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At dawn the sun broke out strong against the sky, painting wisps of clouds orange and pink. Light pierced the thick cloth of Kahlan’s tent to fill the space with the warm glow of morning. Cara’s suit of armor on the wooden rack beside them fairly shone: the fruit of their combined labor the previous night. The blonde pulled the shirt of chainmail over her head while Kahlan dropped to her knees, reaching for the greaves and sabatons. It was strong Kelton steel in her hands, the color of silver. The breastplate had been stamped with the seal of Aydindril in blood red. Ornamented with gold beading, it was the armor of a warrior queen; Cara wore it well. She armored Cara’s feet and legs, pulling straps tight before fastening them, while Cara got one arm into its vambrace and gauntlet. Kahlan hated that her hands were practiced in this.
“We’ll take the river today,” said Cara, grimacing as she tried to work the other gauntlet into place. “If we’re lucky, we might be able to push them back from the fields to the treeline.”
Kahlan stood to begin working on Cara’s faulds and culet. “Wars aren’t meant to be fought in forests,” she said absently.
“And Mord-Sith aren’t meant to be fighting in armor,” replied Cara. “Nothing is as it’s supposed to be. But I have an idea about that forest. If we can push them that far back.”
Kahlan was silent as she hefted Cara’s cuirass from the rack. The blonde bent her head while Kahlan lowered it onto her. “You won’t like it,” Cara offered. “The idea.”
“What is it?”
Kahlan hated how strained her voice sounded. How tired she felt already, though she’d just awakened. She hated that she wasn’t donning armor like Cara’s, wasn’t able to throw herself into the fight. Her palms itched for another captive to confess; it was the only useful thing she could do. She didn’t feel like the most powerful woman in the Midlands as she strapped Cara’s cuirass tight around her torso. She felt like the wife left behind to wait while her lover fought for the both of them. Carefully she laid the heavy pauldrons onto Cara’s shoulders, fixing them to the cuirass, and she reminded her sickeningly fickle heart that Cara was not her lover. She was the commander of Kahlan’s massive armies and a close friend—the only one Kahlan had left. She wanted more than that from Cara, so much more, but she hardly had the right to ask.
“Come on.” Cara lifted the Sword of Truth from the rack with a practiced grip. “I’ll tell all of you at once.”
She strode from the tent with her helmet in the crook of her arm, loose blonde hair falling to her shoulders. She was Kahlan’s protector, her confidant, her champion. How was that not enough? To want more, to ask Cara to return the love Kahlan felt for her? Surely that was simple greed. The Confessor stood for a moment at the entrance to her tent, arms crossed, watching the way Cara’s armor flashed in sunlight, the way her confident steps carried her forward and away from Kahlan. Lifting her head, Kahlan hurried after her.
****
Cara knew she’d been right when Kahlan, in a strong and loud voice, denounced her plan as far too dangerous. She didn’t meet the Mother Confessor’s eyes as she argued her case, instead locking her gaze to the map they were all gathered around. In the end she was able to prove her logic sound, prove that the reward was worth the risk. With their leader dead the Blackened Army would crumble like the very ash they painted their armor with. The war could be over. Today. A victory years in the making was within their grasp, and Kahlan acquiesced to her council.
Others shuffled their way out while Cara lingered in accordance with the command she read clearly in blue eyes. “I want you to find someone else,” Kahlan told her once they were alone. “Choose someone to lead your little party on this insane mission over the border. You’re not going.”
“I have to go,” said Cara. “It’s my plan, and the men listen to me.”
“Then the men will obey your orders,” Kahlan snapped, “if you tell them to listen to someone else.”
“Kahlan,” Cara said, her voice tight. “This could all be over today, if you let it.”
Cara blinked as the Mother Confessor’s fist hit the map like a hammer. “It’s not worth your life!”
“It is.”
Kahlan stared at her for a moment, then sighed. She turned away from Cara to lean against the table. “Then I should go with you.”
