Stone of Tears tsot-2

by Terry Goodkind

  In his stillness, he saw the first come from the left.

  Be a feather, not a rock. Float on the wind of the storm.

  Richard unleashed the magic and spun with the attack, letting it sweep past him. He didn’t strike, but let himself float with the press of the charge. He let the sword’s magic guide him. The attacker tumbled to the ground when he didn’t make the expected contact.

  Instantly, another came, twirling his spear. Richard spun around again, and as the attacker passed, he used the sword to splinter the shaft in two. A spearpoint thrusted toward him. Without stopping, he glided past it and brought the sword up, cutting the shaft in half. Another charge came from behind. He met it with a foot to the chest, throwing the man back.

  Richard gave himself over to the magic from the sword, and to the peace within himself. Things he didn’t even understand, he was doing without thought.

  He controlled the rage to keep from killing. He used the flat of the blade to strike the back of a head here, used his feet to trip an advance there. The faster they came, the faster he reacted, the magic feeding off their energy. Fluidly, he slipped among the attackers, splintering spears when he could, trying to disarm the Baka Ban Mana without killing them.

  “Du Chaillu! Stop this before I have to hurt them!”

  Yelling at her was a mistake. It distracted him. It allowed a spear through his flowing defense. He had a choice as the rage instantly exploded at the threat. He could kill the attacker, or do only what was necessary to stop him.

  His sword spun, its tip whistling through the air, and lopped off the hand that thrust the spear. Blood and fragments of bone filled the air. The scream was a woman’s.

  Some of the Baka Ban Mana were women, he realized. It didn’t matter. They would kill him if he didn’t defend himself. Losing a hand was better than losing your head. First blood brought the rage, the need to kill, boiling up within him, hot and thirsty for more.

  He fought the attackers and fought the things within himself that wanted to press the attack to those around him. He didn’t want to press the attack. He only wanted them to stop. But if they didn’t stop . . .

  When he broke their spears, they picked up others and threw themselves at him again. He slipped among them like a phantom, conserving his energy as he let them wear themselves out.

  The outer ring, who had continued to circle while the inner one had attacked, stopped, and then, swords awhirl, began advancing. Those with the spears—the ones who were still standing—stepped back through the outer ring as it came forward.

  Swords spun in the air. Instead of waiting for them to come to him, Richard went to them. They flinched in surprise as the Sword of Truth shattered two of the flashing blades.

  “Du Chaillu! Please! I don’t want to kill any of you!”

  The ones with the swords were faster than the ones with the spears. Too fast. Talking, and trying to disarm them without killing, was a dangerous distraction. Richard felt a hot pain flash through the flesh over his ribs. He hadn’t even seen the blade coming, but he had moved by instinct and received a shallow slash instead of a killing cut.

  His own blood being drawn summoned the sword’s magic to his defense—the rage, the skill of those who had held it before him. Their essence seared through him, and he couldn’t hold it back. There was no choice anymore. It overwhelmed his restraint. He had given them every chance. He was beyond retrieval, now.

  Bringer of death.

  The swordsmen rushed in a deadly wave.

  He loosed the magic with a vengeance. The stalling was over. The barriers down, he danced with death, now.

  The night erupted in a warm mist of blood. He heard himself screaming and he felt himself moving; he saw men and women falling, as disembodied heads tumbled across the ground. The lust for it raged through him.

  No blade touched him again. He countered every strike as if he had seen it a thousand times before, as if he had always known what to do. Every attack brought a sure and swift death to the attacker. Bone fragments and blood exploded through the night air. Gore sluiced across the ground. The horror of it all melted together into one long killing image.

  Bringer of death.

  He only realized he had his knife in his left hand and his sword in his right when two came from opposite sides at once. He hooked his arm around the neck of the one on the left and slit his throat while at the same time running the one on the right through with the sword. Both collapsed to the ground as Richard stood panting.

