Fic: Destiny Swap, Chapter 2/4

[hrhrionastar]

Title: Destiny Swap: Chapter 2: There But For the Grace of God...
Characters/Pairing: Zedd/Panis Rahl, Panis Rahl/Taralynn Zorander, Darken/Kahlan, Richard/Jennsen, Richard/Jennsen/Denna, also Cara, Dahlia, Darken's mother, the Prelate, Verna, Dennee
Rating: R
Warning: implied non-con, torture, character death, incest, violence...
Length: 7065
Summary: Written for a peoplespalace discussion: What if, in Reckoning, Richard and Cara ended up in the past, instead of the future? Can they get back to Kahlan, Zedd and Darken without changing their own past? Or is this the perfect opportunity to rid the world of an evil tyrant forever?

 

There But For the Grace of God…

It was unbelievable! Queen Nila Rahl fumed—that Panis should deliberately conspire to murder his own son—

Prophecy! She’d never trusted it, and if Panis listened to the ravings of a power-hungry witch like that Shota, the more fool he—

She moved about her rooms, throwing cloaks and gowns haphazardly into a pack, and then her eyes alighted on the journeybook by her bed—

Use the backstairs. They go directly to the meadow by the stables. Once you’re out of the Palace grounds, ride for Deerfork, but turn north just a few miles outside the town. Darken will be able to find the entrance to the Old World. It’s the only place you’ll be safe.

The Queen put a hand to her mouth, shocked and a little apprehensive.

But she collected five-year-old Darken, and followed the strange instructions.

And when Panis Rahl next came to the nursery, all he found was an empty room—and an artistic smear of blood on the sheets.

“Assassins have murdered the prince!” he cried, jumping to conclusions with a vengeance.

(It took him almost a week to realize his wife was missing as well.)

 

 

“I just don’t know what to do!” Taralynn Zorander wailed.

Awkwardly, Zedd patted her on the shoulder. He had only reconnected with his nineteen-year-old daughter a few years ago, and she was already so grown-up that it was hard to know just what he could do for her.

But something had happened, and she’d come to his doorstep and said, in a proud, broken-hearted voice that cut him to the quick, “I didn’t know where else to go.”

“You slept with him and you didn’t even know his real name, his family, his occupation—what were you thinking?” Zedd demanded.

Taralynn raised her tear-streaked face to his. “It wasn’t like that,” she insisted. “He was good, and kind to me, and—but then, afterwards—he changed, Father!”

“Did he hurt you?” Zedd asked urgently, his fingers twitching with held-back Wizard’s Fire.

“N-no,” Taralynn said doubtfully. She hugged herself, still shaking. “He changed—physically. And he turned into—“

The door burst open, and Zedd raised his hands to smite down whomever dared interrupt his daughter’s tale, helpless fury coursing through him—

Several Mord’Sith surrounded the Zoranders in seconds.

“I wouldn’t do that, if I were you, Zedd,” the man in the doorway said grimly.

“Panis?” Zedd gasped.

Taralynn shrieked and swayed toward Zedd, her arms still protectively curled around her torso.

“What are you doing here?” Zedd demanded, the shock of seeing Panis again all but banishing Taralynn from his thoughts—he didn’t see the Mord’Sith at all. “I told you I never wanted to see you again—murderer! You killed my father!”

“He killed my son,” Panis said grimly, and Zedd stared, because everyone knew Prince Darken hadn’t disappeared until he was five years old, almost nine years ago now, which was long after Caracticus’s death.

“Father, he—he—“ Taralynn quavered, bowing her head so that her hair obscured her face. The Mord’Sith made disparaging noises, and Panis ignored her.

Zedd’s eyes narrowed. “Stay away from my daughter, Panis,” he threatened. “And get out of this house!”

“Oh, no, old friend,” Panis said, almost sadly. He gestured to the Mord’Sith. “I’m afraid both of you are coming with me.”

 

 

“And so I really think it would be best for dear little Darken if the two of you relocated to Thandor,” the Prelate was saying smoothly. “Developmentally speaking, there will be other children of his own age there, and he’ll be able to really hone his abilities in a good environment.”

“All right, Prelate,” Nila Rahl agreed, her hands folded neatly in front of her and her eyes respectfully lowered under her veil.

Nila was such a good woman, the Prelate thought complacently. So agreeable.

“And of course, you know you will always have a home with us, Sister Nila,” she said warmly.

“Thank you, Prelate,” Nila said humbly. “Your generosity in taking me and my son in remains the kindest thing anyone has ever done for me. I pray your goodness will not go unrewarded.”

“Have no fear of that,” the Prelate smiled. “The Creator knows I am Her most faithful servant. Safe journey, Sister Nila,” she added, rising and offering her hand regally to Nila. “Sisters Verna, Grace, and Elizabeth will accompany you to Thandor—may the Creator watch over you and your son.”

