Soul of the Fire

by Terry Goodkind

  Lord Rahl had turned to the towering weapon. He seemed to have forgotten that anyone else existed, as he focused on the lichen-covered stone before him. He stood as still as the stone. He seemed almost one with it.

  His hand reached out to touch the Dominie Dirtch.

  The woman snatched his wrist, holding his hand back.

  “No, my husband. Do not touch this thing. It is…”

  Lord Rahl turned to look into her eyes, finishing what she’d left unsaid. “Evil.”

  “You can feel it, then?”

  He nodded.

  Of course it was evil, Beata wanted to say; it was made by Hakens.

  Beata’s brow bunched in puzzlement. The woman had called him “husband,” but the Mother Confessor had said the Lord Rahl was her husband.

  Lord Rahl, seeing his troops drawing close, started down the stairs two at a time. The woman took in the Dominie Dirtch one last time and then moved to follow after him.

  “Husband?” Beata was unable to resist asking the pregnant woman.

  She lifted her chin as she turned to Beata. “Yes. I am the wife of the Lord Rahl, the Seeker, the Caharin, Richard.”

  “But, but the Mother Confessor said…”

  The woman shrugged. “Yes, we are the both of us his wives.”

  “Both? Two…?”

  The woman started down the stairs. “He is an important man. He can have more than one wife.” The woman stopped and looked back. “I once had five husbands.”

  Beata’s eyes widened as she watched the woman disappear down the stairs. The morning air rumbled with the approach of the mounted soldiers. Beata had never even imagined such ferocious looking men. She was glad for her training; Captain Tolbert had told her that with her training, she could defend Anderith against anyone, even men like these.

  “Sergeant Beata,” Lord Rahl called up to her.

  Beata went to the rail in front of the bell. He had stopped on his way to his horse out front and turned back. The Mother Confessor was taking up the reins. She put a foot in a stirrup.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “I don’t suppose you rang that thing about a week ago?”

  “No, sir, we didn’t.”

  He turned to his horse. “Thank you, Sergeant.”

  “But it chimed by itself back then.”

  The Lord Rahl stiffened in place. The pregnant woman spun back around. The Mother Confessor, halfway up onto her horse, dropped back to the ground.

  Beata raced down the steps so she wouldn’t have to shout the awful details down at him. The rest of her squad had pulled way back behind the Dominie Dirtch, fearing to be in the way of such important people; fearing, Beata supposed, that the Mother Confessor might set them afire with a look. Beata still feared the woman, but the edge of her fear had been dulled.

  Lord Rahl whistled to the soldiers and wheeled his arm, ordering them to hurry through, past the Dominie Dirtch, out of the way of harm, should the Dominie Dirtch again ring of its own accord. As hundreds of mounted men galloped around both sides, he hurried to usher the Mother Confessor and the pregnant woman, along with the other man, around to the rear of the stone base.

  Once the women were safely past, he seized the shoulder of Beata’s uniform and hauled her back, protectively, away from the front of Dominie Dirtch. She stiffened to attention—mostly in fear—before him.

  His brow had drawn down in a way that made Beata’s knees tremble. “What happened?” he asked in a quiet voice that seemed as if it could have caused the Dominie Dirtch to ring again.

  The Mother Confessor had come to stand beside him. His pregnant wife stood on his other side.

  “Well, we don’t know, sir.” Beata licked her lips. “One of my men… Turner, he was…” She gestured out behind Lord Rahl. “He was out on patrol when the thing rang. It was an awful sound. Just awful. And Turner…”

  Beata could feel a tear roll down her cheek. As much as she didn’t want this man and the Mother Confessor to see her showing weakness, she couldn’t keep that tear back.

  “In the late afternoon?” Lord Rahl asked.

  Beata nodded. “How did you know?”

  He ignored the question. “All of them rang? Not just this one, but all of them up and down the line rang, didn’t they?”

  “Yes, sir. No one knows the reason. Some officers came down the line, checking them, but they couldn’t tell us anything.”

  “Were a lot of people killed?”

