She took another breath. All she had to do was reach the door, and then she would be able to leave. She would be safe.
She felt the floor ahead as she inched forward on her belly. The straw was damp, whether from the rain or from the foul things draining from the platforms, she didn’t know. She told herself the Mud People respected the dead. They would not leave filthy straw in there. It must be clean. Then why did it stink so?
With great effort, Kahlan ignored the bugs skittering over her. When her concentration on remaining silent wandered, she could hear little pules escape her throat. With her face right at the floor, she saw the next lightning flash under the door. It wasn’t far.
She didn’t know where the chicken had gone. She prayed it would go back to pecking at Juni’s eyes.
With the next flash of lightning, she saw chicken feet standing between her and the crack under the door. The thing wasn’t more than a foot from her face.
Kahlan slowly moved a trembling hand to her brow to cup it over her eyes. She knew that any instant, the chicken-monster-thing was going to peck her eyes, just like it pecked Juni’s eyes. She panted in terror at the mental image of having her eyes pecked out. Of blood running from ragged, hollow sockets.
She would be blind. She would be helpless. She would never again see Richard’s gray eyes smiling at her.
A bug wriggled in her hair, trying to free itself from a tangle. Kahlan brushed at it, failing to get it off.
Suddenly, something hit her head. She cried out. The bug was gone. The chicken had pecked it off her head. Her scalp stung from the sharp hit.
“Thank you,” she forced herself to say to the chicken. “Thank you very much. I appreciate it.”
She shrieked when the beak struck out, hitting her arm. It was a bug. The chicken hadn’t pecked at her arm, but had gobbled up a bug.
“Sorry I screamed,” she said. Her voice shook. “You startled me, that’s all. Thank you again.”
The beak struck hard on the top of her head. This time, there was no bug. Kahlan didn’t know if the chicken-thing thought there was, or if it meant to peck her head. It stung fiercely.
She moved her hand back to her eyes. “Please, don’t do that. It hurts. Please don’t peck me.”
The beak pinched the vein on the back of her hand over her eyes. The chicken tugged, as if trying to pull a worm from the ground.
It was a command. It wanted her hand away from her eyes.
The beak gave a sharp tug on her skin. There was no mistaking the meaning in that insistent yank. Move the hand, now, it was saying, or you’ll be sorry.
If she made it angry, there was no telling what it was capable of doing to her. Juni lay dead above her as a reminder of the possibilities.
She told herself that if it pecked at her eyes, she would have to grab it and try to wring its neck. If she was quick, it could only get in one peck. She would have one eye left. She would have to fight it then. But only if it went for her eyes.
Her instincts screamed that such action would be the most foolish, dangerous thing she could do. Both the Bird Man and Richard said this was not a chicken. She no longer doubted them. But she might have no choice.
If she started, it would be a fight to the death. She held no illusion as to her chances. Nonetheless, she might be forced to fight it. With her last breath, if need be, as her father had taught her.
The chicken snatched a bigger beakful of her skin along with the vein and twisted. Last warning.
Kahlan carefully moved her trembling hand away. The chicken-thing cackled softly with satisfaction.
Lightning flashed again. She didn’t need the light, though. It was only inches away. Close enough to feel its breath.
“Please, don’t hurt me?”
Thunder crashed so loud it hurt. The chicken squawked and spun around.
She realized it wasn’t thunder, but the door bursting open.
“Kahlan!” It was Richard. “Where are you!”
She sprang to her feet. “Richard! Look out! It’s the chicken! It’s the chicken!”
Richard grabbed for it. The chicken shot between his legs and out the door.
Kahlan went to throw her arms around him, but he blocked her way as he snatched the bow off the shoulder of one of the hunters standing outside. Before the hunter could shy from the sudden lunge, Richard had plucked an arrow from the quiver over the man’s shoulder. In the next instant the arrow was nocked and the string drawn to cheek.
The chicken dashed madly across the mud, down the passageway. The halting flickers of lightning seemed to freeze the chicken in midstride, each flash revealing it with arresting light, and each flash showing it yet farther away.
