Wizard's First Rule

Chapter 34

There was a sound. Small, soft, spitting.

In the fog of half sleep, half wake, it made no sense, no matter how hard he tried to understand it. Slowly at first, then with accelerating urgency, he came awake, aware of the aroma of cooking meat. Immediately, he regretted the experience of being conscious, the memories of what had happened, his longing for Kahlan. His knees were pulled up to his chest with his head resting against them. The bark of the tree at his back dug painfully into his flesh, and his muscles were cramped to near paralysis from sleeping in the same position all night. With his head against his knees he couldn’t see anything, except that it was only just beginning to lighten with dawn.

There was someone, or something, near him.

Continuing to feign sleep, he took assessment of where his hands were in relation to his weapons. The sword was a goodly reach, and then a long pull to draw it. The knife wasn’t. His fingertips were touching the hickory handle. Flexing his finger—slowly, carefully, he worked the handle into his palm, tightening his grip around it. Whatever it was, was near to his left side. A spring and a thrust with the knife, he thought.

He took a careful peek. With a shock, he saw that it was Kahlan. She was sitting, leaning against the log, watching him. A rabbit was cooking on the fire. He sat up straight.

“What are you doing here?” he asked cautiously.

“Is it all right if we talk?”

Richard slid the knife back into its sheath, stretched his legs, rubbing the cramps from them. “I thought we did all our talking last night.” He immediately winced at his own words. She gave him an unreadable look. “I’m sorry,” he said, softening his tone. “Of course we can talk. What do you want to talk about?”

She shrugged in the dim light. “I’ve been doing a lot of thinking.” She had a length of birch branch that he had cut the night before for the fire, and was stripping off pieces of white bark. “Last night, after I left, well, I knew you had a headache . . .”

“How did you know that?”

She shrugged again. “I can always tell, by the look in your eyes, when you have a headache.” Her voice was soft, gentle. “I knew you hadn’t been getting much sleep lately, and that it was my fault, so I decided that before I . . . before I left, I would stand watch for you while you slept. So I went over there,” she pointed with the branch, “in those trees, where I could keep my eye on you.” She looked down at the branch as she peeled off strips of bark. “I wanted to make sure you got some sleep.”

“You were there the whole night?” Richard was afraid to hope at what this meant.

She nodded, but didn’t look up. “While I was watching, I decided to make a snare, like you taught me, to see if I could catch you some breakfast. While I was sitting there, I did a lot of thinking. Mostly, I cried for a long time. I couldn’t stand it that you thought those things about me. It hurt that you thought of me like that. It made me angry too.”

Richard decided it was best not to say anything while she struggled to find the words. He didn’t know what to say, and was afraid if he said anything it might make her leave again. Kahlan pulled off a curl of birch bark and tossed it in the fire—where it sizzled and flared to flame.

“Then I thought about what you said, and I decided there were some things I needed to tell you, about how to conduct yourself when you are with the Queen. And then I remembered some things I needed to tell you about which roads to avoid, and about where you might go. I just keep thinking about things I needed to tell you, things you need to know. Before I knew it, I realized you were right. About everything.”

Richard thought she looked like she was near tears, but she didn’t cry. Instead, she picked at the branch with her fingernail, and avoided his eyes. Still he kept quiet. Then she asked him a question he wasn’t expecting.

“Do you think Shota is pretty?”

He smiled. “Yes. But not as pretty as you.”

Kahlan smiled and pushed some hair back over her shoulder. “Not many would dare to say that to a . . .” She caught herself again. Her secret stood between them like a third person. She started again. “There is an old women’s proverb, maybe you have heard it before. ‘Never let a beautiful woman pick your path for you when there is a man in her line of sight.’ ”

Richard laughed a little and stood to stretch his legs. “No, I’ve not heard that before.” He half leaned, half sat against the log, as he folded his arms. He didn’t think Kahlan needed to worry about Shota stealing his heart—Shota had said she would kill him if she ever saw him again. Even without Shota’s vow, Kahlan had no cause for worry.

She tossed the branch aside and stood next to him, leaning her hip against the log. She looked into his eyes at last, her eyebrows wrinkled together. “Richard”—her voice was low, almost a whisper—“last night I figured out I was being very stupid. I had been afraid the witch woman would kill me, and all of a sudden, I realized, she was about to succeed. Only I was doing it for her—letting her pick my path for me.

“You were right about it all. I should have known better than to disregard the things a Seeker says.” She looked back down at the ground before her green eyes came back up to his. “If . . . if it is not too late, I would like my job back, as your guide.”

Richard couldn’t believe it was over. He had never been this happy, this relieved, in his life. Instead of answering, he reached out and pulled her into his arms, hugged her tight to him. Her arms slipped around him as she laid her head against his chest for a moment. Then she pushed away.

“Richard, there is one other matter. Before you can say you will take me back, you must hear the rest of it. I can’t go on anymore without telling you about me. About what I am. It’s cleaving my heart, because I’m supposed to be your friend. I should have told you from the beginning. I have never had a friend like you before. I didn’t want it to end.” Her gaze left his. “But now it must,” she added faintly.

