Terry Goodkind - Stone of Tears

Richard shed a tear on her snout. “I understand, my friend. You got me here. You saved the world of life. You are a heroine more noble than any in history. Will you be all right? Will you be able to fly again?”

She managed a weak laugh. “I will fly again. But not for a month or so. I will recover. It is not so bad as it seems.”

Richard turned to the officers behind. “Scarlet is my friend. She has saved us all. I want you to bring her food. Whatever she needs, until she is recovered. Protect her as you would me.”

Fists went to hearts.

Richard grabbed the general’s arm. “I need a horse, a strong horse. Right now. And I need to know how to get to Aydindril.”

The general turned. “Get a strong horse, now! You, go get maps to Aydindril for Lord Rahl!”

Men started running. Richard turned back to the dragon.

“I’m so sorry you’re suffering, Scarlet.”

Scarlet’s chuckle rumbled deep in her throat. “The injury is not so painful. Look over there, around the side.”

Her head, at the end of her long neck, followed him around. Richard was astonished to see an egg nestled in a crook of her tail.

A big, yellow eye peered at him. “I just gave birth. That is most of my weakness. Just as well I’m to be aground.”

She played fire over the egg. Tenderly, she stroked her talons over it. As Richard watched, he thought about the beauty of life, and how happy he was that others could continue to have it.

But the vision of the falling axe kept playing over and over in his head. He couldn’t stop the horror of it. His hands shook. It could be happening at that very moment. His breathing came in ragged pulls.

At last a man came running with a map. He held it out and pointed. “Here, Lord Rahl, is Aydindril. This is the fastest route. But it will still take you several weeks.”

Richard stuffed the map in his shirt as another soldier galloped up on the horse. Richard retrieved his pack and bow from the snow where they had fallen when Scarlet had come to ground.

General Trimack held the reins to the muscular horse while Richard quickly lashed his things to the saddle. “There is food in the saddlebags. When will you return, Lord Rahl?”

Richard’s mind was in a fog, racing in a thousand directions at once. All he could see was the axe falling.

He leapt up into the saddle. “I don’t know. When I can. Carry on until then. And continue to guard the Garden of Life. Don’t let anyone go in there.”

“Safe return, Lord Rahl. Our hearts are with you.”

Fists went to chests as he urged the powerful horse into a gallop and charged at full speed through the huge gates that stood open for him.

Richard cursed under his breath when the horse dropped dead under him. He picked himself up, when he had stopped rolling through the snow, and started pulling his things off the lifeless, lathered beast. He felt an ache of sorrow for the horse; it had given him everything it had.

He had lost count of how many horses had died under him. Some simply stumbled to a stop and refused to move anymore. Some dropped to a walk and would run no more. Some gave everything until their hearts quit.

Richard had known he was being too hard on them, and had tried to pace them, but he simply could not bring himself to go slow enough. When a horse died, or quit running, he managed to find another. Some owners were reluctant to sell, thinking they would haggle with him. Richard threw a fistful of gold at them, and took the horse.

He was near dead with exhaustion himself. He had slept and eaten little. Sometimes he had walked while his mount recovered. When he had had to find a new horse, he had run.

Richard hoisted the pack onto his back and started trotting off. It had been two weeks since he had left D’Hara. He knew he had to be close to Aydindril.

The fact that it was two weeks past winter solstice somehow didn’t seem as important as his rush to reach Kahlan. It somehow seemed to him that if he could hurry fast enough, it would save her, that if he put in his best effort, it would somehow make time wait for him. He could not accept that he was too late.

He came to a panting halt at the top of a rise in the road. Ahead, in the sparkling sunlight, lay Aydindril. On the wall of mountains to the far side of the city he could see the gray walls of the Wizard’s Keep. Richard ran on through the snow.

The streets were crowded with people, people hurrying through the cold afternoon air, and people standing about, stomping their feet to keep warm as they hawked their wares. Richard rushed past them all. When he saw people were staring at him because of the Sword of Truth, he pulled the mriswith cape over it.

A hawker ahead stood by the side of the road with a short pole resting on the ground. It had a crossbar with wispy strips hanging from it. When Richard realized what the man was calling out, he came out of his mental fog with a jolt.

“Confessor’s hair!” the man bellowed. “Get a lock of the Mother Confessor’s hair! Right off her vile head! Don’t have many left! Show your children the hair of the last Confessor!”

Richard’s eyes locked on the long hair. It was Kahlan’s. He swept the lot of it off the pole and stuffed it in his shirt. When the man thought to fight for it, Richard slammed him up against the wall. He gripped the man’s shirt in his fists, and lifted him clear of the ground.

“Where did you get this!”

“The . . . the council. Bought it from them to sell. Bought it fair after they cut it from her. It belongs to me.” He shouted for help. “Thief! Thief!”

When an angry crowd pressed in to defend the man, the sword came out. People scattered. The hawker ran for his life.

Richard’s fury was building despite his putting the sword away as he headed for the Confessors’ Palace. He saw it rising up on the vast grounds ahead. He remembered Kahlan telling him how magnificent it was. He knew it almost as if he had seen it before.

He remembered, too, Kahlan telling him about a woman there, a cook. No, the head cook. What was her name? Sand something. Sanderholt, that was it. Mistress Sanderholt.

The aroma of cooking led him to the kitchen entrance. He charged through the door. A roomful of working people shrank back at the sight of him. It was obvious that no one wanted any part of whatever he was about.

“Sanderholt!” he called out. “Mistress Sanderholt! Where is she!”

People nervously pointed to a hallway. Before he had gone more than a dozen strides down the hall, a thin woman came rushing from the other direction.

“What’s the trouble! Who’s calling me?”

“I am,” Richard said.

Her frown withered to a look of consternation. “What is it I can do for you, young man,” she said in an uneasy voice.

Richard worked at keeping threat out of his tone. He didn’t think he was very successful. “Kahlan. Where can I find her.”

Her face turned nearly as white as her apron. “You would be Richard. She told me of you. You look like she said.”

“Yes! Where is she!”

Mistress Sanderholt swallowed. “I’m sorry, Richard,” she whispered. “The council sentenced her to death. The sentence was carried out at the winter solstice festival.”

Richard stood staring down at the thin woman. He was having difficulty deciding if they were talking about the same person.

“I think you misunderstood,” he managed. “I mean the Mother Confessor. Mother Confessor Kahlan Amnell. You must be talking about someone else. My Kahlan can’t be dead. I came as fast as I could. I swear I did.”

Her eyes were filling with tears. She tried to blink them away as she stared up at him. Slowly, she shook her head.

She put a bandaged hand to his side. “Come, Richard. You look as if you could use a meal. Let me get you bowl of soup.”