Blood of the Fold

by Terry Goodkind

  “Oh yes, please do,” Verna said, holding an inviting hand out toward her desk. “Leoma and Philippa will be pleased you brought them to me.”

  “Prelate?” Phoebe said, her round face set in puzzlement.

  “Oh, you know what I mean. My advisors of course like to make sure the palace runs as smooth as a new greased wheel. Leoma and Philippa fret over the task.”

  “Task?” Dulcinia asked, her frown growing.

  “The reports,” Verna said, as if it should be obvious. “They wouldn’t want ones so new at the job as you two to be undertaking such responsibility. Maybe if you continue to work hard, and prove yourselves, I will someday trust you with them. If they think it wise, of course.”

  Dulcinia’s frown darkened. “What did Philippa say, Prelate? What aspect of my experience does she find inadequate?”

  Verna shrugged. “Don’t misunderstand me, Sister. My advisors haven’t derided you in an way; they are most scrupulous about praising you, in fact. It’s just that they’ve made it clear that the reports are important, and have urged me to see to them myself. I’m sure they will come around, in a few years, and have the confidence to advise me when you are ready.”

  “Ready for what?” Phoebe asked in bewilderment.

  Verna waggled her hand toward the stacks of reports. “Well, it’s the duty of the Prelate’s administrators to read the reports and dispose of them. The Prelate only needs to occasionally oversee the disposition, to confirm that her administrators are doing a proper job. Since my advisors urged me to handle the reports myself, I assumed it was obvious that they… well, I’m sure they meant no offense, seeing as how they always compliment the both of you.” Verna clicked her tongue. “Though they do then go on to remind me that I should handle the reports myself, in the best interest of the palace.”

  Dulcinia stiffened with indignation. “We already read those reports—every one—to make sure they’re in order. We know more about them than anyone. The Creator knows I see those reports in my sleep! We know when something is amiss, and note it for you, don’t we? We bring tallies to your attention when they don’t reconcile, don’t we? Those two have no business telling you that you must do it yourself.”

  Verna strolled to a bookshelf, busying herself with a fictitious search for a particular volume. “I’m sure they only have the best interest of the palace in mind, Sister. You being so new at the post, and all. I think you read too much into their advice.”

  “I’m as old as Philippa! I have as much experience as she!”

  “Sister, she made no accusation,” Verna said in her most humble tone as she glanced over her shoulder.

  “She advised you to handle the reports, didn’t she?”

  “Well, yes, but…”

  “She’s wrong. The both of them are wrong.”

  “They are?” Verna asked, turning away from the bookcase.

  “Of course.” Dulcinia looked to Phoebe. “We could have those reports, the whole lot of them, worked, ordered, assessed, and ruled on in a matter of a week or two, couldn’t we, Sister Phoebe.”

  Phoebe lifted her nose. “I should think we could have it done in under a week. We know more about how to handle those reports than anyone.” Her face flushed as she glanced to Verna. “Except you, of course, Prelate.”

  “Really? It’s a huge responsibility. I wouldn’t want to put you in over your heads. You have only been at the jobs a short time. Do you think you are already seasoned enough?”

  Dulcinia huffed. “I should say we are.” She marched to the desk and scooped up a huge stack. “We’ll see about this. You just come and check any we’ve done, and you’ll find you would have handled matters in the exact same manner we do. We know what we’re doing. You’ll see.” She scowled. “And those two will see, too.”

  “Well, if you really think you can handle it, I’m willing to give you a chance. You are my administrators, after all.”

  “I should say we are.” Dulcinia tilted her head toward the desk. “Phoebe, grab a stack.”

  Phoebe lifted a large column of reports, staggering back a step to keep them balanced. “I’m sure the Prelate has more important matters to attend to than doing work her administrators can just as easily handle.”

  Verna folded her hands at her belt. “Well, I did appoint you because I believed in your abilities. I guess it only fair that I allow you to prove them. After all, a Prelate’s administrators are of vital importance to the running of the palace.”

