FIC: A Little Drop of Poison (LOTS, Cara/Kahlan) AU - 3/?
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.
Sorry this took so long. Real life has kicked me in the ass.
Chapters
Prologue | Chapter One | Chapter Two
Chapter Three: Woke up the Wrong Passenger
“Some trees flourish, others die. Some cattle grow strong, others are taken by wolves. Some men are born rich enough and dumb enough to enjoy their lives. Ain’t nothing fair. You know that.”
--
There is no time to process such terrible news. Kahlan finds herself rooted to the floor, shaking helplessly as the Marshall circles around her and takes in the scene before him.
“What the hell happened?!” he snaps. “Are you hurt?”
Kahlan can still taste the blood of another woman in her mouth, and yet somehow she’s forgotten about the splatter on her face until Zedd himself bursts through the door.
“Kahlan!” he screeches, eyes so wild he searches the room without really seeing it. When he finally sets his sights on her, what little color exists on his face drains completely. He rushes to her and places calloused, rough palms on her cheek. “What happened?”
His sand papery touch brings lucidity with it, and it is then that Kahlan is allowed to truly understand what has just happened outside these four walls.
Any relief she may have felt at surviving the Mord’Sith’s attack flies away. In its place comes pure horror that sinks deep within her, flaying her.
“I’m fine,” she breathes immediately, impatient as she pulls his hands away from her face. “It’s not my blood. Zedd, what’s happened?”
Zedd breathes with his mouth open, gaze darting over the dead Mord’Sith, and the blood pooling on the floor.
“Zedd!”
Finally, he seems to shake out of it. He sees her again, pats once more at her face, and then exhales quickly. “Richard. They came and they took Richard. Fled with him-“
“-Fucking came down and attacked him and Flynn just outta town like the damn Reckoning!” the Marshal spit. He yanks open a drawer, and pulls from it another rifle, slinging it over his shoulder as he gathers a handful of shells with his big broad palm. “Shot up half the stocks, got Flynn right in the chest and dragged Richard away like a damn sow.”
“Christ,” she breathes. “Is Flynn-“
“The Doctor’s looking at him,” Zedd whispers, trying desperately to sound soothing despite the panic that shakes his voice. “No one’s sure.”
In her cell, Cara Mason stands quietly. She is so still she appears to be almost a statue, and in the chaos, she is all but forgotten.
But Kahlan does not forget. Unable to help herself, she looks at her.
In the eyes of a Mord’Sith, there is no answer.
Kahlan’s blood runs cold.
“Kahlan.” Pressure against her shoulder re-alerts her to Zedd, who pushes a package in her hand. “Take this. Just in case.”
What he hands her, she soon realizes, is one of his many inventions - a pouch filled with a volatile powder derived from the potent liquid of local chilis. A pepper bomb, he once called it.
“Zedd-“
Already, he’s let her go, following the Marshall out of the office and into the streets of Armadillo.
The peace that had existed that morning has faded into some sort of desperate chaos. Horses clomp hooves against the muddy dirt, and sitting astride them are the men she recognizes as the baker, the butcher, the telegram operator.
They stare at her, horrified expressions identical on every face.
“We’ve formed a posse,” he explains hurriedly. “To go after Richard. But in case they come back - use that-”
He struggles with his horse, and already, Kahlan feels left behind - helpless.
“If you’re going, Zedd, then so am I!” she demands.
“The hell you are.” It’s the Marshall who intrudes. He digs a foot into the stirrup of his mare and hauls himself up. “Miss Kahlan, this ain’t been done before, but it’s being done now.” A piece of metal is flung into the dirt at Kahlan’s feet. In the moonlight, the tin of a deputy badge glimmers. “You’re hereby debutized. You’re staying here and you’re keeping an eye on that whore.”
As if sensing the anxiety, the horse the Marshall rides bucks and whinnies an excited shriek. The Marshall jerks on the reigns and hollers.
“We’ll get him back,” Zedd promises. “Take care, Kahlan!”
There is a flurry of dust, the noise of horses being pushed into gallop, and then they are gone, one right after the other, headed south out of town into the desert wilderness.
Weakened, Kahlan reaches down and plucks the tin badge out of the dirt.
It looks rusted. When Kahlan wipes at the metal with her thumb, she discovers that the rust has smeared.
It’s then that she realizes the badge is coated with blood.
--
The water Richard collected out of kindness, Kahlan now uses to wash the blood from her face. She has no mirror and so she works blindly. When she has cleaned herself as best she can, she overturns the water and with the old broom she finds in the corner near the desk, she mops at the floor.
Like Cara Mason, the dead Mord’Sith has a beautiful face. The bowler hat she was wearing when she intruded has toppled its way near Cara’s cell, and Kahlan discovers that Cara has taken ownership of it, fitting it over her head and tipping it over her brow as she settles on the dirty mattress.
That is the extent of Cara’s ‘grief’ for whatever this woman was to her.
Kahlan can do nothing more than wrap the dead woman in a dirty sheet and drag her into the cell that adjoins Cara’s.
It makes for a grim, make-shift Morgue.
The night has grown quiet. In the wake of the posse leaving, the town has hidden behind closed doors, flushing out lanterns and blowing out matches.
For once, the town is as dark as the night itself. To Kahlan, who has experienced her share of tornadoes, it feels like an eye of the storm. Too thick. Too stifled. Devastation simply biding its time.
Kahlan feels utterly alone, and she finds herself on the verge of panic, assaulted with thoughts of what has transpired. She sees the image of a beaten and bloodied Richard, fighting with every fiber of his being, only to be slung on the back of a saddle and carried away like a Sabine woman.
Kahlan has lost too much; she has lost everything. And now, a few short years later, again she is on the brink of that particular misfortune.
Kahlan checks her revolver, loads the ammunition and lights yet another lantern.
Hysteria brings with it the urge to throttle Cara Mason, to once again wrap long fingers around the surprisingly delicate throat and force answers out of her. To blame her for this particular misfortune, because this started when she arrived and there is no such thing as coincidence.
The stench of spilt blood and awareness of the dead woman in the cell beside Cara is the only thing that keeps her from doing exactly that, because despite Kahlan’s anger, she remembers the gunshot that splattered hot, human blood over her face and saved her life in the process.
So she waits, hip pressed against the desk, eyes trained on the old, creaking door of the Marshall’s office, listening with straining ears for any sign of working men returning victorious.
In a fantasy - in her fantasy world, Richard would be brought back alive. He would smile at her; that handsome, boyish smile, and Kahlan would forget propriety and wrap her arms around him and hold him tight, feel his heart beating against hers and once again remind herself how very fortunate they all are to still be alive in such a violent, unfair world.
