5 Soul of the Fire

by Goodkind, Terry

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  "But I don't think-" Kahlan began. "And are you willing to risk the lives of all those young men on what you think? Are you so sure? I don't know that the Dominie Dirtch work together like that, but what if they do? Maybe one rung in anger rings them all. Can you say it won't?

  "I'm not willing to put the innocent lives of those brave men to such a deadly gamble. Are you?" Richard looked back to Captain Meiffert. "Are you? Are you "a gambler, Captain? Could you so easily wager the lives of all those men?"

  He shook his head. "If it was my own life, Lord Rahl, I would willingly risk it, but not for all those lives."

  The roar eased up as the rain slowed a little. Men went by outside the opening of the tent, taking feed to the horses. For the most part, the camp sat in pitch blackness; fires were forbidden except where essential.

  "I can't disagree with that." Kahlan lifted her hands and then in frustration let them drop back into her lap. "But Jagang is coming. If we don't win the people to our cause so they will stand against him he will take Anderith. He will be invincible behind the Dominie Dirtch and be able to stab into the Midlands at will and bleed us to death."

  Richard listened to the rain drumming on the tent roof and splashing outside the open doorway. It sounded like the kind of steady rain that was going to be with them for the night.

  Richard spoke softly. "As I see it, we have only one option. We must go back to the library at the estate and see if we can find anything useful."

  "We haven't yet," Kahlan said.

  "And with the people in charge now taking a stand against us," Captain Meiffert said, "they might resist that."

  Richard made a fist on the table as he met the man's blue-eyed gaze. Richard once again wished he had the Sword of Truth with him.

  "If they resist, Captain, then you and your men will be called upon to do what you constantly train for. If they re-

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  sist, and if we have to, we'll cut down anyone who lifts a finger to oppose us and then we'll level the place. We just need to get the books out of there first."

  Relief eased the expression on the man's face. The D'Harans seemed to harbor a fear that Richard might be unwilling to act; Captain Meiffert looked assuaged to hear otherwise.

  "Yes, Lord Rahl. The men will be ready in the morning, when you are."

  Kahlan's point about there possibly being nothing of value at the estate was worrisome. Richard remembered the books in the library. While he couldn't recall the details of the information, he remembered the subjects well enough to know that finding the answer was a long shot. Still, it was the only shot they had.

  "Before I go"-Captain Meiffert pulled a paper from his pocket-"I thought you should know a number of people have requested an audience when you have time, Lord Rahl. Most of them were merchants wanting information."

  "Thank you, Captain, but I don't have time now."

  "I understand, Lord Rahl. I took the liberty of telling them as much." He shuffled his little notes. "There was one woman." He squinted in the dim candlelight to make out the name. "Franca Gowenlock. She said it was extremely urgent, but would give no information. She was here most of the day. She finally said she had to return to her home, but she would be back tomorrow."

  "If it's important, she'll be back and I'll talk to her."

  Richard looked down at Du Chaillu, to see how she was feeling. She looked comforted by Kahlan's care.

  Behind him rose a sudden commotion. The captain pitched backward with a cry as if felled by magic. The candle flame fluttered wildly at the intrusion of a wind, but stayed lit.

  Richard spun to the sound of a dull thump. The candle wobbled across the top of the shuddering table, right up to the edge.

  A huge raven had crashed sprawling onto the tabletop.

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  Richard scooted back in surprise, drawing his sword as he stood, wishing again that it were the Sword of Truth with its attendant magic. Kahlan and Du Chaillu shot to their feet.

  The raven had something black in its big beak. With all the confusion-the wind, the candle nearly toppling, the flame fluttering, the table teetering, and the tent sides flapping-he didn't immediately recognize the object in the raven's beak.

  The raven set it on the table.

  The inky black bird, water beaded on glossy feathers like the night itself come into their tent, looked exhausted. The way it lay sprawled on the table with its wings open, Richard didn't think it was well, or possibly it was injured.

  Richard didn't know if a thing possessed of the chimes could really be injured. He recalled the chicken-that-wasn't-a-chicken bleeding. He saw a smear of blood on the table-top.

  Whenever that chime-in-a-chicken had been around, even if he couldn't see it, the hairs at the back of Richard's neck had stood up, yet, with this raven-that-wasn't-a-raven right before him on the table, he hadn't reacted that way.

  The raven cocked its head, looking Richard in the eye. It was as deliberate a look as he'd ever gotten. With its beak, the bird tapped the center of the thing it had laid on the table.

  Captain Meiffert sprang up then and swung his sword. At the same time, Richard flung up his arms, shouting "No!"

  The raven, as, the sword came down, hurled itself off the table onto the ground and ran between the captain's legs. Once past the man, it took wing and was gone.

