The incantations, Nicci had told him, like the spell-forms, were cause and effect. He was the proper person, with the required power, drawing the proper spells, reciting the necessary words. His gift would add what was needed to the elements as he brought those elements into being in the sorcerer’s sand. Cause and effect, Nicci had assured him. There was no need for him to feel anything.
He was counting on her being right. They were all counting on her being right.
Nathan, too, was more than concerned about her being right. The prophet was more worried than ever about the great void and how close they were to it.
Richard remembered how Warren had always referred to the boxes of Orden as the “gateway.” At the time, when Richard had been at the Palace of the Prophets, Warren had said that the danger was that the boxes, the gateway, had breached the veil and would allow the Keeper of the underworld through into the world of life. Because the boxes were a gateway into the world of life for the Keeper, a way through the veil, they were also a gateway going in the other direction—into the world of the dead.
It had occurred to Richard that the boxes might very well be the gateway to the great void that so concerned Nathan.
Since the powers Richard was invoking were an integral part of Orden itself, Richard was aware that in attempting to journey to the underworld he very well might be about to be swallowed up into his own great void.
Richard thought again about the long talk he had had with Nathan. If Richard was successful this night, then Nathan was once again going to have to step into the role of the Lord Rahl. They couldn’t afford to leave everyone without a Lord Rahl for even the short time Richard would be gone. Richard had told the prophet that if anything went wrong then he was going to have to do what was necessary on his own.
Richard, hunched naked before the white sorcerer’s sand, used his forearm to smooth the next section, creating a field for the motifs to come. He began to draw the complex enchantments radiating out from the center axis of the larger spell-form. Each of those elements branched into intricate symbols of its own that he had spent countless hours practicing on paper. Nicci had stood over his shoulder as he’d drawn those symbols, guiding his every movement. Nicci could not help him now, though. This, he had to do by himself, without any help. He was the one who had been named the player. It had to be his own work, touched exclusively by his gift.
The torches, their flames wavering slowly in the still air, lit the sand, throwing off sparkles of prismatic light. Those tiny flares of colored light were riveting, spellbinding. They made him feel lost in his own private world.
In a way, he really was lost in his own world.
As he began drawing the abutting spell-forms, Richard gave himself over to the act of drawing. He focused exclusively on the creation of each component as he drew it, making it fit into the larger context of the spell-form not only conceptually, but physically. Back when he had painted the designs on himself and his team, he had discovered that drawing those elements had much in common with using his sword. There was a movement to it, a rhythm, a flow.
Since he was, after all, now conjuring things from the underworld itself, each spell contained elements of the dance with death. It not only had to be the right element at the right time but had to be carried out with precision.
In many ways, drawing the spells was the dance with death.
In much the way he fought with the sword to stay alive, bringing death to those he battled, the spells were bringing him closer to that cusp between life and death. When he fought with the sword, he knew that any error would result in his swift death. The moves he made with the sword not only had to be the right moves, but they had to be done at precisely the right time and done properly. Drawing the spell-forms was no different. Each move had to be executed properly. Any error would result in swift death.
At the same time, it was an exhilarating experience. He had practiced long hours. He knew the forms. He had painted them on himself and his team. Now he lost himself in the movement of drawing those forms, the strokes, slashes, and points, all the while moving with the constant flow of coming close to death but avoiding annihilation. He existed on the cusp of life, the very outer edge of existence. He moved among the forms as if moving among an enemy, moving among death stalking him.
It was an all-consuming experience that felt to him just like using the Sword of Truth.
In fact, it was all one and the same.
From that first day when Zedd had handed Richard the sword across the table outside his house, Richard had in reality been preparing for this.
He could feel sweat dripping off his face as he worked. As he drew each form, worked each element to completion without allowing anything to distract him into making a mistake, he lost all sense of time. He was part of the drawings. He was, in a very real sense, in the drawings just as he was in a sword fight when he used the Sword of Truth. His brow wrinkled with the intensity of it. He added each element, laid down each stroke and curve with the precision of a cut with his sword—or with the precision of his chisel when he had sculpted. It was the same skill he applied when using a blade. He was destroying and creating all at the same time.
When he at last realized that he had drawn every symbol, completed every spell-form, connected every element, he sat up straighter. His gaze swept over the sorcerer’s sand and he at last realized the full horror of what lay ahead.
He looked around at the Garden of Life. He wanted to see beauty before he faced the world of the dead.
At last, he sat cross-legged and rested his hands palm-up on his knees. His eyes slid closed. He took deep breaths. This was his last chance to stop. In another moment it would be too late to change the course of events.
Richard raised his head and opened his eyes.
In High D’Haran, he whispered, “Come to me.”
There was a moment of dead silence in which he could hear only the soft burning of the torches all around the sorcerer’s sand, and then the air itself shook with a sudden wailing roar. The ground shook.
