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How the war had ended was a puzzle; D’Haran forces were told that Darken Rahl was dead and all hostilities were ended. A new Lord Rahl had succeeded, and the troops were simply called home, or ordered to help those they had conquered. Cyrilla suspected Darken Rahl had been assassinated.
Whatever had happened was good by her; the council was now back in the hands of the people of the Midlands. The ones who collaborated, and the puppets, had been arrested. Things were said to be set back to the way they had been before the dictator. She expected the council would come to the aid of Galea.
Queen Cyrilla, too, had an ally on the council, the most powerful ally there was: the Mother Confessor. Though Kahlan was her half-sister, that wasn’t what forged their alliance. Cyrilla had always supported the sovereignty of the various lands, while also recognizing the fundamental need for peace among them. The Mother Confessor respected that steadfastness, and it was that respect which made her Galea’s ally.
Kahlan had never shown Cyrilla any favoriti【创建和谐家园】, and that was as it should have been; favoriti【创建和谐家园】 would have weakened the Mother Confessor, threatening the alliance of the council, and therefore peace. She respected Kahlan for putting the unity of the Midlands above any power games. Such games were a shifting bog anyway; one was always better off in the end when dealt with fairly, rather than by favor.
Cyrilla had always been secretly proud of her half sister. Kahlan was twelve years younger, 【创建和谐家园】art, strong, and, despite her young age, an astute leader. Though they were related by blood, they almost never spoke of it. Kahlan was a Confessor, and of the magic. She was not a sister who shared the blood of a father, but a Confessor, and the Mother Confessor of the Midlands. Confessors were blood to no one but Confessors.
Still, having no family of her own, save her beloved brother, Harold, she had often longed to take Kahlan in her arms as kin, as a little sister, and speak of the things they shared. But that was not possible. Cyrilla was the queen of Galea, and Kahlan was the Mother Confessor; two women who were virtual strangers who shared nothing save blood and mutual respect. Duty came before the heart. Galea was Cyrilla’s family; the Confessors, Kahlan’s.
Though there were those who resented Kahlan’s mother taking Wyborn as a mate, Cyrilla was not among them. Her mother, Queen Bernadine, had taught her and Harold of the need for Confessors, their need for strong blood in that line of magic, and how it served the greater cause of the Midlands in keeping peace. Her mother had never spoken bitterly of losing her hu【创建和谐家园】and to the Confessors, but explained instead the honor Cyrilla and Harold had of sharing blood with the Confessors, even if it was mostly unspoken. Yes, she was proud of Kahlan.
Proud, but also perhaps a bit wary. The ways of Confessors were a mystery to her. From birth they were trained in Aydindril, trained by other Confessors, and by wizards. Their magic, their power, was something they were born with, and in a way they were slaves to it. In some ways it was the same with her; born to be queen, without much choice. Though she had no magic, she understood the weight of birthright.
From birth until their training was completed, Confessors were kept cloistered, like priestesses, in a world apart. Their discipline was said to be rigorous. Though Cyrilla knew they must have emotions like anyone, Confessors were trained to subjugate them. Duty to their power was all. It left them no choice in life, save choosing a mate, and even that was not for love but for duty.
Cyrilla had always wished she could bring a little of the love of a sister to Kahlan. Perhaps, she also wished Kahlan could have brought a little of that love to her, too. But it could never be. Maybe Kahlan had loved her from afar, as Cyrilla had Kahlan. Perhaps Kahlan had been proud of her, too, in her own way. She had always hoped it was so.
The thing that pained her the most was that though they both served the Midlands, she was loved by her people for doing her duty, but Kahlan was feared and hated for it. She wished Kahlan could know a people’s love; it was a comfort that in part made up for the sacrifice. But a Confessor never could. Perhaps, she thought, that was why they were taught to subjugate their emotions and needs.
Kahlan, too, had tried to warn her of the danger from Kelton.
It had been at the midsummer festival, several years ago, the first summer after the death of Cyrilla’s mother. The first summer Cyrilla had been queen. The first summer, too, since Kahlan had ascended to Mother Confessor.
That Kahlan had become the Mother Confessor at such a young age spoke of both the strength of her power and of her character. And perhaps of a need. Since the selection was made in secrecy, Cyrilla knew little about the succession of Confessors, except that it was done without animosity or rivalry, and had to do with the strength of power weighed against age and training.
To the people of the Midlands, age was irrelevant. They feared Confessors in general, regardless of age, and the Mother Confessor in particular. They knew she was the most powerful of Confessors. Unlike most people, however, Cyrilla knew that power in and of itself was not necessarily something to fear, and Kahlan had always been fair. She had never sought anything but peace.
That day the streets of Ebinissia, the Crown city of Galea, had been filled with festivities of every sort. Not even the lowest stableboy had failed to find welcome at the tables of the fair, or at the games, or around the musicians, acrobats, and jugglers.
Cyrilla, as queen, had presided over the contests, and given ribbons to the victors. She had never seen so many 【创建和谐家园】iling faces, so many happy people. She had never felt so contented for her people, or been made to feel so loved by them.
That night there was a royal ball at the palace. The great hall was filled with nearly four hundred people. It was dazzling to see everyone in their most elegant dress. Food and wine were arrayed on the long tables in abundant and stunning variety - only fitting for the most important day of the year. It was grand beyond any ball that had come before, for there was much for which to be thankful. It was a time of peace and prosperity, growth and promise, new life and bounty.
