The Pillars of Creation (Sword of Truth 7)

The crowds thinned as she reached the edge of the open-air market. The temporary lane she was on dwindled to nothing as it reached the last stall, occupied by a lanky man selling leather tack and piles of used wagon fittings. There was nothing beyond his heavily loaded wagon full of pieces and parts but desolate open land. An endless file of people moved along the road going south. She could see a haze of dust in the air marking the more distant sections of the road south, along with others branching off to the southwest and southeast. No road went west.

A few people at the fringe of the marketplace glanced her way as she struck out, alone, toward the lowering sun. While some people might have looked her way, none followed into the wasteland that was the Azrith Plains. Jennsen was relieved to be alone. Being around people had proven as dangerous as she had always feared. The market scene was quickly left behind as she marched west.

Jennsen slid her hand in under her cloak, feeling the reassuring presence of her knife. Lying against her body, it was warm to the touch, as if it were a living thing, rather than silver and steel.

At least the thief had taken her money and not her knife. Given a choice of the two, she would rather have the knife. She had lived her whole life without much money, her and her mother providing for themselves. But a knife was vital to that means of survival. If you lived in a palace, you needed money. If you lived out-of-doors, you needed a knife, and she had never seen a better knife than this one, despite its provenience.

Her fingers idly traced the ornate letter “R” on the silver handle. Some people needed a knife even if they lived in a palace, she guessed.

She turned back to look, and was relieved to see that no one followed her. The plateau had shrunk in the distance, until all the people below it looked like slow little ants moving about. It was good to be away from the place, but she knew she would have to return, after seeing Althea, if she was to rescue Sebastian.

As she walked backward for a spell to gain a reprieve from the icy wind in her face, her gaze rose along the road switching back and forth up the steep cliffs, to the massive stone wall surrounding the palace itself. Coming in from the south, she hadn’t seen the road. At one place along its length a bridge spanned a particularly treacherous gap in the rock. The bridge was pulled up. As if the cliff itself were not deterrent enough, the high stone walls around the People’s Palace would defeat any attempt to get inside unless you were allowed in.

She hoped it would not be that hard to get in to see Althea.

Somewhere in that vast complex, Sebastian was held prisoner. She wondered if he thought himself forever abandoned, as Betty probably did. She whispered a prayer to the good spirits asking that he not give up hope, and that the good spirits somehow let him know she was going to get him out.

When she tired of walking backward, and of seeing the People’s Palace, she turned around. Then, she had to endure the wind buffeting her, sometimes ripping the breath right out of her mouth. Sharp gusts kicked the dry gritty ground up into her eyes.

The land was flat, dry, and featureless, mostly hardpan cut through here and there with a swath of coarse sandy soil. In places, the tawny landscape was stained a darker brown, as if strong tea had been stirred through. There was only occasional vegetation, and that was a low, scruffy plant, now winter brown and brittle.

Gathered to the west lay a ragged line of mountains. The one in the center looked like it might have snow on top, but it was hard to tell against the sun. She had no guess at how far it was. Being unfamiliar with such land, she found it difficult to judge distances out on the plain. It could be hours, or even days, for all she knew. At least she didn’t have to trudge through snow, as they often had to do on their way up to the People’s Palace.

Jennsen realized that, even in winter, she was going to need water. She guessed that in a swamp there would be water aplenty. She realized, too, that the woman who had given her directions said that it was a long way, but hadn’t described what was to her a long way. Maybe to her a long way was what Jennsen would consider only a brisk walk of a few hours. Maybe the woman had meant days. Jennsen whispered a prayer under her breath that it wouldn’t be days, even though she didn’t at all relish the idea of going into a swamp.

When a sound rose to rattle through the wind, she turned and saw a plume of dust rising in the distance behind her. She squinted, finally recognizing that it was a wagon coming her way.

Jennsen turned all the way around, scanning the barren country trying to see if there was any place she could hide. She didn’t like the idea of being caught out in the open all alone. It occurred to her that men from back in the open-air market might have watched her leave, and then planned to wait until she was all alone, with no one around, to come out and attack her.

She started running. Since the wagon was coming from the palace, she ran the direction she had been walking—west—toward the dark slash of mountains. As she ran, she sucked frigid gasps of air so cold it hurt her throat. The plain stretched out before her, without so much as a crack to hide in. She focused on the dark line of mountains, running for them with all her effort, but even as she ran, she knew they were too far.

Before long, Jennsen forced herself to stop. She was acting foolish. She couldn’t outrun horses. She bent at her waist, hands on her thighs, catching her breath, watching the wagon come for her. If someone was coming out to attack her, then running, using up her strength, was about as senseless a thing as she could do.

