Stone of Tears

Chapter 45

Kahlan struggled to draw a breath, but with the weight of men on her, she couldn’t. Tears stung her eyes. More men piled on. A beefy elbow in her middle pressed into her, feeling as if it would squash her in two. Drunken breath bathed her face.

Her vision dwindled to a small spot. Everything around the center was going black, and the center was shrinking. She swallowed a mouthful of blood. Her own.

She heard what sounded like the distant rumble of thunder. At first, she could only feel the vibration in her back against the ground, but then the sound swelled, growing louder, sharper. The screams of men reached her ears.

Some of the men over her looked up. Their weight lifted a bit, and she sucked air into her lungs. It was the sweetest breath she had ever drawn.

As the giant of a man atop her, the one who had struck her face, turned to the sound of thunder, turned his fierce eye from her, she saw that his other had a scar across it, and down his cheek. That empty eye was sewn shut. Somehow, her left hand squirmed free. She seized his throat.

She heard a metallic rattle. The thunder, she suddenly realized, was horses’ hooves. Erupting out of the fog, Brin and Peter, atop Daisy and Pip, galloped at a full charge down the line of D’Harans, mowing them down with the chain. They raced toward her like a landslide felling trees. The men stared in frozen shock. Kahlan’s fingers clutched around the one-eyed man’s throat.

And then she released her power.

The magic slammed into him.

Thunder without sound rattled all the chain mail.

The staggering jolt made the men flinch back. They all cried out with the pain of being so close as the magic was loosed. A ring of snow lifted, sweeping outward in a circle.

Nick was standing over her, and he jumped with the pain, too. His hind leg came down on a man’s head right next to her ear. Bone crunched under the weight. Hot blood and gore splattered the side of her face.

The one eye of the man above her gaped at her. “Mistress!” he whispered. “Please command me.”

“Protect me!” she screamed.

He sat up abruptly, his massive muscles bulging. He held the hair of a man in each fist. He tossed them back as if they were mere children.

Her sword arm was free. She swung at a man to the other side, the blade ruining his face. The one-eyed man roared as he tossed men aside. The draft horses rushed onward at a full charge.

She was free of the hands. She leaped to her feet. The chain was almost upon them.

“Help me up on my horse!”

The one-eyed man grabbed her ankle in his big fist and, with one arm, boosted her up into the saddle. Somehow she still had the sword in her hand. She leaned forward and swung it at the man holding the bit, holding his prize. The sword’s tip sliced open the side of his face and half the length of his arm. He staggered back with a shriek. She snatched up the reins. The one-eyed man bellowed as he lopped off heads and ripped open chests with his huge war axe.

“Go, Mistress! Escape! Orsk will protect you!”

“I’m going! Run, Orsk! Don’t let them get you!”

The D’Harans abandoned her and her horse to turn to the new threats—Orsk and the chain. She thumped Nick’s ribs with her heels, urging him into a gallop just as Brin and Peter caught up with her. She stuffed her bare feet into the stirrups as the three of them raced away.

She spotted the trail that hundreds of feet had left in the snow and followed it across the valley, into the mist, leaving the men of the army of the Order to collect their wits. It took them mere seconds. They charged after her. There were more than enough still alive. Thousands.

Peter unhooked the chain that must have broken hundreds of bones and necks. The end of the chain bounced behind. Brin’s bony fingers drew in the dragging slack and coiled it over the hame.

As she galloped into the night, she thought she could hear the sound of soft laughter fading behind. She shivered with the memory of the kiss Darken Rahl had left on her neck. She felt suddenly very naked again.

Though the mist was icy cold, feeling like sparkling flecks all over her, she was sweating. Blood ran from her swollen lip.

“I never thought I would see you two again,” she yelled over the sound of hooves.

Brin and Peter, in their too-big coats, grinned in the darkness. “We told you we could do the job,” Brin said.

She smiled for the first time that night. “You two are a marvel.”

She just caught sight of the hindquarters of the other draft horses disappearing into the fog. She pointed. “There are your men. Good luck.” With a wave, they turned away from her.

She galloped on alone, and a short distance later caught up with the men on foot. She first saw only one. He had a horrific gash on his leg and had fallen far behind. She knew she should leave him. She knew she should. The D’Harans were right behind.

As she rode up to him, he turned his head up as he struggled through the snow. He knew she had to leave him. Those were the orders. Her orders. Keep up, or be left behind. No exceptions.

