A/N: As I've promised, here's a short summary of the story thus far: Intent on returning a child to her parents, Cara and Kahlan are transported to a world similar yet very different from theirs. Past chapters have seen our Cara fall under the unum's spell, within which she experiences the Lord Cara Rahl's (aka alt!Cara) past. This includes the Fall of Halin and the loss of alt!Cara's family, Darken Rahl's death, and alt!Cara's rise to the High Seat of D'Hara (with alt!Kahlan's help).
Chapter 24 still happens in the unum and describes the events that finally solidify the alliance between D'Hara and the Midlands, in particular, alt!Cara and alt!Kahlan's marriage. Chapter 25 is about the issues they have to navigate as they realise that with different factions involved, the alliance is not as simple as it seems. The chapter also allows us a look into alt!Cara and alt!Kahlan's burgeoning feelings.
I credit Sionainn69 for the exceptional beta work. Without her, this story would have been impossible to write. Thank you so much!
Enjoy!
Part I.
She's a striking figure moving past carts, horses and soldiers, her loose blonde hair tamed only by a metal circlet over the crown of her head. She wears a thick, sable coat, black trousers and a pair of riding boots. The Red Lion's emblem sits at her right breast, a rearing beast lined in gold. Flecks of frost streak her clothing, mud and snow climbing up from the bottom of a dark, fur-lined cape.
Soldiers in the heavy bronze of the Midlands give her a wide berth, eyeing her beneath their winter hoods, their breath seething out in thick puffs of steam.
Cara acknowledges them with a tilt of her head. Their uneasy bows tell her that they are unused to the attentions of a noblewoman. Others grin at her from beneath frosty eyebrows, memories of her morning training sessions with the Aydindril Home Guard still fresh in their minds.
A young man runs up to her, dragging a chestnut mare behind him. He is dressed warmly and draped in the colours of Aydindril's House.
"My Lord," he greets.
"What is it?"
"The Mother Confessor requests your presence." He hands her the reigns.
It is a four-mile walk from this part of the camp to the large hall where Cara knows Kahlan performs her duties. This is either an urgent request or a subtle display of Kahlan's sway over her wife.
Cara bites the inside of her cheek as she mounts the Kelton steed, not knowing whether to be amused or annoyed. "What of her appointments this morning?"
The servant merely bows, perhaps ignorant of the answer or choosing not to reply. Intrigued, Cara dismisses him.
She urges her mount towards a building in the distance, only slightly larger than the Confessor's Palace itself, which looms over Aydindril. The Palace's spires reach up towards the sky, its outline lost in low clouds blowing in from the western mountain ranges, the sun indistinct amidst a swirl of whites.
She rides past the more congested parts of Aydindril's wintry city, avoiding the eaves of several low houses and careful to slow her horse to a walk when she passes a congregation of homes. Several children reach up for her feet, shouting excitedly, "My Lord, my Lord!" while their mothers or fathers look on. The children squeal their delight when she grins down at them, and sometimes she pats one or two on the head.
Hostility from her first days in Aydindril hasn't entirely faded, and the adults' weathered expressions are replaced by wariness and curiosity, as though unsure of what to make of her.
When she approaches the tall poles notched with markings which denote the marketplace within the city walls, she is one of a few allowed on horse-back. Merchants with their carts and a number of the citizenry –their arms laden with fruit and meat –part to the sides of the wide cobblestone road.
D'Haran officers, the few who have been allowed within the walls to sample Midlander culture, are distinct with their blonde hair and blue eyes. They say loudly, "My Lord Rahl!" while bowing to their waists. The greeting, laced in the hard, D'Haran accent, grates through the hubbub and many turn their heads to watch as the Lord Rahl of the D'Haran Empire picks her way through the marketplace without a proper escort.
She is relieved when her horse begins its climb leading up to the wide courtyard which surrounds the Confessor's Palace. As yet, she hasn't gotten used to all the attention her rank affords her.
The noise of the market dwindles while the strikes of her horse's hooves are loud against the walls, alerting the Aydindril Home Guard to her presence.
They do not reprimand her even when all others, including the highest ranking nobles, are required to deposit their mounts at the stables. They seem familiar with this Rahl's proclivity for startling entrances and they bow as is customary towards the Mother Confessor's consort.
Cara enters the Palace through a large archway which is guarded on either side by tall, marble statues of Kahlan's ancestors. Further in, smaller, oak doors are opened for her, the guards bowing in greeting rather than obeisance; after all, many of the Palace's guards hail from the ruined city of Nicobarese. Loyalty isn't something they grant simply by her association to the Mother Confessor.
The interiors of the Confessor's Palace are noticeably warmer, heated by a clever system of ducts and magical artefacts. Representatives from the Central Council, usually in groups of two or three, leave an unoccupied, wide circle around her as though she is plagued by a disease.
She is familiar with this treatment. She is a foreigner, and her forbearer was a mindless conqueror who had no respect for their borders. In their eyes, she hardly deserves a second glance.
She unfastens her cloak, which fall into the arms of a waiting servant. She also undoes the first few clasps of her coat, leaving a fair amount of cleavage on display.
The servant informs her of Kahlan's whereabouts. Cara's quick strides bring her deeper into the Confessor's Palace. She walks past a fountain that branches out into a maze of corridors and encounters Zedd just as she enters a wide entryway which leads to a part of Aydindril's library. He is hurrying towards the stables, carrying several books, and stuffing them into a rucksack as he goes. Three scrolls stick out from a pocket in his robes.
He smiles widely when he sees her. The wizard seems to be one of only a few who are genuinely pleased by her presence in Aydindril.
"Lord Cara Rahl," he greets.
"Wizard Zedd." Cara quickly thinks of a topic to ease them into a conversation. "How is Richard?"
"He had headaches but those have subsided, thank the Creator." He tilts his head, taking in her presence and how it seems as though she has just arrived from the ramparts beyond the gates. Then, just as boorishly as he treats a majority of things, he adds, "I've drawn the hexes in the Mother Confessor's chambers, just like every other day I've been here."
Cara frowns. Inasmuch as she values Zedd's guidance, he finds great amusement in riddles, jokes and general impropriety, very much like a mischievous child.
"You don't have to remind me," Cara replies, miffed.
"Don't I?" Zedd looks at her from beneath his thick, bushy eyebrows and waggles them suggestively. "Make sure you put my fertility spells to good use, every day as recommended or you won't hear the end of it."
Cara blushes, indignant. "Have you no respect, wizard?"
"Respect?" Zedd prattles, throwing up his arms and dropping his books along with them. "What need do I have for respect! We need an heir! Bah!" He glares at her before realising that his haul of precious research is on the floor. He barks, "What are you standing there for? Help an old man, I have a bad back."
Sighing, Cara checks for any witnesses before bending over to pick up Zedd's things. She places them in the sack he leaves open for her.
"It's criminal, what you get away with," she mutters.
He closes the sack, dust wafting up from the dirty container and lugs it over his shoulder, telling her pointedly, "I'll see you. Tomorrow." Cara rolls her eyes at the emphasis. Zedd continues, "Don't you dare waste my spells, Lord Rahl. All that work!"
