Brotherhood of the Wolf

13 The Fourth Ear

Even in the shifting winds, Bessahan smelled the smoke of the messenger’s fire from three miles down the trail. He was high in the Brace Mountains, in the deep pines. The clouds had scudded in just at sunset, smelling heavy with rain, and in half an hour the rain was pelting down while lightning flashed. The winds shook the great pines, knocking branches down in the roadside. Falling leaves swirled about. His quarry dared not ride in such brooding darkness, and so they had been forced to stop beneath the trees. After an hour, the lightning had abated, and now only brief flashes sometimes lit the northern horizon. But the rain still fell.

He approached the smoke quietly, walking along the road, so that he made no noise, keeping low, until the smell of the wood smoke came strongest.

He had expected to find King Orden’s messengers camped by the highway, but after passing the source of the scent, he realized that they were being wary. They’d taken a side trail, climbed up the mountain to a hidden glade. From the road, he could not even see their fire.

So Bessahan got off his horse, tied it to a tree, and strung his bow. Then he pulled out his khivar and inspected it. He’d cleaned the blade after beheading the old woman. Now he took a moment with an oilstone to hone it sharp, in the darkness, working by feel alone.

When at last he felt prepared, he took off his hard shoes, letting his bare feet grip the cold muddy road as he prepared to ascend the hill.

For a Master in the Brotherhood of the Silent Ones, it was not a great challenge. To climb through brush in the darkness was not difficult, only cold and miserable and sometimes painful. He had to feel his way through the underbrush, letting his fingers and toes search for twigs that his eyes could not see.

So it was that he began his slow ascent. The trail was not hard, he soon discovered. The moss here was thick, and he found himself crawling through a bed of deep ferns higher than a man’s chest. The trees here were old, had stood like this for a hundred years, and twigs were scarce on the forest floor. The few he encountered were small, and because they were wet and old and rotten, they snapped softly. The ferns and the pelting rain muted any sounds of breakage.

Only once in his journey did he encounter any difficulty. As he crawled along his palm sank into the moss and hit something sharp, possibly a ragged piece of bone left by a wolf. The wound it caused was small, a tiny puncture that hardly bled. He ignored the pain.

In half an hour, he reached the summit of the hill, topped a small rise, and glimpsed the fire. A great pine had fallen, a tree perhaps twelve feet in diameter, and it rested against the hillside at an angle.

The party was camped beneath the windfall, using it for a roof. They’d peeled off some of the drier bark to build a fire, but it was wet and smoky.

Now they lay in blanked beside the fire, talking to one another. The huge knight, the big red-haired messenger, and a girl child.

“Stop fretting,” the big red-haired messenger said. “You’ll get no sleep worrying.”

“But it’s been an hour since we heard her. What if she’s lost?” the child asked.

“Good riddance, I say,” the fat knight replied.

“It was your fire that scared her,” the child accused the knight. “She’s sore afraid of it.”

Bessahan halted, heart thumping. He’d thought he was hunting three people, but there appeared to be a fourth. His lord paid him for his killings by the ear. He’d want that fourth woman’s ear.

If she was looking for them, it would not be long before she stumbled into camp. Even a person without the benefit of a wolf’s nose would smell that fire.

Bessahan backed away, decided to wait.

Yet as he eeled backward on his belly, down over the lip of the hill, he bumped against something solid.

He glanced back, looked up. A naked woman with dark skin smiled down at him stupidly. The fourth ear.

“Hello?” he whispered, hoping to keep her from shouting in alarm.

“Hello?” she whispered in return.

Was she a fool? he wondered briefly. Then she knelt on her haunches and studied him. In the dim light that reflected from the branches overhead, he could barely discern her. She was long-haired and shapely.

He’d been too long without a woman, and decided to enjoy her before he killed her. He reached up quickly, slapped a hand over her mouth, and tried to pull her down.

But she was stronger than she appeared. Instead of toppling down on him, she merely grabbed his hand and sniffed, an expression of pure ecstasy on her face, as if she were smelling a bouquet of flowers.

“Blood,” she said longingly, tasting the scent of his wound. She bit into his wrist, and pain blossomed. Her bite snapped clear through the tendons and ligaments, and blood gushed from an artery, spraying up like a fountain.

He tried to pull away, but the woman held him firmly. With three endowments of brawn to his credit, he pulled hard, trying to break free. The bones of his wrist snapped as he twisted, yet she continued to hold him tight. Catching a glimpse of her hand, he realized that what he’d imagined were long fingernails were not nails at all but claws or talons. She was not human!

The woman opened her mouth in astonished delight, watched the blood fountain out of him.

Bessahan brought his khivar up in a dreadful slash, at tempting to rip out her throat. The thin steel blade caught in her skin, but despite his endowments of brawn, the point hardly pierced her. Instead, the blade snapped off clean.

Blood had spurted all over his face and hands. Now the woman knelt down as if to lick it up.

He struggled silently as the woman forced him down and licked the blood from his face with a raspy tongue. As she began chewing at his chin, gnawing like a kitten that has not yet learned to kill the mouse it eats, he fought fiercely. Until the green woman’s teeth found his throat. Then he finally went still, although his feet continued to kick and jerk until long after he knew no more.

It was well near dawn when the green woman entered camp. Roland had been asleep when suddenly he felt her touch as she lay down next to him.

Averan spooned against his belly, and the green woman came and tried to lie down at Roland’s back.

She trembled from cold; the fire was but a smoking ruin, having gone out. For the last hour, the rain had been mixed with snow.

Roland slept beneath a blanket, and his new bearskin cloak lay over the top of that. He half-woke, took the cloak, and pulled it protectively over the green woman’s naked skin, then he urged her with a few whispered words and motions to get under the blanket with him and Averan.

The green woman complied slowly, as if not sure what he desired. Once he had her lying between him and the child, where the body heat of them both would warm her, Roland merely wrapped a big arm and leg over her, to speed the process.

In minutes she had quit trembling so violently, and lay next to him, luxuriating.

In the creeping dawn, Roland could make out the green woman’s features. She was one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen, even with her odd skin tone, her dark green lips.

She lay next to him, but he became aware that she was watching the smoking embers of the fire, still terrified.

“Don’t worry,” he whispered. “It won’t hurt you.”

She grasped his wounded hand, sniffed at the bandage. “Blood-no!” she said softly.

“That’s right,” Roland answered. “Blood, no! You’re a smart one. And obedient. Two qualities I admire in a woman—or whatever you are.”

“You’re a smart one,” she parroted. “And obedient. Two qualities I admire in a woman—or whatever you are.”

Roland smelled her hair. It was odd, like...moss and sweet basil combined, he decided. He could smell the coppery tang of blood on her, too. She was a large thing, as tall as him, and more muscular.

He grasped her thumb, and whispered, “Thumb. Thumb.”

She repeated his words, and in minutes he taught her all about hands and arms and noses and moved on to trees, the autumn leaves, and the sky.

When he grew tired, he drifted back toward sleep, and hugged the green woman tightly. He wondered where she had come from, wondered if she felt lonely. Like Roland and Averan, she had no connections to anyone that he could see. All three of them were terribly alone in the world.

I should fix that, Roland thought. I could petition Paladane to become Averan’s guardian. The world is too full of orphans, and she has my color of hair. People will think I’m her father. He promised himself he would talk to Averan about it tomorrow.

Perhaps because he held a woman in his arms, because he craved a woman’s company, and because he still remembered a wife who had rejected him twenty years ago, he thought about Sera Crier, and the sense of duty that had sent him north.

He recalled his waking seven days earlier...

As he pulled on the loose-fitting trousers, Roland had said to Sera Crier, “I gave my endowments years ago, to a man named Drayden. He was a sergeant in the King’s Guard. Do you know the name?”

“Lord Drayden?” she corrected. “The King let him retire to his estates several years ago. He is quite old—yours was not the only endowment of metabolism he took, I think. But he still travels each year to Heredon, for the King’s hunt.”

Roland nodded. Most likely Lord Drayden had been thrown from a horse, he thought, or had met with one of the old tuskers of the Dunnwood. The great boars were as tall as a horse, and skewered many a huntsman.

The thought had hardly passed, through his mind when a cry rang through the narrow stone halls of the Dedicate’s Keep. “The King is dead! Mendellas Draken Oden has fallen!” And from elsewhere in the keep, someone cried, “Sir Beaufort has died!” Some woman shouted, “Marris is fallen!”

Roland wondered why so many lords and knights were dying at once. It bespoke more than coincidence, more than an accident.

He’d finished pulling on his boot and shouted, “Lord Drayden has found his rest!” Then cries from the Dedicates of the Blue Tower came fast and furious as deaths were reported, too many names, too many knights and lords and common soldiers, for any man to keep track of.

Boars did not slay so many men at once. There had to have been a great battle. And as dozens of voices began to meld together as the fallen were named, he thought, Nay, not even a battle: This speaks of slaughter.

Roland rushed from his chamber into the narrow hall of the Dedicate’s Keep, found that his tiny berth stood at the top of a stairwell. A woman staggered out from a chamber nearby, massaging her hands, recently Restored from having given grace. Across a hall, another man blinked in amazement, gawking about. He’d given the use of his eyes to a lord

Sera Crier followed at Roland’s heels.

Shouts of grief rang through the Blue Tower, and, people raced down the stairs, toward the Great Hall.

The Blue Tower was ancient. Legend said it had not been built by men, for no man could have shaped and hefted rocks so massive as those that formed its barrier walls. Many thought the tower had been formed by a forgotten race of giants. The keep loomed thirty stories above the Caroll Sea. With its tens of thousands of rooms, the Blue Tower was a great sprawling city in itself. For at least three millennia it had housed the Dedicates of Mystarria, those who had given their wit or stamina or brawn, their metabolism or glamour or voice.

Roland darted around a group of people in the hall who stood in his way, pushed past a fat woman. Sera hurried to keep up. He took her hand, shoved his way through the clotted halls, nuzzling past others until at last he and Sera gazed over the edge of a balcony into the Great Hall, a fine chamber where thousands of Dedicates and servants were gathering.

There was much shouting and crying. Some people shouted for news, others wept openly for their love of a lost king. One old woman screamed as if her child had been torn from her breast and dashed against the flagstones.

“That’s old Laras. She’s a cook. Her boys are in the King’s retinue. They must be dead, too!” Sera said, confirming Roland’s thoughts.

Down in the great room the Dedicates who were now Restored gathered in a crushing crowd, along with the cooks and servants who normally attended them. A fight erupted as one burly fellow began pummeling another, and a general melee ensued. Those who wanted news shouted for everyone else in the crowd to hold silent. The resulting tumult filled the room, echoed from the walls.

The Great Hall had an enormous domed ceiling some seventy feet high, and balconies encircled the hall on five levels. At least three thousand former Dedicates were gathered in the hall. They spilled out of every doorway and stairwell, and leaned precariously over the oaken rails of the balconies.

Roland was hardly able to comprehend the scope of what was happening. Thousands of Dedicates Restored at once? How many valiant knights had died in battle? And so quickly!

Seven men of varying ages took seats around an enormous oak table. One man began to beat a huge brass candelabrum against the table, yelling; “Quiet! Quiet! Let us all hear the tale! The King’s Wits can give it best!”

These seven men were the King’s Wits, men who had endowed King Mendellas Draken Orden himself with the use of their minds, letting their skulls become vessels for another man’s memories. Though the King had died, fragments of his thoughts and recollections lived on in each of these Restored men. In days to come these men would probably become valued counselors to the new King.

After a moment, the screaming woman was pulled from the Great Hall, and the others stifled their sobs and their shouts. Sera Crier pressed against Roland’s back, half-climbed his shoulders to get a better view of the turmoil below.

It felt to Roland as if the crowd breathed in unison, every man and woman among them waiting expectantly to hear news of the battle.

The King’s Wits began to speak. The oldest among them was a graybeard named Jerimas. Roland had known him at court as a child but barely recognized him now.

Jerimas spoke first. “The King surely died in battle,” he said “I recall seeing a foe. A man of dark countenance, dressed in armor of the south. His shield bore the image of a red wolf with three heads.”

It was a scrap of memory, an image. Nothing more.

“Raj Ahten,” two of the other Wits said. “He was battling Raj Ahten, the Wolf Lord”

“No. Our king did not die in that battle,” a fourth Wit argued. “He fell from a tower. I remember falling.”

“He was joined in a serpent ring,” old Jerimas added. “He felt the pain of a forcible before he died.”

“He gave his metabolism,” another fellow croaked as if he were ill and could hardly speak. “They all gave metabolism. I saw twenty lords in a room. The light of the forcibles hung in the air like glowing worms, and men cried out in pain at their touch.”

“Yes, they had formed a ring. A serpent ring, so that they could battle Raj Ahten,” another Wit agreed.

“He was saving his son,” Jerimas said. “Now I recall. Prince Orden had gone for reinforcements...and was bringing an army to Longmot King Orden was wounded, and could battle no more, so he threw his life away, hoping to break the serpent ring, and thus save his son.”

Many of the King’s Wits nodded. Once, as a child, Roland and some friends had gone into an old ruin, a lord’s manor house. In ages past there had been a mosaic of colored files on the floor. Roland and his friends had sat one morning piecing together the tiles, trying to guess what picture they might make. It had been an image of a water wizard and dolphins as they battled a leviathan in the deep ocean.

Now, he watched as the King’s Wits picked up the files of Orden’s memory, similarly trying to piece them into a cohesive picture.

Another man shook his head in confusion and then added, “There is a great treasure at Longmot. All the kings of the north will want a...”

“Shhh..” several of the Wits hissed in unison. “Do not speak of that in public!”

“Orden battled to free Heredon!” one of the King’s Wits shouted at the fellow who mentioned the treasure. “He wanted no treasure. He fought for the land, and the people, he loved!”

After that, there was only silence for a long moment as the Wits considered. None of them could recall all of what Orden had known. A snippet here, a scrap there. An image, a thought, a single word. The pieces were there, but the King’s Wits, even doing their best, could hardly fit them together. Many crucial pieces would be missing—the memories that Orden had taken with him to his grave.

A king was dead.

Roland considered his duty, saw where it lay. In the land of Heredon, his king had died. In the land of Heredon, his own son served the new King.

“What of Prince Orden?” Roland shouted. “Was anyone here a Dedicate to the Prince?” Roland had never seen this prince, only knew of his existence because Sera Crier had mentioned him. King Orden had married only a week before Roland became a Dedicate.

For several heartbeats Roland waited. No one answered. None of the Prince’s Dedicates had been Restored.

Roland turned and thrust Sera. Crier away. He began pushing through the crowd, intending to leave the keep and go in search of a boat. He needed to leave the Blue Tower as quickly as possible. The King’s Wits might be hours telling their tale of woe. But within moments, he knew, others among the Restored would begin hurrying back to the mainland, to visit loved ones. He wanted to beat the others to the boats.

Sera grabbed his sleeve, held him. “Where are you going?” she asked. “Will you return?”

He glanced back into the crowd, saw Sera’s stricken face, blood leaching from it. He knew that his answer would not sound gentle to her ears, no matter how softly it was spoken, so he said bluntly, “I don’t know where I am going. I—I just need to get away from here. But I am never coming back.”

“But—”

He touched his forefinger to her lips. “You served me well, for many years.” Roland knew that men learn to love best those whom they serve most wholeheartedly. Sera Crier had cared for him for years, had lavished affection on him in his sleep, had perhaps dreamed of what he might do when he awakened.

Those who served in the Dedicate’s Keep were often stay children who performed menial chores in return for the barest necessities. If Sera remained, she’d likely wed some lad in the same predicament, and the two of them would raise them family here in the shadows of the Blue Tower. She might never walk on the green mainland under the full sun again; she would be forced to listen to the pounding of the surf and the calls of the gulls for the rest of her days. Clearly, Sera Crier hoped for something better. Yet Roland had nothing to offer her. “I thank you for your service, both for myself, and for my king,” he told her. “But I’m no longer a Dedicate, and have no place here.”

“I...I could come with you,” she suggested. “With so many men Restored, freed from their servitude today, no one would really miss me if I left.”

I am a good servant, he thought I give my all to my lord. You should do the same.

He squinted toward the nearest door, a dark passage crowded with bodies. He prepared mentally to shove past them all. He had few connections to the living. After twenty-one years of sleep, his king was dead. His mother and his uncle Jemin had been old even back then. In all likelihood, they were gone. Roland would never again see them. Though men would now call him “Restored,” in fact he felt he had been restored to nothing. He had only one thing left: a son to find.

“Sera,” he whispered, “take care of yourself. Perhaps someday we will meet again.”

Baron Poll wakened him. “Good morning to you all!”

Roland looked up. The sun was well over the hill, and Baron Poll stared down at him with a playful grin. He had a day-old loaf of bread in his hands, and he tore a piece off and munched contentedly.

Averan came awake, wrapped in the green woman’s arms. She turned over, gazed at the green woman. “What’s she been eating?”

Roland rose up half an inch. Earlier, in the predawn light, he’d not noticed the dried blood smeared liberally all over the green woman’s chin.

“It looks like she caught something,” Roland said.

“Not our horses,” Averan intoned with relief. The mounts were lying beneath the windfall.

“She didn’t catch a something,” Baron Poll said with evident gusto. “She caught a who. I’d say she waylaid him quite well. Come and see the evidence.”

“Some traveler?” Averan cried in dismay.

Baron Poll did not answer, merely turned and led them downhill. Roland leapt up, as did Averan, and they followed Baron Poll over the top of the hill. The green woman strode behind, apparently curious about the excitement.

“How did you find him?” Averan asked.

“I was searching for some fortunate sapling upon which to empty my bladder,” Baron Poll offered, “when I stumbled upon the remains.”

At just that moment, they reached a slight depression. The grisly sight that awaited them would be forever indelibly impressed upon Roland’s mind.

Averan did not cry out in horror as other children might have done. Instead, she went up to the remains and studied them with morbid fascination.

“He was creeping up on us, I’d say,” Baron Poll conjectured, “when she pounced on him from behind. See here, he had an arrow nocked, and a long knife. But it’s broken now.”

Roland had been the King’s butcher. He knew knives, and had bought one like this in the market once. “A khivar,” he corrected. The man had worn a black cotton burnoose under his robe. A broken necklace near his ragged throat was decorated with gold trade rings. “One of Raj Ahten’s assassins?”

“He had a little purse full of human ears,” Baron Poll confirmed. “I doubt he was a surgeon.”

Roland bent over and pulled the necklace of trade rings free, slipped them into his pocket. He glanced up at Baron Poll. The Baron grinned. “Now you’re learning, man. No use leaving them for the scavengers.”

“Blood,” the green woman said Then she said more softly, “Blood—no.” At that, Averan grinned wickedly and said in a loud voice, “Blood—yes!” She walked over to the corpse, pretended to wipe her finger in the mess, and said, “Good blood! Mmm...blood—yes!”

The green woman stared, the dawn of comprehension glowing in her eyes. She went over to the body, sniffed it. “Blood—yes.” But apparently she wanted none of it.

“She likes them fresh,” Roland suggested.

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” Baron Poll asked Averan. “Teaching her to kill people?”

“I’m not teaching her to kill,” Averan said. “I just don’t want her to feel guilty about what she did. She saved us. She didn’t do anything wrong!”

“Right, and because she’s got the blood lust out of her system, I’m sure she’ll be of cheery temperament all day,” Baron Poll said. “But of course, next time she’s hungry, she’ll just grab someone by the roadside.”

“No she won’t,” Averan said. “She’s very smart. I’m sure she, knows more than you think.” She reached out and scratched the green woman’s head, as if she were a dog.

“Oh, she’s smart all right,” Baron Poll said. “And the next time the High King levies taxes, I’ll have her right over to figure my dues.”

Averan glared at the Baron. “Baron Globbet, have you ever thought that maybe she could be of use to us? What if she killed this man because she knew he was trouble? What if there are more assassins on the road? She could kill them for us. She seems to have a strong nose, and they all smell like ginger and curry. She might smell them out. Don’t you think so, Roland?”

Roland merely shrugged

“I like a bit of curry myself,” Baron Poll argued. “And I don’t fancy the notion of having my innards ripped out because some inn chooses to serve it for dinner.

“Besides, she’s not smart,” Baron Poll continued. “I’ve seen crows that mimic your words as well as she does!”

Averan’s belief in the green woman seemed far-fetched, Roland thought, but the green woman had learned a lot of words this morning. Given a day or two, they might teach her to hunt.

