Stone of Tears

Chapter 18

Fat, wet flakes of snow drifted down, sometimes falling harder, gathering in gusts and swirling into white curtains. Richard rode in a numb haze, behind Sister Verna, the third horse tethered to his and trotting along behind. When the snow swept down in dense flurries, the Sister was no more than a gray shape ahead of him.

It never occurred to him to wonder where they were going, or to close his cloak against the cold, biting wind. It didn’t matter; nothing mattered.

His thoughts seemed to float and dance with the snow, unable to settle. He had never loved anything in his life the way he loved Kahlan. She had become his life.

And she had sent him away.

He hurt too much to think of anything else. He was stunned that she would doubt his love, that she would send him away. Why would she send him away?

His mind drifted in and out of dense, desperate thoughts. He couldn’t understand how she could ask him to put on a collar to prove his love. He had told her what wearing a collar meant to him. Maybe he should have told her all of it. Maybe then she would have understood.

His chest ached where Darken Rahl had burned him. When he reached up and touched the bandage, he finally noticed that the snow flurries had stopped. The low, scudding clouds were broken in places, letting shafts of sunlight shine through. The grassland was a flat, dead brown, and the clouds a dull, dead gray. The landscape was a colorless, empty expanse.

By the angle of the sun he realized it was getting to be late afternoon. They had been riding for a long time, in silence; Sister Verna had said nothing to him.

He reached up and experimentally touched the collar for the first time. It was smooth, seamless, cold. He had said he would never wear a collar again. He had promised himself. Yet here he was wearing one. Worse, he had put it on himself, put it on because Kahlan had asked him to. Because she doubted him.

For the first time since he had put it on, he forced himself to think of something else. He couldn’t think about Kahlan anymore, couldn’t stand the pain. He was the Seeker; he had other things to think about, important things. With a gentle squeeze of his lower legs to the horse’s girth, he urged it ahead, pulling it close beside the Sister’s chestnut gelding.

Richard reached up to push back the hood of his cloak, and realized it wasn’t even up, so he ran his fingers through his wet hair instead. He looked over at Sister Verna.

“There are some things we have to talk about. Important things you don’t know about.”

She glanced over without emotion. The edge of her hood partially blocked her face. “And what would those things be?”

“I am the Seeker.”

She looked away, returning her eyes to where they had been. “That is hardly something I don’t know.”

Her calm, unconcerned attitude annoyed him. “I have responsibilities. I told you before: there are important things going on you know nothing about. Dangerous things.” She didn’t respond. It was as if he hadn’t spoken. He decided to cut right to the heart of it. “The Keeper is trying to escape the underworld.”

“We do not speak his name. You are not to speak it as you have just done. It brings his attention. When we must speak of him, he is addressed as the Nameless One.”

She was talking to him as if he were a child. Kahlan’s life was in danger and this woman was treating him like a child. “I don’t care what you call him, he’s trying to get out. And I assure you, I already have his attention.”

At last she looked over, unconcerned. “The Nameless One is always trying to get out.”

Richard took a deep breath and tried again. “The veil to the underworld is torn. He is going to get out.”

Sister Verna turned to him once more, this time pulling the edge of the hood back to get a better look. Curly brown hair peeked out the edge of the dark, heavy hood. She had an odd frown. A frown of amusement. There was a wisp of a smile at the corners of her mouth.

“The Creator himself put the Nameless One where he is. The Creator himself placed the veil with His own hand to keep him there.” Her smile swelled a little as her eyebrows came closer together, creasing her weathered brow. “The Nameless One cannot escape the prison the Creator has placed him in. Do not be afraid, child.”

Exploding in rage, Richard wheeled his bay mare around toward the Sister. The two horses jostled, whinnying and tossing their heads. Richard firmly snatched the reins of the Sister’s surprised horse to keep it from rearing, or bolting.

He leaned toward her, his chest heaving in fury. “I will not be called names! I will not have names put to me because I wear a collar! I am Richard! Richard Rahl!”

Sister Verna didn’t flinch. Her voice remained calm and smooth. “I’m sorry, Richard. It was only force of habit. I am used to dealing with ones much younger than you. I meant nothing demeaning by it.”

The way she stared at him made him feel suddenly foolish, embarrassed. Made him feel like a child. He released the reins. “I apologize for yelling. I’m not in a very good mood.”

She frowned again. “I thought your name was Cypher.”

He tugged his cloak over his chest where the bandage covered his burn. “It’s a long story. George Cypher raised me as his son. I only found out a short time ago that I am in truth the son of Darken Rahl.”

