Fic: Destiny Swap, Chapter 3/4

[hrhrionastar]

Title: Destiny Swap: Chapter 3: Seeker of Truth
Characters/Pairing: Darken/Kahlan, Richard/Jennsen/Denna, Zedd/Panis Rahl, also Cara, Dahlia, Darken's mother, Dennee
Rating: R
Warning: torture, character death, incest, violence...
Length: 7068
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?

 

Seeker of Truth

On his way back from Eldoria, in the sixth year of Richard Rahl’s reign, Darken heard the tragic stories of far more members of the rapidly growing Resistance than he ever had when Panis Rahl, his estranged father, had ruled.

They were stories of girls taken by the Mord’Sith, stories of husbands, brothers, fathers killed fighting pointless battles over tiny stretches of land…

But mostly they were stories of starvation, or near-starvation, and what people had to do to survive.

Darken listened, and Healed where he could, and tried to sympathize—but he couldn’t help a tiny sliver of contempt, in his most secret heart of hearts. These people weren’t accomplishing anything; and they were still naively waiting for the Seeker of Truth to come and save them all.

Darken had heard the tales of the Seeker in Thandor, where he’d grown up, but it seemed a foolish story—the Seeker might indeed be a great hero, but why should everyone just wait around for him to appear? Richard Rahl was a danger now.

Or was he? Ever since Darken’s mother had told him he too was a Rahl, Darken couldn’t help thinking his little brother must not be as black as he was painted.

But for Darken, there was cause for celebration in his return—he had done it. He had found a way to make himself immune to Confession.

(It was quite the magical coup; he was considering writing a top-secret scroll about it, for the Wizard’s Keep, in Aydindril.)

But before he could find Kahlan and tell her—always assuming she hadn’t already taken a mate, but Darken, reading between the lines of her letters, didn’t think she had—he would return to Thandor and see his Mother.

She would be anxious for tales of Eldoria, her homeland.

Darken was full of logical plans, but inside his heart was singing, Kahlan, Kahlan, Kahlan…

 

 

“Look what I found in the attic,” Richard Rahl, the best Lord and the best brother the world had ever seen, said casually, tossing something at Jennsen.

She caught it, easily, and turned it over in her hands. “It’s a box,” she said flatly. Her fingers pried at the grooves. “And it doesn’t even open.”

“That’s not just any box, Jenn-Jenn,” Richard said, looking pleased with himself. “That’s one third of the infamous Boxes of Orden.”

Orden…it was familiar, somehow. Jennsen frowned. “What does that mean?”

“It means,” Richard said smugly, “ultimate power will soon be within my grasp.”

“Drama queen,” Jennsen scoffed—but she was impressed. If Richard could pull this off—but there was nothing he couldn’t do.

He made her so proud.

 

 

“The Resistance is getting a little out of hand,” Denna said, leaning back against the pillows and watching Lady Jennsen—who strenuously insisted she drop the ‘Lady’ in private. Lord Rahl also insisted on informality, something that Denna pretended to disapprove. In truth, she reveled in her special status. The right to call Lord Rahl and Lady Jennsen by their given names was one granted to few.

“Mmm,” Jennsen agreed, to show she was listening. Her mouth was full of the curna root Denna insisted she chew every morning—the last thing they needed was a little prince running around. Particularly if Denna wasn’t his mother.

(She’d also heard a brother and sister shouldn’t have children—but Denna was far more concerned with her own power. And besides, Richard wasn’t ready to be a father. He might kill the child, a pre-emptive strike against a rival.)

“We should strike at Aydindril,” Denna pursued. “And at once. You know the Confessors are the cultural and judicial heart of the Midlands.”

Jennsen spat out the curna root and made a face. “Blegh—culture,” she said, and grinned.

Denna smiled back, secure in the knowledge that Jennsen would pass on to Richard what he needed to know. (He was up already, poor man—mediating a dispute between two D’Haran lords this morning. Denna had every confidence that he would summon her, if he needed her professional skill.)

It really was a good system—Richard almost never disagreed with any of Jennsen’s suggestions. That and Jennsen’s incongruous, sophisticated and innocent charm made even sleeping with Jennsen’s pet lion, Precious, draped over their feet worth it.

The Rahls were a package deal—and Denna liked it that way.

 

 

The attack came without warning—or so Kahlan would always remember it, later. The acrid smell of smoke made her cough, as she ran desperately toward the Wizard’s Keep—she had to find the Book of Counted Shadows, a magical artifact kept for just such emergencies.

It could only be read by the fabled Seeker of Truth, of whom Kahlan had always made rather a hero. Surely, surely, everything she endured would be worth it, if only someday she might aid the Seeker.

She tripped over bodies in the smoke, and narrowly avoided a sword through the chest more than once.

Her heart was in her mouth, fear for her sister-Confessors making her want to stop and look for them—but the D’Haran soldiers were everywhere (here! How they dared—! Richard Rahl would pay for this, Kahlan swore) and she couldn’t afford to waste the time.

But then her resolve was tested in a more personal fashion.

