2 - Stone of Tears

by Goodkind, Terry

  She somehow made the pain worse. He shook with the crushing hurt in his chest. Stinging tears flooded from his wide eyes.

  'I asked you a question! Do we understand each other!'

  Air rushed into his lungs. 'Sister Verna ... I'm warning you ... don't do this or ...'

  'You are warning me! You are warning me!'

  White-hot pain knifed through his chest, twisting tighter with each breath. A scream ripped from his lungs. His worst fears were coming to life. This was what wearing a collar had brought him to, again. This was what the Sisters had in mind for him. This was his fate, if he allowed it.

  Richard called the sword's magic.

  Summoned by its master, the power swept into him, hot with promise, hot with wrath, hot with need. Richard welcomed it, embraced it, letting his own rage join with the rage of the sword and spiral through him. His fury consumed the pain, using it to draw power.

  'Don't you dare fight me, or I will make you rue the day you were born!'

  Fiery flames of agony bloomed anew. Richard drew them into the wrath. Though he wasn't touching the sword, he didn't need to. He was one with the magic, and he called forth all its force now.

  'Stop this,' he managed through gritted teeth. 'Or I will.'

  Sister Verna, with her fists at her side, stepped closer.

  'Now you threaten me? I warned you before about threatening me. You have made your last mistake, Richard.'

  Though he was nearly blinded by the pain she suddenly unleashed into him, he was able to see one thing. The Sword of Truth. It lay in the sand, near the Sister.

  The Seeker focused the sword's magic into the power that bound him to the wall. With a loud crack, the bond broke and he tumbled away from the wall, rolling through the sand.

  His hands found the sword.

  Sister Verna charged toward him. He came up swinging the sword in an arc. The need for her blood seared through his soul, beyond retrieval. Nothing else mattered.

  Bringer of death.

  He didn't try to direct the track of the blade, but simply focused his need to kill into the power of its swing.

  The sword's tip whistled through the air.

  Bringer of death.

  The blade exploded through the Sister at shoulder level. The cool air erupted with a spray of hot blood, the smell of it filling his nostrils as the sight of it filled his vision. Her head and part of her shoulders tumbled up into the air as the blade severed her in two. Blood and bone hit the walls. The lower half of her body collapsed fluidly to the ground. Blood soaked into the white sand, spreading beneath her. What was left of her shoulders and head hit the ground a good ten feet away, sending up a spray of white sand. The gore of her insides glistened in a line away from the body.

  Richard collapsed to his knees, panting, the pain finally gone. He had told himself he would not allow this to be done to him again. He had meant it.

  Like a distant memory, his insides ached with the pain of what he had done. It had all happened so fast, before he had had time to think. He had used the sword's magic to take a life, and the magic would want its due.

  He didn't care. It was nothing to compare to the pain of what she had been doing to him, what she would have done to him. As he focused on the rage, the pain evaporated and was gone.

  But what was he going to do now? He needed the Sisters to teach him how to keep the gift from killing him. He would die without Sister Verna's help. How could he go to the other Sisters and ask for their help, now? Had he just sentenced himself to death, too?

  But he would not allow them to hurt him any more. He would not.

  He knelt, recovering, resting on his heels, trying to think. In front of him, near the side of Sister Verna's body, lay the little book she had kept tucked behind her belt. It was the little book in which she was always writing.

  Richard picked it up and thumbed through the pages. It was blank. No, not entirely. Near the back, there were two pages with writing.

  I am the Sister in charge of this boy. These directives are beyond reason if not absurd. I demand to know the meaning of these instructions. I demand to know upon whose authority they are given.

  -Yours in the service of the Light, Sister Verna Sauventreen.

  Richard reflected on the fact that Sister Verna had been temperamental even in her writing. He looked to the next page. It was in a different hand.

  You will do as you are instructed, or suffer the consequences. Do not presume to question the orders of the palace again.

  -In my own hand, The Prelate.

  Well, it looked as if Sister Verna had managed to raise the ire of someone besides himself. He tossed the book back on the ground next to her. He sat staring at her body, at what he had done. What was he going to do now?

  He heard a sigh, and lifted his head to see Kahlan, in her white Confessor's dress, standing again in an archway. With a sad expression, she slowly shook her head.

  'And you wonder why I would send you away.'

  'Kahlan, you don't understand. You don't know what she was going to ...'

  A quiet laugh drew his attention to the other side of the room. Darken Rahl stood in another archway, his white robes aglow.

  Richard felt the scar of his father's handprint on his chest tingle and burn with heat.

  The Keeper welcomes you, Richard.' Darken Rahl's grim smile widened. 'You make me proud, my son.'

  With a scream, Richard tore across the sand, the rage ignited anew. Sword first, he launched himself at Darken Rahl.

  The glowing form evaporated as Richard flew through the archway. Laughter echoed and then faded.

  Outside the tower, the lightning went wild. Three hot bolts traced through the darkness toward him. Instinctively, he lifted the sword as a shield. The lightning struck the sword, flashing and twisting like a snake in a snare. Thunder jarred the ground beneath his feet.

