Stone of Tears

Chapter 41

She was kissing Richard, holding him tightly in her arms, her mind filled with no thought but peace and joy, when she started at the sound of shouting. Richard was gone. Her heavy arms were empty.

She sat up, pushing the blanket away, frantic for an instant, not knowing where she was, and then she remembered. She felt as if she might vomit.

She wished she could have a hot bath. She couldn’t remember her last bath. She rubbed her eyes as Captain Ryan stuck his head inside the tent.

“How long?” Kahlan mumbled. “How long have I slept?” She threw the blanket aside.

“A couple hours, just about. There is someone out here for you.”

Directly outside her tent waited a group of men, an ashen-faced Lieutenant Hobson among them. In their midst stood Mosle, bound and gagged and held at each arm by soldiers. His eyes darted about in panic. He tried to shout through the gag, but couldn’t make himself understood.

Kahlan glowered over at Captain Ryan.

He stood with one thumb hooked in his belt. “I thought, Mother Confessor, that you would want to execute this man yourself. Since he seems to have personally offended you so.” He held his knife out toward her, handle first.

Kahlan ignored the knife and turned instead to the men holding Mosle. “Release him, and stand away.”

She felt as if she were still in a sleep, still in a dream. But she wasn’t. There was no option.

As they stepped back, she reached out and snatched Mosle by his arm. He froze in fright for an instant, and then tried to back away.

But he had no time to escape. She was touching him now. He was hers. Her sleepiness vanished in a sucking rush as her power ignited. She gave no thought to what she was about to do; there was no choice. She was committed. She gave herself over to it.

The sounds of the camp—the jangle of tack, the grating of wooden boxes being skidded across wagon beds, the splintering of other boxes being pried open, the squeak of wheels, the whinnies of horses, the sound of thousands of feet shuffling, men talking, the clop of hooves, the sound of steel being sharpened, the popping of wood in fires, and the sound of her own heart beating—all faded away to silence.

In the silence of her mind, the power was all. She could feel Mosle’s muscles tighten under her hand. But he had no chance. He was hers.

In the silence, in the quiet, in the peace of her mind, as she had done countless times before, she released her power, her magic, into the man before her.

There was a violent jolt to the air as it slammed into him. Thunder without sound. The snow around her and Mosle billowed away in a ring, rising and tumbling, until it dissipated and settled again.

Mosle, no more who he had been, dropped to his knees in the wet snow before her. His brow wrinkled with panic that, because of the gag, he would not be able to ask her to command him. He sucked air through his nose, trying to breathe with the terror that he might displease her. The camp around her had fallen into stunned silence, with her the heart of all attention. Kahlan pulled the gag from his mouth.

Tears of relief flooded from his eyes. “Mistress,” he whispered hoarsely. “Please, Mistress, command me. Please tell me what I can do to serve you.”

In trepidation, hundreds of stunned faces around her watched. Kahlan gazed down at the man on his knees before her. She wore her Confessor’s face. “It would please me, William, if you would tell me the truth of what you planned to do after you left this camp.”

He beamed with joy, more tears running down his cheeks, and would have clutched at her legs in gratitude had his arms not been bound behind his back.

“Oh yes, Mistress, please let me tell you.”

“Tell me then.”

It all came babbling out in a rush. “I was going to the camp of those other men, the Imperial Order you called them, and I was going to ask to join them. I was going to take all my men with me so they could join too. I was going to tell them of the presence of the Galean recruits, and of your plans, so they would be pleased with us, and would let us join with them. I thought they had a better chance than you, and I didn’t want to die, so I was going to join with them. I thought they would be pleased if I brought them men to add to their ranks. I thought they would be pleased with us if we could help them crush you.”

He burst suddenly in sobs. “Oh, please, Mistress, I’m so sorry I thought to do you harm. I wanted them to kill you. Oh, please, Mistress, I’m so sorry I intended you harm. Please, Mistress, tell me how I can gain your forgiveness. I will do anything. Please command me and it will be done. Please, Mistress, what do you wish of me?”

“I wish for you to die,” she whispered in the icy silence. “Right now.”

William Mosle crumpled forward, against her boots, and thrashed in racking convulsions. After a few long, agonizing seconds, he was still, his last breath rattling from his lungs.

Kahlan’s gaze slid over a wide-eyed Captain Ryan, to Prindin, standing behind a still ashen Lieutenant Hobson. Chandalen was glaring at him, too. She spoke in his tongue.

“Prindin, I told you to make sure they were all killed. Why did you not do as I said?”

He shrugged self-consciously. “They were of a mind to do this. Captain Ryan told them to kill the others but to bring this one to you. I did not know this when we left, or I would have told you. They had two hundred men on foot, and another one hundred on horses. As I told you, they were of a mind to do this, and I did not think I would be able to prevent it, except by killing him myself, and then I realized they might kill me for doing it, and then I would not be able to be near you, to protect you. Besides that, I knew you were right, and I thought it would do them good to learn a lesson.”

