He nodded. “Verna, then.” He twisted his mouth as he thought. “Verna, you’re right: I know the books. I know the requirements, and you fit them all. You’re young, for a Prelate, but only by precedent; there’s no prohibition in law about age. More than that, you have the Han of three Sisters. There is no Sister, no Sister of the Light, anyway, who is your equal. That in itself makes you more than qualified; power, the command of Han, is a prime consideration to be Prelate.”
“Warren, there has to be something. Think.”
His blue eyes reflected the depth of his knowledge, and regret. “Verna, I know the books. They’re explicit. Once lawfully named, they specifically forbid the Prelate from abandoning her duty. Only in death may she cede the calling. Short of Annalina Aldurren coming back to life, and reclaiming her office, there is no way for you to disqualify yourself, or to resign. You are Prelate.”
Verna could think of no solution. She was trapped. “That woman has been twisting my life for as long as I can remember. She keyed that spell to me, I know she did. She trapped me into this. I wish I could strangle her!”
Warren laid a gentle hand to her arm. “Verna, would you ever allow a Sister of the Dark to become Prelate?”
“Of course not.”
“Do you think Ann would?”
“No, but I don’t see—”
“Verna, you said you can trust none but me. Think of Ann. She was trapped, too. She couldn’t allow the chance of one of them becoming Prelate. She was dying. She did the only thing she could. She could trust no one but you.”
Verna stared into his eyes as his words echoed in her mind, and then she slumped down on a smooth, dark rock beside the water. Her face sank into her hands. “Dear Creator,” she whispered, “am I this selfish?”
Warren sat down beside her. “Selfish? Stubborn, at times, but never selfish.”
“Oh Warren, she must have been so lonely. At least she had Nathan there with her . . . at the end.”
Warren nodded. After a moment, he glanced over at her. “We’re in a lot of trouble, aren’t we, Verna.”
“A whole palace full of it, Warren, all wrapped up nice and neat with a gold ring.”
Chapter 7
Richard covered his mouth as he yawned. He was so tired from not getting any sleep the night before, or much, for that matter, in the last two weeks, to say nothing of the fight with the mriswith, that it was a struggle to put one foot in front of the other. The smells ran from foul to fragrant and back again seemingly every few paces as he progressed through the convoluted maze of streets, staying close to the buildings and out of the thickest of the commotion while trying his best to follow the directions Mistress Sanderholt had given him. He hoped he wasn’t lost.
Always knowing where he was, and how he was going to get to where he was going, was a matter of honor for a guide, but since Richard had been a woods guide, he guessed it could be pardoned if he did became lost in a great city. Besides, he was no longer a woods guide, nor did he expect he would ever be one again.
He knew where the sun was, though, and no matter what the streets and buildings did in their efforts to confuse him with their teeming thoroughfares, dark alleys, and warrens of narrow, twisting side streets among ancient, windowless buildings laid out to no design, southeast was still southeast. He simply used taller buildings as landmarks, instead of monarch trees or prominent terrain, and tried not to worry about the exact streets he was supposed to follow.
Richard was weaving his way through the throngs of people, past shabbily dressed hawkers with pots of dried roots, baskets of pigeons, fish, and eels, charcoal makers pushing carts and calling out the price in song, past cheesemongers outfitted in crisp red-and-yellow livery, butcher shops with pig, sheep, and stag carcasses hung on spike racks, salt sellers offering different grades and textures, shopkeepers selling breads, pies and pastries, poultry, spices, sacks of grain, barrels of wines and ale, and a hundred other items displayed in windows or on tables outside shops, and past people inspecting the wares, chatting, and complaining about the prices, when he realized the flutter in his gut was a warning—he was being followed.
Suddenly wide awake, he turned and saw a crush of faces, but none he recognized. He held his black cape over his sword so as not to draw attention to himself. At least the ever-present soldiers didn’t seem particularly interested in him, although some of the D’Harans looked up when he passed near, as if they could sense something, but couldn’t place its source. Richard hurried his steps.
