Terry Goodkind - Debt of Bones

“What do you got in the sack, dearie?”

Abby was watching a distant flock of whistling swans, graceful white specks against the dark soaring walls of the Keep, as they made their interminable journey past ramparts, bastions, towers and bridges lit by the low sun. The sinister spectre of the Keep had seemed to be staring back the whole of the day as Abby had waited. She turned to the hunched old woman in front of her.

“I’m sorry, did you ask me something?”

“I asked what you got in your sack.” As the woman peered up, she licked the tip of her tongue through the slot where a tooth was missing. “Something precious?”

Abby clutched the burlap sack to herself as she shrank a little from the grinning woman. “Just some of my things, that’s all.”

An officer, trailed by a troop of assistants, aides, and guards, marched out from under the massive portcullis that loomed nearby. Abby and the rest of the supplicants waiting at the head of the stone bridge moved tighter to the side, even though the soldiers had ample room to pass. The officer, his grim gaze unseeing as he swept by, didn’t return the salute as the bridge guards clapped fists to the armour over their hearts.

All day soldiers from different lands, as well as the Home Guard from the vast city of Aydindril below, had been coming and going from the Keep. Some had looked travel-sore. Some wore uniforms still filthy with dirt, soot, and blood from recent battles. Abby had even seen two officers from her homeland of Pendisan Reach. They had looked to her to be little more than boys, but boys with the thin veneer of youth shedding too soon, like a snake casting off its skin before its time, leaving the emerging maturity scarred.

Abby had also seen such an array of important people as she could scarcely believe: sorceresses, councillors, and even a Confessor come up from the Confessor’s Palace down in the city. On her way up to the Keep, there was rarely a turn in the winding road that hadn’t offered Abby a view of the sprawling splendour in white stone that was the Confessor’s Palace. The alliance of the Midlands, headed by the Mother Confessor herself, held council in the palace, and there, too, lived the Confessors.

In her whole life, Abby had seen a Confessor only once before. The woman had come to see Abby’s mother and Abby, not ten years at the time, had been unable to keep from staring at the Confessor’s long hair. Other than her mother, no woman in Abby’s small town of Coney Crossing was sufficiently important to have hair long enough to touch the shoulders. Abby’s own fine, dark brown hair covered her ears but no more.

Coming through the city on the way to the Keep, it had been hard for her not to gape at noble women with hair to their shoulders and even a little beyond. But the Confessor going up to the Keep, dressed in the simple, satiny, black dress of a Confessor, had hair that reached halfway down her back.

She wished she could have had a better look at the rare sight of such long luxuriant hair and the woman important enough to possess it, but Abby had gone to a knee with the rest of the company at the bridge, and like the rest of them feared to raise her bowed head to look up lest she meet the gaze of the other. It was said that to meet the gaze of a Confessor could cost you your mind if you were lucky, and your soul if you weren’t. Even though Abby’s mother had said it was untrue, that only the deliberate touch of such a woman could effect such a deed, Abby feared, this day of all days, to test the stories.

The old woman in front of her, clothed in layered skirts topped with one dyed of henna and mantled with a dark draping shawl, watched the soldiers pass and then leaned closer. “Do better to bring a bone, dearie. I hear that there be those in the city who will sell a bone such as you need—for the right price. Wizards don’t take no salt pork for a need. They got salt pork.” She glanced past Abby to the others to see them occupied with their own interests. “Better to sell your things and hope you have enough to buy a bone. Wizards don’t want what some country girl brung ’em. Favours from wizards don’t come easy.” She glanced to the backs of the soldiers as they reached the far side of the bridge, “Not even for those doing their bidding, it would seem.”

“I just want to talk to them. That’s all.”

“Salt pork won’t get you a talk, neither, as I hear tell.” She eyed Abby’s hand trying to cover the smooth round shape beneath the burlap. “Or a jug you made. That what it is, dearie?” Her brown eyes, set in a wrinkled leathery mask, turned up, peering with sudden, humourless intent. “A jug?”

“Yes, ” Abby said. “A jug I made.”

The woman smiled her scepticism and fingered a lick of short grey hair back under her wool head-wrap. Her gnarled fingers closed around the smocking on the forearm of Abby’s crimson dress, pulling the arm up a bit to have a look.

“Maybe you could get the price of a proper bone for your bracelet.”

Abby glanced down at the bracelet made of two wires twisted together in interlocking circles. “My mother gave me this. It has no value but to me.”

A slow smile came to the woman’s weather-cracked lips. “The spirits believe that there is no stronger power than a mother’s want to protect her child.”

Abby gently pulled her arm away. “The spirits know the truth of that.”

Uncomfortable under the scrutiny of the suddenly talkative woman, Abby searched for a safe place to settle her gaze. It made her dizzy to look down into the yawning chasm beneath the bridge, and she was weary of watching the Wizard’s Keep, so she pretended that her attention had been caught as an excuse to turn back towards the collection of people, mostly men, waiting with her at the head of the bridge. She busied herself with nibbling on the last crust of bread from the loaf she had bought down in the market before coming up to the Keep.

Abby felt awkward talking to strangers. In her whole life she had never seen so many people, much less people she didn’t know. She knew every person in Coney Crossing. The city made her apprehensive, but not as apprehensive as the Keep towering on the mountain above it, and that, not as much as her reason for being there.

She just wanted to go home. But there would be no home, at least nothing to go home to, if she didn’t do this.

All eyes turned up at the rattle of hooves coming out under the portcullis. Huge horses, all dusky brown or black and bigger than any Abby had ever seen, came thundering towards them. Men bedecked with polished breastplates, chain-mail, and leather, and most carrying lances or poles topped with long flags of high office and rank, urged their mounts onward. They raised dust and gravel as they gathered speed crossing the bridge, a wild rush of colour and sparkles of light from metal flashing past. Sanderian lancers, from the descriptions Abby had heard. She had trouble imagining the enemy with the nerve to go up against men such as these.

Her stomach roiled. She realized she had no need to imagine and no reason to put her hope in brave men such as those lancers. Her only hope was the wizard, and that hope was slipping away as she stood waiting. There was nothing for it but to wait.

Abby turned back to the Keep just in time to see a statuesque woman in simple robes stride out through the opening in the massive stone wall. Her fair skin stood out all the more against straight dark hair parted in the middle and readily reaching her shoulders. Some of the men had been whispering about the sight of the Sanderian officers, but at the sight of the woman everyone fell to silence. The four soldiers at the head of the stone bridge made way for the woman as she approached the supplicants.