Confessor

by Terry Goodkind

  Nicci cocked her head a little as she gazed down critically at the angled double lines he was drawing. “Kind of like making bread. If you add the right things, in the right way, the dough does what it’s supposed to do. Shivering and shaking doesn’t help the dough rise or the bread bake.”

  “Uh-huh,” Richard said as he went back to dragging a finger through the sorcerer’s sand, folding an arc around the angled element. “Just like bread. Except that if you do it wrong it can kill you.”

  “Well, I’ve had bread that I thought might kill me,” she murmured absently as she carefully watched what he was doing, her body leaning almost as if to help him curve the line just so.

  Nicci had been able to re-create some of the elements he was drawing from the book Berdine had brought to them when they’d been in Panis Rahl’s tomb. Some of the spell-forms had been broken down and diagrammed in the book. For others, Nicci’s understanding and experience were invaluable, enabling her to infer some of the remaining parts of the spell-forms from the text alone. In that way she had re-created everything necessary.

  Richard had been worried that the book didn’t actually illustrate everything that the process needed, and that Nicci might be inferring wrongly. She had told him that they had a great many very real things to worry about, but that particular concern wasn’t one of them.

  For Richard, this was also a practical test, a chance to use the things he had been studying day and night before the challenge that was to come, the one that would take him into the world of the dead. They didn’t have the boxes, of course, but once the boxes were in play there were preliminary procedures that could be done without them. Those measures, considering how dangerous they were, were not something that Richard was looking forward to, but he had no choice. If he wanted to get Kahlan back, along with everything else he needed to accomplish, then there were things he was simply going to have to do, no matter how much he feared them.

  At least his ancient benefactor, First Wizard Baraccus, had left a number of clues to help him. Now that Richard had been reconnected with his gift, he also needed to recover the book that Baraccus had left for him: Secrets of a War Wizard’s Power. If there was ever a time that he needed the information that would be contained in that book, now was that time.

  The book, along with the war wizard outfit, much of which also used to belong to Baraccus, was hidden in the castle down in Tamarang, not far from the wilds. Unfortunately that was also where Richard had last seen Six, just before Commander Karg had captured him and taken him to the Imperial Order encampment.

  As Richard carefully drew the spell-forms, he was also impatient for the emperor to start losing sleep, start feeling tense and distracted. He had been confident and sure of himself for long enough. It was time for Jagang to start having nightmares.

  Richard could just hear the harsh croaks coming through the glass above them. He glanced up and saw Jillian’s raven, Lokey, perched on the framework of the glass, watching them. From high in the sky the raven had followed his lifelong friend throughout her captivity, feasting on the ample refuse throughout the camp. Lokey had seemed to consider the whole thing, as he considered most things in life, nothing more than a curious holiday.

  Jillian had known that Lokey was there, but she never let on lest one of Jagang’s guards shoot the bird with an arrow. Lokey was a wary bird, though, and seemed to vanish whenever anyone took notice of him. Jillian said that a few times when she came out of Jagang’s tent she saw the raven fly high above and do stunts to show off for her.

  Being a captive of Jagang, though, Jillian hadn’t been cheered by the antics of her raven. She had been in a state of constant terror.

  A few flakes of snow were beginning to collect in the corners of the leaded glass. Against the night sky the inky black bird was mostly invisible. Sometimes only its bill and its eyes reflecting the torchlight could be seen, giving it the appearance of a ghostly apparition watching them.

  From time to time the raven tilted its head as if it, too, were evaluating Richard’s tedious work. As it flapped its wings to animate its raucous caws, moonlight appearing from time to time between the scudding clouds reflected off its glossy black feathers.

  The raven was impatiently waiting to do its part.

  “Are you ready?” Richard asked, still concentrating as he drew a line in the sorcerer’s sand.

  Jillian nodded nervously. She had been waiting her whole life for this moment.