More to the point, he wasn’t quite sure what they could do about her. He hadn’t had any luck at killing her yesterday.

They’d tried to outrun her, leave her after last night, and the green woman had merely loped after their mounts, shouting for blood.

No, the green woman was a problem, maybe one that only the King and his counselors could fathom. She was Averan’s charge for the moment, and Roland didn’t have any fancy notions about how to handle her.

14 Deyazz

Dawn found Sir Borenson far from Heredon. He’d spent most of the night riding south to Fleeds, and then to the Raven’s Pass.

Now he was racing Gaborn’s dun-colored mare through the red foothills above Deyazz, heading down roads that Jureem had named, but still unsure of his destination. The name Obran was a contraction of two Indhopalese words: obir, to age, and ran, city of the king. It was best translated as “City of the Ancient King.” It sounded like the name for the capital of a province. But Borenson had never heard of the damned place, and Jureem’s directions would lead him only to the northern borders of the Great Salt Desert, a home to Muttayin nomads. It seemed an unlikely place to find a palace.

Jureem assured him that he would need a guide to show him the palace’s location; the guide would have to be a minor lord himself. Borenson carried a standard in his left hand—the green pennant of truce above the Sylvarresta boar.

The morning air was bracing, invigorating. His steed ran long and far between each stop for rest. The breath came cold from Borenson’s mouth, and his armor rang with each hoofbeat of his mount. The horse worked its lungs like a bellows. The roads hereabout were narrow and treacherous. Rocks sometimes rolled downhill from above.

Despite the danger, Borenson raced his mount at speeds of up to fifty miles per hour.

The landscape below him was a vast savanna dotted with drab olive-green trees. The grasses were the color of sand where the red clay did not show through. A single broad river silvered the landscape on the edge of the horizon, and cities of tents and adobe glittered at its border, with fields of wheat and orchards of oranges and almonds all along the watercourse. He had not yet passed a village. The citizens of Deyazz lived only along its great rivers.

He’d passed through the mountains during the night with surprisingly little resistance. Several times he’d met small caravans filled with merchants heading north. Yet it was too late in the season for them to be coming for trade. He could think of only one reason they would trek north: They were refugees fleeing Indhopal, eager to see the Earth King.

Once he’d circled a large army bivouacked in a mountain pass. Though he’d borne a torch on the pole of his standard, so that, all might see that he flew the colors of truce, three assassins had chased him.

But Borenson rode a kingly mount, one that this week had been given two more endowments of metabolism and two of sight, so that it would run swiftly and with clear vision, even by starlight. He’d outraced his pursuers with nothing more than an arrow that snapped off in his mail to show for the trouble.

Yet even Borenson could not outrace the doubts that nagged him.

He worried that he had been too harsh when he’d said goodbye to Myrrima. She may have been right when she said that he punished both himself and her for his murders.

The road ahead to Inkarra and his mission in Obran were also cause for apprehension.

He worried most of all for Gaborn. The lad was naive to think that he could sue for peace or seek to bribe Raj Ahten. King Orwynne had been right. Gaborn could have better spent his time using his forcibles to prepare for war.

Borenson had always imagined that when an Earth King appeared, he would be a stately fellow with the wisdom of the ages on his brow. He’d be as strong as the hills, with muscles as gnarled and as powerful as tree roots. He’d have the respect of all, and a certain implacable demeanor.

The Earth King he’d always imagined bore absolutely no resemblance to Gaborn.

Gaborn had no great skill in battle, no vast stores of wisdom. He was but an unskilled lad who loved his people.

But he had an asset that Borenson had seldom considered. He recalled the words of Gaborn’s father in discussing what would happen if he ever went to battle with a certain duke in Beldinook who was giving him trouble. He’d said, “Duke Trevorsworthy I can handle. It’s his wife and that damned Sergeant Arrants who terrify me.”

Borenson had laughed at the idea of a king being terrified of a woman and a mere sergeant, but the King had-cut him short. “The wife is a brilliant tactician, and Sergeant Arrants is perhaps the most inspired artilleryman I’ve ever seen. He could build a catapult out of a butter churn that would knock down a castle wall or put an iron ball between your eyes at four hundred yards.”

Then he’d taught Borenson this lesson: “Remember, a lord is never a single man. He is the sum of all the men in his retinue. When you fight a lord, you must consider the strengths of each man that he commands before you can get a true measure of his stature.”

Borenson therefore had to consider Gaborn’s human assets. There were thousands of gentlemen of various rank and title in Mystarria:, everything from petty lords to Gaborn’s wise great-uncle Paladane. Some were sailors or builders, men who commanded great hordes of peasants in the field, men who trained horses or hammered shields. A nation’s strength had to be measured by more than its warriors.

And if one measured a lord by the strengths of the men that he commanded, the Earth could have done no better than to choose Gaborn. Mystarria was the largest, wealthiest nation in Rofehavan.

Perhaps the Earth had chosen Gaborn, in part, because of the strength of his people.

If that was true, then the Earth had not merely chosen Gaborn to be Earth King on his own merits, it had chosen Gaborn because it knew that Borenson could be counted on to be the Earth King’s protector.

That notion startled Borenson, and humbled him. For it meant that he might be more tightly entangled in this whole affair than he’d imagined.

It meant also that perhaps the Earth required his best efforts. It might even mean that Borenson needed to protect Gaborn from himself.

Borenson considered the kind of man he ought to be. Gaborn would need a man who would stand up to the reavers when they issued from their caves. He’d need a man who knew Gaborn’s weaknesses, and who would not despise him for being only a young man, instead of a proper Earth King.

Such thoughts drove Borenson as he rode into Deyazz, racing along the narrow mountain trails. He rounded a bend as a flock of crows flew up from the road. Suddenly, on the hairpin turn before him, a troop of soldiers a hundred strong came riding.

The road to the right was too steep to climb. To the left it was nearly a vertical fall. His horse was wise enough to skid to a halt before Borenson thought to draw in the reins.

Yet the animal had been trained to hate the colors of Raj Ahten’s troops. It pawed a hoof in the air and stamped and snorted and fought at the bit upon seeing so many golden surcoats sporting the crimson trio of wolf heads.

The captain of the troop was an Invincible, a big man with a crooked nose, pocked skin, and glowering dark eyes. He carried a long-handled horseman’s mace. At his back, several men drew bows.

Behind him, Borenson suddenly heard the beat of horses’ hooves. He glanced back up the road. Another troop of lancers rode in behind him. They must have come down off the hill above. He’d never even seen their scout.

Trapped. He was trapped.

“Where do you go, red hair?” the Invincible asked

“I carry a message from the Earth King, and come under the banner of truce.”

“Raj Ahten is not here in Indhopal, as you well know,” the big fellow said. “He is in Mystarria. You would trouble yourself less to ride back to your own lands.”

Borenson nodded in acquiescence, eyes half-closed in sign of respect.

“My message is not for Raj Ahten:’ Borenson said. “I carry a message to the Palace of Concubines in Obran to a woman named Saffira, the daughter of the Emir of Tuulistan.”

The Invincible tilted his head in thought. He clearly was not prepared for such news. Behind him, an old man in a fine gray silk burnoose, beneath a yellow traveling robe, whispered to the captain’s ear, “Sabbis etolo! Verissa oan.” Kill him! He seeks forbidden fruit.

Borenson fastened his eyes on the old man. He was obviously not a soldier, merchant, or traveler, but a sort of counselor to Raj Ahten. Most probably he held the rank of kaif—which would be translated as “old man” or “elder.” More importantly, he seemed to be Borenson’s adversary.

“It is forbidden fruit to look upon the concubines,” Borenson said “I had not heard that it is forbidden fruit to deliver a message.”

The old fellow glared at Borenson and looked askance, as if to argue with one of his rank were an affront.

“You speak truly,” the Invincible said. “Though I am surprised that you have heard of the palace at Obran. Among the hundred here, only the kaifba and I have ever heard it” Kaifba. Great elder. “Then may I deliver my message?”

“What need has a messenger for armor and weapons?” the Invincible asked.

“The mountain passes are dangerous. Your assassins did not respect the banner of truce.”

“Are you sure they were my assassins?” the Invincible asked, as if Borenson had affronted him. “The mountains are full of robbers, and men who are worse.” The Invincible knew damned well that they were his assassins. He looked pointedly at Borenson’s war axe and armor.

Borenson dropped his shield. He unsheathed his axe, threw it to the roadside. Then he pulled off his helm and ring mail, dropped them also.

“There, are you satisfied?” Borenson asked.

“A messenger has no need of endowments,” the Invincible said. “Take off your tunic, so that I may see whose strengths you wear.”

Borenson stripped off his tunic, showed the jagged white scars where the forcibles had kissed him thirty-two times. Stamina, brawn, grace, metabolism, wit. All were here.

The Invincible grunted. “You say you are a messenger for a king, yet you bear a blank shield like a Knight Equitable. Often they come to kill my lord’s Dedicates. Yet I must ask myself, what Knight Equitable would be so stupid as to ride in plain sight like this? And now I must ask myself, what Knight Equitable has so many endowments?”

“My name is Borenson, and I was once guard to the Earth King. Now I am a blank shield, free to do as I wish, and right now I wish to bring the Earth King’s message and sue for peace.” He sat in his saddle, breathing hard, defiant. Without arms or armor, he would be no match for even this one Invincible, much less the others. They had him at their mercy.

“Assassin,” the men in the ranks muttered, and they eyed him darkly. One man said, “take him to the precipice, teach him how to fly!”

But the kaifba muttered, “You tell an interesting story, hard to prove, hard to disprove. You know of the Palace of the Concubines, when no man of your country has ever heard of it. And I have not heard of this Saffira, though I know that the Emir has many daughters.” He seemed secure in the knowledge that if she were a person of import, he would have known her name.

“It is forbidden fruit to speak her name in your land,” Borenson said. “I learned it from a man who once served as a counselor to the Great Light himself—Jureem. He now sits at the elbow of the Earth King and counsels him.” A kaifba would surely know Jureem, who had been Raj Ahten’s high counselor.

“What is your message?” the kaifba asked “Tell it to me, and perhaps I will give it to her.”

Among the Deyazz, a message might easily be delivered by a second without giving affront to either the sender or receiver of the message. But Borenson knew that gifts had to be given in person. “I bear a gift, a favor, for Saffira,” Borenson said, “along with the message.”

“Show me the gift,” the kaifba said. Among royalty, a gift of gold or perfume might have been an acceptable favor to offer before asking a boon. Borenson wondered if such items might not tempt these soldiers. The men shifted uneasily on their mounts.

He reached into his saddlebags, picked up as many forcibles in one hand as he could. He held perhaps seventy. “It is the gift of beauty. Seven hundred forcibles of glamour. Three hundred of Voice.”

The soldiers began to talk excitedly. Forcibles were worth far more than their weight in gold

“Silence!” the Invincible shouted sternly at his men.

Then he turned a deadly glare upon Borenson and demanded, “Tell me the message.”

“I am to say to her, ‘Though I hate my cousin, the enemy of my cousin is my enemy.’ And then I am to ask her to bear this message for us to Raj Ahten, in the name of the Earth King.”

“Kill him,” the kaifba whispered. Some of the soldiers urged the same. Their horses stamped their feet, feeling the tension in the air, the electric thrill.

Borenson steeled himself for a deathblow. He did not doubt that if the kaifba ordered his death, the others would fulfill that order.

But the captain of the Invincibles tilted his head to the side and considered, ignoring the command, as only a military officer might.

After a long moment, he ventured, “And you think the Great Light of Indhopal will listen?”

“It is only a hope,” Borenson said. “The Earth King is Raj Ahten’s cousin by marriage now. And we have word that reavers are attacking Kartish and the south of Mystarria. The Earth King hopes to put aside this conflict, now that greater enemies confront us.”

The Invincible nodded, said, “These sound like the words of an Earth King. He sues for peace. My grandfather always said that if an Earth King were to arise, ‘He will be great in war, but greater in peace.“ ‘

He glanced at the kaifba, and the old man glared at him, angry that the captain did not kill Borenson outright.

“You will deliver your message,” the Invincible said. “But only if you consent to wear manacles while in our land. You must vow not to break our laws. You may not enter into the palace, and you may not look upon a concubine. Also, I will ride at your side at all times. Do you agree?”

Borenson nodded.

In moments, a fellow brought the manacles—huge iron affairs, made especially to bind men who had endowments of brawn—and he locked them onto Borenson’s wrists.

Then he chained the manacles around Borenson’s back, so that he could not lift his hands.

When the fellow was done, Borenson expected him to offer the Invincible a key. But he did not.

Instead, the Invincible took the reins to Borenson’s mount and began walking it down the mountain.

“Do you have the key to the manacles?” Borenson asked.

The Invincible shook his head. “I do not need one. A smith will remove the manacles—if it ever proves necessary ”

Borenson got an uneasy feeling. A new fear took him. Raj Ahten seldom killed men. He did not steal their lives. He stole their endowments.

A man like Borenson would be a prize.

The Invincible smiled coldly when he saw that Borenson had understood.

Borenson had surrendered without a fight.

15 The Scattering

At dawn, after a night of fitful sleep, Iome wakened to a voice ringing in her mind. “Arise, all you Chosen who reside at Castle Sylvarresta. A Darkling Glory comes, and time is not great. You must prepare to flee into the Dunnwood. Arise.”

The effect was astonishing. Iome had never felt so completely...dominated by the will of another. The voice rang inside her skull like a bell, and every fiber in her sought to obey. Every muscle seemed to react.

Her heart pounded wildly, and she gasped for breath. She leapt from the bed, grabbing only a quilt to throw around her shoulders, scattering the pups that had slept beside her.

All right, I’ve risen! she thought distractedly. Now what?

Run! she decided in a blind panic. The Darkling Glory is coming.

She would have raced away from the castle in that quilt alone but she realized that it was too immodest. She leapt to her wardrobe and threw on a chemise and skirt, along with a traveling robe and her riding boots, while her five yellow pups circled her and yelped and leapt and wagged their tails, wondering what new game this might be.

She thought only of the stables, tried to determine the quickest route to her stables and her mount. She was about to flee the castle with nothing else in hand when she stopped cold.

Wait, she thought, panting. Binnesman had said that the Darkling Glory would not arrive until tonight. Which meant that she had all day to make good her escape.

Yet the Earth King had warned her through his powers, had warned everyone in and around the city to arise and flee. No, not to flee, to “prepare” to flee.

As she considered, she realized what a feat it would be. There were tents to move, and animals, baggage, and stores by the wagonload. Worse than that, people had been traveling to Castle Sylvarresta from all across Heredon and environs beyond. Never had the city hosted more than a hundred thousand people, yet now the fields around the castle were cluttered with seven times that number. If everyone fled at once, every road out of town would be jammed

Gaborn had decided to warn them all now so that he could give them a head start. Instead of running for the forest, as every instinct warned her to do, Iome stooped and stroked each of her pups for a moment. Outside, she heard a few thousand people crying out in dismay, and the sounds of the people camped outside the castle rose to a dull roar. Gaborn had warned them only to prepare, yet it sounded as if the mob were panicking. Iome closed the pups inside her room, and raced to the top of the King’s Keep.

There she found Gaborn staring out over the city: The place was bedlam.

Thousands of people were running for the Dunnwood, screaming and crying, many carrying nothing but the clothes on their backs. Others tore down their pavilions as quickly as possible. Horses bucked and grew frightened, racing from their desperate owners. Yet not everyone did as Gaborn had commanded. Many among the camp had not yet been Chosen, and therefore had not heard Gaborn’s command. Thousands of these raced for the castle, as if to seek verbal orders or possibly defend the keep. Others had decided that running north, away from the Dunnwood, was more sensible. They blindly surged toward the town of Eels, some two and a half miles north of Sylvarresta.

At the far edge of the camp, King Orwynne had mounted some five hundred knights, and another thousand lords of Heredon stood with him, prepared to head south. They included every lord or knight among Gaborn’s retinue who could command a force horse.

It was not a large force to send against Raj Ahten, but a powerful one, comprised only of those warriors who rode force horses capable of traveling two hundred miles a day. The warriors looked eager to ride as they awaited Gaborn, many of them glancing back over the camps.

Yet the Earth King stood on his tower, awestruck, dismayed at he madness he had caused by issuing his warning through the earth powers. Gaborn wore a simple shirt of horseman’s mail beneath his cape, and had put on his riding boots. But he had not yet donned his helm, so that his dark hair hung down to his shoulders.

“What are you doing?” Iome demanded. “You nearly frightened me to death! You nearly frightened all of us to death.” She put one hand over her chest, vainly trying to still her heart, to calm her breathing.

“I’m sorry,” Gaborn said. “I’d hoped it would go better. I’ve been fighting the urge to issue the warning all night. I had to give them as much time as possible to flee, but I dared not have them running blindly in the darkness. I don’t want to panic them.”

His tone was so apologetic that Iome knew he meant it He was concerned only with the welfare of his people.

Suddenly his voice rang through her mind again. “Calm yourselves. You have the whole day. Work together. Save the old and the young and the infirm. Get as far from the castle as you can by nightfall.”

People were still running, though many of them stopped and tried to obey his newest command.

He pointed down to the roiling mass of fling tents and fleeing citizenry. “You see what happened? Many of those people camped by the river came out of West Heredon, and they would have trampled everyone in camp as they dashed for their homes.

“And down there, see that red pavilion where the children are crying? Their mother and father fled without them! I applaud the parents obedience, but I had hoped for a more measured response.

“Yet I Chose the man and woman in the tent next to them, and neither of them have bestirred themselves to get out of their beds at all, as far as I can tell! They must be packing, I think, but what if the danger were more immediate? Should I applaud them for their measured response, or will they someday die because of it?

“And see up there, many people have reached the edge of the Dunnwood already, and now they mill about in confusion, unsure what to do next. And others may not stop running—no matter what I say—until they faint from exhaustion. Who among them is right? Those who follow the very letter of my command, or those who strive too hard?

“And over there, you see that old woman struggling to escape? She must be ninety. She cannot possibly walk more than two miles in a day. Do you think anyone will help her?”

As Gaborn studied the swirling miasma of humanity, his mouth gaped open in astonishment and horror.

Iome understood now. He was so new to his power, so unused to it, that he wielded it clumsily. He could not afford to wield it so. His power was like a sword, a weapon that was only useful if the arm that wielded it could parry and thrust with accuracy. He was trying to learn his strokes now.

And so much depended on those strokes—the lives of every man, woman, and child in this vast throng.

But even as she watched, she realized that he witnessed an even greater horror. As Earth King, he had power to warn his people, but he could not force them to obey. He could not compel them to act in their own best interests.

With the issuing of his second command, the confusion began to ease. Gaborn sent them a third warning, asking them to calm themselves and care for one another. People all took a moment to stop and stare up at Gabon. Tents and pavilions still fell with marvelous rapidity, but now parents raced back to their children, while strangers went to help the elderly. Iome no longer worried that people in the lead might be crushed under the feet of those behind.

Gaborn nodded in approval, turned to Iome and hugged her.

“Are you leaving now?” she asked, not wanting him to go.

“Yes,” he said. “King Orwynne and the others are already mounted, and we have far to travel today. Few of the horses will be able to handle such a pace. I’ve sent messengers to Queen Herin the Red and on into Beldinook, asking them each to host us for a day. We’ll travel without cooks or any other camp followers.”

Iome nodded. It would be a hard march without any camp followers, without cooks or washwomen or tents or squires to care for the armor and animals. Yet if they were to travel quickly, they’d have to make do. In troubled times like these, no lord would dare refuse to feed his company. They’d be glad for the reinforcements, and a night’s food and lodging would be small recompense.

Then Gaborn asked something unexpected. “Will you ride with me?” It was not common for a lord to take his wife to war, but it was not common for a lord to desert his wife within six months of the wedding, either. She suspected that it was a hard thing for him to ask

“You ask me to come now?” she said. “You could have asked me hours ago. I’d have been ready.”

“I looked in on you hours ago. You slept fitfully, and you don’t have the stamina to go without sleep and then ride all day. So I had the idea of asking Jureem to stay a few hours this morning and take notes, watch the camp and learn what he can, so that next time I must warn a city to flee, I’ll know how to do it. I thought that you could stay with him, then ride later this morning. Your horses are fast enough so that you should catch up quickly.”

“May I bring Myrrima?” Iome asked. “She’ll want to come, too. I’ll need a lady to keep me company.”