  Quiet echoed around him. There was no movement, except for one on her knees, holding herself up with one hand. Her other hand was missing. She rose to her feet, pulling a knife from her belt.

  Through his glower, Richard watched the determination in her eyes. She ran for him with a scream. Richard stood deathlike in a cold cocoon of magic. The rage pounded as he watched her come. She raised the knife.

  Richard’s sword whipped up and impaled her through the heart. The dead weight of her pulled the sword down as she slid off it to the ground, her last breath gurgling out as her fingers grasped the blade, sliding down its wet red length as she slipped into the hands of death.

  Bringer of death.

  Richard lifted his smoldering glare to the woman standing on the rock. Du Chaillu stepped down, unwrapped her head, letting the long cloth hang down, and went to one knee in a bow.

  Richard, his rage burning hotly, strode to her. He lifted Du Chaillu’s chin with the sword’s point.

  Her dark eyes stared up into his. “The Caharin has come.”

  “Who is the Caharin?”

  Du Chaillu looked unflinchingly into his eyes. “The one who dances with the spirits.”

  “Dances with the spirits,” Richard repeated in a flat tone. He understood. He had danced with the spirits of those who held the sword before him. He had called the dead forth, danced with their spirits. He almost laughed.

  “I will never forgive you, Du Chaillu, for making me kill those people. I saved your life because I abhor killing, and you have brought the blood of thirty to my hands.”

  “I am sorry, Caharin, that you must bear this burden. But only through the blood of thirty Baka Ban Mana could the killing stop. Only in this way can we serve the spirits.”

  “How is killing serving the spirits!”

  “When the magic men stole our land, they banished us to this place. They placed upon us the duty of teaching the Caharin to dance with the spirits. Only the Caharin can stop the Dark Spirit from taking the world of the living. The Caharin is given to the world as a new born babe, who must be taught. Part of this duty is placed upon us—to teach him to dance with the spirits. You have learned something this night, have you not?”

  Richard gave a grim nod.

  “I am the keeper of the laws of our people. It was our calling to teach you this. If we were to ignore what the old words tell us we must do, then the Caharin would not learn what is within himself, and he would be defenseless against the forces of death. In the end, death would have everyone.

  “The Majendie sacrifice us, to remind us always of our duty to the spirits, and to remind us to practice with the blades. The witch women to the other side aid the Majendie, so that we will be surrounded, with no way of escape, and nowhere to go, so that we will always be under threat, and unable to ever forget our duty.

  “It is proclaimed that the Caharin will announce his arrival by dancing with the spirits, and spilling the blood of thirty Baka Ban Mana, a feat none but the chosen one could accomplish except with the aid of the spirits. It is said that when this happens, then we are his to rule. We are no longer a free people, but bound to his wishes. To your wishes, Caharin.

  “The old words say that if every year the one who wears the prayer dress goes to our land, to give our prayers to the spirits, then one year, they will send the Caharin, and if we carry out our duty, then he will return our land to us.”

  Richard stood, as if in a dream, glaring down at the woman. “You have taken something pre
cious from me this night, Du Chaillu.”

  She came to her feet, straightening before him. “Do not speak to me of sacrifice, Caharin. My five husbands, whom I loved, whom my children loved, who have not seen me since I was captured, were among the thirty you have just killed.”

  Richard sank to his knees. He felt like he might be sick. “Du Chaillu, forgive me for what I have done this night.”

  She gently put a hand to his bowed head. “It has been my honor to be the spirit woman of our people when the Caharin has come, to be the one to wear the prayer dress and bring him to his people. You must do your duty, now, and return our land, as the old words tell us.”

  Richard lifted his head. “And do the old words say how I am to accomplish this task?”

  She slowly shook her head. “Only that we are to help you, and that you will. We are yours to command.”

  In the dark, Richard felt a tear run down his cheek. “Then I command that the killing stop. You will do as I have already ordered. You will use the bird whistle to bring peace with the Majendie. While you are doing that, you will do as you promised, and have someone guide us to the Palace of the Prophets.”

