She took a little run and lifted into the air. Richard watched her circle around him once, low, then fly off getting smaller, disappearing between hills. A memory struck him: the memory of having seen her before. It had been the day he had first met Kahlan, right after the snake vine had bit him. He had seen her fly overhead just as she had done now, and disappear behind hills. He wondered what she had been doing in Westland that day.

Making his way through the tall, dry grass, Richard hiked to a nearby hill, climbing to the top of its sparsely wooded slope, where he could watch the approaches to the west. He found a well-hidden nook in the brush, made himself comfortable, and took out some dried meat and fruit. He found he even had a few apples left. He ate without enjoyment while he watched for the Westland army and his brother, wondering all the while what he could do to convince Michael of who he was.

He thought of trying to write it out, or maybe even drawing a picture, or a map, but he had doubts that would work. If the enemy web around him changed his spoken words, it would probably change the written’ ones as well. He tried to think of games they had played when they were young, but none stood out in his mind. Michael hadn’t played all that much with him when they were young. Richard remembered that Michael only really liked fighting with play swords. He didn’t think pulling his sword on his brother would have the desired effect.

But there was one thing, he remembered. When they had played at swords, Michael had liked Richard to salute him, while on one knee. Would Michael remember that? He had liked it done often—it made him smile more than anything else. Michael called it the loser’s salute. When Richard had won, Michael wouldn’t give him the salute, and Richard wasn’t his match in size at the time, and hadn’t ever been able to make Michael give the salute. But Michael had made Richard give it often enough. He smiled at the memory, though at the time it had hurt. Maybe Michael would remember. It was worth a try.

Before dark came, Richard heard the sound of the horses coming, the sound of gear clattering, leather creaking, metal rattling, the sound of a lot of men on the move. About fifty well-armed horsemen rode past at a quick pace, raising dust and kicking up dirt. He saw Michael, dressed in white, at their lead. Richard recognized the uniforms, the Hartland crest on each shoulder, the yellow banner with a blue silhouette of a pine tree and crossed swords under it. Each man wore a short sword over his shoulder, had a battle-axe hooked to a wide belt, and carried a short spear. Their mail armor, called battle nets, sent sparks of light through the dust. These were not regular Westland soldiers—these were Michael’s personal guards.

Where was the army? From the air, he had seen all of them together, horsemen and foot soldiers. These horses were moving too fast for foot soldiers at a march to keep up. Richard stood after they passed, looking back up the road to see if the others were to follow. No one else came.

At first worried about what this could mean, he relaxed, when it came to him. Zedd, Chase, and Kahlan had left the box with Michael, and told him they were going to D’Hara, going after Richard. Michael probably couldn’t wait any longer, and was going himself to help. The foot soldiers couldn’t keep up the pace needed to reach the People’s Palace in time, so Michael had taken his personal guard and ridden on ahead, leaving the rest to catch up when they could.

Fifty men, even Michael’s personal guard, tough as they were, were still not many if they ran into a good-size force of Rahl’s men. Richard guessed that Michael was putting his heart above his head.

Richard didn’t catch them until well after dark. They had ridden hard, and stopped late. They had gotten farther ahead of him than he had expected, and it was well past dinner when he finally reached their camp. The horses had been tended to and picketed for the night. Some men were already in their bedrolls. Guards were posted, and hard to spot in the dark, but Richard knew where to expect them, as he looked down from a hilltop, watching the camp’s small fires.

It was a dark night. Clouds hid the moon. He worked his way carefully down the hill, creeping silently between the guards. Richard was in his element. It was easy for him—he knew where they were, and they weren’t expecting him to be gliding through their midst. He watched them watching, and ducked down when they looked his way. Once inside the ring of guards, he made his way to the camp. Michael had made it easy for him—his tent was set off, away from the men. If he had put his tent among his men, it would have been more difficult. Still, there were guards around the tent. Richard studied them for a while, analyzing the weak points, until he found the place where he would pass between them: in the shadow of the tent, the shadow cast by the fires. The guards stayed to the light because they couldn’t see anything in the shadow.

Richard stalked through the blackness, to the tent, and squatted down, making himself still, silent, low to the ground. He listened for a long time to determine if anyone was in the tent with Michael. He heard papers being shuffled, and there was a lamp burning, but he heard no one else inside. Carefully, he made a tiny cut with his knife, just enough to see through. He saw Michael’s left side to him as he sat at a small, collapsible field table, looking over papers. His head of unruly hair was cradled in one hand. The papers didn’t seem to have lines of words on them, and from what Richard could see, they were large. Probably maps.

He had to get inside, stand tall, drop to one knee, and do his salute, before Michael had a chance to raise an alarm. Just inside, below him, was a cot. That was what he needed to hide his entry. Holding the rope taut so the canvas wouldn’t jerk back suddenly, Richard cut the tie down in about the center of where the cot sat, then lifted the edge of the canvas a little and rolled carefully underneath it, behind the cot.

When Michael turned to a sound, Richard rose up in front of the little table, in front of his brother. Richard had a smile on his face at seeing his older brother again. Michael’s head snapped to him. The color left his soft cheeks. He leapt to his feet. Richard was just about to do his salute when Michael spoke.

“Richard… how did you… What are you doing here? It’s… so… good to see you again. We have all been so… worried.”

Richard’s smile withered.

When the enemy web was put on him, Rahl had said those who honored Rahl would see Richard for who he was.

Michael saw him for who he was.

Michael was the one who had betrayed him. Michael was the one who allowed him to be captured and tortured by a Mord-Sith. Michael was the one who would give Kahlan and Zedd over to Darken Rahl. Michael was the one who would give everyone over to Darken Rahl. His insides turned to ice.

Richard could manage no more than a whisper. “Where is the box?”

“Ah… you look hungry, Richard. Let me have some dinner brought in for you. We’ll have a talk. It’s been so long.”

Richard kept his hand away from the sword, for fear he would use it. He sternly reminded himself that he was the Seeker, and that was all that mattered right now. He was not Richard—he was the Seeker. He had a job to do. He could not allow himself to be Richard. He could not allow himself to be Michael’s brother. There were more important things right now. Much more important.

“Where is the box?”

Michael’s eyes darted about. “The box… well… Zedd told me about it… He was going to give it to me… but then he said something about finding you in D’Hara by a stone of some sort, and the three of them went off after you. I told them I wanted to come too, to save my brother, but I had to get the men together, and prepare, so they started ahead of me. Zedd kept the box. He has it.”