wedding cakes done up in an intense green,
sprinkled over with tiny, chocolate brown, scale-like cedar needles.
     Richard  tiptoed on rocks  sticking up above the water  as he crossed a
small  stream. As  the little brook  tumbled down the  slope,  it went under
rocks and boulders in places, making an  echoing drumming  sound, announcing
him to the stalwart oaks along his march into imprisonment. In the flat gray
light, he failed to see a reddish loop of cedar root. It caught his foot and
sent  him  sprawling  facedown  in the trail,  a  final  humiliation on  his
judgment and sentence of banishment.
     As Richard lay in the cold,  damp, discarded leaves, dead branches, and
other  refuse of  the forest,  he considered not getting up ever  again.  He
could just lie there and let it all end, let the indifferent wind freeze his
limbs stiff, let the  sneaky  spiders and snakes and wolves come to bite him
and bleed him to death, and then finally  the uncaring trees would cover him
over, never to be missed except by a few, his vanishing a  good riddance  to
most.

     A messenger with a message no one wanted to heed.
     A leader come too soon.
     Why not just let it end, let silent death take them both to their peace
and be done with it?
     The scornful trees all watched to see what this unworthy man might  do,
to see if he had the courage to get to his feet and  face what was ahead. He
didn't know himself if he did.
     Death was  easier,  and  in that  bottomless moment,  less  painful  to
consider.
     Even  Kahlan, as much as  he loved her,  wanted  something from him  he
could not give her: a lie. She wanted him to tell her that something he knew
to be so, was not. He would do anything for her, but he couldn't change what
was. At least she had enough faith  in him to let him lead her away from the
shadows  of tyranny darkening the world. Even if she didn't believe him, she
was probably the only one willing, of her own free will, to follow him.
     In  truth, he lay on the ground for  only seconds, regaining his senses
from  the fall  and catching his breath  as the thoughts flooded through his
mind-brief seconds in  which he allowed himself to  be weak, in exchange for
how hard he knew everything to come would be.
     Weakness, to balance the  strength he would need. Doubt, to balance his
certainty  of purpose. Fear, to  balance  the courage he would have  to call
upon.
     Even  as  he  wondered  if  he could  get up,  he  knew  he  would. His
convulsion of  self-pity ended abruptly. He would do anything for her.  Even
this. A thousand times over, even this.
     With renewed resolve, Richard forced his mind away from the dominion of
dark  thoughts. It wasn't so hopeless;  he  knew better. After all,  he  had
faced  trials  much more difficult than this  one Sister of the Dark. He had
once gotten Kahlan out of the clutches of five Sisters of the Dark. This was
but one. He  would defeat her, too. Anger welled  up at the thought of Nicci
thinking she could make them dance at the end of her selfish strings.
     Despair extinguished, rage flooded in.
     And then he was running again, dodging trees as he cut corners off  the
trail. He  hurdled fallen trees  and leaped over gaps  in  the rock shelves,
rather  than taking the safe route down  and up. Each shortcut or leap saved
him a few precious seconds.
     A broken tree limb snagged his pack, yanking it from  his shoulder.  He
tried to hang on to  it as he flew past, but it slipped from his  grasp  and
spilled across the ground.
     Richard exploded in fury, as if the tree had done it on purpose just to
taunt him in  his rush. He  kicked the offending branch, snapping  it out of
its dry socket. He fell to his knees  and scooped  his things back into  the
pack, clawing up moss along with gold and silver coins, and a  pine seedling
along with the soap Kahlan had given him. He didn't have time to care as  he
shoved it all back in. This time, he put the pack onto his back, rather than
letting it  hang from one shoulder. He had been trying to save  time before,
and it had cost him instead.
     The path,  which in places was no more than sections of animal  trails,
began to rise sharply, occasionally requiring that he use both hands to hold
on to rocks or roots as he climbed. He'd been up it enough times to know the
sound handholds.  As cold as the day was, Richard had to wipe sweat from his
eyes. He skinned his knuckles on rough granite as he jammed his fingers into
cracks for handholds.
     1n  his  mind's eye, Nicci  was  riding  too swiftly, covering too much
ground, get-

     ting too far ahead. He knew it had been foolhardy to take so much  time
before leaving, thinking he could make  up for it on the trail. He wished he
could have taken more time, though, to hold Kahlan.
     His insides were in agony at the thought of how heartbroken Kahlan was.
He felt, somehow, that it was  worse for her.  Even if she was free,  and he
was  not, that  made it worse for her  because, in  her freedom, she  had to
restrain herself when she wanted nothing  more  than to come  after  him. In
bondage to a master, Richard had it easy; he had only to follow orders.
