"Why?"

He stirred his spoon around in his bowl. "Please, Nicci, will you grant me this? Let me finish it, then you will see it."

Her heart pounded against her ribs. This was important to him.

"You aren't carving what they told you to carve, are you?"

Richard's face turned up until his gaze met hers.

"No, I'm not. I'm carving what I need to carve, what people need to see."

Nicci swallowed. She knew: this was what she had been waiting for. He had been ready to give up, then he wanted to live, and now he was willing to die for this.

Nicci nodded, having to look away from those gray eyes of his. "I'll wait until it's ready."

Now she knew why he seemed so driven, lately. That quality hinted at in her father's eyes, and blazing in Richard's, she felt was somehow tied to this. The very idea was intoxicating.

In more ways than one, this was a matter of life and death.

"Are you sure about this, Richard?"

"I am."

She nodded again. "All right, I will honor your request."

The next day, Nicci got an early start to buy bread. She wanted Richard to have bread with the stew she was cooking. Kamil offered to go for her, but she wanted to get out of the house. She asked him to keep an eye on Richard's stew as it simmered on the banked coals.

It was an overcast day, and cool-a hint of the rapidly approaching winter. The streets were crowded with people out looking for work, with carts hauling everything from manure to bolts of coarse dark cloth, and with wagons, mostly carrying building materials for the palace. She had to step carefully to avoid the dung in the road and squeeze between all the people moving as slowly as the sludge of the open sewers as she made her way through the city.

There were crowds of needy people in the street, many come to Altur'Rang for

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work, no doubt, although there were few people at the workers' group hall. The lines at the bakeries were long. At least the Order saw to it that people got bread, even if it was gray, tough bread. You had to go early, though, before they ran out. With more people all the time, the shops ran out earlier every week.

Someday, it was rumored, they were going to be able to provide more than one kind of bread. She hoped that this day, at least, they might have some butter, too. Sometimes, they sold butter. The bread, and the butter, were inexpensive, so she knew she could afford to buy a little for Richard-if they had any. They almost never had any butter.

Nicci had spent a hundred and eighty years trying to help people, and people seemed no better off now than they ever were. Those in the New World were prosperous enough, though. Someday, when the Order ruled the world, and those with the means were made to contribute their fair share to their fellow man, then everything would finally fall into place and all of mankind could at last live with the dignity they deserved. The Order would see to it.

The bread shop stood at an intersection of two roads, so the line turned around the corner onto another street. Nicci was around that corner, leaning a shoulder against the wall, watching the passing throngs, when a face in the crowd caught her attention.

Her eyes went wide as she straightened. She could hardly believe what she was seeing. What was she doing in Altur'Rang?

Nicci didn't really want to find out-not now, when it seemed she was getting close to finding her answers. Matters seemed to be at a critical state with Richard. She felt sure that it would soon come to resolution.

Nicci flipped her dark shawl up over her head of blond hair and tied it snug under her chin. She sank back behind a wide woman and hugged the wall as she peeked out between the people in line.

Nicci watched Sister Alessandra, her nose held high as her calculating gaze swept the faces of all the people on the street. She looked like a mountain lion on the prowl.

Nicci knew who Alessandra was hunting.

Ordinarily, Nicci would have been only too happy to cross paths with the woman, but not now.

Nicci sank back against the rough clapboards, staying low behind the people ahead of her, until Sister Alessandra had vanished into the vast sea of people crowding the street.

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CHAPTER 61

As Kahlan rode out of her home city of Aydindril for the last time, she pulled her wolf-fur mantle up over her shoulders for protection against the bitter wind. She recalled that the last, time the weather had been about to close in for the winter was the last time she had seen Richard. With the world in such constant turmoil and the battle burning hot, her thoughts, by necessity, always seemed to be on urgent matters. The unexpected memory of Richard was a welcome, if bittersweet, respite from the worries of war.

She took a last look before cresting the hill, to see the splendor of the Confessors' Palace on the distant rise. It made her ache with the sense of home whenever she saw the soaring white marble columns and rows of tall windows. Other people were stricken with awe or fear at the sight of the palace, but Kahlan's heart was always warmed by it. She had grown up there, and it was a place of many happy memories for her.

"It won't be forever, Kahlan."

Kahlan glanced over at Verna. "No, it won't."

She wished she could believe that.

"Besides," Verna said, offering a smile, "we will be denying the Imperial Order the people, and that is what they are really after. The rest is just stone and wood. What matters stone and wood, if the people are safe?"

Kahlan, despite her desolate tears, was overcome with a smile. "You're right, Verna. That really is all that matters. Thank you for reminding me."

"Don't worry, Mother Confessor," Cara said, "Berdine and the rest of the MordSith, along with the troops, will watch over the people and see them safely to D'Hara."

Kahlan's smile widened. "I wish I could see Jagang's face when he finally gets here next spring to be greeted by ghosts."

The season of war was drawing to an end. If the summer with Richard in their mountain home had been a wonderful dream, then the summer of endless warfare had been a nightmare.

The fighting had been desperate, intense, and bloody. There were times when Kahlan thought she and the army could not go on, that they were finished. Each of those times, they had managed to pull through. There were occasions when she almost welcomed death, just to have the nightmare end, just to stop seeing people in agony and pain, to stop seeing all the precious lives in ruins.

Against the seemingly indomitable millions of the Imperial Order, the forces of the D'Haran Empire had managed to slow the enemy enough to keep them from taking Aydindril this year. With thousands of lives lost in the fighting, they had

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bought the hundreds of thousands of people of Aydindril and other cities that lay along the path of the Order the time they needed to escape.

As autumn had turned bitter, the immense force of the Imperial Order had reached a broad valley at a convergence of the Kern River and a large tributary, where the lay of the land provided space to accommodate their entire force. With winter closing in, Jagang knew better than to be caught unprepared. They had dug in while they had the opportunity. The D'Haran forces had set up their defensive lines to the north, bulwarking the way to Aydindril.

Just as Warren had forecast, Aydindril was more than Jagang's army could take in this season of war. Jagang, once again, had proven his prudent patience; he had chosen to preserve the viability of his army so he would be able to press on successfully when conditions allowed. In the short run, it gave Kahlan and her forces breathing room, but in the long run, it would spell their doom.

Kahlan felt sweet relief that Warren's prediction, of Aydindril falling the following year, at least would not be at the cost of a slaughter of the city's citizens. She didn't know what hardships the people would have to endure escaping to D'Hara, but it was better than the certain slavery and widespread death of remaining behind in Aydindril.

Some people, she knew, would refuse to leave. In cities along the Order's march up the Midlands, some people put their faith in "Jagang the Just." Some people believed that the good spirits, or the Creator, would watch over them no matter what. Kahlan knew they couldn't save everyone from themselves. Those who wished to live, and were willing to see reason, stood a chance. Those who saw only what they wished to see, would, at the least, fall under the pall of the Order's domination.

Kahlan reached back and touched the hilt of the Sword of Truth sticking up behind her shoulder. It was comforting, sometimes, to touch it. The Confessors' Palace was no longer her home. Home was wherever Richard and she were together.

The fighting was often so intense, the fear so palpable, that there were timesdays at a stretch-when she never thought of him. Sometimes, she had to devote all her physical and mental effort to just staying alive one more day.

Some men, feeling the war was hopeless, had deserted. Kahlan could understand the way they felt. All they ever did, it seemed, was to fight for their lives against overwhelming odds as they backed their way up through the Midlands.

Galea had fallen. That there was no word from any city in Galea probably said it all.

They had lost Kelton, too. Many of the Keltans in Winstead, Penverro, and other cities had fled, first. Most of Kelton's army were still with them, though some had rushed home in desperation.

Kahlan tried not to think too long on everything that had gone wrong, lest she give up. They had saved a good many people-gotten them out of the way of the Order. At least for the time being. It was the best they could do.

Along the long retreat north, tens of thousands of their joint forces had lost their lives in the fierce battles. The Order had lost many times that number. In the high summer heat, the Order had lost a quarter million men to fever alone. It made little difference; they continued to grow and to roll onward.

Kahlan recalled the things Richard had told her, that they could not win, that the New World was going to fall to the Order, and if they resisted, it would only cause greater bloodshed. She was reluctantly coming to understand that hopeless outlook.

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She feared she was only getting people killed to no good end. Yet giving up still was out of the question for her.

Kahlan looked over her shoulder, past the long column of men escorting her, past the trees and up the mountain, to the great dark mass of the Wizard's Keep looming up on the mountain overlooking Aydindril.

--]--- Zedd would have to go there; they could not stop the Imperial Order from having Aydindril, but they dared not let them have the Keep.

It was dusk, ten days later, when Kahlan and her company rode back into the D'Haran camp. It was obvious from the first instant that something was wrong. Men were running through camp, swords drawn. Others were rushing pole weapons to the barricades. Men were donning leather and chain mail as they ran to their posts. It was a tense scene, but one Kahlan had seen repeated so often that it seemed almost routine.

"I wonder what this is all about," Verna said with a scowl. "I'll not like it if Jagang spoils my dinner."

Kahlan, not wearing her leather armor, suddenly felt naked. It was uncomfortable to wear on long rides, so, going through friendly territory, she had tied it to her saddle. Cara moved close as they dismounted. They handed the reins to soldiers as men closed in protectively.

Kahlan couldn't remember what color cloth would be used to mark the command tents. She had lost track of the exact number of days she had been gone. It had been somewhat over a month. She took the arm of an officer among the men who had swept in around her.

"Where are the commanders?"

He pointed with his sword. "Down that way, Mother Confessor."

"Do you know what's going on?"

"No, Mother Confessor. The alarm sounded. As a Sister rushed past, I heard her say it was genuine."

"Do you know where my Sisters, or Warren, are?" Verna asked the officer.

"I've seen Sisters running around everywhere, Prelate. I've not seen Wizard Warren."

Darkness was settling in, leaving only the fires to guide them through camp. Most of the fires, though, had been doused at the alarm, so the camp was becoming a black maze.