Nila bowed her head respectfully, and went out.

“It is a pity we must lose Sister Nila,” the Prelate commented regretfully to Verna, who stood beside her. “Such a good daughter of the Light. But that boy—“ She shook her head over the child. Six years old and already he thought he had the run of the Palace!

“I have always thought he showed great promise,” demurred Verna.

“Oh, yes,” the Prelate said fervently. “A little too much promise, I think. He is a disruptive element—do you know, that Spell of Misdirection of his had me lost on the way to my own office?” she shook her head incredulously. “But that’s not what we must speak of,” she added, after a moment. “Sister Verna, I have a solemn task for you…”

 

 

Jennsen Rahl quickly followed her brother Richard into the world. Taralynn Zorander Rahl made a faint protesting cry when the girl was taken from her arms, so soon after her birth—

But she was powerless here. Panis Rahl named her wife, for no reason that Taralynn could see, save perhaps to give legitimacy to their children.

But she did not—could not!—belong here. All she wanted was to go home, her children in her arms, and live in some peaceful cottage somewhere…

The days when Lord Rahl did not visit her, she could almost believe the dream.

That night, Taralynn snuck into the nursery, careful not to awaken her maidservant, the guard Lord Rahl had set over her. She had no idea why he feared her escape, since, if he had ever bothered to know her at all, he would have seen that she would never leave her children.

Richard was awake still, his deep brown eyes wide in the darkness. Taralynn pulled him up into her arms, and carried him over to his baby sister’s crib. “This is Jennsen, darling,” she said softly, so her voice wouldn’t sound hoarse with tears. “And I want you to always, always remember to take care of her. Do you think you can do that, my little prince?”

 

 

“Mother, Father says you’re sick,” Kahlan said solemnly, hugging her toy dragon and wishing she was still allowed to put her thumb in her mouth. She stood hesitantly by Rega’s bed. “And I mustn’t disturb you.”

She was so young, but already Rega’s elder daughter spoke with the practiced ease of the wonderful Confessor she would one day become.

Rega blinked the tears from her eyes and held out her arms to her daughter. Kahlan climbed up beside her and snuggled close. “I love you, Mother.”

“And I love you, my dear Kahlan,” Rega said. “So much.”

After awhile, Kahlan’s eyes drooped, and she slept in her mother’s arms, clutching her toy dragon close. “I wish I didn’t have to leave you,” Rega whispered. “My brave little girl.”

 

 

“Why aren’t you teaching Jennsen embroidery, or whatever it is women spend their time doing all day?” Panis Rahl asked irritably.

He’d been having a bad day, full of tedious meetings, and when he’d gotten to the nursery to check on the children he’d found Taralynn encouraging Jennsen to throw darts at the wall—those were Richard’s toys, for the Keeper’s sake! Didn’t Taralynn know anything? It was lucky she came from such a powerfully magical family—otherwise she’d be completely useless.

“Of course, my Lord,” Taralynn said submissively, but Panis caught her glaring at him from behind her hair. Why didn’t she wear it up, like a proper lady? His first wife—now what was her name…? had always been the model of a true lady. “Jennsen practices her embroidery in the mornings.”

“Good,” Panis said casually. “Good, that’s good—wouldn’t want Lord Naft to be disappointed in his bride—a girl that can’t even embroider, what a disgrace—“

“Bride?” Taralynn demanded sharply. “What do you mean?”

Richard paused, about to throw another dart to match his sister’s, as if suddenly sensing the tension. “Jenn-Jenn,” he said, “Let’s play blocks.”

The two moved unobtrusively away.

“I’ve arranged a marriage for Jennsen with Lord Naft, from the North,” Panis said shortly. “She’ll leave on her seventeenth birthday.”

“She’s three years old!” Taralynn burst out. “And you’re already talking about marrying her off like some—like she’s your property? How could you! And Lord Naft, he’s much too old for her! She’ll be miserable!”

“How dare you talk to me like that?” Panis demanded, angry now. “I know what’s best for this family—“

“Family!” Taralynn exclaimed bitterly. “You kidnapped me and forced me to—and what have you done with my father? How dare you even mention the word family to me! What kind of monster are you?”

Panis had had enough; yanking Taralynn up by her hair, he grabbed her shoulders and shook her like a rag doll. “Don’t you dare question me! You are nothing but a slave! I’ve been kind to you for your father’s sake, but if you think—“ there was a loud crack, and Taralynn was suddenly a dead weight.

Panis realized he’d broken her neck.

Breathing hard, he threw her body aside and stormed out of the room to find someone to clean up the mess—completely forgetting his two wide-eyed children.