“Did any escape?”

“No. I was a little surprised at how well they did the job. They are good men. They did a hard thing, a thing they wept to do, but they did it well. None escaped them.”

Kahlan let out a long breath. “I understand, Prindin. You were right to do as you did.” She cast a sideways glance at Chandalen. “Chandalen will be satisfied, too.” It was an order.

Prindin gave her a tight smile of relief. Her glare slid to Captain Ryan.

“Satisfied?”

He stood stiff, pale and wide-eyed. “Yes, Mother Confessor.”

She swept a glance over the gathered men. “Is everyone satisfied, now?”

There came from them all an uncoordinated, mumbled chorus of “Yes, Mother Confessor.”

If there had been some before who were not terrified of her, there were none now who were not. The lot of them looked as if, were a twig to snap unexpectedly, they would bolt for the hills like frightened rabbits. This was probably the first time most had seen magic, and it wasn’t wonderful, beautiful magic, but daunting, ugly magic.

“Mother Confessor?” Captain Ryan whispered. His arm was still held out, frozen, the knife he had offered her still in his hand. “What are you going to do to me for disobeying your orders?”

She looked to his bloodless face. “Nothing. This is your first day of being men in the war against the Order. Most of you didn’t believe in the importance of what I had commanded. You have not fought in war before, and did not understand the need. I will be satisfied that you have learned something from this, and leave it at that.”

Captain Ryan swallowed. “Thank you, Mother Confessor.” With a shaking hand he slid his knife back in its sheath. “I grew up with him.” He lifted the hand toward the body at her feet. “We lived about a mile apart, on the same road. We used to go hunting and fishing together all the time. We helped each other with chores. We always went to feast day in our best coats of the same color. We always . . .”

“I’m sorry, Bradley. There is nothing to ease the pain of betrayal, or loss, except time. As I told you, war is not fair. Were it not for the men of the Order making war, perhaps you would be fishing today, with your friend. Blame the Order, and avenge him, too, with all the rest.”

He nodded. “Mother Confessor? What would you have done if you were wrong? What would you have done if Mosle wasn’t going to the enemy?”

She regarded him until his gaze rose to meet hers. “I probably would have taken that knife you offered, and killed you.”

She turned from his hollow expression and put a hand on the shoulder of the the man next to him. “Lieutenant Hobson, I know you had a difficult task. Prindin tells me you did it well.”

He looked near tears, but still managed to stiffen his back with pride. She noticed that his beard hadn’t even started to grow in earnest yet. “Thank you, Mother Confessor.”

She looked around at the hundreds of men standing about, watching. “I believe you all have work?”

As if they had just awakened, everyone began moving again, slowly at first, and then with accelerating urgency.

Hobson gave a salute of his fist to his heart and turned to other business. The men who had brought Mosle lifted his body and carried it off. Others went to Chandalen and the two brothers, asking for instructions. Captain Ryan stood alone with her, watching as everyone went about their work.

Her legs felt limp and slack, like bowstrings left out in the rain all night. For a Confessor to use her power when she was rested and alert was taxing. To use it when she was already tired was perilously exhausting. She could hardly keep herself upright.

She had been dead tired from riding all night to the enemy camp and back, to say nothing of the fight with them. She needed more sleep than she had gotten, and using her power had cost her even the benefit of the short nap, and then some. She had used what strength she had left to do something that should have been done without her.

She thought maybe it must be the cold, and traveling in such difficult conditions, but she seemed more tired than usual lately. Maybe she could ask Prindin to make her some more tea.

“Could I speak with you for a moment, Mother Confessor?” Captain Ryan asked.

Kahlan nodded. “What is it, Captain?”

He pushed his unbuttoned wool coat open, shoving his hands in his back pockets. He glanced away to watch some men filling waterskins. “I just want to say that I’m sorry. I was wrong.”

“It’s all right, Bradley. He was your friend. It’s difficult to believe ill of a friend. I understand.”

“No, that’s not it. My father always told me that a man had to admit his mistakes before he could do right in this world.”

He shuffled his feet and looked around, finally bringing his blue eyes to her. “The mistake I made was believing that you wanted Mosle killed because he wouldn’t follow you. I thought you were being spiteful because he didn’t want to follow you. I made a mistake, and I’m sorry. Sorry I thought that of you. You were trying to protect us, even though you knew we would hate you for it. Well, I don’t hate you. I hope you don’t hate me. I’m honored to follow you into this battle. I hope that someday I’m half as wise as you, and have the guts you do, to use that wisdom.”

She released a quiet sigh. “I’m hardly older than you, yet you make me feel like an old woman. I’m relieved, you understand. It’s a small pleasure in all this pain. You’re a fine officer, and will do right by this world.”

He smiled. “I’m glad we’re on good terms again.”

