He sighed. 'I guess you're right. If they really can do the job, it will be a brilliant achievement.'
The galloping rider approached and leapt from his horse before it came fully to a stop. He gave a perfunctory salute. 'Mother Confessor.' He gulped some air. 'I'm Cynric, with the sentries.'
'What is it, Cynric?'
'You said you wanted to know about everything, so I thought I better report. We were just setting up the sentries about an hour out, between here and the army of the Order, near a road that crosses Jara Pass, and a coach came up the crossroad, from the direction of Kelton. We knew you didn't want anything unusual going on, so we stopped the coach. I thought I better find out what you wanted us to do.'
'Who's in the coach?'
'An old couple. Wealthy merchants of some sort, or so they claim. Something about orchards.'
'What did you tell them? You didn't tell them about us, did you? You didn't tell them that we have an army out here, did you?'
He shook his head vehemently. 'No, Mother Confessor. We told them that there were outlaws in the neighborhood, and that we were a small patrol out looking for them. We told them they weren't allowed to pass until I checked with my commander. I said they had to wait until I returned.'
Kahlan nodded. That's quick thinking, Cynric.'
The driver's name is Ahern. He wanted to argue with us, and thought to give his team reins, until we showed him some steel. Then the old man came flying out of the coach, accusing us of trying to rob him. He started to swing his cane around at us, like he thought that would drive us off or something. Anyway, we drew arrows on him, and he decided he would get back in the coach.'
'What is his name?'
Cynric shifted his weight to the other foot and scratched his eyebrow. 'Robin, or Ruben, or something like that. Feisty old fellow. Ruben, I think. Ruben Rybnik, I think that's it.'
Kahlan sighed as she shook her head. They don't sound like spies. But if the Order catches them, and they know anything, they will tell it all before the D'Harans are through with them.' She looked up. 'What are they doing out here?'
The old man says his wife is sick, and they're taking her to healers in Nicobarese. She didn't look well to me. Her eyes looked to be all rolled back in her head.'
'Well, since they're on the road going northwest, going across Jara Pass, that shouldn't take them anywhere near the Order.' She pulled some of her long hair back off her face. 'But before I dare let them go, I best go speak with them.'
Before she could take three steps, Sergeant Frost came running up behind. 'Mother Confessor! The tubs of whitewash are ready. The tents are heated.'
Kahlan let out a noisy breath. She looked from Sergeant Frost, to sentry Cynric, to other men waiting patiently to talk with her or ask instructions. She let out another breath. 'Look, Cynric, I don't have the hour to ride out there, and another to ride back. I'm sorry, but I just don't have the time.'
He nodded. 'Yes, Mother Confessor. I understand. What do you wish done?'
She steeled herself to the orders. 'Kill them.'
'Mother Confessor?'
'Kill them. We can't be sure of the truth of who they are, and this is too important to worry about strangers running around loose. We can't take the risk. Make it quick, so they don't suffer.'
She turned away toward Sergeant Frost.
'But Mother Confessor...'
She looked over her shoulder.
Cynric gathered up a length of reins. The driver, Ahern, he has a royal pass.'
Kahlan turned back and frowned. 'A what?'
'A royal pass medallion. It's a medallion that was given to him by Queen Cyrilla herself. It says he was a hero to the people of Ebimssia in the siege, and in honor of his service he is to be given unhindered pass anywhere in Galea.'
The queen herself gave this pass?'
Cynric nodded. 'I'll do what you command, Mother Confessor, but with this medallion the queen has promised him her protection.'
Kahlan rubbed her forehead with her fingertips. She was so tired she could hardly focus her mind to think. 'Since he has a pass given by the queen, we must honor it.' She pointed a finger to the sentry. 'But you tell him that he must be clear of the area immediately. Repeat what you told him about there being outlaws in the neighborhood. Tell him that you're hunting these outlaws, and that if you catch Ahern and his coach around here again, you're ordered to assume they are in with the outlaws, and you're to execute them on the spot. The road to Nicobarese goes northeast. Tell them to keep to it and not to stop before they're a good long distance from here.'
Cynric clapped a fist to his heart as she turned to take Captain Ryan's arm and lead him toward the tents with the whitewash. Behind, she heard the sentry gallop off toward the coach he had found. The other men took the hint that they weren't to come, and went about other business.
She loosened the thong holding her mantle closed. The temperature had climbed above freezing, and the clouds had lowered nearly to the ground. The air felt wringing wet.
'Fog will move in by this afternoon,' he observed. This whole valley pass will be thick with it tonight.' He glanced to her questioning frown. 'I've lived in these mountains my whole life. When it takes a thaw like this in winter, the fog settles into the passes for at least a couple of days.'
