Stone of Tears tsot-2

by Terry Goodkind

  They fell on the dead gar. With a cry, the baby stretched its arms toward its mother, its wings flapping against his face in an effort to free itself. In a frenzy, the two gars tore at the carcass.

  Richard made a calculated decision. As long as the dead gar was there, the pup wouldn’t leave it; the pup would have a better chance at survival if it had nothing to hold it to this place. It squirmed mightily in his arm. Though fully half his size, at least it was lighter than he would have thought.

  He feigned a charge to hurry the two along. They snapped at him, too hungry to be frightened off without a meal. They fought each other. Claws slashed and pulled, ripping the body asunder. Richard charged again as the little gar tore free, running ahead of him with a shriek. The two leapt into the air, each with half a prize. In a moment they were gone.

  The little gar stood where its mother had been, keening as it watched the two disappear into the dark sky.

  Panting and weary, Richard returned his sword to its scabbard and then slumped down on a short ledge, trying to catch his breath. His head sunk into his hands as tears welled up. He must be losing his mind. What in the world was he doing? He was risking his life for nothing. No, not for nothing.

  He raised his head. The little gar was standing in the blood where its mother had been, its trembling wings held out limply, its shoulders slumped, and its tufted ears wilted. Big green eyes watched him. They stared at each other for a long moment.

  “I’m sorry, little one,” he whispered.

  It took a tentative step toward him. Tears ran down the gar’s face. Tears ran down his. It took another small, shaky step.

  Richard held his arms out. It watched, and then with a miserable wail, fell into them.

  It clutched its long, skinny arms to him. Warm wings wrapped around his shoulders. Richard hugged it tightly to himself.

  Gently stroking its coarse fur, he hushed it with comforting whispers. Richard rarely had seen a creature in such misery, a creature so in need of comfort that it would even accept it from the one who had caused its pain. Maybe, he thought, it was only recognizing him as the one who had saved it from being eaten by two huge monsters. Maybe, given the terrible choice, it chose to see him as a savior. Maybe the last impression, of saving it from being eaten, was simply the strongest.

  The little gar felt like nothing more than a furry sack of bones. It was half starved. He could hear its stomach grumbling. Its faint musky odor, while not pleasant, was not repulsive either. He cooed succor as the thing’s whimpering slowed.

  When it had at last quieted with a heavy, tired sigh, Richard stood. Sharp little claws tugged at his pant leg as it looked up to his face. He wished he had some food to leave with the pup, but he hadn’t brought his pack and had nothing to offer.

  He pulled the claw from his pants. “I have to go. Those two won’t come back now. Try to find yourself a rabbit or something. You’ll have to do the best you can on your own now. Go on.”

  It blinked up at him, its wings and one leg slowly stretching as it yawned. Richard turned and started off. He looked over his shoulder. The little gar followed after.

  Richard stamped to a halt. “You can’t come with me.” He held his arms out and shooed it away. “Go on. Be off with you.” He started walking backward. The gar followed. He stopped again and shooed it more firmly. “Go! You can’t come with me! Go on!”

  The wings wilted again. It took a few shaking steps back as Richard started off again. This time it stayed put as he went on his way.

  Richard had the woman’s body to bury, and he needed to get back to camp before Sister Verna decided to use the collar to bring him back. He had no desire to give her an excuse; he knew she would find one soon enough. He glanced behind to make sure the gar hadn’t followed. He was alone.

  He found the body, laid on its back, where he had left it. He noted with relief that there were no blood flies about. He had to find either a patch of ground soft enough to dig a hole, or else a deep crevice of some sort to hide her body in. Sister Verna had been explicit about hiding it well.

  As he was surveying the scene, there was a soft flutter of wings and the little gar thumped to the ground nearby. He muttered a quiet lament as the creature folded its wings and squatted comfortably before him, peering up with big green eyes.

  Richard tried to shoo it away again. It didn’t move. He put his hands on his hips.

