Soul of the Fire

Chapter 53

Hildemara was livid. “Bertrand, you’re going to be skinned alive by Jagang’s men, and I will delight in watching, my only regret being that you have sealed me to a similar fate!”

Bertrand lifted a hand dismissively. “Nonsense, my dear. Rather, I’ve managed to stall the Mother Confessor and the Lord Rahl while Jagang draws ever closer.”

Dalton, for once, tended to agree with Hildemara. Despite everything else, she was a brilliant strategist. On the face of it, it seemed that if given the choice, the people, the Hakens for sure, would go with the freedoms of Lord Rahl’s empire rather than willingly submit to the tyranny of the Imperial Order.

But Dalton knew, too, that there had to be something behind Bertrand’s self-satisfied smile. The man had the uncanny knack of tactical calculation coldly bereft of emotional bias toward his desired outcome, which would corrupt the validity of the equation. Bertrand only jumped if he knew he could span the chasm; he didn’t leap simply because he wished to span it.

From his vast knowledge of law, Dalton knew there were few weapons as effective in eviscerating an adversary as the simple tactic of delay. He hoped Bertrand wasn’t wielding a weapon that would gore them, instead of the enemy.

“Minister, I’m afraid this could be troublesome. To stall Lord Rahl is worthy, but not if it serves no better end than to allow him to enflame the people against the Imperial Order and drive them into the arms of his cause, instead. Were that to happen, we would be unable to fulfill our agreements. We would then be at the center of the storm of war.”

“And Jagang would make an example of us, to show others what happens to those who don’t deliver as promised,” Hildemara added.

Bertrand took a swig from the goblet he’d brought with him to the private study. He set down the silver goblet on a small marble tabletop and savored the taste of rum before swallowing.

“My dear wife, and my trusted aide, do you both fail to see the simple brilliance in this? We are going to stall them so the Imperial Order can have time to get here. Stall them until it’s too late for them to do anything effective. On top of everything else, can you imagine how grateful Jagang will be when we can hand him his greatest enemy?”

“And how would we accomplish that?” his wife asked.

“A month of this voting business will enable the Order to get the rest of their advance guard in place. They can then take the Dominie Dirtch at their discretion. Lord Rahl’s forces, even if he has them close, will be precluded from coming to the rescue of the Lord Rahl and the Mother Confessor, once they lose the people’s support. Jagang will be invincible.

“The emperor gets a land and the people to work it, as promised, and we are handsomely rewarded for handing it to him. We will have unquestioned authority. No more Directors to worry about—ever again. We will rule Anderith for life, the way we choose, without worry of opposition.”

Life, for the people of Anderith, would go on, Dalton knew. For the most part, the lives of many would be much the same, if poorer, serving the greater good of the Order. There would be the inevitable dislocations and deaths. Some would be taken away to serve the emperor. Most would be grateful just to live.

Dalton wondered at his own fate, if he had not become the trusted chief aide to the Minister, and thus by service and by necessity brought into the arrangement. He shuddered to think what might have become of Teresa.

“If he indeed honors his agreements,” Hildemara muttered.

“The emperor, his forces having a safe haven immune from attack, will be only too happy to honor our agreements,” Bertrand said. “What he promised us, in return for the task of seeing to it the people of Anderith work on as they do now, is vast beyond our ability to ever spend; to him, however, it is but a pittance compared to what he will gain. We must simply see to it the Order is supplied with food while they conquer the Midlands. He will happily pay as agreed.”

Lady Chanboor huffed irritably. “But it will come to no good end when Lord Rahl gets the people to vote to join with him.”

Bertrand chortled. “You must be joking. That, my dear, is the simplest part of the whole thing.”

She folded her arms as if to demand to know how.

Dalton, too, was worried about that much of it. “So then, you have no intention of actually allowing the vote to take place?”

Bertrand looked from one to the other.

“Don’t you see? We will easily win such a vote.”

“Perhaps with the Anders,” she said, “but the Hakens? You have placed our fate in the hands of the Hakens? Who outnumber us many times over? They will choose freedom.”

“Hardly. The Hakens are kept ignorant. They don’t have the capacity to comprehend the issues. They believe the only way they can attain anything, from work to food—even to joining the army—is by our benevolent hand. They believe what freedoms they have, or hope to have, can only be granted them by Anders. With freedom comes responsibility—not the easy path they would prefer.”

His wife looked unmoved. “How can you be so sure?”