Horses with D'Haran riders flashed past, headed out on patrol. Foot soldiers raced out of camp to scout. No one seemed to know what the threat was, but that wasn't unusual. Besides being frequent and varied, attacks were usually confusing, in addition to being frightening.

It was over an hour before Kahlan, Cara, Verna, and their heavy ring of guards made it through the sprawling camp that was the size of a city, to the officers' tents. None of the officers were there.

"This is a foolish way to go about it," Kahlan muttered. She found her tent, with Spirit standing on the little table, and tossed her saddlebags inside, along with her armor. "Let's just wait here so people can find us."

"I agree," Verna said.

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Kahlan gestured to include a number of the group of men who had set up a defensive guard around her. "Spread out and find the officers. Tell them that the Mother Confessor and the Prelate are at the command tents. We'll wait here for reports."

"Tell any Sisters you see," Verna added. "And if you see Warren or Zedd, tell them, too, that we've returned."

The men raced off into the night to carry out their instructions.

"I don't like this," Cara muttered.

"I don't, either," Kahlan said as she stepped into her tent.

Cara stood guard, along with a small army of men, as Kahlan took off her fur mantle and slipped on her leather armor. It had saved her from taking wounds often enough that she was not shy about wearing it. All it would take was one man to slip up close and thrust a sword into her, and that might well be the end. If she got lucky, and they ran it through a leg, or even her belly, she had a chance of being healed by a Sister, but if it was in some other place-heart, head, some major artery so that the loss of blood was too fast-then even the gifted wouldn't be able to heal her.

The leather was extremely tough, and while not impervious to blades, spears, or arrows, it afforded a good degree of protection while allowing enough freedom of movement to enable her to fight. A blow with a blade had to be landed just right, or it would glance harmlessly off the leather. Many of the men wore chain mail, which afforded better protection, but it was too heavy for Kahlan to be practical for her to wear. In combat, speed and maneuverability were life.

Kahlan knew better than to risk her life needlessly. She was more valuable to their cause in her capacity as a leader than as a combatant. Still, while she rarely went directly into combat, the fighting had often enough come to her.

A sergeant finally arrived to give her a report.

"Assassins" was all he said.

That one chilling word was enough. It was what she had figured, and explained the state of the camp.

"How many casualties?" Kahlan asked.

"I only know for sure that one attacked Captain Zimmer. He was eating at a campfire with his men. The captain managed to miss a killing blow, but took a nasty wound in the leg. He's lost a lot of blood. The surgeons are seeing to him right now."

"What about the assassin?" Verna asked.

The sergeant looked surprised at the question. "Commander Zimmer killed the assassin." He screwed up his face with the distaste of the rest of what he had to say. "The assassin was dressed in a D'Haran uniform. He walked through the camp without notice until he found a target-Captain Zimmer-and attacked."

Verna let out a worried breath. "A Sister might be able help the captain."

Kahlan dismissed him with a nod. The sergeant saluted with a fist to his heart before rushing off to his duties.

It was then that Kahlan spotted Zedd approaching. The front of his robes was wet and darkundoubtedly with blood. Tears ran down his face. Gooseflesh tingled up Kahlan's arms and legs.

Verna gasped when Zedd suddenly saw her and for an instant faltered before rushing toward them. Verna clutched Kahlan's arm.

Zedd seized Verna's hand. "Hurry" was all he said.

It was all he needed to say; they all understood.

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Verna let out a mournful cry as she was pulled along after the old wizard. Kahlan and Cara ran behind as Zedd led them on a winding charge through the confusion of shouting men, galloping horses, squads in formation dashing in every direction, and unit officers taking roll call.

The roll call was needed because the assassins were in D'Haran uniforms so they could sneak up close to their quarry. It was necessary to account for every man in order to single out those who didn't belong. It was tedious and difficult, but essential.

They rushed into the swirl of turmoil around the tents where wounded men were being treated. Men shouted orders as others brought in men crying out in pain, or men with their limp arms dragging the ground. Each tent could hold up to ten or twelve men.

Verna's composure was frayed with panic. Zedd stopped her, holding her by her arms. His voice was choked with his emotion.

"A man stabbed Holly. Warren was nearby and tried to protect the girl. Verna, I swear to you on my dead wife's soul . . . I did everything I could do. Dear spirits forgive me, but I must be the one to tell you . . . he is beyond my power to help him. He asked for you and Kahlan."

Kahlan stood in a stupor, her heart in her throat. Zedd's hand on her back urged her to move quickly. She followed Verna, ducking into the tent.

Half a dozen dead men lay at the far end of the tent, covered with blankets. Here and there a bloody hand stuck out from under a cover. One man was missing a boot. Kahlan stared, unable to make her mind work, unable to understand how the soldier had lost a boot. It seemed so silly-dying and losing a boot. Tragedy and comedy together under a shroud.

Warren lay on his back on a pallet on the ground. Sister Philippa was on the far side of him, her tall frame bent over the youthful wizard, holding his hand. Sister Phoebe was on the near side, holding his other hand. Both women turned tearstained faces up to see Verna above them.

"Warren," Sister Philippa said, "it's Verna. She's here. And Kahlan, too."

The two Sisters quickly moved out of the way for Verna and Kahlan to take their places. They covered their mouths to hold in their cries as they fled the tent.

Warren was as white as the stacks of clean bandages lying nearby. His eyes were open wide as he stared up . . . as if he could no longer see. His curly blond hair was matted in sweat. His robes were soaked in blood.

"Warren," Verna moaned. "Oh, Warren."

"Verna? Kahlan?" he asked in a breathy whisper.

"Yes, my love." Verna kissed his hand a dozen times.

Kahlan squeezed his other limp hand. "I'm here, too, Warren."

"I had to hold on. Till you both came back. To tell you both."

"Tell us what, Warren?" Verna asked through her tears.

"Kahlan . . ." he whispered.

She leaned in. "I'm here, Warren. Don't try to talk, just-"

"Listen to me."

Kahlan pressed his hand to her cheek. "I'm listening, Warren."

"Richard is right. His vision. I had to tell you."

Kahlan didn't know what to say.

A smile came to his ashen face. "Verna. . ."

"What is it, my love?"

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"I love you. Always have."

Verna could hardly get her words past her choking tears. "Warren, don't die. Don't die. Please don't die."

"Give me a kiss," Warren whispered, "while I still live. And don't mourn what ends, but what a good life we've had. Kiss me, my love."

Verna bent over him and met his lips with hers, giving him a gentle, loving kiss as her tears dripped onto his face.

Unable to bear the scene, Kahlan staggered out of the tent, finding Zedd's protective arms waiting. She hid her weeping against his shoulder.

"What are we doing?" she cried. "What's it all for? What good is any of it? We're losing everything."

Zedd had no answer for her tears at the futility of it all.

The minutes dragged on. Kahlan forced herself to be strong, to be the Mother Confessor. She couldn't let the men see her giving up.

Silent men stood nearby, not wanting to look in the direction of the tent where Warren lay dying.

When General Meiffert materialized out of the darkness, the relief on Cara's face was evident. He rushed up close to Cara, but didn't touch her.

"I'm glad to see you safely returned," he said to Kahlan. "How is Warren?"

Kahlan couldn't speak.

Zedd shook his head. "I didn't think he would live this long. I think he held on so he could see his wife."

The general nodded sorrowfully. "We caught the man who did it."

Kahlan came to full attention. "Bring him to me," she growled.

Without hesitation the general hurried off to retrieve the assassin. When Kahlan gestured, Cara went with him.

"What did he say to you?" Zedd asked in a quiet voice so that others wouldn't hear. "He wanted to tell you something."

Kahlan took a purging breath. "He said, `Richard is right.' "

Zedd looked away in forlorn misery. Warren was his friend. Kahlan never knew Zedd to take a liking to anyone the way he had taken to Warren. They shared things she knew she could never understand. Despite his young appearance, Warren was over a hundred and fifty years old, close to the same age as Verna. To Zedd, who was always looked up to as the wise old wizard, it must have been a particular comfort to share wizardly matters with one who understood such things, instead of constantly needing explanation and direction.

"He said the same to me," Zedd whispered tearfully.

"Why didn't Warren use his gift?" Kahlan asked.

Zedd wiped a finger across his cheek. "He was walking past, just as the man seized and stabbed Holly. Perhaps the assassin couldn't find his target, or maybe he became lost and confused, or he could have just panicked and decided to stab someone and Holly was handy at that moment."

Kahlan wiped her hands back across her cheeks. "Maybe he had been told to look for a wizard in such robes, and when he saw Warren, he stabbed Holly to cause a commotion so he could get at Warren."

"That could be. Warren doesn't really know. It all happened in an instant. Warren was right there, and just reacted. I asked, but he didn't know why he didn't use his power. Perhaps in that terrible flash of the knife, he feared to kill Holly in the

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process, since the man had her and was stabbing her. His instinct to save her just caused him to snatch for the knife. It was a fatal mistake."

"Maybe Warren simply hesitated before using his power."

Zedd shrugged painfully. "A split-second hesitation has been the end of a lot of wizards."

"If I hadn't hesitated," Kahlan said as she stared off into bitter memories, "Nicci wouldn't have had me. She wouldn't have Richard, now."

"Don't try to fix the past, dear one-it can't be done."

"What about the future?"

Zedd's gaze sought hers. "Meaning?"

"Remember at the end of last winter, when we left camp-when the Order began moving?" When Zedd nodded, she went on. "Warren pointed at this place on the map. He said we had to be here to stop the Order."

"Are you suggesting he knew he would die here?"

"You tell me."

"I'm a wizard, not a prophet."

"But Warren is." When he said nothing, Kahlan asked in a whisper, "What about Holly?"

"I don't know. I was just arriving to talk to Warren. It had just happened. Soldiers were jumping the man. Warren yelled orders for them not to kill him. I guess he was thinking the assassin might have valuable information. I saw Holly, bleeding from her wounds, in shock. I immediately had Warren brought in here and started to work on him. Sisters rushed in and took Holly to another tent."

