David Farland - Runelords 1

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Chapter 1
IT BEGINS IN DARKNESS
Effigies of the Earth King festooned the city around Castle Sylvarresta. Everywhere the effigies could be seen--hanging
beneath shopwindows, standing upright against the walls of the city gates, or nailed beside doorways--stationed any place
where the Earth King might find ingress into a home.
Many of the figures were crude things crafted by children--a few reeds twisted into the form of a man, often with a crown of
oak leaves in its hair. But outside the doors of shops and taverns were more ornate figures of wood, the full size of a man, often
elaborately painted and coifed in fine green wool traveling robes.
In those days, it was said that on Hostenfest Eve the spirit of the earth would fill the effigies and the Earth King would
waken. At his wakening, he would protect the family for another season and help bear the harvest home.
It was a festive season, a season of joy. On Hostenfest Eve the father in a home would play the role of Earth King by setting
gifts before the hearth. Thus, at dawn on the first day of Hostenfest, adults received flasks of new wine or kegs of stout ale. For
the young girls the Earth King brought toy dolls woven of straw and wildflowers, while boys might get swords or oxcarts
carved from ash.
All these bounties delivered by the Earth King represented but a token of the Earth King's wealth--the vast hoards of the
"fruits of the forest and of the field" which legend said he bestowed on those who loved the land.
So the homes and shops around the castle were well adorned that night, on the nineteenth day of the Month of Harvest, four
days before Hostenfest. All the shops were clean and well stocked for the autumn fair that would shortly come.
The streets lay barren, for dawn was approaching. Aside from the city guards and a few nursing mothers, the only ones who
had reason to be up so late of the night were the King's bakers, who at that very moment were drawing the foam off the King's
ale and mixing it with their dough so that the loaves would rise by dawn. True, the eels were running on their annual migration
in the River Wye, so one might imagine a few fishermen to be out by night, but the fishermen had emptied their wicker eel
traps an hour past midnight and had delivered kegs of live eels to the butcher for skinning and salting well before the second
watch.
Outside the city walls, the greens south of Castle Sylvarresta were dotted with dark pavilions, for caravans from Indhopal
had come north to sell the harvest of summer spices. The camps outside the castle were quiet but for the occasional braying of
a donkey.
The walls of the city were shut, and all foreigners had been escorted from the merchants' quarter hours ago. No men moved
on the streets at that time of night--only a few ferrin.
Thus there was no one to see what transpired in a dark alley. Even the King's far-seer, who had endowments of sight from
seven people and stood guard on the old graak's aerie above the Dedicates' Keep, could not have spotted movement down in
the narrow streets of the merchants' quarter.
But in Cat's Alley, just off the Butterwalk, two men struggled in the shadows for control of a knife.
Could you have seen them, you might have been reminded of tarantulas in battle: arms and legs twisting in frenzy as the
knife flashed upward, scuffling as feet groped for purchase on the worn cobblestones, both men grunting and straining with
deadly intent.
Both men were dressed in black. Sergeant Dreys of the King's Guard wore black livery embroidered with the silver boar of
House Sylvarresta. Dreys' assailant wore a baggy black cotton burnoose in a style favored by assassins out of Muyyatin.
Though Sergeant Dreys outweighed the assassin by fifty pounds, and though Dreys had endowments of brawn from three
men and could easily lift six hundred pounds over his head, he feared he could not win this battle.
Only starlight lit the street, and precious little of that made its way here into Cat's Alley. The alley was barely seven feet
wide, and homes here stood three stories tall, leaning on sagging foundations till the awnings of their roofs nearly met a few
yards above Dreys' head.
Dreys could hardly see a damned thing back here. All he could make out of his assailant was the gleam of the man's eyes and
teeth, a pearl ring in his left nostril, the flash of the knife. The smell of woodlands clung to his cotton tunic as fiercely as the
scents of anise and curry held to his breath.
No, Dreys was not prepared to fight here in Cat's Alley. He had no weapons and wore only the linen surcoat that normally fit
over his ring mail, along with pants and boots. One does not go armed and armored to meet his lover.
He'd only stepped into the alley a moment ago, to make certain the road ahead was clear of city guards, when he heard a
small scuffling behind a stack of yellow gourds by one of the market stalls. Dreys had thought he'd disturbed a ferrin as it
hunted for mice or for some bit of cloth to wear. He'd turned, expecting to see a pudgy rat-shaped creature run for cover, when
the assassin sprang from the shadows.
Now the assassin moved swiftly, grasping the knife tight, shifting his weight, twisting the blade. It flashed dangerously close
to Dreys' ear, but the sergeant fought it off--till the man's arm snaked around, stabbing at Dreys' throat. Dreys managed to hold
the smaller man's wrist back for a moment. "Murder. Bloody murder!" Dreys shouted.
A spy! he thought. I've caught a spy! He could only imagine that he'd disturbed the fellow in mapping out the castle grounds.
He thrust a knee into the assassin's groin, lifting the man in the air. Pulled the man's knife arm full length and tried to twist it.
The assassin let go of the knife with one hand and rabbit-punched Dreys in the chest.
Dreys' ribs snapped. Obviously the little man had also been branded with runes of power. Dreys guessed that the assassin
had the brawn of five men, maybe more. Though both men were incredibly strong, endowments of brawn increased strength
only to the muscles and tendons. They did not invest one's bones with any superior hardness. So this match was quickly
degenerating into what Dreys would call "a bone-bash."
He struggled to hold the assassin's wrists. For a long moment they wrestled.
Dreys heard deep-voiced shouts: "That way, I think! Over there!" They came from the left. A street over was Cheap Street--
where the bunched houses did not press so close, and where Sir Guilliam had built his new four-story manor. The voices had to
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be from the City Guard--the same guards Dreys had been avoiding--whom Sir Guilliam bribed to rest beneath the lantern post
at the manor gate.
"Cat's Alley!" Dreys screamed. He only had to hold the assassin a moment more--make sure the fellow didn't stab him, or
escape.
The Southerner broke free in desperation, punched him again, high in the chest. More ribs snapped. Dreys felt little pain.
One tends to ignore such distractions when struggling to stay alive.
In desperation the assassin ripped the knife free. Dreys felt a tremendous rush of fear and kicked the assassin's right ankle.
He felt more than heard a leg shatter.
The assassin lunged, knife flashing. Dreys twisted away, shoved the fellow. The blade struck wide of its mark, slashed
Dreys' ribs, a grazing blow.
Now Dreys grabbed the fellow's elbow, had the man half-turned around. The assassin stumbled, unable to support himself on
his broken leg. Dreys kicked the leg again for good measure, and pushed the fellow back.
Dreys glanced frantically into the shadows for sign of some cobblestone that might have come loose from its mortar. He
wanted a weapon. Behind Dreys was an inn called the Churn. Beside the flowering vines and the effigy of the Earth King at its
front window sat a small butter churn. Dreys tried to rush to the churn, thinking to grab its iron plunger and use it to bludgeon
the assassin.