"I never do," Cara retorts.
She only realises what she has said as soon as the words are out of her mouth. By then, Zedd is grinning. Cara glares; he is far cleverer than he lets on.
"Good!" Zedd says.
He leaves before she can compose a scathing reply, chortling his way past the entryway and around a corner to the stables. For all Cara knows, he is laughing all the way back to the Wizard's Keep.
Cara shakes her head and begins climbing a series of stone staircases built around the outside of the Confessor's Palace. Several windows provide a view of the surrounding land. Even as she feels the cold bite past her clothing, the scene never ceases to amaze her.
The capital city of Aydindril rests against an outcropping of rock, its edges sprawling towards the River Kern, which splits to either side of the city. Beyond the river are forested plains that stretch to the darkened Boundary in the east, south to a more temperate Galea and west to the tall, snowy peaks of the Rang'Shada mountain ranges.
From the rooms in the west wing, one can see a forest of evergreens meander at the entrance of the Jara Pass, dwindling up the mountain faces on either side. It is a blanket of muted green, lost beneath the morning's snow. The Pass itself is a break in Rang'Shada that provides a week-long journey to the ruins of Nicobarese.
The snows have begun to melt elsewhere but Aydindril, situated far north, is experiencing the last, desperate snowfalls of winter's clutches.
As a D'Haran who grew up in warmer climates, Cara should have hated the weather. Except that she doesn't for reasons that are slowly revealing themselves to her.
She enters the private sitting room, gravitating towards the hearth burning brightly in the centre. She lounges on the furs and rearranges cushions on the floor, finding a comfortable spot three paces from the fire. A servant brings her a steaming mug of cider and a tray of bread, cheese and warm stew.
She begins to wolf down the meal, only aware of Kahlan's presence when a lithe figure in a white dress rises from a nearby desk. She was hidden behind a bookcase. Cara tracks Kahlan's movements as she joins her.
"Forgive me, my lady," Cara mumbles with her mouth full as Kahlan sits beside her. "I didn't realise you were here."
"Oh please. As though we both didn't already know that you lack the manners of a noble."
Cara raises a brow. "What?" she exclaims with a hand on her chest, taking mock offense. "Why, I'm the Lord of D'Hara! Manners are beneath me."
That has the intended effect. The worry creasing Kahlan's brow smoothens as she gives Cara a small, grateful smile. She pilfers a grape from Cara's plate and slips it into her mouth. Cara finds herself staring at Kahlan's moistened lips.
"The Central Council has been jittery; I'm growing tired of their constant whingeing. 'An entire regiment of Alkarians at their doorstep," Kahlan mimics in the honeyed tones of a Council member, "whatever shall we do? What if they decide to take over Aydindril in one fell sweep? With only two thousand men?'"
Her voice hardens, "Spirits! You would think some of them never marched against each other. They would rather bicker about the Alkarian Regiment than realise that Darken's retainers have hindered the reconstruction of Nicobarese!"
"Is this why you've called me here?" Cara asks. "To report on the preparations? You could have sent for Jory instead. Or Raina."
"Raina? Really? She'd rather hunt for non-existent boar in this weather than spend a minute indoors." Kahlan eyes glint with amusement. "Jory avoids its intrigues as much as he can. I can't say the same of you, my Lord."
Cara shrugs. "Indeed, and the stew tastes better indoors. But that can't be the only reason why you've asked for me, can it?"
Kahlan rolls her eyes and concedes, "I do prefer your presence to the Council's." Cara can't help a triumphant smirk but it is quickly tempered by Kahlan's, "On occasion, mind you."
They consider each other with bemused smiles. It's only been a few months since their wedding but Cara regards Kahlan with brazen curiosity –her gaze takes in Kahlan's guileless blue eyes, cheeks that are rosy from the cold, the dark locks which fall against the sides of her face in fascinating rivulets. Without thinking, Cara's hand tucks an errant strand behind Kahlan's ear. The touch is still unfamiliar, still somewhat reserved but Kahlan does not pull away and neither of them stiffens into an uncomfortable silence.
Instead, Cara feels her heart beat a little bit faster. She clears her throat. "Now that the horsemen from Kelton have arrived, the First will be ready to march through the Pass and finally begin the campaign."
"We could have handled it ourselves," Kahlan chides. "I can't believe you've only requested thirty men from Jory's regiment."
Cara caresses Kahlan's chin with the pad of her thumb, a gesture that is more affectionate than she intends. "The D'Haran Empire will right its wrongs," Cara says. "If the rogues in the Jara Pass swear fealty to the D'Haran High Seat, which has been asked of them time and time again, then we will avoid needless bloodshed. If they wish to stay adamant about their so-called loyalties to Darken Rahl and continue their sacking of Jaran towns by the morrow, then they shall meet the sharp end of my sword."
Cara's expression becomes drawn. Deeds enacted by the Rahl before her weigh heavily on her shoulders despite Kahlan's willingness to exonerate D'Hara's crimes in the privacy of their bedchambers. "Darken Rahl gave those western retainers too much freedom by letting them loose on Nicobarese. They've grown drunk with it. Women and men who are addicted to that brand of power can be unreasonable, reckless and sometimes mindless things." Cara becomes grim. "Hopefully the prospect of death at the Red Lion's hand will cure them of it."
"You don't like loose ends," Kahlan says, putting a hand on Cara's thigh.
Kahlan's tendency to communicate through touch is one of many things Cara has learned to accept. It's also something that the Mother Confessor displays to no one but her.
They are friends, yes.
Cara finds herself visiting the Confessor's Palace not for the stew but for the company. On the rare occasions that she hunts in the surrounding forests, she surrenders the kill to the Palace's kitchens, gutting the animals herself before letting the cooks handle the meat. Kahlan would sometimes find her rushing to get to a bath, covered in blood and reeking of entrails.
"I have men and women who can do this for me," Kahlan says on one such incident.
Cara shrugs, unable to explain why she takes an interest in the contents of her wife's meals.
Kahlan's features soften. "I enjoyed the pheasant last time. Thank you."
Then and there, when Kahlan smiles and tells her with a look that her gestures have been noticed, Cara realises her reasons and she braves the forests once more with renewed purpose.
They share their meals, they swap stories. More often than not, Cara sends for D'Haran wine aged in the cellars of Acrimar, bringing expensive vintages to their table for Kahlan to enjoy. She secretly takes pride in Kahlan's praise of a particular year, as though Cara has grown the vines herself.
Cara learns of Kahlan's sheltered childhood, the discipline instilled upon young Confessors and the responsibility that was set on Kahlan's shoulders even before she could reason. She learns that Kahlan's mother was a powerful Queen and that her father was Confessed by choice, opting for a life of service to the Mother Confessor. It was a partnership that brought two nations together to form what is now Galea.
"I'm no stranger to such unions. They bear their own fruit," Kahlan tells her, referring to their own situation.
Cara is saddened, but she is also proud. One can tell that Kahlan tries to deny all notions of a life that could have been different. It would be too painful –and much too foolish –to think that perhaps she could have grown up as a normal, carefree girl instead of an heir to a throne and the next Mother Confessor. It would be too far from the truth.