“Kahlan, I’ve told you before—you’re my friend, and nothing can change that.”

“This secret can.” Her shoulders were slumped. “This is about magic.”

Richard wasn’t sure anymore that he wanted to hear her secret. He had just gotten her back—he didn’t want to lose her again. He squatted down in front of the fire, picking up the roasting stick with the rabbit. Sparks swirled up into the waning darkness. He felt proud of her, for catching the rabbit on her own, the way he had taught her.

“Kahlan, I don’t care what your secret is. I care about you, that’s all that matters. You don’t have to tell me. Come on, the rabbit is done, come and have some.”

Cutting off a piece with his knife, he handed it to her as she sat on the ground next to him, pulling her hair back off her face. The meat was hot, so she held it lightly with her fingertips, and blew to cool it. Richard cut a piece for himself and sat back.

“Richard, when you first saw Shota, did she really look like your mother?”

He looked over to Kahlan’s face, lit by the fire, and nodded before he took a bite.

“Your mother was very pretty. You have her eyes, and her mouth.”

Richard smiled a little at the memory. “But it wasn’t really her.”

“So you felt angry that Shota was pretending to be someone she could not be? That she was deceiving you?” She took a bite of the rabbit, breathing in through her mouth because the meat was still hot. She watched him carefully.

Richard shrugged, feeling the sting of sorrow. “I guess. It wasn’t fair.”

Kahlan chewed a minute, and then swallowed. “That is why I must tell you who I am, even if you hate me for it, because you have been my friend. Although I have not been the kind of friend you deserve. That is the other reason I came back, because I didn’t want someone else to tell you. I wanted you to hear it from me. After I tell you, if you want me to I will leave.”

Richard looked up at the sky, at the color coming slowly to it. He suddenly wished Kahlan weren’t telling him what she was—he wished things could stay the way they were. “Don’t worry, I’m not sending you away. We have a job to do. Remember what Shota said? The Queen won’t have the box long—that can only mean someone will take it from her. Better us than Darken Rahl.”

Kahlan put her hand on his arm. “I don’t want you to decide until you hear what I have to say, until you hear what I am. Then, if you want me to leave I will understand.” She looked intently into his eyes. “Richard, I just want you to know that I have never cared for anyone the way I care for you, nor will I ever again. But it is not possible for it to go beyond that. Nothing can ever come of it. Nothing good anyway.”

He refused to believe that. There was a way, there had to be. Richard took a heavy breath, letting it out slowly. “All right then, out with it.”

She nodded. “Remember when I told you that some who lived in the Midlands were creatures of magic? And that they couldn’t give up that magic, because it was part of them?” He nodded to her. “Well, I am one of those creatures. I am more than a woman.”

“So, what are you?”

“I am a Confessor.”

Confessor.

Richard knew that word.

Every muscle in his body went stiff. His breath caught in his throat. The Book of Counted Shadows suddenly flooded through his mind. Verification of the truth of the words of the Book of Counted Shadows, if spoken by another, rather than read by the one who commands the boxes, can only be insured by the use of a Confessor . . .

His mind raced, as if flipping the pages in his mind’s eye, scanning the words, trying to remember the whole book, trying to remember if Confessor was mentioned again. No, it wasn’t. He knew every word in the book, and Confessor was in it only once, at the beginning. He could remember puzzling over what a Confessor could be. He hadn’t even been sure, before, that it was a person. He felt the weight of the tooth hanging around his neck.

Kahlan frowned at the look on his face. “Do you know what a Confessor is?”

“No,” he managed. “I heard the word before, that’s all . . . from my father. But I don’t know what it means.” He struggled to regain control of himself. “So, what does it mean, to be a Confessor?”

Kahlan pulled her knees up, hugging her arms around them, withdrawing just a little. “It’s a power, magic power—that is passed from mother to daughter, going back almost as far as there have been the lands, back beyond the dark time.”

Richard didn’t know what the “dark time” was, but didn’t interrupt. “It is something we are born with, magic that is part of us, and cannot be separated from us any more than you could be separated from your heart. Any woman who is a Confessor will bear children who are Confessors. Always. But the power is not the same in all of us—in some it is weaker, in some stronger.”

“So you can’t get rid of it, even if you wanted to. But what sort of magic is it?”

She looked away, to the fire. “It’s a power invoked by touch. It’s always there, inside us. We don’t bring it out to use it—instead, we must always hold it in, and use it by releasing our grip of it, relaxing our hold and letting it come forth.”

“Sort of like holding your stomach in?”

She smiled at his analogy. “Sort of.”

“And what does this power do?”

She twisted the corner of her cloak. “It does not reveal itself well in words. I never thought it would be this troublesome to explain, but to someone who is not from the Midlands, well, it’s difficult to put into words. I have never had to do this before, and I’m not even sure it can be done, accurately. It’s a little like trying to explain fog to a blind person.”

“Try.”

