Stone of Tears tsot-2

by Terry Goodkind

  She nodded with a smile. “I have given my word. It holds, no matter the difficulty.” She frowned in thought. “Perhaps, it could be that you are graced with your looks so a new one might see the beauty of the Creator through you, through his work. Perhaps, this is how you are to show a new one the way.”

  “It would be an honor, in any way, to show a new one the light of the Creator’s hand.”

  “You are right in that, my dear.” She straightened, clasping her hands. “Now. I want you to go to the mistress of the novices, and tell her that you have too much free time, and that starting tomorrow, you need to be assigned some chores. Tell her you have been spending too much of your time looking out windows.”

  Pasha bowed her head and curtsied again. “Yes, Sister,” she said meekly.

  She smiled when the novice looked up. “I too, have heard that three of the Sisters are searching for one with the gift. I think it will be a while before they return with him, if at all, but when they return, and if they bring him, I will remind the Prelate that you are next in line, and are ready for the task.”

  “Oh, thank you, Sister! Thank you!”

  “You are a fine young woman, Pasha. The Creator has truly shown the beauty of his work in you.”

  “Thank you, Sister,” she said without blushing.

  “Thank the Creator.”

  “I will, Sister. Sister? Before the new one is brought in, could you teach me more about what the Creator has intended for me? Help me to understand?”

  “If you wish.”

  “Oh, I do. I really do.”

  She patted Pasha’s cheek. “Of course, my dear. Of course.” She stood up straight. “Now, off to the mistress of the novices with you. I won’t have soon-to-be-Sisters with nothing better to do than stare out windows.”

  “Yes, Sister.” Pasha curtsied with a smile and rushed off down the hall. She stopped and turned. “Sister . . . I am afraid I don’t know your name.”

  “Go!”

  Pasha flinched. “Yes, Sister.”

  She watched the swell of Pasha’s hips sway as she walked quickly off down the hall, kicking the rolled edges of carpets back down as she went. The girl had exquisite ankles.

  Grown into a man.

  She collected her thoughts and started off again, down the halls and stairs. As she descended, the wooden stairs changed to stone. The heat lessened, although not the stuffiness, or the smell of the tide flats. The warm glow of lamps was replaced by the flickering shadows of widely spaced torches. The cowering palace staff diminished in number until she saw no one. She continued down to the lowest floors, below dusty storerooms, down below the servants’ quarters and workshops. The torches became more widely spaced until there were no more. She ignited a ball of flame in her palm, and held it up to see by as she continued on.

  When she reached the proper door, she sent the flame into a cold torch set in a bracket next to the doorway. The stonewalled room was small, an abandoned cellar of some sort, empty except for moldy straw on the floor, a lit torch, and the two wizards. The smell was unpleasant: burning pitch and damp mold.

  At her entrance, the two stood, swaying slightly. Both wore the plain robes befitting their high rank. Each had a stupid half grin on his face. They weren’t cocky, she realized; they had been drinking. Probably celebrating their last night in the Palace of the Prophets. Their last night with the Sisters of the Light. Their last night wearing the Rada’Han.

  The two men had been friends since they had been brought to the palace as boys, almost at the same time. Sam Weber was a plain man of average height, with curly, light brown hair and a clean-shaven jaw that seemed too big for the rest of his soft face. Neville Ranson was slightly taller, with straight black hair cut short and smoothed neatly down. He wore a short, well-kept beard that was just beginning to show flecks of gray. His eyes were almost as dark as his hair. His features seemed all the more sharply formed, standing next to his soft friend.

  She had always thought he had grown into a handsome man. She had known him since he had come to the palace as a small boy. She had been a novice then, and he had been the one assigned to her, put in her care; her final test before becoming a Sister of the Light. That had been a long time ago.

  Wizard Ranson swept his arm across his middle and gave a dramatic, although wobbly, bow. He came back up with a widening grin. His grin always made his face look boyish, despite his years and the beginnings of gray.

