Stone of Tears tsot-2

by Terry Goodkind

  He didn’t like the accusing look she gave him. “Who won?”

  At last she folded her hands over the pommel of her saddle and let her shoulders relax a bit. “No one. The two sides were separated by this land between the seas. Though the fighting may have stopped, no one prevailed.”

  Richard leaned around for a waterskin. “How about a drink?”

  With a small smile, she took the skin as he handed it over and took a long draw. “This valley is an example of what can happen when your heart, rather than your head, rules your magic.” Her smile evaporated. “Because of what they did, the peoples of the two worlds are separated for all time. It is one reason the Sisters of the Light work to teach those with the gift—so they will not act out of foolishness.”

  “What were they fighting about?”

  “What do wizards ever fight about? They fought over which wizards should rule.”

  “I was told something about a wizard’s war over whether or not wizards should rule at all.”

  She handed back the waterskin and wiped her lips with one finger. “That was a different war, yet part of the same. After this place separated the two sides, some of each camp were trapped on the New World side. Both groups had gone to enforce their rule on those who had traveled to live in the New World, and on those who had always lived there.

  “Once trapped, one side went into hiding for centuries and worked to build their strength before they attempted to seize power over all the New World. The war that had burned long ago flared again, until their force was defeated, except for a few who fled into their stronghold in D’Hara.” She lifted an eyebrow to him. “Kin of yours, I believe.”

  Richard glared at her for a long moment before finally taking a swig of the hot water. He dribbled a little on a strip of cloth—something Kahlan had taught him—and tied it around his head, both to cool his brow and hold back his lengthening hair. Richard hooked the waterskin back on his saddle. “So what happened here?”

  She swept her hand once from the southeast to the southwest. “Where the land was narrowest, here, not only armies but wizards did battle, and sought to prevent one another from advancing. The wizards laid down spells, conjuring every sort of magic, in an attempt to snare their opponents. Both sides, equally, unleashed wickedness of unspeakable horror and danger. That is what lies ahead.”

  Richard stared at her glazed expression. “You mean to say that their magic, their spells, are still out there?”

  “Unabated.”

  “How can that be? Wouldn’t they wear away? Fade?”

  “Perhaps.” She sighed. “But they did more. To maintain the power of their spells they built structures to sustain the force.”

  “What structures could do that?”

  Sister Verna still stared out at nothing, or perhaps, to things he couldn’t see. “The Towers of Perdition,” she whispered.

  Richard stroked Bonnie’s neck and waited. At last, Sister Verna seemed to dismiss her private thoughts with a deep breath and continued.

  “From one sea to the other, both sides built opposing lines of these towers, invested with their power and wizardry. They were begun at the sea, and came together here, in this valley. But because of the force of the towers each side built, neither side could get close enough to complete the last tower in their own line. What they had wrought ended in a stalemate, with each side prevented from completing their last tower. It allowed a weakened place in the magic. A gap.”

  Richard shifted uneasily in his saddle. “If there’s a gap, then why can’t people cross?”

  “It’s only a lessening in the full strength of the line. To each side, all the way across the hills and mountains, to land’s end, and beyond, out into the sea where it somewhere diminishes, Perdition’s line is impenetrable. To enter is to be claimed by the storms of spells, the magic. Any who enter would be killed, or worse—they could wander the brume forever.

  “Here, in this valley, the deadlock prevented the completion of the last tower on each side that would have sealed the line. But the spells wander and drift between the gap, like thunderclouds drifting on the wind, clashing and coming together in places. Because of the weakness in this place, there is a maze that can be passed through by those with the gift. The clear passages are always shifting, and the spells cannot always be seen. They must be felt, with the gift. Still, it is not easy.”

  “So that’s why the Sisters of the Light can make it through? Because they have the gift?”

