Temple of the Winds tsot-4

by Terry Goodkind

  Kahlan sat up straighter. “What does that have to do with it?”

  “Mother Confessor, Javas Kedar, our star guide, holds great sway with the royal family. He has read the stars in the matter of our surrender, and has given his opinion that the stars hold this action with favor.

  “Before I left home, Javas Kedar told me that the stars would give sign if circumstances changed, and to heed any sign. The red moon has given me pause in our plans.”

  “The moon is not the stars.”

  “The moon is in the sky, Mother Confessor. Javas Kedar councils on the meaning of moon symbols, also.”

  Kahlan pinched the bridge of her nose between a thumb and finger as she sighed. “Tristan, are you going to allow harm to visit your people on the basis of such superstition?”

  “No, Mother Confessor. But I am bound by my honor to give heed to the beliefs of our people. Lord Rahl said that surrender would not mean that we had to give up our customs and beliefs.”

  “Tristan, you have an annoying habit of leaving out things you wish to ignore. Richard said that a land wouldn’t have to give up its customs as long as they brought harm to no one, and broke no laws common to all. You are stepping over a dangerous line.”

  “Mother Confessor, we in no way wish to circumvent his words or to step over any line. I wish only some time.”

  “Time. Time for what?”

  “Time, Mother Confessor, to assure myself that the red moon isn’t a sign that we have reason to fear joining with D’Hara. Now, I can either travel back to Jara and consult with Javas Kedar, or I can simply wait here for a while, if you would prefer, to assure myself that the red moon is not a sign of danger.”

  Kahlan knew that the Jarians, and the royal family in particular, were fervent believers in guidance from the stars. As much effort as Tristan devoted to chasing skirts, Kahlan knew that were a beautiful woman to offer him her charms, he would flee from her if he believed the stars were against it.

  It would take him at least a month to return to Jara, consult the star guide, and return to Aydindril.

  “How long would you have to wait in Aydindril before you felt comfortable and could in good conscience surrender?”

  He frowned thoughtfully for a moment. “If Aydindril remained safe for a couple of weeks after such a significant sign, then I would feel safe in knowing that the sign was not a bad portent.”

  Kahlan drummed her fingers. “You have two weeks, Tristan. Not one day more.”

  “Thank you, Mother Confessor. I pray that in two weeks we can consummate our union with D’Hara.” He bowed. “Good day, Mother Confessor, and I look forward to the stars remaining fair for us.”

  He took a step away, but turned back. “By the way, would you happen to know of a place I can stay for such a length of time? Our palace was burned down in your battle with the Blood of the Fold. What with all the damage to Aydindril, I’m having difficulty in finding accommodations.”

  She knew what he was angling for—to be close so he could see if the stars struck out against D’Haran rule. The man thought too much of himself, thought himself more clever than he was.

  Kahlan smiled. “Oh yes, I know a place. You will stay right here, where we can keep an eye on you until the two weeks are up.”

  He buttoned his blue coat. “Why, thank you, Mother Confessor, for your hospitality. It is most appreciated.”

  “And, Tristan, while you are a guest under my roof, if you lay a finger, or anything else, on any of the women living and working here, I will see to it that the anything else is cut off.”

  He laughed good-naturedly. “Mother Confessor, I never knew you believed the gossip about me. I’m afraid that I often have to resort to the charms of coin for company, but I’m flattered that you would think me so talented at wooing young ladies. If I should break your rules, I would expect to be put on trial and subjected to your choice of punishment.”

  Trial.

  Richard said that the people who sent the Temple of the Winds away were put on trial. In the Wizard’s Keep there were records of all trials held there. She had never read any of those books, but she had been told of them. Maybe they could find out from the records of the trial what happened to the Temple of the Winds. As Kahlan watched Tristan Bashkar departing behind a pair of guards, she thought about Richard, and wondered what he would find. She wondered if he was about to lose another brother.

  Kahlan knew most of the women working at the Confessors’ Palace. The women at the palace respected Richard as a man of honor. She wouldn’t like to think that they would be prey to a man who would win them by trading on their trust of Richard.

