That heartbeat of time Kahlan had before he was on her had still not yet begun.
She could see in the man's eyes that even thought itself was too late for him, now. Perception itself was being outpaced by the race of brutal magic tearing through his mind, destroying forever who this man had been.
The force of the concussion jolted the air.
The stars shuddered.
Sparks from the fire lashed along the ground as the shock spread outward in a ring, driving dust before its passing. Trees shook when hit by the blow, shedding needles and leaves as the raging wave swept past.
He was hers.
His full weight flying forward knocked Kahlan back a step as she twisted out of the way. The man flew past her and crashed to the ground, sprawling on his face.
Without an instant of hesitation, he scrambled up onto his knees. His hands came up in prayerful supplication. Tears flooded his eyes. His mouth, which only an instant before was so warped with perverted expectation, now distorted with the agony of pure anguish.
"Please, Mistress," he wailed, "command me!"
Kahlan regarded him, for the first time in his new life, with an emotion: contempt.
O'nly the sound of Betty's soft, frightened bleating drifted out over the otherwise silent campsite. Bodies lay sprawled haphazardly across the ground. The attack appeared to be over. Richard, sword in hand, rushed through the carnage to get to Kahlan. Jennsen stood near the edge of the fire's light, while Cara checked the bodies for any sign of life.
Kahlan left the man she had just touched with her power kneeling in the dirt, stalking past him toward Jennsen. Richard met her halfway there, his free arm sweeping around her with relief.
"Are you all right?"
Kahlan nodded, quickly appraising their camp, on the lookout for any more attackers, but saw only the men who were dead.
"What about you?" she asked.
Richard didn't seem to hear her question. His arm slipped from her waist. "Dear spirits," he said, as he rushed to one of the bodies lying on its side.
It was Sabar.
Jennsen stood not far away, trembling with terror, her knife held up defensively in a fist, her eyes wide. Kahlan gathered Jennsen in her arms, whispering assurance that it was over, that it was ended, that she was all right.
Jennsen clutched at Kahlan. "Sabar-he was-protecting me-"
"I know, I know," Kahlan comforted.
She could see that there was no urgency in Richard's movements as he laid Sabar on his back. The young man's arm flopped lifelessly to the side.
Kahlan's heart sank.
Tom ran into camp, gasping for air. He was streaked with blood and sweat. Jennsen wailed and flew into his arms. He embraced her protectively, holding her head to his shoulder as he tried to regain his breath.
Betty bleated in dismay from beneath the wagon, hesitantly emerging only after Jennsen called repeated encouragement to her. The puling goat finally rushed to Jennsen and huddled trembling against her skirts. Tom kept a wary watch of the surrounding darkness.
Cara calmly walked among the bodies, surveying them for any sign of life. With most, there could be no question. Here and there she nudged one with the toe of her boot, or with the tip of her Agiel. By her lack of urgency, there was no question that they were all dead.
Kahlan put a tender hand to Richard's back as he crouched beside Sabar's body.
"How many people must die," he asked in a low, bitter voice, "for the crime of wanting to be free, for the sin of wanting to live their own life?"
She saw that he still held the Sword of Truth in a white-knuckled fist.
The sword's magic, which had come out so reluctantly, still danced dangerously in his eyes.
"How many!" he repeated.
"I don't know, Richard," Kahlan whispered.
Richard turned a glare toward the man across the camp, still on his knees, his hands pressed together in a beseeching gesture begging to be commanded, fearing to speak.
Once touched by a Confessor, the person was no longer who they had once been. That part of their mind was forever gone. Who they were, what they were, no longer existed.
In its place the magic of a Confessor's power placed unqualified devotion to the wants and wishes of the Confessor who had touched them.
Nothing else mattered. Their only purpose in life, now, was to fulfill her commands, to do her bidding, to answer her every question.
For one thus touched, there was no crime they wouldn't confess, if she asked it of them. It was for this alone that Confessors had been created.
Their purpose, in a way, was the same as the Seeker's-the truth. In war, as in all other aspects of life, there was no more important commodity for survival than the truth.
This man, kneeling not far away, cried in abject misery because Kahlan had asked nothing of him. There could be no agony more ghastly, no void more terrifying, than to be empty of knowing her wish. Existence without her wish was pointless. In the absence of her command, men touched by a Confessor had been known to die.
