Stone of Tears tsot-2

by Terry Goodkind

  He thought of the way Denna trained him, taught him.

  His mood sank. He was just deluding himself. They would never set him free. He wasn’t going to learn because he wanted to, or what he wanted to; he was going to learn what the Sisters of the Light wanted him to learn, and he didn’t necessarily believe that what they taught was the truth. They were going to teach him about pain. It was hopeless.

  He rode with his dark, brooding thoughts. He was the Seeker. The bringer of death.

  Every time he killed someone with the Sword of Truth, he knew that that was what he was. That was what the Seeker did, what the Seeker was: the bringer of death.

  As the sky began flaming into pinks, yellows, and golds, he noticed white patches in the distance ahead. It wasn’t snow; the snow hadn’t stuck. Besides, these things moved. Sister Verna didn’t say anything about them; she simply rode along. The sun at their backs sent long shadows ahead of them. For the first time, Richard realized they were traveling east.

  When they were closer, he recognized the white forms spread across their way, turning pink in the last rays of the sun. It was a small flock of sheep. As they passed among them, Richard saw that the people tending the animals were Bantak. He recognized their manner of dress.

  Three Bantak men approached to the side of Richard, ignoring Sister Verna. They mumbled something he didn’t understand, but their words and faces seemed to hold a certain reverence. The three dropped to their knees and bowed down, stretching their arms out, their hands on the ground toward him. Richard slowed his horse to a walk as he looked down at them. They came back up on their knees, chattering at him, but he didn’t understand the words.

  Richard lifted his hand in greeting. It seemed to satisfy them. The three broke into grins and bowed a few more times as he rode past. They came to their feet and trotted next to his horse, attempting to push things into his hands: bread, fruit, strips of dried meat, a drab, dirty scarf, necklaces made of teeth, bone and beads, even their shepherd’s crooks.

  Richard forced a smile and, with signs he thought they would understand, tried to decline the offers without offending the men. One of the three was particularly insistent he take a melon, offering it repeatedly. Richard didn’t want trouble, so he took the melon and bowed his head several times. They seemed proud, nodding and bowing as he rode on. He gave them a last bow from his saddle as he rode past, and slipped the melon into a saddlebag.

  Sister Verna had her horse turned toward him, waiting for him to catch up. She scowled as she waited. Richard didn’t hurry his horse along; he simply let it go at its own pace. What now, he wondered.

  When he finally reached her, she leaned toward him. “Why are they saying those things!”

  “What things? I don’t understand their language.”

  She gritted her teeth. “They think you are a wizard. Why would they think that? Why!”

  Richard shrugged. “I would guess it’s because that’s what I told them.”

  “What!” She pushed the hood of her cloak back. “You are not a wizard! You have no right telling them you are! You lied!”

  Richard folded his wrists over the high pommel of the saddle. “You’re right. I’m not a wizard. Yes, I told them a lie.”

  “Lying is a crime against the Creator!”

  Richard heaved a weary sigh. “I did not do it to play at being a wizard. I did it to stop a war. It was the only way I could keep a lot of people from dying. It worked and no one was hurt. I would do the same thing again if it would prevent killing.”

  “Lying is wrong! The Creator hates lies!”

  “Does this Creator of yours like killing better?”

  Sister Verna looked like she was ready to spit fire at him. “He is everyone’s Creator. Not just my Creator. And He hates lies.”

  Richard calmly appraised her heated expression. “Tell you that himself, did he? Come right up and sit down next to you and say ‘Sister Verna, I want you to know I hate lies’?”

  She ground her teeth and growled the words. “Of course not. It is written. Written in books.”

  “Ahh.” Richard nodded. “Well then, of course it is the truth. If it is written in books, then it has to be true. Everyone knows that if something is written down and attributed, then it must be true.”

  Her eyes were fire. “You treat lightly the Creator’s words.”

  He leaned toward her, some of his own heat surfacing. “And you, Sister Verna, treat lightly the lives of people you consider heathens.”

