"Well . . . not exactly," Sister Rochelle said. "Sister Georgia went and got the guards. We turned her in, as was our duty."

Nicci burst out with a laugh. "Her own Sisters of the Light? How ironic! She risks her life, while the chimes have interrupted magic, to come and save your worthless hides, and instead of escaping with her, you turn her in. How fitting."

"We had to!" Sister Georgia protested. "His Excellency would have wished it. Our place is to serve. We know better than to try to escape. We know our place."

Nicci surveyed their tense faces, these women sworn to the Creator's light, these Sisters of the Light who had worked hundreds of years in His name. "Yes, you do."

"You'd have done the same," Sister Aubrey snapped. "We had to, or His Excellency would have taken it out on the others. It was our duty to the welfare of the others-and that includes you, I might add. We couldn't think only of ourselves, or Ann, but had to think of what was good for everyone."

Nicci felt the numb indifference smothering her. "Fine, so you betrayed the Prelate." Only a spark of curiosity remained. "But what made her think she could escape with you for good? Surely, she must have had some plan for the chimes.

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What was she expecting to happen when Jagang once again had access to your minds?-and hers?"

"His Excellency is always with us," Sister Aubrey insisted. "Ann was just trying to fill our heads with her preposterous notions. We know better. The rest of it was just a trick, too. We were too smart for her."

"Rest of it? What was the rest of her plan?"

Sister Georgia huffed her indignation. "She tried to tell us some foolishness about a bond to Richard Rahl."

Nicci blinked. She concentrated on keeping her breathing even. "Bond? What nonsense are you talking about, now?"

Sister Georgia met Nicci's gaze squarely. "She insisted that if we swore allegiance to Richard, it would protect us. She claimed some magic of his would keep Jagang from our mind."

"How?"

Sister Georgia shrugged. "She claimed this bond business protected people's minds from dream walkers. But we aren't that gullible."

To still her fingers, Nicci pressed her hands to her thighs. "I don't understand. How would such a thing work?"

"She said something about it being inherited from his ancestor. She claimed that we had but to swear loyalty to him, loyalty in our hearts-or some such nonsense. To tell the truth, it was so preposterous I wasn't really paying that much attention. She claimed that was why Jagang couldn't enter her mind."

Nicci was staggered. Of course . . .

She had always wondered why Jagang didn't capture the rest of the Sisters. There were many more still free. They were protected by this bond to Richard. It had to be true. It made sense. Her own leader, sister Ulicia, and Richard's other teachers had escaped, too. But that didn't seem to make sense; they were Sisters of the Dark-like Nicci-they would have had to swear loyalty to Richard. Nicci couldn't imagine such a thing.

But then, Jagang was often unable to enter Nicci's mind.

"You said Sister Alessandra has vanished."

Sister Georgia fussed with the collar of her scruffy dress. "She and Ann both vanished."

"Jagang doesn't bother to inform you of his actions. Perhaps he simply had them put to death."

Georgia glanced at her companions. "Well . . . maybe. But Sister Alessandra was one of yours . . . a Sister of the Dark. She was caring for Ann-"

"Why weren't you caring for her? You are her Sisters."

Sister Georgia cleared her throat. "She threw such a fit about us that His Excellency assigned Sister Alessandra to look after her."

Nicci could only imagine that it must have been quite a fit. But after being betrayed by her own Sisters, it was understandable. Jagang would have thought the woman valuable enough that he wanted to keep her alive.

"As we marched into the city, the wagon with Ann's cage never showed up," Sister Georgia went on. "One of the drivers finally came around with a bloody head and reported that the last thing he saw before the world went dark was Sister Alessandra. Now the two of them are gone."

Nicci felt her fingernails digging into her palms. She made herself relax her fists. "So, Ann offered you all freedom, and you chose instead to continue to be slaves."

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The three women lifted their noses. "We did what is best for everyone," Sister Georgia said. "We are Sisters of the Light. Our duty is not to ourselves, but to relieve the suffering of others-not cause it."

"Besides," Sister Aubrey added, "we don't see you leaving. Seems you've been free of His Excellency from time to time, and you don't go."

Nicci frowned. "How do you know that?"

"Well, I, I mean. . ." Sister Aubrey stammered.

Nicci seized the woman by the throat. "I asked you a question. Answer it."

Sister Aubrey's face reddened as Nicci added the force of her gift to the grip. The tendons in her wrist stood out with the strain. The woman's eyes showed white all around as Nicci's power began squeezing the life from her. Unlike Nicci, Jagang possessed their minds, and they were prohibited from using their power except at his direction.

Sister Georgia gently placed a hand on Nicci's forearm. "His Excellency questioned us about it, that's all, Sister. Let her go. Please?"

Nicci released the woman but turned her glare on Sister Georgia. "Questioned you? What do you mean? What did he say?"

"He simply wanted to know if we knew why he was from time to time blocked from your mind."

"He hurt us," Sister Rochelle said. "He hurt us with his questions, because we had no answer. We don't understand it."

For the first time, Nicci did.

Sister Aubrey comforted her throat. "What is it with you, Sister Nicci? Why is it His Excellency is so curious about you? Why is it you can resist him?"

Nicci turned and walked away. "Thank you for the help, Sisters."

"If you can be free of him, why do you not leave?" Sister Georgia called out.

Nicci turned back from the doorway. "I enjoy seeing Jagang torment you Witches of the Light. I stay around so that I might watch."

They were unmoved by her insolence-they were accustomed to it.

"Sister Nicci," Rochelle said, smoothing back her frizz of hair. "What did you do that made His Excellency so angry?"

"What? Oh, that. Nothing of importance. I just had the men tie Commander Kardeef to a pole and roast him over a fire."

The three of them gasped as they straightened as one. They reminded Nicci of three owls on a branch.

Sister Georgia fixed Nicci with a grim glare, a rare blaze of authority born of seniority.

"You deserve everything Jagang does to you, Sister-and what the Keeper will do to you, too."

Nicci smiled and said, "Yes, I do," before ducking through the tent opening.

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Chapter 10


The city of Fairfield had returned to a semblance of order. It was the order of a military post. Little of what could be said to make a city was left. Many of the buildings remained, but there were few of the people who had once lived and worked in them. Some of the buildings had been reduced to charred beams and blackened rubble, others were hulks with windows and doors broken out, yet most were much the same as they had been before, except, of course, that all had been emptied in the wanton looting. The buildings stood like husks, only a reminder of past life.

Here and there, a few toothless old people sat, legs splayed, leaning against a wall, watching with empty eyes the masses of armed men moving up and down their streets. Orphaned children wandered in a daze, or peered out from dark passageways. Nicci found it remarkable how quickly civilization could be stripped from a place.

As she walked through the streets, Nicci thought she understood how many of the buildings would feel if they could feel: empty, devoid of life, lacking purpose while they waited for someone to serve; their only true value being in service to the living.

The streets, populated as they were by grim-faced soldiers, gaunt beggars, the skeletal old and sick, wailing children, all amongst the rubble and filth, looked much like some of the streets Nicci remembered from when she was little. Her mother often sent her out to streets like this to minister to the destitute.

"It's the fault of men like your father," her mother had said. "He's just like my father was. He has no feelings, no concern for anyone but himself. He's heartless."

Nicci had stood, wearing a freshly washed, frilly blue dress, her hair brushed and pinned back, her hands hanging at her sides, listening as her mother lectured on good and evil, on the ways of sin and redemption. Nicci hadn't understood a lot d it, but in later years it would be repeated until she would come to know every word, every concept, every desolate truth by heart.

Nicci's father was wealthy. Worse, to Mother's way of thinking, he wasn't morseful about it. Mother explained that self-interest and greed were like the eyes of a monstrous evil, always looking for yet more power and gold to feed its insatiable hunger.

"You must learn, Nicci, that a person's moral course in this life is to help others not yourself," Mother said. "Money can't buy the Creator's blessing."

"But how can we show the Creator we're good?" Nicci asked.

"Mankind is a wretched lot, unworthy, morbid, and foul. We must fight depraved nature. Helping others is the only way to prove your soul's value. It's only true good a person can do."

Nicci's father had been born a noble, but all his adult life he had worked as

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armorer. Mother believed that he had been born with comfortable wealth, and instead of being satisfied with that, he sought to build his legacy into a shameless fortune. She said wealth could only be had by fleecing it from the poor in one fashion or another. Others of the nobility, like Mother and many of her friends, were content not to squeeze an undeserved share from the sweat of the poor.

Nicci felt great guilt for Father's wicked ways, for his ill-gotten wealth. Mother said she was doing her best to try to save his straying soul. Nicci never worried for her mother's soul, because people were always saying how caring, how kindhearted, how charitable Mother was, but Nicci would sometimes lie awake at night, unable to sleep with worry for Father, worry that the Creator might exact punishment before Father could be redeemed.

While Mother went to meetings with her important friends, the nanny, on the way to the market, often took Nicci to Father's business to ask his wishes for dinner. Nicci relished watching and learning things at Father's work. It was a fascinating place. When she was very young, she thought she might grow up to be an armorer, too. At home, she would sit on the floor and play at hammering on an item of clothing meant to be armor laid on an upturned shoe used as an anvil. That innocent time was her fondest memory of her childhood.

Nicci's father had a great many people working for him. Wagons brought foursquare bars and other supplies from distant places. Heavy cast-metal sows came in on barges. Other wagons, with guards, took goods to far-off customers. There were men who forged metal, men who hammered it into shape, and yet other men who shaped glowing metal into weapons. Some of the blades were made from costly "poison steel," said to inflict mortal wounds, even in a small cut. There were other men who sharpened blades, men who polished armor, and men who did beautiful engraving and artwork on shields, armor, and blades. There were even women who worked for Nicci's father, helping to make chain mail. Nicci watched them, sitting on benches at long wooden tables, gossiping a bit among themselves, tittering at stories, as they worked with their pincers burring over tiny rivets in the flattened ends of all those thousands of little steel rings that together went into the making of a suit of chain-mail armor. Nicci thought it remarkable that man's inventiveness could turn something as hard as metal into a suit of clothes.