The flutter was so faint that he thought maybe those who followed weren’t close enough for him to see them. But then, how was he to know who it was? It could be any of the faces he saw. He glanced at the rooftops, but didn’t see the one he knew was following him, and instead checked the direction of the sunlight to help keep his bearings.
He paused near a corner building to watch the people flowing up and down the street, looking for anyone watching him, anyone who looked out of place, or unusual, but saw nothing alarming.
“Honey cake, m’lord?”
Richard turned to a small girl in a too-big coat standing behind a rickety little table. He guessed her to be ten or twelve, but he wasn’t good at guessing young girls’ ages. “What was that?”
She swept a hand over the wares on her table. “Honey cake? My grandmamma makes them. They’re right good, I can tell you, and only a penny. Would you buy one, please, m’lord? You won’t be sorry.”
On the ground behind the girl, a stocky old woman in a tattered wrap of brown blanket sat on a board placed over the snow. She grinned up at him. Richard only half smiled back as he probed his inner flutter, trying to determine what he was sensing, trying to determine the nature of the foreboding. The girl and old woman smiled hopefully, and waited.
Richard glanced up the street again and then, letting a long cloud of his breath stream away in the light breeze, fished around in his pocket. He had had precious little to eat in his two-week run to Aydindril, and was still weak. All he had was silver and gold from the Palace of the Prophets. He doubted his pack, back at the Confessors’ Palace, had any pennies in it, either.
“I’m not a lord,” he said as he put all but a silver back into his pocket.
The girl pointed at his sword. “Anyone with a fine sword the likes of that must be a lord, surely.”
The old woman had stopped smiling. With her eyes fixed on his sword, she rose to her feet.
Richard hastily pulled his cape across the hilt and the silver- and gold-worked scabbard, and handed the girl the coin. She stared at it in her palm.
“I’ve not enough small money to make change for this much, m’lord. Bless me, I don’t even know how much small money it would take. I’ve never held a silver coin before.”
“I told you, I’m not a lord.” He smiled when she looked up. “My name’s Richard. Tell you what, why don’t you just keep the coin and consider the extra as payment in advance, then whenever I pass this way again, well, you can give me another of your honey cakes for the bargain, until the silver is used up.”
“Oh, m’lord . . . I mean Richard, thank you.”
Beaming, the girl handed the coin to her grandmamma. The old woman inspected the silver coin with a critical eye as she turned it in her fingers. “I’ve not seen marks like these before. You must have traveled a long way.”
The woman would have no way of knowing where the coin was from; the Old and New Worlds had been separated for the last three thousand years. “I have. The silver is real enough, though.”
She gazed up with blue eyes that looked as if the years had washed out nearly all the color. “Taken or given, m’lord?” When Richard’s brow creased, she gestured. “That sword of yours, m’lord. Did you take it, or was it given to you.”
Richard held her gaze, at last understanding. The Seeker was meant to be appointed by a wizard, but since Zedd had fled the Midlands many years past, the sword had become a prize among those who could afford it, or those who could steal it. P
retend Seekers had given the Sword of Truth a nefarious reputation, and were not to be trusted; they used the sword’s magic for selfish reasons, and not as it had been intended by those who had invested their magic in the blade. Richard was the first in decades to have been named Seeker of Truth by a wizard. Richard understood the magic, its terrible power and responsibility. He was the true Seeker.
“It was given by one of the First Order. I was named,” he said cryptically.
She clutched the blanket to her buxom chest. “A Seeker,” she breathed through the gaps where teeth belonged. “The spirits be praised. A real Seeker.”
The little girl, not understanding the conversation, peered at the coin in her grandmamma’s hand, and then handed Richard the biggest honey cake on the table. He accepted it with a smile.
The old woman leaned over the table a bit and lowered her voice. “You’ve come to rid us of the vermin?”
“Something like that.” He took a bite of the honey cake. He smiled down at the girl again. “It’s as good as you promised.”
