Faith of the Fallen tsot-6

by Terry Goodkind

  “We need to be a little understanding of what he’s been through—the loss we’ve all suffered to the Order—and remember, too, that Richard didn’t grow up around magic, much less ruling armies.”

  Cara squatted and rinsed her cloth in the pail. After wringing it out, she went back to cleaning the wound in Kahlan’s side. “He is the Lord Rahl, though. Hasn’t he already proven himself to be a master of magic a number of times?”

  Kahlan couldn’t dispute that much of it, but he still didn’t have much experience, and experience was valuable. Cara not only feared magic but was easily impressed by any act of wizardry. Like most people, she couldn’t distinguish between a simple conjuring and the kind of magic that could alter the very nature of the world. Kahlan realized now that this wasn’t a vision, as such, but a conclusion Richard had arrived at.

  Much of what he’d said made sense, but Kahlan believed that emotion was clouding his thinking.

  Cara looked up from her work. Her voice bore an undertone of uncertainty, if not despairing bewilderment. “Mother Confessor, how will the people ever be able to prove themselves to Lord Rahl?”

  “I’ve no idea.”

  Cara set down the cloth and looked Kahlan in the eye. It was a long, uncomfortable moment before she finally decided to speak.

  “Mother Confessor, I think maybe Lord Rahl has lost his mind.”

  Kahlan’s immediate thought was to wonder if General Reibisch might believe the same thing.

  “I thought D’Harans do not expect to understand their Lord Rahl and would not question his behavior.”

  “Lord Rahl also says he wants me to think for myself.”

  Kahlan put her hand over Cara’s. “How many times have we doubted him before? Remember the chicken that-wasn’t-a-chicken? We both thought he was crazy. He wasn’t.”

  “This is not some monster chasing us. This is something much bigger.”

  “Care, do you always follow Richard’s orders?”

  “Of course not. He must be protected and I can’t allow his foolishness to interfere with my duty. I only follow his orders if they do not endanger him, or if they tell me to do what I would have done anyway, or if it involves his male pride.”

  “Did you always follow Darken Rahl’s orders?”

  Cara stiffened at the unexpected encounter with the name, as if speaking it might summon him back from the world of the dead. “You followed Darken Rahl’s orders, no matter how foolish they were, or you were tortured to death.”

  “Which Lord Rahl do you respect?”

  “I would lay down my life for any Lord Rahl.” Cara hesitated, and then touched her fingertips to the red leather over her heart. “But I could never feel this way for any other. I . . . love Lord Rahl. Not like you love him, not like a woman loves a man, but it is still love. Sometimes I have dreams of how proud I am to serve and defend him, and sometimes I have nightmares that I will fail him.”

  Cara’s brow drew down with sudden dread. “You won’t tell him that I said I love him, will you? He must not know.”

  Kahlan smiled. “Cara, I think he already knows, because he has similar feelings about you, but if you don’t wish it, I won’t say anything.”

  Cara let out a sigh of relief. “Good.”

  “And what made you come to feel that way about him?”

  “Many things. . . . He wishes us to think for ourselves. He allows us to serve him by choice. No Lord Rahl has ever done that before. I know that if I said I wished to quit him, he would let me go. He would not have me tortured to death for it. He would wish me a good life.”

  “That, and more, is what you value about him: he never pretended any claim to your lives. He believes no such claim can ever rightfully exist. It’s the first time since you were captured and trained to be Mord-Sith, that you have felt the reality of freedom.

  “That, Cara, is what Richard wants for everyone.”

  She swished a hand, as if dismissing the seriousness of the whole thing. “He would be foolish to grant me my freedom if I asked for it. He needs me too much.”

  “You wouldn’t need to ask for your freedom, Cara, and you know it. You already have your freedom, and because of him you know that, too. That’s what makes him a leader you are honored to follow. That’s why you feel the way you do about him. He has earned your loyalty.”

  Cara mulled it over.

  “I still think he has lost his mind.”

