Cara stared at the wooden containers as they were lowered into the ground. In the distance, black smoke blended into the noon-time sky, blotting out a portion of sunlight.
She struggled with emotions that she had never been forced to face in her time as a Mord'Sith. Her training had allowed her to sublimate anything like them under a veneer of cruelty, purpose, and it taught her to restrain them with the Agiel.
The unum tore the barriers away and she could feel the despair, the incredible guilt, and a frantic, irrepressible anger.
They felt like gaping sword wounds through her gut, raw and real. In that sense, they were very alien to her because her own feelings about her own family –their demise at the hands of her Mord'Sith mistresses and her father's death by her hand –were nebulous at best. At the time, she had no room for even the most normal, most sinister of emotions. The Mord'Sith had destroyed those spaces.
Today, however, was a wholly different story. The Cara whose body she occupied wanted revenge, craved it like one would water, so that she may fill a well that Cara doubted had a bottom. The unum's influence created niches in her heart she never knew could exist and filled them with an overwhelming grief.
It hurt much more than any physical wound Cara had endured and it terrified her; she bore this experience like a passenger with no power whatsoever over her vessel.
She watched. She felt. She had no choice but to allow this Cara to steer the boat into places she had never been.
Her entire being screamed its protest.
Cara's eyes burn. Her throat is painful and it seems she has forgotten how to swallow. Her nostrils flare at the smell of burning corpses.
The Midlanders have kept the pyres burning around Castle Halin and many doubt that the countryside will smell the same again. It stinks of death, of a Midlands tradition that also stains the sky. Those left behind will sift through the ashes of their sons, daughters, husbands and wives. The ground here will be tainted; the memories will be too painful.
And yet…the scene unfolding before her presses urgently into her senses. Members of the Fifth lower the last of the coffins. Cara presses calloused hands against her eyelids to stop from crying openly. When the officer presiding over the ceremony summons her, she steps forward, takes the shovel from his hands, and heaps newly turned soil into the graves.
The last goodbye is always the most painful. Her regiment quietly leaves while Berdine and Constance discard their cloaks to join her. They trowel earth without words and when they are finished, covered in grime, they sit on nearby rocks to watch the sun set.
Cara feels as though she is in the deep twilight of her years, that she is hobbling through the last of her breaths.
She stares at her hands.
"I kill by the sword and those I love die by it."
Berdine puts a hand on her shoulder. "This isn't your fault, Cara."
"Isn't it?" she scoffs. "If I hadn't chosen a soldier's life…"
"D'Hara would probably have been split in half by civil war," Berdine finishes for her, an edge in her voice. "You would not have met Leo or spent the last two years with your sons."
"This is a crueller fate, Berdine, to have something precious only for it to be taken away."
Berdine is silenced by her words and looks to the horizon, at the castle which sits atop an imposing hill and overlooks a part of the River Kern.
She has visited this part of the province many times before, sharing cold, Cabrallian brew with Cara at the wide porticoes of her home. They watched Leib weave in and out of the furniture, Leo as he laughed heartily, Aginor as she sat at his mother's knee and drooled all over her fingers.
Nervously, Berdine gives voice to their thoughts, "Shall we re-take Halin?"
Cara grunts and her words are stilted, as though they are not the ones she wants to say. "No. There has been enough death here already and we have overstayed our welcome. This," she gestures to the vestiges of the funeral, "was a courtesy. The Midlands army will easily defeat the Fifth if we try." She breathes deeply, summoning the last of her strength. "We ride North."
Berdine seems pleased by her reply and Cara suddenly wonders at her captain's intentions.
"We ride North with the Midlands army?"
There is something expectant in Berdine's voice. It reveals the penetrating intelligence of one of her most talented captains, her ability to predict outcomes from a limited number of facts. It also gives Cara pause, despite the overwhelming need to follow her wrath.
"Speak plainly, Berdine."
The Alkarian captain says without regret or apology, "I've been speaking with Jory Renfeld."
"Ah, the enemy," Cara snarls.