Gaborn frowned slightly. He would not want to take another lord’s wife on what might prove to be a dangerous journey, but saw his wife’s need to follow the rules of propriety. “Of course.”

He stared, his dark blue eyes gauging her. “I saw the pups in bed with you.”

“You weren’t there,” she said in her own defense. “I needed something to keep me warm.”

“Are the nights so cold?”

“‘The Knights are Hot in Heredon,“ ‘ she said, quoting the title of a bawdy ballad that she’d never heard openly sung in her presence.

Gaborn laughed uproariously and his face reddened. “So, my wife wants to be a wolf lord and slouch about alehouses now, singing bawdies and showing her legs!” Gaborn said. “Queen of the byways! People will say I’m a bad influence.”

“Do you disapprove?”

Gaborn smiled. “No. If I did not have my endowments already, I might have slept with some pups last night. I’m...relieved that you accepted Duke Groverman’s gift. He will be delighted that he has served you so well.” Gaborn considered for a moment. “I’ll have the treasurer set aside forcibles for your personal use. A hundred should do.”

“I will have Jureem bring some extra puppies for you, too, then,” Iome said. “You are going into battle soon.”

Iome grabbed him and kissed him on impulse, then suddenly realized she was kissing him here on the tower, while probably not less than ten thousand eyes were watching. She pushed back in embarrassment. “Sorry,” she said. “The people are staring.”

“They saw us kiss at the wedding,” Gaborn said, “and as I recall, some cheered.” He kissed her again. “Until this afternoon, then?”

“Thank you,” she replied.

Gaborn bit his lip, smiled worriedly, and said, “Never thank a man for taking you into battle until after the war is over.”

Then he turned and raced down the hatch at the top of the tower. In moments she saw him striding out of the keep, along the cobbled streets to the King’s Gate, then he was lost as he moved down to the blackened corner of Market Street, where he’d killed the flameweaver last week. Masons had been hard at work repairing the damage to the buildings there, but cleaning and replacing the stone faces of the market would take months or years, and already the place was being referred to by the locals as the “Black Corner.” Iome imagined that four hundred years from now, strangers getting directions to some establishment would be told, “Aye, the silversmith’s shop is up on the Black Corner, toward the portcullis,” and everyone would understand what it meant.

If we are lucky enough to live so long, she thought.

Then she got to work. She packed her own things, then had some servants and a new guardsman—a powerful young lad named Sir Donnor out of Castle Donyeis—go with her to the King’s treasury to remove all the gold and precious spices and armor and forcibles.

Gaborn had taken twenty thousand forcibles south to return to Raj Ahten, in hopes that the Wolf Lord would agree to his terms for a truce. Yet he still had ten thousand forcibles in the treasury, along with other gifts that had been given recently by lords of Heredon. The gifts included plate mail for Gaborn and barding for Gaborn’s horse given by Duke Mardon upon their wedding, but which Gaborn would not take into this battle, because of its onerous weight. In addition, there was a good deal of gold and spices given in revenue, for the harvest taxes were normally paid during the week of Hostenfest. The sum total amounted to several thousand pounds of treasure. So she had the servants quietly haul it all up to the tombs, where she locked it in the vault among the bones of her grandparents.

This feat in itself took her two hours, and when she had finished, the thought struck her that she ought to check on Binnesman, for she had not yet seen him, and she worried that he might need the help of some servants before they all left the city.

When she went to his room down in the basement of the keep, he was not there, though a fire burned in an old hearth, and the air smelled heavily of simmering verbenaan herb with a lemony scent, often decocted to make perfumes. Indeed the fresh fragrance filled the whole basement, and smelled like liquid sunshine. In the buttery Iome found Chancellor Rodderman’s daughter, a sharp-eyed girl of eight, who had stayed in the keep while her father made certain that it was properly evacuated. The girl reported that Binnesman had left at dawn, saying that he would search the manor gardens down in the city for goldenbay, succory, and faith raven.

Iome abandoned that concern for a moment. Instead she made her way to the Dedicate’s Keep, to make sure that the Dedicates had been evacuated

In the past week the keep had become a different place. Sir Borenson, acting upon the orders of Gaborn’s father, had slain all of the Dedicates here, for Raj Ahten had forced her father’s troops to grant him endowments, thus seizing attributes from thousands of Sylvarresta’s people. Borenson’s had been a horrific deed, and though part of Iome was grateful that someone had had the courage to do it, another part of her was still shocked and saddened. Many of the Dedicates had been servants who’d offered the use of their minds or brawn, stamina, or metabolism into the service of King Sylvarresta. Their only crime had been to love their lord and seek to serve him as best they were able. Yet when the knights to whom they had granted endowments were captured, forced to grant endowments of their own, the Dedicates had become converted to the use of a monster like Raj Ahten. Since no one could hope to slay Raj Ahten, his enemies best hope was to weaken him which meant slaughtering the enfeebled and innocent Dedicates. Borenson’s feat had been a grisly task, killing fools who did not know that their own deaths were upon them, butchering those who had given metabolism in their endless slumber, murdering those so weak from having given brawn so that they could not even raise their hands to ward off a blow.

Borenson had been cold and distant to her and Gaborn since that night. He did not handle the guilt well.

And as Iome walked through the bailey that served as the courtyard to the Dedicate’s Keep, she did not handle her own memories of this place well, either. The high narrow walls around the keep made it feel suffocating. The Dedicate’s Keep carried too many dark memories.

Only a couple of small trees, stunted by lack of light, grew within the bailey. A week past, Iome’s mother had lain here, her body hidden from sight after Raj Ahten murdered her. And after her father had given his endowment of wit to the Wolf Lord, Iome had stayed here a day serving him, though he did not know his own daughter to look at her. For not only was he witless, but she had given her own endowment of glamour to Raj Ahten’s vector, and so had become ugly.

Iome crossed the bailey but dared not enter the keep itself, for fear that it would arouse too many memories of lost friends, for fear that she would find herself looking for bloodstains on the mats and on the floors. Although the steward assured her the beds had all been burned and the floors, walls, and—by the Powers—ceilings had been scrubbed spotless, she could not willfully try to imagine what it had looked like.

At last she sent Sir Donnor into the keep proper to find Myrrima, while she waited in the courtyard with her Days.

Several wains were parked in the courtyard and Iome watched a few guards leading the blind to one wain, carrying those who had given grace or brawn to another. They were a sad-looking lot, these people who had offered to become cripples in service to their king.

A moment later Sir Donnor exited the keep and assured Iome that Myrrima had attended to her mother and sisters, and even now was packing in her own room.

Iome bade Sir Donnor go to the stables and prepare their mounts, then went to inform Myrrima that they would leave together, heading south with her husband. Iome wasn’t surprised to find Myrrima with her pups yapping at her feet, and a longbow with a quiver full of deadly looking arrows and a wrist guard on her bed. But she was surprised to find Myrrima trying on a rather shabby, heavily quilted old vest that looked fit to be worn only while scrubbing floors.

“Do you think it smashes my breasts down enough” Myrrima asked.

Iome stared at Myrrima in frank surprise and said, “If you want smashed breasts, rocks might work better.”

Myrrima made a sour face. “I’m serious.”

“All right, smashed enough for what?”

“So that they don’t get in the way when I shoot!”

Iome had never fired a bow, though she knew ladies who had, and she recognized Myrrima’s predicament.

“I’ve got a leather riding vest in my wardrobe that might work better. I’ll get it for you,” Iome offered.

Then she told Myrrima that they would both be riding south. Myrrima seemed both astonished and genuinely gladdened by the prospect of following the men to war.

An hour later, Myrrima and Iome had a good breakfast with Iome’s Days and Sir. Donnor, but by ten in the morning Binnesman had still not come back to his room, So they sent to the stables for their horses and prepared to ride out, leaving little undone. Iome’s puppies were left in the King’s kitchen, until she felt sure that she would depart.

In all the confusion, Iome still had not talked to Jureem. When she reached the city gate, she found him shouting at people who loafed outside the castle.

Iome had imagined that by now everyone would have fled the grounds outside Castle Sylvarresta, but it was not so. As she looked through the city gates, she realized that the roads to the south and to the west, the roads heading into the Dunnwood, were jammed with carts and oxen and peasants, many of whom had given up on the notion of travel and were just milling about. Of the pavilions near the castle, a full quarter of them still stood, and many of their occupants seemed not to be interested in going anywhere at all.

Jureem had his hands full. Though he was a fine servant—perhaps the most capable servant she’d ever met, he could not do the impossible.

And the situation before him was clearly impossible. A full five thousand petty lords and knights and even some peasants with nothing more than longbows to use as weapons had besieged the gates of the castle and demanded entrance. The city guard—about forty men—barred their way.

“What’s going on?” Iome demanded.

“Your Highness,” Jureem explained, “these men have decided that they want to guard the castle walls.”

“But...” Iome could think of nothing to say for a moment. “But Gaborn told everyone to flee.”

“I know!” Jureem said. “But they choose not to listen.”

It astonished her that a vassal would disobey the command of his king. She looked to Sir Donnor, as if for an answer. But the blond lad merely glared at the troublemakers. She gazed out over the throng. “Is this true?” she asked. “Are none of you Chosen? Did you not hear the commands?”

At that, hundreds of men looked away in shame. Though they might stand up to Jureem, a mere servant, they would not do so to Iome.

Baffled, she said. “Do you even know what a Darkling Glory is? Can, you guess its powers?”

One man, a petty lord she recognized as Sir Barrows, stepped up. “We’ve heard of Glories and Bright Ones—we all have,” he said. “And if the old tales be true, they can die in battle, same as a man. So we was thinking we could stand fast on the battlements with the siege engines—the ballistas and catapults and steel bows, and kill it before it even lands.”

“Are you daft?” Iome shouted, astonished by the man. “I know you are all courageous, but are you also daft? Did you not hear your lord’s command? He told you to flee!”

“Of course we heard, Your Highness,” Sir Barrows replied, “but surely that command was meant mainly for women and the little ones. We’re all strong men here!”

At that, the men all shook their spears and axes and raised their shields and shouted in a great cry that echoed from the hills.

Iome stared in utter amazement. They had heard the word of the Earth King and had decided to keep their own counsel. She turned to the captain of the King’s Guard and commanded, “Place two hundred archers on the wall. Shoot any of these men who comes within bow range.”

“Milady!” Sir Barrows said in a hurt tone.

“I’m not your lady,” Iome turned on him and shouted viciously. “If you will not follow my lord’s word, then you are not his servant, and you are doomed to die, all of you! I may applaud your valor, but I will curse your foolishness; and I will punish it, if I must!”

“Your Highness!” Sir Barrows said, dropping to his knees, as if awaiting her order. After a moment, the others fell in line and followed his example, though some were slower to bend the knee than others.

She turned on Jureem. “Why are people milling about on the roads” she asked. “Can’t they get away from the city?”

“The slower travelers get in their way,” Jureem said “Many of the carts are heavily laden, and some have broken axles or lost wheels, so everyone must move around them.”

Iome turned to the troops that knelt before the castle gate. “Sir Barrows, send a thousand men up each road and have them clear the carts of those who are stranded. Put them to work fixing wheels and axles. As for those folk who have chosen to remain afield, go find out why they are here. If they have valid reasons to stay, I want to know. If they don’t have good reasons to stay, tell them that you have orders to kill anyone found within five miles of the castle within the hour.”

“Your Highness,” Sir Barrows cried in astonishment. “Do you really want us to kill them?”

Iome felt bewildered by his stupidity. But then she remembered that Gaborn had said earlier in the week that he thought it wrong to ever curse a man for being a fool, for fools could not help themselves and were forever at the mercy of the cunning. “You shan’t need to kill them,” she warned. “The Darkling Glory will do it for you.”

Sir Barrows opened his mouth in sudden comprehension. “It will be done, Your Highness.” He turned and began shouting orders.

Jureem bowed his pudgy figure to her, the decorative hem of his golden silk robes sweeping the dust. “Thank you, Your Highness. I was not able to reason with them, and I dared not disturb you.”

“Next time, dare,” she said.

“There are other matters,” Jureem said.

“Such as?”

“Hundreds of people are too ill to run. Some are too old, too infirm; some are mothers who have given birth in the past few hours, or warriors who were injured in yesterday’s games. They have asked permission to take cover in the castle. I’ve had them carried to the inns until we can decide what to do.”

“Can we load them on wagons?” Iome asked.

“I’ve had physics talk to those who can speak at all. Anyone who could be loaded on a wagon has already gone. Some physics have offered to stay and tend the ill.”

Iome licked her lips, grimaced in despair. Of course they could not be moved. Such people could not move five miles—or a more appropriate fifty—in a day. “Let them stay,” she said. “Some will have to stay hidden.”

She wondered if she should order the physics away, for she feared to lose such highly skilled men and women, but she also dared not deny the sick and the dying whatever succor she could give.

As she considered what to do, Binnesman came strolling through the crowd of warriors from someplace outside of the city. A sack on his back was overstuffed with goldenbay leaves.

Though it was still morning, already Binnesman looked spent. “Let them stay, Your Highness,” he shouted, “but not in the uppermost rooms of the inns. Go instead to the deepest cellars, well below ground. I shall come put runes on the doors to help conceal them, and I’ll leave some herbs that might offer protection.”

Iome felt more relieved to see Binnesman than reasoning could account for. As Binnesman approached, she understood why. Often in the past, she’d felt the earth power that pooled within him, a slightly disturbing power that spoke of birth and growth and that filled her with creative longings. But this morning he must have been casting strong protective spells, for she felt as a harried rider might when fleeing enemies and suddenly has found himself safely within a castle’s walls.

That is it, she realized. This morning she felt safe in his presence. “You look over-worn. Can I do anything to help you?”

“Yes,” Binnesman said. “I would be less worried for you, Your Highness, if you would flee the city like everyone else.”

But Iome glanced out over the fields. “Not everyone has left, and I can’t go until I’ve done everything possible to ensure that my people are safe.”

Binnesman harrumphed. “That sounds like something your husband would say.” But his tone carried no hint of disapproval. He studied her and Myrrima a moment. “There is something you could do, though I hesitate to ask.”

“Anything,” Iome said.

“Do you have a fine opal you would be willing to give me?” Binnesman asked. His tone suggested that she would never see it again.

“My mother had a necklace and some earrings.”

“With the proper enchantment, they can be powerful wards against creatures of darkness,” Binnesman said.

“Then you shall have them, if I can pry them loose from their mounts.”

“Get them,” Binnesman said. “The larger and brighter the stone, the better the protection, and opal easily breaks.”

“I’ll get them,” she said. She had forgotten to move them to the treasury, she now realized. Her mother’s jewelry chest was still hidden behind her desk in her room.

“You’ll find me at the inns,” Binnesman said “Time is short.”

Iome and Myrrima rode back up to the King’s Keep, and ascended to the topmost room. Sit Donnor and Iome’s Days did not dare enter Iome’s bedroom, and remained in the alcove outside.

The jewelry chest held Iome’s mother’s formal crown, a simple but elegant affair of silver with diamonds. Besides the crown, there were dozens and dozens of pairs of earrings, brooches, bracelets, anklets, and necklaces.

Iome found the necklace she recalled. It was made of silver inlaid with twenty matched white opals. A large, brilliant stone mounted on a silver pendant made up its centerpiece.

Iome’s mother had said that Iome’s father had purchased the stones when he’d traveled to Indhopal to ask for her hand in marriage.

Iome wondered at that. Her father had ridden halfway; across the world to find his mother. It seemed a romantic journey, to travel so far, though Gaborn had done no less for her.

Yet somehow the romantic ardor of Iome’s marriage to Gaborn felt diluted by the fact that their fathers had been best friends, and had both long desired the union. Marrying Gaborn felt a little like marrying the boy next door, even though she hadn’t met him until ten days ago.

As she looked through her mother’s chest of jewels, Iome found other opals. The large chest had served the queens of House Sylvarresta for generations, and it held items that her mother had never worn. She discovered a brooch of fire opals set like eyes in a trio of fish made of tarnished copper. Also an old teardrop pendant had an opal that shone in hues of vivid green.

She took these, since they had the largest stones, then handed them to Myrrima, since she was the one with the vest pockets. “Let us hope these will do.”

She put her mother’s jewels back into the chest, then scooted it under her bed.

When she finished, she looked out the oriel window, across the castle.

The streets of the city lay empty, silent. For the first time in her life, she did not see the smoke of even one single cooking fire rising from a chimney in town. In the distance, she saw tents folding out on the fields. Now that the knights were threatening to kill her people, they were fleeing, racing away.

Suddenly the scene below seemed familiar.

“I dreamt this,” Iome said.

“You dreamt what?” Myrrima asked.

“I dreamt of this, last week when Gaborn and I were riding south to Longmot, or I dreamt something very near. I dreamt that Raj Ahten was coming to destroy us, and everyone in the castle turned to thistledown and floated up and away on the wind, up beyond his grasp.”

The people scattering in all directions reminded her of thistledown blown before a fierce wind. “Only in my dream, Gaborn and I were the last to leave. We all floated away. But...in my dream, I knew that we were never coming back. Never coming here again.” That thought frightened her. The thought that she might never return to the castle she’d grown up in.

Legend said that the Earth spoke to men in signs and dreams, and those who listened best rightly became lords and kings. The blood of such kings flowed through Iome’s veins.

“It was only a dream,” Myrrima said. “If it were a true sending, then Gaborn would be with you now”

“He is with me, I think,” Iome said. “I believe I’m carrying his child” Iome glanced at Myrrima. She was of common stock, and Iome knew that she would not take omens lightly.

“Oh, milady,” Myrrima whispered. “Congratulations!” Shyly, she embraced Iome.

“It will be your turn, soon,” Iome assured Myrrima. “You cannot be near the Earth King without responding to his creative powers.”

“I hope so,” Myrrima said.

Now Iome retrieved the jewelry chest from under the bed and withdrew her mother’s crown and the most valuable pieces she could see. Just in case, she told herself. These pieces she wrapped in a pillowcase, thinking it would fit nicely in her saddlebags.

As she finished, someone—a girl-shouted desperately out in the courtyard before the castle. “Hello? Hello? Is anyone here?”

Myrrima opened the oriel window. Iome leaned over the sill to look down.

A girl of twelve, a serving girl by the look of her, wearing a brown frock, saw Iome and cried, “Help! Your Highness, I was hoping to find one of the King’s Guard. Milady Opinsher has locked herself in her apartments and won’t come out!”

Lady Opinsher was an elderly dame who lived in the city’s oldest and finest neighborhood. Iome knew her well.

She knew for a fact that Gaborn had Chosen her when she presented herself at their wedding. Certainly Lady Opinsher had heard the Earth King’s warning.

“I’ll be there in a moment,” Iome said, wondering at what trouble this portended.

She and Myrrima hurried down to the bailey, with Sir Donnor and the Days falling in step behind. The girl climbed fearfully onto Myrrima’s steed, and they raced the mounts down through the King’s Gate, into the city, and along the narrow streets toward Dame Opinsher’s manor.

As they raced, Iome glanced up, caught sight of a child in an open window. It was late in the morning, she realized, and still not everyone had obeyed her husband’s call.

At Dame Opinsher’s manor, they stopped at the porte cochère, where white columns held up a roof above an enclosed courtyard. At the front door of the manor, two guardsmen in fine enameled plate stood at arms.

“What is the meaning of this?” Iome asked them. “Shouldn’t you have left by now?”

“We beg your indulgence,” one guard said, an old fellow with clear blue eyes and a silver moustache that drooped over his mouth. “But we are sworn into the service of Lady Opinsher, and she bade us remain at our posts. That’s why we sent the girl.”

“May we pass?” Sir Donnor asked threateningly, as if unsure what the guardsmen’s orders were. If the woman had gone far into insanity, she might have ordered the guards to kill all comers.

“Of course,” the elder guard said. He stepped aside.

Iome dismounted, hurried into the house with the serving girl to lead the way.

Lady Opinsher’s manor was far newer than the King’s Keep. While the keep had been built two thousand years ago to serve a lord and his knights, the manor here was less than eight hundred years old, and had been built at leisure during a time of prosperity. It was also far more opulent and stately than was the King’s Keep. Iome imagined that it was more like a soaring palace at the Courts of Tide. The entrance had clear windows above it, so that sunlight shone into a great room, making its way down past a silver chandelier to fall onto intricate tile mosaic on the floor. The walls were all paneled with polished wood. Fine lamps rested on tall stands.

