Soul of the Fire tsot-5

by Terry Goodkind

  “Yes, it is. It’s like a palace he sets up each night. I can’t say I favor going there, though.”

  “No, after my encounter with the man, I imagine not. Do you know where we’re going?”

  The other shook her head. “Here, there, it makes no difference. We are slaves serving His Excellency.”

  It had the ring of hopelessness to it, and made Ann think to gently turn that feeling to hope. “You know, Alessandra, he can’t get into my mind.”

  Sister Alessandra looked up with a frown, and Ann told her how the bond to the Lord Rahl protected anyone sworn to him. Ann was careful to frame it in terms of what it meant to her, and to the others sworn to Richard, on a personal level, rather than to make it sound like an offer. The woman listened without objection.

  “Now,” Ann said in conclusion, “the magic of Richard’s bond as the Lord Rahl doesn’t work, but then, Jagang’s magic doesn’t work either, so I’m still safe from the dream walker.” She chuckled. “Unless he walks in the tent, that is.”

  Sister Alessandra laughed with her.

  Ann rearranged her manacled hands in her lap, hauling the chains closer so she could have enough slack to cross her legs.

  “When the chimes eventually go back to your master in the underworld, then Richard’s bond will work again, and I will once again be protected from Jagang’s magic, when it returns, too. In all this, that is the one comfort I have knowing I’m safe from Jagang’s power entering my mind.”

  Sister Alessandra sat mute.

  “Of course,” Ann added, “it must be a relief for you to be without Jagang in your mind for the time being, at least.”

  “You don’t know when he’s there. You feel no different. Except . . . if he wants you to know.”

  She smoothed the lap of her dress when Ann didn’t say anything. “But I think you don’t know what you’re talking about, Prelate. The dream walker is in my mind, right now, watching us.”

  She looked up, waiting for Ann to argue. Instead, Ann said, “You just think on it, Alessandra. You just think on it.”

  Sister Alessandra gathered up the bowl. “I’d best be going back.”

  “Thank you for coming, Alessandra. Thank you for the soup. And thank you for sitting with me. It was nice to be with you, again.”

  Sister Alessandra nodded and ducked out of the tent.

  Chapter 50

  Although it was hardly noticeable, the grassy ground stretching to the horizon before Beata’s Dominie Dirtch was slightly higher than the ground to each side of the enormous stone weapon, and so provided firmer footing, especially for horses. After the recent rains the gentle swale to the right was muddy. To the left it wasn’t any better. Because of the unique lay of the land, especially after rain, people tended to approach Beata’s post, her Dominie Dirtch, more often than others.

  There weren’t many, but those in the area traveling into Anderith from the grasslands of the wilds were inclined to come to her station first. Beata enjoyed being able to be in charge for a change, to pass judgment on people and say if they could enter. If she thought they looked like people who should not be let in, she sent them, on to a border station, where they could apply for entry with the station guards.

  It felt good to be the one in control of important matters, instead of being helpless. Now, she decided things.

  It was exciting, too, when travelers came through—something different, a chance to talk to people from afar, or to see their strange dress. There were rarely more than two or three people traveling together. But they looked up to her; she was in charge.

  This bright sunny morning, though, Beata’s heart hammered against her ribs. This time, those who approached were different. This time, there were considerably more than a few. This time, it looked like a true threat.

  “Carine,” Beata ordered, “stand ready at the striker.”

  The Haken woman squinted over at her. “You sure, Sergeant?” Carine had terrible eyesight; she rarely saw anything beyond thirty paces, and these people were off at the horizon.

  It was something Beata had never done before, ordering out the striker. At least, not when people approached. They practiced taking it out, of course, but she’d never ordered it out. If she wasn’t there, the ones on duty were supposed to take it out if they judged a threat approached, but with Beata there, it was up to her to order it readied. She was in charge. They depended on her.

  Since the terrible accident, they’d added an extra bar across the rack where the striker stood, even though they knew it wasn’t the striker that had rung the weapon. No one told them to do it; Beata just felt better with another restraint on the striker. It made them feel like they were doing something about the accident, even if they weren’t, really.