“They won’t find him.”
Cara’s words are the first that she has spoken since the chaos that entered with the dead Mord’Sith, and truth be told, Kahlan is startled by it. She shifts her head and stares into the cell, watches this strange and beautiful woman watching her.
In her fantasy world, this woman somehow exists, shoved into it by some unexplainable force. There are no boyish smiles and relieved embraces.
There is only that same, tangible energy that feels like electricity sparking through her veins.
Kahlan finds herself afraid of it.
In the wake of what’s happened, Cara may as well be Death herself.
“How do you know?” she finds herself asking. Never moving from her spot, instead she shifts on the desk and rests her head against the scratchy brick of the office. The flame in the lantern jumps, as if even the wick fears what Cara can say.
Cara Mason, Mord’Sith, offers only a grim smirk. “Because where Darken Rahl is going, the Marshall and his posse won’t follow.” Her words are matter-of-fact, twinged with the knowing drawl of a woman who travels in unfortunate circles. A tongue darts out and moistens chapped lips. “Not even for a man with a reputation like Richard Cypher.”
There is no mockery in her tone, not this time. No sarcasm. Cara says this matter-of-factly, and if Kahlan did not doubt as much as she did, she would suspect even a bit of regret.
Crickets begin to chirp. Kahlan hears the clomp of a boot against wooden planks. The creak of doors opening and closing.
Signs that the nightlight of Armadillo is beginning to emerge.
Kahlan barely registers it. She considers instead the information that Cara has shared and what Richard told her before this all happened.
She said she was sorry.
“You know where they’re taking them,” she breathes suddenly.
Cara’s bright eyes catch hers, hold, and then flit away.
“Cara,” she whispers. “If you know-“
“What good will it do me now?” Cara snaps. The edge in her voice has returned, and with it, the mask. “As soon as your Marshall and his posse return without Richard, I’ll be blamed for all of this.” Her boot scuffs against the floor.
Kahlan considers that, reflects on her own impulse to do the same thing.
And yet -
“If that’s what you truly believe,” she asks quietly, “Then why did you give me the gun?”
Cara’s jawline tightens. The stare underneath that bowler hat is guarded. “Sheer stupidity,” Cara comments finally with a disgusted snort.
“Was that the only reason?”
This stranger only smirks. Those mysterious eyes once again catch hold of hers, as if searching for something.
Once again, Kahlan finds herself reacting with a sensation that is at once familiar and unfamiliar, strange and yet as distant as a close memory.
“Had I left myself to the mercy of Trianna,” Cara continued, nodding toward the dead body beside her, “then it would be me covered in a horse blanket, in addition to you. The Mord’Sith have no use for me now. And Neither does Darken Rahl.”
There is a story here - what Cara Mason will not say, and Kahlan decides that it is terribly, terribly important. If here is one thing that stands consistent regarding the mythos of the Mord’Sith, it is that they regard each other as sisters. There is no loyalty but to each other and Darken Rahl, and it is what makes them so feared - that cold, calculating unity.
And yet here is a Mord’Sith, who has been beaten and left for dead, would have been killed at the hand of her own ‘sister’ had it not been for Richard’s intervention.
Who exists in Kahlan’s dreams as an ally, with familiar eyes and a dangerous smirk.
“Why did they betray you?”
Whatever answer she hopes to get from Cara is taken away from her when someone pounds at the door pounds fiercely and a cacophony of voices shout at her from the other side of it.
“Miss Amnell!” she hears. “Get that Mord’Sith whore out here!”
She recognizes the voice. It belongs to a young, gaptoothed cowboy named Morgan, who is hot headed sober and near psychotic when drunk.
“Oh Jesus,” she whispers, and louder, she shouts through the door, “Morgan! Get back to your room. Nothing here concerns you.”
“It damn fucking does concern me!” he hollers, and she hears murmurs of agreement.
The picture forms quickly, of Morgan shouting his mouth off at the saloon, quickly gaining an audience and searching for someone to blame - an easy target.
The Mord’Sith outlaw.
“Just give us the Mord’Sith whore, Miss Amnell!” another man shouts - Mr. Freyes, who has always been kind, but prone to racist misgivings, particularly towards the darker cowboys that ride through Armadillo. “You know as well as we do that she deserves what’s coming to her.”
They want a hanging.
Cara launches to her feet and grips the iron that holds her captive. “The welcome wagon,” she drawls. “Lovely.”
It is what the Marshall and Zedd both feared, and with good reason.
Kahlan knows all too well the danger of a mob mentality.
“Stay here,” she snaps at Cara, and then feels immediately silly, because honestly, Cara has nowhere she can go. Cara, at the very least, seems to agree. The look she gives her is positively murderous.
Her embarrassment gives her a moment to compose herself, as she readies her rifle and stuffs the box of matches and Zedd’s pouch in the pocket of the long jacket she has worn to ward off the chill.
After a moment, Kahlan reaches for the blood-rusted Deputy’s badge and pins it on her lapel.
With a steadying breath, Kahlan unlatches the door.
When it opens, she greets the men with a cocked rifle and the blistering sound of a bullet shot from its chamber, skidding into the dirt a foot from Morgan’s left boot. He yelps and nearly falls flat on his ass.
The startled and belligerent group is quieted enough to catch sight of the way she holds steady aim at Morgan’s chest.
“Evening, gentlemen,” she says crisply and politely. “I more than anyone can understand the need to find someone to blame for what happened to Deputy Flynn and Deputy Cypher.” She hears the beginnings of protest, and raises her voice above it. “But this is not the solution. Kindly please head back to your homes.”
Kahlan would certainly not describe herself as an optimist, but any hope she has that this would be the end of it quickly dies when Morgan overcomes his shock and nearly spits at her feet.
“Like hell!” he snaps, and lifts his own pistol at her. A few of the men are appalled, and in this instance, Kahlan is thankful of the double standard that exists for her gender.
“Morgan-“
“She shot at me first!” he gripes.
Kahlan stands her ground and braces the rile against her shoulder, cheek pressed against the barrel.
“Had I wanted to shoot you, Morgan, I wouldn’t have missed,” she points out, and there are enough men in this group that can testify to that fact.
Morgan’s pistol shakes, and Kahlan becomes more afraid of another of these men getting struck by his crazy aim than herself.
“You have no right,” he blusters.
“I have every right,” she interrupts, and lifts her shoulder, until the dull tin catches the light of the torches. “The Marshall deputized me before he left. Which makes me the law.”
