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him, but staring off.
"What did Richard look like," she asked in a distant voice. "Was he
well? Did he look all right?"
"Yes. He's big and strong. Foolish people like him."
Kahlan spun around, landing the heel of her hand against Gadi's face
hard enough to knock him from his feet.
"Get him out of here," she told Cara.
"But you must show me mercy, now! I told you what you want to know!" He
broke down in tears. "You must show me mercy!"
"You have a job to finish," Kahlan said to Cara.
--]----
Kahlan pulled the tent flap back and peeked in. Sister Dulcinia was
snoring softly. Holly looked up.
Tears filled the girl's eyes as she stretched out her arms pleadingly.
Kahlan knelt beside the girl and bent over to hug her. Holly started crying.
Sister Dulcinia woke with a snort. "Mother Confessor."
Kahlan put a hand on the Sister's arm. "It's late. Why don't you go get
some sleep, Sister."
Sister Dulcinia smiled her agreement and then grunted with the effort
of struggling to her feet in the low tent. In the distance, on the far side
of the camp, Kahlan could hear Gadi's bloodcurdling screams.
Kahlan smoothed the downy hair from Holly's brow and kissed her there.
"How are you, sweetheart? Are you all right?"
"Oh, Mother Confessor, it was awful. Wizard Warren got hurt. I saw it."
Kahlan hugged her as she started weeping again. "I know. I know."
"Is it all right? Is he healed like they healed me?"
Kahlan cupped the little cheek and wiped a tear away with her thumb.
"I'm sorry, Holly, but Warren died."
Her brow bunched up with her misery. "He shouldn't have tried to save
me. It's my fault he's dead."
"No," Kahlan soothed. "That's not the way it is. Warren gave his life
to save us all. He did what he did out of his love of life. He didn't want
to let evil be free among those he loved."
"Do you really think so?"
"Of course I do. Remember him for how he loved life, and how he wanted
to see those he loved free to live their own lives."
"He danced with me at his wedding. I thought he was the most handsome
groom ever."
"He was indeed a handsome groom," Kahlan said with a smile at the
memory. "He was one of the best men I've ever known, and he gave his life to
help keep us free. We honor his sacrifice by living the best lives we can
live."
Kahlan started to rise, but Holly hugged her all the tighter, so Kahlan
lay down beside her. She stroked Holly's brow, and kissed her cheek.
"Will you stay with me, Mother Confessor? Please?"
"For a while, sweetheart."
Holly fell asleep cuddled up to Kahlan. Kahlan wept frustrated bitter
tears over the sleeping girl, a girl who should have the right to live her
life. Others, though, lusted to steal that right at the point of a blade.
After she had finally decided what she must do, Kahlan slipped silently
out of the tent to go pack her things.
--]----
It was just turning light when Kahlan emerged from her tent carrying
her bedroll, saddlebags, D'Haran sword, the Sword of Truth, leather armor,
and pack with the rest of her things. Spirit was safely rolled up in her
bedroll.
A light snow was just beginning to fall, announcing to the muted camp
that winter had arrived in the northern Midlands.
Everything seemed as if it was ending. It wasn't just Warren's death
that convinced her, but rather the futility it symbolized. She could no
longer delude herself. The truth was the truth. Richard was right.
The Order would have it all. Sooner or later, they would have her and
kill her, along with those who fought with her. It was only a matter of time
until they enslaved all of the New World. They already had much of the
Midlands. Some lands
had fallen willingly. There was no way to resist a force of their
overwhelming size, the terror of their threats, or the seduction of their
promises.
Warren had attested it as part of his dying words: Richard was right.
She had thought she could make a difference. She had thought she could
drive back the advancing hordes-by the sheer weight of her will, if need be.
It was arrogance on her part. The forces of freedom were lost.
Many of the people in those fallen lands had put their faith in the
Order at the cost of their liberty.
What was left to her? Running. Retreat. Terror. Death.
She had nothing to lose anymore, really. Nearly everything was already
lost, or soon would be. While she at least still had her life, she was going
to use it.
She was going to go to the heart of the Order.
"What are you doing?"
Kahlan spun around to see Cara frowning at her.
"Cara, I . . . I'm leaving."
Cara gave a single nod. "Good. I, too, think it is time. I won't be
long getting my things together. You get the horses, and I'll meet-"
"No. I'm going alone. You will stay here."
Cara stroked her long blond braid laying over the front of her
shoulder. "Why are you going?"
"There's nothing left here for me to do-nothing I can do. I'm going to
go drive my sword into the heart of the Order: Brother Narev and his
disciples. It's the only thing I can do to strike back at them."
Cara smiled. "And you think I want to stay here?"
"You will stay here, where you should be . . . with Benjamin."
"I'm sorry, Mother Confessor," Cara said tenderly, "but I can't follow
such orders. I am Mord-Sith. My life is sworn to protecting Lord Rahl. I
promised Lord Rahl I would protect you, not stay and kiss Benjamin."
"Cara, I want you to stay here-"
"It's my life. If this is the end, all there is to be, then I will do
with the rest of my life as I wish. It's my life to live, not yours to live
for me. I'm going, and that is final."
Kahlan saw in Cara's eyes that it was. Kahlan didn't think she had ever
heard Cara express such a sentiment about her own wishes. It was indeed her
life. Besides, Cara knew where Kahlan was going. If Kahlan left without
Cara, Cara would simply follow. Getting Mord-Sith to obey orders was often
more difficult than herding ants.
"You're right, Cara; it is your life. But when we get down into the Old
World, you're going to have to wear something to disguise who you are. Red
leather in the Old World will be the end of us."
"I will do what I must to protect you and Lord Rahl."
Kahlan smiled at last. "I believe you would, Cara."
Cara wasn't smiling. Kahlan's smile faded.
"I'm sorry I tried to leave without you, Cara. I shouldn't have done it
that way. You're a sister of the Agiel. I should have talked it over with
you. That's the proper way to treat someone you respect."
Cara smiled at last. "Now you are making sense."
"We might not ever come back from this."
Cara shrugged. "And you think we will live the high life if we stay? I
think only certain death awaits us if we stay."
Kahlan nodded. "That's what I think, too. That's why I must go."
"I'm not quarreling."
Kahlan gazed out at the falling snow. The last time winter had come,
she and Cara had just managed to escape in time.
Kahlan steeled herself and asked, "Cara, do you really believe Richard
is still alive?"
"Of course Lord Rahl is alive." Cara held up her Agiel, rolling it in
her fingers. "Remember?"
And then she did: the Agiel would only work if the Lord Rahl to whom
she was sworn was alive.
Kahlan handed Cara some of her load. "Gadi?"
"He died as Verna wished it. She showed him no pity."
"Good. Pity for the guilty is treason to the innocent."
--]----
It was not long after dawn when Kahlan made it to Zedd's tent. Cara had
gone to get horses and supplies. When Kahlan called, Zedd asked her to
enter. He rose from the bench beside Adie, the old sorceress.
"Kahlan. What is it?"
"I've come to bid you good-bye."
Zedd's eyes showed no surprise. "Why don't you stay and get some rest?
Leave tomorrow."
"There are no tomorrows left. Winter is upon us again. If I am going to
do as I must, I don't have a day to waste."
Zedd gently gripped her shoulders. "Kahlan, Warren wanted to see you.
He felt he had to tell you that Richard was right. It meant a great deal to
him that you know that. Richard told us that you must not attack the heart
of the Order before the people prove themselves to him, or all will be lost.
Such a thing is even less likely to happen today than the day he said it."
"And maybe Warren meant that Richard was right-that we are going to
lose the New World to the Order, so what is there to stay for? Maybe it was
Warren's way of trying to tell me to go to Richard before I'm dead, or he's
dead, and then it's too late to even try."
"And Nicci?"
"I'll find out when I get there."
"But, you can't hope to-" -
"Zedd, what else is there for me? To watch the Midlands fall? To aspire
at most to live out my life running, to live as a recluse, hiding every day
from the clutches of the Order?
"Even if Warren hadn't said it, I've come to realize-no matter how much
I wish it was otherwise-that Richard is right. The Order will only be pinned
down for the winter while we help the people escape Aydindril. In the
spring, the enemy will flood into my city. Then they will turn to D'Hara.
There will be nowhere to run. Though they escape for the moment, the Order
will subjugate those people.
"There is no future for me. Richard was right. The least I can do is
spend the last of my life living for myself, and for Richard. There is
nothing else left for me, Zedd."
Tears brimmed in his eyes. "I will miss you so. You've brought back
good memories of my own daughter and given me so many good times."
Kahlan threw her arms around him. "Oh, Zedd, I love you."
She couldn't hold back her own tears, then. She was all he had left,
and he was losing her, too.
No-that wasn't true. Kahlan pulled back.
"Zedd, the time has come for you to leave, too. You must go to the Keep
and protect it."
He nodded with great reluctance, great sadness. "I know."
Kahlan knelt before the sorceress and took up her hand. "Adie, will you
go with him and keep him company?"
A beautiful smile came to the woman's weathered face. "Well, I . . ."
She looked up. "Zedd?"
Zedd scowled. "Bags, now you've ruined the surprise of the invite."
Kahlan smacked his leg. "Stop cursing in front of ladies-and stop being
so sour. I'd like to know you're not going to be lonely up there."