  She paused and with an effort calmed herself a little. “Richard, you must learn that lying is wrong. Very wrong. It is against the Creator. Against what we teach. You are as much a wizard as an infant is an old man. Calling yourself a wizard when you are not is a lie. A filthy lie. It is a desecration. You are not a wizard.”

  “Sister Verna, I know very well that lying is wrong. I am not in the habit of going around telling lies, but in perspective, I consider it preferable to people being killed. It was the only way.”

  She took a deep breath and nodded, causing the curls in her brown hair to spring up and down a little. “Perhaps you are right. So long as you know that lying is wrong. Don’t make a habit of it. You are no wizard.”

  Richard stared at her as his grip tightened on the reins. “I know I’m not a wizard, Sister Verna. I know exactly what I am.” He gave his horse’s ribs a squeeze with his legs, urging it ahead. “I’m the bringer of death.”

  Her hand darted out and snatched a fistful of his shirtsleeve, yanking him around in his saddle. He snugged the reins back as he was pulled around to her wide eyes.

  Her voice was an urgent whisper. “What did you say? What did you call yourself?”

  He gave her an even look. “I’m the bringer of death.”

  “Who named you that?”

  Richard studied her ashen face. “I know what wearing this sword means. I know what it is to draw it. I know it better than any Seeker before me has known. It is part of me, I am part of it. I used its magic to kill the last person who put a collar around my neck. I know what it makes me. I lied to the Bantak because I didn’t want people to be killed. But there is another reason. The Bantak are a peaceful people. I did not want them to learn the horror of what it means to kill. I know all too well that lesson. You killed Sister Elizabeth; perhaps you know, too.”

  “Who named you ‘bringer of death’?” she pressed.

  “No one. I named myself, because that is what I do, what I am. I am the bringer of death.”

  She released her grip on his shirt. “I see.”

  As she began turning her horse around, he called out her name in a commanding tone. It brought her to a halt. “Why? Why do you want to know who named me that? Why is it so important?”

  Her anger seemed to have vanished, and left a shadow of fear in its passing. ‘I told you I read all the prophecies at the palace. There is a fragment of one that contains those words. “He is the bringer of death, and he shall so name himself.’ ”

  Richard narrowed his eyes. “And what does the rest of the prophecy say? Did it also say that I will kill you, and anyone else I have to, to get this collar off?”

  She looked away from his glare. “Prophecies are not for the eyes or ears of the untrained.”

  With a sharp kick, she surprised her horse and sent it surging ahead. As he followed behind, Richard decided to let the matter drop. He didn’t care about prophecies. They were nothing more than riddles as far as he was concerned, and he hated riddles. If something was important enough to need saying, why couch it in riddles? Riddles were stupid games, and not important.

  As he rode, he wondered how many people he was going to have to kill to get the collar off. One, or a hundred, it didn’t matter. His rage boiled at the thought of being led around by the Rada’Han. He gritted his teeth at the thought. His jaw muscles flexed at the thought. His fists tightened on the reins.

  Bringer of death. He would kill as many as it took. He would have the collar off, or he would die
trying. The fury, the need to kill, surged through every fiber of his being.

  With a start, he realized he was calling forth the magic from the sword, even as it sat in its scabbard. He no longer had to hold the sword to do it. He could feel its wrath tingling through him. With an effort, he put it down and calmed himself.

  Besides the rage of hate from the sword, he also knew how to call forth its opposite side, its white magic. The Sisters didn’t know he could do that. He hoped he would have no reason to teach them. But if he had to, he would. He would have the collar off. He would use either side of the sword’s magic, or both, to have the collar off his neck. When the time came. When the time came.

  In the violet afterglow of twilight, Sister Verna brought them to a halt for the night. She had said nothing further to him. He didn’t know if she was still angry, but he didn’t really care.

  Richard walked the horses a short distance to a line of small willows at the bank of a creek and removed their bridles, replacing them with halters. His bay tossed her head, glad to have the bit out of her mouth. Richard saw it was an aggressive spade bit. Few bits were more cruelly punishing.

