Shroud of Eternity

by Terry Goodkind

  Sooner or later, the morazeth trainers would force him out into the main arena in front of the crowds. He was sure they would make him face some horrific opponent, like the two-headed warrior. What if Nicci and Nathan saw him from the stands, in the same way Bannon had recognized Ian? He could only imagine what the sorceress would do then, and a smile crossed his face, though he tried to hide it.

  But Bannon wasn’t sure he would even survive his training. Each day the work was more rigorous, more deadly.

  Gazing at him from across the corridor, Ian rested. Initially, his friend had angrily ignored Bannon, but after their duel, the hardened champion more often came to the bars of his own cell to stare at him, as if memories had broken through the scar tissue in his mind. Once, Bannon awoke in the middle of the night to find that Ian had let himself out of his unlocked cell and stood outside of Bannon’s bars, just looking at him. As soon as Bannon stirred from his pallet to go speak to his childhood friend, Ian had melted back into his own cell, closed the barred gate, and stayed out of view, not responding when Bannon called his name in a desperate whisper.

  Today Ian watched him with narrowed eyes, his face showing no expression as Lila brought Bannon out to Adessa near one of the sunken training pits. The morazeth leader met them, her face grim, her dark eyes darting. He could tell she was upset about something.

  That was never a good sign.

  Adessa’s skin was mottled with yellow and purple bruises, as if she had been badly beaten. Bannon took a hard pleasure from seeing that. “It looks like you lost your last combat,” he said, knowing it would provoke her.

  They stood above one of the sunken pits, similar to the one where he had first sparred with Lila. Adessa’s face turned glacial, her lips drew back. “I survived, and my opponent did not. Therefore, I didn’t lose.”

  Bannon couldn’t imagine what sort of enemy might have inflicted so much physical harm on the powerful morazeth.

  Lila handed him Sturdy, and he squeezed the leather-wrapped hilt. He still wore only a loincloth and sandals, and he wished he had decent armor. He stood with his muscles tense, his knees slightly bent in a crouch, at the edge of the pit.

  “We are preparing for the next arena exposition,” Adessa continued. “Let us see which of our two new combatants survives today’s training. Will you survive, Bannon?” She gave a quick nod to Lila.

  In a flash, the young woman shoved him backward, and he tumbled more than twelve feet to the floor of the pit. As he struck the soft ground, he managed not to break any bones or impale himself with his own sword. Lila had trained him how to fall, how to land, how to recover. He sprang back to his feet, ready.

  He saw another barred opening at ground level behind which lurked … something.

  Adessa stood on the rim above with arms crossed over the black leather wrap. “Thanks to the rebels and their sabotage a week ago, we lost half of our fighting animals, and we no longer have Chief Handler Ivan to control them. But the sovrena insists that we hold an exhibition to calm the people of Ildakar. Very soon, we will lose hundreds of slaves.” She shook her head, muttering to herself, “Such a waste, when they could become fighters and die in the arena.”

  Bannon planted his sandals on the soft ground and held up his sword. “I’d rather you fought me,” he shouted up to her. “That way I’d have more of an incentive to win. Or are you afraid to get more bruises?”

  Lila looked offended. “Am I not enough for you, boy?”

  Adessa did not respond to the provocation. She turned her head and called, “Summon the other fighters so they can observe which one dies. It is always good for them to smell fear and see fresh blood in the morning.”

  Lila whistled, and workers ran through the tunnels. Soon a group of spectators arrived, seasoned warriors, including Ian, who peered down into the pit to watch.

  Bannon glanced up at his friend, swallowing hard, but then he focused his attention as he heard movement in the tunnel. The barred gate opened, and a creature padded forward from the shadows, growling. Bannon’s skin crawled when he saw the golden eyes, the rippling predatory form. A well-muscled tawny shape emerged into the pit, an enormous sand panther, whose hide was branded with spell symbols.

  The big cat curled back lips to expose saberlike fangs. Her gaze locked on Bannon, who stood in the middle of the pit, sword upraised. She growled a low threat; her long tail thrashed like a fleshy club.

  Bannon caught his breath in surprise. “Mrra!”

