Wizard's First Rule

Chapter 35

With his boot, Richard pushed little piles of dirt over the dying embers of the fire, snuffing out the only heat in the dawn of the cold new day. The sky was brightening into an icy blue, and a sharp wind blew from the west. Well, at least the wind would be at their backs, he thought. Near his other boot lay the roasting stick that Kahlan had used to cook the rabbit—the rabbit she had caught herself, with a snare he had taught her to make.

He felt his face flush with the thought of that, the thought of him, a woods guide, teaching her things like that. The Mother Confessor. More than a queen. Queens bow to the Mother Confessor, she had said. He felt as foolish as he had ever felt in his life. Mother Confessor. Who did he think he was? Zedd had tried to warn him, if he had only listened.

Emptiness threatened to consume him. He thought of his brother, his friends Zedd and Chase. Though it didn’t fill the void, at least he had them. Richard watched Kahlan shouldering her pack. She had no one, he thought—her only friends, the other Confessors, were dead. She was alone in the world, alone in the Midlands, surrounded by people she was trying to save, who feared and hated her, and enemies who wanted to kill her, or worse, and not even her wizard to protect her.

He understood why she had been afraid to tell him. He was her only friend. He felt even more foolish for thinking only of himself. If her friend was all he could be, then that’s what he would be. Even if it killed him.

“It must have been hard to tell me,” he said as he adjusted the sword at his hip.

She pulled her cloak around herself, against the gusts of cold wind. Her face had resumed once more the calm expression that showed nothing, except that, as well as he knew her, he could now read the trace of pain in it. “It would have been easier to have killed myself.”

He watched as she turned and started off, then followed after her. If she had told him in the beginning, he wondered, would he still be with her? If she had told him before he had come to know her, would he have been too afraid to be near her, same as everyone else? Maybe she had been right in being afraid to tell him sooner. But then, if she had, it might have spared him what he was feeling now.

Near to midday, they came to a juncture of trails, marked with a stone half again as tall as he. Richard stopped, studying the symbols cut into the polished faces.

“What do they mean?”

“They give direction to different towns and villages, and their distances,” she said, warming her hands under her armpits. She inclined her head toward a trail. “If we want to avoid people, this trail is best.”

“How much farther?”

She looked at the stone again. “I usually travel the roads between towns, not these less-traveled trails. The stone does not give the distance by the trail, only by the roads, but I would guess a few more days.”

Richard drummed his fingers on the hilt of his sword. “Are there any towns near?”

She nodded. “We are an hour or two from Homers Mill. Why?”

“We could save ourselves time if we had horses.”

She looked up the trail toward the town, as if she could somehow see it. “Homers Mill is a lumber town, a sawmill. They would have a lot of horses, but it may not be a good idea. I have heard their sympathies lie with D’Hara.”

“Why don’t we go have a look—if we had horses, it could save us a day at least. I have some silver, and a piece or two of gold. Maybe we could buy some.”

“I guess if we are careful, we could go have a look. But don’t you dare pull out any of your silver or gold. It is Westland marked, and these people view anyone from across the western boundary as a threat. Stories and superstition.”

“Well, how will we get horses then? Steal them?”

She lifted an eyebrow. “Have you forgotten so soon? You are with the Mother Confessor. I have but to ask.”

Richard covered his displeasure as best he could with a blank face. “Let’s go have a look.”

Homers Mill sat hard on the edge of the Callisidrin River, drawing both power for the sawmills and transportation for the logs and lumber from the muddy brown water. Spillways snaked through the work areas, and ramshackle mill buildings loomed over the other structures. Stickered stacks of lumber lay row upon row under roofs of open buildings, and even more lay under tarps, waiting for either barges to take them by river or wagons to take them by road. Houses squatted close together on the hillside above the mill, looking as if they had started life as temporary shelter and as the years had worn on, became unfortunately permanent.

Even from a distance, Richard and Kahlan both knew that something was wrong. The mill was silent, the streets empty. The whole town should have been alive with activity. There should have been people at the shops, on the docks, at the mill, and in the streets, but there was no sign of beast or man. The town hunched in quiet, except for some tarps flapping in the wind, and a few squeaking and banging tin panels on the mill buildings.

When they got close enough, the wind brought something, other than flapping tarps and banging tin—it brought the putrid smell of death. Richard checked that his sword was loose in its scabbard.

