"This is bad business. I do not like calling the ancestors to ask about their world. It is our world they come to help us with. They may be displeased. They may be angered. They may say no.' He watched Richard a moment. 'But I know your heart. I know you are a savior to our people, and you would not ask if you had any other choice.' He laid a firm hand on Richard's shoulder. Granted.'
Kahlan sighed in relief. Richard nodded his thanks. Kahlan knew he didn't look forward to meeting the ancestors' spirits again. The last time had been devastating to him.
Suddenly, there was a flutter of shadow in the air. Kahlan threw her hands up protectively. Richard was knocked back a step as something hit him on the head. People shouted in confusion. A dark shape thumped to the ground between Richard and the Bird Man. Richard straightened, putting his fingers to his scalp. Blood trickled down his forehead.
The Bird Man squatted down over a dark form, and then straightened. He was holding a dead owl cradled in his hands. The head lolled to the side. The wings fell open. The elders all looked at one another. Chandalen's frown deepened, but he said nothing.
Richard inspected the blood on his fingers. 'Why in the world would an owl hit me like that? And what killed it?'
The Bird Man gently smoothed the dead bird's feathers. 'Birds live in the air, a different level than us. They live in two levels - land and air. They can travel between their level and ours. Birds are closely connected to the spirit world. To the spirits. Owls more than most birds. They see in the night, where we are blind, just as we are blind to the spirit world. I am a spirit guide for our people. Only a Bird Man can be a spirit guide, because he can understand such things.'
He held the dead bird a little higher. "This is a warning. I have never witnessed an owl bringing a spirit message before. This bird gave its life to warn you. Richard, please reconsider your request for a gathering. This warning means the gathering will be dangerous, dangerous enough for the spirits to send this message.'
Richard looked from the Bird Man's face to the owl. He reached out and stroked its feathers. No one made a sound. 'Dangerous for me, or for the elders?'
'For you. You are the one calling for the gathering. The owl brought the message to you. The warning was for you.' He glanced up at Richard's forehead. 'A blood warning. One of the worst kinds. The only thing worse than an owl, would have been if a raven had brought the message. That would have meant sure death.'
Richard took his hand back and wiped his fingers on his shirt. He stared down at the dead owl. 'I don't have any choice,' he whispered. 'If I don't do something, the veil will be torn, and the Keeper of the dead will escape. Our people, everyone, will be swallowed into the world of the dead. I must learn how to stop it. I must try.'
The Bird Man nodded. 'As you wish. It will take three days to prepare.' Richard looked up. 'You did it in two days before. We can't spare any time,'
The elder took a deep breath and sighed. 'Two days.'
'Thank you, honored elder.' Richard turned to her, his eyes were filled with pain. 'Kahlan, please, find Nissel, and bring her? I'm going to the spirit house. Ask her to bring something stronger?'
She squeezed his arm. 'Of course. I'll hurry.'
Richard nodded. He pulled his sword from the ground and walked off into the darkness.
CHAPTER 13
Cause of death. She looked up in thought, pressing the round end of the plain, wooden-handled pen to her lower lip. The small, modest room was dimly lit with candles set among and on top of the disheveled piles of papers on her desk. Scrolls were balanced precariously in stacks between fat books. The dark patina of the desktop was only visible in a small area in front of her, framing the waiting report.
Odd objects of magic stood jammed together collecting dust on the shelves behind her. The ever-present and diligent cleaning staff was not allowed to touch them, and so the task of dusting them was left to her, but there was never enough time, or inclination. Besides, they looked less important to curious eyes when covered in a mask of dust.
Heavy drapes were drawn against the night. The only splash of color in the room was one of the local blue-and-yellow carpets she had placed on the other side of the desk. Visitors usually spent their time in her office staring down at it.
Cause of death. Reports were such a bother. She sighed. But a necessary bother. For now, anyway. The Palace of the Prophets required reams of reports. There were Sisters who spent their whole lives in the libraries, cataloging reports, pampering them, keeping records of every useless word they thought might someday be important.