  “You can’t come with me. Go away!”

  It tottered to him and clutched his legs. What was he going to do? He couldn’t have a gar tagging after him.

  “Where are your flies? You don’t even have any blood flies of your own. How can you expect to catch your dinner without your own blood flies?” He gave a rueful shake of his head. “Well, it’s not my concern.”

  The small, wrinkled face peeked around his legs. A low growl came from its throat as its lips pulled back to reveal sharp little fangs. Richard looked around. It was growling at the dead woman. He closed his eyes with a groan. The pup was hungry. If he buried the body, the gar would dig it up.

  Richard watched as the gar hopped over to the body, pawing at it as its growls grew louder. Richard tried to swallow back the dryness in his throat, or maybe the things he was thinking.

  Sister Verna had said to get rid of the body. They mustn’t know how the woman had died, she had said. He couldn’t stand the thought of the remains being eaten. But even if he buried it, it would be eaten anyway—by worms. Why were worms better than a gar? Another ghastly thought came to him: who was he to judge—he had eaten human flesh. Why was that any different? Was he any better?

  And besides, if the pup was busy eating, he could be off, and they would be gone before it had time to follow. It would be on its own then. He would be rid of it.

  Richard watched as the little gar cautiously inspected the body. It experimentally tugged at an arm with its teeth. The pup wasn’t experienced enough to know what to do with a kill. It growled louder. The sight made Richard sick.

  The teeth dropped the arm and the gar looked at him, as if to ask for help. The wings fluttered with excitement. It was hungry.

  Two problems at once.

  What difference did it make? She was dead. Her spirit had departed her body and wouldn’t miss it. It would solve two problems at once. Gritting his teeth at the task in mind, he drew the sword.

  Pushing back the hungry gar with a leg, Richard took a mighty swing, slashing open a great rent. The little gar pounced.

  Richard walked quickly away without looking back. The sounds turned his stomach. Who was he to judge? Lightheaded, he broke into a trot back to the camp. Sweat soaked his shirt. The sword had never felt so heavy at his hip. He tried to put the whole incident out of his head. He thought about the Hartland Woods and wished he were home. He wished he could still be who he had once been.

  Sister Verna had just finished currying Jessup and was lifting on his saddle. She eyed him with a sidelong glance before moving to her horse’s head, speaking softly and privately to him as she scratched his chin. Richard took up the curry comb and brushed quickly at Geraldine’s back, cautioning her sharply to stand still and quit turning about. He wanted to be away quickly.

  “Did you make sure they wouldn’t find the body?”

  His hand with the comb froze on Geraldine’s flanks. “If they find what’s left, they won’t know what happened. I was attacked by gars. They got the body.”

  She thought this over silently for a moment. “I thought I heard gars. Well, I guess that will do.” He went back to brushing as she spoke again. “Did you kill them?”

  “I killed one.” He considered not telling her, but decided it didn’t matter. “There was a baby gar. I didn’t kill it.”

  “Gars are murderous beasts. You should have killed it. Perhaps you should go back and finish it.”

  “I can’t. It . . . won’t let me get close enough.”

  With a little grunt she pulled the girth strap tight. “You have a bow.”

  “W
hat difference does it make? Let’s just be off. All by itself, it will probably die anyway.”

  She bent, checking that the strap wasn’t pinching her horse. “Perhaps you’re right. It would be best if we were away from here.”

  “Sister? Why haven’t the gars bothered us before?”

  “Because I shield against them with my Han. You were too far away, beyond my shields, and so they came for you.”

  “So this shield will keep all gars away from us?”

  “Yes.”

  Well, at least there was one thing the Han was good for.

  “Doesn’t that take a lot of power? Gars are big beasts. Isn’t it hard?”

  The question brought a small smile to her lips. “Yes, gars are big, and there are other beasts I must shield against, too. All this would take much power. You must always search for the way to accomplish the task using the least amount of Han.”