     He burst out  of the trees onto the wider trail at the top of the pass.
Nicci was nowhere to be seen. He held his  breath as he looked to the  east,
fearing to  spot her going down the back side  of  the pass. Beyond the high
place  where  he stood,  he could  see forests  spread out  before  him with
mountains to each side lifting the carpet of trees. In the distance, greater
mountains yet soared  to  dizzying  heights, their peaks  and  much of their
slopes stark white against the gloom of heavy gray sky.
     Richard didn't  see  any horse and rider, but since  the  trail twisted
down into the trees not tar  beyond where he stood, that didn't really prove
anything. The top of the pass was a bald bit of open ledge, with most of the
rest of the horse trail winding through deep woods. He quickly inspected the
ground, casting about for tracks, hoping she  wouldn't be too far  ahead  of
him and he could catch her before she did something  terrible.  His sense of
doom eased when he found no tracks.
     He peered out at  the valley far below, across the  straw-brown meadow,
to  their house. It  was too far  away to see anyone.  He hoped Kahlan would
stay there for a few days, as he had asked. He didn't want her going to  the
army, going to fight a losing war, endangering her life for nothing.
     Richard understood  Kahlan's desire to be with her people and to defend
her homeland. She believed she  could make a difference. She could not.  Not
yet. Maybe  not  ever.  Richard's vision  was really nothing more  than  the
acceptance of  that reality. Shaking your sword  at the sky didn't keep  the
sun from setting.
     Richard cast an appraising squint at the clouds. For the last two days,
he had  thought that the signs pointed to the first snow of the season  soon
rolling down onto their valley home. By the look of the sky and the scent in
the wind, he judged he was right.
     He  knew he wasn't going to be able to escape Nicci  so easily as to be
able to get back to Kahlan within a few days. He had invented that story for
another  reason. Once the  weather shitted and the snow  arrived up in these
mountain highlands,  it tended to come in an onslaught. If  the storm was as
big as he estimated  by the signs it could be, Kahlan and  Cara would end up
being stuck in their house until spring. With all the food they'd put up, as
well  as  the supplies he'd brought in, they had plenty to last the  two  of
them. The firewood he'd cut would keep them warm.
     There,  she  would be  safe. With  the army,  she  would be in constant
danger.
     The dappled mare walked out of the trees, coming around  a bend not far
away. Nicci's blue eyes were on Richard from the first instant she appeared.
     At the time the Sisters of the Light had taken him to the Palace of the
Prophets in the Old World, Richard had mistakenly believed Kahlan wanted him
taken away. He didn't  know or understand she had  sent him away to save his
life. Richard thought she didn't ever want to see him again.
     While  in  captivity  at  the palace,  Richard  thought  Nicci was  the
personification of lust.  He was hardly able to find  his  voice when around
her. He had hardly been

     able  to believe a creature of such physical perfection existed,  other
than in daydreams.
     Now,  as he  watched her swaying gently in her saddle as she walked her
horse  up the trail, her intense blue eyes locked on his, it  seemed to  him
she  wore her beauty with a kind of grim  acceptance. She had  so completely
lost her stunning presence that he couldn't even envision any reason for his
onetime sentiment about her.
     Richard had since learned  the  true depths  of what  a real woman was,
what real love was,  and  what  real  fulfillment was. In  that light, Nicci
paled into insignificance.
     As he watched her coming closer, he was surprised to realize she looked
sad. She seemed almost  to be sorry to find him there, but  more than  that,
there seemed to be a shadow of relief passing across her countenance.
     "Richard, you lived up to  my  faith." Her voice suggested  that it had
been tenuous as best. "You're in a sweat; would you like to rest?"
     Her feigned kindness  drove hot  blood all the way up to his  scalp. He
pulled  his  glare  from her gentle smile  and  turned to the trail, walking
ahead of her horse. He thought it best if he not say anything until he could
get a grip on his rage.
     Not far down the trail they came to a black stallion with a white blaze
on its  face.  The  big horse was picketed in a  small grassy  patch of open
ground among towering pines.
     "Your horse,  as I promised," she said. "I hope you  find him  to  your
liking. I judged him to be big and strong enough to carry you comfortably."
     Richard checked and found the smooth snaffle  bit  to his approval; she
wasn't abusing the animals with cruel bits used to dominate, as he knew some
of the Sisters did. The rest  of the tack  appeared sound. The horse  looked
healthy.