A man approached, and was waved forward by the captain. “What is it, Sergeant Frost?”

Sergeant Frost gave a salute of his fist to his heart. “We sent a few men out, and in an abandoned barn they found some crushed chalk and other things needed to make whitewash. We have some wooden tubs we can mix it in. You said you wanted it in something big. They’re big enough to bathe in.”

“How many of these tubs do you have?” Kahlan asked.

“A dozen, Mother Confessor.”

“Put the tubs near each other, and pitch a tent around each. Use the largest tents you have, even if it is the command tents. Make the whitewash with hot water, and place the heated stones inside the tents, to keep it as warm as possible inside. Let me know when all this is seen to.”

Keeping his obvious questions to himself, the sergeant saluted and rushed off to see it done.

Captain Ryan gave her a curious frown. “What do you want with whitewash?”

“We’ve just gotten back on good terms; let’s not spoil it for a bit. I’ll tell you after things are prepared. Are the wagons ready?”

“Should be.”

“Then I must see to them. Did you send the sentries and lookouts?”

“First thing.”

As she walked through the camp to the wagons, men came to her constantly. “The wagon wheels, Mother Confessor. As we destroy things we should stave in the wheels’ and their battle standards, shouldn’t we burn them, so they can’t rally their men around them?” and “Couldn’t we set fire to their baggage, so if the weather turns colder they’ll freeze?” and “If we were to throw manure in their barrels of drinking water, they would have to waste time melting snow,” and a hundred other ideas, from the absurd to the worthwhile. She listened to each with attention, giving her honest opinion, and, in a few cases, her orders to see it done.

Lieutenant Hobson came at a trot holding out a tin bowl. That was the last thing she needed.

“Mother Confessor! I kept some stew hot for you!”

Beaming, he handed her the bowl as she walked. She tried to act grateful. He walked along next to her, watching, grinning. She forced herself to take a spoonful, and to tell him how wonderful it tasted. It was all she could do to keep that one spoonful down.

After using her power, a Confessor needed time to recover. For some it was days; for her it took a couple of hours. Rest, if she could get it, was the best thing for a Confessor after using her power. The little rest she had gotten was now wasted. She could get no more now, and probably would get none this night either.

The last thing a Confessor needed while recovering her power was food. It diverted her energy to the food instead of returning her strength. She had to think of a way out of eating the bowl of stew or it would end up on the ground, to the embarrassment of all.

Thankfully, she reached the wagons before she had to take another mouthful. She asked Lieutenant Hobson to get Chandalen and the two brothers, and bring them to her.

After he left, she set the bowl down on the splinter bar of the dray with the casks of ale and climbed up.

She motioned Captain Ryan up on the wagon as she counted. “Get some men. Unload the top rows so we can get at them all. Right the casks on the bottom row, and withdraw the plugs.” As he motioned for men to help with the task, she asked, “Did Chandalen have you all make a troga?”

A troga was a simple, stout piece of cord or a wire with a wooden handle on each end, and long enough so that when it was given a twist, it made a loop that was the right size to drop over a man’s head. It was applied from behind, and then the handles yanked apart. If it was made of wire, placed correctly at the neck joints, and the man wielding it had arms big enough, his troga could decapitate a person before the victim had a chance to make a sound. Even if it wasn’t wire, or his arms were not that strong, the victim still made no sound before he died.

Captain Ryan reached behind his back, under his coat, and retrieved a wire troga, holding it up for her to see. “He gave us a little demonstration. He was gentle, but I’m still glad I wasn’t the one he demonstrated on. He says he and Prindin and Tossidin will use these to take the sentries and lookouts. I don’t think he believes we can sneak up on them like he can. But many of us have spent a lot of time hunting, and we’re more clever . . .”

Captain Ryan leapt with a yelp. Chandalen had poked him in the ribs, having come up unseen behind him. The captain comforted his ribs and scowled at a smiling Chandalen. Prindin and his brother climbed up to help unload the barrels.

“You wish something, Mother Confessor?” Chandalen asked.

Kahlan held her hand out. “Give me your bandu. Your ten-step poison.”

His brow wrinkled into a scowl, but he reached into the pouch at his waist and pulled out the bone box, leaning over to hand it to her. The brothers fished out their boxes, too, and handed them to her.

“How much will I be able to poison with it? How many casks can I make poison?”

Chandalen stepped around Captain Ryan, balancing atop the sides of the round barrels. “You are going to put it in this drink?” Kahlan nodded. “But then we won’t have any more. We must have it with us. We may need it.”

“I’ll leave a bit for emergencies. Every one we can kill in this way is one less to fight.”

“But they might discover it’s poison,” Captain Ryan said. “Then we won’t even have them drunk.”

