Soul of the Fire (Sword of Truth 5)

She looked up, waiting for Ann to argue. Instead, Ann said, “You just think on it, Alessandra. You just think on it.”

Sister Alessandra gathered up the bowl. “I’d best be going back.”

“Thank you for coming, Alessandra. Thank you for the soup. And thank you for sitting with me. It was nice to be with you, again.”

Sister Alessandra nodded and ducked out of the tent.

50

Although it was hardly noticeable, the grassy ground stretching to the horizon before Beata’s Dominie Dirtch was slightly higher than the ground to each side of the enormous stone weapon, and so provided firmer footing, especially for horses. After the recent rains the gentle swale to the right was muddy. To the left it wasn’t any better. Because of the unique lay of the land, especially after rain, people tended to approach Beata’s post, her Dominie Dirtch, more often than others.

There weren’t many, but those in the area traveling into Anderith from the grasslands of the wilds were inclined to come to her station first. Beata enjoyed being able to be in charge for a change, to pass judgment on people and say if they could enter. If she thought they looked like people who should not be let in, she sent them on to a border station, where they could apply for entry with the station guards.

It felt good to be the one in control of important matters, instead of being helpless. Now, she decided things.

It was exciting, too, when travelers came through—something different, a chance to talk to people from afar, or to see their strange dress. There were rarely more than two or three people traveling together. But they looked up to her; she was in charge.

This bright sunny morning, though, Beata’s heart hammered against her ribs. This time, those who approached were different. This time, there were considerably more than a few. This time, it looked like a true threat.

“Carine,” Beata ordered, “stand ready at the striker.”

The Haken woman squinted over at her. “You sure, Sergeant?” Carine had terrible eyesight; she rarely saw anything beyond thirty paces, and these people were off at the horizon.

It was something Beata had never done before, ordering out the striker. At least, not when people approached. They practiced taking it out, of course, but she’d never ordered it out. If she wasn’t there, the ones on duty were supposed to take it out if they judged a threat approached, but with Beata there, it was up to her to order it readied. She was in charge. They depended on her.

Since the terrible accident, they’d added an extra bar across the rack where the striker stood, even though they knew it wasn’t the striker that had rung the weapon. No one told them to do it; Beata just felt better with another restraint on the striker. It made them feel like they were doing something about the accident, even if they weren’t, really.

No one knew why all the Dominie Dirtch had rung.

Beata wiped her sweaty palms on her hips. “I’m sure. Do it.”

Other times, when people approached, it was easy enough to tell they were harmless. Traders with a cart, some of the nomadic people of the wilds wanting to trade with the soldiers stationed at the border—Beata never let them through—merchants taking an unusual route for one reason or another, even some special Ander guard troops returning from far patrols.

Those Ander guard troops weren’t regular army soldiers. They were special. They were men only, and they looked to Beata like they were used to dealing with trouble of one sort or another. They paid no heed to regular Anderith soldiers, like Beata.

She’d ordered them to stop, once, as they approached. Beata knew who they were, because Captain Tolbert had instructed her and her squad about the special Ander guard troops, and told them to let the men pass at will if they came by. She’d only wanted to ask them, being fellow soldiers and all, if they needed anything.

They didn’t stop when she ordered it. The man leading simply smirked as he rode past with his column of big men.

These people who approached, though, were not guard troops. Beata didn’t know what to make of them, except they had the look of a serious threat. She could make out hundreds of mounted soldiers in dark uniforms spreading out as they halted.

Even from a distance, it was a formidable sight.

Beata glanced to her side, and saw Carine drawing back the striker. Annette seized the shaft to help strike the Dominie Dirtch.

Beata sprang toward them and caught the shaft of the striker before they could swing it.

“No order was given! What’s the matter with you? Stand down.”

“But Sergeant,” Annette complained, “they’re soldiers—a lot of soldiers—and they aren’t ours. I can tell that much.”

Beata shoved the woman back. “They’re giving the signal. Can’t you see?”

“But, Sergeant Beata,” Annette whined, “they aren’t our people. They’ve no business—”

“You don’t even know their business yet!” Beata was frightened and angry that Carine and Annette had almost rung the weapon on their own. “Are you crazy? You don’t even know who they are. You could be killing innocent people.

