Stone of Tears

Chapter 46

She plunged into a void, a wasteland of brutal blackness bereft of all sense of time or awareness of place. She was lost to the world. The dark deprivation was beyond understanding, or comfort.

Drifting in the depths of that void, she felt something. That there was something to feel sparked hope in her, hope of escape from this forsaken nowhere. With that tingling of sense, she snatched desperately at substance, as if clutching a rock in a vast, dark river. Trying to fight back from the suffocating darkness brought sensation to her body.

She floated back, her head throbbing with a dull ache, and numbly she tried to understand what it was that was happening to her. Someone called to her. Mother Confessor, they called. No, that wasn’t her name.

It came to her. Kahlan. That was her name. Hands shook her. Someone was calling to her, and shaking her.

She returned from a great distance.

Kahlan’s eyes opened, and the world spun. Captain Ryan was gripping her shoulders, shaking her, calling to her.

She drew a deep breath of cold air into her lungs. She twisted her arms away from him, but then had to put her hands back on the ground for support. Concern creased his features.

“Mother Confessor, are you all right?”

“I . . . I . . .” She looked about. Tossidin was there, too. She sat up the rest of the way and put her cold fingers to her forehead. “My head . . . What time is it?”

“It will be light soon.” With a look of concern, he glanced back over his shoulder at Tossidin. “We came to wake you, as you told me to. The swordsmen are ready to go.”

Kahlan pushed her mantle off. “I’ll be ready in a moment, and we can . . .”

She remembered her decision to get to Aydindril. She had to get to Zedd. She had to get help for Richard. If it was true that the veil was torn . . .

“Mother Confessor, you don’t look well. You’ve been through a lot, you hadn’t slept in days, and you’ve only just gotten a few hours of sleep. I think you need more.”

Yes, she did. Though she could feel that her power was back, she definitely did not feel recovered. She put a hand on his arm.

“Captain, I must leave for Aydindril. I must . . .”

He gave her a little smile. “You rest. You’re not rested enough to travel. Stay here and rest. When we get back, you’ll be rested and you can leave.”

She nodded, still clutching his sleeve for support. “Yes. And then I must leave. I thought about it last night. I must get to Aydindril. I’ll rest until you get back, but then I must leave.” She looked about. Only Tossidin was there with the captain. “Where’s Chandalen, and Prindin?”

“My brother went to check on their sentries, to make sure that they didn’t place any,” Tossidin said, “So that our attack will be without warning.”

“Chandalen is attacking with the pikemen,” Captain Ryan said. “I’m to meet him with the swordsmen for the next attack.”

Kahlan comforted her sore lip. “Tossidin, tell Chandalen that when your attack is finished, we must leave. You three be careful. You must get me to Aydindril.” She could hardly keep her eyes open. She could hardly bring forth the energy to speak. She knew she wasn’t able to travel, yet. “I’ll rest until you return.”

Captain Ryan sighed with relief that she wasn’t going with them, that she would be safe, here. “I’ll leave some men to stand guard while you rest.”

She gestured with her hand. “This camp is well hidden. I’m safe up here.”

He leaned forward insistently. “Ten or twelve men are not going to make any difference to us, and I would be better able to put my mind to our task if I’m not worrying about you all alone back here.”

She didn’t have the energy to argue. “All right . . .”

She flopped back down. With a troubled frown, Tossidin pulled the mantle up over her. She was sinking back into the blackness as the two of them crawled out the opening. She tried to keep herself from going into that unfeeling place, but she was helplessly swept away.

The crushing weight of the void closed in around her. She tried to escape its grasp, tried to come back up, but the darkness was too thick, like being encased in mud. She was trapped, still being sucked deeper. She felt a surge of panic.

She tried to think, but could not form thoughts into coherent concepts. She had the sense that something was wrong, but could not bring her mind to bear on the solution.

This time, instead of surrendering, she focused all her strength on thoughts of Richard, on her need to help him, and the darkness then was not a total void. She had an inkling of time, sensing its incremental passing. She felt as if she were sleeping her whole lifetime away as she tenaciously kept Richard in her thoughts.

Her concern for him, and her anxiety over the strangeness of the depthless sleep, let her slowly, methodically, claw her way back. Yet it seemed to take hours.