Her frown deepened. “Darken Rahl. The one with the gift you killed? You killed your father?”

“Don’t look at me like that. You didn’t know him. You have no idea what kind of man he was. He imprisoned and tortured and killed more people than you or I could imagine. The idea of him being with my mother makes me sick. But that is the truth of it. I am his son. If you expect me to be sorry I killed him, you will have longer than eternity to wait.”

Sister Verna shook her head with what seemed genuine concern. “I’m sorry, Richard. Sometimes the Creator weaves a tangled cloth for our lives, and we are left to wonder why. But I am sure of one thing: He has reasons for what He does.”

Babble. He was getting babble from this woman. He urged his horse around and started out again. “I’m telling you, the veil is torn, and the Keeper is going to get out.”

Her voice lowered dangerously. “The Nameless One.”

He glanced over, annoyed. “Fine. The Nameless One. I couldn’t care less what you want to call him, but he is going to get out. We are all in great danger.”

Kahlan was in great danger.

He didn’t care if this sorceress of a Sister burned him to a cinder; his life meant nothing to him anymore. His only concern was Kahlan’s safety.

Sister Verna’s quizzical frown and smile returned. “Who told you such a thing?”

“Shota, a witch woman, she told me the veil was torn.” He left out that Shota had also told him he was the one who had torn it. “She said it was torn and if it wasn’t fixed, the Kee—the Nameless One would escape.”

Sister Verna smiled. Her eyes sparkled. “A witch woman.” She laughed a little. “And you believed her? You believed a witch woman? You think witch women speak the truth in such simple fashion?”

Fuming, Richard glanced at her from the corner of his eye. “She seemed pretty sure of it to me. She wouldn’t lie about something this important. I believe her.”

Sister Verna seemed to think the whole thing amusing. “If you had ever had occasion to deal with a witch woman before, Richard, you would know that they have an odd view of the truth. They can be well intentioned at times, but witch women speak in words that rarely come to pass the way they sound.”

The truth of that took some of the steam out of him. Sister Verna certainly seemed to know about witch women. In fact, she seemed to share his own view of them. “She seemed pretty sure of what she was saying. She was afraid.”

“I am sure she was. A wise person is always afraid of the Nameless One. But I wouldn’t put much stock in what she says.”

“It’s not just what she says. Other things have happened, too.”

She looked over curiously. “Such as?”

“A screeling.”

She set her calm brown eyes back ahead. “A screeling. You have seen a screeling, yes?”

“Seen it! It attacked me! Screelings are from the underworld. They are sent by the Nameless One. It was sent through a tear in the veil, to kill me!”

Her smile returned. “You have quite an imagination, Richard. You have listened to too many children’s songs.”

He restrained his renewed anger. “What do you mean?”

“Screelings are indeed from the underworld, as are other beasts. The heart hounds, for example. But they are not ‘sent.’ They simply escape. We live in a world that lies between good and evil; between the light and the dark. The Creator did not intend this to be a perfect world, safe from all harm. We cannot understand His reasons, always, but He has them, and He is perfect. Perhaps the Screelings are meant to show us the dark side. I don’t know. But I do know they are simply an evil that sometimes comes. I have seen this happen before to ones with the gift. It is possible that the gift draws them. A test perhaps. A warning, perhaps, of the rancid evil that awaits those who stray from the light.”

“But . . . there are prophecies that say they are sent when the veil is torn, sent by the Nameless One.”

“How could that be, Richard? Has the veil ever been torn before?”

“How should I know?” He thought a minute. “But I don’t see how it could have been. If it were, how could it have been mended? And it wouldn’t have gone unnoticed. What are you getting at?”

“Well, if the veil has never been torn, how could the screelings have been sent before? How would we know what they were? How could they have a name already put to them?”

It was Richard’s turn to frown. “Maybe we only know them as screelings because they have been named in the prophecy.”

“You have read this prophecy?”

“Well, no. Kahlan told it to me.”

“And she read it herself, with her own eyes, yes?”

“No. She learned it when she was young.” Richard’s irritated frown deepened. “In a song. She learned it from wizards.”

“In a song.” Sister Verna didn’t look over, but her smile widened. “Richard, I do not mean to belittle your fears, but things repeated, over and over, especially in a song, have a way of changing.

“As for prophecies, well, they are harder to understand than a witch woman. We have vaults full of them at the palace. As part of your studies, perhaps you will be allowed to work with them. I have read all of them we have, and I can tell you that they are beyond the minds of most. If you aren’t cautious, you can find a prophecy that will say whatever you want to hear. Or at least you will think it is what you want to hear. Some wizards devote their lives to the study of them, and yet even they understand only a tiny fraction of their truth.”