The servant led Iome’s retinue up a great staircase. Iome felt terribly self-conscious. She was wearing boots and riding clothes, and in such a fine manor, she should have been able to hear the rustle of her own skirts as she climbed the stairs.

When they reached the second floor, the servant led Iome to a huge oaken door, intricately carved with Dame Opinsher’s heraldic emblem.

Iome tried to open the door, but found it locked, so she pounded with her bare fists and shouted, “Open in the name of the Queen.”

When that brought no response, Sir Donnor pounded harder.

Iome heard the whisper of feet against stone, but still the dame did not open her door.

“Get an axe and we’ll chop down the door,” Iome said loudly to Sir Donnor.

“Please, Your Highness, don’t,” Dame Opinsher begged from behind her barricade.

Sir Donnor halted as the dame unlocked her door, opened it a crack. The woman was elderly, her face covered in wrinkles, but she still had a slim figure. With her endowment of glamour still intact, the dame was a fine-looking woman, though she seldom had set foot from her house in the past three years.

“What may I do for you, Your Highness?” the dame asked with a stiff curtsy.

“You heard the Earth King’s warning?” Iome asked.

“I did,” the dame answered.

“And?”

“I beg to be left behind,” Dame Opinsher said.

Iome shook her head in wonder. “Why?”

“I am old,” the dame said “My husband is dead; my sons all died in your grandfather’s service. I have nothing left to live for. I do not want to leave my house.”

“It is a fine house,” Iome said. “And it should be here when you return.”

“For eight hundred years my family has lived here,” the dame said. “I don’t want to go. I won’t go. Not for you or anyone else.”

“Not for yourself?” Iome asked. “Not for your king?”

“My mind is made up,” the dame said.

I could command Sir Donnor to drag her out, fight her guards, Iome realized. She doubted that the old gentlemen would give Sir Donnor much trouble, for he was said to be a fine warrior. Borenson had fought him, and promoted him to captain in the King’s Guard.

“There is a purpose to life,” Iome said “We do not live for ourselves alone. You may be old, but you still may serve others. If there is any wisdom or kindness or compassion left in you, you could still serve others.”

“No,” Dame Opinsher answered. “I’m afraid not.”

“Gaborn looked into your heart. He saw what’s in you.” Dame Opinsher was known for her charity, and Iome believed that she understood why Gaborn had Chosen the old woman. “He saw your courage and compassion.”

With a dry chuckle, Dame Opinsher said, “I ran fresh out of such traits this morning. If my serving girl could buy them in the market, I’d have her fetch them. No,” she said forcefully, “I’ll not leave!”

She closed her door.

Iome felt dismayed Perhaps the old woman did feel compassion, but did not believe that tomorrow could be better than today, or that her own fife was worth struggling for, or that she had anything of import to give. Iome could only guess at the woman’s motives.

“You may stay, then,” Iome said to the door. She would not drag a woman kicking from her own home. “But you will release your servants. You’ll not let them die, too. They must flee.”

“As you will, Your Highness,” the dame answered. Hei voice came through the door weakly.

Iome turned to give the command, but the serving girl was already running, glad to escape. Iome stared at Myrrima for a moment. The dark-eyed beauty was thoughtful.

“Even your husband can’t save someone who doesn’t want to be saved,” Myrrima offered. “It’s not his fault. It’s not ours.”

“Sir Donnor,” Iome said, “go to the city guard and have them search every building in the city. Find out how many more like her there are. Warn them in my name that they must depart.”

“Immediately,” Sir Donnor answered, and he turned and hustled off.

“That will take hours,” Myrrima said after he was gone,

Iome understood the hint of a question in Myrrima’s voice. She was asking, “And if we do this, when do we leave?”

Iome bit her lip, glanced at her Days as if searching for an answer. The matronly old woman held silent, as usual. “We have fast horses,” Iome said. “We can run farther in an hour than a peasant can in a day.”

Iome found the wizard Binnesman down at an inn, as he had promised. The inn, a reputable old establishment called the Boar’s Hoard, was the largest in the city, and the cellars beneath it were a veritable maze. Huge oaken vats exuded a yeasty scent, and dried alecost hung in bundles from the rafters. The place smelled also of mice, though feral cats darted everywhere as Iome, Myrrima, Sir Donnor, and Iome’s Days wandered among piles of empty wineskins and bins filled with turnips and onions and leeks, past winepresses and barrels of salted herring and eels, between moist sacks of cheese and bags of flour.

In the farthest reaches of the cellars, back where enormous vats of ale fermented, dozens and dozens of sick people had been laid out for the physics to tend.

Here in the dim light of a single candle, the wizard Binnesman worked. He’d set out leaves of goldenbay and sprigs of faith raven in front of some huge oaken doors, and he’d painted the door with runes.

When Myrrima approached and pulled the Queen’s jewels from her pocket, Binnesman closed the door to the sickrooms.

He took the opals with greedy hands and laid them out on the dark wooden floor, stained with countless years of grime. Between casks of oil that rose to the ceiling, it was almost as dark as a star-filled night.

Binnesman set the opals on the floor and drew runes in the dust around them. Then he knelt and made slow circular motions with his fingers, chanting:

“Once there was sunlight, that warmed the Earth. It drenched you like a child who basks beside the winter’s hearth.

“Once the stars shone, so fiercely they streamed, that the stones still remember and cherish their beams.”

Binnesman stopped speaking, whispered softly, “Awaken, and release your light.” He ceased making the circular motions and stood waiting expectantly. The stones until now had lain darkly on the ground.

But suddenly Iome saw them begin to glow as the fire caught deep within them blazed. She had often played with her mother’s necklace as a child, had watched the dazzling display of color as she held an opal and shifted it in the light. She’d seen flecks of green, red, and gold all swirled within them.

But nothing prepared her for the dazzling light that blazed from these stones now. Beams of crimson and emerald and deepest sapphire and glorious white played across the room more fiercely than any fire. Staring at them was like staring into the sun, and Iome turned away, fearing that she’d go blind.

Behind her, Myrrima stood back, afraid. She gasped and looked all about the room in wonder as the quavering lights shifted and bounced, as if reflected from water.

Binnesman stared at the fiery opals. Some glowed more fiercely than others did. After long moments they began to dim, like coals going cold. He moved the fire opals off to the left with one finger, for though they shone, their ruddy light quickly faded.

He picked up the pendant that held the green opal with one hand. Though the other stones were darkening, this one still blazed so brightly that the heat of it became intense its verdure a weapon that smote Iome.

To Iome, Binnesman had always seemed a kindly old man—until now, when the light that flared around him filled her with terror. He stuffed the pendant into a pocket of his robe, and the light still glowed like a fire through the cloth.

“My thanks to you, Your Highness,” Binnesman said. “This is as fine a stone as I could hope to find. I have no use for the others. You will find that they are somewhat dull now, but put them in the sunlight for a few days, and their fire will return more fiercely than ever.”

He carefully laid a single earring on the floor before the closed door of the sickroom, then handed the rest of the opals back to Myrrima.

Iome stood in the gloom, bedazzled. “Will it work?” she asked. “Can you kill it with that stone?”

“Kill a Darkling Glory?” Binnesman asked. “The thought hadn’t occurred to me. I only hope to capture it.”

16 Patches of Fog

The ride down from the Brace Mountains into Carris seemed too easy to Roland. It felt wrong all the way. He, Baron Poll, Averan, and the green woman made good time on the mountain road that morning, for the most part because the roads were empty.

That in itself seemed wrong. King Orden’s chief counselor and strategist, Paladane the Huntsman, was said to be at Carris. One would have expected to see his troops racing on the highway, getting into position for the coming battle.

As they rode down from the mountains through bands of pine and aspen, Roland took a few moments to sit on an outcropping to watch the rocky plains below for sign of troops. Morning fog lay thick in patches down among some streams, fog so thick an army could have hidden beneath it. Beyond; the region was rife with other places where an army might be secreted—forested hills rose above the plain at a number of points, and a deep valley lay between two arms of a mountain off to the west. Cities and towns were everywhere.

The Barren’s Wall to the north was eight miles wide and stretched between two tall hills. In ages past, Muttaya and Mystarria had fought over this realm numerous times. The fact that Mystarria had not always won was profoundly evident in the varying architecture: domed manors with enclosed porches and reflecting ponds were everywhere in the towns. The streets were much broader than in the Courts of Tide where Roland had been raised.

The names of the villages also reflected the fact that this land had much been battled over. Villages like Ambush, Gillen’s Fall, and Retreat squatted wide towns with names like Aswander, Pastek, and Kishku.

All in all, Roland studied the landscape below and thought it a fine site for a strategist like Paladane the Huntsman to choose for his battles. Several fortresses could serve as rallying points. He imagined how bowmen might be secreted behind stone fences, or cavalry might hide within the gates of a larger keep.

Yet he saw no sign of troops on the plains anywhere below—no glint of morning sunlight on armor, no smoke rising from campfires, no lords’ pavilions pitched in any, distant valley.

Indeed, from the hills above Carris, the landscape looked dead. Roland, Baron Poll, Averan, and the green woman stood on a knoll for fifteen minutes, squinting into the valley below. Roland could see farmhouses by the hundreds, and haycocks by the scores. Fields of crops checkered the land—vineyards striping one field while hops darkened the next. Rock walls circled the farmsteads. From up here, one could see that there was an abundance of stone in Carris, enough to build homes and fences, and still so much surplus that the farmers had, in some places, just piled them into mounds. Atop many of the hills were ancient Muttayin sun domes—circular crematoriums built of stone so that they looked like the setting sun. These marked ancient battle sites.

Carris was an old land. It was said that the fortress here was older than memory even when Erden Geboren rode with his hundred thousand knights to defend it. Many of those sun domes below served as incinerators where conquering armies had tossed the losers. Wights would haunt such places.

But if there were wights about, they did not seem to bother the locals. Carris itself was hard to make out from this distance, still twenty miles away. The ancient fortress was built on a peninsula in a deep lake on the horizon. Fog lay thick on the lake, but the fortress pierced the fog, its granite walls and high watchtowers shining like gold in the dawn. Morning cooking fires left a trail of smoke hanging above the castle.

A graak flew up out of the castle; bearing a skyrider. Averan sighed, as if she yearned to be on the beast.

Yet close by, no smoke drifted up from any chimney in any home. No wind blew. No animals walked the fields.

Dead. The whole plain of Carris looked utterly dead, aside from a few flocks of geese that winged about. Even here on the mountainside, it was too quiet: no jays squawked, no squirrels scurried about.

“I don’t like it,” Roland said as he stared below. “It’s too quiet.”

“Aye,” Baron Poll said. “I was born to this land. I used to run wild here when I was a boy. I’ve never seen anything like it”

He pointed to some green fields off to the left, just two miles below, where an orchard intersected a line of oaks. “At this time of year, always a flock of crows comes winging its way from the north. If you trace a path in the sky, following that line of oaks, you should get a good idea where they fly.

“But I see nothing here today. Not a single crow. Crows are smart birds. They see danger better than a man. They know there’s a battle brewing, and so they’ll follow the soldiers in hope of good pickings after.

“Look down there, where that patch of fog lies thick on the downs.” He pointed now almost straight ahead, five miles north of the base of the mountain. “See the geese flying over it? There’s good oats in those fields, and ponds to swim about in. Any goose worth a gander should be down there. But the geese aren’t circling the fields to make sure it’s safe before they land. They’re flying from one patch of fog to the next, knowing it’s not safe, never daring to land.”

“Why?” Averan asked

“They’re scared. Too many men about, skulking in the fog”

Averan looked askance, as if she believed that Baron Poll was merely trying to frighten her. The girl seemed tired or ill to Roland. Her eyes were bleary, and she hid in a cloak, as if suffering from chills.

“I’m serious. See that patch of fog, off to our left across the hills over there? It must be two hundred feet higher up than any other patch of fog, and the color is a bit too dark blue. It’s traveling downhill when it should be rising, warmed by the morning sunlight. Raj Ahten’s men, I’ll wager, with a flameweaver hiding them. Our scouts say he used such a fog to hide in while marching through Heredon. If you were to walk into that patch of fog, you’d find war dogs and frowth giants and Invincibles by the score.

“And there, farther across the downs, is another patch of that oily blue fog.

“Then look up here to our left. A third column marching toward them.”

Roland gaped, leaned back on his mount. Baron Poll seemed to be right. The three patches of fog were converging, and no currents of wind would ever have blown them together.

“Then, down there, across from Carris, by the river. Water wizards are at work, I’ll wager. See the huge fog there?”

“By its color, I’d say that is just a natural fog,” Roland said.

Baron Poll raised a brow. “Perhaps, but it’s coming off the river there and nowhere else. Water wizard’s work. The fog will be of a better quality, more natural-looking than a flameweaver’s smoke. That fog hides the number of Paladane’s reinforcements coming south from Cherlance, I’d say.” The Baron hitched up his pants, the way a peasant will before going to work. “We must take care. The roads look empty ahead, but looks can be deceiving.”

The green woman pointed at the fog on the downs, and asked, “Fog?”

“Aye, fog,” Roland said, adding a word to her vocabulary.

She pointed to a cloud in the sky. “Fog?”

“Cloud,” he said, wondering how he might make a better distinction. He squinted at the sun and pointed. “And up there is the sun. Sun.”

“Sun, no,” the green woman said, glancing fearfully at the bright orb. She pulled the bearskin robe right against her shoulders.

“I told you she’s no creature of fire,” Averan said. She went to the green woman and put the hood of the cloak up for her, so that she could hide beneath it. “She doesn’t like the sunlight any better than she liked our campfire.”

“I suspect you’re right,” Baron Poll said. “My apologies to the gut eating wench with the avocado complexion.”

Roland laughed.

Averan merely glared at Baron Poll. “And I’ll tell you something else—” she said, drawing her breath as if to make a great statement.

But Averan’s face paled and she trembled and grew quiet. She pulled her own cloak tight about her as if she too hid from the sun.

She had a faraway look in her eyes. Roland realized that she trembled not because she feared that Sir Poll might disbelieve what she was about to say, but because she wanted to say something that frightened her.

“Well, tell me....” Baron Poll demanded.

“Baron Poll,” she asked distantly, “what will we do with the green woman?”

“I don’t know,” the Baron said. “But if she would quit following us, I’d be a happier man.”

“If she follows us to Carris, what will Duke Paladane do with her?”

Baron Poll glanced at the green woman distractedly. “I don’t know, child. I suspect he will want to imprison her. She’s very strong, and dangerous, and we have no idea where she came from or what she wants.”

“What if she fights him? What if she tries to protect herself?”

“If she harms one of His Majesty’s subjects, he’ll imprison her.”

“What if she kills someone?”

“You know the punishment,” Baron Poll said.

“He’ll execute her, won’t he?” Averan asked

“I suspect so,” Baron Poll said, trying to infuse the statement with a tone of pity that he obviously didn’t quite feel.

“We can’t let him kill her,” Averan said. “We can’t take her to Carris.”

“We have a message to deliver,” Baron Poll said. “By all rights, we should have pressed on through the storm last night, but I didn’t fancy the notion of running into any of Raj Ahten’s troops in the dark. Still, we have a message to deliver, and you, Skyrider Averan, are sworn to deliver it”

“What are you afraid of?” Roland asked, for the girl was obviously terrified out of her wits.

“No one in my family has ever received a Sending,” Averan said.

“And you think you have” Roland asked.

The girl clutched her hands, wringing them while she held them against her stomach. She trembled in agitation. “I saw something just now. I saw the green woman dead, on the end of a pole, outside the castle walls.”

Roland was not educated, but every child in Mystarria knew lore about Sendings. “If it was a true Sending, then it was only a warning, and you might be able to stop it from happening.”

Baron Poll squinted, knelt down to be closer to the child. “You want to avoid Carris? We could skirt around it, I suppose, but at least one of us must go in.” He considered the possibility only that long, then added more forcefully, “No, the roads won’t be safe! We’ll be better off if we stay together. I’m pretty sure I can get us through to Carris, but I won’t promise anything more.”

Roland knew that Baron Poll really believed his own warning: armies were hiding down on that plain, and Raj Ahten’s men had been waylaying messengers all along the roads.

“Leave me somewhere while you carry the message,” Averan begged “The green woman is following me, not you. She’ll stay wherever you put me. Then you could come back for me.”

Baron Poll scratched his chin. Riding so close to Carris would be dangerous enough, but the child was asking him to risk his life going both directions.

Still, the girl was right to be worried for the fate of the green woman. Baron Poll’s eyes flickered over Roland, as he considered what to do. “It’s too dangerous. I won’t allow it.”

He spoke in a tone of authority, as if to end all discussion.

“First you say you won’t take me north to Heredon, now you say you won’t leave me here! Can’t I have any say in the matter!” Averan asked.

“No,” Baron Poll said reasonably. “I may be a fat old knight, but I am a lord and you’re not. We’re at war. I’m only doing what’s best for you.”

“You’re only doing what’s best for you,” Averan cried. “I don’t matter.”

“I’m only thinking about what’s best for people, not” he waved his hand at the green woman in dismissal “some green monster.”

“I know what’s best for me!” Averan said.

“Do you?” Baron Poll asked. “Last night you pouted because you wanted to go to Heredon. Now you’re in a fit because you want to stay here. So what’s best?”

“I can change my mind,” Averan said too loudly.

“True,” Baron Poll said, “but you won’t change mine.”

He grabbed Averan roughly by the arm and dragged her to his charger. Averan yelped, and Baron Poll slapped her across the backside.

“Damn you, girl, if you call Raj Ahten’s troops with all of your noise, I swear I’ll cut your throat before they get me, even if it’s the last thing I do.”

Baron Poll leapt up onto his charger, his great strength belying his size, and tried to pull Averan on with him.

“Wait!” Roland said. “Let her ride with me. And I’ll not have you slapping the child, or threatening to slit her throat.”

“What do you care?” Baron Poll asked. Both the Baron and the child stared at him in surprise. Roland was no knight, no warrior who could hope to best Baron Poll in a fight, yet he had spoken harshly.

“I care,” Roland said, gazing at the child. “I was thinking last night, I could petition Paladane to become her guardian, her...father.”

There was a clumsy silence as the child recognized that he spoke not just a statement, but a question. Then she lurched toward him. “Yes!” she cried.

Roland mounted up, taking Averan in the saddle before him. In moments they were thundering down the mountainside, the green woman loping behind, and as they neared the plain, Baron Poll suddenly veered his charger sideways and raced it through the trees, cutting across a spur of the mountain on a game trail. The green woman ran at their back, struggling to keep up. Roland felt amazed that she could do so at all. No human could run with such grace and ease.

The Baron no longer seemed to trust the road, and perhaps his own fear finally touched the girl, for Averan fell silent. He raced the horses down the mountainside, and Roland leaned back in his saddle, gripping Averan before him, afraid that the girth strap on his saddle might slip or break so that he’d go rolling downhill. But Baron Poll never slowed.

After several heart-stopping minutes, they found an old woodcutter’s road and raced along it for, a while, then they rode the horses hard across a creek and let them leap a farmer’s fence and gallop across a pasture.

For several miles they rode this way, never trusting a road, often peering off to either side. The green woman ran just behind.

They reached a large village and raced through it, let the horses stop for rest just outside. A number of walnut trees lined the lane, the nuts just beginning to split open from their green pouches, and Averan, still huddled in her robes, looked up at them longingly. “Are we going to eat today?”

“When we reach the castle, you might get some dinner,” Baron Poll said.

“You gave me nothing more than hope for dinner last night, and now I shan’t even have that to chew on for breakfast. They’ve done with breakfast at the castle and won’t eat again until tonight. I didn’t get any food yesterday at all.”

“Well,” Baron Poll said, “all the better to help you maintain a dainty figure.”

“You should try it yourself sometime,” Averan groused. “Your horse would like you better if you did.”

The Baron shot Averan a warning glare. The child had an endowment of brawn, but Baron Poll had more than one, and he knew he could beat her soundly.

Roland thought him a hard man, to starve a child that way. “I’ll get you some walnuts,” Roland offered, and he leapt from his horse.

The green woman had been lagging behind for several moments, and now she stood, sweat pouring off her, as she gasped for air.

Baron Poll seemed to fear that the child would ride off, so he nudged his horse toward Averan, grabbed her and hefted her onto his own saddle.