With a desperate gasp, she came awake. Her head swirled with a throbbing ache. Her whole body tingled with sharp little pricks of pain. She laboriously pushed herself up, to sit, staring about her dark shelter. The candle was burned almost all the way down. Quiet hummed in her ears.

She thought maybe she needed cold air to wake up. Her arms and legs felt thick and heavy as she crawled through the opening of the shelter. Outside, it was dusk. She looked up at the first stars winking through the trees. Her breath fogged before her face as she stood on wobbly legs.

Kahlan took a step, and promptly tripped over something, falling on her face in the snow. Her cheek still against the ground, she opened her eyes. Inches away, glassy eyes were staring at her. The side of a young man’s face was lying against the snow, close to hers. It was his leg she had tripped over. It felt as if her bones wanted to leap out of her skin and run.

His throat was gaping open, his neck nearly sliced in two, letting his head bend back from his body at an impossible angle. She could see the opening of his severed windpipe. Clotted blood covered snow. A bloom of bile rose up into her throat. She swallowed, forcing it back down.

Slowly lifting her head, she saw the dark forms of other bodies. They were all Galean. Every sword still rested in its scabbard. They had died without the chance to fight back.

Kahlan’s legs tensed, wanting to run, but she strained to be still. In the dull fog of the halfsleep she couldn’t throw off, she struggled to think. Her mind seemed to be mired in a dreamlike stupor, unable to concentrate. Someone had killed these men, and could still be around; she somehow had to force herself to think.

She touched her fingers to the dead soldier’s hand. It was still warm. This must have just happened. Maybe that was what had wakened her.

She peered up, among the trees. Men moved in the shadows. They had seen her, and were moving into the clearing around her. They laughed and hooted as they came forward, and she saw who they were—close to a dozen D’Harans, and a couple of Keltans. Men of the Imperial Order. With a gasp, Kahlan sprang to her feet.

One man, the one closest, had a puffy red wound down the left side of his face, from his temple to his jaw, where Nick’s hoof had caught him. Ragged stitches held the black and red flesh closed. He gave a sneering smile with the good side of his mouth. It was General Riggs.

“Well, well, I have found you at last, Confessor.”

Kahlan flinched with the rest of the men when a dark form screaming a battle cry crashed through the underbrush. As the men turned, Kahlan bolted the other way.

Before she turned, she had seen the fading light glint off a huge war axe. The crescent-shaped blade struck down two men in one swing. It was Orsk. He must have been searching for her, too, so he could protect her. One touched by a Confessor never gave up.

Her legs felt thick, and tingled as if she had slept on them, but she ran as hard as she could. Yelling and screaming erupted behind her. Steel rang against steel. Orsk roared as he tore into the men after her.

Spruce branches slapped her face as she staggered through the trees. Dead limbs and brush snagged her pants and shirt. Dizzy, she stumbled through the drifts. Snow splashed against her face as she crashed through drooping boughs. She couldn’t make her legs run fast enough.

The man on her heels grunted as he dove for her. His arms snared her legs and she went down hard. She spit snow out as she kicked and struggled to get away. The man clawed his way up her legs, grabbing hold of her belt and throwing himself on top of her.

The red face with the angry wound down one side hovered right over hers. In triumph, he grinned wickedly. Back through the trees, she could hear the sounds of furious battle. She and Riggs were alone as she struggled to squirm away.

One fist grabbed her hair and held her head to the ground. His other fist punched her in the side, knocking the wind from her lungs. He hit her again. Nausea swept through her in a hot wave as she fought to get her breath.

“I’ve got you now, Confessor. You’ll not get away again. You may as well resign yourself to it.”

He was alone. What was he thinking? She slapped a hand to his chest. It seemed a puzzle to her that alone man would think he could take a Confessor.

“You have no one, Riggs,” she managed to say under the weight of him. “You’ve lost. You are mine.”

“I don’t think so.” He sneered. “He said you can’t use your power, now.”

He lifted her head and thumped it against the ground. Her vision blurred. She tried to concentrate on what she needed to do. He lifted her head again to bang it against the ground. Though she was bewildered by what he had said, she had to do it now, before he knocked her unconscious, before it was too late. Now, when time was hers.