"Not quite." Berdine's squints as she looks up at the sun to discern the time. "The most pressing concern is the man in the High Seat, Darken Rahl. He's dragged D'Hara into this war and the Mother Confessor will not stop until he's dead." Berdine gestures to Castle Halin and the wide encampment which surrounds it. "For the Midlands High Council, this invasion is pre-emptive. The Midlands has never been one to expand its borders. It is concerned with governing and protecting a throng of nations, not in burdening itself with more lands." Berdine stares at her with clear, blue eyes. "You know this, Cara."
Cara pinches the bridge of her nose. "I fear you're asking too much from me, Berdine."
Berdine smiles but her eyes hold no real mirth. "Perhaps. The people would ask it of you. Take the High Seat, align yourself with the Midlands. The South will help you. Richard gives you his word."
"Align myself? They killed my family, Berdine!" Cara nearly screams, prompting Constance to step closer.
A rare ire flashes across Berdine's face. Her reply is calculating and it hits Cara squarely in the gut, "Can you honestly say that you haven't left orphans and widows in your wake? What price did we have to pay for peace in D'Hara? Do you not remember? We had to slaughter our own countrymen to save many more. Children died in the villages we razed. We're all murderers when at war, Cara, one way or the other."
Whether Berdine's manipulation is deliberate or not, Cara does not care, because her words ignite a rage that sees her sword unsheathed from her scabbard. She strikes blindly and Berdine weaves out of the way. She plunges her sword forward, but fails. Berdine allows the assault, perhaps aware that Cara's grief has incapacitated her technique.
After several, harrowing minutes, Cara drops the sword with an exasperated shout and Berdine leans against a rock, relieved. One can see that her breath has already come dangerously short.
"What are you trying to do?" Cara cries, wringing her hands.
Exhaustion draws deep lines on her face, accenting the scar which will remind everyone of Halin's demise. Suddenly, Berdine's face softens. There is pity there. They both know that for Cara, there will be no forgetting.
"I'm putting this into perspective," Berdine says, softly. "For any of us to gain any measure of sanity, for us to lay any ghosts to rest, for us to think clearly about the future of our people and to succeed in that endeavour, we must think of peace." Berdine approaches cautiously, stopping when she sees the intent in Cara's eyes. "You know this, Cara," she insists. "You and Panis have always known this. It's the reason he gave you Halin and entrusted you the South for safekeeping. It's the reason he divided the Alkarians to begin with."
Cara trembles with emotions, conveying with her body language that any more words would bring the sword down Berdine's head. Breathing heavily for several seconds, she finally sheathes her sword, turns, and walks away.
The moon is at its zenith, throwing light past the branches and into silver pools at her feet. She hears the scrunch of footsteps on dry leaves and several men emerge from the shadows like wolves, dressed in the pelts of those predators.
Cara feels her hackles rise, her hand gripping the hilt of her sword. She relaxes when they reveal themselves from their hoods, their palms empty as they reach forward to shake hands with her company.
Richard, his bearded face stretching into a grin, emerges from the pack. He grabs her shoulders and pulls her into an embrace. He keeps her in his arms for more minutes than is necessary and when he speaks into her ear, his voice is cramped with emotions.
"I'm sorry to hear about your family."
A lump forms in her throat. The memories are too fresh and she manages a low sneer, "I'll have my vengeance soon enough."
He holds her at arm's length, studying her intently. "Will you now? Do you know where to put all that wrath, General?" When she does not answer he admonishes, "No? Come, I'll tell you about my plans and then you can decide."
Cara leads them to a clearing where Richard's men set up camp. They are a few kilometres from the edges of the Fifth's camp, a rendezvous away from prying eyes. Amidst the bustle, Cara watches as Richard prepares one of two fires. When he finishes, he sits beside her and pokes the flames with a stick until they cackle.
"Berdine requested that I come," he ventures.
"She has the uncanny talent of knowing what's best even before I do," Cara admits.
He watches her closely. "You don't like where any of this is going, do you?"