He pushed the assassin, thinking the smaller man would go flying. Instead the fellow spun, one hand clutching Dreys'
surcoat. Dreys saw the knife blade plunge.
He raised an arm to block.
The blade veered low and struck deep, slid up through his belly, past shattered ribs. Tremendous pain blossomed in Dreys'
gut, shot through his shoulders and arms, a pain so wide Dreys thought the whole world would feel it with him.
For an eternity, Dreys stood, looking down. Sweat dribbled into his wide eyes. The damned assassin had slit him open like a
fish. Yet the assassin still held him--had thrust his knife arm up to the wrist into Dreys' chest, working the blade toward Dreys'
heart, while his left hand reached for Dreys' pocket, groping for something.
His hand clutched at the book in Dreys' pocket, feeling it through the material of the surcoat. The assassin smiled.
Dreys wondered, Is that what you want? A book?
Last night, as the City Guard had been escorting foreigners from the merchants' quarter, Dreys had been approached by a
man from Tuulistan, a trader whose tent was pitched near the woods. The fellow spoke little Rofehavanish, had seemed
apprehensive. He had only said, "A gift--for king. You give? Give to king?"
With much ceremonial nodding, Dreys had agreed, had looked at the book absently. The Chronicles of Owatt, Emir of
Tuulistan. A thin volume bound in lambskin. Dreys had pocketed it, thinking to pass it along at dawn.
Dreys hurt so terribly now that he could not shout, could not move. The world spun; he pulled free of the assassin, tried to
turn and run. His legs felt as weak as a kitten's. He stumbled. The assassin grabbed Dreys' hair from behind, yanking his chin
up to expose his throat.
Damn you, Dreys thought, haven't you killed me enough? In one final desperate act, he yanked the book from his pocket,
hurled it across the Butterwalk.
There on the far side of the street a rosebush struggled up an arbor near a pile of barrels. Dreys knew this place well, could
barely see the yellow roses on dark vines. The book skidded toward them.
The assassin cursed in his own tongue, tossing Dreys aside, and limped after the book.
Dreys could hear nothing but a dull buzz as he struggled to his knees. He glimpsed movement at the edge of the street--the
assassin groping among the roses. Three larger shadows came rushing down the road from the left. The flash of drawn swords,
starlight glinting off iron caps. The City Guard.
Dreys pitched forward onto the cobblestones.
In the predawn, a flock of geese honked as it made its way south through the silvery starlight, the voices sounding to him for
all the world like the barking of a distant pack of dogs.
Chapter 2
THOSE WHO LOVE THE LAND
That morning a few hours after the attack on Dreys and a hundred or so miles south of Castle Sylvarresta, Prince Gaborn Val
Orden faced troubles that were not so harrowing. Yet none of his lessons in the House of Understanding could have prepared
the eighteen-year-old prince for his encounter with a mysterious young woman in the grand marketplace at Bannisferre.
He'd been lost in thought at a vendor's stall in the south market, studying wine chillers of polished silver. The vendor had
many fine iron brewing pots, but his prize was the three wine chillers--large bowls for ice with complementing smaller pitchers
that fit inside. The bowls were of such high quality that they looked to be of ancient duskin workmanship. But no duskin had
walked the earth in a thousand years, and these howls could not have been that old. Each bowl had the clawed feet of a reaver
and featured scenes of hounds running in a leafy wood; the pitchers were adorned with images of a young lord on a horse, his
lance at the ready, bearing down on a reaver mage. Once the pitchers were set into their silver bowls, the images
complemented one another--the young lord battling the reaver mage while the hunting dogs surrounded them.
The ornaments on the wine chiller were all cast using some method that Gaborn could not fathom. The silversmith's detailed
workmanship was breathtaking.
Such were the wonders of Bannisferre's goods that Gaborn hadn't even noticed the young woman sidle up to him until he
smelled the scent of rose petals. (The woman who stands next to me wears a dress that is kept in a drawer filled with rose
petals, he'd realized, on some subconscious level.) Even then, he'd been so absorbed in studying the wine chillers that he
imagined she was only a stranger, awed by the same marvelous bowls and pitchers. He didn't glance her way until she took his
hand, seizing his attention.
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She grasped his left hand in her right, lightly clasping his fingers, then squeezed.
Her soft touch electrified him. He did not pull away. Perhaps, he thought, she mistakes me for another. He glanced sidelong
at her. She was tall and beautiful, perhaps nineteen, her dark-brown hair adorned with mother-of-pearl combs. Her eyes were
black, and even the whites of her eyes were so dark as to be a pale blue. She wore a simple, cloud-colored silk gown with
flowing sleeves--an elegant style lately making its way among the wealthy ladies of Lysle. She wore a belt of ermine, clasped
with a silver flower, high above the navel, just beneath her firm breasts. The neckline was high, modest. Over her shoulders
hung a silk scarf of deepest crimson, so long that its fringes swept the ground. She was not merely beautiful, he decided. She
was astonishing. She smiled at him secretively, shyly, and Gaborn smiled back, tight-lipped-hopeful and troubled all at once.
Her actions reminded him of the endless tests that one of his hearthmasters might have devised for him in the House of
Understanding--yet this was no test.
Gaborn did not know the young woman. He knew no one in all the vast city of Bannisferre--which seemed odd, that he
should not have one acquaintance from a city this large, with its towering gray stone songhouses with their exotic arches, the
white pigeons wheeling through the blue sunlit sky above the chestnut trees. Yet Gaborn knew no one here, not even a minor
merchant. He was that far from home.
He stood near the edge of a market, not far from the docks on the broad banks of the south fork of River Dwindell--a stone's
throw from Smiths' Row, where the open-air hearths gave rise to the rhythmic ring of hammers, the creaking of bellows, and
plumes of smoke.
He felt troubled that he'd been so lulled by the peacefulness of Bannisferre. He'd not even bothered to glance at this woman
when she had stood next to him for a moment. Twice in his life, he'd been the target of assassins. They'd taken his mother, his
grandmother, his brother and two sisters. Yet Gaborn stood here now as carefree as a peasant with a stomach full of ale.
No, Gaborn decided quickly, I've never seen her; she knows I'm a stranger, yet holds my hand. Most bewildering.
In the House of Understanding, in the Room of Faces, Gaborn had studied the subtleties of bodily communication--the way
secrets revealed themselves in an enemy's eyes, how to differentiate traces of worry from consternation or fatigue in the lines
around a lover's mouth.
Gaborn's hearthmaster, Jorlis, had been a wise teacher, and over the past few long winters Gaborn had distinguished himself
in his studies.
He'd learned that princes, highwaymen, merchants, and beggars all wore their expressions and stances as if part of some
agreed-upon costume, and so Gaborn had mastered the art of putting on any costume at will. He could take command of a
roomful of young men simply by standing with head high, cause a merchant to lower his prices with a balking smile.
Concealed by nothing more than a fine traveling cloak, Gaborn learned to lower his eyes in a busy marketplace and play the
pauper, slinking through the crowd so that those who saw him did not recognize a prince, but wondered, Ah, where did that
beggar boy steal such a nice cloak?