Kahlan surveyed the mountain sides ascending into the gray clouds. That will serve us well. Especially for what I have in mind. It will be an aid to us in bringing terror to the enemy.'
'So, are you ready to tell me what we're to paint?'
Kahlan let out a tired sigh. 'We've devised a number of plans to strike targets that must be destroyed. Tonight will be our best chance of accomplishing those things, because they will be surprised. We will not have a chance of surprise like this again. After tonight, they will be expecting our next attacks.'
'I understand. The men, too, know the importance of this. They will do well.'
'We must also not lose sight of our intent. Our intent is to kill these men. Tonight, we will have the chance to do that as perhaps at no other time. We must take that opportunity.
'How many swordsmen do we have?'
He was silent a moment as he tallied the numbers in his head. 'Nearly two thousand are swordsmen. Not quite another eight hundred archers, and the rest divided up among pikemen, lancers, and cavalry among others, including the rest of what an army needs, from drivers to fletchers to blacksmiths.'
Kahlan nodded to herself. 'I want you to select about a thousand swordsmen. Pick the strongest, the fiercest, the most eager for the fight.'
'And what are we going to do with these men?'
'The men dressed in the uniforms of the sentries we kill will make an exploration of the enemy camp, and come back and give us the locations of our objectives. We have enough men to do the tasks we have assigned for those objectives.
'The swordsmen are for beginning our prime objective. Killing the enemy. They will first see to the enemy commanders, just in case they weren't poisoned, and then after that, they will kill as many men as they can in the shortest possible time.'
They came to the dozen tents set up close together in a half circle. Kahlan checked inside them all to be sure they were equipped as she had ordered. Finished checking, she stood outside the largest and faced Captain Ryan.
'So, are you going to tell me, now, what it is we're to paint?'
Kahlan nodded. 'Those thousand swordsmen.'
He stared, dumfounded. 'We're going to paint the men? Why?'
'It's simple. D'Harans fear spirits. They fear the spirits of the foes they kill, that's why they drag the bodies of their fallen comrades away from a battle site, like Ebinissia.
'Tonight, their fears are going to come to haunt them. They are going to be attacked by the thing they fear most: spirits.'
'But they will recognize us as soldiers, simply with white clothes, not as spirits.'
Kahlan looked at Captain Ryan from under her eyebrows. 'They will not be wearing clothes. They will have nothing but their swords, painted white, just as are they. They will remove their clothes just before the attack.'
His mouth dropped open. 'What?'
'I want you to get the swordsmen together, now, and assemble them here. They're to go into the tents, remove their clothes, and dip themselves in the whitewash. After dunking themselves, they will stand near the hot rocks until dry. It won't take long. Then they can put their clothes back on. Until the attack.'
Captain Ryan stood in shock. 'But it's winter. They'll freeze without clothes.'
'We have a break in the bitter cold. Besides, the cold will remind them to rush in and rush back out. I don't want them to stay in that camp very long. The enemy will recover from their shock in short order, and set upon any invader. I want our men to attack, kill terrified D'Harans, and escape.
'As I said, D'Harans fear spirits. When they see what they will at first think is their worst fear, they will be stunned. Their first thought will be to run, not to fight. Men die as easily from a sword through the back as through the front. Some will freeze in place, not knowing what to do. Even those who recognize the invaders as men painted white, and not as spirits, will be confused for a moment.
'Those few seconds of confusion, as we come upon each new group, are the seconds we need to run them through. In battle, the difference between killing, and being killed, is often a single moment of indecision.
The swordsmen are not to engage in fights. If challenged, they're to run on to others. There are more than enough to kill; it's a mistake to waste time engaging in battle, if it can be avoided. I simply want enemy soldiers killed. After the commanders are dead, it doesn't matter which ones. I don't want our men fighting unless forced to; that only risks their lives needlessly.
'Rush in, kill as many men as possible, and rush out. Those are to be the orders.'
Captain Ryan frowned as he considered. 'I never thought I would hear myself say it, but I think it sounds like it might be an outlandishly successful tactic. The men aren't going to like it at first, but they'll follow orders. I'll explain it to them, and then I know they'll feel a little better about it.
'I've never heard of such a thing, and I'm sure the enemy hasn't either.' He at last smiled a sly smile. 'It's sure to surprise them, no doubt about that.'
Kahlan was relieved he had come around to that much of it. 'Good. I'm pleased to have the enthusiasm of a captain in the Galean army. In the Midlands army.