Zedd's heartsick gaze sank to the cold ground. "I did everything I know to do. It wasn't enough."

Kahlan enclosed his shoulders protectively in her arm. "It was out of your hands from the first, Zedd."

It was disorienting to see her source of strength in a state of such painful weakness. It was irrational to expect him to be unemotional and strong in such circumstances, but it was still disconcerting. In that moment, Kahlan was overcome with a sense of all the loss Zedd had suffered in his life; it was all there in his wet hazel eyes.

Men made way for the returning General Meiffert and Cara. Behind them, two burly soldiers had a wiry young man-little more than a boy, really. He was muscular, but no match for the men who had him. His hair tumbled down across a forehead above dark contemptuous eyes. He wore a proud sneer.

"So," the lad said, trying to sound tough, "I guess that in my service to the Order I knifed someone important. That makes me a hero of the Order."

"Make him kneel before the Mother Confessor," General Meiffert said with quiet command.

The two soldiers kicked the back of the young man's knees to take him down. He snickered as he knelt before her.

"So, you're the big important whore I've heard so much about. Too bad you weren't around-I'd have loved to have cut you. I guess I showed some people I'm pretty good with a knife."

"So in my absence," Kahlan said, "you cut a child, instead."

"Just for practice. I'd have cut a lot more people if these big dumb oxen wouldn't have lucked into jumping me. But I still did my duty to the Order and the Creator."

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It was the bravado of someone who knew he was about to pay the ultimate price for his actions. He was trying to convince himself that he had fulfilled a valuable service. He wanted to die a hero, and then go straight to the Creator for his reward in the afterlife.

Verna emerged from the tent. There was no hurry in her movements. Her face was ashen and drawn. Kahlan took hold of her arm, ready to help if Verna should need it.

Verna stopped when she saw the young man on his knees.

"This is him?" she asked.

Kahlan put her other hand tenderly to Verna's back, silently offering support.

"This is him," Kahlan confirmed.

"That's right." The lad sneered up at Verna. "I'm the one who knifed the enemy wizard. I'm a hero. The Order will bring relief and justice to the people, and I helped do it. Your kind is always trying to keep us down."

"Keep you down," Verna repeated in a dead tone.

"Those who are born with all the luck and advantages-they never want to share. I waited, but no one ever gave me a chance in life until the Order did. I'm a hero of downtrodden people everywhere. I've struck a blow against the oppressors of mankind. I've helped bring justice to those who are never given a chance. I killed an evil man. I'm a hero!"

The silence of everyone nearby was all the more grim with the backdrop of activity going on as men searched the camp for other assassins. Officers called out names, getting quick replies. Troops searching for invaders trotted through the night, their chain mail and weapons jingling like thousands of tiny bells.

The man on his knees grinned at Verna. "The Creator will give me my reward in the next life. I'm not afraid to die. I've earned eternity in his everlasting Light."

Verna passed her gaze among the eyes of all those gathered.

"I don't care what you do to him," she said, "but I want to hear his screams the entire night. I want this camp to hear his screams the entire night. I want the Order's scouts to hear his screams. That will be my tribute to Warren."

The young man licked his lips, realizing things weren't going as he had expected.

"That isn't fair!" the young assassin shouted in protest.

Panic began to tremble through his body. He had been prepared for a martyr's death, a quick end. This was something unforeseen.

"He died quick. I should have the same consideration! This isn't fair!"

"Fair? What isn't fair," Verna said with terrible calmness, "is that your mother ever opened her legs for your father. We shall now belatedly.correct her mistake. What isn't fair is that a good and kind man died at the hands of a sniveling little coward so lacking in sense that he is incapable of recognizing the lies he now spews out at us.

"You wish to trade your life for the one you have taken? You wish to die in a cause you foolishly believe to be noble? You shall have your wish, young man. But before you die, you shall fully understand what it is you have surrendered, how precious is your life, and how utterly wasted. You shall come to regret your mother's act of creation as much as do we."

Verna swept a look of finality over the group watching. "This is my wish. Please see to its execution."

Cara took a step forward. "Let me do it, then." Her grim face held no hint of relish. "I would be best at carrying out your wish as you intend it, Verna."

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The lad laughed hysterically. "A woman? You all think you're going to have some big blond bitch try to teach me a lesson? You're all as crazy as I've heard."

Verna nodded. "I will be indebted to you, Cara." She started to leave, but paused. "Don't let him die before morning, when I will come to witness it. I wish to look into his eyes and see if this young man has come to understand the nature of reality, and its lack of fairness, before he forfeits his fife for nothing of worth and for his part in a great evil."

"I promise you," Cara said softly to Verna, "that even though this night will seem forever to you in your grief, it will be infinitely longer for him."

Verna simply touched Cara's shoulder in appreciation on her way past.

After Verna had walked off into the darkness, Cara turned to Kahlan. "I would ask to use a tent. No one should have to see what I do to him. His screams will be knowledge enough."

"As you wish."

"Mother Confessor!" The young man struggled frantically, but the soldiers had him in a firm grip. "If you're so good as you claim, then show me mercy!"

Drool ran from the corner of the boy's mouth and hung swinging in rhythm with his panting.

"But I have," Kahlan said. "I am allowing you to suffer the sentence Verna has named, and not the one I would impose."

Cara snapped her fingers and pointed at the young man as she marched off. The soldiers dragged the shrieking boy after her.

"The others we captured?" the general asked Kahlan.

Kahlan started for her tent. "Cut their throats."

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CHAPTER 62

Kwan sat up when she realized that she didn't hear the distant screams any longer. It was still hours till dawn. Maybe his heart had stopped unexpectedly.

No, Cara was Mord-Sith, and was well trained in what Mord-Sith did.

As she had lain fully dressed in her bed, listening to the bloodcurdling screams, aching for Verna, missing Warren, sweat had occasionally beaded her brow whenever she thought about how Richard had once been the one under a Mord-Sith's Agiel.

To banish the uninvited, ghastly images invading her thoughts, she looked up at Spirit. The lamp hanging from the ridgepole cast a warm light on the carving, stressing the graceful lines of her flowing robes, her fisted hands, her head thrown back. No matter how many times Kahlan looked at the statue, she never tired of it. Every time, it was a thrill.

Richard had chosen this view of life over the terrible bitterness he could have fallen into. Clinging to such bitterness would only have robbed him of his ability to experience happiness.

Kahlan heard a commotion outside. Just as she sprang to her feet, Cara poked her head in through the flap Kahlan had left open. The Mord-Sith's blue eyes were in a lethal rage. She stepped into the tent, pulling the lad behind by a fistful of his hair. He shook as he blinked frantically, blinded by the blood in his eyes.

Gritting her teeth, Cara shoved him. He fell to the dirt at Kahlan's feet.

"What's this about?" Kahlan asked.

The look in Cara's eyes revealed a woman at the edge of a feral fury, at the edge of control, at the far-distant reaches of what it was to even be human. She was treading the soil of another world: madness.

Cara dropped to her knees and seized the young man by the hair. She yanked him back up and held him against her red-leather-clad body as she pressed her Agiel to his throat. He choked and coughed. Blood frothed from his mouth.

"Tell her," Cara growled.

He held his hands out to the sides in surrender. "I know him! I know him!"

Kahlan frowned down at the terrified young man. "You know who?"

"Richard Cypher! I know Richard Cypher!-And his wife, Nicci."

Kahlan felt as if the world crashed down around her. The weight of that world sank her to her knees before Cara's charge.

"What is your name?"

"Gadi! I'm Gadi!"

Cara pressed her Agiel into his back, causing him to let loose a wild scream. She slammed his face to the ground.

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Kahlan held a hand out. "Cara, wait . . . we need to talk to him."

"I know. I'm just making sure he wants to talk to us."

Kahlan had never seen Cara quite like this, unleashed this way. This was more than doing as Verna asked. This was personal to Cara. Warren had been someone she liked, but worse for Gadi, Richard was Cara's life.

The Mord-Sith pulled him upright again. Red bubbles grew around his broken nose. When the light caught Cara just right, Kahlan could see blood glistening on the red leather.

"Now, I want you to tell the Mother Confessor everything."

He was nodding as he wept and before Cara had even completed the command.

"I lived there-where they came to live. I lived where Richard and his wife-"

"Nicci," Kahlan corrected.

"Yes, Nicci." He didn't understand what she meant. "They came to live in a room in our house. My friends and I didn't like him. Then, Kamil and Nabbi started talking to him. They started liking Richard. I was angry-"

He fell to such blubbering that he couldn't finish. Kahlan seized his jaw, slick with blood, and shook his face.

"Talk! Or I'll have Cara start in again!"

"I don't know what to say, what you want," he sobbed.

"Everything you know about him and Nicci. Everything!" Kahlan yelled inches from his face.

"Tell her the rest of it," Cara said in his ear as she pulled him to his feet.

Kahlan followed him up, fearing to miss a precious word.

"Richard started to get people to fix up the place. He works for Ishaq, at the transport company. When he came home at night, he would fix things. He showed Kamil and Nabbi how to fix things.

"I hated him."

"You hated him because he made things better?"

"He made Kamil and Nabbi and others think they could do things for themselves, when they can't-people can't do for themselves. That's a cruel deception. People have to be helped by those with the ability. It's their duty. Richard should have made things better, because he could-he shouldn't have made Kamil and Nabbi and the others think they could change their lives for themselves. No one can do that. The people need help, not such heartless and unfeeling expectations.

"I found out Richard was working at night. He was hauling extra loads for greedy people. He was making money he shouldn't be allowed to make.

"Then, one night, I was sitting on the steps, and I heard Nicci get mad at Richard. She came out to me on the steps and asked me to have sex with her. Women always want me. She was a whore-no better than the rest-despite all her airs. She told me that Richard wasn't man enough to take care of her, and she wanted me to have her because he wouldn't.

"I gave it to her good just the way she wanted it. I gave it to the whore good. I

hurt her good, just like she deserved-"

With all her strength, Kahlan rammed her knee into his groin. Gadi doubled over, unable to draw his breath. His eyes rolled up in his head and he went down hard.