In conversations that are punctuated with laughter, Cara also learns of Kahlan's training with the wizards of the Keep and of her close friendship with Zedd, who guides her through much of her travails after her mother's death.
As she fills an empty cup with stories of Kahlan's life, Cara is compelled to fill it too. She begins with only the surface –her life as a young Alkarian recruit, the early deeds that brought her to Panis Rahl's attention. But because Kahlan listens so well and because she wheedles so much more convincingly (and subtly) than Zedd, Cara dredges up memories that are more painful: the sacrifices that gained her the ranking of General at such a young age, the campaign against Michael Cypher's rebellion.
They both know that the subject of Cara's family will be reserved for a much later date, when time has allowed her wounds to scab over. Not healed, no –Cara doubts the wounds will ever close, but she is determined to lay them out for Kahlan to see and for Cara to take apart until they become that dull ache which never goes away.
Cara never knew that she would take Kahlan's companionship so willingly or be soothed by her compassion. There are many things about Kahlan Amnell that do not manifest in a Central Council meeting or the battlefield or even in the hearing of supplicants. Cara finds that she enjoys them, and revels in being one of only a few who sees this side to her.
Her heart, which sometimes can hardly be stilled, tells Cara that they are not just friends. As though to fling its point in her direction, Cara's mind grabs a memory from a few nights ago: Kahlan's firm body writhing beneath her, those lips whispering her name, the Rada'Han shining around a delicate, tanned neck.
Cara tucks the memory away, trying to keep her expression from revealing her thoughts.
"Loose ends have a way of biting your behind when you least expect it." Cara raises a goblet of mead, a salute to past mistakes that have taught her better, and then sips. In a more serious tone, she continues, "Anyway, I will have the people of the Midlands accept the Mother Confessor's consort."
Kahlan blue eyes widen; a small articulation of surprise. She insists, "The Midlands abides by the Mother Confessor's decisions. And you're hardly a consort. You're the Lord Rahl."
"Abiding is very different from loyalty. We cannot rule a reluctant populace. This is my chance to clear Rahl's name."
"You take too much upon yourself."
"So do you," Cara scolds. She takes the hand on her thigh, turning it over and kissing Kahlan's palm. She watches as Kahlan licks her lips as warmth touches warmth and it strikes Cara that this beautiful woman is her lover.
She once thought their love-making would become mechanical, that their imperative to produce a child would make it a cold attempt. Instead, Cara finds great solace in knowing that the nights are moments spent with her. Kahlan waits for her and as soon as they lie together, Cara lets her guard down. If the day has been particularly gruelling, they would spend the night lying side by side simply talking, chipping away at each other's barriers and slipping into the dream world, aided by the soft, whispered notes of each other's voices.
Ah, but there are times –and indeed there are too many for Cara to readily admit –when Cara can't help but acquiesce to Kahlan's touch, to be drawn in by the desire burning in her eyes. Cara revels in being the object of Kahlan's attentiveness, of shyness punctuated by surprising boldness in bed. She allows Cara's unyielding exploration of what brings her pleasure, and this form of surrender only entices Cara to have more.
It is rare to find a lover with Kahlan's bold sensuality, one who knows what she wants and expresses them without fear. Cara supposes that the Mother Confessor has known no other way. The kings and queens of the Midlands bow to the ruler of Aydindril and they rely on her clear-mindedness. So every time Kahlan whispers for Cara to take her, her voice hoarse with arousal and certainty, Cara's skin is lit with flame and her heart bursts with a thousand, nameless emotions.
She complies. Always –if only to try and extinguish the heat but it only burns warmer and warmer until pleasure crests in a wave and washes her away with it.
It is with these recollections that she looks at Kahlan now.
"I'm going to kiss you," she informs her without preamble, sweeping all other topics aside. This rarely happens, if at all. Cara is usually so engrossed with her tasks as Commander and Lord.
Kahlan fumbles for a reply but Cara's lips are already on hers, a soft, wet tongue tracing her lower lip.
Cara bides her time, savouring Kahlan's taste –the tang of mead, the warmth of her breath, the sweetness which reminds Cara of honey. When Kahlan's tongue slips against hers –its shape wet and soft and coiling around Cara's with its own, lustful patois –the jolt shoots straight to her gut and further down. The fists which have gathered Cara's tight-fitting coat pull her even closer and before Cara has the sense to escalate their tryst, Kahlan's hand inches its way to the buttons of Cara's coat, slipping underneath to feel her warm skin.
Cara smiles against Kahlan's mouth, pulling away to press her lips against her chin as she watches Kahlan's other hand work on the remaining buttons.
"There are no spells in this room, Mother Confessor," she whispers.
Kahlan momentarily clutches her collar, her thumb caressing the soft fur which lines it. "When are you going to call me by my name? I think we're past titles, don't you?"
Cara purses her lips, her eyes twinkling as she catches Kahlan's eye. "I don't know," she ponders aloud. Cara wraps an arm around Kahlan's waist and drags her bodily across the remaining distance between them, positioning Kahlan's body between her thighs.
And just as her emotions are bound to ambush her at the most inopportune times, she feels a lump in her throat. Apprehension pushes against her chest as she locks gazes with her wife but she forces the sound out by saying, "Kahlan."
Cara swallows. The name slips like silk from her tongue.
She has always been afraid to utter it because so much is attached to the name: the fate of Nicobarese, the demise of Halin, the travails that have brought her the High Seat of D'Hara. Surprisingly, Cara's voice paints it differently. There is tenderness there and hints of a smile. Kahlan kisses her then, as though to taste her name on Cara's lips, to sample the emotions it brings.
"You must promise me that you will come back in one piece," Kahlan says. "Don't make me march out there with a regiment of my own."
"Of course, I have an impeccable record."
"So I'm told." Mischief gleams in Kahlan's blue eyes and she pushes Cara down into the furs, straddling her as she splays eager hands across Cara's chest. She hums with satisfaction as Cara's hands reach for her calves and skim up her legs beneath her clothing, causing Kahlan's dress to ride up her thighs. "I expect you to receive a hero's welcome, my Lord Rahl."
"I'll take nothing less, my lady."
Cara's heart pounds in her ears when Kahlan lowers her lips to hers.
The morning passes and neither of them leaves the room for a long, long time.
"That's a shit-eating grin," Raina comments.
Cara ignores her, rounding the captain to study the map laid out on a large table behind her.
"I was told not to disturb her the whole morning," Constance pipes in. Lounging lazily on a large chair swathed in warm furs, she tries and fails to hide her own grin behind a meat-stuffed pastry she is chewing. "She had an urgent appointment with the Mother Confessor."
"Ah," Raina says conspiratorially. "No wonder she's late."
"Do any of you mind?" Cara growls, gesturing at the battle plans arranged before her. There is no real anger in her tone, only urgency.
"No we don't," Raina sasses, joining her at the table and rearranging a few of the red, wooden carvings that denote their troops. They are littered around a palm-sized wooden carving of Aydindril, depicted as a castle with a single, towering spire. "And we'd be absolutely thrilled to serve a little, bouncing Rahl sometime in the future."