So Gaborn could read the human body, and yet he remained a perpetual mystery to others. With two endowments of wit, he
could memorize a large tome in an hour. He'd learned more in his eight years in the House of Understanding than most
commoners could learn in a life of concerted study.
As a Runelord, he had three endowments of brawn and two of stamina, and in battle practice he could easily cross weapons
with men twice his size. If ever a highwayman dared attack him, Gaborn would prove just how deadly a Runelord could be.
Yet in the eyes of the world, because of his few endowments of glamour, he seemed to be little more than a startlingly
handsome young man. And in a city like Bannisferre, with its singers and actors from across the realm, even beauty such as his
was common.
He studied the woman who held him, considered her stance. Chin high, confident, yet slightly tilted. A question. She poses a
question of me.
The touch of her hand--weak enough to indicate hesitancy, strong enough to suggest...ownership. She was claiming him?
Is this an attempt at seduction? he wondered. But no--the body stance felt wrong. If she had wanted to seduce, she'd have
touched the small of his back, a shoulder, even his buttock or chest. Yet as she held him she stood slightly away, hesitating to
claim his body space.
Then he understood: a marriage proposal. Very uncustomary, even in Heredon. For a woman of her quality, the family
should have easily arranged a marriage.
Gaborn surmised, Ah, she is orphaned. She hopes to arrange her own match!
Yet even that answer did not satisfy him. Why did not a wealthy lord arrange a match for her?
Gaborn considered how she must see him now. A merchant's son. He'd been playing the merchant; and though he was
eighteen, his growth had not come in fully. Gaborn had dark hair and blue eyes, traits common in North Crowthen. So he'd
dressed like a fop from that kingdom, one with more wealth than taste, out wandering the town while his father conducted
more important business. He wore green hose and pants that gathered above the knee, along with a fine white cotton shirt with
ballooning sleeves and silver buttons. Over the shirt, he wore a jerkin of dark green cotton trimmed in finely tooled leather,
decorated with freshwater pearls. Completing the disguise was a broad-brimmed hat, on which an amber clasp held a single
ostrich plume.
Gaborn had dressed this way because he did not want to travel openly on his mission to spy out Heredon's defenses, to gauge
the true extent of the wealth of its lands, the hardiness of its people.
Gaborn glanced back toward his bodyguard Borenson. The streets here were crowded, made narrow by the vendors' stalls. A
beefy, bronze-skinned young man with no shirt and red pants was herding a dozen goats through the throng, whipping them
with a willow switch. Across the road, beneath a stone arch beside the door to the inn, Borenson stood grinning broadly at
Gaborn's predicament. He was tall and broad-shouldered, with a balding head of red hair, a thick beard, and laughing blue
eyes.
Beside Borenson stood a skeletal fellow with blond hair cropped short. To match his chestnut eyes he wore a historian's
austere brownish robes and a disapproving scowl. The man, simply called by his vocation, Days, was a chronicler of sorts--a
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devotee of the Time Lords--who had been following Gaborn now since Gaborn was an infant, recording his every word and
deed. He took his name from the order of "the Days." Like every man of his sect, Days had given up his own name, his own
identity, when he'd twinned his mind with that of another of his order. Days watched Gaborn now, keenly. Alert, eyes
flickering about. Memorizing everything. The woman who held Gaborn's hand followed his glance, noting the bodyguard and
Days. A young merchant lord with a guard was common. One shadowed by a Days was rare. It marked Gaborn as someone of
wealth and import, perhaps the son of a guildmaster, yet this woman could not possibly have known Gaborn's true identity.
She pulled his hand, invited him to stroll. He hesitated. "Do you see anything in market that interests you?" she asked,
smiling. Her sweet voice was as inviting as the cardamom-flavored pastries sold here in the market, yet slightly mocking.
Clearly, she wanted to know if she interested him. Yet those around her would mistakenly believe she spoke of the wine
chillers.
"The silver shows some decent handiwork," Gaborn said. Using the powers of his Voice, he put a slight emphasis on hand.
Without ever recognizing why, she would believe that in Understanding's House, he had studied in the Room of Hands, as rich
merchants did. Let her believe me to be a merchant.
The vendor of the stall, who had patiently ignored Gaborn until now, lurched from under the shade of his rectangular
umbrella, calling, "The sir would like a fine chiller for the madam?"
Until a moment ago Gaborn had seemed only a merchant boy, one who might have reported to his father any interesting
wares. Now perhaps the merchant thought him a newlywed, with a wife far more handsome than himself. Merchant lords often
married their children off young, seeking monetary alliances.
So the vendor thinks I must buy the silver to humor my wife. Of course such a lovely woman would rule her household.
Since the merchant did not know her, Gaborn imagined that she would also have to be a stranger to Bannisferre. A traveler
from the north?
The young woman smiled kindly at the vendor. "I think not today," she teased. "You have some fine chillers, but we have
better at home." She turned her back, playing her role as wife exquisitely. This is how it would be if we married, her actions
seemed to say. I'd make no costly demands.
The vendor's face fell in dismay. It was unlikely that more than one or two merchants in all the Kingdoms of Rofehavan had
such a fine wine cooler.
She pulled Gaborn along. Suddenly, Gaborn felt uneasy. In the far south, ladies of Indhopal sometimes wore rings or
brooches with poisoned needles in them. They would try to lure wealthy travelers to an inn, then murder and rob them. It could
be that this beauty had nefarious designs.
Yet he doubted it. A quick glance showed that Borenson was certainly more amused than concerned. He laughed and
blushed, as if to ask, And where do you think you're going?
Borenson, too, was a student of body language--particularly that of women. He never took risks with his lord's safety.
The woman squeezed Gaborn's hand, readjusting her grip, holding him more firmly. Was she seeking a greater claim to his
attentions?
"Pardon me if I seem over familiar, good sir," she said. "Have you ever noticed someone from a distance, and felt a tug in
your heart?"
Her touch thrilled him, and Gaborn wanted to believe that, indeed, she'd seen him from afar and fallen in love.
"No, not like this," he said. Yet he felt it a lie. He'd once fallen in love from afar.
The sun shone on them; the skies were brilliant. The air blowing off the river smelled warm and sweet, carrying the scent of
hay fields from across the shore. On such a fine day, how could anyone feel anything but invigorated, alive?
The cobbles on the street here were smooth with age. Half a dozen flower girls strolled barefoot through the crowd, calling
for patrons in clear voices. They blew past, a breeze rippling a wheat field. They all wore faded dresses and white aprons. They
held the centers of their aprons up with one hand, making their aprons into a kind of sack, sacks filled with riotous colors--
brilliant burgundy cornflowers and white daisies, long-stemmed roses in deepest reds and peach. Poppies and bundles of
sweet-scented lavender.
Gaborn watched the girls drift by, feeling that their beauty was as stunning as that of larks in flight, knowing he would never
forget their smiles. Six girls, all with blond or light-brown hair.
