Shroud of Eternity

by Terry Goodkind

  Andre made a rude noise as he tapped the glass wall of the tank, startling the fearsome-looking fish in the murky water. “It was like the combat arena, only done with magic. One doesn’t split hairs about the fine points of protocol in a blood combat. What’s done is done.”

  “Even so,” Elsa said, “I don’t like the idea that the sovrena used her scrying magic to spy on people. She could have been watching any of us, through any basin.”

  “But what do you have to fear, hmmm? Sovrena Thora is merely insuring the security of our city.”

  Elsa scoffed. “In my household, I will insure my own security, thank you. I have drained all of my reflective basins and fountains—and I suggest you do the same. Unless you want her to watch your efforts to awaken Nathan’s gift.”

  The fleshmancer grinned. “Then she could see how hard we are working. Currently, my primary interest is to make certain that Nathan once again becomes the wizard Nathan.”

  “And that’s my priority as well.” Nathan sat resting on the edge of the table that had held him in recovery for so long. He wore a loose, unmarked white robe. He decided he needed to find his trousers, laced boots, ruffled shirt, and cape—and his sword, the lovely ornate sword that had served him so well. He hoped his blade was still where he had left it in the grand villa, but he wasn’t going to be doing any fighting soon. He still felt too weak.

  “I come to offer my assistance,” Elsa said, stepping close to the table. “I can help train you, but more importantly, give you a bit of energy with my transference magic.” She looked at him with her light brown eyes, and her crow’s-feet crinkled as she smiled. It was a pretty smile, he realized.

  “And how would that work?” Nathan asked, far more interested in her than in the fleshmancer’s gruff suggestions for exercises.

  “The gift is also a great responsibility,” Elsa said. “You might have it, but you must know how to use it. Inside you, the Han is like a fast-flowing stream. It has been dammed up and now needs to be released.”

  “If only I knew how to do so, my dear.” He wished he’d been able to wash and comb his hair, to shave and put on clean—preferably more elegant—clothes. He felt awkward speaking with Elsa in his condition.

  “Let me attempt a little something that might help,” she said. “I think you’re trying too hard. Fear of failure makes you uncertain. Uncertainty makes you weak. Watch.” She extended a finger and touched her chest, just above her cleavage, part of which was exposed by the open purple robe. She traced her finger in a circular motion, then drew loops marking an invisible symbol, a pattern that only she could see, although Nathan tried to follow the tracings.

  Andre stood back, interested.

  “Now you, Nathan.” Elsa came closer and tugged open his white robe, exposing his chest. She was startled to see the long, lumpy line that looked like a thick stream of candle wax down the center of his chest.

  Nathan looked down, embarrassed. “The mark will surely fade in time.”

  “On the contrary, it will always be there as a reminder of my work.” The fleshmancer added brightly, “Like the signature of an artist.”

  Elsa looked troubled, but reached forward and placed her hand against Nathan’s chest, touching the scar. “I can feel your heart beating. Yes, it is strong, but is the Han as powerful? Let me give you a little of mine. Perhaps it will unlock what you need.”

  Her fingertip touched the skin above his breastbone and with swift, ticklish gestures she traced a rune on his chest, the counterpart to the one above her own heart. When she finished, she tapped her fingertip there and stepped back.

  Nathan experienced a sudden tingling warmth inside, as if he had just downed a goblet of fine Aydindril brandy. “I can feel something.”

  “I think Elsa is flirting with you,” Andre chuckled. “Perhaps you’ll be invited to our next pleasure party after all—as her guest if nothing else.”

  Elsa flushed.

  Nathan just frowned. “You are ruining my concentration, Fleshmancer.”

  “We wouldn’t want that, would we, hmmm?” Andre scuttled across the room, rummaged among the paraphernalia on the shelves, and found a wide candle. He carried the candle over, set it on the table next to Nathan, and indicated the drooping black wick. “See if you can make a spark. Use your gift to work a fire spell and conjure a candle flame.”

