Terry Goodkind - Confessor - Chainfire Trilogy Part 3

It occurred to her that something very much like that had been done to her. She wondered if her memory was as lost to her as Samuel’s past was now forever lost to him. It was a terrifying thought.

“Please, Mistress . . . forgive me?”

In the dragging silence he could not endure the guilt of his intent. He began to cry hysterically, unable to endure the condemnation in her eyes.

“Please, Mistress, find mercy for me in your heart.”

“Mercy is a contingency plan devised by the guilty in the eventuality that they are caught. Justice is the domain of the just. This is about justice.”

“Then please, Mistress, please . . . forgive me?”

Kahlan stared into his eyes to be sure that he would not mistake her words or her intent.

“No. That would be a corruption of the concept of justice. I will not forgive you, not now, not ever—not out of hate but because you are guilty of more crimes than those against me.”

“I know, but you could forgive me of my crimes against you. Please, Mistress, just those things. Just forgive me for what I have done to you, and for what I intended to do to you?”

“No.”

The reality of the finality of that proclamation settled into his eyes. He gasped in horror at the realization that his actions, the choices he had made, were irredeemable. He felt nothing for his other crimes, but he felt the full weight of responsibility for his crimes against her.

He saw himself, probably for the first time in his life, for what he really was—the way she saw him.

Samuel gasped again as he clutched his chest, and then crumpled onto his side, dead.

Without delay, Kahlan began gathering up her things. With the witch woman this close she had to get away as fast as possible. She didn’t know where she would go, but she knew where she couldn’t go.

She suddenly realized that she should have thought more about it and asked Samuel a great many more questions. She had let those many answers slip through her fingers.

The news about Richard—about Richard being her husband—had so scrambled her thoughts that she simply hadn’t considered asking Samuel anything else. She suddenly felt like a monumental fool for missing such an invaluable opportunity.

Done was done. She had to concentrate on what to do now. She rushed over in the dim, early light to saddle the horse.

She found the horse on the ground, dead. Its throat had been cut. Samuel, probably fearing that she might use the horse to somehow escape before he could have his way with her, had cut the poor animal’s throat.

Without delay she rolled as much as she could carry into her blanket and stuffed it into the saddlebags. She tossed the saddlebags over a shoulder and picked up the Sword of Truth in its scabbard. Sword in hand, Kahlan started away, in the opposite direction of Tamarang.

In crushing loneliness, Kahlan plodded northeast. She began to wonder why she bothered. What was the point of fighting for her life if there could be no future? What could there be to a life without her own mind in a world dominated by the fanatical beliefs of the Imperial Order, by people who defined their existence through a filter of hatred for those who wanted to live and accomplish for themselves? They didn’t want to accomplish anything; they simply wanted to murder anyone else who did, as if by destroying productive accomplishment they could revoke reality and live a life made of wishes.

All those who denned their existence by that burning hatred of others were smothering all joy out of life, and in the process suffocating life itself out of existence. It would be easy to simply give up. No one would care. No one would know.

But she would care. She would know. Reality was what it was. It was the only life she would ever have. In the end, that precious life was all she had, all anyone had.

It had been up to Samuel to decide how he would live his life, and he had made his choices. It was no less true for her. She had to make the most of what she had in life, even if her choices were limited, and even if that life itself was to be cut short.

She had walked for less than an hour when she began to hear the distant ramble of galloping hooves. She paused as she saw horses break from a line of trees ahead. They were coming right toward her.

She glanced around the bottomland she was crossing. In the gloomy light of a leaden sky she could see that the trees covering the foothills to each side were too far for her to reach their cover in time. The grass, long since brown as winter closed in, had been flattened by wind and weather. It didn’t provide anywhere for her to hide.

Besides, it looked like she might have been spotted. Even if she hadn’t, at the speed the horses were closing they soon would catch up to her, and she had no hope of running across their line of sight and not being seen.

She tossed the saddlebag on the ground. The gentle breeze lifted her hair back off her shoulders as she gripped the scabbard of the sword in her left hand. Her only choice was to stand and fight.

She realized, then, that she was invisible to most everyone. She almost laughed aloud with relief. This was one of those rare times when she was thankful to be invisible. She stood her ground, remaining quiet, hoping the riders wouldn’t see her and would simply ride by and be gone.

But in the back of her mind she remembered Samuel telling her that Jagang would send men after them. Jagang had men who could see her. If that was who was riding toward her, then she was going to have to fight.

She didn’t pull the sword free in case the riders, on the off chance they could see her, weren’t hostile. She didn’t want to start a battle unless she really had no choice. She knew she could draw the blade in an instant if need be. She had two knives as well, but she knew that she could handle a sword. She didn’t know where she’d learned, but she knew she was good with a sword.

She remembered seeing Richard fight with a blade. She recalled thinking at the time that it reminded her somewhat of the way in which she fought with a blade. She wondered if it had been Richard—her husband—who had taught her to use a sword the way she did.

She noticed then that while there were three horses, only one had a rider. That was good news. It cut the odds to even.

As the galloping horses bore down on her, she was astonished to recognize the rider.

“Richard!”

He leaped off the horse before it had skidded to a halt. It snorted, tossing its head. All three horses were lathered and hot.

“Are you all right?” he asked as he rushed toward her.

“Yes.”

“You used your power.”

She nodded, unable to take her gaze off his gray eyes. “How did you know?”

“I thought I felt it.” He looked giddy with excitement. “You can’t imagine how glad I am to see you.”

As she stared at him she wished that she could remember their past, remember all they meant to each other.

“I was afraid you were dead. I didn’t want to leave you there. I was so afraid that you were dead.”

He stood gazing at her, seeming unable to speak. He looked like she felt, as if he had a thousand things all bottled up, all wanting out first.

Kahlan remembered the way he had fought when he had started the war Nicci had said he would start. She remembered the way he had moved so fluidly among the other Ja’La players, and then among lumbering brutes as they hacked away with swords and axes, desperately trying to kill him.

She remembered the way the blade had seemed to be a part of him, almost an extension of his body, an extension of his mind. She had been spellbound that day as she’d watched him fighting his way toward her. It had been like watching a dance with death, and death had not been able to touch him.