Terry Goodkind - Wizard's First Rule

Kahlan was smoothing his hair. “I am here.”

It came back to him, rushing back in a torrent: the murder of his father, the vine that bit him, Kahlan, the four men on the cliff, his brother’s speech—someone waiting for him at his house, the gar, the night wisp telling him to seek the answer or die—what Kahlan said, that the three boxes of Orden were in play—and his secret, the Book of Counted Shadows . . .

He remembered how his father had taken him to the secret place in the woods, and had told him how he had saved the Book of Counted Shadows from the peril it was in from the beast that guarded it until its master could come. How he had brought it with him to Westland to keep it from those covetous hands, hands that the keeper of the book didn’t know threatened. His father had told him how there was danger as long as the book existed, but he couldn’t destroy the knowledge in it—he had no right. It belonged to the keeper of the book, and it must be kept safe until it could be returned. The only way to do that was to commit the book to memory, and then burn it. Only in that way could the knowledge be preserved, but not stolen, as it otherwise surely would be.

His father chose Richard. That it was to be Richard and not Michael was for reasons of his own. No one could know of the book, not even Michael—only the keeper of the book, no one else, only the keeper. He said Richard might never find the keeper, and in that case he was to pass the book on to his child, and then that child to his own, and so on, for as long as was necessary. His father couldn’t tell him who the keeper of the book was, as he didn’t know. Richard asked how he was to know the keeper, but his father said only that he would have to find the answer himself, and not to tell anyone, ever, except the keeper. His father told Richard he was not to tell his own brother, or even his best friend, Zedd.

Richard swore on his life.

His father had never once looked in the book, only Richard. Day after day, week after week, with breaks only when he traveled, his father took him to the secret place deep in the woods, where he sat and watched Richard reading the book, over and over. Michael was usually off with his friends, and had no interest in going into the woods even if he was at home, and it wasn’t uncommon for Richard not to visit Zedd when his father was home, so neither had reason to know of the frequent trips to the woods.

Richard would write down what he memorized and check it against the book. Each time, his father burned the papers and had him do it again. His father apologized every day for the burden he was placing on Richard. He asked for forgiveness from his son at the end of every day in the woods.

Richard never resented having to learn the book—he considered it an honor to be entrusted by his father. He wrote the book from beginning to end a hundred times without error before he satisfied himself that he could never forget a single word. He knew by reading it that any word left out would spell disaster.

When he assured his father that it was committed to memory, they put the book back in the hiding place in the rocks and left it for three years. After that time, when Richard was beyond his middle teens, they returned one fall day and his father said if Richard could write the whole book, without a single mistake, they could both be satisfied it was learned perfectly and they would burn the book. Richard wrote without hesitation from beginning to end. It was perfect.

Together they built a fire, stacking on more than enough wood, until the heat drove them back. His father handed him the book, and told him that if he was sure, to throw the book into the fire. Richard held the Book of Counted Shadows in the crook of his arm, running his fingers over the leather cover. He held his father’s trust in his arms, held the trust of everyone in his arms, and he felt the weight of the burden. He gave the book to the fire. In that moment, he was no longer a child.

The flames swirled around the book, embracing, caressing, consuming. Colors and forms spiraled up, and a roaring cry came forth. Strange beams of light shot skyward. Wind made their cloaks flap as the fire sucked leaves and twigs into itself, adding to the flames and heat. Phantoms appeared, spreading their arms as if being fed by the blaze, their voices racing away on the wind. The two of them stood as if turned to stone, unable to move, unable even to turn away from the sight. Searing heat turned to wind as cold as the deepest winter night, sending chills up their spines, taking their breath from them. Then the cold was gone and the fire turned to a white light that consumed everything in its brightness, as if they were standing in the sun. Just as suddenly, it was gone. In its place, silence. The fire was out. Wisps of smoke rose slowly from the blackened wood into the autumn air. The book was gone.

Richard knew what he had seen—he had seen magic.

Richard felt a hand resting on his shoulder and opened his eyes. It was Kahlan. In the firelight coming through the doorway he could see she was sitting in a chair pulled close to his bed. Zedd’s big old coon cat was curled up sleeping in her lap.

“Where’s Zedd?” he asked, sleepy-eyed.

“He has gone to find the root you need.” Her voice was soft and calming. “It has been dark for hours now, but he said not to be concerned if it took him time to find the root. He said that you would go in and out of sleep but would be safe until he returned. He said the drink he gave you before would keep you safe until he is back.”

Richard realized, for the first time, that she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Her hair was tumbled down around her face and shoulders, and he wanted very much to touch it, but didn’t. It was enough to feel her hand on his shoulder, to know she was there and that he was not alone.

“How do you feel?” Her voice was so soft, so gentle, that he couldn’t imagine why Zedd had been afraid of her.

“I would rather fight another quad than another snake vine.”

She smiled her special smile, her private smile of sharing something with him, as she wiped his brow with the cloth. He reached up and grabbed her wrist. She stopped and looked into his eyes.

“Kahlan, Zedd is my friend of many years. He is like a second father to me. Promise me you won’t do anything to hurt him. I could not bear it.”

She looked at him reassuringly. “I like him, too. Very much. He is a good man, just as you said. I have no desire to hurt him. Only to seek his help in finding the wizard.”

He gripped her wrist tighter. “Promise me.”

“Richard, everything will be fine. He will help us.”

He remembered her fingers on his throat and the look in her eyes when she thought he was trying to poison her with an apple. “Promise me.”

“I have already made promises, to others, some of whom have given their lives. I have responsibilities to the lives of others. Many others.”

“Promise me.”

She put her other hand on the side of his face. “I am sorry, Richard, I cannot.”

He released her wrist, turned, and closed his eyes as she took her hand from his face. He thought about the book, all that it meant, and realized he was making a selfish request. Would he trick her to save Zedd, only to have him die with them? Would he doom all the others to death or slavery just to see his friend live a couple more months? Could he condemn her to death, too, for nothing? He felt ashamed at his own stupidity. He had no right to ask her to make such a promise. It would be wrong for her to do so. He was glad she had not lied to him. But he knew that just because Zedd had asked about the trouble they were in did not mean he would help with anything to do from across the boundary.