Stone of Tears

Chapter 51

Night didn’t seem to diminish the number of people on the streets of Tanimura. The little fires cooking meat on sticks still burned, and the hawkers still conducted a brisk business. Men called to him to come throw dice with them. Once they saw his collar, people tried to entice him into buying everything from food to shell necklaces for his lady. He told them that he had no coins. They laughed, saying that the palace would pay for anything he wanted. Richard hunched his shoulders and kept walking.

Women dressed in flimsy, revealing clothes pressed against him, giggling and smiling as they ran their hands over him, trying to get fingers into his pockets. They made him offers he could hardly believe. Pushing didn’t get them away. His glare did.

Richard was relieved to leave the city behind, to leave the lights of torches, lamps, candles, and fires behind, to leave behind the smells and the noise. He breathed easier when he was into the moonlit country. He glanced over his shoulder at the twinkling lights while he climbed the hills.

He was constantly aware of the collar around his neck, and wondered what would happen if he went too far, though, from what Pasha had told him, that was many more miles than he intended to go. Still, he worried she might be wrong, and that the slack in his chain might suddenly snap tight.

Finally, he reached a satisfactory spot. He surveyed the grassy prominence overlooking the city in the distance. A little way off to the side, in the swale, he could see the dark shapes of old trees looming up in the moonlight. Shadows black as death lurked in the gaps.

Richard stared at the menacing gloom for a time, transfixed by a faint, lingering desire to go into the waiting folds of its night. Something in him hungered to go in there, and call forth the magic. Something in him lusted to bring forth the rage, to let it vent its wrath, vent his wrath.

It felt as if his frustration at being held against his will, his anger at being a helpless prisoner, his fear at not knowing what was going to happen to him, and his heartache for Kahlan, all needed to be let out, like pounding a fist against a wall when you were angry. Somehow, those woods promised him that release.

Richard finally turned from the Hagen Woods and set about collecting firewood. With his knife, he whittled a pile of shavings into a bare spot he had scooped out with his boot. Striking steel and flint, he started the shavings to smoldering, and once they had taken with a good flame, he piled on some wood. Once the fire was going nicely, he set out a pot, poured in water, and started cooking rice and beans. While he waited for it to cook, he finished a small piece of bannock he still had left.

He sat, his arms curled around his knees, and watched the dark woods, the Hagen Woods. He watched the city shimmering in the distance. The sky overhead was a sparkling canopy of stars. He watched the sky, too, waiting to see a familiar shape blacken a patch of stars.

After a time, he heard a soft thud behind him. He laughed when the furry arms grabbed him and tumbled him onto the ground. Gratch gurgled with his throaty laugh, his arms and legs and wings trying to enwrap his opponent. Richard tickled his ribs, and Gratch roared with a deep, growling laughter. The tussle ended with Gratch finally on top, hugging Richard with arms and wings. Richard embraced the little gar tightly.

“Grrratch luuug Raaaach aaarg.”

Richard squeezed him tighter. “I love you, too, Gratch.”

Gratch put his wrinkly nose to Richard’s. His glowing green eyes looked down, and he let out in a throaty giggle.

Richard wrinkled his nose. “Gratch! Your breath smells!” He sat up, holding the gar in his lap. “Did you catch some food on your own?” Gratch nodded enthusiastically. Richard hugged him again.

“I’m so proud of you! And you did it without blood flies. What did you get?” Gratch cocked his head to the side. His furry ears turned forward.

“Did you get a turtle?” Richard asked. Gratch giggled and shook his head. “Did you get a deer?” Gratch sagged with a regretful growl. “Did you get a rabbit?” Gratch bounced and shook his head, enjoying the game.

“I give up. What did you have to eat?”

Gratch covered his eyes with his claws, peeking out between them.

“A raccoon? You got a raccoon?”

Gratch nodded with a toothy grin, then threw his head back and roared as he pounded his chest.

Richard patted the beast’s back. “Good for you! Very good!”

Gratch gave a gurgling giggle and then tried to push Richard back for more wrestling. Richard was relieved that the gar was finally able to start catching his own food. He made Gratch sit still and settle down while he checked the rice and beans. He held the pot out.

“You want some of my dinner with me?”

Gratch leaned close and carefully smelled the pot. He knew it was hot. He had gotten a burn before and was careful now when Richard cooked things. He wrinkled his nose at the rice and beans. He made a croaking sound and rolled his shoulders. Richard knew that meant he wasn’t enthusiastic, but if nothing better was forthcoming he would have some.