  Beata abandoned his gaze. “Yes, sir. One of my men, and a lot of others, from what I was told. Wagons with merchants at the border, people returning to pass through the border… Anyone out front of the Dominie Dirtch when they rang.… It was just awful. To die in such a fashion…”

  “We understand,” the Mother Confessor said in a compassionate tone. “We’re sorry for your loss.”

  “So no one has any idea why they rang?” Lord Rahl pressed.

  “No, sir, at least no one told us the reason. I’ve talked to the squads to each side, at the next Dominie Dirtch to each side, and it was the same with them; theirs, too, chimed on their own, but no one knows why. The officers who came past must not have known the reason either, because they was asking us what happened.”

  Lord Rahl nodded, seeming in deep thought. The wind lifted his golden cloak. The Mother Confessor pulled some hair back from her face, as did Lord Rahl’s pregnant wife.

  Lord Rahl gestured off at the rest of her squad. “And these people, they are all you have here, guarding the border? Just you few… soldiers?”

  Beata glanced up at the weapon towering over them. “Well, sir, it only takes one person to ring the Dominie Dirtch.”

  His gaze again appraised the rest of her squad. “I suppose. Thank you for your help, Sergeant.”

  He and the Mother Confessor swiftly mounted up. She and the people on foot moved out with the rest of their soldiers. Lord Rahl turned back to her.

  “Tell me, Sergeant Beata, do you think I—and the Mother Confessor—are not as good as the Ander people? Do you think us evil of nature, too?”

  “Oh no, sir. Only Hakens are born tainted with vile souls. We can never be as good as Anders. Our souls are corrupt and unable to be pure; their souls are pure, and unable to be corrupt. We cannot ever be completely cleansed; we can only hope to control our vile nature.”

  He smiled sadly down at her. His voice softened. “Beata, the Creator does not create evil. He would not create and bestow upon you souls of evil. You have as much potential for good as anyone else, and Anders have a potential for evil equal to anyone.”

  “That’s not what we’re taught, sir.”

  His horse tossed her head and danced sideways, eager to be off after the others. With a pat on his horse’s glossy brown neck, as if speaking to her through that gentle hand, he settled her.

  “As I said, you were taught wrong. You are as good as anyone else Beata—Haken, or Ander, or anyone. That’s our purpose in this struggle: to make sure that all people have an equal chance.

  “You be careful with that thing, sergeant, that Dominie Dirtch.”

  Beata saluted with her hand to her brow. “Yes, sir, I surely intend to.”

  His gaze connected solidly with hers and he tapped his fist to his heart to return the salute. Then, his horse leaped into a gallop to catch the others.

  As Beata watched him go, she realized that this had probably been the most exciting thing that would happen in all the rest of her entire life—speaking with the Mother Confessor and the Lord Rahl.

  51

  Bertrand Chanboor looked up when Dalton came into the room. Bertrand’s wife was there, too, standing before his ornate desk. Dalton met her eyes briefly. He was a bit surprised to see her there, but guessed this was important enough for her to meet with her husband.

  “Well?” Bertrand asked.

  “They confirmed what we were told,” Dalton said. “They saw it with their own eyes.”

  “And they have soldiers?” Hildemara asked. “That pa
rt is true, also?”

  “Yes. The best guess is near a thousand men.”

  Cursing under her breath, she tapped a finger against Bertrand’s desk as she considered. “And the fools at the border just let them through without a care.”

  “We cultivate such an army, you will recall,” Bertrand reminded her as he stood. “They also let through our ‘special Ander guard troops,’ after all.”

  “The people at the border can’t be blamed,” Dalton put in, “They couldn’t very well refuse the Mother Confessor entry. The man could be none other than the Lord Rahl himself.”

  Erupting in rage, the Minister heaved his glass dipping pen. It clattered across the floor before shattering against the far wall. He went to the window and leaned against the sill as he gazed out.

  “For Creation’s sake, Bertrand, get a grip on yourself,” Lady Chanboor growled.

  He turned in red-faced anger and shook a finger at his wife.

