Terry Goodkind - Naked Empire

Richard relaxed a bit. “Sure.”

He pulled the strap off his shoulder and tossed his waterskin to the man. He caught it as if it were precious glass he feared to drop. He pried at the stopper, finally getting it free, and started gulping the water.

He stopped abruptly, lowering the waterskin. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to start drinking all your water right down.”

“It’s all right.” Richard gestured for him to drink up. “I have more back at the wagon. You look to need it.”

As Richard hooked a thumb behind his wide leather belt, the man bowed his head in thanks before tipping the waterskin up for a long drink.

“Where did you hear about this man who fights for freedom?” Richard asked.

The man brought the waterskin down again, his eyes never leaving Richard as he paused to catch his breath. “From many a tongue. The freedom he has spread down here in the Old World has brought hope to us all.”

Richard smiled inwardly at how the bright hope of freedom burned even in a dark place like the heart of the Old World. There were people everywhere who hungered for the same things in life, for a chance to live their life free and by their own labor to better themselves.

Overhead a black-tipped race, wings spread wide, popped into sight as it glided across the open swath of sky above the rise of rock to each side.

Richard didn’t have his bow, but the race stayed out of range, anyway.

The man shrank at seeing the race the way a rabbit would shrink when it saw a hawk.

“Sorry I can’t help you,” Richard said when the race had disappeared.

He checked behind, in the direction of the wagon, out beyond the nearby hill. “I’m traveling with my wife and family, looking for work, for a place to mind our own business.”

Richard’s business was the revolution, if he was to have a chance for his plan to work, and there were a number of people waiting on him in that regard. He had more urgent problems, first, though.

“But, Lord Rahl, my people need—”

Richard spun back around. “Why would you call me that?”

“I’m, I’m sorry.” The man swallowed. “I didn’t mean to anger you.”

“What makes you think I’m this Lord Rahl?”

The man painted his hand up and down in front of Richard as he sputtered, trying to find words. “You, you, you just . . . are. I can’t imagine . . . what else you want me to say. I’m sorry if I have offended you by being so forward, Lord Rahl.”

Cara stalked out from behind a rocky spire. “What have we here?”

The man gasped in surprise at seeing her as he flinched back yet another step, clutching the waterskin to his chest as if it were a shield of steel.

Tom, his silver knife to hand, stepped up out of a gully behind the man, blocking the way should the man decide to run back the way he’d come.

The man turned in a circle to see Tom towering behind. As he finally came back around and saw Kahlan standing beside Richard, he let out another gasp. They all were wearing dusty traveling clothes, but somehow Richard didn’t suppose that at that moment they looked at all like simple travelers in search of work.

“Please,” the man said, “I don’t mean any harm.”

“Take it easy,” Richard said as he stole a sidelong glance at Cara—his words meant not only for the man but the Mord-Sith as well. “Are you alone?” Richard asked him.

“Yes, Lord Rahl. I’m on a mission for my people, just as I told you. You are of course to be forgiven your aggressive nature—I would expect nothing less. I want you to know I hold no feelings of resentment toward you.”

“Why does he think you’re the Lord Rahl?” Cara said to Richard in a tone that sounded more accusation than question.

“I’ve heard the descriptions,” the man put in. Still clutching the waterskin to his chest, he pointed with the other hand. “And that sword. I’ve heard about Lord Rahl’s sword.” His gaze moved cautiously to Kahlan. “And the Mother Confessor, of course,” he added, dipping his head.

“Of course,” Richard sighed.

He’d expected that he would have to hide the sword around strangers, but now he knew just how important that was going to be whenever they went into any populated areas. The sword would be relatively easy to hide. Not so with Kahlan. He thought that maybe they could cover her in rags and say she was a leper.

The man leaned cautiously out, arm extended, and handed Richard his waterskin. “Thank you, Lord Rahl.”

Richard took a long drink of the terrible-tasting water before offering it to Kahlan. She lifted hers out for him to see as she declined with a single shake of her head. Richard took another long swig before replacing the stopper and slinging the strap back over his shoulder.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

“Owen.”

“Well, Owen, why don’t you come back to camp with us for the night. We can fill up your waterskins for you, at least, before you’re on your way in the morning.”

Cara was near to bursting as she gritted her teeth at Richard. “Why don’t you just let me see to—”

“I think Owen has problems we can all understand. He’s concerned for his friends and family. In the morning, he can be on his way, and we can be on ours.”

Richard didn’t want the man out there somewhere, in the dark, where they couldn’t as easily keep an eye on him as they could if he were in camp.

In the morning it would be easy enough to make sure that he wasn’t following them. Cara finally understood Richard’s intent and relaxed. He knew she would want any stranger in her sight while Richard and Kahlan were sleeping.

Kahlan at his side, Richard started back to the wagon. The man followed, his head swiveling side to side, from Tom to Cara, and back again.

Since they were headed back to the wagon, Richard finished what water remained in his waterskin while, behind, Owen thanked him for the invitation and promised not to be any trouble.

Richard intended to see to it that Owen kept his promise.

Up in the wagon, Richard dunked Owen’s two waterskins in the barrel that still had water. Owen, sitting with his back pressed against a wheel, glanced up at Richard from time to time, watching expectantly, as Cara glared at him. Cara clearly didn’t like the fellow, but as protective as Mord-Sith were, that didn’t necessarily mean that it was warranted.

For some reason, though, Richard didn’t care for the man, either. It wasn’t so much that he disliked him, just that he couldn’t warm to the fellow. He was polite and certainly didn’t look threatening, but there was something about the man’s attitude that made Richard feel . . . edgy.

Tom and Friedrich broke up dried wood they’d collected, feeding it into the small fire. The wonderful aroma of pine pitch covered the smell of the nearby horses.

From time to time Owen cast a fearful eye at Cara, Kahlan, Tom, and Friedrich. By far, though, he seemed most uneasy about Jennsen. He tried to avert his eyes from her, tried not to look her directly in the eye, but his gaze kept being drawn to her red hair shining in the firelight. When Betty approached to investigate the stranger, Owen stopped breathing. Richard told Owen that the goat just wanted attention. Owen gingerly patted the top of Betty’s head as if the goat were a gar that might take off his arm if he weren’t careful.

Jennsen, with a smile and ignoring the way he stared at her hair, offered Owen some of her dried meat.

Owen just stared wide-eyed up at her leaning down over him.

“I’m not a witch,” she said to Owen. “People think my red hair is a sign that I’m a witch. I’m not. I can assure you, I have no magic.”

The edge in her voice surprised Richard, reminding him that there was iron under the feminine grace.