  In the past, Richard had more than once expressed his faith that, given a chance, people would do the right thing. That was what he had done with the Mord-Sith. That was also what he had done with the people of Anderith.

  Now . . .

  Kahlan swallowed back her emotion. “Not his mind, Cara, but maybe his heart.”

  Cara, seeing the look on Kahlan’s face, dismissed the seriousness of the matter with a shrug and a smile. “I guess we will simply have to bring him around to the way things are going to be—talk some sense into him.”

  Cara dabbed away the remnant of a tear as it rolled down Kahlan’s cheek.

  “Before he comes back, how about getting that stupid wooden bowl for me?”

  Cara nodded and bent to retrieve it. Kahlan was already fretting, knowing how much it was going to hurt, but there was no avoiding it.

  Cara came up with the shallow bowl. “Before those men came, I was planning on making a fire and warming some water. I was going to give you a bed bath—you know, with a soapy cloth and a bucket of warm water. I guess I can do it when we get where we are going.”

  Kahlan half closed her eyes with the dreamy thought of being at least somewhat clean and fresh. She thought she needed a bath even more than she needed the wooden bowl to relieve herself.

  “Cara, if you would do that for me, I would kiss your feet when I get better, and name you to the most important post I can think of.”

  “I am Mord-Sith.” Cara looked nonplussed. She finally drew the blanket down. “That is the most important post there is—except perhaps wife to the Lord Rahl. Since he already has a wife, and I am already Mord-Sith, I will have to be content with having my feet kissed.”

  Kahlan chuckled, but a stab of pain through her abdomen and ribs brought it to an abrupt halt.

  Richard was a long time in returning. Cara had made Kahlan drink two cups of cold tea heavily laced with herbs to dull the pain. It wouldn’t be long before she was in a stupor, if not exactly asleep. Kahlan had been just about to yield to Cara’s desire to go look for Richard, when he called from a distance to let them know it was him.

  “Did you see any of the men?” Cara asked when he appeared in the doorway.

  With a straight finger, Richard swiped glistening beads of sweat off his forehead. His damp hair was plastered to his neck. “No. They’re no doubt off to Hartland to do some drinking and complaining. By the time they come back we’ll be long gone.”

  “I still say we should lie in wait and end the threat,” Cara muttered.

  Richard ignored her.

  “I cut and stripped some stout saplings and used some canvas to make a litter.” He came closer and with a knuckle nudged Kahlan’s chin, as if to playfully buck up her courage. “From now on we’ll just let you stay on the litter, and then we can move you in and out of the carriage without . . .” He had that look in his eyes—that look that hurt her to see. He showed her a smile. “It will make it easier on Cara and me.”

  Kahlan tried to face the thought with composure. “We’re ready then?”

  His gaze dropped as he nodded.

  “Good,” Kahlan said, cheerfully. “I’m in the mood for a nice ride. I’d like to see some of the countryside.”

  He smiled, more convincingly this time, she thought. “You shall have it. And we’ll end up at a beautiful place. It’s going to take a while to get there, traveling as slow as we must, but it will be worth the journey, you’ll see.”

  Kahlan tried to keep her breathing even. She said his name over and over in her head, telling herself that she would not forg
et it this time, that she would not forget her own name. She hated forgetting things; it made her feel a fool to learn things she should have remembered but had forgotten. She was going to remember this time.

  “Well, do I have to get up and walk? Or are you going to be a gentleman and carry me?”

  He bent and kissed her forehead—the one part on her face that the soft touch of his lips would not hurt. He glanced at Cara and tilted his head to signal her to get Kahlan’s legs.

  “Will those men be drinking a long time?” Kahlan asked.

  “It’s still midday. Don’t worry, we’ll be long gone before they ever get back here.”

  “I’m sorry, Richard. I know you thought these people from your homeland—”

  “They’re people, just like everyone else.”

  She nodded as she fondly stroked the back of his big hand. “Cara gave me some of your herbs. I’ll sleep for a long time, so don’t go slow on my account—I won’t feel it. I don’t want you to have to fight all those men.”

  “I won’t be doing any fighting—just traveling my forests.”