 

 

“Why do you keep me here?” Zedd asked, looping his elbows through the bars of his prison. His Rada’Han was cool around his neck.

Panis stood panting before him, eyes wild and hair disarranged—he looked like he’d seen a ghost.

But, as he watched Zedd, an almost sweet smile graced his lips. “Old friend,” he said, “Why ask questions to which you already know the answer?”

“At least let Taralynn go,” Zedd begged. “What do you want from her?”

“I needed an heir. You must see that,” Panis said reasonably. “After Caracticus murdered my son, Darken—“

“That’s not what happened,” Zedd said stubbornly.

“Who else could it have been?” Panis demanded. “You know as well as I do that mysterious young wizard and his pet Mord’Sith couldn’t have done it; I checked his magical signature myself—didn’t match anything I’d ever seen before…”

Zedd wondered idly about that himself, but assumed, vaguely, that the mysterious young man (wizard? He didn’t remember that) had been some countryman of Panis’s first wife, Nila. She’d definitely come from some outlandish place, across the Strait of Sorrows…

Panis blinked. “Anyway,” he said, coming closer. “You have to come back to me. We could be great together, you know that—with you by my side, I—“

“Could conquer the known world?” Zedd said drily. “No doubt, but I—Creator, Panis, don’t you see what you’re doing is wrong?”

Panis stiffened. “I’m sorry you feel that way,” he said, and left.

But Zedd knew he would be back. He couldn’t stay away—the more fool he. The more fool both of them.

 

 

“I can’t see you,” Dahlia whimpered. “Cara? Are you there?”

Cara reached out blindly, and caught the other little girl’s hands in hers. Her body was one tightly coiled ball, except for her questing fingers. It was so dark here—she missed Father and Mother and Grace, and home and the stream and even Miss Cranton—“I’m here,” she whispered. At least she still had Dahlia.

“Good morning, girls,” Miss Cranton said brightly, as the door creaked open—and for one impossible moment, Cara thought she was here to rescue them—they were going home—

Miss Cranton’s hair was pulled back, and her smile was harsh. She raised her weapon, and it hummed ominously. Cara and Dahlia shrank back, terrified.

“My, my,” purred Miss Cranton. “We do have a lot to learn.”

 

 

Jennsen parried Richard’s practice sword with relative ease, but he disarmed her in another several moves. This fencing stuff was hard—but Jennsen was determined. Anything her brother could do, she could do, too.

Together, they had explored the attics, swum the moat, reenacted the great Battle of the Arduen Desert…Richard was the one constant in Jennsen’s life. Although she was a year younger, they were as close as twins.

He was the only person nine-year-old Jennsen could ever remember loving. She assumed she’d loved Mother, of course, but Mother had died when she was little, and only remained in Jennsen’s thoughts as a dark-haired woman who cried a lot.

And Father—Jennsen didn’t love Father at all.

Richard was just about to put away the practice swords when Father came striding toward them—and he never watched Richard’s fencing practice.

“What,” he demanded furiously, “are you doing?”

Richard and Jennsen looked at him, each adopting their most meltingly adorable expression. “Nothing,” they chorused.

“Nothing!” Father scoffed. “How I ever deserved two such idle children—Richard, what have I told you about your practicing? Under no circumstances is Jennsen allowed to watch you, or worse, help you. No son of mine should need help from a woman, especially not an unnatural girl like her, who begs me to let her share your fencing lessons when she should be practicing her embroidery. And you!”

He grabbed Richard’s arm and squeezed; Richard scowled.

“There’s some muscle there,” Father conceded. “But you’re lazy! And so short!” he let Richard go, but stared at him disapprovingly. “I swear to the Creator, you’ve always been a disappointment. If your brother had lived—“

Surreptitiously, Richard and Jennsen exchanged a significant look. Not another lecture about their perfect, dead older brother—if nothing else, he couldn’t be perfect if he was dead, could he? And the way Father went on about him, you’d think he was some kind of saint, sent to save the world. Like in a story.

Jennsen didn’t believe in that sort of story.

“Anyway,” Father said at last, running down. “I’ve decided Jennsen is going to learn the womanly arts, whether she likes it or not. Lord Naft isn’t going to want a hoyden for a wife! She’ll go to the D’Haran Ladies’ Seminary tomorrow.”

Jennsen’s heart almost stopped—she cast a panic-stricken glance at Richard. To be separated from him—she didn’t think she could bear it. Being away from Father would be no hardship, of course, and there was no one else in the Palace—or, indeed, the world—that she would miss.

But Richard—!

He squeezed her hands, looking as horrified as she did. But Jennsen saw something else in his expression—a tightening of his jaw, a stubborn gleam in his eye…it was ridiculous to think Richard would able to stop Father, of course.