Men from all around, and from distant places, too, came to buy her father's armor. Father said it was the finest armor made. His eyes, the color of the blue sky on a perfect summer day, sparkled wonderfully when he spoke of his armor. Some was so beautiful that kings traveled from great distances to have armor ordered and fitted. Some was so elaborate that it took skilled men hunched at benches many months to make.

Blacksmiths, bellowsmen, hammermen, millmen, platers, armorers, polishers, leatherworkers, riveters, patternmakers, silversmiths, guilders, engraving artists, even seamstresses for the making of the quilted and padded linen, and, of course, apprentices, came from great distances, hoping to work for her father. Many of those with skills lugged along samples of their best work to show him. Father turned away far more than he hired.

Nicci's father was an impressive figure, upright, angular, and intense. At his work, his blue eyes always seemed to Nicci to see more than any other person saw, as if the metal spoke to him when his fingers glided over it. He seemed to move his limbs precisely as much as was needed, and no more. To Nicci, he was a vision of power, strength, and purpose.

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Officers, officials, and nobility came round to talk to him, as did suppliers, and his workers. When Nicci went to her father's work, she was always astonished to see him engaged in so much conversation. Mother said it was because he was arrogant, and made his poor workers pay court to him.

Nicci liked to watch the intricate dance of people working. The workers would pause to smile at her, answer her questions, and sometimes let her hit the metal with a hammer. From the looks of it, Father enjoyed talking to all those people, too. At home, Mother talked, and Father said little, as his face took on the look of hammered steel.

When he did talk at home, he spoke almost exclusively about his work. Nicci listened to every word, wanting to learn all about him and his business. Mother confided that at his core his vile nature ate away at his invisible soul. Nicci always hoped to someday redeem his soul and make it as healthy as he outwardly appeared.

He adored Nicci, but seemed to think raising her was a task too sacred for his coarse hands, so he left it to Mother. Even when he disagreed with something, he would bow to Mother's wishes, saying she would know best about such a domestic duty.

His work kept him busy most of the time. Mother said it was a sign of his barren soul that he spent so much of his time at building his riches-taking from people, she often called it-rather than giving of himself to people, as the Creator meant all men to do. Many times, when Father came home for dinner, while servants scurried in and out with all the dishes they'd prepared, Mother would go on, in tortured tones, about how bad things were in the world. Nicci often heard people say that Mother was a noble woman because of how deeply she cared. After dinner Father would go back to work, often without a word. That would anger Mother, because she had more to tell him about his soul, but he was too busy to listen.

Nicci remembered occasions when Mother would stand at the window, looking out over the dark city, worrying, no doubt, about all the things that plagued her peace. On those quiet nights, Father sometimes glided up behind Mother, putting a hand tenderly to her back, as if she were something of great value. He seemed to be mellow and contented at those moments. He squeezed her bottom just a little as he whispered something in her ear.

She would look up hopefully and ask him to contribute to the efforts of her fellowship. He would ask how much. Peering up into his eyes as if searching for some shred of human decency, she would name a figure. He would sigh and agree, His hands would settle around her waist, and he would say that it was late, and that they should retire to bed.

Once, when he asked her how much she wished him to contribute, she shrugged and said, "I don't know. What does your conscience tell you, Howard? But, a man of true compassion would do better than you usually do, considering that you have more than your fair share of wealth, and the need is so great."

He sighed. "How much do you and your friends need?"

"It is not me and my friends who need it, Howard, but the masses of humanity crying out for help. Our fellowship simply struggles to meet the need."

"How much?" he repeated.

She said, "Five hundred gold crowns," as if the number were a club she had been hiding behind her back, and, seeing the opening she had been waiting for, she suddenly brandished it to bully him.

80 With a gasp, Father staggered back a step. "Do you have any idea of the work required to make a sum of that size?"

"You do no work, Howard-your slaves do it for you."

"Slaves! They are the finest craftsmen!"

"They should be. You steal the best workers from all over the land."

"I pay the best wages in the land! They are eager to work for me!"

"They are the poor victims of your tricks. You exploit them. You charge more than anyone else. You have connections and make deals to cut out other armorers. You steal the food from the mouths of working people, just to line your own pockets."

"I offer the finest work! People buy from me because they want the best. I charge a fair price for it."

"No one charges as much as you and that's the simple fact. You always want more. Gold is your only goal."

"People come to me willingly because I have the highest standards. That is my goal! The other shops produce haphazard work that doesn't proof out. My tempering is superior. My work is all proofed to a double-stamp standard. I won't sell inferior work. People trust me; they know I create the best pieces."

"Your workers do. You simply rake in the money."

"The profits go to wages and to the business-I just sank a fortune into the new battering-mill!"

"Business, business, business! When I ask you to give a little something back to the community, to those in need, you act as if I wanted you to gouge out your eyes. Would you really rather see people die than to give a pittance to save them? Does money really mean more to you, Howard, than people's lives? Are you that cruel and unfeeling a man?"

Father hung his head for a time, and at last quietly agreed to send his man around with the gold. His voice came gentle again. He said he didn't want people to die, and he hoped the money would help. He told her it was time for bed.

"You've put me off, Howard, with your arguing. You couldn't just give charitably of yourself; it always has to be dragged out of you-when it's the right thing to do in the first place. You only agree now because of your lecherous needs. Honestly, do you think I have no principles?"

Father simply turned and headed for the door. He paused as he suddenly saw Nicci sitting on the floor, watching. The look on his face frightened her, not because it was angry, or fierce, but because there seemed to be so much in his eyes, and the weight of never being able to express it was crushing him. Raising Nicci was Mother's work, and he had promised her he would not meddle.

He swept his blond hair back from his forehead, then turned and picked up his coat. In a level voice he said to Mother that he was going to go see to some things at work.

After he was gone, Mother, too, saw Nicci, forgotten on the floor, playing with beads on a board, pretending to make chain mail. Her arms folded, she stood over Nicci for a long moment.

"Your father goes to whores, you know. I'm sure that's where he's off to now: a whore. You may be too young to understand, but I want you to know, so that you don't ever put any faith in him. He's an evil man. I'll not be his whore.

"Now, put away your things and come with Mother. I'm going to see my friends.

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It's time you came along and began learning about the needs of others, instead of just your own wants."

At her friend's house, there were a few men and several women sitting and talking in serious tones. When they politely inquired after Father, Nicci's mother reported that he was off, "working or whoring, I don't know which, and can control neither." Some of the women laid a hand on her her arm and comforted her. It was a terrible burden she bore, they said.

Across the room sat a silent man, who looked to Nicci as grim as death itself.

Mother quickly forgot about Father as she became engrossed in the discussion her friends were having about the terrible conditions of people in the city. People were suffering from hunger, injuries, sickness, disease, lack of skill, no work, too many children to feed, elderly to care for, no clothes, no roof over their heads, and every other kind of strife imaginable. It was all so frightening.

Nicci was always anxious when Mother talked about how things couldn't go on the way they were for much longer, and that something had to be done. Nicci wished someone would hurry up and do it.

Nicci listened as Mother's fellowship friends talked about all the intolerant people who harbored hate. Nicci feared ending up as one of those terrible people. She didn't want the Creator to punish her for having a cold heart.

Mother and her friends went on at great length about their deep feelings for all the problems around them. After each person said their piece, they would steal a glance over at the man sitting solemnly in a straight chair against the wall, watching with careful, dark eyes as they talked.

"The prices of things are just terrible," a man with droopy eyelids said. He was all crumpled down in his chair, like a pile of dirty clothes. "It isn't fair. People shouldn't be allowed to just raise their prices whenever they want. The duke should do something. He has the king's ear."

"The duke . . ." Mother said. She sipped her tea. "Yes, I've always found the duke to be a man sympathetic to good causes. I think he could be persuaded to introduce sensible laws." Mother glanced over the gold rim of her cup at the man in the straight chair.

One of the women said she would encourage her husband to back the duke. Another spoke up that they would write a letter of support for such an idea.

"People are starving," a wrinkled woman said into a lull in the conversation. People eagerly mumbled their acknowledgment, as if this were an umbrella to run in under to escape the drenching silence. "1 see it every day. If we could just help some of those unfortunate people."

One of the other women puffed herself up like a chicken ready to lay an egg. "It's just terrible the way no one will give them a job, when there's plenty of work if it was just spread around."

"I know," Mother said with a tsk. "I've talked to Howard until I'm blue in the face. He just hires people who please him, rather than those needing the job the most. It's a disgrace."

The others sympathized with her burden.

"It isn't right that a few men should have so much more than they need, while so many people have so much less," the man with the droopy eyelids said. "It's immoral."

"Man has no right to exist for his own sake," Mother was quick to put in as she nibbled on a piece of dense cake while glancing again at the grimly silent man. "I

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tell Howard all the time that self-sacrifice in the service of others is man's highest moral duty and his only reason for being placed in this life.

"To that end," Mother announced, "I have decided to contribute five hundred gold crowns to our cause."

The other people gasped their delight, and congratulated Mother for her charitable nature. They agreed, as they sneaked peeks across the room, that the Creator would reward her in the next life, and talked about all they would be able to do to help those less fortunate souls.

Mother finally turned and regarded Nicci for a moment, and then said, "I believe my daughter is old enough to learn to help others."

Nicci sat forward on the edge of her chair, thrilled at the idea of at last putting her hand to what Mother and her friends said was noble work. It was as if the Creator Himself had offered her a path to salvation. "I would so like to do good, Mother."

Mother cast a questioning look at the man in the straight chair. "Brother Narev?"

The deep creases of his face pleated to each side as the thin line of his mouth stretched in a smile. There was no joy in it, or in his dark eyes hooded beneath a brow of tangled white and black hairs. He wore a creased cap and heavy robes as dark as dried blood. Wisps of his wiry hair above his ears curled up around the edge of the cap that came halfway down on his forehead.

