“Maybe I did. Zedd says that sometimes a trick is the best magic.”
The sound of his voice resonated with something deep inside her, made her feel weak. “And Adie said you have the magic of the tongue,” she whispered.
The look in his gray eyes penetrated her, impaling her with its power, making her breathing quicken. Haunting sounds of the boldas carried in from the distance, mingling with the sound of the fire, of his breathing. She had never felt this safe, this relaxed, and this tense, all at the same time. It was confusing.
Her gaze wandered from his eyes, feasting on other places on his face: the shape of his nose, the angle of his cheeks, the line of his chin. Her eyes stopped on his lips. Suddenly she was aware of how hot it was in the spirit house. She felt lightheaded.
Probing his gaze again, she withdrew the apple from her pocket and took a slow, juicy bite, dragging her teeth across the meat. The iron look in his eyes never wavered. Fluidly, impulsively, she put the apple to his mouth and held it there as he took a big, wet bite. If only it were possible for him to put his lips on her like that, she thought.
And why not? Was she to die in this quest without being allowed to be a woman? Must she be only a warrior? Fight for everyone’s happiness but her own? Seekers, in the best of times, died all too quickly, and these were not the best of times.
These were the end of times.
She ached at the thought of him dying.
She pushed the apple harder against his teeth as she watched his eyes. Even if she took him, she reasoned, he could still fight on, at her side, maybe with even more resolve than he had now. It would be for different reasons, but he would be just as deadly, maybe more so. He would be different, though, not the same person he was now. That person would be gone forever.
But at least he would be hers. She wanted him so desperately, in a way she had never wanted anything before, a way that was painful. Were they both to die without being allowed to live? She felt a tingling weakness with the need of him.
Teasingly, she took the apple from his mouth. Juice ran down his chin. Slowly, deliberately, she leaned over and licked the sweet juice from his chin. He didn’t move. Their faces were inches apart; she shared his breath, quick and warm. So close was she that her eyes could scarcely focus on his. She had to swallow the wetness in her mouth.
Reason was rapidly evaporating from her mind, being replaced with feelings that tantalized her with promise, gripped her with hot need.
She released the apple, brought her wet fingers to his lips, and watched, her own tongue on her upper lip, as he let each finger slide into his mouth, slowly sucking the juice from them one at a time as she offered them. The feeling of the inside of his mouth, wet and warm, sent shivers through her.
A small sound escaped her lips. Her heart pounded in her ears. Her chest heaved. She ran her wet fingers down his chin, his neck, to his chest, lightly gliding them over the symbols painted on him, tracing them with her fingers, feeling the hills and valleys of him.
Coming to her knees above him, she circled a fingertip around the hardness of one of his nipples, firmly caressed his chest as she let her eyes slide closed for a moment while gritting her teeth. Gently, but forcefully, she pushed him down on his back. He went easily, without protest. She leaned over him with her hand still on his chest for support. The feeling of him surprised her, the rigid hardness of his muscles, sheathed with yielding, velvety soft skin, the wetness of his sweat, the coarseness of his hairs, the heat. His chest rose and fell with his heavy breathing, with the life in him.
Leaving one knee next to his hip, she put the other between his legs as she looked down into his eyes, her thick hair cascading down around his face as she continued to support herself with the hand on his chest, not wanting to move it, to lose the connection with his moist flesh. A connection that was igniting her with its heat.
Between her knees, the muscles of his thigh flexed, sending her pulse racing even faster. She had to open her mouth to get her breath. She lost herself in his eyes, eyes that felt as if they were probing her soul, stripping it bare. They sent fire raging through her.
With her other hand she smoothly unbuttoned her shirt and pulled out the tails.
She put her hand behind his strong neck, still holding herself up, away from him, with the other on his chest. Her fingers slid into his damp hair, tightened into a fist, held his head to the ground.
A big, powerful hand slipped under her shirt, to the small of her back, stroking in little circles, then slowly slid up the line of her spine, sending shivers through her, before coming to a stop between her shoulder blades. Her eyes half closed as she flexed her back against his hand, wanting him to draw her against him. Her breathing was so fast, she was almost panting.
She drew her knee up his leg until it wouldn’t go any farther. Little sounds escaped with some of her breaths. His chest heaved against her hand. As he lay under her, she thought he had never seemed so big to her before.
“I want you,” she panted in a breathless whisper.
Her head lowered. Her lips brushed against his.
A look of pain seemed to cross his eyes. “Only if you first tell me what you are.”
The words cut through her, bringing her eyes open wide. Her head moved back a little. But she was touching him; he could not stop her, she thought, she didn’t want him to stop her. She barely had a grasp on the power as it was, and it was slipping from her hold. She could feel it. She brought her lips back to his, another small sound escaping with her breath.
The hand on her back moved up under her shirt, took a fistful of her hair, gently pulling her head away.
“Kahlan, I mean it. Only if you tell me first.”
Reason flooded back into her mind, washing coldly through her, drowning her passion. She had never cared for anyone like this. How could she touch him with her power? How could she do this to him? She pushed back. What was she doing? What was she thinking?
