Faith of the Fallen

Chapter 59

Nicci sat at the table, the knife under her fingers, forever. She watched his back. His chest slowly expanded with his breath of life, and sank again. There was time enough to slip the knife into his back, between his ribs, to pierce his heart.

There was time enough yet before dawn.

Death was so final. She wanted to watch him for a while. Nicci never tired of watching Richard.

After she did it, she wouldn’t be able to watch him anymore. He would be gone forever. With the damage the chimes had done to the worlds and their interconnection, she didn’t even know if a person’s soul could still go to the spirit world. She didn’t even know if the underworld still existed and if Richard’s spirit would go there, or if he would simply be . . . gone forever—if he and that which was his soul would simply cease to exist.

In her numb state, she had lost track of time.

When she glanced out the window that Richard had had installed with the money he had earned, she noticed that the sky had taken on a the color of a week-old bruise.

Linked as she was to Kahlan, Nicci couldn’t accomplish the deed with her magic. As much as she abhorred the idea of it, and knowing how gruesome it would be, she had to use the sharp blade.

Nicci curled her fingers around the wooden handle of the stout knife.

She wanted it to be quick. She couldn’t bear to think of him suffering. He had suffered enough in life, she didn’t want him to suffer in death, too.

He would struggle briefly, but then it would be over.

Richard abruptly rolled onto his back and then sat up. Nicci froze, still sitting in her chair. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes. Could she kill him when he was awake? Could she look into those eyes of his as she plunged the knife into his chest?

She would have to.

It was for the best.

Richard yawned and stretched. He sprang to his feet.

“Nicci. What are you doing? Haven’t you gone to bed?”

“I . . . I guess I fell asleep in the chair.”

“Oh, well, I—there it is. I need that.”

He snatched the knife out of her hand. “Mind if I borrow this? I need to use it. I’m afraid I’ll have to sharpen it for you later. I won’t have time before I have to leave. Can you make me something to eat? I’m in a hurry. I have to go see Victor before I start to work.”

Nicci was dumbfounded. He was suddenly revived. In the lamplight, and the faint dawn coming in the windows, he had that look in his eyes. He looked . . . resolute, determined.

“Yes, all right,” she said.

“Thanks,” he called over his shoulder while hurrying out the door.

“Where are you—?”

But he was gone. She decided he must be going out back to get some vegetables. But why would he need the big knife for that? She was confused, but she was revived, too. Richard seemed himself again.

Nicci pulled from the pantry some eggs she had been saving, along with an iron skillet, and hurried out back to the cooking hearth. The coals were still glowing from the cook fires of the evening before, providing a little light. She carefully fed in some small twigs and kindling, then stacked a bed of finger-thick branches on top. She simply set the iron skillet atop the wood as it caught, rather than set up the rack—eggs were quick.

As she waited for the skillet to get hot, she heard an odd scraping noise. In the flickering light of the fire, she didn’t see Richard in the garden. She couldn’t imagine where he had gone, or what he was up to. She broke the eggs into the hot skillet and tossed the shells in the compost bucket at the side of the hearth. With a wooden spoon she scrambled the eggs around as they cooked.

As Nicci stood, using her skirt to hold the hot handle of the skillet, she was surprised to see Richard coming out from behind the broad cooking hearth.

“Richard, what are you doing?”

“There are some loose bricks back here. I was just seeing to it before I went to work. I cleaned out the joints. I’ll bring some mortar home and fix it later.”

He pulled a handful of thick-bladed grass and used it as a potholder to take the skillet from her. With his other hand, he flipped the knife into the air, caught it by the point, and held the handle out to her. Nicci took the heavy knife, now scratched and dulled from scraping the bricks clean. He ate standing, using the wooden spoon.

“Are you all right?” she asked.

“Fine,” he said around a hot mouthful of eggs. “Why?”

Nicci gestured toward the house. “Well, last night . . . you seemed so . . . defeated.”

He frowned at her. “So, I’ve no right to feel sorry for myself now and again?”

“Well, yes, I suppose. But now . . . ?”

“Now I’ve thought it over.”

“And . . . ?”