In the silence of her mind, as he lifted her head, she let her Confessor’s power sweep through her. She released her restraint.

There was thunder with no sound. The impact of power, of magic, made Riggs flinch. Tree branches all around shook with a jolt. Snow dropped down, splattering on his back and her face.

His eyes went wide, his jaw slack. “Mistress! Command me.”

With the last of her strength, she managed to ask, “Who told you my power couldn’t harm you!”

“Mistress, it was . . .”

The bloody point of an arrow exploded from the prominence on the fore of his throat. The broad steel point stopped a scant inch from her chin. His eyes teared as his mouth moved and blood frothed, but no words came forth. As his breath rattled from his lungs, he began slumping onto her.

A fist gripped the shoulder of his uniform and pulled Riggs away. At first, she thought it would be Orsk, but it wasn’t.

“Mother Confessor!” A worried Prindin peered down at her. “Are you hurt? Did he hurt you?”

He hastily rolled the general off her and offered his hand to help her up as his eyes glided down the length of her lying on the snow. She stared up at him, but didn’t take his hand. Using her power had left her exhausted and limp as never before.

His customary grin spread on his face as he shouldered his bow. “I can see you are not hurt. You look very fine.”

“You didn’t need to kill him. I had already used my power on him. He was mine. He was just about to tell me who it was that said I could not harm . . .”

Her whole body tingled with apprehension at the way his eyes took her in. His familiar grin ran a cold shiver up her arms and the back of her neck, making the fine hairs stand stiffly out.

Orsk crashed through the trees. “Mistress! Are you safe?”

She could hear others coming in the woods behind him. She heard Chandalen’s voice. Prindin swiftly nocked an arrow. Orsk lifted his axe with one big fist. “Prindin! No! Don’t hurt him!” Prindin drew his bow. “Orsk! Run!”

The big man spun without question and darted back into the brush. An arrow followed him in. She heard the arrow strike something solid. She could hear Orsk stumble through the barren undergrowth, breaking branches and saplings. The snapping of twigs died out, and then she heard him hit the ground.

She tried to stand, but feebly fell back. It felt as if she had no bones and her muscles were melting. Her strength was gone. The blackness was trying to suck her back in. Prindin turned his grin back to her as he shouldered his bow once more.

Kahlan strained to bring forth the strength to speak. It came in a breathy whisper. “Prindin, why did you do that?”

He shrugged. “So we can be alone.” His smile widened. “Before they chop off your head.”

Prindin. Prindin had told Riggs her power wouldn’t hurt him, so she would expend it on him, and would have nothing left. Her legs trembled with the effort of trying to lift herself. She fell back again as he watched.

A voice came through the trees. It was a breathless Chandalen, calling to her. In another direction, she heard Tossidin calling. She tried to scream to them. Only a weak, hoarse complaint came from her throat. Darkness pressed into her.

Maybe she was still asleep, she thought. She could hardly speak, hardly move, just like a nightmare. She wished it were.

But she knew it was no dream.

Prindin turned to the insistent calls. Kahlan dug her heels into the snow and, with a mighty effort, managed to scoot herself back. Her hand fell on a stout maple limb lying on the ground.

Prindin rushed to her. She focused all her fear, her dread, her pain and horror at what was happening, into action. It took everything she had. Prindin reached for her.

Kahlan came up swinging the stout limb. Prindin ducked and snatched her would-be club, wrenching it from her grip. He spun her to him and curled his arm around her head, over her mouth, as she tried to warn Chandalen. Though he wasn’t big, she knew Prindin to be incredibly strong, but in her present state, even a child could have had his way with her.

Chandalen ran up behind them, a knife in hand. Kahlan bit into Prindin’s arm. She cried out as Prindin spun with impossible speed and strength, catching Chandalen across the side of the head with the branch. The sound of the hollow thunk was sickening. The blow knocked Chandalen into the boughs of a fir tree. As she twisted from Prindin’s grip, she saw blood on the snow around Chandalen.

Tossidin, breathing hard, burst through the trees. “What is happening! Prindin!”

He saw them and stopped in his tracks. He looked to Chandalen and then to Prindin.

