Naked Empire

by Terry Goodkind

  There was also the possibility that the bond had inadvertently revealed Richard’s whereabouts and an army was out looking for him. If the man was a soldier, there could shortly be many more, like ants, swarming down out of the hills.

  Richard climbed the back side of a short rocky prominence and lay on his stomach, watching over the top. As the man got closer, Richard could see that he looked young, under thirty years, a bit scrawny, and was dressed nothing at all like a soldier. By the way he stumbled, he was not used to the terrain, or maybe just not used to traveling. It was tiring walking over ground of loose, sharp, broken rock, especially if it was on a slope, since it never provided any solid place for a steady stride.

  The man stopped, stretching his neck to peer at the wagon. Panting from the effort of making it down the slope, he combed his fine blond hair back repeatedly with his fingers, then bent at the waist and rested a hand on a knee while he caught his breath.

  When the man straightened and started out once more, crunching through the gravel at the bottom of the wash, Richard slid back down the rock. He used the intervening lay of the land and patches of scraggly pine to screen himself from sight. He paused from time to time, as he moved closer, to listen for the heavy footsteps and labored breathing, checking his dead-reckoning estimation of where the man would be.

  From behind a freestanding wall of rock a good sixty feet tall, Richard carefully peered out for a look. He had managed to close most of the distance without the man being aware of his presence. Richard moved silently from tree to rock to the back side of slopes, until he was out ahead of the man and in his line of travel.

  Still as stone behind a twisted reddish spire of rock jutting from the broken ground, Richard listened to the crunch of footfalls approaching, listened to the man gulping for breath as he climbed over fingers of rock that lay in his way.

  When the man was not six feet away, Richard stepped out right in front of him.

  The man gasped, clutching his light travel coat beneath his chin as he cringed back a step.

  Richard regarded the man without outward emotion, but inside the sword’s power churned with the menace of rage restrained. For an instant, Richard felt the power falter. The magic of the sword keyed off its master’s perception of danger, so such hesitation could be because the smaller man didn’t appear to be an immediate threat.

  The man’s clothes, brown trousers, flaxen shirt, and a light, frayed fustian coat, had seen better days. He looked to have had a rough time of his journey—but then, Richard, too, had put on unassuming clothes in order not to raise suspicion. The man’s backpack looked to hold precious little. Two waterskins, their straps crisscrossed across his chest, bunching the light coat, were flat and empty. He carried no weapons that Richard saw, not even a knife.

  The man waited expectantly, as if he feared to be the first to speak.

  “You appear to be headed for my friends,” Richard said, tipping his head toward the thin golden plume of dust hanging like a beacon in the sunlight above the darkening plain, giving the man a chance to explain himself.

  The man, wide-eyed, shoulders hunched, raked back his hair several times. Richard stood before him like a stone pillar, blocking his way. The man’s blue eyes turned to each side, apparently checking to see if he had an escape route should he decide to bolt.

  “I mean you no harm,” Richard said. “I just want to know what you’re up to.”

  “Up to?”

  “Why you’re headed for the wagon.”

  The man glanced toward the wagon, not visible beyond the craggy folds of rock, then down at Richard’s sword, and finally up into his eyes.

  “I’m…looking for help,” he finally said.

  “Help?”

  The man nodded. “Yes. I’m searching for the one whose craft is fighting.”

  Richard cocked his head. “You’re looking for a soldier of some kind?”

  He swallowed at the frown on Richard’s face. “Yes, that’s right.”

  Richard shrugged. “The Imperial Order has lots of soldiers. I’m sure that if you keep looking you will come across some.”

  The man shook his head. “No. I seek the man from far away—from far to the north. The man who came to bring freedom to many of the oppressed people of the Old World. The man who gives us all hope that the Imperial Order—may the Creator forgive their misguided ways—will be cast out of our lives so that we can be at peace once again.”

  “Sorry,” Richard said, “I don’t know anyone like that.”