     Richard  took a few moments to  introduce himself to the  stallion.  He
reminded himself that the horse was not the  cause  of his problems,  and he
shouldn't let his  attitude toward Nicci affect how he treated this handsome
animal. He didn't ask the horse's name. He let it sniff his hand beneath its
curled muzzle, then  stroked the stallion's sleek black neck.  He patted its
shoulder, conveying a gentle introduction  without words. The powerful black
stallion stamped his front  hooves. He was not yet all  that pleased to meet
Richard.
     For  the time being, there was no  choice of routes; there was only the
one trail  and it ran from  the direction of the house where Kahlan was back
to the  east.  Richard took  the lead so that he  wouldn't  have to look  at
Nicci.
     He didn't want to  jump right on the stallion at first sight and make a
bad impression that would take a lot of work to overcome. Better to let  the
horse  get to know him, first, if  just for a mile  or so. He held the reins
slack  under the stallion's jaw  and walked in front of him, letting him get
comfortable  with following this strange  new man. Putting his  mind  to the
task  of working  with  the  horse helped  divert  him  from  thoughts  that
threatened to  drag him under a sea of  sorrow. After a time,  the  stallion
seemed at ease with his new master and Richard mounted without any ado.
     The  narrow  trail precluded Nicci walking  her  horse  beside his. Her
dappled  mare  snorted  its displeasure  at  having to follow  the stallion.
Richard was pleased to know that he had already upset the order of things.
     Nicci offered no  conversation, sensing, he supposed, his mood.  He was
going with her, but there was no  way she could hope to make him happy about
it.
     When it started getting dark, Richard  simply dismounted beside a small
brook where the horses  could have  a drink, and  tossed his things  on  the
ground. Nicci

     wordlessly accepted his  choice of campsite, and unstrapped her bedroll
from her  saddle  after  she'd taken it  down off her horse. She  sat on her
bedroll,  looking  a little downcast, more than  anything else, and ate some
sausage along  with  a  hard biscuit washed down with water. After her first
bite,  she  lifted  the  sausage to him, meeting  his gaze in  a questioning
manner. He didn't acknowledge the offer. Nicci assumed he declined, and went
back to eating.
     When she was finished and had washed in  the brook, she went behind the
thick  undergrowth for a  time. When  she  came back, she  crawled into  her
bedroll without a word, turned away from him, and went to sleep.
     Richard sat on the mossy ground, arms  folded, leaning the small of his
back against his saddle. He didn't sleep the  entire night.  He sat watching
Nicci sleep in the light  of the overcast sky lit from  the other  side by a
nearly full moon,  watching her slow  even  breathing,  her slightly  parted
lips, the slow pulse in the  vein at the  side of  her throat,  thinking the
whole time how he might overcome what she had done to them. He thought about
strangling her, but he knew better.
     He  had  used magic before. He  had  in  the  past  not  only  felt but
unleashed incredible  power  through his gift. He  had  faced situations  of
enormous danger  involving a wide  variety of magic. Richard had called upon
his gift to conjure such power as  no one living had ever  seen, and he  had
watched as it was brought to life at his conscious direction.
     His gift was invoked  mostly through anger and need. He had an abundant
supply  of  both.  He  just didn't  know how  it could help him.  He  didn't
understand well  enough what Nicci had done to  begin  to  think of what  he
might do  to  counter it.  With  Kahlan's life at the  other end of  Nicci's
invisible  cord  of magic, he dared not do anything until he was sure of it.
He would be, though; he just had  to figure it out. Experience told him that
it was a reasonable  supposition. He  told himself it  was only a matter  of
time. If he wanted to keep his sanity, he knew he had to believe that.
     The next  morning,  without speaking a  word to Nicci, he  saddled  the
horses. She  sat watching him  tighten the cinch straps,  making  sure  they
weren't pinching the horses, as she  sipped from a waterskin. She took bread
from her saddlebag  lying  beside her and asked  if  he would like  a piece.
Richard ignored her.
     He would have been  tired  from not sleeping the  whole cold night, but
his anger kept him wide awake. Under a  leaden sky, they rode at an easy but
steady  pace all that day through forests that seemed endless. It felt  good
to have  a warm  horse under him. Throughout the  day,  they continued their
gradual  descent from the higher country, where the house was, down into the
lowlands.
     Toward dark, the snow arrived.
     At first, it was just a few furtive flakes swirling through the air. As
it  steadily increased, it  seemed to leach  the color from trees and ground
alike, until the  world turned white. Visibility  steadily diminished as the
snow  thickened into a disorienting, drifting,  solid  wall.  He had to keep
blinking the fat flakes from his eyes.
