Temple of the Winds (Sword of Truth 4)

At least it was silver. She didn’t know why that mattered to her, but it did.

“You have books here,” Captain Mallack said. “Are there prophecies among them?”

The Abbot should have kept his mouth closed, but she didn’t want to die to protect the books. Besides, these men would tear the place apart and find them anyway; the books weren’t hidden. The city had been thought safe from invasion, after all.

“Yes.”

“The emperor wants all books brought to him. You will show us where they are.”

Clarissa swallowed. “Of course.”

“How’s it going, boys?” came an amicable voice from behind the men. “Everything in order? You look to have matters well in hand.”

The three men turned. A vigorous older man filled the doorway. A full head of straight white hair hung to his broad shoulders. He was wearing high boots, brown trousers, and a ruffled white shirt under an open dark green vest. The hem of his heavy, dark brown cape hovered just above the floor. A sword was sheathed in an elegant scabbard at his hip.

It was the prophet.

“Who are you?” Captain Mallack growled.

The prophet casually flipped his cape back over a shoulder.

“A man in need of a slave.” He shouldered one of the men out of his way as he strode up to Clarissa. He grasped her jaw in a big hand and turned her head this way and that. “This one will do. How much do you want for her?”

The bald-headed Captain Mallack snatched a fistful of white shirt. “The slaves belong to the Order. They are all the property of the emperor.”

The prophet scowled down at the hand on his shirt. He slapped it away. “Mind the shirt, friend; your hands are dirty.”

“They’re going to be bloody in a moment! Who are you? What’s your trade?”

One of the other men put a knife to the prophet’s ribs. “Answer Captain Mallack’s question, or die. What’s your trade?”

The prophet dismissed the question with a flip of a hand.

“Not one you would be interested in. Now, how much for the slave? I can pay handsomely. You boys might as well make something for yourselves out of it. I never begrudge a man his profit.”

“We have all the plunder we want. It’s here for the taking.” The captain glanced to the man who had put the ring through her lip. “Kill him.”

The prophet casually swept a staying hand before them. “I mean you no harm, boys.” He leaned down a little closer to their faces. “Won’t you reconsider?”

Captain Mallack opened his mouth, but then he paused. No words came out. Clarissa heard distressed, liquid rumbling from the guts of the three men. Their eyes widened.

“What’s wrong?” the prophet asked. “Is everything all right? Now, how about my offer, boys? How much do you want for her?”

The three men’s faces twisted with discomfort. Clarissa smelled an unpleasant odor.

“Well,” Captain Mallack said in a strained voice, “I think…” He grimaced. “We, ah, we have to go.”

The prophet bowed. “Why, thank you, boys. Off with you, then. Give my regards to my friend, Emperor Jagang, won’t you?”

“But what about him?” one of the men asked the captain as they edged away.

“Someone else will be along shortly and kill him,” the captain said, as all three of them shuffled bow-legged through the door.

The prophet turned to her, his smile evaporating as he regarded her with a hawklike gaze.

“Well, have you reconsidered my offer?”

Clarissa stood quivering. She wasn’t sure who she feared more, the invaders or the prophet. They would hurt her. She didn’t know what the prophet would do to her. He might tell her how she was to die. He had told her how a whole city was going to die, and it was coming to pass. She feared that if he said something, he could make it happen. Prophets commanded magic.

“Who are you?” she whispered.

He bowed dramatically. “Nathan Rahl. I have already told you that I am a prophet. Forgive me for overlooking the introductions, but we don’t exactly have a great deal of time.”

His penetrating blue eyes frightened her, but she made herself ask, “Why do you want a slave?”

“Well, not for the same as they.”

“I don’t want—”

He snatched her arm and forced her to the window. “Look out there. Look!”

For the first time, she lost control of the tears, and they poured out in forlorn sobs. “Dear Creator…”

“He’s not coming to help you. No one can help those people, now. I can help you, but you have to agree to help me in return. I’ll not risk my life and lives of tens of thousands of others on you if you are of no use to me. I’ll find another who would rather go with me than be a slave to these beasts.”

She made herself look into his eyes. “Will it be dangerous?”

“Yes.”

“Will I die helping you?”

“Maybe. Maybe you’ll live. If you die, you will die doing something noble: trying to prevent suffering worse than this.”

“Can’t you help them? Can’t you stop this?”

“No. What is done is done. We can only strive to shape the future—we cannot alter the past.

“You have an inkling of the dangers in the future. You once had a prophet living here, and he wrote down some of his prophecies. He was not an important prophet, but he left them here, where you fools view them as revelation of divine will.

“They are not. They are simply the words of potential. The same as if I tell you that you have it within your power to choose your destiny. You can stay and be a whore to this army, or you can risk your life doing something worthwhile.”

She trembled under hi

s powerful grip on her arm. “I… I’m afraid.”

His azure eyes softened. “Clarissa, would it help if I told you that I am terrified?”

“You are? You seem so sure of yourself.”

“I am only sure of what I can try to do to help. Now, we must go to your archives before these men get a look at the books.”

Clarissa turned, glad for the excuse to withdraw from his gaze. “Down here. I’ll show you the way.”

She led him down the spiral stone steps at the back of the room. They weren’t often used because they were so narrow and hard to negotiate. The prophet who had constructed the abbey was a slight man, and the stairs were built to suit him. As tight as they were for her, she couldn’t imagine how this prophet could pass down them, but he did.

On the dark landing below, he lit a little flame above his palm. She paused in astonishment, wondering at why it did not burn his flesh. He urged her to hurry on. The low wooden door opened into a short hall. The stairs at the center led down to the archives. The door at the end of the hall led to the main room of the abbey. Beyond that door, people were being murdered.

She turned down the stairs, taking them two at a time. Nathan caught her arm when she slipped, keeping her from a fall. He made a gentle joke about that not being the danger he’d warned her about.

In the dark room below he cast out a hand, and the lamps hanging on wooden pilasters sprang to flame. His brow drew down as he surveyed the shelves lining the walls of the room. Two sturdy but unexceptional tables provided a place to read and to write.

While he strode to the shelves on the left, she frantically tried to think of a place she could hide from the men of the Order. There must be some place. Surely the invaders would leave, sooner or later, and then she could come out and be safe.

She was afraid of the prophet. He expected things of her. She didn’t know what those things were, but she didn’t think she had the courage to do them. She just wanted to be left alone.

The prophet strode past the shelves, stopping here and there to put a finger atop a spine and pull out a volume. He didn’t open the books he removed, but tossed them on the floor in the center of the room and went on to the next. The books he pulled out all contained prophecies. He didn’t select all the books of prophecy, by any means, but prophecies were the only ones he chose.