Chapter Text
It’s the incessant pounding of the midday sun, coupled with the thickness of the air that is most unbearable. Even nights lack the respite that, in most lands, comes in the form of a cool breeze after the sun sets. Given the climate, the landscape should be thick and lush, but war and greed have left in their wake a vast wasteland in which barely anything can grow. At times, torrential rain exploding from the sky in blinding sheets, causing steam to rise from the ground as if water were boiling over a hot flame, replaces the scorching sunlight but is useless in easing the punishing heat.
Never again will a winter storm be a source of consternation, not after weeks of blisters, and sweat, and grime covering every speckle of skin that isn’t hidden under the thick leather of her travel dress. That such terrain exists is something she would have never fathomed. Not even the dry air and arid landscape of D’Hara is as unforgiving as this humid, bug-infested, wretched land in which she finds herself. Bugs that feast on her formerly flawless skin, odious flying creatures, easily ten times the size of those she remembers from the rare summer heat wave in Aydindril, are all over this land, which she has concluded came to be by a wave of the Keeper’s own hand.
She’d chosen this path because the map she’d been given by the seer weeks before showed this as the shortest route. Now she realizes that even several more weeks of travel would have been preferable to this tropical purgatory. The only positive aspect of it is that various resilient fruit trees were spared from the devastation; it is from them that she picks her meals. The sweet taste of exotic fruits, which she cannot name, serve as an elixir of sorts, giving her body just enough energy –– if not much strength –– to put one foot in front of the other. Her mount had fallen prey to a deadly snake bite a week earlier, leaving only her heat-exhausted legs to carry her. Kahlan decides that if she succeeds in rescuing Richard from Darken Rahl and the Sisters of the Dark, she will confess him if ever again he even contemplates deviating from a predetermined task. For it was his inability to turn away a buxom blonde claiming her life was in peril that led to his capture. Kahlan has yet to decide whether it was the Seeker’s kindheartedness, or the blonde’s plunging neckline that prompted him to immediately yield to her plea for help.
It is as she is gathering her belongings just before dawn that she hears a rider approaching. The hostile climate has at least served as a means of traveling unnoticed, for it would seem no one other than she had been foolish enough to venture this way. She listens attentively, but suddenly, it stops. Not taking any chances, she quickly draws her weapons and waits. After almost a full candlemark without hearing a sound, she sheathes her daggers but remains keenly alert as she walks on.
Moments later, as if by magic, a woman dressed in black leather armor from head to foot suddenly stands before her. Out of pure instinct, Kahlan’s hand wraps around the woman’s throat.
“Who are you, and why are you following me?” Kahlan fixes her gaze on the blonde woman’s eyes waiting to gauge the veracity of her words but sees nothing. “Before you respond, know that the price of a lie is the loss of your free will.”
“No, Confessor, you are mistaken. The price of a lie, in my case, is my life,” the woman retorts with a smirk on her face.
“Mord’Sith,” Kahlan says, equal parts statement and question, as she tightens her grip on the woman’s throat. “That can’t be possible. Darken Rahl, he killed…” she trails off.
“Much like yourself, I am the last of my kind, Confessor. Think of me as the one who got away.”
“If you are Mord’Sith, you must be a rather daft one if you would walk straight into the hands of a Confessor. Tell me, is this your chosen day to die?” Kahlan asks menacingly. “And what kind of Mord’Sith forgoes her agiel? That isn’t even Mord’Sith leather you are wearing.”
Kahlan’s words are met with no small amount of derision. “I’ve been tracking you for weeks, Confessor. Don’t flatter yourself by thinking that you caught me off guard. I’m here because I want to make certain you succeed on your mission.”
“A reformed Mord’Sith that wants to align herself with a Confessor, yes, that’s highly believable,” Kahlan says mockingly, raising an eyebrow for effect. “Now tell me, what are you really after? Unless you prefer to reply while begging my forgiveness with your last breath.”
“I am Mord’Sith, Confessor, I do not expect to live a long life. Darken Rahl’s new body has no magic. Those badly dressed whores created a spell that allows him to control the Seeker’s Han, and by extension, the bond. In return, the whores demanded that my kind be wiped out.”