As she rode by, she leaned over, extending her arm down. They clasped wrists and she yanked him up behind her.

“Hold on, soldier.”

He held his arms out, trying to balance as the horse ran, afraid to touch her. “But . . . where?”

“Around my waist! Put your arms around my waist!”

He still held his arms out as he bounced. “But . . .”

“Haven’t you ever put your arms around a woman before?”

“Yes . . . but she had clothes on,” he whined.

“Do it, or you’ll fall off, and I’m not coming back for you.”

Reluctantly, carefully, he put his arms around her waist, stiffly trying to keep them away from anything important, or unfamiliarly exotic. Kahlan gave the back of his hands a pat of reassurance. “When you brag about this, don’t make it more than it is.” He let out a small, worried groan that made her smile.

As they rode on, she could feel his warm blood running down the back of her leg, dripping from her toes in the stirrup. She could hear the shouts of the enemy chasing behind.

He was losing a lot of blood. In exhaustion, he laid his head against the back of her shoulder. If they didn’t tie his wound closed, he would bleed to death in short order. She was naked, and had nothing to use as a bandage, even if they had the time to stop.

“Hold the wound closed with a hand,” she said. “Clamp it closed as tight as you can. And hold fast to me with your other arm. I don’t want you falling off.”

He took one arm from her waist and held the gash closed as she rode right on the heels of the men at the end of the line. They were cold and fatigued. The men of the Order were not far behind. As she looked back, they came into sight. She was shocked by the numbers. They hooted and hollered.

“Run! Run or we will be caught!”

A wall of rock, with scraggly trees growing from cracks and clefts, loomed up before them. The men ran up the narrow pass as if their lives depended on it. And they did.

As they began the climb up the rift, she rang the flat of her sword three times on the rock, giving the signal.

A man ahead turned as he ran. “We’re not there yet! It’s too soon! We’ll be caught along with the enemy!”

“Then you better run faster! If we wait too long, they will get through, too!”

She rapped the rock wall three more times, the ringing sound carrying into the dark, damp air. She hoped it would work; there, of course, had been no way to perform a test. The men ahead scrambled up the trail. Nick’s hooves slipped in places on the snow-covered rock.

At first, she could only feel it, a rumbling deep in her chest, too low to hear, but too powerful not to be felt. She looked up along the mist-slicked rock that disappeared above into the dark and fog. She couldn’t see it yet, but she could feel it.

She hoped the man was wrong, that it wouldn’t be too soon. When she heard the battle cries of the men coming from behind, she knew they had no choice.

And then she could hear it: a booming roar, as if the ground itself were moving. She could hear tree trunks snapping. The thundering growl reverberated off the surrounding mountain walls. The ground vibrated.

“Run! Can’t you run any faster? Do you want to be buried alive? Run!”

She knew they were going as fast as they could, but they were on foot, and from atop her horse, it seemed painfully slow. Deadly slow.

Overhead, the rumbling roar grew louder as uncountable tons of snow crashed down toward them. She was thrilled that the men on top had been successful in starting an avalanche on command; but she was also terrified that she had given the command too soon.

A lump of wet snow slapped her face; another smacked her shoulder. Little clods rattled through the trees above them and bounced out over the edge. A cloud of fluffy snow misted her face. The roar was deafening.

A flow of thundering white sluiced over the ledge above. They drove through it, like running through a waterfall. Behind her, a tree trunk bounced on the trail, spinning out over the precipice. They just cleared the leading edge of the bulk of snow.

The men of the Imperial Order behind were not so lucky. The plunging snow, charged with timber and boulders, cascaded down with ever-gathering power. They were swept away in the tumbling white death. The fury of sound muffled the screams of men it carried away, rolling them into the pounding slide, burying them alive.

Kahlan sagged with relief. They could not be followed now. The pass was entombed.

The panting men slowed, but they couldn’t slow too much, or they would freeze. Their pace kept them warm. Their feet, she knew, despite being wrapped in white cloth for a little protection, were not warm. They had given her their best effort. They had given the Midlands their best effort. Many had given their lives.

Kahlan was so exhausted from lack of sleep, as well as the fatigue of battle, along with the emotional drain of fright, and the effort required to use her power, that she could hardly stay upright. Soon, she told herself, she could rest. Soon.

