Stone of Tears

Chapter 49

Richard and Sister Verna sat on their horses, anchoring long, thin shadows, as they looked down from the grassy prominence. Trees meandered along the low places among some of the hills, and blanketed others in dusky green. The vast city below lay awash in a straw-colored haze that muted the colors into a mellow monotone. The distant tiled and shingled roofs shimmered in the rays of the setting sun like points of light on a pond.

Richard had never seen so many buildings laid out in such an orderly array. Off to the edges they were smaller, but toward the core they seemed to grow, both in size and in grandeur. The faraway sounds of tens of thousands of people and horses and wagons drifted all the way up to them on the hill, carried on the light, salty breeze.

A river meandered through the collection of countless buildings, dividing the city, with the part on the far side twice as large. At the edge of the city, docks lined the banks along the mouth of the majestic river. Boats of all sizes were not only moored there, but dotted the river, their white sails filled with air. Some of the boats, he could just make out, had three masts. Richard had never imagined that such large boats might exist.

Despite being there against his will, Richard found himself fascinated by the city, by all the people and all the sights it must hold. He had never seen such a place. He imagined a person could probably walk around for days and days, and not begin to see it all.

Beyond, shimmering with golden sparkles and reflections, lay the sea, stretching to a knife’s-edge line at the horizon.

Dominating the city, near the center, rising up on an island of its own, stood a vast palace, its imposing, crenellated west wall bathed in the sun’s golden rays. Baileys and ramparts and towers and sections and roofs, all of grand design, joined together into a complex structure that held labyrinthine courtyards with trees, or grass, or ponds. The palace seemed to be stretching its stone arms, jealously trying to enclose the whole of the island atop which it sat.

Seen from this distance, with the thread-thin streets radiating out from the the island at the core of the city, and strandlike bridges spanning the river all around, the palace reminded Richard of nothing as much as a fat spider sitting in the center of its web.

“The Palace of the Prophets,” Sister Verna said.

“Prison,” Richard said without looking to her.

She ignored the comment. “The city is Tanimura, and through it, the River Kern. The palace itself sits on Halsband Island.”

“Halsband.” His hackles rose. “Is that some kind of sardonic joke?”

“What do you mean? Does Halsband have significance?”

Richard raised an eyebrow. “A halsband is a collar used to launch a hunting hawk on an attack.”

She shrugged dismissively. “You read too much into things.”

“Do I? We shall see.”

She let out a small sigh as she lifted her hips, starting her horse down the hill, and changed the subject. “It’s been many years since I was home, but it looks as it always has.”

The two Baka Ban Mana men who had guided them through the swampy, trackless forest for the last two days had left them that morning, once Sister Verna was at last in familiar territory. Although he never lost his sense of direction, Richard could easily see how people could become disoriented there. But he was at home in such places of vast desolation, and was more likely to become lost in a building than in dense woods.

The two men had spoken little over those two days. Though they were swordsmen as fierce as those Richard had fought, they were in awe of him. Richard had to shout before they would stop all the bowing. No amount of shouting, though, could make them stop calling him Caharin.

One night, before he went to stand his usual watch, Sister Verna had told him, in a quiet tone, that she was sorry that he had had to kill those thirty people. A little surprised by her sincerity and the seeming lack of meaning other than that stated, and haunted by the memory, he had thanked her for understanding.

Richard scanned the fertile hills and valleys. “Why isn’t this land farmed? With all those people, they must need to plant food.”

Sister Verna lifted a hand holding the reins and indicated the land on the other side of the city. “Farms cover the land on that side of the river. On this side, it’s not safe for man nor beast.” Tilting her head back, she indicated the land behind. “The Baka Ban Mana are always a threat.”

“So they don’t farm here because they’re afraid of the Baka Ban Mana?”

She cast a glance to her left. “Do you see that dark forest?” She watched him as he took in the fringe of the dense tangle in the next valley. Huge, old, gnarled trees were packed close together, covered with vines and moss, and harboring gloomy shadows. “This edge runs for miles more toward the city. It’s the Hagen Woods. Stay far away from it. All who let the sun set on them in the Hagen Woods die. Many who set foot there die before they have a chance to wait for the sun to go down. It’s a place of vile magic.”