She turned back to face the sun and kept walking, but at a pace that wouldn’t wear her out. If she was going to have to fight, she should at least not be winded. Maybe it was only someone going home, and they would turn in a different direction. She had only spotted them because of the noise of the wagon and the dust it raised. They probably didn’t even see her walking.

The chilling thought washed through her: maybe a Mord-Sith had already tortured a confession out of Sebastian. Maybe one of those merciless women had already broken him. She feared to think what she would do if someone were methodically going about snapping her bones in two. Jennsen could not honestly say what she would do under such excruciating torture.

Maybe, under unendurable agony, he had given them Jennsen’s name. He knew all about her. He knew Darken Rahl was her father. He knew Richard Rahl was her half brother. He knew she wanted to go to the sorceress for help.

Maybe they had promised him they would stop if Sebastian gave her up. Could she blame him for a betrayal under such conditions?

Maybe the wagon racing toward her was full of big, grim, D’Haran soldiers come to capture her. Maybe the nightmare was only about to begin in earnest. Maybe this was the day she lived in fear of.

As tears of fright stung her eyes, Jennsen slipped her hand under her cloak and checked to be sure that her knife was free in its scabbard. She lifted it slightly, then pushed it back down, feeling its reassuring metallic click as it seated in its sheath.

The minutes dragged as she walked, waiting for the wagon to catch her. She fought to keep her fear in check and tried to run through in her mind everything her mother had taught her about using a knife. Jennsen was alone, but she was not helpless. She knew what to do. She told herself to remember that.

If there were too many men, though, nothing would help her. She recalled only too vividly how the men at her house had grabbed her, and how helpless she had then been. They had caught her by surprise, but, of course, it mattered not how, really—they had caught her. That was all that mattered. If not for Sebastian…

When she turned again to check, the wagon was bearing down on her. She planted her feet, keeping her cloak lifted open slightly so she could reach in and snatch her knife, surprising her attacker. Surprise could be her valuable ally, too, and the only one she could hope to summon.

She saw, then, a lopsided grin of straight teeth beaming at her. The big blond man drew his wagon close, scattering gravel and raising dust. As he set the brake, the dust drifted away. It was the man from market, the man be

side Irma’s place, the man who had given her the drink of wine. He was alone.

Unsure of his intent, Jennsen kept her tone curt and her knife hand at the ready. “What are you doing out here?”

He still wore the grin. “I came out to give you a ride.”

“What about your brothers?”

“I left them back at the palace.”

Jennsen didn’t trust him. He had no reason to come give her a ride. “Thank you, but I think you had better go back to your own business.” She started walking.

He hopped down off the wagon, landing with a thud. She turned to be ready, should he come at her.

“Look, I wouldn’t feel right about it,” he said.

“About what?”

“I could never forgive myself if I just stood by and let you go out here to your death—which is what it will be with no food, no water, no nothing. I thought about what you said, that there are some things that you have to do, or else life means nothing and isn’t worth living. I couldn’t live with myself if I knew you were out here going to your death.” His tenacity faltered and his voice turned more pleading. “Come on, climb up in the wagon and let me give you a ride?”

“What about your brothers? Before I found out I’d lost my money, you wouldn’t rent me a horse because you said you had to get back.”

He hooked a thumb behind his belt, resigned to having to explain himself. “Well, we’ve been doing so well at selling wine today that we made a goodly sum. Joe and Clayton were wanting to stay at the palace, anyway, and have a little fun for a change. It was that Irma, selling her spicy sausages right beside us, that did it.” He shrugged. “So, since she helped us do so well, it gives me a chance to come help you. Since she took your horses and supplies, I figure that giving you a ride is the least I can do. Kind of makes it even out a little. It’s just a ride. It’s not like I’m risking my life or something. Just a bit of help I’m offering someone who I know needs it.”

Jennsen surely could use help, but she feared to trust this stranger.

“I’m Tom,” he said, as if reading her thoughts. “I’d be grateful if you would let me do this to help you.”

“What do you mean?”

“Like you said—some things you have to do to make life a little more meaningful.” The briefest of glances took in her ringlets of red hair beneath the cloak’s hood before turning solemn. “That’s the way it would make me feel…grateful to have done something like that.”

She broke the gaze first. “I’m Jennsen. But I don’t—”

“Come along, then. I have some wine—”

“I don’t like wine. It only makes me thirsty.”

He shrugged. “I have plenty of water. I brought along some meat pies, too. They’re still hot, I bet, if you hurry and have some now.”

She studied his blue eyes, blue like her bastard father’s. Even so, this man’s eyes had a simple sincerity about them. His smile wasn’t cocky, but modest.

“Don’t you have a wife to get back to?”