  Sitting in the center of a place cleared for her in the sorcerer’s sand, with spells drawn all around her, she was looking very solemn. She knew that this was the purpose for which her grandfather had selected her, trained her. She was the priestess of the bones, meant to cast dreams to protect her people.

  Torches ringing the sand in the center of the lawn softly hissed. Their flames slowly wavered in the dead-still air. The dark band painted across Jillian’s face, across her copper-colored eyes, was meant to hide her from evil spirits.

  As the priestess of the bones, she was now Richard’s servant. Richard, as the Lord Rahl, was now the one meant to help her cast the dreams. It was an ancient connection between their people, meant for mutual protection. What they were casting, however, was not exactly dreams.

  They were casting nightmares.

  Jillian’s people were from Caska. She had been learning to be a teller, someone respected for their knowledge of the ancient times and her people’s heritage. Her grandfather was the living teller, the one teaching her the old knowledge, the lore of their past. Someday that legacy would be passed to Jillian.

  Her ancestors, a gentle people who had hoped to evade conflicts by settling in a wasteland no one else would covet, had cast dreams to keep potential trouble away. Then, as now, they had cast dreams to repel the horde from the Old World to the south. In that great war they had failed and been all but destroyed.

  Richard and Nicci had listened carefully to the tellings, to everything Jillian knew about those ancestral times. Between that, the book, and his own knowledge of the relevant history, Richard had pieced together what had happened.

  Most of Jillian’s ancestors had been killed, but a number had been captured and turned over to the wizards from the Old World, who coveted their unique ability. Those people were used by the wizards as the raw material to create human weapons. What those wizards had conjured from the captives had become the dream walkers—men used not to cast dreams, but to invade them.

  Now Jagang was the only living dream walker, the living link to the great war from three thousand years before, the war that had reignited. From what Richard had learned, a dream walker had been born into the world again because an enemy spy had gotten into the Temple of the Winds and tampered with magic banished there. Wizard Baraccus had found a solution—insuring that Richard would be born with both sides of the gift in order to counter that threat. Jillian’s people were descended from the same stock Jagang had come from. His ancestors had once been dreamcasters, like Jillian.

  And now Jillian was once again, as the priestess of the bones, about to fulfill her ancient calling of casting dreams to repel the invaders…with one exception.

  Back in the great war Jillian’s ancestors had failed. Everything Jillian knew from the tellings spoke of casting dreams.

  Richard thought that might have been why they failed.

  He, instead, intended to cast nightmares.

  “Do you have the nightmares fixed in your mind?” he asked in a quiet voice.

  Jillian’s copper-colored eyes opened, appearing in the blackness of the painted band. “Yes, Father Rahl. I never had nightmares before these cruel people from the Old World returned. I only had dreams. I never really knew what nightmares were.” She swallowed. “Now I know nightmares.”

  “Someday, Jillian,” Richard said as he bent and drew a starburst symbol before her, “I hope you can forget what nightmares are, but for now I need you to keep your thoughts focused on them.”

  “I promise, Lord Rahl. But I’
m only a girl. Are you really sure that I can cast nightmares to all those men?”

  Richard looked up into her eyes. “Those men have come to kill everything you love. You think up the nightmares, and Lokey will carry them to the men down in that camp—I will see to it.”

  Nicci squatted down beside Richard. “Jillian, don’t think about how many men there are down there. It doesn’t matter. Honestly. Where Lokey goes, he carries your dreams. As he flies over the camp, the nightmares will be dropping from his midnight black wings like an icy rain. It may not touch every man, but that doesn’t matter. It will touch a great many, and that’s all that counts.”

  Nicci gestured to the spell-forms before the girl. “These are the power, not you. These spells do the work of planting the nightmare over and over in those men, not you. Your only job is to think of the nightmare. See this spell here?” Nicci asked as she gestured to a continuous loop that folded in on itself. “This part endlessly multiplies your nightmare over and over.”

  “But it seems like it would take more effort than I can do.”

