The thing that pained her the most was that though they both served the Midlands, she was loved by her people for doing her duty, but Kahlan was feared and hated for it. She wished Kahlan could know a people's love; it was a comfort that in part made up for the sacrifice. But a Confessor never could. Perhaps, she thought, that was why they were taught to subjugate their emotions and needs.
Kahlan, too, had tried to warn her of the danger from Kelton.
It had been at the midsummer festival, several years ago, the first summer after the death of Cyrilla's mother. The first summer Cyrilla had been Queen. The first summer, too, since Kahlan had ascended to Mother Confessor.
That Kahlan had became the Mother Confessor at such a young age spoke of both the strength of her power, and her character. And maybe to a need. Since the selection was made in secrecy, Cyrilla knew little about the succession of Confessors, except that it was done without animosity or rivalry, and had to do with the strength of power weighed against age and training.
To the people of the Midlands, age was irrelevant. They feared Confessors in general, regardless of age, and the Mother Confessor in particular. They knew she was the most powerful among Confessors. Unlike most people, however, Cyrilla knew that power in and of itself was not necessarily something to fear, and Kahlan had always been fair. She had never sought anything but peace.
That day the streets of Ebinissia, the crown city of Galea, had been filled with festivities of every sort. Not even the lowest stable boy had failed to find welcome at the tables of the fair, or the games, or around the musicians, acrobats and jugglers.
Cyrilla, as Queen, had presided over the contests, and given ribbons to the victors. She had never seen so many smiling faces, so many happy people. She had never felt so contented for her people, or been made to feel so loved by them.
That night there was a royal ball at the Palace. The great hall was filled with nearly four hundred people. It was dazzling to see everyone in their most elegant dress. Food and wine were spread on the long tables in abundant and stunning variety; only fitting for the most important day of the year. It was grand beyond any ball that had come before, for there was much for which to be thankful. It was a time of peace and prosperity, growth and promise, new life and bounty.
The music trailed off in thin, discordant notes, and the loud drone of the gathering fell suddenly dead silent as the the Mother Confessor strode purposefully into the hall, her wizard at her heels, his silver robes flying behind. Her regal looking white dress stood out among the confusion of color like the full moon among the stars. Bright color and fancy dress had never looked so unexpectedly trivial. Everyone bowed low at her passing. Cyrilla waited with her advisers beside the table on which sat a large, cut-glass bowl of spiced wine.
Kahlan crossed the hushed room, followed by every eye, and drew to a halt before the Queen, giving a prompt bow of her head. Her expression was as still as ice. She didn't wait for the formality of the bow to her office to be returned.
"Queen Cyrilla. You have an adviser named Drefan Tross?"
Cyrilla held her open hand out to the side. "This is he."
Kahlan's emotionless gaze moved to Drefan. "I would speak with you in private."
"Drefan Tross is a trusted adviser," Cyrilla interrupted. He was more that that. He was a man she was very fond of, a man she was just beginning to fall in love with. "You may speak to him in my presence." She didn't know what this was about, but thought it best if she were privy to it. Confessors did not interrupt banquets except for trouble. "This is neither the time nor place to conduct business of this sort, Mother Confessor, but if it cannot wait, then let it be done and finished with here and now."
She thought that would put it in abeyance until a more appropriate time. Without expression, the Mother Confessor considered this a moment. The wizard at her back was anything but expressionless. He appeared quite agitated, in fact. He bent toward Kahlan to speak, but she raised her hand to silence him before he could begin.
"As you wish. I am sorry, Queen Cyrilla, but it cannot wait." She returned her attention to Drefan. "I have just taken the confession of a murderer. In his confession, he also revealed himself to be an accomplice to an assassin. He named you as that assassin, and your target as Queen Cyrilla."
There were astonished whispers from those near enough to overhear. Drefan's face went red. The whispers died into brittle silence.
Cyrilla could scarcely follow what happened next. A blink of the eye and it would have been missed. One instant Drefan stood as he had, with his hand in his gold and deep blue coat, and the next he was driving a knife toward the Mother Confessor. Standing tall, only her arm moved, catching his wrist. Seemingly at the same time, there was a violent impact to the air—thunder but no sound. The cut glass bowl shattered, flooding red wine over the table and floor. Cyrilla flinched with the sudden flash of pain coursing through every joint in her body. The knife clattered to the floor. Drefan's eyes went wide, his jaw slack.
"Mistress," he whispered reverently.
Cyrilla was numb with shock to see a Confessor use her power. She knew only of its aftereffects, and had never seen it being used. Few had. The magic seemed still to sizzle in the air a long moment.
The crowd pressed closer. A warning glare from the wizard changed their curiosity to timidity and they moved back.
Kahlan looked drained but her voice betrayed no weakness. "You intended to assassinate the Queen?"
"Yes Mistress," he said, eagerly licking his lips.
"When?"
"Tonight. In the confusion when the guests were departing." Drefan looked to be in torment. Tears welled up and ran down his cheeks. "Please, Mistress, command me. Tell me what you wish. Let me carry out your command."
Cyrilla was still in shock. This was what had been done to her father. This was how he had been taken as a mate to a Confessor. First her father, and now a man she held dear.
"Wait in silence," Kahlan ordered. Hands hanging at her sides, she turned to Cyrilla, her young eyes now heavy with sorrow. "Forgive me for disturbing your celebration, Queen Cyrilla, but I feared the results of delay."
Her face burning, Cyrilla twisted to Drefan. He stood gaping at Kahlan. "Who ordered this Drefan! Who ordered you kill me!"
He didn't even seem to be aware she had spoken.
"He will not answer you, Queen Cyrilla," Kahlan said. "He will only answer me."
"Then you ask!"
"That would not be advisable," the wizard offered quietly.
Cyrilla felt a fool. Everyone knew of her fondness for Drefan. Everyone saw now that she had been duped. No one would ever forget this midsummer festival.
"Do not presume to advise me!"
Kahlan leaned closer and spoke in a soft, private tone. "Cyrilla, we think he may be protected by a spell. When I asked his accomplice that question, he died before he could answer. But I believe I know the answer. There are oblique ways of getting the information that might possibly circumvent the spell. If I could take him somewhere alone and question him in my own way, we might be able to get the answer."
Cyrilla was near tears with fury. "I trusted him! He was close to me! He has betrayed me! Me, not you! I will know who sent him! I will hear it from his own lips! You stand in my kingdom, in my home! Ask him!"
Kahlan straightened, her face returning to the calm mask that showed nothing. "As you wish." She redirected her attention to Drefan. "Was what you intended to do to the Queen of your own volition?"
He dry washed his hands in anxious anticipation of pleasing the Mother Confessor. "No, Mistress. I was sent."
If it was possible, Kahlan's face seemed to become even more placid. "Who sent you?"
One hand rose, and his mouth opened, as if in an attempt to do her bidding. All that came from his throat was a gurgle of blood before he collapsed.
The wizard gave a knowing grunt. "As I thought: the same as the other."
Kahlan picked up the knife and offered it handle first to Cyri
lla. "We believe there to be a conspiracy of great magnitude brewing. Whether or not this man was part of it I don't know, but he was sent by Kelton."
"Kelton! I refuse to believe that."