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the sun。 It was a small flock of sheep。 As they passed among them； Richard saw that the people tending the animals were Bantak。 He recognized their manner of dress。
Three Bantak men approached to the side of Richard； ignoring Sister Verna。 They mumbled something he didn’t understand； but their words and faces seemed to hold a certain reverence。 The three dropped to their knees and bowed down； stretching their arms out； their hands on the ground toward him。 Richard slowed his horse to a walk as he looked down at them。 They came back up on their knees； chattering at him； but he didn’t understand the words。
Richard lifted his hand in greeting。 It seemed to satisfy them。 The three broke into grins and bowed a few more times as he rode past。 They came to their feet and trotted next to his horse； attempting to push things into his hands： bread； fruit； strips of dried meat； a drab； dirty scarf； necklaces made of teeth； bone and beads； even their shepherd’s crooks。
Richard forced a smile and； with signs he thought they would understand； tried to decline the offers without offending the men。 One of the three was particularly insistent he take a melon； offering it repeatedly。 Richard didn’t want trouble； so he took the melon and bowed his head several times。 They seemed proud； nodding and bowing as he rode on。 He gave them a last bow from his saddle as he rode past； and slipped the melon into a saddlebag。
Sister Verna had her horse turned toward him； waiting for him to catch up。 She scowled as she waited。 Richard didn’t hurry his horse along； he simply let it go at its own pace。 What now； he wondered。
When he finally reached her； she leaned toward him。 ‘Why are they saying those things！’
‘What things？ I don’t understand their language。’
She gritted her teeth。 They think you are a wizard。 Why would they think that？ Why！’
Richard shrugged。 ‘I would guess it’s because that’s what I told them。’
‘What！’ She pushed the hood of her cloak back。 ‘You are not a wizard！ You have no right telling them you are！ You lied！’
Richard folded his wrists over the high pommel of the saddle。 ‘You’re right。 I’m not a wizard。 Yes； I told them a lie。’
‘Lying is a crime against the Creator！’
Richard heaved a weary sigh。 ‘I did not do it to play at being a wizard。 I did it to stop a war。 It was the only way I could keep a lot of people from dying。 It worked and no one was hurt。 I would do the same thing again if it would prevent killing。’
‘Lying is wrong！ The Creator hates lies！’
‘Does this Creator of yours like killing better？’
Sister Verna looked like she was ready to spit fire at him。 ‘He is everyone’s Creator。 Not just my Creator。 And He hates lies。’
Richard calmly appraised her heated expression。 ‘Tell you that himself； did he？ e right up and sit down next to you and say ‘Sister Verna； I want you to know I hate lies’？’
She ground her teeth and growled the words。 ‘Of course not。 It is written。 Written in books。’
‘Ahh。’ Richard nodded。 ‘Well then； of course it is the truth。 If it is written in books； then it has to be true。 Everyone knows that if something is written down and attributed； then it must be true。’
Her eyes were fire。 ‘You treat lightly the Creator’s words。’
He leaned toward her； some of his own heat surfacing。 ‘And you； Sister Verna； treat lightly the lives of people you consider heathens。’
She paused and with an effort calmed herself a little。 ‘Richard； you must learn that lying is wrong。 Very wrong。 It is against the Creator。 Against what we teach。 You are as much a wizard as an infant is an old man。 Calling yourself a wizard when you are not is a lie。 A filthy lie。 It is a desecration。 You are not a wizard。’
‘Sister Verna； I know very well that lying is wrong。 I am not in the habit of going around telling lies； but in perspective； I consider it preferable to people being killed。 It was the only way。’
She took a deep breath and nodded； causing the curls in her brown hair to spring up and down a little。 ‘Perhaps you are right。 So long as you know that lying is wrong。 Don’t make a habit of it。 You are no wizard。’
Richard stared at her as his grip tightened on the reins。 ‘I know I’m not a wizard； Sister Verna。 I know exactly what I am。’ He gave his horse’s ribs a squeeze with his legs； urging it ahead。 ‘I’m the bringer of death。’
Her hand darted out and snatched a fistful of his shirtsleeve； yanking him around in his saddle。 He snugged the reins back as he was pulled around to her wide eyes。
