Chainfire: Chainfire Trilogy Part 1 tsot-9

by Terry Goodkind

  Cara stared off into the swirling snow for a moment before following Richard up the steep slope. “Why do you think Shota would send a messenger to make sure that I come with you down into Agaden Reach?”

  Richard found the trail and started down it. He saw Samuel’s footprints but they were already filling in with the blowing snow.

  “I don’t know. That part has me puzzled.”

  “And why does Samuel think that your sword belongs to him?”

  Richard slowly let out a deep breath. “Samuel carried the sword before me. He was the last Seeker before me—although not a legitimately named Seeker. I don’t know how he acquired the Sword of Truth. Zedd came into Agaden Reach and took it back. Samuel believes that the sword still belongs to him.”

  Cara looked incredulous. “He was the last Seeker?”

  Richard cast her a meaningful look. “He didn’t have the magic, the temperament, or the character required by the sword to be the true Seeker of Truth. Because he wasn’t able to be the master of the sword’s power, that power changed him into what you see today.”

  Chapter 39

  With one finger, Richard swiped the sweat and drizzle from his brow. Little light penetrated the gloom at the lower stories of the swamp, hut even without the sun beating down on them the steamy heat was oppressive. After coming down from the storm raging up in the mountain pass, Richard didn’t mind the heat so much as he otherwise might have. Cara wasn’t complaining, either, but then she rarely did about her own discomfort. As long as she was near him she was satisfied, although whenever he did anything she considered risky, it did tend to make her ill-tempered, which explained her irritable disposition about going to see Shota.

  Here and there in the mud and soft ground of the forest floor, Richard saw fresh footprints left by Samuel. It was clear to Richard that Shota’s companion had been eager to get back to her protection and had hurried along the trail at a constant lope. Cara, too, saw the tracks. Richard had been impressed when she had pointed them out when she’d first spotted them. She had been more observant of tracks ever since the day Kahlan had disappeared and Richard had shown her, Nicci, and Victor some of the kinds of things that tracks revealed.

  Even though Samuel’s tracks made it clear that he had been rushing and it didn’t look like he intended to try to jump them again, Richard and Cara still kept careful watch in case he, or anything else, were to be lurking in the shadows. The swamp was, after all, a place meant to keep intruders away. Richard wasn’t sure just what waited back under cover of leaf and shadow, but people in the Midlands, including wizards, didn’t fear to come into Shota’s sanctuary without sound reason.

  It was no longer raining, but as foggy and humid as it was it might as well have been. The forest canopy collected the mist and drizzle, releasing it as sporadic, fat drops. Broad leaves on long arching stalks sprouting up from the tangled growth at the forest floor and vines twisting through the branches of trees all around bobbed under the assault of those heavy drops, giving the whole forest a constant, nodding movement in the still air.

  The trees in the swamp grew in gnarled, twisted shapes, as if tormented by the load of vines and curtains of moss that hung limp and heavy from their branches in the mist. Crusty lichen and in places black slime grew on the bark. Here and there, in the distance, Richard spotted birds perched on the branches, watching.

  Vapor hovered just above the surface of stagnant expanses of murky water runoff collected in the lap of the mountains. At the water’s edge tangles of roots snaked down into the depths. Things moved through the dark pools, lifting the film of duckweed on the slow rolling waves. From the shadows back across the water, eyes watched.

  All around the cacophonous calls of birds rang though the damp air while Richard and Cara had to swish at the bugs buzzing around them. Other animals back in the mist let out whoops and whistles. At the same time, the thick, still vegetation and the oppressive, muggy, weight of the air lent the place a kind of uneasy stillness. Richard saw Cara wrinkle her nose at the pervasive, rotting stench.

  The path through the dense growth almost seemed more like a living, growing tunnel. Richard was glad they didn’t have to venture off the trail and back into the surrounding quagmire. He could imagine all too well claws and fangs waiting patiently for dinner to happen by.