He stroked his jaw with the side of a finger as he spoke in a voice that almost rattled the teacups. "So, child, you wish to be a little soldier?"

"Well . . . no, sir." Nicci didn't know what soldiering had to do with doing good. Mother always said that father pandered to men in an evil occupation-soldiers. She said soldiers only cared about killing. "I wish to help those in need."

"That is what we all try to do, child." His spooky smile remained fixed on his face as he spoke. "We here are all soldiers in the fellowship-the Fellowship of Order-as we call our little group. All soldiers fighting for justice."

Everyone seemed too timid to look directly at him. They glanced for a moment, looked away, then glanced back again, as if his face was not something to be taken in all at once, but sipped at, like a scalding-hot, foul-tasting remedy.

Mother's brown eyes darted around like a cockroach looking for a crack. "Why, of course, Brother Narev. That is the only moral sort of soldier-the charitable sort." She urged Nicci up and scooted her forward. "Nicci, Brother Narev, here, is a great man. Brother Narev is the high priest of the Fellowship of Order-an ancient sect devoted to doing the Creator's will in this world. Brother Narev is a sorcerer." She cast a smile up at him. "Brother Narev, this is my daughter, Nicci."

Her mother's hands pushed her at the man, as if she were an offering for the Creator. Unlike everyone else, Nicci couldn't take her gaze from his hooded eyes. She had never seen their like.

There was nothing in them but dark cold emptiness.

He held out a hand. "Pleased to meet you, Nicci."

"Curtsy and kiss his hand, dear," Mother prompted.

Nicci went to one knee. She kissed the knuckles so as not to have to put her lips on the spongy web of thick blue veins covering the back of his hairy hand floating before her face. The whitish knobs were cold, but not icy, as she had expected.

"We welcome you to our movement, Nicci," he said in that deep rattling voice of his. "With your mother's caring hand raising you up, I know you will do the Creator's work."

Nicci thought that the Creator Himself must be very much like this man.

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From all the things her mother told her, Nicci feared the Creator's wrath. She was old enough to know that she had to start doing the good work her mother always talked about, if she was to have any chance at salvation. Everyone said Mother was a caring, moral person. Nicci wanted to be a good person, too.

But good work seemed so hard, so stern-not at all like her father's work, where people smiled and laughed and talked with their hands.

"Thank you, Brother Narev," Nicci said. "I will do my best to do good in the world."

"One day, with the help of fine young people like you, we will change the world. I don't delude myself; with so much callousness among men, it will take time to win true converts, but we here in this room, along with others of like mind throughout the land, are the foundation of hope."

"Is the fellowship a secret, then?" Nicci asked in a whisper.

Everyone chuckled. Brother Narev didn't laugh, but his mouth smiled again. "No, child. Quite the contrary. It is our most fervent wish and duty to spread the truth of mankind's corruption. The Creator is perfect; we mortals are but miserable wretches. We must recognize our wicked nature if we hope to avoid His righteous wrath and reap our deliverance in the next world.

"Self-sacrifice for the good of all is the only route to salvation. Our fellowship is open to all those willing to give of themselves and live ethical lives. Most people don't take us seriously. Someday they will."

Gleaming, mousy eyes around the room watched without blinking as his deep, powerful voice rose, like the Creator's own fury.

"A day will come when the hot flames of change will sweep across the land, burning away the old, the decaying, and the foul, to allow a new order to grow from the blackened remains of evil. After we burn clean the world, there will be no kings, yet the world will have order, championed by the hand of the common man, for the common man. Only then, will there be no hunger, no shivering in the cold, no suffering without help. The good of the people will be put above the selfish desires of the individual."

Nicci wanted to do good-she truly did. But his voice sounded to her like a rusty dungeon door grating shut on her.

All the eyes in the room watched her, to see if she was good, like her mother, "That sounds wonderful, Brother Narev."

He nodded. "It will be, child. You will help bring this to be. Let your feelings be your guide. You will be a soldier, marching toward a new world order. It will be a long and arduous task. You must keep the faith. The rest of us in this room will not likely live to see it flourish, but perhaps you will live long enough to one day see such a wondrous order come to pass."

Nicci swallowed. "I will pray for it, Brother Narev."

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Chapter 11

The next day, loaded with a big basket of bread, Nicci was let out of the carnage, along with a gaggle of other people from the fellowship, to fan out and distribute bread to the needy. Mother had attired her in a ruffled red dress for the special occasion. Her short white stockings had designs stitched in red thread. Filled with pride to at last be doing good, Nicci marched down the garbage strewn street, armed with her basket of bread, thinking about the day when the hope of a new order could be spread to all so that all could finally rise up out of destitution and despair.

Some people smiled and thanked her for the bread. Some took the bread without a word or a smile. Most, though, were surly about it, complaining that the bread was late and the loaves were too small, or the wrong kind. Nicci was not discouraged. She told them what Mother had said, that it was the baker's fault, because he baked bread for profit, first, and since he received a reduced rate for charity, baked that second. Nicci told them that she was sorry that wicked people treated them as second-rate, but that someday the Fellowship of Order would come to the land and see to it that everyone was treated the same.

As Nicci walked down the street, handing out the bread, a man snatched her arm and pulled her into the stench of a narrow dark alley. She offered him a loaf of bread. He swiped the basket out of her hands. He said he wanted silver or gold. Nicci told him she had no money. She gasped in panic as he yanked her close. His filthy probing fingers groped everywhere on her body, even violating her most private places, looking for a purse, but found none hidden on her. He pulled off her shoes and threw them away when he found they had no coins hidden in them.

His fist punched her twice in the stomach. Nicci crashed to the ground. He spat a curse at her as he stole away into the shadowed heaps of refuse.

Holding herself up on trembling arms, Nicci vomited into the oily water running from under the mounds of offal. People passing the alley looked in and saw her retching there on the ground, but turned their eyes back to the street and hurried on their way. A few quickly darted into the alley, bent, and scooped up bread from the overturned basket before rushing off. Nicci panted, tears stinging her eyes, trying to get her wind back. Her knees were bleeding. Her dress was splattered with scum.

When she returned home, in tears, Mother smiled at seeing her. "Their plight often brings tears to my eyes, too."

Nicci shook her head, her golden locks swinging side to side, and told Mother that a man had grabbed her and hit her, demanding money. Nicci reached for her mother as she wailed in misery that he was a wicked, wicked man.

Mother smacked her mouth. "Don't you dare judge people. You are just a child. How can you presume to judge others?"

Stopped cold, Nicci was bewildered by the slap, more startling than painful. The

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rebuke stung more. "But, Mother, he was cruel to me-he touched me everywhere and then he hit me."

Mother smacked her mouth again, harder the second time. "I'll not have you disgrace me before Brother Narev and my friends with such insensitive talk. Do you hear? You don't know what made him do it. Perhaps he has sick children at home, and he needs money to buy medicine. Here he sees some spoiled rich child, and he finally breaks, knowing his own child has been cheated in life by the likes of you and all your fine things.

"You don't know what burdens life has handed the man. Don't you dare to judge people for their actions just because you are too callous and insensitive to take the time to understand them."

"But I think-"

Mother smacked her across the mouth a third time, hard enough to stagger her. "You think? Thinking is a vile acid that corrodes faith! It is your duty to believe, not think. The mind of man is inferior to that of the Creator. Your thoughts-the thoughts of anyone-are worthless, as all mankind is worthless. You must have faith that the Creator has invested His goodness in those wretched souls.

"Feelings, not thinking, must be your guide. Faith, not thinking, must be your only path."

Nicci swallowed back her tears. "Then what should I do?"

"You should be ashamed that the world treats those poor souls so cruelly that they would so pitifully strike out in confusion. In the future, you should find a way to help people like that because you are able and they are not-that is your duty."

That night, when her father came home and tiptoed into her room to see if she was tucked in snugly, Nicci clutched two of his big fingers together and held them tight to her cheek. Even though her mother said he was a wicked man, it felt better than anything else in the world when he knelt beside the bed and silently stroked her brow.

In her work on the streets, Nicci came to understand the needs of many of the people there. Their problems seemed insurmountable. No matter what she did, it never seemed to resolve anything. Brother Narev said it was only a sign that she wasn't giving enough of herself. Each time she failed, at Brother Narev's or Mother's urging, Nicci redoubled her efforts.

One night at dinner, after being in the fellowship several years, she said, "Father, there is a man I've been trying to help. He has ten children and no job. Will you hire him, please?"

Father looked up from his soup. "Why?"

"I told you. He has ten children."

"But what sort of work can he do? Why would I want him?"

"Because he needs a job."

Father set down his spoon. "Nicci, dear, I employ skilled workers. That he has ten children is not going to shape steel, now is it? What can the man do? What skills has he?"

"If he had a skill, Father, he could get work. Is it fair that his children should starve because people won't give him a chance?"

Father looked at her as if inspecting a wagonload of some suspicious new metal, Mother's narrow mouth turned up in a little smile, but she said nothing.

"A chance? At what? He has no skill."

"With a business as big as yours, surely you can give him a job."

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He tapped a finger on the stem of his spoon as he considered her determined expression. He cleared his throat. "Well, perhaps I could use a man to load wagons."

"He can't load wagons. He has a bad back. He hasn't been able to work for years because of his back troubling him so."

Father's brow drew down. "His back didn't prevent him from begetting ten children.

Nicci wanted to do good, and so she met his stare with a steady look of her own. "Must you be so intolerant, Father? You have jobs, and this man needs one. He has hungry children needing to be fed and clothed. Would you deny him a living just because he has never had a fair chance in life? Are you so rich that all your gold has blinded your eyes to the needs of humble people?"

"But I need-"

"Must you always frame everything in terms of what you need, instead of what others need? Must everything be for you?"

"It's a business-"

"And what is the purpose of a business? Isn't it to employ those who need work? Wouldn't it be better if the man had a job instead of having to humiliate himself begging? Is that what you want? For him to beg rather than work? Aren't you the one who always speaks so highly of hard work?"