A smile stole across his face. "Of course Adie is going to the Keep
with me."
Adie scowled in turn. "How do you know that, old man? You never asked
my approval. Why, I have a mind-"
"Please stop it," Kahlan said. "Both of you. This is too important to
be fussing over."
"I can fuss if I want to," Zedd protested.
"That be right." Adie shook a thin finger. "We are old enough to fuss
if we wish."
Kahlan smiled through her tears. "Of course you can. It's just that,
after Warren . . . it reminds me of how much I hate to see people waste
their lives on things that don't matter."
Zedd truly did scowl, now. "You've a thing or two to learn, dear one,
if you don't know how important fussing is."
"That be right," Adie said. "Fussing keeps you sharp. When you get old,
you need to stay sharp."
"Adie is entirely right," Zedd said. "Why, I think-"
Kahlan silenced him with a hug that Adie joined.
"Are you sure about this, dear one?" Zedd asked after they parted.
"I am. I'm going to take my sword into the belly of the Order."
Zedd nodded as he hooked his bony fingers around the back of her neck.
He pulled her head close and kissed her brow.
"If you're to go, then ride hard and strike harder."
"My thought, exactly," Cara said as she stepped into the tent.
Kahlan thought Cara's blue eyes looked a little more liquid than usual.
"Are you all right, Cara?"
Cara frowned. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"Nothing," Kahlan said.
"General Meiffert got us the six fastest horses he could find." Cara
smiled her pleasure at the prospect. "We'll have fresh mounts with us and be
able to cover a lot of ground fast. I have all our supplies loaded up.
"If we leave now, we should be able to escape winter's grip. We have
the map, so we can stay away from the routes the Order's troops use, and the
heaviest popula
tion centers. There are good roads, and open country down there. Riding
hard, I think that we can make it in a few weeks. A month at most."
Zedd's face contorted with concern. "But the Order controls much of the
southern Midlands. It's dangerous country, now."
"I have a better way." Cara flashed a sly smile. "We'll go where I know
the country-D' Hara. We will go east from here and cross over the mountains,
then go south down through D'Hara-through mostly wide-open country were we
can make good time-down through the Azrith Plains, to eventually join the
Kern River far to the south. After the river valley clears the mountains, we
will cut southeast into the heart of the Old World."
Zedd nodded his approval of the plan. Kahlan curled her fingers
lovingly around the old wizard's thin arm.
"When will you go to the Keep?"
"Adie and I will leave in the morning. I think it best not to dally
here any longer. Today we'll settle matters of the army with the officers
and the Sisters. I think that as soon as the people are out of Aydindril,
and when the snow quickly deepens to insure the Order won't be going
anywhere until spring, then our men should begin slipping out of this place
to make their way over the mountains to the safety of D'Hara. It will be
slow going in winter, but without having to fight as they travel, it won't
be as difficult as it otherwise would be."
"That would be best," Kahlan agreed. "It will get our men out of harm's
way for now."
"They won't have me to be the magic against magic for them, but they
will have Verna and her Sisters. They know enough by now to carry on
protecting the army from magic."
At least for a while. The words hung in the air, unspoken.
"I want to go see Verna before I leave," Kahlan said. "I think it will
be good for her to have other people to worry about. Then I want to see
General Meiffert; and then we'd best start riding. We have a long way to go,
and I want to be south before the snow hobbles us."
Kahlan embraced Zedd fiercely one last time.
"When you see him," Zedd whispered in her ear, "tell the boy I love him
dearly, and I miss him something awful."
Kahlan nodded against his shoulder, and told him a bold lie.
"You'll see us both again, Zedd. I promise you."
Kahlan stepped out into the early light of winter's first breath.
Everything was dusted with snow, making it look as if the world were
carvedfrom white marble.
In one long fluid motion, with his fingertips adeptly guiding the far
end of the file, Richard glided the steel tool down the fold of cloth held
forever crisp in white marble. Concentrating on applying steady pressure to
cut a precise, fine layer, he was lost in the work.
The file held hundreds of ridges, row upon row of tiny blades of
hardened steel, which did the work of cutting away and shaping the noble
stone. These were blades he wielded with the same commitment with which he
wielded any blade. He blindly reached back and set the file down on the
wooden bench, careful to put it on the wood and not to let it clang against
other steel, lest he dull it prematurely. He exchanged the file for another,
with even finer teeth, and took out the roughness left by the correction
accomplished with the one before.
With fingers as dusty-white as those of a baker laboring with flour,
Richard examined the surface of the man's arm, testing it for flaws. Until
polished, the minor flaws and facets were often easier to see with the
fingers than the eye. Where he found them, he used a smaller file in one
hand, while his other hand followed behind, riding the swell of muscle,
feeling the subtle difference in what the tool had done to the stone. He was
removing only paper-thin layers of material, now.
It had taken him several months to arrive at this final layer. It was
exhilarating to be so close to the flesh. The days had passed, one upon
another, in an endless procession of work, carving death in the day down at
the site, and life in the night. Carving for the Order was balanced by
carving for himself-slavery and freedom in opposition.
Whenever one of the brothers inquired about the statue, Richard was
careful to hide his satisfaction with what he was creating. He did it by
recalling the model he had been commanded to carve. He always bowed his head
respectfully and reported his progress on his penance, assuring them that
his work was on schedule and would be done on time to install in the palace
plaza for the dedication.
Stressing the word "penance" helped to direct their thoughts to that
issue and away from the statue itself. The brothers were invariably much
more satisfied with his weariness from his toil at his work of contrition
that they were interested in yet another dreary stone carving. There were
carvings everywhere; this was but one more manifestation of the irredeemable
inadequacy of mankind. Just as no one man in their cosmos was important, no
one work mattered. It was the sheer number of carvings which was to be the
Order's overpowering argument for man's impotence. The carvings were merely
background props for the stage upon which the brothers moralized on
sacrifice and salvation.
Richard always humbly reported his nights with little food and little
sleep as he
worked on his penance after his carving work during the day. Selfless
sacrifice being the proper cure for wickedness, the brothers went away
pleased.
Richard switched to a smaller file, one bent in a decreasing radius
curve, and worked the muscle where it narrowed into sinew, showing the
tension in the arm which revealed the underlying structure. During the day
he observed other men as they worked, in order to study the complex shapes
of muscle as it moved with life. At night, he referred to his own arms held
up to the lamplight so that he might accurately depict veins and tendons
standing proud on the surface. He referred to a small mirror at times. The
surface of the skin he carved was a rich landscape stretched over bone and
muscle, creased in corners, drawn smooth as it swept over curves.
For the woman's body, his memory of Kahlan was vivid enough to require
little other reference.
He wanted this work to show the capacity for movement, for intent, for
accomplishment. The posture of the figures displayed awareness. The
expression of the faces, especially the eyes, would show that most sublime
human characteristic: thought.
If the statues he had seen in the Old World were a celebration of
misery and death, this was a celebration of life.
He wanted this to show the raw power of volition.
The man and woman he carved were his refuge against his despair over
his captivity. They embodied freedom of spirit. They embodied reason rising
up to triumph.
To his great annoyance, Richard noticed that light was coming in the
window above the statue, taking over from the lamps that had burned all
night. All night; he had done it again.
It was not the quality of the light, which he actually very much
favored, which vexed him, but that it signified the end of his time with his
statue; he now had to go carve ugliness down at the site. Fortunately, that
work required no thought or careful effort.
As he draw-filed the curve of the man's shoulder muscle, there was a
knock at the door. "Richard?"
It was Victor. Richard sighed; he had to stop.
Richard pulled the red cloth tied around his neck down away from his
nose and mouth, where it kept him from breathing all the marble dust. It was
a little trick Victor had told him about, used by the marble carvers from
his homeland of Cavatura.
"Be right there." -
Richard stepped down off the ledge made by the base, where he had
carved out the legs at midcalf. He stretched his back, realizing how much it
hurt from hunching over, and from lack of sleep. He retrieved the canvas
tarp and shook the dust from it.
Just before he flung the cover over the statue, he got the full view of
the figures. The floor, shelves, and tools were covered in a fine layer of
marble dust. But against the black walls, the marble stood out in the glory
of light from above.
Richard threw the tarp over the incomplete figures and then opened the
door.
"You look a ghost," Victor announced with a lopsided grin.
Richard brushed himself off. "I forgot the time."
"Did you see in the shop last night?"
"The shop? No, what?"
Victor's grin returned, wider this time. "Priska had the bronze dial
delivered yesterday. Ishaq brought it. Come see."
Around the other side of the blacksmith's shop, in the stock room, the
bronze sat in a number of pieces. It was too big for Priska to cast as one
piece, so he had made several that Victor would join and mount. The pedestal
for the partial ring that would be the dial plane was massive. Knowing it
was for a statue Richard was carving, Priska had done a job to be proud oг
"It's beautiful," Richard said.
"Isn't it, though? I've seen him do fine work before, but this time
Priska has outdone himself."
Victor squatted and ran his fingers over the strange symbols filled in
with black. "Priska said that at one time, long ago, his home city of
Altur'Rang had freedom, but, like so many others, lost it. As a tribute to
that time, he cast it with symbols in his native tongue. Brother Neal saw
it, and was pleased because he thought it a tribute to the emperor, who is
also from Altur'Rang."
