
"You have been lucky in life. You have had opportunities ordinary
people never have. I want you to see how ordinary people must live, how they
must struggle just to survive. When you live like them, you will understand
why the Order is so necessary, why the Order is the only hope for mankind.
"When we get to where we're going, we will have nothing. We will be
just like all the other miserable people of this wretched world-with little
chance to make it on our own. You don't have any idea what that's like. I
want you to learn how the compassion of the Order helps ordinary people live
with the dignity they are entitled to."
Richard returned his gaze to the empty land stretching out before them.
A Sister of the Dark who couldn't use her power, and a wizard who was
forbidden from using his. He guessed they couldn't get any more ordinary
than that. "I thought it was you who wanted to learn," he said. "I am also
your teacher. Teachers sometimes learn more than their students."
Zedd lifted his head when he heard the distant horns. He struggled to
regain his senses. He was well past dread, into a world of little more than
numb awareness. The horns were those meant to signal the approach of
friendly forces. Probably some of the scouting patrols, or perhaps yet more
wounded being brought in.
Zedd realized he was slumped on the ground, his legs sprawled out to
the side. He saw that he had been sleeping with his head on the burly chest
of a cold corpse. In despair, he recalled that he had been trying everything
he knew to heal the horribly wounded man. In mournful revulsion, he pushed
away from the cold body and sat up.
He rubbed his eyes against the darkness from within, as well as the
night. He was beyond aching. Acrid smoke hung thick as fog. The air reeked
with the heavy, throat-clenching stink of blood. From various places around
him, he could see the drifting haze illuminated around glowing orange fists
of firelight. The moans of the wounded lifted from the blood-soaked ground
to drift through the frigid night air. In the distance, men cried out in
pain. When Zedd wiped a hand across his brow, he realized he wore gloves of
crusted blood from those he had been trying to heal. It was an endless task.
Not far away, the ground was littered with shattered tree trunks,
blasted asunder by the enemy gifted. Men lay sprawled, torn apart or impaled
by huge splintered sections of those trees. It had been two of Jagang's
Sisters who had done it, just before dark, as the D'Haran forces were all
collecting into the valley, thinking the battle had ended. Zedd and Warren
had ended it by taking those two Sisters down with wizard's fire.
By the dull ache in his head, Zedd knew he hadn't been asleep for more
than a couple of hours, at most. It had to be the middle of the night.
People passing by had let him sleep-or maybe they thought him one of the
dead.
The first day had gone as well as could be expected. The battle had
dragged on sporadically throughout the first night with relatively minor
skirmishes, and then had erupted with full force at dawn of the second day.
As night had fallen on the second day, the fighting had finally ended.
Looking around, Zedd thought it seemed to be over-at least for the time
being.
They had made the valley and succeeded in drawing the Order after them,
away from other gateways up into the Midlands, but at a terrible price. They
had little choice, if they were to engage the enemy with any chance of
success, rather than allow them unhindered access into the Midlands. For the
moment, anyway, the Order was stalled. Zedd didn't know how long that would
last.
Unfortunately, the Order had gotten the better of the battle, by far.
Zedd peered about. It was not so much a camp as simply a place where
everyone
had dropped in exhaustion. Here and there, arrows and spears stuck up
from the ground. They had fallen like rain as Zedd had worked throughout the
night, the night before, trying to heal wounded soldiers. During the day, in
the battles, he had unleashed everything he had. What had started out as
skillful, calculated, focused use of his ability had in the end degenerated
into the magic equivalent of a brawl.
Zedd staggered to his feet, worried about the distant thunder of
horses. Horns closer into camp repeated the warning to hold arrows and
spears, that it was friendly forces. It sounded like too many horses for any
patrol they had out. In the back of his mind, Zedd tried to recall if he
felt the twinge of magic that would tell him the horns were genuine. In the
fog of fatigue, he had forgotten to pay attention. That was how people ended
up dead, he knew-inattention to such details.
Men were rushing all about, carrying supplies, water, and linen for
bandages, or messages and reports: Here and there Zedd saw a Sister working
at healing. Other men struggled with repairs to wagons and gear in case they
had to depart in a hurry. Some men sat staring at nothing. A few wandered as
if in a daze.
It was difficult to see in the poor light, but Zedd was able to see
well enough to tell that the ground was littered with the dead, the wounded,
or the simply spent. Fires, both the common orange and yellow flames of
burning wagons and the unnatural green blazes that were the remnants of
magic, were left to burn out on their own. Horses as well as men lay
everywhere, still and lifeless, torn open by ghastly wounds. The
battlefields changed, but battle didn't. Now was a time of helpless shock.
He remembered from his youth the stench of blood and death mingled with
greasy smoke. It was still the same. He remembered in battles past thinking
the world had gone mad. It still felt the same.
The rumble of horses was getting closer. He could hear quite a
commotion, but he couldn't tell what sort of ruckus it was. Off to his
right, he spotted a stooped woman shuffling toward him. He recognized Adie's
familiar limp. A woman more distant, catching up to Adie from behind, was
probably Verna. A little farther off, Zedd saw Captain Meiffert being
lectured to by General Leiden. Both men turned to look toward the clatter of
hooves.
Zedd squinted into the murk and saw in the distance soldiers scattering
before a mass of approaching riders. Men waved their arms, as if in
greeting. A few offered weak cheers. Many pointed in Zedd's direction,
funneling the horsemen his way. As First Wizard, he had become a focal point
for everyone. The D'Harans, in Richard's absence, relied on Zedd to be their
magic against magic. The Sisters relied on his experience in the nasty art
of magic in warfare.
In the wavering glow of fires still burning out of control, Zedd
watched the column of horsemen coming relentlessly onward, points of light
glinting off row upon row of armor and weapons, shimmering off chain mail
and polished boots, as they each in turn passed the burning wagons and
barricades. The thundering column slowed for nothing, expecting men to get
out of its way. At their fore, long pennons flew atop perfectly upright
lances. Standards and flags flapped in the cold night air. The ground
thundered with thousands of horses charging over the blood-soaked ground.
They rolled onward, like a ghost company riding out of the grave.
Orange and green smoke, lit from behind by the eerie light of fires,
curled away to each side as the column of riders charged though the middle
of the camp at an easy gallop.
Zedd saw, then, who was leading them.
"Dear spirits . . ." he whispered aloud.
Sitting tall atop a huge horse at the head of the column was a woman in
leather armor with fur billowing out behind her like an angry pennant.
It was Kahlan.
Even at that distance, Zedd could see, sticking up behind her left
shoulder, the gleam of light off the silver and gold hilt of the Sword of
Truth.
His flesh went cold with tingling dread.
He felt a hand on his arm and turned to see Adie, her completely white
eyes transfixed by the sight she beheld through her gift alone. Verna was
still weaving her way through the wounded. Captain Meiffert and General
Leiden rushed to follow in Verna's footsteps.
The column stretched out behind Kahlan as far as Zedd could see. They
charged onward, collecting cheering men as they came. Zedd waved his arms as
they all bore down on him, so that Kahlan would notice him, but it seemed as
if she had had her eyes on him the whole time.
The horses skidded to a halt before him, snorting and stamping, tossing
their armored heads. Plumes of steam rose from their nostrils when they blew
great hot breaths in the icy air. Powerful muscles flexed beneath glossy
hides as they pawed the ground. The eager beasts stood at the ready, their
tails lashing side to side, slapping their flanks like whips.
Kahlan swept the scene with a careful gaze. Men were rushing up from
all directions. Those gathering around stared in wonder. The horsemen were
Galeans.
Kahlan had provisionally taken the place of her half sister, Cyrilla,
as queen of Galea, until Cyrilla was well again-if that ever happened.
Kahlan's half brother, Harold, was the commander of the Galean army, and
didn't want the crown, feeling himself more fit to serve his land in the
soldier's life. Kahlan had Galean blood in her veins, although, to a
Confessor, matters of blood were irrelevant. They were not so irrelevant to
Galeans.
Kahlan swung her right leg forward over the horse's neck and dropped to
the ground. Her boots resounded like a hammer strike announcing the Mother
Confessor's arrival. Cara, in her red leather, and similarly cloaked in a
fur mantle, likewise jumped down off her horse.
Battle-weary men all around stood in rapt silence. This was not merely
the Mother Confessor. This was Lord Rahl's wife.
For just an instant, as Zedd stared into her green eyes, he thought she
might run into his arms and break down in helpless tears. He was wrong.
Kahlan pulled off her gloves. "Report."
She wore stealth-black light leather armor, a royal Galean sword at her
left hip, and a long knife at her right. Her thick fall of hair cascaded
boldly over the wolf's fur mantle topping a black wool cloak. In the
Midlands, the length of a woman's hair denoted rank and social standing. No
Midlands woman wore hair as long as Kahlan's. But it was the hilt of the
sword sticking up behind her shoulder that held Zedd's gaze.
"Kahlan," he whispered as she stepped closer, "where's Richard?"
Whatever pain he had seen for that instant was gone. She swept a brief
glare Verna's way, as the young Prelate still hurried toward them between
the wounded, then met Zedd's gaze with eyes like green fire.
"The enemy has him. Report."
"The enemy? What enemy?"
Again her glare slid to Verna. Its power straightened Verna's back and
slowed her approach.
Kahlan returned her attention to Zedd. Her eyes softened with a vestige
of sympathy for the anguish she must have seen on his face. "A Sister of the
Dark took him, Zedd." The respite of warmth in her voice and eyes faded as
her countenance returned to the cold, empty mask of a Confessor. "I would
like a report, please."
"Took him? But is he-is he all right? You mean she took him as a
prisoner? Do they want ransom? He's still all right?"
She touched the side of her mouth and Zedd saw then that she. had a
swollen cut. "He's all right as far as I know."
"Well, what's going on?" Zedd threw up his skinny arms. "What's this
about? What does she intend?"
Verna finally made it up to Zedd's left side. Captain Meiffert and
General Leiden ran up to the other side of Adie, on his right.
"What Sister?" Verna asked, still getting her breath back. "You said a
Sister took him. What Sister?"
"Nicci."
"Nicci. . ." Captain Meiffert gasped. "Death's Mistress?"
Kahlan met his gaze. "That's the one. Now, is someone going to give me
a report?"
There was no mistaking the command, or the rage, in her voice. Captain
Meiffert lifted an arm to the south.
"Mother Confessor, the Imperial Order forces, all of them, finally
moved up from Anderith." He rubbed his brow as he tried to think. "Yesterday
morning, I guess it was."
"We wanted to pull them up here, into the valley country," Zedd put in.
"Our idea was to get them out of the grassland, where we couldn't contain
them, up into country where we had a better chance to do so."
"We knew," Captain Meiffert went on, "that it would be a fatal mistake
to let them get by us and stream into the Midlands unopposed. We had to draw
them into action to prevent them from unleashing their might against the
populace. We had to engage them and bog them down. The only way to do that
was to taunt them into following us out of the open, where they had the
advantage, into terrain that helped even the odds."
Kahlan nodded as she scanned the dismal scene. "How many men did we
lose?"
"I'd guess maybe fifteen thousand," Captain Meiffert said. "But that's
just a guess. It may be more."
"They flanked you, didn't they." It didn't sound like a question.
"That's right, Mother Confessor."
"What went wrong?"
The Galean troops behind her formed a grim wall of leather, chain mail,
and steel. Officers with incisive eyes watched and listened.
"What didn't?" Zedd growled.
"Somehow," the captain explained, "they knew what we planned. Although,
I guess it wouldn't be all that hard to figure out, since anyone would know
it was our only chance against their numbers. They were confident they could
defeat us, regardless, so they obliged our plan."
"Like I asked, what went wrong?"
"What went wrong!" General Leiden interrupted heatedly. "We were
outnumbered beyond all hope! That's what went wrong!"
Kahlan settled her cool gaze on the man. He seemed to catch himself and
fell to one knee.
"My queen," he added in formal address before falling silent.
Kahlan's gaze lost some of its edge as it moved back to Captain
Meiffert.
Zedd noticed the captain's fists tightening as he went on with his
report. "Somehow, Mother Confessor, near as we can tell they managed to get
a division across the river. We're pretty sure they didn't use the open
ground to the east-we had preparations should they try that, as we feared
they might."
"So," Kahlan said, "they reasoned you would think it impossible, so
they sent a division across the river-probably a great deal more, willing to
bear their losses in the crossing-went north through the mountains,
unsuspected, unseen, and undetected, and crossed back to this side of the
river. When you got here, they were waiting for you, holding the ground you
had planned to hold. With the Order hot on your heels, you had nowhere else
to go. The Order intended to crush you between that division holding this
defendable ground and their army on your tail."
"That's the gist of it," Captain Meiffert confirmed.
"What happened to the division waiting here?" she asked.
"We wiped them out," the captain said with a cool rage of his own.
"Once we realized what had happened, we knew it was our only chance."
Kahlan gave him a nod. She knew full well what a mighty effort his
simple words conveyed.
"They cut us to pieces from behind as we did so!" General Leiden's
temper was getting frayed around the edges. "We had no chance."
"Apparently you did," she answered. "You gained the valley."
"What of it? We can't fight a force their size. It was insane to throw
men into that meat grinder. What for? We gained this valley, but at a
terrible price. We won't be able to hold a force that huge! They had their
way with us from the first until the last. We didn't stop them, they just
got tired of hacking us to pieces for the night!"
Some men looked away. Some stared at the ground. Only the crackle of
fires and the moans of the wounded filled the frigid night air.
Kahlan glanced around again. "What are you doing sitting here, now?"
Zedd's brow went up, along with his own anger. "We've been at it for
two days, Kahlan."
"Fine. But I don't allow the enemy to go to bed with victory. Is that
clear?"
Captain Meiffert clapped a fist to his heart in salute. "Clear; Mother
Confessor."
He glanced over his shoulders. Fists of attentive men near and far
likewise went to their hearts.
"Mother Confessor," General Leiden said, dropping her title of queen,
"the men have been up for two days, now."
"I understand," Kahlan said. "We have been riding without pause for
three days, now. Neither changes what must be done."
In the harsh reflection of firelight, the creases in General Leiden's
face looked like angry gashes. He pressed his lips together and bowed to his
queen, but when he came up, he spoke again.
"My queen, Mother Confessor, you can't seriously be expecting us to
carry out a night attack. There's no moon and clouds mostly hide the stars.
In the dark such an attack would be a disaster. It's lunacy!"
Kahlan finally withdrew her cold glare from the Keltish general and
passed a gaze among those assembled around her. "Where is General Reibisch?"
Zedd swallowed. "I'm afraid that's him."
She looked where Zedd pointed, at the corpse he had fallen asleep atop
while trying to heal. The rust-colored beard was matted with dried blood.
The grayishgreen eyes stared without seeing, no longer showing pain. It had
been a fool's task, Zedd knew, but he couldn't help trying to heal what
could not be healed, giving it everything he had left. It hadn't been
enough.
"Who is next in command," Kahlan asked.
"That would be me, my queen," General Leiden said as he took a stride
forward. "But as the ranking officer, I can't allow my men to-"
Kahlan lifted a hand. "That will be all, Lieutenant Leiden."
He cleared his throat. "General Leiden, my queen."
She fixed him with an implacable stare. "To question me once is a
simple mistake, Lieutenant. Twice is treason. We execute traitors."
Cara's Agiel spun up into her fist. "Step aside, Lieutenant."
Even in the haunting orange and green light of fires, Zedd could see
the man's face pale. He took a step back and wisely, if belatedly, fell
silent.
"Who is next in command?" the Mother Confessor asked again.
"Kahlan," Zedd said, "I'm afraid the Order used their gifted to single
out men of rank. Despite our best efforts, I believe we lost all our senior
officers. It cost them dearly, at least."
"Then who is next in command?"
Captain Meiffert looked around and finally lifted his hand.
"I'm not positive, Mother Confessor, but I believe that would be me."
"Very well, General Meiffert."
He inclined his head. "Mother Confessor," he said in a quiet,
confidential voice, "that isn't necessary."
"No one said it was, General."
The new general softly struck a fist to his heart. Zedd saw Cara smile
in grim approval. Of the thousands of faces watching, that was the only
smile. It wasn't that the men disapproved, but rather that they were
relieved to have someone so firmly in command. D'Harans respected iron
authority. If they couldn't have Lord Rahl, they would take his wife, and an
iron one at that. They might not have smiled, but Zedd knew they would be
pleased.
"As I said, I don't allow the enemy to go to bed with victory." Kahlan
scanned the faces watching her. "I want a cavalry raid ready to go within
the hour."
"And who do you intend to send on such an attack, my queen?"
Everyone knew what the former General Leiden meant by the question. He
was asking who she was sending to their death.
"There will be two wings. One to make their way unseen around the
Order's camp so as to come in from their south, where they will least expect
it, and another wing to hold back until the first is in place, and then come
in from this side, from the north. I intend to have us spill some of their
blood before bed."
She looked back to the new Lieutenant Leiden's eyes and answered his
question. "I will be leading the southern wing."
Everyone, except the new general, began voicing objections. Leiden
spoke up louder.
"My queen, why would you want us to get our men together for a calvary
raid?"
He pointed to the wall of men, all on horses behind her: all
Galeans-traditional adversaries of the Keltans, Leiden's homeland. "When we
have these?"
"These men will be helping get this army back together, relieving those
on duty to get needed rest, helping dig defensive ditches, and filling in
wherever they are needed. The men who were bloodied are the ones who need to
go to bed with the sweet taste of vengeance. I would not dare to deny
D'Harans that to which they are so entitled."
A cheer went up.
Zedd thought that if war was madness, madness had just found its
mistress.
General Meiffert took a step closer to her. "I'll have my best men
ready within the hour, Mother Confessor. Everyone will want to go; I'll have
to disappoint a lot of volunteers."
Kahlan's face softened when she nodded. "Pick your man for the northern
wing, then, General."
"I will be leading the northern wing, Mother Confessor."
Kahlan smiled. "Very well."
She ordered the Galean troops off to their duties. With a sweep of her
finger, she dismissed everyone but the immediate group and called that inner
circle closer.
"What about Richard's admonition not to directly attack the Order?"
Verna asked.
"I remember well what Richard said. I'm not going to directly attack
their main force."
Zedd supposed she did remember it well. She had been there with
Richard-they hadn't. Zedd brought up a touchy issue.
"The main force will be in the center, well protected. At their edges,
where you attack, will be defenses, of course, but mostly the camp followers
will be at the tail end of the Order's camp-the fringe to the south,
mostly."
"I don't really care," she said with cold fury. "If they're with the
Order, then they are the enemy. There will be no mercy." She was looking at
her new general as she spoke her orders. "I don't care if we kill their
whores or their generals. I want every baker and cook dead as much as I want
every officer and archer dead. Every camp follower we kill will deprive them
of the comforts they enjoy. I want to strip them of everything, including
their lives. Is that understood?"
General Meiffert gave his nod. "No mercy. You'll get no argument from
us, Mother Confessor; that is the D'Haran code of warfare."
Zedd knew that, in war, Kahlan's way was usually the only way to
prevail. The enemy would grant no mercy, and would need none themselves had
they not invaded. Every whore and hawker chose to be a part of that
invasion, to make what they could off the blood and plunder spilled at the
Order's feet.
Verna spoke up. "Mother Confessor, Ann was going to see you and
Richard. We last heard from her over a month ago. Have you seen her?"
"Yes."
Verna licked her lips in caution at the steely look in Kahlan's eyes.
"Was she all right?"
"The last I saw her, she was."
"Would you know why she hasn't sent any word to us?"
"I threw her journey book in the fire."
Verna stepped forward, making to snatch Kahlan by the shoulder. Cara's
Agiel came up like lightning, barring her way.
"No one touches the Mother Confessor." Cara's cold blue eyes were as
deadly as her words. "Is that clear? No one."
"You have one Mord-Sith and one Mother Confessor, here, both in very
bad moods," Kahlan said in a level voice. "I would suggest you not give us
an excuse to lose our temper, or we may never find it again in your
lifetime."
Zedd's fingers found Verna's arm and gently urged her back.
"We're all tired," he said. "We have enough troubles with the Order."
He shot Kahlan a scowl. "No matter how tired or distraught we are, though,
let's remember we're all on the same side here."
Kahlan's eyes told him she challenged that statement, but she said
nothing.
Verna changed the subject. "I will get together some of the gifted to
escort you on the raid."
"Thank you, but we will be taking no gifted."
"But you will at least need them to help you find your way in the
dark."
"We will have the enemy campfires to show us our way."
"Kahlan," Zedd said, hoping to interject some reason, "the Order will
have gifted-including Sisters of the Dark. You will need protection from
them."
"No. I don't want any gifted with us. They are expecting any attack to
be accompanied by our gifted. Their gifted will be watching for shields of
magic. Any riders they do see without detecting magic they will be more
likely to discount. We'll be able to get in deeper and draw more blood
without gifted along."
Verna sighed at such foolishness, but didn't argue. General Meiffert
liked her plan. Zedd knew she was right about getting in deeper, but he
knew, too, that getting back out would be more difficult, once the enemy was
on to them.
"Zedd, I would like one bit of magic."
He scratched his brow in resignation. "What would you like me to do?"
Kahlan gestured at the ground. "Make that dust glow. I want it to show
up in the dark, and I want it sticky."
"For how long?"
She shrugged. "The rest of the night would be enough."
After Zedd had spun a web over the dusty patch of ground, giving it a
green glow, Kahlan bent and rubbed her hand in it. She walked around back of
her horse and slapped the hand on each flank, leaving a glowing green
handprint on each hindquarter.
"What are you doing?" Zedd asked.
"It's dark. I want them to be able to see me. They can't come after me
if they can't find me in the dark."
Zedd sighed at the madness.
General Meiffert squatted and rubbed his hand in the glowing dust. "I'd
also hate for them to miss me in the dark."
"Be sure to wash your hand clean before we go," she said.
After she had explained her plan to the new general, Kahlan, Cara, and
General Meiffert started off to their tasks.
Before they could get far, Zedd halted Kahlan with a softly spoken
question.
"Kahlan, do you have any idea how we can get Richard back?"
She gazed boldly into his eyes. "Yes. I have a plan."
"Would you mind sharing it with me?"
"It's simple. I plan on killing every Imperial Order man, woman, and
child until I get to the very last one left alive, and then if she doesn't
give him back, I'm going to kill her, too."
Kahlan focused past the black void to the glowing points of the fires
as she leaned forward over the withers of her galloping horse, urging him
onward, faster and faster. The muscles in her thighs strained as she pressed
her weight against the stirrups and squeezed her legs against the feverish
warmth of the massive body rhythmically, incessantly, frantically flexing
and stretching, feeling its every pounding strike against the ground. Her
ears were filled with the hammering of her own heart and the thunder of yet
more hooves behind her. She was distantly aware of the weight of the Sword
of Truth sheathed in its scabbard, an ever-present reminder of Richard.
She gripped the reins in one fist. With her other, she lifted her royal
Galean sword high. The lights were coming. Unexpectedly, the first came out
of nowhere and exploded into her vision.
Racing past what looked to be the light of a single candle, she was
there, at last. Crying out with the sudden power of emotions that could no
longer be stifled, she slammed her sword down against the dark shape of a
man. The impact of the blade against bone jarred her wrist. The hilt stung
against her palm.
On their way by, the men behind her unleashed their fury against the
remaining sentries at the outpost. Kahlan held tight, knowing the greater
unleashing of her need was yet to come. She would not be denied, now.
The fires of the outer fringes of the camp flew toward her. Her muscles
were rigid with expectation. She felt at the brink of control. And then she
was upon them. At last, she was there. She met them with all her strength.
Her blade came down again and again, lashing against their bodies, slashing
anyone within her reach. The outer fires shot past the sides of her horse
with dizzying speed. She gasped for breath.
Laying the reins over, Kahlan pulled her big warhorse around in a tight
circle. He was not as agile as she would have preferred, but he was well
trained and for this job he would do. He bellowed with the excitement of
battle begun.
Tents and wagons were scattered everywhere, with little apparent order.
Kahlan could hear the merry laughter of those not yet aware of the enemy in
their midst. She had brought a small attack force, keeping them tight and
close on the way in so it wouldn't raise the kind of alarm a broad attack
would. It had worked. She saw men around fires tipping up bottles, or eating
meat off skewers. She saw men sleeping, with their feet sticking out of
tents. She saw a man walking with his arm around the waist of a woman. In
the dim light she saw men in tents between the legs of other women.
The couple, arm in arm-undoubtedly at a price-was close. The man was on
the far side of the woman as Kahlan raced up behind them, so with a mighty
swing
she took off the woman's head, instead. The stupefied man clutched the
headless body as it began to fall. The cavalry man right behind Kahlan took
the startled man down.
Kahlan dug in her heels and charged her big warhorse over a haphazard
row of tents with men and women inside. She could feel the huge hooves
crushing bone. Screams rose around her and her mount.
A soldier with a pike stood with his legs spread in a stance of sudden
alarm. On her way past, Kahlan snatched the pike from his grip, stabbed it
into a small tent, twisting it, getting the canvas tangled up on its barbs,
and then backed her horse, hauling the tent off a man and woman. Her men
following behind stabbed the exposed couple as Kahlan pulled the remnants of
the tent through a fire. As soon as it lit, she dragged the flaming canvas
to a wagon, setting that wagon's tarp afire, and then threw the blazing
remains in another wagon full of supplies.
With a backhanded swing of her sword, Kahlan smashed the face of a
burly man who ran up to pull her off her horse. She had to yank the blade
free of his skull. Before more men could snatch at her, she dug in her heels
again and charged off toward another fire, where men were just jumping to
their feet. The horse knocked down several, and her sword cut another. By
now, the shrieks of women sent up an effective alarm, and men were rushing
out of tents and wagons with weapons in their fists. The whole scene was one
of erupting pandemonium.
Kahlan wheeled her mount, stabbing anyone within reach. Many were not
soldiers. Her sword felled leatherworkers and wagon masters, whores and
soldiers. High-stepping at her command, her horse trampled down a line of
big tents where wounded were being cared for. Beside a lamp, Kahlan spotted
a surgeon with needle and thread working on a man's leg. She drove her horse
around to trample the surgeon and the man he was sewing up. The surgeon held
his arms up before his face, but his arms were no good at warding the weight
of a huge warhorse.
Kahlan signaled her men in. Army surgeons were valuable. The D'Harans
killed every one they saw. She knew that killing each was as good as killing
untold numbers of enemy soldiers. Kahlan and her men wreaked havoc through
the whores' tents, toppled cook wagons, cut down soldiers and civilians
alike. When her men saw lamps, they leaped off their horses and snatched
them up to use to start fires. Kahlan hacked at an enraged cook who came at
her with a butcher knife. It took three rapid cuts to dispatch him.
To her left, Cara's horse cut off a man about to throw a spear. Cara
coolly went about killing him and anyone else within her reach. A twist of
her Agiel usually seized up their hearts, and if not, Kahlan could at least
hear bones snap. Their cries of death and pain seemed frightful enough to
send a shiver up the spines of the dead, and did add to the general
confusion and panic. It was glorious music to Kahlan's ears.
The Agiel would only function through the bond to the Lord Rahl.
Because it worked, she and Cara knew Richard was alive. That alone gave
Kahlan heart. It was almost as if he were there with her. His sword strapped
to her back was like his hand touching her, encouraging her to throw herself
into the fight, telling her to cut.
The indiscriminate nature of the killing in among the camp followers
confused the enemy soldiers, and terrorized the people who commonly believed
themselves impervious to the violence they ultimately fed off of. Now,
rather than being the vultures picking at the carcasses, they were the
hapless prey. Life in the Imperial Order's camp would never be the
same-Kahlan would see to that. No more would
the enemy soldiers enjoy the comforts provided by these people. They
would now know they were no less targets than officers. They would know the
price of their participation. The price was a merciless death and payment
had come due.
Slashing her way through the running crowds of screaming people, Kahlan
kept an eye on a large group of the Imperial Order's horses, stabled not far
off, watching as soldiers threw saddles on their mounts. She drove her horse
over men and tents, getting closer, until she was sure she was within
earshot of those cavalry men saddling their horses.
Kahlan stood in her stirrups, waving her sword high in the air. Men
paused to stare.
"I am the Mother Confessor! For the crime of invading the Midlands, I
condemn you all to death! Every one of you!"
The hundred men with her sent up a cheer. Their voices joined in a
chant.
"Death to the Order! Death to the Order! Death to the Order!"
Kahlan and her men charged their horses around in an ever-widening
circle, trampling anyone they could, hacking anyone within reach, stabbing
anyone who rushed them, setting fire to anything that would burn. These
D'Haran soldiers were the best at what they did, and they did it with
brilliant effectiveness. When they found a wagon with oil, they broke the
barrels open and tossed on flaming logs they plucked up with lances from
fires. Night whooshed into day. Everyone could plainly see Kahlan, now, as
she charged through their midst, screaming her pronouncement of death.
Kahlan saw the Order's cavalry mounting up, pulling their lances from
racks, drawing their swords. She reared her horse, holding her sword high.
"You are all cowards! You will never catch me or best me! You will all
die like the cowards you are at the hands of the Mother Confessor!"
When her horse came down, she thumped its ribs with her boots. The
horse charged off at a dead run, Cara right at her side, her hundred men at
her heels, a few thousand infuriated Imperial Order cavalry right behind
them, with more mounting up all the time.
Being at the edge of the Order's camp, they wouldn't have much ground
to cover before they were out of the camp, again, and into the open
countryside. As they raced away, Kahlan took the opportunity to kill anyone
who presented themselves. It was too dark to tell if they were men or woman,
and it didn't matter anyway. She wanted them all dead. Each time her sword
made contact, slashing muscle or breaking bone, was a delicious release.
Running at full speed, past the last of the campfires, they plunged
suddenly into the black void of night. Kahlan leaned forward over her
horse's muscular neck, as they ran west, hoping there were no holes in the
ground. If they hit one, it would be all over not just for her horse, but,
most likely, for her as well.
She knew this land well enough, the gentle hills, the bluffs ahead. She
knew where she was, even in the dark, and she knew where she was going. She
was counting on the enemy not knowing. In the disorienting sweep of
darkness, they would fixate on following the glowing handprints on her
horse's rump, thinking one of their gifted had gotten close enough to mark
her horse for them. They would be gleeful with the blinding anticipation of
having her naked to their swords.
Kahlan used the flat of her own sword to smack her horse's flanks,
urging him on, whipping him into a wild state. They were away from the
excitement of battle, now, and out in the lonely openness of the
countryside. Horses dreaded predators
nipping at their flanks, especially in the dark. She encouraged him to
think teeth were snapping at his hindquarters.
Her men were right behind her, but, as instructed, rode to each side so
there was a gap, allowing the enemy to see the glowing marks on her horse.
When Kahlan feared she was as close as they dared get, she signaled with a
whistle. Over her shoulders, she watched her men, her protection, peeling
away, off into the night. She would not see them again until she returned to
the D'Haran camp.
With her advantage of the distant fires of the Order's camp in back of
them, Kahlan was able to see the silhouette of the enemy cavalry close
behind, coming at a full charge, their hungry gazes no doubt fixed on the
glowing handprints on her horse's flanks, the only thing they could see out
in the wide-open countryside on a moonless night.
"How far?" Cara called over from close beside her.
"Should be-"
Kahlan's words cut off when she suddenly spotted briefly what was right
there before her.
"Now, Cara!"
Kahlan pulled her leg up just in time as Cara rammed her horse over.
The two huge animals jostled dangerously. Kahlan threw her arm around Cara's
shoulders. Cara's arm seized Kahlan's waist and yanked her over, off her
horse. Kahlan gave her horse one last smack with the flat of her sword. The
horse snorted in panic as it charged onward at full speed into the
blackness.
Kahlan threw her leg over the rump of Cara's horse, sheathed her sword,
and then held tight to Cara's waist as the Mord-Sith pulled her horse's head
hard to the left, forcing it, at a full gallop, to turn away just in time.
For an instant, through a break in the clouds, Kahlan spied the dull
slur of starlight reflecting off the churning, icy waters of the Drun River
below.
She felt a pang of sorrow for her startled, bewildered, terrified horse
as it sailed out over the bluff. It was giving its life to take many more
with it. The beast would probably never know what had happened.
Neither would the Imperial Order cavalry as they followed the glowing
handprints on into the dark. This was her Midlands; Kahlan knew what was
there; they were invaders, and did not. Even if they did see it coming in
the last twinkling of their lives, at a full charge into pitch blackness
they would never have a chance to avert their doom.
She hoped, though, that those men did realize what was happening just
before they gasped in the frigid dark waters, or before their lungs burst
with the need of air as the merciless river dragged them down into its inky
embrace. She hoped every one of those men suffered a horrifying death in the
dark depths of those treacherous currents.
Kahlan turned her thoughts away from the heat of battle. The forces of
the D'Haran Empire could sleep, now, with a victory over their enemy and
with the sweet taste of vengeance. Kahlan found that it did little, though,
to quell the fires of her raging anger.
After a brief time, Cara's horse slowed to a canter, and then a walk.
They heard no hoofbeats behind them, only winter's vast silence. After the
crush of people, the noise, and the turbulence of the Imperial Order's camp,
the isolation of the empty grasslands seemed somehow oppressive. Kahlan felt
as if she were a speck of nothing in the middle of nowhere.
Cold and exhausted, Kahlan pulled her fur mantle around her shoulders.
Her legs trembled from the effort finally finished. She felt as if
everything had been washed out of her. Her head slumped forward to rest
against Cara's back. Kahlan was aware of the weight of Richard's sword lying
against her own back.
"Well," Cara said over her shoulder after they had ridden for a time
through the hushed expanse of countryside, "we do this every night for a
year or two, and that should just about wipe them all out."
For the first time in what seemed an eternity, Kahlan almost laughed.
Almost.
By the time Kahlan and Cara rode in among the wounded, the exhausted,
and the sleeping D'Haran troops, it was only a few hours from dawn. Kahlan
had thought they might have to find a safe place out in the grasslands to
sleep and wait for daylight in order to find their way back, but they had
been fortunate; a break in the cloud cover had allowed the stars to show
them the way. In the shimmering sweep of stars alone, they had been able to
see the black drape of mountains at the horizon. With that visual guide,
they were able to make their way far out into the empty country so that they
could safely get around the Imperial Order, and then head back north to
their own troops.
A reception party awaited them. Men rushed up to form cheering rows as
they passed into camp. Kahlan felt a distant sense of pride that she had
given these men what they needed most right then: a measure of retribution.
From the back of Cara's horse, Kahlan lifted a hand to wave at the men she
passed. She smiled for them alone.
Near the area where the horses were picketed, General Meiffert, having
heard the cheering, was waiting impatiently. He trotted over to meet them.
Beside the gate of the temporary corral, one of the soldiers took the reins
to the horse as Kahlan and then Cara jumped down. Kahlan winced at the ache
in her muscles from the recent days of hard riding, and the night of
fighting. Her right arm socket throbbed from the blows she had landed. She
mused to herself that her sword arm never hurt like that in her mock battles
with Richard. For the benefit of anyone watching, she forced herself to walk
as if she had just had a three-day rest.
General Meiffert, looking no worse for the battle he had seen that
night, clapped a fist to his heart. "Mother Confessor, you can't imagine how
relieved I am to see you."
"And I you, General."
He leaned forward. "Please, Mother Confessor, you aren't going to do
anything that foolhardy again, are you?"
"It wasn't foolhardy," Cara said. "I was with her, watching out for
her."
He frowned over at Cara, but didn't argue with her. Kahlan wondered how
one could fight a war without doing anything foolhardy. The entire thing was
foolhardy.
"How many men did we lose?" Kahlan asked instead.
General Meiffert's face split with a grin. "None, Mother Confessor. Can
you believe it? With the Creator's help, they all came back."
"I don't recall the Creator wielding a sword with us," Cara said.
Kahlan was dumbfounded. "That's the best news I could have, General."
"Mother Confessor, I can't tell you what a boost that was to the men.
But, please, you won't do anything like that again, will you?"
"I'm not here to smile and wave and look pretty for the men, General.
I'm here to help them send those murderous bastards into the eternal arms of
the Keeper."
He sighed in resignation. "We have a tent for you. I'm sure you're
tired."
Kahlan nodded and let the general lead her and Cara through the now
quiet camp. Men not sleeping stood and silently saluted with fists to their
hearts. Kahlan tried to smile for them. She could see in their eyes how much
they appreciated what she had done to turn the tide of the grim battle back
a little in their favor. They probably thought she had done it for them.
That was only partly true.
Arriving at a well-guarded group of a half-dozen tents, General
Meiffert gestured to the one in the center.
"This was General Reibisch's tent, Mother Confessor. I had your things
put inside. I thought you should have the best tent. If it bothers you to
sleep in his tent, though, I'll have your belongings moved to anywhere you
wish."
"It will be fine, General." Kahlan took stock of the man's young face,
seeing the shadow of sorrow. She reminded herself that he was about the same
age as she. "We all miss him."
His expression showed only some of the pain she thought he must feel.
"I can't replace a man like that, Mother Confessor. He was not just a great
general, but a great man, too. He taught me a lot and honored me with his
trust. He was the best man I ever served under. I don't want you to have any
illusions about my replacing him. I know I can't."
"No one asked you to. Your best effort is all we expect and will serve
us well, I'm sure."
He smiled at her generosity. "You'll have that, Mother Confessor. I
promise you, you'll have that." He turned to Cara and changed the subject.
"I had your things put in this tent, here, Mistress Cara." It was the one
right beside Kahlan's tent.
Cara scanned the scene, taking note of the patrolling guards. When
Kahlan told her that she was going to go right to bed, and that she should
get some sleep, too, Cara agreed and bade the two of them a good night
before disappearing into her tent.
"I appreciated your help, tonight, General. You should get some sleep,
too."
He bowed his head, turned to leave, but then turned back.
"You know, I always hoped to someday become a general. Ever since I was
a boy, I've dreamed of it. I imagined . . ." He looked away from Kahlan's
eyes. "I guess I imagined it would make me proud and happy." He hooked his
thumbs in his pockets and gazed out over the dark camp, perhaps seeing all
those dreams from his past, or maybe seeing all his new duties.
"It didn't make me feel happy at all," he finally said.
"I know," she answered in sincere sympathy. "This wasn't the way any
good man would want to gain rank, but sometimes challenges arise, and we
must face them." She let out a silent sigh, and tried to envision how he
must feel. "Someday, General, the pride and satisfaction will come. It comes
from doing the job well and knowing that you are making a difference."
He nodded. "I know it felt pretty good, tonight, Mother Confessor, when
I saw you on the back of Cara's horse, returning safely to camp. I look
forward to the day when I see Lord Rahl ride into camp, too." He started
away. "Sleep well. Dawn is in a couple of hours. Then we'll find out what
the new day will bring. I'll have reports ready for you."
--]----
Inside her tent, Zedd was sitting alone, waiting. Kahlan groaned
inwardly.
She was dead tired and didn't want to face the old wizard's
questioning. Sometimes, especially if you were tired, his nettling questions
could become irksome. She knew he meant well, but she was in no mood for it.
She didn't think she could even be civil to him if he started down his road
of a thousand questions. It was so late, and she was so tired, she simply
wished he would let her be.
She stood just inside, saying nothing, watching him as he rose to his
feet. His wavy white hair was more disorderly than usual. His heavy robes
were filthy and spattered with blood. Around his knees the robes were dark
with dried blood.
He gave her a long look, and then enclosed her in his skinny arms. She
just wanted to sleep. He silently held her head to his shoulder. Maybe he
thought she might be about to start crying, but there seemed no tears left.
She felt numb. She supposed it was the constant rage, but she just couldn't
cry anymore. She seemed only able to feel anger.
Zedd finally held her out at arm's length, squeezing her shoulders in
his surprisingly strong fingers. "I just wanted to wait until you were back,
and safe, before I went to bed. I wanted to let my eyes take you in." He
smiled in a sad way. "I'm so very relieved you're safe. Sleep well, Kahlan."
Her bedroll, still tied up with its leather thongs, lay atop a pallet
with a strawfilled mattress. Saddlebags were draped over her pack, sitting
in the corner. Opposite the bed there was a small folding table and chair.
Beside them, a basket with rolls of maps. Another little folding table held
a ewer and basin. A clean towel was draped over the table legs' stretcher
bar.
The tent was spacious, by army standards, but it was still cramped. The
canvas looked heavy enough to keep out most any weather. Lamps, hanging at
each end of the tent from a rod forming the peak of the roof, cast a warm
glow inside the snug tent. Kahlan tried to imagine the burly General
Reibisch pacing in such a small space, tugging his rust-colored beard,
worrying over the problems of an army bigger than many cities.
Zedd looked exhausted. Creases etched an inner anguish on his bony
face. She reminded herself that he had only just learned that his grandson,
the only family he had left in the world, was in the cruel hands of the
enemy.
Besides that, Zedd had been fighting for two days and healing soldiers
at night. She had seen him, when she arrived, staggering to his feet beside
the corpse of what turned out to be General Reibisch. She knew that if Zedd
couldn't save the man, he was beyond saving.
With her fingers, Kahlan combed back her hair and then gestured to the
chair.
"You could sit for a minute, Zedd. Couldn't you?"
He looked at the chair, then at her bedroll. "For a minute, I suppose,
while you get your bed ready. You need some rest."
Kahlan couldn't argue with that. She realized her head was throbbing.
The passions of battle masked little things, like a pounding headache. The
straw-filled mattress looked as good as a feather bed to her right then. She
tossed her wolf-fur mantle and her cloak on the bed. They would keep her
warm.
Without comment, Zedd watched as she unstrapped the Sword of Truth and
pulled it off her back. He had given the weapon to Richard. Kahlan had been
there,
and begged Zedd not to do it, but he said he had no choice, that
Richard was the one. Zedd had been right. Richard was indeed the one.
She felt her face flush when, just before she laid the sword down, she
kissed the top of the hilt, where Richard's hand had so often rested. Zedd,
if he even noticed, said nothing, and she laid the gleaming scabbard and
sword to rest beside her mattress.
In the awkward quiet, Kahlan took off the royal Galean sword. She saw
then that there was blood running down the scabbard. She unstrapped and
removed the layer of light leather armor and laid it beside her pack. When
she leaned the royal sword and scabbard against the plates of leather armor,
she saw then that they were splattered with blood.
She noticed, too, that the leather leg armor had bloody handprints here
and there on it, and there were long gouges in the leather from mens'
fingernails. She remembered men grabbing for her, trying to unhorse her, but
she didn't recall their hands actually clawing at her. The images that
started flooding back threatened to make her nauseated, so she directed her
mind to other things.
"Cara and I crossed over the Rang'Shada mountains, north of Agaden
Reach, and came down through Galea," she said into the uncomfortable
silence.
"I gathered," he said.
She gestured vaguely to suggest the surrounding camp. "I thought I'd
better bring some troops with me."
"We can use them."
Kahlan glanced up at his hazel eyes. "I brought all I could without
waiting. I didn't want to wait."
Zedd nodded. "That was wise."
"Prince Harold wanted to come, but I asked him to gather together a
larger force and then bring them down. If we're to defend the Midlands,
we'll need more troops. He thought that was a good idea."
"Sounds so."
"Prince Harold will be here to help just as soon as he can gather his
army from their defensive positions."
Zedd only nodded.
She cleared her throat. "I wish we could have gotten here sooner."
Zedd shrugged. "You came as fast as possible. You're here, now."
Kahlan turned away to the bedroll. She sank down to her knees and bent
to the work of undoing the leather thongs holding the bedding all rolled up
together. For some reason, the knots looked blurry-she guessed it was
because she was so tired.
She glanced over her shoulder briefly in the dim lamplight and then
went back to picking at the knot. "I suppose you'd like to know how that
Sister of the Dark managed to capture Richard."
He was silent for a moment. His voice finally came, soft and gentle.
"There's time enough for that later, Kahlan. There's no need tonight."
As she picked at the stubborn knot, her hair fell forward over her
shoulder. She had to push it back in order to see what she was doing. The
stupid leather thong was tightly knotted. She wanted to yell at the person
who had tied it, but she had done it up herself and had no one else to
blame.
"She used a maternity spell on me. It links us. She said she could-she
could kill me if Richard didn't do as she said and go with her."
At the news, Zedd only let out a desolate sigh.
"Richard can't kill her, or I die, too."
She waited for his voice behind her. It finally came.
"I've only read about such spells, but from what I know, it sounds as
if she told you the truth of it."
"I have a cut on my mouth. I didn't do it. It happened to me the other
daythrough that link. What happens to her happens to me. I hope Richard
struck her. It was worth it."
"I don't think Richard would do that."
She knew he wouldn't. It was only a wish.
One of the little lamps was flickering, making shadows waver. The other
was hissing softly. Kahlan wiped her nose on her sleeve.
"Richard gave up his freedom to keep me alive. I wish I could die, to
free him, but he made me promise I wouldn't do that."
Kahlan felt a comforting hand on her shoulder. Zedd said nothing. It
was the greatest kindness he could have given her at that moment-not burying
her heart under an avalanche of questions.
Enjoying the calming effect of his hand, Kahlan finally managed to get
the knot undone. Zedd sat back in his chair as she unfurled her bedding. The
carving of Spirit was rolled up inside, for safekeeping. Its height was just
right to fit crosswise in her bedroll. Kahlan lifted it out and held it to
her heart a moment. She turned, then, and set Spirit on the little table.
Zedd slowly rose to his feet. He was a collection of bony angles under
his maroon robes. With one arm crooked to point while he gaped at Spirit
standing proudly atop the small table, his lanky body looked as stiff as a
spindly tree in winter.
"Where else did you stop on your way here?" He cast a suspicious look
in her direction. "Have you been looting treasures from palaces?"
She realized then that the look wasn't so much meant to be suspicious,
as teasing. Kahlan ran a finger down Spirit's flowing robes, letting her
gaze follow the strength in the lines of the woman's strong pose. Something
felt so right about the way her head was thrown back, with her fists at her
sides, and her back arched, standing against the invisible power trying to
subdue her.
"No." Kahlan swallowed. "Richard carved it for me."
Zedd's brow drew lower. He stared at the carving for a time before
reaching out a sticklike finger to touch it, as if it were some priceless
antiquity.
"Dear spirits. . ."
Kahlan pretended a smile. "Almost. It's called Spirit, he said. Richard
carved it for me when I was feeling like I would never get better. It helped
me . . ."
In the awful silence, Zedd finally turned from the woman with her fists
at her sides and her head thrown back to peer into Kahlan's eyes. He frowned
in the oddest way.
"It's you," he said half to himself. "Dear spirits . . . the boy carved
a statue of your spirit. I recognize it. It's as plain as day."
Zedd was not only Richard's grandfather-he was now hers, too. He was
not merely the First Wizard. He was also the man who had helped raise
Richard. Zedd had no family left save Richard.
Other than a half sister and brother who were strangers but for blood,
neither did she. She was as alone in the world as was Zedd.
Now, through Richard, Zedd was her family, but even if he wasn't, she
realized he could mean no less to her.
"We'll get him back, dear one," he whispered in tender compassion. His
sticklike hand reverently cupped her face. "We'll get him back."
Everything seemed to be swimming. Kahlan fell into his protective arms
and dissolved into tears.
Warren carefully pulled the snow-laden pine bough aside for her. Kahlan
peered through the gap.
"There," he said in a low voice. "You see?"
Kahlan nodded as she squinted off into the narrow valley far below. The
scene was frosted whitewhite trees, white rocks, white meadows. Enemy troops
moving up the distant valley floor looked like a dark line of ants marching
across powdered sugar.
"I don't think you need to whisper, Warren," Cara said from behind
Kahlan's other shoulder. "They can't hear you. Not from this far."
Warren's blue eyes turned to the Mord-Sith. Cara's red leather would
have stood out like a beacon, were she not sheathed in wolf fur that made
her melt into the background of snow-dusted brush. Kahlan's own fur mantle
was soft and warm against the sides of her face. Sometimes, since Richard
had made it for her, the feel against her skin was evocative of his gentle
caress protecting her and keeping her warm.
"Oh, but their gifted can hear us, Cara, even from this distance, if we
are too vociferous."
Cara's nose wrinkled. "What's that mean?"
"Loud," Kahlan whispered in a way as if to suggest Cara should use a
little more caution and be more quiet.
Cara's face distorted with her displeasure at the thought of magic. She
shifted her weight to her other foot, went back to watching the line of
troops slowly flowing up the valley, and kept silent.
After she'd seen enough, Kahlan gestured, and the three of them started
back through the ankledeep snow. At their elevation in the mountains, they
were right at the base of oppressive gray clouds, making it feel as if they
were looking down from another world. She didn't like the world she had
seen.
They trudged up the slope dense with pine and naked aspen, to the
thickly wooded top of the ridge, where the backbone of rock broke through
the snow here and there like half-buried bones. Their horses waited a good
distance back down off the rocky slope. Farther back down the mountain,
where Warren and Kahlan were sure they would not be detected by any gifted
who might be protecting the Order troops, waited an escort of D'Haran guards
General Meiffert had handpicked to protect Kahlan and the two with her, who
were also protecting her.
"So you see?" Warren asked in little more than a whisper. "They're
still at it-moving more and more men up this way, trying to get around us
without us being aware of it."
Kahlan held up the fur to shelter her face as a light breeze dragged a
curtain of snow past them. At least it wasn't snowing again, yet.
"I don't think so, Warren."
His questioning, handsome face turned her way. "Then what?"
"I think they want it to look like they're sending troops past us so we
will send men way out here after them."
"A diversion?"
"I think so. It's just close enough to us to be likely we would
discover them, yet far enough away and through difficult enough terrain that
it would require us to split our forces in order to do anything about it.
Besides, every one of our scouts came back."
"Isn't that good?"
"Sure it is. But what if they have gifted with them, as you believe?
How is it that not one of our scouts failed to make it back to report these
massive troop movements?"
Warren thought that over a moment as the three of them carefully made
it over a high spot, sliding on their bottoms down the far side of the
slippery sloping rock.
"I think they're fishing," Cara said as her boots thumped down on solid
ground behind them. "Their gifted don't try to net the small fry, hoping to
draw bigger fish close."
Kahlan brushed the snow from her backside. "Like us."
Warren looked skeptical. "You think this is all just some sort of
elaborate trap to snare officers or gifted?"
"Well, no," Kahlan said. "That would only be a bonus for them. I think
their main intent is to spur us into splitting our forces to deal with what
they want us to believe is this threat."
Warren scratched his head of curly blond hair. His blue eyes twitched
back in the direction the three of them had come down off the ridge, as if
trying to look again at what he could not see.
"But if they're sending great numbers of troops north-even if it is to
draw away some of our forces-shouldn't that concern us?"
"Of course it should," Kahlan said. "If it were true."
Warren glanced over at her as they struggled through deeper snow
drifted under crags they passed beneath on their way up a steep little rise.
Her legs were weary with the effort. Warren held out his hand to help her up
a high step. He did the same for Cara. Cara gestured that she didn't need
the hand, but she didn't level a scowl at him, either. Kahlan was always
pleased to see evidence that Cara was learning that offers of modest aid
were simply a courtesy and not necessarily accusations of weakness.
"Then I'm confused," Warren said as he panted.
Kahlan came to a halt to let them all catch their breath. She lifted an
arm back toward the enemy troops off beyond the ridge.
"Yes, if it were true that great numbers of troops were going out
around us and heading north, that would concern us. But I don't believe they
are."
Warren swiped a blond lock off his forehead. "You don't think all those
men are heading north? Where, then?"
"Nowhere," Kahlan said.
"That many men? You've got to be joking."
She smiled at the look on his face. "I believe it's a trick. I think
it's only a small number of men."
"But the scouts have been reporting mass numbers of men moving north
for three days now!"
"Hush," Cara warned, getting even with an air of mock scolding.
Warren covered his mouth with both hands when he realized he'd shouted.
They had their breath back, so Kahlan started out again, taking them
over the top of the little rise onto flatter ground, following their
footsteps back the way they had come.
"Remember what the scouts said yesterday?" she asked him. "They tried
to go over to the mountains on the other side to have a look at the lay of
the land beyond and the enemy troops moving north through it, but the passes
were too heavily guarded?"
"I remember."
"I think I've just figured out why." She gestured by looping her hand
around as she went on. "I think what we're seeing is a relatively small
group of the same men just going around in a big circle. We're only seeing
them at the point where they pass up this valley. We see troops marching by
continuously for days and we assume they're moving a lot of men, but I think
it's just a circle of the same ones going round and round."
Warren stopped to stare at her. His face turned grave at the
implications. "So if we're tricked into thinking they're moving an army up
this way, then we will split our army in response and send part of them out
after this phantom force."
"We're already outnumbered," Cara said as she nodded to herself, "but
we have the advantage of defending terrain that suits our purpose. However,
if they could reduce our numbers substantially simply by getting us to send
a large percentage off on some mission, first, their entire army might
finally be able to overrun a smaller number of remaining defenders."
"Makes sense." Warren stroked his chin in thought, looking back at the
ridge. "What if you're wrong?"
Kahlan turned to look back toward the ridge, too. "Well, if I'm wrong,
then. . ."
Kahlan frowned at a fat old maple tree not ten feet away. She thought
she saw the bark move. The dusting of snow on the scaly gray, furrowed bark
began disappearing, melting away in an ever widening area. Like dross
floating on the surface of a boiling cauldron, the bark moved.
Kahlan gasped as Warren seized her and Cara by the collar and flung
them both down on their backs. The wind knocked from her lungs, Kahlan tried
to sit up, but Warren dived to the ground between them, pinning them both
down.
Before Kahlan had a chance to get her breath or ask what was wrong,
blinding light flashed in the still woods. A deafening boom rent the air and
jolted the ground beneath her. Splintered wood, from toothpick-size
fragments to fence-post-size sections, howled past inches above her face.
Huge sections of wood thanked as they rebounded off rocks. Others spun,
caroming off tree trunks. Pieces tumbling along the ground kicking up snow
peppered with frozen chunks of dirt. The air went white as the shock from
the blast blew a wall of snow up into the air.
If any of them had been standing, they would have been torn to shreds.
As soon as the last pieces of timber, trailing smoke, thudded to
ground, Warren rolled toward her. "Gifted," he whispered.
Kahlan frowned at him. "What?"
"Gifted," he whispered again. "They focused their power to boil the
frozen tree inside and make it explode. That's how we lost so many men when
we gathered back in that valley during the first battle, back just before
you came to us. They surprised us."
Kahlan nodded. She peeked up, but saw no one. She glanced over to see
if Cara was all right.
"Where's Cara," she asked in an urgent whisper.
Warren cautiously peered off, searching the empty scene. Kahlan lifted
herself a little on an elbow and saw only the disturbed snow where Cara had
been.
"Dear Creator," Warren said. "You don't suppose they've snatched her,
do you?"
Kahlan saw tracks where there had been none before, leading off to the
side. "I think-"
A scream that would have made a brave man blanch reverberated through
the trees. It trailed off in an agonizing echo.
:,Cara?" Warren asked.
"I don't think so."
Kahlan carefully sat up and saw that a hole had been torn open in the
crowded growth of the forest crown, letting harsh light penetrate the shaded
woodland sanctuary below. The ground all around was littered with splintered
wood, broken branches, huge limbs fallen to ground, and boughs ripped from
other trees. Gouges down through the white layer of snow into the dark
forest floor radiated from a ragged bowl-shaped depression where the tree
had been. Fragments of wood and root lay on the ground everywhere and were
even caught up in the surrounding trees.
Warren put a hand to her shoulder, urging Kahlan to stay down as he
rolled into a crouch. She flipped over onto her stomach and cautiously rose
up onto her hands and knees.
Kahlan jumped up and pointed. "There."
Through the trees, she saw Cara returning. The Mord-Sith was herding a
small man in obvious pain along before her. Each time he stumbled and fell,
she kicked him in the ribs, rolling him through the snow before her. He
cried out, his words coming as a whining cry that Kahlan couldn't make out
because of the distance. The words weren't hard to imagine, though.
Cara had captured one of the gifted. It was for tasks such as this that
Mord-Sith had been created. For someone with the gift, trying to use magic
against a Mord Sith was a mistake that cost them their control over their
own ability.
Kahlan stood, brushing snow from herself. Warren, his violet robes
crusted with snow, rose beside her, transfixed by the sight. This was one of
the wizards responsible for killing so many men when the D'Harans had
gathered in the valley after the Order began moving north. This was the
vicious animal who did Jagang's bidding. He didn't seem like a vicious
animal, now, as he wept and begged before the implacable captor driving him
on before her.
He was a bundle of rags, flinging out around him as he rolled through
the snow with a final mighty kick that deposited him at Kahlan and Warren's
feet. He lay facedown, whimpering like a child.
Cara bent, seized him by his tangled mat of dark hair, and yanked him
to his feet.
It was a child.
"Lyle?" Warren stared incredulously. "Lyle? It was you?"
Tears ran from wintery eyes. He wiped his nose on the back of a
tattered sleeve as he glared at Warren. Young Lyle looked to be a boy of
perhaps ten or twelve years, but since Warren knew him, Kahlan realized he
was probably from the Palace of the Prophets, too. Lyle was a young wizard.
Warren reached out to cup the boy's bloody chin. Kahlan snatched
Warren's wrist. The boy lunged to bite Warren's hand. Cara was quicker. She
snatched him back by the hair as she rammed her Agiel into his back.
Shrieking in pain, he crumpled to the ground. She kicked the injured
lad in the ribs.
Warren held his hands out, imploring. "Cars, don't-"
Her icy blue eyes turned up to challenge him. "He tried to kill us. He
tried to kill the Mother Confessor."
She ground her teeth and, while looking Warren in the eye, kicked the
whimpering boy again.
Warren licked his lips. "I know . . . but..."
"But what?"
"He's so young. It isn't right."
"And so it would be better if we just let him kill us? Would that make
it right for you?"
Kahlan knew Cara was right. As difficult as it was to witness, Cara was
right. If they died, how many men, women, and children would the Imperial
Order go on to slaughter? Child though he was, he was a tool of the Order.
Nonetheless, Kahlan gestured Cara that that was enough. When Kahlan
signaled, Cara again seized his tangled mat of dirty hair in her fist and
hauled him to his feet. With Cara's thighs at his back, he stood shivering,
blood running down his face, pulling short, ragged breaths.
As Kahlan stared down into terrified, tear-filled brown eyes, she put
on her Confessor's face, the face her mother had taught her when she was but
a little girl, the face that masked her inner tumult.
"I know you're, there, Jagang," she said in a quiet voice devoid of
emotion.
The boy's bloody mouth turned up in a smile that was not his own.
"You made a mistake, Jagang. We'll have an army soon on its way to stop
them."
The boy smiled a vacant bloody smile, but said nothing.
"Lyle," Warren said, his voice brittle with anguish, "you can be free
of the dream walker. You must only swear loyalty to Richard and you will be
flee. Believe me, Lyle. Try. I know what it's like. Try, Lyle, and I swear
I'll help you."
Kahlan thought that, with Warren there, a man he knew, he might throw
himself toward the unexpected light coming from the open dungeon door. The
boy behind the smile that was not his own watched Warren with longing that
slowly curdled to loathing. This was a child who had seen the struggle for
freedom bring horror and death and knew that servile obedience brought
rewards and life. He was not old enough to understand what more there was to
it.
With a gentle touch of her fingers, Kahlan urged Warren to back away.
He reluctantly complied.
"This isn't the first of Jagang's wizards we've captured," she said,
offhandedly, to Warren. Her words, though, were not meant for Warren.
Kahlan looked up into Cara's stern blue eyes and then glanced off to
the side, hoping the Mord-Sith understood the instruction.
"Marlin Pickard," Kahlan said, as if recalling the name for Warren, but
her words were still meant for Cara. "He was grown, and even with this
pompous pretend emperor directing him, Marlin still wasn't able to give us
much trouble."
Marlin had in fact given them a great deal of trouble. He had nearly
killed Cara and Kahlan both. Kahlan hoped Cara remembered how tenuous was
her control over someone possessed by the dream walker.
The mood in the quiet woods was still and tense as the boy glared up at
Kahlan.
"We discovered your scheme in time, Jagang. You made a mistake thinking
you could get by our scouts. I hope you're with those men, so that when we
wipe them out we can cut your throat."
The bloody grin widened. "A woman like you is wasted on the side of the
weak," the boy said in the menacing voice of a man. "You'd have a much
better time serving strength, and the Order."
"I'm afraid my husband likes me right where I am."
"And where is your husband, darlin? I was hoping to say hello."
"He's around," Kahlan said in the same dispassionate voice.
She saw Warren, when she had spoken the words, move in a way that was a
little too much like surprise.
"Is he, now?" The boy's eyes turned from Warren, back to Kahlan. "Why
is it I don't believe you?"
She wanted to kick the boy's teeth in as she watched his cruel grin.
Kahlan's mind raced, trying to figure out what Jagang could possibly know,
and what he was trying to discover.
"You'll see him soon enough, when we get this poor child back to camp.
I'm sure Richard Rahl will want to laugh in your cowardly face when I tell
him how we discovered the great emperor's plan to sneak troops north. He'll
want to personally tell you what a fool you are."
The boy tried to take a step toward her, but Cara's fist in his hair
restrained him. He was a cougar on a leash, still testing its chains. The
bloody smile remained, but it was not as self-satisfied as it had been. In
the brown eyes, Kahlan thought she saw hesitation.
"Ah, but I don't believe you," he said, as if losing interest. "We both
know he's not there at all. Don't we, darlin?"
Kahlan resolved to take a risk. "You'll see him for yourself, soon
enough." She made to look as if she were going to turn away, but turned back
to him instead.
Kahlan let a sarcastic smile taint her lips. "Oh-you must mean Nicci?"
The smile vanished from the boy's face. The brow drew down, but he
managed to keep any anger out of his voice.
"Nicci? I don't know what you're talking about, darlin."
"Sister of the Dark? Shapely? Blond hair? Blue eyes? Black dress?
Surely, you would remember a woman that hauntingly beautiful. Or, besides
your other shortcomings, are you also a eunuch?"
The eyes watched, and in them Kahlan could see careful calculations
weighing her every word. But it was Nicci's words about Jagang that Kahlan
was remembering.
"I know who Nicci is. I know every private inch of her. One day, I will
come to know you as intimately as I know Nicci."
Such an obscene threat was somehow more chilling, coming as it did from
the
mouth of a boy. It made her sick to her stomach to hear a child express
Jagang's vile thoughts.
The boy's arm gestured for his master. "One of my beauties, and quite
the lethal lady, besides." Kahlan thought she detected in Jagang's gravelly
growl a hint of the false bravado of a bluff. Almost in afterthought, he
added, "You haven't really seen her."
Kahlan heard in the assertion the ghost of a question he dared not ask,
and knew by it that there was something more to this. She wished she knew
what.
She shrugged again. "Lethal? I wouldn't know."
He licked the blood from his lips. "That's what I thought."
"I wouldn't know because she didn't seem all that lethal. She didn't
manage to harm any of us."
The grin returned. "You lie, darlin. If you really saw Nicci, she would
have killed at least some of you, even if she didn't manage to kill you all.
You couldn't best that one without her scratching someone's eyes out,
first."
"Really? So sure, are we?"
The boy let out a belly laugh. "Darlin, I know Nicci. I'm sure."
Kahlan smiled her contempt into the boy's brown eyes. "You know I'm
telling you the truth."
"Really?" he said, still chuckling. "How's that?"
"You know it's the truth because she's one of your slaves, so you
should be able to enter her mind. You can't, though. I know why you can't.
Even though you aren't too bright, I don't suppose you'll need to think too
long to imagine why not."
Fierce rage fired the boy's eyes. "I don't believe you."
Kahlan shrugged. "Suit yourself."
"If you saw her, then where is she now?"
As she turned her back on him, Kahlan told him the brutal, bitter truth
and let him interpret it his own way. "Last I saw her, she was on her way
into oblivion."
Kahlan heard the bellow behind her. She spun back to see Cara trying to
stop him with her Agiel. Kahlan heard the bone in his arm snap. It didn't
even slow him. The boy, in a wild rage, his hands clawed, his teeth bared,
lunged for Kahlan.
Half turned back to him, Kahlan lifted her hand against the full weight
of the boy crashing toward her as he leaped for her throat. His small chest
contacted her hand. His feet were clear of the ground. It felt not as if he
were throwing himself at her, but no more than dandelion fluff, floating to
her on a breath of air.
Time was hers.
It was not necessary for Kahlan to invoke her birthright, but merely to
withdraw her restraint of it. Her feelings could provide her no safe haven;
only the truth would serve her now.
This was not a small boy, hurt, alone, afraid.
This was the enemy.
The inner violence of her power's cold coiled force slipping its bounds
was breathtaking. It surged up from that deep dark core within, obediently
inundating every fiber of her being.
She could count each small rib under her fingers.
She contained no hate, no rage, no horror . . . no sorrow. In that
infinitesimal spark of time, her mind was in a void where there was no
emotion, only the allconsuming rush of time suspended.
He had no chance. He was hers.
Kahlan did not hesitate.
She unleashed her power.
From an ethereal state as part of her innermost essence, that power
became all.
Thunder without sound jolted the air-exquisite, violent, and for that
pristine instant, sovereign.
The boy's face was twisted by the hate of the man who had controlled
him. In that singular moment, if she was the absence of emotion, then he was
the embodiment of it. Kahlan stared back into that lost child's face,
knowing that he saw only her merciless eyes.
His mind, who he was, who he had been, was already gone.
Trees all around shook from the force of the concussion. Snow dropped
from branches and boughs. The terrible shock to the air lifted a ring of
snow that grew around the two of them in an ever-expanding circle.
Kahlan had known that Jagang could slip into and out of a person's mind
between thought, when time itself did not exist. She had no choice but to do
as she had done. She could not afford to hesitate. With Jagang in a person's
mind, even Cara could not control them.
Jagang had burned his bridges behind him as he fled the young mind.
The boy fell dead at Kahlan's feet.
Kahlan swayed on her feet as she stood over the crumbled body of the
boy, feeling her emotions flood back in. As always happened, using her
Confessor's power left her drained and exhausted. In the aftermath, the
forest sat in silent judgment. Here and there, the virgin snow around the
small body exhibited its red evidence.
Only then did Kahlan even pause to consider if she might have killed
Cara, too.
A Mord-Sith would not live long after the touch of a Confessor. There
had been no choice. She had done her best to warn Cara, to let her know to
get clear, but in the end Kahlan couldn't allow her decision to be
influenced by any consideration other than what had to be done. Hesitation
could have meant disaster.
Now that it was over, though, dread roiled through.
Kahlan looked around, and to the right saw Cara sprawled in the snow.
If she had been touching the boy when Kahlan unleashed her power . . .
Cara groaned. Kahlan staggered to her and dropped to a knee. She
clutched the fur at Cara's shoulder and with a mighty effort pulled her
over.
"Cara-are you all right?"
Cara squinted up with a look of disgust working its way to the surface
of pain. "Well of course I'm all right. You didn't think I would be foolish
enough to hang on to him, did you?"
Kahlan smiled in thankful relief. "No, of course not. I only thought
you might have broken your neck jumping away."
Cara spat snow and dirt. "Nearly did."
Warren helped them both to their feet. Grimacing, he rubbed his
shoulders and then his elbows. From what Kahlan had often been told, being
too close to a Confessor unleashing her power was a painful experience,
sending a shock of agony through every joint. Fortunately, it did no real
damage and the suffering faded quickly.
As Warren glanced over at the dead boy, she knew that there was other
pain that would not leave so quickly.
"Dear Creator," Warren whispered to himself. He looked back at Kahlan
and Cara. "He was just a boy. Was it really necessary-"
"Yes," Kahlan said in a forceful voice. "I'm positive. Cara and I have
encountered this situation before-with Marlin."
"But Marlin was grown. Lyle was so small . . . so young. What real
harm-"
"Warren, don't start down the path of what-might-have-been. Jagang
controlled his mind, just as he controlled Marlin's mind. We know about
this. He was a deadly threat."
"If I couldn't hold him," Cara said, "nothing could."
Warren sighed in misery. He sank to his knees at the boy's side. Warren
whispered a prayer as his fingers stroked the boy's temple.
"I guess the blame rightly lies at Jagang's feet." Warren stood and
brushed the snow from his knees. "Ultimately, Jagang is the one who brought
this about."
Kahlan could see the distant figures of their men, rushing up the
hillside to rescue her. She started down toward them.
"If it pleases you to think so."
Cara stayed right with her. Warren struggled through the snow to catch
up. He snatched Kahlan's arm and pulled her to a stop.
"You mean Ann, don't you?"
Kahlan schooled her anger as she studied Warren's blue eyes.
"Warren, you were a victim of that woman, too. You were taken to the
Palace of the Prophets when you were young, weren't you?"
"I guess so, but-"
"But nothing. They came and took you. They came and took that poor dead
child back there." Kahlan's fingernails dug into her palms. "They came and
took Richard."
Warren pressed his hand gently to the side of Kahlan's arm. "I know how
it seems. Prophecy is often-"
"There!" Kahlan angrily pointed back at the corpse. "There is prophecy!
Death and misery-all in the sacred name of prophecy!"
Warren didn't try to answer her rage.
Kahlan forced control into her voice, if not the emotion behind it.
"How many are going to die needlessly in a perverted devotion to seeing
prophecy carried out? Had Ann not sent Verna here for Richard, none of this
would be happening."
"How do you know that? Kahlan, I can understand how you feel, but how
can you be sure?"
"The barrier stood for three thousand years. It could only be brought
down by a wizard born with both sides of the gift. There has been none until
Richard. Ann sent Verna to get him. Had she not, the barrier would still be
there. Jagang and the Order would be on the other side. The Midlands would
be safe. That boy would be playing ball somewhere."
"Kahlan, it's not so simple as you make it seem." Warren opened his
hands in an expression of frustration. "I don't want to argue this with you,
but I want you to understand that prophecy gets fulfilled in many ways. It
often seeks its own solution. It could be that had Ann not sent for Richard,
he would have, for some other reason, ventured down there and brought down
the barrier. Who is to know the reason? Don't you see? It could be that it
was bound to happen, and Ann was simply the means. If not her, then
another."
Kahlan pulled angry breaths through gritted teeth. "How much blood, how
many corpses, how much grief will it take before you see the harm prophecy
has inflicted upon the world?"
Warren smiled sadly. "I am a prophet. I've always wanted to be a
prophet in order to help people. I wouldn't put my faith in it if I truly
thought it was the cause of harm." He smiled more brightly with a memory.
"Don't forget, without prophecy, you would never have come to meet Richard.
Aren't you better off having had him come into your life? I know I am."
Kahlan's look of cold fury took the warm smile from his face.
"I-would rather have been condemned to a lonely life without love, than
to know
that harm has come to him because he came into my life. I would rather
never have met him, than to have come to know his value, and know that that
value is being dashed on the rocks of this mad faith in prophecy."
Warren stuck his hands in the opposite sleeves of his purple robes as
his gaze sank to the ground. "I understand how you can feel that way.
Please, Kahlan, talk to Verna."
"Why? She's the one who carried out Ann's orders."
"Just talk to her. I almost lost Verna because she felt the same way as
you do now."
"Verna?"
Warren nodded. "She came to believe she had been used maliciously by
Ann. For twenty years she was on a fruitless search for Richard, when all
the while Ann knew right where he was. Can you imagine how Verna felt when
she discovered that? There were other things, too. Ann tricked us into
believing she was dead. She maneuvered Verna into being Prelate." Warren
pulled a hand from his sleeve and held his first finger and thumb an inch
apart. "She was once this close to throwing her journey book into a fire."
"She should have."
Warren's sad smile returned. "I'm just saying it might make you feel
better to talk to her. She will understand how you feel."
"What good is that going to do?"
Warren shrugged. "Even if you're right, so what? What's done is done.
We can't undo it. Nicci has Richard. The Imperial Order is here in the New
World. Whatever caused the events, they are upon us and we must now deal
with that reality."
Kahlan appraised his sparkling blue eyes. "You learned this studying
prophecy?"
His smile widened into a grin. "No. That was what Richard taught me.
And, a pretty smart woman I know just told me not to start down the path of
what-mighthave-been."
As much as she was of a mind to hold on to it, Kahlan felt her anger
slipping away. "I'm not so sure how smart she is."
Warren waved down at the troops charging up the hill with their swords
drawn, signaling the allclear. The men slowed to a fast walk, but didn't
sheathe their weapons.
"Well," Warren said, "she was smart enough to figure out Jagang's plan,
and in the middle of being attacked by his gifted minion to keep her wits
about her and to trick him into thinking she had fallen for his scheme."
Kahlan drew her face into a peevish scowl. "How old are you, Warren?"
He looked surprised by the question. "I turned one hundred fifty-eight
not long ago."
"That explains it," Cara griped, starting off down the hill. "Stop
looking so young and innocent all the time, Warren. It's just plain
irritating."
--]----
By the time Kahlan, Cara, Warren, and their escort of guard troops
arrived back in camp several hours later, it was a scene of furious
activity. Wagons were being loaded, horses hitched, and weapons readied.
Tents were not yet being taken down, but soldiers in their leather and
chain-mail armor, and still eating the remnants of their dinners, were
gathered around officers, listening to instructions for when the
order was given to send a force out to intercept the enemy moving
north. Other officers in tents Kahlan passed were bent over maps.
The aroma of stew drifting through the afternoon air reminded her how
hungry she was. Winter darkness came early, and the overcast made it feel
like it was already evening. The endless cloudy days were getting to be
depressing. There was little chance to see much of the sun; soon, heavier
snow would make it down this far south.
Kahlan dismounted and let a young soldier take her horse. She no longer
rode a big warhorse. She, and most of the cavalry, had switched to smaller,
more agile mounts. For a clash between large units, big warhorses added
weight to a charge, but since the D'Haran Empire forces were so outnumbered,
they had decided it would be best to trade weight far speed and
maneuverability.
By changing tactics in such a way, not just with the cavalry but with
their entire army, Kahlan and General Meiffert had been able to keep the
Order off balance for weeks. They let the enemy put a huge effort into a
crushing attack, and then dodged it just enough to save themselves while
letting the Order, being tantalizingly close, wear themselves out. When the
Order tired from the effort of such massive attacks and paused to rest,
General Meiffert sent in glancing attacks to step on their toes and make
them dance. Once the Order dug in for the expected attack, Kahlan withdrew
their forces to a more distant spot, rendering useless the Order's effort at
building defenses.
If the Order tried the same thing again, the D'Harans continued to
harry them day and night, buzzing around them like angry hornets, but
staying out of reach of a heavy swat. If the Imperial Order tired of not
being able to sink their teeth into their enemy, and turned their forces to
go after population centers, then Kahlan had her men jump on their tails and
put arrows in their backs as they struggled to get free. Eventually, they
would have to forget their thoughts of plunder and turn back toward the
threat.
The Imperial Order was maddened by the D'Harans' constant badgering
tactics. Jagang's men were insulted by that kind of fighting; they believed
real men met face-to-face in the field of battle, and exchanged blow for
blow. Of course, it didn't trouble their dignity that they greatly
outnumbered the D'Harans. Kahlan knew such a meeting would be bloody and
only to the Order's advantage. She didn't care what they thought, only that
they died.
The more angry and frustrating the Imperial Order became, the more
recklessly they behaved, launching impetuous attacks into well-ordered
defenses, or heedlessly pressing men into doomed attacks trying to take
ground they couldn't possibly take in such a fashion. It sometimes stunned
Kahlan to watch so many of the enemy march into range below their archers,
fall dead, only to have yet more men march right in behind them,
continuously adding corpses to a battlefield already choked with the dead
and dying. It was insanity.
The D'Harans had suffered several thousand dead or seriously wounded.
On the other hand, Kahlan and General Meiffert estimated that they had
killed or wounded in excess of fifty thousand of the enemy. It was the
equivalent of stepping on one ant as the colony poured out of its anthill.
She could think of nothing else to do but to keep at it. They had no choice.
Kahlan, with Cara at her side, crossed a river of men to get to the
command tents sporting blue cloth strips. Unless you knew the day's color
code, finding the command tents would be nearly impossible. Because of the
fear of an infiltrator or an
enemy gifted finding and being able to kill a group of senior officers
gathered together, they met in nondescript tents. Colored cloth strips
marked many of the tents-the men used them as as system of finding their
units when they had to move on short notice and so often-so Kahlan got the
idea of using the same system to identify the command tents. They changed
the color code often so no one color would become known as the officers'
colors.
Inside the cramped tent, General Meiffert looked up from where he bent
over a table with a map unfurled at a cockeyed angle. Lieutenant Leiden, of
Kelton, was there along with Captain Abernathy, the commander of the Galean
forces Kahlan had brought down with her weeks before.
Adie was sitting quietly in the corner, as the representative of the
gifted, watching the goings-on with her completely white eyes. Blinded as a
young woman, Adie had learned to see using her gift. She was a remarkably
talented sorceress. Adie was quite proficient at using that talent to do the
enemy harm. Now she was there to help coordinate the Sister's abilities with
the needs of the army.
When Kahlan inquired, Adie told her, "Zedd be down at the southern
lines, checking on details."
Kahlan nodded her thanks. "Warren went down there to help, too."
Kahlan scrunched up her freezing toes in her boots, trying to bring
feeling back to them. She blew warm air into her cupped hands and then
turned her attention to the waiting general.
"We need to get together a good-sized force-maybe twenty thousand men."
General Meiffert sighed his frustration. "So they are moving an army up
past us."
"No," she said. "It's a trick."
The three officers frowned their puzzlement as they waited for an
explanation.
"I ran into Jagang-"
"You what!" General Meiffert shouted in unbridled panic.
Kahlan waved a hand, allaying his fears. "Not like you're thinking. It
was through the body of one of his slaves." She stuck her hands under her
arms to warm them. "The important thing is that I played along with Jagang's
scheme so that he would think we were falling for his plan."
Kahlan explained how Jagang's ruse of troop movements was meant to work
and how its true design was to draw away a good-sized force so as to leave
those remaining behind weaker. The men listened as she laid it all out while
pointing to the locations on the map.
"If we were to send that many men out," Lieutenant Leiden asked,
"wouldn't that be just what Emperor Jagang wanted?"
"It would be," she told him, "but that's not what we're going to do. I
want those men to ride out of camp, to make it look as if we were doing what
he expected."
She leaned over the map, using a piece of charcoal to sketch in some of
the nearby mountains she had just traveled through, and showed .them a
lowland pass around several.
Captain Abernathy spoke up. "We have my Galean troops-they're close to
the number you need to serve as the decoy."
"That's what I was thinking," General Meiffert said.
"Done," Kahlan said. She pointed at the map again. "Circle around these
mountains, here, Captain, so that when the Order attacks our camp, thinking
to roll over us, your men can stick them in their soft side, right here,
where they won't expect it."
Captain Abernathy, a trim man with a graying bushy mustache that
matched his
eyebrows, nodded as he watched Kahlan pointing out the route on the
map. "Don't worry, Mother Confessor, the Order will believe we're gone, but
we'll be standing ready to drive right into their ribs when they come for
you."
Kahlan turned her attention back to the general. "We'll also need to
secretly trickle another force out of camp to wait at the opposite side of
the valley from Captain Abernathy, so that when the Order comes up the
valley in the middle, we can drive into their ribs from both sides at once.
They won't want to let us cut off and trap part of their force, so they'll
turn tail. Then our main force can drive steel into their vulnerable backs."
The three officers considered her plan in silence, while outside the
confusion of noise went on. Horses galloped past, wagons creaked and bounced
along, snow underfoot crunched as soldiers shuffled past, and men called out
orders.
Lieutenant Leiden's eyes turned up toward Kahlan. "Mother Confessor, my
Keltans could be that other force. They've all served together a long time,
and work well in our own units under my command. We could begin slipping out
of camp at once and gather down there to wait for the attack. You could send
a Sister with us to verify a prearranged signal, and then I could take my
men in when Captain Abernathy attacks from the opposite side."
Kahlan knew the man wanted to redeem himself in her eyes. He was also
looking to establish for Kelton a measure of autonomy within the D'Haran
Empire.
"That will be a dangerous spot, Lieutenant. If anything goes wrong, we
can't come to your aid."
He nodded. "But my men are familiar with the area and we're used to
traversing mountainous country in the winter. The Imperial Order is from a
warmer land. We have the advantage of weather and terrain. We can do the
job, Mother Confessor."
Kahlan straightened, letting out a breath as she appraised the man.
General Meiffert, she knew, would like the idea. Captain Abernathy would,
too; Galea and Kelton were traditional rivals, so the two would just as soon
fight their own way, and separately.
Richard had brought the lands together, so that they would all come to
feel they were one, now. That was vital if they were to survive. She
supposed that they were fighting for the same goal, so in that way they were
working together-they would have to coordinate their attacks. Lieutenant
Leiden did make sense, too; his troops were mountain fighters.
"All right, Lieutenant."
"Thank you, Mother Confessor."
Kahlan thought to add some insurance. "If you acquit yourself well in
this, Lieutenant, it could move you up in command."
Lieutenant Leiden clapped a fist to his heart in salute. "My men will
make their queen proud."
Kahlan acknowledged his pledge with the nod of the Mother Confessor.
She addressed them all. "We had better get under way."
General Meiffert grunted his agreement. "This will be a good
opportunity to knock down their numbers. If it goes even half right, this
time we'll bleed them good." He turned to the other two officers. "Let's get
started. We need to have your men moving at once to give them enough time to
be in position by morning. There's no telling how long they might wait to
attack, but if it comes as soon as dawn, I want you in position and ready."
"The Order favors attacking at dawn," Captain Abernathy said. "We can
be on
our way within the hour. We'll be in place and ready by dawn, should
they come in early."
"As can we," Lieutenant Leiden agreed.
The two officers bowed and started to leave.
"Captain," Kahlan called. The men turned back.
"Mother Confessor?"
"Do you have any idea what could be keeping Prince Harold and the rest
of your army? He should have been here long ago. We could really use the
rest of your men."
Captain Abernathy's thumb twiddled a bone button on the front of his
dark coat. "I'm sorry, Mother Confessor. I, too, thought they should have
been here by now. I can't imagine what could be keeping the prince."
"He should have been here by now," she repeated under her breath to
herself. She looked up at the captain. "Weather?"
"Perhaps, Mother Confessor. If there are storms, that could have
delayed him. That is probably the reason, and in that case I don't imagine
he should be much longer. Our men train in the mountains in such
conditions."
Kahlan sighed. "Let's hope he's here soon, then."
Captain Abernathy confidently met her gaze. "I know for a fact that the
prince was eager to collect his men and get down here to help. Galea spans
the Callisidrin Valley. The prince personally told me that it was to our own
best interest to halt the Imperial Order down here, rather than letting them
advance further up into the Midlands, where our lands and our families would
come under the terror of the enemy."
Kahlan could see in Lieutenant Leiden's eyes that he was thinking that
if Prince Harold instead decided to make a stand in the Callisidrin Valley,
in order to selfishly protect his homeland of Galea, such an obstacle very
well could force the Order to instead bear toward the northeast in their
advance, around the intervening mountains, and over into the Kern
Plain-right toward Leiden's homeland of Kelton. If Lieutenant Leiden was
imagining such treachery, he had the wisdom not to voice it.
"I know the weather was bad when I came down," Kahlan said. "It is
winter, after all. I'm sure Prince Harold will soon be here to help his
queen and the fellow people of the D'Haran Empire."
Kahlan offered them a smile to soften the subtle threat. "Thank you,
gentlemen. You'd best get to your tasks. May the good spirits watch your
backs."
After the men had saluted and horned off to their work, Adie put her
hands to her knees and levered herself to her feet.
"If you do not need me, I must see to informing the Sisters, Zedd, and
Warren of our plans."
Kahlan nodded wearily. "Thank you, Adie."
Adie, her eyes completely white, saw with the aid of her gift. Kahlan
could feel that gifted gaze on her.
"You have used your power," the old sorceress said. "I be able to see
it in your face. You must rest."
"I know," Kahlan said. "But there are things needing to be done."
"They will not get done if you fall ill, or worse-which could happen."
Adie's thin fingers gripped Cara's arm. "See to it that the Mother Confessor
be left alone for a while, so she can at least rest her head on the table,
if nothing else."
Cara swung the folding chair around and set it behind the table. She
pointed at it while leveling a stern look at Kahlan.
"Sit. I will stand watch."
Kahlan was exhausted. Using her Confessor's ability sapped her
strength. She needed time to recover. The hard ride back had only made
matters worse. She went around the table and sat down heavily in the folding
chair. She opened her fur mantle and set it back on her shoulders. Richard's
sword was still strapped to her back, its hilt jutting up above her
shoulder. She didn't bother to remove the sword.
Adie, at seeing Kahlan comply without complaint, smiled to herself and
went on her way. Cara took up guard at the entrance as Kahlan's head sank
down into her pillowed arms. Trying not to let the terrible events of the
day overwhelm her, she instead thought of Richard, remembering his handsome
smile, his penetrating gray eyes, his gentle touch. Her own eyes closed. In
her weariness, the chair and table felt as if they were spinning her around.
In moments, though, as she held her thoughts of Richard in her mind's eye,
she felt herself sliding into sleep.
Mother Confessor?"
Kahlan squinted up at a dark shape above her. She blinked, clearing her
vision, and saw that it was Verna. The gold sunburst ring of the Prelate of
the Sisters of the Light reflected a glimmer of lamplight. Behind her,
twilight tainted the tent canvas with a rusty glow.
Kahlan rubbed the sleep from her eyes. Verna wore a long, gray wool
dress and a dark brown cloak. At her throat, the dress had a bit of white
lace that softened the austerity of the outfit. Verna's brown hair had a
carefree wave and spring to it, but her brown eyes held a troubled look.
"What is it, Verna?"
"If you have a moment, I would like to talk to you."
No doubt, Verna had been talking to Warren. Whenever Kahlan saw them
together, the shared intimate glances, the chance furtive touch reminded her
of the way she and Richard felt about each other. It softened Kahlan's
feelings about Verna's stern exterior, to know she was in love-knowing, for
that matter, that she was capable of tenderness. Kahlan knew that she, too,
must be regarded with the same sort of curiosity, if not amazement, where
tender feelings were concerned.
She sighed, wondering if this was going to be a "talk" about Ann and
prophecy. Kahlan wasn't in the mood.
"Cara, how long have I been asleep?"
"A couple of hours. It will soon be dark."
As tight and sore as Kahlan's shoulders and neck were from sleeping
with her head on the table, the lateness of the hour didn't come as a
surprise. She stretched to the side and then saw the frail looking sorceress
sitting on a short bench. She had a dark blanket over her lap.
"How do you feel?" Adie asked.
"I'm fine." Kahlan could see her breath in the frigid air. "The men we
sent out?"
"Both groups be on their way, more than an hour ago," Adie said. "The
first group, the Galeans, all left together in big columns. The Keltans
dribbled out in small groups not as likely to be noticed by any spies
watching."
Kahlan yawned. "Good."
She knew they had to fear an attack by the Imperial Order as soon as
morning. At least that should give their men enough time to travel to their
positions and be ready. Waiting for an attack made her stomach feel queasy.
She knew the men, too, would be on edge and likely get little sleep.
Adie idly ran a thin finger back and forth along the red and yellow
beads at the neckline of her modest robes. "I came back after the Galeans
left, to help Cara keep people away so you would not be disturbed while you
rested."
Kahlan nodded her thanks. Apparently, either Adie thought Kahlan had
rested enough, or she thought Verna's visit was important.
"What is it, then, Verna?"
"We have . . . discovered something. Not so much discovered it, as had
an idea."
"Who is `we'?"
Verna cleared her throat. Under her breath she beseeched the Creator's
forgiveness before she went on.
"Actually, Mother Confessor, I thought of it. Some of my Sisters helped
me with it, but I'm the one who thought it up. The blame falls to me."
Kahlan thought that was an odd way of putting it. She didn't think
Verna looked at all pleased by her own idea, whatever it was. Kahlan waited
silently for her to go on.
"Well, you see, we have a problem getting things past the enemy's
gifted. They have Sisters of the light, but also Dark, and we don't have
their power. When we try to send things-"
"Send things?"
Verna pursed her lips. "Weapons."
When Kahlan's brow twitched with a questioning look, Verna bent and
gathered something from the ground. She held out her open hand, showing
Kahlan a collection of small pebbles.
"Zedd showed us how to turn simple things into devastating weapons. We
can use our power to fling them or even with our breath blow on some small
thing, like these pebbles, and use our magic to send them out faster than
any arrow, even an arrow from a crossbow. The pebbles we flung out in this
way cut down waves of advancing soldiers. The pebbles traveled so swiftly
that sometimes each would pierce the bodies of half a dozen men."
"I remember those reports," Kahlan said. "But that stopped working
because their gifted caught on to the artifice and now defend against such
things."
Kahlan recognized the weary look of the weight of responsibility in
Verna's brown eyes. "That's right. The Order learned how to look for things
of magic, or even things propelled by magic. Most of our conjuring that is
in any way similar has become useless."
"That's what Zedd told me-that in war magic is most often unseen, that
each side manages only to balance the other."
Verna nodded. "It is so. We do the same against them. Things they used
at first, we now know how to counter so we can protect our men. Our warning
horns, for example. We learned that we must code them with a trace of magic
to know they are genuine."
Kahlan drew her fur mantle up around her neck. She was chilled to the
bone and couldn't seem to get warm. Not surprising, seeing as how she was
spending all of her time outdoors. It was insanity to be carrying on a war
in such conditions. She guessed that war in fine weather was no more sane.
Still, she ached to be inside, beside a cozy fire.
"So what is this thing you thought up?"
As if reminded of the cold, Verna pulled her cloak tighter around her
shoulders. "Well, I got the notion that if the enemy gifted are, in a sense,
filtering for anything magic, or even anything being propelled by magic,
then what we need is something not magic."
Kahlan gave Verna a grim smile. "We do. They're called soldiers."