Nicci was firing the questions like arrows, getting them off so fast he couldn't get a word through her barrage. Mother smiled as Nicci rolled out words she knew by heart.

"Why must you reserve your greatest cruelty for the least fortunate among us? Why can't you for once think of what you can do to help, instead of always thinking of money, money, money? Would it hurt you to hire a man who needs a job? Would it Father? Would it bring your business to an end? Would that ruin you?"

The room echoed her noble questions. He stared at her as if seeing her for the first time. He looked as if real arrows had struck him. His jaw worked, but no words came out. He didn't seem able to move; he could only gape at her.

Mother beamed.

"Well . . ." he finally said, "I guess . . ." He picked up his spoon and stared down into his soup. "Send him around, and I'll give him a job."

Nicci swelled with a new sense of pride-and power. She had never known it would be so easy to stagger her father. She had just bested his selfish nature with nothing more than goodness.

Father pushed back from the table. "I . . . I need to go back to the shop." His eyes searched the table, but he would not look at Nicci or Mother. "I just remembered . . . I have some work I must see to."

After he had gone, Mother said, "I'm glad to see that you have chosen the righteous path, Nicci, instead of following his evil ways. You will never regret letting your love of mankind guide your feelings. The Creator will smile upon you."

Nicci knew she had done the right thing, the moral thing, yet the thought that came to haunt her victory was the night her father had come into her room and silently stroked her brow as she had held two of his fingers to her cheek.

The man went to work for Father. Father never mentioned anything about it. His work kept him busy and away from home. Nicci's work took more and more of her time, as well. She missed seeing that look in his eyes. She guessed she was growing up.

The next spring, when Nicci was thirteen, she came home one day from her work

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at the fellowship to find a woman in the sitting room with Mother. Something about the woman's demeanor made the hair at the back of Nicci's neck stand on end. Both women rose as Nicci set aside her list of names of people needing things.

"Nicci, darling, this is Sister Alessandra. She's traveled here from the Palace of the Prophets, in Tanimura."

The woman was older than Mother. She had a long braid of fine brown hair looped around in a circle and pinned to the back of her skull like a loaf of braided bread. Her nose was a little too big for her face, and she was plain, but not at all ugly. Her eyes focused on Nicci with an unsettling intensity, and they didn't dart about, the way Mother's always did.

"Was it quite a journey, Sister Alessandra?" Nicci asked after she had curtsied. "All the way from Tanimura, I mean?"

"Three days is all," Sister Alessandra said. A smile grew on her face as she took in Nicci's bony frame. "My, my. So little, yet, for such grownup work." She held out a hand toward a chair. "Won't you sit with us, dear?"

"Are you a Sister with the fellowship?" Nicci asked, not really understanding who the woman was.

"The what?"

"Nicci," Mother said, "Sister Alessandra is a Sister of the Light."

Astonished, Nicci dropped into a chair. Sisters of the Light had the gift, just like her and Mother. Nicci didn't know very much about the Sisters, except that they served the Creator. That still didn't settle her stomach. To have such a woman right there in her house was intimidating-like when she stood before Brother Narev. She felt an inexplicable sense of doom.

Nicci was also impatient because she had duties waiting. There were donations to collect. She had older sponsors who accompanied her to some of the places. For other places, they said a young girl could get better results by herself, by shaming people who had more than they deserved. Those people, who had businesses, all knew who she was. They would always stammer and ask how her father was. As she had been instructed, Nicci told them how pleased her father would be to know they were thoughtful to the needy. In the end, most became civic-minded.

Then, there were remedies Nicci needed to take to women with sick children. There wasn't enough clothing for the children, either. Nicci was trying to get some people to give cloth and other people to sew clothes. Some people had no homes, others were crowded together in little rooms. She was trying to get some rich people to donate a building. Also, Nicci had been assigned the task of locating jugs for women to bring water from the well. She needed to pay a visit to the potter. Soma of the older children had been caught stealing. Others had been fighting, and a few of them were beating younger children bloody. Nicci had been pleading on their behalf, trying to explain that they had no fair chance, and were only reacting to their cruel circumstance. She hoped to convince Father to take on at least a few so they might have work.

The problems just kept mounting, without any end in sight. It seemed like the more people the fellowship helped, the more people there were who needed help. Nicci had thought she was going to solve the problems of the world; she was beginning to feel hopelessly inadequate. It was her own failing, she knew. She needed to work harder.

"Do you read and write, dear?" the Sister asked.

"Not very much, Sister. Mostly just names. I've much too much to do for those

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less fortunate than myself. Their needs must come before any selfish desires of my own."

Mother smiled and nodded to herself.

"Practically a good spirit in the flesh." The Sister's eyes teared. "I've heard about your work."

"You have?" Nicci felt a flash of pride, but then she thought of how things never seemed to get better, despite all her efforts, and her sense of failure returned. Besides, Mother said pride was evil. "I don't see what's so special about what I do. The people in the streets are the ones who are special, because of their suffering in horrid conditions. They are the true inspiration."

Mother smiled contentedly. Sister Alessandra leaned forward, her tone serious. "Have you learned to use your gift, child?"

"Mother teaches me to do some small things, like how to heal little troubles, but I know it would be unfair to flaunt it over those less blessed than I, so I try my best not to use it."

The Sister folded her hands in her lap. "I've been talking to your mother, while we waited for you. She's done a fine job of getting you started on the right path. We feel, however, that you would have so much more to offer were you to serve a higher calling."

Nicci sighed. "Well, all right. Maybe I can get up a little earlier. But I already have my duties to the needy, and I will have to fit this other in as I can. I hope you understand, Sister. I'm not trying to get undeserved sympathy, honestly I'm not, but I hope you don't need this calling done too soon, as I'm already quite busy."

Sister Alessandra smiled in a long-suffering sort of way. "You don't understand, Nicci. We would like you to continue your work with us at the Palace of the Prophets. You would be a novice at first, of course, but one day, you will be a Sister of the Light, and as such, you will carry on with what you have started."

Panic welled up in Nicci like rising floodwaters. There were so many people who hung to life only by a thread she tended. She had friends at the fellowship whom she had come to love. She had so much to do. She didn't want to leave Mother, and even Father. He was evil, she knew, but he wasn't evil to her. He was selfish and greedy, she knew, but he still tucked her into bed, sometimes, and patted her shoulder. She was sure she would see something in his blue eyes again, if she just gave it time. She didn't want to leave him. For some reason, she desperately needed to again see that spark in his eyes. She was being selfish, she knew.

"I have needy people here, Sister Alessandra." Nicci blinked at her tears. "My responsibility is to them. I'm sorry but I can't abandon them."

At that moment, Father came in the door. He stopped in an awkward posture, his legs frozen in midstride, with his hand on the lever, staring at the Sister.

"What's this, then?"

Mother stood. "Howard, this is Alessandra. She is a Sister of the Light. She's come to-"

"No! I'll not have it, do you hear? She's our daughter, and the Sisters can't have her."

Sister Alessandra stood, giving Mother a sidelong glance. "Please ask your husband to leave. This is not his business."

"Not my business? She's my daughter! You'll not take her!"

He lunged forward to seize Nicci's outstretched hand. The Sister lifted a finger and, to Nicci's astonishment, he was thrown back in a sparkling flash of light.

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Father's back slammed against the wall. He slid down, clutching his chest as he gasped for breath. Tears bursting forth, Nicci ran for him, but Sister Alessandra snatched her by the arm and held her back.

"Howard," Mother said through gritted teeth, "the child is my business to raise. I carry the Creator's gift. You gave your word when our union was arranged that if we had a girl and she had the gift I would have the exclusive authority to raise her as I saw fit. I believe this to be the right thing to do, what the Creator wants. With the Sisters she will have time to learn to read. She will have time to learn to use her gift to help people as only the Sisters can. You will keep your word. I will see to this. I'm sure you have work to which you must immediately return."

With the flat of his hand, he rubbed his chest. Finally, his arms dropped to his sides. Head down, he shuffled to the door. Before he pulled closed the door, his gaze met Nicci's. Through the tears, she saw the spark in his eyes, as if he had things to tell her, but then it was gone, and he pulled the door shut behind himself.

Sister Alessandra said it would be best if they left at once, and if Nicci didn't see him just now. She promised that if Nicci followed instructions, and after she was settled, and after she had learned to read, and after she had learned to use her gift, she would see him again.

Nicci learned to read and to use her gift and mastered everything else she was supposed to master. She fulfilled all the requirements. She did everything expected of her. Her life, as a novice to become a Sister of the Light, was numbingly selfless. Sister Alessandra forgot her promise. She was not pleased to be reminded of it, and found more work that Nicci needed to do.

Several years after she had been taken to the palace, Nicci again saw Brother Narev. She came across him quite by accident; he was working as a stablehand at the Palace of the Prophets. He smiled his slow smile with his eyes fixed on her. He told her that he had gotten the idea to go to the palace by her example. He said he wished to live long enough to see order come to the world.

She thought it an odd occupation for him. He said that he found working for the Sisters morally superior to contributing his labor to the evil of profit. He said it mattered not if she chose to tell anyone at the palace anything about him or his work for the fellowship, but he asked her not to tell the Sisters that he was gifted, since they would not allow him to continue to stay and work in the stables if they knew, and he would refuse to serve them should they discover his gift, because, he said, he wanted to serve the Creator in his own quiet way.

Nicci honored his secret, not so much out of any sense of loyalty, but mostly because she was kept far too busy with her studies and work to concern herself with Brother Narev and his fellowship. She rarely had occasion to see him, mucking out horse stalls, and as his importance in her childhood had faded into her past, she never really even gave him a second thought. The palace had work they wished her to put her attention to-much the same sort of work Brother Narev would have approved of. Only many years later did she come to discover his real reasons for having been at the Palace of the Prophets.

Sister Alessandra saw to it that Nicci was kept busy. She was allowed no time for such selfish indulgences as going home for a visit. Twenty-seven years after she had been taken away to become a Sister of the Light, still a novice, Nicci again saw her father. It was at his funeral.

