“We are the walking dead. It does not matter.”
“What are you talking about?”
Du Chaillu clasped her hands. The blade masters were spread out behind her, her royal escort. Beyond them, the Mud People hunters watched. As sick as she still looked, Du Chaillu was once again looking noble.
“Before we left,” she said, “we told our people we were dead. We told them we were lost to the world of life, and we would not be returned to them unless we reached the Caharin to warn him and made sure he was safe. Our people wept and mourned us before we departed, because we are dead to them. Only if we do as we said will we be able to return.
“Not long ago, I heard the chimes of death. Cara, the Caharin’s protector, pulled me back from the spirit world. The spirits, in their wisdom, allowed me to return so I might fulfill my duty. When Cara returns with your sword, and you are safe, only then can we have our lives returned to us so that we might return home. Until then, we are the walking dead.
“I am not asking if we may be allowed to travel with you. I am telling you that we are going to travel with you. I am the Baka Tau Mana spirit woman. I have spoken.”
Clenching his teeth, Richard lifted his hand to shake an angry finger at her. Kahlan caught his wrist.
“Du Chaillu,” Kahlan said, “I, too, have taken such an oath. When I went to the walled city of Ebinissia and saw the people butchered by the Imperial Order, I vowed vengeance. Chandalen and I came across a small army of young recruits who also had seen the dead of their home city. They were determined to punish the men responsible.
“I swore a covenant that I was dead, and could only be returned to life when the men who committed those crimes were punished. The men with me gave up their lives too, to live again only if we succeeded. One in five of those young men returned to the living with Chandalen and me. But before we did, every one of the men who murdered the people of Ebinissia died.
“I understand such an oath as you have given, Du Chaillu. Such a thing is sacred and not to be ignored. You and the blade masters may come with us.”
Du Chaillu bowed to Kahlan. “Thank you for honoring my people’s ways. You are a wise woman, and worthy of being wife to my husband, too.”
Richard rolled his eyes. “Kahlan—”
“The Mud People need Chandalen and his men. Cara is doing as you ask of her, and going to General Reibisch and then on to Aydindril. Until the general can send men to join with us, we will be alone and vulnerable. Du Chaillu and her men will be valuable and welcome protection.
“With so much at stake, Richard, our pride is the last thing we need to be considering. They are coming.”
Richard took in Cara’s blue eyes, icy cold with resolve. She wanted this. Du Chaillu’s dark eyes were iron hard. Her mind was made up. Kahlan’s green eyes . . . well, he didn’t want to even think about what was in her green eyes.
“All right,” he said. “Until the soldiers can reach us, you may come along.”
Du Chaillu directed a puzzled look at Kahlan. “Does he always tell you, too, things you already know?”
Chapter 36
Fitch, his head bowed, could see Master Spink’s legs and feet as he walked among the benches, his boots making a slow thunk, thunk, thunk against the plank floor. Around the room, a few people, mainly the older women, sniffled as they wept quietly to themselves.
Fitch couldn’t blame them. He, too, was occasionally reduced to weeping at penance assembly. The lessons they learned were necessary if they were to fight their evil Haken ways—he understood that—but that didn’t make listening any easier.
When Master Spink lectured, Fitch preferred to look at the floor rather than by chance meet the man’s gaze. To meet the gaze of an Ander as he taught the horrors of what was done to his ancestors by Fitch’s was shaming.
“And so it was,” Master Spink went on, “that the Haken horde came by chance upon that poor farming village. The menfolk, with frantic concern for their families, had gathered together with those other simple Ander men from farms and other villages around. Together, they prayed to the Creator that their effort to repulse the bloodthirsty invaders might succeed.
“In desperation, they had already left nearly all their foodstuffs and livestock as a peaceful offering for the Hakens. They had sent messengers to explain the offerings, and that they wished no war, but none of those brave messengers ever returned.
“So it was a simple plan these men had, to go to the crest of a hill and wave their weapons overhead to make a show of strength, not to invite a fight, of course, but in an urgent effort to convince the Hakens to pass their villages by. These men were farmers, not warriors, and the weapons they waved were simple farm tools. They didn’t want a fight; they wanted peace.
“So, there they were, those men I’ve taught you about—Shelby, Willan, Camden, Edgar, Newton, Kenway, and all the rest—all those good and kind men who you have come to know over these last few weeks as I’ve told you their stories, their loves, their lives, their hopes, their simple and decent dreams. There they were, up there on that hill, hoping for no more than to convince the Haken brutes to pass them by. There they were, waving their tools—their axes, their hoes, their sickles, their forks, their flails—waving them in the air, hoping to keep those wives and children you’ve also come to know safe from harm.”
Thump, thump, thump went Master Spink’s boots as he came closer to Fitch.
“The Haken army did not choose to pass those simple men by. The Hakens instead, laughing and hooting, turned their Dominie Dirtch on those gentle Ander men.”
Some of the girls gasped. Others wailed aloud. Fitch himself felt a twist of fear in his gut, and a lump in his throat. He had to sniffle himself as he imagined their gruesome death. He had come to know those men on the hill. He knew their wives’ names, their parents’ names, and their children.
