Faith of the Fallen

Chapter 12

Trudging down the road between the edge of the city of Fairfield and the estate where the three Sisters had told her Emperor Jagang had set up his residence, Nicci scanned the surrounding jumble of the Imperial Order’s encampment, looking for a specific station of tents. She knew they would be somewhere in the area; Jagang liked to have them close at hand. Regular sleeping tents, wagons, and men lay like a dark soot over the fields and hills as far as she could see. Sky and land alike seemed tinted by a dusky taint. Sprinkled through the dark fields, campfires twinkled, like a sky full of stars.

The day was becoming oppressively dim, not only with the approach of evening, but also from the dull overcast of churning gray clouds. The wind kicked up in little fits, setting tents and clothes flapping, fluttering the campfires’ flames, and whipping smoke this way and that. The gusts helped coat the tongue with the fetid stench of human and animal waste, smothering any pleasant but weak cooking aroma that struggled to take to the air. The longer the army stayed in place, the worse it would get.

Up ahead, the elegant buildings of the estate rose above the dark grime at its feet. Jagang was there. Because he had access to Sisters Georgia, Rochelle, and Aubrey’s minds, he would know Nicci was back. He would be waiting for her.

The emperor would have to wait; she had something else to do, first.

Without Jagang able to enter her mind, she was free to pursue it.

Nicci saw what she was looking for, off in the distance. She could just make them out, standing above the smaller tents. She left the road and headed through the crowded snarl of troops. Even from the distance, she could distinguish the distinctive sounds coming from the group of special tents—hear it over the laughing and singing, the crackle of fires, the sizzle of meat in skillets, the scraping rasp of whetstones on metal, the ring of hammers on steel, and the rhythm of saws.

Boisterous men grabbed at her arms and legs or tried to snatch her dress as she marched along, picking her way through the disorder. The rowdy soldiers were but a minor consideration; she simply pulled away, ignoring their mocking calls of love, as she made her way through the throng. When a husky soldier seized her wrist in his powerful grip, yanking her around to a jerking halt, she paused only long enough to loose her power and burst his beating heart within his chest. Other men laughed when they saw him collapse to the ground with a thud, not yet realizing he was dead, but none tried to claim his intended prize. She heard the words “Death’s Mistress” pass in whispers among the men.

She finally made her way through the gauntlet. Soldiers played dice, ate beans, or snored in their bedrolls beside the tents where captives screamed under the agony of torture. Two men lugged a corpse, dragging some of its innards, out of a big tent. They threw the flaccid form in a wagon with a tangle of others.

Nicci snapped her fingers at an unshaven soldier coming from the direction of another tent. “Let me see the list, Captain.” She knew he was the officer in charge by the blue canvas cover of the register book he carried.

He scowled at her a moment, but when he glanced down at her black dress, a look of recognition came over his face. He passed her the grubby, rumpled book. It had a deep crease across the middle, as if someone had accidentally sat on it. The pages that had fallen out had been pushed back in, but they never fit right and their edges stuck out here and there to become frayed and filthy.

“Not much to report, Mistress, but please let His Excellency know that we’ve tried just about every skill known, and she isn’t talking.”

Nicci opened the book and began scanning the list of recent names and what was known about them.

“Her? Who are you talking about, Captain?” she mumbled as she read.

“Why, the Mord-Sith, of course.”

Nicci turned her eyes up toward the man. “The Mord-Sith. Of course. Where is she?”

He pointed at a tent a ways off through the disarray. “I know His Excellency said he didn’t expect a witch of her dark talents to give us any information about Lord Rahl, but I was hoping to surprise him with good news.” He hooked his thumbs behind his belt as he let out a sigh of frustration. “No such luck.”

Nicci eyed the tent for a moment. She heard no screams. She had never before seen one of those women, the Mord-Sith, but she knew a little about them. She knew that using magic against one was a deadly mistake.

She went back to reading the entries in the register. There was nothing of much interest to her. Most of the people were from around here. They were merely a sampling collected to check what they might know. They would not have the information she wanted.

Nicci tapped a line near the end of the writing in the book. It said “Messenger.”

“Where is this one?”

The captain tilted his head, indicating a tent behind him. “I put one of my best questioners with him. Last I checked, there was nothing from him yet—but that was early this morning.”

