He became aware again, realizing that time had passed, though he didn’t have any idea how much. Was it dark? Maybe it was just that the curtains were pulled. Someone, he realized, was putting a cool, wet cloth on his forehead. His mother smoothed back his hair. Her touch felt comforting, soothing. He could almost make out her face. She was so good, she always took such good care of him.
Until she died. He wanted to cry. She was dead. Still, she smoothed his hair. That couldn’t be—it had to be someone else. But who? Then he remembered. It was Kahlan. He spoke her name.
Kahlan was smoothing his hair. “I am here.”
It came back to him, rushing back in a torrent: the murder of his father, the vine that bit him, Kahlan, the four men on the cliff, his brother’s speech—someone waiting for him at his house, the gar, the night wisp telling him to seek the answer or die—what Kahlan said, that the three boxes of Orden were in play—and his secret, the Book of Counted Shadows . . .
He remembered how his father had taken him to the secret place in the woods, and had told him how he had saved the Book of Counted Shadows from the peril it was in from the beast that guarded it until its master could come. How he had brought it with him to Westland to keep it from those covetous hands, hands that the keeper of the book didn’t know threatened. His father had told him how there was danger as long as the book existed, but he couldn’t destroy the knowledge in it—he had no right. It belonged to the keeper of the book, and it must be kept safe until it could be returned. The only way to do that was to commit the book to memory, and then burn it. Only in that way could the knowledge be preserved, but not stolen, as it otherwise surely would be.
His father chose Richard. That it was to be Richard and not Michael was for reasons of his own. No one could know of the book, not even Michael—only the keeper of the book, no one else, only the keeper. He said Richard might never find the keeper, and in that case he was to pass the book on to his child, and then that child to his own, and so on, for as long as was necessary. His father couldn’t tell him who the keeper of the book was, as he didn’t know. Richard asked how he was to know the keeper, but his father said only that he would have to find the answer himself, and not to tell anyone, ever, except the keeper. His father told Richard he was not to tell his own brother, or even his best friend, Zedd.
Richard swore on his life.
His father had never once looked in the book, only Richard. Day after day, week after week, with breaks only when he traveled, his father took him to the secret place deep in the woods, where he sat and watched Richard reading the book, over and over. Michael was usually off with his friends, and had no interest in going into the woods even if he was at home, and it wasn’t uncommon for Richard not to visit Zedd when his father was home, so neither had reason to know of the frequent trips to the woods.
Richard would write down what he memorized and check it against the book. Each time, his father burned the papers and had him do it again. His father apologized every day for the burden he was placing on Richard. He asked for forgiveness from his son at the end of every day in the woods.
Richard never resented having to learn the book—he considered it an honor to be entrusted by his father. He wrote the book from beginning to end a hundred times without error before he satisfied himself that he could never forget a single word. He knew by reading it that any word left out would spell disaster.
When he assured his father that it was committed to memory, they put the book back in the hiding place in the rocks and left it for three years. After that time, when Richard was beyond his middle teens, they returned one fall day and his father said if Richard could write the whole book, without a single mistake, they could both be satisfied it was learned perfectly and they would burn the book. Richard wrote without hesitation from beginning to end. It was perfect.
Together they built a fire, stacking on more than enough wood, until the heat drove them back. His father handed him the book, and told him that if he was sure, to throw the book into the fire. Richard held the Book of Counted Shadows in the crook of his arm, running his fingers over the leather cover. He held his father’s trust in his arms, held the trust of everyone in his arms, and he felt the weight of the burden. He gave the book to the fire. In that moment, he was no longer a child.
The flames swirled around the book, embracing, caressing, consuming. Colors and forms spiraled up, and a roaring cry came forth. Strange beams of light shot skyward. Wind made their cloaks flap as the fire sucked leaves and twigs into itself, adding to the flames and heat. Phantoms appeared, spreading their arms as if being fed by the blaze, their voices racing away on the wind. The two of them stood as if turned to stone, unable to move, unable even to turn away from the sight. Searing heat turned to wind as cold as the deepest winter night, sending chills up their spines, taking their breath from them. Then the cold was gone and the fire turned to a white light that consumed everything in its brightness, as if they were standing in the sun. Just as suddenly, it was gone. In its place, silence. The fire was out. Wisps of smoke rose slowly from the blackened wood into the autumn air. The book was gone.
Richard knew what he had seen—he had seen magic.
Richard felt a hand resting on his shoulder and opened his eyes. It was Kahlan. In the firelight coming through the doorway he could see she was sitting in a chair pulled close to his bed. Zedd’s big old coon cat was curled up sleeping in her lap.
“Where’s Zedd?” he asked, sleepy-eyed.
“He has gone to find the root you need.” Her voice was soft and calming. “It has been dark for hours now, but he said not to be concerned if it took him time to find the root. He said that you would go in and out of sleep but would be safe until he returned. He said the drink he gave you before would keep you safe until he is back.”
Richard realized, for the first time, that she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Her hair was tumbled down around her face and shoulders, and he wanted very much to touch it, but didn’t. It was enough to feel her hand on his shoulder, to know she was there and that he was not alone.