“We will have speakers go before the people, wringing their hands, shedding tears, expressing deep fear for what will become of the people at the mercy of the cruel D’Haran Empire, in the uncaring hands of a Lord Rahl who doesn’t know the first thing about their needs as Hakens and only cares about his own dark magic. The Haken people will be so terrified of losing what crumbs we grant them they will shrink from the loaf before them—if we simply make them believe the loaf is poison.”

Dalton’s mind was already spinning with thoughts of how they might accomplish the Minister’s plan. The true possibilities it presented were only just dawning on him.

“We must consider how to frame it properly,” Dalton said. “It would be best if we remained completely out of it.”

“My thought, exactly.”

“Yes . . .” Hildemara drawled as she imagined, now caught up in the scheme. “We must appear as if we’re looking to the people for direction, rather than the other way around.”

“Others will speak the words we craft,” Bertrand said as he nodded to her. “We must at all cost remain above it—look as if our hands are bound by a noble adherence to fairness, with our fate in the hands of the wisdom of the people, as if we put that principle and their wishes above all else.”

“I have men who would be good at expressing the proper tone.” Dalton stroked a finger beneath his lower lip. “Wherever Lord Rahl goes, those who speak for us must go behind, and deliver the message we fashion.”

“That’s right,” Bertrand said. “A message more powerful, more cutting, more frightening.”

Deep in thought, trying to envision all requisite elements of the strategy, Dalton waggled a finger. “Lord Rahl and the Mother Confessor will bring swift and unpleasant action, should they suspect such a thing. In fact, it would be best if they never even knew of the things the people are told—at least in the beginning. Our messages must be delivered only after they have gone on to the next place.

“Let them offer hope. We will come behind and portray the hope of freedom they offer as lies—frighten people out of such thoughts.”

Dalton knew how easily the minds of the people could be manipulated with the right words, especially if people were distracted by other matters and confused with contradictions.

“If done well, the people will resoundingly approve of us as we at the same time betray them.” Dalton smiled at last. “When I get through with them, they will cheer us on to the task.”

Bertrand took another swig of rum. “Now you’re thinking like the man I hired.”

“But when the people reject his offer,” Hildemara said, “Lord Rahl will no doubt react badly to losing; he will turn to force.”

“Possibly.” Bertrand set down the goblet. “But by then the Order will have captured the Dominie Dirtch, and it will be too late for Lord Rahl to do anything about it. He and the Mother Confessor will be isolated, without hope of reinforcements.”

“Lord Rahl and the Mother Confessor will be trapped in Anderith . . .” She smiled at last, closing her clawed fingers into a fist. “And Jagang will have them.”

Bertrand grinned. “And reward us.” He turned to Dalton. “Where are the D’Haran troops billeted?”

“Between here and Fairfield.”

“Good. Let Lord Rahl and the Mother Confessor have anything they want. Let them do whatever they wish. We must appear to be most accommodating.”

Dalton nodded. “They said they wanted to see the library.”

Bertrand swept up his goblet again. “Fine. Let them have the run of it—see what they wish. There is nothing in the library that could be of any help to them.”

Richard turned to the ruckus.

“Shoo!” Vedetta Firkin yelled. The old woman cast her arms forward, adding physical threat to the verbal one she had already delivered. “Shoo, you thief!”

The raven out on the board attached to the windowsill leaped about, flapping its wings, loudly expressing its displeasure with her. She looked around and then snatched a stick up from where it leaned against the wall, ready to hand for propping the next window open. Wielding the stick like a sword, she leaned out the open window and swiped at the raven. Wings outstretched, neck plumage ruffed, feathers on its head lifted like horns, it hopped back and screeched at her.

Again she slashed at the big black bird. This time the raven made a strategic withdrawal to a nearby branch. From a position of safety, it delivered a boisterous lecture. She slammed the window shut.

Vedetta Firkin turned and, after setting down the stick, triumphantly brushed clean her hands. She lifted her nose as she returned to people business.

Richard and Kahlan had spoken with her when they came into the library in order to put her mind at ease. Richard wanted to insure her cooperation rather than have her perhaps get the notion that it was somehow her duty to hide books from them. She had responded brightly to their casual and friendly manner with her.

“Sorry,” she whispered in low voice, as if to compensate for the yelling. She scurried closer to Richard and Kahlan.