“He deputized a woman?” scoffs Reyes, but this mouth snaps shut soon after, when her eyes connect sharply with his.
“This is ridiculous!”
“Care to test my abilities, Morgan?” she asks, and though the drink has given Morgan courage to stand at the other end of her rifle, the other men with him have no such support. Already, Reyes begins to step back, the hot headed anger that brought him here fading in the face of her strength.
So she focuses her gaze on Morgan. With dark eyes, she takes him deep within her, until she sees into his very soul - the soul of a coward, bolstered only by his faded support.
Perhaps he sees it, feels it, because he yelps and shakes his head furiously, as if trying to shake her loose. The pistol comes up yet again, trembling so badly it nearly falls from his hand. “None of your confessor magic is going to work on me, Witch!” he cries, and yet the fear in his eyes, the way he sweats, tells a very different story. “Now, I never hurt a decent woman, but I swear to God, if you don’t hand over that whore-“
“What, Morgan?” she sneers, and offers no respect. “What will you do? Hang a woman? Hang two? Because that is what you will have to do in order to get through this door.”
“No be reasonable, Confessor,” Reyes pleads, snatching his hat off his head and wrinkling it in his grasp. “Think about it. She’s the cause of this! You think it was just a coincidence that she comes in town and Darken Rahl follows? The longer she’s here, the longer we’re a target. We deserve justice.”
“And you’ll have it,” she answers. “When the Marshall gets back, and this woman is taken to Blackwater and interrogated. There will be nothing gained from hanging this woman now.”
It is her strength that cools the crowd. All but Morgan, who faces a rifle to his chest and logic with the bluster of a fighting rooster. “Do you think I’m going to listen to a lecture of the law from a lady Injun freak?”
They are words - thought by many, but said by few, and Kahlan almost smiles, because it is enough to shock even Reyes.
“I would offer to let you read it yourself,” she snaps, “But that would require being able to read, wouldn’t it, Morgan?”
He gapes at her, flushes horribly.
The gun lowers, and Reyes himself snatches it out of Morgan’s palm.
“Reyes,” she calls out, and notices how the man snaps his shoulders up, almost at attention. “Take Morgan and put him back in his room at the saloon before I put him in a cell and let the Marshall deal with him.”
“We want justice,” Reyes tells her, but already, he is leading Morgan away.
“You’ll have it,” she promises, and he seems to take her at her word, because he nods quietly.
As the crowd disperses, Kahlan finds the adrenaline that kept her rifle steady and her voice forceful fleeing with them. Her stance holds, but Kahlan feels such a wave of exhaustion overtake her, she finds herself actually considering shifting the dead body back into the office and crashing onto the mattress on which it rests.
Instead, she shoves the door back open with her shoulder and steps back into the Marshall’s office. Cara’s still standing. The murderous glare is gone, and it’s in place is a look that is both wonder and suspicion.
“If you’re right and the posse comes back without Richard,” she explains flatly, locking the door shut behind her, and placing the rifle against the desk, “then our only chance of getting Richard back is you. Allowing a few drunk angry men to hang you will do nothing to save him.”
It’s a logical answer, and it appears, one that Cara seems to respect. Her hands drop from the iron bars. “Saving my life is becoming somewhat of a distasteful habit for you, Confessor.”
Kahlan almost smiles as she tiredly steps forward grabs a pouch from the desk. Pulling a loaf of stale bread from it, Kahlan tears off a chunk and offers it through the bars. “If it helps save Richard, then I’ll sacrifice my own life to do it.”
Cara absorbs that as she takes the bread from Kahlan. Once again, Cara’s touch lingers, a finger smoothing against hers, as if in simple curiosity.
Kahlan allows it.
Cara’s hand drops. “Richard Cypher must be quite the specimen, to incur such loyalty.” She’s mocking her. For some odd reason, Kahlan discovers it barely even fazes her.
“Some would say the Mord’Sith had the same type of loyalty to Darken Rahl,” Kahlan answers evenly, “And yet, here you are. Why are you here, Cara?” she asks, and it is as honest a question as she’s ever asked anyone.
Cara is quiet only a moment, before her head lifts and her eyes once again meet Kahlan’s. “Do you believe in reincarnation, Confessor?”
It is a question that throws her, lifted out of her very mind. Kahlan is legitimately stunned, and immediately, her mind flashes again to that perfectly clear image of this exact woman ghosting her lips across her throat, dragging a moan out of her that is nothing if not carnal and full of lust.
Her chest heaves, and Kahlan swallows the emotion away. Cara continues to stare at her, waiting for her answer, and so Kahlan answers honestly.
“The tribe that raised me believed in it fervently,” she admits. “They believed that a soul was something that was eternal.”
Cara nods slowly. “A man like Darken Rahl does not come upon his power without developing a very real motivation for preserving it. He takes his power any way he can get it, but lately…” The lantern flickers, and in it, Kahlan sees the way Cara’s pupil’s dilate, as if she’s reliving some memory. “He’s become fascinated with the idea...”
“Of reincarnation,” Kahlan clarifies.
Cara nods grimly. “During a … session… with an Indian chief, Rahl had a vision... that in a past life, Richard Cypher had been responsible for his demise. He became obsessed.”
The pieces come together like a perfectly fit puzzle, and the result is a sudden horror. “That’s why the Mord’Sith took Richard,” she whispered.
Cara’s head lifts. “He means to have a ceremony - he wants to destroy Richard’s soul - so as to keep him from doing it to Rahl, in this lifetime or in any other.”
Magic. Black magic.
To think of such things in this era seems unthinkable to most. To most, Zedd and his tinkering is what comes closest, but Kahlan has been raised in the old ways, and her sisters were believers.
As is Darken Rahl.
And Richard…
Oh, Richard… is in so much trouble.
This is a fate that is so much worse than death.
“Cara,” she whispers, reaching through the iron and catching hold of this strange woman, who has turned her world upside down and now carries her very sanity in her hands. “Why are you here?”
There is a moment in which Kahlan believes Cara will not answer her. Cara’s gaze jerks down to where Kahlan’s fingers wrap around her bicep, keeping her in place with a fierce, desperate hold.
“Because Richard was not the only one in Darken Rahl’s vision.”
Kahlan becomes hauntingly aware of her heartbeat, the way it begins to pound against her chest, and again, she thinks of her dreams - her visions, with swords called Truth, magic that flows from her fingertips, women in leather who spread fear with cruelty, and CARA, who stands with her and … stands with Richard-
The answer comes to her so quickly, it’s startling. “He saw you too, didn’t he?” she whispers, and it’s so clear. “You also existed in this past life - and in it, you betrayed him. You betrayed him for Richard.”
