Temple of the Winds tsot-4

by Terry Goodkind

  “Well,” he said, drawing the word out, “do you have a room?”

  He knew she wouldn’t have one. He knew what this was about.

  She rested a wrist over his shoulder. “Don’t need no room, love. Just a half silver.”

  Discreetly as possible, he swept his gaze over the close buildings. The windows were all dark. Only a few lights in the distance reflected off the wet stone. This was a warehouse district; no one lived in these buildings. There weren’t likely to be many people about, except passersby, like himself. Still, he knew he had to temper his lust with prudence.

  “A little cold to be undressing out here on the cobblestones, isn’t it?”

  She put one hand on the side of his face to keep his attention focused on her. Her other hand touched him between his legs. She purred with satisfaction at what she found.

  “Not to worry, love. For a half silver I’ll have someplace warm for you to put it.”

  He was enjoying the game. It had been too long. He put on his most innocent, inexperienced expression for her.

  “Well, I don’t know. This seems somewhat crude to me. I usually like it best when there’s time for the young lady to enjoy it, too.”

  “Oh, I do enjoy it, love. You don’t think I do this just for the half silver, do you? ’Course not. I enjoy it. It’s my pleasure.”

  She was backing toward the doorway she had come from. He let her fingers, curled behind his neck, guide him with her.

  “I don’t carry any money that small.”

  He could almost see her eyes light with her luck. She had yet to learn that her luck this night was going to be bad.

  “You don’t?” she said, as if preparing to withdraw her offer now that she thought she had snared him with tempting thoughts of what she was offering. “Well, a lady has to earn a living. I guess I’ll have to move along and see if I can find . . .”

  “The smallest I have is a silver. But I’d be willing to give you the whole silver if it would mean you took your time and enjoyed it, too. I like lovely young ladies like you to enjoy it. That’s what pleases me.”

  “What a love,” she said with clumsy, exaggerated delight as she took the silver coin when he held it out.

  She stank. Her smile brought no beauty to her face, yet he reveled in the details: coarse hair, the smell of her body, the humped nose, and small eyes. She was common, less than a man of his stature was used to, but this had its own delights to offer.

  He listened carefully as he watched her. Other details were even more important, if he was to have his full pleasure from this.

  She backed into the shallow doorway and sat on a stool waiting there. The doorway was just deep enough to hold them both, with his back to the alleyway as he stood before her.

  It aggravated him that she thought him so ignorant, so foolish, so impetuous. She would learn just how wrong she was.

  She planted a kiss on the front of his trousers as she fumbled with his belt. It wouldn’t be long. She wouldn’t want it to take too long, before she moved on to another place, reaping all the coin she could in the cloak of night.

  Before she undid his trousers, he gently took her wrists in one hand. It wouldn’t do to have his trousers down around his knees when it started. No, that wouldn’t do at all.

  She smiled up at him, clearly puzzled, but just as clearly sure she was bewitching him with her smile. He wouldn’t have to suffer it for long. It wouldn’t be long.

  It was dark enough. Too dark to see for sure what he was doing. People saw what they expected.

  While she still smiled at him, before she had time to question, he reached down with his other hand and gripped her neck. She thought he simply wished to hold her while she performed her service. The way her head was tilted back was perfect. With a thumb, and a small grunt of effort, he crushed her windpipe. The smile transferred to his face. The choking sound wouldn’t immediately raise suspicions. People heard what they expected to hear, just as they saw what they expected to see. He hunched over her, to make it look as expected, while he crushed the life out of her.

  “Surprise,” he whispered to her bulging eyes. He luxuriated in her startled, strangled expression. When her arms went limp, he let them drop, and held her up by a fistful of her hair. He bent her head back over his thigh to help hold her up as he waited.

  He had to wait only seconds before he heard the careful footsteps approaching from behind. More than one man, as he had expected. He knew what this was about: robbery.

  Mere seconds more, and they had closed the distance. To him, time stretched with the anticipation, with the details of sights, sounds, and smells. He was the most rare of men. He owned time. He owned life. He owned death. And now it was time for the rest of his pleasure.