“This is a danger not to be taken so lightly.”

“Do you think the veil is torn that simply? Have faith, Richard. The Creator placed the veil. Have faith in Him.”

Richard rode in silence for a time. Sister Verna did seem to make sense. He felt as if his understanding of the world was tilting.

But it was difficult for him to think too hard on the subject; Kahlan kept creeping back into his mind. His anguish at her wanting him to put on a collar to prove his love, knowing it would take him from her, tore at his heart. The betrayal burned painfully in his chest.

He picked at the reins with his thumbnail. At last he turned once more to the Sister. “That’s not all. I haven’t told you the worst of it.”

She smiled a motherly smile. “There is more? Tell me then. Perhaps I can put your fears to rest.”

Richard let out a deep breath, trying to release at least a little of the pain with it. “The man I killed, Darken Rahl, my father, well, when he died, he was sent to the underworld. To the Kee . . . the Nameless One. Last night, he escaped. Escaped through the tear in the veil. He is back in this world, back to tear the veil the rest of the way.”

“And you know he was sent to the Nameless One. You were in the underworld to see him arrive there, at the side of the Nameless One, yes?”

The woman had a way of poking his temper awake. He tried to ignore the sting of the jab. “I talked to him when he came back to this world. He told me. He told me he was here to tear the veil the rest of the way. He said the Keeper would have us all. A dead man, come back to this world. Do you see? The only way his spirit could be here is if he came through the veil.”

“You were just sitting there, and this dead man walked up and spoke to you, yes?”

Richard frowned deeply at her, but she didn’t look over to see it. “It was at a gathering, with the Mud People. I was trying to talk to their ancestors’ spirits, to try to find out how to close the veil, and he appeared.”

“Ahhh.” She nodded in satisfaction. “I see.”

“What does that mean!”

Sister Verna’s face set into an expression of tolerance, born of explaining things to children. “Did the Mud People have you drink or eat some sacred potion before you saw this spirit?”

“No!”

“You simply sat down with them and saw spirits, yes?”

“Well, not exactly. There is a banquet first. For a couple of days. The elders eat and drink special things. But I never did. Then we were painted with mud, and then I went into the spirit house with the seven elders. We sat in a circle, and they chanted awhile. Then they passed around a basket and we took out a spirit frog, and rubbed the slime from its back onto our skin . . .”

“Frogs.” Sister Verna looked over. “Red frogs, yes?”

“Yes. Red spirit frogs.”

With a smile she looked back ahead. “I know of them. And it made your skin tingle, yes? And it is then you saw spirits?”

“That’s a pretty simplistic version, but I guess you could distill it down like that. What are you trying to say?”

“You have traveled the Midlands often? You have seen many of her peoples?”

“No. I’m from Westland. I don’t know much about the people of the Midlands.”

She nodded to herself again. “There are many peoples in the Midlands, unbelievers, who do not know of the light of the Creator. They worship all sorts of things. Idols and spirits and such. They are savages who hold to customs of worship centered around these false beliefs. They mostly have one thing in common. They use sacred food or drink to help them ‘see’ their ‘spirit protectors.’ ”

She looked over to make sure he was paying attention. “The Mud People apparently use the substance on the red frogs to help them have these visions of what they wish to see.”

“Visions?”

“The Creator has placed many plants and animals in our world for us to use. The power of these things work in invisible ways. A tea, for example, of the bark of willow can help reduce a fever. We can’t see it work, but we know it does. There are many things that if eaten will make us sick, even kill us. The Creator gave us minds to learn the difference. There are some things that if eaten, or in the case of the red frogs, rubbed into our skin, will make us see things, just as we see things when we dream.

“Savages who don’t know better think the things they see are real. That is what happened to you. You rubbed the slime of a red frog into your skin and it gave you visions. Your rightful fear of the Nameless One made it all the more real to you. If these ‘spirits’ were real, why would you need to use some special plant, or food, or drink, or in this case, red frogs, to see and talk to them?

“Please don’t think I am mocking you, Richard. The visions can seem very real. When you are under their influence, they can seem as real as anything. But they are not.”

Richard was reluctant to believe the Sister’s explanation, but he understood what she was talking about. From a young age, Zedd had taken him into the woods to find special plants to help people: aum to take away pain and help minor wounds heal faster, and wattle root to ease the pain of deeper wounds. Zedd had showed him other plants that would help fevers, digestion, the pain of childbirth, dizzy spells, and he had also told him about plants to avoid, plants that were dangerous, and plants that would make people see things that weren’t there: visions.

