Stone of Tears tsot-2

by Terry Goodkind

  She smiled warmly as she did straighten up. “Mole, if a novice is not allowed, how could a new student be allowed?”

  Warren’s eyes narrowed. “He is in the prophecies. If the prophets saw fit to write about him, they could hardly intend he not see it.”

  Warren seemed considerably more confident down here in his element than he had been up in the palace. He stood his ground with confidence. Pasha rubbed his shoulder. He glanced down at the hand.

  “Warren, you’re the Mole; you show others the way. I’m the one in charge of Richard; I show him the way. I would be neglecting my duty if I allowed him to go somewhere without me this soon. I’m sure you can make an exception for me. Can’t you, Warren? It’s to help Richard, to help understand the prophecy and how he is to serve the Creator. Isn’t that what’s important?”

  Warren finally took his eyes from her and told them to wait. He went off to the two Sisters and spoke with them in hushed tones. He finally came back wearing a smile.

  “Sister Becky said it would be permitted. I told her you understand a bit of High D’Haran. In case she asks, say you do.”

  “What’s High D’Haran? Warren, you want me to lie to a Sister!”

  “I’m sure she will not ask.” Warren turned his face away. “I told the lie for you, Pasha, so you would not have to.”

  She leaned closer to him. “Warren, if you’re caught telling lies about such things, you know what they will do.”

  He gave her a small, haunted smile. “I know.”

  “What will they do?” Richard asked, suddenly suspicious.

  Warren waved impatiently. “Never mind. You two come along.”

  They had to hurry after him as he scurried off into the darkness. They went past rows of shelves placed tight together, coming at last to a solid wall of rock. Warren put his hand to a metal plate, and part of the wall moved away, revealing another chamber beyond. Inside the small room sat a table and maybe a dozen rows of shelves. Four lamps made it seem bright inside, by comparison.

  Inside, Warren touched another plate and the section of wall slid closed, entombing them in stone and silence. He pulled out a chair for Pasha and had Richard sit to her right. Finally, he pulled a leatherbound book from the shelves and carefully placed it before Richard.

  “Please don’t touch it,” Warren said. “It’s very old and fragile. Of late, it has been getting more use than usual. Let me turn the pages.”

  “Who’s been using it?” Richard asked.

  “The Prelate.” A smile twitched across Warren’s lips. “Whenever she is to come down here, her two big guards come first and make everyone leave. They clear the vaults, so the Prelate can have the place to herself, and people won’t know what she reads.”

  “Her big guards?” Pasha asked. “You mean the two Sisters in her outer office?”

  “Yes,” Warren said. “Sister Ulicia, and Sister Finella.”

  “We saw them today,” Richard said. “They didn’t look that big to me.”

  Warren lowered his voice meaningfully. “If you ever cross them, you will think otherwise. They will seem very big, indeed.”

  Richard took pause at Warren’s expression. “If the place is cleared out, how do you know she has been reading this book?”

  “I know.” He turned to the book on the table. “I know. She has been doing most of her reading in this room, of late. I live with these books. When someone touches them, I can tell. You see this smudge in the dust? It’s not mine. It’s the Prelate’s.”

  Warren carefully lifted open the cover and, with both hands giving support, turned the yellowed pages. Richard didn’t recognize any of the words, or some of the letters for that matter. On one of the pages that Warren flipped, Richard thought he recognized something: a drawing. It sparked a deep memory. Warren flipped over more pages, finally stopping. He leaned over Richard’s shoulder, pointing.

  “This is the prophecy you spoke of.” Warren moved around to the right side of the table. “This is the original, in the prophet’s own hand. Few have ever seen it. Do you understand High D’Haran?”

  “No. It just looks like scribbling to me.” Richard glanced over the meaningless writing. “You said there was argument over its meaning.”

  Warren’s eyes had an intense gleam. “There is. You see, this is a very old prophecy, perhaps as old as the palace, maybe older. This is the original prophecy. It’s in High D’Haran, as is everything in this room. Very few people understand High D’Haran.”