  The man didn’t look disappointed by Richard’s words. He looked more like he simply didn’t believe them. His fine features were pleasant-looking, even though he appeared unconvinced.

  “Do you think you could”—the man hesitantly lifted an arm out, pointing—“at least…let me have a drink?”

  Richard relaxed a bit. “Sure.”

  He pulled the strap off his shoulder and tossed his waterskin to the man. He caught it as if it were precious glass he feared to drop. He pried at the stopper, finally getting it free, and started gulping the water.

  He stopped abruptly, lowering the waterskin. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to start drinking all your water right down.”

  “It’s all right.” Richard gestured for him to drink up. “I have more back at the wagon. You look to need it.”

  As Richard hooked a thumb behind his wide leather belt, the man bowed his head in thanks before tipping the waterskin up for a long drink.

  “Where did you hear about this man who fights for freedom?” Richard asked.

  The man brought the waterskin down again, his eyes never leaving Richard as he paused to catch his breath. “From many a tongue. The freedom he has spread down here in the Old World has brought hope to us all.”

  Richard smiled inwardly at how the bright hope of freedom burned even in a dark place like the heart of the Old World. There were people everywhere who hungered for the same things in life, for a chance to live their life free and by their own labor to better themselves.

  Overhead a black-tipped race, wings spread wide, popped into sight as it glided across the open swath of sky above the rise of rock to each side. Richard didn’t have his bow, but the race stayed out of range, anyway.

  The man shrank at seeing the race the way a rabbit would shrink when it saw a hawk.

  “Sorry I can’t help you,” Richard said when the race had disappeared. He checked behind, in the direction of the wagon, out beyond the nearby hill. “I’m traveling with my wife and family, looking for work, for a place to mind our own business.”

  Richard’s business was the revolution, if he was to have a chance for his plan to work, and there were a number of people waiting on him in that regard. He had more urgent problems, first, though.

  “But, Lord Rahl, my people need—”

  Richard spun back around. “Why would you call me that?”

  “I’m, I’m sorry.” The man swallowed. “I didn’t mean to anger you.”

  “What makes you think I’m this Lord Rahl?”

  The man painted his hand up and down in front of Richard as he sputtered, trying to find words. “You, you, you just…are. I can’t imagine…what else you want me to say. I’m sorry if I have offended you by being so forward, Lord Rahl.”

  Cara stalked out from behind a rocky spire. “What have we here?”

  The man gasped in surprise at seeing her as he flinched back yet another step, clutching the waterskin to his chest as if it were a shield of steel.

  Tom, his silver knife to hand, stepped up out of a gully behind the man, blocking the way should the man decide to run back the way he’d come.

  The man turned in a circle to see Tom towering behind. As he finally came back around and saw Kahlan standing beside Richard, he let out another gasp. They all were wearing dusty traveling clothes, but somehow Richard didn’t suppose that at that moment they looked at all like simple travelers in search of work.

  “Please,” the man said, “I don’t mean a
ny harm.”

  “Take it easy,” Richard said as he stole a sidelong glance at Cara—his words meant not only for the man but the Mord-Sith as well. “Are you alone?” Richard asked him.

  “Yes, Lord Rahl. I’m on a mission for my people, just as I told you. You are of course to be forgiven your aggressive nature—I would expect nothing less. I want you to know I hold no feelings of resentment toward you.”

  “Why does he think you’re the Lord Rahl?” Cara said to Richard in a tone that sounded more accusation than question.

  “I’ve heard the descriptions,” the man put in. Still clutching the waterskin to his chest, he pointed with the other hand. “And that sword. I’ve heard about Lord Rahl’s sword.” His gaze moved cautiously to Kahlan. “And the Mother Confessor, of course,” he added, dipping his head.

  “Of course,” Richard sighed.

  He’d expected that he would have to hide the sword around strangers, but now he knew just how important that was going to be whenever they went into any populated areas. The sword would be relatively easy to hide. Not so with Kahlan. He thought that maybe they could cover her in rags and say she was a leper.