“They have dogs,” Kahlan said. “That’s why I want to send them food, too. They will throw the dogs some of the meat, to make sure it’s good. I’m hoping they will be put at ease after testing the food on the dogs, and anxious enough for the ale that the idea of it being poisoned won’t come into their heads.”

Chandalen counted the barrels silently, and then straightened. “There are thirty-six. Twelve for each of our bandu.” He scratched his head of black hair while he pondered. “It will not kill them, unless they drink much, but it will make them sick.”

“How sick? What will it do?”

“It will make them weak. They will be sick in their stomachs. Their heads will spin inside. Maybe, some will die in a hand of days from the poison sickness.”

Kahlan nodded. “It will be a great help.”

“But this is hardly enough for all their men,” Captain Ryan said. “Only some will drink this.”

“Some will go to the unit who plundered it, and the rest will be divided among the men of rank first, with what’s left going to the soldiers. The men of rank are the ones I’m after.”

All the top rows were unloaded, leaving only the bottom row, which the men stood up so the plugs could be removed.

“Why are six of these barrels smaller?”

“They’re rum,” the captain said.

“Rum? The drink of nobility?” Kahlan smiled. “The commanders will take the rum first.” She straightened from peering into one of the open casks. “Chandalen, will they be able to taste it? Will the taste give them warning, if I put more in some?”

He dipped a finger in a cask of rum, and sucked it clean. “No. This is bitter enough. Bitter things hide the taste of bandu.”

Kahlan used her knife point to divide the poison from Chandalen’s box into sixths. She swished each sixth off her knife point into the round opening in one of the smaller casks—those with the rum.

Chandalen watched what she was doing. “That much, in the smaller barrels, will probably kill them by morning, the next day for sure. But now you have none for the other six.”

Kahlan handed Chandalen back his bone box with a little of the bandu left in the corners and climbed down from the dray. “Six of the casks of ale will have no poison so that we can be sure the rum will kill those who drink it.” She put a knife point laden with poison from Tossidin’s box into each of the next twelve. “Mix all the barrels up. I don’t want the rum on the bottom. The commanders might not see it and take the ale instead.”

Kahlan went to the last twelve and opened Prindin’s box. She looked up. “You don’t have very much. What have you done with yours?”

Prindin looked as though he wished she hadn’t asked that question. He gestured vaguely. “When we left, I was not thinking so good. You were in a hurry, and so I forgot to see that my bandu box was full.”

Chandalen put his fists on his hips and glared down from atop the wagon. “Prindin, how many times have I said that you would forget to take your feet could you walk away without them?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Kahlan said. Prindin looked relieved to have her interrupt Chandalen’s questioning. “This will make them sick. That is all that matters.”

As she was putting it in the barrels, she heard men in the distance hailing her. When she had swirled the poison into the last barrel, she looked up to see two huge draft horses trotting toward her. She frowned at seeing men riding them bareback, and calling out to her.

The two powerful draft horses looked shaggy in their thick, dun-colored winter coats, with heavy white feathering on their legs. They wore their harnesses and neck collars, but not their breeching. Several bends of chain were looped over the inside hame of each collar. The men about all stared at the odd sight.

When the horses came to a halt before her, the riders unhooked the loops of chain and dropped them to the ground. She realized then that the horses were connected by that chain, attached to the hame hooks on their collars. She had never seen such a thing. The two riders slid to the ground.

“Mother Confessor!” Their grins made their salutes look a little silly. The both of them were gangly, with short-cropped brown hair. Neither looked as if he could be fifteen. Their wool coats were unbuttoned in the warming day, and fit them like gunnysacks on lapdogs. They both looked about to burst with excitement. They halted before getting too close, but even their fear of her couldn’t wither their breathless excitement.

“What are your names?”

“I’m Brin Jackson and this is Peter Chapman, Mother Confessor. We had an idea, and we wanted to show you. We think it’ll do the job. We’re sure it will. It’ll work some clever, it sure will.”

Kahlan looked from one beaming face to the other. “What will do what job?”

Brin almost leapt with joy at being asked. He hefted the chain lying in the snow between the big horses. “This!” He lugged a wad of chain to her and held it out. “This will do it, Mother Confessor. We thought of it ourselves! Peter and me.” He dumped the heavy chain on the ground. “Show her, Peter. Move ’em apart.”

Peter’s head bobbed as he grinned. He sidestepped his horse until the heavy chain lifted off the snow. The sag of chain swung to and fro between the hame hooks on the collars. Kahlan and all the men with her frowned, trying to understand what the peculiar rig was for.

Brin pointed at the chain. “You said we were going to leave the wagons, and we surely didn’t want to leave Daisy and Pip behind. Them’s our horses—Daisy and Pip. We’re drivers. We wanted to help, and make a good use of Daisy and Pip, so we took some of the biggest trace chains and asked Morvan, he’s the blacksmith, we asked Morvan to weld a couple of ’em together for us.” He nodded expectantly, as if that should explain it.