Bodies, puffy and swollen, nearly ready to burst, stretched buttons, and oozed fluid that attracted clouds of flies. The dead lay in corners and up against buildings, like autumn leaves blown into piles. Most had ghastly wounds—some were pierced through with broken lances. The silence seemed alive. Doors, smashed in and broken, hung at odd angles from a single hinge, or lay in the street with personal belongings and broken pieces of furniture. Windows in every building were shattered. Some of the buildings were nothing more than cold, charred piles of beams and rubble. Richard and Kahlan both held their cloaks across their noses and mouths, trying to shield themselves against the stench as their eyes were pulled to the dead.

“Rahl?” he asked her.

She studied different tumbled bodies from a distance. “No. This is not the way Rahl kills. This was a battle.”

“Looks more like a slaughter to me.”

She nodded her agreement. “Remember the dead among the Mud People? That is what it looks like when Rahl kills. It is always the same. This is different.”

They walked along through the town, staying close to the buildings, away from the center of the street, occasionally having to step over the gore. Every shop was looted, and what wasn’t carried off was destroyed. From one shop, a bolt of pale blue cloth, with evenly spaced dark stains, had unwound itself across the road, as if it had been thrown out because its owner had ruined it in death. Kahlan pulled his sleeve, and pointed. On the wall of a building was written a message—in blood.

“What do you suppose that means?” she whispered, as if the dead might hear her.

He stared at the dripping words. “I can’t even imagine.” He started off again, turning back twice to frown at the words on the wall.

Richard’s eye was caught by a cart sitting in front of a grain store. The cart was half loaded with small furniture and clothes, the wind whipping at the sleeves of little dresses. He exchanged a glance with Kahlan. Someone was left alive, and it looked as if they were preparing to leave.

He stepped carefully through the empty doorframe of the grain store, Kahlan close at his back. Streamers of sunlight coming through the door and window sent shafts through the dust inside the building, falling on spilled sacks of grain and broken barrels. Richard stood just inside the doorway, to one side, with Kahlan to the other, until his eyes adjusted to the dark. There were fresh footprints, mostly small ones, through the dust. His eyes followed them behind a counter. He gripped the hilt of his sword, but didn’t draw it, and went to the counter. People cowered behind, trembling.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he said in a gentle voice, “come out.”

“Are you a soldier with the People’s Peace Army, here to help us?” came a woman’s voice from behind the counter.

Richard and Kahlan frowned at each other. “No,” she said. “We are . . . just travelers, passing through.”

A woman with a dirty, tearstained face and short, dark, matted hair pushed her head up. Her drab brown dress was ragged and torn. Richard took his hand away from his sword so as not to frighten her. Her lip quivered, and her hollow eyes blinked at them in the dim light as she motioned others to come out. There were six children—five girls and one boy; another woman, and an old man. Once they were out, the children clinging woodenly to the two women, the three adults glanced at Richard, then stared openly at Kahlan. Their eyes were wide, and they all shrank back as one against the wall. Richard frowned in confusion—then he realized what they were staring at. Her hair.

The three adults collapsed to their knees, heads bowed, each with their eyes to the floor—the children buried their faces silently in the women’s skirts. With a sideways glance at Richard, Kahlan quickly motioned with her hands for them to get up. They had their eyes fixed on the floor and couldn’t see her frantic gesturing.

“Get up,” she said, “there is no need for that. Get up.”

Their heads came up, confused. They looked at her hands, urging them to get to their feet. With great reluctance, they complied.

“By your command, Mother Confessor,” one woman said in a shaking voice. “Forgive us, Mother Confessor, we . . . did not recognize you . . . by your clothes, at first. Forgive us, we are only human people. Forgive us for . . .”

Kahlan gently cut her off. “What is your name?”

The woman bowed deeply from the waist, remaining bent. “I am Regina Clark, Mother Confessor.”

Kahlan grabbed her by her shoulders and straightened her. “Regina, what has happened here?”

Regina’s eyes filled with tears, and she cast a shrinking glance toward Richard as her lip trembled. Kahlan looked back to him.

“Richard,” she said softly, “why don’t you take the old man and the children outside?”

He understood—the women were too afraid to talk in front of him. He gave a helping arm to the stooped old man, and herded four of the children out. Two of the youngest girls refused to leave the women’s skirts, but Kahlan nodded to him that it was all right.

