Stone of Tears

He relaxed in the cool water, listening to her splash, waiting for her to finish with the soap. A mist thickened over the pond, stealing slowly, silently, into the surrounding trees.

“I’ve never heard of a woman having more than one husband. Do all the Baka Ban Mana women have more than one husband?”

She giggled. “No. Only me.”

“Why you?”

The water stopped splashing. “Because I wear the prayer dress,” she said, as if it should be self-evident.

Richard rolled his eyes. “Well, what does…”

She came swimming through the rushes toward him. “Before you can have the soap, you must wash my back.”

Richard let out an aggravated sigh. “All right, if I wash your back, will you then go back on your side?”

She presented her back to him. “If you do a proper job.”

When she was satisfied, she finally went back to get dressed while he washed. She told him over the chirp of bugs and the trill of frogs that she was hungry. He was pulling his pants on while she called for him to hurry so they could eat.

He threw his shirt over his shoulder and ran to catch up with her as she headed toward the smell of cooking. She looked much better clean. Her hair looked like a normal person’s, instead of a wild animal’s. She looked no more like a savage, but somehow noble.

It wasn’t dark yet, but getting close to it. The mist that had formed over the pond was drifting in around them from behind. The trees were disappearing in the gathering fog.

As the two of them stepped into the ring of light around the fire, Sister Verna stood. Richard was putting his right arm through his sleeve when he froze at the wide-eyed look on Sister Verna’s face. She was staring at his chest, at the thing he had never let her see before.

At the scar. At the handprint burned there. At the handprint that was a constant reminder of who fathered him.

Sister Verna was as white as a spirit. Her voice was so soft he had to strain to hear her. “Where did you get that?”

Du Chaillu was staring at the scar, too.

Richard pulled his shirt closed. “I told you before, Darken Rahl burned me with his hand. You said I was only having visions.”

Her gaze slowly rose to meet his. Her eyes were filled with something he had never seen in them before. Unbridled fear.

“Richard,” she whispered, “you must not show anyone at the palace what you have upon you. Except the Prelate. She may know what to do. You must show her. But no one else.” She stepped closer. “do you understand? No one!”

Richard slowly buttoned his shirt. “Why?”

“Because, if you do, they will kill you. That is the mark of the Nameless One.” Her tongue wet her lips. “sins of the father.”

From the distance came the plaintive howl of wolves. Du Chaillu shuddered and hugged herself as she stared off into the deepening fog.

“People will die tonight,” Du Chaillu whispered.

Richard frowned at her. “What are you talking about?”

“Wolves. When wolves howl like that in the mist, they are foretelling that people are to die violently in the night, in the mist.”

Chapter 44

They materialized out of fog and mist, the white fangs of death. The startled prey, at first immobilized by bone-chilling fright, jumped to flee before the white death. Fangs of white steel ripped into them without mercy as they bolted for their lives. Death squeals tore the night air with their terror. Hysteria sent them running heedlessly onto the waiting cold, white steel.

Fearless men tasted fear before they died.

Pandemonium spread on a wild uproar of noise. The ringing chime of steel, the splintering of wood, the ripping of canvas, the groan of leather, the pop of bones, the whoosh of fire, the crash of wagons, the thuds of flesh and bone hitting ground, and the screams of man and beast all joined into one long cacophony of terror. The wave of white death drove the tumult before it.

The sharp smell of blood washed through the air, over the sweet aroma of blazing wood, the acrid tang of igniting lamp oil, the smoky smack of flaming pitch, and the gagging stench of burning fur and flesh.

What wasn’t wet with the cold mist was greasy-slick with hot blood.

The white steel fangs now were coated with blood and gore; white snow became a soggy mat of red splashes. The cold air was seared by gouts of flame that leapt up to turn the white fog an incandescent orange. Sinister, dark clouds of smoke hugged the ground while the sky burned overhead.

Arrows zipped past, spears arced through the air, splintered lances spun away into the mist, and severed pike heads whirled off into the darkness. Remnants of torn tents flapped and fluttered as if battered by a furious storm. Swords rose and fell in waves, driven by the grunts that accompanied frantic effort.