She nodded and stole a look into his eyes.

“It is the power of love.”

Richard almost laughed. “And I’m supposed to be afraid of the power of love?”

Kahlan’s back stiffened—indignation flared in her eyes: indignation and the kind of timeless look Adie and Shota had flashed him, one that said that his words were disrespectful, that even his small smile was insolent. It was a countenance he was not used to seeing her direct at him. He felt a cold realization that Kahlan was not used to having anyone smile about her power, and who she was. Her look said more to him about her power than any words could have. Whatever her magic was, it was definitely not something to be smiled about. His small grin withered. When she seemed sure he was not about to say anything else flippant, she went on.

“You don’t understand. Do not take it lightly.” Her eyes narrowed. “Once touched by it, you are no longer the person you were. You are changed forever. Forevermore you are devoted to the one who touches you, to the exclusion of all else. What you wanted, what you were, who you were, no longer means anything to you. You would do anything for the one who touches you. Your life is no longer yours, it is hers. Your soul is no longer yours, it is hers. The person you were no longer exists.”

Richard felt bumps on the skin of his arms. “How long does this, this, magic, whatever it is, how long does it last?”

“As long as the one I touch is alive,” she said evenly.

Richard felt the chill run the rest of the way through him. “So, it’s sort of like you bewitch people?”

She let out a breath. “Not exactly, but if it helps you to understand, I guess you could put it that way. But the touch of a Confessor is much more. Much more powerful, and final. A bewitching could be removed. My touch cannot. Shota was bewitching you, even though you did not realize it. It’s an incremental thing. Witches cannot help it, it’s their way. But your anger, and the anger from the sword, protected you.

“The touch of my power is all at once, and final. Nothing could protect you. The person I touch cannot be brought back, because once I touch them, that person is no longer there. That person is gone forever. Their free will is gone forever. One reason I was afraid to go to Shota was because witches hate Confessors. They are fiercely jealous of our power—jealous that once touched, the person is totally devoted. The one touched by a Confessor would do anything she says.” She gave him a hard look. “Anything.”

Richard felt his mouth go dry as his thoughts scattered in every direction at once, trying desperately to hold on to his hopes, his dreams. The only way he could hold it together, and gain time to think, was to ask questions. “Does it work on everyone?”

“Everyone human. Except Darken Rahl. The wizards warned me that the magic of Orden protects him from our touch. He has nothing to fear from me. On those who are not human, it mostly doesn’t work because they don’t have the capacity for compassion, which the magic requires in order to work. A gar, for example, would not be changed by my touch. It works on some other creatures, but not exactly the same as it does a human.”

He watched her from under his eyebrows. “Shar? You touched her, didn’t you?”

Kahlan nodded and leaned back a little, the slump settling back into her shoulders. “Yes. She was dying, and lonely. She was suffering the pain of being away from her kind, the pain of dying alone. She asked me to touch her. My touch took her fear, and replaced it with a love for me that left no room for her own pain, for her own loneliness. Nothing was left of her except her love for me.”

“What about when I first met you, when the quad was chasing us? You touched one of those men too, didn’t you?”

Kahlan nodded, leaning back the rest of the way against the log, pulling her cloak around her, looking into the fire. “Even though they are sworn to kill me, once I touch one of them, they are mine,” she said with finality. “They will fight to the death to protect me. That is the reason Rahl sends four men to kill a Confessor—it’s expected she will touch one, then there are three left to kill him, and her. It takes the three left because the one will fight so fiercely he usually kills one, often two, but that still leaves at least one to kill the Confessor. On a rare occasion, he will kill the remaining three. That happened to me with the quad that chased me before the wizards sent me across the boundary. A quad is the most economical unit to send, they almost always succeed, and if they don’t, Rahl will simply send another.

“We weren’t killed on the cliff because you separated them. The one I touched killed the other with him while you held off the other two—then he went after the remaining two, but you had pushed one off the edge, so he used his own life to take the leader over the cliff. He did that because then there wouldn’t be any chance of losing in a sword fight. It meant his life too, but that didn’t matter to him after I touched him. It was the only way for him to be sure he protected me.”

“Can’t you simply touch all four?”

“No. The power is expended with each use. It takes time for it to recover.”

He felt the hilt of his sword against his elbow and a sudden thought came to him. “When we came through the boundary, and that last man of the quad was after you, and I killed him . . . I wasn’t really saving you, was I?”

She was silent for a moment before answering. “One man, no matter how big, or strong, is no threat to a Confessor, even a weak Confessor, much less me. If you hadn’t come when you did . . . I would have dealt with him. I’m sorry, Richard,” she whispered, “but there was no need for you to have killed him. I could have handled it.”

“Well,” he said dryly, “at least I saved you from having to do it.”

She didn’t answer, only looked sadly at him. It seemed she had nothing to say that, could bring him any comfort. “How much time?” he asked. “How much time does it take to recover after a Confessor has used her power?”

“In every Confessor the power is different. In some it is weaker, and it may take several days and nights to recover. In most, it takes about one day and one night.”

