Stone of Tears

by Terry Goodkind

  "How dare you put a lady in a rat infested hole!"

  Prince Fyren stepped close to the black maw. One hand on a hip held back his unbuttoned, royal blue coat. With his other hand he hefted a torch from a bracket.

  "Rats? Is that what worries you, My Lady? Rats?" He gave her a derisive smile. He was too young to be so well schooled at insolence. Had her arms been free she would have slapped him. "Let me allay your fears, Queen Cyrilla."

  He tossed the torch into the blackness. As it dropped, it illuminated faces. A husky fist caught the torch. There were men in the pit. At least six, maybe ten.

  Prince Fyren leaned into the doorway, his voice echoing into the hole. "The Queen worries there may be rats down there."

  "Rats?" came a coarse voice from the pit. "There be no rats down here. Not anymore. We et them all."

  A hand with white ruffles at the wrist still rested on Prince Fyren's hip. His voice taunted with feigned concern. "There, you see? The man says there are no rats. Does that ease your apprehension, My Lady?"

  Her eyes darted between the flickering torchlight below and Fyren. "Who are those men?"

  "Why, just a few murderers and rapists awaiting their beheading, same as you. Quite vile animals, actually. What with all I've had to attend to, I haven't had time to see to their sentences. I'm afraid being down in the pit for so long puts them in an ugly disposition." His grin returned. "But I'm sure having queen among them will mellow their mood."

  Cyrilla had to force her voice to come. "I demand my own cell."

  The grin vanished. An eyebrow lifted. "Demand? You demand?" He suddenly struck her across the face. "You demand nothing! You are nothing but a common criminal, a loathsome murderer of my people! You have been tried and convicted!"

  Her cheek burned with the sting of his handprint.

  "You can't put me in there—with them." Her whispered entreaty was hopeless, she knew, but she couldn't keep it from her lips.

  Fyren rolled his shoulders, straightening his back and coat as he regained his composure. His voice rose to those below. "You men wouldn't defile a lady, would you?"

  Soft laughter echoed up from the pit. "Why 'course not. We wouldn't want to be beheaded twice." The coarse voice deepened into cold menace. "We'll treat her real nice like."

  Cyrilla could taste warm, salty blood at the corner of her mouth. "Fyren, you can't do this. I demand to be beheaded at once."

  "There you go again: demanding."

  "Why can't it be done now! Let it be done now!"

  He drew his hand back to slap her again, but then let it lower as his simper returned. "You see? At first you proclaimed your innocence, and didn't want to be executed, but already you are reconsidering. After a few days down there, with them, you will be begging to be beheaded. You will eagerly confess your treason before all those gathered to witness your punishment. Besides, I have other matters to attend to. I can't be bothered right now. You will be put to death when I deem I have the time."

  With rising terror, she was only now beginning to grasp the full extent of the fate that awaited her in the pit. Tears burned her eyes.

  "Please... don't do this to me. I'm begging you."

  Prince Fyren smoothed the white ruffles at his throat and spoke softly. "I tried to make it easy for you, Cyrilla, because you are a woman. Drefan's knife would have been quick. You would have suffered little that way. I would never have allowed a man in your place such mercy. But you wouldn't have it the easy way. You allowed the Mother Confessor to interfere. You allowed yet another woman to infringe on the dominion of men!

  "Women don't have the stomach for ruling. They are ill suited to the task. They should never be allowed to command armies or to meddle in the affairs of nations. Things had to be set right. Drefan died trying to do it the easy way. Now we do it the other way."

  He nodded to a man behind him. The guard hauled the ladder to the doorway to lower an end into the pit as the hands on her arms moved her to the edge. The other men drew swords, apparently to prevent any in the pit from thinking to come up the ladder.

  Cyrilla could think of no way to stop this. She voiced a protest, knowing it was foolish, but unable to check her panic. "I am a Queen, a Lady, I will not be made to scurry down a rickety ladder."

  Prince Fyren blinked at her ludicrous objection, but then motioned with his hand for the man to pull the ladder back from the doorway.

