2 - Stone of Tears

by Goodkind, Terry

  She knew he didn't like it that she had left without him, but he didn't voice it. There is salted meat. Maybe we could take a little? I do not think these people would think it wrong for us to do so. They would not deny us a little food.'

  Kahlan put her hand to the railing as she climbed with a steady cadence, but then pulled the hand back inside her mantle, because the polished maple was so cold to the touch it stung her fingers. 'If you eat the meat, you will die. They will have poisoned it, so that if any of the dead's countrymen return to this place and eat any of the food here, they, too, will die.'

  They found the main floor clear of bodies. It looked to have been used as an army headquarters. Empty barrels of wine and rum lay about the ballroom floor. Food scraps, mugs and cups, broken dishes, pipe ashes, bloody bandages, oily rags, broken or bent swords, spears and maces, dark wood shavings from a walnut table leg someone had whittled away until it was nothing but a stub, basins of frozen water, dirty linen, bedsheets ripped into strips, and filthy, quilted bedcovers of every color littered the carpeted floor. Dirty bootprints were everywhere, even on the tabletops. By the swirling scratches, it looked as if men had danced atop them.

  Chandalen walked through the rubble, inspecting various bits. 'Two, maybe three days they were here.'

  She nodded her agreement as her eyes cast about. 'It looks that way.'

  He rolled a wine barrel back and forth with his foot, testing if it was empty. It was. 'I wonder why they stayed so long? Just to drink, and dance?'

  Kahlan sighed. 'I don't know. Maybe they were resting and tending to their wounded. Maybe they just went on a drunken binge to celebrate their victory over these people.'

  He looked up sharply. 'Killing is not a thing to celebrate.'

  'It is, for the people who did this killing.'

  Reluctantly, Kahlan at last climbed the stairs to the top floor. She didn't want to look up there. That was where the bedchambers were.

  They checked the west wing first: the men's apartments. They looked to have been used by the troops as sleeping quarters. With an army of as many men as had to have done this, they would have had many men of rank. The officers probably stayed here, in the fine rooms. The soldiers under their command would have used the inns and more common houses.

  With a deep breath to strengthen her resolve, she set her jaw and crossed the central hall, with its balcony that overlooked the grand staircase, to the east-wing rooms. Chandalen, close at her heels, wanted to open the doors for her and check the rooms first, but here she wouldn't allow it. Her hand paused for a moment on the doorknob, then finally opened the first door. She stood for a time, staring at the scene inside. She went to the next door and flung it open, and then to the next.

  All the rooms were occupied. Each bedchamber had women in it, none clothed. Room after room after room were all the same. By the filthy condition of the carpets, there looked to have been a steady stream of traffic. Wood shavings lay in little piles about the floor, where a man had passed the time whittling on whatever was handy while he waited his turn.

  'Now we know why they spent several days here,' Kahlan said without meeting Chandalen's eyes. He remained silent. She couldn't bring forth more than a whisper. 'So they could do this.'

  Those few days had undoubtedly been the longest of these women's lives. Kahlan prayed that their spirits were at peace, now.

  She reached the door at the end, the door to the room the younger women shared. Slowly, she opened it, and stood looking in, Chandalen close behind her looking past her shoulder.

  Stifling a gasp, she turned and put a hand to his chest. 'Please, Chandalen, wait here.'

  He nodded as he furiously studied his boots.

  Kahlan closed the door behind herself and stood with her back against it for a time. One hand at her side, and the other covering her mouth, she skirted an overturned, wrecked wardrobe, and walked the length of the frigid room, between the rows of beds, looking from one side to the other. The precious hand mirrors, brushes, combs, and pins that at one time had been arranged with loving care on tables between the beds now lay scattered about the floor. The blue moire curtains billowed slightly in the icy air coming through the broken windows.

  These were the queen's ladies-in-waiting. Young women of fourteen, fifteen, and sixteen, a few a little older. These were not just nameless corpses; Kahlan knew many of these young women.

  The queen had taken them with her when she had traveled to Aydindril to speak before the council. Kahlan could not have failed to notice them, their vibrancy, their wide-eyed excitement at being in Aydindril. Seeing the grandeur of Aydindril through their young eyes had given Kahlan new vision of the things around her, and brought a smile to her lips. She had longed to give them a tour, personally, but being with the Mother Confessor would have frightened them, and so she hadn't. But she had admired them from afar, and envied their lives of possibility.

  Kahlan stopped at various beds, her back stiff, her head held high, her jaw rigid, as she reluctantly cast her eyes down at faces she knew. Juliana, one of the youngest, had always been self-confident and assertive. She knew what she wanted and wasn't timid about going after it. She had always been smitten with young men in uniform: soldiers. One time, it had brought her to grief with her chaperone, Mistress Nelda. Kahlan had surreptitiously interceded on her behalf, informing Mistress Nelda that despite Juliana's dalliances, the Aydindril Home Guard were all men of impeccable honor, and would never lay a finger on a queen's lady. Her wrists were now tied to the headpost, and by the way they had bled, looked to have been that way through the whole of her ordeal. Kahlan silently cursed the spirits for their cruel humor in giving the young innocent what she had thought she wanted.

