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If only just one person would remember her.
If only the Lord Rahl would come to his garden and save her.
If only, if only, if only. What good was wishing?
She pushed herself up then and, sitting back on her heels, stared off through the tears at the granite slab, at what she had left standing there.
No one was going to save her.
She didn't used to be this way. She didn't know how she knew that, but she knew. Somewhere in her dim, vanished past, it seemed like she used to be able to depend on herself, on her own strength, to survive. She didn't used to waste her time lamenting "If only."
Staring across the garden, Lord Rahl's beautiful, peaceful garden, she drew strength from what she saw standing there now, and, at the same time, from somewhere deep inside herself. She had to do that now-be resolute, as she was sure she used to be. She had to somehow be strong for herself, for her own sake.
Kahlan somehow had to save herself.
What stood there now was no longer hers. It would be her gift to Richard Rahl in exchange for the nobility of life-her life-that she had remembered in his garden.
"Master Rahl guide us," she quoted from the devotion. "Thank you, Master Rahl, for guiding me this day, for guiding me back to what I mean to myself."
She swiped the backs of her wrists across her eyes, wiping away the tears and blood. She had to be strong or the Sisters would defeat her. They would take everything from her. Then they would win.
Kahlan couldn't let them do that.
She remembered then, and touched the necklace she wore. She turned the small stone between a finger and thumb. This, at least, was still hers. She still had the necklace.
Kahlan struggled to her feet and straightened under the weight of the pack. She first had to get back so that Sister Ulicia would at least heal the injury she had inflicted. Kahlan would willingly take that help because she would then be able to go on and find a way to succeed.
With a last look back, she finally turned and headed for the door.
She knew now that she couldn't surrender her will to them, to their belief that they had a right to her life. They might defeat her, but it couldn't be because she allowed it.
But even if she lost her life in the end, she knew now that they would not defeat her spirit.
CHAPTER 58
Richard slowly paced the small room, deep in thought, going over the memory of the morning Kahlan had disappeared. He had to figure it out, and soon-for more reasons than one. The most important of those reasons, of course, was to help Kahlan. He had to believe that he still could help her, that she was still alive and there was still time.
He was the only one who knew her, who believed in her existence. There was no one but him to help her.
There were also the implications of the wider concerns that her disappearance engendered. There was no telling how far-reaching those problems could turn out to be. In that, too, he was the only one opposing what hidden designs lurked behind events.
Since it seemed Kahlan had so far not been able to escape her captors, that meant she couldn't and was going to need help. With the beast seemingly able to strike again at any time, Richard was painfully aware of how easily he could die at any moment, and if he did, then the one person who was her co
He had to use every minute of what time he had available to work toward helping her. He couldn't even bother wasting time reprimanding himself for all the days he had already let slip through his fingers.
It had all started that morning, not long before he'd been shot with the arrow, so he had decided to concentrate on that single event and to start anew. He had pushed the enormity of the problem from his mind in order to narrow his focus on the solution. He would never come to understand who had Kahlan by pulling out his hair and agonizing over the fact that someone had her, or by trying to convince others that she existed. None of that had accomplished anything, nor would it.
He had even set aside the books, Gegendrauss and Ordenic Theory, that he'd discovered in the little room. The first was in High D'Haran. It had been a long time since he had worked with the ancient language, so he knew he couldn't afford to spend time on it. A brief examination had told him that the book might hold remarkable information, although he hadn't spotted any that was material. Besides, he was out of practice translating High D'Haran. He didn't have time to work on it until he first resolved other issues.
The second book was difficult to follow, especially with his mind elsewhere, but he had read just enough of the begi
There were also other books in the small, shielded room, but he had not had the time or inclination to search through them. He had decided that devoting himself to the books before he had a true understanding of what was going on would only waste yet more time. He had to approach the problem in a logical ma
Whatever the cause of Kahlan's disappearance, it had all started that morning just before the fight when he'd been shot with the arrow. When Richard had climbed into his bedroll the night before the battle, Kahlan had been with him. He knew she had. He remembered holding her in his arms. He remembered her kiss, her smile in the dark. He was not imagining it.
No one would believe him, but he was not dreaming up Kahlan.
He put that part of the problem aside as well. He couldn't concern himself anymore with trying to convince others. Doing so was only diverting his attention from the real nature of the problem.
Nor could he afford to give in to fear that others might be right that he was only imagining her; that, too, was a dangerous distraction. He reminded himself of the very real evidence: the issue of her tracks.
Even if he couldn't make others understand the lifetime of learning that went into understanding the meaning of what he saw when he looked at tracks, he knew for certain what the evidence on the ground had revealed to him. There was a language to tracks. Others may not understand that language, but Richard did. Kahlan's tracks had been swept away, undoubtedly with magic, leaving behind a forest floor too artificially perfect and, more importantly, the rock that he'd discovered kicked out of place. That rock told him he was right. Told him that he was not imagining things.
He had to reason out what had happened to Kahlan-and that meant how had she been taken. Whoever had done it had magic, that much he knew. He at least knew that much because of the way their tracks had been altered. Knowing that narrowed the possibilities of who could be responsible. It had to be someone with magic sent by Jagang.
Richard remembered waking from a dead sleep that morning and laying there on his side. He remembered not being able to open his eyes for more than a brief moment at a time and not being able to lift his head. Why? He didn't think it was because he was groggy from still being half asleep; it had been more overwhelming than that. It had felt like sleepiness, yet stronger.
But the part of the memory that had him at the tantalizing, frustrating brink of near understanding was what he remembered seeing in the murky darkness of false dawn as he had laid there trying to fully wake. That part of the memory was where he now put all his attention, all his mental effort, all his concentration.