Soul of the Fire

"No, sir, at least no one told us the reason. I've talked to the squads to each side, at the next Dominie Dirtch to each side, and it was the same with them; theirs, too, chimed on their own, but no one knows why. The officers who came past must not have known the reason either, because they was asking us what happened."

Lord Rahl nodded, seeming in deep thought. The wind lifted his golden cloak. The Mother Confessor pulled some hair back from her face, as did Lord Rahl's pregnant wife.

Lord Rahl gestured off at the rest of her squad. "And these people, they are all you have here, guarding the border? Just you few… soldiers?"

Beata glanced up at the weapon towering over them. "Well, sir, it only takes one person to ring the Dominie Dirtch."

His gaze again appraised the rest of her squad. "I suppose. Thank you for your help, Sergeant."

He and the Mother Confessor swiftly mounted up. She and the people on foot moved out with the rest of their soldiers. Lord Rahl turned back to her.

"Tell me, Sergeant Beata, do you think I-and the Mother Confessor-are not as good as the Ander people? Do you think us evil of nature, too?"

"Oh no, sir. Only Hakens are born tainted with vile souls. We can never be as good as Anders. Our souls are corrupt and unable to be pure; their souls are pure, and unable to be corrupt. We cannot ever be completely cleansed; we can only hope to control our vile nature."

He smiled sadly down at her. His voice softened. "Beata, the Creator does not create evil. He would not create and bestow upon you souls of evil. You have as much potential for good as anyone else, and Anders have a potential for evil equal to anyone."

'That's not what we're taught, sir."

His horse tossed her head and danced sideways, eager to be off after the others. With a pat on his horse's glossy brown neck, as if speaking to her through that gentle hand, he settled her.

"As I said, you were taught wrong. You are as good as anyone else Beata-Haken, or Ander, or anyone. That's our purpose in this struggle: to make sure that all people have an equal chance.

"You be careful with that thing, Sergeant, that Dominie Dirtch."

Beata saluted with her hand to her brow. "Yes, sir, I surely intend to."

His gaze connected solidly with hers and he tapped his fist to his heart to return the salute. Then, his horse leaped into a gallop to catch the others.

As Beata watched him go, she realized that this had probably been the most exciting thing that would happen in all the rest of her entire life-speaking with the Mother Confessor and the Lord Rahl.

CHAPTER 51

Bertrand Chanboor looked up when Dalton came into the room. Bertrand's wife was there, too, standing before his ornate desk. Dalton met her eyes briefly. He was a bit surprised to see her there, but guessed this was important enough for her to meet with her husband.

"Well?" Bertrand asked.

"They confirmed what we were told," Dalton said. "They saw it with their own eyes."

"And they have soldiers?" Hildemara asked. "That part is true, also?"

"Yes. The best guess is near a thousand men."

Cursing under her breath, she tapped a finger against Bertrand's desk as she considered. "And the fools at the border just let them through without a care."

"We cultivate such an army, you will recall," Bertrand reminded her as he stood. "They also let through our 'special Ander guard troops, after all."

"The people at the border can't be blamed," Dalton put in. "They couldn't very well refuse the Mother Confessor entry. The man could be none other than the Lord Rahl himself."

Erupting in rage, the Minister heaved his glass dipping pen. It clattered across the floor before shattering against the far wall. He went to the window and leaned against the sill as he gazed out.

"For Creation's sake, Bertrand, get a grip on yourself," Lady Chanboor growled.

He turned in red-faced anger and shook a finger at his wife.

"This could ruin everything! We've worked years at this, carefully cultivated the relationship, sown the seeds, pulled the weeds that have sprung up, and just when we're about to finally reap the harvest of our lives, she comes riding in with that-that-that D'Haran bastard Lord Rahl!"

Hildemara folded her arms. "Well that really solves the problem, throwing a fit. I swear, Bertrand, sometimes you have less sense than a drunken fisherman."

"And the sort of pompous wife who drives him to it!"

He ground his teeth and pulled aside his chair, no doubt preparing to launch into an extended tirade. Dalton could almost see her back arch, fur lift, and claws lengthen.

Dalton was usually ignored, like a piece of furniture, when they started in on each other. This time, he had better things to do than wait for it to broaden into a worse argument that would only waste valuable time. He had to issue orders, depending on what was decided. He had to get people in place.