Hobson gave a salute of his fist to his heart and turned to other business. The men who had brought Mosle lifted his body and carried it off. Others went to Chandalen and the two brothers, asking for instructions. Captain Ryan stood alone with her, watching as everyone went about their work.

Her legs felt limp and slack, like bowstrings left out in the rain all night. For a Confessor to use her power when she was rested and alert was taxing. To use it when she was already tired was perilously exhausting. She could hardly keep herself upright.

She had been dead tired from riding all night to the enemy camp and back, to say nothing of the fight with them. She needed more sleep than she had gotten, and using her power had cost her even the benefit of the short nap, and then some. She had used what strength she had left to do something that should have been done without her.

She thought maybe it must be the cold, and traveling in such difficult conditions, but she seemed more tired than usual lately. Maybe she could ask Prindin to make her some more tea.

“Could I speak with you for a moment, Mother Confessor?” Captain Ryan asked.

Kahlan nodded. “What is it, Captain?”

He pushed his unbuttoned wool coat open, shoving his hands in his back pockets. He glanced away to watch some men filling waterskins. “I just want to say that I’m sorry. I was wrong.”

“It’s all right, Bradley. He was your friend. It’s difficult to believe ill of a friend. I understand.”

“No, that’s not it. My father always told me that a man had to admit his mistakes before he could do right in this world.”

He shuffled his feet and looked around, finally bringing his blue eyes to her. The mistake I made was believing that you wanted Mosle killed because he wouldn’t follow you. I thought you were being spiteful because he didn’t want to follow you. I made a mistake, and I’m sorry. Sorry I thought that of you. You were trying to protect us, even though you knew we would hate you for it. Well, I don’t hate you. I hope you don’t hate me. I’m honored to follow you into this battle. I hope that someday I’m half as wise as you, and have the guts you do, to use that wisdom.”

She released a quiet sigh. “I’m hardly older than you, yet you make me feel like an old woman. I’m relieved, you understand. It’s a small pleasure in all this pain. You’re a fine officer, and will do right by this world.”

He smiled. “I’m glad we’re on good terms again.”

A man approached, and was waved forward by the captain. “What is it, Sergeant Frost?”

Sergeant Frost gave a salute of his fist to his heart. “We sent a few men out, and in an abandoned barn they found some crushed chalk and other things needed to make whitewash. We have some wooden tubs we can mix it in. You said you wanted it in something big. They’re big enough to bathe in.”

“How many of these tubs do you have?” Kahlan asked.

“A dozen, Mother Confessor.”

“Put the tubs near each other, and pitch a tent around each. Use the largest tents you have, even if it is the command tents. Make the whitewash with hot water, and place the heated stones inside the tents, to keep it as warm as possible inside. Let me know when all this is seen to.”

Keeping his obvious questions to himself, the sergeant saluted and rushed off to see it done.

Captain Ryan gave her a curious frown. “What do you want with whitewash?”

“We’ve just gotten back on good terms; let’s not spoil it for a bit. I’ll tell you after things are prepared. Are the wagons ready?”

“Should be.”

“Then I must see to them. Did you send the sentries and lookouts?”

“First thing.”

As she walked through the camp to the wagons, men came to her constantly. “The wagon wheels, Mother Confessor. As we destroy things we should stave in the wheels” and Their battle standards, shouldn’t we burn them, so they can’t rally their men around them?” and “Couldn’t we set fire to their baggage, so if the weather turns colder they’ll freeze?” and “If we were to throw manure in their barrels of drinking water, they would have to waste time melting snow,” and a hundred other ideas, from the absurd to the worthwhile. She listened to each with attention, giving her honest opinion, and, in a few cases, her orders to see it done.

Lieutenant Hobson came at a trot holding out a tin bowl. That was the last thing she needed.

“Mother Confessor! I kept some stew hot for you!”

Beaming, he handed her the bowl as she walked. She tried to act grateful. He walked along next to her, watching, grinning. She forced herself to take a spoonful, and to tell him how wonderful it tasted. It was all she could do to keep that one spoonful down.

After using her power, a Confessor needed time to recover. For some it was days; for her it took a couple of hours. Rest, if she could get it, was the best thing for a Confessor after using her power. The little rest she had gotten was now wasted. She could get no more now, and probably would get none this night either.

The last thing a Confessor needed while recovering her power was food. It diverted her energy to the food instead of returning her strength. She had to think of a way out of eating the bowl of stew or it would end up on the ground, to the embarrassment of all.

Thankfully, she reached the wagons before she had to take another mouthful. She asked Lieutenant Hobson to get Chandalen and the two brothers, and bring them to her.

After he left, she set the bowl down on the splinter bar of the dray with the casks of ale and climbed up.

She motioned Captain Ryan up on the wagon as she counted. “Get some men. Unload the top rows so we can get at them all. Right the casks on the bottom row, and withdraw the plugs.” As he motioned for men to help with the task, she asked, “did Chandalen have you all make a troga?”

A troga was a simple, stout piece of cord or a wire with a wooden handle on each end, and long enough so that when it was given a twist, it made a loop that was the right size to drop over a man’s head. It was applied from behind, and then the handles yanked apart. If it was made of wire, placed correctly at the neck joints, and the man wielding it had arms big enough, his troga could decapitate a person before the victim had a chance to make a sound. Even if it wasn’t wire, or his arms were not that strong, the victim still made no sound before he died.

Captain Ryan reached behind his back, under his coat, and retrieved a wire troga, holding it up for her to see. “He gave us a little demonstration. He was gentle, but I’m still glad I wasn’t the one he demonstrated on. He says he and Prindin and Tossidin will use these to take the sentries and lookouts. I don’t think he believes we can sneak up on them like he can. But many of us have spent a lot of time hunting, and we’re more clever…”

Captain Ryan leapt with a yelp. Chandalen had poked him in the ribs, having come up unseen behind him. The captain comforted his ribs and scowled at a smiling Chandalen. Prindin and his brother climbed up to help unload the barrels.

“You wish something, Mother Confessor?” Chandalen asked.

Kahlan held her hand out. “Give me your bandu. Your ten-step poison.”

His brow wrinkled into a scowl, but he reached into the pouch at his waist and pulled out the bone box, leaning over to hand it to her. The brothers fished out their boxes, too, and handed them to her.

“How much will I be able to poison with it? How many casks can I make poison?”

Chandalen stepped around Captain Ryan, balancing atop the sides of the round barrels. “You are going to put it in this drink?” Kahlan nodded. “But then we won’t have any more. We must have it with us. We may need it.”

“I’ll leave a bit for emergencies. Every one we can kill in this way is one less to fight.”

“But they might discover it’s poison,” Captain Ryan said. Then we won’t even have them drunk.”