'Now, I want you to have my horse's saddle and tack brought here, and dipped in the whitewash. And please post some guards outside this tent, while I'm inside.'
His eyes widened. 'Your saddle?... You're not... Mother Confessor... You can't be serious.'
'I would not ask my men to do something I myself would not do. They need to have a commander to rally around in their first battle. I intend to lead them.'
Captain Ryan took a step back. He was aghast. He regained the step. 'But Mother Confesser... you're a woman. And not in any way an ugly woman.' Seemingly involuntarily, he took a quick glance the length of her. 'In fact, you are... Mother Confessor, forgive me.' He fell silent.
'They are soldiers with a mission. Make your point, Captain.'
His face filled with blood. These are young men, Mother Confessor. They are... Well, you can't expect... They are young men.' His jaw moved as he tried to find words. They won't be able to help themselves. Mother Confessor, please. You'll be embarrassed beyond all tolerance.' He winced, hoping he wouldn't have to explain further.
She gave him a small smile to try to ease his horror. 'Captain, have you ever heard the legend of the Shahari?' He shook his head. 'When the tribes and lands now called D'Hara were being forged together, the method of conquest and joining were much the same as it is with the Imperial Order - join with them, or be conquered. The Shahari people refused to join into D'Hara, and they refused to be conquered.
They fought so fiercely that they came to be greatly feared by the D'Haran troops, who outnumbered them many times over. The Shahari loved nothing more than fighting. They were so fearless and aroused about going into war that they went into battle naked and, well... aroused.'
Kahlan looked up to see Captain Ryan staring, mouth agape. She went on. The D'Harans all know the legend of the Shahari. They all, to this day, fear the Shahari.' She cleared her throat. 'If the men go into battle, and... that... happens, it will only bring greater fear to the men of the Order.
'I don't think, though, that the men need fear being embarrassed. They will have more pressing matters on their minds, like not being killed. And if it does happen, well then, they should know it pleases me because it will only strike greater fear into the hearts of our enemy.'
Captain Ryan finally looked to the ground and pushed snow with his boot. 'Forgive me, Mother Confessor, but I still don't like it. It puts you at danger for nothing of much gain.'
That's not true. There are two more important reasons I must do this. First, when I left the Order's camp last night I was being chased by about fifty men. The D'Hafans have no doubt that those fifty men will catch me, and kill me.'
The captain stiffened. 'You mean there are fifty men roaming around looking for you?'
'No. They're all dead. To a man. But the men back at camp don't know that. When they see me, all white, like a spirit, they will think I was killed, as I should have been, and that it's my spirit in their midst. It will only frighten them further.'
'All fifty...!' He peered up at her. 'And what's the second reason?'
Kahlan stared at him for a moment. Her voice came softly. 'When those men of the Order see me, whether they think me a spirit or they think me a naked woman on a horse before them, they will stare. While they are staring, they cannot kill our men. But we can kill them. It will divert their attention from the men, to me.'
He gazed silently at her as she went on. 'I would be willing to suffer any embarrassment,' she said, 'if it will save the life of even one of our men. I must do this to help them, and to keep them alive.'
He looked to the ground as he put his hands in his pockets.
'I never knew the Mother Confessor was a person who cared this much for her people,' he whispered. 'I never knew before, that she cared at all what happened to any of us.' He looked up at last. 'Is there anything at all I can say to talk you out of doing this?'
Kahlan smiled. 'There's only one man in the world who could keep me from doing this, and you are not him.' She laughed quietly. 'In fact, if he knew what I was about to do, I'm sure he would forbid it.'
His curiosity overcame his caution. 'One man? Is he your mate?' She shook her head. 'He is the one you will choose as your mate?'
Kahlan sighed pleasantly. 'No. He is the one I'm to wed. At least I hope to wed him. He asked me to marry him.' She smiled at the confused look on his face. 'His name is Richard. He is the Seeker.'
Captain Ryan stiffened and his breath cut off. 'If I'm asking what I shouldn't, just say so, but I thought all Confessors used their power... I thought, your magic would... I didn't think Confessors could... marry.'
'They can't. But Richard is special. He has the gift, and my power cannot harm him.'
Captain Ryan smiled at last. 'I'm glad. I'm happy for you, Mother Confessor.'
Kahlan lifted an eyebrow. 'But if you ever meet him, don't you dare tell him about this... pretending to be a spirit business. He has rather fusty views about such things. If you told him you let me run around naked with a thousand of your men, he would probably take your head off.'
Kahlan laughed at the alarmed look on the captain's face.
'Captain, I need a sword.'
'A sword! Now you're going to fight, too!'
