Wizard's First Rule tsot-1

by Terry Goodkind

  Kahlan put her hand on his arm. “I don’t want you to decide until you hear what I have to say, until you hear what I am. Then, if you want me to leave I will understand.” She looked intently into his eyes. “Richard, I just want you to know that I have never cared for anyone the way I care for you, nor will I ever again. But it is not possible for it to go beyond that. Nothing can ever come of it. Nothing good anyway.”

  He refused to believe that. There was a way, there had to be. Richard took a heavy breath, letting it out slowly. “All right then, out with it.”

  She nodded. “Remember when I told you that some who lived in the Midlands were creatures of magic? And that they couldn’t give up that magic, because it was part of them?” He nodded to her. “Well, I am one of those creatures. I am more than a woman.”

  “So, what are you?”

  “I am a Confessor.”

  Confessor.

  Richard knew that word.

  Every muscle in his body went stiff. His breath caught in his throat. The Book of Counted Shadows suddenly flooded through his mind. Verification of the truth of the words of the Book of Counted Shadows, if spoken by another, rather than read by the one who commands the boxes, can only be insured by the use of a Confessor . . .

  His mind raced, as if flipping the pages in his mind’s eye, scanning the words, trying to remember the whole book, trying to remember if Confessor was mentioned again. No, it wasn’t. He knew every word in the book, and Confessor was in it only once, at the beginning. He could remember puzzling over what a Confessor could be. He hadn’t even been sure, before, that it was a person. He felt the weight of the tooth hanging around his neck.

  Kahlan frowned at the look on his face. “Do you know what a Confessor is?”

  “No,” he managed. “I heard the word before, that’s all . . . from my father. But I don’t know what it means.” He struggled to regain control of himself. “So, what does it mean, to be a Confessor?”

  Kahlan pulled her knees up, hugging her arms around them, withdrawing just a little. “It’s a power, magic power—that is passed from mother to daughter, going back almost as far as there have been the lands, back beyond the dark time.”

  Richard didn’t know what the “dark time” was, but didn’t interrupt. “It is something we are born with, magic that is part of us, and cannot be separated from us any more than you could be separated from your heart. Any woman who is a Confessor will bear children who are Confessors. Always. But the power is not the same in all of us—in some it is weaker, in some stronger.”

  “So you can’t get rid of it, even if you wanted to. But what sort of magic is it?”

  She looked away, to the fire. “It’s a power invoked by touch. It’s always there, inside us. We don’t bring it out to use it—instead, we must always hold it in, and use it by releasing our grip of it, relaxing our hold and letting it come forth.”

  “Sort of like holding your stomach in?”

  She smiled at his analogy. “Sort of.”

  “And what does this power do?”

  She twisted the corner of her cloak. “It does not reveal itself well in words. I never thought it would be this troublesome to explain, but to someone who is not from the Midlands, well, it’s difficult to put into words. I have never had to do this before, and I’m not even sure it can be done, accurately. It’s a little like trying to explain fog to a blind person.”

  “Try.”

  She nodded and stole a look into his eyes.

  “It is the power of love.”

  Richard almost laughed. “And I’m supposed to be afraid of the power of love?”

  Kahlan’s back stiffened—indignation flared in her eyes: indignation and the kind of timeless look Adie and Shota had flashed him, one that said that his words were disrespectful, that even his small smile was insolent. It was a countenance he was not used to seeing her direct at him. He felt a cold realization that Kahlan was not used to having anyone smile about her power, and who she was. Her look said more to him about her power than any words could have. Whatever her magic was, it was definitely not something to be smiled about. His small grin withered. When she seemed sure he was not about to say anything else flippant, she went on.

  “You don’t understand. Do not take it lightly.” Her eyes narrowed. “Once touched by it, you are no longer the person you were. You are changed forever. Forevermore you are devoted to the one who touches you, to the exclusion of all else. What you wanted, what you were, who you were, no longer means anything to you. You would do anything for the one who touches you. Your life is no longer yours, it is hers. Your soul is no longer yours, it is hers. The person you were no longer exists.”

  Richard felt bumps on the skin of his arms. “How long does this, this, magic, whatever it is, how long does it last?”

  “As long as the one I touch is alive,” she said evenly.

  Richard felt the chill run the rest of the way through him. “So, it’s sort of like you bewitch people?”

  She let out a breath. “Not exactly, but if it helps you to understand, I guess you could put it that way. But the touch of a Confessor is much more. Much more powerful, and final. A bewitching could be removed. My touch cannot. Shota was bewitching you, even though you did not realize it. It’s an incremental thing. Witches cannot help it, it’s their way. But your anger, and the anger from the sword, protected you.

  “The touch of my power is all at once, and final. Nothing could protect you. The person I touch cannot be brought back, because once I touch them, that person is no longer there. That person is gone forever. Their free will is gone forever. One reason I was afraid to go to Shota was because witches hate Confessors. They are fiercely jealous of our power—jealous that once touched, the person is totally devoted. The one touched by a Confessor would do anything she says.” She gave him a hard look. “Anything.”