  Richard nodded. “So people have only read the translations, and there is reason to believe that those translations may not be accurate.”

  “You understand,” Warren whispered. His movements became more lively. “Yes, yes, you see the problem. Most don’t. Most think one thing in one language must mean a certain thing in another. In order to complete the translation, they settle on an interpretation that fits their view of the meaning, but in so doing, they create a conspectus that may or may not be the meaning of the prophecy.”

  “But that doesn’t take into account possible different meanings,” Richard said. “So when they translate it, they give it only one version. They can’t translate its ambiguity.”

  Warren thrust himself forward in excitement. “Yes! You have it! That’s what they can’t understand, and so they argue over the various translations, as if there is a right way and a wrong way to do it. But this is High D’Haran . . .”

  Warren’s words trailed off. Richard was staring at the page. The images there were drawing him in. It was almost as if they were murmuring to him. He had never seen such words before, but somehow they resonated with something deep within him.

  His hand slowly reached out, drawn to one of the words. His finger came to rest on it.

  “This one,” Richard whispered, as if from a trance. The strokes of the letters seemed to lift from the page, as if alive, and coil around his finger, the dark lines caressing, fondling, with intimate familiarity. Before his eyes, too, floated the image of the Sword of Truth.

  Warren’s white face came up from the book. “Drauka,” he whispered. “That’s the word that is the center of the controversy. Fuer grissa ost drauka—the bringer of death.”

  Pasha leaned over. “So what’s the controversy? You mean those words can be translated differently?”

  Warren made a vague gesture with his hand. “Well, yes, and no. That’s the literal translation of the words. It’s their meaning that is in dispute.”

  Richard pulled his hand back. He banished the image of the sword. “Death. It has different meanings.”

  Warren practically laid on the table as he leaned over. “Yes! You understand!”

  “Death is plain as pie,” Pasha said.

  Warren straightened and rubbed his hands together. “No, Pasha. Not in High D’Haran. The weapon the Sisters carry, the dacra, its name comes from this word. Drauka means death, as in dead, like if I were to say “the mriswith Richard killed is dead.” Drauka. Dead. But it has other meanings, too. Drauka also is a word that represents the souls of the dead.”

  Pasha leaned forward with a frown. “Are you saying that drauka, in that sense, can make it mean ‘the bringer of souls’?”

  “No,” Richard said. He whispered the second meaning of the word. “Spirits. The bringer of spirits.”

  “Yes,” Warren said in a quiet voice. “That is the second interpretation.”

  “How many of these different meanings to drauka are there?” Pasha asked.

  Three, Richard thought.

  “Three,” Warren said.

  Richard knew the third. “The underworld,” he whispered as he stared at the word drauka on the page. “The place of the dead. That’s the third meaning of drauka.”

  Pale as a spirit, Warren leaned toward him. “But you won’t understand D’Haran?” Richard slowly shook his mead, his eyes fixed on the page. Warren’s tongue darted out to wet his lips. “Please tell me you don’t have D’Haran blood.”

  “My father was Darken Rah
l,” Richard said softly. “He was the wizard who ruled D’Hara, and before him, my grandfather, Panis.”

  “Dear Creator,” Warren whispered.

  Pasha put a hand to Richard’s arm as she leaned toward them both. “Underworld? How could it mean underworld?”

  “Because,” Warren said, “the underworld is the world of the dead.”

  Her brow knit tighter. “But how could it mean ‘the bringer of the underworld’? How can you bring the underworld?”

  Richard stared blankly ahead. “You tear the veil.” The silence echoed around the stone room. Pasha looked from one face to the other. She finally broke the silence. “But I was taught that for a foreign word in a prophecy that had different shades of meaning, you had only to interpret it in context. It should be a simple matter of seeing how it is used to decipher its meaning.”