Cara’s eyes widen, and Kahlan sees it - she sees it in the way Cara looks at her, that she’s finally guessed the truth.
“You know where they’re taking him,” she whispers fiercely. “Please, just tell me.”
But Cara jerks free of her, her movement so powerful and angry, Kahlan almost expects a strike as well. “Unlock this cell,” Cara demands, stepping close to the iron and glaring at her. “And free me from this prison. And I will take you to your Richard and I will help you save him. But before he has his freedom, you must grant me mine.”
--
She should have expected as much from a Mord’Sith. Despite whatever visions haunt her of a Cara Mason that is both familiar and intimate, Kahlan knows that in reality, Cara Mason is an outlaw who harbors loyalty to no one, not even her own Darken Rahl.
And the bargain she has demanded from Kahlan is one she must admit, she might make in her place.
But it is a devil’s deal.
So she waits for an agonizing hour, ignoring the woman in the cell who watches her with eyes of a predator. She is sleepless on a horrible night, and the wait nears unbearable when she hears the telltale clomp of hoofs and the whinny of tired horses growing louder outside.
Zedd calls out to her. She jumps up so fast it’s as if her heart has lodged in her throat with the momentum, nearly choking her as she charges for the door, throwing the bolt and swinging the door open.
She wants to see Richard, bloody perhaps, but alive and thrilled to see her.
Instead, it Zedd’s quietly devastated face that is the first she sees, and as he wraps his large hands around her and brings her in close, she finds no comfort in the reunion.
“I’m so sorry, Kahlan,” she hears in a gruff, choked voice.
“We chased them all the way down to Rio Bravo,” the Marshall tells her. He shoulders past her and drops his satchel on his desk, wincing as he eases into his hard wooden chair, rubbing at his thighs. “Got as far as Repentance Rock when we realized there was no catching them. Heading straight for the border. I’m sorry, Miss Amnell.”
He sounds so… defeated and final and for a moment, it just doesn’t make sense. “They crossed into Mexico?”
“If they haven’t they will soon,” the Marshall responds, flicking open his cigar case and pulling one out. “Headed straight there when we lost the trail.”
“And you didn’t follow them?”
The Marshall pauses, his cigar halfway to his mouth. “Into Mexico? That’s a tad bit out of my jurisdiction, darlin’.”
She looks to Zedd, but the old man just shakes his head, furious and muted.
“But Marshall…” Pulling out of Zedd’s arms, she heads straight for him. “You can’t-“
“I can and I did.” His posture is casual, too casual for this moment, and it’s then that Kahlan realizes that he is steeling himself. He’s expected this reaction; chances are he’s already had this conversation with Zedd, because his answer comes off as rehearsed. “I’m a Marshall, Miss. My job is protect the people in this town. I ain’t no bounty hunter and as far as I’m concerned, the farther that Darken Rahl gets from this town and its citizens, the better.”
It’s practical and impersonal, and everything she once admired and now suddenly abhors in the Marshall. “This is Richard Cypher!”
“Who is just a man!” The cigar comes out of his mouth, slams on the desk, and when he stands up, Zedd comes forward. Kahlan pays him no notice. Every bit of her attention focuses on the tired and angry Marshall, who’s eyes spark like flint. “Now don’t get me wrong, he is a hell of a man and I’m damn sorry to lose him. If I coulda saved him I would, but I’m in charge of this town, not one man, and no man is worth chasing into Mexico. Now, Rahl got what he came for and we’re damn lucky it’s just Flynn that got it this time.”
Zedd’s hands settle onto her shoulders, an attempt at comfort. “Kahlan, I’m sorry.”
She shrugs him off. “Marshall.”
The Marshall’s hat comes off, and without it he looks gray and weathered, not nearly as strong as he usually seems. “I’m sorry, Miss Amnell,” he says, and it would hurt less if he wasn’t so damn sincere about it. “I’m damn sorry. I am. But take comfort that at the very least, we got two of theirs.”
Kahlan’s head whips back towards the cell, and she remembers Cara, who stands at the iron bars and ignores the Marshall completely in favor of staring at her.
Kahlan’s mouth drops in sudden memory. “Marshall,” she whispers, and tugs at his belt, catching his attention. “Cara Mason. She was one of them. If we could hire a bounty hunter - Cara Mason could tell us where they’ve gone-“
The Marshall pauses mid-turn, eyes narrowed. “Did she tell you that?”
“Yes, she did.”
The smile he gives her is wry… disappointed. “Miss Kahlan, you’re thinking with a woman’s heart. That whore will say anything to save her own hide, and you know it.”
“But Marshall-“
“There’s nothing we can do, but pray for Richard’s soul.” He pats her awkwardly, and moves away. “Zedd, get her out of here. I’m sorry,” he says again, and then he leaves her there.
--
It’s the middle of a black night in Armadillo. As Zedd’s shaking hands open the door and Kahlan steps into the pitch darkness of the shop, she finds herself overwhelmed with the sudden smell of Richard.
Zedd lights a lantern, and suddenly the room is filled with him. Memories of Richard flood her, and she is haunted, searching out every corner of the shop.
Zedd is an old man, and he looks every inch it as he hobbles around her and settles at his work desk. The grief is painted on his face.
Were he truly a wizard, his age would not matter. Were it really magic he employed, it would crinkle from his fingertips and then he and she would go… to Mexico and beyond.
But Zedd is old, and she is a woman, and in this town, the Marshall has declared Richard’s death sentence.
“We should… try and sleep,” Zedd murmurs, and it’s as far as he gets before he begins to weep, burying his face into his hands, sobbing harshly.
It is the sound of a man’s heart breaking, and Kahlan can take it no longer.
Her boot swivels and without hesitation, she opens the counter she has opened countless times before and pulls from it a Winchester Model 1873 center-fire rifle. She lays it on the counter, and then removes a Buntline Special colt pistol, and lays it beside it.
She pulls out the ammunition and piles it on top of the counter, and adds to it a carbine belt.
“Kahlan?” she hears. “What are you doing?”
“What does it look like I’m doing?” she snaps and continues gathering together everything of use in Zedd’s store.
The sage old mother of her tribe noted that her fierce need to protect those she loved was both her greatest strength and her greatest weakness. Never before has such polarity become so apparent as this night. To save her dearest friend, she will broker a deal with a devil, in the form of an outlaw with a split lip, a sneer and a bowler hat.