  Nathan was more confident now that he felt warmth tingling through him. Maybe Elsa’s transfer magic had connected the last threads of Han to his heart—his new heart. He looked at the bent wick, the hardened and misshapen wax. Nathan felt the magic, pulled it closer.

  He remembered the countless times he had summoned huge balls of wizard’s fire, how he had easily ignited campfires or torches with barely a thought. He had walked through dark tunnels in the Palace of the Prophets, holding up a hand light that he conjured without effort.

  He also remembered the time aboard the deck of the Wavewalker when he had tried to show a trick to eager young Bannon. He had summoned a simple flame in the palm of his hands … only to have it flicker and die out.

  He shoved those thoughts aside, not wanting his own hesitation to weaken him, as Elsa had warned. He focused on the burned wick, sensed the warmth inside him, and tried to move the warmth to the candle. The gift trickled and grew.

  “Make the flame, Wizard,” Andre snapped. “Or must I deny you that title?”

  Startled, Nathan tried harder. It had been so easy to create a simple flame. He sensed the heat, drew it out of the air, and placed it into the candle. “Ignite!” He strained through clenched teeth.

  He pushed, feeling a hiccup of magic within him. The candle flickered, a small yellow spark, which then faded.

  “Ignite!” he shouted louder, pushing with his grasp of the magic, drawing upon the restored gift.

  The candlewick still did not light.

  But the fish tank exploded.

  Nathan’s uncooperative magic had sent a lightning bolt of heat into the murky water, flashing it into boiling steam, shattering the glass. With a gush of water, the flopping, smoking carcass of the hideous fish spilled onto the floor. Its needlelike fangs snapped as its jaws clacked open and closed until its eyes turned milky, and it slumped in death. Its large scales slid off its body like unwanted coins, and the crisped skin cracked to reveal steaming, flaky meat that fell off the curved bones.

  Nathan lurched back, astonished at what he had done. “Dear spirits!”

  “You have the gift back!” Andre cried.

  “But it’s still uncontrolled.” Nathan felt sick dread build up within him. He remembered the man he had tried to heal in Renda Bay; his efforts had only resulted in a mangled corpse. “The magic is wild and dangerous.”

  “But it’s there,” Elsa said.

  Andre stepped over to his shattered fish tank, frowned down at the remnants of the scaly thing he had created. “And it looks like you’ve prepared a late lunch for us, Wizard.” He smiled. “Yes, I shall call you wizard, at least provisionally.”

  Nathan shuddered, clasping his hands together. He imagined the consequences of greater workings, if his magic ricocheted and went wrong. “I was just trying to create a tiny candle flame, and look what happened.”

  “Indeed!” Andre sounded delighted. “It looks as if Chief Handler Ivan gave you a great deal of power.” He shouted for slaves to come clean up the mess.

  Elsa patted Nathan’s hand. “It’s a step in the right direction.”

  “Or the wrong direction,” Nathan said.

  “If only you had gotten better sooner,” said the fleshmancer, looking up at them. “Tonight is the great bloodworking with three hundred slaves. Once we reinforce the shroud, we’ll never have to worry about the outside world again.”

  Elsa looked away, disturbed.

  Andre narrowed his muddy eyes and leaned closer, speaking with an undertone of threat. “You’d better hope you get your gift back, Nathan, since that is the only way you will remain among the noble class in Ildakar.�
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  Then he backed away, grinning again. “But you’ve demonstrated the potential, and I know the quality of my work, hmmm? If that doesn’t happen, we can try other approaches. Have no fear—no matter how long it takes, we will have plenty of time to experiment on you.”

  CHAPTER 69

  The sun set on Ildakar with a flourish of crimson clouds, as if in anticipation of the imminent bloodworking. The people in the city were anxious—some nervous, some eager, some resigned.

  Nicci had no intention of allowing the slaughter to happen. She would not let all those people be killed or let herself be trapped under a shroud of eternity. It was time to act.

  As darkness gathered in the streets, lights glimmered in homes and inns, candle flames, oil lamps, or magical glows from gifted proprietors. Like nocturnal predators slipping out of shadowy hiding places, Mirrormask’s rebels began to move out into the city.