“I tacked that board to the sill, and I put seeds on it for the birds, but those vile ravens come and steal the seeds.”

“Ravens are birds, too,” Richard said.

The woman straightened, a little befuddled. “Yes, but . . . they’re ravens. Nuisance birds, they are. They steal all the seeds and then the lovely little songbirds don’t come by. I so love the song birds.”

“I see,” Richard said with a smile before he turned back to his book.

“Anyway, Lord Rahl, Mother Confessor, sorry for the disturbance. I just didn’t want those noisy ravens bothering you like they’re apt to do. Best to just get rid of them right off. I will try to keep it quiet for you from now on.”

Kahlan smiled up at the woman. “Thank you, Mistress Firkin.”

She paused before turning away. “Excuse me for saying so, Lord Rahl, but you have a delightful smile. It reminds me very much of the smile of a friend of mine.”

“Really? Who would that be?” Richard asked, absently.

“Ruben—” Her face reddened. “He’s a gentleman friend.”

Richard showed her the smile she liked. “I’m sure you give him reason to smile, Mistress Firkin.”

“Ruben,” Kahlan muttered as the woman started to leave. “Reminds me of Zedd. He used to sometimes use the name Ruben.”

Richard sighed with longing for his missing grandfather. “I wish that old man was here, now,” he whispered to Kahlan.

“If you need anything,” Vedetta Firkin said over her shoulder as she shuffled away, “please don’t hesitate to ask. I’m quite knowledgeable about the culture of Anderith—about our history.”

“Yes, thank you,” Richard called after the woman, using the opportunity while her back was turned to give Kahlan’s leg an intimate squeeze under the table.

“Richard,” Kahlan said in a rising tone, “keep your mind on your work.”

Richard patted her thigh in acquiescence. It would be easier to keep his mind on what he was reading without the sweet warmth of her so near. He flipped the book closed and pulled another close. He opened the old book of town records and scanned for anything that looked remotely useful.

They had not found a wealth of information, but he had managed to find enough to piece together facts that might be useful. Without doubt, the library was proving worth his time, as he was beginning to get a sense of the place that had been missing before. It truly was a library of culture. Because of their attitudes and professed beliefs, Richard doubted that many people had the vaguest idea of the obscure history right under their noses, hiding in plain sight.

He was coming to the realization that much of ancient Anderith, before the Hakens, had benefited from direction that eclipsed the development of the people at the time. A benevolent hand had protected them.

By the ancient songs and prayers he had found set down, and the later accounts of the way homage was paid to this shepherding protector, Richard suspected it to be the hand of Joseph Ander. Such adoration would suit the man, as Kolo described him. Richard recognized much of the miraculous guidance as possibly being the work of a wizard. Without this figure after he was gone, the people were like orphans, lost without the succor of idols they worshiped but which no longer answered them. They were bewildered and at the mercy of forces they didn’t understand.

Richard leaned back and stretched as he yawned. The old books infused the library with a musty aroma. Rather intriguing, in a long-hidden-mystery sort of way, but the smell was not altogether pleasant, either. He was beginning to long for the fresh sunny air on the other side of the windows as much as he longed for the end of the long-hidden mystery.

Du Chaillu sat nearby, stroking a loving hand over her unborn baby as she studied a book with intricate illuminations on many of its pages. There were drawings of small animals: ferrets, weasels, voles, foxes, and such. She couldn’t read, but the book full of drawings had her in a constant grin. She’d never seen anything like it. Richard had never seen her dark eyes sparkle so. She was as delighted as a child.

Jiaan lounged nearby. At least, the blade master did a good imitation of lounging. Richard knew he was simply making himself unobtrusive so he could watch everything. A half-dozen D’Haran soldiers strolled the room. There were Ander guards, too, at the doors.

Some of the other people had immediately left the library, fearing they might disturb the Mother Confessor and Lord Rahl. A few remained. Spies, Kahlan had suggested to him, sent to watch them. He had already formed that opinion.

He didn’t trust the Minister any more than Kahlan did. From the first time the subject of Anderith had come up, her obvious distaste for the place had colored his view of it. The Minister of Culture had done nothing to alter his impression, and had lent weight to Kahlan’s warnings about the man.

“Here,” Richard said, tapping the page. “Here it is again.”

Kahlan leaned close and looked. She made a sound deep in her throat at seeing the name: Westbrook.

“What this is saying here confirms what we’ve found before,” Richard said.

