Ancient History

The past is a foreign country…they do things differently there.

Power.

Richard could feel it running through him, lighting his veins on fire—

Confession was a tug, an undertow dragging him down—Orden was like a dragon's breath, hot and corrosive and fascinating—

Then the jarring twist, sudden agony—the magic inverting and rebounding over his head, a storm breaking—

Nothingness. Empty space. Empty time.

Richard's eyes were open, but all he could see was gray.

And then—

"Crown the May Queen! All blessings on Creator's Night!"

Young, carefree-looking people in pastel colored clothing danced before Richard's bewildered eyes, wearing crowns of flowers.

A sandy-haired man who seemed vaguely familiar pushed a woman gently toward a makeshift throne in the center of the clearing.

The woman laughed and turned her head, and Richard gasped. "Shota?" he asked incredulously.

It was at that moment that the agiel connected with the back of his neck.

Cara was not having a good day. One moment, she'd been about to bring the Seeker to his knees before Lord Rahl—the next, she found herself in the middle of a Creator's Night celebration. There was no sign of Lord Rahl, her Sisters, the First Wizard or the Mother Confessor.

And there was singing.

Cara pressed her agiel to the back of the Seeker's neck while he was still staring around in astonishment, and wished she'd brought a collar and chain with her.

A good Mord'Sith was always prepared…but this situation had to be the strangest she'd ever experienced.

"What are you doing?" a sandy-haired man inquired, smiling in a disturbingly friendly way.

"I am taking the Seeker to Lord Rahl, and I don't advise you to get in my way," Cara said drily.

"Nonsense!" the man said, still smiling. "There hasn't been a Seeker of Truth in almost a thousand years! But if you want to see Lord Rahl, I can take you to the Palace—although I'm afraid he's a bit busy at the moment—the Queen just had a baby, and she's ill, I'm afraid."

"Queen?" Cara demanded suspiciously. "What Queen?"

"Queen Nila, of course," the woman with the long hair and smug expression said. "Are you sure you're from D'Hara?"

"And—the prince's name?" Cara asked breathlessly.

"The christening isn't until the day after tomorrow—" the sandy-haired man said.

"Just. Tell. Me," Cara demanded, her fingers tightening around her agiel as she fought to keep her emotions under control.

"My old friend Panis is planning on calling the boy Darken, I believe," the man said mildly. "Don't understand it, myself," he added, as an aside.

Cara stared.

At her feet, the Seeker stirred—"Kahlan?" he asked blurrily, and then his eyes sharpened—he made to leap to his feet, but Cara took a firm hold of his hair to keep him down. She didn't plan on letting the Seeker evade her grasp, not when he was suddenly the only familiar thing in what she was very much afraid was—

"Zedd?" the Seeker gasped.

"Ah," the sandy-haired man looked pleased. "I see my fame precedes me. But it's Zeddicus Zu'l Zorander, if you don't mind. First Wizard Zeddicus Zu'l Zorander, actually."

"Where are we?" the Seeker asked despairingly. "Where's Kahlan?"

Cara bit her lip, to keep from voicing her own suspicion—that she and the Seeker had somehow been stranded thirty-eight years in the past.

"You know Panis Rahl won't have any idea who you are," Richard was saying reasonably. "And if you tell him that you and I are from thirty-eight years in the future—well, would you believe it?"

The Mord'Sith didn't answer right away. She had insisted on taking Richard before Lord Rahl as her prisoner, whether that Lord Rahl was the same man Richard had been sent to defeat, or his predecessor. Richard privately thought that she was clinging to the command structure in the hopes of escaping the disorientation of their sudden temporal displacement, and couldn't blame her.

Thirty-eight years in the past. He, Richard, hadn't even been born yet—and Zedd was obviously not going to be much help.

Richard remembered the way his grandfather had been looking at Shota (whose appearance was nearly unchanged, from the future), and shuddered. There was something off about that (why hadn't Shota aged? And since when were she and Zedd so chummy?)—not to mention Zedd's referring to Panis Rahl as 'my old friend.'

Just what was going on here?

Zedd had offered to show the Mord'Sith the way to the People's Palace, a suggestion she had rejected with scorn, in spite of Zedd's airy assurances that he had to be there in a few days' time for the christening…

The christening. Of Darken Rahl.