  Without looking up, Du Chaillu snapped her fingers. Richard realized, for the first time, that people in the shadows surrounded the bloody clearing. All were on their knees, bowed toward him. At the snap of her fingers, several sprang forward.

  “Guide them to the big stone house.”

  Richard stood before her, looking into her dark eyes. “Du Chaillu, I’m so sorry I killed your husbands. I begged you to stop it, but I’m so sorry.”

  Her eyes bore the timeless look he had seen in the eyes of others; Sister Verna, Shota the witch woman, and Kahlan. He knew now that it was the gift he was seeing. A ghost of a smile came to her lips. He didn’t know how she could smile at a time like this.

  “They fought as hard as any Baka Ban Mana have ever fought. They had the honor of teaching the Caharin. They have given their lives for their people. They brought honor to themselves, and will live on as legends.”

  She reached out and placed her hand on his bare chest. On the handprint there. “You are my husband, now.”

  Richard’s eyes widened. “What?”

  She gave a curious frown. “I wear the prayer dress. I am the spirit woman of our people. You are the Caharin. It is the old law. You are my husband.”

  Richard shook his head. “No, I’m not. I already have . . .”

  He was going to say he already had a love. But the words caught in his throat. Kahlan had sent him away. He had nothing.

  She shrugged. “It could be worse for you. The last one who wore the prayer dress was old and wrinkled. She had no teeth. I hope that I bring at least some pleasure to your eyes, and maybe someday a song to your heart, but I belong to the Caharin. It is not for you, or me, to decide.”

  “Yes it is!” He looked about and then snatched up his shirt. As he put it on, he saw Sister Verna at the edge of the clearing, watching him, like a bug in a box. He turned to Du Chaillu.

  “You have a job to do. You will do it. The killing is ended. The Sister and I must get to the palace so I can get this collar off.”

  Du Chaillu leaned over and kissed his cheek. “Until I see you again, Richard, Seeker, Caharin, husband.”

  Chapter 49

  Richard and Sister Verna sat on their horses, anchoring long, thin shadows, as they looked down from the grassy prominence. Trees meandered along the low places among some of the hills, and blanketed others in dusky green. The vast city below lay awash in a straw-colored haze that muted the colors into a mellow monotone. The distant tiled and shingled roofs shimmered in the rays of the setting sun like points of light on a pond.

  Richard had never seen so many buildings laid out in such an orderly array. Off to the edges they were smaller, but toward the core they seemed to grow, both in size and in grandeur. The faraway sounds of tens of thousands of people and horses and wagons drifted all the way up to them on the hill, carried on the light, salty breeze.

  A river meandered through the collection of countless buildings, dividing the city, with the part on the far side twice as large. At the edge of the city, docks lined the banks along the mouth of the majestic river. Boats of all sizes were not only moored there, but dotted the river, their white sails filled with air. Some of the boats, he could just make out, had three masts. Richard had never imagined that such large boats might exist.

  Despite being there against his will, Richard found himself fascinated by the city, by all the people and all the sights it must hold. He had never seen such a place. He imagined a person could probably walk around for days and days, and not begin to see it all.

  Beyond, shimmering with golden sparkles and reflections, lay the sea, stretching to a knife’s-edge line at the horizon.

  Dominating the city, near the center, rising up on an island of its own, stood a vast palace, its imposing, crenellated west wall bathed in the sun’s golden rays. Baileys and ramparts and towers and sections and roofs, all of grand design, joined together into a complex structure that held labyrinthine courtyards with trees, or grass, or ponds. The palace seemed to be stretching its stone arms, jealously trying to enclose the whole of the island atop which it sat.

  Seen from this distance, with the thread-thin streets radiating out from the the island at the core of the city, and strandlike bridges spanning the river all around, the palace reminded Richard of nothing as much as a fat spider sitting in the center of its web.