  "Sorry," the captain said. "I thought... I thought it was attacking you with magic, Lord Rahl. I thought it was a thing of dark magic, come to attack you."

  Richard let out a deep breath as he gestured forgiveness to the man. The man was only trying to protect him.

  "It was not evil," Du Chaillu said in a soft voice as she and Kahlan came closer.

  Richard sank back down on his stool. "No, it wasn't."

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  Kahlan and Du Chaillu stood over his shoulder, looking.

  "What omen did the messenger from the spirits bring you?" the spirit woman asked.

  "I don't think it was from the spirit world," Richard said.

  He picked up the small, flat object. In the dim light, he suddenly realized what it was. He stared incredulously.

  It was just like the one Sister Verna used to carry. He had seen her use it countless times.

  "It's a journey book."

  He opened the cover.

  "That has to be High D'Haran," Kahlan said of the strange script.

  "Dear spirits," Richard breathed, as he read the only two words on the first page.

  "What?" Kahlan asked. "What is it? What does it say?"

  "Fuer Berglendursch. You're right. It's High D'Haran."

  "Do you know the meaning?"

  "It says, 'The Mountain.' " Richard turned and peered up at her in the flickering candlelight. "That was Joseph Ander's cognomen. This is Joseph Ander's journey book. The other, the one that was destroyed, its twin, was called Mountain's Twin."

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  CHAPTER 62

  DALTON SMILED AS HE stood at an octagonal table of rare black walnut in the reliquary in the Office of Cultural Amity, where displayed on the walls around the room were objects belonging to past Directors: robes; small tools; implements of their profession, such as pens and beautifully carved blotters; and writings. Dalton was looking over more modern writings: reports he had requested from the Directors.

  Any ambivalence the Directors might feel, they kept to themselves. Publicly, they now threw themselves into the task of supporting the new Sovereign. It had been made plain to them that their very existence now depended not only upon their fealty, but upon their enthusiasm in that devotion.

  As he read the script of addresses they were to deliver, Dalton was annoyed by shouts coming in through an open window overlooking the city square. It sounded like an angry mob of people. Judging by -the boisterous encouragement from the crowd, he assumed it was someone delivering a diatribe against Lord Rahl and the Mother Confessor.

  Following the lead of noted people such as the Directors, ordinary people had now taken t
o loudly voicing the tailored notions they had been fed. Even though Dalton had expected

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  it, he never failed to find it remarkable the way he had but to say a thing enough times, through enough people, and it became the popular truth, its provenance lost as it was mimicked by ordinary people who came to believe that it was their own idea-as if original thought routinely came forth from their witless minds of clay.

  Dalton let out a bitter snort of contempt. They were asses and deserved the fate they embraced. They belonged to the Imperial Order, now. Or, at least, they soon would.

  He glanced out the window to see a throng making its way into the city square. The heavy rain of the night before had turned to a light drizzle, so people were coming back out. The steady downpour overnight failed to wash away the blackened places on the cobble paving in the square where the two people had burned to death.

  The crowd, of course, blamed the tragedy on the magic of Lord Rahl, venting his wrath against them. Dalton had instructed his people to bitterly make the accusation, knowing the seriousness of the charge would outweigh the lack of evidence, much less the truth.

  What had really happened, Dalton didn't know. He did know this was far from the first such incident. Whatever it was, it was an appalling misfortune, but, if misfortune was to happen, it could have hardly picked a better time. It had punctuated Director Prevot's speech perfectly.

  Dalton wondered if the fires had anything to do with what Franca had told him about magic failing. He didn't see how, but he didn't think she had told him everything, either. The woman had been behaving quite oddly of late.

  At the knock, Dalton turned to the door. Rowley bowed.

  "What is it?"

  "Minister," Rowley said, "the ... woman is here, the one Emperor Jagang sent."

  "Where is she?"

  "Down the hall. She is having tea."

  Dalton shifted his scabbard at his hip. This was not a woman to trifle with; she was said to have more power than

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  any ordinary such woman. More power even than Franca. Jagang had assured him, though, that unlike Franca, this woman still had firm control of her power.

  "Take her to the estate. Give her one of our finest rooms. If she gives you any-" Dalton recalled Franca's talent for overhearing things. "If she gives you any complaints, see to resolving them to her satisfaction. She is a most important guest, and is to be treated as such."

  Rowley bowed. "Yes, Minister."

  Dalton saw Rowley smile with one side of his mouth. He, too, knew why the woman was there. Rowley was looking forward to it.

  Dalton just wanted it done with. It would require care. They had to wait and pick their own time. They couldn't force it, or the whole thing could come undone. If they handled it right, though, it would be a great accomplishment. Jagang would be more than grateful.

  "I appreciate your generosity."

  Dalton turned at the sound of a woman's voice. She had stepped into the doorway. Rowley backed out of her way.

