Soul of the Fire

by Terry Goodkind

  He noted the dark violet carpet and its wheat-colored fringe looked freshly brushed. The gilded chairs were angled to show off the tawny leather seats and backs as they posed beside elegant tables set with lush sprays of fresh flowers. The plush throws and pillows on the couches were set just so, the deliberate precision meant to convey a casual intimacy with luxury.

  Dalton expected his wife to oversee the staff and insure that the quarters were kept presentable for business as well as entertaining, which were, although approached differently, one and the same. Teresa would know that with a feast that night, it was even more likely he would ask someone back to their apartments—someone important. That could be anyone from a dignitary to an inconspicuous pair of eyes and ears.

  They were all important, in their own way, all meshing into the cobweb he worked, listening, watching, for any tiny little tug. Crowded feasts were concentrated confusion, alive with drinking, conversation, commotion, and emotion. They often provided opportunities to forge alliances, reinforce loyalties, or enforce fealties—to tend his cobweb.

  Teresa stuck her head past the doorframe, grinning her joy upon seeing him. “There’s my sweetheart.”

  Despite the weary mood enveloping him as he had closed the door behind, shutting out the day’s troubles if only for the moment, he smiled helplessly at her dark, sparkling eyes.

  “Tess, my darling. Your hair looks grand.”

  A gold comb decorated the front lift of the full top. The wealth of dangling dark tresses were tied with an abundance of sequined gold ribbons that added to her hair’s length, almost forming a collar. Parting as she leaned forward, the sparkling strips teasingly revealed her graceful neck.

  In her mid-twenties, she was younger than he by nearly ten years. Dalton thought her a ravishing creature beyond compare—a bonus to her allure of trenchant commitment to objectives. He could scarcely believe that a short six months ago she had finally and at long last become his wife. Others had been in contention, some of greater standing, but none with more ambition.

  Dalton Campbell was not a man to be denied. Anyone who took him lightly came to a day of reckoning, when they learned better than to underestimate him, or came to regret the mistake.

  Nearly a year ago, when he had asked her to be his wife, she had quizzed him, asking, in that velvet bantering manner of hers that often cloaked the steel of her aims, if he was really a man who intending on going places, as she certainly meant to rise up in the world. At the time, he had been an assistant to the magistrate in Fairfield, not an unimportant job, but only a convenient port as far as he was concerned, a place to gather his resources and cultivate connections.

  He had not played into her chaffing questions, but instead assured her in all sobriety that he was a man on the way up, and no other man she was seeing, despite his present station, had any chance of approaching Dalton Campbell’s future stature. She had been taken aback by his solemn declaration. It wiped the smile off her face. On the spot, in the spell of his conviction, the truth of his purpose, she consented to marry him.

  She had been pleased to learn the reliability of his predictions. As plans proceeded for their wedding, he was awarded a better appointment. In their first few months of marriage, they had moved three times, always to improved quarters, and as a result of advanced positions.

  The public who had cause to know of him, either because of his reputation or because of their dealings with Anderith government, valued his keen understanding of Anderith law. Dalton Campbell was widely recognized for his brilliant insight into the complexities of the law, the fortress bedrock it was built upon, the intricate structure of its wisdom and precedent, and the scope of its protective walls.

  The men for whom Dalton worked appreciated his vast understanding of the law, but valued most his knowledge of the law’s arcane passages, burrows, and obscure openings out of dark traps and corners. They also valued his ability to swiftly abandon the law when the situation required a different solution, one the law couldn’t provide. In such cases, he was just as inventive, and just as effective.

  In no more time than a snap of the fingers, it seemed, Teresa easily adjusted to the meliorated circumstances in which she regularly found herself, taking up the novel task of directing household staff with the aplomb of one who had been doing it for the whole of her life.

  Only weeks before, he had won the top post at the Minister’s estate. Teresa had been jubilant to learn they would be taking on luxurious quarters in such a prestigious place. She now found herself a woman of standing among women of rank and privilege.

  She might have been overjoyed, nearly tearing off his clothes to have him on the spot when he told her the news, but the truth be known, she had expected no less.

  If there was one person who shared his ruthless ambition, it was Teresa.

  “Oh, Dalton, will you tell me what dignitaries will be at the feast? I can’t stand the suspense a moment longer.”

  He yawned again as he stretched. He knew she had her own cobwebs to tend.

  “Boring dignitaries.”

  “But the Minister will be there.”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, silly, he’s not boring. And I’ve gotten to know some of the women, the wives, of the estate. They’re all grand people. Good as I could have hoped. Their husbands are all important.”

  She touched the tip of her tongue to her upper lip in a sly, teasing gesture. “Just not as important as my husband.”

  “Tess, my darling,” he said with a smile, “you could inspire a dead man to become important for you.”

  She winked and then disappeared. “There were several messages slipped under the door for you,” she called back from the other room. “They’re in the desk.”

  The elegant desk in the corner glowed like a dark gem. Made of polished elm burl, each panel of quartered, book-matched veneer was outlined with diamond-patterned banding of alternating plain and dyed maple. Each dark diamond was inset with a dot of gold. The legs were varnished to a deep luster, rather than gilded, as were the legs of most of the other furniture in the room.

