The Third Kingdom

by Terry Goodkind

  Besides, she realized that she needed to know what the man was up to, what his “life’s work” was all about, and what he was doing at the abbey. She could tell that it wouldn’t take a lot to encourage him to reveal such things about himself.

  “I’m sorry, Abbot, but falling from a cliff and being caught at the last possible instant before smacking the ground is all new to me. I’m afraid that if you have some purpose in doing it, that purpose is lost on me.”

  He dispensed with the smile as he leaned in toward her. “Right there, at the end, right at that last instant before you knew with absolute certainty that you were about to die, did you have any revelations? Any last thoughts? Any memories of the meaning of your life? In rare near-death encounters, many people say that they experience in a single instant the entirety of their life—see it all.

  “So, I was wondering what your last thoughts were in that final instant before you knew that you were about to die.”

  Kahlan had to look away from his eyes. She stared out the window instead, watching the endless expanse of trees and limbs flash past the coach.

  “Well?” he asked. “What last thought did you have?”

  “You wouldn’t understand,” she said in a quiet voice without looking at him.

  They rode in silence for a moment.

  “In that case,” he finally said, “why don’t you explain it to me.”

  She knew it was not simple curiosity. It was a request she dared not ignore.

  “I experienced the total and complete feelings I have for my husband.”

  He held up a finger. “Ah, love.”

  She was about to say that he wouldn’t know what love really was, but decided not to waste the effort.

  “Well, you see, the thing is,” he went on as he picked at one of his fingernails, “we have learned, through our abilities with occult powers, how to alter that experience.”

  Kahlan’s eyes turned to him. “Alter the ‘experience’? The ‘experience’ of death? What do you mean?”

  “In that last instant before death—real, certain death, actual death—people experience many different things. They may experience regret, paralyzing fear, love, even the instantaneous memory of the sum of their entire life, as I hear it told. That sort of thing.”

  “So?”

  “Well, you see, we—by we, I mean I, of course—I have learned through long experimentation and effort how to alter that experience so that those about to pass through the veil and into the world of the dead are able to do something useful for those of us remaining behind in the world of life.”

  Kahlan frowned, now sincerely curious.

  “Useful? What could you possibly get from people right before they die that is useful to you?”

  His smile returned, but this time there was no amusement in it, no gloating. It was as malevolent a look as she had ever seen.

  “Prophecy.”

  CHAPTER

  64

  Kahlan was stunned. “Prophecy?”

  “Yes. We get prophecy.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Well, you see,” he said as he leaned back, “when altered through my abilities near the end of life, that life remaining within a person, the life that is draining away, is altered so that in that last, singular instant when they are crossing over through the veil, for that brief flicker of time when they are still holding on to life and at the same time touching death, rather than seeing their life’s experiences, or feeling some sense of loss, or even feelings of love, they instead, because of the changes I’ve made within them, as they touch the timeless world of the dead they are able to tap into that same flow of time that prophets experience.

  “In that extraordinary moment, connected to the convergence of life and death, they are able to see the sweep of time, stand in its flow, and thus give forth prophecy, the same as a genuine prophet.”

  Kahlan was horrified. “You think that you can somehow use occult powers to get prophecy out of people as they are dying?”

  He shot her a condescending look. “It is a process I created and developed, thoroughly understand, and control. There is no speculation involved.”

  “And you’ve done this before? You intend to do it again?”

  “That is the purpose of the abbey. There I use this process to collect prophecies and then deliver them to Lord Arc. Lord Arc uses prophecy, you see, to guide him.”

  Kahlan stared in disbelief. “Are you saying that you take people to the abbey and murder them so that they will cry out prophecy to you as they’re dying? You murder people in the hope that with their last dying breath they will give you a prophecy?”

  “Murder? No, not exactly. We are harvesting prophecy from the great abyss of eternity. We are reaping what is there for those who know how to obtain it.”

  “Through murder.”

  He dismissed the charge with a gesture. “The people chosen to help us in this great work are not murder victims. To the contrary. It is an honor for them that they have been chosen to give their lives to such a noble cause. They may not be able to realize that right then, of course, but they are heroic people sacrificing their lives for the benefit of others.”

  “That’s madness,” Kahlan whispered.

  “Madness? No, not at all,” he said, prickling at the suggestion. “The sacrifice of these few is all done for the greater good of the many. It is brilliant both in its conception and in its execution.”

  “‘Execution’ is the right word,” Kahlan said. “Execution plain and simple for your twisted cause.”

  He gave her a testy look. “You do the same thing.”

  “We do no such thing and you know it.”

  “You who use prophecy. Those at the People’s Palace use it—those like your husband who collect and hoard the life’s work of prophets who have tapped that great flow of time from beyond, as I am doing, only to keep that precious prophecy in secret libraries so as to use it to control the lives of others rather than benefit those lives. Those who give prophecy—prophets—are also giving their lives into such prophecy, no less than those at the abbey, and you suck dry that effort for selfish reasons, not for the common good as it is intended by the Creator.”

  Kahlan knew better than to say anything.