Cara closed her eyes. She knew how this conversation would play out, and it would be a lie. Kahlan would insist that Cara’s life was every bit as valuable as hers, but in a deception deeper still, that wasn’t the reason Kahlan wanted to accompany her. Cara looked at Kahlan, at the lustrous dark tresses of her hair falling down her back. As beautiful as ever, the sight was at odds with how much life Cara knew was left in Kahlan.
If Cara was going to die, Kahlan wanted to die with her.
This war had changed her. It had taken her loved ones, one after the other. First Kahlan lost a sister, then a dear old friend, then a lover—all in the space of a year. Kahlan grew tired, permanently weary. Her smiles grew delicate, easily shattered, and then they disappeared altogether. What was left was grim determination, a desire born of vengeance to see the war ended and the murderers of her people, her friends, brought to justice—or maybe something else.
Kahlan Amnell didn’t seem to care for peace; not anymore. In whispers at night, she told Cara of plans to carry a victory further, to invade the Black Lands and wipe every living thing there from existence. Cara would lay in bed with her and listen to Kahlan speak hoarsely of setting fire to every building she saw. Cara always offered strategy and impartial council, and then she would turn away and close her eyes, mourning Kahlan’s loss of mercy.
Most of all, she wished she could help Kahlan somehow, help her reclaim herself. They were as close as she thought Kahlan wanted them to be: they ate together, talked nightly, slept in the same bed. That Cara’s heart wanted to be closer still to Kahlan’s, that her body wanted their sleep to be anything but chaste? Those were things that Cara had been working up the courage to tell Kahlan for years. She always came up a little short. If this worked, Cara decided, she would force the words from her mouth that very evening, after the celebration. Maybe with some ale to loosen her tongue.
“If you die,” Cara said at length, and cleared her throat in an attempt to get Kahlan to look at her. It didn’t work. “If you die, the Midlands will burn. Your people will suffer a fate far worse than a blade cleaving their flesh. As long as you live, Kahlan, they have hope.”
“As long as you live,” Kahlan said softly, “I have hope.”
Cara was suddenly aware of the armor encasing her body. She shifted and it rattled like a reminder that she was doing everything she could to keep herself safe. It had been Kahlan’s idea, of course, but Cara had grown used to it. Now the suit seemed nearly as comfortable as her Mord-Sith leathers, discarded so long ago. But all the armor in the world couldn’t protect her if her plan went wrong. She gritted her teeth. “Are you ordering me not to go, then?”
Kahlan finally looked at her. “Yes.”
“Coward,” Cara spat. “This is bigger than you and I, Kahlan. Stop being afraid and let me do what I need to do.”
****
The day passed like any other.
Kahlan busied herself with the wounded. She was known to the healers, and they were aware she was there to have something to do with her hands, nothing more. At midday, a small group of soldiers returned from the battlefield triumphant, red-faced and grinning. Their lances were trained on a man with dull armor the color of soot. He wore the insignia of leadership in the Blackened Army. Kahlan dropped her bandages and walked to him with the grace befitting her station. She eyed him curiously, and held silent until he began to squirm under her gaze. When he began to sputter something about being treated fairly, Kahlan’s hand flew to his throat like a snake striking its prey. She squeezed hard enough to choke him, far harder than necessary, and loosed her power. It ripped through his soul like a reaper’s blade.
It felt different, releasing her magic like this—with the force of anger and hatred behind it. Kahlan’s skin crawled and a near-orgasmic pleasure rippled through her as she took his will for her own. It was intoxicating, watching his eyes turn milky black; she prolonged the Confession as long as she was able, just to enjoy the sight and the bliss it caused her.
That the man ended up not knowing anything of consequence, anything new, hardly mattered to Kahlan. She turned to leave and, predictably, his desperate request for command rang in her ears. She looked over her shoulder at him. “Die.”
Stepping away, she heard the dull thump of a corpse hitting the ground.
