Temple of the Winds Read Free

an unprecedentedly young age for the post, there was no one of higher authority in the Midlands than the Mother Confessor. The Mother Confessor was the Mother Confessor, no matter the face of the woman who held the office. People bowed not so much to the woman as to that ancient authority.
    Matters of Confessors were an enigma to most people of the Midlands; Confessors chose the Mother Confessor. To Confessors, age was of secondary consideration.
    Though she was chosen to preserve the freedoms and rights of the people of the Midlands, people rarely saw it in those terms. To most, a ruler was a ruler. Some were good, some were bad. As the ruler of rulers, the Mother Confessor encouraged the good, and suppressed the bad. If a ruler proved bad enough, it was within her power to eliminate them. That was the ultimate purpose of a Mother Confessor. To most people, though, such far removed matters of governance simply seemed the squabbling of rulers.
    In the sudden silence that filled Petitioners’ Hall, Kahlan paused to acknowledge the gathered visitors.
    A young woman standing against the far wall watched as all those around her fell to one knee. She glanced in Kahlan’s direction, back to those kneeling, and then followed suit.
    Kahlan’s brow tightened.
    In the Midlands, the length of a woman’s hair denoted her power and standing. Matters of power, no matter how trivial they might seem on the surface, were taken seriously in the Midlands. Not even a queen’s hair was allowed to be as long as a Confessor’s, and no Confessor’s hair was as long as that of the Mother Confessor.
    This woman had a thick mass of brown hair close to the length of Kahlan’s.
    Kahlan knew nearly every person of high rank in the Midlands; it was her duty, and she took it seriously. A woman with hair that long was obviously a person of high standing, but Kahlan didn’t recognize her. There was likely to be no man or woman in the entire city, other than Kahlan, who would outrank the woman—if she was in fact from the Midlands.
    “ Rise, my children,” Kahlan said in formal response to the tops of the waiting, bowed heads.
    Dresses and coats rustled as everyone began coming to their feet, most keeping their eyes to the floor, out of respect, or needless fear. The woman rose to her feet, twisting a simply made kerchief in her fingers, watching those around her. She turned her brown eyes to the floor, as most of the others were.
    “ Cara,” Kahlan whispered, “could that woman there, with the long hair, be from D’Hara?”
    Cara had been watching her, too; she had learned some of the customs of the Midlands. Though Cara’s long blond hair was about the length of Kahlan’s, she was D’Haran. They didn’t live by the same customs.
    “ Her nose is too ‘cute’ to be D’Haran.”
    “ I’m serious. Do you think she could be D’Haran?”
    Cara studied the woman a moment longer. “I doubt it. D’Haran woman don’t wear flower-print dresses, nor are the dresses they do wear of that cut. But clothes can be changed to fit the occasion, or to fit in with local people.”
    The dress didn’t really fit the local dress of Aydindril, but it might not be so out of place in other, more remote, areas of the Midlands. Kahlan nodded and turned to a waiting captain, motioning him over.
    He leaned his head close as she spoke in a low tone. “There is a woman with long brown hair standing against the wall in the back, over my left shoulder. Do you see who I’m talking about?”
    “ The pretty one, in the blue kirtle?”
    “ Yes. Do you know why she’s here?”
    “ She said she wished to speak with Lord Rahl.”
    Kahlan’s brow drew tighter. She noticed that Cara’s did, too. “What about?”
    “ She said that she’s looking for a man—Cy something—I didn’t recognize his name. She said he’s been missing since last autumn, and she was told that Lord Rahl would be able to help her.”
    “ Is that right,” Kahlan said. “And did she