Stone of Tears tsot-2

by Terry Goodkind

  The gar fell silent. The wolverine’s head rose. With a zip, the arrow was away. Wings aquiver, the little gar bounced on the balls of its feet, its attention riveted to the flight of the arrow.

  “Wait,” he whispered. The gar froze.

  With a solid thunk, the arrow found its target. The gar squealed in glee. Wings spreading and flapping, it bounced higher and turned to him. Richard leaned close and pointed a finger at the gar’s wrinkly nose. The gar watched him attentively.

  “All right, but you bring me back my arrow.”

  Head bobbing in quick agreement, the gar bounded into the air. Richard watched by the dim, early dawn light as it swooped down on the dead quarry, pouncing as if it were about to escape. Fur flew as claws ripped. The dark silhouette lowered, its wings folding against its back, as it hunched over the prey, growling and pulling its meal apart.

  Richard turned from the sight and watched instead the streaks of cloud change color against the brightening sky. Sister Verna would be awake soon. He still stood his watch despite her insistence that it wasn’t necessary.

  She finally relented, but he knew she was angry because he wouldn’t back down. That made her angry. What didn’t? She was more angry than usual since coming through the valley the day before. She was silently livid.

  Richard glanced toward the little gar to see it was still eating. How it had managed to follow him through the Valley of the Lost, he couldn’t imagine. He had thought it was a mistake to keep feeding it before they reached the valley, but he felt responsible for it. Every night when he had taken his watch, it had come to him, and he had hunted food for it. He had thought he had seen the last of it when they crossed over into the Old World, but somehow, it had followed.

  The little gar was passionately devoted to him when he was on watch. It ate with him, played with him, and slept at his feet, if not on them. When his watch was over, it hardly made a fuss about him leaving. Richard never once saw the gar at any other time. It seemed to instinctively know to stay away from the Sister, to avoid letting her see it. Richard was reasonably certain she would try to kill it. Maybe the gar knew that.

  He was continually surprised by the intelligence of the furry little beast. It learned faster than any animal he had ever seen. Kahlan had told him that short-tailed gars were smart. Now he knew how right she was.

  He had only to show it something once or twice to make it understand. It was learning to understand his words, and tried to imitate them, although it didn’t seem to have the capacity for speech. Some of its sounds came strangely close.

  Richard didn’t know what to do about the gar. He thought perhaps it should strike out on its own, learn to hunt and survive, but it wouldn’t leave; it followed, out of sight, wherever they went, even through danger. Perhaps it was too young to get by on its own. Maybe it saw Richard as its only way to survive. Maybe it saw him as a surrogate mother.

  In truth, Richard didn’t really want it to leave. It had become a friend as they had traveled through the wilds. It gave him unconditional love, never criticized him, and never argued with him. It felt good to have a friend. How could he deny the same thing to the gar?

  The flap of wings brought him out of his thoughts. The gar thumped to the ground before him. It had gained a lot of weight since Richard had first found it. He would have sworn it had grown nearly half a foot, too.

  The sinew under the pink skin of its chest and belly had become taut, and its arms were no longer all hide and bone, as they had been, but were thickening with muscle.

  He was afraid to think of how big it would eventually get. He hoped it would be on its own by then. Hunting enough food to feed a full-grown short-tailed gar would be a full-time occupation.

  After wiping the shaft on its fur-covered thigh to clean off the blood, the gar flashed Richard its hideous, bloodstained grin and held out the arrow. Richard pointed over his shoulder.

  “I don’t want it. Put it back where it belongs.”

  The gar reached over Richard’s shoulder and slid the arrow back into the quiver that leaned against a stump. It contorted its features, seemingly to question if it had done it correctly. Richard smiled as he patted its full belly.

  “Good boy. You did it right.”

  The gar flopped happily on the ground at his feet, contenting itself with licking blood from its claws and coarse fur. When it finished, it laid its long arms over Richard’s lap, and rested its head on them.

