Tobias shook the snow from his cape onto the ruby and gold carpet, not bothering to clean his boots before he marched across the spotless anteroom toward the corridors leading to the stairs. The wide halls were lit by cut-glass lamps hung before polished silver reflectors that sent wavering rays of light dancing over the gilt woodwork. Crimson-caped guards patrolling the palace touched fingertips to their foreheads as they bowed, Tobias didn’t trouble himself with returning the salutes.
With Galtero and Lunetta right behind, he took the steps two at time. While the walls on the main level were trimmed with ornate paneling adorned with portraits of Nicobarese royalty and decorated tapestries depicting their fabled, largely fictitious exploits, the walls on the lower level were simple stone block, cold to the eye as well as the touch. The room he was headed for, though, would be warm.
As he knuckled his mustache, he winced at the ache in his bones. The cold seemed to make his joints ache more of late. He admonished himself to be more concerned with the Creator’s work and less with such mundane matters. The Creator had blessed him with more than a good amount of help this night; it must not be wasted.
On the upper levels the halls had been well guarded by the men of the fist, but downstairs the drab corridors were empty; there was no way into or out of the palace from the lower levels. Galtero, ever watchful, eyed the length of the hall outside the door to the questioning room. Lunetta waited patiently with a smile. Tobias had told her she had done well, especially with the last spell, and she was a glowing reflection of his good graces.
Tobias stepped into the room and came face-to-face with Ettore’s familiar, wide grin.
The eyes, however, were filmed with death.
Tobias froze.
Ettore was hanging by a cord tied to either end of an iron pin driven through his ears. His feet dangled just clear of a dark, coagulated puddle.
There was a neat slice from a razor all the way around the middle of his neck. Below that, every inch of him had been skinned. Pale strips of it lay to the side in an oozing heap.
An incision just below the rib cage gaped open. On the floor in front of his gently swinging body lay his liver.
It had a few bites out of each side. The bites on one side were edged with irregular tears left by larger teeth; on the other side were those of small, orderly teeth.
Brogan spun with a wail of rage and backhanded Lunetta with his fist. She crashed to the wall beside the fireplace and slid to the floor.
“This be your fault, streganicha! This be your fault! You should have stayed here and attended Ettore!”
Brogan stood, fists at his side, glaring at the skinned body of one of his Blood of the Fold. If Ettore wasn’t dead, Brogan would have killed him himself, with his bare hands if need be, for letting that old hag escape justice. To let a baneling escape was inexcusable. A true baneling hunter would kill the evil one before he died, no matter what it took. Ettore’s mocking grin incensed him.
Brogan struck the cold face. “You have failed us, Ettore. You are discharged with dishonor from the Fold. Your name will be expunged from the roster.”
Lunetta cowered against the wall, holding her bloody cheek. “I told you that I should stay and attend him. I told you.”
Brogan glowered down at her. “Don’t give me your filthy excuses, streganicha. If you knew how much trouble the old hag was going to be, then you should have stayed.”
“But I told you I should.” She wiped tears from her eyes. “You made me come with you.”
He ignored her and turned to his colonel. “Get the horses,” he hissed through gritted teeth.
He should kill her. Right now. He should slit her throat and be done with it. He was sick of her vile taint. This night it had cost him valuable information. The old woman, he was now sure, would have been a trove of information. If not for his loathsome sister, he would have had it.
“How many horses, Lord General?” Galtero whispered.
Brogan watched his sister staggering to her feet, regaining her composure as she cleaned blood from her cheek. He should kill her. This very moment.
“Three,” Brogan growled.
Galtero extracted a cudgel from the interrogation tools before he glided through the door, silent as a shadow, and vanished down the hall. The guards obviously hadn’t seen her, although with banelings that didn’t necessarily mean anything, but it was always possible the old woman could still be around. Galtero didn’t need to be told that if she were found she was to be taken alive.
Impetuous vengeance with a sword would gain no benefit. If she were found, she would be taken alive, and questioned. If she were found, she would pay the price of her profanity, but she would tell all she knew, first.