  The man leaned cautiously out, arm extended, and handed Richard his waterskin. “Thank you, Lord Rahl.”

  Richard took a long drink of the terrible-tasting water before offering it to Kahlan. She lifted hers out for him to see as she declined with a single shake of her head. Richard took another long swig before replacing the stopper and slinging the strap back over his shoulder.

  “What’s your name?” he asked.

  “Owen.”

  “Well, Owen, why don’t you come back to camp with us for the night. We can fill up your waterskins for you, at least, before you’re on your way in the morning.”

  Cara was near to bursting as she gritted her teeth at Richard. “Why don’t you just let me see to—”

  “I think Owen has problems we can all understand. He’s concerned for his friends and family. In the morning, he can be on his way, and we can be on ours.”

  Richard didn’t want the man out there somewhere, in the dark, where they couldn’t as easily keep an eye on him as they could if he were in camp. In the morning it would be easy enough to make sure that he wasn’t following them. Cara finally understood Richard’s intent and relaxed. He knew she would want any stranger in her sight while Richard and Kahlan were sleeping.

  Kahlan at his side, Richard started back to the wagon. The man followed, his head swiveling side to side, from Tom to Cara, and back again.

  Since they were headed back to the wagon, Richard finished what water remained in his waterskin while, behind, Owen thanked him for the invitation and promised not to be any trouble.

  Richard intended to see to it that Owen kept his promise.

  Chapter 10

  Up in the wagon, Richard dunked Owen’s two waterskins in the barrel that still had water. Owen, sitting with his back pressed against a wheel, glanced up at Richard from time to time, watching expectantly, as Cara glared at him. Cara clearly didn’t like the fellow, but as protective as Mord-Sith were, that didn’t necessarily mean that it was warranted.

  For some reason, though, Richard didn’t care for the man, either. It wasn’t so much that he disliked him, just that he couldn’t warm to the fellow. He was polite and certainly didn’t look threatening, but there was something about the man’s attitude that made Richard feel…edgy.

  Tom and Friedrich broke up dried wood they’d collected, feeding it into the small fire. The wonderful aroma of pine pitch covered the smell of the nearby horses.

  From time to time Owen cast a fearful eye at Cara, Kahlan, Tom, and Friedrich. By far, though, he seemed most uneasy about Jennsen. He tried to avert his eyes from her, tried not to look her directly in the eye, but his gaze kept being drawn to her red hair shining in the firelight. When Betty approached to investigate the stranger, Owen stopped breathing. Richard told Owen that the goat just wanted attention. Owen gingerly patted the top of Betty’s head as if the goat were a gar that might take off his arm if he weren’t careful.

  Jennsen, with a smile and ignoring the way he stared at her hair, offered Owen some of her dried meat.

  Owen just stared wide-eyed up at her leaning down over him.

  “I’m not a witch,” she said to Owen. “People think my red hair is a sign that I’m a witch. I’m not. I can assure you, I have no magic.”

  The edge in her voice surprised Richard, reminding him that there was iron under the feminine grace.

  Still wide-eyed, Owen said, “Of course not. I, I…just never saw such…beautiful hair before, that’s all.”

  “Why, thank you,” Jennsen said, her smile returning. She again offered him a piece of dried meat.

  “I’m sorry,” Owen said in polite apology, “but I prefer not to eat meat, if it’s all right with you.”

  He quickly reached in his pocket, bringing out a cloth pouch holding dried biscuit. He forced a smile at Jennsen as he held out the biscuits.

  “Would you like one of mine?”

  Tom started, glaring at Owen.

  “Thanks, no,” Jennsen said as she withdrew her extended hand and sat down on a low, flat rock. She snagged Betty by an ear and made her lie down at her feet. “You’d best eat the biscuits yourself if you don’t want meat,” she said to Owen. “I’m afraid we don’t have a lot that isn’t.”

  “Why don’t you eat meat?” Richard asked.

