Stone of Tears (98 page)

One bent close to Pasha. “Have you heard?” Pasha stared with a blank look. “Jedidiah fell down a flight of stairs.” Her eyes sparkled with the telling of the gossip. She leaned closer with the titillation of what she had to tell next. “Broke his leg.”

Pasha gasped. “No! When? We just saw him a while ago.”

The woman giggled and nodded. “Yes, it’s true. It just happened, not but a few minutes ago. The healers are with him now. No need for concern; he’ll be back to good by morning.”

“How did it happen?”

The woman shrugged. “Just clumsy. Tripped on the carpet and tumbled down.” She lowered her voice. “He was so furious he flamed the carpet to ash.”

“Wizard’s fire!” Pasha whispered incredulously. “In the Palace? Such a high crime …”

“No, no, not wizard’s fire, of course not, silly girl. Even Jedidiah is not that brazen. Just simple fire. But it was one of the oldest carpets in the Palace. The Sisters are not pleased at his display of temper. They ordered the bone, and the pain, not be mended until morning, as punishment.”

Their gossip finally expended, the two young women’s eyes and smiles settled on Richard. Pasha introduced them as two friends of hers, Celia and Dulcy, two novices with charges of their own. Richard was polite, complimenting them on their pretty dresses, and the way their hair was curled. Their smiles widened.

Taking his arm when they finally left, Pasha thanked him.

“For what?”

“I’ve never been permitted to eat with the Sisters, or with the novices who have a young man to train. This is the first time I’ve ever been to dinner just like I was a Sister. You were pleasant and considerate of everyone; I was so proud to have you with me. And, you look very handsome in those clothes.”

“In that dress, I would imagine you could easily get someone better bred than me as a dinner companion.” Richard pulled open the fancy shirt collar. “I’ve never worn a shirt this ruffled, or white. Nor a coat this red. I think I look foolish.”

A self-satisfied smile spread on Pasha’s face. “I can promise you that Celia and Dulcy do not think you look foolish. I’m surprised you couldn’t see them glowing green. I thought maybe they might decide to sit right down on your lap.”

Richard thought that if Celia an Dulcy liked the red coat so much, they could have it, but he kept the thought to himself. “Why doesn’t an important wizard like Jedidiah wear fancy clothes?”

“Only beginning wizards wear clothes like this, and are permitted to go into the city. At certain milestones in a wizard’s advancement, they change to a particular form of dress. The further a wizard progress, the more modest his dress. That is why Jedidiah wears simple tan robes, because he has nearly reached the end of his training.”

“What is the purpose of such an odd rule?”

“To teach humility. Those with the nicest clothes, the most freedom, and unlimited money, are those with the least power. No one respects them for these things. It is meant to teach the young men that mastery comes from within, not from external trappings.”

“Then, wearing these things is a demotion for me. I was already wearing humble clothes.”

“You are not yet entitled to wear humble robes. You may wear your own clothes occasionally, if you wish. If they were simple robes though, it would not be allowed.

“The people in the city know a wizard’s abilities and power by his dress. No wizard who wears simple robes is permitted to go into the city.” She smiled. “Someday, when you have advanced enough, you will be permitted to wear the robes of a wizard.”

“I don’t like robes. I like the clothes I was wearing.”

“When you have your collar off, and leave the Palace, you may wear what you wish. Of course, most come to respect the robes of their profession, and wear them the rest of their lives.”

Richard changed the subject. “I want to go see Warren. Tell me how to get down there.”

“Now? Tonight? Richard, its been a long day, and I must give you your first lesson yet tonight.”

“Just tell me how to get down there. Will Warren be down there this late?”

“I don’t know that he is ever seen anywhere else. I think he must sleep on the books. I was surprised to see him up in the Palace today. That in itself will be gossip for weeks.”

“I don’t want him to think I forgot him. Just tell me how to get down there.”