  The panther padded out, slinking low, her ears pressed back against her wide skull. Her whiskers fanned outward like sharp wires. She snarled, ready to attack any tormentor.

  Joining the spectators at the rim, the three apprentice animal handlers gathered, peering down at the lone panther. Mrra looked up at them and roared. Even Lila flinched, though she was far out of reach. The handlers stood together, chattering, fascinated, as if it were an analytical exercise.

  Then the sand panther locked her gaze on Bannon again. Her opponent.

  He took two careful steps backward, holding the sword but raising his other hand in a placating gesture. “It’s all right, Mrra. You know me. You remember me.”

  Mrra padded closer on her huge paws, leaving broad tracks in the sand. Bannon slowed his breathing, tried to exude a sense of blank calm. The golden feline eyes were sharp and hot, as if candle flames burned behind them. She sniffed the air, looked at him, then took several more steps forward as Bannon cautiously backed away.

  “You remember me,” he whispered. “Think of Nathan. Think of Nicci, your sister panther. I know there’s a spell bond. We fought you, and we saved you.”

  Adessa shouted down, “Fight! What is wrong with you?” She turned to the handlers. “Have you not trained this one, Dorbo? Why isn’t she ready?”

  The three apprentices lifted their hands and released their gift, directing magic down at the big cat. Mrra tensed, flattening her ears even further, and her eyes squinted. She snarled and spun around, roaring up at the rim.

  The handlers looked at one other, troubled. Their lantern-jawed leader gritted his teeth, pushing more with his magic. Mrra spun back to look at Bannon as if some puppet master were forcing her head around. She obviously felt pain. Bannon saw the muscles ripple beneath her beautiful tan hide, but he saw no recognition behind her eyes.

  He held Sturdy, its point extended and ready, afraid he would have to fight and kill Mrra, the same way he and his companions had been forced to kill her two sister panthers out in the desert. Bannon could see murder in the big cat’s eyes, the bloodlust, the pain that blinded her to memories and personal connections. Mrra did know him, but the provoked ferocity seemed to overwhelm her.

  She prowled closer, fangs bared, pushing him toward the back wall.

  The spectators yelled and hooted. Lila called out, “What are you waiting for, boy? Kill it before it kills you.”

  “Her name is Mrra!” he shouted.

  The sound of her name sparked something within the sand panther, and she bounded forward like a tawny thunderbolt. Bannon braced his legs and held his sword, sure that the big cat would impale herself on the blade. But Mrra’s paw knocked his arm away, and her weight drove him to the ground. The heavy cat was on top of him, snarling, pressing her fangs close to his face. He knew she could rip out his throat with her teeth, slice him to ribbons with her claws.

  But Mrra just pressed him down, breathing her warm breath in his face. Bannon froze, staring into the cat’s eyes. She roared one more time, then stepped off his chest, leaving him flat on his back in the sand.

  Bannon’s heart pounded, and warm tears trickled out of the corners of his eyes. “Mrra…” he whispered. The sand panther moved away, though he lay there, vulnerable. The cat crouched in front of Bannon, faced the apprentice handlers and the spectators, and let out an earsplitting roar.

  Clearly upset, all three handlers blasted Mrra with their gift. She thrashed her paws in the air, clawing at imaginary tormentors. Though she circled around B
annon, she refused to harm him.

  With a mighty leap, she sprang up toward Adessa and the others and almost reached the rim of the sunken pit. Her claws scrabbled on the stone wall, caught the edge, and she kicked with her back paws, but she slipped back down and landed heavily on the floor of the pit.

  The spectators retreated, frightened now.

  “Do something,” Adessa said. “Control the thing.”

  The handlers were furious, redoubling their attack. Mrra, seeking escape, bounded back into the dark tunnel, where she vanished from view.

  Panting hard, Bannon picked himself up and stood with his sword hanging loose at his side. He glared up at them. Among the silent fighters, Ian stood watching with a deeply troubled expression on his face.

  Feeling foolishly brave, Bannon shouted, “Adessa, why don’t you jump into the pit? I would be happy to fight you—and I’m sure Mrra would join me.”

  The morazeth leader darkened with fury. She glared at the apprentice handlers. “They are not ready. Fix that!” And she stalked off.