Cara smiled. "I thought you might like to hear that part."

Kahlan wiped the tears from her cheeks. "It wasn't Richard. I knew it wasn't Richard. It was this pig."

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Kahlan kicked him in the ribs as he started coming around. He let out a cry. She wagged her fingers impatiently. Cara seized him by the hair and yanked him to his feet.

"Finish your story," Kahlan said with icy rage.

He coughed and gagged and drooled. Cara had to steady him on his feet. She held his arms behind his back so he couldn't comfort his groin. The pain was clearly evident in his contorted face.

"Talk, or I'll do it again!"

"Please! I was telling you when you stopped me."

"Get on with it!"

He nodded frantically. "When I was done with the whor-when I left Nicci, Kamil and Nabbi were crazy."

Kahlan lifted his chin. "What do you mean, they were crazy?"

"They were crazy angry because I was with Richard's wife. They like Richard, so they were crazy angry with me. They were going to do things to me. Hurt me. So, I decided to go into the army to fight for the Order against the heathens, and. . ."

Kahlan waited. She glanced up at Cara. The Mord-Sith did something behind Gadi's back that made him gasp in a cry.

"And then I turned in Richard's name!"

"You did what?"

"I turned in his name before I left. I told the city guards at Protector Muksin's office that Richard was doing criminal things, that he was stealing work from working people-that he was making more than his fair share."

Kahlan frowned. "What does that mean? What happens when you turn in a name?"

Gadi was trembling in terror. He clearly didn't want to answer. Cara pressed her Agiel against his side. Blood oozed down his sweat-soaked shirt. He tried, but couldn't draw a breath. His ashen face began to turn purple.

"Tell her," Cara said in cold command.

Gadi gasped in a breath when she released the pressure. "They will arrest him. They will . . . make him . . . confess."

"Confess?" Kahlan asked, fearing the answer.

Gadi nodded reluctantly. "They will torture a confession out of him, most likely. They might even hang his body from a pole and let the birds pick his bones if he confesses to something bad."

Kahlan swayed on her feet. She thought she might throw up. The world had disintegrated into madness.

She kicked over the map basket and pawed through the maps until she found the one she wanted. She pulled a pen and an ink bottle out of their box, set the statue of Spirit on the ground, and spread the small map across the table.

"Come here," Kahlan ordered, snapping her fingers and pointing to the ground before the table. She put the pen in his trembling fingers after he had shuffled close.

Kahlan pointed at the map. "We are here. Show me where you traveled with the Order."

He pointed. "This river. I came up from the Old World with reinforcement troops, after some training. We joined the emperor's force and we advanced up this river basin over the summer."

Kahlan pointed to the Old World. "Now, I want you to mark the place where you lived."

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"Altur'Rang. That's it, there."

She watched him dip the pen and circle the dot and the name Altur'Rang, far to the south-the heart of the Old World.

"Now," she said, "mark the roads you came up in the Old World-including any cities or towns you went through."

Cara and Kahlan both watched Gadi mark roads and circle a number of cities and towns. Warren and the Sisters were from the Old World; they knew a great deal about the lay of the land, enabling them to provide detailed maps.

When he'd finished, Gadi looked up.

Kahlan turned over the map. "Draw the city of Altur'Rang. I want to see the major roads-anything you know of it."

Gadi immediately set to drawing the map for her. When he was finished, he looked up again.

"Now, show me where this room is where Richard lives."

Gadi marked the map to indicate the place. "But I don't know if he will be there. Lots of people turn in the names of people suspected of wrongdoing against their fellow man. If they take the name and they arrest him . . . the Brothers may order penance, or they could even question him and then order him put to death."

"Brothers?" Kahlan asked.

Gadi nodded. "Brother Narev and his disciples. They are the head of the Fellowship of Order. Brother Narev is our spiritual guide. He and the brothers are the heart of the Order."

"What do they look like?" Kahlan asked, her mind already racing ahead.

"The brothers wear dark brown robes, with hoods. They are simple men who have given up the luxuries of life to serve the wishes of the Creator and the needs of mankind. Brother Narev is closer to the Creator than any man alive. He is mankind's savior."

Gadi was clearly awed by the man. Kahlan listened while Gadi told her everything he knew about the Fellowship of Order, about the brothers, and about Brother Narev.

Gadi shook in the silence after he had finished. Kahlan wasn't watching him, but staring off.

"What did Richard look like," she asked in a distant voice. "Was he well? Did he look all right?"

"Yes. He's big and strong. Foolish people like him."

Kahlan spun around, landing the heel of her hand against Gadi's face hard enough to knock him from his feet.

"Get him out of here," she told Cara.

"But you must show me mercy, now! I told you what you want to know!" He broke down in tears. "You must show me mercy!"

"You have a job to finish," Kahlan said to Cara.

--]--- Kahlan pulled the tent flap back and peeked in. Sister Dulcinia was snoring softly. Holly looked up.

Tears filled the girl's eyes as she stretched out her arms pleadingly. Kahlan knelt beside the girl and bent over to hug her. Holly started crying.

Sister Dulcinia woke with a snort. "Mother Confessor."

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Kahlan put a hand on the Sister's arm. "It's late. Why don't you go get some sleep, Sister."

Sister Dulcinia smiled her agreement and then grunted with the effort of struggling to her feet in the low tent. In the distance, on the far side of the camp, Kahlan could hear Gadi's bloodcurdling screams.

Kahlan smoothed the downy hair from Holly's brow and kissed her there. "How are you, sweetheart? Are you all right?"

"Oh, Mother Confessor, it was awful. Wizard Warren got hurt. I saw it."

Kahlan hugged her as she started weeping again. "I know. I know."

"Is it all right? Is he healed like they healed me?"

Kahlan cupped the little cheek and wiped a tear away with her thumb. "I'm sorry, Holly, but Warren died."

Her brow bunched up with her misery. "He shouldn't have tried to save me. It's my fault he's dead."

"No," Kahlan soothed. "That's not the way it is. Warren gave his life to save us all. He did what he did out of his love of life. He didn't want to let evil be free among those he loved."

"Do you really think so?"

"Of course I do. Remember him for how he loved life, and how he wanted to see those he loved free to live their own lives."

"He danced with me at his wedding. I thought he was the most handsome groom ever."

"He was indeed a handsome groom," Kahlan said with a smile at the memory. "He was one of the best men I've ever known, and he gave his life to help keep us free. We honor his sacrifice by living the best lives we can live."

Kahlan started to rise, but Holly hugged her all the tighter, so Kahlan lay down beside her. She stroked Holly's brow, and kissed her cheek.

"Will you stay with me, Mother Confessor? Please?"

"For a while, sweetheart."

Holly fell asleep cuddled up to Kahlan. Kahlan wept frustrated bitter tears over the sleeping girl, a girl who should have the right to live her life. Others, though, lusted to steal that right at the point of a blade.

After she had finally decided what she must do, Kahlan slipped silently out of the tent to go pack her things.

--]--- It was just turning light when Kahlan emerged from her tent carrying her bedroll, saddlebags, D'Haran sword, the Sword of Truth, leather armor, and pack with the rest of her things. Spirit was safely rolled up in her bedroll.

A light snow was just beginning to fall, announcing to the muted camp that winter had arrived in the northern Midlands.

Everything seemed as if it was ending. It wasn't just Warren's death that convinced her, but rather the futility it symbolized. She could no longer delude herself. The truth was the truth. Richard was right.

The Order would have it all. Sooner or later, they would have her and kill her, along with those who fought with her. It was only a matter of time until they enslaved all of the New World. They already had much of the Midlands. Some lands

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had fallen willingly. There was no way to resist a force of their overwhelming size, the terror of their threats, or the seduction of their promises.

Warren had attested it as part of his dying words: Richard was right.

She had thought she could make a difference. She had thought she could drive back the advancing hordes-by the sheer weight of her will, if need be. It was arrogance on her part. The forces of freedom were lost.

Many of the people in those fallen lands had put their faith in the Order at the cost of their liberty.

What was left to her? Running. Retreat. Terror. Death.

She had nothing to lose anymore, really. Nearly everything was already lost, or soon would be. While she at least still had her life, she was going to use it.

She was going to go to the heart of the Order.

"What are you doing?"

Kahlan spun around to see Cara frowning at her.

"Cara, I . . . I'm leaving."

Cara gave a single nod. "Good. I, too, think it is time. I won't be long getting my things together. You get the horses, and I'll meet-"

"No. I'm going alone. You will stay here."

Cara stroked her long blond braid laying over the front of her shoulder. "Why are you going?"

"There's nothing left here for me to do-nothing I can do. I'm going to go drive my sword into the heart of the Order: Brother Narev and his disciples. It's the only thing I can do to strike back at them."

Cara smiled. "And you think I want to stay here?"

"You will stay here, where you should be . . . with Benjamin."

"I'm sorry, Mother Confessor," Cara said tenderly, "but I can't follow such orders. I am Mord-Sith. My life is sworn to protecting Lord Rahl. I promised Lord Rahl I would protect you, not stay and kiss Benjamin."

"Cara, I want you to stay here-"

"It's my life. If this is the end, all there is to be, then I will do with the rest of my life as I wish. It's my life to live, not yours to live for me. I'm going, and that is final."

Kahlan saw in Cara's eyes that it was. Kahlan didn't think she had ever heard Cara express such a sentiment about her own wishes. It was indeed her life. Besides, Cara knew where Kahlan was going. If Kahlan left without Cara, Cara would simply follow. Getting Mord-Sith to obey orders was often more difficult than herding ants.

"You're right, Cara; it is your life. But when we get down into the Old World, you're going to have to wear something to disguise who you are. Red leather in the Old World will be the end of us."

"I will do what I must to protect you and Lord Rahl."

Kahlan smiled at last. "I believe you would, Cara."

Cara wasn't smiling. Kahlan's smile faded.

"I'm sorry I tried to leave without you, Cara. I shouldn't have done it that way. You're a sister of the Agiel. I should have talked it over with you. That's the proper way to treat someone you respect."