But he didn’t think he had imagined Darken Rahl. “He burned me.” Richard tapped his shirt where the bandage was. “I couldn’t have been having visions. Darken Rahl was there, he reached out and touched me, and it burned my skin. I’m not imagining that.”

The Sister gave a little shrug. “That could be one of two things. After you rubbed the frog on your skin, you couldn’t see the room you were in, could you?”

“No. It just seemed to disappear into a dark void.”

“Well, see it or not, it was still there. And I’m sure the savages would have had a fire burning when you had this gathering. And when you were burned, you were not sitting in the same place, but you were standing, moving about, yes?”

“Yes,” he admitted reluctantly.

She pursed her lips. “In the deluded state you were in, you probably fell and burned yourself on a stick in the fire and imagined that it was this spirit doing the burning.”

Richard was beginning to feel decidedly foolish. Could the Sister be right? Was it all this simple? Was he really this gullible?

“You said it could be two things. What is the other?”

The Sister rode in silence for a moment. When her voice came, it came lower, darker, than it had before. “The Nameless One always seeks to have us side with him. Though he is locked behind the veil, his tentacles can still reach into this world. He can still harm us. He is dangerous. The dark side is dangerous. When ignorant people dabble in things dark, they can call forth danger, call forth the attention of the Nameless One or his minions. It is possible you really were touched, burned, by one of the evil ones.” She glanced over. “There are dangerous things people are too foolish to avoid. Sometimes, those things can kill.”

Her voice brightened a bit. “That is one of our jobs; trying to teach those who have not yet seen the light of the Creator to go toward that light, and stay away from the things dark, and dangerous.”

Richard couldn’t think of anything to counter the Sister’s explanations of events. The things she said made sense. If she were right, that would mean that Kahlan wasn’t really in danger; that Kahlan was safe. He wanted to believe that. He desperately wanted to believe that. But still . . .

“I will admit that you could be right, but I’m not sure. There seems to be more to it than I can put into words.”

“I understand, Richard. It’s hard to admit we have been wrong. No one wants to admit they have been tricked, or made to look the fool. That view of ourselves hurts. But part of growing, learning, is being able to hold the truth above all else, even when it means we must admit to having held foolish ideas.

“Please believe me, Richard, I do not see you as a fool for having believed as you did. Your fear was understandable. The mark of a wise person is being able to reach beyond for the truth, to admit they can learn more than they already know.”

“But all of these things are connected . . .”

“Are they? A wise person doesn’t string together the beads of unrelated events into a necklace simply to have something they wish to see. A wise person sees the truth even if it is something unexpected. That is the most beautiful necklace to wear—the truth.”

“The truth,” he muttered to himself. He was the Seeker. The truth was what the Seeker was all about. It was woven in gold wire into the hilt of his sword: the Sword of Truth. Something about the things that had happened were more than he could put into words for her. Could it be as she said? Could he simply be fooling himself?

He remembered the Wizard’s First Rule: people will believe anything, either because they want it to be true, or are afraid it might be. He knew from experience that he was as susceptible to it as anyone else. He wasn’t above believing a lie.

He had believed Kahlan loved him. He had believed she would never do anything to hurt him. And she had sent him away. Richard felt the lump rising in his throat again.

“I’m telling you the truth, Richard. I am here to help you.” He didn’t answer. He didn’t believe her. As if to answer his thoughts, she asked, “How are your headaches?”

The question stunned him. Not the question so much as the realization. “They’re . . . gone. The headache is completely gone.”

Sister Verna smiled and nodded in satisfaction. “As I promised you, the Rada’Han would take away the headache. We only want to help you, Richard.”

His eyes turned to watch her. “You also said the collar is to control me.”

“So we may teach you, Richard. You must have a person’s attention to teach them. That’s all it is for.”

“And to hurt me. You said it is to give me pain.”

She shrugged, opening her palms to the sky, the reins woven through her fingers. “I have just given you pain. I showed you how you were believing in something foolish. Does that not give you pain? Does it not hurt you to learn you have been wrong? But isn’t it better to know the truth than to believe a lie? Even if it hurts?”

He looked away, thinking of the truth of Kahlan making him put on a collar, sending him away. That truth hurt more than anything: the truth that he wasn’t good enough for her. “I guess so. But I don’t like wearing a collar. Not one bit.”

He was sick of talking. His chest hurt. His muscles were all cramped. He was tired. He missed Kahlan. But Kahlan had made him put on a collar and sent him away. He let his horse and the one tethered to his saddle fall back to trail behind the Sister’s once more as tears ran down his cheeks, feeling like ice on his skin.

