“This rock is sharp, so it might be pieces broken off by the working of water freezing, but probably, since I can’t see any time-worn places, it happened more recently. Yet I just don’t see any evidence of the mass of rock that would have had to come off this mountain. Even if it had been covered over in time. I’d think that where we’re standing would be a huge mound.”
The lieutenant glanced about. “You have a point. This is pretty much level with the bottom of the rift. If all that rock broke off, there’s no mound under the forest down here.”
Richard watched the soldiers all about searching through the rock and woods for any sign of the Temple of the Winds. None looked to be finding anything.
“I can’t see that it’s down here. I just don’t see any reason to believe that the mountain fell down here.”
Ulic and Egan folded their arms again, the matter settled as far as they were concerned.
Lieutenant Crawford cleared his throat. “Lord Rahl, if the half of Mount Kymermosst that used to be there isn’t down here, then where is it?”
Richard shared a long look with the man. “That’s what I’d like to know. If it isn’t down here, then it must be someplace else.”
The blond-headed lieutenant shifted his weight to his other foot. “Well, it didn’t just get up and walk away, Lord Rahl.”
Richard turned his scabbard out of the way as he started climbing down off the rocks. He realized he was frightening the man; Richard seemed to be suggesting something that hinted at magic.
“It must be as you say, lieutenant. It must have fallen and grown over. Perhaps the cleft between the mountains was deeper back then, and the fall simply filled it in, rather than making a mound.”
The lieutenant liked the idea. It gave him a rock solid reality. Richard didn’t believe it. The cliff face looked peculiar to him. It was too smooth, as if cleaved with a huge sword. Yes, there were jagged places, but that would explain the rock that was at the bottom. It looked to him as though the mountain had been cut off and taken away, and over time water and ice had worked at the smooth face of the cliff, breaking off pieces and making it more craggy; but it was nowhere near as rough as the other cliffs round about.
“That might explain it, Lord Rahl,” the lieutenant said. “If that’s true, though, that would mean that the temple you’re looking for must be buried deep underground.”
With his two huge guards right at his heels, Richard made for the horses. “I want to have a look up on top. I want to see the ruins up there.”
Their guide, a middle-aged man named Andy Millett, was waiting with the horses. He wore simple wool clothes of browns and greens, much like Richard used to wear. His shaggy brown hair hung past his ears. Andy was immensely proud that Lord Rahl had asked him to guide them to Mount Kymermosst. Richard felt a bit sheepish about that; Andy was simply the first person Richard found who knew where it was.
“Andy, I’d like to go up to the ruins on top.”
Andy handed Richard the reins to the big roan. “Sure enough, Lord Rahl. There’s not much up there, but I’d be glad to show you, just the same.”
Big as his two guards were, they mounted lightly, their horses hardly moving under the sudden weight. Richard swung up into the saddle and wiggled his right boot into the stirrup.
“Can we get up there before dark? Most of that spring snowstorm is melted. The trail should be open.”
Andy glanced at the sun, which was just about touching a mountain. “With the way you ride, Lord Rahl, I’d say long before. Usually, important people slow me down. I think I’m the one slowing you down.”
Richard smiled. He remembered the same thing himself. The more important the person he guided, the slower they went, it seemed.
The sky was streaked with golds and reds by the time they reached the ruins. The surrounding mountains were cast in deep shadow. The ruins seemed to glow in the honeyed light.
There were some once elegant structures, now crumbling, that looked to have been a part of a larger place, just as Kahlan had said. Here and there on the barren mountaintop, parts of walls still stood, their stones not covered by vine and wood, as they would have been down below, but covered with a rust of lichens instead. Richard dismounted and handed his reins to Lieutenant Crawford. The building to the left of the broad road was large by any standards Richard had grown up with, but compared to castles and palaces he had seen since, it was an insignificant structure.
The doorway stood empty. Crumbling evidence of a doorframe remained, still partly covered with gold leaf. Inside, the walls echoed with his footsteps. A stone bench sat in one room of the roofless building. In another room a stone fountain held snowmelt.
A twisting hall with most of its barrel ceiling still in place led Richard past a warren of rooms. The hall split, leading, he surmised, to rooms at either corner of the building. He followed the left branch to the room at the end.
Like all the rooms on this side, it faced the cliff. Hollow rectangles gaped where windows once shielded the room from wind and rain. Beyond, through the openings, was a view past the edge of the cliff to the blue haze of the mountains beyond.
This was the place where visitors and supplicants to the temple would have awaited admittance. During their wait, they would have had a glorious view of the Temple of the Winds. If they were turned away, they left with at least that much. He could almost see what those who had stood in this very spot had seen.
It was his gift, he knew, that was telling him this, much the way the spirits of those who once held the Sword of Truth guided him when he used that magic.
As he stood staring, he could almost imagine it there, just beyond the edge, a place of grandeur and might. This was where the wizards had taken things of powerful magic for safekeeping. The wizards of old, some of them Richard’s ancestors, had probably stood where he stood, looking out at the Temple of the Winds.