“And while those murderous Haken bastards in their fine, fancy uniforms”—Fitch could see the boots halt right beside him where he sat on the end of the bench near the center aisle—“stood laughing, stood cheering, the Dominie Dirtch rang out with its terrible violence, tearing the flesh from those men’s bones.”
Fitch could feel Master Spink’s dark-eyed glare on the back of his neck as the women and many of the men sobbed their grief aloud.
“The wails of those poor Ander farmboys rose into the Ander sky. It was their last scream in this life, as their bodies were torn apart by the excellently dressed, laughing, jeering Haken horde with their weapon of heartless slaughter, the Dominie Dirtch.”
One of the older women cried out with the horror of it. Master Spink still stood over Fitch. Right at that moment, Fitch wasn’t as proud of his messenger garb as he had been earlier, when the other people had whispered to each other in astonishment as he took his seat.
“I see you have yourself a fine new uniform, Fitch,” Master Spink said in a voice that made Fitch’s blood go cold.
Fitch knew he was expected to say something.
“Yes, sir. Though I was a lowly Haken scullion, Master Campbell was kind enough to give me a job as a messenger. He wants me to wear this uniform so all Hakens might see that with Ander help we can do better. He also wants the messengers to reflect well on his office as we help in his work of spreading the word of the Minister of Culture’s good work for our people.”
Master Spink cuffed Fitch on the side of the head, knocking him from the bench. “Don’t talk back to me! I’m not interested in your Haken excuses!”
“I’m sorry, sir.” He knew better than to get up from his hands and knees.
“Hakens always have excuses for their crimes of hate. You’re wearing a fancy uniform, just like those murderous Haken overlords enjoyed wearing, and you enjoy it the same as they, and then you try to make it seem as if you don’t.
“To this day, we Anders suffer grievously under the unceasing scourge of Haken hate. Without question, every look from a Haken conveys it. We can never be free of it. There are always Hak
ens in uniforms they enjoy wearing to remind us of the Haken overlords.
“You prove your filthy Haken nature by trying to defend the indefensible—your self-centered arrogance, your pride in yourself, your pride in a uniform. You all hunger to be Haken overlords. Everyday, as Anders, we must suffer such Haken abuse.”
“Forgive me, Master Spink. I was wrong. I wore it out of pride. I was wrong to let my sinful Haken nature rule me.”
Master Spink grunted his contempt, but then went on with the lesson. Knowing he deserved more, Fitch sighed, grateful to be let off so easy.
“With the menfolk murdered, that left the women and children of the village defenseless.”
The boots thunk, thunk, thunked as the man started out again, walking among the Hakens sitting on simple benches. Only after he had started away did Fitch dare to get up off his hands and knees and once more take his seat on the bench. His ear chimed something awful, like when Beata had struck him. Master Spink’s words bored through that hollow ringing.
“Being Hakens, of course, they decided to go through the village and have their wicked fun.”
“No!” a woman in back cried out. She fell to sobbing.
Hands clasped behind his back, Master Spink walked on, ignoring the interruption. There were frequently such interruptions.
“The Hakens, wishing a feast, went to the village. They were of a mind for some roasted meat.”
People fell to their knees, trembling with fear for the people they had come to know. Benches all over the room scuffed against the floor as most of the rest of the people in the room also went down on their knees. Fitch joined them.
“But it was a small village, as you know. After the Hakens slaughtered the livestock, they realized there wasn’t enough meat. Hakens, being Hakens, didn’t want for a solution for long.
“The children were seized.”
Fitch wished for nothing so much as he wished for the lesson to be over. He didn’t know if he could bear to hear any more. Apparently, some of the women were of the same mind. They collapsed to their faces on the floor, hands clasped, as they wept and prayed to the good spirits to watch over those poor, innocent, slain Ander people.
“You all know the names of those children. We will now go around the room and you will each give me one of the names you have learned, lest we forget those young lives so painfully taken. You will each give me the name of one of the children from that village—little girls and little boys—who were roasted alive in front of their mothers.”
Master Spink started at the last row. Each person in turn, as he pointed to them, spoke the name of one of those children, most beseeching after it that the good spirits watch over them. Before they were allowed to leave, Master Spink described the horror of being burned alive, the screams, the pain, and how long it took for the children to die. How long it took for their bodies to cook.
It was so grisly and sinister a deed that at one point, for just the briefest moment, Fitch considered for perhaps the first time whether the story could really be true. He had trouble imagining anyone, even the brutal Haken overlords, doing such a horrific thing.
But Master Spink was Ander. He wouldn’t lie to them. Not about something as important as history.
“Since it’s getting late,” Master Spink said, after everyone had given a child’s name, “we will leave until next assembly the story of what the Haken invaders did to those women. The children, perhaps, were lucky not to have to see their mothers used for such perversions as the Hakens did to them.”
Fitch, along with the rest of the assembly behind him, burst through the doors when they were dismissed, glad to escape, for the night, the penance lesson. He had never been so glad for the cool night air. He felt hot and sick as the images of such a death as those children suffered kept going through his head. The cool air, at least, felt good on his face. He pulled the cool purging air into his lungs.