Mother had sent word for Nicci to return home to see Father because he was is

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failing health. Nicci immediately rushed home, accompanied by Sister Alessandra. By the time Nicci arrived, Father was already dead.

Mother said that for several weeks he had been begging her to send for his daughter. She sighed and said she put it off, thinking he would get better. Besides, she said, she hadn't wanted to disturb Nicci's important work-not for such a trivial matter. She said it had been the only thing he asked for: to see Nicci. Mother thought that was silly, since he was a man who didn't care about people. Why should he need to see anyone? He died alone, while Mother was out helping the victims of an uncaring world.

By that time, Nicci was forty. Mother, though, still thinking of Nicci as a young woman because under the spell at the palace she had aged only enough to look to be maybe fifteen or sixteen, told her to wear a pretty, brightly colored dress, because it wasn't really a sad occasion, after all.

Nicci stood looking at the body for a long time. Her chance to see his blue eyes again was forever lost. For the first time in years, the pain made her feel something, down deep inside. It felt good to feel something again, even if it was pain.

As Nicci stood looking at her father's sunken face, Sister Alessandra told Nicci that she was sorry she had to take her away, but that in her whole life, she had not encountered a woman with the gift as powerful as it was in Nicci, and that such a thing as the Creator had given her was not to be wasted.

Nicci said she understood. Since she had ability, it was only right that she use it to help those in need.

At the Palace of the Prophets, Nicci was said to be the most selfless, caring novice they had under their roof. Everyone pointed to her, and told the younger novices to look to Nicci's example. Even the Prelate had commended her.

The praise was but a buzz in her ear. It was an injustice to be better than others. Try as she might, Nicci could not escape her father's legacy of excellence. His taint coursed through her veins, oozed from every pore, and infected everything she did. The more selfless she was the more it only confirmed her superiority, and thus her wickedness.

She knew that could mean only one thing: she was evil.

"Try not to remember him like this," Sister Alessandra said after a long silence as they stood before the body. "Try to remember what he was like when he was alive."

"I can't," Nicci said. "I never knew him when he was alive."

Mother and her friends at the fellowship ran the business. She wrote Nicci joyful letters, telling her how she had put many of the needy to work at the armorers. She said the business could afford it, with all the wealth it had accumulated. Mother was proud that that wealth could now be put to a moral use. She said Father's death had been a cloaked blessing, because it meant help at last for those who had always deserved it most. It was all part of the Creator's plan, she said.

Mother had to raise her prices in order to pay the wages of all the people she'd given work. A lot of the older workers left. Mother said she was glad they were gone because they had uncooperative attitudes.

Orders fell behind. Suppliers began demanding to be paid before delivering goods. Mother discontinued having the armor proofed because the new workers complained that it was an unfair standard to be held to. They said they were trying their best, and that was what counted. Mother sympathized.

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The battering-mill had to be sold. Some of the customers stopped ordering armor and weapons. Mother said they would be better off without such intolerant people. She sought new laws from the duke to require work to be spread out equally, but the laws were slow in coming. The few remaining customers hadn't paid their account for quite a while, but promised to catch up. In the meantime, their goods were shipped, if late.

Within six months of Father dying, the business failed. The vast fortune he had built over a lifetime was gone.

Some of the skilled workers once hired by Father moved on, hoping to find work at armories in distant places. Most men who stayed could find only menial work; they were lucky to have that. Many of the new workers demanded Mother do something; she and the fellowship petitioned other businesses to take them on. Some business tried to help, but most were in no position to hire workers.

The armory had been the largest employer in the area, and drew many other people employed in other occupations. Other businesses, like traders, smaller suppliers, and cargo earners, who had depended on the armory, failed for lack of work, Businesses in the city, everything from bakers to butchers, lost customers and were reluctantly forced to let men go.

Mother asked the duke to speak with the king. The duke said the king was considering the problem.

Like her father's armory, other buildings were abandoned as people left to find work in thriving cities elsewhere. Squatters, at the fellowship's urging, took over many of the abandoned buildings. The empty places became the sites of robberies and even murders. Many a woman who went near those places regretted it. Mother couldn't sell the weapons from her closed armory, so she gave them to the needy so they might protect themselves. Despite her efforts, crime only increased.

In honor of all her good work, and her father's service to the government, the king granted Mother a pension that allowed her to stay in the house, with a reduced staff. She continued her work with the fellowship, trying to right all the injustice that she believed was responsible for the failure of the business. She hoped one day to reopen the shop and employ people. For her righteous work, the king awarded her a silver medal. Mother wrote that the king proclaimed she was as close to a good spirit in the flesh as he had ever seen. Nicci regularly received word of awards Mother was given for her selfless work.

Eighteen years later, when Mother died, Nicci still looked like a young woman of perhaps seventeen. She wanted a fine black dress to wear to the funeral-the finest available. The palace said that it was unseemly for a novice to make such a selfish request, and it was out of the question. They said they would supply only simple humble clothes.

When Nicci arrived home, she went to the tailor to the king and told him that for her mother's funeral she needed the finest black dress he had ever made. He told her the price. She informed him she had no money, but said she needed the dress anyway.

The tailor, a man with three chins, waxy down growing from his ears, abnormally long yellowish fingernails, and an unfailing lecherous smirk, said there were things he needed, too. He leaned close, lightly holding her smooth arm in his knobby fingers, and intimated that if she would take care of his needs, he would take care of hers.

Nicci wore the finest black dress ever made to her mother's funeral.

92 Mother had been a woman who had devoted her entire life to the needs of others. Nicci could never again look forward to seeing her mother's cockroach-brown eyes. Unlike at her father's funeral, Nicci felt no pain reach down to touch that abysmal place inside her. Nicci knew she was a terrible person.

For the first time, she realized that for some reason she simply no longer cared.

From that day on, Nicci never wore any dress but black.

One hundred and twenty-three years later, standing at the railing overlooking the great hall, Nicci saw eyes that stunned her with their sense of an inner value held dear. But what had been an uncertain ember in her father's eyes was ablaze in Richard's. She still didn't know what it was.

She knew only that it was the difference between life and death, and that she had to destroy him.

Now, at long last, she knew how.

If only, when she had been little, someone had shown her father such mercy.

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Chapter 12

Trudging down the road between the edge of the city of Fairfield and the estate where the three Sisters had told her Emperor Jagang had set up his residence, Nicci scanned the surrounding jumble of the Imperial Order's encampment, looking for a specific station of tents. She knew they would be somewhere in the area; Jagang liked to have them close at hand. Regular sleeping tents, wagons, and men lay like a dark soot over the fields and hills as far as she could see. Sky and land alike seemed tinted by a dusky taint. Sprinkled through the dark fields, campfires twinkled, like a sky full of stars.

The day was becoming oppressively dim, not only with the approach of evening, but also from the dull overcast of churning gray clouds. The wind kicked up in little fits, setting tents and clothes flapping, fluttering the campfires' flames, and whipping smoke this way and that. The gusts helped coat the tongue with the fetid stench of human and animal waste, smothering any pleasant but weak cooking aroma that struggled to take to the air. The longer the army stayed in place, the worse it would get.

Up ahead, the elegant buildings of the estate rose above the dark grime at its feet. Jagang was there. Because he had access to Sisters Georgia, Rochelle, and Aubrey's minds, he would know Nicci was back. He would be waiting for her.

The emperor would have to wait; she had something else to do, first. Without Jagang able to enter her mind, she was free to pursue it.

Nicci saw what she was looking for, off in the distance. She could just make them out, standing above the smaller tents. She left the road and headed through the crowded snarl of troops. Even from the distance, she could distinguish the distinctive sounds coming from the group of special tents-hear it over the laughing and singing, the crackle of fires, the sizzle of meat in skillets, the scraping rasp of whetstones on metal, the ring of hammers on steel, and the rhythm of saws.

Boisterous men grabbed at her arms and legs or tried to snatch her dress as she marched along, picking her way through the disorder. The rowdy soldiers were but a minor consideration; she simply pulled away, ignoring their mocking calls of love, as she made her way through the throng. When a husky soldier seized her wrist in his powerful grip, yanking her around to a jerking halt, she paused only long enough to loose her power and burst his beating heart within his chest. Other men laughed when they saw him collapse to the ground with a thud, not yet realizing he was dead, but none tried to claim his intended prize. She heard the words "Death's . Mistress" pass in whispers among the men.

She finally made her way through the gauntlet. Soldiers played dice, ate beans, or snored in their bedrolls beside the tents where captives screamed under the agony

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of torture. Two men lugged a corpse, dragging some of its innards, out of a big tent. They threw the flaccid form in a wagon with a tangle of others.

Nicci snapped her fingers at an unshaven soldier coming from the direction of another tent. "Let me see the list, Captain." She knew he was the officer in charge by the blue canvas cover of the register book he carried.

He scowled at her a moment, but when he glanced down at her black dress, a look of recognition came over his face. He passed her the grubby, rumpled book. It had a deep crease across the middle, as if someone had accidentally sat on it. The pages that had fallen out had been pushed back in, but they never fit right and their edges stuck out here and there to become frayed and filthy.

"Not much to report, Mistress, but please let His Excellency know that we've tried just about every skill known, and she isn't talking."

Nicci opened the book and began scanning the list of recent names and what was known about them.

"Her? Who are you talking about, Captain?" she mumbled as she read.

"Why, the Mord-Sith, of course."

Nicci turned her eyes up toward the man. "The Mord-Sith. Of course. Where is she?"

He pointed at a tent a ways off through the disarray. "I know His Excellency said he didn't expect a witch of her dark talents to give us any information about Lord Rahl, but I was hoping to surprise him with good news." He hooked his thumbs behind his belt as he let out a sigh of frustration. "No such luck."

Nicci eyed the tent for a moment. She heard no screams. She had never before seen one of those women, the Mord-Sith, but she knew a little about them. She knew that using magic against one was a deadly mistake.

