Temple of the Winds (Sword of Truth 4)

Kahlan tapped the side of her fist against the doorway.

“Thanks, Cara.” She looked into the other’s blue eyes. “There are rats down here. Are you all right?”

“There are worse things than rats.”

“Indeed there are,” Kahlan whispered.

48

It was late, and with the dark, people on the streets didn’t recognize her. Without her usual escort of guards, they had no reason to give her a second look, no reason to suspect she was the Mother Confessor out among them. Just as well; there were some people who wished the Mother Confessor harm. Mostly, people kept their distance from her, as they did with everyone else, hoping to keep the plague from themselves.

As Cara had said, there were hucksters everywhere, hawking potions to ward off the plague, or to cure your loved ones already stricken. Others strolled the streets with trays, held up on straps over their shoulders, neatly laid out with amulets possessing magic to protect against the plague. Kahlan remembered seeing some of these same people not long ago selling the same amulets as magic to find a husband or wife, or to enthrall an unfaithful spouse. Old women with small carts or simple wooden stands sold carved spell-invested plaques made to hang over the door to a home as a sure way to keep the plague from entering the house. As late as it was, business seemed brisk. Even the vendors selling meats and produce extolled the healthful virtues of their goods and their value in promoting continued health, if eaten regularly, of course.

Kahlan would send the soldiers out to put a stop to some of these swindlers, but she knew that such intervention would likely be viewed with hostility on the part of the buyers. If she tried to use the army to stop such foolish practices, desperate people would concoct theories about those in power wanting to stop the cures so that the decent, working folk would get the plague. Despite common sense, or evidence to the contrary, many people believed that those in power were always scheming to harm them; if they only knew the truth.

If Kahlan were to order the sale of these items stopped, the “cures” would be sold in secret, and for a higher price. No matter how insupportable the claims of these cures, their benefits would be vehemently supported as self-evident truth.

Wizard’s First Rule: people would believe any lie, either because they wanted to believe it was true, or because they feared it was. These people were desperate, and would become more so, yet. Many wanted to believe.

Kahlan tried to imagine what she would do if Richard had the plague. Would she be despairing enough to put her faith in such trickery, hoping against hope that it would save him? Sometimes hope was all people had. Groundless as it was, she couldn’t take that hope away from them; it was all they had, and all they could do.

It was up to Kahlan and Richard to do that which would help these people.

As she made her way through the familiar splendor of the Confessors’ Palace, on her way to find Richard, Kahlan paused at the open double doors to a large room used for formal receptions. The room was a calming blue color, with dark blue drapes over the tall, narrow windows. The granite floor had a starburst pattern of darker and lighter stone radiating out from the center. Lamps on cherrywood stands around the edge of the room lent a mellow light to the gathering hall. The table where small foods were sometimes set out for guests now held only an array of candles.

Kahlan’s attention had been drawn by the sound of Drefan’s voice. He stood to the right, before the table with the candles, speaking to perhaps fifty or sixty people. They sat cross-legged on the floor before him, listening with rapt attention as he spoke of the way of health, of keeping the body sound by being in touch with the inner self.

Most of the people nodded absently as they listened to Drefan explaining how, by defiling their bodies with unhealthy thoughts and actions, people opened the pathway for sickness to enter. He told them that the Creator had endowed them with the ability to fight off things such as the plague, if only they would do as nature provided, by eating the right foods that would strengthen the auras that defended the body, and by using inner reflection to direct the vigor of various energy fields to their proper function in harmony with the whole.

Many of the things he said made sense: not eating foods that you knew gave you headaches, because it interfered with the mind’s ability to regulate the body; not eating foods that you knew caused pains and cramps in the gut, because it interfered with the body’s ability to digest the good foods you needed; not eating heavy meals right before sleeping, because it interfered with your body getting the rest it needed to remain strong, and how all of these things disrupt the auras that give us strength and protect health.

People marveled openly that Drefan could make it all so simple for them to understand. They spoke as if they had been blind, and now for the first time had vision. They watched with unblinking eyes as he went on, telling them that we had within us the power to control our own bodies, and that disease could only afflict us if we allowed it to. He spoke of herbs and foods that purged poisons from the body and left people truly healthy for perhaps the first time since their birth.

These people weren’t listening to Lord Rahl’s brother, they were listening to Drefan Rahl, High Priest of the Raug’Moss.

As one, they followed the High Priest’s instructions when he told them to close their eyes and draw the breath of life and healthy steams through their noses and down into their inner core by using the muscles low in their bellies. He explained how to let it reach deep into the source of the power of each person’s unique aura, to draw out the poisons from the furthest, darkest corners of their beings and expel it out through the mouth, to be replaced with a renewing breath of life drawn in again through the nose.