  “A good evening to you, Sister . . .”

  Hard as she could, she backhanded him across the face with her rod. She could feel his cheekbone break. He fell back to the floor with a cry.

  “I have told you before,” she hissed through gritted teeth, “never to use my name when we are alone. Being drunk does not excuse the order.”

  Wizard Weber stood stone still, his eyes wide, his face white, his grin gone. Ranson rolled over on the ground with his hands to his face, leaving blood on the straw.

  The color came back to Weber’s face in a red rush. “How dare you do this? We have passed all the tests! We are wizards!”

  She sent a cord of power into the Rada’Han. The impact threw him back against the wall, where the collar stuck to the stone like a nail to a magnet. “Passed the tests!” she screamed. “Passed the tests! You have not passed my tests!” She twisted on the pain until Weber was choking in agony. “Is this how you address a Sister! Is this the way you show respect!”

  She snipped off the cord and he fell to the floor, grunting when he hit. He pushed himself up on his knees with an effort.

  “Forgive me, Sister,” he said in a pained, hoarse voice. “I beg you forgive our disrespect.” His eyes rose cautiously to meet her glare. “It was only the drink speaking. Forgive us? Please?”

  With her fists on her hips, she stood watching him. She pointed with the rod at the one rolling and moaning on the floor. “Heal him. I don’t have time for this nonsense. I have come to give you both your test, not to watch him whine and complain about a little slap.”

  Weber bent to his friend, rolling him gently over on his back. “Neville, it’s all right. I’ll help you. Lie still.”

  He took the man’s shaking hands away and replaced them with his own. He began talking and healing. She waited impatiently with her arms folded. It didn’t take long; Weber was talented at healing. Weber helped his friend sit up and, with a handful of straw, wiped the blood from the healed wound.

  Ranson pushed himself to his feet. His eyes flashed anger, but he kept any speck of it out of his voice. “Forgive me, Sister. What is it you want?”

  Weber came up beside him. “Please, Sister, we have done everything the Sisters have asked. We are finished.”

  “Finished? Finished? I don’t think so. Have you forgotten our talks? Have you forgotten what I told you? Did you think I would forget? Simply let the two of you dance out of here? Free as birds? No man walks out of here without seeing me or one of mine. There is the matter of an oath.”

  The two glanced at each other, retreating a half step.

  “If you will just let us go,” Weber offered, “we will give you our oath.”

  She watched them a moment, her voice coming quietly at last. “My oath? It is not an oath to me, boys. It is an oath to the Keeper. You know that.” They both paled a little. “And the oath comes only after one of you has passed the test. Only one of you has to give the oath.”

  “One of us?” Ranson asked. He swallowed. “Only one of us has to give the oath, Sister? Why only one of us?”

  “Because,” she whispered, “the other will have no need to give an oath. He is going to die.”

  They both gasped and moved closer together.

  “What is this test?” Weber asked.

  “Take off your robes, and we will begin.”

  They glanced at each other. Ranson lifted his hand a little. “Our robes, Sister? Now? Here?”

  She looked to each. “Don’t be bashful, boys. I have seen you both swim naked in the lake since you
were only this big.” She held her hand out just below her waist.

  “But that was when we were boys,” Weber complained. “Not since we have grown into men.”

  She glowered at them. “Don’t make me have to tell you again. The next time, I will burn them off you.”

  They both flinched and began pulling their robes over their heads. She made a deliberate point of looking each up and down, just to show them her displeasure with their argument. Each man’s face turned red in the torchlight.

  With a flick of her wrist, she brought her knife to her hand. “Up against the wall. Both of you.”

  When they didn’t move quickly enough, she used the collars to slam them against the wall. With a thin stream of power to each Rada’Han, she immobilized them against the stone. They were flattened against the wall and helpless to lift a finger.

  “Please, Sister,” Ranson whispered, “don’t kill us. We’ll do anything. Anything.”

