Terry Goodkind - Debt of Bones

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DEBT OF BONES

BY TERRY GOODKIND

'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.

'Sorceress,’ the old woman whispered to Abby.

Abby hardly needed the old woman's counsel to know it was a sorceress.

Abby recognized the simple flaxen robes, decorated at the neck with

yellow and red beads sewn in the ancient symbols of the profession.

Some of her earliest memories were of being held in her mother's arms

and touching beads like those she saw now.

The sorceress bowed her head to the people and then offered a smile.

'Please forgive us for keeping you waiting out here the whole of the day. It

is not from lack of respect nor something we customarily do, but with the

war on our hands such precautions are regrettably unavoidable. We hope

none took offence at the delay.'

The crowd mumbled that they didn't. Abby doubted there was one

among them bold enough to claim otherwise.

'How goes the war?' a man behind asked.

The sorceress's even gaze turned to him. 'With the blessings of the good

spirits, it will end soon.’

'May the spirits will that D'Hara is crushed,' beseeched the man.

Without response, the sorceress appraised the faces watching her, waiting

to see if anyone else would speak or ask a question. None did.

'Please, come with me, then. The council meeting has ended, and a

couple of the wizards will take the time to see you all.'

As the sorceress turned back to the Keep and started out, three men

strode up among the supplicants and put themselves at the head of the

line, right in front of the old woman. The woman snatched a velvet sleeve.

'Who do you think you are,' she snapped, 'taking a place before me,

when I've been here the whole of the day?'

The oldest of the three, dressed in rich robes of dark purple with

contrasting red sewn inside the length of the slits up the sleeves, looked to

be a noble with his two advisors, or perhaps guards. He turned a glare on

the woman. 'You don't mind, do you?'

It didn't sound at all to Abby like a question.

The old woman took her hand back and fell mute.

The man, the ends of his grey hair coiled on his shoulders, glanced at

Abby. His hooded eyes gleamed with challenge. She swallowed and

remained silent. She didn't have any objection, either, at least none she

was willing to voice. For all she knew, the noble was important enough to

see to it that she was denied an audience. She couldn't afford to take that

chance now that she was this close.

Abby was distracted by a tingling sensation from the bracelet. Blindly, her

ringers glided over the wrist of the hand holding the sack. The wire

bracelet felt warm. It hadn't done that since her mother had died. In the

presence of so much magic as was at a place such as this, it didn't really

surprise her. The crowd moved out to follow the sorceress.

'Mean, they are,' the woman whispered over her shoulder. 'Mean as a

winter night, and just as cold.'

Those men?' Abby whispered back.

'No.’ The woman tilted her head. 'Sorceresses. Wizards, too. That's

who. All those born with the gift of magic. You better have something

important in that sack, or the wizards might turn you to dust for no other

reason than that they'd enjoy it.'

Abby pulled her sack tight in her arms. The meanest thing her mother

had done in the whole of her life was to die before she could see her

granddaughter.

Abby swallowed back the urge to cry and prayed to the dear spirits that

the old woman was wrong about wizards, and that they were as

understanding as sorceresses. She prayed fervently that this wizard would

help her. She prayed for forgiveness, too - that the good spirits would

understand.

Abby worked at holding a calm countenance even though her insides

were in turmoil. She pressed a fist to her stomach. She prayed for strength.

Even in this, she prayed for strength.

The sorceress, the three men, the old woman, Abby, and then the rest of the

supplicants, passed under the huge iron portcullis and on to the Keep

grounds. Inside the massive outer wall Abby was surprised to discover the air

warm. Outside it had been a chill autumn day, but inside the air was spring-

fresh and warm.

The road up the mountain, the stone bridge over the chasm, and then the

opening under the portcullis appeared to be the only way into the Keep,

unless you were a bird. Soaring walls of dark stone with high windows

surrounded the gravel courtyard inside. There were a number of doors

around the courtyard, and ahead, a roadway tunnelled deeper into the

Keep.

Despite the warm air, Abby was chilled to the bone by the place. She

wasn't sure that the old woman wasn't right about wizards. Life in Coney

Crossing was far removed from matters of wizards.

Abby had never seen a wizard before, nor did she know anyone who

had, except for her mother, and her mother never spoke of them except to

caution that where wizards were concerned, you couldn't trust even what

you saw with your own eyes.

The sorceress led them up four granite steps worn smooth over the ages

by countless footsteps, through a doorway set back under a lintel of pink-

flecked black granite, and into the Keep proper. The sorceress lifted an arm

into the darkness, sweeping it to the side. Lamps along the wall sprang to

flame.

It had been simple magic - not a very impressive display of the gift -

but several of the people behind fell to worried whispering as they passed

on through the wide hall. It occurred to Abby that if this little bit of

conjuring would frighten them, then they had no business going to see

wizards.

They wended their way across the sunken floor of an imposing ante-

room the likes of which Abby could never even have imagined. Red

marble columns all around supported arches below balconies. In the

centre of the room a fountain sprayed water high overhead. The water

fell back to cascade down through a succession of ever larger scalloped

bowls. Officers, sorceresses, and a variety of others sat about on white

marble benches or huddled in small groups, all engaged in seemingly

earnest conversation masked by the sound of the water.

