Warren’s brow furrowed deeper. “Why?”
Richard’s jaw muscles flexed. “I don’t know, but I intend to find out.”
“Good,” Warren said with a grin. “I need an adventure.”
Richard gave him a cold look. “Do you know what adventure is, Warren?”
Warren nodded, the smile still on his face. “An exciting experience.”
“Adventure is being scared to death, and not knowing if you will live or die, or if the ones you love will live or die. Adventure is being in trouble you don’t know how to get out of.”
Warren fumbled with the braiding on his sleeve. “I never thought about it like that.”
“Well, you think on it,” Richard said, “because I’m about to start an adventure.”
“What are you going to do?”
“The less you know, the less adventure you’ll have to worry about. You just find out the things I need to know. If the veil is torn, we’re all going to have a never-ending adventure.”
“Well,” Warren said with a twinkle in his eye, “I found out at least one thing of help, then.”
“The Stone of Tears?”
Warren nodded with a grin. “I found out there is no way you could have seen it. It’s locked behind the veil. In a way, it’s part of the veil.”
“Are you sure? Are you sure I couldn’t have seen it?”
“Positive. The Stone of Tears is the seal that keeps the Nameless One locked in his prison of the dead, in the underworld. He can rule the souls of the dead there with him, but he cannot come to this world. The Stone of Tears seals him there.”
“Good,” Richard said with a relieved sigh. “That’s great, Warren. Good work.” He gently gripped Warren’s robe and pulled him closer. “You’re sure. There’s no way the Stone of Tears could be in this world.”
Warren confidently shook his head. “None. It’s impossible. The only way for the Stone of Tears to be in this world would be for it to come through the gateway.”
Richard felt his flesh beginning to tingle. “Gateway? What’s the gateway?”
“Well, the gateway is what the name implies. A passage. In this case, a passage between the world of the living and the world of the dead. It’s magic of both worlds, a passage constructed of magic. The gateway can only be opened with both Additive and Subtractive Magic. The Nameless One has only Subtractive, since he is in the underworld, so he can’t open the gateway. The same way someone in this world could not open it, because we have only Additive Magic.”
Bumps were rising on Richard’s arms. “But someone in this world, someone with both forms of magic, could open the gateway?”
“Well, sure,” Warren stammered. “If they had the gateway. But it has been lost for over three thousand years. It’s gone.” He gave Richard a self-assured smile. “We’re safe.”
Richard wasn’t smiling. He grabbed Warren’s robes in both hands and yanked his face close. “Warren, tell me the gateway isn’t called the Magic of Orden. Tell me the gateway isn’t the three boxes of Orden.”
Warren’s eyes slowly expanded to the size of gold pieces. “Where did you hear that name for it?” he whispered in a disquieted tone. “I’m the only one in the palace besides the Prelate and two other Sisters who are permitted to read the books that call the gateway by its ancient name.”
Richard gritted his teeth. “What happens if one of the boxes is opened?”
“They can’t be opened,” Warren insisted. “They can’t. I told you, it takes both kinds of magic, Additive and Subtractive, to open a box.”
Richard shook him. “What happens!”
His eyes still wide, Warren swallowed. “Then the gateway between the worlds is opened. The veil is breached. The seal is off the Nameless One.”
“And the Stone of Tears would be in this world?” Warren nodded as Richard tightened his grip on the robes. “And if the box were to be closed, that would close the gateway? Seal the breach?”
“No. Well, yes, but it can only be closed by one with the gift. It takes the touch of magic to close the gateway. But if one with the gift closes the box, the gateway, then it ruptures the balance, because he has only Additive Magic, and the Nameless One escapes the underworld. More correctly, this world would be swallowed into the world of the dead.”
“Then how can the box be closed to keep the worlds separated?”
“The same way the gateway is opened. With both Additive and Subtractive Magic.”
“And what about the Stone of Tears?”
“I don’t know. I would have to study.”
“Then you better study fast.”