Richard poured him some in his own bowl. “Blow on it. It’s hot.”

Gratch held the tin bowl to his face and pursed his leathery lips. He blew air and spit between his fangs as he tried to cool his snack. Richard ate with a spoon as he watched the gar trying to lick the rice and beans from the bowl. Finally, Gratch rolled onto his back and, holding the bowl with his claws and feet, poured its contents in his mouth. In three swallows it was gone.

Gratch sat up and flapped his wings. He scooted close. With a plaintive babble, he held out his bowl to Richard. Richard showed him the empty pot.

“All gone.” Gratch’s ears wilted. He put a hooked claw to Richard’s bowl and gave it a little tug. Richard pulled his bowl away and turned his back. “Mine. It’s my dinner.”

Gratch resigned himself to waiting patiently while Richard finished eating. When Richard pulled his knees up and wrapped his arms around them as he watched the city, Gratch squatted and tried to imitate the pose.

Richard pulled the lock of hair from his pocket. He twirled it in the moonlight, staring while he watched it turning. Gratch thrust out a claw. Richard elbowed it away.

“No,” he said in a low voice. “You can touch, but only if you’re gentle.”

Gratch reached out tentatively, slowly, carefully touching a claw to the lock of hair. His glowing green eyes looked up, studying. He stroked the claw down Richard’s hair.

Gratch touched Richard’s cheek. Touched a tear rolling down. Richard sniffed and swallowed. He put the lock of hair back in his pocket.

Gratch put a gangly arm around Richard’s shoulder and laid his head against him. Richard put his arm around Gratch, and they watched the night for a time.

Finally deciding he had better get some sleep, Richard found a spot of thick grass on which to spread a blanket. He lay down with Gratch curled up close, and the two of them fell asleep together.

Richard woke when the moon was nearly down. He sat up and stretched. Gratch made fists and imitated Richard, adding wings to the yawning stretch. Richard rubbed his eyes. It would be dawn in an hour or two. It was time.

He stood, Gratch coming up beside him. “I want you to listen to me, Gratch. I have some important things to tell you. Are you listening?”

Gratch nodded, his wrinkly face set in a serious cast. Richard pointed to the city.

“You see that place, with all the fire, all the light? I’m going to live there for a while.” Richard tapped his chest and then pointed to the city. “I’m going to be down there. But I don’t want you to visit me there. You must stay away. It’s a dangerous place for you. You stay away.” Gratch watched Richard’s face. “I’ll come up here to visit you. All right?” Gratch thought a moment, and then nodded.

“You stay away from the city. And you see the river down there? You know what a river is; I’ve shown you water. You stay on this side of the water. This side. Understand?”

Richard didn’t want the gar hunting the livestock on the farms on the other side of the river. That would surely get him in trouble. Gratch looked from Richard’s face to the city, and then back. He made a sound from deep in his throat to express his understanding.

“And Gratch, if you see any people,” Richard tapped his chest and pointed to the city, “people like me, don’t you eat them.” He put a finger in front of Gratch’s face. “People are not food. Don’t eat any people. Understand?”

Gratch growled in disappointment, and then nodded. Richard put an arm around the gar’s shoulders and turned him toward the Hagen Woods.

“Now listen. This is important. You see that place down there? Those woods?”

A low, menacing growl rose from the gar’s throat. His lips drew back from his fangs. The glow in his green eyes intensified.

“You stay out of there. I don’t want you going into that place. I mean it, Gratch. You stay away.” Gratch watched the woods, the growl still in his throat. Richard gripped a fistful of fur and gave him a shake. “You stay away from there. Understand?”

Gratch glanced over and finally nodded.

“I have to go in there, but you can’t follow. It’s dangerous in there for you. Stay out.”

With a plaintive pule, Gratch put an arm around Richard and pulled him back a step.

“I’ll be safe; I have the sword. Remember the sword? I showed you my sword. It will protect me. But you can’t come with me.”

Richard hoped he was right about the sword; Sister Verna had told him that the Hagen Woods were a place of vile magic. But he had no choice. It was the only plan he could think of.

Richard gave the gar a tight hug. “You be a good boy. Go hunt yourself some more food. I’ll be coming up here to see you, and we’ll wrestle. All right?”