He rode in silence. His horse tore off wads of grass and chewed as it plodded along. Ordinarily, Richard wouldn’t have let his horse eat while it had a bit in its mouth. It couldn’t chew properly with the bit, and could end up with colic. You could lose a good horse to colic. Instead of stopping it, Richard stroked its warm neck and gave reassuring pats.

It felt good to have company that didn’t tell him he was stupid; company that didn’t judge or make demands. He didn’t feel like doing the same to the horse. Better to be a horse than a man, he thought. Walk, turn, stop. Nothing more. Better to be anything than what he was.

Despite what Sister Verna said, he knew he was nothing more than a captive. Nothing she said could change that.

If he was ever going to be set free, he would have to learn to control the gift. Once the Sisters were satisfied he could control the gift, maybe they would free him. If Kahlan didn’t want him, at least he would be free.

That was what he would do, he decided. Learn to use the gift as fast as he could, so he could get the collar off and be set free. Zedd had always told him he was a fast learner. He would learn everything. Besides, he had always liked learning. He had always wanted to know more. There was never enough for him. He brightened the slightest bit at the idea. He liked learning new things. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. He could do it. Besides, what else was there?

He thought of the way Denna trained him, taught him.

His mood sank. He was just deluding himself. They would never set him free. He wasn’t going to learn because he wanted to, or what he wanted to; he was going to learn what the Sisters of the Light wanted him to learn, and he didn’t necessarily believe that what they taught was the truth. They were going to teach him about pain. It was hopeless.

He rode with his dark, brooding thoughts. He was the Seeker. The bringer of death.

Every time he killed someone with the Sword of Truth, he knew that that was what he was. That was what the Seeker did, what the Seeker was: the bringer of death.

As the sky began flaming into pinks, yellows, and golds, he noticed white patches in the distance ahead. It wasn’t snow; the snow hadn’t stuck. Besides, these things moved. Sister Verna didn’t say anything about them; she simply rode along. The sun at their backs sent long shadows ahead of them. For the first time, Richard realized they were traveling east.

When they were closer, he recognized the white forms spread across their way, turning pink in the last rays of the sun. It was a small flock of sheep. As they passed among them, Richard saw that the people tending the animals were Bantak. He recognized their manner of dress.

Three Bantak men approached to the side of Richard, ignoring Sister Verna. They mumbled something he didn’t understand, but their words and faces seemed to hold a certain reverence. The three dropped to their knees and bowed down, stretching their arms out, their hands on the ground toward him. Richard slowed his horse to a walk as he looked down at them. They came back up on their knees, chattering at him, but he didn’t understand the words.

Richard lifted his hand in greeting. It seemed to satisfy them. The three broke into grins and bowed a few more times as he rode past. They came to their feet and trotted next to his horse, attempting to push things into his hands: bread, fruit, strips of dried meat, a drab, dirty scarf, necklaces made of teeth, bone and beads, even their shepherd’s crooks.

Richard forced a smile and, with signs he thought they would understand, tried to decline the offers without offending the men. One of the three was particularly insistent he take a melon, offering it repeatedly. Richard didn’t want trouble, so he took the melon and bowed his head several times. They seemed proud, nodding and bowing as he rode on. He gave them a last bow from his saddle as he rode past, and slipped the melon into a saddlebag.

Sister Verna had her horse turned toward him, waiting for him to catch up. She scowled as she waited. Richard didn’t hurry his horse along; he simply let it go at its own pace. What now, he wondered.

When he finally reached her, she leaned toward him. “Why are they saying those things!”

“What things? I don’t understand their language.”

She gritted her teeth. “They think you are a wizard. Why would they think that? Why!”

Richard shrugged. “I would guess it’s because that’s what I told them.”

“What!” She pushed the hood of her cloak back. “You are not a wizard! You have no right telling them you are! You lied!”

Richard folded his wrists over the high pommel of the saddle. “You’re right. I’m not a wizard. Yes, I told them a lie.”

“Lying is a crime against the Creator!”

Richard heaved a weary sigh. “I did not do it to play at being a wizard. I did it to stop a war. It was the only way I could keep a lot of people from dying. It worked and no one was hurt. I would do the same thing again if it would prevent killing.”

“Lying is wrong! The Creator hates lies!”

“Does this Creator of yours like killing better?”

Sister Verna looked like she was ready to spit fire at him. “He is everyone’s Creator. Not just my Creator. And He hates lies.”

Richard calmly appraised her heated expression. “Tell you that himself, did he? Come right up and sit down next to you and say ‘Sister Verna, I want you to know I hate lies’?”

