Love
"Sweeting, are you all right?"
Rachel squinted against the blazing light that drenched the room, some part of her dimly recognizing the voice calling from the other side of the door.
If Richard would just stop that dreadful hammering, maybe she could figure out what who it was.
Turning her face away from the glare, Rachel sought to get her bearings, heart thudding in her chest as she sought to grab on to something – anything – that would keep her from spiraling into the void.
But thankfully the world had stopped corkscrewing around her. Now if she could just get to her feet and escape this dreadful place.
Rachel's fingers found the comfort of solid wood and gripped, striving to pull herself upright.
It was no good.
Hands slippery with sweat and exhaustion, she fell back to the floor. But instead of meeting cold marble, her cheek came to rest against something soft and warm. She just needed a few minutes to catch her breath before trying again.
"My Lady!"
Whoever was yelling sounded very frantic.
Finally gathering enough strength to raise her head, Rachel studied her surroundings, eyes adjusting to the brightness in the room.
She was in her own bed, the mid-day sun pouring through the windows. Its warmth filled the chamber.
Propping herself up groggily against the pillows, Rachel glanced about the room. Everything was just as it had always been. The bedclothes were twisted into a heap at the foot of the bed, where she must have pushed them during her sleep.
Bits and pieces of memory began seeping back into her mind.
Rachel dimly remembered coming in here and lying down just before dawn, while that horrible drunken woman – Bess? – was snoring in the sitting room.
She must have dozed off right after the hunting party left, and in a few hours of slumber traversed forty-one years.
It had all been a dream.
She had talked to Richard only in her imagination.
But never before had one of her dreams seemed so tangible.
So deliberate.
Rachel's dream-self had acted with a purpose and decisiveness she had never exerted in daily life, and whatever force had driven that dream-self hovered just beyond Rachel's waking comprehension.
"Lady! Sweeting! Rachel! Answer me! Open this door," Mags shouted. "When did you start locking your door anyway?"
"I'm fine, Mags, just give me a minute," Rachel croaked, her throat raw. Her mouth tasted of dust.
Wearily Rachel stood and pulled a robe on over her nightshift and a scarf over her sleep - tousled hair, her stiff movements those of a woman five times her age, every muscle in her body aching and sore. Shuffling across the room, she felt as if she really had spent the past few hours running up and down stairs, and all over the palace.
Pulling back the bolt, she had barely opened the door before she was swept up in sturdy maternal arms. Wincing in pain against the fervent embrace, Rachel kissed Mags on the cheek before gently releasing herself.
"Mags, I've missed you so much, but I didn't think you would be back until tomorrow."
Rachel's vivid dreams often caused her to lose track of time.
"Yes, lass, but I felt like a fifth wheel around that place with the new wife taking over. I raised every single one of those nephews, yet not a one of'em picked a woman worth my little finger. I'd overstayed my welcome and thought I'd come back to where I was needed."
The woman gestured at the empty sofa with disgust. "I warned them not to let that lack-wit Bess watch over you, but it looks like they didn't listen."
Mags was always talking about the mysterious "they" who seemed to be anyone and everyone who didn't see eye-to-eye with her view of the world. "The sot was snoring away when I walked into the room. I could have been an invading army come to carry you off for all she knew. I got her sorted out fast enough and sent her back to sweeping up after Lord Rahl's guests. I think she's sober enough by now to manage that much."
Despite her worries, Rachel was relieved to have her beloved companion back. "I'm so glad you're here. I always feel so lost without you."
Her smile faltered as her waking problems flooded over her again.
"Ah, what's this, sweeting? Nothing's changed then with your father, has it?" Mags asked softly. "Well, he'll come round, I'm sure of it."
"I only have two more days, Mags. If he hasn't even talked to me in a week, what's going to change in two days?"
"Lass, I know it sounds harsh, but it's not the end of the world. You're not getting married in two days. it's still only a betrothal. You have plenty of time," Mags tried to reassure her young mistress.
"You don't know all of it," Rachel was dangerously close to tears. It seemed that she was always close to tears these days. "There's more. There are things that woman said about Father, about how he feels about me, terrible things. And I know that some of them are true. I've seen it in his face – in his eyes."
"What woman?" Mags demanded. "Bess? That one doesn't know where she's at half the time, much less anything about Lord Rahl. I doubt he's ever spoken to her, or even looked at her for that matter."
Rachel shook her head. "No, not Bess," she whispered.
"Who, then? Tell me, child."
But Rachel had already said too much. Even if she broke her promise to Bess and told Mags about Mistress Theta, it wouldn't change anything, so why get the poor woman in more trouble.