Gratch grinned at the mention of wrestling. He pulled hopefully on Richard’s arm. “Not now, Gratch. I have something I must do. But I’ll come back on another night and wrestle with you.”

Gratch’s ears wilted again. His long arms wrapped around Richard in a good-bye hug. Richard collected his things and, with a final wave, headed down into the swale. Gratch watched as the dark woods swallowed him up.

Richard walked for close to an hour. He needed to be deep enough into the Hagen Woods to make sure his plan would work. Limbs draped with moss and vines looked like arms reaching out to snatch him. Sounds drifted through the trees—guttural clicking and long, low whistles. Off in stagnant stretches of water things splashed at his approach.

Warm, and breathing hard with the effort of the walk, he came to a small clearing, high enough to be dry, and open enough to afford him the view of a small patch of stars. There was no rock or log in the clearing, so he flattened a thick clump of grass and sat down beside his pack, crossing his legs. He closed his eyes and drew a deep breath.

Richard thought about home and the Hartland Woods. He longed to be back in his woods. He thought about the friends he missed so much, Chase, and Zedd. All the time he had grown up with the old man, Richard had never known Zedd was his grandfather. But he had known he was his friend, and that they loved each other. He guessed that was what mattered. What difference would it have made, anyway? Richard could not have loved him more, and Zedd could not have been more of a friend.

It had been so long since he had seen Zedd. Although he had seen him at the People’s Palace, in D’Hara, he hadn’t really had much time to talk with him, to catch up on things. He shouldn’t have left so soon. He wished he could talk to Zedd now, to seek his help and understanding.

Richard had no idea if Kahlan would go to Zedd. Why should she? She was rid of Richard, and that was what she wanted.

He wished with all his heart it weren’t so.

He missed her smile, her green eyes, the soft sound of her voice, her intelligence and wit, her touch. She made the world alive for him. He would have given his life at that moment just to hold her for five minutes.

But she knew what he was, and had sent him away.

And he had set her free.

It was for the best. He wasn’t good enough for her.

Before he realized what he was doing, he was seeking the peace within himself, seeking his Han, as Sister Verna had taught him. He had practiced almost every day when he had been with her, and although he never felt his Han, whatever it was, it had always felt pleasant to seek it. It was relaxing, and brought peace. It felt good to do that now. He let his mind find that place of peace, and let his worries drift away.

In his mind, as he always did, he pictured the Sword of Truth, floating in space before his mind’s eye. He saw every detail of it, felt every detail of it.

In his peace, in his meditation, without opening his eyes, Richard drew his sword. He wasn’t quite sure why, except it felt the right thing to do. The unique ring of steel hung in the night air, announcing the blade’s arrival to the Hagen Woods.

He laid the sword across his knees. The magic danced with him in the place of peace. If anything came, he would be ready.

Now, he had to wait. It would be quite a while, he was sure, but she would come.

When she realized where he was, she would come.

As he sat still and quiet, the night returned to its normal activity around him. While he concentrated on the picture of the sword, Richard was vaguely aware of the chirps and clicks of bugs, the low, steady croaks of frogs, and the rustling of mice and voles among the dry debris of the forest floor. The air occasionally whirred with a bat. Once, he heard a squeak as an owl caught its dinner.

And then, while in the dreamlike haze as he sat and pictured the sword, the night became still.

In his mind, he saw the dark shape behind him.

In one fluid movement, Richard was up and spinning, the sword tip whistling through the air. The flowing shape pitched back, and lunged again when the sword was past. Richard felt a thrill that he had missed, that it would not be ended so soon, that he could dance with the spirits, that he could let the rage free.

It moved like a cape in the wind, dark as death, and just as quick.

Around the clearing they darted, the sword glinting in the waning light of the moon, the blade slicing the air, the dark shape’s bladelike claws flashing past. Richard immersed himself in the sword’s magic, in its wrath, in his own. He freed his anger and frustration to join with the sword’s own fury, reveling in the dance with death.

Across the clearing they spun, like leaves in a gale, one avoiding the blade, the other, the claws. Lunging and ducking, they used the trees for cover and attack. Richard let the spirits of the sword dance with him. He immersed himself in the magic’s mastery, he let himself do as the spirits counseled, and he watched, almost in a detached state, as they spun him this way and that, had him skim across the ground, dodge right then left, leap and thrust.

He hungered to learn the dance.

Teach me.