Richard sighed. "Priska has a tongue as smooth as his castings."
"Would you have some lardo with me?" Victor asked as he stood.
The sun was already well up. Richard stretched his neck and peered down
at the site.
"I'd best not. I need to get to work." Richard squatted down and lifted
one end of the pedestal. "First, though, let me show you where this goes."
Victor grabbed the other end and together they lugged the bronze
casting around the shop. When Richard opened the double doors, Victor saw
the statue for the first time, even if it was covered in a tarp that
revealed only the round bulges that were the two heads. Even so, Victor's
eyes feasted. It was apparent in those eyes how his vivid imagination was
filling in some of it with his fondest hopes.
"Your statue is going well?" Victor nudged Richard with an elbow.
"Beauty?"
Richard was overcome with a blissful smile. "Ali, Victor, you will see
for yourself soon enough. The dedication is only a couple weeks off. I will
be ready. It will be something to bring a song to our hearts . . . before
they kill me, anyway."
Victor dismissed such talk with a flourish of his hand. "I am hoping
that when they see such beauty again, and at their palace, they will
approve."
Richard held out no such illusion. He remembered then, and reached into
a pocket to pull out a piece of paper. He handed it to the blacksmith.
"I didn't want Priska to cast words on the back of the dial because I
didn't want the wrong people to see them. I would ask you to engrave these
words on the back surface-about the same height as the symbols on the
front."
Victor took the paper and unfolded it. His grin melted away. He looked
up at Richard with an open look of surprise.
"This is treason."
Richard shrugged. "They can only kill me once."
"They can torture you a long time before they kill you. They have very
unpleasant ways to kill people, too, Richard. Have you ever seen a man
buried in the sky while he was still alive, bleeding from a thousand cuts,
his arms bound, so that the vultures could feast on his living flesh?"
"The Order binds my arms, now, Victor. As I work down there, as I see
the death around me, I am bleeding from a thousand cuts. The vultures of the
Order are already feasting on my flesh." With grim resolve, Richard held
Victor's gaze. "Will you do it?"
Victor glanced down at the paper again. He took a deep breath and then
let it slowly out as he studied the paper in his hand. "Treason though these
words be, I like them. I will do it."
Richard clapped him on the side of the shoulder and gave him a
confident smile. "Good man. Now, look here, where the pedestal is to be
attached."
Richard lifted the tarp enough to uncover the base. "I've carved you a
flat face tilted at the proper angle. I didn't know where the holes in the
casting would be, so I left it for you to drill the holes and fill them with
lead for the pins. Once you attach the pedestal, then I can calculate the
angle of the hole I'll need to drill for the gnomon."
Victor nodded. "The gnomon pole will be ready soon. I will make you a
drill bit the proper size for it."
"Good. And a round rasp to do final fitting in the hole?"
"You will have it," Victor said as they both stood. He waved his hand
toward the covered statue. "You trust me not to peek while you are off
carving your ugly work?"
Richard chuckled. "Victor, I know you want more than anything to see
the nobility of this statue when it is finally finished. You would not spoil
that experience for yourself for anything."
Victor let out his rolling belly laugh. "I guess you are right. Come
after your work, and we will have lardo and talk of beauty in stone and the
way the world once was."
Richard hardly heard Victor. He was staring at what he knew so well.
Even though it was covered from his eyes, it was not hidden from his soul.
He was ready to begin the process of polishing. To make flesh in stone.
--]----
Her head bent, her scarf protecting her from the chill winter wind,
Nicci hurried down the narrow alleyway. A man coming the other way bumped
against her shoulder, not because he was rushing, but because he simply
didn't seem to care where he was going. Nicci threw a fiery scowl at his
empty eyes. Her fierce look fell away down a bottomless well of
indifference.
She clutched her sack of sunflower seeds closer to her stomach as she
moved on through the muddy alleyway. She stayed close to the rough wooden
walls of the buildings so she wouldn't be jostled by the people going the
other way. People bundled against the current cold snap moved through the
alleyway toward the street beyond, looking for rooms, for food, for clothes,
for jobs. She could see men beyond the alley sitting on the ground, leaning
against buildings on the far side of the street, watching without seeing as
wagons rumbled down the roads, taking supplies out to the site of the
emperor's palace.
Nicci wanted to get to the bread shop. She had been told they might
have butter today. She wanted to get butter for Richard's bread. He would be
home for dinnerhe had promised. She wanted to make him a good meal. He
needed to eat. He had lost some weight, though it only added distracting
definition to his muscular build. He was like a statue in the flesh-like the
statues she used to see, long ago.
She remembered how when she was little her mother's servants made cakes
out of sunflower meal. She had been able to buy enough to make him some
sunflower cakes, and maybe she would have butter to put on them.
Nicci was growing increasingly anxious. The dedication was to take
place in a few days. Richard said his statue would be ready. He seemed too
calm about it, as if he had come to some inner peace.
He seemed almost like a man who had accepted his imminent execution.
Whenever Richard spoke to her, despite the conversation, his mind
seemed elsewhere, and his eyes held that quality which she so valued. In the
wasteland that was life, the misery that was existence, this was the only
hope left to her. All around her, people looked forward only to death. Only
in her father's eyes when she was younger, and more so now in Richard's, did
she see any evidence that there was something to make it all worthwhile,
some reason for existence.
Nicci was slowed to a halt by the clink-clink-clink of pebbles rattling
in a cup. The sound was the unmistakable rattle of her chains. She had been
a servant to need her whole life, and as much as she tried, there it was,
the cup of some poor beggar, still rattling for her help.
She could not deny it.
Tears filled her eyes. She had so wanted to serve Richard butter with
his bread. But she had only one silver penny, and this beggar had nothing.
She at least had some bread and some sunflower seeds. How could she want
butter for Richard's bread and cakes, when this man had nothing?
She was evil, she knew, for wanting to keep her silver penny, the penny
Richard had earned with his own sweat and effort. She was evil for wanting
to buy butter for Richard with it. Who was Richard, to have butter? He was
strong. He was able. Why should he have more, while others had none?
Nicci could almost see her mother slowly shaking her head in bitter
disappointment that the penny was still in Nicci's fist, and not helping the
man in need.
How was it that she could never seem to live up to her mother's example
of morality? How was it she could never overcome her evil nature?
Nicci turned slowly and dropped her silver penny in the beggar's cup.
People gave the beggar a wide berth. Without seeing him, they avoided
coming near him. They were deaf to the rattle of his cup. How could people
not yet have learned the Order's teachings? How could they not help those in
need? It was always left to her.
She looked at him, then, and recoiled at the sight of the hideous man
swathed in filthy rags. She pulled back more when she saw lice hopping
through his thatch of greasy hair. He peered out at her through a slit in
the rags draped around his face.
But it was what she saw through that slit that caught her breath in her
throat. The scars were gruesome, to be sure, as if he had been melted by the
Keeper's own fires, yet it was the eyes that gripped her as the man slowly
rose to his feet.
The man's grimy fingers, like a claw, curled around her arm. "Nicci,"
he hissed in startled triumph, drawing her close.
Caught in the grip of his powerful fingers, and his burning glare, she
was unable to move. She was so close she could see his lice hopping at her.
"Kadar Kardeef."
"So, you recognize me? Even like this?"
She said nothing else, but her eyes must have said that she thought he
was dead; for he answered her unspoken question.
"Remember that little girl? The one you seemed to care so much about?
She urged the town's people to save me. She refused to allow me to die there
on the fire, where you had put me. She hated you so much she was determined
to save me. She
selflessly devoted herself to caring for me, to helping her fellow man,
as you had ordered the town's people to do.
"Oh, I wanted to die. I never knew a person could have that much pain
and still live. As much as I wanted to die, I lived, because I want you to
die even more. You did this to me. I want the Keeper to sink his fangs into
your soul."
Nicci looked deliberately at his grotesque scars. "And so, for this,
you have come seeking your revenge."
"No, not for that. For making me beg, where my men could hear it. For
allowing other people to hear me beg for my life. It was for that reason
they saved me-and their hatred of you. It is for that that I seek
revenge-for not allowing me to die, for condemning me to this life of a
freak where passing women toss pennies in my cup."
Nicci gave him a smooth smile. "Why, Kadar, if you want to die, I can
certainly oblige you."
He released her arm as if it had burned his fingers. His imagination
gave her powers she didn't have.
He spat at her.
"Kill me, then, you filthy witch. Strike me dead."
Nicci flicked her wrist and brought her dacra to hand. The dacra was a
knifelike weapon carried by Sisters. Once the sharpened rod was stuck into a
victim, no matter where, releasing her power into the dacra killed them
instantly. Kadar Kardeef didn't know she had no power. But even without her
power behind it, the dacra was still a dangerous weapon that could be driven
into a heart, or through a skull.
He wisely backed away. He wanted to die, yet he feared it.
"Why didn't you go to Jagang. He would not have let you become a
beggar. Jagang was your friend. He would have taken care of you. You would
not have to beg..
Kadar Kardeef laughed. "You'd have liked that, wouldn't you? To see me
living off the scraps of Jagang's table? You would love to sit at his side,
the Slave Queen, and have him see me fallen to this, to watch as you two
tossed me your crumbs."
"Fallen to what? To see you wounded? You've both been wounded before."