  Richard felt his mouth go dry as his thoughts scattered in every direction at once, trying desperately to hold on to his hopes, his dreams. The only way he could hold it together, and gain time to think, was to ask questions. “Does it work on everyone?”

  “Everyone human. Except Darken Rahl. The wizards warned me that the magic of Orden protects him from our touch. He has nothing to fear from me. On those who are not human, it mostly doesn’t work because they don’t have the capacity for compassion, which the magic requires in order to work. A gar, for example, would not be changed by my touch. It works on some other creatures, but not exactly the same as it does a human.”

  He watched her from under his eyebrows. “Shar? You touched her, didn’t you?”

  Kahlan nodded and leaned back a little, the slump settling back into her shoulders. “Yes. She was dying, and lonely. She was suffering the pain of being away from her kind, the pain of dying alone. She asked me to touch her. My touch took her fear, and replaced it with a love for me that left no room for her own pain, for her own loneliness. Nothing was left of her except her love for me.”

  “What about when I first met you, when the quad was chasing us? You touched one of those men too, didn’t you?”

  Kahlan nodded, leaning back the rest of the way against the log, pulling her cloak around her, looking into the fire. “Even though they are sworn to kill me, once I touch one of them, they are mine,” she said with finality. “They will fight to the death to protect me. That is the reason Rahl sends four men to kill a Confessor—it’s expected she will touch one, then there are three left to kill him, and her. It takes the three left because the one will fight so fiercely he usually kills one, often two, but that still leaves at least one to kill the Confessor. On a rare occasion, he will kill the remaining three. That happened to me with the quad that chased me before the wizards sent me across the boundary. A quad is the most economical unit to send, they almost always succeed, and if they don’t, Rahl will simply send another.

  “We weren’t killed on the cliff because you separated them. The one I touched killed the other with him while you held off the
other two—then he went after the remaining two, but you had pushed one off the edge, so he used his own life to take the leader over the cliff. He did that because then there wouldn’t be any chance of losing in a sword fight. It meant his life too, but that didn’t matter to him after I touched him. It was the only way for him to be sure he protected me.”

  “Can’t you simply touch all four?”

  “No. The power is expended with each use. It takes time for it to recover.”

  He felt the hilt of his sword against his elbow and a sudden thought came to him. “When we came through the boundary, and that last man of the quad was after you, and I killed him . . . I wasn’t really saving you, was I?”

  She was silent for a moment before answering. “One man, no matter how big, or strong, is no threat to a Confessor, even a weak Confessor, much less me. If you hadn’t come when you did . . . I would have dealt with him. I’m sorry, Richard,” she whispered, “but there was no need for you to have killed him. I could have handled it.”

  “Well,” he said dryly, “at least I saved you from having to do it.”

  She didn’t answer, only looked sadly at him. It seemed she had nothing to say that, could bring him any comfort. “How much time?” he asked. “How much time does it take to recover after a Confessor has used her power?”

  “In every Confessor the power is different. In some it is weaker, and it may take several days and nights to recover. In most, it takes about one day and one night.”

  Richard looked over at her. “And in you?”

  She looked up at his eyes, almost as if she wished he hadn’t asked the question. “About two hours.”

  He turned back to the fire, not liking the sound of her answer. “Is that unusual?”

  She let out a breath. “So I have been told.” Her voice sounded weary. “Shorter time to recover the power also means the power is stronger, works more powerfully in the one touched. That is why some of the quad members I touch are able to kill the other three. It would not be so for a Confessor with a weaker power.

  “Confessors have position according to their power, because the ones with the strongest power will bear daughters who have the best chance of having that stronger power. There is no jealousy among the Confessors for those with the strongest power, only deeper affection and devotion in times of trouble—like since Rahl came through the boundary. The lower ranks will protect the higher, with their lives if need be.”

  He knew she wasn’t going to say it unless he asked, so he did. “And what is your rank?”

  Her eyes stared unblinking at the fire. “All Confessors follow me. Many laid down their lives to protect mine . . .” Her voice caught for a moment. “. . . that I might survive, and somehow use my power to stop Rahl. Of course, there are none to follow me now. I am the only one left. Darken Rahl has killed every last one.”

  “I’m sorry, Kahlan,” he said softly. He was only, just beginning to comprehend the importance of the woman she was. “So, do you have a title? What do people call you?”

  “I am the Mother Confessor.”

  Richard tensed. The sound of “Mother Confessor” had the chill of terrible authority to it. Richard felt a little overwhelmed. He had always known Kahlan was important, but he had dealt with important people when he was a guide, and had learned not to be awed by them. But he never knew she was someone of such prominence. Mother Confessor. Even if he was just a guide, and she was this important, he didn’t care, he could live with that. Surely, she could, too. He wasn’t going to lose her, or send her away because of who she was.

  “I don’t know what that means. Is it something like a princess, or a queen?”

  Kahlan lifted an eyebrow to him. “Queens bow down to the Mother Confessor.”

  Now he felt intimidated.

  “You are more than a queen?” he winced.

