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and cracked his whip. The team leaped forward, jerking the carriage ahead.
With a hand on the windowsill, she steadied herself as the ironbound wheels
bounced over the hard, rough ground of the town square until they reached
the road, where the carnage settled down into this familiar jolting ride.
Sunlight slanted in the window, falling across the empty cushion opposite
her. The bold bright patch glided off the seat as the carriage negotiated a
curve in the road, finally slipping up to come to rest in her lap like a
warm cat. Darkly clad riders to each side, ahead, and behind stretched
forward over the withers of their galloping mounts. A rumbling roar along
with billowing plumes of dust lifted into the air from the thundering
hooves.
For the moment, Nicci was free of Jagang. She was surrounded by two
thousand men, yet she felt totally alone. Before long, she would have pain
to fill the terrible void.
She felt no joy, no fear. She sometimes wondered why she felt nothing
but the need to hurt.
As the carriage raced toward Jagang, her thoughts were focused instead
on another man, trying to recall every occasion that she had seen him. She
went over every moment she had spent with Richard Cypher, or as he was now
known-and as Jagang knew him-Richard Rahl.
She thought about his gray eyes.
Until the day she saw him, she had never believed such a person could
exist.
When she thought about Richard, like now, only one haunting need burned
in her: to destroy him.
C H A P T E R 9
Huge garish tents festooned the prominent hill outside the city of
Fairfield, yet despite the festive colors erected amid the gloom, despite
the laughing, the shouting, the coarse singing, and the riotous excess, this
was no carnival come to town, but an occupying army. The emperor's tents,
and those of his retinue, were styled in the fashion of the tents used by
some of the nomadic people from Jagang's homeland of Altur'Rang, yet they
were embellished far beyond any actual tradition. The emperor, a man vastly
exceeding any nomadic tribal leader's ability to imagine, created his own
cultural heritage as he saw fit.
Around the tents, covering the hills and valleys as far as Nicci could
see, the soldiers had pitched their own small grimy tents. Some were oiled
canvas, many more were made from animal skins. Beyond the shared basics of
practicality, there was uniformity only in their lack of conformity to any
one style.
Outside some of the shabby little tents, and almost as large, sat
ornate upholstered chairs looted from the city. The juxtaposition almost
looked as if it had been intentionally done for a comical effect, but Nicci
knew the reality had no kinship to humor. When the army eventually moved on,
such large, meticulously crafted items were too cumbersome to take and would
be left to rot in the weather.
Horses were picketed haphazardly, with occasional paddocks holding
small herds. Other enclosures held meat on the hoof. Individual wagons were
scattered here and there, seemingly wherever they could find an empty spot,
but in other places they had been set up side by side. Many were camp
followers, others were army wagons with everything from basic supplies to
blacksmith equipment. The army brought along minimal siege equipment; they
had the gifted to use as weapons of that sort.
Brooding clouds scudded low over the scene. The humid air reeked of
excrement from both animals and men. The green fields all around had been
churned to a muddy morass. The two thousand men who had returned with Nicci
had disappeared into the sprawling camp like a sprinkling of raindrops into
a swamp.
An Imperial Order army encampment was a place of noise and seeming
confusion, yet it was not as disorderly as it might appear. There was a
hierarchy of authority, and duties and chores to attend. Scattered men
worked in solitude on their gear, oiling weapons and leather or rolling
their chain mail inside barrels with sand and vinegar to clean it of rust,
while others cooked at fires. Furriers saw to the horses. Craftsmen saw to
everything from repairing weapons to fashioning new boots to pulling teeth.
Mystics of all sorts prowled the camp, tending impoverished souls or warding
troublesome demons. Duties completed, raucous gangs gathered together for
entertainment, usually gambling and drinking. Sometimes the diversions
involved the camp followers, sometimes the captives.
Even surrounded by such vast numbers, Nicci felt alone. Jagang's
absence from her mind left a feeling of staggering isolation-not a sense of
being forsaken, but simply solitude by contrast. With the dream walker in
her mind, not even the most intimate detail of life-no thought, no
deed-could be held private. His presence lurked in the dark mental corners,
and from there he could watch everything: every word you spoke; every
thought you had; every bite you took; every time you cleared your throat;
every time you coughed; every time you went to the privy. You were never
alone. Never. The violation was debilitating, the trespass complete.
That was what broke most of the Sisters: the brutal totality of it, the
awareness of his constant presence in your own mind, watching. Worse,
almost, the dream walker's roots sunk down through you, but you never knew
when his awareness was focused on you. You might call him a vile name, and,
with his attention elsewhere, it would go unnoticed. Another time, you might
have a brief, private, nasty thought about him, and he would know it the
same instant you thought it.
Nicci had learned to feel those roots, as had many of the other
Sisters. She had also learned to recognize when they were absent, as now.
That never happened with the others; with them, those roots were permanent.
Jagang always eventually returned, though, to once again sink his roots into
her, but for now, she was alone. She just didn't know why.
The jumble of troops and campfires left no clear route for the team, so
Nicci had left her carriage for the walk the rest of the way up the hill. It
exposed her to the lecherous looks and lewd calls of the soldiers who
crowded the slope. She supposed that before Jagang was finished with her,
she might be exposed to far more from the men. Most of the Sisters were sent
out to the tents from time to time to be used for the men's pleasure. It was
done either to punish them or, sometimes, merely to let them know it could
be ordered on a whim-to remind them that they were slaves, nothing more than
property.
Nicci, though, was reserved for the exclusive amusement of the emperor
and those he specifically selected-like Kadar Kardeef. Many of the Sisters
envied her status, but despite what they believed, being a personal slave to
Jagang was no grace. Women were sent to the tents for a period of time,
maybe a week or two, but the rest of the time they had less demanding
duties. They were valued, after all, for their abilities with their gift.
There was no such time limit for Nicci. She had once spent a couple of
months sequestered in Jagang's room, so as to be there for his amusement any
time of day or night. The soldiers enjoyed the women's company, but had to
mind certain restrictions in what they could do to them; Jagang and his
friends imposed on themselves no such limits.
On occasion, for reason or not, Jagang would become furious at her and
would heatedly order her to the tents for a month-to teach her a lesson, he
would say. Nicci would obediently bow and pledge it would be as he wished.
He knew she was not bluffing; it would have been a lesser torment. Before
she could be out the door to the tents, he would turn moody, command her to
return to face him, and then angrily retract the orders.
Since the beginning, Nicci had, measure by measure, inch by inch,
acquired a certain status and freedom afforded none of the others. She
hadn't specifically sought it; it just came about. Jagang had confided to
her that he read the Sisters' thoughts, and that they privately referred to
her as the Slave Queen. She supposed Jagang told her so as to honor her in
his own way, but the title "Slave Queen" had meant no more to her than
"Death's Mistress."
For now, she floated like a bright water-lily flower in the dark swamp
of men. Other Sisters always made an attempt to look as drab as the men so
as to go less noticed and be less desirable. They only deceived themselves.
They lived in constant terror of what Jagang might do to them. What
happened, happened. They had no choice or influence in it.
Nicci simply didn't care. She wore her fine black dresses and left her
long blond hair uncovered for all to see. For the most part, she did as she
wished. She didn't care what Jagang did to her, and he knew it. In much the
way Richard was an enigma to her, she was an enigma to Jagang.
Too, Jagang was fascinated by her. Despite his cruelty toward her,
there was a spark of caution mixed in. When he hurt her, she welcomed it;
she merited the brutality. Pain could sometimes reach down into the dark
emptiness. He would then recoil from hurting her. When he threatened to kill
her, she waited patiently for it to be done; she knew she didn't deserve to
live. He would then withdraw the sentence of death.
The fact that she was sincere was her safety-and her peril. She was a
fawn among wolves, safe in her coat of indifference. The fawn was in danger
only if it ran. She did not view her captivity as a conflict with her
interests; she had no interests. Time and again she had the opportunity to
run, but didn't. That, perhaps more than anything, captivated Jagang.
Sometimes, he seemed to pay court to her. She didn't know his real
interest in her; she never tried to discover it. He occasionally professed
concern for her, and a few times, something akin to affection. Other times,
when she left on some duty, he seemed glad to be rid of her.
It had occurred to her, because of his behavior, that he might think he
was in love with her. As preposterous as such a thought might be, it didn't
matter one way or the other to her. She doubted he was capable of love. She
seriously doubted that Jagang really knew what the word meant, much less the
entire concept.
Nicci knew all too well what it meant.
A soldier near Jagang's tent stepped in front of her. He grinned
moronically; it was meant to be an invitation by means of threat. She could
have dissuaded him by mentioning that Jagang waited for her, or she could
even have used her power to drop him where he stood, but instead she simply
stared at him. It was not the reaction he wanted. Many of the men rose to
the bait only if it squirmed. When she didn't, his expression turned sour.
He grumbled a curse at her and moved off.
Nicci continued on toward the emperor's tent. Nomadic tents from
Altur'Rang were actually quite small and practical, being made of bland,
unadorned lambskin, Jagang had re-created them rather more grandly than the
originals. His own was more oval than round. Three poles, rather than the
customary one, held up the multipeaked roof. The tent's exterior walls were
decorated with brightly embroidered panels. Around the top edge of the
sides, where the roof met the walls, hung fistsized multicolored tassels and
streamers that marked the traveling palace of the emperor. Banners and
pennants of bright yellow and red atop the huge tent hung limp in the stale,
late-afternoon air.
