Blood of the Fold (Sword of Truth 3)

Richard was a wizard, too, he now knew. The gift, the force of magic within him called Han, had been passed down from two lines of wizards: Zedd, his grandfather on his mother’s side, and Darken Rahl, his father. That combination had spawned in him magic no wizard had possessed in thousands of years—not only Additive but also Subtractive Magic. Richard knew precious little about being a wizard, or about magic, but Zedd would help him learn, help him control the gift and use it to aid people.

Richard swallowed the bread he had been chewing. “That sounds like the Kahlan I know.”

Mistress Sanderholt shook her head ruefully. “She always felt a deep responsibility for the people of the Midlands. I know it hurt her to her very soul to have them turn against her for the promise of gold.”

“Not all did that, I’d bet,” Richard said. “But that’s why you mustn’t tell anyone she’s still alive. In order to keep Kahlan safe, and protect her, no one must know the truth.”

“You know you have my promise, Richard. But I expect they’ve forgotten about her by now. I expect that if they don’t get the gold they were promised, they’ll soon be rioting.”

“So that’s why all those people are gathered outside the Confessors’ Palace?”

She nodded. “They now believe they’re entitled to it, because someone from the Imperial Order said that they were to have it. Though the man who promised it is now dead, it’s as if once his words were spoken aloud, the gold magically became theirs. If the Imperial Order doesn’t soon begin handing out the gold in the treasury, I imagine it won’t be long before those people in the streets decide to storm the palace and take it.”

“Maybe the promise was only made as a diversion, and the troops of the Order intended all along to keep the gold for themselves, as plunder, and will defend the palace.”

“Perhaps you’re right.” She stared off. “Come to think of it, I don’t even know what I’m still doing here. I’m of no mind to see the Order set up quarters in the palace. I’m of no mind to end up working for them. Maybe I should leave, and see if I couldn’t find a place to work where people are still free of that lot. It seems so strange to think of doing that, though; the palace has been my home for most of my life.”

Richard looked away from the white splendor of the Confessors’ Palace, out over the city again. Should he flee, too, and leave the ancestral home of the Confessors, and the wizards, to the Imperial Order? But how could he do anything about it? Besides, the Order’s troops were probably searching for him. Best if he slipped away while they were still confused and disorganized after the death of their council. He didn’t know what Mistress Sanderholt should do, but he should be going before the Order found him. He needed to get to Kahlan and Zedd.

Gratch’s growl deepened into a primal rumble that rattled Richard’s bones, and brought him out of his thoughts. The gar rose smoothly to his feet. Richard scanned the area below again, but saw nothing. The Confessors’ Palace sat on a hill, with a commanding view of Aydindril, and from his vantage point he could see that there were troops beyond the walls, in the streets of the city, but none were close to the three of them in the secluded side courtyard outside the kitchen entrance. There was nothing alive in sight where Gratch was watching.

Richard stood, his fingers briefly finding reassurance on the hilt of his sword. He was bigger than most men, but the gar towered over him. Though little more than a youngster, for a gar, Gratch stood close to seven feet, Richard guessing his weight at half again his own. Gratch had another foot to grow, maybe more; Richard was far from an expert on short-tailed gars—he had not seen that many, and the ones he had seen had been trying to kill him at the time. Richard, in fact, had killed Gratch’s mother, in self-defense, and had inadvertently ended up adopting the little orphan. Over time, they had become fast friends.

Muscles under the pink skin of the powerfully built beast’s stomach and chest knotted in rippling bulges. He stood still and tensed, his claws poised out to his sides, his hairy ears perked toward things unseen. Even in taking prey when he was hungry, Gratch had never displayed this level of intent ferocity. Richard felt the hackles on the back of his neck rising.

He wished he could remember when or where it was he had seen Gratch growling like this. He finally put aside his pleasant thoughts of Kahlan and, with mounting urgency, focused his attention.

Mistress Sanderholt stood beside him, peering nervously from Gratch to where he was looking. Thin and frail-looking, she was not a timid woman by any means, but had her hands not been bandaged, he thought she would be wringing them; she looked as if she wanted to.

Richard suddenly felt quite exposed on the open, wide sweep of steps. His keen gray eyes scrutinized the murky shadows and concealed places among the columns, walls, and assortment of elegant belvederes spread across the lower parts of the palace grounds. Sparkling snow lifted on an occasional ripple of wind, but nothing else moved. He stared so hard it made his eyes hurt, but he saw nothing alive, no sign of any threat.

Though he saw nothing, Richard began to feel a burgeoning sense of danger—not a simple reaction from seeing Gratch so riled, but welling up from within himself, from his Han, welling from the depths of his chest, coursing into the fibers of his muscles, drawing them tight and ready. The magic within had become another sense that often warned him when his other senses did not. He realized that that was what was warning him now.

An urge to run, before it was too late, gnawed deep in his gut. He needed to get to Kahlan; he didn’t want to get tangled in any trouble. He could find a horse, and just go. Better yet, he could run, now, and find a horse later.

Gratch’s wings unfolded as he crouched in a menacing posture, ready to launch into the air. His lips drew back further, vapor hissing from between his fangs as the growl deepened, vibrating the air.

The flesh on Richard’s arms tingled. His breathing quickened as the palpable sense of danger coalesced into points of threat.

“Mistress Sanderholt,” he said as his gaze skipped from one long shadow to another, “why don’t you go inside. I’ll come in and talk to you after—”

His words caught in his throat as he saw a brief movement down among the white columns—a shimmer to the air, like the heat rippling the air above a fire. He stared, trying to decide if he had really seen it, or just imagined it. He frantically tried to think of what it could be, if indeed he had seen something. It could have been a wisp of snow carried on a brief gust of wind. He didn’t see anything as he squinted in concentration. It was probably nothing more than the snow in the wind, he tried to assure himself.

Abruptly, the manifest realization welled up within him, like cold black water surging up through a rift in river ice—Richard remembered when it was he had heard Gratch growl like that. The fine hairs on the back of his neck stood out like icy needles in his flesh. His hand found the wire-wound hilt of his sword.

“Go,” he whispered urgently to Mistress Sanderholt. “Now.”

Without hesitation, she dashed up the steps and made for the distant kitchen entrance behind him as the ring of steel announced the arrival of the Sword of Truth in the crisp dawn air.

How was it possible for them to be here? It wasn’t possible, yet he was sure of it; he could feel them.

“Dance with me Death. I am ready,” Richard murmured, already in a trance of wrath from the magic coursing into him from the Sword of Truth. The words were not his, but came from the sword’s magic, from the spirits of those who had used the weapon before him. With the words came an instinctive understanding of their meaning: it was a morning prayer, meant to say that you could die this day, so you should strive to do your best while you still lived.

From the echo of other voices within came the realization that the same words also meant something altogether different: they were a battle cry.

With a roar, Gratch shot into the air, his wings lifting him after only one bounding stride. Snow swirled, curling into the air under him, stirred up by the powerful stroke

s of his wings that also billowed open Richard’s mriswith cape.

Even before he could see them materialize out of the winter air, Richard could sense their presence. He could see them in his mind even though he couldn’t yet see them with his eyes.

Howling in fury, Gratch descended in a streak toward the the base of the steps. Near the columns, just as the gar reached them, they began to become visible—scales and claws and capes, white against the white snow. White as pure as a child’s prayer.

Mriswith.

3

The mriswith reacted to the threat, materializing as they flung themselves at the gar. The sword’s magic, its rage, inundated Richard with its full fury as he saw his friend being attacked. He bounded down the steps, toward the erupting battle.