"Near future," Constance corrects, chuckling.
Raina nods in agreement and then seeing that Cara is well on her way to losing her patience, Raina says, "Loosen up, Cara."
"I'll loosen up once these western pests are removed from the Midlands' map."
"As you wish, my Lord."
Harnessing humour is Berdine's habit but Cara can see that ever since Berdine and Raina started sharing a bed, Raina has somehow unearthed her own cheekiness. It isn't unpleasant and Cara encourages familiarity in the war room. Her subordinates are likely to be more honest with her that way but it also means that they are unafraid to get all up in her business, to form their own opinions when it concerns Cara's well-being.
Not quite as outspoken as Denna or Berdine, Raina understands when to stop her inquiry. She is serious now, leaning over the map with a contemplative expression. Her almond-shaped eyes peer past long, dark brown hair, features that are quite unlike the rest of her Alkarian sisters, who are usually blonde and blue-eyed.
Raina begins, "The snows have started to melt, despite the weather. A safe journey through the Pass should be possible in a fortnight."
"I don't want to meet them head-on," Cara says. "We cannot fight them as one would in a battlefield. They have used the terrain to their advantage and D'Harans have never fought dissidents in snow. This will require a more delicate hand."
"Do you wish to capture their leader?" Constance asks, leaning forward on her chair with her forearms on her knees, suddenly intrigued.
Cara nods. "I'd like to cut off the monster's head and pick off its pieces."
"That is if we can find the head," Raina muses. "There are three commanders from Darken's personal guard and a captain from D'Hara's own army, each with their own cell assigned to four different places on the map."
"Jory and I will lead a smaller force for this task, around thirty men to avoid detection and so that we move quickly. I want you and Constance to keep them occupied with a show of force. We'll slip into their camps at night."
"Assassinations in the snow? You'll need an elite squad of only the best." Raina looks suddenly sceptical and Cara anticipates an argument as Raina poses the obvious question, "So you're taking the Midlands Northerners with you?"
"Yes."
Constance covers her face with her hands and groans her disapproval while Raina stares at her, mouth agape. "Cara, no. Jarans would sooner slip a knife in your back than call you their Lord."
"I'll test that theory later," Cara says grimly. "There is no way I'm allowing the bulk of our troops deep into the forest. We'll be slaughtered. Our experience in guerrilla warfare is limited to Cypher's rebels striking from terrain that a lot of us grew up in. This is unfamiliar territory and even if the Third has been stationed in snow before, fighting in it is a different matter entirely."
"So you'd use us as distraction?" Raina is already half-disgusted with the idea.
"Yes. I believe the Jarans themselves should have a hand in retaking control of their Pass."
"Oh, what's to stop them from resenting you for it?" Raina's tone quivers as she tried to control it from rising and her knuckles are white with restrained anger.
"Nothing," Cara replies mildly. "We have a few more weeks to train with them. If all goes well, the force will be half-and-half, Alkarians and Midlanders working together."
"Let me ride with you at least," Constance pleads, standing up.
Cara sighs. She is more concerned about Raina, whose arms have stiffened as she leans heavily against the map, trying very hard to ignore Cara. A scowl mars her face. Though Constance is usually Cara's second in command, it wouldn't do for Raina to worry during a campaign.
"Constance will ride with me."
"Good," Raina sneers but the fire is gone from her eyes, "I don't want you to have to pass Rahl's torch to someone else so early in the game. If this is some political stunt to get the Northerners on your side…"
"Then it's settled," Cara cuts in; she doesn't like where the conversation is going. The cooperation of the local populace would greatly increase their chances for a victory and it is the only outcome Cara will accept. Reclaiming the Jaran Pass can only bring goodwill towards her Empire and assures that the peace curries favour in even the most remote of provinces.
Raina grits her teeth, communicating her disapproval as she glowers at the map. The great D'Haran Empire has never pandered to another nation, and never to the smaller tribes of a distant land. With Raina's reluctance to entrust her safety to Jarans, Cara is reminded that this alliance is a reality that even its staunchest supporters are only beginning to adjust to.
Cara straightens and clips her cloak around her as she prepares to go outside. Her tone is firm and brooks no argument. "Ready fifteen of your best men and women. I'll have them at the training grounds tomorrow afternoon."
"Of course, my Lord," Raina replies tightly. "We live to serve."
Cara rouses early the next day.
She dresses in exquisitely woven wool, eyeing a half-naked Confessor as she continues to sleep beneath thick blankets. They warmed their bed the night before, trailing sweat on each other's bodies as their lovemaking became insistent and vigorous. Cara decides that she likes it: the bursts of pleasure they wring from each other's bodies; the silent burning kisses which say more than mere words ever could.
There are times when she regrets this habit of waking before dawn. That in itself is a troubling thought; Cara isn't one to indulge such impulses but somehow, waking up beside Kahlan has whittled her control.
Sighing, she grabs her boots, made in a style that is more commonplace in colder climates. A thick coat from Kelton hangs by their bed. A grateful smile –rare but heartfelt –tugs at Cara's mouth. The coat is a gift from Kahlan, given to her during the first week of her stay after she found Cara shivering in front of a fire more times than was healthy. It fits her snugly, hugging her curves, as though the many moments Kahlan has spent holding her at night educated the Mother Confessor on what size fits Cara best. Lined with gold, sable fur only found in the district of Nicobarese, it is warmer than anything that can be conjured by a D'Haran seamstress.
Kahlan may not show it but Cara's insistence on wearing it at every instance pleases her.
Cara pokes the dying hearth, urging it to liven up by throwing in a few more logs. Once satisfied that the remaining burn will keep Kahlan warm for the rest of her slumber, Cara buckles her sword-belt and as silently as she could, leaves the room.
She finds the Aydindril Home Guard training with the fifteen men she has chosen from Jory's regiment. Jory himself seems to be absent, perhaps already at the ramparts with Raina to choose the Alkarian half of their force.
Amidst the sound of steel against steel, she calls out to them in a strong, clear voice. They stop their training to turn to her. She grins and picks up a practice sword from a nearby table.
Risson and Martel –armed with large axes passed on from their forefathers and strengthened by their hatred for the D'Haran retainers who had laid siege on their land –very nearly hack her to pieces at her prompting. She instantly regrets cajoling a pair of Midlands Northerners, reminded that these are not Alkarians or even Trimessi, that they have been wronged by a Rahl before.
Kahlan, who has taken a well-timed rest from hearing her morning supplicants to watch Cara's progress, screams from the courtyard entrance, "Both of you! Stop! Immediately!"
They don't, perhaps because they can't hear or see her over their own rage. Wielding their axes with both their hands, they batter Cara's defence, breaking three practice swords Cara picks up in quick succession and then pounding against her short sword, which she has hurriedly unsheathed.
Northerners wield their axes not against men but against the wide trunks of ancient trees, which feed their fires. Brute strength and raw anger are behind their blows; her ears ring at the sound and sparks fly from where their blades meet. Her arms quaver at the shock. Instead of countering them strength-for-strength, she absorbs the power behind them, letting the blows slide along her blade. She keeps her centre of gravity as low as possible.
