Stone of Tears

“Richard, I don’t know anything about them. But if a wizard is that afraid of them… What if we are defenseless right now?”

“I am the Seeker. I am not defenseless. But I might be later. Better to meet them on my terms than theirs. And I’m tired of hearing about the gift! I don’t have it and I’m going to put an end to this nonsense right now.”

She took a deep breath and nodded. “All right. I guess the Seeker and the Mother Confessor are not without defenses.”

He gave her a stern look. “You’re not coming.”

“Do you have a rope?”

Richard frowned. “No. Why?”

She lifted an eyebrow. “You will have a hard time stopping me if you don’t have a rope to tie me up.”

“Kahlan, I’m not letting you…”

“And I’m not giving you a chance to have a look at a woman you might fancy more than me, without being there to give her a whack.”

He watched her with an exasperated expression, and then leaned forward and kissed her. “All right. But let’s not have an “adventure’?”

She smiled. “We will just tell these three you don’t have the gift, send them on their way, and then I’m going to give you a serious kiss.”

The sky was darkening into a deep blue when they reached the spirit house. Three strong horses were tethered a short distance away. Their saddles were different from any she had seen before, with high pommels and cantles. As they paused in front of the door, the air was cold enough to show their breath. Richard and Kahlan gave each other a smile and a squeeze of the hand. Richard checked that the sword was clear in its scabbard. He took a deep breath and pulled open the door. Kahlan wore her Confessor’s face, as her mother had taught her.

The inside of the spirit house was lit by a small fire and two torches in brackets, one to each side of the fireplace. Their packs still sat to the side. The air smelled of pitch and the balsam-scented sticks that were always burned in the spirit house to make the ancestors” spirits welcome. Torchlight flickered on the skulls of ancestors sitting on a single shelf. The dirt floor was dry, since Richard had used the spirit house to teach the Mud People to make roofs that didn’t leak.

The three women stood straight and tall in the center of the single-roomed, windowless building. Their brown, heavy wool cloaks hung almost to the ground. The hoods were up, partly shadowing their faces. They wore long, divided riding skirts of different, dark, muted colors, and simple white blouses.

They pushed back their hoods. The one in the middle, a few inches taller than the other two, but not as tall as Kahlan, had brown hair with some curl and body to it. The one to her right had straight, black, shoulder length hair, and the other’s was curly, short, and dark, with streaks of gray. Each had her hands clasped at ease in front of her.

It was the only thing at ease about them. Their mature faces wore looks that reminded Kahlan of the headmistress of the maidservants back in Aydindril. It was a countenance of authority they appeared to have held so long that it had worn permanent creases. Kahlan took a second glance at their hands to see if they were empty; they looked like they should be carrying switches. Their eyes watched, as if ready to silence any impudence.

The woman in the middle spoke. “You two are Richard’s parents?” Her voice wasn’t quite as harsh as Kahlan expected, but still carried a clear tone of authority.

Richard glowered at them, looking as if just his look might push the three back a pace. He waited until the glare caused them to blink, before he spoke. “No. I am Richard. My parents are dead. My mother since I was young, and my father since the end of summer.”

The three exchanged sidelong glances.

Kahlan saw the anger in his eyes. He was bleeding magic from the sword without even drawing it. She could tell the sword was only a blink away from coming out. She could see by the look in his eyes that he would not hesitate if these women did anything wrong.

“That is not possible,” the taller one in the center said. “You are… old.”

“Not as old as you,” Richard snapped.

Their cheeks colored. The woman’s eyes flashed an angry scowl, but she quickly softened it. “We did not mean to say you are old, we meant to say you are older than we expected. I am Sister Verna Sauventreen.”

The black-haired woman to her right spoke. “I am Sister Grace Rendall.”

“I am Sister Elizabeth Myric,” the third said.

Sister Verna turned her stern expression on Kahlan. “And who would you be, child.”

Kahlan didn’t know if it was Richard’s attitude causing it, but she felt her blood heating, too. She gritted her teeth. “I am not your “child.” I am the Mother Confessor.” Kahlan’s tone could carry authority, too, when she wished it to.

It was almost imperceptible, but the three flinched. Together, they bowed their heads slightly.

“Forgive us, Mother Confessor.”