  She stroked her horse’s neck as she went on. “I keep the gars away not by repelling the beasts themselves, but by shielding against their blood flies. It’s much easier. If the flies can’t get through the shield, the gars won’t think there is anything worthwhile and so won’t come to us either. It uses little of my strength this way, yet achieves my aim.”

  “Why didn’t you use this shield against the people here? Against the woman tonight?”

  “Some of the people in the wilds have charms against our power. That’s why many Sisters die trying to cross. If we knew how these charms or spells worked, we might be able to counter them, but we don’t. It’s a mystery to us.”

  Richard finished saddling Geraldine and Bonnie in silence. The Sister waited patiently. He thought she had more to say, about their argument before he had gone to bury the woman, but she remained silent. He decided to speak first, and get it over with.

  “Sister Verna, I’m sorry about Sisters Grace and Elizabeth.” He idly stroked Bonnie’s shoulder as he studied the ground. “I said a prayer over their graves. I just wanted you to know that. A prayer to the good spirits to watch over them and treat them well. I didn’t want them to die. You may think otherwise, but I don’t want anyone to die. I’m sick of death. I can’t even eat meat anymore because I can’t stand the thought of anything having to die just to feed me.”

  “Thank you for the prayer, Richard, but you must learn that it is only the Creator we must pray to. It is His light that guides. Praying to spirits is heathenish.” She seemed to think better of her harsh tone, and softened it. “But you are unschooled, and would not know that. I can’t fault you for doing the best you could. I’m sure the Creator heard your prayer, and understood its benevolent intent.”

  Richard didn’t like her narrow-minded attitude. He thought that perhaps he knew more about spirits than she did. He didn’t know much about this Creator of hers, but he had seen spirits before, both good and bad. He knew you ignored them at your own peril.

  Her dogmas seemed as foolish to him as the superstitions of the country people he knew when he had been a guide. They had been full of stories of how people came to be. Each remote area he had visited had its own version of man created from this or that animal or plant. Richard had liked listening to the stories. They were filled with wonder and magic. But they were just stories, rooted in a need to understand how the teller fit into the world. He was not going to accept on faith the things the Sisters said.

  He did not think that the Creator was like some king, sitting upon a throne, listening to every petty prayer to come his way. Spirits had been alive once, and they understood the needs of mortals, understood the exigencies of living flesh and blood.

  Zedd had taught him that the Creator was simply another name for the force of balance in all things, and not some wise man sitting in judgment.

  But what did it matter? He knew people held tightly to their doctrines and were closed-minded about it. Sister Verna believed what she did and he wasn’t going to change it. He had never faulted people for the beliefs they held; he was not about to start now. Such beliefs, true or not, could be a balm.

  He pulled the baldric off over his head and held the sword out to her. “I’ve thought about the things you said before. I’ve decided I don’t want the sword anymore.”

  Her hands came up and he laid the weight of the sword, scabbard, and baldric in them.

  She showed no emotion. “Do you really mean this?”

  He nodded. “I do. I am finished with it. The sword is yours now.”

  He turned to check his saddle. Even without the sword at his hip, he could still feel the tingle of its magic. He could give up the sword, but the magic was still within him; he was the true Seeker, and could not be rid of that. At least he could be rid of the blade, and thereby the things he did with it.

  “You are a very dangerous man, Richard,” she whispered.

  He looked back over his shoulder. “That’s why I’m giving you the sword. I don’t want it any longer, and you do, so it’s yours. We’ll see now how you like killing with it.”

  He tucked the end of the girth strap through the buckle and drew it tight. He gave Bonnie a gentle pat before turning around. Sister Verna was still holding out the sword.

  “Until now I had no idea just how dangerous you are.”

  “Not anymore. You have the sword now.”

