FIC: A Little Drop of Poison (LOTS, Cara/Kahlan) AU - 2/?
Title: A Little Drop Of Poison
Author: Misty Flores
Rating: R
Genre: Legend of the Seeker, Cara/Kahlan - Western AU
Teaser: And so it begins, in the darkest hours of the night, in the company of an old man and a killer, Kahlan embarks on the journey to save the life of her dearest friend, and in the process take on the most dangerous gang of outlaws New Austin has ever seen.
Notes: A LOTS Western AU in a world inspired by the Red Dead Universe. That means guns and cowboys and lots of scoundrels. For anomalys, one of the winners of my offering of fic for the help_japan auction. bk1482, you’ve got a WMC one coming right after this one. Promise.
Chapters
Prologue | Chapter One
Chapter Two: Up the Spout
“I always dreamed of documenting the final days of the West. The romance, the honor, the nobility! But it turns out, it’s just people killing each other!”
--
“Word’s getting around town,” the Marshall says, heavy boots creaking on the decayed wood of the office. “There’s talk of a lynching.”
“Marshall, you can’t let that happen.” Richard, earnest and determined, steps forward beside Kahlan. A frown wrinkles his handsome features; tension radiates off of him like heat.
“Now calm down, son.” The Marshall betrays his affection for Richard with a small smile, before his standard stern expression returns “There ain’t been no lynching on my watch and there ain’t gonna be. I’m just saying, the town’s getting riled up. You and I both know that you don’t see just one Mord’Sith without the whole pack coming in right behind ‘em.”
It’s a terrifying prospect that invites an image of gunfire, death and carnage.
There’s a sick feeling in the pit of Kahlan’s stomach that threatens to sink into actual nausea. “You’re saying you think Darken Rahl’s not far behind.”
Richard expels a loud breath from his nostrils. She feels a faint touch against her side, meant to be reassurance.
The Marshall stares at her, and he must remember her circumstances, because his face softens. “Now Miss Kahlan, I ain’t saying nothing of the sort,” he answers gently. “But sadly you ain’t the only one coming up with those conclusions.”
All eyes drift back to the woman, who sleeps like the dead.
“Cypher, take Flynn and do a sweep of the town,” the Marshall decides finally. “Calm the people down. Let ‘em see your guns and shut ‘em down before they get any ideas and start posse-ying up. And tell that Wizard Uncle of yours to lock up those weapons of his. I don’t want him selling a damn thing today without my say so. Meanwhile I’ll head down to the train station, and see if them fellas from Blackwater answered my telegram.”
The hesitation on Richard’s face is palpable, and it’s for that reason, and that reason alone that Kahlan reaches for his arm and squeezes it reassuringly. “Be careful.”
His dark eyes meet hers gratefully. “You too” he whispers, and suddenly launches forward to press a closed mouth kiss against her cheek. The scruff of his beard scratches at her skin, and she barely has a chance to register it before she sees him slip his hat on his head and head out into the bright sunlight.
It almost swallows him whole.
“It’s a funny thing.” Now standing at the cell, the Marshall’s gray eyes focus thoughtfully. He nods to the unconscious Mord’Sith. “Any other circumstance, I’d be thinking that this is the prettiest damn whore I’ve ever seen.” His shoulders dip, head shaking in resignation. “Now… she just looks like a tub full of trouble.”
Stepping back, he heads for his desk and pulls out a shiny Cold revolver. “Just in case,” he says apologetically as he holds it in her direction. Kahlan’s eyes flit from the weapon to his face. “Lord knows I hate to involve a woman in these matters, but no one knows the difference between a pile of shit and the real deal better than you. Pardon the language, Miss.”
His determination to treat her as an equal is the very reason Kahlan suspects she’s always had a great deal of affection for the Marshall. With a grim, resigned smile, Kahlan takes the Colt, handling it carefully. “I’ll take it as a compliment.”
“You go ahead and do that.” Fitting his hat over his head, the Marshall stomps the dirt off his boots.
Kahlan runs her fingers over the pistol; tests the weight of it. It’s loaded.
The realization is a sobering one. “Marshall.” He pauses, glancing back in her direction. “Suppose this is a trap?” she asks. “And Darken Rahl is coming?”
He doesn’t respond right away. When he does, he simply says, “Then we’re gonna all be in a helluva lot of trouble.”
“Richard thinks she’s just a girl caught up in a wrong situation.”
“And what do you think, Miss Kahlan?”
What doesn’t she think? Kahlan’s thoughts are racing through with the speed of a racing stallion. They gain strength from her experience.
She shakes her head slowly. “I don’t know what I think,” she admits. “A part of me wants to believe that he’s right. That this woman is just a victim of bad circumstance and that the rumors of the Mord’Sith are just exaggerated fables… but the rest of me…”
“-knows the boy’s too soft for his own good.” The Marshall shakes his head in morose agreement. “Cypher’s got a good heart but you and I both know he’s as naïve as a calf. Richard Cypher and his uncle have developed quite the reputation for taking in strays. Though this last time, I’d say it worked in our favor.” The smile of thanks she gives him is small, but grateful. “I guess that’s what you have to find out, Miss Amnell. We’re counting on you,” he adds, before he ducks out the door.