  Warren lifted an eyebrow. “That’s what the argument is about. You see, in this prophecy, it speaks of things that could pertain to each of the three possible meanings of the word drauka. Depending on which meaning was intended, it changes the meaning of the prophecy. That is why it cannot be interpreted with surety. It’s like a dog chasing his tail. The more you try, the more you just end up going round and round.

  “This is why I’m so anxious to know the intended meaning of the word drauka. If I could know that, then I might be able to decipher the rest of the prophecy accurately for the first time. I would be the first in three thousand years to understand it.”

  Richard pushed his chair away from the table. “Well, as I said, I’m not very good with riddles.” He forced himself to smile. “But I promise to think on it.”

  Warren brightened. “Would you? I would be so appreciative if you would be able to help me.”

  Richard squeezed Warren’s shoulder. “You have my word.”

  Pasha rose. “Well, I guess we better get to Richard’s lesson. It’s getting late.”

  “Thank you both for coming. I rarely have visitors.”

  Pasha leading, the three of them went toward the door.

  As she passed through the doorway, Richard slapped his hand to the metal plate on the wall.

  The door grated closed. Pasha beat her fists to the stone, as the slit had become too small for her to come back through. She shouted for them to open the door. As the stone sealed closed, her words were cut off, leaving Richard and Warren in silence.

  Warren stared at the metal plate. “How did you do that? You are just a beginning wizard. You should not be able to effect a shield with your Han for a very long time yet.”

  Richard didn’t have an answer for the question, and so he ignored it. “Tell me what you meant about knowing what the Sisters would do to you if they caught you telling that kind of lie.”

  Warren’s hand went to his collar. “Well, they would hurt me.”

  “You mean they would use the collar’s magic to give you pain?”

  Warren nodded as he took a knot of his robes in his fists.

  “Do they do that often? Give us pain with the collar?”

  Warren twisted the knot of robe. “No, not often. But to be a wizard, you must pass a test of pain. They come from time to time and give you pain with the Rada’Han, to see if you have learned enough to pass the test of pain.”

  “And how do you pass the test?”

  “Well, I can only imagine that when you can endure the pain without begging them to stop, you pass. They never tell me what must be done to pass.” His face had gone ashen. “I’ve never been able to keep from begging them to stop. Once you learn to endure what they give, they give more.”

  “I thought it might be something like that. Thanks for telling me.” Richard stroked his beard. “Warren, I need your help.”

  Warren lifted the sleeve of his robes and wiped it at his wet eyes. “What help can I give?”

  “You said there are prophecies about me. I want you to study everything about me you can find. And about the Towers of Perdition, the Valley of the Lost. I also need to know everything I can about the veil.” Richard pointed at the book on the table. “There was a drawing a few pages before you stopped on the prophecy. It was a teardrop shape. Do you know what it is?”

  Warren went to the book and turned the pages back. “This?”

  “Yes. That’s it.” He remembered seeing it around Rachel’s neck, in his vision of her and Chase in the Valley of the Lost. An image of Zedd came into Richard’s mind. His heart thumped faster. “That looks like the thing I saw. What is it?”

  Warren gave him a puzzled look. “The Stone of Tears. What do you mean you saw it?”

  “What is the Stone of Tears?”

  “Well, I’m not sure. I’d have to study about it, but I think it might have something to do with the veil, if drauka could be interpreted to have something to do with the underworld. What do you mean you saw it?”

  Richard ignored the question for a second time. “Warren, I also need to know about the Stone of Tears, and everything you can find about the people who used to live in the Valley of the Lost. The Baka Ban Mana. Their name means ‘those without masters.’ And about one they call the Caharin.”

  Warren stared dumbly at him. “This is all a lot of work.”

  “Will you help me, Warren?”

  Warren looked down, picking at his robes. “On a condition. I never get out of this place. Not that I don’t like working with the prophecies, you understand, but people think that I have no interest in anything else. I’d like to see the country around the palace—the woods, the hills.”

