Faith of the Fallen

by Terry Goodkind

  She felt the weight of a shadow over her.

  Feelings and sensations she could not grasp or control inundated her even as she fought them. Nothing seemed real. She gasped again at the crude sensation. It confused her. It hurt, and at the same time she felt a kind of wild hunger awakening.

  It was as if Richard were there, in bed with her. It felt so good again. She was panting. Her mouth was dry as dust.

  In Richard’s intimate embrace she had always felt a kind of expectant delight that their shameless lust could never be completely sated—that there was always a spark of something left to explore, to reach toward, to define. She had always exalted in the idea of that endless quest for the unattainable.

  She drew a sharp breath. She felt herself in that headlong rush, now.

  But this was something she had never imagined. Her fists clutched at the sheets, her mouth opened in a silent scream against the ripping thrust of pain.

  This was not human. It made no sense. She gasped again in panic as the most awful feelings burgeoned through her. She moaned at the horror of it, at the hint of pleasure in it, and at the confusion of nearly enjoying the sensation.

  The realization came to her. She knew what this meant.

  Tears stung her eyes. She rolled onto her side, torn between the joy of feeling Richard, and the pain of knowing that Nicci was feeling him in this way, too. She was slammed onto her back.

  She gasped again, her eyes going wide, her whole body rigid.

  She cried out at the pain. She twisted and struggled, covering her breasts with her arms. Her eyes watered at agony she couldn’t explain or completely identify.

  She missed Richard so much. She wanted him so badly it hurt.

  She gave in to him, even in this, she surrendered herself to him. A low wail escaped her throat.

  Her muscles knotted as tight as oak roots. She was racked with wave after wave of startling pain mixed with an unsatisfied longing that had turned to revulsion. She couldn’t get her breath.

  She burst into tears as it ceased, her body finally able to move again, but too exhausted to do so. She had hated every violent appalling brutal second of it, and grieved that it had ended because she had at least felt him.

  She felt joy that she had so unexpectedly sensed him, and blind rage at what it meant. She clutched the sheets in her fists as she wept inconsolably.

  “Mother Confessor?” A dark form slipped into the tent. “Mother Confessor?”

  It was Cara’s whisper. Cara set a candle on the table. The light seemed blindingly bright as Cara looked down. “Mother Confessor, are you all right?”

  Kahlan pulled a ragged breath. She was lying on her back in her bed, tangled in her blanket. It was twisted around between her legs.

  Maybe it was just a dream. She wished it was. She knew it wasn’t.

  Kahlan ran her fingers back into her hair as she sat up. “Cara—” It came out as a choking sob.

  Cara knelt on the ground beside her and gripped Kahlan’s shoulders. “What is it?”

  Kahlan struggled to get her breath.

  “What’s wrong? What can I do? Are you hurt? Are you sick?”

  “Oh, Cara…he’s been with Nicci.”

  Cara held her at arms length, her face a picture of concern.

  “What are you talking about? Who’s been—”

  Her words cut off when she realized what Kahlan meant.

  Kahlan struggled against Cara’s grip. “How could he—”

  “She no doubt made him,” Cara insisted. “He must have done it to save your life. She would have had to threaten him.”

  Kahlan was shaking her head. “No, no. He was enjoying it too much. He was like an animal. He never took me like that. He never acted… Oh, Cara, he’s fallen for her. He couldn’t resist her any longer. He’s—”

  Cara shook her until Kahlan thought her teeth would come loose.

  “Wake up! Open your eyes. Mother Confessor, wake up. You’re half asleep. You’re still half dreaming.”

  Kahlan blinked as she looked around. She was panting, still getting her breath. She had stopped crying.

  Cara was right. It had happened, there was no doubt in Kahlan’s mind, but it had happened when she was sleeping, and in her sleep, it had taken her unaware. She hadn’t reacted rationally.

  “You’re right,” Kahlan said in a voice hoarse from crying. Her nose was stuffed up so that she could only breath through her mouth.