--
In reality, it is only Kahlan who was taken in, and even then, the circumstances of her ‘adoption’ had been extreme. Kahlan is not unlucky enough to forget what they were, and sometimes she does force herself to think of them. Though Kahlan’s skin is no darker than most of the townfolk and much lighter than many of the cowboys that roam through these parts, her upbringing brands her as the child of savages.
It is a stigma she bears with pride. Through Western expansion and downright cruelty, it has come to pass that in this world, Kahlan is the last of her kind.
For that reason, and sometimes, she thinks, for that reason alone, does Kahlan resist any and all attempts to ‘tame’ her. In her weakest moments, she often contemplates upon her happiness, and it is then that she admits to herself that marriage to Richard Cypher would not be unbearable.
But she was raised in the tradition of the Sisters of the Light, and swore long ago to honor their memory with a lasting legacy.
Such steadfast devotion to her past has left it a lonely future, but at least in this, she considers herself luckier than most.
Fate has given her Richard and Zedd. They are all the family she needs now. And she will protect them in ways she was unable to protect her sisters.
The Marshall is right. Richard is in many ways naïve to the ways of the world. And Zedd…
Zedd sees it through his dust covered glasses, clouded with the miracle of science.
It is rapidly becoming night.
Alone in the dark, dusty office that serves as the Marshall’s jail cell, in a place that’s usually reserved for Tommy, the town drunk, is a woman who may as well represent a maelstrom.
Kahlan holds a match box. She pries a match from the block, snapping it off like a tooth from a comb. With a smart, quick jerk against a piece of folded sandpaper, the match ignites.
The smell of the burning wood is almost as intoxicating as the beauty of the flame itself, and it is what Kahlan chooses to focus on.
She lights a candle and sets it beside her, illuminating her tiny space and only part of the cell.
The flame on the match burns down, threatening to blister her calloused fingertips. Still, Kahlan takes her time in blowing it out. The sensation centers her, slows her heartbeat and steadies her breath.
It prepares her for what is to come.
Matter-of-factly, Kalhan slams the colt revolver against a cowbell kept in the Marshall’s office. A loud bang rings painfully close to her ears, but the cowbell serves its purpose. Jolted awake, the woman in the cell opens her eyes.
It should not be a surprise that beneath the dirt, the swelling and the dried blood are the strong features of a beautiful woman.
In that, she certainly lives up to a reputation of a Mord’Sith.
It’s always fascinating, to see a person comes to their senses. How awareness drifts into one is quite unique. Some panic. Some merely close their eyes and pray their circumstances away. Others are like children, begging for answers and direction.
This Mord’Sith does none of those things. Instead, colored cat eyes flutter and then focus almost immediately on Kahlan. The gaze is hooded, but the expression reveals nothing at all.
Slowly, with muscles that must be stiff and a typical disorientation, the woman plants her palms against the rough wooden floorboards and pushes herself to her knees. She skids back, away from the meager light from Kahlan’s candle, to just beyond its reach, in the farthest corner of the jail cell.
She removes Kahlan’s advantage. From here, she can see only shadowed features and the dirty tip of a boot. The woman adopts a slouch that is too casual for the current circumstances. Kahlan must strain to see as fingers press against a bruised cheek, inspecting the damage before the same hand is lowered and rested on her knee.
Suddenly aware of her pounding heart, Kahlan sucks in a needed breath and takes action. She shifts forward and reaches for Richard’s bucket of water.
Her hand closes around a ladle and scoops, pushing water through the bars and offering it to the woman.
Liquid drips on the floor from the spoon but the Mord’Sith makes no move to take the ladle from her.
After a moment, Kahlan retracts the offering. “Suit yourself,” she says, and deliberately shifts the Colt revolver off her lap and into the holster she’s fitted against her waist.
The light from the flickering candle jumps with the flame. There is more shadow than light.
Years of experience have given leave for Kahlan to trust in her instincts. Usually, within a minute, Kahlan can judge whether a man is being truthful or lying, whether they are guilty or innocent.
This is perhaps the only time in her life when such senses have failed her.
She can see nothing at all.
So many rumors surround the Mord’Sith, and Kahlan has largely suspected that for the most part, they are exaggerated. She is well aware the power of words. A smart man can spin a tall tale to create more fear than any single act of violence.
But this Mord’Sith whore, the first she’s seen, is flesh and blood, and yet…
Kahlan is sure that she must be thirsty, starved for water. She must be in pain, if the swelling on her face is any indication.
But she says nothing. She only waits, seated in that dark corner of the cell, quietly regarding her.
Kahlan can wait no longer.
“My name is Kahlan Amnell,” she says. “The Marshall has asked that I speak with you.”
Her words drift into silence. For a moment, Kahlan thinks perhaps she is being ignored, when an unexpected chortle fills the air. “The Mother Confessor?” The raspy drawl is surprisingly loud given the state of the woman who speaks the words. “He brought in the Mother Confessor?”
It’s a startling response. “It appears my reputation precedes me,” she begins calmly. “Is that a problem?”
“On the contrary, I’m flattered. Do your worst, Confessor.”
Though Kahlan can only see the outline of the Mord’Sith’s features, she would be a fool not to recognize a deliberate taunting,
At this moment, in these circumstances, staring at the dark face of a woman who was almost certainly a killer, Kahlan is in no mood to become a plaything.