“Please,” Warren whined, “you don’t mean that you know where the boxes are. You haven’t found them, have you?”
“Found them? The last time I saw the boxes, one was opened, about to suck my bastard father into the underworld.”
Warren fainted.
Chapter 57
Under the impotent rays of the late-day sun, an old woman was spreading wood ash on the ice covering the vast expanse of stairs. Kahlan walked past, relieved that the old woman didn’t look up to see that the person in the heavy clothes, white fur mantle, and carrying a pack and bow was the Mother Confessor returned to Aydindril.
She was in no mood for starting a celebration tonight. She was exhausted. Already, before coming home to the palace, she had climbed up to the Wizard’s Keep on the mountainside, but the Keep was stone cold and dark as death. The shields were in place, though a Confessor could enter, but no one was inside.
Zedd was not there.
The Keep sat now as the last time she had seen it so many months ago, when she had left to find the missing great wizard. She had found him, and helped stop the threat from Darken Rahl, but now she needed the great wizard again.
Since leaving the Galean army nearly a month before, she had been struggling to reach Aydindril, and Zedd. Storms had raged for days at a time. Passes had been rendered impassable by the weather and snow, forcing them to backtrack and find alternate routes. It had been a frustrating and tiring journey, but the despair at reaching her goal and not finding Zedd was withering.
Kahlan had made her way through the side streets, avoiding Kings Row. The palaces on Kings Row housed dignitaries, staffs, and guards of the lands that were represented in Aydindril. The kings and queens and rulers of those lands stayed in their palaces when they came to address the council. The palaces were a matter of pride for each land, and each was magnificent, although none could begin to compare to the Confessors’ Palace.
Kahlan had avoided Kings Row because she would be recognized there, and she didn’t want to be recognized right now; she wanted only to find Zedd and, failing that, speak to the council, so she headed toward the service area to the side, near the kitchens.
Chandalen was out in the forest. He didn’t want to come into Aydindril; the size of the city and the multitudes of people made him uneasy, though he denied it, and claimed only to be more comfortable sleeping outside. Kahlan couldn’t blame him; after being alone in the mountains for so long, she, too, was uneasy going into the city, even though she had grown up in this place and knew its streets and majestic buildings as well as Chandalen knew the plains around the Mud People village. The people everywhere made her feel closed in as never before.
Chandalen wanted to go home to his people, now that she was delivered safely to Aydindril. She could understand his desire to be off, but asked him to rest the night, and say good-bye to her in the morning.
She had told Orsk to spend the night with Chandalen. His presence was wearing; his one eye following her everywhere, his jumping to help her with everything, his constantly standing ready to do her bidding at the slightest indication. It was like having a dog continually at heel. She needed a night away from that. Chandalen seemed to understand. She didn’t know what she was going to do about Orsk.
A stifling blast of warm air hit her as she went in through the kitchen entrance. At the sound of the door, a thin woman in a sp
arkling white apron spun to her.
“What are you doing in here! Get out, you beggar!”
As the woman lifted her wooden spoon in a threatening manner, Kahlan pushed back the hood of her mantle. The woman gasped. Kahlan smiled.
“Mistress Sanderholt. I’m so pleased to see you again.”
“Mother Confessor!” The woman fell to her knees, clasping her hands together. “Oh, Mother Confessor, forgive me! I didn’t recognize you. Oh, good spirits be praised, is it really you?”
Kahlan pulled the wiry woman to her feet. “I’ve missed you so, Mistress Sanderholt.” Kahlan held out her arms. “Give me a hug?”
Mistress Sanderholt fell into Kahlan’s arms. “Oh, child, it’s so good to see you!” She pushed away, tears running down her face. “We didn’t know what had become of you. We were so worried. I thought I might never see you again.”
“It has been a long and difficult time. I can’t tell you how good it is to see your face again.”
Mistress Sanderholt started pulling Kahlan toward a side table. “Come. You need a bowl of soup. I have some on now, if these featherbrains who do what scarcely passes for cooking haven’t ruined it with too much pepper.”