She grinned. “Told you so. Grandmamma makes the best honey cakes on Stentor Street.”
Stentor Street. At least he had managed to find the correct street. Past the market on Stentor Street, Mistress Sanderholt had said. He winked at the girl while he chewed. “What vermin?” he asked the old woman.
“My son,” the old woman said as her eyes flicked down, indicating the girl, “and her mother, they’ve deserted us to stay near the palace, waiting for the gold promised. I told them to work, but they say I’m old and foolish in my ways, that they can be given more than they could earn, if they just wait there for what’s owed them.”
“How do they reason it’s ‘owed them’?”
She shrugged. “Because someone from the palace said so. Said they were entitled to it. Said all the people were. Some, like those two, believe it; it appeals to my son’s lazy ways. The young are lazy nowadays. So they sit and wait, to be given, to be taken care of, instead of seeing to their own needs. They fight over who should be given the gold first. Some of the weak and old have been killed in those fights.
“Meanwhile, fewer work, and so the prices keep going up. We can hardly afford enough bread, now.” Her face set into a bitter expression. “All because of a foolish lust for gold. My son had work, for Chalmer the baker, but now he waits to be handed gold, instead of working, and she grows more hungry.” She glanced out of the corner of her eye at the girl, and smiled kindly. “She works, though. Helps me make my cakes, she does, so we can feed ourselves. I won’t let her roam the streets, like many of the young do, now.”
She looked up again with a somber expression. “Them’s the vermin: them who take what little we can earn or make with our hands so as to promise it right back to us, expecting us to be thankful at their kind hearts; them who tempt good people to be lazy so they can rule us like they do sheep at a trough; them who took our freedom and our ways. Even a foolish old woman like me knows that lazy people don’t think for themselves; they only think about themselves. I don’t know what the world’s coming to.”
When she finally seemed to have run out of breath, he gestured to the coin in her fist as he swallowed the mouthful of honey cake. Richard gave her a meaningful look. “I’d appreciate it, for now, if you would forget about what my sword looks like.”
She bobbed her head knowingly. “Anything. Anything for you, m’lord. The good spirits be with you. And give the vermin a wack for me.”
Richard moved up the street a ways, and sat a moment on a barrel beside an alleyway to take a bite of his honey cake. It was good, but he wasn’t really paying much attention to the taste, and it didn’t do anything to quell the apprehensive feeling in his stomach. It wasn’t the same feeling as when he sensed the mriswith, he realized; it was more the feeling he had always gotten when someone’s eyes were on him, and the fine hairs at the base of his neck stiffened. That was what he felt—someone watching him, someone watching and following. He scanned the faces, but didn’t see anyone who looked as if they were interested in him.
Licking the honey off his fingers, he wove his way across the street, around horses pulling carts and wagons, and between the crush of people going about their business. At times, it was like trying to swim upriver. The din, the jangling of tack, the thud of hooves, the rattle of cargo in wagons, the creak of axles, the crunch of die compacted snow, the shouting of the hawkers, the cries of hucksters, and the buzz of talking, some in a singsong or a chatter of languages he didn’t understand, was unnerving. Richard was used to the silence of his woods, where the wind in the trees or water rushing over rocks was the most sound he ever heard. Though he had often gone into Hartland, it was hardly more than a small town, and nothing to compare to the cities, like this one, that he had seen since he left home.
Richard missed his woods. Kahlan had promised him that she would return there with him one day for a visit. He smiled to himself as he thought about the beautiful places he would take her—the overlooks, the falls, the hidden mountain passes. He smiled more at the thought of how astonished she would be, and at how happy they would be together. He grinned at the memory of her special smile, the one she gave no one but him.
He missed Kahlan more than he could ever miss his woods. He wanted to get to her as fast as he could. Soon, he would, but first he had a few things to do in Aydindril.
At the sound of shouting he looked up and realized that in his daydreaming he hadn’t been paying any attention to where he was going, and a column of soldiers was about to trample him. The commander cursed as he drew his men to a sudden halt.