The four children clung together in a clump as they sat on the step outside, eyes empty and distant. None would answer when he asked their names, or even look at him except with frightened peeks to make sure he didn’t come any closer. The old man only stared blankly ahead when Richard asked his name.

“Can you tell me what happened here?” Richard asked him.

His eyes widened as he looked out over the street. “Westlanders . . .”

Tears welled up and he wouldn’t say anything else. Fearing to get any more forceful, he decided to let the old man be. Richard offered him a piece of dried meat from his pack, but he ignored it. The children shrank back from his hand as he held it out with the same offer. He put the meat back in his pack. The oldest girl, just nearing womanhood, looked at him as if he might slay them, or eat them, on the spot. He had never seen anyone so terrified. Not wanting to frighten her or the other children more than they were, he kept his distance, smiled reassuringly, and promised he wouldn’t hurt them, or even touch them. They didn’t look as if they believed him. Richard turned toward the door often—he was uncomfortable and wished Kahlan would come out.

At last she did, her face an intense mask of calmness, a spring wound too tight. Richard stood and the children ran back into the building. The old man stayed where he was. She took Richard’s arm, walking him away.

“There are no horses here,” she said, watching fixedly ahead as she walked back the way they had come. “I think it best if we stay off the roads, stay to the less-traveled trails.”

“Kahlan, what’s going on?” He, looked back over his shoulder. “What happened here?”

She glared at the bloody message on the wall as they went past.

“Missionaries came, telling the people of the glory of Darken Rahl. They came often, telling the town council of the things they would have when D’Hara rules all the lands. Telling everyone of Rahl’s love for all the people.”

“That’s crazy!” Richard whispered harshly.

“Nonetheless, the people of Horners Mill were won over. They all agreed to declare the town a territory of D’Hara. The People’s Peace Army marched in, treating everyone with the utmost respect, buying goods from the merchants, spending silver and gold with abandon.” She pointed back at the rows of lumber under tarps. “The missionaries were as good as their word—orders came down for lumber. A lot of lumber. To build new towns where people would live in prosperity under the glowing rule of Father Rahl.”

Richard shook his head in wonderment. “Then what?”

“Word spread—there was more work here than the town people could handle. Work for Father Rahl. More people came in to work the orders for lumber. While all this was going on, the missionaries told the people of the threat to them from Westland. The threat to Father Rahl from Westland.”

“From Westland!” Richard was incredulous.

She nodded. “Then the People’s Peace Army moved out, saying they were needed to fight the Westland forces, to protect the other towns that had sworn allegiance to D’Hara. The people begged for some to stay, for protection. In return for their loyalty and devotion, a small detachment was left behind.”

Richard ushered her back onto the trail ahead of him as he gave one last puzzled glance over his shoulder. “So it wasn’t Rahl’s army that did this?”

The trail was wide enough, so she waited until he was next to her before she went on. “No. They said everything was fine for a while. Then, about a week ago, at sunrise, a military unit of the Westland army swept in, killing the D’Hara detachment to a man. After that, they went on a rampage, killing people indiscriminately, and sacking the town. As the Westland soldiers killed, they yelled that this was what happens to anyone following Rahl, to anyone who resists Westland. Before the sun set, they were gone.”

Richard grabbed a fistful of shirt at her shoulder, jerking her to face him.

“That’s not true! Westlanders wouldn’t do this! It wasn’t them! It couldn’t be!”

She blinked at him. “Richard, I did not say it was true. I am merely telling you what I was told, what those people back there believe.”

He released his grip of her shirt, his face having a second reason for its flush. He couldn’t help himself from adding, “No Westland army did this.” He started to turn back to the trail, but she took his arm, halting him.

“That is not the end of it.”

By her eyes, he knew he didn’t want to hear the end of it. He nodded for her to go on.

“Those left alive began leaving at once, taking what they could carry. More left the next day, some after burying members of their families. That night, a detachment of Westlanders came back, maybe fifty men. There were only a handful of townspeople left by that time. The people were told that resisters to Westland are not allowed to be buried, that they are to be left, for animals to pick clean, as a reminder to all of what will happen to any who resist the rule of Westland. To make their point, they collected all the men still left, even the boys, and executed them.” By Kahlan’s inflection of the word executed, and making no mention of the manner, he knew he didn’t want to know. “The little boy and the old man back there were somehow overlooked or they would have been killed too. The women were made to watch.” She paused.

“How many women were left?”