"No." She shakes her head vigorously, burying her face in her hands. "I'm no traitor."
"Even I know that."
"Richard, the Truth Seeker."
"Ha. Yes, I've heard that nickname. When they released the classified communiqués, all I could do was laugh." They smile at each other. "Now, if you're done teasing, I'd have you know that the Alkarians would follow you to whatever end. As I would."
"I'm not Panis."
"No, but you're the Rahl he would have wanted as his replacement." Cara feels a sharp pang at the mention of her former mentor and lord, and then a deeper sorrow at his words. "Unfortunately for all of us, he loved you too much to get you embroiled in politics and kept you tucked away in Halin." He squeezes her knee, as though touch will communicate his conviction. "Join me, Cara. Better yet, take up your banner and lead us. Darken Rahl will drain this country dry. If war doesn't get us, starvation will. Already, the South is suffering and you know that when the South suffers, all of D'Hara will, sooner or later."
The South –made abundant by the River Kern –is an area that supports a nation which is largely infertile. With pragmatism ingrained in its culture, the Southern populace does not take kindly to unexplained encumbrances from the Capital. Historically, war or self-aggrandizing attempts by a Rahl or any of its local power-wielders is never tolerated; the South cannot bear severe economic strains on agriculture and industry for very long without affecting the rest of commerce in D'Hara.
It is also common knowledge that the South needs D'Hara's garrisons to defend its borders. The relationship between the Capital and the Southern provinces has been co-operative for centuries and for good reason.
Which is why, when Cara quashed Michael Cypher's ambitious and ill-conceived plans for a separate, Southern state, she was hailed a hero. That Cypher rebellion was anything but necessary, for the South or for D'Hara. Richard's efforts, however…
Richard is tentative when he continues, "I must tell you that another Trimessi regiment is also in Sassen, with different orders. It has overtaken its government. Acrimar managed to avoid the same fate because Denna sneaked the First Alkarian Regiments to the outskirts before they could arrest me."
Cara stands up and stares at him hard. "No, that can't be true."
"The Trimessi have been ordered to take control of the Southern garrisons."
"He anticipated the Midlands invasion," Cara hisses, the gears inside her head turning as wave upon wave of realisation pounds at her head. "He orchestrated it, didn't he, in order to pull the Senate vote, to be given the authority to move the Divisions, my Division especially. Getting rid of me would have been icing on the cake.
"There was a reason why western retainers instead of D'Haran soldiers carried out the massacre at Nicobarese. He wanted Halin destroyed." Cara grabs Richard's arms and the young Senator winces as she crushes them in her grip. "Damn him, Richard! Tell me it isn't true!"
He remains mute before her. She releases him with a push.
"By the Creator, I will kill him with my own hands." Her eyes blaze with a new hatred. "Mark my words, Cypher, the High Seat will be empty before this month is over."
Kahlan was given a horse, a nondescript but powerful stallion while the Lady Rahl rode beside her in a warhorse the colour of snow. As the first rays of light touched the horizon, they rode out into a crisp morning, flanked by Kina and Arrin, two of Berdine's most trusted veterans.
Kahlan was instructed to wear a hood as they rode past the front gates and into the golden landscapes of the Azrith Plains.
Just as the sun began to be unbearable, they stopped at an unlikely oasis hidden between reddish, limestone buttes.
It was a jarring sight as it emerged from between the rocks, a sprawling island lush with flora, climbing the bluffs adjacent to it. The oasis would have fit a small town but it seemed largely unoccupied except for Alkarian sentries dressed in muted greens that hid them from the eye.
They dismounted and walked several paces in, the sky covered by the elongated leaves of date palms, grass beneath Kahlan's boots. The temperature here was distinctly cooler than it was in the open desert and the air was slightly humid. Kahlan spied a waterfall past several peach trees, its path carved down the rock-face as it fell into a pool cupped by limestone and trees.
The Lady Rahl led them to a shelter made of canvas and wood. It was the size of a house, elevated on a platform of dark lumber. Its main portico was open on all sides to allow the breezes in and it branched to three other daises which supported open-spaced rooms. They could be made private by pulling at sliding doors.
