Wizard's First Rule - Terry Goodkind [127]
“There!” Rahl thrust out his arm.
The other three looked where he pointed. A single white rose petal sat on the floor. Darken Rahl’s face reddened, his eyes fierce. Shaking, his hands clenched into white-knuckled fists, his eyes filled with tears of wrath. He was too furious to speak. Regaining his composure, he held out his hand toward where the white petal lay on the cold marble floor. As if touched by a breeze, it rose into the air and floated across the room, settling in Rahl’s outstretched hand. He licked the petal, turned to one of the guards, and stuck it to the man’s forehead.
The heavily muscled guard looked back impassively. He knew what the Master wanted, and gave a single grim nod before turning and going through the door in one fluid motion, pulling his sword as he went.
Darken Rahl straightened his body, smoothed his hair and then his robes with the flats of his hands. He took a deep breath, letting his anger out with it. Frowning, his blue eyes searched up at Demmin, who stood calmly beside him.
“I ask nothing else of them. Only that they care for my father’s tomb. Their needs are seen to, they are fed and clothed and taken care of. It is a simple request.” His face took on a hurt look. “Why do they mock me with their carelessness?” He looked over to his father’s coffin, then back to the other’s face. “Do you think I am too harsh with them, Demmin?”
The commander’s hard eyes scowled back. “Not harsh enough. If you were not so compassionate, if you didn’t allow them a quick punishment, maybe the others would learn to treat your heartfelt requests with more commitment. I would not be as lenient.”
Darken Rahl stared off at nothing in particular, and nodded absently. After a time he took another deep breath and strode through the door, with Demmin at his side, and the remaining guard following at a respectful distance. They went down long corridors of polished granite lit by torches, up spiral stairs of white stone, down more corridors with windows that let the light out into the darkness. The stone smelled damp, stale. Several levels up, the air regained its freshness. Small tables of lustrous wood stationed at intervals along the halls held vases with bouquets of fresh flowers that lent a light fragrance to the rooms.
As they came to a pair of doors with a scene of hillsides and forests carved in relief, the second guard rejoined them, the task assigned him completed. Demmin pulled on the iron rings, and the heavy doors opened smoothly, silently. Beyond was a room of dark, brown oak panels. It gleamed in the light of the candles and lamps set about on heavy tables. Books lined two walls, and an immense fireplace warmed the two-story room. Rahl stopped for a short time to consult an old leather-bound book sitting on a pedestal; then he and his commander walked on through a labyrinth of rooms, most covered in the same warm wood panels. A few were plastered and painted with scenes of the D’Hara countryside, forests and fields, game and children. The guards followed at a distance, watching everywhere, alert but silent: the Master’s shadows.
Logs crackled and popped as flames wavered in a brick hearth, providing the only light in one of the smaller rooms they passed into. On the walls hung trophies of the hunt, heads of every sort of beast. Antlers jutted out, lit by the light of the flames. Darken Rahl stopped suddenly in midstride, his robes made pink in the firelight.
“Again,” he whispered.
Demmin had stopped when Rahl did, and now watched him with questioning eyes.
“Again she comes to the boundary. To the underworld.” He licked his fingertips, smoothing them carefully over his lips and eyebrows as his eyes fixed in a stare.
“Who?” Demmin asked.
“The Mother Confessor. Kahlan. She has the help of a wizard, you know.”
“Giller is with the queen,” Demmin insisted, “not with the Mother Confessor.”
A thin smile spread on Darken Rahl’s lips. “Not Giller,” he whispered, “the Old One. The one I seek. The one who killed my father. She has found him.”
Demmin stood straight in surprise. Rahl