****
With the sunset, spread rich and colorful across the western sky, came the return of Kahlan’s armies to their camp. They were victorious! The war was over! Cara’s plan had apparently worked. All that remained was to congratulate her on her leadership, to admit that she was wrong for worrying so much. Young men were smiling and laughing, weapons held high in the air, and their elders wore looks of satisfaction and relief. Kahlan stood impatient vigil in her white dress at the front line of tents, watching, waiting, hands clasped before her. Her eyes scanned through the crowd, searching for a glimpse of bright armor and blonde hair.
What she finally saw was a familiar body slung over a steadily approaching horse, led by a pale, grim-faced man.
Dread twisted sharp in her belly and Kahlan broke into a run. She hurtled through the celebratory throng—wide-eyed men and women alike barely dodged out of her way. She arrived, blood pounding in her ears so loudly she could barely hear the man trying to speak to her, could barely hear herself screaming Cara’s name. Kahlan saw her eyes were closed, her limbs limp and lifeless. Her hand went immediately to Cara’s neck, searching for a heartbeat, but her fingers scrabbled at chainmail. She looked to Cara’s wrists but they were covered in greaves. Frantically she began to loosen the leather straps of one. Tears were blurring her vision; she blinked furiously to clear them. Then the stranger at her side carefully placed his hand over her own, shaking his head at her. Kahlan stepped back and bit down on her lip; her chin quivered, but she was able to keep her expression in order save the tears stinging her eyes.
“She killed him herself,” the man told her gruffly. “It was just me and her at the end of it, and I wasn’t much help with this.” He indicated a bloody stump at his shoulder, tightly tied off with a strip of cloth. His entire left side was soaked in blood. Kahlan hadn’t even noticed; now she was surprised he could stand upright having lost so much blood. “She took a bolt of wizard’s fire straight to the gut. Would’ve cut her right in half without that armor. As it was, she survived long enough to lop the short little bastard’s head right off.” He paused, as if making sure she was listening. Kahlan was still staring at the back of Cara’s once-shiny cuirass, now scratched and dirtied with a spray of someone’s blood. Her fingers tripped over small buckles she’d fastened just this morning. Desperately Kahlan tried to recall how the warmth of her body had felt under her touch. Then, shaking her head to clear it, she nodded at the man. “This morning,” he finished slowly, “she gave me this to give to you if…this happened.” A tightly folded piece of paper found its way into her palm. “Her last words were ‘Make sure she gets it,’ over and over.”
Kahlan stared at it numbly. “Thank you,” she said hoarsely. Her throat hurt from screaming. She didn’t know she’d screamed that much. “Go to the healers and tell them what you told me. Tell everyone what Cara did for them.”
He pounded his one fist to his chest, nodded, and departed. Kahlan slipped into a daze, slipped into the nightmare that would be the rest of her life. She found someone to prepare her body for travel; when Cara was finally laid out, scorched armor removed, Kahlan saw the wound for the first time. Bile crept up her throat; there was a deep, wide hole in Cara’s belly. Flesh was just…missing inside a wound seared black. She knew that if the blonde hadn’t been a Mord-Sith, she would not have been able to block out the pain, to lift her sword and strike that one last time. No one else could have done it. Only Cara.
Kahlan left for her tent. Cara would have a funeral where she could pay her respects; she didn’t want to spend any more time with the morbid reminder that was her corpse. Once inside, once alone, Kahlan unfolded the piece of paper with trembling hands. She recognized Cara’s short, neat script and her eyes began to burn and water all over again. She breathed in and out, rubbing her temples until she could focus properly. Then she sniffed, cleared her throat, and began to read.
Kahlan. If you’re reading this, my last words to you were less than kind. I think I called you a coward. I’m sorry.
There was more, but Kahlan fell to the hard-packed earth with a sob before she could read it. Intending to continue, she smoothed the paper open in front of her, then pulled her legs to her chest, wrapped her arms around them, and set her chin to her knees. But she suddenly realized she could cry properly now, if she wanted to, and so she did. She closed her eyes and just let it happen, let her face contort to ugliness and let loose the whining breaths as tears streamed hot down her cheeks. Rocking back and forth on her haunches, she realized that no one would come and comfort her. Cara wouldn’t burst into the tent and demand to know who had hurt her. Kahlan had no one, now. She was alone.