The Guard who has gathered from the sidelines do not dare join in the fray. From the corner of her eye, Cara watches as Kahlan begins to reel in her Confessor magic, her robes flowing around her as she runs the remaining distance to aid her ailing wife.
No Kahlan, not yet, she wants to say, except she can't; she is too preoccupied with her attackers.
It takes several graceless moves –too risky in that she garners a long gash across her abdomen and another on her arm –to whack both their heads with the heel of her sword.
They fall in front of her in a motionless heap. She doesn't have time to recover. A second later, she discards her weapon and grabs Kahlan by the waist just as she runs past, holding her back.
Hoarsely, she pleads, "No, Kahlan. It isn't worth it."
"The price of disobedience is death," Kahlan tells her in that frighteningly blank voice Cara associates with her power. Confessor magic fizzles against Rahl's barrier put there almost immediately by Cara's subconscious and the frisson it creates suddenly reminds Cara of how dangerous this situation is.
"No," Cara insists. Blood from her open wounds begin to seep into her thick, winter clothing and the wind becomes colder than it was. Already, she feels her head lighten and she tries to strengthen her hold.
Kahlan is still straining against her embrace, her hands outstretched towards Cara's attackers. Cara tells her, "A Rahl must pay for what happened in Nicobarese. I understand their pain. Spare them for my sake. It's all I ask."
In front of the entire Aydindril Home Guard, she collapses in Kahlan's arms, her arms still tightly clasped around the Mother Confessor. The events linger at the edge of memory and Cara recalls Kahlan's suddenly terrified expression as she realises something horribly important.
She wakes up later that night, her throat dry. Kahlan is nowhere to be seen but Cara spies a set of brown eyes belonging to a familiar pair and Zedd himself, who glares at her disapprovingly for a long moment, his hands glowing as he weaves a healing spell over her arm.
"What made you think of taking on two Northern weapons masters all at once?"
"Weapons masters?" she croaks, her gaze swinging to Risson and Martel.
"These two are the foremost axe-wielding experts in these parts. You should be more careful." After eyeing her with displeasure, he shifts his attention to his guests. "Well?" Zedd bellows at the two. "What do you have to say for yourselves? And bring her water, you insolent oafs. Can't you see she's thirsty?"
Risson and Martel jump at the wizard's tone. Martel brings a cup of water to her lips. She sips, grateful for the coolness that soothes her throat.
Both men have matching beards, parts of it braided along their jaw. They sport the long hair of the Jaran tribes, tied in knots over their heads. They look like brothers and it is easy to mistake one for the other when they are seated. Risson, however, is taller when upright and a scar runs down a brow and over his left eye. They both appear fearsome, tattoos curl from beneath their collars and up their necks. Today, however they seem noticeably tamed by Zedd's wrath.
"Who sent you to kill me?" she asks.
They exchange looks, caught off guard. The wizard's eyes narrow to slits, prompting them to answer.
Risson swallows. "The dead." He gazes at the window to avoid her gaze. He whispers, "And the living."
The Northern tribes are closed orders and those outside are deemed strangers, even enemies. The tribal code dictates whom they marry, what they eat, the education they must undergo in Aydindril, their loyalty to the Mother Confessor, and even the weapons they wield. Those who live in the Jara Pass are willing to die and kill to preserve their way of life or to defend sacred land.
In the eyes of a tribal member, vengeance would have been the justice required of their code for the defilement of Nicobarese and killing Cara would have been an acceptable purification rite.
Kahlan has mentioned all this in passing on the road to Aydindril, one of many lectures about the different cultures in the Midlands. Cara was sceptical at first, because such ritual acts of murder are mostly unheard of in D'Hara.
"What stops you from killing me now?" Cara presses, sitting up to address them both.
Risson looks at his feet. "We honour the Mother Confessor as our own, and now she claims you as hers," as though this should explain everything.
It does in its own way, Cara thinks, because it says more than it should –that Cara Rahl will not be considered an outsider, at least not by these men.
Their remorse isn't vocal but they accompany her for the rest of the night, following all of Zedd's orders while the wizard bombards them with reprimands and difficult requests. They don't complain –perhaps it's what honour requires of them –one riding out into the deep forests for herbs, the other bringing up fruits that aren't in season.
They seem haunted by the morning's events. Their eyes say it all –they are aware that they were nearly confessed by the Mother Confessor herself and that they could very well have been given a fate worse than death for disobeying her. In the eyes of the tribe, their families' lives would have been forfeit.
With Zedd by her side, Cara falls into a dreamless sleep. Morning comes and when Cara wakes before the sun, the Northerners have both positioned themselves beside the hearth, their bearded faces made fierce by shadows cast in the firelight.
When Cara makes a move to sit up from her bed, they stand from their chairs.
Cara asks, "You have duties this morning?"
"Of course," Risson replies.
"I have a favour to ask of you."
Risson and Martel exchange looks. Martel, his voice rife with doubt and his tone lower than his fellow tribesman, replies, "We owe you more than a favour."
Cara's smile is small and knowing. "It won't matter. All debts will be paid in time and you'll be serving with me. I have fifteen Alkarian soldiers who you need your expertise to survive the snows of the Pass. Train them."
Their eyes widen. It is an unusual request but they nod. The perils of the North are known even by children in the Midlands' southernmost tip and D'Harans, who have so little of these perils in their own land, are ill-equipped for them.
They acknowledge her by saying her name as one would an equal, "Cara."
"Risson, Martel," she responds.
Zedd seems familiar with the immense reserve which is typical of the Midlands' Northerners. Satisfied by their gestures, he remains quiet, waving them away.
"Patch me up, Zedd. These are shallow wounds and I have duties to attend to."
The wizard raises a brow at her. "Not as shallow as I'd like, Lord Rahl. They ruined your coat." He points at the coat hanging on a chair, hanging open where a large gash has split it, blood staining its edges.
Kahlan will not be pleased.
"How is she?"
Zedd instantly knows whom she's talking about. "Shaken. But you can imagine she went through all her duties this morning without batting an eyelash." Zedd's disapproval gives way to defeat as he reminds himself that stubbornness is a trait neither of these two will likely change. "Cara, promise me you'll both live for another decade at least. You can't keep taking risks like this. It may be that after all you've been through your life means a little bit less to you but you have to understand that it isn't just the Empire or the Midlands that need you. There is a purpose beyond duty or honour or any of those high ideals you hold yourself to."
Cara purses her lips. "Duty and honour are all I need."
Zedd studies her for a long moment before finally dressing her wounds with silent, practised motions. Before Cara can get up to change, he puts a gentle hand on her thigh, clears his throat and speaks, "Neither of you may know it yet and maybe you'll realise it soon, but for the task ahead of you, duty and honour are not enough."
His words ring in her ears as he gathers his things and leaves with a bow. She is surprised that they continue to haunt well into the day.
Kahlan has words for her after when she finds Cara practicing in a private garden, hefting a Northern axe in one hand and a short sword in another.