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.
Sorry this took so long. Real life has kicked me in the ass.
Chapters
Prologue | Chapter One | Chapter Two
Chapter Three: Woke up the Wrong Passenger
“Some trees flourish, others die. Some cattle grow strong, others are taken by wolves. Some men are born rich enough and dumb enough to enjoy their lives. Ain’t nothing fair. You know that.”
--
There is no time to process such terrible news. Kahlan finds herself rooted to the floor, shaking helplessly as the Marshall circles around her and takes in the scene before him.
“What the hell happened?!” he snaps. “Are you hurt?”
Kahlan can still taste the blood of another woman in her mouth, and yet somehow she’s forgotten about the splatter on her face until Zedd himself bursts through the door.
“Kahlan!” he screeches, eyes so wild he searches the room without really seeing it. When he finally sets his sights on her, what little color exists on his face drains completely. He rushes to her and places calloused, rough palms on her cheek. “What happened?”
His sand papery touch brings lucidity with it, and it is then that Kahlan is allowed to truly understand what has just happened outside these four walls.
Any relief she may have felt at surviving the Mord’Sith’s attack flies away. In its place comes pure horror that sinks deep within her, flaying her.
“I’m fine,” she breathes immediately, impatient as she pulls his hands away from her face. “It’s not my blood. Zedd, what’s happened?”
Zedd breathes with his mouth open, gaze darting over the dead Mord’Sith, and the blood pooling on the floor.
“Zedd!”
Finally, he seems to shake out of it. He sees her again, pats once more at her face, and then exhales quickly. “Richard. They came and they took Richard. Fled with him-“
“-Fucking came down and attacked him and Flynn just outta town like the damn Reckoning!” the Marshal spit. He yanks open a drawer, and pulls from it another rifle, slinging it over his shoulder as he gathers a handful of shells with his big broad palm. “Shot up half the stocks, got Flynn right in the chest and dragged Richard away like a damn sow.”
“Christ,” she breathes. “Is Flynn-“
“The Doctor’s looking at him,” Zedd whispers, trying desperately to sound soothing despite the panic that shakes his voice. “No one’s sure.”
In her cell, Cara Mason stands quietly. She is so still she appears to be almost a statue, and in the chaos, she is all but forgotten.
But Kahlan does not forget. Unable to help herself, she looks at her.
In the eyes of a Mord’Sith, there is no answer.
Kahlan’s blood runs cold.
“Kahlan.” Pressure against her shoulder re-alerts her to Zedd, who pushes a package in her hand. “Take this. Just in case.”
What he hands her, she soon realizes, is one of his many inventions - a pouch filled with a volatile powder derived from the potent liquid of local chilis. A pepper bomb, he once called it.
“Zedd-“
Already, he’s let her go, following the Marshall out of the office and into the streets of Armadillo.
The peace that had existed that morning has faded into some sort of desperate chaos. Horses clomp hooves against the muddy dirt, and sitting astride them are the men she recognizes as the baker, the butcher, the telegram operator.
They stare at her, horrified expressions identical on every face.
“We’ve formed a posse,” he explains hurriedly. “To go after Richard. But in case they come back - use that-”
He struggles with his horse, and already, Kahlan feels left behind - helpless.
“If you’re going, Zedd, then so am I!” she demands.
“The hell you are.” It’s the Marshall who intrudes. He digs a foot into the stirrup of his mare and hauls himself up. “Miss Kahlan, this ain’t been done before, but it’s being done now.” A piece of metal is flung into the dirt at Kahlan’s feet. In the moonlight, the tin of a deputy badge glimmers. “You’re hereby debutized. You’re staying here and you’re keeping an eye on that whore.”
As if sensing the anxiety, the horse the Marshall rides bucks and whinnies an excited shriek. The Marshall jerks on the reigns and hollers.
“We’ll get him back,” Zedd promises. “Take care, Kahlan!”
There is a flurry of dust, the noise of horses being pushed into gallop, and then they are gone, one right after the other, headed south out of town into the desert wilderness.
Weakened, Kahlan reaches down and plucks the tin badge out of the dirt.
It looks rusted. When Kahlan wipes at the metal with her thumb, she discovers that the rust has smeared.
It’s then that she realizes the badge is coated with blood.
--
The water Richard collected out of kindness, Kahlan now uses to wash the blood from her face. She has no mirror and so she works blindly. When she has cleaned herself as best she can, she overturns the water and with the old broom she finds in the corner near the desk, she mops at the floor.
Like Cara Mason, the dead Mord’Sith has a beautiful face. The bowler hat she was wearing when she intruded has toppled its way near Cara’s cell, and Kahlan discovers that Cara has taken ownership of it, fitting it over her head and tipping it over her brow as she settles on the dirty mattress.
That is the extent of Cara’s ‘grief’ for whatever this woman was to her.
Kahlan can do nothing more than wrap the dead woman in a dirty sheet and drag her into the cell that adjoins Cara’s.
It makes for a grim, make-shift Morgue.
The night has grown quiet. In the wake of the posse leaving, the town has hidden behind closed doors, flushing out lanterns and blowing out matches.
For once, the town is as dark as the night itself. To Kahlan, who has experienced her share of tornadoes, it feels like an eye of the storm. Too thick. Too stifled. Devastation simply biding its time.
Kahlan feels utterly alone, and she finds herself on the verge of panic, assaulted with thoughts of what has transpired. She sees the image of a beaten and bloodied Richard, fighting with every fiber of his being, only to be slung on the back of a saddle and carried away like a Sabine woman.
Kahlan has lost too much; she has lost everything. And now, a few short years later, again she is on the brink of that particular misfortune.
Kahlan checks her revolver, loads the ammunition and lights yet another lantern.
Hysteria brings with it the urge to throttle Cara Mason, to once again wrap long fingers around the surprisingly delicate throat and force answers out of her. To blame her for this particular misfortune, because this started when she arrived and there is no such thing as coincidence.
The stench of spilt blood and awareness of the dead woman in the cell beside Cara is the only thing that keeps her from doing exactly that, because despite Kahlan’s anger, she remembers the gunshot that splattered hot, human blood over her face and saved her life in the process.
So she waits, hip pressed against the desk, eyes trained on the old, creaking door of the Marshall’s office, listening with straining ears for any sign of working men returning victorious.
In a fantasy - in her fantasy world, Richard would be brought back alive. He would smile at her; that handsome, boyish smile, and Kahlan would forget propriety and wrap her arms around him and hold him tight, feel his heart beating against hers and once again remind herself how very fortunate they all are to still be alive in such a violent, unfair world.