“It’s to be my gift to the people, is it? I shall give the people a gift they need.”

“What are you talking about?”

Richard waved the wooden spoon. “Brothers Narev and Neal said this will be my gift to the people, and so it shall be.” He shoveled more eggs into his mouth.

“So you are going to carve the statue they want?”

He was already running up the stairs before she had finished the question.

“I have to get the model of the statue and be off to work.”

Nicci raced after him up the stairs. He was still eating the eggs as he went. He stood in their room, peering down at the small statue on the table as he finished the eggs. She couldn’t make sense of it—he was smiling.

He set the skillet on the table and scooped up the model. “I’ll probably be home late. I have to get started on my penance for the Order, if I can. I may have to work all night.”

In astonishment, she watched him hurry off to work.

She could hardly believe that he had once again somehow evaded death.

Nicci couldn’t recall ever being so grateful about anything. She couldn’t understand it.

Richard reached the blacksmith’s shop shortly after Victor had opened up for the day’s work. His men had not yet arrived. Victor wasn’t surprised to see him; Richard sometimes came early and the two of them would sit and watch the sun come up over the site.

“Richard! I’m glad to see you.”

“And I you, Victor. I need to talk to you.”

He let out a gruff grunt. “The statue?”

“That’s right,” Richard said, a little taken aback. “The statue. You know?”

With Richard following behind, Victor made his way through the dark shop, weaving among the clutter of benches, work, and tools. “Oh, yes, I heard.” Along the way, he stooped to pick up a hammer here, a bar of iron there, and set them on a table, or shoved them in a bin, as if one could tidy a mountain by arranging a few pebbles and picking up a fallen limb.

“What did you hear?”

“Brother Narev paid me a visit last evening. He said there is to be a dedication of the Retreat, to show our respect to the Creator for all he provides for us.” He glanced back over his shoulder as he strode past his huge block of Cavatura marble. “He told me you are to carve a statue for the entrance plaza—a big statue. He said it is to be done for the dedication.

“From what I hear from people, from Ishaq and others, the Order credits the uprising to the drain of building such a monumental project as the Retreat in addition to waging the war. They have armies of men working for the construction—not just here, but from quarries far and wide, to mines for the gold and silver, to forests where they cut the wood. Even slaves must be fed. The purge of officials, leaders, and skilled workers after the uprising was expensive. With a dedication, I think Brother Narev wants to show people the progress, to inspire them, to involve outlying lands in the celebration, believing this will head off further troubles.”

In the blackness of the room, only the skylight in the high ceiling above let light cascade down over the stone. The marble took the light deep into its fine crystalline structure, and gave it back as a loving gift.

Victor opened the double doors that looked out over the Retreat.

“Brother Narev told me that your statue is also to be a sundial, with the Creator’s Light shining down on mankind’s torment. He told me I am to oversee the making of the gnomon and dial plane for its shadow to fall upon. He said something about a lightning bolt . . .”

Victor turned around, his eyes following as Richard set the model of the statue on a narrow tool shelf that ran the length of the room.

“Dear spirits . . .” Victor whispered. “That is grotesque.”

“They want me to carve this. They want it to be a statue with the power to dominate the grand entrance.”

Victor nodded. “Brother Narev said as much. He told me how big would be the metal for the dial plane. He wants bronze.”

“Can you cast the bronze?”

“No.” With the backs of his fingers, Victor tapped Richard’s arm. “Here is the good part: few people can cast such a piece. Brother Narev ordered Priska released to do the casting.”

Richard blinked in astonishment. “Priska is alive?”

Victor nodded. “High people must have not wanted him buried in the sky in case they needed his skills. They had him locked away in a dungeon. The Order knows they need people with ability; they released him to get this done. If he wants to remain alive, and out of the dungeon, he is to cast the bronze, at his own expense, as a gift to the people. They say it is his penance. I am to give him the specifications and see to its assembly and placement on the statue.”

“Victor, I want to buy your stone.”

The blacksmith’s brow slid into an unfriendly frown.

“No.”

“Narev and Neal found out about my civil fine. They think I got off too lightly. They ordered that I carve their statue—much like Priska is to provide the castingas my penance. I must buy the stone myself, and I must carve it after my work at the site is finished for the day. They want it for this winter’s dedication of the Retreat.”