Richard couldn't help but hear Zedd and Kahlan in his head, telling him his destiny was to kill Darken Rahl, the evil tyrant who had been responsible for his own father's death, his birth mother's, all his agemates in Brennidon…

Yet he could not imagine any of them would have predicted that he would be sent to the past, to confront his enemy as a helpless baby.

Every feeling recoiled—yet surely he ought to do something? Darken Rahl was going to grow up to be a murderer. Richard knew that, knew it for a fact in a way no one from this time possibly could.

It was logical to kill Darken Rahl, baby or not.

"It doesn't matter," the Mord'Sith said firmly. "I must report to Lord Rahl."

Richard, clutching the bag that still held two Boxes of Orden (he'd buried the third in the dirt under Shota's May Queen throne while the Mord'Sith and Zedd argued, guessing that he would have to return to that exact spot to complete whatever powerful magic might yet return him, and the Mord'Sith, to their own time), worried very much about what would happen when they met Panis Rahl.

What sort of man was he? Richard had grown up in Westland and had no knowledge of the history of the Midlands, much less D'Hara. Come to think of it, weren't they still in the Midlands?

Yet not only Zedd, but none of the Creator's Night revelers had seemed surprised to see a Mord'Sith appear out of nowhere. A little alarmed perhaps, but not surprised.

Which suggested the Mord'Sith were already a staple of Midlands life, meaning the war had already begun long before Darken Rahl could do more than cry…

But all those things were comparatively unimportant. Richard needed to get back to his own time before he irrevocably altered the past—Kahlan was depending on him. Who knew what might be happening to her right now?

Or did he mean who knew what would be happening to her—Richard sighed inwardly. This was not what he'd imagined when he'd accepted the title of Seeker.

"My Lord, I have brought you the Seeker," Cara said loudly, forcing the Seeker to his knees before Lord Rahl, where he belonged.

Although this Lord Rahl was blonder, weaker, less attractive…

Dear Creator—to think of Darken Rahl as a helpless infant!

"The Seeker of what?" Lord Rahl asked. His voice was too quick, his eyes too bright, with a light Cara didn't care for. "The only thing he'll find here is a Keeper-cursed good party! Do stay for the christening, why don't you, Mistress, er…?"

"C—Cate, my Lord," Cara said carefully. For some reason she couldn't articulate, she didn't trust this other Lord Rahl.

For one thing, Darken knew the name and face and training history of every Mord'Sith under his command—he always said it was impossible to forget someone after you'd given them the living Breath of Life, but Cara thought that he knew those things simply because they were the kinds of things Lord Rahl should know.

As she'd been about to say her own name, some instinct had warned Cara against it—and, in truth, she did remember some story circulating among her Sisters about the mysterious Mistress Cate—Dahlia had invented all sorts of impossible theories about her.

"Well, Mistress Cate, why don't you and your prisoner make yourselves at home? Tomorrow is the crown prince's christening—don't miss it; my old friend the First Wizard will be there."

Cara's eyebrows rose almost to her hairline—so that was how it was. But if Panis Rahl and the First Wizard were that close, why was the Wizard helping Darken's enemies? Or rather, why would he be in thirty-eight years' time—

"Very well," she said abruptly, and pulled an unresisting Seeker after her out of the throne room. She barely remembered to salute, one fist over her heart.

It was a Mord'Sith's duty to serve Lord Rahl—any Lord Rahl.

But Cara could not imagine remaining here, not now that she'd seen the shocking lack of organization, the complete disregard for the danger the Seeker represented—and the Wizard hadn't even been afraid of her! It rankled.

"Look, Cate," the Seeker said easily, keeping pace with her.

"It's Cara," she said, after a momentary glance around to see that they were unobserved. "Mistress Cara."

"Cara," the Seeker said. "And I'm Richard. Listen, how about a truce, at least until we can get back to our own time. You can't tell me you want to spend the rest of your life like this—an assumed name, always on your guard lest you say something that could get us both burned at the stake."

"Burned at the stake?" Cara asked curiously. "Traitors are usually tortured to death slowly, over a matter of weeks. Whom have you seen burned at the stake, Seeker?"

"No one," he said, looking a little embarrassed. "But in Westland, witches are—well, anyway…I told you to call me Richard."

Cara rolled her eyes.

