Terry Goodkind - Soul of the Fire

Serin Rajak had died, too—a terrible infection that turned his blind face to a festering mass—but Dalton couldn’t say he was at all unhappy about that. His grieving followers reported it a lingering and painful death. No, Dalton was not at all unhappy about that.

Hildemara opened the door herself. A good sign, he thought. She was wearing a dress more revealing than usual. Another good sign, he hoped, since she had known he was coming.

“Dalton, how kind of you to ask to pay me a visit. I’ve wondered how you’ve been getting along and thought a talk long overdue. So, how have you been, since your wife has been serving the needs of our Sovereign?”

He shrugged. “I’ve come to my way of dealing with it.”

Hildemara smiled, a cat seeing a mouse. “Ah . . . and so the lovely gifts?”

“To thank you. For—Might I come in?”

She opened the door wider. He stepped inside, looking around at the unrestrained opulence. He had never been in the private quarters of the Sovereign and his wife.

Of course, his own wife was quite familiar with them, and had described them—Bertrand’s, anyway—in great detail.

“You were saying? About thanking me?”

Dalton clasped his hands behind his back. “For opening my eyes.” He gestured behind himself and smiled. “And your door, I might add.”

She chuckled politely. “I sometimes open my door to handsome men. I find it a . . . sometimes rewarding experience.”

He closed the distance and took up her hand, kissing the back of it while looking her in the eye. He thought it a pathetically contrived act, but she responded as if she believed it sincere, and as if she were well pleased by the token of respect.

Dalton had researched her private activities. It had taken every favor owed him, as well as some direct threats, and even an appointment of standing. He now knew what she liked, and what she didn’t. He knew she didn’t like aggressive lovers. She liked them on the young side, and attentive. She liked to be treated with the utmost reverence.

She liked to be fawned over.

He approached this visit like an elaborate feast, with each course in order, and building to the main attractions. In this way, with a plan, he found it easier to proceed.

“My lady, I fear to be so forward with a woman of your station, but I must be honest.”

She went to a table of inlaid silver and gold. From a silver tray, she picked a cut-glass bottle and poured herself a glass of rum. She also poured one for him, without asking, and handed it to him with a smile.

“Please, Dalton. We have a long history. I would like nothing better than your honesty. After all, I was honest with you about your wife.”

“Yes,” he said, “you were, weren’t you.”

She took a sip and then laid a wrist over his shoulder, “And are you still languishing about that? Or have you come to face the realities of life?”

“I must admit, Hildemara, that I have been . . . lonely, what with my wife so often . . . occupied. I never expected to find myself with a wife so often unavailable.”

She clucked sympathetically. “You poor dear. I know just how you feel. My husband is so often occupied himself.”

Dalton turned away, as if embarrassed. “Since my wife is no longer bound by our vows, I find I have . . . desires she is unable to satisfy. I’m ashamed to admit it, but I’m not experienced in this sort of thing. Most men, I guess, would find this sort of endeavor comes naturally to them. I don’t.”

She came close up behind him, putting her mouth next to his ear. “Do go on, Dalton. I’m listening. Don’t be shy—we’re old friends.”

He turned to come face-to-face with her, giving her the chance to display her cleavage—something she believed was greatly appreciated.

“Since my wife no longer is bound by her vows, being called upon by the Sovereign, I don’t see why I should be bound by mine. Especially when I have . . . longings.”

“Well, of course not.”

“And you once told me that I should come to you first, if anything changed with the status of my vows. Well, if you’re still interested, things have changed.”

Her answer was to kiss him. He found it less repulsive than he feared. By closing his eyes he was able to actually enjoy it, after a fashion.

He was surprised, though, when she shifted immediately to the more advanced matters of the encounter. It would make little difference in the end result. If she wanted to go straight to it, that was fine by him.

It was as forbidding a place as Richard had heard, the highlands above the Nareef Valley: a bleak wasteland. The wind howled in dirty gusts.

He would expect Joseph Ander to pick such a place.

The mountains surrounding the dead lake were just as dead. They were rocky, brown, and barren of life, their peaks all crowned with snow. The thousands of runnels coming down the slopes sparkled in the sunlight, like fangs.

Juxtaposed with the bleak wasteland was the green of the paka plants, which looked almost like water lilies in the vast waters stretching across the wide lap of the surrounding mountains.

Richard had left the horses down lower and climbed the narrow foot trail he found that led up to the lake. He had tied the horses on loose tethers and removed their tack, so that if he failed to return, they could eventually escape.

Only one thing drove him on, and that was his love for Kahlan. He had to banish the chimes so that he could heal her. It was his sole purpose in life. He stood now on the sterile soil beside the poison waters, knowing what he had to do.

He had to outthink, outcreate Joseph Ander.

There was no key to the riddle of the chimes; there was no answer. There was no solution waiting to be found. Joseph Ander left no seam in his tapestry of magic.

His only chance was to do what Joseph Ander never would have expected. Richard had studied the man enough to understand the way he thought. He knew what Ander believed, and what he expected people would try. Richard could do none of those things and expect to succeed. Richard would do that which Joseph Ander chided the wizards to do, but which they couldn’t see.

He only hoped he had the strength to see it through to the end. He had ridden hard in the day, switching horses so they would make it and yet be able to take him back. At night he had walked them until he could walk no more.

He was exhausted, and hoped only that he could hold out long enough. Long enough for Kahlan.

From the gold-worked leather pouch on his belt he pulled white sorcerer’s sand. With the sand, Richard carefully began drawing a Grace. Starting with the rays representing the gift, he drew it exactly opposite from the way Zedd told him it must be drawn. He stood in the center, laying the lines of the gift inward, toward himself.

He drew the star, representing the Creator, next, and then the circle of life, and the square for the veil, and lastly, the outer circle for the beginning of the underworld.

Imagination, Joseph Ander had said, was what made a great wizard, for only a wizard with imagination was able to transcend the limitations of tradition.

A Grace might rise in obedience to an inventive spell.

Richard intended to raise more than that.

From his place inside the Grace, Richard lifted his fists to the sky.

“Reechani! Sentrosi! Vasi! I call you forth!”

He knew what they needed. Joseph Ander had told him.

“Reechani! Sentrosi! Vasi! I call you forth and offer you my soul!”

The water rippled as the wind rose. The water moved with deliberate intent. The wind coming across the water ignited into roiling flame.

They were coming.

Richard, charged with need and with anger, lowered his arms, pointing his fists off toward the edge of the lake, where it flowed at last over the rocky lip and on down into the Nareef Valley. His entire being focused there.