She shook her head. “I don’t know, not many.” She peered back up the trail, staring off toward the town a moment before her intensely angry eyes returned to his. “The soldiers raped the women. And the girls.” Her eyes burned into his. “Each one of those girls you saw back there was raped by at least . . .”

“Westlanders did not do this!”

She studied his face. “I know. But who? Why?” Her expression cooled back to calm.

He stared back at her in frustration. “Isn’t there anything we can do for them?”

“Our job is not to protect a few people, or the dead—it is to protect the living, by stopping Darken Rahl. We do not have the time to give—we must get to Tamarang. Whatever trouble is about, we had best stay off the roads.”

“You’re right,” he admitted reluctantly. “But I don’t like it.”

“Nor do I.” Her features softened. “Richard, I think they will be safe. Whatever army it was that did this is not likely to return for a couple of women and children—they will be off to hunt bigger game.”

Some solace that was, that the killers would be off to hunt larger groups of people to hurt, in the name of his homeland. Richard thought about how he hated all this, and remembered how when he was back in Hartland, his biggest trouble was his brother always telling him what to do.

“A group of soldiers that big isn’t going to be traveling by trail through a thick wood such as this, they’ll stay to the roads, but I think it best if we start looking for wayward pines at night. No telling who could be watching.”

She nodded her agreement. “Richard, many people of my homeland have joined with Rahl, and done unspeakable crimes. Does that make you think less of me?”

He frowned. “Of course not.”

“And I would think no less of you were it Westland soldiers. It is no crime upon you, to have your countrymen do things you abhor. We are at war. We are trying to do as our ancestors have done in the past, Seekers and Confessors alike—dethrone a ruler. In this, there are only two we can count on. You and me.” She studied him with an intense, timeless expression. He realized he was gripping the hilt of his sword tightly. “A time may come when it is only you. We all do as we must.” It was not Kahlan who had spoken—it was the Mother Confessor.

It was a hard, uncomfortable moment before she released his eyes, turning at last and starting off. He pulled his cloak tight, chilled from without, and within.

“It was not Westlanders,” he muttered under his breath, following behind her.

“Light for me,” Rachel said. The little pile of sticks with rocks all around burst into flame, lighting the inside of the wayward pine with a bright red glow. She put the fire stick back in her pocket and with a shiver warmed her hands at the fire as she looked down at Sara lying in her lap.

“We’ll be safe here tonight,” she told her doll. Sara didn’t answer—she hadn’t talked since the night they ran away from the castle—so Rachel just pretended the doll was talking, telling her she loved her. She gave Sara’s silent words an answering hug.

She pulled some berries from her pocket, eating them one at a time, warming her hands in between each one. Sara didn’t want any berries. Rachel nibbled on the piece of hard cheese—all the other food she had brought from the castle was gone. Except the loaf of bread, of course. But she couldn’t eat that—the box was hidden inside it.

Rachel missed Giller something fierce, but she had to do as he had said—she had to keep running away, finding a new wayward pine every night. She didn’t know how far she was from the castle—she just kept going while it was day, the sun at her back in the morning and in her face at evening. She had learned that from Brophy. He called it traveling by the sun. She guessed that was what she was doing. Traveling.

A pine bough moved by itself, making her start. She saw a big hand holding it back. Then the shiny blade of a long sword. She stared, her eyes wide. She couldn’t move.

A man stuck his head in. “What have we here?” He smiled.

Rachel heard a whine, and realized it was coming from her own throat. Still, she couldn’t move. A woman pushed her head in beside the man’s. She pulled the man back behind her. Rachel clutched Sara to her chest.

“Put the sword away,” the woman scolded, “you’re scaring her.”

Rachel pulled the partly unbundled loaf of bread close to her hip. She wanted to run, but her legs didn’t work. The woman pushed into the wayward pine, came close and knelt down, sitting back on her heels, the man right behind her. Rachel’s eyes looked up at her face—then she saw the woman’s long hair, lit by the firelight. Her eyes went even wider, and another cry came from her throat. At last her legs worked, at least a little: they scooted her backward against the trunk of the tree, pulling the bread with her. Women with long hair were always trouble. She bit down on Sara’s foot, panting, a whine coming with each breath. She squeezed Sara with all her strength. She tore her eyes from the woman’s hair—she darted glances to the sides, looking for a place to run.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” the woman said. Her voice sounded nice, but Princess Violet said the same thing, sometimes, just before she slapped her.

