Terry Goodkind - Temple of the Winds

Nathan laid a big hand on her shoulder. “The words are the three chimes: Reechani, Sentrosi, Vasi. I don’t have time to teach you about the three chimes, but know that they must be spoken after the white and before the black. That’s what is important.”

“Reechani, Sentrosi, Vasi,” Kahlan repeated, trying to commit the words to memory. She said them over again in her head.

“Richard does have both white and black sorcerer’s sand, does he not?”

Kahlan nodded. “Yes. He told me about it. He has both.”

Nathan shook his head, as if considering some private thought. “Both,” he muttered. Nathan squeezed her shoulder. “I know from prophecy some of what he has been through. Stand by him. Love is too precious a gift to lose.”

Kahlan smiled. “I understand. May the good spirits bring it to your heart, Nathan. I can’t thank you enough for helping Richard, for helping me.” Her voice broke. “I didn’t know what I was going to do. I only knew I had to come here.”

Nathan hugged her, she thought more for his own need than hers. “You did the right thing. Maybe the good spirits guided you. Get back to him, now, or we will lose our Lord Rahl.”

Kahlan nodded. “The killing is over.”

“The killing is just about to begin.”

Nathan turned and held both fists skyward. An awesome flare of light ignited at his fists and shot into the night sky. Kahlan watched as it streaked northwest, so bright that the stars vanished in the glare.

Kahlan saw Verna sitting up, with Warren’s help. He was wiping the blood away from her newly healed jaw.

“What have you done?” Kahlan asked Nathan.

He looked down at her a long moment, and then a sly smile spread on his lips. “I have just given Jagang a nasty surprise. I have just given General Reibisch the signal to attack.”

“Attack? Attack who?”

“Jagang’s expeditionary force. They destroyed Renwold. They are up to other trouble in the New World, too, but are unaware of who shadows them. It will be a short battle. The prophecy says that the D’Harans will fight as fiercely as they have ever fought, and will, before this night is over, destroy the enemy in the traditional D’Haran fashion: without mercy.”

Verna was coming to her feet. Kahlan had never seen Verna looking so meek. “Nathan, I beg your forgiveness.”

“I’m not interested—”

Kahlan laid a hand on Nathan’s arm and whispered up at him. “Nathan, please, for your own sake, listen to her.”

Nathan gazed into Kahlan’s eyes a moment before he turned his glare on Verna. “I’m listening.”

“Nathan, I’ve known you a long time. My whole life. I’ve seen things before that . . . perhaps I didn’t understand. I thought you were doing this to seize power for yourself. Please forgive me for lashing out at you for my own guilt at my friends turning against me—against us. I sometimes . . . jump to judgment. I can see that I have mistaken what was truly going on with you and Clarissa. She adored you, and I thought—I beg you to forgive me, Nathan.”

Nathan let out a grunt. “Knowing you, Verna, that must have been the hardest thing you have ever had to say. Forgiveness granted.”

“Thank you, Nathan,” she sighed.

Nathan bent and kissed Kahlan’s cheek. “May the good spirits be with you, Mother Confessor. Tell Richard I give him back his title. Maybe I will see him again someday.”

With his hands on her waist, he boosted Kahlan up onto the sliph’s wall.

“Thank you, Nathan. I can see why Richard liked you. Clarissa, too. I think she saw the real Nathan.”

Nathan smiled, but then turned serious. “When you get back, you must offer Richard’s brother what he truly wants, if you are to save Richard.”

“You wish to travel?” the sliph asked.

Kahlan’s stomach roiled. “Yes, back to Aydindril.”

“Is Richard truly alive?” Verna asked.

“Yes,” Kahlan said with revived panic. “He’s sick, but he will be fine once I get this book back to him and it’s destroyed.”

“Walsh, Bollesdun.” Nathan gestured as he started away. “My coach awaits. Let’s be off.”

“But, Nathan,” Warren said, “I want to learn about prophecy. I would like to study with you.”

“A true prophet is born, Warren, not made.”

“Where are you going?” Verna called after him. “You can’t leave. You’re a prophet. You can’t be left to run . . . I mean, we must know where you will be—in case we need you.”

Without looking back, Nathan pointed. “Your Sisters are that way, Prelate. To the northwest. Go to them, and save yourself the trouble of trying to follow me. You won’t succeed. Your Sisters are safe from the dream walker; I had them transfer their bond to me while Richard went to the world of the dead. If Richard lives, you all can transfer it back to him. Good-bye, Verna, Warren.”

Kahlan pressed a fist to her stomach. If he lives? If?

“Hurry,” she said to the sliph. “Hurry!”

A silver arm swept her from the wall and down into the quicksilver froth.

He smiled at the way she struggled. He liked the way she had fought him. He enjoyed teaching her how useless it was to fight a person of his superior strength, superior intellect. He watched in fascination as blood ran from her mouth and nose. The gash on her jaw oozed.

“You are only succeeding at making your wrists bleed,” he taunted. “You can’t break the ropes, but keep at it, if you wish.”

She spat at him. He smacked her again. He dug his thumb across the cut on her jaw, spellbound by the pattern of blood flooding down the side of her neck.

He knew her auras. He’d felt them before. He knew just which ones to touch to cripple her. It hadn’t taken long to overpower her. Not long at all.

Her teeth gritted as she growled with effort, straining against the ropes. She was strong, but she was not strong enough. Without her power and her weapon, she was a mere woman. No mere woman was a match for him. Not in any way.

When his fingers began unbuttoning the row of buttons along the side of her ribs, she tugged violently at the ropes holding her wrists and ankles. He liked that. He like to watch her struggle. To watch her bleed. He punched her face again.

He was intrigued that she didn’t cry out, that she didn’t beg for mercy. That she didn’t scream. She would. Oh, how she would scream.

His punch had stunned her for the moment. Her eyes rolled as she fought to remain conscious. He threw back the front of her outfit, exposing her breasts and the upper half of her torso.

He hooked his fingers under the tight waist of her red leather pants and, with a quick pull, yanked them down enough for what he was going to do to her.

Her entire belly was exposed. He felt it. Tight. Hard. There were scars on her. They riveted him. He tried to imagine what had caused such scars. As jagged and white as they were, it would have been bloody.

“I’ve been raped before,” she sneered. “More times than I can remember. I can tell you from experience that you’re not very good at it. You haven’t even gotten my pants down enough, you stupid pig. Get on with it, if you even can. I’m waiting.”

“Oh, Cara, I’m not going to rape you. That would be wrong. I have never raped a woman. I only have women who want it.”

She laughed at him. Laughed. “You are one twisted bastard.”

He resisted his urge to smash her face. He wanted her awake for this. Alive for this. But he shook with rage.

“Bastard?” His fist tightened. “Because of women like you!”

He hammered a fist down on her breast. Her eyes squeezed shut and her teeth clenched as she winced in pain, trying to curl up in a ball, but unable to, stretched out in the ropes as she was.