     For the first time  since leaving  with Nicci, Richard felt a  sense of
relief.
     Kahlan and Cara, up higher  in the mountains, would wake in the morning
to several feet of  snow.  They would decide  that it was foolish to  try to
leave when, they would  believe, it  was only an early snow  that would melt
down  enough in a few days for  them to have an easier time of traveling. Up
in those mountains, that would be  a mistake. It would stay  cold.  A  storm
would follow on the heels of this

     one,  and they  would soon have snow  up to the shutters. They would be
nervous  about  waiting,  but would  probably decide  that  it was  now more
important for them to delay until a  break  in  the weather-after all, there
was no urgency.
     In  all likelihood, they would end up safely stuck in the house for the
winter. When he  eventually escaped from Nicci's talons, Richard would  find
Kahlan snug in their home.
     He decided that it would be foolish to  let his anger dictate that they
sleep  on  the open ground. They  could freeze to death. He recalled all too
well that if Nicci died, Kahlan died. When he spotted a big wayward pine, he
walked his horse off the trail. Brushing against branches dumped wet snow on
him. Richard flicked it off his shoulders and shook it from his hair.
     Nicci glanced  around, confused, but  didn't object.  She dismounted as
she waited to see what he was doing. When he held  a heavy bough to the side
for  her, she frowned at him before poking her head inside for  a  look. She
straightened with an expression of childlike  delight. Richard didn't return
her wide grin.
     Inside,  under the  thick boughs  caked with snow, was a  still, frigid
world.  With the snow crusting the  tree,  it  was dark  inside. In the  dim
light, Richard dug a small fire pit and  soon  caught fire  to the  deadwood
he'd carefully stacked over shavings.
     When the crackling flames built into a warm glow, Nicci gazed around in
wonder at the inside of the wayward pine. The spoke-like branches over their
heads were cast in a soft orange  blush by the  flickering light.  The lower
trunk was bare of limbs, leaving the  inside of  the tree a hollow cone with
ample open space at the bottom for them.
     Nicci quietly warmed her hands by the fire, looking contented-not  like
she was gloating that he'd given in and found shelter and built  a fire, but
contented. She looked as if she had been through a great ordeal, and now she
could be at peace.  She looked  like a woman expecting nothing, but grateful
for what she had.
     Richard hadn't had breakfast with her, or  anything the day before. His
bitter  resolve gave way  to his hunger, so he boiled water from melted snow
and  cooked rice and beans. Starving wouldn't  do him  or  Kahlan  any good.
Without  words, he offered Nicci half the  rice  and beans poured  into  the
crust of one end of his loaf of bread. She took the bread  bowl  and thanked
him.
     She offered  him a sun-dried slice of meat. Richard stared at her thin,
delicate fingers holding out the piece  of meat. It  reminded him of someone
feeding  a chipmunk. He snatched the meat from her hand and tore off a chunk
with his teeth. To  avoid her gaze, he watched the fire  as he ate his  rice
and beans out of the heel of bread. Other than  the crackle of the fire, the
only sound was the thump  of snow falling  in  clumps from  limbs not  stout
enough to hold the load. Snowfalls often turned a forest to a place of eerie
stillness.
     Sitting  by  the low fire  after  he'd  finished  his meal, feeling the
warmth of the flames on his face,  the  exhaustion from the long ride on top
of his vigil the night  before finally caught up  with him.  Richard stacked
thicker  wood  on  the  dwindling fire and banked  the  coals around it.  He
unrolled his  bedroll on the  opposite side  of  the fire from Nicci as  she
silently watched him, climbed in,  and,  as he thought about  Kahlan safe in
their house, fell soundly asleep.
     The next  day they  were up  early. Nicci  said nothing, but, once they
were mounted, decisively cut her dappled mare in front of the black stallion
and took the lead. The snow had changed to a cold drizzling mist. What  snow
was left on the

     ground had melted down to gray slush. The lowlands were not quite ready
to relinquish  themselves to winter's grip. Up higher, where Kahlan  was, it
was colder and would be snowing in earnest.
     As they rode carefully along a  narrow road  at the side of a mountain,
Richard tried to watch the woods to keep  his  mind on other things,  but he
couldn't help occasionally looking at Nicci riding right in front of him. It
was cold and damp; she wore a heavy black  cloak over  her black dress. With
her back straight, her head held high, and her  blond  hair  fanned out over
her cloak, she looked regal. He  wore  his  dark  forest  clothes and hadn't
shaved.
