Stone of Tears by Terry Goodkind

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Richard thought otherwise. "Make your point."

  "I just did. They will be delighted."

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

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

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

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

  "Since you abhor lies, Sister, I am sure you would not want me to pretend to feel other than I do."

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

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

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

  "No one touches my things but me," he said.

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

  The boy brought a whip around on the Jessup's rump. "Move, you dumb beast!"

  Jessup bellowed as he tried to yank his head away.

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

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

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

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

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

  "Sister Verna!" one cried out as the three rushed up.

  "Oh, dear Sister Verna, it's so good to see you at last."

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

  Sister Verna gave a tender stroke to the sniffling face before her. "Sister Phoebe." She touched another's hand. "And Sister Amelia, and Sister Janet. It is so good to see you again. It has been a long time indeed."

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

  "Where is he? Why haven't you brought him in with you?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Sister Verna frowned to her. "Sister Phoebe, who are the troops I saw, the ones in the strange uniforms?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Richard hesitated a moment. "Cypher."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Her smile faltered a little when she noticed that he was glowering at her. She smiled again and continued. "Well, first of all, Richard, we don't allow boys to carry weapons here at the Palace of the Prophets." She held her hands out, palms up. "I'll take your sword."

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

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

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

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

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

  "Take me to her."

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

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

  "I have something to say."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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