  Little Elswyth was in the next blood-soaked bed. Her breasts had been stabbed countless times, and her throat slit, as were many of the rest, like hogs at slaughter. At the end of the room, Kahlan stopped at the foot of the last bed. Ashley, one of the older teenagers, had each ankle tied to a footpost. She had been strangled with a curtain tieback. Her father was one of the Galean aides to the ambassador in Aydindril. Her mother had been thrilled to tears when Queen Cyrilla had agreed to take Ashley on as one of her ladies-in-waiting.

  How would she ever find the words to tell Ashley's father and mother what had happened to their little girl while in the service of their queen?

  As Kahlan retraced her steps through the length of the room, taking a last look at each dead body, at each face frozen in horror or in blank submission, she idly wondered why she wasn't crying. Shouldn't she cry? Shouldn't she fall to her knees, scream in anguish, pound her fists, and cry until she drowned in tears? But she didn't. She felt as if there were no tears to be had.

  Perhaps there were too many. Perhaps she had seen so many that day that it had simply numbed her to it. Like when you get into a tub of water for a bath, and at first you feel that it is too hot to stand, that surely you are being scalded, but after a few minutes it seems only warm.

  She softly pulled the door closed. Chandalen stood in the exact same spot she had left him. His knuckles were white on his bow. Kahlan walked past him, expecting him to follow. He didn't.

  'Most women would cry,' he said as he stared at the door.

  She felt a flush of heat in her cheeks. 'I am not most women.'

  Chandalen didn't take his eyes from the door. 'No, you are not.'

  His eyes finally left the door to look down at his bow. The tension left his shoulders as he pulled a deep breath, as if it was the first he had taken in a while. 'I wish to tell you a story.'

  Kahlan waited a few paces away. 'I do not wish to hear a story right now, Chandalen. Perhaps later.'

  He turned his fierce brown eyes to her. 'I wish to tell you a story,' he repeated, a little louder this time.

  She sighed. 'If it's important to you, then tell me.'

  Holding her gaze, he closed the distance between them. He was a scant inch shorter than she, but right then he looked taller to her. 'When my gr
andfather was as young, and strong' - he tapped his puffed-up chest - 'as I am now, he already had a wife, and two sons. Many peoples came to our village to trade. We let all come. We kept no one away. All were welcome. The Jocopo were one of these people who came to trade.'

  'Who are the Jocopo?' Kahlan knew every people in the Midlands, but had never heard of these.

  'People who lived to the west, closer to where the boundary was.'

  Kahlan frowned as her mind searched a mental map. 'No one lives to the west of the Mud People. That land is deserted.'

  Chandalen watched her from under his eyebrows. 'The Jocopo were big people.' He held his hand a head higher than he was, before letting it fall to his side. 'But they were always peaceful. Like the Bantak. Like our people. Then they made war on us. We do not know the reason. But our people were very afraid. They would shake at night, in the fear that the Jocopo might come again the next day. They would come to our village, and cut the men's throats, and take women, and do these things to them.' He flicked his hand selfconsciously at the door.

  'Rape,' she said in an even tone. 'It is called rape.'

  He nodded. 'The Jocopo would do this to our women. They stole many women, and did this rape to them.' He glanced at the door again. 'In the way it was done to these women. Do you understand?'

  They were raped by many men and tortured and murdered.'

  He nodded, relieved that he didn't have to elaborate. 'The Mud People did not have fighters, like we do now, like me.' His chest swelled again, and his chin came up. At last, the wind left his lungs. 'We never had to fight with anyone. None of our people wanted to fight others. They thought it was wrong. But the Jocopo made us want to fight.

  They stole my grandmother. My grandfather's wife. The mother to my father. My grandfather gave an oath to send the Jocopo to the spirit world. He gathered men together, men who had their wives, or sisters, or mothers taken, and ...' He wiped his forehead as if he were sweating, but in the cold he was not.

  Kahlan put a hand on his arm. He didn't flinch this time. 'I understand, Chandalen.'

  'My grandfather called for a gathering, and was visited by our ancestors' spirits. He wept for his wife before the spirits, and asked if the ancestors' spirits would teach him how to stop the Jocopo. They told him that first he must stop weeping until after the fighting was done.'

  Kahlan took her hand back and absently stroked the fur at her neck. 'My father taught me something very much like that. He said, "Don't shed tears over those already in the ground, until after you have brought vengeance to those who put them there. There will be time enough, then."'

  Chandalen appraised her approvingly. Then your father was a wise man.'

  Kahlan waited silently until at last he seemed to mentally gather up the memories of the stories, and continued.

  The ancestors' spirits came to my grandfather every night in a gathering. They taught him what he must do, how to kill. He taught these men what he had learned. He taught them how to put mud on themselves, and tie grass to themselves, so not to be seen. Our men became like the shadows. The Jocopo could not see them if they stood as close as we do now.