  When they reached the brink of the gloomy swamp, Richard paused in the deep shadows. Peering out of the dark tangle of branches, hanging moss, and clinging green growth was like looking out from a cave at a glorious new day beyond. Despite the drizzle and mist up in the swamp, the late-day sun had broken through the cloud cover in places to cast golden shafts of sunlight on the distant valley, as if were a jewel on display.

  Around the verdant valley the rocky gray walls of the surrounding mountains ascended almost straight up into a dark rim of clouds. As far as Richard knew, there was no way into Shota’s home but through the swamp. The valley floor below was spread with a rolling carpet of grasses dotted with wildflowers. Stands of oak, maple, and beech mottled some of the hills and congregated in low places along the stream, their leaves shimmering in the late light.

  In the dark forest where Richard and Cara stood, it felt like standing in night, looking out on day. Not far off through the vines and brush, water tumbled off the craggy rock in the edge of the swamp to disappear into vertical columns of mist on its way down to the clear pools and streams far below where it made a distant roar that, at their height, sounded like—little more than a hiss. That spray and mist wet their faces as they gazed off the edge of the cliff.

  Richard led Cara through a narrow path off the main trail that simply ended at the cliff. The small side track would be nearly impossible to find had he not known where to look for it from his previous visit. It passed through a maze of boulders nearly hidden beneath a layer of pale green ferns. Vines, moss, and brush also helped conceal the obscure route.

  At the edge they finally began the descent. The trail down into the valley in large part was made up of steps, thousands of them, cut from the stone of the cliff wall itself. Those steps twisted and tunneled and turned ever downward, following the natural shape of the tiers of rock, sometimes following around soaring natural stone columns, only to spiral back on themselves to pass underneath the pathway bridging above.

  The view on the way down the side of the cliff was spectacular. The streams carrying mountain runoff meandering through gentle hills were as beautiful as any Richard had ever seen. The trees, in places gathered into bands and in other spots standing alone as a single monarch atop a hill, were as calm and inviting a sight as he could hope for.

  In the distant center of the valley, set among a carpet of grand trees, was a beautiful palace of breathtaking grace and splendor. Delicate spires stretched into the air, wispy bridges spanned the high gaps between towers, and stairs spiraled around turrets. Colorful flags and streamers flew atop every point. If a majestic palace could be said to look feminine, this one did. It seemed a fitting place for a woman like Shota.

  Other than his home of Hartland and the mountains to the west of there, where he had taken Kahlan to recover over the span of a magical summer, Richard had never seen another place to compare to this valley. That alone had given him pause in his judgment about Shota before he’d met her for the first time. Passing through the swamp back then, he had thought it a fitting place for a witch to live. When he had been told that the valley was actually her home, he had thought that, surely, someone who could call such a peaceful, beautiful place home had to have some good qualities. Later, when he had seen the beauty of the People’s Palace, Darken Rahl’s home, he came to discount such indulgent notions.

  At the bottom of the cliff beside the waterfall a road led off through grassy fields to wind its way among the small hills. Before they took to the road, though, Cara asked if they could take the opportunity for a quick dip to get clean.

  Richard thought it sounded like a good idea, so he stopped and took off his pack. Most important
ly, he wanted to wash the painful burns so they would have a better chance to heal. He was drenched in sweat and dirt and imagined that he must look like a beggar.

  Kahlan had told him once that it was important to convey the proper impression to people. She had wanted him to come up with something better than his woods-guide attire. At the time, she had been trying to tell him that if he expected people to believe in him and follow him, if he was to be the Lord Rahl and command the D’Haran Empire, he had to look the pail.

  Appearance, after all, was a reflection of what a person thought of themselves and therefore, by extension, of others. A person crippled by self-loathing or self-doubt reflected those feelings in their appearance. Such visual clues did not inspire confidence in others because, and while not always completely accurate, for the most part they did reflect the inner person—whether or not that person realized it.

