Soul of the Fire

by Terry Goodkind

  “Sweetheart, are you still working?”

  Dalton looked up at the sound of the familiar voice. Teresa, wearing an alluring rose-colored dress he didn’t recall seeing before, was sweeping into the room.

  He smiled. “Tess, darling. What brings you up here?”

  “I came to catch you with a mistress.”

  “What?”

  She went past his desk to pause and gaze out the window. A green velvet sash gathered the waist of the dress, accentuating her curves. He envisioned his hands where the sash embraced her.

  “I was pretty lonely last night,” she said as she watched people out on the lawns.

  “I know. I’m sorry, but there were messages I had to—”

  “I thought you were with another woman.”

  “What? Tess, I sent you a message, explaining that I had to work.”

  She turned to him. “When you sent word you would be working late, I didn’t think much of it. You’ve been working late every night. But when I woke up and it was almost dawn, and you weren’t there beside me… well, I thought sure you were in the bed of another woman.”

  “Tess, I wouldn’t—”

  “I thought of going and throwing myself at Lord Rahl, just to get even, but he has the Mother Confessor and she’s more beautiful than me, so I knew he would just laugh and turn me away.

  “So, I got dressed and came up here, just to be able to say I knew you weren’t really working, when you later lied and told me you were. Instead of an empty office, I saw all your messengers scurrying around like they were preparing to go off to war. I saw you in here handing out papers, issuing orders. You really were working. I watched for a while.”

  “Why didn’t you come in?”

  She finally glided over to him and settled herself into his lap. She put her arms around his neck as she gazed into his eyes.

  “I didn’t want to bother you when you were busy.”

  “But you aren’t a bother, Tess. You’re the only thing in my life that isn’t a bother.”

  She shrugged. “I was ashamed to have you know I thought you were cheating on me.”

  “Then why now confess it?”

  She kissed him, with a kiss only Tess could give, breathless, hot, wet. She pulled back to smile as she watched him look down her cleavage.

  “Because,” she whispered, “I love you, and I miss you. I just got my new dress. I thought it might tempt you to my bed.”

  “I think you more beautiful that the Mother Confessor.”

  She grinned and gave him a peck on the forehead. “How about coming home for just a while?”

  He patted her bottom as she stood. “I’ll be along shortly.”

  Ann peeked and saw Alessandra watching her pray. Ann had asked the woman if it would bother her were Ann to pray before the meal.

  Alessandra, at first taken by surprise, had said, “No, why should it?”

  Sitting on the bare ground inside her grimy tent, Ann, in earnest, devoted herself to the prayer. She let herself fill with the joy of the Creator, in much the same way she opened herself to her Han. She let the Light fill her with joy. She let her heart feel the peace of the Creator in her, let herself be thankful for all she had, when others were so much worse off.

  She prayed that Alessandra would feel just a ray of warm Light, and open her heart to it.

  When she finished, she reached as far as the chains would allow and kissed toward her ring finger in fidelity to the Creator, to whom she was symbolically wedded.

  She knew Alessandra would recall the indescribable satisfaction of praying to the Creator, of opening your heart in thanks to the one who had given you your soul. There were times in the life of every Sister when she had quietly, privately, piously wept with the joy of it.

  Ann saw the twitch of longing as Alessandra almost reflexively brought her own finger to her lips.

  As a Sister of the Dark, such an act would be a betrayal of the Keeper.

  Alessandra had pledged that soul, given by the Creator, to the Keeper of the underworld—to evil. Ann couldn’t imagine there was anything the Keeper could give in return that could match the simple joy of a prayer expressing thanks to the One from which all things emanated.

  “Thank you, Alessandra. That was kind of you to let me say my prayer before I eat.”

  “Nothing kind to it,” the woman said. “Simply gets the food down easier so I can get on with my other business.”

  Ann nodded, glad she had felt the Creator in her heart.

  54

  “What are we going to do?” Morley whispered.

  Fitch scratched his ear. “Hush, I’m planning it out.”