“Well,” she sighed, “if you insist on going, we will go together. I’m supposed to escort you wherever you go in the Palace of the Prophets. For now, anyway.”

In the core of the Palace of the Prophets, they began their descent down into the vaults. The stairways on the upper levels were elegant. Lower down, the stairs became utilitarian stone, with their leading edges worn round and smooth. The maidservants he had seen on the upper levels were nowhere to be seen.

Paneled walls gave way to stone. In some places he had to duck under huge beams. Lamps were no longer stationed on the walls, but instead, widely spaced torches lit the way. Sounds of Palace life were left far behind, to be replaced by dead silence. Some of the hallways were wet with leaking water.

“What’s in these vaults?” Richard asked.

“The books of prophecy. Books of history, and records of the Palace are also kept there.”

“Why are they way down here?”

“For protection. Prophecies are dangerous to the untrained mind. All novices study books of prophecy, but only certain Sisters are permitted to read them all, and work with them. Young wizards who show that their gift gives them an aptitude for prophecy are taught by these Sisters.

“There are a few young men who work and study in the vaults, but Warren is to the vaults what Jedidiah is to other forms of magic. Every wizard has a specialty. We will work with you to discover what your innate ability is. Until we can learn this, it will be hard to take your training very far.”

“Sister Verna told me something about that. So, what do you think my talent is?”

“Usually, we can tell by the personality of the boy. Some like to work with their hands, and end up making things of magic. Some like to help the sick or injured, and become healers. Things like that. We can usually tell.”

“So what about me?”

She glanced briefly in his direction. “None of us has ever seen anyone like you before. We have no idea, yet.” Pasha’s face brightened. “But we will.”

A huge, round, stone door, as thick as Richard was tall, stood open in the gloom. Beyond it were rooms carved from the bedrock that the Palace sat atop. Lamps did little to brighten the place. There were a number of long, timeworn tables with books and papers scattered about on them, and shelves in rows that extended into the distance to each side. Two women sat at the tables, taking notes as they read by the light of candles set close.

One of them peered up and addressed Pasha. “What are you doing down here, child?”

Pasha curtsied. “We came to see Warren, Sister.”

“Warren? Why?”

Just then, Warren came scurrying out of the darkness. “It’s all right, Sister Becky. I asked them to come.”

“Well, the next time, please let someone know in advance.”

“Yes, Sister, I will.”

Warren burrowed between the two of them and took their arms, leading them into the shelves. When he realized he was touching Pasha he jerked his hand away and turned red.

“You look … dazzling, Pasha.”

“Why thank you, Mole.” She flushed red herself. She put a hand to his shoulder. “I’m sorry, Warren … I didn’t mean anything by that. I meant to call you Warren.”

He smiled. “It’s all right, Pasha. I know people call me the Mole. They think it a pejorative, but I take it as a compliment. You see, a mole can find its way in the dark, where others are blind. That is much like what I do; I find the way where others see nothing.”

Pasha sighed in relief. “I’m glad, Warren. Mole, did you hear that Jedidiah fell down a flight of stairs and broke his leg?”

“Really?” He searched her eyes. “Maybe the Creator was trying to teach him that when you hold your nose so high in the air, you can’t see where you are going.”

“I don’t think Jedidiah paid any heed to the Creator’s lessons,” Pasha said. “I heard tell that he was so angry he burned a prized carpet to ash.”

Warren still held her eyes. “You are the one who should be angry, not Jedidiah. He said cruel things to you. No one should say cruel things to you.”

“He is usually kind to me, but I admit, I did look a mess.”

“Some of these books look a mess to people, but it is what is inside that matters, not the dust on their covers.”

Pasha blushed. “Why, thank you, Mole … I think.”

Warren looked to Richard. “I didn’t know if you would really come. Most people say they will, but they never do. I’m so pleased you did. Come this way. Pasha, I’m afraid you must wait here.”

“What!” She leaned forward, and Richard thought that maybe her breasts might spill out if she didn’t straighten up. “I’m going, too.”