  “Yes. But only twice at most. The magic learns to find you. Long ago, Sisters who went through to the New World and returned were sent again, but none ever returned a second time.” Her gaze left his, seeking the distant emptiness. “They are in there, never to be found, or saved. The Towers of Perdition and its storms of magic claimed them.”

  Richard waited until her eyes came back to him. “Perhaps, Sister, they became disaffected, and chose not to return. How would you know?”

  Her expression sobered. “We know. Some who have been through have seen them”—she inclined her head toward the shimmering distance—“in there. I, myself, saw several.”

  “I’m sorry, Sister Verna.” Richard thought about Zedd. Kahlan might find him, and tell him what had happened. He had to push away the painful memory of Kahlan. “So, a wizard could make it through.”

  “Not a wizard of his full power. After we teach those with the gift to control it, they must be allowed to return before their power is fully developed. The whole purpose of the line is to prevent wizards from getting through. The fully developed power of a wizard would draw the spells as a magnet draws iron filings. It is they that the magic seeks; it is for them that the towers were built. They would be lost, just as would anyone who didn’t have some use of the gift to feel the gaps in the spells. Too little, or too much, and you are lost. That is why those who created the line could not complete it; the domain of the spells from the other side prevented them from entering. Their creation ended in deadlock.”

  Richard felt his hopes sag. If Kahlan carried out his request to seek out his old friend, Zedd could not do anything to help him. Swallowing back the numbing loss of hope, he reached up and felt the dragon’s tooth hanging on the leather thong at his chest. “What about going over? Could something fly over?”

  She shook her head. The spells extend up into the air, as they extend out into the sea. “Anything that can fly cannot fly high enough.”

  “What about by sea? Could you sail far enough out to go around?”

  Sister Verna shrugged. “I have heard tell that a few times throughout the ages it has been accomplished. In my life I have seen ships leave to attempt it, but I have never seen one return.”

  Richard glanced back over his shoulder, but saw nothing. “Could . . . someone follow you through?”

  “One or two, if they stayed close enough, as you must. Greater numbers would surely be lost. The pockets between spells are not large enough to allow many to follow.”

  Richard thought in silence, at last asking, “Why hasn’t anyone destroyed the towers, so the spells could dissipate?”

  “We’ve tried. It cannot be done.”

  “Just because you haven’t found a way, Sister, that doesn’t mean it can’t be done.”

  She gave him a sharp look. “The towers, and the spells, were created with the aid of not only Additive but also Subtractive Magic.”

  Subtractive Magic! How could the wizards of old have learned to use Subtractive Magic? Wizards didn’t have command of Subtractive Magic. But then, Darken Rahl did. Richard gentled his tone. “How can the towers keep the spells from dissipating?”

  Sister Verna worked her thumbs on the reins. “Each tower has a wizard’s life force in it.”

  Despite the heat, Richard felt a chill. “You mean to say that a wizard gave his life force into the towers?”

  “Worse. Each tower contains the life force of many wizards.”

  Richard stared in numb shock at the thought of wizards giving up their l
ives to invest the towers with their life force. “How close are the towers?”

  “It is said some are miles apart, some only yards. They are spaced according to the fabric of lines of power within the earth itself. We don’t understand the sense of this alignment. Since entering the line to find them would be death, we don’t even know how many towers there are. We know of only the few in this valley.”

  Richard squirmed in his saddle. “Will we see any of the towers when we cross?”

  “There’s no way to tell. The gaps shift constantly. Occasionally, on the way through, the openings take you close to a tower. I saw one on my first journey through. Some Sisters never saw one. I hope never to see another.”

  Richard realized he was gripping the hilt of his sword with his left hand. The raised letters of the word TRUTH bit into his flesh. He relaxed his hand, releasing the hilt.

  “So, what can we expect to see?”