  In the secret compartment behind an upper drawer, there were several sealed messages. He broke the seals and scanned each message, assessing its importance. Some were of interest, but none were urgent. They mostly meant to pass along information—little vibrations from every corner of his cobweb.

  One reported an odd and apparently accidental drowning in a public fountain. It had happened in early afternoon as crowds regularly passed the landmark in the Square of the Martyrs. Even though it had been daylight and in full view of everyone, no one noticed until it was too late. Having seen similar messages of unexplained deaths of late, Dalton knew the unspoken implication of the message was a admonition, that it might have been some sort of a vendetta involving magic, but made to look like an unfortunate accident.

  One mentioned only a “perturbed lady,” reporting that she was restless and that she had written a missive to a Director, asking for a moment of his time in private at the feast, and asking him to keep her letter confidential. Dalton knew the woman to whom the message referred, and, because of that, he knew also it would be Director Linscott to whom she had written—the person writing the message for him knew better than to write down names.

  He suspected the reason for the restless part. It was the desire for the private meeting that concerned him. The message said the woman’s letter was somehow lost, and never delivered.

  Dalton slipped the messages back into the compartment for later review and replaced the drawer. He was going to have to do something about the woman. What, he didn’t yet know.

  Overreacting could sometimes cause as much trouble as doing nothing. It might be he need only give the woman an ear, let her vent her pique, as perhaps she meant to do with Director Linscott. Dalton could just as easily hear her grievance. Someone, somewhere in his intricate cobweb of contacts, would give him the bit of information he needed to make the right decision, and if not, talking t
o the woman in a reassuring manner might smooth things enough to give him the direction he needed.

  Dalton had only had his new post a short time, but he’d wasted none of it in establishing himself in nearly every aspect of life at the estate. He became a useful colleague to many, a confidant to others, and shield to a few. Each method, in its own way, earned him loyalty. Along with the gifted people he knew, his ever-growing cobweb of connections virtually hummed like a harp.

  From the first day, though, Dalton’s primary objective had been to make himself indispensable to the Minister. During his second week on the job, a “researcher” had been sent out to the estate libraries by one of the Directors from the Office of Cultural Amity. Minister Chanboor had not been pleased. The truth be known, he had flown into a resentful rage, not an uncommon response from Bertrand Chanboor when presented with worrisome, even ominous, news.

  Two days after the researcher arrived, Dalton was able to inform Minister Chanboor that the man had ended up getting himself arrested, drunk and in the bed of a harlot back in Fairfield. None of that was a crime of any consequence, of course, even though it would have looked bad enough to some of the Directors, but the man was found to have had an extremely rare and valuable book in the pocket of his coat.

  An extremely rare and valuable book written by none other than Joseph Ander himself. The ancient text, valuable beyond price, had been reported missing from the Minister of Culture’s estate right after the researcher went off drinking.

  At Dalton’s instructions, the Directors’ office was immediately informed of the book’s disappearance—hours before the culprit was apprehended. With the report, Dalton had sent his personal assurance to the Directors that he would not rest until the malefactor was found, and that he intended to launch an immediate public investigation to discover if such a cultural crime was the precursor to a treasonous plot. The stunned silence from the Office of the Directors had been thunderous.

  The magistrate in Fairfield, the one for whom Dalton had once worked, was an admirer of the Minister of Culture, serving as he did at the Minister’s pleasure, and of course did not take lightly the theft from the Anderith Library of Culture. He recognized the theft for what it was: sedition. The researcher who had been caught with the book was swiftly put to death for cultural crimes against the Anderith people.

  Far from quelling the scandal, this caused the air to become rampant with ugly rumors of a confession, taken before the man was put to death—a confession, it was said, that implicated others. The Director who had sent the man to the estate to do “research,” rather than be associated with a cultural crime, as a point of honor and in order to end speculation and innuendo, had resigned. Dalton, as the Minister’s official representative looking into the whole affair, after reluctantly taking the Director’s resignation, issued a statement discrediting the rumors of a confession, and officially closed the entire matter.

  An old friend of Dalton’s had been fortunate enough to earn the appointment to the suddenly vacant seat for which he had been working nearly his whole life. Dalton had been the first to shake his hand, the hand of a new Director. A more grateful and joyous man Dalton had never met. Dalton was pleased by that, by seeing deserving people, people he loved and trusted, happy.

  After the incident, Bertrand Chanboor decided his responsibilities required a closer working relationship with his aide, and designated Dalton as chief of staff as well as aide to the Minister, thus giving him authority over the entire household. Dalton now reported only to the Minister. The position had also accorded them their latest quarters—the finest on the estate other than those of the Minister himself.

  Dalton thought Teresa had been even more pleased about it than he—if that was possible. She was in love with the apartment that came with the elevated authority. She was captivated by the people of noble standing among whom she now mingled. She was intoxicated with meeting important and powerful people who came to the estate.