Warren’s eyes widened. “But I must take him into one of the back rooms. You are a novice. Novices are not allowed.”

She smiled warmly as she did straighten up. “Mole, if a novice is not allowed, how could a new student be allowed?”

Warren’s eyes narrowed. “He is in the prophecies. If the prophets saw fit to write about him, they could hardly intend he not see it.”

Warren seemed considerably more confident down here in his element than he had been up in the Palace. He stood his ground with confidence. Pasha rubbed his shoulder. He glanced down at the hand.

“Warren, you are the Mole; you show others the way. I am the one in charge of Richard; I show him the way. I would be neglecting my duty if I allowed him to go somewhere without me this soon. I’m sure you can make an exception for me. Can’t you, Warren? It’s to help Richard, to help understand the prophecy and how he is to serve the Creator. Isn’t that what’s important?”

Warren finally took his eyes from her and told them to wait. He went off to the two Sisters and spoke with them in hushed tones. He finally came back wearing a smile.

“Sister Becky said it would be permitted. I told her you understand a bit of High D’Haran. In case she asks, say you do.”

“What is High D’Haran? Warren, you want me to lie to a Sister!”

“I’m sure she will not ask.” Warren turned his face away. “I told the lie for you, Pasha, so you would not have to.”

She leaned closer to him. “Warren, if you are caught telling lies about such things, you know what they will do.”

He gave her a small, haunted smile. “I know.”

“What will they do?” Richard asked, suddenly suspicious.

Warren waved impatiently. “Never mind. You two come along.”

They had to hurry after him as he scurried off into the darkness. They went past rows of shelves placed tight together, coming at last to a solid wall of rock. Warren put his hand to a metal plate, and part of the wall moved away, revealing another chamber beyond. Inside the small room sat a table and maybe a dozen rows of shelves. Four lamps made it seem bright inside, by comparison.

Inside, Warren touched another plate and the section of wall slid closed, entombing them in stone and silence. He pulled out a chair for Pasha and had Richard sit to her right. Finally, he pulled a leatherbound book from the shelves and carefully placed it before Richard.

“Please don’t touch it,” Warren said. “It is very old and fragile. Of late, it his been getting more use than usual. Let me turn the pages.”

“Who’s been using it?” Richard asked.

“The Prelate.” A smile twitched across Warren’s lips. “Whenever she is to come down here, her two big guards come first and make everyone leave. They clear the vaults, so the Prelate can have the place to herself, and people won’t know what she reads.”

“Her big guards?” Pasha asked. “You mean the two Sisters in her outer office?”

“Yes,” Warren said. “Sister Ulicia, and Sister Finella.”

“We saw them today,” Richard said. “They didn’t look that big to me.”

Warren lowered his voice meaningfully. “If you ever cross them, you will think otherwise. They will seem very big, indeed.”

Richard took pause at Warren’s expression. “If the place is cleared out, how do you know she has been reading this book?”

“I know.” He turned to the book on the table. “I know. She has been doing most of her reading in this room, of late. I live with these books. When someone touches them, I can tell. You see this smudge in the dust? It is not mine. It is the Prelate’s.”

Warren carefully lifted open the cover and with both hands giving support, turned the yellowed pages. Richard didn’t recognize any of the words, or some of the letters for that matter. On one of the pages that Warren flipped, Richard thought he recognized something: a drawing. It sparked a deep memory. Warren flipped over more pages, finally stopping. He leaned over Richard’s shoulder, pointing.

“This is the prophecy you spoke of.” Warren moved around to the right side of the table. “This is the original, in the prophet’s own hand. Few have ever see it. Do you understand High D’Haran?”

“No. It just looks like scribbling to me.” Richard glanced over the meaningless writing. “You said there was argument over its meaning.”

