In the faint but gathering light, the black-tipped races circled, as they always did when they performed this curious maneuver, not over him, but a short distance away, this time out over the open desert where the buffeting wind unfurled diaphanous curtains of sandy grit. The other times it had been over forested hills, or open grassland. This time, as he watched the races, he had to squint to keep the blowing sand from getting in his eyes.
Abruptly tipping their broad wings, the races tightened their circle as they descended closer to the desert floor. He knew that they would do this for a short while before breaking up their formation to resume their normal flight. They sometimes flew in pairs and performed spectacular aerial stunts, each gracefully matching the other's every move, as ravens sometimes did, but otherwise they never flew in anything like the compact group of their sporadic circling.
And then, as the inky shapes wheeled around in a tight vortex, Richard realized that the trailers of blowing sand below them weren't simply snaking and curling aimlessly in the wind, but were flowing over something that wasn't there.
The hair along his arms stood stiffly up.
Richard blinked, squinting into the wind, trying to see better in the howling storm of blowing sand. Yet more dust and dirt lifted in the blast of a heavy gust. As the twisting eddies raced across the flat ground and passed beneath the races, they swirled around and over something below, making the shape more distinct.
It appeared to be the form of a person.
The dirt swirled around the empty void, silhouetting it, defining it, revealing what was there, but not. Whenever the wind lifted and carried with it a heavy load, the outline of the shape, bounded by the swirling sand, looked like the outline of a man shrouded in hooded robes.
Richard's right hand found the hilt of his sword.
There was nothing to the shape save the sand that flowed over the contours of what wasn't there, the way muddy water streaming around a clear glass bottle revealed its covert contour. The form seemed to be standing still, watching him.
There were, of course, no eyes in the empty sockets of blowing sand, but Richard could feel them on him.
"What is it?" Jennsen asked in a worried whisper as she rushed up beside him. "What's the matter? Do you see something?"
With his left hand, Richard pushed her back, out of his way. So urgent was his headlong rush of need that it took concentrated effort to be gentle about it. He was gripping the hilt of his sword so tightly that he could feel the raised letters of the word TRUTH woven in gold wire through the silver.
Richard was invoking from within the sword its purpose for being, the very core of its creation. In answer, the might of the sword's power ignited.
Beyond the veil of rage, though, in the shadows of his mind, even as the anger of the sword thundered through him, Richard dimly perceived an unexpected opposition on the part of the flux of magic to rise to the summons.
It was like heading out a door and leaning his weight into the howl of a gale, and stumbling forward a step at unexpectedly finding less resistance than anticipated.
Before Richard could question the sensation, the wave of wrath flooded through him, saturating him in the cold fury of the storm that was the sword's power.
As the races wheeled, their circle began coming closer. This, too, they had done before, but this time the shape that moved with them was betrayed by the swirl of sand and grit. It appeared that the intangible hooded man was being pulled closer by the black-tipped races.
The distinctive ring of steel announced the arrival of the Sword of Truth in the hot dawn air.
Jennsen squeaked at his sudden movement and jumped back.
The races answered with piercing, mocking cries that carried on the howling wind.
The unmistakable sound of Richard's sword being drawn brought Kahlan and Cara at a dead run. Cara would have leapt protectively ahead, but she knew better than to get in front of him when he had the sword out. Agiel clenched in her fist, she skidded to a halt off to the side, crouched and at the ready, a powerful cat ready to spring.
"What is it?" Kahlan asked as she ran up behind him, gaping out at the pattern in the wind.
"It's the races," came Jennsen's worried voice. "They've come back."
Kahlan stared incredulously at her. "The races don't look like the worst of it."
Sword in hand, Richard watched the thing below the wheeling races.