  She felt a pang of sadness for Richard. She knew he was hoping that Drefan would be a brother he could be proud of. Kahlan hoped that Drefan didn’t turn out to be trouble. She remembered his hand on Cara.

  Kahlan turned to the Mord-Sith. “Three more with us, one lost, and one yet to decide.”

  Cara smiled conspiratorially. “A sister of the Agiel must be able to strike fear into people’s hearts. Mother Confessor, you wear the Agiel well. I thought I could hear some of their knees knocking all the way up here.”

  Chapter 27

  Armor and weapons clattered and clanged as the soldiers following behind marched up the steep cobbled street. Narrow houses, mostly three and four stories, sat cheek by jowl, with the upper floors overhanging the lower so that the topmost almost closed off the sky. It was a gloomy part of the city.

  Soldiers throughout the city had cheered their thanks as Richard passed, wishing him good health and long life. Some had wanted to buy him a drink. Some had run up to bow before him and give the devotion: “Master Rahl guide us. Master Rahl teach us. Master Rahl protect us. In your light we thrive. In your mercy we are sheltered. In your wisdom we are humbled. We live only to serve. Our lives are yours.”

  They had hailed him as a great wizard for protecting them and healing their sickness. Richard felt more than a little uncomfortable at their acclaim: he had, after all, simply instructed them to take well-known cures for intestinal distress. He hadn’t worked any magic.

  He had tried to explain it wasn’t magic; that the things they ate and drank had cured them. They would hear none of it. They had expected magic from him, and, in their eyes, they had gotten it. He had finally given up on explaining and took to waving his thanks for their praises. Had they gone to an herb seller, they would no doubt be just as healthy, and complaining about the price.

  He had to admit, though, that it did make him feel good to know that he had helped people for a change instead of hurting them. He understood a little of what Nadine must feel when she helped people with her herbs.

  He had been warned of a wizard’s need for balance. There was balance in all things, but especially in magic. He could no longer eat meat—it made him sick—and suspected it was the gift seeking balance for the killing he sometimes had to do. He liked to think that helping people was part of the balance in being a war wizard.

  Sullen people, going about their business, moved to the side of the cramped street, tramping through the dirty snow still in the sheltered places in order to squeeze past the soldiers. Grim-looking groups of older boys and young men watched warily and then vanished around corners as Richard and his escort approached.

  Richard absently touched the gold-worked leather pouch on his belt. It contained white sorcerer’s sand that had been in the pouch when he found the belt in the Keep. Sorcerer’s sand was the crystallized bones of the wizards who had given their lives into the Towers of Perdition separating the Old and New Worlds. It was a sort of distilled magic. White sorcerer’s sand gave power to spells drawn with it—good and evil. The proper spell drawn in white sorcerer’s sand could invoke the Keeper. He touched the other gold-worked pouch on his belt. A little leather purse tied securely inside contained black sorcerer’s sand. He had gathered that sorcerer’s sand himself from one of the towers. No wizard since the towers were built had been able to gather any black sorcere
r’s sand; it could only be taken from a tower by one with Subtractive Magic.

  Black sorcerer’s sand was the counter to the white. They nullified each other. Even one grain of the black would contaminate a spell drawn with the white, even one drawn to invoke the Keeper. He had used it to defeat Darken Rahl’s spirit and send him back to the underworld.

  Prelate Annalina had told him to guard the black sand with his life—that a spoonful of it was worth kingdoms. He possessed several kingdoms’ worth. He never let the little leather purse containing the black sand out of his sight or his reach.

  Children, layered with ragged clothes for warmth against the cold spring day, played catch-the-fox in the tightly hemmed street, running from doorway to doorway, giggling with glee at the prospect of finding the fox, and more so at seeing the impressive procession coming up their very own street. Even seeing happy children didn’t bring a smile to Richard’s face.

  “This one, Lord Rahl,” General Kerson said.