  “You need a name.” The gar looked up, cocking its head to the side. Its tufted ears turned toward him. “Name.” He tapped his chest. “My name is Richard.” The gar reached out and tapped Richard’s chest in imitation. “Richard. Richard.”

  It cocked its head to the other side. “Raaaa,” it growled through sharp fangs, its ears twitching.

  Richard nodded. “Rich . . . ard.”

  It tapped Richard’s chest again. “Raaaa gurrrr,” it said in its throaty growl, this time showing less teeth.

  “Rich . . . ard.”

  “Raaaach aaarg.”

  Richard laughed. “That’s close. Now, what are we going to call you?” Richard thought about it, trying to think of something appropriate. The gar sat, its brow bunched into deep furrows, watching him intently. After a moment, it took Richard’s hand and tapped it against his chest.

  “Raaaach aaarg,” it said. It pulled Richard’s hand to its own chest, tapping it against the fur. “Grrratch.”

  “Gratch?” Richard sat up straighter in surprise. “Your name is Gratch?” He tapped the gar again. “Gratch?”

  The gar nodded and grinned as it tapped its own chest. “Grrratch. Grrratch.”

  Richard was a little taken aback; it had never occurred to him that the gar might have a name. “Gratch it is, then.” He tapped his own chest again. “Richard.” He smiled and patted the gar’s shoulder. “Gratch.”

  The gar spread its wings and thumped its chest with open claws. “Grrrratch!”

  Richard laughed and the gar leapt on him, letting out its throaty giggle as it wrestled him to the ground. Gratch’s love of wrestling was second only to its love of food. The two of them tumbled across the ground, laughing and struggling to gently get the best of each other.

  Richard was gentler about it than Gratch. The gar would put its mouth around Richard’s arm, though, thankfully, at least it never bit. Its needle-sharp fangs were long enough to easily go all the way through his arm, and he had seen the gar splinter bone with those teeth.

  Richard brought the wrestling match to an end by sitting up on the stump. Gratch sat straddling him, arms, legs, and wings wrapped around him. It nuzzled against Richard’s shoulder. Gratch knew that at dawn Richard left.

  Richard spied a rabbit in the underbrush, some distance off, and thought that perhaps Sister Verna would appreciate some meat for breakfast. “Gratch, I need a rabbit.”

  Gratch climbed off his lap as Richard took up his bow. After the arrow was off, he told the gar to bring him the rabbit, but not to eat it. Gratch had learned to retrieve, and was happy to do it; he always got what was left of the skinning and gutting.

  After Richard was done and had bid Gratch good-bye, he hiked back to camp. His mind wandered back to the vision of Kahlan he had had in the tower, and the things she had told him. The sight of her being beheaded haunted him. He recalled her words:

  “Speak if you must these words, but not of this vision. ‘Of all there were, but a single one born of the magic to bring forth truth will remain alive when the shadow’s threat is lifted. Therefore comes the greater darkness of the dead. For there to be a chance at life’s bond, this one in white must be offered to her people, to bring their joy and good cheer.’ ”

  He knew who the “this one in white” was. He knew what “bring their joy and good cheer” meant.

  He thought, too, about the prophecy that Sister Verna had told him of, the one that said, “He is the bringer of death, and he shall so name himself.” She claimed the prophecy said that the holder of the sword
is able to call the dead forth, call the past into the present. He wondered, and worried, what that could mean.

  At the camp, he found Sister Verna squatted at the fire, cooking bannock. The aroma made his stomach grumble. The sparsely wooded country was coming to life with sounds of animals and bugs heralding the dawn. Clusters of small, dark birds sang from the tall, thinly foliated trees, and gray squirrels chased each other up and down their branches. Richard hung the the skewer with the rabbit over the fire as Sister Verna continued to mind the bannock.

  “I brought you some breakfast. I thought you might like some meat.”

  She gave only a grunt of acknowledgment.

  “You still angry with me for saving your life yesterday?”