  People who used them, it seemed to him, were people who thought horses were nothing more than beasts humans had to conquer and control. He thought maybe they should have to have a bit in their mouths to see how they liked it. Properly trained, a horse needed nothing more than a jointed snaffle. If it was properly trained, and given a little understanding, it didn’t even need a bit. He guessed some people preferred punishment to patience.

  He reached up experimentally to stroke the horse’s black-tipped ear. It lifted its head firmly away from his hand. “So,” he muttered, “they like to twitch your ear, too.” He scratched and patted the horse’s neck. “I won’t do that to you, my friend.” The horse leaned against his scratching.

  Richard retrieved water in a canvas bucket and let each horse have only a few swallows, as they weren’t cooled down. In one of the saddlebags, he found brushes, and took his time carefully currying each of them and then picking their hooves clean. He took longer than he needed to, because he preferred their company to the Sister’s.

  After he finished, he cut a section of rind from the melon the Bantak had given him, and gave each horse a piece. Horses loved few things in life as much as a melon rind. Each showed eagerness for the treat. It was the first eagerness any of them had shown. After seeing the spade bits, he knew why.

  When he decided his chest hurt too much to stand around any longer, he went over to where Sister Verna sat on a small blanket and put his own blanket on the ground opposite her. He folded his legs as he sat and pulled a piece of the flat tava bread from his pack, more for something to do than because he was hungry. She accepted his offer of a piece. He cut up the melon and put the remaining rind aside, saving it for later. Richard offered Sister Verna a piece of melon.

  She looked at it coolly as he held it out. “It was given under false pretenses.”

  “It was given as thanks for preventing a war.”

  She took it at last, but not eagerly. “Perhaps.”

  “I’ll take first watch, if you wish,” he offered.

  “There is no need to stand watch.”

  He appraised her in the near darkness as he chewed a juicy piece of melon. “There are heart hounds in the Midlands. Other things, too. I could draw another screeling. I think a watch would be wise.”

  She pulled off a piece of tava bread without looking up. “You are safe with me. There is no need for a watch.”

  Her voice was flat. It wasn’t angry, but it wasn’t far from it, either. He ate in silence for a while, and then decided to try to lighten the mood. He tried to make his voice sound cheerful, even though he felt no cheer.

  “I’m here, you’re here, I’m wearing the Rada’Han, how about if you start teaching me to use the gift?”

  She looked up from under her eyebrows as she chewed. “There will be time enough to teach you when we reach the Palace of the Prophets.”

  The air felt as if it had suddenly cooled. His anger heated. The sword’s anger tugged at him to be released. Richard put it down. “As you wish.”

  Sister Verna lay down on her blanket, pulling her cloak tightly around herself. “It’s cold. Build a fire.”

  He put the last bite of tava bread in his mouth and waited until he had swallowed before speaking softly. Her eyes watched him.

  “I’m surprised you don’t know more about magic, Sister Verna. There is a word that is magic. It can accomplish more than you might think. Maybe you have heard it before. It is the word ‘please.’ ” He rose to his feet. “I’m not cold. If you want a fire, build it yourself. I’m going to go stand watch. I told you before, I will take nothing on faith. If we are killed in the night, it won’t be without warning on my watch.”

  He turned his back to her without waiting for a response. He didn’t want to hear anything she had to say. Walking off a good distance through the dry grass, he found a mound of dirt around a ground-hog hole and flopped down on top of it to watch. To think.

  The moon was up. It stared down at him and cast a pale silver light upon the surrounding empty land, enough light to enable him to see without any trouble. He looked out over the deserted countryside, brooding. As much as he tried to think of other things, it did no good. He could think of only one thing: Kahlan.

  He drew up his knees and wrapped his arms around them, after he had wiped some tears from his face. He wondered what she was doing, where she was, whether she would get Zedd. He wondered if she still cared for him enough to go get Zedd.