She ground her teeth and growled the words. “Of course not. It is written. Written in books.”

“Ahh.” Richard nodded. “Well then, of course it is the truth. If it is written in books, then it has to be true. Everyone knows that if something is written down and attributed, then it must be true.”

Her eyes were fire. “You treat lightly the Creator’s words.”

He leaned toward her, some of his own heat surfacing. “And you, Sister Verna, treat lightly the lives of people you consider heathens.”

She paused and with an effort calmed herself a little. “Richard, you must learn that lying is wrong. Very wrong. It is against the Creator. Against what we teach. You are as much a wizard as an infant is an old man. Calling yourself a wizard when you are not is a lie. A filthy lie. It is a desecration. You are not a wizard.”

“Sister Verna, I know very well that lying is wrong. I am not in the habit of going around telling lies, but in perspective, I consider it preferable to people being killed. It was the only way.”

She took a deep breath and nodded, causing the curls in her brown hair to spring up and down a little. “Perhaps you are right. So long as you know that lying is wrong. Don’t make a habit of it. You are no wizard.”

Richard stared at her as his grip tightened on the reins. “I know I’m not a wizard, Sister Verna. I know exactly what I am.” He gave his horse’s ribs a squeeze with his legs, urging it ahead. “I’m the bringer of death.”

Her hand darted out and snatched a fistful of his shirtsleeve, yanking him around in his saddle. He snugged the reins back as he was pulled around to her wide eyes.

Her voice was an urgent whisper. “What did you say? What did you call yourself?”

He gave her an even look. “I’m the bringer of death.”

“Who named you that?”

Richard studied her ashen face. “I know what wearing this sword means. I know what it is to draw it. I know it better than any Seeker before me has known. It is part of me, I am part of it. I used its magic to kill the last person who put a collar around my neck. I know what it makes me. I lied to the Bantak because I didn’t want people to be killed. But there is another reason. The Bantak are a peaceful people. I did not want them to learn the horror of what it means to kill. I know all too well that lesson. You killed Sister Elizabeth; perhaps you know, too.”

“Who named you ‘bringer of death’?” she pressed.

“No one. I named myself, because that is what I do, what I am. I am the bringer of death.”

She released her grip on his shirt. “I see.”

As she began turning her horse around, he called out her name in a commanding tone. It brought her to a halt. “Why? Why do you want to know who named me that? Why is it so important?”

Her anger seemed to have vanished, and left a shadow of fear in its passing. ‘I told you I read all the prophecies at the palace. There is a fragment of one that contains those words. “He is the bringer of death, and he shall so name himself.’ ”

Richard narrowed his eyes. “And what does the rest of the prophecy say? Did it also say that I will kill you, and anyone else I have to, to get this collar off?”

She looked away from his glare. “Prophecies are not for the eyes or ears of the untrained.”

With a sharp kick, she surprised her horse and sent it surging ahead. As he followed behind, Richard decided to let the matter drop. He didn’t care about prophecies. They were nothing more than riddles as far as he was concerned, and he hated riddles. If something was important enough to need saying, why couch it in riddles? Riddles were stupid games, and not important.

As he rode, he wondered how many people he was going to have to kill to get the collar off. One, or a hundred, it didn’t matter. His rage boiled at the thought of being led around by the Rada’Han. He gritted his teeth at the thought. His jaw muscles flexed at the thought. His fists tightened on the reins.

Bringer of death. He would kill as many as it took. He would have the collar off, or he would die trying. The fury, the need to kill, surged through every fiber of his being.

With a start, he realized he was calling forth the magic from the sword, even as it sat in its scabbard. He no longer had to hold the sword to do it. He could feel its wrath tingling through him. With an effort, he put it down and calmed himself.

Besides the rage of hate from the sword, he also knew how to call forth its opposite side, its white magic. The Sisters didn’t know he could do that. He hoped he would have no reason to teach them. But if he had to, he would. He would have the collar off. He would use either side of the sword’s magic, or both, to have the collar off his neck. When the time came. When the time came.

In the violet afterglow of twilight, Sister Verna brought them to a halt for the night. She had said nothing further to him. He didn’t know if she was still angry, but he didn’t really care.

Richard walked the horses a short distance to a line of small willows at the bank of a creek and removed their bridles, replacing them with halters. His bay tossed her head, glad to have the bit out of her mouth. Richard saw it was an aggressive spade bit. Few bits were more cruelly punishing.

People who used them, it seemed to him, were people who thought horses were nothing more than beasts humans had to conquer and control. He thought maybe they should have to have a bit in their mouths to see how they liked it. Properly trained, a horse needed nothing more than a jointed snaffle. If it was properly trained, and given a little understanding, it didn’t even need a bit. He guessed some people preferred punishment to patience.