Cara's tightly bandaged torso and arm as well as the coat which hangs on a shoulder causes a pang of worry. Zedd reported on the injuries earlier, telling Kahlan that rest will likely cure the remaining damage. Unfortunately, Cara is not one to sit idle for long.
Trying not to sound too admonishing, Kahlan says, "So the Northerners have endeared themselves to you."
Cara enacts detailed patterns of movement for her new weapons, her forms fluidly moving from one to another. Kahlan recognises them as several, different cores that are unique to the Northern way of fighting. Cara displays a rare acumen in quickly and intuitively learning technique as she moves from mere repetition to actual power in minutes.
After a few, well-placed hacks, the practice dummy falls to the ground, both arms severed. Kahlan hums her approval.
Cara tells her, "Risson and Martel and their tribes are shadows of what I once was, of the vengeance I represented."
"You were never them, Cara," Kahlan scolds gently. "All the opportunities the Creator gave you, and you never laid a hand on a Midlander. After this, you understand that they'll follow you to the ends of the earth."
Cara shrugs. "Perhaps that's what we need for this campaign. Maybe it's what I deserve."
Kahlan becomes pensive as she studies her wife. Cara is becoming more and more familiar with the warmth in Kahlan's gaze and Cara doesn't squirm beneath them this time. Instead, she continues to return the weapons on a nearby rack, allowing herself to feel the increasing amount of affection Kahlan gives her. For the past few days, Cara's trust is a warm balm and so much of it was bestowed yesterday.
Suddenly reminded of what happened, Kahlan becomes increasingly aware of just how dangerous yesterday's events truly were. If Cara touched Kahlan a second later than she did, the Lord of the D'Haran Empire would be Kahlan's thrall for the rest of her life. The thought is unthinkable and nearly painful; Kahlan can hardly bear to think of the Lion-heart as anything other than a woman of her own devices.
Kahlan says evenly, "I could have Confessed you."
Cara stares at her for a long while before lifting her gaze to stare at the sky. "But you didn't."
"You," Kahlan begins. She swallows. "How can you be so blasé about this? I could have Confessed you! Do you know what that means?"
"You had plans for it before," Cara tells her. There is no poison in her words, only a grim acceptance of what they mean to each other.
Of what she thinks we mean to each other, Kahlan amends bitterly, giving voice to emotions that began an insistent march during their wedding night and are now slowly trampling over her doubts.
Cara lowers her head and she can't see the hurt in Kahlan's expression.
Kahlan's voice is barely above a whisper, "Cara, things have changed."
Cara stares blankly at a far wall, her scowl hidden behind a curtain of blonde hair. "Confessed or no, I'll crush our enemies. I will have no one question our alliance, the legitimacy of the High Seat, your place as my wife or my place as yours. They are the foundations of the peace and whatever sacrifices that may entail, that is the life I want our daughter to be born to."
Kahlan's heart begins to ache. "You must come back," she murmurs, ignoring the pinpricks against her heart.
These feelings of hurt and concern are beginning to occupy most of her waking thoughts. She doesn't know what to do with them; they aren't like anger that can be loosed through sparring, or contempt which she can easily express. They can be soothed by words or touch but she is still hesitant to lay her concern out. Instead of choosing more tender words, she says, "Your Empire cannot afford to lose another Rahl, especially a Rahl like you."
"Of course, Mother Confessor. I won't leave you a widow. I know far too much how that is like."
The following silence is a wall that solidifies between them and Kahlan can feel the conversation slipping beyond her grasp. Ice overtakes Cara's gaze. When Kahlan offers no words, alarmed by how quickly Cara seems to shut her out and too afraid to chip at what little progress they've made in the past few weeks, Cara gives her a stiff salute and moves to leave.
Kahlan stares at her retreating back, not daring to move. She already almost lost Cara to rage that Kahlan failed to control. She isn't about to tie a noose around Cara's neck by calling her out. She knows that even the Lion-heart, a beast tamed by grief, will struggle against such bonds.
Cara forces her strides to be even and sure as she leaves the courtyard. What Kahlan does not see is her face crumpling into a grimace.
She rounds the corner away from sight, eager to flee when she hears Kahlan's breath hitch with apparent hurt. When she is sure that she is far enough away to not be caught, Cara stumbles against a pillar, covering her face.
She can't help the wave of sorrow or the tears that start to flow.
Part II.
The bleak landscapes of the Jara Pass tower over her. Large, scraggly mountains of the Rang'Shada rear up to the sky on both sides of the Pass. Thirty men and women, camouflaged by furs skinned from the Northern fox, trudge behind her, covered to their shins in fresh snowfall.
They travel light, short swords strung behind their backs and axes against their hips. Many possess spears, using them as walking sticks to find purchase in the snow. Their leather belts and hilts are covered in patterns of evergreens and snow-related wildlife, evidence that even the Alkarians have chosen to bring Northern weapons rather than their heavy D'Haran broadswords.
Cara falters behind Jory but she keeps her eyes trained on his back. He wears a large, fur cloak from a white-coloured bear he felled himself during his younger years, its soiled edges dragging over the ground. Just like everyone else in their squad, he wears lighter, leather armour over layers of clothing.
"How much farther to Nidia's camp?" Constance growls at Jory, stumbling as a strong gust of wind pushes her sideways.
The trek has taken its toll on the D'Harans and many of them trail behind stout, long-haired Northerners. The wind howls incessantly and the wind chill makes the already frosty conditions far from bearable.
The captain of Kahlan's armies turns to confront Cara's lieutenant. He seems tireless, seemingly oblivious to the cold if not for the frost lining his brows and week-old beard.
"About a league away," he replies. "We must wait for nightfall to ambush Nidia's camp. Best that the Lord Rahl is well-rested for the attack. We're outnumbered three to one."
"No survivors," Cara reminds them, catching her breath during the short interval. "If even one gets away with word of our intentions, it will be harder to sneak into the rest. Surprise is the only advantage we have at this point."
Jory nods while Constance grunts her acquiescence.
He leads them further up the incline, hidden from view of anyone looking up at the cliff-face. Past a path that forces them into a single line, they gather at an outcropping which leads to the entrance of a cave. It is barely a man in height but inside, it is spacious enough to accommodate more than thirty people.
It has its signs of use and seems to be a waypoint for Midlands's soldiers. Tent canvas covers its entrance, water-proofed textile that is similar to the colour of the surrounding rock. There is a hearth where gathered wood sits dry and ready for kindling. Further inside is a collection of paraphernalia: more chopped wood, pots and pans that don't seem to have been used in a year if cobwebs are any indication, and little tin cans filled with spices or dried meat.
Jory gestures for Cara and Constance to follow him, holding a torch in his hand while the Northerners prepare their camp. They leave their men while Jory leads them through the darkness, winding their way into the mountain. It eventually opens to the other side.
Before he rounds the corner which leads to the opening, Jory snuffs out the torch and gestures at the view.
They crouch low and approach. As soon as they are outside, they have a bird's eye view of a camp of a hundred men, the smoke of their campfires seething up into the sky.
