Confessor: Chainfire Trilogy Part 3

Chapter 53

In the flickering torchlight, lost in deep concentration, Richard used his finger to draw the next element in the sorcerer’s sand. Running through the words silently to himself first, he finally looked up to the dark windows, then began murmuring the incantations aloud in High D’Haran.

Through the leaded windows, in his distant awareness, he saw the moonlight. Only the day before, Jagang had given him until the new moon to surrender the palace. That moonlight would day by day continue to dwindle until they were enveloped in complete darkness.

Richard had listened to Verna, General Meiffert, and Cara’s strong sentiment that they should not surrender. Verna thought that surrender would be giving moral sanction to criminal beliefs and they should fight such evil to the death; General Meiffert thought that it was little more than a trick and it would be foolish to believe Jagang would keep his word, so they should never surrender; Cara thought that they were going to die one way or the other, so they might as well fight to the death and in the process kill as many of the enemy as possible. Nathan and Nicci had only listened to the arguments, undecided on whether it would be best to surrender or fight.

Richard had pointed out that they were only offering ideas on how they should die, not on how they could prevail. They were thinking of the problem, not the solution.

He knew that there was only one realistic way he could ever expect to get close to the boxes of Orden, but it was not something that the others had wanted to hear.

Moment by moment time was slipping through his fingers. He knew that he would not be granted more. Richard felt the crushing weight of the responsibility he alone had to bear. He had decided that he could wait no longer; ready or not he had to begin.

He felt nothing as he spoke the proper incantations, just as he felt nothing when he drew the spell-forms. His emotions were entirely driven by his thoughts of Kahlan, the people he cared dearly about, and the choices he had left open to him.

He had to keep reminding himself not to waste time allowing his thoughts to drift to what was about to be lost, but instead to use what time he had to think of a way to prevail.

While he didn’t have access to the boxes of Orden, or the true copy or original of The Book of Counted Shadows, he knew from the books Nicci had studied, especially The Book of Life, which explained how to initiate the use of the boxes of Orden, that this ritual was a necessary component to using Orden to counter Chainfire. Countering Chainfire was central. If Richard ever did get the chance to use the boxes, he had to be ready to use that opportunity. This was one of those things that he had no choice about. Either he did it, or he could never open the boxes—simple as that.

The sooner he made the attempt, the sooner they would know if it would work. Either he lived or he died. If he didn’t survive then it was better to let Nicci, Nathan, and Verna have as much time as possible to try to think of another way to avoid the inevitable.

The emperor had a variety of options. Richard didn’t.

Jagang, since he would be opening the boxes through Sister Ulicia, wouldn’t have to travel to the underworld. Sister Ulicia was a Sister of the Dark. She already had all the connection with the underworld that she would need to make Orden function for them. Richard would have to create his own connection and find a way to accomplish what was necessary in order to make Orden work to counter the Chainfire event.

The incantations, Nicci had told him, like the spell-forms, were cause and effect. He was the proper person, with the required power, drawing the proper spells, reciting the necessary words. His gift would add what was needed to the elements as he brought those elements into being in the sorcerer’s sand. Cause and effect, Nicci had assured him. There was no need for him to feel anything.

He was counting on her being right. They were all counting on her being right.

Nathan, too, was more than concerned about her being right. The prophet was more worried than ever about the great void and how close they were to it.

Richard remembered how Warren had always referred to the boxes of Orden as the “gateway.” At the time, when Richard had been at the Palace of the Prophets, Warren had said that the danger was that the boxes, the gateway, had breached the veil and would allow the Keeper of the underworld through into the world of life. Because the boxes were a gateway into the world of life for the Keeper, a way through the veil, they were also a gateway going in the other direction—into the world of the dead.

It had occurred to Richard that the boxes might very well be the gateway to the great void that so concerned Nathan.

Since the powers Richard was invoking were an integral part of Orden itself, Richard was aware that in attempting to journey to the underworld he very well might be about to be swallowed up into his own great void.

Richard thought again about the long talk he had had with Nathan. If Richard was successful this night, then Nathan was once again going to have to step into the role of the Lord Rahl. They couldn’t afford to leave everyone without a Lord Rahl for even the short time Richard would be gone. Richard had told the prophet that if anything went wrong then he was going to have to do what was necessary on his own.

Richard, hunched naked before the white sorcerer’s sand, used his forearm to smooth the next section, creating a field for the motifs to come. He began to draw the complex enchantments radiating out from the center axis of the larger spell-form. Each of those elements branched into intricate symbols of its own that he had spent countless hours practicing on paper. Nicci had stood over his shoulder as he’d drawn those symbols, guiding his every movement. Nicci could not help him now, though. This, he had to do by himself, without any help. He was the one who had been named the player. It had to be his own work, touched exclusively by his gift.