Victor’s eyes turned toward the model on the shelf, as if it was some monster come to visit ruin on him. “Richard, you know what this stone means to me. I won’t—”

“Victor, listen to me.”

“No.” He held his palm up toward Richard. “Don’t ask this of me. I don’t want this stone to become ugly, like all the Order touches. I won’t allow it.”

“Neither will I.”

Victor gestured angrily at the model. “That is what you are to carve. How can you even think of that ugliness visiting my pure marble?”

“I can’t.”

Richard set the plaster model on the floor. He picked up a large hammer, its handle leaning against the wall, and with a mighty blow shattered the abomination into a thousand pieces. He stood as the white dust slowly billowed over the threshold, out the door, and down the hill toward the Retreat like some ghost of evil returning to the underworld.

“Victor, sell me your stone. Let me liberate the beauty inside.”

Victor squinted his distrust. “The stone has a flaw. It can’t be carved.”

“I’ve thought about it. I have a way. I know I can do it.”

Victor put his hand to his stone, almost as if he were comforting a loved one in distress.

“Victor, you know me. Have I ever done anything to betray you? To harm you?”

His voice came softly. “No, Richard, you have not.”

“Victor, I need this stone. It is the best piece of marble—the way it can take in light and send it back. It has grain that can hold detail. I need the best for this statue. I swear, Victor, if you trust me with it, I will be true to your vision. I won’t betray your love of this stone, I swear.”

The blacksmith gently ran his beefy, callused hand up the side of the white marble that towered to nearly twice his height.

“What if you were to refuse to carve them their statue?”

“Neal said that then they will take me back to the prison until they get a confession out of me, or until I die from the questioning. I will be buried in the sky in return for nothing.”

“And if you do as you want, instead”—Victor gestured to the fragments of the model—“and don’t carve them what they want?”

“Maybe I would like to see beauty again before I die.”

“Bah. What would you carve? What would you see before you die? What could be worth your life?”

“Man’s nobility—the most sublime form of beauty.”

The man’s hand paused on the stone, his eyes searching Richard’s, but he said nothing.

“Victor, I need you to help me. I’m not asking you to give me anything. I’m willing to pay your price. Name it.”

Victor returned his loving gaze to his stone.

“Ten gold marks,” he said with bold confidence, knowing Richard had no money.

Richard reached into his pocket and then counted out ten gold marks. He held the fortune out to Victor. The blacksmith frowned.

“Where did you get such money?”

“I worked and I saved it. I earned it helping the Order build their palace. Remember?”

“But they took all your money. Nicci told them how much you had, and they took it all.”

Richard cocked his head. “You didn’t think I’d be foolish enough to put all my money in one place, did you? I have gold stashed all over. If this isn’t enough, I will pay you whatever you ask.”

Richard knew that the stone was valuable, although not worth ten gold marks, but it was to Victor, so Richard would not argue the price. He would pay whatever the man asked.

“I can’t take your money, Richard.” He waved a hand in resignation. “I don’t know how to carve. It was but a dream. As long as I never carved it, I could dream of the beauty in the stone. This is from my homeland, where once there was freedom.” His fingers blindly found the wall of marble. “This is noble stone. I would like to see nobility in this Cavatura marble. You may have the stone, my friend.”

“No, Victor. I don’t want to take your dream. I want to, in a way, fulfill it. I cannot accept it as a gift. I want to buy it.”

“But, why?”

“Because I will have to give it to the Order. I don’t want you giving this to the Order; I will have to do that. More than that, though, they will no doubt want it destroyed. It must be mine when they do that. I want it to be paid for.”

Victor held out his hand. “Ten marks, then.”

Richard counted out the ten gold marks and then closed the man’s big fingers around them.

“Thank you, Victor,” Richard whispered.

Victor grinned. “Where do you wish me to deliver it?”

Richard held out another gold mark. “May I rent this room? I would like to carve it here. From here, when I’m done, it can be sledged down to the entrance plaza.”

Victor shrugged. “Done.”