  The moon moved slowly across the sky as it stared down on him. What was he going to do? He felt lost.

  He pictured Kahlan’s face in his mind. He would have conquered the world to see her smile at him. To bask in the warmth of her love. Richard studied her face in his mind. He pictured her green eyes, her long hair. Her beautiful hair.

  At that thought, he remembered the lock of her hair she had put in his pocket. He pulled it out and looked at it in the moonlight. It was a circle she had pulled together and tied in the middle with the ribbon from her wedding dress, so that it reminded him of a figure eight turned sideways, as he held it in his fingers. Turned sideways like that, it was also the symbol for infinity.

  Richard rolled the lock of hair between his finger and thumb, watching it as it spun. Kahlan had given it to him to remember her by. Something to remember her by. Because he would never see her again. Racking grief choked his breathing.

  He gripped the Agiel as hard as he could, until his fist shook with the effort. The pain from the Agiel, and his heartache, twisted together into burning agony. He let it distort his perception until he could stand it no longer, and then he let it go on longer yet, let it go on until he collapsed to the base of the dirt mound, barely conscious.

  He gasped for air. The pain had swept all the thoughts from his mind. If only for a few minutes, his mind had been free of the anguish. He lay on the ground a long time, recovering.

  When he was finally able to sit up once more, he found the lock of hair still in his hand. He stared at it in the moonlight, remembering what Sister Verna had said to him, that he had told the Bantak a lie. A filthy lie. Those had been Kahlan’s words. She had said that his love for her was a “filthy lie.” Those words hurt more than the Agiel.

  “It’s not a lie,” he whispered. “I would do anything for you, Kahlan.”

  But it wasn’t good enough. Putting on the collar wasn’t good enough. He wasn’t good enough. Son of a monster. He knew what she wanted. What she really wanted. She wanted to be free of him.

  She wanted him to put on the collar so he would be taken away. So she would be free. “I would do anything for you, Kahlan,” he cried. He stood up and looked out over the empty grassland. The dark horizon wavered in a watery blur. Anything. Even this. “I set you free, my love.” Richard threw the lock of Kahlan’s hair as far as he could out into the night.

  He sank to hi
s knees and fell face-first to the ground, sobbing. He cried until he could cry no more. He continued to lie on the cold ground, groaning in agony until he realized he was gripping the Agiel again. He let it go and at last sat up, flopping back in exhaustion against the dirt mound. It was over, finished. He felt empty. Dead. After a time he rose to his feet. He stood a moment, and then slowly drew the Sword of Truth.

  Its ring was a soft song in the cold air. The anger came out with the steel, and he let it fill the void in him, rage freely through him. He welcomed the anger into himself, letting it fill him until he was submerged in its wrath. His chest heaved with lethal need.

  His eyes glided to where the Sister lay sleeping. He could see the dark hump of her body as he approached silently. He was a woods guide; he knew how to stalk silently. He was good at it.

  His eyes carefully watched the ground as he moved fluidly, watched the sleeping form of Sister Verna as he closed the distance. He didn’t hurry. There was no need to hurry. He had as much time as he needed. He tried to slow his breathing to keep from making noise. He was nearly panting with all-consuming fury.

  The thought of wearing a collar again fed the raging fire within him, fueled the inferno.

  Rage from the sword’s magic seared through him like molten metal. Richard recognized the feeling all too well, and gave himself over to it. He was beyond reason, beyond being stopped. Nothing short of blood would now satisfy the bringer of death.

  His knuckles were white on the hilt. His muscles knotted with restrained need aching to be set free. But they wouldn’t be restrained for long. The magic of the Sword of Truth screamed to do his bidding.

  Richard stood, a silent shadow, over Sister Verna, looking down at her. The fury pounded in his head. He drew the sword along the inside of his forearm, wiping both sides in the blood, giving the steel a taste of it. The dark stain ran down the fuller, dripping from the tip. It ran wet and warm down his arm. His chest heaved as he gripped the hilt in both hands again.