“Do you think me incapable?” she asks gruffly. “To ask me to come and speak to you was an act of kindness and mercy. It can be argued that you, as Darken Rahl’s whore, deserve much less.”
She has a bite in her tone. It must surprise the woman, because there is no sauce in her voice when she responds slowly, “Then it appears my reputation has preceded me.”
“A reputation is only as good or bad as a person’s actions,” she admits. “But a vague apology given to a deputy just before one lapses into unconsciousness does little to combat the stigma and burgundy chaps of a Mord’Sith whore.”
She hears an exhalation, before the hand palmed the other woman’s knee goes once again to the bruised and battered face.
“And so they bring a woman to interrogate such a dangerous criminal?” The Mord’Sith clucks her tongue in a mock judgment. “Because surely, a woman beaten by her own gang and left for dead on the side of a road is truly a just cause for capital punishment.”
The candlelight flickers, and Kahlan can resist no longer. Rising, she pries another stick from the matchbox and takes the lantern from the Marshall’s desk. After a moment, the lantern is lit and the woman’s features are no longer hidden from her.
Observant green eyes meet hers.
Kahlan sees no fear.
In return, Kahlan gives her a grudging respect. “That is not for me to decide,” she allows. Settling back in her chair, she notes the dirty jeans, the broken fingers nails. “I’ve only asked to speak to you and to attempt to understand what brought you to this place.”
Once again, Kahlan reaches for the wooden ladle. Once again, she offers the Mord’Sith the water.
Once again, the Mord’Sith simply stares, eyes flitting from the dripping spoon back to Kahlan’s passive face.
“No?” she asks. “Fine.”
She’s in the midst of dropping the ladle back in the bucket when the woman speaks.
“I wasn’t brought to this place by my own volition. I was left. Dropped on your doorstep like a damned Christmas present.”
The force with which the ladle hits the bucket splashes water over the edges and soaks Kahlan’s dress at her knee.
She barely feels it.
“By who?”
Those green eyes narrow, eye her like she’s stupid. “Who do you think?”
The word drifts into her mentality like a whisper. “What is Darken Rahl doing in these parts?” she breathes.
“Whatever he damn well pleases.”
The casual comment is maddening. Kahlan has no patience for ambivalence. “Things would go substantially better for you, if you were just a little less vague.”
The Mord’Sith’s face lifts. “Is that meant to be a threat?” the woman responds, a trace of disbelief in her tone. “I can assure you, Confessor, there is nothing you or this town or your Marshall can do to me that hasn’t already been done.”
The scab on the Mord’Sith’s lip has opened, and Kahlan can make out the dark shimmer of blood. Though the light is low, the swollen bruise on the woman’s cheek is clearly going purple.
If this the evidence Kahlan can see, she can only imagine what lies beneath.
This is not a typical beaten whore, timid and afraid of being beaten again. The look she receives is defiant, daring her to comment on her pathetic state.
“I’ll take that water now,” she hears. After a moment, Kahlan obliges, dipping the ladle and waiting as the Mord’Sith stiffly pushes to her feet and moves to the front of the cell.
Now, she only a foot away. Kahlan can take in the details. How she is shorter than her, but lean and strong. Her features are flushed - color seems to permanently stain her cheeks.
Even now, Kahlan finds herself at a loss. She just cannot read her.
The Mord’Sith’s eyes never leave Kahlan’s as she takes the ladle from her hands and swallows the cold well water. Dark lids flutter in appreciation for the refreshment.
“What’s your name?” Kahlan finally finds herself asking. The woman pauses, and lowers the ladle. Fingers brush as Kahlan reaches to take it back. The contact is startling. “I’m going to find out eventually,” she adds after a moment. “And quite honestly, it would make sense to know it. It’s better for this town if you’re a person with a name instead of an unnamed Mord’Sith.”
“Cara,” she says, after a moment. “Mason.”
Cara. Outside of the cell, someone shouts. It sounds tinny and far away. Kahlan finds herself expelling breath, unaware she was even holding it until that very moment.
To know her name is both a relief and an anxiety.
“Where’s Richard Cypher?” The ladle drops out of her hand and back into the bucket, as her heart jumps into her throat, nearly choking her.
Cara’s brow arches. Fingers curl around the iron bars of her cell, leaning ever closer to Kahlan.
“How do you know Richard?” she asks.
The smirk that floats on the swollen lip is cold; calculating. “The same way I know you, Confessor,” she responds. “The same way I know about his Wizard Uncle. If Darken Rahl wishes to know something, then it’s Mord’Sith who knows it first.”
She’s stunned. Legitimately stunned at how quickly this conversation has turned. The dread that envelops her comes over her so quickly that for one moment, she is paralyzed.
Then she feels it. Fingers rub against her hip, right at her holster.
Small, feminine fingers reaching for the Colt revolver.
White hot rage suddenly boils inside of her, burning her cheeks and taking her over. Kahlan’s hand shoots out and wraps around Cara’s throat, flexing fingers around a delicate throat, slamming the other woman hard against unforgiving iron bars.
She sees the eyes widen, the pupils dilate.
Surprised then. Good.
As Cara’s fingers abandon her gun to wrap around Kahlan’s forearms, Kahlan’s grip only tightens, choking the very life out of her.
“Listen to me very carefully, Cara Mason,” she whispers, hearing the struggle for breath. “Do not mistake my kindness for weakness. For all the pain you may or may not have suffered, believe me when I say that I have killed in my lifetime and will not hesitate to do so again if it involves protecting my family.”