Her voice was an urgent whisper。 ‘What did you say？ What did you call yourself？’
He gave her an even look。 ‘I’m the bringer of death。’
‘Who named you that？’
Richard studied her ashen face。 ‘I know what wearing this sword means。 I know what it is to draw it。 I know it better than any Seeker before me has known。 It is part of me； I am part of it。 I used its magic to kill the last person who put a collar around my neck。 I know what it makes me。 I lied to the Bantak because I didn’t want people to be killed。 But there is another reason。 The Bantak are a peaceful people。 I did not want them to learn the horror of what it means to kill。 I know all too well that lesson。 You killed Sister Elizabeth ； perhaps you know； too。’
‘Who named you ‘bringer of death’？’ she pressed。
‘No one。 I named myself； because that is what I do； what I am。 I am the bringer of death。’
She released her grip on his shirt。 ‘I see。’
As she began turning her horse around； he called out her name in a manding tone。 It brought her to a halt。 ‘Why？ Why do you want to know who named me that？ Why is it so important？’
Her anger seemed to have vanished； and left a shadow of fear in its passing。 ‘I told you I read all the prophecies at the palace。 There is a fragment of one that contains those words。 ‘He is the bringer of death； and he shall so name himself。’’
Richard narrowed his eyes。 And what does the rest of the prophecy say？ Did it also say that I will kill you； and anyone else I have to； to get this collar off？’
She looked away from his glare。 ‘Prophecies are not for the eyes or ears of the untrained。’
With a sharp kick； she surprised her horse and sent it surging ahead。 As he followed behind； Richard decided to let the matter drop。 He didn’t care about prophecies。 They were nothing more than riddles as far as he was concerned； and he hated riddles。 If something was important enough to need saying； why couch it in riddles？ Riddles were stupid games； and not important。
As he rode； he wondered how many people he was going to have to kill to get the collar off。 One； or a hundred； it didn’t matter。 His rage boiled at the thought of being led around by the Rada’Han。 He gritted his teeth at the thought。 His jaw muscles flexed at the thought。 His fists tightened on the reins。
Bringer of death。 He would kill as many as it took。 He would have the collar off； or he would die trying。 The fury； the need to kill； surged through every fiber of his being。
With a start； he realized he was calling forth the magic from the sword； even as it sat in its scabbard。 He no longer had to hold the sword to do it。 He could feel its wrath tingling through him。 With an effort； he put it down and calmed himself。
Besides the rage of hate from the sword； he also knew how to call forth its opposite side； its white magic。 The Sisters didn’t know he could do that。 He hoped he would have no reason to teach them。 But if he had to； he would。 He would have the collar off。 He would use either side of the sword’s magic； or both； to have the collar off his neck。 When the time came。 When the time came。
In the violet afterglow of twilight； Sister Verna brought them to a halt for the night。 She had said nothing further to him。 He didn’t know if she was still angry； but he didn’t really care。
Richard walked the horses a short distance to a line of small willows at the bank of a creek and removed their bridles； replacing them with halters。 His bay tossed her head； glad to have the bit out of her mouth。 Richard saw it was an aggressive spade bit。 Few bits were more cruelly punishing。
People who used them； it seemed to him； were people who thought horses were nothing more than beasts humans had to conquer and control。 He thought maybe they should have to have a bit in their mouths to see how they liked it。 Properly trained； a horse needed nothing more than a jointed snaffle。 If it was properly trained； and given a little understanding； it didn’t even need a bit。 He guessed some people preferred punishment to patience。
He reached up experimentally to stroke the horse’s black…tipped ear。 It lifted its head firmly away from his hand。 ‘So；’ he muttered； ‘they like to twitch your ear； too。’ He scratched and patted the horse’s neck。 ‘I won’t do that to you； my friend。’ The horse leaned against his scratching。
Richard retrieved water in a canvas bucket and let each horse have only a few swallows； as they weren’t cooled down。 In one of the saddl