Kahlan dipped her head toward him a little. “And now that he has?”

Brin held his hands open in excitement. “You said we needed to take out their horses.” He couldn’t help giggling. “That’s what this is for! You said we’re going to attack at night. Their horses will be tethered to picket lines. We gallop Daisy and Pip down the picket line, one on each side, and the chain’ll break their legs out from under ’em! We’ll take out the whole line in one sweep!”

Kahlan leaned back and folded her arms. She looked to Peter. He nodded, keen on the idea, too. “Brin, having horses chained together like that, at a gallop, and dragging a chain that will be catching things, heavy things, sounds to me very dangerous.”

He wilted only a little. “But it could take out their horses! We can do it! We can get them for you!”

“They have close to two thousand horses.”

Peter wilted more. Brin scrunched up his face as he looked at the ground for the first time. He scratched his shoulder. “Two thousand,” he finally whispered in disappointment.

Kahlan glanced to Captain Ryan. He shrugged as if to say he didn’t know if it would work or not. The other men standing about rubbed their chins and shuffled their feet as they pondered the rig.

“It will never do,” Kahlan said at last. Brin’s shoulders slumped more. “There are too many of them for you. You will need more horses set up like this.” Brin and Peter’s faces came up, their eyes widening. “Since you two know how to do it, I want you to get all the draft horses and their drivers together. This will be the best use of their skill.

“Use all the equipment off the wagons or breeching you need. We’ll not be taking them anyway. Have the chains made up at once, and then I want you all to practice the rest of the day. I want you to set up things to drag the chains through. Heavy thing, so the horses will be used to what you’re going to do. You need to practice so each team of men and horses can work together.”

Peter came forward and stood next to a beaming Brin. “We will, Mother Confessor! You’ll see! We can do it! You can count on us!”

She gave them each a sobering look. “What you want to do is dangerous. But if you can do it, it will be a great benefit to us. It could save many of our lives. Their cavalry is deadly.

“Take your gear and your practice seriously. Men will be trying to kill you when you do it for real.”

They put their fists to their hearts, this time holding their chins up. “We’ll see to it, Mother Confessor. You can count on the drivers. We won’t let you down. We’ll get their horses.”

After receiving her nod, they turned to their horses. Heads together, whispering in excitement, they went to their task. Kahlan watched a lone rider, in the distance, galloping through the camp. He stopped to ask a group of men something. They pointed in her direction.

“They’ve only been with us a couple months,” Captain Ryan said. “They’re just boys.”

Kahlan raised an eyebrow to him. “They are men, fighting for the Midlands. When I first saw you, I thought of you in much the same way you see them. Now I think you look a little older to me.”

He sighed. “I guess you’re right. If they really can do the job, it will be a brilliant achievement.”

The galloping rider approached and leapt from his horse before it came fully to a stop. He gave a perfunctory salute. “Mother Confessor.” He gulped some air. “I’m Cynric, with the sentries.”

“What is it, Cynric?”

“You said you wanted to know about everything, so I thought I better report. We were just setting up the sentries about an hour out, between here and the army of the Order, near a road that crosses Jara Pass, and a coach came up the crossroad, from the direction of Kelton. We knew you didn’t want anything unusual going on, so we stopped the coach. I thought I better find out what you wanted us to do.”

“Who’s in the coach?”

“An old couple. Wealthy merchants of some sort, or so they claim. Something about orchards.”

“What did you tell them? You didn’t tell them about us, did you? You didn’t tell them that we have an army out here, did you?”

He shook his head vehemently. “No, Mother Confessor. We told them that there were outlaws in the neighborhood, and that we were a small patrol out looking for them. We told them they weren’t allowed to pass until I checked with my commander. I said they had to wait until I returned.”

Kahlan nodded. “That’s quick thinking, Cynric.”

“The driver’s name is Ahern. He wanted to argue with us, and thought to give his team reins, until we showed him some steel. Then the old man came flying out of the coach, accusing us of trying to rob him. He started to swing his cane around at us, like he thought that would drive us off or something. Anyway, we drew arrows on him, and he decided he would get back in the coach.”

“What is his name?”

Cynric shifted his weight to the other foot and scratched his eyebrow. “Robin, or Ruben, or something like that. Feisty old fellow. Ruben, I think. Ruben Rybnik, I think that’s it.”

Kahlan sighed as she shook her head. “They don’t sound like spies. But if the Order catches them, and they know anything, they will tell it all before the D’Harans are through with them.” She looked up. “What are they doing out here?”

“The old man says his wife is sick, and they’re taking her to healers in Nicobarese. She didn’t look well to me. Her eyes looked to be all rolled back in her head.”

“Well, since they’re on the road going northwest, going across Jara Pass, that shouldn’t take them anywhere near the Order.” She pulled some of her long hair back off her face. “But before I dare let them go, I best go speak with them.”