  No one knew why all the Dominie Dirtch had rung.

  Beata wiped her sweaty palms on her hips. “I’m sure. Do it.”

  Other times, when people approached, it was easy enough to tell they were harmless. Traders with a cart, some of the nomadic people of the wilds wanting to trade with the soldiers stationed at the border—Beata never let them through—merchants taking an unusual route for one reason or another, even some special Ander guard troops returning from far patrols.

  Those Ander guard troops weren’t regular army soldiers. They were special. They were men only, and they looked to Beata like they were used to dealing with trouble of one sort or another. They paid no heed to regular Anderith soldiers, like Beata.

  She’d ordered them to stop, once, as they approached. Beata knew who they were, because Captain Tolbert had instructed her and her squad about the special Ander guard troops, and told them to let the men pass at will if they came by. She’d only wanted to ask them, being fellow soldiers and all, if they needed anything.

  They didn’t stop when she ordered it. The man leading simply smirked as he rode past with his column of big men.

  These people who approached, though, were not guard troops. Beata didn’t know what to make of them, except they had the look of a serious threat. She could make out hundreds of mounted soldiers in dark uniforms spreading out as they halted.

  Even from a distance, it was a formidable sight.

  Beata glanced to her side, and saw Carine drawing back the striker. Annette seized the shaft to help strike the Dominie Dirtch.

  Beata sprang toward them and caught the shaft of the striker before they could swing it.

  “No order was given! What’s the matter with you? Stand down.”

  “But Sergeant,” Annette complained, “they’re soldiers—a lot of soldiers—and they aren’t ours. I can tell that much.”

  Beata shoved the woman back. “They’re giving the signal. Can’t you see?”

  “But, Sergeant Beata,” Annette whined, “they aren’t our people. They’ve no business—”

  “You don’t even know their business yet!” Beata was frightened and angry that Carine and Annette had almost rung the weapon on their own. “Are you crazy? You don’t even know who they are. You could be killing innocent people.

  “You’re both going to stand an extra duty tonight and for the next week for not following orders. Do you understand?”

  Annette hung her head. Carine saluted, not knowing how she was supposed to react to such discipline. Beata would have been angry at any of her squad trying to wrongly ring the Dominie Dirtch, but deep down inside, she was glad it was the two Haken women, and not one of the Anders.

  On the horizon, a person on horseback waved a white flag on the end of a pole, or lance. Beata didn’t know the distance the Dominie Dutch could kill. Maybe if Carine and Annette had rung it, it wouldn’t have harmed the people out there, but after what happened to Turner, she hoped never to see the weapon rung while people were in front of it—unless they clearly were attacking.

  Beata watched as the strange troops waited where they were while only a few people approached. Those were the rules, the way Beata and her squad were taught. People had to wave a flag of some sort, and if there wer
e many, only a few were supposed to approach to state their business and ask permission to pass.

  It wasn’t a risk to have a few people approach. The Dominie Dirtch could kill an enemy even if they were only one step away, out in front of it. They would still die. How close people came was really irrelevant—so was the number, for that matter.

  Four people, two on foot and two on horseback, came forward, leaving the rest behind. As they got closer, she could see it was two men and two women. One man and woman rode, another pair walked. There was something about the woman on horseback . . .

  When Beata realized who the woman had to be, her heart felt as if it had leaped up into her throat.

  “You see?” Beata said to Carine and Annette. “Can you imagine if you’d rung that thing? Can you imagine?”

  The two, jaws agape, stared out at the approaching people. Beata’s knees trembled at the thought of what had almost happened.

  Beata turned and shook a fist at the two. “Put that thing away. And don’t you dare go near the Dominie Dirtch! Do you understand?”

  Both saluted. Beata turned and raced down the steps two at a time. In her whole life, she never imagined anything like this.

  She never imagined she would actually meet the Mother Confessor herself.

