Stone of Tears

Chapter 69

Richard cursed under his breath when the horse dropped dead under him. He picked himself up, when he had stopped rolling through the snow, and started pulling his things off the lifeless, lathered beast. He felt an ache of sorrow for the horse; it had given him everything it had.

He had lost count of how many horses had died under him. Some simply stumbled to a stop and refused to move anymore. Some dropped to a walk and would run no more. Some gave everything until their hearts quit.

Richard had known he was being too hard on them, and had tried to pace them, but he simply could not bring himself to go slow enough. When a horse died, or quit running, he managed to find another. Some owners were reluctant to sell, thinking they would haggle with him. Richard threw a fistful of gold at them, and took the horse.

He was near dead with exhaustion himself. He had slept and eaten little. Sometimes he had walked while his mount recovered. When he had had to find a new horse, he had run.

Richard hoisted the pack onto his back and started trotting off. It had been two weeks since he had left D’Hara. He knew he had to be close to Aydindril.

The fact that it was two weeks past winter solstice somehow didn’t seem as important as his rush to reach Kahlan. It somehow seemed to him that if he could hurry fast enough, it would save her, that if he put in his best effort, it would somehow make time wait for him. He could not accept that he was too late.

He came to a panting halt at the top of a rise in the road. Ahead, in the sparkling sunlight, lay Aydindril. On the wall of mountains to the far side of the city he could see the gray walls of the Wizard’s Keep. Richard ran on through the snow.

The streets were crowded with people, people hurrying through the cold afternoon air, and people standing about, stomping their feet to keep warm as they hawked their wares. Richard rushed past them all. When he saw people were staring at him because of the Sword of Truth, he pulled the mriswith cape over it.

A hawker ahead stood by the side of the road with a short pole resting on the ground. It had a crossbar with wispy strips hanging from it. When Richard realized what the man was calling out, he came out of his mental fog with a jolt.

“Confessor’s hair!” the man bellowed. “Get a lock of the Mother Confessor’s hair! Right off her vile head! Don’t have many left! Show your children the hair of the last Confessor!”

Richard’s eyes locked on the long hair. It was Kahlan’s. He swept the lot of it off the pole and stuffed it in his shirt. When the man thought to fight for it, Richard slammed him up against the wall. He gripped the man’s shirt in his fists, and lifted him clear of the ground.

“Where did you get this!”

“The . . . the council. Bought it from them to sell. Bought it fair after they cut it from her. It belongs to me.” He shouted for help. “Thief! Thief!”

When an angry crowd pressed in to defend the man, the sword came out. People scattered. The hawker ran for his life.

Richard’s fury was building despite his putting the sword away as he headed for the Confessors’ Palace. He saw it rising up on the vast grounds ahead. He remembered Kahlan telling him how magnificent it was. He knew it almost as if he had seen it before.

He remembered, too, Kahlan telling him about a woman there, a cook. No, the head cook. What was her name? Sand something. Sanderholt, that was it. Mistress Sanderholt.

The aroma of cooking led him to the kitchen entrance. He charged through the door. A roomful of working people shrank back at the sight of him. It was obvious that no one wanted any part of whatever he was about.

“Sanderholt!” he called out. “Mistress Sanderholt! Where is she!”

People nervously pointed to a hallway. Before he had gone more than a dozen strides down the hall, a thin woman came rushing from the other direction.

“What’s the trouble! Who’s calling me?”

“I am,” Richard said.

Her frown withered to a look of consternation. “What is it I can do for you, young man,” she said in an uneasy voice.

Richard worked at keeping threat out of his tone. He didn’t think he was very successful. “Kahlan. Where can I find her.”

Her face turned nearly as white as her apron. “You would be Richard. She told me of you. You look like she said.”

“Yes! Where is she!”

Mistress Sanderholt swallowed. “I’m sorry, Richard,” she whispered. “The council sentenced her to death. The sentence was carried out at the winter solstice festival.”

Richard stood staring down at the thin woman. He was having difficulty deciding if they were talking about the same person.

“I think you misunderstood,” he managed. “I mean the Mother Confessor. Mother Confessor Kahlan Amnell. You must be talking about someone else. My Kahlan can’t be dead. I came as fast as I could. I swear I did.”

Her eyes were filling with tears. She tried to blink them away as she stared up at him. Slowly, she shook her head.

She put a bandaged hand to his side. “Come, Richard. You look as if you could use a meal. Let me get you bowl of soup.”

Richard dropped his pack, bow, and quiver to the floor.

“The Central Council sentenced her to death?”

She gave a weak nod. “She escaped, but was caught. The Central Council reiterated the sentence before the people at the behead . . . at the execution. And then the members of the council all stood smiling while the people cheered them.”

“Maybe she escaped again. She’s a resourceful woman . . .”