Richard looked over at her. “And in you?”

She looked up at his eyes, almost as if she wished he hadn’t asked the question. “About two hours.”

He turned back to the fire, not liking the sound of her answer. “Is that unusual?”

She let out a breath. “So I have been told.” Her voice sounded weary. “Shorter time to recover the power also means the power is stronger, works more powerfully in the one touched. That is why some of the quad members I touch are able to kill the other three. It would not be so for a Confessor with a weaker power.

“Confessors have position according to their power, because the ones with the strongest power will bear daughters who have the best chance of having that stronger power. There is no jealousy among the Confessors for those with the strongest power, only deeper affection and devotion in times of trouble—like since Rahl came through the boundary. The lower ranks will protect the higher, with their lives if need be.”

He knew she wasn’t going to say it unless he asked, so he did. “And what is your rank?”

Her eyes stared unblinking at the fire. “All Confessors follow me. Many laid down their lives to protect mine . . .” Her voice caught for a moment. “. . . that I might survive, and somehow use my power to stop Rahl. Of course, there are none to follow me now. I am the only one left. Darken Rahl has killed every last one.”

“I’m sorry, Kahlan,” he said softly. He was only, just beginning to comprehend the importance of the woman she was. “So, do you have a title? What do people call you?”

“I am the Mother Confessor.”

Richard tensed. The sound of “Mother Confessor” had the chill of terrible authority to it. Richard felt a little overwhelmed. He had always known Kahlan was important, but he had dealt with important people when he was a guide, and had learned not to be awed by them. But he never knew she was someone of such prominence. Mother Confessor. Even if he was just a guide, and she was this important, he didn’t care, he could live with that. Surely, she could, too. He wasn’t going to lose her, or send her away because of who she was.

“I don’t know what that means. Is it something like a princess, or a queen?”

Kahlan lifted an eyebrow to him. “Queens bow down to the Mother Confessor.”

Now he felt intimidated.

“You are more than a queen?” he winced.

“The dress I wore when you first saw me? That is a Confessor’s dress. We all wear them so there can be no mistaking who we are, although most people of the Midlands would recognize us no matter how we were to dress. All Confessors, no matter their age, wear a Confessor’s dress that is black—except the Mother Confessor—her dress is white.” Kahlan seemed a little annoyed by having to explain her eminence. “It feels very odd to me to explain all this, Richard. Everyone in the Midlands knows it all, so I have never had to think about how to put it all into words. It sounds so . . . I don’t know, so arrogant when I put words to it.”

“Well, I’m not from the Midlands. Just try, I need to understand.”

She nodded and looked back up at him. “Kings and queens are masters of their land—they each have their own domain. There are a number of them in the Midlands. Other lands are ruled in different manners, such as by councils. Some are places of magic creatures. The night wisps, for example—no humans live in their lands.

“The place where the Confessors live, my home, is called Aydindril. It is also the home of the wizards, and the Central Council of the Midlands. Aydindril is a beautiful place. It’s been a long time since I have been home,” she said wistfully. “The Confessors and the wizards are closely linked, bonded—much the way the Old One, Zedd, is linked with the Seeker.

“No one holds claim to Aydindril. No ruler would dare to lay claim to it—they all fear it, fear the Confessors and the wizards. All the lands of the Midlands contribute to the support of Aydindril. They all pay tribute. Confessors are above the law of any one land, much the same way the Seeker is ultimately above any law but his own. Yet at the same time, we serve all the people of the Midlands through the Central Council.

“In the past, arrogant rulers had thought to make the Confessors submit to their word. In those times, there were farsighted Confessors, now revered as legends, who knew they must lay the foundation for our independence, or forever submit to domination—so the Mother Confessor took the rulers with her power. The rulers were removed from their thrones, and replaced with new rulers who understood that Confessors were to be left alone. The old rulers, those who were taken, were kept in Aydindril as little more than slaves. The Confessors took these old rulers with them when they traveled to the different lands, made them carry the provisions and luxuries of travel. Back then, there was more ceremony surrounding the Confessors than there is now. Anyway, it made the intended impression.”

“I don’t understand,” Richard said. “Kings and queens must be powerful leaders. Didn’t they have protection? Didn’t they have guards, and others, to keep them safe? How could a Confessor get near to a king or queen to touch them?”

“Yes, they have protection, a lot, in fact, but it’s not as difficult as it sounds. A Confessor touches one person, maybe a guard, then she has an ally, he takes her to another, he is taken, soon she is inside. Each person she touches can get her close to one of higher rank, and gains her more allies. Working her way up through the trusted positions and advisors, she can be at the king or queen sooner than you would think, and often before so much as an eyebrow is raised, much less an alarm. Any Confessor could do it. The Mother Confessor even easier.

“The Mother Confessor with a band of her sisters would sweep through a castle like the plague. Not that such an effort is without danger, many Confessors died, but the goal was seen as worth it. This is the reason no land is closed to a Confessor, though it may be to every other.