  Nicci emerged with them, her golden hair brushed out so that it was long and flowing. Her black dress clung to her, the skirts swirling around her legs like a pool of ink as she emerged from the sandstone tunnel entrance. “I don’t need to hide anymore,” she said. “I want Sovrena Thora and all of Ildakar to know who brings their downfall.”

  “We do,” said Mirrormask, striding along beside her. The reflective plate covering his face was polished to a high luster. His gray robes flowed around him like fog as he walked with Nicci to their rendezvous. He had rallied hundreds of his followers, telling them to meet in a dark and dusty grain warehouse—ironically, the same warehouse where Mrra had been captured.

  Nicci knew it was no coincidence. Mirrormask had done that for her.

  The rebels wore brown robes with hoods to hide their faces. Around their necks, each of them wore a thin wooden disk engraved with an incineration rune. If they should die, their bodies would be instantly immolated, so as not to reveal their identities and unravel the entire network. Rendell wrapped his sweaty hand around the disk, clinging to it.

  “You won’t need that,” Nicci reassured him. “The freedom fighters for Ildakar will no longer disguise who they are.” She looked at the people in the dusty shadows of the grain warehouse. Lanterns hung from the rafters overhead, shedding yellow-orange light and casting severe shadows. “After tonight, you will be proud to admit that you followed Mirrormask. If you die in the fight, your families and your friends will boast of what you have done, and they will make sure everyone knows it.”

  A muttered cheer rippled among the rebels. Rendell reached up and pushed back his brown hood, shaking loose his hair. “For tonight’s work, I don’t intend to hide who I am.”

  A dry-faced woman beside him did the same. With a ripple of cloth that sounded like a stirring of wings, many more rebels pulled back their disguising hoods. “We don’t need to hide who we are.”

  Nicci felt the gift within her, a tingle of magic that made her hair rise with static. She turned to Mirrormask, and saw her reflection where his face should have been. She looked hard at him, silently urging him to reveal himself as all the others had. Among his dedicated followers, he should not be afraid to show the appalling deformity a fleshmancer had wrought on his face.

  Mirrormask reached up and adjusted the mirror mask, but left it squarely on his face. “This is who I am,” he said. His voice, though muffled, rang out so that all could hear. “This is whom my people follow.”

  Rendell shouted, “Mirrormask!” The others quickly picked up the chant. “Mirrormask! Mirrormask!”

  Throughout the streets, people were preparing for the bloodworking ritual. Ever since Sovrena Thora and the wizards’ duma had issued their announcement, the whole city seemed to be holding its breath in anticipation. Mirrormask’s spies had reported that the three hundred slaves, made docile from the intoxicating perfume of the red peaceflowers, had been herded into a large holding area near the central pyramid.

  Mirrormask seemed uncertain, even though they had spent hours that afternoon planning in detail, deciding which moves to make, how they would begin their strike, and how best to achieve their victory. Nicci had discussed, then argued strategy with him, and finally she realized that Mirrormask enjoyed his followers and enjoyed leading the rebellion, but the end goal itself was not a bright flame within him. He liked to launch small uprisings, stir up the city. His followers would bravely place their mirror shards in the walls, paint defiant words on buildings, but Nicci wondered if Mirrormask truly wanted to succeed. Complaining about a corrupt government was one thing, but actually ruling a city was quite a different task. Though his rebellion had slowly grown for years, he had achieved little until Nicci and her companions arrived.

  That was unacceptable to Nicci. She would fight to win.

  She spoke up when Mirrormask seemed at a loss for words. “It ends tonight. Word has spread throughout the city. The slaves are whispering, even those who have not joined us. They will know what to do when they see the uprisings in the streets. Our army will increase a thousandfold as soon as this begins.” She flashed a hard smile. “The blood magic is scheduled at midnight, but full dark has already fallen, and this is our time. Blood will be spilled tonight—and it will not be the sacrificial slaves.”