The Mord'Sith—Cara—seemed to be coming round, which was at least a relief, but Richard had to find out how to get them both back to where—when—they belonged.

He didn't know what he was going to do after that.

He parted from the Mord'Sith at the door to the spacious chambers Panis Rahl had sent a servant to prepare for them, and wandered the Palace aimlessly, looking at tapestries depicting fierce battles, and wondered, in an idle sort of way, what it would be like to grow up here, surrounded by all this glorified violence.

He rounded a corner and collided with someone, and only as he was apologizing did he realize it was Shota.

"Thank the Creator," Richard said fervently, "I really need to talk to you."

"I sense…much pain from you," Shota said, when Richard had pulled her into a nearby empty room. "Tell me what troubles you."

With this encouragement, Richard launched into his tale. "—and so if I don't get back to my own time and defeat Darken Rahl, his tyranny will extend over all the Midlands and many more innocent people will die and Kahlan—I'm so afraid for her, but I have no idea what to do—I don't even know how Cara and I ended up here!"

"Let's see," Shota said briskly. "You combined the magic of Orden (to think it exists after all!), Confession, and agiel. And somehow that transported you thirty-eight years into the past. I think it's obvious what you have to do: you must find a Confessor and repeat the conditions of the initial experiment."

"And that will take me back to my own time? To Kahlan?" Richard asked.

"Probably," Shota said, briefly touching Richard's shoulder in a gesture of support. "And now, if you'll excuse me, I must have a word with Caracticus—if you're right and the prince will grow up to become a tyrant more terrible than any in the history of the world—" She left, muttering to herself.

Richard wondered who Caracticus was, but dismissed the question as unimportant.

Now he knew what to do—now he knew how to get back to Kahlan.

Things were definitely looking up.

Cara couldn't bring herself to sit still. She hated the rooms Panis Rahl had given her and the Seeker, and longed to go down to the Mord'Sith Headquarters and pick a fight with whoever most resembled Denna, but knew that was an inefficient use of her time.

Instead, she found herself wandering the halls until she came to the nursery. A glare alone was enough to send the lone maidservant on duty scurrying all the way back to her home village, and Cara walked over to the crib.

Darken was a beautiful baby. Of course, Cara thought. Seeing him like this brought a lump to her throat, as she remembered their son—she'd only had a glimpse of him before he was taken, but she'd thought how much he looked like his father must have, as a baby.

Now she had the visual evidence: the only thing, she thought, reaching out to touch Darken's head with one gentle, ungloved finger, was that her son's hair, such of it as there was, had been blonde.

Darken watched her, eyes wide and serious. Though she knew it was impossible, Cara felt as though he were seeing directly into her soul.

"I'm going to fix this," she promised softly. "Somehow."

And without another word, or a backward glance, she strode out of the room.

Richard—the Seeker—found her by the Queen's bedside. Cara was staring down at her, lost in thought.

"Zedd said she was ill," Richard said, coming to stand beside Cara. "It looks to me like she's dying."

Cara made a vague noise of agreement, watching the gentle rise and fall of the Queen's chest. Her skin was pale, and she looked somehow shrunken—she might have been beautiful, otherwise. She was older than Cara, but not by very much.

It made Cara…uncomfortable.

"Why isn't he trying to heal her?" Richard asked, sounding frustrated.

"I hardly think the Wizard is most concerned with Lady Rahl," Cara said drily.

"There must be something we can do for her," Richard said, and Cara glanced at him in surprise. He actually sounded concerned.

"We can't," she said, as impassively as she could. "Darken Rahl's mother did not live to see his coronation. And we have to get out of here before we cause such a disastrous breach in the space-time continuum that the entire world is destroyed."

"You're right, of course," Richard sighed, and turned away from the dying Queen. "Space-time continuum?" he teased. "I didn't know they taught that stuff in Mord'Sith school."

Cara just glared at him.

"Anyway," Richard said, still sounding a little amused (what was wrong with her? She used to be able to terrorize people like him in her sleep), "in order to get back to the future, we need a Confessor, which means—"

"Aydindril," Cara finished grimly.

She hated the thought of leaving the Rahl family to its own devices, but they had little choice.