If she were found. He looked to his sister. “Do you sense her anywhere near?”
Lunetta shook her head. She wasn’t scratching her arms. Even if there weren’t a couple thousand D’Haran troops around the palace, with the storm raging as it was it would be impossible to track anyone. Besides, as much as he wanted the old woman, Brogan had a quarry of greater profanity to go after. And then there was the matter of Lord Rahl. If Galtero found the old woman, fine, but if not, they couldn’t spare the time for a difficult, and most likely fruitless, hunt. Banelings were hardly a rarity; there would always be another. The lord general of the Blood of the Fold had more important work to see to: the Creator’s work.
Lunetta hobbled to Brogan’s side and slipped an arm around his waist. She stroked his heaving chest.
“It be late, Tobias,” she cooed intimately. “Come to bed. You have had a hard day doing the Creator’s work. Let Lunetta make you feel better. You will be pleased, I promise.” He said nothing. “Galtero had his pleasure, let Lunetta give you yours. I will do a glamour for you,” she offered. “Please, Tobias?”
He considered it only a moment. “There be no time. We must leave at once. I hope you have learned a lesson this night, Lunetta. I won’t tolerate your misbehaving again.”
Her head bobbed. “Yes, my lord general. I will try to do better. I will do better. You will see.”
He led her up out of the lower levels to the room where he had talked to the witnesses. Guards stood before the door. Inside, from the long table, he picked up his trophy case and strapped it to his belt. He started for the door, but turned back. The silver coin he had left on the table, the one the old woman had given him, was gone. He looked to a guard.
“I don’t suppose anyone came in here tonight, after I left?”
“No, Lord General,” the stiff guard replied. “Not a soul.”
Brogan grunted to himself. She had been here. She had taken back her coin so as to leave him a message. On his way out he didn’t bother to question any of the other guards; they, too, would have seen nothing. The old woman and her little familiar were gone. He put them from his mind and focused on the things that needed doing.
Brogan wound his way through the corridors to the rear of the palace, where it was a short crossing of open ground to the stables. Galtero would know to gather the things they needed for a journey, and would have three of the strongest horses saddled. There were sure to be D’Harans all around the palace, but with the darkness and wind-driven snow, he was sure it would be possible for him and Lunetta to make it to the stables.
Brogan said nothing to the men; if he was to go after the Mother Confessor, it could only be the three of them. With the storm, three might be able to slip away, but the whole fist would not. That many men would surely be seen and confronted, there would be a battle, and they would probably all be killed. The Blood of the Fold were fierce fighters, but they were no match for the D’Harans’ numbers. Worse, from what he had seen the D’Harans were no strangers to battle. Better to simply leave the men here as a diversion. They couldn’t betray what they didn’t know.
Brogan cracked open the thick oak door and peered out into the night. He saw only swirling snow lit by the dim light coming from a few of the second-floor rear windows. He would h
ave extinguished the lamps, but he needed the little light they provided in order to find the unfamiliar stables in the storm.
“Stay close to me. If we’re confronted by soldiers they will try to prevent us from leaving. We can’t allow that. We must be off after the Mother Confessor.”
“But, Lord General—”
“Be quiet,” Brogan snapped. “If they try to stop us, you had better get us through. Understand?”
“If there be many, I can only—”
“Don’t test me, Lunetta. You said you would do better. I’m giving you that chance. Don’t fail me again.”
She pulled her pretties close. “Yes, Lord General.”
Brogan blew out the lamp just inside the hall and then pulled Lunetta through the doorway out into the blizzard, wading with her into the drifts. Galtero would have the horses saddled by now. They had only to make it to the horses. In this snow, the D’Harans wouldn’t have time to see them coming or to stop them once they were on horseback. The dark rise of the stable buildings drew closer.
Out of the snow, shapes began appearing—soldiers. When they saw him they called out to their fellows and at the same time drew steel. Their voices didn’t cany far in the howling wind, but they carried enough to collect a swarm of big men.