“They won’t find him.”
Cara’s words are the first that she has spoken since the chaos that entered with the dead Mord’Sith, and truth be told, Kahlan is startled by it. She shifts her head and stares into the cell, watches this strange and beautiful woman watching her.
In her fantasy world, this woman somehow exists, shoved into it by some unexplainable force. There are no boyish smiles and relieved embraces.
There is only that same, tangible energy that feels like electricity sparking through her veins.
Kahlan finds herself afraid of it.
In the wake of what’s happened, Cara may as well be Death herself.
“How do you know?” she finds herself asking. Never moving from her spot, instead she shifts on the desk and rests her head against the scratchy brick of the office. The flame in the lantern jumps, as if even the wick fears what Cara can say.
Cara Mason, Mord’Sith, offers only a grim smirk. “Because where Darken Rahl is going, the Marshall and his posse won’t follow.” Her words are matter-of-fact, twinged with the knowing drawl of a woman who travels in unfortunate circles. A tongue darts out and moistens chapped lips. “Not even for a man with a reputation like Richard Cypher.”
There is no mockery in her tone, not this time. No sarcasm. Cara says this matter-of-factly, and if Kahlan did not doubt as much as she did, she would suspect even a bit of regret.
Crickets begin to chirp. Kahlan hears the clomp of a boot against wooden planks. The creak of doors opening and closing.
Signs that the nightlight of Armadillo is beginning to emerge.
Kahlan barely registers it. She considers instead the information that Cara has shared and what Richard told her before this all happened.
She said she was sorry.
“You know where they’re taking them,” she breathes suddenly.
Cara’s bright eyes catch hers, hold, and then flit away.
“Cara,” she whispers. “If you know-“
“What good will it do me now?” Cara snaps. The edge in her voice has returned, and with it, the mask. “As soon as your Marshall and his posse return without Richard, I’ll be blamed for all of this.” Her boot scuffs against the floor.
Kahlan considers that, reflects on her own impulse to do the same thing.
And yet -
“If that’s what you truly believe,” she asks quietly, “Then why did you give me the gun?”
Cara’s jawline tightens. The stare underneath that bowler hat is guarded. “Sheer stupidity,” Cara comments finally with a disgusted snort.
“Was that the only reason?”
This stranger only smirks. Those mysterious eyes once again catch hold of hers, as if searching for something.
Once again, Kahlan finds herself reacting with a sensation that is at once familiar and unfamiliar, strange and yet as distant as a close memory.
“Had I left myself to the mercy of Trianna,” Cara continued, nodding toward the dead body beside her, “then it would be me covered in a horse blanket, in addition to you. The Mord’Sith have no use for me now. And Neither does Darken Rahl.”
There is a story here - what Cara Mason will not say, and Kahlan decides that it is terribly, terribly important. If here is one thing that stands consistent regarding the mythos of the Mord’Sith, it is that they regard each other as sisters. There is no loyalty but to each other and Darken Rahl, and it is what makes them so feared - that cold, calculating unity.
And yet here is a Mord’Sith, who has been beaten and left for dead, would have been killed at the hand of her own ‘sister’ had it not been for Richard’s intervention.
Who exists in Kahlan’s dreams as an ally, with familiar eyes and a dangerous smirk.
“Why did they betray you?”
Whatever answer she hopes to get from Cara is taken away from her when someone pounds at the door pounds fiercely and a cacophony of voices shout at her from the other side of it.
“Miss Amnell!” she hears. “Get that Mord’Sith whore out here!”
She recognizes the voice. It belongs to a young, gaptoothed cowboy named Morgan, who is hot headed sober and near psychotic when drunk.
“Oh Jesus,” she whispers, and louder, she shouts through the door, “Morgan! Get back to your room. Nothing here concerns you.”
“It damn fucking does concern me!” he hollers, and she hears murmurs of agreement.
The picture forms quickly, of Morgan shouting his mouth off at the saloon, quickly gaining an audience and searching for someone to blame - an easy target.
The Mord’Sith outlaw.
“Just give us the Mord’Sith whore, Miss Amnell!” another man shouts - Mr. Freyes, who has always been kind, but prone to racist misgivings, particularly towards the darker cowboys that ride through Armadillo. “You know as well as we do that she deserves what’s coming to her.”
They want a hanging.
Cara launches to her feet and grips the iron that holds her captive. “The welcome wagon,” she drawls. “Lovely.”
It is what the Marshall and Zedd both feared, and with good reason.
Kahlan knows all too well the danger of a mob mentality.
“Stay here,” she snaps at Cara, and then feels immediately silly, because honestly, Cara has nowhere she can go. Cara, at the very least, seems to agree. The look she gives her is positively murderous.
Her embarrassment gives her a moment to compose herself, as she readies her rifle and stuffs the box of matches and Zedd’s pouch in the pocket of the long jacket she has worn to ward off the chill.
After a moment, Kahlan reaches for the blood-rusted Deputy’s badge and pins it on her lapel.
With a steadying breath, Kahlan unlatches the door.
When it opens, she greets the men with a cocked rifle and the blistering sound of a bullet shot from its chamber, skidding into the dirt a foot from Morgan’s left boot. He yelps and nearly falls flat on his ass.
The startled and belligerent group is quieted enough to catch sight of the way she holds steady aim at Morgan’s chest.
“Evening, gentlemen,” she says crisply and politely. “I more than anyone can understand the need to find someone to blame for what happened to Deputy Flynn and Deputy Cypher.” She hears the beginnings of protest, and raises her voice above it. “But this is not the solution. Kindly please head back to your homes.”
Kahlan would certainly not describe herself as an optimist, but any hope she has that this would be the end of it quickly dies when Morgan overcomes his shock and nearly spits at her feet.
“Like hell!” he snaps, and lifts his own pistol at her. A few of the men are appalled, and in this instance, Kahlan is thankful of the double standard that exists for her gender.
“Morgan-“
“She shot at me first!” he gripes.
Kahlan stands her ground and braces the rile against her shoulder, cheek pressed against the barrel.
“Had I wanted to shoot you, Morgan, I wouldn’t have missed,” she points out, and there are enough men in this group that can testify to that fact.
Morgan’s pistol shakes, and Kahlan becomes more afraid of another of these men getting struck by his crazy aim than herself.
“You have no right,” he blusters.
“I have every right,” she interrupts, and lifts her shoulder, until the dull tin catches the light of the torches. “The Marshall deputized me before he left. Which makes me the law.”