From the center of the sparkling white sand, from the center of the spell-forms, a white shape, like white smoke, began to rise. It spiraled around itself in tumbling swirls and eddies as it slowly ascended through the sand, as if drawing itself upward out of the spells themselves. As it came, as it lifted ever upward, the sorcerer’s sand beneath it was rent open, allowing the blackness of death to establish a void in the world of life.
Richard watched as the white form ascended out of that void, forming into the shape of a figure in flowing white robes. The figure opened its arms, the way a flower would open itself to the world of life and light, until the gossamer robes hung in flowing folds from those widespread arms. The figure floated, suspended above the black void in the white sand.
Richard rose up before the figure.
“Thank you for coming, Denna.”
She smiled a beautiful, radiant, and yet longingly sad smile.
As Richard gazed at the spirit, she reached out and touched his cheek. It was as loving a touch as Richard had ever felt. In that touch he knew that he would be safe with her . . . as safe as he could be in the world of the dead.
From the shadows of the trees where Richard had asked her to wait, Nicci watched in wonder as Richard stood before the soft glow of an ethereal figure.
She was an achingly beautiful creature, a spirit of quiet purity and dignity.
Nicci felt tears run down her cheeks at actually seeing a good spirit there before her. It filled her with joy, and at the same time terror for Richard, for where that spirit would be taking him.
As the glowing figure in white robes circled a sheltering arm around Richard, closing him off from the world of life, Nicci stepped forward into the light of the torches. Her forehead beaded with sweat as she watched the gossamer glow gently spiral down into the darkness with her charge.
“Safe journey, my friend,” she whispered, “safe journey.” And then, before the opening had complet
ely closed, before the sparkling white sorcerer’s sand had healed itself over again, a dark form came together in the air above. The thing whirled itself into a tight funnel as it followed them down into darkness.
The beast had been attracted to Richard through the use of his gift, and now it was pursuing him down into its own realm.
Chapter 54
Kahlan added another stick to the fire. Sparks swirled up into the late-evening air as if eager to follow after the departing vestiges of red-orange just visible through the bare branches in the western sky. She warmed her hands toward the building flames and then shivered as she rubbed her arms. It was going to be a cold night.
Short on gear, they each had only one blanket. At least she also had her cloak. Lying on the cold ground made for a miserable, sleepless night. Spruce trees were plentiful, though, so she had cut a number of boughs for bedding. Even as thick as the woods were they wouldn’t have offered good protection from any wind, but since the clear night was dead calm at least they wouldn’t need to build a shelter. Kahlan just wanted to have something to eat and then get some sleep.
Before they had built the fire she had taken the opportunity to set a couple of snares, hoping to catch a rabbit, if not to eat that night then maybe in the morning before they started out again. Samuel had collected a good supply of firewood to last the night, then built the fire. After finishing with that he had gone off to a nearby stream down a rocky bank to collect water.
Kahlan was bone-weary as well as hungry. They were nearly out of the food they’d brought from the Imperial Order’s camp—not that they’d stopped all that often to eat, or rest. Unless they caught a rabbit it would be dried biscuits and dried meat again. At least they had that. It wasn’t going to last much longer, though.
Samuel hadn’t wanted to stop to try to see if they could get more food. He seemed in a frantic urgency to get somewhere. They had a few coins they’d found in the bottom of the saddlebags, but rather than venturing into one of the several small towns they had passed near in order to try to get more supplies, Samuel had insisted that they stay well clear of any people.
He was convinced that Imperial Order soldiers would be hunting them. Considering how much Jagang apparently hated her and how keen he was to extract vengeance, Kahlan couldn’t really offer any argument against Samuel’s theory. For all she knew soldiers might be hot on her heels. The thought added an uneasy edge to her chill.
When Kahlan asked Samuel where they were going he was vague about it, simply pointing west-southwest. He assured her, though, that they were going someplace where they would be safe.
He was proving to be a strange traveling companion. He spoke very little when they rode and even less at camp. Whenever they stopped he rarely ventured far from her. She imagined that he simply wanted to protect her, to keep her safe, but she wondered if it was more that he was watching over his prize. While he had come into the Order’s camp to rescue her, he never wanted to talk about his reasons for doing so. One time when she had pressed him he said it had been because he wanted to help her. On the surface it seemed a nice sentiment, yet he never explained how he knew her, or how he knew that she had been held captive.
By the way that he was always glancing at her when he didn’t think she was watching she thought that maybe he was just bashful. If she pressed him about anything he would typically pull his head down between his shoulders and shrug. She sometimes came to feel that she was torturing the poor man with her questions, and so she would stop and let him be. It was only then that he would seem to relax.
Still, all of the unanswered questions gave her pause. Despite everything he had done, and how he helped her at every turn, she didn’t trust him. She didn’t like that he wouldn’t answer such simple questions—such important questions. Having so much of her own life a mystery to her left her rather sensitive to the relevance of unanswered questions.
She knew, too, that Samuel was fascinated by her. He often seemed eager to do things to please her. He would cut pieces of sausage, giving her one slice at a time until she had to stop him, telling him that she’d had enough, and that he should eat, too. At other times, though, like when he was distracted by his own hunger, he would forget to offer her anything until she asked.