Mags chucked Rachel gently under the chin. "You listen to me, Lass. Your father put me in charge of your care when you were less than a week old. He spoke to me personally, he did. Since then I've seen the two of you together more times than I can count. I've seen the way he looks when he talks about you, and I've seen the way he looks at you when you don't even know it."
"Lord Rahl's not a man to show his feelings. Men like him think it's a weakness. But if there's ever been an exception to that, it's for you. I may not be a Confessor, but even I can see the way he feels about you."
Rachel wasn't convinced. "That was before, Mags, before…. everything happened. He doesn't feel the same way about me now."
She gazed at the other woman despondently. "Sometimes I think he's beginning to hate me."
Rachel had never broached the subject of Kahlan's fate with her nurse, although Margaret had to have known something was drastically wrong. Rachel couldn't bear to bring it up because of her own pain and guilt. Also, she was well aware that Mags cared very little for the queen.
Margaret was raised in a D'Haran family that had been loyal to the House of Rahl for generations. While she loved to talk about her nephews serving in the Third Battalion and the Dragon Corp, she rarely mentioned her own parents, her brothers or her fiancé.
Jonathon Egremont was a good friend of one of Margaret's nephews, and several years ago had told Rachel about her nurse's family.
Margaret's father and older brother had been killed defending Darken Rahl from an assassination attempt at Ravensburg, during which Jonathon's own father had been severely wounded. Her younger brothers had died at the hands of the Resistance, and her fiancé had been murdered, along with the rest of his quad, by his confessed commander.
Mags had many reasons to dislike Kahlan Amnell. She and her family had been quietly appalled at Lord Rahl's marriage to the Seeker's staunchest ally. But despite her reservations, the woman had, almost against her will, come to love the Confessor's daughter as dearly as she could have loved any child born of her own body.
"Pish, child!" Mags said impatiently. "When they were growing up there were times I would have cheerfully throttled any one of my nephews. Christopher was a constant trial to me - running off for days at a time, once even setting the house on fire. Yet all the same, I would have given my life for any of them without a second thought. Anybody who tells you that they've never been angry with, or had moments when they've even hated, someone they love is a liar."
Rachel stared at her wide-eyed, hanging onto every word.
Mags regarded Rachel keenly. "Tell me, sweeting, how is it possible for even a Confessor to know the entire truth of a person just by looking into their eyes for a few moments? What can that possibly tell you other than what they are thinking or feeling right at that minute? How can you ever know what they might have been thinking the day before – even five minutes before? How can you know what they will be thinking or feeling a day later? I don't pretend to be a wise woman, but my own life has taught me that people are confoundedly hard to understand."
"Promise me - the next time you question your father's feelings for you, remind yourself of what I've just told you."
"I promise," Rachel said hopefully. Mag's common sense approach to love and life had never been part of her years of training.
"Enough of this moping about!" Mags blustered. "You're white as a sheet, thin as a rail and your hair looks a tangled mess. You're going to eat something even if I have to stand over you and force every bite into your mouth."
Rachel grinned. She was feeling much better. "I am hungry, but first I need to bathe and get dressed."
She pulled off the large robe and her scarf and let them drop to the floor. Her hair, freed from the wrap, tumbled about her shoulders.
Mags gasped in shock. She had been so intent on easing Rachel's inner hurt that she had not taken time to really look at the girl until now.
"Where on earth have you been, child? What's happened to you?" She strode over to Rachel's side, tenderly brushing her fingers through the girl's hair. Withered leaves and cobwebs came away in her hand as dust swirled around both of them. A small shard of glass clinked as it hit the floor.
Rachel gazed down at her nightshift. She had only put it on last night, yet now it was filthy, smeared with dirt and sweat.
Her foot stung. Tossing off a slipper, she saw the source of the pain – a sliver of glass was lodged in her toe.
Numbly, she recalled walking through the debris and dust of her father's deserted audience chamber forty-one years in the future.
She remembered the shattered glass littering the floor.
The words spoken to Richard rang clearly in her head.
Was this the reason her entire body ached to the bone, as if she had been yanked from one reality into another?
Had Rachel somehow been with her uncle in the future, talked to him and then returned, ending up in exactly the same place as she had begun?
It was impossible!
Maybe she was losing her mind.
Through a mounting haze of terror, Rachel groped for purchase in a world where the line between reality and dreams was beginning to blur.
She struggled to hide her fear.
"I wanted to wear one of my old rings, Mags, but couldn't find it. I looked everywhere. I even crawled under the bed and went through all the old closets. I didn't realize what a grubby mess I was," Rachel explained.
"I never found the ring though," she finished faintly.