  Fitch had no idea what to do, but he didn’t want Morley to know that. Morley was impressed Fitch had found the place. He had come to depend on Fitch knowing what to do.

  Not that there was that much to know. Mostly they rode hard. They had all that money Dalton Campbell had given them, so they didn’t have to know much. They could buy food; they didn’t have to hunt it, or gather it. They could buy any gear they needed; they didn’t have to fashion it themselves.

  Fitch had learned that money went a long way toward making up for what a person didn’t know. Having grown up on the streets of Fairfield, he did know how to guard his money, and how to keep from being cheated, robbed, and tricked out of it. He was careful with the money, never using it to buy flashy clothes or anything that would make it look like they were worth knocking over the head, or worse.

  The one surprise was that no one much cared they were Hakens, or even seemed to know. They were treated decent by most folks, who thought them polite young men.

  Fitch didn’t let Morley talk him into buying drinks at inns; he knew that would be a sure way to let unsavory people know they had money, and being drunk only made it easier to forget to be careful. Instead they bought a bottle and only when they’d set up a camp for the night, somewhere people weren’t likely to come across them, did he and Morley get drunk. They did that a lot at first. It helped Fitch forget that people thought he raped Beata.

  Morley had wanted to spend some money on whores at one town they went through, but Fitch didn’t want to. He finally gave in and let Morley do it, being as the money was his, too. Fitch had waited with their horses and other things outside town. He knew what sometimes happened to travelers coming into Fairfield to visit prostitutes.

  Afterward, a grinning Morley said he’d watch over their things while Fitch went back and had his turn at visiting a woman. Fitch had been tempted, but the idea made him all jittery. Just when he thought he’d worked up the nerve, he’d imagine the woman laughing at him, and then his knees would get to shaking and his palms to sweating something fierce. He just knew they’d laugh.

  Morley, he was big and strong, and manly. Women wouldn’t laugh at Morley. Beata used to always laugh at Fitch. He didn’t want to have some woman he didn’t even know start laughing at his skinny frame as soon as he got his clothes off.

  He finally decided he didn’t want to risk his purpose, or waste any of their money on it. He didn’t know how much it would cost to get to where they were going and feared running out too soon. Morley called him a fool, and said it was more than worth it. It was all he talked about for the week after. Fitch had gotten to wishing he’d done it just to shut Morley up.

  As it turned out, he needn’t have worried about money. They hadn’t spent much at all—not compared with what they had. The money had helped make it a swift journey. With money, they could trade for fresh horses and keep going without having to care for the animals by slowing their pace.

  Morley shook his head. “All this way, and here we are stuck this close.”

  “I said hush. You want to get us caught?”

  Morley fell silent, except for scratching his stubble. Fitch wished he had more than a few hairs on his chin. Morley had a beard coming in. Fitch sometimes felt like a kid next to Morley, with his broad shoulders and stubble all over his face.

  Fitch watched
as the distant guards patrolled back and forth. There was no way in except the bridge. Franca had told him that much, and now that he was here he could see it plain for himself. They had to get across that bridge, or it was over.

  Fitch felt a strange whispering wind caress the back of his neck. He shivered after it moved on.

  “What do you suppose he’s doing?” Morley whispered.

  Fitch squinted, trying to see better into the distance. It looked like one of the guards was climbing up onto the stone side of the bridge.

  Fitch’s jaw dropped. “Dear spirits! Did you see that!”

  Morley gasped. “What did he do that for?”

  Even at the distance, Fitch could hear the men yelling, running to the edge, looking over.

  “I can’t believe it,” Morley breathed. “Why would he jump?”

  Fitch shook his head. He was about to speak when he saw a man on the other side of the bridge climb up on the stone edge.

  Fitch thrust out his arm. “Look! There goes another one!”

  The man reached out with his arms, embracing the air, as he leaped off the bridge, out into the chasm.

  Then, as the soldiers ran to that side, a third leaped to his death. It was crazy. Fitch laid there on his belly, dumbfounded.