“Closing a land to a Confessor is tantamount to an admission of guilt, and is sufficient cause for the leader to be taken from power. This is why the Mud People, for example, allow me in, even though they do not often let other outsiders in. Not allowing a Confessor access would raise questions and suspicions. A leader involved in any sort of plot would gladly grant a Confessor free access, to try to hide their involvement in any subversion.

“In those times, there were some among the Confessors who were more than willing to use their power as they wanted, to root out wrongdoing, as they saw it. The wizards exerted their influence to bring this under control, but the Confessors’ zeal showed the people what a Confessor was capable of. But these were different times.”

Taking a ruler from power. Different times or not, Richard found all this hard to take, to justify. “What gave these Confessors the right?”

She shook her head slowly. “What we are doing now, you and I, is it much different from what has been done in the past? Taking a ruler from power? We all do what we think we must, what we think is right.”

He shifted his weight uncomfortably. “I see your point,” he admitted. “Have you done this before? Removing a ruler?”

She shook her head. “Still, the leaders of the lands are all keen to avoid my attention. It is much the same way with the Seeker. At least, it used to be, before you and I were born. Then, Seekers were more feared and respected than Confessors.” She gave him a meaningful look. “They, too, have dethroned kings. Now, though, because the Old One was ignored, and the sword had become a political favor, they are seen as less—little more than pawns, thieves.”

“I’m not sure that has changed,” Richard said, more to himself than to her. “Much of the time, I feel as if I am nothing more than a pawn, being moved by others. Even by Zedd, and . . .”

He shut his mouth and didn’t finish—she did it for him.

“And by me.”

“I don’t mean it that way. It’s just that, sometimes, I wish I had never heard of the Sword of Truth. But at the same time, I can’t allow Rahl to win, so I’m stuck with my duty. I guess I have no choice, and that’s what I hate.”

Kahlan smiled sadly as she folded her legs under her. “Richard, as you come to understand what I am, I hope you can remember it’s the same with me. I, too, have no choice. But with me, it’s worse—because I was born with my power. At least when this is all done, you can give the sword back if you want. I am a Confessor for as long as I live.” She paused, then added, “Since I have come to know you, I would pay any price to be able to give it up, and just be a normal woman.”

Richard didn’t know what to do with his hands, so he picked up a stick and started drawing lines in the dirt. “I still don’t understand, why are you called ‘Confessors’? What does ‘Confessor’ mean?” He was able to look up at her only with great difficulty.

Kahlan took on an expression of pain that made him feel sorry for her. “It is what we do. We are the final arbiters of truth. It is the reason the wizards gave us the power, back in times long forgotten. It is how we serve the people.”

“Final arbiter of truth,” he repeated with a frown. “Something like a Seeker.”

She nodded. “Seekers and Confessors are linked in purpose. In a way, we are the opposite ends of the same magic. The wizards of long ago were almost like rulers, and they became frustrated by the corruption about them. They hated the lies and deception. They wanted a way to prevent corrupt leaders from using their power to deceive and subvert the people. You see, these unscrupulous leaders would simply accuse their political enemies of a crime, and have them executed for it, at once dishonoring them and eliminating them.

“The wizards wanted a way to put a stop to this. They needed a way that left no room for doubt. So they created a magic, and gave it a life of its own. They created the Confessors from a select group of women. They picked the women carefully, because once brought to life in these women, the power had a life of its own, and would pass to their offspring—forever.” She looked down at the stick, idly watching him draw lines. “We use our power to find the truth, when the truth is important enough. Mostly, now, it is used to make sure a person sentenced to death is really guilty. When a person is condemned to death, we touch them, and then, once they are ours, we have them confess.”

Richard found himself leaning over, the stick frozen in place. He forced himself to move it as she went on.

“Once touched, even the most vile of murderers will do as we command, and will confess his crimes. Occasionally, the courts are not sure they have the right man, and so a Confessor is called in to find the truth. In most lands, the law states that none can be put to death without first giving a confession, so all can be sure they are putting the right man to death, and not letting the guilty escape, and that it’s not an act of political revenge.

“Some peoples of the Midlands won’t use a Confessor—the Mud People, for example. They don’t want what they see as outside interference. But they still fear us, because they know what we can do. We respect the wishes of these people—there is no law forcing them to use our services. But still, we would force it on them if we suspected there was deception involved. Most lands, though, do use us. They find it expedient.

“The Confessors were the ones who first uncovered the plotting and subversion taking place on behalf of Darken Rahl. Discovering important truths, such as this, is the very reason wizards created Confessors, and Seekers, in the first place. Darken Rahl was not happy we discovered his scheming.

“In rare cases, someone who is to be put to death without the use of a Confessor will call for a Confessor to be brought in, so that he may give a true confession, and thus prove his innocence. In all of the Midlands, this is the right of the condemned.”

Her voice became softer, weaker. “I hate that the most. No one who is guilty would call for a Confessor—it would only prove them to be guilty. Even before I touch these men, I know they are innocent, but I must do it anyway. If you ever saw the look in their eyes when I touch them . . . you would understand. So when we are called, and even though these men are innocent, they are left . . .”