  Dulcinia’s lips spread in a cunning smile. “You’ll see just how vital we are to helping you, Prelate. And so will your advisors.”

  Verna lifted her eyebrows. “I’m already impressed, Sisters. Well, I do have some matters to look into. What with being so busy with reports, I’ve not had a chance to check up on my advisors, and make sure that they’re handling their duties properly. I guess it’s about time I did that.”

  “Yes,” Dulcinia said as she followed Phoebe out the door, “I think that would be wise.”

  Verna let out a huge sigh when the door closed. She had thought she would never see the end of those reports. She gave a mental thank-you to Prelate Annalina. She realized she was grinning, and straightened her face.

  Warren didn’t answer her knock, and when she peeked into his room she saw his bed didn’t look slept in. Verna winced when she remembered that she had ordered him to the vaults to link up those prophecies. Poor Warren had probably been sleeping with his books, doing as she had commanded. She recalled with shame how she had spoken to him when she had been so angry after her talk with the gravedigger. Now, she was relieved and overjoyed to know that the Prelate and Nathan were alive, but at the time she had been livid and had taken it out on Warren.

  Instead of causing a stir, she descended the stairs and corridors without an escort to empty the vaults for her. She thought it would be safer if she were to simply pay a short visit to the vaults on a minor inspection and tell Warren to come to her at their meeting spot by the river. This information was far too dangerous to convey even in the safety of the empty vaults.

  Maybe Warren could come up with an idea of how they could unmask the Sisters of the Dark. Warren’s cleverness was surprising at times. She kissed her ring in an attempt to banish the anguish when she remembered her duty to send him away. She had to get him away at once.

  With a sad smile, she thought that maybe he could get some wrinkles on his annoyingly smooth face, and catch up with her while she remained under the palace’s spell.

  Sister Becky, her pregnancy becoming obvious to all, was lecturing a group of older novices on the intricacies of prophecy. She was pointing out the danger of false prophecy because of forks that had been taken in the past. Once an event in a prophecy had taken place, and if it carried an “either or” fork, then the prophecy had been resolved by events; one branch of the fork had proven true, and the other branch then became a false prophecy.

  The difficulty was that yet other prophecies were linked to each branch, but when they were given it wasn’t yet decided which fork would come to pass. Once resolved, any prophecy linked to the dead branch became false, too, but because it was often impossible to determine which fork many prophecies were linked to, the vaults were clogged with this dead wood.

  Verna moved to the back wall and listened for a time as the novices asked questions. It was frustrating for them to learn the scope of the problems facing one trying to work with prophecy, and how many of the things they asked had no answer. Verna now knew from what Warren had told her that the Sisters had even less understanding of the prophecies than they thought.

  Prophecy was really meant to be interpreted by a wizard whose gift possessed that aptitude. In the last thousand years, Nathan was the only wizard they had come across who had the ability to give prophecy. She now knew that he understood them in a way no Sister had ever known, except perhaps Prelate Annalina. She now knew that Warren, too, had that latent talent for prophecy.

  As Sister Becky went on with an ex
planation of linkage through key events and chronology, Verna quietly moved off toward the back rooms where Warren usually worked, but found them all empty, and their books returned to the shelves. Verna puzzled over where to look next. It had never been difficult to find Warren, but that was because he was almost always in the vaults.

  Sister Leoma met her as she was returning up the aisles between the long rows of shelves. Her advisor smiled in greeting and bowed her head of long, straight white hair, tied behind with a golden ribbon. Verna detected worry in the creases of her face.

  “Good morning, Prelate. The Creator’s blessing on this new day.”

  Verna returned the warm smile. “Thank you, Sister. A fine day it is, too. How are the novices doing?”

  Leoma glanced off toward the tables with the young women sitting around it in concentration. “They will make fine Sisters. I’ve been observing the lessons, and there’s not an inattentive one in the lot.” Without returning her gaze to Verna, she asked, “Have you come to find Warren?”

  Verna twisted the ring on her finger. “Yes. There were a few matters I thought to ask him to check for me. Have you seen him about?”

