Terry Goodkind - Wizard's First Rule

And then she made a mistake.

She started to reach to touch Toffalar, but caught sight of Richard looking toward her. She faltered at the thought of him seeing her use her power. She hesitated, and let Toffalar have the instant he needed. Richard screamed her name in warning, then turned to fight back the shadows from behind him.

Toffalar’s knife came up, hitting her right arm, deflecting off the bone.

Shock and pain ignited her rage. Rage at her own stupidity. She did not miss the opening a second time. Her left hand came up and caught Toffalar by the throat. She felt her grip shut off his air for an instant. She needed only to touch him—grabbing him by the throat was a reflex of her rage, not her power.

Though there were terrified screams and shouts coming from people all around, and the horrifying wails from the shadows Richard was destroying wholesale, her mind went suddenly quiet, calm. There was no sound in her head. Only silence. The silence of what she was going to do.

In the calm spark of an instant that to her twisted for an eternity, she saw the look of fear in Toffalar’s eyes, the realization of his fate. She saw in his eyes his railing against that end, felt his muscles beginning to tense, to fight her, his hands starting the ever so slow, hopeless journey to her grip at his throat.

But he had no chance, not the slightest glimmer. She was in control now. Time was hers. He was hers. She felt no pity. No remorse. Only deadly calm.

As she had done countless times before, in her calm, the Mother Confessor relaxed her restraint. Released at last, her power slammed into Toffalar’s body.

There was a hard impact to the air—thunder with no sound. Water in the puddles around her danced and flung muddy droplets into the air.

Toffalar’s eyes went wide. The muscles of his face went slack. His mouth fell open.

“Mistress!” he called out in a reverent whisper.

The calm expression on her face contorted with anger. With all her strength she shoved Toffalar backward, at the ring of shadows around Richard and Siddin. Arms flung in the air, he fell into the shadows and screamed at the contact before falling to the mud. Somehow, the contact opened a brief, small gap in the ring of shadows. Without hesitation she dove for it, flinging herself through an instant before it closed behind her.

Kahlan threw herself over Siddin.

“Hurry!” Richard yelled.

Siddin didn’t look at her—his face was fixed on the shadows, his mouth open, all his muscles locked. She tried to get the stone from his tight little fist, but his fingers were fastened around it with the strength of his fright. She snatched the pouch from his other hand. Gripping the pouch and his wrist with her left hand, she started prying his little fingers off the stone with the right, begging him the whole time to let go. He didn’t hear her. Blood ran down her arm to her shaking hand, mixing with the rain, making her fingers slippery.

A shadowy hand reached for her face. She flinched back. The sword hissed past her face, through the shadow. It added its wail to the others. Siddin’s eyes were transfixed on the shadows, all his muscles rigid. Richard was right over her, swinging the sword in weaving patterns all around. There was no more ground to give. It was just the three of them now. Siddin’s slippery fingers wouldn’t open.

Gritting her teeth with an effort that sent searing pain through the wound in her right arm, she finally raked the stone out of Siddin’s hand. Because of the blood and mud, it shot from her fingers like a melon seed, plopping in the mud by her knee. Almost instantly her hand was over it, snatching it back up in a scoopful of mud. She jammed it in the pouch and yanked the drawstring closed. Gasping, she looked up.

The shadows stopped. She could hear Richard’s heavy breathing as he continued slashing at them. Slowly at first, the shadows began moving back, as if confused, lost, searching. Then they dissolved back into the air, retreating to the underworld whence they had come. In a moment, they were gone. Except for Toffalar’s body, the three of them were in an empty expanse of mud.

Kahlan, rain running off her face, took Siddin into her arms, hugging him tight against her as he began crying. In exhaustion, Richard closed his eyes and collapsed to his knees, sitting back on his heels. His head hung down as he panted.

“Kahlan,” Siddin whimpered, “they were calling my name.”

“I know,” she whispered in his ear, kissing it, “it’s all right now. You were very brave. Brave as any hunter.”

He hugged his arms around her neck as she comforted him. She felt weak, shaky. They had almost lost their lives, to save a single one. Something she had told him the Seeker must not do, yet they had done it without a second thought. How could they not have tried? Having Siddin’s arms around her made it all worth it. Richard was still holding the sword in both hands—its tip sunk in the mud. She reached over and put a hand on his shoulder.

At the touch of her hand, his head instantly snapped up and the sword whipped around toward her, stopping in front of her face. Kahlan jumped with surprise. Fury at Richard’s wide eyes.

“Richard,” she said, startled, “it’s just me. It’s over. I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

He let his muscles go limp, let himself fall over onto his side in the mud.

“Sorry,” he managed, still trying to catch his breath. “When your hand touched me . . . I guess I thought it was a shadow.”

Legs were suddenly all about them. She peered up. The Bird Man was there, as were Savidlin and Weselan. Weselan was sobbing loudly. Kahlan stood and handed her son. Weselan passed the boy to her husband and threw her arms around Kahlan, kissing her face all over.

“Thank you, Mother Confessor, thank you for saving my boy,” she bawled. “Thank you, Kahlan, thank you.”

“I know, I know.” Kahlan hugged her back. “It’s all right now.”

Weselan turned tearfully back to take Siddin in her arms. Kahlan saw Toffalar lying close by, dead. She flopped down in the mud, exhausted, and pulled her knees up with her arms around them.

She put her face against her knees and, losing control, started crying. Not because she had killed Toffalar, but because she had hesitated. It had almost cost her her life—almost cost Richard and Siddin—everyone—their lives. She had almost given victory to Rahl because she hadn’t wanted Richard to see what she was going to do, and had hesitated. It was the stupidest thing she had ever done, other than not telling Richard she was a Confessor. Tears of frustration poured out as she cried in choking sobs.

A hand reached under her good arm, pulling her up. It was the Bird Man. She bit her quivering lip, forcing herself to stop crying. She could not let these people see her showing weakness. She was a Confessor.

“Well done, Mother Confessor,” he said as he took a strip of cloth from one of his men and started wrapping it around her wounded arm.

Kahlan held her head up. “Thank you, honored elder.”

“This will need to be stitched together. I will have the gentlest healer among us do the work.”

She stood numbly as he tightened the bandage, sending flames of pain through the deep cut. He looked down at Richard, who seemed content to lie there on his back in the mud, as if it were the most comfortable bed in the world.

The Bird Man lifted an eyebrow to her, and gave a nod, indicating Richard. “Your warning that I should not want to give the Seeker cause to draw his sword in anger was as true as an arrow from my finest archer.” There was a twinkle in his sharp brown eyes—the corners of his mouth curled in a smile. He looked down at the Seeker. “You made a good showing of yourself too, Richard With The Temper. Fortunately the evil spirits still have not learned to carry swords.”