“I was there,” she said in a broken voice, tears running down her face. “Please don’t make me tell you what I saw. I’ve known Kahlan since she was born. I loved her.”

Maybe there was a way to go back somehow, and get here in time. There had to be a way. He felt hot and dizzy.

No. He was too late. Kahlan was dead. He had had to let her die to stop the Keeper. The prophecy had beaten him.

Richard gritted his teeth. “Where is the council.”

At last she managed to take her eyes from him. She pointed a bandaged hand down the hall and gave him directions.

She turned back. “Please, Richard, I loved her, too. Nothing can be done now. You can accomplish nothing.”

But he was already moving, the mriswith cape flying behind as he swept down the hall. He saw only enough of what was around him as he moved swiftly along to follow the directions she had given him. He moved toward the council chambers the way his arrows flew to the target when he called it.

Guards were everywhere, but he paid them no heed. He had no idea if they paid him any, nor did he care. He flew single-mindedly toward his target. He heard the movement of men-at-arms around him, in the side halls. He barely noted them on the balconies.

At the end of a column-lined hall stood the doors to the council room. As he marched down the hall, men moved in front of the doors. He only dimly noticed them. He saw only the doors.

His sword still hadn’t left its scabbard at his hip, but the magic was coursing through him at full fury. The soldiers closed rank before the doors. He didn’t slow, the black cape billowing open, his brow set in a glare, as he charged ahead.

They made their move to stop him. Richard marched on. He wanted them out of his way. The power came by instinct, without conscious effort. He felt the concussion. In his peripheral vision he saw blood hit the white marble.

Without missing a stride, he emerged from the ball of flame in a gaping hole twice the size the doorway had been. Huge chunks of stone hurtled through the air, trailing smoke. Debris rained down about him. One of the doors spiraled through the air in an arc; the other spun like a top as it skittered across the floor of the council chamber along with ragged pieces of armor and shattered weapons.

At the far end of the room, men behind a curved desk rose angrily to their feet. As he advanced relentlessly onward, Richard drew the sword. The unique sound of steel rang in the huge room.

“I am Supreme Councilor Thurstan!” the one in the center, at the tallest chair, said. “I demand to know the meaning of this intrusion!”

Richard was still coming. “Be there one of you who did not vote to sentence the Mother Confessor to death?”

“She was sentenced to death for treason! Legally, and unanimously, sentenced by this council! Guards! Remove this man!”

Men came running across the vast floor, but Richard had already closed on the dais. The councilors drew knives.

Richard leapt to the top of the desk with a scream of rage. The blade cleaved Thurstan in two, from ear to crotch. A swing to each side took off heads. Several of the men tried to stab him. They weren’t close to fast enough. The sword found every robed figure, including the ones who tried to run. It was over in seconds, before the guards had made half the distance.

Richard leapt back atop the desk. He stood in the grip of unbridled wrath, holding the sword in both hands. He waited for them to come. He wanted them to come.

“I am the Seeker! These men have murdered the Mother Confessor! They have paid the price of murder! Decide if you wish to be on the side of dead cutthroats, or on the side of right!”

The ring of men slowed their advance, looking tentatively to one another. Finally they stopped. Richard stood panting.

One man looked back at the hole in the wall where the doors had been, and then glanced over the debris scattered across the floor. “You are a wizard?”

Richard met the man’s eyes. “Yes. I guess I am.”

The man sheathed his sword. “This is wizard’s business. It’s not our place to challenge wizards. I’ll not die for something that’s not my place.”

Another sheathed his weapon. Soon, the room rang with the clatter of steel being returned to hangers and scabbards. They began leaving, the room echoing with the sound of their boots. In a matter of moments, the vast council chamber was empty but for Richard.

He sprang down from the desk and stared at the tall chair in the center. It was about the only thing not dripping with gore. That would have been the Mother Confessor’s chair, Kahlan’s chair. She would have sat in that chair.

Woodenly, Richard sheathed the sword. It was over. He had done everything there was to do.

The good spirits had deserted him. They had deserted Kahlan. He had sacrificed everything to see right done, and the good spirits had done nothing to help.

To the Keeper with the good spirits.

Richard dropped to his knees. He thought about the Sword of Truth. It had magic; he decided that he couldn’t count on it working for what he needed now.

Instead, he drew the knife at his belt.

He had done everything there was to do.

Richard put the point of the knife to his chest.

With cold precision, he looked down, to make sure it was pointed at his heart. Kahlan’s hair, the hair he had taken from the hawker, stuck from his shirt. Richard pulled the lock she had given him from his pocket.

She had given it to him to remind him she would always love him. He wanted only to end his uncontrollable agony.

“She is awake,” Prince Harold said. “She is asking for you.”

