Terry Goodkind - Blood of the Fold

“Gratch, you don’t sense any more mriswith anywhere, do you?”

The gar handed the last cape to Mistress Sanderholt and then peered off into the distance, searching intently. Finally, he shook his head. Richard sighed in relief.

“Do you have any idea where they came from, Gratch? Any direction in particular?”

Gratch again slowly turned around, scrutinizing the surroundings. For a dead silent moment, his attention fixed on the Wizard’s Keep, but at last moved on. Finally, he shrugged, looking apologetic.

Richard scanned the city of Aydindril, studying the Imperial Order troops he could see below. They were made up of men of many nations, he had been told, but he recognized the chain mail, armor, and dark leather worn by most: D’Harans.

Richard knotted the last of the loose ends around the capes, drawing them into a tight bundle, and then tossed the lot on the ground. “What happened to your hands?”

She held them out, turning them over. The wrap of white cloth was discolored with dried smears of meat drippings, sauces, and oils, and smudged with ash and soot from the fires. “They pulled off my fingernails with tongs to make me give witness against the Mother Confessor . . . against Kahlan.”

“And did you?” When she looked away, Richard flushed at realizing how his question must have sounded. “I’m sorry, that came out wrong. Of course no one would expect you to defy their demands under torture. The truth doesn’t matter to people like that. Kahlan wouldn’t believe you betrayed her.”

She shrugged with one shoulder as she lowered her hands. “I wouldn’t say the things they wanted me to say about her. She understood, just as you said. Kahlan herself ordered me to testify against her to keep them from doing more. Still, it was misery itself to speak such lies.”

“I was born with the gift, but I don’t know how to use it, or I’d see what I could do about helping you. I’m sorry.” He winced in sympathy. “Is the pain beginning to ease, at least?”

“With the Imperial Order in possession of Aydindril, I’m afraid the pain has only begun.”

“Was it the D’Harans who did this to you?”

“No. It was a Keltish wizard who ordered it. When Kahlan escaped, she killed him. Most of the Order’s troops in Aydindril are D’Harans, though.”

“How have they treated the people of the city?”

She rubbed her bandaged hands on her arms, as if chilled in the winter air. Richard almost put his cape around her shoulders but, thinking better of it, helped her pull her shawl up, instead.

“Though D’Hara conquered Aydindril, autumn past, and their troops were brutal about the fighting, since they put down all opposition and took the city they have not been so cruel, so long as their orders are followed. Perhaps they simply saw more value in having their prize intact.”

“That could be, I suppose. What of the Keep? Have they taken that, too?”

She glanced over her shoulder, up the mountain. “I’m not sure, but I don’t think so; the Keep is protected by spells, and from what I am told, the D’Haran troops fear magic.”

Richard rubbed his chin in thought, “What happened after the war with D’Hara ended?

“Apparently, the D’Harans, among others, made pacts with the Imperial Order. Slowly, the Keltans took charge, with the D’Harans remaining most of the muscle but acquiescing in the ruling of the city. Keltans don’t fear magic the way D’Harans do. Prince Fyren, of Kelton, and that Keltish wizard commanded the council. With the prince, the wizard, and the council now dead, I’m not sure exactly who is in charge. The D’Harans, I would guess, which leaves us still at the mercy of the Imperial Order.

“With the Mother Confessor and the wizards gone, I fear our fate. I know she had to flee or be murdered, but yet . . .”

Her voice trail off, so he finished for her. “Since the Midlands was forged and Aydindril founded to be its heart, none but a Mother Confessor has ruled here.”

“You know the history?”

“Kahlan told me some of it. She’s heartsick to have had to abandon Aydindril, but I assure you, we will not let the Order have Aydindril any more than we will let them have the Midlands.”

Mistress Sanderholt looked away in resignation. “What was, is no more. In time, the Order will rewrite the history of this place, and the Midlands will be forgotten.

“Richard, I know you are anxious to be off to join her. Find a place to live your lives in peace and freedom. Don’t become bitter at what was lost. When you reach her, tell her that although there were people who cheered at what they thought was her execution, many more were desolate at hearing she was dead. In the weeks since she fled I’ve seen the side she didn’t see. Just as anywhere, there are evil, greedy people here, but there are good people, too, who will always remember her. Though we be subjects of the Imperial Order, now, as long as we live, the memory of the Midlands will live on in our hearts.”

“Thank you, Mistress Sanderholt. I know she’ll be heartened to hear that not everyone turned against her and the Midlands. But don’t give up hope. As long as the Midlands lives on in our hearts, there is hope. We will prevail.”

She smiled, but in the depths of her eyes he could see for the first time into the core of her despair. She didn’t believe him. Life under the Order, brief as it had been, had been brutal enough to extinguish even the spark of hope; that was why she hadn’t bothered to leave Aydindril. Where was there to go?

Richard retrieved his sword from the snow and wiped its gleaming blade clean on a mriswith’s hide clothes. He drove the sword home into its scabbard.

They both turned at the sound of nervous whispers to see a crowd of kitchen workers gathered near the top of the steps, staring incredulously at the carnage in the snow, and at Gratch. One man had picked up one of the three-bladed knives, and was turning it over, examining it. Fearing to come down the steps, near Gratch, he insistently motioned for Mistress Sanderholt’s attention. She gestured irritably, urging him to come to her.

He appeared to be hunched more from a life of hard labor than from age, though his thinning hair was graying. He descended the steps with a rolling gait as if carrying a heavy sack of grain on his rounded shoulders. He bobbed a quick bow by deference to Mistress Sanderholt as his gaze flicked from her, to the bodies, to Gratch, to Richard, and back again to her.

“What is it, Hank?”

“Trouble, Mistress Sanderholt.”

“I’m a little busy, at the moment, with trouble of my own. Can’t all you people pull bread from the ovens without me there?”

His head bobbed. “Yes, Mistress Sanderholt. But this is trouble about—” He glared at a reeking mriswith carcass lying nearby. “—about these things.”

Richard straightened. “What about them?”

Hank glanced lo the sword at his hip, and then diverted his eyes. “I think it was . . .” When he looked up at Gratch, and the gar smiled, the man lost his voice.

“Hank, look at me.” Richard waited until he complied. “The gar won’t hurt you. These things are called mriswith. Gratch and I are the ones who killed them. Now tell me about the trouble.”

He scrubbed the palms of his hands on his wool trousers. “I looked at their knives, at those three blades they have. That appears to be what did it.” His expression darkened. “The news is spreading on a near panic. People have been killed. Thing is, no one saw what done it. Those killed all had their bellies slit open by something with three blades.”

With an anguished sigh, Richard wiped a hand across his face. “That’s the way mriswith kill; they disembowel their victims, and you can’t even see them coming. Where were these people killed?”