His father was camped with his retinue not more than a few hours' ride off. Seldom did his father let Gaborn wander without
heavy guard, but this time his father had implored him to take a little side excursion, saying, "You must study Heredon. A land
is more than its castles and soldiers. In Bannisferre you will fall in love with this land, and its people, as I have."
The young woman squeezed his hand tighter.
Pain showed in her brow as she watched the flower girls. Gaborn suddenly realized what she was, how desperately this
young woman needed him. Gaborn nearly laughed, for he saw how easily she could have bewitched him.
He squeezed her hand, warmly, as a friend. He felt certain that he could have nothing to do with her, yet he wished her well.
"My name is Myrrima..." she said, leaving a silence for him in which to offer his own name.
"A beautiful name, for a beautiful girl."
"And you are?"
"Thrilled by intrigue," he said. "Aren't you?"
"Not always." She smiled, a demand for his name.
Twenty paces behind, Borenson tapped the scabbard of his saber against a passing goat cart, a sign that he'd left his post at
the hostel's doorway and was now following. The Days would be at his side.
Myrrima glanced back. "He's a fine-looking guardsman."
"A fine man," Gaborn agreed.
"You are traveling on business? You like Bannisferre?"
"Yes, and yes."
She abruptly pulled her hand away. "You don't make commitments easily," she said, turning to face him, her smile faltering
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just a bit. Perhaps she sensed now that the chase was up, that he would not marry her.
"No. Never. Perhaps it is a weakness in my character," Gaborn said.
"Why not?" Myrrima asked, still playful. She stopped by a fountain where a statue of Edmon Tillerman stood holding a pot
with three spigots that poured water down over the faces of three bears.
"Because lives are at stake," Gaborn answered. He sat at the edge of the fountain, glanced into the pool. Startled by his
presence, huge polliwogs wriggled down into the green water. "When I commit to someone, I accept responsibility for them. I
offer my life, or at least a portion of it. When I accept someone's commitment, I expect nothing less than total commitment--
their lives--in return. This reciprocal relationship is...it must define me."
Myrrima frowned, made uneasy by his serious tone. "You are not a merchant. You...talk like a lord!"
He could see her considering. She would know he was not of Sylvarresta's line, not a lord from Heredon. So he would have
to be a foreign dignitary, merely traveling in Heredon, an out-of-the-way country, one of the farthest north in all the Kingdoms
of Rofehavan.
"I should have known--you are so handsome," she said. "So you're a Runelord, come to study our land. Tell me, do you like
it enough to seek betrothal to Princess Iome Sylvarresta?"
Gaborn admired the way that she drew the proper conclusion. "I'm surprised at how green your land is, and how strong your
people are," Gaborn said. "It is richer than I'd imagined."
"Will Princess Sylvarresta accept you?" Still, she was searching for answers. She wondered which poor castle he hailed
from. She sat beside him on the edge of the fountain.
Gaborn shrugged, feigning less concern than he felt. "I know her only by reputation," he admitted. "Perhaps you know her
better than I. How do you think she will look on me?"
"You are handsome enough," Myrrima said, frankly studying his broad shoulders, the long dark-brown hair that fell from
under his plumed cap. By now she must have realized he was not dark enough of hair to be from Muyyatin, or any of the
Indhopalese nations.
Then she gasped, eyes going wide.
She stood up quickly and stepped back, unsure whether to remain standing, curtsy, or fall down and prostrate herself at his
feet. "Forgive me, Prince Orden--I, uh--did not see your resemblance to your father!"
Myrrima lurched back three paces, as if wishing she could run blindly away, for she now knew that he was not the son of
some poor baron who called a pile of rocks his fortress, but that he came from Mystarria itself.
"You know my father?" Gaborn asked, rising and stepping forward. He took her hand once again, trying to reassure her that
no offense had been taken.
"I--once he rode through town, on his way to the hunt," Myrrima said. "I was but a girl. I can't forget his face."
"He has always liked Heredon," Gaborn said.
"Yes...yes, he comes often enough," Myrrima said, clearly discomfited. "I--pardon me if I troubled you, my lord. I did not
mean to be presumptuous. Oh..."
Myrrima turned and began to run.
"Stop," Gaborn said, letting just a little of the power of his Voice take her.
She stopped as if she'd been struck by a fist, turned to face him. As did several other people nearby.
Unprepared for the command, they obeyed as if it had come from their own minds. When they saw that they were not the
object of his attention, some stared at him curiously while a few started away, unnerved by the appearance of a Runelord in
their midst.
Suddenly, Borenson hovered at Gaborn's back, with the Days.
"Thank you for stopping, Myrrima," Gaborn said.
"You may someday be my king," she answered, as if she'd reasoned out her response.
"Do you think so?" Gaborn said. "Do you think Iome will have me?"
The question startled her. Gaborn continued. "Please, tell me. You are a perceptive woman, and beautiful. You would do
well at court. I value your opinion."
Gaborn held his breath, waiting for her frank assessment. She couldn't know how important her answer was to him. Gaborn
needed this alliance. He needed Heredon's strong people, its impregnable fortresses, its wide-open lands, ready to till. True, his
own Mystarria was a rich land-ripe, its markets sprawling and crowded--but after years of struggle the Wolf Lord Raj Ahten
had finally conquered the Indhopalese Kingdoms, and Gaborn knew that Raj Ahten would not stop there. By spring, he would
either invade the barbarian realms of Inkarra or he would turn north to the kingdoms in Rofehavan.
In reality, it didn't matter where the Wolf Lord attacked next. In the wars to come, Gaborn knew he'd never be able to
adequately defend his people in Mystarria. He needed this land.
Even though Heredon had not seen a major war in four hundred years, the realm's great battlements remained intact. Even
the fortress at lowly Tor Ingel, set among the cliffs, could be defended better than most of Gaborn's estates in Mystarria.
Gaborn needed Heredon. He needed Iome's hand in marriage.
More important, though he dared not admit it to anyone, something deep inside told him that he needed Iome herself. An odd
compulsion drew him here, against all common sense. As if invisible fiery threads were connected to his heart and mind.
Sometimes at night he'd lie awake, feeling the tug, an odd glowing sensation that spread outward from the center of his chest,
as if a warm stone lay there. Those threads seemed to pull him toward Iome. He'd fought the urge to seek her hand for a year
now, until he could fight no more.
Myrrima studied Gaborn once again with her marvelous frankness. Then laughed easily. "No," she said. "Iome will not have
you."
There had been no hesitancy in her answer. She had said it simply, as if she'd seen the truth of it. Then she smiled at him
seductively. But I want you, her smile said.
"You sound certain." Gaborn tried to seem casual. "Is it merely my clothes? I did bring more suitable attire."
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"You may be from the most powerful kingdom in Rofehavan, but...how shall I put this? Your politics are suspect."
It was a kind way to accuse him of being immoral. Gaborn had feared Such an accusation.
"Because my father is a pragmatist?" Gaborn asked.