He snatched her wrist again. "I died a hero to Jagang. I would not want
him to know I begged like any of the weak fools we have crushed beneath our
boots."
Nicci pressed her dacra against his belly, backing him off.
"Kill me, then, Nicci." He opened his arms. "Finish it, like you should
have. You never left a job incomplete before. Strike me dead, like I should
have been long ago."
Nicci smiled again. "Death is no punishment. Every day you live is a
thousand deaths. But you know that, don't you, Kadar?"
"Was I that repulsive to you, Nicci? Was I that cruel to you?"
How could she tell him that he was, and how much she hated him having
her as chattel for his amusement? It was for the good of all that the Order
used men like Kadar Kardeef. How could she put herself, her own interests,
above the good of mankind?
Nicci turned and rushed off down the alleyway.
"Thank you for the penny!" he called mockingly after her. "You should
have granted my request! You should have, Nicci!"
Nicci wanted only to go-home and scrub the lice out of her hair. She
could feel them burrowing into her scalp.
Richard pulled away the fistful of straw. He brushed the fragments of
grasses from his leather apron. His arms ached from the labor of rubbing the
straw, lightly loaded with fine abrasive clays, against the stone.
Yet, when he saw the luster of the stone, the character of the high
polish, the way the marble glowed, taking light deep into the stone and
returning it, he felt only exhilaration.
The figures emerged from a sparkling stone base of rough marble. The
grooved
lines of the toothed chisels used in opposing directions to shear off
thin layers of stone were still evident on the lower calves, where the legs
emerged he wanted the statue to bear testimony to the hand of man and the
figures' origin in stone.
They rose up to nearly twice his height. The statue was in part a
representation of his love for Kahlan-he could not keep Kahlan out of the
work, because Kahlan was his ideal of a woman-yet the woman in the statue
was not Kahlan. It was a man of virtue with a woman of virtue joined in
purpose. They complemented each other, the two universal parts of what it
was to be human.
The curved section of the sundial had been placed by Victor and his men
several days before, when Richard had been working down at his job at the
site of the emperor's palace. They had left the tarp over the statue as they
worked. After the ring had been set, Richard had placed the pole that served
as the gnomon, and finished the hand holding it. The base of the pole was
fixed with a gold ball.
Victor had yet to see the statue. He was beside himself with eager
anticipation.
As Richard stared at the figures, only the light from the window above
entered the darkened room. He had been given the day from work down at the
site in order to prepare the statue to be moved to the plaza that evening.
In the rooms beyond the shop door, the hammers of the blacksmiths rang
ceaselessly as Victor's men worked on orders for the palace.
Richard stood in the near darkness, listening to the sounds of the
blacksmith shop, as he stared up at the power of what he had created. It was
exactly as he had intended.
The figures of the man and woman seemed as if they might draw a breath
at any moment and step out of the stone base. They had bone and muscle,
sinew and flesh.
Flesh in stone.
There was only one thing missing-one thing left to do.
Richard picked up his mallet and a sharp chisel.
When he looked up at the finished statues, there were moments when he
could almost believe, as Kahlan insisted, that he used magic to carve, yet
he knew better. This was a conscious act of human intellect, and nothing
more.
Standing there, chisel and mallet in hand, gazing at the statue that
was his vision
in stone, was a moment when Richard could savor the supreme achievement
of having his creation exist exactly as he had originally conceived it.
For this singular moment in time, it was complete, and it was his
alone.
It was, for this moment, pure in its existence, untainted by what
others thought. For this moment it was his accomplishment, and he knew its
value in his own heart and mind.
Richard went to one knee before the figures. He laid the cold steel of
the chisel to his forehead and closed his eyes as he concentrated on what he
had left to do.
"Blade, be true this day."
He pulled the red cloth tied at his throat up over his nose so not to
have to breathe the stone dust, then set the chisel to the marks in the fiat
place he had already prepared just above the heart of the flaw. Richard
brought the mallet down, and began to carve the title of the statue in the
base for all to see.
--]----
Nicci, standing behind the corner of a building around a curve in the
road, watched farther down the hill as Richard left the shop where he had
carved his statue. He was probably going to see about getting the team to
move the stone. He closed the door, but he didn't put the chain on it. No
doubt, he didn't intend to be gone for long.
Men were working all over the hillside at a variety of shops. Tradesmen
from leather workers to goldsmiths contributed to a constant din of saws,
grinding, and hammering. The ceaseless uproar of the labor was
nerve-racking. While many of the men coming and going gave Nicci a good
look-see, her glare warned them off.
Once she saw Richard disappear beyond the blacksmith's shop, she
started down the road. She had told him she would wait until he was done
before she came to see it. She had kept her word.
Still, she felt uneasy. She didn't know why, but she felt almost as if
she would be invading a sacred site. Richard hadn't invited her to see his
statue. He had asked her to wait until it was done. Since it was done, she
would wait no longer.
Nicci didn't want to see it up on the plaza of the palace along with
everyone else. She wanted to be alone with it. She didn't care about the
Order and their interest in the statue. She didn't want to be standing with
everyone else, with people who would not recognize it as something of
significance. This was personal to her, and she wanted to see it in private.
She reached the door without anyone accosting her, or even paying her
any mind. She looked around in the bright, hazy midafternoon light, but saw
only men attending to their work. She opened the door and slipped inside.
The room was dark, its walls black, but the statue inside was well lit
by light coming down from a window in the high roof. Nicci didn't look
directly at the statue, but kept her eyes to the floor as she hurried around
the huge stone so she could see it for the first time from the front.
Once in place, her pulse pounding, she turned.
Nicci's gaze rose up the legs, the robes, the arms, the bodies of the
two people, up to their faces. She felt as if a giant fist squeezed her
heart to a stop.
This was what was in Richard's eyes, brought into existence in glowing
white marble. To see it fully realized was like being struck by lightning.
In that instant, her entire life, everything that had ever happened to
her, every-
thing she had ever seen, heard, or done, seemed to come together in one
flash of emotional violence. Nicci cried out in pain at the beauty of it,
and more so at the beauty of what it represented.
Her eyes fell on the name carved in the stone base.
LIFE
Nicci collapsed to the floor in tears, in abject shame, in horror, in
revulsion, in sudden blinding comprehension .
. . . In pure joy.
After Richard had returned with the fine white linen he had bought to
cover the statue until the ceremony the following day, he helped Ishaq and a
number of the men he knew from down at the site begin the slow process of
sledging the heavy stone down to the plaza. Fortunately, it hadn't rained in
a while, and the ground was firm.
Ishaq, knowing such business well, had brought along greased wooden
runners, which were placed before the hefty wooden rails supporting the
wooden platform under the statue so that the teams of horses could more
easily pull the heavy load across the ground. After the statue was dragged
onto the second set of greased runners, the men brought the ones left behind
to the front, leapfrogging the statue as it was moved along.
The hillside was white with the scree of waste stone, so the statue
weighed considerably less than it once had. Victor had originally hired
special stone-hauling wagons to move the block. They couldn't use them now
because the finished piece couldn't be turned on its side or handled in such
a rough manner.
Ishaq waved his red hat in his fist, yelling orders, warnings, and
prayers as they had moved along. Richard knew that his statue could be in no
better hands. The men who helped seemed to pick up Ishaq's nervous tension.
They sensed this was something important, and, though the work was
difficult, they seemed more pleased to be a part of it than they were about
their everyday labor at the site. It took until late afternoon to move the
statue the distance from the shop to the foot of the steps leading up to the
plaza.
Men shoveled dirt at the bottom of the stairs and packed it tight in
order to ease the transition in grade. A team of ten horses was taken around
the other side of the columns. Long lengths of rope were passed through the
vacant doorways and windows, and then secured around the stone base in order
to draw the sledge up the steps. The extra runners were laid on the leading
edge of the dirt ramp, later to be moved up onto the steps as the statue
progressed upward. Near to two hundred men swooped in at Ishaq's frantic
screaming to help pull on the ropes along with the horses. Inch by inch, the
statue ascended the steps.
Richard could hardly stand to watch. If anything went wrong, all his
work would tumble back and shatter. The flaw would destroy it all. He smiled
to himself, realizing how silly it was to worry that the evidence of his
crime against the Order might be ruined.
When the stone had finally arrived safely up on the plaza, sand was
packed underneath the platform to support its weight. With the sand holding
the wooden platform secure, the heavy runners were removed. With the runners
off, the platform was slid off its hill of sand. From there, it was a
relatively simple task to coax the statue off
the wooden base and onto the plaza itself. At last, marble sat on
marble. Gangs of men with ropes around the stone base tugged the freed
statue into its final resting place at the center point of the plaza.
Ishaq stood beside Richard when it was over, mopping his brow with his
red hat. The entire statue and sundial was shrouded in its white linen
cover, with line securing it, so Ishaq couldn't see what it was. Still, he
sensed something of importance stood before him.
"When?" was all Ishaq asked.
Richard knew what he meant. "I guess I'm not sure. Brother Narev is to
dedicate the palace to the Creator tomorrow, before all the officials who
have traveled to see how the money they've looted from the people is being
spent. I guess that tomorrow the officials, along with everyone who comes to
the ceremony, are to see the statue along with the rest of the palace. It's
just another display of the Order's view of man's place-I don't think they
intend any unveiling or anything like that."