  'My grandfather and his men made war with the Jocopo. Not war the way the Jocopo made war, but the way the spirits taught. The Jocopo made war in the day, because they were many, and had no fear of us. The spirits told grandfather that he must not fight the Jocopo the way they wanted, but must make them fear the night, and the empty grassland, and every call of a bird or frog or bug.

  'For every one of the Mud People, there were five Jocopo. At first, they were not afraid of us, because of their numbers. We killed Jocopo when they hunted food, when they tended their crops, when they cared for their animals, when they went for water, when they went to squat, when they slept. Any Jocopo. Every Jocopo. We did not try to fight them; we only killed them. Until there were no more Jocopo in this world, only in the spirit world.'

  She wondered briefly if he meant that they had killed the children, too, but she knew the answer; there were no more Jocopo. Something else her father had taught her came to mind: If war is brought to you, then it is incumbent upon you to show no mercy. Surely you will be shown none, and you will be a traitor to your people and as good as their enemy if you let any clemency slip its bounds, for your people will pay for your mistake with their lives.

  'I understand, Chandalen. Your people did the only thing they could. Your grandfather did what was necessary to protect his people. My father also taught me, "If war is brought to you, then let there be war like your enemy has never imagined in his most frightening nightmares. Anything less, and you hand victory to your foe."'

  'Your father, too, must know the spirits of his ancestors. He did well to teach you their lessons.' His voice lowered sympathetically. 'But I know they are harsh lessons to live by, and can make you look hard to others.'

  'I know the truth of that. Your grandfather brought honor to the Mud People, Chandalen. I'm sure that when it was done, he shed many tears for those of his people who were murdered.'

  Chandalen untied the thong at his neck and shrugged back his mantle, letting it drop to the floor. He wore a heavy buckskin tunic and pants. At each shoulder, held with a band made of woven prairie cotton around his upper arm, was a bone knife. The lower end was sharpened to a point, and the knuckle at the other end was covered with the same woven cotton for a better grip. Black feathers hung from the top.

  He tapped one of the bones. This is of my grandfather.' He touched the other. This is of my father. One day, when I have a strong son, he will wear one of me, and of my father, and the one of my grandfather will be put to rest in the ground.'

  When Kahlan had first seen the bone knives, when they had left the Mud People village, she had thought they were ceremonial. With terrible certainty, she now knew they were not. They were real weapons: spirit weapons.

  'What are the feathers?'

  He stroked the glossy black feathers on the one at his right shoulder. The Bird Man we had then, when this was made, placed these.' He touched the ones on his left shoulder. The Bird Man we have now placed these. They are raven.'

  The raven was a powerful spirit to the Mud People. Its image invoked death. While she thought the idea of wearing a knife made from your grandfather and father's arm bone was gruesome, she knew it was an honor to Chandalen, and so didn't say anything to insult his beliefs. 'It brings me honor, Chandalen, that you would bring the spirits of your ancestors to protect me.'

  He didn't look happy. The Bird Man says you are Mud People, too, and must be protected, so I wear these. It is my duty.'

  He stroked his grandfather's bone again. 'My grandfather taught my father, and my uncle, Toffalar, the man you killed, to be protectors of our people.' He touched his father's bone. 'My father taught me. I will teach my son, when he comes, and someday he will carry my spirit with him as he protects our people.

  'Since the time we killed the Jocopo, we have not let many come onto our land. Our ancestors' spirits teach us that to invite others to come as they wish is to invite death. The spirits speak true. You brought Richard With The Temper to us, and because of him, Darken Rahl came and killed many of our people.'

  So it came down to this. Chandalen was supposed to be a protector of his people, but they had been killed and he hadn't been able to stop it. The ancestors' spirits helped us to save the Mud People, Chandalen, and countless others. They saw that Richard's heart was true, that he was risking his life, the same as you, to save others who did not want war.'

  'He stayed in the spirit house while Darken Rahl killed our people. He did not try to stop him. He did not fight. He let our people die.'

  'Do you know why?' She waited as he stood stone-faced, but when he didn't reply, she resumed. The spirits told him that if he went out to fight Darken Rahl, he would be fighting the way Darken Rahl fought, and Richard would die, never to help anyone. They told him that if he wanted to defeat Darken Rahl and save the rest of the Mud People, he must not fight the way D
arken Rahl did, but wait and fight his own way, later, just as the spirits told your grandfather.'

  He regarded her skeptically. This is his story.'

  'I was there, Chandalen. I heard them say this. Richard wanted to fight. He wept with frustration when the spirits told him he must not. There was nothing that could have been done to stop Rahl just then. It was not Richard's fault, nor was it yours. You could have done nothing to stop it, the same as Richard could have done nothing. If he had tried, he would be dead, and Darken Rahl would have won.'

  He leaned a little closer. If you had not brought him, it would not have happened. Darken Rahl would not have come looking for him.'

  She drew herself up straight. 'Chandalen, do you know what I do? What my specialty is?'

  'Yes. Like all Confessors, you make people afraid of you, so you may tell them what to do, and because they are afraid, they will do as you say.'