Soul of the Fire

by Terry Goodkind

  In that flawless instant when her lips were just touching his, she saw through him, just beyond him, the merciless unyielding valley floor hurtling up toward her, and she knew at last his name.

  Death.

  26

  “There,” Richard said, leaning close so Kahlan could sight down his arm as he pointed off toward the horizon. “See that really dark fleck of cloud in front of the lighter part?” He waited for her nod. “Under that, and just a bit to the right.”

  Standing amid a seemingly endless sea of nearly waist-high grass, Kahlan straightened and held a hand to her brow to shield her eyes from the morning light.

  “I still can’t see him.” Her frustration came out as a sigh. “But I’ve never been able to see distant things as well as you.”

  “I don’t see him, either,” Cara said.

  Richard again checked over his shoulder, scanning the empty grassland all around to make sure they weren’t about to be surprised by someone sneaking up while they watched the approach of this one man. He saw no other threat.

  “You will, soon enough.”

  He reached over to check that his sword was clear in its scabbard, only realizing he was doing so when he found the sword absent from his left hip. He instead pulled his bow from his shoulder and nocked an arrow.

  There had been countless times he had wished to be rid of the Sword of Truth and its attendant magic, inasmuch as it brought forth from within himself things he abhorred. The sword’s magic could fuse with those feelings into a lethal wrath. Zedd, when he first gave Richard the sword, told him it was only a tool. Over time, he had come to comprehend Zedd’s advice.

  Still, it was a horrifying tool to have to use.

  It was up to the one wielding the sword to govern not simply the weapon, but himself. Understanding that part of it, among other things, was essential to using the weapon as it was intended. And it was intended for none but a true Seeker of Truth.

  Richard shuddered to think of that contrivance of magic in the wrong hands. He thanked the good spirits that, if he couldn’t have it with him, it was at least safe.

  Below distant billowing clouds, their interiors glowing in the morning light colors from a deep yellow to an unsettling violet that marked the violence of the storms contained within, the man continued to approach. Lightning, silent at this distance, flashed and flickered inside the colossal clouds, illuminating hidden canyons, valley walls, and seething peaks.

  Compared with other places he had been, the sky and clouds above the flat plains somehow appeared impossibly grand. He guessed it was because from horizon to horizon there was nothing—no mountains, no trees, nothing—to interrupt the drama of the vast vault of stage overhead.

  The departing storm clouds had only finally moved on eastward before dawn, taking with them the rain that had so vexed them when with the Mud People, their first day of traveling, and their first miserable cold night without a fire. Traveling in the rain was unpleasant. In its wake the rain had left the three of them irritable.

  Like him, Kahlan was worried about Zedd and Ann and troubled by what the Lurk might bring next. It was also frustrating to have to undertake a long journey, when they were in such a rush and it was so vitally important, rather than return to Aydindril in short order through the sliph.

  Richard was almost willing to take the risk. Almost.

  With Cara, though, it seemed something more was disturbing her. She was as disagreeable as a cat in a sack. He wasn’t eager to reach in and get scratched. He figured that if it was truly important, she would tell them.

  Added to all that, Richard was unsettled by not having his sword with him when there was trouble about. He feared the Lurk trying to harm Kahlan, while he was unable to protect her. Even without the trouble caused by the Sisters of the Dark, there were any number of ordinary dangers for a Confessor, any number of people who would, were she defenseless, like to settle what they viewed as injustices.

  With the spell eroding magic, sooner or later her Confessor’s power would be gone, and she would be without its ability to protect her. He needed to be able to protect her, but without the sword he feared being inadequate to the task.

  Every time he reached for his sword and it wasn’t there, he felt an emptiness he couldn’t express in words. It was as if part of him was missing.

  Even so, Richard was for some reason uneasy about going to Aydindril. Something about it felt wrong. He rationalized it as worry about leaving Zedd when he was so weak and vulnerable. But Zedd had made it clear there was no choice.