Richard handed over a twelfth gold mark. “And I want you to make me the tools with which I will carve this stone—the finest tools you have ever made. The kind of tools used to carve beauty in your homeland. This marble demands the best. Make the tools out of the best steel.”

“Points, toothed chisels, and chisels for fine work—I can make them for you. There are hammers aplenty about you may use.”

“I also need rasps, in a variety of shapes. And files, too. Straight, curved—a wide selection—the finest smoothing files. I need you to get me pumice stones, the fine white close-grained pumice-ground to the same shapes to match the rasps and files, and a good supply of powdered pumice, too.”

Victor’s eyes had gone wide. The blacksmith had come from a place where they had once done such carving. He knew full well what it was Richard meant to do.

“You intend to do flesh in stone?”

“I do.”

“You know how?”

Richard knew from statues he had seen in D’Hara and in Aydindril, and from what some of the other carvers told him, and from his own tests in his work for the Order’s palace, that if carved properly, then smoothed and polished to a high luster, quality marble could take in the light and give it back in a way that seemed to liberate the stone from its hardness, softening it, so that it assumed the look of flesh. If done properly, the marble could seem to almost come alive.

“I’ve seen it done before, Victor. I’ve carved before. I’ve learned how to do it. I’ve thought about it for months. Ever since I started carving for them, this purpose has kept my mind alive. I’ve used my work for the Order to practice what I’ve seen, what I’ve learned, and what I’ve thought of on my own. Even before, when they questioned me . . . I thought about this stone, about the statue I know is in it, to keep my mind from what they did to me.”

“You mean it helped you to endure their torture?”

Richard nodded. “I can do it, Victor.” He lifted a fist in firm conviction. “Flesh in stone. I only need the proper tools.”

Victor rattled the gold in his fist. “Done. I can make the proper tools for what you want to do. This is what I know. I don’t know how to carve, but this will be my part—what I can do to bring the beauty out.”

Richard clasped forearms with Victor to seal their agreement.

“I have one thing I would ask you—as a favor.”

Victor laughed his deep belly laugh. “I must feed you lardo so you may have the strength to carve this noble stone?”

Richard smiled. “I wouldn’t ever turn down lardo.”

“What is it then?” Victor asked. “What is the favor?”

Richard’s fingers tenderly touched the stone. His stone.

“No one is to see it until it is done. That includes you. I would like to have a canvas tarp, so I can cover it. I would ask that you not look at it until it is done.”

“Why?”

“Because I need it to be mine alone while I carve it. I need solitude with it as I shape it. When I’m finished, then the world can have it, but when I work on it, it is to be my vision and mine alone. I wish no one to see it before it is finished.

“But most of all, I don’t want you to see it because if anything goes wrong, I don’t want you involved in this. I don’t want you to know what I do. If you don’t see it, you can’t be buried in the sky for not telling them.”

Victor shrugged. “If that is your wish, then it shall be so. I will tell the men that the back room is rented, and it is off-limits. I will put a lock on the inner door. I will put a chain on the outer double doors, here, and give you the key.”

“Thank you. You don’t know what that means to me.”

“When do you need the chisels?”

“I need the heavy point to rough it out, first. Can you have it done by tonight? I need to get started. There isn’t much time.”

Victor dismissed Richard’s concern with a flourish of his hand. “The heavy point is easy. I can make that in short order. It will be done when you come from your work down there—your work with the ugliness. Long before you need the other chisels, they will be ready for you to carve beauty.”

“Thank you, Victor.”

“What is this ‘thank you’ talk? This is business. You have paid me in advance—value for value between honest men. I can’t tell you how good it is to have a customer other than the Order.”

Victor scratched his head and turned more serious. “Richard, they will want to see your work, won’t they? They will want to see how you are doing on their statue.”

“I don’t think so. They trust my work. They gave me the model they want scaled up. They have already approved it. They’ve told me my life depends on this. Neal delighted in telling me how he ordered those other carvers tortured and put to death. He wanted to frighten me. I doubt they will give it a second thought.”

“But what if a Brother does come, wanting to see it?”

“Then I will have to bend an iron bar around his neck and let him pickle in the brine barrel.”