     Nicci's  dappled mare was dark  gray, almost black, with  lighter  gray
rings over its body. Its mane was dark gray,  as  were the lightly feathered
legs, and the tail was a milky white. It was one of the most handsome horses
Richard had ever seen. He hated it. It was hers.
     By afternoon, they  intersected a  trail running to the  south.  Nicci,
leading the way,  continued to  the east. Before the  day was out they would
encounter a few more paths, used  mainly by an occasional hunter or trapper.
The  mountains were inhospitable. Even  if you cleared  the ground of trees,
the soil was thin and rocky. In  a few places closer  to  Hartland or  other
population centers to the north or south, there were grassy slopes that were
able to support thin flocks of sheep or goats.
     As he felt the stallion's  muscles moving beneath him,  Richard  looked
out at land he knew and loved. He didn't know how long it would  be until he
was  home again-if  ever.  He hadn't asked where  they were  going, figuring
Nicci  wouldn't likely tell him this soon. That they were headed east didn't
mean much just yet because their choice of routes was limited.
     In the passive rhythm of the ride, Richard's mind kept returning to his
sword, and how he had given it to Kahlan. At the time it had seemed the only
thing  to do. He  hated that he had given it to  her the way he  had, yet he
could think of no other way to afford  her  any  protection.  He prayed  she
would never have  to  use the sword. If she did, he'd given  it a measure of
his rage, too.
     At his belt he wore a  fine knife, but he felt naked without his sword.
He hated the ancient weapon,  the way it pulled dark things from within him,
and at the  same time he  missed  it.  He  often reminded himself of  Zedd's
words, that it was merely a tool.
     It  was more, too.  The sword was a mirror,  albeit one  bound in magic
capable of raining terrible destruction. The Sword of Truth would annihilate
anything  before it-flesh or steel-as long  as  what stood before it was the
enemy, yet it could not harm a friend. Therein lay the paradox of its magic:
evil was defined  solely by the perceptions of the person holding the sword,
by what he believed to be true.
     Richard was the true Seeker and heir to the  power of the sword created
by  the  wizards  in the  great war. It  should  be with  him. He should  be
protecting the sword.
     A lot of things "should be," he told himself.
     Late in the afternoon they left the eastern path they were  on and took
one tending east and south. Richard  knew the trail; it would pass through a
village in  another day,  and then become  a  narrow road. Since  Nicci  had
deliberately taken the new route, she must have known that, too.
     Near dark they  skirted  the north shore  of a good-sized lake. A small
raft  of seagulls  floated out  near  the  middle  of  the rain-swept water.
Seagulls weren't  common in  these  parts, but  they  were  not unheard  of,
either. He recalled all the seabirds he had seen when he had been in the Old
World. The sea had fascinated him.

     In a cove on the far shore Richard could just make out two men fishing.
On that side of the  lake there was  a trail worn  to a deep rut  over  many
generations by people coming up to fish from a hamlet to the south.
     The two  men, sitting on a broad flat rock  jutting  out into the lake,
waved in greeting. It  wasn't often one encountered riders out here. Richard
and Nicci were too far  away for the men to make them out.  The men probably
assumed they were trappers.
     Nicci returned  the wave in  a casual manner, as if  to say, "Good luck
with the fishing. Wish we could join you."
     They rounded a bend and finally disappeared from the men. Richard wiped
his wet hair off his forehead as they rode along beside the lake,  listening
to the small waves lapping at the muddy shore. Leaving the lake behind, they
cut  into the  forest as  the trail rose on its way  across a gentle  slope.
Nicci had put her hood up against the intermittent rain and drizzle  purring
through the trees. A darkening gloom descended on the woods.
     Richard didn't want to do anything  that  would get  Kahlan killed; the
time had finally come when he had to speak.
     "When we come  upon someone, what am I to say? I don't suppose you want
me  telling people you're a Sister of the  Dark out snatching victims. Or do
you wish me to play the part of a mute?"
     Nicci gave him a sidelong glance.
     "You will  be my husband,  as  far  as everyone is concerned," she said
without  hesitation.  "I  expect  you to  adhere  to  that  story  under all
circumstances.  For all practical purposes, from now on, you are my husband.
I am your wife."
     Richard's fists tightened  on the reins.  "I have  a wife. You  are not
she. I'm not going to pretend you are."
     Swaying  gently in her saddle, Nicci seemed indifferent to his words or
the emotion behind them. She gazed skyward, taking in the darkening sky.
     It  was  too  warm down  in the lowlands  for snow. Through  occasional
breaks in the  low clouds,  though, Richard had caught glimpses of windswept
mountain  slopes  behind them cloaked in thick white drifts. Kahlan was sure
to be dry, warm, and stuck.