She sat back on her heels, taking her hand from his chest, putting it over her mouth. The world crashed in around her. How could she tell him? He would hate her; she would lose him. Her head spun sickeningly.
Richard sat up, put his hand gently on her shoulder. “Kahlan,” he said softly, drawing her panicked eyes to his, “you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to. Only if you want to do this.”
Her eyebrows wrinkled together as she tried to keep from crying. “Please.” She could hardly get the words out. “Just hold me?”
He drew her tenderly to him, held her head to his shoulder. Pain, pain of who she was, reached its icy fingers back into her. His other arm wrapped protectively around her, holding her tight against him as he rocked her.
“That’s what friends are for,” he whispered in her ear.
She was too drained even to cry.
“I promise, Richard, I will tell you. But not tonight? Tonight, just hold me. Please?”
He slowly lay back down, embracing her tightly against him with his strong arms as she bit one of her knuckles and clutched him with her other hand.
“When you want to. Not before,” he promised.
The horror of what she was wrapped her in its cold embrace, too. She shook with the chill of it. Her eyes refused to close for a long time, until at last she went to sleep, her last thoughts of him.
28
“Try once more,” the Bird Man said. “And stop thinking of the bird you want”—he tapped Richard’s head with his knuckles—“from here.” He jabbed a finger in Richard’s abdomen. “Think of it here!”
Richard nodded at Kahlan’s translation and put the whistle to his lips. His cheeks puffed out as he blew. As usual, there was no sound. The Bird Man, Richard, and Kahlan looked around the flat country. The hunters who had escorted them out onto the plain, their heads swiveling nervously, leaned against spears planted point up in the grassy ground.
Seemingly from nowhere, starlings, sparrows, and small field birds, thousands of them, descended, diving and swooping,
on the small company. The hunters ducked, laughing, as they had all day. The air was filled with small birds flying wildly about in a frenzy. The sky was black with them. The hunters fell to the ground, covering their heads, laughing hysterically. Richard rolled his eyes. Kahlan turned her face from him as she laughed. The Bird Man frantically put his own whistle to his lips and blew over and over again, his silver hair flying, trying desperately to send the birds back. At last they heeded his calls and vanished once more. Quiet returned to the grassland except, of course, for the hunters, who still rolled on the ground in laughter.
The Bird Man took a deep breath and put his hands on his hips. “I give up. We have been trying all day, and it is the same now as when we started. Richard With The Temper,” he announced, “you are the worst bird caller I have ever seen. A child could learn it in three tries, but there is not enough breath in you for the rest of your life to learn. It is hopeless. The only thing your whistle says is, ‘Come, there is food here.’”
“But I was thinking ‘hawk,’ I really was. Every kind of bird you named, I thought it hard as I could, honest.”
When Kahlan translated, the hunters laughed all the more. Richard scowled over at them, but they kept laughing. The Bird Man folded his arms with a sigh.
“It is no use. The day ends, the gathering will be soon.” He put his arm around the shoulders of a frustrated Seeker. “Keep the gift of the whistle anyway. Though it will never aid you, let it serve as a reminder that while you may be better at some things than most people, in this, even a child is better than you.”
The hunters roared. Richard sighed and gave the Bird Man a nod. Everyone collected their things and headed back to the village.
Richard leaned toward her. “I was trying my best. Really. I don’t understand it.”
She grinned, taking his hand in hers. “I am sure you were.”
Though the light was fading, the cloudy day had been the brightest in longer than she could remember, and it had helped to lift her spirits. Mostly, though, what helped her was the way Richard had treated her. He had let her have time to recover from last night without asking her anything. He had just held her, let her be.
Even though nothing more had happened, she felt closer to him than she ever had, but at the same time, she knew that was not a good thing. It only deepened her dilemma. She had almost made a very big mistake last night. The biggest mistake of her life. She was relieved that he had pulled her back from the brink. At the same time, part of her wished he hadn’t.
When she woke this morning, she didn’t know how he would feel about her, if he would be hurt, angry, or hate her. Even though she lay bare-chested against him all night, she turned her back to him in embarrassment while she buttoned her shirt. As her fingers slipped the buttons back in place, she told him that no one had ever had a friend as patient as the one she had. She said she only hoped that someday she could prove to be as good a friend as he was.
“You already have. You have placed your trust, your life, in my hands. You have pledged your life in defense of me. What more proof could I have?”
She turned, and resisting mightily the urge to kiss him, thanked him for putting up with her.
“I will have to admit, though,” he said, smiling, “that I will never look at an apple in quite the same way.”
That made her laugh, partly in embarrassment, and they both laughed together a long time. Somehow, it made her feel better, and took away what could have been a thorn.
Suddenly Richard stopped in his tracks. She stopped, too, as the others walked on.
“Richard, what is it?”
“The sun.” He looked pale. “For a moment, a shaft of sunlight was on my face.”
She turned to the west. “All I see are clouds.”
“It was there, a small opening, but I don’t see it either, now.”
“Do you think it means something?”