"Some think him pragmatic, some think him...too acquisitive." Gaborn grinned. "King Sylvarresta thinks him pragmatic...but
his daughter thinks my father is greedy? She said this?"
Myrrima smiled and nodded secretively. "I've heard rumors that she said as much at the midwinter feast."
Gaborn was often amazed at how much the commoners knew or surmised about the comings and goings and doings of lords.
Things that he'd often thought were court secrets would be openly discussed at some inn a hundred leagues distant. Myrrima
seemed sure of her sources.
"So she will reject my petition, because of my father."
"It has been said in Heredon that Prince Orden is 'much like his father.' "
"Too much like his father?" Gaborn asked. A quote from Princess Sylvarresta? Probably spoken to quell any rumors of a
possible match. It was true that Gaborn had his father's look about him. But Gaborn was not his father. Nor was his father,
Gaborn believed, as "acquisitive" as Iome accused him of being.
Myrrima had the good taste to say no more. She pulled her hand free of his.
"She will marry me," Gaborn said. He felt confident he could sway the princess.
Myrrima raised a brow. "How could you imagine so? Because it would be pragmatic to ally herself with the wealthiest
kingdom in Rofehavan?" She laughed musically, amused. Under normal circumstances, if a peasant had laughed him to scorn,
Gaborn would have bristled. He found himself laughing with her.
Myrrima flashed a fetching smile. "Perhaps, milord, when you leave Heredon, you will not leave empty-handed."
One last invitation. Princess Sylvarresta will not have you, but I would.
"It would be foolhardy to give up the chase before the hunt has begun, don't you think?" Gaborn said. "In Understanding's
House, in the Room of the Heart, Hearthmaster Ibirmarle used to say 'Fools define themselves by what they are. Wise men
define themselves by what they shall be.' "
Myrrima rejoined, "Then I fear, my pragmatic prince, that you shall die old and lonely, deluded into believing you will
someday marry Iome Sylvarresta. Good day."
She turned to leave, but Gaborn could not quite let her go. In the Room of the Heart, he'd also learned that sometimes it is
best to act on impulse, that the part of the mind which dreams will often speak to us, commanding us to act in ways that we do
not understand. When Gaborn had told her that he thought she would do well in court, he had meant it. He wanted her in his
court--not as his wife, not even as a mistress. But intuitively he felt her to be an ally. Had she not called him "milord"? She
could as easily have called him "Your Lordship." No, she felt a bond to him, too.
"Wait, milady," Gaborn said. Once again Myrrima turned. She had caught his tone. With the word "milady," he sought to
make his claim on her. She knew what he expected: total devotion. Her life. As a Runelord, Gaborn had been raised to demand
as much from his own vassals, yet he felt hesitant to ask as much from this foreign woman.
"Yes, milord?"
"At home," Prince Orden said, "you have two ugly sisters to care for? And a witless brother?"
"You are perceptive, milord," Myrrima said. "But the witless one is my mother, not a brother." Lines of pain showed in her
face. It was a terrible burden she held. A terrible price for magic. It was hard enough to take an endowment of brawn or wit or
glamour from another, to assume the financial responsibilities for that person. But it became more painful still when that
person was a beloved friend or relative. Myrrima's family must have lived in horrible poverty, hopeless poverty, in order for
them to have felt compelled to try such a thing--to gift one woman with the beauty of three, the cleverness of two, and then
seek to marry her to some rich man who could save them all from despair.
"However did you get the money for the forcibles?" Gaborn asked. The magical irons that could drain the attributes of one
person and endow them on another were tremendously expensive.
"My mother had a small inheritance--and we labored, the four of us," Myrrima said. He heard tightness in her voice. Perhaps
once, a week or two ago, when she'd newly become beautiful, she'd have sobbed when speaking of this.
"You sold flowers as a child?" Gaborn asked.
Myrrima smiled. "The meadow behind our house provided little else to sustain us."
Gaborn reached to his money pouch, pulled out a gold coin. One side showed the head of King Sylvarresta; the other showed
the Seven Standing Stones of the Dunnwood, which legend said held up the earth. He was unfamiliar with the local currency,
but knew the coin was large enough to take care of her small family for a few months. He took her hand, slipping it into her
palm.
"I...have done nothing for this," she said, searching his eyes. Perhaps she feared an indecent proposal. Some lords took
mistresses. Gaborn would never do so.
"Certainly you have," Gaborn said. "You smiled, and thus lightened my heart. Accept this gift, please. You will find your
merchant prince someday," Gaborn said, "and of all the prizes he may ever discover here in the markets of Bannisferre, I
suspect that you will be the most treasured."
She held the coin in awe. People never expected one as young as Gaborn to speak with such grace, yet it came easily after
years of training in Voice. She looked into his eyes with new respect, as if really seeing him for the first time. "Thank you,
Prince Orden. Perhaps...I tell you now that if Iome does accept you, I will praise her decision."
She turned and sauntered off through the thickening crowd, circled the fountain. Gaborn watched the graceful lines of her
neck, the clouds of her dress, the burning flames of her scarf.
Borenson came up and clapped Gaborn on the shoulder, chuckling. "Ah, milord, there is a tempting sweet."
"Yes, she's altogether lovely," Gaborn whispered.
"It was fun to watch. She just stood back, eyeing you like a cutlet on the butcher's block. She waited for five minutes"--
Borenson held up his hand, fingers splayed--"waiting for you to notice her! But you--you day-blind ferrin! You were too busy
7
adoring some vendor's handsome chamber pots! How could you not see her? How could you ignore her? Ah!" Borenson
shrugged in exaggeration.
"I meant no offense," Gaborn said, looking up into Borenson's face. Though Borenson was his bodyguard and should thus
always be on the watch for assassins, the truth was that the big fellow was a lusty man. He could not walk through a street
without making little crooning noises at every shapely woman he passed. And if he didn't go wenching at least once a week,
he'd croon even at the woman who had no more shape than a bag of parsnips. His fellow guards sometimes joked that no
assassin hiding in between a woman's cleavage would ever escape his notice.
"Oh, I'm not offended," Borenson said. "Mystified, maybe. Perplexed. How could you not see her? You must have at least
smelled her?"
"Yes, she smells very nice. She keeps her gown in a drawer layered in rose petals."
Borenson rolled his eyes back dramatically and groaned. His face was flushed, and there was a peculiar excitement, an
intensity in his eyes. Though he pretended to be jesting, Gaborn could see that Borenson had indeed been smitten by this
northern beauty more than he cared to admit. If Borenson could have had his way, he'd have been off chasing the girl. "At least
you could have let her cure you of that vexing case of virginity you suffer from, milord!"
"It is a common enough malady for young men," Gaborn said, feeling offended. Borenson sometimes spoke to Gaborn as if
he were a drinking partner.
Borenson reddened even more. "As well it should be, milord!"
"Besides," Gaborn said, considering the toll a bastard child sometimes took on a kingdom, "the cure is often more costly
than the malady."