She patted the hand on her stomach. “We made it, soldier. We’re safe, now.”

“Yes, Mother Confessor,” he whispered groggily. “Mother Confessor, I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“I only killed seventeen. I’m sorry. I promised myself I’d get twenty. I only got seventeen,” he mumbled.

“I know heroes of battle, decorated men, who have not bested half that number in combat. You have made me proud. You have made the Midlands proud. Feel only pride, soldier.”

He mumbled something she couldn’t understand.

She patted his hand again. “You’ll be to help soon. Hold on. You’ll be fine.”

He didn’t answer. She looked behind, down the trail, and saw only white, and heard only silence. In the distant, dark mountains, a wolf yipped.

A short time later, on a high plateau, they reached the camp. The men ahead in the line were already wrapped in blankets as they shivered around fires, warming their feet. Some were pulling on their clothes under the blankets. More men threw blankets around the men coming in ahead of her and tended the wounded. Some of the wounded were groaning in pain, feeling it for the first time, now that the heady furor of combat and escape had evaporated. She began to feel a throbbing in her lip.

In the flickering light of small fires, she could see Prindin and Tossidin, some distance away, running around searching the new arrivals. When they saw her on the horse, they both sighed with relief, giving her twin smiles.

Captain Ryan, dressed in a D’Haran uniform and with a bandage around his left hand, ran over. Other men took the reins, and yet others extended their hands to take the man behind her as she held him by an elbow, lowering the limp form down.

Prindin ran to meet her, her mantle in hand. He stood, holding it open for her, waiting for her to dismount so he could put it around her shoulders. He grinned at her.

Without moving from the saddle, she slowly extended her hand. “I have had enough eyes on my flesh to last me the rest of my life. Throw it up here!”

Prindin shrugged self-consciously and tossed the mantle up to her. Tossidin swatted the back of his brother’s head. Silence fell over the gathered men. They all looked away in embarrassment as she put the mantle around her shoulders and tied it.

She slid down, finding her legs barely up to the task of holding her. She used the sword still in her hand as a cane. She had to pause a moment until everything stopped spinning. She glanced to the man lying in the snow at her feet.

“Why isn’t someone helping this man? Don’t just stand there, help him!” No one moved. “I said help him!”

Captain Ryan stepped closer to her. He kept his eyes on the ground. “I’m sorry, Mother Confessor. He’s dead.”

Her hand tightened into a fist. “He’s not dead! I was just talking to him!” No one moved. She beat her free fist against his chest. “He’s not dead! He’s not!”

Everyone looked away. No one said anything. She finally glanced at the men around the small fires, at all the hanging heads. Her hand fell to her side.

“He killed seventeen of them,” she said to Captain Ryan. “He killed seventeen of them,” she said louder, to the rest of them.

Captain Ryan nodded. “He did well. We are all proud of him.”

She watched the faces as they all finally came up. “Forgive me. All of you, please forgive me. You have all done a good job.” The fury had gone out of her. “You have all made me proud. You are heroes, in my eyes, and in the eyes of the Midlands.”

The men brightened a bit. Some went back to eating, while others started passing around tin bowls and spooned beans from pots on the fires. Some tore off chunks of flat camp bread to dunk in the beans.

“Where’s Chandalen?” she asked as she pushed her feet into the boots Tossidin handed her.

“He went with the archers. I imagine that he’s probably shooting arrows into D’Harans right now.” Captain Ryan leaned toward her, as the brothers moved away, and lowered his voice. “I’m glad these three are on our side. You should have seen them taking out the sentries. Prindin, especially, is like death itself, with that troga of his. It was eerie, the way they were first here, and then over there, and you never even saw them move. I never heard a thing. They just appeared with the sentries’ uniforms.”

“You should see them do that out in the open grassland, in broad daylight.” Kahlan looked him up and down. She managed a small smile. “Quite handsome. You wear it well.”

He pulled at his shoulder. “I don’t know how they wear this heavy mail all the time.” He fingered a slash in the leather. “But I was glad to have it on.”

“How did everything go? How many men did you lose?”

“We got nearly everything we went after. In these uniforms, we didn’t have to do much fighting. Hardly anyone noticed us, except the ones we killed. We only lost a few men.” He glanced back over his shoulder. “Looks like you caught the worst of it. I took a rough count as you came in. We lost close to four hundred of the thousand swordsmen who went in.”