  CHAPTER 64

  Nathan blinked his eyes and woke from a bottomless pit of pain into even more pain. He lay back on the hard table as his thoughts returned to him. His consciousness swam up from the bottom of a deep ocean of inky oblivion.

  As the light gradually grew brighter in his eyes and he flickered back to wakefulness, he feared what would be waiting for him when he returned to life. He swam in a dull half sleep, struggling to sort his thoughts, trying to understand where he was, but the agony in his chest was overpowering. He surrendered, sliding back into a deep sleep.…

  Some time later he tried again. Unbearable pain ripped through his bloodstream, his muscles, his mind, but eventually it became almost tolerable, and he called upon his own strength, making himself brave the darkness. Wherever he was, he had been here too long.

  He reminded himself he was Nathan Rahl. He had been a powerful prophet and a magnificent wizard. He was a scholar, a lover, an adventurer. He was not one to surrender, no matter how much pain he had to endure. Without stirring, he marshaled his thoughts and his energy, realizing that he heard a faint drumbeat in his ears. As he concentrated on the rhythm, it was slow and even, growing louder.

  Thump, thump.

  Thump, thump.

  Like war drums calling an army to battle, it was ominous, insistent, powerful.

  Thump, thump. Thump, thump.

  No, he realized. Not drums. It was something more primal. A heartbeat—his heartbeat, pumping strong and even, thudding within his chest.

  The shock and horror of returning memories almost pushed him back into that black pit. He remembered the mangled body of Chief Handler Ivan frozen on the cusp of death, and Fleshmancer Andre prying the big man’s chest apart, as if he were peeling the rind off a fruit … reaching inside to scoop out Ivan’s still-living heart. Then he had turned to Nathan as he lay paralyzed on the table, unable to stop this horrific process. Andre had grinned down at him before pushing his fingers right into Nathan’s breastbone, cracking it open, and spreading his chest. He had wanted to scream, but he could not flinch.

  Now, using all of his effort, he managed to blink. Once.

  When his eyes were open and filled with light again, he saw that he lay in a dim room surrounded by indigo hangings, cloths draped on the walls separating parts of the room. The fleshmancer’s studio.

  Nathan felt weak and exhausted, his body like a wadded-up scrap of parchment discarded into a puddle. He breathed in a gasp of air. His throat was parched, and when he tried to speak, his voice sounded like a rasping tear that could form no words.

  Thump, thump. Thump, thump.

  His heart was beating, his new heart—Chief Handler Ivan’s heart.

  “Ah, you are awake now, hmmm?”

  Nathan couldn’t turn his head, but he saw Andre leaning over him, his braided beard sticking out from his chin like a long brush. The fleshmancer grinned, and his muddy eyes sparkled with delight. “I predicted you would wake this afternoon. In this, as well as all of my other efforts, I am exactly correct.”

  He patted Nathan’s chest, and the touch of the fleshmancer’s fingers sent jolts of renewed pain through his heart, through his bones. Nathan winced.

  “You feel that? That means you’re alive. I told you so, hmmm?”

  Nathan managed to croak, “How…?” He couldn’t form any more of his sentence, but the word itself invited so many possible answers.

  “How?” Andre mimicked. “How proud am I that you survived the experiment? How long will it be until you are a full-fledged wizard again?”

  Nathan drew a painful breath and managed to force out, “How … long?”

  “Oh, it has been some time. Several days. But you needed the recovery. Rest assured that your heart is beating with great strength. I’m sure you can feel it. And since you now have the heart of a wizard—exactly as I promised—you should be able to find your gift again! The lines of your Han have been restored. Here, I’ll let you see.”

  Andre disappeared from view, and Nathan could hear him rustling among papers and scrolls. The fleshmancer returned holding a white sheet on which colored lines were etched in powder that had settled into new patterns. A new Han map, apparently made while Nathan lay recovering. Where previously the lines had shown a void around Nathan’s chest, they now showed a gray web, lines restored, but without color, like the other paths of his Han.