  Up until he had spotted the approaching stranger, their second day had been looking sunny, dry, and more agreeable. Richard put some tension to the bowstring. After their encounter with the chicken thing, or rather the Lurk, and with so much at stake, he didn’t intend to let anyone get close unless he knew them to be a friend.

  Richard frowned over at Kahlan. “You know, I think my mother once told me a story or something about a cat named ‘Lurk.’”

  Holding a fistful of hair to keep the breeze from blowing it across her face, Kahlan frowned back. “That’s odd. Are you sure?”

  “No. She died when I was young. It’s hard to remember if I’m really remembering, or just fooling myself into thinking I am.”

  “What do you think you remember?” Kahlan asked.

  Richard stretched the bowstring to test it, and then relaxed it partway. “I think I fell down and skinned a knee, or something, and she was trying to make me laugh—you know, to make me forget my hurt. I think she just that one time told me how when she was little, her mother told her a story of a cat that lurked about pouncing on things, and so earned the name Lurk. I’d swear I remember her laughing and asking if I didn’t think that was a funny name.”

  “Yes, very funny,” Cara said, making clear she thought it wasn’t.

  With a finger, she lifted the point of his arrow, and thus his bow, in the direction of the danger she seemed to think he was ignoring.

  “What made you think of that, now?” Kahlan asked.

  Richard pointed with his chin toward the approaching man. “I was considering a man being out here—you know, thinking of what other dangers might be lurking about.”

  “And when you thought of all these dangers lurking about,” Cara said, “did you also decide to just stand around and let them all come to attack you as they wish?

  Ignoring Cara, Richard tilted his head toward the man. “You must see him now.”

  “No, I still don’t see where it is you… wait…” Hand to her brow, Kahlan rose up onto her tiptoes, as if that would help her see better. “There he is. I see him now.”

  “I think we should conceal ourselves in the grass, and then pounce on him,” Cara said.

  “He saw us at the same time I saw him,” Richard said. “He knows we’re here. We couldn’t surprise him.”

  “At least there is only one.” Cara yawned. “We will have no trouble.”

  Cara, standing the middle watch, hadn’t wakened him as early as she was supposed to for his turn at watch. She had left him sleeping an extra hour, at least. Middle watch, too, usually got less sleep.

  Richard checked over his shoulder again. “You may see only one, but there are a number more. A dozen, at least.”

  Kahlan put her hand back to her forehead to shield her eyes. “I don’t see any more.” She looked to the sides and behind. “I only see the one. Are you sure?”

  “Yes. When I first saw him, and he saw me, he left the others and came alone toward us. They still wait.”

  Cara snatched up a pack. She shoved Kahlan’s shoulder, then Richard’s. “Let’s go. We can outdistance them until we’re out of sight and then hide. If they follow we will take them by surprise and put a quick end to the pursuit.”

  Richard returned the shove. “Would you just settle down? He’s coming alone so as not to draw any arrows. If it was an attack he would have brought all his men at once. We will wait.”

  Cara folded her arms and pressed
her lips together in a bit of ire. She seemed to be beyond her usual protective self. Whether or not she was ready to tell him, they were going to have to talk to her and find out what her problem was. Maybe Kahlan would have some luck.

  The man lifted his arms, waving at them in a friendly gesture.

  Suddenly recognizing the man, Richard took his hand from the bowstring and returned the greeting.

  “It’s Chandalen.”

  It wasn’t long until Kahlan waved her arm, too. “You’re right, it is Chandalen.”

  Richard returned his arrow to the quiver hung on his belt. “I wonder what he’s doing out here.”

  “When you were still searching the chickens gathered together in the buildings,” Kahlan said, “he went to check on some of his men on far patrol. He said they had encountered some heavily armed people. His men were worried about the behavior of the strangers.”

  “They were hostile?”

  “No.” Kahlan pushed her damp hair back over her shoulder. “But Chandalen’s men said they had a calm about them when approached. That troubled him.”