She means only to intimidate, to emerge on the right side of this power struggle. To beat Cara Mason at her own game.
But as her fingers tighten against the Mord’Sith’s throat, a sudden, blinding flash of a vision bores into her with the force of a prairie wind storm.
She’s flooded. Images burn into her consciousness, as if they are memories rushing to the surface. Moments in a lifetime that never existed, where her eyes grow black with rage and the woman she’s choking wears leather from head to toe. Green eyes that were unfamiliar to her now seem intimate, as over and over, she sees the face of Cara Mason beside her, against her… inside her.
So vivid is the flash -lips slanting over hers, leather sliding against her bare skin, and Cara’s name bursting from her lips as fingers dig deep inside her as they shift against a forest floor-
It’s too much.
With a shuddering breath, Kahlan tears her fingers back, blasted back into the present. Paralyzed, she numbly watches as this Cara Mason loses her strength to stand. She slumps to the dirty floor of the cage and inhales deeply, gasping for breath like a gutted fish.
In this moment where she’s in between worlds, Kahlan feels herself reach for the bars, Cara’s name aching to be released from her lips, lost in regret.
But there is no forest. There is no leather or white orbs and Kahlan’s fingers do not pulse with whatever magic she swears she possessed in such visions. She keeps her fingers to herself and steps away from the bars, overwhelmed and struggling for some sense of reassurance that this is her reality.
“What does Darken Rahl want with Richard?” Her voice shakes, breathless.
The door bursts open, bringing with it a gust of wind that blows the candle out. Kahlan whirls, just in time to see a flash of fire - the muzzle of a gun blasting a bullet in her direction.
Just then, a sharp pain that feels like a kick hits her leg from behind. Her knees buckle with the force of it, and as she drops, the heat of a bullet slashes past her, whispering against her ear like a kiss before it pings loudly against the iron bars of the cell, snapping with a thud into the brick wall.
She’s blind. Crumpled on the floor, Kahlan can only hear the creak of a floorboard as a boot steps deeper into the office.
The light from the lantern flickers, but the dark leather chaps that the female intruder wears are easy to make out.
Kahlan recognizes her immediately as a Mord’Sith.
She does not wait for her to fire again. Legs shooting out, Kahlan kicks her feet out from under her. The gun blasts again, and the force and sheer noise cause her head to pound and her ears to ring, but still Kahlan struggles, fisting her hand and slamming it hard across the woman’s face.
She’s plowed into fiercely, rammed into the iron bars, head cracking against the metal.
A blow snaps against her temple, dizzying her, and still, she manages a twist of her hips, elbow slamming into the face of the woman.
She struggles for her very life, and yet, she makes a crucial mistake.
She takes her eyes off Cara, and suddenly, too late, she remembers her, when she feels hands at her hips and the gun slipping free.
“Cara,” she hears, a voice of confidence and happiness, because now the Mord’Sith has her, arms pinned behind her, ready and waiting to be executed by the Mord’Sith in the cell, with her own gun cocked and aimed straight at her. “Do it.”
“Hello, Triana,” Cara says, and then cocks the Colt and fires.
Kahlan recoils on instinct. Warm liquid slaps her in the face, and suddenly the woman behind her releases her grip.
Kahlan hears a thud. Dust flies into her nose, causing her to nearly choke on it.
She nearly slips on seeping blood.
For a moment, nothing makes sense. Kahlan can only take in the image - a woman with her head nearly blown off, dead and crumpled on the floor.
Kahlan’s head jerks back to the cell, eyes wide and disbelieving. “You saved my life,” she realizes.
Still breathing heavily, Cara holds on to her pistol. The hammer is once again cocked. “Nice of you to notice,” she snaps back. “Are we through then, stating the obvious?” Kahlan is too stunned to say a word. “Now, are you going to be a good girl and repay the favor by opening the cell, or should I have let Trianna do us both in?”
“God-Dammit-“ A blast, another gunshot, makes Kahlan jump, and she whirls, as the hulking form of the Marshall stands in the doorway, shotgun aimed straight for the cell. “God-damn whore-“
“Marshall,” she breathes. “No.” She can only blame instinct as she steps between them. “It’s not what it looks like.”
He looks at her as if she’s lost her mind. “Miss Amnell, get out the way- this is all her damn fault-“
She whirls, stares wildly at the woman in the cell. “Cara, give me the gun.”
“Are you insane?” she sneers.
“GIVE it to me,” she demands. “You saved my life, now let me repay that debt.”
A battle wages in those green eyes, and again, Kahlan finds herself shaken by the visions, because that haunted look on an otherwise steely face seems at once familiar and … intimate and yet Kahlan has absolutely no…
The gun wavers and without hesitation, Kahlan reaches through the bars and pulls it from Cara’s fingers.
“What the hell is wrong with you, girl?” the Marshall growls. But the shotgun lowers. He’s out of breath, sweaty. A grimace stains his features. “Don’t know what’s happened?”
“What’s happened?” she begs to know. Her heart won’t stop racing, and her pulse pumps so loud she can hear it in her ears, along with the tinny ring that lingers from the blast of bullets.
The Marshall shoves a boot against the dead Mord’Sith on the floor, still pooling blood into creaks and holes. “The Mord’Sith came. They shot Flynn and took Richard.”