Warren’s eyes had an intense gleam. “There is. You see, this is a very old prophecy, perhaps as old as the Palace, maybe older. This is the original prophecy. It’s in High D’Haran, as is everything in this room. Very few people understand High D’Haran.”

Richard nodded. “So people have only read the translations, and there is reason to believe that those translations may not be accurate.”

“You understand,” Warren whispered. His movements became more lively. “Yes, yes, you see the problem. Most don’t. Most think one thing in one language must mean a certain thing in another. In order to complete the translation, they settle on an interpretation that fits their view of the meaning, but in so doing, they create a conspectus, that may or may not be the meaning of the prophecy.”

“But that doesn’t take into account possible different meanings,” Richard said. “So when they translate it, they give it only one version. They can’t translate its ambiguity.”

Warren thrust himself forward in excitement. “Yes! You have it! That’s what they can’t understand, and so they argue over the various translations, as if there is a right way and a wrong way to do it. But this is High D’Haran, and High D’Haran …”

Warren’s words trailed off. Richard was staring at the page. The images there were drawing him in. It was almost as if they were murmuring to him. He had never seen such words before, but somehow they resonated with something deep within him.

His hand slowly reached out, drawn to one of the words. His finger came to rest on it.

“This one,” Richard whispered, as if from a trance. The strokes of the letters seemed to lift from the page, as if alive, and coil around his finger, the dark lines caressing, fondling, with intimate familiarity. Before his eyes, too, floated the image of the Sword of Truth.

Warren’s white face came up from the book. “
Drauka
,” he whispered. “That is the word that is the center of the controversy.
Fuer grissa ost drauka
—the bringer of death.”

Pasha leaned over. “So what’s the controversy? You mean those words can be translated differently?” Warren made a vague gesture with his hand. “Well, yes, and no. That is the literal translation of the words. It is their meaning that is in dispute.”

Richard pulled his hand back. He banished the image of the sword. “Death. It has different meanings.”

Warren practically laid on the table as he leaned over. “Yes! You understand!”

“Death is plain as pie,” Pasha said.

Warren straightened and rubbed his hands together. “No, Pasha. Not in High D’Haran. The weapon the Sisters carry, the dacra, its name comes from this word.
Drauka
means death, as in dead, like if I were to say ‘the mriswith Richard killed is dead.’
Drauka
. Dead. But it has other meanings, too.
Drauka
also is a word that represents the souls of the dead.”

Pasha leaned forward with a frown. “Are you saying that
Drauka
, in that sense, can make it mean ‘The Bringer of Souls?”

“No.” Richard said. He whispered the second meaning of the word. “Spirits. The Bringer of Spirits.”

“Yes,” Warren said in a quiet voice. “That is the second interpretation.”

“How many of these different meanings to
drauka
are there?” Pasha asked.

Three
, Richard thought.

“Three,” Warren said.

Richard knew the third. “The underworld,” he whispered as he stared at the word
Drauka
on the page. “The place of the dead. That is the third meaning of
Drauka
.”

Pale as a spirit, Warren leaned toward him. “But you don’t understand D’Haran?” Richard slowly shook his head, his eyes fixed on the page. Warren’s tongue darted out to wet his lips. “Please tell me you don’t have D’Haran blood.”

“My father was Darken Rahl,” Richard said softly. “He was the wizard who ruled D’Hara, and before him, my grandfather, Panis.”

“Dear Creator,” Warren whispered.

Pasha put a hand to Richard’s arm as she leaned toward them both. “Underworld? How could it mean underworld?”

“Because,” Warren said, “the underworld is the world of the dead.”

Her brow knit tighter. “But how could it mean ‘The Bringer of The Underworld’? How can you bring the underworld?”

Richard stared blankly ahead. “You tear the veil.”

The silence echoed around the stone room. Pasha looked from one face to the other. She finally broke the silence.

“But I was taught that for a foreign word in a prophecy that had different shades of meaning, you had only to interpret it in context. It should be a simple matter of seeing how it is used to decipher its meaning.”