Stone of Tears

Proud, but also perhaps a bit wary. The ways of Confessors were a mystery to her. From birth they were trained in Aydindril, trained by other Confessors, and by wizards. Their magic, their power, was something they were born with, and in a way they were slaves to it. In some ways it was the same with her; born to be queen, without much choice. Though she had no magic, she understood the weight of birthright.

From birth until their training was completed, Confessors were kept cloistered, like priestesses, in a world apart. Their discipline was said to be rigorous. Though Cyrilla knew they must have emotions like anyone, Confessors were trained to subjugate them. Duty to their power was all. It left them no choice in life, save choosing a mate, and even that was not for love but for duty.

Cyrilla had always wished she could bring a little of the love of a sister to Kahlan. Perhaps, she also wished Kahlan could have brought a little of that love to her, too. But it could never be. Maybe Kahlan had loved her from afar, as Cyrilla had Kahlan. Perhaps Kahlan had been proud of her, too, in her own way. She had always hoped it was so.

The thing that pained her the most was that though they both served the Midlands, she was loved by her people for doing her duty, but Kahlan was feared and hated for it. She wished Kahlan could know a people’s love; it was a comfort that in part made up for the sacrifice. But a Confessor never could. Perhaps, she thought, that was why they were taught to subjugate their emotions and needs.

Kahlan, too, had tried to warn her of the danger from Kelton.

It had been at the midsummer festival, several years ago, the first summer after the death of Cyrilla’s mother. The first summer Cyrilla had been queen. The first summer, too, since Kahlan had ascended to Mother Confessor.

That Kahlan had become the Mother Confessor at such a young age spoke of both the strength of her power and of her character. And perhaps of a need. Since the selection was made in secrecy, Cyrilla knew little about the succession of Confessors, except that it was done without animosity or rivalry, and had to do with the strength of power weighed against age and training.

To the people of the Midlands, age was irrelevant. They feared Confessors in general, regardless of age, and the Mother Confessor in particular. They knew she was the most powerful of Confessors. Unlike most people, however, Cyrilla knew that power in and of itself was not necessarily something to fear, and Kahlan had always been fair. She had never sought anything but peace.

That day the streets of Ebinissia, the Crown city of Galea, had been filled with festivities of every sort. Not even the lowest stableboy had failed to find welcome at the tables of the fair, or at the games, or around the musicians, acrobats, and jugglers.

Cyrilla, as queen, had presided over the contests, and given ribbons to the victors. She had never seen so many smiling faces, so many happy people. She had never felt so contented for her people, or been made to feel so loved by them.

That night there was a royal ball at the palace. The great hall was filled with nearly four hundred people. It was dazzling to see everyone in their most elegant dress. Food and wine were arrayed on the long tables in abundant and stunning variety—only fitting for the most important day of the year. It was grand beyond any ball that had come before, for there was much for which to be thankful. It was a time of peace and prosperity, growth and promise, new life and bounty.

The music trailed off in thin, discordant notes, and the loud drone of the gathering fell suddenly dead silent as the the Mother Confessor strode purposefully into the hall, her wizard at her heels, his silver robes flying behind. Her regal-looking white dress stood out among the confusion of color like the full moon among the stars. Bright color and fancy dress had never looked so unexpectedly trivial. Everyone bowed low at her passing. Cyrilla waited with her advisors beside the table on which sat a large, cut-glass bowl of spiced wine.

Kahlan crossed the hushed room, followed by every eye, and drew to a halt before the queen, giving a prompt bow of her head. Her expression was as still as ice. She didn’t wait for the formality of the bow to her office to be returned.

“Queen Cyrilla. You have an advisor named Drefan Tross?”

Cyrilla held her open hand out to the side. This is he.”

Kahlan’s emotionless gaze moved to Drefan. “I would speak with you in private.”