“I know the place. It’s a little town. Not much there, from what I recall.”

Richard lifted his arm and signaled for the attention of the old woman. She came scurrying back at once.

“Yes, Lord Rahl? May I be of assistance?”

“Mistress Firkin, you said you know a lot about the history of Anderith.”

“Oh, yes, I do. It’s my favorite subject.”

“Well, I’ve now found several places where it mentions a place called Westbrook. It says Joseph Ander once lived there.”

“Yes, that’s true. It’s up in the foothills of the mountains. Up above the Nareef Valley.”

Kahlan had already told him that much, but it was good to know the woman wasn’t trying to mislead them, or conceal information.

“And is there anything left there of him? Anything that belonged to him?”

She smiled her enthusiasm, pleased he wanted to know about Joseph Ander, the namesake of her land. “Why, yes, there is a small shrine to Joseph Ander there. People may go and see the chair he once used, and a few other small items.

“The house he lived in burned down just recently—a terrible fire it was—but some things were saved because they had been taken away while the house was undergoing repairs. Water kept getting in, ruining things. Wind ripped up roof shingles. Tree branches—must have been—broke the windows and the wind got in there something fierce, blowing the rain in, getting everything wet. Ruined a lot of the valuable things of his. Then the fire—from lightning, people believe—burned the place to the ground.

“But some of his things were saved, like I said, because they were out of there while repairs were being made—before the fire. So, now, those things are displayed so people can see them. See the actual chair he sat in.”

She leaned down. “And, most interesting to me, there are some of his writings still intact.”

Richard sat up straighter. “Writing?”

She nodded her gray head of hair. “I’ve read them all. Nothing really important. Just his observations about the mountains around where he lived, about the town, and about some of the people he knew. Nothing important, but it is still interesting.”

“I see.”

“Not important, anyway, like his things we have here.”

Richard was now at full attention. “What things?”

She swept a hand out. “We have some of his writings, here, in our vault. His dealings with others, letters, books on his beliefs. Things like that.

“Would you like to see them?”

Richard tried his best not to look too interested. He didn’t want these people to know what he was looking for; that was why he hadn’t asked for anything specific in the first place.

“Yes, that would be interesting. I’ve always had an interest in . . . in history. I’d like to see his writings.”

He, along with Vedetta Firkin, noticed someone coming down the stairs. It was a messenger of some sort—Richard had seen a number of them, all dressed the same. The redheaded man saw Mistress Firkin talking to Richard and Kahlan, so he spread his feet and clasped his hands behind his back as he waited at a distance.

Richard didn’t want to be talking about Joseph Ander’s works while a messenger stood watching, so he gestured. “Why don’t you see to him?”

Vedetta Firkin bowed her appreciation of his indulgence. “Excuse me for just a moment, then.”

Kahlan shut her book and set it atop the others she had already been through. “Richard, we need to get going. We have meetings with the Directors and a few other people. We can come back.”

“Right.” He let out a sigh. “At least we don’t have to meet with the Minister again. I couldn’t take another of those feasts.”

“I’m sure he will be just as glad we declined his invitation. I don’t know why, but the two of us always seem to somehow spoil festive gatherings.”

Richard agreed and went to collect Du Chaillu. Mistress Firkin returned as Du Chaillu was getting up.

“I would be happy to locate the books and bring them out of the vault for you, Lord Rahl, but I have a quick errand to run first, if you could wait for just a short time. I won’t be long. I’m sure you will find the writings of Joseph Ander a delight. Not many people get the chance to see them, but for someone as important as yourself and the Mother Confessor, I would—”

“To tell you the truth, Mistress Firkin, I would love to see the books. Right now, though, we must go speak with the Directors, but I could return afterward, later this afternoon, or this evening?”

“That would be perfect,” she said, grinning and dry-washing her hands. “It will give me time to locate them all and pull them out. I will have them ready for you when you return.”

“Thank you so much. The Mother Confessor and I can’t wait to see such rare books.”

Richard paused and turned back to her. “And Mistress Firkin, I’d suggest you give that raven some seeds. The poor thing looks frantic.”

She waggled her fingers in a wave. “If you say so, Lord Rahl.”

He stood when the old woman came into the room on the arm of one of his messengers.

“Mistress Firkin, thank you for coming.”

“Well, my, my, Master Campbell, but don’t you have a fine office.” She peered around as if she was interested in purchasing the place. “Yes, very fine indeed.”