  Owen looked up over his shoulder at Richard in the wagon above him. “I don’t like the thought of harming animals just to satisfy my want of food.”

  Jennsen smiled politely. “That’s a kindhearted sentiment.”

  Owen twitched a smile before his gaze was drawn once again to her hair. “It’s just the way I feel,” he said, finally looking away from her.

  “Darken Rahl felt the same way,” Cara said, turning the glare on Jennsen. “I saw him horsewhip a woman to death because he caught her eating a sausage in the halls of the People’s Palace. It struck him as disrespectful of his feelings.”

  Jennsen stared in astonishment.

  “Another time,” Cara went on as she chewed a bite of sausage, “I was with him when he came around a corner outside, near the gardens. He spotted a cavalry man atop his horse eating a meat pie. Darken Rahl lashed out with a flash of conjured lightning, beheading the man’s horse in an instant—thump, it dropped into the hedge. The man managed to land on his feet as the rest of his horse crashed to the ground. Darken Rahl reached out, drew the man’s sword, and in a fit of anger slashed the belly of the horse open. Then he seized the soldier by the scruff of his neck and shoved his face into the horse’s innards, screaming at him to eat. The man tried his best, but ended up suffocated in the horse’s warm viscera.”

  Owen covered his mouth as he closed his eyes.

  Cara waved her sausage as if indicating Darken Rahl standing before her. “He turned to me, the fire gone out of him, and asked me how people could be so cruel as to eat meat.”

  Jennsen, her mouth hanging open, asked, “What did you say?”

  Cara shrugged. “What could I say? I told him I didn’t know.”

  “But why would people eat meat, then, if he was like that?” Jennsen asked.

  “Most of the time, he wasn’t. Vendors sold meat at the palace and he usually paid it no mind. Sometimes he would shake his head in disgust, or call them cruel, but usually he didn’t even take notice of it.”

  Friedrich was nodding. “That was the thing about the man—you never knew what he was going to do. He might smile at a person, or have them tortured to death. You never knew.”

  Cara stared into the low flames of the fire before her. “There was no way to reason out how he would react to anything.” Her voice took on a quiet, haunted quality. “A lot of people simply decided that it was only a matter of time until he killed them, too, and so they lived their lives as the condemned would, waiting for the axe to fall, taking no pleasure in life or the thought of the
ir future.”

  Tom nodded his grim agreement with Cara’s assessment of life in D’Hara as he fed a crook of driftwood into the fire.

  “Is that what you did, Cara?” Jennsen asked.

  Cara looked up and scowled. “I am Mord-Sith. Mord-Sith are always ready to embrace death. We do not wish to die old and toothless.”

  Owen, nibbling his dried biscuit as if out of obligation to eat since the rest of them were, was clearly shaken by the story. “I can’t imagine life with such savagery as all of you must live. Was this Darken Rahl related to you, Lord Rahl?” Owen suddenly seemed to think he might have made a mistake, and rushed to amend his question. “He has the same name…so I thought, well, I just thought—but I didn’t mean to imply that I thought you were like him….”

  Stepping down from the wagon, Richard handed Owen his full waterskins. “He was my father.”

  “I didn’t mean anything by the question. I would never intentionally cast aspersions on a man’s father, especially a man who—”

  “I killed him,” Richard said.

  Richard didn’t feel like elaborating. He recoiled from the very thought of going into the whole dreadful tale.

  Owen gaped around as if he were a fawn surrounded by wolves.

  “He was a monster,” Cara said, appearing to feel the need to rise to Richard’s defense. “Now the people of D’Hara have a chance to look forward to a future of living their lives as they wish.”

  Richard sat down beside Kahlan. “At least they will if they can be free of the Imperial Order.”

  Head down, Owen nibbled on his biscuit as he watched the others.

  When no one else spoke, Kahlan did. “Why don’t you tell us your reasons for coming here, Owen.”

  Richard recognized her tone as that of the Mother Confessor asking a polite question meant to put a frightened petitioner at ease.