  Her cold gaze settled on his dark eyes. “Yes, you will. One of you anyway. But we haven’t gotten to the oath yet. Now still your tongue or I will do it for you.”

  As the two were held helpless, she moved to Weber first. Putting the knife tip against his upper chest, she drew it slowly down, carefully cutting through the skin and no more. Sweat poured from Weber’s face as he gritted his teeth. His jowls shook. After she had made a cut, about a forearm long, she went back to where she had begun and made another next to it, so the two cuts were about a finger’s width apart. Small, high-pitched sounds escaped from the man’s throat as she drew the knife along. The ends of the lines drew together to a point. Small trickles of blood ran down his chest. She worked the knifepoint under the top, between the cuts, separating the skin from him until there was a generous flap of it hanging down.

  She moved over to Ranson and made the same twin cuts, with a flap of skin hanging away at the top. Tears ran down his face with the sweat, but he said nothing. He knew better. When finished, she straightened and inspected her work. They looked the same. Good. She tucked the knife back up her sleeve.

  “One of you two is going to have the Rada’Han taken off tomorrow, and be free to go. As far as the Sisters of the Light are concerned, anyway. Not as far as I, or more importantly, the Keeper, are concerned. It will be the beginning of your service to him. If you serve well, you will be rewarded when he is free of the veil. If you fail in your tasks . . . well, you wouldn’t want to know what would happen to you if you should fail him.”

  “Sister,” Ranson asked in a shaky voice, “why only one of us? We could both give the oath. We could both serve.”

  Weber’s sudden glare shifted to his friend. He didn’t like being spoken for. He always had been obstinate.

  “The oath is a blood oath. One of you will have to pass my test to earn the privilege of taking it. The other is going to lose the gift tonight, lose his magic. Do you know how a wizard loses the gift?”

  They both shook their heads.

  “When they are skinned, the magic bleeds from them.” She said it as if she were discussing peeling a pear. “Bleeds away until it’s all gone.”

  Weber stared at her, his face gone white. Ranson closed his dark eyes and shook.

  At the same time, she wrapped the flap of skin on each man around her first fingers. “I’m going to ask for a volunteer. This is just a little demonstration of what is in store for the one who volunteers. I don’t want either of you to think dying is going to be the easy way out.” She gave them a warm smile. “You have my permission to scream, boys. I believe this is going to hurt.”

  She yanked the strips of skin off their chests. She waited patiently for the screams to stop, and even a little while longer while they sobbed. It was always good to let a lesson sink in.

  “Please, Sister, we serve the Creator, as the Sisters have taught us,” Weber cried. “We serve the Creator, not the Keeper.”

  She regarded him coolly. “Since you are so loyal to the Creator, Sam, I will give you first choice. Do you want to be the one to live, or to die tonight?”

  “Why him?” Ranson demanded. “Why does he get to choose first?”

  “Keep your tongue still, Neville. You will speak when spoken to.” She slid her gaze back to Weber. She lifted his chin with a finger. “Well, Sam? Who dies, you or your best friend?” She folded her arms across her breasts.

  He looked up at her with hollow eyes. His skin was ashen. He didn’t look over at his friend. His voice came in a flat whisper.

  “Me. Kill me. Let Neville live. I won’t give an oath to the Keeper. I would rather die.”

  She looked back into his empty eyes a moment and then turned to Ranson. “And what have you to say, Neville? Who lives? Who dies? You, or your best friend in the world. Who gives the Keeper their oath?”

  He glanced to Weber, who didn’t look back. He licked his lips. His dark eyes came back to her.

  “You heard him. He chooses to die. If he wants to die, let him. I choose to live. I will give the Keeper my oath.”

  “Your soul.”

  He nodded slowly, his eyes flashing fierce determination. “My soul.”

  “Well then”—she smiled—“it seems you two friends have come to an agreement. Everyone is happy. So be it. I am pleased, Neville, that it is to be you with us. You have made me proud.”