They were all around. “Lunetta, do something.”
She cocked an arm with fingers clawed as she began summoning a spell, but the men didn’t hesitate. They ran forward with weapons raised. He flinched as an arrow zip past his cheek. The Creator had provided a gust of wind that carried the shaft wide, sparing him. Lunetta ducked as arrows ripped past.
Seeing men rushing toward him from all directions, Tobias drew his sword. He thought to make it back to the palace, but that way, too, was blocked. There were too many. Lunetta was so busy trying to ward off the arrows that she couldn’t call a spell to protect them. She squealed in fright.
Just as suddenly as the arrows had started, they stopped. Tobias heard screams carried on the wind. He snatched Lunetta’s arm and sprang through the deep drifts, hoping to make the stables. Galtero would be there.
Several men moved to block him. The one closest cried out as as shadow passed in front of him. The man tumbled face-first into the snow. Tobias watched in confusion as the other men began swinging swords at the gusts of wind.
The wind cut them down without mercy.
Tobias stumbled to a halt, blinking at what he was seeing. D’Harans all around him were dropping. Shrieks lifted on the howling wind. He saw snow stained red. He saw men fall in their tracks, spilling their guts.
Tobias licked his lips, afraid to move lest the wind take him, too. His gaze darted in every direction as he tried to make sense of what was happening, tried to see the attackers.
“Dear Creator,” he called out, “spare me! I do your work!”
Men were converging on the stable yard from every direction, and they were being brought down as fast as they came. Well over a hundred corpses already littered the snowy field. He had never seen men slain with such speed or brutality.
Tobias crouched down, and was startled to realize that the twirling gusts were moving deliberately.
They were alive. He began to make them out. White-caped men slipped all around him, attacking the D’Haran soldiers with swift and deadly grace. Not one of the D’Harans tried to flee; they all came on fiercely, but none managed to engage the enemy before they were quickly dispatched.
The night fell silent but for the wind. Before there was time to run, it was over. The ground was cluttered with a jumble of still, dark shapes. Tobias turned all about, but saw none left alive. Already, the snow was beginning to drift over the bodies. In another hour they would vanish under the white fury.
The caped men skimmed fluidly through the snow, graceful and slithery, moving as if they were made of wind. As they came toward him, his sword slipped from his numb fingers. Tobias wanted to call out to Lunetta to strike them down with a spell, but as they came into the light, his voice failed him.
They were not men.
Scales the color of the snowy night undulated over rippling muscles. Smooth skin sheathed earless, hairless, blunt heads set with beady eyes. The beasts wore only simple hide clothes beneath capes that billowed and flapped in the wind, and in each clawed hand they gripped blood-slicked three-bladed knives.
They were the creatures he had seen impaled on the poles outside the Confessors’ Palace—the creatures Lord Rahl had killed: mriswith. Having seen them slaughter all these experienced soldiers, Tobias couldn’t imagine how Lord Rahl, or anyone, could have bested one, much less the number he had seen.
One of the creatures skulked toward him, watching with unblinking eyes. It glided to a stop, not ten feet away.
“Leave,” the mriswith hissed.
“What?” Tobias stammered.
“Leave.” It slashed the air with its clawlike knife, a quick gesture, graceful with murderous mastery. “Esssscape.”
“Why? Why would you do this? Why do you want us to escape?”
The lipless mouth slit widened, mimicking a gruesome grin. “The dreamssss walker wants you to esssscape. Go now, before more skin walkerssss come. Go.”
“But . . .”
With a scaled arm, the mriswith drew its cape against the wind, turned, and vanished into the blowing snow. Tobias peered into the night, but the wind had gone vacant and lifeless.
Why would such vile creatures want to help him? Why would they kill his enemies? Why would they want him to escape?
Comprehension came over him in a loving, warm rush. The Creator had sent them, of course. How could he have been so blind? Lord Rahl had said he killed the mriswith. Lord Rahl fought for the Keeper. If the mriswith were evil creatures Lord Rahl would fight on their side, not against them.