  “This could ruin everything! We’ve worked years at this, carefully cultivated the relationship, sown the seeds, pulled the weeds that have sprung up, and just when we’re about to finally reap the harvest of our lives, she comes riding in with that—that—that D’Haran bastard Lord Rahl!”

  Hildemara folded her arms. “Well that really solves the problem, throwing a fit. I swear, Bertrand, sometimes you have less sense than a drunken fisherman.”

  “And the sort of pompous wife who drives him to it!”

  He ground his teeth and pulled aside his chair, no doubt preparing to launch into an extended tirade. Dalton could almost see her back arch, fur lift, and claws lengthen.

  Dalton was usually ignored, like a piece of furniture, when they started in on each other. This time, he had better things to do than wait for it to broaden into a worse argument that would only waste valuable time. He had to issue orders, depending on what was decided. He had to get people in place.

  He thought about Franca, wondering if she might have recovered her power. He hadn’t seen much of her lately, and when he had, she seemed distracted. She had been spending a lot of time in the library. It would be valuable at a time like this to have Franca’s assistance. Her true assistance.

  “The Mother Confessor and the Lord Rahl are riding hard, and my men only just made it ahead of them,” Dalton said, before Bertrand could lay into his wife, or she could throw something at him. “They should be here within the hour—two at most. We should be prepared.”

  Bertrand glared a moment before pulling his chair close and sitting. He folded his hands on the table. “Yes, you’re right, Dalton. Quite right. First thing is to get Stein and his men out of sight. It wouldn’t do to have—”

  “I’ve already taken the liberty of seeing to it, Minister. I’ve sent some of them on an inspection of grain-storage facilities, and others wanted to look over the strategic routes into Anderith.”

  Bertrand looked up. “Good.”

  “We’ve worked too many years to lose it all, now, when we’re this close,” Hildemara said. “However, if we just keep our heads, I don’t see any reason we can’t proceed with everything as planned.”

  Her husband nodded, having cooled considerably, as he did when he put his mind to difficult matters. He had the odd ability to be in a fit of rage one moment, and smiling the next.

  “Possibly.” He turned to Dalton. “How close is the Order?”

  “Still quite a distance, Minister. Stein’s ‘special Ander guard troops’ who arrived the day before yesterday told me four weeks at least. Probably a bit more.”

  Bertrand shrugged and arched an eyebrow, a sly smile coming to his lips. “Then we will simply have to stall the Mother Confessor and the Lord Rahl.”

  Hildemara put her fists on his desk and leaned toward her husband.

  “The two of them, the Lord Rahl and the Mother Confessor, will be expecting our answer. They’ve long since explained to our representatives in Aydindril the choice we have, and sent them back with the offer of joining the D’Haran Empire, or facing the probability of conquest and the resulting loss of standing in our own land.”

  Dalton agreed with her. “Ours would be a land they would turn their forces to if we don’t agree to the terms of surrender. Were we some small, unimportant land, they would no doubt ignore us as we stall, but we will be an immediate prime target should we refuse to join them.”

  “And they have forces somewhere down in the South, from what I’ve heard,” Hildemara put in. “The Lord Rahl is not a man to be denied, or played for a fool. Some of the other lands—Jara, Galea, Herjborgue, Grennidon, and Kelton, among others—have already fallen or joined willingly. Lord Rahl has considerable forces of his own from D’Hara, but with those lands his army is formidable.”

  “But they aren’t all down here,” Bertrand said, for some reason suddenly quite calm. “The Order will be able to crush them. The Dominie Dirtch can hold off any force from the D’Haran empire.”

  Dalton thought the confidence unfounded. “From what my sources tell me, this Lord Rahl is a wizard of formidable talent. He is also the Seeker of Truth. I fear such a man may have ways of defeating the Dominie Dirtch.”

  Hildemara scowled. “Besides, the Mother Confessor, the Lord Rahl, and perhaps a thousand troops are already inside the line of Dominie Dirtch. They will demand our surrender. We would be stripped of power if that happens. The Order won’t be here for weeks—by then too late.”

  She shook her finger at her husband. “We’ve worked too many years to lose it all now.”