Verna didn't smile. "No. I meant something the gifted could do to
disable enemy troops without risk to our own men."
Adie shuffled forward to stand behind Kahlan's left shoulder as Verna
reached into her cloak and pulled out a small leather pouch closed with a
drawstring. She tossed it on the table before Kahlan, then set a piece of
paper beside it.
"Pour a little on the paper, please." Verna was holding her stomach as
if she were having indigestion. "But be careful not to touch it with your
finger or get it on your skin-and whatever you do, don't blow on it. Be
careful not to even breathe on it."
Adie leaned in to watch as Kahlan carefully poured a small quantity of
a sparkling dust from the pouch onto the square of paper. She pushed at the
little pile with the corner of the pouch. There were hints of pallid colors,
but it was mostly a pale, glimmering, greenish-gray.
"What is it? Some kind of magic dust?"
"Glass."
Kahlan's eyes turned up. "Glass. You thought up glass?"
Verna let out a tsk at herself for how foolish she must have sounded.
"No, Mother Confessor. I thought of breaking it. You see, this is just
simple glass that has been broken and crushed into fine pieces-almost dust.
But we used our Han to aid us when we crushed the glass with a mortar and
pestle. By using our gift, we were able to break the glass into very tiny
fragments, but in a special way."
Verna leaned over, her finger hovering above the little greenish-gray
mound. Cara leaned in beside her in order to look down at the dangerous
thing on the piece of paper.
"This glass-every piece-is sharp and jagged, even though each piece is
very tiny. Each piece is hardly bigger than dust, so it weighs nothing,
almost like dust."
"Dear spirits," Adie said before whispering a prayer in her own
language.
Kahlan cleared her throat. "I don't understand."
"Mother Confessor, we can't get our magic past the defenses of the
Order's gifted. They are prepared for magic, even if it's a simple pebble
but uses magic to hurl it at their troops.
"This glass, however, even though we used magic to break it, has no
magic properties-none at all. It's just inert material, the same as the dust
kicked up by their feet. They can't detect it as magic, because it isn't
magic. Through their gift, they will sense this as simple as dust, or mist,
or possibly fog, depending on atmospheric conditions at the time."
"But we sent dust clouds at them before," Kahlan said. "Dust to make
them sick and such. They mostly countered it."
Verna held up a finger to note her point as she smiled a grim smile.
"But those were dust clouds containing magic. Mother Confessor, this does
not. Don't you see? It's so light it floats in the air for a long time. We
could use simple magic to cast it up into the air, and then withdraw the
magic, or we could simply fling it up into the breeze, for that matter.
Either way, we have only to let their troops run through it."
"All right." Kahlan scratched an eyebrow. "But what will it do to
them?"
"It will get in their eyes," Adie said in her raspy voice from behind
Kahlan's shoulder.
"That's right," Verna said. "It gets in their eyes, just as any dust
would. At first, it will feel like dust in their eyes and they will try to
blink it away. However, since the fragments are all still jagged and razor
sharp, they will instead embed themselves
in the body's tissue. It will stick in their eyes, and build up under
their eyelids, where it will make thousands of tiny cuts across their eyes
with each blink. The more they blink, the more it eats away at their
delicate eyes." Verna straightened and pulled her cloak together. "It will
blind them."
Kahlan sat in numb disbelief at the madness of it all.
"Are you sure?" Cara asked. "Might it just irritate them, like gritty
dust?"
"We know for sure," Verna said. "We . . . had an accident, and know all
too well what it does. It may do more damage when it gets in the throat, the
lungs, and the gut-we don't know about that, yet-but we do know for sure
that such special glass, if we grind it to just the right size particles,
will float in the air and people passing through the cloud will be blinded
in remarkably short order. As long as we can blind a man, he can't fight. It
may not kill them, but as long as they are blind they can't kill us, or
fight back as we kill them."
Cara, usually gleeful at the prospect of killing the enemy, did not
seem so, now. "We would have but to line them up and butcher them."
Kahlan put her head in her hands, covering her eyes.
"You want me to approve its use, don't you? That's why you're here."
Verna said nothing. Kahlan looked up at last.
"That's what you want, isn't it?"
"Mother Confessor, I need not tell you that the Sisters of the Light
abhor harming people. However, this is a war for our very existence, for the
very existence of free people. We know it must be done. If Richard were here
. . . I just thought that you would want to be made aware of this, and be
the one to give such orders."
Kahlan stared at the woman, understanding then why she was holding her
hand over a pain in her stomach.
"Do you know, Prelate," Kahlan said in a near whisper, "that I killed a
child today? Not by accident, but on purpose. I would do it again without
hesitation. But that won't make me sleep any better."
"A child? It was truly necessary to . . . kill a child?"
"His name was Lyle. I believe you know him. He was another one of the
victims of Ann's Sisters of the Light."
Verna, her face gone ashen, closed her eyes against the news.
"I guess if I can kill a child," Kahlan said, "I can easily enough give
the orders for you to use your special glass against the monsters who would
use a child as a weapon. I have sworn no mercy, and I meant it."
Adie laid a gnarled hand on Kahlan's shoulder.
"Kahlan," Verna said in a gentle voice, "I can understand how you feel.
Ann used me, too, and I didn't understand why. I thought she used everyone
for her own selfish purposes. For a time, I thought her a despicable person.
You have every reason to believe as you do."
"But I would be wrong, Verna? Is that what you were going to add? I'd
not be so sure, were I you. You didn't have to kill a little boy today."
Verna nodded in sympathy but didn't argue.
"Adie," Kahlan asked, "do you think there would be anything you might
be able to do for the woman who was accidentally blinded? Perhaps you could
help her?"
Adie nodded. "That be a good idea. Verna, take me to her, and let me
see what I can do."
Kahlan cocked her head as the two women moved toward the tent opening.
"Did you hear that?"
"The horn?" Verna asked.
"Yes. It sounds like alarm horns."
Verna squinted in concentration. She turned her head to the side,
listening attentively.
"Yes, it does sound like alarm horns," she finally declared, "but it
doesn't have the right trace of magic through it. The enemy does that
often-tries to get us to act based on false alarms. We've been having more
and more lately."
Kahlan frowned. "We have? Why?"
"Why . . . what?"
Kahlan stood. "If we know they're false alarms, and they don't work,
then why would the Order increase the attempts? That makes no sense."
Verna's gaze roved about as as if searching in vain for an answer.
"Well, I don't know. I can't imagine. I'm no expert in the tactics of
warfare."
Cara turned to go have a look. "Maybe it's just some scouts coming back
in."
Kahlan turned her head, listening. She heard horses running, but that
wasn't so rare. It could be, as Cara suggested, scouts returning with
reports. But, by the sound of the hooves, the horses sounded big.
She heard men yelling. The clash of steel rang out-along with cries of
pain.
Kahlan drew her Galean royal sword as she started around the table.
Before any of them could get more than a step, the tent shuddered violently
as something crashed against its walls. For an instant, the whole thing
tipped at an impossible angle; then steel-tipped lances burst through the
canvas. With a rush of wind the tent collapsed around them.
The heavy canvas drove Kahlan to the ground as it caved in. She
couldn't get a grip on anything solid as the tent rolled her over and began
dragging her along. Hooves thundered past, pounding the ground right beside
her head.
She could smell lamp oil as it sloshed across the canvas. With a
whoosh, the oil and the tent ignited. Kahlan coughed on the smoke. She could
hear the crackle of flames. She could see nothing. She was trapped-rolled up
in the bucking tent as it slid across the ground.
Tightly shrouded in stiff canvas, Kahlan couldn't see anything. She
choked and gagged on the thick, acrid smoke burning her lungs. She pulled
frantically at the canvas, trying to disentangle herself, but as she bounced
and tumbled along the ground, she couldn't make any headway gaining her
liberty. The heat of flames close to her face ignited in her a sense of
panic. Her weariness forgotten, she kicked and struggled madly as she gasped
for air.
"Where are you!"
It was Cara's voice. It sounded close, as if she, too, was being
dragged along and strenuously engaged in her own fight for life. Cara was
smart enough not to shout Kahlan's name or title when surrounded by the
enemy; hopefully, Verna knew better, as well.
"Here!" Kahlan shouted in answer to Cara.
Kahlan's sword was trapped, pressed to her legs by the rolled canvas.
She managed to wiggle her left hand up onto the knife at her belt. She
yanked it free. She had to turn her face to try to keep away from the heat
of the oily flames. The smothering smoky blindness was terrifying.
With angry resolve, Kahlan stabbed at the canvas, punching her knife
through. Just then, the tent hit something and they were bounced into the
air. The hard landing knocked the wind from her lungs. A gasp pulled in
suffocating smoke. Again, Kahlan plunged her knife into the heavy canvas and
slashed an opening as her entire shroud erupted into flame.
She yelled again to Cara. "I can't get-"
The tent hit something solid. Her shoulder whacked hard into what felt
like a tree stump and she was flipped up and over the top of it. Had she not
been wearing her stiff leather armor, the blow surely would have broken her
shoulder. Crashing down on the other side, Kahlan tumbled free and across
the snow. She spread her arms to stop herself from rolling.
Kahlan saw General Meiffert reach up, seize a fistful of chain mail,
and unhorse the man who had been dragging her tent. The man's eyes gleamed
from behind long, curly, greasy hair. His stout body was covered with hides
and furs over chain mail and leather armor. He was missing his upper teeth.
As he lunged at the general, he lost his head, too.
Yet more Order troops wheeled their big warhorses, striking down at the
D'Harans scrambling both to escape the blows and to mount a defense. One of
the warhorses charged Kahlan's way, its rider leaning out, swinging a flail.
Kahlan sheathed both her knife and sword. She snatched up the lance of the
man who had been dragging the tent. She brought the long weapon up and spun
around just in time to
plant the butt end in a frozen rut and let the charging warhorse take
the steel-tipped point in his chest.
As the grinning Order soldier with the flail leaped from the staggering
horse, he drew his sword with his free hand. Kahlan didn't wait; as he was
still alighting on his feet, she spun while drawing her own sword and landed
a solid backhanded blow across the left side of his face.
Without pause, she dove under the legs of another horse to dodge a
blade when the horse's rider slashed down at her. She sprang up on the other
side and hacked the rider's leg open to the bone twice before turning just
in time to ram her sword up to its hilt into the chest of another horse
sidling in, trying to crush her against the first. As the animal reared with
a wild scream, Kahlan yanked her sword free and tumbled away just before the
big horse crashed to the ground. The rider's leg was trapped, and he was at
an awkward angle to defend himself Kahlan made the best of the opportunity.
For the moment, the immediate area was clear, enabling her to scramble
over to the tent where the general was on his knees, yanking at the snarled
mess of canvas and rope. More Order cavalry were thundering past,
threatening to trample Verna, Adie, and Cara still trapped in the tangle of
tent. At least the burning section had pulled away.
Kahlan worked beside General Meiffert to tug and cut the canvas. At
last they ripped open the heavy material, freeing Adie and Verna. The two
women were rolled up together, nearly in each another's arms. Adie's head
was bleeding, but she pushed away Kahlan's concerned hands. Verna emerged
from the cocoon and stumbled to her feet, still dizzy from the wild ride.
Kahlan helped Adie up. The scrape on her brow didn't look too serious.
General Meiffert pulled frantically at the canvas. Cara was still inside,
somewhere, but they no longer heard her.
Kahlan seized Verna by the arm. "I thought they were false alarms!"
"They were!" Verna insisted. "Obviously, they tricked us."
All around, soldiers were engaged in pitched battle with Imperial Order
cavalry. Men shouted in fury as they threw themselves into battle; some
screamed as they were wounded or killed; others called out orders,
commanding a defense, while the men on horseback ordered in their attack.
Some of the cavalry were setting fire to wagons, tents, and supplies.
Others charged past, trampling men and tents. Pairs of riders teamed up to
single out soldiers and take them down, then charged after another victim.
They were using the same tactics the D'Harans had used. They were doing
what Kahlan had taught them to do.
When a soldier, draped in filthy fur and weapons, cried out in bravado
as he rushed at her wielding a raised mace studded with glistening bloody
spikes, Kahlan took his hand off with a lightning-swift blow. He staggered
to a stop and stared a her in surprise. Without missing a beat, she drove
her sword into his gut and gave it a wrenching twist before pulling it free.
She turned her attention elsewhere as he crashed down atop a fire. His
screams melted in with all the others.
Kahlan fell to her knees once more to help General Meiffert free Cara.
He had found her amid the snare of rope and folds of canvas. From time to
time one of them had to turn to fight off sporadic attackers. Kahlan could
see Cara's red boots sticking out from under the canvas, but they were
still.
Tent line was tangled around Cara's legs. With Kahlan and the general
working together, they cut through the mire of rope and were finally able to
unroll Cara. She held her head as she moaned. She wasn't unconscious, but
she was groggy and unable to get her bearings. Kahlan found a lump in her
hair, at the right side of her head, but it wasn't bleeding.
Cara tried to sit up. Kahlan pressed her down on her back.
"Stay there. You were hit on the head. I don't want you to get up just
yet."
Kahlan looked over her shoulder and saw Verna, nearby, singling out
Imperial Order troops, each twitch of her hands casting a fiery spell to
blast them from their horses, or a focused edge of air as sharp as any
blade, yet more swift and sure, to slice them down. Without the gift
themselves, or one of the gifted to protect them, the enemy's simple armor
was no defense.
Kahlan caught Verna's attention and motioned for her help. Seizing the
woman's cloak at her shoulder, Kahlan pulled Verna close to speak into her
ear so as to be heard above the noise of battle.
"See how she is, will you? Help her?"
Verna nodded and then huddled at Cara's side as Kahlan and the general
turned to a fresh charge of cavalry. As one man galloped in close, wielding
his lance around, General Meiffert dodged the strike and then leaped up onto
the side of the horse, catching hold of the saddle's horn. With a grunt of
angry effort, he drove his sword through the rider. The surprised man clawed
at the blade in his soft middle. The general yanked his sword free, then
grabbed the man by the hair and dragged him out of the saddle. As the dying
man fell away, General Meiffert sprang up into the saddle, in his place.
Kahlan snatched up the fallen cavalryman's lance.
The big D'Haran general wheeled the huge horse into the way of charging
enemy cavalry, protecting Verna and Cara. Kahlan sheathed her sword and used
the lance to good effect against the warhorses. Horses, even well-trained
warhorses, didn't appreciate being stabbed in the chest. Many people
considered them just dumb beasts, but horses were smart enough to understand
that driving themselves onto a pointed lance was not what they wanted to do,
and reacted accordingly.
As horses bucked and reared when Kahlan stabbed them with her lance,
many of their riders fell. Some were injured from the fall onto scattered
equipment or the frozen ground, but most came under the swarming attack of
the D'Harans.
From atop his Imperial Order warhorse, General Meiffert commanded his
men to form a defensive line. After directing them into place, he charged
off, roaring a string of orders as he went. He didn't tell his men who to
protect, so as not to betray Kahlan to the enemy, but they quickly saw what
it was he intended them to do. D'Harans grabbed up the enemy lances, or came
running with their own pikes, and soon there was a bristling line of
steel-tipped pole weapons presenting a deadly obstacle to any approaching
cavalry.
Kahlan called out orders to men on either side, and, as she joined the
line, commanded them into position to block an Imperial Order cavalry unit
of about two hundred who were trying to make good their escape. The enemy
might have been emulating the raids the D'Haran cavalry had made on the
Imperial Order's camp, but Kahlan wasn't about to allow them to succeed at
it. She intended them to fail.
The enemy's horses balked when they encountered a solid line of
advancing pikes brandished by men shouting battle cries. Soldiers coming
from behind the Order cavalry rained down arrows. D'Harans dragged trapped
riders from their saddles, down into the bloody hand-to-hand fighting on the
ground.
"I don't want one of them escaping camp alive!" she yelled to her men.
"No mercy!"
"No mercy!" every D'Haran within earshot called out in answer.
The enemy, so confident and arrogant as they had charged in, relishing
the prospect of spilling D' Haran blood, were now nothing more than pathetic
men in the ungainly grip of despair as the D'Harans hacked them to death.
Kahlan left the soldiers with the lances and pikes, now that a
defensive line had been established and the enemy was trapped, and ran back
through the fires and choking smoke to find Verna, Adie, and Cara. She had
to dodge wounded soldiers of both armies on the ground. The fallen attackers
who still had fight in them snatched at her ankles. She had to stab several
who tried to rise up to grab her. Others afoot who suddenly appeared, she
had to cut down.
The enemy knew who she was, or at least they were pretty sure. Jagang
had seen her, and no doubt had described the Mother Confessor to his men.
Kahlan was sure to have a heavy price on her head.
There seemed to be Imperial Order men scattered throughout the camp.
She doubted there had been an attack by foot soldiers; they were probably
cavalrymen who had lost their mounts. Horses were often easier moving
targets to hit with arrows and spears than were men. In the gathering
darkness it was hard to make out enemy soldiers. They were able to sneak
through the camp undiscovered as they hunted targets of value, such as
officers, or maybe even the Mother Confessor.
When the lurking enemy spotted Kahlan making her way through the chaos,
they came out from their hiding places to go after her with wild abandon.
Others, she came upon and surprised. Remembering not only her father's
training, but Richard's admonition, Kahlan cut fiercely into the enemy
soldiers. She gave them no opening; no chance; no mercy.
Her training under her father had been a good foundation for the
esoteric tactical precepts that Richard had taught her when she was
recovering from her wounds back in Hartland. Richard's way had seemed so
strange, then; now, it seemed so natural. In much the same way a lighter
horse could outmaneuver a big warhorse, her lighter weight became her edge.
She didn't need the weight because she simply didn't clash with the enemy in
the traditional manner, as they expected. She was a hummingbird, floating
out of their reach, swooping in between their ponderous moves to efficiently
deliver death.
Such moves were not at odds with the manner of fighting that her father
had taught, but complemented it in a way that fit her. Richard had trained
her not with a sword, but with a willow switch, a mischievous smile, and a
dangerous glint in his eyes. Now, Richard's sword, strapped over the back of
her shoulder, was an everpresent reminder of those playful lessons that had
been not only unrelenting, but deadly serious.
She finally found Verna, bent over Cara, but didn't see the general
anywhere. Kahlan snatched Verna's sleeve.
"How is she?"
"She threw up, but that seemed to have helped, once it passed. She will
probably be woozy for a while, but I think she's otherwise all right."
I "She has a thick skull," Adie said. "It not be cracked, but she
should lie still for
a time-at least until she recovers her balance."
Cara's hands groped as if having trouble finding the ground beneath
her. Despite
her obvious dizziness, she was cursing the Prelate and trying to sit
up. Kahlan, squatting beside Cara, pressed her shoulder to the ground.
"Cara, I'm right here. I'm fine. Lie still for a few minutes."
"I want at them!"
"Later," Kahlan said. "Don't worry, you'll get your chance." She saw
that the blood was cleaned from Adie's head. "Adie, how are you? How is your
head?"
The old sorceress gestured dismissively. "Bah. I be fine. My head be
thicker than Cara's."
Soldiers had gathered, forming a protective wall of steel. Verna, Adie,
and Kahlan crouched over Cara, keeping an eye on the surrounding area, but
the fighting immediately around them seemed to have ended. Even if pockets
of battle remained, with the large number of D'Haran soldiers who had
protectively closed ranks, the four women were safe for the time being.
General Meiffert finally returned, charging through the line of D'Haran
defenders as they parted for him. He leaped from his enemy warhorse. The
horse tossed his head at the indignity of being ridden by the enemy, and ran
off. The young D'Haran general crouched down on the opposite side of Cara.
Winded, he started talking anyway.
"I've been down checking with the front lines. This is a raid, much
like what we've been doing to them. It looked bigger than it really was.
When they spotted the Mother Confessor, they called their men into this
area, so the damage was mostly focused in this section."
"Why didn't we know?" Kahlan asked. "What went wrong with the alarm?"
"Not sure." He was shaking his head, still getting his breath. "Zedd
thinks that they learned our codes, and that when we blew the alarm, they
must have used Subtractive Magic to alter the magic woven into the sound
that tells our gifted that it's a real attack."
Kahlan let out an angry breath. It was all starting to make sense to
her. "That's why there have been so many false alarms. They were numbing us
to them so that when they attacked, we would be unconcerned, falsely
believing our own alarms were just another enemy false alarm."
"I'm guessing you're right." He flexed his fist in frustration. He
looked down then and noticed Cara scowling up at him. "Cara. Are you all
right? I was so-I mean, we thought you might be badly hurt."
"No," she said, casting a cool glare at Verna and Kahlan, each of whom
used a hand to hold her shoulders down. She casually crossed her ankles. "I
just thought you could handle it, so I decided to take a nap."
General Meiffert gave her a quick smile and then turned a serious face
to Kahlan.
"It gets worse. This cavalry attack was a diversion. They hoped it
might get you, I'm sure, but it was meant to make us believe it was just a
raid."
Kahlan felt her flesh go cold with dread. "They're coming, aren't
they?"
He nodded. "The entire force. They're still a distance out, but you're
right, they're coming. This was just to throw us into confusion and keep us
distracted."
Kahlan stared, dumbfounded. The Order had never attacked at sunset
before. The prospect of the onslaught of hundreds of thousands upon hundreds
of thousands of Imperial Order troops storming in from the darkness was
bloodcurdling.
"They've changed their tactics," Kahlan whispered to herself. "He's a
quick study. I thought I'd tricked him, but I was the one who was taken in."
"What are you mumbling about?" Cara asked, her fingers locked together
over her stomach.
"Jagang. He counted on me not being fooled by those troops going around
in a circle. He wanted me to think I had outsmarted him. He played me for a
fool."
Cara made a face. "What?"
Kahlan felt sick at the implications. She pressed a hand to her
forehead as the awful truth inundated her.
"Jagang wanted me to think I had his scheme figured out, so we would
pretend to play along and send out our troops. He probably figured they
wouldn't be sent after his decoy, but would be used instead against his real
plan of attack. He didn't care about that, though. All along, he was
planning on changing his tactics. He was waiting only until those troops
left so that he could attack before they were in place and while our numbers
were reduced."
"You mean," Cara asked, "that whole time you were talking to him,
pretending to believe he was moving troops north, he knew you were
pretending?"
"I'm afraid so. He outsmarted me."
"Maybe, maybe not," General Meiffert said. "He hasn't succeeded, yet.
We don't have to let him have it his way. We can move our forces before he
can pounce."
"Can't we call back the men we sent out?" Verna asked. "Their numbers
would help."
"They're hours away," General Meiffert said, "traveling through back
country on the way to their assigned locations. They would never get back
here in time to help us tonight."
Rather than dwell on how gullible she had been, Kahlan put her mind to
the immediate problem. "We need to move fast."
The general nodded his agreement. "We could fall back on our other
plansabout breaking up and scattering into the mountains."
He ran his fingers back through his blond hair. The gesture of
frustration unexpectedly reminded Kahlan of Richard. "But if we do that, we
would have to abandon most of our supplies. In winter, without supplies, a
number of our men wouldn't last long. Either way, killed in battle or dying
of hunger and cold-you're just as dead."
"Broken up like that, we would be easy pickings," Kahlan agreed.
"That's a last resort. It may work later, but not now. For now, we need to
keep the army together if we're to survive the winter-and if we're to keep
the Order distracted from its designs at conquest."
"We dare not allow them to go uncontested into a city. It would not
only be a bloodbath, but if they picked the right city, we would face a near
impossible task of dislodging them." The general shook his head. "It could
end up being the end of our hopes of driving them back to the Old World."
Kahlan gestured over her shoulder. "What about that valley we talked
about, back there? The high pass is narrow-it can be defended on this side
by two men and a dog, if need be."
"That's what I was thinking," he said. "It keeps the army together-and
keeps the Order having to contend with us, rather than being able to turn
their attention on any cities. If they try to move around us up into the
Midlands, there are easy northern routes out of the valley from which we can
strike. We have more men on
the way, and we can send for others; we need to stay together and
maintain our engagement with the Order's army until those forces arrive."
"Then what are we waiting for?" Verna asked. "Let's get moving."
He gave her a worried look. "The problem right now is that if we're to
make it into that valley before the Order can pounce on us, we're going to
need more time to do it. The pass is too narrow for wagons. The horses can
make it, but not the wagons-they'll have to be dismantled. Most of our
equipment is designed to be knocked down so the parts can be portaged, if
need be. We'll have to leave a few that aren't. It won't take long to get
started, but we're going to need time to funnel all the men and supplies
over that narrow pass-especially in the dark."
"Torches will work well enough with a steady line of men," Adie said.
"They must only follow the one in front, and even if the fight be bad, they
can do it."
Kahlan remembered the handprint made of glowing dust. "The gifted could
lay down a glowing track to guide the men."
"That would help," the general said. "We're still left with our basic
problem, though. While our men are trying to break down and move all our
equipment and supplies, and waiting their turn to go over the pass, the
Order will arrive. We'll find ourselves in a pitched battle trying to defend
ourselves while withdrawing at the same time. A withdrawal requires the
ability to move faster than the enemy, or at least keep him at bay while
pulling back; the pass doesn't provide that."
"We've kept ahead of them before," Verna said. "This isn't the first
attack."
"You're right." He pointed to his left. "We could try to withdraw up
this valley, instead, but in the dark and with the Order attacking, I think
that would be a mistake. Darkness is the problem, this time. They're going
to keep coming. In daylight, we could establish defenses and hold them
off-not at night."
"We already have defenses set up, here," Cara said. "We could stand
where we are and fight them head-on."
General Meiffert chewed his lower lip. "That was my first thought,
Cara, and still an option, but I don't like our chances in a head-on, direct
confrontation like this, not at night when they can sneak great numbers of
men in close. We couldn't use our archers to advantage in the dark. We can't
see their numbers or movements accurately, so we wouldn't be able to
position our men properly. It's a problem of numbers: theirs are almost
unlimited, ours aren't.
"We don't have enough gifted to cover every possibility-and in war it's
always what you don't cover that gets hit. The enemy could pour through a
gap, get in behind us in the dark, without us even realizing it, and then
we're finished."
Everyone was silent as the implications truly sank in.
"I agree," Kahlan said. "The pass is the only chance we have to keep
from losing a major battle tonight-along with a huge number of our men. The
risk without real benefit of standing and fighting is a poor choice."
The general appraised her eyes. "That still leaves us with the problem
of how we're going to get over that pass before they annihilate us."
Kahlan turned to Verna. "We need you to slow the enemy down to give us
the time we need to get our army over that pass."
"What do you wish me to do?"
"Use your special glass."
The general screwed up his face. "Her what?"
"A weapon of magic," Cara said. "To blind the enemy troops."
Verna looked thunderstruck. "But I'm not ready. We only made up a small
batch. I'm not ready."
Kahlan turned back to the general. "What did the scouts say about how
much time we have until the Order is upon us?"
"The Order could be here within an hour, at the soonest, two at the
latest. If we don't slow them down, we'll never make it out of this valley
with our men and supplies. If we can't find a way to delay them, we can only
run for the hills, or stand and fight. Neither is a choice I would make
except in desperation."
"If we just run for the hills," Adie said, "we be as good as dead.
Together, we be alive and at least be a threat to the enemy. If we scatter,
the Order will take the opportunity to attack and capture cities. If our
only choice is to scatter, or stand our ground and fight, then we can only
choose to stand and fight. Better to try, than to die one at a time out in
the mountains."
Kahlan rubbed her fingers across her brow as she tried to think. Jagang
had changed his tactics and decided to engage them in a night battle. He had
never done that before because it would be so costly for him, but with his
numbers, he apparently wasn't concerned about that. Jagang held life in
little regard.
"If we have to fight him, in a full battle, here, now," Kahlan said in
resignation, "we will probably lose the war by dawn."
"I agree," the general finally said. "As far as I see it, we have no
choice. We have to act quickly and get as many of our men over the pass as
we can. We'll lose all those who don't get over before the Order arrives,
but we'll manage to preserve some."
The four of them were silent a moment, each considering the horror of
that reality, of who would remain behind to die. Furious activity continued
around them. Men were rushing around, putting out fires, collecting panicked
horses, tending to wounded, and battling the few remaining invaders they had
trapped. The Order soldiers were greatly outnumbered. Not for long, though.
Kahlan's mind raced. She couldn't help being furious with herself at
being gulled. Richard's words echoed through her mind: think of the
solution, not the problem. The solution was the only thing that mattered
now.
Kahlan looked again to Verna. "We have an hour before they're upon us.
You have to try, Verna. Do you think you have any chance at making your
special glass and then deploying it before the enemy is upon us?"
"I will do my best-you have my word on that. I wish I could promise
more." Verna scrambled to her feet. "I'll need the Sisters who are tending
the wounded, of course. What about the ones working at the front lines? The
ones countering enemy magic? Can I have any of them?"
"Take them all," Kahlan said. "If this doesn't work, nothing else is
going to matter."
"I'll take them all, then. Every one," Verna said. "It's the only
chance we have."
"You get started," Adie told Verna. "Go down near the front lines, on
this side of the valley where you will be upwind from the attack. I will
begin collecting the Sisters and get them down there to help you."
"We need glass," Verna said to the general. "Any kind. At least a few
barrels full."
"I'll have men down there with the first barrel right away. Can we at
least help to break it up for you?"
"No. It won't matter if what you throw in the barrels breaks, but
beyond that, it must be done by the gifted. Just bring whatever glass you
can collect, that will be all you can do."
The general promised her he would see to it. Holding her hem up out of
her way, Verna ran off to the task. Adie was close on her heels.
"I'll get the men moving now," the general told Kahlan as he scrambled
to his feet. "The scouts can mark the trail; then we can start moving the
heavier supplies first."
If it worked, they would slip out of Jagang's grasp.
Kahlan knew that if Verna failed, they could all very well lose their
lives, and the war, by morning. General Meiffert paused with one last
hesitant look, one last chance for her to change her mind.
"Do it," she said to the general. "Cara-we have work."
Kahlan pulled her horse up short. She felt the heat of blood rushing to
her face. "What are you doing?" Cara asked as Kahlan threw her leg over the
horse's neck and leaped to the ground.
The moon lit a layer of lacy clouds scudding past, giving a faint,
serene illumination to the surrounding countryside. The thin layer of snow
gathered the muted light of the moon to make it more luminous than it
otherwise would be.
Kahlan pointed in the direction of the small figure she could just make
out in the dim light. The skinny girl, surely not much past ten years, was
standing at a barrel, ramming a metal rod down inside to smash the glass in
the bottom. Kahlan handed the reins to Cara as soon as she had dismounted.
Kahlan stalked over to the Sisters working on the snowy ground. Running
off in a haphazard line, to keep the wind at their backs, were over a
hundred of the women, all focused intently on the work before them. Many had
their cloaks tented around themselves and their work.
Not far down that line, Kahlan bent, put a hand under the Prelate's
arm, and lifted her to her feet. Mindful of the serious nature of the work
going on, Kahlan at least kept her voice quiet, since she wasn't able to
make it congenial.
"Verna, what is Holly doing down here?"
Verna glanced over the heads of a dozen intervening Sisters kneeling
before a long board, breeze at their backs, carefully griding glass chips
with pestles in mortars. There being not nearly enough pestles and mortars,
many of the women to the other side were using dished rocks and round stones
to carefully crunch the glass chips. The concentration showed on each
woman's face. The accident that had blinded a Sister had happened when the
wind had changed, and a gust had blown her work back up in her face. The
same thing could happen again at any time, although, as darkness had settled
in, the wind had at least died down to a steady breeze.
Holly was bundled in an oversized cloak. She had a determined grimace
as she lifted the rod and then let it drop down in the barrel set away from
the Sisters' dangerous work. Kahlan saw that the rod had a faint greenish
glow to it.
"She's helping, Mother Confessor."
"She's a child!"
Verna pointed off into the darkness, to what Kahlan hadn't seen. "So
are Helen and Valery."
Kahlan pinched the bridge of her nose between her first finger and
thumb and took a purging breath. "What madness would possess you to have
children down here near the front helping to-to blind people?"
Verna glanced at the women working nearby. She took Kahlan's arm by the
elbow and led her out of earshot of the others. Alone, where they were less
likely
to be heard, she folded her hands before herself as she assumed the
stern visage that came so naturally to her.
"Kahlan, Holly may be a child, but she is a gifted child, and she is
far from stupid besides. That goes for Helen and Valery as well. Holly has
seen more in her young life than any child should see. She knows what's
going on tonight, with that attack, and with the attack that's coming. She
was terrified-all the children were."
"So you bring her to the front-to the greatest danger?"
"What would you have me do? Send her back somewhere to be watched over
by soldiers? Do you wish me to force her to be alone at a time like this so
she could only tremble in terror?"
"But this is-"
"She's gifted. Despite how horrific it seems, this is better for her,
as it is for the others. She's with the Sisters, who understand her and her
ability as other people can't. Don't you recall the comfort you derived from
being with older Confessors who knew the way you felt about things?"
Kahlan did, but said nothing.
"The Sisters are the only family she and the other novices have, now.
Holly is not alone and afraid. She may still be afraid, but she's doing
something to help us, so that her fear is channeled into something that will
assist in overcoming the cause of her fear."
Kahlan's brow was still set in a glare. "Verna, she's a child."
"And you had to kill a child today. I understand. But don't let that
terrible event make it harder on Holly. Yes, this is an awful thing she is
helping to do, but this is the reality of the way things are. She could die
tonight, along with the rest of us. Can you even imagine what those brutes
would do to her, first? At least that much is beyond the imagination of her
young mind. What she can comprehend, though, is fear enough.
"If she wanted to hide somewhere, I would have let her, but she has a
right-if she so chooses-to contribute to saving herself. She is gifted and
can use her power to do the simple part of what needs doing. She begged me
to give her the chance to help."
In anguish, Kahlan gathered her fur mantle at her throat as she glanced
back over her shoulder at the little girl using both her spindly arms to
lift the heavy steel rod and drop it again to break the glass in the bottom
of the barrel. Holly's features were drawn tight as she concentrated on
using her gift while at the same time lifting the weight of the rod.
"Dear spirits," Kahlan whispered to herself, "this is madness."
Cara impatiently shifted her weight to her other foot. It wasn't
indifference to the situation, but a matter of priorities. Madness or not,
there was little tine left, and, as Verna said, they could all die before
the night was finished. As cruel as it sounded, there were more important
matters than the life of one child, or, for that matter, three.
"How is the work going? Are you going to be ready?"
Verna's bold expression finally faltered. "I don't know." She lifted a
hand hesitantly, motioning out over the dark valley before them. "The wind
is right, but the valley approach to our forces is quite broad. It's not
that we won't have some, it's that we need to have enough so that when the
enemy gets close, we can release the glass dust to float across the span of
the entire field of battle."
"But you have some. Surely, what you have will do damage to the enemy."
"If there isn't enough, then they may skirt it, or it may not be
concentrated enough to do the damage necessary to bring their forces to a
halt. Their attack will not be turned back by a small number of casualties."
Verna squeezed one fist in her other hand. "If the Creator will just slow
the Imperial Order enough to grant us another hour, at the least, then I
believe we may have enough."
Kahlan wiped a hand across her face. That was asking a lot, but with
the darkness, she thought that it just might be possible that the Order
would have to go slow enough to give Verna and her Sisters the time they
needed.
"And you're sure we can't help? There is nothing any but the gifted can
do to assist you?"
Verna's mask of authority again emerged in the moonlight.
"Well, yes, there is one thing."
"What is it, then?"
"You could leave me alone so I can work."
Kahlan sighed. "Just promise me one thing." Verna raised an eyebrow as
if willing to listen prudently. "When the attack comes, and you have to use
this special glass, get the children out of here first? Get them to the
rear, where they can be taken over the pass to safety."
Verna smiled with relief. "We are of like minds in that, Mother
Confessor."
As Verna hurried back to her work, Kahlan and Cara returned along the
line of Sisters, past the end to where Holly was preparing glass to supply
those gifted women. Kahlan couldn't help but to stop for a word.
"Holly, how are you getting along?"
When the girl rested the rod against the side of the barrel, Cara,
absent any fondness for magic, aimed a suspicious frown at the faintly
glowing metal. As Holly took her small hands from the metal, the greenish
glow faded, as if a magical wick had been turned down.
"I'm fine, Mother Confessor. Except I'm cold. I'm getting terribly
tired of being cold."
Kahlan smiled warmly as she ran a gentle hand down the back of Holly's
fine hair. "As are we all." Kahlan crouched down beside the girl. "When we
get over into another valley, you can get warm by a nice fire."
"That would be splendid." She cast a furtive glance at her steel rod.
"I have to get back to work, Mother Confessor."
Kahlan couldn't resist pulling the girl close and kissing her frigid
cheek. Hesitant at first, the thin little arms surrendered to desperately
encircle Kahlan's neck.
"I'm so scared," Holly whispered.
"Me too," Kahlan whispered back as she squeezed the girl tight. "Me
too."
Holly straightened. "Really? You get scared, too, that those awful men
will murder us?"
Kahlan nodded. "I get frightened, but I know we have a lot of good
people who will keep us safe. Like you, they work as hard as they can so
that we can all someday be safe, and not have to be scared anymore."
The girl stuck her hands under her cloak to warm them. Her gaze sank to
the ground at her feet. "I miss Ann, too." She looked up again. "Is Ann
safe?"
Kahlan groped for words of comfort. "I saw Ann not long ago, and she
was fine. I don't think you need worry for her."
"She saved me. I love her and miss her so. Will she be with us, soon?"
Kahlan cupped the girl's cheek. "I don't know, Holly. She had important
business she was taking care of. I'm sure, though, that we'll see her
again."
Pleased with that news and seemingly relieved to know that she was not
alone in her fears, Holly turned back to her work with renewed
determination.
As Kahlan and Cara collected their horses, they heard a horse
approaching at a gallop. Before she recognized the rider, Kahlan saw and
recognized the black splotch on its rump. When he saw her waving, Zedd
trotted Spider around to her. He slid down off the animal's bare back.
"They're coming," the wizard announced without preamble.
--]----
Verna rushed up, having seen Zedd ride in. "It's too soon! They weren't
supposed to be here this soon!"
He gaped at her in astonishment. "Bags, woman, shall I tell them that
it would be rather inconvenient for them to attack right now and to please
come back to kill us later?"
"You know what I mean," she snapped. "We don't have enough, yet."
"How long till they get here?" Kahlan asked.
"Ten minutes."
That thin sliver of time was the only bulwark between them and
catastrophe. Kahlan felt as if her heart rose into her throat, recalling
suddenly the forsaken feeling of being mobbed and beaten to death. Verna
sputtered in wordless frustration, anger, and dread.
"Do you have any ready?" Zedd asked as calmly as if he were inquiring
about dinner.
"Yes, of course," she said. "But if they will be here that soon, we've
not enough. Dear Creator, we don't have nearly what we'll need in order to
drift it out all across the front. Too little is as good as none."
"We've no choice, now." Zedd gazed off into the darkness, perhaps
seeing what only a wizard could see. His jaw was set in bitter
disappointment. He spoke in a disembodied voice, a man going through the
motions when he knew he had come to the end of his options, perhaps even his
faith. "Start releasing what you have. We'll just have to hope for the best.
I have messengers with me; I'll send word of the situation back to General
Meiffert. He will need to know."-
To see Zedd seemly relinquish hope cast their fate in the most
frightening light possible. Zedd was always the one who kept them focused
and gave them courage, conviction, and confidence. He gathered up Spider's
reins in one hand and gripped her mane with the other.
"Wait," Kahlan said.
He paused and looked back at her. His eyes were a window into an inner
weariness. She couldn't imagine all the struggles he had faced in his life,
or even in the last few weeks. Kahlan ran through seemingly a thousand
thoughts as she searched frantically for some way of turning away their grim
fate.
Kahlan couldn't let Zedd down. He had so often carried them; now he
needed another shoulder to help endure the weight. She presented him a look
of fierce determination before she turned to the Prelate.
"Verna, what if we didn't release it in the way we planned? What if we
didn't simply let it drift out, hoping for the breeze to. carry it where we
need it?"
Verna opened her hands in a bewildered gesture. "What do you mean?"
"Won't it take more of the glass-the amount you say you need-simply so
that there is enough to let it drift all the way across the valley, and yet
have enough to hang in the air, too?"
"Well . . . yes, of course, but-"
"What if," Kahlan asked, "we released it in a line along the face of
the front? Right where it was needed. Then it would take less, wouldn't it?"
"Well I suppose." Verna threw up her hands. "But I told you, we can't
use magic to help us or they will detect our conjuring and then they will
shield for the glass as fast as we release it. It will be useless. Better to
release what we have and hope for the best."
Kahlan glanced out over the empty plain faintly lit by the placid
clouds veiling the moon. There was nothing to be seen out in the valley.
Soon, there would be. Soon, the virgin snow would be trampled by the boots
of over a million men.
Only the sound of glass being crushed on stone and the thump of the
steel rods in the barrels disturbed the quiet darkness. Soon, bloodcurdling
battle cries would inundate the hush of the night.
Kahlan felt the suffocating dread she had felt when she first realized
that all those men had caught her alone. She felt the anger, too.
"Collect what you've made so far," she said. "Let me have it."
They all stared at her.
Zedd's brow drew together in a wrinkled knot. "Just what are you
thinking?"
Kahlan pulled her hair back from her face as she rapidly pieced
together her plan, so that it was whole in her own mind, first.
"The enemy is attacking into the wind-not directly, but close enough
for our purpose. I'm thinking that if I ride along the front of our line,
right in front of the advancing enemy troops, and I release the glass dust,
letting it dribble out as I go, then it will flow out in the wind behind me,
right into the faces of the enemy. Delivering it right where it's needed, it
won't take as much as it would were we to let it drift out from here hoping
to spread it all across the valley." She looked from one startled face to
another. "Do you see what I'm saying? Closer to the enemy, wouldn't it take
much less to do the job?"
"Dear Creator," Verna protested, "do you have any idea how dangerous
that would be?"
"Yes," Kahlan answered in grim resolve. "A lot less dangerous than
facing a direct attack by their entire force. Now, would that work? Wouldn't
it take considerably less if I were to ride along the front, trickling it
out as I went, than letting it drift out to them from here? Well? We're
running out of time."
"You're right-it wouldn't take nearly as much." Verna touched her lip
as she stared off into the darkness while considering. "It's better than the
way we were going to do it, that much is sure."
Kahlan started pushing her. "Get it together. Now. Hurry."
Verna abandoned her protests and ran off to collect what they had. Cara
was about to unleash a tirade of objections when Zedd lifted a hand as if to
ask she let him do the objecting, instead.
"Kahlan, it sounds like you might have something here, but someone else
can do this. It's foolish to risk-"
"I'll be needing a diversion," she said, cutting him off. "Something to
distract their attention. I'll be riding by in the dark, so they probably
won't notice me, but it would be best if there were something to occupy
their attention, just in case, something to make them look elsewhere-for the
last time."
"As I was saying, someone else can-"
"No," she said in quiet finality. "I'll not ask someone else to do
this. It was my idea. I'm doing it. I won't allow someone to take my place."
Kahlan deemed herself responsible for the peril they were in. It was
she who had blundered and fallen for Jagang's trick. It was she who had come
up with the plan and ordered the troops out. It was she who made Jagang's
night attack possible.
Kahlan knew all too well the terror everyone felt, waiting for the
attack. She felt it herself. She thought of Holly, fearful of being murdered
by the marauding beasts coming out of the night for her. The fear was all
too real.
It would be Kahlan who had lost the war for them, this very night, if
they didn't get their army back across that pass to safety.
"I'm doing this myself," she repeated. "That's the way it's going to
be. Standing here arguing about it can only cost us our chance. Now, I need
a diversion, and I need one quickly."
Zedd let out an angry breath. The fire was back in his eyes. He flicked
out his hand, pointing. "Warren is back there waiting for me. The two of us
will move to separate locations and give you your diversion."
"What will you do?"
At last, Zedd surrendered to a grim, cunning grin. "Nothing fancy, this
time. No clever devious tricks, like they no doubt expect. This time, we'll
give them a good old-fashioned firefight."
Kahlan gave a sharp tug to the strap at her ribs holding her leather
armor on her shoulders, chest, and back, cinching it down tight. She nodded
once to seal the pact.
"Wizard's fire it is, then."
"Keep an eye to your right, to our side, as you ride. I don't want you
to get in the way of what I mean for the enemy. You must also watch for what
their gifted send back at me."
As she secured her cloak, she nodded assent to Zedd's brief
instructions. She checked the straps on her leg armor, making sure they were
tight, remembering how the enemy's strong fingers had clawed at her legs,
trying to unhorse her.
Verna came-rushing back, a big bucket at the end of each arm pulled
down straight by the weight. Some of the Sisters were scurrying along beside
her.
"All right," the winded Prelate said. "Let's go."
Kahlan reached for the buckets. "I'll take-"
Verna yanked them back. "How do you propose to ride and sprinkle this
out? It's too much. Besides, you don't know its properties."
:'Verna, I'm not letting you-"
"Stop acting like an obstinate child. Let's go."
Cara snatched one of the buckets. "Verna is right, Mother Confessor.
You can't hold on to your horse, release the glass dust, and carry both
buckets all at the same time. You two take that one, I'll take this one."
The willowy Sister Philippa rushed to Cara's side and lifted the
bucket. "Mistress Cara is right, Prelate. You and the Mother Confessor can't
do both buckets. You two take one; Mistress Cara and I will take the other."
There was no time to argue with the three determined women. Kahlan knew
that
no one would be able to talk her out of what she had to do, and they
probably felt the same. Besides, they had a valid point.
"All right," Kahlan said as she pulled on her gloves.
She lashed tight the fur mantle she wore over the top of the wool
cloak. She didn't want anything flapping in the wind. The hilt of her sword
was covered, but she figured she wouldn't be needing it. The hilt of
Richard's sword stuck up behind her shoulder, her ever-present reminder of
him-as if she needed one. She quickly tied her hair back with a leather
thong.
Verna tossed a handful of the fluffy snow, checking the wind. It had
held its direction and was light, but steady. At least that much was in
their favor.
"You two go first," Kahlan said to Cara. "Verna and I will wait maybe
five minutes to let what you release drift in toward the enemy, so that we
won't ride through it. Then, we'll follow you across the valley. That way
we'll be sure to overlap what you release with ours so as not to have any
gaps. We need to make sure there's no safe place for the Order to get
through. We need the ruin and panic to be as uniform and widespread as
possible."
Sister Philippa, noting what Kahlan had done, fastened her cloak
securely at her neck and waist. "That makes sense."
"It would be more effective doubled like that," Verna agreed.
"I guess there's no time to argue this foolishness," Zedd grumbled as
he seized Spider's mane and pulled himself up, laying across the horse's
back on his belly. He swung a leg over Spider's rump and sat up. "Let me
have a minute or two to get ahead of you and let Warren know, then we'll
start showing the Imperial Order some real wizard work."
He pulled his horse around and smiled. It was heartening to see it
again.
"After all this work, someone had better have some dinner waiting for
me on the other side of that pass back there."
"If I have to cook it for you myself," Kahlan promised.
The wizard gave them a jaunty wave and galloped off into the darkness.
Kahlan stuffed a boot in the stirrup, grabbed the saddle horn, and
sprang up into her seat. The cold leather creaked as she leaned over and
held a hand down in order to help Verna up. Once the Prelate squirmed in
close behind Kahlan, two Sisters carefully handed the heavy wooden bucket up
to her. Cara and Sister Philippa were on their horse and ready, the Sister
balancing her bucket on her thigh.
"Get the children back across the pass," Verna ordered.
Sister Dulcinia bobbed her head of gray hair. "I will see to it,
Prelate."
"Whatever more of the glass you can have ready by the time the Mother
Confessor and I ride out, you should release into the wind for good measure,
then get yourselves spread out behind our lines to help if the Order breaks
through. If we fail, the Sisters must do their best to hold the enemy off
while as many as possible make it across the pass to safety."
Sister Dulcinia again promised to carry out the Prelate's orders.
They all waited a few minutes in silence while giving Zedd the head
start he needed to reach Warren with instructions. There seemed nothing else
to say. Kahlan concentrated on what she had to do, rather than worrying
whether or not it would work. In the back of her mind, though, she was aware
of how notoriously imperfect were such last-minute battle plans.
Judging that they had waited as long as they dared, Kahlan motioned
with her arm, signaling Cara to start out. The two of them shared a last
look. Cara offered a brief smile, good luck-then raced away, Sister Philippa
holding tight to the MordSith's waist with one arm and balancing the bucket
on her thigh with the help of her other hand.
As the sound of hoofbeats from Cara's horse faded into the night,
Kahlan for the first time realized that, in the distance, she could hear the
collective yells of hundreds of thousands of Imperial Order troops. The
countless voices fused into one continuous roar as their attack drew ever
closer. It almost sounded like the moan of an ill wind through a canyon's
rocky fangs. Her horse snorted and pawed the frozen ground. The awful drone
made Kahlan's pulse race even faster. She wanted to race away, before the
men got too close, but she had to wait, to give the glass dust Cara and
Sister Philippa released time to drift out of the way.
"I wish we could use magic to protect ourselves," Verna said in a quiet
voice, almost as if in answer to what Kahlan was thinking. "We can't, of
course, or they would detect it."
Kahlan nodded, hardly hearing the woman. Verna was just saying anything
that came to mind so as not to have to sit and listen to the enemy coming
for them.
The bitter cold long forgotten, her heartbeat throbbing in her ears,
Kahlan sat still as death, staring out into the empty night, trying to
envision every aspect of the
task at hand, trying to go through it all in her mind first, so she
wouldn't be surprised by anything that might happen and then have to decide
what to do. Better to anticipate, if you could, than to react.
As she quietly sat her horse, she let her anger build, too. Anger made
a better warrior than fear.
Kahlan fed that anger with images of all the terrible things she had
seen the Imperial Order do to the people of the Midlands. She let the
memories of all the bodies she had seen pass through her mind, as if they
came before the Mother Confessor to plead with stilled tongues for
vengeance. She remembered the women she had seen wailing over murdered
children, husbands, sisters, brothers, mothers and fathers. She remembered
strong men in helpless anguish over the senseless slaughter of their friends
and loved ones. In her mind's eye, she saw those men, women, and children
suffering at the hands of a people to whom they had done no harm.
The Imperial Order was but a gang of killers without empathy. They
merited no pity; they would get none.
She thought about Richard in the hands of that enemy. She savored her
promise to kill every one of them if she had to until she got Richard back.
"It's time," Kahlan said through gritted teeth. Without looking back
over her shoulder, she asked, "Are you ready?"
"Ready. Don't slow for anything, or we will end up its victims, too.
Our only chance is to keep fresh air streaming over us to carry the glass
dust all away from our bodies. When we get to the opposite side, after I've
dumped it all, then we'll be safe. By that time, the Order should be in a
state of mass confusion, if not complete panic."
Kahlan nodded. "Hold tight. Here we go."
The horse, already in an excited state, probably from the approaching
cries, sprang away too fast, nearly dumping Verna off the back. Her arm
jerked tight around Kahlan's middle. At the same time, Kahlan reached back
and caught Verna's sleeve, holding her on. As they raced away and Verna
fought to regain her balance, the bucket lurched, but Verna was able to
steady it. Fortunately, it didn't spill.
Even as the muscular gelding was obeying her command and racing away,
his ears were turned to the approaching clamor. He was skittish carrying the
unfamiliar burden of two riders. He was well trained and had seen battle
often enough, so he probably was also edgy because he knew what the war
cries signified. Kahlan knew he was strong and quick. For what she had to
do, speed was life.
Kahlan's heart galloped as fast as the horse as they thundered through
the blackness of the valley. The enemy was much closer, now, than they had
been when Cara passed through not long before. The horse's hoofbeats partly
drowned out the battle cries of countless enemy soldiers to their left.
Terrifying bits of memories of fists and boots flashed unbidden into
her mind as she heard men coming toward her in the dark, screaming for
blood. She felt her vulnerability as never before. Kahlan turned those
memories from fear to anger at the outrage of these brutes coming into her
Midlands and murdering her people. She wanted every one of them to suffer,
and every one of them dead.
There was no telling precisely how far the enemy had already advanced,
or, with the moonlight behind her, even her own exact direction. Kahlan
worried that she might have sliced it too close to the bone, and that they
could unexpectedly encounter a wall of bloodthirsty men. She wanted to be
close, though, to deliver the blinding
dust right in their faces, to be sure it had the best chance to work,
to turn back the attack. She resisted the urge to guide her horse to the
right, away from the enemy.
The night suddenly ignited with harsh yellow light. The clouds went
from gray to bright yelloworange. White snow blazed with garish color. An
awful droning sound vibrated deep under her ribs.
A hundred feet in front of her and maybe ten feet above the ground,
tumbling liquid yellow and blue light roared headlong across her route,
dripping honeyed fire, trailing billowing black smoke. The seething sphere
of wizard's fire vividly illuminated the ground beneath it as it shot past.
Even though not directed at her, the sound alone was enough to make Kahlan
ache to cringe away in dread.
She knew enough about wizard's fire, how it clung tenaciously to the
skin, to be more than wary of it. Once that living fire touched you, it
couldn't be dislodged. Even a single droplet of wizard's fire would often
eat through flesh down to bone. There was no one either brave or foolish
enough not to fear it. Few people touched by such conjured flame lived to
recount the horror of the experience. For those who did, revenge became a
lifelong obsession.
Then, in the light of that bright flame streaking across the valley
floor, Kahlan caught sight of the horde, all with swords, maces, flails,
axes, pikes, and lances raised in the air as they yelled their battle cries.
The men, grim, daunting, fierce, were all in the grip of a wild lust for the
fight as they ran headlong out of the night.
In the moonlight, Kahlan could see for the first time since she had
joined up with the army the full extent of the enemy forces. The reports had
told the story, but could not fully convey the reality of the sight. The
numbers were so far removed from her experience as to defy comprehension.
Eyes wide, jaw hanging open, she gasped in awe.
Kahlan realized with alarm that the enemy was much closer than she had
expected. Throughout the ocean of men, torches meant to be used to set fires
sparkled like moonlight off the vast sea flooding into the valley. At the
horizon, that moonlight gleaming off uncountable weapons blurred into a flat
line over which she almost expected to see ships sailing.
The undulating leading edge, bristling shields and spears, threatened
to close off her path. Kahlan used her right heel, back against her horse's
flank, to guide him a little to the right so as to clear the wave of
soldiers. After she had corrected his course, she thumped her heels against
the animal's ribs, urging him on.
And then she realized, as arrows zipped past and spears plunged to the
ground just in front of her, that in the light of the wizard's fire, the
enemy could see her, too.
The ball of wizard's fire that had revealed her to the enemy wailed off
into the darkness, leaving her in shadow and lighting tens of thousands of
men at a time as it passed over their heads. Far in the distance, behind the
advancing horde, the fire finally crashed to the ground, igniting a
conflagration in the midst of the cavalry. Horsemen were often held back,
ready to charge forth when their men encountered the D'Haran lines. The
distant mortal screams of man and beast rose into the night.
An arrow skipped off her leather leg armor. More zipped past. One stuck
in the saddle just below her stomach as she leaned forward over the
galloping horse's withers. Apparently, in the moonlight they could still
spot her and Verna racing past.
"Why aren't they blind?" Kahlan called over her shoulder.
She could see a cloud billowing out behind them. It looked little
different than
the dust the horse raised as it galloped, except Kahlan saw that it was
coming from the bucket Verna rested against her thigh as she tipped it
toward the enemy lines, a little more, a little less, controlling the amount
that poured out, keeping it in a steady stream. Cara had already been past,
yet the men showed no ill effect.
"It takes a little while to work," Verna said in Kahlan's ear. "They
have to blink a bit."
Fire raced past right behind them. Fiery droplets splashed down onto
the snow, splattering when they hit, hissing like rain on hot stones round a
fire. The horse snorted as he raced onward in near panic. As she leaned over
his withers, Kahlan stroked his neck reassuringly, reminding him that he
wasn't alone.
Kahlan let her gaze sweep along the advancing enemy line as she raced
before them. She saw that the men were doing little blinking. Their eyes
were wide in their fervor for the coming battle.
The wizard's fire that had so spooked the horse from behind exploded
through the enemy ranks. Liquid flames spilled across the mass of soldiers,
touching off a shrill roar of ghastly cries. When burning men crashed into
soldiers around them, fire splashed onto them, too, spreading the horror.
Around the fire, the advancing line buckled. Yet other men running headlong
through the night trampled those on the ground, only to lose their own
footing and topple.
Another sphere of wizard's fire droned past to crash down, spilling its
flame like water from a burst dam. So massive was the eruption that the
surge swept men away, carrying them off in a flaming current.
A huge knot of fire erupted out of the enemy line not far in front of
Kahlan, headed toward the D'Haran lines. Immediately, a small sphere of blue
flame roared in from her right, meeting the ponderous globe of yellow flame
in midair. The collision sent a shower of fire raining down around her as
she rode past. Kahlan gasped and yanked the reins left as a fat gob of the
plummeting fire crashed to the ground right before them, splattering flame
everywhere.
They missed the fire by inches, but she now found herself closing with
the enemy soldiers at an alarming rate. Kahlan could read some of the
obscene oaths on their lips. She spurred the terrified horse to the right.
He turned a little but not enough to divert them from angling in toward the
enemy lines.
Glowing bits of fire rained down on the men as well as the open ground.
The horse was running in a panic, too frightened to take direction from
Kahlan. The stench of burning leather was adding fuel to the horse's fear.
She glanced down and saw a bit of fire burning on the leather armor
protecting her thigh. The small but fierce flame fluttered wildly in the
wind. She dared not try to brush the glowing spot off lest it then stick to
her hand. She feared to imagine what it would feel like when it finally
burned through the leather. She would have to endure the pain when it did;
she had no choice.
Verna didn't realize what was happening. She was twisted sideways,
still releasing the glass dust. Kahlan could see the plume of it carried
away behind them. The long trail curved, carried by the breeze, into the
enemy, past the front lines, back through the ranks of soldiers, off into
the blackness. Farther back in the Order's ranks, the torches lit the cloud
as it mingled with the dust churned up from the frozen ground.
An arrow nicked the horse's shoulder and skipped up into the air. A
surge of men, seeing her coming, ran with wild abandon in an effort to block
her way. Kahlan yanked on the reins, trying to haul the powerful horse's
head to the right. In the grip
of terror, the horse galloped on. She felt helpless as she tried to get
it to turn. It was doing no good. They were headed right toward a wall of
men.
"We're getting too close!" Verna yelled in her ear.
Kahlan was too busy to answer. Her arm was shaking with the effort of
pulling on the right rein, trying to turn the horse's head over and to the
right, but the horse had the bit in his teeth and was stronger than she by
far. Sweat trickled down her neck. She stretched her right leg back and dug
her heel into the horse's right flank to turn him. The men before them
brought their pikes and swords around to bear. Fighting was one thing, but
not having any control and just watching her fate come at her was different.
"Kahlan! What are you doing!"
With the pressure of her heel in front of his right rear leg, she was
finally forcing the horse to turn. It wasn't enough. She wasn't going to be
able to divert the runaway horse. The enemy looked like a steel porcupine
rushing at them.
Three strides away, the horse lowered his head.
"Good boy!" she cried.
Maybe he had a chance to clear the pikes. Kahlan took her weight off
the saddle and angled forward, flattening her back. She bent her arms,
giving the reins slack with her hands to either side of the horse's neck.
She kept pressure on him with her lower legs, but let him have the freedom
he needed.
She didn't know if it would work with the extra weight. If only the
pikes were shorter. Kahlan screamed for Verna to hold on.
Wizard's fire suddenly streamed past in front of them, coming in low.
The men who had rushed ahead in a line to block Kahlan's way dove to the
ground. The entire line before them collapsed. The fire wailed past just
over top of them, finally touching down off to Kahlan's left. The cries of a
thousand men filled her ears.
The horse stretched his lowered head, getting his hocks underneath his
body. At the last instant, his neck shortened and his head came up as he
sprang upward, using his powerful hindquarters to launch himself. His back
rounded as they sailed over the leading edge of men. Verna cried out, her
arm like a hook around Kahlan's middle. They came down beyond the soldiers
who had dropped flat. With her weight on the stirrups, Kahlan used her legs
to absorb the shock-Verna couldn't. With the extra load, the horse nearly
stumbled as it landed, but kept his balance and continued running. They were
at last clear of the Order soldiers.
"What's the matter with you!" Verna yelled. "Don't do that or I won't
be able to let it out evenly!"
"Sorry," Kahlan called over her shoulder.
Despite the cold wind in her face, sweat ran from her scalp. The Order
soldiers seemed to fall away to their rear quarter. Giddy relief washed over
her as she realized they had made it past the bulge in the Imperial Order's
front lines.
In the distance behind them, a storm of fire lit the night. Zedd and
Warren were showing them a good old-fashioned firefight, as Zedd had put it.
It was a terrifying demonstration, if insufficient to stop an enemy as large
as the Order. As the Order's gifted raced to the scene and threw up shields,
it limited the death and devastation. The two wizards had bought Kahlan and
Verna the time they had needed.
Kahlan heard Cara calling "Whoa!" as she galloped up close.
This time, with Cara's horse heading them off, the lathered mount
rapidly came to a halt: The horse was exhausted, as was Kahlan. As they
dismounted beside Cara and Sister Philippa, Verna tossed the empty bucket to
the ground. Kahlan was glad
it was dark, so that the others couldn't see her legs trembling. She
was relieved to see that the spot of fire had expended itself before burning
through.
The four of them watched as the night went mad with flame, most
exploding against shields of magic, yet still doing damage to anyone too
close. Zedd and Warren sent forth one tumbling sphere of fiery death after
another. The cries of men could be heard all along the line. The fire was
being returned, reaping death in the D'Haran lines, but the Sisters were
throwing up their own shields.
Still the vast enemy army advanced. At most, the deadly flames only
slowed them and disrupted their orderly attack.
As the gifted on both sides gained control, they managed to nullify
each other's fiery attacks. Kahlan knew that the forward D'Haran lines had
no hope of holding the onrushing flood of the Order. They had no hope of
even slowing them. In the moonlight, she could see them beginning to abandon
their positions.
"Why isn't it working?" Kahlan whispered, half to herself. She leaned
toward Verna. "Are you sure it was made properly?"
Watching the enemy's headlong rush, and in the din of battle cries,
Verna didn't seem to hear the question. Kahlan checked her sword. She
realized how futile it would be to try to fight. She felt Richard's sword on
her back, and considered drawing it, but decided that it would be better to
run. She pushed Verna, urging her to their spent horse. Cara did the same
with Sister Philippa.
Before she stepped into the stirrup, Kahlan noticed the Order slowing.
She saw men stumbling. Some groped with outstretched arms. Others fell.
Verna pointed. "Look!"
An endless moan of frightened agony began rising up into the night,
growing in intensity. Staggering men fell over one another. Some swung their
swords at an invisible enemy, hacking instead their blinded fellow soldiers.
The progress of the men at the front slowed to a crawl. Soldiers kept
coming, colliding with the stalled front line. Cavalry horses panicked,
bucking off riders. Spooked horses ran off in every direction, oblivious of
the men they trampled. Racing wagons overturned. Confusion swept the enemy's
ranks.
The advance buckled. The Imperial Order ground to a halt.
Zedd and Warren rode up and dismounted, both sweating despite the
frigid night air. Kahlan gave Zedd's bony hand a squeeze.
"You two saved our necks at the end, there."
Zedd gestured to Warren. "Him, not me."
Warren shrugged. "I saw your predicament."
They all stared in wonder, watching the army gone blind.
"You did it, Verna," Kahlan said. "You and your glass saved us."
At last, she and Verna threw their arms around each other, tears of
relief coursing down their cheeks.
Kahlan was one of the last to cross over the pass. The valley beyond
was well protected by towering rock walls around the southern half. It was a
long and difficult route around those mountains if the Order had any
thoughts of attacking them here. While the troops of the D'Haran Empire had
no intention of letting themselves get trapped in that valley, for the time
being it was a safe place.
Big old spruces filled the lap of the surrounding mountains, so they
were somewhat protected from the wind, as well. Tents carpeted the forest
floor. It was good to see all the campfires and smell the woodsmoke-a sign
that they were safe enough for the men to have fires. The aroma of cooking
filled the late-night air, too. It had been a lot of work moving the army
and their equipment over the pass, and the men were hungry.
General Meiffert looked as pleased as any general would when the army
he feared lost was at last safe-at least for the time being. He guided
Kahlan and Cara through the darkness dotted by thousands of campfires to
tents he had set up for them. Along the way, he filled them in on how
everything with the army had gone, and ran through a list of what few things
they had had to leave behind.
"It's going to be a cold night," General Meiffert said when they had
reached the tents he had set aside for them between two towering spruce. "I
had a sack of pebbles heated by a fire for you, Mother Confessor. You, too,
Mistress Cara."
Kahlan thanked him before he left to see to his duties. Cara went off
to go get something to eat. Kahlan told her to go ahead, that she just
wanted to sleep.
Inside her tent, Kahlan found Spirit standing on a little table, the
lamp hanging from the ridgepole lighting her proud pose. She paused to trace
a finger down the flowing robes.
Kahlan, her teeth chattering, could hardly wait to crawl into bed and
pull that sack of heated pebbles under the fur mantle with her. She thought
about how cold she was, and then instead of climbing into her bed, went back
outside and searched through the dark camp until she found a Sister. After
following the Sister's directions, going between tents until she reached the
area with the thick young trees, Kahlan found the small lean-to shelter set
among the boughs for protection from the wind and weather.
She squatted down, peering inside at the bundle of blankets she could
just make out in the light coming from nearby campfires.
"Holly? Are you in there?"
A little head poked out. "Mother Confessor?" The girl was shivering.
"What is it? Do you need me?"
"Yes, as a matter of fact, I do. Come with me please."
Holly climbed out, swaddled in a blanket. Kahlan took her little hand
and walked
her back to her tent in silence. Holly's eyes grew big and round as
Kahlan ushered in inside. Before the small table, the girl paused to stand
still as a stump while she stared in wonder at Spirit.
"Like it?" Kahlan asked.
Trembling with the cold, Holly reverently ran her frail fingers down
Spirit's arm. "Where ever did you get something so beautiful?"
"Richard carved it for me."
Holly finally pulled her gaze from the statue and looked up at Kahlan.
"I miss Richard." Kahlan could see Holly's breath in the motionless air of
the tent. "He was always nice to me. A lot of people were mean, but Richard
was always nice."
Kahlan felt an unexpected stab of anguish. She hadn't expected the
subject to turn to Richard.
"What was it you needed, Mother Confessor?"
Kahlan turned her thoughts away from her sorrow and smiled. "I was
proud of the work you did to help save us today. I promised you that you
would be warm. Tonight, you will be."
The girl's teeth were chattering. "Really?"
Kahlan laid the Sword of Truth on the far side of the bed. She stripped
off some of her heavier clothing, doused the lamp, and then sat down on the
straw-filled pallet. Light from nearby campfires lent a soft glow to the
tent's walls.
"Come. Climb into bed with me. It's going to be very cold tonight. I
need you to keep me warm."
Holly only had to consider for a second.
As Kahlan lay down on her side, she pulled Holly's back against her
stomach and then drew the sack of heated pebbles up against the girl's
front. Holly hugged the sack and moaned with the thrill of warmth. The
satisfied moan made Kahlan smile.
For a long time, she smiled, enjoying the simple pleasure of seeing
Holly warm and safe. Having the girl there, holding her close, helped Kahlan
to forget all the terrible things she had seen that day.
Far up in the mountains, a single wolf sang out in a long, lonely call.
The cry echoed through the valley, trailing off, to be renewed again and
again with forlorn persistence.
With his sword at her back, Kahlan's thoughts turned to Richard.
Thinking about him, wondering where he was and if he was safe, she silently
wept herself to sleep.
--]----
The next day, snow moved down from the higher mountains to rampage
across the southern regions of the Midlands. The storms raged for two days.
The second night of the blizzard, Kahlan shared her tent with Holly, Valery,
and Helen. They sat under blankets, ate camp stew, sang songs, told stories
of princes and princesses, and slept together to keep warm.
When the snowstorm finally ended in a bleak golden sunrise, most of the
taller tents had snow drifted to their eaves on their downwind side. The
smaller ones were completely covered over. The men dug themselves out,
looking like so many woodchucks come up out of their burrows for a peek.
Over the next several weeks, the storms continued to roll past, dumping
more snow. In such weather, fighting, or even moving an army very far, was
difficult.
Scouts reported that the Imperial Order had withdrawn a week's march
back to the south.
It would be a burden to care for blinded men. Within a days walk all
around the place where the special glass had been released, the D'Haran
scouts reported that they had seen well over sixty thousand frozen corpses,
now drifted over with the snow-blind men unable to care for themselves in
the harsh conditions. The Imperial Order had probably abandoned them to
their fate. A few dozen of the blind had managed to make it over the pass,
looking for help, begging for mercy. Kahlan had ordered them executed.
It was hard telling the exact number blinded by Verna's special glass;
it could be that there were many who did in fact retreat with the Imperial
Order, brought along to perform menial tasks. It was likely, though, that
the corpses reported by the scouts were the bulk of those blinded. Kahlan
could imagine that Jagang might not want them in his camp, using food and
supplies, reminding his men of their stinging retreat.
She knew, though, that for Jagang retreat was but a momentary setback
and not a reappraisal of his objectives. The Order had men enough to shrug
off the loss of the hundred thousand killed since the fighting had started.
For the time being, the weather prevented Jagang from striking back.
Kahlan didn't intend to sit and wait for him. A month later, when the
representative from Herjborgue arrived, she met with him immediately in the
small trappers' lodge they had found up in the trees to the west side of the
valley. The lodge sat under the protection of towering, ancient pines, away
from the open areas where the tents were congregated. The lodge had become
Kahlan's frequent quarters, and often also served as their command center.
It greatly relieved General Meiffert when Kahlan would stay in the
lodge, rather than a tent. It made him feel as if the army was doing
something about providing better accommodations for the Mother Confessor-the
wife of Lord Rahl. Kahlan and Cara did appreciate the nights they slept in
the lodge, but Kahlan didn't want anyone to think she wasn't up to the
conditions the rest of them had to endure. Sometimes, she would instead have
the girls sleep in the lodge along with some of the Sisters, and sometimes
she insisted Verna sleep there with Holly, Valery, and Helen. It didn't take
a great deal of effort to persuade the Prelate.
Kahlan greeted Representative Theriault from the land of Herjborgue,
inviting him into the cozy lodge. He was accompanied by a small guard unit,
who waited outside. Herjborgue was a small country. Their contribution to
the war effort was in the area of their only product: wool. Kahlan had need
of the man.
After Representative Theriault knelt before the Mother Confessor,
receiving the traditional greeting, he at last stood and pushed his heavy
hood back on his shoulders. He broke into a broad grin.
"Mother Confessor, so good to see you well."
She returned a sincere smile. "And you, Representative Theriault. Here,
come over by the fire and warm yourself."
By the stone fireplace, he pulled off his gloves and held his hands
before the crackling flames. He glanced to the gleaming hilt of the sword
sticking up behind her shoulder. His eye was caught by Spirit standing
proudly on the mantel. He stared in wonder, as did everyone who saw the
proud figure.
"We heard about Lord Rahl being captured," he finally said. "Has there
been any word?"
Kahlan shook her head. "We know they haven't harmed him, but that's
about all. I know my husband; he's resourceful. I expect he will find a way
to get back to help us."
The man nodded, his brow furrowed as he listened earnestly.
Cara, standing beside the table, reminded of her Lord Rahl by Kahlan's
words, idly rolled her Agiel in her fingers. Kahlan could tell by the look
in Cara's blue eyes, and by the way she casually let the weapon dangle once
more by the small gold chain around her wrist, that the Agiel, being linked
to the living Lord Rahl, still possessed its power. As long as it worked,
they knew Richard was alive. That was all they knew.
The man opened his heavy traveling cloak. "How goes the war? Everyone
anxiously awaits word."
"As near as we can figure, we've managed to kill over a hundred
thousand of their troops."
The man gasped.-Such numbers were staggering to someone from a place as
small as his homeland of Herjborgue.
"Then, they must be defeated. Have they run back to the Old World?"
Rather than meet his gaze, Kahlan stared at the logs checkering in the
wavering glow of the flames. "I'm afraid that losing that many men is hardly
crippling to the Imperial Order. We're taking their numbers down, but they
have an army of well over ten times that many. They remain a threat, a
week's march to the south of here."
Kahlan looked up to see him staring at her. She could tell by the look
in his eyes that he was having difficulty trying to imagine that many
people. His wind-reddened face had paled considerably.
"Dear spirits . . ." he whispered. "We've heard rumors, but to learn
they are true . . ." With a despondent look, he shook his head. "How is it
ever going to be possible to defeat a foe of that size?"
"Seems that I remember, a number of years back, you were in Aydindril
to see the Council and you had a bit of trouble after a grand dinner. That
big man from Kelton-I forget his name-was boasting and speaking ill of your
small land. He called you some name. Do you remember that night?-what he
called you?"
Representative Theriault's eyes sparkled as he smiled.
"Puny.,,
"Puny. That was it. I guess he felt that because he was twice your
size, that made him your better. I recall men clearing off a table, and the
two of you arm wrestling."
"Ah, well, I was younger back then, and I had a few glasses of wine
with dinner, besides."
"You won."
He laughed softly. "Not by strength. He was cocky. I was clever,
perhaps, and quick-that's all."
"You won; that was the result. Those hundred thousand Order troops
aren't any less dead because they outnumbered us."
The smile left his lips. "Point taken. I guess the Imperial Order ought
to quit now, while they have men left. I recall how those five thousand
Galean recruits you led went after that force of fifty thousand, and
eliminated them." He leaned an arm on the rough-hewn mantel. "Anyway, I see
your point. When you are facing superior strength, you must use your wits."
"I need your help," Kahlan told the man.
His big brown eyes reflected the firelight as they turned toward her.
"Anything, Mother Confessor. If it be in my power to do, anything."
Kahlan bent and shoved another log onto the fire. Sparks swirled around
before ascending the chimney.
"We need wool cloaks--hooded cloaks-for the men."
He considered only briefly. "Just tell me the numbers, and I will see
to it. I'm sure it can be arranged."
"I'll need at least a hundred thousand-our entire force down here at
present. We're expecting more men any time, so if you could add half again
that number, it would go a long way to helping destroy the Order."
As he went through mental calculations, Kahlan used the poker to set
the new log to the back of the fire. "I know I'm not asking for something
easy."
He scratched his scalp through his thick gray hair. "You've no need of
hearing how difficult it will be, that won't help you win, so let me just
say that you will have them."
Representative Theriault's word was a pledge as sound as gold, and as
valuable. She stood and faced him.
"And I want them made from bleached wool."
He lifted an eyebrow in curiosity. "Bleached wool?"
"We need to be clever, as you can understand. The Imperial Order comes
from far to the south. Richard was down there, once, and told me about how
the weather is very different than it is up here, in the New World. Their
winters are nothing like we have. If I don't miss my bet, the Order is not
familiar with winter, nor is it used to surviving, much less fighting, in
such weather. Winter conditions may be difficult, but this puts it to our
advantage."
Kahlan made a fist before him. "I want to harry them mercilessly. I
want to use
the winter weather to make them suffer. I want to draw them out make
them have to fight-in conditions they don't understand as well as we do.
"I want the hooded cloaks to help disguise our men. I want to be able
to use the conditions to get in close on raids, and then disappear right
before their eyes."
"They don't have gifted?"
"Yes, but they're not going to have a sorceress telling every archer
where to aim his arrow."
He stroked his chin. "Yes, I see your point." He slapped the mantel as
if to seal his promise. "I'll have our people begin at once. Your men will
need warm mittens, too.
Kahlan smiled appreciatively. "They will be grateful. Have your people
start sending the cloaks down to us as soon as they have some made. Don't
wait for them all. We can start our raids with any number and add to them as
you deliver more."
Representative Theriault pulled his hood up and fastened his heavy wool
cloak. "Winter has just set in. The more time you have to whittle them down
while you have the advantage of weather, the better. I had best be on my way
at once."
Kahlan clasped arms with the man-not something the Mother Confessor
typically did, but something anyone else might do in sincere appreciation of
aid.
--]----
As she and Cara stood outside the door, watching the representative and
his guards trudging off through the snow, Kahlan hoped the supply of white
cloaks would start arriving soon, and that they would be as effective as she
hoped.
"Do you really think we can press the war effectively in winter?" Cara
asked.
Kahlan turned back to the door. "We have to."
Before she went back inside, Kahlan caught sight of a procession coming
up through the trees. When they were a little closer, she saw that it was
General Meiffert, on foot, leading. She was able to pick out Adie, Verna,
Warren, and Zedd, all walking along beside four riders. The midday sun
sparkled off the hilt of the lead rider's sword.
Kahlan gasped when she saw who it was.
Without bothering to go back inside to get her cloak or fur mantle, she
raced down through the snow to great him. Cara was right on Kahlan's heels.
"Harold!" she called out as she got closer. "Oh, Harold! Are we ever
glad to see you!"
It was her half brother, come from Galea. Kahlan then saw some of the
other men riding behind him, and gasped again in surprise. Captain Bradley
Ryan, commander of the Galean recruits she had fought with was there, and
his lieutenant, Flin Hobson. She thought she recognized Sergeant Frost, in
the rear. Her face hurt from grinning as she ran up to them through the deep
snow.
Kahlan wanted to pull her half brother off his horse and hug him. In a
Galean field-officer uniform, far more muted than their dress uniform, he
looked grand on his well-bred mount. She only now fully realized how worried
she had been over his late arrival.
Carrying himself like the prince he was, Harold tipped his head to her
as he bowed in his saddle. He offered only a small, private smile.
"Mother Confessor. I'm gratified to find you well."
Captain Ryan was grinning, even if Prince Harold wasn't. Kahlan had
fond memories of Bradley and Flin, of their bravery, courage, and heart. The
fighting had been horrifying, but the company of those fine soldiers, fine
young men all, was a cherished memory. They had done the impossible before,
and had come to help do it again.
Standing beside his horse, Kahlan reached up for Harold's hand. "Come
inside. We've a good fire going." She motioned to the captain, the
lieutenant, and the sergeant. "You, too. Come inside and get warm."
Kahlan turned to the others, who didn't look nearly as happy as Kahlan
thought they should. "We'll all fit. Come inside."
Prince Harold stepped down out of the stirrup. "Mother Confessor, I-"
Kahlan couldn't resist. She threw her arms around her half brother. He
was a big bear of a man, much like their father, King Wyborn. "Harold, I'm
so relieved to see you. How's Cyrilla?"
Cyrilla, Harold's sister and Kahlan's half sister, was a dozen years
older than Kahlan. Cyrilla had been ill for ages, it seemed. When she had
been captured by the Order she had been thrown into the pit with a gang of
murderers and rapists. Harold had rescued her, but the abuse she suffered
had left her in an incoherent state, oblivious of those around her. She
regained her senses only infrequently. When she came awake, she more often
than not screamed and cried uncontrollably. One of the times when she was
lucid, she had asked Kahlan to promise to be the queen of Galea and keep her
people safe.
Harold, wishing to remain commander of the Galean army, refused the
crown. Kahlan reluctantly had acceded to his wish.
Harold's eyes shifted to the others, briefly. "Mother Confessor, we
need to have a talk."
At Prince Harold's instructions, Captain Ryan and his two men went to
see to their troops and horses while the rest of them crowded into the small
trapper's lodge. Zedd and Warren sat on a bench made of a board laid atop
two log rounds. Verna and Adie sat against the opposite wall on another
bench. Cara gazed out the small window. Standing near Cara, General Meiffert
watched as the prince ran a finger back and forth along the front edge of
the table. Kahlan folded her hands on the table before her.
"So," she began, fearing the worst, "how is Cyrilla?"
Harold smoothed the front of his coat. "The queen has . . . recovered."
"Queen . . . ?" Kahlan rose out of her chair. "Cyrilla has recovered?
Harold, that's wonderful news. And she has at last taken her crown back?
Even better!"
Kahlan was delighted to be relieved of the role of queen to Galea. As
Mother Confessor, it was an awkward duty better served by Cyrilla. More than
that, though, she was relieved to learn that her half sister had finally
recovered. While the two of them were never close, they shared a mutual
respect.
More than her cheer at Cyrilla's recovery, though, Kahlan felt a sense
of deliverance that Harold had at last brought his troops down to join with
them. She hoped he had been able to raise the hundred thousand they had
previously discussed; it would be a good beginning for the army Kahlan
needed to raise.
Harold licked his weather-cracked lips. By the slump in his shoulders,
she was sure that the task of collecting his army had been trying, and the
journey arduous. She had never seen his face looking so worn. He had a
vague, empty look that reminded her of her father.
Kahlan smiled exuberantly, determined to show her appreciation. "How
many troops did you bring? We could certainly use the whole hundred
thousand. That would just about double what we have down here so far. The
spirits know we need them."
No one was saying anything. As she looked from one person to the next,
no one would meet her gaze.
Kahlan's sense of relief was sloughing away.
"Harold, how many troops did you bring?"
He ran his meaty fingers back through his long, thick, dark hair.
"About a thousand."
She stared dumbly, sinking back into her chair. "A thousand?"
He nodded, still not meeting her eyes. "Captain Bradley and his men.
The ones you led and fought beside, before."
Kahlan could feel her face heating. "We need all your troops. Harold,
what's going on?"
He at last met her gaze.
"Queen Cyrilla refused my plan to take our troops south. Shortly after
you were there and visited her, she came out of her illness. She was herself
again-full of ambition and fire. You know what she was like. She was always
tireless in her advocacy for Galea." His fingers idly tapped the table. "But
I'm afraid she has been changed by her infirmity. She fears the Imperial
Order."
"So do I," Kahlan said with quiet bottled rage. She could feel
Richard's sword pressed against the back of her shoulder. She saw Harold's
eyes take it in. "Everyone in the Midlands fears the Order. That is why we
need those troops."
He was nodding as she spoke. "I told her all that. I did. She said that
she is Queen of Galea, and as such, she must put our land first."
"Galea has joined the D'Haran Empire!"
He opened his hands in a helpless gesture. "When she was ill, she was .
. . unaware of that event taking place. She said she only gave you the crown
for the safekeeping of her people, not to surrender their sovereignty." His
hands dropped to his sides. "She claims you never had any such authority and
refuses to abide by the agreement."
Kahlan glanced at the others in the room, sitting mute, like a panel of
grim judges.
"Harold, you and I have discussed all this in the past. The Midlands is
under threat." She swept her arm out. "The entire New World is threatened!
We must turn back that threat, not take to defending one land at a time--or
have each land try to fend for itself. If we do that, we will all fall, one
at a time. We must stand together."
"I agree with you, in principle, Mother Confessor. Queen Cyrilla does
not."
"Then Cyrilla is not recovered, Harold. She is still sick."
"That may be, but it is not for me to say."
Elbow on the table, Kahlan rested her forehead against her fingertips.
Thoughts were screaming around inside her head, demanding that this not be
happening.
"What about Jebra?" Zedd asked from the side of the room. Kahlan was
relieved to hear his voice, as if reason were returning to the lunacy of
what she was hearing, as if the weight of another voice would set things
straight. "We left the seer there to help care for Cyrilla and to advise
you. Surely, Jebra must have advised Cyrilla against such actions."
Harold hung his head again. "I'm afraid that Queen Cyrilla ordered
Jebra thrown into a dungeon. Moreover, the queen gave orders that if Jebra
speaks one word of her blasphemy-as Queen Cyrilla calls it-she is to have
her tongue cut out."
Kahlan had to tell herself to blink. It was no longer Cyrilla's
behavior that so stunned her. Her words came sparse and brittle, the naked
bones of dead respect.
"Harold, why would you follow the orders of a madwoman?"
His jaw took a set, as if injured by her tone. "Mother Confessor, she
is not only my sister, but my queen. I am sworn to obey my queen in order to
protect the Galean people. All those men of ours out there who have been
fighting with your army are also sworn to protect the people of Galea above
all else. I've already given them our queen's orders. We must all return to
Galea at once. I'm sorry, but that is the way it must be."
Kahlan pounded her fist on the table and shot to her feet.
"Galea stands at the head of the Callisidrin Valley! It's a gateway
right up the center of the Midlands! Don't you see what a tempting route it
might be for the Imperial Order? Don't you see how they might want to split
the Midlands?"
"Of course I do, Mother Confessor."
She aimed a stiff arm, pointing at the camp beyond the lodge.
"So you just expect all those men out there to put their lives between
you and the Order? You and Queen Cyrilla callously expect all those men out
there to die protecting you?-while you sit back in Galea?-hoping they
prevent the Order from ever reaching you?"
"Of course not, Mother Confessor."
"What's the matter with you! Don't you see that if you fight with us to
halt the Order, you are protecting the people of your homeland?"
Harold licked his lip. "Mother Confessor, all you say is probably true.
It is also irrelevant. I am commander of the Galean army. My entire life has
been devoted to serving the people of Galea and my sovereign-first my mother
and father, and then my sister. From the time I was a boy at my father's
knee, I was taught to protect Galea above all else."
Kahlan did her best to control her voice. "Harold, Cyrilla is obviously
still sick. If you are honestly interested in protecting your people, you
must see that what you're doing is not the way to accomplish it."
"Mother Confessor, I have been charged by my queen with protecting the
people of Galea. I know my duty."
"Duty?" Kahlan wiped a hand across her face. "Harold, you can't blindly
follow that woman's whim. The route to life and liberty exists only through
reason. She may be queen, but reason can be your only true sovereign. To
fail to use reason in this, to fail to think, is intellectual anarchy."
He looked at her as if she were some poor child who didn't understand
the world of adult responsibility.
"She is my queen. The queen is devoted to the people."
Kahlan drummed her fingers on the table. "What Cyrilla is, is deluded
by ghosts that still haunt her. She is going to bring harm to your people.
You are going to aid her in delivering your people into ruin because you
wish something to be true, even though it is not. You are seeing her as she
once was, not as she is now."
He shrugged. "Mother Confessor, I can understand why you think what you
think, but it can change nothing. I must do as my queen commands."
Elbows on the table, Kahlan held her face in her hands for a time,
trembling with anger at the insanity of what she was hearing. She finally
looked up, meeting her half brother's gaze.
"Harold, Galea is part of the D'Haran Empire. Galea has a queen only at
the indulgence of the Empire. Queen though she may be, even if she does not
recognize the rule of the D'Haran Empire, she is still, as she always has
been, subordinate to the Mother Confessor of the Midlands. As Mother
Confessor, as well as the leader of the D'Haran Empire in Lord Rahl's
absence, I formally terminate that indulgence. Cyrilla is now without
authority and is removed from office. She is no longer the queen of
anything, much less Galea.
"You are ordered to return to Ebinissia, to put Cyrilla under arrest
for her own protection, to release Jebra, and to return to this army with
the seer and all Galean forces except a home guard for the crown city."
"Mother Confessor, I'm sorry, but my queen has ordered-"
Kahlan slammed the flat of her hand down on the table. "Enough!"
He fell silent as Kahlan rose. With her fingertips pressed to the
table, she leaned closer to him.
"As Mother Confessor, I am commanding you to carry out my orders at
once. That is final. I will hear no more."
The room seemed gripped by the grave consequence of what was happening.
Each forbidding face watched, waiting to see how it was going to go.
Harold spoke in a voice that reminded Kahlan of her father's.
"I realize that it may make no sense to you, Mother Confessor, but I
must choose my duty to my people above my duty to you. Cyrilla is my sister.
King Wyborn always told me to run a good army. An officer must obey his
queen. My men down here are ordered by their queen to return at once to
protect Galea. I am a man bound by my honor to protect my people, as ordered
by my queen."
"You pompous fool. How dare you speak to me of your honor? You are
sacrificing the lives of innocent people to your delusions of honor. Honor
is honesty to what is, not blind duty to what you wish to be. You have no
honor, Harold."
Kahlan sank into 'her chair. She looked past him, to the side, staring
into the hearth, into the flames.
"I have given you my orders. Do you refuse to obey them?"
"I must refuse, Mother Confessor. Let me say only that it is not out of
malice."
"Harold," she said in a flat tone without looking at him, "you are
committing treason."
"I realize that you may see it that way, Mother Confessor."
"Oh, I do. I do indeed. Treason to your people, treason to the
Midlands, treason to our D'Haran union against the Imperial Order, and
treason against the Mother Confessor. What do you suppose I ought to do
about it?"
"I would expect that if you feel so strongly, you would have me put to
death, Mother Confessor."
She looked up at him. "If you have enough sense to realize that, then
what good will it do for you to stick to the orders of a madwoman? It will
only bring your death, and then you will not be able to carry out your
queen's orders. Staying to your course can only leave your people without
your aid, which is what you claim to put above all else. Why not simply do
the right thing and help us to help your people? Since you refuse, you have
shown yourself, in truth, to be without common sense, much less honor."
His eyes turned to her, filled with smoldering anger. The knuckles of
his fists went white.
"I will be heard, now, Mother Confessor. If I stand by my honor, even
if it costs me my life, it will be honoring my family, my sister, my queen,
and my homeland. A homeland forged by my father, King Wyborn, and my mother,
Queen Bernadine. When I was young, my father, my sovereign king, was taken
from my mother, my family, and my homeland of Galea, by the Confessors,
taken by a Confessor's power for their selfish desire of a husband for your
mother, for her selfish desire for a strong man to father her a child-you.
Now, you, Mother Confessor-the daughter of that theft of that beloved man
from us when I was but a boy-you would take me from my sister? 'hake her,
too, from our land? Take me from my duty to serve my queen, my land, and
above all my people? The last duty my father charged me with before your
mother took him from us and destroyed him for no reason but that he was good
and she wanted him, was that I should always honor my duty to my sister and
my land. I will carry out my father's last charge to me, even if you think
it madness."
Kahlan stared at him in cold shock.
"I'm sorry you feel that way, Harold."