  No self-respecting bird in good health would allow its feathers to look ruffled. No confident cougar would let its fur long remain matted and dirty. A statue meant to represent the nobility of man did not convey that concept by portraying him disheveled and dirty.

  Richard had understood Kahlan’s point, and, in fact, had already begun to see to it before she mentioned it. He had found most of an outfit from a former war wizard up in the Wizard’s Keep. He used the important elements of that outfit and had some other things made. He didn’t know how it impressed other people, but he remembered quite clearly how it had impressed Kahlan.

  Richard went around the rocks at the bottom of the waterfall to find a private place for a quick wash while Cara picked another spot for herself. She promised that she wouldn’t be long.

  The water felt soothing, but Richard didn’t want to waste any time. He had a lot more important matters on his mind. Once rinsed clean of sweat and grime and after cleaning the burns, he put on his war wizard’s outfit, which he had pulled from his pack. He thought that today, of all days, would be the proper day to appear to Shota as a leader come to speak with her, rather than a helpless beggar.

  Over black trousers and a black, sleeveless shirt, he put on his black, open-sided tunic, decorated with symbols snaking along a wide gold band running all the way around its squared edges. A wide, multilayered leather belt bearing a number of silver emblems in ancient designs held a gold-worked pouch to each side and cinched the tunic at his waist. Pins on the leather lashing around the tops of his black boots also carried those symbols. He carefully placed the ancient, tooled-leather baldric holding the polished gold- and silver-wrought scabbard over his right shoulder and attached the Sword of Truth at his left hip.

  While to most people the Sword of Truth was an awesome weapon, and it certainly was that, it was much more to Richard. His grandfather, Zedd, in his capacity as First Wizard, had given the sword to Richard, naming him Seeker. In many ways that trust was much the same as his father’s trust had been in asking him to memorize the book. It had taken Richard a long time to come to fully understand all that the trust and responsibility of carrying the Sword of Truth meant.

  As a formidable weapon, the sword had saved his life countless times. But it had not saved his life because it came with redoubtable power, or because it was capable of remarkable feats. It had saved his life because it had helped him learn things not just about himself, but about life.

  To be sure, the Sword of Truth had taught him about fighting, about the dance with death, and how to prevail against seemingly impossible odds. And while it had helped him when he had to carry out that most terrible of all acts—killing—it had also helped him learn when forgiveness was justified. In those ways it had helped him come to understand what values were important in helping to advance the cause of life itself. And it had helped him learn the importance and necessity of judging those values, and of how to put each in context.

  In some ways, like the way that learning The Book of Counted Shadows had taught him that he was no longer a child, the sword had helped him learn to be a part of the wider world, and his place in it.

  It had, in a way, also brought him Kahlan.

  And Kahlan was why he needed to see Shota.

  Richard closed the flap on his pack. There was a cape, looking like it had been spun from gold, that he’d found with the rest of the war wizard’s outfit up in the Keep, but, since it was such a warm day, he left that in tin-pack. Finally, on each wrist he put on a wide, leather-padded silver band bearing linked rings encompassing more of the ancient symbols. Amour other things, those ancient bands were used to call the sliph from her sleep.

  When Cara called out that she was ready, Richard lifted his pack and made his way around the rocks. He saw, then, why she had wanted to stop. She had done more than simply take a quick bath.

  She had put on her red leather outfit.

  Richard cast a meaningful glance at the Mord-Sith’s bloodred uniform. “Shota may be sorry she invited you to the party.”

  Cara’s smile said that if there was any trouble, she would see to it.

  As they started down the road, Richard said, “I don’t know exactly what powers Shota has, but I think that maybe you should try something today that you have never tried before.”

  Cara frowned. “What would that be?”

  “Caution.”