  He pushed his knee up against her spine and, with a quick yank, snapped her neck over his leg. He spun, bringing his knife up into the man right behind, slicing him open from his groin to his sternum. He spun past the man as guts slopped out into the alley.

  He expected another man. There were two. A woman like this usually had two men to rob the man. He had never before seen three. The unexpected danger of this development made him reel with lust.

  The second man on the right swung an arm. He saw the knife in the fist, and with a step back, escaped the sweep of the blade. As the third man advanced, he drove him back with a boot to the point at the base of the breastbone. The man smacked the wall behind and stumbled to his knees with a grunt of pain, unable to regain his breath.

  The man on the right froze. In that instant, it was one on one. The face was that of a boy, really. Hardly a man, yet. With a boy’s courage, he broke and ran.

  He smiled. There was no more perfect target as they ran than a person’s head. The head remained nearly still while the arms and legs flailed furiously. That target was a core of stability in his vision.

  He loosed his knife. The boy ran as fast as his rapidly pumping legs would carry him. The knife was faster, hitting home with a solid thunk. The young thief went down instantly.

  The third man was coming up from his knees. He was older, muscled, heavy, and violently angry. Good.

  A side kick broke the man’s nose. Howling in pain and rage, the man sprang forward. He saw a flash of steel and dodged to the side as he swept a leg beneath the man, taking his feet from under him. It all happened in a blink. It was a glorious event, this dangerous, raging bull charging madly.

  He pulled in the details: the man’s clothes, the small rip in the back of his coat, his bald spot reflecting the distant light, his curly, greasy hair, the nick missing out of his right ear, the way he flopped when the boot landed between his shoulders.

  It was when he was twisting the man’s arm behind his back that he saw the blood. Blood was something he kept careful track of. This blood surprised him. He hadn’t cut the man—yet. Nor was this blood from the man’s crushed nose. He rarely had a thrill of surprise such as this unexpected blood brought. He realized the man was screaming in pain. He screamed louder when the shoulder joint popped. He dropped onto the man’s back and smacked his head with the heel of a hand, breaking the loan’s teeth against the cobbles and quieting him, somewhat.

  He gripped the greasy hair in a fist and pulled the man’s head back, listening to the sound of the grunts.

  “Robbery is a dangerous business. Time you paid the price.”

  “We wouldn’t have hurt you,” the man burbled. “Just robbed you, you bastard.”

  “Bastard, is it?”

  Carefully, slowly, enjoying the detail of every inch, he slit open the man’s throat as he thrashed.

  What unexpected pleasure this night had brought. He lifted his hands, curling his fingers, slowly sweeping the quintessence of death from the air, capturing the silken substance of it as it lifted in the darkness, and pulled it back to himself.

  He was the fulfillment of their lives. He was the balance. He was death. He savored seeing that awareness in their eyes. He liked it best when he could bask in t
hat look, that knowledge . . . that terror. It brought him fulfillment. It made him complete.

  He stood, swaying in ecstasy at the cloying scent of blood. He regretted it hadn’t lasted longer. He regretted not being able to enjoy prolonged screams. Screams were rapture. He craved them, needed them, lusted after them. Screams fulfilled him, made him whole. He needed the screams, not the actual sound of them—he often gagged his partners—but the attempt at them, and what they represented: terror.

  Being denied the chance to leisurely enjoy the screaming terror left him unfulfilled, his lust unsated.

  He glided up the alley and found that his skill was as sharp as ever, as was his knife; it had found its target. The boy lay crumpled on his side. He looked delicious with the knife buried to the cross guard at the back of his head, and the point of the heavy blade jutting from his forehead, just slightly off center. Immersed in a pool of sensation, he realized he felt a new one: pain. Surprised, he inspected his arm, and discovered the source of the unexpected blood. He had a gash a good six inches long on the outside of his right forearm. It was deep. It would need to be stitched.