His face had aged and hardened. "I know that you are not responsible
for all that happened before you came to be, and I will always love that
part of you that is my father, but I am still the one who must live with it
all. Now I must be true to myself, to my own feelings."
"Your feelings," she repeated.
"Yes, Mother Confessor. Those are my feelings, and I must put my faith
in them."
Kahlan swallowed past the painful constriction in her throat. Her
fingers, lying limply on the table before her, tingled.
"Faith and feelings. Harold, you are as mad as your sister."
She drew herself up straight and folded her hands. She shared a last
look with her half brother, a man she had never known, except in name, as
she pronounced sentence on him.
"Beginning at sunrise tomorrow, the D'Haran Empire and Galea are at
war. After sunrise tomorrow, if you are seen by me or any of our men, you
will be put to death for the crime of treason.
"I will not allow those brave men out there to die for traitors. The
Imperial Order will, in all likelihood, turn north up the Callisidrin
Valley. You will be alone. They will butcher every man in your army, just as
they butchered the people of Ebinissia. Jagang will give your sister to his
men, as a whore.
"It will be by your doing, Harold, for refusing to use your ability to
think, and instead following your feelings and faith in what does not
exist."
Harold, hands clasped behind his back, chin held up, said nothing as
Kahlan continued.
"Tell Cyrilla that she had better hope for the fate I have just
described, because if the Order does not come through Galea, I will. I have
promised no mercy to the Order. Galea's treason condemns her to the same
fate as the Order. If the Order does not get Cyrilla, then I swear I will,
and when I get her, I am going to take her back to Aydindril and I'm going
to personally throw her back down into that pit from which you rescued her,
and I am going to leave her down there with every criminal brute I can find
for as long as she lives."
Harold's jaw dropped. "Mother Confessor . . . you wouldn't."
Kahlan's eyes told him otherwise. "You be sure to tell Cyrilla what's
in store for her. Jebra probably tried to tell her, and was thrown in a
dungeon for it. Cyrilla is refusing to see the open pit before her, and you
are walking into it with her. Worse, you are taking your innocent people
with you."
Kahlan drew her royal Galean sword. She grasped either end in a hand.
Gritting her teeth, she pulled the flat of the blade against her knee. The
steel bent, then finally snapped with a loud report. She tossed the broken
blade on the floor at his feet.
"Now get out of my sight."
He turned to leave, but before he took a step, Zedd stood, holding out
a hand as if to ask him to remain where he was.
"Mother Confessor," Zedd said, choosing his words carefully. "I believe
you are letting your emotions get in the way."
Harold gestured to Kahlan, relieved to hear Zedd's intercession. "Tell
her, Wizard Zorander. Tell her."
Kahlan couldn't believe her ears. She remained where she was, staring
into
Zedd's hazel eyes. "Then would you mind explaining my error of emotion,
First Wizard?"
Zedd glanced at Harold and then back to Kahlan. "Mother Confessor,
Queen Cyrilla is obviously deranged. Prince Harold is not only doing her a
disservice, but enabling her to bring only the specter of death to her
people. If he chose the side of reason, he would be protecting his people,
and honoring his sister's past admirable service when she was of sound mind.
"Instead, he has betrayed his duty to his people by embracing what he
wishes to be true about her instead of facing what is true. In this way, he
is embracing death, and in this case, embracing death for his people, too.
"Prince Harold has been justly found guilty of treason. Your emotions
for him
are interfering with your judgment. Obviously, he is now a danger to
our cause, to
the lives of our people, and to the lives of his own people. He cannot
be allowed to
leave." -
Harold looked thunderstruck. "But Zedd. . ."
Zedd's hazel eyes, too, were a terrible pronouncement of guilt. He
waited, as if challenging the man to further prove his treason. Harold's
mouth moved, but he could offer no words.
"Does anyone disagree with me?" Zedd asked.
He looked at Adie. She shook her head. Verna likewise shook her head.
Warren stared at Harold for a moment, then shook his head.
Harold's expression turned indignant. "I'm not going to stand for this.
The Mother Confessor has given me until dawn to withdraw. You must honor her
sentence."
He took two strides toward the door, but then paused, clutching his
chest. Twisting slowly as he started to sink, his eyes rolling up in his
head. His legs folded and he crashed to the floor.
Kahlan sat stunned. No one moved or said anything. General Meiffert
went down on one knee beside the body, checking Prince Harold for breath or
pulse. The general looked up at Kahlan and shook his head.
She passed her gaze from Zedd, to Adie, to Verna, to Warren. None
revealed anything in their expression.
Kahlan stood and spoke softly. "I don't ever want to know which one of
you did this. I'm not saying you were wrong . . . I just don't want to
know."
The four gifted people nodded.
At the door, Kahlan stood in the bright sunlight a moment, feeling the
cold air on her face, searching, until she saw Captain Ryan leaning against
a stout young maple tree. He stood at attention as she strode out to him
through the snow.
"Bradley, did Prince Harold tell you why he was coming here?"
Calling him by his given name, rather than his rank, changed the nature
of the question. His rigid posture slackened.
"Yes, Mother Confessor. He said he had to tell you that he had been
ordered back by his queen to defend Galea, and that he was further ordered
to bring his men serving with you back to Galea with him."
"Then what are you doing here? Why did you and your men come along, if
he was to take everyone back?"
He lifted his square jaw and looked at her with clear blue eyes.
"Because we deserted, Mother Confessor."
"You what?"
"Prince Harold gave me his orders, as I just reported them. I told him
that it was wrong, and could only harm our people. He said it was not for me
to decide such things. He said it was not for me to think, but to follow
orders.
"I've fought with you, Mother Confessor. I believe I know you better
than Prince Harold does-I know you are devoted to protecting the lives of
the people of the Midlands. I told him that what Cyrilla was doing was
wrong. He was angry, and said it was my duty to follow my orders.
"I told him that, in that case, I was deserting the Galean army and was
going to stand with you, instead. I thought he was going to have me put to
death for disobeying him, but he would have had to put all thousand of us to
death because all the men felt the same way. A good many came forward to
tell him so. The fire seemed to go out of him, then, and he let us ride down
here with him.
"I hope you aren't angry with us, Mother Confessor."
Kahlan couldn't force herself to be the Mother Confessor at that
moment. She put her arms around him.
"Thank you, Bradley."
She gripped his shoulders and smiled at him through her watery vision.
"You used your head. I couldn't be angry with that."
"You told us once we were a badger trying to swallow an ox whole. Looks
to me you've taken to trying to do the same thing. If there ever was a
badger who could swallow an ox whole, it would be you, Mother Confessor, but
I guess we wouldn't want you to try it without us to help you do it."
They turned then and saw General Meiffert directing some of his men.
They were carrying Prince Harold's limp body out of the lodge, holding him
by the shoulders and feet. His hands dragged through the snow.
"I figured this wasn't going to come to any good end," the young
captain said. "Ever since Cyrilla was hurt, Prince Harold just never seemed
himself. I always loved the man. It hurt me to have to desert him. But he
just wasn't making sense anymore."
Kahlan put a comforting hand on his shoulder as they watched the body
being carried away.
"I'm sorry, Bradley. Like you, I always thought highly of him. I guess
seeing his sister and his queen so long held in the grip of that kind of
sickness just brought him to his wits' end. Try to keep your good memories
of him."
"I will, Mother Confessor."
Kahlan changed the subject. "I'll need one of your men to take a
message to Cyrilla. I was going to have Harold take it, but now we'll need a
messenger."
"I will see to it, Mother Confessor."
She only then realized how cold it was outside, and that she didn't
have a cloak. As the captain went to get his men quartered and to pick out a
man to act as a messenger, Kahlan went back inside the lodge.
Cara was putting more wood on the hearth. Verna and Adie had gone.
Warren was selecting a rolled map from the basket of maps and diagrams in
the corner.
As he was leaving; Kahlan caught Warren's arm. She looked into the
wizard's blue eyes, knowing they were much older than they appeared. Richard
had always said that Warren was one of the smartest people he had ever met.
Besides that, Warren's true talent was said to lie in the area of prophecy.
"Warren, are we all going to die in this mad war?"
His face softened with a shy but impish grin. "I thought you didn't
believe in prophecy, Kahlan."
She released his arm. "I guess I don't. Never mind."
Cara, leaving to find some more firewood, followed Warren out. Kahlan
warmed herself before the hearth as she stared at Spirit standing on the
mantel. Zedd rested a comforting hand on her shoulder.
"What you had to say to Harold about using your mind, about reason, was
very wise, Kahlan. You were right."
Her fingers touched the buttery smooth walnut robes of Spirit. "It was
what Richard said, when he was telling me what he had finally come to
understand about what he had to do. He said the only sovereign he could
allow to rule him was reason."
"Richard said that? Those were his very words?"
Kahlan nodded as she gazed at Spirit. "He said the first law of reason
is that what exists, exists; what is, is, and that from this irreducible,
bedrock principle, all knowledge is built. He said that was the foundation
from which life is embraced.
"He said thinking is a choice, and that wishes and whims are not facts,
nor are they a means to discover them. I guess Harold proved the point.
Richard said reason is our only way of grasping reality-that it's our basic
tool of survival. We are free to evade the effort of thinking-to reject
reason-but we are not free to avoid the penalty of the abyss we refuse to
see."
She listened to the fire crackling at her feet as she let her gaze
wander over the lines of the figure he had carved for her. When she heard
nothing from Zedd, she looked over her shoulder. He was staring into the
flames, a tear running down his cheek.
"Zedd, what's wrong?"
"The boy figured it out himself." The old wizard's voice was the uneasy
sum of loneliness and quiet pride. "He understands it-he interpreted it
perfectly. He even came to it on his own, by applying it."
"Came to what?"
"The most important rule there is, the Wizard's Sixth Rule: the only
sovereign you can allow to rule you is reason."
Reflections of the firelight danced in his hazel eyes. "The Sixth Rule
is the hub upon which all rules turn. It is not only the most important
rule, but the simplest. Nonetheless, it is the one most often ignored and
violated, and by far the most despised. It must be wielded in spite of the
ceaseless, howling protests of the wicked.
"Misery, iniquity, and utter destruction lurk in the shadows outside
its full light, where half-truths snare the faithful disciples, the deeply
feeling believers, the selfless followers.
"Faith and feelings are the warm marrow of evil. Unlike reason, faith
and feelings provide no boundary to limit any delusion, any whim. They are a
virulent poison, giving the numbing illusion of moral sanction to every
depravity ever hatched.
"Faith and feelings are the darkness to reason's light.
"Reason is the very substance of truth itself. The glory that is life
is wholly embraced through reason, through this rule. In rejecting it, in
rejecting reason, one embraces death."
By the next morning, about half of the Galean force had vanished,
returning to their homeland and queen as ordered by Prince Harold before his
death. The rest, like Captain Ryan and his young soldiers, remained loyal to
the D'Haran Empire.
Lieutenant Leiden, the former general, and his entire force of Keltish
troops had also departed by morning. He left Kahlan a letter, in it saying
that with Galea choosing to break with the D'Haran Empire, he had to return
to help protect Kelton, as surely the selfish actions of the Galeans meant
the Order would be more likely to come up the Kern River Valley and threaten
Kelton. He wrote that he hoped the Mother Confessor would realize how grave
was the danger to Kelton, and understand that it was not his intention to
desert her or the D'Haran Empire, but simply to help protect his people.
Kahlan knew of the men leaving; General Meiffert and Warren had come to
tell her. She had expected it, and had been watching. She told General
Meiffert to allow them to leave if they wished. War in their camp could come
to no good end. The morale of the remaining men was boosted by a sense of
being on the right side, and of doing the right thing.
That afternoon, as she was drafting an urgent letter to General
Baldwin, commander of all Keltish forces, General Meiffert and Captain Ryan
came to see her. After listening to their plan, she granted Captain Ryan
permission to go with a like number of General Meiffert's handpicked D'Haran
special forces to conduct raids on the Imperial Order force. Warren and six
Sisters were sent to accompany them.
With the Imperial Order having moved so far back to the south, Kahlan
needed information on what they were doing and what shape their force was
in. More than that, though, with the foul weather in their favor, she wanted
to keep pressure on the enemy. Captain Bradley Ryan and his band of nearly a
thousand were experienced mountain fighters and had grown up in just such
harsh conditions. Kahlan had fought beside the captain and his young Galean
soldiers, and had helped train them in the ways of fighting a vastly
superior force. If only the enemy force did not number over a million . . .
General Meiffert's special forces, which, until Kahlan had promoted
him, he had ably commanded, were now led by Captain Zimmer, a young, square
jawed, bullnecked D'Haran with an infectious smile. They were everything
Captain Ryan's young men were, tripled: experienced, businesslike under
stress, tireless, fearless, and coolly efficient at killing. What made most
soldiers blanch made them grin.
They preferred fighting just such as this, where they were free of
massive battlefield tactics and could instead use their special skills. They
treasured being let off the leash to do what they did best. Rather than
check them, Kahlan gave them a free hand.
Each of those D'Harans collected enemy ears.
They felt a great fidelity to Kahlan, in part because she didn't try to
rein them in and integrate them into the larger army, and, perhaps more so,
because when they returned from missions, she always asked to see their
strings of ears. They relished being appreciated.
Kahlan intended to later send them to collect Galean ears.
Kahlan glanced over her shoulder at the Prelate bent over the map
basket in the corner. It had been almost a full phase of the moon since
Warren had left on the mission with captains Ryan and Zimmer. Although it
was difficult to judge accurately just how long such missions would last,
they should have been back by now. Kahlan knew all too well the kind of
worry that had to be churning beneath the woman's no-nonsense exterior.
"Verna," Kahlan asked as she rubbed her arms, "on your way past, could
you throw some more wood on the fire, please?"
Cara hopped down off her stool, where she was perched, watching over
Kahlan's shoulder. "I'll do it."
Verna pulled a map free and, on her way back to the table, thanked
Cara. "Here it is, Zedd. I think this better shows the area you're talking
about."
Zedd unfurled the new map over the top of the one already laid out on
the table before Kahlan. It was a larger scale, giving a more detailed look
at the southern regions of the Midlands.
"Yes," Zedd drawled as he peered at the new map. "See here?" He tapped
the Drun River. "See how narrow the lowlands are down south, through here?
That's what I was talking about. Rough country, with cliffs in places
hemming the river. That's why I don't think they would try to go up the Drun
Valley."
"I suppose you're right," Verna said.
"Besides"-Kahlan waggled a finger over the area to the north on the
first map"up this way is mostly only Nicobarese. They are rather isolated,
and so a tempting target, but they aren't a wealthy land. The plunder and
trade goods would be slim. The Order has much more opportunity for conquest
if they stay over here. Besides, can you see how difficult it would be for
them to get their army back over the Rang'Shada mountains, if they went up
the Drun? Strategically, it wouldn't make as much sense for them to go up
that way."
Verna idly twiddled with a button on her blue dress as she studied the
map. "Yes . . . I see what you mean."
"But your point is well taken," Kahlan said. "It wouldn't be a bad idea
if you sent a Sister or two to watch that area; just because it doesn't make
as much logistic sense, that doesn't mean Jagang wouldn't try it. Come
spring, he's bound to move on us. We wouldn't want to be surprised to find
the Imperial Order storming in the back door to Aydindril."
Cara answered the knock at the door. It was a head scout named Hayes.
Kahlan stood when she saw through the open door and nearby trees that
Captain Ryan was also making his way toward the lodge.
Hayes saluted with a fist to his heart.
"Glad to see you back, Corporal Hayes," Kahlan said.
"Thank you, Mother Confessor. It's good to be back."
He looked like he could use a meal. After Captain Ryan rushed in
through the door, Cara pushed it shut against the blowing snow. Hayes
stepped to the side, out of the way of the captain.
Kahlan was relieved to see the young Galean officer. "How did
everything go, Captain? How is everyone?"
He pulled off his scarf and wool hat as he caught his breath; Verna
looked to be holding hers.
"Good," the captain said. "We did well. The Sisters were able to heal
some of our wounded. Some needed to be transported for a ways before the
Sisters could see to them. That slowed us. We had a few losses, but not as
many as we feared. Warren was a great help."
"Where is Warren?" Zedd asked.
As if bidden by his name, Warren came in through the door, escorted by
a swirling gust of snow. Kahlan squinted at the slash of bright light until
the door was pushed shut once more. She caught the look on Verna's face, and
recalled how lighthearted she always felt to see Richard back safely when
they had been separated. Warren casually kissed Verna on the cheek with a
quick peck. Kahlan noticed the look they shared, even if no one else did.
She was happy for them, but still, the reminder was like a jab at the pain
of her helpless heartache and worry over Richard.
"Did you tell them?" Warren asked, unbuttoning his cloak.
"No," Captain Ryan said. "We haven't had a chance yet."
Zedd's brow drew down. "Tell us what?"
Warren heaved a sigh. "Well, Verna's special glass worked better than
we thought it had. We captured several men and questioned them at length.
The ones we saw dead in the valley were only the ones who died at first."
Verna helped Warren shed his heavy, snow-crusted cloak. She put it on
the floor by the fire, where Captain Ryan had laid his brown coat to dry.
"It seems," Warren went on, "that there were a great many-maybe another
sixty, seventy thousand-who didn't go blind, but who lost the sight in one
eye, or have impaired vision. The Order couldn't very well abandon them,
because they can still see well enough to stay with the rest, but more
important, it's hoped that maybe those men will heal, and regain full use of
their sight-and their ability to fight."
"Not likely," Verna said.
"I don't think so, either," Warren said, "but that's what they are
thinking, anyway. Another goodly number, maybe twenty five or thirty
thousand, are sick---their eyes and noses red and horribly infected."
Verna nodded. "The glass will do that."
"Then some more, maybe half that number, are having breathing
difficulty."
"So," Kahlan said, "with those killed and those injured enough to keep
them from being effective fighters, that makes somewhere near one hundred
fifty thousand put out of the way by the glass dust. Quite an
accomplishment, Verna."
Verna looked as pleased as Kahlan. "It was worth that horse ride
scaring the wits out of me. It wouldn't have worked had you not thought of
doing it that way."
"What kind of success did you have, Captain?" Cara asked as she came to
stand behind Kahlan.,
"Captain Zimmer and I had the kind of success we hoped for. I'd guess
we took out maybe ten thousand in the time we were down there."
Zedd let out a slow whistle. "Pretty heavy fighting."
"Not really. Not the way the Mother Confessor taught us to do it, and
not the way Captain Zimmer works, either. Mostly we eliminate the enemy as
efficiently as possible, and try to keep from having to fight at all. If you
slit a man's throat in his sleep, you can accomplish a lot more, and you're
less likely to get hurt yourself."
Kahlan smiled. "I'm glad you were such a good student."
Captain Ryan lifted a thumb. "Warren and the Sisters were a great help
at getting us where we needed to be without being discovered. Any word about
the white cloaks, yet? We could really use them. I can tell you for a fact
that they would have enabled us to do more."
"We just got in our first load the day before yesterday," Kahlan told
him. "More than enough for your men and Captain Zimmer's. We'll have more
within a few days."
Captain Ryan rubbed his hands, warming his fingers. "Captain Zimmer
will be pleased."
Zedd gestured to the south. "Did you find out why they withdrew so far
back over ground they'd taken?"
Warren nodded. "From the men we questioned, we found out that they have
fever going through their camp. Nothing we did, just your regular fever that
happens in such crowded camp conditions in the field. But they've lost tens
of thousands of men to the fever. They wanted to withdraw to put some
distance between us, give themselves some breathing room. They aren't
concerned about being able to push us out of their way when they wish."
That made sense. With their numbers, it was only natural for them to be
confident, even cavalier, about dealing with any opposition. Kahlan couldn't
understand why Warren and Captain Ryan looked so downhearted. She sensed
that, despite their good news, there was something amiss.
"Dear spirits," Kahlan said, trying to give them some cheer. "Their
numbers are dwindling away like snow beside the hearth. This is better
than-"
Warren held up a hand. "I asked Hayes, here, to come and give you his
report firsthand. I think you had better hear him out."
Kahlan motioned the man to come forward. He stepped smartly up to her
table and snapped to attention.
"Let's hear what you have to report, Corporal Hayes."
His face looked chalky, and despite the cold, he was sweating.
"Mother Confessor, my scout team was down to the southeast, watching
the routes in from the wilds, and watching, too in case the Order tried to
swing wide around us. Well, I guess the short of it is, we spotted a column
making its way west to resupply and reinforce the Order."
"They're a big army," Kahlan said. "They would have supplies sent from
their homeland to augment what they can get as spoils. A supply column would
have men guarding them."
"I followed them for a week, just to get an accurate count."
"How many," Kahlan asked.
"Well over a quarter million, Mother Confessor."
Kahlan's flesh tingled as if icy needles were dancing over it.
"How many?" Verna asked.
"At least two hundred and fifty thousand men at arms, plus drivers and
civilians with the supplies."
Everything they had worked for, all the sacrifices, all the struggle to
whittle down the Imperial Order, had just been nullified. Worse than
nullified, their work had been erased, and nearly that many more had been
added to the force the enemy had started with.
"Dear spirits," Kahlan whispered, "how many men does the Old World have
to throw at us?"
When she met Warren's gaze, she knew that this number, even, was hardly
surprising to him.
Warren gestured to the scout. "Hayes saw only the first group. The men
we captured told us about the reinforcements. We weren't sure they were
telling us the truth-we thought they might be trying to spook us-but then we
met up with Corporal Hayes, on his way back. We did some further questioning
and scoutingthat's why we were delayed in returning."
"Another quarter million . . ." Kahlan's words trailed off. It all
seemed so hopeless.
Warren cleared his throat. "That is just the first column of fresh
troops. More are coming."
Kahlan went to the hearth and warmed her hands as she stared into the
flames. She was standing beneath the statue Richard had carved for her, to
make her feel better. Kahlan wished that at that moment she could recall the
defiant feeling Spirit portrayed. It felt as if she could only contemplate
death.
--]----
The news of the Imperial Order reinforcements, just as the news of
departure of the Galeans and Keltans, spread through the camp faster than a
storm wind. Kahlan, Zedd, Warren, Verna, Adie, General Meiffert, and all the
rest of the officers held nothing back from the men. Those men were risking
their lives daily and had a right to the truth. If Kahlan was passing
through the camp, and a soldier was brave enough to ask her, she told him
what she knew. She tried to give them confidence, too, but she didn't lie to
them.
The men, having struggled for so long, were beyond fear. The bleak mood
was a palpable pall smothering the spark of life out of them. They went
about their tasks as if numb, accepting their fate, which now seemed sealed,
resigned to the inevitable. The New World offered no shelter, no safe place,
nowhere to hide from the boundless menace of the Imperial Order.
Kahlan showed the soldiers a determined face. She had no choice.
Captain Ryan and his men, having been through such despair before, were less
troubled by the news. They couldn't die; they were already dead. Along with
Kahlan, the young Galeans had long ago taken an oath of the dead, and could
only be returned to life when the Order was destroyed.
None of it mattered much to Captain Zimmer and his men. They knew what
needed to be done, and they simply kept at it. Each of them now had multiple
strings of ears. They began new strings at one hundred. It was a matter of
honor to them that they kept only the right ear, so no two ears could be
from the same man.
Representative Theriault of Herjborgue was as good as his word. The
white wool cloaks, hats, and mittens arrived weekly, helping hide the men
who regularly went on missions, while the weather was in their favor, to
attack the Imperial Order. With the sickness in the Order's camp leaving so
many of them weak, along with so
many of the enemy having impaired vision, those missions were
extraordinarily successful. Troops wearing the concealing cloaks were also
sent to lie in wait and intercept any supply trains, hoping to neutralize
the reinforcements before they could join with the enemy's main force.
Still, the attacks were little more than an annoyance to the Order.
Kahlan, after a meeting with a group just returned, found Zedd alone in
the lodge, looking over the latest information that had been added to the
maps.
"Good fortune," she said when he looked up, watching as she removed her
fur mantle. "The men who just got in had few casualties, and they caught a
large group out on patrol. They were able to cut them off and take them all
out, including one of Jagang's Sisters."
"Then why the long face?"
She could only lift her hands in a forsaken gesture of futility.
"Try not to be so disheartened," Zedd told her. "Despair is often war's
handmaiden. I can't tell you how many years it was, back when I was young,
that everyone fighting for their lives in that war back then thought that it
was only a matter of time until we were crushed. We went on to win."
"I know, Zedd. I know." Kahlan rubbed at the chill in her hands. She
almost hated to say it, but she finally did. "Richard wouldn't come to lead
the army because he said that the way things stand now, we can't win. He
said whether or not we fight the Order, the world will fall under its
shadow, and if we fight, it will only result in more death-that our side
will be destroyed, the Order would still rule the world, and any chance for
winning in the future would be lost."
Zedd peered at her with one eye. "Then what are you doing here?"
"Richard said we can't win, but, dear spirits, I can't let myself
believe that. I would rather die fighting to be free, to help keep my people
free, than to live the death of a slave. Yet, I know I'm violating Richard's
wishes, his advice, and his orders. I gave him my word .... I feel as if I'm
treading the quicksand of betrayal, and taking everyone with me."
She searched his face for some sign that Richard might have been wrong.
"You said that he had figured out the Wizard's Sixth Rule on his own-that we
must use our minds to see the reality of the way things are. I had hopes. I
thought he had to be wrong about the futility of this war, but now. . ."
Zedd smiled to himself, as if finding fancy in something she saw as
only horrifying.
"This is going to be a long war. It is far from beyond hope, much less
decided. This is the agony of leadership in such a struggle-the doubts, the
fears, the feelings of hopelessness. Those are feelings-not necessarily
reality. Not yet. We have much yet to bring to bear.
"Richard said what he believed based on the way matters stood at the
time he said them. Who is to say that the people are not now prepared to
prove themselves to him? Prove themselves ready to reject the Order? Perhaps
what Richard needed in order for him to commit to the battle, has already
come about."
"But I know how strongly he warned me against joining this battle. He
meant what he said. Still . . . I don't have Richard's strength, the
strength to turn my back and let it happen." Kahlan gestured to her inkstand
on the table. "I've sent letters asking that more troops be sent down here."
He smiled again, as if to say that proved it could be done.
"It will take continual effort to grind down the enemy's numbers. I
think we
have yet to deal the Order a truly serious blow, but we will. The
Sisters and I will come up with something. You never know in matters of this
kind. It could be that we will suddenly do something that will send them
reeling."
Kahlan smiled and rubbed his shoulder. "Thanks, Zedd. I'm so thankful
to have you with us." Her gaze wandered to Spirit, standing proudly above
the hearth. She stepped over to the mantel, as if to an altar that held the
sacred carving. "Dear spirits, I miss him."
It was a question without the words, hoping he would surprise her with
something that he had thought of to help get Richard back.
"I know, dear one. I miss him, too. He's alive-that's the most
important thing."
Kahlan could only nod.
Zedd clapped his hands together, as if taken with a gleeful thought.
"What we need, more than anything, is something to get everyone's mind off
of the task at hand for a while. Something to give them a reason to cheer
together for a while. It would do them more good than anything."
Kahlan frowned over her shoulder. "Like what? You mean some kind of
game, or something?"
His face was all screwed up in musing. "I don't know. Something happy.
Something to show them that the Order can't stop us from living our lives.
Can't stop us from the enjoyment of life-of what life is really all about."
He stroked a thumb along the sharp line of his jaw. "Any ideas?"
"Well, I can't really think of-"
Just then, Warren strode in. "Just got a report from over in the Drun
Valley. Our lucky day-no activity, as we expected."
He stopped dead in his tracks, his hand still holding the door lever,
looking from Kahlan to Zedd and back again.
"What's the matter? What's going on? Why are you two looking at me like
that?"
Verna came up behind Warren and gave him a shove into the lodge. "Go
on, go on, get in there. Close the door. What's the matter with you? It's
freezing out there."
Verna huffed and shut the door herself. When she turned around and saw
Zedd and Kahlan, she backed a step.
"Vema, Warren," Zedd said in a honeyed voice, "come on in, won't you?"
Verna scowled. "What are you two scheming and grinning at?"
"Well," Zedd drawled as he winked at Kahlan, "the Mother Confessor and
I were just discussing the big event."
Verna's scowl darkened as she leaned in. "What big event? I've heard
nothing about any big event."
Even Warren, rarely given to scowling, was scowling now. "That's right.
What big event?"
"Your wedding," Zedd said.
Both Verna and Warren's scowls evaporated as they straightened. They
were overcome with surprised, silly, radiant grins.
"Really?" Warren asked.
"Really?" Verna asked.
"Yes, really," Kahlan said.
It took more than two weeks to prepare for Verna and Warren's wedding.
It wasn't that it couldn't have been done more quickly, but rather, as Zedd
had explained to Kahlan, he wanted-to "drag out the whole affair." He wanted
to give everyone ample time to ponder it and to dream up lavish doings; time
to organize, to make decorations, to cook special foods, to get the camp
ready for a grand party; time to have a stretch where everyone could gossip
about it as they eagerly looked forward to the big event.
The soldiers, at first merely pleased, soon got caught up in the spirit
of the occasion. It became a grand diversion.
They all liked Warren. He was the sort of man that everyone felt a
little sorry for, a bit protective of-the awkward shy type. Most didn't have
the foggiest understanding of many of the things he babbled about. They
thought that he just wasn't the type who would ever win a woman. That he
had, to them seemingly against all odds, gave the men an inner pride that he
was one of theirs, and he had done it: he'd won a woman's heart. It gave
them hope that they might one day have a wedding, a wife, and a family, even
if they were afraid that they, too, were often awkward and shy.
The men even openly expressed happiness for Verna. She was a woman they
respected, but had never exactly felt warmly toward. Their bold well-wishes
flummoxed her.
The entire camp was caught up in the spirit of the event even more than
Kahlan had hoped. After a brief pause in the beginning, while it sank in,
the men, so weary not only of fighting against such odds, the loss of
friends, and being in the field away from their homes and loved ones for so
long, but also the harsh, difficult, dreary weather, took to the diversion
with gusto.
A large central area was cleared-tents moved, and the area cleaned of
snow down to the bare ground. At the head of the cleared area, they built a
platform-laid across anchored supply wagonsatop which the wedding was to
take place. The platform was needed so that the men would have a better
chance to see the ceremony. A dance area was set aside and those men with
musical instruments, and not out on duty, spent night and day practicing. A
choir was formed and went off to a secluded ravine to rehearse. Wherever
Kahlan went, she could hear pipes and drums, or the piercing notes of a
shawm, or the melodic chords of strings. Men came to fear playing off-key
more than they feared the Imperial Order.
With over a hundred Sisters available, it was suggested that there
could be dancing after the ceremony. The Sisters liked the idea, until they
started doing the math and realized how many men there were to each woman,
and how much dancing they would be doing. Still, they were titillated at the
prospect of having attention lavished
on them at a dance, and approved the idea. Women centuries old were
blushing like girls again at all the requests from men in their teens and
twenties for the promise of a turn with them at the wedding dance.
As the wedding approached the men made streets, of sorts, in a winding
course through the camp, so that after the ceremony, the wedding party could
pass in review through the entire camp. All the men wanted a chance to be a
part in greeting the newly married couple and wishing them well.
Kahlan had the idea that, after the wedding, Warren and Verna should
have the lodge. It was to be her wedding gift to them, so, for the most
part, she kept it a secret. Kahlan had Cara direct the public pretense of
having a tent set aside and reserved for the newly married couple. Cara
moved Verna's things in the tent, and freshened it up with herbs and frozen
sprigs with wild berries. The diversion worked; Verna believed the tent was
to be hers and Warren's, and wouldn't let him into it until after they were
married.
The day of the wedding dawned with sparkling blue skies, and wasn't so
cold that people were likely to get frostbite. The fresh snow of the day
before was quickly cleared out of the central area so that the festivities
could take place without the Sisters getting snow down their boots as they
danced. Some of the Sisters came out to inspect the dance floor, sauntering
around, giving the men a look at who they might get to have a turn with-if
they were lucky. It was all done with much humor and good cheer.
While Verna spent the early afternoon in her tent, submitting to having
her hair fussed over, her face painted, and her wedding dress tended to by a
gaggle of Sisters, Kahlan was finally able to have the secrecy she needed in
order to decorate the lodge. Inside, she secured fragrant, feathery, balsam
boughs to a cord and draped it in swags around the top of every wall. She
tied red berries-as that was all she could come by-into the boughs to give
them some color.
One of the Sisters had given Kahlan some plain weave fabric that Kahlan
had made into a curtain for the window. She had worked on it when she
retired to the lodge at night, stitching designs to give the simple material
a lacy look. She kept it under her bed so that when they came in to go over
battlefield strategy, Verna and Warren wouldn't know what she was doing.
Kahlan was finally able to put the scented candles, donated by different
Sisters as gifts, all around the room, and at last hang the curtain on a
straight limb she stripped of bark.
The one thing Kahlan wouldn't leave to brighten the lodge for the newly
wedded couple was Spirit. That, she would take to her new tent.
As Kahlan was making up the bed with fresh bedding, Cara came in with
an armload of something blue.
Kahlan folded the blanket under the foot of the straw-filled mattress
as she watched Cara shut the door.
"What have you got there?"
"You won't believe it," Cara said with a grin. "Wide blue silk ribbon.
The Sisters have Verna tied to a chair while they're fussing over her, and
Zedd has Warren off doing something, so I thought you and I could use the
ribbon to decorate the place a little. Drape it around. Make it look
pretty." She pointed. "Like up there-we could wind it around the balsam you
hung to give it a fancy look."
Kahlan blinked in surprise. "What a good idea."
She didn't know what was more astonishing, actually seeing Cara with
blue silk ribbon, or hearing her say "decorate" and "pretty" in the same
breath. She smiled
to herself, happy to have heard such a thing. Zedd was more of a wizard
than he knew.
Kahlan and Cara each stood on a log round, working their way along the
wall as they wove the ribbon through and around the swagged balsam boughs.
It was so beautiful seeing the first wall completed that Kahlan couldn't
stop gazing and grinning. They started in on the second wall, opposite the
door, using extra ribbon for best effect when Verna and Warren first entered
and saw their new place.
"Where did you ever get all this ribbon, away?" Kahlan asked around a
mouthful of pins.
"Benjamin got it for me." Cara chuckled as she threaded the ribbon
around the cord. "Can you believe it? He made me promise not to ask him
where he got it from."
Kahlan took the pins from her mouth. "Who?"
"Who what?" Cara mumbled before she stuck her tongue out the corner of
her mouth while wiggling a pin into a tight place.
"Who did you say got you the ribbon?"
Cara lifted another length of blue silk to the ceiling. "General
Meiffert. I don't have a clue where he-"
"You said Benjamin."
Cara lowered the ribbon and stared at Kahlan. "No I didn't."
"Yes, you did. You said Benjamin."
"I said General Meiffert. You only thought-"
"I never knew that General Meiffert's first name was Benjamin."
"Well..."
"Is `Benjamin' General Meiffert's first name?"
Had Cara been wearing her red leather, her face would have matched it.
As it was, her dark scowl matched the brown leather she had on.
"You know it is."
A smile grew on Kahlan's lips. "I do now."
--]----
Kahlan wore her white Mother Confessor's dress. She was a bit surprised
to notice that it fit a little loosely, but all things considered, she
supposed it was to be expected. Because of the cold, she also wore the wolf
fur mantle Richard had made for her, but draped it around her shoulders more
like a stole. She stood with her back straight and chin held high,
overseeing the ceremony and gazing out at the tens of thousands of quiet
faces. Behind her was a rich verdant wall of woven boughs that enabled
distant spectators to more easily pick out the six people up on the
platform. An ethereal mist of silent breath lifted in the still, golden,
lateafternoon air.
As he conducted the wedding ceremony, Zedd's back was to her. Kahlan
was fascinated to see his wavy white hair, perpetually in disarray, now
brushed and smoothed down. He wore his fine maroon robes with black sleeves
and cowled shoulders. Silver brocade circled the cuffs, while gold brocade
ran around the neck and down the front. A red satin belt set with a gold
buckle gathered the outfit at his waist. Adie stood beside him, wearing her
simple sorceress's robes with their yellow and red beads at the neckline.
Somehow, the contrast looked as grand.
Verna wore a rich violet dress done up with gold stitching at the
square neckline.
The intricate gold needlework ran down the tight sleeves showing under
slashed sham sleeves tied at the elbow with gold ribbon. The delicate
smocking over the midriff extending in a funnel shape down into a gored
skirt flaring nearly to the floor. Vema's wavy brown hair was festooned with
blue, gold, and crimson flowers the sisters had made from little pieces of
silk. With her serene smile, she made a beautiful sorceress bride standing
beside the handsome blond groom in his violet wizard's robes.
Everyone seemed to lean in a little as the ceremony reached the climax.
"Do you, Vema, take this wizard to be your husband for life," Zedd went
on in a clear tone that carried out over the crowd, "mindful of his gift and
duty to it, and swear to both love and honor him without pause for as long
as you live?"
"I do," Vema said in a silken voice.
"Do you, Warren," Adie said, her voice all the more raspy in contrast
to Vema's, "take this sorceress to be your wife for life, mindful of her
gift and duty to it, and swear to both love and honor her without pause for
as long as you live?
"I do," Warren said in a confident tone.
"Then, it being of your free will, I accept you, sorceress, as being
agreeable and give my joyful blessing to this union." Zedd raised
outstretched arms up into the air. "I ask the good spirits to smile on this
woman's oath."
"Then, it being of your free will, I accept you, wizard, as being
agreeable and give my joyful blessing to this union." Adie raised
outstretched arms up into the air. "I ask the good spirits to smile on this
man's oath."
The four of them crossed their arms and joined hands. With heads bowed,
the air in the center of their circle glowed with a living light shining on
the union. The brilliant flare sent a golden ray skyward, as if carrying the
oath to the good spirits.
Together, Zedd and Adie said, "From this time forward, you are forever
joined as husband and wife, both by oath, by love, and now by gift."
The magical light dissolved from the bottom up until it was but a
solitary star directly above them in an empty, late-afternoon sky.
In the silent winter air tens of thousands of spellbound eyes watched a
trembling Vema meet Warren's kiss to seal a wedding unlike any they were
likely to ever see again: the marriage of a sorceress and a wizard, bound by
more than any mere oath-bound also by a covenant of magic.
When Vema and Warren parted, both wearing broad smiles, the crowd went
wild. Cheers, along with hats, rose into the air.
Both beaming, Vema and Warren joined hands after they tumed to the
soldiers. They waved with their free arms high in the air. Soldiers cheered,
applauded, and whistled as if it were their own sister or best friend who
was just married.
The voices of the choir then built in an extended note that
reverberated through the trees all around. It made Kahlan's skin tingle with
the quality of its haunting tone. The sound brought a reverent hush to the
valley.
Cara leaned close to Kahlan and whispered in astonishment that the
choir was singing an ancient D'Haran wedding ceremonial song, the origin of
which went back thousands of years. Since the men had gone off to practice
alone, Kahlan hadn't heard it before the wedding. It was so powerful it
swept her emotions away with the rise and fall of the joined voices. Vema
and Warren stood on the edge of the platform, likewise gripped by the
achingly beautiful song to their union.
Flutes joined in, and then drums. The soldiers, mostly D'Haran, smiled
as they listened to the music they knew well. It struck Kahlan then, since
she had so long thought of D'Hara as an enemy land, that she had never
really thought of D'Harans as having traditions that could be meaningful, or
stirring, or beloved.
Kahlan glanced over at Cara, standing beside her, smiling distantly as
she listened to the music. There was an entire land of D'Hara that was
largely a mystery to Kahlan; she had only seen their soldiers. She knew
nothing of their womenother than the Mord-Sith, and they were hardly
typical-or their children, or their homes, or their customs. She had come to
think of them as joined together at last, but she now realized that they
were a people she didn't know, a people with their own heritage.
"It's beautiful," Kahlan whispered to Cara.
Cara nodded blissfully, carried away on the strains of music that was
an old acquaintance to her,-and a exotic wonder to Kahlan.
As the choir came to the end of their tribute to the newly wedded
couple, Verna reached back and squeezed Kahlan's hand. It was an apology of
sorts-an acknowledgment of how difficult this ceremony must be for Kahlan.
Refusing to let that hurt tarnish this joyous event, Kahlan beamed at
Verna's quick glance. She came forward, standing behind Warren and Verna
with an arm around each. The noise of the crowd trailed off so Kahlan could
speak.
"These two people belong together. Perhaps they always have. Now they
forever shall be. May the good spirits be with them always."
With one voice, the entire crowd repeated the prayer.
"I want to thank Verna and Warren from the bottom of my heart," Kahlan
said as she gazed out at the tens of thousands of faces watching, "for
reminding us what life is really about. There is no more eloquent
demonstration of the simple yet deep meaning of our cause than this wedding
today."
Heads as far as she could see bobbed in agreement.
"Now," Kahlan called out, "who wants to see these two have the first
dance?"
The men cheered and hooted as they spread back to open up the central
area. Musicians lined up along the benches at the sides.
As they waited for Verna and Warren to make their way down to the dance
area, Kahlan draped an arm over Zedd's shoulder and kissed his cheek.
"This is the best idea you ever had, wizard."
He took her in with hazel eyes that seemed to see all the way to a
person's soul.
"Are you all right, dear one? I know this has to be hard."
Kahlan nodded, holding her grin firmly in place. "I'm fine. It has to
be hard on you, twice over."
A smile took him unexpectedly. "There you go again, Mother Confessor.
Worrying about others."
Kahlan watched a laughing Verna and Warren, arm in arm, dancing lightly
across the open area ringed by applauding soldiers.
"When they're done," Kahlan asked, "and after you've given your first
to Adie, would you dance with me, sir? Stand in for him? I'm sure he would
want that."
Kahlan couldn't bring herself to say his name at that moment, or the
spell of the joyful celebration would have been broken.
Zedd lifted an eyebrow with playful delight. "What makes you think I
can dance?"
Kahlan laughed. "Because there isn't anything you can't do."
"I be able to name a number of things this skinny old man can't do,"
Adie said with a smile as she shuffled up behind him.
When the dance was done, and others began joining in as the newly
married couple began the second, Zedd and Adie went out in the ring to have
a dance and show the young people how it was done. Kahlan stood at the edge
of the circle with Cara close at her side. General Meiffert, laughing and
shaking men's hands, slapping others on the back, made his way over.
"Mother Confessor!" He was pushed up close by the press of the crowd.
"Mother Confessor, this is a wonderful day, isn't it? Have you ever seen the
likes of it?"
Kahlan couldn't help but to smile at his delight. "No, General
Meiffert, I don't think I have."
He glanced briefly at Cara. He stood awkwardly a moment, then turned to
watch the dancing. Despite how well the men had come to know her, Kahlan was
still a Confessor-a woman people feared to be near, much less touch. No one
was likely to ask a Confessor to dance.
Or a Mord-Sith.
"General?" Kahlan asked, tapping him on the back of his shoulder.
"General, could you do me a great personal favor?"
"Well, of course, Mother Confessor," he stammered. "Anything. What is
it I can do?"
Kahlan gestured out at the dance area and the soldiers and Sisters
ringing it. "Would you please dance? I know we're supposed to be on guard
for any mischief, but I think it would let the men see the true festive
nature of this party, were their general to go out there and dance."
"Dance?"
"Yes. Please?"
"But, I-that is, I don't know who. . ."
"Oh, do please stop trying to get out of it." Kahlan turned, as if
suddenly struck with a thought. "Cara. Would you go out there with him and
dance so his men will see that it's all right to join in?"
Cara's blue eyes shifted between Kahlan and the general. "Well, I don't
see how-"
"Do it for me? Please, Cara?" Kahlan turned back to the general. "I
believe I heard someone mention that your given name is Benjamin?"
He scratched his temple. "That's right, Mother Confessor."
Kahlan turned back to Cara. "Cara, Benjamin, here, needs a-partner for
a dance. How about you? Please? Do it for me?"
Cara cleared her throat. "Well, all right. For you, then, Mother
Confessor."
"And don't break his ribs, or anything. We have need of his talents."
Cara scowled back over her shoulder as a smiling Benjamin led her away.
Kahlan folded her arms and grinned as she watched the man take Cara in
his arms. It was just about a perfect day. Just about.
Kahlan was watching Benjamin gracefully swirl Cara around, and other
soldiers pulling suddenly shy Sisters out of the line at the edge of the
dance area, when Captain Ryan stumbled up.
He straightened before her. "Mother Confessor . . . uh, well, we've
been through a lot together and, if I'm not being too forward, could I ask
you to . . . you know, dance?"
Kahlan blinked in surprise at the tall, young, broad Galean.
"Why, yes, Bradley, I would love to dance with you. I would love it.
But only if you promise not to hold me like I'm made of glass. I don't want
to look foolish out there."
He grinned and nodded. "All right."
She placed one hand in his, and laid the other over his shoulder. He
put his big hand to the side of her waist, under her open fur mantle, and
twirled her out amid the merrymakers. Kahlan smiled and laughed as she
endured it. She thought of Spirit, and willed herself to remember that kind
of strength, and she was able to relax, and take the party for what it was,
and not think about what was missing as another man held her in his arms, if
timidly.
"Bradley, you're a wonderful dancer."
Pride shined in his eyes. She felt him loosen up, and let the music
flow more smoothly through his movements. Kahlan caught sight of Cara and
Benjamin, not far away, doing their best to dance and not look at each
other. When he whirled her around him, his arm securely holding her waist,
Cara's long blond braid sailed out behind her. Then Kahlan actually saw Cara
look up into Benjamin's blue eyes and smile.
Kahlan was relieved when the song ended and Captain Ryan was replaced
for the next dance by Zedd. She held him close as she moved to a slower tune
with him.
"I'm proud of you, Mother Confessor. You gave a wonderful thing to
these men."
"And what is that?"
"Your heart." He tilted his head. "See them watching you? You've given
them courage. You've given them a reason to believe in what they're doing."
Kahlan lifted an eyebrow. "You trickster, you. You may fool others, but
not me. It is you who has given me heart."
Zedd only smiled. "You know, not since the very first Confessor has a
man ever again figured out how to love such a woman without her power
destroying him. I'm glad it was my grandson who accomplished such an
exploit, and that it was for his love of you. I love you as a granddaughter,
Kahlan, and look forward to the day when you are back with my grandson."
Kahlan held Zedd close, resting her head against his shoulder, as they
both danced on with their memories.
As the dancing went on, the golden setting sun was finally replaced by
torches and warm fires. Sisters changed partners after each dance, and still
there were jovial men lined up out of sight waiting a turn, and not just
with the younger, more attractive Sisters. Cooks' helpers set out simple
fare on food tables, sampling some and joking with the soldiers as they went
about their task. Between dances, Warren and Verna tried the variety of food
from different tables.
Kahlan danced once more with Captain Ryan, and once more with Zedd, but
then busied herself speaking to officers and soldiers alike so she wouldn't
have to dance with anyone, should anyone feel awkward about asking her, yet
work up the nerve. She was more able to enjoy the festivities without having
to dance.
As she was greeting a line of young officers, and they were telling her
how much they appreciated the party, someone tapped Kahlan on the shoulder.
She turned to a smiling Warren.
"Mother Confessor, I would be honored were you to have a dance with
me."
Kahlan noticed Verna dancing with Zedd. This was one dance that would
be different. "Warren, I would love to dance with the handsome groom."
He moved smoothly with her, not at all haltingly as she had expected.
He seemed to be blissfully at peace, and not nervous about the crush of
people or the men constantly clapping him on the back, or the joking remarks
from some of the Sisters.
"Mother Confessor, I just wanted to thank you for making this the best
day I've ever had."
Kahlan smiled up into his young face, his ageless eyes. "Warren, thank
you for agreeing to this big party. I know it's not the sort of thing that
fits you-"
"Oh, but it is. That's just it. People used to call me the mole."
"They did? Why?"
"Because I used to stay down in the vaults all the time studying the
prophecies. It wasn't just that I liked to study the books-I was afraid to
come out."
"But you finally did."
He turned her in time with the sweep of music. "Richard brought me
out."
"He did? I never knew that."
"In a way, you've helped add to what he started." Warren smiled
distantly. "I just wanted to thank you. I know how much I miss him, and how
much Verna misses him. I know the men miss their Lord Rahl."
Kahlan was only able to nod.
"And I know how much you miss your husband. That's why I wanted to
thank you-for giving us this, and the gift of your grace, despite your
heartache. Everyone here feels it with you. Please know that while you miss
him, you are not alone, and are among those who love him too."
Kahlan smiled, and managed to get out a "Thank you."
As they danced across the open area, laughing at the merry tune and the
awkward steps of some of the soldiers, the music abruptly trailed off.
It was then that she heard the horns.
Alarm swept through the assembled soldiers, as men ran for their
weapons, until one of the sentries sprinted in, waving his arm, calling out
for everyone to stand down, that it was friendly forces.
Puzzled, Kahlan stretched her neck along with everyone else, trying to
see. They had no forces out. She had let them all be present to enjoy the
wedding party.
The crowd parted as horses trotted through the throng. Kahlan's
eyebrows went up, and her jaw dropped. The distinguished General Baldwin,
commander of all Keltish forces, was at the fore, riding a handsome chestnut
gelding. He brought the horse to a smart halt. He ran his first finger along
the length of his white-flecked dark mustache as he took in the crowd
gathered in around him. His graying black hair grew down over his ears, and
his pate shone through on top. He was a striking figure in his serge cape
fastened on one shoulder with two buttons, allowing it to show the rich
green silk lining. His tan surcoat was decorated with a heraldic emblem
slashed through with a diagonal black line dividing a yellow and blue
shield. The man's high boots were rolled down below his knees. Long black
gauntlets, their flared cuffs lying over the front, were tucked behind a
wide belt set with an ornate buckle.
The press of men made way for Kahlan to step through. "General!"
He lifted a hand in his noble manner, a smile spreading wide. "Mother
Confessor, how good to see you."
Kahlan started to speak, but horses charged through, the crowd falling
back for them. They stormed into the dance area like a wind-borne fire-a
dozen Mord-Sith in red leather. One of the women leaped from her horse.
"Rikka!" Cara called out.
The woman's bold glare swept over the gathered people. She finally
settled her gaze, taking in Cara. Cara moved out of General Meiffert's arms.
"Cara," she said as way of greeting. She glanced around. "Where is
Hania?"
Cara stepped closer. "Hania? She's not here."
The woman pressed her lips together in bitter disappointment. "I
thought as much. When I never received word back, I feared we had lost her.
Still, I was hoping. . ."
Kahlan stepped forward, a little miffed that the woman saw fit to step
in front of General Baldwin. "Rikka, is it?"
"Ah," Rikka said, a knowing smile stealing onto her face, "You could be
none other than Lord Rahl's wife-the Mother Confessor. I recognize the
description." The woman saluted casually with a fist to her heart. "Yes, I
am Rikka."
"I'm glad to have you here, and your sisters of the Agiel."
"I came from Aydindril as soon as Berdine received your letter. It
explained a lot. She and I discussed it, and decided I should come with some
of my sisters to help in our effort. I left six sister Mord-Sith with
Berdine to watch over Aydindril and the Wizard's Keep. I also brought twenty
thousand troops." She lifted a thumb, pointing with it behind her. "We met
up with the general, here, a week back."
"We can certainly use your help. That was wise of Berdine-I know how
eager she was to come herself, but she knows the city and the Keep. I'm glad
she followed my instructions." Kahlan settled her most unsettling
Mother-Confessor-gaze on Rikka. "Now, if you don't mind, you interrupted
General Baldwin."
Cara shoved Rikka, pushing her back out of the way. "We need to talk,
Rikka, before you're up to the task of serving Lord Rahl and his wife, who
just happens to be a sister of the Agiel."
Rikka lifted and eyebrow in surprise. "Really? How could-"
"Later," Cara said with a smile before Rikka could get herself into any
more trouble, moving the woman and her sister Mord-Sith back. Zedd, Adie,
and Verna eased closer to Kahlan.
General Baldwin, now off his horse, stepped forward at last and went to
a knee in a bow. "My queen, Mother Confessor."
"Rise, my child," Kahlan said in formal answer as the camp looked on
with the same rapt attention they had devoted to the wedding. This had
important bearing on them, too.
The general rose to his feet. "I came as soon as I received your
letter, Mother Confessor."
"How many men did you bring?"
He looked surprised by the question. "Why . . . all of them. One
hundred seventy thousand men. When my queen asks for an army, I bring her
one."
Whispers spread through the men as they passed word back.
Kahlan was stunned. She no longer even felt the cold. "That's
wonderful, General. They are sorely needed. We have a real fight on our
hands, as I explained in my letter. The Imperial Order is getting
reinforcements all the time. We need to cut those lines."
"I understand. With the D'Harans from Aydindril come with us, we can
just about triple the size of your force down here."
"And we can still bring more in from D'Hara," General Meiffert said.
Kahlan felt the hot spark of faith in their chances swelling within her
breast. "By
spring, for sure, we will need them." She cocked her head at General
Baldwin. "What about Lieutenant Leiden?"
"Who? Oh, you must mean Sergeant Leiden. He only has a scout patrol,
now. When a man deserts his queen, he's lucky to keep his head, but he acted
to protect her people, so I sent him to guard some remote pass. I hope the
man dresses warmly."
Kahlan wanted to throw her arms around the dashing General Baldwin.
Instead, she touched her fingers to his arm in a gesture of her gratitude.
"Thank you, General. We surely need the men."
"Well, they're up country a little ways, half a day back. Couldn't fit
them all in here with your army."
"That's fine." Kahlan waggled her fingers, calling the Mord-Sith
forward. "I'm very glad to see you, too, Rikka. With Mord-Sith, we can
better handle the enemy gifted. We may even be able to turn the tide. Cara,
here, has helped eliminate some of the gifted already, but I'm afraid that
Lord Rahl has her under orders to protect me. She will continue in that
capacity. But you will be free to go after their gifted."
Rikka bowed. "Love to." She came up and smiled. "Berdine warned me
about her," she said under her breath to Cara.
"You should listen to Berdine," Cara said, clapping her on the back.
"Come, I'll help you find some quarters-"
"No," Kahlan said, stopping them in their tracks. "This is a party. The
general, Rikka, and her sisters are invited. In fact, I insist."
"Well," Rikka said, brightening, "as long as we're protecting Lord
Rahl's wife, we would be only to happy to stay."
Kahlan took Rikka's arm and pulled her close. "Rikka, we have a lot of
men here, and few women. This is a dance. Get out there and dance."
"What! Are you out of your-"
Kahlan shoved her out into the dance area. She snapped her fingers at
the musicians. "Shall we resume?" She turned to General Baldwin. "General,
you have come at a wonderful time, a time of celebration. Please, would you
dance with me?"
"Mother Confessor?"
"I am your queen, also. Generals dance with queens, do they not?"
He smiled and offered his arm. "Of course they do, my queen."
Long after it was dark, the wedding procession made its way through the
makeshift streets, greeting all the men. Thousands of soldiers congratulated
Warren and Verna on their marriage, offered jesting advice, a gentle slap on
the back, or just a merry wave.
Kahlan recalled a time when the Midlands feared these men. Under Darken
Rahl, they were a formidable invader; inspiring dread and terror. She was
amazed at how civil these men could be, how human, when given a chance. It
was Richard, really, who had given them that chance. She knew that many of
them understood that, and appreciated it.
When finally they reached the end of the long winding walk through the
sprawling camp, they came at last to the tent Verna and Warren thought was
to be theirs. Those following along bid the couple a good night and wandered
back to the party, leaving the three of them alone.
Rather than let Verna and Warren slow, Kahlan stepped between them,
took each under an arm, and guided them onto the path among the towering
trees. Moonlight
through the boughs cast wavering patterns on the snow. Not knowing what
she was up to, neither Verna nor Warren protested as Kahlan kept them
moving.
Finally, Kahlan spotted the lodge off through the trees. She stopped a
little distance away to let them see the candlelight coming from behind the
lace-like curtain. The juxtaposition against life in an army camp made it
looked all the more romantic.
"This is a long and difficult struggle," Kahlan told them. "Starting a
marriage under these conditions is a harsh burden. I can't tell you how
happy I am that you two chose to go forward with it at a time like this. It
means a great deal to all of us. We're all very happy for you. More than
anything, I would like to thank you both for choosing life in all its glory.
"We will one day have to move on, as surely the Order will move again
when spring comes, if not before. But for now, I want this place to be
yours. I can give you at least this much, this little piece of a normal life
together."
Verna unexpectedly burst into tears and buried her face in Kahlan's
shoulder. Kahlan patted the Prelate's heaving back, chuckling at how out of
character it was for Verna to show such emotion.
"Not a good idea, Verna, to let your new husband see you cry just as
he's about to take you to his bed."
That did it, and Verna laughed, too. She gripped Kahlan's shoulders as
she searched her eyes.
"I don't know what to say."
Kahlan kissed her cheek. "Love each another, be good to each other, and
treasure being together-that's what I would like more than anything."
Warren hugged her, whispering his thanks in her ear. Kahlan watched as
he led Verna the remaining distance to the lodge. At the door, both turned
and waved. At the last moment, Warren swept Verna off her feet. Her lilting
laugh drifted among the trees as he carried her through the doorway.
Alone, Kahlan turned back to the camp.
The door opened a crack. One bloodshot eye peered out into the dingy
hall.
"You have a room? My wife and I are looking for a room." Before the man
could close the door, Richard quickly added, "We were told you had one."
"What of it?"
Despite it being self-evident, Richard answered politely. "We've no
place to stay."
"Why bring your problems to me?"
Richard could hear angry words going back and forth between a man and
woman upstairs. Behind several of the doors in the hall, babies wailed
without pause. The heavy odor of rancid oil hung in the dank air. Out the
door at the back standing open to the narrow alley, young children, being
chased by older children, squealed as they ran through the cold rain.
Richard spoke without expectation into the narrow slit. "We need a
room."
A dog not far up the alleyway barked with monotonous persistence.
"Lots of people need a room. I only have one. I can't give it to you."
Nicci eased Richard aside and put her face close to the crack.
"We have the money for the first week." She shoved her hand against the
door when he started to shut it. "It's a public room. Your duty is to help
the public get rooms."
The man shouldered his weight into the door, shutting it in her face.
Richard turned away as Nicci began knocking. "Forget it," he said.
"Let's go get a loaf of bread."
Nicci usually followed his lead without admonishment, challenge, or
even comment, but this time, instead of minding him, she rapped persistently
on the door. Layers of peeling paint, every color from blue to yellow to
red, fell from under her knuckles.
"It's your duty," Nicci called to the closed door. "You've no right to
turn us away." No answer came. "We're going to report you."
The door opened a crack again. The eye glared out with menace.
"Has he a job?"
"No, but-"
"You go away. The both of your I'll report you!"
"For what, might I ask?"
"Look, lady, I got a room, but I got to keep it for people at the top
of the list."
"How do you know we're not at the top of the list?"
"Because if you were you would have said so first off and showed me the
approval you got with a seal on it. People at the head of the list have been
waiting a long time for a place. You're no better than a thief, trying to
take the place of a good
citizen who's followed the law. Now, go away, or I will take down your
names for the lodging inspector."
The door slammed shut again. The threat of having their names taken
down appeared to take some of the fight out of Nicci. She huffed a sigh as
they walked away, the bowed floor creaking and groaning underfoot. At least
they had been able to get in out of the rain for a brief time.
"We will have to keep looking," she told him. "If you had a job, first,
it would probably help. Maybe tomorrow you can look for a job while I keep
looking for a room."
Out in the cold rain once more, they crossed the muddy street to the
cobbled walkway on the other side. There were yet more places to check,
though Richard didn't hold out any hope of getting a room. They'd had doors
shut in their faces more times than he could count. Nicci wanted a room,
though, so they kept looking.
The weather was unusually cold for this far south in the Old World,
Nicci had told him. People said the cold spell and rain would soon pass. A
few days before it had been muggy and warm, so Richard had no reason to
doubt their judgment. It was disorienting for him to see woods and fields of
lush green vegetation in the dead of winter. There were some trees with
limbs bare for the season, but most were in full leaf.
As far south as they were in the Old World, it never got cold enough
for water to freeze. People only blinked dumbly when he spoke of snow. When
Richard explained snow as flakes of frozen white water that fell from the
sky and covered the ground with a cottony blanket, some people turned huffy,
thinking he was making a joke at their expense.
He knew that back home winter would be raging. Despite the turmoil
around him, Richard felt an inner tranquillity knowing that Kahlan was most
likely to be warm and snug in the house he had built; in that light, nothing
in his new life was of enough importance to distress him. She had food to
eat, firewood to keep her warm, and Cara for company. For now, she was safe.
Winter was wearing on and in spring she would be able to leave, but, for
now, Richard was confident that she was safe. That, and his thoughts and
memories of her, were his only solace.
People without rooms huddled in the alleyways, using whatever scrap of
solid material they could find to prop up over themselves for a roof. Walls
were fashioned from sodden blankets. He supposed that he and Nicci could
continue to do the same, but he feared Nicci falling ill in the cold and
wet-feared that then Kahlan, too, would fall ill.
Nicci checked the paper she carried. "These places on this register
they gave us are all supposed to be available for people newly arrived-not
just for people on a list. They need workers; they should be more diligent
in seeing to it that places are available. Do you see, Richard? Do you see
how hard it is for ordinary people to get along in life?"
Richard, hands shoved in his pockets, shoulders hunched against the
wind and rain, asked, "So, how do we get on a list?"
"We will have to go to a lodging office and request a room. They can
put us on a housing list."
It sounded simple, but matters were proving far more complex than they
sounded.
"If there aren't enough rooms, how will being on a list get us a place
to stay?"
"People die all the time."
"There's work here, that's why we came-that's why everyone else has
come.
I'll work hard and then we can afford to pay more. We still have a
little money. We just need to find a place that wants to rent a room for the
right price-without all this list foolishness."
"Really, Richard, are you that inhumane? How would those less fortunate
ever get rooms, then? The Order sets the prices to stop profiteers. They
make sure there is no favoritism. That makes it fair for all. We just need
to get on a list for a room, and then everything will be fine."
Watching the glistening cobbles before him as he walked, Richard
wondered how long they would be without a place until their name worked its
way to the top of a list. It looked to him as if a lot of people would need
to die before his and Nicci's names came up for a room-with more yet waiting
in turn for them to die.
He stepped first to one side and then the other to avoid bumping into
the river of people swirling past, making their way in the opposite
direction while trying to stay out of the mud of the street. He considered
again staying outside the city-a lot of people did that. But there were
outlaws and desperate people aplenty who preyed on those who were forced to
stay out in the open where there were no city guards. Were Nicci not opposed
to the idea, Richard would have found a place farther out and built a
shelter, perhaps with some other people so that they could together
discourage trouble.
Nicci wasn't interested in the idea. Nicci wanted to be in the city.
Multitudes came to the city looking for a better life. There were lists to
get on, and lines to wait in to see official people. You had a better chance
of doing those things if you had a room in the city, she said.
It was getting late in the day. The line at the bakery was out the door
and partway down the block.
"Why are all these people in line?" Richard whispered to Nicci. It was
the same every day when they went to buy bread.
She shrugged. "I guess there aren't enough bakeries."
"Seems like with all the customers, more people would want to open
bakeries."
Nicci leaned close, a scolding scowl darkening her brow. "The world
isn't as simple as you would like it to be, Richard. It used to be that way
in the Old World. Man's evil nature was allowed to flourish. People set
their own prices for goodswith greed being their only interest, not the good
of their fellow man. Only the wellto-do could afford to buy bread. Now, the
Order sees to it that everyone gets needed goods for a fair price. The Order
cares about everyone, not just those with unfair advantages."
She always seemed so impassioned when she spoke about the evil nature
of people. Richard wondered why a Sister of the Dark would care about evil,
but he didn't bother to ask.
The line wasn't moving very fast. The woman in front of him, suspicious
of their whispering, scowled back over her shoulder.
Richard met her glare with a broad smile.
"Good afternoon, ma'am." Her somber scowl faltered in the light of his
beaming grin. "We're new in town"-he gestured behind-"my wife and I. I'm
looking for work. We need a room, though. Would you know how a young couple,
strangers to the city, could go about getting a room?"
She half turned, holding her canvas bag in both hands, letting it pull
her arms straight as she leaned her shoulders against the wall. Her bag held
only a yellow wedge of cheese. Richard's smile and his friendly
conversational tone-artificial
though they were-were apparently so out of the ordinary that she seemed
unable to maintain her gruff demeanor.
"You have to have a job if you hope to get a room. There aren't enough
rooms in the city, what with all the new workers come for the abundance
provided by the wisdom of the Order. If you're able-bodied, you need to have
work, then they'll put your name on the list."
Richard scratched his head and kept smiling as the line slowly shuffled
along. "I'm eager to work."
"Easier to get a room if you can't work," the woman confided.
"But, I thought you just said you had to have a job if you were to have
any hope of getting a room."
"That's true, if you're able, like you look to be. Those folks with a
greater need, because they can't do for themselves, are rightly entitled to
benevolence and to be put higher on the list-like my husband, the poor man.
He's afflicted terrible like with consumption."
"I'm so sorry," Richard said.
She nodded with the weight of her burden. "It's mankind's wretched lot
to suffer. Nothing can be done about it, so there's no use trying. Only in
the next life will we get our reward. In this life, it's the duty of every
person with ability to help those unfortunate souls with needs. In that way
the able earn their reward in the next life."
Richard didn't argue. She shook a finger at him.
"Those who can work owe it to those who can't to do their best for the
good of all.
"I can work," Richard assured her. "We're from . . . a little place.
We're simple folks-from farming stock. We don't know much about how to go
about things like getting work in the city."
"The Order has brought the people a great abundance of work," a man
behind Nicci said, drawing Richard's attention. The man's oiled canvas coat
was buttoned tight at his throat. His big brown eyes blinked slowly, like a
cow as it chewed its cud. The way his jaw wobbled sideways as he spoke only
added to the impression. "The Order welcomes all workers to our struggle,
but you must be mindful of the needs of others-as the Creator Himself
wishes-and go about getting work in the proper fashion."
Richard, his stomach grumbling with hunger, listened as the man
explained. "You first need to belong to a citizen workers' group; they
protect the rights of citizens of the Order. You'll have to go before a
review assembly for approval to join the workers' group, and a fitness panel
to hear from a spokesman from the workers' citizen group who can vouch for
you. You must do this before you can go for a job."
"Why can't I just go to a place and show myself? Why can't they hire
me, if I fit their needs?"
"Just because you're from the country, that doesn't mean you shouldn't
be mindful of contributing toward the greater good of the Order."
"Of course not," Richard said. "I've always worked for myself,
thoughfarming to bring food to my fellow man, as is our duty. I don't know
how businesses do things."
The big brown eyes paused their blinking. The man peered suspiciously
for a moment, then his eyes finally went moony again. His jaw resumed its
wobbling as he chewed his words.
"It's the primary responsibility of business to be sensitive to the
needs of the people, to contribute to the public welfare, to be equitable.
The review board helps see to this. There is much more involved than the
narrow goals of businesses."
"I see," Richard said. "Well, I'd be grateful if you could tell me how
to go about it properly." He glanced briefly at Nicci. "I want to be a good
citizen and do things right."
By the man's pride in the explanation, and the way his big eyes blinked
faster as he laid it all out, Richard expected that the man was somehow
involved in the labyrinthine process. Richard didn't ask how you got a
spokesman from the citizen workers' group to vouch for you. The line inched
forward as the man explained the finer details of different sorts of work,
what each required, and how it was all for the benefit of those living
within the Order and under the grace of the Creator.
As he droned on, delivering his information with smug satisfaction,
Nicci watched Richard discreetly, and without comment, as he listened to the
procedures. She looked as if she was expecting him to suddenly turn from
polite to deadly. Richard knew there could be no point to a battle with this
man, so he remained polite.
It turned out that the man, named Mr. Gudgeons, seemed to know the most
about the quarry workers. Since Richard knew little about quarries, he
passed the time as they stood in line by asking a few questions that pleased
Mr. Gudgeons to answer-at great length.
The store ran out of bread and closed before they got any. The line of
people dissolved into the downpour, mumbling to one another as they went
about their woeful lot in life. Richard thanked the woman and Mr. Gudgeons
before he and Nicci moved on.
Richard paused at a cross street while Nicci studied her paper with the
list of rooms. All around, the blocky shapes of buildings rose out of the
gloom. Red paint on the side of one brick building was so faded that it left
the figure painted there looking like a blushing ghost. The faded whitewash
of words beneath the vanishing man were no longer legible.
Passing men gazed at Nicci in her wet clinging clothes, never seeing
her face. Her hair was plastered to her skull, her jaw quivered, and her
hands trembled, yet she didn't complain about the cold, as did everyone
else. They had been told that they couldn't get another list, with any new
rooms that might have recently become available, until the next day, so
Nicci was trying to keep this one whole, but in the rain it was a losing
battle.
Mangy horses slogged through the mud, some of the wagons they pulled
squeaking and groaning under the weight of a load. Only the main
thoroughfares, like the one they were on, were wide enough to allow teams of
horses and full-size wagons to easily pass in both directions. Some streets
were only wide enough for wagons to go in one direction. Some of those, with
no room to pull aside, were choked off by broken-down wagons. Richard saw a
dead horse in one narrow street, the rotting animal, attended by a cloud of
flies, still hitched to its wagon as it awaited someone to come haul it
away. The blocked streets only added to the congestion of the others. Some
streets, were wide enough only for handcarts. In many of the narrower
passageways only foot traffic could fit.
The smell of garbage and the stench of streets that also functioned as
open sewers had been enough to gag Richard for the first week until he'd
become numb to it.
The alleyways where he and Nicci had slept were the worst. The rain
only served to flush the filth out of every hole and carry it out into the
open, but at least as long as he was standing it washed off some of the
dirt.
All the cities Richard had seen after they'd entered the Old World and
traveled south from Tanimura were similar to this one, all suffering under
grinding poverty and inhuman conditions. Everything seemed caught in a
timeless trap, a morass of rot, as if the cities had once been vibrant with
life and people striving to fulfill dreams, had once been places of hope and
ambition, but somewhere the dreams had disintegrated into a gray pall of
stagnation and decay. No one seemed to much care. Everyone seemed in a daze,
biding their time, waiting for their lot in life to improve without even
having a concept of the shape of that better life or how it might come to
be. They existed on disembodied faith, confident only that the afterlife
would be perfect.
The cities Richard had seen were startlingly similar to what Richard
envisioned the future held for the New World under the yoke of the Order.
This place, though, was the single largest city Richard had ever seen.
He would never have believed the size of it had he not seen it himself.
Dilapidated buildings entangled by streets teeming with people sprawled over
a sweep of low hills, across a broad bottomland, for miles along the
convergence of two rivers. Squat ramshackle huts built haphazardly of wattle
and daub, scraps of wood, or salvaged mud and straw bricks beset the city's
core to a great distance out into the surrounding land, like fetid scum
surrounding a rotting log in a stagnant pond.
It was the city of Altur'Rang-the namesake of the land which was now
the heart of the Old World and the Imperial Order-the home city of Emperor
Jagang.
When they had first entered the Old World on their way south toward
Altur'Rang, Richard and Nicci had stopped at the northernmost large city in
the Old World, 'Ianimura, where the Palace of the Prophets had once stood.
Tanimura, one of the last places in the Old World to fall under the rule of
the Imperial Order, was a grand place, with wide boulevards lined with trees
and ornate buildings soaring several stories high, faced with columns and
arches and windows that let in the light. Tanimura, as large as it was,
turned out to be but an outpost of the Old World, far enough away that the
rot was only now reaching it.
For a span of a little over a month, Richard had found work in Tanimura
as a mason's tender, one of a dozen, hauling stone and mixing mortar for a
squat, unattractive building. The masons had simple huts the workers and
their families lived in, so Nicci had shelter. The master came to trust
Richard to keep up with his masons. When one of the stonecutters fell sick,
Richard was asked to stand in at squaring the blocks of granite for the
masons.
He found holding a chisel and mallet in his hands, cutting
stone-shaping it to his will-a revelation. In some ways, it was like carving
wood . . . but somehow much more.
From time to time, the master stood with fists on his hips, watching
Richard chisel square edges into the hard granite. Occasionally, in a gruff
voice, he would make minor corrections to Richard's method. After a time, as
the master saw that Richard took to the job and could cut a block square and
true, he no longer bothered watching. Before long Richard's blocks were
chosen first by the masons as cornerstones.
Other stonecutters arrived to do more demanding work-the adornments.
When
they had first shown up, Richard had been eager to see their work. They
cut into the face of blocks, meant to surround the entrance, a large flame
representing the Light of the Creator. Below that, they carved a crowd of
cowering people.
Richard had seen a number of stone carvings in the various places he
had been, from the Confessors' Palace in Aydindril to the People's Palace in
D'Hara, but he had never seen anything like the figures he saw being cut on
that building in Tanimura. They were not graceful, or grand, or inspiring,
but just the opposite. They were distorted, thick-limbed, cringing figures
recoiling below the Light. Richard was told by one of the artisans that this
was the only proper representation of mankind-profane, hideous, sinful.
Richard kept his mind on cutting square stones.
When the stonework to the Order's headquarters building was finished,
the job ended. The carpenters didn't need any more help. The artisans said
they could use some assistance carving the anguish of mankind and offered
Richard the work. He declined, telling them that he had no ability for
carving.
Besides, Nicci had been eager to move on; Tanimura had only been a
place to earn some money to buy provisions for the long journey ahead of
them. Richard was glad to be away from the depressing sight of the carving
going on.
Along the way southeast to Altur'Rang, in the cities they passed
through, Richard saw many carvings on buildings, and many more freestanding
in public squares, or in front of entrances. They depicted horrors: people
being whipped by a grinning Keeper of the underworld; people stabbing out
their own eyes; suffering people twisted, deformed, and crippled; people
like packs of dogs, running on all fours, attacking women and children;
people reduced to walking skeletons or covered in sores; woeful people
throwing themselves into graves. In most such scenes the pitiful people were
watched over by the Light of the all-perfect Creator represented by the
flame.
The Old World was a celebration of misery.
Along the way south, they had stopped in a number of cities when
Richard could find menial work temporary enough not to require waiting on
lists. He and Nicci went for stretches eating cabbage soup that was mostly
water. Sometimes they had rice or lentils or buckwheat mush, and, on
occasion, the luxury of salt pork. Sometimes, Richard was able to catch
fish, birds, or the odd hare. Living off the land in the Old World, though,
was difficult. A lot of other people had the same idea. They both had gotten
thinner on their long march. Richard began to understand the carvings of the
skeletal people.
Nicci had set their destination, but dictated little else, leaving most
decisions to him, complying without complaint. Week in and week out, they
walked, occasionally paying a few copper pennies to ride in wagons headed
their way. They crossed rivers straddled by cities large enough to have
numbers of stone bridges, and went through town after town. There were vast
fields of wheat, millet, sunflower, and any number of other crops, though
much of the land lay fallow. They saw flocks of sheep and herds of cattle.
Farmers sold the travelers goat cheese and milk. Ever since the gift
had awakened in him, Richard was able to eat meat only when not doing any
fighting. He thought it might be part of the requirement to balance his need
to sometimes take life. Since he wasn't doing any fighting, he could eat
meat without it making him sick. Unfortunately, they could rarely afford
meat. Cheese, which he had once loved, he could hardly stomach since his
gift had come to life in him. Unfortunately, it was often eat cheese, or
starve.
But it was the size of the Old World, and in particular its population,
that most unsettled him. Richard had naively thought that the New and the
Old Worlds must be somewhat alike. They were not. The New World was but a
flea on the back of the Old.
From time to time on their journey south, vast columns of men at arms
moved past them on their way north to the Midlands. Several times, it had
taken days for all the soldiers to march past. Whenever he saw the rank upon
rank of troops, he felt a wave of relief that Kahlan was trapped in their
mountain home. He would hate to think of her fighting in an army facing as
many men as he saw going to the war.
By spring, when she could finally get out of the mountain home, and all
those Imperial Order troops could truly begin their siege of the New World,
whatever resistance the D'Haran Empire put up would be crushed. Richard
hoped General Reibisch chose not to go up against the Order. He hated to
think of all those brave men being slaughtered under the weight of the
coming onslaught.
At one small city, Nicci had gone to a stream to wash their clothes
while Richard worked the day mucking out stalls at a large stable. A number
of officials had come to town and there were more horses than the
stablemaster could handle. Richard had been at the right place at the right
time to get the job. Not long after the officials arrived and took all the
rooms at the inns, a large unit of the Imperial Order troops marched in
behind them and set up camp at the city limits.
Fortunately, Nicci was on the other side of the city doing their
washing. Unfortunately, a squad of men passing through the city, and doing
some drinking, decided to accept volunteers. Richard kept his head down as
he carried water to the horses, but the sergeant saw him. At the wrong place
at the wrong time, Richard was "volunteered" into the Imperial Order. The
new volunteers were quartered in the center of the immense encampment.
That night, after it was dark and most of the men were asleep, Richard
unvolunteered himself. It took him until three hours before sunrise to
extract himself from his service to the Imperial Order. Nicci had gone to
the stable and found out what had happened to him. Richard found her at
their camp, pacing in the darkness. They quickly collected their things and
marched south for the rest of the night. They went cross country, since the
moon was out, rather than on the roads, in case a patrol came looking for
him. From then on, whenever Richard saw soldiers he did his best to become
invisible.
In general, though, it wasn't a serious concern. Hordes of youths,
lusting after the promise of plunder, were only too eager to join the army.
They often had to wait weeks or months to be accepted into training, so many
were the numbers joining. Richard had seen crowds of them in the cities,
playing games, gambling, drinking, fighting-young men dreaming of the glory
of killing the evil foes of the great empire of the Order. They enjoyed the
adoration of the populace when they joined the army to go off and fight the
frightful wickedness and sin that was said to infect the New World.
Richard was horrified to see the numbers of people living in the Old
World, because it meant that the Order's army already in the New World was
hardly a drain on the populace-and only the beginning. He had thought that
perhaps the Order might lose their enthusiasm for a war conducted so far
from their homeland, or that the people of the Old World would tire of the
hardship necessary to conduct such a war. He now knew that thought had been
but a feeble daydream.
It didn't take a wizard, or a prophet, to know that the armies the New
World
could raise, even given wildly optimistic conditions, had no hope
whatsoever of prevailing against the millions upon millions of soldiers
Richard had seen pouring north, to say nothing of the ones he hadn't seen
who would be taking other routes. The Midlands was doomed.
Ever since the people of Anderith chose the Order over freedom, he had
known in his heart that the New World was going to fall to the Order. He
felt no satisfaction in realizing how right he had been. Seeing the size of
the enemy, he realized that freedom was lost, and resisting the Order was
but suicide.
The course of events seemed irrevocable, the world lost to the Order.
The future for him and Kahlan seemed no less hopeless.
By far the strangest place he and Nicci had visited in their journey
southeast, a place she never spoke of afterward, had been less than a week
south of Tanimura. Richard had still been in a dismal mood thinking about
the carvings he had seen, when Nicci took an old, seldom-used track off the
main road. It led back toward the hills, to a rather small city beside a
quiet river.
Most of the businesses had been abandoned. The wind, at will, carried
dust through the broken windows of warehouses. Many of the homes had fallen
to ruin, their roofs caved in, weeds and vines doing their best to bring
down crooked walls. Only the homes on the outskirts were still occupied,
mostly by people raising animals and farming the surrounding land.
On the northern side of the city, one small store remained to sell
staples to surrounding farmers. There was also a leather shop, a
fortune-teller, and a lonely inn. In the center of town stood the bones of
buildings, long since picked clean by scavengers. Several of the buildings
still stood, but most had long ago collapsed. Richard and Nicci walked
through the center of town watched only by a fitful wind.
At the southern edge, they arrived at the remains of what had once been
a large brick building. Without a word, Nicci turned off the road and
marched deliberately into the forlorn site. The wood beams and roof had been
consumed by fire. A thick mat of weeds and brush were devouring the wood
floor. The brick walls were all that was left, really, and they were mostly
fallen to rubble, with only a portion of the east wall still tall enough to
contain a lone window frame.
The wind ruffled Nicci's sunlit hair as she looked down the length of
the skeletal remains of the building. Her arms languid at her sides, her
back not quite as straight as it usually was, she stood vulnerable where
once a roof would have sheltered her.
For nearly an hour, she was lost among the ghosts.
Richard stood off to the side, leaning a hip against the charred
remains of part of a workbench, one of the only things left inside the brick
frame.
"Do you know this place?" he finally asked her.
She blinked at his question. She stared into his eyes for a long time,
as if he, too, were a ghost. She stepped close to him then, her blue eyes
finally looking away to let her fingers reminisce as they glided lightly
over the remains of the workbench.
"I grew up in this town," she answered in a distant voice.
"Oh." Richard gestured around them. "And this place?"
"They made armor here," she whispered.
He couldn't imagine why she would want to see such a place. "Armor?"
"The best armor in all the land. Double-proofed standard. Kings and
noblemen came here to buy armor."
Richard gazed around at the ruins of the place, wondering what more
there must be to the story.
"Did you know the man who made the armor?"
Her blue eyes seeing ghosts again, she shook her head.
"No," she whispered. "I'm so sorry, but I never knew him."
A tear ran down her cheek to drip off her smooth jaw. She seemed very
much a child at that moment, alone in the world, and frightened.
Had he not known what he knew about her, Richard would have put his
arms around this forlorn frail child and comforted her.
Ncci was tired, cold, and impatient. She wanted a room.
Her purpose in guiding Richard to the center of the empire in
Altur'Rang was to bring him face-toface with the righteous cause of the
Order. She knew Richard to be a man of profound moral integrity, and she
wanted to see how he would react when confronted by the undeniable virtue of
his enemy's intentions.
She wanted Richard to learn how difficult it was for ordinary people to
live, to get along in the world. She was curious as to how he would fare in
the same circumstances-she wanted to throw him into the fire and see how he
reacted to the heat, as it were. She had expected him to be agitated and
frustrated by now. He remained cool and unruffled.
She thought he would be furious at learning what he had to do to get a
job. He was not. He had listened to that Mr. Gudgeons fellow explaining the
near impossible task that faced anyone wanting work. Nicci had expected him
to punch the pompous official; instead, Richard had cheerfully thanked him.
It was as if the things he so naively stood for, so selfishly defended when
she had known him before, no longer mattered to him.
At the Palace of the Prophets when she had been his teacher, every time
she thought she knew how he would react, he did something she would never
have anticipated. He did that now, too, but in a subtly different way. What
before had been, in a manner of speaking, unorganized youthful rebellion had
turned to the dangerous scrutiny of a predator. Only the chains around his
heart kept him from turning his claws on her.
When Nicci had first captured Richard, she had briefly seen, standing
in the window of his house, a carving of a proud woman. Nicci had known, as
sure as she knew night followed day, that Richard had carved it; it betrayed
his unique vision, which she recognized. The statue was tangible evidence of
a hidden side to his gift; it was a form of balance to his ability for war,
yet she detected no magic in it.
Knowing that Richard had carved it, Nicci expected that he would have
been interested in the carving job offered him back in Tanimura. He turned
it down. He became moody and hardly spoke for several days afterward.
Whenever they went through a new city, she saw him taking in the
statues and relief carvings. Since he, too, carved, she expected him to find
such creations fascinating. He did not. She couldn't understand it. None
were as finely executed as what he had carved, to be sure, but still, they
were carvings and she thought he would be at least interested in them. She
was baffled by his grim mood whenever he saw them.
One time, she had taken the two of them out of their way for no reason
but to
show him a famous city square and the heroic work of art proudly
displayed there. It was her thought to bring him a bit of cheer at seeing
such a widely heralded work. He was not cheered. Surprised, she had asked
him why he appeared to so dislike the sculpture, called Tormented Vision.
"It's death," he had said with distant revulsion as he turned away from
the widely worshiped work.
It was a grand scene of a group of men, some gouging out their eyes
after having seen the perfect Light of the Creator. Other of the men at the
base of the statue, who'd not blinded themselves, were being mauled by
underworld beasts. The Keeper's minions shrank from the blinded men wailing
at what they had seen before taking their own sight.
"No," Nicci said, trying not to laugh and thereby humiliate him for his
unenlightened view. She sought instead to gently rectify his perception of
the famous work by explaining it to him.
"It's a portrayal of the unworthy nature of mankind. It shows men who
have just witnessed His perfect Light, and in so doing have thus been able
to see the hopeless nature of man's depravity. That they would cut out their
own eyes shows how perfect the Creator is that they could no longer bear to
look upon themselves.
"These men in the statue are heroes for showing us that we must not
arrogantly endeavor to rise above our corrupt essence, for that would be
sinfully comparing ourselves to the Creator. It shows that we are but
faceless, insignificant parts of a greater whole of mankind, which He
created, and thus no single life can hold any importance. This work teaches
us that only the society as a whole can be worthwhile. Those at the bottom,
here, who failed to join in with their fellow man and blind themselves, are
suffering their grim eternal fate at the Keeper's hands.
"Do you see, now? It honors mankind as the flawed creature he is, in
order that we may see that each of us must devote ourselves to the
betterment of our fellow man because that is our only means of doing good
and honoring the Creator's creation-us. So, you see, it's not about death at
all, but about the true nature of life."
Nicci had been taught that the statue was uplifting for the people,
since it confirmed everything they knew to be true.
In the whole of her life, no one had ever given her a look that made
her feel smaller than the look Richard gave her.
Nicci swallowed in horror at that look in his eyes-it was the complete
opposite of that elusive thing she sought from him. Without saying a word,
he had made her want nothing so much at that moment as to crawl under a rock
and die.
She couldn't fathom how, but he made her feel unworthy to live. In some
bewildering way, that look made her feel as blind as the men in the statue.
He hadn't said one word, but it was days before she could bring herself to
look him in the eye again.
Sometimes, Richard seemed meek when she expected fierceness, and
intense when she expected indifference. She was beginning to wonder if she
had been mistaken in thinking there was something special about him.
Once, she had even given in to despair of there really being anything
in him worth discovering. Watching him sleep, dejected that she had dared
hope to uncover some meaning to life beyond what her mother had taught her,
she had sadly resolved that the next day, after visiting the place she had
grown up, she would end the whole senseless undertaking and return to
Jagang.
After they went to her father's business, though, she had seen again
that quality in his gray eyes, and knew beyond doubt that she had not been
mistaken.
This dance had only begun.
As they marched down the dim hallway of a rooming house, she gestured
for Richard to stand aside. Nicci wanted this room. She wanted to lie down
where it was dry and go to sleep. She resolutely rapped her knuckles on a
door that looked as if it might come apart if she wasn't careful.
She peered down at the register she had and then stuffed it in her pack
as she waited for the door to be answered. The lodging house, like all the
others they had been to, was supposed to let rooms to those new to the city.
The emperor needed workers.
In her mind, she imagined that this would be the place. She stared at
the stain on the sickly green plaster. She imagined seeing the tea-colored
stain, in the shape of a horse's rump with its tail flicked up, every day as
she went about her life. She imagined Richard walking past the stain every
day when he went to a job, and every night when he came home. Just like
everyone else had to do.
Richard was watching the stairway beyond the door where Nicci again
knocked. The stairs faced away. She couldn't understand why he watched all
the things he watched, but she didn't discount his instincts. By the look on
his face, he wasn't pleased about the shadowed stairway. Being a Sister of
the Dark, she was hardly frightened by the simple things that frightened
other people. She knocked again.
A voice inside told them to go away.
"We need a room," Nicci declared to the door in a tone that said she
meant to have it. She knocked harder. "You're on the register. We want the
room."
"It's a mistake," came the muffled voice from inside. "No room."
"Now look here," Nicci called out heatedly, "it's getting late-"
Three youths she hadn't seen sitting on the stairs swaggered around the
newel post. The three were without shirts, showing off their muscles as
young men were wont to do. All three had knives.
"Well, well," one of the youths said with a cocky grin as his eyes took
her in with lewd intent. "What have we here? Two little drowned rats?"
"I like the fancy tail on the little blond rat," a second chortled.
Richard seized her arm and without a word shepherded her out the front
door, back out into the rain. Nicci dragged her heels, protesting in a
whisper the whole way. She couldn't believe that Lord Rahl himself, the
Seeker of Truth, and the bringer of death would be intimidated by three
men-boys, really.
As they descended the rickety front stoop, Richard lifted an eyebrow at
her while tipping his head close. "You have no power, remember? We don't
want this kind of trouble. I'd not like to get knifed over a room. This
fight isn't worth it. Knowing when not to fight is just as important as
knowing how."
Nicci wanted the room, but she finally conceded that Richard was
probably right. The three sneering youths slouched at the door and watched,
laughing, calling Richard names. So far, they weren't interested in going
out in the rain. She had seen young men like them before. This latest crop
was no different from any of the others-arrogant, aggressive, and often
dangerous. At least they made good soldiers for Jagang's army.
Richard hurried her along the street. He cut through some of the narrow
passageways, taking several turns at random just to be sure they wouldn't be
followed.
The city of Altur'Rang seemed endless. In the overcast and rain,
visibility was
limited. The haphazard streets and byways were a confusing maze. It had
been many years since she had been here last. With all the Order's efforts,
the place still had fallen on hard times. She feared to think of what it
would have been like had the Order not been here to help.
When they emerged on a wider street, they found shelter under a small
overhanging roof along with a small group of others trying to stay out of
the rain. Nicci hugged herself against the cold. Richard, along with the
others huddled under the roof, watched the occasional wagon making its way
past on the muddy street. She didn't know how Richard could keep warm in
such weather. She appreciated his warmth, though, when the small crowd
pressed her up against him. Richard glanced down at her, seeing her shiver,
but he couldn't bring himself to put an arm around her to help keep her
warns. She didn't ask.
Nicci sighed; the Old World didn't stay cold for long. In another day
or two it would again be warm and muggy.