  When Leoma turned back at last, her creases had deepened into true concern. “Verna, I’m afraid Warren is not here.”

  “I see. Well, do you know where I could find him?”

  She let out a deep breath. “What I mean, Verna, is that Warren is gone.”

  “Gone? What do you mean gone?”

  Sister Leoma’s gaze drifted away to the shadows among the shelves. “I mean he has left the palace. For good.”

  Verna’s mouth dropped opened. “Are you sure? You must be mistaken. Perhaps you…”

  Leoma smoothed back a wisp of white hair. “Verna, he came to me, night before last, and told me he was leaving.”

  Verna wet her lips. “Why didn’t he come to me? Why wouldn’t he tell the Prelate that he was leaving?”

  Leoma drew her shawl tighter. “Verna, I’m sorry to have to be the one to tell you, but he said you and he had words, and he thought that it would be for the best if he were to leave the palace. For now, at least. He made me promise that I wouldn’t tell you for a couple of days so he could be away. He didn’t want you coming after him.”

  “Coming after him!” Verna’s fists tightened. “What makes him think…” Verna’s head was spinning, trying to understand, and suddenly trying to call back words that were days ago uttered. “But… did he say when he would be back? The palace needs his talent. He knows about the books down here. He can’t just up and leave!”

  Leoma glanced away again. “I’m sorry, Verna, but he’s gone. He said that he didn’t know when, or if, he would return. He said that he thought it would be for the best, and that you would come to see that, too.”

  “Did he say anything else,” she whispered hopefully.

  She shook her head.

  “And you just let him go? Didn’t you try to stop him?”

  “Verna,” Leoma said in a gentle tone, “Warren had his collar off. You yourself released him from his Rada’Han. We can’t force a wizard to remain at the palace against his will when you’ve released him. He is a free man. It is his choice, not ours.”

  It all came over her in an icy wave of tingling dread. She had released him. How could she expect him to remain to help her when she treated him in such a humiliating fashion? He was her friend, and she had dressed him down as if he were a first-year boy. He was not a boy. He was a man. His own man.

  And now he was gone.

  Reason told her that the Sisters of the Dark might have taken him, but in her heart she could only blame herself.

  Verna forced herself to speak. “Thank you, Leoma, for telling me.”

  Leoma nodded and after giving Verna’s shoulder a squeeze of reassurance, walked back toward the lessons in the distance.

  Warren was gone.

  Verna’s faltering steps bore her to one of the little rooms, and after the stone door had closed, she sank weakly into a chair. Her head fell into her arms, and she began to weep, realizing only now how much Warren had meant to her.

  32

  Kahlan leaped out of the wagon bed, rolling through the snow when she landed. She sprang to her feet and scrambled toward the shrieks as rocks still crashed down around her, rebounding into the trees on the low side of the narrow trail, snapping branches and thudding into the huge trunks of the old pines.

  She jammed her back against the side of the wagon. “Help me!” she screamed to men already in a dead run toward her.

  Arriving only seconds after her, they threw themselves up against the wagon, taking up the weight. The man cried out louder.

  “Wait, wait, wait!” It sounded like they were killing him. “Just hold it there. Don’t lift anymore.”

  The half dozen young soldiers strained to hold the wagon where it was. The rock that had piled down on top had added considerably to the burden.

  “Orsk!” she called out.

  “Yes, Mistress?”

  Kahlan started. In the darkness, she hadn’t seen the big, one-eyed D’Haran soldier standing right behind her.

  “Orsk, help them hold the wagon up. Don’t lift it—just hold it still.” She turned to the dark trail behind as Orsk muscled his way in beside the others and clamped his massive hands onto the lower edge of the wagon. “Zedd! Somebody get Zedd! Hurry!”

  Pushing her long hair back over her wolf-hide mantle, Kahlan knelt beside the young man under the axle hub. It was too dark to see how badly he was injured, but by his panting grunts, she feared it was serious. She couldn’t figure out why he cried out louder when they started to lift the weight off him.

  Kahlan found his hand and took it in both of hers. “Hold on, Stephens. Help’s coming.”