She went back to reading the entries in the register. There was nothing of much interest to her. Most of the people were from around here. They were merely a sampling collected to check what they might know. They would not have the information she wanted.

Nicci tapped a line near the end of the writing in the book. It said "Messenger."

"Where is this one?"

The captain tilted his head, indicating a tent behind him. "I put one of my best questioners with him. Last I checked, there was nothing from him yet-but that was early this morning."

It had been all day since he had checked. All day could be an eternity under torture. Like all the rest of the tents used for questioning prisoners, the one with the messenger stood above the surrounding field tents, which were only large enough for soldiers to lie in. Nicci pushed the book at the officer's thick gut.

"Thank you. That will be all."

"You'll be giving His Excellency a report, then?" Nicci nodded absently at his question. Her mind was already elsewhere. "You'll tell him that there is little to be learned from this lot?"

No one was eager to stand before Jagang and admit they were unable to accomplish a task, even if there was nothing to accomplish. Jagang did not appreciate excuses. Nicci nodded as she strode away, heading for the tent holding the messenger. "I'll be seeing him shortly. I'll give him the report for you, Captain."

As soon as she threw back the flap and entered, she saw that she was too late. The messy remains of the messenger lay on a narrow wooden table affixed with

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glistening tools of the trade. The messenger's arm hung down off the sides, dripping warm blood.

Nicci saw that the questioner had a folded piece of paper. "What have you there?"

"A map of what?"

"Where this fellow's been. I drew it all out from what he volunteered." He laughed at his own humor. She didn't.

"Really," Nicci said. The man's grin was what had her attention. A man like this only grinned when he had something he'd been seeking, something to bring him favor in the eyes of his superiors. "And where has the man been?"

"To see his leader."

He waved the paper like a treasure map. Tired of the game, Nicci snatched the booty from his hand. She unfolded the wrinkled yellow paper and saw that it was indeed a map, with rivers, the coastline, and mountains all meticulously drawn out. Even mountain passes were noted.

Nicci could tell that the map was authentic. When she had lived at the Palace of the Prophets, the New World was a far-off and mysterious place, rarely visited by anyone but a few Sisters. Any Sister who ventured there always kept exacting records that were added to maps at the palace. Along with many other esoteric items, all novices memorized those maps in the course of their studies. Even though, at the time, she had never expected to travel to the New World, she was thoroughly familiar with the lay of the land there. Nicci scrutinized the paper in her hands, carefully surveying the geography, overlaying everything on it that was new onto the memorized map in her mind.

The soldier pointed a thick finger at a single bloody fingerprint on the map. "That there is where Lord Rahl himself is hiding-on that dot, in those mountains."

Nicci's breath paused. She stared at the paper, burning the line of every stream and river, every mountain, every road, trail, and mountain pass, every village, town, and city into her memory.

"What did this man confess before he died?" She looked up. "His Excellency is waiting for my report. I was just on my way to see him." She snapped her fingers impatiently. "Let's have it all."

The man scratched his beard. His fingernails were crusted with dried blood, "You'll tell him, won't you? You'll tell His Excellency that Sergeant Wetzel was the one who got the information out of the messenger?"

"Of course," Nicci assured him. "You will receive full credit. I have no need of such recognition." She tapped the gold ring through her lower lip. "The Emperor is always-every moment of every day-in my mind. He no doubt this very moment sees through my eyes that you, not I, are the one who succeeded in getting the information. Now, what did this man confess?"

Sergeant Wetzel scratched his beard again, apparently trying to decide if be could trust her to credit him, or if he should be sure and take the information to Jagang. There was little trust among those in the Imperial Order, and good reason to distrust everyone. As he scratched his beard, flakes of dried blood stuck in its curly hair.

Nicci stared into his red-rimmed eyes. He smelled of liquor. "If you don't report everything to me, Sergeant Wetzel, and I mean right now, I will have you up on the

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table next, and I will have your report between your screams, and when I'm done with you, they will throw you in the wagon with the rest of the corpses."

He dipped his head twice in surrender. "Of course. I only wanted to be sure His Excellency knew of my success." When Nicci nodded, he went on. "He was just a messenger. We had a small unit of six men doing deep scouting patrol. They went on a circle far to the north, around any enemy forces. They had one of the gifted women with them to help them remain at a good distance, so they wouldn't be detected. They were somewhere northwest of the enemy force, when by chance they came across this man. They brought him back for me to question. I discovered he was one of a number of regular messengers sent back and forth to report to Lord Rahl."

Nicci waggled a finger at the paper. "But this, down here, looks like the enemy force. Are you saying Rich . . . Lord Rahl, isn't with his men? With his army?"

"That's right. The messenger didn't know why. His only duty was to carry troop positions and regular news of their condition to his master." He tapped the map in her hand. "But right here is where Lord Rahl is hiding, along with his wife."

Nicci looked up, her mouth falling open. "Wife."

Sergeant Wetzel nodded. "The man said Lord Rahl married some woman known as the Mother Confessor. She's hurt, and they're hiding way up there, in those mountains."

Nicci remembered Richard's feelings for her, and her name: Kahlan. Richard being married put everything in a new light. It had the potential to disrupt Nicci's plans. Or . . .

"Anything else, Sergeant?"

"The man said Lord Rahl and his wife have one of them women, them Mord Sith, guarding them."

"Why are they up there? Why aren't Lord Rahl and the Mother Confessor with their army? Or back in Aydindril? Or in D'Hara, for that matter?"

He shook his head. "This messenger was just a low-ranking soldier who knew how to ride fast and read the lay of the land. That's all he knew: they're up there, and they're all alone."

Nicci was puzzled by such a development.

"Anything else? Anything at all?" He shook his head. She laid her hand on the man's back, between his shoulder blades. "Thank you, Sergeant Wetzel. You have been more help than you will ever know."

As he grinned, Nicci released a flow of power that shot up through his spine and instantly incinerated his brain inside his skull. He dropped with a crash to the hard ground, the air fleeing his lungs in a grunt.

Nicci held up the map she had committed to memory and with her gift set it aflame. The paper crackled and blackened as the fire advanced across the rivers and cities and mountains all carefully drawn out on it, until the hot glow surrounded the bloody fingerprint over a dot in the mountains. She let the paper rise from her fingers as it was consumed in a final puff of smoke. Ash, like black snow, drifted down onto the body at her feet.

Outside the tent where the Mord-Sith was held, Nicci cast a wary gaze across the surrounding camp to see if anyone was watching. No one was paying any attention to the business of the torture tents. She slipped in through the opening.

Nicci winced at the sight of the woman laid out on the wooden table. She finally made herself draw a breath.

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A soldier, his hands red from his work, scowled at Nicci. She didn't wait for him to object, but simply commanded, "Report."

"Not a word from her," he growled.

Nicci nodded and placed her hand on the soldier's broad back. Wary of her hand, he began to step away from it, but he was too late. The man fell dead before he knew he was in trouble. Had she the time, she would have made him suffer first.

Nicci made herself step up to the table and look down into the blue eyes. The woman's head trembles slightly.

"Use your power . . . to hurt me, witch."

A small smile touched Nicci's lips. "To the bitter end, you would fight, wouldn't you?"

"Use your magic, witch."

"I think not. You see, I know a bit about you women."

Defiance blazed up from the blue eyes. "You know nothing."

"Oh, but I do. Richard told me. You would know him as your Lord Rahl, but be was for a time my student. I know that women like you have the ability to capture the power of the gifted, if that power is used against you. Then, you can turn it against us. So, you see, I know better than to use my power on you."

The woman looked away. "Then torture me if that is what you came to do. You will learn nothing."

"I'm not here to torture you," Nicci assured her.

"Then what do you want?"

"Let me introduce myself," Nicci said. "I am Death's Mistress."

The woman's blue eyes turned back, betraying for the first time a glint of hope, "Good. Kill me."

"I need you to tell me some things."

"I'll not . . . tell you . . . anything." It was a struggle for her to speak. "Nor anything. Kill me."

Nicci picked up a bloody blade from the table and held it before the blue eyes, "I think you will."

The woman smiled. "Go ahead. It will only hasten my death. I know how much a person can take. 1 am not far from the spirit world. But no matter what you do, I'll not talk before I die."

"You misunderstand. I do not wish you to betray your Lord Rahl. Didn't you hear your questioner hit the ground? If you turn your head a little more, perhaps you can see that the man who did this to you is now dead. I don't wish you to tell me any secrets."

The woman glanced, as best she could, toward the body on the ground. Her brow twitched. "What do you mean?"

Nicci noticed that she didn't ask to be freed. She knew she was well past the point of hope to live. The only thing she could hope for, now, was for Nicci to end her agony.

"Richard was my student. He told me that he was once a captive of the Mord~ Sith. Now, that's not a secret, is it?"

"No."

"That's what I want to know about. What is your name?"

The woman turned her face away.

Nicci put a finger to the woman's chin and turned her head back. "I have an offer to make you. I won't ask you anything secret that you aren't supposed to tell. fly

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not ask you to betray your Lord Rahl-I wouldn't want you to. Those are not the things that are of interest to me. If you cooperate" -Nicci held up the blade again for the woman to see-"I will end it quickly for you. I promise. No more torture. No more pain. Just the final embrace of death."

The woman's lips began trembling. "Please," she whispered, the hope returning to her eyes. "Please . . . kill me?"

"What is your name?" Nicci asked.

Nicci, for the most part, was numb to sights of torture, but this she found disturbing. She avoided looking away from the woman's face, down at the naked body, so as not to have to consider what had been done to her. Nicci could not imagine how this woman could keep from screaming, or even how she was able to speak.

"Hania." The woman's hands and ankles were shackled to the table, so she was unable to move much other than her head. She stared up into Nicci's eyes. "Will you kill me? . . . Please?"

"I will, Hania, I promise. Quickly and efficiently-if you tell me what I want to know."

"I can't tell you anything." In despair, Hania seemed to sag against the table, knowing her ordeal was to go on. "I won't."