Richard strolled around outside in the fading light, past the stately columns, peering into guard huts and once magnificent garden structures, touching the deteriorating walls. Even though it all was now crumbling, it was easy for him to imagine the majestic scene it must once have been.
He stood in the center of the broad road that ran through the crumbling ruins, feeling his gold cloak billowing out behind in the wind, trying to visualize the place as it had been, trying to get the feel of it. The road, more than the buildings, gave him the eerie feeling of the presence of the temple beyond. This road had once led right into the Temple of the Winds.
He strode the wide roadway, imagining striding toward the Temple of the Winds, the winds that had said they were hunting him. He passed along part of a wall, and between the hollow stone buildings, feeling the timeless quality of the place, feeling the life that once was here.
But where had it gone? How was he to find it? Where else could he look? It had been here, and even now, Richard could almost see it, feel it, sense it, as if his gift were pulling him onward, pulling him home. Abruptly, he was jerked to a halt.
Ulic on one side of him, and Egan on the other, had seized him under his arms and pulled him back. He looked down, and saw that another step would have taken him out into thin air. Vultures soared in the updraft not twenty feet straight in front of him.
He felt as if he was standing at the edge of the world. The view was dizzying. The hair on the back of his neck stiffened.
More should lie beyond the edge at his feet; he knew it should. But there was nothing there. The Temple of the Winds was gone.
Chapter 43
Breathe.
Kahlan did as she was told, expelling the sliph, and pulling in the sharp, cold air.
The sound of a hissing torch roared in her ears. Her own breath echoed painfully. But she knew what to expect by now, and calmly waited for the world around her to twist back to normal.
Except this was not normal. At least it was not the normal she expected.
“Sliph, where are we?” Her voice reverberated around her.
; “Where you wished to travel: the Jocopo Treasure. You should be pleased, but if you are not, I will try again.”
“No, no, it isn’t that I’m not pleased, it’s just that this wasn’t what I expected.”
She was in a cave. The torch wasn’t the familiar kind she was accustomed to, a length of wood with pitch at the head, but instead was made of bundled reeds. The ceiling nearly brushed her head as she swung her legs down from the sliph’s well and stood.
Kahlan pulled the bundled-reed torch from where it was wedged in a split in the rough stone wall.
“I’ll be back,” she told the sliph. “I’ll have a look around, and if I don’t find a way out, I’ll come back and we’ll go somewhere else.” She realized that there must be a way out, or the torch wouldn’t have been there. “Or else, when I’m through finding what I’m looking for, I’ll be back.”
“I will be ready when you wish to travel. We will travel again. You will be pleased.”
Kahlan nodded to the silver face reflecting the dancing torchlight, then stepped into the cave. There was only one way out of the room she was in, a wide, low passageway, so she went through it, following it as it twisted and turned through the dark brown rock. There were no other corridors, or rooms, so she kept going.
The passageway led to a broad room, perhaps fifty or sixty feet across, and she found out why this place was called the Jocopo Treasure. Torchlight reflected back in thousands of golden sparkles. The room was filled with gold.
Some was stacked in crude ingots, or spheres, as if the molten metal had been poured into pots, the pots then broken away. Simple boxes were piled high with nuggets. Other boxes, with handles at both ends so they could be carried by two men, held a rubble of golden objects.
There were several tables, still holding gold disks, and shelves along one wall. The shelves held several gold statues, but were filled mostly with rolled vellum scrolls. Kahlan wasn’t interested in the Jocopo Treasure; she didn’t take time to inspect the objects all around and, instead, made for the corridor on the other side of the room.
She didn’t want to linger in the room because she was worried and wanted to get to the Mud People, but even if she had been interested in looking around, she wouldn’t have stayed long; the air smelled awful, and made her gag and cough. The foul stench made her head spin and start to hurt.
The air in the passageway was better, though not what she would call good. She reached over and felt the bone knife, and found it still warm. At least it wasn’t hot, as it had been.
The tunnel began slanting upward as it twisted along. As she went higher, the dark rock became dirt, in places held back with beams. She didn’t see any other passages branching off until she began to smell fresh air. One tunnel branched left, and in a few paces, another right. She felt cool air drifting down from the one straight ahead, and so went that way.
The flame of the torch whipped and fluttered as she stepped out into the night. The sky glittered with stars. A figure not far away sprang up. Kahlan backed a few paces into the cave, glancing both ways to see if there was anyone else waiting outside.
“Mother Confessor?” came a voice she knew.
Kahlan took a step forward and held out the torch into the night air. “Chandalen? Chandalen, is it you?”
The muscular figure rushed into the torchlight. He had no shirt, and was smeared with mud. Grass bundles were tied to his arms and head. His straight black hair was slicked down with the sticky mud the hunters used. Even though his face was also smeared with the mud, she recognized the familiar, wide grin.
“Chandalen,” she said with a sigh of relief. “Oh, Chandalen, I’m so happy to see you.”
“And I you, Mother Confessor.”
He advanced toward her, to slap her face in the traditional Mud People greeting to show respect for another’s strength.