Cara smiled at last. "Now you are making sense."

"We might not ever come back from this."

Cara shrugged. "And you think we will live the high life if we stay? I think only certain death awaits us if we stay."

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Kahlan nodded. "That's what I think, too. That's why I must go."

"I'm not quarreling."

Kahlan gazed out at the falling snow. The last time winter had come, she and Cara had just managed to escape in time.

Kahlan steeled herself and asked, "Cara, do you really believe Richard is still alive?"

"Of course Lord Rahl is alive." Cara held up her Agiel, rolling it in her fingers. "Remember?"

And then she did: the Agiel would only work if the Lord Rahl to whom she was sworn was alive.

Kahlan handed Cara some of her load. "Gadi?"

"He died as Verna wished it. She showed him no pity."

"Good. Pity for the guilty is treason to the innocent."

--]--- It was not long after dawn when Kahlan made it to Zedd's tent. Cara had gone to get horses and supplies. When Kahlan called, Zedd asked her to enter. He rose from the bench beside Adie, the old sorceress.

"Kahlan. What is it?"

"I've come to bid you good-bye."

Zedd's eyes showed no surprise. "Why don't you stay and get some rest? Leave tomorrow."

"There are no tomorrows left. Winter is upon us again. If I am going to do as I must, I don't have a day to waste."

Zedd gently gripped her shoulders. "Kahlan, Warren wanted to see you. He felt he had to tell you that Richard was right. It meant a great deal to him that you know that. Richard told us that you must not attack the heart of the Order before the people prove themselves to him, or all will be lost. Such a thing is even less likely to happen today than the day he said it."

"And maybe Warren meant that Richard was right-that we are going to lose the New World to the Order, so what is there to stay for? Maybe it was Warren's way of trying to tell me to go to Richard before I'm dead, or he's dead, and then it's too late to even try."

"And Nicci?"

"I'll find out when I get there."

"But, you can't hope to-" "Zedd, what else is there for me? To watch the Midlands fall? To aspire at most to live out my life running, to live as a recluse, hiding every day from the clutches of the Order?

"Even if Warren hadn't said it, I've come to realize-no matter how much I wish it was otherwise-that Richard is right. The Order will only be pinned down for the winter while we help the people escape Aydindril. In the spring, the enemy will flood into my city. Then they will turn to D'Hara. There will be nowhere to run. Though they escape for the moment, the Order will subjugate those people.

"There is no future for me. Richard was right. The least I can do is spend the last of my life living for myself, and for Richard. There is nothing else left for me, Zedd."

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Tears brimmed in his eyes. "I will miss you so. You've brought back good memories of my own daughter and given me so many good times."

Kahlan threw her arms around him. "Oh, Zedd, I love you."

She couldn't hold back her own tears, then. She was all he had left, and he was losing her, too.

No-that wasn't true. Kahlan pulled back.

"Zedd, the time has come for you to leave, too. You must go to the Keep and protect it."

He nodded with great reluctance, great sadness. "I know."

Kahlan knelt before the sorceress and took up her hand. "Adie, will you go with him and keep him company?"

A beautiful smile came to the woman's weathered face. "Well, I . . ." She looked up. "Zedd?"

Zedd scowled. "Bags, now you've ruined the surprise of the invite."

Kahlan smacked his leg. "Stop cursing in front of ladies-and stop being so sour. I'd like to know you're not going to be lonely up there."

A smile stole across his face. "Of course Adie is going to the Keep with me."

Adie scowled in turn. "How do you know that, old man? You never asked my approval. Why, I have a mind-"

"Please stop it," Kahlan said. "Both of you. This is too important to be fussing over."

"I can fuss if I want to," Zedd protested.

"That be right." Adie shook a thin finger. "We are old enough to fuss if we wish."

Kahlan smiled through her tears. "Of course you can. It's just that, after Warren . . . it reminds me of how much I hate to see people waste their lives on things that don't matter."

Zedd truly did scowl, now. "You've a thing or two to learn, dear one, if you don't know how important fussing is."

"That be right," Adie said. "Fussing keeps you sharp. When you get old, you need to stay sharp."

"Adie is entirely right," Zedd said. "Why, I think-"

Kahlan silenced him with a hug that Adie joined.

"Are you sure about this, dear one?" Zedd asked after they parted.

"I am. I'm going to take my sword into the belly of the Order."

Zedd nodded as he hooked his bony fingers around the back of her neck. He pulled her head close and kissed her brow.

"If you're to go, then ride hard and strike harder."

"My thought, exactly," Cara said as she stepped into the tent.

Kahlan thought Cara's blue eyes looked a little more liquid than usual. "Are you all right, Cara?"

Cara frowned. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing," Kahlan said.

"General Meiffert got us the six fastest horses he could find." Cara smiled her pleasure at the prospect. "We'll have fresh mounts with us and be able to cover a lot of ground fast. I have all our supplies loaded up.

"If we leave now, we should be able to escape winter's grip. We have the map, so we can stay away from the routes the Order's troops use, and the heaviest popula

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tion centers. There are good roads, and open country down there. Riding hard, I think that we can make it in a few weeks. A month at most."

Zedd's face contorted with concern. "But the Order controls much of the southern Midlands. It's dangerous country, now."

"I have a better way." Cara flashed a sly smile. "We'll go where I know the country-D' Hara. We will go east from here and cross over the mountains, then go south down through D'Hara-through mostly wide-open country were we can make good time-down through the Azrith Plains, to eventually join the Kern River far to the south. After the river valley clears the mountains, we will cut southeast into the heart of the Old World."

Zedd nodded his approval of the plan. Kahlan curled her fingers lovingly around the old wizard's thin arm.

"When will you go to the Keep?"

"Adie and I will leave in the morning. I think it best not to dally here any longer. Today we'll settle matters of the army with the officers and the Sisters. I think that as soon as the people are out of Aydindril, and when the snow quickly deepens to insure the Order won't be going anywhere until spring, then our men should begin slipping out of this place to make their way over the mountains to the safety of D'Hara. It will be slow going in winter, but without having to fight as they travel, it won't be as difficult as it otherwise would be."

"That would be best," Kahlan agreed. "It will get our men out of harm's way for now."

"They won't have me to be the magic against magic for them, but they will have Verna and her Sisters. They know enough by now to carry on protecting the army from magic."

At least for a while. The words hung in the air, unspoken.

"I want to go see Verna before I leave," Kahlan said. "I think it will be good for her to have other people to worry about. Then I want to see General Meiffert; and then we'd best start riding. We have a long way to go, and I want to be south before the snow hobbles us."

Kahlan embraced Zedd fiercely one last time.

"When you see him," Zedd whispered in her ear, "tell the boy I love him dearly, and I miss him something awful."

Kahlan nodded against his shoulder, and told him a bold lie.

"You'll see us both again, Zedd. I promise you."

Kahlan stepped out into the early light of winter's first breath. Everything was dusted with snow, making it look as if the world were carvedfrom white marble.

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CHAPTER 63

In one long fluid motion, with his fingertips adeptly guiding the far end of the file, Richard glided the steel tool down the fold of cloth held forever crisp in white marble. Concentrating on applying steady pressure to cut a precise, fine layer, he was lost in the work.

The file held hundreds of ridges, row upon row of tiny blades of hardened steel, which did the work of cutting away and shaping the noble stone. These were blades he wielded with the same commitment with which he wielded any blade. He blindly reached back and set the file down on the wooden bench, careful to put it on the wood and not to let it clang against other steel, lest he dull it prematurely. He exchanged the file for another, with even finer teeth, and took out the roughness left by the correction accomplished with the one before.

With fingers as dusty-white as those of a baker laboring with flour, Richard examined the surface of the man's arm, testing it for flaws. Until polished, the minor flaws and facets were often easier to see with the fingers than the eye. Where he found them, he used a smaller file in one hand, while his other hand followed behind, riding the swell of muscle, feeling the subtle difference in what the tool had done to the stone. He was removing only paper-thin layers of material, now.

It had taken him several months to arrive at this final layer. It was exhilarating to be so close to the flesh. The days had passed, one upon another, in an endless procession of work, carving death in the day down at the site, and life in the night. Carving for the Order was balanced by carving for himself-slavery and freedom in opposition.

Whenever one of the brothers inquired about the statue, Richard was careful to hide his satisfaction with what he was creating. He did it by recalling the model he had been commanded to carve. He always bowed his head respectfully and reported his progress on his penance, assuring them that his work was on schedule and would be done on time to install in the palace plaza for the dedication.

Stressing the word "penance" helped to direct their thoughts to that issue and away from the statue itself. The brothers were invariably much more satisfied with his weariness from his toil at his work of contrition that they were interested in yet another dreary stone carving. There were carvings everywhere; this was but one more manifestation of the irredeemable inadequacy of mankind. Just as no one man in their cosmos was important, no one work mattered. It was the sheer number of carvings which was to be the Order's overpowering argument for man's impotence. The carvings were merely background props for the stage upon which the brothers moralized on sacrifice and salvation.

Richard always humbly reported his nights with little food and little sleep as he

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worked on his penance after his carving work during the day. Selfless sacrifice being the proper cure for wickedness, the brothers went away pleased.

Richard switched to a smaller file, one bent in a decreasing radius curve, and worked the muscle where it narrowed into sinew, showing the tension in the arm which revealed the underlying structure. During the day he observed other men as they worked, in order to study the complex shapes of muscle as it moved with life. At night, he referred to his own arms held up to the lamplight so that he might accurately depict veins and tendons standing proud on the surface. He referred to a small mirror at times. The surface of the skin he carved was a rich landscape stretched over bone and muscle, creased in corners, drawn smooth as it swept over curves.

For the woman's body, his memory of Kahlan was vivid enough to require little other reference.

He wanted this work to show the capacity for movement, for intent, for accomplishment. The posture of the figures displayed awareness. The expression of the faces, especially the eyes, would show that most sublime human characteristic: thought.

If the statues he had seen in the Old World were a celebration of misery and death, this was a celebration of life.