He reached up experimentally to stroke the horse’s black-tipped ear. It lifted its head firmly away from his hand. “So,” he muttered, “they like to twitch your ear, too.” He scratched and patted the horse’s neck. “I won’t do that to you, my friend.” The horse leaned against his scratching.

Richard retrieved water in a canvas bucket and let each horse have only a few swallows, as they weren’t cooled down. In one of the saddlebags, he found brushes, and took his time carefully currying each of them and then picking their hooves clean. He took longer than he needed to, because he preferred their company to the Sister’s.

After he finished, he cut a section of rind from the melon the Bantak had given him, and gave each horse a piece. Horses loved few things in life as much as a melon rind. Each showed eagerness for the treat. It was the first eagerness any of them had shown. After seeing the spade bits, he knew why.

When he decided his chest hurt too much to stand around any longer, he went over to where Sister Verna sat on a small blanket and put his own blanket on the ground opposite her. He folded his legs as he sat and pulled a piece of the flat tava bread from his pack, more for something to do than because he was hungry. She accepted his offer of a piece. He cut up the melon and put the remaining rind aside, saving it for later. Richard offered Sister Verna a piece of melon.

She looked at it coolly as he held it out. “It was given under false pretenses.”

“It was given as thanks for preventing a war.”

She took it at last, but not eagerly. “Perhaps.”

“I’ll take first watch, if you wish,” he offered.

“There is no need to stand watch.”

He appraised her in the near darkness as he chewed a juicy piece of melon. “There are heart hounds in the Midlands. Other things, too. I could draw another screeling. I think a watch would be wise.”

She pulled off a piece of tava bread without looking up. “You are safe with me. There is no need for a watch.”

Her voice was flat. It wasn’t angry, but it wasn’t far from it, either. He ate in silence for a while, and then decided to try to lighten the mood. He tried to make his voice sound cheerful, even though he felt no cheer.

“I’m here, you’re here, I’m wearing the Rada’Han, how about if you start teaching me to use the gift?”

She looked up from under her eyebrows as she chewed. “There will be time enough to teach you when we reach the Palace of the Prophets.”

The air felt as if it had suddenly cooled. His anger heated. The sword’s anger tugged at him to be released. Richard put it down. “As you wish.”

Sister Verna lay down on her blanket, pulling her cloak tightly around herself. “It’s cold. Build a fire.”

He put the last bite of tava bread in his mouth and waited until he had swallowed before speaking softly. Her eyes watched him.

“I’m surprised you don’t know more about magic, Sister Verna. There is a word that is magic. It can accomplish more than you might think. Maybe you have heard it before. It is the word ‘please.’ ” He rose to his feet. “I’m not cold. If you want a fire, build it yourself. I’m going to go stand watch. I told you before, I will take nothing on faith. If we are killed in the night, it won’t be without warning on my watch.”

He turned his back to her without waiting for a response. He didn’t want to hear anything she had to say. Walking off a good distance through the dry grass, he found a mound of dirt around a ground-hog hole and flopped down on top of it to watch. To think.

The moon was up. It stared down at him and cast a pale silver light upon the surrounding empty land, enough light to enable him to see without any trouble. He looked out over the deserted countryside, brooding. As much as he tried to think of other things, it did no good. He could think of only one thing: Kahlan.

He drew up his knees and wrapped his arms around them, after he had wiped some tears from his face. He wondered what she was doing, where she was, whether she would get Zedd. He wondered if she still cared for him enough to go get Zedd.

The moon moved slowly across the sky as it stared down on him. What was he going to do? He felt lost.

He pictured Kahlan’s face in his mind. He would have conquered the world to see her smile at him. To bask in the warmth of her love. Richard studied her face in his mind. He pictured her green eyes, her long hair. Her beautiful hair.

At that thought, he remembered the lock of her hair she had put in his pocket. He pulled it out and looked at it in the moonlight. It was a circle she had pulled together and tied in the middle with the ribbon from her wedding dress, so that it reminded him of a figure eight turned sideways, as he held it in his fingers. Turned sideways like that, it was also the symbol for infinity.

Richard rolled the lock of hair between his finger and thumb, watching it as it spun. Kahlan had given it to him to remember her by. Something to remember her by. Because he would never see her again. Racking grief choked his breathing.

He gripped the Agiel as hard as he could, until his fist shook with the effort. The pain from the Agiel, and his heartache, twisted together into burning agony. He let it distort his perception until he could stand it no longer, and then he let it go on longer yet, let it go on until he collapsed to the base of the dirt mound, barely conscious.