Outside, a woman beat small rugs hung over one of the tent's lines.
Nicci lifted aside the heavy doorway curtain embellished with gold shields
and hammered silver medallions depicting battle scenes. Inside, slaves were
at work sweeping the expanse of carpets, dusting the delicate ceramic ware
set about on the elaborate furnishings, and fussing at the hundreds of
colorful pillows lining the edge of the floor. Hangings
richly decorated with traditional Altur'Rang designs divided the space
into several rooms. A few openings overhead covered with gauzy material let
in a little light. All the thick materials created a quiet place amid the
noise. Lamps and candles lent sleepy light to the soft room.
Nicci did not acknowledge the eyes of the guards flanking the inside of
the doorway, or those of the other slaves going about their domestic duties.
In the middle of the front room sat Jagang's ornate chair, draped with red
silks. This was where he sometimes took audiences, but the chair was empty.
She didn't falter, as did other women summoned by His Excellency, but strode
resolutely toward his bedroom in the rear section.
One of the slaves, a nearly naked boy looking to be in his late teens,
was down on his hands and knees with a small whiskbroom sweeping the carpet
set before the entrance to the bedroom. Without meeting Nicci's gaze, he
informed her that His Excellency was not occupying his tents. The young man,
Irwin, was gifted. He had lived at the Palace of the Prophets, training to
be a wizard. Now Irwin tended the fringe of carpets and emptied the chamber
pots. Nicci's mother would have approved.
Jagang could be any number of places. He might be off gambling or
drinking with his men. He could be inspecting his troops or the craftsmen
who attended them. He might be looking over the new captives, selecting
those he wanted for himself. He might be talking with Kadar Kardeef's
second.
Nicci saw several Sisters cowering in a corner. Like her, they, too,
were Jagang's slaves. As she strode up to the three women, she saw that they
were busy sewing, mending some of the tent's gear.
"Sister Nicci!" Sister Georgia rushed to her feet as a look of relief
washed across her face. "We didn't know if you were alive or dead. We
haven't seen you for so long. We thought maybe you had vanished."
Being that Nicci was a Sister of the Dark, sworn to the Keeper of the
underworld, she found the concern from three Sisters of the Light to be
somewhat insincere. Nicci supposed that they considered their captivity a
common bond, and their feelings about it paramount, overcoming their more
basic rifts. Too, they knew Jagang treated her differently; they were
probably eager to be seen as friendly.
"I've been away on business for His Excellency."
"Of course," Sister Georgia said, dry-washing her hands as she dipped
her head.
The other two, Sisters Rochelle and Aubrey, set aside the bag of bone
buttons and tent thread, untangled themselves from yards of canvas, and then
stood beside Sister Georgia. They both bowed their heads slightly to Nicci.
The three of them feared her inscrutable standing with Jagang.
"Sister Nicci . . . His Excellency is very angry," Sister Rochelle
said.
"Furious," Sister Aubrey confirmed. "He . . . he railed at the walls,
saying that you had gone too far this time."
Nicci only stared.
Sister Aubrey licked her lips. "We just thought you should know. So you
can be careful."
Nicci thought this would be a poor time to suddenly begin being
careful. She found the groveling of women hundreds of years her senior
annoying. "Where's Jagang?"
"He has taken a grand building, not far outside the city, as his
quarters," Sister Aubrey said.
"It used to be the Minister of Culture's estate," Sister Rochelle
added.
Nicci frowned. "Why? He has his tents."
"Since you've been gone, he's decided that an emperor needs proper
quarters," Sister Rochelle said.
"Proper? Proper for what?"
"To show the world his importance, I suppose."
Sister Aubrey nodded. "He's having a palace built. In Altur'Rang. It's
his new vision." She arced an arm through the air, apparently indicating,
with the slice of her hand, the grand scale of the place. "He's ordered a
magnificent palace built."
"He was planning on using the Palace of the Prophets," Sister Rochelle
said, "but since it was destroyed he's decided to build another, only
better-the most opulent palace ever conceived."
Nicci frowned at the three women. "He wanted the Palace of the Prophets
because it had a spell to slow aging. That was what interested him."
All three women shrugged.
Nicci began to get an inkling of what Jagang might have in mind. "So,
this place he's at now? What is he doing? Learning to eat with something
other than his fingers? Seeing how he likes living the fancy life under a
roof?"
"He only told us he was staying there for now," Sister Georgia said.
"He took most of the . . . younger women with him. He told us to stay here
and see to things in case he wished to return to his tent."
It didn't sound like much had changed, except the setting.
Nicci sighed. Her carriage was gone. She would have to walk.
"All right. How do I find the place?"
After Sister Aubrey gave her detailed directions, Nicci thanked them
and turned to go.
"Sister Alessandra has vanished," Sister Georgia said in a voice
straining mightily to sound nonchalant.
Nicci stopped in her tracks.
She rounded on Sister Georgia. The woman was middle aged, and seemed to
look worse every time Nicci saw her. Her clothes were little more than
tattered rags she wore with the pride of a fine uniform. Her thin hair was
more white than brown. It might once have looked distinguished, but it
didn't appear to have seen a brush, much less soap, for weeks. She was
probably infested with lice, too.
Some people looked forward to age as an excuse to become a frump, as if
all along their greatest ambition in life had been to be drab and
unattractive. Sister Georgia seemed to delight in dowdiness.
"What do you mean, Sister Alessandra has vanished?"
Nicci caught the slight twitch of satisfaction. Georgia spread her
hands innocently. "We don't know what happened. She's just turned up
missing."
Still, Nicci did not move. "I see."
Sister Georgia spread her hands again, feigning simplemindedness. "It
was about the time the Prelate disappeared, too."
Nicci denied them the reward of astonishment.
"What was Verna doing here?"
"Not Verna," Sister Rochelle said. She leaned in. "Ann."
Sister Georgia scowled her displeasure at Rochelle for spoiling the
surprise-and a surprise it was. The old Prelate had died-at least, that was
what Nicci had been told. Since leaving the Place of the Prophets, Nicci had
heard about all the other
Sisters, novices, and young men spending the night at the funeral pyre
for Ann and the prophet, Nathan. Knowing Ann, there was obviously some sort
of deception afoot, but even for her, such a thing would be extraordinary.
The three Sisters smiled like cats with a carp. They looked eager for a
long game of truth-and-gossip.
"Give me the important details. I don't have time for the long version.
His Excellency wishes to see me." Nicci took in the three wilting smiles.
She kept her voice level. "Unless you want to risk him returning here, angry
and impatient to see me."
Sisters Rochelle and Aubrey blanched.
Georgia abandoned the game and went back to dry washing her hands. "The
Prelate came to the camp when you were gone-and was captured."
"Why would she come into Jagang's midst?"
"To try to convince us to escape with her," Sister Rochelle blurted
out. A shrill
titter jittery, rather than amused-burbled up. "She had some silly
story about the chimes being loose and magic failing. Imagine that! Wild
stories, they were. Expected us to believe-"
"So that was what happened . . ." Nicci whispered as she stared off in
reflection. She realized instantly it was no wild story. Pieces began
fitting together. Nicci used her gift, the others weren't allowed to, so
they might not know if magic had failed for a time.
"That's what she claimed," Sister Georgia said.
"So, magic had failed," Nicci reasoned aloud, "and she thought that
would prevent the dream walker from controlling your minds."
That might explain much of what Nicci didn't understand: why Jagang
sometimes couldn't enter her mind.
"But if the chimes are loose-"
"Were," Sister Georgia said. "Even if it was true, for a time, they now
have been banished. His Excellency has full access to us, I'm happy to say,
and everything else concerning magic has returned to normal."
Nicci could almost see the three of them wondering if Jagang was
listening to their words. But if magic was returned to normal, Jagang should
be in Nicci's mind; he wasn't. She felt the spark of a possible
understanding fizzle and die. "So, the Prelate made a blunder and Jagang
caught her."
"Well . . . not exactly," Sister Rochelle said. "Sister Georgia went
and got the guards. We turned her in, as was our duty."
Nicci burst out with a laugh. "Her own Sisters of the Light? How
ironic! She risks her life, while the chimes have interrupted magic, to come
and save your worthless hides, and instead of escaping with her, you turn
her in. How fitting."
"We had to!" Sister Georgia protested. "His Excellency would have
wished it. Our place is to serve. We know better than to try to escape. We
know our place."
Nicci surveyed their tense faces, these women sworn to the Creator's
light, these Sisters of the Light who had worked hundreds of years in His
name. "Yes, you do."
"You'd have done the same," Sister Aubrey snapped. "We had to, or His
Excellency would have taken it out on the others. It was our duty to the
welfare of the others-and that includes you, I might add. We couldn't think
only of ourselves, or Ann, but had to think of what was good for everyone."
Nicci felt the numb indifference smothering her. "Fine, so you betrayed
the Prelate." Only a spark of curiosity remained. "But what made her think
she could escape with you for good? Surely, she must have had some plan for
the chimes.
What was she expecting to happen when Jagang once again had access to
your minds?-and hers?"