Looking in from the entrance, Kahlan could see that the shelter was furnished with the finest carpets and furniture made by Linearian craftsmen. Tapestries from both D'Hara and the Midlands hung in ornate loops.
Past the shelter and deeper still into the oasis was a series of wells, irrigated to feed the plant-life. They filled several basins that shimmered as sunlight streamed past the palm branches. The spaces echoed with the sound of water.
Lady Rahl stooped over one of these pools, splashing water over her face and on her neck. She enjoined her twin with a look and Kahlan gratefully copied her ministrations.
"This is beautiful," Kahlan whispered.
Lady Rahl had a far off look, pierced by a sudden memory. "Cara took care that we had a measure of peace. She has had so little of it in her lifetime."
"Do you come here often?"
"As often as our duties would allow. Always, with our daughter."
As though on cue, laughter emerged from the shelter and a bright-eyed Amihan ran to her mother, placing an enthusiastic kiss on her cheek.
"Is inya awake yet?" the child asked, breathless.
"No, not yet, my love."
A shadow fell over her face. "Oh."
"Go and play, Amihan. I'll meet you inside."
The child brightened and ran off, her worries forgotten.
"It must have been a peaceful life, after the war," Kahlan ventured, taking the towel Kina handed to her.
Lady Rahl smiled minutely before leading her inside the shelter. They lounged on soft cushions as Alkarian soldiers prepared cheeses and fruit on a low-lying table. An Alkarian lieutenant bowed as she poured two glasses of Cabrallian wine, immediately leaving their presence to stand guard a few metres away.
"It was peaceful, until Amihan was taken and you arrived." The Lady peered at her over the glass, her blue eyes unreadable.
Kahlan tried to hide her displeasure. "Then why take me here at all?"
The Lady shrugged enigmatically. "A war is coming. This place reminds me of what is at stake."
"Ah." Kahlan shifted uncomfortably in her seat, suddenly aware that the Lady was trying to tell her something without words.
"Have you ridden out to war before?" the Lady asked.
"I've prevented wars. I've never led an army and I don't intend to."
The Lady took a sip of her wine and said in the most offhand way, "Good. It isn't something I'd wish on myself."
"So where do we go from here?"
"I'll ride South to meet the armies. For all their talk, the Alkarians will follow me. You must stay here and wait for both our Cara's to wake up. Also," the Lady Rahl regarded her with a twinkle in her eye, "Amihan will be in your care while I'm gone. The Alkarians will ride with me and there is no one here I trust except Zedd. Between the both of you, I believe my daughter will be safe.
"As for the Senate," the Lady sighed, her knuckles white against her cup, "it will take them a while to come to a vote. Let's hope Cara wakes up in time to send reinforcements."
Kahlan held Amihan's hand when the Lady Rahl left before sunrise the next day. They watched from a balcony as the Alkarian captains bowed their obeisance, their bodies sheathed in red leather, their hair tied in orderly braids.
Denna brought the Lady her destrier and they exchanged nods, indications of a small truce. Berdine tried to a hide a smile. Dahlia muttered a barely audible, "About time." Everyone else seemed nonchalant. It was a surprising gesture for a Division that was loyal only to Cara Rahl.
Amihan's lips quivered as she clutched Kahlan's clothing. One could tell that it was taking all her strength not to cry.
"She'll be back," Kahlan reassured.
"Will you take me to her when the time comes?"
Kahlan frowned. "What do you mean?"
"My inya told me that we must protect our family at all costs."
"You're only a child, little one. You aren't charged with that duty yet." Kahlan smiled indulgently at her, stroking her hair.
"But will you?" Amihan stared at her with wide eyes, which were bluer and clearer than a summer day. They were filled with so much fire that Kahlan could not help but be reminded of Cara's gaze. Her chest heaved with the memory.
In the face of such zeal, Kahlan could not bring herself to say no. "When the time comes, we'll both be there and I shall protect you, whatever the cost."