Mags looked doubtful, but said nothing as she bustled off to draw a hot bath.
Rachel wished she could tell her the truth, if she only knew what it was.
oOo
An hour later, after soaking the grime from her body and changing into clean clothes, Rachel managed to force down some hot tea and piece of dry toast under the anxious supervision of Mags. After the meager lunch, she settled herself in the window seat. Absently chewing on a thumbnail, she went through the motions of reading a book she memorized years ago.
Spending too many days confined in these rooms was making her grow morbid. She must stop fretting and start planning.
It had been cowardly of her to ask poor Mags to relay messages to Father. Rachel should have gone to him days ago, but had been too timid. She had ventured into the hallway several times over the past week and had never been questioned or stopped, so it was doubtful that her father had even ordered the guards to confine her.
He had relied on her to be her own jailor, and she had docilely complied.
Father and the others would be back by early evening. A day on horseback in the open air always put him in good humor. He usually liked a glass of wine when he first returned. That might be the best time to waylay him.
He was a fastidious man. It might be better to wait until he had bathed and changed.
Perhaps even wiser to wait until he had supped and was completely at ease for the evening.
This was ridiculous. She was going to talk herself out of doing anything if she didn't stop dithering.
Rachel determined that she would go to him as he was enjoying his wine. She would speak to him respectfully but firmly, setting out her case calmly and without tears. Surely he would listen.
Both her mother and Mistress Theta had wanted to convince her that father didn't care for her, but she had to push their words aside and, instead, cling to Margaret's wisdom about the nature of love.
Yes, her father had been angry with her, but that didn't erase everything else he felt for her. Rachel knew he had loved her. That security had warmed her childhood. She couldn't have imagined it.
Ah – but didn't you believe the same about your mother and look how that turned out.
She battled her qualms. Mother had loved her, too, until Rachel had destroyed her life. And for a few hours last winter, she had hated her mother enough to make the disastrous decision that had blown everything apart.
But Rachel's love for her mother had conquered her hatred.
Might it not be the same for her mother? If Rachel could only talk to Kahlan, maybe her mother could begin to understand why her daughter had broken her promise.
Maybe Mother would forgive her.
Maybe Rachel could finally forgive herself.
She made a silent vow. If her mother would absolve her, if her father would soften towards her again, Rachel would carry out his wishes without complaint. The problem, of course, was that she couldn't gain her mother's forgiveness without disobeying her father, stirring him to greater wrath. She would have to take the risk, and beg his forgiveness after.
She would promise to marry the man chosen for her, turning him into a mindless slave.
She would use her abilities as a Confessor at her father's bidding and continue to endure his endless lectures about what to do when Richard arrived.
Rachel had her own opinions about Richard's arrival, but if her experience with her mother had taught her anything, it was to keep certain truths close to her heart. She would nod and smile at her father, and keep her own counsel.
Rachel would dutifully bear children in order to continue the line of Confessors, while trying not to reflect too hard on the absence of any Confessors in her dream.
What had happened to her children?
Why hadn't she been able to mourn before her parent's tombs? Why couldn't she even enter the room? Rachel shivered again at the memory of the crypt.
As bleak as it seemed, the future mapped out by her father was still better than the future her mother had intended for her daughter.
Daughters of great men rarely chose their fates. She was more fortunate than most.
For an instant, Rachel wondered what her life would have been if she had been a different kind of person – stronger, more rebellious, defiant, independent. But she couldn't change her basic nature.
Perhaps such rebellion would have brought about only more grief.
There was little time left for reflection. Her father's party would be returning in a few hours. If she was going to see her mother, it had to be now.
Worried that Mags might be blamed for her actions, Rachel sent the woman on an errand in the village. She longed to confide in her, but dare not.
The less her beloved Mags knew, the safer she would be.
Studying her reflection in the mirror, Rachel changed into a different dress and drug a comb through her thick hair. In deference to her mother, she donned white instead of D'Haran red. She ran her fingers thoughtfully over the amber pendant she wore round her throat. The chain had once belonged to her paternal grandmother, a woman Rachel had never met, but who she knew had died very young and very alone. Rachel's father had given the precious relic to her on the eve of her twelfth birthday.
It was her greatest treasure.
Drawing a deep breath to fortify her resolve, Rachel turned away from her image and walked out of the room, closing the door firmly behind her.
Nobody challenged her as she walked the length of the hallway, nor when she crossed the great audience room towards her mother's chambers, a lonely white figure amidst a sea of red.
A/N: The story behind Rachel's amber pendant and why it is so precious to her can be found in my short fic "Legacy" which was posted here a few months ago.