Confessor: Chainfire Trilogy Part 3

The torches, their flames wavering slowly in the still air, lit the sand, throwing off sparkles of prismatic light. Those tiny flares of colored light were riveting, spellbinding. They made him feel lost in his own private world.

In a way, he really was lost in his own world.

As he began drawing the abutting spell-forms, Richard gave himself over to the act of drawing. He focused exclusively on the creation of each component as he drew it, making it fit into the larger context of the spell-form not only conceptually, but physically. Back when he had painted the designs on himself and his team, he had discovered that drawing those elements had much in common with using his sword. There was a movement to it, a rhythm, a flow.

Since he was, after all, now conjuring things from the underworld itself, each spell contained elements of the dance with death. It not only had to be the right element at the right time but had to be carried out with precision.

In many ways, drawing the spells was the dance with death.

In much the way he fought with the sword to stay alive, bringing death to those he battled, the spells were bringing him closer to that cusp between life and death. When he fought with the sword, he knew that any error would result in his swift death. The moves he made with the sword not only had to be the right moves, but they had to be done at precisely the right time and done properly. Drawing the spell-forms was no different. Each move had to be executed properly. Any error would result in swift death.

At the same time, it was an exhilarating experience. He had practiced long hours. He knew the forms. He had painted them on himself and his team. Now he lost himself in the movement of drawing those forms, the strokes, slashes, and points, all the while moving with the constant flow of coming close to death but avoiding annihilation. He existed on the cusp of life, the very outer edge of existence. He moved among the forms as if moving among an enemy, moving among death stalking him.

It was an all-consuming experience that felt to him just like using the Sword of Truth.

In fact, it was all one and the same.

From that first day when Zedd had handed Richard the sword across the table outside his house, Richard had in reality been preparing for this.

He could feel sweat dripping off his face as he worked. As he drew each form, worked each element to completion without allowing anything to distract him into making a mistake, he lost all sense of time. He was part of the drawings. He was, in a very real sense, in the drawings just as he was in a sword fight when he used the Sword of Truth. His brow wrinkled with the intensity of it. He added each element, laid down each stroke and curve with the precision of a cut with his sword-or with the precision of his chisel when he had sculpted. It was the same skill he applied when using a blade. He was destroying and creating all at the same time.

When he at last realized that he had drawn every symbol, completed every spell-form, connected every element, he sat up straighter. His gaze swept over the sorcerer's sand and he at last realized the full horror of what lay ahead.

He looked around at the Garden of Life. He wanted to see beauty before he faced the world of the dead.

At last, he sat cross-legged and rested his hands palm-up on his knees. His eyes slid closed. He took deep breaths. This was his last chance to stop. In another moment it would be too late to change the course of events.

Richard raised his head and opened his eyes.

In High D'Haran, he whispered, "Come to me."

There was a moment of dead silence in which he could hear only the soft burning of the torches all around the sorcerer's sand, and then the air itself shook with a sudden wailing roar. The ground shook.

From the center of the sparkling white sand, from the center of the spell-forms, a white shape, like white smoke, began to rise. It spiraled around itself in tumbling swirls and eddies as it slowly ascended through the sand, as if drawing itself upward out of the spells themselves. As it came, as it lifted ever upward, the sorcerer's sand beneath it was rent open, allowing the blackness of death to establish a void in the world of life.

Richard watched as the white form ascended out of that void, forming into the shape of a figure in flowing white robes. The figure opened its arms, the way a flower would open itself to the world of life and light, until the gossamer robes hung in flowing folds from those widespread arms. The figure floated, suspended above the black void in the white sand.

Richard rose up before the figure.

"Thank you for coming, Denna."

She smiled a beautiful, radiant, and yet longingly sad smile.

As Richard gazed at the spirit, she reached out and touched his cheek. It was as loving a touch as Richard had ever felt. In that touch he knew that he would be safe with her... as safe as he could be in the world of the dead.