Better, Kahlan guessed, that these people would come to Drefan for advice that might help them, and at least sounded like it could do no harm, than spend their savings on false hope from the hucksters in the street. Paying attention to their body’s needs with things like proper food and rest seemed sound advice.

As they all drew the slow, deep breaths in through their noses, Drefan turned his head and locked his Darken Rahl eyes on Kahlan, as if he had known all along that she had been standing there outside the doorway. He gave her a kind-hearted smile that sparkled benevolently in his blue eyes. She could see why these people put their trust in him. She made herself return a little smile.

Kahlan remembered the talk she had had with Shota about how difficult it was to banish unpleasant memories. Kahlan wished she could forget Drefan’s hand between Cara’s legs.

Drefan was trying to help people. He was doing everything he could to halt the plague. He was a great healer—the High Priest of the Raug’Moss. She tried to put the image of him comforting those sick children in place of the memory of his forcing his big hand down between Cara’s legs.

Drefan had explained, at the time, why he had done that to Cara. He had saved Cara’s life. A Mord-Sith, screaming in pain, then unconscious, and Drefan had brought her back. Richard found comfort in Drefan, as did everyone else. Kahlan broke eye contact with him and continued on her way to find Richard.

Tristan Bashkar, the Jarian ambassador staying at the Confessors’ Palace while he waited for further signs from the stars, further word from above, before surrendering, paused at a balcony as she passed below. As was his habit, he drew back his coat and rested his hand on his hip. It displayed the wicked dagger he wore at his belt. Often times, in conversation, he would also put a boot up on a chair or stool and casually rest his forearm on his knee. It provided those in conversation with him the opportunity to see also the knife he kept in his boot.

The more she saw Tristan in the palace, watching her with his cunning eyes, the more she disliked his presence. If there was a man who acted more childish, Kahlan didn’t know him.

Tristan watched silently as she hurried on her way. Kahlan was glad he was up on a balcony, so that she wouldn’t have to waste time playing word games with him.

Ulic and Egan gave Kahlan an odd look as she greeted them b

efore whisking through the door to the small room Richard liked to use to study Kolo’s journal. He was sitting with his head in his hands, his fingers buried in his hair, as he read from another book that lay open on the table. Two candles and a lamp on the table beside him provided light, and a small, fragrant fire of birch logs added warmth to the cozy room. His cloak lay over a nearby chair, but he wore his sword.

Richard looked up. When he saw her, he shot to his feet. Without the gold cloak, he was like a big, black shadow gliding across the room. Before he could speak, Kahlan rushed into his arms.

Kahlan pressed the side of her face to his chest as she hugged him. “Please, Richard, don’t yell at me. Please, just hold me.” Tears choked her voice. “Please, don’t say anything—just hold me.”

It was ecstasy being with him again. It never failed to astound her, whenever she saw him, just how much she needed and loved him.

Richard’s arms enclosed her in comforting shelter. She listened to the fire crackle, and the sound of his heart under her ear. She could almost imagine, in the safety of his strong arms, that everything was fine, and that they had a future.

She remembered her mother’s words.

Confessors don’t have love, Kahlan. They have duty.

Kahlan clutched his black shirt as she fought a losing battle to hold back tears. He held her and stroked her hair. She had asked him to hold her and not speak, and he was doing just that. That only made her feel worse.

He must have questions. He must want to say something to her, to tell her how relieved he was to see her safe, to tell her how worried he had been, to ask her where she had been, and what she had found out, to tell her what he had found, to yell at her; but he didn’t. Instead, without protest, he did as she had asked, relegating his own desires to secondary, after hers.

How would she go on without his love? How would she draw a breath? How would she manage to make herself go on until she was old and could finally finish her duty and at last die?

“Richard… I’m so sorry I made that letter sound threatening. I didn’t mean to threaten you, I swear. I just wanted you to be safe. I’m so sorry if I hurt you.”

He squeezed her a little tighter and kissed the top of her head. Kahlan wished she could just die in his arms, now, and not have to face her duty, not have to face the finality of the future, the finality of losing him.

“How’s your foot?” she asked.

“My foot?”

“Cara said you hurt it on a chair.”

“Oh. My foot is fine. The chair died, but I don’t think it suffered.”

Against all odds, Kahlan laughed. She looked up through her tears into his gentle smile.

“All right, I think your hug has revived me. You can yell at me now.”

He kissed her instead. The feeling of being pulled up in his arms was rapture. Being in the sliph didn’t even come close.

“So,” he finally said, “what did our ancestors’ spirits have to say?”