But if anyone could, it would be Jennsen’s brother.

 

 

Darken had just finished a long and tedious book about the history of magic, when Sister Candace led two girls into the main hall. They were obviously new—the elder one was about eleven or twelve, two years younger than Darken and as such much too young to bother with, ordinarily, but there was something about her—she looked nervous, but determined. And her eyes seemed to look right through him—which was ridiculous, since no one could tell what Darken was thinking, not even Mother, if he chose to conceal it.

The other one was more nondescript—a few years younger, and shy. Darken dismissed her as a baby.

“Everyone, this is Miss Kahlan Amnell, and her sister Miss Dennee Amnell,” announced Sister Candace. “They’ll be joining us for classes here.”

Kahlan. Pretty name. Darken smiled welcomingly at her. Maybe she’d be interesting. Thandor was getting a little dull, now that he’d successfully played at least one clever trick on all the Sisters of the Light and every older student to study here…

“Hi,” he said, when the sisters took seats near him for class. “I’m Darken Mirané. It’s really nice to meet you.”

“You, too,” Kahlan said politely. Her smile was really lovely, Darken thought.

“Listen,” he said impulsively. “I could show you around, after class, if you want—I know a secret passageway to the roof; you can see for leagues in every direction.”

Kahlan hesitated. “I’m not supposed to—“ she paused, and glanced at her sister. “Can Dennee come?”

“Sure,” Darken said generously, and was rewarded with another smile.

Yes, he thought smugly, as Kahlan belatedly looked toward the front, things were looking up. He might just have found a friend.

 

 

“When I was a boy, my father made sure I wouldn’t be a weakling,” Father said grimly. “And now that your sister’s out of the way, I’m going to do the same for you.”

Richard waited, a little apprehensively. Jennsen had been gone for nearly a year—why would Father still sound so annoyed with her? Richard knew she loathed the D’Haran Ladies’ Seminary, of course—her letters were very evocative, conveying more than he wanted to know about torment between the lines of etiquette.

“Remember,” Father said, pulling Richard along, “You are a Rahl. I want you to show it.”

How? Richard found this remark confusing. Short of cutting himself and letting the blood flow, how was he supposed to show he was a Rahl? Father always said he was terrible at magic lessons, but that much Richard had already gathered: his magic was in his blood.

“Of course, Father,” he said aloud.

They stopped at a door. It was an ominously heavy door past which Richard was not allowed. He and Jennsen spent most of their time going places they weren’t allowed, of course, but this was different—the lock was newer, for one thing.

Father unlocked the door, and pushed Richard gently inside. There stood a waiting Mord’Sith, who grinned at Richard in a way he didn’t care for.

“Go easy on the boy, Mistress, er…?” Father said gruffly.

“Gertrude, my Lord,” she replied, almost contemptuously.

Of course no one dared talk to Father that way—

Richard studied Mistress Gertrude with sudden interest, as well as apprehension. How badly would she have to think of Father to let even that tiny amount of disdain into her tone?

The door shut behind Father, and Mistress Gertrude beckoned Richard closer. “Do you know why you’re here?” she asked.

“No, Mistress,” Richard replied promptly. Politeness was his first defense.

“Your father,” Mistress Gertrude said, “wants you to learn something.”

It wasn’t long before Richard was valiantly trying to hold back his screams—Mistress Gertrude’s contempt lacerated his nerves almost as much as her agiel did his skin—

But he would be brave. Father had sent him here. And all Richard wanted was for Father to be proud of him.

 

 

“We’re here to take Richard Rahl to the Palace of the Prophets, where he will be trained to use his Han,” the lead Sister of the Light was saying smoothly.

General Trimack, standing near the door, watched Lord Rahl for the minutest facial expression.

The three Sisters of the Light, while not preciously an invasion, were certainly an inconvenience—and, much as General Trimack disliked young Lord Richard, it was utterly inconceivable that Lord Rahl would let these women, for all intents and purposes, kidnap his heir.

Particularly not after the disaster with his first son…

“Why do you feel such extreme measures are necessary?” Lord Rahl asked.

“Richard Rahl is the first War Wizard in three thousand years,” the Sister of the Light said earnestly. “His training could mean the difference between life and death for all creatures. Where is he? We must ascertain how much of his power he’s already accessed.”

Lord Richard spent his afternoons either fencing or studying, and would be quite easy to find, now that Lady Jennsen was gone. General Trimack waited for the order, but it didn’t come.

Instead, Lord Rahl smiled. “Your errand sounds urgent, Sisters,” he said. “Why don’t we discuss it…over dinner?”

General Trimack remained, at Lord Rahl’s request, and while the Sisters had their eyes closed, reciting a prayer of thanksgiving to the Creator, Lord Rahl pulled a small black bottle from his sleeve, and poured two drops into each of their wine goblets. He winked at General Trimack.