  She carefully laid another small stick on the fire. “I am not angry with you for saving my life, Richard.”

  “I thought you said your Creator hated lies. Do you think he believes you? I don’t.”

  Her face turned so red Richard thought her curly hair might catch fire. “You will not speak blasphemy.”

  “And lying is not?”

  “You do not understand, Richard, why I’m angry.”

  Richard sat on the ground and, grasping his ankles, folded his legs in. “Maybe I do. You’re supposed to be my protector. Not the other way around. Maybe you feel that you have failed. But I don’t feel that you failed. We both just did what we had to, to survive.”

  “Did what we must?” Fine wrinkles radiated around her eyes as they narrowed. “As I recall from the book, when Bonnie, Geraldine, and Jessup led the people across the poison river, some of those people died.”

  Richard smiled to himself. “So you really did read it.”

  “I told you I did! That was foolhardy. We could have been killed taking that risk.”

  “We didn’t have any choice.”

  “You always have a choice, Richard. That is what I am trying to teach you.” She sat back on her heels. “The wizards who created that place thought they had no choice, but they made things worse. You were using your Han back there, and you were doing it without understanding the consequences.”

  “What choice did we have?”

  Hands on her knees, she leaned forward. “We always have a choice, Richard. You were lucky, this time, that your use of magic didn’t get you killed.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  Sister Verna drew a saddlebag close and started rummaging through it, finally pulling out a green cloth bag. “You got some blood from that beast on your arm. Did any of the bugs bite you?”

  “On my legs.”

  “Show me.”

  Richard pulled up his pant legs and showed her the swollen, red bites. She shook her head and, whispering to herself, pulled first one and then a second bottle from the bag.

  With a stick found on the ground nearby, she dipped a white paste from one bottle and wiped it onto the flat of a knife blade. She threw the stick in the fire. Taking up another stick, she dipped a dark paste from the other bottle and mixed it with the light on the flat of the blade, then spread it along the edge. She threw the second stick, with some of the mixed paste on it, into the fire. Richard flinched when it exploded in a white-hot ball of fire that lifted skyward, dissipating as it rose, turning to a boiling cloud of black smoke.

  She held up the knife to reveal a gray paste spread on the blade. “Light and dark, earth and sky. Magic, to heal what would otherwise kill you by tonight. You have a way of getting yourself out onto thin limbs, Richard. Each step you take only makes your predicament worse. Now, come over here, closer.”

  Richard dug his heels in and scooted around the fire. “Were you trying to decide whether or not you were going to help me?”

  “Of course not. This is made from powerful magic, constructed magic, to smother the venom injected into you by the conjured creatures. Too soon, and the cure would kill you. Too late, the bites would kill you. It must be the right kind of magic, at the right time. I was simply waiting for the proper time.”

  Richard wanted to argue with her, but instead said, “Thank you for helping me.” She frowned at him before leaning over his bites. “Sister, how was I making things worse?”

  “You were being reckless. Using magic is dangerous, not only to others, but to the one who calls it forth as well.”

  Richard winced as she drew the edge across one of the bites, first one way, then the other, cutting an X on it. The sting made his eyes water.

  “How can it be dangerous to me?”

  She concentrated as she leaned over his leg, whispering an incantation while stroking the knife across his swollen flesh. He tried not to jump when she cut the next bite. She was only making light cuts, but they stung fiercely.

  “It is like starting a fire in the center of a tinder dry wood. You find yourself in the center of the fire, in the center of what you have started. What you did was foolish and dangerous.”

  “Sister Verna, I was trying to stay alive.”

  She jabbed a finger at one of the painful bites. “And look what happened! If I don’t heal you, you’ll die.” She finished with his legs and turned her attention to his arm. “When we were being attacked by those beasts, you thought to save us, but everything you did only increased the danger.”

  When she finished, she held the knife blade over the fire. A thin stream of white flame roared up from the steel, consuming the remaining paste. She held the blade to the fire until the paste, and the white flame, were gone.