The welter of cooks and help caught the words and kept their heads down, applying their attention to their tasks. The sounds of whisks and spoons on bowls stepped up. Men picked up sacks and hurried away. Brushes worked at pots with greater zeal. Butter hissed in hot pans, and bread in ovens and meat on spits suddenly needed checking.
“I don’t have time, right now, Mistress Sanderholt.”
“But I have things I must tell you. Important things.”
“I know. I have things to tell you, too. But right now I must see the council. It’s urgent. I’ve been traveling a long time, and I’m exhausted, but I must see the council before I rest. We will talk tomorrow.”
Mistress Sanderholt couldn’t resist another hug. “Of course, child. Rest well. We will talk tomorrow.”
Kahlan took the shortest route, through the immense hall used for important ceremonies and celebrations. Fires in the large, magnificent fireplaces set around the room between fluted columns sent shadows of herself spiraling around her as she crossed the green slate floor. The room was empty, now, allowing her footsteps to echo overhead from the intricate lierne vaulting with the wavelike, sweeping ribs. Her father used to set thousands of walnuts and acorns, representing troops, all over the floor of this room, to teach her battle tactics.
She turned down the hall at the far end, toward the corridor to the council chambers. In the Confessors’ private gallery, groups of four glossy black marble columns to each side supported a progression of polychrome vaults. At the end, before the council chambers, was a round, two-story-high pantheon dedicated to the memory of heroines: the founding Mother Confessors. Their portraits, in frescoes between the seven massive pillars ranging to the skylight, were twice life size.
Kahlan always felt like a pretender to the post in the presence of the seven stern faces that overlooked the room. She felt they were saying, “And who are you, Kahlan Amnell, to think you could be the Mother Confessor?” Knowing the histories of those heroines only made her feel all the more inadequate.
Grabbing both brass levers, she threw the tall, mahogany doors open and marched into the council chambers.
A huge dome capped the enormous room. At the far end, the main vault was decorated with an ornate fresco celebrating the glory of Magda Searus, the first Mother Confessor. Her fingers were touching the back of the hand of her wizard, Merritt, who had laid down his life to protect her. Together, now, for all time in the colorful fresco, the two oversaw the Mother Confessors who followed and sat in the First Chair, and their wizards.
Between the colossal gold capitals of the columns thrusting up around the room were sinuous, polished mahogany railings at the edge of balconies that overlooked the elegant chamber. The arched openings, set at intervals around the room and leading up to the balconies, were decorated with sculpted stuccos of heroic scenes. Beyond were windows looking out over the courtyards. Round windows around the lower edge of the dome also let light into the glistening chamber. At the far end was the semicircular dais where the councilors sat, behind an elaborate, curved desk. The opulent First Chair in the center was the tallest.
A clump of men were gathered around the First Chair. By the numbers, Kahlan judged about half the council to be present. As she strode across long swaths of sunlight on the patterned marble floor, the heads began to follow her progress.
Someone was sitting in the First Chair. Although not enforced in recent times, it was a capital offense for a councilor to take the First Chair, as it was considered tantamount to a declaration of revolution. The conversation hushed as she approached.
It was High Prince Fyren, of Kelton, sitting in the chair. His feet were up on the desk, and he didn’t take them down as he watched her draw near. His eyes were on her, but he was listening to a man with smoothed-down dark hair and beard, streaked with a touch of gray, leaning over whispering to him. The man’s hands were in the opposite sleeves of his plain robes. Strange, she thought, for an advisor to be dressed so, like a wizard.
Prince Fyren lifted his eyebrows in delight. “Mother Confessor!” With deliberate care he took his polished boots down and came to his feet. He put his hands to the desk and leaned over, looking down. “So good to see you!”
Before, Kahlan had always had a wizard; now, she had none. No protection. She could not afford to appear timid or vulnerable.
She glared up at Prince Fyren. “If I ever again catch you in the chair of the Mother Confessor, I will kill you.”