“Thank you, Mistress Firkin.”

He tilted his head, ordering the messenger out. The man shut the door behind himself.

“Oh, and look,” she said, pressing her hands prayerfully together under her chin. “Look at all the fine books. Why, I never knew there were so many fine volumes up here.”

“Law books, mostly. My interest is in the law.”

She turned her attention his way. “A fine calling, Master Campbell. A fine calling. Good for you. You keep at it, now.”

“Yes, I intend as much. Mistress Firkin, speaking of the law, that brings me to the subject of my calling you up here.”

She gave a sidelong glance to the chair. He deliberately didn’t offer it, but instead kept her standing.

“I had a report of a man visiting the library who was also interested in the law. It seems he made a big to-do.” Dalton put his fists on the leather pad inlaid into his desk and leaned forward on them, fixing her with a glare. “It was reported that you took a restricted book out of the vault, without authorization, and showed it to him.”

As quick as that, she went from a chatty old woman to a terrified old woman.

While what she’d done wasn’t altogether uncommon, it was a violation of the rules, and thus the law. Most such laws were only selectively enforced, with violations only mildly punished, if at all. But occasionally people did get into trouble over violating such laws. As a man of the law, Dalton understood the value of laws widely ignored; they ensnared nearly everyone, thus giving you power over people. Hers was a serious offense, just one step below theft of cultural treasures, if he chose to pursue it.

She fumbled with a button at her throat. “But I never let him touch it, Master Campbell. I swear. I kept it in my hand every moment. I even turned the pages. I was only, letting him look at the writing of our glorious founding father. I didn’t intend—”

“Nonetheless, it is not permitted, and it was reported, therefore I must take action.”

“Yes, sir.”

Dalton straightened. “Bring me the book.” He tapped his desk. “Bring me the book at once. At once, do you understand?”

“Yes, sir. At once.”

“You bring it up here and put it on my desk so I can look it over. If there is no valuable information that might have been betrayed to a spy, I will not recommend any disciplinary action—this time. But you had better not be caught breaking the rules again, Mistress Firkin. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” She was nearly in tears. “Master Campbell, the Mother Confessor and the Lord Rahl have been down in the library.”

“Yes, I know.”

“Lord Rahl asked to see Joseph Ander’s books and writings. What should I do?”

Dalton could hardly believe the man was wasting his time looking over such useless books. He almost felt sorry for the Lord Rahl in his ignorance. Almost.

“The Mother Confessor and Lord Rahl are honored guests as well as being important people. They may see any book in our library. There are to be no restrictions on them. None. You hereby have authorization to show them anything we have.”

He tapped his desk again. “But that book you showed to that other man, that Ruben fellow, I want that book on my desk, and I want it now.”

The woman was fidgeting like she was about to wet herself.

“Yes, sir. Right away, Master Campbell.” She scurried from the room, her entire life now focused on retrieving the book.

Dalton didn’t really care about the book—whatever it was. He simply didn’t want the people in the library to get sloppy and start violating the rules. He couldn’t have people he didn’t trust in charge of valuable things.

His cobweb was humming with matters more important than some useless, dusty old book by Joseph Ander, but he had to mind everything, regardless of how minor. He would take a look at the book, but just her bringing it was what mattered to him.

Every once in a while it was necessary to throw a bit of fright into people to remind them who was in charge and who held sway over their life. Word of this would spread to others in the household. The fear from this one incident would straighten everyone’s back. If it didn’t, the next time he would put the violator out of the household in order to make an impression.

Dalton sank back into his seat and returned to his stack of messages. Most disturbing of them was the one saying the Sovereign was improving. He was reported to be eating again. Not a good sign, but the man couldn’t last forever. Sooner or later, Bertrand Chanboor would be Sovereign.

There were a number of messages and reports about other people dying, though. People out in the country were frightened by strange occurrences—deaths out of the ordinary. Fires, drownings, falls. Country people, terrified of things in the night, were coming into the city, seeking safety.

People in the city, too, were reported to be dying from similar events, and were similarly frightened. Seeking safety; they were fleeing the city and going into the countryside.

Dalton shook his head at the foolishness of people’s fears. He gathered the reports into a stack. Just before he put them to the candle flame, a thought struck him. His hand paused. He pulled the sheaf of messages back from the flame.

Something Franca once said had given him an idea.

They might be of use. He stuffed the reports into a drawer.

“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 than 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.