The woman reached out and touched Rachel’s arm. She jumped with a cry, pulling back.

“Please,” she said, her eyes filling with tears, “don’t burn Sara up.”

“Who’s Sara?” the man asked.

The woman turned and made him hush. She turned back, her long hair falling from her shoulder, Rachel’s eyes fixed on it. “I won’t burn Sara,” she said in a nice voice. Rachel knew that when a woman with long hair talked in a nice voice, it meant she was probably lying. Still, her voice did sound like it was really nice.

“Please,” she whined, “can’t you just leave us be?”

“Us?” The woman glanced around. She looked back, right to Sara. “Oh. I see. So this is Sara?” Rachel nodded, biting down harder on Sara’s foot. She knew she would get a hard slap if she didn’t answer a woman with long hair. “She’s a very nice looking doll.” She smiled. Rachel wished she wouldn’t smile. When women with long hair smiled, it usually meant there was going to be trouble.

The man stuck his head around the woman. “My name’s Richard. What’s yours?”

She liked his eyes. “Rachel.”

“Rachel. That’s a pretty name. But I have to tell you, Rachel, you have the ugliest hair I’ve ever seen.”

“Richard!” the woman squawked. “How could you say such a thing!”

“Well, it’s true. Who cut it all crooked like that, Rachel, some old witch?”

Rachel giggled.

“Richard!” the woman squawked again. “You’re going to frighten her.”

“Oh, nonsense. Rachel, I have a little scissors here in my pack, and I’m pretty good at cutting hair. Would you like me to fix your hair for you? At least I could make it straight. If you leave it like that, you might scare a dragon or something.”

Rachel giggled again. “Yes, please. I would like to have my hair straight.”

“All right then, come over here and sit on my lap and we’ll fix it right up.”

Rachel got up and walked around the woman, watching her hands, keeping far away, at least as far away as she could inside the wayward pine. Richard picked her up with a big hand on each side of her waist and set her on his lap. He pulled some strands of hair out. “Let’s have a look at what we have here.”

Rachel kept an eye toward the woman, fearing a slap. He looked over, too. He pointed with the scissors.

“This is Kahlan. She scared me at first, too. She’s awfully ugly, isn’t she?”

“Richard! Where did you learn to speak to children like this!”

He smiled. “Picked it up from a boundary warden I know.”

Rachel giggled at him—she couldn’t help it. “I don’t think she’s ugly, I think she’s the prettiest lady I ever saw.” That was the truth. But Kahlan’s long hair scared her something fierce.

“Well, thank you, Rachel, and you are very pretty, too. Are you hungry?”

Rachel wasn’t ever supposed to tell anyone with long hair, any lord or lady, that she was hungry. Princess Violet said it was improper, and punished her one time for telling someone she was hungry when she was asked. She looked at up Richard’s face. He smiled, but still she was too afraid to tell Kahlan she was hungry.

Kahlan patted her arm. “I bet you are. We caught some fish, and if you let us share your fire, we would share some fish with you. What do you say?” She smiled real pretty.

Rachel looked up at Richard again. He gave her a wink, then sighed. “I’m afraid I caught more than we can eat. If you don’t help us, we’ll just have to throw some out.”

“All right then. If you’re just going to throw them out, I’ll help you eat them.”

Kahlan started taking off her pack. “Where are your parents?”

Rachel told the truth because she couldn’t think of anything else to say. “Dead.”

Richard’s hands stopped working, then started again. Kahlan got a look like she was sad, but Rachel didn’t know if it was real or not. She gave her a squeeze on her arm with a soft hand “I’m sorry, Rachel.” Rachel didn’t feel too sad—she didn’t remember her parents, only the place she lived with the other children.

Richard snipped at her hair while Kahlan took out a pan and started to fry the fish. Richard was right, there were a lot of fish. Kahlan put some kind of spices on them while they cooked, as Rachel had seen cooks doing. It smelled so good, and her stomach was making noises. Little pieces of hair were falling down around her. She smiled to herself at how mad Princess Violet would be if she knew Rachel’s hair was cut straight. Richard snipped off one of the longer curls, and tied a thin little vine around one end of it. He put it in her hand. She frowned up at him.

“You’re supposed to keep that. Then someday if you like a boy, you can give him a lock of your hair, and he can keep it in his pocket, right next to his heart.” He winked at her. “To remember you by.”