Sometimes she would glance over and see him staring at her with those strange golden eyes. In those moments, she thought that she saw the cunning countenance of a thief. She tried to keep a hand on the handle of her knife when she went to sleep.
At other times, when she would try to ask questions, he seemed too shy even to look her in the eye, much less answer her, and would hunch back toward the fire as if hoping he could be invisible. Most of the time she had trouble getting more than a yes or no out of him. His reticence never seemed to be out of cruelty, arrogance, or indifference, though. In the end, since it was so difficult getting him to talk and the answers she did get were virtually useless, she had stopped trying.
He was either painfully shy, or he was hiding something.
In those long periods of silence, Kahlan’s mind would turn to thoughts about Richard. She wondered if he was alive or dead. She feared that she knew the answer but was reluctant to accept the finality of his death. She was still astonished recalling the sight of him using weapons, the way his blade moved, the way he moved. He had done so much to help her escape. She feared that he had paid the ultimate price for it.
In the still air, thinking about Richard, Kahlan felt a chill that was not from the cold. It was a strange night. Something about it felt out-of-sorts and empty. The world felt like an even more lonely place than usual.
That was the thing that bothered her the most—the constant, gnawing emptiness she felt, the terrible loneliness of being isolated from almost everyone else in the world. A part of her life was missing, too, and she didn’t know what it was. She didn’t even know who she was, other than her name and that she was the Mother Confessor. When she had asked Samuel what a Confessor was he had stared a long moment and then shrugged. She got the clear impression that he knew but didn’t want to say.
Kahlan felt cut off not only from the world, but from herself. She wanted her life back.
In the fading light she made her way over to the exhausted horse as he cropped at the clumps of long grass. There was no currycomb to brush out his coat, so she stroked her hand over the huge animal, cleaning it as best she could, checking for any injuries or burrs. She used her fingers to pry off dried clumps of mud from his legs and then the side of his belly. The horse turned his head back, watching her cleaning off the caked mud.
The horse liked her care and gentle touch. He was an animal kept by men who were little more than animals themselves and wasn’t used to being treated with kindness and respect, so he knew the value of both.
When she finished picking his hooves clean, she gave the horse a good scratch behind the ears. He neighed softly, nuzzling his head against her. Kahlan smiled and scratched some more, which pleased the horse just fine. His big eyes closed as he soaked in the attention. She felt closer to the horse than to Samuel.
To Samuel, the horse was just a horse. He wanted to hurry, and the horse was his means of covering ground. Kahlan wasn’t sure if it was so much that he had somewhere to go, or if he simply wanted to put as much distance between them and the Imperial Order as possible.
Since he kept to a steady course she supposed that he must have a real destination. If that was the case, then he had some reason to get there in a hurry. If he had a destination, and was eager to get there, then why wouldn’t he at least tell her where they were going?
As she rubbed behind the horse’s ears, he pressed his head a little tighter against her in appreciation. She smiled at the nudge the horse gave her when she paused, urging her to continue. She thought that he was falling in love with her.
Kahlan wondered if she was being less kind to Samuel. She didn’t mean to be deliberately cold toward him, but since he was being less than candid—and likely evasive—she had decid
ed to trust her instincts and remain businesslike with him.
Back at the fire, as Kahlan, sitting on her heels, fed another stick into the flames, she heard Samuel rushing back. She checked the knife at her belt.
“Got one!” he called as he came into the light of the campfire.
He held up a rabbit by its hind legs. She didn’t think that she’d ever seen Samuel so excited. He had to be hungry.
She sat back, smiling. “I guess we get a hot meal tonight.”
Samuel, grasping the hind legs in both hands, hastily ripped the rabbit apart. Kahlan sat up in surprise as he laid a bleeding half of a rabbit before her.
Samuel squatted not far away, hunched down facing the fire, and began devouring the other half of the rabbit.
Kahlan stared in shock as she watched him eating the raw catch. He tore off a bite of fur with his teeth and swallowed it down. He crunched right through bones. As blood ran down his chin he even ate the entrails.
The sight was making her sick. Kahlan looked away to stare into the fire.
“Eat,” Samuel said. “It’s good.”
Kahlan picked up the hind leg and tossed her half to him. “I’m not very hungry.”
Samuel didn’t argue. He tore into her half.
Kahlan lay back, resting her head against the saddle, and watched the stars. To take her mind off Samuel she thought again about Richard, wondering who he really was, and what his connection to her was. She thought about how he fought with a blade. In many ways it reminded her of the way she fought. She didn’t know where she had learned what she knew. As she wandered through an internal landscape of shadowy uncertainties, she watched the moon slowly rise.
She began wondering why she should continue to stay with Samuel. He had saved her life, after a fashion, after Richard told him how. She supposed that she did owe him some gratitude. But why stay with him? He wasn’t providing her any answers or real solutions. She didn’t owe him her dogged allegiance. She wondered if she should strike out on her own.
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