“Dennee!” Kahlan gasped, skidding to her knees on the grass in front of the Wizard’s Keep. She didn’t even notice her skirts ripping and staining under the assault. “Oh, Creator, Dennee!”

Instinctively, she put her hands to the arrow wound in her sister’s chest—but it was no use.

“Go, Kahlan,” Dennee choked out. “This…” she held out the Book—“is more important than me.”

For one long, agonizing moment, Kahlan hesitated.

Then she took the Book and ran.

She looped her fingers through a bolting D’Haran horse’s reins, and swung herself one-handed into the saddle—and then she rode as if her life depended on it.

Not only her life, but that of everyone in the Midlands, depended on Kahlan now. If Richard Rahl would attack Aydindril, there was nothing he would not dare. And the only thing that could be done was to name a Seeker of Truth.

And the only person who could name a Seeker of Truth was a Wizard of the First Order.

 

 

“Aydindril has been taken,” Kahlan said wildly. “My sister is dead. We have to find the Seeker. Will you help me?”

It hadn’t been how Darken had imagined their reunion, but he rose instantly to the occasion.

“I’m so sorry,” he said, holding Kahlan’s eyes with his own. They were dry still, and Darken surmised that she hadn’t even had time to grieve for Dennee yet. How she must be suffering.

“Where is the Seeker?” Darken asked, sensing Kahlan wanted efficiency.

“I—don’t know,” Kahlan admitted, biting her lip. “But only he can save us from Rahl’s tyranny—and only a Wizard of the First Order can find him.”

“Zeddicus Zu’l Zorander,” Mother said unexpectedly, and Darken and Kahlan both turned to her. (Darken would have preferred to see Kahlan again in private, but he couldn’t deny the urgency of her quest. Aydindril—Richard Rahl must be planning something big. The Confessors were the heart of the Midlands, if a heart that the people of the Midlands occasionally wished they could cut out themselves. This had become more than simple conquest.)

“He was a friend of…my husband,” Mother said obliquely. “Long ago. I remember when he was named First Wizard.”

“Somehow I doubt Richard Rahl feels as friendly toward this Wizard Zorander,” Darken said dryly. He’d heard some…interesting rumors about the Rahl siblings, and his father’s death.

“We have to find him,” Kahlan said. She was still so pale. “And then he’ll take us to the Seeker, and the world will be right again.” Something almost like religious conviction filled her face, and Darken had to bite back a sardonic comment about the Seeker (taking his sweet time, wasn’t he?). Jealousy would get him nowhere.

 

 

Sister Nila, Darken’s mother, having kindly offered to scry for the First Wizard’s location, Kahlan allowed Darken to pull her aside into one of Thandor’s many empty practice rooms.

As soon as they were alone, Darken caught Kahlan’s hands in his. The gentle pressure grounded her, and she remembered how much she’d missed the way Darken never hesitated to touch her.

She raised her eyes to his, consciously letting her breathing slow. It was going to be all right—there was still something to live for, anyway. She had her duty to the Midlands, but she couldn’t deny that it made cold comfort, at the moment.

She would be warm in Darken’s arms…

“Are you all right?” Darken asked seriously. “I’m sorry about Dennee.”

Kahlan took a breath, and then walked forward into his embrace, burying her face in his shoulder and inhaling his clean, masculine scent. His arms tightened around her.

But Kahlan stiffened at the thought of her fragile self-control—the headache starting behind her eyes sapped her strength, seeming incongruent with the sweeping force of her power, but better safe than sorry.

“I’ll be fine,” she said, pulling away. “I am a Confessor. I must not—I can’t afford to—“ she broke off, making a vaguely frustrated gesture to indicate what she still could not explain, even after years in Aydindril. (Her home, a smoking ruin—!)

“I guess this isn’t a good time to tell you this, then,” Darken said, obviously forcing his voice to lightness. “But I—“ he laced his fingers through hers, and Kahlan didn’t let go. When they found the Seeker, all her allegiance would be for him—surely she could afford to listen to Darken, her oldest friend. “You don’t ever have to worry about touching me,” he said quietly. “I found a way to make my soul immune to Confession.”

Kahlan stared, amazed and dizzy with wild surmise—how could this be? There was no way, no possible immunity to Confession—how often had she wished she could take back one ill-considered touch—but if he—then she—

“Behold.” It was Darken’s mother, holding an orb of blue light suspended just above her open palm. In it, lights flickered, making shadows jump on the walls. Kahlan, squinting, could make out what looked like a miniature fortress in its blue depths. “The last First Wizard.”

 

 

Darken and Kahlan rode through the night, to find the last First Wizard (and if he really was the last, it appeared they had no time to lose—he must be at least as old as Darken’s father, and certainly the place they sought him was in the midst of the D’Haran Empire). They didn’t speak, but Darken watched that perfect profile, as they galloped to find a legend.

Was Kahlan thinking of the Seeker? Her perfect hero, the man who would save the world from Richard Rahl? (The world, or the Midlands? Were the two synonymous for her?)