“Do you be blind! What kind of fool walks under a column of horsemen!”
Richard glanced around. The people had all moved away from the soldiers, and seemed to be trying their best to look as if they had never had any intention of venturing anywhere near the center of the street. They worked at pretending the soldiers didn’t exist. Most looked as if they wanted to become invisible.
Richard peered up at the man who had yelled at him, and briefly gave thought to becoming invisible himself before there was trouble and someone was hurt, but the Wizard’s Second Rule came to mind: the greatest harm can result from the best intentions. He had learned that when you mixed in magic, the results could be disastrous. Magic was dangerous and had to be used carefully. He quickly decided that a simple apology would be prudent, and would work best.
“Sorry. I guess I wasn’t looking where I was going. Forgive me.”
He didn’t recall having ever seen soldiers like these, all atop mounts standing in neat, precise rows. Each grim-faced soldier’s armor was blinding in the sunlight. Besides the impeccably polished armor, their swords, knives, and lances glinted in the sunlight. Each man wore a crimson cape draped in exact fashion over the flank of his white horse. They looked to Richard like men about to pass in review before a great king.
The man who had yelled glared down from under the brim of a gleaming helmet topped with a red horsehair plume. He held the reins to his powerful gray gelding easily in one gauntleted hand as he leaned over.
“Get out of our way, half-wit, or we’ll trample you and be done with it.”
Richard recognized the man’s accent; it was the same as Adie’s. He didn’t know what land Adie was from, but these men had to be from the same place.
Richard shrugged as he look a step back. “I said I was sorry. I didn’t know there was such urgent business about.”
“Fighting the Keeper always be urgent business.”
Richard took another step back. “Can’t argue with you about that. I’m sure he’s shivering in a corner right now, waiting for you to come vanquish him, so you best be on with it, then.”
The man’s dark eyes shone like ice. Richard tried not to let his wince show. He wished he could learn not to be flip. He guessed it was a result of his size.
Richard had never liked righting. As he had grown, he had become the target of others wanting to prove themselves. Before
he had been given the Sword of Truth, and it had taught him the need of sometimes releasing the anger he had always kept under tight control, he had learned that he could use a smile and humor to smooth the feelings of agitated foes, and disarm those simply wanting to start a fight. Richard knew his own strength, but that confidence had lent his easy humor a tendency to become flippant. Sometimes it seemed as if he just couldn’t help himself; his mouth simply moved before he thought.
“You have a bold tongue. Maybe you be one beguiled by the Keeper.”
“I assure you, sir, you and I fight the same foe.”
“The Keeper’s minions lurk behind arrogance.”
Just as Richard was thinking that he didn’t need any trouble, and it was time to make a quick retreat, the man made to dismount. At the same instant, powerful hands grabbed him. Two huge men, one at each shoulder, lifted him from his feet. “On your way, dandy,” the one at his right shoulder said to the horseman. “This one is none of your concern.” Richard tried to twist his head around, but he could only manage to see the brown leather of D’Haran uniforms on the men who held him from behind.
The soldier froze with his foot just out of the stirrup. “We be on the same side, brother. This one needs to be questioned—by us—and then to learn some humility. We will—”
“I said, be off!”
Richard opened his mouth to say something. Immediately, the heavily muscled arm of the D’Haran at his right came out from under a thick, dark brown, wool cape. As a massive hand clamped over his mouth, Richard saw a band of gold-colored metal just above the elbow, its razor-sharp projections glinting in the sunlight. The bands were deadly weapons used to rip open an opponent in close combat. Richard nearly choked on his own tongue.
Most D’Haran soldiers were big, but these two were well beyond merely big. Worse, they were not simply regular D’Haran soldiers; Richard had seen men like these before, with bands just above their elbows. They were Darken Rahl’s personal guards. Darken Rahl almost always had two men like these with him.
Blood of the Fold tsot-3 Page 9