“He deputized a woman?” scoffs Reyes, but this mouth snaps shut soon after, when her eyes connect sharply with his.
“This is ridiculous!”
“Care to test my abilities, Morgan?” she asks, and though the drink has given Morgan courage to stand at the other end of her rifle, the other men with him have no such support. Already, Reyes begins to step back, the hot headed anger that brought him here fading in the face of her strength.
So she focuses her gaze on Morgan. With dark eyes, she takes him deep within her, until she sees into his very soul - the soul of a coward, bolstered only by his faded support.
Perhaps he sees it, feels it, because he yelps and shakes his head furiously, as if trying to shake her loose. The pistol comes up yet again, trembling so badly it nearly falls from his hand. “None of your confessor magic is going to work on me, Witch!” he cries, and yet the fear in his eyes, the way he sweats, tells a very different story. “Now, I never hurt a decent woman, but I swear to God, if you don’t hand over that whore-“
“What, Morgan?” she sneers, and offers no respect. “What will you do? Hang a woman? Hang two? Because that is what you will have to do in order to get through this door.”
“No be reasonable, Confessor,” Reyes pleads, snatching his hat off his head and wrinkling it in his grasp. “Think about it. She’s the cause of this! You think it was just a coincidence that she comes in town and Darken Rahl follows? The longer she’s here, the longer we’re a target. We deserve justice.”
“And you’ll have it,” she answers. “When the Marshall gets back, and this woman is taken to Blackwater and interrogated. There will be nothing gained from hanging this woman now.”
It is her strength that cools the crowd. All but Morgan, who faces a rifle to his chest and logic with the bluster of a fighting rooster. “Do you think I’m going to listen to a lecture of the law from a lady Injun freak?”
They are words - thought by many, but said by few, and Kahlan almost smiles, because it is enough to shock even Reyes.
“I would offer to let you read it yourself,” she snaps, “But that would require being able to read, wouldn’t it, Morgan?”
He gapes at her, flushes horribly.
The gun lowers, and Reyes himself snatches it out of Morgan’s palm.
“Reyes,” she calls out, and notices how the man snaps his shoulders up, almost at attention. “Take Morgan and put him back in his room at the saloon before I put him in a cell and let the Marshall deal with him.”
“We want justice,” Reyes tells her, but already, he is leading Morgan away.
“You’ll have it,” she promises, and he seems to take her at her word, because he nods quietly.
As the crowd disperses, Kahlan finds the adrenaline that kept her rifle steady and her voice forceful fleeing with them. Her stance holds, but Kahlan feels such a wave of exhaustion overtake her, she finds herself actually considering shifting the dead body back into the office and crashing onto the mattress on which it rests.
Instead, she shoves the door back open with her shoulder and steps back into the Marshall’s office. Cara’s still standing. The murderous glare is gone, and it’s in place is a look that is both wonder and suspicion.
“If you’re right and the posse comes back without Richard,” she explains flatly, locking the door shut behind her, and placing the rifle against the desk, “then our only chance of getting Richard back is you. Allowing a few drunk angry men to hang you will do nothing to save him.”
It’s a logical answer, and it appears, one that Cara seems to respect. Her hands drop from the iron bars. “Saving my life is becoming somewhat of a distasteful habit for you, Confessor.”
Kahlan almost smiles as she tiredly steps forward grabs a pouch from the desk. Pulling a loaf of stale bread from it, Kahlan tears off a chunk and offers it through the bars. “If it helps save Richard, then I’ll sacrifice my own life to do it.”
Cara absorbs that as she takes the bread from Kahlan. Once again, Cara’s touch lingers, a finger smoothing against hers, as if in simple curiosity.
Kahlan allows it.
Cara’s hand drops. “Richard Cypher must be quite the specimen, to incur such loyalty.” She’s mocking her. For some odd reason, Kahlan discovers it barely even fazes her.
“Some would say the Mord’Sith had the same type of loyalty to Darken Rahl,” Kahlan answers evenly, “And yet, here you are. Why are you here, Cara?” she asks, and it is as honest a question as she’s ever asked anyone.
Cara is quiet only a moment, before her head lifts and her eyes once again meet Kahlan’s. “Do you believe in reincarnation, Confessor?”
It is a question that throws her, lifted out of her very mind. Kahlan is legitimately stunned, and immediately, her mind flashes again to that perfectly clear image of this exact woman ghosting her lips across her throat, dragging a moan out of her that is nothing if not carnal and full of lust.
Her chest heaves, and Kahlan swallows the emotion away. Cara continues to stare at her, waiting for her answer, and so Kahlan answers honestly.
“The tribe that raised me believed in it fervently,” she admits. “They believed that a soul was something that was eternal.”
Cara nods slowly. “A man like Darken Rahl does not come upon his power without developing a very real motivation for preserving it. He takes his power any way he can get it, but lately…” The lantern flickers, and in it, Kahlan sees the way Cara’s pupil’s dilate, as if she’s reliving some memory. “He’s become fascinated with the idea...”
“Of reincarnation,” Kahlan clarifies.
Cara nods grimly. “During a … session… with an Indian chief, Rahl had a vision... that in a past life, Richard Cypher had been responsible for his demise. He became obsessed.”
The pieces come together like a perfectly fit puzzle, and the result is a sudden horror. “That’s why the Mord’Sith took Richard,” she whispered.
Cara’s head lifts. “He means to have a ceremony - he wants to destroy Richard’s soul - so as to keep him from doing it to Rahl, in this lifetime or in any other.”
Magic. Black magic.
To think of such things in this era seems unthinkable to most. To most, Zedd and his tinkering is what comes closest, but Kahlan has been raised in the old ways, and her sisters were believers.
As is Darken Rahl.
And Richard…
Oh, Richard… is in so much trouble.
This is a fate that is so much worse than death.
“Cara,” she whispers, reaching through the iron and catching hold of this strange woman, who has turned her world upside down and now carries her very sanity in her hands. “Why are you here?”
There is a moment in which Kahlan believes Cara will not answer her. Cara’s gaze jerks down to where Kahlan’s fingers wrap around her bicep, keeping her in place with a fierce, desperate hold.
“Because Richard was not the only one in Darken Rahl’s vision.”
Kahlan becomes hauntingly aware of her heartbeat, the way it begins to pound against her chest, and again, she thinks of her dreams - her visions, with swords called Truth, magic that flows from her fingertips, women in leather who spread fear with cruelty, and CARA, who stands with her and … stands with Richard-
The answer comes to her so quickly, it’s startling. “He saw you too, didn’t he?” she whispers, and it’s so clear. “You also existed in this past life - and in it, you betrayed him. You betrayed him for Richard.”