"Ank'Tahim. That's the name of this place."
"High D'Haran for 'child of the peace'," He begins to sew her flesh together and Cara grits her teeth at the pain, "and another of the Division's infamous sojourns. Honestly, the Alkarians have outrageous privileges. I may have to discuss this with the Senate someday." He gazes at the date palms that are being harvested by several of Cara's men, the basins which are populated by thirsty horses.
Cara grins. "It's my measure of respite from the intrigues of the People's Palace."
"Strategically placed, too. You can hide an army behind these buttes," Richard raises a brow, mischief bright in his eyes, "which you are."
They snap to attention as a tall figure strides purposefully to the threshold of the shelter. His armour is coloured in the muted bronze of the Midlands, still stained with blood, while his black hair fills a helmet decorated with the plumes of foreign birds. His fair skin, dark hair, and blue eyes reveal his ancestry. This one was born and raised in Aydindril.
Cara nods to him. "Captain Renfeld. A pleasure to have you in our camp."
"A ride on horseback with a piece of cloth over my eyes isn't exactly a pleasure, General." He seems miffed by the indignity of his trip but his expression reveals that he has more pressing matters to discuss.
"Congratulations are in order for a flawless victory in Sassen," he continues before spying the gaping wound on her shoulder which Richard has managed to close, at least in part. "That will leave an ugly scar."
"What's a few more to those that I already have?" Cara touches the scar on her face and suddenly, the meaning behind her words falls like a house of bricks over all their heads: the unspoken events of Halin, the sacrifices at Sassen.
Jory Renfeld drops his gaze in embarrassment and then raises it to study their surroundings.
His delivery is in jest but Cara can hear the edge to it, "While my men have never seen a desert and cook slowly in its heat, yours seem much better off."
"Yes, well," Cara grabs a jug of wine from a side table and takes a violent swig, "hundreds of mine have died to break the Towers of Sassen, hundreds more of the Trimessi to defend them, D'Harans killing D'Harans," Cara spits, "My captains or I could hardly call it flawless."
Richard stops mid-stitch at the sudden tension in the tent and he puts a hand on Cara's arm to pacify her. Jory Renfeld is quickly aware that he has dug himself a hole to fall into and to his credit, remains quiet.
Cara rolls her eyes. "It's enough that we've come this far," she finally accedes. "I won't have any more of my men or of D'Hara's citizens die. Too many have joined me in this effort and too many have died."
"The Midlands shall honour its promises, General," Jory says. "The Mother Confessor herself shall ride with the Red Lions to the gates of the People's Palace."
Cara balls her hands into fists, hissing as Richard pierces her skin with the last of his stitches. "A squad of my men will open the gates from the inside. As for Darken," Cara expression blackens, "his head is mine. Your Mother Confessor owes me this honour and no one shall say otherwise."
Jory tilts his head as though he is thinking better of something. After a moment, he reaches into his satchel. "If that's the case," he says, producing a metal circlet, "then you will need one of these."
"The Red Lions! The Red Lions! Hail the Red Lions!"
She hears the jubilation, feels it like rain on her skin after a long and difficult drought.
The moment she enters marketplace, she could hear the tumultuous shouting of a citizenry that has realised it is entitled to protest. She looks around and wonders at the sudden lack of nobles on the streets.
Unexpectedly, her people gather around the squad she has appointed to accompany her on the mission to the Garden of Life. All around her, merchants and peasants congregate in droves as they leave their businesses and homes. Above her, children on the upper levels hang over balconies and passageways, waving their arms as they cry, "The Red Lions! Hail the Red Lions!"
Her men have given up on keeping everyone at bay. They are a sea of civilians that have managed to keep Darken's soldiers at a distance. Even a man of Darken's habits would not risk angering a mob as large as the populace of the Capital.
The Rebellion has breached the Palace walls and the people, with their intent, have spoken.
Richard the Truth Seeker was right.