From what Richard had learned, the ceremony was a matter of great
"What did Richard look like," she asked in a distant voice. "Was he
well? Did he look all right?"
"Yes. He's big and strong. Foolish people like him."
Kahlan spun around, landing the heel of her hand against Gadi's face
hard enough to knock him from his feet.
"Get him out of here," she told Cara.
"But you must show me mercy, now! I told you what you want to know!" He
broke down in tears. "You must show me mercy!"
"You have a job to finish," Kahlan said to Cara.
--]----
Kahlan pulled the tent flap back and peeked in. Sister Dulcinia was
snoring softly. Holly looked up.
Tears filled the girl's eyes as she stretched out her arms pleadingly.
Kahlan knelt beside the girl and bent over to hug her. Holly started crying.
Sister Dulcinia woke with a snort. "Mother Confessor."
Kahlan put a hand on the Sister's arm. "It's late. Why don't you go get
some sleep, Sister."
Sister Dulcinia smiled her agreement and then grunted with the effort
of struggling to her feet in the low tent. In the distance, on the far side
of the camp, Kahlan could hear Gadi's bloodcurdling screams.
Kahlan smoothed the downy hair from Holly's brow and kissed her there.
"How are you, sweetheart? Are you all right?"
"Oh, Mother Confessor, it was awful. Wizard Warren got hurt. I saw it."
Kahlan hugged her as she started weeping again. "I know. I know."
"Is it all right? Is he healed like they healed me?"
Kahlan cupped the little cheek and wiped a tear away with her thumb.
"I'm sorry, Holly, but Warren died."
Her brow bunched up with her misery. "He shouldn't have tried to save
me. It's my fault he's dead."
"No," Kahlan soothed. "That's not the way it is. Warren gave his life
to save us all. He did what he did out of his love of life. He didn't want
to let evil be free among those he loved."
"Do you really think so?"
"Of course I do. Remember him for how he loved life, and how he wanted
to see those he loved free to live their own lives."
"He danced with me at his wedding. I thought he was the most handsome
groom ever."
"He was indeed a handsome groom," Kahlan said with a smile at the
memory. "He was one of the best men I've ever known, and he gave his life to
help keep us free. We honor his sacrifice by living the best lives we can
live."
Kahlan started to rise, but Holly hugged her all the tighter, so Kahlan
lay down beside her. She stroked Holly's brow, and kissed her cheek.
"Will you stay with me, Mother Confessor? Please?"
"For a while, sweetheart."
Holly fell asleep cuddled up to Kahlan. Kahlan wept frustrated bitter
tears over the sleeping girl, a girl who should have the right to live her
life. Others, though, lusted to steal that right at the point of a blade.
After she had finally decided what she must do, Kahlan slipped silently
out of the tent to go pack her things.
--]----
It was just turning light when Kahlan emerged from her tent carrying
her bedroll, saddlebags, D'Haran sword, the Sword of Truth, leather armor,
and pack with the rest of her things. Spirit was safely rolled up in her
bedroll.
A light snow was just beginning to fall, announcing to the muted camp
that winter had arrived in the northern Midlands.
Everything seemed as if it was ending. It wasn't just Warren's death
that convinced her, but rather the futility it symbolized. She could no
longer delude herself. The truth was the truth. Richard was right.
The Order would have it all. Sooner or later, they would have her and
kill her, along with those who fought with her. It was only a matter of time
until they enslaved all of the New World. They already had much of the
Midlands. Some lands
had fallen willingly. There was no way to resist a force of their
overwhelming size, the terror of their threats, or the seduction of their
promises.
Warren had attested it as part of his dying words: Richard was right.
She had thought she could make a difference. She had thought she could
drive back the advancing hordes-by the sheer weight of her will, if need be.
It was arrogance on her part. The forces of freedom were lost.
Many of the people in those fallen lands had put their faith in the
Order at the cost of their liberty.
What was left to her? Running. Retreat. Terror. Death.
She had nothing to lose anymore, really. Nearly everything was already
lost, or soon would be. While she at least still had her life, she was going
to use it.
She was going to go to the heart of the Order.
"What are you doing?"
Kahlan spun around to see Cara frowning at her.
"Cara, I . . . I'm leaving."
Cara gave a single nod. "Good. I, too, think it is time. I won't be
long getting my things together. You get the horses, and I'll meet-"
"No. I'm going alone. You will stay here."
Cara stroked her long blond braid laying over the front of her
shoulder. "Why are you going?"
"There's nothing left here for me to do-nothing I can do. I'm going to
go drive my sword into the heart of the Order: Brother Narev and his
disciples. It's the only thing I can do to strike back at them."
Cara smiled. "And you think I want to stay here?"
"You will stay here, where you should be . . . with Benjamin."
"I'm sorry, Mother Confessor," Cara said tenderly, "but I can't follow
such orders. I am Mord-Sith. My life is sworn to protecting Lord Rahl. I
promised Lord Rahl I would protect you, not stay and kiss Benjamin."
"Cara, I want you to stay here-"
"It's my life. If this is the end, all there is to be, then I will do
with the rest of my life as I wish. It's my life to live, not yours to live
for me. I'm going, and that is final."
Kahlan saw in Cara's eyes that it was. Kahlan didn't think she had ever
heard Cara express such a sentiment about her own wishes. It was indeed her
life. Besides, Cara knew where Kahlan was going. If Kahlan left without
Cara, Cara would simply follow. Getting Mord-Sith to obey orders was often
more difficult than herding ants.
"You're right, Cara; it is your life. But when we get down into the Old
World, you're going to have to wear something to disguise who you are. Red
leather in the Old World will be the end of us."
"I will do what I must to protect you and Lord Rahl."
Kahlan smiled at last. "I believe you would, Cara."
Cara wasn't smiling. Kahlan's smile faded.
"I'm sorry I tried to leave without you, Cara. I shouldn't have done it
that way. You're a sister of the Agiel. I should have talked it over with
you. That's the proper way to treat someone you respect."
Cara smiled at last. "Now you are making sense."
"We might not ever come back from this."
Cara shrugged. "And you think we will live the high life if we stay? I
think only certain death awaits us if we stay."
Kahlan nodded. "That's what I think, too. That's why I must go."
"I'm not quarreling."
Kahlan gazed out at the falling snow. The last time winter had come,
she and Cara had just managed to escape in time.
Kahlan steeled herself and asked, "Cara, do you really believe Richard
is still alive?"
"Of course Lord Rahl is alive." Cara held up her Agiel, rolling it in
her fingers. "Remember?"
And then she did: the Agiel would only work if the Lord Rahl to whom
she was sworn was alive.
Kahlan handed Cara some of her load. "Gadi?"
"He died as Verna wished it. She showed him no pity."
"Good. Pity for the guilty is treason to the innocent."
--]----
It was not long after dawn when Kahlan made it to Zedd's tent. Cara had
gone to get horses and supplies. When Kahlan called, Zedd asked her to
enter. He rose from the bench beside Adie, the old sorceress.
"Kahlan. What is it?"
"I've come to bid you good-bye."
Zedd's eyes showed no surprise. "Why don't you stay and get some rest?
Leave tomorrow."
"There are no tomorrows left. Winter is upon us again. If I am going to
do as I must, I don't have a day to waste."
Zedd gently gripped her shoulders. "Kahlan, Warren wanted to see you.
He felt he had to tell you that Richard was right. It meant a great deal to
him that you know that. Richard told us that you must not attack the heart
of the Order before the people prove themselves to him, or all will be lost.
Such a thing is even less likely to happen today than the day he said it."
"And maybe Warren meant that Richard was right-that we are going to
lose the New World to the Order, so what is there to stay for? Maybe it was
Warren's way of trying to tell me to go to Richard before I'm dead, or he's
dead, and then it's too late to even try."
"And Nicci?"
"I'll find out when I get there."
"But, you can't hope to-" -
"Zedd, what else is there for me? To watch the Midlands fall? To aspire
at most to live out my life running, to live as a recluse, hiding every day
from the clutches of the Order?
"Even if Warren hadn't said it, I've come to realize-no matter how much
I wish it was otherwise-that Richard is right. The Order will only be pinned
down for the winter while we help the people escape Aydindril. In the
spring, the enemy will flood into my city. Then they will turn to D'Hara.
There will be nowhere to run. Though they escape for the moment, the Order
will subjugate those people.
"There is no future for me. Richard was right. The least I can do is
spend the last of my life living for myself, and for Richard. There is
nothing else left for me, Zedd."
Tears brimmed in his eyes. "I will miss you so. You've brought back
good memories of my own daughter and given me so many good times."
Kahlan threw her arms around him. "Oh, Zedd, I love you."
She couldn't hold back her own tears, then. She was all he had left,
and he was losing her, too.
No-that wasn't true. Kahlan pulled back.
"Zedd, the time has come for you to leave, too. You must go to the Keep
and protect it."
He nodded with great reluctance, great sadness. "I know."
Kahlan knelt before the sorceress and took up her hand. "Adie, will you
go with him and keep him company?"
A beautiful smile came to the woman's weathered face. "Well, I . . ."
She looked up. "Zedd?"
Zedd scowled. "Bags, now you've ruined the surprise of the invite."
Kahlan smacked his leg. "Stop cursing in front of ladies-and stop being
so sour. I'd like to know you're not going to be lonely up there."
