"Most people in Fairfield were displaced and lost everything they owned. Many fled. The roads all around were packed solid with those trying to escape what was happening in the city. The people fleeing the city only ended up being the spoils for the soldiers in the hills all around who couldn't fit into the city. Only a trickle mostly the very old and sickly-made it past that gauntlet."

His impersonal tone abandoned him. He had spent time with those people, too. "I'm afraid that, in all, it went badly for them, Lord Rahl. There was a horrendous amount of killing, of the men, anyway-in the tens of thousands.

Likely more."

"They got what they asked for." Cara's voice was as cold as winter night. "They picked their own fate." Kahlan agreed, but didn't say so. She knew Richard agreed, too. None of them were pleased about it, though.

"And the countryside?" Richard asked. "Anything known about places outside Fairfield? Is it going better for them?"

"No better, Lord Rahl. The Imperial Order has been methodically going about a process of `pacifying' the land, as they call it. Their soldiers are accompanied by the gifted.

"By far, the worst of the accounts were about one called `Death's Mistress. » "Who?" Cara asked.

" `Death's Mistress, they call her."

"Her. Must be the Sisters," Richard said.

"Which ones do you think it would be?" Cara asked.

Richard, cutting the mouth into the firewood face, shrugged. "Jagang has both Sisters of the Light and Sisters of the Dark held captive. He's a dream walker; he forces both to do his bidding. It could be either; the woman is simply his tool."

"I don't know," Captain Meiffert said. "We've had plenty of reports about the Sisters, and how dangerous they are. But they're being used like you said, as tools of the army-weapons, basically-not as his agents. Jagang doesn't let them think for themselves or direct anything.

"This one, from the reports, anyway, behaves very differently from the others. She acts as Jagang's agent, but still, the word is she decides things for herself, and does as she pleases. The men who came back reported that she is more feared than Jagang himself.

"The people of one town, when they heard she was coming their way, all gathered together in the town square. They made the children drink poison first, then the adults took their dose. Every last person in the town was dead when the woman arrived-close to five hundred people."

Richard had stopped carving as he listened. Kahlan knew that unfounded rumors could also be so lurid as to turn alarm into deadly panic, to the point where people would rather die than face the object of their dread.

Fear was a powerful tool of war.

Richard went back to the carving in his lap. He held the knife near the tip of the point, like a pen, and carefully cut character into the eyes.

"They didn't get a name for her, did they? This Death's Mistress?"

"I'm sorry, no, Lord Rahl. They said she is simply called by everyone

`Death's Mistress. » "Sounds like an ugly witch," Cara said.

"Quite the contrary. She has blue eyes and long blond hair. She is said to be one of the most beautiful women you could ever lay eyes upon. They say she looks like a vision of a good spirit."

Kahlan couldn't help notice the captain's furtive glance at Cara, who had blue eyes and long blond hair, and was also one of the most beautiful women you could ever lay eyes upon. She, too, was deadly.

Richard was frowning. "Blond. . blue eyes. . there are several it could be…. Too bad they didn't catch her name."

"Sorry, but they gave no other name, Lord Rahl, only that description …. Oh yes, and that she always wears black."

"Dear spirits," Richard whispered as he rose to his full height, gripping his carving by its throat.

"From what I've been told, Lord Rahl, though she looks like a vision of one, the good spins themselves would fear her."

"With good reason." Richard said, as he stared into the distance, as if looking beyond the black wall of mist to a place only he could see.

"You know her, then, Lord Rahl?"

Kahlan listened to the fire pop and crackle as she waited along with the other two for his answer. It almost seemed Richard was trying to find his voice as his gaze sank back down to meet the eyes of the carving in his hand.

"I know her," he said, at last. "I know her all too well. She was one of my teachers at the Palace of the Prophets."

Richard tossed his carving into the flames.

"Pray you never have to look into Nicci's eyes, Captain."

Look into my eyes, child," Nicci said in her soft, silken voice as she cupped the girl's chin.

Nicci lifted the bony face. The eyes, dark and wide-set, blinked with dull bewilderment. There was nothing to be seen in them: the girl was simple.

Nicci straightened, feeling a hollow disappointment. She always did.

She sometimes found herself looking into people's eyes, like this, and then wondering why. If she was searching for something, she didn't know what it was.

She resumed her leisurely walk down the line of the townspeople, all assembled along one side of the dusty market square. People in outlying farms and smaller communities no doubt came into the town several times a month, on market days, some staying overnight if they had come from far away. This wasn't a market day, but it would suit her purpose well enough.

A few of the crowded buildings had a second story, typically a room or two for a family over their small shop. Nicci saw a bakery, a cobbler's shop, a shop selling pottery, a blacksmith, an herbalist, a shop offering leatherwork-the usual places. One of these towns was much the same as the next. Many of the town's people worked the surrounding fields of wheat or sorghum, tended animals, and had extensive vegetable plots. Dung, straw, and clay being plentiful, they lived in homes of daub and wattle. A few of the shops with a second story boasted beam construction with clapboard siding.

Behind her, sullen soldiers bristling with weapons filled the majority of the square. They were tired from the hot ride, and worse, bored. Nicci knew they were a twitch away from a rampage. A town, even one with meager plunder, was an inviting diversion. It wasn't so much the taking as the breaking that they liked. Sometimes, though, it was the taking. The nervous women only rarely met the soldiers' bold stares.

As she strolled past the scruffy people, Nicci looked into the eyes watching her. Most were wide with terror and fixed not on the soldiers, but on the object of their dread: Nicci-or as people had taken to calling her, "Death's Mistress." The designation neither pleased nor displeased her; it was simply a fact she noted, a fact of no more significance to her than if someone had told her that they had mended a pair of her stockings.

Some, she knew, were staring at the gold ring through her lower lip.

Gossip would have already informed them that a woman so marked was a personal slave to Emperor Jagang-something lower even than simple peasants such as themselves. That they stared at the gold ring, or what they thought of her for it, was of even less significance to her than being called "Death's Mistress."

Jagang only possessed her body in this world; the Keeper would have her soul for eternity in the next. Her body's existence in this world was torment; her spirit's existence in the next would be no less. Existence and torment were simply the two sides of the same coin-there could be no other.

Smoke, rolling up from the fire pit over her left shoulder, sailed away on a fitful wind to make a dark slash across the bright blue afternoon sky.

Stacked stones to each side of the communal cooking pit supported a rod above the fire. Two or three pigs or sheep, skewered on the rod, could be roasted at once. Temporary sides were probably available to convert the fire pit into a smokehouse.