Or was she thinking of Darken—remembering that he was the one who would do anything for her? She didn’t even know this Seeker, after all.

The fortress where the First Wizard was presumably being held prisoner looked forbidding enough, if a trifle deserted. Darken cast spells of illusion, to carry them safely past the watching guards.

He and Kahlan walked easily to the front gates.

There, just as the guard was squinting into the gloom, and Darken was reflecting on the unfortunate impossibility of holding up a shield spell and sending a quick burst of controlled Wizard’s Fire simultaneously, Kahlan reached out and caught the guard around the neck.

Unobtrusively, Darken reached for the small of her back, liking the idea of a quick fire-test, but she moved out of his reach too quickly.

“Command me, Confessor,” the guard said loudly. Darken cast a quick look upward toward the battlements, cursing under his breath, but no one seemed to have heard.

“Take me to the First Wizard,” Kahlan demanded in a furious whisper.

The guard unlocked the gate and the three of them wafted through what Darken might laughingly call the security without incident.

“What’s that?” Darken asked sharply, at the sight of an open journeybook—a candle flame guttered beside it, and the blood looked fresh. What news could have precipitated them here? Did Richard Rahl know Kahlan had survived?

At Kahlan’s nod, the guard peered at the journeybook. “We are instructed to execute the Wizard,” he said. “Master Rahl does not wish to house an ‘obsolete old fool’ even in the dungeons of a remote outpost like this one.”

Darken and Kahlan exchanged glances. It seemed they had gotten here just in time.

Despite a horrible premonition that they might find the First Wizard’s decomposing remains (the Confessed could be quite literal, after all, and Kahlan had only said, ‘take me to the First Wizard,’ not specifying alive or dead), they found and released the man without much trouble.

His hair and beard were long and gray, his eyes hard. When they unlocked his Rada’Han, he threw it across the cell, where it struck loudly against the stone. Darken sincerely trusted they would depart before anyone came to investigate.

“First Wizard Zeddicus Zu’l Zorander?” Kahlan asked breathlessly. “I’m Kahlan Amnell, and I—we—all the Midlands, need your help.”

 

 

The First Wizard had quickly agreed to Kahlan’s plan to save the Midlands from Richard Rahl’s tyranny by naming a Seeker of Truth; while she watched in amazement, he summoned the famous Sword of Truth right out of the Wizard’s Keep.

Kahlan prayed desperately that the Keep was still intact; but if even her beloved Aydindril could fall—

With a flourish, the First Wizard handed the Sword to Darken, who raised it over his head as if by instinct—

Kahlan stared in astonishment. Weren’t they going to find the Seeker?

“Darken Rahl,” intoned the First Wizard. “You are the True Seeker. Will you accept the title?”

Looking as stunned as Kahlan felt, Darken said, “I will.”

Flames burst into being in a circle around him, and Kahlan barely waited until they died back down to embers before throwing her arms around Darken, hugging him as if her heart would break.

The Seeker was her hero, Darken was her friend—and the mere idea that he might be immune to her power was enough to make all her most secret desires rise to the surface of her thoughts.

And yet—she was putting him in danger. How much, she could only guess.

 

 

Richard woke with a start, sitting up in bed and brushing his long brown hair out of his eyes. Denna would’ve been awake instantly, but she was still overseeing the destruction and reorganization of Aydindril. Her side of the bed was sadly empty.

“Richard?” Jennsen asked sleepily, pulling herself semi-upright by clinging to Richard’s shoulders. She pressed a light kiss to his throat. “What is it?”

“Bad dream,” Richard said, bewildered. “I think. Listen, do you remember our older brother who died?”

“Sainted Darken, of course,” Jennsen said impatiently. He could almost hear her rolling her eyes. “So?”

“Just wondering,” Richard said thoughtfully. “If he really is dead, after all.”

 

 

Darken peered at the open book in his hands. Its spine was in disrepair, and he eyed it disapprovingly. “’The truth of the Book of Counted Shadows can only be ensured by the use of a Confessor,’” he read. “So I guess you should take over,” he added, trying to hand the book back to Kahlan.

“You really are the True Seeker,” she said wonderingly. Darken’s lips twisted a little at her tone of surprise. “Then—the prophecy says you are destined to kill Richard Rahl.”

A little shocked, Darken turned to the First Wizard—Zedd, as he’d told them to call him—for confirmation. “Yes,” he agreed. “And there is no time to lose. I fear Richard Rahl’s defenses will not be easy to overcome.”

“It doesn’t say that,” Darken insisted. At Kahlan and Zedd’s blank looks, he elaborated: “The prophecy. Prophecies never mention anyone by name, it’s always the woman in white, or the man with six fingers—“ (And a weird case that had been—Darken had acted as a consultant for the Eldorian authorities, and it had taken them weeks to track down the Six-Fingered Man—) “And I don’t believe I’ll have to kill Richard Rahl. The man’s my brother—there must be a better solution.”