He shook his head. “I don’t know. But it’s the first time I’ve seen even the slightest break in the clouds since Zedd put them there. Maybe it’s nothing.”
They started walking again, the eerie sounds of the boldas carrying to them across the windswept, flat grasslands. By the time they reached the village, it was dark. The banquet was still going on, as it had all last night, as it would tonight, until the gathering was over. Everyone was still going strong, except the children; many of whom walked around in a sleepy stupor or slept contentedly in corners here and there.
The six elders were on their platform, their wives gone. They were eating a meal being served by special women: cooks who were the only ones allowed to prepare the gathering feast. Kahlan watched them pour a drink for each of the elders. It was red, different from any other drink at the banquet. The eyes of the six were glazed, far off, as if they were seeing things others didn’t. Kahlan felt a chill.
Their ancestors’ spirits were with them.
The Bird Man spoke to them. When he seemed satisfied by whatever it was they told him, he nodded and the six rose, walking in a line toward the spirit house. The sound of the drums and the boldas changed in a way that ran bumps up her arms. The Bird Man strode back to them, his eyes as sharp and intense as ever.
“It is time,” he told her. “Richard and I must go now.”
“What do you mean, ‘Richard and I’? I’m going too.”
“You cannot.”
“Why?”
“Because a gathering is only men.”
“I am the Seeker’s guide, I must be there to translate.”
The Bird Man’s eyes shifted about in an uncomfortable manner. “But a gathering is only men,” he repeated, seemingly unable to come up with a better reason.
She folded her arms. “Well, this one will have a woman.”
Richard looked from her face to the Bird Man’s and back again, knowing by the tone of her voice that something was going on, but deciding not to interfere. The Bird Man leaned a little closer to her, lowered his voice.
“When we meet the spirits, it must be as they are.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Are you trying to tell me that you can’t wear clothes?”
He took a deep breath and nodded. “And you must be painted with mud.”
“Fine,” she said, holding her head up. “I have no objections.”
He leaned back a little. “Well, what about the Seeker? Maybe you would like to ask him what he feels about you doing this.”
She held his eyes for a long time, then turned to Richard. “I need to explain something to you. When a person calls a gathering, they are sometimes asked questions by the spirits, through the elders, to be sure they are acting of noble intent. If you answer a question in a way that a spirit ancestor finds dishonorable or untruthful… they may kill you. Not the elders, the spirits.”
“I have the sword,” he reminded her.
“No, you won’t. If you want a gathering, you must do as the elders do, face the spirits with nothing but yourself. You can wear no sword, no clothes, and you must have mud painted on you.” She took a breath, pushed some hair back over her shoulder. “If I am not there to translate, you may get killed simply because you cannot answer a question you don’t understand. Then Rahl wins. I must be there to interpret. But if I’m there, I, too, can wear no clothes. The Bird Man is in a fret, and wishes to know what you think of this. He is hoping you will forbid me from doing this.”
Richard folded his arms, looking her in the eye. “I think you are bound and determined, one way or another, to have your clothes off in the spirit house.”
The corners of his mouth turned up, and his eyes sparkled. Kahlan had to bite her lower lip to keep from laughing. The Bird Man looked from one to the other, confused.
“Richard!” She spoke his name in a rising tone of caution. “This is serious. And don’t get your hopes up. It will be dark.” Still, she could hardly keep from laughing.
Richard’s face regained its seriousness as he turned to the Bird Man. “I called the gathering. I need Kahlan there.”
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She could almost see him flinch at the translation. “You two have been stretching my limits from the moment you arrived.” He gave a loud sigh. “Why should it change now? Let’s go.”
Kahlan and Richard walked side by side, following the Bird Man’s silhouette as he led them off through the dark passageways of the village, turning to the right several times, then the other way. Richard’s hand found hers. Kahlan was a lot more nervous about this than she let on, about sitting naked with eight naked men. But she was not about to let Richard go into the gathering without her. This was no time to let it all slip away from them: they had worked too hard; time was too short.
She put on her Confessor’s face.
Before they reached the spirit house, the Bird Man took them through a narrow doorway, into a small room in a building nearby. The other elders were there, sitting cross-legged on the floor, staring blankly ahead. She smiled at Savidlin, but he didn’t respond. The Bird Man picked up a small bench and two clay pots.
“When I call your name, come out. Wait until then.”
As the Bird Man took his bench and pots with him, squeezing sideways out the door, Kahlan told Richard what he had said. In a while he called Caldus’s name, and after a time, each of the other elders in turn, Savidlin last. Savidlin did not speak to them or even acknowledge that he knew they were there. The spirits were in his eyes.
Kahlan and Richard sat in silence in the empty, dark room, waiting. She picked at the heel of her boot, trying not to think about what it was she had committed herself to, yet unable to think of anything else.
Richard would be unarmed, without his sword, his protection. But she would not be without her power. She would be his protection. Though she had not spoken it, that was the other reason she had to be in there. If anything went wrong, it was going to be she who died, not him, that much she knew. She would see to it. She steeled herself, went into herself. She heard the Bird Man call out Richard’s name. He rose to his feet.
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