It had been all day since he had checked. All day could be an eternity under torture. Like all the rest of the tents used for questioning prisoners, the one with the messenger stood above the surrounding field tents, which were only large enough for soldiers to lie in. Nicci pushed the book at the officer’s thick gut.

“Thank you. That will be all.”

“You’ll be giving His Excellency a report, then?” Nicci nodded absently at his question. Her mind was already elsewhere. “You’ll tell him that there is little to be learned from this lot?”

No one was eager to stand before Jagang and admit they were unable to accomplish a task, even if there was nothing to accomplish. Jagang did not appreciate excuses. Nicci nodded as she strode away, heading for the tent holding the messenger. “I’ll be seeing him shortly. I’ll give him the report for you, Captain.”

As soon as she threw back the flap and entered, she saw that she was too late. The messy remains of the messenger lay on a narrow wooden table affixed with glistening tools of the trade. The messenger’s arm hung down off the sides, dripping warm blood.

Nicci saw that the questioner had a folded piece of paper. “What have you there?”

“A map of what?”

“Where this fellow’s been. I drew it all out from what he volunteered.”

He laughed at his own humor. She didn’t.

“Really,” Nicci said. The man’s grin was what had her attention. A man like this only grinned when he had something he’d been seeking, something to bring him favor in the eyes of his superiors. “And where has the man been?”

“To see his leader.”

He waved the paper like a treasure map. Tired of the game, Nicci snatched the booty from his hand. She unfolded the wrinkled yellow paper and saw that it was indeed a map, with rivers, the coastline, and mountains all meticulously drawn out. Even mountain passes were noted.

Nicci could tell that the map was authentic. When she had lived at the Palace of the Prophets, the New World was a far-off and mysterious place, rarely visited by anyone but a few Sisters. Any Sister who ventured there always kept exacting records that were added to maps at the palace. Along with many other esoteric items, all novices memorized those maps in the course of their studies. Even though, at the time, she had never expected to travel to the New World, she was thoroughly familiar with the lay of the land there. Nicci scrutinized the paper in her hands, carefully surveying the geography, overlaying everything on it that was new onto the memorized map in her mind.

The soldier pointed a thick finger at a single bloody fingerprint on the map. “That there is where Lord Rahl himself is hiding—on that dot, in those mountains.”

Nicci’s breath paused. She stared at the paper, burning the line of every stream and river, every mountain, every road, trail, and mountain pass, every village, town, and city into her memory.

“What did this man confess before he died?” She looked up. “His Excellency is waiting for my report. I was just on my way to see him.” She snapped her fingers impatiently. “Let’s have it all.”

The man scratched his beard. His fingernails were crusted with dried blood, “You’ll tell him, won’t you? You’ll tell His Excellency that Sergeant Wetzel was the one who got the information out of the messenger?”

“Of course,” Nicci assured him. “You will receive full credit. I have no need of such recognition.” She tapped the gold ring through her lower lip. “The Emperor is always—every moment of every day—in my mind. He no doubt this very moment sees through my eyes that you, not I, are the one who succeeded in getting the information. Now, what did this man confess?”

Sergeant Wetzel scratched his beard again, apparently trying to decide if be could trust her to credit him, or if he should be sure and take the information to Jagang. There was little trust among those in the Imperial Order, and good reason to distrust everyone. As he scratched his beard, flakes of dried blood stuck in its curly hair.

Nicci stared into his red-rimmed eyes. He smelled of liquor. “If you don’t report everything to me, Sergeant Wetzel, and I mean right now, I will have you up on the table next, and I will have your report between your screams, and when I’m done with you, they will throw you in the wagon with the rest of the corpses.”

He dipped his head twice in surrender. “Of course. I only wanted to be sure His Excellency knew of my success.” When Nicci nodded, he went on. “He was just a messenger. We had a small unit of six men doing deep scouting patrol. They went on a circle far to the north, around any enemy forces. They had one of the gifted women with them to help them remain at a good distance, so they wouldn’t be detected. They were somewhere northwest of the enemy force, when by chance they came across this man. They brought him back for me to question. I discovered he was one of a number of regular messengers sent back and forth to report to Lord Rahl.”

Nicci waggled a finger at the paper. “But this, down here, looks like the enemy force. Are you saying Rich . . . Lord Rahl, isn’t with his men? With his army?”