  The pleasure of such an unexpected occurrence made him gasp. Danger, death, and damage—all in one night, in one chance encounter. This was nearly too much.

  The voices had been right about coming to Aydindril.

  Still, he hadn’t had what he needed—the prolonged terror, the careful cutting, the slicing, the binge of blood, the giving of endless, exquisite pain, the orgy of frenzied stabbing at the end.

  But the voices from the ethers promised him he would have those things, promised him he would have the ultimate conquest, the ultimate balance, the ultimate pairing.

  They promised him he would have the ultimate consummation of debauchery.

  They promised him he would have the Mother Confessor.

  His time was coming.

  Her time was coming.

  Soon.

  When Verna dabbed the wet cloth against Warren’s forehead, his eyes opened. She let out a long breath of relief. “How are you feeling?”

  He tried to sit up. With a firm hand on his chest, she gently pushed him back down into the hay.

  “Just you lay there and rest.”

  He winced in pain and then smacked his lips. “I need a drink.”

  Verna twisted and lifted the dipper from the bucket. She held it to his lips. His hands cupped the dented bowl of the dipper as he greedily gulped down all the water.

  He panted, catching his breath after the long drink. “More.”

  Verna dragged the dipper through the bucket and let him drink his fill. She smiled down at him. “Glad to see you awake.”

  It looked to be an effort for him to return the smile. “Glad to be awake. How long have I been out, this time?”

  She shrugged, discounting his concern. “A few hours.”

  He glanced around the inside of the barn. Verna lifted the lamp so he could see his surroundings. Rain drummed against the roof, making it feel cozy inside.

  Verna set down the lamp and rested on an elbow beside him. “Not fancy lodging, but at least it’s dry.”

  He had been nearly unconscious when they found the farm. The family who owned the farm was sympathetic. Verna had refused the offer of their bed, not wanting to force them to sleep in their own barn.

  On her journey of over twenty-odd years, Verna had often slept in such places, and found the accommodations agreeable, if a little rough. She liked the smell of hay. When she was on her journey, she had thought she hated it, but once returned to the cloistered life at the Palace of the Prophets, she changed her opinion, and found herself longing for the smell of hay, dirt, grass, and rain-clean air.

  Warren laid a gentle hand over hers. “Verna, I’m sorry I’m slowing us down so.”

  Verna smiled. She recalled a time when her impatient nature would have had her pacing and fretting. Warren, and his love, brought out a little of her calmer nature. He was good for her. He was everything to her.

  She pushed back his curly blond hair and kissed his forehead. “Nonsense. We had to stop for the night anyway. The rain would have made traveling slow and miserable. A good rest will result in more progress in the end. Take my word; I’ve had plenty of experience at such things.”

  “But I feel so—useless.”

  “You are a prophet. That provides us with information that is far from useless. That in itself has saved us from traveling days in a wrong direction.”

  His troubled blue eyes turned to the rafters. “The headaches are coming more often with time. I fear to think that when I close my eyes, I may never come awake again.”

  She scowled for the first time that night. “I’ll not hear that sort of talk, Warren. We will make it.”

  He hesitated, not wanting to argue with her. “If you say so, Verna. But I’m slowing us down more all the time.”

  “I’ve taken care of that.”

  “You have? What have you done?”

  “I hired us transportation. For a ways, at least.”

  “Verna, you said you didn’t want to hire a coach, that it would draw attention to us. You said you didn’t want to risk being recognized, and you didn’t want nosy people inquiring as to who was riding a coach.”

  “Not a coach. And I don’t want to hear a string of objections. I hired this farmer to take us south for a ways in his hay cart. He said we could lay in the back and you could rest. He’ll cover us with hay so we won’t have to worry about people bothering us.”

  Warren frowned. “Why would he do this for us?”

  “I paid him well. More than that, though, he and his family are loyal to the Light. He respects the Sisters of the Light.”

  Warren relaxed back into the hay. “Well, I guess that sounds good. You’re sure he’s willing? You didn’t twist his nose, did you?”

  “He was going anyway.”