Well, there was nothing for it but to think up a suitable cause of death. The truth would never do. Her Sisters would have to have a satisfactory explanation as to the cause of death. They valued highly those with the gift. Fools.
Training accident? She smiled. Yes, a training accident. She hadn't used that one in many years. She pursed her lips as she dipped the pen in the ink bottle and began writing. The cause of death was a training accident with the Rada'Han. A twig, as I have often warned the other Sisters, no matter how young and tender, will break if bent too far.
Who could question? Let them wonder where among them the fault lay. It would keep them from digging too deeply, lest the blame fall on them. As she blotted the paper, there was a soft rap at the door.
'One moment, please.' She touched the corner of the boy's letter to the candle flame and, when it was nearly consumed, tossed it in the cold hearth. The broken seal melted into a molten red puddle. He would be writing no more letters. 'Come.'
The heavy, round-topped door opened enough to admit a head.
'Sister, it's me,' came a whisper from the shadow.
'Don't stand there like a novice, come in and close the door.'
The woman entered, closing the door quietly, after putting her head back out to check the hall. She didn't look down at the carpet. 'Sister...'
With a finger across lips, and an angry scowl, she was silenced. 'No names when we are alone. I've told you before.'
The other looked about at the walls, as if expecting someone to pop out. 'But surely you've shielded your room.'
'Of course it's shielded. But it is always possible the breeze could carry words to the right ears. If that ever happened, we wouldn't want our names carried with the words, now would we.'
The other's eyes flicked around at the walls again. 'Of course not. Of course you are right.' She scrubbed her hands together. 'Someday this won't be necessary. I hate that we must remain hidden. Someday we will be able to...'
'What have you found out?'
She watched as the woman straightened her dress at the hips and then put her fingers to the desk, leaning over a little. Her eyes had a fierce intensity. They were strange eyes, pale, pale blue, with dark violet flecks. She always found it hard not to stare at those eyes.
She leaned closer, and whispered. They've found him.'
'You saw the book?'
She nodded slowly. 'I saw it. At dinnertime. I waited until the others were at dinner.' She gave an even look. 'He refused the first offer.'
She slapped her hand down on the desk. 'What! Are you sure?'
That's what the book said. And not only that, there was more. He's grown. Grown into a man.'
'Grown!' She took a heavy breath as she watched the Sister standing before her. 'Which Sister was it?'
'What difference does it make? They are all ours.'
'No, they weren't. I wasn't able to send three of our own. Only two. One is a Sister of the Light.'
The other's eyes widened. 'How could you let that happen? Something as important as this...'
She slapped her hand down on the desk again. 'Silence!'
The other straightened, knitting her fingers together. A small pout came to her face. 'It was Sister Grace.'
She closed her eyes and leaned back in the chair. 'Sister Grace was one of ours,' she whispered.
The other leaned over the desk again. Then, only one of the two remaining is ours. Who is it? Sister Elizabeth, or Sister Verna?'
'That is not for you to know.'
'Why not? I hate never knowing. I hate not knowing if the Sister I'm talking to is a Sister of the Light, or one of us, a Sister of the Dark....'
She slammed her fist on the desk and gritted her teeth. 'Don't you ever say that out loud again,' she hissed, 'or I will send you to the Nameless One in pieces.'
This time the other stared down at the carpet as her face paled. 'Forgive me,' she whispered.
There isn't a Sister of the Light alive who believes we are anything but myth. If that name ever reaches their ears, they could begin to wonder. That name is never, ever, to be spoken aloud by you! If the Sisters were to ever discover you, or who you serve, they would have a Rada'Han around your neck before you had a chance to scream.'
The other's hands went to her throat as she let out a small gasp. 'But I...'