"I only want to know about when Richard was a captive. Did you know he was once a captive of the Mord Sith?"

"Of course."

"I want to know about it."

"Why?"

"Because 1 want to understand him."

Hania's head rocked side to side. She actually smiled. "None of us understands Lord Rahl. He was tortured, but he never . . . took revenge. We don't understand him."

"I don't either, but I hope to. My name is Nicci. I want you to know that. I'm Nicci, and I'm going to deliver you from this, Hania. Tell me about it. Please? I need to know. Do you know the woman who captured him? Her name?"

The woman considered for a moment before she spoke, as if testing in her own mind whether or not the information was in any way secret, or could in any way harm him.

"Derma," Hania whispered at last.

"Derma. Richard killed her in order to escape-he already told me that much. Did you know Denna before she died?"

"Yes."

"I'm not asking anything of secret military importance, am I?"

Hania hesitated. She finally shook her head.

"So, you knew Denna. And did you know Richard at the time? When he was there, and she had him? Did you know he was her captive?"

"We all knew."

"Why is that?"

"Lord Rahl-the Lord Rahl at the time-"

"Richard's father."

"Yes. He wanted Denna to be the one to train Richard, to prepare him to answer without hesitation whatever questions Darken Rahl asked him. She was the best at what we do."

"Good. Now, tell me everything about it. Everything you know."

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Hania drew a shaky breath. It took a moment before she spoke again. "I won't betray him. I am experienced at what is being done to me. You cannot trick me. I will not betray Lord Rahl just to spare myself this. I have not endured this much to betray him now."

"I promise not to ask anything about the present-about the war-anything that would betray him to Jagang."

"If I tell you only about when Denna had him, and not about now, about the war or where he is or anything else, do you give me your word that you will end it for me-that you will kill me?"

"I give you my word, Hania. I wouldn't ask you to betray your Lord Rahl-I know him and have too much respect for him to ask that of you. All I wish is to understand him for personal reasons. I was his teacher, last winter, instructing him in the use of his gift. I want to understand him better. I need to understand him. I believe I can help him, if I do."

"And then you will help me?" There was a shimmer of hope along with the tears. "You will kill me, then?"

This woman could aspire to nothing more, now. It was all that was left to her in this life: a quick death to finally end the pain.

"Just as soon as you're finished telling me all about it, I will end your suffering, Hania."

"Do you swear it by your hope to an eternity in the underworld in the warmth of the Creator's light?"

Nicci felt a sharp shiver of pain wail up from her very soul. She had started out near to one hundred and seventy years before wanting nothing but to help, and yet she could not escape the fate of her evil nature. She was Death's Mistress.

She was a fallen woman.

She ran the side of a finger down Hania's soft cheek. The two women shared a long and intimate look. "I promise," Nicci whispered. "Quick and efficient. It will be the end of your pain."

Tears overflowing her eyes, Hania gave a little nod.

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CHAPTER 13

The estate was a grand place, she supposed. Nicci had seen grandeur such as this before. She had also seen much greater majesty, to be sure. She had lived among such splendor for nearly one and three-quarters centuries, among the imposing columns and arches of immaculate rooms, the intricately carved stone vines and buttery smooth wood paneling, the feather beds and silk coverlets, the exquisite carpets and rich draperies, the silver and gold ornamentation, and the bright sparkle of windows made of colored glass composed into epic scenes. The Sisters there offered Nicci brighteyed smiles and clever conversation.

The extravagance meant no more to her than the rubble of the streets, the cold wet blankets laid on rough ground, the beds made in the slime among greasy runnels in the muck of narrow alleys with nothing but the bitter sky overhead. The huddled people there never offered a smile, but gaped up at her with hollow eyes, like so many pigeons cooing for alms.

Some of her life was spent among splendor, some among garbage. Some people were fated to spend their lives in one place, some in the other, she in both.

Nicci reached for the silver handle on one of the ornate double doors flanked by two husky soldiers who had probably been raised in a sty with the hogs, and saw that her hand was covered in blood. She turned and casually wiped the hand on the filthy, bloodstained fleece vest worn by one of the men. The biceps of his folded arms were nearly as thick as her waist. Although he scowled as she cleaned her hand on him, he made no move to stop her. After all, it wasn't as if she were defiling him.

Hania had kept her part of the bargain. Nicci rarely resorted to using a weapon; she usually used her gift. But of course, in this case, that could have been a mistake. When she had held the knife over her throat, Hania had whispered her thanks for what Nicci was about to do. It was the first time anyone had ever thanked Nicci before she had killed them. Few people ever thanked Nicci for the help she provided. She was able, they were not; it was her duty to serve their needs.

When she had finished cleaning her hand on the mute guard, she flashed an empty smile at his dark glaring visage and then went on through the doors into a stately reception hall. A row of tall windows lining one wall of the room was trimmed with wheat-colored drapes. Near their tasseled edges, the curtains sparkled in the lamplight as if they might be embellished with gold thread. Latesummer rain spattered against tightly shut glass panes that revealed only darkness outside, but reflected the activity inside. The pale wool carpets, graced with flowers painstakingly sculpted in relief by means of different-length yarn, were tracked with mud.

Scouts came and went, along with messengers and soldiers giving their reports to some of the officers. Other officers barked orders. Soldiers carrying rolled maps

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followed a few of the higher-ranking men as they meandered around the stuffy room.

One of the maps lay unrolled across a narrow table. The table's silver candelabrum had been set aside on the floor behind the table. As Nicci passed the table, she glanced down and saw that it was missing many of the elements so carefully marked on the map drawn by the D'Haran messenger. On the map laid out over the narrow table, there was nothing but dark splotches from spilled ale in the area to the northwest; in the map etched in Nicci's mind, there were the mountains, rivers, high passes, and streams there, and a dot, marking the place where Richard was, along with his Mother Confessor bride, and the Mord-Sith.

Officers talked among themselves, some standing about, some half sitting on iron-legged, marbletopped tables, some lounging in padded leather chairs as they took delicacies from silver trays borne on the trembling hands of sweating servants. Others swilled ale from tall pewter mugs, and yet others drank wine from dainty glasses, all acting as if they were intimate with such splendor, and all of them looking as out of place as toads at tea.

An older woman, Sister Lidmila, apparently trying to be unobtrusive by cowering in the shadows beside the drapes, snapped upright when she saw Nicci marching across the room. Sister Lidmila stepped out of the shadows, briefly pausing to smooth her dingy skirts, an act that could not possibly produce any noticeable improvement; Sister Lidmila once had told Nicci that things learned in youth never left you, and were often much easier to recall than yesterday's dinner. Rumor had it that the old Sister, skilled in arcane spells known to only the most powerful sorceresses, had many interesting things from her youth to recall.

Sister Lidmila's leathery skin was stretched so tight over the bones of her skull that she reminded Nicci of nothing so much as an exhumed corpse. As cadaverous looking as the aged Sister was, she advanced across the room in quick, sharp movements.

When she was only ten feet away, Sister Lidmila waved an arm, as if not sure Nicci would see her. "Sister Nicci. Sister Nicci, there you are." She seized Nicci's wrist. "Come along, dear. Come along. His Excellency is waiting for you. This way. Come along."

Nicci clasped the Sister's tugging hand. "Lead the way, Sister Lidmila. I'm right behind you."

The older woman smiled over her shoulder. It wasn't a pleasant or joyous smile, but one of relief. Jagang punished anyone who displeased him, regardless of their culpability.

"What took you so long, Sister Nicci? His Excellency is in quite a state, he is, because of you. Where have you been?"

"I had . . . business I had to attend to."

The woman had to take two or three steps for every one of Nicci's. "Business indeed! Were it up to me, I'd have you down in the kitchen scrubbing pots for being off on a lark when you are wanted."

Sister Lidmila was frail and forgetful, and she sometimes failed to realize she was no longer at the Palace of the Prophets. Jagang used her to fetch people, or to wait for them and show them the way-usually to his tents. Should she forget the way, he could always correct her route, if need be. It amused him to use a venerable Sister of the Light -a sorceress reputedly possessing knowledge of the most esoteric incantations-as nothing more than an errand girl. Away from the palace and it's

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spell that slowed aging, Sister Lidmila was in a sudden headlong rush toward the grave. All the Sisters were.

The round-backed Sister, her dangling arm swinging, shuffled along in front of Nicci, pulling her by her hand, leading her through grand rooms, up stairways, and down hallways. At a doorway framed in gold-leafed moldings, she finally paused, touching her fingers to her lower lip as she caught her breath. Sober soldiers prowling the hall painted Nicci with glares as dark as her dress. She recognized the men as imperial guards.

"Here it is." Sister Lidmila peered up at Nicci. "His Excellency is in his rooms. Hurry, then. Go on. Go on, now." She swirled her hands as if she were trying to herd livestock. "In you go."

Before entering, Nicci took her hand from the lever and turned back to the old woman. "Sister Lidmila, you once told me that you thought I would be the one best suited for some of the knowledge you had to pass on."

Sister Lidmila's face brightened with a sly smile. "Ah, some of the more occult magic interests you, at long last, Sister Nicci?"

Nicci had never before been interested in what Sister Lidmila had occasionally pestered her to learn. Magic was a selfish pursuit. Nicci learned what she had to, but never went out of her way to go beyond, to the more unusual spells.

"Yes, as a matter of fact, I believe I am at last ready."

"I always told the Prelate that you were the only one at the palace with the power for the conjuring I know." The woman leaned close. "Dangerous conjuring, it is, too."

"It should be passed on, while you are able."

Sister Lidmila nodded with satisfaction. "I believe you are old enough. I could show you. When?"

"I will come see you . . . tomorrow." Nicci glanced toward the door. "I don't believe I will be able to take a lesson tonight."

"Tomorrow, then."

"If I . . . do come around to see you, I will be most eager to learn. I especially wish to know about the maternity spell."

From what Nicci knew of it, the oddly named maternity spell might be just what she needed. It had the further advantage that once invoked, it was inviolate.

