Temple of the Winds

by Terry Goodkind

  Kahlan smiled. “I understand. May the good spirits bring it to your heart, Nathan. I can’t thank you enough for helping Richard, for helping me.” Her voice broke. “I didn’t know what I was going to do. I only knew I had to come here.”

  Nathan hugged her, she thought more for his own need than hers. “You did the right thing. Maybe the good spirits guided you. Get back to him, now, or we will lose our Lord Rahl.”

  Kahlan nodded. “The killing is over.”

  “The killing is just about to begin.”

  Nathan turned and held both fists skyward. An awesome flare of light ignited at his fists and shot into the night sky. Kahlan watched as it streaked northwest, so bright that the stars vanished in the glare.

  Kahlan saw Verna sitting up, with Warren’s help. He was wiping the blood away from her newly healed jaw.

  “What have you done?” Kahlan asked Nathan.

  He looked down at her a long moment, and then a sly smile spread on his lips. “I have just given Jagang a nasty surprise. I have just given General Reibisch the signal to attack.”

  “Attack? Attack who?”

  “Jagang’s expeditionary force. They destroyed Renwold. They are up to other trouble in the New World, too, but are unaware of who shadows them. It will be a short battle. The prophecy says that the D’Harans will fight as fiercely as they have ever fought, and will, before this night is over, destroy the enemy in the traditional D’Haran fashion: without mercy.”

  Verna was coming to her feet. Kahlan had never seen Verna looking so meek. “Nathan, I beg your forgiveness.”

  “I’m not interested—”

  Kahlan laid a hand on Nathan’s arm and whispered up at him. “Nathan, please, for your own sake, listen to her.”

  Nathan gazed into Kahlan’s eyes a moment before he turned his glare on Verna. “I’m listening.”

  “Nathan, I’ve known you a long time. My whole life. I’ve seen things before that… perhaps I didn’t understand. I thought you were doing this to seize power for yourself. Please forgive me for lashing out at you for my own guilt at my friends turning against me—against us. I sometimes… jump to judgment. I can see that I have mistaken what was truly going on with you and Clarissa. She adored you, and I thought—I beg you to forgive me, Nathan.”

  Nathan let out a grunt. “Knowing you, Verna, that must have been the hardest thing you have ever had to say. Forgiveness granted.”

  “Thank you, Nathan,” she sighed.

  Nathan bent and kissed Kahlan’s cheek. “May the good spirits be with you, Mother Confessor. Tell Richard I give him back his title. Maybe I will see him again someday.”

  With his hands on her waist, he boosted Kahlan up onto the sliph’s wall.

  “Thank you, Nathan. I can see why Richard liked you. Clarissa, too. I think she saw the real Nathan.”

  Nathan smiled, but then turned serious. “When you get back, you must offer Richard’s brother what he truly wants, if you are to save Richard.”

  “You wish to travel?” the sliph asked.

  Kahlan’s stomach roiled. “Yes, back to Aydindril.”

  “Is Richard truly alive?” Verna asked.

  “Yes,” Kahlan said with revived panic. “He’s sick, but he will be fine once I get this book back to him and it’s destroyed.”

  “Walsh, Bollesdun.” Nathan gestured as he started away. “My coach awaits. Let’s be off.”

  “But, Nathan,” Warren said, “I want to learn about prophecy. I would like to study with you.”

  “A true prophet is born, Warren, not made.”

  “Where are you going?” Verna called after him. “You can’t leave. You’re a prophet. You can’t be left to run… I mean, we must know where you will be—in case we need you.”

  Without looking back, Nathan pointed. “Your Sisters are that way, Prelate. To the northwest. Go to them, and save yourself the trouble of trying to follow me. You won’t succeed. Your Sisters are safe from the dream walker; I had them transfer their bond to me while Richard went to the world of the dead. If Richard lives, you all can transfer it back to him. Good-bye, Verna. Warren.”

  Kahlan pressed a fist to her stomach. If he lives? If? “Hurry,” she said to the sliph. “Hurry!”

  A silver arm swept her from the wall and down into the quicksilver froth.