  He leaned forward and pointed a finger at her. “You and Lord Rahl keep prophecy to yourselves in order use it as a weapon to enslave people.

  “We, on the other hand, use the prophecy we gather from those who make such a final sacrifice in order to help guide the lives of our people. We use such prophecy to guide the people of Fajin Province, we don’t hide it from them as you and Lord Rahl do for selfish gain. Prophecy rightly belongs to everyone, not just the few.

  “And now others in other lands have asked to join with us and benefit from the insights we gain from prophecy.”

  Kahlan didn’t bother to try to argue with such madness. She was sick to death of trying to make people understand how prophecy worked, and how it did not work. She was disheartened with the lands that had left the D’Haran Empire to follow Hannis Arc for promises of prophecy freely given to them.

  In the end, people believed what they wanted to believe. The truth had very little to do with it.

  “You have been chosen to contribute to this great work,” he said at last as he finally leaned back in his seat. “You will in the end be one of those who gives prophecy to those who need it. Because of your renown, prominence, and birthright as a Confessor, we expect remarkable prophecy from you.”

  Kahlan glanced at the Mord-Sith and then back at the abbot. “So you’re going to kill me. Big surprise. Evil men have been killing innocent people since the dawn of time.

  “You are going to chop off my head, expecting me to babble prophecy first? Fine, just don’t try to convince yourself that I lay my head on the block willingly. It will be a simple act of murder, nothing more, and certainly not noble.”

  He dismissed her words with a wave and a sour expression.


  “It’s not that simple,” the Mord-Sith said with a knowing smile.

  “Not that simple,” Kahlan repeated. “And why not? You said that you kill people so that they will give prophecy right as they’re dying. That may be lunacy, but it is simple lunacy.”

  “No, you misunderstand,” she said. “I meant that the process is not that simple.”

  “They must be prepared, first,” Abbot Dreier put in with a kind of twisted zeal.

  “Prepared? How do you prepare them to be murdered?”

  He lifted an eyebrow. “Torture.”

  Kahlan stared back. “You torture people at the abbey.”

  “That is the function of the facility—to process people on their path to giving their gift of prophecy. It is through torture that people are properly brought to that cusp of life and death and held there at the boundary between worlds until they are finally ready to accept into themselves what we offer them.”

  Kahlan was incredulous. “What you offer? What could you possibly offer them as you torture them?”

  “Release,” the Mord-Sith said.

  “Release?” Kahlan asked, still staring at them both in disbelief.

  “Release,” Abbot Dreier confirmed. “Only when they willingly embrace the greater good and allow themselves to be the conduit for this gift to mankind, do we release them and allow them the privilege of crossing over into death.”

  Kahlan felt sick. She now understood all too well the part that the Mord-Sith played in this scheme.

  Erika smiled when she saw that Kahlan finally understood.

  “There is transcendent glory in profound agony,” the Mord-Sith said with quiet conviction, as if to justify what they were doing.

  “Glory,” Kahlan said, sarcastically, repulsed by the evil of it all.

  “Yes, indeed, glory.” The Mord-Sith’s wicked satisfaction in her work surfaced. “We intend to bring you such glory as you cannot yet imagine.”

  Ludwig Dreier was staring at Kahlan. “And then you, too, like all the others who have come before you, will willingly give forth prophecy in order to be allowed to cross over into death.”

  CHAPTER

  65

  Richard sat on the stone floor of the cavern, his back leaned up against the wall, half dozing, weary from the inner sickness weighing him down. He looked up when he heard muffled voices. It was not Zedd’s voice, but voices outside of the barrier, out beyond his main prison entrance. Someone was saying something he couldn’t quite make out.

  He saw movement on the other side of the undulating green veil and then several figures came to a halt. It was not the kind of movement he was used to seeing from the writhing spirits inside the world of the dead who had been taunting him for days, promising him the peace of eternal nothingness, whispering for him to step through and join them in that eternal peace.

  These other figures were instead standing outside his green prison door.

  It had been several days since he had seen or heard anyone even passing by beyond that rippling wall of green light. At least, he thought it had been several days. He couldn’t be sure. It was hard to tell time in the timeless twilight of the imprisoning cavern.

  He had slept little and paced a lot as the time slowly passed. They had brought him no food. He had found a recess worn down into the rock itself by the steady drip of water. Over time that slow, steady drip had hollowed out a bowl-shaped depression. That at least provided him a source of water, since the bucket was empty.

  But without food, he was beginning to think that maybe they had simply left him there to die. With the touch of death always there in the background inside him, he wondered if that poison left by the Hedge Maid might beat them to it.

  Richard had gone back a number of times to the place where he had talked to Zedd, but his grandfather never answered. As he had paced, Richard had frequently checked the other openings that were also blocked by the greenish veil to the underworld. No word came back from beyond any of them. He wondered if the guards had moved people away from the cells near his so that no one could talk to him or tell him what was happening. It would make sense for them to want to isolate him.