She stared past him, at the men around the fires. “We came close to losing them all.” She brought her attention back to the captain. “But they did themselves proud. The drivers, too.”

He cradled his bandaged hand. “From the ones I talked to, I don’t think many took less than ten of the enemy, and many took a lot more. We took quite a chunk out of the Order’s hide.”

Kahlan swallowed. “They took quite a chunk out of ours.”

“Did the men do like I told them?” he asked. “Did they keep trouble away from you?”

“They kept the enemy so far from me I couldn’t tell you what they looked like. I’m afraid I wasn’t able to add much honor to your sword, though it was a comfort to have along. I pray you will at least be honored that I carried it in battle.”

He frowned, leaning to the side, trying to get a better look at her face in the firelight. “Your lip looks cut.” He glanced at her warhorse as the men were taking the tack off. “That horse is covered in blood. You’re covered in blood, too, aren’t you?” It was an accusation, not a question.

Kahlan stared off at a fire. “Some drunk threw something at me. It cut my lip. That wounded soldier I was bringing in bled to death on my horse, and on me.” Her eyes drifted among the young faces around fires. “I wish I could have done half as well they. They were magnificent.”

He grunted suspiciously. “I’m just relieved to see you.”

“Is everything else in order? The archers, the cavalry? We must make the best use of our opportunity while they’re drunk and sick with the poison. We must make the most of this weather, too. We can’t let up for a moment. One lightning strike after another. No engagement. Glancing attacks, always from a different place.”

“They all know their jobs, and are waiting their turn. The archers should be finished soon, then the cavalry, then the pikemen. We’re ready for their sentries, when they send them out. Our men will sleep in turns, but from now on, the Imperial Order will get no sleep.”

“Good. These men need rest. In the morning, it will be their turn again.” She lifted a finger to the captain. “Remember the most important thing.” She quoted her father, “ ‘The weapon that most readily conquers reason is terror and violence.’ Don’t forget that. It’s the tool they use, and now we must turn it on them.”

Prindin came back into the firelight. “Mother Confessor. My brother and I made you a shelter, while we waited for your return. We have your clothes there, and hot water, so you may wash yourself if you wish.”

She tried not to show how eager she was to wash off the reek of war. “Thank you, Prindin.”

He held his arm out, showing her the way to the small clearing. The brothers had built a roomy shelter of balsam boughs covered over with snow. She crawled through the low opening to find candles inside. The snowy ground was covered with a mat of boughs, too, giving the shelter the pleasant aroma of balsam. A steaming bucket of water had just been set next to hot rocks placed in the center. She warmed her fingers over the rocks.

The brothers had made her a warm and snug home for the night. She could have wept at their thoughtfulness.

Her pack was there, and her clothes folded in a neat pile. Kahlan took off her necklace, the one Adie had given her, the one with the round bone. It was the only thing she had worn into battle. She clutched it to her cheek a moment before she washed it. It reminded her of the one her mother had given her.

She dunked her whole head in the bucket, washed her hair, and then methodically washed the rest of herself. It was only a sponge bath, but it still felt wonderful to wash off the blood, and the feel of the hands. She had to force herself to think of other things as she washed, to keep from being sick. She thought of Richard, thought of his boyish smile that never failed to make her grin, thought of his gray eyes that could look right into her. When she finished washing, she lay down, drying her hair on the rocks.

She desperately needed sleep. She still hadn’t recovered her Confessor’s power since using it on the one-eyed man, Orsk. She could feel the emptiness in the pit of her stomach, a hollow where the power belonged. It would be a while longer until it was restored. She wouldn’t be able to shake the sick, dizzy exhaustion, though, until she had sleep.

She longed to lie down in her bedroll and sleep. It had been so long, and she was so sleepy. But she couldn’t. Not yet.

She put the necklace back over her head and then laboriously pulled on her clothes. From her pack she recovered an unguent and spread it on her cut lip. When she replaced it, she saw the bone knife Chandalen had given her, and tied it around her arm again.

She was so tired she could hardly force herself up, but she had something to do before she slept; she had to be with her men. She wouldn’t let them think she didn’t hold their interest highest in her heart. They had offered their lives; the least she could do was show her appreciation, on behalf of the Midlands.

