Wizard's First Rule - Terry Goodkind [388]
Zedd reeled in shock. Richard turned to Kahlan.
“What should I do, Mistress?”
Kahlan struggled against Michael, against the knife at her throat, screamed muffled words against the gag.
Rahl’s voice was calm, gentle. “Recite the Book of Counted Shadows, Richard, or I will have Michael start by cutting off her fingers one at a time. The longer you remain silent, the more he will cut her.”
Richard spun back to Rahl, panic in his eyes. “Verification of the truth of the words of the Book of Counted Shadows, if spoken by another, rather than read by the one who commands the boxes, can only be insured by the use of a Confessor.…”
Zedd sank to the ground. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. As he listened to Richard reading out the book, he knew it was true; he recognized the unique syntax of a book of magic. Richard couldn’t be making it up. It was the Book of Counted Shadows. Zedd didn’t have the strength to wonder at how Richard had learned it.
The world as they knew it was ending. This was the first day of the rule of Rahl. All was lost. Darken Rahl had won. The world was his.
Zedd sat numbly, listening. Some of the words themselves were magic, and none but one with the gift could keep the words in his head; the magic would erase the whole of it at certain magic trigger words. Protection against unseen circumstances. Protection against just anyone getting hold of the magic within. That Richard could recite them was proof he was born to it. Born of and to the magic. As much as Richard hated the magic, he was magic, as the prophecies foretold.
Zedd mourned the things he had done. Mourned that he had tried to protect Richard from the forces that would have sought to use him, had they known what he was. Those born with the gift were always vulnerable when they were young. Darken Rahl was proof of that. Zedd had deliberately chosen not to teach Richard, as a way of protecting him from those forces learning of him. Zedd had always feared, and hoped, that Richard had the gift, but had hoped he would grow before it manifested itself, and then Zedd might have the time to teach him when he was strong enough, when he was old enough. And before it could kill him. It had been a futile effort. It had come to no good end. Zedd guessed that he had always known Richard had the gift, was someone special. Everyone who knew Richard knew he was someone special. Rare. The mark of magic.
Zedd wept as he recalled the time he had enjoyed with Richard. They had been good years. None had been better in his life. The years away from the magic. To have someone love him without fear, and only for himself. To be a friend.
Richard read out the book without hesitation or a single falter. Zedd marveled that he knew it so perfectly, and caught himself being proud, but then wished Richard weren’t so talented. Much of what he recited was about things already finished with, such as removing the covers from the boxes, but Darken Rahl didn’t stop him or hurry him over those sections for fear that he might miss something. He let Richard recite it at his own pace, and stood mute, listening carefully. Occasionally, Rahl had him repeat a section, to be sure he had it right, and stood absorbed in thought as Richard told of sun angles, of clouds, of wind patterns.
The afternoon wore on, Richard reciting, Rahl standing before him listening, Michael with a knife at Kahlan’s throat, the two guards holding her arms, Chase frozen in place, his hand halfway to his sword, and Zedd sitting on the ground, doomed, locked in his invisible prison. Zedd realized that the procedure for opening the boxes was going to take longer than he would have thought. It would take all night. There were enchantments to be drawn. That was the reason Darken Rahl needed so much sorcerer’s sand. The boxes had to be placed just so, the winter’s first sun touching them, dictating their position once they each cast a shadow.
Each box, although they looked identical, cast a different shadow. As the sun sank