"I suspect that that cure is worth any price," Borenson said longingly, with a nod in the direction Myrrima had gone.
Suddenly, a plan blossomed in Gaborn's mind. A great geometer had once told him that when he discovered the answer to a
difficult calculation, he knew that his answer was right because he felt it all the way down to his toes. At this moment, as
Gaborn considered taking this young woman home to Mystarria, that same feeling of rightness struck him. Indeed, he felt that
same burning compulsion that had drawn him to this land in the first place. He yearned once again to take Myrrima back to
Mystarria, and suddenly saw the way.
He glanced at Borenson, to verify his hunch. The guardsman stood at his side, more than a head taller than Gaborn, and his
cheeks were red, as if his own thoughts embarrassed him. The soldier's laughing blue eyes seemed to shine with their own
light. His legs shook, though Gaborn had never seen him tremble in battle.
Down the lane, Myrrima turned a corner on a narrow market street, breaking into a run. Borenson shook his head ruefully, as
if to ask, How could you let her go?
"Borenson," Gaborn whispered, "hurry after her. Introduce yourself graciously, then bring her back to me, but take a few
minutes to talk as you walk. Stroll back. Do not hurry. Tell her I request an audience for only a moment."
"As you wish, milord," Borenson said. He began running in the swift way that only those who had taken an endowment of
metabolism could; many in the crowd parted before the big warrior, who wound his way gracefully between those who were
too slow or clumsy to move for him.
Gaborn did not know how long it might take Borenson to fetch the woman, so he wandered back to the shadows thrown by
the inn. His Days followed. Together they stood, annoyed by a cloud of honeybees. The front of the inn here had an "aromatic
garden" in the northern style. Blue morning-glory seeds were sewn in the thatch of the roof, and a riot of window boxes and
flowerpots held creeping flowers of all kinds: palest honeysuckle dripped golden tears along the walls; mallow, like delicate
bits of pearl, fluttered in the gentle breeze above the snow-in-summer; giant mandevilla, pink as the sunrise, was nearly
strangled by the jasmine. And interspersed with all of these were rose vines, climbing every wall, splotches of peach. Along
the ground were planted spearmint, chamomile, lemon verbena, and other spices.
Most northern inns were decorated with such flowers. It helped mask the obnoxious scents of the market, while herbs grown
in these gardens could be used for teas and spices.
Gaborn stepped back into the sunlight, away from the heavy perfume of the flowers. His nose was too keen to let him stay.
Borenson returned in a few moments with his big right hand resting gently on Myrrima's elbow, as if to catch her should she
trip on a cobblestone. It was an endearing sight.
When the two stood before him, Myrrima bowed slightly. "Milord wished to speak to me?"
"Yes," Gaborn said. "Actually, I was more interested in having you meet Borenson, my body." He left off the word guard, as
was the custom in Mystarria. "He has been my body for six years now, and is captain of my personal guard. He is a good man.
In my estimation, one of the finest in Mystarria. Certainly the finest soldier."
Borenson's cheeks reddened, and Myrrima glanced up at the big guard, smiling discreetly, gauging him. She could not have
failed to notice by now that Borenson had an endowment of metabolism to his credit. The hastiness of his speeded reactions,
the apparent inability to rest, were sure sign of it.
"Recently, Borenson was promoted to the rank of Baron of the Realm, and given title to a land and manor in...the Drewverry
March." Immediately Gaborn recognized his mistake. To give such a large holding was impetuous. Yet now that the words had
been spoken...
"Milord, I've never heard--" Borenson began to say, but Gaborn waved him to silence.
"As I say, it was a recent promotion." The Drewverry estate was a major holding, more land than Gaborn would normally
give to a distinguished soldier for a life of service, if he'd had time to consider. But now, Gaborn reasoned, this sudden act of
generosity would only make Borenson that much more loyal--as if Borenson's loyalty would ever waver. "In any event,
Myrrima, as you can see, Borenson spends a great deal of time in my service. He needs a wife to help him manage his
holdings."
The look of surprise on Borenson's face was a joy to behold. The big man was obviously taken by this northern beauty, and
Gaborn had all but ordered them to marry.
Myrrima studied the guard's face without reserve, as if noticing for the first time the strength of his jaw, the imposing bulge
8
of muscle beneath his jerkin. She did not love him, not yet. Perhaps she never would. This was an arranged marriage, and
marrying a man who lived his life twice as fast as you, one who would grow old and die while you floundered toward middle
age, could not be an overwhelmingly attractive proposition. Thoughtfully, she considered the virtues of the match.
Borenson stood dumbfounded, like a boy caught stealing apples. His face told that he'd considered the match, hoped for it.
"I told you I thought you'd do well in court," Gaborn said to Myrrima. "I'd like you to be in my court."
Certainly the woman would take his meaning. No Runelord could marry her. The best she could hope for would be some
merchant prince, burdened by adolescent lust.
Gaborn offered her a position of power--more than she could normally hope for--with an honorable and decent man whose
life doomed him to a strange and lonely existence. It was no promise of love, but then Myrrima was a pragmatic woman who
had taken the beauty of her sisters, the wisdom of her mother. Having taken these endowments, she would now have to assume
responsibility for her impoverished kin. She knew the burden of power. She'd be a perfect woman to hold a place in Mystarria.
She looked up into Borenson's eyes for a long moment, face and mouth suddenly hard, as she considered the offer. Gaborn
could see that now that the proposal was made, she realized what a momentous decision this was. Almost imperceptibly, she
nodded, sealing the bargain. Borenson offered none of the hesitancy that Myrrima had found with Gaborn. He reached out and
took her slender hand in both fists.
He said, "You must understand, fair lady, that no matter how sturdy my love for you grows, my first loyalty will always be
to my lord."
"As it should be," Myrrima said softly, with a slight nod.
Gaborn's heart leapt. I have won her love as surely as Borenson shall, he thought.
At this moment, he felt strange--as if gripped by some great power. It seemed he could feel that power, like a buffeting wind,
encircling--invisible, potent, overawing.
Gaborn's pulse raced. He glanced around, certain the source of this emotion must have a cause--a shifting in the earth in
preparation for a quake, an approaching thunderstorm. But he saw nothing out of the normal, those around him did not seem
troubled.
Yet he could feel...the earth preparing to move beneath his feet--the rocks to twist or breathe or shout.
It was a distinctly odd sensation.
As suddenly as the rush of power had come, it dissipated. Like a gust of wind passing over a meadow, unseen, but subtly
disturbing all in its wake.
Gaborn wiped perspiration from his brow, worried. I've come a thousand miles to heed a distant, unheard call. And now I
feel this?
It seemed madness. He asked the others, "Do you--do you feel anything?"
Chapter 3
OF KNIGHTS AND PAWNS
When Chemoise got news that her betrothed was attacked while on guard duty, gutted by some spice merchant, it was as if
the dawn sun went black, losing power to warm her. Or it was as if she'd turned to pale clay, her flesh losing all color, no
longer able to hold her spirit.