"These ones should find out about our troop movements later tonight," Jory provides. "They'll be vulnerable in the early morning, before preparations."
Cara nods. She points at a tent that is larger than all the others. "Nidia should be in that tent in the middle of camp. I can provide the necessary distraction."
Constance clears her throat as though begging to disagree. When she speaks, she avoids Cara's gaze, already cautious of Cara's reaction. "My Lord, you have to let our squad do their work. You can't go out there alone again. You'll likely be killed this time."
"Using my powers will ensure that we don't lose any more men than is necessary."
The tick that appears at the corner of Constance's brow is an indication that she is beginning to be angry. "My Lord, at this rate, you'll lose your life."
The memory of their last battle flashes before Cara's eyes. Nearly fifty D'Harans loyal to Darken Rahl were killed in a flurry of fire that sprung from her fingertips. She was untrained and undisciplined, something that she wished she had remedied with Zedd. She drained her magical stores quickly and inefficiently. By the time she realised that it would take much less of her ability to dispose of so few, half the camp and most of their tents were blackened marks, their ashes drifting in the snow.
She barely had enough focus to deal with the remaining fifteen, who rushed her from mere terror, afraid she'd raise her hands again. She fought back with axe and sword, bewildered and distraught by what she had done, until Constance hastened to assist her.
I am the Lion-heart, the Red Lion of Halin, Cara thinks, red for blood, for death. Death is her mandate and it follows her wherever she goes.
She stares at her hands. She's surprised they haven't taken on a more reddish hue.
"Very well," Cara replies, looking up once more. "I'll start the fires from there," she points to a snow-covered foothill adjacent to the camp, bare but for a few evergreens closer to its base as it crawls up the sides of a nearby mountain, "and I can route anyone coming my way. That should draw Nidia out. Jory?"
"I doubt Raina's cavalry will arrive as scheduled with our Kelton mounts," Jory says, rubbing his jaw as he contemplates their options. "The horses will be an advantage, certainly, but we must anticipate a late arrival if the snows continue through the evening. Either way, this will not be an easy fight."
"We attack without the horses," Cara decides. "Any more delay can alert Nidia to our presence and they may flee to another location. Flank them on either side and do not draw them into open ground. Our advantage lies in close-quarter combat, nearer the hill. I can hold them off until the cavalry arrives."
They edge off the opening back into the cave. The men are unpacking their rolls, while a few are hunched over a cauldron under which a fire was built. The presence of so many bodies in an enclosed space provides ample heat. Cara and Constance sit against the rock walls, their cots laid out side by side while Jory organises a watch.
A Northerner offers them stew and hard bread, a change from dried rations. It is the first opportunity for any kind of relaxation, the first chance for a fire and a warm meal; they have been avoiding detection as they trekked deeper and deeper into the Pass.
"Cara…" Constance starts.
"What is it?" Cara replies warningly.
"Rahl's powers. You must be careful."
Cara grits her teeth. Her anger isn't new; she has been controlling it since the massacre of the first rebel camp. She knows it's her mind's defence against the idea of her own foolishness. She was too confident in her ability to control her magic. If not for the sheer destruction that resulted from using Rahl's power, she would have left her squad defenceless. Nearly all of Darken's men and a large portion of the forest dissolved into ashes when fire shot from her fingertips. There were no prisoners as she had first hoped.
Her informal title, the Red Lion of Halin, seems more accurate now than it ever was.
"I know I need to be more careful," Cara whispers hoarsely.
She opens her right palm and channels droplets of her power, which translates to a sizeable flame in the middle of her hand. It still takes all of Cara's concentration to control the trickle of magic and the flame is unsteady, growing and lessening in size. Controlling her power is very much like controlling the output of a dam.
"And you can't beat yourself up for what happened at the Dirksbridge camp," Constance continues. She gestures at Cara's hand, "or practice so much that you barely get enough sleep."
Cara's hand clenches into a fist. The flame disappears. "There is no room for error, Constance."
"There is room, Cara." Constance puts a hand on her shoulder. "You forget that you have friends. We will make room for you. Please, rest. You need your strength in the morning."
Constance is watching the retainers' advance as decoys back up against the foothills, luring Nidia's men nearer into the forest where the Northerners await.
It is when Cara releases the first wave of lightning and fire that Constance turns to see a river of snow and rock far up the sheer mountain face collapsing along the mountain-side. The percussive effect of Cara's magic must have loosened it and as it travels even further down, it grows in size until the rumbling catches all their attention.
"Cara!" Constance screams, catching Jory's eye to communicate that he is in charge. She sprints to her captain and Lord. "Cara!"
Cara turns to her voice and Constance points to the top of the tall mountain behind her. It is an onrush unlike anything a D'Haran has seen, an enormous wave of blinding white hundreds of yards uphill that devours everything in its path.
For a moment Cara is motionless, overwhelmed. They cannot outrun this; the snow's momentum is too great and the area it has affected so big that Constance knows it will reach the foothills in minutes. When Cara raises her hands towards the coming death, Constance instantly knows that their plan has gone to hell.
Constance runs back to meet the arrival of Nidia's men, only to find awestruck soldiers staring at the mountain-side, metres away from the tree-line with their feet planted to the ground as they gape. Many of Nidia's men are on their knees, misconstruing the phenomenon for something Cara has done. Some of them seem like they are praying, laying down their weapons as the rumbling becomes even louder.
Constance has little time to think of how Berdine would manipulate the situation, knowing that both sides are nearing imminent death. Within the forest and surrounded by trembling evergreens, The Alkarians and Northerners are gathered around her in abject horror, waiting for orders.
A Northerner whispers half-reverently, in an attempt to vocalise their terror, "Avalanche, the open palm of Aguta."
"We cannot escape this," Constance says grimly, looking her men in the eye.
They do not flinch. All of them are aware that following in Cara's footsteps has always meant an honourable death in the battle field. Perhaps today is that day.
"Alas!" the bearded Northerner laments. "We must sleep with Aguta in his underworld for a year. Only a god can stop what is coming."
At the corner of her eye, Constance spots the familiar red cape of a D'Haran captain.
"Nidia," Constance growls under her breath, unsheathing her knife but she pauses when she notices that Darken's captain is waving a white flag and riding on a stallion with no weapons on her person. She has gotten far on horseback, more than halfway up the hill. Her men have not followed her.
"Constance! I know you're in here!" the captain screams, her horse fidgeting back and forth as Alkarians hidden in the brush grab the reins of her horse to prevent her from getting any further.
Nidia, tall and blonde with piercing blue eyes, glares at her captors but she does not raise a hand to strike and instead, screams again, "Constance!"
"Ho, D'Haran!" Constance acknowledges from her hiding place.
Nidia scans the forest for her. She licks her lips and shouts, "We surrender! Stop this madness!"
Constance turns her attention once more at Cara Rahl who stands before the avalanche, her back to them as her hair whips back and forth from the sudden gusts she is summoning.
Cara's arms are outstretched, her gloves torn off by an unseen force, their tattered pieces of leather hanging in mid-air. Her arm braces are unravelling, and the clothing around her arms disintegrates as Rahl's magic channels from the ground, to her chest and manifests out to her arms. Its blue-tinged power embraces her wrists, cackling as it travels through her fingertips and out to a magical wall that blocks the onslaught.