'You would claw your own eyes out, for fear of seeing them come to question you every day. That is why you are not to know the names of the others: so you can't give them over. That is why they don't know your name: so they can't give you over. It is to protect us all, so we may serve. The only name you know is mine.'
'But Sister... I would bite my own tongue off before I ever gave them your name.'
'You say that now. But were there a Rada'Han around your neck, you would be begging to give me up just to have it off... And it isn't my forgiveness that matters. If you fail us, the Nameless One will not be forgiving. When you meet his eyes, it will make whatever could be done to you with the Rada'Han while you were alive seem a pleasant time at tea.'
'But I serve... I am sworn... I have given the oath.'
Those who serve well will be rewarded when the Nameless One is free of the veil. Those who fail him, or fight him, will have an eternity to regret their mistake.'
'Of course, Sister.' She was staring furiously at the carpet now. 'I live only to serve.' She knitted her fingers back together. 'I will not fail our Master. On my oath.'
'On your soul.'
Her defiant, violet flecked eyes came up. 'I have given my oath.'
She nodded as she sank back in the chair. 'As have we all, Sister. As have we all.' She stared at the other's eyes a moment. 'Did the book say anything else?'
'I didn't have time to search it thoroughly, but there were some other things I caught. He is with the Mother Confessor. He is promised as her mate.'
She frowned. The Mother Confessor.' She waved her hand. That is no problem. What else.'
'He is the Seeker.'
She slapped her hand on the desk. 'Curse the Light!' She let out a noisy breath. The Seeker. Well, we can deal with that. Anything more?'
The other nodded slowly, leaning closer. 'He is strong, and grown, yet only two days after he triggered the gift the headaches made him unconscious.'
She rose slowly out of her chair. This time it was her eyes that went wide. Two days,' she whispered. 'Are you sure? Two days?'
The other shrugged. 'I am only telling you what the book said. I'm sure of what it said. I'm not sure it is true. I don't see how it could be.'
She sank back into her chair. 'Two days.' She stared at her desk. The sooner we get a Rada'Han around his neck, the better.'
'Even the Sisters of the Light would agree with you about that. There was a message sent back. From the Prelate.'
She lifted an eyebrow. The Prelate herself sent orders?'
The other nodded. 'Yes.' Under her breath, she added, 'I wish I knew if she was with us, or against us.'
She ignored the comment. 'What did she say?'
That if he refuses the third offer, Sister Verna is to kill him herself. Have you ever heard of such an order? If he is really this strong, and he refuses the third time, he would be dead in a few weeks anyway. Why would she give such an order?'
'Have you ever heard of anyone refusing the first offer?'
'Well, no, I guess I haven't.'
'It is one of the rules. If one with the gift refuses all three offers, they are to be killed, to spare them the suffering at the end, the madness. You have never seen such an order before because you have never heard of anyone refusing the first offer.
'I have spent time in the archives, looking through the prophecies. That is where I saw reference to the rule. The Prelate knows all the obscure rules, the old rules. And she is afraid; she has read the prophecies too.'
'Afraid?' she asked, wide-eyed. The Prelate? I have never seen her afraid of anything.'
She nodded up at the woman. 'She is afraid now. Either way suits our purposes. Either he is collared, or he is dead. If he is collared, we will deal with him, in our way, as we have always done. If he is dead, we won't have to. Maybe better he were dead. Maybe better he were dead before the Sisters of the Light find out what he is, if they don't already know.'
The other leaned over the desk again, lowering her voice. 'If they know, or find out, there are those among the Sisters of the Light who would kill him.'
She studied the violet flecks a moment. 'Indeed there are.' A smile spread across her face. 'What a dangerous dilemma for them. What a glorious opportunity for us.' Her smile faded. 'What of the other matter?'
The woman straightened. 'Ranson and Weber are waiting where you wanted them.' She folded her arms beneath hei breasts. They were pretty cocky, because they have passed all the tests, and tomorrow are to be released.' A sadistic grin came to her thin lips and flecked eyes. 'I gave them a little reminder that they still wear the collar. I'm surprised we can't hear their knees knocking together all the way up here.'
