01 The Soulforge by Weis & Hickman

Author:Weis & Hickman [Weis & Hickman]
Format: epub
Published: 2010-04-10T23:00:48.997000+00:00

into wakefulness.

"Huh?" Caramon gazed around dazedly. His eyes fo cused, he sat upright. His gaze was fixed on the priestess who

had just entered, and Raistlin could tell from the sudden rigidity of his brother's body that Caramon had also

recognized her.

"The Widow Judith!" Caramon said hoarsely.

"Is it?" Kit asked. "I only saw her once. Are you sure?"

"I'm not likely to ever forget her," Caramon said grimly.

"I recognize her as well," Sturm stated. "That is the woman we knew as the Widow Judith."

Kit smiled, pleased. Crossing her arms over her chest, she settled back comfortably, her bent leg propped over one

knee, and stared at the priestess to the exclusion of anyone else in the temple.

Raistlin also watched Judith attentively, though the sight of her brought back intensely painful memories. He

waited to see her perform a miracle.

The High Priestess was clad in sky-blue robes similar to

those the others wore, with two exceptions: Hers were trimmed in golden thread, and whereas the sleeves on the

robes of the others fit tightly over their arms, her sleeves were voluminous. When she spread her arms wide, the

sleeves made a rippling motion, providing her with an eerie, not-of-this-world aspect. This was further enhanced by

her extremely pale complexion, a pallor that Raistlin suspected was probably enhanced by the skillful use of chalk.

She had darkened her eyelids with kohl, rubbed coral powder on her lips to make them. stand out in the flickering

light.

Her hair was drawn back from her head, pulled back so tightly that it stretched the skin over her cheekbones,

erasing many of her wrinkles, making her look younger. She was an impressive sight, one that the audience, in their

opiated state, appreciated to the fullest. Murmurs of admiration and awe swept through the arena.

Judith raised her hands for silence. The audience obeyed. All was hushed, no one coughed, no baby whimpered.

"Those supplicants who have been deemed acceptable may now come forward to speak to those who have passed

beyond," the High Priest called out. He had an oddly high-pitched voice for a man his size.

Eight people, who had been herded into a sort of pen on one side of the arena, now shuffled down the stairs in

single file, guided by the priests. The supplicants were not permitted to step onto the floor of the arena itself, but

were kept back by ropes.

Six were middle-aged women, dressed in black mourning clothes. They looked pleased and self-important as they

entered behind the priests. The seventh was a young woman not much older than Raistlin, who looked pale and worn

and sometimes put her hand to her eyes. She was also wearing mourning clothes, her grief was obviously fresh. The

eighth was a stolid farmer in his forties. He stood rock still, stared straight ahead, his face carefully arranged so as to

betray no emotion. He was not dressed in mourning and looked extremely out of place.

"Step forward and make your requests. What is it you would ask Belzor?" the High Priest called out.

The first woman was escorted to the fore by a priest. Standing in front of the High Priestess, she made her

request.

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