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Kahlan had told him once that it was important to convey the proper impression to people. She had wanted him to come up with something better than his woods-guide attire. At the time, she had been trying to tell him that if he expected people to believe in him and follow him, if he was to be the Lord Rahl and command the D’Haran Empire, he had to look the part.
Appearance, after all, was a reflection of what a person thought of themselves and therefore, by extension, of others. A person crippled by self-loathing or self-doubt reflected those feelings in their appearance. Such visual clues did not inspire confidence in others because, and while not always completely accurate, for the most part they did reflect the inner person—whether or not that person realized it.
No self-respecting bird in good health would allow its feathers to look ruffled. No confident cougar would let its fur long remain matted and dirty. A statue meant to represent the nobility of man did not convey that concept by portraying him disheveled and dirty.
Richard had understood Kahlan’s point, and, in fact, had already begun to see to it before she mentioned it. He had found most of an outfit from a former war wizard up in the Wizard’s Keep. He used the important elements of that outfit and had some other things made. He didn’t know how it impressed other people, but he remembered quite clearly how it had impressed Kahlan.
Richard went around the rocks at the bottom of the waterfall to find a private place for a quick wash while Cara picked another spot for herself. She promised that she wouldn’t be long.
The water felt soothing, but Richard didn’t want to waste any time. He had a lot more important matters on his mind. Once rinsed clean of sweat and grime and after cleaning the burns, he put on his war wizard’s outfit, which he had pulled from his pack. He thought that today, of all days, would be the proper day to appear to Shota as a leader come to speak with her, rather than a helpless beggar.
Over black trousers and a black, sleeveless shirt, he put on his black, open-sided tunic, decorated with symbols snaking along a wide gold band running all the way around its squared edges. A wide, multilayered leather belt bearing a number of silver emblems in ancient designs held a gold-worked pouch to each side and cinched the tunic at his waist. Pins on the leather lashing around the tops of his black boots also carried those symbols. He carefully placed the ancient, tooled-leather baldric holding the polished gold- and silver-wrought scabbard over his right shoulder and attached the Sword of Truth at his left hip.
While to most people the Sword of Truth was an awesome weapon, and it certainly was that, it was much more to Richard. His grandfather, Zedd, in his capacity as First Wizard, had given the sword to Richard, naming him Seeker. In many ways that trust was much the same as his father’s trust had been in asking him to memorize the book. It had taken Richard a long time to come to fully understand all that the trust and responsibility of carrying the Sword of Truth meant.
As a formidable weapon, the sword had saved his life countless times. But it had not saved his life because it came with redoubtable power, or because it was capable of remarkable feats. It had saved his life because it had helped him learn things not just about himself, but about life.
To be sure, the Sword of Truth had taught him about fighting, about the dance with death, and how to prevail against seemingly impossible odds. And while it had helped him when he had to carry out that most terrible of all acts—killing—it had also helped him learn when forgiveness was justified. In those ways it had helped him come to understand what values were important in helping to advance the cause of life itself. And it had helped him learn the importance and necessity of judging those values, and of how to put each in context.
In some ways, like the way that learning The Book of Counted Shadows had taught him that he was no longer a child, the sword had helped him learn to be a part of the wider world, and his place in it.
It had, in a way, also brought him Kahlan.
And Kahlan was why he needed to see Shota.
Richard closed the flap on his pack. There was a cape, looking like it had been spun from gold, that he’d found with the rest of the war wizard’s outfit up in the Keep, but, since it was such a warm day, he left that in the pack. Finally, on each wrist he put on a wide, leather-padded silver band bearing linked rings encompassing more of the ancient symbols. Among other things, those ancient bands were used to call the sliph from her sleep.
When Cara called out that she was ready, Richard lifted his pack and made his way around the rocks. He saw, then, why she had wanted to stop. She had done more than simply take a quick bath.
She had put on her red leather outfit.
Richard cast a meaningful glance at the Mord-Sith’s bloodred uniform. “Shota may be sorry she invited you to the party.”
Cara’s smile said that if there was any trouble, she would see to it.
As they started down the road, Richard said, “I don’t know exactly what powers Shota has, but I think that maybe you should try something today that you have never tried before.”
Cara frowned. “What would that be?”
“Caution.”
Chapter 40
Richard scanned the surrounding hills, watching for any sign of danger, as he and Cara entered a place where the magnificent beech and maple trees had grown clustered together at the top of a rise. The straight, tall trunks forked ever wider in gentle, ascending arcs, giving Richard the sense of massive columns holding up the vaulted ceiling of a great, green cathedral. The fragrance of wildflowers drifted in on a gentle breeze. Through the canopy of rustling leaves he could get tantalizing glimpses of the soaring spires of Shota’s palace.
Streamers of golden sunlight flickered through the leaves and cavorted around
on the low grass. Water from a spring burbled up through an opening in a low boulder and ran down its smooth sides into a shallow, meandering stream. Spread through the stream were rocks covered with a coat of fuzzy green moss.
A woman with a thick mane of blond hair and wearing a long black dress sat in the dappled sunlight on a rock beside the stream, leaning on one graceful arm as she ran her fingers through the clear water. She seemed to glow. The very air around her seemed to glow.
Even with her back to him, she looked all too familiar.
Cara leaned toward Richard and spoke in a confidential tone. “Is that Nicci?”
“In a way I wish it were, but it isn’t.”
“Are you sure?”
Richard nodded. “I’ve seen Shota do this before. The first time I ever saw her, in that exact same place, she appeared to me as my deceased mother.”
Cara glanced over at him. “That’s a rather cruel deception.”
“She said that it was a gift, a kindness, meant only to briefly bring a cherished memory to life.”
Cara huffed skeptically. “So why would she be trying to make you remember Nicci?”
Richard looked over at Cara, but didn’t have an answer for her.
When they finally reached the rock, the woman gracefully rose and turned to him. Blue eyes he knew met his gaze.
“Richard,” the woman who looked like Nicci said. Her voice had the exact same silken quality as Nicci’s. The low neckline of the laced bodice seemed to Richard to be cut even lower than he recalled. “I’m so pleased to see you again.” She rested her wrists on his shoulders, casually locking her fingers together behind his head. The air around her seemed filmy, giving her a soft, blurred, surreal appearance. “So very pleased,” she added with breathless affection.
She could not have looked or sounded any more like Nicci if it had been Nicci herself. The illusion was so convincing that Cara stood with her jaw hanging. Richard almost felt a sense of relief at seeing Nicci again.