  66

  He smiled at the way she struggled. He liked the way she had fought him. He enjoyed teaching her how useless it was to fight a person of his superior strength, superior intellect. He watched in fascination as blood ran from her mouth and nose. The gash on her jaw oozed.

  “You are only succeeding at making your wrists bleed,” he taunted. “You can’t break the ropes, but keep at it, if you wish.”

  She spat at him. He smacked her again. He dug his thumb across the cut on her jaw, spellbound by the pattern of blood flooding down the side of her neck.

  He knew her auras. He’d felt them before. He knew just which ones to touch to cripple her. It hadn’t taken long to overpower her. Not long at all.

  Her teeth gritted as she growled with effort, straining against the ropes. She was strong, but she was not strong enough. Without her power and her weapon, she was a mere woman. No mere woman was a match for him. Not in any way.

  When his fingers began unbuttoning the row of buttons along the side of her ribs, she tugged violently at the ropes holding her wrists and ankles. He liked that. He like to watch her struggle. To watch her bleed. He punched her face again.

  He was intrigued that she didn’t cry out, that she didn’t beg for mercy. That she didn’t scream. She would. Oh, how she would scream.

  His punch had stunned her for the moment. Her eyes rolled as she fought to remain conscious. He threw back the front of her outfit, exposing her breasts and the upper half of her torso.

  He hooked his fingers under the tight waist of her red leather pants and, with a quick pull, yanked them down enough for what he was going to do to her.

  Her entire belly was exposed. He felt it. Tight. Hard. There were scars on her. They riveted him. He tried to imagine what had caused such scars. As jagged and white as they were, it would have been bloody.

  “I’ve been raped before,” she sneered. “More times than I can remember. I can tell you from experience that you’re not very good at it. You haven’t even gotten my pants down enough, you stupid pig. Get on with it, if you even can. I’m waiting.”

  “Oh, Cara, I’m not going to rape you. That would be wrong. I have never raped a woman. I only have women who want it.”

  She laughed at him. Laughed. “You are one twisted bastard.”

  He resisted his urge to smash her face. He wanted her awake for this. Alive for this.

  But he shook with rage.

  “Bastard?” His fist tightened. “Because of women like you!”

  He hammered a fist down on her breast. Her eyes squeezed shut and her teeth clenched as she winced in pain, trying to curl up in a ball, but unable to, stretched out in the ropes as she was.

  He took a settling breath, regaining his control. He wouldn’t let her divert him with her filthy mouth.

  “Now, I’m going to give you one last chance. Where is Richard? The soldiers are going wild with talk of Richard being back, of the bond being back. Where are you whores hiding him?”

  The voices from the ether had told him, too, that Richard was back. The voices had told him that if he wished to assume his rightful place, he must eliminate Richard.

  “And where is my loving wife? Where has she gone to?”

  The voices told him that she was in the sliph, but the sliph wouldn’t tell him where she had gone.

  Cara spat at him again. “I am Mord-Sith. You are too stupid to even imagine what has been done to me before. You couldn’t fill the boots of the meekest trainer of Mord-Sith. Your puny torture will pry nothing from me.”

  “Oh, Cara, you have never encountered one of my talents.”

  “Do what you want with me, Drefan, but Lord Rahl�
��the real Lord Rahl—is going to cut you up into little pieces.”

  “And just how would he be able to do that?” He lifted the hilt of the Sword of Truth clear of its scabbard, so she could see the gold lettering that spelled out the word TRUTH. “I’m the one who is going to be doing the cutting into little pieces. Little tiny Richard pieces. Where is he!”

  When she spat at him again, he couldn’t resist fisting her across her cut and swollen lip. The blood gushed anew.

  He turned and retrieved one of the items he had brought: an iron pot. He put it on her belly, upside down.

  “I’m too big to cook in that pot, you stupid pig. You will have to cut me up. Do I have to explain everything to you?”

  He liked the way she tried to antagonize him, to make him lose his temper. She wanted him to kill her. He would, but she would talk, first.

  “Cook you? Oh, no, Cara. You have the wrong idea. The wrong idea entirely. You think me some maniacal murderer. No murderer, I. I am the hand of justice. I am the hand of mercy. Come to bring eternal virtue to those who have none.