  “If I hadn’t acted, Sister, we would be dead.”

  She shook the hot blade at him. “I did not say you were wrong to act! I said you acted in the wrong way! You used the wrong kind of magic!”

  “I used the only thing I had! The sword!”

  She pitched the knife. With a thunk, it stuck solidly in a piece of firewood. “Acting without knowing the consequences of the magic you call forth is perilous behavior!”

  “Well, nothing you were doing was helping!”

  Sister Verna rocked back on her heels, stared at him for a moment, and then turned to busy herself with replacing the bottles in the green bag.

  “I’m sorry, Sister. I didn’t really mean that. It didn’t come out the way I intended. I only meant that you weren’t able to sense the way, and I knew if we stayed, we would be killed.”

  The bottles clinked together as she moved them around in the bag. She seemed to be having difficulty getting them packed the way she wanted. “Richard, you think that controlling the gift, using magic, is what you are to learn with us . . . That is the easy part. Knowing what kind of magic to use, how much to use, when to use it, and the consequences of using it, that is the hard part. That is the meaning of everything. How, how much, when, and what if—just like the magic I have put on your bites.”

  She fixed him with a deadly serious expression. “Without that knowledge, you are a blind man swinging an axe in a crowd of children. You have no idea of the danger you invoke when you use magic. We try to give you sight, and some sense, before you swing that axe.”

  Richard picked at a clump of grass at his feet. “I never thought about it that way.”

  “Perhaps, if anything, I should be angry with myself for being foolish. I didn’t think there was anything powerful enough to tempt me into a trap. I was wrong. Thank you, Richard, for saving me.”

  He wrapped a long stalk of grass around his finger. “I was so relieved to find you . . . I thought you were dead. I’m glad you’re not.”

  She had pulled all the little bottles out of the bag and set them on the ground. “I could have been lost in that spell for all time. I should have been.”

  “What do you mean?”

  There seemed to him to be more bottles than would fit into the bag, but then, he had seen them all come out. “We have tried to rescue Sisters before. We have seen some, and their charges, lost in those enchantment spells. I saw one, the first time I went through. We have never been able to get them out. Sisters have died trying.” She started replacin
g the bottles. “You used magic.”

  “I used the sword. The sword has magic, you know.”

  “No. You didn’t use the sword’s magic. You used your Han, even though you didn’t realize it. Using your Han through desire, without wisdom, is the most dangerous thing you can do.”

  “Sister, I think it was just the sword’s magic.”

  “When you called to me, I heard you. We have tried to call to others, and they have never heard us. Not once.”

  “You just didn’t know how. You couldn’t hear me either, until I stepped through some sort of sparkling wall around you. Then you could hear me. You just have to step through that wall first.”

  She pushed bottles to each side to make more room as she spoke softly. “We know that, Richard. We have tried every sort of magic, and have never been able to pass through or break the wall of one of these spells, or been able to get the attention of one captured by it. No one has ever been brought out of an enchantment spell before.” She replaced the last bottle and finally turned to face him. “Thank you, Richard.”

  He shrugged as he pulled the grass off his finger. “Well, it was the least I could do to make up for what I did.”

  “For what you did?”

  Richard occupied himself with carefully rolling his pants back down. “Well, before I saved you, I kind of killed you.”

  She leaned closer. “You did what?”

  “You were hurting me. With your magic. With the collar.”

  “I’m sorry, Richard. I was in the spell and didn’t realize what I was doing. I didn’t intend to hurt you.”

  He shook his head. “Not then. Before. In the white tower.”

  She leaned even closer and gritted her teeth. “You went into a tower? Are you mad? I told you what those towers are! How could you be so . . .”

  “Sister, I had no choice.”

  “We have already discussed choice. I told you how dangerous those towers are. I told you to stay away from them!”

  “Look, there was lightning all around. It was trying to strike me. I . . . well, I didn’t know what else to do. So I dove through an archway, into the tower, for protection.”