  The general lifted a thumb to a door on the right, set back a few feet into the clapboard face of a building. The faded red paint was flaking off the bottom of the door where the weather worked on it the most. A small sign said: “Latherton Rooming House.”

  A big, stocky man inside didn’t look up from a chair behind a rickety table set with dry biscuits and a bottle. He stared at nothing with red-rimmed eyes. His hair was disheveled and his clothes rumpled. He seemed in a daze. Beyond him was a stairway, and beside that a narrow hall that ran back into darkness.

  “Closed,” he murmured.

  “Are you Silas Latherton?” Richard asked, his gaze sweeping the clutter of dirty clothes and bed sheets awaiting washing. A half dozen empty ewers sat against the wall, along with a stack of washrags.

  The man peered up from behind a puzzled frown. “Yeah. Who are you? You look familiar.”

  “I’m Richard Rahl. Perhaps you see a resemblance to my brother, Drefan.”

  “Drefan.” The man’s eyes widened. “Lord Rahl.” His chair rasped noisily against the floor as he shoved it back and stood to bow. “Forgive me. I didn’t recognize you. I’ve never seen you before. I didn’t know that the healer was your brother. I beg the Lord Rahl’s forgiveness . . .”

  For the first time, Silas noticed the dark-haired Mord-Sith at Richard’s side, the muscled general at the other side, Richard’s two huge bodyguards towering behind him, and the phalanx of soldiers spilling out the doorway and into the street. He raked his greasy hair back and stood up straighter.

  “Show me the room where the . . . where the woman was murdered,” Richard said.

  Silas Latherton bowed twice before hurrying to the stairs, tucking in his shirt as he went. Checking over his shoulder to make sure Richard was following, he climbed the stairs two at a time. They objected to his weight with creaks and groans.

  He finally came to a halt before a door partway down a narrow hall. With the walls painted red, the candles at either end of the hall provided little illumination. The place stank.

  “In here, Lord Rahl.” Silas said.

  When he moved to open the door, Raina snatched his collar and pulled him back out of the way. She planted him in place with a sinister look. A look like that from Raina was enough to give an angry cloud pause.

  She opened the door and, Agiel in hand, stepped into the room before Richard. Richard waited a moment while Raina checked the room for threat; it was easier than objecting. Silas stared at the floor while Richard and General Kerson went into the little room. Ulic and Egan took up posts beside the door and folded their massive arms.

  There wasn’t much to see: a bed, a small pine chest beside it, and a washstand. A dark stain discolored the unfinished spruce floorboards. The bloodstain ran under the bed and covered nearly the entire floor.

  The size of it didn’t surprise him. The general had told him what had been done to the woman.

  The water in the washbasin looked to be at least half blood. The rag hanging over its side was red with it. The killer had washed the blood from himself before he left. He must either be neat or, more likely, didn’t want to walk out past Silas Latherton dripping blood.

  Richard opened the pine chest. It contained orderly stacks of clothes, and nothing else. He let the lid drop back down.

  Richard leaned a hand against the doorway. “No one heard anything?” Silas shook his head. “A woman is mutilated like that, has her breasts cut off, and is stabbed hundreds of times, and no one heard a thing?”

  Richard realized that his exhaustion was putting an edge to his voice. His mood wasn’t helping, either, he guessed.

  Silas swallowed. “She’d been gagged, Lord Rahl. Her hands were tied, too.”

  Richard scowled. “She must have kicked her feet. No one heard her kicking? If someone was slicing me up, and I was gagged and my hands were tied, I’d have kicked the washstand over at least. She must have kicked her feet trying to get someone’s attention.”

  “I didn’t hear it if she did. None of the other women heard it, either. Least, they never mentioned it, and I’d think they would have come got me if they’d heard anything like that. If there was trouble, they always came to me. They always did. They know I’m not shy about protecting them.”

  Richard rubbed his eyes. The prophecy wouldn’t leave him be. He had a headache. “Bring the other women here. I want to talk to them.”