  With a small smile of reassurance, Richard reached out and laid a hand on Jillian’s arm. “It is I who helps you cast the dreams, remember? You must only think them; it is I who casts them as needed. It’s your thoughts along with my strength that does it.”

  “I can sure enough think of nightmares.” She smiled a little, then. “And you’re sure enough strong, Lord Rahl. I guess it makes sense when you both put it like that. Now I understand why I’ve needed you to cast dreams. That’s why the priestess of the bones had to wait for you to return to us.”

  Richard patted her arm. “The other thing you need to remember is that after Lokey flies around the camp, you must send him to land on Jagang’s tent. We want to give nightmares to as many men as possible, but Jagang is the focus of those nightmares, and that special dream with which I want to torment him, so when I whisper to you that it’s time for Lokey to land, you think about Jagang in his tent. This spell here”—he pointed—“will send Lokey to perch by the man. When I tell you, all you have to do is to remember Jagang and Lokey will go to his tent.”

  Jillian nodded. “I remember that awful tent.” Her copper-colored eyes, filling with tears, turned to Nicci. “And I sure enough know the nightmares that happen there.”

  Overhead, Lokey cawed and flapped his wings, eager to be away with his cargo of nightmares.

  CHAPTER 50

  Jennsen winced as the muscular guard twisted her arm and shoved her through the tent’s opening. She stumbled but was able to keep herself from falling. After riding through the sprawling camp in the bright winter sunlight, she found it difficult to see in the somber royal quarters. She squinted, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the dim light. She could see the hulking shapes of guards to either side.

  Jennsen turned to a commotion behind her and saw the same big soldiers pushing Anson, Owen, and Marilee, Owen’s wife, through the opening and into the tent as if they were herding animals to slaughter. Jennsen hadn’t seen much of the others over the course of their swift journey north. All of them had been kept gagged and blindfolded for most of the way to make sure that they were little more trouble to bring along than the rest of the baggage and supplies. It made Jennsen’s heart ache to see her friends back in the clutches of such evil people. It felt like a recurring nightmare.

  In the distance, on the other side of the tent’s large outer room, Jennsen saw Emperor Jagang sitting behind a heavy table, eating. Dozens of candles standing to each side of the table gave that end of the room the appearance of an altar in the inner sanctum. Slaves waited in a line against the back wall behind the emperor. The table was spread with an abundance of food, enough for a banquet. Jagang looked to be eating alone.

  The emperor’s black eyes were watching Jennsen as if she were a pheasant he was considering beheading, gutting, and roasting for the reclusive feast. He lifted a hand and with two fingers glistening with grease signaled her closer. Large rings on his fingers, as well as long jewel-encrusted chains around his neck, glimmered in the candlelight.

  Followed closely by a frightened Anson, Owen, and Marilee, Jennsen crossed the thick carpets to stand before the emperor’s table. The candle stands lit a table spread with ham, fowl, beef, and sauces of every sort. There were nuts and fruits, as well as a variety of cheeses.

  His terrible gaze never leaving her, Jagang used the fingers of one hand to twist the breast off a small roasted bird. He held a silver goblet in the other hand. He took a big bite, then washed it down with red wine from the goblet. She knew it was red wine because much of it rolled down from the sides of his mouth to drip all over his sleeveless lamb’s-wool vest.

  “Well, well,” he said as he plunked the goblet down on the table, “if it isn’t Richard Rahl’s little sister come for another visit.”

  The last time she had come to the emperor’s table she had been with Sebastian. The last time she had been a guest. The last time she had not known that she was being used. She had grown up a lot since that day.

  “Hungry, darlin?”

  Jennsen was starving. “No,” she lied.

  Jagang smiled. “I don’t need to be a dream walker to be able to tell that you’re lying.”

  Jennsen flinched when the man’s big fist slammed down on the table. Plates jumped. Bottles fell over. Goblets spilled. The three people behind her gasped.

  Jagang shot to his feet. “I don’t like being lied to!”

  Fright flashed through Jennsen at his sudden rage. Veins stood out in his forehead. His whole face had gone red. She thought he might strike her dead where she stood.