  Richard squinted against the blinding light. He gritted his teeth with the strain of forcing the sword downward, taking the flaring, liquid lines of fire with it. They dulled and diminished as they were dragged to the ground, where they writhed, hissing as if in death, until at last they faded and were gone.

  'Enough of these visions.'

  Richard angrily sheathed his sword and collected the horses from their grazing. He didn't know where he was going to go, but he was getting away from this tower, away from the dead Sister. Away from what he had done.

  CHAPTER 32

  The lightning didn't come anymore. The clouds still roiled around him, but the lightning didn't come. He walked without giving thought to where he was going. When he felt inexplicable danger, he skirted it. To the sides, visions tempted him to look, but he stoically ignored them.

  Almost not seeing it at first, because of the dark clouds, he came upon another tower. It looked like the first, except it was a glossy black. At first thinking he would avoid it, he found himself walking to one of the arches and peering in. The ground inside was covered with sand that was drifted into the corners, the same as the last tower, but it was black instead of white. It glimmered with the same prismatic light as the white sand.

  Curiosity overcame caution and he reached inside, running a finger through the black grit covering the walls. It tasted sweet.

  The wizard who had given his life into this fire had done so to save another, not to save himself torture. This wizard had been altruistic, the other ignoble.

  If having the gift meant he was a wizard, Richard wondered which kind he was. He would like to think of himself as high-minded, but he had just killed another to save himself from torture. But was he not within his rights to kill to protect his life? Must he wrongly die to be honorable?

  Who was he to judge which of these wizards had been wiser, or which had done what was within his rights?

  The sparkling black sand fascinated him. It seemed to draw light from nowhere and reflect it about the inside of the tower in winking colors. Richard retrieved an empty spice tin and scooped it full of the black sand. He tu
cked the tin back in his pack hanging from Geraldine's saddle while he whistled for Bonnie - she was off browsing again.

  Her ears swiveled toward him as her head came up. Dutifully, she trotted over and joined him and the other two horses, pushing her head against his shoulder in hopes of a neck scratch. As they left the tower behind, he gave her the scratch she wanted.

  His shirt was soaked with sweat as he hiked quickly across the barren ground. He wanted to be out of this valley and away from the magic, the spells, and the visions. Sweat rolled from his brow as he walked, trying to ignore familiar voices that called to him. He ached with desire to see the faces of loved ones who called his name, but he didn't look. Other voices hissed with menace and threat, but he kept moving. At times, the spells tingled against his flesh, burning with pricks of heat or cold or pain, and he rushed away from them even faster.

  As he wiped sweat from his eyes, they focused on the baked earth before him and he saw tracks. His own. He realized that in trying to avoid the feelings of danger, the visions, and the voices, he must have been walking in circles, if in fact the footprints were real.

  He began to have the queasy feeling that the magic was trapping him. Maybe all this time he had been walking, he had not been making any headway out of the Valley of the Lost. Maybe he, too, was lost. How was he going to find a way out? He tugged the horses on and kept moving, but with a rising sense of panic.

  Unexpectedly, out of the dark fog before him came a vision that startled him into a dead stop. It was Sister Verna. She was wandering aimlessly, her hands clasped prayerfully, her eyes skyward, and a blissful smile upon her lips.

  Richard stalked toward her. 'Be gone! I've had enough of these specters! Leave me alone!' She didn't seem to hear him. That was impossible; she was easily close enough to hear him. He stepped closer, the air feeling abruptly thick and sparkling around him as he did so, until he seemed to step beyond it. 'Do you hear? Listen to me! I said be gone!'

  Distant brown eyes focused on him. She held her arm out, her hand held up in forbidding. 'Leave me. I have found what I seek. Leave me to my peace, my bliss.'

  As she turned away, Richard felt an apprehensive, tingling sensation all the way down to his toes. She wasn't trying to entice him, as the other visions had.

  His hair tried to stand on end.

  'Sister Verna?'

  Could it be true? Could she be alive? Maybe he hadn't really killed her. Maybe it had all been a vision. 'Sister Verna, if it really is you, talk to me.'

  She regarded him with a puzzled frown. 'Richard?'

  'Of course Richard.'

  'Go,' she whispered as her eyes turned up once more. 'I am with Him.'

  'Him? Him who?'

  'Please, Richard, you are tainted. Go away.'

  'If you're a vision, then you go away.'

  She regarded him with pleading. 'Please, Richard. You're disturbing Him. Don't ruin what I've found.'

  'What have you found? Is it Jedidiah?'

  'The Creator,' she said in a hallowed tone.

  Richard peered skyward. 'I don't see anyone.'

  She turned her back to him and strolled away. 'Leave me to Him.'

  Richard didn't know if this was the real Sister Verna, or an illusion. Or maybe the dead Sister's spirit. Which was true? How could he tell?

  He had promised the real Sister that she would make it through, that he would help her. He followed after her before she could disappear into the dark fog.

