Whatever had happened was good by her; the council was now back in the hands of the people of the Midlands. The ones who collaborated, and the puppets, had been arrested. Things were said to be set back to the way they had been before the dictator. She expected the council would come to the aid of Galea.
Queen Cyrilla, too, had an ally on the council, the most powerful ally there was: the Mother Confessor. Though Kahlan was her half-sister, that wasn’t what forged their alliance. Cyrilla had always supported the sovereignty of the various lands, while also recognizing the fundamental need for peace among them. The Mother Confessor respected that steadfastness, and it was that respect which made her Galea’s ally.
Kahlan had never shown Cyrilla any favoritism, and that was as it should have been; favoritism would have weakened the Mother Confessor, threatening the alliance of the council, and therefore peace. She respected Kahlan for putting the unity of the Midlands above any power games. Such games were a shifting bog anyway; one was always better off in the end when dealt with fairly, rather than by favor.
Cyrilla had always been secretly proud of her half sister. Kahlan was twelve years younger, smart, strong, and, despite her young age, an astute leader. Though they were related by blood, they almost never spoke of it. Kahlan was a Confessor, and of the magic. She was not a sister who shared the blood of a father, but a Confessor, and the Mother Confessor of the Midlands. Confessors were blood to no one but Confessors.
Still, having no family of her own, save her beloved brother, Harold, she had often longed to take Kahlan in her arms as kin, as a little sister, and speak of the things they shared. But that was not possible. Cyrilla was the queen of Galea, and Kahlan was the Mother Confessor; two women who were virtual strangers who shared nothing save blood and mutual respect. Duty came before the heart. Galea was Cyrilla’s family; the Confessors, Kahlan’s.
Though there were those who resented Kahlan’s mother taking Wyborn as a mate, Cyrilla was not among them. Her mother, Queen Bernadine, had taught her and Harold of the need for Confessors, their need for strong blood in that line of magic, and how it served the greater cause of the Midlands in keeping peace. Her mother had never spoken bitterly of losing her husband to the Confessors, but explained instead the honor Cyrilla and Harold had of sharing blood with the Confessors, even if it was mostly unspoken. Yes, she was proud of Kahlan.
Proud, but also perhaps a bit wary. The ways of Confessors were a mystery to her. From birth they were trained in Aydindril, trained by other Confessors, and by wizards. Their magic, their power, was something they were born with, and in a way they were slaves to it. In some ways it was the same with her; born to be queen, without much choice. Though she had no magic, she understood the weight of birthright.
From birth until their training was completed, Confessors were kept cloistered, like priestesses, in a world apart. Their discipline was said to be rigorous. Though Cyrilla knew they must have emotions like anyone, Confessors were trained to subjugate them. Duty to their power was all. It left them no choice in life, save choosing a mate, and even that was not for love but for duty.
Cyrilla had always wished she could bring a little of the love of a sister to Kahlan. Perhaps, she also wished Kahlan could have brought a little of that love to her, too. But it could never be. Maybe Kahlan had loved her from afar, as Cyrilla had Kahlan. Perhaps Kahlan had been proud of her, too, in her own way. She had always hoped it was so.
The thing that pained her the most was that though they both served the Midlands, she was loved by her people for doing her duty, but Kahlan was feared and hated for it. She wished Kahlan could know a people’s love; it was a comfort that in part made up for the sacrifice. But a Confessor never could. Perhaps, she thought, that was why they were taught to subjugate their emotions and needs.
Kahlan, too, had tried to warn her of the danger from Kelton.
It had been at the midsummer festival, several years ago, the first summer after the death of Cyrilla’s mother. The first summer Cyrilla had been queen. The first summer, too, since Kahlan had ascended to Mother Confessor.
That Kahlan had become the Mother Confessor at such a young age spoke of both the strength of her power and of her character. And perhaps of a need. Since the selection was made in secrecy, Cyrilla knew little about the succession of Confessors, except that it was done without animosity or rivalry, and had to do with the strength of power weighed against age and training.