Prindin peered back over his shoulder at his brother, speaking in his own tongue. “Chandalen tried to kill us! I came here just as he tried to kill the Mother Confessor. Help me. She is hurt.”

Kahlan collapsed to her knees, crying out. “No . . . Tossidin . . . no . . .”

Tossidin ran toward them. “What is this trouble Chandalen told me of? What is wrong with you, brother? What have you done?”

“Help me! The Mother Confessor has been hurt!”

Tossidin gripped his brother’s shoulder and spun him around. “Prindin! What have you . . .”

Prindin slammed a knife into his brother’s chest. Tossidin’s eyes went wide in surprise. His mouth opened but no words came. With a wheeze, his legs buckled and he crumpled to the ground. Kahlan cried out. He had been stabbed through the heart.

Chandalen sat up with a groggy groan. He put his hands to his bleeding scalp. Keeping an eye to the wounded man, Prindin pulled a bone box from his waist pouch. He had a full box of bandu. He hadn’t given her all his poison.

Helpless to stop him, Kahlan saw Prindin wipe a generous gob of poison onto the arrow’s point. Dazed, Chandalen held his head in his hands as he tried to gather his wits. Prindin drew the bowstring to his cheek. She knew he was aiming for Chandalen’s throat. Just as Prindin released the arrow, she managed to throw herself against his legs, making the arrow go astray from its target. It still hit Chandalen in the shoulder.

The back of his fist across her face sent her sprawling. Powered by sheer terror, Kahlan started scrambling away on her hands and knees. The snow was freezing her fingers. The knees of her pants were soaked and icy wet. She concentrated on the cold to try to revive herself. She glanced over her shoulder as she clambered away.

Prindin drew another arrow from his quiver, and wiped it in the poison as he watched her struggle. As he had watched Chandalen. A cry came from her throat as she staggered to her feet and ran. A nightmare. It had to be a nightmare.

The arrow felt like a club hitting the back of her left leg. She screamed and fell to her face. Her leg flamed in hot pain.

A tingling, prickling sensation spread through the muscle. The pain seared through the bone, into her hip.

Prindin was suddenly over her. He knelt down and gripped the arrow sticking from the back of her leg. He put his other hand against her bottom to hold her, and yanked the arrow free. Kahlan could feel the tingle of the poison going up her leg.

“Don’t worry, Mother Confessor, I did not use much poison on your arrow, like on Chandalen’s, just enough to make sure you will give me no trouble. He will be dead in another minute. You will live long enough to have your head chopped off.” His hand stroked her bottom. “If they do not wait too long.” Prindin leaned over her. “It is too cold out here. We will go back.”

He took hold of her wrist and started dragging her across the snow. In her mind, Kahlan fought him; she struggled, she shrieked, she hit, but she couldn’t make her body obey. She was as limp as a rag doll being dragged over the snow. She could feel the poison spreading to her ribs.

Tears streamed down her cheeks. Orsk. Tossidin. Chandalen. Her. How could Prindin do such a thing? She sobbed as her face slid over the snow. How could he? His own brother. He had stabbed his own brother as if it meant nothing. Who could do such a thing? How could anyone do such a thing? How could anyone but a . . .

Baneling.

She gasped with the realization. She had never fully believed in banelings, before. Wizards had told her they were real, but she never believed the wizards knew for sure. She had always thought it might be superstitious nonsense that sent people hunting things in the dark, things from the underworld, things bidden from the Keeper’s own dark whispers.

But now she knew. She was in the grips of a baneling. Dear spirits, how could no one know? He had helped her so many times. He had befriended her.

So he could be close to her, and keep track of her for the Keeper. He was a baneling. Darken Rahl had laughed at her. Because she was so stupid.

She knew now, without a doubt—the veil was torn. Darken Rahl had promised her such things. He had come to tear the veil the rest of the way, and she had foolishly thought she was in control of what she was doing, but all the time Darken Rahl, and the Keeper, had watched her through Prindin’s eyes.

But why wait until now? Why let her fight in this war, let all these people die, before he snatched her?

Kahlan knew why. The Keeper was of the world of the dead. Bringing death to the world of the living was what he wanted. He resented the living. That was why he wanted the veil torn—so he could bring death to the world of the living.