Before she could take three steps, Sergeant Frost came running up behind. “Mother Confessor! The tubs of whitewash are ready. The tents are heated.”

Kahlan let out a noisy breath. She looked from Sergeant Frost, to sentry Cynric, to other men waiting patiently to talk with her or ask instructions. She let out another breath. “Look, Cynric, I don’t have the hour to ride out there, and another to ride back. I’m sorry, but I just don’t have the time.”

He nodded. “Yes, Mother Confessor. I understand. What do you wish done?”

She steeled herself to the orders. “Kill them.”

“Mother Confessor?”

“Kill them. We can’t be sure of the truth of who they are, and this is too important to worry about strangers running around loose. We can’t take the risk. Make it quick, so they don’t suffer.”

She turned away toward Sergeant Frost.

“But Mother Confessor . . .”

She looked over her shoulder.

Cynric gathered up a length of reins. “The driver, Ahern, he has a royal pass.”

Kahlan turned back and frowned. “A what?”

“A royal pass medallion. It’s a medallion that was given to him by Queen Cyrilla herself. It says he was a hero to the people of Ebinissia in the siege, and in honor of his service he is to be given unhindered pass anywhere in Galea.”

“The queen herself gave this pass?”

Cynric nodded. “I’ll do what you command, Mother Confessor, but with this medallion the queen has promised him her protection.”

Kahlan rubbed her forehead with her fingertips. She was so tired she could hardly focus her mind to think. “Since he has a pass given by the queen, we must honor it.” She pointed a finger to the sentry. “But you tell him that he must be clear of the area immediately. Repeat what you told him about there being outlaws in the neighborhood. Tell him that you’re hunting these outlaws, and that if you catch Ahern and his coach around here again, you’re ordered to assume they are in with the outlaws, and you’re to execute them on the spot. The road to Nicobarese goes northeast. Tell them to keep to it and not to stop before they’re a good long distance from here.”

Cynric clapped a fist to his heart as she turned to take Captain Ryan’s arm and lead him toward the tents with the whitewash. Behind, she heard the sentry gallop off toward the coach he had found. The other men took the hint that they weren’t to come, and went about other business.

She loosened the thong holding her mantle closed. The temperature had climbed above freezing, and the clouds had lowered nearly to the ground. The air felt wringing wet.

“Fog will move in by this afternoon,” he observed. “This whole valley pass will be thick with it tonight.” He glanced to her questioning frown. “I’ve lived in these mountains my whole life. When it takes a thaw like this in winter, the fog settles into the passes for at least a couple of days.”

Kahlan surveyed the mountain sides ascending into the gray clouds. “That will serve us well. Especially for what I have in mind. It will be an aid to us in bringing terror to the enemy.”

“So, are you ready to tell me what we’re to paint?”

Kahlan let out a tired sigh. “We’ve devised a number of plans to strike targets that must be destroyed. Tonight will be our best chance of accomplishing those things, because they will be surprised. We will not have a chance of surprise like this again. After tonight, they will be expecting our next attacks.”

“I understand. The men, too, know the importance of this. They will do well.”

“We must also not lose sight of our intent. Our intent is to kill these men. Tonight, we will have the chance to do that as perhaps at no other time. We must take that opportunity.

“How many swordsmen do we have?”

He was silent a moment as he tallied the numbers in his head. “Nearly two thousand are swordsmen. Not quite another eight hundred archers, and the rest divided up among pikemen, lancers, and cavalry among others, including the rest of what an army needs, from drivers to fletchers to blacksmiths.”

Kahlan nodded to herself. “I want you to select about a thousand swordsmen. Pick the strongest, the fiercest, the most eager for the fight.”

“And what are we going to do with these men?”

“The men dressed in the uniforms of the sentries we kill will make an exploration of the enemy camp, and come back and give us the locations of our objectives. We have enough men to do the tasks we have assigned for those objectives.

“The swordsmen are for beginning our prime objective. Killing the enemy. They will first see to the enemy commanders, just in case they weren’t poisoned, and then after that, they will kill as many men as they can in the shortest possible time.”

They came to the dozen tents set up close together in a half circle. Kahlan checked inside them all to be sure they were equipped as she had ordered. Finished checking, she stood outside the largest and faced Captain Ryan.

“So, are you going to tell me, now, what it is we’re to paint?”

Kahlan nodded. “Those thousand swordsmen.”

He stared, dumfounded. “We’re going to paint the men? Why?”

“It’s simple. D’Harans fear spirits. They fear the spirits of the foes they kill, that’s why they drag the bodies of their fallen comrades away from a battle site, like Ebinissia.

“Tonight, their fears are going to come to haunt them. They are going to be attacked by the thing they fear most: spirits.”

“But they will recognize us as soldiers, simply with white clothes, not as spirits.”

Kahlan looked at Captain Ryan from under her eyebrows. “They will not be wearing clothes. They will have nothing but their swords, painted white, just as are they. They will remove their clothes just before the attack.”