Richard swallowed. “How many confessions have you . . . taken?”

She shook her head slowly. “Too many to count. I have spent half my life in prisons and dungeons, with the most vicious and loathsome animals you could imagine, yet most look to be nothing more than a kindly shopkeeper, or brother, or father, or neighbor. After I touch them, I have heard them all tell me the things they have done. For a long time, in the beginning, it gave me such nightmares I feared sleeping. The stories of the things they had done . . . you can’t even imagine . . .”

Richard tossed the stick aside and took her hand in his, squeezing it tightly. She was starting to cry. “Kahlan, you don’t have to . . .”

“I remember the first man I killed.” Her lip quivered. “I still have dreams about him. He confessed to me the things he had done to his neighbor’s three daughters . . . the oldest was only five . . . he looked up at me with wide eyes after he told me the most ghastly things you could imagine . . . and he said, ‘What is your wish, my mistress’ . . . and without thinking, I said, ‘My wish is for you to die.’ ” She wiped some of the tears off her cheek with trembling fingers. “He dropped dead on the spot.”

“What did the people there say?”

“What would they dare to say to a Confessor who has just made a man drop dead in front of their eyes simply by her command? They all just backed up and got out of our way when we left. It is not something every Confessor can do. It even scared my wizard speechless.”

Richard frowned. “Your wizard?”

She nodded as she finished wiping the tears away. “Wizards see it as their duty to protect us, as we are universally feared and hated. Confessors almost always travel with the protection of a wizard. One is . . . well, one was, assigned to each of us when we were called to take a confession. Rahl managed to separate us from our wizards, and now they are dead too. Except Zedd, and Giller.”

Richard picked up the rabbit. It was getting cold. He cut off another piece and handed it to her, then tore off a piece for himself. “Why would the Confessors be feared and hated?”

“The relatives and friends of the man to be executed hate us because they often don’t believe their loved one would do the things they confess to. They would rather believe we somehow trick them in to confessing.” She picked at the meat, pulling off little pieces and chewing them slowly. “I have found that people do not often want to believe the truth. It is of little value to them. Some have tried to kill me. This is one of the reasons a wizard was always with us, to protect us until our power is recovered.”

Richard swallowed his mouthful. “That doesn’t sound like enough reason to me.”

“It is more than simply what we do. This must all sound very strange to someone who has not lived with it. The ways of the Midlands, of magic, must seem very odd to you.”

Odd was not the right word, he thought. Frightening was more like it.

“Confessors are independent—people resent that. Men resent that none of them can rule us, or even tell us what to do. Women resent that we do not live the kind of life they do, that we do not live in the traditional role of women—we do not take care of a man, or submit to one. We are seen as privileged. Our hair is long, a symbol of our authority—they are made to keep their hair short, as a sign of submission to their man and every other person of higher status than they. It may seem a small matter to you, but to our people, no matter having to do with power is small. A woman who allows her hair to grow beyond the length appropriate to her status is forced to forfeit some of that status in punishment. In the Midlands, long hair on a woman is a sign of authority, bordering on defiance. It is a sign that we have the power to do as we wish, and that none may command us—that we are a threat to all. Much as your sword tells people the same thing. No Confessor would wear her hair short, and that rankles people, that none could dare make us do so. It is ironic that we are less free than they, yet they don’t see that part of it. We do their distasteful tasks for them, and yet we are not free to choose what we will do with our own lives. We are prisoners of our power.”

Kahlan ate the rest of the meat he had given her while he thought about how ironic it also was that the Confessors brought love to the most hateful of criminals, yet they could not bring it to ones with whom they would choose closeness. He knew there was something else she was trying to explain.

“I think your long hair is pretty,” he said. “I like it the way it is.”

Kahlan smiled. “Thank you.” She tossed the bones into the fire, watching it for a time, then looked down at her hands as she clicked her thumbnails together. “And then there is the matter of choosing a mate.”

Richard finished his piece of meat and threw the bone in the fire. He leaned back against the log, not liking the sound of this. “Choosing a mate? What do you mean?”

She studied her hands as if trying to find refuge in them. “When a Confessor reaches the age to be a proper mother, she must choose a mate. A Confessor may choose any man she wishes, even one already married. She may roam the Midlands, searching for a proper father to her daughters, one who is strong, and maybe one who is handsome to her eyes. Whatever she wants.

“Men are terrified of a Confessor who is looking for a mate, because they don’t want to be chosen, to be touched by her. Women are terrified because they don’t want their man, or their brother, or their son to be taken. They all know they have no say in the matter—any who stood in the way of a Confessor’s choosing would be taken by her. People are afraid of me, first because I am the Mother Confessor, and second because I am long past the time I should have chosen a mate.”

Richard still clung tenaciously to his hopes and dreams. “But what if you care about someone, and they care for you?”

