Wizard's First Rule - Terry Goodkind [132]
Their whispers calmed him. Richard’s hand relaxed on the sword as he strained to make out the words. The slow, easy smiles reassured him, gentled his caution, his alarm, making him want to hear more, to understand the murmurs. Green light around the faint forms shimmered comfortingly. His heart pounded with the need for rest, for peace, for their company. Like the shadows, his mind drifted, smoothly, quietly, gently. Richard thought of his father, longed for him. He remembered joyful, easy times with him, times of love, sharing, caring, times of safety when nothing threatened him, nothing frightened him, nothing worried him. He longed for those times again. He realized that that was what the whispers were saying, that it could be like that again. They wanted to help him reach that place again, that was all.
Small warnings burgeoned deep in his mind, but then withered and were gone. His hand slipped from the sword.
He had been so wrong, so blind, and hadn’t been able to see it before. They weren’t there to harm him, but to help him reach the peace he wanted. It wasn’t what they wanted, but what he wanted, that’s what they offered him. They wished only to help release him from loneliness. A wistful smile spread on his lips. How could he have not seen it before? How could he have been so blind? Whispers like sweet music washed over him in gentle waves, soothing his fears, giving him soft light in the dark places of his mind. He stopped walking so that he wouldn’t step out of the bathing warmth of the enchanting murmurs, the breath of the music.
A cold hand tugged annoyingly at his, trying to pull him on, so he released it. It went without objection, to bother him no more.
The shadows drifted closer. Richard waited for them, watched their gentle faces, listened to their soft whispers. When they sighed his name it made him shudder with pleasure. He welcomed them as they came around in a comforting circle, floating closer, their hands reaching to him as they did so. Hands lifted to his face, almost touching him, seeking to caress him. He looked from one face to another, meeting the eyes of his saviors, each holding his gaze in turn, each whispering a promise of wonderment.
A hand almost brushed his face, and he thought he felt searing pain, but wasn’t sure. The keeper of the hand promised that he would feel pain no more, after he joined with them. He wanted to speak, to ask them so many questions, but it seemed so suddenly unimportant, so trivial. He had only to give himself over to their care, and everything would be all right. He turned to each, offering himself to each, waiting to be taken.
As he turned, he looked for Kahlan, thinking to take her with him, to share the peace with her. Memories of her flamed into his mind, distracting his attention even though the whispers told him to ignore them. He scanned the hillside, peering off into the dark rubble. Faint light tinged the sky, morning materializing. Black voids of the trees ahead stood against the pale pink sky; he was almost to the end of the slide. He didn’t see Kahlan anywhere. The shadows whispered insistently to him, calling his name. Memories of Kahlan blazed brightly into his mind. Sudden choking fear flamed up inside him, burning the whispers in his mind to ash.
“Kahlan!” he screamed.
There was no answer.
Dark hands, dead hands, reached for him. The faces of the shadows wavered like vapors rising from boiling poison. Gnarled voices called his name. He took a step back, away from them, confused.
“Kahlan!” he screamed again.
Hands reached for him, bringing searing pain even though they did not touch him.