With a twang of the bowstring, the arrow zipped away into the night.
Kahlan heard the steel tipped arrow hit with a solid thunk.
In the lightning, she saw the chicken turn to look back at them. The arrow had caught it square in the back of the head. The front half of the arrow protruded from between its parted beak. Blood ran down the shaft, dripping off the arrow’s point. It dripped in puddles and matted the bird’s hackles.
The hunter let out a low whistle of admiration for the shot.
The night went dark as thunder rolled and boomed. The next flash of lightning showed the chicken sprinting around a corner.
Kahlan followed Richard as he bolted after the fleeing bird. The hunter handed Richard another arrow as they ran. Richard nocked it and put tension on the string, holding it at the ready as they charged around the corner.
All three slowed to a halt. There, in the mud, in the middle of the passageway, lay the bloody arrow. The chicken was nowhere to be seen.
“Richard,” Kahlan panted, “I believe you now.”
“I figured as much,” he said.
From behind, they heard a great “whoosh.”
Poking their heads back around the corner, they saw the roof of the place where the dead were prepared for burial go up in flames. Through the open door, she saw the floor of straw afire.
“I had a candle. It fell into the straw. But the flame went out,” Kahlan said. “I’m sure it was out.”
“Maybe it was lightning,” Richard said as he watched the flames claw at the sky. The harsh light made the buildings all around seem to waver and dance in synchrony with the flames. Despite the distance, Kahlan could feel the angry heat against her face. Burning grass and sparks swirled up into the night.
Their hunter guardians appeared out of the rain to gather around. The arrow’s owner passed it to his fellows, whispering to them that Richard with the Temper had shot the evil spirit, chasing it away.
Two more people emerged from the shadow around the corner of a building, taking in the leaping flames before joining them. Zedd, his unruly white hair dyed a reddish orange by the wash of firelight, held out his hand. A hunter laid the bloody arrow across his palm. Zedd inspected the arrow briefly before passing it to Ann. She rolled it in her fingers, sighing as if it confessed its story and confirmed her fears.
“It’s the chimes,” Richard said. “They’re here. Now do you believe me?”
“Zedd, I saw it,” Kahlan said. “Richard’s right. It was no chicken. It was in there pecking out Juni’s eyes. It spoke. It addressed me—by title—‘Mother Confessor.’ ”
Reflections of the flames danced in his solemn eyes. He finally nodded.
“You are in a way right, my boy. It is indeed trouble of the gravest sort, but it is not the chimes.”
“Zedd,” Kahlan insisted, pointing back toward the burning building, “I’m telling you, it was—”
She fell silent as Zedd reached out and plucked a striated-feather from her hair. He held up the feather, spinning it slowly between a finger and thumb. Before their eyes it turned to smoke, evaporating into the night air.
“It was a Lurk,” the wizard murmured.
“A Lurk?” Richard frowned. “What’s a Lurk? And how do you know?”
“Ann and I have been casting
verification spells,” the old wizard said. “You’ve given us the piece of evidence we needed to be sure. The trace of magic on this arrow confirms our suspicion. We have grave trouble.”
“It was conjured by those committed to the Keeper,” Ann said. “Those who can use Subtractive Magic: Sisters of the Dark.”
“Jagang,” Richard whispered. “He has Sisters of the Dark.”
Ann nodded. “The last time Jagang sent an assassin wizard, but you survived it. He now sends something more deadly.”
Zedd put a hand on Richard’s shoulder. “You were right in your persistence, but wrong in your conclusion. Ann and I are confident we can disassemble the spell that brought it here. Try not to worry; we’ll work on it, and come up with a solution.”
“You still haven’t said what this Lurk thing is. What’s its purpose? What is it sent to do?”
Ann glanced at Zedd before she spoke. “It’s conjured from the underworld,” she said. “With Subtractive Magic. It is meant to disrupt magic in this world.”
“Just like the chimes,” Kahlan breathed with alarm.