  Richard told himself that it was either that, or Zedd had not returned because it was more likely that prisoners were stuffed into any handy hole, rather than bothering to bring them back to a specific place. After all, the rock was honeycombed with caverns. He tried very hard to convince himself of that. He refused to allow himself to consider the possibility that after Richard had last spoken with him, they had again bled his grandfather and he had finally died. Richard reminded himself that Zedd was stronger than he looked, and that he would hold on now that Richard was there.

  But what hope could there be just because Richard was now also a prisoner? He was more likely to die along with the rest of them.

  The greenish light abruptly dissipated, twisting as it dissolved like smoke spiraling up and vanishing.

  There were a number of Shun-tuk standing outside in the maze of passageways, as well as a few of the walking dead standing farther back in dark openings, watching with glowing red eyes. The half people stared as if trying to see his soul.

  The Mord-Sith stood at the entrance. It was her shape he had seen beyond the veil.

  Richard stayed seated where he was.

  Down in the chamber where they had put him, there was no opening to the outside world, no daylight, so it was impossible for him to tell precisely how many days it had been since he had last seen anyone, or even if it was day or night. Since he had been left in his private prison, not even the Mord-Sith had come to torment him, as Mord-Sith were wont to do.

  While he felt weak from lack of food, in contrast Vika looked well rested and fresh. With Mord-Sith, that was generally a bad sign.

  Richard, though, wasn’t in the mood for any of their nonsense or games. His time was running out and his patience was well past wearing thin.

  Vika stepped into his prison room in a commanding manner that brought back a lot of very unpleasant memories. He tried to remind himself not to impose past situations on this one. This was different. He was different. He had to think of what he faced now, not what he had faced in the past.

  The Mord-Sith’s single blond braid looked clean and freshly made up. Her red leather was spotless and cut to stretch tightly over her muscular form.

  “It is time,” she said in a silky, cool voice.

  “Time?” Richard, resting his forearms over his knees, didn’t make a move to get up. “Time for what?”

  “Time for you to come with me,” she said, with a practiced lack of emotion.

  Richard sighed and stood up before she came to retrieve him. He brushed the stone grit off his hands. He mentally readied himself for the dance that was about to begin. He took a calming breath. He was not going to let her lead.

  “Look, Vika, I know a lot more about Mord-Sith than you can imagine, and I think you know a lot less about the outside world than you realize. You’ve been kept in the Dark Lands and at the same time kept in the dark.

  “You need to listen to me. Darken Rahl was an evil man. Don’t mark me with his crimes or sins.

  “The world beyond Fajin Province, beyond these backward Dark Lands, has changed for the better. I know how Darken Rahl collected young girls to become Mord-Sith, how they were trained. I can see why any Mord-Sith would have left him … but I’m not him.

  “I’m not like he was. I don’t allow the collection of girls to become Mord-Sith, and I don’t treat those women who are already Mord-Sith the way he treated them. The Mord-Sith are my friends.”

  She arched an eyebrow. “Like Cara?”

  “Cara. Cara is here?” Richard took a step forward. “Is she all right? Is she safe.”

  “She is weak.”

  “From being bled?”

  Vika twitched a frown. “No. She is weak from being your Mord-Sith. She is weak because you are weak and allowed her to grow weak.”

  “Cara is a lot stronger than you coul
d ever be because I allowed her to grow,” Richard said through gritted teeth. “She had the strength to grow into the person she wanted to be. You could never be as strong as she is.”

  “Please,” Vika scoffed with a roll of her eyes. “Her Agiel doesn’t even work. She is nothing, now.” She smiled. “That is how Lord Arc knew that your gift really had failed. The Agiel of your Mord-Sith do not work because your gift, your bond, has failed them. You have failed them. They are helpless, now. You are helpless now.”

  Richard had been wondering exactly how Hannis Arc had known about Richard’s gift not working. It had been a simpler answer than he had considered.

  “Did you talk to Cara? Did you try to learn anything about how things are now with—”

  “I talked. She listened.”

  Richard didn’t like what she was implying.

  “You can choose to change, Vika.”

  “Change? Like her? Become weak? I was at the People’s Palace with Abbot Dreier. I was there right under your nose, unseen, helping him set things into motion. When I was there I heard talk, and the abbot confirmed it. He said that Cara—a Mord-Sith—had wed.”

  “I know,” Richard said in a quiet voice. “I’m the one who married them.”

  Vika, looking surprised, studied his face for a long moment. “Why would she do such a thing? She is Mord-Sith.”

  “She is also a woman, Vika, just like you. She fell in love and wanted to share her life with the man she loved.”

  Her frown returned. She looked sincerely puzzled. “And you allowed this? Why would you marry them?”

  “Because I care about her, about all the Mord-Sith. I wanted her to be happy. After what she has been through in her life, what all of you have been through, she deserved to have some happiness come into her life. The other Mord-Sith wept with joy at her wedding.” Richard tapped his own chest. “I wept with joy for her.”

  As Vika studied him in silence for a time, he went on.

  “She changed—by her own choice, changed to have the life she wanted. You, too, have the ability to use your head, to change, but the time for you to make that choice for your own life is shrinking. You still have the choice of setting things right and of helping me to set things right. That’s the only way.