He wanted this to show the raw power of volition.

The man and woman he carved were his refuge against his despair over his captivity. They embodied freedom of spirit. They embodied reason rising up to triumph.

To his great annoyance, Richard noticed that light was coming in the window above the statue, taking over from the lamps that had burned all night. All night; he had done it again.

It was not the quality of the light, which he actually very much favored, which vexed him, but that it signified the end of his time with his statue; he now had to go carve ugliness down at the site. Fortunately, that work required no thought or careful effort.

As he draw-filed the curve of the man's shoulder muscle, there was a knock at the door. "Richard?"

It was Victor. Richard sighed; he had to stop.

Richard pulled the red cloth tied around his neck down away from his nose and mouth, where it kept him from breathing all the marble dust. It was a little trick Victor had told him about, used by the marble carvers from his homeland of Cavatura.

"Be right there." Richard stepped down off the ledge made by the base, where he had carved out the legs at midcalf. He stretched his back, realizing how much it hurt from hunching over, and from lack of sleep. He retrieved the canvas tarp and shook the dust from it.

Just before he flung the cover over the statue, he got the full view of the figures. The floor, shelves, and tools were covered in a fine layer of marble dust. But against the black walls, the marble stood out in the glory of light from above.

Richard threw the tarp over the incomplete figures and then opened the door.

"You look a ghost," Victor announced with a lopsided grin.

Richard brushed himself off. "I forgot the time."

"Did you see in the shop last night?"

"The shop? No, what?"

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Victor's grin returned, wider this time. "Priska had the bronze dial delivered yesterday. Ishaq brought it. Come see."

Around the other side of the blacksmith's shop, in the stock room, the bronze sat in a number of pieces. It was too big for Priska to cast as one piece, so he had made several that Victor would join and mount. The pedestal for the partial ring that would be the dial plane was massive. Knowing it was for a statue Richard was carving, Priska had done a job to be proud oŁ

"It's beautiful," Richard said.

"Isn't it, though? I've seen him do fine work before, but this time Priska has outdone himself."

Victor squatted and ran his fingers over the strange symbols filled in with black. "Priska said that at one time, long ago, his home city of Altur'Rang had freedom, but, like so many others, lost it. As a tribute to that time, he cast it with symbols in his native tongue. Brother Neal saw it, and was pleased because he thought it a tribute to the emperor, who is also from Altur'Rang."

Richard sighed. "Priska has a tongue as smooth as his castings."

"Would you have some lardo with me?" Victor asked as he stood.

The sun was already well up. Richard stretched his neck and peered down at the site.

"I'd best not. I need to get to work." Richard squatted down and lifted one end of the pedestal. "First, though, let me show you where this goes."

Victor grabbed the other end and together they lugged the bronze casting around the shop. When Richard opened the double doors, Victor saw the statue for the first time, even if it was covered in a tarp that revealed only the round bulges that were the two heads. Even so, Victor's eyes feasted. It was apparent in those eyes how his vivid imagination was filling in some of it with his fondest hopes.

"Your statue is going well?" Victor nudged Richard with an elbow. "Beauty?"

Richard was overcome with a blissful smile. "Ali, Victor, you will see for yourself soon enough. The dedication is only a couple weeks off. I will be ready. It will be something to bring a song to our hearts . . . before they kill me, anyway."

Victor dismissed such talk with a flourish of his hand. "I am hoping that when they see such beauty again, and at their palace, they will approve."

Richard held out no such illusion. He remembered then, and reached into a pocket to pull out a piece of paper. He handed it to the blacksmith.

"I didn't want Priska to cast words on the back of the dial because I didn't want the wrong people to see them. I would ask you to engrave these words on the back surface-about the same height as the symbols on the front."

Victor took the paper and unfolded it. His grin melted away. He looked up at Richard with an open look of surprise.

"This is treason."

Richard shrugged. "They can only kill me once."

"They can torture you a long time before they kill you. They have very unpleasant ways to kill people, too, Richard. Have you ever seen a man buried in the sky while he was still alive, bleeding from a thousand cuts, his arms bound, so that the vultures could feast on his living flesh?"

"The Order binds my arms, now, Victor. As I work down there, as I see the death around me, I am bleeding from a thousand cuts. The vultures of the Order are already feasting on my flesh." With grim resolve, Richard held Victor's gaze. "Will you do it?"

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Victor glanced down at the paper again. He took a deep breath and then let it slowly out as he studied the paper in his hand. "Treason though these words be, I like them. I will do it."

Richard clapped him on the side of the shoulder and gave him a confident smile. "Good man. Now, look here, where the pedestal is to be attached."

Richard lifted the tarp enough to uncover the base. "I've carved you a flat face tilted at the proper angle. I didn't know where the holes in the casting would be, so I left it for you to drill the holes and fill them with lead for the pins. Once you attach the pedestal, then I can calculate the angle of the hole I'll need to drill for the gnomon."

Victor nodded. "The gnomon pole will be ready soon. I will make you a drill bit the proper size for it."

"Good. And a round rasp to do final fitting in the hole?"

"You will have it," Victor said as they both stood. He waved his hand toward the covered statue. "You trust me not to peek while you are off carving your ugly work?"

Richard chuckled. "Victor, I know you want more than anything to see the nobility of this statue when it is finally finished. You would not spoil that experience for yourself for anything."

Victor let out his rolling belly laugh. "I guess you are right. Come after your work, and we will have lardo and talk of beauty in stone and the way the world once was."

Richard hardly heard Victor. He was staring at what he knew so well. Even though it was covered from his eyes, it was not hidden from his soul.

He was ready to begin the process of polishing. To make flesh in stone.

--]--- Her head bent, her scarf protecting her from the chill winter wind, Nicci hurried down the narrow alleyway. A man coming the other way bumped against her shoulder, not because he was rushing, but because he simply didn't seem to care where he was going. Nicci threw a fiery scowl at his empty eyes. Her fierce look fell away down a bottomless well of indifference.

She clutched her sack of sunflower seeds closer to her stomach as she moved on through the muddy alleyway. She stayed close to the rough wooden walls of the buildings so she wouldn't be jostled by the people going the other way. People bundled against the current cold snap moved through the alleyway toward the street beyond, looking for rooms, for food, for clothes, for jobs. She could see men beyond the alley sitting on the ground, leaning against buildings on the far side of the street, watching without seeing as wagons rumbled down the roads, taking supplies out to the site of the emperor's palace.

Nicci wanted to get to the bread shop. She had been told they might have butter today. She wanted to get butter for Richard's bread. He would be home for dinnerhe had promised. She wanted to make him a good meal. He needed to eat. He had lost some weight, though it only added distracting definition to his muscular build. He was like a statue in the flesh-like the statues she used to see, long ago.

She remembered how when she was little her mother's servants made cakes out of sunflower meal. She had been able to buy enough to make him some sunflower cakes, and maybe she would have butter to put on them.

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Nicci was growing increasingly anxious. The dedication was to take place in a few days. Richard said his statue would be ready. He seemed too calm about it, as if he had come to some inner peace.

He seemed almost like a man who had accepted his imminent execution.

Whenever Richard spoke to her, despite the conversation, his mind seemed elsewhere, and his eyes held that quality which she so valued. In the wasteland that was life, the misery that was existence, this was the only hope left to her. All around her, people looked forward only to death. Only in her father's eyes when she was younger, and more so now in Richard's, did she see any evidence that there was something to make it all worthwhile, some reason for existence.

Nicci was slowed to a halt by the clink-clink-clink of pebbles rattling in a cup. The sound was the unmistakable rattle of her chains. She had been a servant to need her whole life, and as much as she tried, there it was, the cup of some poor beggar, still rattling for her help.

She could not deny it.

Tears filled her eyes. She had so wanted to serve Richard butter with his bread. But she had only one silver penny, and this beggar had nothing. She at least had some bread and some sunflower seeds. How could she want butter for Richard's bread and cakes, when this man had nothing?

She was evil, she knew, for wanting to keep her silver penny, the penny Richard had earned with his own sweat and effort. She was evil for wanting to buy butter for Richard with it. Who was Richard, to have butter? He was strong. He was able. Why should he have more, while others had none?

Nicci could almost see her mother slowly shaking her head in bitter disappointment that the penny was still in Nicci's fist, and not helping the man in need.

How was it that she could never seem to live up to her mother's example of morality? How was it she could never overcome her evil nature?

Nicci turned slowly and dropped her silver penny in the beggar's cup.

People gave the beggar a wide berth. Without seeing him, they avoided coming near him. They were deaf to the rattle of his cup. How could people not yet have learned the Order's teachings? How could they not help those in need? It was always left to her.

She looked at him, then, and recoiled at the sight of the hideous man swathed in filthy rags. She pulled back more when she saw lice hopping through his thatch of greasy hair. He peered out at her through a slit in the rags draped around his face.

But it was what she saw through that slit that caught her breath in her throat. The scars were gruesome, to be sure, as if he had been melted by the Keeper's own fires, yet it was the eyes that gripped her as the man slowly rose to his feet.

The man's grimy fingers, like a claw, curled around her arm. "Nicci," he hissed in startled triumph, drawing her close.

Caught in the grip of his powerful fingers, and his burning glare, she was unable to move. She was so close she could see his lice hopping at her.

"Kadar Kardeef."

"So, you recognize me? Even like this?"

She said nothing else, but her eyes must have said that she thought he was dead; for he answered her unspoken question.

"Remember that little girl? The one you seemed to care so much about? She urged the town's people to save me. She refused to allow me to die there on the fire, where you had put me. She hated you so much she was determined to save me. She

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selflessly devoted herself to caring for me, to helping her fellow man, as you had ordered the town's people to do.

"Oh, I wanted to die. I never knew a person could have that much pain and still live. As much as I wanted to die, I lived, because I want you to die even more. You did this to me. I want the Keeper to sink his fangs into your soul."

Nicci looked deliberately at his grotesque scars. "And so, for this, you have come seeking your revenge."