  He twisted his fingers together. “I’m afraid of big places. The sky is so big. That’s the other reason I stay down here, because it feels safe to me. But I’m sick of living like a mole. I would like to try going outside and seeing it. Would you, well, show me the countryside? You look to me like someone familiar with the out-of-doors. I think I would feel safe if you went with me.”

  Richard smiled warmly. “You’ve come to the right person, Warren. I was a woods guide, before all this started. I don’t know all the country around the palace yet, but I surely intend to. I’d really enjoy guiding you around. It would be just like old times.”

  Warren’s expression brightened. “Thank you, Richard. I look forward to seeing open places. I need some adventure in my life. I’ll start right away on the things you want, but the Sisters give me work, so I must search when I can find the time. And I’m afraid that I must be honest; it will take a long time. There are thousands of volumes here. It will take months, just to get a good start.”

  “Warren, this may be the most important thing you ever studied. You may be able to save time if you start by reading everything the Prelate has been reading.”

  A sly smile came to Warren’s lips. “I thought you said you weren’t good with riddles. That is what I was thinking.” His smile turned to a concerned frown. “Why do you want to know these things?”

  Richard studied the other’s blue eyes for a long moment. “I am fuer grissa ost drauka. Warren, I know what it means.”

  Warren clutched his fingers to the sleeve of Richard’s red coat. “You know? You know which is the correct translation?” His fingers trembled. “Would you tell me?”

  “If you promise not to tell anyone else, for now.” Warren nodded eagerly. “No one has been able to figure out which one of the three is the true translation because in trying to justify one, they invalidate the whole.” Warren frowned. Richard leaned toward him. “They are all true, Warren.”

  “What?” he whispered. “How can that be?”

  “I have killed people with this sword. I am the bringer of death in that sense. That is the first meaning of drauka.

  “In order to prevail against otherwise impossible odds, such as defeating the mriswith, I use the sword’s magic to bring forth the spirits of those who have used it before me. I have called the dead forth, called the past into the present. In that way, I am the bringer of spirits. That is the second meaning of drauka.

  “As for the third me
aning, bringing forth the underworld, I have reason to believe that I may have somehow torn the veil. That is the third meaning of drauka.”

  Warren gasped.

  “It’s very important that you find out the information I asked you about. I don’t think I have a lot of time.”

  Warren nodded. “I’ll try. But I think you put too much faith in me.”

  Richard lifted an eyebrow. “I have faith in a man able to break Jedidiah’s leg.”

  “I did nothing to Jedidiah. Jedidiah is a powerful wizard. I would never dare to oppose one of his powers.”

  “Oh, come on, Warren. There are ashes of the burned carpet on the shoulder of your robe.”

  Warren brushed frantically at his shoulder. “There is no ash there. I see no ash.”

  Richard waited for Warren’s eyes to come up. “Then why are you brushing at your robes?”

  “Well, I . . . I was . . . I just . . .”

  Richard put a reassuring hand on Warren’s back. “It’s all right, Warren. I’m a believer in justice. I think Jedidiah got what he deserved. I won’t tell anyone. And you must not tell anyone about any of this.”

  “I must warn you, Richard, you did a very dangerous thing yesterday when you told all the Sisters that you were the bringer of death. That is a well-known, and hotly debated, prophecy. There are Sisters who believe it means you are one who kills. They will try to comfort you. There are others who think it means you will bring forth the dead, call the spirits. They will want to study you.” He leaned a little closer. “There are others who think it means you will tear the veil, and bring the Nameless One to swallow us all. They might try to kill you.”

  “I know, Warren.”

  “Then why would you let them know you are the one in the prophecy?”

  “Because I am fuer grissa ost drauka. When the time comes, I will kill any of them I must in order to get this collar off. I had to give them fair warning first, give them the chance to live.”

  Warren touched his fingers to his lower lip. “But you wouldn’t hurt Pasha. Not Pasha.”

  “I hope to hurt no one, Warren. Maybe with the information you help me with, I won’t have to hurt anyone. I hate being fuer grissa ost drauka, but that is who I am.”