"His Excellency is always with us," Sister Aubrey insisted. "Ann was
just trying to fill our heads with her preposterous notions. We know better.
The rest of it was just a trick, too. We were too smart for her."
"Rest of it? What was the rest of her plan?"
Sister Georgia huffed her indignation. "She tried to tell us some
foolishness about a bond to Richard Rahl."
Nicci blinked. She concentrated on keeping her breathing even. "Bond?
What nonsense are you talking about, now?"
Sister Georgia met Nicci's gaze squarely. "She insisted that if we
swore allegiance to Richard, it would protect us. She claimed some magic of
his would keep Jagang from our mind."
"How?"
Sister Georgia shrugged. "She claimed this bond business protected
people's minds from dream walkers. But we aren't that gullible."
To still her fingers, Nicci pressed her hands to her thighs. "I don't
understand. How would such a thing work?"
"She said something about it being inherited from his ancestor. She
claimed that we had but to swear loyalty to him, loyalty in our hearts-or
some such nonsense. To tell the truth, it was so preposterous I wasn't
really paying that much attention. She claimed that was why Jagang couldn't
enter her mind."
Nicci was staggered. Of course . . .
She had always wondered why Jagang didn't capture the rest of the
Sisters. There were many more still free. They were protected by this bond
to Richard. It had to be true. It made sense. Her own leader, sister Ulicia,
and Richard's other teachers had escaped, too. But that didn't seem to make
sense; they were Sisters of the Dark-like Nicci-they would have had to swear
loyalty to Richard. Nicci couldn't imagine such a thing.
But then, Jagang was often unable to enter Nicci's mind.
"You said Sister Alessandra has vanished."
Sister Georgia fussed with the collar of her scruffy dress. "She and
Ann both vanished."
"Jagang doesn't bother to inform you of his actions. Perhaps he simply
had them put to death."
Georgia glanced at her companions. "Well . . . maybe. But Sister
Alessandra was one of yours . . . a Sister of the Dark. She was caring for
Ann-"
"Why weren't you caring for her? You are her Sisters."
Sister Georgia cleared her throat. "She threw such a fit about us that
His Excellency assigned Sister Alessandra to look after her."
Nicci could only imagine that it must have been quite a fit. But after
being betrayed by her own Sisters, it was understandable. Jagang would have
thought the woman valuable enough that he wanted to keep her alive.
"As we marched into the city, the wagon with Ann's cage never showed
up," Sister Georgia went on. "One of the drivers finally came around with a
bloody head and reported that the last thing he saw before the world went
dark was Sister Alessandra. Now the two of them are gone."
Nicci felt her fingernails digging into her palms. She made herself
relax her fists. "So, Ann offered you all freedom, and you chose instead to
continue to be slaves."
The three women lifted their noses. "We did what is best for everyone,"
Sister Georgia said. "We are Sisters of the Light. Our duty is not to
ourselves, but to relieve the suffering of others-not cause it."
"Besides," Sister Aubrey added, "we don't see you leaving. Seems you've
been free of His Excellency from time to time, and you don't go."
Nicci frowned. "How do you know that?"
"Well, I, I mean. . ." Sister Aubrey stammered.
Nicci seized the woman by the throat. "I asked you a question. Answer
it."
Sister Aubrey's face reddened as Nicci added the force of her gift to
the grip. The tendons in her wrist stood out with the strain. The woman's
eyes showed white all around as Nicci's power began squeezing the life from
her. Unlike Nicci, Jagang possessed their minds, and they were prohibited
from using their power except at his direction.
Sister Georgia gently placed a hand on Nicci's forearm. "His Excellency
questioned us about it, that's all, Sister. Let her go. Please?"
Nicci released the woman but turned her glare on Sister Georgia.
"Questioned you? What do you mean? What did he say?"
"He simply wanted to know if we knew why he was from time to time
blocked from your mind."
"He hurt us," Sister Rochelle said. "He hurt us with his questions,
because we had no answer. We don't understand it."
For the first time, Nicci did.
Sister Aubrey comforted her throat. "What is it with you, Sister Nicci?
Why is it His Excellency is so curious about you? Why is it you can resist
him?"
Nicci turned and walked away. "Thank you for the help, Sisters."
"If you can be free of him, why do you not leave?" Sister Georgia
called out.
Nicci turned back from the doorway. "I enjoy seeing Jagang torment you
Witches of the Light. I stay around so that I might watch."
They were unmoved by her insolence-they were accustomed to it.
"Sister Nicci," Rochelle said, smoothing back her frizz of hair. "What
did you do that made His Excellency so angry?"
"What? Oh, that. Nothing of importance. I just had the men tie
Commander Kardeef to a pole and roast him over a fire."
The three of them gasped as they straightened as one. They reminded
Nicci of three owls on a branch.
Sister Georgia fixed Nicci with a grim glare, a rare blaze of authority
born of seniority.
"You deserve everything Jagang does to you, Sister-and what the Keeper
will do to you, too."
Nicci smiled and said, "Yes, I do," before ducking through the tent
opening.
The city of Fairfield had returned to a semblance of order. It was the
order of a military post. Little of what could be said to make a city was
left. Many of the buildings remained, but there were few of the people who
had once lived and worked in them. Some of the buildings had been reduced to
charred beams and blackened rubble, others were hulks with windows and doors
broken out, yet most were much the same as they had been before, except, of
course, that all had been emptied in the wanton looting. The buildings stood
like husks, only a reminder of past life.
Here and there, a few toothless old people sat, legs splayed, leaning
against a wall, watching with empty eyes the masses of armed men moving up
and down their streets. Orphaned children wandered in a daze, or peered out
from dark passageways. Nicci found it remarkable how quickly civilization
could be stripped from a place.
As she walked through the streets, Nicci thought she understood how
many of the buildings would feel if they could feel: empty, devoid of life,
lacking purpose while they waited for someone to serve; their only true
value being in service to the living.
The streets, populated as they were by grim-faced soldiers, gaunt
beggars, the skeletal old and sick, wailing children, all amongst the rubble
and filth, looked much like some of the streets Nicci remembered from when
she was little. Her mother often sent her out to streets like this to
minister to the destitute.
"It's the fault of men like your father," her mother had said. "He's
just like my father was. He has no feelings, no concern for anyone but
himself. He's heartless."
Nicci had stood, wearing a freshly washed, frilly blue dress, her hair
brushed and pinned back, her hands hanging at her sides, listening as her
mother lectured on good and evil, on the ways of sin and redemption. Nicci
hadn't understood a lot d it, but in later years it would be repeated until
she would come to know every word, every concept, every desolate truth by
heart.
Nicci's father was wealthy. Worse, to Mother's way of thinking, he
wasn't morseful about it. Mother explained that self-interest and greed were
like the eyes of a monstrous evil, always looking for yet more power and
gold to feed its insatiable hunger.
"You must learn, Nicci, that a person's moral course in this life is to
help others not yourself," Mother said. "Money can't buy the Creator's
blessing."
"But how can we show the Creator we're good?" Nicci asked.
"Mankind is a wretched lot, unworthy, morbid, and foul. We must fight
depraved nature. Helping others is the only way to prove your soul's value.
It's only true good a person can do."
Nicci's father had been born a noble, but all his adult life he had
worked as
armorer. Mother believed that he had been born with comfortable wealth,
and instead of being satisfied with that, he sought to build his legacy into
a shameless fortune. She said wealth could only be had by fleecing it from
the poor in one fashion or another. Others of the nobility, like Mother and
many of her friends, were content not to squeeze an undeserved share from
the sweat of the poor.
Nicci felt great guilt for Father's wicked ways, for his ill-gotten
wealth. Mother said she was doing her best to try to save his straying soul.
Nicci never worried for her mother's soul, because people were always saying
how caring, how kindhearted, how charitable Mother was, but Nicci would
sometimes lie awake at night, unable to sleep with worry for Father, worry
that the Creator might exact punishment before Father could be redeemed.
While Mother went to meetings with her important friends, the nanny, on
the way to the market, often took Nicci to Father's business to ask his
wishes for dinner. Nicci relished watching and learning things at Father's
work. It was a fascinating place. When she was very young, she thought she
might grow up to be an armorer, too. At home, she would sit on the floor and
play at hammering on an item of clothing meant to be armor laid on an
upturned shoe used as an anvil. That innocent time was her fondest memory of
her childhood.
Nicci's father had a great many people working for him. Wagons brought
foursquare bars and other supplies from distant places. Heavy cast-metal
sows came in on barges. Other wagons, with guards, took goods to far-off
customers. There were men who forged metal, men who hammered it into shape,
and yet other men who shaped glowing metal into weapons. Some of the blades
were made from costly "poison steel," said to inflict mortal wounds, even in
a small cut. There were other men who sharpened blades, men who polished
armor, and men who did beautiful engraving and artwork on shields, armor,
and blades. There were even women who worked for Nicci's father, helping to
make chain mail. Nicci watched them, sitting on benches at long wooden
tables, gossiping a bit among themselves, tittering at stories, as they
worked with their pincers burring over tiny rivets in the flattened ends of
all those thousands of little steel rings that together went into the making
of a suit of chain-mail armor. Nicci thought it remarkable that man's
inventiveness could turn something as hard as metal into a suit of clothes.