  Richard nodded as he watched Chandalen’s approach, seeing that he brought no weapons except a belt knife. As was the custom, he didn’t smile as he trotted up to them. Until proper greetings were exchanged, Mud People didn’t usually smile when they encountered even friends on the plains.

  With a grim expression, Chandalen quickly slapped Richard, Kahlan, and Cara. Though he had run most of the way, he seemed hardly winded as he greeted them by their titles.

  “Strength to the Mother Confessor. Strength to Richard With The Temper.” He added a nod to his spoken greeting of Cara; she was a protector, the same as he.

  All three returned the slap and wished him their strength.

  “Where are you going?” Chandalen asked.

  “There’s trouble.” Richard said as he offered his waterskin. “We have to get back to Aydindril.”

  Chandalen accepted the waterskin as he let out a grumble of worry. “The chicken that is not a chicken?”

  “In a way, yes,” Kahlan told him. “It turns out it was magic conjured by the Sisters of the Dark Jagang is holding prisoner.”

  “Lord Rahl used his magic to destroy the chicken that was not a chicken,” Cara put in.

  Chandalen, looking relieved to hear her news, took a swig of water. “Then why must you go to Aydindril?”

  Richard rested the end of his bow on the ground and gripped the other end. “The spell the Sisters cast endangers everyone and everything of magic. It’s making Zedd and Ann weak. They’re waiting back at your village. In Aydindril we hope to unleash magic to counter the Sisters of the Dark, and then Zedd will be strong enough to put everything right again

  “The Sisters’ magic made the chicken thing that killed Juni. Until we can get to Aydindril, no one is safe.”

  Having listened carefully, Chandalen finally replaced the stopper and handed back the waterskin.

  “Then you must soon be on your way to do what only you can.” He checked over his shoulder. Now that Chandalen had identified himself, the others were approaching. “But my men have met strangers who must see you, first.”

  Richard hooked his bow back over his shoulder as he peered off into the distance. He couldn’t make out the people.

  “So, who are they?”

  Chandalen stole a glance at Kahlan before directing his answer to Richard. “We have an old saying. It is best to hold your tongue around the cook, or you may end up in the pot with the chicken that ate her dinner greens.”

  It seemed to Richard that Chandalen was trying very hard to keep from looking at Kahlan’s puzzled expression. Although Richard couldn’t fathom the reason, he thought he understood the figure of speech—odd as it was. He thought maybe it was a bad translation.

  The approaching people weren’t far off. Chandalen, having had one of his trusted hunters killed by the Lurk, would want Richard and Kahlan to do what they could to stop the enemy; he would not insist they delay their journey unless he had a good reason.

  “If it’s important for them to see us, then let’s go.”

  Chandalen caught Richard’s arm. “They only asked to see you. Perhaps you wish to go alone? Then you could be on your way.”

  “Why would Richard want to go alone,” Kahlan asked, suspicion bubbling up in her voice. She then added something in the Mud People’s language which Richard didn’t understand.

  Chandalen lifted his hands, showing her his empty palms, as if to say he held no weapon and wished no fight. For some reason, he seemed to want no part of whatever was going on.

  “Maybe I should—” Richard closed his mouth when Kahlan’s suspicious glower shifted to him. He cleared his throat.

  “I was going to say we have no secrets.” Richard hefted his gear. “Kahlan is always welcome at my side. We have no time to waste. Let’s go.”

  Chandalen nodded and turned to lead them to their fate. Richard thought he saw the man roll his eyes in a don’t-say-I-didn’t-warn-you fashion.

  Richard could see ten of Chandalen’s hunters following behind the seven oncoming travelers, with another three hunters winged out distantly to each side, hemming in the strangers without being overtly threatening. The Mud People hunters seemed merely to accompany and guide the strangers, but Richard knew they were ready to strike at any sign of hostility. Armed outsiders on Mud People land were like tinder before a lightning storm.

  Richard hoped this storm, too, would move away and leave sunny skies to follow. Kahlan, Cara, and Richard hurried behind Chandalen through the wet new grass.