End Chapter
Author: Misty Flores
Rating: R
Genre: Legend of the Seeker, Cara/Kahlan - Western AU
Teaser: And so it begins, in the darkest hours of the night, in the company of an old man and a killer, Kahlan embarks on the journey to save the life of her dearest friend, and in the process take on the most dangerous gang of outlaws New Austin has ever seen.
Notes: A LOTS Western AU in a world inspired by the Red Dead Universe. That means guns and cowboys and lots of scoundrels. For anomalys, one of the winners of my offering of fic for the help_japan auction. bk1482, you’ve got a WMC one coming right after this one. Promise.
Chapters
Prologue | Chapter One
Chapter Two: Up the Spout
“I always dreamed of documenting the final days of the West. The romance, the honor, the nobility! But it turns out, it’s just people killing each other!”
--
“Word’s getting around town,” the Marshall says, heavy boots creaking on the decayed wood of the office. “There’s talk of a lynching.”
“Marshall, you can’t let that happen.” Richard, earnest and determined, steps forward beside Kahlan. A frown wrinkles his handsome features; tension radiates off of him like heat.
“Now calm down, son.” The Marshall betrays his affection for Richard with a small smile, before his standard stern expression returns “There ain’t been no lynching on my watch and there ain’t gonna be. I’m just saying, the town’s getting riled up. You and I both know that you don’t see just one Mord’Sith without the whole pack coming in right behind ‘em.”
It’s a terrifying prospect that invites an image of gunfire, death and carnage.
There’s a sick feeling in the pit of Kahlan’s stomach that threatens to sink into actual nausea. “You’re saying you think Darken Rahl’s not far behind.”
Richard expels a loud breath from his nostrils. She feels a faint touch against her side, meant to be reassurance.
The Marshall stares at her, and he must remember her circumstances, because his face softens. “Now Miss Kahlan, I ain’t saying nothing of the sort,” he answers gently. “But sadly you ain’t the only one coming up with those conclusions.”
All eyes drift back to the woman, who sleeps like the dead.
“Cypher, take Flynn and do a sweep of the town,” the Marshall decides finally. “Calm the people down. Let ‘em see your guns and shut ‘em down before they get any ideas and start posse-ying up. And tell that Wizard Uncle of yours to lock up those weapons of his. I don’t want him selling a damn thing today without my say so. Meanwhile I’ll head down to the train station, and see if them fellas from Blackwater answered my telegram.”
The hesitation on Richard’s face is palpable, and it’s for that reason, and that reason alone that Kahlan reaches for his arm and squeezes it reassuringly. “Be careful.”
His dark eyes meet hers gratefully. “You too” he whispers, and suddenly launches forward to press a closed mouth kiss against her cheek. The scruff of his beard scratches at her skin, and she barely has a chance to register it before she sees him slip his hat on his head and head out into the bright sunlight.
It almost swallows him whole.
“It’s a funny thing.” Now standing at the cell, the Marshall’s gray eyes focus thoughtfully. He nods to the unconscious Mord’Sith. “Any other circumstance, I’d be thinking that this is the prettiest damn whore I’ve ever seen.” His shoulders dip, head shaking in resignation. “Now… she just looks like a tub full of trouble.”
Stepping back, he heads for his desk and pulls out a shiny Cold revolver. “Just in case,” he says apologetically as he holds it in her direction. Kahlan’s eyes flit from the weapon to his face. “Lord knows I hate to involve a woman in these matters, but no one knows the difference between a pile of shit and the real deal better than you. Pardon the language, Miss.”
His determination to treat her as an equal is the very reason Kahlan suspects she’s always had a great deal of affection for the Marshall. With a grim, resigned smile, Kahlan takes the Colt, handling it carefully. “I’ll take it as a compliment.”
“You go ahead and do that.” Fitting his hat over his head, the Marshall stomps the dirt off his boots.
Kahlan runs her fingers over the pistol; tests the weight of it. It’s loaded.
The realization is a sobering one. “Marshall.” He pauses, glancing back in her direction. “Suppose this is a trap?” she asks. “And Darken Rahl is coming?”
He doesn’t respond right away. When he does, he simply says, “Then we’re gonna all be in a helluva lot of trouble.”
“Richard thinks she’s just a girl caught up in a wrong situation.”
“And what do you think, Miss Kahlan?”
What doesn’t she think? Kahlan’s thoughts are racing through with the speed of a racing stallion. They gain strength from her experience.
She shakes her head slowly. “I don’t know what I think,” she admits. “A part of me wants to believe that he’s right. That this woman is just a victim of bad circumstance and that the rumors of the Mord’Sith are just exaggerated fables… but the rest of me…”
“-knows the boy’s too soft for his own good.” The Marshall shakes his head in morose agreement. “Cypher’s got a good heart but you and I both know he’s as naïve as a calf. Richard Cypher and his uncle have developed quite the reputation for taking in strays. Though this last time, I’d say it worked in our favor.” The smile of thanks she gives him is small, but grateful. “I guess that’s what you have to find out, Miss Amnell. We’re counting on you,” he adds, before he ducks out the door.