  In the distance, the sounds of men screaming, as yet more jumped off the bridge, was like chimes ringing. They drew weapons, only to drop them and climb up on the stone walls themselves.

  Something felt like it pushed at Fitch’s back, like his own imagination urging him to take his chance while he had it. The sensation tickled at the back of his neck. He scrambled to his feet.

  “Come on, Morley. Let’s go.”

  Morley followed as Fitch ran back down to the horses, hidden in the trees. Fitch stuffed his foot in the stirrup and sprang up into the saddle. Morley was right behind him as Fitch gave his horse his heels, urging her into a gallop up the road.

  It was a climb, up the switchbacks, and he couldn’t see through the trees if the soldiers were getting themselves collected. He didn’t know if they would be in such a state of shock and confusion that the two of them could get through. Fitch didn’t see that they had any other chance but this one. He didn’t know what was happening, but it wasn’t likely that guards jumped off the bridge every day. It was now or never.

  As they came around the last bend, they were racing like the wind. He thought that with the havoc, he and Morley could charge past the last of the guards and get over the bridge.

  The bridge was empty. There were no soldiers anywhere. Fitch let their horses slow to a walk. It ran chills up his spine remembering all the men he had seen only moments before. Now only the the wind guarded the bridge.

  “Fitch, are you sure you want to go up there?”

  His friend’s voice had a tremble to it. Fitch followed Morley’s gaze then, and saw it, too. It stuck out of the stone of the mountain, like it was made of the mountain, like it was part of the mountain. It was dark, and evil-looking. It was just about the wickedest place he had ever seen, or could imagine. There were ramparts, and towers, and walls rising up beyond the monumental crenellated outer wall.

  He was glad to be sitting in a saddle; he didn’t know if his legs would have held him at the sight of the place. He had never seen anything as big or as sinister-looking as the Wizard’s Keep.

  “Come on,” Fitch said. “Before they find out what happened and send more guards.”

  Morley looked around at the empty bridge. “And what happened?”

  “It’s a place with magic. Anything could have happened.”

  Fitch scooted his bottom forward in the saddle, urging his horse ahead. The horse didn’t like the bridge and was only too happy to run. They didn’t stop running as they barreled through the opening in the outer wall, under the spiked portcullis.

  There was a fenced yard for the horses inside. Before they turned the horses loose, Fitch told Morley to leave the saddles on them so they could make a quick departure. Morley wasn’t any more interested in lingering than was Fitch. Together, they raced up the dozen wide granite steps worn smooth and swayback over the centuries, surely by the feet of countless wizards.

  Inside, it was just like Franca had told him, only her words of how big it was couldn’t match the truth of the sight. A hundred feet overhead a glassed roof let in the sunlight. In the center of the tiled floor stood a clover-leaf-shaped fountain. Water shot fifteen feet into the air above the top bowl, flowing over each bigger one underneath until it ran into a pool at the bottom surrounded by a white marble wall that could be a bench.

  Red marble columns were as big as Franca said. They held up arches below a balcony that ran all the way around the oval-shaped room. Morley whistled. It echoed back from the distance.

  “Come on,” Fitch said, shaking himself out of his awe.

  They ran through the hall Franca had told him about and burst through a door at the top of several flights of stairs. They followed a walkway round square buildings without windows and then climbed stairs that followed halfway around a tower, to a walkway tunneling under what looked to be a road overhead, before they crossed a stone bridge over a small, green courtyard far below.

  At last, they came to a massive rampart as broad as a road. Fitch looked out over the right side, between the gaps in the crenellation big enough for a man to stand in. He could see the city of Aydindril spread out below. For a boy who grew up in the flat land of Anderith, it was a dizzying sight. Fitch had been impressed by a lot of things he’d seen along the way, but nothing came close to this place.

  At the other end of the rampart, a dozen immense columns of variegated red stone held up a protruding entablature of dark stone. Six of the columns stood to each side of a gold-clad door. Above were more layers of fancy stonework, some of it decorated with brass plaques and round metal disks, all of them covered with strange symbols.

