Stone of Tears

Richard hoped he was right about the sword; Sister Verna had told him that the Hagen Woods were a place of vile magic. But he had no choice. It was the only plan he could think of.

Richard gave the gar a tight hug. “You be a good boy. Go hunt yourself some more food. I’ll be coming up here to see you, and we’ll wrestle. All right?”

Gratch grinned at the mention of wrestling. He pulled hopefully on Richard’s arm. “Not now, Gratch. I have something I must do. But I’ll come back on another night and wrestle with you.”

Gratch’s ears wilted again. His long arms wrapped around Richard in a good-bye hug. Richard collected his things and, with a final wave, headed down into the swale. Gratch watched as the dark woods swallowed him up.

Richard walked for close to an hour. He needed to be deep enough into the Hagen Woods to make sure his plan would work. Limbs draped with moss and vines looked like arms reaching out to snatch him. Sounds drifted through the trees—guttural clicking and long, low whistles. Off in stagnant stretches of water things splashed at his approach.

Warm, and breathing hard with the effort of the walk, he came to a small clearing, high enough to be dry, and open enough to afford him the view of a small patch of stars. There was no rock or log in the clearing, so he flattened a thick clump of grass and sat down beside his pack, crossing his legs. He closed his eyes and drew a deep breath.

Richard thought about home and the Hartland Woods. He longed to be back in his woods. He thought about the friends he missed so much, Chase, and Zedd. All the time he had grown up with the old man, Richard had never known Zedd was his grandfather. But he had known he was his friend, and that they loved each other. He guessed that was what mattered. What difference would it have made, anyway? Richard could not have loved him more, and Zedd could not have been more of a friend.

It had been so long since he had seen Zedd. Although he had seen him at the People’s Palace, in D’Hara, he hadn’t really had much time to talk with him, to catch up on things. He shouldn’t have left so soon. He wished he could talk to Zedd now, to seek his help and understanding.

Richard had no idea if Kahlan would go to Zedd. Why should she? She was rid of Richard, and that was what she wanted.

He wished with all his heart it weren’t so.

He missed her smile, her green eyes, the soft sound of her voice, her intelligence and wit, her touch. She made the world alive for him. He would have given his life at that moment just to hold her for five minutes.

But she knew what he was, and had sent him away.

And he had set her free.

It was for the best. He wasn’t good enough for her.

Before he realized what he was doing, he was seeking the peace within himself, seeking his Han, as Sister Verna had taught him. He had practiced almost every day when he had been with her, and although he never felt his Han, whatever it was, it had always felt pleasant to seek it. It was relaxing, and brought peace. It felt good to do that now. He let his mind find that place of peace, and let his worries drift away.

In his mind, as he always did, he pictured the Sword of Truth, floating in space before his mind’s eye. He saw every detail of it, felt every detail of it.

In his peace, in his meditation, without opening his eyes, Richard drew his sword. He wasn’t quite sure why, except it felt the right thing to do. The unique ring of steel hung in the night air, announcing the blade’s arrival to the Hagen Woods.

He laid the sword across his knees. The magic danced with him in the place of peace. If anything came, he would be ready.

Now, he had to wait. It would be quite a while, he was sure, but she would come.

When she realized where he was, she would come.

As he sat still and quiet, the night returned to its normal activity around him. While he concentrated on the picture of the sword, Richard was vaguely aware of the chirps and clicks of bugs, the low, steady croaks of frogs, and the rustling of mice and voles among the dry debris of the forest floor. The air occasionally whirred with a bat. Once, he heard a squeak as an owl caught its dinner.

And then, while in the dreamlike haze as he sat and pictured the sword, the night became still.

In his mind, he saw the dark shape behind him.

In one fluid movement, Richard was up and spinning, the sword tip whistling through the air. The flowing shape pitched back, and lunged again when the sword was past. Richard felt a thrill that he had missed, that it would not be ended so soon, that he could dance with the spirits, that he could let the rage free.

It moved like a cape in the wind, dark as death, and just as quick.

Around the clearing they darted, the sword glinting in the waning light of the moon, the blade slicing the air, the dark shape’s bladelike claws flashing past. Richard immersed himself in the sword’s magic, in its wrath, in his own. He freed his anger and frustration to join with the sword’s own fury, reveling in the dance with death.