  “The Palace of the Prophets,” Sister Verna said.

  “Prison,” Richard said without looking to her.

  She ignored the comment. “The city is Tanimura, and through it, the River Kern. The palace itself sits on Halsband Island.”

  “Halsband.” His hackles rose. “Is that some kind of sardonic joke?”

  “What do you mean? Does Halsband have significance?”

  Richard raised an eyebrow. “A halsband is a collar used to launch a hunting hawk on an attack.”

  She shrugged dismissively. “You read too much into things.”

  “Do I? We shall see.”

  She let out a small sigh as she lifted her hips, starting her horse down the hill, and changed the subject. “It’s been many years since I was home, but it looks as it always has.”

  The two Baka Ban Mana men who had guided them through the swampy, trackless forest for the last two days had left them that morning, once Sister Verna was at last in familiar territory. Although he never lost his sense of direction, Richard could easily see how people could become disoriented there. But he was at home in such places of vast desolation, and was more likely to become lost in a building than in dense woods.

  The two men had spoken little over those two days. Though they were swordsmen as fierce as those Richard had fought, they were in awe of him. Richard had to shout before they would stop all the bowing. No amount of shouting, though, could make them stop calling him Caharin.

  One night, before he went to stand his usual watch, Sister Verna had told him, in a quiet tone, that she was sorry that he had had to kill those thirty people. A little surprised by her sincerity and the seeming lack of meaning other than that stated, and haunted by the memory, he had thanked her for understanding.

  Richard scanned the fertile hills and valleys. “Why isn’t this land farmed? With all those people, they must need to plant food.”

  Sister Verna lifted a hand holding the reins and indicated the land on the other side of the city. “Farms cover the land on that side of the river. On this side, it’s not safe for man nor beast.” Tilting her head back, she indicated the land behind. “The Baka Ban Mana are always a threat.”

  “So they don’t farm here because they’re afraid of the Baka Ban Mana?”

  She cast a glance to her left. “Do you see that dark forest?” She watched him as he took in the fringe of the dense tangle in the next valley. Huge, old, gnarled trees were packed close together, covered with vines and moss, and
harboring gloomy shadows. “This edge runs for miles more toward the city. It’s the Hagen Woods. Stay far away from it. All who let the sun set on them in the Hagen Woods die. Many who set foot there die before they have a chance to wait for the sun to go down. It’s a place of vile magic.”

  As they rode, he kept glancing toward the Hagen Woods. He felt a longing for that gloomy place, as if it complemented his dark mood; as if he belonged in there. He found it hard to draw his eyes away.

  Up close, the streets of Tanimura were not the orderly place they appeared from a distance. The fringes of the city were a confusion of squalor. Men pushing or pulling carts laden with loads of rice sacks, or carpets, or firewood, or hides, or even garbage, wove around and past each other, sometimes clogging the way. Lining the road were hawkers of every sort, selling everything from fruits and vegetables and strips of meat cooked on little sticks over tiny smoky fires in impromptu stone hearths, to herbs and fortunes, to boots and beads. At least the cooking gave spotty relief from the reeking stench of tanneries.

  Huddled groups of men in worn, dirty clothes shouted with excitement or burst into laughter around games of cards and dice. Side streets and narrow alleyways were clogged with people and lined with ramshackle huts of tarp and tin. Naked children ran and played among the flimsy shelters, splashing in muddy puddles and chasing each other in games of catch-the-fox. Women squatted around buckets, washing clothes and chatting among themselves.

  Sister Verna muttered to herself that she didn’t remember the squalor and the unhoused multitudes. Richard thought that, despite their condition, they looked happier than they had a right to.

  Despite having lived out-of-doors, and being a little dirty and rumpled, Sister Verna, compared to these people, looked like royalty. Anyone coming close bowed in reverence to the Sister, and she prayed for the Creator’s blessing on them in return.