Princess Iome Sylvarresta watched Chemoise, her Maid of Honor, her dearest friend, desperately wishing for a way to
console her. If Lady Jollenne had been here, she'd have known what to do. But the matron had been called away for a few
weeks to care for her grandmother, who'd had a bad fall.
Iome, her Days, and Chemoise had been up at dawn, sitting near the huge, U-shaped storyteller's stone in the Queen's topiary
garden, reading the latest romance poems by Adalle, when Corporal Clewes broke in on their reverie.
He told the news: A scuffle with a drunken merchant. An hour or more past. Cat's Alley. Sergeant Dreys. Fought nobly. Near
death. Slit from crotch to heart. Called for Chemoise as he fell.
Chemoise took the news stoically, if statues can be said to be stoic. She sat stiffly on the stone bench, her hazel eyes
unfocused, her long, wheat-colored hair stirring in the wind. She'd been weaving a chain of daisies as Iome read. Now she laid
them in her lap, on a skirt of coral-colored chiffon. Sixteen and heartbroken. She was to have married in ten days.
Yet she dared not show her emotions. A proper lady should be able to bear such news lightly. She waited for Iome's
permission to go to her fiancée. Thank you, Clewes," Iome said when the corporal continued standing at attention. "Where is
Dreys now?"
"We laid him out on the common, outside the King's Tower. I didn't want to move him any farther. The others are laid out
down by the river."
"The others?" Iome asked. She was sitting beside Chemoise; now she took the girl's hand. It had gone cold, so cold.
Clewes was an old soldier to have such a low station. His trim beard was stiff as oat stubble. It poked out from under the
broken strap of his iron pikeman's cap.
"Aye, Princess," he said, remembering to address Iome properly for the first time since he'd intruded into the garden. "Two
of the City Guard died in the fight. Poll the Squire and Sir Beauman."
Iome turned to Chemoise. "Go to him," she said.
The girl needed no further urging. She leapt up and ran down the path through the topiaries to the little wooden Bailey Gate,
opened it and disappeared round the stone wall.
Iome dared not stay long in the corporal's presence alone, with no one other than the Days, who stood quietly a few paces
off. It would not be proper. But she had questions to ask him.
Iome stood.
"You're not going to look at the sergeant, are you, Princess?" Clewes asked. He must have caught the anger in her eye. "I
mean--it's a messy sight."
9
"I've seen injured men before," she said stoically. She looked out of the garden, over the city. The garden, a small patch of
grass with trimmed hedges and a few shaped shrubs, sat within the King's Wall, the second of the three walls within the city.
From here, she could see four of the King's Guards on the wall-walk, behind the parapet. Beyond that, to the east, lay the city
market, just within the castle's Outer Wall. The streets in the market below were a jumble--roofs of slate, some covered with a
layer of sand and lead, forming narrow chasms above the rocky streets. Smoke rose from cooking fires here and there.
Fourteen minor lords had estates within the city walls.
Iome studied the area where Cat's Alley could be found, a narrow market street just off the Butterwalk. The merchants'
wattle houses there were painted in shades of cardinal, canary, and forest green, as if such bright colors could deny the general
decrepitude of buildings that had been settling on their crooked foundations for five hundred years.
The city looked no different today than it had yesterday. She could see Orly rooftops; no sign of murderers.
Yet beyond the castle walls, beyond the farms and haycrofts, in the ruddy hills of the Dunnwood to the south and west, dust
rose in small clouds along the roads for miles. People were traveling to the fair from distant kingdoms. Already, dozens of
colorful silk pavilions had been set out before the castle gates. In the next few days, the population of the city would soar from
ten thousand to four or five times that number.
Iome looked back at the corporal. Clewes seemed like a cold man to have been sent to carry such ill news. Blood had been
everywhere after the fight. That much Iome could see. Crimson smeared the corporal's boots, stained the silver boar
embroidered into the black of his livery. The corporal himself must have carried Sergeant Dreys up to the common.
"So the fellow killed two men and wounded a third," Iome said. "A heavy loss, for a mere brawl. Did you dispatch the spice
merchant yourself?" If he had, she decided, the corporal would get a reward. Perhaps a jeweled pin.
"No, milady. Uh, we busted him up a bit, but he's still alive. He's from Muyyatin. A fellow named Hariz al Jwabala. We
didn't dare kill him. We wanted to question him." The corporal scratched the side of his nose, displeased at having left the
trader alive.
Iome began to stroll toward the Bailey Gate, wanting to be with Chemoise. With a nod, she indicated that the corporal
should follow, as did her Days.
"I see..." Iome mused, unsettled. A rich merchant then, from a suspect nation. Come to the city for next week's fair. "And
what was a spice trader from Muyyatin doing in Cat's Alley before dawn?"
Corporal Clewes bit his lip, as if unwilling to answer, then said coldly, "Spying, if you ask me." His voice choked with rage,
and now he took his eyes from the stone gargoyle up on the keep's wall, where he'd been staring, and briefly glanced at Iome,
to see her reaction.
"I do ask you," Iome said. Clewes fumbled to unlatch the gate, let Iome and her Days through.
"We've checked the inns," Corporal Clewes said. "The merchant didn't drink at any of them last night, or else he'd have been
escorted from the merchants' quarter at ten bells. So he couldn't have gotten drunk in the city walls, and I doubt he was drunk
at all. He's got rum on his breath, but precious little of it. Besides, there was no reason for him to be creeping through the
streets at night, unless he's spying out the castle walls, trying to count the guard! So when he gets caught, what does he do? He
feigns drunk, and waits for the guards to close--then, out with the knife!" Clewes slammed the gate shut.
Just around the rock wall, Iome could see into the bailey. A dozen of the King's Guard stood there in a knot. A physic knelt
over Sergeant Dreys, and Chemoise stood over them, shoulders hunched, arms crossed tightly across her chest. An early-
morning mist was rising from the green.
"I see," Iome whispered, heart pounding. "Then you are interrogating the man?" Now that they were in the public eye, Iome
stopped by the wall.
"I wish we could!" Corporal Clewes said. "I'd put a coal to his tongue myself! But right now, all the traders from Muyyatin
and Indhopal are in an uproar. They're calling for Jwabala's release. Already they're threatening to post a ban on the fair. And
now it's got the Master of the Fair in a fright: Guildmaster Hollicks has gone to the King himself, demanding the merchant's
release! Can you believe it? A spy! He wants us to release a murdering spy!"
Iome took the news in, surprised. It was extraordinary that Hollicks would seek audience with the King just after dawn,
extraordinary that the Southern merchants would threaten a ban. All of this spoke of large matters spinning wildly out of
control.
She glanced over her shoulder. Her Days, a tiny woman with dark hair and a perpetually clenched jaw, was listening.
Standing quietly just outside the gate, petting a lanky yellow kitten that she held. Iome could read no reaction on the Days'
face. Perhaps the Days already knew who this spy was, knew who sent him. Yet the Days always claimed to remain
completely neutral of political affairs. They would answer no questions.