  She looked middle-aged, with gray hair mixing in with the black. Her simple, dowdy, dark blue dress ran from her neck, over her rather thick-boned shape, and all the way to the floor.

  Her presence was dominated by a smile that only vaguely touched her lips, but was ever so evident in her brown eyes. It was as nasty a simper as Dalton had ever seen. It unashamedly proclaimed a mien of superiority. Because of the lines at the corners of her mouth and eyes, the self-satisfied smirk seemed enduringly etched on her face.

  A gold ring pierced her lower lip.

  "And you would be?" He asked.

  "Sister Penthea. Here to wield my talent in service to His Excellency, Emperor Jagang."

  Her smooth flow of words was laced with crystalline frost.

  Dalton bowed his head. "Minister of Culture, Dalton

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  Campbell. Thank you for coming, Sister Penthea. We are most appreciative of your courtesy in lending your unique assistance." '

  She had been sent to wield her talent in service to Dalton Campbell, but he thought better of putting too fine a point on it. Dalton didn't need to remind her she was the one with a ring through her lip; it was obvious to them both.

  At the sound of screams, Dalton again glanced across the room, out the window, thinking it was the parents or family returned to see the-sight of the grisly deaths the night before. People had been coming by all morning, leaving flowers or other offerings at the site of the deaths until they looked like a grotesque garden midden. Frequent wails of anguish rose up into the gray day.

  Sister Penthea turned his attention to business. "I need to see the ones chosen for the deed."

  Dalton motioned with a hand. "Rowley, there, he will be one of them."

  Without word or warning, she slapped the palm of her hand to Rowley's forehead, her fingers splayed into his red hair, grasping his head as if she might pluck it like a ripe pear. Rowley's eyes rolled back in his head. His entire body began to tremble.

  The Sister murmured thick words that had no meaning to Dalton. Each, as it oozed forth, seemed to take root in Rowley. The young man's arms flinched when she stressed particular words.

  With a last phrase, raising in intonation, she gave Rowley's head a sharp shove. Letting out a small cry, Rowley crumpled as if his bones had dissolved.

  In a moment, he sat up and shook his head. A smile told Dalton he was fine. He brushed clean his dark brown trousers as he stood, looking no different, despite his added lethality.

  "The others?" she asked.

  Dalton gestured dismissively. "Rowley can take you to them."

  She bowed slightly. "Good day, then, Minister. I will see

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  to it immediately. The emperor also wished me to express his pleasure at being able to be of assistance. Either way, muscle or magic, the Mother Confessor's fate is now sealed."

  She wheeled around and stormed away, Rowley following in her wake. Dalton couldn't say he was sorry to see her go-

  Before he could return to reading his reports in earnest, he again heard the cheering. The sight when he lifted his head to look out the window was unexpected. Someone was being dragged into the square, a mob of people following behind as the people already in the square parted to make way, cheering on those entering, some of whom carried scraps of crates, tree branches, and sheafs of straw.

  Dalton went to the window and leaned on the sill with both hands as he peered down at the sight. It was Serin Rajak, at the head of a few hundred of his followers all dressed in white robes.

  When he saw who they had, who they were dragging into the square, who was screaming, Dalton gasped aloud.

  His heart pounding with dread, he stared out the window, wondering what he could do. He had guards with him, real guards, not Anderith army soldiers, but two dozen men. He realized it was a futile thought even as he had it; armed though they were, they stood no chance against the thousands in the square. Dalton knew better than to stand before a crowd intent on violence-that was only a good way to have the violence turned your way.

  Despite his feelings, Dalton dared not side against the people in this.

  Among the men with Serin Rajak, in among the man's followers, Dalton saw one in a dark uniform: Stein.

  With icy dread, Dalton realized the reason Stein was there, and what he wanted.

  Dalton backed away from the window. He was no stranger to violence, but this was an atrocity.

  At last, he ran back into the corridor that echoed his footfalls, descended the steps, and raced down the hall. He

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  didn't know what to do, but if there was anything ...

  He reached the entry set behind fluted stone columns outside the building, at the top of the cascade of steps. He halted well back in the shadows of the interior, assessing the situation.

  Outside, on the landing partway down the steps, guards patrolled to keep people from thoughts of coming up into j the Office of Cultural Amity. It was a symbolic gestur
e. This many people would easily sweep aside the guards. Dalton dared not give people in such a foul mood a reason to turn their anger to him.

  A woman, holding the hand of a young boy, pulled him along as she pushed her way to the front of the crowd. "I am Nora," she proclaimed to the people. "This is my son, Brace. He's all I got left, because of witches! My husband, Julian, was drowned because of a dark curse from a witch! My beautiful daughter Bethany was burned up alive by a witch's spell!"