He straightened with a smirk. “You would use your power on a councilor?”
“I will slit your throat with my knife, if I have to.”
The man in the plain robes watched her with unmoving dark eyes. The other councilors blanched.
Prince Fyren pulled his dark blue coat open and rested a hand on his hip. “Mother Confessor, I meant no offense. You have been gone for a long time. We all thought you were dead. There has been no Confessor in the palace for . . . what?” He looked to a few of the other men. “Four, five, six months?” Hand still on his hip, he held his other out and gave a bow. “I meant no offense, Mother Confessor. Your chair is returned to you, of course.”
Kahlan eyed the remaining men. “It is late. The council will meet in full session first thing in the morning. Every councilor will be present. The Midlands is at war.”
Prince Fyren lifted an eyebrow. “War? On whose authority? We have not discussed such a grave matter.”
Kahlan swept her gaze over the councilors, letting it finally settle on Prince Fyren. “On my authority as the Mother Confessor.” Whispering broke out among the men. Prince Fyren never let his eyes leave hers. When she glowered at the men who were whispering, it sputtered out. “I want every councilor here, first thing in the morning. You are adjourned, for now, gentlemen.”
Kahlan turned on her heel and marched from the room.
She didn’t recognize any of the guards she saw throughout the palace, but then she wouldn’t; Zedd had told her before how most of the Home Guard had been killed in the fall of Aydindril to D’Hara. She missed the old faces.
The center of the Confessors’ Palace in Aydindril was dominated by a monumental eight-branched staircase, lit, from four stories overhead, by natural light that came through the glass roof. The vast square was surrounded at midlevel by arcaded corridors, their arched openings separated by polished columns of wildly variegated gold and green marble standing on square plinth blocks, each decorated with a medallion of a past ruler of one of the lands of the Midlands. The hundreds upon hundreds of glistening, vase-shaped balusters had been turned from a mellow yellow stone that seemed to glow from within. The square newels, made of a dusky brown granite, were nearly as tall as she, and each was capped with a gold-leafed lamp. Florid carvings in stone covered expansive panels under the complex bands of dentil
moldings that ran in mitered bands over the tops of the capitals. The center landing held statues of eight Mother Confessors. Kahlan had seen modest palaces that would fit within the space the staircase occupied.
The monumental staircase and the room that held it had taken forty years to build, the expense borne entirely by Kelton, in partial recompense for their opposition to the joining of the lands into the Midlands, and the war it spawned. It was also decreed that no leader of Kelton could ever be honored with a medallion at the base of the columns. The staircase was dedicated to the people of the Midlands, and was to honor them, not those who built it as penalty. Kelton was now a powerful land of the Midlands in good standing, and Kahlan thought it foolish to rebuke a people for something their ancestors had done centuries ago.
As she reached the central landing and turned up the second flight toward her room, she saw a phalanx of servants waiting at the top of the stairs. They all bowed as one when her eyes fell on them. She thought it must look absurd—nearly thirty sparkling, combed and buffed people in clean, crisp uniforms, all bowing to a filthy woman in wolf hides, carrying a bow and heavy pack. Well, this could only mean one thing: word of her arrival had swept through the whole of the palace already. There wasn’t likely to be a gardener in the farthest greenhouse that didn’t by now know the Mother Confessor was home.
“Rise, my children,” Kahlan said when she reached the top of the stairs. They moved back to make way for her.
And then it started. Would the Mother Confessor like a bath, would the Mother Confessor like a massage, would the Mother Confessor like her hair washed and brushed, would the Mother Confessor like her nails buffed, would the Mother Confessor care to take any petitioners, would the Mother Confessor like to see any advisors, would the Mother Confessor like any letters written, would the Mother Confessor like, wish, want, need, or require a whole list of things.
Kahlan addressed the mistress of the maidservants. “Bernadette, I would like a bath. Nothing else. Just a bath.”
Two women rushed off to see to the bath.
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