     "Do you think you could find us another of those shelter trees?"  Nicci
asked. "Where it would be dry, like last night? I'd  dearly love to get  dry
and warm."
     Between  sporadic gaps  in the pine trees,  and through the scramble of
bare branches of the alder and ash, Richard surveyed the hillside descending
before them.
     "Yes."
     "Good. We need to have a talk."


        Chapter 25

     As  Richard  dismounted  near one of his shelter trees at the edge of a
small, slanted,  open  patch  of grassy ground,  Nicci took the reins of his
horse. She could feel  his smoldering glare on her  back as she picketed the
horses to the thick branches of an alder heavy with catkins. The horses were
hungry, and promptly started cropping the wet grass. Without a word, Richard
began casting about, collecting deadwood from under dense thickets of spruce
trees, where, she supposed, it might be a little dryer.
     She watched him, not openly, but casually, covertly, from the corner of
her eye as he went about his chore. He  was everything she  remembered,  and
more. It  was  not so  much that he was  just  big, physically, but he had a
commanding  presence that had matured  since she  had last seen him. Before,
she had been tempted  at times to think of him as little more than a boy. No
more.
     Now, he was  a  powerful wild  stallion  trapped in  a  pen of  his own
construction. She kept her distance, letting  him kick at the  walls of that
pen. It would bring her  no gain to  taunt  this wild beast.  Taunting  him,
torturing him in his anguish, was the last thing in the world she wanted.
     Nicci could understand his smoldering anger. It was to be expected. She
could plainly see his feelings for the  Mother Confessor, and  hers for him.
The integrity of the walls of his  pen consisted of  nothing more  than  the
gossamer  fence  rails of his feelings for her. While Nicci sympathized with
his  pain, she knew that she, of all  people,  could do nothing to alleviate
it. It would take time for  his  hurt  to heal. Over time, the rails of  his
fence would be replaced by others.
     Someday, he would come to terms  with what had to be. Someday, he would
come to  understand  the  truth  of the  things she  intended  to  show him.
Someday, he would come to understand the necessity of what she was doing. It
was for the best.
     At the edge  of  the clearing, Nicci settled herself on a gray  slab of
granite that, by the unique angles of its broken face, had once belonged  to
the ledge  poking out from under the deep  green of balsam and spruce behind
her,  but over time had been moved away  from it by the inexorable effort of
nature, leaving  a gap  the  shape  of a jagged lightning bolt between their
once-mated edges.
     Nicci sat with her back straight, a habit instilled in her from a young
age by her mother, and watched Richard going about unsaddling the horses. He
let them both eat some oats from  canvas  nosebags while he  collected rocks
from the clearing. At first, she couldn't imagine what he was doing. When he
took them,  along with the wood he had collected, in under the boughs of the
shelter tree,  she realized he must be going to use the rocks to ring a fire
pit. He was inside a long time, so she knew he must be working on building a
fire out of the wet wood. She could have used her gift to help, had her gift
enough power left to light wet wood. It didn't.

     Richard seemed up to the task, though; she had watched him light a fire
the night before, starting it in birch bark, shavings, and twigs. Nicci  had
never been one for such outdoor activities. She left him to it and set about
the small chore of repairing  her horse's cinch  strap. The rain had  let up
for the time being,  leaving behind the tingle  of a fine mist  against  her
cheeks.
     As she worked at knotting the loose cords of the heavy twine strap back
onto its  buckle, she heard  little crackling sounds  coming from  under the
tree. The sputtering and popping told her that Richard  had gotten the  fire
going.  She heard the  clang of a pot on rock, so she  reasoned  that we was
leaving water to boil when the fire got hot enough.
     Sitting  on the slab of  granite, Nicci quietly worked a tangle out  of
the cinch strap  as  he came back out to  care for the  horses. Free  of the
nosebags,  the  horses drank  from  a pool  of water in a  depression in the
smooth tan  ledge.  Though  Richard  wore  dark clothes appropriate  for the
woods,  they could not  diminish  his bearing. His gray-eyed gaze swept over
her, taking in what she was doing. He left her to  her knot work as he  went
about his chore of  currying the horses. His big hands worked smoothly, with
a  sure  touch. She was certain the horses would appreciate  having  all the
caked mud cleaned from their legs. She would, were she they.
     "You said we needed to talk," Richard finally said to her as he stroked
the curry comb over the mare's rump, whisking away a last spatter of mud. "I
presume a talk consists of you  dictating the  terms of my  imprisonment.  I
imagine you have rules for your captives."