  As they crossed the long rampart, Fitch realized the door had to be at least ten or twelve feet tall, and a good four feet wide. The gold-clad door was marked with some of the same symbols as on the plaques and disks.

  When Fitch pushed on the door, it silently swung inward.

  “In here,” Fitch whispered. He didn’t know why he was whispering, except that maybe he feared to wake the spirits of the wizards who haunted the place.

  He didn’t want the spirits to make him jump from the rampart like the soldiers had done from the bridge; it looked like the edge dropped off down the mountain for thousands of feet.

  “You sure?” Morley asked.

  “I’m going in. You can wait here or go with me. It’s up to you.”

  Morley’s eyes were looking all around, not seeming able to decide on where to settle. “I guess I’ll go with you.”

  Inside, to each side, glass spheres, about as big as a head, sat on green marble pedestals, like armless statues waiting to greet visitors to the huge room of ornate stonework. In the middle, four columns of polished black marble, at least as big around as a horse was long, from head to tail, formed a square that supported arches at the outer edges of a central dome.

  There were wrought-iron sconces holding candles all around the room, but up in the dome a ring of windows let light flood in, so they didn’t need to light the candles. Fitch felt like he was in a place the Creator Himself might have. He felt like he should drop to his knees and pray in such a place.

  A red carpet led down the wing they were in. In a row down each side of the carpet were six-foot-tall white marble pedestals. Each had to be bigger around than Master Drummond’s belly. Up on top of each pedestal were different objects. There were pretty bowls, fancy gold chains, an inky black bottle, and other objects, carved from burled wood. Some of the things Fitch couldn’t make sense of.

  He didn’t pay much attention to the things on the columns; he looked instead across the huge room, to the other side of the central dome. There, he saw a table piled with a clutter of things, and there, leaning against the table, looked to be the thing he
’d come for.

  Between each pair of the black columns topped in gold, a wing ran off from the vast central chamber. To the left it looked like a disorderly library, with books stacked all over the floor in tall columns. The wing to the right was dark.

  Fitch trotted down the red carpet. At the end, broad steps, near to a dozen, went down into the sunken floor of cream-colored marble at the center of the First Wizard’s enclave below the dome. He took the steps two at a time up the other side, up toward the table before a towering round-topped window straight ahead.

  A confusion of things were piled all over the table: bowls, candles, scrolls, books, jars, spheres, metal squares and triangles—there was even a skull. Other bigger objects sat cluttered around on the floor.

  Morley reached for the skull. Fitch slapped his hand away.

  “Don’t touch nothing.” Fitch pointed at the scull staring up at them. “That could be a wizard’s skull, and if you touch it, it might come back to life. Wizards can do that, you know.”

  Morley yanked back his hand.

  Fingers trembling, Fitch finally reached down and picked up the thing he’d come for. It looked just like he’d imagined it must look. The gold and silver work was as beautiful as anything Fitch had ever seen, and he’d seen a lot of fine gold and silver work at the Minister’s estate. No Ander had anything to approach the beauty of this.

  “That it?” Morley asked.

  Fitch ran his fingers over the raised letters in the hilt. It was the one word he could read.

  “This is it. The Sword of Truth.”

  Fitch felt rooted to that spot as he held the magnificent weapon, letting his fingers glide over the wire-wound hilt, the downswept cross guard, the finely wrought gold and silver scabbard. Even the leather baldric was beautifully made, feeling buttery soft between his finger and thumb.

  “Well, if you’re taking that,” Morley said, “what do you think I can take?”

  “Nothing,” came a voice from behind them.

  They both flinched and cried out as one. Together, they spun around.

  They both blinked at what they saw, hardly believing their eyes. It was a gorgeous blue-eyed blond woman in a red leather outfit that clung like a second skin. It showed her womanly shape to an extent Fitch had never seen. The low-cut dresses the Ander women wore showed the tops of their breasts, but this outfit, even though it covered everything, somehow seemed to show more. He could see her lean, well-defined muscles flexing as she strode toward them.