As they rode, he kept glancing toward the Hagen Woods. He felt a longing for that gloomy place, as if it complemented his dark mood; as if he belonged in there. He found it hard to draw his eyes away.

Up close, the streets of Tanimura were not the orderly place they appeared from a distance. The fringes of the city were a confusion of squalor. Men pushing or pulling carts laden with loads of rice sacks, or carpets, or firewood, or hides, or even garbage, wove around and past each other, sometimes clogging the way. Lining the road were hawkers of every sort, selling everything from fruits and vegetables and strips of meat cooked on little sticks over tiny smoky fires in impromptu stone hearths, to herbs and fortunes, to boots and beads. At least the cooking gave spotty relief from the reeking stench of tanneries.

Huddled groups of men in worn, dirty clothes shouted with excitement or burst into laughter around games of cards and dice. Side streets and narrow alleyways were clogged with people and lined with ramshackle huts of tarp and tin. Naked children ran and played among the flimsy shelters, splashing in muddy puddles and chasing each other in games of catch-the-fox. Women squatted around buckets, washing clothes and chatting among themselves.

Sister Verna muttered to herself that she didn’t remember the squalor and the unhoused multitudes. Richard thought that, despite their condition, they looked happier than they had a right to.

Despite having lived out-of-doors, and being a little dirty and rumpled, Sister Verna, compared to these people, looked like royalty. Anyone coming close bowed in reverence to the Sister, and she prayed for the Creator’s blessing on them in return.

The timeworn buildings, some faced with faded, crumbling plaster, some with age-darkened wood, were just as packed as the streets. Colorful wash hung from the rusty iron railings of nearly every tiny balcony. A few held pots of flowers or herbs. Laughter and the hum of conversation came from taverns and inns. A butcher shop displayed fly-covered carcasses on the street out front. Other shops sold dried fish, or grain, or oils.

The farther he and the Sister went, the cleaner the city became. The road widened, even the side streets were wider, and none had huts leaning against the buildings. The shops had bigger windows with painted shutters, and better-looking wares, many displaying colorful, locally woven carpets. By the time the wide road became lined with trees, the buildings were grand. The inns looked elegant, with doormen standing in red uniforms before them.

On the stone bridge over the Kern, men were lighting lamps hung on poles to show the way in the gathering darkness. In the river, below the bridge, fishermen in small boats with lanterns rowed through the dark water. Soldiers in ornate uniforms with gold-trimmed white shirts and red tunics, and carrying polearms, patrolled each side of the river. As the horses’ hooves clopped along the cobblestone, Sister Verna finally spoke.

“It’s a great day, at the palace, when a new one with the gift arrives.” She cast him a brief, sideways glance. “It’s a rare and joyous event. They will be happy to see you, Richard, please remember that. To them, this is an event of note in their calling. Though you feel differently, their hearts will be warmed by the sight of you. They will want you to feel welcome.”

Richard thought otherwise. “Make your point.”

“I just did. They will be delighted.”

“What you are saying, in other words, is you would like me not to horrify them right off.”

“I didn’t say that.” She glanced with a small frown at the soldiers guarding the bridge. She finally looked back to him. “I am simply asking you to realize that these women live for this very thing.”

Richard stared ahead as he rode past more guards in dress uniforms. “A wise person, a person I love, told me once that we all can only be who we are, no more, and no less.” His gaze swept the top of the wall ahead, noting the soldiers there, and what arms they carried. “I’m the bringer of death, and I have nothing to live for.”

“That’s not true, Richard,” she said in a quiet tone. “You’re a young man, and you have much to live for. You have a long life ahead of you. And though you may have named yourself the bringer of death, I have seen you do nothing but strive to stop the killing. Sometimes you will not listen, and make matters worse, but it’s through ignorance, not malice.”

“Since you abhor lies, Sister, I’m sure you wouldn’t want me to pretend to feel other than I do.”

She sighed as they went through a huge gate in the thick, outer bailey wall, the horses’ hooves echoing inside the long, arched opening. Beyond, the road meandered among low, spreading trees. Windows in the buildings rising up all around were aglow with soft yellow light. Many of the buildings were connected by covered colonnades, or enclosed halls with arched openings covered over with latticework. Benches dotted the far side of the courtyard, against a wall with a frieze carved with figures on horses.