Cara’s eyes widen, and Kahlan sees it - she sees it in the way Cara looks at her, that she’s finally guessed the truth.
“You know where they’re taking him,” she whispers fiercely. “Please, just tell me.”
But Cara jerks free of her, her movement so powerful and angry, Kahlan almost expects a strike as well. “Unlock this cell,” Cara demands, stepping close to the iron and glaring at her. “And free me from this prison. And I will take you to your Richard and I will help you save him. But before he has his freedom, you must grant me mine.”
--
She should have expected as much from a Mord’Sith. Despite whatever visions haunt her of a Cara Mason that is both familiar and intimate, Kahlan knows that in reality, Cara Mason is an outlaw who harbors loyalty to no one, not even her own Darken Rahl.
And the bargain she has demanded from Kahlan is one she must admit, she might make in her place.
But it is a devil’s deal.
So she waits for an agonizing hour, ignoring the woman in the cell who watches her with eyes of a predator. She is sleepless on a horrible night, and the wait nears unbearable when she hears the telltale clomp of hoofs and the whinny of tired horses growing louder outside.
Zedd calls out to her. She jumps up so fast it’s as if her heart has lodged in her throat with the momentum, nearly choking her as she charges for the door, throwing the bolt and swinging the door open.
She wants to see Richard, bloody perhaps, but alive and thrilled to see her.
Instead, it Zedd’s quietly devastated face that is the first she sees, and as he wraps his large hands around her and brings her in close, she finds no comfort in the reunion.
“I’m so sorry, Kahlan,” she hears in a gruff, choked voice.
“We chased them all the way down to Rio Bravo,” the Marshall tells her. He shoulders past her and drops his satchel on his desk, wincing as he eases into his hard wooden chair, rubbing at his thighs. “Got as far as Repentance Rock when we realized there was no catching them. Heading straight for the border. I’m sorry, Miss Amnell.”
He sounds so… defeated and final and for a moment, it just doesn’t make sense. “They crossed into Mexico?”
“If they haven’t they will soon,” the Marshall responds, flicking open his cigar case and pulling one out. “Headed straight there when we lost the trail.”
“And you didn’t follow them?”
The Marshall pauses, his cigar halfway to his mouth. “Into Mexico? That’s a tad bit out of my jurisdiction, darlin’.”
She looks to Zedd, but the old man just shakes his head, furious and muted.
“But Marshall…” Pulling out of Zedd’s arms, she heads straight for him. “You can’t-“
“I can and I did.” His posture is casual, too casual for this moment, and it’s then that Kahlan realizes that he is steeling himself. He’s expected this reaction; chances are he’s already had this conversation with Zedd, because his answer comes off as rehearsed. “I’m a Marshall, Miss. My job is protect the people in this town. I ain’t no bounty hunter and as far as I’m concerned, the farther that Darken Rahl gets from this town and its citizens, the better.”
It’s practical and impersonal, and everything she once admired and now suddenly abhors in the Marshall. “This is Richard Cypher!”
“Who is just a man!” The cigar comes out of his mouth, slams on the desk, and when he stands up, Zedd comes forward. Kahlan pays him no notice. Every bit of her attention focuses on the tired and angry Marshall, who’s eyes spark like flint. “Now don’t get me wrong, he is a hell of a man and I’m damn sorry to lose him. If I coulda saved him I would, but I’m in charge of this town, not one man, and no man is worth chasing into Mexico. Now, Rahl got what he came for and we’re damn lucky it’s just Flynn that got it this time.”
Zedd’s hands settle onto her shoulders, an attempt at comfort. “Kahlan, I’m sorry.”
She shrugs him off. “Marshall.”
The Marshall’s hat comes off, and without it he looks gray and weathered, not nearly as strong as he usually seems. “I’m sorry, Miss Amnell,” he says, and it would hurt less if he wasn’t so damn sincere about it. “I’m damn sorry. I am. But take comfort that at the very least, we got two of theirs.”
Kahlan’s head whips back towards the cell, and she remembers Cara, who stands at the iron bars and ignores the Marshall completely in favor of staring at her.
Kahlan’s mouth drops in sudden memory. “Marshall,” she whispers, and tugs at his belt, catching his attention. “Cara Mason. She was one of them. If we could hire a bounty hunter - Cara Mason could tell us where they’ve gone-“
The Marshall pauses mid-turn, eyes narrowed. “Did she tell you that?”
“Yes, she did.”
The smile he gives her is wry… disappointed. “Miss Kahlan, you’re thinking with a woman’s heart. That whore will say anything to save her own hide, and you know it.”
“But Marshall-“
“There’s nothing we can do, but pray for Richard’s soul.” He pats her awkwardly, and moves away. “Zedd, get her out of here. I’m sorry,” he says again, and then he leaves her there.
--
It’s the middle of a black night in Armadillo. As Zedd’s shaking hands open the door and Kahlan steps into the pitch darkness of the shop, she finds herself overwhelmed with the sudden smell of Richard.
Zedd lights a lantern, and suddenly the room is filled with him. Memories of Richard flood her, and she is haunted, searching out every corner of the shop.
Zedd is an old man, and he looks every inch it as he hobbles around her and settles at his work desk. The grief is painted on his face.
Were he truly a wizard, his age would not matter. Were it really magic he employed, it would crinkle from his fingertips and then he and she would go… to Mexico and beyond.
But Zedd is old, and she is a woman, and in this town, the Marshall has declared Richard’s death sentence.
“We should… try and sleep,” Zedd murmurs, and it’s as far as he gets before he begins to weep, burying his face into his hands, sobbing harshly.
It is the sound of a man’s heart breaking, and Kahlan can take it no longer.
Her boot swivels and without hesitation, she opens the counter she has opened countless times before and pulls from it a Winchester Model 1873 center-fire rifle. She lays it on the counter, and then removes a Buntline Special colt pistol, and lays it beside it.
She pulls out the ammunition and piles it on top of the counter, and adds to it a carbine belt.
“Kahlan?” she hears. “What are you doing?”
“What does it look like I’m doing?” she snaps and continues gathering together everything of use in Zedd’s store.
The sage old mother of her tribe noted that her fierce need to protect those she loved was both her greatest strength and her greatest weakness. Never before has such polarity become so apparent as this night. To save her dearest friend, she will broker a deal with a devil, in the form of an outlaw with a split lip, a sneer and a bowler hat.
End chapter