"No, not for that. For making me beg, where my men could hear it. For allowing other people to hear me beg for my life. It was for that reason they saved me-and their hatred of you. It is for that that I seek revenge-for not allowing me to die, for condemning me to this life of a freak where passing women toss pennies in my cup."

Nicci gave him a smooth smile. "Why, Kadar, if you want to die, I can certainly oblige you."

He released her arm as if it had burned his fingers. His imagination gave her powers she didn't have.

He spat at her.

"Kill me, then, you filthy witch. Strike me dead."

Nicci flicked her wrist and brought her dacra to hand. The dacra was a knifelike weapon carried by Sisters. Once the sharpened rod was stuck into a victim, no matter where, releasing her power into the dacra killed them instantly. Kadar Kardeef didn't know she had no power. But even without her power behind it, the dacra was still a dangerous weapon that could be driven into a heart, or through a skull.

He wisely backed away. He wanted to die, yet he feared it.

"Why didn't you go to Jagang. He would not have let you become a beggar. Jagang was your friend. He would have taken care of you. You would not have to beg..

Kadar Kardeef laughed. "You'd have liked that, wouldn't you? To see me living off the scraps of Jagang's table? You would love to sit at his side, the Slave Queen, and have him see me fallen to this, to watch as you two tossed me your crumbs."

"Fallen to what? To see you wounded? You've both been wounded before."

He snatched her wrist again. "I died a hero to Jagang. I would not want him to know I begged like any of the weak fools we have crushed beneath our boots."

Nicci pressed her dacra against his belly, backing him off.

"Kill me, then, Nicci." He opened his arms. "Finish it, like you should have. You never left a job incomplete before. Strike me dead, like I should have been long ago."

Nicci smiled again. "Death is no punishment. Every day you live is a thousand deaths. But you know that, don't you, Kadar?"

"Was I that repulsive to you, Nicci? Was I that cruel to you?"

How could she tell him that he was, and how much she hated him having her as chattel for his amusement? It was for the good of all that the Order used men like Kadar Kardeef. How could she put herself, her own interests, above the good of mankind?

Nicci turned and rushed off down the alleyway.

"Thank you for the penny!" he called mockingly after her. "You should have granted my request! You should have, Nicci!"

Nicci wanted only to go-home and scrub the lice out of her hair. She could feel them burrowing into her scalp.

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CHAPTER 64

Richard pulled away the fistful of straw. He brushed the fragments of grasses from his leather apron. His arms ached from the labor of rubbing the straw, lightly loaded with fine abrasive clays, against the stone.

Yet, when he saw the luster of the stone, the character of the high polish, the way the marble glowed, taking light deep into the stone and returning it, he felt only exhilaration.

The figures emerged from a sparkling stone base of rough marble. The grooved

lines of the toothed chisels used in opposing directions to shear off thin layers of stone were still evident on the lower calves, where the legs emerged he wanted the statue to bear testimony to the hand of man and the figures' origin in stone.

They rose up to nearly twice his height. The statue was in part a representation of his love for Kahlan-he could not keep Kahlan out of the work, because Kahlan was his ideal of a woman-yet the woman in the statue was not Kahlan. It was a man of virtue with a woman of virtue joined in purpose. They complemented each other, the two universal parts of what it was to be human.

The curved section of the sundial had been placed by Victor and his men several days before, when Richard had been working down at his job at the site of the emperor's palace. They had left the tarp over the statue as they worked. After the ring had been set, Richard had placed the pole that served as the gnomon, and finished the hand holding it. The base of the pole was fixed with a gold ball.

Victor had yet to see the statue. He was beside himself with eager anticipation.

As Richard stared at the figures, only the light from the window above entered the darkened room. He had been given the day from work down at the site in order to prepare the statue to be moved to the plaza that evening. In the rooms beyond the shop door, the hammers of the blacksmiths rang ceaselessly as Victor's men worked on orders for the palace.

Richard stood in the near darkness, listening to the sounds of the blacksmith shop, as he stared up at the power of what he had created. It was exactly as he had intended.

The figures of the man and woman seemed as if they might draw a breath at any moment and step out of the stone base. They had bone and muscle, sinew and flesh.

Flesh in stone.

There was only one thing missing-one thing left to do.

Richard picked up his mallet and a sharp chisel.

When he looked up at the finished statues, there were moments when he could almost believe, as Kahlan insisted, that he used magic to carve, yet he knew better. This was a conscious act of human intellect, and nothing more.

Standing there, chisel and mallet in hand, gazing at the statue that was his vision

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in stone, was a moment when Richard could savor the supreme achievement of having his creation exist exactly as he had originally conceived it.

For this singular moment in time, it was complete, and it was his alone.

It was, for this moment, pure in its existence, untainted by what others thought. For this moment it was his accomplishment, and he knew its value in his own heart and mind.

Richard went to one knee before the figures. He laid the cold steel of the chisel to his forehead and closed his eyes as he concentrated on what he had left to do.

"Blade, be true this day."

He pulled the red cloth tied at his throat up over his nose so not to have to breathe the stone dust, then set the chisel to the marks in the fiat place he had already prepared just above the heart of the flaw. Richard brought the mallet down, and began to carve the title of the statue in the base for all to see.

--]--- Nicci, standing behind the corner of a building around a curve in the road, watched farther down the hill as Richard left the shop where he had carved his statue. He was probably going to see about getting the team to move the stone. He closed the door, but he didn't put the chain on it. No doubt, he didn't intend to be gone for long.

Men were working all over the hillside at a variety of shops. Tradesmen from leather workers to goldsmiths contributed to a constant din of saws, grinding, and hammering. The ceaseless uproar of the labor was nerve-racking. While many of the men coming and going gave Nicci a good look-see, her glare warned them off.

Once she saw Richard disappear beyond the blacksmith's shop, she started down the road. She had told him she would wait until he was done before she came to see it. She had kept her word.

Still, she felt uneasy. She didn't know why, but she felt almost as if she would be invading a sacred site. Richard hadn't invited her to see his statue. He had asked her to wait until it was done. Since it was done, she would wait no longer.

Nicci didn't want to see it up on the plaza of the palace along with everyone else. She wanted to be alone with it. She didn't care about the Order and their interest in the statue. She didn't want to be standing with everyone else, with people who would not recognize it as something of significance. This was personal to her, and she wanted to see it in private.

She reached the door without anyone accosting her, or even paying her any mind. She looked around in the bright, hazy midafternoon light, but saw only men attending to their work. She opened the door and slipped inside.

The room was dark, its walls black, but the statue inside was well lit by light coming down from a window in the high roof. Nicci didn't look directly at the statue, but kept her eyes to the floor as she hurried around the huge stone so she could see it for the first time from the front.

Once in place, her pulse pounding, she turned.

Nicci's gaze rose up the legs, the robes, the arms, the bodies of the two people, up to their faces. She felt as if a giant fist squeezed her heart to a stop.

This was what was in Richard's eyes, brought into existence in glowing white marble. To see it fully realized was like being struck by lightning.

In that instant, her entire life, everything that had ever happened to her, every 492

thing she had ever seen, heard, or done, seemed to come together in one flash of emotional violence. Nicci cried out in pain at the beauty of it, and more so at the beauty of what it represented.

Her eyes fell on the name carved in the stone base.

LIFE

Nicci collapsed to the floor in tears, in abject shame, in horror, in revulsion, in sudden blinding comprehension .

. . . In pure joy.

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CHAPTER 65

After Richard had returned with the fine white linen he had bought to cover the statue until the ceremony the following day, he helped Ishaq and a number of the men he knew from down at the site begin the slow process of sledging the heavy stone down to the plaza. Fortunately, it hadn't rained in a while, and the ground was firm.

Ishaq, knowing such business well, had brought along greased wooden runners, which were placed before the hefty wooden rails supporting the wooden platform under the statue so that the teams of horses could more easily pull the heavy load across the ground. After the statue was dragged onto the second set of greased runners, the men brought the ones left behind to the front, leapfrogging the statue as it was moved along.

The hillside was white with the scree of waste stone, so the statue weighed considerably less than it once had. Victor had originally hired special stone-hauling wagons to move the block. They couldn't use them now because the finished piece couldn't be turned on its side or handled in such a rough manner.

Ishaq waved his red hat in his fist, yelling orders, warnings, and prayers as they had moved along. Richard knew that his statue could be in no better hands. The men who helped seemed to pick up Ishaq's nervous tension. They sensed this was something important, and, though the work was difficult, they seemed more pleased to be a part of it than they were about their everyday labor at the site. It took until late afternoon to move the statue the distance from the shop to the foot of the steps leading up to the plaza.

Men shoveled dirt at the bottom of the stairs and packed it tight in order to ease the transition in grade. A team of ten horses was taken around the other side of the columns. Long lengths of rope were passed through the vacant doorways and windows, and then secured around the stone base in order to draw the sledge up the steps. The extra runners were laid on the leading edge of the dirt ramp, later to be moved up onto the steps as the statue progressed upward. Near to two hundred men swooped in at Ishaq's frantic screaming to help pull on the ropes along with the horses. Inch by inch, the statue ascended the steps.

Richard could hardly stand to watch. If anything went wrong, all his work would tumble back and shatter. The flaw would destroy it all. He smiled to himself, realizing how silly it was to worry that the evidence of his crime against the Order might be ruined.

When the stone had finally arrived safely up on the plaza, sand was packed underneath the platform to support its weight. With the sand holding the wooden platform secure, the heavy runners were removed. With the runners off, the platform was slid off its hill of sand. From there, it was a relatively simple task to coax the statue off

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the wooden base and onto the plaza itself. At last, marble sat on marble. Gangs of men with ropes around the stone base tugged the freed statue into its final resting place at the center point of the plaza.

Ishaq stood beside Richard when it was over, mopping his brow with his red hat. The entire statue and sundial was shrouded in its white linen cover, with line securing it, so Ishaq couldn't see what it was. Still, he sensed something of importance stood before him.

"When?" was all Ishaq asked.