When she had been at the crumbled remains of her father's business,
just before they left, Richard had looked as if he almost wanted to put his
arms around her and comfort her. As much as he hated her, as much as he
wanted to get away from her, he had been moved to sympathy.
Standing in the ruins, Nicci had let the memories wash through her, and
had reveled in the exquisite anguish.
Richard's eyes were fixed on something. She followed his gaze and saw
that a wagon not far down the street was moving with an odd wiggle. Almost
as soon as she noticed it, the wheel broke with a loud crack.
With the strain imposed by the wagon slipping and being twisted in the
ruts, the spokes had snapped under the heavy load. The side of the wagon bed
dropped with a splash. People on the walkway were splattered with mud. They
cursed the two men in the wagon. The four-horse team struggled to a halt as
the uneven load broke the axle, causing the good rear wheel to snap its
spokes, too. The whole rear of the wagon collapsed into the mud.
The two men climbed down to assess the damage. The rawboned driver
cursed and kicked at the broken wheel lying at a lopsided angle. The other
man, shorter and stoutly built, calmly checked the rest of the wagon and its
load.
With a frown of curiosity, Richard nudged Nicci ahead of him as he
moved down the street toward the wagon. She went reluctantly, unhappy to be
out from under the roof.
"We have to," the husky man said with calm resolve. "It's only a short
distance."
The other cursed again. "It's not my job, Ishaq, and you know it. I'll
not do it!"
Then Ishaq threw up his hands in a helpless gesture as his headstrong
partner went to the front of the wagon and urged the team on, managing to
drag the wagon to the side of the road and out of the way of the other
wagons that were beginning to back up down the street. Once he had the wagon
to the side, he started unhitching the team.
The man at the back of the wagon turned and peered around at the people
watching.
"I need some help," Ishaq called to the sparse crowd.
"Doing what?" a nearby man asked.
"I've got to get this load of iron to the warehouse." He stretched his
thick neck and pointed. "Just there-in the brick building with the faded red
paint on the side."
"How much will you pay?" the bystander asked.
Ishaq was getting frustrated as he glanced over his shoulder and saw
his partner leading the horses away. "I'm not authorized to pay anything,
not without approval, but I'm sure that if you came round tomorrow-"
The people watching laughed with knowing disgust and went on their way.
The man stood in the downpour, ankle deep in mud, alone. He sighed and
turned to his wagon, pulling back the tarp to reveal iron bar stock.
Richard stepped out into the street. Nicci wanted to check some more
rooms on the list before it got dark. She snatched at his sleeve, but he
only gave her a scolding look. She huffed her displeasure but followed
anyway as he made his way through the mud to the man struggling to pull a
long bar from the wagon bed.
"Ishaq, is it?" Richard asked.
The man turned and gave Richard a nod. "That's right."
"If I help you, Ishaq," Richard asked, "will I really get paid
tomorrow? The truth, now."
Ishaq, a stocky fellow with a curious red hat with a narrow brim all
around, finally shook his head in resignation.
"Well," Richard said, "if I help you get this load into your warehouse,
then would you allow me and my wife to sleep in there where we could get out
of the rain for the night?"
The man scratched his neck. "I'm not allowed to let anyone in there.
What if something happened? What if things came up missing? I'd be out of
work"-he snapped his fingers-"quick as that."
"Just until tomorrow. I only want to get her out of the rain before she
comes down sick. I have no use for iron. Besides, I don't rob people."
The man scratched his neck again as he gazed back at the wagon over his
shoulder. He glanced at Nicci. She was shivering and it was not an act. He
peered at Richard.
"Sleeping in the warehouse for one night is not a fair price for
lugging all this in there. It will take hours."
"If you agree to it, and I agree to it," Richard said over the sound of
the rain, "then it's a fair price. I asked for no more, and I'm willing to
do it for that price."
The man stared at Richard as if he might be crazy. He pulled off his
red hat and scratched his head of dark hair. He swept his wet hair back and
replaced the hat.
"You would have to clear out when I come first thing in the morning
with a new wagon. I could get in trouble-"
"I'll not let you get in trouble over me. If I should get caught, I'll
say I broke in."
The man thought about it for a moment, looking surprised at the last
term Richard had thrown in an effort to close the deal. The man took another
look over his shoulder at the load, then nodded his consent.
Ishaq hoisted a long bar of steel and put his shoulder under it.
Richard lifted two and extended his arm forward to steady it, resting the
heavy steel on the bunched muscles of his shoulder.
"Come on," he said to Nicci. "Let's get you inside where you can start
to dry out and get warm."
She tried to lift a steel bar to help, but it was beyond her strength.
There were times when Nicci missed her power. She could at least feel it
through the link to the Mother Confessor. It took more effort, but even at
this great of a distance she was still able to maintain the link. She walked
beside Richard as they followed the man to the dry room Richard had just won
for her.
--]----
The next day dawned clear. Rainwater still dripped from the eaves,
though. The night before, as Richard helped Ishaq lug the load into the
warehouse, Nicci had used a light rope Richard had in his pack, stringing it
between racks so she could hang up their wet things. By morning, most of
their clothes were reasonably dry.
They'd slept on wooden pallets, the only other choice being the dirt.
Everything smelled of iron dust, and was covered with a fine black film.
There was nothing in the warehouse to keep them warm, other than a single
lantern Ishaq had left them, over which Nicci could at least warm her hands.
They slept as best they could in their wet clothes. By morning, those, too,
were reasonably dry.
Much of the night, Nicci hadn't slept, but, by the light of that
lantern warning her hands, had watched Richard sleep as she thought about
his gray eyes. It had been a shock to see those eyes in her father's
business. It brought back a flood of memories.
Richard opened the warehouse door just enough to squeeze through and
carried their things out into the breaking dawn. The sky over the city
looked as if it were rusting. He left her to watch their things while he
went back in to lock the door from inside. She could hear him climbing the
racks in the warehouse to get up to a window. He had to jump to the ground.
When Ishaq finally came up the street with the fresh wagon, Richard and
Nicci were sitting on a short wall on the entrance road to the warehouse
doors. When the wagon rolled past them into the yard outside the building
and came to a halt before the double doors, Nicci saw that the driver who
had abandoned Ishaq the night before was at the reins.
The lanky driver set the brake as he eyed them suspiciously.
"What's this?" he asked Richard.
"I'm sorry to bother you," Richard said, "but I just wanted to get here
before you opened up so I could inquire if there might be any work
available."
Ishaq glanced at Nicci, seeing that she was dried out. He eyed the
locked door and realized Richard had kept his word, and kept him from the
possibility of getting in trouble for letting someone sleep in the
warehouse.
"We can't hire people," the driver said. "You have to go to the office
and put your name on the list."
Richard sighed. "I see. Well, thank you, gentlemen. I'll give it a try.
A good day to you both."
Nicci had learned to recognize in Richard's voice when he was up to
something. He gazed up the street, and then down the street, as if he were
lost. He was up to something, now. He seemed to be giving Ishaq an
opportunity to offer more than he had paid for the help. Ishaq had let
Richard carry twice as much of the load the night before. Richard had done
so without a word of protest.
Ishaq cleared his throat. "Hold on there." He climbed down from the
wagon to unlock the door, but paused before Richard. "I'm the load master.
We need another man. You look to have a strong back." Using the toe of his
boot, he drew a little map in the mud. "You go to the office"-he lifted his
thumb over his shoulder"down this street, here, to the third turn, then
right, past six more streets." He made an X in the mud. "There's the office.
You get your name on the list."
Richard smiled and bowed his head. "I'll do that, sir."
Nicci knew that Richard remembered Ishaq's name, but he was playing
like he
didn't for the sake of the driver, whom Richard didn't trust, after the
man had abandoned his fellow the night before. What Richard didn't
understand was that the driver had only done what he was supposed to do. It
was not permitted for one man to take the work that belonged to others. That
was stealing. The load was the responsibility of the load man, not the
driver.
"You go enlist first in the load workers' group," Ishaq told Richard.
"Pay your dues. They have an office in the same building. Then you go put
your name on the list for the job. I'm in the citizen workers' group that
goes before the review assembly to consider new applicants. You just sit
tight and wait outside. When we meet, later on, I'll vouch for you."
The driver leaned out and spat over the far side of the wagon. "Why you
want to go and do that, Ishaq? You don't even know this fellow."
Ishaq scowled up at the driver. "Did you see anyone at the hall who was
as big as this fellow? We need another loader for the warehouse. We just
lost a man and need a replacement. You want me to get stuck with some skinny
old man so as I'll have to do all the work?"
The driver chuckled. "Suppose not."
Ishaq gestured toward Nicci. "Besides, look at his young wife. She
needs some meat on her bones, don't you think? Looks like a nice young
couple."
The driver spat over the side of the wagon again. "I suppose."
Ishaq casually flicked a hand at Richard on his way to unlock the door
to the warehouse. "You be there."
"I'll be there."
Ishaq paused and turned back. "Almost forgot-what's your name?"
"Richard Cypher."
Ishaq gave him a nod and turned back to the door. "I'm Ishaq. See you
tonight, Richard Cypher. Don't you let me down-you hear? You turn out to be
lazy and let me down, and I'll throw your sorry hide in the river with an
iron bar tied around your neck."
"I won't let you down, Ishaq." Richard smiled. "I'm a good swimmer, but
not that good."
As they trudged though the muddy streets on their way to find some food
before they went to the offices to get on the list for work, Richard asked,
"What's wrong?"
Nicci shook her head in disgust. "Ordinary people don't have your luck,
Richard. Ordinary people suffer and struggle while your luck gets you into a
job."
"If it was luck," Richard asked, "then how come my back hurts from
lugging that load of iron bars into the warehouse?"
When Richard had finished unloading the last wagon of iron, he leaned
forward and placed his hands on the pile, hanging his head as he panted. The
muscles in his arms and shoulders throbbed. It was always easier having two
men to handle the bars, one in the wagon, and one on the ground, but the man
who was supposed to help with the load had quit several days back, saying he
hadn't been treated properly. Richard didn't really miss him all that much;
even when the man got up off his backside, his assistance was more trouble
than it was worth.
The light coming in the high windows was fading, leaving the sky in the
west a deep purple. Sweat ran down his neck, making trails through the black
iron dust. He wished he could jump in a cool mountain lake. That thought, in
and of itself, was refreshing. He let his mind go there as he caught his
breath.
Ishaq came down the aisle with the lantern. "You work too hard,
Richard."
"I thought I was hired to work."
Ishaq peered at Richard for a moment, one eye catching the harsh yellow
light of the lantern he was holding. "'fake my advice. You work too hard,
it's only going to get you into trouble."
Richard had been working at the warehouse for three weeks, unloading
wagons and loading others. He'd come to know a number of the other men. He
had a good idea of what Ishaq meant.
"But I'm still worried about trying to swim with an iron bar wrapped
around my neck."
Ishaq gave up on his scowl and grunted a laugh. "I was just spouting
for Jori's sake, that day."
Jori was the driver who had refused to help unload the wagon when it
broke down. Richard yawned. "I know, Ishaq."
"This isn't no farm, like where you came from. This is different,
living under the ways of the Order. You got to take the needs of others in
mind if you hope to get along. It's just the way the world is."
Richard caught the thread of caution in Ishaq's voice, and the meaning
of the gentle warning.
"You're right, Ishaq. Thanks. I'll try to remember."
Ishaq gestured with his lantern toward the door. "Workers' group
meeting tonight. Best be on your way."
Richard groaned. "I don't know. It's late and I'm tired. I'd really
rather-"
"You don't want your name to start going around. You don't want people
to start talking that you're not civic-minded."
Richard smirked. "I thought the meetings were voluntary."
Ishaq barked a laugh again. Richard collected his pack from a shelf in
the back corner and then ran to the door so Ishaq could lock it.
Outside, in the gathering darkness, Richard could just make out Nicci's
curvaceous form sitting on the wall at the warehouse entrance. Her curves
often put him in mind of nothing so much as a snake. They had no room, yet,
so she often came by the warehouse after she'd spent much of the day waiting
in lines to buy bread and other necessities. They would walk together back
to their shelter in a quiet alley about a mile away. Richard had paid a
small price to some of the boys there to guard their place and make sure no
one else took it. The boys were young enough to be thankful for the small
price and old enough to be diligent about their job.
"Get any bread?" Richard asked as he approached.
Nicci hopped down off the wall. "No bread today-they were out. But I
got us some cabbage. I'll make us a soup."
Richard's stomach was growling. He'd been hoping for bread so he could
eat a piece right then. Soup would take time.
"Where's your pack? And if you bought cabbage, where is it?"
She smiled and produced something small. She held it out before them as
they walked so as to silhouette it against the deep violet of dusk. It was a
key.
"A room? We got a place?"
"I checked the lodging office this afternoon. Our name finally came up.
They assigned a room to us. Mr. and Mrs. Cypher. We can sleep inside
tonight. Good thing, too; it looks like it will rain tonight. I already put
my things in our room."
Richard rubbed his sore shoulders. He felt a wave of revulsion at the
sham she was putting him through . . . putting Kahlan through. There were
times when he felt a hint of something profoundly important about her and
what she was doing, but most of the time he was merely overwhelmed by the
lunacy of it all.
"Where is this room?" He was hoping it wasn't clear over on the other
side of the city.
"It's one we were at before-not too far from here. The one with the
stain on the wall just inside the door."
"Nicci, they all had stains on the walls."
"The stain that looked like a horse's rear end with its tail flicked
up. You'll see it soon."
Richard was starving. "I have to go to a workers' group meeting again
tonight."
"Oh," Nicci said. "Workers' group meetings are important. They help
keep a person's mind on what's proper and on everyone's duty to his fellow
man."
The meetings were torture. Nothing worthwhile ever came about at the
meetings. They sometimes lasted hours. There were people, though, who lived
for the meetings so they could stand up in front of others and talk about
the glory of the Order. It was their shining hour, their time to be
somebody, to be important.
Those who didn't show up for the meetings were used as examples of
people who weren't properly committed to the cause of the Order. If the
absent person didn't mend his ways, it was possible he could end up being
suspected of subversion. The lack of truth to the suspicion was irrelevant.
Stating the charge made some people feel more important in a land where
equality was held as the highest ideal.
Subversion seemed to be a dark cloud hovering constantly over the Old
World. It wasn't at all unusual to see the city guard taking people into
custody on suspicion of subversion. Torture produced confessions, which
proved the veracity of the ac-
cuser. The people who spoke at length at the meetings had, by this
logic, accurately pointed a finger at a number of insurrectionists, as
evidenced by their confessions.
The undercurrent of tension in Altur'Rang left many worried over the
constant scourge of insurrection-coming from the New World, it was said.
Officials of the Order wasted no time in stamping it out whenever it was
discovered. Other people were so consumed with fear that the finger would
turn toward them that the speakers at the workers' group meetings were
assured of having a large number of zealous supporters.
In many a public square, as a constant reminder of what would happen
should you fall into the wrong company, the bodies of subversives were left
to hang from high poles until the birds picked their bones clean. The
running joke, if an incautious person said anything that sounded at all out
of line, was "You looking to be buried in the sky?"
Richard yawned again as they turned down the street toward the meeting
hall. "I don't remember the stain that looks like a horse's rear end."
Rocks crunched beneath their boots as they walked down the side of the
dark street. Off ahead of them, in the distance, he could see Ishaq's
lantern swinging as the man hurried to the meeting.
"You were paying attention to something else at the time. It's the room
where those three live."
"Three what?"
A number of other people, some he knew, most he didn't, hastened along
the street on their way to the meeting.
Richard remembered then. He stopped.
"You mean the place where those three bullies live-the three with the
knives?"
He could just barely see her nod in the dim light. "That's the place."
"Great." Richard wiped a hand across his face as they started out
again. "Did you ask if we could have a different room?"
"New people in the city are fortunate to get rooms. Rooms are assigned
as your name comes up. If you turn it down, you go back to the bottom of the
list."
"Did you have to give the landlord any money, yet?"
She shrugged. "Just what I had."
Richard ground his teeth as he walked. "That's all we have for the rest
of the week."
"I can stretch the soup."
Richard didn't trust her. She probably somehow saw to it that they got
that particular room. He suspected that she wanted to see what he would do
about the three young men, now that he was forced into the situation. She
was always doing little things, asking odd questions, making bold
statements, just to see what his reaction would be, how he would handle
matters. He couldn't imagine what it was she wanted from him.
He began to worry about the three. He remembered quite clearly how
Cara's Agiel had caused Kahlan to suffer the same pain as Nicci. If those
three abused Nicci, Kahlan would suffer it, too. That thought made him go
cold and sweaty with worry.
At the workers' group meeting, Richard and Nicci sat on benches at the
rear of a smoky room while people up front spoke about the glory of the
Order, and how it helped all people to live a moral life. Richard's mind
drifted to the brook behind the
house he had built, to the sunlit summer afternoons watching Kahlan
dangle her feet in the water. He ached with longing as his mind's eye traced
the curve of her legs. There were speeches about every worker's duty to
their fellow man. Many of the discourses were given in a droning monotone,
having been repeated so often that it was clear that the words were
meaningless, and that only the act of saying them mattered. Richard recalled
Kahlan laughing as he caught the fish he'd put in jars for her. Many of the
people, the group leaders, or citizen spokesmen, delivered with passion and
fire their praise for the ways of the Order. A few people stood up and
talked about those who weren't there, giving their names, saying what poor
attitudes they had toward the welfare of their fellow workers. Whispers
passed among the crowd.
After the speeches were given, some of the workers' wives stood up and
explained that they had extra need of late because they had just had new
children, or their husbands were laid up, or the relatives they cared for
were ill. After each spoke, there was a show of hands. If you agreed to do
the right thing and have the group help them, then you raised your hand.
The names of these who didn't raise their hand were noted. Ishaq had
explained to Richard that you were allowed not to raise your hand, if you
didn't agree, but if you did it very often, you were put on a watch list.
Richard didn't know what a watch list was, but it was easy enough to
surmise, and Ishaq had told Richard that he didn't want to be on one, and to
see to it that he raised his hand more often than not.
Richard raised it every time. He didn't really care what happened. He
had no interest in taking part, no interest in trying to make things better,
and no interest in how well or poorly people's lives went. Most seemed to
want the comfort of the Order running their lives, relieving them of the
burden of thinking on their own. Just like Anderith. Nicci seemed surprised,
and occasionally even disappointed, to see his hand go up every time, but
didn't object or question.
He was hardly even aware of his hand going up. He was smiling inwardly
as he recalled the wonder in Kahlan's expression, the astonishment in her
green eyes, when she saw Spirit for the first time. Richard would have
carved a mountain for her, just to see her tearful joy in seeing something
she admired, something she cherished, something she valued.
Another man spoke, complaining about the conditions, how unfair they
were, and how he had been forced to quit rather than subject himself to such
abuse by the transport company. He was the man who had quit and left Richard
to handle the loads by himself. Richard raised his hand along with all the
others to grant the man full wages for six months in recompense.
After the show of hands, and some whispering and scratching on paper as
all the obligations were figured up, the healthy working members were
assessed their just share to help those in need. Those who were able,
Richard had been told, had a duty to produce with all their effort in order
to help those who couldn't.
When men's names were called, they stood to hear the share to be taken
from their wages the next week. Because he was new, Richard's name was
called last. He stood, staring off across the dimly lit room at the people
in moth-eaten coats sitting behind the long table made of two old doors.
Ishaq sat at one end, going along with the others in everything. Several of
the women still had their heads together. When they finished, they whispered
to the chairman and he nodded.
"Richard Cypher, being as you are new, you still have some catching up
to do
on your duty to your workers' group. Your next weeks wages are assessed
as due in aid.."
Richard stood dumbly for a moment. "How am I to eat to pay my rent?"
People in the room turned to frown at him. The chairman slapped his
hand on the table, calling for silence.
"You should thank the Creator to be blessed with good health so as you
can work, young man. Right now, there are those who are not as fortunate in
life as you, those with greater need than you. Suffering and need comes
before selfish personal enrichment."
Richard sighed. What did it really matter? After all, he was lucky in
life.
"Yes, sir. I see what you mean. I'm happy to volunteer my share toward
those with needs."
He wished Nicci hadn't given away all their money.
"Well," he said to Nicci as they shuffled out into the night, "I guess
we can ask the landlord for the rent money back. We can stay on where we
were staying before, until I can work some more and save up some money."
"They don't give rent money back," she said. "The landlord will
understand our need and let our debt build until we can start paying on it.
Next meeting, you just have to go up before the review board and explain
your hardship. If you present it properly, they will give you a hardship
charity to pay your rent."
Richard was exhausted. He felt like he were having some kind of silly
dream.
"Charity? It's my wages-for the work I do."
"That's a selfish way of looking at it, Richard. The job is at the
grace of the workers' group, the company, and the Order."
He was too tired to argue. Besides, he didn't expect any justice in
anything done in the name of the Order. He just wanted to go to their new
room and get some sleep.
--]----
When they opened the door, one of the three youths was pawing through
Nicci's pack. Holding some of her underthings in one hand, he aimed a smirk
back over his shoulder at them.
"Well, well," he said as he stood. He still wore no shirt. "Looks like
the two drowned rats have found a hole to live in." His leering gaze slid to
Nicci. He wasn't looking at her face.
Nicci snatched the pack away first, then her things from his other
hand. She stuffed her personal clothes back in the pack while he watched,
grinning the whole time. Richard feared she might abandon the link to Kahlan
in order to use her power, but she only glared at the youth.
The room reeked of mold. The low ceiling made Richard feel
uncomfortably hemmed in. The ceiling had once been whitewashed, but was now
dark with soot from candles and lamps, making the room feel cavelike. A
candle sitting on a rusted bracket by the door provided the only light. A
wardrobe stood crookedly in the corner in front of dirty walls spotted with
flyblows. The wardrobe was missing a door. Two wooden chairs at a table
under one small window on the far wall were the only place to sit, other
than the warped and gouged pine floor. The small squares of window glass
were opaque under a variety of different-colored layers of paint.
Through a small triangle in the corner where the glass was broken out,
Richard could see the gray wall of the next building.
"How did you get in here?" Nicci snapped.
"Master key." He waved it like a king's pass. "See, my father's the
landlord. I was just checking your things for subversive writings."
"You can read?" Nicci sniped. "I would have to see that to believe it."
The defiant grin never left his face. "We'd not like to find we have
subversives living under our roof. Could endanger everyone else. My father
has a duty to report any suspicious activity."
Richard stepped aside to let the young man by as he headed for the
door, but then caught his arm as the youth picked up the candle.
"That's our candle," Richard said.
"Yeah? What makes you think so?"
Richard tightened his grip on the bare, lean, muscular arm. Looking him
in the eye, he gestured with his other hand.
"Our initials are scratched in the bottom, there."
Before he thought, the young man instinctively turned the candle to
have a look. The hot wax spilled over his hand. He dropped the candle with a
yelp.
"Oh my, I am sorry," Richard said. He stooped and picked up the candle.
"You're all right, I hope. You didn't get any of that burning wax in your
eyes, did you? Hot wax in your eyes hurts something fierce."
"Yeah?" He swiped his straight dark hair back from his eyes. "How would
you know that?"
"Back where I came from, I saw it happen to some poor fellow."
Richard leaned partway out into the hall, into the light of another
candle on a shelf. With his thumbnail, he made a show of carving an R and a
C in the bottom of the candle. "See, here? My initials."
The youth didn't bother to look. "Uh-huh."
He swaggered out the door. Richard went with him and lit the candle
from the flame of the one in the hall. Before walking away, the young man
turned back with a haughty look.
"How did that fellow manage to be stupid enough to get hot wax in his
eyes? Was he a big dumb ox like you?"
"No," Richard said offhandedly. "No, not at all. He was a cocky young
man who foolishly put his hands on another man's wife. He got the hot wax
dripped in his eyes by the husband."
"Yeah? Well why didn't the dumb jackass just shut his eyes?"
Richard gave the lad a deadly smile for the first time.
"Because his eyelids had been cut off, first, so he couldn't close
them. You see, where I come from, anyone touching a woman against her wishes
isn't treated indulgently."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. The young man's eyelids weren't the only thing that got cut
off."
The young man swiped his black hair back again. "You threatening me,
ox?"
"No. There would be nothing I could do to you that would harm you more
than what you're already doing to harm yourself."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"You are never going to amount to anything. You will always be the
worthless muck people scrape from their shoes. You only get one life and you
are wasting
yours. That's a terrible shame. I doubt you will ever know what it is
to be truly happy, to achieve anything of worth, to have genuine pride in
yourself. You bring it all on yourself, and I could do no worse to you."
"I can't help what life deals me."
"Yes, you can. You create your own life."
"Yeah? How do you figure?"
Richard gestured around himself. "Look at the pigsty you live in. Your
father is the landlord. Why don't you show some pride and fix up the place?"
"He's the landlord, not the owner. The man who owned it was a greedy
bastard, charging more rent than many could afford. The Order took the place
over. For his crimes against the people they tortured the owner to death. My
father was given the job of landlord. We just run the place to help out
fools like you who don't have a place; we've no money to go around fixing up
the building."
"Money?" Richard pointed. "It takes money to pick up that garbage left
there in the hall?"
"I didn't put it there."
"And these walls-it doesn't take money to wash the walls. Look at the
ceiling in this room. It hasn't been washed in a decade, at least."
"Hey, I'm no scrub woman."
"And the front stoop? Someone is going to break their neck on it. Could
be you, or your father. Why don't you do something worthwhile for a change
and fix it?"
"I told you, we've no money to fix things."
"It doesn't take money. You just need to take it apart, clean the
joints, and put in some new wedges. You can cut them from any little scrap
of wood lying around."
The young man wiped his palms on his pants. "If you're so smart, then
why don't you fix the stairs?"
"Good idea. I will."
"Yeah?" His sneer returned. "I don't believe you."
"Tomorrow, after I get home from work, I will fix the stairs. If you
show up, I'll teach you how it's done."
"I might show up just to see some dupe going to the work of fixing
something that isn't even his, and for nothing besides."
"It isn't for nothing. It's because I use the front steps, too, and for
the pleasure in the place where I live. I care if my wife falls and breaks
her leg. But if you want to come and learn how to fix the steps, you will
wear a shirt out of respect for the women in your building."
"And if I show up and watch you, and I don't wear a stupid shirt like
some old geezer?"
"Then I wouldn't have enough respect for you to bother teaching you how
to fix the stairs. You will learn nothing, then."
"What if I don't want to learn something?"
"Then you will have taught me something, about you, instead."
He rolled his dark eyes. "Why should I care about learning to fix some
dumb stairs?"
"You shouldn't necessarily care about fixing some stairs, but if you
care about yourself, you should care about learning-even learning simple
things. You come to have pride in yourself only by accomplishing things,
even from fixing some old stairs."
"Yeah? I got pride in myself."
"You intimidate people and then mistake that for respect. Others can't
grant you self-respect, even others who care about you. You have to earn
self-respect yourself. All you know right now is how to stand around and
look stupid."
He folded his arms. "Who you calling-"
Richard jabbed a finger against the young man's smooth chest, forcing
him back a pace. "You only get one life. Is that all you want out of it
standing around calling names, scaring people with your gang? Is that all
you want your one life to mean to you?
"Anyone who wants more out of life, who wants their life to mean
something, would care about learning things. Tomorrow I'm going to fix those
stairs. Tomorrow we'll see what sort you are."
The youth folded his arms again in a defiant stance. "Yeah? Well, maybe
I'd rather spend time with my friends."
Richard shrugged. "That's why your lot in life isn't fate. I don't have
any say in much of my life, but I make whatever choices I can make in my own
rational best interest. It's my choice to fix those stairs and make the
place I live a little betterinstead of whining and waiting and hoping for
someone else to do something for me. I have pride that I know how to do that
for myself.
"Fixing stairs isn't going to make you a man, but it's going to make
you a little more confident in yourself. If you want, bring your friends,
and I'll teach you all how to use those knives of yours for something more
than just waving in people's faces."
"We might come to laugh at you working, Ox."
"Fine. But if you and your pals want to learn anything of worth, then
you'd better start out by showing me you mean to learn by showing respect
and showing up with shirts. That's the first choice you have. If you make it
wrong, then your choices as you go along are only going to become more
limited. And my name is Richard."
"Like I said, you might be good for a laugh." He made a face.
"Richard."
"Laugh all you want. I know my own worth and don't need to prove it to
someone who doesn't know theirs. If you want to learn, you know what you
must do. If you ever wave a knife at me again, thoughor, worse, my wife-then
you will be making the last of your many mistakes in life."
He chose to ignore the threat with more bravado. "What am I ever going
to be? Some dupe, like you, working your tail off for that greedy Ishaq and
his transport company?"
"What's your name?"
"Kamil."
"Well, Kamil, I work in exchange for wages so I can support myself and
my wife. I have have something of value-myself. Someone values my worth
enough to pay me for my time and ability. Right now, choosing to work at
loading wagons is one of the few choices I have to make in my life. I chose
to fix the steps because it improves my life." Richard narrowed his eyes.
"And what does Ishaq have to do with it, anyway?"
"Ishaq? He's the one who owns the transport company."
"Ishaq is just the load master."
"Ishaq used to live here, back before the Order took over the building.
My father knew him. Matter of fact, you'll be sleeping in his parlor. Back
then, it was his transport company. He chose the path of enlightenment over
greed, though, when it
was offered him. He let the citizen workers' group help him to learn to
be a better citizen of the Order, learn his place under the Creator. Now he
knows he's no better than any of the rest of us-even me."
Richard glanced at Nicci, who was standing in the middle of their room,
watching the conversation. He'd forgotten all about her. He didn't feel like
talking anymore.
"I'll see you tomorrow evening, whether you come to laugh or to learn.
It's your life, Kamil, and your choice."
The sun was just coming up. Dusty shafts of light angled into the
warehouse through the high windows. When he saw Ishaq coming down the aisle
to give him the list of iron to be loaded for various wagons, Richard hopped
down off the rack where he'd been waiting.
Richard hadn't seen the load master for a week. "Ishaq. Are you all
right? Where have you been?"
The burly load master hurried up the aisle. "Hello to you, too."
"I'm sorry-hello. I was worried. Where have you been?"
He made a face. "Meetings. Always meetings. Wait in this office, wait
in that office. No work, just meetings for this and for that. I had to go
see people to try to arrange for loads people need. Sometimes I think no one
really wants any goods to move in this city. It would be easier for them if
everyone got paid, but had to do no work-then they would not have to sign
their name on a piece of paper and worry if maybe someday they will be
called to account for having done it."
"Ishaq, is it true that this transport company used to be yours?"
The man paused to catch his breath. "Who tells you these things?"
"What about it? Did the transport company used to be yours?"
Ishaq shrugged. "Still is, I guess."
"What happened?"
"What happened? Nothing happened, except maybe I got smart and figured
out it was more work than I needed."
"What did they threaten you with?"
Ishaq peered at Richard for a time. "Where are you from? You don't seem
like any farmboy I ever met."
Richard smiled. "You didn't answer my question, Ishaq."
The man gestured irritably. "What for you want to know about past
history? Past is past. A man has to look at the way things are and do the
best he can from what life presents him. A choice was put to me, and I made
it. Things are they way they are. Wishing don't put food before my
children."
Richard's inquisitive frown suddenly felt cruel on his face. He let it
go. "I understand, Ishaq. I really do. I'm sorry."
The man shrugged again. "Now I work here just like everyone else. Much
easier. I must follow the same rules, or I could lose my job, just like
everyone else. Everyone is equal, now."
"Praise be to the Order." Ishaq smiled at Richard's gibe. Richard held
out his hand. "Let's have the list."
The load master handed over the paper. It only had the names of two
places on it, with some directions for grade, length, and amounts.
"What's this?" Richard asked.
"We need a loader to go with a wagon to pick up some iron and see it
delivered."
"So, I'm working on the wagons, now? Why? I thought you needed me in
the warehouse."
Ishaq took off his red hat and scratched his head of dark, thinning
hair. "We had some . . . complaints."
"About me? What did I do? You know I've worked hard."
"Too hard." Ishaq readjusted his hat on his head. "Men in the warehouse
say you are petty and spiteful. Their words, not mine. They say you make
them feel bad by flaunting how young and strong you are. They say you are
laughing behind their backs."
Many of the men were younger than Richard, and strong enough.
"Ishaq, I never-"
"I know, I know. But they feel that you do. Don't make trouble for
yourself, now. Their feelings are what matter, not what is."
Richard let out a frustrated sigh. "But I was told by the workers'
group that I have the ability to work whereas others don't, and that I was
supposed to contribute my full effort in order to help relieve the strain on
those less able-those who don't have my ability. They said that I would lose
the job if I didn't do my full effort."
"It's a fine line to walk."
"And I stepped over the line."
"They want you dismissed."
Richard sighed. "So, I'm through, here?"
Ishaq waggled his hand. "Yes, and no. You are dismissed from the
warehouse for having a bad attitude. I convinced the committee to give you
another chance and let you be moved to the wagons. The wagons aren't as much
work, because you can only load it, and then when you get to where it's
going, you unload it. Can't get in much trouble, that way."
Richard nodded. "Thanks, Ishaq."
Ishaq's gaze sought refuge among the racks of iron and the bins of
charcoal and long rows of ore that needed delivery. He scratched his temple.
"The pay is less."
Richard brushed the iron and ore dust from his hands and rear of his
pants. "What's the difference? They just take it from me anyway and give it
out. I'm not really losing any pay, other people are losing my pay."
Ishaq chuckled and clapped Richard on the shoulder. "You are the only
one around here I can count on, Richard. You are different than the others-I
feel I can talk to you and it won't drift to other ears."
"I wouldn't do that to you."
"I know. That's why I tell you what I don't tell the others. I am
expected to be equal, and to work like anyone else, but I am also expected
to provide jobs. They took my business, but they still expect me to run it
for them. Crazy world."
"You don't know the half of it, Ishaq. So what about this wagon-loading
job? What is it you need done?"
"The blacksmith out at the site is dealing me a fit."
"Why?"
"He has orders for tools, but he has no iron. Lots of people are
waiting on things." He swept a hand out at the rack of iron. "Most of this
is what was ordered
last autumn. Last autumn! It's nearly spring and it's only now come in.
It's all been promised to those who ordered it before."
"So, why did it take so long for it to get here?"
Ishaq slapped his forehead. "Maybe you are an ignorant farmboy, after
all. Where you been? Under rocks? You can't just get things because you want
them. You got to wait your turn. Your order must pass before the review
board."
"Why?"
"Why, why, why. Is that all you know?"
Ishaq sighed and said something under his breath about the Creator
testing his patience. He slapped the back of his fingers to the palm of his
other hand as he explained it to Richard.
"Because you've got to think of others, that's why. You got to take
other people's needs into consideration. You have to consider the good of
everyone. If I get all the runs picking up and delivering the iron, then
what chance have others who want to do the same? If I have all the business,
that's unfair. It would put people out of work. What's available has to be
divided up. The board of supervision must make sure everything is equal to
all. Some people can't handle the orders so fast as I can, or they have
trouble, or they can't get workers, or their workers have troubles, so I got
to wait until they can catch up."
"It's your business, why can't-"
"Why, why, why. Here, take this order. I don't need to have that
blacksmith come all the way down here again and yell at me. He's in trouble
with his orders and he needs the iron."
"Why is he in trouble? I thought everyone had to wait their turn."
Ishaq lifted an eyebrow and lowered his voice. "His customer is the
Retreat."
"The Retreat? What's that?"
"The Retreat." Ishaq spread his arms, indicating something big. "That's
the name of the place being built for the emperor."
Richard hadn't known the name. The emperor's new palace was the reason
for all the workers coming to Altur'Rang. He supposed it was the reason
Nicci had insisted they come to the city, too. She had some interest in
having him be part of the grand project. He assumed it was her grotesque
sense of irony.
"The new palace is going to be huge," Ishaq said, waving his arms
again. "A lot of work for a lot of people. It will be work for years
building the Retreat."
"So, when the goods are for the Order, then you had better deliver, I
take it."
Ishaq smiled and dipped a deep nod. "Now, you are starting to
understand, Mr. Richard why, why, why. The blacksmith is working directly
from the orders of the builders of the palace, who report to the highest
people. The builders need tools and things made. They don't want to hear
excuses from a lowly blacksmith. The blacksmith doesn't want to hear excuses
from me, but I have to go by what the review board says-he doesn't, he goes
by what the palace says. I'm in the middle."
Ishaq paused when one of the other loaders came down the aisle with a
piece of paper. Ishaq read the paper the man gave him, while the man gave a
sidelong look at Richard. Ishaq sighed and gave brief directions to the man.
After he was gone, Ishaq turned back to Richard.
"I can only transport what the review board allows me to move. That
paper, just now-it was instructions from the board for me to hold a shipment
of timbers to the mines because the load was going to go to a company that
needs the work. You see? I can't put other people out of business by being
unfair and delivering more than
they do, or else I have trouble, and I get replaced by someone who will
not be so unfair to his competitors. Ah, it's not like the old days, when I
was young and foolish."
Richard folded his arms. "You mean to say that if you do a good job,
you get in trouble-just like I did."
"Good job. Who's to say what is a good job. Everybody's got to work
together for the good of everybody. That is a good job-if you help your
fellow man."
Richard watched a couple of men off in the distance loading a wagon
with charcoal. "You don't really believe that mouthful of mush, do you,
Ishaq?"
Ishaq sighed in a long suffering manner. "Richard, please, load the
wagon when you get to the foundry and then go with the wagon out to the
Retreat and unload it at the blacksmith's shop. Please. Don't get sick on
me, or get a bad back, or have infirm children in the middle of the run? I
don't need to see the blacksmith again, or I will have to go swimming with
an iron bar around my neck."
Richard grunted a laugh. "My back is feeling fine."
"Good. I'll get a driver over here to drive the wagon." Ishaq waggled a
cautionary finger. "And don't ask the driver to help load or unload. We
don't need that kind of grievance brought up at the next meeting. I had to
beg Jori not to lodge a complaint after I asked him to help me unload the
wagon that day in the rain, when the wheels broke-the day you helped me get
the load to the warehouse. Remember?"
"I remember."
"Please, don't give Jori any trouble. Don't touch the reins-that's his
job. Be a good fellow, then? Get the iron loaded and unloaded so that
blacksmith doesn't come to see me again?"
"Sure, Ishaq. I won't make any trouble for you. You can trust me."
"There's a good fellow." Ishaq started away, but turned back. "Was not
so much trouble on a farm-am I right?"
"No, it wasn't. I wish I was back there, now."
Before he got far, Ishaq turned back once more. "You be sure to bow and
scrape if you see any of those priests. You hear?"
"Priests? What priests? How will I know them?"
"Brown robes and creased caps-oh, you'll know them. You can't miss
them. If you see any, you be on your best manners. If a priest suspects you
of having an improper attitude toward the Creator or such, he can have you
tortured. The priests are Brother Narev's disciples."
"Brother Narev?"
"The high priest of the Fellowship of Order-" Ishaq waved his arms
impatiently. "I have to get Jori to come with the wagon. Please, Richard, do
as I ask. That blacksmith will feed me to his forge if I don't have that
iron out there today. Please, Richard, get that load out there. Please?"
Richard gave Ishaq a smile in order to put his mind at ease.
"You have my word, Ishaq. The blacksmith will have the iron."
Ishaq heaved a sigh and hurried off to find his driver.
It was late in the muggy afternoon by the time they made it to the site
of the Retreat. Sitting in the wagon beside Jori as they cleared the top of
the final hill, Richard was awestruck by the sight. It was beyond huge. He
couldn't imagine how many square miles had been cleared. Gangs of thousands
of men, looking like ants spread out below, worked in lines with shovels and
baskets reshaping the contour of the land.
Jori was disinterested in the construction, and only spat over the
side, offering the occasional "I suppose" to some of Richard's questions.
The foundation was still being laid in deep trenches, enabling Richard,
looking down from the road, to see on the ground the outline of the future
structure. It was hard to fathom how enormous the building was going to be.
Seeing the specks moving slowly beside it, it was hard to keep in mind that
they were men.
For sheer size, the structure would rival anything Richard had ever
seen. There were miles of grounds and gardens going in. Fountains and other
towering structures along entrance roads were beginning to be erected.
Sweeping stretches of mazes were being constructed with hedges. Hillsides
were dotted with trees that had been planted according to a grand plan.
The Retreat faced a lake in what was to be that majestic park. The
short side of the main building was to run a quarter mile along the river.
Stone pilings marched partway out into the river, with a series of
connecting arches just starting to be constructed. Apparently, part of the
palace was to extend out over the water, with docks for the emperor's
pleasure craft.
Across the river lay more of the city. On the palace side of the river,
too, the city spread all around, though at a great distance from the
Retreat. Richard couldn't imagine how many buildings and people had been
displaced for the construction. This was to be no distant and remote
emperor's palace, but rather it was set right in the center of Altur'Rang.
Roads were being paved with millions of cobbles, giving the multitudes of
citizens of the Order access to come and see the wand structure. There were
already crowds of people standing behind rope barricades, watching the
construction.
Despite the poverty of the Old World, it would appear that this grand
palace was to be a crown jewel of unsurpassed splendor.
Stone of various kinds lay in great piles. In the distance, Richard
could see men working at cutting it into the required shapes. The heavy
afternoon air rang with the faraway knells of hundreds of hammers and
chisels. There were stockpiles of granite and marble in a variety of colors,
and massive quantities of limestone blocks. Special quarry wagons waited in
serpentine columns to deliver yet more. The long blocks of stone, called
lifts, were slung under heavy beams that bridged the front
and rear axles. Huts and great open shelters had been built for the
stone workers so they could work no matter the weather. Timber was stickered
in row upon row of huge stacks covered with purpose-built roofs. The
overflow was covered in canvas. Small mountains of materials for mortar were
scattered around the foundation, looking like anthills, the illusion aided
by all the dark specks of men moving about.
Away from the site itself, on a road that snaked its way along the side
of a hill, among a small city of new work buildings overlooking the site,
lay the blacksmith's shop. It was quite large, compared with such places
Richard had seen before. Of course, Richard had never seen anything on this
scale being built. He had seen grand places that already existed. To see one
just beginning was a revelation. The sheer scale of everything was
disorienting.
Jori expertly backed his team, putting the rear of the wagon right at
double doors standing open into blackness.
"There you be," Jori said. It was a long speech for the lanky driver.
He pulled out a loaf of bread and a waterskin filled with ale and climbed
down from the wagon to find a place farther down the hill, where he could
sit and watch the building while Richard worked at unloading the iron.
The blacksmith's shop was dark and stifling hot, even in the outer,
cluttered, stockroom. Like all blacksmith's shops, the walls in the workroom
were covered in soot. Windows were kept to a minimum, mostly located
overhead and covered with shutters, so as to keep it dark in order to more
easily judge the nature of the glowing metal.
Despite being recently built for the work at the palace, the
blacksmith's shop already looked a hundred years old. Nearly every spot held
some tool or other in a dizzying array and variety. There were rows of
tools, piles of them. The rafters were hung with tongs and fire pots and
crucibles and squares and dividers and contraptions like huge insects which
looked to be used for clamping pieces together. Low benches seemingly
cobbled together in haste were hung all round with long-handled dies of
every sort. Some benches held smaller grindstones. Slots around some tables
held hundreds of files and rasps. Some of the low tables were covered in a
jumble of hammers in such variety as Richard had never imagined, their
handles all sticking out, making the tabletops look like huge pincushions.
The floor was choked with clutter: boxes overflowing with parts, bars,
rivets; wedges; lengths of iron stock; clippings; pry bars; pole hooks;
dented pots; wooden jigs; tin snips; lengths of chain; pulleys; and a
variety of special anvil attachments. Everything was covered with soot or
dust or metal filings.
Broad short barrels full of liquids sat around the anvils where men
hammered on glowing iron held in tongs, flattening, stretching, cutting,
squaring, clipping. Glowing metal hissed and smoked in protest as it was
quenched in the liquid. Other men used the horns of their anvils to bend
metal that looked like bits of sunset held captive in tongs. They held up
those fascinating bits and matched them to patterns, hammered on the metal
some more, and checked it again.
Richard could hardly think in all the noise.
In the darkness, a man worked a big bellows, putting all his weight on
the downstroke. The blast of air made the fire roar. Charcoal overflowed
from baskets sitting wherever there had been room to put them. Cubbyholes
held pipe and odd scraps of metal. Metal hoops leaned against benches and
planks. Some of the hoops were for barrels, bigger ones were for wagon
wheels. Tongs and hammers lay here and there on the floor where men had
dropped them in the haste of battle with the hot iron.
The whole place was as agreeable a clutter as he had ever seen.
A man in a leather apron stood not far away at a door to another
workroom. He held out a chalkboard covered with a maze of lines as he
studied a large contraption of metal bars on the floor in the room beyond.
Richard waited, not wanting to interrupt the man's concentration. The
sharply defined muscles of his sooty arms glistened with sweat. The man
tapped the chalk against his lip as he puzzled, then swiped a line clean on
the board and drew it again, moving its connecting points.
Richard frowned at the drawing. It looked familiar, somehow, even
though it was no recognizable object.
"Would you be the master blacksmith?" Richard asked when the man paused
and looked over his shoulder.
The man's brow seemed enduringly fixed in an intimidating scowl. His
hair was cropped close to his skull-a good practice around so much fire and
white-hot metaladding to his menacing demeanor. He was of average height and
sinewy, but it was his countenance that made him look big enough for any
trouble that might come along. By the way the other men moved, and glanced
at this man, they feared him.
Taken by inexplicable compulsion, Richard pointed at the line the man
had just drawn. "That's wrong. What you just did is wrong. You have the top
end right, but the bottom should go here, not where you put it."
He didn't so much as blink. "Do you even know what this is?"
"Well, not exactly, but I-"
"Then how can you presume to tell me where to put this support?"
The man looked like he wanted to stuff Richard in the forge and melt
him down.
"Offhand, I don't know, exactly. Something just tells me that-"
"You had better be the man with the iron."
"I am," Richard said, glad to change the subject and wishing he had
kept his mouth shut in the first place. He had only been trying to help.
"Where would-"
"Where have you been all day? I was told it would be here first thing
this morning. What did you do? Sleep till noon?"
"Ah, no, sir. We went right to the foundry first thing. Ishaq sent me
right there at dawn. But the man at the foundry was having problems
because-"
"I'm not interested. You said you had the iron. It's already late
enough. Get it unloaded."
Richard looked around. Every spot seemed occupied.
"Where would you like it?"
The master blacksmith glared around at the crammed room as if he
expected some of the piles to get up and move for him. They didn't.
"If you'd have been here when you were supposed to be here, you could
have put it out there, just inside the door in the outer supply room. Now
they brought that big rock sled that needs welding, so you will have to put
the iron in the back. Next time, get out of bed earlier."
Richard was trying to be polite, but he was losing his patience with
being castigated because the blacksmith was having a troubled day.
"Ishaq made it quite clear that you were to get iron today, and he sent
me to see to it. I have your iron. I don't see anyone else able to deliver
on such short notice."
The hand with the chalkboard lowered. The full attention of the man's
glower focused on Richard for the first time. Men who had heard Richard's
words scurried off to attend to important work farther away.
"How much iron did you bring?"
"Fifty bars, eight feet."
The man let out an angry breath. "I ordered a hundred. I don't know why
they sent an idiot with a wagon when-"
"Do you want to hear the way it is, or do you want to yell at someone?
If you just want to spout off to no point and no useful end, then go right
ahead as I'm not much injured by ranting, but when you finally want to hear
the truth of the way things are, just let me know and I'll give it."
The blacksmith peered silently for a moment, a bull bewildered by a
bumblebee. "What's your name?"
"Richard Cypher."
"So, what's the truth of the way things are, Richard Cypher?"
"The foundry wanted to fill the order. They have bar stock stacked to
the rafters. They can't get it delivered. They wanted to let me have the
whole order, but a transport inspector stationed there wouldn't let us have
the whole hundred bars because the other transport companies are supposed to
get their equal loads, but their wagons are broken down."
"So Ishaq's wagons aren't allowed to take more than their fair share,
and fifty was their allotment."
"That's right," Richard said. "At least until the other companies can
move some more goods."
The blacksmith nodded. "The foundry is dying to sell me all the iron I
can use, but I can't get it here. I'm not allowed to transport it-to put
transport workers, like you, out of work."
"Were it up to me," Richard said. "I'd go back for another load today,
but they told me they couldn't give me any more until next week at the
earliest. I'd suggest you get every transport company you can find to
deliver you a wagonload. That way, you'll have a better chance to get what
you need."
The blacksmith smiled for the first time. It was amusement at the
foolishness of Richard's idea. "Don't you suppose I already thought of that?
I've got orders in with them all. Ishaq is the only one with equipment at
the moment. The rest are all having wagon problems, horse problems, or
worker problems."
"At least I have fifty bars for you."
"That will only keep me going the rest of the day and for the morning."
The blacksmith turned. "This way. I'll show you where you can stack it."
He led Richard through the congested workshop, among the confusion of
work and material. They went through a door and down a short connecting
hall. The noise fell away behind. They entered a quiet building in back,
attached, but set off on its own. The blacksmith unhooked a line attached at
a cleat and let down a trapdoor covering a window in the roof.
Light cascaded down into the center of the large room, where stood a
huge block of marble. Richard stood staring at the stunning stone heart of a
mountain.
It seemed completely out of place in a blacksmith's workshop. There
were tall doors at the far end, where the monolith had been brought in on
skids. The rest of the room had space left open all around the towering
stone. Chisels of every sort and various-size mallets stuck up from slots
along the pitch black walls.
"You can put the bars here, on the side. Be careful when you bring them
in."
Richard blinked. He had almost forgotten the man was there with him.
Still he stared at the lustrous quality of the stone before him. "I'll be
careful," he said without looking at the blacksmith. "I won't bang it into
the stone."
As the man started to leave, Richard asked, "I told you my name. What's
yours?"
"Cascella."
"Is there more to it?"
"Yes. Mister. See that you use it all."
Richard smiled as he followed the man out. "Yes, sir, Mr. Cascella. Ah,
mind if I ask what this is?"
The blacksmith slowed to a stop and turned back. He gazed at the marble
standing in the light as if it were a woman he loved.
"This is none of your business, that's what it is."
Richard nodded. "I only asked because it's a beautiful piece of stone.
I've never seen marble before it was a statue or made into something."
Mr. Cascella watched Richard watching the stone. "There's marble all
over this site. Thousands of tons of it. This is just one small piece. Now,
get my shorted order of iron unloaded."
By the time Richard was done, he was soaked in sweat, and filthy, not
only from the iron bars, but from the soot of the blacksmith's shop. He
asked if he could use some of the water in a rain barrel that the men were
using to wash in as they were getting ready to leave for the day. They told
him to go ahead.
When he finished, Richard found Mr. Cascella back at the chalkboard,
alone in the suddenly silent shop, making corrections to the drawing and
writing numbers down the side.
"Mr. Cascella, I'm finished. I kept the bars well off to the side, away
from the marble."
"Thank you," he mumbled.
"Mind if I ask what you will have to pay for that fifty bars of iron?"
The glare was back. "What's it to you?"
"From what I heard at the foundry, the man there had been hoping to
fill the whole order so he could get three point five gold marks, so, since
you got half your order, I believe you will be paying one point seven five
gold marks for the fifty bars of iron. Am I correct?"
The glare darkened. "Like I said, what's it to you?"
Richard put his hands in his back pockets. "Well, I was wondering if
you would be willing to buy another fifty bars for one point five gold
marks."
"So, you're a thief, too."
"No, Mr. Cascella, I'm not a thief."
"Then how are you going to sell me iron for a quarter mark less than
the foundry is selling it for? You smelting a little iron ore in your room
at night, Mr. Richard Cypher?"
"Do you want to hear what I have to say, or not?"
His mouth twisted in annoyance. "'balk."
"The foundry man was furious because he wasn't allowed to transport
your whole order. He has more iron than he can sell because he isn't allowed
to transport it, and the transport companies are all jammed up so they
aren't showing up. He said he would be willing to sell it to me for less."
Why?"
"He needs the money. He showed me his cold blast furnaces. He owes
wages and needs charcoal and ore and quicksilver, among other things, but
hasn't enough money to buy it all. The only thing he has plenty of is
smelted metal. His business is strangling because he can't move his product.
I asked what price he would be
willing to sell me iron for, if he didn't have to transport it-if I
picked it up myself. He told me that if I came after dark, he would sell me
fifty bars for one point two five gold marks. If you're willing to buy it
from me for one point five, I'll have you another fifty bars by morning,
when you said you need it."
The man gaped as if Richard was a bar of iron that had just come to
life before his eyes and started talking.
"You know I'm willing to pay one and three-quarters, why would you
offer to sell it to me for one and a half?"
"Because," Richard explained, "I want to sell it for less than you'd
have to pay through a transport company so that you'll buy it from me,
instead, and, because I need you to loan me the one and a quarter gold
marks, first, so I can buy the bars in the first place and bring them to
you. The foundry will only sell them to me if I pay when I come to take
them."
"What's to keep you from disappearing with my one and a quarter gold
marks?"
"My word."
The man barked a laugh. "Your word? I don't know you."
"I told you, my name is Richard Cypher. Ishaq is scared to death of
you, and he trusted me to get you the iron so you won't come wring his
neck."
Mr. Cascella smiled again. "I'd not wring Ishaq's neck. I like the
fellow. He's stuck in a tight spot. -But don't you tell him I said that. I'd
like to keep him on his toes."
Richard shrugged. "If you don't want me to, I won't tell him you know
how to smile. I know, though, that you're in a tighter spot than Ishaq. You
have to deliver goods for the Order, but you're at the mercy of their
methods."
He smiled again. "So, Richard Cypher, what time will you be here with
your wagon?"
"I don't have a wagon. But, if you agree, I'll have your fifty iron
bars right there"-Richard pointed at a spot out the double doors beside
where Jori had parked the wagon-"in a pile, by dawn."
Mr. Cascella frowned. "If you don't have a wagon, how you going to get
the bars here? Walk?"
"That's right."
"Are you out of your mind?"
"I don't have a wagon, and I want to earn the money. It's not all that
far. I figure I can carry five at a time. That only makes ten trips. I can
do that by dawn. I'm used to walking."
"Tell me the rest of it-why you want to do this. The truth, now."
"My wife isn't getting enough to eat. The workers' group assesses most
of my wages, since I'm able to produce, and gives it to those who don't
work. Because I can work, I've become a slave to those who can't, or who
don't wish to. Their methods encourage people to find an excuse to let
others take care of them. I intensely dislike being a slave. I figure I can
entice you to go along with the deal by offering you a better price. We each
gain a benefit. Value for value."
"If I were to go along, what do you plan to do with all that money-go
live off it for a while? Drink it away?"
"I need the money to buy a wagon and a team of horses."
The frown knotted tighter. "What do you need with a wagon?"
"I need the wagon to deliver you all the iron you're going to buy from
me because I can get it for you cheaper, and because I can deliver it when
you need it."
"You looking to get buried in the sky?"
Richard smiled. "No. I just happen to think that the emperor wants his
palace built. From what I've heard, they have a lot of slave labor down
there-people they've captured. But they don't have enough slave labor to do
it all for them. They need people like you, and the foundries.
"If the officials of the Order want to have the work progress-and not
have to explain to Emperor Jagang why it isn't they will be inclined to look
the other way. In that narrow crack of need, there is opportunity. I expect
I'll have to bribe a few officials to get them to be busy elsewhere when I
come to pick up loads, but I've already figured that cost into it. I'll be
acting on behalf of myself, not an established transport company, so they
will be more inclined to see this as a way of accomplish ing what they need
without suspending their morass of restrictions.
"You will be getting iron for less than you pay now, and I can deliver.
You can't even get what you need at the higher price. You will make more,
too. We both benefit."
The blacksmith stared for a moment as he tried to find a flaw in
Richard's plan.
"You're either the stupidest crook I ever saw, or the . . . I don't
even know what. But I have Brother Narev breathing down my neck, and that
isn't pleasant. Not pleasant at all. I probably shouldn't tell you this, but
you know how Ishaq sweats over me? I sweat ten times that much when Brother
Narev comes to ask why the tools aren't ready. The brothers don't want to
hear my troubles, they just want what they want."
"I understand, Mr. Cascella."
He let out a sigh. "All right, Richard Cypher, one and a half gold
marks for fifty bars delivered by dawn tomorrow-but I'll only give you the
one and a quarter now. You get the other quarter mark in the morning, when
my iron is here."
"Agreed. Who is this Brother Narev, anyway?"
"Brother Narev? He's the high priest-"
"Did I hear someone mention my name?" The voice was deep enough to
nearly rattle the tools off the walls.
Richard and the blacksmith turned to see a man approaching from around
the corner of the shop. Here and there, his heavy robes betrayed his large
bony frame. His face seemed to pull the gathering darkness into the deep
creases of his face. Dark eyes gleamed out from under a hooded brow
overspread with a tangle of graying hairs. Wiry hair above his ears curled
up from under the edges of a dark, creased cap. The cap sat halfway down his
forehead. He looked like a shadow come to life to stalk the world.
Mr. Cascella bowed. Richard followed his lead.
"We were just discussing the problem of getting enough iron, Brother
Narev."
"Where are all my new chisels, blacksmith?"
"I have yet to-"
"I have stone sitting down there with no chisels to cut it. I have
stonecutters who need more tools. You are holding up my palace."
The blacksmith lifted a hand toward Richard. "This is Richard Cypher,
Brother Narev. He was just telling me how he thought he might be able get me
the iron I need and-"
The high priest held up his hand for silence.
"You can get the blacksmith what he needs?" Brother Narev snapped at
Richard.
"It can be done."
"Then do it."
Richard bowed his head. "By your command, Brother Narev."
The shadowed figure turned to the shop. "Show me, blacksmith."
The blacksmith seemed to know what the high priest wanted and followed
behind him, gesturing for Richard to come along. Richard understood; he
couldn't get the money to buy the iron until the blacksmith first took care
of the important man who had just vanished into the shadows of the shop.
When the blacksmith snapped his fingers and pointed at a lamp on his
way by, Richard snatched it up. He lit a long splinter in the glowing coals
of the forge and then lit the lamp. He held it up behind the two men as they
stood just inside the doorway to the room with the complex contraption of
metal bars sitting on the floor beyond.
Mr. Cascella held the chalkboard up in the light. Brother Narev looked
at the drawing on the chalkboard, then to the maze of iron lines on the
floor, comparing them.
Richard felt an icy tingle at the base of his scalp when he suddenly
realized what the thing on the floor was.
Brother Narev pointed to the drawing, to the line Richard had said was
wrong.
"This line is wrong," Brother Narev growled.
The blacksmith wagged his finger over the chalk drawing. "But I have to
stabilize this mass over here."
"I told you to add braces, I didn't invite you to ruin the main scheme.
You can leave the top of the support where you have it, but the bottom
should be attached . . . here."
Brother Narev pointed to where Richard had said it should go.
Mr. Cascella scratched his head of short hair as he stole a glance over
his shoulder just long enough to scowl at Richard.
"That would work," the blacksmith conceded. "It won't be as easy, but
it will work."
"I'm not concerned with how easy it is," Brother Narev said with
menace. "I don't want anything attached to this area, here."
"No, sir."
"It must be seamless, so none of the joining work shows through when it
is covered in gold. Get me those tools made, first."
"Yes, Brother Narev."
The high priest turned an uncomfortable scrutiny on Richard. "There's
something about you .... Do I know you?"
"No, Brother Narev. I've never before met you. I would remember.
Meeting a great man such as yourself, I mean. I would remember such a
thing."
He glared askance at Richard. "Yes, I suppose you would. You get the
blacksmith his iron."
"I said I would."
The Brother grunted irritably. "So you did."
As the tall shadow of a man stared into Richard's eyes, Richard
absently reached to lift his sword a little to make sure it was clear in its
scabbard. The sword wasn't there.
Brother Narev opened his mouth to say something, but his attention was
caught by two young men entering the shop. They wore robes like the high
priest, but without caps. They had simple hoods pulled up over their heads,
instead.
"Brother Narev," one called.
"What is it, Neal?"
"The book you sent for has arrived. You asked that we come for you at
once."
Brother Narev nodded to the young disciple, then directed a sour look
at Mr. Cascella and Richard.
"Get it done," he said to both.
Both Richard and the blacksmith bowed their heads as the high priest
swept out of the shop.
It felt as if a thundercloud had just departed over the horizon.
"Come on," Mr. Cascella said. "I'll get you the gold."
Richard followed him into a little room where the master blacksmith
pulled out a strongbox attached with massive chain to a huge pin in the
floor under the plank serving as his desk. He unlocked the strongbox and
handed Richard a gold mark.
"Victor."
Richard looked up from the gold mark and frowned. "What?"
"Victor. You asked what more there was to my name." He set silver to
make up the quarter mark on top of the gold mark resting in Richard's palm.
"Victor."
After leaving Ishaq's place and before going to get the iron for
Victor, Richard rushed back to his room. It wasn't dinner he wanted, but to
let Nicci know that he had to go back to work. She had in the past made it
clear that they were husband and wife, and that she would take a dim view of
him vanishing. He was to remain in Altur'Rang and work, just like any other
normal man.
Kamil and one of his friends were waiting for him. Both were wearing
shirts.
Richard stood at the foot of the stairs, looking up at the two. "I'm
sorry, Kamil, but I have to go back to work-"
"Then you're a bigger dupe than I thought-taking work at night, too.
You should just stop trying. It's no use trying in life. You just have to
take what life gives you. I knew you would have an excuse not to do what you
said you would do. You almost had me thinking that you might be different
than-"
"I was going to say that I have to go back to work, so we have to do
this right away."
Kamil twisted his mouth, as was his habit to express his displeasure
with those older and stupider than he.
"This is Nabbi. He wants to watch your foolish labor, too."
Richard nodded, not showing any irritation at Kamil's arrogant
attitude. "Glad to meet you, Nabbi." The third young man glared from the
shadows back by the stairs in the hall. He was the biggest. He wasn't
wearing a shirt.
To pry the steps apart, Richard used his knife and a rusty metal bar
Kamil found for him. It wasn't difficult-they were ready to fall apart on
their own. As the two youths watched, Richard cleaned the grooves in the
stringers. Since they were chewed up from being loose, he deepened their
bottoms, showing the two what he was doing and explaining how he would bevel
the ends of the treads to lock into the deepened channel. Richard watched
Kamil and Nabbi as they whittled wedges to match the one he made as a
pattern for them. They were only too delighted to show him their knife work;
Richard was delighted that it helped get the job done sooner.
Once they had them back together, Kamil and Nabbi both ran up and down
the repaired steps, apparently surprised that they really were now sturdy
underfoot, and pleased that they were partly responsible for the repair.
"You both did a good job," Richard told them, because they had. They
didn't make any smart remarks. They actually smiled.
Richard's dinner was watery millet eaten by the light of a burning wick
floating in linseed oil. The smell from the simple light went poorly with
dinner, which was more water than millet. Nicci said she'd already eaten,
and didn't want any more. She encouraged him to finish it.
He didn't give Nicci the details of his second job. She was insistent
only that he
work; the work itself was irrelevant to her. She tended to her
household chores and expected him to earn them a living.
She seemed satisfied that he was learning how ordinary people had to
work themselves sick just to make enough to get along in life. The promise
of money to buy them more food seemed to spark a longing in her eyes that
her lips did not express. He noticed that the black material covering her
once full bosom was now slack and half empty. Her elbows and hands had
become bony.
As he took another spoonful of millet, Nicci casually mentioned that
the landlord, Kamil's father, had come by.
Richard looked up from his soup. "What did he say?"
"He said that since you have a job, the area citizens' building
committee had assessed us extra rent in order to help pay the rent of those
in the local buildings who can't work. You see, Richard, how life under the
ways of the Order cultivates caring in people, so that we all work together
for the benefit of all?"
Nearly all of what was not taken by the workers' group was taken by the
area building committee, or some other committee, and all for the same
purpose: for the betterment of the people of the Order. Richard and Nicci
had next to nothing left for food. Richard's clothes were getting looser all
the time, but not as loose as Nicci's dresses were getting.
She seemed smug about the fact that their rent was past due.
Foodstuffs, at least, were relatively inexpensive-when they were available.
People said that it was only by the grace of the Creator and the wisdom of
the Order that they could afford any food at all. Richard had heard talk at
Ishaq's place that more plentiful and varied food could be had, for a price.
Richard didn't have the price.
On his wagon ride with Jori to the foundry and the blacksmith, Richard
had spotted distant houses that looked to be quite grand. Well-dressed
people walked those streets. Occasionally, he saw them in carriages. They
were people who neither dirtied their hands or soiled their morals with
business. They were men of principle. They were officials of the Order who
saw to it that those with the ability sacrificed for the cause of the Order.
"Self-sacrifice is the moral duty of all people," she said in challenge
to his clenched teeth.
Richard could not hold his tongue. "Self-sacrifice is the obscene and
senseless suicide of slaves."
Nicci gaped at him. It was as if he had just said that a mother's milk
was poison to her newborn.
"Richard, I do believe that that's the cruelest thing I've ever heard
you say."
"It's cruel to say that I would not happily sacrifice myself for that
thug, Gadi? Or for some other thug I don't know? It's cruel not to willingly
sacrifice what's mine to any greedy wretch who lusts to possess plundered
goods, the unearned, even at the cost of their victim's blood?
"Self-sacrifice for a value held dear, for a life held dear, for
freedom and the freedom of those you respect-self-sacrifice such as mine for
Kahlan's life-is the only rationally valid sacrifice. To be selfless means
you are a slave who must surrender your most priceless possession-your
life-to any smirking thief who demands it.
"The suicide of self-sacrifice is but a requirement imposed by masters
on slaves. Since there is a knife to my throat, it is not to my good that I
am stripped of what I earn by my own hand and mind. It is only to the good
of the one with the knife, and
those who by weight of numbers but not reason dictate what is the good
of allthose cheering him on so they might lap up any drop of blood their
masters miss.
"Life is precious. That's why sacrifice for freedom is rational: it is
for life itself and your ability to live it that you act, since life without
freedom is the slow, sure death of self-sacrifice to the `good' of
mankind-who is always someone else. Mankind is just a collection of
individuals. Why should everyone's life be more important, more precious,
more valuable than yours? Mindless mandatory self-sacrifice is insane."
She stared, not at him, but at the flame dancing on the pool of linseed
oil. "You don't really mean that, Richard. You're just tired and angry that
you have to work at night, too, just to get by. You should realize that all
those others you help are there to help society, including you, should you
be the one in desperate need."
Richard didn't bother to argue with her, and said only, "I feel sorry
for you, Nicci. You don't evert know the value of your own life. Sacrifice
could mean nothing to you."
"That's not true, Richard," she whispered, "I sacrifice for you .... I
saved what millet we had for you, that you might have strength."
"The strength to stand upright when I throw my life away? Why did you
sacrifice your dinner, Nicci?"
"Because it was the right thing to do-it was for the good of others."
He nodded as he peered at her in the dim light. "You would endanger
your life to starvation for others-for any others." He pointed a thumb back
over his shoulder. "How about that thug, Gadi? Would you starve to death so
he might eat? It might mean something, Nicci, if it was a sacrifice for
someone you value, but it isn't; it's a sacrifice to some mindless gray
ideal of the Order."
When she didn't answer, Richard pushed the rest of his dinner before
her. "I don't want your meaningless sacrifice."
She stared at the bowl of millet for an eternity.
Richard felt sorry for her, for what she couldn't understand as she
stared at the bowl. He thought about what would happen to Kahlan if Nicci
were to fall sick from not getting enough to eat.
"Eat, Nicci," he said softly.
She finally picked up her spoon and did as he said.
When she had finished, she looked up with those blue eyes that seemed
so eager for the sight of something he could not make her see. She slid the
empty bowl to the center of the table.
"Thank you, Richard, for the meal."
"Why thank me? I am a selfless slave, expected to sacrifice for any
worthless person who presents their need to me."
He strode to the door. With his hand on the loose knob, he turned back.
"I have to go, or I will lose my work."
Her big blue eyes were brimming with tears as she nodded.
Richard made the first trip from the foundry through the dark streets
to Victor's shop carrying five bars. From windows along the way, a few
people blinked out at the man lugging a load past. They blinked without
comprehension at the meaning of what he was doing. He was working for
nothing but his own benefit.
Bent under the weight, Richard kept telling himself that carrying five
bars each time would make it only ten trips, and the less trips, the better.
He carried five the second trip, and the third. By the fourth time he
returned to the foundry, he decided
that he would have to make an extra trip in order to give himself a
break and only carry four bars for a few of the trips. He lost track of how
many times he went back and forth throughout the empty night. The next to
last time, he struggled to lift but two bars. That left three. He forced
himself to carry all three the last time, trading the extra effort for the
lesser distance.
He got the last three bars to Victor's place before dawn. His shoulders
were bruised and painful. He had to walk all the way to his job at Ishaq's
place, so he couldn't wait for Victor to arrive to complete his payment of
the last quarter gold mark.
The day of work was a break from the night of exhausting lugging of
iron bars. Jori didn't talk unless spoken to, so Richard lay in the wagon
bed with a load of charcoal and snatched a few minutes of sleep here and
there as the wagon bounced along. He only felt relieved that he had done as
he had promised.
--]----
As he returned home after an interminable day, Richard looked up and
saw Kamil and Nabbi standing at the head of the stairs. They both had on
shirts.
"We've been waiting for you to come home and finish the job," Kamil
said.
Richard swayed on his feet. "What job?"
"The stairs."
"We did that last night."
"You did only the stairs in the front. You said you intended to fix the
stairs. The front is only part of the stairs. The back stairs are twice as
long and in worse shape than the front were. You don't want your wife and
the other women of the building to fall and break their necks when they go
out back to the cooking hearth or the privy, do you?"
This was their idea of a little test. Richard knew he would lose an
opportunity if he put them off. He was so tired he couldn't think straight.
Nicci stuck her head out the front door. "I thought I heard your voice.
Come in to dinner. I have soup waiting on you."
"Got any tea?"
Nicci cast a sidelong glance at the two in shirts. "I can make tea.
Come on, and I'll get it while you have your soup."
"Please bring it out to the back," Richard said. "I promised to fix the
stairs."
"Now?"
"There are still a couple hours of light. I can eat while we're
working."
Kamil and Nabbi asked more questions than the evening before. The third
youth, Gadi, passed by occasionally as Richard and the other two worked.
Gadi, without his shirt, made a point of looking Nicci up and down when she
brought Richard his soup and tea.
When Richard had finally finished, he went to the room that had once
been Ishaq's parlor, and was now his and Nicci's home. He took off his shirt
and splashed water on his face from the washbasin. His head was throbbing.
"Wash your hair," Nicci said. "You're filthy. I don't want lice in
here."
Rather than argue that he had no lice, Richard dipped his face in the
water and scrubbed his head with the cake of coarse soap. It was easier than
talking her out of it so he could go to sleep. Nicci hated lice.
He was thankful, he supposed, that she was at least a clean wife in
their fraudu-
lent arrangement. She kept the room, bedding, and his clothes clean,
despite the difficulty of hauling water from the well down the street. She
never objected to any work necessary to simulate the lives of normal people.
She seemed to want something so badly that she often lost herself in the
role to the extent that while he never forgot she was a Sister of the Dark
and his captor, she occasionally did. He dunked his head again, swishing his
hair, rinsing out the soap.
As a stream of water ran off his chin and back into the basin, he
asked, "Who is Brother Narev?"
Nicci, sitting on her pallet sewing, paused and looked up. Her sewing
suddenly looked out of place, as if her parody of domestic life lost its
aura for her.
"Why do you ask?"
"I met him yesterday, out at the blacksmith's."
"Out at the site of the project?"
Richard nodded. "I had to deliver iron out there."
She bent back to her needlework. Richard watched in the light of the
linseed-oil lamp sitting beside her as she took a few more stitches in the
patch to the knees of a pair of his pants. She finally paused and let her
arms, one sheathed in his pant leg, sink to her lap.
"Brother Narev is the high priest of the Fellowship of Order-an ancient
sect devoted to doing the Creator's will in this world. He is the heart and
soul of the Order-their moral guide-so to speak. He and his disciples lead
the righteous people of the Order in the ways of the everlasting Light of
the Creator. He is an advisor to Emperor Jagang."
Richard was taken aback. He hadn't expected her to be so versed on the
subject. His caution, along with the hair at the back of his neck, lifted.
"What sort of advisor?"
She took another stitch, pulling the long thread through. "Brother
Narev was Jagang's pedagogue-his teacher, advisor, and mentor. Brother Narev
put the fire in Jagang's belly."
"He's a wizard, isn't he." It was more statement than question.
She looked up from her sewing. He could see in her blue eyes that she
was weighing whether or not to tell him, or perhaps how much she wanted to
tell him. His steady gaze told her that he was expecting the whole truth.
"In the language of the street, you could describe him as such."
"What does that mean?"
"Common people, those who understand little about magic, would describe
him as a wizard. Strictly speaking, though, he is not a wizard."
"Then what is he? Strictly speaking."
"Actually, he is a sorcerer."
Richard could only stare at her. He had always assumed that a wizard
and a sorcerer were the same thing. When he thought about it, he realized
that people who knew about magic spoke exclusively of a male with the gift
as a wizard. He had never heard any of those people mention a sorcerer.
"You mean he's like you, like a sorceress, only male?"
The question stymied her for a moment. "I suppose you could think of it
that way, but that's not really right. If you want to compare it, then you
would have to say he has more in common with a wizard, since both are male.
The concept of sorceress introduces irrelevant issues."
Richard swiped water from his face. "Please, Nicci, I've been up all
last night
working, and I'm dead on my feet. Don't go all abstract and complex on
me? Just tell me what it means?"
She set her sewing aside and gestured to his pallet for him to sit near
her, in the light. Richard pulled his shirt back on. He yawned as he crossed
his legs under himself on his pallet.
"Brother Narev is a sorcerer," she began. "I'm sorry, but the
distinction is just not something simply explained. It's a very complex
matter. I will try to make it as clear as I can, but you must understand
that I can't boil it down too much or it will lose any real flavor of the
truth.
"Sorcerers are much the same as wizards, but different-in much the way
that water and oil are both liquids, you might say. Both pour and can
dissolve things, but they don't mix and they dissolve different things.
Neither do the magic of a wizard and a sorcerer mix, nor do they work on the
same things.
"Anything he did against a wizard's gift, or anything a wizard did
against his, would not work. While both are the gift, they are different
aspects-they don't mix. The magic of each nullifies the other, making it
just sort of . . . fizzle."
"You mean like Additive and Subtractive are opposites?"
"No. While on the surface, that would seem a good way to understand it,
it's entirely the wrong way to think of it." She lifted her hands as if to
begin again, but then let them drop back into her lap. "It's very hard to
explain the difference to one such as you who has little understanding of
how his own gift works; you have no basis in which to ground anything I
could tell you. There are no words which are both accurate and which you
would understand; this is beyond your understanding."
"Well . . . do you mean that, much like a wolf and a cougar are both
predators, they are not the same sort of creature?"
"That's a little closer to it."
"How common are these sorcerers?"
"About as common as dream walkers..." she said as she gave him a
meaningful look, "or war wizards."
Even though he couldn't understand it and she couldn't explain it,
Richard, for some reason, found that bit of news troubling.
"What is it, though, that he does differently?"
Nicci let out a sigh. "I'm no expert, and I'm not entirely sure, but I
believe he does the same basic sort of things a wizard would do, but just
does them with a sorcerer's unique quality of magic-liquor and ale both get
you drunk, but they are different kinds of drink made from different
things."
"One of those is stronger." -
"Not so with wizards and sorcerers. Do you see why words and these
kinds of comparisons are so inadequate? The strength of a wizard and
sorcerer's gift is dependent on the individual, it is not influenced by the
fundamental nature of his magic."
Richard scratched his stubble as he considered her words. In view of
the fact that both could do magic, he couldn't come up with any distinction
that seemed of any practical importance.
"Is there anything that he can do that a wizard can't?" He waited. She
didn't look like she was thinking about his question, but more like she was
considering whether she wanted to answer it at all. "Nicci, you told me when
you first captured me that you would tell me the truth about things. You
said you had no reason to deceive me."
She watched his eyes, but finally looked away as she pulled her blond
hair back from her face. The gesture unexpectedly, painfully, reminded him
of Kahlan.
"Perhaps. I believe he may have learned how to replicate the spell that
surrounded the Palace of the Prophets. It took wizards, thousands of years
ago, with both sides of the gift to create that particular spell. I believe
that one of the ways sorcerers are different is that their power is not
divisible into its constituent elements, as it is in wizards. So, while his
magic works differently, he may have learned enough of how the wizards-who
at that time possessed both sides of the gift, as do you-were able to create
the spell around the Palace of the Prophets to be able to replicate it in
his own fashion."
"You mean the spell that slowed aging? You think he can cast such a
web?"
"Yes. Jagang intimated as much to me. I knew Brother Narev when I was
young. He was a grown man then, a visionary, preaching the doctrine of the
Order. He spoke pensively about wishing to live long enough to see his
vision of the Order come to fruition. When I was taken to live at the palace
in Tanimura, I believe that may have given him the idea as he not long after
went there, too.
"The Sisters knew nothing of him. They thought him no more than a
humble worker. Since his gift is different than that of a wizard, they
didn't detect his ability. I now believe that he went there for the express
purpose of studying the spell around the Palace of the Prophets so that he
could re-create such a spell for his own benefit."
"Why didn't he storm the palace-take it over-and then he could have the
spell for his purpose?"
"It's possible that in the beginning he thought he might one day take
over the palace for his cause-in fact, Emperor Jagang had that exact
plan-but it's also possible that he was from the beginning studying the
spell because he wanted not simply to re-create it, but to enhance it."
Richard rubbed his brow, trying to comfort his aching head. "You mean
that now maybe he thinks he can create the spell over the Retreat-the
emperor's new palace-like that one at the Palace of the Prophets, but
better, so that aging will be slowed even more, so that he and his chosen
will live even longer?"
"Yes. Don't forget, age is relative. To one who lives to a thousand
years, living less than one century would seem all too brief. To a person
who lives many thousands of years, though, a lifetime that lasts but a mere
one millennium would seem fleeting.
"I suspect that Brother Narev has learned to slow aging to such an
extent that it would make him the next best thing to immortal. Jagang had
planned on capturing the Palace of the Prophets. It might have been that
once they secured the palace, Brother Narev intended to augment its spell to
suit his purposes."
"But I spoiled that plan."
Nicci nodded. "As are all of us who were once at the palace, Brother
Narev now grows older just like everyone else. Once away from the spell, it
feels like a headlong rush toward the grave. What youth Brother Narev has
left, he is no doubt eager to preserve. Remaining relatively young forever
has much to be said for it. Remaining old forever would be less attractive.
Because you destroyed the Palace of the Prophets, where he could have had
ample time to bring his plan to bear, he has been forced to act sooner,
rather than later."
Richard flopped back on his mat. He laid the back of a wrist over his
forehead. "He has the blacksmith making a spell-form in iron. The blacksmith
has no idea what it is he's creating. The spell-form is to be covered with
gold, eventually."
"For purity. It's likely that is merely part of the process. It could
even be that the gold-covered spellform is nothing more than a pattern, from
which the true spellform will be cast in pure gold."
Richard squinted in thought. "If it is a pattern for casting, that
would make it more likely that Narev intends to cast a number of these
spell-forms-that they will work together."
Nicci looked up and frowned. "Yes, that is a possibility."
"Will making such a thing harm the blacksmith?"
"No. It is propitious conjuring. Disregarding for the moment the
purpose for which it is desired, such a spell is meant to be beneficial; it
is to slow aging in order to lengthen life."
"What about Brother Narev's disciples?"
"Young wizards from the Palace of the Prophets."
Alarmed, Richard sat up. "I was at the Palace of the Prophets. They
will recognize me." '
"No. They were young wizards in training there, but they left to follow
Brother Narev before you arrived. If they see you, they will not know you."
"If they're wizards, won't they recognize that I have magic?"
A smile of contempt colored her features. "They are not that talented.
They are but bugs to what you are."
Richard found no comfort in the compliment. "Won't Brother Narev, or
his disciples, recognize you?"
Her face turned serious. "Oh, they would know me."
"It sounds as if Brother Narev must be strong in his gift. Won't he be
able to recognize that I have the gift? He was looking at me strangely. He
asked if he knew me. He sensed something."
"Why did you think him a wizard?"
Richard picked at the straw stuffing coming out of the pad over his
pallet as he considered the question.
"There was nothing that gave it away for a fact, but I strongly
suspected it from a lot of little things: the way he carried himself; the
way he looked at people; the way he spoke-everything about him. Only after I
surmised that Narev was a wizard did I realize that the thing the blacksmith
was making for him looked like some sort of spell-form."
"He would suspect you of being gifted in much the same way. Can you
tell the gig?..
"Yes. I've learned to recognize an ageless look in their eyes. I can in
some way see the aura of the gift around those in whom it is powerful-you,
for instance. At times, the air crackles around you."
She stared in fascination. "I've never heard of such a thing. It must
have something do to with you having both sides."
"You have both sides. Don't you see it?"
"No, but I acquired the Subtractive side in a different manner."
She had given her soul to the Keeper of the underworld.
"But you see nothing of the sort in Brother Narev, do you?" When
Richard shook his head, she went on with her explanation. "That is because,
as I explained, you have different aspects of the gift. Other than with your
faculty of reason, you have no wizardly ability to recognize the gift in
him; he has no sorcerous ability to
recognize the gift in you. Your magic won't work on one another. Only
your faculty of reason betrayed his gift to you."
Richard realized that, without saying it, she was telling him that if
he didn't want Narev to learn that he had the gift, then he had better be
careful around the man.
There were times when he thought he had her game figured out.
There were times, like now, when it seemed his entire perception of her
purpose shifted. At times, it almost seemed to him as if she threw her
beliefs in his face, not because she believed them, but because she was
desperately hoping for a reason not to, hoping he would find her in some
lost, dark world and show her the way out. Richard sighed inwardly; he had
given her his arguments as to why her beliefs were wrong, but, rather than
sway her, it only angered her, at best, or worse, further entrenched her in
her convictions.
As tired as he was, he lay in his bed, his eyes but narrow slits,
watching Nicci lit by the light of a single wick, bent in - concentration
over her sewing-one of the most powerful women ever to walk the world, and
she appeared perfectly content to sew a patch in the knee of his pants.
She accidentally stuck herself with the needle. As she shook her hand
and winced with the pain, Richard had the sudden cold recollection of the
link between her and Kahlan; his beloved would feel that prick.
Richard took the snow-white slice when Victor held it out.
"What's this?"
"Try it," Victor said as he waved an insistent hand. "Eat. Tell me what
you think. It's from my homeland. Here, a red onion goes well with it."
The white slice was smooth, dense, and rich with salt and herbs.
Richard let out a rapturous moan. He rolled his eyes.
"Victor, this is the best thing I've ever had. What is it?"
"Lardo."
They sat on the threshold of the double doors out of the room with the
marble monolith, watching dawn break over the site, where the walls of the
Retreat had begun to rise. Only a few people stirred below. Before long,
laborers would arrive in great numbers to begin again their work on the
Retreat. It went on every day without pause, rain or shine. Now that spring
was wearing on, the weather was pleasant nearly every day, with afternoon
rains every few days, but nothing dreary or oppressive-just enough to wash
you clean and make you feel refreshed.
If not for the ever-present ache of missing Kahlan, his worry over the
war far to the north, his loathing of being held prisoner, the slave labor
at the site, the abuse of people, the people who disappeared or those who
confessed under torture, and the grindingly repressive nature of life in
Altur'Rang, he might have found the spring quite enjoyable.
Day by day, too, his worry grew that Kahlan would soon be able to leave
their mountain home. He dreaded her getting caught up in such a war as would
be soon be roaring into full flame.
After he had eaten some of the mild onion, Richard went back to the
delightful lardo. He moaned again.
"Victor, I've never tasted anything like this. What's lardo?"
Victor held out another thin slice. Richard gladly accepted. After a
long night of work, the dense delicacy was really hitting the spot.
Victor gestured with his knife to the tin beside him holding the pure
white block. "Lardo is paunch fat from the boar."
"And this tin of it is from your homeland?"
"No, no-I make it myself. I come from far to the south of here, far
away-near the sea. That is where we make lardo. When I come here, I make it
here.
"I put the paunch fat in tubs I carved myself out of marble as white as
the lardo." Victor gestured with his hands as he spoke, working the air as
vigorously as he worked iron. "The fat is put in the tubs with coarse salt
and rosemary and other spices. From time to time I turn it in the brine. It
must rest a year in the stone to cure, to became lardo."
"A year!..
Victor nodded emphatically. "This we are eating, I made last spring. My
father taught me to make lardo. Lardo is something only men make. My father
was a quarry worker. Lardo gives quarry workers the stamina they need to
work long hours sawing blocks of our marble, or swinging a pickaxe. For
blacksmiths, too, lardo gives you power to lift a hammer all day."
"So, there are quarries where you lived?"
He waved his thick hand at the towering block behind them. "This. This
is Cavatura marble-from my homeland." He pointed out at several of the stock
areas below. "That, there, and there, i's marble from Cavatura, too."
"That's where you're from? Cavatura?"
Victor grinned like a wolf as he nodded. "The place where all that
beautiful marble came from. Our city gets its name from the marble quarries.
My family are all carvers, or quarry workers. Me? I end up a blacksmith
making tools for them."
"Blacksmiths are sculptors."
He grunted a laugh. "And you? Where are you from?"
"Me? Far away. They had no marble there. Only granite." Richard changed
the subject, lest he have to start inventing lies. Besides, it was getting
light. "So, Victor, when do you need more of that special steel?"
"Tomorrow. Are you up to it?"
The steel Victor needed was from farther away, at a foundry out near
the charcoal makers. They needed a lot of charcoal to cook with the iron to
make high-grade steel. Ore came in by barge, from not far away. It would
take most of the night for Richard to get there and back.
"Sure. I will be sick today and get some sleep."
He had become sick quite a lot over the last several months. It fit
right in with the way most of the others worked. Work some, be sick, tell
the workers' group that you were ailing. Some people limped in with a story.
It wasn't necessary; the workers' group never questioned.
The only thing he rarely missed were the meetings where those with bad
attitudes were named. People at the meetings were often named, but you were
more likely to bring attention if you missed the meetings. Those named were
often subsequently arrested and given an opportunity to confess. More than
once, a person named at a meeting as having an unsatisfactory attitude
killed themselves.
"One of Brother Narev's disciples, Neal, came around last evening with
some new orders." Victor's voice had taken on a tense edge. "What you just
brought will last me the day, but I need that steel by tomorrow."
"You will have it."
"Are you sure?"
"Have I ever let you down, Victor?"
Victor's hard face melted into a helpless smile. He passed Richard
another slice of lardo. "No, Richard, you never have. Not once. I had given
up hope of ever meeting another man who kept his word."
"Well, I'd best be off and take care of my horses. They've had a hard
night, and I'll need them rested for tonight. How much steel do you need?"
"Two hundred. Half square, and half round."
Richard performed a pained moan. "You're going to make me strong, or
kill me, Victor."
Victor smiled his approval. "You want the gold?"
"No. You can pay me when I deliver."
Richard no longer needed the money in advance. He had a heavy wagon,
now, and a strong team of horses. He paid Ishaq to care for them along with
the transport company's teams in the company stables. Ishaq helped Richard
with any number of the special arrangements that he'd had to make. Ishaq
knew which officials lived in the nice homes. They couldn't afford those
homes with just their pay as officials of the Order.
"You be careful of Neal," Richard said.
"Why's that?"
"For some reason, he believes I'm in need of lecturing. He truly
believes that the Order is mankind's savior. He puts the good of the
fellowship of Order above the good of mankind."
Victor sighed as he stood and tied on his leather apron. "My thoughts
about him, too."
As they passed into the building, the sun was just lighting the marble
standing there. Richard lingered and put a hand to the cold stone, as he
always did whenever he passed it. It almost felt alive to him. Alive with
potential.
"Victor, I asked you once what this was. Mind telling me, now?"
The blacksmith paused beside Richard and gazed up at the pure stone
before him. He reached out and touched it lightly, letting his fingertips
glide over the surface, testing, caressing.
"This is my statue."
"What statue?"
"The one I want to carve, someday. Many in my family are carvers. As
far back as I can remember, I always wanted to carve, too. I wanted to be a
great sculptor. I wanted to create great works.
"Instead, I had to work for the master blacksmith at the quarry. My
family needed to eat. I was the oldest living son. My father and the
blacksmith were friends. My father asked the blacksmith to take me on ....
He didn't want another son lost to the stone. It's a hard and dangerous
life, cutting stone from a mountain."
"Did you carve other things? I mean, like wood, or something."
Victor, still staring at his stone, shook his head. "I only wanted to
carve stone. I bought this block with my savings. I own it. Few men can say
they own a part of a mountain. A part as pure and beautiful as this."
Richard could understand the sentiments. "So, Victor, what will you
carve out of it?"
He squinted, as if trying to peer beyond the surface. "I don't know.
They say that the stone will speak to you and tell you what it should be."
"Do you believe that?"
Victor laughed his deep laugh. "No-not really. But the thing is, this
is a beautiful piece of stone. There is none finer for statues than Cavatura
marble, and few blocks of Cavatura marble with as fine a grain as this
piece. I couldn't bear to see it carved up into something ugly, like what
they carve nowadays.
"It used to be, long ago, that only beauty was carved from beauty such
as this. No more," he whispered in distant bitterness. "Now, man must be
carved with a twisted nature-as an object of shame."
Richard had delivered tools down to the site for Victor, down to where
the carving was taking place, and had had the opportunity to get a closer
look at the work being done. The outside of the stone walls was to be
covered with expansive scenes
on a scale that was staggering. The walls that would enclose the palace
went on for miles. The carvings being produced for the Retreat were the same
as those Richard had seen everywhere in the Old World, but would have no
equal in sheer, overpowering quantity. The entire palace was to be an epic
portrayal of the Order's view of the nature of life, and of redemption in
the afterlife of the underworld.