Iome considered. Corporal Clewes was probably right. The merchant was a spy. Her father had his own spies in the
Indhopalese Kingdoms.
But if the killer was a spy, it might be impossible to prove. Still, he'd killed two of the City Guard, and wounded Dreys, a
sergeant of the King's Guard--and for that, by all rights, the merchant should die.
But in Muyyatin a man who committed a crime in a drunken stupor, even the crime of murder, could not be executed.
Which meant that if her father gave the death sentence, the Muyyatin--and all their Indhopalese kinsmen would bridle at the
injustice of the execution.
So they threatened a ban.
Iome considered the implications of such a ban. The Southern traders primarily sold spices--pepper, mace, and salt for curing
meats; curry, saffron, cinnamon, and others for use in foods; medicinal herbs. But the traders brought much more: alum for use
in dyeing and tanning hides, along with indigo and various other dyes needed for Heredon's wool. And they carried other
precious goods--ivory, silks, sugar, platinum, blood metal.
If these traders called a ban on the fair, they'd deal a fearsome blow to at least a dozen industries. Even worse, without the
spices to preserve food, Heredon's poor would not fare well through the winter.
This year's Master of the Fair, Guildmaster Hollicks--who, as Master the Dyers' Guild, stood to lose a fortune if a ban
10
succeeded--was suing for a reconciliation. Iome didn't like Hollicks. Too often he'd asked the King to raise the import taxes
on foreign cloth, hoping thus to holster his own sales. But even Hollicks needed the merchandise the Indhopalese brought to
trade.
Just as desperately, the merchants here in Heredon needed to sell their own wool and linen and fine steel to the foreigners.
Most of the bourgeois traders had large amounts of money that they both borrowed and loaned. If a ban were enforced,
hundreds of wealthy families would go bankrupt. And it was the wealthy families of Heredon who paid taxes to support King
Sylvarresta's knights.
Indeed, Sylvarresta had his hand in dozens of trading deals himself. Even he could not afford a ban.
Iome's blood felt as if it would boil. She tried to resign herself to the inevitable. Her father would be forced to release the
spy, make a reconciliation. But she would not like it.
For in the long run, Iome knew full well, her family could not afford such reconciliation's: it was only a matter of time
before Raj Ahten, the Wolf Lord of Indhopal, made war against the combined kingdoms of Rofehavan. Though traders from
Indhopal crossed the deserts and mountains now, next year--or the year after--the trading would have to stop.
Why not stop the trading now? Iome wondered. Her father could seize the merchandise brought by the foreign caravans--
starting the war he'd long hoped to avert.
But she knew he would not do it. King Jas Laren Sylvarresta would not start a war. He was too decent a man.
Poor Chemoise! Her betrothed lay near death, and would not be avenged.
The girl had no one. Chemoise's mother had died young; her father, a Knight Equitable, had been taken captive six years ago
while on a quest to Aven.
"Thank you for the news," Iome told Corporal Clewes. "I will discuss this matter with my father."
Iome hurried up now to the knot of soldiers. Sergeant Dreys lay on a pallet in the green grass. An ivory-colored sheet lay
over Dreys, pulled up almost to his throat. Blood looked as if it had been poured liberally over the sheet, and it frothed from
the corner of Dreys' mouth. His pale face was covered in sweat. The slant of the morning sunlight left him in shadows.
Corporal Clewes had been right. Iome should not have seen this. All the blood, the smell of punctured guts, the impending
death--all nauseated her.
A few children from the castle were up early and had gathered to witness the sight. They looked up at Iome, shock and pain
in their eyes, as if hoping that she could somehow smile and set this whole tragic thing aright.
Iome rushed to one small girl of nine, Jenessee, and put an arm around the girl, then whispered, "Please, take the children
away from here."
Shaking, Jenessee hugged Iome briefly, then did as told.
A physic knelt over Dreys. Yet the physic seemed in no hurry. He merely studied the soldier. When he saw Iome, saw her
questioning look, the physic just shook his head. He could do nothing
"Where is the herbalist, Binnesman?" Iome asked, for the wizard was this physic's superior in every way.
"He's gone-to the meadows, gathering costmary. He won't be back until tonight."
Iome shook her head in dismay. It was a terrible time for her master physic to be out hunting for herbs to drive spiders from
the castle. Yet she should have known. The nights were growing colder, and she herself had complained to Binnesman
yesterday about spiders seeking warmth in her rooms.
"I fear there is nothing I can do," the physic said. "I dare not move him more, for he bleeds too badly. I cannot sew the
wounds, but dare not leave them open."
"I could give him an endowment," Chemoise whispered. "I could give him my stamina." It was an offer made in pure love.
As such, Iome would have wanted to honor it.
"And if you did, would he thank you for it?" the physic asked. "Should you die next time the fever season comes around,
he'd rue the bargain."
It was true. Chemoise was a sweet girl, but she showed no sign of having more stamina than anyone else. She got fevers in
winter, bruised easily. If she gave her stamina to Sergeant Dreys, she'd be weak thereafter, more susceptible to plagues and ills.
She'd never be able to bear him a child, carry it full-term.
"It's only his endowments of stamina that have kept him alive this long," Chemoise mused. "A little more--and he might
live."
The physic shook his head. "Taking an endowment, even an endowment of stamina, gives some shock to the system. I
wouldn't dare try. We can only wait and see if he strengthens..."
Chemoise nodded. She knelt, cleaned the blood bubbling from the corner of Drey's lips with the corner of her gray skirt.
Dreys breathed hard, filling his lungs with air as if each breath would be his last.
Iome marveled. "Has he been gasping like this long?"
The physic shook his head, almost imperceptibly, so that Chemoise would not see him answer. Dreys was dying.
They watched over him thus for a long hour, with Dreys gasping more fiercely for each failing breath, until, finally, he
opened his eyes. He looked up as if waking from a troubled sleep.
"Where?" he gasped, gazing into Chemoise's face.
"Where is the book?" one of the Castle Guard asked. "We got it--gave it to the King."
Iome wondered what the guard was speaking about. Then blood gurgled from Dreys' mouth, and he arched his back,
reaching toward Chemoise, grasping her hand.
His breathing stopped altogether.
Chemoise grabbed the sergeant's head roughly, bent low and whispered fiercely, "I wanted to come. I wanted to see you this
morning..."
Then Chemoise burst into tears. The guards and physic all moved away, leaving her a few moments to speak some final
words of love, in case his spirit had not yet fled the dying body. When she finished, she stood.
Only Corporal Clewes still waited at her back. He drew his battle-axe, saluted smartly, touching the cross formed by the
摘要：

1Chapter1ITBEGINSINDARKNESSEffigiesoftheEarthKingfestoonedthecityaroundCastleSylvarresta.Everywheretheeffigiescouldbeseen--hangingbeneathshopwindows,standinguprightagainstthewallsofthecitygates,ornailedbesidedoorways--stationedanyplacewheretheEarthKingmightfindingressintoahome.Manyofthefigureswerecr...

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