  Chandalen’s men were the first line of defense for the Mud People. That the Mud People’s land was given a wide berth by almost everyone spoke to their fighting ferocity.

  Yet Chandalen’s skilled and deadly hunters, now turned escorts, elicited no more than detached indifference from the six men in loose flaxen clothes. Something about that indifference at being surrounded tickled at Richard’s memory.

  As the approaching group got close enough for Richard to suddenly recognize them, he missed a step.

  It took a few moments of scrutiny before he could believe what he was seeing. He at last understood the strangers’ fearless indifference to Chandalen’s men. He couldn’t imagine what these people were doing away from their own homeland.

  Each man was dressed the same and carried the same weapons. Richard knew only one by name, but knew them all. These people were dedicated to a purpose laid down by their lawgivers thousands of years before—those wizards in the great war who had taken their homeland and created the Valley of the Lost to separate the New World from the Old.

  Their black-handled swords, with their distinctive curved blades that widened toward clipped points, remained in their scabbards. One end of a cord was tied to a ring on the pommel of each man’s sword; the other end of the cord looped around the swordsman’s neck as a precaution against losing the weapon in battle. Additionally, each of the six carried spears and a small, round, unadorned shield. Richard had seen women clothed and armed the same, and committed to the same purpose, but this time they were all men.

  For these men, practice with their swords was an art form. They practiced that art by moonlight, after the day did not provide them all the time they wished. Using their swords was near to a religions devotion, and they went about their bladework with pious commitment. These men were blade masters.

  The seventh, the woman, was dressed differently, and not armed—at least not in the conventional sense.

  Richard wasn’t good at judging such things by sight, but a quick calculation told him she had to be at least six months pregnant.

  A thick mass of long black hair framed a lovely face, her presence giving her features, especially her dark eyes, a certain edginess. Unlike the men’s loose outfits of simple cloth, she wore a knee-length dress of finely woven flax dyed a rich earth color and gathered at the waist with a buckskin belt. The ends of the belt were decorated with roughly cut gemstone
s.

  Up the outside of each arm and across the shoulders of the dress was a row of little strips of different-colored cloth. Each was knotted on through a small hole beneath a corded band and each, Richard knew, would have been tied on by a supplicant.

  It was a prayer dress. Each of the little colored strips, when they fluttered in the breeze, meant to send a prayer to the good spirits. The dress was worn only by their spirit woman.

  Richard’s mind raced with possibilities as to why these people would have traveled so far from their homeland. He could come up with nothing good, and a lot that was unpleasant.

  Richard had halted. Kahlan waited to his left, Cara to his right, and Chandalen to the right of her.

  Ignoring everyone else, the men in the loose clothes all laid their spears on the ground beside themselves as they went to their knees before Richard. They bowed forward, touching their foreheads to the ground, and stayed there.

  The woman stood silently regarding him. Her dark eyes bore the timeless look Richard had often seen in others; Sister Verna, Shota the witch woman, Ann, and Kahlan, among others. That timeless look was the mark of the gift.

  As she gazed into Richard’s eyes with a look that seemed to hint at wisdom he would never grasp, a ghost of a smile touched her lips. Without a word, she went to her knees at the head of the six men accompanying her. She touched her forehead to the ground and then kissed the toe of his boot.

  “Caharin,” she whispered reverently.

  Richard reached down and tugged on the shoulder of her dress, urging her up.

  “Du Chaillu, it pleases my heart to see you are well, but what are you doing here?”

  She rose up before him, a heartening handsome smile widening across her face. She bent forward and kissed his cheek.

  “I have come to see you, of course, Richard, Seeker, Caharin, husband.”

  27

  “Husband?” Richard heard Kahlan say in a rising tone of concern.

  With a jolt of astonished shock that nearly took him from his feet, and did take his breath, Richard abruptly recalled Du Chaillu’s account of her people’s old law. The dire implications staggered him.