Soul of the Fire (Sword of Truth 5)

The raven, as the sword came down, hurled itself off the table onto the ground and ran between the captain’s legs. Once past the man, it took wing and was gone.

“Sorry,” the captain said. “I thought… I thought it was attacking you with magic, Lord Rahl. I thought it was a thing of dark magic, come to attack you.”

Richard let out a deep breath as he gestured forgiveness to the man. The man was only trying to protect him.

“It was not evil,” Du Chaillu said in a soft voice as she and Kahlan came closer.

Richard sank back down on his stool. “No, it wasn’t.”

Kahlan and Du Chaillu stood over his shoulder, looking.

“What omen did the messenger from the spirits bring you?” the spirit woman asked.

“I don’t think it was from the spirit world,” Richard said.

He picked up the small, flat object. In the dim light, he suddenly realized what it was. He stared incredulously.

It was just like the one Sister Verna used to carry. He had seen her use it countless times.

“It’s a journey book.”

He opened the cover.

“That has to be High D’Haran,” Kahlan said of the strange script.

“Dear spirits,” Richard breathed, as he read the only two words on the first page.

“What?” Kahlan asked. “What is it. What does it say?”

“Fuer Berglendursch. You’re right. It’s High D’Haran.”

“Do you know the meaning?”

“It says, ‘The Mountain.’” Richard turned and peered up at her in the flickering candlelight. “That was Joseph Ander’s cognomen. This is Joseph Ander’s journey book. The other, the one that was destroyed, its twin, was called Mountain’s Twin.”

62

Dalton smiled as he stood at an octagonal table of rare black walnut in the reliquary in the Office of Cultural Amity, where displayed on the walls around the room were objects belonging to past Directors: robes; small tools; implements of their profession, such as pens and beautifully carved blotters; and writings. Dalton was looking over more modern writings: reports he had requested from the Directors.

Any ambivalence the Directors might feel, they kept to themselves. Publicly, they now threw themselves into the task of supporting the new Sovereign. It had been made plain to them that their very existence now depended not only upon their fealty, but upon their enthusiasm in that devotion.

As he read the script of addresses they were to deliver, Dalton was annoyed by shouts coming in through an open window overlooking the city square. It sounded like an angry mob of people. Judging by the boisterous encouragement from the crowd, he assumed it was someone delivering a diatribe against Lord Rahl and the Mother Confessor.

Following the lead of noted people such as the Directors, ordinary people had now taken to loudly voicing the tailored notions they had been fed. Even though Dalton had expected it, he never failed to find it remarkable the way he had but to say a thing enough times, through enough people, and it became the popular truth, its provenance lost as it was mimicked by ordinary people who came to believe that it was their own idea—as if original thought routinely came forth from their witless minds of clay.

Dalton let out a bitter snort of contempt. They were asses and deserved the fate they embraced. They belonged to the Imperial Order, now. Or, at least, they soon would.

He glanced out the window to see a throng making its way into the city square. The heavy rain of the night before had turned to a light drizzle, so people were coming back out. The steady downpour overnight failed to wash away the blackened places on the cobble paving in the square where the two people had burned to death.

The crowd, of course, blamed the tragedy on the magic of Lord Rahl, venting his wrath against them. Dalton had instructed his people to bitterly make the accusation, knowing the seriousness of the charge would outweigh the lack of evidence, much less the truth.

What had really happened, Dalton didn’t know. He did know this was far from the first such incident. Whatever it was, it was an appalling misfortune, but if misfortune was to happen, it could have hardly picked a better time. It had punctuated Director Prevot’s speech perfectly.

Dalton wondered if the fires had anything to do with what Franca had told him about magic failing. He didn’t see how, but he didn’t think she had told him everything, either. The woman had been behaving quite oddly of late.

At the knock, Dalton turned to the door. Rowley bowed.

“What is it?”

“Minister,” Rowley said, “the… woman is here, the one Emperor Jagang sent.”

“Where is she?”

“Down the hall. She is having tea.”

Dalton shifted his scabbard at his hip. This was not a woman to trifle with; she was said to have more power than any ordinary such woman. More power even than Franca. Jagang had assured him, though, that unlike Franca, this woman still had firm control of her power.

“Take her to the estate. Give her one of our finest rooms. If she gives you any—” Dalton recalled Franca’s talent for overhearing things. “If she gives you any complaints, see to resolving them to her satisfaction. She is a most important guest, and is to be treated as such.”

Rowley bowed. “Yes, Minister.”

Dalton saw Rowley smile with one side of his mouth. He, too, knew why the woman was there. Rowley was looking forward to it.

Dalton just wanted it done with. It would require care. They had to wait and pick their own time. They couldn’t force it, or the whole thing could come undone. If they handled it right, though, it would be a great accomplishment. Jagang would be more than grateful.

“I appreciate your generosity.”

Dalton turned at the sound of a woman’s voice. She had stepped into the doorway. Rowley backed out of her way.

She looked middle-aged, with gray hair mixing in with the black. Her simple, dowdy, dark blue dress ran from her neck, over her rather thick-boned shape, and all the way to the floor.

Her presence was dominated by a smile that only vaguely touched her lips, but was ever so evident in her brown eyes. It was as nasty a simper as Dalton had ever seen. It unashamedly proclaimed a mien of superiority. Because of the lines at the corners of her mouth and eyes, the self-satisfied smirk seemed enduringly etched on her face.

A gold ring pierced her lower lip.

“And you would be?” He asked.

“Sister Penthea.

Here to wield my talent in service to His Excellency, Emperor Jagang.”

Her smooth flow of words was laced with crystalline frost.

Dalton bowed his head. “Minister of Culture, Dalton Campbell. Thank you for coming, Sister Penthea. We are most appreciative of your courtesy in lending your unique assistance.”

She had been sent to wield her talent in service to Dalton Campbell, but he thought better of putting too fine a point on it. Dalton didn’t need to remind her she was the one with a ring through her lip; it was obvious to them both.

At the sound of screams, Dalton again glanced across the room, out the window, thinking it was the parents or family returned to see the sight of the grisly deaths the night before. People had been coming by all morning, leaving flowers or other offerings at the site of the deaths until they looked like a grotesque garden midden. Frequent wails of anguish rose up into the gray day.

Sister Penthea turned his attention to business. “I need to see the ones chosen for the deed.”

Dalton motioned with a hand. “Rowley, there, he will be one of them.”

Without word or warning, she slapped the palm of her hand to Rowley’s forehead, her fingers splayed into his red hair, grasping his head as if she might pluck it like a ripe pear. Rowley’s eyes rolled back in his head. His entire body began to tremble.

The Sister murmured thick words that had no meaning to Dalton. Each, as it oozed forth, seemed to take root in Rowley. The young man’s arms flinched when she stressed particular words.

With a last phrase, raising in intonation, she gave Rowley’s head a sharp shove. Letting out a small cry, Rowley crumpled as if his bones had dissolved.

In a moment, he sat up and shook his head. A smile told Dalton he was fine. He brushed clean his dark brown trousers as he stood, looking no different, despite his added lethality.

“The others?” she asked.

Dalton gestured dismissively. “Rowley can take you to them.”

She bowed slightly. “Good day, then, Minister. I will see to it immediately. The emperor also wished me to express his pleasure at being able to be of assistance. Either way, muscle or magic, the Mother Confessor’s fate is now sealed.”