She ignored the other's smile. 'I have lessons to give. You will go in my place. Tell them I had reports to work on. I'll go see to our two friends. They may have passed all the Prelate's tests, but they have not yet passed all of mine. One has an oath to give. And the other...'
She leaned halfway over the desk, hunger in her flecked eyes. 'Which one? Which one are you going to... Oh, I so wish I could watch. Or help. Promise me you will tell me everything?'
She smiled at the other's eagerness. 'Everything. I promise. From beginning to end. Every last scream. Now go see to my lessons for me.'
The woman danced through the doorway like a giddy schoolgirl. She was too eager. That kind of eagerness was dangerous. That kind of lust made one forget to be careful, made one take chances. She pulled a knife from a drawer, and made a mental note to use her less in the future, and keep an eye on her.
She tested the edge gingerly with a thumb and, satisfied it was razor sharp, tucked the knife up her sleeve, the sleeve without the dacra. She plucked a small, dusty statue from the shelf, and slipped it into a pocket. Before she was around the desk and through the door, she remembered one more item, and turned back to pick up the stout rod leaning against the side of her desk.
It was late, and the halls were quiet and mostly empty. Despite the heat, she pulled her short, thin, blue cotton cloak tighter across her shoulders. Thoughts of this new one with the gift gave her a chill. Grown. A man.
She shook her head as she walked silently over the long carpets, past lamps set in wall brackets centered in the raised cherry paneling, past tables set with dried flowers, and past heavily draped windows looking out over the bailey and courtyard below. Lights of the city in the distance twinkled like a carpet of stars. Slightly rank air drifted in the windows. Must be near low tide, she thought.
The cleaning staff, polishing a chair-rail molding here, or a banister there, dropped into deep curtsies as she swept past. She hardly noticed them, and certainly didn't acknowledge them. They were beneath her attention.
Grown. Into a man.
Her face heated with anger at the thought. How could this be? Someone had made a serious mistake. A mistake. An oversight. It had to be that.
A maidservant on her hands and knees, concentrating on wiping at a spot on a carpet, looked up just in time to leap back out of the way with a 'Forgive me, Sister.' On her hands and knees, she touched her head to the floor with another apology.
Grown. It would have been difficult enough to turn this one if he were still a boy. But a man? She shook her head again. Grown. She smacked the rod against her thigh in frustration. Two maidservants nearby jumped at the sound and fell to their knees, burying their tightly closed eyes behind prayerful hands.
Well, grown or not, he would have a Rada'Han around his neck, and a whole palace full of Sisters to watch over him. But even wearing a Rada'Han, he was still grown into a man. And the Seeker. He might be difficult to control. Dangerously difficult.
If necessary, she guessed, he could always have a 'training accident.' If not that, there were certainly enough other dangers to one with the gift, dangers that could leave a man worse than dead. But if she could turn him, or use him, that would make all the trouble worthwhile.
She turned into a hall she at first thought empty, then noticed a young woman standing in the shadows between lamps, gazing out a window. She thought she recognized her. One of the novices. She stopped behind the young woman and folded her arms. The novice tapped her toe on the carpet as she leaned on her elbows through the opened window, looking at the gates below.
She cleared her throat. The young woman spun, gasped, and dropped into a curtsy.
'Forgive me, Sister, I didn't hear you coming. A good evening to you.'
When the big brown eyes came up, she put the end of the rod under the young woman's chin and lifted it a little more. 'Pasha, isn't it?'
'Yes, Sister. Pasha Maes. Novice, third rank. Next in line to be named.'
'Next in line,' she sniffed. 'Presumption, my dear, does not befit a Sister, and less so a novice. Even one of the third rank.'