Richard knew what he meant. "I guess I'm not sure. Brother Narev is to dedicate the palace to the Creator tomorrow, before all the officials who have traveled to see how the money they've looted from the people is being spent. I guess that tomorrow the officials, along with everyone who comes to the ceremony, are to see the statue along with the rest of the palace. It's just another display of the Order's view of man's place-I don't think they intend any unveiling or anything like that."

From what Richard had learned, the ceremony was a matter of great concern to the brothers. The drain of the expense of the palace on top of the expense of the war required justification to the people who were paying that price not only with their sweat, but with their blood. The Fellowship of Order ruled, through the Imperial Order, with the necessary collaboration of brutes to whom they gave moral sanction. While the brutes had easily crushed the bodies of those who had revolted, the brothers wanted to crush the ideas such revolt represented, before they could spread, because it was such ideas that were the greatest threat to them.

To that end, it was also important to inspire the officials: the minions of the Order's tyranny. Richard imagined that with scenes of man's depravity carved into thousands of feet of stone wall, the flock of far-flung officials of the Order were going to be given guided tours, by the brothers, of all mankind's failings, and thus coerced into their duty of turning over money they had already confiscated at the point of a blade-a blade they wielded under the moral sanction of the brothers through the Fellowship of Order. Such petty officials were allowed a slice for their service to the Order, but the brothers no doubt wanted to forcefully dissuade them from any grander notions.

Under the direction of the brothers, the collective of the Order, like any autocratic ruler, ultimately ruled only by the acquiesce of the people, who were controlled either by moral intimidation, or by physical threat, or by both. Tyranny required constant tending, lest the illusion of righteous authority evaporate in the light of its grim toll, and the brutes be overpowered by the people who greatly outnumbered them.

That was why Richard had known he couldn't lead: he could not bludgeon people into understanding that bludgeoning was wrong because their lives were of great value, whereas the Order could have them bludgeoned into obedience by first making people believe that their lives were of no value. Free people were not ruled. Freedom had first to be valued before its existence could be demanded.

"From what I'm told, it is to be a big event," Ishaq said. "People from all over are coming to the dedication of the emperor's palace. The city is full of people from far and near."

Richard looked around at the site as the workers trudged back to their regular jobs.

"I'm surprised none of the officials have come to have a look at the palace in advance."

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Ishaq waved his hat dismissively. "They are all at the gathering of the Fellowship of Order. In the center of Altur'Rang. Big doings. Food, drink, speeches by the brothers. You know how the Order likes meetings. Very boring, I imagine. From what I know of such events, the officials will be kept busy hearing of the needs of the Order and their duty to get people to sacrifice to that need. The brothers will keep them all under tight rein."

That meant the brothers would all be busy-too busy to come out to the site for the trivial task of checking a statue one of their slaves had carved. In the scheme of things, Richard's statue was insignificant. It was only the starting point of the stately tour of the miles of walls displaying extensive scenes depicting the grand cause of the Order, as dictated by the brothers, under Narev's leadership.

If the officials and the brothers were too busy to come today, the people of the city were not. Most would probably attend the events of the next day, but they wanted to get a sense of the place for themselves, first, without the boring speeches that would drag out the ceremony. Richard watched many of those people go from one scene on the walls to another, their faces stricken with the desolate emotion of what they were seeing.

Guards kept people at a respectful distance, and out of the labyrinth of rooms and hallways inside, now enclosed by upper floors, and in some places, roofs. Now that the statue was set in place, those guards moved in to clear the plaza entrance.

Richard had only gotten a few hours of sleep in the last week. Now that the statue was in place, exhaustion overwhelmed him. With all the work on top of so little sleep, and little to eat, he was almost ready to drop where he stood.

Victor appeared out of the long shadows. Some workers were leaving, but others would still be at it for several more hours. Richard hadn't even realized that it had taken the better part of the day to move the statue. With the heat of the work over, his sweat-soaked shirt felt like ice against his flesh.

"Here," Victor said, handing Richard a slice of lardo. "Eat. In celebration that you are done."

Richard thanked his friend before devouring the lardo. His head was pounding. He had done all he could do to show people what they needed to see. With the work done, though, Richard felt suddenly lost. He realized only then how much he hated having finished, to be without the noble work. It had been his reason to go on.

"Ishaq, I'm dead on my feet. Do you think you could give me a ride in your wagon partway to my house?"

Ishaq clapped Richard on the back. "Come, you can ride in the back. I'm sure Jori would not mind. At least he can save you part of your walk. I must stay here and see to the teams and wagons."

Richard thanked the smiling Victor. "In the morning, my friends, in the full light, we will remove the cover and see beauty one last time. After that . . . well, who knows."

"Tomorrow, then," Victor said with his sly laugh. "I don't think I will sleep tonight," he called after Richard.

The months of effort seemed to all come down upon him at once. He climbed into the back of Ishaq's wagon and bid the man a good night. As Ishaq left, Richard curled up under a tarp to shut out the light and was asleep before Jori returned. He was dead to the world as the wagon rolled away.

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Nicci watched as Richard departed with Ishaq. She wanted to do this on her own. She wanted it to be her part. She wanted to contribute something of value.

Only then could she face him.

She knew precisely how the Order would react to the statue. They would view it as a threat. They would not allow other people to see it. The Order would destroy it. It would be gone. No one would ever know about it.

Twining her fingers together, she wondered how to proceed-what should be first. Then it came to her. She had gone to him before. He had helped Richard. He was Richard's friend. Nicci rushed across the sprawling site of the palace and up the hill.

She was winded by the time she reached the blacksmith's shop. The grim blacksmith was putting away tools. He had already banked the fire in his forge. The smells, the sights, even the layer of iron dust and soot gave Nicci a joyful flash of her father's shop. She understood, now, the look that had been in her father's eyes. She doubted he had fully understood it himself, but she did, now. The blacksmith looked up without smiling as she rushed into his shop.

"Mr. Cascella! I need you."

His frown grew. "What's that matter? Why are you crying? Is it Richard? Have they-"

"No. Nothing like that." She grabbed his meaty hand and tugged at him. It was like tugging on a boulder. "Please. Come with me. It's important."

He gestured with his other hand around at his shop. "But I have to clean up for the night."

She yanked again on his hand. She felt tears stinging her eyes. "Please! This is important!"

He wiped his free hand down his face. "Lead the way, then."

Nicci felt a little foolish pulling the burly blacksmith along by the hand as she raced down the hill. He asked where they were going, but she didn't answer. She wanted to get down there before the light was gone.

When they reached the plaza, guards were patrolling up at the top of the steps, keeping everyone off the plaza. Nicci saw Ishaq nearby, loading long planks in a wagon. She called to him, and, seeing the blacksmith with her, he ran over.

"Nicci! What is it? You look a frightful-"

"I have to show you both the statue. Now."

Victor's scowl grew. "It will be unveiled tomorrow when Richard-"

"No! You must see it now."

They both fell silent. Ishaq leaned close as he gestured covertly.

"We can't go up there. It's guarded."

"I can." Nicci angrily wiped the tears from her cheeks. Her voice regained the quality of grave authority she had wielded so often, that dark intonation that had passed judgment on countless lives, and sent people to their death. "Wait here."

Both men pulled back at the menace in her eyes.

Nicci straightened her back. She lifted her chin. She was a Sister of the Dark.

She ascended the steps in a measured pace, as if the palace were hers. It was. She was the Slave Queen. These men were hers to command.

She was Death's Mistress.

The guards approached her warily, sensing that the woman in black was a threat. Before they could speak, she spoke first.

"What are you doing here?" she hissed.

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"What are we doing here?" one asked. "We're guarding the emperor's palace, that's what we're doing-"

"How dare you talk back to me. Do you know who I am?"

"Well . . . I don't think I-"

"Death's Mistress. Perhaps you have heard of me?"

All dozen men straightened. She saw their eyes take in the black dress again, then her long blond hair, her blue eyes. By their reaction to what they saw, it was obvious to Nicci that her reputation preceded her. Before they could say another word, she spoke again.

"And what do you suppose Emperor Jagang's consort is doing here? Do you suppose I came without my master? Of course not, you idiots!"

"The emperor. . ." several mumbled together in shock.

"That's right, the emperor is arriving for the dedication tomorrow. I have come to make my own examination, first, and what do I find? Idiots! Here you stand, with your thumbs in your ears, while you should be standing to greet His Excellency as he arrives into the city mere hours from now."

The guards' eyes widened. "But . . . no one told us. Where is he coming in? We haven't been informed-"

"Arid do you suppose a man as important as Jagang wishes his whereabouts to be known for any assassin in the neighborhood to find him? And if there are assassins about, here you fools stand!"

All the men bowed urgently.

"Where?" the sergeant asked. "Where is His Excellency arriving?"

"He's arriving from the north."

The man licked his lips. "But, but, which road from the north? There are any number of routes-"

Nicci planted her fists on her hips. "Do you suppose His Excellency is going to announce his route beforehand? And to the likes of you? If only one road was guarded, then any assassin would know where to expect the emperor, now wouldn't they? All the roads are to be guarded! And here you stand, instead!"

The men bobbed and bowed nervously, wanting to leave to do their duty, but not knowing where to go.

Nicci gritted her teeth and leaned toward the sergeant. "Get your men out to one of the north roads. Now. That is you duty. All the roads are to be guarded. Pick one!"

The men bowed repeatedly as they sidestepped away. After scurrying only a few feet, they broke into a dead run. She watched them collect other guards as they went.

As they vanished out of the plaza, Nicci turned to the two startled men. They climbed the stairs, now unhindered by guards. Some of the people treading the cobblestone paths, come to look at the carvings on the walls, had heard yelling and turned to watch what she was doing. Women on their knees, praying up at the carvings in stone of the Light shining down on depraved people, looked over their shoulders.

As Victor and Ishaq reached the top of the plaza, Nicci untied the line, grabbed the linen in her fists, and ripped the shroud off the statue.

Both men stopped in their tracks.

In a half circle around the plaza, the walls were covered with the story of man's inadequacy. All around them, man was shown small, depraved, deformed, impotent,