Her eyes have taken on a sickeningly bluish glow. Much to Constance's dismay, she is screaming in agony.
It is said that when Death stares you in the face and whispers his name in your ear…all that is dear, all that can be lost flashes before one's eyes.
When she draws upon the entire wellspring of Rahl's power, her only thoughts are of Kahlan.
Kahlan on silent days when they work side by side in a warm room in one of Aydindril's towers, attended only by the cackle of a fire and sound of quill on parchment.
She thinks of Kahlan when her laughter floats to Cara's ears as they race across a meadow on a sunny day atop their mounts. In D'Hara, Cara has always been relegated to the front of a procession, or a column of soldiers, or a patrol; her rank ensures that when followed by an escort, not a single horse rides past hers. But on those days beneath the Aydindril sun, Kahlan always rides ahead, her un-braided hair flying behind her like an ebony pennant. It is one of many things Cara allows because Kahlan is her wife, because she is Kahlan's protector and she prefers to see the Mother Confessor and ensure her safety. Because she is too busy examining the warmth in her own chest to notice that surrender in all its subtle forms has insinuated itself into everything.
Cara remembers their long conversations about nothing, and everything. How Kahlan's eyes twinkle with curiosity and something brighter, the same light that accompanies her gaze when she kisses Cara, the one that brightens to an unbearable warmth when they make love, so bright that Cara has to look away, never daring to give it a name. She knows of something like it once before. She is so scared to lose it again.
But when Death smiles, there is very little room for fear and even less for unnamed regrets.
Zedd was right. There is more to life than duty and honour. Today, she needs something more to survive this.
So she thinks of Kahlan, raises her arms and she gives herself over to the Rahl in her veins. Months before, she would have welcomed this chance to join her family across the river, to finally pay the fee. In her dreams, Leo always stood in her path. She knows now that he would have wanted more than just her survival. What could that possibly entail?
She receives her answer shortly after.
Rahl's power purges everything and draws upon the incredible brightness, the searing pain and incredible joy that stems from love, adoration, and loyalty.
"The Bond," Cara breathes as tears form beneath her eyes.
Her Bond to her people and the Bond that ties Kahlan to her.
She screams when the wind ratchets up to an awful howl. She screams until her throat is raw. She screams until there is no pain or joy, until all that is left is complete and utter surrender.
She wakes with a cough and to the uncomfortable sensation of nausea, which settles into the gentle swaying of a carriage. The vehicle is covered in canvas but light seeps through tiny holes and slits. A breeze rushes in when the carriage sways a bit hard, opening the canvas and bathing her face with icy air that smells faintly of pine. Outside, she hears the faint sounds of leather on mud and of steel against steel. A march, she thinks.
She runs her hands against her cot. She is lying on a comfortable mat made of fur and quilts, covered in the same material.
"You gave us all a scare," Jory says, bringing Cara's attention to the far end of the carriage where he sits, staring at her with his brown eyes. He seems torn between awe and acting as normal as possible for her sake.
Cara brings a hand up to her chest, patting her torso tentatively as she stammers, "I…I'm alive. You're alive. What-" Her throat feels suddenly very dry.
Jory hands her a jug and she drinks greedily as she continues to take in her surroundings.
"Nidia surrendered," he says. "Darken's retainers have surrendered. You have been acknowledged as the one, true Rahl." Jory looks older than his twenty-something years as he rubs his beard and sighs. He parts the canvas and she tilts her head to looks outside. Behind their convoy, Northerners with their heavy axes and Alkarians string along prisoners dressed in D'Haran military garb.
Jory continues, "Saving lives has brought you far, my Lord Rahl. We have peace at last. I never thought it possible."
"How long have I been out?" Cara rasps.
He seems breathless with disbelief as he says, "A week or so. You were put into a magic-induced sleep to help you recover your powers." He opens the canvas wider and the column of men and women in Alkarian reds stretches for miles. It is Raina's regiment, the Red Lion flying on banners and spears, the men's long, crimson capes a stark contrast to the returning green of spring.
"We're going home," he adds.
"Does Kahlan know…?"
"Oh, she does," Jory admonishes, "We're in for quite the scolding."
"Not if I can help it," Cara retorts. She drinks from the jug once more and wipes the dribble of water from her lips.
Jory still seems unnerved and he frets on his seat as he runs long fingers through his hair.
"What's gotten you and your underclothes in a knot?" Cara demands.
"Oh, my Lord," Jory chuckles, "I should be so lucky that I find myself on the right side of history. Otherwise, I'd be dead."
Cara stares at him askance, tilting her head.
He becomes very grim. "You don't know?" Her silence is enough of an answer. He continues, "You called in the cold, north-eastern trade winds to stop Aguta's hand."
"The trade winds?"
"The Amihan as they are called, the prevailing winds from the east. You called upon it, created a wall that stopped the avalanche –Aguta's hand –from gathering us all."
Cara swallows. "I…see."
Jory purses his lips. "It would have destroyed everything, including a village a few kilometres downhill. Your people, Midlanders and D'Harans alike, are grateful."
"My people?" Cara scoffs.
"Your people," Jory emphasizes, glaring at her as though to convince her of the fact. "The Northerners have made you their own. To have shaken Aguta's hand is no mean feat; they will honour you as the wife of their Queen and a leader in your own right. The word will spread. You will have the Midlands' loyalty, and their love. There is nothing more to prove, Cara Rahl. The Midlands is yours, just as you are theirs."
TBC
A/N: Aguta is based on an Inuit god of the same name, the gatherer of the dead. Amihan is the Tagalog name of the north-eastern trade winds.
Again, I apologise for the time between updates. RL has really caught up to me, between visa concerns and finding a job. I can't promise more frequent updates, but I can reassure you that this story will be finished.
I just want to thank everybody who has reviewed, favourited and followed this story. Again, I cannot thank you all enough! This has been a challenging and fun ride and it would not have been possible without any of you. Thank you, thank you, thank you! I value and cherish each and every review I receive. You all inspire me to write more, so please continue to let me know what you think. Reviews are fuel to my fic-writer soul.
Those of you who have signed in for their reviews have been PM'ed. My very special thanks to WarpedScientist, kaylee214, Alsike, Mm-Burnt-Toast-mM, AshTheMash, katvrah, Baley fo life (I'm so glad you think so! Honoured, really!), esuedros, chickinwhite, mord-confessor, brasslessons, lynettecullen, Ryoko05, ldr04 (Thank you! I'm sorry for the very late update; I just try and make sure I bring out the best that I can. Hopefully this one's to your liking!), beelotus, STforRK, thatdamnyank, lemonfiz1 (Thank you!), Jocknerd23, Arginine, brupolvora, sparks3933, Supergirl (Thank you for reviewing! I appreciate the time you take to tell me what you think!), raf-51, mrswoman, kamokronos, caruaru, and FrenchGirl (I know updates take forever but hopefully this one tides you over 'til the next one. Thanks so much for reading!).