  “I cannot accept it,” she whispered. “It was my duty to take the sword from you when you came back—to test you. There was only one thing you could have done to prevent losing it. And you have done it.” She lifted the sword to him. “There is no man more dangerous than one who is unpredictable. There is no way to forecast what you will do when pushed. It is going to be great trouble. For you. For us.”

  Richard didn’t know what she was talking about. “There’s nothing unpredictable about it. You wanted the sword, and I’m weary of the things I do with it, so I gave it to you.”

  “You understand, because it is the way you think. Others don’t think that way. You’re an enigma. Worse, your inexplicable behavior comes at the times you need it most. That is the gift at work. You’re using your Han without understanding what you are doing. That is dangerous.”

  “One reason for the collar is to open my mind to the gift. That’s what you said. If I’m using the gift, which is what you want me to do, and if it is what I need, then I don’t see how that is dangerous.”

  “What you need and what’s right are not necessarily the same. Just because you want something, that does not make it right.” She nodded to the sword. “Take it back. I cannot accept it now. You must keep it.”

  “I told you, I don’t want it.”

  “Then throw it in the fire. I cannot take it. It’s tainted.”

  Richard snatched it out of her hands. “I’m not throwing it in the fire.” He put his head through the baldric and straightened the scabbard at his hip. “I think you’re too superstitious, Sister. It’s just a sword. It is not tainted.”

  She was wrong. It was the magic that was tainted, and he had not offered that to her. Even if he wanted to be rid of its magic, all magic, he could not. It was part of him. Kahlan had seen that, and she had rid herself of it. Of him.

  She turned from him and mounted Jessup. Her voice was cold and distant. “We must be on our way.”

  Richard settled into his saddle and followed after. He hoped the little gar would have a chance at life, after the meal it had needed. He said a silent good-bye to it as he rode into the night behind Sister Verna.

  Though he had meant what he said about giving her the sword, he felt strangely relieved to have it back. It belonged with him, and somehow made him whole. Zedd had given it to him; it was what had changed him, but it was also all he had to remind him of his friend and home.

  Chapter 25

  The horse was exhausted, but still ran with wild abandon. Adie held a tight grip on Zedd’s waist as he leaned over the horse’s withers, clutching her mane. Muscles bunched and flexed rhythmically beneath him. Trees in the dense forest flashed by in an endless blur. The h
orse leapt over rocks and logs without pause.

  The skrin was only a heartbeat behind. Being taller than the horse, it struck branches as it ran. Zedd could hear the limbs snap and splinter. He had tried felling trees across the way right behind them, but it didn’t slow the bone beast. He had tried tricks and spells and wizardry of every sort. None had worked, but he refused to admit defeat. Admitting defeat established a mental state of resignation that would make it certain.

  “I fear the Keeper has us this time,” Adie called at his back.

  “Not yet he doesn’t! How did he find us? The bones of the skrin have been in your house, hiding you, for years! If they have been hiding you, then how did he find us?”

  She had no answer.

  They were running the path where the boundary had been, headed toward the Midlands. Zedd was thankful the boundary walls were no longer there, or they could have inadvertently run into the underworld by now. Boundary or not, this couldn’t go on for much longer, and then the skrin would have them. Boundary or not, the underworld would have them. The Keeper would have them.

  Think, he ordered himself.

  Zedd was using magic to lend strength and stamina to the horse, but even so, heart, lungs and sinew could not endure long past their natural limits. He was nearly as weary as the frightened animal. This couldn’t go on much longer.

  He had to stop trying to slow the skrin, and put his mind to solving the problem. But that could be a dangerous shift in tactics. It could be that although what he was doing wasn’t stopping the skrin, it was keeping it from them.

  He thought he saw a flash of green light to the left. A shade of green he had seen from only one place: the boundary. From the underworld. Impossible, he thought. The horse’s hooves thundered on.

  “Adie! Do you have anything with you that the skrin would recognize?”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know! Anything! It has to have found us by something. Something to connect us to the underworld.”