Kahlan leaned toward him. 'Captain, if I'm sitting there naked, and a D'Haran wishes to despoil my honor, how am I to defend myself unless I have a sword?'
'Oh. Well, I see your point.'
He thought a moment. An idea brightened his face and he withdrew his own sword from its scabbard. He held the weapon out in both hands. It was an old sword, with a blade pattern wielded in the old fashion and acid etched in the fuller to display the wavy folds of steel.
This blade was given to me by Prince Harold when I became an officer. He said it was his father's, that it was one that belonged to King Wyborn himself. He said King Wyborn held it once in battle.' He shrugged self-consciously. 'Of course, a king has many swords, and holds many of them in battle at least once, so they will be said to have been wielded by a king in defense of his kingdom. So it's not really valuable, or anything.' He looked up expectantly. 'But I would be honored if you took it as yours. It seems only right that, well, since you're King Wyborn's daughter, I guess, that you should wield his sword in battle. Maybe it has magic, or something, and will help protect your life.'
Kahlan carefully lifted the sword from his hands.
Thank you, Bradley. This means a lot to me. You are wrong; it is valuable. I will carry it with honor. But I will not keep it. When I'm finished, and leave for Aydindril in a couple of days, then I will return it, and you will have a sword wielded not only by a king, but by the Mother Confessor, too.'
He grinned with the idea of that.
'Now, would you please post a guard outside this tent? And then see to the swordsmen?'
He smiled a little smile and brought his fist to his heart. 'Of course, Mother Confessor.'
As Kahlan went inside the warm tent, he was already returning with three men. He had a scowl on his face as serious as any scowl she had ever seen on any officer's face.
'And while the Mother Confessor is in her bath, you will keep your back to the tent, and not let anyone near. Is that clear!'
'Yes, Captain,' the three wide-eyed soldiers said together.
Inside, in the warmth, Kahlan leaned the sword against the tub, slipped off the fur mantle, and then her clothes. She was so tired she felt sick. Her stomach felt as if it were rising and falling in waves. Her head spun so that she had to fight nausea that swelled in bouts.
She dragged her hand through the whitewash. It was hot, like a wonderful bath. But this was no bath. She lifted her legs over the edge one at a time, and eased herself down into the silky-smooth white water. Her breasts felt buoyant in the milky pool. For a few minutes, she draped her arms over the sides of the tub, closed her eyes, and pretended it was a hot bath. She wished so much that it could be a bath. But it wasn't.
It was something she did to keep some men alive, and to kill others. She would wear white as the Mother Confessor always did, but it would not be her dress, as always before.
Kahlan lifted her father's sword and held the hilt between her breasts, with the length of the blade running down her body, against her belly, and between her legs. She crossed her ankles and kept her legs apart so as not to slice her thighs on the weapon. She held her nose closed with her other hand, squeezed her eyes shut tight, took a deep breath, and then submerged herself.
CHAPTER 42
Richard and Sister Verna continued on, through a dark and humid, dank and stifling tunnel of green, ascending the gently sloping road toward the humming, haunting sound of distant flutes. Branches holding not only their own leaves, but vines of every sort spiraling around and over them, and pale moss hanging in wispy curtains, filled the gaps between trunks to the sides, and nearly closed off the light from above.
Short walls to each side, looking to have been built in an attempt to hold back the tangled growth, were instead being snared by it and slowly enfolded into the creeping, leafy mat of life they sought to retain. From joints in the stone block, vines sprouted, surrounding and smothering whole sections of wall, bulging it in other places, pushing the occasional stone out to hang at a drunken angle, unable to fall to the ground because of the net of tendrils. The walls looked as if they were prey, being swallowed by a ponderous predator.
Only one part of the walls was untouched by the forest life - the human skulls. Atop the walls to each side, they were spaced at intervals of no more than three feet, each sitting on its own square of lichen-splotched stone, each clean of growth, looking like so many finials with eye sockets and toothy grins. Richard had lost count of the number of skulls.
His curiosity, his dread, failed to overcome his stubborn silence. He and the Sister had not spoken since their last argument. He had not even slept in camp with her, preferring instead to spend his watch, and the rest of the night, hunting and sleeping with Gratch. Sister Verna's angry silence was, at last, no match for his. He had no intention, this time, of being the one to make amends. They both contented themselves with looking at anything but each other.
Opening into sunlight, the road widened, splitting in the distance around a striated pyramid. Richard frowned, trying to see what made it look the way it did - a dotted, pale tan, with darker bands at evenly spaced intervals up its sides. He judged its height at three times his eye level from where he sat atop Bonnie.