Kahlan held her hands out, warding him. “No! Stay away!”
He straightened to a halt. “Why?”
“Because there was sickness where I came from—in Aydindril. I don’t want to get too close to any of you, for fear I might pass the fever on to you and our people.”
The Mud People were, indeed, her people. She and Richard had been named Mud People by the Bird Man and the other elders, and were now members of the village, even though they lived apart.
Chandalen’s pleasure at seeing her faded. “There is sickness here, too, Mother Confessor.
Kahlan’s torch lowered. “What?” she whispered.
“Much has happened. Our people are afraid, and I cannot protect them. We called a gathering. Grandfather’s spirit came to us. He said that there was much trouble.
“He said he must speak with you and that he would send you a message to come to us.”
“The knife,” she said. “I felt his call through the knife. I came right away.”
“Yes. Just before dawn, he told us this. One of the elders came out of the spirit house and said I was to come to this place to wait for you. How did you come to us from the hole in the ground?”
“It’s a long story. It was magic . . . Chandalen, I don’t have the time to wait until we can call another gathering to speak with the ancestor spirits. There’s trouble. I can’t afford to wait three days.”
He lifted the torch from her hand. His face was grim under the mud mask. “There is no need to wait three days. Grandfather waits for you in the spirit house.”
Kahlan’s eyes widened. She knew that a gathering lasted only through the one night it was called. “How can that be?”
“The elders still sit in the circle. Grandfather told them to wait for you. He, too, waits.”
“How many are sick?”
Chandalen held all his fingers up once, and then only one hand a second time. “They have great pain in their heads. They empty their stomachs even though they have nothing in them. They burn with fever. Some begin to turn black on their fingers and toes.”
“Dear spirits,” she whispered to herself. “Have any died?”
“One child died this day, just before grandfather sent me here. He was the first to become sick.”
Kahlan herself felt sick. Her head spun as she tried to come to grips with what she was hearing. The Mud People didn’t usually tolerate other people coming to their village, and they rarely ventured from their lands. How could this have happened?
“Chandalen, have any outsiders come?”
He shook his head. “We would not allow it. Outsiders bring trouble.” He seemed to reconsider. “One may have tried to come. But we would not allow her to come to the village.”
“Her?”
“Yes. Some of the children were playing at hunting out in the grassland. A woman came to them, asking if she could come to the village. The children ran back to tell us. When I took my hunters to the place, we could not find her. We told the children that their spirit ancestors would be angry if they played such tricks again.”
Kahlan feared to ask, because she feared the answer. “The child who died today, he was one of those children who said they saw the woman, wasn’t he?”
Chandalen cocked his head. “You are a wise woman, Mother Confessor.”
“No, I’m a frightened woman, Chandalen. A woman came to Aydindril, and talked to children. They have begun to die, too. Did the boy who died say that she showed him a book?”
“When I went on my journey with you, you showed me these things called books that you use to pass on knowledge, but the children here do not know of such things. We teach our children with living words, as our ancestors taught us.
“The boy did say that this woman showed him pretty colored lights. That does not sound like the books I remember.”
Kahlan put a hand to Chandalen’s arm, a touch that once would have frightened him with the implied threat of a Confessor’s power, but now worried him for other reasons.
“You said we should not be close.”
“It doesn’t matter, now,” she reassured him. “I can cause no further harm; the same si
ckness is here that is in Aydindril.”
“I am sorry, Mother Confessor, that this sickness and death should visit your home, too.”
They embraced in friendship, and shared fear.
“Chandalen, what is this place? This cave?”
“I told you of it once. The place with the bad air and the worthless metal.”
“Then we’re north of your home?”
“North, and some west.”
“How long will it lake us to get back to the village?”
He gave his own chest a thump with a fist. “Chandalen is strong and runs fast. I left our village as the sun was going down. It takes Chandalen only a couple hours. Even in the dark.”
She surveyed the moonlit grassland beyond the low, rocky hill on which they stood. “There is enough moon to see our way.” Kahlan managed a small smile. “And you ought to know that I’m as strong as you, Chandalen.”
Chandalen returned the smile. It was a wonderful sight to see, even under the circumstances. “Yes, I remember well your strength, Mother Confessor. We will run, then.”
The moonlight conveyed intimately the ghostly, boxy shapes of the Mud People’s village lying hidden on the dark, grass-covered plain. Few lights burned in the small windows. At this late hour not many people were out, and Kahlan was glad for that; she didn’t want to see the faces of these people, see the fear and sorrow in their eyes, and know that many of them would die.
Chandalen took her directly to the spirit house, among the communal buildings at the north side of the village. Most of these buildings were bunched close together, but the spirit house sat apart. Moonlight reflected off the tile roof Richard had helped to make. Guards, Chandalen’s hunters, ringed the windowless building.
Outside the door, on a low bench, sat the fatherly figure of the Bird Man. His silver hair hanging down around his shoulders shone in the moonlight. He was naked. Black and white mud covered his body and face in a tangle of whorls and lines: a mask all in the gathering wore so the spirits could see them.
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