Through archways with white-painted gates, they came to the stables. Horses browsed in a field beyond. Boys dressed in neat livery, with black vests over tan shirts, came to hold the horses as he and the Sister dismounted. Richard gave Bonnie’s neck a scratch and then started taking down his belongings.

Sister Verna brushed out the wrinkles in her divided riding skirt and straightened her light cloak. She fussed at her curly hair. “No need for that, Richard. Someone will bring your things.”

“No one touches my things but me,” he said.

She sighed and shook her head, and then told the boy to have her things brought in. He bowed to her, and then hooked a lead line on Jessup. He gave a sharp snap on the line. Jessup balked.

The boy brought a whip around on the Jessup’s rump. “Move, you dumb beast!”

Jessup bellowed as he tried to yank his head away.

The next thing Richard knew, the boy was flying across the walkway. He slammed up against a flimsy wooden wall and landed on his seat, as a glowering Sister Verna loomed over him.

“Don’t you dare whip that horse! What’s the matter with you? How would you like it if I did that to you?” In shock, the boy shook his head. “If I ever hear of you whipping a horse again, you will be without a job, after I whip your skinny bottom.”

The wide-eyed lad gave a quick nod and apology. Sister Verna glared a moment longer and then turned, whistling for her horse. When Jessup trotted up, she scratched him under his chin, comforting and calming him. She led him inside to a stall and saw that he had water and hay. Richard made sure she didn’t see his smile.

As they walked across the courtyard, she said, “Just remember, Richard, there isn’t a Sister here, or even a novice, who, while at the same time as she was yawning, couldn’t throw you across a room like that with her Han.”

Inside a wood-paneled hall with long yellow and blue carpets running under ornate side tables, three women waited. They became all atwitter at the sight of Sister Verna. Sister Verna was a head shorter than he, and none of these three women were as tall as she. They smoothed their full, pastel skirts, and tugged at the white bodices.

“Sister Verna!” one cried out as the three rushed up. “Oh, dear Sister Verna, it’s so good to see you at last.”

A tear or two ran down their rosy faces. Their smiles looked about to burst their cheeks. Each looked a good deal younger than Sister Verna. She surveyed the big, wet eyes.

Sister Verna tenderly stroked the sniffling face before her. “Sister Phoebe.” She touched another’s hand. “And Sister Amelia, and Sister Janet. It’s so good to see you again. It has been a long time indeed.”

The three giggled with excitement, at last composing themselves. Sister Phoebe’s round face looked about, past Richard.

“Where is he? Why haven’t you brought him in with you?”

Sister Verna lifted her hand toward Richard. “This is he. Richard, these are friends of mine. Sisters Phoebe, Amelia, and Janet.”

The smiles transformed into astonished looks. They blinked as they took in his size and age. They stared in open amazement before finally sputtering over each other’s words about how glad they were to meet him. They tore their eyes from him at last and returned their attention to Sister Verna.

“Better than half the palace is waiting to greet you both,” Sister Phoebe said. “Everyone has been so excited since we received word that you would arrive today.”

Sister Amelia smoothed back her fine, light brown hair, flipping back the ends that barely brushed her shoulders. “No other has been brought in since you left for Richard. All those years, and no other. Everyone is so eager to meet him. I guess they are in for a ‘big’ surprise,” she said as she blushed, glancing sideways at him. “Some of the younger Sisters, especially. A pleasant surprise, I would say. My, but he is big.”

Richard remembered a time, when he was little, when he had been imprisoned in his house by a pouring rain. His mother had some women friends visiting to help in the making of a quilt, and to pass the time in conversation. As they sat and sewed while he played on the floor, they discussed him as if he weren’t there, talking about how he was growing, and his mother had told how much he ate, and how good he was at reading. In similar discomfort, now, Richard shifted his pack up higher on his shoulder.

Sister Phoebe turned to him and just beamed. She reached out and touched his arm. “Listen to us go on! We shouldn’t talk about you like you weren’t here. Welcome, Richard. Welcome to the Palace of the Prophets.”

Richard silently watched the three Sisters blinking up at him. Sister Amelia giggled, and said to Sister Verna, “He doesn’t talk much, does he.”