It drained her quickly, the shuddering breaths and the way her stomach tightened with each wracking sob. Her tears ran dry but still she rocked, back and forth, feeling no better at all for the outpouring.
There’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you for a long time. I love you more than anything in the world, and it feels like I always have. I’m proud to have served as your Commander and your friend and my only regret in life is that I couldn’t be more for you.
“Not now,” Kahlan moaned in anguish. “Cara you can’t tell me this now. It’s not fair! Cara!” She was met with silence. “Cara!” she shouted, or tried to; her voice broke and with it, Kahlan’s pain twisted its way deeper inside her. “I love you, Cara,” she whispered to the still air, so softly she could barely hear it herself. “I love you.” She grimaced, eyes hot again, but there were no more tears to fall. Shaking suddenly from the way her world seemed colder, darker, closing in, Kahlan held the letter up to the rapidly fading twilight.
I’ve watched this war change you. I don’t know what you felt for me, but if it was anything at all, I need you to do something for me. Change back. Be the Mother Confessor that your people need. And if you loved me in any way then I expect you to promise me that you will try to heal. Mord-Sith were masters of pain and breaking, so I know the most about these things. Your spirit is the strongest I’ve ever seen. My death couldn’t have broken you because you can’t be broken. And if you’re not broken then you can heal. You should start with learning to smile again, because you’re always the most beautiful when you smile.
It was the end, and it was too much. Kahlan laid face down on the dirt, resting her cheek against cool earth. Eyes fluttering as they stared at nothing, she fell asleep there in moments.
****
Kahlan presided over the impromptu celebration and feast the following day, and her heavy heart stayed a secret locked behind her Confessor’s mask. There were already tales being woven about Cara. Men were saying she took on their entire rearguard singlehanded, that she called on the Keeper himself to lend her her old Mord-Sith magic and he trembled and complied. They said she was a dreadnought, an unstoppable storm of death, that she fought with the fury of a thousand and killed as many twice over. Kahlan listened from her high seat, memorizing the stories, watching the wonder on their faces as they spoke of her. She realized Cara would be quite pleased by her legacy.
The following morning the camp was being packed. Her generals, more privy to their Mother Confessor’s private life, were somber as she swept in front of them, dress once again clean and spotless white. “The camp will be packed by midday,” they told her. “We’ll be ready to advance into the Black Lands per your orders. The men are looking forward to hunting these bastards down one by one if need be.”
“We’re not advancing,” Kahlan told them. Her generals muttered to themselves in confusion. Kahlan looked at one of them. “You said it was a route?”
“They fled back over the border like rats leaving a sinking ship,” he confirmed.
“Then we will not give chase.” Kahlan held her head high. “There are more important things to do. The Midlands need to rebuild; they need to heal.” She sent her gaze across the row of eyes before her. “We need to heal. That’s something best done at home, among family and friends.”
****
The road back to Aydindril would be long, and the weather far from pleasant. Kahlan spent her nights in bed alone, staining her pillow with tears, and spent her days in pensive silence, thinking of Cara, thinking of the past, always the past. Things she should have done, things she should have noticed, things she should have told her. Kahlan wished for impossible things, prayed for them, and hoped for them. She mourned the loss of Cara and of a future with her that now could never be.
Cara’s letter was kept tucked safely away. When things became impossibly bleak, when Kahlan was sure the world wasn’t worth the hurt it had caused her, she would unfold it. There were certain words there that were her favorite, that gave her a small measure of peace. Her relationship with Cara had changed from hatred to its opposite. Maybe the sorrow in her life could suffer the same fate.
But Kahlan didn’t know how to start healing this time. With each loss before, Cara had always been there—usually silent, but there. Ever present at her side. And now she wasn’t, now she was gone, and Kahlan didn’t know how she was going to do this without her. But she was going to try her hardest. She’d made a promise to someone she loved.