  “Now,” Cara said in a calm voice, “tell me what happened.”

  When she felt her face go red, Kahlan wished for the darkness. How could she tell anyone what had happened? She wished Cara hadn’t heard her.

  “Well, through the link”—Kahlan swallowed—“I could sense that, that, well, that Richard made love to Nicci.”

  Cara looked skeptical. “Did it feel like when, well, I mean, are you sure? Could you tell it was him?”

  Kahlan felt her face go a darker shade of red. “Not exactly, I guess. I don’t know.” She covered her breasts. “I could feel his…his teeth on me. He was biting…”

  Cara scratched her head, averting her gaze, unsure how to frame her question. Kahlan answered it for her.

  “Richard never hurt me like that.”

  “Oh. Well then, it wasn’t Richard.”

  “What do you mean it wasn’t Richard? It had to be Richard.”

  “Did it? Would Richard want to make love to Nicci?”

  “Cara—she could make him. Threaten him.”

  “Do you think Nicci is an honorable person?”

  Kahlan frowned. “Nicci? Are you out of your mind?”

  “There you go, then. Why must it be Richard? Nicci may have simply found some man she had to have—some handsome farmboy. It could be nothing more than that.”

  “Really? You think so?”

  “You said it didn’t seem like Richard. I mean, you were half asleep, and in…shock. You said he never…”

  Kahlan looked away. “No, I suppose not.” She looked back at the Mord-Sith in the dim light. “I’m sorry, Cara. Thank you for being here with me. I’d not have liked it if it had been Zedd, or someone else. Thank you.”

  Cara smiled. “I think we’d best keep this between the two of us.”

  Kahlan nodded gratefully. “If Zedd ever started in asking all his detailed questions about this, well, I’d die of embarrassment.”

  Kahlan realized then that Cara was wrapped in a blanket that was open in the front enough to reveal that she was naked underneath. There was a dark mark on the upper half of her breast. There were a few more, but faint. Kahlan had seen Cara naked, and didn’t recall there being any such mark on her. In fact, except for her scars, her body was exasperatingly perfect.

  Frowning, Kahlan gestured. “Cara, what’s that there?”

  Cara glanced down and then threw the blanket closed.

  “It’s, I mean, well, it’s…just a bruise.”

  A love bruise—from a man’s mouth.

  “Is Benjamin over there in your tent with you?”

  Cara got to her bare feet. “Mother Confessor, you are still half asleep and having dreams. Go back to sleep.”

  Kahlan smiled as she watched Cara leave. The smile faded as she lay back in her bed. In the quiet loneliness, her doubts crept back.

  She cupped her breasts. Her nipples throbbed and ached. As she moved on the bed a little, she winced as she only then began to realize how much she hurt, and where.

  She couldn’t believe that, even in her sleep, a part of it had been… She felt her face reddening again. She felt an overwhelming sense of shame at what she had done.

  No. She had done nothing. She was only sensing something through her link to Nicci. It wasn’t real. She hadn’t really experienced it—Nicci had. But Kahlan suffered the same injuries.

  As she had at various times, Kahlan still felt that connection to Nicci through the link, and an aching sort of caring about the woman. What had happened left Kahlan feeling saddened. She felt that Nicci
had so desperately wanted…something.

  Kahlan slipped her hand down between her legs. She flinched in pain as she touched herself. She brought her fingers up to the candlelight. They glistened with blood. There was a lot of blood.

  Despite the burning pain of being torn inside, the confused embarrassment, and the shadow of shame, she most of all felt a sense of relief.

  She knew without doubt: Cara was right, it had not been Richard.

  Chapter 52

  Ann peered among the stand of birch trees crowded in the deep shadows of cliffs for which the place was named. The dense wood was thick with the trees, their peeling white bark covered with dark blotches making it disorienting and difficult to make sense of anything. To become disoriented, here, and wander into the wrong place, uninvited, was the last mistake you would ever make.

