Soul of the Fire

by Terry Goodkind

  “Are you so sure? What if it’s not? Besides, as I said, we don’t have the luxury of time to devote to it. We have more important things to worry about.”

  “The Mother Confessor is right,” Captain Meiffert insisted.

  “I have to believe truth will win out. Otherwise, what is there left to do? Lie to people to get them to join our side?”

  “It seems to be working for those who oppose us,” Kahlan pointed out.

  Richard wiped his wet hair back from his forehead. “Look, there’s nothing I would like better than to simply call General Reibisch down here. Really, there isn’t. But we can’t.”

  Captain Meiffert wiped water from his chin. The man seemed to have anticipated the reason for Richard’s reluctance and was ready with a reply.

  “Lord Rahl, we have enough men here. We can send word to the general, and before he comes into sight, we can take the Dominie Dirtch from the Anderith army and safely let our men through.”

  “I’ve run that very thought through my mind a thousand times,” Richard said. “One thing keeps ringing a warning in my head.”

  “What’s that?” Kahlan asked.

  Richard turned sideways on his small folding stool so he might speak to her as well as the captain.

  “We don’t know for sure how the Dominie Dirtch work.”

  “So, we ask someone here,” Kahlan said.

  “It’s not a weapon they use. We can’t count on their expertise. Yes, they know that if they’re being attacked they ring the things and the enemy will be killed.”

  “Lord Rahl, we have a thousand men, once they all return from watching the vote. We can take the Dominie Dirtch in a wide swath and General Reibisch will be able to safely bring his army through. Then we can use his men to take the rest, all along the frontier, and the Imperial Order will not be able to get through. Perhaps they will even approach, thinking they will be able to pass, and then we will have the opportunity to use the Dominie Dirtch against them.”

  Richard turned the candle on the table round and round in his fingers as he listened, and then in the silence that followed.

  “There’s one problem with that,” he said at last, “and that is what I’ve already said: we aren’t sure how they work.”

  “We know the basics of the things,” Kahlan said, her frustration growing.

  “But the problem is,” Richard said, “that we don’t know enough. First of all, we can’t take all the Dominie Dirtch all along the frontier. There are too many—they run along the entire border. We could only take some, like you suggested, Captain.

  “Therein lies the problem. Remember when we came through? How those people were killed when the Dominie Dirtch rang?”

  “Yes, but we don’t know why they rang,” Kahlan said. “Besides, what difference does that make?”

  “What if we capture a stretch of the Dominie Dirtch,” Richard said, looking back and forth between Kahlan and Captain Meiffert, “and then tell General Reibisch it’s safe to bring his army in. What if, when all those men are just about there, Anderith soldiers somewhere else, ones still in control of the Dominie Dirtch, ring theirs?”

  “So what?” Kahlan asked. “They will be too far away.”

  “Are you sure?” Richard leaned toward her for emphasis. “What if that rings them all? What if they know how to ring the entire line?

  “Remember when we came in, how they said they all rang, and everyone out in front of the Dominie Dirtch was killed? They all rang together, as one.”

  “But they didn’t know why they all rang,” Kahlan said. “The soldiers didn’t ring them.”

  “How do you know that one person somewhere along that entire line didn’t ring their Dominie Dirtch, and caused them all to ring? Maybe accidentally, and they’re too afraid to admit it for fear of their punishment, or perhaps one of those young people stationed there, out of boredom, just wanted to try it?

  “What if the same thing happens while our army is out there before those murderous things? Can you imagine? General Reibisch has near to a hundred thousand men—maybe more by now. Can you imagine his entire force killed in one instant?”

  Richard looked from Kahlan’s calm face to the captain’s alarmed expression. “Our entire army down here in the South, at once, dead. Imagine it.”

  “But I don’t think—” Kahlan began.

  “And are you willing to risk the lives of all those young men on what you think? Are you so sure? I don’t know that the Dominie Dirtch work together like that, but what if they do? Maybe one rung in anger rings them all. Can you say it won’t?