“Of course, what could the Sisters of the Dark fear more than the magic against the magic?” Kahlan murmurs more to herself than to the Mord’Sith. After thinking for a long moment she says, “So you are out for vengeance and expect me to be your instrument?”
“Vengeance means nothing to my kind. This is a question of honor. Mord’Sith serve the Lord Rahl, the only thing we expect in return is an honorable death. His betrayal was not my sisters’ deaths; it was the disgraceful way in which they died.”
Kahlan isn’t sure what to make of her story, but she allows her hand to drop from the Mord’Sith’s throat. While she can’t read her, there is something about her that intrigues Kahlan. “Tell me, what do I have to gain by taking you with me?” Kahlan asks, narrowing her eyes and crossing her arms in front of her chest.
“For one, you will no longer have to climb trees for sustenance. Your various attempts at hunting were pathetic, by the way.” Kahlan does her best to look offended but the Mord’Sith spoke the truth. “I also have a horse which will hasten our travels. But more importantly, I will protect you with my life. All I ask in return is retribution for my sisters’ disgrace. Should I meet with death during this journey, can I count on you to kill our common enemy?”
“You can,” Kahlan says without hesitation. In truth, the implication that they will be eating something other than fruit had already sealed the deal. That the Mord’Sith does not carry an agiel makes this a calculated risk that she’s willing to take. “I will allow you to travel with me, but one wrong move and you are dead,” Kahlan says, thanking the Creator that her feet will have a chance to recuperate as well.
“Here,” the Mord’Sith says, reaching into her pack and tossing her a small jar, “salve for the bug bites and the sunburn.”
It is then that Kahlan notices that the blonde is completely unaffected by the stifling heat. “How can you possibly wear that in this climate?”
With a smug look on her face, she says, “When I realized you were taking this ridiculous route, I had my leathers spelled.” Kahlan considers confessing her just to take her spelled leathers, but decides it would be wrong.
Shortly after, the Mord’Sith returns on her horse and stretches out her hand to Kahlan, lifting her onto the saddle. “Press yourself tightly against me. It will help with the heat.” Kahlan looses a soft moan at the instant relief provided by the cool leather pressed against the front of her body. She wraps her arms even more tightly around the blonde’s waist and closes her eyes. This arrangement may not be so bad after all.
***
“What are you called?” Kahlan asks, realizing after a full day of travel that she doesn’t know her companion’s name.
“Cara Mason,” the Mord’Sith replies, pulling out some dry meat from her pack and tossing it to Kahlan without looking up at her.
"Cara,” Kahlan says in a whisper. The name echoes in her head over and over. It's important somehow, she's certain of it, but it's almost as if she's locked away the reason why it’s important in a place just beyond her reach. Instinctively, she gazes into the other woman’s eyes searching for answers but, of course, finds nothing.
Being in the company of someone who she can’t read is unnerving. It is as if one of her senses has failed her, causing the others to overcompensate. Without even realizing what she’s doing, Kahlan takes in every detail of her companion. Her mannerisms, the way her eyes constantly flicker from one thing to the next, the fullness of her lips, her lean firm physique, the way the glow of the moon reflects off her golden hair, she commits it all to memory hoping that somehow it will make up for the missing level of understanding she usually takes for granted. During the horseback ride, she’d molded her body to the Mord’Sith’s, inhaling the unique scent of the woman’s skin, mixed with the smell of leather and a hint of vanilla in her hair.
“Beautiful,” she says absentmindedly.
“What?” Cara asks, her brow slightly furrowed.
Realizing she’d said the word aloud, Kahlan quickly blurts out, “The night, it’s a beautiful night.”
***
While still conflicted about traveling with a Mord’Sith, Kahlan quickly realizes that the speed at which they are progressing outweighs the unease she feels. There is also a part of her that empathizes with the other woman. Never having fully accepted the notion that Mord’Sith were incapable of feelings, she is quite certain that Cara is experiencing the same isolation and despair that have plagued her since the massacre at Valeria. She is also keenly aware that bearing a child will reverse her fate, whereas the Mord’Sith has no such possibility: Mord’Sith are made, not born.