To the people of the Midlands, age was irrelevant. They feared Confessors in general, regardless of age, and the Mother Confessor in particular. They knew she was the most powerful of Confessors. Unlike most people, however, Cyrilla knew that power in and of itself was not necessarily something to fear, and Kahlan had always been fair. She had never sought anything but peace.
That day the streets of Ebinissia, the Crown city of Galea, had been filled with festivities of every sort. Not even the lowest stableboy had failed to find welcome at the tables of the fair, or at the games, or around the musicians, acrobats, and jugglers.
Cyrilla, as queen, had presided over the contests, and given ribbons to the victors. She had never seen so many smiling faces, so many happy people. She had never felt so contented for her people, or been made to feel so loved by them.
That night there was a royal ball at the palace. The great hall was filled with nearly four hundred people. It was dazzling to see everyone in their most elegant dress. Food and wine were arrayed on the long tables in abundant and stunning variety—only fitting for the most important day of the year. It was grand beyond any ball that had come before, for there was much for which to be thankful. It was a time of peace and prosperity, growth and promise, new life and bounty.
The music trailed off in thin, discordant notes, and the loud drone of the gathering fell suddenly dead silent as the the Mother Confessor strode purposefully into the hall, her wizard at her heels, his silver robes flying behind. Her regal-looking white dress stood out among the confusion of color like the full moon among the stars. Bright color and fancy dress had never looked so unexpectedly trivial. Everyone bowed low at her passing. Cyrilla waited with her advisors beside the table on which sat a large, cut-glass bowl of spiced wine.
Kahlan crossed the hushed room, followed by every eye, and drew to a halt before the queen, giving a prompt bow of her head. Her expression was as still as ice. She didn’t wait for the formality of the bow to her office to be returned.
“Queen Cyrilla. You have an advisor named Drefan Tross?”
Cyrilla held her open hand out to the side. “This is he.”
Kahlan’s emotionless gaze moved to Drefan. “I would speak with you in private.”
“Drefan Tross is a trusted advisor,” Cyrilla interrupted. He was more than that. He was a man she was very fond of, a man she was just beginning to fall in love with. “You may speak to him in my presence.” She didn’t know what this was about, but thought it best if she were privy to it. Confessors did not interrupt banquets except for trouble. “This is neither the time nor place to conduct business of this sort, Mother Confessor, but if it cannot wait, then let it be done and finished with here and now.”
She thought that would put it in abeyance until a more appropriate time. Without expression, the Mother Confessor considered this a moment. The wizard at her back was anything but expressionless. He appeared quite agitated, in fact.
He bent toward Kahlan to speak, but she raised her hand to silence him before he could begin.
“As you wish. I am sorry, Queen Cyrilla, but it cannot wait.” She returned her attention to Drefan. “I have just taken the confession of a murderer. In his confession, he also revealed himself to be an accomplice to an assassin. He named you as that assassin, and your target as Queen Cyrilla.”
There were astonished whispers from those near enough to overhear. Drefan’s face went red. The whispers died into brittle silence.
Cyrilla could scarcely follow what happened next. A blink of the eye and it would hav
e been missed. One instant Drefan stood as he had, with his hand in his gold and deep blue coat, and the next he was driving a knife toward the Mother Confessor. Standing tall, she moved only her arm, catching his wrist. Seemingly at the same time, there was a violent impact to the air—thunder but no sound. The cut-glass bowl shattered, flooding red wine over the table and floor. Cyrilla flinched with the sudden flash of pain coursing through every joint in her body. The knife clattered to the floor. Drefan’s eyes went wide, his jaw slack.
“Mistress,” he whispered reverently.
Cyrilla was numb with shock to see a Confessor use her power. She knew only of its aftereffects, and had never seen it being used. Few had. The magic seemed still to sizzle in the air a long moment.
The crowd pressed closer. A warning glare from the wizard changed their curiosity to timidity, and they moved back.
Kahlan looked drained, but her voice betrayed no weakness. “You intended to assassinate the queen?”
“Yes, Mistress,” he said eagerly, licking his lips.
“When?”
