Terry Goodkind - Wizard's First Rule

Richard felt bumps on the skin of his arms. “How long does this, this, magic, whatever it is, how long does it last?”

“As long as the one I touch is alive,” she said evenly.

Richard felt the chill run the rest of the way through him. “So, it’s sort of like you bewitch people?”

She let out a breath. “Not exactly, but if it helps you to understand, I guess you could put it that way. But the touch of a Confessor is much more. Much more powerful, and final. A bewitching could be removed. My touch cannot. Shota was bewitching you, even though you did not realize it. It’s an incremental thing. Witches cannot help it, it’s their way. But your anger, and the anger from the sword, protected you.

“The touch of my power is all at once, and final. Nothing could protect you. The person I touch cannot be brought back, because once I touch them, that person is no longer there. That person is gone forever. Their free will is gone forever. One reason I was afraid to go to Shota was because witches hate Confessors. They are fiercely jealous of our power—jealous that once touched, the person is totally devoted. The one touched by a Confessor would do anything she says.” She gave him a hard look. “Anything.”

Richard felt his mouth go dry as his thoughts scattered in every direction at once, trying desperately to hold on to his hopes, his dreams. The only way he could hold it together, and gain time to think, was to ask questions. “Does it work on everyone?”

“Everyone human. Except Darken Rahl. The wizards warned me that the magic of Orden protects him from our touch. He has nothing to fear from me. On those who are not human, it mostly doesn’t work because they don’t have the capacity for compassion, which the magic requires in order to work. A gar, for example, would not be changed by my touch. It works on some other creatures, but not exactly the same as it does a human.”

He watched her from under his eyebrows. “Shar? You touched her, didn’t you?”

Kahlan nodded and leaned back a little, the slump settling back into her shoulders. “Yes. She was dying, and lonely. She was suffering the pain of being away from her kind, the pain of dying alone. She asked me to touch her. My touch took her fear, and replaced it with a love for me that left no room for her own pain, for her own loneliness. Nothing was left of her except her love for me.”

“What about when I first met you, when the quad was chasing us? You touched one of those men too, didn’t you?”

Kahlan nodded, leaning back the rest of the way against the log, pulling her cloak around her, looking into the fire. “Even though they are sworn to kill me, once I touch one of them, they are mine,” she said with finality. “They will fight to the death to protect me. That is the reason Rahl sends four men to kill a Confessor—it’s expected she will touch one, then there are three left to kill him, and her. It takes the three left because the one will fight so fiercely he usually kills one, often two, but that still leaves at least one to kill the Confessor. On a rare occasion, he will kill the remaining three. That happened to me with the quad that chased me before the wizards sent me across the boundary. A quad is the most economical unit to send, they almost always succeed, and if they don’t, Rahl will simply send another.

“We weren’t killed on the cliff because you separated them. The one I touched killed the other with him while you held off the other two—then he went after the remaining two, but you had pushed one off the edge, so he used his own life to take the leader over the cliff. He did that because then there wouldn’t be any chance of losing in a sword fight. It meant his life too, but that didn’t matter to him after I touched him. It was the only way for him to be sure he protected me.”

“Can’t you simply touch all four?”

“No. The power is expended with each use. It takes time for it to recover.”

He felt the hilt of his sword against his elbow and a sudden thought came to him. “When we came through the boundary, and that last man of the quad was after you, and I killed him . . . I wasn’t really saving you, was I?”

She was silent for a moment before answering. “One man, no matter how big, or strong, is no threat to a Confessor, even a weak Confessor, much less me. If you hadn’t come when you did . . . I would have dealt with him. I’m sorry, Richard,” she whispered, “but there was no need for you to have killed him. I could have handled it.”

“Well,” he said dryly, “at least I saved you from having to do it.”

She didn’t answer, only looked sadly at him. It seemed she had nothing to say that, could bring him any comfort. “How much time?” he asked. “How much time does it take to recover after a Confessor has used her power?”

“In every Confessor the power is different. In some it is weaker, and it may take several days and nights to recover. In most, it takes about one day and one night.”

Richard looked over at her. “And in you?”

She looked up at his eyes, almost as if she wished he hadn’t asked the question. “About two hours.”

He turned back to the fire, not liking the sound of her answer. “Is that unusual?”

She let out a breath. “So I have been told.” Her voice sounded weary. “Shorter time to recover the power also means the power is stronger, works more powerfully in the one touched. That is why some of the quad members I touch are able to kill the other three. It would not be so for a Confessor with a weaker power.

“Confessors have position according to their power, because the ones with the strongest power will bear daughters who have the best chance of having that stronger power. There is no jealousy among the Confessors for those with the strongest power, only deeper affection and devotion in times of trouble—like since Rahl came through the boundary. The lower ranks will protect the higher, with their lives if need be.”

He knew she wasn’t going to say it unless he asked, so he did. “And what is your rank?”

Her eyes stared unblinking at the fire. “All Confessors follow me. Many laid down their lives to protect mine . . .” Her voice caught for a moment. “. . . that I might survive, and somehow use my power to stop Rahl. Of course, there are none to follow me now. I am the only one left. Darken Rahl has killed every last one.”

“I’m sorry, Kahlan,” he said softly. He was only, just beginning to comprehend the importance of the woman she was. “So, do you have a title? What do people call you?”

“I am the Mother Confessor.”

Richard tensed. The sound of “Mother Confessor” had the chill of terrible authority to it. Richard felt a little overwhelmed. He had always known Kahlan was important, but he had dealt with important people when he was a guide, and had learned not to be awed by them. But he never knew she was someone of such prominence. Mother Confessor. Even if he was just a guide, and she was this important, he didn’t care, he could live with that. Surely, she could, too. He wasn’t going to lose her, or send her away because of who she was.

“I don’t know what that means. Is it something like a princess, or a queen?”

Kahlan lifted an eyebrow to him. “Queens bow down to the Mother Confessor.”

Now he felt intimidated.

“You are more than a queen?” he winced.

“The dress I wore when you first saw me? That is a Confessor’s dress. We all wear them so there can be no mistaking who we are, although most people of the Midlands would recognize us no matter how we were to dress. All Confessors, no matter their age, wear a Confessor’s dress that is black—except the Mother Confessor—her dress is white.” Kahlan seemed a little annoyed by having to explain her eminence. “It feels very odd to me to explain all this, Richard. Everyone in the Midlands knows it all, so I have never had to think about how to put it all into words. It sounds so . . . I don’t know, so arrogant when I put words to it.”