“When may we see Richard Rahl?” the lead Sister asked again. “How old is he?”

“He’s fourteen,” Lord Rahl said. “And he will be down directly for your inspection, Sister. He is a true son of the Creator.”

“Of course,” murmured the Sister, and sipped her wine.

Afterward, Lord Rahl gestured vaguely at the bodies—“Clear this mess up, will you, General?” he asked. “You understand, I know—I would have permitted them to teach Richard, but as things stand I cannot allow him to gain any knowledge of his own powers—already, he has experimented with dark magic, and I fear—“ he took a breath. “I fear he may indeed prove the difference between life and death for all creatures. He is…a dangerous child, and I could not take the risk these women represented.”

“I understand, my Lord,” General Trimack said, putting a hand over his heart and sinking to his knees. “I am honored by your confidence in me.”

Poor Lord Rahl—he was surrounded by enemies. General Trimack would do anything in his power to protect his Lord.

 

 

“I’m a Confessor,” Kahlan said lightly. “You can’t lie to me: did you or did you not turn the sugar to salt at the Head table?”

Darken smirked down at her, from where he lay curled against a higher branch than the one Kahlan clung to. “Guilty as charged, I’m afraid,” he said lazily. “So, I’ve been meaning to ask: what, exactly, is a Confessor, oh wise one?”

“You know,” Kahlan said, sobering at once. “I—it’s my duty to—and then they—“ She floundered, hating this. The truth was, she had no very clear idea of what it meant to be a Confessor either. Soon, she’d be going to Aydindril with Dennee, and then she would learn—learn properly, not like what she’d done when Father made her—

But that was over with now.

On days like these, just spending time with Darken in the autumn sunshine, it was hard to remember that she wanted to go to Aydindril at all.

But it was her duty—and even at sixteen, Kahlan knew the importance of duty.

“Well,” Darken asked, leaning precariously downward. His hair, which was longer than most boys wore it, almost brushed Kahlan’s nose. She giggled, nervously. “I know you don’t Confess someone the instant you touch them. Or else,” he added, reaching down with one finger, touching her nose gently—“I wouldn’t be able to do this.”

“I’d never Confess you,” Kahlan protested, torn between laughter and something else, she couldn’t quite define. “You’re not a criminal—in spite of salt in Sister Candace’s tea.”

“Did you see Sister Marian’s face?” Darken asked, diverted. Or was he merely pretending to be diverted? It was so hard to tell with him—“That’ll teach her to make the younger ones all sit inside and write lines just because she can’t keep track of that invisible kid—“

“But what about your mother?” Kahlan protested, charmed in spite of herself. Of course, Darken would defend the younger ones—if any of them dared follow him around adoringly, he got so annoyed, but as soon as there was an injustice done, he was up in arms—he was such a contradictory person.

“Mother knows better than to take sugar with her tea,” Darken smiled. “After all these years…awful for your teeth, too, you know. I was researching an antidote only the other day—“

And he was off, happily explaining some obscure magical experiment that Kahlan didn’t understand. She watched the way the light played across his hair, the way his eyes lit with enthusiasm when he spoke, the way his lips were so soft…

She was definitely going to miss this.

(Having a friend with whom to spend her days—nothing else. Of course not.)

 

 

At last, the day came when Kahlan had to depart for Aydindril.

“You will write me,” Darken informed her. “Even after you become all important.”

She smiled tremulously. “You know I will.”

Darken drew her hand in his, and then raised it to his lips in a courtly gesture he remembered from somewhere—only he turned it over and kissed her palm, wherein rested the power she hated and loved so much—she didn’t realize that she loved it yet, of course, but presumably that was what Aydindril was for.

(Personally, Darken had never understood why everyone in Thandor talked about it like it was the Creator’s Garden, but he hoped Kahlan would be happy there.)

Sometimes, Darken would catch a glimpse of her when she thought he wasn’t looking, and he would see the fear in her eyes—and he knew it was fear of hurting him. Of taking him with her power.

He wanted that fear to be gone. He didn’t want her ever to hesitate, to hate herself because she was afraid she was a monster. He saw the shadow of her childhood in her eyes, and recognized a kinship there, something he wasn’t yet ready to explore himself.

But it helped him understand.

“I’m going to miss you,” he said. It seemed inadequate.

Kahlan smiled again, and turned to go—but then she was back, and she threw her arms around his neck and whispered, “In case I never see you again, Darken, there’s something…you should…know…” And she kissed him.

Darken returned the kiss enthusiastically, actually lifting her off the ground a few inches—

It was amazing—and it felt so right, having her in his arms—

“Kahlan,” he protested, when she broke away.