--
In reality, it is only Kahlan who was taken in, and even then, the circumstances of her ‘adoption’ had been extreme. Kahlan is not unlucky enough to forget what they were, and sometimes she does force herself to think of them. Though Kahlan’s skin is no darker than most of the townfolk and much lighter than many of the cowboys that roam through these parts, her upbringing brands her as the child of savages.
It is a stigma she bears with pride. Through Western expansion and downright cruelty, it has come to pass that in this world, Kahlan is the last of her kind.
For that reason, and sometimes, she thinks, for that reason alone, does Kahlan resist any and all attempts to ‘tame’ her. In her weakest moments, she often contemplates upon her happiness, and it is then that she admits to herself that marriage to Richard Cypher would not be unbearable.
But she was raised in the tradition of the Sisters of the Light, and swore long ago to honor their memory with a lasting legacy.
Such steadfast devotion to her past has left it a lonely future, but at least in this, she considers herself luckier than most.
Fate has given her Richard and Zedd. They are all the family she needs now. And she will protect them in ways she was unable to protect her sisters.
The Marshall is right. Richard is in many ways naïve to the ways of the world. And Zedd…
Zedd sees it through his dust covered glasses, clouded with the miracle of science.
It is rapidly becoming night.
Alone in the dark, dusty office that serves as the Marshall’s jail cell, in a place that’s usually reserved for Tommy, the town drunk, is a woman who may as well represent a maelstrom.
Kahlan holds a match box. She pries a match from the block, snapping it off like a tooth from a comb. With a smart, quick jerk against a piece of folded sandpaper, the match ignites.
The smell of the burning wood is almost as intoxicating as the beauty of the flame itself, and it is what Kahlan chooses to focus on.
She lights a candle and sets it beside her, illuminating her tiny space and only part of the cell.
The flame on the match burns down, threatening to blister her calloused fingertips. Still, Kahlan takes her time in blowing it out. The sensation centers her, slows her heartbeat and steadies her breath.
It prepares her for what is to come.
Matter-of-factly, Kalhan slams the colt revolver against a cowbell kept in the Marshall’s office. A loud bang rings painfully close to her ears, but the cowbell serves its purpose. Jolted awake, the woman in the cell opens her eyes.
It should not be a surprise that beneath the dirt, the swelling and the dried blood are the strong features of a beautiful woman.
In that, she certainly lives up to a reputation of a Mord’Sith.
It’s always fascinating, to see a person comes to their senses. How awareness drifts into one is quite unique. Some panic. Some merely close their eyes and pray their circumstances away. Others are like children, begging for answers and direction.
This Mord’Sith does none of those things. Instead, colored cat eyes flutter and then focus almost immediately on Kahlan. The gaze is hooded, but the expression reveals nothing at all.
Slowly, with muscles that must be stiff and a typical disorientation, the woman plants her palms against the rough wooden floorboards and pushes herself to her knees. She skids back, away from the meager light from Kahlan’s candle, to just beyond its reach, in the farthest corner of the jail cell.
She removes Kahlan’s advantage. From here, she can see only shadowed features and the dirty tip of a boot. The woman adopts a slouch that is too casual for the current circumstances. Kahlan must strain to see as fingers press against a bruised cheek, inspecting the damage before the same hand is lowered and rested on her knee.
Suddenly aware of her pounding heart, Kahlan sucks in a needed breath and takes action. She shifts forward and reaches for Richard’s bucket of water.
Her hand closes around a ladle and scoops, pushing water through the bars and offering it to the woman.
Liquid drips on the floor from the spoon but the Mord’Sith makes no move to take the ladle from her.
After a moment, Kahlan retracts the offering. “Suit yourself,” she says, and deliberately shifts the Colt revolver off her lap and into the holster she’s fitted against her waist.
The light from the flickering candle jumps with the flame. There is more shadow than light.
Years of experience have given leave for Kahlan to trust in her instincts. Usually, within a minute, Kahlan can judge whether a man is being truthful or lying, whether they are guilty or innocent.
This is perhaps the only time in her life when such senses have failed her.
She can see nothing at all.
So many rumors surround the Mord’Sith, and Kahlan has largely suspected that for the most part, they are exaggerated. She is well aware the power of words. A smart man can spin a tall tale to create more fear than any single act of violence.
But this Mord’Sith whore, the first she’s seen, is flesh and blood, and yet…
Kahlan is sure that she must be thirsty, starved for water. She must be in pain, if the swelling on her face is any indication.
But she says nothing. She only waits, seated in that dark corner of the cell, quietly regarding her.
Kahlan can wait no longer.
“My name is Kahlan Amnell,” she says. “The Marshall has asked that I speak with you.”
Her words drift into silence. For a moment, Kahlan thinks perhaps she is being ignored, when an unexpected chortle fills the air. “The Mother Confessor?” The raspy drawl is surprisingly loud given the state of the woman who speaks the words. “He brought in the Mother Confessor?”
It’s a startling response. “It appears my reputation precedes me,” she begins calmly. “Is that a problem?”
“On the contrary, I’m flattered. Do your worst, Confessor.”
Though Kahlan can only see the outline of the Mord’Sith’s features, she would be a fool not to recognize a deliberate taunting,
At this moment, in these circumstances, staring at the dark face of a woman who was almost certainly a killer, Kahlan is in no mood to become a plaything.
“Do you think me incapable?” she asks gruffly. “To ask me to come and speak to you was an act of kindness and mercy. It can be argued that you, as Darken Rahl’s whore, deserve much less.”