A smile stole across his face. "Of course Adie is going to the Keep
with me."
Adie scowled in turn. "How do you know that, old man? You never asked
my approval. Why, I have a mind-"
"Please stop it," Kahlan said. "Both of you. This is too important to
be fussing over."
"I can fuss if I want to," Zedd protested.
"That be right." Adie shook a thin finger. "We are old enough to fuss
if we wish."
Kahlan smiled through her tears. "Of course you can. It's just that,
after Warren . . . it reminds me of how much I hate to see people waste
their lives on things that don't matter."
Zedd truly did scowl, now. "You've a thing or two to learn, dear one,
if you don't know how important fussing is."
"That be right," Adie said. "Fussing keeps you sharp. When you get old,
you need to stay sharp."
"Adie is entirely right," Zedd said. "Why, I think-"
Kahlan silenced him with a hug that Adie joined.
"Are you sure about this, dear one?" Zedd asked after they parted.
"I am. I'm going to take my sword into the belly of the Order."
Zedd nodded as he hooked his bony fingers around the back of her neck.
He pulled her head close and kissed her brow.
"If you're to go, then ride hard and strike harder."
"My thought, exactly," Cara said as she stepped into the tent.
Kahlan thought Cara's blue eyes looked a little more liquid than usual.
"Are you all right, Cara?"
Cara frowned. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"Nothing," Kahlan said.
"General Meiffert got us the six fastest horses he could find." Cara
smiled her pleasure at the prospect. "We'll have fresh mounts with us and be
able to cover a lot of ground fast. I have all our supplies loaded up.
"If we leave now, we should be able to escape winter's grip. We have
the map, so we can stay away from the routes the Order's troops use, and the
heaviest popula
tion centers. There are good roads, and open country down there. Riding
hard, I think that we can make it in a few weeks. A month at most."
Zedd's face contorted with concern. "But the Order controls much of the
southern Midlands. It's dangerous country, now."
"I have a better way." Cara flashed a sly smile. "We'll go where I know
the country-D' Hara. We will go east from here and cross over the mountains,
then go south down through D'Hara-through mostly wide-open country were we
can make good time-down through the Azrith Plains, to eventually join the
Kern River far to the south. After the river valley clears the mountains, we
will cut southeast into the heart of the Old World."
Zedd nodded his approval of the plan. Kahlan curled her fingers
lovingly around the old wizard's thin arm.
"When will you go to the Keep?"
"Adie and I will leave in the morning. I think it best not to dally
here any longer. Today we'll settle matters of the army with the officers
and the Sisters. I think that as soon as the people are out of Aydindril,
and when the snow quickly deepens to insure the Order won't be going
anywhere until spring, then our men should begin slipping out of this place
to make their way over the mountains to the safety of D'Hara. It will be
slow going in winter, but without having to fight as they travel, it won't
be as difficult as it otherwise would be."
"That would be best," Kahlan agreed. "It will get our men out of harm's
way for now."
"They won't have me to be the magic against magic for them, but they
will have Verna and her Sisters. They know enough by now to carry on
protecting the army from magic."
At least for a while. The words hung in the air, unspoken.
"I want to go see Verna before I leave," Kahlan said. "I think it will
be good for her to have other people to worry about. Then I want to see
General Meiffert; and then we'd best start riding. We have a long way to go,
and I want to be south before the snow hobbles us."
Kahlan embraced Zedd fiercely one last time.
"When you see him," Zedd whispered in her ear, "tell the boy I love him
dearly, and I miss him something awful."
Kahlan nodded against his shoulder, and told him a bold lie.
"You'll see us both again, Zedd. I promise you."
Kahlan stepped out into the early light of winter's first breath.
Everything was dusted with snow, making it look as if the world were
carvedfrom white marble.
In one long fluid motion, with his fingertips adeptly guiding the far
end of the file, Richard glided the steel tool down the fold of cloth held
forever crisp in white marble. Concentrating on applying steady pressure to
cut a precise, fine layer, he was lost in the work.
The file held hundreds of ridges, row upon row of tiny blades of
hardened steel, which did the work of cutting away and shaping the noble
stone. These were blades he wielded with the same commitment with which he
wielded any blade. He blindly reached back and set the file down on the
wooden bench, careful to put it on the wood and not to let it clang against
other steel, lest he dull it prematurely. He exchanged the file for another,
with even finer teeth, and took out the roughness left by the correction
accomplished with the one before.
With fingers as dusty-white as those of a baker laboring with flour,
Richard examined the surface of the man's arm, testing it for flaws. Until
polished, the minor flaws and facets were often easier to see with the
fingers than the eye. Where he found them, he used a smaller file in one
hand, while his other hand followed behind, riding the swell of muscle,
feeling the subtle difference in what the tool had done to the stone. He was
removing only paper-thin layers of material, now.
It had taken him several months to arrive at this final layer. It was
exhilarating to be so close to the flesh. The days had passed, one upon
another, in an endless procession of work, carving death in the day down at
the site, and life in the night. Carving for the Order was balanced by
carving for himself-slavery and freedom in opposition.
Whenever one of the brothers inquired about the statue, Richard was
careful to hide his satisfaction with what he was creating. He did it by
recalling the model he had been commanded to carve. He always bowed his head
respectfully and reported his progress on his penance, assuring them that
his work was on schedule and would be done on time to install in the palace
plaza for the dedication.
Stressing the word "penance" helped to direct their thoughts to that
issue and away from the statue itself. The brothers were invariably much
more satisfied with his weariness from his toil at his work of contrition
that they were interested in yet another dreary stone carving. There were
carvings everywhere; this was but one more manifestation of the irredeemable
inadequacy of mankind. Just as no one man in their cosmos was important, no
one work mattered. It was the sheer number of carvings which was to be the
Order's overpowering argument for man's impotence. The carvings were merely
background props for the stage upon which the brothers moralized on
sacrifice and salvation.
Richard always humbly reported his nights with little food and little
sleep as he
worked on his penance after his carving work during the day. Selfless
sacrifice being the proper cure for wickedness, the brothers went away
pleased.
Richard switched to a smaller file, one bent in a decreasing radius
curve, and worked the muscle where it narrowed into sinew, showing the
tension in the arm which revealed the underlying structure. During the day
he observed other men as they worked, in order to study the complex shapes
of muscle as it moved with life. At night, he referred to his own arms held
up to the lamplight so that he might accurately depict veins and tendons
standing proud on the surface. He referred to a small mirror at times. The
surface of the skin he carved was a rich landscape stretched over bone and
muscle, creased in corners, drawn smooth as it swept over curves.
For the woman's body, his memory of Kahlan was vivid enough to require
little other reference.
He wanted this work to show the capacity for movement, for intent, for
accomplishment. The posture of the figures displayed awareness. The
expression of the faces, especially the eyes, would show that most sublime
human characteristic: thought.
If the statues he had seen in the Old World were a celebration of
misery and death, this was a celebration of life.
He wanted this to show the raw power of volition.
The man and woman he carved were his refuge against his despair over
his captivity. They embodied freedom of spirit. They embodied reason rising
up to triumph.
To his great annoyance, Richard noticed that light was coming in the
window above the statue, taking over from the lamps that had burned all
night. All night; he had done it again.
It was not the quality of the light, which he actually very much
favored, which vexed him, but that it signified the end of his time with his
statue; he now had to go carve ugliness down at the site. Fortunately, that
work required no thought or careful effort.
As he draw-filed the curve of the man's shoulder muscle, there was a
knock at the door. "Richard?"
It was Victor. Richard sighed; he had to stop.
Richard pulled the red cloth tied around his neck down away from his
nose and mouth, where it kept him from breathing all the marble dust. It was
a little trick Victor had told him about, used by the marble carvers from
his homeland of Cavatura.
"Be right there." -
Richard stepped down off the ledge made by the base, where he had
carved out the legs at midcalf. He stretched his back, realizing how much it
hurt from hunching over, and from lack of sleep. He retrieved the canvas
tarp and shook the dust from it.
Just before he flung the cover over the statue, he got the full view of
the figures. The floor, shelves, and tools were covered in a fine layer of
marble dust. But against the black walls, the marble stood out in the glory
of light from above.
Richard threw the tarp over the incomplete figures and then opened the
door.
"You look a ghost," Victor announced with a lopsided grin.
Richard brushed himself off. "I forgot the time."
"Did you see in the shop last night?"
"The shop? No, what?"
Victor's grin returned, wider this time. "Priska had the bronze dial
delivered yesterday. Ishaq brought it. Come see."
Around the other side of the blacksmith's shop, in the stock room, the
bronze sat in a number of pieces. It was too big for Priska to cast as one
piece, so he had made several that Victor would join and mount. The pedestal
for the partial ring that would be the dial plane was massive. Knowing it
was for a statue Richard was carving, Priska had done a job to be proud oг
"It's beautiful," Richard said.
"Isn't it, though? I've seen him do fine work before, but this time
Priska has outdone himself."
Victor squatted and ran his fingers over the strange symbols filled in
with black. "Priska said that at one time, long ago, his home city of
Altur'Rang had freedom, but, like so many others, lost it. As a tribute to
that time, he cast it with symbols in his native tongue. Brother Neal saw
it, and was pleased because he thought it a tribute to the emperor, who is
also from Altur'Rang."