Sweat drenched Roland’s horse and it breathed like a bellows. Several cottages clustered together here at the north end of the village, and there was little forage for the mounts. Sheep had eaten down the grass near the road. Roland could see no sign of the sheep now. They had probably been driven off to the castle. With little else to eat, the mount went over to a window box outside a cottage and began to chew voraciously on some white geraniums, eating as quickly as only a horse with endowments of metabolism can.

Meanwhile, Roland looked in vain for walnuts on the ground, but pigs rooted there, and they’d taken the nuts. He ended up climbing the tree to pick a few.

“I have to relieve myself,” Averan said, squirming in the saddle where Baron Poll held her firm.

“Hold it for another hour,” Baron Poll commanded her. “A girl with an endowment of brawn can hold her bladder all day.”

“I’ve been holding it since last night,” Averan apologized

Baron Poll rolled his eyes. “Go then. There should be a privy behind the cottage.”

Averan dropped from the horse and scurried away. The green woman followed at her heels like a faithful dog.

Roland climbed into the crook of a walnut tree and began filling his pockets. He’d been at it only a minute when he glanced back down the road to the south.

Dust rose from the road in the direction they’d just come. The dust clouds were back a couple of miles, so trees and houses obscured it. Still, at the speed a force horse could race, those riders would be on them quickly.

“Riders, coming fast,” Roland warned Baron Poll. His heart hammered. If he’d not been standing in the tree, he’d not have seen them.

“What colors?”

He saw a flash of yellow. “Raj Ahten’s, they’re close on our tails.”

He leapt from the tree, landed hard enough to jar his ankles.

“Averan,” Baron Poll shouted. “Stop peeing and get over here now!”

He spun his charger and raced around the corner of the cottage, shouting and cursing. Roland leapt onto his own mount, circled the cottage, just in time to see Baron Poll kick over a weathered privy in the backyard. No one was inside.

“The damned girl ran off!” the Baron shouted.

Roland bit his lip, struggled against panic. He did not want to lose the child or see her harmed. He wanted to help her, yet he understood her fears, and applauded her desire to do what she knew was right.

Stone fences divided the land behind this cottage from the yards and gardens behind. Roland searched nervously. He saw no sign of Averan or the green woman.

“They couldn’t have gotten far,” Roland said. But he knew that it didn’t matter. Even if the girl hid nearby, he couldn’t take the time to search for her.

“Leave her!” Baron Poll said. “The girl wanted to stay, let her stay!”

The Baron wheeled his mount, but Roland was slow to follow. He feared to leave the green woman and Averan there alone. He cared about them more than he’d dare admit.

He rose up in his saddle, searching for the child, vainly hoping to spot the green woman, as Baron Poll raced away. Moments later, he began to hear the thunder of hooves on the far side of town.

“Luck to you!” Roland called to Averan. “I’ll come back for you, daughter!” he promised. He turned and sped for Carris.

Four cottages away from Baron Poll, Averan huddled behind a lilac bush by a stone fence and watched Roland and the Baron gallop north. She had taken off the green woman’s bearskin cloak, so that now her skin blended in with the lilac bush, concealing her.

Averan clutched the green woman tight and cooed softly, to keep her from moving.

She could not explain to Roland and Baron Poll why she needed to leave. The men would never understand. But Averan had had a strange feeling growing in her since yesterday.

It had made her nervous to look at the campfire last night, and the morning sun hurt her eyes, made them burn. And this morning, when she’d knelt over the corpse of Raj Ahten’s assassin, pretending to eat, Averan had craved the taste of the man’s blood.

Now, she thought she knew what the green woman needed, probably understood it better than the green woman did herself.

She needed the Earth. She needed to be renewed by its power.

So Averan huddled with the green woman while Baron Poll cursed and Roland promised to return. Averan fought to keep tears from her eyes.

She’d been surprised that he asked to be her father, surprised and delighted. She wanted someone to take care of her, to be a friend. But right now, she had to put her own wants aside.

She dared whisper, “Come back for me then, Father, when you can.”

Moments later, twenty of Raj Ahten’s knights went racing past along the tree-lined lane, armor rattling, the hooves of their warhorses thundering on the hard road.

The green woman did not move, leaned into Averan’s embrace until the Invincibles had passed. Then she lifted her nose in the air like a hound trying to catch a scent, and asked, “Blood; yes?”

“Blood, yes,” Averan promised, glad that the green woman had recognized the scent of Raj Ahten’s soldiers. “But not now. You must rest now. I know what you need.”

Averan had seen it in a vision, she felt sure. She didn’t understand what she saw, but she felt a need driving her, a craving that went to the bone. The green woman was a creature of the Earth, and right now, she needed its embrace.

Still, Averan felt afraid to move. A morning breeze sighed through town, stirred the lilac bush. The green woman stared up at the leaves, as if in terror of this ominous force.

“It’s nothing,” Averan said. “Only the wind. Wind.”

She held up the green woman’s hand, let her feel the wind flow between her fingers. But the green woman jerked her hand back in terror..

“Wind, no!” she said. She looked about desperately, as if searching for a place to hide.

The Invincibles had been gone long enough, Averan decided. She led the green woman to a walled garden behind a cottage. The soil was deep and well tended, but the owners had fled. Before doing so, they’d dug up all of their carrots and turnips.

Averan tasted the rich soil, and approved. She found a mattock in a shed, and in a few minutes was able to dig a shallow trench.

Without any coaxing, the green woman stepped into the trench and lay down, spreading herself out-naked, luxuriating, delighted to feel the soil on her bare skin.

Averan stood over her, prepared to heap the dirt on the green woman, bury her there. But right now she felt a craving of her own, an itching. The sun shone fiercely on her neck, and when she glanced up, it hurt her eyes.

Her robe seemed too thin to protect her from its rays. She looked down at her fist where the green woman’s blood had touched her yesterday while Averan had tried to clean her after the fall.

Dark green blotches still stained her hand. The green spots had not gone away-not even when she washed them or tried to rub the skin away. Instead, the dark green blood had merely seeped down lower, into her skin. Now it looked as if she had been tattooed with ink. The blotches would likely never go away, she realized. Or maybe someday the green woman’s blood would just seep down farther into her, until it fused with her bones.

“The same blood flows through us now,” Averan said to the green woman. “I don’t even know what you are, but you and I are one

Having said that, Averan stripped off her own clothes and climbed into the shallow trench beside the green woman. She used her hands to pull mounds of dirt over her feet and body, to hide her skin from the sun, but she could not bury herself properly.

On a sudden inspiration, she hugged the green woman tightly and commanded the soil, “Cover me.”

The soil responded, flowing over her like water.

Averan wondered if Roland or any Invincibles would return, see the signs of their shallow grave. Even if they did, what would they, do? Dig her up?

No, she realized. We’re safe. Safe from sun and fire. Safe for a little while, until nightfall.

17 Beneath a Dusty Garment

The Durkin Hills Road was a trail of dust. Erin Connal had ridden down it a couple of days ago, when last week’s rains had made the road slick at its low points. But at least then the dirt had clung to the ground, and she’d been riding alone.

Now, after only a couple of days of heat, the road south was as dry as if it were midsummer. Beyond that, it had been much traveled during the past week, and the hooves of countless animals and the wheels of thousands of wagons had churned the soil and ground it into a fine powder that rose dirty and brown all about, marking their passage. Time and again, Erin wished that she could ride off into the trees of the Dunnwood, ride parallel to the army, to get clear of the dust. But the brush beside the road was thick, the trails uneven, and she could not afford to slow her trek. Right now the army had need of haste.

She rode now to war in the vanguard of the army, near the very front, beside King Gaborn Val Orden and fat King Orwynne, a gaggle of lords, and of course all of their attendant Days.

A few dozen scouts and guards were strung out on the road ahead, yet the dust of their passage rose high in the air. Grit caught in Erin’s teeth and burned her eyes and sinuses. Grime clung to the oiled links of her armor and heavy powder settled in the folds of her clothes. Though they had ridden but half the day, she figured it would take a week’s worth of baths to ever feel clean again.

There was nothing she could do about it for now. She was only grateful that she was not riding farther behind in the ranks, for near the rear, the dust would have been unbearable.

Many warriors in Gaborn’s retinue wore helms that covered their faces, and so they merely put the visors down, affording the face and eyes some small protection from the dust. Erin envied them. She imagined that even the infernal heat inside the blasted helm would have been more bearable than the dust.

But her own helm was merely a horsewoman’s helm, a round thing with guards for ears, without even a bridge for the nose. A horse’s tail, dyed royal-blue, adorned the top.

So she rode holding a cloth to her face. From behind, the sound of hoofbeats reverberated as a rider raced along the edge of the road.

He glanced at Erin and made to pass her, when suddenly he spotted Gaborn and reined his horse in. The man’s face was a study in surprise. Erin realized that he’d been looking for the Earth King, but King Gaborn Val Orden and King Orwynne were both so dirty that one could not distinguish them from common soldiers.

“Your Highness,” the fellow implored Gaborn, “the troops in the rear beg permission to fall back. The dust is fouling the horse’s lungs.”

Erin nearly laughed. Apparently these warriors of Heredon could breathe the dust just fine. It was only their horses that suffered.

“Have them fall back,” Gaborn said. “I see no reason to keep close ranks, so long as we all reach Casde Groverman by nightfall.”

“Thank you, milord,” the fellow said with a nod. Yet he did not fall back to spread the word. Instead, he rode beside Gaborn as if he would beg another boon.

“Yes?” Gaborn asked.

“Beg your pardon, milord, but since you are the Earth King, could you not do something more?”

“Would you like me to get rid of the dust altogether?” Gaborn asked, bemused.

“That would be greatly appreciated, milord,” the knight said, gratitude thick in his voice.

Gaborn laughed, but whether he laughed from mirth or laughed the fellow to scorn, Erin could not tell. “I may be the Earth King,” Gaborn said, “and I like the taste of trail dust no better than you do. But believe me, there is a limit to my powers. If I could make the dust settle, I would. Open ranks. Have every man pace his horse. Those with the quickest horses will reach Groverman first.”

The fellow studied Gaborn from head to foot. The Earth King was covered in grime. “Yes, milord,” the fellow said, and he wheeled back, calling the orders for the formation to disband.

At that point, the kings gave the horses their heads, and galloped ahead of the more common mounts. In moments, Erin was racing along and even Gaborn’s scouts, at the very front of the line, had to hurry to keep ahead of the army.

Erin stood in her stirrups, riding to the flank of the king, and let the wind clean some dust from her clothing and from her hair.

Beside her, Prince Celinor did the same. She glanced over, caught the Prince staring at her. He turned away when she noticed his scrutiny.

Erin did not have an endowment of glamour to mar her face. Fleeds was a poor land, and so by the High Queen’s decree, endowments of glamour were never given. One could not waste precious blood metal on forcibles that would enhance a woman’s beauty, not when the same ore could be put to some better use.

Still, even without an endowment of glamour, men sometimes found Erin attractive. Yet she thought it odd that Prince Celinor would gaze at her so. He had at least two endowments of glamour, and so was a fine-looking man. His hair was platinum in color, almost white, his face narrow but strong. His eyes shone like dark sapphires. He was a big man who stood roughly twenty hands tall. A handsome man, indeed, she thought, though she had no desire to bed him. For as they said in Fleeds, “His reputation follows him as flies follow filth.”

Celinor’s Days, who rode behind him, was remarkable only in that he was nearly of the same height as his lord.

No, Erin was not interested in a sot. Last year at Tolfest it was said that Prince Celinor had gone out to distribute alms to the poor of Castle Crowthen and had ridden through the streets in a wagon, tossing out food and clothing and was in a drunken stupor, he had soon found himself out of alms, and so had stripped off his own cloth-of-gold breeches and tossed them to the crowd, much to the dismay of those mothers who had children. Rumor also had it that he was well endowed in more ways than one.

It was said that he drank so much that no one was quite sure whether he had ever learned to sit a horse, for he could be seen falling from one more often than riding it.

His vassals nicknamed him “Mad Dog,” for often the froth of ale could be seen foaming at his mouth.

In an hour they reached the river Dwindell, at the village of Hayworth.

There, the lords and their Days came to a halt, riding their horses down to the riverbank east of the bridge, so that they could quench their thirst. As the animals drank, Erin climbed off her horse, gauged the water. The river Dwindell here was wide and deep, its clear waters swirling in eddies. Clouds had been moving in all day, but even behind their screen, the sun was so high that Erin could see huge trout and even a few salmon swimming in the river’s depths.

Erin took the cloth that she’d had over her nose, knelt at the riverbank and dipped it in the cold water, then began to wash some of the grime off her face. She longed to strip off her armor, swim out into the river’s depths. But there was no time for it.

Prince Celinor knelt by the water, too, and took off his helm, a thing of burnished silver. He filled it with water twice, swirled the water in it to get the dust off the helm, then filled it a third time and drank deeply, using it as a mug.

When he finished, he offered his helm to Erin while he washed his own face clean of grime. She drank deeply, felt the dust clear from her throat. She’d never tasted water so refreshing.

King Gaborn had halted and was letting his own horse drink, as if too weary to dismount Gaborn was covered in grime, thick with dust.

Celinor gazed up at the King, the sunlight striking him full on the face.

“Now there is a proper Earth King,” Celinor whispered of Gaborn. “See how well he wears his realm.” He chuckled, amused at his own jest.

“I’m thinking that none wear it better,” Erin said, for she dared not utter anything so irreverent.

“I meant no disrespect,” Celinor apologized, sounding sincerely regretful.

Erin gave him back his helm, shoved it hard into his hands. Celinor refilled it, then leapt up and carried it to Gaborn, let him drink from it. As Gaborn drank, Celinor wet a cloth in the stream, then carried it to Gaborn.

He offered the cloth for Gaborn to wash his face. Gaborn sponged himself, and thanked Celinor cordially. Yet Erin wondered if Celinor served Gaborn for her sake, or if he really had meant no disrespect.

When Gaborn’s mount had watered, he and King Orwynne were quick to cross the bridge and head for the Dwindell Inn there in Hayworth, for it was well known that strong drink clears trail dust from one’s throat better than water. With so many hundreds of knights riding through, Erin imagined that it would be a boon day for the innkeeper.

Erin washed herself, preparing to join Gaborn and King Orwynne. She got on her mount and spurred it over the bridge, and could not fail to notice that Celinor rode at her side.

Yet when she reached the inn and dismounted, Celinor only sat ahorse, watching her. She stood in the shade of the porch, glancing back. The yeasty smell of ale was strong here, having soaked into the floorboards over the ages.

“Are you coming in?” she asked.

His face looked set, determined He merely shook his head, then apologized “I’ll go on up ahead, let my horse rest a few moments.”

Erin went into the inn, her Days following, and sat down at a table alone, just the two of them. In moments a young serving girl hurried over, asking, “What would please the lady?”

The owner of the hostel, a big-bellied man, sat with King Orden, talking cordially. She heard the fellow congratulating Gaborn on his recent marriage.

“I’ll have ale,” she said. The waif hurried off.

In moments the hostler himself ran downstairs to help fetch up some ale kegs. Fat King Orwynne said in his high voice, “So, Your Highness, it seems that Prince Celinor fears to join us.”

“Good,” Gaborn said. “I’d hoped that he might have the strength to forbear this place.”

“But do you think it will take?” Orwynne said. “I for one believe that even the railings of the Earth King will not keep him sober through the week. I’ll bet you ten golden eagles, milord, he’ll be falling off his horse by sundown tomorrow.”

“I hope not.” Gaborn said, though he did not accept the wager.

“Your Highness,” Erin wondered aloud, “have you spoken to Prince Celinor?”

King Orwynne glanced at her with the dismissive look that some warlords gave the women of Fleeds. He did not respect her, but he answered her question before Gaborn could speak. “The sot had the audacity to present himself to the Earth King this morning, before we rode out, and offer his sword in service. The Earth King rejected him, of course.”

Gaborn sat wearily, gazing down at his hands folded on the table. “Don’t be so harsh,” Gaborn said. “The man has a good heart, but I could not in conscience Choose a man who loves strong drink more than he loves himself or his fellows.”

“So you rejected him?” Erin asked

“Not rejected,” Gaborn said.. “I asked him for a show of contrition. I asked him to give up his greatest pleasure. In return, if he can remain sober, I will Choose him.”

Erin had not heard that the Earth King made such bargains with men. He had Chosen her outright. Yet she was glad of it, glad to know that a man might better himself to some reward.

When her ale came, she took only a small sip, then went out front where her mount was tied to the hitching rail. She poured ale into her palm for her horse, let it drink, the hairs of its muzzle tickling her palm. A strong drink would serve her mount well, give it the energy it needed to keep up with the other lords’ horses. Her own mount was a good force horse, with a single endowment each of strength and metabolism and grace, but it was not so lavishly endowed as Gaborn’s charger, or those of some of the other mounts in the retinue.

She wondered at Gaborn’s words. He’d said that Celinor had a “good heart.” What exactly did that mean? Celinor had done nothing but voice his doubts about Gaborn’s sovereignty yesterday. The High Marshal had hinted that he thought Celinor might even be a spy, out to destroy Gaborn. Yet Gaborn had looked into the man and seen a good heart?

It made no sense.

Perhaps, she thought, Gaborn did not mind if Celinor had reservations.

After she’d finished giving her horse some drink, she took her glass mug inside, dropped a copper dove on the table. Her Days followed. Together they rode out of town.

Erin found Celinor and his Days in a meadow dotted with yellow dandelions and white clover. Celinor brushed down his mount as it grazed.

She stopped and did the same, taking a moment to check the beast’s legs and ankles. One of its shoes had lost two nails, but otherwise the horse was fine. Celinor would not keep his eyes off her.

“I am surprised that you’re not with the others,” Celinor said at last. “There will be few comforts through these hills, until we reach Bannisferre.”

She dared not admit why she’d come. Her code of honor was such that she stood by a man in battle, even if he was only a man who battled his own vices. “Since we’re allowed to open ranks, I thought it might be more of a comfort to get a head start,” she said. “Let the others chew on my trail dust for a while.”

“I’m certain they’ll make a fine meal of it,” Celinor laughed. Erin smiled. So he truly had not meant to be disrespectful toward Gaborn, she thought. He merely jests by nature.

“So,” Erin asked, “you think Gaborn is the Earth King after all? I’ve heard that you bent the knee to him.”

“After he rejected the High Marshal,” Celinor said, “I reasoned that he is either the Earth King or a madman. I don’t think he’s mad. He rejected me, too, of course. But I’d hoped for nothing better.”

“Not rejected,” Erin said. “I hear that he is holding his judgment in reserve.”

“Indeed.” Celinor smiled, cocked his head to the side. “And I hope someday to be worthy of his blessing. Already I’ve gone twenty hours without a drink.”

Erin tried to think of a compliment appropriate for such a negligible feat, and had to wonder. Twenty hours? He’d offered his sword into Gaborn’s service only this morning. Yet the alehouses around Castle Sylvarresta had been full last night as people celebrated the end of Hostenfest.

What’s more, tradition required a toast to end Hostenfest before going to bed. She couldn’t imagine him having gone the night without a drink.

“Twenty hours?” she asked. “But you only offered service this morning.”

“I swore off drink yesterday,” Celinor said.

She looked at him inquisitively.

“You scorned me,” Celinor said, “and you were right to do so. For I realized that you were correct: All of my best friends did live in alehouses. I would not have it so. I could not bear to look into your eyes and incur your displeasure.”

Erin smiled, pleased that her one remark might have inspired a change in the man. Yet she did not trust it completely.

“Will you ride with me today?” Erin asked.

“I would be happy for the opportunity,” Celinor said. They mounted up, and raced off side by side.

18 One for the Books

Gaborn sat in his chair in the Dwindell Inn. King Orwynne kept up a rambling monologue on a number of topics, but Gaborn felt too preoccupied to listen. All morning long, he’d felt a constricting sensation in his chest, the rising recognition of danger.

As his people fled Castle Sylvarresta, his fears for them eased. Yet not everyone had left Castle Sylvarresta. He felt Iome there with Myrrima, and dozens of guards and townspeople still braving the danger.

What powers might this Darkling Glory possess that it so dismayed him? A sense of doom was growing on him, and he promised himself that he would not wait too long before warning the others. So Gaborn nodded at King Orwynne’s blathering, hardly speaking, hardly daring to move. He felt distracted, worried in particular for King Orwynne.

It would be foul indeed to lose him, Gaborn thought—I must take special care of him.

