Terry Goodkind: Faith of the Fallen

Confronting the reality of it was crushing.

Something inside seemed to have broken that night—some idea of herself, some confidence. She could so easily have died. Their baby could have died before it even had a chance to live.

“You’re getting better,” Richard said, as if in answer to her thoughts. “I’m not just saying that. I can see that you’re healing.”

She gazed into his eyes, summoning the courage to finally ask, “How do they know about the Order way up here?”

“People fleeing the fighting have been up this way. Men spreading the doctrine of the Imperial Order have been even here, to where I grew up. Their words can sound good—almost make sense—if you don’t think, if you just feel. Truth doesn’t seem to count for much,” he added in afterthought. He answered the unspoken question in her eyes. “The men from the Order are gone. The fools out there were just spouting things they’ve heard, that’s all.”

“But they intend us to leave. They sound like men who keep the oaths they’ve sworn.”

He nodded, but then some of his smile returned. “Do you know that we’re very close to where I first met you, last autumn? Do you remember?”

“How could I ever forget the day I met you?”

“Our lives were in jeopardy back then and we had to leave here. I’ve never regretted it. It was the start of my life with you. As long as we’re together, nothing else really matters.”

Cara swept in through the doorway and came to a halt beside Richard, adding her shadow to his across the blue cotton blanket that covered Kahlan to her armpits. Sheathed in skintight red leather, Cara’s body had the sleek grace of a falcon: commanding, swift, and deadly. Mord-Sith always wore their red leather when they believed there was going to be trouble. Cara’s long blond hair, swept back into a single thick braid, was another mark of her profession of Mord-Sith, member of an elite corps of guards to the Lord Rahl himself.

Richard had, after a fashion, inherited the Mord-Sith when he inherited the rule of D’Hara, a place he grew up never knowing. Command was not something he had sought; nonetheless it had fallen to him. Now a great many people depended on him. The entire New World—Westland, the Midlands, and D’Hara—depended on him.

“How do you feel?” Cara asked with sincere concern.

Kahlan was able to summon little more voice than a hoarse whisper. “I’m better.”

“Well, if you feel better,” Cara growled, “then tell Lord Rahl that he should allow me to do my job and put the proper respect into men like that.”

Her menacing blue eyes turned for a moment toward the spot where the men had been while delivering their threats. “The ones I leave alive, anyway.”

“Cara, use your head,” Richard said. “We can’t turn this place into a fortress and protect ourselves every hour of every day. Those men are afraid. No matter how wrong they are, they view us as a danger to their lives and the lives of their families. We know better than to fight a senseless battle when we can avoid it.”

“But Richard,” Kahlan said, lifting her right hand in a weak gesture toward the wall before her, “you’ve built this—”

“Only this room. I wanted a shelter for you first. It didn’t take that long—just some trees cut and split. We’ve not built the rest of it yet. It’s not worth shedding blood over.”

If Richard seemed calm, Cara looked ready to chew steel and spit nails.

“Would you tell this obstinate husband of yours to let me kill someone before I go crazy? I can’t just stand around and allow people to get away with threatening the two of you! I am Mord-Sith!”

Cara took her job of protecting Richard—the Lord Rahl of D’Hara—and Kahlan very seriously. Where Richard’s life was concerned, Cara was perfectly willing to kill first and decide later if it had been necessary.

That was one of the things for which Richard had no tolerance.

Kahlan’s only answer was a smile.

“Mother Confessor, you can’t allow Lord Rahl to bow to the will of foolish men like those. Tell him.”

Kahlan could probably count on the fingers of one hand the people who, in her whole life, had ever addressed her by the name “Kahlan” without at minimum the appellation “Confessor” before it. She had heard her ultimate title—Mother Confessor—spoken countless times, in tones ranging from awed reverence to shuddering fear. Many people, as they knelt before her, were incapable of even whispering through trembling lips the two words of her title. Others, when alone, whispered them with lethal intent.

Kahlan had been named Mother Confessor while still in her early twenties—the youngest Confessor ever named to that powerful position. But that was several years past. Now, she was the only living Confessor left.

Kahlan had always endured the title, the bowing and kneeling, the reverence, the awe, the fear, and the murderous intentions, because she had no choice. But more than that, she was the Mother Confessor—by succession and selection, by right, by oath, and by duty.

Cara always addressed Kahlan as “Mother Confessor.” But from Cara’s lips the words were subtly different than from any others. It was almost a challenge, a defiance by scrupulous compliance, but with a hint of an affectionate smirk. Coming from Cara, Kahlan didn’t hear “Mother Confessor” so much as she heard “Sister.” Cara was from the distant land of D’Hara. No one, anywhere, outranked Cara, as far as Cara was concerned, except the Lord Rahl. The most she would allow was that Kahlan could be her equal in duty to Richard. Being considered an equal by Cara, though, was high praise indeed.

When Cara addressed Richard as Lord Rahl, however, she was not saying “Brother.” She was saying precisely what she meant: Lord Rahl.

To the men with the angry voices, the Lord Rahl was as foreign a concept as was the distant land of D’Hara. Kahlan was from the Midlands that separated D’Hara from Westland. The people here in Westland knew nothing of the Midlands or the Mother Confessor. For decades, the three parts of the New World had been separated by impassable boundaries, leaving what was beyond those boundaries shrouded in mystery. The autumn before, those boundaries had fallen.

And then, in the winter, the common barrier to the south of the three lands that had for three thousand years sealed away the menace of the Old World had been breached, loosing the Imperial Order on them all. In the last year, the world had been thrown into turmoil; everything everyone had grown up knowing had changed.

“I’m not going to allow you to hurt people just because they refuse to help us,” Richard said to Cara. “It would solve nothing and only end up causing us more trouble. What we started here only took a short time to build. I thought this place would be safe, but it’s not. We’ll simply move on.”

He turned back to Kahlan. His voice lost its fire.

“I was hoping to bring you home, to some peace and quiet, but it looks like home doesn’t want me, either. I’m sorry.”

“Just those men, Richard.” In the land of Anderith, just before Kahlan had been attacked and beaten, the people had rejected Richard’s offer to join the emerging D’Haran Empire he led in the cause of freedom. Instead, the people of Anderith willingly chose to side with the Imperial Order.

Richard had taken Kahlan and walked away from everything, it seemed.

“What about your real friends here?”

“I haven’t had time . . . I wanted to get a shelter up, first. There’s no time now. Maybe later.”

Kahlan reached for his hand, which hung at his side. His fingers were too far away. “But, Richard—”

“Look, it’s not safe to stay here anymore. It’s as simple as that. I brought you here because I thought it would be a safe place for you to recover and regain your strength. I was wrong. It’s not. We can’t stay here. Understand?”