Her eyes were sad again, but he caught a glint of mischief in their depths, and knew his own held an answering gleam. So much for everyone who had told him, “Do be kind to the Confessors—but not too kind. We don’t want any accidents.”

And then Kahlan was off to find her place in the world, followed by Dennee, and Darken walked slowly back toward their favorite tree, missing her already.

 

 

“Lord Rahl is coming, Lord Rahl is coming!” Dahlia shrieked.

They all gathered at the window, each pretending to be bored and sophisticated except Dahlia, whose honest anticipation was refreshing, Cara felt.

Pity she didn’t share it—she knew that, as Mord’Sith, it was their duty to serve Lord Rahl; she just hadn’t seen much evidence that he was worthy of their devotion.

Nor, when he called her forward to receive the Breath of Life and managed to mispronounce her name (Cah-rah: how hard could it be?), did she change her opinion.

“We’re so honored, Lord Rahl,” Denna said, in her fake-sweet voice. “We hope you won’t be too disappointed in us.” And then she fluttered her eyelashes at him.

Cara rolled her own eyes upward. This was just demeaning.

 

 

“Creator, I missed you so much!” Richard hugged Jennsen tightly, finally able to welcome her home properly after hours of tedious ceremony—Father was terribly excited about her betrothal to Lord Naft, it was the only reason he’d let her come home at all—

There was no way, of course, that Richard was letting Jennsen be sent away to marry some Northern Lord they’d never even met, not now that he’d just got her back—

In all justice to Lord Naft, though, he had sent Jennsen a lion cub as a betrothal present—she loved the creature, and had already named him Precious.

“Never, never again,” Jennsen said fervently. “I don’t care what Father does to me, I won’t embroider.”

Richard had to laugh. “I love you, Jenn-Jenn,” he said, smoothing back a lock of her fiery red hair from her cheek.

She smiled at the nickname. “Richard,” she said, and everything seemed contained in that one word—a bond that could never be erased.

 

 

“Love. Romance. Even friendship with outsiders,” Mother Confessor Serena said. “That is what we can never have. Never. Do you understand me?”

Kahlan tried so hard to be a good Confessor—but her mind dwelt often on Darken, and their farewell kiss—and the truth was, she didn’t understand.

Why shouldn’t she have love, and romance, and friendship? Didn’t she deserve happiness?

If Mother Confessor Serena was to be believed, the answer was no. Kahlan still shivered when she remembered the training in self-denial—hunger she wasn’t allowed to satisfy, thirst she wasn’t allowed to quench—and that memorable night in the cold without so much as a blanket. All the young Confessors had been in bed for a week with fever, and they’d feared most seriously for Alana—

The worst part was how ashamed she was—because Kahlan could not erase her own needs and desires, no matter how much she tried.

Her letters to Darken contained no mention of this, and she knew it was impossible that he could have guessed what she really wanted was for him to rescue her.

Foolish girl, she thought angrily. She was a Confessor—she shouldn’t need rescuing.

 

 

“I think there’s something going on between Father and the new blonde Mord’Sith,” Jennsen announced, just a few short weeks before she was supposed to depart for the North. She would be married before her seventeenth birthday—or she would if Richard couldn’t stop it. (He’d debated poisoning the Northern ambassador, but it felt like cheating, somehow—poison. Ick.)

“Which one?” he asked now. “Cara? Sandy? Anemone? Dahlia—no, she isn’t really a blonde—is she?”

“No,” Jennsen said impatiently. “I mean the really gorgeous one. I’ve seen you staring at her enough times…”

“Oh, Denna,” Richard said, on a note of comprehension. Denna—she was fascinating, there was no denying that…and she wasn’t afraid of anything. She was something else. “—and Father?”

“He knows her name,” Jennsen said significantly, and Richard stared. This was serious.

And what if—the last thing he and Jennsen needed was another half-sibling Father would love more than he did them. They heard enough about sainted Darken as it was.

Richard thought long and hard about how to approach Father, but in the end he decided he would just come right out and ask: “Are you sleeping with Mistress Denna?”

“My dear boy,” Father blinked, “you’ll understand these things when you’re older, you know.”

Richard, who was quite old enough to understand, actually, and who found the whole idea disgusting (not least because he liked Denna himself), scowled. “She’s only a year older than Jenn,” he pointed out.

Father looked blank.

“Jennsen,” Richard clarified. “Your daughter.” (Father had the worst head for names of anyone ever—)

Father frowned. “Thank the Creator she’s going to the North soon,” he said. “Can’t abide a pack of women about the place—not counting the Mord’Sith, of course. When your mother was alive—and my first wife, Darken’s mother…women are all servants of the Keeper, Richard. Never forget that.”