The figures being carved were stilted, with limbs that could not
possibly function. Those carved in relief were forever bound to the stone
from which they only haltingly emerged. The poses reflected a view of man as
ineffective, shallow, unsubstantial.
The elements of the hated anatomy of man, his muscle, bone, and flesh,
were melted together into lifeless limbs, their proportions distorted to
strip the figures of their humanity. Expressions were either impassive, if
the statue was supposed to portray virtue, or filled with terror, agony,
torment, if intended to illustrate the fate of evildoers. Proper men and
women, bent under the weight of labor, were always made to look out at the
world through the vacant stupor of resignation.
Most often, it was difficult to tell male from female; their worldly
bodies, an everlasting source of shame, were hidden by bulky garments like
those the priests of the Order wore. Further reflecting the Order's
teachings, only the sinful were shown naked, so that all could see their
detestable cankerous bodies.
The carvings represented man as helpless, doomed by the inadequacy of
his intellect to suffer every blow of existence.
Most of the sculptors, Richard suspected, feared to be questioned, or
even tortured, and so repeated the view that man was to be carved accepting
his vile nature, thus earning his reward only through death. The carvings
were meant to assure the masses that this was the only proper goal for which
man could hope. Richard knew that a few of the carvers vehemently believed
such teachings. He was always careful of what he said around them.
"Ah, Richard, I wish you could see beautiful statues, instead of
today's scourge."
"I have seen statues of great beauty," Richard softly assured the man.
"Have you? I'm so glad. People should see those things, not this,
this"-he waved a hand toward the rising walls of the Retreat-"this evil in
the guise of goodness."
"So you will one day carve such beauty?"
"I don't know, Richard," he finally admitted. "The Order takes
everything. They say that the individual is of no importance except inasmuch
as he can contribute to the good of others. They take what art can be, the
lifeblood of the soul, and turn it to poison, turn it to death."
Victor smiled wistfully. "This way, as it is, I can enjoy the beautiful
statue inside the stone."
"I understand, Victor-I really do. The way you describe it, I can see
it, too."
"We will both enjoy my statue the way it is, then." Victor took his
hand from the stone and pointed to the base. "Besides, you see there? There
is an imperfection in the stone. It runs all the way through. That is why I
could afford this piece of marble-because it has this flaw. Were most anyone
to carve this, it would endanger the stone. If not done just right, and with
the flaw taken in mind, the entire piece could easily shatter. I have never
been able to think of how to carve this stone to take advantage of its
beauty, but to also avoid the flaw."
"Perhaps, someday, it will come to you how to carve the stone, to
create a thing of nobility."
"Nobility. Ali, but wouldn't that be something-the most sublime form of
beauty." He shook his head. "But I will not do it. Not unless the revolt
comes."
"Revolt?"
Victor's careful gaze swept the hillside through the open door. "The
revolt. It will come. The Order cannot stand-evil cannot stand, not forever,
anyway. In my homeland, when I was young, there used to be beauty, and there
used to be freedom. They were shamed into giving up their lives, their
freedom, bit by bit, to the cause of fairness to all men. People didn't know
what they had, and let freedom slip away for nothing but the hollow promise
of a better world, a world without effort, without struggle to achieve,
without productive work. It was always someone else who would do these
things, who would provide, who would make their lives easy.
"We used to be a land of abundance. Now, what food is grown, rots,
while it awaits committees to decide who should have it, who should move it,
and what it should cost. Meanwhile, people starve.
"Insurgents, those disloyal to the Order, are blamed for all the
starvation and strife that slowly destroys us, and so ever more people are
arrested and put to death. We are a land of death. The Order continually
proclaims its feelings for mankind, but their ways can but cultivate death.
On my way here, I have seen corpses by the thousands go uncounted and
unburied. The New World is blamed for every ill, every failure, and young
men, eager to smite their oppressors, march off to war.
"Many people, though, have come to see the truth. They, and the
children of these people-me, and others like me-hunger for freedom to live
our own lives, rather than be slaves to the Order and their reign of death.
There is unrest in my homeland, as there is here. A revolt is coming."
"Unrest? Here? I've seen no unrest."
Victor smiled a sly smile. "Those with revolt in their hearts do not
show their true feelings. The Order, always fearful of insurrection,
tortures confessions from those they wrongly arrest. Every day more are put
to death. Those who want things to change know better than to make
themselves targets before the time has come. Someday, Richard, revolt will
come."
Richard shook his head. "I don't know, Victor. Revolt takes resolve. I
don't think such real resolve exists."
"You have seen people who are unhappy with the way things are. Ishaq,
those at the foundries, my men and me. All those you deal with, other than
the officials you bribe, hunger for change." Victor lifted an eyebrow at
Richard. "Not one of them complains to any board or committee about what you
do. You may want nothing to do with it, as I believe is your right, but
there are those who listen to the whispers of the freedom to the north."
Richard tensed. "Freedom to the north?"
Victor nodded solemnly. "They speak of a savior: Richard Rahl. He leads
them in the fight for freedom. They say that this Richard Rahl will bring us
our revolt."
Had it not all been so overwhelmingly tragic, Richard would have burst
out laughing.
"How do you know this Rahl character is worth following?"
Victor fixed Richard with a look that Richard remembered from the first
time he met the blacksmith.
"You can judge a man by his enemies. Richard Rahl is hated by the
emperor, and by Brother Narev, and by his disciples, as no other man is
hated. He is the one. He bears the torch of revolution."
Richard could muster only a desolate smile. "He is but a man, my
friend. Don't worship a man. Worship his cause, but not him."
Victor's glare, so full of his emotion, his burning hunger for freedom,
turned back to his wolfish grin.
"Ah, but that is what Richard Rahl would say. That is why he is the
one."
Richard thought it would be best to change the subject. He saw that it
was getting light.
"Well, I have to get going. I'm sure you'll figure out what to do with
the stone, Victor. It will come to you when the time is right."
The blacksmith feigned a scowl, but it was a poor spoof of the very
real one that had just departed. "That is always what I thought, too."
Richard scratched his head. "Have you ever carved anything Victor?"
"No, nothing."
"Are you sure you are able to carve? That you have the ability?"
Victor tapped his temple, as if to dissuade a skeptic. "In here I have
ability. In here I have beauty. That is all that matters to me. If I never
touch steel to this stone, then I will always have the beauty of what it
could be, and that, the Order can never take away from me."
Nicci wiped the sweat off her brow as she went down the line, checking
to see if her clothes were dry. Summer was only around the corner, and it
was already hot. Her back hurt from her earlier work at the washtub and
various other chores. The other women were chatting in the warm sunshine.
They occasionally giggled over some quirk that one of them, after a round of
amiable urging, would divulge about her husband. Everyone in the building,
it seemed, had begun coming alive along with the new spring growth.
Nicci knew that spring had nothing to do with it.
That knowledge drew frustration up from her darkest recesses. She
couldn't figure out how Richard did it. No matter how hard she tried, she
just couldn't unravel the knot he seemed to tie around everything. She was
beginning to believe that if she took him down into the deepest cave she
could find, the sunlight would make its way into the darkest recesses to
shine on him. She would think it was some kind of magical luck, except she
knew beyond doubt that he had not used any magic whatsoever.
The backyard, such an overgrown tangled place, so filthy, with piles of
scrap and garbage, was now a garden. The men who lived in the building,
after they came home from work, had rid the yard of the refuse. Even several
of the ones who didn't work had come out of their rooms to help cart away an
item or two. After it was cleared out,- the women of the building had turned
the soil and planted a garden. They were going to have vegetables.
Vegetables! There was talk of getting a few chickens.
The single latrine off in the back corner, so overused and so foul, was
now two privies in good repair. Now, there was rarely a wait to use a privy
and there were no more urgent pleas or frayed tempers. Kamil and Nabbi had
helped Richard build them-partly out of scraps of lumber salvaged from the
refuse piles in the yard, before they were hauled away, and some they
collected from other rubbish heaps.
Nicci had hardly believed her eyes when she had seen Kamil and Nabbi-in
shirts---digging the holes for the new privies. Everyone thanked them
profusely. The two toughs beamed with pride.
The outdoor cooking hearth had been repaired, so the women could set
more pots in it and cook at the same time, requiring less wood to be hauled.
Richard and some of the other men of the building built stands for the
washtubs, so the wives wouldn't have to bend so far or chafe their knees
raw. The men made a simple roof of canvas salvaged from the refuse so that
the women could cook and wash without getting wet when it rained.
The people in the buildings to either side, at first surly and
suspicious of the activity, began asking curt questions. Richard, Kamil, and
Nabbi went over and explained what they had done, and how they could put
their place in shape, too, and even helped them get started. Nicci had
yelled at Richard for spending his time at
other people's places. He said that she was the one who had told him
that it was his duty to help others. Nicci had no answer-at least, none that
made any sense so as she could say it aloud and not sound a fool.
When Richard showed people how to improve their homes, he didn't
lecture, or teach, but rather, somehow-Nicci couldn't understand how-managed
to infect them with his enthusiasm. He hadn't told them what to do, but
rather he'd made them pant to figure out for themselves how they could make
things better for themselves. Everybody took a liking to Richard. It made
her growl under her breath.
Nicci collected her washing in the woven basket Richard had shown the
women of the building how to make from thin strips of wood. Nicci had to
admit that the basket was easy enough to make, and a better way to lug
clothes.
She climbed the sturdy stairs-stairs that she'd once thought would be
the end of her. The hallway inside was spotless. The floors had been washed.
Somewhere; Richard had come up with ingredients for paint, and the men had a
grand time of mixing it up and painting over the stains on the walls. One of
the men in the building knew about roofs, so he fixed the roof so it
wouldn't leak and stain the walls again.
As Nicci walked down the hall, she saw Gadi, without his shirt, sitting
up the stairway, in the shadows. He was using his big knife to whittle at a
piece of wood and in so doing make clear his dangerous nature. Later, the
women living i31 the building would tsk and clean it up. Gadi, not happy
about people nagging at him of late, leered down at her. She now had
something for him to leer at, now that she had gained her weight back.
Richard's second job at night enabled him to be able to afford more
food. He brought home things she had missed for months-chicken, oil, spices,
bacon, cheese, and eggs. She could never find such things in the city
stores, Nicci had thought they sold the same food everywhere in the city
shops, but Richard's travels while delivering things, he said, took him to
places where they sold a wider variety of food.
Kamil and Nabbi, sitting on the front steps, saw her through the open
door. They stood and bowed politely as she came down the hall.
"Good evening, Mrs. Cypher," Kamil said.
"Could we help you carry that?" Nabbi asked.
She found it all the more irritating because she knew for a fact that
they were sincere; they liked her because she was Richard's wife.
"Thank you, no. I'm there, now."
They held the door for her and closed it behind her when she had passed
into her room.
She thought of them as Richard's soldiers. He seemed to have a private
army of people who broke into grins when they saw him coming. Most people
seemed only too pleased to do whatever they thought Richard might like done.
Kamil and Nabbi would have washed diapers, if he asked it, for the chance to
ride with him at night in the wagon as he picked up and delivered things
around Altur'Rang. He only rarely took them with him, saying that he could
get in trouble with the workers' group. The youths didn't want Richard to
get in trouble and lose his job, so they patiently waited for the rare times
when he tilted his head for them to come along.
Their room had been transformed. The ceiling had been cleaned and
whitewashed. The flyblown walls had been scrubbed and painted a salmon
color-a color she had picked, thinking that Richard would not possibly be
able to come up with the rare ingredients needed for the color. The walls
were now mockingly salmon.
One day a man had shown up with an armload of tools. Kamil said that
Richard had sent him over to fix their room. The man spoke a language Nicci
didn't understand. He waved his arms a lot and chattered and laughed
good-naturedly, as if she must understand at least a little of what he told
her. He pointed around at walls and asked questions. She hadn't the foggiest
notion of what he was there to do.
She suspected he had come to fix the wobbly table. She rapped the top
with the flat of her hand and then showed him how it wobbled. He nodded and
grinned and chattered. She finally left him to his work while she went to
the city store to wait in line to buy bread. She was there the entire
morning. In the afternoon, she waited in line for millet.
When Nicci finally returned home, the man was gone. The old window,
broken and not only long painted over but also painted shut, had new glass,
and it was raised. And, they had a new window in the other wall. Both
windows were open. A cool cross-breeze let fresh air into the stuffy room.
Nicci stood in the center of the room, stunned to be looking through
the window to the building next door. She gaped out the window in the wall
where there had been no window before. She was able to see the street. Mrs.
Sha'Rim, from next door, had smiled and waved as she'd walked past.
Nicci set down the wash basket and opened the window at the side, to
get some air into the stifling room. She pushed the curtains back. With
windows you could see though, she had decided that curtains were in order.
Richard somehow got her fabric. When she was finished, he told her she had
done a wonderful job. Nicci found herself grinning just as everyone else
grinned when Richard told them they had done well.
She had brought Richard to the worst place in the Old World, to the
worst build
ing she could find, and he somehow ended up making everything better
just as she had insisted was his duty.
But she had never meant it to be like this.
She didn't know what she'd meant.
She only knew that she lived for the times Richard was with her. Even
though she knew he hated her, and wanted nothing more than to be away from
her and back with his Kahlan, Nicci could not help feeling her heart rise
into her throat when he came home. Through the link to Kahlan, she thought
that at times she could feel the woman's longing for him. Every inch of her
ached with understanding of Kahlan's longing.
The room grew darker as she waited. Life didn't start until Richard
came home. As the daylight faded, the lamplight took its place. They had a
real lamp, now, not just a wick through a wooden button floating in linseed
oil.
The door opened. Richard put one foot inside. He was speaking to Kamil
as the young man was going off to his family's place upstairs. It was
getting late. Finally, still smiling, Richard came in and shut the door. The
smile faded, as it always did.
He held out a burlap sack. "I came across some onions, carrots, and
some pork. I thought you might like to make a stew."
Nicci lifted a hand weekly toward the millet she had spent the
afternoon in line to buy. It had bugs in it. It was moldy.
"I bought millet. I thought I would make you a soup."
Richard shrugged. "If you prefer. Your millet soup saw us through some
pretty lean times."
Nicci felt that flash of pride that he had acknowledged what she had
done as valuable.
She shut the windows. It was dark out. With her back to the windows as
she watched him, she closed the curtains tight.
Richard stood in the center of the room, watching her, a puzzled frown
creasing his brow between his eyes. Nicci closed the distance to him. She
was aware of the exposed flesh of her bosom rising and falling above the top
of her black dress. Gadi had just been staring at her bosom. She wanted
Richard to stare at her like that. Richard watched only her eyes.
Her fingers tightened around his muscled arms.
"Make love to me," she whispered.
His brow drew down. "What?"
"Richard, I want you to make love to me. Now."
He appraised her eyes for an eternity. Her heart thundered in her ears.
Every fiber of her being screamed out for him to take her. She teetered on
the edge, waiting, her life suspended in the exquisite anguish of
expectation.
His voice came, not at all harsh. If anything, it was tender, but it
was also resolute. "No."
Nicci felt as if a thousand needles of ice were dancing up her arms.
His refusal stunned her. No man had ever refused her.
It hurt to her core--worse than anything Jagang or any other man had
ever done. She had thought . . .
Blood rushed to her face, melting the ice in a flash of heat. Nicci
flung open the door. "Come out into the hall and wait," she commanded in a
shaky voice.
He was standing in the center of their room, looking into her eyes. The
lamp on the table cast harsh shadows across his face. His shoulders looked
so broad, tapering down to his waist, a waist she ached to encircle with her
arms. She wanted to scream. Instead she spoke softly, but with authority he
could not mistake.
"You will come out into the hall and wait, or. . ."
Nicci made a snipping gesture with two fingers.
By the look in his eyes, he knew that she was not bluffing. Kahlan's
life now hung by a thread, and if he didn't do as she ordered, she would not
hesitate to cut that thread.
With his gray eyes on her the whole time, Richard stepped out into the
hall. She put a finger to the center of his chest and pushed until his back
was against the wall beside their door.
"You are to wait right there, on that spot, until I tell you that you
may move from it." She gritted her teeth. "Or Kahlan will die. Do you
understand?"
"Nicci, you're better than this. Think about what you're-"
"Or Kahlan will die. Do you understand?"
He let out a breath. "Yes."
Nicci marched to the stairwell. Gadi stood halfway up the stairs, his
dark eyes watching. He arrogantly descended toward her, until he was at the
bottom with her. He had a fine form, she supposed, displayed as it was
without a shirt. He was close enough to feel the heat of him.
Nicci looked him in the eye. He was the same height as she.
"I want you to have sex with me."
"What?"
"My husband does not adequately take care of my needs. I wish you to."
A smirk spread on his face as his gaze slid to Richard. He looked back
at her bosom, at what was within his power to possess.
Gadi was young and bold and stupid enough to believe himself
irresistible to her, to believe his puerile primping had swept away her
inhibitions to the point of helpless lust for what he had to offer.
One arm pulled her to him. With his other hand, he swept her hair out
of the way. His thin lips kissed her neck. When his teeth raked her flesh,
she moaned to encourage him to be rough. The last thing in the world she
wanted was tenderness. There could be no retribution in tenderness.
Tenderness would not cleave Richard's soul with anguish. Tenderness would
not hurt him.
Gadi's hands squeezed her bottom, pulling her hard against his groin.
He moved against her in a lewd fashion. She panted in his ear to encourage
his confidence in his dominion over her body.
"Tell me why."
"I'm sick of his gentle nature, his kind touch, his caring ways. That's
not what a real woman needs. I want him to know what a real man can do-I
want what he can't give me."
She nearly cried out in pain when he twisted her nipple.
"Yeah?"
"Yes. I want what a real man like you can do for a woman."
His rough hands squeezed her breast. She performed another moan. He
smiled.
"My pleasure."
His smirk sickened her. "No, mine," she whispered in breathy
submission.
He cast one more hateful glare at Richard, then bent to slip a hand up
the front of her dress to see if she really meant it, if she would really
let him have his way with her. His hand slid up the inside of her bare
thigh, commanding surrender. She obediently parted her legs for him.
Nicci held on to his shoulders as he groped her. His upper lip curled
in a haughty grin. His fingers worked without mercy. Her eyes watered. She
trembled and bit the inside of her cheek to hold back her cry. Mistaking
agony for lust, he was inflamed by her whimpers.
Jagang and his friend Kadar Kardeef, to name but a few, took her
without her consent. None of it had ever approached the sense of violation
she felt at that moment as she stood there in the hall letting that smirking
little thug do to her as he would.
She forced her hand down between them and seized him.
"Gadi, are you afraid of Richard? Are are you man enough to take me
while he is outside the room, listening to us, knowing you are his better
with me?"
"Afraid? Of him?" His voice came in a husky growl. "Just tell me when."
"Right now. I need it from you now, Gadi."
"I thought so."
Nicci smiled inwardly at his solemn look of lust.
"Say `please,' first, you little whore."
"Please." She ached only to crush his worthless skull. "Please, Gadi."
With his arm around her waist, Gadi gave Richard a taunting sneer as he
swaggered past. Nicci's fingers on Gadi's back urged him to go on into their
room and wait. He smiled over his shoulder and did as she wanted. Nicci
paused to glare into Richard's eyes.
"We are linked. What happens to me, happens to her. I hope you are not
foolish enough to think I wouldn't make you sorry for the rest of your days
if you don't stay right there. I swear to you, she will die this night if
you don't stay there."
"Nicci, please don't do this. You're only hurting yourself."
His voice was so tender, so compassionate. She almost threw her arms
around him to beg him to stop her . . . but the flame of his refusal still
burned shamefully in her heart.
Nicci turned back from the doorway and gave Richard a vicious grin. "I
hope your Kahlan enjoys this as much as I'm going to enjoy it. After
tonight, she will never believe in you again."
--]----
Kahlan gasped. Her eyes opened. She could only make out obscure shapes
in the swirling darkness. She gasped again.
A feeling she couldn't define, couldn't interpret, couldn't put a
nature to, welled up in her. It was something totally foreign, yet at the
same time bewitchingly familiar. Something inappropriate, yet longed for. It
filled her with a kind of passionate terror that undulated seductively to
indecent pleasure, pushing before it a sense of shapeless dread.
She felt the weight of a shadow over her.
Feelings and sensations she could not grasp or control inundated her
even as she fought them. Nothing seemed real. She gasped again at the crude
sensation. It confused her. It hurt, and at the same time she felt a kind of
wild hunger awakening.
It was as if Richard were there, in bed with her. It felt so good
again. She was panting. Her mouth was dry as dust.
In Richard's intimate embrace she had always felt a kind of expectant
delight that their shameless lust could never be completely sated-that there
was always a spark of something left to explore, to reach toward, to define.
She had always exalted in the idea of that endless quest for the
unattainable.
She drew a sharp breath. She felt herself in that headlong rush, now.
But this was something she had never imagined. Her fists clutched at
the sheets, her mouth opened in a silent scream against the ripping thrust
of pain.
This was not human. It made no sense. She gasped again in panic as the
most awful feelings burgeoned through her. She moaned at the horror of it,
at the hint of pleasure in it, and at the confusion of nearly enjoying the
sensation.
The realization came to her. She knew what this meant.
Tears stung her eyes. She rolled onto her side, torn between the joy of
feeling Richard, and the pain of knowing that Nicci was feeling him in this
way, too. She was slammed onto her back.
She gasped again, her eyes going wide, her whole body rigid.
She cried out at the pain. She twisted and struggled, covering her
breasts with her arms. Her eyes watered at agony she couldn't explain or
completely identify.
She missed Richard so much. She wanted him so badly it hurt.
She gave in to him, even in this, she surrendered herself to him. A low
wail escaped her throat.
Her muscles knotted as tight as oak roots. She was racked with wave
after wave of startling pain mixed with an unsatisfied longing that had
turned to revulsion. She couldn't get her breath.
She burst into tears as it ceased, her body finally able to move again,
but too exhausted to do so. She had hated every violent appalling brutal
second of it, and grieved that it had ended because she had at least felt
him.
She felt joy that she had so unexpectedly sensed him, and blind rage at
what it meant. She clutched the sheets in her fists as she wept
inconsolably.
"Mother Confessor?" A dark form slipped into the tent. "Mother
Confessor?"
It was Cara's whisper. Cara set a candle on the table. The light seemed
blindingly bright as Cara looked down. "Mother Confessor, are you all
right?"
Kahlan pulled a ragged breath. She was lying on her back in her bed,
tangled in her blanket. It was twisted around between her legs.
Maybe it was just a dream. She wished it was. She knew it wasn't.
Kahlan ran her fingers back into her hair as she sat up. "Cara-" It
came out as a choking sob.
Cara knelt on the ground beside her and gripped Kahlan's shoulders.
"What is it?"
Kahlan struggled to get her breath.
"What's wrong? What can I do? Are you hurt? Are you sick?"
"Oh, Cara . . . he's been with Nicci."
Cara held her at arms length, her face a picture of concern.
"What are you talking about? Who's been-"
Her words cut off when she realized what Kahlan meant.
Kahlan struggled against Cara's grip. "How could he-"
"She no doubt made him," Cara insisted. "He must have done it to save
your life. She would have had to threaten him."
Kahlan was shaking her head. "No, no. He was enjoying it too much. He
was like an animal. He never took me like that. He never acted . . . Oh,
Cara, he's fallen for her. He couldn't resist her any longer. He's-"
Cara shook her until Kahlan thought her teeth would come loose.
"Wake up! Open your eyes. Mother Confessor, wake up. You're half
asleep. You're still half dreaming."
Kahlan blinked as she looked around. She was panting, still getting her
breath. She had stopped crying.
Cara was right. It had happened, there was no doubt in Kahlan's mind,
but it had happened when she was sleeping, and in her sleep, it had taken
her unaware. She hadn't reacted rationally.
"You're right," Kahlan said in a voice hoarse from crying. Her nose was
stuffed up so that she could only breath through her mouth.
"Now," Cara said in a calm voice, "tell me what happened."
When she felt her face go red, Kahlan wished for the darkness. How
could she tell anyone what had happened? She wished Cara hadn't heard her.
"Well, through the link"-Kahlan swallowed-"I could sense that, that,
well, that Richard made love to Nicci."
Cara looked skeptical. "Did it feel like when, well, I mean, are you
sure? Could you tell it was him?"
Kahlan felt her face go a darker shade of red. "Not exactly, I guess. I
don't know." She covered her breasts. "I could feel his . . . his teeth on
me. He was biting .."
Cara scratched her head, averting her gaze, unsure how to frame her
question. Kahlan answered it for her.
"Richard never hurt me like that."
"Oh. Well then, it wasn't Richard."
"What do you mean it wasn't Richard? It had to be Richard."
"Did it? Would Richard want to make love to Nicci?"
"Cara-she could make him. Threaten him."
"Do you think Nicci is an honorable person?"
Kahlan frowned. "Nicci? Are you out of your mind?"
"There you go, then. Why must it be Richard? Nicci may have simply
found some man she had to have-some handsome farmboy. It could be nothing
more than that."
"Really? You think so?"
"You said it didn't seem like Richard. I mean, you were half asleep,
and in . . . shock. You said he never. . ."
Kahlan looked away. "No, I suppose not." She looked back at the
Mord-Sith in the dim light. "I'm sorry, Cara. Thank you for being here with
me. I'd not have liked it if it had been Zedd, or someone else. Thank you."
Cara smiled. "I think we'd best keep this between the two of us."
Kahlan nodded gratefully. "If Zedd ever started in asking all his
detailed questions about this, well, I'd die of embarrassment."
Kahlan realized then that Cara was wrapped in a blanket that was open
in the front enough to reveal that she was naked underneath. There was a
dark mark on the upper half of her breast. There were a few more, but faint.
Kahlan had seen Cara naked, and didn't recall there being any such mark on
her. In fact, except for her scars, her body was exasperatingly perfect.
Frowning, Kahlan gestured. "Cara, what's that there?"
Cara glanced down and then threw the blanket closed.
"It's, I mean, well, it's . . . just a bruise."
A love bruise-from a man's mouth.
"Is Benjamin over there in your tent with you?"
Cara got to her bare feet. "Mother Confessor, you are still half asleep
and having dreams. Go back to sleep."
Kahlan smiled as she watched Cara leave. The smile faded as she lay
back in her bed. In the quiet loneliness, her doubts crept back.
She cupped her breasts. Her nipples throbbed and ached. As she moved on
the bed a little, she winced as she only then began to realize how much she
hurt, and where.
She couldn't believe that, even in her sleep, a part of it had been . .
. She felt her face reddening again. She felt an overwhelming sense of shame
at what she had done.
No. She had done nothing. She was only sensing something through her
link to Nicci. It wasn't real. She hadn't really experienced it-Nicci had.
But Kahlan suffered the same injuries.
As she had at various times, Kahlan still felt that connection to Nicci
through the link, and an aching sort of caring about the woman. What had
happened left Kahlan feeling saddened. She felt that Nicci had so
desperately wanted . . . something.
Kahlan slipped her hand down between her legs. She flinched in pain as
she touched herself. She brought her fingers up to the candlelight. They
glistened with blood. There was a lot of blood.
Despite the burning pain of being torn inside, the confused
embarrassment, and the shadow of shame, she most of all felt a sense of
relief.
She knew without doubt: Cara was right, it had not been Richard.
Ann peered among the stand of birch trees crowded in the deep shadows
of cliffs for which the place was named. The dense wood was thick with the
trees, their peeling white bark covered with dark blotches making it
disorienting and difficult to make sense of anything. To become disoriented,
here, and wander into the wrong place, uninvited, was the last mistake you
would ever make.
It had been in her youth that she'd last come here, to the Healers of
Redcliff. She'd promised herself she would never return She'd promised the
healers as much, too. In the nearly thousand years since, she hoped they had
forgotten.
Few people knew of the place, and even fewer ever came hero--with good
reason.
The term "healers" was an odd and highly misleading designation for
such a dangerous lot, yet it wasn't entirely without merit. The Healers of
Redcliff weren't concerned with human ailments, but with the well-being of
things that mattered to them. And very odd things indeed mattered to them.
To tell the truth of it, after all this time, she would be surprised to find
them still in existence.
As much as she hoped their talents could help, and as desperately as
she needed help, she hoped to find that the healers no longer stalked the
Redcliff Wood.
"Visitooor. . ." hissed a teasing voice from the dim shadows in the
crags of the cliff off behind the trees.
Ann stood still. Cold sweat dotted her brow. Among the confusion of
lines and spots made by the trees, she could not make out what it was she
saw move. She didn't really need to see them. She had heard the voice. There
were no others like theirs. She swallowed, and tried to sound composed.
"Yes, I am a visitor. I'm glad to find you well."
"Only us few left," the voice said, echoing among the rock walls. "The
chiiiimes took most."
That was what Ann had feared . . . what she had hoped.
"I'm sorry," she lied.
"Tried," the voice said, moving through the trees. "Could not heal the
chiiiimes away."
She wondered if they could still heal at all, and how long they would
last.
"Comes sheeee for a healings?" teased a voice from the depths of the
jagged clefts to the other side.
"Come to let you look," she said, letting them know she had terms, too.
It would not be all their way.
"Costssss, you know."
Ann nodded. "Yes, I know."
She had tried everything else. Nothing had worked. She had no other
choice, at
least none she could think of. She was no longer sure if it mattered to
her what happened, if it mattered if she ever came out of the Redcliff Wood.
She was no longer sure if she had ever done any real good in her entire
life.
"Well?" she asked into the shadowy silence.
Something flashed back behind the trees, back in the shade under low
rock ledges, as if inviting her further along the path, deeper into the
twisting cleft in the mountains. Rubbing her knuckles, which still ached
from the burns long healed, she followed the path, and the rustle of brush.
Shortly, she came to a small gap its the trees. Back through that gap, she
could see the craggy opening of a cave.
Eyes watched from that dark maw.
"Comes sheeee in," the voice hissed.
In resignation, Ann let out a sigh as she stepped off the trail, and
into a place she had never forgotten, despite how much she had tried.
--]----
Kahlan's hair whipped around, lashing at her face. She gathered it in a
fist over the front of her armored shoulder as she made her way through the
hectic camp. Thunderstorms collided violently with the mountains at the east
side of the valley, throwing off lightning, thunder, and intermittent sheets
of rain. Sporadic gusts bent the trees, and their leaves shimmered as if
trembling in fright before the onslaught.
Usually, the camp was relatively quiet so as not to give any unwanted
information to the enemy. Now, the noise of camp breaking up was jarring by
contrast. The noise alone was enough to make her pulse race. If only that
were all.
As Kahlan hurried through what to the untrained eye would look like
mass confusion, Cara, in her red leather, shoved men out of the way to break
a clear path for the Mother Confessor. Kahlan knew better than to try to get
the Mord-Sith not to do it. At least it caused no harm. Most of the men,
when they saw Kahlan in her leather armor with a D'Haran sword at her hip
and the hilt of the Sword of Truth sticking up over her shoulder, moved out
of her way without Cam's help.
Horses nearby reared as they were being harnessed to a wagon. Men
shouted and cursed as they struggled to get the team under control. The
horses bellowed in protest. Other men ran through camp, leaping over fires
and gear as they rushed to deliver messages. Men sprang out of the way as
wagons sped along, splashing mud and water. A long column of lancers five
men wide was already marching off into the threatening gloom. Their
supporting archers were scrambling to fall in with them.
The path to the lodge was set with stones so people heading for it
would not have to walk in the mud, though one still had to run the gauntlet
of mosquitoes. Rain swept in just as Kahlan and Cara made the door. Zedd was
there, with Adie, General Meiffert and several of his officers, Verna, and
Warren. They were all loosely gathered around the table pulled to the center
of the room. Half a dozen maps lay atop one another on the table.
The mood in the room was tense.
"How long ago?" Kahlan asked without any greetings.
"Just now," General Meiffert said. "They're taking their time striking
camp. They're not organizing for an attack. They're simply forming up to
move out."
Kahlan rubbed her fingertips against her brow. "Any word on the
direction?"
The general shifted his posture, betraying his frustration. "The scouts
say that by all indications they're going north, but nothing more specific
than that, yet."
"They aren't coming after us?"
"They could always change course, or send an army over here, but right
now, it appears they aren't interested in coming in here after us."
"Jagang doesn't need to come after us," Warren said. Kahlan thought he
looked a little pale. Small wonder. She imagined they were all a little
pale. "Jagang has to know we are going to come at him: He's not going to
bother coming in here after us."
Kahlan couldn't dispute his logic. "If he goes north, he has to know
we're not going to sit here and wave good-bye."
The emperor had changed his tactics-again. Kahlan had never seen a
commander like him. Most military men had their preferred methods. If they
had once won a battle in a certain way, they would suffer a dozen losses
with the same tactics, thinking it had to work because it once had. Some
were limited by their intellect. Those were easy enough to read; they
usually waged an artless campaign, content to throw men into a meat grinder,
hoping to clog it with sheer numbers. Some leaders were clever, inventing
tactics as they went. Those often thought too much of themselves and ended
up on the point of a simple pike. Others slavishly went about using textbook
tactics, thinking of war as a kind of game, and that each side should oblige
the other by following rules.
Jagang was different. He learned to read his enemy. He held to no
favored method. After Kahlan had hit him with quick limited attacks driven
into the center of his camp, he learned the tactic and, instead of relying
on his overpowering numbers, sent the same kind of attack back at the
D'Haran army to good effect. Some men could be driven to making foolish
mistakes by shaming them. Jagang didn't make the same mistake twice. He
reined in his pride and changed his tactics again, not obliging Kahlan with
foolhardy counterattacks.
The D'Harans had still managed to carve him up. They had taken out
Imperial Order troops in unprecedented numbers. Their own losses, while
painful, were remarkably low considering what they had accomplished.
Winter, though, had killed far more of the enemy than anything Kahlan
and her men could conceive. The Imperial Order, being from far to the south,
was unfamiliar with and ill prepared for winter in the New World. Well over
half a million men had frozen to death. Several hundred thousand more had
succumbed to fevers and sickness from the harsh life in the field.
The winter alone had cost Jagang nearly three-quarters of a million
men. It was almost beyond comprehension.
Kahlan now commanded roughly three hundred thousand troops in the
southern reaches of the Midlands. Under ordinary circumstances, that would
be a force capable of crushing any enemy.
The men streaming up from the Old World had replaced the enemy losses
several times over. Jagang's army was now well over two and a half million
men. It grew by the day.
Jagang had been content to sit tight for the winter. Fighting in such
conditions was, for the most part, impossible. He had wisely waited out the
weather. When spring had come, he still sat. Apparently, he was smart enough
to know that warfare in spring mud was a deadly undertaking. In the muddy
season, you could lose your supply wagons if they got strung out. Streams
became impassable floods. Losing
wagons was a slow death by starvation. Cavalry were next to useless in
the mud. Losses to falls in a cavalry charge cost valuable mounts, to say
nothing of the men. Soldiers could make an attack, of course, but without
supporting services, it was likely to be a bloodbath for no real gain.
Jagang had sat out the spring mud. His minions had used the time to
spread the word about "Jagang the Just." Kahlan was infuriated when she got
reports, weeks after the fact, about "envoys of peace" who had shown up in
various cities throughout the Midlands, giving speeches about bringing the
world together for the good of all mankind. They promised piece and
prosperity, if they were welcomed into cities.
Now, with summer finally upon them, Jagang was beginning his campaign
anew. He planned his troops to now visit those cities his envoys had been
to.
The door burst open. It was not the wind, but Rikka. The Mord-Sith
looked like she hadn't slept in days.
Cara went to her side, to be ready to offer assistance if requested,
but didn't directly lend a hand for support. A Mord-Sith did not look
favorably upon help in front of others.
Rikka stepped up to the table, opposite Kahlan, and tossed two Agiel
down atop the map.
Kahlan closed her eyes for a moment, then looked up into Rikka's fierce
blue eyes. "What happened?"
"I don't know, Mother Confessor. I found their heads impaled on pikes.
Their Agiel were tied to the pikes."
Kahlan held her anger in check. "Are you satisfied, now, Rikka?"
"Galina and Solvig died as Mord-Sith would want to die."
"Galina and Solvig died for nothing, Rikka. After the first four, we
knew it wouldn't work. With the dream walker in their minds, the gifted are
not vulnerable to Mord-Sith in the way that would otherwise be the case."
"It could have been something else. If we can catch their gifted where
the MordSith can get at them, then we might be able to take them out. It's
worth the risk. Their gifted can cut down thousands of soldiers with a sweep
of their hand."
"I understand the wish, Rikka. Wishing, however, does not make it
possible. We have six dead Mord-Sith to show us the reality of what is. We
will not throw away the lives of any more because we refuse to recognize the
truth of it."
"I still think-"
"Those of us here have important things to decide; I don't have time
for this." Kahlan put her fists on the table and leaned toward the woman. "I
am the Mother Confessor, and the wife to Lord Rahl. You will do as I say or
you will leave. Do you understand?"
Rikka's blue eyes shifted to Cara. Cara stood as expressive as a stone.
Rikka looked back at Kahlan and let out a long sigh.
"I wish to remain with our forces and do my duty."
"Fine. Now, go get yourself something to eat while you still have a
chance. We need you to be strong."
For a Mord-Sith, Rikka's little nod was about as close to a salute as
it came. After she was gone, Kahlan swatted at the plague of mosquitoes and
returned her attention to the map.
"So," she said, removing the two Agiel from the map, "who has any
suggestions?"
"I'd say we have to keep at their edges," Zedd offered. "Obviously, we
can't be
throwing ourselves in front of them. We can do nothing but to continue
to fight them as we have been doing."
"I agree," Verna said.
General Meiffert rubbed his chin as he stared down at the map spread
out before them on the table. "What we have to worry about is his size."
"Well, of course we have to worry about the size of the Order,;' Kahlan
said. "They have enough men to split up and still be too huge to handle.
That's what I'm talking about-what we're going to do when he splits. If I
were him, that's what I'd do. He knows how it would complicate our lives."
There was an urgent knock. Warren, over by the window, not bothering to
look at the map with the rest of them, opened the door.
Captain Zimmer stepped in, giving a quick salute of his fist to his
heart. Panting as he entered, he brought with him a swirling rush of warm
air that smelled like a horse. Ignoring the rest of them, Warren returned to
his brooding at the window.
"He's splitting his force," Captain Zimmer announced, as if their fear
had given birth to the reality.
Most in the room sighed unhappily with the news.
"Any direction, yet?" Kahlan asked.
Captain Zimmer nodded. "From the looks of it, he's sending maybe a
third, possibly a little more, up the Callisidrin Valley toward Galea. The
main force is heading to the northeast, probably to enter and go north up
the Kern Valley."
They all knew the eventual goal.
Zedd made a fist. "There's no joy in being right, but that's just what
Kahlan and I talked about. That was our guess."
General Meiffert was still rubbing his chin as he studied the map.
"It's an obvious move, but with the size of his force the obvious is not a
liability."
No one wanted to broach the issue, so Kahlan settled the matter. "Galea
is on its own. We're not sending any troops to help them."
Captain Zimmer finally waggled a finger at the map. "We need to put our
forces in front of their main force to slow them down. If we stay on their
heels instead, we will only be cleaning up the mess they make."
"I'd have to agree." The general shifted his weight to his other foot.
"We have no choice but to try to slow them. We'll have to keep giving
ground, but at least we can slow them. Otherwise, they are going to move up
through the center of the Midlands with the speed and power of a spring
flood."
Zedd was watching the young wizard off by himself at the window.
"Warren, what do you think?"
Warren looked up at the sound of his name, as if he hadn't been paying
attention. Something about him didn't look well. He took a breath and
straightened, his face brightening, making Kahlan think she had been
mistaken. Hands clasped behind his back, Warren strode to the table.
He peered at the map from over Verna's shoulder. "Forget Galea-it's a
lost cause. We cannot help them. They will suffer the sentence imposed upon
them by the Mother Confessor-not because she spoke the words, but because
her words were simple truth. Any troops we sent to help would be forfeit."
Zedd cast a sidelong glance at his fellow wizard. "What else?"
Warren finally moved closer to the table, wedging himself between Verna
and the general. With authority, he firmly planted his finger on the map,
far to the northalmost three-quarters of the way to Aydindril from where
they were camped.
"You have to go there."
General Meiffert frowned. "Up there? Why?"
"Because," Warren said, "you can't stop Jagang's army-his main force.
You can only hope to slow them as they move north, up into the Kern Valley.
This is where you must make a stand, if you hope to delay them next winter.
Once they move through you, they will be upon Aydindril."
"Move through us?" General Meiffert asked in an surly manner.
Warren looked up at him. "Well, do you suppose you are going to be able
to stop them? It wouldn't surprise me if by then they have three and a half
to four million men."
The general let out an ill-tempered breath. "Then why do you think we
should be at that spot-right in their way?"
"You can't stop them, but if you harry them sufficiently as they move
north, you can keep them from reaching Aydindril this year. At this spot,
they will be running out of time before the weather closes in. With a bit of
stiff resistance, you can grind them to a halt for the winter, buying
Aydindril one more season of freedom."
Warren looked up into Kahlan's eyes. "The following summer, a year from
now, Aydindril will fall. Prepare them for it in whatever way you are able,
but make no mistake: the city will fall to the Order."
Kahlan's blood ran cold. To hear him say the words aloud staggered her.
She wanted to slap him.
To contemplate the Imperial Order taking their attack into the heart of
the Midlands was horrifying. To accept, as foreordained, the Imperial Order
seizing the heart of the New World was unthinkable. Kahlan's mental image of
Jagang and his bloodthirsty thugs strolling the halls of the Confessors'
Palace sickened her.
Warren leaned around the general to look at Zedd. "The Wizard's Keep
must be protected-you know that better than 1. It would be the end of all
hope if their gifted were to gain the Keep and the dangerous things of magic
stored there. I think the time has come to keep that above all else in our
thinking. Holding the Keep is vital."
Zedd smoothed back his unruly white hair. "I could hold the Keep by
myself, if I had to."
Warren looked away from Zedd's hazel eyes. "You may have to," he said
in a quiet voice. "When we get to this place"-he tapped the map again-"then
you can do no more with the army, Zedd, and you must go to safeguard the
Wizard's Keep and the things of magic kept there."
Kahlan could feel the blood heating her face. "You're talking about
this as if it's all settled-as if it has been decided by fate and there is
nothing we can do about it. We can't win if we hold such a defeatist
attitude."
Warren smiled, his shy manner suddenly surfacing. "I'm sorry, Mother
Confessor. I didn't mean to give you that impression. I am only offering my
analysis of the facts of the situation. We aren't going to be able to stop
them-there's no use deluding ourselves about that. They grow larger by the
day. We must also take into account that there are going to be lands, such
as Anderith and Galea, which fear the Order and will join them rather than
suffer the brutal fate of those who refuse to surrender.
"I lived in the Old World as it fell, bit by bit, to the Imperial
Order. I've studied Jagang's methods. I know the man's patience. He
methodically conquered the entire Old World when such a feat seemed
inconceivable. He spent years building roads
just to be able to accomplish his plans. He never wavers from his goal.
There are times when you can anger or humiliate him into a rash action, but
he quickly comes to his senses.
"He quickly comes to his senses because he has a cause that is
paramount to him.
"You must understand something important about Jagang. It's the most
important thing I can tell you about the man: he believes with all his heart
that what he is doing is right. He revels in the glory of conquest and
victory, to be sure, but his deepest pleasure is being the one who has
brought what he sees as righteousness to those he views as heathens. He
believes that mankind can only advance, ethically, if they are all brought
under the moral authority of the Order."
"That's just nonsense," Kahlan said.
"You may think so, but he truly believes he is serving the cause of the
greater good for mankind. He believes piously in this. It is a sacred moral
truth to him and his ilk."
"He believes that murder, rape, and enslavement are just?" General
Meiffert asked. "He would have to be out of his mind."
"He was raised at the feet of priests of the Fellowship of Order."
Warren lifted a finger to make sure they all noted his point. "He believes
that all those things and more are justified. He believes that only the next
world matters, because then we will be in the eternal Light of the Creator.
The Order believes that you earn that reward in the next world by
sacrificing for your fellow man in this world. All those who refuse to see
this-that would be us-must either be brought to follow the Order's ways, or
die."
"So," General Meiffert said, "it's his sacred duty to crush us. It's
not plunder he seeks, primarily, but his bizarre version of the salvation of
mankind."
"Exactly."
"All right," Kahlan said with a sigh. "So, what do you think this holy
man of justice will do?"
"He basically has two choices, I believe. If he is to conquer the New
World and bring all of mankind under the authority of the Order, he must
take two important places, or he has not really succeeded: Aydindril,
because it is the seat of power in the Midlands, and the People's Palace in
D'Hara, because it reigns over the D'Haran people. If those two fall,
everything else will crumble. He could have gone for either. Emperor Jagang
has now made his choice of which falls first.
"The Imperial Order is going for Aydindril in order to split the
Midlands. Why else would they go north? What better way to defeat an enemy
than to cleave them in two? After they have Aydindril, they will turn their
swords to an isolated D'Hara. What better way to demoralize an enemy than to
first go for their heart?
"I am not saying that it is preordained, but merely telling you the way
the Order goes about its grisly work. This is the same thing Richard has
already figured out. Given that we can't realistically expect to stop them,
I think it only wise to face the reality of what is, don't you?"
Kahlan's gaze sank to the map. "I believe that in the darkest hours we
must believe in ourselves. I do not intend to surrender the D'Haran Empire
to the Imperial Order. We need to wage the best war we can until we can turn
it around."
"The Mother Confessor is right," Zedd insisted with quiet authority.
"The last great war I fought, in my youth, seemed just as hopeless for a
time. We prevailed, and drove the invaders back to the place from where they
had come."
None of the D'Haran officers said anything. It was D'Hara that was that
invader. "But things are different, now. That was a war pressed by an evil
leader." Zedd met the gaze of General Meiffert, Captain Zimmer, and the
other D'Haran officers. "Every side in a war has good people, just as they
all have the bad. Richard, as the new Lord Rahl, has given those good people
a chance to flourish.
"We must prevail in this. As difficult as it may now be to believe,
there are good people in the Old World, too, who would not wish to be under
the boot heel of the Order, or to press a war for the Order's reasons.
Nonetheless, we must stop them."
"So," Kahlan said, gesturing at the map before Warren, "how do you
think Jagang will press the war?"
Warren tapped the map again, to the south of Aydindril. "Knowing Jagang
and the way he conquers his opponents, I think he will stick to his grand
plan. He has a goal and will doggedly continue to move toward it. There is
nothing we have shown him that he has not seen from other opponents for his
whole life. With that experience, I'm sure he finds this war unexceptional.
I don't mean to discount our efforts-all war has its surprises, and we've
given him some nasty ones. I would say, though, that it is going largely as
he expected.
"It will take them the summer to advance to this place I've shown you,
given his usual pace and the fact that you will be harrying them. Jagang, in
general, has always moved slowly, but with unstoppable force. He will simply
pour in enough men to crush the opposition. He feels that if he takes time
to get to his enemy, it only gives them more time to tremble in fear of him.
When he finally arrives, his enemies are often ready to crumble from the
agony of the wait.
"If you put your force there, where I showed you, you will be able to
protect Aydindril next winter, as Jagang will be content to bide his time.
He has learned what a hardship the winters are in the New World. He will not
needlessly press a winter campaign. But in the summer, when they move again,
like they do now, then Aydindril will fall-whether or not you stand against
the weight of their main force. When they move on Aydindril, we must hold
the Wizard's Keep. That is all we can do."
The room was silent. The fire was cold, now. Warren and Verna had
already packed their things and were ready to go, as was most of the rest of
the army. Warren and Verna were losing their home. Kahlan glanced to the
side, letting her gaze linger on the curtains she had long ago made for
them. Their wedding seemed but a dim memory.
Her own wedding seemed but a distant dream. Every time she woke,
Richard seemed almost a ghost to her. Mind-numbing, relentless, never-ending
war seemed the only reality. There were occasional fleeting moments when she
thought that she might have only dreamed him, that he couldn't possibly have
really existed, that their long-ago happy summer home in the mountains never
happened. Those moments of doubt terrified her more than Jagang's army.
"Warren," Kahlan asked in a soft voice, "what then? What do you think
will happen the following summer, after they have taken Aydindril?"
Warren shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe Jagang will be content to digest
Aydindril for a while, to establish firm control over the Midlands. He
believes it his duty to his Creator to bring all of mankind under the Order.
Sooner or later, he will move on D'Hara."
Kahlan finally directed her attention to Captain Zimmer.
"Captain, get your men ready. While we're getting all our supplies and
such on
the way, you might as well go and remind Jagang that we have kept our
blades sharp."
The captain grinned and clapped his fist to his heart.
Kahlan swept her gaze across everyone in the room.
"I intend to make the Order shed blood for every inch they take. If
that is all I can do, then I will do it until I breathe my last breath."
The dead-still air was sweltering and reeked of stagnant sewage.
Richard wiped sweat from his brow. At least as long as his sturdy wagon was
rolling through the streets he could enjoy a little breeze.
Distracted out of his concern over knowing Kahlan and Cara had to have
long since left the safety of their mountain home, he noticed an unusual
amount of activity for the middle of the night. Shadowy figures hurried down
the dark streets to dart into dim buildings. Slashes of light briefly fell
to the street until doors could be pulled shut. The moon was out, and in the
darker alleys he thought he saw people watching him, waiting until he passed
before they went on their way. Over the rumble of his wagon's wheels he
couldn't hear anything they might be saying.
As he turned onto the road that would take him out to the charcoal
maker, he had to pull his team up short as men with long pole weapons
stepped out and blocked his way. A guard seized the horses' bits. Other of
the city guard swept out of the side street to point lances up at him.
"What are you doing out here?" one of the voices asked from the side of
the wagon.
Richard calmly yanked up on the lever to set the brake.
"I have a special pass to move goods at night. It's for the emperor's
palace."
The words "emperor's palace" were usually enough to have him on his
way.
The guard waggled his fingers. "If you have a special pass, then let's
see it."
This night, the guards wanted more. Richard pulled a folded piece of
paper from a protective leather sleeve inside his shirt and held it down to
the guard. Metal squeaked as the guard slid open a tiny door on his shielded
lantern, letting a narrow slit of light fall across the paper. Several heads
bent in to read the words and inspect the official seals. They were all
genuine. They should be-they had cost Richard a small fortune.
"Here you go." The guard handed the paper back to Richard. "Have you
seen anything unusual as you have gone through the city?"
"Unusual? What do you mean?"
The guard grunted. "If you had seen anything, you wouldn't have to
ask." He waved his hand. "On your way."
Richard made no effort to leave. "Should I be worried?" He made a show
of looking around. "Are there highwaymen about? Am I in danger? Is it safe
for a citizen to be out? I'll take the wagon back if it's dangerous."
The man chuckled derisively. "You've got nothing to be afraid of. It's
just some foolish people making trouble because they've nothing better to
do."
"That's all it is? Are you sure?"
"You have work to do for the palace. Get to it."
"Yes, sir." Richard clicked his tongue and flicked the reins. The heavy
wagon lurched ahead.
He didn't know what was going on, but suspected the guards were out to
catch some more insurgents for questioning. They probably wanted to get back
to their post, so anyone they got their hands on was likely to end up being
an insurgent. A man from Ishaq's place had been arrested several days
before. He had been drunk on homemade liquor and left a meeting early. He
never made it home. A few days later, Ishaq had received word that the man
had confessed to crimes against the Order. The man's wife and daughter were
arrested. The wife was released after receiving a specified number of lashes
for confessing to speaking ill of the Order and having hateful thoughts
about her neighbors. The daughter had not yet been released. No one even
knew where she was being held.
Eventually he reached the edge of the city where it gave way to open
fields. Richard took a deep breath of the agreeable aroma of freshly turned
earth. Lights from occasional farms glimmered like lonely stars. In the
moonlight Richard could finally see the rough skyline of forest. As he
rolled into the charcoal maker's place, the charcoal maker, a nervous man
named Faval, scurried up to the side of the wagon.
"Richard Cypher! There you are. I was worried about you coming."
"Why?"
The man let out a high-pitched titter. Faval frequently giggled at
things that weren't funny. Richard understood that it was just his way. He
was a jumpy fellow and his laugh was not meant as disrespect, but was rather
something he couldn't help. A lot of people, though, avoided Faval because
of his strange laugh, fearing he might be crazy-a punishment, they believed,
imposed on sinners by the Creator. Others got angry at him because they
thought he was laughing at them. That only made Faval more nervous, which
made him laugh all the more. Faval was missing his front teeth and his nose
was crooked from being broken a number of times. Richard knew the man
couldn't really help it, and so never gave him trouble about it. Faval had
taken a liking to him.
"I don't know, I just thought you might not come."
Faval's big eyes blinked in the moonlight. Richard's face wrinkled in a
puzzlement.
"Faval, I said I was coming. Why would you think I might not?"
Faval's fingers worried at his earlobe. "No reason."
Richard climbed down. "The city guards stopped me-"
"No!" Faval's titter rippled out through the darkness. "What did they
want? Did they ask you anything?"
"They wanted to know if I'd seen anything unusual."
"But you didn't." He giggled. "They let you go. You saw nothing."
"Well," Richard drawled, "I did see that fellow with the two heads."
Crickets chirped in the silence. Faval blinked in astonishment. In the
moonlight, Richard could see his mouth hanging open.
"You saw a man with two heads?"
This time, it was Richard who laughed. "No, Faval, I didn't. It was
just a joke."
"It was? But it wasn't funny."
Richard sighed. "I suppose not. Have you got the load of charcoal
ready? I've got a long night ahead of me. Victor needs a load of steel, and
Priska needs charcoal or he said he would have to close down. He said you
didn't send your last order."
Faval giggled. "I couldn't! I wanted to, Richard Cypher. I need the
money. I owe the loggers for the trees I made into this charcoal. They told
me they were going to quit bringing me wood if I didn't pay them."
Faval lived at the edge of a forest, so his source of wood was handy,
but he wasn't allowed to cut the wood. All resources belonged to the Order.
Trees were cut when the loggers, who had permits, needed work, not when
someone needed wood. Most of the wood lay on the ground and rotted. Anyone
caught picking up wood was liable to be arrested for stealing from the
Order.
Faval held his hands up as if to implore Richard's understanding. "I
tried to get the charcoal transported to Priska, but the committee denied me
permission to transport it. They said I don't need the money. Don't need the
money! Can you imagine?" He laughed painfully. "They told me that I was a
rich man, because I had a business, and that I had to wait while they saw to
the needs of the common people, first. I am only trying to live."
"I know, Faval. I told Priska that it wasn't your fault. He
understands-he has troubles like that of his own. He's just desperate
because he needs the charcoal. You know Priska; he gets hot at those who
have nothing to do with the problem. I told him I would bring a load of
charcoal tonight, and another two tomorrow night. Can I count on you for two
more loads tomorrow?"
Richard held out the silver coins for the load of charcoal.
Faval clapped his hands together prayerfully. "Oh, thank you, Richard
Cypher. You are a savior. Those loggers are a nasty lot. Yes, yes, and two
tomorrow. I have them cooling now. You are as good as a ,son to me, Richard
Cypher." He motioned off into the darkness as he tittered. "They are there,
cooking. You will have them."
Richard could see the dozens and dozens of mounds, like little
haystacks, that were the earthen ovens. Small pieces of split wood were
tightly stacked around in a circle, with tinder stuffed in the center,
building them up into a rounded pile which was then covered over with fern
leaves and broom and then plastered over with firm earth. Fire was put in at
the bottom, then that opening was closed over. Moisture and smoke escaped
from small vents in the top for six to eight days. When the smoke ceased,
the vents were sealed to kill the fire. After it cooled, the earthen ovens
could be opened and the charcoal removed. It was a labor-intensive
occupation, but rather simple work.
"Let me help you load your wagon," Faval said.
Richard caught the man's shirt at his shoulder as he started away.
"Faval, what's going on?"
Faval put a finger to his lower lip as he laughed. It almost sounded
like it was painful for him to laugh. He hesitated, but finally whispered
his answer.
"The revolt. It has started."
Richard had suspected as much. "What do you know about it, Faval?"
"Nothing! I know nothing!"
"Faval, it's me, Richard. I'm not going to turn you in."
Faval laughed. This time it sounded more like relief. "Of course not.
Of course not. Forgive me, Richard Cypher. I get so nervous, I wasn't
thinking."
"So, what about this revolt?"
Faval turned up his hands in a helpless gesture. "The Order, they
strangle people. We can't live. If not for you, Richard Cypher, I would be .
. . well, I don't want to think about it. But others, they are not so
fortunate. They starve. The Order takes
the food they grow. People have loved ones who have been arrested. They
confess to things they did not do.
"Did you know that, Richard Cypher? That they confess to things they
did not do? I never believed it myself I thought that if they confessed,
then they were guilty. Why confess if you are innocent?" He giggled. "Why? I
thought they were terrible people wanting to hurt the Order. I thought it
served them right, and I was glad they were arrested and punished."
"So what changed your mind?"
"My brother." Faval's chuckles suddenly were sobs. "He helped me make
charcoal. We made it together. We supported our families making charcoal. We
worked from sunup until sundown. We slept in the same house, there. That one
there. One room. We were together all the time.
"Last year, at a meeting where we all had to stand up and tell how the
Order made our lives better, as we were leaving, they arrested him. Someone
gave his name as maybe an insurgent. I was not worried. My brother was not
guilty of anything. He makes charcoal."
Richard waited in the darkness, sweat trickling down his neck, as Faval
stared off into the dark visions.
"For a week, I went every day to the barracks to tell them that he
would not do anything against the Order. We loved the Order. The Order
wishes all people to be fed and cared for.
"The guards said my brother finally confessed. High crimes, they called
itplotting to overthrow the Order. They said he confessed it to them.
"The next day, I was going to go to see more people, the officials at
the barracks-I was so angry-to tell them that they were cruel animals. My
wife, she cried and begged me not to go back to the barracks yet again, for
fear they would arrest me, too. For her sake, and the children, I did not
go. It would do no good, anyway. They had my brother's confession. No one
who confesses is innocent. Everyone knows that.
"They put my brother to death. His wife and children live with us,
still. We can hardly. . ." Faval giggled as he bit down on his knuckle.
Richard put a hand on the man's shoulder. "I understand, Faval. There
was nothing you could have done."
Faval wiped at his eyes. "Now I am guilty of thinking hateful thoughts.
That is
a crime, you know. I am guilty of it. I think about life without the
Order. I dream
of having a cart of my own just a cart-and my sons and nephew could
deliver
the charcoal we make. Wouldn't that be wonderful, Richard Cypher? I
could
buy. . ." His voice trailed off.
He looked up in confusion. "But the Order says such thoughts are a
crime because I am putting my wants before the needs of others. Why are
their needs more important than mine? Why?
"I went to ask for a permit to buy a cart. They say I cannot have one
because it would put the cart drivers out of work. They said I was greedy
for wanting to put people out of work. They called me selfish for having
such thoughts."
"That's wrong," Richard said in quiet assurance. "Your thoughts are not
a crime, nor are they evil. It's your life, Faval-you should be able to live
it as you see fit. You should be able to buy your cart and work hard and
make the best of your life for you and your family."
Faval chortled. "You sound like a revolutionary, Richard Cypher."
Richard sighed, thinking about how useless the whole thing was. "No,
Faval."
Faval appraised him in the moonlight for a time. "It has already
started, Richard Cypher. The revolt. It has begun."
"I have charcoal to deliver." Richard went around the back of the wagon
and hoisted a basket up onto the wagon bed.
Faval helped with the next basket. "You should join them, Richard
Cypher. You are a smart man. They could use your help."
"Why?" Richard wondered if he dared get his hopes up. "What do they
have planned? What are they going to do with this revolt?"
Faval giggled. "Why, they are marching in the streets, tomorrow. They
are going to demand changes."
"What changes?"
"Well, I think they want to be able to work. They are going to demand
they be allowed to do what they want." He giggled. "Maybe, I can get a cart?
Do you think, Richard Cypher? Do you think that when they have this revolt I
can get a cart and deliver my charcoal? I could make more charcoal, then."
"But what do they plan to do? How are they going to change anything if
the Order says no?-Which they will."
"Do? Why, I think they will be very angry if the Order tells them no.
They may not go back to their jobs. Some say they will break into the stores
and take the bread."
Richard's hopes faded back into the shadows.
The man clutched at Richard's sleeve. "What should I do, Richard
Cypher? Should I join the revolt? Tell me."
"Faval, you should not ask anyone else what you should do about
something like this. How can you endanger your life, the lives of your
family, on what a man with a wagon says?"
"But you are a smart man, Richard Cypher. I am not so smart as you."
Richard tapped his finger against the man's forehead. "Faval, in here,
in your head, you are smart enough to know what you must do. You have
already told me why the Order can never help people have better lives by
telling them how they must live. You figured that out all on your own. You,
Faval the charcoal maker, are smarter than the Order."
Faval beamed. "You think so, Richard Cypher? No one ever told me before
that I was smart."
"You're smart enough to decide for yourself how much it means to you
and what you want to do about it."
"I fear for my wife, and my brother's wife, and all our children. I
don't want the Order, but I'm afraid for them if I am arrested. How would
they live?"
Richard heaved another basket into the wagon. "Faval, listen to me.
Revolt is the kind of thing you must be sure of. It's dangerous business. If
you are going to join a revolt, you have to be sure enough of what you want
to do to be ready to lay down your life for your freedom."
"Really? You think so, Richard Cypher?"
The spark of hope was gone.
"Faval, you stay here and make charcoal. Priska needs charcoal. The
Order will arrest those people, and then that will be the end of it. You're
a good man. I don't want to see you arrested."
Faval grinned. "All right, Richard Cypher. If you say so, I will stay
here and make charcoal."
"Good. I'll be back tomorrow night. But Faval, if there is still
trouble, I may not make it tomorrow night. If there is still marching going
on and the streets and roads are blocked, I may not be able to make it out
here."
"I understand. You will be back as soon as you can. I trust you,
Richard Cypher. You never let me down."
Richard smiled. "Look, if they are having a revolt tomorrow, and I
can't make it out here right away, here's the money for the next load." He
handed the man another silver mark. "I don't want those loggers to stop
getting wood for you. The foundries need charcoal."
Faval giggled in genuine delight. He kissed the silver mark and slipped
it down his boot. "The charcoal will be ready. Now, let me help you load
your wagon."
Faval was only one of the charcoal makers with whom Richard dealt. He
had a whole string of them he kept going so the foundries could have
charcoal. They were all humble people just trying to get along in life. They
did the best they could under the yoke of the Order.
Richard made a little profit selling the charcoal to the foundries, but
he made more selling iron and steel he bought from them. Charcoal was just a
small sideline to help fill his nights, as long as he was out with his
wagon. What he made from the charcoal covered the bribes, mostly. He made a
good bit more hauling the odd load of ore, clay, lead, quicksilver,
antimony, salt, molding powders, and a variety of other things the foundries
needed but couldn't get permits for or get transported when they needed
them. There was as much of that business as Richard could want. It paid for
the care of his team with some profit left over. The iron and steel was pure
profit.
By the time he made it to the foundry with the load of charcoal,
Priska, the hulking foundry master, was pacing. His powerful hands grabbed
the side of the wagon. He peered in.
"About time."
"I had to wait for an hour after I came from Faval's while the city
guards inspected the load."
Priska waved his beefy arms. "Those bastards!"
"It's all right-calm down. They didn't take any. I have it all."
The man sighed. "I tell you, Richard, it's a wonder I've kept my
furnaces going."
Richard ventured a dangerous question. "You're not involved with the .
. . trouble, in the city, are you?"
In the light coming from his office window-really no more than a
hut-Priska appraised Richard for a time. "Richard, change is coming. Change
for the better."
"What change?"
"A revolt has begun."
Richard felt the spark of hope grow anew, but stronger this time-not so
much for himself, his chains held him too tenaciously, but for the people
who yearned to be free. Faval was a kind man, a hardworking man, but he was
not the clever man, the resourceful man, that Priska was. Priska was a man
who knew more than it would seem possible for him to know. Priska had given
Richard the names of all the officials who could be bribed for papers, and
advised him how much to offer.
"A revolt?" Richard asked "A revolt for what?"
"For us-for the people who want to be able to live our lives as we
wish. The new beginning is starting. Tonight. In fact, it has already
begun." He turned to his
building and pulled open the doors. "When you get to Victor's, you must
wait for him, Richard. He must speak with you."
"About what?"
Priska waved dismissively. "Come, give me my charcoal and then load
your steel. Victor will bite my head off if I keep you."
Richard pulled the first basket out of the wagon and carried it to the
side, where Priska added another.
"What have these people who starting the revolt done? What are their
plans?"
Priska leaned close as Richard dragged another basket to the rear of
the wagon. "They have captured a number of officials of the Order. High
officials."
"Have they killed them, yet?"
"Killed them! Are you crazy? They aren't going to harm them. They will
be held until they agree to loosen the rules, satisfy the demands of the
people."
Richard gaped at the man. "Loosen the rules? What are they demanding?"
"Things must change. People want to be allowed more say in their
businesses, their lives, their work." He lifted a basket of charcoal. "Less
meetings. They are demanding to have their needs taken more into
consideration."
This time, the spark of Richard's hopes didn't dim, rather, it plunged
into icy waters.
He didn't much pay attention to Priska as they unloaded the wagon and
then loaded the steel. He didn't really want to listen to the plans for the
revolt. He couldn't help getting the gist of it, anyway.
The revolutionaries had it all figured out. They wanted public trials
for those people the Order arrested. They wanted to be allowed to see
prisoners. They wanted to have the Order give them a list of what had
happened to a number of people who had been arrested, but never heard from.
There were other details and demands but Richard's mind wandered to other
things.
As Richard was climbing up into his wagon to leave, Priska seized his
arm in a iron grip. "The time has come, Richard, for men who care to join
the revolt."
The two of them shared a long look. "Victor is waiting."
Priska released Richard's arm and grinned. "So he is. I'll see you
later, Richard. Perhaps the next trip you make here will be after the Order
meets the demands, and you will be able to come in the day, without papers."
"That would be grand, Priska."
--]----
By the time he arrived at Victor's, Richard had a headache. He felt
sick over what he'd heard, and what he feared yet to hear.
Victor was there, waiting for him. It was a little early, yet, for the
man to be there; usually, he didn't arrive until closer to dawn. The
blacksmith threw open the doors to his outer stockroom. He set a lantern on
a shelf so Richard could see to back his wagon close.
Victor was wearing a wolfish grin as Richard climbed down.
"Come, Richard, unload your wagon, then we will have some lardo, and
talk."
Richard went methodically about his task, not really wanting to talk.
He had a good idea what Victor wanted to talk about. Victor, as was his way,
left Richard to unload. He was the man buying the steel, and enjoyed the
service of having it
delivered where he wanted it. It was a service he could rarely get from
a transport company, despite the higher price.
Richard didn't mind being left alone. Summer this far south in the Old
World was miserable. The humidity was oppressive, with the nights rarely
better than the days.
As he worked, he thought about the sparkling bright days spent with
Kahlan beside the brook at their mountain home. It seemed a lifetime ago.
His hopes of ever seeing her again were difficult to keep alive, but his
worry for her, now that summer was here, never ceased. Sometimes, it hurt so
much to think about her, to miss her, to worry, that he had to put her from
his mind. At other times, thoughts of her were all that kept him going.
By the time he had finished, the sky was tuning lighter. He found
Victor in the far room, the doors open wide so that dawn's light lit
Victor's marble monolith. The blacksmith was gazing at the beauty in his
stone, at the statue still inside that only he saw.
It was a long moment before he noticed Richard standing not far away.
"Richard, come have lardo with me."
They sat on the threshold looking out over the site of the Retreat,
watching the miles of stone walls tun pink in the hazy dawn. Even from the
distance, Richard could see along the top of one wall the vile figures
representing the evil of mankind.
Victor handed Richard a pure white slice of lardo. "Richard, the revolt
I told you about has started. But you probably already know that."
"No it hasn't," Richard said.
Victor stared, dumbfounded. "But it has."
"A lot of trouble has started. It is not the revolt you and I spoke
of."
"It will be. You will see. Many men will be marching today." Victor
gestured expansively. "Richard, we want you to lead us."
Richard had been expecting the question. "No."
"I know, I know, you think the men don't know you, and they won't
follow you, but you are wrong, Richard. Many do know you. More than you
think. I have told many of them about you. Priska and others have spoken of
you. You can do it, Richard."
Richard stared out at the walls, at the carvings of cowering men.
"No."
Victor was taken aback, this time. "But why not?"
"Because a lot of men are going to die."
Victor chuckled. "No, Richard, no. You misunderstand. This will not be
that kind of revolt. This will be a revolt of men of goodwill. This is a
revolt for the betterment of mankind. That is what the Order always
preaches. We are the people. They say they are for the people, and now, when
we put the demands of the people to them, they will have to listen and give
in."
Richard shook his head sadly to himself.
"You want me to lead you?"
"Yes."
"Then I want you to do something for me, Victor."
"Of course, Richard. Name it."
"You stay far away from anything to do with this uprising. Those are my
orders to you as your leader. You stay here and work today. You stay out of
it."
Victor looked as if he thought Richard might be making a joke. After a
moment, he saw that Richard was not joking.
"But why? Don't you want things to get better? Do you wish to live like
this all your life? Don't you want things to improve?"
"Are you willing to kill those men of the Order that have been
captured?"
"Kill them? Richard, why do you want to talk about killing? This is
about life. About things being better."
"Victor, listen to me. These men you go up against are not going to
play by your rules."
"But they will want-"
"You stay here and work, or you will die along with a lot of other men.
The Order will crush this uprising within a day or two, and then they will
go after everyone they even suspect had a hand in it. A lot of people are
going to die."
"But if you were-to lead us, you could present our demands. That is why
we want you to lead us-to prevent that kind of trouble. You know how to
convince people. You know how to get things done-just look at how you help
all the people in Altur'Rang: Faval, Priska, me, and all the others. We need
you, Richard. We need you to give people a reason to follow the revolt."
"If they don't know what they stand for and what they want, then no one
can give them a reason. They will only.succeed when they burn for freedom,
and are not only willing to kill for it, but to die for it." Richard stood
and brushed the dirt from his pants. "Stay out of it, Victor, or you will
die with them."
Victor followed him to his wagon. In the distance, men were arriving to
work on the emperor's palace. The blacksmith picked at the wood on the
wagon's side, apparently wanting to say more.
"Richard, I know how you feel. I really do. I, too, think these men are
not burning with the kind of hunger for freedom that I have, but they are
not from Cavatura, as I am, so perhaps they do not know what true freedom
is, but for now, this is all we can do. Won't you give it a try, Richard?
"Richard Rahl, of the D'Haran Empire to the north, understands our
passion for freedom, and would try."
Richard climbed up into his wagon seat. He wondered where people heard
such things, and marveled at how the spark of such ideas could travel so
far. After he took up the reins and whip, Richard shared a long look with
the sober blacksmith, a man intoxicated with the whiff of freedom in the
air.
"Victor, would you try to hammer cold steel into a tool?"
"Of course not. The steel must be white-hot before it can become
something."
"So must men, Victor. These men are cold steel. Spare your hammer. I'm
sure this Richard Rahl would tell you the same thing."
The uprising lasted a day. Richard stayed home. He asked Nicci to stay
home, too. He told her that he'd heard rumors of possible trouble and said
he didn't want her to get hurt.
The purge of the insurrectionists by the Order, on the other hand,
lasted a week. Men who had participated in the marching had been slaughtered
in the streets, or captured by the city guard. Those who were captured were
questioned until they eventually confessed the names of others. People
questioned by the Order always confessed.
The ripples of arrest, confession, and further arrest spread through
the city and went on for days. Hundreds of men were buried in the sky.
Eventually, the fires of unrest were snuffed out. The ash of regret covered
every tongue as people wanted to forget the whole thing. The marches were
rarely even mentioned, as if it had never happened.
Richard finally went back to work at the transport company, rather than
risk having his wagon out at night. Jori had nothing to say as they rolled
through the city, past the poles holding up rotting corpses buried in the
sky.
Jori and Richard made trips out to the mines to pick up ore for the
foundries. They made one trip to a sandstone quarry a little ways to the
east of the city. That took the whole day there and back. The next day they
delivered the stone to the west side of Retreat, where it was needed for a
buttress. There were a number of poles, maybe fifty or sixty, on the other
side of the walls, over near the carving area. Apparently, some of the
workers had been purged, too.
On the way out, they went up the road past the blacksmith's shop.
Richard
jumped down off the wagon and told Jori that he would go up the hill
and join him
after the wagon made its way around the twists in the road. He said he
had to report
to the blacksmith about their next delivery. -
Inside the dark workshop, Victor was hammering a long piece of steel,
bending the red-hot metal over the horn of an anvil. He looked up and, when
he saw it was Richard, thrust the hot metal in the liquid beside this anvil,
where it bubbled and hissed.
"Richard! I'm glad to see you."
Richard noticed several of Victor's men were missing. "Sick?"
Victor grimly shook his head.
Richard acknowledged the news with a single nod. "I'm glad to see you
well, Victor. I just wanted to stop and make sure you were all right."
"Richard, I'm fine." He hung his head. "Thanks to your advice. I could
be buried in the sky, now." He gestured toward the Retreat. "Did you see?
Many of the carvers . . . all hanging from the poles down there."
Richard had seen the bodies, but hadn't realized it was many of the
stone carvers. He knew how some had felt about the things they carved-how
they hated to create scenes of death.
"Priska?"
Victor gave a desolate shake of his head, too choked up to say it.
"Faval?"
"Saw him yesterday." Victor took a purging breath. "He said you told
him to stay home and make charcoal. I think he is going to rename one of his
children after you."
"If Priska . . . What about your special steel?"
Victor gestured with the bar he held in tongs. "His head man is going
to carry on. Can you make a run for iron? I haven't had a supply since
before the trouble. Brother Narev is in a foul mood; he wants some iron
supports for the piers. He suggested that a blacksmith loyal to the Order
and the Creator would get them made."
Richard nodded. "I think it's calmed down enough. When?"
"I could really use it now, but I can make do until the day after
tomorrow. I have some of these fussy chisels to make, for the detail work,
and I'm short men, so it can wait that long."
"Day after tomorrow, then. It should be safe enough by then."
The sun had set as Richard was walking up the street to his room with
Nicci, but the twilight let him see his way well enough. He was thinking
about Victor when half a dozen men stepped out from behind a building.
"Richard Cypher?"
They weren't dressed like regular city guards, but that didn't mean a
whole lot, lately. There were a number of special men, not in uniform, who,
it was said, hunted down troublemakers.
"That's right. What is it you wish?"
He saw the men each had swords under their light capes. They each had a
hand on a long knife at their belts.
"As sworn officers of the Imperial Order, it is our duty to place you
under arrest for suspicion of insurrection."
--]----
When Nicci woke, Richard still wasn't home. She growled unhappily. She
rolled onto her back and saw that light was coming in through the curtains.
By the angle of the sunlight, it looked like it must be shortly past dawn.
She yawned and stretched in her bed, letting her arms drop back as she
stared at the ceiling, the clean, whitewashed ceiling. She felt her anger
building. It was upsetting when he wasn't there at night, but it made her
feel a fraud if she berated him for working so hard. Her intent had been to
make him see how hard ordinary people had to work to get along in life, to
make him see how the Order was the only hope of improving the lives of the
common people.
She had warned him not to become involved in the recent uprising. She
was pleased he didn't try to argue with her about it. If anything, he seemed
opposed to them. It surprised her that he had even stayed home from work
while the marches took place. He warned Kamil and Nabbi, in the strongest
terms, to keep away from the insurrection.
Now that the rebellion had been crushed, and the authorities had
arrested many of the troublemakers, it was safe again, so Richard had
finally been able to return to work. The rebellion had been a shock. The
Order needed to do more to make people understand their duty to help make
the lives of those less fortunate more tolerable. Then there wouldn't be any
trouble in the streets. To that end, many of the officials had been purged
for not doing enough to further the cause of the Order. At least there was
that much good out of it.
Nicci splashed water on her face from the basin Richard had brought
home one day. The flowers around the edges matched the salmon-colored walls,
and the rug he had been able to purchase from savings. He was certainly
industrious, managing to save from his meager wage.
She pulled off her sweaty nightshirt and bathed herself as best she
could with a wet washcloth. It felt refreshing. She hated to look sweaty and
dirty in front of Richard.
She saw that the bowl of stew she'd made for his dinner the night
before was still sitting on the table. He hadn't told her that he had to
work at night, but sometimes he didn't have time to come home for dinner
first. When he worked at night, he usually came home shortly after dawn, so
she expected to see him at any moment.
He would likely be hungry. Maybe she would make him eggs. Richard liked
eggs. She realized she was smiling. She had been angry when she first woke,
and now, thinking about what Richard liked, she was smiling. She combed her
fingers through her hair, already eagerly looking forward to seeing him walk
in, to asking if he would like her to make him eggs. He would say yes, and
she would have the pleasure of doing something she knew he wanted.
She loathed doing things she knew he didn't like.
It had been several months since that awful night with Gadi. That had
been a mistake. She knew that afterward. At first, she had enjoyed it, not
because she wanted to have sex with that repulsive thug, but because she had
been so humiliated by Richard refusing to make love to her that she wanted
to get back at him. She had in the beginning of it reveled in what Gadi did
to her, reveled in how he hurt her, because it was hurting Kahlan, too.
Nicci enjoyed it only in the sense that it was punishment for what he had
done to her. Nothing hurt Richard like hurting Kahlan.
Gadi hated Richard. Having Nicci, he thought, got back at Richard and
made Gadi a king again. As much as he wanted her, he wanted to get back at
Richard more. Richard had taken Gadi's kingdom and made it his own. Nicci
was only too happy to let the little bully be king again. Every sincere cry,
she knew, Richard -Heard, and would know that Kahlan felt the same pain.
But as Gadi went at her with wild abandon, doing his best to degrade
Richard by what he did to her, Richard's words-"Nicci, please don't do this.
You're only hurting yourself'-began to haunt her.
As Gadi took her, she tried to make believe it was Richard, tried to
have Richard if even by proxy. But she couldn't make herself believe it, not
even for the pleasure of such a fantasy. Richard, she knew, would never
humiliate and hurt a woman in that way. She couldn't even pretend for a
second that it was Richard.
More, though, Nicci began to comprehend that Richard's words were not a
plea to spare Kahlan pain, but to spare Nicci the pain. As much as he must
hate her, Richard had expressed concern for her. As much as he must hate
her, he didn't want to see her hurt.
Nothing else Richard could have said would have cut deeper into her
heart. That kindness was the cruelest thing he could have done to her.
The pain afterward was her punishment. Nicci was so ashamed of what she
had done that she pretended to Richard that she hadn't suffered in the
incident. She wanted to spare him the distress of knowing what Kahlan was
suffering along with her. The next morning, she told Richard that she had
made a mistake. She didn't expect his forgiveness; she wanted him to know
she knew she had been wrong, and that she was sorry.
Richard said nothing; he only watched her with those gray eyes of his
as he listened before leaving for work.
She bled for three days.
Gadi had bragged to his friends about having her. To her further
humiliation, he revealed all the details. To Gadi's surprise, Kamil and
Nabbi had been furious at him. They were intent on dripping hot wax in his
eyes and doing some other things-what, Nicci wasn't sure, but could imagine.
The threat was so deadly serious that Gadi had gone off and joined the
Imperial Order army that very same day. He had joined just in time to leave
with a new troop on their way north to the war. Gadi had sneered to Kamil
and Nabbi that day, telling them that he was going off to be a hero.
Nicci heard footsteps coming down the hall. She smiled and pulled three
eggs out of the cupboard. Instead of Richard opening the door, as she was
expecting, someone knocked.
Nicci stepped to the middle of the room. "Who is it?"
"Nicci, it's me, Kamil."
The urgency in his voice made the fine hairs on her arms stand on end.
"I'm decent. Come in."
The young man burst in, panting. His face was white, as were his
knuckles around the doorknob. Tears stained his cheeks.
"They've arrested Richard. Last night. They have him."
Nicci was only dimly aware of the eggs hitting the floor.
With Kamil at her side, Nicci ascended the dozen stone steps up into
the city guard barracks. It was a huge fortress, its high walls stretching
off down the entire block. Nicci hadn't asked Kamil to go with her. She
doubted that anything short of death would have stopped him. She couldn't
really decipher precisely how Richard managed to inspire such reactions in
people.
As they had left, Nicci was in a state of frantic shock, but she had
noticed that the entire building of people seemed tense and alert. Faces
peered from windows as she and Kamil had rushed out the building and down
the road. People had come out of other buildings to watch her go. They all
wore grim expressions.
What was it that made people care so much about this one man?
What was it that made her care?
The inside of the filthy barracks was crowded with people.
Hollow-cheeked, unshaven, old men stood as if in a daze, staring off at
nothing. Plump-cheeked women with scarves covering their heads wept as
wailing children clung to their skirts. Other women stood around without
expression, as if they were expecting to buy bread or millet. One small
child, with only a shirt and nothing from the waist down, stood forlorn, his
tiny fists at his mouth as he bawled.
The room felt like a death watch.
City guards, mostly large young men with indifferent expressions,
pushed through the throng as they passed on into dark halls guarded by their
fellows. A short, roughly constructed wooden wall held back all the people,
confining the pandemonium to half the room. Beyond the short wall, more of
the guards casually talked among themselves. Others brought reports to men
at a simple table, joked, or picked up orders on their way through.
Nicci cut right through the crowd, forcing her way to the short wall
where cowering women pressed close, hoping to be called, hoping for word,
hoping for the miracle of intercession by the Creator Himself. Pressing up
against the rough boards, they received splinters, instead.
Nicci seized the sleeve of a passing guard. He halted in midstride. His
glare rose from her hand to her eyes. She reminded herself that she was
without her power and released his sleeve.
"May I ask, please, who is in charge?"
He looked her up and down, a woman he appeared to judge was about to be
without a husband and available. His face slid into an affected smile. He
gestured.
"There. At the table. People's Protector Muksin."
The older man sat ensconced behind his sovereign stacks of papers.
Beneath a chin that sank down toward his chest, his spreading body looked as
if it were melting
in the summer heat. His loose white shirt bore big dark rings of sweat,
adding its bit of stink to the stench of the sultry room.
Guards leaned down to speak into his ear while his dull gaze roamed,
never settling. Others behind the table to either side of him were busily
engaged in work at stacks of their own papers, or speaking among themselves,
or dealing with the other stream of officials and guards that was ebbing and
flowing through the room.
Protector Muksin, the shiny top of his head concealed about as well as
an aged turtle napping beneath a few blades of grass, watched the room. His
dark eyes never stopped moving, gliding past the guards, the officials, the
milling crowd. When they glided over Nicci's face, they registered no more
interest than in any of the other people. All were citizens of the Order,
equal pieces, each unimportant in and of itself.
"Could I see him?" Nicci asked. "It's important."
The guard's smile turned to mockery. "I'm sure it is." He waved a
finger at the clump of people to the side. "End of the line. Wait your
turn."
Nicci and Kamil had no choice but to wait. Nicci knew enough about such
petty officials to know better than to make a scene. They lived for the
times when someone made a scene. She leaned her shoulder against the
plastered wall dark with oily stains of countless other shoulders. Kamil
took up station behind her.
The line wasn't moving because the officials weren't seeing anyone.
Nicci didn't know if they only saw citizens at certain times. There was no
choice but to keep their place in the line. The morning dragged on without
the line in front of her changing. It grew more crowded in back.
"Kamil," she said in a low voice after several hours, "you don't need
to wait with me. You can go home."
His eyes were red and swollen. "I wish to wait." He sounded
surprisingly distrustful. "I care about Richard," he added in a tone that
sounded like an accusation.
"I care about him, too. Why do you think I'm here?"
"I only came to get you because I was so afraid for Richard, and I
didn't know what else to do. Everyone else was off to work, or to buy
bread." Kamil turned and leaned his back against the wall. "I don't believe
that you care for him, but I didn't know what else to do."
Nicci swiped a sweaty strand of hair off her forehead. "You don't like
me, do you?"
Still he didn't look at her. "No."
"Might I ask why?"
Kamil's gaze snuck a glance around to see if anyone was listening. They
were all concerned with their own problems.
"You are Richard's wife, yet you betrayed him. You took Gadi to your
room. You are a whore."
Nicci blinked in surprise at his words. Kamil glanced around again
before he went on.
"We don't know why a man like Richard would be with you. Every woman
without a husband in the house, and the other houses nearby, told me she
would be his wife and never lie with another man as long as she lived. They
all say they don't understand why you would do that to Richard. Everyone was
sad for him, but he would not listen to us tell him."
Nicci turned away. Suddenly, she couldn't bear the shame of looking at
a young man who had just called her a vile name, and had been right.
"You don't understand the situation," she whispered.
From the corner of her eye, she saw Kamil shrug. "You are right. I
don't understand. I don't understand how anyone could do such a hurtful
thing to a husband like Richard, who works hard and takes such good care of
you. To do such a thing, you must be a bad person who does not care about
your husband."
She felt tears join the sweat on her face. "I care about Richard more
than you could ever know."
He didn't answer. She turned to look at him. He was bouncing his
shoulders gently against the wall. He was too ashamed of her, or angry at
her, to look her in the eye.
"Kamil, do you remember when we first came to live in the room in your
building?"
He nodded, still not looking at her.
"Do you remember how cruel you and Nabbi treated Richard, all the mean
things you said to him? All the hurtful names you called him? How you
threatened him with your knives?"
"I made a mistake," he said, and sounded as if he meant it.
"Kamil, I made a mistake, too." She didn't bother trying to hide her
tears-half the women in the room were weeping. "I can't explain it to you,
but Richard and I were having an argument. I was angry with him. I wanted to
hurt him. I was wrong. It was a foolish thing for me to do. I made a
terrible mistake."
She sniffled and dabbed her nose on a small handkerchief. Kamil watched
her from the corner of his eye.
"I admit it's not the same kind of mistake that you and Nabbi made when
you were acting tough when you first met Richard, but it was a mistake. I
was acting tough, too."
"You don't desire Gadi?"
"Gadi turns my stomach. I only used him because I was angry with
Richard."
"And you are sorry?"
Nicci's chin trembled. "Of course I'm sorry."
"You are not going to get angry and do it again? With some other man?"
"No. I told Richard I made a mistake, I was sorry, and I would never do
such a thing to him again. I meant what I said."
Kamil thought it over as he watched a woman shake a child by the arm.
The child wouldn't stop crying, because it wanted to be picked up. She said
something under her breath and the child leaned against her leg and pouted,
but didn't cry anymore.
"If Richard can forgive you, then I should not be angry at you. He is
your husband. It is for the two of you to settle, not for me." He touched
her arm. "You made a foolish mistake. It is over. Don't cry for that
anymore? There are more important things, now."
Nicci smiled through her tears and nodded.
He smiled a little bit. "Nabbi and I told Gadi we were going to cut
off-we told him we would cut him for what he had done to Richard. Gadi
showed us his knife, so we would let him pass. Gadi loves his knife. He has
cut men with it, before. Cut them bad. He told us to let him pass to go to
join the army, that he was going to use his knife to slice the guts out of
the enemy, to be a war hero, and to have many women better than Richard's
wife."
"I'm sure I will not be the only woman to be sorry they ever met Gadi."
In the late afternoon, People's Protector Muksin began seeing people.
Nicci's
back ached, but it was nothing to compare to her fear for Richard. The
people were taken one at a time by a pair of guards to stand before
Protector Muksin.
The line moved fairly rapidly because the Protector tolerated no long
conversations. At most, he would riffle through some of his papers before
telling the supplicant something. What with all the wailing and weeping in
the room, Nicci couldn't hear any of it.
When it was her turn, one of the guards shoved Kamil back. "Only one
citizen may speak with the Protector."
Nicci tilted her head to signal Kamil to stand back and not make a
scene. The guards each grabbed an arm and fairly carried her to the spot in
front of the Protector. Nicci was indignant at being treated so roughly-like
some common . . . citizen.
She had always enjoyed a kind of authority, sometimes spoken, sometimes
unspoken, and had never really given it much thought. She wanted to have
Richard see what it was like to live as the common working people. Richard
seemed to flourish:
The two guards stood close at her shoulders, in case she caused any
trouble. They must have seen it enough. She felt her face flushing at her
treatment.
"Protector Muksin, my husband was-"
"Name." His dark-eyed gaze was skipping over the people remaining in
line, no doubt measuring how far off dinner was.
"Richard."
He looked up sharply. "Full name."
"His name is Richard Cypher. He was taken in last evening."
Nicci didn't want to say the word "arrested," fearing to lend weight to
a serious charge.
He shuffled through papers, not at all seeming to be interested in
looking at her. Nicci found it slightly confounding when the man didn't look
at her in that calculating way men had of measuring her dimensions in their
mind, imagining what they couldn't see, as if she didn't know what they were
doing. The two guards, though, were looking down the front of her dress.
"Ah." Protector Muksin waved a paper. "You are lucky."
"He has been released, then?"
He looked up as if she were daft. "We have him. His name is on this
paper. There are many places people are taken. The Protectors of the people
can't be expected to know where they all are."
"Thank you," Nicci said without knowing what she was thanking him for.
"Why is he being held? What are the charges?"
The man frowned. "How would we know the charges. He has not yet
confessed."
Nicci felt dizzy. A number of the other women fainted when they spoke
to the Protector. The guard's hands on her arms tightened. The Protector's
hand started to lift to signal them to remove her. Before he could, Nicci
spoke in as calm a voice as she could muster.
"Please, Protector Muksin, my husband is no troublemaker. He never does
anything but work. He never speaks ill of anyone. He is a good man. He
always does as he is told."
For one fraction of a second, as she watched sweat roll down the man's
cheeks, he seemed to be considering something.