  “I’m not willing to put the innocent lives of those brave men to such a deadly gamble. Are you?” Richard looked back to Captain Meiffert. “Are you? Are you a gambler, Captain? Could you so easily wager the lives of all those men?”

  He shook his head. “If it was my own life, Lord Rahl, I would willingly risk it, but not for all those lives.”

  The roar eased up as the rain slowed a little. Men went by outside the opening of the tent, taking feed to the horses. For the most part, the camp sat in pitch blackness; fires were forbidden except where essential.

  “I can’t disagree with that.” Kahlan lifted her hands and then in frustration let them drop back into her lap. “But Jagang is coming. If we don’t win the people to our cause so they will stand against him he will take Anderith. He will be invincible behind the Dominie Dirtch and be able to stab into the Midlands at will and bleed us to death.”

  Richard listened to the rain drumming on the tent roof and splashing outside the open doorway. It sounded like the kind of steady rain that was going to be with them for the night.

  Richard spoke softly. “As I see it, we have only one option. We must go back to the library at the estate and see if we can find anything useful.”

  “We haven’t yet,” Kahlan said.

  “And with the people in charge now taking a stand against us,” Captain Meiffert said, “they might resist that.”

  Richard made a fist on the table as he met the man’s blue-eyed gaze. Richard once again wished he had the Sword of Truth with him.

  “If they resist, Captain, then you and your men will be called upon to do what you constantly train for. If they resist, and if we have to, we’ll cut down anyone who lifts a finger to oppose us and then we’ll level the place. We just need to get the books out of there first.”

  Relief eased the expression on the man’s face. The D’Harans seemed to harbor a fear that Richard might be unwilling to act; Captain Meiffert looked assuaged to hear otherwise.

  “Yes, Lord Rahl. The men will be ready in the morning, when you are.”

  Kahlan’s point about there possibly being nothing of value at the estate was worrisome. Richard remembered the books in the library. While he couldn’t recall the details of the information, he remembered the subjects well enough to know that finding the answer was a long shot. Still, it was the only shot they had.

  “Before I go”—Captain Meiffert pulled a paper from his pocket—“I thought you should know a number of people have requested an audience when you have time, Lord Rahl. Most of them were merchants wanting information.”

  “Thank you, Captain, but I don’t have time now.”

  “I understand, Lord Rahl. I took the liberty of telling them as much.” He shuffled his little notes. “There was one woman.” He squinted in the dim candlelight to make out the name. “Franca Gowenlock. She said it was extremely urgent, but would give no information. She was here most of the day. She finally said she had to return to her home, but she would be back tomorrow.”

  “If it’s important, she’ll be back and I’ll talk to her.”

  Richard looked down at Du Chaillu, to see how she was feeling. She looked comforted by Kahlan’s care.

  Behind him rose a sudden commotion. The captain pitched backward with a cry as if felled by magic. The candle flame fluttered wildly at the intrusion of a wind, but stayed lit.

  Richard spun to the sound of a d
ull thump. The candle wobbled across the top of the shuddering table, right up to the edge.

  A huge raven had crashed sprawling onto the tabletop.

  Richard scooted back in surprise, drawing his sword as he stood, wishing again that it were the Sword of Truth with its attendant magic. Kahlan and Du Chaillu shot to their feet.

  The raven had something black in its big beak. With all the confusion—the wind, the candle nearly toppling, the flame fluttering, the table teetering, and the tent sides flapping—he didn’t immediately recognize the object in the raven’s beak.

  The raven set it on the table.

  The inky black bird, water beaded on glossy feathers like the night itself come into their tent, looked exhausted. The way it lay sprawled on the table with its wings open, Richard didn’t think it was well, or possibly it was injured.

  Richard didn’t know if a thing possessed of the chimes could really be injured. He recalled the chicken-that-wasn’t-a-chicken bleeding. He saw a smear of blood on the tabletop.