Rachel giggled. “You’re the silliest man I ever saw.” He laughed. Kahlan smiled while she looked over at him. Rachel stuffed the lock of hair in her pocket. “Are you a lord?”

“Sorry, Rachel, I’m just a woods guide.” His face got a little sad then. She was glad he wasn’t a lord. He turned and dug a little mirror out of his pack and handed it to her. “Have a look. Tell me what you think.”

She held it up, trying to see herself in the mirror. It was the littlest mirror she ever saw, and it took a minute to get it in the right place so she could see herself in the firelight. When she did, her eyes went wide, and she got tears.

She threw her arm around Richard. “Oh, thank you, Richard, thank you. It’s the prettiest my hair has ever been.” He gave her back a hug that felt as good as any Giller had ever given her. One of his big, warm hands rubbed her back. It was a long hug, too, the longest she had ever got, and she wished it would never end. But it did.

Kahlan shook her head to herself. “You are a very rare person, Richard Cypher,” she whispered to him.

Kahlan stuck a big piece of fish on a stick for her, and told her to blow on it until it was cool enough not to burn her mouth. Rachel blew a little, but she was too hungry to blow for long. It was the bestest fish she ever had. It was as good as the piece of meat the cooks had given her that one time.

“Ready for another piece?” Kahlan asked. Rachel nodded. Then she pulled a knife from her belt. “Should we all have a slice of your bread with the fish?” She started to reach for it.

Rachel dove for the loaf of bead, snatching it away just before Kahlan got her hand on it. Rachel hugged it to her with both arms. “No!” She pushed with her heels, scooting back, away from Kahlan.

Richard stopped eating—Kahlan frowned. Rachel reached one hand into her pocket, her fingers clutching the fire stick Giller had given her.

“Rachel? What’s the matter?” Kahlan asked.

Giller had told her, told her not to trust anyone. She had to think of something. What would Giller say?

“It’s for my grandmother!” She could feel a tear run down her cheek.

“Well then,” Richard said, “since it’s for your grandmother, we won’t touch it. Promise. Isn’t that right, Kahlan?”

“Of course. I’m sorry, Rachel, we didn’t know. I promise, too. Forgive me?”

Rachel took her hand back out of her pocket, and nodded. The lump in her throat was too big to talk past.

“Rachel,” Richard asked, “where is your grandmother?”

Rachel froze stiff—she didn’t really have a grandmother. She tried to think of the name of a place she had heard of. She thought about places she had heard the Queen’s advisors name. She said the first one that came into her head.

“Homers Mill.”

Before the words were finished coming out of her mouth, she knew it was a mistake. Richard and Kahlan both got scared looks on their faces and turned to look at each other. It was real quiet for a minute—Rachel didn’t know what was going to happen. She looked to the sides of the wayward pine, the spaces between the branches.

“Rachel, we won’t touch your grandmother’s bread,” Richard said in a soft voice, “we promise.”

“Come, have another piece of fish,” Kahlan said. “You can leave the loaf of bread over there—we won’t bother it.”

Rachel still didn’t move. She thought about running away, fast as she could, but she knew they could run faster, and would catch her. She had to do as Giller told her, hide with the box until winter, or all those people would get their heads chopped off.

Richard picked up Sara, and put her on his lap. He pretended to give her a piece of fish. “Sara’s going to eat all the fish. If you want any, you better get over here and have your share. Come on, you can sit on my lap and eat. All right?”

Rachel searched their faces, trying to decide if they were telling the truth. Women with long hair could lie easily. She looked at Richard—he didn’t look like he was lying. She got up and ran over to him. He pulled her into his lap, then put Sara on her lap.

Rachel snuggled up against him while they all ate fish. She didn’t look at Kahlan. Sometimes when you looked at a lady with long hair, it was improper, Princess Violet said. She didn’t want to do anything that would get her a slap. Or anything to get taken off Richard’s lap. It was warm in his lap, and made her feel safe.

“Rachel,” Richard said, “I’m sorry, but we can’t let you go to Homers Mill. There’s no one left in Homers Mill. It’s not safe.”

“That’s all right. I’ll go somewhere else then.”

“I’m afraid it’s not safe anywhere, Rachel,” Kahlan said. “We will take you with us, so you will be safe.”

“Where?”