In a much smaller room beyond, the sorceress gestured for them to be

seated at a line of carved oak benches along one wall. Abby was bone-weary

and relieved to sit at last.

Light from windows above the benches lit three tapestries hanging on

the high far wall. The three together covered nearly the entire wall and

made up one scene of a grand procession through a city. Abby had never

seen anything like it, but with the way her dreads careened through her

thoughts, she could summon little pleasure in seeing even such a majestic

tableau.

In the centre of the cream-coloured marble floor, inset in brass lines,

was a circle with a square inside it, its corners touching the circle. Inside

the square sat another circle just large enough to touch the insides of the

square. The centre circle held an eight-pointed star. Lines radiated out

from the points of the star, piercing all the way through both circles,

every other line bisecting a corner of the square.

The design, called a Grace, was often drawn by those with the gift. The outer

circle represented the beginnings of the infinity of the spirit world

out beyond. The square represented the boundary separating the spirit

world - the underworld, the world of the dead - from the inner circle,

which represented the limits of the world of life. In the centre of it all

was the star, representing the Light - the Creator.

It was a depiction of the continuum of the gift: from the Creator,

through life, and at death crossing the boundary to eternity with the

spirits in the Keeper's realm of the underworld. But it represented a hope,

too - a hope to remain in the Creator's Light from birth, through life, and

beyond, in the underworld.

It was said that only the spirits of those who did great wickedness in

life would be denied the Creator's Light in the underworld. Abby knew

she would be condemned to an eternity with the Keeper of darkness in

the underworld. She had no choice.

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.

T 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 oniy 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.'

Abby wanted to scream that her business was important, but she

realized that the old woman might be saving her from serious trouble in

accomplishing her business. Reluctantly, she gave the sorceress a nod. As the

sorceress led the three men through the door, Abby could feel the old

woman's eyes on her back. Abby hugged the sack against the burning

anxiety in her abdomen and told herself that it wouldn't be long, and then

she would see him.

As they waited, the old woman remained silent, and Abby was glad for

that. Occasionally, she glanced at the door, imploring the good spirits to

help her. But she realized it was futile; the good spirits wouldn't be

disposed to help her in this.

A roar came from the room beyond the doors. It was like the sound of an

arrow zipping through the air, or a long switch whipping, but much louder,

intensifying rapidly. It ended with a shrill crack accompanied by a flash of

light coming under the doors and around their edges. The doors shuddered

on their hinges.

Sudden silence rang in Abby's ears. She found herself gripping the arms of

the chair.

Both doors opened. The noble's two attendants marched out, followed by

the sorceress. The three stopped in the waiting room. Abby sucked a breath.

One of the two men was cradling the noble's head in the crook of an

arm. The wan features of the face were frozen in a mute scream. Thick

strings of blood dripped on to the carpet.

'Show them out,' the sorceress hissed through gritted teeth to one of the two

guards at the door.

The guard dipped his pike towards the stairs, ordering them ahead, and then

followed the two men down. Crimson drops splattered on

to the white marble of the steps as they descended. Abby sat in stiff,

wide-eyed shock.

The sorceress wheeled back to Abby and the old woman.

The woman rose to her feet. 'I believe that I would rather not bother the

First Wizard today. I will return another day, if need be.'

She hunched lower towards Abby. 'I am called Mariska.' Her brow drew

down. 'May the good spirits grant that you succeed.'

She shuffled to the stairs, rested a hand on the marble railing, and started

down. The sorceress snapped her fingers and gestured. The remaining

guard rushed to accompany the woman, as the sorceress turned back to

Abby.

'The First Wizard will see you now.'

Abby gulped air, trying to get her breath as she staggered to her feet.

'What happened? Why did the First Wizard do that?'

'The man was sent on behalf of another to ask a question of the First

Wizard. The First Wizard gave his answer.'

Abby clutched her sack to herself for dear life as she gaped at the blood

on the floor. 'Might that be the answer to my question, if I ask it?'

'I don't know the question you would ask.' For the first time, the

sorceress's expression softened just a bit. 'Would you like me to see you

out? You could see another wizard or, perhaps, after you've given more

thought to your petition, return another day, if you still wish it.'

Abby fought back tears of desperation. There was no choice. She shook

her head. 'I must see him.'

The sorceress let out a deep breath. 'Very well.' She put a hand under

Abby's arm as if to keep her on her feet. The First Wizard will see you

now.'

Abby hugged the contents of her sack as she was led into the chamber

where waited the First Wizard. Torches in iron sconces were not yet

burning. The late afternoon light from the glassed roof windows was still

strong enough to illuminate the room. It smelled of pitch, lamp oil, roasted

meat, wet stone, and stale sweat.