Zedd gazed down at him unreadably. “Though they share my blood, the Rahls are no kin of mine,” he said seriously. “And we don’t have time for such foolish sentiment. I believe Richard Rahl is collecting the Boxes of Orden.”

With that, he strode away a few paces, no doubt to brood on the intriguing revelation that he, too, was related to Richard Rahl (although Darken assumed it could not be through either his own mother or father—Mother would have mentioned it. But Richard’s mother—) “They?” he asked aloud, frowning. Now that Zedd mentioned it, Darken rather thought there was another one—a sister. She was not well known in the Midlands, however.

“Richard Rahl is your brother?” Kahlan asked, and for a moment Darken was afraid she was going to hate him now, for the family connection that wasn’t his fault—and if it was true that Richard Rahl was putting together the Boxes of Orden, Zedd was right, there was no time to lose—“Then that means he stole your throne!” She looked quite irate on Darken’s behalf, and he smiled.

Funny—he’d never thought of that before. Lord Darken Rahl? It seemed a familiar name, somehow, but then, until he was five years old he’d grown up in the same Palace from which Richard Rahl presumably ruled.

Strange—to think how easily their lives might have been different. Worse, to think that Richard and his sister had borne that burden in Darken’s place…

Darken shrugged these thoughts aside, gripping the hilt of the Sword of Truth. He was the Seeker, and he had a quest to think about.

 

 

Finding Richard Rahl was easier said than done. Every day the three of them rode through the Midlands, stirring up the populace…(Darken seemed to think Richard Rahl couldn’t long ignore the tales of the Seeker, returned at last, but there was more to it than that—the people stood in awe of Kahlan the Confessor, but they practically worshipped the Seeker. Darken gave them hope.)

They were also looking for the Boxes of Orden, but according to the D’Haran soldiers Kahlan Confessed, Richard Rahl already had two out of three.

They were running out of time—and that, Kahlan told herself sternly, was the only reason she was worried.

It had nothing to do with her increasing desire to throw caution to the winds and see if Darken was right about his newfound immunity to Confession…

“We can’t,” Kahlan had moaned, the previous night. Her bodice was already half unlaced, Darken’s hands tangled in her hair and her skin tingling wherever she touched him—“I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t,” he told her confidently.

“But what if you’re wrong?” Kahlan protested. “I would be condemning all the Midlands—to Confess the Seeker—I couldn’t! How you would hate me—or…” She was getting confused—the Confessed never hated the Confessor, that was the whole point of—although if Darken didn’t stop being so irresistible—

“Or how you’d hate yourself?” Darken asked shrewdly. “But it won’t come to that—trust me.”

Kahlan wanted to—so desperately. And yet—if she was wrong, she was wrong for all time, and she couldn’t do that to Darken. If only he’d fallen in love with someone else, all those years they’d been separated—except that she didn’t really wish that—

It was all so difficult.

And now—Kahlan hated the feeling that she was losing her objectivity. Nothing made sense to her anymore, because she saw the world only as it affected Darken, and to a lesser extent his quest to collect the Boxes of Orden and reclaim his rightful throne from his brother. Her duty as a Confessor did not extend to wading through a D’Haran internal matter like the succession…

And more immediately, she didn’t know how long she would be able to stop herself from…putting Darken at rather an intimate risk of Confession.

“I must leave you,” she told Darken. It took all her courage to walk away and find her replacement (not all her sister-Confessors had been at Aydindril at the time of its destruction), but if it saved him, it was worth it.

 

 

The Mord’Sith appeared not an hour after Kahlan, against Darken’s wishes, had left. (Not all his entreaties and arguments had kept her by his side—he’d forgotten how stubborn she was.)

Knowing magic was useless against the Mord’Sith, and not yet sure of himself as a claimant to the throne and hence their loyalty, Darken tried using the Sword against them.

Just how costly a mistake that was, he didn’t realize until he woke up in the chains.

“My friends,” he said urgently. “Where are they?”

“The Wizard is dead,” said the blond Mord’Sith harshly. “And soon, you will beg to join him. I will not grant your wish—you and I will have much time together.”

“Before you force me to kneel at Richard Rahl’s feet and swear my allegiance to the evil tyrant you serve, depriving the Midlands of their greatest hero?” Darken guessed. It would make sense, as a strategy. Particularly considering how hard it was to convince the people of the Midlands to fight for their own future.

The Mord’Sith looked nonplussed. “As a traitor to the crown, you will suffer untold agonies before you die,” she said, as though it were obvious. “But,” she added, under her breath, “that is a good idea…if Richard cared about the Midlands…”

Darken stared at her. Although horror filled his blood at the torment she promised, he couldn’t help a special thrill of dread for a Lord, like Richard Rahl, who didn’t care what his people thought of him. Did he imagine Orden would solve all such problems?

The Mord’Sith stepped closer to where Darken hung in his chains. “Seeker,” she hissed, running a hand gently over Darken’s cheek, the gentleness of her touch belied by the hatred in her voice (had he made her doubt her Lord, if only for a moment?)—“You will beg me to kill you.”