  It had been in her youth that she’d last come here, to the Healers of Redcliff. She’d promised herself she would never return. She’d promised the healers as much, too. In the nearly thousand years since, she hoped they had forgotten.

  Few people knew of the place, and even fewer ever came here—with good reason.

  The term “healers” was an odd and highly misleading designation for such a dangerous lot, yet it wasn’t entirely without merit. The Healers of Redcliff weren’t concerned with human ailments, but with the well-being of things that mattered to them. And very odd things indeed mattered to them. To tell the truth of it, after all this time, she would be surprised to find them still in existence.

  As much as she hoped their talents could help, and as desperately as she needed help, she hoped to find that the healers no longer stalked the Redcliff Wood.

  “Visitooor…” hissed a teasing voice from the dim shadows in the crags of the cliff off behind the trees.

  Ann stood still. Cold sweat dotted her brow. Among the confusion of lines and spots made by the trees, she could not make out what it was she saw move. She didn’t really need to see them. She had heard the voice. There were no others like theirs. She swallowed, and tried to sound composed.

  “Yes, I am a visitor. I’m glad to find you well.”

  “Only us few left,” the voice said, echoing among the rock walls. “The chiiiimes took most.”

  That was what Ann had feared…what she had hoped.

  “I’m sorry,” she lied.

  “Tried,” the voice said, moving through the trees. “Could not heal the chiiiimes away.”

  She wondered if they could still heal at all, and how long they would last.

  “Comes sheeee for a healings?” teased a voice from the depths of the jagged clefts to the other side.

  “Come to let you look,” she said, letting them know she had terms, too. It would not be all their way.

  “Costssss, you know.”

  Ann nodded. “Yes, I know.”

  She had tried everything else. Nothing had worked. She had no other choice, at least none she could think of. She was no longer sure if it mattered to her what happened, if it mattered if she ever came out of the Redcliff Wood.

  She was no longer sure if she had ever done any real good in her entire life.

  “Well?” she asked into the shadowy silence.

  Something flashed back behind the trees, back in the shade under low rock ledges, as if inviting her further along the path, deeper into the twisting cleft in the mountains. Rubbing her knuckles, which still ached from the burns long healed, she followed the path, and the rustle of brush. Shortly, she came to a small gap in the trees. Back through that gap, she could see the craggy opening of a cave.

  Eyes watched from that dark maw.

  “Comes sheeee in,” the voice hissed.

  In resignation, Ann let out a sigh as she stepped off the trail, and into a place she had never forgotten, despite how much she had tried.

  Kahlan’s hair whipped around, lashing at her face. She gathered it in a fist over the front of her armored shoulder as she made her way through the hectic camp. Thunderstorms collided violently with the mountains at the east side of the valley, throwing off lightning, thunder, and intermittent sheets of rain. Sporadic gusts bent the trees, and their leaves shimmered as if trembling in fright before the onslaught.

  Usually, the camp was relatively quiet so as not to give any unwanted information to the enemy. Now, the noise of camp breaking up was jarring by contrast. The noise alone was enough to make her pulse race. If only that were all.

  As Kahlan hurried through what to the untrained eye would look like mass confusion, Cara, in her red leather, shoved men out of the way to break a clear path for the Mother Confessor. Kahlan knew better than to try to get the Mord-Sith not to do it. At least it caused no harm. Most of the men, when they saw Kahlan in her leather armor with a D’Haran sword at her hip and the hilt of the Sword of Truth sticking up over her shoulder, moved out of her way without Cara’s help.

  Horses nearby reared as they were being harnessed to a wagon. Men shouted and cursed as they struggled to get the team under control. The horses bellowed in protest. Other men ran through camp, leaping over fires and gear as they rushed to deliver messages. Men sprang out of the way as wagons sped along, splashing mud and water. A long column of lancers five men wide was already marching off into the threatening gloom. Their supporting archers were scrambling to fall in with them.