  “That’s good.” Kahlan felt daggers twist in her ribs as her breathing started getting too fast. “I love you, you know. In case I forgot to say it, I love you.”

  Despite the pain in his gray eyes, he smiled. “I love you, too. Just try to relax. Cara and I will be as gentle as we can. We’ll go easy. There’s no rush. Don’t try to help us. Just relax. You’re getting better, so it won’t be so hard.”

  She had been hurt before and knew that it was always better to move yourself because you knew exactly how to do it. But she couldn’t move herself this time.

  She had come to know that the worst thing when you were hurt was to have someone else move you.

  As he leaned over, she slipped her right arm around his neck while he carefully slid his left arm under her shoulders. Being lifted even that much ignited a shock of pain. Kahlan tried to ignore the burning stitch and attempted to relax as she said his name over and over in her mind.

  She suddenly remembered something important. It was her last chance to remind him.

  “Richard,” she whispered urgently just before he pushed his right arm under her bottom to lift her. “Please . . . remember to be careful not to hurt the baby.”

  She was startled to see her words stagger him. It took a moment before his eyes turned up to look into hers. What she saw there nearly stopped her heart.

  “Kahlan . . . you remember, don’t you?”

  “Remember?”

  His eyes glistened. “That you lost the baby. When you were attacked.”

  The memory slammed into her like a fist, nearly taking her breath.

  “. . . Oh . . .”

  “Are you all right?”

  “Yes. I forgot for a moment. I just wasn’t thinking. I remember, now. I remember you told me about it.”

  And she did. Their child, their child that had only begun to grow in her, was long since dead and gone. Those beasts who had attacked her had taken that from her, too.

  The world seemed to turn gray and lifeless.

  “I’m so sorry, Kahlan,” he whispered.

  She caressed his hair. “No, Richard. I should have remembered. I’m sorry I forgot. I didn’t mean to . . .”

  He nodded.

  She felt a warm tear drop onto the hollow of her throat, close to her necklace. The necklace, with its small dark stone, had been a wedding gift from Shota, the witch woman. The gift was a proposal of truce. Shota said it would allow them to be together and share their love, as they had always wanted, without Kahlan getting pregnant. Richard and Kahlan had decided that, for the time being, they would reluctantly accept Shota’s gift, her truce. They already had worries enough on their hands.

  But for a time, when the chimes had been loose in the world, the magic of the necklace, unbeknownst to Richard and Kahlan, had failed. One small but miraculous balance to the horrors the chimes had brought had been that it had given their love the opportunity to bring a child to life.

  Now that life was gone.

  “Please, Richard, let’s go.”

  He nodded again.

  “Dear spirits,” he whispered to himself so softly she could hardly hear him, “forgive me for what I am about to do.”

  She clutched his neck. She now longed for what was coming—she wanted to forget.

  He lifted her as gently as he could. It felt like wild stallions tied to each limb all leaped into a gallop at the same instant. Pain ripped up from the core of her, the shock of it making her eyes go wide as she sucked in a breath. And then she screamed.

  The blackness hit her like a dungeon door slamming shut.

  Chapter 4

  A sound woke her as suddenly as a slap. Kahlan lay on her back, still as death, her eyes wide, listening. It wasn’t so much that the sound had been loud, but that it had been something disturbingly familiar. Something dangerous.

  Her whole body throbbed with pain, but she was more awake than she had been in what seemed like weeks. She didn’t know how long she had been asleep, or perhaps unconscious. She was awake enough to remember that it would be a grave mistake to try to sit up, because just about the only part of her not injured was her right arm. One of the big chestnut geldings snorted nervously and stamped a hoof, jostling the carnage enough to remind Kahlan of her broken ribs.

  The sticky air smelled of approaching rain, though fits of wind still bore dust to her nostrils. Dark masses of leaves overhead swung fretfully to and fro, their creaking branches giving voice to their torment. Deep purple and violet clouds scudded past in silence. Beyond the trees and clouds, the field of blue-black sky held a lone star, high over her forehead. She wasn’t sure if it was dawn or dusk, but it felt like the death of day.