King Orwynne was a staunch ally, a rarity these days. And his force warriors would be badly needed on the trip south.

Gaborn prepared to leave the Dwindell Inn at well past one in the afternoon.

Hundreds of knights still poured into Hayworth, eager for a brief rest. The streets were lined with horses, and the innkeeper had brought barrels of ale to the porch. A maid filled mugs as fast as the men could drink. She had no time to clean the mugs. A man would simply pass a mug forward through the press, along with a copper dove, and she’d take the coin and fill the mug.

Thus the kings had to shoulder their way through the throng as they headed toward their horses. Gaborn went to the hitching post, untied his own mount. Time was short.

At that moment, Gaborn’s Days tapped him on the shoulder. Gaborn turned and looked the scholar in the eye. The brown-robed fellow looked shaken. “Your Highness...” the Days said, and he held his hands wide, as if to say Words cannot express my sorrow.

“What?” Gaborn asked.

“I am sorry, Your Highness,” the Days said. “It will be a bad day for the books. I am sorry.” The aura of death surrounding Gaborn was overwhelming.

“A bad day for the books?” Gaborn said, a sense of horror rising in him.

He faced the abyss. I’m under attack, he thought. Yet he could see no attacker.

“What? What’s happening?” he wondered aloud.

Fat King Orwynne had heard the words, and now he looked from Gaborn’s Days to Gaborn, worry, on his brow.

“Your Highness?”

Gaborn looked up at the steel-gray clouds that gathered above, and sent a warning to Iome and the others still at Castle Sylvarresta. “Flee!”

He put a foot into a stirrup, began to leap onto his horse, and suddenly felt the earth twist.

A wrenching nausea assailed his stomach as his strength suddenly left him. Gaborn slipped from the saddle, stood for a moment leaning against his horse.

I’m under attack, he thought, by some invisible agent.

“Your Highness?” King Orwynne asked. “Are you well?” The wrenching nausea came again, and for a second, Gaborn was stunned, dazed and unsure of where he was.

Gaborn shook his head as he shakily sat down on the porch of the inn. The porch was dirty, but warm. People moved aside to give him air.

“I think he’s been poisoned!” King Orwynne shouted.

“No—no! Dedicates are dying,” Gaborn said feebly. “Raj Ahten is in the Blue Tower.”

19 At the Blue Tower

The fog had been thick over the sea all morning as Raj Ahten rowed to the Blue Tower, lured by the call of seabirds, the sound of waves crashing over rocks.

In the thick fog, he’d bypassed the warships set to guard the tower, until he reached its base.

His shoulder ached as he rowed. King Mendellas Orden had kicked him hard in the battle at Longmot, had crushed the bones of his right shoulder. With thousands of endowments of stamina, he would live, but over the past week he’d had surgeons cut into his flesh a dozen times and break the bones, try to straighten them. His wounds healed within minutes, but the pain had been excruciating, and still his shoulder was little better.

Damn the Mystarrians—old King Orden and his son.

In the past week, Raj Ahten had been able to retrieve enough forcibles to boost his metabolism again, enabling him to prepare for war.

Now he reached the Blue Tower, saw it rising from the fog. It was enormous, this ancient fortress that housed the vast majority of Mystarria’s Dedicates.

Raj Ahten stood in the prow of a fine little coracle and made a deep sound from far back in his lungs. It was not a shout. It was more of a rumbling, a chant, a single deep tone that rattled the bones and chilled the air and sent the stone of the Blue Tower thrumming in harmony.

It was not an exceptionally loud sound. Great volume, he’d found, did not serve him. It was the precise tone that he wanted, a note which varied between different kinds of rock—that made stone sing in return.

For long moments he held this tone, letting his Voice mingle with the song of the stone, until he heard the explosive sound of stone splitting; until the servants in the Blue Tower began screaming in terror, their voices as distant and insignificant as the cries of gulls; until great swaths of stone crashed from the battlements and plunged into the sea, spewing foam.

Still he sang, until roofs crashed into floors and people threw themselves from windows to escape the doom.

Still he sang, until turret collapsed against turret and gargoyles fell from the walls like ghastly parodies of men, until the whole of the Blue Tower tilted to the left and dashed into the sea.

The smoke and dust of ruin rose gray in the fog. The deadly warships that guarded the Blue Tower hoisted sail and came gliding toward him.

The Blue Tower tumbled down, and surely as it fell, Mystarria would fall with it. The Dedicates inside had died, along with all of their guards.

Raj Ahten turned and put his back to the oars one more time. He would slip through the fog before the war ships could intercept him.

His back ached, but he felt comforted to know that Gaborn Val Orden would ache even more.

20 An Earth King Still

Gaborn had never felt a Dedicate die. The sensation had been described to him, the wrenching nausea, the sense of loss as brawn or stamina were ripped away.

Now he felt it keenly. Wave after wave of nausea assailed him as his endowments were stripped. His mail suddenly seemed to hang heavy on his frame, a suffocating weight that bore him down.

He’d not slept for three nights. With his endowments of stamina he’d taken it lightly, but now fatigue overcame him.

He felt bewildered, weary to death. King Orwynne stared in horror.

Gaborn hunched over and covered his stomach with his hand, as if reeling from a physical blow. Yet his greatest concern was not for himself.

The Blue Tower housed the vast majority of the Dedicates who served Mystarria. More importantly, the warriors of Mystarria made up nearly a third of all the force soldiers in all the kingdoms of Rofehavan.

Duke Paladane’s warriors, the finest in Mystarria, would become worthless commoners in moments, or with the loss of key attributes, they might at best become “warriors of unfortunate proportion,” perhaps strong but slow, or wise but weak.

Even now Duke Paladane was driving his men into formation before Raj Ahten’s troops, while Raj Ahten’s Invincibles sharpened their blades for the slaughter.

Gaborn had wondered last night what had become of Raj Ahem Now he knew.

Mystarria would be destroyed, and most likely all of the north would collapse with IL Gaborn wondered how it had happened.

Certainly, Duke Paladane had strengthened the Blue Tower’s defenses had doubled or quadrupled its guard.

In his mind’s eye, Gaborn imagined the tower walls splintering, great shards of stone cascading into the sea.

Similarly, Gaborn felt himself crumble. Strength left him as his three endowments of brawn were stripped away. His eyes dulled as the blind Dedicates in the Blue Tower fell.

He’d prided himself on all that he’d learned in the House of Understanding, yet in moments, as his twin endowments of wit fled, he forgot more than half of all he had learned; he could not even conjure Iome’s image. The distant calls of warblers over the town suddenly muted as his ears went dull.

In a blind rage, as the impact of what was happening was borne home, Gaborn shouted at his Days, “You bastard! You craven bastard! How could you not have warned me?” But his own voice sounded weak, distant, as the mutes in his service were silenced forever. “A bad day for the books, indeed!”

“I am sorry,” the Days vainly apologized again.

King Orwynne sat down on the porch beside Gaborn, held his shoulders. “Rest yourself,” the old man said. “Rest yourself. Did he kill all of your Dedicates?”

Gaborn fought the urge to surrender to exhaustion, to surrender to cruelty, to surrender all hope. “They’re dead!” Gaborn said. “The Blue Tower is gone.”

“You look, Your Highness, like a corpse,” King Orwynne said. “What shall we do now? Where shall we go? Do you want to find a facilitator and take new endowments before heading south?”

Gaborn had twenty thousand forcibles with him, and the temptation was great. But he dared not turn back for Castle Sylvarresta now.

“No, we must ride on,” he said. He would reach Castle Groverman by nightfall, and Groverman had a facilitator he could use if he had to. “I have the strength of any other man. I am still the Earth King.”

He struggled up from the porch, climbed into his saddle.

Gaborn could ignore the threat to his men no longer. The Darkling Glory drew close. “Be warned,” he sent to his Chosen warriors. “Death is coming.”

21 The Price of a Meal

In the early afternoon, Borenson lost his endowments. He sat in the saddle feeling his metabolism leave, feeling himself slow to the speed that other men lived.

At first he wondered at the nausea that overwhelmed him, thought that it was his stomach cramping. Then the loss of endowments came so precipitously he could not quite feel what was lost next—strength or stamina, smell, hearing or sight. All of it drained away in moments, leaving him an empty husk.

As his endowments were depleted, a sense of desolate grief assailed Borenson. He’d looked into the eyes of the young farm boys who’d given him brawn years ago. They’d been promising lads who’d bequeathed their lives to him.

They should be frolicking with some milkmaids right now, Borenson thought. Not dying in the Blue Tower. And he remembered old Tamara Thane who had given him warm scones when he was a child and an endowment of metabolism when he stood in need. All those who’d known her would miss her.

But as much as he grieved for his Dedicates, he grieved more for himself. The deaths of his own Dedicates brought fresh to mind the nightmarish images he’d seen in Castle Sylvarresta a week past, when he’d been forced to butcher the Dedicates there.

Most of the morning, Borenson’s guard had been silent. They’d ridden like a gale through Deyazz, a land where the sun shone brighter than anywhere else in Borenson’s memory. It was a beautiful land, and though he was only five hundred miles south of Heredon, the weather had warmed dramatically west of the Hest Mountains.

Deyazz lay north of the great Salt Desert, the hottest heart of Indhopal, and the prevailing winds swept the desert heat in this direction. Deyazz was not a tropical land, yet the water seldom froze even in the dead of winter.

The farmers’ fields along the Anshwavi River were a lush green. Herons hunted for insects in the oft-flooded fields. Young boys in white linen loincloths worked with their mothers and sisters to harvest rice in wicker baskets.

Borenson had ridden through cities of whitewashed adobe, where the lords of the land had built majestic palaces with domed roofs plated in gold. Beautiful dark-skinned women in silk dresses, adorned with rings of gold and rubies in their ears or noses, lounged among the stately columns of the palaces or sat beside reflecting pools.

The cities had broad avenues, awash with sunlight—not narrow streets like those in the walled cities of Heredon. Deyazz’s cities therefore smelled clean—less of man and beast than in the north.

Yet signs of war were everywhere. Borenson had passed column after column of troops, and the castles along the border had been filled to overflowing. As he and the Invincible had passed through, the common folk in the towns along their route had watched Borenson distrustfully. Small boys hurled figs at him, while their mothers hurled curses.

Only once or twice did he hear a hopeful call from an old man or woman: “Have you seen the Earth King?”

But as Borenson’s endowments left him, he slumped over, and wrapped the chains of his manacles around the pommel of his saddle to keep himself from falling. Tears came to his eyes.

“Help!” he called. He had not slept in days, and had not eaten since late last night. With his endowments of stamina, he had not felt the hunger or fatigue. But now fatigue nearly blinded him, making it hard to focus his eyes, and hunger cramped his stomach.

His captor glanced back at him darkly, as if afraid Borenson was engaged in some ruse. They were riding through a city now, along its main market street within the gates. The vendors’ stalls in the market smelled strongly of curry and ginger, cumin and anise, paprika and hot pepper. Toothless old brown men in turbans sat beneath umbrellas in the midday sun, smiling to Borenson’s captor and calling to him to try their food. They offered steamed rice cooked in bamboo baskets over boiling water in brass pots. Beside the rice sat pots with various curry sauces and condiments. Some men sold doves barbecued in plum sauce and still attached to long skewers. Others had pickled starling eggs, or artichokes in huge barrels. Elsewhere were fruits: tangerines, oranges, melons, figs, candied dates, and piles of dried coconut.

“Stop!” Borenson begged again. “Your master is at the Blue Tower in Mystarria.”

He leaned forward, straining with the effort to stay awake. His senses reeled, and he glimpsed visions of nightmares: A deep-seated weariness overtook him, like a pain in the bones.

The Invincible glanced at him from the corner of his eye. “The Blue Tower would be a good place to strike. I would recommend such a plan to my lord.” He studied Borenson suspiciously, but if Borenson had concocted some scheme to overpower his captor, this market was the worst possible place to try it. Finally he asked, “Can I do anything for you?”

“Nothing,” Borenson said. There would be no balm that could assuage his horror and grief at the loss of his Dedicates. The Invincible would not be able to replace any memories that Borenson had lost, or grant him surcease from the mind-numbing weariness that assailed him now. Instead, he begged only for whatever succor his captor would grant him. “But I’m suddenly exhausted, and starving. I don’t know if I can stay awake much longer. I had not slept for days.”

“It is true, what they say,” the Invincible said. “Warriors without endowments are not warriors at all.”

A vendor, upon seeing that they had stopped, rushed forward and presented the Invincible with a sample taste of his sweet peppered crocodile. In moments, other vendors proffered samples of their wares. But they ignored Borenson, the red-haired warrior of Mystarria.

The aroma of good warm food made Borenson’s stomach rumble, and he was overwhelmed with hunger. “Can we stop to eat?” he begged.

“I thought you were in a hurry?” the Invincible said gruffly, his mouth full of food, as the merchants circled his horse.

“I’m in a hurry, but I’m also hungry,” Borenson answered.

“Which is greater?” the Invincible said. “Your hurry, or your hunger? I sensed your haste and therefore did not stop. Besides, a man should not be made a slave to his stomach. The stomach should serve the man. You northerners, with your fat bellies, should heed my advice.”

Borenson was a stout man, a big man; he’d never thought himself fat. On the other hand, in the course of his ride through Deyazz, he’d not seen a man as heavy as himself.

“I only want a bit of food. We do not have to stop long,” he implored.

“What will you pay me if I feed you?” the Invincible asked.

Borenson looked at the merchants’ stalls. He was a captive, and had little choice in the matter. Here in the south, lords seldom fed their prisoners. Instead, family members or friends were expected to provide food, clothing, and medicine for captives.

As a prisoner, he would not be allowed to buy food from vendors.

“I’ve got gold in my purse,” Borenson said, wondering how long such gold might last if he had to pay his captor for food. The Invincible would charge heavily, to make sure that Borenson’s future jailers got nothing.

The Invincible laughed, glanced back at Borenson with an expression of pure amusement. “You are in chains, my friend. I shall have your purse whenever I want it. No, you must come up with a better coin.”

“Name your price,” Borenson said, too weary to argue.

The Invincible nodded. “I will consider it....”

The Invincible bought some roasted—duckling and rice, and a pair of lemons from an old vendor who also provided cheap clay bowls to eat from.

Then the Invincible rode through the city swiftly and stopped at a bend in the Anshwavi River. An old palace had fallen into ruins here perhaps a thousand years before.

They let the horses drink and graze. The Invincible led Borenson to the water by the manacles so that he could wash in the river before eating. Then the men sat on an ancient marble pillar to dine. The green-veined stone was worn smooth, as if travelers often sat here to eat.

The Invincible cut his lemons with a curved dagger and squirted their juice over the delicately spiced duck and rice. Borenson’s stomach cramped at the sight. He reached out for the bowl, but the Invincible only smiled and taunted him. “First, your payment”

Borenson stared expectantly, waiting for the man to name a price. Perhaps his fine bow, or a piece of armor.

“Tell me about your Earth King,” the Invincible said. “Tell me what he is like, and speak honestly.”

Borenson considered wearily. “What would you like to know?”

“It is said that My Lord Raj Ahten fled before him in battle. Is this true?”

“It is,” Borenson said.

“He must be a fearsome warrior,” the Invincible said. “My Lord Raj Ahten seldom retreats.”

“Not really,” Borenson said. He did not want to speak the full truth. He was unwilling to admit that Gaborn hated to take endowments from other men, and thus was no match at all for Raj Ahten.

“He is a tall man, though?” the Invincible said. “Strong?”

Borenson laughed outright. He saw what game the man played. He too had sometimes dreamt that someday an Earth King would arise.

“No, he is not tall,” Borenson said, though great height was considered a virtue in some parts of Indhopal. Leaders were expected to be tall. “He is shorter than you by a hand.”

“Yet he is handsome in spite of this, surely?” the Invincible asked. “As handsome as my Lord Raj Ahten.”

“He does not take endowments of glamour,” Borenson admitted. “Raj Ahten’s beauty is a bonfire. My lord’s beauty is...a cinder, shooting up into the night.”

“Ah!” the Invincible said, as if having made a discovery. “Then it is true what I have heard, that the Earth King is short and ugly!”

“Yes,” Borenson admitted. “He is shorter and uglier than Raj Ahten.”

“But he is very wise,” the Invincible said. “Very cunning and crafty.”

“He is a young man,” Borenson admitted. “He is not wise. And he would be insulted if you said he was cunning and crafty.”

“Yet he outwitted My Lord Raj Ahten in battle?” the Invincible said. “He drove women and cattle across the plains, and frightened my lord.”

“It was luck, I suspect,” Borenson said. “In fact, it wasn’t even Gaborn’s idea. His wife suggested it”

“Ah, so he takes the counsel of women?” the Invincible asked. In parts of Indhopal, to suggest that a man took the counsel of women was to suggest that he was either unmanly or a fool

“He listens to the counsel of men and women,” Borenson corrected.

The Invincible smiled at Borenson in a superior way, the pockmarks on his dark skin showing better as he angled his face against the sunlight

“You have seen My Lord Raj Ahten?” the Invincible asked.

“I have seen your lord,” Borenson agreed.

“There is none better. There is none more handsome, or so fierce in battle,” the Invincible said. “His enemies rightly fear him, and his people obey him implicitly.”

Yet Borenson caught something in his tone. It was as if the Invincible were testing him somehow. “On this we agree. None is stronger, or more cunning, or more handsome, or more feared.”

“So why do you serve the Earth King?” the Invincible demanded.

“There is none so handsome as your lord,” Borenson said, “or so corrupt in his heart. Do I not say well that his own people fear him as much as his enemies do? And rightly so?”

“To say such things in Indhopal,” the Invincible warned, “is death!” His eyes flared, and his hand strayed toward the curved dagger at his side. He half drew it from its scabbard

“To speak truly is death in Indhopal?” Borenson said. “Yet you are the one who bade me speak the truth. Is the price of my lunch going to be my life?”

The Invincible said nothing, so Borenson continued. “Yet I have not answered your question in full: I serve the Earth King because he has a good heart,” he declared loudly. “He loves his people. He loves even his enemies, and he seeks to save them all. I serve the Earth King because the Earth chose him and gave him his power, and that is something that Raj Ahten with all of his armies and his fine face will never have!”

The Invincible burst into amiable laughter. “You have earned your lunch, my friend! You spoke honestly, and for that I thank you.” He clasped hands with Borenson. “My name is Pashtuk.”

Pashtuk handed Borenson the bowl of rice and duckling. Borenson could not help but notice that he had called him “my friend.” In Indhopal, such words were not spoken lightly.

That encouraged him to ask, “When you were a boy, Pashtuk, did you also dream that someday the Earth King would come? Did you dream of being a knight in his retinue? Do you, too, intend to serve the Earth King now?”

The Invincible took a spoonful of rice and stared at it thoughtfully. “I did not think he would be short and ugly and take counsel from women. Nor did I think he would hail from enemy lands...”

Borenson ate thoughtfully. The bowl of rice was not big, and barely assuaged his hunger. It filled him without making him overfull, renewed his energy a bit.

Borenson considered the implications of the deaths at the Blue Tower. If he’d lost his endowments, thousands of other warriors would have done the same. Many lords had preferred to keep their Dedicates under their own person guard. Yet the Blue Tower had stood for thousands of years, had not been successfully attacked since the naval blockade of King Tison the Bold, four hundred years ago.

The lords of Mystarria would be in a panic.

Worse than that, Borenson had to wonder about Gaborn. Gaborn would also have lost his endowments.

Raj Ahten had not been able to flush Gaborn from his lair in Heredon, could not risk bringing his armies north so long as the wights of the Dunnwood served the Earth King. So he was seeking to force Gaborn’s hand, bring him within striking range. Gaborn had counted on Duke Paladane to repel any attacks against Mystarria. Paladane was old and wise, a grizzled veteran who had led dozens of campaigns against petty tyrants and criminals in Orden’s behalf. No one was more trustworthy than Paladane.

But Paladane couldn’t fight with his hands tied behind his back, and Raj Ahten had succeeded in tying his hands.

Even in his weak and weary state, Borenson saw it all clearly. Raj Ahten knew that Gaborn could no longer resist the temptation to come into battle.

There could have been no more perfect a lure than the life of a nation, the lives of everyone that Gaborn knew and loved

Borenson wished that he could speak to Gaborn now, urge his lord to flee, to return to the north. Yet he was not sure it would be the right thing to do. For if Gaborn did not go south, Raj Ahten would destroy Mystarria.