Men from all around, and from distant places, too, came to buy her
father's armor. Father said it was the finest armor made. His eyes, the
color of the blue sky on a perfect summer day, sparkled wonderfully when he
spoke of his armor. Some was so beautiful that kings traveled from great
distances to have armor ordered and fitted. Some was so elaborate that it
took skilled men hunched at benches many months to make.
Blacksmiths, bellowsmen, hammermen, millmen, platers, armorers,
polishers, leatherworkers, riveters, patternmakers, silversmiths, guilders,
engraving artists, even seamstresses for the making of the quilted and
padded linen, and, of course, apprentices, came from great distances, hoping
to work for her father. Many of those with skills lugged along samples of
their best work to show him. Father turned away far more than he hired.
Nicci's father was an impressive figure, upright, angular, and intense.
At his work, his blue eyes always seemed to Nicci to see more than any other
person saw, as if the metal spoke to him when his fingers glided over it. He
seemed to move his limbs precisely as much as was needed, and no more. To
Nicci, he was a vision of power, strength, and purpose.
Officers, officials, and nobility came round to talk to him, as did
suppliers, and his workers. When Nicci went to her father's work, she was
always astonished to see him engaged in so much conversation. Mother said it
was because he was arrogant, and made his poor workers pay court to him.
Nicci liked to watch the intricate dance of people working. The workers
would pause to smile at her, answer her questions, and sometimes let her hit
the metal with a hammer. From the looks of it, Father enjoyed talking to all
those people, too. At home, Mother talked, and Father said little, as his
face took on the look of hammered steel.
When he did talk at home, he spoke almost exclusively about his work.
Nicci listened to every word, wanting to learn all about him and his
business. Mother confided that at his core his vile nature ate away at his
invisible soul. Nicci always hoped to someday redeem his soul and make it as
healthy as he outwardly appeared.
He adored Nicci, but seemed to think raising her was a task too sacred
for his coarse hands, so he left it to Mother. Even when he disagreed with
something, he would bow to Mother's wishes, saying she would know best about
such a domestic duty.
His work kept him busy most of the time. Mother said it was a sign of
his barren soul that he spent so much of his time at building his
riches-taking from people, she often called it-rather than giving of himself
to people, as the Creator meant all men to do. Many times, when Father came
home for dinner, while servants scurried in and out with all the dishes
they'd prepared, Mother would go on, in tortured tones, about how bad things
were in the world. Nicci often heard people say that Mother was a noble
woman because of how deeply she cared. After dinner Father would go back to
work, often without a word. That would anger Mother, because she had more to
tell him about his soul, but he was too busy to listen.
Nicci remembered occasions when Mother would stand at the window,
looking out over the dark city, worrying, no doubt, about all the things
that plagued her peace. On those quiet nights, Father sometimes glided up
behind Mother, putting a hand tenderly to her back, as if she were something
of great value. He seemed to be mellow and contented at those moments. He
squeezed her bottom just a little as he whispered something in her ear.
She would look up hopefully and ask him to contribute to the efforts of
her fellowship. He would ask how much. Peering up into his eyes as if
searching for some shred of human decency, she would name a figure. He would
sigh and agree, His hands would settle around her waist, and he would say
that it was late, and that they should retire to bed.
Once, when he asked her how much she wished him to contribute, she
shrugged and said, "I don't know. What does your conscience tell you,
Howard? But, a man of true compassion would do better than you usually do,
considering that you have more than your fair share of wealth, and the need
is so great."
He sighed. "How much do you and your friends need?"
"It is not me and my friends who need it, Howard, but the masses of
humanity crying out for help. Our fellowship simply struggles to meet the
need."
"How much?" he repeated.
She said, "Five hundred gold crowns," as if the number were a club she
had been hiding behind her back, and, seeing the opening she had been
waiting for, she suddenly brandished it to bully him.
With a gasp, Father staggered back a step. "Do you have any idea of the
work required to make a sum of that size?"
"You do no work, Howard-your slaves do it for you."
"Slaves! They are the finest craftsmen!"
"They should be. You steal the best workers from all over the land."
"I pay the best wages in the land! They are eager to work for me!"
"They are the poor victims of your tricks. You exploit them. You charge
more than anyone else. You have connections and make deals to cut out other
armorers. You steal the food from the mouths of working people, just to line
your own pockets."
"I offer the finest work! People buy from me because they want the
best. I charge a fair price for it."
"No one charges as much as you and that's the simple fact. You always
want more. Gold is your only goal."
"People come to me willingly because I have the highest standards. That
is my goal! The other shops produce haphazard work that doesn't proof out.
My tempering is superior. My work is all proofed to a double-stamp standard.
I won't sell inferior work. People trust me; they know I create the best
pieces."
"Your workers do. You simply rake in the money."
"The profits go to wages and to the business-I just sank a fortune into
the new battering-mill!"
"Business, business, business! When I ask you to give a little
something back to the community, to those in need, you act as if I wanted
you to gouge out your eyes. Would you really rather see people die than to
give a pittance to save them? Does money really mean more to you, Howard,
than people's lives? Are you that cruel and unfeeling a man?"
Father hung his head for a time, and at last quietly agreed to send his
man around with the gold. His voice came gentle again. He said he didn't
want people to die, and he hoped the money would help. He told her it was
time for bed.
"You've put me off, Howard, with your arguing. You couldn't just give
charitably of yourself; it always has to be dragged out of you-when it's the
right thing to do in the first place. You only agree now because of your
lecherous needs. Honestly, do you think I have no principles?"
Father simply turned and headed for the door. He paused as he suddenly
saw Nicci sitting on the floor, watching. The look on his face frightened
her, not because it was angry, or fierce, but because there seemed to be so
much in his eyes, and the weight of never being able to express it was
crushing him. Raising Nicci was Mother's work, and he had promised her he
would not meddle.
He swept his blond hair back from his forehead, then turned and picked
up his coat. In a level voice he said to Mother that he was going to go see
to some things at work.
After he was gone, Mother, too, saw Nicci, forgotten on the floor,
playing with beads on a board, pretending to make chain mail. Her arms
folded, she stood over Nicci for a long moment.
"Your father goes to whores, you know. I'm sure that's where he's off
to now: a whore. You may be too young to understand, but I want you to know,
so that you don't ever put any faith in him. He's an evil man. I'll not be
his whore.
"Now, put away your things and come with Mother. I'm going to see my
friends.
It's time you came along and began learning about the needs of others,
instead of just your own wants."
At her friend's house, there were a few men and several women sitting
and talking in serious tones. When they politely inquired after Father,
Nicci's mother reported that he was off, "working or whoring, I don't know
which, and can control neither." Some of the women laid a hand on her her
arm and comforted her. It was a terrible burden she bore, they said.
Across the room sat a silent man, who looked to Nicci as grim as death
itself.
Mother quickly forgot about Father as she became engrossed in the
discussion her friends were having about the terrible conditions of people
in the city. People were suffering from hunger, injuries, sickness, disease,
lack of skill, no work, too many children to feed, elderly to care for, no
clothes, no roof over their heads, and every other kind of strife
imaginable. It was all so frightening.
Nicci was always anxious when Mother talked about how things couldn't
go on the way they were for much longer, and that something had to be done.
Nicci wished someone would hurry up and do it.
Nicci listened as Mother's fellowship friends talked about all the
intolerant people who harbored hate. Nicci feared ending up as one of those
terrible people. She didn't want the Creator to punish her for having a cold
heart.
Mother and her friends went on at great length about their deep
feelings for all the problems around them. After each person said their
piece, they would steal a glance over at the man sitting solemnly in a
straight chair against the wall, watching with careful, dark eyes as they
talked.
"The prices of things are just terrible," a man with droopy eyelids
said. He was all crumpled down in his chair, like a pile of dirty clothes.
"It isn't fair. People shouldn't be allowed to just raise their prices
whenever they want. The duke should do something. He has the king's ear."
"The duke . . ." Mother said. She sipped her tea. "Yes, I've always
found the duke to be a man sympathetic to good causes. I think he could be
persuaded to introduce sensible laws." Mother glanced over the gold rim of
her cup at the man in the straight chair.
One of the women said she would encourage her husband to back the duke.
Another spoke up that they would write a letter of support for such an idea.
"People are starving," a wrinkled woman said into a lull in the
conversation. People eagerly mumbled their acknowledgment, as if this were
an umbrella to run in under to escape the drenching silence. "1 see it every
day. If we could just help some of those unfortunate people."
One of the other women puffed herself up like a chicken ready to lay an
egg. "It's just terrible the way no one will give them a job, when there's
plenty of work if it was just spread around."
"I know," Mother said with a tsk. "I've talked to Howard until I'm blue
in the face. He just hires people who please him, rather than those needing
the job the most. It's a disgrace."
The others sympathized with her burden.
"It isn't right that a few men should have so much more than they need,
while so many people have so much less," the man with the droopy eyelids
said. "It's immoral."
"Man has no right to exist for his own sake," Mother was quick to put
in as she nibbled on a piece of dense cake while glancing again at the
grimly silent man. "I
tell Howard all the time that self-sacrifice in the service of others
is man's highest moral duty and his only reason for being placed in this
life.
"To that end," Mother announced, "I have decided to contribute five
hundred gold crowns to our cause."