Knowledge, like memory, flowed forth, forged by his will into the completing link.

He became not the user of the sword, the magic, the spirits, but their master. The blade, the magic, the spirits, and the man were one.

The dark shape lunged.

Now. With a solid thwack, the blade halved the shape. A spray of blood hit the trees close by. A death howl shivered the air, and then all was still.

Richard stood panting, almost sorry it was over. Almost.

He had danced with the spirits of the dead, with the magic, and in so doing, had found the release he sought; release not only of some of his feelings of helpless frustration, but release, too, of darker needs deep within himself that he didn’t understand.

The sun had been up for nearly two hours when he heard her coming. She was blundering through the brush, huffing indignantly at branches that snagged her clothes. He could hear twigs snap as she staggered up the rise. Tugging her skirt free from a thorn, she stumbled into the clearing before him.

Richard was sitting cross-legged, with his eyes closed and the sword resting across his knees. She came to a panting halt before him.

“Richard!”

“Good morning, Pasha.” He opened his eyes. “Beautiful day, isn’t it?”

She held her long, brown skirt up a little in her hands. Her white blouse was damp with sweat. Her hair had burrs in it.

Pasha blew a strand of hair from her face. “You have to get out of here at once. Richard, this is the Hagen Woods.”

“I know. Sister Verna told me. Interesting place; I rather like it.”

She blinked at him. “Richard, this place is dangerous! What are you doing here!”

Richard smiled to her. “Waiting for you.”

She peered around at trees and dark shadows. “Something smells awful in here,” she muttered.

Pasha squatted down in front of him, smiling a little smile as a person might to a child, or to someone she thought was insane. “Richard, you’ve had your fun, your nice walk in the country; now, give me your hand and let’s get out of here.”

“I’m not leaving until Verna is restored to Sister again.”

Pasha shot to her feet. “What!”

Richard took his sword in hand and rose in front of her. “I’m not leaving here until Verna is restored to the rank of Sister, the same as she was before. The palace must choose what’s more important to them—my life; or keeping Sister Verna a novice.”

Pasha’s mouth fell open. “But the only one who can remove Verna’s sanction is Sister Maren!”

“I know.” He touched his finger to her nose. “That’s why you’re going to go and tell Sister Maren she must come here, in person, and give me her solemn pledge that Verna is once again a Sister, and agree to my terms.”

“You can’t be serious. Sister Maren will not do that.”

“I’m not leaving this spot unless she does.”

“Richard, we’ll go back and see if Sister Maren will discuss this, but you can’t stay here. It’s not worth dying for!”

He regarded her with a cool expression. “It is to me.”

Her tongue wet her lips. “Richard, you don’t know what you’re doing. This is a dangerous place. I’m responsible for you. I cannot allow you to stay here!

“If you won’t come away with me, then I will have to use the collar and make you come with me, and I know you don’t want that.”

Richard’s grip tightened on the sword’s hilt. “Sister Verna is being punished in retaliation against me. I have made a vow to myself to restore Verna to Sister. I can’t allow the sanction to stand. I’ll do whatever I must, die here if I have to.

“If you use the collar to hurt me, or drag me off, I’ll fight you, with everything I have. I don’t know who will win, but if that happens, I am sure of one thing: one of us will die. If it’s you, then the war will have started. If I die, then your test to become a Sister will end on the first day. Sister Verna will still be a novice, but that is where she stands now. At least I will have done my best.”

“You would be willing to die? For this?”

“Yes. It’s that important to me. I will not allow Sister Verna to be punished because of what I have done. It was unjust.”

Her brow wrinkled. “But . . . Sister Maren is the headmistress of the novices. I’m a novice. I can’t go to her and tell her she must reverse the order—she’ll skin me alive!”

“I am the cause of the trouble; you are simply the messenger. If she punishes you, I would not stand for it, any more than I will stand for what was done to Sister Verna. If Sister Maren wishes to start a war, then let it start. If she wishes to keep my truce, then she will have to come to me, here, and agree to my terms.”

Pasha stared at him. “Richard, if you are here when the sun goes down, you will die.”

“Then I would suggest you hurry.”

She turned, holding her arm out toward the city. “But . . . I must go all the way back. It took me hours to get here. It will take me hours to go back, and then I must find Sister Maren, and then convince her that you’re serious, and even if I could get her to agree to return with me, we must still get back here.”

“You should have ridden a horse.”