It took them three weeks to travel to Aydindril, and Richard grew more worried with every step. All he wanted was to see Kahlan again and hold her in his arms—

But every step away from the infant Darken Rahl, from the blasé Panis Rahl (did he know his wife was dying? How could he be so calm?), from Zedd, who was so different from the man Richard knew as his grandfather, felt wrong. Richard had a duty to the people of the Midlands, and, although he knew Darken Rahl was a tyrant, it was hard to imagine that a man who could ignore his own dying wife would be a kind and just leader.

And if there was already war between the Midlands and D'Hara—how could Zedd, and the Confessors in Aydindril, have let things get to the state they had before Richard had come to the Midlands?

And what would happen if he and Cara did return to the future—would she go back to trying to kill him?

Richard determined to try and convince her of Darken Rahl's evil. Surely she knew what a dangerous man he was.

"How long have you known Darken Rahl?" he asked, that first night.

"Since I was a girl," Cara said shortly.

Richard waited, looking sympathetic.

"I hate this," Cara said softly. "He's so vulnerable, and—Creator, Panis Rahl makes me itch to ram my agiel down his throat—" her fists clenched. "I don't even know why, although from what Darken—Lord Rahl—hasn't said about his childhood—"

She broke off, with an ambiguous gesture.

"We're going to get back," Richard promised, disregarding the almost inevitable end of the truce, when they did.

Suddenly, Cara's entire attitude changed—she smiled at him, and Richard swallowed. It was a very…significant smile.

"Would it be so bad?" she asked, her voice dipping low in a way that went straight to Richard's blood. "Being stuck here? We could…comfort each other."

Fascinated, Richard didn't move as Cara's hand went to stroke his cheek, and her lips met his…

It was interesting, he told himself firmly. That was all—interesting, that Cara was so different from Denna—so practical, so brave in the face of being lost in time—interesting, that she used lust to distract from her real feelings…

He pulled away. "I'm in love with someone else," he said quickly, thinking of Kahlan—her smile, the way her hair flew in all directions when she fought, how she had risked everything to help him on his quest…

"Who said anything about love?" Cara purred, her hand moving to Richard's throat, and then her fingers gently tracing their way down his chest…"I'm talking about pleasure."

"Let's just…go to sleep," Richard said, not liking the nervous edge to his voice. "We have a long way to go tomorrow."

Cara raised her eyebrows, but she settled in beside Richard under their one blanket, and obediently shut her eyes.

Richard's skin burned where it touched hers.

"I hope you're not going to march into the Confessors' Palace and explain things to them," Cara said drily, as they approached the city of Aydindril.

"I met the Mother Confessor before Kahlan," Richard said, a little uneasily. "That…might not work."

"So you have any sort of plan at all, or do you just want to grab one of them and hope for the best?" Cara said sarcastically.

"Of course not," Richard said seriously. "She might kill you."

Cara snorted. "I don't think so."

Confession might be deadly to a Mord'Sith, but she was not helpless. And Confessors were a wishy-washy bunch, anyway. Lord Rahl thought they could rule the world if they chose, but Cara didn't see that ever happening.

"Maybe if we just…" Richard said, but he was interrupted by a loud shriek from over the next hill.

He raced toward the screamer, and Cara followed, muttering, "Of course, saved by the helpless damsel in distress."

Richard, Cara had already learned, had a weakness for rescuing people. She never would have dreamed there were so many cats in trees and young people escaping from importunate relatives in the Midlands, much less than Richard would con her into helping them, all without revealing his own name or title (he had that much sense, at least).

There was something about Richard—an extra connection that Cara rarely experienced with anyone but Darken. (If she didn't know better, she would guess he was a Rahl himself, but that was surely impossible.)

Cara reached the top of the hill and took the scene in at a glance: Richard was fighting a group of ruffians, clearly amateurs, who surrounded a young girl with a good set of lungs for screaming and pale brown hair.

With an inward sigh, Cara drew her agiels. Why she spent her time rescuing Richard from peril—but if she didn't, they would never return, and the past was simply not the right place for them. Every day felt like a tightrope, as Cara fought not to meddle in the past, for fear of changing it.

It was just as well their route had taken them nowhere near Stowcroft.

Cara saw what was going to happen a moment before it did—Richard's opponent pulled a wickedly curved dagger from his boot and made to sink it into Richard's stomach, angling upward—

Richard, half-turned to meet another attack, would never be able to stop it, and Cara was much too far away—

Impossibly, the blow didn't land; there was a flash of light and then the man staggered away from Richard, screaming—his clothes were on fire.