“He talks enough,” Sister Verna said. Under her breath, she added, “Thank the Creator he is quiet for now.”

“Well,” Sister Phoebe said, in a bright voice. “Shall we go?”

Sister Verna frowned at her. “Sister Phoebe, who are the troops I saw, the ones in the strange uniforms?”

Sister Phoebe’s brow wrinkled in thought a moment, then her eyebrows lifted. “Oh, those troops.” She dismissed it with a wave. “The government was overthrown, a few years back. I guess it must have been while you were away. The Old World has a new government, again. We have an emperor, now, instead of all those kings.” She looked to Sister Janet. “What is it they call themselves?”

Her brow creased in thought, Sister Janet’s eyes turned toward the ceiling. “Oh, yes,” she said in a demure voice. “The Imperial Order. And you are quite right, Sister Phoebe; they have an emperor.” She nodded. “Yes, the Imperial Order, led by an emperor.”

Sister Phoebe shook her head in wonder. “Such foolishness. Governments come, and governments go, but the Palace of the Prophets always remains. The Creator’s hand shelters us. Shall we go greet the others?”

Following behind the three, they passed through warmly decorated passageways and halls. As far as Richard was concerned, he was in hostile territory. Threat always caused the magic of the Sword of Truth to try to seep into him, to protect him. He let in a trickle, keeping the anger on a slow burn. Sister Verna glanced sideways occasionally, as if measuring the growth of his glower.

At last, they went through a pair of thick walnut doors that opened into a vast chamber. They had to pass under a low ceiling and between white columns with gold capitals, before entering under a huge, vaulted dome painted with immense scenes of people in robes surrounding a glowing figure. Two levels of balconies with ornate stone railings ringed the circular room. Stained-glass windows lit the top balcony from behind. The floor of the room was made up of small, light and dark wood squares laid out in a zigzag pattern. The hum of well over a hundred voices echoed around the chamber.

Women stood in bunches around the floor and more lined the balconies. Scattered among the women on the second level were some men and boys. The women, all Sisters of the Light, he presumed, were dressed in finery. There seemed to be no pattern; their dresses were of every color, with designs ranging from conservative to revealing. The boys and men were dressed in everything from plain robes to coats as elaborate as Richard imagined any lord or prince would wear.

The buzz of talking died out as everyone began turning to the new arrivals. As the room fell to silence, applause started, swelling into a roar.

Sister Phoebe took a few steps toward the center of the room, raising her hand, calling for silence. The applause died out in spurts.

“Sisters,” Sister Phoebe said, her voice trembling with excitement, “please welcome Sister Verna home.” The applause roared again and, after a few moments, the hand brought it to silence once more. “And may I present our newest student, our newest child of the Creator, our newest charge.” She turned, holding her hand out, wiggling her fingers, indicating she wanted Richard to step forward. He took three strides to her, Sister Verna going with him.

Sister Phoebe leaned close and whispered. “Richard . . . ? Do you have any more to your name?”

Richard hesitated a moment. “Cypher.”

She turned back to the crowd. “Please welcome Richard Cypher to the Palace of the Prophets.”

The clapping started again. Richard glowered as every face watched him. Women near pressed closer, to get a better look at him. There were women of all ages and descriptions in the crowd, ranging from some who looked old enough to be kindly grandmothers to some hardly old enough to be called women, with those of every age in between. They ranged from plump to skinny, with hair as different as their dress, with every color from blonde to black. Their eyes, too, were of every color.

He noticed one woman who stood near him. She had a warm smile on her reed-thin lips, and strange, pale blue eyes with violet flecks through them. She was looking at him as if he were an old, dear friend, whom she loved, and hadn’t seen in years. She was applauding enthusiastically, and elbowing a haughty woman next to her to join in the clapping, until the other finally did.

Richard stood with his arms at his sides as he studied the layout of the room, noting exits, passageways, and placement of guards. As the applause died out, a young woman in a dress the same shade of blue as Kahlan’s wedding dress worked her way through the crowd. The blue dress had a round neck, decorated with white lace that ran down to the narrow waist and matched that on the cuffs.