  The path to the lodge was set with stones so people heading for it would not have to walk in the mud, though one still had to run the gauntlet of mosquitoes. Rain swept in just as Kahlan and Cara made the door. Zedd was there, with Adie, General Meiffert and several of his officers, Verna, and Warren. They were all loosely gathered around the table pulled to the center of the room. Half a dozen maps lay atop one another on the table.

  The mood in the room was tense.

  “How long ago?” Kahlan asked without any greetings.

  “Just now,” General Meiffert said. “They’re taking their time striking camp. They’re not organizing for an attack. They’re simply forming up to move out.”

  Kahlan rubbed her fingertips against her brow. “Any word on the direction?”

  The general shifted his posture, betraying his frustration. “The scouts say that by all indications they’re going north, but nothing more specific than that, yet.”

  “They aren’t coming after us?”

  “They could always change course, or send an army over here, but right now, it appears they aren’t interested in coming in here after us.”

  “Jagang doesn’t need to come after us,” Warren said. Kahlan thought he looked a little pale. Small wonder. She imagined they were all a little pale. “Jagang has to know we are going to come at him. He’s not going to bother coming in here after us.”

  Kahlan couldn’t dispute his logic. “If he goes north, he has to know we’re not going to sit here and wave good-bye.”

  The emperor had changed his tactics—again. Kahlan had never seen a commander like him. Most military men had their preferred methods. If they had once won a battle in a certain way, they would suffer a dozen losses with the same tactics, thinking it had to work because it once had. Some were limited by their intellect. Those were easy enough to read; they usually waged an artless campaign, content to throw men into a meat grinder, hoping to clog it with sheer numbers. Some leaders were clever, inventing tactics as they went. Those often thought too much of themselves and ended up on the point of a simple pike. Others slavishly went about using textbook tactics, thinking of war as a kind of game, and that each side should oblige the other by following rules.

  Jagang was different. He learned to read his enemy. He held to no favored method. After Kahlan had hit him with quick limited attacks driven into the center of his camp, he learned the tactic and, instead of relying on his overpowering numbers, sent the same kind of attack back at the D’Haran army to good effect. Some men could be driven to making foolish mistakes by shaming them. Jagang didn’t make the same mistake twice. He reined in his pride and changed his tactics again, not obliging K
ahlan with foolhardy counterattacks.

  The D’Harans had still managed to carve him up. They had taken out Imperial Order troops in unprecedented numbers. Their own losses, while painful, were remarkably low considering what they had accomplished.

  Winter, though, had killed far more of the enemy than anything Kahlan and her men could conceive. The Imperial Order, being from far to the south, was unfamiliar with and ill prepared for winter in the New World. Well over half a million men had frozen to death. Several hundred thousand more had succumbed to fevers and sickness from the harsh life in the field.

  The winter alone had cost Jagang nearly three-quarters of a million men. It was almost beyond comprehension.

  Kahlan now commanded roughly three hundred thousand troops in the southern reaches of the Midlands. Under ordinary circumstances, that would be a force capable of crushing any enemy.

  The men streaming up from the Old World had replaced the enemy losses several times over. Jagang’s army was now well over two and a half million men. It grew by the day.

  Jagang had been content to sit tight for the winter. Fighting in such conditions was, for the most part, impossible. He had wisely waited out the weather. When spring had come, he still sat. Apparently, he was smart enough to know that warfare in spring mud was a deadly undertaking. In the muddy season, you could lose your supply wagons if they got strung out. Streams became impassable floods. Losing wagons was a slow death by starvation. Cavalry were next to useless in the mud. Losses to falls in a cavalry charge cost valuable mounts, to say nothing of the men. Soldiers could make an attack, of course, but without supporting services, it was likely to be a bloodbath for no real gain.

  Jagang had sat out the spring mud. His minions had used the time to spread the word about “Jagang the Just.” Kahlan was infuriated when she got reports, weeks after the fact, about “envoys of peace” who had shown up in various cities throughout the Midlands, giving speeches about bringing the world together for the good of all mankind. They promised piece and prosperity, if they were welcomed into cities.