The other people gasped their delight, and congratulated Mother for her
With a hand on the windowsill, she steadied herself as the ironbound wheels
bounced over the hard, rough ground of the town square until they reached
the road, where the carnage settled down into this familiar jolting ride.
Sunlight slanted in the window, falling across the empty cushion opposite
her. The bold bright patch glided off the seat as the carriage negotiated a
curve in the road, finally slipping up to come to rest in her lap like a
warm cat. Darkly clad riders to each side, ahead, and behind stretched
forward over the withers of their galloping mounts. A rumbling roar along
with billowing plumes of dust lifted into the air from the thundering
hooves.
For the moment, Nicci was free of Jagang. She was surrounded by two
thousand men, yet she felt totally alone. Before long, she would have pain
to fill the terrible void.
She felt no joy, no fear. She sometimes wondered why she felt nothing
but the need to hurt.
As the carriage raced toward Jagang, her thoughts were focused instead
on another man, trying to recall every occasion that she had seen him. She
went over every moment she had spent with Richard Cypher, or as he was now
known-and as Jagang knew him-Richard Rahl.
She thought about his gray eyes.
Until the day she saw him, she had never believed such a person could
exist.
When she thought about Richard, like now, only one haunting need burned
in her: to destroy him.
C H A P T E R 9
Huge garish tents festooned the prominent hill outside the city of
Fairfield, yet despite the festive colors erected amid the gloom, despite
the laughing, the shouting, the coarse singing, and the riotous excess, this
was no carnival come to town, but an occupying army. The emperor's tents,
and those of his retinue, were styled in the fashion of the tents used by
some of the nomadic people from Jagang's homeland of Altur'Rang, yet they
were embellished far beyond any actual tradition. The emperor, a man vastly
exceeding any nomadic tribal leader's ability to imagine, created his own
cultural heritage as he saw fit.
Around the tents, covering the hills and valleys as far as Nicci could
see, the soldiers had pitched their own small grimy tents. Some were oiled
canvas, many more were made from animal skins. Beyond the shared basics of
practicality, there was uniformity only in their lack of conformity to any
one style.
Outside some of the shabby little tents, and almost as large, sat
ornate upholstered chairs looted from the city. The juxtaposition almost
looked as if it had been intentionally done for a comical effect, but Nicci
knew the reality had no kinship to humor. When the army eventually moved on,
such large, meticulously crafted items were too cumbersome to take and would
be left to rot in the weather.
Horses were picketed haphazardly, with occasional paddocks holding
small herds. Other enclosures held meat on the hoof. Individual wagons were
scattered here and there, seemingly wherever they could find an empty spot,
but in other places they had been set up side by side. Many were camp
followers, others were army wagons with everything from basic supplies to
blacksmith equipment. The army brought along minimal siege equipment; they
had the gifted to use as weapons of that sort.
Brooding clouds scudded low over the scene. The humid air reeked of
excrement from both animals and men. The green fields all around had been
churned to a muddy morass. The two thousand men who had returned with Nicci
had disappeared into the sprawling camp like a sprinkling of raindrops into
a swamp.
An Imperial Order army encampment was a place of noise and seeming
confusion, yet it was not as disorderly as it might appear. There was a
hierarchy of authority, and duties and chores to attend. Scattered men
worked in solitude on their gear, oiling weapons and leather or rolling
their chain mail inside barrels with sand and vinegar to clean it of rust,
while others cooked at fires. Furriers saw to the horses. Craftsmen saw to
everything from repairing weapons to fashioning new boots to pulling teeth.
Mystics of all sorts prowled the camp, tending impoverished souls or warding
troublesome demons. Duties completed, raucous gangs gathered together for
entertainment, usually gambling and drinking. Sometimes the diversions
involved the camp followers, sometimes the captives.
Even surrounded by such vast numbers, Nicci felt alone. Jagang's
absence from her mind left a feeling of staggering isolation-not a sense of
being forsaken, but simply solitude by contrast. With the dream walker in
her mind, not even the most intimate detail of life-no thought, no
deed-could be held private. His presence lurked in the dark mental corners,
and from there he could watch everything: every word you spoke; every
thought you had; every bite you took; every time you cleared your throat;
every time you coughed; every time you went to the privy. You were never
alone. Never. The violation was debilitating, the trespass complete.
That was what broke most of the Sisters: the brutal totality of it, the
awareness of his constant presence in your own mind, watching. Worse,
almost, the dream walker's roots sunk down through you, but you never knew
when his awareness was focused on you. You might call him a vile name, and,
with his attention elsewhere, it would go unnoticed. Another time, you might
have a brief, private, nasty thought about him, and he would know it the
same instant you thought it.
Nicci had learned to feel those roots, as had many of the other
Sisters. She had also learned to recognize when they were absent, as now.
That never happened with the others; with them, those roots were permanent.
Jagang always eventually returned, though, to once again sink his roots into
her, but for now, she was alone. She just didn't know why.
The jumble of troops and campfires left no clear route for the team, so
Nicci had left her carriage for the walk the rest of the way up the hill. It
exposed her to the lecherous looks and lewd calls of the soldiers who
crowded the slope. She supposed that before Jagang was finished with her,
she might be exposed to far more from the men. Most of the Sisters were sent
out to the tents from time to time to be used for the men's pleasure. It was
done either to punish them or, sometimes, merely to let them know it could
be ordered on a whim-to remind them that they were slaves, nothing more than
property.
Nicci, though, was reserved for the exclusive amusement of the emperor
and those he specifically selected-like Kadar Kardeef. Many of the Sisters
envied her status, but despite what they believed, being a personal slave to
Jagang was no grace. Women were sent to the tents for a period of time,
maybe a week or two, but the rest of the time they had less demanding
duties. They were valued, after all, for their abilities with their gift.
There was no such time limit for Nicci. She had once spent a couple of
months sequestered in Jagang's room, so as to be there for his amusement any
time of day or night. The soldiers enjoyed the women's company, but had to
mind certain restrictions in what they could do to them; Jagang and his
friends imposed on themselves no such limits.
On occasion, for reason or not, Jagang would become furious at her and
would heatedly order her to the tents for a month-to teach her a lesson, he
would say. Nicci would obediently bow and pledge it would be as he wished.
He knew she was not bluffing; it would have been a lesser torment. Before
she could be out the door to the tents, he would turn moody, command her to
return to face him, and then angrily retract the orders.
Since the beginning, Nicci had, measure by measure, inch by inch,
acquired a certain status and freedom afforded none of the others. She
hadn't specifically sought it; it just came about. Jagang had confided to
her that he read the Sisters' thoughts, and that they privately referred to
her as the Slave Queen. She supposed Jagang told her so as to honor her in
his own way, but the title "Slave Queen" had meant no more to her than
"Death's Mistress."
For now, she floated like a bright water-lily flower in the dark swamp
of men. Other Sisters always made an attempt to look as drab as the men so
as to go less noticed and be less desirable. They only deceived themselves.
They lived in constant terror of what Jagang might do to them. What
happened, happened. They had no choice or influence in it.
Nicci simply didn't care. She wore her fine black dresses and left her
long blond hair uncovered for all to see. For the most part, she did as she
wished. She didn't care what Jagang did to her, and he knew it. In much the
way Richard was an enigma to her, she was an enigma to Jagang.
Too, Jagang was fascinated by her. Despite his cruelty toward her,
there was a spark of caution mixed in. When he hurt her, she welcomed it;
she merited the brutality. Pain could sometimes reach down into the dark
emptiness. He would then recoil from hurting her. When he threatened to kill
her, she waited patiently for it to be done; she knew she didn't deserve to
live. He would then withdraw the sentence of death.
The fact that she was sincere was her safety-and her peril. She was a
fawn among wolves, safe in her coat of indifference. The fawn was in danger
only if it ran. She did not view her captivity as a conflict with her
interests; she had no interests. Time and again she had the opportunity to
run, but didn't. That, perhaps more than anything, captivated Jagang.
Sometimes, he seemed to pay court to her. She didn't know his real
interest in her; she never tried to discover it. He occasionally professed
concern for her, and a few times, something akin to affection. Other times,
when she left on some duty, he seemed glad to be rid of her.
It had occurred to her, because of his behavior, that he might think he
was in love with her. As preposterous as such a thought might be, it didn't
matter one way or the other to her. She doubted he was capable of love. She
seriously doubted that Jagang really knew what the word meant, much less the
entire concept.
Nicci knew all too well what it meant.
A soldier near Jagang's tent stepped in front of her. He grinned
moronically; it was meant to be an invitation by means of threat. She could
have dissuaded him by mentioning that Jagang waited for her, or she could
even have used her power to drop him where he stood, but instead she simply
stared at him. It was not the reaction he wanted. Many of the men rose to
the bait only if it squirmed. When she didn't, his expression turned sour.
He grumbled a curse at her and moved off.
Nicci continued on toward the emperor's tent. Nomadic tents from
Altur'Rang were actually quite small and practical, being made of bland,
unadorned lambskin, Jagang had re-created them rather more grandly than the
originals. His own was more oval than round. Three poles, rather than the
customary one, held up the multipeaked roof. The tent's exterior walls were
decorated with brightly embroidered panels. Around the top edge of the
sides, where the roof met the walls, hung fistsized multicolored tassels and
streamers that marked the traveling palace of the emperor. Banners and
pennants of bright yellow and red atop the huge tent hung limp in the stale,
late-afternoon air.