Kahlan shook her head sadly. “Confessors have no friends but other Confessors. It is not a problem—no one would ever have feelings for a Confessor. Every man is afraid of us.” She left unsaid that it was a problem now. Her voice was choking up again. “We are taught from a young age that the mate we choose must be a man of strength, so that the children we bear will be strong. But it must not be someone we care for, because we would destroy him. That is why nothing can come of . . . of us.”

“But . . . why?” He felt himself fighting against her words, her power.

“Because . . .” She looked away, her face unable to mask her pain, her green eyes filling with tears. “Because in the throes of passion, a Confessor’s hold on the power would relax, and she would release it into him, even though she didn’t mean to, and then he would no longer be the person she cared for. There is no way for her to prevent herself from doing it. None. He would be hers, but not in the same way. The very one she cared for would be with her, but only because of the magic, no longer by his choice, and not because he wanted to. He would only be a shell, holding what she had put into him. No Confessor would want that for a man for whom she cared.

“That is why Confessors, since time long forgotten, have shut themselves away from men, for fear they would grow to care for one. Though we are seen as heartless, it is not true—we all fear what our touch would do to a man we held dear. Some Confessors choose men who are disliked, or even hated, so as not to destroy a kind heart. Though it is only the choice of a few, it is the way they deal with it, and is their right. No other Confessor would criticize one who has chosen in this manner—we all understand it.” Her tearful eyes looked at him, pleading for him to understand.

“But . . . I could . . .” He could think of no defense for his heart.

“I could not. For me, it would be the same as you wanting to be with your mother, and instead having Shota, appearing to be your mother. But she wasn’t. It would just be an illusion of love. Do you understand?” she cried. “Would that bring you any true joy?”

Richard felt the hopes of his world collapsing in the flames of his understanding. His heart sank into the ashes.

“The spirit house,” he asked in a dry voice, “is that what Shota was talking about? Is that when you came within a breath of using your power on me?” His tone was a little colder than he wished it to be.

“Yes.” Her voice broke with emotion as she tried to keep from crying. “I’m sorry, Richard.” She knitted her fingers together. “I have never before cared for anyone the way I care for you. I wanted to be with you so badly. I almost forgot who I was. I almost didn’t care.” Tears started running down her cheeks. “Do you see now how dangerous my power is? Do you see how easily I could destroy you? If you hadn’t stopped me when you did . . . you would have been lost.”

He felt an agony of compassion for her, for what she was, and for the fact that she couldn’t do anything about it, and he felt the ache of his own pain at the feeling of loss, even though he realized now that there was nothing to lose, she could never have been his, or more precisely, he hers—it all had just been a fantasy in his mind.

Zedd had tried to warn him, tried to save him this pain. Why couldn’t he have listened? Why did he have to be so stupid and think he would be smart enough to figure something out? He knew why. He stood slowly and took a step to the fire so she wouldn’t see his tears. He kept swallowing so he could try to talk.

“Why do you always say ‘she,’ ‘her,’ ‘daughter’? Why always women? What of the men, don’t Confessors bear male children?” He realized his voice sounded as if it were scraping over gravel.

He listened to the fire crackling for a long time as she didn’t answer. He turned back to her when he heard her crying. She looked up and held her hand out for him to help her up. Once up, she leaned against the log, pulled her long hair back from her face, and then folded her arms below her breasts.

“Yes, Confessors bear male children. Not as often as in the past, but they still do.” She cleared her throat. “But the power is stronger in them—they need no time to recover. Sometimes, the power becomes everything to them, corrupts them. This is the mistake the wizards made.

“They chose women for this very reason, but didn’t give sufficient thought to how the power would take on a life of its own. They didn’t foresee how the power would be passed on to the offspring, and be so different in men.

“Long ago, a few male Confessors joined forces, and brought about a terrible reign of cruelty. It was called the dark time. They were the cause of it. It was a time something like now, with Darken Rahl. At last, the wizards hunted them all down and killed them. Many of the wizards died too. From that time, the wizards withdrew from trying to rule the lands. Too many of them had been killed anyway. Instead, now they only try to serve the people, to help where they can. But they no longer interfere with rulers if they can help it. They have learned bitter lessons.”

Kahlan looked down, away from his eyes as she went on. “For some reason, it takes the unique compassion of a woman to handle the power, to be free from its corrupting influence. The wizards don’t know the reason for this. It is similar with the Seeker: he must be the right one, one found by a wizard, or he will use the power for corrupt reasons. That is why Zedd was so angry at the council of the Midlands for taking the naming away from him. Male Confessors, not all, but most, cannot retain their sense of balance with the power. They don’t have the strength to hold it back when they should.” She peered up at him.

“When they wanted a woman, they simply used the power and took her. Many women. They had no restraint, no sense of responsibility for what they were doing. From what I have been told, the dark time was one long night of terror. Their reign lasted for years. The wizards had to do a lot of killing. They eventually killed all the offspring of this lust, to prevent the power from spreading, uncontrolled. To say the wizards were displeased would not touch it.”

“So what happens now?” he asked warily. “What happens when a Confessor bears a male child?”