The mriswith had said the dream walker sent them. The Creator came to Tobias in his dreams. That had to be it; the Creator had sent them. “Lunetta.” Tobias turned to her. She was cowering behind him. “The Creator comes to me in my dreams. That was what they were trying to tell me when they said the one from my dreams had sent them. Lunetta, the Creator sent them to help protect me.”
Lunetta’s eyes widened. “The Creator Himself has intervened on your behalf to thwart the Keeper’s plans. The Creator Himself watches over you. He must have great things planned for you, Tobias.”
Tobias retrieved his sword from under the snow and straightened with a smile. “Indeed. I have kept His wishes above all else, and so He has protected me. Hurry, we must do as His messengers have told us. We must be off to do the Creator’s work.”
As he trudged through the snow, winding his way among the bodies, he looked up to see a dark shape suddenly leap before him, blocking his path.
“Well, well, Lord General, going someplace?” A menacing grin came to the face. “Do you wish to cast a spell on me, sorceress?”
Tobias still had his sword in his hand, but he knew he wouldn’t be quick enough.
He flinched at the sound of a bone-jarring thunk. The one before him pitched face-first into the snow at his feet. Tobias looked up to see Galtero standing with the cudgel above the unconscious figure.
“Galtero, you have earned your rank this night.”
The Creator had just given him a priceless prize, showing him, again, that nothing was out of the reach of the pious. Thankfully, Galtero had the presence of mind to use the cudgel, and not a blade.
He saw blood from the blow, but he saw the breath of life, too. “My, my, but this be turning out to be quite the good night. Lunetta, you have some work to do on behalf of the Creator before you heal this one.”
Lunetta bent beside the still form, pressing her fingers into the blood-matted, wavy, brown hair. “Perhaps I ought to do a healing first. Galtero be stronger than he thinks.”
“That, my dear sister, would not be advisable, at least not from what I have heard. The healing can wait.” He glanced to his colonel and gestured to the stables. “Are the horses ready?”
“Yes, Lord General, as soon as you are.”
Tobias drew the knife Galtero had given him. “We must hurry, Lunetta. The messenger told us we must escape.” He squatted down and rolled the unconscious figure over. “And then we be off after the Mother Confessor.”
Lunetta leaned close, peering at him. “But Lord General, I told you, the wizard’s web hides her identity from us. We cannot see the strands of a web like that. We will not know her.”
A grin tightened the scar at the side of Tobias Brogan’s mouth.
“Oh, but I have seen the strands of the web. The Mother Confessor’s name be Kahlan Amnell.”
Chapter 18
As she had feared, she was a prisoner. She flipped another page over after making the appropriate entry in the ledger book. A prisoner of the highest station, a prisoner behind a paper lock, but a prisoner nevertheless.
Verna yawned as she scanned the next page, checking the records of palace expenses. Each report required her approval and had to be initialed to show that the Prelate herself had certified the expenses. Why it was necessary was a mystery to her, but having only held the office for a few days she was loath to declare it a waste of her time, only to have Sister Leoma, or Dulcinia, or Philippa divert their eyes and explain under their breath, so as not to cause the Prelate embarrassment, why it was indeed necessary, and go on in great detail to explicate the dire consequences of not doing such a simple thing that would require hardly any effort on her part, but would be of such benefit to others.
She could anticipate the reaction should she declare she was not going to bother to check the tallies: Why, Prelate, if the people didn’t fear that the Prelate herself was concerned enough to be watching their work orders, they would be emboldened to gouge the palace. The Sisters would be thought wasteful fools without an ounce of sense. And then, on the other side, if the work orders weren’t paid while waiting the Prelate’s directive, the poor workers’ families would go hungry. You wouldn’t want those children to go hungry, would you, simply because you didn’t want to pay them the courtesy of approving payment for their hard work already done? Just because you don’t wish to glance at the report and go to the trouble of initialing it? Would you really want them to think the Prelate so callous?
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