“Tonight. In the confusion when the guests were departing.” Drefan looked to be in torment. Tears welled up and ran down his cheeks. “Please, Mistress, command me. Tell me what you wish. Let me carry out your command.”
Cyrilla was still in shock. This was what had been done to her father. This was how he had been taken as a mate to a Confessor. First her father, and now a man she held dear.
“Wait in silence,” Kahlan ordered. Hands hanging at her sides, she turned to Cyrilla, her young eyes now heavy with sorrow. “Forgive me for disturbing your celebration, Queen Cyrilla, but I feared the results of delay.”
Her face burning, Cyrilla twisted to face Drefan. He stood gaping at Kahlan. “Who ordered this, Drefan! Who ordered you kill me!”
He didn’t even seem to be aware she had spoken.
“He will not answer you, Queen Cyrilla,” Kahlan said. “He will only answer me.”
“Then you ask!”
“That would not be advisable,” the wizard offered quietly.
Cyrilla felt a fool. Everyone knew of her fondness for Drefan. Everyone saw now that she had been duped. No one would ever forget this midsummer festival.
“Do not presume to advise me!”
Kahlan leaned closer and spoke softly. “Cyrilla, we think he may be protected by a spell. When I asked his accomplice that question, he died before he could answer. But I believe I know the answer. There are oblique ways of getting the information that might possibly circumvent the spell. If I could take him somewhere alone and question him in my own way, we might be able to get the answer.”
Cyrilla was near tears with fury. “I trusted him! He was close to me! He has betrayed me! Me, not you! I will know who sent him! I will hear it from his own lips! You stand in my kingdom, in my home! Ask him!”
Kahlan straightened, her face returning to the calm mask that showed nothing. “As you wish.” She redirected her attention to Drefan. “Was what you intended to do to the queen of your own volition?”
He dry-washed his hands in anxious anticipation of pleasing the Mother Confessor. “No, Mistress. I was sent.”
If it was possible, Kahlan’s face seemed to become even more placid. “Who sent you?”
One hand rose, and his mouth opened, as if in an attempt to do her bidding. All that came from his throat was a gurgle of blood before he collapsed.
The wizard gave a knowing grunt. “As I thought: the same as the other.”
Kahlan picked up the knife and offered it handle-first to Cyrilla. “We believe there to be a conspiracy of great magnitude brewing. Whether or not this man was part of it I don’t know, but he was sent by Kelton.”
“Kelton! I refuse to believe that.”
Kahlan nodded at the knife in Cyrilla’s hand. “The knife is Keltish.”
“Many people carry weapons forged in Kelton. They are some of the finest made. That is hardly proof enough for such an accusation.”
Kahlan stood unmoving. Cyrilla was too upset at that moment to wonder what thoughts could have been going on behind those green eyes. Kahlan’s voice finally came without emotion. “My father taught me that the Keltans will strike for only two reasons. First out of jealousy, and second when they are tempted by weakness. He said that either way, they will always first test by trying to kill the strongest, highest-ranking, of their opponents they can. Galea is now the strongest it has ever been, thanks to you, and the midsummer festival is the mark of that strength. You are the cause of that jealousy, and a symbol of that strength.
“My father also said that you must always keep an eye to the Keltans, and never offer them your back. He said that if you thwart them in the first attempt, it deepens their hunger for your blood, and they will always lie in wait for any weakness so they may strike.”
Cyrilla’s smoldering rage at being beguiled by Drefan made her lash out without considering her words. “I would not know what our father said. I never had the benefit of his teachings. He was taken from us by a Confessor.”
Kahlan’s face transformed from the calm, cold blankness of a Confessor to a look of ageless, knowing benevolence that seemed well beyond her years.
“Perhaps, Queen Cyrilla, the good spirits chose to spare you the things he would have taught you, and had him teach me instead. Be thankful they have looked kindly upon you. I doubt the things he taught would have brought you any joy. They bring me none, save perhaps that they have helped me preserve your life this night. Please do not be bitter. Be at peace with yourself, and cherish what you do have: the love of your people. They are your family, one and all.”