“I will do no such thing,” Darken replied calmly, allowing a faint sneer to distort his features. “D’Haran whore.” The insult was deliberate—he wanted to know how she would react. Could he provoke her into letting him go? Perhaps with some suitable incentive, such as hunting him down again—she’d find it significantly more difficult the second time. If only his hands were free, he might cast a Spell of Misdirection, make her think she’d already lost him—

She pulled back and growled at him, raising her weapon—it hummed with a faint, subliminal hiss that Darken was alarmed to realize he found faintly reassuring, like a barely-remembered lullaby—

The pain when she struck him with it was less reassuring. Nor, when she regained her temper, did Darken quite like the way she whispered, “I always enjoy a challenge.”

 

 

There was something about the way Lara handled her villagers that troubled Kahlan—typically, when it came to a head she had no time to reproach her sister-Confessor. Darken was in danger—through her negligence, had fallen into the hands of the Mord’Sith! Kahlan had been raised to view the Mord’Sith as scarcely less evil incarnate than the Keeper Himself—the thought of what tortures Darken might even now be enduring because of her was intolerable.

Together, she, Zedd and Lara tried to develop a plan for rescuing Darken, but nothing less than direct action appealed to Kahlan—she would go herself.

If she won their freedom—well and good. If she didn’t—at least she deserved to suffer. Poor Zedd was still weak from his long sojourn in a D’Haran prison, and remarkably taciturn on the subject of Richard Rahl and his sister. Kahlan was sure there was more to that story, but she didn’t have time to find out.

 

 

It was amazing how beautifully things went according to plan, Denna mused happily. Not only the Seeker, but the Confessor as well, delivered to her hand with hardly any fuss at all—Richard would be so pleased.

Jennsen, hovering idly in the training room and pulling at Precious’s mane, was already pleased—when Denna had sent the Seeker briefly to the Underworld, Jennsen had jumped and clapped her hands.

He stirred with the Breath of Life—“Do it again, do it again!” Jennsen screamed happily.

Denna smiled. It really was lovely, having one’s work so appreciated.

(If she chose, the Seeker would beg Richard for his life—and that would be a treat to watch. Where would his precious Midlands be then?)

 

 

“OH, NOT AGAIN,” the Keeper complained bitterly, as Darken Rahl’s cursed soul disappeared back to the Land of the Living. He’d been in the middle of suborning the man from the Creator’s service—just like last time. Were the Mord’Sith getting quicker off the mark? Usually He had at least several minutes before the victim woke again, disoriented and seeing only green for days afterward. But Darken Rahl had already escaped the Keeper once, when a tiny baby. “MAYBE I’D HAVE BETTER LUCK WITH THE BROTHER…” the Keeper mused, thoughtfully. Someone in that pestilential family was going to help Him conquer the Land of the Living, that was all He knew.

 

 

“Kill her,” the Mord’Sith said, handing Darken the Sword of Truth.

Kahlan stared in horror, unconsciously noting each bruise and abrasion, but her heart constricting most at the defeated look in Darken’s eyes. Was that last glimmer of defiance his buried love for her, or his buried fury that she had abandoned him?

He fought well—better, Kahlan was glumly certain, than she did. On the other hand, he was exhausted—her swifter reflexes kept her out of range of his Sword for the moment—

At the sight of another woman, petite with red hair and elegant black gloves, Kahlan seized the opportunity, open palm reaching for the woman’s bare neck—this was Richard Rahl’s sister, the murderous woman behind the scenes—worse even than the Mord’Sith, who were so far outside Kahlan’s definition of human that the rules scarcely seemed to apply to them—(were they more in the nature of weapons—?)

But as Kahlan’s fingers touched Jennsen Rahl’s neck, Darken pushed the smaller woman aside, willingly taking her place—“Kahlan,” he gasped, and Kahlan felt her own eyes turn black.

“Interesting,” the Mord’Sith said lightly, after Darken had fallen to his knees before Kahlan, clutching her skirts in a way no Confessed man would ever have dared do, even if it was that or fall to the floor in a heap—“Tell him to obey me as he would you.”

The cordiality of the Mord’Sith’s tone was at sharp odds with her razor-edged smile, and the edgy stillness of the other Mord’Sith about them—not least Jennsen Rahl, now standing well back and watching Kahlan in a disconcertingly dispassionate way.

“Darken,” Kahlan said hoarsely. “You will obey this woman as you would me.”

Darken looked up at her and had the audacity to wink. Some of Kahlan’s tension drained away—she had felt her power wash over him, had felt it somehow neglect to take root in his soul—but it was nice to know he was still himself, neither her slave nor the Mord’Sith’s. “As you command, Confessor,” he said humbly.

The Mord’Sith smiled, body flowing easily into a pose more relaxed than Kahlan had yet seen—

And then Darken lurched to his feet, plunging the Sword of Truth into the Mord’Sith’s chest—

Kahlan tripped Jennsen Rahl, who hurried forward with a sharp cry of, “Denna!”

And then Darken’s eyes met hers, and he said, “Run!” and Kahlan lost not a moment, but ran for all she was worth.