22 The Darkling Glory

Erin and Celinor raced far ahead of the others. They were riding through the hills twenty miles south of Hayworth when Gaborn’s warning came. “Hide!”

It coursed through Erin, and she found her heart pounding. Immediately she glanced around, searching for the source of danger, and reined in her mount.

Celinor did the same, asking, “What’s wrong?”

Erin looked up at the steel-gray clouds. On the horizon a darker cloud rushed toward them.

Her breath came fast, and she could barely speak. “String your bow,” she whispered, for she thought she had time.

She leapt from her horse and grabbed her bow, tried to string it, fumbling. Celinor did the same, as he gaped up at the band of approaching night. It was like a great fish swimming behind the clouds, Erin thought. A great fish that lurks in the depths, half-hidden, half-revealed, waiting to strike.

I’m not afraid, she told herself. I’m a horsesister. The horsewomen of Fleeds do not give in to fear.

But though Erin was a horsewoman and had often engaged in mock combat and tournaments and even the occasional brawl, she’d never faced danger like this. She’d never felt helpless,

She had her bow strung when Gaborn spoke to her again. “Flee, Erin. Hide!”

She dropped her bow and leapt back into the saddle. She was mounted before she realized that Celinor had not been Chosen, and had not heard Gaborn’s command. He was still on the ground trying to string his bow. “There’s no time!” she shouted. “Into the woods! Come on!”

Celinor looked up at her in surprise. He finished stringing his bow. Up ahead was a hill covered in alders, many of whose leaves had not yet fallen. Erin hoped they might hide her.

The darkness descended from the clouds, a roiling mass of night that the eye could not pierce. Above that mass only darkness stretched across the sky. A great maelstrom of fire, like a tornado, appeared to be fastened like an umbilicus to the ball of darkness, feeding all light into the center of that storm.

The fiery maelstrom writhed and twisted above the ball of darkness as it dipped toward them.

“Run,” Erin cried. Celinor grabbed his bow, leapt on his horse, and they raced away from the road.

The central mass of darkness had been sweeping directly over the Durkin Hills Road. Now it veered and dropped lower.

Behind them, Erin’s and Celinor’s Days cried out in horror and raced after them, trying hard to catch up to the swifter horses.

Erin’s steed leapt down an embankment, raced into the forest. Her mount thundered through the sparse trees, jumping bushes and low rocks, the wind rushing in her face, all of night falling upon her.

She gazed back as the mass of darkness, half a mile in diameter, touched ground level. A great wall of wind roared through the trees on the hill, bowling them over like a ball. Great old patriarchs of the forest snapped like twigs. The trees screamed in protest, and the roar of the wind was the snarl of an animal. Branches and autumn leaves swirled into the roiling wind. Erin could see only the edges of the storm, only the wind swirling debris, but at its heart flew a cloud of blackest night:

The wind had picked up speed. The front of the wall blasted along the highway, struck Erin‘s Day’s horse with so much power that the steed staggered sideways, rolling over its rider.

Then the wind took them both, horse and rider. It lifted the Days like a hand and tossed her into the air.

Erin recalled a line from an ancient tome, a description of a Glory in battle. “And with it came the sunlight and the wind, a wind that swept from its wings like a gale, and smote the ships at Waysend, and lifted the ships from the water and hurled them into the deep.”

She’d always thought it a fanciful description. She’d seen large graaks in flight, and the wash of their wings had never created anything similar. But the creature that struck now controlled the wind with more than natural force. The wind and air moved like an extension of its body.

Now her Days shrieked, a cry of wild terror hardly heard above the storm, and as Erin watched, a huge spar—a pine tree stripped of all its branches—caught the woman in the midsection and impaled her, shot clean through like an arrow. Blood and entrails streamed out after it. Then the wind carried the Days’ carcass and horse and the tree up a hundred feet in the sky, and all were lost as they tumbled end over end, into that impenetrable ball of darkness.

Erin had never liked her Days, had never been close to the woman. The only kindness Erin had ever extended her Days was to make her tea on the few occasions when she took sick from a cold. Yet the image of that woman, pierced and utterly destroyed, horrified Erin.

Celinor’s Days reached the roadside, and his horse floundered, its rear legs suddenly pulled backward by the wind The horse screamed as the Darkling Glory pulled it into the roiling mass. Erin did not watch.

The wall of wind raced toward her. Erin turned just as her horse landed hard in a sandy little ravine. A dry streambed wound its way through here. Celinor had turned his mount, was racing down the dry streambed for safety, fleeing the ball of darkness that chased behind, heading toward a tall stand of pines that opened before them like a dark tunnel. He fled from the wind, from the blackness.

Leaves and dry grasses suddenly swirled up around her. Erin put her heels to horseflesh, felt the wind tearing at her cloak. She looked behind.

Not a dozen yards back, the wind howled like an animal, and she stared into the blackness as if it were a pit. Trees crashed down to each side of her. The blackness gaping behind it all was like a huge mouth, trying to swallow her. A long pole thrust out of the darkness, hitting her in the back like a lance. It exploded against her mail, shattering on impact, shoving her forward:

She reached the stand of pines. Just within their shelter, Celinor had brought his mount to a halt. Ahead, a huge logjam blocked the channel where once the stream had flooded.

“Hide!” Gaborn’s voice shouted-in her mind.

Erin leapt toward Celinor, and the wind half-carried her to him.

She knocked him from his mount and rolled forward, ducking beneath a fallen tree, beneath the logjam.

Behind her, she heard horses whinny in terror, but dared not spare a glance backward.

Instead, she crawled under the pile of logs as the wind howled and thundered. Trees snapped and branches crackled. A tree toppled and crashed into the woodpile above her as if the Darkling Glory meant to crush them all. Its branches shielded her as darkness descended, enveloping her with the smelt of pitch and evergreen.

All around their little shelter, the storm raged: Even here, even beneath the fallen trees, the wind ripped bark from ancient logs and sent stones rolling ponderously along the riverbed.

Celinor put his arms around Erin, clutched her, trying to protect her with his body. In the utter darkness, she felt he was smothering her. Yet she feared to let him go.

“Stay down!” he cried.

Now she understood why Gaborn had warned them. The power of the Darkling Glory seemed immense. No arrow could have pierced that roiling storm. No rider, no matter how courageous or proficient, could have borne down upon the beast with lance.

She could not fight it, did not know if she could even hide from it.

Lightning cracked overhead, and the dry logs above exploded like dry tinder.

In the blinding flash, she glimpsed something. Beyond the trunk of the fallen pine, between its intact branches, she saw a shimmering form. The shape of a winged man hunched low. He moved along the streambed, stalking toward them. Dark flames flickered around him, as if he simultaneously both created and devoured fire.

Erin felt the air thrill. Her hair stood on end as static electricity wreathed her. She feared that another lightning bolt would pierce her now.

As the Darkling Glory overtook them, the wind suddenly died. In the utter blackness, Erin dared not move. She was at the heart of the storm.

Above her, the dried trees and brush that shielded her roared into flame, ignited by the lightning. The Darkling Glory leapt into the air, fanned the flames with its wings.

The beast let out an unearthly howl of delight, a sound that was at once both more pain-wracked and more beautiful than any sound she’d ever heard, an aria of the damned.

Smoke billowed around her, choking her. Bits of twigs and broken bark scattered blazing through the logjam, dropping all around. A log dropped from above, thwacking Celinor on the back. A hot ember landed on Erin’s hand.

She swatted it away, and the fire touched dry grasses nearby. From their wan light, Erin saw an embankment to her left. The stream had cut away some dirt; creating an overhang, and she imagined that if she could make it to the undercut, the ground above might help shield her from the inferno.

She grabbed Celinor and motioned for him to go to the left, but realized with a start that he was unconscious. He’d tried to protect her with his body, but the falling log had hit him harder than she’d known. He was unconscious, if not dead.

She rolled from beneath him, grabbed the collar of his ring mail, and began laboriously dragging him out from underneath the burning wood, inching toward safety.

A hot branch fell from above, hit Celinor full on the back with a thud. He screamed in agony and looked up, his face seaming sweat and blood, then passed out again.

She kept fighting, made it halfway through the logjam, climbing over one log and under another, when suddenly she realized that the wind had stopped. Full daylight shone through the inferno.

She looked up, daring to hope, unsure if even she alone could now escape from beneath the tangle of burning logs before they collapsed under their own weight.

But the Darkling Glory had left.

Dully, she realized that Celinor’s cry might have saved them. The Darkling Glory must have thought him dead. She flipped Celinor onto his back, wondering if the Darkling Glory was right.

23 Brave Lords

Gaborn could only look up in dull wonder, as the Darkling Glory drew the light from the sky, focused it into a funnel of fire that swirled down into a ball of blackest night.

Gaborn felt wearier than he’d ever been, could hardly focus his eyes, much less his thoughts. Without having slept for days, and with the sudden loss of his endowments, he could barely hold up his head.

As the beast approached, the wind of its passage whipped and howled. It flew low over the dirt highway, just as an owl will sweep along a winter’s road in the moonlight, hunting mice.

The wind of its’ passage uprooted trees, hurled great stones. Half a mile ahead, men and horses scattered from its path, but not fast enough, seldom fast enough.

Lightning crackled from the cloud, firing like ballista bolts, blasting men in half, gutting horses.

Thunder snarled through the afternoon air, mingling with death cries and the sounds of snapping trees.

As the tempest thrashed the road, dust swirled into the mix, obscuring everything.

“To me,” cried fat King Orwynne at Gaborn’s side. “For Orwynne and Mystarria!”

The old fool thinks to protect me! Gaborn realized. I’ve lost my endowments, and Orwynne thinks me a commoner.

I’ve underestimated the speed of the Darkling Glory, Gaborn thought. I have to get my people to move faster.

He was riding at the van of his army, with his knights scattered miles behind. He sent a warning to his Chosen warriors: “Hide! Don’t dare fight!”

But his warning did not deter King Theovald Orwynne. The fat king dropped his lance into a couched position, the haft of the lance resting in the crook of his arm, and spurred his mount forward, charging that swirling orb of blackness and storm.

His eldest son, Barnell, was only sixteen years old, but he was a fighter. He bravely drew his warhammer, and charged on his father’s right, while King Orwynne’s most trusted guardsman, Sir Draecon, hurtled forward at his left.

A hundred knights surged to cover Orwynne’s attack. Some began hurling lances into the maelstrom, while archers shot wildly into the black orb, sending up shaft after shaft, creating a steady hail of arrows.

The archers availed nothing. Spears and arrows veered in the whirling magical winds controlled by the Darkling Glory, thrown wildly from their course. In moments, arrows hurtled back toward the attackers.

So men fought to protect their king, but only King Orwynne, his son Barnell, and Sir Draecon proved brave enough to charge that darkness.

Behind Gaborn, someone shouted, “Milord—this way!” Someone raced up and grabbed the reins of Gaborn’s horse.

Gaborn was so bone weary—so weak from his loss of endowments and lack of sleep—that he could not think what to do. He let himself be blindly led. Without his endowments of stamina, he felt more enervated than he’d ever been. Without his brawn, he could hardly hold himself upright in the saddle. Without his endowment of wit, he could no longer think straight, could not recall the names of most of those he’d Chosen in the past week, men whose faces flashed before his eyes as he sensed their danger.

So he felt debilitated both in mind and body.

Gaborn’s Days raced at his side. Through a seeming haze, Gaborn now recognized the young knight who led his horse—Sir Langley, Orwynne’s champion. He was grateful to see that the best of Orwynne’s men were bright enough not to follow him to their deaths.

The mounts raced from the storm toward a stand of alder, graywhite trunks rising splendidly among golden autumn leaves.

Gaborn glanced back. King Orwynne and his men bore down, their swift force horses gaining speed, the mounts’ braided manes whipping in the wind.

A sudden hope arose in Gaborn, a hope that they might succeed in their charge, even as the earth powers in him warned that they could not.

Lightning forked from that dark orb.

One tong slammed into Sir Draecon on Orwynne’s left, while the other blew a ragged hole through young Barnell on the right.

Only King Orwynne was left, roaring a battle cry as he urged his armored mount to charge into that churning orb of obscurity.

Just when it looked as if Theovald Orwynne’s mount night penetrate that darkness, an irresistible wind struck the horse, lifting it and fat King Orwynne into the air.

Suddenly Orwynne twisted horribly, like a rag being wrung by a washwoman.

King Orwynne had several endowments of voice, and the agony in his death shriek was astonishing in volume. It promised to be the thing of nightmares for weeks to come.

The King’s armor crumpled with his bones. Blood poured from the twisted wreckage. The stomach cavity of his charger burst like a melon, spilling innards, and then the whole grisly spectacle—king and mount—went hurling high into the air, as if tossed up in celebration.

“The Bright Ones protect us!” Sir Langley exclaimed at Gaborn’s side.

Gaborn’s and Sir Langley’s chargers finished climbing up a small knoll into the alders. The horses snorted and huffed in terror. Gaborn stared back wearily as King Orwynne and his charger dropped a quarter of a mile from the top of their arc. Gaborn felt fatigued in heart and mind.

He could go no farther. I’m not tired just from lack of endowments, he realized. I’m mentally exhausted.

Being tied by his earth powers to hundreds of thousands of people, being cognizant of their danger, sending warnings to each of his Chosen when he recognized a threat it was more than he could bear.

But despite his inordinate fatigue, he felt terrified to sleep. He feared that if he slept, he would not be able to use his powers, could not warn his Chosen.

Weakly he sent a warning to all of his Chosen. “Hide!”

From this vantage he could see the road behind for nearly two miles back. He gazed down the road, watched his men scatter, split off the road and race into the woods.

The Darkling Glory roared in frustration, veered across the valley to the nearest visible target, a knight who had fallen from his horse. The orb of darkness swooped, and this time no lightning bolts flashed out, no claws of air ripped him to shreds.

Instead, the dark orb settled over the poor fellow, and Gaborn was left to imagine from the fellow’s prolonged death shrieks what kind of horrible fate he’d met.

Then the swirling wind and debris and blackness began to rise, veered ever so slightly toward him.

“Come,” Sir Langley said. He took Gaborn’s reins, and urged his mount forward; they raced under the trees, leaping a windfall, galloping down along slope.

“If you have the power to save us,” Langley said lightly, “now would be a good time to use it”

Gaborn felt inside himself, wondering. Yes, the danger was still strong.

“Go left!” Gaborn warned, ordering Langley to head into sparse cover. To the left, most of the golden leaves of the alders had fallen. They lay in deep piles on the forest floor. Logically, riding into the open seemed wrong.

The Darkling Glory came, a roaring wind that whipped low through the woods, racing after them just above the treetop

It dove toward them, and the golden leaves on the forest floor began swirling, swirling everywhere in a blinding maelstrom. The wind shrieked

Lightning flashed, blasted a tree beside Gaborn.

“Left,” Gaborn shouted.

Sir Langley and Gaborn’s Days veered, racing to beat the wind.

Suddenly Gaborn realized what the Earth wanted. The Darkling Glory could not see through the swirling leaves any better than he could. Gaborn had been circling the monster, stirring up the leaves, and they had blinded the beast.

“Now drive hard right!” Gaborn shouted. Langley complied. Gaborn’s Days raced at his tail

In a moment they were galloping south over a trail through the trees, running parallel to the path of the Durkin Hills Road, while the Darkling Glory roared in confusion behind.

They drew into a copse beneath the shelter of a few dark pines and hid there while the horses wheezed and trembled in terror.

In moments the Darkling Glory rose from the forest floor and winged north, attacking any man foolish enough to remain on the road.

“It has lost us,” Sir Langley whispered. “We were fortunate.”

Gaborn shook his head. Mere luck had not saved him. Gaborn recalled his meeting with the Earth spirit in Binnesman’s garden more than a week past. The Earth had drawn a rune of protection on Gaborn’s forehead, a rune that hid him from all but the most powerful servants of fire.

Gaborn smiled grimly. Binnesman said that the Darkling Glory was a creature of air and darkness, a creature that consumed light rather than served it. Gaborn suspected that the beast had not known he was here, would not have been able to find him in any circumstance, and had only chased after Langley and Gaborn’s Days.

“Hide!” Gaborn sent the message to his troops once more.

Almost as if in response to his command, the Darkling Glory flew high into the air, momentarily breaking off the attack. The swirling coil of flame above it grew thicker, broader.

The beast let its own powers expand, drew light from the farthest reaches of the skies, as if all its hunting had made it hungry.

It’s like a cat, Gaborn thought. It only attacked because we were easy prey. So long as it has to work for its pleasure, it wants none of us.

Then the Darkling Glory did something unexpected. In an instant it shot across the horizon at a speed that not even a force horse could hope to match.

It sped toward Castle Sylvarresta, seventy miles back. But at the speed it suddenly attained, it would reach the castle in moments.

Gaborn let tendrils of his power creep out. Distantly, he felt the death aura wrapped around Iome like a cloak, and he wondered why she had not yet left the castle.

“Flee!” he sent one last time. “Flee for your life!”

The effort of making so many sendings cost him. He was so dizzy, so weary and fatigued from the loss of endowments that he still felt as if leaves swirled around him, swirled and swirled with him at the center.

Too thoroughly drained to remain astride his horse, he clutched for the pommel of his saddle as fatigue took him, and then dropped to the forest floor.

24 Waiting for Darkness

Myrrima had been right when she told Iome that it would take hours for her garrison to search the city.

Iome had them search it anyway. Iome took her pups and let them run in the bailey just inside the city walls, while she held court, having the city guard drag in every townsman found haunting the place.

A large city surrounded Castle Sylvarresta, an old city with thousands of homes. Some were fine manors, like Dame Opinsher’s, while others were hovels perched above the crowded market streets along the Butterwalk.

Everywhere the soldiers looked, they found people. They caught thieves ransacking the empty homes of the wealthy and poor alike.

Iome didn’t want to execute the thieves, but feared that to leave them or imprison them with the Darkling Glory coming was the same as killing them. Most of the thieves were not evil so much as stupid—witless old men and women, relentlessly poor beggars who failed to rise above temptation when they saw so many empty homes.

These people she relieved of their goods and sent away, warning them to do better.

Yet other looters were shifty-eyed creatures of foul disposition whom Iome would never want to meet in a dark alley. Such cunning and cruel people troubled her. She’d wanted to save her people, not take their lives.

These were not fools tempted into wrongdoing, but clever men and women who made a profession of bringing misfortune to others. So she had the guards place them in the dungeon.

Not all those found within the walls were thieves. Some were crude or ignorant. One old codger complained that the King was making a “big to-do” about nothing.

On and on it went. Iome seemed determined to bring her dream to pass, to make sure that she was the last bit of human fluff to ride the wind away from Castle Sylvarresta.

A gale blew in, a strong steady wind from the south, driving steel-gray clouds that lay low against the hills, promising rain. The clouds brought a chill that raised goose pimples on Myrrima’s arms. She worried for her mother and sisters, traveling south in such weather.

Iome dared not flee herself, though she ordered those city guards who did not have force horses to race for the Dunnwood.

All day, Binnesman the wizard hurried about the King’s Keep, strewing herbs, drawing runes above the gates.

At two in the afternoon, Gaborn’s command came stronger than ever before. “Flee now, I beg you! Death is upon you!”

Binnesman raced down from his tower. “Milady,” he called to Myrrima, for Iome was engaged in a discussion with a clothier who would not leave his shop. He was dying wool in scarlet, and if he pulled the wool from the vats early, it would be a muddy pink. If the cloth was not turned, the dye might take unevenly. If he left it too long, the wool would expand and loosen the weave, ruining the cloth.

“Milady!” Binnesman urged Myrrima again. “You must get Her Highness away from here now! The Earth King has spoken: There can be no more delays!”

“I am her servant,” Myrrima said. “Not her master.”

Binnesman reached into the pockets of his robe, drew out a lace kerchief filled with leaves. “See that you give some of these to Iome and Sir Donnor and Jureem. There’s potent goldenbay, and root of mallow and leaf of chrysanthemum and faith raven. It should offer some protection from the Darkling Glory.”

“Thank you,” Myrrima said. Binnesman’s power as an Earth Warden let him magnify the potency of any herb. Even a small bundle of his herbs would prove a great boon.

Binnesman turned and hurried up the Butterwalk, toward the Boar’s Hoard.

Myrrima went to Iome. “Milady, I beg of you, let’s go. Most of the town has been searched, and it’s growing late.”