Pasha cast her eyes down and gave a curtsy, as best she could with the rod still under her chin. 'Yes, Sister. Forgive me.'
'What are you doing here?'
'Just watching, Sister. Watching the night.'
'Watching the night. I would say you were watching the gates. Am I wrong, novice?'
Pasha tried to look down, but the rod lifted her chin, keeping her eyes to her superior. 'No, Sister,' she admitted, 'you are not wrong. I was watching the gates.' She licked her full lips several times.
At last she spilled out the words. 'I heard the talk, the talk among the girls. They say, well, they say three of the Sisters have been gone a long time now, and that could only mean they are bringing back one with the gift. A new one. In all the years I have been here, I,have never seen a new one brought in.' She licked her lips again. 'Well, I am... I mean... I hope to be next in line. And if I am to be named, I will have to be assigned a new one.' She knitted her fingers together. 'I so want to be named a Sister. I have studied hard, worked hard. Waited and waited. And no new one has come yet. Forgive me Sister, but I just can't help being excited, and hopeful, that I will be worthy. So... yes, I was watching the gate, hoping I would see him brought in.'
'And you think you are strong enough to handle the job? To handle a new one?'
'Yes, Sister. I study and practice my forms every day.'
She looked down her nose at the novice. 'Is that so? Show me.'
As they stared at each other, she felt her feet rise off the ground a few inches. Solid grip of air, strong. Not bad. She wondered if the novice could handle interference. With that thought, fire ignited at both ends of the hall, sweeping with a howl toward the two women. Pasha didn't flinch. The fire hit a wall of air before reaching them. Air was not the best for fire. A small error Pasha quickly corrected. Before the fire burned through, the air became moist, dripping. The fire hissed out.
Although she didn't try to move, she knew she couldn't. She could feel that the grip held her firmly. She turned it cold, brittle, with ice, and broke it. When she was free, she lifted Pasha from the floor. Defensive webs from the girl wove through her snaking onslaught, but failed to break the grip. Her feet rose again. Impressive - the girl could counter even while being held.
Spells tangled together, conflicting, fighting, snarling into knots. Each matched and defended, striking back at any opportunity. The silent, motionless battle raged on for a time, the two of them hanging inches off the ground.
At last, she tired of the sport and severed herself from the webs, tying them to the girl, locking them on. She settled gently to the ground, and left Pasha with the whole weight of the load to juggle. A simple, if devious, escape: giving the opponent not only the attacking spells to deal with, but dumping her own back on her. Pasha hadn't been expecting this, and wasn't able to defend against it; it was not the way she had been taught.
Sweat ran down the novice's face as she grimaced slightly. The force radiating through the hall made carpets curl up at their corners. Lamps chattered in their brackets. Pasha was getting angry. Her brow wrinkled. With a loud crack that shattered a mirror far off down the hall, she broke the spells. Her slippered feet settled to the ground.
Pasha took a few deep breaths. 'I have not seen that done before, Sister. It is not... by the rules.'
She put the rod back under the other's chin. 'Rules are for children's games. You are no longer a child. When you are a full Sister, you must deal with situations where there are no rules. You must be prepared for that. If you always stick to somebody's "rules," you may find yourself at the point of a very sharp knife, held by a hand that doesn't know about your "rules."'
Pasha didn't flinch. 'Yes, Sister. Thank you for showing me.'
She smiled inwardly, but kept it off her face. This one had a spine, if a small one. A rare commodity in a novice, even one of the third rank.
She let her eyes take in Pasha again: soft brown hair that just touched her shoulders, big brown eyes, attractive features, lips of the sort men stared at, proud, upright shoulders, and a sweep of curves that even a novice's dress failed to conceal.
She let the rod trail from Pasha's chin, down her neck, down into the heart of her exposed cleavage.
Grown into a man.
'And since when, Pasha,' she said in a quiet voice that could have been taken for either threatening, or kind, 'have novices been allowed to wear their dresses unbuttoned like this?'