Outside, a woman beat small rugs hung over one of the tent's lines.
Nicci lifted aside the heavy doorway curtain embellished with gold shields
and hammered silver medallions depicting battle scenes. Inside, slaves were
at work sweeping the expanse of carpets, dusting the delicate ceramic ware
set about on the elaborate furnishings, and fussing at the hundreds of
colorful pillows lining the edge of the floor. Hangings
richly decorated with traditional Altur'Rang designs divided the space
into several rooms. A few openings overhead covered with gauzy material let
in a little light. All the thick materials created a quiet place amid the
noise. Lamps and candles lent sleepy light to the soft room.
Nicci did not acknowledge the eyes of the guards flanking the inside of
the doorway, or those of the other slaves going about their domestic duties.
In the middle of the front room sat Jagang's ornate chair, draped with red
silks. This was where he sometimes took audiences, but the chair was empty.
She didn't falter, as did other women summoned by His Excellency, but strode
resolutely toward his bedroom in the rear section.
One of the slaves, a nearly naked boy looking to be in his late teens,
was down on his hands and knees with a small whiskbroom sweeping the carpet
set before the entrance to the bedroom. Without meeting Nicci's gaze, he
informed her that His Excellency was not occupying his tents. The young man,
Irwin, was gifted. He had lived at the Palace of the Prophets, training to
be a wizard. Now Irwin tended the fringe of carpets and emptied the chamber
pots. Nicci's mother would have approved.
Jagang could be any number of places. He might be off gambling or
drinking with his men. He could be inspecting his troops or the craftsmen
who attended them. He might be looking over the new captives, selecting
those he wanted for himself. He might be talking with Kadar Kardeef's
second.
Nicci saw several Sisters cowering in a corner. Like her, they, too,
were Jagang's slaves. As she strode up to the three women, she saw that they
were busy sewing, mending some of the tent's gear.
"Sister Nicci!" Sister Georgia rushed to her feet as a look of relief
washed across her face. "We didn't know if you were alive or dead. We
haven't seen you for so long. We thought maybe you had vanished."
Being that Nicci was a Sister of the Dark, sworn to the Keeper of the
underworld, she found the concern from three Sisters of the Light to be
somewhat insincere. Nicci supposed that they considered their captivity a
common bond, and their feelings about it paramount, overcoming their more
basic rifts. Too, they knew Jagang treated her differently; they were
probably eager to be seen as friendly.
"I've been away on business for His Excellency."
"Of course," Sister Georgia said, dry-washing her hands as she dipped
her head.
The other two, Sisters Rochelle and Aubrey, set aside the bag of bone
buttons and tent thread, untangled themselves from yards of canvas, and then
stood beside Sister Georgia. They both bowed their heads slightly to Nicci.
The three of them feared her inscrutable standing with Jagang.
"Sister Nicci . . . His Excellency is very angry," Sister Rochelle
said.
"Furious," Sister Aubrey confirmed. "He . . . he railed at the walls,
saying that you had gone too far this time."
Nicci only stared.
Sister Aubrey licked her lips. "We just thought you should know. So you
can be careful."
Nicci thought this would be a poor time to suddenly begin being
careful. She found the groveling of women hundreds of years her senior
annoying. "Where's Jagang?"
"He has taken a grand building, not far outside the city, as his
quarters," Sister Aubrey said.
"It used to be the Minister of Culture's estate," Sister Rochelle
added.
Nicci frowned. "Why? He has his tents."
"Since you've been gone, he's decided that an emperor needs proper
quarters," Sister Rochelle said.
"Proper? Proper for what?"
"To show the world his importance, I suppose."
Sister Aubrey nodded. "He's having a palace built. In Altur'Rang. It's
his new vision." She arced an arm through the air, apparently indicating,
with the slice of her hand, the grand scale of the place. "He's ordered a
magnificent palace built."
"He was planning on using the Palace of the Prophets," Sister Rochelle
said, "but since it was destroyed he's decided to build another, only
better-the most opulent palace ever conceived."
Nicci frowned at the three women. "He wanted the Palace of the Prophets
because it had a spell to slow aging. That was what interested him."
All three women shrugged.
Nicci began to get an inkling of what Jagang might have in mind. "So,
this place he's at now? What is he doing? Learning to eat with something
other than his fingers? Seeing how he likes living the fancy life under a
roof?"
"He only told us he was staying there for now," Sister Georgia said.
"He took most of the . . . younger women with him. He told us to stay here
and see to things in case he wished to return to his tent."
It didn't sound like much had changed, except the setting.
Nicci sighed. Her carriage was gone. She would have to walk.
"All right. How do I find the place?"
After Sister Aubrey gave her detailed directions, Nicci thanked them
and turned to go.
"Sister Alessandra has vanished," Sister Georgia said in a voice
straining mightily to sound nonchalant.
Nicci stopped in her tracks.
She rounded on Sister Georgia. The woman was middle aged, and seemed to
look worse every time Nicci saw her. Her clothes were little more than
tattered rags she wore with the pride of a fine uniform. Her thin hair was
more white than brown. It might once have looked distinguished, but it
didn't appear to have seen a brush, much less soap, for weeks. She was
probably infested with lice, too.
Some people looked forward to age as an excuse to become a frump, as if
all along their greatest ambition in life had been to be drab and
unattractive. Sister Georgia seemed to delight in dowdiness.
"What do you mean, Sister Alessandra has vanished?"
Nicci caught the slight twitch of satisfaction. Georgia spread her
hands innocently. "We don't know what happened. She's just turned up
missing."
Still, Nicci did not move. "I see."
Sister Georgia spread her hands again, feigning simplemindedness. "It
was about the time the Prelate disappeared, too."
Nicci denied them the reward of astonishment.
"What was Verna doing here?"
"Not Verna," Sister Rochelle said. She leaned in. "Ann."
Sister Georgia scowled her displeasure at Rochelle for spoiling the
surprise-and a surprise it was. The old Prelate had died-at least, that was
what Nicci had been told. Since leaving the Place of the Prophets, Nicci had
heard about all the other
Sisters, novices, and young men spending the night at the funeral pyre
for Ann and the prophet, Nathan. Knowing Ann, there was obviously some sort
of deception afoot, but even for her, such a thing would be extraordinary.
The three Sisters smiled like cats with a carp. They looked eager for a
long game of truth-and-gossip.
"Give me the important details. I don't have time for the long version.
His Excellency wishes to see me." Nicci took in the three wilting smiles.
She kept her voice level. "Unless you want to risk him returning here, angry
and impatient to see me."
Sisters Rochelle and Aubrey blanched.
Georgia abandoned the game and went back to dry washing her hands. "The
Prelate came to the camp when you were gone-and was captured."
"Why would she come into Jagang's midst?"
"To try to convince us to escape with her," Sister Rochelle blurted
out. A shrill
titter jittery, rather than amused-burbled up. "She had some silly
story about the chimes being loose and magic failing. Imagine that! Wild
stories, they were. Expected us to believe-"
"So that was what happened . . ." Nicci whispered as she stared off in
reflection. She realized instantly it was no wild story. Pieces began
fitting together. Nicci used her gift, the others weren't allowed to, so
they might not know if magic had failed for a time.
"That's what she claimed," Sister Georgia said.
"So, magic had failed," Nicci reasoned aloud, "and she thought that
would prevent the dream walker from controlling your minds."
That might explain much of what Nicci didn't understand: why Jagang
sometimes couldn't enter her mind.
"But if the chimes are loose-"
"Were," Sister Georgia said. "Even if it was true, for a time, they now
have been banished. His Excellency has full access to us, I'm happy to say,
and everything else concerning magic has returned to normal."
Nicci could almost see the three of them wondering if Jagang was
listening to their words. But if magic was returned to normal, Jagang should
be in Nicci's mind; he wasn't. She felt the spark of a possible
understanding fizzle and die. "So, the Prelate made a blunder and Jagang
caught her."
"Well . . . not exactly," Sister Rochelle said. "Sister Georgia went
and got the guards. We turned her in, as was our duty."
Nicci burst out with a laugh. "Her own Sisters of the Light? How
ironic! She risks her life, while the chimes have interrupted magic, to come
and save your worthless hides, and instead of escaping with her, you turn
her in. How fitting."
"We had to!" Sister Georgia protested. "His Excellency would have
wished it. Our place is to serve. We know better than to try to escape. We
know our place."
Nicci surveyed their tense faces, these women sworn to the Creator's
light, these Sisters of the Light who had worked hundreds of years in His
name. "Yes, you do."
"You'd have done the same," Sister Aubrey snapped. "We had to, or His
Excellency would have taken it out on the others. It was our duty to the
welfare of the others-and that includes you, I might add. We couldn't think
only of ourselves, or Ann, but had to think of what was good for everyone."
Nicci felt the numb indifference smothering her. "Fine, so you betrayed
the Prelate." Only a spark of curiosity remained. "But what made her think
she could escape with you for good? Surely, she must have had some plan for
the chimes.
What was she expecting to happen when Jagang once again had access to
your minds?-and hers?"