 

 

Cara watched dispassionately as Denna was revived. So. Her old rival, First Mistress to Lord Rahl and his sister, Lady Jennsen, had muffed this particular man’s training quite spectacularly.

Cara was not above a little thrill of joy about that, but it certainly remained a question—what were they going to do about the Seeker?

If she could capture him herself, drag him to throw unceremoniously at Lord Rahl’s feet, might she win the higher status that ought to be hers? Or would Lord Rahl merely find a way to give the credit to Denna, always his favorite?

Cara was wildly jealous of Denna, but she disapproved of the current situation for more professional reasons as well. Lord Rahl promoted people not for their competence or their loyalty, but some other personal quality too nebulous to quantify. He had an inner circle—one Cara wasn’t part of.

It was unacceptable.

And then there was Lady Jennsen—it was common knowledge that she shared her brother’s bed, and some vestige of Cara’s village upbringing was horrified about that—not least because the Lady Jennsen was incredibly, delightfully delectable, from her sharp laugh to her black gloves (“Let Richard play the hero,” she’d even been heard to say—although Lord Rahl showed little interest in heroics, “I like being bad…”) to her bright red hair, to her total disregard for physical harm (always a trait respected by the Mord’Sith).

Cara still remembered what Denna had said when Dahlia had unadvisedly scoffed at Lady Jennsen as “one of those hopelessly genteel wastes of space…” Denna had given Dahlia a quizzical look and asked, “Didn’t you hear what she did to the Northern ambassador?” At Dahlia’s query, “What Northern ambassador?” Denna had winked—“Exactly.”

But there was something troubling Cara about the Seeker—the Confessor had been precisely what she would expect, or perhaps a trifle more cunning, but the Seeker—something about him caught at Cara’s senses, telling her things that ought to be impossible.

For once in her life, she was going to have to do the research. Berdine knew all the details of the Rahl family tree—what Cara suspected was impossible, of course. But it wouldn’t hurt to make sure.

 

 

“I am so, so sorry I left you,” Kahlan was saying, her blue eyes swimming with tears. “It won’t happen again.”

“When Denna was torturing me,” Darken said slowly. “I kept thinking about what you said…if I’m really a Rahl, shouldn’t I be able to withstand the Mord’Sith? I think…” he stopped talking, a frown between his brows. Denna had been a torment—although an oddly familiar one—but he had caught himself making plans for subverting her to his own side. Kahlan would doubtless find the prospect of collaborating with a Mord’Sith unedifying, and then too, Denna struck Darken as being several arrows short of a quiver-full of sanity.

Kahlan’s fingers worked their way under Darken’s shirt, her shy touch electrifying, and he quickly lost track of anything but the feel of her in his arms.

“I couldn’t Confess you,” she said, and then—“Oh, Creator, Darken, I love you so much—“

“Are you sure?” he asked, remembering her hesitation—and suddenly, wildly thankful for the selfless impulse to save his sister that had put him in the path of Kahlan’s touch—

“I’ve never been more sure of anything,” Kahlan said, smiling against his lips.

 

 

On the whole, Zedd approved of the Seeker and the Confessor—Darken and Kahlan. He’d always enjoyed being in the presence of the young, and of course the fact that they’d rescued him from certain death made them hard to dislike.

He tried to block the memories of those endless years rotting in some D’Haran prison, but his thoughts circled agonizingly back to Panis far too often for comfort—to say nothing of those children. They were so young, and so—he vividly recalled that one visit, Richard Rahl cool and collected, his sister displaying an unseemly joy at her father’s death—‘long-overdue execution, I think,” Richard Rahl had said.

It was terrible to think that they had a point, but Zedd would never have desired such an end to even a treacherous friend like Panis. And his children had made sure to make it clear they intended no relaxing of the policies that had once made Zedd berate his friend. Quite the reverse—look at them now, trying to conquer all the Midlands.

Trying—or succeeding? Only time could tell.

After the scare with Denna, about whom Darken had been remarkably uninformative (strange to think this was the same boy Zedd’s father had believed would grow up to be an evil tyrant—might Caracticus have been mistaken about just which brother…?), Zedd had hoped their next encounter with a Mord’Sith would be comfortably distant.

But it was less than a week later that she appeared.

One lone Mord’Sith, on foot, stalking toward them with the strangest ironic smile twisting her lips…

Kahlan had one hand around her dagger and the other stretched out in front of her as though it longed for the Mord’Sith’s flesh, and the release of Confession—

Darken merely watched the Mord’Sith impassively.

She stopped just a few paces out of Kahlan’s range, unsheathed her agiels, and threw them delicately to the ground, raising her gloved hands and wriggling her fingers at them.

Zedd mistrusted the mischievous look in her bright green eyes.

“Well?” Darken asked. “Who are you, and what are you doing here?”

“I am Mistress Cara, Lord Darken,” the Mord’Sith said easily. “And I believe you and I can make a deal.”

