Stone of Tears

He thought of simple words, simple objects, but none held any interest for him. He calmed his mind and relaxed his breathing. He sought peace within himself, a calm center, the way he had always done when he needed to think of a solution to a problem. In the quiet, he tried to think of an image he could use. It popped into his mind, almost of its own accord.

The Sword of Truth.

It was already magic, and therefore he wouldn’t be tainting it. It was a simple image. It seemed to fit the requirements. It was settled. It would be the Sword of Truth.

Richard pictured it floating by itself on a field of black. He studied the details he knew so well: the polished blade with the fuller down its length, the aggressive, downswept crossguards, the hilt covered in fine, twisted silver wire with twisted gold wire woven through it forming the raised letters of the word Truth.

As he pictured it, fixing it in his mind, floating on a black background, something fought him. It was the background, not the sword. Around the edge of the black was white, forming the black into a square. Richard remembered it from before.

It was one of the instructions in the Book of Counted Shadows, the book he had memorized when he was a boy. Clear your mind of all thought, and in its place put nothing but the image of white with a square of black in its center. It was part of the instructions for removing the covers from the boxes of Orden and using the magic of the book. He had used that magic to show Darken Rahl how to remove the cover from a box to prove to him he truly did know the book. But why would it be in his mind now? Just a random memory forcing its way to the surface, he decided.

It was as good a background as any to put the sword on. After all, he was trying to use magic. If his mind wanted to use it, it made no difference to him; he would let it be. At that thought, the image of the sword and a square black background with white around it solidified and became still.

Richard concentrated on the mental image of the sword against the black square with the white border. He concentrated as hard as he could. Something began to happen.

The sword, the black square, and the white border all began to shimmer as if seen through heat waves. The solid form of the sword softened. It became transparent, and then it was gone. The background dissolved. He was looking into a place he knew.

The Garden of Life, at the People’s Palace.

Richard thought it odd, and somewhat annoying, that he wasn’t able to hold his concentration enough to keep the image of the sword in his mind. The memory of the place where he killed Darken Rahl must have been so strong that it forced its way into his mind while he was relaxed.

He was about to try to force the image of the sword to come back when he smelled something. Burned flesh. The stench made his nostrils flare. He almost gagged. His stomach turned sickeningly.

He searched the image of the Garden of Life. It was like looking through a dirty windowpane. There were bodies lying over the short walls, fallen, partly hidden, in bushes, and sprawled on the grass. All were hideously burned. Some held weapons, swords or battle-axes, in charred fists. Others lay with open hands, their weapons resting where they had tumbled as their owners fell dead. Choking apprehension swelled in Richard’s chest.

Richard saw the back of a white, glowing figure standing before the stone altar, before the three boxes of Orden. One of the boxes stood open, as Richard remembered. The white figure with long blond hair lifted his face away from the boxes.

Darken Rahl turned and looked right into Richard’s eyes. His blue eyes glowed. A smile spread slowly on his lips. It seemed as if Richard was helplessly pulled closer. Closer to the grinning face.

Darken Rahl lifted a hand to his mouth and licked the tips of his fingers. “Richard,” he hissed. “I’m waiting for you. Come watch while I tear the veil.”

Unable to draw a breath, Richard slammed the image of the sword back into his mind, like slamming a door. He held it there, rigidly, without the background, as he tried to make himself breathe.

It was just a stray memory, and his fear, making him see the image, he told himself. He concentrated on the sword as he finally decided that what he had seen wasn’t real, but maybe a manifestation of his heartache over Kahlan, and his lack of sleep.

That’s what it had to be. It couldn’t have been real. That would be impossible. He would have to be insane to believe it had been real.

He opened his eyes. Sister Verna was sitting calmly watching him. She gave a heavy sigh—he thought maybe out of displeasure.

Richard swallowed. “I’m sorry. Nothing happened.”

“Don’t be discouraged, Richard. I did not expect anything to happen. It takes a long time to learn to touch the Han. It will happen when it happens. There is no way to rush it. It does no good to push too hard; it comes from finding the inner peace and not by force. That is long enough for today.”