"Has he a skill?"
"He is a good laborer for the Order. He loads wagons."
She knew the answer was a mistake before she had completed it. The hand
lifted,
flicked, dismissing her like a gnat. With a mighty jerk, the guards
lifted her from her feet and whisked her from the important man's presence.
"But my husband is a good man! Please, Protector Muksin! Richard did
not cause any of the trouble! He was home!"
Her words were sincere, and much the same as those spoken by the women
before her. She was furious that she could not convince him that she was
different-that Richard was different. The others, she knew now, had all
tried to do the same.
Kamil ran behind as the guards carried her down a short, dark hall to a
side door out of the stone fortress. Evening light stole in when they opened
the door. They shoved her. Nicci stumbled down the steps. Kamil was shoved
out right behind her. He fell facedown in the dirt. Nicci knelt to help him
up.
From her knees, she looked up to the doorway. "What about my husband?"
she pressed.
"You can come back another day," one guard said. "When he confesses,
the Protector can tell you the charges."
Nicci knew he would never confess. He would die, first.
That was not a problem, as far as these men were concerned.
"Can I see him?" Nicci folded her hands prayerfully as she knelt beside
Kamil. "Please, can I at least see him?"
One of the guards whispered to the other.
"Have you any money?" he asked her.
"No," she said in a mournful cry.
They started to go back in.
"Wait!" Kamil cried out.
When they paused, he ran up the steps. He lifted his pant leg and
pulled off a boot. Upending it, a coin fell into his palm. Without
reservation, he handed the silver coin to the guard.
The man made a sour face when he looked at the coin. "This isn't enough
for a visit."
Kamil seized the big man's wrist as he started to turn. "I have another
at home. Please, let me go get it. I can run. I can be back in an hour."
The man shook his head. "Not tonight. Visits for those who can pay the
fee are the day after tomorrow, at sunset. But only one visitor is allowed."
Kamil waved his hand at Nicci. "His wife. She will visit him."
The guard swept an appraising look over Nicci, smirking, as if to
consider what more she might have to give to see her husband.
"Just be sure to bring the fee."
The door slammed shut.
Kamil raced down the steps and seized her arm, his big eyes brimming
with tears. "What are we going to do? That's two more days they will have
him. Two more days!"
He was starting to choke on his panic. He hadn't said it, but she knew
what he meant. That was two more days to torture a confession out of him.
Then they would bury Richard in the sky.
Nicci took a firm grip on the boy's arm and walked him away. "Kamil,
listen to me. Richard is strong. He will be all right. He's been through a
lot before. He's strong. You know he's strong?"
Kamil was nodding as he bit his lower lip and wept, reduced to a child
by his fear for his friend.
--]----
Nicci stared at the ceiling the entire night. The next day, she went to
stand in line for bread. She realized, as she stood with the other women,
that she must have the same hollow look as they. She was in a daze. She
didn't know what to do. Everything seemed to be disintegrating.
That night, she slept only a few hours. She was in a state of restless
anxiety, counting the minutes until the sun would come up. When it did, she
sat at the table, clutching the loaf of bread she would take to Richard,
waiting the eternity it took for the day to drag by. The neighbor lady, Mrs.
Sha'Rim, brought Nicci a bowl of cabbage soup. She stood over Nicci, smiling
sympathetically, while she waited to make sure Nicci ate the soup. Nicci
thanked Mrs. Sha'Rim, and said the soup was delicious. She had no idea what
the soup tasted like.
In the early afternoon, Nicci decided to go wait at the stronghold
until she was allowed in. She didn't want to be late. Kamil was sitting on
the steps, waiting for her. A small crowd of people milled about.
Kamil shot to his feet. "I have the silver mark."
Nicci wanted to tell him that he didn't have to pay it, that she would,
but she didn't have a silver mark. She had only a few silver pennies.
"Thank you, Kamil. I will find the money to pay you back."
"I don't want it back. It is for Richard. It is what I choose to do for
Richard. It is worth it to me."
Nicci nodded. She knew she would rot before anyone came up with a penny
for her, yet she had devoted her entire life to helping others. Her mother
told her once that it was wrong to expect thanks, that she owed help to
those people because she was able to give it.
As Nicci walked down the steps, people came up and offered their best
wishes. They asked her to tell Richard to be strong, and not to give in.
They asked her to tell them if there was anything they could do, or if she
needed money.
They'd had Richard for days. Nicci didn't even know if he was still
alive. The silent walk to the prison stronghold was terror. She feared to
find he had been put to death, or to see him, and know he would die a
lingering, suffering agony from his questioning. Nicci knew very well how
the Order questioned people.
At the side door, a half-dozen other women along with a few older men
stood in the sweltering sun. All the women had sacks of food. None of the
people spoke. They were all bent under the weight of the same dread.
Nicci stared at the door as the sun slowly sank. In the gathering dusk,
Kamil hung his waterskin on Nicci's shoulder.
"Richard will probably want something to drink with his bread and
chicken."
"Thank you," she whispered.
The ironbound door squeaked open. Everyone looked up at the guard
standing in the door, signaling for everyone to approach. He glanced down at
a piece of paper. As the first woman raced up the stairs, he stopped her and
asked her name. When she told him, he checked it against his list, then let
her pass. The second woman he turned away. She cried out, saying she had
paid for the visit. He told her that her husband had confessed to crimes of
treason and was allowed no visitors.
She wailed as she fell to the ground. Everyone else watched in horror,
fearing the same fate. Another woman gave her name and was sent in. Another
went in, then the next was told that her husband had died.
Nicci, in a daze, started up the stairs. Kamil grabbed her arm. He put
a coin in her hand.
"Thank you, Karnil."
He nodded. "Tell Richard I said . . . Just tell him to come home."
"Richard Cypher," she answered the guard, her heart hammering.
He looked at the paper briefly, then waved her in. "That man will take
you to him.
Relief flooded through her. He was still alive.
Inside the dark hall, another soldier waited. He tilted his head in
command. "Follow me." He moved into the darkness, a lamp swinging from each
hand. She stayed close behind as he descended two long flights of narrow
stairs into the damp dark underground.
In a small room with a hissing torch, People's Protector Muksin sat on
a bench, sweating, as he talked to two men-minor officials, judging by their
deferential treatment of the rotund Protector.
The Protector stood after briefly inspecting the paper the guard handed
him. "You have the fee?"
"Yes, Protector Muksin." Nicci handed over the coin.
He glanced at it before pocketing the silver. "Fines for civil
violations are steep," he said cryptically as his dark eyes halted to
measure her reaction.
Nicci licked her lips, her hopes suddenly buoyant. She had passed the
first test by paying the fee. The greedy bastard was now demanding money for
Richard's life.
Nicci spoke cautiously, fearing to make a mistake. "If I knew the fine,
Protector, I believe I could raise the money."
The Protector peered at her with an intensity that made sweat break out
across her brow. "A man needs to prove his repentance. A fine that cuts to
the bone is a sure way to show remorse for a civil infraction. Less, and we
will know the penance insincere. Day after tomorrow, at this time, those who
have confessed to such infractions and have someone who can pay the price of
the fine, are brought before me for disposition."
He had named the price: everything. He had told her what Richard had to
do. She wanted to tear out the man's fat throat.
"Thank you for your kind understanding of my husband's civil
indiscretion. If I could see him, I will see that he hurts to the bone in
remorse."
He smiled a thin sweaty smile. "See that you do, young lady. Men left
too long down here with their guilt end up confessing to the most terrible
things."
Nicci swallowed. "I understand, Protector Muksin."
The torture would not stop until the man had the price.
The guard seized her arm abruptly and yanked her off down a pitch-black
corridor, holding his two lanterns in his other hand. They went down another
flight of stairs, down to the very bottom of the stronghold. The narrow
passageway burrowed its crooked way through the stone of the foundation,
past rooms purpose-built to hold criminals. Being not far from the river,
water seeped into the place, leaving it forever slimy, wet, and reeking of
rot. She saw things skitter away into the blackness.
The sound of their feet splashing through ankle-deep water echoed back
from the distance. Decomposing carcasses of huge rats bobbed on the waves
caused by their passing footsteps. The place reminded Nicci of her childhood
nightmares of the
underworld, a fate her mother had promised awaited all those who failed
in their duty to their fellow man.
The short doors to the sides each had a small opening about the size of
a hand-so that the guards could look in, she supposed. There was no light at
all but what the guards brought, so there was nothing for those inside to
look out at. In several of those doors, fingers gripped the edge of the
opening. As the lamplight passed, Nicci saw wide eyes peering out from the
black holes. From many of the openings came weeping of anguish, or agony.
The guard stopped. "Here it is."
Her heart beating wildly, Nicci waited. Instead of opening the door,
the guard turned to her and grabbed her breasts. She stood motionless,
fearing to move. He fondled her, as if he were testing melons in the market.
She was too afraid to say anything, lest he not let her see Richard. He
pressed closer to her and pushed his meaty hand down inside the top of her
dress, fingering her nipples.
Nicci knew that men like this were necessary if the Order was to bring
their teachings to all. You had to accept that the nature of mankind was
perverted. There had to be sacrifices. Brutes were necessary to enforce
morality on the masses. She stifled a yelp as he pinched her tender flesh.
The guard chuckled, pleased with his grope, and turned to the door.
After some difficulty with the rusty lock, he finally got the key to turn.
He grasped the door through the opening and gave a mighty tug. The door
slowly grated open just enough to get by. The guard hung a lantern just
inside on the wall.
"After I've seen to some other matters, I'll be back and your visit
will be over." He chortled again. "Don't waste any time getting your skirts
up for him-if he's in any condition for it."
He shoved her in the room. "Here you go, Cypher. I got her nice and
randy for you." The door shut with a clang that echoed up and down the
crooked passageway. Nicci heard the key turn and the guard's sloshing
footsteps as he departed.
The square room was so tiny she could have stretched her arms and
touched the walls to each side at the same time. The ceiling brushed the top
of her head. She was overwhelmed by the terrifying closeness of it. She
wanted out.
She feared the body crumpled at her feet was dead.
"Richard?"
She heard a little groan. His arms were behind his back, locked in some
kind of wooden binders. She feared he might drown.
Tears stung her eyes. She sank to her knees. The slimy water that had
sloshed into her boots now soaked up through her dress.
"Richard?"
She pulled at his shoulder to turn him over. He cried out and shrank
away from her hand.
When she saw him, she covered her mouth with both hands to stifle her
scream. She felt the tears flooding down her face as she gasped to get her
breath.
"Oh, Richard."
Nicci stood and tore off a strip of her shift from under her dress.
Kneeling once more, she used the cloth to gently wipe the blood from his
face.
"Richard, can you hear me? It's Nicci."
He nodded. "Nicci."
One eye was swollen shut. His hair was matted with mud and slime from
the
water he lay in. His clothes were torn open. In the harsh light from
the small lamp, she could see puffy red wounds crisscrossing his flesh.
He saw her staring at his wounds. "I'm afraid you'll never be able to
patch this shirt."
She offered a feeble smile at his grim humor. Her fingers trembled as
she wiped his face. She didn't know why she would react this way. She had
seen worse than this.
Richard pulled his head back away from her ministrations.
"Am I hurting you?"
"Yes."
"Sorry. I have some water."
He nodded eagerly. Nicci poured water into his mouth from the
waterskin. He drank greedily.
While he caught his breath, she said, "Kamil came up with the money for
the fee to get me in to see you."
Richard only smiled.
"Kamil wants you out of here."
"I want me out of here." He didn't sound like himself. His voice was
hoarse and almost gone.
"Richard, the Protector-"
"Who?"
"The official in charge of this, this prison. He told me that there is
a way to get you out. He said you must plead guilty to a civil infraction,
and pay a fine."
Richard was nodding. "I figured as much. He asked if I had money. I
told him I did."
"You do? You've saved money?"
He nodded. "I have money."
Nicci's fingers desperately gathered his collar into her fist.
"Richard, I can't pay the fine to get you out for two more days. Can you
hold on? Please, can you hold on until then?"
He smiled in the dim lamplight. "I'm not going anywhere."
Nicci remembered then, and pulled the bread out of the sack. "I brought
food. Bread, and some roasted chicken."
"Chicken. Bread won't sustain me long. They don't feed me."
She tore at the chicken with her fingers. She held a piece up to his
mouth for him. She couldn't stand to see Richard helpless. It angered her.
It made her sick.
"Eat, Richard," she urged when his head sank forward. He shook his
head, as if to banish sleep. "Here, have some more."
She watched him chew. "Can you sleep in this water?"
"They don't let you sleep. They-"
She pushed a long chunk of chicken in his mouth. She knew too many of
the details of the Order's methods. She didn't want to know which technique
they had chosen for him.
"I'll get you out, Richard. Don't give up. I'll get you out."
He shrugged as if to say it didn't matter.
"Why? Covetous of your prisoner? Jealous to see others abuse me in your
place? Fear they might destroy me before you can?"
Richard, that's not-"
"I am just a man. Only the greater good matters. That I'm innocent is
immaterial,
because no one man's life has value. If I must suffer and die this way
to help drive others to the ways of your Creator and your Order, who are you
to deny them that virtuous end? What do your wishes matter? How can you put
your life, or mine, above the good of others?"
How many times had she lectured him with that same moral doctrine? How
contemptuous, how venomous, how treacherous it sounded from his lips.
She hated herself at that moment. He somehow put the lie to everything
the Order stood for, to everything she had devoted her life to. He somehow
made doing good seem . . . evil. That was why he was so dangerous. That he
even existed threatened everything for which they stood.
She was so close. So close to knowing what she needed to understand.
The very fact that there were tears running down her face told her that
there really was something that made the whole ordeal worthwhile-made it
essential. The indefinable spark she had seen in his eyes from the first
instant was real.
If she could just reach that little bit more, then she could finally do
what was best. It would be better for him. What kind of life could he ever
have? How much suffering could he endure? She hated that she was condemned
to serving the Creator in such a way.
"Look around, Nicci. You wanted to show me the better way of the Order.
Look around. Isn't it glorious?"
She hated to see) one of his beautiful eyes swollen shut.
"Richard, I need the money you saved. If I'm to get you out of here,
I'll need it all. The official told me it had to be all of what you had."
A hoarse whisper was all he had left. "It's in our room."
"Our room? Where? Tell me where."
He shook his head. "You could never get it out. You have to know the
trick to open it. Go to Ishaq."
"Ishaq? At the transport company? Why?"
"It was his parlor, once. There's a hidden compartment in the floor.
Tell him why you need the money. He will open it for you."
She held more chicken up to his mouth. "All right. I'll go to Ishaq."
She hesitated while she watched him chew. "I'm sorry that you have to give
up what you've managed to save. I know how hard you work. It's not right for
them to take it."
He shrugged again. "Just money. I'd rather live."
Nicci smiled and wiped the tears from her cheeks. That was the best
thing she could have hoped to hear.
The door opened. "Pull your skirt down, woman. Time's up."
As he dragged her out by her arm, she stuffed the last of the chicken
in Richard's mouth.
"Civil infraction!" she called to him. "Don't forget!"
He had to confess to a civil infraction that could be paid with a fine.
Then they would release him. Any other crime was death.
"I won't forget."
She reached back toward him as she was pulled from the tiny cell. "I'll
be back for you, Richard! I swear!"
Nicci paced as Ishaq bent over the trapdoor in the corner of the room.
He had been at it a long time. He had pushed the wardrobe aside to get at
the secret place in the floor. Occasionally he muttered under his breath,
cursing himself for having made it so difficult to get into.
"At last!" Ishaq scrambled to his feet.
Nicci hoped that the meager money Richard could have managed to save
would be enough to satisfy Protector Muksin. In her head, she was going
through a list of people who had offered money to help Richard.
Ishaq scurried close. "Here it is."
He hurriedly placed the leather purse in her hand. The weight shocked
her. The purse filled her palm. It didn't make sense. She realized Richard
must have put some metal items in with his savings-that would account for
the weight. She pulled open the top and dumped the contents in her palm.
Nicci gasped. There were close to two dozen gold marks. There wasn't
any silver. It was all gold.
"Dear Creator..." she whispered, her eyes wide. "Where would Richard
get all this money?"
It was more money than most wealthy men saw in their lifetime. She
looked up into Ishaq's eyes.
"Where would Richard get all this money?"
He swept his red hat off his head. He waved impatiently at all the gold
lying in her palm. "Richard earned it."
She felt her frown darkening. "Earned it? How? No one man could earn
this much money-not honestly, anyway." She felt her anger building. "Richard
stole this gold, didn't he?"
"Don't be silly." Ishaq gestured irritably. "Richard earned it. He
bought and sold goods."
She gritted her teeth. "How did he get this money?"
The man flung up his hands. "I'm telling you. He earned it himself-all
by himself. He bought things and sold them to people who needed them."
"Things? What kind of things? Contraband?"
"No! Things like iron and steel-"
"Nonsense. How would he move it? Carry it on his back?"
"At first. But then he bought a wagon to-"
:.A wagon!.,
"Yes. And horses. He bought charcoal and ore and sold them to the
foundries. Mostly, he bought metal from the foundry, and sold it to the
blacksmith. The black
smith uses a great deal of metal. He bought it from Richard. That was
how he earned the money."
Nicci seized the man's collar at his throat. "Take me to this
blacksmith."
Nicci was furious. All this time, she had thought Richard an honest
hardworking man, and now she had discovered that he was imprisoned properly.
He was guilty of swindling honest working people out of their money. He was
profiteering.
At that moment, she was not sorry at all for what they were doing to
him in the prison. He deserved it all, and more. He was a criminal, cheating
honest hardworking people out of gold. She burned with humiliation, knowing
she had been deceived by him.
--]----
Nicci had seen the site of the palace before, but at a distance as she
went about her business in the city. She had never been this close. It was
going to be everything Jagang said it would be. It filled her with awe. All
the inspiring words of Brother Narev from her youth were like a sacred choir
singing from the depths of her memories as she looked upon the sweep of
scenes being erected.
The walls were already up over the openings for the windows on the
first floor. In some sections, beams were being laid, spanning the interior
walls, to support the next story.
But it was the outside which took her breath. The stone walls were
banded with carvings on a scale she had never imagined. Just as Brother
Narev would have directed, the carvings were inspirational, and convincing.
Nicci saw people gazing upon the scenes, weeping at the events recounted in
stone, weeping at the depiction of the miserable creature that was man, and
the unattainable glory that was the perfection of the Creator. With such
moving visions, there could be no doubt that the Order was mankind's only
hope of salvation. Just as Jagang had said, this would be a palace to stir
the people with overpowering emotion.
"Why are those poles there?" she asked Ishaq as they marched along the
wide cobbled path where people stood and watched the construction, while
others knelt and prayed at various horrific scenes depicted on the walls.
"Carvers." Ishaq removed his red hat as he looked at the sight. "It was
said they took part in the revolt."
Nicci's gaze passed among the rotting corpses hanging at the tops of
the poles. "Why would the carvers take part in the revolt? They have work."
More than that, they were working on the scenes of the glory of the Order.
They, of all people, should have known how their only hope of reward in the
next world required suffering in this.
"I did not say they took part. I said that it was said that they took
part."
Nicci didn't correct the man. All men were corrupt. There wasn't a man
who could not be put to death without it being justified. That included
Richard.
Many of the stones under protective roofs where men had worked now sat
idle. Ramps were constructed, along with scaffolding, for the masons to work
on the palace walls. As they placed their stone, other men, slave labor,
worked at hauling huge blocks up the ramps to them, carried baskets of
mortar or dirt and rock, or worked in trenches building the underground
cells where the Order would purge the world of the worst sinners and where
criminals would confess their crimes.
It was a terrible business, but you couldn't have a garden unless you
got your hands dirty first.
The blacksmith's shop, up on the side of a hill overlooking the
colossal undertaking, was the largest she had ever seen. With a project of
this scale, it was understandable. She stood outside while Ishaq hurried in
to fetch the blacksmith for her.
The sounds of hammers ringing on steel, the smells of the forge, the
smoke, the oils, the acid, the brine, all brought back a flood of memories
of her father's shop. For a brief moment, Nicci's heart beat faster-she was
a girl again. She almost expected to see her father come out and smile at
her with that wondrous energy of his showing in his blue eyes.
Instead, a brawny man stepped out of the shadows into the daylight. He
wore no smile, but a menacing glare. At first, she thought he was bald. Then
she saw that his full head of hair was simply cropped close to his scalp.
Some of her father's men who worked with hot iron did the same. His scowl
would have set any other woman back three paces.
He wiped his hands on a rag as he walked through the milky sunlight
toward her, appraising her eyes more carefully than most men-other than
Richard. His thick leather apron was speckled with hundreds of tiny burn
marks.
"Mrs. Cypher?"
Ishaq backed away, contenting himself to be a shadow.
"That's right. I'm Richard's wife."
"Funny, Richard never really spoke of you. I guess I just assumed he
had a wife, but he never said--"
"Richard has been taken into custody."
The scowl changed in an instant to wide-eyed concern. "Richard's been
arrested? For what?"
"Apparently, for the most base of crimes: cheating people."
"Cheating people? Richard? They're out of their minds."
"I'm afraid not. He is guilty. I have the evidence."
"What evidence?"
Ishaq swooped in close, unable to contain himself any longer.
"Richard's money. The money he made."
"Made!" Nicci's shout drove Ishaq back a step. "You mean the money he
stole."
The blacksmith's scowl had returned. "Stole? Who do you think he stole
this money from? Who are his accusers? Where are his victims?"
"Well, you are one."
"Me?..
"Yes, I'm afraid you were one of his victims. I'm here to return your
money. I can't use stolen money to rescue a criminal from his just
punishment. Richard will have to pay the price for his crime. The Order will
see that he does."
The blacksmith tossed his towel aside and planted his fists on his
hips. "Richard
never stole one 'silver penny from anyone-least of all, me! He earned
his money."
"He cheated you."
"He sold me iron and steel. I need iron and steel to make things for
the Retreat. Brother Narev comes in here and growls at me to get things
made, but he doesn't deliver me the iron from which I must make them.
Richard does. Until Richard came along, I nearly got buried in the sky
myself, because Ishaq, here, couldn't get me enough iron and steel."
"I couldn't! The committee only gives me permission to bring what I
bring. I
would be buried in the sky myself if I bring more than I have
permission to bring. Everybody at the transport company watches me. They
report me to the workers' group if I spit wrong."
"So," Nicci said, folding her arms, "Richard has you over your own
brine barrel. He brings you iron at night and you have no choice but to pay
him his price, and he knows it. He makes all this gold by gouging you.
That's how he got rich-by overcharging you. That's the worst kind of
thievery."
The blacksmith frowned at her as if she were daft.
"Richard sells me iron and steel for a lot less than I can buy it
through the regular transport companies-like from Ishaq."
"I charge what the committee on fair pricing tells me! I have no say!"
"That's just crazy," Nicci said to the blacksmith, ignoring Ishaq.
"No, it's smart. You see, the foundries produce more than they can
sell, because they can't get it moved. Their furnaces have to be heated
whether they make one ton or ten. They need to make enough iron to make the
heat worth it, to pay their workers, and to keep their furnaces going. If
they don't buy enough ore, the mines close and then the foundry can't get
any ore at all. They can't exist if they can't get raw materials. But the
Order won't let Ishaq, and those like him, move as much as the foundries
need moved. The Order takes weeks to decide on the simplest request. They
consider every imaginable person who they fancy might conceivably be hurt if
Ishaq were to move the load. The foundries were desperate. They offered to
sell their extra to Richard at less money-"
"So they are cheated in Richard's scheme, too!"
"No, because Richard takes it, they sell more, so it costs them less to
make. They make more money than they would have otherwise. Richard sells it
to me for less than I have to pay from the regular transport companies,
because he buys it for less."
Nicci threw her hands up in disgust. "And to top it off, he is putting
working men out of jobs. He's the worst sort of criminal-making his profit
off the backs of the poor, the needy, and the workers!"
"What?" Ishaq protested. "I can't get enough people to work, and I
can't get enough permits to haul the goods people need. Richard puts no one
out of work-he helps create more business for everybody. The foundries he
hauls for have each hired more men since they are able to sell through
Richard."
"That's right," the blacksmith said.
"But, you just don't see it," Nicci insisted as she raked back her
hair. "He's pulled the wool over your eyes. He's cheating you-milking you
dry. You're getting poor because Richard-"
"Don't you get it, Mrs. Cypher? Richard has made half a dozen foundries
money. They are working now only because of Richard. He moves their goods
when they need them moved, not when they can finally get some asinine permit
with seals all over it. Richard has, by himself, enabled a whole string of
charcoal makers to earn a living supplying those foundries, along with a
number of miners and any number of other people. And me? Richard has made me
more money than I ever thought I'd make.
"Richard has made us all rich by doing something that is desperately
needed, and doing it better than others can do it. He has kept us all
working. Not the Order and their committees, boards, and groupsRichard.
"I've been able to keep men on because of Richard. He never says it
can't be
done; he figures a way to do it. In the process, he has earned the
trust of every man he deals with. His word is as good as that gold.
"Why, even Brother Narev told Richard to do what needed doing to get me
the iron I needed. Richard told him he would. The palace wouldn't be this
far along if not for Richard keeping everyone going with what he gets for
us, when we need it.
"The Order owes Richard a debt of gratitude, not torture and
punishment. He has helped the Order by doing what they need done. Those
piers standing out there would not be built yet, if Richard hadn't found me
the iron to make the bracing ties. Those carvings on the palace walls down
there would not be done if he hadn't gotten me the steel I needed to make
the tools to carve them. The goods down there are only moved in by wheels
turning on iron bands I make to repair them because Richard got me the
steel. Richard has done more to raise that palace up out of the ground than
any other single man. Besides that, he's made friends doing it."
Nicci couldn't make it work in her head. It had to be true; she
remembered that Richard had met Brother Narev. How could someone make so
much money, help the Order, and have the people he deals with still trust
him?
"But he has made all this profit. . ."
The blacksmith shook his head as if she were a snake among them. "
`Profit' is a dirty word only to the leeches of the world. They want it seen
as evil, so they can more easily snatch what they did not earn."
The frown returned as the blacksmith leaned toward her. His voice
became as hot as the iron he worked.
"What I want to know, Mrs. Cypher, is why Richard is in some stinking
prison being tortured to give a confession, while his wife is standing here
acting a fool over him earning money and making us all happy and rich in the
process?"
Nicci felt a lump rising in her throat. "I can't pay the fine until
tomorrow night."
"Until I met you, I never thought Richard ever made a mistake." The man
pulled his leather apron off over his head and heaved it at the wall of his
shop. "With that kind of money, we can bargain him out sooner. I hope it's
soon enough. Ishaq, are you with me?"
"Of course. They know me. I'm trusted. I go, too."
"Give me the money," the blacksmith commanded.
Nicci dropped it into his upturned palm without even thinking about it.
Richard wasn't really a thief. It was a wonder. She didn't know how, but
these people were all happy with him. He made them all rich. It didn't make
any sense to her.
"Please, if you can help, I'd be indebted to you."
"I'm not doing it for you, Mrs. Cypher; I'm helping a friend I value
who is worth helping."
"Nicci. My a is Nicci."
"I'm Mr. Cascella he growled as he started away.
--]----
Mr. Cascella tossed four gold coins on the table in front of People's
Protector Muksin. He had told Nicci and Ishaq that he wanted to hold
something in reserve so they could "pump the bellows" if they "needed more
heat."
The blacksmith towered over the man behind the table. Several officers
put their noses to their work. The guards around the room all watched.
"Richard Cypher. You have him. We're here to pay the fine."
Protector Muksin blinked at the coins like a fat carp that was too full
to eat a worm.
"We don't assess fines until tomorrow night. Come back then, and if
this man, Cypher, has not confessed to involvement in anything more serious,
you can pay then."
"I work out at the new palace," Mr. Cascella said. "Brother Narev keeps
me busy. I'm here now, so couldn't we just take care of this matter while
we're all here? It would make Brother Narev happy if his head blacksmith
didn't have to come all the way over here again tomorrow, when I'm here
now."
Protector Muksin's dark eyes turned from side to side, traversing the
crowded room of wailing people. His chair chattered as he scooted it closer
to the table. He folded his stubby fingers atop a pile of tattered papers.
"I would not wish to inconvenience Brother Narev."
The blacksmith smiled. "I thought not."
"However, Brother Narev would not want me to overlook my duty to the
people."
"Of course not!" Ishaq put it. He swiped his red hat off his head when
the dark eyes turned his way. "Such was not implied, of course. We are
trusting in you to do your duty."
"Who are you?" the Protector asked Nicci.
"I am the wife of Richard Cypher, Protector Muksin. I was here before.
I paid a fee to see him. You explained the fine to me."
He nodded. "I see so many."
"Look," Mr. Cascella said, "we have a lot of money for the fine. If we
could pay it now and get Richard Cypher out today, that is. Some of it is
money other people might not be willing to contribute tomorrow."
The blacksmith slid four more gold marks across the table. The
Protector's dark eyes looked unimpressed.
"The money all belongs to the people. There is great need."
Nicci suspected that the great need was in his pocket, and that he was
holding out for more. As if to answer the charge, Protector Muksin slid the
eight gold coins-a fortune by any standard of measure-back across the table.
"The money would not be paid here. We have no use for it. We are humble
servants of the Order. The amount of the fine would be noted in the ledger,
but you would have to deliver it to a citizen committee for distribution to
those in need."
Nicci was surprised that she had been wrong about the man. He was
indeed an honest official. This changed the nature of the whole business.
Her hopes brightened. Perhaps it wouldn't be so difficult to get Richard
released, after all.
Behind her, on the other side of the short wall, women were wailing,
children were crying, and people were praying. Nicci could hardly breathe in
the stinking sweltering room. She hoped that the official would be moved to
hurry the case so he could get to attending the matter of the small crowd of
guards who waited off in the side halls for papers and orders.
"But you make a mistake," the Protector added, "if you think money can
buy this man's release. The Order is not concerned with the life of one man,
for no man's life is of any real importance. I'm inclined to tell you to
keep your money-until we can look into why anyone would have such a large
sum. I think this man must be disruptive to civil order if he stirs up this
much support. No one man is any better than another. That he can bring so
much money to bribe him out of his just punishment proves my suspicion that
he has something to confess."
His chair creaked as he leaned back to peer up at them. "It appears you
three would think otherwisethink that he is better than any other man."
"No," the blacksmith said in an offhanded manner, "it's just that he is
our friend."
"The Order is your friend. Those in need are your concern. You have no
business caring for one man over another. Such unseemly behaviour is
blasphemy."
The three of them before the desk stood mute. Behind them, the weeping,
the wailing, the panicked praying for those in the darkness far below, went
on without pause. Everything they said only seemed to turn the man more
against them.
"If he had a skill, then it might be different. There is great need for
contributions to the Order by those with ability. There are many who hold
back when they should be doing their best to contribute. It is the duty of
those with ability to-"
It all came clear to Nicci in one blinding instant.
"But he does have a skill," she blurted out.
"What skill?" the Protector asked, not pleased at being interrupted.
Nicci stepped closer. "He is the greatest-"
"Greatness is a delusion of the wicked. All men are the same. All men
are evil by nature. All men must struggle to overcome their baser nature by
devoting their lives selflessly to the cause of helping their fellow man.
Only selfless acts will enable a man to gain his reward in the afterlife."
Mr. Cascella's fists tightened. He started to lean in. If he argued,
now, it would render the matter irredeemable. Nicci gave him a stealthy kick
with the side of her foot, hoping to convince him to be quiet and let her do
the talking before it was too late. Nicci bowed her head as she retreated a
step, forcing the blacksmith aside without making it look obvious.
"You are wise, Protector Muksin. We could all learn valuable lessons
from you. Please forgive the inept words of a poor wife. I am a simple
woman, humbled and discomposed in the presence of such a wise representative
of the Fellowship of Order."
Startled, the Protector said nothing. Nicci had traded in such words
for over a hundred years, and knew their value. She had given the man, but a
petty official, a standing in the core of the Order-in the fellowship
itself-that he could never attain. This sort of man would aspire to wear the
mantle of social merit. To a man like this, to be thought to hold such
intellectual status was as good as earning it; perception was reality to
such men. The perception was what counted, not the actual accomplishment.
"What is this man's skill?"
Nicci bowed her head again. "Richard Cypher is an undistinguished stone
carver, Protector Muksin."
The men to either side of her stared in disbelief.
"A stone carver?" the Protector asked, lingering in thought over the
words.
"A faceless artisan, his only hope in life that he could one day work
in stone to show man's wickedness, so that he might help others see the need
to sacrifice to their fellow man and the Order and in this way hope to earn
his reward in the afterlife."
The blacksmith quickly recovered and added to her words. "As you may
know, many of the carvers at the Retreat were traitors-thank the Creator
they were discovered-and so there is much carving to be done for the glory
of the Order. Brother Narev can confirm this for you, Protector Muksin."
The Protector's dark eyes shifted among the three. "How much money do
you have?"
"Twenty-two gold marks," Nicci said.
He scowled his condemnation as he pulled a ledger book close and dipped
his pen in a chipped ink bottle. The Protector bent forward and wrote the
fine in his book. He next wrote an order on a piece of paper and handed it
up to the blacksmith.
"Take this to the workers' hall at the docks"-he gestured with his pen
off behind them-"down that street. I will release the prisoner after you
bring me a workers' group seal to prove that the fine was paid to the men
who deserve it most-those in need. Richard Cypher must be stripped of his
ill-gotten gains."
Richard deserved it most, Nicci thought bitterly. He had earned it, not
those other men. Nicci thought about all the nights he'd worked without
sleep, without food. She remembered him wincing as he lay down to sleep, his
bask aching from his labor. Richard had earned that money-she knew that,
now. Those men who would get it had done nothing for it but to desire it,
thus proclaiming their right to it.
"Yes, Protector Muksin," Nicci said as she bowed. "Thank you for your
wise justice."
Mr. Cascella let out a quiet sigh. Nicci leaned confidentially toward
the Protector.
"We will carry out your equitable instructions immediately." She smiled
deferentially. "Since you have treated us so fairly in this matter, might I
ask one further consideration?" It was a lot of gold that would be credited
to his effort on behalf of the Order; she knew he would likely be in a
generous mood at that moment. "It's more a matter of curiosity, really."
He wheezed an annoyed sigh. "What is it you want?"
Nicci leaned closer, close enough to smell the man's stale sweat. "The
name of the person who reported my husband. The one who rightly brought
Richard Cypher to justice."
Nicci knew that he was thinking that men were more likely to be
welcomed into the fellowship when they helped collect great sums for those
in need. The matter of the name would only be a gnat bothering his pleasant
thoughts. He pulled some papers close and scanned through them, flipping
them aside as he searched.
"Here it is," Protector Muksin said at last. "Richard Cypher's name was
reported by a young soldier volunteering in the Imperial Order army. His
name is Gadi. The report is months old. It took some time to see justice
done, but the Order always sees justice done in the end. That is why they
call our great emperor 'Jagang the Just.' "
Nicci straightened. "Thank you, Protector Muksin."
Her calm face concealed her inner fury that the little thug was out of
her reach. Gadi deserved to suffer.
The Protector wrote out his sentence for a civil crime as he spoke.
"Take the order of fine I gave you to the workers' group at the docks and
return here when you have seals to prove that his fine of twenty-two gold
marks was paid in full.
"Richard Cypher is further ordered to report to the carver's committee
for work assignment." He handed her the paper with the orders. "Richard
Cypher is now a stone carver for the Order."
--]----
The sun was setting by the time they returned with all the papers and
seals. The blacksmith was impressed with the way she had handled the
official when the offer
of gold failed to work. Ishaq thanked her a hundred times. It only
mattered to her that Richard would be freed.
She was relieved to know that she had been wrong, that Richard wasn't a
cheat and a thief after all. It had been such an ugly feeling, thinking ill
of Richard. It had for a time tainted her whole world. She had never been so
happy to be wrong.
Better yet, they had done it; she was to have him back.
At the side door to the stronghold, Mr. Cascella, Ishaq, and Nicci
waited. The shadows grew darker. Finally, the door opened. Two guards held
Richard between them as they came out onto the landing. When they saw
Richard, his condition, Mr. Cascella cursed under his breath. Ishaq
whispered a prayer.
The guards released Richard with a shove. He stumbled forward. The
blacksmith and Ishaq raced to the steps to help him.
Richard caught himself and straightened, a dark form upright in the
last of the light, defiant of the long shadows around him. He held a hand
out, commanding the two men to stay where they were. Both stopped with a
foot on the bottom step, ready to run up to him should he need them. Nicci
couldn't imagine what pain it had to cost Richard to walk so steadily,
proudly, smoothly down the stairs without help, as if he were a free man.
He did not yet know what she had done to him.
Nicci knew there could be no worse plight for Richard. The torture down
in the depths of the stronghold was not as bad as what she had just
condemned him to.
Nicci was sure that this was the one thing, at last, that would force
out the answer she sought, if there really was an answer to be found.
Brother Narev paused behind Richard's shoulder, a shadow come to visit.
He often lurked nearby, making sure the carvings were progressing as
directed. This was the first time the great man himself had stopped to watch
Richard work.
"Don't I know you?" The voice was like stone grating on stone.
Richard let his arm holding the hammer drop to his side as he looked
up. He wiped the dusty sweat from his brow with the back of his left hand,
still holding the clawed stone chisel.
"Yes, Brother Narev. I was a laborer hauling iron, at the time. I was
bringing a load to the blacksmith one day when I was honored to meet you."
Brother Narev frowned suspiciously. Richard allowed no crack in his
facade of innocent calm.
"A laborer, and now a carver?"
"I have ability which I am joyful to contribute to my fellow man. I am
grateful for the opportunity the Order has given me to earn my reward in the
next life by sacrificing in this."
"Joyful." Neal, the shadow of the shadow, stepped forward. "You are
joyful to carve, are you?"
"Yes, Brother Neal."
Richard was joyful that Kahlan was alive. He didn't think about the
rest of it. He was a prisoner, and what he had to do to keep Kahlan alive,
he would do; that was all there was to it. What was, was.
Brother Neal smirked his superiority at Richard's obeisance. The man
had come often to lecture the carvers, and Richard had come to know him all
too well. The carvers' work, being the influential face the palace would
show to the people, was critically important to the Fellowship of Order.
Richard was frequently the object of Neal's harangues. Neal, a wizard, not a
sorcerer like Brother Narev, always seemed to feel,the need to prove his
moral authority around Richard. Richard gave him no rough edge to grip, yet
Neal still persisted in clawing for one.
Brother Narev believed his own words with grim conviction: mankind was
evil; only through selfless sacrifice to your fellow man had you any hope to
redeem yourself in the afterlife. There was no joy in his faith, simply a
ruthless duty to it.
Neal, on the other hand, bubbled over with his feelings. He believed in
the Order's doctrine with an impassioned, incandescent, arrogant pride,
gleefully convinced the world needed iron-fisted direction which only
enlightened intellectuals, such as himself, could provide-with grudging
deference to Brother Narev, of course.
Richard had more than once overheard Neal proclaim with conviction that
if he had to order the tongues cut out of a million innocent men, it would
be better than
to allow one man to blaspheme against the self-evident, righteous
nature of the Order's ways.
Brother Neal, a fresh-faced young man-no doubt deceptively young,
considering that Nicci said he had once lived at the Palace of the
Prophets-frequently accompanied Brother Narev, basking in his mentor's
approval. Neal was Brother Narev's chief lieutenant. His face might have
been fresh, but his ideas were not; tyranny was ancient, even if Neal
deluded himself in believing it the bright new salvation of mankind when
applied by him and his fellows. His ideas were a paramour he embraced with a
lover's boundless, blind passion-a truth discovered with a lover's lust.
Nothing stirred him to anger quicker than the whiff of argument or
contradiction, no matter how reasoned. In the heat of his passion, Neal was
perfectly willing to destroy any dissension, torture any opposition, kill
any number, who failed to bow before the pedestal upon which stood his
irrefutably noble ideals.
No misery, no failure, no amount of wailing and anguish and death,
could dim his glowing conviction that the ways of the Order were the only
correct course for mankind.
The other disciples, all, like Neal, wearing hooded brown robes, were
an incongruous collection of the cruel, the pompously idealistic, the
bitterly greedy, the resentful, the spiteful, the timid, and, most of all,
the dangerously deluded. All shared an underlying, caustic, inner loathing
for mankind which manifested itself in a conviction that anything
pleasurable for the people could only be evil and accordingly only sacrifice
could be good.
All, with the exception of Neal, were blind followers and completely
under the spell of Brother Narev. They believed Brother Narev far closer to
the Creator than to man. They hung on his every word, believing each to be
divinely inspired. Were he to tell them they must kill themselves for the
cause, Richard was sure they would break their necks rushing for the nearest
knife.
Neal was alone in that he believed in the divinity of his own words, in
addition to Brother Narev's. Every leader had to have a successor. Richard
was pretty sure Neal had already decided who would best serve as the next
incarnation of the Order.
"A peculiar choice of words, joyful." Brother Narev circled a knobby
finger toward the cowering, deformed, frightened figures Richard was working
on. "This makes you . . . joyful?"
Richard gestured to the Light he had carved so as to shine down on the
wretched men. "This, Brother Narev, is what makes me joyful-being able to
show men cowering before the perfection of the Creator's Light. It makes me
joyful to show mankind's wickedness for all to see, for in this way they
will know their duty to the Order above all else."
Brother Narev made a suspicious sound deep in his throat. The sunlight
hooded his dark eyes more than usual and seemed to deepen the creases around
his mouth as he regarded Richard with a look sharing mistrust and loathing,
laced with apprehension. Only the apprehension was any different than the
look he gave everyone. Richard fed him a vacant stare. The brother's mouth
finally twisted with the dismissal of his private thoughts.
"I approve . . . I forgot your name. But then, names are not important.
Men are not important. Individually, each man is but a meaningless cog in
the great wheel of mankind. How that wheel turns is all that matters, not
the cogs."
"Richard Cypher."
One brow, flocked in tangled white and black hair, lifted.
"Yes . . . Richard Cypher. Well, I approve of your carving, Richard
Cypher. You seem to understand better than most how man is properly
depicted."
Richard bowed. "It is not my hand, but the Creator guiding it to help
the Order show the way."
The suspicious look was back, but Richard's expression made Brother
Narev finally believe the words. Brother Narev, his hands clasped behind his
back, glided away to see to other matters. Neal, like a child sticking close
to his mother's skirts, scurried to stay close to Brother Narev's robes. He
cast a scowl back over his shoulder. Richard almost expected to see Neal
stick out his tongue.
As best as Richard could figure, there were about fifty of the
brown-robed disciples. He saw them often enough to come to know their
nature. Victor had mentioned to Richard that one of the foundries had cast
in pure gold, from the master that the blacksmith had made; somewhere near
the same numbers of the spell-forms. Victor thought them only decorations.
Richard had seen several of the gold spell-forms being installed onto the
tops of huge, ornate stone pillars set out around the grounds of the
Retreat. The pillars, in polished marble, were designed and placed to look
like grand decorations for a grand place. Richard suspected they were more.
Richard went back to chiseling a thick, unbending limb. At least, now,
his own limbs worked again. It had been a while, but he was healed. This,
though, seemed no less a torture.
People gathered every day to view the low relief carvings already up on
the walls. Some people knelt on the cobblestone walks before the scenes,
praying, till their knees bled. Some brought rags to put beneath their knees
as they prayed. Many simply stared with forsaken looks at the nature of
mankind depicted in stone.
Richard could see in the faces of many who came that they had come with
some kind of vague, undefinable hope, hungering for some essential answer to
a question they could not formulate. The emptiness in their eyes as they
left was heartbreaking. They were people being drained of life no less than
those bled to death in the dungeons of the Order.
Some of those people gathered to watch the carvers work. In the two
months Richard had worked at carving for the Retreat, the crowds grew larger
to watch him than any of the other men. The people sometimes wept at what
they saw emerge from beneath Richard's chisels.
In the two months Richard had worked at carving for the Retreat, he had
come to understand the nuance of carving in stone. What he carved was
dispiriting, but the act of carving itself helped to make up for it. Richard
reveled in the technical aspects of applying steel to stone, guided by
intent.
As much as he hated the things he had to carve, he came to love working
stone with a chisel. The marble seemed almost alive under his touch. He
would often carve some tiny part with reverence for the subject-a finger
gracefully lifted, a eye with knowing vision, a chest holding a heart of
reason.
After he accomplished such grace, he would deface it to suit the Order.
More often than not, that was when people wept.
Richard invented impossibly stiff, stilted, contorted people bent under
the weight of guilt and shame. If this was the way to preserve Kahlan's
life, then he would make everyone who saw the carvings weep their hearts
out. In a way, they were doing the weeping for him, suffering over the
carvings for him, being destroyed by what they saw, for him.
In this way, he was able to endure the torture.
When the shadows lengthened to dusk and the day was finished, the
carvers started putting away their tools into simple wooden boxes before
going home for the night. They all would return not long after first light.
The master builder provided them with orders for areas and shapes to be
covered with carving so they could shape the stones to the correct size.
Brother Narev's disciples came by to provide the details of the stories to
be told in stone.
The stone Richard carved was for the grand entrance to the Retreat.
Marble steps swept around in a half circle, leading up to the huge, round
plaza. A colonnade of pillars in a half circle, mirroring the steps,
surrounded the back half of the plaza. Richard's job was carving the sweep
of scenes that were placed above those columns.
It was to be an entrance which set the tone for the entire palace. In
the center of the plaza Brother Neal had told Richard that Brother Narev's
vision was that there would be the statue dominating the entrance to the
palace, and it was to be a work which would strike down any observer with an
overpowering sense of their own guilt and shame at mankind's evil nature.
The statue, in its horror, was a call to selfless sacrifice, and was to be
built into the form of a sundial, showing people cowering under the Light of
their Creator.
Neal had described it with such delight that the image it created in
Richard's mind sickened him.
Richard was the last to leave the site. As he often did, he headed up
the hill, along the winding road, to the workshops. Victor was in his shop,
banking his coals for the night. With autumn upon them, the days weren't
insufferably hot, so the forge wasn't the miserable place it had been in
high summer. Winter this far south in the Old World was never harsh, but the
forge in winter would be a good place to banish the chill that would come on
cold rainy days.
"Richard! So good to see you." The blacksmith knew why Richard was
there. "Go on back. Maybe I will come sit with you when I'm finished, here?"
Richard gave his friend a smile and said, "I'd like that."
Richard opened the double doors at the rear, letting the last of the
light fill the room where stood the marble. He came often to see the
monolith. Sometimes, after a day of carving ugliness, he had to come and
look at the stone and imagine the beauty inside. That balance sometimes
seemed as if it was all that sustained him.
Richard's fingers, dusty from his work carving stone, reached out to
feel the white Cavatura marble. It was slightly different from the stone he
carved down at the site. He had the experience, now, to discern the subtle
difference. The grain was finer in Victor's stone, harder; it would better
take and hold detail.
Under Richard's fingers, the stone was as cool as moonlight, and just
as chaste.
When he looked up, Victor was standing nearby, smiling wistfully,
watching Richard and the stone.
"After carving such ugliness, it is good to look upon the beauty of my
statue?"
Richard chuckled in answer.
Victor strode across the room, gesturing. "Come, sit with me and have
some lardo."
In the failing light, they sat on the threshold, eating thin slices of
the heavy delicacy, savoring the cool air coming up the hill.
"You know, you don't need to come here to look at my beautiful statue,"
Victor said. "You have a beautiful wife to look at."
Richard didn't say anything.
"I never recalled you mentioning your wife. I never knew about her,
until she came to me that day. For some reason, I always believed you had a
good woman . . . ."
Victor frowned off at the shell of the Retreat. "Why didn't you ever
mention her?"
Richard shrugged.
"I hope you don't think me a terrible person, Richard, but she just
doesn't fit my idea of the woman I thought would be with you."
"I don't think you're a terrible person, Victor. Everybody should have
the right to think for themselves."
"Do you mind if I ask you about her?"
Richard sighed. "Victor, I'm tired. I'd really rather not talk about my
wife. Besides, there's nothing-to say. She's my wife. What is, is."
Victor grunted as he chewed a big bite of red onion. After he
swallowed, he waved the half of onion he had left. "It's not good for a man
to carve such things in the day, and then at night have to go home to-What
am I saying! What has gotten into me? Forgive me, Richard. Nicci is a
beautiful woman."
"Yes, I suppose so."
"And she cares for you."
Richard didn't say anything.
"Ishaq and I tried to get you out of that place by bargaining for you
with your gold. It wasn't enough. The man was a pompous official. Nicci knew
how to wiggleworm him. She used her words to turn the key on your prison
door. Without Nicci, you would be buried in the sky."
"So, she told them that I could carve-to save my life."
"That's right. It is she who got you the job of carver."
Victor waited for more, and finally sighed in resignation when it
wasn't forthcoming.
"How are those chisels I sent down?"
"Good. They work well. I could use a clawed chisel with finer teeth,
though."
Victor handed Richard another small slice of lardo. "You will have it."
"What about the steel?"
Victor waved his onion. "Not to worry. Ishaq is doing well in your
place. Not as good as you, but he is doing well. He gets me what I need.
Everyone likes Ishaq, and is happy he decided to fill in the need. The Order
is so desperate for progress to continue that they turn a blind eye to his
work. Faval the charcoal maker asked about you. He likes Ishaq, but misses
you."
Richard smiled at the memory of the nervous fellow. "I'm glad Ishaq is
buying his charcoal."
There were a lot of good people in the Old World. Richard had always
envisioned them as the enemy, and now he was friends with a number of them.
It had happened to him so often and in the same way; people were basically
the same everywhere, once you got to know them.
There were those who loved liberty, who cried out to live their own
lives, to strive, to rise above, to achieve, and those bent on the mindless
equality of stagnation brought about through the enforcement of an
artificial, arbitrary, gray uniformitythose who wanted to transcend through
their own effort, and those who wanted others to think for them and were
willing to pay the ultimate price for it.
Kamil and Nabbi both stood and grinned when Richard climbed the steps.
"Nabbi and I worked on our carving, Richard. Will you come and see?"
Richard smiled and put an arm around Kamil's shoulders. "Sure. Let's
see what you've done today."
Richard followed them down the clean hallway and out to the back, where
Kamil and Nabbi had carved faces in an old log. The carvings were terrible.
"Well, Kamil, it looks pretty good. Yours, too, Nabbi."
The carvings of the faces wore smiles, and to Richard that alone was
priceless. Despite how poorly done, they had more life to them than what
Richard saw executed day in and day out in precious marble by master
carvers.
"Really, Richard?" Nabbi asked. "You think Kamil and I could be
carvers?"
"Someday, maybe. You need more practice-you still have much to
learn-but all carvers have to practice to become adept. Here, look at this,
right here, for example. What do you think of this? What's wrong with it?"
Kamil folded his arms as he frowned in concentration at the face he'd
carved. "I don't know."
"Nabbi?"
Ill at ease, Nabbi shrugged. "It doesn't look like a real face. But I
can't tell why."
"Look at my face, at my eyes. What's different?"
"Well, I think your eyes are a different shape," Kamil said.
"And they are closer together-not out at the side of the head," Nabbi
added.
"Very good." Richard smoothed some of the dirt where the carrots had
been pulled up, and then molded the moist dirt into a mound. He used his
finger and thumb to shape a simple face. "See here? By putting the eyes
closer, like this, it looks more like a real person."
Both young men nodded as they studied what he had done.
"I see," Kamil said. "I'll start a new one, and do it better."
Richard clapped him on the back. "Good man."
"Maybe one day we can be carvers, too," Nabbi said.
"Maybe" was all Richard said.
Nicci had dinner on the table, waiting for him. A bowl of soup sat next
to the glowing lamp. The rest of the room was left to the evening gloom.
Nicci, too, sat at the table waiting.
"How was the carving today?" she asked as Richard went to the basin to
wash the dirt from his hands.
He splashed the soapy water on his face, rinsing off the stone dust.
"Carving is carving."
Nicci rubbed her thumb on the base of the lamp.
"Are you able to stand it?"
Richard wiped his hands. "What choice have I? I can either stand it, or
I can end it all. What choice is that? Are you asking me if I am ready to
commit suicide, yet?"
She looked up. "That isn't what I meant."
He tossed the towel down beside the basin. "Besides, how can I not be
grateful for a job you got for me?"
Nicci's blue eyes turned back to the table. "Victor told you?"
"It wasn't all that hard to figure out. Victor said only that you were
beautiful, and you saved my life."
"I had no choice, Richard. They would only release you if you had a
skill. I had to tell them."
More than most days, he felt the essence of the engagement with her,
the dance. She felt secure behind her shield of "had to tell them." Yet it
allowed her to watch him, to see how he would react.
All the effort of the day, moving heavy stone blocks, lifting the
hammer countless times, had sapped his strength. His hands tingled with the
effect of all those ringing blows. Now, he had begun yet again the battle
with Nicci. He sat down, on his pallet as exhaustion took him.
Fatigue was part of any battle. As much as he ever felt it when he held
the blade, he felt it now, that life-or-death dance. This was no less a
battle than any Richard had ever fought. Nicci stood in opposition to
freedom, to life.
This was a dance with death.
The dance with death was really the definition of life itself, since
all people eventually must die.
"I want to know something, Nicci."
She gazed expectantly at him. "What is it?"
"Can you tell if Kahlan is alive?"
"Of course. I can feel the link to her at all times."
"And is she still alive, then?"
Nicci smiled in that assuring manner of hers. "Richard, Kahlan is fine.
Don't let that weigh on your mind."
Richard stared at Nicci for a time. Finally, he withdrew his gaze and
lay down in his prison bed. He rolled away from Nicci's gaze, from the
dance.
"Richard . . . I made you soup. Come eat."
"I'm not hungry."
He shut her from his mind and tried to remember Kahlan's green eyes as
weariness engulfed him.
Richard could feel Neal's breath on the back of his neck. The young
disciple watched over Richard's shoulder as he tap-tap-tapped the back of
the chisel, carving the gaping mouth of a sinner crying out in agony as his
body was being torn apart by the Keeper of the Underworld.
"Quite good," Neal murmured, overcome with delight in what he was
seeing.
Richard rested the wrist of his chisel hand against the stone to help
push himself upright. "Thank you, Brother Neal."
Neal's brown eyes, the same color as his drab robes, stared with
arrogant challenge. Richard did nothing to meet that challenge.
"You know, Richard, I don't like you."
"No man is worth liking, Brother Neal."
"You always have an answer, don't you, Richard?" The young wizard
smiled then as he reached under his hood and scratched his closely cropped
brown hair. "Do you know why you have this job?"
"Because the Order gave me a chance to help-"
"No, no," Neal interrupted as he suddenly grew impatient. "I mean do
you know why the position was open? Do you know why we needed carvers,
enabling you to gain this great opportunity at employment?"
Richard knew very well why they had needed carvers.
"No, Brother Neal. I was a laborer, at the time."
"Many of them were put to death."
"Then they must have been traitors to our cause. I'm happy the Order
caught them."
Neal's sly smile returned as he shrugged. "Maybe. I could tell that
they had a bad attitude. They thought too much of themselves, of what they
selfishly considered their . . . talent. A very old-fashioned notion, don't
you think; Richard?"
"I wouldn't know, Brother Neal. I only know I am able to carve, and I
am grateful for the opportunity to do my duty to help my fellow man by
contributing my efforts."
Neal backed away, giving Richard an appraising look, as if to measure
whether or not the words had been mocking. Richard hadn't given Neal the
opening he wanted, so Neal simply spilled out his point.
"I thought some among them might be deriding the Order with their work.
I thought they might be using their carving to mock and ridicule our noble
cause."
"Really, Brother Neal? I never suspected."
"That is why you are nobody, and never will be anybody. You are a
nothing. Just like all those carvers."
"I realize I am nobody important, Brother Neal. It would be wrong to
think I was
of any value other than in what I can contribute. I aspire only to work
hard in service to the Creator so I might earn my reward in the next life."
The smile was gone, replaced by a fiery scowl. "I ordered them put to
deathafter I had confessions tortured out of each one of them."
Richard's fist tightened on the chisel. Through a calm expression, he
contemplated driving his chisel through Neal's skull. He knew he could do it
before the man could react. But what would it gain? Nothing.
"1 am grateful, Brother Neal, that you uncovered the traitors in our
midst."
Neal squinted in suspicion for a moment. He finally dismissed it with a
twist of his mouth before suddenly swirling amid a flourish of his robes.
"Come with me," the brother commanded in a grave tone as he marched
away.
Richard followed him across the field churned to mud by all the workers
going back and forth, by all the supplies being dragged, carried, or rolled
to the construction site. They strode, past what seemed the endless face of
the palace. The stone walls were getting ever higher, with row upon row of
window openings. Their trim was beginning to take form. Many of the beams
for the second floor had been placed in sockets in the walls. A maze of
inner walls was going up, too, defining the interior rooms and hallways.
There would be miles of corridors in the palace. Dozens of stairwells stood
in various stages of construction.
It wouldn't be long before oak floors were laid over some of the rooms
below, enclosing them. The roof had to be completed over those sections,
first, though, lest rain ruin the flooring. Some of the outer rooms were to
have roofs lower than the main section, which was to rise up to a towering
height. Richard expected to see those lower rooms capped with slate and lead
roofs before the winter rains.
He stayed close behind Brother Neal as they marched toward the main
opening into the palace. There, the walls were higher and more complete,
with many of the ornate decorations in place. Neal charged two at a time up
the semicircle of marble steps leading up to the entry plaza. The white
marble pillars stood in an impressive sweep, and over the top of them many
of the stone carvings had been installed. With all the tortured people
frozen in stone, it was an intimidating sight, as it was meant to be.
The floor of the plaza was gray-veined white Cavatura marble. The sun
on the marble made the plaza, half encircled by the soaring columns, glow
with glorious light. The decrepit people in the stone ringing the plaza
seemed to be screaming in pain at that light-which was just the effect
Brother Narev had wanted.
Neal made a sweeping gesture with an arm. "Here will be the great
statue-the statue to crown the entry to the emperor's Retreat." He turned a
complete revolution while holding the arm aloft. "This will be the place
where people enter the great palace. This is where people will come while on
their way to see the officials of the Order. This is where they will come
closer to the Creator."
Richard said nothing. Neal watched him for a moment, then stood in the
center and threw his arms up toward the sunlight.
"Here!-will be the statue to the glory of the Creator, using His Light
in a sundial. The Light will reveal the loathsome creatures of the
statues-mankind. This will be a monument to man's evil nature, doomed to the
misery of his existence in this world, wicked of character, cowering in
humiliation as His Light reveals man's hateful body and soul for what it
is-perverted beyond hope."
Richard thought that if madness had a champion, it was the Order, and
people who thought like them.
Neal's arms swept back down, a conductor concluding a triumphant
performance. "You, Richard Cypher, are to carve this statue."
Richard was acutely aware of the hammer in his straining fist. "Yes,
Brother Neal."
Neal waggled a finger held close to his nose as he grinned with
fiendish delight. "I don't think you understand, Richard." He thrust up a
commanding hand. "Wait. Wait right there."
He strode off, his brown robes swirling behind like muddy waters in a
flood. Neal collected something from behind the marble pillars and returned
holding it in one hand.
It was a small statue. He set it down, where the radiating lines of the
marble floor converged at a point in the middle of the plaza. It was a
plaster statue of what Brother Neal had just revealed to Richard. If
anything, it was even more gruesome than Neal had described it. Richard
ached to smash it with his hammer, right on the spot. It would almost be
worth dying to destroy such a vile thing.
Almost.
"This is it," Neal said. "Brother Narev had a master carver do up the
model of the sundial to his instructions. Brother Narev's vision is truly
remarkable. It's perfect, don't you think?"
"It is just as horrifying as you said it was, Brother Neal."
"And you are to carve it. Just scale this model up into a great statue
in white marble."
Feeling numb, Richard nodded. "Yes, Brother Neal."
The finger waggled again with great delight. "No, no, you don't yet
really understand, Richard." He was grinning like a washwoman standing at a
fence with basket full of dirty gossip. "You see, I did some checking on
you. Brother Narev and I never trusted you, Richard Cypher. No, we never
did. Now, we know all about you. I found out your secret."
Richard's flesh went cold. His muscles tightened as hard as stone. He
prepared to throw himself into battle. There appeared to be no choice but to
fight, now. Neal was about to die.
"You see, I talked to People's Protector Muksin."
Richard was taken aback. "Who?"
Neal displayed a triumphant grin. "The man who sentenced you to work as
a carver. He knew your name. He showed me the disposition of the case. You
confessed to a civil infraction. He showed me the finetwenty-two gold marks.
Quite a sum." Neal waggled the finger again. "That was a miscarriage of
justice, Richard, and you know it. No man can get. a fortune like that
through a mere civil infraction. Such a gain can only be ill-gotten."
Richard relaxed a bit. His fingers ached from how hard he had been
gripping the hammer.
"No," Neal said, "you had to have done something much more serious to
have collected a fortune of twenty-two gold marks. You are obviously guilty
of a very serious crime."
Neal spread his hands like the Creator before one of his children. "I
am going to show you mercy, Richard."
"Does Brother Narev approve of your showing mercy?"
"Oh, yes. You see, the statue is to be your penance to the Order-your
way to atone for your evil deed. You will create this statue when you are
not doing your
other carving for the palace. You will receive no pay for it. You are
commanded not to steal any marble from that which the Order has purchased
for the emperor's Retreat, but to procure the marble with your own money. If
you have to work for a decade to earn such a sum, all the better." '
"You mean, I am to carve, here, in the day, at my job, and I am to
carve this statue for you on my own time, at night?"
"Your own time? What a corrupt concept."
"When am I to sleep?"
"Sleep is not the concern of the Order justice is."
Richard took a calming breath. He pointed with his hammer at the thing
on the ground.
"And this is what I am to carve?"
"That's right. The stone will be purchased by you, and your labor will
be contributed by you to the benefit of your fellow man. It will be your
gift to the people of the Order in penance for your evil deeds. Men like
you, with the ability, must happily contribute their all to help the Order."
Brother Neal swept his arm out. "There is to be a dedication of the
palace, this winter. The people need to see tangible evidence that the Order
can bring such a great project as this magnificent palace to reality. They
desperately need the lessons this palace will teach them.
"Brother Narev is eager to dedicate the palace. He wishes to hold a
great ceremony, this winter, which will be attended by many dignitaries of
the Order. The war is progressing; the people need to see that their palace
is, too. They need to see results for their sacrifices.
"You, Richard Cypher, are to carve the great statue for the entrance to
the emperor's Retreat."
"I am honored, Brother Neal."
Neal smirked. "You should be."
"What if I'm not . . . up to the task?"
Neal's smirk widened into a grin. "Then you will go back into custody,
and Protector Muksin's questioners will have you until you confess. After
you finally confess, you will be hung on a pole. The birds will feast on
your flesh."
Brother Neal pointed down at the grotesque model.
"Pick it up. This is what you shall devote your life to."
--]----
Nicci looked up when she heard Richard's voice. He was talking to Kamil
and Nabbi. She heard him say that he was tired and couldn't look at their
carving, that he would look tomorrow. Nicci knew they would be disappointed.
That was unlike Richard.
She spooned buckwheat mush and peas from a dented pot into a bowl. She
placed the bowl and a wooden spoon on the table. There was no bread.
She wished she could make something better for him, but after their
voluntary contributions were taken out, they had no money. If not for the
garden the women of the building had taken to planting in the back of the
house, they would be in desperate straits. Nicci had learned how to grow
things so she could have food for him.
His shoulders were stooped, his eyes distant. He was carrying something
in one hand.
"I have your dinner. Come and eat."
Richard set the thing on the table, beside the oil lamp. It was a
small, intricately carved statue of figures cowering in terror. They were
partially surrounded by a section of a ring. A tall lightning bolt, a common
symbol of retribution by the Creator, came down in the center, piercing a
number of obviously evil men and women, pinning them to the ground. It was a
staggering representation of the evil nature of mankind, and the Creator's
anger at their wanton ways.
"What's this?" she asked.
Richard slumped down into a chair. His face sank into his hands, his
fingers stabbed back into his hair. After a time, he looked up.
"What you wanted," he said quietly.
"What I wanted?"
"My punishment."
"Punishment?"
Richard nodded. "Brother Narev found out about the fine of twenty-two
gold marks. He said I must have done something criminal to get that much
money, and he sentenced me to make a statue for the grand entrance to the
emperor's palace."
Nicci glanced down at the small thing on the table. "What is it?"
"A sundial. This is the ring with the times etched on it. The lightning
bolt casts a shadow of the Creator's Light on the ring to tell the time of
day."
"I still don't understand. Why is it a sentence? You are a carver. That
is your job."
Richard shook his head. "I am to buy the stone out of my own money, and
I am to carve this at night, on my own time, as my gift to the Order."
"And why do you see this as what I wanted?"
Richard ran a finger down the lightning bolt, his eyes studying the
statue. "You brought me here, to the Old World, because you wanted me to
learn the errors of my ways. I have. I should have confessed to a crime and
let them end it."
Without thinking, Nicci reached across the table and put her hand over
his. "No, Richard, that's not what I wanted."
He pulled his hand away.
Nicci pushed his bowl closer to him. "Eat, Richard. You need your
strength."
Without complaint, he did as she told him. A prisoner, doing as
ordered. She hated to see him like this.
The spark was gone from his eyes, just as it had left her father's
eyes.
When he looked at the statue sitting in the center of their table, his
eyes were dead. It was as if the life, the energy, the hope, was gone from
him. When he was finished with his meal, he went without a word to his bed
and lay down, facing away from her.
Nicci sat at the table, listening to the sputter of the lamp's flame,
watching Richard's even breathing as he went to sleep.
It seemed his spirit was crushed. She had believed for so long that she
would learn something valuable when he was pushed to such extremes. It
appeared she had been wrong, that he had finally given up. She could learn
nothing from him, now.
There was little left for her to do. Little reason to continue the
whole thing. For a moment, she felt the crushing weight of her
disappointment; then even that was gone.
Empty and unfeeling, Nicci collected the bowl and spoon and carried
them to the wash bucket. She worked quietly, to let him sleep, as she
resigned herself to returning to Jagang.
It wasn't Richard's fault he could teach her nothing; there was nothing
more to life to learn. This was all there was. Her mother had been right.
Nicci took out the butcher knife and set it quietly on the table.
Richard had suffered enough.
It would be for the best.
Nicci sat at the table, the knife under her fingers, forever. She
watched his back. His chest slowly expanded with his breath of life, and
sank again. There was time enough to slip the knife into his back, between
his ribs, to pierce his heart.
There was time enough yet before dawn.
Death was so final. She wanted to watch him for a while. Nicci never
tired of watching Richard.
After she did it, she wouldn't be able to watch him anymore. He would
be gone forever. With the damage the chimes had done to the worlds and their
interconnection, she didn't even know if a person's soul could still go to
the spirit world. She didn't even know if the underworld still existed and
if Richard's spirit would go there, or if he would simply be . . . gone
forever-if he and that which was his soul would simply cease to exist.
In her numb state, she had lost track of time.
When she glanced out the window that Richard had had installed with the
money he had earned, she noticed that the sky had taken on a the color of a
week-old bruise.
Linked as she was to Kahlan, Nicci couldn't accomplish the deed with
her magic. As much as she abhorred the idea of it, and knowing how gruesome
it would be, she had to use the sharp blade.
Nicci curled her fingers around the wooden handle of the stout knife.
She wanted it to be quick. She couldn't bear to think of him suffering. He
had suffered enough in life, she didn't want him to suffer in death, too.
He would struggle briefly, but then it would be over.
Richard abruptly rolled onto his back and then sat up. Nicci froze,
still sitting in her chair. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes. Could she
kill him when he was awake? Could she look into those eyes of his as she
plunged the knife into his chest?
She would have to.
It was for the best.
Richard yawned and stretched. He sprang to his feet.
"Nicci. What are you doing? Haven't you gone to bed?"
"I . . . I guess I fell asleep in the chair."
"Oh, well, I-there it is. I need that."
He snatched the knife out of her hand. "Mind if I borrow this? I need
to use it. I'm afraid I'll have to sharpen it for you later. I won't have
time before I have to leave. Can you make me something to eat? I'm in a
hurry. I have to go see Victor before I start to work."
Nicci was dumbfounded. He was suddenly revived. In the lamplight, and
the faint dawn coming in the windows, he had that look in his eyes. He
looked . . . resolute, determined.
"Yes, all right," she said.
"Thanks," he called over his shoulder while hurrying out the door.
"Where are you-?"
But he was gone. She decided he must be going out back to get some
vegetables. But why would he need the big knife for that? She was confused,
but she was revived, too. Richard seemed himself again.
Nicci pulled from the pantry some eggs she had been saving, along with
an iron skillet, and hurried out back to the cooking hearth. The coals were
still glowing from the cook fires of the evening before, providing a little
light. She carefully fed in some small twigs and kindling, then stacked a
bed of finger-thick branches on top. She simply set the iron skillet atop
the wood as it caught, rather than set up the rack-eggs were quick.
As she waited for the skillet to get hot, she heard an odd scraping
noise. In the flickering light of the fire, she didn't see Richard in the
garden. She couldn't imagine where he had gone, or what he was up to. She
broke the eggs into the hot skillet and tossed the shells in the compost
bucket at the side of the hearth. With a wooden spoon she scrambled the eggs
around as they cooked.
As Nicci stood, using her skirt to hold the hot handle of the skillet,
she was surprised to see Richard coming out from behind the broad cooking
hearth.
"Richard, what are you doing?"
"There are some loose bricks back here. I was just seeing to it before
I went to work. I cleaned out the joints. I'll bring some mortar home and
fix it later."
He pulled a handful of thick-bladed grass and used it as a potholder to
take the skillet from her. With his other hand, he flipped the knife into
the air, caught it by the point, and held the handle out to her. Nicci took
the heavy knife, now scratched and dulled from scraping the bricks clean. He
ate standing, using the wooden spoon.
"Are you all right?" she asked.
"Fine," he said around a hot mouthful of eggs. "Why?"
Nicci gestured toward the house. "Well, last night . . . you seemed so
. . . defeated."
He frowned at her. "So, I've no right to feel sorry for myself now and
again?"
"Well, yes, I suppose. But now . . . ?"
"Now I've thought it over."
"And . . . ?"
"It's to be my gift to the people, is it? I shall give the people a
gift they need."
"What are you talking about?"
Richard waved the wooden spoon. "Brothers Narev and Neal said this will
be my gift to the people, and so it shall be." He shoveled more eggs into
his mouth.
"So you are going to carve the statue they want?"
He was already running up the stairs before she had finished the
question.
"I have to get the model of the statue and be off to work."
Nicci raced after him up the stairs. He was still eating the eggs as he
went. He stood in their room, peering down at the small statue on the table
as he finished the eggs. She couldn't make sense of ithe was smiling.
He set the skillet on the table and scooped up the model. "I'll
probably be home late. I have to get started on my penance for the Order, if
I can. I may have to work all night."
In astonishment, she watched him hurry off to work.
She could hardly believe that he had once again somehow evaded death.
Nicci couldn't recall ever being so grateful about anything. She couldn't
understand it.
--]----
Richard reached the blacksmith's shop shortly after Victor had opened
up for the day's work. His men had not yet arrived. Victor wasn't surprised
to see him; Richard sometimes came early and the two of them would sit and
watch the sun come up over the site.
"Richard! I'm glad to see you."
"And I you, Victor. I need to talk to you."
He let out a gruff grunt. "The statue?"
"That's right," Richard said, a little taken aback. "The statue. You
know?"
With Richard following behind, Victor made his way through the dark
shop, weaving among the clutter of benches, work, and tools. "Oh, yes, I
heard." Along the way, he stooped to pick up a hammer here, a bar of iron
there, and set them on a table, or shoved them in a bin, as if one could
tidy a mountain by arranging a few pebbles and picking up a fallen limb.
"What did you hear?"
"Brother Narev paid me a visit last evening. He said there is to be a
dedication of the Retreat, to show our respect to the Creator for all he
provides for us." He glanced back over his shoulder as he strode past his
huge block of Cavatura marble. "He told me you are to carve a statue for the
entrance plaza-a big statue. He said it is to be done for the dedication.
"From what I hear from people, from Ishaq and others, the Order credits
the uprising to the drain of building such a monumental project as the
Retreat in addition to waging the war. They have armies of men working for
the construction-not just here, but from quarries far and wide, to mines for
the gold and silver, to forests where they cut the wood. Even slaves must be
fed. The purge of officials, leaders, and skilled workers after the uprising
was expensive. With a dedication, I think Brother Narev wants to show people
the progress, to inspire them, to involve outlying lands in the celebration,
believing this will head off further troubles."
In the blackness of the room, only the skylight in the high ceiling
above let light cascade down over the stone. The marble took the light deep
into its fine crystalline structure, and gave it back as a loving gift.
Victor opened the double doors that looked out over the Retreat.
"Brother Narev told me that your statue is also to be a sundial, with the
Creator's Light shining down on mankind's torment. He told me I am to
oversee the making of the gnomon and dial plane for its shadow to fall upon.
He said something about a lightning bolt. . ."
Victor turned around, his eyes following as Richard set the model of
the statue on a narrow tool shelf that ran the length of the room.
"Dear spirits . . ." Victor whispered. "That is grotesque."
"They want me to carve this. They want it to be a statue with the power
to dominate the grand entrance."
Victor nodded. "Brother Narev said as much. He told me how big would be
the metal for the dial plane. He wants bronze."
"Can you cast the bronze?"
"No." With the backs of his fingers, Victor tapped Richard's arm. "Here
is the
good part: few people can cast such a piece. Brother Narev ordered
Priska released to do the casting."
Richard blinked in astonishment. "Priska is alive?"
Victor nodded. "High people must have not wanted him buried in the sky
in case they needed his skills. They had him locked away in a dungeon. The
Order knows they need people with ability; they released him to get this
done. If he wants to remain alive, and out of the dungeon, he is to cast the
bronze, at his own expense, as a gift to the people. They say it is his
penance. I am to give him the specifications and see to its assembly and
placement on the statue."
"Victor, I want to buy your stone."
The blacksmith's brow slid into an unfriendly frown.
No.
"Narev and Neal found out about my civil fine. They think I got off too
lightly. They ordered that I carve their statue-much like Priska is to
provide the castingas my penance. I must buy the stone myself, and I must
carve it after my work at the site is finished for the day. They want it for
this winter's dedication of the Retreat."
Victor's eyes turned toward the model on the shelf, as if it was some
monster come to visit ruin on him. "Richard, you know what this stone means
to me. I won't-,,
"Victor, listen to me."
"No." He held his palm up toward Richard. "Don't ask this of me. I
don't want this stone to become ugly, like all the Order touches. I won't
allow it."
"Neither will L"
Victor gestured angrily at the model. "That is what you are to carve.
How can you even think of that ugliness visiting my pure marble?"
"I can't."
Richard set the plaster model on the floor. He picked up a large
hammer, its handle leaning against the wall, and with a mighty blow
shattered the abomination into a thousand pieces. He stood as the white dust
slowly billowed over the threshold, out the door, and down the hill toward
the Retreat like some ghost of evil returning to the underworld.
"Victor, sell me your stone. Let me liberate the beauty inside."
Victor squinted his distrust. "The stone has a flaw. It can't be
carved."
"I've thought about it. I have a way. I know I can do it."
Victor put his hand to his stone, almost as if he were comforting a
loved one in distress.
"Victor, you know me. Have I ever done anything to betray you? To harm
you?"
His voice came softly. "No, Richard, you have not."
"Victor, I need this stone. It is the best piece of marble-the way it
can take in light and send it back. It has grain that can hold detail. I
need the best for this statue. I swear, Victor, if you trust me with it, I
will be true to your vision. I won't betray your love of this stone, I
swear."
The blacksmith gently ran his beefy, callused hand up the side of the
white marble that towered to nearly twice his height.
"What if you were to refuse to carve them their statue?"
"Neal said that then they will take me back to the prison until they
get a confession out of me, or until I die from the questioning. I will be
buried in the sky in return for nothing."
"And if you do as you want, instead"-Victor gestured to the fragments
of the model-"and don't carve them what they want?"
"Maybe I would like to see beauty again before I die."
"Bah. What would you carve? What would you see before you die? What
could be worth your life?"
"Man's nobility-the most sublime form of beauty."
The man's hand paused on the stone, his eyes searching Richard's, but
he said nothing.
"Victor, I need you to help me. I'm not asking you to give me anything.
I'm willing to pay your price. Name it."
Victor returned his loving gaze to his stone.
"Ten gold marks," he said with bold confidence, knowing Richard had no
money.
Richard reached into his pocket and then counted out ten gold marks. He
held the fortune out to Victor. The blacksmith frowned.
"Where did you get such money?"
"I worked and I saved it. I earned it helping the Order build their
palace. Remember?"
"But they took all your money. Nicci told them how much you had, and
they took it all."
Richard cocked his head. "You didn't think I'd be foolish enough to put
all my money in one place, did you? I have gold stashed all over. If this
isn't enough, I will pay you whatever you ask."
Richard knew that the stone was valuable, although not worth ten gold
marks, but it was to Victor, so Richard would not argue the price. He would
pay whatever the man asked.
"I can't take your money, Richard." He waved a hand in resignation. "I
don't know how to carve. It was but a dream. As long as I never carved it, I
could dream of the beauty in the stone. This is from my homeland, where once
there was freedom." His fingers blindly found the wall of marble. "This is
noble stone. I would like to see nobility in this Cavatura marble. You may
have the stone, my friend."
"No, Victor. I don't want to take your dream. I want to, in a way,
fulfill it. I cannot accept it as a gift. I want to buy it."
"But, why?"
"Because I will have to give it to the Order. I don't want you giving
this to the Order; I will have to do that. More than that, though, they will
no doubt want it destroyed. It must be mine when they do that. I want it to
be paid for."
Victor held out his hand. "Ten marks, then."
Richard counted out the ten gold marks and then closed the man's big
fingers around them.
"Thank you, Victor," Richard whispered.
Victor grinned. "Where do you wish me to deliver it?"
Richard held out another gold mark. "May I rent this room? I would like
to carve it here. From here, when I'm done, it can be sledged down to the
entrance plaza."
Victor shrugged. "Done."
Richard handed over a twelfth gold mark. "And I want you to make me the
tools with which I will carve this stone-the finest tools you have ever
made. The kind of tools used to carve beauty in your homeland. This marble
demands the best. Make the tools out of the best steel."
"Points, toothed chisels, and chisels for fine work-I can make them for
you. There are hammers aplenty about you may use."
"I also need rasps, in a variety of shapes. And files, too. Straight,
curved-a wide selection-the finest smoothing files. I need you to get me
pumice stones, the fine white close-grained pumice--ground to the same
shapes to match the rasps and files, and a good supply of powdered pumice,
too."
Victor's eyes had gone wide. The blacksmith had come from a place where
they had once done such carving. He knew full well what it was Richard meant
to do.
"You intend to do flesh in stone?"
"I do."
"You know how?"
Richard knew from statues he had seen in D'Hara and in Aydindril, and
from what some of the other carvers told him, and from his own tests in his
work for the Order's palace, that if carved properly, then smoothed and
polished to a high luster, quality marble could take in the light and give
it back in a way that seemed to liberate the stone from its hardness,
softening it, so that it assumed the look of flesh. If done properly, the
marble could seem to almost come alive.
"I've seen it done before, Victor. I've carved before. I've learned how
to do it. I've thought about it for months. Ever since I started carving for
them, this purpose has kept my mind alive. I've used my work for the Order
to practice what I've seen, what I've learned, and what I've thought of on
my own. Even before, when they questioned me . . . I thought about this
stone, about the statue I know is in it, to keep my mind from what they did
to me."
"You mean it helped you to endure their torture?"
Richard nodded. "I can do it, Victor." He lifted a fist in firm
conviction. "Flesh in stone. I only need the proper tools."
Victor rattled the gold in his fist. "Done. I can make the proper tools
for what you want to do. This is what I know. I don't know how to carve, but
this will be my part-what I can do to bring the beauty out."
Richard clasped forearms with Victor to seal their agreement.
"I have one thing I would ask you-as a favor."
Victor laughed his deep belly laugh. "I must feed you lardo so you may
have the strength to carve this noble stone?"
Richard smiled. "I wouldn't ever turn down lardo."
"What is it then?" Victor asked. "What is the favor?"
Richard's fingers tenderly touched the stone. His stone.
"No one is to see it until it is done. That includes you. I would like
to have a canvas tarp, so I can cover it. I would ask that you not look at
it until it is done."
"Why?"
"Because I need it to be mine alone while I carve it. I need solitude
with it as I shape it. When I'm finished, then the world can have it, but
when I work on it, it is to be my vision and mine alone. I wish no one to
see it before it is finished.
"But most of all, I don't want you to see it because if anything goes
wrong, I don't want you involved in this. I don't want you to know what I
do. If you don't see it, you can't be buried in the sky for not telling
them."
Victor shrugged. "If that is your wish, then it shall be so. I will
tell the men that the back room is rented, and it is off-limits. I will put
a lock on the inner door. I will put a chain on the outer double doors,
here, and give you the key."
"Thank you. You don't know what that means to me."
"When do you need the chisels?"
"I need the heavy point to rough it out, first. Can you have it done by
tonight? I need to get started. There isn't much time."
Victor dismissed Richard's concern with a flourish of his hand. "The
heavy point is easy. I can make that in short order. It will be done when
you come from your work down there-your work with the ugliness. Long before
you need the other chisels, they will be ready for you to carve beauty."
"Thank you, Victor."
"What is this `thank you' talk? This is business. You have paid me in
advancevalue for value between honest men. I can't tell you how good it is
to have a customer other than the Order."
Victor scratched his head and turned more serious. "Richard, they will
want to see your work, won't they? They will want to see how you are doing
on their statue."
"I don't think so. They trust my work. They gave me the model they want
scaled up. They have already approved it. They've told me my life depends on
this. Neal delighted in telling me how he ordered those other carvers
tortured and put to death. He wanted to frighten me. I doubt they will give
it a second thought."
"But what if a Brother does come, wanting to see it?"
"Then I will have to bend an iron bar around his neck and let him
pickle in the brine barrel."
Richard touched the length of the point chisel to his forehead, as he
had so often touched the Sword of Truth there in much the same way. This was
no less a battle. This was life and death.
"Blade, be true this day," he whispered.
The chisel had eight sides, so as to provide grip in a sweaty hand.
Victor had given it a proper heavy blunt point. He had also put his
initials-V C-in small letters on one of the facets, proclaiming the pride of
its maker.
Such a heavy chisel would shatter stone and remove a great excess
material in short order. It was a weapon that would do a lot of damage,
fracturing the structure of the marble down the width of three fingers. A
point used carelessly on unnoticed flaws could shatter the entire piece.
Finer points would cause shallower fractures, but remove less material.
Even with the finest point punches, Richard knew that he could only approach
to within the last half finger of the final layer. The network of spidery
cracks left by a point were fractures in the crystalline structure of the
marble itself. So damaged, the stone lost its translucence and its ability
to take a high polish.
To do flesh in stone, the final layers had to be approached with care,
and be left undamaged by any tool.
After the heavy point removed much of the waste, then finer-point
chisels would allow Richard to get closer, refining the shape. Once he was
within as close as a half finger of the final layer, he would turn to the
clawed chisels, simply chisels with notches in their edge, to shear away the
stone without fracturing the underlying structure of the marble. The coarse
claws took off the most stone, leaving rough gouges. He would use chisels
with a series of finer and finer teeth to refine the work. Finally, he would
use smooth-bladed chisels, some only half as wide as his little finger.
Down at the site, where he carved scenes for the frieze, that was as
far as the carvers went. It left an ugly surface, ungainly and coarse,
rendering flesh as wooden, leaving no definition or refinement to muscle and
bone. It robbed the people in the carvings of their humanity.
On this statue, Richard would really only begin where the carvings for
the Order ended. He would use rasps to define bone, muscle, even veins in
the arms. Fine files would remove the marks left by the rasps and refine the
most subtle contours. The pumice stones would remove the filing marks,
leaving the surface ready to polish with pumice paste held in leather,
cloth, and finally straw.
If he did it right, he would have his vision in stone. Flesh in stone.
Nobility.
Holding the heavy point chisel to his palm with his thumb, Richard put
his hand
to the stone, feeling its cool surface. He knew what was inside-inside
not only the stone, but inside himself.
There were no doubts, only the heart-pounding passion of expectation.
As he so often did, Richard thought of Kahlan. It had been nearly a
year since he had looked into her green eyes, touched her cheek, held her in
his arms. She would have long ago left the safety of their home for dangers
he could vividly imagine. For a moment, he was overwhelmed with the weight
of despair, choked by the sadness of how much he missed her, humbled at how
much he loved her. Now he knew he must dismiss her from his mind so that he
could devote himself entirely to the task he had to do.
As he so often did, Richard said his silent good-night to Kahlan.
Then he set the point at ninety degrees to the face of the stone, and
took a powerful swing with the steel club. Stone chips exploded away.
His breaths came deeper and faster. It was begun.
With great violence, Richard attacked the stone.
By the light of lamps Victor left for him after the work day was done,
Richard lost himself in the work, raining down blow upon blow. Sharp stone
chips rattled off the wooden walls, and stung when they hit his arms or
chest. With a clear vision of what he wanted to do, he broke away the waste
stone.
His ears rang with the sound of steel on steel and steel on stone. It
was music. Jagged chips and chunks fell away. They were the fallen enemy.
The air boiled with the white dust of battle.
Richard knew precisely what we wanted to accomplish. He knew what
needed to be done, and how to do it. He was filled with a clarity of
purpose, a course to follow. Now that it had begun, he was lost in the work.
Dust billowed up around him until his dark clothes were white, as if
the stone were absorbing him, as he was transforming with it, until they
were one. Sharp shards nicked him as they shot away. His bare arms, white as
the marble itself, were soon streaked here and there with blood from the
battle.
From time to time, he opened the doors to shovel out the ankle-deep
scree. The white scrap avalanched down the hill, tinkling with a sound like
a thousand tiny bells. The white dust covering him was cut through with dark
rivulets of sweat, and red scratches. The cool air felt refreshing against
his sweat-soaked skin. But then he once again shut out the night, shut out
the world to be alone.
For the first time in nearly a year, Richard felt free. In this, he was
in complete control. No one watched him. No one told him what he must do.
This work was his singular purpose, in which he strove for perfection.
There were no chains, no limitations, no desires of others to which he must
bow. In this struggle to accomplish his best, he was utterly free.
What he intended would stand in unyielding opposition to everything the
Order represented. He intended to show them life.
Richard knew that when the Brothers saw the statue, they would sentence
him to death.
Stone chips burst forth with each blow, taking him closer to his goal.
He had to stand on a work stool to reach the top of the marble, moving it
around the monolith to work all sides, narrowing it down to what would be.
Richard swung the steel club with the fury of battle. His chisel hand
stung with the ringing blows. As violent as the attack was, though, it was
controlled. A trimming hammer, called a pitcher, could be used for such
rough work. It removed waste
with greater speed than a heavy point to shape the block, but it was
used with a full swing, and Richard feared, because of the flaw, to unleash
that much power against the stone. In the beginning, the block had strength
in its sheer mass, but even so, he considered such a trimming hammer too
dangerous for this particular stone.
Richard would have Victor make him a set of drill bits for a bow drill.
With a bow's cord run around the shaft of the drill, it could be twisted and
driven through the marble. Richard had thought long and hard about the
problem of the flaw. He had resolved to cut out most of it. First, to stop
any further cracks from running through more of the stone, he would drill
holes through the crack to relieve the stress. With another series of
closely spaced holes, he would weaken the stone in a waste area around the
flaw and simply remove most of it.
There would be two figures: a man, and a woman. When finished, the
space between them would be where Richard had removed the worst of the flaw.
With the weakest stone removed, the sound stone that remained would be
strong enough to take the stress of the work. Since the defect started at
the base, he couldn't eliminate it all, but he could reduce the problem it
presented to a manageable level. That was the secret to this piece of stone:
eliminating its weakness, then working in its strength.
Richard considered it a fortunate flaw, first of all because it had
reduced the value of the stone, enabling Victor to purchase it in the first
place. To Richard's mind, though, the flaw had been valuable because it had
caused him to think about the stone, and how to carve it. That thought had
brought him to his design. Without the flaw, he might not have come to the
same design.
As he worked, he was filled with the energy of the fight, driven onward
by the heat of the attack. Stone stood between him and what he wanted to
carve, and he craved to eliminate that excess so he could get to the essence
of the figures. A huge corner of waste broke loose, slipping away, slowly at
first, then crashing down. Chips and shards rained down as he worked,
burying the fallen foe.
Several more times he had to open the doors and shovel out the scrap.
It was invigorating to see what was once an irregular shaped block, becoming
a rough shape. The figures were still completely encased, their arms far
from being free, their legs not separate, yet, but they were beginning to
emerge. He would have to be careful, drilling holes in the open areas to
prevent breaking off the arms.
Richard was surprised to see light streaming through the window
overhead. He had worked the entire night without realizing it.
He stood back and appraised the statue that was now more or less
roughly a cone shape. Now, there were only lumps where the arms would extend
out from the bodies. He wanted the arms to be free, the bodies to convey
grace and movement. Life. What he carved for the Order was never free,
always tightly bound to the stone, forever stiff, unable to move, like
cadavers.
Half of what had been there the night before was now gone. Richard
ached to stay and work on, but he knew he couldn't. From the corner, he
excavated the canvas tarp Victor had left for him, and flung it over the
statue.
When he threw open the door, the white dust billowed out. Victor was
sitting among the rubble of his stone monolith.
The blacksmith blinked. "Richard, you have been here the whole night!"
"I guess I have."
He gestured as a grin split his face. "You look like a good spirit. How
goes the battle with the stone?"
Richard could think of nothing to say. He could only beam with the joy
of it.