  “It may take some time, but you can see, here and here.” He traced the lines on a picture of Nathan’s chest. “This may be Ivan’s gift, or some new pattern of Han entirely. Your loss left an empty spot within you, and now the magic is trying to refill it.” Andre poked at Nathan’s chest with his forefinger, sending jolts of pain. “You’ll just have to figure it out, hmmm?”

  Nathan felt his strength gradually returning. He was more awake now. The world around him had sharper edges, brighter colors. Tentatively, fearfully, he let his thoughts sink into himself, tracing his heartbeat, the steady drumbeat. Yes … he felt a trickle there, a tingle of the gift that he remembered so well. The magic had been a part of him for all of his life, century upon century. Its loss was still a raw wound within him, and he rejoiced to feel even a glimmer of the gift again.

  He hesitated. The last few times he actually used his gift had been a debacle, as his magic twisted and failed. He had tried to heal a poor dying man after the Norukai massacre at Renda Bay, and the gift had betrayed him, lunging out in a destructive backlash that caused exactly the opposite of what Nathan intended. Rather than healing the wounded victim, the magic had ripped him apart.

  When Nathan had attempted magic again, tentatively trying to summon the wind when he was alone out in the forest, the resulting near cyclone got out of hand, smashing branches, uprooting trees. It was all he could do to dampen it again before the destruction became widespread enough to level the forest.

  The only time the backlash had worked to his advantage was in a final burst of desperation while the Adjudicator attempted to turn him to stone. With nothing to lose, he had released all restraint, all control of his gift, and the magic had ricocheted outward, turning the Adjudicator’s magic back upon him. Nathan had not expected that, but he had survived.

  Now, considering the new Han map and the fact that his new heart came from Ivan, a gifted wizard of Ildakar, Nathan wondered exactly what his restored gift would do.

  As he listened to the drumbeat in his chest, feeling the blood flow, sensing the life within him, he also felt an intrinsic anger there, a dark energy. It must have simmered within Ivan for all his life. The chief handler had used that darkness to coerce obedience from the arena animals he trained. How much of Ivan’s core personality remained within his heart? And how much was now within Nathan?

  He knew he needed to rest and regain his strength before he attempted to use magic. He was not ready, but Nathan didn’t want to admit that he was afraid. He stirred, raising himself slightly, to the delight of Andre.

 
“You will be back among us in no time! I cannot wait to show you off to the other wizards.” He leaned closer, grinning. “You’ll join us on the duma. We need new members now, and if you show sufficient gratitude to me, I will be your advocate. You have a great future here in Ildakar, Wizard Nathan.”

  “Can’t … stay,” Nathan said. “Other missions.” He blinked, drew a deep breath.

  Andre said, “Of course you’ll stay. The shroud has been restored. No one can leave Ildakar. The sovrena has an even grander plan for a tremendous bloodworking in two nights, which should make the shroud permanent. You will be here for a long, long time.”

  Alarmed, Nathan stirred, but didn’t have the energy to sit up or swing his feet off the edge of the table. He gasped at the pain, caught his breath, panting heavily. His vision swirled around him, but then he grew steady once more. “Where is Nicci? I need to see Nicci.”

  “I’m afraid that won’t be possible, dear Nathan.” Andre clucked his tongue and shook his head. “Quite a lot has happened while you were asleep.”

  Nathan felt dread building up within him. “What’s wrong? Where is she?”

  “Nobody really knows,” Andre said. “At least, no one has found her body.” Nathan tried to struggle to his feet as the fleshmancer continued, “Your sorceress friend is quite impulsive. She’s powerful, no arguing with that, but she was upset because of a stray sand panther that was captured and brought to the training pits. So she challenged Sovrena Thora for the leadership of Ildakar.”

  Andre’s eyes were bright, and his smile widened. “Ah, you should have seen it! Quite the battle up in the ruling tower. First, the sovrena appointed Adessa as her champion, and the morazeth battered Nicci to within an inch of her life. Then the sovrena—in an example of poor sportsmanship, I must admit—used her own magic to blast Nicci out the high windows, and she plummeted down into the city below.” He clucked his tongue again. “We keep expecting someone to discover her broken corpse any day now.”

  Nathan collapsed back onto the table. “Nicci … is dead?”