  Sister Verna broke her gaze into the distance and redirected it to him. “There are spells of every sort. Some are spells of despair. To be snared in one is to have your soul wander in despair for all time. Some are spells of joy and delight, in which one is lost in enchantment for all time. Some are pure destruction, and will tear you apart. Some will show you things you fear, to make you run into the clutches of things that lurk behind. Some tempt with things you hope for. If you give in to the desire . . .” She leaned closer to him. “You must stay close to me, keep going. You must ignore any desire you have, both fear and longing, to do otherwise. Do you understand?”

  Richard finally nodded. Sister Verna returned her gaze to the shimmering forms. She sat motionless, watching. In the distance, beyond the wavering light, he thought he saw thunderheads, dark and ominous, drifting across the horizon. He felt more than heard their thunder. Somehow, he knew it wasn’t clouds, but magic. When Bonnie tossed her head, Richard gave her a reassuring pat on her neck.

  After watching awhile, he looked over to the Sister. She sat still and tense.

  “What are you waiting for, Sister? Courage?”

  She answered without moving. “Exactly. I am waiting for courage, child.”

  He felt no anger this time at her calling him “child,” but rather that it might be an appropriate characterization, as far as his abilities were concerned.

  In a whisper, and still without looking away from the sunbaked inferno ahead, she went on. “You were still in swaddling clothes when I came through, but I remember every detail as if it happened yesterday. Yes, I am waiting for courage.”

  He gave Bonnie a squeeze with his legs, urging her ahead. “The sooner we start, the sooner we’re through.”

  “Or lost.” She walked her horse after him. “So anxious to be lost, Richard?”

  “I’m already lost, Sister.”

  Chapter 29

  They were confronted by steps, twenty strides wide, that revealed themselves for what they were only at the far right, where the wind had funneled down next to the sweeping, pink marble balustrade and kept the snow clear. Pausing for only a moment as she realized they had reached her destination, Kahlan set her snowshoes firmly into the snowdrift that covered the steps, and ascended to the portico, its fascia decorated with a row of statues swathed in cut stone that mimicked the drape of cloth so well it seemed as if it might move in the light breeze. Ten white columns to each side held the massive entablature at a dizzying height above the arched entrance. Bodies fallen in a desperate battle were sprawled atop one another all over the snow-covered lawns, and sat as if in repose against the walls of the domed exterior entrance hall.

  The ornate doors, displaying delicately carved royal shields of the House of Amnell, held aloft by twin mountain lions, lay in splinters on the floor of the vestibule. Flanking the rope-carved stone arch at the far end stood life-size statues of Queen Bernadine and King Wyborn, each holding a spear and shield in one hand, the queen a sheaf of wheat in the other, and the king a lamb. The queen’s breasts were broken away; flakes of stone and stone dust littered the rust colored marble tiles. Both statues were without their heads.

  With nearly numb fingers, Kahlan untied the bindings of her snowshoes and leaned them against the queen’s statue. Chandalen followed her example before following her into the reception hall lined with broken mirrors and torn tapestries. She pulled her mantle tight around herself as clouds of their breath rose lazily into dead still air that was somehow much colder than that outside.

  “What is this place used for?” Chandalen asked in a whisper, as if afraid he might wake the spirits of the dead.

  She had to force herself not to whisper. “It is the home of the queen of this land. Her name is Cyrilla.”

  His doubting voice echoed down the stone hall. “One person lives in a place such as this?”

  “Many people live here. There are advisors, much like the elders among your people, and others that are responsible for governing the needs of the land, and people who tend to their needs so they may perform their duties. Many people call this their home, but the queen is the head of the household, as she is the head of her land. She is above them all.”

  Chandalen followed silently as she began to search the palace. His eyes slid from one wondrous object to another; from elaborately carved furniture that now lay everywhere in splinters, to the heavy red, blue, gold, or green draperies that adorned the ten-foot-tall, square-top windows, all broken now.

  She descended a flight of stairs to the lower rooms, the oak treads creaking with every step in the cold. He insisted on entering each room first, pushing doors open with a foot and gliding in behind a fully drawn ten-step arrow, before allowing her to search inside.