  Bertrand tapped his thumbs as he smiled. “Then we will just, as I said before, have to stall them, won’t we, my dear?”

  The D’Haran troops were a dark ribbon on the road behind them as Richard and Kahlan led them toward the Minister of Culture’s estate. A dark ribbon bristling steel. The sun was not an hour from setting behind scattered clouds, but at least they had arrived.

  Richard pulled his damp D’Haran shirt away from his chest as he watched a curious raven circling overhead. With raucous calls, it let its lordly presence be known, as was the way with ravens.

  It had been a warm and humid day. He and Kahlan both wore extra clothes the soldiers brought so their own would be clean and fit for the meeting they both knew would soon come.

  Richard glanced back over his shoulder and received a murderous look from Du Chaillu. He had made her ride a horse so they could make the distance and not take another day. Their journey had taken far too long as it was.

  The Baka Tau Mana did not like riding horses. As often as not, Du Chaillu would simply have ignored him when he told her to ride. This time, she knew if she ignored the order she would be left behind.

  It had apparently taken Cara some time to locate General Reibisch’s forces and send an escort of troops. Richard, Kahlan, and the Baka Tau Mana had been on foot, slogging through late spring deluges, for far too long. They hadn’t made a lot of distance before the D’Haran troops finally arrived with horses.

  Du Chaillu had also slowed their journey, although not purposely. She endlessly protested that riding would harm her baby before it was born—the baby Richard had suggested she bear. Because of her unborn child, Richard was reluctant to force her to ride.

  He hadn’t wanted her along in the first place. After the D’Haran troops had arrived with supplies and extra horses, she refused to return home as she had previously promised she would.

  To her credit, she never complained about the difficulty of the journey. But when Richard made her ride, it put her in a vile mood.

  Kahlan, at first cool about having the Baka Tau Mana’s spirit woman along, had warmed to the situation ever since the day he fell from his horse. Kahlan credited Du Chaillu with saving his life. Richard appreciated Du Chaillu’s eagerness to help, but didn’t believe it was her doing that kept him alive.

  He wasn’t at all sure what had happened. Since seeing the Dominie Dirtch, and hearing how they had chimed on their own at the same time he felt the crippling pain, he knew the whole
thing had to be tied together somehow, and he didn’t believe Du Chaillu held much sway over it. This was something much bigger than she realized, or Richard could understand.

  Since Richard had seen the Dominie Dirtch, he hadn’t slowed for anything, even her pregnant condition. Since being close to those stone bells and feeling some of what he felt, she had been more cooperative about his hurry.

  Richard lifted a hand when he spotted the rider trailing a plume of dust. He could hear orders being relayed back through the ranks in response to his signal, bringing the entire column to a jangling halt. Only in the sudden silence, after they had stopped, did he realize how much noise it made when they were on the move.

  “This will be our greeting,” Kahlan said.

  “How far to the Minister’s estate?” Richard asked.

  “Not far. We’re more than half way from Fairfield. Maybe a mile.”

  Richard and Kahlan dismounted to meet the approaching rider. A soldier took the reins to Kahlan’s horse. Richard handed his back to the man, too, and then stepped out away from the others. Kahlan alone walked with him. He had to signal with a hand to keep the soldiers from forming a defensive ring around them.

  The young man leaped from his horse before it had skidded to a stop. Holding the reins in one hand, he went to a knee in a bow. Kahlan greeted him in the way of the Mother Confessor and he rose. He wore livery of black boots, dark trousers, white shirt with a fancy collar and cuffs, and tan quilted doublet with black-and-brown braiding around the edges.

  The man bowed a head of red hair to Richard. “Lord Rahl?”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  He straightened. “I’m Rowley. The Minister of Culture sent me to greet you and extend his joy to have you and the Mother Confessor grace the people of Anderith with your presence.”

  “I’m sure,” Richard said.

  Kahlan elbowed his ribs. “Thank you, Rowley. We will need a place for our men to set up camp.”

  “Yes, Mother Confessor. The Minister wanted me to tell you that you’re welcome to choose any ground in our land. If it would be acceptable, you may have the grounds at the estate for your use.”