 

 

“You can’t be serious!” Kahlan’s shriek was no less high and desperate for being a near-whisper. “A Mord’Sith?”

“If I’m going to wrest the throne from my brother,” Darken explained as patiently as he could. “I’ll need to deal with the Mord’Sith—besides, she may have valuable information.”

“Then let me Confess her!” Kahlan returned at once. “Darken, after what Denna did to you—“

“Do you sense the same…” danger? Obviously, or she wouldn’t be so upset—“hostility, from Cara?” Darken asked, catching Kahlan’s hands in his. She clung to him in return, but glared up at him anyway.

“I can’t read a Mord’Sith,” Kahlan admitted grudgingly.

“Then let’s find out the hard way,” Darken muttered, willing to take the risk. He didn’t mistake disarmed for harmless, but she was alone—and Cara had come here for a reason.

He gestured permission for Cara to explain further, keeping Kahlan’s arm drawn through his. Her fingers kneaded his sleeve. She hadn’t let go of him since their escape from Denna, an unexpected benefit of that unfortunate side journey.

“You are Lord Darken in your own right,” Cara informed him. “The lost heir returned at last—you could be Lord Rahl.”

“Are you offering to help me achieve this fate?” Darken asked carefully. It seemed a doom it was getting harder and harder to avoid—but how could he rule without first killing Richard Rahl? And worse, it might yet come to that, anyway—no matter what Darken’s thoughts were on prophecy, he wasn’t about to let Richard Rahl grind his people under a booted heel—and then there were the Boxes of Orden.

“When you are Lord Rahl, you will need a First Mistress,” Cara said coolly. Her poise never cracked, for all she had discarded her weapons in the presence of a Confessor. She must be quite brave.

Darken had already unobtrusively ascertained she was alone—if this was a trap, it was a clever one.

“Very well,” he said abruptly. “I accept your terms. What have you heard concerning the Boxes of Orden?”

Cara ignored Kahlan’s barely vocalized hiss, and Darken put a proprietary and warning arm around her waist. Zedd merely looked wary.

“Lord Rahl goes to collect the third Box from the Queen of Tamarang,” Cara replied. “You won’t be able to intercept him on his way thither—obtaining the Box before he arrives—“

“—must be our first objective,” Darken agreed, frowning. The horror it was possible to unleash using the Boxes of Orden was too much to contemplate.

They didn’t really get down to strategy until Cara saluted Darken, rather ironically, and left.

“Do you really think we can trust her?” Zedd asked.

“Why not?” Darken shrugged. “She has an incentive to help us.” Besides, he thought irrelevantly, I liked her.

 

 

Zedd’s plan of substituting an old spice box for the third Box of Orden went off without a hitch, thanks in large part to a courageous little girl named Rachel—after they’d seen her off to a good home, where she would be safe, or as safe as it was possible to be with Richard Rahl’s tyranny hanging over them all like a doom, Kahlan snatched a quiet moment with Darken.

Zedd had gone to put the third Box of Orden somewhere safe, somewhere no one would be able to retrieve it—surrounded by old and powerful deadly magic, called back to lethal life by Zedd’s spells.

Kahlan sank down on a rock, looking vaguely off in the direction they’d sent Rachel, with her new family. Such a sweet and brave little girl.

“I think we might name our daughter Rachel,” she mused, a hand going to her still-flat stomach almost by instinct.

Darken was at her side instantly. “You mean—?” he asked, eyes lighting with the same hope that made Kahlan feel as though gravity were operating at about half strength.

“I mean,” she nodded, and he sank to his knees beside her, hands cradling her stomach.

Her own fingers threaded through his hair, in a smug pride of possession. He was her hero, the father of her child—all the hope of her future. She had even forgiven him for his newfound ally, the Mord’Sith Cara. He was right—they needed all the help they could get.

“You know,” he said shakily, after a moment. “I’ve been meaning to ask you…assuming we win, I’m going to need a Queen—I don’t suppose—?”

Kahlan sank down off her perch and embraced him, not caring that her dress was getting wrinkled, or that tears of happiness, and fear of that happiness being taken away, were gathering in her eyes. “Yes,” was all she said, and then her lips met his—

 

 

The Wizard had evaded the tracer cloud, but the other clouds he’d summoned as camouflage unfortunately marked his position, since Richard had assured them the weather should be fine all week. Unfortunately for the Wizard.

Jennsen and her Mord’Sith arrived after he’d gone, but there was the Box of Orden, sitting innocently in the center of the green clearing.

A particularly ambitious young soldier, also part of Jennsen’s escort, rushed forward to obtain the Box of Orden for her—and was instantly burned to cinders before their eyes. Old magic, it appeared.

Jennsen stepped forward, and walked quite calmly across the grass. She lifted the Box with both hands, and walked back out of the dangerous circle.

“Well,” she said lightly, tossing her hair over one shoulder. Her eyes found Denna’s. “That was easy.”

Just then—doubtless a bit of karmic reprisal—the Box slipped from Jennsen’s gloved fingers. She made a grab for it, but—

Mistress Cara caught the Box easily, leaning forward in order to reach—a brilliant flash of multi-colored light sped upwards, marking their location for leagues in every direction.