  “This pot isn’t to cook you.

  “It’s to cook the rats.”

  He was watching. He saw the way her blue eyes flicked toward him. He had been waiting for just that reaction.

  “Rats. I hope you aren’t stupid enough to think that I am afraid of rats just because I’m a woman. I’m no woman like you have ever seen before. I used to keep rats as pets.”

  “Really? You lie so poorly. My dear, loving, passionate wife explained to me how afraid you are of rats.”

  She didn’t answer. She was afraid of showing her fear. But he could see it in her eyes.

  “I have a sack of rats, here. Nice, fat rats.”

  “Just get on with this rape. I’m growing bored.”

  “I told you, I don’t rape women. They want it from me. They ask for it. They beg for it.” He tugged down his ruffled cuffs. “No, Cara, I have something else in mind for you. I want you to tell me where I can find my loving brother.”

  She turned her face away. “Never. Get on with the torture before I fall asleep and miss it.”

  “You see? As I told you, women always ask me for it.”

  He pressed the iron pot to her belly and wound a chain around her middle, to hold down the pot. He forced a finger under the rim, checking, to make sure that it was tight enough.

  He then loosened the rough knot in the chain, so he could get the rats under the pot. Cara showed no reaction when he shoved the first under the pot.

  Holding the second by the scruff of its neck, he held it before her face, letting her see it squirm and squeak. “See, Cara? As I promised you. Rats. Big rats.”

  Sweat beaded on her forehead. “I kind of like it. It feels fuzzy against my stomach. I may fall asleep.”

  He stuffed the second, and then a third under the pot. There was room for no more. He took the slack from the chain, and tightened the knot of links.

  “Fuzzy,” he mocked. “I think they will keep you wide awake, Cara. Wide awake, and eager to talk, eager to betray Richard. Whores have no honor. You will betray him.”

  “Berdine is going to be here soon. She will skin you alive.”

  He lifted an eyebrow. “You relieved Berdine. I saw you. After she left, I took you down. She won’t be back for quite a while, but when she does come back, she will get the same as you.”

  With tongs, he retrieved a big, glowing coal from the pan over the mass of candles. He plunked the red-hot coal down inside the rim of the footed bottom of the iron pot.

  “You see, Cara, the coals are going to heat this iron pot—get it very hot.” He looked at her eyes. “The rats aren’t going to like that. They are going to want out.”

  Her breathing quickened. Sweat rolled down her face. Where were her brave words now? She was silent, now.

  “And how do you suppose the rats are going to get out, Cara? Once they start to get hot? Once the iron pot starts burning them? Singeing their tender noses?”

  “Just cut my throat and kill me, you bastard.”

  “When the rats get hot enough under there, they’ll panic. They’ll be frantic to get out. Guess how they’ll get out, Cara.”

  She had no haughty answer to fill the silence.

  He pulled his knife and with the handle, tapped the iron pot. “How are you doing in there, my little rat friends?”

  Cara flinched. He smiled when her eyes turned to him, watching him. He could see fear in those eyes. Real fear. He plunked down a half dozen more glowing coals on the iron pot.

  “Where is Richard?”

  She had nothing to say. He piled on more coals, into a nice, round hump. That was all the pot’s bottom would hold.

  He bent over and looked into her eyes. Her skin was as white as chalk. Sweat glistened on her face, on her breasts.

  “Where are you whores hiding Richard?”

  “You are crazy, Drefan. I don’t like this, but if this is how I am to die, then I will die. But I will never betray Lord Rahl.”

  “I am Lord Rahl! When I get rid of my brother, there will be no one to challenge my rule! I am the son of Darken Rahl, and the rightful master of D’Hara.”

  She turned her face away. He saw her swallow. Her feet were trembling. Her smooth breathing was interrupted now and again, caught up short.

  He chuckled. “I’ll ask again, when the rats start gnawing their way through you, to get away from their hot, iron prison. When their sharp little claws start digging into your belly. When the rats start tunneling into your guts, trying to get out.”

