Blood of the Fold (Sword of Truth 3)

The lump, joined to the body of it in the well as if by a neck, continued to contort, bending into edges and planes, folds and curves. It warped into a woman’s face. Richard had to remind himself to take a breath. He now understood why Kolo called the sliph “she.”

The face finally saw him on the floor. It looked like a smooth statue made of silver—except it moved.

“Master,” she said in an eerie voice that echoed around the room. Her lips hadn’t moved as she spoke, but she smiled as if well pleased. The silver face warped into curiosity. “You have called me? You wish to travel?”

Richard sprang to his feet. “Yes. Travel. I wish to travel.”

The pleasant smile returned. “Come, then. We will travel.”

Richard brushed the stone dust from his hands onto his shirt. “How? How do we… travel?”

The silver brow drew together. “You have not traveled before?”

Richard shook his head. “No. But I need to now. I need to get to the Old World.”

“Ah. I have been there often. Come, and we will travel.”

Richard hesitated. “What do I do? What do you want me to do?”

A hand formed up and touched the top of the wall. “Come to me,” the voice said, echoing around the room. “I will take you.”

“How long does it take?”

The frown returned. “Long? From here to there. That long. I am long enough. I have been there.”

“I mean… hours? Days? Weeks?”

She didn’t seem to understand. “The other travelers never spoke of this.”

“Then it must not take very long. Kolo never mentioned it, either.” The journal could be frustrating at times because Kolo never explained what was, to his people, common knowledge. He hadn’t been trying to teach, or pass on information.

“Kolo?”

Richard pointed at the bones. “I don’t know his name. I call him Kolo.”

The face stretched out of the well to look over the wall. “I do not remember seeing this.”

“Well, he’s dead. He didn’t look like that before.” Richard decided he better not explain who Kolo was or she might remember and be upset. He didn’t need any emotion, he needed to get to Kahlan. “I’m in a hurry. I’d appreciate it if we could hurry.”

“Step closer so I may determine if you can travel.”

Richard moved up to the wall and stood still while the quicksilver hand came out to touch his forehead. He flinched back. It was warm. He had expected cold. He returned to the hand and let the palm glide over his forehead.

“You can travel,” the sliph said, “You have both sides required. But you will die if you are like this.”

“What do you mean, ‘like this?’”

The quicksilver hand lowered beside him, pointing at the sword, but being careful not to get too close. “That object of magic is incompatible with life in the sliph. With that magic in me, any life also in me will be ended.”

“You mean I must leave it here?”

“If you wish to travel, you must, or you will die.”

Richard was decidedly uneasy about leaving the Sword of Truth unguarded, especially after learning of the men with families who had died to make it. He pulled the baldric off over his head and stared at the scabbard in his hands. He looked over his shoulder at the mriswith watching him. He could ask his mriswith friend to guard the sword.

No. He could ask no one to take the responsibility of guarding something so dangerous and coveted. The Sword of Truth was his responsibility, not anyone else’s.

Richard drew the sword from the scabbard, letting the clear ring of its steel reverberate around the room, die out slowly. The rage of the magic didn’t die out, though; it thundered through him.

He held up the blade, looking down its length. He could feel the raised gold wire of the word TRUTH biting into his palm. What was he to do? He needed to go to Kahlan. He needed to have the sword be safe in his absence.

It came to him through the call of need.

He turned the sword down, gripping the hilt in both hands. With a grunt of effort powered by the magic, by the storms of fury it engendered, he thrust the sword downward.

Sparks and stone chips flew as Richard drove the sword up to its hilt into a huge stone block of the floor. When he took his hands away, he could still feel the magic within him. He had to leave the sword, but he still had the magic; he was the true Seeker.

“I’m still linked to the sword’s magic. I retain the magic within me. Will that kill me?”

“No. Only that which engenders the magic is deadly, not that which receives it.”

Richard climbed up on the stone wall, suddenly beginning to worry about this. No, he had to do it. He needed to.

“Skin brother.” Richard turned to the mriswith when it called to him. “You are without a weapon. Take this.” It tossed one of its three-bladed knives up to Richard. As it arced gently through the air, Richard caught it by the handle. The side guards lay against each side of his wrist as he grasped the weapon’s crossways handgrip in his fist. It felt surprisingly good in his hand, like an extension of his arm.

“The yabree will sing to you, soon.”

Richard nodded. “Thank you.”

The mriswith returned a slow smile.

Richard turned to the sliph. “I don’t know if I can hold my breath long enough.”

“I told you, I am long enough to reach where we travel.”

“No, I mean I need air.” He made a display of inhaling and exhaling. “I need to breathe.”

“You breathe me.”

He listened to her voice echo around the room. “What?”

“To live when you travel, you must breathe me. The first time you travel, you will be afraid, but you must do this. Those who do not, die in me. Do not be afraid; I will keep you alive when you breathe me. When we reach the other place, you must then breathe me out, and breathe in the air. You will be just as afraid to do that as you will be to breathe me, but you must do it or you will die.”

Richard stared incredulously. Breathe this quicksilver? Could he bring himself to do such a thing?

He had to get to Kahlan. She was in danger. He had to do this. He needed to do this.

Richard swal

lowed, and then took a deep, sweet breath. “All right, I’m ready to go. What do I do?”

“You do not do. I do.”

A liquid silver arm came up and slipped around him, its warm, undulating grip compressing to grasp him. The arm lifted him off the wall and plunged him down into the silver froth.

Richard had sudden a vision: he remembered Mrs. Rencliff being pulled under the raging floodwater.

47

Verna blinked in the bright light of a lamp when the door opened. It felt as if her heart rose into her throat. It seemed too soon for Leoma to return. Already, she was quivering with dread, tears welling up in her eyes, and Leoma hadn’t even begun the test of pain.

“Get in here,” Leoma snapped to someone.

Verna sat up and saw a small, thin woman move into the doorway. “Why do I have to do this?” complained a familiar voice. “I don’t want to clean her room. This isn’t part of my job!”

“I have to work in here with her, and the smell is near to making me go blind, now get yourself in here and clean up some of this stink, or I’ll lock you in here with her just to teach you proper respect for a Sister.”

Grumbling, the woman waddled into the room, lugging her heavy bucket of soapy water. “Stinks it does,” she announced. “Stinks with the likes of her.” The bucket thumped down on the floor. “Filthy Sister of the Dark.”

“Just get some soap and water around this palace, and be quick about it. I have work to do.”

Verna looked up to see Millie staring at her. “Millie…”

Verna turned her face away but not in time as Millie spat at her. She wiped the spittle off her cheek with the back of her hand.

“Filthy scum. To think I trusted you. To think I respected you as the Prelate. And all the time you served the Nameless One. You can rot in here for all I care. The place stinks with your filthy walking corpse. I hope they flail the hide off—”

“Enough,” Leoma said. “Just clean up and then you can remove yourself from her loathsome presence.”

Millie grunted in disgust. “Won’t be soon enough for me.”