Clean, her long hair full and shiny once more, and dressed at last in layers of warm clothes and her mantle, she wound her way among the campfires. She listened with serious attention to the babbling stories of some, and the quiet, brief words of others. She spoke with all who had questions, gave smiles of reassurance, and let them all know how proud she was of what they had done. She knelt by the wounded, checking to see if they were warm enough, and laid a hand to their cheeks, giving comfort, and wishing them good health and quick healing. She, too, felt relief when they were calmed by her touch.

At a fire surrounded by ten silent soldiers, one young man was trembling, but she didn’t think it was from the cold.

“How are you doing? Are you all right? Are you getting warm?”

Her presence surprised and brightened him. “Yes, Mother Confessor.” A racking shiver rattled his teeth. “I never thought it would be like that.” He composed himself, and indicated the others. “These are my friends. Six didn’t come back.”

She held her mantle closed with one hand and brushed the hair back off his forehead with the other. “I’m sorry. I, too, grieve for them. I just wanted you men to know that you made me proud. You were as brave as any soldiers I’ve ever seen.”

He chuckled nervously. “We’d all be dead if it wasn’t for you. We were being driven back, hacked to pieces, and then you charged right into the enemy, all by yourself. They all turned their attention to you, and then, while they were confused, we counterattacked. What you did saved us.”

He shook his head. “I wish I had killed half as many men tonight as I saw you kill.” They all nodded their earnest agreement. He brushed trembling fingers across his face. “Thank you, Mother Confessor. If it weren’t for what you did, we would all be dead, too.” He gave her a twitch of a smile. “If I had the choice, I’d choose to follow you into battle over Prince Harold himself.”

“Pretty good with a sword, is she?”

She started at the voice. The soldier turned to see Captain Ryan standing behind her.

“I think she could teach us swordsmen a thing or two. You wouldn’t believe what she . . .”

Kahlan patted his shoulder. “Have you had something to eat?”

He pointed to the pot of beans on the fire. “Would you share some with us, Mother Confessor?”

She almost lost control of her queasy stomach. “You men eat. You need the strength. Thank you for the offer, but I must first see to the others.”

Captain Ryan followed her away. “I had thought you might have some trouble handling a sword. The men who unsaddled your horse told me they found dismembered hands and fingers caught in the girth strap, and a few other places.”

Kahlan smiled at men she passed. They lifted a hand or bowed their heads in greeting. “Have you forgotten who my father was? He taught me the use of a sword.”

“Mother Confessor, that doesn’t mean . . .”

“Lieutenant Sloan was killed.”

He fell silent a moment. “I know. They told me.” He put a hand under her arm when she stumbled. “You don’t look so good. Some of those men who were poisoned looked better than you.”

“It’s just that I haven’t slept for so long.” She didn’t tell him that she had also used her power again. “I’m dead tired.”

Back outside her shelter, Tossidin offered her a bowl of beans. Her fingers covered her mouth as her eyes winced closed. She thought she might faint at the sight and smell of food. Tossidin seemed to understand and took it away.

Prindin put a hand under her other arm. “Mother Confessor, you must eat, but you need rest even more.” She nodded her agreement. “I made you some tea; I thought it might be a comfort.” He pointed with his chin to the shelter. “It is inside.”

“Yes, tea might help settle my stomach.” She gave the captain’s arm a squeeze. “Wake me in the morning, when it’s time for the next attack. I’ll go with the men.”

“If you’re rested enough. Only if . . .” She cut him off with a look. “Yes, Mother Confessor. I’ll wake you myself.”

Inside the cozy shelter, she sipped the hot tea, and shook. Her head was spinning. She could only take a few swallows before she fell into the bedroll. She would be better, she told herself, when she was rested. She could feel her power coming to life at last, swelling with its familiar force within her chest.

She curled up under her fur mantle, thinking of the thousand things that needed to be tended to. She worried about the men who were at that moment attacking, and the ones who would go next. She fretted for them all. They were so young.

She worried about what she had started. War.

But she hadn’t started it. She had only refused to abandon the lives of innocent people to a sure death. She’d had no choice. As the Mother Confessor, she had a responsibility to the people of the Midlands. If the Imperial Order wasn’t stopped, untold thousands would die at their hands, and those who lived would live as slaves to the Order.

She thought about the young women at the palace in Ebinissia. Their faces floated and spun through her mind’s eye. She was too weary to weep for them. When they were avenged, there would be time enough to weep.