He coveted this world’s breath of life. He enjoyed watching people die. He did not wish to stop it too soon, stop the suffering, the fear, the pain.

It felt as if her arm might tear from its socket as Prindin tugged her through the brush, and over a log half covered over with snow. The tingling of the poison had spread across her chest.

Her left leg had gone numb. At least, she thought, she couldn’t feel how much the arrow wound hurt. The round, iron point had hit the bone, and Prindin had not been gentle about pulling it out. At least it was numb, now.

When they reached the shelter, she could see bodies all about, not only the Galean men, but the men of the Imperial Order that Orsk had killed. Soon, when Prindin was finished with her, he would turn her over to the army of the Order, and she would be beheaded. It would be over, and there was nothing she could do to stop it. She couldn’t even fight back. She would never see Richard again. Dear spirits, he would never know how much she loved him.

Prindin dragged her through the opening to the shelter and heaved her onto the mat of boughs. As he lit two more candles from the one that was almost burned down, she struggled to breathe, to remain conscious.

“I wish to be able to see you,” he explained with a lecherous smile. “You are very fine to look upon. I wish to see all of you.”

She had always liked his smile. She didn’t like it now.

Prindin took off his fur mantle and tossed it aside. His smile vanished. His eyes were wild. He didn’t speak in her tongue anymore, but only his own.

“Take off your clothes. I wish to look upon you, first. To be aroused by the sight of you.”

Even if he had held a knife to her throat, she wouldn’t have been able to obey; she couldn’t move her arms. “Prindin,” she managed to whisper, “the men will be back soon. They will catch you here.”

“They will be busy. They are having a fight like they never expected.” His smile returned. “They will not be back soon, if at all.” The smile changed in an instant to a twisted expression of hot rage. “I said take off your clothes!”

“Prindin, you are my friend. Please. Don’t do this.”

He crawled on top of her, yanking at her belt. “Then I will do it for you!”

Tears, over her helplessness, over the loss of a friend to this madness, to the Keeper, ran down her cheeks. “Prindin, why?”

He sat up, as if surprised by the question. “The great spirit said I may have you before he takes your spirit to the underworld. He said I am to have a reward, for the work I have done. The great spirit is pleased with me for delivering you to him.”

The bite on her neck stung with prickling pain. She shivered with sorrow for Tossidin and Chandalen. She shivered at her own desolate, hopeless situation. The tingling from the poison had spread across her shoulders. She could feel the slight twinge of its first touch moving up her throat.

He squeezed her under him as he kissed the place on her neck where Darken Rahl’s lips had been, where the bite was. The pain, the visions, sent a silent shriek through her.

“Prindin . . . please . . . after you have me . . . let me go?” She hoped that hearing her words in his tongue would mean more to him. “Please?”

He lifted his head away, looking into her eyes. “It would do no good for me to leave you. You have been poisoned, by the tea, and by the arrow. You will die soon, anyway. You must be beheaded before you die of the poison. It will be better. You will not suffer the poison’s end. That is my mercy to you.”

Prindin grinned as he started to bend over her again, kissing her neck. Tears ran down her cheeks.

“I hate you,” she wept. “You and your great spirit.”

He sprang up, standing, as best he could in the small shelter, with his fists at his sides as he glared down at her.

“You are to be mine! I have been promised! I will have you! Your power cannot harm me, I saw to that. It is used up for now. You are to be mine! If you will not give yourself to me, I will take you! You brought your hateful magic to my people, your hateful ways! You are evil, and I will take you, to conquer your wickedness! The great spirit has said it shall be so!”

Prindin pulled his buckskin shirt off over his head, off his wiry frame. He leapt full onto her, landing with a grunt. His face was right above hers.

They stared at each other in surprise.

He had no idea what had happened. She knew what had happened, but had no idea how.

She could feel his warm blood flowing over her fist. His pupils expanded. He coughed, splattering little droplets of blood across her face. With a long, slow gurgle, he went limp as his last breath left his lungs.

Tears ran down Kahlan’s face. She didn’t have the strength to push him off her; she could hardly breathe under his weight.

And so she lay still, feeling his blood drain over her hand between her breasts and soak into her shirt. The tingling of the poison had risen up her neck.