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He sank to his knees and fell face first to the ground, sobbing. He cried until he could cry no more. He continued to lay on the cold ground, groaning in agony until he realized he was gripping the Agiel again. He let it go and at last sat up, flopping back in exhaustion against the dirt mound.
It was over, finished. He felt empty. Dead.
After a time he rose to his feet. He stood a moment, and then slowly drew the Sword of Truth.
Its ring was a soft song in the cold air. The anger came out with the steel, and he let it fill the void in him, rage freely through him. He welcomed the anger into himself, letting it fill him until he was submerged in its wrath. His chest heaved with lethal need.
His eyes glided to where the Sister lay sleeping.
He could see the dark hump of her body as he approached silently. He was a woods guide; he knew how to stalk silently. He was good at it.
His eyes carefully watched the ground as he moved fluidly, watched the sleeping form of Sister Verna as he closed the distance. He didn't hurry. There was no need to hurry. He had as much time as he needed. He tried to slow his breathing to keep from making noise. He was nearly panting with all-consuming fury.
The thought of wearing a collar again fed the raging fire within him, fueled the inferno.
Rage from the sword's magic seared through him like molten metal. Richard recognized the feeling all too well, and gave himself over to it. He was beyond reason, beyond being stopped. Nothing short of blood would now satisfy the bringer of death.
His knuckles were white on the hilt. His muscles knotted with restrained need aching to be set free. But they wouldn't be restrained for long. The magic of the Sword of Truth screamed to do his bidding.
Richard stood, a silent shadow, over Sister Verna, looking down at her. The fury pounded in his head. He drew the sword along the inside of his forearm, wiping both sides in the blood, giving the steel a taste of it. The dark stain ran down the fuller, dripping from the tip. It ran wet and warm down his arm. His chest heaved as he gripped the hilt in both hands again.
He felt the weight of the collar around his neck; the blade rose, glinting in the moonlight.
He watched the sleeping Sister at his feet. She was drawn up almost into a ball. She was cold, and she shivered as she slept.
He stood with the blade raised, watching her as he gritted his teeth and shook with raging need. Kahlan didn't want him. Son of a monster.
No. Just monster. He saw himself standing over the sleeping woman, his sword in the air, ready to kill.
He was the monster.
That was what Kahlan saw. And she had sent him away away in a collar to be tortured. Because he was a monster that needed to be collared, a beast.
Tears ran down his face. The sword slowly sank until the tip touched the ground. He stood staring at the Sister as she slept, shivering with the cold. He stood a long time, watching.
Richard finally slid the sword quietly back into its scabbard. He retrieved his blanket and laid it over Sister Verna, tucking it carefully around her, being gentle so as not to wake her. He sat and watched until she stopped shivering and then he lay down, wrapping himself in his cloak.
He was exhausted, and he hurt all over, but he couldn't sleep. He knew they were going to hurt him. That was what the collar was for. To hurt him. When she got him to the Palace, they were going to hurt him.
What difference did it make?
Memories danced and darted through his mind, memories of what Denna had done to him. He remembered the pain, the helpless agony, the blood: his blood.
The visions went on and on. As long as he lived he would never be able to forget them. It had only just ended, and now it was going to start all over again. There would never be an end to it.
There was only one thought in all the turmoil of his mind that comforted him. He had learned from Sister Verna that he was wrong about the Keeper escaping. That meant Kahlan was safe. She was safe, and that was all that really mattered. He tried to keep everything else away and think only of that. That thought allowed him to drift, at last, into sleep.
19
His eyes snapped open. The sun was just breaking the horizon. When he sat up, the pain from his burn caught his breath short. He put his hand over his shirt, where the bandage was, and held it there until that pain subsided. The residual effects of the Agiel left the rest of him feeling as if he had been beaten with a club. He ached everywhere. He remembered from the time when Denna had "trained" him using the Agiel, feeling a lot worse when he awoke, only to have her start using the Agiel on him all over again.
Sister Verna was sitting on her blanket, her legs folded beneath her, watching him as she chewed something. She had her cloak around her shoulders with the hood down. Her curly brown hair looked freshly brushed.
She had neatly folded Richard's blanket, and placed it back next to where he slept. She said nothing about it. Richard pushed himself to his feet, taking a moment to steady himself and stretch his hurting, cramped muscles. The sky was a clear, cold, deep blue. The grass smelled sweet and damp with dew. The vapor of his breath drifted lazily in the still, crisp air.
"I'll go saddle the horses, and we can be on our way."
"Don't you want something to eat?"
He shook his head. "I'm not hungry."
"What happened to your arm?" she asked without looking up.
There was dark, dried blood all down his arm and hand. "I was polishing my sword. It was dark. I cut myself. It's nothing."
"I see." She glanced up as he scratched the stubble on his face. "I hope you are more careful when you shave your neck."
Richard decided in that instant that as long as he was held captive in a collar, he would not shave. It would be his way of proclaiming to them that a collar was unjust, that he knew he was nothing more than their prisoner, and that he would not believe their spurious protestations to the contrary. There could be no justification for a collar, and there would be no compromising of that basic truth—none, not ever.
Richard glowered at the Sister. "Prisoners don't shave." He turned toward the horses.
"Richard." He looked over his shoulder. "Sit down." Her voice was gentle, but he glared at the order nonetheless. She gestured to a place in front of her. "Sit down. I was thinking about what you said. You are here; I am here. Sit down and I will begin teaching you how to control the gift."
He was caught off guard. "Now? Here?"
"Yes. Come and Sit."
He didn't really care about using the gift; he hated magic. He had only asked about it before because he had been trying to ease the tension. His eyes darted about before he finally sat and folded his legs, imitating the way she was sitting.
"What do you want me to do?"
"There is much to teach you about using the gift. You will learn about balance in all things, especially magic. You must heed all our warnings, and follow what we tell you. There are dangers to using magic. Perhaps you already know this from using the Sword of Truth, yes?" Richard didn't move. She went on. "There is greater danger in using the gift. It can have unanticipated results. Results that can be disastrous."
"I have already used the gift. You said I used it in three specific ways."
She leaned forward a little. "And look what happened. It brought an unanticipated result. It resulted in you having that collar around your neck."
Surprised, Richard stared at her. "That wasn't a result of my using the gift. You were already looking for me; you said so. If I wouldn't have used the gift, the result would have been the same."
Sister Verna slowly shook her head as her eyes stayed on his. "We had been looking for you for years. Something hid you from us. If you hadn't used the gift in the ways you did, I doubt we ever would have found you. Using the gift put that collar around your neck."
Years. They had been searching for him for years. All that time he had lived peaceably in Westland, first with his brother and father and Zedd, and then on his own as a woods guide, they had been l
ooking for him, and he never knew it. The thought gave him a chill. He brought it on himself, by using magic. He hated magic.
"Although I would agree that that is disastrous, for me, how could you? It's what you want."