Kahlan finally pulled her gaze from the flames in the hearth. She darted a cool glance at the wizard sitting next to Adie on a wooden bench. Though Zedd had recovered his memory, Adie had not. She still thought of herself as Elda, and was still blind.

Kahlan crossed the dark dining hall. When they had arrived, the inn had been deserted, as had the rest of the town, for fear of the advance of the Keltish forces. The empty town was a good place to rest in their run from Aydindril. Two weeks on the run had left them all in need of a rest, and a little warmth.

A week out of Aydindril, their little company, Zedd, Adie, Ahern, Jebra, Chandalen, Orsk, and Kahlan, had been intercepted by a small force led by Prince Harold. Prince Harold and a handful of his men had escaped the slaughter of his forces in Aydindril, and had lain in wait. When Queen Cyrilla was taken out to be beheaded, he made a daring raid, and in the confusion of people come to see the execution, he snatched his sister from the axeman.

Four days after joining with Prince Harold, they encountered Captain Ryan and his remaining nine hundred men.

They had wiped out the Imperial Order to a man. It had cost them dearly, but they had carried out their mission.

Even her pride in them failed to rally her spirits, though she refused to betray that to those men.

After she wrung out a cloth in the basin, Kahlan sat on the edge of her half sister’s bed. Cyrilla was aware, as she was from time to time, though she always slipped back into the dazed stupor before long. When she was in that state, she saw nothing, heard nothing, and said nothing. She simply stared.

Kahlan was heartened to see her tears now, as it meant she was awake. When she was alert, only Kahlan could talk to her. The sight of men sent her either into a screaming fit or back into a stupor.

Cyrilla clutched Kahlan’s arm as Kahlan wiped the cool cloth over her brow. “Kahlan, have you thought about what I said?”

Kahlan pulled the cloth back. “I don’t want to be the queen of Galea. You are the queen, my sister.”

“Please, Kahlan, our people need a leader. I am not fit to do it now.” She clutched her hand tighter to Kahlan’s arm. Tears poured forth. “Kahlan, you must do this for me, for them.”

Kahlan wiped the tears with the cloth. “Cyrilla, things will turn out well, you will see.”

She clutched a fist over her belly. “I cannot lead, now.”

“Cyrilla, I understand. I do. Though they did not do to me what they did to you, I was in that pit. I understand. But you will recover yourself. You will, I promise.”

“And you will be the queen? For our people?”

“If I agree, it would only be temporary. Only until you have regained your strength.”

“No . . .” she moaned. She sobbed, hiding her face against the pillow. “Don’t . . . Please. Dear spirits, help me. No . . .”

And then she was gone again. Gone into the visions. She went limp, still as death, staring up at the ceiling. Kahlan kissed her cheek.

Prince Harold waited in the darkness outside the door. “How is my sister?”

“The same, I’m afraid. But have faith. She will recover.”

“Kahlan, you must do as she asks. She is the queen.”

“Why can’t you be king? That would make more sense.”

“I must fight on for our people, for all the Midlands. I cannot devote myself to the struggle if I’m burdened with concern over being king, too. I’m a soldier, and I wish to serve in the way I know. It is what I was meant to do. You are an Amnell, daughter to King Wyborn; you must be the queen of Galea.”

Kahlan started to flip her long hair back over her shoulder, but it wasn’t there. It was hard to forget the habits of a lifetime, to remember that her hair was chopped short.

“I will think on it,” she said, as she started off.

She stood once more before the fireplace, the only source of light in the dining hall, staring into the flames, watching the once living things turn to ash. Everyone avoided her, and left her to herself.

After a time, she realized Zedd was standing beside her. She was only now beginning to get used to him in those fancy robes.

He held his cup out. “Why don’t you have a sip of spiced tea.”

She didn’t look up from the flames. “No, thank you.”

He rolled the cup in his palms. “Kahlan, you can’t go on blaming yourself. It is not your fault.”

“You wear lies poorly, wizard. I saw the look in your eyes when I told you what I had done. Remember?”

“I’ve explained that to you. You know I was under the spell cast by the three sorceresses, and only great emotional shock could break it. Anger could do the task, but once anger is brought on, it must be allowed to rage uncontrolled if it is to break the spell. I have told you how sorry I am for what I did to you.”

“I saw the look in your eyes. You wanted to kill me.”

He watched from under his eyebrows. “I had to do that, Mother Confessor . . .”

“Kahlan. I told you, I am no longer the Mother Confessor.”

“Call yourself what you will, but you are who you are. Denying the name does not make it so. And as I told you, I had to do that, too. To bring on a death spell, the person to be spelled has to be convinced they are to die, or it will not work.

“Once the anger brought back my memory, I knew I had to use a death spell, so I simply used what was happening to do what had to be done. It was an act of desperation. Had I not done it in that way, people would not have believed they saw you beheaded.”