Kahlan smiled. “We are going to Tamarang, to see the Queen.” Rachel stopped chewing. She couldn’t breathe. “We will take you with us. I’m sure the Queen will be able to find someone to take care of you, if I ask.”

“Kahlan, are you sure about this?” Richard whispered. “What about the wizard?”

Kahlan nodded and spoke softly to him. “We will see to her before I skin Giller.”

Rachel forced herself to swallow, so she could breathe. She knew it! She knew she shouldn’t trust a woman with long hair. She almost cried—she was just starting to like Kahlan. Richard was so nice. Why would he be nice to Kahlan? Why would he even be with a woman mean enough to hurt Giller. It must be like when she was nice to Princess Violet, so she wouldn’t get hurt. He must be afraid of getting hurt, too. She felt sorry for Richard. She wished he could run away from Kahlan like she was running away from Princess Violet. Maybe she should tell Richard about the box, and he could run away from Kahlan with her.

No. Giller said not to trust anyone. He might be too afraid of Kahlan, and tell her. She had to be brave for Giller. For all the other people. She had to get away.

“We can deal with it in the morning,” Kahlan said. “We better get some sleep so we can be off at first light.”

Richard nodded as he hugged her. “I’ll take the first watch. You get some sleep.”

He picked her up and handed her to Kahlan. Rachel bit her tongue to keep from screaming. Kahlan hugged her tight. Rachel looked down at her knife—even the Princess didn’t have a knife. She put her arms out to Richard with a whine. Richard smiled and put Sara in her hands. That wasn’t what she wanted, but she hugged Sara tight, and bit down on her foot to keep from crying.

Richard mussed her hair. “See you in the morning, little one.”

And then he was gone, and she was alone with Kahlan, She squeezed her eyes shut. She had to be brave, she couldn’t cry. But then she did.

Kahlan held her tight. Rachel shook. Fingers stroked her hair. Kahlan rocked her while Rachel eyed a dark gap in the boughs on the other side of the wayward pine. Kahlan’s chest was making funny little movements, and Rachel realized with wonder that she was crying, too. Kahlan put her cheek against the top of her head.

She almost started to believe . . . but then she remembered what Princess Violet said sometimes—that it hurt more to punish than to be punished. Her eyes went wide at what Kahlan must be planning that would make her cry. Even Princess Violet never cried when she dealt out a punishment. Rachel cried harder, and shook.

Kahlan took her hands away and wiped the tears from her cheeks. Rachel’s legs were too wobbly to run.

“Are you cold?” Kahlan whispered. Her voice sounded like there were still tears in it.

Rachel was afraid that no matter what she said she would get a slap. She gave a nod, ready for what might happen. Instead, Kahlan took a blanket out of her pack and wrapped it around the both of them, she guessed so it would be harder to get away.

“Come, lie close and I will tell you a story. We will keep each other warm. All right?”

Rachel lay on her side, her back against Kahlan, who curled all around her and put her arm over her. It felt nice, but she knew it was a trick. Kahlan’s face was close to her ear, and as she lay there, Kahlan told her a story about a fisherman who turned into a fish. The words made pictures in her head, and for a while she forgot about her troubles. Once, she and Kahlan even laughed together. When she was finished with the story, Kahlan kissed the top of her head and then stroked the side of her forehead.

She pretended Kahlan wasn’t really mean. It couldn’t hurt to pretend. Nothing had ever felt as good as those fingers on her, and the little song Kahlan sang in her ear. Rachel thought this must be what it felt like to have a mother.

Against her will, she fell asleep, and had wonderful dreams.

She came awake in the middle of the night when Richard woke Kahlan, but she pretended she was still asleep.

“You want to keep sleeping with her?” he whispered real soft.

Rachel held her breath.

“No,” Kahlan whispered back, “I’ll take my watch.”

Rachel could hear her putting on her cloak and going outside. She listened to which way Kahlan’s feet went. After he put some more wood in the fire, Richard lay down, close. She could see the inside of the wayward pine brighten. She knew Richard was watching her—she could feel his eyes on her back. She wanted so much to tell him how mean Kahlan really was, and ask him to run away with her. He was such a nice man, and his hugs were the bestest things in the whole world. He reached over and pulled the blanket up around her tighter, tucking it under her chin. Tears ran down her cheeks.

She could hear him lie on his back and pull his blanket up. Rachel waited until she heard his even breathing and she knew he was asleep before she slipped out from under the blanket.