“You’re both going to stand an extra duty tonight and for the next week for not following orders. Do you understand?”

Annette hung her head. Carine saluted, not knowing how she was supposed to react to such discipline. Beata would have been angry at any of her squad trying to wrongly ring the Dominie Dirtch, but deep down inside, she was glad it was the two Haken women, and not one of the Anders.

On the horizon, a person on horseback waved a white flag on the end of a pole, or lance. Beata didn’t know the distance the Dominie Dirtch could kill. Maybe if Carine and Annette had rung it, it wouldn’t have harmed the people out there, but after what happened to Turner, she hoped never to see the weapon rung while people were in front of it—unless they clearly were attacking.

Beata watched as the strange troops waited where they were while only a few people approached. Those were the rules, the way Beata and her squad were taught. People had to wave a flag of some sort, and if there were many, only a few were supposed to approach to state their business and ask permission to pass.

It wasn’t a risk to have a few people approach. The Dominie Dirtch could kill an enemy even if they were only one step away, out in front of it. They would still die. How close people came was really irrelevant—so was the number, for that matter.

Four people, two on foot and two on horseback, came forward, leaving the rest behind. As they got closer, she could see it was two men and two women. One man and woman rode, another pair walked. There was something about the woman on horseback…

When Beata realized who the woman had to be, her heart felt as if it had leaped up into her throat.

“You see?” Beata said to Carine and Annette. “Can you imagine if you’d rung that thing? Can you imagine?”

The two, jaws agape, stared out at the approaching people. Beata’s knees trembled at the thought of what had almost happened.

Beata turned and shook a fist at the two. “Put that thing away. And don’t you dare go near the Dominie Dirtch! Do you understand?”

Both saluted. Beata turned and raced down the steps two at a time. In her whole life, she never imagined anything like this.

She never imagined she would actually meet the Mother Confessor herself.

She gaped, along with the rest of her squad who came out to see, as the woman in the long white dress rode forward. One man rode to her right. A man and woman were on foot. The woman was pregnant. The man on foot, on the Mother Confessor’s left, was dressed in loose clothes of no particular style. He had a sword, but kept it sheathed.

The man riding on the Mother Confessor’s right was something else entirely. Beata had never seen such a man, all dressed in black, with a golden cape billowing out behind. The sight took her breath.

Beata wondered if it could be the man she’d heard was to marry the Mother Confessor: Lord Rahl. He certainly looked a lord. He was just about the most imposing-looking

man Beata had ever seen.

Beata shouted to the two up on the platform. “Get down here!”

The two women dashed down the steps and Beata lined them up with the rest of her squad. Corporal Marie Fauvel, Estelle Ruffin, and Emmeline stood to Beata’s right. The two from up on the platform joined the three Ander men, Norris, Karl, and Bryce on her left. They all formed up in a straight line, watching as the four people came right up to them.

As the Mother Confessor dismounted, without anyone needing to issue orders, Beata and her whole squad fell to their knees and bowed their heads. On her way to her knees, Beata had seen the Mother Confessor’s beautiful white dress and long fall of gorgeous brown hair. Beata had never seen hair such as that, so long and elegant looking. She was used to seeing dark Ander hair, or red Haken hair, so hair that shone honey brown in the sunlight was such an extraordinarily rare sight that it made the woman look almost other than human.

Beata was glad to have her head bowed, so afraid was she to meet the Mother Confessor’s gaze. Only profound fear had prevented Beata from staring in awe.

All her life she had heard stories about the power of the Mother Confessor, about the feats of magic she could do, about how she could turn people to stone with a look if she didn’t like them, or other things far worse.

Beata gulped air, panting, on the verge of panic. She was just a Haken girl, suddenly feeling very out of place. She never expected to find herself before the Mother Confessor.

“Rise, my children,” said a voice from above.

Just the sound of it, how gentle, how clear, how seemingly kind it was, greatly eased Beata’s fear. She never thought the Mother Confessor would have a voice so… so womanly. Beata had always thought it might be a voice like a spirit, screeching out from the world of the dead.