Kahlan shuddered at the memory of that magic. As long as she lived, she would never forget the chill touch of the death spell.

“You should have used magic to destroy that council of evil, instead. You should have saved me by killing those men.”

“And then everyone would have known you were still alive. Everyone there was under the madness of hate. Had I done that, then we would have had the entire army, and tens of thousands of people, chasing after us. This way, no one chases us. We can now proceed with what must be done.”

“You can proceed. I have quit the cause of the good spirits.”

“Kahlan, you know what would happen if we were to give up. It was you yourself, last autumn, who came to Westland to find me and tell me that very thing. You helped convince me that if we abandon the side of magic, of right, of helping those who are powerless, then the enemy is handed an uncontested victory.”

“The spirits saw fit to leave me without help. They stood by as I delivered Richard into the hands of the Sisters of the Light; they let me hurt him, let him be taken from me forever. The good spirits have chosen their side, and it is not with me.”

“It is not the good spirits’ job to govern the world of the living. It is our job, the job of the living, to tend our own world.”

“Tell it to someone who cares.”

“You care. You just don’t realize it at the moment. I’ve lost Richard, too, but I know that I cannot allow that to deter me from right. Do you think Richard would love you if you were really the kind of person who could abandon those who needed your help?”

She said nothing, so he pressed the attack.

“Richard loves you partly because of your passion for life. He loves you because you fight for it with everything you have, with the same ardor as his. You have already proven that.”

“He was the only thing I ever wanted out of life, the only thing I asked the good spirits for. And look what I have done to him. He thinks I betrayed him. I made him put a collar around his neck, the thing he feared more than death. I am not fit to help anyone. I only bring harm.”

“Kahlan, you have magic. I have told you, magic must not be allowed to die. The world of life needs magic. If magic is extinguished, all life will be impoverished, and could even be destroyed.

“No one knows about the forces we have. We will go to Ebinissia, no one will expect that, and pull the Midlands forces together from there to strike back against them. No one will know we have brought Ebinissia back from the ashes of death.”

“All right! If it will still your tongue, I will be the queen. But only until Cyrilla is better.”

The fire crackled and popped. Zedd spoke in quiet admonition. “You know that is not what I mean, Mother Confessor.”

Kahlan said nothing. She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from crying. She would not let him see her cry.

“The wizards of old created the Confessors. You have unique magic. It has elements to it that no other magic has, not even mine. Kahlan, you are the last Confessor. Your magic must not be allowed to die with you. Richard is lost to us. That’s the way it is. We must go on. Life, and magic, must go on.

“You must take a mate and give the world that magic into the future.”

Still, she stared into the flames.

“Kahlan,” he whispered, “you must do it to prove Richard’s love and faith in you.”

Slowly, she turned to the room behind. Orsk sat cross-legged on the floor, beside Chandalen. Only he looked at her, with his one eye, the scar across the other looking white and angry in the firelight. He watched every move she made. Everyone else in the room tried to appear furiously engaged in their own business.

“Orsk,” she called.

The huge man sprang to his feet and crossed the room. He stood hunched before her, waiting word whether he was to fetch her a cup of tea, or kill someone.

“Orsk, go up to my room and wait for me.”

“Yes, Mistress.”

After he had bounded up the stairs, she slowly crossed the room. She could hear the bed creak when he sat on it, to wait.

As she put her hand to the newel post, Zedd put his over it, stopping her. “Mother Confessor, it does not have to be him. You can surely find one more suited to your likes.”

“It makes no difference. I have already touched him with my power. Why harm another, for no more than this?”

“Kahlan, I’m not saying it has to be now. Not this soon. I am saying only that you must come to accept it, and at some point it must be.”

“Today, tomorrow, next year. What does it matter? It will be the same in ten years as it is today. Wizards have been using the Confessors for thousands of years. Why should I be any different? I may as well get it over so you will be content.”

His watery gaze stayed on hers. “Kahlan, it’s not like that. This is the hope of life.”

She felt a tear roll down her cheek. She could see the pain in his eyes, but she showed him no mercy for it.

“Call it what you will. That does not change what it is. It is rape. My enemies could not accomplish it; it took my friends to rape me.”

“I know, dear one. How well I know.”

She started up the stairs again, but his hand on her arm stopped her.

“Kahlan, please, do just one thing for me first? Go for a little walk to think things over, and ask the spirits for guidance. Pray to the good spirits, seek their direction.”

“I have nothing to say to the good spirits. It is they who wish this; they have sent you, to give me ‘guidance.’ ”

His thin hand stroked her short-cropped hair. “Then do it for Richard.”

She stood staring at him. Finally, she glanced out the back door, to the small, frozen garden at the back of the inn. It was just dusk outside.

Kahlan stepped down. “For Richard.”