  Whenever that chime-in-a-chicken had been around, even if he couldn’t see it, the hairs at the back of Richard’s neck had stood up, yet, with this raven-that-wasn’t-a-raven right before him on the table, he hadn’t reacted that way.

  The raven cocked its head, looking Richard in the eye. It was as deliberate a look as he’d ever gotten. With its beak, the bird tapped the center of the thing it had laid on the table.

  Captain Meiffert sprang up then and swung his sword. At the same time, Richard flung up his arms, shouting “No!”

  The raven, as the sword came down, hurled itself off the table onto the ground and ran between the captain’s legs. Once past the man, it took wing and was gone.

  “Sorry,” the captain said. “I thought… I thought it was attacking you with magic, Lord Rahl. I thought it was a thing of dark magic, come to attack you.”

  Richard let out a deep breath as he gestured forgiveness to the man. The man was only trying to protect him.

  “It was not evil,” Du Chaillu said in a soft voice as she and Kahlan came closer.

  Richard sank back down on his stool. “No, it wasn’t.”

  Kahlan and Du Chaillu stood over his shoulder, looking.

  “What omen did the messenger from the spirits bring you?” the spirit woman asked.

  “I don’t think it was from the spirit world,” Richard said.

  He picked up the small, flat object. In the dim light, he suddenly realized what it was. He stared incredulously.

  It was just like the one Sister Verna used to carry. He had seen her use it countless times.

  “It’s a journey book.”

  He opened the cover.

  “That has to be High D’Haran,” Kahlan said of the strange script.

  “Dear spirits,” Richard breathed, as he read the only two words on the first page.

  “What?” Kahlan asked. “What is it. What does it say?”

  “Fuer Berglendursch. You’re right. It’s High D’Haran.”

  “Do you know the meaning?”

  “It says, ‘The Mountain.’” Richard turned and peered up at her in the flickering candlelight. “That was Joseph Ander’s cognomen. This is Joseph Ander’s journey book. The other, the one that was destroyed, its twin, was called Mountain’s Twin.”

  62

  Dalton smiled as he stood at an octagonal table of rare black walnut in the reliquary in the Office of Cultural Amity, where displayed on the walls around the room were objects belonging to past Directors: robes; small tools; implements of their profession, such as pens and beautifully carved blotters; and writings. Dalton was looking over more modern writings: reports he had requested from the Directors.

  Any ambivalence the Directors might feel, they kept to themselves. Publicly, they now threw themselves into the task of supporting the new Sovereign. It had been made plain to them that their very existence now depended not only upon their fealty, but upon their enthusiasm in that devotion.

  As he read the script of addresses they were to deliver, Dalton was annoyed by shouts coming in through an open window overlooking the city square. It sounded like an angry mob of people. Judging by the boisterous encouragement from the crowd, he assumed it was someone delivering a diatribe against Lord Rahl and the Mother Confessor.

  Following the lead of noted people such as the Directors, ordinary people had now taken to loudly voicing the tailored notions they had been fed. Even though Dalton had expected it, he never failed to find it remarkable the way he had but to say a thing enough times, through enough people, and it became the popular truth, its provenance lost as it was mimicked by ordinary people who came to believe that it was their own idea—as if original thought routinely came forth from their witless minds of clay.

  Dalton let out a bitter snort of contempt. They were asses and deserved the fate they embraced. They belonged to the Imperial Order, now. Or, at least, they soon would.

  He glanced out the window to see a throng making its way into the city square. The heavy rain of the night before had turned to a light drizzle, so people were coming back out. The steady downpour overnight failed to wash away the blackened places on the cobble paving in the square where the two people had burned to death.

  The crowd, of course, blamed the tragedy on the magic of Lord Rahl, venting his wrath against them. Dalton had instructed his people to bitterly make the accusation, knowing the seriousness of the charge would outweigh the lack of evidence, much less the truth.

  What had really happened, Dalton didn’t know. He did know this was far from the first such incident. Whatever it was, it was an appalling misfortune, but if misfortune was to happen, it could have hardly picked a better time. It had punctuated Director Prevot’s speech perfectly.