  “Do I have to be here?” Ranson asked. “Do I have to see it?”

  “See it?” She raised an eyebrow. “You have to do it.”

  He swallowed, but the hard look stayed in his eyes. She had always known it would be him. Oh, not that there hadn’t been doubts, but she had known. She had taught him well. She had spent a great deal of time on him, bending him to her way.

  “May I be granted one request?” Weber whispered. “May I have the collar off before I die?”

  “So that you may make Wizard’s Life Fire and take your own life before we have a chance to take it from you? Do you think I am stupid? A stupid, soft woman?” She shook her head. “Denied.”

  She released both Rada’Han from the wall. Weber sank to his knees, his head hanging. He was alone in the room, and knew it.

  Ranson stood and straightened his shoulders. He pointed at the bloody wound down his chest. “What about this?”

  She turned her gaze to Weber. “Sam. Stand up.” Weber stood, his eyes staying to the ground. “Your good friend has an injury. Heal him.”

  Without a word, Weber finally turned and put his hands on Ranson’s chest, and began healing. Ranson stood tall, waiting for the pain to be taken away. She walked to the door and leaned her back against it, watching Weber do his work. His last work.

  When he finished, he didn’t look at either her or Ranson, but went to the far wall and slid his back down it until he sat on the floor. He buried his head between his knees and folded his arms around them.

  The healed but still naked wizard strode up to her and stopped, waiting. “What is it I am to do?”

  She flicked her wrist, bringing the knife to her hand once more. She gave it a quick, sharp toss in the air, catching it by the blade. She held the handle out to him.

  “You are to skin him. Alive.”

  She pushed the handle against him until his hand came up and took it.

  Ranson’s eyes left her steady gaze. He stared at the knife in his hand. “Alive,” he repeated.

  She reached into a pocket and pulled out the small item she had brought: a pewter figure of a man on one knee, holding a crystal over his head. His tiny bearded face was turned up to it in wonder. The crystal was slightly elongated, coming to faceted points. Inclusions floated frozen inside, like a sky of constellations. She wiped the dust off it with the corner of her light cloak and held the small statue out to Ranson.

  “This is magic, and a receptacle of magic. The crystal is called quillion. It will absorb the magic as it bleeds from your friend, after he is skinned. When, and only when, all his magic has bled into the quillion, it will give off an orange glow. You will bring the crystal to me to pro
ve you have done the job.”

  Ranson swallowed. “Yes, Sister.”

  “Before I leave tonight, you will give the oath.” She pushed the figure with the crystal toward him until he took it. “This will be your first task after giving the oath. Fail it, or fail any of the tasks to follow, and you will wish you could trade places with your friend. You will wish it for all eternity.”

  He stood gripping the knife in one hand and the small figure in the other. “Yes, Sister.” He stole a quick glance over his shoulder at the man crouched on the floor against the wall. He lowered his voice. “Sister, could you . . . could you still his tongue. I don’t know if I could bear him talking while I do it.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “You have a knife, Neville. If his words bother you, cut out his tongue.”

  He swallowed and closed his eyes for a moment. They came open. “What if he dies before the magic is all bled away?”

  “With the quillion present, he will live as long as there is any significant trace of it in him. After it’s all in the crystal, it will begin to glow. In that way you will know it is finished. After that, I don’t care what you do with him. If you want, you may finish him quickly.”

  “What if he tries to prevent what I do?” He leaned a little closer. “With his magic.”

  She smiled indulgently. “That I will still, with his collar. He will not be able to stop you. After he’s dead, there will be no life force to hold the Rada’Han on him. It will open. Bring it with you and give it to me when you bring the crystal.”

  “And what about the body?”

  She gave him a hard look. “You know how to wield the Subtractive. I have spent a good deal of time teaching you, as have others.” She darted a glance at Weber. “Use it. Get rid of the body with Subtractive Magic. Every last scrap of it. Every last drop of blood.”

  Ranson straightened a little and nodded. “All right.”