She approached, coming to a halt right in front of him. Perhaps five years younger than he, and a head shorter, she had full, soft brown hair that reached to her shoulders, and big, brown eyes.

She gaped at him. With each slow breath, her bosom swelled at the lace. Her hand floated up. Her delicate fingers brushed his cheek, and stroked down his beard. She seemed transfixed as she stared up at him, stroking his beard.

“The Creator has indeed heard my prayers,” she whispered to herself.

She seemed to suddenly remember where she was and snatched her hand back. Her face flushed red.

“I’m . . . I’m,” she stammered. She regained her composure, her face recovering its smooth complexion. She clasped her hands before herself and turned, as if nothing had happened, to address Sister Verna. “I am Pasha Maes, novice, third rank. I am next in line to be named. I have been placed in charge of Richard.”

Sister Verna gave her a small, tight smile. “I think I remember you, Pasha. I’m pleased to see you have studied hard and done well. Richard is passed out of my hands, now, and into yours. May the Creator gently hold you both in His hands.”

Pasha smiled proudly and then turned to Richard. She cast a glance down the length of him. She looked up, batted her eyelashes at him, and gave him a warm smile.

“I’m pleased to meet you, young man. My name is Pasha. You are assigned to me. I’m to help teach you, help with whatever else you may need in your studies. I’m a guide of sorts. Any problems or questions you have are to be brought to me, and I will do my best to help you. You look like a bright boy; I’m sure we are going to get along just fine.”

Her smile faltered under the heat of his glower. She smiled again and continued. “Well, first of all, Richard, we don’t allow boys to carry weapons here at the Palace of the Prophets.” She held her hands out, palms up. “I’ll take your sword.”

The trickle of rage from the magic had turned to a torrent. “You are welcome to my sword, when I am no longer breathing.”

Pasha’s gaze flicked to Sister Verna. The Sister gave a slow, slight shake of her head in stern warning. Pasha’s gaze returned to Richard and her frown transformed to a smile.

“Well, we’ll talk about it later.” Her brow bunched together. “But you need to learn some manners, young man.”

Richard’s voice came in a tone that took some of the color from Pasha’s face. “Which one of these women is the Prelate?”

Pasha gave a bubble of a laugh. “The Prelate is not here. She is much too busy to . . .”

“Take me to her.”

“You do not see the Prelate when you wish. She sees you when she has reason to see you. I can hardly believe Sister Verna has not taught you that we do not allow our boys . . .”

Richard put the back of his hand against her shoulder and swept her aside as he took another stride into the room, redirecting his glare to the hundreds of eyes watching him.

“I have something to say.”

The vast room fell to a hush. From two different places in his mind, the same thought had come forward at the same time. He recognized each origin. One was The Adventures of Bonnie Day, the book his father had given him, and the other was the sword’s magic, the knowledge of the sword, the spirits he had danced with.

The memory and message were the same: When you are outnumbered, and the situation is hopeless, you have no option—you must attack.

He knew what the collar was for. His situation was hopeless. He had no options. He let the quiet ring in the chamber until it was uncomfortable.

His fingers tapped his Rada’Han. “As long as you keep this collar on me, you are my captors, and I am your prisoner.” Murmurs hummed in the air. Richard let them trail off before he went on. “Since I have committed no aggression against you, that makes us enemies. We are at war.

“Sister Verna has made a pledge to me that I will be taught to control the gift, and when I have learned what is required, I will be set free. For now, as long as you keep that pledge, we have a truce. But there are conditions.”

Richard lifted the red leather rod at his neck, the Agiel, in his hand. Beyond the rage of the magic, the Agiel was only a dim tingle of pain. “I have been collared before. The person who put that collar on me brought me pain, to punish me, to teach me, to subdue me.

“That is the sole purpose of a collar. You collar a beast. You collar your enemies.

“I made her much the same offer I am making you. I begged her to release me. She would not. I was forced to kill her.

“Not one of you could ever hope to be good enough to lick her boots. She did as she did because she was tortured and broken, made mad enough to use a collar to hurt people. She did it against her nature.

“You,” he looked to all the eyes, “you do it because you think it is your right. You enslave in the name of your Creator. I don’t know your Creator. The only one beyond this world I know who would do as you do is the Keeper.” The crowd gasped. “As far as I’m concerned, you may as well be the Keeper’s disciples.