  She grimaced when he crushed her hand in his grip as he let out a wail. He clutched her hand as if he were hanging from a cliff and her hand was the only thing keeping him from falling into death’s dark grasp. She vowed that she would not take her hand back even if he broke it.

  “Forgive me… my queen… for slowing us.”

  “It was an accident. It wasn’t your doing.” His legs squirmed in the snow. “Try to stay still.” With her free hand, she brushed hair back from his brow. He quieted a bit at her touch, so she held the hand to the side of his icy face. “Please, Stephens, try to be still. I won’t let them put the weight down on you. I promise. We’ll get you out from under there in a just a moment, and the wizard will set you back to right.”

  She could feel him nod under her hand. No one near had a torch, and in the feeble moonlight ghosting through the thick branches she couldn’t see what the problem was. It seemed that lifting the wagon caused him more pain than when it was on him.

  Kahlan heard a horse galloping up and saw a dark figure leap off as the horse skidded to a halt, twisting its head against the pull of the reins. When the man hit the ground, a flame ignited in his upturned sticklike hand, lighting his thin face and mass of wavy white hair sticking out in disarray.

  “Zedd! Hurry!”

  When Kahlan looked down in the sudden, harsh illumination, she saw the extent of the problem, and felt a wave of nausea surge up like a hot hammer.

  Zedd’s calm, hazel eyes glided over the scene in quick appraisal as he knelt on the other side of Stephens.

  “The wagon grazed a piling timber holding back the scree,” she explained.

  The trail was narrow and treacherous, and in the darkness, on the curve, they hadn’t seen the piling in the snow. The timber must have been old and rotted. When the hub bumped it, the timber snapped, and the beam it had supported tumbled down, allowing a sluice of rock to come down on them.

  As the rock drove the back of the wagon sideways, the iron rim of the rear wheel caught in a frozen rut beneath the snow and the spokes of the rear wheel snapped. The hub knocked Stephens from his feet and came down atop him.

  Kahlan could now see in the light that one of the splintered spokes jutting from the h
ub canted at the end of the broken axle had impaled the young man. When they tried to hoist the wagon, it lifted him by that spoke driven at an angle up under his ribs.

  “I’m sorry, Kahlan,” Zedd said.

  “What do you mean you’re sorry? You must…”

  Kahlan realized that although her hand still throbbed, the grip on it had gone slack. She looked down and saw the mask of death. He was now in the spirits’ hands.

  The pall of death sent a shudder through her. She knew what it was to feel the touch of death. She felt it now. She felt it every waking moment. In sleep it saturated her dreams with its numb touch. Her icy fingers reflexively brushed at her face, trying to wipe away the ever-present tingle, almost like a hair tickling her flesh, but there was never anything there to brush away. It was the teasing touch of magic, of the death spell, that she felt.

  Zedd stood, letting the flame float to a torch that a man nearby was holding out, igniting it into wavering flame. While Zedd held one hand out as if in command to the wagon, he motioned the men away with his other. They cautiously took their shoulders away, but remained poised to catch the wagon if it suddenly fell again. Zedd turned his palm up and, in harmony with his arm’s movement, the wagon obediently rose into the air another couple of feet.

  “Pull him out,” Zedd ordered in a somber tone.

  The men seized Stephens by his shoulders and hauled him off the spoke. When he was out from under the axle, Zedd turned his hand over and allowed the wagon to settle to the ground.

  A man fell to his knees beside Kahlan. “it’s my fault,” he cried in anguish. “I’m sorry. Oh, dear spirits, It’s my fault.”

  Kahlan gripped the driver’s coat and urged him to his feet. “If it’s anyone’s fault, then I’m to blame. I shouldn’t have been trying to make distance in the dark. I should have… It’s not your fault. It was an accident, that’s all.”

  She turned away, closing her eyes, still hearing the phantoms of his screams. As was their routine, they hadn’t used torches so as not to reveal their presence. There was no telling what eyes might see a force of men moving through the passes. While there was no evidence of pursuit, it was foolhardy to be overconfident. Stealth was life.