  “But how will we fight against wizards?” one of the rebels asked, his voice cracking with nervousness. He was a long-faced young man with prematurely thinning hair and pockmarks on his cheeks. “We are not gifted.”

  “Leave that to me,” Nicci said. “I owe the sovrena a fair amount of pain.”

  Rendell’s steely eyes flashed as he turned to his comrades. “And if they kill you, you will die free! From the moment you fight back, you have liberated yourself.” The drab woman next to him reached out to take his hand. Rendell lowered his voice. “Whether you survive or not is secondary.”

  Someone else began the chant again. “Mirrormask! Mirrormask!”

  Rendell added, “Nicci! Nicci!”

  She felt the energy of their defiance in the air. It continued to increase in intensity.

  “This is not a rally,” Nicci said. “This is a call to war, and I will strike the first blow. I’ll lead a group to the animal pits and the fighters’ cells. We’ll release all the captives there, both man and beast, and they will help us.” She smiled grimly. With Mrra and Bannon at her side, Nicci would feel powerful again. She would do this, not just for herself and the people of Ildakar, but for Richard Rahl and his dream of a unified world.

  “I will go with you,” Mirrormask said. “If this is our first battle, then we should be together.”

  Nicci didn’t argue with him. She touched the hilts of two sheathed daggers at her hips; she had replaced the weapons after her battle with Adessa. “We have everything we need.”

  * * *

  Drawing upon the vivid memories she had seen through her dream connection, Nicci knew exactly where to find Mrra. But her map was filtered through the sand panther’s senses, which relied as much on identifying smells and sounds as on sight. Nevertheless, she would lead her companions.

  “Don’t be afraid to kill,” Nicci said, making sure they all heard her. “Your enemy certainly isn’t.”

  They moved furtively through the streets. Whispered word passed down the alleys and lower thoroughfares, and their numbers swelled. Speed was their friend now. Soon enough all chaos would break loose with fangs, claws, and blades.

  “I’ve looked forward to this for a long time,” Mirrormask said. “My people are ready. Ildakar will not know what is about to hit them.”

  The stink assaulted Nicci’s senses even before they reached the menagerie. She felt a prickle in her skin, a tingle in the back of her mind, the faint intangible presence of her sister panther. Mrra could sense her, too, knew she was coming. Nicci put on a surge of speed, forgoing all caution.

  Outside the dark entrance to the animal tunnels stood several large cages that held mangy, dispirited-looking foxes and coyotes. Jackals snarled and snapped in a third pen. These were not enhanced or trained creatures, but me
rely practice prey for the more fearsome animals.

  Four members of the city guard saw the mob coming and took defensive stances. “Halt! You have no business here.”

  Nicci swept her hand to one side, releasing a hard slap of air that hurled the guards against the wall, stunning them.

  “It begins,” Mirrormask said, sounding immensely satisfied.

  Nicci pointed to the outer cages. “Loose them. Let the animals run free.”

  Behind her, the rebels worked the latches, and the coyotes knocked their rescuers aside as they sprang free, darting down alleys. The jackals barked and growled, frantic to get away.

  Two more guards came running, their scaled armor clattering as they drew their short swords. The rebels ducked to one side as the jackals sprang free, and the beasts fell upon the oncoming guards. One man sprawled face-first on the cobblestones while the jackals tore into him, shredding the armor on his back. The other guard fled, yelling for assistance.

  Nicci paid no attention to what was happening in the streets. She pushed into the widened tunnel that smelled of musk and wet fur, blood and excrement. “Open the cages,” she called. “Release them all, and not just a few this time. We must send a stampede through the streets to disrupt the bloodworking.”

  Letting her comrades do the work, she passed cages and stone alcoves, artificial lairs for predatory beasts. She knew where she had to go. Mrra called to her through the silent thrumming of her spell bond.

  The tunnels were a maze, but Nicci remembered what the panther had seen and smelled. Workers in the pits responded to the shouts and roars, and when they saw the brown-robed rebels, they ran away instead of remaining to defend the animals. Some of the slave workers even helped, throwing the bolts and pulling open barred gates.