Sister Lidmila straightened and again touched her fingers to her lower lip. A look of concern crossed her face.

"My, my. That one, is it? Well, yes, I could teach you. You have the ability-few do. I'd trust none but you to be able to bring such a thing to life; it requires tremendous power of the gift. You have that. As long as you understand and are willing to accept the cost involved, 1 can teach you."

Nicci nodded. "I will come when 1 can, then."

The old Sister ambled on down the hall, deep in thought, already thinking about the lesson. Nicci didn't know if she would live to take the lesson.

After she had watched the old Sister vanish around the corner, Nicci entered a quiet room lit by myriad candles and lamps. The high ceiling was edged with a painted leaf-and-acorn design. Plush couches and chairs upholstered in muted browns were set about on thick carpets of rich yellows, oranges, and reds, making them look like a forest floor in the autumn. Heavy drapes had been pulled closed across an expanse of windows. Two Sisters sitting on a couch leaped to their feet.

"Sister Nicci!" one virtually shouted in relief.

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The other ran to the double doors at the other side of the room and opened one without knocking, apparently by instruction. She stuck her head into the room beyond to speak in a low voice Nicci couldn't hear.

The Sister leaped back when Jagang, in the inner room, roared, "Get out! All of you! Everyone else out!"

Two more young Sisters, no doubt personal attendants to the emperor, burst out of the room. Nicci had to step out of the way as all four gifted women made for the doorway leading out of the apartment. A young man Nicci hadn't noticed in the corner joined the women. None even glanced in Nicci's direction as they rushed to do as they were ordered. The first lesson you learned as a slave to Jagang was that when he told you to do something, he meant you to do it right now. Little provoked him more than delay.

At the door to the inner room, a woman Nicci didn't recognize ran out, following close on the heels of the others. She was young and beautiful, with dark hair and eyes, probably a captive picked up somewhere along the long march, and no doubt used for Jagang's amusement. Her eyes reflected a world gone mad for her.

Such were the unavoidable costs if the world was to be brought to a state of order. Great leaders, by their very nature, came with shortcomings in character, which they themselves viewed as mere peccadilloes. The far-ranging benefits Jagang would bring to the poor suffering masses of humanity far outweighed his crass acts of personal gratification and the relatively petty havoc he wrought. Nicci was often the object of his transgressions. It was a price worth paying for the help that would eventually accrue to the helpless; that was the only matter that could be considered.

The outer door closed and the apartment was finally empty of everyone but Nicci and the emperor. She stood erect, head held high, arms at her sides, relishing the quiet of the place. The splendor meant little to her, but quiet was a luxury she had come to appreciate, even if it was selfish. In the tents there was always the noise of the army pressed close around. Here, it was quiet. She glanced around the spacious and elaborately decorated outer room, contemplating the idea that Jagang would have acquired the taste for such places. Perhaps he, too, simply wanted quiet.

She turned back to the inner room. He was just inside, waiting, watching her, a muscled mass of fury coiled in rage.

She strode directly up to him. "You wished to see me, Excellency?"

Nicci felt a stunning pain as the back of his beefy hand whipped across her face. The blow spun her around. Her knees hit the floor. He yanked her to her feet by her hair. The second time, she clouted the wall before crashing to the floor again. Stupefying pain throbbed through her face. When she had her bearings, she got her legs under her and stood before him again. The third time, she took a freestanding candelabrum down with her. Candles tumbled and rolled across the floor. A long wisp °f sheer curtain she had snatched as she grabbed for support ripped away and drifted down over her as she and an upturned table slammed to the floor. Glass shattered. Metal clattered as small items bounded away.

She was dizzy and stunned, her vision faltering. Her eyes felt as if they might have burst, her jaw as if it had been shattered, her neck as if the muscles had ripped.. Nicci lay sprawled on the floor, savoring the strident waves of pain, wallowing 'n the rare sensation of feeling.

She saw blood splattered across the light fringe of the carpet beneath her and across the warns glow of wooden flooring. She heard Jagang yelling something at her, but she couldn't make out the words over the ringing in her ears. With a shaky

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arm pushed herself up onto her hip. Blood warmed her fingers when she touched them to her mouth. She relished the hurt. It had been so long since she had felt anything, except for that too brief moment with the Mord-Sith. This was a glorious wash of agony.

Jagang's brutality was able to reach down into the abyss, not only because of the cruelty itself, but because she knew she need not suffer it. He, too, knew that she was here by her choice, not his. That only intensified his anger, and thus, her sensations.

His rage seemed lethal. She merely noted the fact that she very probably wouldn't leave the room alive. She would probably not get to learn Sister Lidmila's spells. Nicci simply waited to discover what fate had already decided for her.

The room's spinning finally slowed enough for her to once more make it to her feet. She pulled herself up straight before the silent brawny form of Emperor Jagang. His shaved head reflected points of light from some of the lamps. His only facial hair was a two-inch braid of mustache growing above each corner of his mouth, and another in the center under his lower lip. The gold ring through his left nostril and its thin gold chain running to another ring in his left ear glimmered in the mellow lamplight. Except for a heavy ring on each finger, he was without the plundered assortment of royal chains and jewels he usually wore around his neck. The rings glistened with her blood.

He was bare-chested, but unlike his head, his chest was covered in coarse hair. His muscles bulged, their tendons standing out as he flexed his fists. He had the neck of a bull, and his temperament was worse.

Nicci, half a head shy of his height, stood before him, waiting, looking into the eyes she used to see in her nightmares. They were a murky gray, without whites, and clouded over with sullen, dusky shapes that stole across a surface of inky obscurity. Even though they had no evident iris and pupil-nothing but seeming dark voids where a normal person had eyes-she never had any doubt whatsoever as to when he was looking at her.

They were the eyes of a dream walker. A dream walker denied access to her mind. Now, she understood why.

"Well?" He growled. He threw up his hands. "Cry! Yell! Scream! Beg! Argue make excuses! Don't just stand there!"

Nicci swallowed back the sharp taste of blood as she gazed placidly into his scarlet glare.

"Please be specific, Excellency, as to which one you would prefer, how long I should carry on, and if I should end it of my own accord, or wait for you to beat me into unconsciousness."

He lunged at her with a howl of fury. He seized her throat in his massive fist to hold her as he struck her. Her knees buckled, but he held her up until she was able to steady herself.

He released her throat with a shove. "I want to know why you did that to Kadar!"

She offered only a bloody smile to his anger.

He wrenched her arm behind her back and pulled her hard against him. "Why would you do such a thing! Why?"

The deadly dance with Jagang had begun. She dimly wondered again if this time she would lose her life.

Jagang had killed a number of the Sisters who had displeased him. Nicci's safety hIm-such as it was-lay in her very indifference to her safety. Her utter Ikerest in her own life fascinated Jagang because he knew it was sincere.

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"Sometimes, you're a fool," she said with true contempt, "too arrogant to see what is in front of your nose."

He twisted her arm until she thought it surely would snap. His panting breath was warn on her throbbing cheek. "I've killed people for saying much less than that."

She mocked him through the pain. "Do you intend to bore me to death, then? If you want to kill me, seize me by the throat and strangle me, or slash me to a bloody mess so that I will bleed to death at your feet-don't think you can suffocate me with the sheer weight of your monotonous threats. If you wish to kill me, then be a man and do so! Or else shut your mouth."

The mistake most people made with Jagang was to believe, because of his capacity for such profound brutality, that he was an ignorant, dumb brute. He was not. He was one of the most intelligent men Nicci had ever met. Brutality was but his cloak. As an outgrowth of his access to the thoughts of so many different people's minds, he was directly exposed to their knowledge, wisdom, and ideas; such exposure augmented his intellect. He also knew what people most feared. If anything about him frightened her, it was not his brutality, but his intelligence, for she knew that intelligence could be a bottomless well of truly inventive cruelty.

"Why did you kill him, Nicci?" he asked again, his voice losing some of its fire.

In her mind, like a protective stone wall, was the thought of Richard. He had to see it in her eyes. Part of Jagang's rage, she knew, was at his own impotence at penetrating her mind, of possessing her as he could so many others. Her knowing smirk taunted him with what he could not have.

"It amused me to hear the great Kadar Kardeef cry for mercy, and then to deny it."

Jagang roared again, a beastly sound out of place for such a mannerly bedchamber. She saw the blur of his arm swinging for her. The room whirled violently around her. She expected to hit something with a bone-breaking impact. Instead, she upended and crashed onto unexpected softness: the bed, she realized. Somehow, she had missed the marble and mahogany posts at the corners-they surely would have killed her. Fate, it seemed, was trifling with her. Jagang landed atop her.

She thought he might beat her to death now. Instead, he studied her eyes from inches away. He sat up, straddling her hips. His meaty hands pulled at the laces on the bodice of her dress. With a quick yank of the material, he exposed her breasts. His fingers squeezed her bared flesh until her eyes watered.

Nicci didn't watch him, or resist, but instead went limp as he pushed her dress up around her waist. Her mind began its journey away, to where only she alone could go. He fell on her, driving the wind from her lungs in a helpless grunt.

Arms lying at her sides, her fingers open and slack, eyes unblinking, Nicci stared at the folds of the silk in the canopy of the bed, her mind unaffected in the distant

quiet place. The pain seemed remote. Her struggle to breathe seemed trivial.

As he went about his coarse business, she focused her thoughts instead on what she was going to do. She had never believed possible what she now contemplated; now she knew it was. She had only to decide to do it.

Jagang slapped her, causing her to focus her mind back on him. "You're too stupid to even weep!"

She realized he had finished; he was not happy that she hadn't noticed. She had to make an effort not to comfort her jaw, stinging from what to him was a smack, but to the person receiving it was a blow nearly strong enough to cripple. Sweat

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dripped from his chin onto her face. His powerful body glistened from the exertion she had not perceived.

His chest heaved as he glared down at her. Anger, of course, powered the glare, but Nicci thought she saw a tinge of something else there, too: regret, or maybe anguish, or maybe even hurt.