“If you do as she, and use this collar to bring me pain, the truce will be ended. You may think you hold the leash to this collar, but I promise you, if the truce ends, you will find that what you hold is a bolt of lightning.”

Dead-still silence rang in the room. Richard rolled up his left sleeve. He drew the Sword of Truth. The distinctive sound of steel filled the silence.

“The Baka Ban Mana are my people. They have agreed to live in peace with all people from now on. Anyone who harms one of them will answer to me. If you do not accept this, do not let the Baka Ban Mana live in peace, our truce will be ended.”

He pointed back with the sword. “Sister Verna captured me. I have fought her every step of this journey. She has done everything short of killing me and draping my body over a horse to get me here. Though she, too, is my captor and enemy, I owe her certain debts. If anyone lays a finger to her because of me, I will kill that person, and the truce will be ended.”

From the corner of his eye, Richard could see Sister Verna’s eyes close. Her hand covered her white face.

The crowd gasped as Richard drew his sword across the inside of his arm. He turned it, wiping both sides in the blood, until it dripped from the tip.

His knuckles white around the hilt, he thrust the blade into the air.

“I give you a blood oath! Harm the Baka Ban Mana, harm Sister Verna, or harm me, and the truce will be ended, and I promise you we will have war! If we have war, I will lay waste to the Palace of the Prophets!”

From the far balcony, where Richard couldn’t see its source, a mocking voice drifted out over the crowd. “All by yourself?”

“Doubt me at your peril. I am a prisoner; I have nothing to live for. I am the flesh of prophecy. I am the bringer of death.”

No answer came in the silence. He slammed his sword home into its scabbard.

Richard held his arms out as he gave a gracious bow. He came up smiling. “Now that we all understand each other, understand the truce, you ladies may go back to your celebration of my capture.”

He turned his back on the stunned crowd. Sister Verna’s head was lowered, her hand covering her face. Pasha’s lips were pressed so tightly together they were turning blue.

A stout, stern-faced woman crossed in front of him, stopping before Sister Verna. The woman held her nose in the air until Sister Verna lifted her head and straightened her back.

“Sister Verna. It is obvious you have neither the talent nor skill to be a Sister of the Light. Your failure is quite beyond the pale. As of this moment, you are broken to novice, first rank. You will serve as a novice until such time as, and if the Creator wills, you earn the title of Sister of the Light.”

Sister Verna lifted her chin. “Yes, Sister Maren.”

“Novices do not speak to a Sister unless asked to! I did not ask you to speak!” She held out a hand. “Surrender your dacra.”

Sister Verna flicked her hand, the silver knife appearing from her sleeve. She twirled it, presented the handle to the other woman, and then stood silent, her eyes straight ahead.

“At dawn tomorrow, you will report to the kitchens. You will scrub pots until you are judged worthy to attempt something more demanding of your intelligence. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Sister Maren. I understand.”

“And if you even look like you are going to give me any back talk, it will be the stables instead of the kitchens, cleaning stalls and hauling manure!”

“In that case, Sister Maren, I will report directly to the stables, instead of the kitchens, and save your ears what it is I would say to you.”

Sister Maren’s face reddened. “Very well, novice. The stables it is.”

Sister Maren paused before Richard, giving him a tight smile. “I trust that does not break your truce.” She lifted her chin and stormed off.

The room was silent. Richard looked to Sister Verna, but the Sister stared straight ahead. Pasha, her face set in a scowl, suddenly put herself between them.

“Verna is no longer your concern. Your arm is bleeding. Since you are my charge, I will tend to it.”

She took a calming breath as she twined her fingers together before her waist. “There is a big banquet, to welcome you, beginning in the dining room. Maybe you will feel better about all of us after the banquet. Everyone is looking forward to it. Everyone wants a chance to personally welcome you.” She shook a finger at him. “And you will be on your best behavior, young man!”

Having put the sword away, he had put most of the anger away. Most, but not all. “I’m not hungry. Show me to my dungeon, child.”

Her fists tightened on her blue skirts. With a dark look, she considered him a moment. “Very well. Have it your way. You can just go to bed without your supper, like a spoiled child.” She turned on her heel. “Follow me.”