  She gaped, along with the rest of her squad who came out to see, as the woman in the long white dress rode forward. One man rode to her right. A man and woman were on foot. The woman was pregnant. The man on foot, on the Mother Confessor’s left, was dressed in loose clothes of no particular style. He had a sword, but kept it sheathed.

  The man riding on the Mother Confessor’s right was something else entirely. Beata had never seen such a man, all dressed in black, with a golden cape billowing out behind. The sight took her breath.

  Beata wondered if it could be the man she’d heard was to marry the Mother Confessor: Lord Rahl. He certainly looked a lord. He was just about the most imposing-looking man Beata had ever seen.

  Beata shouted to the two up on the platform. “Get down here!”

  The two women dashed down the steps and Beata lined them up with the rest of her squad. Corporal Marie Fauvel, Estelle Ruffin, and Emmeline stood to Beata’s right. The two from up on the platform joined the three Ander men, Morris, Karl, and Bryce, on her left. They all formed up in a straight line, watching as the four people carne right up to them.

  As the Mother Confessor dismounted, without anyone needing to issue orders, Beata and her whole squad fell to their knees and bowed their heads. On her way to her knees, Beata had seen the Mother Confessor’s beautiful white dress and long fall of gorgeous brown hair. Beata had never seen hair such as that, so long and elegant-looking. She was used to seeing dark Ander hair, or red Haken hair, so hair that shone honey brown in the sunlight was such an extraordinarily rare sight that it made the woman look almost other than human.

  Beata was glad to have her head bowed, so afraid was she to meet the Mother Confessor’s gaze. Only profound fear had prevented Beata from staring in awe.

  All her life she had heard stories about the power of the Mother Confessor, about the feats of magic she could do, about how she could turn people to stone with a look if she didn’t like them, or other things far worse.

  Beata gulped air, panting, on the verge of panic. She was just a Haken girl, suddenly feeling very out of place. She never expected to find herself before the Mother Confessor.

  “Rise, my children,” said a voice from above.

  Just the sound of it, how gentle, how clear, how seemingly kind it was, greatly eased Beata’s fear. She never thought the Mother Confessor would have a voice so . . . so womanly. Beata had always thought it might be a voice like a spirit, screeching out from the world of the dead.

  With the rest of her squad, Beata rose to her feet, but she kept her head bowed, still fearing to look up directly into the Mother Confessor’s eyes. Beata had never been instructed how to behave when she met the Mother Confessor herself, it being an event no one ever thought could possibly happen to her, a Haken girl. But here it was, happening.

  “Who is in charge here?” It was the Mother Confessor’s voice, still sounding nice enough, but it had a clear ring of authority that was unmistakable. At least she didn’t sound like she intended to call lightning down on anyone.

  Beata took a step forward, but kept her eyes aimed at the ground. “I am, Mother Confessor.”

  “And you are?”

  Beata’s racing heart refused to slow. She couldn’t make herself stop trembling. “Your humble servant, Mother Confessor. I am Sergeant Beata.”

  Beata nearly jumped out of her skin when fingers lifted her chin. And then she was looking right into the green eyes of the Mother Confessor herself. It was like looking on a tall, beautiful, smiling, good spirit.

  Good spirit or not, Beata stood frozen in renewed terror.

  “Glad to meet you, Sergeant Beata.” The Mother Confessor gestured to her left. “This is Du Chaillu, a friend, and Jiaan, another friend.” She laid her hand on the shoulder of the big man beside her. “This is Lord Rahl,” she said, as her smile widened, “my husband.”

  Beata’s gaze moved at last to the Lord Rahl. He, too, smiled pleasantly. Beata had never had such important people smile at her in such a way. It was all because she had joined the Anderith army, to become an evil Haken doing good, at last.

  “Mind if I go up and have a look at the Dominie Dirtch, Sergeant Beata?” Lord Rahl asked.

  Beata cleared her throat. “Uh—well—no, sir. No sir. Please, I would be happy to show you the Dominie Dirtch. Honored, I mean. I mean I would be honored to show you.”