  He gave a mocking bow. "As you wish, My Lady."

  He rose, giving a slight nod to the men holding her arms. They released her. Before she thought to move a muscle, he rammed the heel of his hand into her chest, between her breasts.

  The painful blow knocked her off balance. She toppled backwards through the opening. Down into the pit.

  As she plummeted, she fully expected to strike the stone floor and be killed. She resigned to it with a last gasp as the futile flow of her past glory whirled before her mind's eye. Had it all come to this? All for nought? To have her skull cracked like an egg fallen from a table to the floor?

  But hands caught her. Hands were everywhere upon her, unexpectedly upon the most indecent places. Her eyes opened to see the light of the doorway go dark with a loud, reverberating clang.

  Faces were all around her in the haunting, flickering torchlight. Scruffy, whiskered faces. Ugly, sweaty, wicked faces. Cunning black eyes played over her. Hungry, humorless grins showed crooked, sharp teeth. So many teeth. Her throat clenched shut, locking her breath in her lungs. Her mind refused to function, and flashed with confusing, useless images.

  She was pressed to the floor. The stone was cold and painfully rough against her back. Grunts and low squeals assailed her from every side. Men were tight together above her. Against her struggles, her limbs were pushed and pulled as the men willed.

  Clutching, clawlike hands ripped at her fine dress and pinched brutally at suddenly, shockingly, exposed flesh.

  And then Cyrilla did something she hadn't done since she was a little girl.

  She screamed.

  27

  Except for her thumb and forefinger idly turning the smooth, round bone on her necklace, Kahlan stood motionless as she studied the sprawling city. The surrounding rugged slopes seemed to tenderly cradle the buildings that filled nearly the length and breadth of the gently rolling valley. Steeply pitched slate roofs pricked the land within the ribbon of wall, with the higher peaks of the palace off to the northern end, but not so much as a wisp of smoke rose from the hundreds of stone chimneys into the clear air. She saw no movement. The arrow-straight South road leading to the main gate, the smaller, meandering roads that branched off to end at the lesser gates, and those which bypassed the outer walls altogether to lead north, were deserted.

  The sloping mountain meadow before her lay buried beneath a white winter blanket. A light breeze liberated the burden of snow from a sagging branch of a nearby pine, freeing a sparkling cloud to curl away. The same breeze ruffled the white wolf fur of the thick mantle snugged against her cheek, but she hardly noticed.

  Prindin and Tossidin had made the mantle for her, to keep her warm on their way northeast through the bitter winter storms that raked the bleak land they had traveled. Wolves were fearful of people, and rarely let themselves be seen, so she knew little of their habits. The brothers' arrows had found their mark where she saw nothing. If she hadn't seen Richard shoot, she would have thought the shots impossible. The brothers were almost as good as he.

  Though she had always held a vague enmity for wolves, she had never actually been harried by them. Since Richard had told her of their close family packs, she had come to feel an affection for them. She hadn't wanted the two brothers to kill wolves to make the warm cape, but they insisted that it was necessary and, in the end, she had acquiesced.

  It had sickened her to watch the carcasses being skinned, revealing the red muscle beneath, and white of bone and sinew, the substance of being, so elegant when filled with life and spirit, so suddenly morbid when left with neither.


  As the brothers went about the grisly task, she could think only of Brophy, the man she had touched with her power, only to have it prove him innocent. He had been turned to a wolf by her wizard, Giller, to release him from the power of a Confessor's magic, so he could start over in a new life. She had wondered at how saddened these wolves' families must have been when they never returned, as she knew Brophy's mate and pack must have been when he was killed.

  She had seen so much killing. She was weary nearly to tears of it, at the way it seemed to go on without an end in sight. At least the three men had felt no pride or joy at having killed the magnificent animals, and had said a prayer to the spirits of their brother wolves, as they had called them.

  "We should not be doing this," Chandalen grumbled.

  He was leaning on his spear, watching her, she knew, but she didn't take her eyes from the silent city below, the too-still scene. His tone was not as sharp as it usually was. It betrayed his awe at seeing a city the size of Ebinissia.

