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 is 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'Harans 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 are 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 is 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 suffer any embarrassment on my part," 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 is only one man in the world who could keep me from doing this, and you are not he." 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 am 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 are 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 am 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 held the hilt of her father's sword 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.
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 drunken angles, 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 the walls were 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.