  “They left me, after—” Silas gestured vaguely. “Except Bridget.” He hurried to the end of the hall and knocked on the last door. A woman with rumpled red hair peered out after he spoke quietly to her. She withdrew back into her room and in a moment emerged, pulling a cream-colored robe closed. She tossed a quick knot in the tie as she followed Silas up the hall to Richard.

  Standing in the belly of a stinking whorehouse, Richard was getting more angry with himself by the moment. Despite trying to be objective, he had begun to let himself be happy about having a brother. He was beginning to like Drefan. Drefan was a healer. What could be more noble?

  Silas and the woman bowed. They both looked the way Richard felt: dirty, tired, and distraught.

  “Did you hear anything?”

  Bridget shook her head. Her eyes looked haunted.

  “Did you know the woman who died?”

  “Rose,” Bridget said. “I only met her once, for a few minutes. She just came here yesterday.”

  “Do either of you have any idea who murdered her?”

  Silas and Bridget shared a look.

  “We know who did it, Lord Rahl,” Silas said, a smoldering tone welling in his voice. “Fat Harry.”

  “Fat Harry? Who’s that? Where can we find him?”

  For the first time, Silas Latherton’s features twisted in anger. “I shouldn’t have let him come here anymore. The women didn’t like him.”

  “None of us girls would take him anymore,” Bridget said. “He drinks, and when he drinks, he gets mean. There’s no need to put up with that, not with the army . . .” Her words died out as she glanced to the general. She resumed with a different tack. “We have enough clients nowadays. We don’t have to put up with mean drunks like fat Harry.”

  “The women all told me that they wouldn’t see Harry no more,” Silas said. “When he came last night, I knew that they would all say no. Harry was real insistent, and seemed sober enough, so I asked Rose if she’d see him, as she was new and . . .”

  “And didn’t know she was in danger,” Richard finished.

  “It wasn’t like that,” Silas said defensively. “Harry didn’t seem to be drunk. I knew the other women wouldn’t take him, though, sober or not, so I asked Rose if she was interested. She said she could use the money. Harry was the last one with her. She was found a little while later.”

  “Where can we find this Harry?”

  Silas’s eyes narrowed. “In the underworld, where he belongs.”

  “You killed him?”

  “No one saw who slit his fat throat. I wouldn’t know who done it.”

 
Richard glanced at the long knife tucked behind Silas’s belt. He didn’t blame the man. If they had captured fat Harry, he would get the same for his crime as had already been done. Although he would have had a trial first, and he could have confessed, just to be sure it was he who had done it.

  That was why they used Confessors: to be sure they had convicted the guilty man. Once touched by her magic, a criminal would confess all that he had done. Richard wouldn’t want Kahlan to hear what had been done to this woman, Rose. Especially not from the beast who had done it.

  It made him sick to his stomach to think of Kahlan having to touch a man like that, a man who had killed a woman in such a brutal fashion. He feared he would have killed Harry himself to keep Kahlan from having to touch the flesh of a man like that.

  He knew she had touched other men who were no better. He didn’t want her to ever have to do that again. He knew it had to hurt her to hear such perverted crimes confessed in detail. He feared to think what terrible memories haunted her and visited her dreams.

  Richard forced his mind off it and looked at Bridget. “Why did you stay when the others ran off?”

  She shrugged. “Some of them had children, and feared for them. I don’t fault them their fears, but we were always safe here. Silas has always been fair to me. I’ve been hurt other places, but never here. It wasn’t Silas’s fault that a crazy killer did this. Silas always respected our wishes when we said we wouldn’t see a man again.”

  Richard felt his stomach tighten. “And you saw Drefan?”

  “Sure. All the girls saw Drefan.”

  “All the girls,” Richard repeated. He held a tight grip on his anger.

  “Yeah. We all saw him. Except Rose. She never got a chance, ’cause she . . .”

  “So, Drefan didn’t have a . . . favorite?”

  Richard had been hoping that Drefan had confined himself to one woman he liked, and that maybe she would be one who was healthy, at least.

  Bridget’s brow wrinkled up. “How can a healer have a favorite?”

  “Well, I mean, was there one he preferred, or did he just take who was available?”