  He had never before been far from the Mud People's lands, had never seen this many buildings, especially none of this grand scale. When he had first taken in the size of it, his brown eyes had stared in silent wonder he could not conceal, and his acid tongue, for once, had forsaken him. Having lived his whole life in the village out on the plains, it must look to him as if he were seeing the result of magic, not mere human effort.

  She felt a small pang of sorrow for him and the two brothers, that their simple view of the outside world should had to be shattered. Well, they would see more, before this journey was ended, that would astonish them further.

  "Chandalen, I have spent a great effort, nearly every waking moment, teaching you and Prindin and Tossidin to speak my language. No one where we go will speak yours. It is for your own good that I do this. You are free to believe that I am being spiteful, or that I am doing as I say: being mindful of your safety outside your land, but either way, you will speak to me in the tongue I have taught you."

  His tone tightened, but still could not disguise how humbled he was at seeing a great city for the first time. It was far from the greatest he would see. Perhaps, too, it betrayed something she had never before sensed from him: fear.

  "I am to take you to Aydindril, not this place. We should not be using our time at this place." His inflection implied he thought a place such as this could be only evil.

  Squinting against the blindingly bright sun on white snow, she saw the two figures, far below, starting up the slope. She let the round bone slip from her fingers. "I am the Mother Confessor. It is my duty to protect all the people of the Midlands, the same way I work to safeguard the Mud People."

  "You bring no help to my people, only trouble."

  His protest seemed more habit than a heartfelt challenge. She answered it in a quiet, tired murmur. "Enough, Chandalen."

  Thankfully, he didn't press the argument, but turned his anger elsewhere. "Prindin and Tossidin should not come up the hill in the open like that. I have taught them not to be so stupid. If they were boys, I would strike their bottoms. Anyone can see where they go. Will you do as I say, and come out of the open now?"

  She let him shepherd her back into the shroud of trees, not because she thought it necessary, but because she wanted to let him know she respected his efforts to protect her. Despite his animosity at being forced to go on this journey, he had done his duty, watching over her constantly, as had the two brothers, they with smiles and concern, he with a scowl and suspicion. All three made her feel like a precious, fragile cargo that must be tended at all times. The brothers, she knew, were sincere. Chandalen, she was sure, saw his mission only as a task that must be performed, no matter how onerous.

  "We should go quickly from here," he pressed, again.

  Kahlan withdrew a hand from under the fur mantle and pulled a stray strand of her long hair back from her face. "It is my duty to know what has happened here."

  "You said your duty was to go to Aydindril, as Richard With The Temper asked."

  Kahlan turned away without answering, moving deeper into the snow crusted trees. She missed Richard more than she could bear. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw his face when he had thought she had betrayed him. She wanted to drop to her knees and let out the scream that seemed to be always there, trapped just below the surface, trying to find a way past her restraint, a scream at the horror of what she had done.

  But what else could she have done? If what she had learned was true, and the veil to the underworld was torn and Richard was in fact the only one who could close it, and if the collar was the only thing that could save his life and give him the chance to close the veil, then she had had no choice. How could she have made any other decision? How could Richard ever respect her if she didn't face her responsibilities to the greater good? The Richard she loved would eventually realize that. He had to.

  But if any of it were not true, then she had delivered the man she loved into his worst nightmare, for nothing.

  She wondered again if Richard often looked at the lock of her hair she had given him, and thought of her. She hoped that he could find it in himself to understand and forgive her. She wanted so much to tell him how much she loved him. She yearned to hold him to her. She wanted only to get to Aydindril, to Zedd, for help.

  But she had to know what had happened here. She stiffened her back with resolve. She was the Mother Confessor.

  She had intended to skirt Ebinissia, but for the last two days, they had been coming across the frozen corpses of women. Never any men, only women, from young to old, children to grandmothers. Most were half naked, some without clothes at all. And in the dead of winter. While most had been alone, a few were together, huddled in frozen death, too exhausted, or too frightened, or too disoriented to have sought shelter. They had run from Ebinissia not in disorderly haste, but in panic, choosing to freeze to death rather than remain.

