Blood of the Fold (Sword of Truth 3)

Her eyes widened with excitement. “Another one, my lord general? Yes, I should like very much to hear about it. You honor me.”

“Indeed.” She followed as he marched through the tall brassbound double doors, into the Nicobarese palace. “We have matters to discuss. You will listen attentively, won’t you, Lunetta?”

She shuffled along at his heels. “Yes, my lord general. Always.”

He paused at a window with a heavy blue drape. Drawing his dress knife, he sliced a good-sized piece from the side, including a strip of edging with gold tassels. Licking her lips, Lunetta rocked from side to side, shifting her weight from one foot to the other as she waited.

Brogan smiled. “A pretty for you, Lunetta.”

Eyes glistening, she clutched it excitedly to herself before holding it in one place, then another, searching for the perfect spot to add it to the others. She giggled with glee. “Thank you, Lord General. It be beautiful.”

He marched off, Lunetta scurrying to follow behind. Portraits of royalty hung from the rich paneling, and underfoot sumptuous carpets ran into the distance. Gold-leafed frames surrounded round-topped doors to either side. Gilt-edged mirrors reflected the passing flash of crimson.

A servant in brown-and-white livery bowed his way into the hall, holding out his arm to indicate the direction to the dining hall before scuttling along, looking sideways to be sure he kept himself clear of harm, and bowing every few steps.

Tobias Brogan was not a man who had ever frightened anyone with his size, but the servants, staff, Palace Guard, and partially dressed officials who charged into the hall to see what was causing such a fuss all paled at the sight of him—at seeing the lord general himself, the man who commanded the Blood of the Fold.

At his word banelings burned for their sins—whether they be beggars or soldiers, lords or ladies, or even kings.

5

Sister Verna stood transfixed by the flames, their depths loosing transient whorls of glittering colors and shimmering rays alive with swaying movement, fingers twisting in a dance, luring in air that flapped their clothes in passing, and casting forth heat that would have driven them all back, if not for their shields. The huge bloodred sun hung half emerged at the horizon, at last abating the glory of the fire that had consumed the bodies. A few of the Sisters around her still sobbed softly, but Sister Verna had drained all the tears she had to give.

Well over one hundred boys and young men stood in a ring around the fire, with twice as many Sisters of the Light and novices circled inside them. Except for one Sister and one boy symbolically standing watch over the palace, and of course the one Sister who had become deranged and was locked in an empty, shielded room for her own good, all were on the hill above Tanimura watching the flames leap skyward. Even with this many people standing together, each was touched by profound loneliness, and stood withdrawn in introspection and prayer. As prescribed, no one spoke at the funeral rite.

Sister Verna’s back hurt from standing ward all night over the bodies. Through the hours of darkness they had all stood, praying, and maintaining the linked shield over the corpses in symbolic protection of the revered. At least it was a relief to be away from the incessant drumming down in the city.

At first light the shield had been dropped and each had sent forth a flow of their Han into the pyre, igniting it. Fire, fed by magic, had raced through the stacked logs and the two heavily shrouded bodies, one short and squat, the other tall and powerfully built, creating an inferno of divine power.

They had had to search the vaults for guidance as no one living had ever participated in the ceremony; it had not been performed in almost eight hundred years—791, to be precise: the last time a prelate had died.

As they had learned in the old books, only the Prelate was to have her soul released to the Creator’s protection in the sacred funeral rite, but in this case the Sisters had all voted to grant the same privilege to the one who had struggled so valiantly to save her. The books had said that dispensation from the exclusion could only be granted by unanimous consent. It had taken heated persuasion to make it so.

By custom, as the sun finally and fully gained the horizon, washing the fire with the complete spectacle of Creator’s own light, the flow of Han was withdrawn. Their power recalled, the pyre collapsed, leaving only a stain of ash and a few charred logs to mark the site of the ceremony on the green hilltop. Smoke curled upward, dissipating into the silent, brightening day.

Grayish white ashes were all that was left in the world of the living of Prelate Annalina, and the prophet Nathan. It was done.

Without words, Sisters began drifting away, some in solitude, others placing a comforting arm around the shoulder of a boy or a novice. Like lost souls, they meandered down the hill toward the city, and the Palace of the Prophets, going to a home without a mother. As Sister Verna kissed her ring finger, she guessed that with the prophet also dead, they were in a way without a father as well.

She folded her fingers together over her stomach as she absently watched the others walking off into the distance. She had never had the chance to make her peace with the Prelate before she had died. The woman had used her, humiliated her, and allowed her to be abased for doing her duty and following orders. Though all Sisters served the Creator, and she knew that what the Prelate had done must have been for a greater good, it hurt that the Prelate had exploited that fidelity. It made her feel a fool.