Victor laughed his belly laugh. "Your face says it all. You must be
tired and hungry. Come, sit and rest-have some lardo."
--]----
Nicci heard Kamil and Nabbi shout a greeting as Richard came down the
street, and then their footsteps as they ran down the front stairs. She
glanced out the front window and, in the failing light of dusk, saw them
meet up with Richard as he came down the street. She, too, was happy to see
him coming home this early.
Nicci had seen precious little of Richard in the weeks since he took on
the duty of carving the statue for Brother Narev. She couldn't imagine how
Richard could endure carving a statue she knew had to be agony for him-not
so much because of its size, but because of its nature.
If anything, though, Richard seemed invigorated. Often, after working
all day carving the moral lessons for the facade of the palace, he would
then work late into the night on the grand statue for the entrance plaza. As
tired as he had to be when he came home, he would sometimes pace. There were
nights when he would only sleep for a couple of hours, rise, and go to work
on the statue for hours before his workday at the site began. Several times
he had worked the entire night.
Richard seemed driven. Nicci didn't know how he could do it. He
sometimes came home to eat and to take a nap for an hour, and then he would
go back. She would urge him to stay and sleep, but he would say that the
penance had to be paid or they would put him back in prison. Nicci feared
that possibility, so she didn't insist that he stay home to sleep. Losing
sleep was preferable to him losing his life.
He had always been muscular and strong, but his muscles had become even
more lean and defined since he came to the Old World. All that labor of
loading iron and now moving rock and swinging a hammer had built him up even
more. When he went out back to the washtubs and removed his shirt to rinse
off the stone dust, the sight of him made her knees weak.
Nicci heard footsteps passing down the hallway, and the excited voices
of Kamil and Nabbi asking questions. She couldn't understand Richard's
words, but she easily recognized the timbre of his voice calmly giving the
two the answers to their questions.
As tired as he was, as much as he was away at his work, he still took
time to talk to Kamil and Nabbi, and to the people of the building. He was
no doubt now on his way out back to give pointers to the two young men on
their carving. During the day, they worked around the building, cleaning and
caring for the place. They turned over the dirt in the garden, mixing in
compost when it was ready. The women appreciated having the heavy spade work
done for them. The two washed, painted, and repaired, hoping Richard would
approve and then show them how to do new things. Kamil and Nabbi always
offered to help Nicci with anything she might need-she was, after all,
Richard's wife.
. Richard came in the door as Nicci stood at the table cutting up
carrots and onions
into a pot. He slumped down into the chair across the table. He looked
spent from his day of work-after having been up hours earlier working on the
statue.
"I came home to get something to eat. I have to go back and work on the
statue."
"This is for tomorrow's stew. I have some millet cooked."
"Is there anything more in it?"
She shook her head. "I only had enough money for the millet today."
He nodded without complaint.
Despite how exhausted he looked, there was some remarkable quality in
his eyes, some inner passion, that made her pulse race faster. Whatever it
was that she had seen in him from the first moment seemed to have only
gotten stronger since that night she had almost put the knife through his
heart.
"Tomorrow, we'll have this stew." she said. His gray eyes were staring
off into his private visions. "From the garden."
She retrieved the cook pot after setting a wooden bowl on the table
before him and spooned millet into his bowl until it was full. There was
little left, but he needed it more than she. She had spent the morning
waiting in line for the millet, and then had spent the afternoon picking all
the worms out of it. Some of the women just cooked it until you couldn't
tell. Nicci didn't like to feed that to Richard.
Standing close to-the table, cutting up carrots, she could finally
stand it no more. "Richard, I want to come to the site with you and see this
statue that you're carving for the Order."
He was silent for a moment as he chewed and then swallowed. When he
finally did speak, it was with a quiet quality that matched that
inexplicable look in his eyes.
"I want you to see the statue, Nicci-I want everyone to see it. But not
until I'm finished."
"Why?"
He stirred his spoon around in his bowl. "Please, Nicci, will you grant
me this? Let me finish it, then you will see it."
Her heart pounded against her ribs. This was important to him.
"You aren't carving what they told you to carve, are you?"
Richard's face turned up until his gaze met hers.
"No, I'm not. I'm carving what I need to carve, what people need to
see."
Nicci swallowed. She knew: this was what she had been waiting for. He
had been ready to give up, then he wanted to live, and now he was willing to
die for this.
Nicci nodded, having to look away from those gray eyes of his. "I'll
wait until it's ready."
Now she knew why he seemed so driven, lately. That quality hinted at in
her father's eyes, and blazing in Richard's, she felt was somehow tied to
this. The very idea was intoxicating.
In more ways than one, this was a matter of life and death.
"Are you sure about this, Richard?"
"I am."
She nodded again. "All right, I will honor your request."
The next day, Nicci got an early start to buy bread. She wanted Richard
to have bread with the stew she was cooking. Kamil offered to go for her,
but she wanted to get out of the house. She asked him to keep an eye on
Richard's stew as it simmered on the banked coals.
It was an overcast day, and cool-a hint of the rapidly approaching
winter. The streets were crowded with people out looking for work, with
carts hauling everything from manure to bolts of coarse dark cloth, and with
wagons, mostly carrying building materials for the palace. She had to step
carefully to avoid the dung in the road and squeeze between all the people
moving as slowly as the sludge of the open sewers as she made her way
through the city.
There were crowds of needy people in the street, many come to
Altur'Rang for
work, no doubt, although there were few people at the workers' group
hall. The lines at the bakeries were long. At least the Order saw to it that
people got bread, even if it was gray, tough bread. You had to go early,
though, before they ran out. With more people all the time, the shops ran
out earlier every week.
Someday, it was rumored, they were going to be able to provide more
than one kind of bread. She hoped that this day, at least, they might have
some butter, too. Sometimes, they sold butter. The bread, and the butter,
were inexpensive, so she knew she could afford to buy a little for
Richard-if they had any. They almost never had any butter.
Nicci had spent a hundred and eighty years trying to help people, and
people seemed no better off now than they ever were. Those in the New World
were prosperous enough, though. Someday, when the Order ruled the world, and
those with the means were made to contribute their fair share to their
fellow man, then everything would finally fall into place and all of mankind
could at last live with the dignity they deserved. The Order would see to
it.
The bread shop stood at an intersection of two roads, so the line
turned around the corner onto another street. Nicci was around that corner,
leaning a shoulder against the wall, watching the passing throngs, when a
face in the crowd caught her attention.
Her eyes went wide as she straightened. She could hardly believe what
she was seeing. What was she doing in Altur'Rang?
Nicci didn't really want to find out-not now, when it seemed she was
getting close to finding her answers. Matters seemed to be at a critical
state with Richard. She felt sure that it would soon come to resolution.
Nicci flipped her dark shawl up over her head of blond hair and tied it
snug under her chin. She sank back behind a wide woman and hugged the wall
as she peeked out between the people in line.
Nicci watched Sister Alessandra, her nose held high as her calculating
gaze swept the faces of all the people on the street. She looked like a
mountain lion on the prowl.
Nicci knew who Alessandra was hunting.
Ordinarily, Nicci would have been only too happy to cross paths with
the woman, but not now.
Nicci sank back against the rough clapboards, staying low behind the
people ahead of her, until Sister Alessandra had vanished into the vast sea
of people crowding the street.
As Kahlan rode out of her home city of Aydindril for the last time, she
pulled her wolf-fur mantle up over her shoulders for protection against the
bitter wind. She recalled that the last, time the weather had been about to
close in for the winter was the last time she had seen Richard. With the
world in such constant turmoil and the battle burning hot, her thoughts, by
necessity, always seemed to be on urgent matters. The unexpected memory of
Richard was a welcome, if bittersweet, respite from the worries of war.
She took a last look before cresting the hill, to see the splendor of
the Confessors' Palace on the distant rise. It made her ache with the sense
of home whenever she saw the soaring white marble columns and rows of tall
windows. Other people were stricken with awe or fear at the sight of the
palace, but Kahlan's heart was always warmed by it. She had grown up there,
and it was a place of many happy memories for her.
"It won't be forever, Kahlan."
Kahlan glanced over at Verna. "No, it won't."
She wished she could believe that.
"Besides," Verna said, offering a smile, "we will be denying the
Imperial Order the people, and that is what they are really after. The rest
is just stone and wood. What matters stone and wood, if the people are
safe?"
Kahlan, despite her desolate tears, was overcome with a smile. "You're
right, Verna. That really is all that matters. Thank you for reminding me."
"Don't worry, Mother Confessor," Cara said, "Berdine and the rest of
the MordSith, along with the troops, will watch over the people and see them
safely to D'Hara."
Kahlan's smile widened. "I wish I could see Jagang's face when he
finally gets here next spring to be greeted by ghosts."
The season of war was drawing to an end. If the summer with Richard in
their mountain home had been a wonderful dream, then the summer of endless
warfare had been a nightmare.
The fighting had been desperate, intense, and bloody. There were times
when Kahlan thought she and the army could not go on, that they were
finished. Each of those times, they had managed to pull through. There were
occasions when she almost welcomed death, just to have the nightmare end,
just to stop seeing people in agony and pain, to stop seeing all the
precious lives in ruins.
Against the seemingly indomitable millions of the Imperial Order, the
forces of the D'Haran Empire had managed to slow the enemy enough to keep
them from taking Aydindril this year. With thousands of lives lost in the
fighting, they had
bought the hundreds of thousands of people of Aydindril and other
cities that lay along the path of the Order the time they needed to escape.
As autumn had turned bitter, the immense force of the Imperial Order
had reached a broad valley at a convergence of the Kern River and a large
tributary, where the lay of the land provided space to accommodate their
entire force. With winter closing in, Jagang knew better than to be caught
unprepared. They had dug in while they had the opportunity. The D'Haran
forces had set up their defensive lines to the north, bulwarking the way to
Aydindril.
Just as Warren had forecast, Aydindril was more than Jagang's army
could take in this season of war. Jagang, once again, had proven his prudent
patience; he had chosen to preserve the viability of his army so he would be
able to press on successfully when conditions allowed. In the short run, it
gave Kahlan and her forces breathing room, but in the long run, it would
spell their doom.
Kahlan felt sweet relief that Warren's prediction, of Aydindril falling
the following year, at least would not be at the cost of a slaughter of the
city's citizens. She didn't know what hardships the people would have to
endure escaping to D'Hara, but it was better than the certain slavery and
widespread death of remaining behind in Aydindril.
Some people, she knew, would refuse to leave. In cities along the
Order's march up the Midlands, some people put their faith in "Jagang the
Just." Some people believed that the good spirits, or the Creator, would
watch over them no matter what. Kahlan knew they couldn't save everyone from
themselves. Those who wished to live, and were willing to see reason, stood
a chance. Those who saw only what they wished to see, would, at the least,
fall under the pall of the Order's domination.
Kahlan reached back and touched the hilt of the Sword of Truth sticking
up behind her shoulder. It was comforting, sometimes, to touch it. The
Confessors' Palace was no longer her home. Home was wherever Richard and she
were together.
The fighting was often so intense, the fear so palpable, that there
were timesdays at a stretch-when she never thought of him. Sometimes, she
had to devote all her physical and mental effort to just staying alive one
more day.
Some men, feeling the war was hopeless, had deserted. Kahlan could
understand the way they felt. All they ever did, it seemed, was to fight for
their lives against overwhelming odds as they backed their way up through
the Midlands.
Galea had fallen. That there was no word from any city in Galea
probably said it all.
They had lost Kelton, too. Many of the Keltans in Winstead, Penverro,
and other cities had fled, first. Most of Kelton's army were still with
them, though some had rushed home in desperation.
Kahlan tried not to think too long on everything that had gone wrong,
lest she give up. They had saved a good many people-gotten them out of the
way of the Order. At least for the time being. It was the best they could
do.
Along the long retreat north, tens of thousands of their joint forces
had lost their lives in the fierce battles. The Order had lost many times
that number. In the high summer heat, the Order had lost a quarter million
men to fever alone. It made little difference; they continued to grow and to
roll onward.
Kahlan recalled the things Richard had told her, that they could not
win, that the New World was going to fall to the Order, and if they
resisted, it would only cause greater bloodshed. She was reluctantly coming
to understand that hopeless outlook.
She feared she was only getting people killed to no good end. Yet
giving up still was out of the question for her.
Kahlan looked over her shoulder, past the long column of men escorting
her, past the trees and up the mountain, to the great dark mass of the
Wizard's Keep looming up on the mountain overlooking Aydindril.
--]----
Zedd would have to go there; they could not stop the Imperial Order
from having Aydindril, but they dared not let them have the Keep.
It was dusk, ten days later, when Kahlan and her company rode back into
the D'Haran camp. It was obvious from the first instant that something was
wrong. Men were running through camp, swords drawn. Others were rushing pole
weapons to the barricades. Men were donning leather and chain mail as they
ran to their posts. It was a tense scene, but one Kahlan had seen repeated
so often that it seemed almost routine.
"I wonder what this is all about," Verna said with a scowl. "I'll not
like it if Jagang spoils my dinner."
Kahlan, not wearing her leather armor, suddenly felt naked. It was
uncomfortable to wear on long rides, so, going through friendly territory,
she had tied it to her saddle. Cara moved close as they dismounted. They
handed the reins to soldiers as men closed in protectively.
Kahlan couldn't remember what color cloth would be used to mark the
command tents. She had lost track of the exact number of days she had been
gone. It had been somewhat over a month. She took the arm of an officer
among the men who had swept in around her.
"Where are the commanders?"
He pointed with his sword. "Down that way, Mother Confessor."
"Do you know what's going on?"
"No, Mother Confessor. The alarm sounded. As a Sister rushed past, I
heard her say it was genuine."
"Do you know where my Sisters, or Warren, are?" Verna asked the
officer.
"I've seen Sisters running around everywhere, Prelate. I've not seen
Wizard Warren."
Darkness was settling in, leaving only the fires to guide them through
camp. Most of the fires, though, had been doused at the alarm, so the camp
was becoming a black maze.
Horses with D'Haran riders flashed past, headed out on patrol. Foot
soldiers raced out of camp to scout. No one seemed to know what the threat
was, but that wasn't unusual. Besides being frequent and varied, attacks
were usually confusing, in addition to being frightening.
It was over an hour before Kahlan, Cara, Verna, and their heavy ring of
guards made it through the sprawling camp that was the size of a city, to
the officers' tents. None of the officers were there.
"This is a foolish way to go about it," Kahlan muttered. She found her
tent, with Spirit standing on the little table, and tossed her saddlebags
inside, along with her armor. "Let's just wait here so people can find us."
"I agree," Verna said.
Kahlan gestured to include a number of the group of men who had set up
a defensive guard around her. "Spread out and find the officers. Tell them
that the Mother Confessor and the Prelate are at the command tents. We'll
wait here for reports."
"Tell any Sisters you see," Verna added. "And if you see Warren or
Zedd, tell them, too, that we've returned."
The men raced off into the night to carry out their instructions.
"I don't like this," Cara muttered.
"I don't, either," Kahlan said as she stepped into her tent.
Cara stood guard, along with a small army of men, as Kahlan took off
her fur mantle and slipped on her leather armor. It had saved her from
taking wounds often enough that she was not shy about wearing it. All it
would take was one man to slip up close and thrust a sword into her, and
that might well be the end. If she got lucky, and they ran it through a leg,
or even her belly, she had a chance of being healed by a Sister, but if it
was in some other place-heart, head, some major artery so that the loss of
blood was too fast-then even the gifted wouldn't be able to heal her.
The leather was extremely tough, and while not impervious to blades,
spears, or arrows, it afforded a good degree of protection while allowing
enough freedom of movement to enable her to fight. A blow with a blade had
to be landed just right, or it would glance harmlessly off the leather. Many
of the men wore chain mail, which afforded better protection, but it was too
heavy for Kahlan to be practical for her to wear. In combat, speed and
maneuverability were life.
Kahlan knew better than to risk her life needlessly. She was more
valuable to their cause in her capacity as a leader than as a combatant.
Still, while she rarely went directly into combat, the fighting had often
enough come to her.
A sergeant finally arrived to give her a report.
"Assassins" was all he said.
That one chilling word was enough. It was what she had figured, and
explained the state of the camp.
"How many casualties?" Kahlan asked.
"I only know for sure that one attacked Captain Zimmer. He was eating
at a campfire with his men. The captain managed to miss a killing blow, but
took a nasty wound in the leg. He's lost a lot of blood. The surgeons are
seeing to him right now."
"What about the assassin?" Verna asked.
The sergeant looked surprised at the question. "Commander Zimmer killed
the assassin." He screwed up his face with the distaste of the rest of what
he had to say. "The assassin was dressed in a D'Haran uniform. He walked
through the camp without notice until he found a target-Captain Zimmer-and
attacked."
Verna let out a worried breath. "A Sister might be able help the
captain."
Kahlan dismissed him with a nod. The sergeant saluted with a fist to
his heart before rushing off to his duties.
It was then that Kahlan spotted Zedd approaching. The front of his
robes was wet and darkundoubtedly with blood. Tears ran down his face.
Gooseflesh tingled up Kahlan's arms and legs.
Verna gasped when Zedd suddenly saw her and for an instant faltered
before rushing toward them. Verna clutched Kahlan's arm.
Zedd seized Verna's hand. "Hurry" was all he said.
It was all he needed to say; they all understood.
Verna let out a mournful cry as she was pulled along after the old
wizard. Kahlan and Cara ran behind as Zedd led them on a winding charge
through the confusion of shouting men, galloping horses, squads in formation
dashing in every direction, and unit officers taking roll call.
The roll call was needed because the assassins were in D'Haran uniforms
so they could sneak up close to their quarry. It was necessary to account
for every man in order to single out those who didn't belong. It was tedious
and difficult, but essential.
They rushed into the swirl of turmoil around the tents where wounded
men were being treated. Men shouted orders as others brought in men crying
out in pain, or men with their limp arms dragging the ground. Each tent
could hold up to ten or twelve men.
Verna's composure was frayed with panic. Zedd stopped her, holding her
by her arms. His voice was choked with his emotion.
"A man stabbed Holly. Warren was nearby and tried to protect the girl.
Verna, I swear to you on my dead wife's soul . . . I did everything I could
do. Dear spirits forgive me, but I must be the one to tell you . . . he is
beyond my power to help him. He asked for you and Kahlan."
Kahlan stood in a stupor, her heart in her throat. Zedd's hand on her
back urged her to move quickly. She followed Verna, ducking into the tent.
Half a dozen dead men lay at the far end of the tent, covered with
blankets. Here and there a bloody hand stuck out from under a cover. One man
was missing a boot. Kahlan stared, unable to make her mind work, unable to
understand how the soldier had lost a boot. It seemed so silly-dying and
losing a boot. Tragedy and comedy together under a shroud.
Warren lay on his back on a pallet on the ground. Sister Philippa was
on the far side of him, her tall frame bent over the youthful wizard,
holding his hand. Sister Phoebe was on the near side, holding his other
hand. Both women turned tearstained faces up to see Verna above them.
"Warren," Sister Philippa said, "it's Verna. She's here. And Kahlan,
too."
The two Sisters quickly moved out of the way for Verna and Kahlan to
take their places. They covered their mouths to hold in their cries as they
fled the tent.
Warren was as white as the stacks of clean bandages lying nearby. His
eyes were open wide as he stared up . . . as if he could no longer see. His
curly blond hair was matted in sweat. His robes were soaked in blood.
"Warren," Verna moaned. "Oh, Warren."
"Verna? Kahlan?" he asked in a breathy whisper.
"Yes, my love." Verna kissed his hand a dozen times.
Kahlan squeezed his other limp hand. "I'm here, too, Warren."
"I had to hold on. Till you both came back. To tell you both."
"Tell us what, Warren?" Verna asked through her tears.
"Kahlan . . ." he whispered.
She leaned in. "I'm here, Warren. Don't try to talk, just-"
"Listen to me."
Kahlan pressed his hand to her cheek. "I'm listening, Warren."
"Richard is right. His vision. I had to tell you."
Kahlan didn't know what to say.
A smile came to his ashen face. "Verna. . ."
"What is it, my love?"
"I love you. Always have."
Verna could hardly get her words past her choking tears. "Warren, don't
die. Don't die. Please don't die."
"Give me a kiss," Warren whispered, "while I still live. And don't
mourn what ends, but what a good life we've had. Kiss me, my love."
Verna bent over him and met his lips with hers, giving him a gentle,
loving kiss as her tears dripped onto his face.
Unable to bear the scene, Kahlan staggered out of the tent, finding
Zedd's protective arms waiting. She hid her weeping against his shoulder.
"What are we doing?" she cried. "What's it all for? What good is any of
it? We're losing everything."
Zedd had no answer for her tears at the futility of it all.
The minutes dragged on. Kahlan forced herself to be strong, to be the
Mother Confessor. She couldn't let the men see her giving up.
Silent men stood nearby, not wanting to look in the direction of the
tent where Warren lay dying.
When General Meiffert materialized out of the darkness, the relief on
Cara's face was evident. He rushed up close to Cara, but didn't touch her.
"I'm glad to see you safely returned," he said to Kahlan. "How is
Warren?"
Kahlan couldn't speak.
Zedd shook his head. "I didn't think he would live this long. I think
he held on so he could see his wife."
The general nodded sorrowfully. "We caught the man who did it."
Kahlan came to full attention. "Bring him to me," she growled.
Without hesitation the general hurried off to retrieve the assassin.
When Kahlan gestured, Cara went with him.
"What did he say to you?" Zedd asked in a quiet voice so that others
wouldn't hear. "He wanted to tell you something."
Kahlan took a purging breath. "He said, `Richard is right.' "
Zedd looked away in forlorn misery. Warren was his friend. Kahlan never
knew Zedd to take a liking to anyone the way he had taken to Warren. They
shared things she knew she could never understand. Despite his young
appearance, Warren was over a hundred and fifty years old, close to the same
age as Verna. To Zedd, who was always looked up to as the wise old wizard,
it must have been a particular comfort to share wizardly matters with one
who understood such things, instead of constantly needing explanation and
direction.
"He said the same to me," Zedd whispered tearfully.
"Why didn't Warren use his gift?" Kahlan asked.
Zedd wiped a finger across his cheek. "He was walking past, just as the
man seized and stabbed Holly. Perhaps the assassin couldn't find his target,
or maybe he became lost and confused, or he could have just panicked and
decided to stab someone and Holly was handy at that moment."
Kahlan wiped her hands back across her cheeks. "Maybe he had been told
to look for a wizard in such robes, and when he saw Warren, he stabbed Holly
to cause a commotion so he could get at Warren."
"That could be. Warren doesn't really know. It all happened in an
instant. Warren was right there, and just reacted. I asked, but he didn't
know why he didn't use his power. Perhaps in that terrible flash of the
knife, he feared to kill Holly in the
process, since the man had her and was stabbing her. His instinct to
save her just caused him to snatch for the knife. It was a fatal mistake."
"Maybe Warren simply hesitated before using his power."
Zedd shrugged painfully. "A split-second hesitation has been the end of
a lot of wizards."
"If I hadn't hesitated," Kahlan said as she stared off into bitter
memories, "Nicci wouldn't have had me. She wouldn't have Richard, now."
"Don't try to fix the past, dear one-it can't be done."
"What about the future?"
Zedd's gaze sought hers. "Meaning?"
"Remember at the end of last winter, when we left camp-when the Order
began moving?" When Zedd nodded, she went on. "Warren pointed at this place
on the map. He said we had to be here to stop the Order."
"Are you suggesting he knew he would die here?"
"You tell me."
"I'm a wizard, not a prophet."
"But Warren is." When he said nothing, Kahlan asked in a whisper, "What
about Holly?"
"I don't know. I was just arriving to talk to Warren. It had just
happened. Soldiers were jumping the man. Warren yelled orders for them not
to kill him. I guess he was thinking the assassin might have valuable
information. I saw Holly, bleeding from her wounds, in shock. I immediately
had Warren brought in here and started to work on him. Sisters rushed in and
took Holly to another tent."
Zedd's heartsick gaze sank to the cold ground. "I did everything I know
to do. It wasn't enough."
Kahlan enclosed his shoulders protectively in her arm. "It was out of
your hands from the first, Zedd."
It was disorienting to see her source of strength in a state of such
painful weakness. It was irrational to expect him to be unemotional and
strong in such circumstances, but it was still disconcerting. In that
moment, Kahlan was overcome with a sense of all the loss Zedd had suffered
in his life; it was all there in his wet hazel eyes.
Men made way for the returning General Meiffert and Cara. Behind them,
two burly soldiers had a wiry young man-little more than a boy, really. He
was muscular, but no match for the men who had him. His hair tumbled down
across a forehead above dark contemptuous eyes. He wore a proud sneer.
"So," the lad said, trying to sound tough, "I guess that in my service
to the Order I knifed someone important. That makes me a hero of the Order."
"Make him kneel before the Mother Confessor," General Meiffert said
with quiet command.
The two soldiers kicked the back of the young man's knees to take him
down. He snickered as he knelt before her.
"So, you're the big important whore I've heard so much about. Too bad
you weren't around-I'd have loved to have cut you. I guess I showed some
people I'm pretty good with a knife."
"So in my absence," Kahlan said, "you cut a child, instead."
"Just for practice. I'd have cut a lot more people if these big dumb
oxen wouldn't have lucked into jumping me. But I still did my duty to the
Order and the Creator."
It was the bravado of someone who knew he was about to pay the ultimate
price for his actions. He was trying to convince himself that he had
fulfilled a valuable service. He wanted to die a hero, and then go straight
to the Creator for his reward in the afterlife.
Verna emerged from the tent. There was no hurry in her movements. Her
face was ashen and drawn. Kahlan took hold of her arm, ready to help if
Verna should need it.
Verna stopped when she saw the young man on his knees.
"This is him?" she asked.
Kahlan put her other hand tenderly to Verna's back, silently offering
support.
"This is him," Kahlan confirmed.
"That's right." The lad sneered up at Verna. "I'm the one who knifed
the enemy wizard. I'm a hero. The Order will bring relief and justice to the
people, and I helped do it. Your kind is always trying to keep us down."
"Keep you down," Verna repeated in a dead tone.
"Those who are born with all the luck and advantages-they never want to
share. I waited, but no one ever gave me a chance in life until the Order
did. I'm a hero of downtrodden people everywhere. I've struck a blow against
the oppressors of mankind. I've helped bring justice to those who are never
given a chance. I killed an evil man. I'm a hero!"
The silence of everyone nearby was all the more grim with the backdrop
of activity going on as men searched the camp for other assassins. Officers
called out names, getting quick replies. Troops searching for invaders
trotted through the night, their chain mail and weapons jingling like
thousands of tiny bells.
The man on his knees grinned at Verna. "The Creator will give me my
reward in the next life. I'm not afraid to die. I've earned eternity in his
everlasting Light."
Verna passed her gaze among the eyes of all those gathered.
"I don't care what you do to him," she said, "but I want to hear his
screams the entire night. I want this camp to hear his screams the entire
night. I want the Order's scouts to hear his screams. That will be my
tribute to Warren."
The young man licked his lips, realizing things weren't going as he had
expected.
"That isn't fair!" the young assassin shouted in protest.
Panic began to tremble through his body. He had been prepared for a
martyr's death, a quick end. This was something unforeseen.
"He died quick. I should have the same consideration! This isn't fair!"
"Fair? What isn't fair," Verna said with terrible calmness, "is that
your mother ever opened her legs for your father. We shall now
belatedly.correct her mistake. What isn't fair is that a good and kind man
died at the hands of a sniveling little coward so lacking in sense that he
is incapable of recognizing the lies he now spews out at us.
"You wish to trade your life for the one you have taken? You wish to
die in a cause you foolishly believe to be noble? You shall have your wish,
young man. But before you die, you shall fully understand what it is you
have surrendered, how precious is your life, and how utterly wasted. You
shall come to regret your mother's act of creation as much as do we."
Verna swept a look of finality over the group watching. "This is my
wish. Please see to its execution."
Cara took a step forward. "Let me do it, then." Her grim face held no
hint of relish. "I would be best at carrying out your wish as you intend it,
Verna."
The lad laughed hysterically. "A woman? You all think you're going to
have some big blond bitch try to teach me a lesson? You're all as crazy as
I've heard."
Verna nodded. "I will be indebted to you, Cara." She started to leave,
but paused. "Don't let him die before morning, when I will come to witness
it. I wish to look into his eyes and see if this young man has come to
understand the nature of reality, and its lack of fairness, before he
forfeits his fife for nothing of worth and for his part in a great evil."
"I promise you," Cara said softly to Verna, "that even though this
night will seem forever to you in your grief, it will be infinitely longer
for him."
Verna simply touched Cara's shoulder in appreciation on her way past.
After Verna had walked off into the darkness, Cara turned to Kahlan. "I
would ask to use a tent. No one should have to see what I do to him. His
screams will be knowledge enough."
"As you wish."
"Mother Confessor!" The young man struggled frantically, but the
soldiers had him in a firm grip. "If you're so good as you claim, then show
me mercy!"
Drool ran from the corner of the boy's mouth and hung swinging in
rhythm with his panting.
"But I have," Kahlan said. "I am allowing you to suffer the sentence
Verna has named, and not the one I would impose."
Cara snapped her fingers and pointed at the young man as she marched
off. The soldiers dragged the shrieking boy after her.
"The others we captured?" the general asked Kahlan.
Kahlan started for her tent. "Cut their throats."
Kwan sat up when she realized that she didn't hear the distant screams
any longer. It was still hours till dawn. Maybe his heart had stopped
unexpectedly.
No, Cara was Mord-Sith, and was well trained in what Mord-Sith did.
As she had lain fully dressed in her bed, listening to the
bloodcurdling screams, aching for Verna, missing Warren, sweat had
occasionally beaded her brow whenever she thought about how Richard had once
been the one under a Mord-Sith's Agiel.
To banish the uninvited, ghastly images invading her thoughts, she
looked up at Spirit. The lamp hanging from the ridgepole cast a warm light
on the carving, stressing the graceful lines of her flowing robes, her
fisted hands, her head thrown back. No matter how many times Kahlan looked
at the statue, she never tired of it. Every time, it was a thrill.
Richard had chosen this view of life over the terrible bitterness he
could have fallen into. Clinging to such bitterness would only have robbed
him of his ability to experience happiness.
Kahlan heard a commotion outside. Just as she sprang to her feet, Cara
poked her head in through the flap Kahlan had left open. The Mord-Sith's
blue eyes were in a lethal rage. She stepped into the tent, pulling the lad
behind by a fistful of his hair. He shook as he blinked frantically, blinded
by the blood in his eyes.
Gritting her teeth, Cara shoved him. He fell to the dirt at Kahlan's
feet.
"What's this about?" Kahlan asked.
The look in Cara's eyes revealed a woman at the edge of a feral fury,
at the edge of control, at the far-distant reaches of what it was to even be
human. She was treading the soil of another world: madness.
Cara dropped to her knees and seized the young man by the hair. She
yanked him back up and held him against her red-leather-clad body as she
pressed her Agiel to his throat. He choked and coughed. Blood frothed from
his mouth.
"Tell her," Cara growled.
He held his hands out to the sides in surrender. "I know him! I know
him!"
Kahlan frowned down at the terrified young man. "You know who?"
"Richard Cypher! I know Richard Cypher!-And his wife, Nicci."
Kahlan felt as if the world crashed down around her. The weight of that
world sank her to her knees before Cara's charge.
"What is your name?"
"Gadi! I'm Gadi!"
Cara pressed her Agiel into his back, causing him to let loose a wild
scream. She slammed his face to the ground.
Kahlan held a hand out. "Cara, wait . . . we need to talk to him."
"I know. I'm just making sure he wants to talk to us."
Kahlan had never seen Cara quite like this, unleashed this way. This
was more than doing as Verna asked. This was personal to Cara. Warren had
been someone she liked, but worse for Gadi, Richard was Cara's life.
The Mord-Sith pulled him upright again. Red bubbles grew around his
broken nose. When the light caught Cara just right, Kahlan could see blood
glistening on the red leather.
"Now, I want you to tell the Mother Confessor everything."
He was nodding as he wept and before Cara had even completed the
command.
"I lived there-where they came to live. I lived where Richard and his
wife-"
"Nicci," Kahlan corrected.
"Yes, Nicci." He didn't understand what she meant. "They came to live
in a room in our house. My friends and I didn't like him. Then, Kamil and
Nabbi started talking to him. They started liking Richard. I was angry-"
He fell to such blubbering that he couldn't finish. Kahlan seized his
jaw, slick with blood, and shook his face.
"Talk! Or I'll have Cara start in again!"
"I don't know what to say, what you want," he sobbed.
"Everything you know about him and Nicci. Everything!" Kahlan yelled
inches from his face.
"Tell her the rest of it," Cara said in his ear as she pulled him to
his feet.
Kahlan followed him up, fearing to miss a precious word.
"Richard started to get people to fix up the place. He works for Ishaq,
at the transport company. When he came home at night, he would fix things.
He showed Kamil and Nabbi how to fix things.
"I hated him."
"You hated him because he made things better?"
"He made Kamil and Nabbi and others think they could do things for
themselves, when they can't-people can't do for themselves. That's a cruel
deception. People have to be helped by those with the ability. It's their
duty. Richard should have made things better, because he could-he shouldn't
have made Kamil and Nabbi and the others think they could change their lives
for themselves. No one can do that. The people need help, not such heartless
and unfeeling expectations.
"I found out Richard was working at night. He was hauling extra loads
for greedy people. He was making money he shouldn't be allowed to make.
"Then, one night, I was sitting on the steps, and I heard Nicci get mad
at Richard. She came out to me on the steps and asked me to have sex with
her. Women always want me. She was a whore-no better than the rest-despite
all her airs. She told me that Richard wasn't man enough to take care of
her, and she wanted me to have her because he wouldn't.
"I gave it to her good just the way she wanted it. I gave it to the
whore good. I
hurt her good, just like she deserved-"
With all her strength, Kahlan rammed her knee into his groin. Gadi
doubled over, unable to draw his breath. His eyes rolled up in his head and
he went down hard.
Cara smiled. "I thought you might like to hear that part."
Kahlan wiped the tears from her cheeks. "It wasn't Richard. I knew it
wasn't Richard. It was this pig."
Kahlan kicked him in the ribs as he started coming around. He let out a
cry. She wagged her fingers impatiently. Cara seized him by the hair and
yanked him to his feet.
"Finish your story," Kahlan said with icy rage.
He coughed and gagged and drooled. Cara had to steady him on his feet.
She held his arms behind his back so he couldn't comfort his groin. The pain
was clearly evident in his contorted face.
"Talk, or I'll do it again!"
"Please! I was telling you when you stopped me."
"Get on with it!"
He nodded frantically. "When I was done with the whor-when I left
Nicci, Kamil and Nabbi were crazy."
Kahlan lifted his chin. "What do you mean, they were crazy?"
"They were crazy angry because I was with Richard's wife. They like
Richard, so they were crazy angry with me. They were going to do things to
me. Hurt me. So, I decided to go into the army to fight for the Order
against the heathens, and. . ."
Kahlan waited. She glanced up at Cara. The Mord-Sith did something
behind Gadi's back that made him gasp in a cry.
"And then I turned in Richard's name!"
"You did what?"
"I turned in his name before I left. I told the city guards at
Protector Muksin's office that Richard was doing criminal things, that he
was stealing work from working people-that he was making more than his fair
share."
Kahlan frowned. "What does that mean? What happens when you turn in a
name?"
Gadi was trembling in terror. He clearly didn't want to answer. Cara
pressed her Agiel against his side. Blood oozed down his sweat-soaked shirt.
He tried, but couldn't draw a breath. His ashen face began to turn purple.
"Tell her," Cara said in cold command.
Gadi gasped in a breath when she released the pressure. "They will
arrest him. They will . . . make him . . . confess."
"Confess?" Kahlan asked, fearing the answer.
Gadi nodded reluctantly. "They will torture a confession out of him,
most likely. They might even hang his body from a pole and let the birds
pick his bones if he confesses to something bad."
Kahlan swayed on her feet. She thought she might throw up. The world
had disintegrated into madness.
She kicked over the map basket and pawed through the maps until she
found the one she wanted. She pulled a pen and an ink bottle out of their
box, set the statue of Spirit on the ground, and spread the small map across
the table.
"Come here," Kahlan ordered, snapping her fingers and pointing to the
ground before the table. She put the pen in his trembling fingers after he
had shuffled close.
Kahlan pointed at the map. "We are here. Show me where you traveled
with the Order."
He pointed. "This river. I came up from the Old World with
reinforcement troops, after some training. We joined the emperor's force and
we advanced up this river basin over the summer."
Kahlan pointed to the Old World. "Now, I want you to mark the place
where you lived."
"Altur'Rang. That's it, there."
She watched him dip the pen and circle the dot and the name Altur'Rang,
far to the south-the heart of the Old World.
"Now," she said, "mark the roads you came up in the Old World-including
any cities or towns you went through."
Cara and Kahlan both watched Gadi mark roads and circle a number of
cities and towns. Warren and the Sisters were from the Old World; they knew
a great deal about the lay of the land, enabling them to provide detailed
maps.
When he'd finished, Gadi looked up.
Kahlan turned over the map. "Draw the city of Altur'Rang. I want to see
the major roads-anything you know of it."
Gadi immediately set to drawing the map for her. When he was finished,
he looked up again.
"Now, show me where this room is where Richard lives."
Gadi marked the map to indicate the place. "But I don't know if he will
be there. Lots of people turn in the names of people suspected of wrongdoing
against their fellow man. If they take the name and they arrest him . . .
the Brothers may order penance, or they could even question him and then
order him put to death."
"Brothers?" Kahlan asked.
Gadi nodded. "Brother Narev and his disciples. They are the head of the
Fellowship of Order. Brother Narev is our spiritual guide. He and the
brothers are the heart of the Order."
"What do they look like?" Kahlan asked, her mind already racing ahead.
"The brothers wear dark brown robes, with hoods. They are simple men
who have given up the luxuries of life to serve the wishes of the Creator
and the needs of mankind. Brother Narev is closer to the Creator than any
man alive. He is mankind's savior."
Gadi was clearly awed by the man. Kahlan listened while Gadi told her
everything he knew about the Fellowship of Order, about the brothers, and
about Brother Narev.
Gadi shook in the silence after he had finished. Kahlan wasn't watching
him, but staring off.
"What did Richard look like," she asked in a distant voice. "Was he
well? Did he look all right?"
"Yes. He's big and strong. Foolish people like him."
Kahlan spun around, landing the heel of her hand against Gadi's face
hard enough to knock him from his feet.
"Get him out of here," she told Cara.
"But you must show me mercy, now! I told you what you want to know!" He
broke down in tears. "You must show me mercy!"
"You have a job to finish," Kahlan said to Cara.
--]----
Kahlan pulled the tent flap back and peeked in. Sister Dulcinia was
snoring softly. Holly looked up.
Tears filled the girl's eyes as she stretched out her arms pleadingly.
Kahlan knelt beside the girl and bent over to hug her. Holly started crying.
Sister Dulcinia woke with a snort. "Mother Confessor."
Kahlan put a hand on the Sister's arm. "It's late. Why don't you go get
some sleep, Sister."
Sister Dulcinia smiled her agreement and then grunted with the effort
of struggling to her feet in the low tent. In the distance, on the far side
of the camp, Kahlan could hear Gadi's bloodcurdling screams.
Kahlan smoothed the downy hair from Holly's brow and kissed her there.
"How are you, sweetheart? Are you all right?"
"Oh, Mother Confessor, it was awful. Wizard Warren got hurt. I saw it."
Kahlan hugged her as she started weeping again. "I know. I know."
"Is it all right? Is he healed like they healed me?"
Kahlan cupped the little cheek and wiped a tear away with her thumb.
"I'm sorry, Holly, but Warren died."
Her brow bunched up with her misery. "He shouldn't have tried to save
me. It's my fault he's dead."
"No," Kahlan soothed. "That's not the way it is. Warren gave his life
to save us all. He did what he did out of his love of life. He didn't want
to let evil be free among those he loved."
"Do you really think so?"
"Of course I do. Remember him for how he loved life, and how he wanted
to see those he loved free to live their own lives."
"He danced with me at his wedding. I thought he was the most handsome
groom ever."
"He was indeed a handsome groom," Kahlan said with a smile at the
memory. "He was one of the best men I've ever known, and he gave his life to
help keep us free. We honor his sacrifice by living the best lives we can
live."
Kahlan started to rise, but Holly hugged her all the tighter, so Kahlan
lay down beside her. She stroked Holly's brow, and kissed her cheek.
"Will you stay with me, Mother Confessor? Please?"
"For a while, sweetheart."
Holly fell asleep cuddled up to Kahlan. Kahlan wept frustrated bitter
tears over the sleeping girl, a girl who should have the right to live her
life. Others, though, lusted to steal that right at the point of a blade.
After she had finally decided what she must do, Kahlan slipped silently
out of the tent to go pack her things.
--]----
It was just turning light when Kahlan emerged from her tent carrying
her bedroll, saddlebags, D'Haran sword, the Sword of Truth, leather armor,
and pack with the rest of her things. Spirit was safely rolled up in her
bedroll.
A light snow was just beginning to fall, announcing to the muted camp
that winter had arrived in the northern Midlands.
Everything seemed as if it was ending. It wasn't just Warren's death
that convinced her, but rather the futility it symbolized. She could no
longer delude herself. The truth was the truth. Richard was right.
The Order would have it all. Sooner or later, they would have her and
kill her, along with those who fought with her. It was only a matter of time
until they enslaved all of the New World. They already had much of the
Midlands. Some lands
had fallen willingly. There was no way to resist a force of their
overwhelming size, the terror of their threats, or the seduction of their
promises.
Warren had attested it as part of his dying words: Richard was right.
She had thought she could make a difference. She had thought she could
drive back the advancing hordes-by the sheer weight of her will, if need be.
It was arrogance on her part. The forces of freedom were lost.
Many of the people in those fallen lands had put their faith in the
Order at the cost of their liberty.
What was left to her? Running. Retreat. Terror. Death.
She had nothing to lose anymore, really. Nearly everything was already
lost, or soon would be. While she at least still had her life, she was going
to use it.
She was going to go to the heart of the Order.
"What are you doing?"
Kahlan spun around to see Cara frowning at her.
"Cara, I . . . I'm leaving."
Cara gave a single nod. "Good. I, too, think it is time. I won't be
long getting my things together. You get the horses, and I'll meet-"
"No. I'm going alone. You will stay here."
Cara stroked her long blond braid laying over the front of her
shoulder. "Why are you going?"
"There's nothing left here for me to do-nothing I can do. I'm going to
go drive my sword into the heart of the Order: Brother Narev and his
disciples. It's the only thing I can do to strike back at them."
Cara smiled. "And you think I want to stay here?"
"You will stay here, where you should be . . . with Benjamin."
"I'm sorry, Mother Confessor," Cara said tenderly, "but I can't follow
such orders. I am Mord-Sith. My life is sworn to protecting Lord Rahl. I
promised Lord Rahl I would protect you, not stay and kiss Benjamin."
"Cara, I want you to stay here-"
"It's my life. If this is the end, all there is to be, then I will do
with the rest of my life as I wish. It's my life to live, not yours to live
for me. I'm going, and that is final."
Kahlan saw in Cara's eyes that it was. Kahlan didn't think she had ever
heard Cara express such a sentiment about her own wishes. It was indeed her
life. Besides, Cara knew where Kahlan was going. If Kahlan left without
Cara, Cara would simply follow. Getting Mord-Sith to obey orders was often
more difficult than herding ants.
"You're right, Cara; it is your life. But when we get down into the Old
World, you're going to have to wear something to disguise who you are. Red
leather in the Old World will be the end of us."
"I will do what I must to protect you and Lord Rahl."
Kahlan smiled at last. "I believe you would, Cara."
Cara wasn't smiling. Kahlan's smile faded.
"I'm sorry I tried to leave without you, Cara. I shouldn't have done it
that way. You're a sister of the Agiel. I should have talked it over with
you. That's the proper way to treat someone you respect."
Cara smiled at last. "Now you are making sense."
"We might not ever come back from this."
Cara shrugged. "And you think we will live the high life if we stay? I
think only certain death awaits us if we stay."
Kahlan nodded. "That's what I think, too. That's why I must go."
"I'm not quarreling."
Kahlan gazed out at the falling snow. The last time winter had come,
she and Cara had just managed to escape in time.
Kahlan steeled herself and asked, "Cara, do you really believe Richard
is still alive?"
"Of course Lord Rahl is alive." Cara held up her Agiel, rolling it in
her fingers. "Remember?"
And then she did: the Agiel would only work if the Lord Rahl to whom
she was sworn was alive.
Kahlan handed Cara some of her load. "Gadi?"
"He died as Verna wished it. She showed him no pity."
"Good. Pity for the guilty is treason to the innocent."
--]----
It was not long after dawn when Kahlan made it to Zedd's tent. Cara had
gone to get horses and supplies. When Kahlan called, Zedd asked her to
enter. He rose from the bench beside Adie, the old sorceress.
"Kahlan. What is it?"
"I've come to bid you good-bye."
Zedd's eyes showed no surprise. "Why don't you stay and get some rest?
Leave tomorrow."
"There are no tomorrows left. Winter is upon us again. If I am going to
do as I must, I don't have a day to waste."
Zedd gently gripped her shoulders. "Kahlan, Warren wanted to see you.
He felt he had to tell you that Richard was right. It meant a great deal to
him that you know that. Richard told us that you must not attack the heart
of the Order before the people prove themselves to him, or all will be lost.
Such a thing is even less likely to happen today than the day he said it."
"And maybe Warren meant that Richard was right-that we are going to
lose the New World to the Order, so what is there to stay for? Maybe it was
Warren's way of trying to tell me to go to Richard before I'm dead, or he's
dead, and then it's too late to even try."
"And Nicci?"
"I'll find out when I get there."
"But, you can't hope to-" -
"Zedd, what else is there for me? To watch the Midlands fall? To aspire
at most to live out my life running, to live as a recluse, hiding every day
from the clutches of the Order?
"Even if Warren hadn't said it, I've come to realize-no matter how much
I wish it was otherwise-that Richard is right. The Order will only be pinned
down for the winter while we help the people escape Aydindril. In the
spring, the enemy will flood into my city. Then they will turn to D'Hara.
There will be nowhere to run. Though they escape for the moment, the Order
will subjugate those people.
"There is no future for me. Richard was right. The least I can do is
spend the last of my life living for myself, and for Richard. There is
nothing else left for me, Zedd."
Tears brimmed in his eyes. "I will miss you so. You've brought back
good memories of my own daughter and given me so many good times."
Kahlan threw her arms around him. "Oh, Zedd, I love you."
She couldn't hold back her own tears, then. She was all he had left,
and he was losing her, too.
No-that wasn't true. Kahlan pulled back.
"Zedd, the time has come for you to leave, too. You must go to the Keep
and protect it."
He nodded with great reluctance, great sadness. "I know."
Kahlan knelt before the sorceress and took up her hand. "Adie, will you
go with him and keep him company?"
A beautiful smile came to the woman's weathered face. "Well, I . . ."
She looked up. "Zedd?"
Zedd scowled. "Bags, now you've ruined the surprise of the invite."
Kahlan smacked his leg. "Stop cursing in front of ladies-and stop being
so sour. I'd like to know you're not going to be lonely up there."
A smile stole across his face. "Of course Adie is going to the Keep
with me."
Adie scowled in turn. "How do you know that, old man? You never asked
my approval. Why, I have a mind-"
"Please stop it," Kahlan said. "Both of you. This is too important to
be fussing over."
"I can fuss if I want to," Zedd protested.
"That be right." Adie shook a thin finger. "We are old enough to fuss
if we wish."
Kahlan smiled through her tears. "Of course you can. It's just that,
after Warren . . . it reminds me of how much I hate to see people waste
their lives on things that don't matter."
Zedd truly did scowl, now. "You've a thing or two to learn, dear one,
if you don't know how important fussing is."
"That be right," Adie said. "Fussing keeps you sharp. When you get old,
you need to stay sharp."
"Adie is entirely right," Zedd said. "Why, I think-"
Kahlan silenced him with a hug that Adie joined.
"Are you sure about this, dear one?" Zedd asked after they parted.
"I am. I'm going to take my sword into the belly of the Order."
Zedd nodded as he hooked his bony fingers around the back of her neck.
He pulled her head close and kissed her brow.
"If you're to go, then ride hard and strike harder."
"My thought, exactly," Cara said as she stepped into the tent.
Kahlan thought Cara's blue eyes looked a little more liquid than usual.
"Are you all right, Cara?"
Cara frowned. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"Nothing," Kahlan said.
"General Meiffert got us the six fastest horses he could find." Cara
smiled her pleasure at the prospect. "We'll have fresh mounts with us and be
able to cover a lot of ground fast. I have all our supplies loaded up.
"If we leave now, we should be able to escape winter's grip. We have
the map, so we can stay away from the routes the Order's troops use, and the
heaviest popula
tion centers. There are good roads, and open country down there. Riding
hard, I think that we can make it in a few weeks. A month at most."
Zedd's face contorted with concern. "But the Order controls much of the
southern Midlands. It's dangerous country, now."
"I have a better way." Cara flashed a sly smile. "We'll go where I know
the country-D' Hara. We will go east from here and cross over the mountains,
then go south down through D'Hara-through mostly wide-open country were we
can make good time-down through the Azrith Plains, to eventually join the
Kern River far to the south. After the river valley clears the mountains, we
will cut southeast into the heart of the Old World."
Zedd nodded his approval of the plan. Kahlan curled her fingers
lovingly around the old wizard's thin arm.
"When will you go to the Keep?"
"Adie and I will leave in the morning. I think it best not to dally
here any longer. Today we'll settle matters of the army with the officers
and the Sisters. I think that as soon as the people are out of Aydindril,
and when the snow quickly deepens to insure the Order won't be going
anywhere until spring, then our men should begin slipping out of this place
to make their way over the mountains to the safety of D'Hara. It will be
slow going in winter, but without having to fight as they travel, it won't
be as difficult as it otherwise would be."
"That would be best," Kahlan agreed. "It will get our men out of harm's
way for now."
"They won't have me to be the magic against magic for them, but they
will have Verna and her Sisters. They know enough by now to carry on
protecting the army from magic."
At least for a while. The words hung in the air, unspoken.
"I want to go see Verna before I leave," Kahlan said. "I think it will
be good for her to have other people to worry about. Then I want to see
General Meiffert; and then we'd best start riding. We have a long way to go,
and I want to be south before the snow hobbles us."
Kahlan embraced Zedd fiercely one last time.
"When you see him," Zedd whispered in her ear, "tell the boy I love him
dearly, and I miss him something awful."
Kahlan nodded against his shoulder, and told him a bold lie.
"You'll see us both again, Zedd. I promise you."
Kahlan stepped out into the early light of winter's first breath.
Everything was dusted with snow, making it look as if the world were
carvedfrom white marble.
In one long fluid motion, with his fingertips adeptly guiding the far
end of the file, Richard glided the steel tool down the fold of cloth held
forever crisp in white marble. Concentrating on applying steady pressure to
cut a precise, fine layer, he was lost in the work.
The file held hundreds of ridges, row upon row of tiny blades of
hardened steel, which did the work of cutting away and shaping the noble
stone. These were blades he wielded with the same commitment with which he
wielded any blade. He blindly reached back and set the file down on the
wooden bench, careful to put it on the wood and not to let it clang against
other steel, lest he dull it prematurely. He exchanged the file for another,
with even finer teeth, and took out the roughness left by the correction
accomplished with the one before.
With fingers as dusty-white as those of a baker laboring with flour,
Richard examined the surface of the man's arm, testing it for flaws. Until
polished, the minor flaws and facets were often easier to see with the
fingers than the eye. Where he found them, he used a smaller file in one
hand, while his other hand followed behind, riding the swell of muscle,
feeling the subtle difference in what the tool had done to the stone. He was
removing only paper-thin layers of material, now.
It had taken him several months to arrive at this final layer. It was
exhilarating to be so close to the flesh. The days had passed, one upon
another, in an endless procession of work, carving death in the day down at
the site, and life in the night. Carving for the Order was balanced by
carving for himself-slavery and freedom in opposition.
Whenever one of the brothers inquired about the statue, Richard was
careful to hide his satisfaction with what he was creating. He did it by
recalling the model he had been commanded to carve. He always bowed his head
respectfully and reported his progress on his penance, assuring them that
his work was on schedule and would be done on time to install in the palace
plaza for the dedication.
Stressing the word "penance" helped to direct their thoughts to that
issue and away from the statue itself. The brothers were invariably much
more satisfied with his weariness from his toil at his work of contrition
that they were interested in yet another dreary stone carving. There were
carvings everywhere; this was but one more manifestation of the irredeemable
inadequacy of mankind. Just as no one man in their cosmos was important, no
one work mattered. It was the sheer number of carvings which was to be the
Order's overpowering argument for man's impotence. The carvings were merely
background props for the stage upon which the brothers moralized on
sacrifice and salvation.
Richard always humbly reported his nights with little food and little
sleep as he
worked on his penance after his carving work during the day. Selfless
sacrifice being the proper cure for wickedness, the brothers went away
pleased.
Richard switched to a smaller file, one bent in a decreasing radius
curve, and worked the muscle where it narrowed into sinew, showing the
tension in the arm which revealed the underlying structure. During the day
he observed other men as they worked, in order to study the complex shapes
of muscle as it moved with life. At night, he referred to his own arms held
up to the lamplight so that he might accurately depict veins and tendons
standing proud on the surface. He referred to a small mirror at times. The
surface of the skin he carved was a rich landscape stretched over bone and
muscle, creased in corners, drawn smooth as it swept over curves.
For the woman's body, his memory of Kahlan was vivid enough to require
little other reference.
He wanted this work to show the capacity for movement, for intent, for
accomplishment. The posture of the figures displayed awareness. The
expression of the faces, especially the eyes, would show that most sublime
human characteristic: thought.
If the statues he had seen in the Old World were a celebration of
misery and death, this was a celebration of life.
He wanted this to show the raw power of volition.
The man and woman he carved were his refuge against his despair over
his captivity. They embodied freedom of spirit. They embodied reason rising
up to triumph.
To his great annoyance, Richard noticed that light was coming in the
window above the statue, taking over from the lamps that had burned all
night. All night; he had done it again.
It was not the quality of the light, which he actually very much
favored, which vexed him, but that it signified the end of his time with his
statue; he now had to go carve ugliness down at the site. Fortunately, that
work required no thought or careful effort.
As he draw-filed the curve of the man's shoulder muscle, there was a
knock at the door. "Richard?"
It was Victor. Richard sighed; he had to stop.
Richard pulled the red cloth tied around his neck down away from his
nose and mouth, where it kept him from breathing all the marble dust. It was
a little trick Victor had told him about, used by the marble carvers from
his homeland of Cavatura.
"Be right there." -
Richard stepped down off the ledge made by the base, where he had
carved out the legs at midcalf. He stretched his back, realizing how much it
hurt from hunching over, and from lack of sleep. He retrieved the canvas
tarp and shook the dust from it.
Just before he flung the cover over the statue, he got the full view of
the figures. The floor, shelves, and tools were covered in a fine layer of
marble dust. But against the black walls, the marble stood out in the glory
of light from above.
Richard threw the tarp over the incomplete figures and then opened the
door.
"You look a ghost," Victor announced with a lopsided grin.
Richard brushed himself off. "I forgot the time."
"Did you see in the shop last night?"
"The shop? No, what?"
Victor's grin returned, wider this time. "Priska had the bronze dial
delivered yesterday. Ishaq brought it. Come see."
Around the other side of the blacksmith's shop, in the stock room, the
bronze sat in a number of pieces. It was too big for Priska to cast as one
piece, so he had made several that Victor would join and mount. The pedestal
for the partial ring that would be the dial plane was massive. Knowing it
was for a statue Richard was carving, Priska had done a job to be proud o?
"It's beautiful," Richard said.
"Isn't it, though? I've seen him do fine work before, but this time
Priska has outdone himself."
Victor squatted and ran his fingers over the strange symbols filled in
with black. "Priska said that at one time, long ago, his home city of
Altur'Rang had freedom, but, like so many others, lost it. As a tribute to
that time, he cast it with symbols in his native tongue. Brother Neal saw
it, and was pleased because he thought it a tribute to the emperor, who is
also from Altur'Rang."
Richard sighed. "Priska has a tongue as smooth as his castings."
"Would you have some lardo with me?" Victor asked as he stood.
The sun was already well up. Richard stretched his neck and peered down
at the site.
"I'd best not. I need to get to work." Richard squatted down and lifted
one end of the pedestal. "First, though, let me show you where this goes."
Victor grabbed the other end and together they lugged the bronze
casting around the shop. When Richard opened the double doors, Victor saw
the statue for the first time, even if it was covered in a tarp that
revealed only the round bulges that were the two heads. Even so, Victor's
eyes feasted. It was apparent in those eyes how his vivid imagination was
filling in some of it with his fondest hopes.
"Your statue is going well?" Victor nudged Richard with an elbow.
"Beauty?"
Richard was overcome with a blissful smile. "Ali, Victor, you will see
for yourself soon enough. The dedication is only a couple weeks off. I will
be ready. It will be something to bring a song to our hearts . . . before
they kill me, anyway."
Victor dismissed such talk with a flourish of his hand. "I am hoping
that when they see such beauty again, and at their palace, they will
approve."
Richard held out no such illusion. He remembered then, and reached into
a pocket to pull out a piece of paper. He handed it to the blacksmith.
"I didn't want Priska to cast words on the back of the dial because I
didn't want the wrong people to see them. I would ask you to engrave these
words on the back surface-about the same height as the symbols on the
front."
Victor took the paper and unfolded it. His grin melted away. He looked
up at Richard with an open look of surprise.
"This is treason."
Richard shrugged. "They can only kill me once."
"They can torture you a long time before they kill you. They have very
unpleasant ways to kill people, too, Richard. Have you ever seen a man
buried in the sky while he was still alive, bleeding from a thousand cuts,
his arms bound, so that the vultures could feast on his living flesh?"
"The Order binds my arms, now, Victor. As I work down there, as I see
the death around me, I am bleeding from a thousand cuts. The vultures of the
Order are already feasting on my flesh." With grim resolve, Richard held
Victor's gaze. "Will you do it?"
Victor glanced down at the paper again. He took a deep breath and then
let it slowly out as he studied the paper in his hand. "Treason though these
words be, I like them. I will do it."
Richard clapped him on the side of the shoulder and gave him a
confident smile. "Good man. Now, look here, where the pedestal is to be
attached."
Richard lifted the tarp enough to uncover the base. "I've carved you a
flat face tilted at the proper angle. I didn't know where the holes in the
casting would be, so I left it for you to drill the holes and fill them with
lead for the pins. Once you attach the pedestal, then I can calculate the
angle of the hole I'll need to drill for the gnomon."
Victor nodded. "The gnomon pole will be ready soon. I will make you a
drill bit the proper size for it."
"Good. And a round rasp to do final fitting in the hole?"
"You will have it," Victor said as they both stood. He waved his hand
toward the covered statue. "You trust me not to peek while you are off
carving your ugly work?"
Richard chuckled. "Victor, I know you want more than anything to see
the nobility of this statue when it is finally finished. You would not spoil
that experience for yourself for anything."
Victor let out his rolling belly laugh. "I guess you are right. Come
after your work, and we will have lardo and talk of beauty in stone and the
way the world once was."
Richard hardly heard Victor. He was staring at what he knew so well.
Even though it was covered from his eyes, it was not hidden from his soul.
He was ready to begin the process of polishing. To make flesh in stone.
--]----
Her head bent, her scarf protecting her from the chill winter wind,
Nicci hurried down the narrow alleyway. A man coming the other way bumped
against her shoulder, not because he was rushing, but because he simply
didn't seem to care where he was going. Nicci threw a fiery scowl at his
empty eyes. Her fierce look fell away down a bottomless well of
indifference.
She clutched her sack of sunflower seeds closer to her stomach as she
moved on through the muddy alleyway. She stayed close to the rough wooden
walls of the buildings so she wouldn't be jostled by the people going the
other way. People bundled against the current cold snap moved through the
alleyway toward the street beyond, looking for rooms, for food, for clothes,
for jobs. She could see men beyond the alley sitting on the ground, leaning
against buildings on the far side of the street, watching without seeing as
wagons rumbled down the roads, taking supplies out to the site of the
emperor's palace.
Nicci wanted to get to the bread shop. She had been told they might
have butter today. She wanted to get butter for Richard's bread. He would be
home for dinnerhe had promised. She wanted to make him a good meal. He
needed to eat. He had lost some weight, though it only added distracting
definition to his muscular build. He was like a statue in the flesh-like the
statues she used to see, long ago.
She remembered how when she was little her mother's servants made cakes
out of sunflower meal. She had been able to buy enough to make him some
sunflower cakes, and maybe she would have butter to put on them.
Nicci was growing increasingly anxious. The dedication was to take
place in a few days. Richard said his statue would be ready. He seemed too
calm about it, as if he had come to some inner peace.
He seemed almost like a man who had accepted his imminent execution.
Whenever Richard spoke to her, despite the conversation, his mind
seemed elsewhere, and his eyes held that quality which she so valued. In the
wasteland that was life, the misery that was existence, this was the only
hope left to her. All around her, people looked forward only to death. Only
in her father's eyes when she was younger, and more so now in Richard's, did
she see any evidence that there was something to make it all worthwhile,
some reason for existence.
Nicci was slowed to a halt by the clink-clink-clink of pebbles rattling
in a cup. The sound was the unmistakable rattle of her chains. She had been
a servant to need her whole life, and as much as she tried, there it was,
the cup of some poor beggar, still rattling for her help.
She could not deny it.
Tears filled her eyes. She had so wanted to serve Richard butter with
his bread. But she had only one silver penny, and this beggar had nothing.
She at least had some bread and some sunflower seeds. How could she want
butter for Richard's bread and cakes, when this man had nothing?
She was evil, she knew, for wanting to keep her silver penny, the penny
Richard had earned with his own sweat and effort. She was evil for wanting
to buy butter for Richard with it. Who was Richard, to have butter? He was
strong. He was able. Why should he have more, while others had none?
Nicci could almost see her mother slowly shaking her head in bitter
disappointment that the penny was still in Nicci's fist, and not helping the
man in need.
How was it that she could never seem to live up to her mother's example
of morality? How was it she could never overcome her evil nature?
Nicci turned slowly and dropped her silver penny in the beggar's cup.
People gave the beggar a wide berth. Without seeing him, they avoided
coming near him. They were deaf to the rattle of his cup. How could people
not yet have learned the Order's teachings? How could they not help those in
need? It was always left to her.
She looked at him, then, and recoiled at the sight of the hideous man
swathed in filthy rags. She pulled back more when she saw lice hopping
through his thatch of greasy hair. He peered out at her through a slit in
the rags draped around his face.
But it was what she saw through that slit that caught her breath in her
throat. The scars were gruesome, to be sure, as if he had been melted by the
Keeper's own fires, yet it was the eyes that gripped her as the man slowly
rose to his feet.
The man's grimy fingers, like a claw, curled around her arm. "Nicci,"
he hissed in startled triumph, drawing her close.
Caught in the grip of his powerful fingers, and his burning glare, she
was unable to move. She was so close she could see his lice hopping at her.
"Kadar Kardeef."
"So, you recognize me? Even like this?"
She said nothing else, but her eyes must have said that she thought he
was dead; for he answered her unspoken question.
"Remember that little girl? The one you seemed to care so much about?
She urged the town's people to save me. She refused to allow me to die there
on the fire, where you had put me. She hated you so much she was determined
to save me. She
selflessly devoted herself to caring for me, to helping her fellow man,
as you had ordered the town's people to do.
"Oh, I wanted to die. I never knew a person could have that much pain
and still live. As much as I wanted to die, I lived, because I want you to
die even more. You did this to me. I want the Keeper to sink his fangs into
your soul."
Nicci looked deliberately at his grotesque scars. "And so, for this,
you have come seeking your revenge."
"No, not for that. For making me beg, where my men could hear it. For
allowing other people to hear me beg for my life. It was for that reason
they saved me-and their hatred of you. It is for that that I seek
revenge-for not allowing me to die, for condemning me to this life of a
freak where passing women toss pennies in my cup."
Nicci gave him a smooth smile. "Why, Kadar, if you want to die, I can
certainly oblige you."
He released her arm as if it had burned his fingers. His imagination
gave her powers she didn't have.
He spat at her.
"Kill me, then, you filthy witch. Strike me dead."
Nicci flicked her wrist and brought her dacra to hand. The dacra was a
knifelike weapon carried by Sisters. Once the sharpened rod was stuck into a
victim, no matter where, releasing her power into the dacra killed them
instantly. Kadar Kardeef didn't know she had no power. But even without her
power behind it, the dacra was still a dangerous weapon that could be driven
into a heart, or through a skull.
He wisely backed away. He wanted to die, yet he feared it.
"Why didn't you go to Jagang. He would not have let you become a
beggar. Jagang was your friend. He would have taken care of you. You would
not have to beg..
Kadar Kardeef laughed. "You'd have liked that, wouldn't you? To see me
living off the scraps of Jagang's table? You would love to sit at his side,
the Slave Queen, and have him see me fallen to this, to watch as you two
tossed me your crumbs."
"Fallen to what? To see you wounded? You've both been wounded before."
He snatched her wrist again. "I died a hero to Jagang. I would not want
him to know I begged like any of the weak fools we have crushed beneath our
boots."
Nicci pressed her dacra against his belly, backing him off.
"Kill me, then, Nicci." He opened his arms. "Finish it, like you should
have. You never left a job incomplete before. Strike me dead, like I should
have been long ago."
Nicci smiled again. "Death is no punishment. Every day you live is a
thousand deaths. But you know that, don't you, Kadar?"
"Was I that repulsive to you, Nicci? Was I that cruel to you?"
How could she tell him that he was, and how much she hated him having
her as chattel for his amusement? It was for the good of all that the Order
used men like Kadar Kardeef. How could she put herself, her own interests,
above the good of mankind?
Nicci turned and rushed off down the alleyway.
"Thank you for the penny!" he called mockingly after her. "You should
have granted my request! You should have, Nicci!"
Nicci wanted only to go-home and scrub the lice out of her hair. She
could feel them burrowing into her scalp.
Richard pulled away the fistful of straw. He brushed the fragments of
grasses from his leather apron. His arms ached from the labor of rubbing the
straw, lightly loaded with fine abrasive clays, against the stone.
Yet, when he saw the luster of the stone, the character of the high
polish, the way the marble glowed, taking light deep into the stone and
returning it, he felt only exhilaration.
The figures emerged from a sparkling stone base of rough marble. The
grooved
lines of the toothed chisels used in opposing directions to shear off
thin layers of stone were still evident on the lower calves, where the legs
emerged he wanted the statue to bear testimony to the hand of man and the
figures' origin in stone.
They rose up to nearly twice his height. The statue was in part a
representation of his love for Kahlan-he could not keep Kahlan out of the
work, because Kahlan was his ideal of a woman-yet the woman in the statue
was not Kahlan. It was a man of virtue with a woman of virtue joined in
purpose. They complemented each other, the two universal parts of what it
was to be human.
The curved section of the sundial had been placed by Victor and his men
several days before, when Richard had been working down at his job at the
site of the emperor's palace. They had left the tarp over the statue as they
worked. After the ring had been set, Richard had placed the pole that served
as the gnomon, and finished the hand holding it. The base of the pole was
fixed with a gold ball.
Victor had yet to see the statue. He was beside himself with eager
anticipation.
As Richard stared at the figures, only the light from the window above
entered the darkened room. He had been given the day from work down at the
site in order to prepare the statue to be moved to the plaza that evening.
In the rooms beyond the shop door, the hammers of the blacksmiths rang
ceaselessly as Victor's men worked on orders for the palace.
Richard stood in the near darkness, listening to the sounds of the
blacksmith shop, as he stared up at the power of what he had created. It was
exactly as he had intended.
The figures of the man and woman seemed as if they might draw a breath
at any moment and step out of the stone base. They had bone and muscle,
sinew and flesh.
Flesh in stone.
There was only one thing missing-one thing left to do.
Richard picked up his mallet and a sharp chisel.
When he looked up at the finished statues, there were moments when he
could almost believe, as Kahlan insisted, that he used magic to carve, yet
he knew better. This was a conscious act of human intellect, and nothing
more.
Standing there, chisel and mallet in hand, gazing at the statue that
was his vision
in stone, was a moment when Richard could savor the supreme achievement
of having his creation exist exactly as he had originally conceived it.
For this singular moment in time, it was complete, and it was his
alone.
It was, for this moment, pure in its existence, untainted by what
others thought. For this moment it was his accomplishment, and he knew its
value in his own heart and mind.
Richard went to one knee before the figures. He laid the cold steel of
the chisel to his forehead and closed his eyes as he concentrated on what he
had left to do.
"Blade, be true this day."
He pulled the red cloth tied at his throat up over his nose so not to
have to breathe the stone dust, then set the chisel to the marks in the fiat
place he had already prepared just above the heart of the flaw. Richard
brought the mallet down, and began to carve the title of the statue in the
base for all to see.
--]----
Nicci, standing behind the corner of a building around a curve in the
road, watched farther down the hill as Richard left the shop where he had
carved his statue. He was probably going to see about getting the team to
move the stone. He closed the door, but he didn't put the chain on it. No
doubt, he didn't intend to be gone for long.
Men were working all over the hillside at a variety of shops. Tradesmen
from leather workers to goldsmiths contributed to a constant din of saws,
grinding, and hammering. The ceaseless uproar of the labor was
nerve-racking. While many of the men coming and going gave Nicci a good
look-see, her glare warned them off.
Once she saw Richard disappear beyond the blacksmith's shop, she
started down the road. She had told him she would wait until he was done
before she came to see it. She had kept her word.
Still, she felt uneasy. She didn't know why, but she felt almost as if
she would be invading a sacred site. Richard hadn't invited her to see his
statue. He had asked her to wait until it was done. Since it was done, she
would wait no longer.
Nicci didn't want to see it up on the plaza of the palace along with
everyone else. She wanted to be alone with it. She didn't care about the
Order and their interest in the statue. She didn't want to be standing with
everyone else, with people who would not recognize it as something of
significance. This was personal to her, and she wanted to see it in private.
She reached the door without anyone accosting her, or even paying her
any mind. She looked around in the bright, hazy midafternoon light, but saw
only men attending to their work. She opened the door and slipped inside.
The room was dark, its walls black, but the statue inside was well lit
by light coming down from a window in the high roof. Nicci didn't look
directly at the statue, but kept her eyes to the floor as she hurried around
the huge stone so she could see it for the first time from the front.
Once in place, her pulse pounding, she turned.
Nicci's gaze rose up the legs, the robes, the arms, the bodies of the
two people, up to their faces. She felt as if a giant fist squeezed her
heart to a stop.
This was what was in Richard's eyes, brought into existence in glowing
white marble. To see it fully realized was like being struck by lightning.
In that instant, her entire life, everything that had ever happened to
her, every-
thing she had ever seen, heard, or done, seemed to come together in one
flash of emotional violence. Nicci cried out in pain at the beauty of it,
and more so at the beauty of what it represented.
Her eyes fell on the name carved in the stone base.
LIFE
Nicci collapsed to the floor in tears, in abject shame, in horror, in
revulsion, in sudden blinding comprehension .
. . . In pure joy.
After Richard had returned with the fine white linen he had bought to
cover the statue until the ceremony the following day, he helped Ishaq and a
number of the men he knew from down at the site begin the slow process of
sledging the heavy stone down to the plaza. Fortunately, it hadn't rained in
a while, and the ground was firm.
Ishaq, knowing such business well, had brought along greased wooden
runners, which were placed before the hefty wooden rails supporting the
wooden platform under the statue so that the teams of horses could more
easily pull the heavy load across the ground. After the statue was dragged
onto the second set of greased runners, the men brought the ones left behind
to the front, leapfrogging the statue as it was moved along.
The hillside was white with the scree of waste stone, so the statue
weighed considerably less than it once had. Victor had originally hired
special stone-hauling wagons to move the block. They couldn't use them now
because the finished piece couldn't be turned on its side or handled in such
a rough manner.
Ishaq waved his red hat in his fist, yelling orders, warnings, and
prayers as they had moved along. Richard knew that his statue could be in no
better hands. The men who helped seemed to pick up Ishaq's nervous tension.
They sensed this was something important, and, though the work was
difficult, they seemed more pleased to be a part of it than they were about
their everyday labor at the site. It took until late afternoon to move the
statue the distance from the shop to the foot of the steps leading up to the
plaza.
Men shoveled dirt at the bottom of the stairs and packed it tight in
order to ease the transition in grade. A team of ten horses was taken around
the other side of the columns. Long lengths of rope were passed through the
vacant doorways and windows, and then secured around the stone base in order
to draw the sledge up the steps. The extra runners were laid on the leading
edge of the dirt ramp, later to be moved up onto the steps as the statue
progressed upward. Near to two hundred men swooped in at Ishaq's frantic
screaming to help pull on the ropes along with the horses. Inch by inch, the
statue ascended the steps.
Richard could hardly stand to watch. If anything went wrong, all his
work would tumble back and shatter. The flaw would destroy it all. He smiled
to himself, realizing how silly it was to worry that the evidence of his
crime against the Order might be ruined.
When the stone had finally arrived safely up on the plaza, sand was
packed underneath the platform to support its weight. With the sand holding
the wooden platform secure, the heavy runners were removed. With the runners
off, the platform was slid off its hill of sand. From there, it was a
relatively simple task to coax the statue off
the wooden base and onto the plaza itself. At last, marble sat on
marble. Gangs of men with ropes around the stone base tugged the freed
statue into its final resting place at the center point of the plaza.
Ishaq stood beside Richard when it was over, mopping his brow with his
red hat. The entire statue and sundial was shrouded in its white linen
cover, with line securing it, so Ishaq couldn't see what it was. Still, he
sensed something of importance stood before him.
"When?" was all Ishaq asked.
Richard knew what he meant. "I guess I'm not sure. Brother Narev is to
dedicate the palace to the Creator tomorrow, before all the officials who
have traveled to see how the money they've looted from the people is being
spent. I guess that tomorrow the officials, along with everyone who comes to
the ceremony, are to see the statue along with the rest of the palace. It's
just another display of the Order's view of man's place-I don't think they
intend any unveiling or anything like that."
From what Richard had learned, the ceremony was a matter of great
concern to the brothers. The drain of the expense of the palace on top of
the expense of the war required justification to the people who were paying
that price not only with their sweat, but with their blood. The Fellowship
of Order ruled, through the Imperial Order, with the necessary collaboration
of brutes to whom they gave moral sanction. While the brutes had easily
crushed the bodies of those who had revolted, the brothers wanted to crush
the ideas such revolt represented, before they could spread, because it was
such ideas that were the greatest threat to them.
To that end, it was also important to inspire the officials: the
minions of the Order's tyranny. Richard imagined that with scenes of man's
depravity carved into thousands of feet of stone wall, the flock of
far-flung officials of the Order were going to be given guided tours, by the
brothers, of all mankind's failings, and thus coerced into their duty of
turning over money they had already confiscated at the point of a blade-a
blade they wielded under the moral sanction of the brothers through the
Fellowship of Order. Such petty officials were allowed a slice for their
service to the Order, but the brothers no doubt wanted to forcefully
dissuade them from any grander notions.
Under the direction of the brothers, the collective of the Order, like
any autocratic ruler, ultimately ruled only by the acquiesce of the people,
who were controlled either by moral intimidation, or by physical threat, or
by both. Tyranny required constant tending, lest the illusion of righteous
authority evaporate in the light of its grim toll, and the brutes be
overpowered by the people who greatly outnumbered them.
That was why Richard had known he couldn't lead: he could not bludgeon
people into understanding that bludgeoning was wrong because their lives
were of great value, whereas the Order could have them bludgeoned into
obedience by first making people believe that their lives were of no value.
Free people were not ruled. Freedom had first to be valued before its
existence could be demanded.
"From what I'm told, it is to be a big event," Ishaq said. "People from
all over are coming to the dedication of the emperor's palace. The city is
full of people from far and near."
Richard looked around at the site as the workers trudged back to their
regular jobs.
"I'm surprised none of the officials have come to have a look at the
palace in advance."
Ishaq waved his hat dismissively. "They are all at the gathering of the
Fellowship of Order. In the center of Altur'Rang. Big doings. Food, drink,
speeches by the brothers. You know how the Order likes meetings. Very
boring, I imagine. From what I know of such events, the officials will be
kept busy hearing of the needs of the Order and their duty to get people to
sacrifice to that need. The brothers will keep them all under tight rein."
That meant the brothers would all be busy-too busy to come out to the
site for the trivial task of checking a statue one of their slaves had
carved. In the scheme of things, Richard's statue was insignificant. It was
only the starting point of the stately tour of the miles of walls displaying
extensive scenes depicting the grand cause of the Order, as dictated by the
brothers, under Narev's leadership.
If the officials and the brothers were too busy to come today, the
people of the city were not. Most would probably attend the events of the
next day, but they wanted to get a sense of the place for themselves, first,
without the boring speeches that would drag out the ceremony. Richard
watched many of those people go from one scene on the walls to another,
their faces stricken with the desolate emotion of what they were seeing.
Guards kept people at a respectful distance, and out of the labyrinth
of rooms and hallways inside, now enclosed by upper floors, and in some
places, roofs. Now that the statue was set in place, those guards moved in
to clear the plaza entrance.
Richard had only gotten a few hours of sleep in the last week. Now that
the statue was in place, exhaustion overwhelmed him. With all the work on
top of so little sleep, and little to eat, he was almost ready to drop where
he stood.
Victor appeared out of the long shadows. Some workers were leaving, but
others would still be at it for several more hours. Richard hadn't even
realized that it had taken the better part of the day to move the statue.
With the heat of the work over, his sweat-soaked shirt felt like ice against
his flesh.
"Here," Victor said, handing Richard a slice of lardo. "Eat. In
celebration that you are done."
Richard thanked his friend before devouring the lardo. His head was
pounding. He had done all he could do to show people what they needed to
see. With the work done, though, Richard felt suddenly lost. He realized
only then how much he hated having finished, to be without the noble work.
It had been his reason to go on.
"Ishaq, I'm dead on my feet. Do you think you could give me a ride in
your wagon partway to my house?"
Ishaq clapped Richard on the back. "Come, you can ride in the back. I'm
sure Jori would not mind. At least he can save you part of your walk. I must
stay here and see to the teams and wagons."
Richard thanked the smiling Victor. "In the morning, my friends, in the
full light, we will remove the cover and see beauty one last time. After
that . . . well, who knows."
"Tomorrow, then," Victor said with his sly laugh. "I don't think I will
sleep tonight," he called after Richard.
The months of effort seemed to all come down upon him at once. He
climbed into the back of Ishaq's wagon and bid the man a good night. As
Ishaq left, Richard curled up under a tarp to shut out the light and was
asleep before Jori returned. He was dead to the world as the wagon rolled
away.
Nicci watched as Richard departed with Ishaq. She wanted to do this on
her own. She wanted it to be her part. She wanted to contribute something of
value.
Only then could she face him.
She knew precisely how the Order would react to the statue. They would
view it as a threat. They would not allow other people to see it. The Order
would destroy it. It would be gone. No one would ever know about it.
Twining her fingers together, she wondered how to proceed-what should
be first. Then it came to her. She had gone to him before. He had helped
Richard. He was Richard's friend. Nicci rushed across the sprawling site of
the palace and up the hill.
She was winded by the time she reached the blacksmith's shop. The grim
blacksmith was putting away tools. He had already banked the fire in his
forge. The smells, the sights, even the layer of iron dust and soot gave
Nicci a joyful flash of her father's shop. She understood, now, the look
that had been in her father's eyes. She doubted he had fully understood it
himself, but she did, now. The blacksmith looked up without smiling as she
rushed into his shop.
"Mr. Cascella! I need you."
His frown grew. "What's that matter? Why are you crying? Is it Richard?
Have they-"
"No. Nothing like that." She grabbed his meaty hand and tugged at him.
It was like tugging on a boulder. "Please. Come with me. It's important."
He gestured with his other hand around at his shop. "But I have to
clean up for the night."
She yanked again on his hand. She felt tears stinging her eyes.
"Please! This is important!"
He wiped his free hand down his face. "Lead the way, then."
Nicci felt a little foolish pulling the burly blacksmith along by the
hand as she raced down the hill. He asked where they were going, but she
didn't answer. She wanted to get down there before the light was gone.
When they reached the plaza, guards were patrolling up at the top of
the steps, keeping everyone off the plaza. Nicci saw Ishaq nearby, loading
long planks in a wagon. She called to him, and, seeing the blacksmith with
her, he ran over.
"Nicci! What is it? You look a frightful-"
"I have to show you both the statue. Now."
Victor's scowl grew. "It will be unveiled tomorrow when Richard-"
"No! You must see it now."
They both fell silent. Ishaq leaned close as he gestured covertly.
"We can't go up there. It's guarded."
"I can." Nicci angrily wiped the tears from her cheeks. Her voice
regained the quality of grave authority she had wielded so often, that dark
intonation that had passed judgment on countless lives, and sent people to
their death. "Wait here."
Both men pulled back at the menace in her eyes.
Nicci straightened her back. She lifted her chin. She was a Sister of
the Dark.
She ascended the steps in a measured pace, as if the palace were hers.
It was. She was the Slave Queen. These men were hers to command.
She was Death's Mistress.
The guards approached her warily, sensing that the woman in black was a
threat. Before they could speak, she spoke first.
"What are you doing here?" she hissed.
"What are we doing here?" one asked. "We're guarding the emperor's
palace, that's what we're doing-"
"How dare you talk back to me. Do you know who I am?"
"Well . . . I don't think I-"
"Death's Mistress. Perhaps you have heard of me?"
All dozen men straightened. She saw their eyes take in the black dress
again, then her long blond hair, her blue eyes. By their reaction to what
they saw, it was obvious to Nicci that her reputation preceded her. Before
they could say another word, she spoke again.
"And what do you suppose Emperor Jagang's consort is doing here? Do you
suppose I came without my master? Of course not, you idiots!"
"The emperor. . ." several mumbled together in shock.
"That's right, the emperor is arriving for the dedication tomorrow. I
have come to make my own examination, first, and what do I find? Idiots!
Here you stand, with your thumbs in your ears, while you should be standing
to greet His Excellency as he arrives into the city mere hours from now."
The guards' eyes widened. "But . . . no one told us. Where is he coming
in? We haven't been informed-"
"Arid do you suppose a man as important as Jagang wishes his
whereabouts to be known for any assassin in the neighborhood to find him?
And if there are assassins about, here you fools stand!"
All the men bowed urgently.
"Where?" the sergeant asked. "Where is His Excellency arriving?"
"He's arriving from the north."
The man licked his lips. "But, but, which road from the north? There
are any number of routes-"
Nicci planted her fists on her hips. "Do you suppose His Excellency is
going to announce his route beforehand? And to the likes of you? If only one
road was guarded, then any assassin would know where to expect the emperor,
now wouldn't they? All the roads are to be guarded! And here you stand,
instead!"
The men bobbed and bowed nervously, wanting to leave to do their duty,
but not knowing where to go.
Nicci gritted her teeth and leaned toward the sergeant. "Get your men
out to one of the north roads. Now. That is you duty. All the roads are to
be guarded. Pick one!"
The men bowed repeatedly as they sidestepped away. After scurrying only
a few feet, they broke into a dead run. She watched them collect other
guards as they went.
As they vanished out of the plaza, Nicci turned to the two startled
men. They climbed the stairs, now unhindered by guards. Some of the people
treading the cobblestone paths, come to look at the carvings on the walls,
had heard yelling and turned to watch what she was doing. Women on their
knees, praying up at the carvings in stone of the Light shining down on
depraved people, looked over their shoulders.
As Victor and Ishaq reached the top of the plaza, Nicci untied the
line, grabbed the linen in her fists, and ripped the shroud off the statue.
Both men stopped in their tracks.
In a half circle around the plaza, the walls were covered with the
story of man's inadequacy. All around them, man was shown small, depraved,
deformed, impotent,
terrified, cruel, mindless, wicked, greedy, corrupt, and sinful. He was
depicted forever torn between otherworldly forces controlling every aspect
of his miserable existence, an existence incomprehensible in its caldron of
churning evil, with death his only escape into salvation.
Those who had found virtue in this world, under the protection of the
Creator's Light, looked lifeless, their faces without emotion, without
awareness, their bodies as unbending as cadavers. They stared out at the
world through a vacant, mindless stupor, while all around them danced rats,
through their legs wriggled snakes, and over their heads flew vultures.
In the vortex of this torrent of tortured life, this cataclysm of
corruption, this depravity and debauchery, rose up Richard's statue in bold,
glowing opposition.
It was a devastating indictment of all around it.
The mass and weight of the ugliness surrounding Richard's statue seemed
to shrink back into insignificance. The evil of the wall carvings seemed now
to be crying out at their own dishonesty in the face of incorruptible beauty
and truth.
The two figures in the center posed in a state of harmonious balance.
The man's body displayed a proud masculinity. Though the woman was clothed,
there was no doubt as to her femininity. They both reflected a love of the
human form as sensuous, noble, and pure. The evil all around seemed as if it
was recoiling in terror of that noble purity.
More than that, though, Richard's statue existed without conflict; the
figures showed awareness, rationality, and purpose. This was a manifestation
of human power, ability, intent. This was life lived for its own sake. This
was mankind standing proudly of his own free will.
This was exactly what the single word at the bottom named it:
LIFE
That it existed was proof of the validity of the concept.
This was life as it should be lived-proud, reasoned, and a slave to no
other man. This was the rightful exaltation of the individual, the nobility
of the human spirit.
Everything on the walls all around offered death as its answer.
This offered life.
Victor and Ishaq were on their knees, weeping.
The blacksmith lifted his arms up toward the statue before him,
laughing as tears ran down his face.
"He did it. He has done as he said he would. Flesh in stone. Nobility.
Beauty."
People who had come to see the other carvings, now began gathering to
see what stood in the center of the plaza. They stared with wide eyes, many
seeing for the first time the concept of man as virtuous in his own right.
The statement was so powerful that it alone invalidated everything up on the
walls. That it had been carved by man underscored its veracity.
Many of them saw it with the same understanding Nicci had.
The carvers wandered away from their work to come see what stood in the
plaza. The masons came down from the scaffolding. The tenders set down their
mortar buckets. The carpenters climbed down from their work at setting
beams. The tilers laid aside their chisels. The drivers picketed their
horses. Men digging and planting the surrounding grounds set down their
shovels. They came from all directions toward the statue in the plaza.
People flowed up the steps in ever expanding ranks. They flooded around
the statue, gazing in awe. Many fell to their knees weeping, not in misery
as they had
before, but with joy. Many, like the blacksmith, laughed, as tears of
delight ran down their happy faces. A few covered their eyes in fear.
As people took it in, they began to run off to get others. Soon, men
were coming down from the shops on the hill to see what stood in the plaza.
Men and women who had come to watch the construction now ran off home to get
loved ones, to bring them to see what stood at the emperor's palace.
It was something the like of which most of these people had never in
their lives seen.
It was vision to the blind.
It was water to the thirsty.
It was life to the dying.
Kahlan pulled her map out and took a quick look. It was hard to tell
for sure. She glanced up and down the road and noted that the other
buildings were not quite as well kept.
"What do you think?" Cara asked in a low voice.
Kahlan slipped the map back inside her mantle. She snugged the fur up
over her shoulders a little, making sure it covered the hilt of Richard's
sword she wore strapped behind her shoulder. Her own sword was hidden under
her cloak. At least the sun had just gone down.
"I don't know. We don't have much light left. I guess there's only one
way to be sure."
Cara eyed the people who looked their way. For the most part, everyone
in the city seemed remarkably incurious. With their horses stabled outside
of the city, there would not be any swift escape if they needed to get away.
The general indifference of people, though, somewhat eased Kahlan's concern.
They had decided to simply be as aloof and casual as possible. She had
thought they looked pretty simple in their traveling clothes, but in a place
as drab as Altur'Rang, the two of them had a hard time being inconspicuous.
In retrospect, she wished they would have had the time to find something
shabby to wear. Kahlan felt they were about as inconspicuous as a pair of
painted whores at a country farm fair.
She climbed the stairs to the place as if she knew where she was going
and belonged there. Inside, the hallway was clean. It had the smell of
freshly scrubbed wood floors. With Cara close at her heels, Kahlan moved
down to the first door on the right. She could see the stairway farther down
the hall. If this was the correct building, this would be the proper door.
Looking both ways, Kahlan gently rapped on the door. No answer came.
She knocked again, a little louder. She tried the knob, but it was locked.
After checking the hall again, she pulled a knife from her belt and worked
it under the molding, springing it out until the door popped open. She
grabbed Cara's sleeve and pulled the woman in with her.
Inside, they both struck a pose prepared to fight. There was no one in
the room. In the light coming in from two windows, Kahlan saw first that
there were two sleeping pallets. What she saw next was Richard's pack.
Kneeling on the floor in the far corner, she flipped back the flap and
saw his things inside-his war wizard's clothes were in the bottom. Near
tears, she clutched the pack to her chest.
It had been over a year since she had seen him. For almost half the
time she had known him, he had been gone from her. It seemed she could not
endure another moment.
Kahlan heard a sudden noise. Cara seized the wrist of a young man as he
charged in brandishing a knife. In one fluid motion she had his arm twisted
behind his back.
Kahlan thrust her hand into the air. "Cara! No."
Cara made a sour face as she lowered her Agiel from the young man's
throat. His eyes were wide with both fear, and indignation.
"Thieves! You're thieves! That's not yours! Put it back!"
Kahlan rushed to the youth, motioning for him to keep his voice down.
"Is your name Kamil, or Nabbi?"