Kahlan started to turn away, but Cyrilla gently caught her arm and drew her aside as men bent to carry the body from the hall.
“Kahlan, forgive me.” Her fingers worked a ribbon at her waist. “I have wrongly directed my anger over Drefan to you.”
“I understand, Cyrilla. In your place, I would probably have reacted the same. I could see your feelings for Drefan in your eyes. I would not expect you to be happy over what I have just done. Forgive me for bringing anguish to your home on a day that should be only joyful, but I greatly feared the results of delay.”
Kahlan had made her feel like the younger sister. She looked anew at the tall, beautiful young woman standing before her. Kahlan was of the age to have a mate. Perhaps she had already chosen one, for all she knew. Her mother must have been about this old when she took Cyrilla’s father as hers. So young.
Looking into those depthless green eyes, Cyrilla let go of some of her anger over Drefan. This young woman, her sister, had just saved her life, knowing full well it would bring no thanks, and would probably earn her only deeper fear, and possibly undying hatred, from her half sister. So young. Cyrilla felt shame at her own selfishness.
She smiled at Kahlan for the first time. “Surely, the things Wyborn taught you weren’t all grim?”
“He taught me only killing. Whom to kill, when to kill, and how to kill. Be thankful you know no more of his lessons, and that you have never needed what he taught. I have, and I fear I have only begun to use what he taught me.”
Cyrilla frowned. Kahlan was a Confessor, not a killer. “Why would you say such a thing?”
“We believe we have uncovered a conspiracy. I will not speak of it until I know its nature, and have proof, but I think it may bring a storm beyond any you or I have ever seen before.”
Cyrilla touched her sister’s cheek, the only time in her life she had ever done so. “Kahlan, please stay? Enjoy at my side what is left of the festival? I would love to have you with me.”
Kahlan’s face returned to the calm mask of a Confessor. “I cannot. It would only ruin your people’s light heart to have me present. Thank you for the offer, but you should be able to enjoy your day with your people, without my spoiling it further.”
“Nonsense. It would spoil nothing.”
“I would like nothing more than that it were so, but it is not. Remember wha
t our father said: keep a wary eye to the Keltans. I must be gone. There is trouble gathering and I must see that the Confessors find its cause. Before I return to Aydindril I will pay a visit to Kelton and deliver my suspicions, and a warning that what has happened not be repeated. I will inform the council of the trouble of this day, so that all eyes will be on the Keltans.”
What did they teach in Aydindril that could turn what looked to be porcelain to iron?
“Thank you, Mother Confessor” was all she had been able to say, to offer her sister the honor of her office, as she watched her stride off, her wizard in tow. That had been the most intimate conversation she had ever had with her half sister. The midsummer festival had not held much joy for her after Kahlan had left. So young, yet so old.
At the council today, Cyrilla had been surprised to find that the Mother Confessor was not presiding over the council. No one knew where she was. It was to be expected she would have been absent when Aydindril fell; she was frequently gone in her capacity as a Confessor, and had probably been doing what she could to halt the threat from D’Hara. All the Confessors had fiercely fought the hordes from D’Hara. She was sure Kahlan would have done no less, using in part what her father had taught her.
But that she had not immediately returned to Aydindril when D’Hara withdrew was worrisome. Perhaps she had not yet had time to return. Cyrilla feared Kahlan might have been killed at the hands of a quad. D’Hara had sentenced all the Confessors to death, and hunted them relentlessly. Galea had offered refuge to the Confessors, but the quads, implacable, and without mercy, had found them anyway.
Worse, absent the Mother Confessor, there had not been a wizard overseeing the council meeting. Cyrilla’s flesh had prickled with apprehension at seeing no wizard. She recognized that the absence of a Confessor and a wizard created a dangerous vacuum in the council chambers.
But when she saw who presided over the council session, her apprehension sharpened to alarm. Sitting in the first chair was High Prince Fyren, of Kelton. The very man she had come to seek deliverance from sat in judgment. To see him sitting in the chair that had always belonged only to the Mother Confessor was startling.
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