Wizard's First Rule - Terry Goodkind [139]
No.
He turned to the Narrows. No. She would have gone back. Back to the wizard.
It would be no use for her to go to the Midlands alone. She needed help, that’s why she had come to Westland in the first place. Without the Seeker, the only help was the wizard.
Richard dared not put too much faith in the thought, but it wasn’t that far back to the place where he had fought the shadows, where he had lost her. He couldn’t go on without checking, without knowing for sure. Fatigue forgotten, he plunged back into the Narrows.
Green light welcomed his return. Following his tracks back, in a short time he found the place where he had fought the shadows. His footprints wandered all about in the mud of the slide, telling the tale of his battle. He was surprised at how much ground he had covered in the fight. He didn’t remember all the circling, the back and forth. But then he didn’t remember much of the fight, until the last part.
With a jolt of recognition, he saw what he was looking for. The tracks of the two of them, together, then hers, alone. His heart pounded as he followed them, hoping so hard it hurt, that they wouldn’t lead into the wall. Squatting, he inspected them, touched them. Her tracks wandered about a while, seemingly confused, and then they stopped, and turned. Where their pair of tracks led in from the other way, one set of tracks lead back.
Kahlan’s.
Richard stood in a rush, his breathing rapid, his pulse racing. The green light glowed irritatingly about him. He wondered how far she could have gone. It had taken them most of the night to laboriously cross the Narrows. But they hadn’t known where the trail was. He looked down at the footprints in the mud. He did now.
He would have to go fast; he couldn’t be timid in following the way back. A memory of something Zedd had told him when the old man had given him the sword came into his mind. The strength of rage, the wizard had said, gives you the heedless drive to prevail.
The clear metallic ringing filled the dim morning air as the Seeker drew his sword. Anger flooded through him. Without a second thought, Richard dashed down the trail, following the tracks. The pressure of the wall buffeted him as he jogged through the cool mist. When the tracks turned, switching back and forth, he didn’t slow, but set his feet to one side or the other to throw his weight the other way down the path.
Keeping a steady, sustainable pace, he was able to traverse the span of the Narrows before midmorning. Twice, he had come across a shadow floating in place on the path. They didn’t move or seem to be aware of him. Richard charged through, sword first. Even without faces, they had seemed surprised as they howled apart.
Without slowing he went through the split rock, kicking a gripper out of the way. On the other side he stopped to catch his breath. He was overwhelmed with relief that her footprints went all the way. Now, back on the forest trail, her tracks would be harder to see, but it didn’t matter. He knew where she was going, and he knew she was safely through the Narrows. He felt like crying with joy in the knowledge that Kahlan was alive.
He knew he was getting closer to her; the mist hadn’t yet had time to soften the sharp edges of her footprints, the way it had when he had first found them. When it had gotten light, she must have followed their tracks instead of using the walls to show the way, or else he would have caught her long before now. Good girl, he thought, using your head. He would make a woodswoman of her yet.
Richard trotted off down the trail, keeping the sword—and his anger—out. He didn’t waste time to stop and look for signs of her trail, but whenever there was a soft or muddy patch, he looked down, checking, as he slowed a little. After running over an area of mossy ground, he came to a small bare patch with footprints. He gave a cursory glance as he went by. Something he saw made him stop so suddenly that he fell. On his hands and knees, he peered down at the prints. His eyes widened.
Overlapping part of her footprint was a man’s bootprint, nearly