  Most, too, had been badly abused before they had scattered in every direction into the mountainous countryside. Kahlan knew what had been done to them, what had made them make the choice they did. The three men knew, too, but none would voice it aloud.

  She pulled her warm mantle tighter around herself. This atrocity couldn't have been at the hands of the armies from D'Hara; it was far too recent. The troops from D'Hara had been called home. Surely, they wouldn't have done this after they had been told the war was ended.

  Unable to stand for another moment not knowing what fate had befallen Ebinissia, she pushed her bow further up on her shoulder and started down the hillside. Her leg muscles were at long last used to the wide-footed gait needed to walk on the snowshoes the men had made from willow and sinew. Chandalen charged after her.

  "You must not go down there. There could be dangerous."

  "Danger," she corrected as she hitched her pack up higher. "If there was danger, Prindin and Tossidin would not be out in the open. You may come, or you may wait here, but I am going down there."

  Knowing arguing was useless, he followed in a rare fit of silence. The bright afternoon sun brought no warmth to the bitterly cold day. There was usually wind at the fringe of the Rang'Shada mountains, but thankfully there was little this day, for a change. It hadn't snowed for several days and they had been able to make better time in the clear weather. Still, with every breath she took, the air felt as if it were turning the inside her nose to ice.

  She intercepted Prindin and Tossidin halfway down the slope. They brought themselves to a halt before her, leaning on their spears, breathing heavily, which was unusual for them as nothing seemed to tire them, but they were unaccustomed to the altitude. Their faces were pale, and their handsome twin smiles long gone.

  "Please, Mother Confessor," Prindin said, pausing to catch his breath from the strenuous climb, "you must not go to that place. The ancestor spirits of those people have abandoned them."

  Kahlan untied a waterskin from her waist and pulled it from under her mantle, where her body's heat kept the water from freezing. She
held it up to Prindin, urging him to take a drink before questioning him.

  "What did you see? You didn't go into the city, did you? I told you not to go inside the walls."

  Prindin handed the water skin to his panting brother. "No. We stay hidden, as you told us. We do not go inside, but we do not need to." He licked a drop of water from his lower lip. "We see enough from outside."

  She took back the water skin when Tossidin finished and replaced the stopper. "Did you see any people?"

  Tossidin stole a quick glance over his shoulder, down the hill. "We see many people."

  Prindin wiped his nose on the back of his hand as he looked from his brother to her. "Dead people."

  "How many? Dead from what?"

  Tossidin tugged loose the thong holding his fur mantle tight at his neck. "Dead from fighting. Most are men with weapons: swords and spears and bows. There are more that I know the words to count. I have never seen that many men. In my whole life, I have not seen that many men. There has been war here. War, and killing of those defeated."

  Kahlan stared at them for a moment as a hot wave of horror seemed to roll up her legs and through her insides to her throat, where it threatened to choke off her breath. She had hoped that somehow the people of Ebinissia had escaped, that they had fled.

  A war. Had the D'Haran forces done this after the war was ended? Or was it something else?

  Her muscles at last unlocked and she started down the hill, the mantle billowing open, letting in the icy air. Her heart pounded with dread at what had befallen the people of Ebinissia. "I must go down there to see what has happened."

  "Please, Mother Confessor, do not go," Prindin called after her. "It is bad to see."

  The three men jumped to follow as she marched down the hill, the slope speeding her effort. "I have seen dead people before."

  They began encountering the sprawled corpses—apparently the sites of skirmishes—a good distance from the city walls. Snow had drifted against them, partially covering them. In one place, a hand reached up from the snow, as if the man below were drowning, and reaching for air. Most had not been touched by animals or birds, there being an overabundance for scavengers. All were soldiers of the Galean army, frozen in death where they had fallen, bloodsoaked clothes frozen rock solid to them, ghastly wounds frozen open.