Her heart tightens at the sight. They look thinner than when she saw them last and their faces are sallow. But their eyes light up like thousands of torches when they see the banner she holds in her hands: that of a red lion running in the wind, outlined in gold. It is the centuries-old standard of the Alkarian Division and symbolic of Panis Rahl's promise of peace when he took the High Seat.
She continues the blistering pace she has set.
She stops at the archway leading to the inner sanctums of the Palace. The Trimessi guard the labyrinth of rooms panelled in oak, which borders the Garden of Life. When they see her and the Alkarian standard, a Trimessi captain steps forward.
"General," he says. When she does not respond, he grinds his teeth before unbuckling his sword-belt. "I won't have any more Trimessi blood in these halls."
He instructs his men to throw their weapons at her feet, knowledge of the recent events in Sassen written on their faces; so many of them had fallen under the Alkarian fist. They peer past her at the wall of unarmed and common people. They also see her promise of death should they resist, both in her demeanour and the purpose of the crowd.
"Thank you, Captain."
They step aside and Cara steps through the archway, instructing her men to keep the civilians and the Trimessi behind it.
She can see Richard's familiar form shouldering through the crowd, followed by knowing murmurs of "Senator". He seems largely untouched because of the banner he has in his fists. Cara can see the head of a red beast not unlike her own insignia.
"Constance has opened the gates," he reports, breathless. "We've only allowed the Midlanders to the outer courtyards as a show of force. We can't afford any more bloodshed and the people are terrified as it is. If the Senate had a mind, they'd change sides right about now."
"Make them realise this is a hostile takeover of the government by my military. Anyone who does not comply will be branded a traitor and punished. Publicly."
"That's unheard of," Richard says, surprised.
"It should scare them enough."
The Senator laughs, jovial even at such a sombre time. It is one of Richard's more endearing traits. "Very well, General. It shall be done. I'm just glad I'm on your side."
Cara smiles for the first time that day. "You brought me to this side, Richard. If anyone should be credited with anything, it should be you."
"Nonsense," Richard says. "We'll speak of credit once Darken has paid the price for his madness. Do you have a plan?"
"Yes. But the Creator knows if it'll work against a wizard as powerful as Darken Rahl or in a room as difficult as the Garden of Life."
Richard grabs her arm. "I'll follow you to whatever end, Cara. I promised you that."
She nods, her lips set in a grim line. "To whatever end, my friend."
The Bond quivers its protest as she steps into the Garden of Life. Rays of sunlight decant from the leaded windows above to the Garden below, where they coalesce into an otherworldly glow. It veils the Garden in a fog of brilliance that makes it difficult to breathe or see. Motes of dust hover before her, revealing subtle pillars of dark and light.
She prowls past the flowerbeds at the outer ring of the Garden and through the winding trees that stand like sentinels armed with lush, flowering branches.
Near the centre, she finds the Lord Rahl, smiling mysteriously at her as she approaches.
She rarely comes to this place, and only at Panis' request. She remembers the slab of granite upon which Darken stands, the well which sits at its corner, and beyond it, the polished stone block set next to a fire pit. On the block is an iron bowl held up by the legs of iron beasts and the handle of its lid shaped in the form of a Shinga, a creature of the Underworld.
At the very centre of the Garden is white sorcerer's sand, criss-crossed with symbols that are more archaic than any language Cara has studied.
"You have come for me, as my advisers have always predicted. I should have had you killed long before my business with Nicobarese. Long before Halin." He grins dangerously at her. "I'm glad I didn't spare you the pain of your family's death, you insolent peasant."
Hot anger surges from Cara's chest and she unsheathes her sword. "The common people are the pillars of our civilisation, you arrogant son of a bitch. Your duty is to serve them."
Darken guffaws. "D'Hara deserves a stronger aristocracy. It deserves the homage of all other nations. My House has tolerated enough of this…democracy," the word comes out as a sneer. "An idea that Panis' forefathers have blathered about for centuries. It has weakened D'Hara. I intend to make this country strong, stronger than it ever has been by giving power to those entitled to it!"
He cackles as magic swirls around his fingertips.