Richard, looking wild around the eyes, pointed a finger at another man—he too caught fire.

The little girl screamed even louder.

"How did you do that?" Cara asked, when all their opponents were dead or still running. "You're a wizard," she answered her own question.

Richard stared in shock at his hands. "I guess so," he said.

"Help! Who are you people? What have you done? What's happening?" demanded the girl.

"I'm R—we're friends," said Richard. "We're looking for a Confessor."

"Oh." Impossibly, this seemed to reassure the girl. "That's all right, then. I'm a Confessor. My name is Rega. Are you my Wizard? My mother says everyone—all of us Confessors, I mean—has got to have one."

"Well, no, I'm not your Wizard," Richard said, throwing away, in Cara's opinion, a perfectly good cover. "Actually, I'm from a different time, and I was wondering if you could help me—"

"You saved my life," the girl said brightly. "Those men were going to kill me! They said one more Confessor in the world is one too many, and I couldn't get away and—do you think there're any more?" She looked around, obviously frightened.

"I thought everyone in the Midlands worshipped Confessors," Cara said, puzzled. Surely it was only in D'Hara that a Confessor's touch was rightly feared—didn't they rule the Midlands? Or hadn't they, before the war? Or were they simply shockingly remiss, letting a girl that age wander around all by herself and nearly die?

"What do you want me to do?" the girl asked bravely.

Cara grabbed Richard's sleeve and pulled him a few steps away. "You think we can just kidnap this girl?" she whispered fiercely. "It took us three weeks to get here, remember, and if you think I don't know you hid the third Box of Orden—"

"I had an idea about that," Richard said, a little dazedly. "Come on."

He grabbed Cara's hand, and the girl's on his other side, shut his eyes, took a deep breath—

Cara hated teleportation. It made her so itchy.

It worked! Richard opened his eyes, and he and the Confessor, whose cheerful willingness to help him in his quest reminded him of Kahlan, and Cara, were standing in the entrance hall of the People's Palace.

Unfortunately, Panis Rahl was also standing in the entrance hall.

"You!" he shouted, striding toward them, and drawing his sword. "What have you done to my son? I thought Zedd was the only Wizard worth his salt in my entire kingdom—well, and his father, I suppose—but you! I mistook you for the Mord'Sith's prisoner, but she's been your creature all along!"

Richard heard a faint snort of protest from Cara. He fought not to smile, recognizing the peril in which not only he, but Cara, Rega, and all of the Midlands now stood.

"What happened?" Richard asked, in what he hoped was a calm and reasonable voice.

"My son is dying," Panis Rahl said grimly. "Murdered by magic—by you."

He lunged for Richard, who ducked, caught a glimpse of Cara running up the stairs, her braid flying behind her like a banner, and of Rega hiding in a corner—the sword whistled through the air where Richard's head had been seconds before—

"I swear to you, I didn't harm your son," Richard said, raising his hands placatingly. Though not for lack of trying, he thought grimly, What am I going to do? If Darken Rahl is dying, that's a good—so why do I feel like this could ruin everything?

"Do you have any idea—I have an heir at last, and I will not let you jeopardize my throne!" Panis Rahl yelled. "Who else could it have been?"

Richard blinked, trying to readjust his thinking. Since when was his throne more important to this man than his son? And what about his wife? Richard supposed she was dead by now, too, and felt a surge of pity for Panis Rahl—a man who couldn't even realize what he was losing.

A man who would never care for a child in the loving way Richard's parents had. If Darken Rahl did survive—what he must have survived! How many more magical assassination attempts were there going to be? How could anyone live like this?

"I assure you, he's telling the truth," Rega said loudly, stepping out of her hiding place. "I'm a Confessor, and I know."

Panis Rahl stared at her for one bewildered moment, then turned and shook his head—"Women," he was muttering, but Richard was already halfway up the stairs, grabbing Rega's hand as he went—

Now was not the time for further debate, and Richard didn't relish the thought of getting into a duel with the wrong Lord Rahl—particularly without his Sword, which he missed nearly as much as Kahlan and Zedd—

By the time they got to the nursery, Cara was already gently placing the infant Darken Rahl back in his crib.

