Terry Goodkind - Naked Empire

Looking to the east, though, the pattern was evident. A clearly defined strip—miles wide—ran off into the distance.

Nothing grew within the bounds of the straight strip of lifeless desert, whether going over rock or sandy ground. To either side the ground with widely spaced brush and lichen growing on the rock was darker. The place where nothing grew was a lighter tan. In the distance the discrepancy in the color was even more apparent.

The lifeless strip ran straight for mile after mile toward the far mountains, gradually becoming but a faint line following the rise of the ground until, finally, in the hazy distance, it could no longer be seen.

“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” Kahlan asked in a low, troubled voice.

“What?” Cara asked. “What are you thinking?”

Richard studied the confused concern on the Mord-Sith’s face. “What kept Darken Rahl’s armies in D’Hara? What prevented him, for so many years, from invading the Midlands and taking it, even though he wanted it?”

“He couldn’t cross the boundary,” Cara said as if he must be having heat stroke.

“And what made up the boundary?”

At last, Cara’s face, framed by the black desert garb, went white, too.

“The boundary was the underworld?”

Richard nodded. “It was like a rip in the veil, where the underworld existed in this world. Zedd told us about it. He put the boundary up with a spell he found in the Keep—a spell from those ancient times of the great war. Once up, the boundary was a place in this world where the world of the dead also existed. In that place, where both worlds touched, nothing could grow.”

“But are you so sure things wouldn’t still grow there?” Cara asked. “It was still our world, after all—the world of life.”

“It would be impossible for anything to grow there. The world of life was there, in that spot—the ground was there—but life couldn’t exist there on that ground because it shared that same space with the world of the dead. Anything there would be touched by death.”

Cara looked out at the straight, lifeless strip running off into the wavering distance. “So you think what? . . . This is a boundary?”

“Was.”

Cara looked from his face, to Kahlan, and again out to the distance.

“Dividing what?”

Overhead a flight of black-tipped races came into sight, riding the high currents, turning lazy circles as they watched.

“I don’t know,” Richard admitted.

He looked west again, back down the gradual slope running away from the mountains, back to where they had been.

“But look,” Richard said, gesturing out into the burning wasteland from where they had come. “It runs back toward the Pillars of Creation.”

As the things growing thinned and eventually ceased to be back that way, so too did the lifeless strip. It became indistinguishable from the surrounding wasteland because there was no life to mark where the line had been.

“There’s no telling how far it runs. For all I know,” Richard said, “it’s possible that it runs all the way back to the valley itself.”

“That part makes no sense to me,” Kahlan said. “I can see what you mean about it maybe being like the boundaries up in the New World, the boundaries between Westland, the Midlands, and D’Hara. That much I follow. But the spirits take me, I don’t get why it would run to the Pillars of Creation. That part just strikes me as more than odd.”

Richard turned and gazed back to the east, where they were headed, to the rumpled gray wall of mountains rising steeply up from the broad desert floor, studying the distant notch that sat a little north of where the boundary line ran toward those mountains.

He looked south, to the wagon making its way toward those mountains.

“We better catch up with the others,” Richard finally said. “I need to get back to translating the book.”

The spectral spires around Richard glowed under the lingering caress of the low sun. In the amber light, as he scouted the forsaken brink of the towering mountains beyond, long pools of shadow were darkening to the blue-black color of bruises.

The pinnacles of reddish rock stood like stony guardians along the lower reaches of the desolate foothills, as if listening for the echoing crunch of his footsteps along the meandering gravel beds.

Richard had felt like being alone to think, so he had set out to scout by himself. It was hard to think when people were constantly asking questions.

He was frustrated that the book hadn’t yet told him anything that would in any way help explain the presence of the strange boundary line, much less the connection of the book’s title, the place called the Pillars of Creation, and those ungifted people like Jennsen. The book, in the beginning that he’d so far translated, anyway, appeared mostly to be an historical record dealing with unanticipated matters involving occurrences of “pillars of Creation,” as those like Jennsen were called, and the unsuccessful attempts at “curing” those “unfortunates.”

Richard was beginning to get the clear sense that the book was laying a careful foundation of early details in preparation for something calamitous.

The nearly quaking care of the recounting of every possible course of action that had been investigated gave him the feeling that whoever wrote the book was being painstaking for reasons of consequence.

Not daring to slow their pace, Richard had been translating while riding in the wagon. The dialect was slightly different from the High D’Haran he was used to reading, so working out the translation was slow going, especially sitting in the back of the bouncing wagon. He had no way of knowing if the book would eventually offer any answers, but he felt a gnawing worry over what the unfolding account was working up to. He would have jumped ahead, but he’d learned in the past that doing so often wasted more time than it saved, since it interfered with accurately grasping the whole picture, which sometimes led to dangerously erroneous conclusions. He would just have to keep at it.

After working all day, focused intently on the book, he’d ended up with a fierce headache. He’d had days without them, but now when they came it seemed they were worse each time. He didn’t tell Kahlan how concerned he was that he wouldn’t make it to the sliph’s well in Tanimura. Besides working at translating, he racked his brain trying to find a solution.

While he had no idea what the key to the headaches brought on by the gift was, he had the nagging feeling that it was within himself. He feared it was a matter of balance he was failing to see. He had even resorted when out alone, once, to sitting and meditating as the Sisters had once taught him in order to try to focus on the gift within. It had been to no avail.

It would be dark soon and they would need to stop for the night. Since the terrain had changed, it was no longer a simple task to see if the area all around them was clear. Now there were places where an army could lie in wait. With the races shadowing them, there was no telling who might know where to find them. Besides simply wanting a break to think about what he’d read and what he might find within himself to answer the problem of his headaches, Richard wanted to check the surrounding area himself.

Richard paused for a moment to watch a family of quail, the juveniles fully grown, hurry across an open patch of ground. They trotted across the exposed gravel in a line while the father, perched atop a rock, stood lookout. As soon as they melted into the brush, they were again invisible.

Small scraggly pine trees dotted the sweep of irregular hills, gullies, and rocky outcroppings at the fringe of the mountains. Up higher, on the nearby slopes, larger conifers grew in greater abundance. In low, sheltered places clumps of brush lay in thick clusters. Thin grasses covered some of the open ground.