Inside, confusion and commotion reigned. There were people every-

where, and they all seemed to be talking at once. Stout tables set about

the room in no discernible pattern were covered with books, scrolls, maps,

chalk, unlit oil lamps, burning candles, partially eaten meals, sealing wax,

pens, and a clutter of every sort of odd object, from balls of knotted string to

half-spilled sacks of sand. People stood about the tables, engaged in

conversations or arguments as others tapped passages in books, pored

over scrolls, or moved little painted weights about on maps. Others rolled

slices of roasted meat plucked from platters and nibbled as they watched or

offered opinions between swallows.

The sorceress, still holding Abby under her arm, leaned closer as they

proceeded. 'You will have the First Wizard's divided attention. There will be

other people talking to him at the same time. Don't be distracted. He will

be listening to you as he also listens to or talks to others. Just ignore the

others who are speaking and ask what you have come to ask. He will hear

you.'

Abby was dumbfounded. 'While he's talking to other people?'

'Yes.' Abby felt the hand squeeze her arm ever so slightly. 'Try to be

calm, and not to judge by what has come before you.'

The killing. That was what she meant. That a man had come to speak to

the First Wizard, and he had been killed for it. She was simply supposed to

put that from her thoughts? When she glanced down, she saw that she was

walking through a trail of blood. She didn't see the headless body

anywhere.

Her bracelet tingled so that she looked down at it. The hand under her

arm halted her. When Abby looked up, she saw a confusing knot of

people before her. Some rushed in from the sides as others rushed away.

Some flailed their arms as they spoke with great conviction. So many

were talking that Abby could scarcely understand a word of it. At the

same time, others were leaning in, nearly whispering. She felt as if she were

confronting a human beehive.

Abby's attention was snagged by a form in white to the side. The instant

she saw the long fall of hair and the violet eyes looking right at her,

Abby went rigid. A small cry escaped her throat as she fell to her knees

and bowed over until her back protested. She trembled and shuddered,

fearing the worst.

In the instant before she dropped to her knees, she had seen that the

elegant, satiny, white dress was cut square at the neck, the same as the

black dresses had been. The long flag of hair was unmistakable. Abby

had never seen the woman before, but without doubt knew who she was.

There could be no mistaking this woman. Only one of them wore the

white dress.

It was the Mother Confessor herself.

She heard muttering above her, but feared to listen, lest it was death

being summoned.

'Rise, my child,' came a clear voice.

Abby recognized it as the formal response of the Mother Confessor to one of

her people. It took a moment for Abby to realize it represented no threat, but

simple acknowledgement. She stared at a smear of blood on the

floor as she debated what to do next. Her mother had never instructed her as

to how to conduct herself should she ever meet the Mother Confessor. As

far as she knew, no one from Coney Crossing had ever seen the Mother

Confessor, much less met her. Then again, none of them had ever seen a

wizard, either.

Overhead, the sorceress whispered a growl. 'Rise.'

Abby scurried to her feet, but kept her eyes to the floor, even though

the smear of blood was making her sick. She could smell it, like a fresh

butchering of one of their animals. From the long trail, it looked as if the

body had been dragged away to one of the doors in the back of the room.

The sorceress spoke calmly into the chaos. 'Wizard Zorander, this is

Abigail, born of Helsa. She wishes a word with you. Abigail, this is First

Wizard Zeddicus Zu'l Zorander.'

Abby dared to cautiously lift her gaze. Hazel eyes gazed back.

To each side before her were knots of people: bigr forbidding officers

- some of them looked as if they might be generals; several old men in

robes, some simple and some ornate; several middle-aged men, some in

robes and some in livery; three women - sorceresses all; a variety of other

men and women; and the Mother Confessor.

The man at the centre of the turmoil, the man with the hazel eyes, was

not what Abby had been expecting. She had expected some grizzled, gruff

old man. This man was young - perhaps as young as she. Lean but sinewy, he

wore the simplest of robes, hardly better made than Abby's burlap sack

- the mark of his high office.

Abby had not anticipated this sort of man in such an office as that of

First Wizard. She remembered what her mother had told her - not to trust

what your eyes told you where wizards were concerned.

All about, people spoke to him, argued at him, a few even shouted, but

the wizard was silent as he looked into her eyes. His face was pleasing

enough to look upon, gentle in appearance, even though his wavy brown

hair looked ungovernable, but his eyes .. . Abby had never seen the likes of

those eyes. They seemed to see all, to know all, to understand all. At the

same time they were bloodshot and weary-looking, as if sleep eluded him.

They had, too, the slightest glaze of distress. Even so, he was calm at the

centre of the storm. For that moment that his attention was on her, it was

as if no one else were in the room.

The lock of hair Abby had seen around the noble's finger was now held

wrapped around the First Wizard's finger. He brushed it to his lips before

lowering his arm.

'I am told you are the daughter of a sorceress.' His voice was placid

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DEBTOFBONESBYTERRYGOODKIND'Whatdoyougotinthesack,dearie?'Abbywaswatchingadistantflockofwhistlingswans,gracefulwhitespecksagainstthedarksoaringwallsoftheKeep,astheymadetheirinterminablejourneypastramparts,bastions,towersandbridgeslitbythelowsun.ThesinisterspectreoftheKeephadseemedtobestaringbackthewh...

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Terry Goodkind - Debt of Bones

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