"Well?" Richard asked, more sharply than he'd intended.

"He's alive," Cara replied. There was a strain around her eyes. "I think the magic is gone—I got here just as he d—died, and I gave him the Breath of Life."

"Was there no one even watching him?" Richard asked, bewildered. Just what kind of nursery was this?

"The baby died?" Rega asked, wide-eyed.

"We should go," Cara said harshly. "Now."

"Wait," Richard said, thinking fast. He couldn't bring himself to murder a baby—this situation had certain parallels with the incident of Dennee's Confessor son, but Richard was from Westland, where they had strict ideas about infanticide, as well as other forms of murder (he struggled daily with his conscience concerning all the D'Haran soldiers he was forced to kill)—but maybe, just maybe, he could still change things.

Richard had a duty to save the people from Darken Rahl's tyranny—but what if he could do that without killing him?

This journey to the past presented a rare opportunity—the chance to make things right before they ever went wrong.

"I want to heal the Queen," Richard said firmly.

It couldn't be as simple as Richard wanted to make it. Cara was sure of that.

And yet…

The three of them made their way to the Queen's rooms. They were, if possible, even more deserted than the nursery, where at least there had been a few telltale signs of servants and Mord'Sith. The Queen's rooms were completely empty, and the Queen herself was almost exactly as Cara and Richard had left her—pale and lifeless, she seemed even more sunk into whatever illness or weakness held her in its grip, but she did still breathe—and that was surprising in and of itself.

Cara wondered how long she would hold out—this slow fading away was a nightmare to a Mord'Sith. The thought of dying alone, in bed, without even any attendant, Sister or slave, was truly horrifying.

"Okay," Richard said, taking a deep breath and extending his hands to hover over the Queen's chest. "I've never done this before, so—" but he didn't complete the thought.

Cara and the little Confessor girl watched helplessly, Cara with one ear on the hallway outside, just in case Panis Rahl elected to run counter to the habit of years of marriage and see how his dying wife was—but he was doubtless still busy with whoever had poisoned Darken—

Cara knew it hadn't been Richard, she'd been by his side for weeks now for one thing—but he had just discovered all this magical power—to think, she could have used it against him—

Odd, how that hadn't occurred to her until now.

But why would Richard care about restoring to life a woman whose only son was his archenemy?

To think the Queen was lying here, helpless, while someone had tried to murder Darken—Cara could imagine how she must be feeling. Or how she would be feeling, if she ever woke up—

At last, Richard lowered his hands. His face was drawn and pale, but triumphant.

There was a small silence, and then the Queen coughed.

Cara breathed a silent prayer of thanksgiving, not sure why she cared so much—this was a woman who had died before Cara herself was ever born. And yet—she knew what it was to be the mother of a Rahl.

Was her son all right? She could only pray that he was, that the Dragon Corps men weren't being too hard on him, that there hadn't been an accident—Darken would have told her, surely, if he had been at Trelhinn when the rebels burned it to the ground—

"My son?" were the Queen's first words. She blinked blearily up at them. "Is he all right?"

Richard smiled, a relieved smile. "He will be, now."

Cara waited until Richard and the little Confessor had gone, promising to catch them up. She wanted a moment alone with the Queen.

But when Cara looked back, she saw the Queen was sleeping again—it was no longer the sleep from which she would never wake. Even as Cara watched, color was returning to her cheeks.

Slowly, Cara drew the journeybook by the bed toward herself, sinking down to the floor and pulling her spare dagger from her boot.

It was a little known fact about journeybooks that if you stirred the blood three times counterclockwise and muttered a line of verse about promises and apple trees, the message you wrote would not be seen by any but its intended recipient, and not until they were in great peril and had need of the message.

Cara returned the journeybook to its proper place and stole through the Palace to the clearing where she and Richard had first come to this strange time.

As she passed the Mord'Sith Headquarters, she had to restrain herself from carving, Mistress Cate was here, over the doorway.

Richard put together the Boxes of Orden for what he devoutly hoped was the last time, and Rega put her hand around his throat just as he'd requested.

(She'd been doubtful, but Richard had reminded her that the Creator had given her this power for a reason, and that he really did need her help.)

The familiar rush of the magic surrounded him, going to his head, and then Cara was there, her agiel a sharp point of agony at his neck—

Richard welcomed the pain. They were going home.