  Chapter 40

  Richard scanned the surrounding hills, watching for any sign of danger, as he and Cara entered a place where the magnificent beech and maple trees had grown clustered together at the top of a rise. The straight, tall trunks forked ever wider in gentle, ascending arcs, giving Richard the sense of massive columns holding up the vaulted ceiling of a great, green cathedral. The fragrance of wildflowers drifted in on a gentle breeze. Through the canopy of rustling leaves he could get tantalizing glimpses of the soaring spires of Shota’s palace.

  Streamers of golden sunlight flickered through the leaves and cavorted around on the low grass. Water from a spring burbled up through an opening in a low boulder and ran down its smooth sides into a shallow, meandering stream. Spread through the stream were rocks covered with a coat of fuzzy green moss.

  A woman with a thick mane of blond hair and wearing a long black dress sat in the dappled sunlight on a rock beside the stream, leaning on one graceful arm as she ran her fingers through the clear water. She seemed to glow. The very air around her seemed to glow.

  Even with her back to him, she looked all too familiar.

  Cara leaned toward Richard and spoke in a confidential tone. “Is that Nicci?”

  “In a way I wish it were, but it isn’t.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Richard nodded. “I’ve seen Shota do this before. The first time I ever saw her, in that exact same place, she appeared to me as my deceased mother.”

  Cara glanced over at him. “That’s a rather cruel deception.”

  “She said that it was a gift, a kindness, meant only to briefly bring a cherished memory to life.”

  Cara huffed skeptically. “So why would she be trying to make you remember Nicci?”

  Richard looked over at Cara, but didn’t have an answer for her.

  When they finally reached the rock, the woman gracefully rose and turned to him. Blue eyes he knew met his gaze.

  “Richard,” the woman who looked like Nicci said. Her voice had the exact same silken quality as Nicci’s. The low neckline of the laced bodice seemed to Richard to be cut even lower than he recalled. “I’m so pleased to see you again.” She rested her wrists on his shoulders, casually locking her fingers together behind his head. The air around her seemed filmy, giving her a soft, blurred, surreal appearance. “So very pleased,” she added with breathless affection.

  She could not have looked or sounded any more like Nicci if it had been Nicci herself. The illusion was so convincing that Cara stood with her jaw hanging. Richard almost felt a sense of relief at seeing Nicci again.

  Almost.

  “Shota, I’ve come to talk with you.”

  “Talk is for lovers,” she said, a coy smile
seeping through her exquisite features.

  She slipped her fingers into the hair at the back of his head as her soft smile warmed affectionately. Her eyes, joining in her smile, reflected her delight at seeing him. She seemed at that moment more pleased, more quietly satisfied, more at peace than he had ever seen Nicci look. She also looked so much like Nicci that he was having trouble convincing himself to keep in mind that it was Shota. If nothing else, she acted far more in character with Shota than with Nicci. Nicci would never be so forward. It had to be Shota.

  She gently pulled him closer. At that moment, Richard had trouble trying to think of a reason to resist. None came presently to mind. He couldn’t stop gazing into her alluring eyes. He felt himself being swept away with the simple pleasure of gazing at Nicci’s entrancing face.

  “And if that is your offer, Richard, then I accept.”

  She had drifted so close to him that he could feel the sweet breath of her words on his face. Her eyes closed. Her soft lips met his in a slow, luxurious kiss that he did not return. Nonetheless, he didn’t force her away, either.

  As her arms drew him tighter into the embrace, into the kiss, it seemed to scramble his thinking and completely immobilize him. Even more than the kiss, that embrace awakened a terrible longing for the comfort of steadfast support, sheltering devotion, and tender acceptance. More than anything, the promise of that long-absent solace was what disarmed him.

  He could feel every inch, every curve, every rise and fall of her firm body pressing against his. He knew that he was trying to think of something other than that kiss, that embrace, that body, but he couldn’t for the life of him remember what it was. In fact, he was having a great deal of difficulty making himself think at all.