The music trailed off in thin, discordant notes, and the loud drone of the gathering fell suddenly dead silent as the the Mother Confessor strode purposefully into the hall, her wizard at her heels, his silver robes flying behind. Her regal-looking white dress stood out among the confusion of color like the full moon among the stars. Bright color and fancy dress had never looked so unexpectedly trivial. Everyone bowed low at her passing. Cyrilla waited with her advisors beside the table on which sat a large, cut-glass bowl of spiced wine.
Kahlan crossed the hushed room, followed by every eye, and drew to a halt before the queen, giving a prompt bow of her head. Her expression was as still as ice. She didn’t wait for the formality of the bow to her office to be returned.
‘Queen Cyrilla. You have an advisor named Drefan Tross?’
Cyrilla held her open hand out to the side. This is he.’
Kahlan’s emotionless gaze moved to Drefan. ‘I would speak with you in private.’
‘Drefan Tross is a trusted advisor,’ Cyrilla interrupted. He was more than that. He was a man she was very fond of, a man she was just beginning to fall in love with. ‘You may speak to him in my presence.’ She didn’t know what this was about, but thought it best if she were privy to it. Confessors did not interrupt banquets except for trouble. ‘This is neither the time nor place to conduct business of this sort, Mother Confessor, but if it cannot wait, then let it be done and finished with here and now.’
She thought that would put it in abeyance until a more appropriate time. Without expression, the Mother Confessor considered this a moment. The wizard at her back was anything but expressionless. He appeared quite agitated, in fact.
He bent toward Kahlan to speak, but she raised her hand to silence him before he could begin.
‘As you wish. I am sorry, Queen Cyrilla, but it cannot wait.’ She returned her attention to Drefan. ‘I have just taken the confession of a murderer. In his confession, he also revealed himself to be an accomplice to an assassin. He named you as that assassin, and your target as Queen Cyrilla.’
There were astonished whispers from those near enough to overhear. Drefan’s face went red. The whispers died into brittle silence.
Cyrilla could scarcely follow what happened next. A blink of the eye and it would have been missed. One instant Drefan stood as he had, with his hand in his gold and deep blue coat, and the next he was driving a knife toward the Mother Confessor. Standing tall, she moved only her arm, catching his wrist. Seemingly at the same time, there was a violent impact to the air - thunder but no sound. The cut-glass bowl shattered, flooding red wine over the table and floor. Cyrilla flinched with the sudden flash of pain coursing through every joint in her body. The knife clattered to the floor. Drefan’s eyes went wide, his jaw slack.
‘Mistress,’ he whispered reverently.
Cyrilla was numb with shock to see a Conffessor use her power. She knew only of its aftereffects, arid had never seen it being used. Few had. The magic seemed still to sizzle in the air a long moment.
The crowd pressed closer. A warning glare from the wizard changed their curiosity to timidity, and they moved back.
Kahlan looked drained, but her voice betrayed no weakness. ‘You intended to assassinate the queen?’
‘Yes, Mistress,’ he said eagerly, licking his lips.
‘When?’
Tonight. In the confusion when the guests were departing.’ Drefan looked to be in torment. Tears welled up and ran down his cheeks. ‘Please, Mistress, command me. Tell me what you wish. Let me carry out your command.’
Cyrilla was still in shock. This was what had been done to her father. This was how he had been taken as a mate to a Confessor. First her father, and now a man she held dear.
‘Wait in silence,’ Kahlan ordered. Hands hanging at her sides, she turned to Cyrilla, her young eyes now heavy with sorrow. ‘Forgive me for disturbing your celebration, Queen Cyrilla, but I feared the results of delay.’
Her face burning, Cyrilla twisted to face Drefan. He stood gaping at Kahlan. ‘Who ordered this, Drefan! Who ordered you kill me!’
He didn’t even seem to be aware she had spoken.
‘He will not answer you, Queen Cyrilla,’ Kahlan said. ‘He will only answer me.’
‘Then you ask!’
That would not be advisable,’ the wizard offered quietly.
Cyrilla felt a fool. Everyone knew of her fondness for Drefan. Everyone saw now that she had been duped. No one would ever forget this midsummer festival.
‘Do not presume to advise me!’
Kahlan leaned closer and spoke softly. ‘Cyrilla, we think he may be protected by a spell. When I asked his accomplice that question, he died before he could answer. But I believe I know the answer. There are oblique ways of getting the information that might possibly circumvent the spell. If I could take him somewhere alone and question him in my own way, we might be able to get the answer.’
Cyrilla was near tears with fury. ‘I trusted him! He was close to me! He has betrayed me! Me, not you! I will know who sent him! I will hear it from his own lips! You stand in my kingdom, in my home! Ask him!’
Kahlan straightened, her face returning to the calm mask that showed nothing. ‘As you wish.’ She redirected her attention to Drefan. ‘Was what you intended to do to the queen of your own volition?’
He dry-washed his hands in anxious anticipation of pleasing the Mother Confessor. ‘No, Mistress. I was sent.’
If it was possible, Kahlan’s face seemed to become even more placid. ‘Who sent you?’