  “Really? Why?”

  Verna sighed. “He has a sick daughter. She’s only twelve. He wants to go to get some tonic for her.”

  Suspicion darkened Warren’s expression. “Why didn’t you cure the girl?”

  Verna held his gaze. “I tried. I couldn’t cure her. She has a high fever, she’s cramping and vomiting. I tried my best. I would have given nearly anything to have been able to cure that poor child of her suffering, but I couldn’t.”

  “Any idea why not?”

  Verna shook her head sadly. “The gift doesn’t cure everything, Warren. You know that. If she had a broken bone, I could help her. If she had any number of ills, I could help her, but the gift is of limited use for fever.”

  Warren looked away. “Seems unfair. They offer to help us, and we can do next to nothing for them.”

  “I know.” Verna whispered.

  She listened to the rain against the roof for a time.

  “I was able to ease the pain in her gut, at least. She’ll rest a little more comfortably.”

  “Good. That’s good, at least.” Warren fussed with a piece of straw. “Have you been able to get in contact with Prelate Annalina? Has she left you a message in the journey book yet?”

  Verna tried not to betray how troubled she was. “No. She hasn’t answered my messages, nor has she sent one of her own. She’s probably busy. She doesn’t need to be bothered by our little problems. We’ll hear from her when she has time.”

  Warren nodded. Verna blew out the lamp. She snuggled up to him, putting her forehead against his shoulder. She rested her arm across his chest. “We best get some sleep. At sunrise we’ll be moving on.”

  “I love you, Verna. If I die in my sleep, I want you to know that.”

  Verna’s fingers stroked the side of his face in answer.

  Clarissa rubbed the sleep from her eyes. Dawn was leaking in around the edges of the heavy, dark green drapes. She sat up in the bed. She didn’t think she had ever awakened feeling this good. She reached over to tell Nathan as much. Nathan wasn’t with her.

  Clarissa sat up and swung her legs over
the edge of the bed. When she stretched, her leg muscles protested: they were sore from the night’s activities. She guessed it was simply the thought of the cause that made her smile at the mild ache. She had never known that sore muscles could be so pleasant.

  She stuffed her arms through the lovely pink robe Nathan had bought for her. She snugged the ruffles up around her neck and then tied the silk belt. She wiggled her toes in the thick carpet, luxuriating in the feeling.

  Nathan was at the writing desk, bent over a letter. He smiled up at her as she stood in the doorway. “Sleep well?”

  Clarissa half-closed her eyes and sighed. “I should say so.” She grinned. “What sleep I got, anyway.”

  Nathan linked at her. He dipped the pen in a bottle of blue ink and went back to his scratching. Clarissa strolled around behind him and put her hands on his shoulders. He was wearing his trousers, and nothing else. With her thumbs she kneaded the muscles at the base of his neck. He made an agreeable sound deep in his throat, so she continued. She liked to hear his sounds of pleasure, and liked even more being their cause.

  As her thumbs worked along the muscles of his shoulders, she glanced down at what he was writing. Scanning the letter, she saw that it was instructions about moving troops to places she had never heard of. Nathan wrote on, admonishing a general about the bond to the Lord Rahl, and the dire repercussion should he ignore it. The tone of the letter was the same authoritative tone he used when he expected people to treat him as the man of importance that he was. He signed the letter: “Lord Rahl.”

  Clarissa bent and nuzzled his neck, giving his ear a little nip. “Nathan, last night was beyond wonderful. It was magic. You were magnificent. I’m the luckiest woman in the world.”

  He gave her a roguish grin. “Magic. Yes, there was some of that in it, too. I’m an old man; I need to use what I’ve got.”

  She combed her fingers through his hair, ordering it. “Old man? I don’t think so, Nathan. I hope I was half as pleasing to you as you were to me.”

  He laughed as he folded his letter. “I guess I did manage to keep up with you.” He slipped a hand inside her robe and pinched her bare bottom. She jumped with a squeak. “It was one of the high points of my life, to be with such a beautiful and loving woman.”