As he was leaning against a slender maple tree beside the path to the road, waiting for his legs to steady, Beata came out the door. Fitch straightened. There was enough light coming from the open door and the windows so she would have no trouble seeing him—seeing him in his new messenger’s outfit. He was hoping Beata would find it more appealing than did Master Spink. “Good evening, Beata.”
She halted. She glanced down the length of him, taking in his clothes.
“Fitch.”
“You look lovely this evening, Beata.”
“I look the same as always.” She planted her fists on her hips. “I see you’ve fallen in love with yourself in a fancy uniform.”
Fitch suddenly lost his ability to think or speak. He had always liked the way the messengers looked in their uniforms, and had thought she would, too. He had been hoping to see her smile, or something. Instead, she glared at him. Now he wished more than anything he had just gone home straightaway.
“Master Dalton offered me a position—”
“And I suppose you’ll be looking forward to next penance assembly so you can hear about what those Haken beasts in their fancy uniforms did to those helpless women.” She leaned toward him. “You’ll like that. It will be almost as much fun for you as if you were there watching.”
Fitch stood with his jaw hanging as she huffed and stormed off into the night.
Other people walking down the street saw the tongue-lashing she had given him, a filthy Haken. They smiled in satisfaction, or simply laughed at him. Fitch stuffed his hands in his pockets as he turned his back to the road and leaned a shoulder against the tree. He brooded as he waited for everyone to move along on their own business.
It was an hour’s walk back to the estate. He wanted to be sure those returning there had gone on so he could walk alone and not have to talk to anyone. He considered going and buying himself some drink. He still had some money left. If not, he would go back and find Morley, and they would both get some drink. Either way, getting drunk sounded good to him.
The breeze abruptly felt cooler. It ran a shiver up his spine.
He almost leaped out of his boots when a hand settled on his shoulder. He spun and saw it was an older Ander woman. Her swept-back, nearly shoulder-length hair told him she was someone important. Streaks of gray at the temples told him she was old; there wasn’t enough light to see exactly how wrinkled she was, but he could still tell she was.
Fitch bowed to the Ander woman. He feared she might want to take up where Beata had left off, and take him to task for something or other.
“Is she someone you care about?” the woman asked.
Fitch was taken off guard by the curious question. “I don’t know,” he stammered.
“She was pretty rough with you.”
“I deserved it, ma’am.”
“Why is that?”
Fitch shrugged. “I don’t know.”
He couldn’t figure out what the woman wanted. It gave him gooseflesh the way her dark eyes studied him, like she was picking out a chicken for dinner.
She wore a simple dress that in the dim light looked like it might be a dark brown. It buttoned to her neck, unlike the more revealing fashion most Ander women wore. Her dress didn’t mark her as a noble woman, but that long hair said she was someone important.
She seemed somehow different from other Ander women. There was one thing about her that Fitch did think odd: she wore a wide black band tight around her throat, up close at the top of her neck.
“Sometimes girls say mean things when they’re afraid to admit they like a boy, fearing he won’t like her.”
“And sometimes they say mean things because they intend them.”
“True enough.” She smiled. “Does she live at the estate, or here in Fairfield?”
“Here in Fairfield. She works for Inger the butcher.”
She seemed to think that was a little bit funny. “Perhaps she is used to more meat on the bones. Maybe when you get a little older and fill yourself in more she will find you more appealing.”
Fitch stuffed his hands back i
n his pockets. “Maybe.”
He didn’t believe it. Besides, he didn’t figure he would ever fill in, as she put it. He figured he was old enough that he was about how he would be.
She went back to studying his face for a time.
“Do you want her to like you?” she asked at last.
Fitch cleared his throat. “Well, sometimes, I guess. At least, I’d like her not to hate me.”
The woman had one of those smiles like she was well pleased with something, but he doubted he’d ever understand it.
“It could be arranged.”
“Ma’am?”
“If you like her, and would like her to like you, it could be arranged.”
Fitch blinked in astonishment. “How?”
“A little something slipped into what she drinks, or eats.”
Understanding came over him all at once. This was a woman of magic. At last he understood why she seemed so strange. He’d heard people with magic were strange.
“You mean you could make something up? Some spell or something?”
Her smile grew. “Or something.”
“I just started working for Master Campbell. I’m sorry, ma’am, but I couldn’t afford it.”
“Ah, I see.” Her smile shrank back down. “And if you could afford it?”
Before he could answer, she squinted up at the sky in thought. “Or perhaps it could be ready later on, when you get paid.” Her voice turned to little more than a whisper, like she was talking to herself. “Might give me time to see if I couldn’t figure out the problem and get it to work again.”
She looked him in the eye. “How about it?”
Fitch swallowed. He surely didn’t want to offend an Ander woman, and one with the gift, besides. He hesitated.
“Well, ma’am, the truth is, if a girl’s ever going to like me, I’d just as soon she liked me because she liked me—no offense, ma’am. It’s kind of you to offer. But I don’t think I’d like it if a girl only liked me because of a spell of magic. I think that wouldn’t make me feel very good about it, like only magic could make a girl like me.”
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