Richard sighed. "Priska has a tongue as smooth as his castings."
"Would you have some lardo with me?" Victor asked as he stood.
The sun was already well up. Richard stretched his neck and peered down
at the site.
"I'd best not. I need to get to work." Richard squatted down and lifted
one end of the pedestal. "First, though, let me show you where this goes."
Victor grabbed the other end and together they lugged the bronze
casting around the shop. When Richard opened the double doors, Victor saw
the statue for the first time, even if it was covered in a tarp that
revealed only the round bulges that were the two heads. Even so, Victor's
eyes feasted. It was apparent in those eyes how his vivid imagination was
filling in some of it with his fondest hopes.
"Your statue is going well?" Victor nudged Richard with an elbow.
"Beauty?"
Richard was overcome with a blissful smile. "Ali, Victor, you will see
for yourself soon enough. The dedication is only a couple weeks off. I will
be ready. It will be something to bring a song to our hearts . . . before
they kill me, anyway."
Victor dismissed such talk with a flourish of his hand. "I am hoping
that when they see such beauty again, and at their palace, they will
approve."
Richard held out no such illusion. He remembered then, and reached into
a pocket to pull out a piece of paper. He handed it to the blacksmith.
"I didn't want Priska to cast words on the back of the dial because I
didn't want the wrong people to see them. I would ask you to engrave these
words on the back surface-about the same height as the symbols on the
front."
Victor took the paper and unfolded it. His grin melted away. He looked
up at Richard with an open look of surprise.
"This is treason."
Richard shrugged. "They can only kill me once."
"They can torture you a long time before they kill you. They have very
unpleasant ways to kill people, too, Richard. Have you ever seen a man
buried in the sky while he was still alive, bleeding from a thousand cuts,
his arms bound, so that the vultures could feast on his living flesh?"
"The Order binds my arms, now, Victor. As I work down there, as I see
the death around me, I am bleeding from a thousand cuts. The vultures of the
Order are already feasting on my flesh." With grim resolve, Richard held
Victor's gaze. "Will you do it?"
Victor glanced down at the paper again. He took a deep breath and then
let it slowly out as he studied the paper in his hand. "Treason though these
words be, I like them. I will do it."
Richard clapped him on the side of the shoulder and gave him a
confident smile. "Good man. Now, look here, where the pedestal is to be
attached."
Richard lifted the tarp enough to uncover the base. "I've carved you a
flat face tilted at the proper angle. I didn't know where the holes in the
casting would be, so I left it for you to drill the holes and fill them with
lead for the pins. Once you attach the pedestal, then I can calculate the
angle of the hole I'll need to drill for the gnomon."
Victor nodded. "The gnomon pole will be ready soon. I will make you a
drill bit the proper size for it."
"Good. And a round rasp to do final fitting in the hole?"
"You will have it," Victor said as they both stood. He waved his hand
toward the covered statue. "You trust me not to peek while you are off
carving your ugly work?"
Richard chuckled. "Victor, I know you want more than anything to see
the nobility of this statue when it is finally finished. You would not spoil
that experience for yourself for anything."
Victor let out his rolling belly laugh. "I guess you are right. Come
after your work, and we will have lardo and talk of beauty in stone and the
way the world once was."
Richard hardly heard Victor. He was staring at what he knew so well.
Even though it was covered from his eyes, it was not hidden from his soul.
He was ready to begin the process of polishing. To make flesh in stone.
--]----
Her head bent, her scarf protecting her from the chill winter wind,
Nicci hurried down the narrow alleyway. A man coming the other way bumped
against her shoulder, not because he was rushing, but because he simply
didn't seem to care where he was going. Nicci threw a fiery scowl at his
empty eyes. Her fierce look fell away down a bottomless well of
indifference.
She clutched her sack of sunflower seeds closer to her stomach as she
moved on through the muddy alleyway. She stayed close to the rough wooden
walls of the buildings so she wouldn't be jostled by the people going the
other way. People bundled against the current cold snap moved through the
alleyway toward the street beyond, looking for rooms, for food, for clothes,
for jobs. She could see men beyond the alley sitting on the ground, leaning
against buildings on the far side of the street, watching without seeing as
wagons rumbled down the roads, taking supplies out to the site of the
emperor's palace.
Nicci wanted to get to the bread shop. She had been told they might
have butter today. She wanted to get butter for Richard's bread. He would be
home for dinnerhe had promised. She wanted to make him a good meal. He
needed to eat. He had lost some weight, though it only added distracting
definition to his muscular build. He was like a statue in the flesh-like the
statues she used to see, long ago.
She remembered how when she was little her mother's servants made cakes
out of sunflower meal. She had been able to buy enough to make him some
sunflower cakes, and maybe she would have butter to put on them.
Nicci was growing increasingly anxious. The dedication was to take
place in a few days. Richard said his statue would be ready. He seemed too
calm about it, as if he had come to some inner peace.
He seemed almost like a man who had accepted his imminent execution.
Whenever Richard spoke to her, despite the conversation, his mind
seemed elsewhere, and his eyes held that quality which she so valued. In the
wasteland that was life, the misery that was existence, this was the only
hope left to her. All around her, people looked forward only to death. Only
in her father's eyes when she was younger, and more so now in Richard's, did
she see any evidence that there was something to make it all worthwhile,
some reason for existence.
Nicci was slowed to a halt by the clink-clink-clink of pebbles rattling
in a cup. The sound was the unmistakable rattle of her chains. She had been
a servant to need her whole life, and as much as she tried, there it was,
the cup of some poor beggar, still rattling for her help.
She could not deny it.
Tears filled her eyes. She had so wanted to serve Richard butter with
his bread. But she had only one silver penny, and this beggar had nothing.
She at least had some bread and some sunflower seeds. How could she want
butter for Richard's bread and cakes, when this man had nothing?
She was evil, she knew, for wanting to keep her silver penny, the penny
Richard had earned with his own sweat and effort. She was evil for wanting
to buy butter for Richard with it. Who was Richard, to have butter? He was
strong. He was able. Why should he have more, while others had none?
Nicci could almost see her mother slowly shaking her head in bitter
disappointment that the penny was still in Nicci's fist, and not helping the
man in need.
How was it that she could never seem to live up to her mother's example
of morality? How was it she could never overcome her evil nature?
Nicci turned slowly and dropped her silver penny in the beggar's cup.
People gave the beggar a wide berth. Without seeing him, they avoided
coming near him. They were deaf to the rattle of his cup. How could people
not yet have learned the Order's teachings? How could they not help those in
need? It was always left to her.
She looked at him, then, and recoiled at the sight of the hideous man
swathed in filthy rags. She pulled back more when she saw lice hopping
through his thatch of greasy hair. He peered out at her through a slit in
the rags draped around his face.
But it was what she saw through that slit that caught her breath in her
throat. The scars were gruesome, to be sure, as if he had been melted by the
Keeper's own fires, yet it was the eyes that gripped her as the man slowly
rose to his feet.
The man's grimy fingers, like a claw, curled around her arm. "Nicci,"
he hissed in startled triumph, drawing her close.
Caught in the grip of his powerful fingers, and his burning glare, she
was unable to move. She was so close she could see his lice hopping at her.
"Kadar Kardeef."
"So, you recognize me? Even like this?"
She said nothing else, but her eyes must have said that she thought he
was dead; for he answered her unspoken question.
"Remember that little girl? The one you seemed to care so much about?
She urged the town's people to save me. She refused to allow me to die there
on the fire, where you had put me. She hated you so much she was determined
to save me. She
selflessly devoted herself to caring for me, to helping her fellow man,
as you had ordered the town's people to do.
"Oh, I wanted to die. I never knew a person could have that much pain
and still live. As much as I wanted to die, I lived, because I want you to
die even more. You did this to me. I want the Keeper to sink his fangs into
your soul."
Nicci looked deliberately at his grotesque scars. "And so, for this,
you have come seeking your revenge."
"No, not for that. For making me beg, where my men could hear it. For
allowing other people to hear me beg for my life. It was for that reason
they saved me-and their hatred of you. It is for that that I seek
revenge-for not allowing me to die, for condemning me to this life of a
freak where passing women toss pennies in my cup."
Nicci gave him a smooth smile. "Why, Kadar, if you want to die, I can
certainly oblige you."
He released her arm as if it had burned his fingers. His imagination
gave her powers she didn't have.
He spat at her.
"Kill me, then, you filthy witch. Strike me dead."
Nicci flicked her wrist and brought her dacra to hand. The dacra was a
knifelike weapon carried by Sisters. Once the sharpened rod was stuck into a
victim, no matter where, releasing her power into the dacra killed them
instantly. Kadar Kardeef didn't know she had no power. But even without her
power behind it, the dacra was still a dangerous weapon that could be driven
into a heart, or through a skull.
He wisely backed away. He wanted to die, yet he feared it.
"Why didn't you go to Jagang. He would not have let you become a
beggar. Jagang was your friend. He would have taken care of you. You would
not have to beg..
Kadar Kardeef laughed. "You'd have liked that, wouldn't you? To see me
living off the scraps of Jagang's table? You would love to sit at his side,
the Slave Queen, and have him see me fallen to this, to watch as you two
tossed me your crumbs."
"Fallen to what? To see you wounded? You've both been wounded before."
