Stone of Tears

“Well, you just remember what I can do,” she warned, “if some pretty girl ever bats her lashes at you.”

He took her hand. There are no other pretty girls.”

The fingers of her other hand combed through his hair. “Is there anything I can do for you?”

“Yes,” he whispered. “Lie down next to me. I want you close. I’m afraid of never waking, and I want to be close to you.”

“You will wake,” she promised cheerfully.

She took out another blanket and pulled it over the two of them. She cuddled close, her head on his shoulder and an arm over his chest, and tried not to worry about what he had said.

Chapter 8

When she woke, her back was against the warmth of him. Light was seeping in around the edges of the door. She sat up, rubbed the sleep from her eyes, and looked down at Richard.

He lay on his back, staring up at the ceiling, taking slow, shallow breaths. She smiled at the familiar pleasure of his face. He was so handsome it made her ache.

Suddenly she realized with a jolt what it was about him that looked so familiar to her. Richard looked like Darken Rahl. Not the same kind of impossible perfection—the flawlessly smooth, uninterrupted sweep of features that were too exactly right, like some precisely perfect statue—but more rugged, rougher; more real.

Before they’d defeated Rahl, when Shota, the witch woman, had appeared to them as Richard’s mother, Kahlan had seen her looks in Richard’s nose and mouth. It was as if Richard had Darken Rahl’s face with some of his mother’s features making it better than Rahl’s cruel perfection. Rahl’s hair was fine, straight, and blond, while Richard’s was coarser and darker. And Richard’s eyes were gray instead of Rahl’s blue, but they both possessed the same penetrating intensity—the same kind of raptor’s gaze that seemed as if it could cut steel.

Though she didn’t know how it could be possible, she knew Richard had Rahl blood. But Darken Rahl was from D’Hara, and Richard from Westland; that was about as far apart as you could get. It must be, she finally decided, a connection in the distant past.

Richard was still staring at the ceiling. She put her hand on his shoulder, giving it a squeeze. “How is your head?”

Richard jumped hard. He looked around and blinked at her. He rubbed his eyes. “What?… I was asleep. What did you say?”

Kahlan frowned. “You weren’t asleep.”

“Yes I was. Sound asleep.”

Kahlan felt a flutter of apprehension. “Your eyes were wide open. I was watching you.” She left unsaid that as far as she knew, only wizards slept with their eyes open.

“Really?” He looked around. “Where are those leaves?”

“Here. Does it still hurt bad?”

“Yes.” He sat up. “But it’s been worse.” He put some of the leaves in his mouth and ran his fingers through his hair. “At least I can talk.” He smiled at her. “And I can smile without my face feeling like it’s going to break.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t go shoot arrows today if you don’t feel well enough.”

“Savidlin said I couldn’t back out. I’m not going to let him down. Besides, I really want to see this bow he made for me. It’s been… well, I don’t even remember how long it’s been since I shot a bow.”

After he chewed some of Nissel’s leaves for a while, they folded up the blankets and went looking for Savidlin. They found him at his home, listening to Siddin telling stories of what it was like to ride a dragon. Savidlin liked listening to stories. Even though it was a little boy telling them, he listened with the same interest he would accord a hunter returning from a journey. Kahlan noted with pride that the little boy was giving a remarkably accurate rendition, without fanciful embellishment.

Siddin wanted to know if he could have a dragon for a pet. Savidlin told him the red dragon was not a pet, but a friend to their people. He told him to find a red chicken, and he could have that.

Weselan was cooking a pot of some sort of porridge with eggs mixed in. She asked Richard and Kahlan to join them and passed each a bowl as they sat on a skin on the floor. She gave them flat tava bread to fold and use as a scoop for the porridge.

Richard had her ask Savidlin if he had a drill of any kind. Savidlin leaned way back, and with a finger and thumb pulled a thin rod from a pouch beneath a bench. He handed the rod to Richard, who had the dragon’s tooth out. Richard turned the rod around with a puzzled look, put it at the base of the tooth, and twisted it experimentally.

Savidlin laughed. “You want a hole in that?” Richard nodded. Savidlin held out his hand. “Give it to me. I will show you how it is done.”