“It is serious,” Zedd confirmed, “but nothing like the chimes. Ann and I are hardly novices and not without resources of our own.
“The Lurk is gone for now, thanks to Richard. Unmasked for what it is, it will not soon return. Go get some sleep. Fortunately, Jagang was clumsy, and his Lurk betrayed itself before it could cause any more harm.”
Richard looked back over his shoulder at the crackling fire, as if reasoning through something. “But how would Jagang—”
“Ann and I need to get some rest so we can work out precisely what Jagang has done and know how to counter it. It’s complex. Let us do what we know we must.”
At last, Richard slipped a comforting arm around Kahlan’s waist and drew her close as he nodded to his grandfather. Richard clasped Zedd’s shoulder in an affable gesture on the way by as he walked Kahlan toward the spirit house.
Chapter 11
When Richard started, it woke her. Kahlan, her back pressed up against him, wiped her hair from her eyes, hastily trying to gather her senses. Richard sat up, leaving a cold breach where he had been a warm presence. Someone knocked insistently.
“Lord Rahl,” came a muffled voice. “Lord Rahl.” It hadn’t been a dream; Cara was banging on the door. Richard danced into his pants as he rushed to answer her knock.
Daylight barged in. “What is it, Cara?”
“The healer woman sent me to get you. Zedd and Ann are sick. I couldn’t understand her words, but I knew she wanted me to go for you.”
Richard snatched up his boots. “How sick?”
“By the healer woman’s behavior, I don’t think it’s serious, but I don’t know about such things. I thought you would want to see for yourself.”
“Of course. Yes. We’ll be right out.” Kahlan was already pulling on her clothes. They were still damp, but at least they weren’t dripping wet. “What do you think it could be?”
Richard drew down his black sleeveless undershirt. “I’ve no idea.”
Disregarding the rest of his outfit, he buckled on his broad belt with the gold-worked pouches and started for the door. He never left the things inside it unguarded. They were too dangerous. He glanced back to see if she was with him. Hopping to keep her balance, Kahlan tugged on her stiff boots.
“I meant, do you think it could be the magic? Something wrong with it? Because of the Lurk business?”
“Let’s not give our fears a head start. We’ll know soon enough.”
As they charged through the door, Cara took up and matched their stride. The morning was blustery and wet, with a thick drizzle. Leaden clouds promised a miserable day. At least it wasn’t pouring rain.
Cara’s long blond braid looked as if she’d left it done up wet all night. It hung heavy and limp, but Kahlan knew it looked better than her own matted locks.
In contrast, Cara’s red leather outfit looked to have been freshly cleaned. Their red leather was a point of pride for Mord-Sith. Like a red flag, it announced to all the presence of a Mord-Sith; few words could convey the menace as effectively.
The supple leather must have been treated with oils or wool fat, by the way water beaded and ran from it. Kahlan always imagined that, as tight as it was, Mord-Sith didn’t undress so much as they shed their skin of leather.
As they hurried down a passageway, Cara gave them an accusing glare. “You two had an adventure last night.”
By the way her jaw muscles flexed, it was easy enough to tell that Cara wasn’t pleased to have been left to sleep while they struck out alone like helpless fawns to see if they could put themselves in grave danger of some sort for no good reason whatsoever.
“I found the chicken that wasn’t a chicken,” Kahlan said.
She and Richard had been exhausted as they had trudged back to the spirit house through the dark, the mud, and the rain, and had spoken only briefly about it. When she asked, he told her he was looking for the chicken thing when he heard her voice coming from the place where Juni’s body lay. She expected him to say something about her lack of faith in him, but he didn’t.
She told him she was sorry for giving him a rough day, inasmuch as she hadn’t believed him. He said only that he thanked the good spirits for watching over her. He hugged her and kissed the top of her head. Somehow, she thought she would have felt better had he instead reproved her.
Dead tired, they crawled beneath their blankets. Weary as she was, Kahlan was sure she would be awake the remainder of the night with the frightful memories of the incarnate evil she felt from the chicken-thing, but with Richard’s warm and reassuring hand on her shoulder, she had fallen asleep in mere moments.