“That’s right. The messenger didn’t know why. His only duty was to carry troop positions and regular news of their condition to his master.” He tapped the map in her hand. “But right here is where Lord Rahl is hiding, along with his wife.”

Nicci looked up, her mouth falling open. “Wife.”

Sergeant Wetzel nodded. “The man said Lord Rahl married some woman known as the Mother Confessor. She’s hurt, and they’re hiding way up there, in those mountains.”

Nicci remembered Richard’s feelings for her, and her name: Kahlan.

Richard being married put everything in a new light. It had the potential to disrupt Nicci’s plans. Or . . .

“Anything else, Sergeant?”

“The man said Lord Rahl and his wife have one of them women, them Mord-Sith, guarding them.”

“Why are they up there? Why aren’t Lord Rahl and the Mother Confessor with their army? Or back in Aydindril? Or in D’Hara, for that matter?”

He shook his head. “This messenger was just a low-ranking soldier who knew how to ride fast and read the lay of the land. That’s all he knew: they’re up there, and they’re all alone.”

Nicci was puzzled by such a development.

“Anything else? Anything at all?” He shook his head. She laid her hand on the man’s back, between his shoulder blades. “Thank you, Sergeant Wetzel. You have been more help than you will ever know.”

As he grinned, Nicci released a flow of power that shot up through his spine and instantly incinerated his brain inside his skull. He dropped with a crash to the hard ground, the air fleeing his lungs in a grunt.

Nicci held up the map she had committed to memory and with her gift set it aflame. The paper crackled and blackened as the fire advanced across the rivers and cities and mountains all carefully drawn out on it, until the hot glow surrounded the bloody fingerprint over a dot in the mountains. She let the paper rise from her fingers as it was consumed in a final puff of smoke.

Ash, like black snow, drifted down onto the body at her feet.

Outside the tent where the Mord-Sith was held, Nicci cast a wary gaze across the surrounding camp to see if anyone was watching. No one was paying any attention to the business of the torture tents. She slipped in through the opening.

Nicci winced at the sight of the woman laid out on the wooden table.

She finally made herself draw a breath.

A soldier, his hands red from his work, scowled at Nicci. She didn’t wait for him to object, but simply commanded, “Report.”

“Not a word from her,” he growled.

Nicci nodded and placed her hand on the soldier’s broad back. Wary of her hand, he began to step away from it, but he was too late. The man fell dead before he knew he was in trouble. Had she the time, she would have made him suffer first.

Nicci made herself step up to the table and look down into the blue eyes. The woman’s head trembles slightly.

“Use your power . . . to hurt me, witch.”

A small smile touched Nicci’s lips. “To the bitter end, you would fight, wouldn’t you?”

“Use your magic, witch.”

“I think not. You see, I know a bit about you women.”

Defiance blazed up from the blue eyes. “You know nothing.”

“Oh, but I do. Richard told me. You would know him as your Lord Rahl, but be was for a time my student. I know that women like you have the ability to capture the power of the gifted, if that power is used against you. Then, you can turn it against us. So, you see, I know better than to use my power on you.”

The woman looked away. “Then torture me if that is what you came to do. You will learn nothing.”

“I’m not here to torture you,” Nicci assured her.

“Then what do you want?”

“Let me introduce myself,” Nicci said. “I am Death’s Mistress.”

The woman’s blue eyes turned back, betraying for the first time a glint of hope, “Good. Kill me.”

“I need you to tell me some things.”

“I’ll not . . . tell you . . . anything.” It was a struggle for her to speak. “Nor anything. Kill me.”

Nicci picked up a bloody blade from the table and held it before the blue eyes, “I think you will.”

The woman smiled. “Go ahead. It will only hasten my death. I know how much a person can take. I am not far from the spirit world. But no matter what you do, I’ll not talk before I die.”

“You misunderstand. I do not wish you to betray your Lord Rahl. Didn’t you hear your questioner hit the ground? If you turn your head a little more, perhaps you can see that the man who did this to you is now dead. I don’t wish you to tell me any secrets.”

The woman glanced, as best she could, toward the body on the ground.

Her brow twitched. “What do you mean?”

Nicci noticed that she didn’t ask to be freed. She knew she was well past the point of hope to live. The only thing she could hope for, now, was for Nicci to end her agony.