She seethed with a lust for vengeance. She resolved that she would hound the army of the Imperial Order to their graves. In the morning, she would once more lead her men against the enemy. She would see it through. She would see those girls, and all the others, avenged.

If the Imperial Order wasn’t stopped, not only would innocent people be slaughtered, but all magic, good and bad, all the creatures of magic, would perish.

Richard had magic.

Her mind drifted to Richard. And then she did weep, weep in the hope that he would not hate her for what she had done. She prayed that he would be able to understand and forgive her. She had done the best for him, to save him, to save the living. Her tears slowed, finally sobbing to a stop.

Her thoughts of Richard swept the jumbled, tangled, flashing images from her head. Her mind focused, for the first time in days, it seemed, on things other than fighting and killing.

Focused on who she was, who Richard was. Focused on important matters floating in the fog at the back of her awareness.

Thinking about Richard brought back to her the things that were important, but which she seemed to have forgotten. There were things other than the Order that were important. Very important. It seemed as if this war had distracted her from higher imperatives, from those important matters.

She thought about Darken Rahl. Darken Rahl had marked Richard. The Sisters of the Light had taken him. She was supposed to be going to Aydindril, to help Richard, to get Zedd to help Richard . . .

Richard had to stop the Keeper.

Kahlan frowned in the darkness under her mantle. The veil to the underworld was still torn. She shouldn’t be running around, swinging a sword at D’Haran troops.

She remembered Darken Rahl’s laughter.

She touched her neck, and felt the swollen, broken skin. It had been real. He had laughed at how foolish she was.

Kahlan sat up. What was she doing? She had to help stop the Keeper. Shota had said the veil was torn; so had Darken Rahl and Denna. Kahlan had seen a screeling, a creature straight from the underworld. She had spoken with Denna. Denna had taken Richard’s place with the Keeper so that he could live to repair the tear in the veil.

Kahlan was supposed to be going to Zedd. She shouldn’t be running around playing at soldier.

But if the Imperial Order wasn’t stopped . . .

But if the veil was torn . . .

She had to get to Aydindril. She had to get to Zedd. These men could fight a war without her. That was their job. She was the Mother Confessor. She shouldn’t be running around foolishly risking her life, when the Midlands—the world of the living—was in danger.

That was what Darken Rahl was laughing at: her foolishness.

She picked up the cup of tea Prindin had made for her and held it in her hands, letting it warm her fingers. She was the leader of the Midlands and had to act like a leader, and tend to the most important things above all else, to the things that she, and only she, could do. She downed the rest of the tea, making a face at the bitter taste.

Kahlan lay down again, holding the teacup on her stomach. The faces of the dead women again floated before her eyes. The weapon that most readily conquers reason is terror and violence; that was what the enemy had done to her—the horror of what they had done had conquered her reason.

That very day, she and her men could have been lost if the scouts had all been killed. Without those guides, they would have been lost, and vincible to the enemy.

That was what she was: a guide. She was a guide to the Midlands. She belonged in Aydindril, guiding the council, pulling everyone together against the threat. Without that guidance, they would be ignorant, and lost in the fog of what was happening.

She was also Richard’s guide, for the help he needed. It was up to her to get Zedd’s help. Without that guidance, Richard, and all the living, were lost.

She sat up, staring into the candle flame.

No wonder Darken Rahl had been laughing at her. She had been letting the enemy conquer her reason. She had almost been diverted from her duties, and given the Keeper time to work his plans.

She knew now what she had to do. She had done enough to get these men started, had shown them their responsibility, and how to carry it out. Now they had the knowledge they needed to conquer the enemy. What she had done was right, but now they had their jobs, and she had hers.

This army knew what to do, now. She had to get to Aydindril.

Having decided, it felt as if a great weight had been lifted from her, but at the same time she felt infused with purpose. Richard, even though he wasn’t with her, had helped her find the truth in all the confusion, and helped her to see her true duty.

She looked in the teacup, but she had drunk the tea, and the cup was empty. Her head felt fuzzy. Her eyes wouldn’t stay open. She was so tired she could no longer sit up.

As she flopped back down, she wondered what Richard was doing, where he was. Probably with the Sisters, learning how to control the gift. She prayed to the good spirits that they would help him realize how much she loved him.

Her arm, suddenly too heavy to hold up, fell to the side, and the cup rolled away.

Sleep was as dreamless as death.