She has a bite in her tone. It must surprise the woman, because there is no sauce in her voice when she responds slowly, “Then it appears my reputation has preceded me.”
“A reputation is only as good or bad as a person’s actions,” she admits. “But a vague apology given to a deputy just before one lapses into unconsciousness does little to combat the stigma and burgundy chaps of a Mord’Sith whore.”
She hears an exhalation, before the hand palmed the other woman’s knee goes once again to the bruised and battered face.
“And so they bring a woman to interrogate such a dangerous criminal?” The Mord’Sith clucks her tongue in a mock judgment. “Because surely, a woman beaten by her own gang and left for dead on the side of a road is truly a just cause for capital punishment.”
The candlelight flickers, and Kahlan can resist no longer. Rising, she pries another stick from the matchbox and takes the lantern from the Marshall’s desk. After a moment, the lantern is lit and the woman’s features are no longer hidden from her.
Observant green eyes meet hers.
Kahlan sees no fear.
In return, Kahlan gives her a grudging respect. “That is not for me to decide,” she allows. Settling back in her chair, she notes the dirty jeans, the broken fingers nails. “I’ve only asked to speak to you and to attempt to understand what brought you to this place.”
Once again, Kahlan reaches for the wooden ladle. Once again, she offers the Mord’Sith the water.
Once again, the Mord’Sith simply stares, eyes flitting from the dripping spoon back to Kahlan’s passive face.
“No?” she asks. “Fine.”
She’s in the midst of dropping the ladle back in the bucket when the woman speaks.
“I wasn’t brought to this place by my own volition. I was left. Dropped on your doorstep like a damned Christmas present.”
The force with which the ladle hits the bucket splashes water over the edges and soaks Kahlan’s dress at her knee.
She barely feels it.
“By who?”
Those green eyes narrow, eye her like she’s stupid. “Who do you think?”
The word drifts into her mentality like a whisper. “What is Darken Rahl doing in these parts?” she breathes.
“Whatever he damn well pleases.”
The casual comment is maddening. Kahlan has no patience for ambivalence. “Things would go substantially better for you, if you were just a little less vague.”
The Mord’Sith’s face lifts. “Is that meant to be a threat?” the woman responds, a trace of disbelief in her tone. “I can assure you, Confessor, there is nothing you or this town or your Marshall can do to me that hasn’t already been done.”
The scab on the Mord’Sith’s lip has opened, and Kahlan can make out the dark shimmer of blood. Though the light is low, the swollen bruise on the woman’s cheek is clearly going purple.
If this the evidence Kahlan can see, she can only imagine what lies beneath.
This is not a typical beaten whore, timid and afraid of being beaten again. The look she receives is defiant, daring her to comment on her pathetic state.
“I’ll take that water now,” she hears. After a moment, Kahlan obliges, dipping the ladle and waiting as the Mord’Sith stiffly pushes to her feet and moves to the front of the cell.
Now, she only a foot away. Kahlan can take in the details. How she is shorter than her, but lean and strong. Her features are flushed - color seems to permanently stain her cheeks.
Even now, Kahlan finds herself at a loss. She just cannot read her.
The Mord’Sith’s eyes never leave Kahlan’s as she takes the ladle from her hands and swallows the cold well water. Dark lids flutter in appreciation for the refreshment.
“What’s your name?” Kahlan finally finds herself asking. The woman pauses, and lowers the ladle. Fingers brush as Kahlan reaches to take it back. The contact is startling. “I’m going to find out eventually,” she adds after a moment. “And quite honestly, it would make sense to know it. It’s better for this town if you’re a person with a name instead of an unnamed Mord’Sith.”
“Cara,” she says, after a moment. “Mason.”
Cara. Outside of the cell, someone shouts. It sounds tinny and far away. Kahlan finds herself expelling breath, unaware she was even holding it until that very moment.
To know her name is both a relief and an anxiety.
“Where’s Richard Cypher?” The ladle drops out of her hand and back into the bucket, as her heart jumps into her throat, nearly choking her.
Cara’s brow arches. Fingers curl around the iron bars of her cell, leaning ever closer to Kahlan.
“How do you know Richard?” she asks.
The smirk that floats on the swollen lip is cold; calculating. “The same way I know you, Confessor,” she responds. “The same way I know about his Wizard Uncle. If Darken Rahl wishes to know something, then it’s Mord’Sith who knows it first.”
She’s stunned. Legitimately stunned at how quickly this conversation has turned. The dread that envelops her comes over her so quickly that for one moment, she is paralyzed.
Then she feels it. Fingers rub against her hip, right at her holster.
Small, feminine fingers reaching for the Colt revolver.
White hot rage suddenly boils inside of her, burning her cheeks and taking her over. Kahlan’s hand shoots out and wraps around Cara’s throat, flexing fingers around a delicate throat, slamming the other woman hard against unforgiving iron bars.
She sees the eyes widen, the pupils dilate.
Surprised then. Good.
As Cara’s fingers abandon her gun to wrap around Kahlan’s forearms, Kahlan’s grip only tightens, choking the very life out of her.
“Listen to me very carefully, Cara Mason,” she whispers, hearing the struggle for breath. “Do not mistake my kindness for weakness. For all the pain you may or may not have suffered, believe me when I say that I have killed in my lifetime and will not hesitate to do so again if it involves protecting my family.”