“Richard was my student. He told me that he was once a captive of the Mord-Sith. Now, that’s not a secret, is it?”

“No.”

“That’s what I want to know about. What is your name?”

The woman turned her face away.

Nicci put a finger to the woman’s chin and turned her head back. “I have an offer to make you. I won’t ask you anything secret that you aren’t supposed to tell. I’ll not ask you to betray your Lord Rahl—I wouldn’t want you to. Those are not the things that are of interest to me. If you cooperate”—Nicci held up the blade again for the woman to see—“I will end it quickly for you. I promise. No more torture. No more pain. Just the final embrace of death.”

The woman’s lips began trembling. “Please,” she whispered, the hope returning to her eyes. “Please . . . kill me?”

“What is your name?” Nicci asked.

Nicci, for the most part, was numb to sights of torture, but this she found disturbing. She avoided looking away from the woman’s face, down at the naked body, so as not to have to consider what had been done to her.

Nicci could not imagine how this woman could keep from screaming, or even how she was able to speak.

“Hania.” The woman’s hands and ankles were shackled to the table, so she was unable to move much other than her head. She stared up into Nicci’s eyes. “Will you kill me? . . . Please?”

“I will, Hania, I promise. Quickly and efficiently—if you tell me what I want to know.”

“I can’t tell you anything.” In despair, Hania seemed to sag against the table, knowing her ordeal was to go on. “I won’t.”

“I only want to know about when Richard was a captive. Did you know he was once a captive of the Mord-Sith?”

“Of course.”

“I want to know about it.”

“Why?”

“Because I want to understand him.”

Hania’s head rocked side to side. She actually smiled. “None of us understands Lord Rahl. He was tortured, but he never . . . took revenge. We don’t understand him.”

“I don’t either, but I hope to. My name is Nicci. I want you to know that. I’m Nicci, and I’m going to deliver you from this, Hania. Tell me about it. Please? I need to know. Do you know the woman who captured him? Her name?”

The woman considered for a moment before she spoke, as if testing in her own mind whether or not the information was in any way secret, or could in any way harm him.

“Denna,” Hania whispered at last.

“Denna. Richard killed her in order to escape—he already told me that much. Did you know Denna before she died?”

“Yes.”

“I’m not asking anything of secret military importance, am I?”

Hania hesitated. She finally shook her head.

“So, you knew Denna. And did you know Richard at the time? When he was there, and she had him? Did you know he was her captive?”

“We all knew.”

“Why is that?”

“Lord Rahl—the Lord Rahl at the time—”

“Richard’s father.”

“Yes. He wanted Denna to be the one to train Richard, to prepare him to answer without hesitation whatever questions Darken Rahl asked him. She was the best at what we do.”

“Good. Now, tell me everything about it. Everything you know.”

Hania drew a shaky breath. It took a moment before she spoke again. “I won’t betray him. I am experienced at what is being done to me. You cannot trick me. I will not betray Lord Rahl just to spare myself this. I have not endured this much to betray him now.”

“I promise not to ask anything about the present—about the war—anything that would betray him to Jagang.”

“If I tell you only about when Denna had him, and not about now, about the war or where he is or anything else, do you give me your word that you will end it for me—that you will kill me?”

“I give you my word, Hania. I wouldn’t ask you to betray your Lord Rahl—I know him and have too much respect for him to ask that of you. All I wish is to understand him for personal reasons. I was his teacher, last winter, instructing him in the use of his gift. I want to understand him better. I need to understand him. I believe I can help him, if I do.”

“And then you will help me?” There was a shimmer of hope along with the tears. “You will kill me, then?”

This woman could aspire to nothing more, now. It was all that was left to her in this life: a quick death to finally end the pain.

“Just as soon as you’re finished telling me all about it, I will end your suffering, Hania.”

“Do you swear it by your hope to an eternity in the underworld in the warmth of the Creator’s light?”

Nicci felt a sharp shiver of pain wail up from her very soul. She had started out near to one hundred and seventy years before wanting nothing but to help, and yet she could not escape the fate of her evil nature. She was Death’s Mistress.

She was a fallen woman.

She ran the side of a finger down Hania’s soft cheek. The two women shared a long and intimate look. “I promise,” Nicci whispered. “Quick and efficient. It will be the end of your pain.”

Tears overflowing her eyes, Hania gave a little nod.