But Richard was thinking of something else—he was thinking of Father sending Jennsen away to marry some old doddering Lord, and of his mother, whom he barely remembered…

“How did Mother die?” he demanded abruptly.

“That’s over and done with,” Father said. “Don’t rake up the past—I can’t abide it.”

“But she wasn’t sick—“ Richard insisted. He remembered Mother crying, and he remembered her singing to him…now that he reexamined those memories, Mother seemed very young. She had had clouds of dark hair and dark circles under her eyes, and she was never ill.

“Shut up!” Father yelled, getting red in the face. “Creator, you are just like her—a weakling! What I ever did to deserve a son like you—I’m surprised Mistress What’s-Her-Name couldn’t break you—“ Richard remembered that test—he’d hoped Father would be proud of his endurance, but all that he’d been left with, after a harrowing three days, were bruises and disappointment. “I am surrounded by idiots!” Father raged, getting up and pacing the room. “You should be grateful your mother didn’t live to infect you with even more of her pathetic whining! You’ve been a disappointment to me, always—if only your brother had lived, you might’ve shown some backbone and killed him as the prophecy said—that would have been a deed worthy of a Rahl! Instead you come crying to me about your mother and sister—soon they’ll both be gone, and good riddance! You—“

Richard sat very still, letting his father’s words wash over him like poison. He had quickly passed beyond anger, into something almost like calm—and there was a strange ringing in his ears.

Dispassionately, he watched his father getting redder and redder, screaming at the top of his lungs…Panis Rahl was like a caricature of a tyrant, all bluff and bluster and petty, sneaking violence…

Was the real reason he wanted to send Jennsen away because she reminded him of their mother?

Cold certainty flashed through Richard—he would never make his father proud. And he was tired of trying. At seventeen, he was already twice the man his father would ever be, because he honored his obligations.

“Father,” he said, getting to his feet. And then he drew his sword and ran Panis Rahl through.

Richard felt nothing.

There was the light whisper of petticoats, and then Jennsen brushed a tapestry impatiently aside and entered the room. She pursed her lips at the sight of Father dying on the floor, and then she kicked him, hard. “That’s for finishing school,” she said firmly, and then she turned to Richard, clearly dismissing Panis Rahl from her mind forever.

Richard smiled. Jennsen always made him happy.

 

 

Richard had saved Jennsen’s life—she could think of it no other way, and she shivered when she thought she might even now have been on her way to the North.

There was something thrilling about seeing him there, sword still wet with Father’s blood—he was her hero. The only one she trusted, the only one who ever cared for her.

Jennsen ran to Richard and hugged him, almost sending them both toppling to the floor—he laughed, and whisked her back behind the tapestry, down the corridor…at last, they were alone in Richard’s rooms.

“You did it!” Jennsen exulted. “Lord Rahl,” she added, peering at him through her eyelashes and laughing.

“Don’t you forget it,” Richard laughed back, and then he was kissing her—

It was not a brotherly kiss.

And Jennsen didn’t want it to be.

When they broke apart for air, she saw in his expression that he was going to pretend he’d been going to kiss her cheek, and she put a finger over his lips. “It’s okay,” she said softly.

It was better than okay. She’d wanted this for so long—and the thought of how much the world might disapprove thrilled her.

“Are you sure, Jenn-Jenn?” Richard asked. He was still holding her, and Jennsen was very conscious that they were alone.

She shrugged, a wicked little smile playing about her lips. “You know we’ve always done…everything together.”

She saw in Richard’s eyes his awareness that this was different—and saw him make up his mind. “I love you, Jenn-Jenn,” he breathed, his fingers tightening on her sleeve and his other hand tangling in her hair.

 

 

Darken stood at the window, watching Alcea walk back to the village, without really seeing her.

Why couldn’t he have married Alcie? She was smart and pretty and interesting—the daughter of the blacksmith in the next village. Her aunt and uncle sent eggs and other essentials to the Sisters of the Light in Thandor, always nervous, on account of all that magic, but polite and helpful anyway. Alcie was just like them—she was good. And she was ordinary.

Darken couldn’t get a decidedly extraordinary girl out of his mind.

“I quite thought you and Alcea might marry,” his mother said calmly, from the doorway. She crossed to the window, and pulled him gently down with her to sit on the bed. “Would you like to tell me about her?”

“About who?” Darken asked, smiling in spite of himself.

“The girl you do want to marry,” Mother said.

“It can never happen,” Darken sighed. “She’s a Confessor, and anyway, she’s too good for me.”

“Kahlan Amnell?” Mother asked. “Does she love you?”

“I think…maybe she does,” Darken said, thinking of the letters. Some of them made him wonder about Aydindril, and Confessors, but he trusted Kahlan. Being a Confessor was part of her. And her duty, as she repeated often enough, was to take a mate, to continue her line, and never to let herself be swayed by love. He knew she wouldn’t take him as a mate—their friendship had terrified her when he was still within reach of her touch. In some ways, writing letters was easier.