  They found only the dead. In a few of the rooms they found some of the staff, who had been lined up against a wall and pincushioned with arrows. In the kitchens it looked as if after executing the cooks, cook’s helpers, wine stewards, assistants, dishwashers, potboys, spit boys, and scullions, the invaders had sat down and had a drunken feast. The ale and wine casks were empty. It appeared they had thrown more food at the walls than they had eaten.

  While Chandalen checked the ransacked larder, Kahlan’s eye was caught by the bodies of two young women, kitchen help, on the floor behind a long chopping block. One was completely naked, and the other had but one brown, woolen stocking, bunched down around her thin ankle. Her first assumption had been wrong. Not all the help had been killed before the drunken feast.

  Her face as still as those of the dead women, she turned and strode from the kitchen and started up the servants’ stairs to check the upper floors. Chandalen’s thumping footfalls came charging up behind as he took three steps at a time to catch her.

  She knew he didn’t like it that she had left without him, but he didn’t voice it. “There is salted meat. Maybe we could take a little? I do not think these people would think it wrong for us to do so. They would not deny us a little food.”

  Kahlan put her hand to the railing as she climbed with a steady cadence, but then pulled the hand back inside her mantle, because the polished maple was so cold to the touch it stung her fingers. “If you eat the meat, you will die. They will have poisoned it, so that if any of the dead’s countrymen return to this place and eat any of the food here, they, too, will die.”

  They found the main floor clear of bodies. It looked to have been used as an army headquarters. Empty barrels of wine and rum lay about the ballroom floor. Food scraps, mugs and cups, broken dishes, pipe ashes, bloody bandages, oily rags, broken or bent swords, spears and maces, dark wood shavings from a walnut table leg someone had whittled away until it was nothing but a stub, basins of frozen water, dirty linen, bedsheets ripped into strips, and filthy, quilted bedcovers of every color littered the carpeted floor. Dirty bootprints were everywhere, even on the tabletops. By the swirling scratches, it looked as if men had danced atop them.

  Chandalen walked through the rubble, inspecting various bits. “Two, maybe three days they were here.”

  She nodded her agreement
as her eyes cast about. “It looks that way.”

  He rolled a wine barrel back and forth with his foot, testing if it was empty. It was. “I wonder why they stayed so long? Just to drink, and dance?”

  Kahlan sighed. “I don’t know. Maybe they were resting and tending to their wounded. Maybe they just went on a drunken binge to celebrate their victory over these people.”

  He looked up sharply. “Killing is not a thing to celebrate.”

  “It is, for the people who did this killing.”

  Reluctantly, Kahlan at last climbed the stairs to the top floor. She didn’t want to look up there. That was where the bedchambers were.

  They checked the west wing first: the men’s apartments. They looked to have been used by the troops as sleeping quarters. With an army of as many men as had to have done this, they would have had many men of rank. The officers probably stayed here, in the fine rooms. The soldiers under their command would have used the inns and more common houses.

  With a deep breath to strengthen her resolve, she set her jaw and crossed the central hall, with its balcony that overlooked the grand staircase, to the east-wing rooms. Chandalen, close at her heels, wanted to open the doors for her and check the rooms first, but here she wouldn’t allow it. Her hand paused for a moment on the doorknob, then finally opened the first door. She stood for a time, staring at the scene inside. She went to the next door and flung it open, and then to the next.

  All the rooms were occupied. Each bedchamber had women in it, none clothed. Room after room after room were all the same. By the filthy condition of the carpets, there looked to have been a steady stream of traffic. Wood shavings lay in little piles about the floor, where a man had passed the time whittling on whatever was handy while he waited his turn.

  “Now we know why they spent several days here,” Kahlan said without meeting Chandalen’s eyes. He remained silent. She couldn’t bring forth more than a whisper. “So they could do this.”