Terry Goodkind - Debt of Bones

She twisted the lever stem on the lamp, lowering the wick as far as it would go without snuffing the flame; she didn’t like sleeping in the dark in a strange place. Lying in bed, staring up at the water-stained ceiling, she prayed earnestly to the good spirits, despite knowing that they would ignore a request such as she made. She closed her eyes and prayed for Wizard Zorander’s daughter, too. Her prayers were fragmented by intruding fears that felt as if they clawed her insides raw.

She didn’t know how long she had lain in the bed, wishing for sleep to take her, wishing for morning to come, when the door slowly squeaked open. A shadow climbed the far wall.

Abby froze, eyes wide, breath held tight, as she watched a crouched figure move towards the bed. It wasn’t the woman of the house. She would be taller. Abby’s fingers tightened on the scratchy blanket, thinking that maybe she could throw it over the intruder and then run for the door.

“Don’t be alarmed, dearie. I’ve just come to see if you had success up at the Keep.”

Abby gulped air and sat up in the bed. “Mariska?” It was the old woman who had waited with her in the line all day. “You frightened the wits out of me!”

The small flame from the lamp reflected in a sharp shimmer in the woman’s eye as she surveyed Abby’s face. “Worse things to fear than your own safety.”

“What do you mean?”

Mariska smiled. It was not a reassuring smile. “Did you get what you wanted?”

“I saw the First Wizard, if that’s what you mean.”

“And what did he say, dearie?”

Abby swung her feet down off the bed. “That’s my business.”

The sly smile widened. “Oh, no, dearie, it’s our business.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Answer the question. You’ve not much time left. Your family has not much time left.”

Abby shot to her feet. “How do you—”

The old woman seized Abby’s wrist and twisted until Abby was forced to sit. “What say the First Wizard?”

“He said he couldn’t help me. Please, that hurts. Let me go.”

“Oh, dearie, that’s too bad, it is. Too bad for your little Jana.”

“How . . . how do you know about her? I never—”

“So, Wizard Zorander denied your petition. Such sad news.” She clicked her tongue. “Poor, unfortunate, little Jana. You were warned. You knew the price of failure.”

She released Abby’s wrist and turned away. Abby’s mind raced in hot panic as the woman shuffled towards the door. “No! Please! I’m to see him again, tomorrow. At sunrise.”

Mariska peered back over her shoulder. “Why? Why would he agree to see you again, after he has denied you? Lying will buy your daughter no more time. It will buy her nothing.”

“It’s true. I swear it on my mother’s soul. I talked to the sorceress, the one who took us in. I talked to her and the Mother Confessor, after Wizard Zorander denied my petition. They agreed to convince him to give me a private audience.”

Her brow bunched. “Why would they do this?”

Abby pointed to her sack sitting on the end of the bed. “I showed them what I brought.”

With one gnarled finger, Mariska lifted open the sack. She looked for a moment and then glided closer to Abby. “You have yet to show this to Wizard Zorander?” That’s right. They will get me an audience with him. I’m sure of it. Tomorrow, he will see me.”

From her bulky waistband, Mariska drew a knife. She waved it slowly back and forth before Abby’s face, “We grow weary of waiting for you.”

Abby licked her lips. “But I—”

“In the morning I leave for Coney Crossing. I leave to see your frightened little Jana.” Her hand slid behind Abby’s neck. Fingers like oak roots gripped Abby’s hair, holding her head fast. “If you bring him right behind me, she will go free, as you were promised.”

Abby couldn’t nod. “I will. I swear. I’ll convince him. He is bound by a debt.”

Mariska put the point of the knife so close to Abby’s eye that it brushed her eyelashes. Abby feared to blink.

“Arrive late, and I will stab my knife in little Jana’s eye. Stab it through. I will leave her the other so that she can watch as I cut out her father’s heart, just so that she will know how much it will hurt when I do her. Do you understand, dearie?”

Abby could only whine that she did, as tears streamed down her cheeks.

“There’s a good girl,” Mariska whispered from so close that Abby was forced to breathe the spicy stink of the woman’s sausage dinner. “If we even suspect any tricks, they will all die.”

“No tricks. I’ll hurry. I’ll bring him.”

Mariska kissed Abby’s forehead. “You’re a good mother.” She released Abby’s hair. “Jana loves you. She cries for you day and night.”

After Mariska closed the door, Abby curled into a trembling ball in the bed and wept against her knuckles.

Delora leaned closer as they marched across the broad rampart. “Are you sure you’re all right, Abigail?”

Wind snatched at her hair, flicking it across her face. Brushing it from her eyes, Abby looked out at the sprawl of the city below beginning to coalesce out of the gloom. She had been saying a silent prayer to her mother’s spirit.

“Yes. I just had a bad night. I couldn’t sleep.”

The Mother Confessor’s shoulder pressed against Abby’s from the other side. “We understand. At least he agreed to see you. Take heart in that. He’s a good man, he really is.”

“Thank you,” Abby whispered in shame. “Thank you both for helping me.”

The people waiting along the rampart—wizards, sorceresses, officers, and others—all momentarily fell silent and bowed towards the Mother Confessor as the three women passed. Among several people she recognized from the day before, Abby saw the wizard Thomas, grumbling to himself and looking hugely impatient and vexed as he shuffled through a handful of papers covered in what Abby recognized as magical symbols.

At the end of the rampart they came to the stone face of a round turret. A steep roof overhead protruded down low above a round-topped door. The sorceress rapped on the door and opened it without waiting for a reply. She caught the twitch of Abby’s brow.

“He rarely hears the knock,” she explained in a hushed tone.

The stone room was small, but had a cosy feel to it. A round window to the right overlooked the city below and another on the opposite side looked up on soaring walls of the Keep, the distant highest ones glowing pink in the first faint rays of dawn. An elaborate iron candelabrum held a small army of candles that provided a warm glow to the room.

Wizard Zorander, his unruly wavy brown hair hanging down around his face as he leaned on his hands, was absorbed in studying a book lying open on the table. The three women came to a halt.

“Wizard Zorander,” the sorceress announced, “we bring Abigail, born of Helsa.”

“Bags, woman,” the wizard grouched without looking up, “I heard your knock, as I always do.”

“Don’t you curse at me, Zeddicus Zu’l Zorander,” Delora grumbled back.

He ignored the sorceress, rubbing his smooth chin as he considered the book before him. “Welcome, Abigail.”

Abby’s fingers fumbled at the sack. But then she remembered herself and curtsied. “Thank you for seeing me, Wizard Zorander. It is of vital importance that I have your help. As I’ve already told you, the lives of innocent children are at stake.”

Wizard Zorander finally peered up. After appraising her a long moment he straightened. “Where does the line lie?”

Abby glanced to the sorceress on one side of her and then the Mother Confessor on the other side. Neither looked back.

“Excuse me, Wizard Zorander? The line?”