The torches, their flames wavering slowly in the still air, lit the sand, throwing off sparkles of prismatic light. Those tiny flares of colored light were riveting, spellbinding. They made him feel lost in his own private world.

In a way, he really was lost in his own world.

As he began drawing the abutting spell-forms, Richard gave himself over to the act of drawing. He focused exclusively on the creation of each component as he drew it, making it fit into the larger context of the spell-form not only conceptually, but physically. Back when he had painted the designs on himself and his team, he had discovered that drawing those elements had much in common with using his sword. There was a movement to it, a rhythm, a flow.

Since he was, after all, now conjuring things from the underworld itself, each spell contained elements of the dance with death. It not only had to be the right element at the right time but had to be carried out with precision.

In many ways, drawing the spells was the dance with death.

In much the way he fought with the sword to stay alive, bringing death to those he battled, the spells were bringing him closer to that cusp between life and death. When he fought with the sword, he knew that any error would result in his swift death. The moves he made with the sword not only had to be the right moves, but they had to be done at precisely the right time and done properly. Drawing the spell-forms was no different. Each move had to be executed properly. Any error would result in swift death.

At the same time, it was an exhilarating experience. He had practiced long hours. He knew the forms. He had painted them on himself and his team. Now he lost himself in the movement of drawing those forms, the strokes, slashes, and points, all the while moving with the constant flow of coming close to death but avoiding annihilation. He existed on the cusp of life, the very outer edge of existence. He moved among the forms as if moving among an enemy, moving among death stalking him.

It was an all-consuming experience that felt to him just like using the Sword of Truth.

In fact, it was all one and the same.

From that first day when Zedd had handed Richard the sword across the table outside his house, Richard had in reality been preparing for this.

He could feel sweat dripping off his face as he worked. As he drew each form, worked each element to completion without allowing anything to distract him into making a mistake, he lost all sense of time. He was part of the drawings. He was, in a very real sense, in the drawings just as he was in a sword fight when he used the Sword of Truth. His brow wrinkled with the intensity of it. He added each element, laid down each stroke and curve with the precision of a cut with his sword—or with the precision of his chisel when he had sculpted. It was the same skill he applied when using a blade. He was destroying and creating all at the same time.

When he at last realized that he had drawn every symbol, completed every spell-form, connected every element, he sat up straighter. His gaze swept over the sorcerer’s sand and he at last realized the full horror of what lay ahead.

He looked around at the Garden of Life. He wanted to see beauty before he faced the world of the dead.

At last, he sat cross-legged and rested his hands palm-up on his knees. His eyes slid closed. He took deep breaths. This was his last chance to stop. In another moment it would be too late to change the course of events.

Richard raised his head and opened his eyes.

In High D’Haran, he whispered, “Come to me.”

There was a moment of dead silence in which he could hear only the soft burning of the torches all around the sorcerer’s sand, and then the air itself shook with a sudden wailing roar. The ground shook.

From the center of the sparkling white sand, from the center of the spell-forms, a white shape, like white smoke, began to rise. It spiraled around itself in tumbling swirls and eddies as it slowly ascended through the sand, as if drawing itself upward out of the spells themselves. As it came, as it lifted ever upward, the sorcerer’s sand beneath it was rent open, allowing the blackness of death to establish a void in the world of life.

Richard watched as the white form ascended out of that void, forming into the shape of a figure in flowing white robes. The figure opened its arms, the way a flower would open itself to the world of life and light, until the gossamer robes hung in flowing folds from those widespread arms. The figure floated, suspended above the black void in the white sand.

Richard rose up before the figure.

“Thank you for coming, Denna.”

She smiled a beautiful, radiant, and yet longingly sad smile.

As Richard gazed at the spirit, she reached out and touched his cheek. It was as loving a touch as Richard had ever felt. In that touch he knew that he would be safe with her . . . as safe as he could be in the world of the dead.

From the shadows of the trees where Richard had asked her to wait, Nicci watched in wonder as Richard stood before the soft glow of an ethereal figure.

She was an achingly beautiful creature, a spirit of quiet purity and dignity.

Nicci felt tears run down her cheeks at actually seeing a good spirit there before her. It filled her with joy, and at the same time terror for Richard, for where that spirit would be taking him.

As the glowing figure in white robes circled a sheltering arm around Richard, closing him off from the world of life, Nicci stepped forward into the light of the torches. Her forehead beaded with sweat as she watched the gossamer glow gently spiral down into the darkness with her charge.

“Safe journey, my friend,” she whispered, “safe journey.” And then, before the opening had completely closed, before the sparkling white sorcerer’s sand had healed itself over again, a dark form came together in the air above. The thing whirled itself into a tight funnel as it followed them down into darkness.

The beast had been attracted to Richard through the use of his gift, and now it was pursuing him down into its own realm.