  Before he was able to act on his rage, a shaft of light slashed into the room. Two women ducked through the opening in the tent. The heavy wool flap hanging over the opening lowered, allowing the gloom to settle back in.

  Jagang turned his attention from Jennsen to the two women. “Ulicia, Armina, any word of Nicci?”

  The two, obviously taken off guard by the question, shared a brief look with each other.

  “Answer me, Ulicia! I’m in no mood for games!”

  “No, Excellency, there has been no word about Nicci.” The woman cleared her throat. “If I may ask, Excellency, do you have reason to believe she may be alive?”

  Jagang cooled visibly. “Yes.” He sank down into his elaborately carved chair. “I’ve had dreams of her.”

  “But, the link to the Rada’Han went dead. There is no way she could have gotten it off without help. Perhaps they were nothing more than dreams.”

  “She’s alive!”

  Sister Ulicia dipped her head in a bow. “Of course, Excellency. You would know better than I about such things.”

  He rubbed his forehead with the tips of his fingers. “I haven’t been sleeping well of late. I grow weary of sitting in this miserable place, waiting for progress. I should have the men building the ramp whipped, as slow as they are. I thought the executions after the riots would spur them into being more devoted to their duty. This is for our cause, after all. Perhaps if I throw some of the slower workers from the top of the ramp that would hurry the rest of them.”

  “Well, Excellency,” Sister Ulicia said as she stepped forward, looking eager to turn his attention away from his dark and violent thoughts, “we have something that we think may make you feel a great deal better about our progress.”

  He looked up sharply, then scooped his goblet off the table and took a long drink. He set the goblet back down and squeezed off a fistful of ham from the large platter of it sitting just to his right.

  After taking a bite from the meat in his hand, he gestured to the two Sisters. “What is it, then?”

  “A number of books were brought back with Jennsen. One in particular is…well, Excellency, we think you should see it for yourself.”

  Jagang was looking impatient again. He rolled a hand.

  Both women rushed forward at the command. Sister Armina held up the book Jennsen remembered seeing brought up from t
he secret underground room in the graveyard.

  “The Book of Counted Shadows,” she said.

  Jagang looked to each woman’s eyes, then held both hands out to the side. A slave immediately stepped forward with a towel and started cleaning the emperor’s hands. When Jagang tilted his head toward the table, other slaves stepped in to start clearing platters and bowls away. After they had cleared space on the table a young woman, dressed in an outfit that revealed far more than it concealed, rushed in to wipe the wooden tabletop.

  As Jagang was still having his hands cleaned, Sister Armina set the book down before the emperor. He slapped the slave’s hands away and turned to the book. He leaned over as he opened the cover and began inspecting the text inside.

  “Well,” he finally asked as he turned pages, “what do you think? Is it the true copy or a false one?”

  “It’s not a copy, Excellency.”

  He looked up with a frown that seemed like it might turn lethal. “What do you mean it’s not a copy?”

  “It’s the original, Excellency.”

  Jagang blinked, unsure that he’d heard her right. He leaned back in his chair to stare up at the woman.

  “The original?”

  Sister Ulicia stepped close. She leaned across the table and turned the pages back to the beginning.

  “Look at this, here, Excellency.” She tapped a place to show him. “This is the maker’s mark. It’s his seal containing a spell to signify that this is original.”

  “So what? Maybe the seal is false.”

  Sister Ulicia was shaking her head. “No, Excellency. That’s just not the way it works. When a prophet writes down prophecies in a book he puts this kind of mark in the front of his writings to signify that it’s the original, that it’s his work, in his own hand, and not a copy.

  “You have many books of prophecy, Excellency, but with a couple of exceptions, they are all copies of the original. Most have no seal at all. Sometimes the man who copies the original makes his own mark so that his work can be identified and to make sure it is recognized as a copy. Such a seal to signify a copy is never like this. This is a unique sort of mark that is never put in a copy, only in the original.