As they approached, he realized the mound was constructed entirely of bones. Human bones. The dotted tan parts were skulls, and the bands were leg and arm bones placed end-out in layers. He guessed there must be tens of thousands of skulls in the orderly heap. He stared as they rode past; Sister Verna didn't seem to take notice.
Beyond the bone pile, the wide road led into a plaza of a dark and hazy city in the middle of the thick forest. The flat hilltop had been cleared of every tree, as had the terraced fields they had passed not an hour before.
The fields looked to be in preparation for planting. The ground was freshly turned, and there were stick people to scare away the birds when the seed was planted. It was winter, yet here, in this place, people planted. Richard thought it a wonder.
Rather than feeling open, this vast city, cleared of every bit of green that surrounded it, seemed even more closed and dark than the tunneled road. Buildings were square, with flat roofs, and faced with dingy plaster the color of bark. Near the roofs, and at each floor level, the ends of support logs stuck from the plastered walls. Windows were small, with never more than one in a wall. The buildings varied in height, but most were attached into irregular blocks. The tallest must have had four floors. None had the slightest variation in style, other than their height.
Haze and woodsmoke obscured the sky and the buildings in the distance. The plaza seemed simply an open place around a well in the center, and was the only open area of any size. It quickly terminated in narrow, dark streets with smooth walls rising up to each side, creating man-made chasms. Overhead, many of the blocky buildings bridged the streets, making them dark tunnels, and where there were none of the bridging buildings overhead, wash hung on lines between opposing windows. Some streets were cobblestone, but most were mud, running with fetid water.
People in drab, loose-fitting clothes filled the narrow streets, walked barefoot through the mud, stood with their arms folded, watching, or sat in groups in doorways. Women carrying clay water jugs on their heads, balanced with the aid of a single hand, moved tight against the walls to make room for the three horses. They made their way to and from the well in indifferent silence as Richard and Sister Verna passed.
A few older men sat in wide doorways, or leaned against walls. The men wore brimless, straight-sided, round, dark, flat-topped hats, with strange markings in light colors that looked to have been painted on with fingers. Many of the men smoked thin-stemmed pipes. Conversation fell silent as Richard and Sister Verna passed, and all watched the two strangers and three horses moving by. Some idly tugged on the long, dangling earrings they wore in their left ears.
Sister Verna led the way through the narrow streets, taking them deeper into the maze of drab buildings. When they at last reached a wider cobblestone street, she halted, turned to him, and spoke in quiet warning.
'These people are the Majendie. Their land is a vast, crescent-shaped swath of forests. We must travel the length of their land, all the way to the point of the horn of their land. They worship spirits. Those skulls we saw back there were sacrifices to their spirits.
'Though they hold foolish beliefs which are reprehensible, we do not have the power to change them. We need to pass through their land. You will do as they ask, or our skulls will end up with all the others on that pile.'
Richard refused to give her the satisfaction of an answer or an argument. He sat with his hands folded over the pommel of his saddle and without emotion watched her until she finally turned away and started out once more.
After passing under a low bridge building, they entered a slightly dished, open square. Perhaps a thousand men milled about or clustered in small groups. Like the other men he had seen, these all wore the one long, dangling earring, though on the right side instead of the left. They also all wore short swords and black sashes. Unlike the other men, none of these wore hats on their shaved heads.
Off in the center, a raised platform held a circle of men sitting cross-legged, facing inward, around a thick pole. Here was the source of the eerie melody. A circle of women in black sat in a ring, facing outward, around the men.
Standing with her back against the pole, a big woman in a billowing black outfit slid the back of her hand up the pole and took hold of a knot in the end of a rope hanging from a bell. As she watched Richard and the Sister ride into the square, she rang the bell once. The Sister brought them to an abrupt halt as the piercing peal drifted across the square, hushing the men, and urging the flute players into faster strains.
That is a warning,' Sister Verna said. 'A warning to the spirits of their enemies. The bell is also a call to the warriors present. Those are these men here in the square. The spirits have been warned, and the warriors called. If she rings that bell again, we die.' Sister Verna glanced to his even expression. This is a sacrifice ritual, to appease spirits.'
She watched men come and take hold of the reins of their horses. The circle of women in black stood and began to dance and twirl to the haunting music. When Sister Verna glanced at him again, Richard, with deliberate care, checked that his sword was loose in its scabbard. She sighed and then dismounted. When she cleared her throat in annoyance, he finally dismounted, too.
Sister Verna drew her light cloak tight around herself as she spoke to him while watching the women in black dance and spin around the pole and the woman in the center.
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