His mouth dropped open. “What?”

“I want you to get the swordsmen together, now, and assemble them here. They’re to go into the tents, remove their clothes, and dip themselves in the whitewash. After dunking themselves, they will stand near the hot rocks until dry. It won’t take long. Then they can put their clothes back on. Until the attack.”

Captain Ryan stood in shock. “But it’s winter. They’ll freeze without clothes.”

“We have a break in the bitter cold. Besides, the cold will remind them to rush in and rush back out. I don’t want them to stay in that camp very long. The enemy will recover from their shock in short order, and set upon any invader. I want our men to attack, kill terrified D’Harans, and escape.

“As I said, D’Harans fear spirits. When they see what they will at first think is their worst fear, they will be stunned. Their first thought will be to run, not to fight. Men die as easily from a sword through the back as through the front. Some will freeze in place, not knowing what to do. Even those who recognize the invaders as men painted white, and not as spirits, will be confused for a moment.

“Those few seconds of confusion, as we come upon each new group, are the seconds we need to run them through. In battle, the difference between killing, and being killed, is often a single moment of indecision.

“The swordsmen are not to engage in fights. If challenged, they’re to run on to others. There are more than enough to kill; it’s a mistake to waste time engaging in battle, if it can be avoided. I simply want enemy soldiers killed. After the commanders are dead, it doesn’t matter which ones. I don’t want our men fighting unless forced to; that only risks their lives needlessly.

“Rush in, kill as many men as possible, and rush out. Those are to be the orders.”

Captain Ryan frowned as he considered. “I never thought I would hear myself say it, but I think it sounds like it might be an outlandishly successful tactic. The men aren’t going to like it at first, but they’ll follow orders. I’ll explain it to them, and then I know they’ll feel a little better about it.

“I’ve never heard of such a thing, and I’m sure the enemy hasn’t either.” He at last smiled a sly smile. “It’s sure to surprise them, no doubt about that.”

Kahlan was relieved he had come around to that much of it. “Good. I’m pleased to have the enthusiasm of a captain in the Galean army. In the Midlands army.

“Now, I want you to have my horse’s saddle and tack brought here, and dipped in the whitewash. And please post some guards outside this tent, while I’m inside.”

His eyes widened. “Your saddle? . . . You’re not . . . Mother Confessor . . . You can’t be serious.”

“I would not ask my men to do something I myself would not do. They need to have a commander to rally around in their first battle. I intend to lead them.”

Captain Ryan took a step back. He was aghast. He regained the step. “But Mother Confesser . . . you’re a woman. And not in any way an ugly woman.” Seemingly involuntarily, he took a quick glance the length of her. “In fact, you are . . . Mother Confessor, forgive me.” He fell silent.

“They are soldiers with a mission. Make your point, Captain.”

His face filled with blood. “These are young men, Mother Confessor. They are . . . Well, you can’t expect . . . They are young men.” His jaw moved as he tried to find words. “They won’t be able to help themselves. Mother Confessor, please. You’ll be embarrassed beyond all tolerance.” He winced, hoping he wouldn’t have to explain further.

She gave him a small smile to try to ease his horror. “Captain, have you ever heard the legend of the Shahari?” He shook his head. “When the tribes and lands now called D’Hara were being forged together, the method of conquest and joining were much the same as it is with the Imperial Order—join with them, or be conquered. The Shahari people refused to join into D’Hara, and they refused to be conquered.

“They fought so fiercely that they came to be greatly feared by the D’Haran troops, who outnumbered them many times over. The Shahari loved nothing more than fighting. They were so fearless and aroused about going into war that they went into battle naked and, well . . . aroused.”

Kahlan looked up to see Captain Ryan staring, mouth agape. She went on. “The D’Harans all know the legend of the Shahari. They all, to this day, fear the Shahari.” She cleared her throat. “If the men go into battle, and . . . that . . . happens, it will only bring greater fear to the men of the Order.

“I don’t think, though, that the men need fear being embarrassed. They will have more pressing matters on their minds, like not being killed. And if it does happen, well then, they should know it pleases me because it will only strike greater fear into the hearts of our enemy.”

Captain Ryan finally looked to the ground and pushed snow with his boot. “Forgive me, Mother Confessor, but I still don’t like it. It puts you at danger for nothing of much gain.”

“That’s not true. There are two more important reasons I must do this. First, when I left the Order’s camp last night I was being chased by about fifty men. The D’Harans have no doubt that those fifty men will catch me, and kill me.”

The captain stiffened. “You mean there are fifty men roaming around looking for you?”

“No. They’re all dead. To a man. But the men back at camp don’t know that. When they see me, all white, like a spirit, they will think I was killed, as I should have been, and that it’s my spirit in their midst. It will only frighten them further.”

“All fifty . . . !” He peered up at her. “And what’s the second reason?”

