Terry Goodkind: Temple of the Winds

As Kahlan’s words trailed off, Cara considered her Agiel, rolling it in her fingers. “I guess there is even less than ‘little’ danger—with me there.”

When they reached the richly carpeted and paneled corridor they were seeking, it was thick with soldiers and bristling with steel from swords, axes, and pikes. The man was being held in a small, elegant reading room close to the rather simple one Richard liked to use for meeting with officers and for studying the journal he had found in the Wizard’s Keep. The soldiers hadn’t wanted to risk an escape attempt and had simply stuffed the man in the room nearest to the spot they found him, pinning him down until it could be decided what was to be done.

Kahlan gently took the elbow of a soldier to urge him back out of the way. The muscles of his bare arm felt as hard as iron. His pike, pointed toward the closed door, could hardly have been more steady had it been embedded in granite. There had to be fifty pikes likewise aimed at the silent door. More men, gripping swords or axes, hunkered beneath the pike points.

The guard turned as Kahlan tugged on his arm. “Let me through, soldier.”

The man gave way. Others glanced back and began moving aside. Cara shouldered her way ahead of Kahlan, pushing men out of the way. They did so reluctantly, not out of disrespect, but out of concern for the danger that waited beyond the door. Even as they moved aside, they kept their weapons pointed toward the thick oak door.

Inside, the windowless, dimly lit room smelled of leather and sweat. A lanky man squatted on the edge of an embroidered footstool. He seemed too spare, should he make the wrong move, to permit all the steel aimed at him to find a virgin patch to penetrate. His young eyes dithered among the steel and grim glares until he caught sight of Kahlan’s approaching white dress. His tongue darted out to wet his lips as he looked up expectantly.

When the burly soldiers in leather and chain mail behind him saw Kahlan and Cara forcing their way into the room, one of them landed the side of his boot on the small of the young man’s back, pitching him forward.

“Kneel, you filthy cur.”

The young man, dressed in an outsized soldier’s uniform that looked to have been scrounged together from dissimilar sources, peered up at Kahlan, then over his shoulder at the man who had kicked him. He ducked his head of disheveled dark hair and shielded it with a gangly arm, expecting a blow.

“That’s enough,” Kahlan said in a quietly authoritative tone. “Cara and I wish to speak with him. All of you, wait outside, please.”

The soldiers balked, reluctant to lift a weapon from the young man cowering on the floor.

“You heard her,” Cara said. “Out.”

“But—” an officer began.

“You doubt that a Mord-Sith is capable of handling this one scrawny man? Now, go wait outside.”

Kahlan was surprised that Cara hadn’t raised her voice. Mord-Sith didn’t have to raise their voices to get people to follow their orders, but still it surprised her, considering Cara’s nervousness over the young man before them. The men began withdrawing, turning sideways to eye the intruder on the floor as they filed out the door. The knuckles of the officer’s fist around his sword hilt were white. As he backed out last, he gently closed the door with his other hand.

The young man looked up from under his arm to the two women standing three strides away. “Are you going to have me killed?”

Kahlan didn’t answer the question directly. “We have come to talk with you. I am Kahlan Amnell, the Mother Confessor—”

“Mother Confessor!” He straightened on his knees. A boyish grin swept onto his face. “Why, you’re beautiful! I never expected you to be so beautiful.”

He put a hand to a knee and began to rise. Cara’s Agiel was instantly at the ready.

“Stay where you are.”

He froze, staring at the red Agiel before his face, and then lowered the knee back onto the fringe of the crimson carpet. Lamps on the fluted mahogany pilasters supporting shallow pediments over bookcases to each side of the room cast flickering light across his bony face. He was hardly more than a boy.

“Can I have my weapons back, please? I need my sword. If I can’t have that, then I’d like my knife, at least.”

Cara heaved an irritated sigh, but Kahlan spoke first. “You are in a very precarious position, young man. None of us is in the mood to be indulgent if this is some kind of prank.”

He nodded earnestly. “I understand. I’m not playing a game. I swear.”

“Then tell me what you said to the soldiers.”

His grin returned as he lifted a hand, gesturing casually toward the door. “Well, like I was telling those men when I was—”

Fists at her side, Kahlan advanced a stride. “I told you, this is no game! You’re only alive by my grace! I want to know what you’re doing here, and I want to know right now! Tell me what you said!”

The young man blinked. “I’m an assassin, sent by Emperor Jagang. I’m here to kill Richard Rahl. Can you direct me to him, please?”

“Now,” Cara said in a dangerous voice, “can I kill him?”

The incongruous nature of this harmless-looking, skinny young man, kneeling, seemingly helpless, in enemy territory, surrounded by hundreds, thousands of brutish D’Haran soldiers, saying so openly and confidently that he intended to assassinate Richard, had Kahlan’s heart hammering against her ribs.

No one was this foolish.

She realized, only after the fact, that she had retreated a step. She ignored Cara’s question and kept her attention riveted on the young man.

“And just how do you think you could accomplish such a task?”

“Well,” he said in an offhanded manner as he exhaled, “I had designs on using my sword, or if I must, my knife.” His smile returned, but it was no longer boyish. His eyes had taken on a steely set that belied his young face. “That’s why I need them back, you see.”

“You’ll not be getting your weapons back.”

Disdain powered the dismissive shrug of his shoulders. “No matter. I have other ways to kill him.”

“You’ll not be killing Richard; you have my word on that. Your only hope, now, is to cooperate and tell us everything of your plan. How did you get in here?”

His smirk mocked her. “Walked. Walked right in. No one paid me any mind. They’re not too smart, your men.”

“They’re smart enough to have you under their swords,” Cara pointed out.

He ignored her. His eyes remained locked on Kahlan’s.

“And if we don’t let you have your sword and knife back,” she asked, “then what?”

“Then things will get messy. Richard Rahl will only suffer greatly. That’s why Emperor Jagang sent me: to offer him the mercy of a quick death. The emperor is a man of compassion, and wishes to avoid any undue suffering; he is basically a man of peace, the dream walker, but also one of iron determination.

“I’m afraid I’ll have to be killing you, too, Mother Confessor: to spare you the suffering of what’s to come if you resist. I have to admit, though, that I don’t like the idea of killing such a beautiful woman.” The grin widened. “Rather a waste.”

Kahlan found his confidence grating. To hear him claim that the dream walker was compassionate turned her stomach. She knew better.

“What suffering?”

He spread his hands. “I am but a grain of sand. The emperor does not share his plans with me. I am but simply sent to do his bidding. His bidding is that you and Richard are to be eliminated. If you don’t let me kill him mercifully, then Richard will be destroyed. I’m told that it won’t be pleasant, so why don’t you just let me get it over with?”