Because Prelate Annalina had been injured in the attack by Ulicia, a Sister of the Dark, and had since remained unconscious for near to three weeks prior to her death, Sister Verna had never had a chance to talk to her. Only Nathan had attended the Prelate, trying tirelessly to heal her, but in the end he had failed. It was cruel fate that took his life, too. Though Nathan had always seemed vigorous to her, the strain must have been too much for him; he had, after all, been near to one thousand years old. She guessed he had aged in the twenty-odd years she had been away seeking Richard and finally bringing him to the palace.

Sister Verna smiled at the memory of Richard; she missed him, too. He had vexed her to the limits of her tolerance, but he, too, had been a victim of the Prelate’s plans, although he seemed to have understood and accepted the things she had done and had not held any ill feelings toward her.

She felt a pang of heartache at the thought that Richard’s love, Kahlan, had probably died in the climax of that terrible prophecy. She hoped it wasn’t so. The Prelate had been a resolute woman, and had orchestrated events in the lives of a great many people. Sister Verna hoped it had truly been done for the good of the Creator’s children, and not simply for the Prelate’s own ambitions.

“You look angry, Sister Verna.”

She turned to see young Warren standing with his hands in the opposite, silver brocade sleeves of his deep violet robes. She glanced around and realized that the two of them were alone on the hillside; the others, long gone, were dark specks in the distance.

“Perhaps I am, Warren.”

“What are you angry about, Sister?”

With the palms of her hands, she smoothed her dark skirt at her hips. “Maybe I’m just angry with myself.” She sought to change the subject as she straightened her light blue shawl. “You’re so young, in your studies I mean, that I’m still having trouble getting used to seeing you without a Rada’Han.”

As if she had reminded him, his fingers stroked his neck where the collar had been for most of his life. “Young for those living under the spell at the palace, perhaps, but hardly young for those in the outside world—I am one hundred and fifty seven, Sister. But I do appreciate that you took my collar off.” He took his fingers from his neck and brushed back a lock of curly blond hair. “It seems like the whole world has been turned upside down in the last few months.”

She chuckled. “I miss Richard, too.”

An easy grin brightened his face. “Really? He was a rare person, wasn’t he. I can hardly believe that he was able to prevent the Keeper from escaping the un

derworld, but he had to have stopped the spirit of his father, and returned the Stone of Tears to its rightful place, or we would all have been swallowed by the dead. To tell the truth, I was in a cold sweat the whole of winter solstice.”

Sister Verna nodded, as if to add emphasis to her sincerity. “The things you helped teach him must have been valuable. You did well, too, Warren.” She studied his gentle smile for a moment, noticing how little it had changed over all the years. “I’m glad you decided to remain at the palace for a time, even though you have your collar off. We are without a prophet, it would seem.”

He looked to the stain of ashes. “Most of my life I’ve studied the prophecies down in the vaults, and I never knew that some were given by a prophet still living, much less at the palace. I wish they had told me. I wish they had let me talk to him, learn from him. Now the chance is lost.”

“Nathan was a dangerous man, an enigma who none of us could ever fully understand or trust, but maybe it was wrong of them to prevent you from visiting him. Know that in time, when you learned more, the Sisters would have allowed it, if not required it.”

He glanced away. “But now the chance has been lost.”

“Warren, now that you have the collar off, I know you’re anxious to go out into the world, but you’ve said that you intend to stay at the palace, at least for a time, to study. The palace is without a prophet, now. I think you should consider the fact that your gift manifests itself strongly in that area. You could someday be a prophet.”

A gentle breeze rippled his robes as he looked out over the green hills toward the palace. “Not only my gift, but my interest, my hopes, have always involved the prophecies. I’ve only recently begun to understand them in a way that no one else does, but understanding them is different than giving them.”

“It takes time, Warren. Why, when Nathan was your age, I’m sure he was no more advanced in prophecy than you. If you stayed and continued to study, I believe that in four or five hundred years you might be a prophet as great as Nathan.”

He was silent for a time. “But there’s a whole world out there. I’ve heard there are books at the Wizard’s Keep in Aydindril, and other places, too. Richard said there are sure to be many at the People’s Palace in D’Hara. I want to learn, and there may be things to know that can’t be found here.”

Sister Verna rolled her shoulders to ease their ache. “The Palace of the Prophets is spelled, Warren. If you leave, you will age the same as those outside. Look at what’s happened to me in a scant twenty-odd years away from it; even though we were born only a year apart you still look as if you should be thinking of marriage, and I look as if I should be preparing to bounce a grandchild on my knee. Now that I’m back, I will age by the palace’s time again, but what has been lost cannot be recovered.”

Warren averted his eyes. “I think you see more wrinkles than are there, Sister Verna.”