He gasped for air. The pain had swept all the thoughts from his mind. If only for a few minutes, his mind had been free of the anguish. He lay on the ground a long time, recovering.

When he was finally able to sit up once more, he found the lock of hair still in his hand. He stared at it in the moonlight, remembering what Sister Verna had said to him, that he had told the Bantak a lie. A filthy lie. Those had been Kahlan’s words. She had said that his love for her was a “filthy lie.” Those words hurt more than the Agiel.

“It’s not a lie,” he whispered. “I would do anything for you, Kahlan.”

But it wasn’t good enough. Putting on the collar wasn’t good enough. He wasn’t good enough. Son of a monster. He knew what she wanted. What she really wanted. She wanted to be free of him.

She wanted him to put on the collar so he would be taken away. So she would be free. “I would do anything for you, Kahlan,” he cried. He stood up and looked out over the empty grassland. The dark horizon wavered in a watery blur. Anything. Even this. “I set you free, my love.” Richard threw the lock of Kahlan’s hair as far as he could out into the night.

He sank to his knees and fell face-first to the ground, sobbing. He cried until he could cry no more. He continued to lie on the cold ground, groaning in agony until he realized he was gripping the Agiel again. He let it go and at last sat up, flopping back in exhaustion against the dirt mound. It was over, finished. He felt empty. Dead. After a time he rose to his feet. He stood a moment, and then slowly drew the Sword of Truth.

Its ring was a soft song in the cold air. The anger came out with the steel, and he let it fill the void in him, rage freely through him. He welcomed the anger into himself, letting it fill him until he was submerged in its wrath. His chest heaved with lethal need.

His eyes glided to where the Sister lay sleeping. He could see the dark hump of her body as he approached silently. He was a woods guide; he knew how to stalk silently. He was good at it.

His eyes carefully watched the ground as he moved fluidly, watched the sleeping form of Sister Verna as he closed the distance. He didn’t hurry. There was no need to hurry. He had as much time as he needed. He tried to slow his breathing to keep from making noise. He was nearly panting with all-consuming fury.

The thought of wearing a collar again fed the raging fire within him, fueled the inferno.

Rage from the sword’s magic seared through him like molten metal. Richard recognized the feeling all too well, and gave himself over to it. He was beyond reason, beyond being stopped. Nothing short of blood would now satisfy the bringer of death.

His knuckles were white on the hilt. His muscles knotted with restrained need aching to be set free. But they wouldn’t be restrained for long. The magic of the Sword of Truth screamed to do his bidding.

Richard stood, a silent shadow, over Sister Verna, looking down at her. The fury pounded in his head. He drew the sword along the inside of his forearm, wiping both sides in the blood, giving the steel a taste of it. The dark stain ran down the fuller, dripping from the tip. It ran wet and warm down his arm. His chest heaved as he gripped the hilt in both hands again.

He felt the weight of the collar around his neck; the blade rose, glinting in the moonlight.

He watched the sleeping Sister at his feet. She was drawn up almost into a ball. She was cold, and she shivered as she slept.

He stood with the blade raised, watching her as he gritted his teeth and shook with raging need. Kahlan didn’t want him. Son of a monster.

No. Just monster. He saw himself standing over the sleeping woman, his sword in the air, ready to kill.

He was the monster.

That was what Kahlan saw. And she had sent him away in a collar to be tortured. Because he was a monster that needed to be collared, a beast.

Tears ran down his face. The sword slowly sank until the tip touched the ground. He stood staring at the Sister as she slept, shivering with the cold. He stood a long time, watching.

Richard finally slid the sword quietly back into its scabbard. He retrieved his blanket and laid it over Sister Verna, tucking it carefully around her, being gentle so as not to wake her. He sat and watched until she stopped shivering and then he lay down, wrapping himself in his cloak.

He was exhausted, and he hurt all over, but he couldn’t sleep. He knew they were going to hurt him. That was what the collar was for. When she got him to the palace, they were going to hurt him.

What difference did it make?

Memories danced and darted through his mind, memories of what Denna had done to him. He remembered the pain, the helpless agony, the blood: his blood.

The visions went on and on. As long as he lived he would never be able to forget them. It had only just ended, and now it was going to start all over again. There would never be an end to it.

There was only one thought in all the turmoil of his mind that comforted him. He had learned from Sister Verna that he was wrong about the Keeper escaping. That meant Kahlan was safe. She was safe, and that was all that really mattered. He tried to keep everything else away and think only of that. That thought allowed him to drift, at last, into sleep.