"Richard! Now!" Cara screams.
Richard emerges from the vegetation at Darken's right. He sprints forward, his sword at the ready. With a growl, Darken hits him with the spell meant for Cara and Richard hurtles backwards, his weapon clattering to the ground.
Cara uses the distraction and runs the remaining distance. The Rada'Han is ready in her other hand.
She does not anticipate Darken's speed when he throws a weak and hasty fireball her way. It singes her arm and the pain forces her to let go of the artefact. It also slows her down enough that the next spell knocks her entirely off her feet.
She hits a medium-sized tree after traveling several feet in the air and coughs up blood as soon as she hits the ground. When she stands, however, Darken has manipulated invisible tendrils around her and binds her in place. They tighten until she is struggling for air.
Squinting, she checks if Richard is moving. He is facedown, seemingly unconscious.
Her mind begins to cloud with panic as darkness edges around her vision. She needs to buy them time.
"Come now, Darken," she rasps. "There must be some other way than war. I can help you."
Already, she feels a tell-tale vibration in the air as Darken draws a deadly enchantment together. From her lessons with Panis, she knows that there is no escape from Wizard's Fire.
"Cara, Cara," Darken says patronizingly. "Don't mistake me for a fool. I have always known you would never join me. And really? For you to defy a Rahl? You should have known that death would be waiting at the end of this road."
"You have no idea. It's all I've ever wanted since Halin," Cara breathed, standing in anticipation of the hell that Darken was conjuring.
She looks to Richard, wills him to wake up, and prays for the first time in her long and harrowing life. Nothing happens so she screams instead, "Richard! Damn you! Get up!"
Darken raises his arm in preparation for the liquid fire that would tumble from his fingers like a thing alive.
Suddenly, a flurry of white emerges from behind Darken, its strides long and purposeful. Hands click the metal circlet around his neck.
Darken backhands the intruder that has sneaked up on him and it is the slender figure of Kahlan Amnell which falls from the granite step.
Cara spares her a bewildered look before Darken's spell of binding loosens. She coughs and breathes greedily.
Darken does not seem to notice Cara's newly gained freedom, preoccupied with his impending victory. He glowers at them with triumph in his eyes. "Ah, more's the pleasure! To have both the Mother Confessor and the Lion-heart at my mercy!"
He raises his hand as he mutters another incantation but his expression turns gravely attentive. "What in the Creator's name…"
Immediately, he scrunches his face in agony. He pulls at the metal circlet as though it is made of fire.
Cara does not waste a moment more. She takes a fortifying breath as she picks up her sword, lopes to the centre of the Garden and kicks the Lord Rahl behind the knees. Darken drops to the ground with a cry. She circles him like a hawk before bearing the sword swiftly across his neck.
His head drops to the stone floor like a piece of ripe fruit and his body follows shortly after. Blood sprays across the circular lawn. It stains the stone, the leaves of nearby plants, and mingles with the deep red of her leathers.
Cara steps back, feeling a tremendous weight lift. Without warning, the strength in her bones leaves her and she nearly collapses before she can steady herself. Sitting down on the back of her thighs gingerly, she shivers with the burden of all her struggles as though she is in a fever, expelling a disease. She hears the Mother Confessor limp nearer.
Kahlan's boots appear in her line of sight.
"You saved my life," Cara croaks, managing to kneel on one knee with the intention of boosting herself up to stand.
"I owe you so much more than just Darken's death."
The Mother Confessor stoops forward and wraps her hand around Cara's throat.
Cara's body slackens with understanding. Her affairs here are done, D'Hara is free. She can welcome death; Leo and the boys are waiting for her in the afterlife.
Kahlan clasps her jaw and forces her to meet her gaze. Perhaps it is the light, but the colour in Kahlan's eyes changes slightly.
Cara never thought that death could be so beautiful.
Kahlan whispers, "But I owe D'Hara so much more." Her fingers loosen and she lets her go.
Cara heaves a rattled sigh, lays her body on the cold ground as she crumples inward, and weeps the last of her tears.
TBC