And, she knew his every thought, just as he knew every thought and longing of hers. He was her soul's true mate.

She knew his thoughts; she didn't need his name. That she didn't know his name was only proof to her that they were connected on a spiritual level that transcended words.

And now he had stepped out of the mist of that spiritual world, needing to be with her, just as she needed to be with him. His hand opened to her, as if avowing his need. Roberta reached for the hand. She seemed almost to float above the ground. Her feet touched like dandelion fluff drifting on a breath. Her body floated like weed in water as she stretched out to him. Stretched out for his embrace.

The closer she got, the warmer she felt. Not warm as if from the sun on her face, but warmed as if from a lover's arms, a lover's smile, a lover's sweet kiss.

Her whole life came down to this, to needing to be in his arms feeling his tender embrace, needing to whisper her yearning because she knew he would understand, needing the breath from his lips on her ear, telling her he understood.

She burned to whisper her love, to have him whisper his.

She needed nothing in life so much as she needed to be in those arms she knew so well.

Her muscles were no longer weary; her bones no longer ached. She was no longer old. The years had slipped away from her like clothes slipping from lovers shedding encumbrances in order to get down to the bare essence of their being.

Because of him, because of him alone; she was again in the winsome bloom of youth, where everything was possible.

His arm floated out to her, his need for her as great as hers for him. She stretched for his hand, but it seemed farther away, and she stretched more, but it was more distant still.

Panic raced through her as she feared he would be gone before she could at last touch him. She felt as if she were swimming in honey and could make no progress. Her whole life she had longed to touch him. Her whole life she had longed to tell him. Her whole life she had longed to have her soul join with his.

But now he was drifting from her.

Roberta, her legs leaden, leaped through the spring sunshine, through the sweet air, racing to her lover's arms.

And yet he was farther still.

Both his arms lifted to her. She could feel his need. She ached to comfort him. To shelter him from hurt. To sooth his strife.

He could feel those longings in her, and cried out her name that she might be strengthened in her effort to reach him. The sound of her name on his lips made her heart lift with joy, lift with a terrible pang of need to return such passion as he put into her name.

She wept to know his name, now, that she might put it to her undying love.

With all her might, she stretched out to him. She put her entire being into her reckless lunge for him, forsaking all care but her fierce need to reach him.

Roberta cried her nameless love, cried her need, as she reached for his ringers. His arms spread to take her into his loving embrace. As she rushed into those arms, the sun sparkled all about, the warm wind lifted her hair, ruffled her dress.

As he cried her name with such beauty it made her ache, her arms spread wide to take him at last into her embrace. She felt as if she were floating endlessly through the air toward him, the sun on her face, the breeze in her hair, but it was all right because now she was where she wanted to be-with him.

At that moment, there was no more perfect time in the whole of her life. No more perfect feeling in the whole of her existence. No more perfect love in the whole of the world.

She heard the perfect chimes of those feelings ring out with the glory of it all.

Her heart nearly burst as she at last plunged into his embrace in one wild rush, screaming out her need, her love, her completion, wanting only to know his name so she might give everything of herself to him.

His glowing smile was for her and her alone. His lips were for her and her alone. She closed that last bit of space toward him, longing to at last kiss the love of her life, the mate to her soul, the one and the only true passion in all of life.

His lips were there, at last, as she fell into his outstretched arms, into his embrace, into his perfect kiss.

In that flawless instant when her lips were just touching his, she, saw through him, just beyond him, the merciless unyielding valley floor hurtling up toward her, and she knew at last his name.

Death.

"There," Richard said, leaning close so Kahlan could sight down his arm as he pointed off toward the horizon. "See that really dark fleck of cloud in front of the lighter part?" He waited for her nod. "Under that, and just a bit to the right."

Standing amid a seemingly endless sea of nearly waist-high grass, Kahlan straightened and held a hand to her brow to shield her eyes from the morning light.

"I still can't see him." Her frustration came out as a sigh. "But I've never been able to see distant things as well as you."

"I don't see him, either," Cara said.

Richard again checked over his shoulder, scanning the empty grassland all around to make sure they weren't about to be surprised by someone sneaking up while they watched the approach of this one man. He saw no other threat.

"You will, soon enough."

He reached over to check that his sword was clear in its scabbard, only realizing he was doing so when he found the sword absent from his left hip. He instead pulled his bow from his shoulder and nocked an arrow.

There had been countless times he had wished to be rid of the Sword of Truth and its attendant magic, inasmuch as it brought forth from within himself things he abhorred. The sword's magic could fuse with those feelings into a lethal wrath. Zedd, when he first gave Richard the sword, told him it was only a tool. Over time, he had come to comprehend Zedd's advice.

Still, it was a horrifying tool to have to use.

It was up to the one wielding the sword to govern not simply the weapon, but himself. Understanding that part of it, among other things, was essential to using the weapon as it was intended. And it was intended for none but a true Seeker of Truth.

Richard shuddered to think of that contrivance of magic in the wrong hands. He thanked the good spirits that, if he couldn't have it with him, it was at least safe.

Below distant billowing clouds, their interiors glowing in the morning light colors from a deep yellow to an unsettling violet that marked the violence of the storms contained within, the man continued to approach. Lightning, silent at this distance, flashed and flickered inside the colossal clouds, illuminating hidden canyons, valley walls, and seething peaks.

Compared with other places he had been, the sky and clouds above the flat plains somehow appeared impossibly grand. He guessed it was because from horizon to horizon there was nothing-no mountains, no trees, nothing-to interrupt the drama of the vast vault of stage overhead.

The departing storm clouds had only finally moved on eastward before dawn, taking with them the rain that had so" vexed them when with the Mud People, their first day of traveling, and their first miserable cold night without a fire. Traveling in the rain was unpleasant. In its wake the rain had left the three of them irritable.

Like him, Kahlan was worried about Zedd and Ann and troubled by what the Lurk might bring next. It was also frustrating to have to undertake a long journey, when they were in such, a rush and it was so vitally important, rather than return to Aydindril in short order through the sliph.

Richard was almost willing to take the risk. Almost.

With Cara, though, it seemed something more was disturbing her. She was as disagreeable as a cat in a sack. He wasn't eager to reach in and get scratched. He figured that if it was truly important, she would tell them.