  Cara’s whole body jerked. It jerked again. Her eyes widened as she stared up at the ceiling, trying to keep the moan from escaping her throat. He glanced back and saw a drop of blood run from under the rim of the bowl, down her side.

  “Well, looks like they already want out. Ready to talk, yet?”

  She spat at him, and then gasped sharply. Her wide blue eyes fixed on the ceiling. She was trembling all over now.

  Her whole body stiffed. Every muscle strained. She started to pant. Tears filled the corners of her eyes, to run down the side of her face.

  She was feeling every little thing the rats did—every frantic bite, every desperate digging, ripping of their claws.

  Cara let out a short little cry. Sharp, shrill, clipped.

  It was rapture. He knew it was only the beginning. Even if she talked, he had no intention of stopping this. He longed to hear screams. Real, from the gut screams.

  Cara obliged him, and let out her first.

  Because of his singular perception, another detail caught his attention. His vigilance had again rewarded him. Smiling, he turned to the sliph’s well.

  Breathe.

  Kahlan expelled the sliph, but she knew something was wrong even before she sucked a breath of air.

  A piercing scream echoed around the stone room. Kahlan thought the shriek would make her ears bleed.

  As she erupted from the sliph, before she could brace herself to react, big, strong hands reached down and seized her. She struggled to get her bearings, to make sense of what was happening as the sudden light and sound whirled in around her.

  The hands tore the book from her grasp. An arm clamped around her neck, its big fist gripping her arm. She felt rope being wound around her wrist.

  A nightmare came to life in her vision as she was dragged from the well, kicking and twisting and trying to get away. She went limp when a fist in her gut drove the wind from her lungs. Her knees smacked the stone floor. Her arms felt as if they were being wrenched from her shoulder sockets as they were twisted behind her back.

  She fought to reach her Confessor’s power—only to remember when she couldn’t touch it that the spirits had walled it from her so she could be married to Drefan. She was defenseless. It was Drefan attacking her.

  Cara was there, on the floor, her wrists bound above her head, the rope fastened to a pin in the wall. Her ankles, likewise secured with rope, were stretched toward the opposi
te wall. She had an iron pot chained over her middle. The smell of hot coals and burning flesh assailed Kahlan’s nostrils, gagging her.

  Drefan pressed his knee to her arm as he knotted rope around her wrists. Kahlan tried to bite his leg. He backhanded her across the face so hard that her vision narrowed to a tiny spot. She fought to keep that vision, to stay conscious. She knew that she was lost if she passed out.

  Her arms bound behind her, unable to break her fall, she smacked into the stone floor face-first. Drefan pounced on her back, sitting on her, holding her down, as he bound her legs together. Kahlan struggled to pull a breath against the weight of him. Blood gushed from her nose. The rope around her wrists was so tight that already her fingers were tingling.

  Cara screamed. It was the loudest scream Kahlan had ever heard. It sent icy needles stabbing into her head. It made her face hurt.

  Blood was running from under the rim of the iron pot. Cara shook and thrashed. She stiffened and screamed again.

  Drefan lifted Kahlan’s head by her hair. “Where’s Richard?”

  “Richard? Richard is dead.”

  Kahlan grunted at a punch in her kidney. She couldn’t get her breath. Drefan turned his attention to Cara.

  “Ready to talk yet? Where did you hide Richard?”

  Cara’s only answer was another shuddering scream. When it ended, she panted in pain.

  “Why did you tell him?” Cara wept. “Why did you tell him about… the rats? Dear spirits, why did you tell him about the rats?”

  Terror locked Kahlan’s breath in her lungs.

  Blood, vivid red against white skin, ran in rivulets from under the pot’s rim, and down Cara’s side. Smoke curled up from the hot coals atop it. And then Kahlan saw the bloody claw wriggling from under the rim of the pot on Cara’s stomach. Kahlan suddenly understood. It took all her force of will to keep from vomiting.

  Cara cried hysterically, thrashing at the bloody ropes holding her.

  Kahlan furiously squirmed forward, going for the chain, to try to undo it with her teeth—to try to get the iron pot off Cara. Drefan lifted Kahlan by her hair.