She means only to intimidate, to emerge on the right side of this power struggle. To beat Cara Mason at her own game.
But as her fingers tighten against the Mord’Sith’s throat, a sudden, blinding flash of a vision bores into her with the force of a prairie wind storm.
She’s flooded. Images burn into her consciousness, as if they are memories rushing to the surface. Moments in a lifetime that never existed, where her eyes grow black with rage and the woman she’s choking wears leather from head to toe. Green eyes that were unfamiliar to her now seem intimate, as over and over, she sees the face of Cara Mason beside her, against her… inside her.
So vivid is the flash -lips slanting over hers, leather sliding against her bare skin, and Cara’s name bursting from her lips as fingers dig deep inside her as they shift against a forest floor-
It’s too much.
With a shuddering breath, Kahlan tears her fingers back, blasted back into the present. Paralyzed, she numbly watches as this Cara Mason loses her strength to stand. She slumps to the dirty floor of the cage and inhales deeply, gasping for breath like a gutted fish.
In this moment where she’s in between worlds, Kahlan feels herself reach for the bars, Cara’s name aching to be released from her lips, lost in regret.
But there is no forest. There is no leather or white orbs and Kahlan’s fingers do not pulse with whatever magic she swears she possessed in such visions. She keeps her fingers to herself and steps away from the bars, overwhelmed and struggling for some sense of reassurance that this is her reality.
“What does Darken Rahl want with Richard?” Her voice shakes, breathless.
The door bursts open, bringing with it a gust of wind that blows the candle out. Kahlan whirls, just in time to see a flash of fire - the muzzle of a gun blasting a bullet in her direction.
Just then, a sharp pain that feels like a kick hits her leg from behind. Her knees buckle with the force of it, and as she drops, the heat of a bullet slashes past her, whispering against her ear like a kiss before it pings loudly against the iron bars of the cell, snapping with a thud into the brick wall.
She’s blind. Crumpled on the floor, Kahlan can only hear the creak of a floorboard as a boot steps deeper into the office.
The light from the lantern flickers, but the dark leather chaps that the female intruder wears are easy to make out.
Kahlan recognizes her immediately as a Mord’Sith.
She does not wait for her to fire again. Legs shooting out, Kahlan kicks her feet out from under her. The gun blasts again, and the force and sheer noise cause her head to pound and her ears to ring, but still Kahlan struggles, fisting her hand and slamming it hard across the woman’s face.
She’s plowed into fiercely, rammed into the iron bars, head cracking against the metal.
A blow snaps against her temple, dizzying her, and still, she manages a twist of her hips, elbow slamming into the face of the woman.
She struggles for her very life, and yet, she makes a crucial mistake.
She takes her eyes off Cara, and suddenly, too late, she remembers her, when she feels hands at her hips and the gun slipping free.
“Cara,” she hears, a voice of confidence and happiness, because now the Mord’Sith has her, arms pinned behind her, ready and waiting to be executed by the Mord’Sith in the cell, with her own gun cocked and aimed straight at her. “Do it.”
“Hello, Triana,” Cara says, and then cocks the Colt and fires.
Kahlan recoils on instinct. Warm liquid slaps her in the face, and suddenly the woman behind her releases her grip.
Kahlan hears a thud. Dust flies into her nose, causing her to nearly choke on it.
She nearly slips on seeping blood.
For a moment, nothing makes sense. Kahlan can only take in the image - a woman with her head nearly blown off, dead and crumpled on the floor.
Kahlan’s head jerks back to the cell, eyes wide and disbelieving. “You saved my life,” she realizes.
Still breathing heavily, Cara holds on to her pistol. The hammer is once again cocked. “Nice of you to notice,” she snaps back. “Are we through then, stating the obvious?” Kahlan is too stunned to say a word. “Now, are you going to be a good girl and repay the favor by opening the cell, or should I have let Trianna do us both in?”
“God-Dammit-“ A blast, another gunshot, makes Kahlan jump, and she whirls, as the hulking form of the Marshall stands in the doorway, shotgun aimed straight for the cell. “God-damn whore-“
“Marshall,” she breathes. “No.” She can only blame instinct as she steps between them. “It’s not what it looks like.”
He looks at her as if she’s lost her mind. “Miss Amnell, get out the way- this is all her damn fault-“
She whirls, stares wildly at the woman in the cell. “Cara, give me the gun.”
“Are you insane?” she sneers.
“GIVE it to me,” she demands. “You saved my life, now let me repay that debt.”
A battle wages in those green eyes, and again, Kahlan finds herself shaken by the visions, because that haunted look on an otherwise steely face seems at once familiar and … intimate and yet Kahlan has absolutely no…
The gun wavers and without hesitation, Kahlan reaches through the bars and pulls it from Cara’s fingers.
“What the hell is wrong with you, girl?” the Marshall growls. But the shotgun lowers. He’s out of breath, sweaty. A grimace stains his features. “Don’t know what’s happened?”
“What’s happened?” she begs to know. Her heart won’t stop racing, and her pulse pumps so loud she can hear it in her ears, along with the tinny ring that lingers from the blast of bullets.
The Marshall shoves a boot against the dead Mord’Sith on the floor, still pooling blood into creaks and holes. “The Mord’Sith came. They shot Flynn and took Richard.”
End Chapter