Pasha blushed furiously. 'Forgive me, Sister. It's such a warm night. I was alone... I didn't think there was anyone about. I just wanted to let the breeze cool my skin.' Her face turned a deeper red. 'I sweat so, there. I never meant to offend anyone. I'm so embarrassed. Forgive me.'
Pasha's hands rushed to the buttons. With the rod, she gently pushed the hands away from the swell of the young woman's bosom.
'The Creator made you this way. You should not be embarrassed of what He has chosen,' in his wisdom, to bestow upon you. You should never be ashamed, Pasha, of what He has graced you with. Only those of questionable loyalty to the Creator would scorn you for being proud of showing the Maker's hand in all its magnificence.'
'Why... thank you, Sister. I never looked at it in quite that way.' A frown wrinkled her brow. 'What do you mean, "questionable loyalty"?'
She pulled the rod away and lifted an eyebrow. 'Those who worship the Nameless One don't hide in the shadows, my dear. They could be anywhere. Why, even you could be one. Even me.'
Pasha fell to a knee, bowing her head. 'Oh, please, Sister,' she implored, 'don't say such a thing of yourself, even in jest. You are a Sister of the Light, and we are in the Palace of the Prophets, safe, I pray, from the whispers of the Nameless One.'
'Safe?' With her rod, she motioned the novice up. After she was on her feet, she gave her a stern look. 'Only a fool assumes she is safe, even here. Sisters of the Light are not fools. Even they must always be alert to the dark whispers.'
'Yes, Sister. I will remember.'
'Remember it, any time someone would make you ashamed of how the Creator has formed you. Ask yourself why they blush at seeing the Maker's hand. Blush, as the Nameless One would.'
'Yes, Sister.... Thank you,' she stammered. 'You have given me things to think on. I have never thought about the Creator in this way before.'
'He has reasons for the things He does. Is this not true?'
'What do you mean?'
'Well, when He gives a man a strong back, what does that say?'
'Everyone knows that. He was given the strong back to use. It means the Creator has given him the strong back so that he might work to feed his family. Work to make his way. Work to make the Creator proud. And not waste the Creator's gift by being lazy.'
She whisked the rod up and down in front of Pasha. 'And what do you think the Creator had in mind when he gave you this body?'
'I... don't know... exactly. That I should use it to... make the Creator proud of His work... in some way?'
She nodded. 'You think on it. You think on your reason for being here. Being here at this time. We are all here for a reason. The Sisters of the Light are here for a reason, are they not?'
'Oh, yes, Sister. We are here to teach the ones with the gift, teach them to use it, and guide them so they may not hear the whispers of the Nameless One, that they may hear only the Creator.'
'And how are we able to do that?'
'We were given the gift of being sorceresses, so that we may be able to guide them in their gift.'
'And if the Creator was wise enough to give you that gift, the gift of being a sorceress, do you not think He may have given you your looks for a reason too? Maybe to be a part of your calling as a Sister of the Light? To use your looks to serve Him?'
Pasha stared. 'Why, I never thought of it that way before. In what way are my looks to be of aid?'
She shrugged. 'We cannot always know what the Creator has intended. When He wishes, it will be revealed.'
'Yes, Sister.' Her voice was unsure.
'Pasha, when you see a man that the Creator has graced with good looks, a finely shaped body, what do you think? What do you feel?'
Pasha blushed. 'I... sometimes... it makes my heart race. I guess. It makes me feel... good. Feel longings.'
At last she allowed a small smile. 'There is no need to blush, my dear. It is a longing to touch what the Creator's hand has wrought. Don't you suppose it pleases the Creator that you appreciate His work? Don't you think He wants you to like what He has done? To enjoy it? Just as you must know that men enjoy witnessing your beauty and long to touch the work of the Creator's hand. It would be a crime against the Creator not to use, in your service to Him, what He has given you.'
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