Stone of Tears (92 page)

“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 to 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 woman 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 was as different as their dress, with every color from blond 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 pale blue eyes, with violet flecks though 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. She 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 a little when she noticed that he was glowering at her. 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 from The Adventures of Bonnie Day, the book his father had given him, and the other place was from the sword’s magic, from the knowledge of the sword, from 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 of 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 lightening.”

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 ringing 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.