  As the gusts beat strands of her filthy hair across her face, Kahlan listened as hard as she could for the sound that didn’t belong, still hoping to fit it into a picture of something innocent. Since she’d heard it only from the deepness of sleep, its conscious identity remained frustratingly out of her reach.

  She listened, too, for sounds of Richard and Cara, but heard nothing.

  Surely, they would be close. They would not leave her alone—not for any reason this side of death. She recoiled from the image. She ached to call out for Richard and prove the uninvited thought a foolish fear, but instinct screamed at her to stay silent. She needed no reminder not to move.

  A metallic clang came from the distance, then a cry. Maybe it was an animal, she told herself. Ravens sometimes let out the most awful cries.

  Their shrill wails could sound so human it was eerie. But as far as she knew, ravens didn’t make metallic sounds.

  The carriage suddenly lurched to the right. Her breath caught as the unanticipated movement caused a stitch of pain in the back of her ribs.

  Someone had put weight on the step. By the careless disregard for the carriage’s injured passenger, she knew it wasn’t Richard or Cara. But if it wasn’t Richard, then who? Gooseflesh tickled the nape of her neck. If it wasn’t Richard, where was he?

  Stubby fingers grasped the top of the corded chafing strip on the carriage’s side rail. The blunt fingertips were rounded back over grubby, gnawed-down little halfbutton fingernails. Kahlan held her breath, hoping he didn’t realize she was in the carriage.

  A face popped up. Cunning dark eyes squinted at her. The man’s four middle upper teeth were missing, leaving his eyeteeth looking like fangs when he grinned.

  “Well, well. If it ain’t the wife of the late Richard Cypher.”

  Kahlan lay frozen. This was just like her dreams. For an instant, she couldn’t decide if it was only that, just a dream, or real.

  His shirt bore a dark patina of dirt, as if it was never removed for anything. Sparse, wiry hairs on his fleshy cheeks and chin were like early weeds in the plowed field of his pockmarked face. His upper lip was wet from his runny nose. He had no lower teeth in front. The tip of his tongue rested partway out between the yawning
gap of his smirk.

  He brought up a knife for her to see. He turned it this way and that, almost as if he were showing off a prized possession to a shy girl he was courting. His eyes kept flicking back and forth between the knife and Kahlan. The slipshod job of sharpening appeared to have been done on rough granite, rather than on a proper whetstone. Dark blotches and rust stained the poorly kept cheap steel. But the scratched and chipped edge was no less deadly for any of it. His wicked, toothless grin widened with pleasure as her gaze followed the blade, watching it carve careful slices of the air between them.

  She made herself look into his dark, sunken eyes, which peered out from puffy slits. “Where’s Richard?” she demanded in a level voice.

  “Dancing with the spirits in the underworld.” He cocked his head to one side. “Where’s the blond bitch? The one my friends said they saw before. The one with the smart mouth. The one what needs to have her tongue shortened before I gut her.”

  Kahlan glared at him so he would know she had no intention of answering. As the crude knife advanced toward her, his stench hit her.

  “You would have to be Tommy Lancaster.”

  The knife paused. “How’d you know that?”

  Anger welled up from deep inside her. “Richard told me about you.”

  The eyes glittered with menace. His grin widened. “Yeah? What did he tell you?”

  “That you were an ugly toothless pig who wets his pants whenever he grins. Smells like he was right.”

  The smirking grin turned to a scowl. He raised up on the step and leaned in with the knife. That was what Kahlan wanted him to do—to get close enough so she could touch him.

  With the discipline borne of a lifetime of experience, she mentally shed her anger and donned the calm of a Confessor committed to a course of action. Once a Confessor was resolved to releasing her power, the nature of time itself seemed to change.

  She had but to touch him.

  A Confessor’s power was partly dependent on her strength. In her injured condition, she didn’t know if she would be able to call forth the required force, and if she could, whether she would survive the unleashing of it, but she knew she had no choice. One of them was about to die. Maybe both.