"His Excellency is always with us," Sister Aubrey insisted. "Ann was
just trying to fill our heads with her preposterous notions. We know better.
The rest of it was just a trick, too. We were too smart for her."
"Rest of it? What was the rest of her plan?"
Sister Georgia huffed her indignation. "She tried to tell us some
foolishness about a bond to Richard Rahl."
Nicci blinked. She concentrated on keeping her breathing even. "Bond?
What nonsense are you talking about, now?"
Sister Georgia met Nicci's gaze squarely. "She insisted that if we
swore allegiance to Richard, it would protect us. She claimed some magic of
his would keep Jagang from our mind."
"How?"
Sister Georgia shrugged. "She claimed this bond business protected
people's minds from dream walkers. But we aren't that gullible."
To still her fingers, Nicci pressed her hands to her thighs. "I don't
understand. How would such a thing work?"
"She said something about it being inherited from his ancestor. She
claimed that we had but to swear loyalty to him, loyalty in our hearts-or
some such nonsense. To tell the truth, it was so preposterous I wasn't
really paying that much attention. She claimed that was why Jagang couldn't
enter her mind."
Nicci was staggered. Of course . . .
She had always wondered why Jagang didn't capture the rest of the
Sisters. There were many more still free. They were protected by this bond
to Richard. It had to be true. It made sense. Her own leader, sister Ulicia,
and Richard's other teachers had escaped, too. But that didn't seem to make
sense; they were Sisters of the Dark-like Nicci-they would have had to swear
loyalty to Richard. Nicci couldn't imagine such a thing.
But then, Jagang was often unable to enter Nicci's mind.
"You said Sister Alessandra has vanished."
Sister Georgia fussed with the collar of her scruffy dress. "She and
Ann both vanished."
"Jagang doesn't bother to inform you of his actions. Perhaps he simply
had them put to death."
Georgia glanced at her companions. "Well . . . maybe. But Sister
Alessandra was one of yours . . . a Sister of the Dark. She was caring for
Ann-"
"Why weren't you caring for her? You are her Sisters."
Sister Georgia cleared her throat. "She threw such a fit about us that
His Excellency assigned Sister Alessandra to look after her."
Nicci could only imagine that it must have been quite a fit. But after
being betrayed by her own Sisters, it was understandable. Jagang would have
thought the woman valuable enough that he wanted to keep her alive.
"As we marched into the city, the wagon with Ann's cage never showed
up," Sister Georgia went on. "One of the drivers finally came around with a
bloody head and reported that the last thing he saw before the world went
dark was Sister Alessandra. Now the two of them are gone."
Nicci felt her fingernails digging into her palms. She made herself
relax her fists. "So, Ann offered you all freedom, and you chose instead to
continue to be slaves."
The three women lifted their noses. "We did what is best for everyone,"
Sister Georgia said. "We are Sisters of the Light. Our duty is not to
ourselves, but to relieve the suffering of others-not cause it."
"Besides," Sister Aubrey added, "we don't see you leaving. Seems you've
been free of His Excellency from time to time, and you don't go."
Nicci frowned. "How do you know that?"
"Well, I, I mean. . ." Sister Aubrey stammered.
Nicci seized the woman by the throat. "I asked you a question. Answer
it."
Sister Aubrey's face reddened as Nicci added the force of her gift to
the grip. The tendons in her wrist stood out with the strain. The woman's
eyes showed white all around as Nicci's power began squeezing the life from
her. Unlike Nicci, Jagang possessed their minds, and they were prohibited
from using their power except at his direction.
Sister Georgia gently placed a hand on Nicci's forearm. "His Excellency
questioned us about it, that's all, Sister. Let her go. Please?"
Nicci released the woman but turned her glare on Sister Georgia.
"Questioned you? What do you mean? What did he say?"
"He simply wanted to know if we knew why he was from time to time
blocked from your mind."
"He hurt us," Sister Rochelle said. "He hurt us with his questions,
because we had no answer. We don't understand it."
For the first time, Nicci did.
Sister Aubrey comforted her throat. "What is it with you, Sister Nicci?
Why is it His Excellency is so curious about you? Why is it you can resist
him?"
Nicci turned and walked away. "Thank you for the help, Sisters."
"If you can be free of him, why do you not leave?" Sister Georgia
called out.
Nicci turned back from the doorway. "I enjoy seeing Jagang torment you
Witches of the Light. I stay around so that I might watch."
They were unmoved by her insolence-they were accustomed to it.
"Sister Nicci," Rochelle said, smoothing back her frizz of hair. "What
did you do that made His Excellency so angry?"
"What? Oh, that. Nothing of importance. I just had the men tie
Commander Kardeef to a pole and roast him over a fire."
The three of them gasped as they straightened as one. They reminded
Nicci of three owls on a branch.
Sister Georgia fixed Nicci with a grim glare, a rare blaze of authority
born of seniority.
"You deserve everything Jagang does to you, Sister-and what the Keeper
will do to you, too."
Nicci smiled and said, "Yes, I do," before ducking through the tent
opening.
The city of Fairfield had returned to a semblance of order. It was the
order of a military post. Little of what could be said to make a city was
left. Many of the buildings remained, but there were few of the people who
had once lived and worked in them. Some of the buildings had been reduced to
charred beams and blackened rubble, others were hulks with windows and doors
broken out, yet most were much the same as they had been before, except, of
course, that all had been emptied in the wanton looting. The buildings stood
like husks, only a reminder of past life.
Here and there, a few toothless old people sat, legs splayed, leaning
against a wall, watching with empty eyes the masses of armed men moving up
and down their streets. Orphaned children wandered in a daze, or peered out
from dark passageways. Nicci found it remarkable how quickly civilization
could be stripped from a place.
As she walked through the streets, Nicci thought she understood how
many of the buildings would feel if they could feel: empty, devoid of life,
lacking purpose while they waited for someone to serve; their only true
value being in service to the living.
The streets, populated as they were by grim-faced soldiers, gaunt
beggars, the skeletal old and sick, wailing children, all amongst the rubble
and filth, looked much like some of the streets Nicci remembered from when
she was little. Her mother often sent her out to streets like this to
minister to the destitute.
"It's the fault of men like your father," her mother had said. "He's
just like my father was. He has no feelings, no concern for anyone but
himself. He's heartless."
Nicci had stood, wearing a freshly washed, frilly blue dress, her hair
brushed and pinned back, her hands hanging at her sides, listening as her
mother lectured on good and evil, on the ways of sin and redemption. Nicci
hadn't understood a lot d it, but in later years it would be repeated until
she would come to know every word, every concept, every desolate truth by
heart.
Nicci's father was wealthy. Worse, to Mother's way of thinking, he
wasn't morseful about it. Mother explained that self-interest and greed were
like the eyes of a monstrous evil, always looking for yet more power and
gold to feed its insatiable hunger.
"You must learn, Nicci, that a person's moral course in this life is to
help others not yourself," Mother said. "Money can't buy the Creator's
blessing."
"But how can we show the Creator we're good?" Nicci asked.
"Mankind is a wretched lot, unworthy, morbid, and foul. We must fight
depraved nature. Helping others is the only way to prove your soul's value.
It's only true good a person can do."
Nicci's father had been born a noble, but all his adult life he had
worked as
armorer. Mother believed that he had been born with comfortable wealth,
and instead of being satisfied with that, he sought to build his legacy into
a shameless fortune. She said wealth could only be had by fleecing it from
the poor in one fashion or another. Others of the nobility, like Mother and
many of her friends, were content not to squeeze an undeserved share from
the sweat of the poor.
Nicci felt great guilt for Father's wicked ways, for his ill-gotten
wealth. Mother said she was doing her best to try to save his straying soul.
Nicci never worried for her mother's soul, because people were always saying
how caring, how kindhearted, how charitable Mother was, but Nicci would
sometimes lie awake at night, unable to sleep with worry for Father, worry
that the Creator might exact punishment before Father could be redeemed.
While Mother went to meetings with her important friends, the nanny, on
the way to the market, often took Nicci to Father's business to ask his
wishes for dinner. Nicci relished watching and learning things at Father's
work. It was a fascinating place. When she was very young, she thought she
might grow up to be an armorer, too. At home, she would sit on the floor and
play at hammering on an item of clothing meant to be armor laid on an
upturned shoe used as an anvil. That innocent time was her fondest memory of
her childhood.
Nicci's father had a great many people working for him. Wagons brought
foursquare bars and other supplies from distant places. Heavy cast-metal
sows came in on barges. Other wagons, with guards, took goods to far-off
customers. There were men who forged metal, men who hammered it into shape,
and yet other men who shaped glowing metal into weapons. Some of the blades
were made from costly "poison steel," said to inflict mortal wounds, even in
a small cut. There were other men who sharpened blades, men who polished
armor, and men who did beautiful engraving and artwork on shields, armor,
and blades. There were even women who worked for Nicci's father, helping to
make chain mail. Nicci watched them, sitting on benches at long wooden
tables, gossiping a bit among themselves, tittering at stories, as they
worked with their pincers burring over tiny rivets in the flattened ends of
all those thousands of little steel rings that together went into the making
of a suit of chain-mail armor. Nicci thought it remarkable that man's
inventiveness could turn something as hard as metal into a suit of clothes.
