Blood of the Fold

Even though the sword wasn't with him, the magic was still his; he was the true Seeker of Truth, and was bonded irrevocably to its magic. It coursed through him with lethal vengeance. The prophecies had named him fuer grissa ost drauka, High D'Haran for the bringer of death, and he moved now like its shadow. He understood the words, now, as they had been written.

He whirled through the men of the Blood of the Fold as if they were mere statues, toppling before a ruinous wind.

In a moment, all was silent again.

Richard panted in rage as he stood over the bodies, wishing they were Sisters of the Dark instead of their minions. He wanted those five.

They had told him where Kahlan had been held, but when he arrived, she was gone. Smoke still hung in the air from the battle. The room had been raked by what looked to be the furor of magic unleashed. He had found the bodies of Brogan, Galtero, and a woman he didn't recognize.

Kahlan, if she had been there, might have escaped, but he was frantic with apprehension that she had been spirited away by the Sisters, that she was still a captive, and that they would hurt her, or worse yet, that they would give her to Jagang. He had to find her.

He needed to get his hands on a Sister of the Dark so he could make her talk.

Around the palace grounds, a confusing battle raged. It appeared to Richard that the Blood of the Fold had turned on everyone in the palace. He had seen dead guards, dead cleaning staff, and dead Sisters.

He had also seen a great many dead of the Blood. The Sisters of the Dark scythed them down mercilessly. Richard had seen one charge of near to a hundred men cu! down in an instant by one Sister. He had also seen a relentless charge of men from all directions overrun another Sister. They tore her apart like a pack of dogs at a fox.

When he reached the sister who had cut down the attack, she had vanished, and so he was looking for another. One of them was going to tell him where Kahlan was. If he had to kill every Sister of the Dark at the palace, one of them was going to talk.

Two Blood of the Fold caught sight of him and came up the path at a dead run. Richard waited. Their swords caught only air. He took them down with his knife almost without thinking about it, and was moving again before the second man had finished pitching face-first to the ground.

He had lost track of the number of the Blood of the Fold he had killed since the battle had begun. He ripped through them only if they attacked him; he wasn't able to avoid all the soldiers he saw. If they came at him, it was by their choice, not his. It wasn't them he wanted — it was a Sister.

Near a wall, Richard hugged the moon shadows beneath a clump of aromatic, spreading witch hazels as he moved toward one of the covered walkways. He flattened against a pilaster in the wall as he saw a shape dart from the walkway. As it approached he could tell by the flow of hair and the shape that it was a woman.

At last, he had a Sister.

When he stepped out in front of her, he saw a the flash of a blade slashing toward him. He knew that every Sister carried a dacra; it was probably that, rather than a knife. He also knew how deadly a dacra was, and how skilled they were with the weapon. He dared not take the hazard lightly.

Richard whipped his leg around, kicking the dacra from her hand. He would have broken her jaw so she couldn't cry out for help, but he needed her to be able to talk. If he was fast enough, she would raise no alarm.

He caught her wrist, sprang up behind her back, snatched her other fist as she brought it up to hit him, and clamped her wrists together with one hand. He swept his knife arm around her throat and with a yank, toppled back. As he landed on his back, with her atop his chest, he hooked his legs over hers to keep her from kicking him. She was pinned and helpless in a heartbeat.

He pressed the blade to her throat. "I'm in a very bad mood," he said through gritted teeth. "If you don't tell me where the Mother Confessor is, you are going to die."

She panted, catching her breath. "You are about to slit her throat, Richard."

For what seemed an eternity his mind, filtering her words through his fury, tried lo make sense of what she had said. It seemed a riddle to him.

"Are you going to kiss me, or are you going to cut my throat?" she asked, still panting.

It was Kahlan's voice. He released her wrists. She turned around, her face inches from his. It was her. It was really her.

“Dear spirits, thank you, ' he whispered before he kissed her.

Richard remembered very well what her soft lips felt like. His memory was no match for reality. His fury stilled like a lake becalmed on a moonlit summer night. With aching bliss, he held her to him.

His fingers gently touched her face, touching his dream come to life. Her fingers trailed along his cheek as she gazed at him, needing words no more than he. For a moment, the world stopped, "Kahlan," he said at last, "I know you're angry with me, but..»