  “And our men,” the Mother Confessor asked, bringing Beata’s babbling to a merciful end, “may they approach, now, Sergeant?”

  Beata bowed. “Forgive me. I’m sorry. Of course they may, Mother Confessor. Of course. I’m sorry. If you will permit me, I will see to it.”

  After the Mother Confessor gave a nod, Beata raced up the steps ahead of the Lord Rahl, feeling a fool for not at once telling the Mother Confessor she was welcome in Anderith. Beata snatched up the horn and blew the all-clear to the squad at the Dominie Dirtch on each side. She turned to the waiting distant soldiers and blew a long note, to let them know they were granted permission to approach the Dominie Dutch in safety.

  The Lord Rahl was coming up the stairs. Beata pulled the horn from her lips and backed against the railing. There was something about him, just his presence, that took her breath. Not even the Minister of Culture himself, before he did what he did, struck her with such a feeling of awe as did this man, the Lord Rahl.

  It wasn’t just his size, his broad shoulders, his penetrating gray eyes, or his black and gold outfit with the broad belt holding gold-worked leather pouches and strange symbols. It was his presence.

  He didn’t look proper and fancy like the Ander officials, like Dalton Campbell or the Minister of Culture, but rather, he looked noble, purposeful, and at the same time . . . dangerous.

  Deadly.

  He was kind enough looking, and handsome, but she just knew that if he ever turned those gray eyes on her in anger, she might be struck dead just by their intensity.

  If ever there was a man who looked as if he could be the husband of the Mother Confessor, this was the man.

  The pregnant woman came up the stairs, her eyes taking everything in. There was something about this dark-haired woman as well that seemed noble. She and the other man, both with dark hair, almost looked Ander. She had on the oddest dress Beata had ever seen; there were little different-colored strips of cloth tied on all up the arms and over the shoulders.

  Beata held out a hand. “This, Lord Rahl, is the Dominie Dirtch.” Beata wanted to say the woman’s name, too, but it had flown out of her head, and she couldn’t remember it.

  Lord Rahl’s eyes roamed over the huge bell-shaped stone weapon.

  “It was created thousands of years ago by the Hakens,” Beata said, “as a weapon of murder agains
t the Anders, but it now serves instead as a means for peace.”

  Clasping his hands loosely behind his back, Lord Rahl surveyed the uncountable tons of stone that made up the Dominie Dutch. His gaze glided over every nuance of it in a way she had never seen anyone else look at it. Beata almost expected him to speak to it, and the Dominie Dirtch to answer.

  “And how would that be, sergeant?” he asked without looking at her.

  “Sir?”

  When he turned to her at last, his gray eyes arrested her breath.

  “Well, the Hakens invaded Anderith, right?”

  Under the scrutiny of those eyes, she had to struggle to make her voice work. “Yes, sir.” It came out as little more than a squeak.

  He lifted a thumb, pointing back at the stone bell. “And do you suppose the invaders rode in with these Dominie Dirtch slung over their backs, then, Sergeant?”

  Beata’s knees started trembling. She wished he wouldn’t ask her questions. She wished he would just leave them be and go on to Fairfield and talk to the important people who knew how to answer questions.

  “Sir?”

  Lord Rahl turned and gestured to the stone rising up before him. “It’s obvious these weapons were not brought in, Sergeant. They’re too big. There are too many of them. They had to be constructed here, where they stand, with the aid of magic, no doubt.”

  “But the Haken murderers, when they invaded—”

  “They’re pointed out there, Sergeant, toward any invaders, not in, toward the people of Anderith. It’s clear they were built as weapons of defense.”

  Beata swallowed. “But we were taught—”

  “You were taught a lie.” He looked decidedly unhappy about what he was seeing. “This is plainly a defensive weapon.” He peered off to the Dominie Dirtch to each side, surveying them with a critical eye. “They work together. They were placed here as a line of defense, they weren’t the tools of invasion.”

  The way he said it, with almost a tone of regret, didn’t seem at all to Beata like he meant any offense. He seemed to have spoken what came into his mind as he realized it himself.