     By his icy inflection, it sounded as if he had decided to provoke her a
little, to test her  reaction. Nicci set the  cinch strap aside. She met his
challenging tone with one of genuine sympathy, instead.
     "Just  because something  has happened to  you  before,  Richard, don't
assume  that means it will again. Fate does not give birth to the same child
over and over. Each is different. This is not like the two times before."
     Her response, as well  as  the compassion in her eyes, appeared to have
caught him off  guard. He stared at her a moment before crouching to replace
the curry comb in a pocket in the saddlebag and take out a pick.
     "Two times  before?" There was no  way he  could  miss her meaning. His
blank expression didn't betray what  he  might be thinking as he lifted  the
stallion's right forefoot to pick its hoof  clean. "I don't know what you're
talking about."
     Just  as he probed  the hoof with his pick, she knew he was probing her
as well, wanting to know just how much she knew of those two times, and what
she thought was different, this time. He would  surely want to  know how she
intended to avoid the mistakes of his past captors. Any warrior would.
     He was not yet ready to accept how fundamentally different this was.
     Richard worked his way around the big black horse, cleaning its hooves,
until  he ended at the left forefoot,  close to her. As he finished and  let
the stallion's leg down, Nicci stood. When  he  turned around, she was close
enough to  feel his warm breath on her cheek. He fixed her with his glare, a
look that was no longer as unsettling to her as it had been at first.
     She  found  herself,  instead  of  shrinking  back, staring  into  that
penetrating gaze of his, marveling that she had him. She finally had him. It
could have been no more wondrous to her  had  she  somehow managed to bottle
the moon and stars.
     "You  are  a prisoner,"  Nicci said.  "Your  anger  and  resentment are
entirely understandable. 1 would never have expected you to be pleased about
this, Richard. But

     it  is  not the same  as  those  times before." She gently  gripped his
throat.  He  was  surprised,  but  sensed  he was  in  no  immediate danger.
"Before," she said in quiet solace, "you had a collar around your neck. Both
times."
     "You  were at the  Palace of the Prophets, where I was taken." She felt
him swallow. "But the other . . ."
     She released his throat. "I do not use a collar,  as did the Sisters of
the Light, to control you, to give you pain in order to make you obey, or to
put you through their ridiculous tests. My purpose is nothing like that."
     She  pulled  her  cloak  forward  over  her  shoulders  as  she  smiled
distantly.  "Remember when you  first  came to the  Palace of  the Prophets?
Remember the speech you gave?"
     Richard's words were brittle with caution. "Not . . . exactly."
     She was still  staring off into the  memories. "I  do. It was the first
time I saw you. I remember every word."
     Richard said  nothing, but in his eyes she could see the shadows of his
mind working.
     "You were  in  a rage-not unlike now.  You held out a  red  leather rod
hanging around your neck. Remember, Richard?"
     "I guess I did."  His suspicious glare broke. "A lot has happened since
then. I guess I'd put it out of my mind."
     "You said  that you had been collared before. You  said that the person
who had once put that collar around your neck had brought you pain to punish
you, to teach you."
     His posture shifted to stiff wariness. "What of it?"
     She focused  once more  on  his  gray eyes, eyes that watched her every
blink, her every breath, as he weighed her every word. It was all going into
some inner calculation, she knew-some inner master  analysis of how high was
his fence, and if he could jump it. He could not.
     "I  always wondered about that," she said.  "About  what  you  had said
about  having been in a collar before. Some months back, we captured a woman
in red leather. A Mord-Sith."  His color paled just a little. "She  said she
was searching for Lord Rahl,  to protect  him.  I persuaded her  to tell  me
everything she knew about you."
     "I'm  not from D'Hara." His voice sounded confident, nevertheless,  she
sensed  a subterranean torrent of  dread.  "A  Mord-Sith would know next  to
nothing about me."
     Nicci reached inside her cloak for the thing  she had brought with her.
She let  the  small red leather rod  roll  from  her fingers to  fall to the
ground at his feet. He stiffened.
     "Oh,  but she did, Richard. She knew a great deal." She smiled  a small
smile, not  pleasure, nor mockery, but  in  distant sadness at the memory of
that brave woman.  "She knew Derma. She had been at the People's  Palace  in
D'Hara, where you  were taken after Derma captured you. She knew  all  about
it."
     Richard's  gaze fell away. On bended knee he reverently picked  the red
leather rod off the wet ground.  He wiped the thing clean on his pant leg as
if it were priceless.