  Dalton wondered if the fires had anything to do with what Franca had told him about magic failing. He didn’t see how, but he didn’t think she had told him everything, either. The woman had been behaving quite oddly of late.

  At the knock, Dalton turned to the door. Rowley bowed.

  “What is it?”

  “Minister,” Rowley said, “the… woman is here, the one Emperor Jagang sent.”

  “Where is she?”

  “Down the hall. She is having tea.”

  Dalton shifted his scabbard at his hip. This was not a woman to trifle with; she was said to have more power than any ordinary such woman. More power even than Franca. Jagang had assured him, though, that unlike Franca, this woman still had firm control of her power.

  “Take her to the estate. Give her one of our finest rooms. If she gives you any—” Dalton recalled Franca’s talent for overhearing things. “If she gives you any complaints, see to resolving them to her satisfaction. She is a most important guest, and is to be treated as such.”

  Rowley bowed. “Yes, Minister.”

  Dalton saw Rowley smile with one side of his mouth. He, too, knew why the woman was there. Rowley was looking forward to it.

  Dalton just wanted it done with. It would require care. They had to wait and pick their own time. They couldn’t force it, or the whole thing could come undone. If they handled it right, though, it would be a great accomplishment. Jagang would be more than grateful.

  “I appreciate your generosity.”

  Dalton turned at the sound of a woman’s voice. She had stepped into the doorway. Rowley backed out of her way.

  She looked middle-aged, with gray hair mixing in with the black. Her simple, dowdy, dark blue dress ran from her neck, over her rather thick-boned shape, and all the way to the floor.

  Her presence was dominated by a smile that only vaguely touched her lips, but was ever so evident in her brown eyes. It was as nasty a simper as Dalton had ever seen. It unashamedly proclaimed a mien of superiority. Because of the lines at the corners of her mouth and eyes, the self-satisfied smirk seemed enduringly etched on her face.

  A gold ring pierced her lower lip.

  “And you would be?” He asked.

  “Sister Penthea.
Here to wield my talent in service to His Excellency, Emperor Jagang.”

  Her smooth flow of words was laced with crystalline frost.

  Dalton bowed his head. “Minister of Culture, Dalton Campbell. Thank you for coming, Sister Penthea. We are most appreciative of your courtesy in lending your unique assistance.”

  She had been sent to wield her talent in service to Dalton Campbell, but he thought better of putting too fine a point on it. Dalton didn’t need to remind her she was the one with a ring through her lip; it was obvious to them both.

  At the sound of screams, Dalton again glanced across the room, out the window, thinking it was the parents or family returned to see the sight of the grisly deaths the night before. People had been coming by all morning, leaving flowers or other offerings at the site of the deaths until they looked like a grotesque garden midden. Frequent wails of anguish rose up into the gray day.

  Sister Penthea turned his attention to business. “I need to see the ones chosen for the deed.”

  Dalton motioned with a hand. “Rowley, there, he will be one of them.”

  Without word or warning, she slapped the palm of her hand to Rowley’s forehead, her fingers splayed into his red hair, grasping his head as if she might pluck it like a ripe pear. Rowley’s eyes rolled back in his head. His entire body began to tremble.

  The Sister murmured thick words that had no meaning to Dalton. Each, as it oozed forth, seemed to take root in Rowley. The young man’s arms flinched when she stressed particular words.

  With a last phrase, raising in intonation, she gave Rowley’s head a sharp shove. Letting out a small cry, Rowley crumpled as if his bones had dissolved.

  In a moment, he sat up and shook his head. A smile told Dalton he was fine. He brushed clean his dark brown trousers as he stood, looking no different, despite his added lethality.

  “The others?” she asked.

  Dalton gestured dismissively. “Rowley can take you to them.”

  She bowed slightly. “Good day, then, Minister. I will see to it immediately. The emperor also wished me to express his pleasure at being able to be of assistance. Either way, muscle or magic, the Mother Confessor’s fate is now sealed.”