“No one has yet explained to me how you can tell this chicken is not a chicken,” Cara complained as they rounded a corner.
“I can’t explain it,” Richard said. “There was just something about it that wasn’t right. A feeling. It made the hairs at the back of my neck stand on end when it was near.”
“If you’d been there,” Kahlan said, “you’d understand. When it looked at me, I could see the evil in its eyes.”
Cara grunted her skepticism. “Maybe it needed to lay an egg.”
“It addressed me by my title.”
“Ah. Now that would tip me off, too.” Cara’s voice turned more serious, if not troubled. “It really called you ‘Mother Confessor’?”
Kahlan nodded to the genuine anxiety creeping onto Cara’s face. “Well, actually, it started to, but only spoke the Mother part. I didn’t wait politely to hear it finish the rest.”
As the three of them filed in the door, Nissel rose from the buckskin hide on the floor before the small hearth. She was heating a pot of aromatic herbs above the small fire. A stack of tava bread sat close beside the hearth on the shelf, where it would stay warm. She smiled that odd little something-only-she-knew smile of hers.
“Mother Confessor. Good morning. Have you slept well?”
“Yes, thank you. Nissel, what’s wrong with Zedd and Ann?”
Nissel’s smile vanished as she glanced at the heavy hide hanging over the doorway to the room in the rear. “I am not sure.”
“Well then what’s ailing them?” Richard demanded when Kahlan translated. “How are they sick? Fever? Stomach? Head? What?” He threw up his arms. “Have their heads come off their shoulders?”
Nissel held Richard’s gaze as Kahlan asked his questions. Her odd little smile returned. “He is impatient, your new husband.”
“He is worried for his grandfather. He has great love for his elder. So, do you know what could be wrong with them?”
Nissel turned briefly to give the pot a stir. The old healer had curious, even puzzling ways about her, like the way she mumbled to herself while she worked, or had a person balance stones on their stomach to distract them while she stitched a wound, but Kahlan also knew she possessed a sharp mind and was nearly peerless at what she did. There was a long lifetime of experienc
e and vast knowledge in the hunched old woman.
With one hand, Nissel drew closed her simple shawl and at last squatted down before the Grace still drawn in the dirt in the center of the floor. She reached out and slowly traced a crooked finger along one of the straight lines radiating out from the center—the line representing magic.
“This, I think.”
Kahlan and Richard shared a troubled look.
“You could probably find out a lot quicker,” Cara said, “if you would just go in there and have a look for yourself.”
Richard shot Cara a glower. “We wanted to know what to expect, if that’s all right with you.”
Kahlan relaxed a bit. Cara would never be irreverent about something this important to them if she really believed it might be life or death battling beyond the hide curtain. Still, Cara knew little about magic, except that she didn’t like it.
Cara, like the fierce D’Haran soldiers, feared magic. They were forever repeating the invocation that they were the steel against steel, while Lord Rahl was meant to be the magic against magic. It was part of the D’Haran people’s bond to their Lord Rahl: they protected him, he protected them. It was almost as if they believed their duty was to protect his body so that in return he could protect their souls.
The paradox was that the unique bond between Mord-Sith and their Lord Rahl was a symbiotic relationship giving power to the Agiel—the staggering instrument of torture a Mord-Sith wore at her wrist—and, more important, that because of the ancient link to their Lord Rahl, Mord-Sith were able to usurp the magic of one gifted. Until Richard freed them, the purpose of Mord-Sith was not just to protect their Lord Rahl, but to torture to death his enemies who possessed magic, and in the process extract any information they had.
Other than the magic of a Confessor, there was no magic able to withstand the ability of a Mord-Sith to appropriate it. As much as Mord-Sith feared magic, those with magic had more to fear from Mord-Sith. But then, people always told Kahlan that snakes were more afraid of her than she was of them.
Clasping her hands behind her back and planting her feet, Cara took up her station. Kahlan ducked through the doorway as Richard held the hide curtain aside for her.
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