He snatched her wrist again. "I died a hero to Jagang. I would not want
him to know I begged like any of the weak fools we have crushed beneath our
boots."
Nicci pressed her dacra against his belly, backing him off.
"Kill me, then, Nicci." He opened his arms. "Finish it, like you should
have. You never left a job incomplete before. Strike me dead, like I should
have been long ago."
Nicci smiled again. "Death is no punishment. Every day you live is a
thousand deaths. But you know that, don't you, Kadar?"
"Was I that repulsive to you, Nicci? Was I that cruel to you?"
How could she tell him that he was, and how much she hated him having
her as chattel for his amusement? It was for the good of all that the Order
used men like Kadar Kardeef. How could she put herself, her own interests,
above the good of mankind?
Nicci turned and rushed off down the alleyway.
"Thank you for the penny!" he called mockingly after her. "You should
have granted my request! You should have, Nicci!"
Nicci wanted only to go-home and scrub the lice out of her hair. She
could feel them burrowing into her scalp.
Richard pulled away the fistful of straw. He brushed the fragments of
grasses from his leather apron. His arms ached from the labor of rubbing the
straw, lightly loaded with fine abrasive clays, against the stone.
Yet, when he saw the luster of the stone, the character of the high
polish, the way the marble glowed, taking light deep into the stone and
returning it, he felt only exhilaration.
The figures emerged from a sparkling stone base of rough marble. The
grooved
lines of the toothed chisels used in opposing directions to shear off
thin layers of stone were still evident on the lower calves, where the legs
emerged he wanted the statue to bear testimony to the hand of man and the
figures' origin in stone.
They rose up to nearly twice his height. The statue was in part a
representation of his love for Kahlan-he could not keep Kahlan out of the
work, because Kahlan was his ideal of a woman-yet the woman in the statue
was not Kahlan. It was a man of virtue with a woman of virtue joined in
purpose. They complemented each other, the two universal parts of what it
was to be human.
The curved section of the sundial had been placed by Victor and his men
several days before, when Richard had been working down at his job at the
site of the emperor's palace. They had left the tarp over the statue as they
worked. After the ring had been set, Richard had placed the pole that served
as the gnomon, and finished the hand holding it. The base of the pole was
fixed with a gold ball.
Victor had yet to see the statue. He was beside himself with eager
anticipation.
As Richard stared at the figures, only the light from the window above
entered the darkened room. He had been given the day from work down at the
site in order to prepare the statue to be moved to the plaza that evening.
In the rooms beyond the shop door, the hammers of the blacksmiths rang
ceaselessly as Victor's men worked on orders for the palace.
Richard stood in the near darkness, listening to the sounds of the
blacksmith shop, as he stared up at the power of what he had created. It was
exactly as he had intended.
The figures of the man and woman seemed as if they might draw a breath
at any moment and step out of the stone base. They had bone and muscle,
sinew and flesh.
Flesh in stone.
There was only one thing missing-one thing left to do.
Richard picked up his mallet and a sharp chisel.
When he looked up at the finished statues, there were moments when he
could almost believe, as Kahlan insisted, that he used magic to carve, yet
he knew better. This was a conscious act of human intellect, and nothing
more.
Standing there, chisel and mallet in hand, gazing at the statue that
was his vision
in stone, was a moment when Richard could savor the supreme achievement
of having his creation exist exactly as he had originally conceived it.
For this singular moment in time, it was complete, and it was his
alone.
It was, for this moment, pure in its existence, untainted by what
others thought. For this moment it was his accomplishment, and he knew its
value in his own heart and mind.
Richard went to one knee before the figures. He laid the cold steel of
the chisel to his forehead and closed his eyes as he concentrated on what he
had left to do.
"Blade, be true this day."
He pulled the red cloth tied at his throat up over his nose so not to
have to breathe the stone dust, then set the chisel to the marks in the fiat
place he had already prepared just above the heart of the flaw. Richard
brought the mallet down, and began to carve the title of the statue in the
base for all to see.
--]----
Nicci, standing behind the corner of a building around a curve in the
road, watched farther down the hill as Richard left the shop where he had
carved his statue. He was probably going to see about getting the team to
move the stone. He closed the door, but he didn't put the chain on it. No
doubt, he didn't intend to be gone for long.
Men were working all over the hillside at a variety of shops. Tradesmen
from leather workers to goldsmiths contributed to a constant din of saws,
grinding, and hammering. The ceaseless uproar of the labor was
nerve-racking. While many of the men coming and going gave Nicci a good
look-see, her glare warned them off.
Once she saw Richard disappear beyond the blacksmith's shop, she
started down the road. She had told him she would wait until he was done
before she came to see it. She had kept her word.
Still, she felt uneasy. She didn't know why, but she felt almost as if
she would be invading a sacred site. Richard hadn't invited her to see his
statue. He had asked her to wait until it was done. Since it was done, she
would wait no longer.
Nicci didn't want to see it up on the plaza of the palace along with
everyone else. She wanted to be alone with it. She didn't care about the
Order and their interest in the statue. She didn't want to be standing with
everyone else, with people who would not recognize it as something of
significance. This was personal to her, and she wanted to see it in private.
She reached the door without anyone accosting her, or even paying her
any mind. She looked around in the bright, hazy midafternoon light, but saw
only men attending to their work. She opened the door and slipped inside.
The room was dark, its walls black, but the statue inside was well lit
by light coming down from a window in the high roof. Nicci didn't look
directly at the statue, but kept her eyes to the floor as she hurried around
the huge stone so she could see it for the first time from the front.
Once in place, her pulse pounding, she turned.
Nicci's gaze rose up the legs, the robes, the arms, the bodies of the
two people, up to their faces. She felt as if a giant fist squeezed her
heart to a stop.
This was what was in Richard's eyes, brought into existence in glowing
white marble. To see it fully realized was like being struck by lightning.
In that instant, her entire life, everything that had ever happened to
her, every-
thing she had ever seen, heard, or done, seemed to come together in one
flash of emotional violence. Nicci cried out in pain at the beauty of it,
and more so at the beauty of what it represented.
Her eyes fell on the name carved in the stone base.
LIFE
Nicci collapsed to the floor in tears, in abject shame, in horror, in
revulsion, in sudden blinding comprehension .
. . . In pure joy.
After Richard had returned with the fine white linen he had bought to
cover the statue until the ceremony the following day, he helped Ishaq and a
number of the men he knew from down at the site begin the slow process of
sledging the heavy stone down to the plaza. Fortunately, it hadn't rained in
a while, and the ground was firm.
Ishaq, knowing such business well, had brought along greased wooden
runners, which were placed before the hefty wooden rails supporting the
wooden platform under the statue so that the teams of horses could more
easily pull the heavy load across the ground. After the statue was dragged
onto the second set of greased runners, the men brought the ones left behind
to the front, leapfrogging the statue as it was moved along.
The hillside was white with the scree of waste stone, so the statue
weighed considerably less than it once had. Victor had originally hired
special stone-hauling wagons to move the block. They couldn't use them now
because the finished piece couldn't be turned on its side or handled in such
a rough manner.
Ishaq waved his red hat in his fist, yelling orders, warnings, and
prayers as they had moved along. Richard knew that his statue could be in no
better hands. The men who helped seemed to pick up Ishaq's nervous tension.
They sensed this was something important, and, though the work was
difficult, they seemed more pleased to be a part of it than they were about
their everyday labor at the site. It took until late afternoon to move the
statue the distance from the shop to the foot of the steps leading up to the
plaza.
Men shoveled dirt at the bottom of the stairs and packed it tight in
order to ease the transition in grade. A team of ten horses was taken around
the other side of the columns. Long lengths of rope were passed through the
vacant doorways and windows, and then secured around the stone base in order
to draw the sledge up the steps. The extra runners were laid on the leading
edge of the dirt ramp, later to be moved up onto the steps as the statue
progressed upward. Near to two hundred men swooped in at Ishaq's frantic
screaming to help pull on the ropes along with the horses. Inch by inch, the
statue ascended the steps.
Richard could hardly stand to watch. If anything went wrong, all his
work would tumble back and shatter. The flaw would destroy it all. He smiled
to himself, realizing how silly it was to worry that the evidence of his
crime against the Order might be ruined.
When the stone had finally arrived safely up on the plaza, sand was
packed underneath the platform to support its weight. With the sand holding
the wooden platform secure, the heavy runners were removed. With the runners
off, the platform was slid off its hill of sand. From there, it was a
relatively simple task to coax the statue off
the wooden base and onto the plaza itself. At last, marble sat on
marble. Gangs of men with ropes around the stone base tugged the freed
statue into its final resting place at the center point of the plaza.
Ishaq stood beside Richard when it was over, mopping his brow with his
red hat. The entire statue and sundial was shrouded in its white linen
cover, with line securing it, so Ishaq couldn't see what it was. Still, he
sensed something of importance stood before him.
"When?" was all Ishaq asked.
Richard knew what he meant. "I guess I'm not sure. Brother Narev is to
dedicate the palace to the Creator tomorrow, before all the officials who
have traveled to see how the money they've looted from the people is being
spent. I guess that tomorrow the officials, along with everyone who comes to
the ceremony, are to see the statue along with the rest of the palace. It's
just another display of the Order's view of man's place-I don't think they
intend any unveiling or anything like that."
From what Richard had learned, the ceremony was a matter of great