  Those guests, as well as people of the estate, treated Teresa with the deference due one of her high standing, despite the fact that most of them were nobly born and she, like Dalton, was well born but not noble. Dalton had always found matters of birth to be petty, and less consequential than some people thought, once they understood how auspicious allegiances could be considerably more significant to a providential life.

  Across the room, Teresa cleared her throat. When Dalton turned from the desk, she lifted her nose and with noble grace and stepped out into the sitting room to display herself in her new dress.

  His eyes widened. Displaying herself was exactly what she was doing.

  The fabric glimmered dreamlike in the light from lamps, candles, and the low fire. Golden patterns of leafy designs swirled across a dark background. Gold-colored piping trimmed seams and edges, drawing attention to her narrow waist and voluptuous curves. The silk fabric of the skirt, like new wheat hugging every nuance of the rolling lowland hills, betrayed the shape of her curvaceous legs beneath.

  But it was the neckline that had him speechless. Sweeping down from the ends of her shoulders, it plunged to an outrageous depth. The sight of her sensuous breasts so exposed had a profound effect on him, as a rousing as it was unsettling.

  Teresa twirled around, showing off the dress, the deeply cut back, the way it sparkled in the light. With long strides Dalton crossed the room to catch her in his arms as she came back around the second time. She giggled to find herself trapped in his embrace. He bent to kiss her, but she pushed his face away.

  “Careful. I’ve spent hours painting my face. Don’t muss it, Dalton.”

  She moaned helplessly against his mouth as he kissed her anyway. She seemed pleased with the effect she was having on him. He was pleased with the effect she was having on him.

  Teresa pulled back. She reached up and tugged the sequined gold ribbons tied to her hair.

  “Sweetheart, does it look any longer yet?” she asked in a pleading voice. “It’s pure misery waiting for it to grow.”

  With his new post and attendant new apartments, he was moving up in the world, becoming a man of power. With that new authority came the privileges of rank: his wife was allowed to wear longer hair to reflect her status.

  Other wives in the household wore hair nearly to their shoulders; his wife would be no different, except perhaps that her hair would be just a little longer than all but a few other women in the house, or in the whole land of Anderith—for that matter, in the whole of the Midlands. She was married to an important man.

  The thought washed through him with icy excitement, as it did from time to time when it really sank in just how far he had risen, and what he had attained.

  Dalton Campbell intended this to be only the beginning. He intended to go further. He had plans. And he had the ear of a man with a lust for plans.

  Among other things. But, no matter; Dalton could handle such petty matters. The Minister was simply taking the perks of his position.

  “Tess, darling, your hair is growing beautifully. If any woman looks down her nose at you for it not yet being longer, you just remember her name, for your hair in the end will be longer than any of theirs. When it finally grows, you can then revisit that name for recompense.”

  Teresa bounced on the balls of her feet as she threw her arms around his neck. She squealed in giddy delight.

  Intertwining her fingers behind his back, she peeked up at him with a coquettish look. “Do you like my dress?” To make her point, she pressed up against him while gazing into his eyes, watching deliberately as his gaze roamed lower.

  In answer, he bent to her, and in one swift motion slipped his hand up under her silky skirt, along the inside of her leg, up to the bare flesh above her stockings. She gasped in mock surprise as his hand reached her private places.

  Dalton kissed her again as he groped her. He was no longer thinking about taking her to the feast. He wanted to take her to the bed.

  As he pushed her toward the bedroom, she squirmed out of h
is lustful grip. “Dalton! Don’t muss me, sweetheart. Everyone will see the wrinkles in my dress.”

  “I don’t think anyone will be looking at the wrinkles in the dress. I think they will be looking at what is spilling out of it.

  “Teresa, I don’t want you to wear such a thing anywhere but to greet your husband at the door upon his return home to you.”

  She playfully swatted his shoulder. “Dalton, stop.”

  “I mean it.” He looked down her cleavage again. “Teresa, this dress is… it shows too much.”

  She turned away. “Oh, Dalton, stop. You’re being silly. All the women are wearing such dresses nowadays.” She twirled to him, the flirt back on her face. “You aren’t jealous, are you? Having other men admire your wife?”

  She was the one thing he had wanted more than power. Unlike everything else in his life, he entertained no invitations for understandings where Teresa was concerned. The spirits knew there were enough men at the estate who were admired, even envied, because they gained for themselves the courtesy of influence, inasmuch as their wives made themselves available to Minister Chanboor. Dalton Campbell was not one of them. He used his talent and wits to get where he was, not his wife’s body. That, too, gave him an edge over the others.

  His forbearance was rapidly evaporating, leaving his tone less than indulgent. “And how will they know it to be my wife? Their eyes will never make it up to your face.”

  “Dalton, stop. You’re being insufferably stodgy. All the other women will be wearing dresses similar to this. It’s the style. You’re always so busy with your new job you don’t know anything about prevailing custom. I do.

  “Believe it or not, this dress is conservative compared to what others will be wearing. I wouldn’t wear a dress as revealing as theirs—I know how you get—but I don’t want to look out of place, either. No one will think anything of it, except that perhaps the wife of the Minister’s right-hand man is a tad prissy.”