“How do you feel?” Her voice was so soft, so gentle, that he couldn’t imagine why Zedd had been afraid of her.
“I would rather fight another quad than another snake vine.”
She smiled her special smile, her private smile of sharing something with him, as she wiped his brow with the cloth. He reached up and grabbed her wrist. She stopped and looked into his eyes.
“Kahlan, Zedd is my friend of many years. He is like a second father to me. Promise me you won’t do anything to hurt him. I could not bear it.”
She looked at him reassuringly. “I like him, too. Very much. He is a good man, just as you said. I have no desire to hurt him. Only to seek his help in finding the wizard.”
He gripped her wrist tighter. “Promise me.”
“Richard, everything will be fine. He will help us.”
He remembered her fingers on his throat and the look in her eyes when she thought he was trying to poison her with an apple. “Promise me.”
“I have already made promises, to others, some of whom have given their lives. I have responsibilities to the lives of others. Many others.”
“Promise me.”
She put her other hand on the side of his face. “I am sorry, Richard, I cannot.”
He released her wrist, turned, and closed his eyes as she took her hand from his face. He thought about the book, all that it meant, and realized he was making a selfish request. Would he trick her to save Zedd, only to have him die with them? Would he doom all the others to death or slavery just to see his friend live a couple more months? Could he condemn her to death, too, for nothing? He felt ashamed at his own stupidity. He had no right to ask her to make such a promise. It would be wrong for her to do so. He was glad she had not lied to him. But he knew that just because Zedd had asked about the trouble they were in did not mean he would help with anything to do from across the boundary.
“K
ahlan, this fever is making me foolish. Please forgive me. I have never met another with your courage. I know you are trying to save us all. Zedd will help us—I will see to it. Promise me only that you will wait until I am better. Give me the chance to convince him.”
She squeezed her hand on his shoulder. “That is a promise I can make. I know you care about your friend—I would despair if you didn’t. That does not make you foolish. Rest now.”
He tried not to close his eyes, since when he did, everything started spinning uncontrollably. But talking had sapped his strength, and soon the blackness pulled him back in. His thoughts were once again sucked into the void. Sometimes he came partway back and wandered in troubled dreams—sometimes he wandered in places empty even of illusion.
The cat came awake, his ears perking up. Richard slept on. Sounds that only the cat could hear made him jump off Kahlan’s lap, trot to the door, and sit on his haunches, waiting. Kahlan waited, too, and since the cat didn’t raise his fur, she stayed by Richard. A thin voice came from outside.
“Cat? Cat! Where have you gotten to? Well, you can just stay out here then.” The door squeaked open. “There you are.” The cat ran out the doorway. “Suit yourself,” Zedd called after him. “How is Richard?” he called to her.
When he came into the room, Kahlan answered from the chair. “He came awake several times, but he is sleeping now. Did you find the root you need?”
“I wouldn’t be here otherwise. Did he have anything to say when he was awake?”
Kahlan smiled up at the old man. “Just that he was worried about you.”
He turned and went back into the front room, grumbling. “Not without good reason.”
Sitting at the table, he peeled the roots, cut them into thin wafers, put the wafers into a pot with some water, and then hung the pot on the crane over the fire. He threw the peels and then two sticks of wood into the fire before going to the cupboard and pulling down a number of different-sized jars. Without hesitation he selected first one jar, then another, pouring different-colored powders into a black stone mortar. With a white pestle, he ground the reds, blues, yellows, browns, and greens together until it was all the color of dry mud. After licking the end of his finger, he dipped it in the mortar to collect a sample. He put the finger to his tongue for a taste and lifted an eyebrow while he smacked his lips and pondered. At last he smiled and nodded in satisfaction. He poured the powder into the pot, blending it in with a spoon from a hook at the side of the fireplace. He stirred slowly while watching the concoction bubble. For nearly two hours he stirred and watched. When at last he determined that the work was done, he plunked the pot on the table to cool.
Zedd collected a bowl and cloth and after a while called to Kahlan to come help him. She came quickly to his side and he instructed her how to hold the cloth over the bowl while he poured the mixture through.
He spun his finger around in the air. “Now twist the cloth around and around to squeeze the liquid out. When it’s all out, throw the cloth and its contents in the fire.” She looked at him, puzzled. Zedd lifted an eyebrow. “The part left in there is poison. Richard should be awake any time now—then we give him the liquid in the bowl. You keep squeezing. I will check on him.”
Zedd went into the bedroom, bent over Richard, and found him to be deeply unconscious. He turned and saw that Kahlan’s back was to him as she worked at her task. He bent over, placing a middle finger to Richard’s forehead. Richard’s eyes snapped open.
“Dear one,” Zedd called into the other room, “we are in luck. He has just come awake. Bring the bowl.”
Richard blinked. “Zedd? Are you all right? Is everything all right?”
“Yes, yes, everything is fine.”
Kahlan came in holding the bowl carefully, trying not to spill any. Zedd helped Richard sit up so he could drink. When he finished, Zedd helped him to lie back down.