“But I ran here as soon as I realized where you were! I wasn’t thinking about a horse, or anything else! I knew there was trouble and just came after you!”

He gave her an even look. “Then you made a mistake, Pasha. You should have thought before you acted. Next time, maybe you will think first.”

Pasha put a hand to her chest as she gulped air. “Richard, there is hardly time . . .”

“Then you had better hurry, or your new charge will be sitting here, in Hagen Woods, when the sun goes down.”

Her eyes moistened with frustration and concern. “Richard, please, you don’t understand. This is no game. This place is dangerous.”

He turned a little and pointed with the sword. “Yes, I know.”

Pasha peered around him, to the shadows, and gasped. Hesitantly, she stepped to the thing by the trees. Richard didn’t follow. He knew what was there; two halves of a creature from a nightmare, its guts spilled across the ground.

Its sinuous head, like a man’s half melted into a snake, or lizard, was a picture of wickedness itself; covered in a glossy, tight, black skin, smooth down to the base of the thick neck where it began welting up into pliable scales. The lithe body was shaped much like a man’s. The whole of the creature seemed made for fluid speed, deadly quick grace.

It wore hides covered with short, black hair, and a full-length, black, hooded cape. What Richard had taken for claws were not claws, but three-bladed knives, one in each webbed hand, with crosswise handles held in the fist. Steel extensions went up each side of the wrist for support when a strike was made.

Pasha stood dumbstruck. Richard finally went to stand by her, looking down at the two halves of the thing. Whatever it was, it bled, the same as any other creature. And it smelled, like fish guts rotting in the hot sun.

Pasha stood trembling as she stared at the thing. “Dear Creator,” she whispered. “It’s a mriswith.” She took a step back. “What happened to it?”

“What happened to it? I killed it, that’s what happened to it. What sort of thing is a mriswith?”

Her big brown eyes came to his. “What do you mean, you killed it? You can’t kill a mriswith. No one has ever killed a mriswith.”

Her face was a picture of consternation.

“Well, someone has killed one now.”

“You killed it at night, didn’t you.”

“Yes.” Richard frowned. “How do you know that?”

“Mriswith are rarely seen outside Hagen Woods, but there have been reports over the last few thousand years. Reports given by people who somehow managed to live long enough to tell what they saw. The mriswith always take on the color of what is around them. In one report, one rose up in the tidal flats, and was the color of mud. One time in the sand dunes, it was the color of the sand. One report noted that in the light of a golden sunset, the mriswith was golden. When they kill at night, they’re never seen, because they are black, like the night. We think they have the ability, maybe the magic, to assume the color of their surroundings. Since this one is black, I guessed that you killed it at night.”

Richard took her arm, gently pulling her away. She seemed transfixed by the creature. He could feel her trembling under his hand.

“Pasha, what are they?”

“Things that live in the Hagen Woods. I don’t know what they are. I’ve heard it said that in the war that separated the New World from the Old, the wizards created armies of the mriswith. Some people believe the mriswith are sent by the Nameless One.

“But the Hagen Woods are their home. And the home of other things. They are why no one lives out in the country on this side of the river. Sometimes, they come out of the woods, and hunt people. They never devour their kills, they seem simply to kill for the sake of killing. Mriswith disembowel their victims. Some live long enough to tell what got them; that is how we know as much as we know.”

“How long have the Hagen Woods, the creatures, been here?”

“As far as I know, at least as long as the Palace of the Prophets, nearly three thousand years.”

She took a fistful of his shirt. “In all that time, no one, not once, has ever killed a mriswith. Every victim said that they never saw it until after it slashed them open. Some of those victims have been Sisters, and wizards, and not even their Han warned them. They said they were blind to its coming, as if they were born without the gift. How is it you were able to kill a mriswith?”

Richard remembered seeing it coming in his mind. He took her hand from his shirt. “Maybe I was just lucky. Someone was bound to get one sooner or later. Maybe this one was just a half-wit.”

“Richard, please, come away with me. This is not the way to have a test of wills with the palace. This could get you killed.”

“I’m not testing anyone’s will, I’m taking responsibility for my actions. It’s my fault Sister Verna was demoted; I’ve got to set it straight. I’m taking a stand for what’s right. If I don’t do that, then I am nothing.”

“Richard, if the sun sets on you in the Hagen Woods—”

“You are wasting precious time, Pasha.”