Kahlan stared at him for a moment. Her voice came softly. “When those men of the Order see me, whether they think me a spirit or they think me a naked woman on a horse before them, they will stare. While they are staring, they cannot kill our men. But we can kill them. It will divert their attention from the men, to me.”

He gazed silently at her as she went on. “I would be willing to suffer any embarrassment,” she said, “if it will save the life of even one of our men. I must do this to help them, and to keep them alive.”

He looked to the ground as he put his hands in his pockets.

“I never knew the Mother Confessor was a person who cared this much for her people,” he whispered. “I never knew before, that she cared at all what happened to any of us.” He looked up at last. “Is there anything at all I can say to talk you out of doing this?”

Kahlan smiled. “There’s only one man in the world who could keep me from doing this, and you are not him.” She laughed quietly. “In fact, if he knew what I was about to do, I’m sure he would forbid it.”

His curiosity overcame his caution. “One man? Is he your mate?” She shook her head. “He is the one you will choose as your mate?”

Kahlan sighed pleasantly. “No. He is the one I’m to wed. At least I hope to wed him. He asked me to marry him.” She smiled at the confused look on his face. “His name is Richard. He is the Seeker.”

Captain Ryan stiffened and his breath cut off. “If I’m asking what I shouldn’t, just say so, but I thought all Confessors used their power . . . I thought, your magic would . . . I didn’t think Confessors could . . . marry.”

“They can’t. But Richard is special. He has the gift, and my power cannot harm him.”

Captain Ryan smiled at last. “I’m glad. I’m happy for you, Mother Confessor.”

Kahlan lifted an eyebrow. “But if you ever meet him, don’t you dare tell him about this . . . pretending to be a spirit business. He has rather fusty views about such things. If you told him you let me run around naked with a thousand of your men, he would probably take your head off.”

Kahlan laughed at the alarmed look on the captain’s face.

“Captain, I need a sword.”

“A sword! Now you’re going to fight, too!”

Kahlan leaned toward him. “Captain, if I’m sitting there naked, and a D’Haran wishes to despoil my honor, how am I to defend myself unless I have a sword?”

“Oh. Well, I see your point.”

He thought a moment. An idea brightened his face and he withdrew his own sword from its scabbard. He held the weapon out in both hands. It was an old sword, with a blade pattern wielded in the old fashion and acid etched in the fuller to display the wavy folds of steel.

“This blade was given to me by Prince Harold when I became an officer. He said it was his father’s, that it was one that belonged to King Wyborn himself. He said King Wyborn held it once in battle.” He shrugged self-consciously. “Of course, a king has many swords, and holds many of them in battle at least once, so they will be said to have been wielded by a king in defense of his kingdom. So it’s not really valuable, or anything.” He looked up expectantly. “But I would be honored if you took it as yours. It seems only right that, well, since you’re King Wyborn’s daughter, I guess, that you should wield his sword in battle. Maybe it has magic, or something, and will help protect your life.”

Kahlan carefully lifted the sword from his hands.

“Thank you, Bradley. This means a lot to me. You are wrong; it is valuable. I will carry it with honor. But I will not keep it. When I’m finished, and leave for Aydindril in a couple of days, then I will return it, and you will have a sword wielded not only by a king, but by the Mother Confessor, too.”

He grinned with the idea of that.

“Now, would you please post a guard outside this tent? And then see to the swordsmen?”

He smiled a little smile and brought his fist to his heart. “Of course, Mother Confessor.”

As Kahlan went inside the warm tent, he was already returning with three men. He had a scowl on his face as serious as any scowl she had ever seen on any officer’s face.

“And while the Mother Confessor is in her bath, you will keep your back to the tent, and not let anyone near. Is that clear?”

“Yes, Captain,” the three wide-eyed soldiers said together.

Inside, in the warmth, Kahlan leaned the sword against the tub, slipped off the fur mantle, and then her clothes. She was so tired she felt sick. Her stomach felt as if it were rising and falling in waves. Her head spun so that she had to fight nausea that swelled in bouts.

She dragged her hand through the whitewash. It was hot, like a wonderful bath. But this was no bath. She lifted her legs over the edge one at a time, and eased herself down into the silky-smooth white water. Her breasts felt buoyant in the milky pool. For a few minutes, she draped her arms over the sides of the tub, closed her eyes, and pretended it was a hot bath. She wished so much that it could be a bath. But it wasn’t.

It was something she did to keep some men alive, and to kill others. She would wear white as the Mother Confessor always did, but it would not be her dress, as always before.

Kahlan lifted her father’s sword and held the hilt between her breasts, with the length of the blade running down her body, against her belly, and between her legs. She crossed her ankles and kept her legs apart so as not to slice her thighs on the weapon. She held her nose closed with her other hand, squeezed her eyes shut tight, took a deep breath, and then submerged herself.