They follow Kahlan’s map for a fortnight, finally arriving at a structure that resembles the rough drawing made by the seer. ‘After that point, I am of no help to you,’ the seer had said. The words had echoed in Kahlan’s head for days. Now, confronted by a seemingly insurmountable obstacle, her worst fears are confirmed.
An arched structure as high as the tallest trees in the forest, covered by what appears to be limestone, stands before them. There are a series of images etched into it, drawings that seem to tell a story but neither of them can decipher it. The two most prominent figures appear to be those of two women, one of which has a sword strapped to her back, but that isn’t important now. Their focus is traversing the arch. Its opening can easily accommodate their passage but an invisible barrier prevents them from crossing to the other side. Kahlan recalls another barrier she’d crossed years earlier with her sister by her side.
When she turns to the Mord’Sith Kahlan notices she’s unfazed, standing perfectly still as if piecing together a puzzle in her head. “You know something. What is it?” Kahlan asks, eyeing the other woman suspiciously.
Cara drops to her knees, digging through her pack. When she’d escaped certain death at the People’s Palace, she’d taken with her a bag of gold coins, and a tightly wrapped bundle tossed to her by Berdine, a Sister of the Agiel and her most trusted friend. ‘In it you’ll find all your answers, sister.’ Those were Berdine’s last words to her and, come to think of it, quite possibly her final words in this life.
“Berdine,” she whispers, and pauses for a long moment thinking that even in death, her old friend found a way to get her out of trouble. “She said everything I needed to complete my quest could be found here.” She lifts the tightly wrapped bundle and stares at it –– now more certain than ever that nothing will stop her from righting the wrong done to her kind.
“A Mord’Sith gave you these? How is that possible?” Kahlan asks, kneeling beside her, perusing the stack of parchments.
“Contrary to what you may think, Confessor, Mord’Sith are not savages. Berdine was the most learned scholar in all of D’Hara, quite possibly in all of the territories,” she snaps at Kahlan.
“No, I didn’t mean it like…” she trails off, regretting her choice of words. “These documents, they must have come from the Old World. How did she come by them? And what of this?” she asks, holding up a rune made of lapis lazuli, a stone seldom found in the New World.
“Her hunger for knowledge was insatiable. Most likely, with Raina’s assistance, she had them smuggled out of the Old World.” Cara carefully examines the documents then hands one of them to Kahlan. “Turn it over, the translation is on the back.”
“It’s all here, Cara, the instructions as to how to open the portal with the rune, and the steps we must follow to reach Darken Rahl’s hideout. It’s all here.” She stares at the parchment in her hand with no small amount of awe at an accomplishment that rivals that of all the historians in Aydindril combined. “But I don’t understand, why didn’t she leave with you?”
The Mord’Sith stares at the ground, attempting to steel her emotions. “By the time we realized what Darken Rahl was planning, it was too late to warn the others. Berdine chose the Underworld with Raina at her side over the world of the living without her.”
With that single statement, Kahlan realizes that nothing in this world is as it seems. “Then let’s make certain their deaths were not in vain,” Kahlan says, firmly gripping her shoulder. The Mord’Sith’s eyes instantly go to the offending hand. Casual contact is not something to which she’s accustomed, let alone a Confessor’s touch. Noticing her discomfort, Kahlan quickly removes it.
They then gather their belongings and gingerly approach the ominous structure before them. Kahlan reads Berdine’s instructions aloud and Cara carefully follows them. They are to sequentially place the rune at various preset indentations along the edge of the arch. The slightest deviation from the pattern set forth in the instructions will result in the structure’s permanent disappearance. There are a total of thirteen such indentations, but when they reach the eleventh, the impossibility of their task becomes obvious.
“I can’t reach it,” the Mord’Sith says, clenching her fists at her sides. “It’s too high.”
“Stand on my shoulders.”
The Mord’Sith raises an eyebrow, glaring at her wordlessly. “We are on this quest together, we’re going to have to learn to trust each other,” the Mother Confessor says. “I’ve brought down men twice your size. Now get on my shoulders.” She drops down on one knee, and after a long moment the Mord’Sith complies. With Kahlan firmly gripping her legs just below the knees, the Mord’Sith easily reaches the three remaining indentations.
A bright blue glow accompanied by a swirling gust of wind marks their success. With the exchange of a quick glance, they mount their horse and traverse the arch.