  'What does the Creator look like, Sister Verna? Is he young? Old? Does he have long hair? Short? Does he have all his teeth?'

  She turned in a rage. 'Leave me!'

  The menace in her expression froze him in his tracks.

  'No. Listen to me, Sister Verna. You're coming with me. I'm not leaving you trapped in this spell. That's all you see: an enchantment spell.'

  He reasoned that if she was a specter, and he took her with him, she would vanish when they left the magic of the valley. If she was real, well then he would be saving her. She would be alive. Though he wished to be free of her, he wished more that she was alive, and that she wouldn't really do to him what she had done back in the tower. He didn't want that to be the true Sister Verna. He started toward her again.

  Her hand came up, as if to push him, even though he was a good ten paces away. The force of the impact threw him to the ground. He rolled over, clutching his chest, clutching at the receding agony. It felt like what had been done to him in the tower - hard, burning pain - but it faded faster.

  Wincing, he sat up, quickly gathering his wits as he gasped for breath. He looked up to check where the Sister was in case she was about to hurt him again. What he saw halted his breath only half out of his lungs.

  As the Sister once again stared skyward, the dark fog around them swirled and coalesced into forms, the forms of wraiths: insubstantial figures, seething, simmering with death. Their faces churned with steaming, shifting shadows that conjoined into glowing red eyes set in inky faces - hot tongues of flame alive with hate, glowering out from eternal night.

  Bumps rippled and tingled across the backs of his shoulders. When he had been in the spirit house and felt the screeling on the other side of the door, when he had sensed the man about to kill Chandalen, and when he had first encountered the Sisters, he had felt an overwhelming, inexplicable sense of danger. He felt that danger now.

  There wasn't the slightest doubt in his mind that these things were part of the magic of this valley, and that that magic had at last found an intruder. Him.

  'Verna!' he screamed.

  She scowled down at him. 'I told you, Richard, I am to be addressed as Sister Verna.

  'Is that what you do to your charges? Hurt them with your power?'

  She looked startled. 'But I ...'

  'Is this your eternal Paradise? Quarreling with people? Hurting them?' He rushed to his knees, eyeing the drifting forms about them. 'Sister, we have to get out of here.'

  'I wish to stay with Him. I have found my bliss.'

  'This is your idea of Paradise? Giving pain? Answer me, Sister Verna! Is that what your Creator wishes of you? To hurt the people you are responsible for?'

  She gaped at him, quickness suddenly coming to her movements as she rushed to him. 'Did I hurt you?' She gripped his shoulders. 'Oh, child, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to.'

  He came the rest of the way to his feet and shook her.

  'Sister, we have to get out of here! I don't know how! Tell me how to get out of here before it's too late!'

  'But ... I wish to stay.'

  'Look around, Sister Verna! What do you see?'

  She jerked her head woodenly about, from one dark form to another, then to him. 'Richard ...'

  Richard angrily pointed skyward. 'Look, Sister! That's not the Creator! It's the Keeper.'

  She peered where he directed. With a gasp, her fingers flew to her mouth.

  The red glow in the eyes of one of the dark, shifting forms intensified into burning embers. The sense of danger flamed through Richard's very soul. The sword was out in a blink. The vaporous wraith solidified into solid bone and muscle, claws and fangs, into a frightening beast covered with a dark, cracked, leathery hide dappled with hideous, suppurating sores. It descended upon him in a terrifying rush.

  With the sword gripped in both hands, Richard screamed with unleashed fury, driving the sword through the beast's chest as it rushed at him. Soft flesh and hard bone hissed at contact with the blade. The monster slid from the sword and hit the ground like a bucket of slop, its hide not entirely able to contain its contents. A drop of blood splattered on Richard's arm, burning through his shirt and into his flesh. From the inside, the beast boiled and frothed. Worms wriggled from the abscessed sores.

  Sister Verna stared wide-eyed at the bubbling, smoking mass. He grabbed her curly hair in his fist and twisted her head to look at the forms that were closing in. 'Is this your idea of Paradise? Look! Look at them!'

  He dragged her backward with him as the dar
k, watery blood running from the beast ignited, sending acrid, oily black smoke curling from the flames. Richard halted when he remembered what she had told him before, about backing into worse danger. He smelled burning flesh and, realizing it was his own, spat on the painful, smoking spot of the beast's blood on his arm.

  He took in a quick sweep of the area. There were more of the forms behind. Another of them solidified into a beast, this time with cloven hooves and a broad snout. Razor-sharp tusks sprouted, growing into long, curved weapons.

  Snorting, it charged them. Richard drove his sword downward through the thing's skull as it tried to gore him. With a squeal, the beast collapsed heavily. By the time the bulky body hit the ground, it had mutated to a writhing mass of snakes. They tumbled and rolled as they hit, the tangled pile of them wriggling apart. Hundreds of hooded red eyes glowered up at him. Red tongues flicked the air as the yellow-and-black-banded bodies slithered toward the two of them.