“My Lady,” Mistress Cara said, and Jennsen took the proffered Box again, her eyes narrowing.

“Thank you, Mistress Cara,” was all she said, however. Perhaps Richard might investigate his loyal Mord’Sith a little more closely. “Shall we adjourn to find my brother?”

 

 

“Butterfingers,” Denna accused, sotto voce.

Cara said nothing.

The situation was fast spiraling out of her control.

And yet she had never felt more sure of her choice to aid Lord Darken. She didn’t know precisely what it was that bothered her about Lord Rahl and Lady Jennsen—only that it nagged at her with a persistence no Mord’Sith could tolerate.

Perhaps it was the Boxes of Orden, a form of power that ought to be wholly unnecessary—and which, in the hands of someone who truly wanted peace, would presumably put all the Mord’Sith out of work. There was no point to guards or warriors without enemies.

But the Rahl family would surely always have enemies.

Or perhaps it was simply that not everything could be broken out of a person. Dahlia was still an empath, Denna was still an artist—and Cara retained a somewhat archaic sense of justice.

If nothing else, Lord Darken was the elder brother—it was his right, and his responsibility, to reclaim the throne.

If she thought he would prove a better ruler than Lord Richard Rahl—all those Midlands connections, the strength he had displayed in resisting Denna’s training, the wry kindness she sensed and, despite her training, could not despise—

Well. They would just have to see. If he couldn’t follow the banner of magic she’d sent him, perhaps her plan was impossible.

 

 

It didn’t take Richard long to find Jennsen—it never did, despite the fact that scrying and other forms of magical tracking were completely ineffective on her—but even then, he sensed they didn’t have much time.

He would have preferred a more leisurely putting-together-of-the-Boxes, in the People’s Palace, but it was clearly time to seize the moment—and be rid of the danger of his brother the Seeker at last.

Jennsen tossed the last Box to Richard in a perfectly choreographed moment—just as the Seeker, with his Confessor and his Wizard, appeared from out of the trees. Richard’s Mord’Sith leapt to defend him—

He put the last Box in place—

Orden filled his blood, but then the Confessor slid to her knees in front of him and grasped his throat—

Confession was like an undertow, dragging him down—

The sharp pain of an agiel—he twisted round slightly and saw Mistress Cara—

Beyond the circle of magic, Jennsen stared, her eyes very blue in her suddenly white face—she looked so young, Richard thought, and then everything went gray.

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Comments

[brontefanatic.livejournal.com]

Another amazing chapter - so much love for this fic.

Sweet delicate ruthless Jennsen being the power behind Richard's rule is a great touch. She's a formidable opponent.

Darken, like Richard, has doubts about the prophecy, but he also questions the wisdom of kiiling his brother. Of course, in the original timeline, Richard didn't have that knowledge.

Cara switching allegiance to help Darken was nicely done.

So many wonderful moments, can't really list them all.

Darken+Kahlan=Rachel :D

[hrhrionastar.livejournal.com]

Thank you :D

Sweet delicate ruthless Jennsen being the power behind Richard's rule is a great touch. She's a formidable opponent. I must say, I kind of love evil!Jennsen. I wanted to write a scene where her pet lion kills someone for her, but there wasn't a good spot for it...

Darken, like Richard, has doubts about the prophecy, but he also questions the wisdom of kiiling his brother. Of course, in the original timeline, Richard didn't have that knowledge. That's true - plus, Darken has guilt for being the only sibling to escape Panis Rahl, even though there wasn't anything he could have done to rescue Richard and Jennsen. As the oldest sibling, he probably feels that way more than Richard would, even if he'd known about their relationship.


Darken+Kahlan=Rachel :D You definitely inspired that :D Rachel is just so adorable :D

[ivanolix.livejournal.com]

I love the way you made Jennsen go all evil. It's very her, at least in this timeline.

Darken/Kahlan are still so very <3 <3 <3

And mm, Cara, nice ;)

[hrhrionastar.livejournal.com]

Thank you :D

I love the way you made Jennsen go all evil. It's very her, at least in this timeline. It's always the nice, quiet ones you have to watch out for...;) For some reason, I adore evil!Jennsen.

Darken/Kahlan are still so very <3 <3 <3 Yay! I love them :D

[meridian_rose]

It's interesting seeing events from Darken's POV and which things are the same, and which things have changed. I really need to finish this fic so I can re read and comment more articulately but you, Bex and Pris keep posting other goodies and I keep getting distracted :D

[hrhrionastar.livejournal.com]

Thank you :D

you, Bex and Pris keep posting other goodies and I keep getting distracted :D I'd say sorry, but I'm not :D I love that there's so much going on now, with the PP celebration, etc.

Keeping things similar to what actually happened was a bit of a struggle, but I figured, if there is no epic Orden-Confession-agiel thing, Richard and Cara have nothing to go back to...plus, I've got a soft spot for Seeker!Darken :D