  “The dress I wore when you first saw me? That is a Confessor’s dress. We all wear them so there can be no mistaking who we are, although most people of the Midlands would recognize us no matter how we were to dress. All Confessors, no matter their age, wear a Confessor’s dress that is black—except the Mother Confessor—her dress is white.” Kahlan seemed a little annoyed by having to explain her eminence. “It feels very odd to me to explain all this, Richard. Everyone in the Midlands knows it all, so I have never had to think about how to put it all into words. It sounds so . . . I don’t know, so arrogant when I put words to it.”

  “Well, I’m not from the Midlands. Just try, I need to understand.”

  She nodded and looked back up at him. “Kings and queens are masters of their land—they each have their own domain. There are a number of them in the Midlands. Other lands are ruled in different manners, such as by councils. Some are places of magic creatures. The night wisps, for example—no humans live in their lands.

  “The place where the Confessors live, my home, is called Aydindril. It is also the home of the wizards, and the Central Council of the Midlands. Aydindril is a beautiful place. It’s been a long time since I have been home,” she said wistfully. “The Confessors and the wizards are closely linked, bonded—much the way the Old One, Zedd, is linked with the Seeker.

  “No one holds claim to Aydindril. No ruler would dare to lay claim to it—they all fear it, fear the Confessors and the wizards. All the lands of the Midlands contribute to the support of Aydindril. They all pay tribute. Confessors are above the law of any one land, much the same way the Seeker is ultimately above any law but his own. Yet at the same time, we serve all the people of the Midlands through the Central Council.

  “In the past, arrogant rulers had thought to make the Confessors submit to their word. In those times, there were farsighted Confessors, now revered as legends, who knew they must lay the foundation for our independence, or forever submit to domination—so the Mother Confessor took the rulers with her power. The rulers were removed from their thrones, and replaced with new rulers who understood that Confessors were to be left alone. The old rulers, those who were taken, were kept in Aydindril as little more than slaves. The Confessors took these old rulers with them when they traveled to the different lands, made them carry the provisions and luxuries of travel. Back then, there was more ceremony surrounding the Confessors than there is now. Anyway, it made the intended impression.”

  “I don’t understand,” Richard said. “Kings and queens must be powerful leaders. Didn’t they have protection? Didn’t they have guards, and others, to keep them safe? How could a Confessor get near to a king or queen to touch them?”

  “Yes, they have protection, a lot, in fact, but it’s not as difficult as it sounds. A Confessor touches one person, maybe a guard, then she has an ally, he takes her to another, he is taken, soon she is inside. Each person she touches can get her close to one of higher rank, and gains her more allies. Working her way up through the trusted positions and advisors, she can be at the king or queen sooner than you would think, and often before so much as an eyebrow is raised, much less an alarm. Any Confessor could do it. The Mother Confessor even easier.

  “The Mother Confessor with a band of her sisters would sweep through a castle like the plague. Not that such an effort is without danger, many Confessors died, but the goal was seen as worth it. This is the reason no land is closed to a Confessor, though it may be to every other.

  “Closing a land to a Confessor is tantamount to an admission of guilt, and is sufficient cause for the leader to be taken from power. This is why the Mud People, for example, allow me in, even though they do not often let other outsiders in. Not allowing a Confessor access would raise questions and suspicions. A leader involved in any sort of plot would gladly grant a Confessor free access, to try to hide their involvement in any subversion.

  “In those times, there were some among the Confessors who were more than willing to use their power as they wanted, to root out wrongdoing, as they saw it. The wizards exerted their influence to bring this under control, but the Confessors’ zeal showed the people what
a Confessor was capable of. But these were different times.”

  Taking a ruler from power. Different times or not, Richard found all this hard to take, to justify. “What gave these Confessors the right?”

  She shook her head slowly. “What we are doing now, you and I, is it much different from what has been done in the past? Taking a ruler from power? We all do what we think we must, what we think is right.”

  He shifted his weight uncomfortably. “I see your point,” he admitted. “Have you done this before? Removing a ruler?”

  She shook her head. “Still, the leaders of the lands are all keen to avoid my attention. It is much the same way with the Seeker. At least, it used to be, before you and I were born. Then, Seekers were more feared and respected than Confessors.” She gave him a meaningful look. “They, too, have dethroned kings. Now, though, because the Old One was ignored, and the sword had become a political favor, they are seen as less—little more than pawns, thieves.”

  “I’m not sure that has changed,” Richard said, more to himself than to her. “Much of the time, I feel as if I am nothing more than a pawn, being moved by others. Even by Zedd, and . . .”

  He shut his mouth and didn’t finish—she did it for him.

  “And by me.”

  “I don’t mean it that way. It’s just that, sometimes, I wish I had never heard of the Sword of Truth. But at the same time, I can’t allow Rahl to win, so I’m stuck with my duty. I guess I have no choice, and that’s what I hate.”

  Kahlan smiled sadly as she folded her legs under her. “Richard, as you come to understand what I am, I hope you can remember it’s the same with me. I, too, have no choice. But with me, it’s worse—because I was born with my power. At least when this is all done, you can give the sword back if you want. I am a Confessor for as long as I live.” She paused, then added, “Since I have come to know you, I would pay any price to be able to give it up, and just be a normal woman.”