Men from all around, and from distant places, too, came to buy her
father's armor. Father said it was the finest armor made. His eyes, the
color of the blue sky on a perfect summer day, sparkled wonderfully when he
spoke of his armor. Some was so beautiful that kings traveled from great
distances to have armor ordered and fitted. Some was so elaborate that it
took skilled men hunched at benches many months to make.
Blacksmiths, bellowsmen, hammermen, millmen, platers, armorers,
polishers, leatherworkers, riveters, patternmakers, silversmiths, guilders,
engraving artists, even seamstresses for the making of the quilted and
padded linen, and, of course, apprentices, came from great distances, hoping
to work for her father. Many of those with skills lugged along samples of
their best work to show him. Father turned away far more than he hired.
Nicci's father was an impressive figure, upright, angular, and intense.
At his work, his blue eyes always seemed to Nicci to see more than any other
person saw, as if the metal spoke to him when his fingers glided over it. He
seemed to move his limbs precisely as much as was needed, and no more. To
Nicci, he was a vision of power, strength, and purpose.
Officers, officials, and nobility came round to talk to him, as did
suppliers, and his workers. When Nicci went to her father's work, she was
always astonished to see him engaged in so much conversation. Mother said it
was because he was arrogant, and made his poor workers pay court to him.
Nicci liked to watch the intricate dance of people working. The workers
would pause to smile at her, answer her questions, and sometimes let her hit
the metal with a hammer. From the looks of it, Father enjoyed talking to all
those people, too. At home, Mother talked, and Father said little, as his
face took on the look of hammered steel.
When he did talk at home, he spoke almost exclusively about his work.
Nicci listened to every word, wanting to learn all about him and his
business. Mother confided that at his core his vile nature ate away at his
invisible soul. Nicci always hoped to someday redeem his soul and make it as
healthy as he outwardly appeared.
He adored Nicci, but seemed to think raising her was a task too sacred
for his coarse hands, so he left it to Mother. Even when he disagreed with
something, he would bow to Mother's wishes, saying she would know best about
such a domestic duty.
His work kept him busy most of the time. Mother said it was a sign of
his barren soul that he spent so much of his time at building his
riches-taking from people, she often called it-rather than giving of himself
to people, as the Creator meant all men to do. Many times, when Father came
home for dinner, while servants scurried in and out with all the dishes
they'd prepared, Mother would go on, in tortured tones, about how bad things
were in the world. Nicci often heard people say that Mother was a noble
woman because of how deeply she cared. After dinner Father would go back to
work, often without a word. That would anger Mother, because she had more to
tell him about his soul, but he was too busy to listen.
Nicci remembered occasions when Mother would stand at the window,
looking out over the dark city, worrying, no doubt, about all the things
that plagued her peace. On those quiet nights, Father sometimes glided up
behind Mother, putting a hand tenderly to her back, as if she were something
of great value. He seemed to be mellow and contented at those moments. He
squeezed her bottom just a little as he whispered something in her ear.
She would look up hopefully and ask him to contribute to the efforts of
her fellowship. He would ask how much. Peering up into his eyes as if
searching for some shred of human decency, she would name a figure. He would
sigh and agree, His hands would settle around her waist, and he would say
that it was late, and that they should retire to bed.
Once, when he asked her how much she wished him to contribute, she
shrugged and said, "I don't know. What does your conscience tell you,
Howard? But, a man of true compassion would do better than you usually do,
considering that you have more than your fair share of wealth, and the need
is so great."
He sighed. "How much do you and your friends need?"
"It is not me and my friends who need it, Howard, but the masses of
humanity crying out for help. Our fellowship simply struggles to meet the
need."
"How much?" he repeated.
She said, "Five hundred gold crowns," as if the number were a club she
had been hiding behind her back, and, seeing the opening she had been
waiting for, she suddenly brandished it to bully him.
With a gasp, Father staggered back a step. "Do you have any idea of the
work required to make a sum of that size?"
"You do no work, Howard-your slaves do it for you."
"Slaves! They are the finest craftsmen!"
"They should be. You steal the best workers from all over the land."
"I pay the best wages in the land! They are eager to work for me!"
"They are the poor victims of your tricks. You exploit them. You charge
more than anyone else. You have connections and make deals to cut out other
armorers. You steal the food from the mouths of working people, just to line
your own pockets."
"I offer the finest work! People buy from me because they want the
best. I charge a fair price for it."
"No one charges as much as you and that's the simple fact. You always
want more. Gold is your only goal."
"People come to me willingly because I have the highest standards. That
is my goal! The other shops produce haphazard work that doesn't proof out.
My tempering is superior. My work is all proofed to a double-stamp standard.
I won't sell inferior work. People trust me; they know I create the best
pieces."
"Your workers do. You simply rake in the money."
"The profits go to wages and to the business-I just sank a fortune into
the new battering-mill!"
"Business, business, business! When I ask you to give a little
something back to the community, to those in need, you act as if I wanted
you to gouge out your eyes. Would you really rather see people die than to
give a pittance to save them? Does money really mean more to you, Howard,
than people's lives? Are you that cruel and unfeeling a man?"
Father hung his head for a time, and at last quietly agreed to send his
man around with the gold. His voice came gentle again. He said he didn't
want people to die, and he hoped the money would help. He told her it was
time for bed.
"You've put me off, Howard, with your arguing. You couldn't just give
charitably of yourself; it always has to be dragged out of you-when it's the
right thing to do in the first place. You only agree now because of your
lecherous needs. Honestly, do you think I have no principles?"
Father simply turned and headed for the door. He paused as he suddenly
saw Nicci sitting on the floor, watching. The look on his face frightened
her, not because it was angry, or fierce, but because there seemed to be so
much in his eyes, and the weight of never being able to express it was
crushing him. Raising Nicci was Mother's work, and he had promised her he
would not meddle.
He swept his blond hair back from his forehead, then turned and picked
up his coat. In a level voice he said to Mother that he was going to go see
to some things at work.
After he was gone, Mother, too, saw Nicci, forgotten on the floor,
playing with beads on a board, pretending to make chain mail. Her arms
folded, she stood over Nicci for a long moment.
"Your father goes to whores, you know. I'm sure that's where he's off
to now: a whore. You may be too young to understand, but I want you to know,
so that you don't ever put any faith in him. He's an evil man. I'll not be
his whore.
"Now, put away your things and come with Mother. I'm going to see my
friends.
It's time you came along and began learning about the needs of others,
instead of just your own wants."
At her friend's house, there were a few men and several women sitting
and talking in serious tones. When they politely inquired after Father,
Nicci's mother reported that he was off, "working or whoring, I don't know
which, and can control neither." Some of the women laid a hand on her her
arm and comforted her. It was a terrible burden she bore, they said.
Across the room sat a silent man, who looked to Nicci as grim as death
itself.
Mother quickly forgot about Father as she became engrossed in the
discussion her friends were having about the terrible conditions of people
in the city. People were suffering from hunger, injuries, sickness, disease,
lack of skill, no work, too many children to feed, elderly to care for, no
clothes, no roof over their heads, and every other kind of strife
imaginable. It was all so frightening.
Nicci was always anxious when Mother talked about how things couldn't
go on the way they were for much longer, and that something had to be done.
Nicci wished someone would hurry up and do it.
Nicci listened as Mother's fellowship friends talked about all the
intolerant people who harbored hate. Nicci feared ending up as one of those
terrible people. She didn't want the Creator to punish her for having a cold
heart.
Mother and her friends went on at great length about their deep
feelings for all the problems around them. After each person said their
piece, they would steal a glance over at the man sitting solemnly in a
straight chair against the wall, watching with careful, dark eyes as they
talked.
"The prices of things are just terrible," a man with droopy eyelids
said. He was all crumpled down in his chair, like a pile of dirty clothes.
"It isn't fair. People shouldn't be allowed to just raise their prices
whenever they want. The duke should do something. He has the king's ear."
"The duke . . ." Mother said. She sipped her tea. "Yes, I've always
found the duke to be a man sympathetic to good causes. I think he could be
persuaded to introduce sensible laws." Mother glanced over the gold rim of
her cup at the man in the straight chair.
One of the women said she would encourage her husband to back the duke.
Another spoke up that they would write a letter of support for such an idea.
"People are starving," a wrinkled woman said into a lull in the
conversation. People eagerly mumbled their acknowledgment, as if this were
an umbrella to run in under to escape the drenching silence. "1 see it every
day. If we could just help some of those unfortunate people."
One of the other women puffed herself up like a chicken ready to lay an
egg. "It's just terrible the way no one will give them a job, when there's
plenty of work if it was just spread around."
"I know," Mother said with a tsk. "I've talked to Howard until I'm blue
in the face. He just hires people who please him, rather than those needing
the job the most. It's a disgrace."
The others sympathized with her burden.
"It isn't right that a few men should have so much more than they need,
while so many people have so much less," the man with the droopy eyelids
said. "It's immoral."
"Man has no right to exist for his own sake," Mother was quick to put
in as she nibbled on a piece of dense cake while glancing again at the
grimly silent man. "I
tell Howard all the time that self-sacrifice in the service of others
is man's highest moral duty and his only reason for being placed in this
life.
"To that end," Mother announced, "I have decided to contribute five
hundred gold crowns to our cause."
The other people gasped their delight, and congratulated Mother for her