Terry Goodkind: Debt of Bones

The sorceress folded her hands. “An aide will come to get you each in turn. A wizard will see each of you. The war burns hot; please keep your petition brief.” She gazed down the line of people. “It is out of a sincere obligation to those we serve that the wizards see supplicants, but please try to understand that individual desires are often detrimental to the greater good. By pausing to help one, then many are denied help. Thus, denial of a request is not a denial of your need, but acceptance of greater need. In times of peace it is rare for wizards to grant the narrow wants of supplicants. At a time like this, a time of a great war, it is almost unheard-of. Please understand that it has not to do with what we would wish, but is a matter of necessity.”

She watched the line of supplicants, but saw none willing to abandon their purpose. Abby certainly would not.

“Very well then. We have two wizards able to take supplicants at this time. We will bring you each to one of them.”

The sorceress turned to leave. Abby rose to her feet.

“Please, mistress, a word if I may?”

The sorceress turned an unsettling gaze on Abby. “Speak.”

Abby stepped forward. “I must see the First Wizard himself. Wizard Zorander.”

One eyebrow arched. “The First Wizard is a very busy man.”

Abby reached into her sack and pulled out the neck band from her mother’s robes. She stepped into the centre of the Grace and kissed the red and yellow beads on the neck band.

“I am Abigail, born of Helsa. On the Grace and my mother’s soul, I must see Wizard Zorander. Please. It is no trivial journey I have made. Lives are at stake.”

The sorceress watched the beaded band being returned to the sack. “Abigail, born of Helsa.” Her gaze rose to meet Abby’s. “I will take your words to the First Wizard.”

“Mistress.” Abby turned to see the old woman on her feet. “I would be well pleased to see the First Wizard, too.”

The three men rose up. The oldest, the one apparently in charge of the three, gave the sorceress a look so barren of timidity that it bordered on contempt. His long grey hair fell forward over his velvet robes as he glanced down the line of seated people, seeming to dare them to stand. When none did, he returned his attention to the sorceress.

“I will see Wizard Zorander.”

The sorceress appraised those on their feet and then looked down the line of supplicants on the bench. “The First Wizard has earned a name: the wind of death. He is feared no less by many of us than by our enemies. Anyone else who would bait fate?”

None of those on the bench had the courage to gaze into her fierce stare. To the last they all silently shook their heads. “Please wait,” she said to those seated. “Someone will shortly be out to take you to a wizard.” She looked once more to the five people standing. “Are you all very, very sure of this?”

Abby nodded. The old woman nodded. The noble glared.

“Very well then. Come with me.”

The noble and his two men stepped in front of Abby. The old woman seemed content to take a station at the end of the line. They were led deeper into the Keep, through narrow halls and wide corridors, some dark and austere and some of astounding grandeur. Everywhere there were soldiers of the Home Guard, their breastplates or chain-mail covered with red tunics banded around their edges in black. All were heavily armed with swords or battle-axes, all had knives, and many additionally carried pikes tipped with winged and barbed steel.

At the top of a broad white marble stairway the stone railings spiralled at the ends to open wide on to a room of warm oak panelling. Several of the raised panels held lamps with polished silver reflectors. Atop a three-legged table sat a double-bowl cut-glass lamp with twin chimneys, their flames adding to the mellow light from the reflector lamps. A thick carpet of ornate blue patterns covered nearly the entire wood floor.

To each side of a double door stood one of the meticulously dressed Home Guard. Both men were equally huge. They looked to be men more than able to handle any trouble that might come up the stairs.

The sorceress nodded towards the dozen thickly tufted leather chairs set in four groups. Abby waited until the others had seated themselves in two of the groupings and then sat by herself in another. She placed the sack in her lap and rested her hands over its contents.

The sorceress stiffened her back. “I will tell the First Wizard that he has supplicants who wish to see him.”

A guard opened one of the double doors for her. As she was swallowed into the great room beyond, Abby was able to snatch a quick glimpse. She could see that it was well lighted by glassed skylights. There were other doors in the grey stone of the walls. Before the door closed, Abby was also able to see a number of people, men and women both, all rushing hither and yon.

Abby sat turned away from the old woman and the three men as with one hand she idly stroked the sack in her lap. She had little fear that the men would talk to her, but she didn’t want to talk to the woman; it was a distraction. She passed the time going over in her mind what she planned to say to Wizard Zorander.

At least she tried to go over it in her mind. Mostly, all she could think about was what the sorceress had said, that the First Wizard was called the wind of death, not only by the D’Harans, but also by his own people of the Midlands. Abby knew it was no tale to scare off supplicants from a busy man. Abby herself had heard people whisper of their great wizard, “the wind of death.” Those whispered words were uttered in dread.

The lands of D’Hara had sound reason to fear this man as their enemy; he had laid waste to countless of their army, from what Abby had heard. Of course if they hadn’t invaded the Midlands, bent on conquest, they would not have felt the hot wind of death.

Had they not invaded, Abby wouldn’t be sitting there in the Wizard’s Keep—she would be at home, and everyone she loved would be safe.

Abby marked again the odd tingling sensation from the bracelet. She ran her fingers over it, testing its unusual warmth. This close to a person of such power it didn’t surprise her that the bracelet was warming. Her mother had told her to wear it always, and that someday it would be of value. Abby didn’t know how, and her mother had died without ever explaining.

Sorceresses were known for the way they kept secrets, even from their own daughters. Perhaps if Abby had been born gifted . . .

She sneaked a peek over her shoulder at the others. The old woman was leaning back in her chair, staring at the doors. The noble’s attendants sat with their hands folded as they casually eyed the room.

The noble was doing the oddest thing. He had a lock of sandy-coloured hair wound around a finger. He stroked his thumb over the lock of hair as he glared at the doors.

Abby wanted the wizard to hurry up and see her, but time stubbornly dragged by. In a way, she wished he would refuse. No, she told herself, that was unacceptable. No matter her fear, no matter her revulsion, she must do this. Abruptly, the door opened. The sorceress strode out towards Abby.

The noble surged to his feet. “I will see him first.” His voice was cold threat. “That is not a request.”

“It is our right to see him first,” Abby said without forethought. When the sorceress folded her hands, Abby decided she had best go on. “I’ve waited since dawn. This woman was the only one waiting before me. These men came at the last of the day.”

Abby started when the old woman’s gnarled fingers gripped her forearm. “Why don’t we let these men go first, dearie? It matters not who arrived first, but who has the most important business.”