But if she was going to go on with her life, why shouldn’t he? And yet he couldn’t get her out of his mind—or his dreams.

“She’s afraid of Confessing me,” he told Mother, not sure why he was confiding all this. But if ever he’d needed his mother’s advice, it was now.

Mother pursed her lips. “She should be,” she said tartly. “But…I never heard of anything, magical or otherwise, that doesn’t have a cure or an antidote or a counter-acting agent of some kind. I suggest you try Eldoria first—my homeland. We have a very rich magical history, you know.”

Darken nodded thoughtfully. What Mother said made sense. His own magical experiments occupied much of his time and interest, and it would certainly be interesting to investigate his mother’s home country.

“Will you accompany me?” he asked, thinking of the Sisters of the Light. Mother seemed happy in Thandor, but she would always, no matter that she wore the robes of a Sister of the Light and attended middle mid-morning prayers and all the other ceremonies, be something of an outsider. It was one of the things he and Mother never spoke of, but he knew that neither of them quite belonged here.

“I can’t,” Mother sighed. “It would violate the treaty my people made with your father. Actually,” she said, taking a deep breath, “that’s really what I came to speak to you about—you’ve always been Darken Mirané here, but the truth is…you are Darken Rahl. Your father—I don’t know if you remember him, but—“ she floundered.

“Only a little,” Darken mused. Just enough, in fact, that he didn’t need to hear the rest of the story—he knew Mother had had her reasons when she left, taking him with her.

“He’s dead now,” Mother said quietly. “Your father.”

Darken tried to feel some sadness about this fact, but mostly he was interested in the results of Richard Rahl’s succession in terms of the Midlands, the people he knew…Kahlan. Panis Rahl had not been popular, but the Resistance to him had been mainly in the upper classes—a sort of fastidious disdain. He’d had the sense, or the disinterest, to leave the peasantry alone. It would be interesting to see what tack Richard Rahl took—

With a start, Darken realized that this meant Richard Rahl was his brother.

“Mother,” he asked, after a long, thoughtful moment. “If Panis Rahl is dead, why are you worried about breaking the conditions of the treaty? He’ll never know.”

“Yes,” Mother agreed, “but, you see, I would know.”

 

 

It was a day like any other, except that Denna happened, quite inexplicably, to drop her agiel, whereupon it rolled away into a corner, while she was passing the open door to the new Lord Rahl’s study.

(She might have been a little distracted by how utterly gorgeous he looked, bent over a stack of papers and nearly tearing his hair out with frustration…but that was neither here nor there.)

And then Lady Jennsen popped up right in front of Denna, grinning and holding out her agiel, hilt first, like it was nothing. “You dropped this,” she said, and Denna stared.

“Thank you,” she said, taking the weapon and wondering how this was possible. “Are you…were you ever trained—? I mean—didn’t that hurt?”

Lady Jennsen shrugged. “No,” she said, so simply that she had to be telling the truth.

Instinctively, Denna looked at Lord Rahl—he seemed all right. Alive and breathing, anyway. So how—?

“Mistress Denna,” he said, looking up. “Was there something in particular you found curious…?”

“Is Lady Jennsen immune to magic?” Denna asked, pointblank.

“That’s not possible,” Lady Jennsen scoffed. She tossed her bright red hair back, and Denna was immediately fascinated by the way it caught the light from the open window. Lady Jennsen looked like her head was on fire. It was…beautiful.

“I don’t know,” Lord Rahl said thoughtfully, turning away from his papers with evident relief. “Remember that assassin, the summer before you turned eight? You drank half my glass of poisoned milk, but only I got sick, and Father’s most useless magician, Ulysses, swore it was magic of some kind…”

“I remember,” Lady Jennsen agreed. “You were ill for a week—it seemed like forever.”

There was a thoughtful pause.

“Well,” shrugged Lady Jennsen, “that’s interesting.”

Then she sauntered over to Lord Rahl, draping herself over his lap, and added playfully, “Enough taxes for one day, don’t you think?”

Lord Rahl grasped her wrists, and she twisted until she was facing him, on his lap—then he let go of one wrist and started tickling her—“I don’t need magic to make you beg for mercy!” he said, amidst her laughter.

Regretfully, Denna turned to go, sure they’d forgotten about her, but—

“Mistress Denna,” Lord Rahl called. “We could use your expertise, I think…”

Lady Jennsen held out one white hand. “Do stay,” she said, in pure ladylike accents. Then she giggled.

It really was the most adorable sound Denna had ever heard…

Grinning, she stepped further into the room, and shut the door. “I thought you’d never ask.”

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