She cleared her throat again, swallowing back her sobs.

“When a boy is born to a Confessor, he is brought to a special place in the center of Aydindril, where his mother places him on the Stone.” She shifted her weight—she was clearly having difficulty telling him about this. He took her soft hand in both of his and rubbed the back of it with his thumbs, even though he felt for the first time that he had no business touching her in a familiar manner. “As I told you, a man touched by a Confessor will do whatever she tells him.” He could feel her hand trembling. “The mother commands her husband in what she is to do . . . and he . . . he places a rod over the baby’s throat . . . and . . . and he steps on both ends.”

Richard released her hand. Running the fingers of both hands through his hair, he turned to the fire. “Every boy child?”

“Yes,” she admitted in a voice he could hardly hear. “No chance can be taken that any male Confessor lives, because he might be one who could not handle the power, and would use it to gain dominance for himself, bring back the dark times. The wizards and the other Confessors watch carefully any Confessor who is with child, and do everything they can to comfort her if it is a boy, and therefore must be . . .” Her voice trailed off.

Richard suddenly realized that he hated the Midlands—hated it with a vengeance second only to what he felt toward Darken Rahl. For the first time, he understood why those in Westland had wanted a place to live without magic. He wished he could be back there, away from any magic. Tears came to his eyes when he thought of how much he missed the Hartland Woods. He vowed to himself that if he stopped Rahl, he would see to it that the boundary was put back up. Zedd would help with that, there was no doubt. Richard understood now why Zedd, too, had wanted to be away from the Midlands. And when the boundary went back up, Richard would be on the other side. For as long as he lived.

But first, there would be the matter of the sword—he would not give back the Sword of Truth. He would destroy it.

“Thank you, Kahlan,” he forced himself to say, “for telling me. I wouldn’t have wanted to hear this from another.” He felt his world withering to nothing. He had always seen stopping Rahl as the beginning of his life, a point from where he went forward and anything was possible. Now stopping Rahl was an end.

Not only of Rahl, but of him, too—there was nothing beyond that, everything beyond was dead. When he stopped Rahl, and Kahlan was safe, he would go back to the Hartland Woods, alone, and his life would be over.

He could hear her crying behind him. “Richard, if you want me to leave, please do not be afraid to tell me so. I will understand it. It is something a Confessor is used to.”

He looked down at the dying fire for a moment and then closed his eyes tight, forcing back the lump in his throat, the tears. Pain seared through his chest as it sank with his labored breathing.

“Please, Kahlan, is there any way,” he asked, “any way at all . . . that we could . . . for us . . .”

“No,” she moaned.

He rubbed his shaking hands together. Everything was lost to him.

“Kahlan,” he managed at last, “is there any law, or rule or something, that says we can’t be friends?”

She answered in a whining cry. “No.”

He turned numbly to her and put his arms around her. “I could really use a friend right now,” he whispered.

“Me too,” she cried against his chest as she hugged him back. “But I can be no more.”

“I know,” he said as tears ran down his cheeks. “But Kahlan, I love . . .”

She put her fingers to his lips to silence him. “Don’t say that,” she cried. “Please, Richard, don’t ever say that.”

She could stop him from saying it out loud, but not in his mind.

She clung to him, sobbing, and he remembered when they had been in the wayward pine after they first met, and the underworld had almost reclaimed her—she had clung to him, and he had thought at the time that she was not used to having anyone hold her. Now he knew why. He laid his cheek against the top of her head.

A small flame of his anger flickered in the ashes of his dreams. “Have you picked your mate yet?”

She shook her head. “There are more important things to worry about right now. But if we win, and I live . . . then I must.”

“Make one promise for me.”

“If I can.”

His throat felt so hot he had to swallow twice to talk. “Promise me you won’t pick him until I’m back in Westland. I don’t want to know who it is.”

She sobbed for a moment before she answered—her fingers clutching tighter at his shirt. “I promise.”

After a time of standing, holding her, trying to get control of himself, fighting back the blackness, he forced a smile. “You’re wrong about one thing.”

“And what would that be?”

“You said no man can command a Confessor. You are wrong. I command the Mother Confessor herself. You are sworn to protect me, I hold you to your duty as my guide.”

She laughed a painful little laugh against his chest. “It would appear you are right. Congratulations—you are the first man ever to have done so. And what does my master command of his guide?”

“That she doesn’t give me any more trouble about ending her life—I need her. And that she gets us to the Queen, and the box, before Rahl, and then sees us safely away.”

Kahlan nodded her head against his chest. “By your command, my lord.” She separated from him, put her hands on his upper arms, and gave them a squeeze as she smiled through her tears. “How is it that you can always make me feel better, even at the worst times of my life?”

He shrugged, forcing himself to smile for her, even though he was dying inside. “I am the Seeker. I can do anything.” He wanted to say more, but his voice failed him.

Her smile widened as she shook her head. “You are a very rare person, Richard Cypher,” she whispered.

He only wished he were alone so he could cry.