The young man blinked in surprise. He licked his lips as he glanced
over his shoulder at the woman towering above him.
"I'm Kamil. Who are you? How do you know my name?"
"I'm a friend. Gadi told me-"
"Then you're no friend!"
Before he could scream for help, Cara clamped a hand over his mouth.
Kahlan shushed him. "Gadi murdered a friend of ours. After we captured
him, Gadi told me your name."
When she saw that he was taken aback by the news, Kahlan signaled for
Cara to lower her hand.
"Gadi killed someone?"
"That's right," Cara said.
He stole a quick glance over his shoulder. "What did you do to him? To
Gadi?" "We put him to death," Kahlan said, not revealing the full extent of
the deed.
The young man smiled. "Then you really are friends. Gadi is a bad
person. He hurt my friend. I hope he suffered."
"It took him a long time to die," Cara said.
The young man swallowed when he saw her grin from over his shoulder.
Kahlan gestured and Cara released him.
"So, who are you two?" he asked.
"My name is Kahlan, and this is Cara."
"So, what are you doing here?"
"That's a little complicated, but we're looking for Richard."
His suspicion returned. "Yeah?"
Kahlan smiled. He was indeed Richard's friend. She put her hand to the
side of his shoulder as she held his gaze.
"I'm his wife. His real wife."
Kamil blinked dumbly. "But, but-,,
Kahlan's voice hardened. "Nicci isn't his wife." -
His eyes brimmed with tears as a grin overcame him. "I knew it. I knew
he didn't love her. I could never understand how Richard could have married
her."
Kamil suddenly threw his arms around Kahlan, hugging her with fierce
happiness for Richard. Kahlan laughed softly as she smoothed the young man's
hair. Cara seized his collar and pulled him back, but at least did it
gently.
"And you?" Kamil asked Cara.
"I am Mord-"
"Cara is Richard's good friend."
Kamil unexpectedly hugged Cara, then. Kahlan feared the Mord-Sith might
crush his skull, but she endured it politely, even if she was ill at ease.
Kahlan thought Cara might even have started to smile.
Kamil turned back to Kahlan. "But what is Richard doing with Nicci,
then?"
Kahlan took a deep breath. "It's a long story."
"Tell me."
Kahlan appraised his dark eyes for a moment. She liked what she saw
there. Still, she thought it best to keep it simple.
"Nicci is a sorceress. She used magic to force Richard to go with her."
"Magic? What magic?" he pressed without pause.
Kahlan took another breath. "She could have used her magic to hurt me,
kill me, if Richard didn't agree to go with her."
Kamil gazed skyward as he thought it over. He finally nodded. "That
makes sense. That's the kind of man Richard is-he would do anything to save
the woman he loved. I knew he didn't love Nicci."
"And how did you know that?"
Kamil gestured at the two pallets. "He didn't sleep with her. I bet he
slept with you, when you were together."
Kahlan could feel her face flushing at his boldness. "How do you know
that?"
"I don't know." He scratched his head. "You just look like you belong
with him. When you say his name I can see how you care for him."
Kahlan couldn't help but smile through her weariness. They had been
riding at a breakneck pace for weeks. They had lost a few horses along the
way, and had to acquire others. They had gone with little sleep for the last
week. She had trouble even thinking straight.
"So, do you know where Richard is, now?" Kahlan asked.
"At work, I'm sure. He usually comes home about now-unless he has to
work at night, too."
Kahlan briefly scanned the room. "What about Nicci?"
"I don't know. She may have gone to buy bread or something. It's a
little funny-she's usually home long before now. She almost always has
dinner ready for Richard."
Kahlan's gaze drifted through the darkening room, from table, to basin,
to cupboard. She would hate to leave, only to have him show up a minute
after she left. Kamil thought it was odd that Nicci wasn't home. That they
were both gone was troubling.
"Where does he work?" Kahlan asked.
"At the site."
"Site? What site?"
Kamil gestured into the distance. "Out at the emperor's new palace
they're building. Tomorrow's the big dedication."
"The new palace is done?"
"Oh, no. It's years and years from being done. It's only started,
really. But they are going to dedicate it to the Creator, now. A lot of
people have come to Altur'Rang for the ceremony."
"Richard is a laborer helping build the palace?"
Kamil nodded. "He's a carver. At least, he is now. He used to work at
Ishaq's transport company, but then he got arrested-"
Kahlan seized him by the shirt. "He was arrested? They . . . tortured
him?"
Kamil's eyes turned away from her frantic expression.
"I gave Nicci my money so she could get in to see him. She and Ishaq
and Victor the blacksmith got him out. He was hurt bad. When he got better,
the officials made him take a job carving."
Kamil's words spun through her head. The ones that floated above all
the rest were that Richard had recovered.
"He carves statues, now?"
Kamil nodded again. "He carves people in stone to decorate the walls of
the palace. He helps me with my own carvings. I can show you, out back."
Wonder of wonders. Richard carving. But all the carvings they had seen
in the Old World were grotesque. Richard would not like to carve such
ugliness. Obviously, he had no choice.
"Maybe later." Kahlan rubbed her fingers across her brow as she
considered what to do. "Can you take me there, now? To the site where
Richard works?"
"Yes, if you'd like. But don't you want to wait to see if he comes
home, first? He may be home soon."
"You said he works at night, sometimes."
"For the last few months, he worked at night a lot. He's carving some
special statue for them." Kamil's face brightened. "He told me to go
tomorrow to see it. With the dedication tomorrow, it may be he's still
finishing it. I've never seen where he works, but Victor, the blacksmith,
may know."
"We should go see this blacksmith, then."
Kamil scratched his head again as his expression turned to
disappointment. "But the blacksmith will be gone for the night."
"Is there anyone else out there, now?"
"There may be a lot of people there. Crowds go out there to see the
place-I've gone out there myselfand tonight there may be more than usual,
because of tomorrow's ceremony."
That might be just what they needed. They wouldn't look so out of place
searching the area for Richard if there were crowds out there. It would give
them an excuse to look around.
"We'll give him an hour," Kahlan said. "If he doesn't return by then,
then it's most likely because he's working. If he doesn't come back, we'll
have to go out there and look for him."
"What if Nicci shows up?" Cara asked.
Kamil waved his hand to dismiss their concern. "I'll go out on the
front steps and watch for Nicci. You two can wait in here, where no one will
see you. I'll come warn you if I see Nicci coming up the street. I can
always take you out the back way if I see her returning home."
Kahlan laid a hand over his shoulder and gave it a squeeze.
"That sounds good to me, Kamil. We'll wait in here." Kamil hurried out
to his guard post. Kahlan glanced around the tidy room.
"Why don't you get some sleep," Cara said. "I'll stand guard. You stood
guard last."
Kahlan was exhausted. She glanced down at the sleeping pallet closest
to Richard's things, then nodded. She lay down on his bed. The room was
getting dark. Just being where he slept was a comfort. Being so close, but
so far, she couldn't fall asleep.
--]----
Nicci's heart sank when she saw that Richard wasn't in their room.
Kamil was nowhere to be found. She had felt so good out at the site,
watching all the people
come to see Richard's statue. Throngs of people had come to see it and
had been uplifted.
Some had been angered by it. She, of all people, understood that.
Still, Nicci could hardly believe the hateful reaction of some people to
such beauty. Some people hated life. She understood that, too. There were
those who refused to see-who didn't want to see.
Other people, though, had a reaction much like hers.
It had all come clear for her. For the first time in her life, life
made sense. Richard had tried to tell her, but she hadn't listened. She had
heard the truth before, too, but others-her mother, Brother Narev, the
Order-had shouted it down, and shamed her out of listening.
Her mother had trained her well, and from the first day she had seen
Brother Narev, Nicci had been a soldier in the Order's army.
When she saw the statue, she saw at last the truth she had always
refused to see, suddenly and clearly standing before her. This was the valid
vision of life for which she had hungered, yet which she had evaded, her
entire life.
She understood, now, why life had seemed so empty, so pointless: she
herself had rendered it so in refusing to think. Nicci had been a slave to
everyone of need. She had given her masters their only real weapon against
her; she had surrendered to their twisted lies by putting the crippling
chains of guilt around her own neck for them, giving herself freely into
slavery to the whims and wishes of others instead of living her life as she
should have-for herself. She had never asked why it was right for her to be
a slave to another's desires, but not evil for them to enslave her. She was
not contributing to the betterment of mankind, but was merely a servant to
countless puling little tyrants. Evil was not one large entity, but a
ceaseless torrent of small wrongs left unchallenged, until they festered
into monsters.
She had lived her whole life on shifting quicksand, where reason and
the intellect were not to be trusted, where only faith was valid, and blind
faith was sacred. She, herself, had enforced mindless conformity to that
empty evil.
She had helped bring everyone together, so they might have one
collective neck around which the worst among men, in the name of good, could
put their leash.
Richard had answered their tower of empty lies in one righteously
beautiful statement for all to see, and had punctuated it with the simple
words on the back of the bronze sundial.
Her life was hers to live by right. She belonged to no one.
Freedom exists first and foremost in the mind of the rational, thinking
individual-that was what Richard's statue had shown her. That he had carved
it, proved it. A captive of her and the Order, his ideals had risen above
both.
Nicci realized only now that she had always known her father held this
same value-she had seen it in his eyes-even though he could never
rationalize it. His values were expressed through the integrity of his work;
that was why, from a young age, she had wanted to be an armorer like him. It
was his vision of life she had always loved and admired, but suppressed,
because of Mother and her ilk. It was that same look in Richard's eyes, that
same value for life held dear, that had drawn Nicci to him.
Nicci knew now that she had worn black ever since her mother's death in
an endless, shapeless longing to bury not just her mother's hold over her,
but, more important, her mother's evil ideals.
She was so sorry Richard wasn't home. She wanted to tell him that he
had given
her the answer she had sought. She could never ask his forgiveness,
though. What she had done to him was beyond forgiveness. She saw that now.
The only thing she could do now was to reverse the wrong she had done.
As soon as she found him, they would leave. They would go back to the
New World. They would find Kahlan. Then, Nicci would set things right. She
had to be close to Kahlan, at least within sight, in order to undo the
spell. Then Kahlan would be free. Then Richard would be free.
As much as Nicci loved Richard, she understood, now, that he should be
with Kahlan, the woman he loved. Her desire for him gave her no right to do
as she had done. She had no right to another's life, as they had no right to
hers.
Nicci lay down in her bed and wept at the thought of the outrage she
had done to them both. She was overcome with shame. She had been so blind
for so long.
She could not believe how she had thrown her entire life away fighting
for evil just because it claimed to be good. She truly had been a Sister of
the Dark.
She at least could work to correct the harm she had caused.
--]----
Kahlan could hardly believe the size of the crowd. By the light of the
moon brightening the thin layer of hazy clouds, and by torches here and
there throughout the valley, it looked like the open area as far as she
could see was packed with people. The numbers had to be in the hundreds of
thousands.
Thunderstruck, Kamil threw up his arms. "It's the middle of the night.
I've never seen so many people out here. What are they all doing here?"
"How would we know?" Cara sniped. She was in a foul mood, unhappy that
they hadn't found Richard, yet.
The city had been crowded with people, too. With the city guards
prowling the streets, uneasy about all the late-night activity, it had been
necessary to restrain their eagerness in favor of caution. It had taken them
hours to get out to the site by way of back streets, dark roads, and Kamil's
guided tour of alleyways.
The lad pointed. "It's up there."
They followed him up a road lined with workshops, most closed up and
dark. A few had men inside, still working at benches by the light of lamps
or candles.
Kahlan reached under her cloak and curled her fingers around the hilt
of her sword when she saw a man running in their direction. He saw them and
skidded to a halt.
"Have you seen it?"
"Seen what?" Kahlan asked.
He pointed excitedly. "Down at the palace. In the plaza." He started
running again. He called behind as he went. "I have to go get my wife and
sons. They have to see it."
Kahlan and Cara shared a look in the near darkness.
Kamil ran over to a shop and tugged on a door, but it was shut up
tight. "Victor isn't here." His voice couldn't conceal his disappointment.
"It's too late."
"Do you know what's down in the plaza?" Kahlan asked him.
He thought a moment. "The plaza? I know the place, but . . . wait,
that's where Richard told me to go. The plaza. He said to go to the plaza
tomorrow."
"Let's go down there now and have a look," Kahlan said.
Kamil waved a hand, pointing. "This is the shortest way, down the hill
behind the blacksmith shop."
So jammed was the place with people, that it took them over an hour
just to make it down the hill and across the expanse of grounds around the
palace. Even though it was the middle of the night, more people kept
arriving all the time.
Once they reached the palace, Kahlan discovered that they couldn't get
to the plaza. There was a huge mob of people stretching back forever along
the front wall, waiting to go up to the plaza. When Kahlan, Cara, and Kamil
tried to go around and get up there to see what was going on, it nearly
started a riot. People had been waiting a long time to reach the plaza, and
they didn't like having others try to push ahead. Kahlan saw several men try
to get ahead by going around the waiting crowd. They were set upon by the
mob.
Cara pulled her hand out from under her cloak and casually showed
Kahlan her Agiel.
Kahlan shook her head. "Long odds with Jagang's army are one thing, but
the three of us against a few hundred thousand does not sound good to me."
"Really?" Cara asked. "I thought it roughly even."
Kahlan only smiled. Even Cara knew better than to go against a mob.
Kamil frowned in puzzlement at Cara's humor. When they found the back of the
line, they melted in.
It wasn't long before the line behind them grew so large that they
could no longer see the back end winding out into the grounds. The people
all around seemed filled with a strange kind of nervous expectancy.
A round woman in front, bundled up in little more than rags, turned a
plump grin on them. She held out what looked like a loaf of bread.
"Would you like some?" she asked.
"Thank you, no," Kahlan said. "But that's very kind of you to offer."
"I've never made such an offer, before." The woman giggled. "Seems the
right thing to do, now, doesn't it?"
Kahlan had no idea what the woman was talking about, but said, "Yes, it
does."
Throughout the night, the line inched along. Kahlan's back ached
painfully. She even saw Cara grimace as she stretched.
"I still think we just ought to draw weapons and get up there," Cara
finally complained.
Kahlan leaned in close. "What difference does it make? Where have we to
go before morning? When morning comes, we can go up to the blacksmith's
place or to the carving areas over there and hopefully find Richard, but we
can do nothing tonight."
"Maybe he will be at his room, now."
"You want to run into Nicci again? You know what she's capable of. The
next time we may not be so lucky to escape. We haven't come all this way to
battle her-I just want to see Richard. Even if Richard goes back there-and
we don't know that he will-we do know he's got to return here in the
morning."
"I suppose," Cara grouched.
The sky was taking on a faint reddish glow by the time they made it to
the foot of the marble steps. They could hear moaning and wailing up ahead.
Kahlan couldn't see the cause, but people up on the plaza were weeping
freely. Oddly enough, some people could be heard to laugh joyfully. A few
others cursed, as if they had been robbed of their life savings at the point
of a knife.
As they slowly made their way up the steps, Kahlan and Cara tried to
stay low behind the people surrounding them so as not to draw attention to
themselves. The plaza above was lit by dozens of torches, their flickering
light giving an indication of the vastness of the crowds. The smell of the
burning pitch mixed sourly with the stale sweat of the packed multitude.
Through a momentary gap between people in front of her, Kahlan snatched
a
quick glance ahead. She blinked at what she saw, but it was gone almost
as fast as she saw it, screened by the throng. The people ahead wept some,
it sounded, with joy.
Kahlan began to make out the polite voices of men asking the crowd to
keep moving, imploring them to give others a chance. The ragtag collection
of people steadily advanced up onto the white marble of the plaza, like
beggars at a coronation. The torchlight was finally being replaced by
radiant daylight as the sun cleared the horizon. Golden rays washed the face
of the palace.
The scenes carved in the stone up on the walls were disturbing. If they
were any different from the others she had seen in the Old World, it was
only in that they were more gruesome, more horrifying, more desolately
hopeless, and more plentiful.
Kahlan's mind played over the lines of her statue of Spirit. The idea
of Richard having to carve such things as she saw up on the walls sickened
her.
She felt a sense of gloom overcoming her. This was the Order: pain,
suffering, death. This was what was in store for the New World at the hands
of these monsters. She couldn't take her eyes from the scenes on the walls,
from the fate that awaited the people of her homeland-the fate so many
blindly embraced.
Then, all of a sudden, as the people shuffled around and past, Kahlan
beheld the white marble figures rising up before her. The sight took her
breath in a gasp. The rays of dawn lit them as if the sun itself had risen
just to caress the lustrous forms in all their glory.
Cara gripped Kahlan's arm, her fingers digging in painfully as she,
too, was taken by the sight. The statue of the man and woman seized Kahlan's
imagination with their nobility of spirit.
She felt tears run down her cheeks, and then she was weeping openly,
like the people around her, at the majesty, the dignity, the beauty, of what
stood before her. It was everything the carvings on the walls all around
were not. It offered freely everything they denied.
LIFE, it said at the base.
Kahlan had to gasp through her tears to draw breath. She clutched at
Cara's arm, and Cara clutched at hers, the two of them holding on to each
other for support as the crowd swept them along in a current of shared
emotion. The man in the statue was not Richard, but there was much of
Richard in it. The woman was not Kahlan, but there was enough of her form in
it that Kahlan felt her face flushing at others seeing it.
"Please look and move along so that others may view it too," the men at
the sides kept calling. They weren't wearing uniforms; they were as
tattered-looking as everyone else. They appeared to be ordinary citizens who
had just stepped in to help.
The woman who had offered the bread fell to her knees in wailing. Arms
respectfully lifted her and helped her to move on. The woman, living in the
Old World, had probably never seen a thing of such beauty.
As Kahlan shuffled around the statue, unable to take her eyes from it,
she reached
out to touch it, as did everyone else. As she was carried past, her
fingers met the smooth flesh in stone, knowing it was also where Richard's
fingers had been. She wept all the harder.
As she moved past, Kahlan saw then that the curve of the sundial had
words on the back:
"Your life is yours alone. Rise up and live it."
The words were visible on the lips of many who saw them.
The crowd kept coming up the steps, forcing the people around the
statue to move on. Men at the rear guided people between the columns, out
through the rear of the partially built palace, and out of the way so that
others could come up to view the statue.
"I wish Benjamin could see this," Cara said, her blue eyes brimming
with tears.
Kahlan was overcome with a burble of laughter. "I was going to say, `I
wish Richard could see it.""
Cara laughed with her as they were swept away by the river of people.
Kamil grabbed Kahlan's hand. She saw him take Cara's, too.
"Yeah," he said with authority, "Richard carved it."
"Where to?" Kahlan asked him. "Where do you think we can find him?"
"I guess we should make our way back up to the blacksmith's place.
Hopefully, Richard will show up there. If not, maybe Victor will know where
he is."
Kamil's words, "Richard carved it," rang joyfully through her mind.
Richard climbed through the high window and dropped to the ground, his
boots hitting with a thud. He could hardly believe he had slept the whole
night under a tarp in the back of a wagon. He could hardly believe that Jori
didn't wake him so he could go home when they were close. The man probably
didn't think it was his job, and so he wouldn't do it. Richard sighed. Maybe
Jori hadn't known he was in the back.
Richard brushed himself off. He stood outside the transport company
building where he used to work when he had first come to Altur'Rang, and
where he had been locked in all night. Of course, he had been asleep, so he
didn't know Jori had locked him inside.
Richard didn't know where to go-home, or to the Retreat. The sky glowed
orange and violet in the bright sunrise. He supposed there was no point in
going home; that would only make him late to work. He decided he had better
get to work.
Work. What work? This was the day of the celebration, the dedication.
When Brother Narev saw the statue, Richard was not going to have to worry
about work anymore.
He knew that if he ran, tried to escape, it would only trigger Nicci's
anger, and then Kahlan's life would be forfeit. Richard had spent over a
year with Nicci-as long a time as he had spent with Kahlanand Nicci
repeatedly had made clear his choices. Kahlan's life was always the price in
the balance.
Richard had no real choice. At least he would get to see Victor's face
when he saw the statue. Richard smiled at that thought. It was the only
pleasant prospect the day held.
The day was most likely to end in the wet dark hole where he had been
before. He missed a step at that thought. He didn't want to go back into
that place. It was so small. Richard didn't like being trapped-especially in
small places. He didn't like either of those concepts; together, they were
terrifying.
As fearful as the prospect of such a fate was, he had carved the statue
with conscious intent and with forethought, knowing the probability of the
eventual price. What he had accomplished was worth that price. Slavery was
not life. Nicci had once promised him that if he died, or chose death, that
would in itself be her answer, and she would not harm Kahlan. Now, Richard
could only put his faith in that promise.
The statue existed. That was what mattered. Life existed. People needed
to see that. So many people in the Old World needed to see that life
existed, and was to be lived.
For so early in the morning, there was an unusual amount of activity on
the streets of Altur'Rang. Now and again, squads of heavily armed city
guards rushed
down the streets. There were a lot of people come to the city for the
dedication celebration. He supposed that was why there were so many people
out on the streets.
The guards paid him no attention. He knew they soon would.
When he arrived at the Retreat, Richard was shocked by what he saw. The
open miles of grounds were covered with people. They crowded in around the
palace walls like ants around spilled honey. He couldn't even begin to
estimate how many people blanketed the surrounding hills. It was
disorienting to see the panoply of color where before he had seen only brown
dirt and green winter rye. He had no idea that this many people had wanted
to come to the dedication. But then, he had been working day and night for
months--how would he hear what people planned?
Richard skirted the worst of the throngs and made his way up the road
toward the blacksmith's shop. He wanted to get Victor and go down with him
to the site to see the statue before the Order came out to begin the
dedication. Victor would no doubt be eagerly waiting.
The road was crowded with people. They seemed excited, happy, and
expectant. It was a far cry from the way most people in the Old World
usually appeared or behaved. Maybe a celebration, even one such as this, was
better than the rest of their dreary days.
A half mile from Victor's place, a wild-looking Brother Neal leaped
into the road and thrust an arm in Richard's direction.
"There he is! Grab him!"
Guards combing throughout the surrounding crowds drew weapons at Neal's
command. As they swept in around him, Richard's first instinct was to fight.
In an instant, he had assessed the enemy and calculated his attack. He had
only to grab one sword from a clumsy guard and he would have them all. In
his own mind, the grisly deed was already done. He had only to bring it to
reality.
The guards came at him in a dead run. People scattered out of the way,
some screaming in fright.
There was the matter of Neal, though. Neal was a wizard. But Richard
could deal with that threat, too-need powered his ability. Need, and anger.
He certainly had enough anger for the task. That part of him that the Sword
of Truth used, that rage of dark violence, already thundered through him.
Except that Nicci had told him that if he used his magic, Kahlan would
die. Would she know?
Sooner or later, she would.
Richard stood submissively still as the guards roughly seized him by
his arms to subdue him. Others snatched his shirt from behind.
What did it really matter? If he resisted, it would only hurt Kahlan.
If they executed him, Nicci would let Kahlan live her life.
But he didn't want to go back into that dark hole.
Neal raced up, shaking a finger in Richard's face. "What is the meaning
of this, Cypher! What did you think you were going to accomplish!"
"May I ask what are you talking about, Brother Neal?"
Neal's face was crimson. "The statue!"
"What, you don't like it?"
With all his might, Neal slammed his fist into Richard's middle. The
guards holding him laughed. Richard had seen it coming and had tightened his
muscles, but it still drove the wind from him. He finally managed to draw
his breath.
Neal found that he enjoyed administering punishment, and did it again.
"Oh, you're going to pay for your blasphemy, Cypher. You're going to
pay the price, this time. You'll confess to it all, before we're done. But
first, you'll watch your wicked perversion destroyed." Neal, his face
twisted with superior, selfrighteous indignation, gestured to the burly
guards. "Let's get him down there. And don't be shy about making way through
the crowd."
By midmorning, Kahlan's hopes of the blacksmith showing up had all but
vanished.
"I'm sorry," Kamil said, looking glum as he watched her pace. "I don't
know why Victor isn't here. I thought he would be, I really did."
Kahlan finally halted and gave the worried lad a pat on the shoulder.
"I know you did, Kamil. With the celebration today, and with what's going on
down there with the statue, this is hardly a normal day around here, I'm
sure."
"Look," Cara said. Kahlan saw she was peering down toward the palace.
"Guards with spears are moving the crowd off the plaza."
Kahlan squinted off down at the hill. "Your eyes are better than mine.
I can't tell." She cast a frustrated glare at the closed blacksmith's shop.
"But it's doing us no good waiting up here. Let's see if we can make it down
there and get a better look." Kahlan put a restraining hand on Cara's arm.
"But let's not start a war with this crowd?"
Cara's mouth twisted in exasperation. Kahlan turned to the young man
kicking a toe at the dirt, looking shamed by his failed plan to help them
find Richard.
"Kamil, will you do something for me?"
"Sure. What?"
"Will you wait up here, in case Richard comes here, or even the
blacksmith? If the blacksmith comes to his shop, he might know something."
Kamil stretched his neck and gazed down at the palace. "Well, all
right. If Richard does come here, I wouldn't want him to miss you. What
shall I tell him, if I see him.
Kahlan smiled. That I love him, she thought, but said instead, "Tell
him I'm here, with Cara, and we've gone down there looking for him. If he
does show up, I don't want to miss him. Have him wait here-we'll come back."
Kahlan thought they could make it down to the plaza to have a look, but
everyone else seemed to have the same idea. It took forever just to make it
down the hill to the grounds. The closer they got, the tighter the people
were jammed together. Kahlan's progress ground to a halt. It was a struggle
just to keep contact with Cara. Everyone in the crowd seemed intent on
squeezing forward toward the plaza. More people crushed in all the time.
Kahlan soon realized that she and Cara were trapped in the press of
people.
The conversation on everyone's lips was about only one thing: the
statue.
--]----
It was late in the day by the time Nicci had worked herself partway
toward the plaza. Every inch gained had been a struggle. She was close
enough to see the people up around the statue, but she could get no closer.
Try as she might, she could not make any more headway. Just like her,
everyone else wanted to get closer, too. They were pressed up against her,
pinning her arms. It was at times a frightening, helpless
feeling. She managed to pull one arm free so she could help herself
maintain her balance. It came to her that to fall in such circumstances
could be fatal.
If only she had her power.
Her own arrogance had driven her to trading it away. What she had
gotten in return, though, was life. But it had cost Richard and Kahlan their
freedom. Nicci couldn't simply withdraw her power from the link, in order to
have use of her gift again, or Kahlan would die. Nicci didn't want her life
at the cost of another's-that was what she had come to understand was true
evil.
Nicci had searched for Richard. She hadn't found him. She hadn't been
able to find the blacksmith, Mr. Cascella, or Ishaq, either. As soon as she
could find Richard, she could tell him that she had been wrong, and then
they could leave Altur'Rang. She wanted so much to see his face when she
told him she was taking him back to Kahlan and that she was going to reverse
the spell. Of all people, they were the last who should have to suffer for
what Nicci had learned.
The only place left that she could think to look for him was at the
statue. He might be there. Try as she might, though, she couldn't get any
closer. Now, she realized that she probably couldn't even extract herself
from the crush of hundreds of thousands of people around her. There had to
be well over a half million people in the huge throng around the palace.
And then, Nicci saw Brother Narev and his disciples appear up on the
plaza, all in their dark brown robes, Brother Narev in his creased cap, the
rest with their faces hidden in deeply cowled hoods. Crowding the rear of
the plaza were a few hundred officials of the Order who had traveled in to
attend the palace dedication-important men, all.
If only she had her power, she could have killed them where they stood.
It was then that she caught a fleeting glimpse of Richard behind the.
officials, with guards surrounding him. The whole central area around the
plaza was thick with the surly guards.
Brother Narev stepped out to the edge of the plaza, all angles under
dark robes. Beneath his creased cap, beneath his hooded brow, his dark gaze
swept the assembly. The people were in a noisy, emotional state. Brother
Narev did not look pleased, but then, Brother Narev never looked pleased.
Pleasure, he would say, was wicked. He raised his anus, commanding silence.
When the crowd quieted, he began in that terrible grating voice of his,
a voice that had haunted her from that day in her house when she was little,
that voice that she had allowed to rule her mind, that voice that, along
with her mother's, had done her thinking for her.
"Fellow citizens of the Order. We have a special event planned for you
today. Today, we bring you the spectacle of temptation . . . and more."
His arm glided back toward the statue. His long thin fingers opened.
His voice rumbled with revulsion. "Evil, itself."
The crowd murmured uneasily. Brother Narev smiled, the thin slash of
his mouth pleating back his hollow cheeks as he grinned like death's own
skull. His eyes were as dark as his robes. The setting sun was fleeing the
scene, taking clarity, leaving behind the tremors of flickering light from
the dozens of torches to cast their flickering orange light across the
massive columns towering behind the plaza, and the weak light of the moon to
wash the faces of the grim officials. The air, so cloying with the heavy
scents of the crowd, had turned chill.
"Fellow citizens of the Order," Brother Narev said in a voice that
Nicci thought
might crack the stone walls, "today you will see what happens to evil,
when confronted by the virtue of the Order."
He hooked a skeletal finger, signaling behind the heads of the
officials. Guards muscled Richard forward. Nicci cried out, but her voice
was lost in the clamor of tens of thousands of other voices.
Brother Neal swaggered forward, then, lugging with him a sledgehammer.
Nicci checked to the sides and saw that there were several thousand
armed guards at hand. More screened the plaza off from the people. Brother
Narev had taken no chances. Neal, with a polite smile and a deferential bow,
handed the sledgehammer to Brother Narev.
Brother Narev lifted the sledgehammer above his head as if it were a
sword held high in triumph.
"Evil, wherever it is found, must be destroyed." He aimed the weaving
head of the sledgehammer toward the statue. "This is a thing of evil,
created by an extremist who hates his fellow man, to victimize the weak. He
contributes nothing to the advancement of his fellow man, nothing to the
succor of his fellow man, nothing to the education or support of his fellow
man. He offers only lewd and profane images to prey on the susceptible and
feebleminded among us."
The crowd was silent in their bewildered disappointment. From what
Nicci could tell as she had walked among them throughout the day, they had
come to believe that this statue was some new offering by the Order to the
people-some grand thing for them to see at the emperor's palace, some bright
shining hope. They were confused and stunned by what they were hearing.
Brother Narev lifted the sledgehammer. "Before this criminal's corpse
is hung from a pole for his crimes against the Order, he is to see his vile
work destroyed to the cheers of virtuous people!"
As the sun's last ray fled below the horizon, Brother Narev lifted the
heavy sledgehammer high in the flickering light of smoking torches. The
sledgehammer wobbled momentarily at the apex of its arc before descending in
a heavy swing. The crowd sent up a collective gasp as the steel head rang
out when it struck the male statue's leg. A few small chips fell away. It
had done surprisingly little damage.
In the absolute silence, Richard laughed derisively at Brother Narev's
impotent swing.
Even from the distance, Nicci could see Brother Narev's face turning
crimson as Richard stood watching and chuckling. The crowd murmured, hardly
able to believe any man would laugh at a brother of the Order-at Brother
Narev himself.
Brother Narev could hardly believe it.
The dozens of guards who had their spears leveled at Richard could
hardly believe it.
In the tense silence, Richard's laugh echoed off the semicircle of
stone walls and soaring columns behind them. Death's grin returned. Brother
Narev lifted the sledgehammer by the head, its weight awkward in his bony
hand, and held the handle out to Richard.
"You will destroy your depraved work yourself."
The words "or you will die on the spot" were not spoken, but everyone
heard them implied.
Richard accepted the handle of the sledgehammer. He could have looked
no more noble doing so if he had been taking a jewel-encrusted sword.
Richard's raptor gaze left Brother Narev and swept out over the crowd
as he took
several strides toward the steps. Brother Narev lifted a finger,
signaling the guards to hold their spears. By the smirk on the faces of
Brothers Narev and Neal, they didn't think the crowd would care to hear
anything a sinner had to say.
"You are ruled," Richard said in a voice that rang out over the
multitude, "by mean little men."
The people gasped as one. To speak against a brother was treason, most
likely, and heresy for sure.
"My crime?" Richard asked aloud. "I have given you something beautiful
to see, daring to hold the conviction that you have a right to see it if you
wish. Worse . . . I have said that your lives are your own to live."
A rolling murmur swept out through the multitude. Richard's voice rose
in power, demanding in its clarity to be heard above the whispering.
"Evil is not one large entity, but a collection of countless, small
depravities brought up from the muck by petty men. Living under the Order,
you have traded the enrichment of vision for a gray fog of mediocrity-the
fertile inspiration of striving and growth, for mindless stagnation and slow
decay-the brave new ground of the attempt, for the timid quagmire of
apathy."
With gazes riveted and lips still, the crowd listened. Richard gestured
out over their heads with his sledgehammer, wielded with the effortless
grace of a royal sword.
"You have traded freedom not even for a bowl of soup, but worse, for
the spoken empty feelings of others who say that you deserve to have a full
bowl of soup provided by someone else.
"Happiness, joy, accomplishment, achievement . . . are not finite
commodities, to be divided up. Is a child's laughter to be divided up and
allotted? No! Simply make more laughter!"
Laughter, pleased laughter, rippled through the crowd.
Brother Narev's scowl grew. "We've heard enough of your extremist
rambling! Destroy your profane statue. Now."
Richard cocked his head. "Oh? The collective assembly of the Order, and
of brothers, fears to hear what one insignificant man could say? You fear
mere words that much, Brother Narev?"
Dark eyes stole a quick glance at the crowd as they leaned forward,
eager to hear his answer.
"We fear no words. Virtue is on our side, and will prevail. Speak your
blasphemy, so all may understand why moral people will side against you."
Richard smiled out at the people, but he spoke with brutal honesty.
"Every person's life is theirs by right. An individual's life can and
must belong only to himself, not to any society or community, or he is then
but a slave. No one can deny another person their right to their life, nor
seize by force what is produced by someone else, because that is stealing
their means to sustain their life. It is treason against mankind to hold a
knife to a man's throat and dictate how he must live his life. No society
can be more important than the individuals who compose it, or else you
ascribe supreme importance, not to man, but to any notion that strikes the
fancy of that society, at a never-ending cost of lives. Reason and reality
are the only means to just laws; mindless wishes, if given sovereignty,
become deadly masters.
"Surrendering reason to faith in these men sanctions their use of force
to enslave you-to murder you. You have the power to decide how you will live
your life.
These mean little men up here are but cockroaches, if you say they are.
They have no power to control you but that which you grant them!"
Richard pointed with the sledgehammer back at the statue. "This is
life. Your life. To live as you choose." He swept the head of the
sledgehammer in an arc, pointing out the carvings up on the walls. "This is
what the Order offers you: death."
"We've heard enough of your blasphemy!" Brother Narev shrieked.
"Destroy your evil creation now, or die!"
The spears rose.
Richard calmly swept a fearless glance around at the guards, then
stepped to his statue. Nicci's heart was pounding against her ribs. She
didn't want it destroyed. It was too good to destroy. This couldn't be
happening. They couldn't take this away.
Richard rested the sledgehammer across his shoulder. He lifted his
other hand up to the statue as he addressed the crowd one last time.
"This is what the Order is taking from you-your humanity, your
individuality, your freedom to live your own life."
Richard briefly touched the sledgehammer to his forehead.
With a mighty swing, the steel head arced around. Nicci could hear the
air whistle. The entire statue seemed to shudder as the sledgehammer struck
the base with a thunderous boom.
In a moment of brittle silence, she heard the faintest sound, the
ripping popping crackling whisper of the stone itself.
Then, the entire statue crashed down in a roar of fragments and
billowing white dust.
The officials at the back of the plaza cheered. The guards hooted and
hollered as they waved their weapons in the air.
They were the only ones. The crowd was dead silent as dust rolled out
across the plaza. All their hope, embodied in the statue, had just been
destroyed.
Nicci stared in a daze. Her throat constricted with the agony of it.
Her eyes watered. They all watched, as if having just witnessed a tragic,
pointless death.
The guards moved toward Richard with their spears leveled, prodding him
back to other guards waiting with heavy shackles.
Down closer to the steps, a clear voice rang out from the stunned
crowd. "No! We'll not stand for it!"
In the gathering darkness, Nicci saw the man who had yelled. He was up
close
to the front, furiously trying to fight his way through the press of
people to get to
the plaza. -
It was the blacksmith, Mr. Cascella.
"We'll not stand for it!" he roared. "I'll not let you enslave me any
longer! Do you hear? I'm a free man! A free man!"
The entire mass of people before the palace erupted in a deafening
roar.
And then, as one, they lunged forward.
Fists in the air, voices raised in cries of rage, the mass of humanity
avalanched toward the plaza. Ranks of heavily armed men marched down the
steps to meet the advance. They vanished beneath the onslaught.
Nicci screamed with all her might, trying to get Richard's attention,
but her voice was lost in the hurricane.
Richard didn't know what stunned him more: to see his statue in rubble,
or to see the crowd charging up the steps after Victor had declared himself
a free man.
The mob rolled without pause over armed guards descending the steps to
meet them. A number of people fell wounded or killed. The bodies were
trampled beneath the surge of people. Those in front couldn't stop if they
wanted to-the weight of tens of thousands behind them propelled them onward.
But they didn't want to stop. The roar was deafening.
The brothers panicked. The officials in the rear panicked. The few
thousand armed guards panicked. In that instant, the nature of the world
transformed from the omnipotent power of the Order assembled on the plaza,
to every man for himself.
Richard wanted Brother Narev. He saw, instead, armed men rushing in at
him. Richard swung and buried the head of the sledgehammer in the chest of a
man who came at him with sword raised high. As the man flew past, the handle
of the sledgehammer sticking from the crater in his chest, Richard snatched
the sword from his fist, and then, blade in hand, he unleashed himself.
A small group of guards saw fit to protect the brothers. Richard
charged into them, cutting with every stroke. Every slash or thrust took a
man down.
But guards were not what Richard was mainly interested in. If he was to
lose everything, he wanted Narev's head in the bargain. As he fought his way
through the chaos of people crushing into the plaza, he couldn't find
Brother Narev anywhere.
Victor appeared out of the melee gripping a brother by the hair. Other
men had joined Victor-and each had a hand on the brother. The burly
blacksmith wore a scowl that would bend iron. The brother's eyes were
rolling around as if he'd been hit on the head, and couldn't gather his
senses.
"Richard!" Victor called out.
The men, some still grasping the brother's brown robes, rushed in
around Richard. They stood in a sweep around him, ten or fifteen deep.
"What should we do with him?" one man asked.
Richard glanced around at all the people. He saw men he knew from the
site. Priska was among them, and Ishaq, too.
"Why ask me? It's your revolt." He met the eyes of the men with
challenge. "What do you think you should do with him?"
"You tell us, Richard," one of the carvers said.
Richard shook his head. "No. You tell me what you intend to do with
him. But you should know, this man is a wizard. When he comes around, he's
going to start killing people. This is a matter of life and death, and he
knows it. Do you? This is about your lives. It is for you to decide what to
do, not me."
"We want you with us this time, Richard," Priska called out. "But if
you still
won't join us, then we're having our lives back, having this revolt,
without you. That's the way it's going to be!"
The men all shook their fists as they yelled their agreement.
Victor hugged the groggy brother to his chest and wrenched his head
until his neck broke. The limp body slipped to the floor.
"And that's what we intend to do with him," Victor said.
Richard held out his hand as he smiled. "Always glad to meet a free
man." They clasped forearms. Richard looked into Victor's eyes. "I'm Richard
Rahl."
Victor blinked; then his belly laugh rolled out. With his free hand, he
clapped Richard on the side of his shoulder.
"Sure you are. We all are! You had me going for a second, there,
Richard. You really did."
The press of the crowd drove them back to the columns. Richard reached
down and snatched the dead brother's robes, pulling the body along with him.
The mass of towering stone walls and marble columns afforded some protection
from the raging river of people.
The ground shuddered. A blast from the inside blew a hole out through
the wall. The darkness ignited with light. Stone fragments whistled through
the air. Dozens of bloodied people were thrown back.
"What was that!" Victor called out through the din of screaming,
yelling, and the roar of the explosion.
Ignoring the danger, the crowd continued to advance on the men who had
enslaved them. Throngs swarmed over the spot where the statue had stood,
scooping up shards of marble. They kissed their fingers and, as they swept
past, planted those kisses on the words on the back of the fallen bronze
ring. They were choosing life.
Hordes of people had captured a number of the brothers and officials,
and were beating them to death with chunks of white marble from the rubble
of the statue.
"Brother Narev is a sorcerer," Richard said. "Victor, you have to
organize some of these men-get control of this mob. Narev can use powerful
magic. I commend people's desire to be free, but we're going to have a great
many killed and injured if we don't get this under control."
"I understand," Victor said as he fought to keep from being swept away.
A number of men who had been crowded around Richard, protecting him,
heard what he said and nodded their agreement. The commands to organize
started to spread through the crowd. These people wanted to succeed. They
were willing to work toward their goal, and saw reason in the orders
beginning to be called out. Many of these men were used to handling large
groups of workers. They knew the business of organizing men.
Richard started pulling off the dead brother's robes. "You men have to
keep these people out of the palace. Narev is in there. Anyone who goes in
could easily be killed. You have to keep people out. It will be a death trap
in there with the brothers."
"I understand," Victor said.
"We'll keep them back," men called to Richard.
Richard threw the dead brother's brown robes up over his head. Victor
snatched him by the arm. "What are you doing?"
Richard popped his head up through the neck opening. "I'm going in
there. In the darkness, Narev will think I'm a brother, and I'll be able to
get close to him." He poked his confiscated sword through the robes to hide
the blade. He covered the
hilt with his wrist. "Keep people out Narev commands dangerous magic. I
have to stop him."
"You watch yourself," Victor said.
The men who had assumed command began fanning out, urging people to
follow their orders. Some people did, and as they did, yet more followed.
With all the officials who they'd captured now dead, the mob was slowly
being brought to task, and not a moment too soon. The crushing weight of
people flooding up onto the plaza was a danger to everyone.
Passing people wept as they picked up pieces of marble from the statue,
holding the tokens of freedom and beauty to their breast as they moved on to
allow others to do the same. These were people who had been offered life,
and had taken it. They had proven themselves.
Victor saw what everyone was doing. "Richard . . . I'm so sorry-"
A fiery blast exploded through the plaza, cutting down well over a
hundred people. Bodies were ripped apart in the violence of it. A huge stone
column toppled, crushing people who couldn't get out of the way because of
the press of the throng.
"Later!" Richard yelled over the pandemonium. "I've got to stop Narev!
Keep these people out-they'll only die in there!"
Victor nodded before he rushed off with the other men he knew to try to
gain control of the situation.
Richard put the tumult and confusion behind him, and stepped through a
gaping doorway between the columns . . . into the darkness.
--]----
There were miles of unfinished corridors, some clogged with bodies. In
the first crush, as the people swept up onto the plaza, they had chased
brothers and officials into the labyrinth of the palace. Many of those
people had been unfortunate enough to find Brother Narev. The stench of
burned flesh filled Richard's nostrils as he moved silently through the
darkness.
Richard had been a woods guide long before he became the Seeker, long
before he became Lord Rahl. Darkness was his element. In his mind, he
gathered that cloak of darkness around himself.
Within the massive stone walls, under the heavy beams, partial wooden
floors, and slate roofs overhead, the riot of the crowd was a distant,
echoing rumble. Through the gaping openings of undressed doorways stood
rooms without roofs or floors above, allowing in a flood of moonlight. It
all created a tangled mesh of shadows and faint light that suggested every
form of danger.
Richard came across an older woman lying bleeding in the hall,
whimpering in agony. He bent to one knee, putting a hand gently to her
shoulder as he kept his eyes on the dark hall ahead and its sockets of
blackness to each side.
He could feel the woman trembling beneath his fingers. "Where are you
hurt?" he whispered. He pushed the hood of the robe back so that in the
moonlight coming between the unfinished beams above she could see his face.
"I'm Richard."
A smile of recognition overcame her. "Leg," she said.
She pulled her dress up. In faint light, he saw a dark wound just above
the knee. With his sword, he sliced off the hem of her dress to use as a
bandage to close the wound.
"I want to live. I wanted to help." She took the strip of cloth and
pushed his
hands away. "Thank you for cutting me the cloth. I can do it, now." She
clutched his robe, pulling him closer. "You've showed us life with your
statue. Thank you."
Richard smiled as he squeezed her shoulder.
"I was trying to get that cockroach. Will you do it?"
Richard kissed his finger and pressed the kiss to her forehead. "I
will. Bandage up your leg and lie still until we have the situation under
control; then we'll send people in to help."
Richard started moving again. From the distance came screams of rage,
and pain. Guards who had escaped into the maze of the unfinished palace were
battling people who had gone in after them.
Richard spotted a brother trembling behind a corner. It wasn't
Narev-there was a hood, not a cap. Playing the part of a brother, Richard
pulled his hood up again and strode to the man. The brother looked relieved
to see a comrade.
"Who are you?" he whispered toward Richard, lifting his hand to use his
magic to light a small flame above his palm.
"Justice," Richard said to the wide eyes as he drove his sword through
the man's heart.
Richard pulled his sword free and concealed it once more under his
robes.
Nicci would no doubt take her revenge. There seemed nothing he could do
about it. Nicci had often enough made Richard's choices clear. He was bound
and determined to at least lay waste to the Order. If only there were a way
to get Nicci to see reason, to get her to help him. At times, the look in
her blue eyes seemed so tantalizingly close to comprehension. He knew Nicci
had feelings for him. He wished he could use those feelings to get her to
see reason, to help him, to cast off her chains, but he didn't know how.
Richard stepped back into the blackness of a room as he heard guards
running his way. As they turned into the hallway, Richard again drew his
sword. When they were close, he burst out of the doorway and took off the
first guard's head. The second swung his sword, missed, and lifted it for
another strike. Richard ran his sword through the man's belly. The wounded
guard pulled back, off the blade. Before Richard could finish him, more men
burst into the hall. The man with the gut wound wasn't going to be a problem
anymore; it would take him hours of agony to die.
Richard retreated through the dark doorway, tempting men in after him.
He stood still in the dark, and as they rushed in, panting, crunching debris
beneath the balls of their feet as they turned, Richard located them by
sound alone and cut them down. Half a dozen men died in the pitch black room
before the rest ran.
Richard raced onward toward the sounds of explosions. Every time gouts
of flame flashed through the morass of hallways, he hid his eyes with a hand
in order to preserve his night vision. When the blinding flashes ceased, he
quickly continued in the direction from which they had come.
There were mile upon mile of halls in the palace. Some opened out into
grounds where nothing had yet been built. Others went along between walls
open overhead. Still others tunneled through the darkness, enclosed by upper
floors or roofs. Richard descended stairs into blackness, into the palace
underground, following the roar of conjured flames.
Down below the main floor were networks of interconnected rooms, made
up of a confusing snarl of chambers and narrow halls. As he plunged through
a labyrinth of shadowy rooms, going through holes in unfinished walls and
empty doorways,
he came suddenly upon a cloaked man with a sword. He knew none of the
people were armed.
The man spun around, his sword leading, but since Richard was disguised
in robes, he knew the man might not be a true foe.
In a flash of moonlight, Richard was stunned to see the Sword of Truth
over the shoulder of the person. It was Kahlan.
He froze in shock.
She saw only a figure in brown robes-a brother-standing in a shaft of
moonlight. The hood shadowed his face.
In the same instant, before he could call her name, he saw, over
Kahlan's shoulder, someone running their way. Nicci.
In one terrible blinding instant, Richard knew what he had to do. It
was his only chance-Kahlan's only chance-to be free.
In that crystal clear instant of understanding, terror flashed through
him. He didn't know if he could do it.
He had to.
Richard drew his sword and blocked Kahlan's thrust.
And then he attacked her.
He drove into her with controlled violence, careful not to hurt her. He
knew how she fought. He knew because he had taught her. He played the role
of a clumsy, but lucky, opponent.
Nicci was getting closer.
Richard couldn't drag it out. It had to be timed just right. He waited
until Kahlan was slightly off balance and then with a powerful clash, caught
her sword near the cross guard. She cried out with the shock as her sword
flew from her hand and the blow spun her around, just as he had intended.
She didn't hesitate for an instant. Without pause, still spinning, her
hand reached up and pulled free the Sword of Truth. The air rang with the
unique sound of steel he knew so well.
Kahlan whirled around, the blade leading. He saw for a split second the
terrible violent rage in her eyes. It hurt him to see that in Kahlan's
beautiful eyes. He knew what it did to a person.
Richard entered a numb world all his own. He knew what he had to do. He
felt no emotion. He blocked high, controlling her attack and where he wanted
her to go with the blade. He had to get her to put it where he intended, if
there was to be any chance.
Teeth gritted, Kahlan drove her sword for the opening he deliberately
left her.
--]----
Kahlan was in the realm of uncontrollable rage. The instant she seized
the hilt, the Sword of Truth had inundated her with pounding fury. Nothing
in the world felt better than knowing she was going to kill with it. The
weapon, too, demanded blood.
These people had Richard. These brothers had twisted their lives. These
men had sent murderers to her homeland. These men had sent assassins to
slaughter Warren.
Now, she had one of them.
She screamed as she spun, screamed with the rage, screamed with the
demand for blood. It was glorious to have the object of such perfect rage
within reach.
He made a mistake-leaving an opening. Without hesitation, she went for
it with cold fury, the blade leading.
He was hers.
--]----
Richard felt the blade hit him. It was shocking. It felt unlike what he
expected. It felt something like he imagined the mighty blow of the
sledgehammer on the statue might feel.
His mouth opened. Now was the time; he had to stop her-keep her from
doing any more. He had to do it now. If she wrenched the blade through him,
ripped him open any more, Nicci would never be able to heal him. Her power
could only heal so much.
Nicci would have to free Kahlan from the spell in order to regain the
use of her sorceress's magic-in order to heal him.
He reasoned that she cared enough for him to do that.
Richard's mouth was open as he felt the blade still driving through
him. It was a sickening shock. Even expecting it, as he had, it still seemed
unreal. It still surprised him.
He needed to tell her it was him. To stop.
He needed at least to call out her name so she would stop without doing
too much damage.
His mouth was still open.
He had no breath.
He couldn't make himself say her name.
--]----
As she searched frantically for Richard, Nicci saw the two people
battling. One was a brother. The other she didn't recognize, yet there was
something deeply unsettling about it all. Nicci felt a strange stirring. The
feeling was oddly familiar, but in all the confusion of emotion, she just
didn't recognize it.
They were a good distance away.
The man in the cape lost his sword. It looked as if the brother had
him. Nicci wanted to help-but how? She had to find Richard. Someone said
they saw him go into the palace. She had to find him.
She ran toward the pair. The man pulled free another sword strapped
over his shoulder. The strange feeling welled up in Nicci. Something was
terribly wrong, but she didn't know what.
And then she saw the brother make a mistake. Nicci halted.
With a cry of lethal fury, the man in the cape drove his sword through
the brother.
When the force of the blow drove the brother back a step, a shaft of
moonlight fell across his face under in the cowl of the hood.
And then the feeling slammed into her with full recognition.
Nicci's eyes went wide. She screamed.
--]----
"Kahlan. Stop."
Kahlan's eyes twitched up in shock. She saw his face in the moonlight.
In that same instant, he heard Nicci scream.
Kahlan recoiled, her hand flying from the hilt of the Sword of Truth as
if she had been struck by lightning.
She fell back with a horrified shriek.
Richard seized the blade of the sword, his sword, to keep the weight
from twisting it in him. She had driven it through him almost up to the
cross guard. Warm blood ran down the blade onto his fingers.
"Richard!" Kahlan cried. "Nooo! Nooo!"
Richard felt his knees hit the stone floor. He was surprised it didn't
hurt more to have a sword through him. It was the shock of it, mostly, that
had scrambled his mind. It was hard to think. He struggled not to fall
forward, fall on the blade and wrench it through his insides. The room
seemed to be moving.
"Pull it out," he whispered.
He wanted it out. As if that would help. He wanted the awful thing out.
He could feel the razor sharp edges all the way through him. He could feel
it sticking out his back.
Kahlan, nearly hysterical, scrambled to do as he asked. Richard saw
Cara limping up out of the darkness. She seized his shoulders as Kahlan drew
out the blade in one swift, panicked yank, as if she hoped the action would
somehow undo what she had done.
"What happened?" Cara cried. "What did you do?"
The world seemed to tip and whirl. Richard could feel the sickeningly
wet warmth of his blood soaking down him. He could feel his weight against
Cara. Kahlan hovered close.
"Richard! Oh, dear spirits, no. This can't be happening. It can't."
Panicked tears streamed down her beautiful face. He couldn't understand what
she was doing here. Why was she in the Old World? What was she doing in the
emperor's palace?
He couldn't help smiling at seeing her.
He wondered if she had seen his statue before he destroyed it.
He wondered if he had made a terrible mistake.
No, it was Kahlan's only chance at freedom. His only chance to break
Nicci's spell.
Nicci was still running toward them.
"Help me, Nicci," Richard called. It came out as little more than a
whisper. "I need you to save me, Nicci. Please."
Even if it was no more than a whisper, Nicci heard his plea.
--]----
Nicci had never run so fast. Terror had her in its fierce grip. Kahlan
had stabbed her sword through him. It was a terrible mistake. It was all
such a terrible mistake. Nicci had brought such pain to them both. It was
her fault.
Even in her shock, Nicci knew with clarity what she must do.
She could heal him. Kahlan was there. Nicci couldn't begin to imagine
why, or how, but she was. With Kahlan there, Nicci could break the spell.
Once the spell was broken, Nicci could use her gift. She could heal Richard.
It was all right. She could save him. It would be all right. She could fix
it. She could.
She could do something right and help-really help-for once. She could
help them both.
An arm swept out of the darkness and hooked her by the neck, taking her
from her feet. She cried out as she was yanked into the blackness. She could
feel the bulge of hard muscles as she clawed at the arm. The man stank. She
could feel his lice ticking against her face as they sprang at her.
Terror seized her. Such sudden and intense terror was an unfamiliar
sensation, smothering her mind.
She dug her heels into the stone as he drew her back into the black
labyrinth. She kicked furiously at him. She tried to draw her dacra from her
sleeve, but he seized her arm and twisted it behind her back.
His forearm crushed against her exposed throat, choking off her air as
he lifted her from her feet.
Nicci couldn't breathe. He chortled with glee as he dragged her into
the darker recesses of the rooms beneath Jagang's palace.
--]----
Their eyes met just when she had been abruptly and violently snatched
into the darkness. Richard saw in those eyes something important, saw that
Nicci intended to help him. But she was gone.
Cara desperately clutched his shoulders as he lay back against her. He
was cold. She was warm.
Kahlan fell back, writhing in the darkness. She clawed at her throat.
He could hear her choking.
"Mother Confessor! Mother Confessor! What's wrong?"
Richard reached up and seized Cara behind her head. He pulled her face
close.
"Someone has Nicci. They're choking her. Cara-you have to go save
Nicci, or Kahlan will die. And Nicci is the only one who can heal me. Go.
Hurry."
He felt Cara nodding before he released her head.
"I understand" was all she said as she gently, but swiftly, laid him
back on the cold stone.
And then she was gone.
It was wet. He didn't know if it was blood, or water. They were
underground, in the nether reaches of the Retreat. Through open beams where
the flooring above hadn't been laid, moonlight flooded down to light Kahlan
struggling not far away. He could see, then, as she fought an invisible foe,
that it was water. That's what it was. Not blood. Water. The palace was next
to the river. It was wet in the little rooms and halls down in the bottom.
"Kahlan," he murmured. She didn't respond. "Hold on. . ."
Gripping his abdomen, holding the wound closed lest his insides burst
out, he inched his way through the water, across the cold stone. The pain
had finally and firmly arrived. He could feel the terrible damage inside. He
tried to blink away the tears of hot agony. He had to hold on. Icy sweat
drenched his face. Kahlan had to hold on.
His hand, covered in blood, reached out to her. His fingers found hers.
She hardly responded, but at least her fingers moved. He was thankful beyond
words that her fingers moved.
It had been a good plan. He was sure it was. It would have worked, if
only someone hadn't snatched Nicci. Would have worked.
It seemed a stupid way to die, really. He thought it should be somehow
more . . . grand.
Not in a dark, cold, wet palace underground.
He wished he could tell Kahlan that he loved her, and that she hadn't
killed him but that he had done it. It was his doing, not hers. He'd just
used her in his plan. It would have worked.
"Kahlan," he whispered, not knowing if in her stillness she could hear
him any longer. "I love you. No one else. Just you. I'm glad we had our time
together. I wouldn't trade it for anything."
--]----
Richard opened his eyes and groaned in agony. He wanted it to end. It
hurt too much. Now, he just wanted it to end. It hadn't worked. He would
have to pay the price. But he wanted the sickening, ripping, terrifying pain
to end.
He didn't know how much time had passed. He looked and saw Kahlan
sprawled on the wet floor. She wasn't moving.
A shadow fell across him.
"Well, well. Richard Cypher." Neal chuckled. "Imagine that." He
chuckled again as he glanced at Kahlan. "Who's the woman?"
Richard could sense the Sword of Truth, sense its magic. It wasn't far
from his fingers.
"Don't know. She's killed me. Must be one of yours."
Richard's fingers found the sword. They curled around the wire-wound
hilt.
Neal stepped on the blade. "Can't have any of that. You've caused
enough trouble."
A glow ignited around Neal's fingers. He was conjuring magic. Lethal
magic. Richard, in his barely conscious condition, despite his need, could
not focus his mind, could not call forth his own ability to do anything to
stop Neal. At least, the pain would end. At least, Kahlan wouldn't think it
was she who had killed him.
Richard heard a sudden, terrible, bone-snapping crack. Neal dropped
heavily to his knees.
Richard, his hand already around the hilt, pulled the sword from
underneath the man's legs and in one mighty lunge, ran it through Neal's
heart.
Neal looked up in surprise, his eyes glassy. Richard saw then that the
man was as good as dead before the blade had run him through. Neal's eyes
rolled back in his head and he slumped to the side as Richard yanked the
sword free.
Standing behind Neal was the woman Richard had helped. She had bandaged
her leg. In both hands, she held the marble hand of the woman Richard had
carved. She had crushed Neal's skull with her keepsake of the statue.
Richard heard footfalls splashing toward him down the wet hallway. The
woman had gone to find help. Maybe she had found it.
In the rooms and hallways in the distance, Richard could hear
occasional screams as blasts of magic exploded through the night, as people
were injured and killed.
A woman appeared in the moonlight. "Richard? Richard?"
Richard squinted in the darkness. "Who are you?" he managed to whisper.
She rushed to his side and fell to her knees. She gasped at seeing
Kahlan sprawled on the floor close to him.
"What happened to the Mother Confessor?"
Richard frowned. She knew Kahlan.
"Who are you?"
She looked back at him. "I'm a Sister. Sister Alessandra. I've been in
the city
for a while, looking for Nicci, and-never mind. A woman found me just
down
the hall-and said you were hurt. The man who carved the statue. I was
trying
desperately to get to you earlier, but I couldn't get near-there I go
again. Tell me
where you're hurt. I can try to heal you."
"I was run through with a sword."
She was still and silent for a moment.
"Under my hands."
She looked then, and spoke a prayer under her breath. "I think I can
help. I feared-"
"I need Nicci to do it."
Sister Alessandra glanced about. "Nicci? Where is she, then? I've been
searching for her. Ann sent me to find her."
Richard's eyes fell on the still form of Kahlan. "Can you help her?"
He could see the woman's eyes look away from his. "No; I can't. She's
linked by magic to Nicci. I met her before, and she told me about it. I can
do nothing through the shield of Nicci's link."
"Is she . . . is she still.. ."
The woman looked and then leaned back over him. "She's alive, Richard."
He closed his eyes in relief, and in pain.
"Lie still," she said.
"But I need Nicci to-"
"You're bleeding. This is bad, Richard. In a short time more, you will
have lost too much blood. If I wait, no one will be able to heal you. You
will have slipped too far beyond this world for any gift to help you. I
can't wait.
"Besides, I came to try to stop Nicci. I know her better than anyone.
You can't put your life in her hands. You can't put your faith in her."
"It's not faith. I know-"
"She's a Sister of the Dark. I'm the one who led her down that dark
road. I came to try to lead her back. Until and unless that time comes, you
can't trust her. Now, you've not much time. Do you want to live, or not?"
It had all gone for nothing. He felt a tear run from the corner of his
eye and across his cheek.
"I choose life," he said.
"I know," she whispered with a smile. "I saw the statue. Now, move your
hands for me. I need to have mine there."
Richard let his hands slip to his sides as hers covered his wound. He
felt helpless. He could focus on nothing but the searing pain.
He felt magic tingle into him, following the damage down deep inside
him. He clenched his teeth as he held in a cry.
"Hold on," she whispered. "This is bad. It will hurt, but then in a
while it will be all right."
"I understand," he said. He gasped sharply. "Do it, then."
The pain of her magic seared into him like white-hot coals thrown on
bare flesh. He almost cried out, but then the pain abruptly ceased. Richard
lay with his eyes closed, panting, waiting for it to start again. He felt
her hands slip from him.
Richard opened his eyes and saw that Sister Alessandra's eyes were
opened wide. For an instant, he wondered why.
And then he saw a foot of steel jutting from her chest. Her fingers
went to her throat as blood gushed from her open mouth. A silent scream
formed on her lips.
A bony hand shoved her aside.
She had been impaled on the sword Richard had used to fight Kahlan. His
hand blindly went for the hilt he knew was there, but a foot kicked the
Sword of Truth aside.
Death's own skull grinned down at him.
"You are a troublesome man, Richard Cypher," came the grating voice
from the darkness above. "But at last, that trouble is ended."
The tall angular figure in robes and a creased cap towered above him as
he lay helpless on the cold wet floor.
"This little rebellion of yours will be crushed, I can promise you that
much, before you die. Their foolish little tantrum will be brought to an
end. The people will soon come to their senses. Your kind appeals only to
the extremist fringe. Most people see their duty to their fellow man. Your
efforts have been for nothing."
Brother Narev swept his arm around, as if in introduction.
"An appropriate place for you to die, don't you think, Richard? These
rooms are the future questioning chambers. You eluded the chambers once, but
not this time. You will die in one as you should have died in one before.
"I, on the other hand, will live here a long, long time, and see the
Order bring morality to the world. Down here, in these chambers, radicals
like you will confess their wickedness. I just wanted you to know, before
you are embraced in the Keeper's cold arms for all eternity."
Brother Narev's skeletal hands clawed as he called forth his magic.
Richard saw white-hot light blossom around the high priest's hands and
expand downward. Richard squeezed Kahlan's hand as he watched the white
light of death come for him.
The bloom of light turned a honey color. As if the air had thickened,
the light slumped off to the sides.
A howl of fury grew in Narev's throat. His shook his fists in rage.
"You have the gift of a wizard! Who are you?"
"I am your worst nightmare. I am a thinking man who can't be deluded by
your lies, any more than I can be burned by your foul magic."
Brother Narev tried to smash his foot down on Richard's face, but
Richard was able to deflect the blow. He seized Narev's ankle. The man
caught his balance and pulled madly to get free. The effort of holding on
felt as if it ripped the wound through Richard's insides. He tried to hold
on, but his fingers slipped from the wet leather.
Once free, and out of Richard's reach, Narev bent and seized the hilt
of the sword lodged in the Sister's back. He tugged but it didn't come
completely out. He growled in fury, his boots slipping on the slimy floor,
as he yanked on the sword.
Richard knew that, once armed, Narev would be a swift executioner.
With all his strength, Richard lunged at the man's legs. Brother Narev
toppled back onto the wet floor. Richard, his middle wrenched in torture,
threw himself atop Narev's legs to hold him down. Bony fingers clawed at
Richard's face, trying to gouge his eyes. Richard turned his head away. With
fierce effort, he clutched at the heavy robes, dragging himself up the man's
body, ignoring the blows to his face as he did so.
He seized Brother Narev by the throat. Brother Narev's bony fingers
closed savagely around Richard's throat. Both men growled with the effort of
trying to strangle each other to death. Richard twisted his head, trying to
prevent Narev from getting a death grip, while at the same time trying to
get his own thumbs over Narev's windpipe so he could choke off his air.
Narev tried to roll, to throw Richard off. Richard spread his legs to
make it harder for Narev to flip him over, and held tight as the man twisted
and fought. He could feel his insides tearing.
Richard had wielded a chisel and hammer for the Order for months. He
was stronger, but he was also losing a lot of blood, and that strength was
fading. He squeezed with all his might. The fingers at his throat loosened a
little.
The man's eyes bulged as Richard finally managed to start to choke the
life out of him. Bony hands thumped at Richard's shoulders.
The hands suddenly and fiercely seized Richard by his hair.
Narev freed a leg and brought his knee up into Richard's wound.
The world went white with pain.
--]----
Nicci woke, dazed, to the sound of a low, wicked laugh. She knew the
voice. She knew the smell. Kadar Kardeef.
She heard a snapping, popping, hissing sound. A torch, she realized. He
whipped it around in front of her face, so close she could feel the terrible
heat against her flesh. Burning pitch dripped off, falling on her leg.
Nicci screamed in pain as the pitch burned into the flesh of her thigh.
"What goes around, comes around," Kadar said in her ear.
"I don't care what you do to me," Nicci cried in rage. "I'm glad I
burned you. I'm glad you've had to beg."
"Oh you'll be begging, too, before long. You may not think so, but
you'll be
surprised what fire makes a person do. You will yet know what it was
like. You will yet beg."
With all her might, Nicci struggled against him. She could undo the
spell, if only Kahlan were closer. So near, but so far.
The fire before her eyes sent terror scorching through her. She had
only to snip the cord linking her to Kahlan. She could break the link. She
didn't have to undo it in order to have her power back. Nicci could escape,
then. It would cost Kahlan her life, but Nicci would have her power, and she
could escape the flames.
But she would have to kill Kahlan to do it.
"Shall I bum your face, first, Nicci? Your lovely face? Or maybe I
should start with your legs. Which shall it be? You pick."
Nicci panted as she struggled, trying to back away from the heat on her
flesh. The hissing torch waved in front of her face. She knew she deserved
such a fate; but she was driven to wild panic by the fear of it.
She didn't want to snip the link, to kill Kahlan, but she didn't want
to die this way. She didn't want her flesh to burn.
"I say we start at the bottom, so we can hear your screams."
Kadar brought the torch down and touched it to the hem of her dress.
Nicci screamed as the black cloth caught flame. Such fear was a new
sensation for her; for the first time since she was very small, she had
something she cared about, and didn't want to lose: life.
In a moment of stark terror, Nicci knew that no matter how much it was
to hurt, no matter how frightening it was to be, she would not take Kahlan's
life. Richard had given her the answer she had sought. She had taken too
much already. In return for that lesson, she could not now violate it.
Even though Kahlan, linked to Nicci, was to suffer the same fate, would
die the same agonizing death, Nicci would not be the one who inflicted it.
She would not take Kahlan's life from her. Kadar would be bringing their
death, but Nicci would not. She would not kill Kahlan to save herself.
Kadar Kardeef laughed as he watched her dress ignite. He held her in a
firm grip Nicci could not escape.
Just then, a dark shape flew at her from midair, crashing into them
both. They tumbled back, the air all around filled with fire. As Nicci
rolled, it put the flaming dress out in the water.
The one who had crashed into them was just getting up, shaking her head
as if to clear it. Nicci recognized her. It was the Mord-Sith, Cara.
Kadar sat up, saw the woman, and lunged at her with the torch.
Nicci threw herself at Kadar, grabbing the torch in both hands as she
pushed it into the big man's face. The pitch splashed against his mask of
rags. The cloth on his chest and around his head ignited with a loud whoosh.
Kadar screamed as the flames burned into his already melted flesh.
Nicci had heard that heat to previously burned flesh was worse than the
first burning. By the sound of his screams, it appeared to be true.
Nicci snatched Cara's hand as the woman was regaining her feet. "Hurry!
I must get to Richard!"
Outside the room where Kadar's shrieks fell to strangled whimpers as
the flames suffocated him, Cara seized Nicci by the hair and held her Agiel
inches from her face.
"Give me one reason why I should trust you with Lord Rahl's life."
Nicci gazed into Cara's eyes. "Because I saw his statue, and I
understand, now, how wrong I've been. Have you ever been wrong, Cara? Really
wrong? Can you ever understand what it's like to realize you've been
unthinkingly serving evil, and hurting good people? Can you understand that
Richard has shown me there is something to live for?"
--]----
Nicci found Richard lying on his back, unconscious, or at least close
to it. His head was pillowed on a marble hand. Kahlan lay beside him,
clinging to him, weeping as his life bled away.
Nicci was shocked to see the bodies strewn on the floor around them.
Sister Alessandra, Brother Neal, Brother Narev. She knew by the way Richard
looked that there was precious little time-if it was not already too late.
Nicci knelt beside Kahlan. The woman was in abject misery, hanging by
the last threads of desperate hope over the black brink of despair. She had
come all this way, wanting to be with him, willing to suffer any end to do
so. And here he lay, the lifeblood draining out of the one she loved most in
life, knowing it was by her hand.
Nicci took Kahlan by her shoulders and gently pulled her back. Kahlan
looked up in confusion, hatred, and hope.
"Kahlan, I need to remove the spell from you if I'm to help him.
There's not much time."
"I don't trust you. Why would you help?"
"Because I owe it to him-to both of you."
"You have brought nothing but suffering and-"
Cara took Kahlan's arm. "Mother Confessor, you don't have to trust her.
Trust me. I'm telling you that Nicci might be able to save him. I believe
she will do her best. Please, let her do it."
"Why should I trust her with his last few minutes of his life?"
"Please, let Nicci have the chance Lord Rahl once gave me."
Kahlan searched Cara's eyes for a moment, then turned to Nicci.
"I know what it's like to be where he is now. I've been there. I chose
life. Now, he must. What do I need to do?"
"You and Richard have already done enough." Nicci took Kahlan's
tearstained face in her hands. "Just be still, and let me do this."
The woman was shivering in misery. Her long hair was matted and
dripping wet. She was covered in Richard's blood. She could do no more for
him, and she knew it.
Nicci had to.
As Kahlan gazed into her eyes, Nicci re-ignited the connecting cord of
magic, hoping that she had enough time.
Kahlan went rigid with the shock of pain it caused. Nicci knew exactly
how it felt, because she felt the same pain.
Milky light connected both women, heart to heart. Its wavering glow
grew to blinding brightness, taking the pain to a new level in intensity.
Kahlan's mouth opened in a silent cry. Her green eyes widened with the
torment flooding through them both-as the root of magic embedded in every
fiber of their two beings vibrated in response to the call of the light.
Nicci placed her hands over her heart, in that incandescent shaft of
light, and began to withdraw her power.
Richard pulled a shuddering breath as he opened his eyes. Somehow, he
was lying in a position that didn't hurt. He feared to: move, lest the
crushing pain return.
How could that be? He'd been run through with a sword.
The darkness around him was still and quiet. In the distance, he could
hear the sounds of battle raging on. The ground beneath him shuddered with
some great impact.
There were people around him. Bodies lay on the wet floor. He realized
he was on a board, keeping him up out of the water. He was covered in a warm
cloak. He could see the dark hunched shapes of people huddled around in the
little room.
Under his fingers lay the hilt of the Sword of Truth. Because the storm
of magic was calmed, he knew the sword was in its scabbard.
He looked up, and through the openings between beams, through broken
stone and splintered wood, and could see the rosy blush of dawn.
"Kahlan?" he whispered.
Three figures in the room sprang up, as if stone had suddenly come to
life.
The closest leaned in. "I'm here." She took up his hand.
With his other hand, he reluctantly probed for his wound. He couldn't
find it. He felt no pain, only a lingering ache.
Another figure leaned in. "Lord Rahl? Are you awake?"
"What happened?"
"Oh, Richard, I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry. I stabbed you. It was all my
fault. I should have taken an instant to be sure before I did it. I'm so
sorry."
Richard frowned. "Kahlan, I let you win."
Silence greeted him.
"Richard," Kahlan finally said, "you don't have to try to ease my
guilt. I know it's my fault. I ran you through with the sword."
"No," Richard insisted, "I let you win."
Cara patted his shoulder. "Of course you did, Lord Rahl. Of course you
did."
"No, really."
When the third figure turned to him, Richard's fingers tightened around
the hilt of his sword.
"How do you feel?" Nicci asked in that silken voice he knew so well.
"Did you remove the link to Kahlan?"
Nicci raised her hand and made a scissors motion with two fingers.
"Gone for good."
Richard let out a breath. "Then I feel fine." He tried to sit up, but
Nicci's hand restrained him.
"Richard, I can never ask your forgiveness because I can never return
what I
stole from you, but I want you to know that I now understand how wrong
I've been. My whole life, I have been blind. I'm not making an excuse. It's
just that I want you to know that you have restored my vision. In giving me
the answer I sought, you gave me my life. You gave me a reason to want to
live."
"And what did you see, Nicci?"
"Life. You sculpted it so big that even someone who had so blindly
served evil, as I had done, could see it. You must no longer prove yourself
to me. Now, it is for me, and those here you have inspired, to prove
ourselves to you."
"You and they have already begun, or I would not be alive."
"So . . . you are a Sister of the Light again?" Kahlan asked.
Nicci shook her head. "No. I am Nicci. My ability as a sorceress is
mine; it is who I am. My ability does not enslave me to others because they
want it. It's my life. It does not belong to anyone---except maybe to you
two.
"You both have shown me the value of life, the rationale of freedom. If
I am to serve beside anyone, now, it will be beside others who hold dear the
same values."
Richard placed his hand over Nicci's. "Thank you for saving my life.
For a while there, I thought I'd made a mistake when I let Kahlan run me
through."
"Richard," Kahlan objected, "you don't have to try to assuage my guilt
by saying that."
Nicci was gazing into his eyes, even as she addressed Kahlan. "He's
not. He's telling you the truth. I saw him do it. He was forcing me to make
a choice to save him, so that I would have to break the spell holding you.
I'm sorry you had to endure such a thing, Richard; I'd already made the
choice-the moment I saw your statue."
Richard tried to sit up again. Nicci restrained him again.
"It is going to take time for you to recover fully. You are still
suffering the lingering effects of the injury. Just because you are alive,
that doesn't mean it won't take some time before you are completely
recovered. You have gone through a formidable ordeal. You lost a lot of
blood. You will need to rebuild your strength. You could yet die if you
don't go easy."
"All right," Richard conceded. He sat up carefully with Kahlan's help.
"I'll keep your words in mind, but I still have to get up there." He turned
to Kahlan. "By the way, what are you doing all the way down here? How did
you know where I was? What's happening to the north, in the New World?"
"We'll talk about all that later," she said. "I had to be with you. I
decided that it was my life, and I wanted to be with you. You were right
about the war in the New World. It took me a long time to come to understand
that. I finally did. I came to be with you because that was all that was
left for me."
He looked to Cara. "And you?"
"I always wanted to see the world."
Richard smirked as he rose with the help of Kahlan and Cara, both. He
felt lightheaded, but was joyful to trade that for the way he had been
before. Kahlan handed him his sword. He slipped the baldric over his head,
laying the leather across his shoulder and the scabbard at his hip. Knowing
the weapon a little more intimately, now, he had a new respect for it.
"I can't tell you how happy I am to return it to you," Kahlan said. She
smiled sheepishly. "Like this, I mean."
Farther down the hall Kamil was anxiously waiting in the darkness
pierced by only a couple of candles. There were a number of people with him.
Richard didn't
know any of the people, except Kamil. He put a hand to the grinning
young man's shoulder.
"Kamil. Good to see you."
"Richard, I saw it. I saw the statue." His smile faded. "I'm sorry it
was destroyed."
"It was only a piece of stone. It was the ideas it represented that
were its true beauty."
People in the dim hallway nodded. Richard saw, then, the woman with the
wounded leg. He smiled at her. She returned a kiss, on the end of her
fingers, to his forehead.
"Bless you for your bravery in carving that statue," she said. "We are
all joyful to know you survived the night, Richard."
He thanked them all for their concern.
The ground shook-again.
"What is that?" Richard asked.
"The walls," one of the men said. "The people are pulling down the
walls with those carvings of death on them."
--]----
Even as some people were pulling down the walls, others were still
engaged in pitched battle. Richard could see in the faint light of dawn the
fighting on the distant hillsides. It appeared that many people were not
happy about the ideas Richard's statue had represented. There were those who
feared freedom, and preferred the numb existence of not having to think for
themselves.
The palace grounds, though, were in secure hands. The fires of liberty
were spreading outward, igniting a conflagration of change.
In the plaza, the semicircle of walls and all the columns but one still
stood. It felt somehow different here. This was the place where people had
seen the statue and had chosen life. They weren't destroying this part of
the palace.
Richard dragged his boot through the marble dust. In the center of the
plaza, the layer of white dust was all that remained. Every precious
fragment had been saved as a reminder.
From out on the grounds where several men were gathered, Victor spotted
Richard, Kamil, and Nicci, whom he knew. He called out as he and Ishaq came
running.
"Richard!" Victor raced up the steps. "Richard!"
Richard had Cara under one arm and Kamil under the other, supporting
him. He didn't have the strength to shout, so he simply waited until the two
men were close, both panting from their run.
"Richard, we're winning!" Victor said as he pointed at the hills. "All
those officials, gone, and we-"
The blacksmith went silent as his eyes fell on Kahlan. Ishaq, too,
stared at her, then swept his red hat off his head.
Victor's mouth labored a moment before words finally worked their way
out. His hand, usually so expressive, simply pointed at her as if she could
not be real flesh.
"You. . ." he said to Kahlan. "You are Richard's love."
Kahlan smiled. "How do you know that?"
"I saw the statue."
In the dawn light, Richard could see her face go red.
"It didn't look exactly like me," she protested, graciously.
"Not the way it looked, but the . . . character. You have that
quality."
Kahlan smiled, pleased by his words.
"Victor, Ishaq, this is Kahlan. My wife."
Both men blinked dumbly and looked as one to Nicci.
"As you know," Nicci said, "I am not a very good person. I am a
sorceress. I used my power to force Richard to come here with me. Richard
has shown me, along with many other people, the nobility of life."
"Then you're the one who saved his life?" Victor asked.
"Kamil told us you were hurt, Richard," Ishaq said, "and that a
sorceress was healing you."
"Nicci healed me," Richard confirmed.
Victor gestured expansively-at last. "Well, I guess that has to count
for something, saving Richard Cypher."
"Richard Rahl," Richard said.
Victor's rolling laugh rumbled up from deep inside. "Right. This day,
we are all Richard Rahl."
Nicci leaned in. "It really is Richard Rahl, Mr. Cascella."
"Richard Rahl," Kahlan said, adding her nod.
"Lord Rahl," Cara said in ill humor. "Show the proper respect to the
Seeker of Truth, the master of the D'Haran Empire, war wizard, and the
husband to the Mother Confessor herself." Cara lifted her hand in graceful,
regal introduction. "Lord Rahl."
Richard shrugged. He lifted the gleaming, silver-wound hilt of his
sword, showing them the word TRUTH in gold, and then let it drop back into
its scabbard.
"What a beauty!" Kamil shouted.
Victor and Ishaq both blinked again, and then dropped to a knee. They
bowed their heads deeply.
Richard rolled his eyes. "Will you two stop it." He shot Cara a scowl.
Victor peered up cautiously. "But we never knew. I'm sorry. You're not
angry I made fun of you?"
"Victor, it's me, Richard. How many times have we eaten your lardo
together?"
"Lardo?" Kahlan asked. "You know how to make lardo, Victor?"
Victor rose up, a grin growing across his face as he peered at her.
"You know of lardo?"
"Of course. The men who used to come to work on the white marble at the
Confessors' Palace used to eat lardo they made themselves -in big marble
tubs. I used to sit and eat it with them when I was little. They used to say
I would grow up to wear the white dress of the Mother Confessor one day
because I ate their lardo and would grow strong from it."
Victor thumped his chest with a big thumb. "I make lardo in marble
tubs, too."
"Do you let it age for a year?" Kahlan asked. "You have to let proper
lardo age for a year."
"Of course, a year! I make only proper lardo."
Kahlan gave him her most beautiful, green-eyed smile. "I would love to
taste it sometime."
Victor draped his massive arm around Kahlan's shoulders. "Come,
Richard's wife, I will give you a taste of my lardo."
Cara, a dark look on her face, put a hand to the blacksmith's chest to
stop him. She lifted his arm from Kahlan's shoulders.
"No one but Lord Rahl touches the Mother Confessor."
Victor gave Cara a quizzical look. "Have you ever had lardo?"
"No."
Victor slapped Cara on the back as he laughed. "Come, then, and I will
give you lardo, too. Then you will see-anyone who eats lardo with me is my
friend for life."
Kahlan took Kamil's place under one of Richard's arms, Victor under the
other, and they made their way across newly free ground up to the
blacksmith's shop, to have some lardo.
Verna pulled the candle close. She warmed her hands over it a moment,
then laid the journey book on the table. The sounds of the army camp outside
her small tent were by now so familiar she almost didn't hear them.
It was a cold D'Haran winter night, but at least they and all the
people they had helped were safely over the mountains. Verna understood
their quiet anxiety: it was a new and mysterious place, D'Hara, a land once
only a source of nightmares. At least they were safe for the time being. In
the distance the wolves' long plaintive howls echoed through the frigid
mountains, off the moonlit snow blanketing the seemingly endless, desolate,
colossal slopes.
It was the proper phase of the moon, even if it was the moon in a new
land, a strange and unknown land. Verna had checked for months, but there
was never a message. She didn't really expect one, since Kahlan had thrown
Ann's twinned journey book in the fire. But still, it was a journey book, an
ancient thing of magic, and Ann was a resourceful woman. It didn't hurt to
look.
Verna opened the little book with no real hope.
There, on the first page, was a message.
All it said, was, Verna, 1 am waiting, if you are there.
Verna drew the stylus from the spine and immediately began writing.
Prelate! You have been able to fix the damaged journey book? That's
wonderful. Where are you? Are you well? Have you found Nathan?
Verna waited. Shortly, the reply began to appear.
Verna, 1 am well. 1 was able to restore the journey book with the help
of some. . . people. Strange people. But the important part is that it is
restored for the most part. 1 am still searching for the prophet. I have
some good clues on Nathan's whereabouts, and 1 am looking into them. But how
are you, Verna? How goes the war? Warren? Kahlan? Is Zedd giving you much
trouble? That man can try the patience of stone. Have you had word of
Richard?
Verna stared at words on the page. A tear fell near Warren's name. She
picked up the stylus once more, and slowly began her reply.
Oh, Prelate, some terrible things have happened.
1 am sorry, Verna, came the reply. Verna, 1 am here. I am going nowhere
for the night. Take all the time you need. Tell me what happened. Tell me
how you are, first. 1 worry so for you. Verna, 1 love you like a daughter.
You know 1 do.
Verna nodded to the book. She did know it.
And 1 love you, too, Prelate, Verna began. I fear my heart is broken.
--]----
Kahlan stood silently beside him in the warm midday breeze as Richard
looked out over the river, at the city beyond. The city was peaceful, now.
Battle had raged for weeks, various factions struggling for power, lusting
to be the new local incarnation of the Order, each faction swearing that
they had the best interest of the people at heart, each promising that they
would be compassionate in their rule, each pledging that life would be
easier under their mandate because they would see to it that everyone of
means contributed to the common good.
After decades of such altruistic tyranny, decay and death had been the
only product of the business of the common good. Despite graveyards full of
evidence and a people left impoverished, these aspirants to power offered
only more of the same, and yet many still believed them simply because they
uttered such good intentions.
While a great number of brothers and officials had been killed, some
had escaped. Some of those, who had not fled, thought to take advantage of
the confusion and establish control, thinking they could rein in the hunger
for freedom, the ideas loosed, and put things back to the way they were.
The free people of Altur'Rang, their numbers growing daily, eradicated
each of these factions as they emerged from under their rocks. Nicci had
been no small aid in the bloody battles. She knew the methods of such
people, where they went to ground, and pounced on them like a wolf on
vermin.
The forces lusting to oversee the welfare and betterment of mankind
came to greatly fear that which they had in fact created: Death's Mistress.
There was no telling, yet, if freedom's flame, now ignited, would
spread through the Old World. It was still a very small flame in a vast and
dark place, but Richard knew that such a flame burned brightly.
To the north, matters were not nearly so auspicious. With Nicci's magic
withdrawn, Richard supposed that the D'Harans would know where he was, and
send him messages. Cara was immensely relieved to be able to sense his
location again through her bond.
He had listened quietly as Kahlan and Cara had told him all the details
of the war, and how they had sent the people of Aydindril on a long and
difficult journey to D'Hara before Jagang could march into the city in the
spring. It would give them heart to know that Lord Rahl had struck a mighty
blow against the Old World, to know that the Mother Confessor was with him,
and that they were well. A number of men had requested the job of carrying
that invaluable news north.
Soon, the D'Haran Empire and the people they were protecting who had
fled their homes would know of the victory to the south. The messengers
would actually be carrying a more precious commodity than that news: they
would in reality be carrying hope.
Richard had also sent his grandfather the same word.
Richard could hardly believe that Warren, his friend, was gone. The
terrible anguish, he knew, would be slow to fade.
Richard had sent one other thing north.
Nicci had told him of Brother Narev's importance to Emperor Jagang, of
their long history together, and of their shared vision of the future of
mankind. In the spring when Jagang finally, triumphantly, rode in to seize
the Confessors' Palace, waiting for him there, before his empty victory,
would be his mentor's head on a pike, topped by his creased brown cap.
Nicci had woven a spell around it, to preserve it, to keep scavengers
away. Rich
and wanted to be sure that when Jagang finally saw it, he would not
mistake who it was.
In the teeming city of Altur'Rang, peace had returned, along with
freedom. Life had returned. People had begun to open new businesses. In a
matter of weeks, there was already a variety of bread available. New
enterprises were starting every day. Ishaq was making a fortune hauling
goods, but already had competitors vying for the business. Nabbi had gone to
work for him. Ishaq had begged Richard to come work for him when he was
strong enough. Richard had only laughed.
Faval, the charcoal maker, had beseeched Ishaq to ask Richard to come
to visit and have dinner with him and his family. Faval had bought a cart,
and his sons now delivered charcoal.
Richard leaned with his forearms on the railing at the edge of the pier
and gazed down over the edge, to the swirling water below, as if trying to
divine what the future held.
The piers out into the river and the walkway atop them, along with the
plaza, were about all that remained of the palace. Richard had seen to it
that the spellforms were removed from the tops of the columns around the
grounds, and had Priska melt them down.
Richard had regained most of his strength. Kahlan was strong, and as
beautiful as he remembered her. She had changed, though. Her face had grown
more mature in the year they had been apart. When he gazed at her, he
hungered for a piece of marble and his chisels so he could carve her face in
stone.
Flesh in stone.
He turned and looked back along the pier, toward the plaza, with its
semicircle of columns behind it. The fallen column had been restored. The
plaza had been renamed "Liberty Square," Victor's idea. Richard asked if it
shouldn't be called "Liberty Circle," since it was round, and not square.
Victor thought it sounded better as Liberty Square, so Richard called it
Liberty Square. After all, the first man to declare himself free, there, had
been Victor.
Kahlan gazed with him back toward the plaza.
"What do you think?" Richard asked her.
She shook her head, looking at best a little uneasy. "I don't know,
Richard. It just seems so strange to see it so . . . big. So . . . white."
"You don't like it?"
She quickly put a hand on his arm to dispel the notion. "No, it isn't
that, it's just that it's so. . ." her uncertain gaze returned down the
pier-"big."
The center of the plaza, where the statue Richard had carved had
briefly stood, now held a towering marble statue being worked on by a number
of stone carvers who used to work at the site carving misery and death.
Kamil was down there, learning the craft of stone carving from masters. His
education started with a broom.
Richard had hired the carvers. With the fortune he had made helping the
Order build its palace, he could easily afford it. The carvers were glad for
such work-to exchange value for value.
The expert carvers were working on scaling up the small statue of
Spirit, which Richard had carved for Kahlan, way back in their mountain home
when she needed to witness vitality, courage, and indomitable spirit. It
emerged anew in the best white Cavatura marble.
The bronze ring of the sundial had survived intact, and was being added
to the
piece. The statue rising in the center would cast its shadow on the
curved dial plane. The words so many had touched that day would be there for
all to see, now.
Kahlan had been enthusiastic about the concept, but had spent so many
months with the carving Richard had done, that it was disorienting for her
to see it on such a massive scale. She was eager for the day when the
carvers were finished scaling it up and she could have her own statue of
Spirit back.
"I hope you don't mind sharing it with the world," he said.
Kahlan smiled wistfully. "No, not at all."
"Everyone loves it," he assured her.
Her wonderful lilting laugh drifted out across the warm afternoon air.
"I'll just have to get used to you showing people my body and soul."
Together, they watched as the carvers working on the flowing robes
checked their work with calipers against the statue Richard had carved and
the reference points from wooden braces used to scale up the work.
Kahlan rubbed his lower back. "How are you feeling?"
"I'm fine. Now that you're with me, I couldn't feel better."
Kahlan laughed, then. "As long as I don't run you through?"
Richard's laugh fell in easily with hers. "You know, when we tell our
children how their mother ran their father through with a sword, it's going
to look pretty bad for you."
"Are we going to have children, Richard?"
"Yes, we are."
"Then I'll risk the tale."
As the warm breeze ruffled her hair, he kissed her brow.
Glancing along the line of trees, their leaves shimmering in the
sunlight, Richard watched birds cavort above the riverbank, sweep into a
group, and then soar together up over the semicircle of white marble columns
standing in the expanse of green grass.
Kahlan leaned contentedly against his shoulder as they watched men,
filled with pride, smiling while they worked on the statue standing before
those columns.
In Altur' Rang, there was a new spirit.
In the former heart of the Order beat freedom.