     "A Mord-Sith would not tell  you anything." He stood and boldly met her
gaze. "A Mord-Sith is a product  of torture. She  would say  only  enough to
make you believe she  was cooperating.  She would feed you  a clever  lie to
deceive you. She would die before speaking any words to harm her Lord Rahl."

     With  one long finger, Nicci  pulled a  sodden strand of blond hair off
her cheek. "You underestimate me, Richard. That woman was very brave. I felt
great sorrow for her, but  there were  things I wanted to  know. She told it
all. She told me everything I wanted to know."
     Nicci could see the rage rising in him, bringing a flush to his cheeks.
That was  not what  she  had intended, or wanted.  She  was telling him  the
truth,  but he rejected it,  trying to overlay it instead with his own false
assumptions.
     A moment passed, and  that truth finally found its way  into  his eyes.
The rage  departed reluctantly, replaced by the weight of sadness that  made
him swallow at his grief  for this woman.  Nicci had expected  no less  from
him.
     "Apparently," Nicci whispered, "Derma was very talented at torture-"
     "I neither need nor want your sympathy."
     "But I did feel sympathy, Richard, for what that woman put  you through
for  no  purpose but  to  give pain. That's the worst  kind  of pain,  isn't
it?-pain to no benefit, no confession? The pointlessness  of it only adds to
its torture. That was what you suffered."
     Nicci gestured to the  red leather weapon  in his fist. "This woman did
not suffer that kind of pain. I want you to know that."
     He pressed his lips tight in mistrust as  he looked away from her eyes,
gazing out at the gathering darkness.
     "You  killed  her, this Mord-Sith named Denna,  but not  before she did
unspeakable things to you."
     "So  I did."  Richard's expression  hardened with the implied menace of
his words.
     "You threatened the  Sisters of  the Light  because they, too, collared
you. You  told  them they were not good  enough  to  lick the  boots of that
woman, Denna, and so  they  were not. You told the Sisters that they thought
they held the  leash to your collar, but you promised them  that they  would
find that what they held was a bolt of lightning. Don't think for one moment
that I don't understand your feelings in this, or your resolve."
     Nicci reached out and tapped the center of his chest.
     "But this time,  Richard,  the collar  is  around your heart  and it is
Kahlan who will be forfeit, should you make a mistake."
     His  fists, at  the ends  of  his rigid arms, tightened. "Kahlan  would
rather die than have me be a slave at her expense. She  begged me to forfeit
her life for my freedom. A day may  dawn when it becomes necessary for me to
honor her request."
     Nicci felt a weary boredom  at his threats. People so often resorted to
threatening her.
     "That is entirely up to you,  Richard. But you make a great mistake  if
you think I care."
     She  couldn't begin to  recall how  many times  Jagang had  made solemn
threats on  her  life,  or  how many of those  times his hands had tightened
around  her  throat  choking the  life out  of her  after he  had beaten her
senseless.  Kadar Kardeef had at times been no less brutal. She'd lost count
of the times she fully expected to die, starting with the time when  she was
little and the man pulled her into the alley to rob her.
     But such men were not the only ones who promised her suffering.
     "I cannot tell you the promises  the Keeper of the  underworld has made
to me in my dreams, promises of unending suffering. That is my fate.
     "So, please, Richard,  do  not think to frighten  me  with  your  petty
threats. More

     savage men than you have made credible promises as to  my doom. I  long
ago accepted my fate and ceased to care."
     Her  arms felt heavy at her  sides. She felt empty of feeling. Thoughts
of  Jagang, of the Keeper, reminded her that her  fife was meaningless. Only
what she  had  seen in Richard's  eyes gave her a hint that  there  might be
something more, something she had yet to discover or understand.
     "What is it you want?" Richard demanded.
     Nicci returned her mind to the  here and now. "I told you. Your part in
fife now is as  my husband.  That is  the way  it is going to be-if you wish
Kahlan to live. I've told you the truth about all of it. If you come with me
and do the  simple things I ask, such as  assuming the  role  of my husband,
then Kahlan will live a long life. I can't say it will be entirely happy, of
course, for I know she loves you."
     "How long do you think you can hold me, Nicci?" In frustration, Richard
ran his fingers back through his wet hair. "It isn't going to work, whatever
it is you want. How long until you tire of this absurd sham?"
     Her eyes narrowed, studying his profound innocence, if not ignorance.
     "My  dear boy,  I  was  born into this wretched world  one  hundred and
eighty-one  years past. You know that.  Do you suppose I have  not learned a
great deal o