“That will make you sleep, and break the fever. The next time you awake, you will be well, you have my word, so worry no more as you rest.”
“Thank you, Zedd . . .” Richard was asleep before he could say more.
Zedd left and then returned with a tin plate, insisting that Kahlan take the chair. “The thorn will not be able to stand the root,” he explained. “It will have to leave his body.” He put the plate under Richard’s hand and sat down on the edge of the bed to wait. They both listened to Richard’s deep breathing and the crackling of the fire from the other room—otherwise the house was still. It was Zedd who broke the silence first.
“It is dangerous for a Confessor to travel alone, dear one. Where is your wizard?”
She looked up at him with tired eyes. “My wizard sold his services to a queen.”
Zedd gave a disapproving scowl. “He abandoned his responsibilities to the Confessors? What is his name?”
“Giller.”
“Giller.” He repeated the name with a sour expression, then leaned toward her a bit. “So why did another not come with you?”
She gave him a hard look. “Because they are all dead, at their own hands. Before they died, they all gathered and cast a web to see me safely through the boundary, with the guidance of a night wisp.” Zedd stood at this news. Sadness and concern etched his face as he rubbed his chin. “You knew the wizards?” she asked.
“Yes, yes. I lived in the Midlands a long time.”
“And the great one? You know him also?”
Zedd smiled, rearranged his robes, and seated himself again. “You are persistent, dear one. Yes, I knew the old wizard, once. But even if you could find him, I don’t think he would have anything to do with this business. He would not be inclined to help the Midlands.”
Kahlan leaned forward, taking his hands in hers. Her voice was soft but intense.
“Zedd, there are many people who disapprove of the High Council of the Midlands and its greed. They wish it were not so, but they are just common people who have no say. They only wish to live their lives in peace. Darken Rahl has taken the food that was stored for the coming winter and given it to the army. They waste it, or let it rot, or sell it back to the people they stole it from. Already there is hunger—this winter there will be death. Fire has been outlawed. People are cold.
“Rahl says it is all the great wizard’s fault, for not coming forward to be put on trial as an enemy of the people. He says the wizard has brought this on them, that he is to blame. He doesn’t explain how this could be, but many believe it anyway. Many believe everything Rahl says, even though what they see with their own eyes should be enough to tell them otherwise.
“The wizards were under constant threat, and forbidden by edict from using magic. They knew that sooner or later they would be used against the people. They may have made mistakes’ in the past, and disappointed their teacher, but the most important thing they were taught was to be protectors of the people and in no way to bring them harm. As their most loving act for the people, they gave their lives to stop Darken Rahl. I think their teacher would have been proud.
“But this is not about just the Midlands. The boundary between D’Hara and the Midlands is down, the boundary between the Midlands and Westland is failing, and soon it too will be down. The people of Westland will be taken by the very thing they fear most: magic. Terrible, frightening magic like none they have ever imagined.”
Zedd showed no emotion, offered no objection or opinion, only listened. He continued to allow her to hold his hands.
“All I have said, the great wizard could have an argument for, but the fact that Darken Rahl has put the three boxes of Orden into play is something altogether different. If he succeeds, then on the first day of winter it will be too late for anyone. That includes the wizard. Rahl already searches for him—it is personal vengeance he seeks. Many have died because they could not offer his name. When Rahl opens the correct box, though, he will have unchallenged power over all things living, and then the wizard will be his. He can hide in Westland all he wants—but come the first day of winter, his
hiding is over. Darken Rahl will have him.”
There was bitterness in her expression. “Zedd, Darken Rahl has used quads to kill all the other Confessors. I found my sister after they were finished with her. She died in my arms. With all the others dead, that leaves only me. The wizards knew their teacher did not want to help, so they sent me as the last hope. If he is too foolish to see that in helping me, he helps himself, then I must use my power against him, to make him help.”
Zedd raised an eyebrow. “And what is one dried-up old wizard to do against the power of this Darken Rahl?” He was now holding her hands in his.
“He must appoint a Seeker.”
“What!” Zedd jumped to his feet. “Dear one, you don’t know what you are talking about.”
Confused, Kahlan leaned back a little. “What do you mean?”
“Seekers appoint themselves. The wizard just sort of recognizes what has happened, and makes it official.”
“I don’t understand. I thought the wizard picked the person, the right person.”
Zedd sat back down, rubbing his chin. “Well, that’s true in a sense, but backwards. A true Seeker, one who can make a difference, must show himself to be a Seeker. The wizard doesn’t point to someone and say, ‘Here is the Sword of Truth, you will be the Seeker.’ He doesn’t really have a choice in the matter. It isn’t something you can train someone for. One should simply be a Seeker and show himself to be so by his actions. A wizard must watch a person for years to be sure. A Seeker doesn’t have to be the smartest person, but he has to be the right person—he has to have the right qualities within himself. A true Seeker is a rare person.
“The Seeker is a balance point of power. The council made the appointment a political bone to be thrown to one of the sniveling dogs at their feet. It was a sought-after post because of the power a Seeker wields. But the council didn’t understand: it wasn’t the post that brought the power to the person, it was the person that brought the power to the post.”
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