“Nightfall is not for hours yet,” Iome argued. “There will be others left here in town.”

Jureem stood a few yards away, hands folded under his chin, looking apprehensive.

“Leave the city guard to care for them,” Myrrima begged. “You can appoint a commander to issue judgment in your stead.”

Iome seemed flushed and anxious. Beads of perspiration stood on her brow. “I can’t,” she whispered, so that none of the city guard would hear. “You see how they are. They’re rough men. I have my people to care for.”

Iome was right. The captain of the guard seemed overjoyed to have found so many thieves. After years of hunting criminals, he was ready to dispatch anyone he caught. Iome could not trust the guards to exercise her degree of constraint and compassion.

Myrrima pleaded with her. “Remember, you have a child to care for, too.”

The expression of anguish that crossed Iome’s face was such that Myrrima knew she had said the wrong thing. Iome was thinking about her child. She probably worried about little else.

But Iome said coolly, “I can’t let concern for one child growing in my womb cause me to neglect my duties.”

“I’m sorry,” Myrrima said. “I misspoke, Your Highness.”

At that moment, the captain of the guard brought a clubfooted boy up out of the Butterwalk. He did not drag him as if he were a thief; but instead steadied the boy’s arm, helping him. The boy was in pain and seemed hardly able to drag his monstrously swollen leg.

Caught between manhood and childhood, he probably felt too afraid to ask others for help, yet could not flee alone.

“What have we here?” Iome asked.

“Orphan,” the captain of the guard answered.

Myrrima checked on the horses, tied to a hitching post not far off. But Jureem had already cinched the girth straps tight, had tied water bottles and packs onto each beast. He’d also gathered the puppies, tied them into two wicker picnic baskets. The pups barked and wagged their tails as Myrrima neared.

Sir Donnor stood by the mounts. “Milady,” he said. “We must go. I’d feel better if you’d leave the castle at least.”

“Leave Iome?” Myrrima asked.

“She’ll have me to guard her,” Sir Donnor said. “Her horse is faster than yours. Even if you accompanied Jureem a few miles down the road, you could have a good head start. You would be able to hide under the trees, if necessary.”

Jureem, who already sat ahorse, said frantically, “He is right, let us reach the edge of the woods at least.”

Before she had time to reconsider, she’d mounted up and was thundering over the drawbridge, out of the castle.

Myrrima glanced into the moat, saw the huge sturgeons wheeling in desperation, still drawing their runes, though they had been here for a night and a day. Out in the field, larks wheeled about in a cloud, nervously shifting this way and that, as if fearing the approach of winter and unsure which way to flee.

The sky above them had been darkening steadily the past few hours, so that now it was a dirty lead-gray. But beyond it, Myrrima thought she saw a great black thunderhead rushing from the south.

They raced uphill, and Jureem veered toward the shelter of the autumn woods. The pups in his basket snarled and yapped like hounds who have scented a boar.

As they galloped under the shelter of trees with limbs nearly barren of leaves, Myrrima touched the pouch of herbs in her vest pocket, suddenly realized that she had not dispensed them as Binnesman had asked.

The black cloud rushing from the south disturbed her deeply. She looked up, realized the source of her apprehension: The cloud was not blowing with the wind, but moved at an angle to it. Lightning flashed in the heavens, and thunder pealed.

The Darkling Glory would not wait for nightfall to strike, for it brought the darkness with it.

And I have left milady defenseless, Myrrima thought.

She grasped the reins from Jureem’s hand, turned her mount, and raced back toward the castle.

25 At the King’s Keep

Iome interviewed the clubfooted boy in the lower bailey. He stood on the cobblestones with his head down, clearly embarrassed to have been dragged before the Queen. His embarrassment did not concern Iome so much as his infirmity.

His right leg was a swollen monstrosity, so large that he could not have worn pants. He wore nothing but a tunic of old sackcloth that looked as if the poorest inhabitant of the castle might have discarded it.

“How old are you?” Iome asked gently.

“Ten,” the boy said. Then after along moment he added, “Yer High...uh...Ladyship.”

Iome smiled. He might have addressed her as “Your Highness” or “milady,” but had instead invented his own uncouth concoction.

“Ten years?” she asked “Have you lived in Castle Sylvarresta so long?” She’d never seen him before.

“No,” the boy said slowly, never daring to look up. “I come from Balliwick.” It was a village on Heredon’s western border.

“That is a long way, nearly a hundred miles,” Iome said. “Are you an apprentice to a carter? Who brought you?”

“I come to see the Earth King,” the boy said. “I walked. I got here Wednesday, but he was at the hunt....”

The boy’s leg was as swollen as a melon and his foot twisted inward at a horrible angle. No boot would have fit it, so he’d merely wrapped the thing and walked about on the bandage. She imagined that he must have had his leg broken as a babe, and that it had healed poorly. Yet she could not imagine that anyone with such a leg could walk all the way from Balliwick. He’d have dragged it, painfully, step by aching step.

“The Earth King is gone,” Iome said, “headed south into wan”

The boy stared hard at the ground, fighting tears. She wondered what to do with the lad.

I could put him in the inn, with the others who are sick, she thought. But to leave him here in the castle would be dangerous.

This boy had walked a hundred miles to see her husband, but Gaborn was riding south, and Iome realized that this child was so slow he might never catch the Earth King, might never be able to obtain his lord’s blessing. While the merchant princes of Lysle hadn’t bothered to walk from their camps to see her husband, this boy had crawled halfway across Heredon for an audience.

She couldn’t abandon him. She couldn’t easily take him, either. “I’m going south,” Iome decided at last. “You could ride with me. But first you must get into some proper clothes.”

The boy looked up in wonder, for no pauper would have hoped for such a boon. But as he looked up, Iome fretted. Myrrima had already left the castle with Jureem. But by the sun, it could not be much later than two o’clock. Nightfall was hours away. She had almost managed to bring her dream to life. The city guard had searched the whole east end of the city, gathered every last one of her vassals and sent them south.

“Go to the King’s Keep,” Iome told the boy. “On the top floor, take the hallway to the left. There you will find my apartments. Look in the guest wardrobe to the left and get yourself a decent tunic and a traveling cloak, then take a moment to wash in the horse trough there in the bailey. When you finish, come back and wait until we can leave.”

“Yes, Yer Lordship,” the boy said. Iome winced at his use of a masculine title for her. He leapt up and half limped, half ran on his twisted, clumsy foot, lumbering up Market Street.

Iome closed her eyes, savored the moment. The guards had only to search the north end of the city. Two more hours. That is all it would take to clear the city.

But now Gaborn’s warning rang through her. “Hide! You are too late to flee. Hide—all of you!”

Iome started. From here in the bailey, she could not see over the castle walls. A watchman on the gate tower cried, “Your Highness, it’s coming from the south—a great shadow above the clouds.”

Even as he spoke, thunder cracked over the Dunnwood. Lightning strobed. Nearby, Iome’s horse jumped, pulling at its tethers.

Sir Donnor grabbed the reins to Iome’s mare, and mounted his horse, as did Iome’s Days. “Your Highness,” Sir Donnor shouted, “we must away!”

“Hide!” she ordered him, astonished that he wanted to flee—for the Earth King had told them to hide.

“But we’ve fast mounts,” Sir Donnor urged, “faster than anything that flies.”

Perhaps Sir Donnor is right, she thought. A swift force horse might outrun such a creature—Ah, who am I fooling? I would never risk it.

“Hide!” Gaborn’s warning struck her again.

Iome ran and leapt on her mare. Sir Donnor turned his mount and sped out the city gates, over the drawbridge and away from Castle Sylvarresta, never looking back. He’d been certain that she would follow. Iome’s Days raced hot on his heel, but after years of keeping her eyes on royalty, the matronly woman spared a glance backward by habit, realized that Iome was not following.

The Days’ face was stricken, pale with fear.

But Iome could not leave the clubfooted boy.

She wheeled her mare and raced up Market Street, the beast’s hooves clattering over the cobblestones, its breath coming hot from its mouth. Her Days followed a hundred yards behind

As Iome’s charger hit the Black Corner, turned and sped under the portcullis of the King’s Gate, she glanced back down over the valley. She could see the fields before Castle Sylvarresta from up here: the river Wye twisted like a silver thread among the green fields on the east of the castle, the autumn golds and reds of the Dunnwood rose above the fire-blackened fields to the south.

And there on the blackened fields, Sir Donnor spun his mount, galloping back toward the castle, having realized that Iome was not following.

To Iome’s dismay, Myrrima was racing down from the hills, too. She passed Sir Donnor.

Even as Iome watched, a great sphere hurtled from the clouds. Blackness suddenly filled the sky above, darker than any night. A tornado swirled above the sphere, a tornado of light and heat and fire all whirling down into the heart of blackness.

The Darkling Glory drew the light and heat from the sky like some consummate flameweaver, channeling the power to himself. Within the heart of the sphere, swirling air and veils of night concealed the Darkling Glory.

Yet it plunged toward those who raced for the castle, swept toward Sir Donnor like a hawk for a dove.

Myrrima galloped across the downs, gouging her heels into the flanks of her charger, hoping for greater speed. She clutched the bag of herbs Binnesman had given her. Myrrima had never owned a horse, had learned to ride only because the boys in Bannisferre had sometimes insisted that she ride with them.

Yet now she galloped for the castle, drove mercilessly as the Darkling Glory came on, the wind screaming at her back. Sir Donnor had been racing toward her, fleeing the castle. Now he wheeled his mount and shouted wordlessly, trying to pace her.

With the Darkling Glory came a night darker than any winter’s eve.

Myrrima’s horse plunged through thickening gloom. She glanced up at the city, saw a flash of movement. Iome’s horse was racing across the barren green at the crown of the hill, toward the King’s Keep. Iome’s traveling cloak flapped like a banner in the wind.

It seemed to Myrrima that the Darkling Glory slowed abruptly, that it hovered just at her heel, silently.

She hoped that she’d be able to outpace the beast, for with each second, the castle drew nearer, with its tall battlements and stone towers and the promise of safety.

Her charger rounded a bend. Myrrima clung tight, tried to keep from falling. She glanced back. Sir Donnor galloped behind, struggling to catch up. The knight half-turned to the side, drew his great horseman’s axe. He looked as if he would wheel and do battle.

A ball of wind hurtled from the darkness. Myrrima saw it skim across the blackened field, picking up ash from last week’s fire, blurring like a hand to cut the legs from beneath Sir Donnor’s charger.

Sir Donnor shrieked as his mount went down, and he pitched forward to meet the ground.

Myrrima screamed for her horse to run. She grabbed her bow and quiver from off her pack.

Sir Donnor shouted, but his cry was drowned out in the rising roar of the wind that whipped all about. Myrrima glanced back. Sir Donnor was lost to the darkness.

Myrrima peered forward. She had almost reached the drawbridge. She saw it through the darkening gloom. “Jump!” she shouted to her charger, vainly hoping that somehow the beast would leap faster than it ran.

She heard a lightning bolt snap, felt her horse jerk and quiver. Its impetus suddenly redoubled as a lightning bolt hurled it forward. The horse flipped in the air head over hooves, and then she too was tumbling.

Iome never spotted the clubfooted boy. She timed her leap for the moment that her mount slowed, and ran into the keep.

“Boy?” Iome shouted. “Are you herein’

“Milord?” he called from the top of the stairs.

Outside, thunder pealed and rattled the windows. Wind screamed over the stones of the keep like something in pin.

“Down here!” she shouted. “The Darkling Glory!”

He came running at once, tripped and rolled down the carpeted stairs above. In seconds he stood before her, looking ridiculous in the King’s finest brocaded jacket, a gorgeous thing made of cloth-of-gold with cardinal stripes. The boy had not been able to resist trying it on.

Thunder pealed, and all light seemed to flee as night descended on the castle. Wind howled through the King’s Keep and hail battered the windows. Iome wheeled toward the door of the keep, just as lightning split the sky outside. Her horse screamed in pain and she heard a wet thud as its carcass dropped. The wind lifted the beast, rotated it slowly in the air about ten feet off the ground, like a cat holding a mouse in fascination.

The clubfooted boy screamed in terror. Iome glanced about in dismay. Her Days had not followed her into the keep, and Iome wondered where the woman might have gone. Never before had a Days deserted her, no matter how great the danger.

She raced for the door outside, but the wind grabbed the huge oaken door, slammed it closed in her face.

“Hide!” Gaborn’s Voice rang through her. “For the sake of our love, hide.”

“This way!” Iome called to the boy, grabbed his hand. A suffocating darkness enveloped the castle. It was not the darkness one sees on a star-filled night, or even on a night of storms when clouds blanket heaven. It was a complete absence of light, the darkness of the deepest cavern.

Yet Iome knew the keep, knew all its twists and turns. She felt her way along the hall, heading for the buttery, thinking to hide in a deep corner of some vegetable bin.

But she recalled Binnesman’s chamber in the cellars. She recalled the sense of power she’d felt in that room. Down in the depths of the castle, surrounded by earth.

She turned abruptly, raced for the lower passage that had seldom been used, threw open the door. The flagstones leading down were rough and uneven. The fourth one from the landing twisted loosely underfoot. She’d have to be careful on her way down. The cellar had never been meant for habitation. She led the boy as swiftly as she could.

She saw light ahead.

Iome reached the door at the top of the stairs, closed it behind her, bolted it. Outside, wind screamed. Thunder pealed and hail battered the stone walls.

Upstairs, the windows of the keep all shattered as if from a great blow. Iome winced. The stained glass of the oriels in the King’s Chamber had been in place for a thousand years. The glass was a treasure that could not be replaced.

With the door sealed, Iome could see the faintest glow from a fire down below. The air smelled sickly sweet from lemon verbena that simmered on Binnesman’s hearth. Iome had not seen the wizard in half an hour. The last she’d been aware, he’d taken off toward the inns in town, gone to help the sick, but he might have come back here. He might have taken one of the side roads back up to the keep.

Binnesman had planned to fight this monster. She dared hope to find him in his room.

She raced down to the cellar, found the pot of verbena still brewing, a few coals glowing in the hearth. The boy raced over to the fire.

Iome threw the door closed, looked for a way to bolt it. Binnesman’s door did not even have a latch.

She searched Binnesman’s room for something to hold the door closed. There were various large stones among the Seer’s Stones, too large for her to roll by herself.

“Hide!” Gaborn shouted in her mind. “It comes for you!”

Binnesman did not even have a bed to hide under—only the pile of dirt in the corner.

Myrrima woke, floating facedown in the moat. She tasted water, cold water mixed with algae.

Pain throbbed in every muscle. Vaguely she remembered falling from her horse, and she believed that she must have shattered bones on impact, then rolled into the water. Darkness hovered over her.

Her horse was screaming and thrashing in the moat nearby. The waves of its struggle made her bob on the surface like a piece of cork bark.

I’m dying, she thought muzzily.

She floated in deep water as cold as winter ice, and just as numbing. She felt so weak.

She could not move. She struggled vainly, tried to lift a hand and swim to the shore, to the castle wall, anywhere. But she could not see a thing in such total darkness.

Above her, she felt a wind, the wash of giant wings as something hovered overhead.

It did not matter where she went, so long as she swam.

But she struggled, and as she struggled, she found herself sinking.

It does not matter, she thought. It does not matter if I die today, if I join the ghosts of the Dunnwood.

By dying, Myrrima would lose her endowments. Her sisters would be glad to get back their glamour. Her mother would regain her wit. They would work and scrape in their little house outside Bannisferre, and they might be happy. It did not matter if Myrrima died.

She struggled, and found herself falling from regions of darkness, into the perfect obscurity of the moat.

A great sturgeon swam beside her, skimmed her hand and whipped away through the water. She felt the wash of its wake as it departed, but it returned again a moment later. The big fish swam around her lazily, creating an intricate pattern, like a dance.

“Hello,” Myrrima mouthed. “I’m dying.”

Myrrima closed her eyes and lay for along time, letting the water numb her. The frigid water soothed her muscles, drew the pain even from her bones.

It’s lovely here, she thought. Ah, if I could only stay for tea.

She found herself dozing for a moment, and woke with a start.

Some light had returned, enough to see by. She lay in the muck at the bottom of the moat.

A sturgeon floated through the water, drew near, and then held steady, one huge eye the color of beaten silver staring at her. The great sturgeon, longer than she, merely patted its bony lips, its feelers drooping like a moustache, opening and closing its mouth minutely with each opening and closing of its gills.

She felt amazed to find herself alive. Her mind was clearing, and now her lungs ached for air. Two more great sturgeons whipped past her in a frenzy, swirling in dance.

She remembered the runes they’d drawn.

Protection, healing. Over and over for days. Protection, healing. The water wizards were powerful.

With the recognition that she would live, Myrrima suddenly felt concern for others. She looked up from the bottom of the moat. The surface was thirty feet up. Darkness still covered half the sky.

She pushed her toes into the muck, feeling freshwater mussels beneath her feet, and swam upward, bursting from the surface.

She began to cough, clearing water from her lungs.

Lying weightless in the water had seemed easy. Now she found that swimming in her clothes was hard. She churned through icy water, slogged toward shore so that she could climb up through the cattails along the moat’s bank.

The water weighted down her riding clothes so that she felt as if she were swimming in chain mail. She saw her bow and quiver floating nearby. Half of her arrows had spilled from the quiver.

Grabbing the weapons, she swam to the cattails and climbed up, sank wearily to the grass. The frigid water left her numb, trembling from cold. Hail began to pelt her.

There on the green grass, she looked up into the gloom. Darkness reigned all around, but mostly it centered uphill over the King’s Keep.

Myrrima crawled to her knees. Her horse was sloshing up out of the moat. She felt astonished to see it alive, for she was sure that a lightning bolt had pierced it. Yet she’d known a man in Bannisferre who had been struck by lightning on three different occasions and only had a couple of burn scars and a numb face to show for it. Either the horse had been lucky or the water wizard’s spells had healed it.

Farther afield, Sir Donnor and his mount lay dead. Myrrima did not need to check them to know. Sir Donnor was hewn in more than one piece, and his mount lay so twisted and broken that it might never have been a horse.

Myrrima struggled to stand, strung her bow and nocked an arrow.

Her mount neighed in fear, managed to churn a path up the bank, then it raced away from the castle, heading back across the valley toward the hills where Jureem hid. In the gloom, Myrrima turned and ran over the drawbridge, uphill, into Castle Sylvarresta.

The clubfooted boy gazed at the wizard’s room, at the bundles of herbs tied in the rafters, at the baskets made of coiled rope that held dry herbs above the mantel. Iome recalled how Binnesman had gone in search of herbs this morning, glanced about desperately for something the wizard might have used to fight with. She hoped that Binnesman might have left his staff, but it was nowhere to be seen.

She saw a bag sitting on a low stool, ran to it. It was the bag Binnesman had been hauling herbs in this morning. She turned it inside out. Dozens of goldenbay leaves, bits of root and bark, and flower pets fell out—the odds—and-ends of his craft.

Iome scooped them up, held them protectively. She cringed, listening. Her heart thudded in her ears. The clubfooted boy moaned in terror, gasping for breath. Wind whirled about the castle, making the fire sputter in the hearth.

Upstairs in my room are opals, Iome thought, recalling the light that had blazed from them under Binnesman’s hand. They were of low quality compared to the ones that she’d given the wizard, but at the moment, Iome wanted anything to protect her.

Above her she heard footsteps, a heavy foot landing on the floorboards. Her heart hammered.

Binnesman? she wondered. Could Binnesman be in the keep? Or is it the Darkling Glory?

Whoever it was, he was on the first floor.

It couldn’t be the Glory, Iome told herself. Such a creature would fly up to the roof. It would land there like a graak and sit shifting its wings. It wouldn’t land by the front door, enter like a common cleaning wench.

“It comes for you,” Gaborn’s warning echoed in her mind.

The beast stalked across the floor. She heard claws scratching the wooden planks as it reached the door above. She heard it sniff, testing for a scent.

Then the sound of splintering wood filled the air as the door at the top of the stairs exploded inward.

Iron hinges and bolts clanked as they rolled down the rough flagstone steps. Wooden planks clattered.

The Darkling Glory drew near, kicking the remains of the door aside, sniffing as it came.

Outside, the wind had been shrieking, storming.

The winds suddenly died. Everything went quiet. Yet Iome could still feel the storm; there was a suffocating heaviness to the air..

On the far side of the door, a deep, inhuman voice whispered, “I smell you, woman.”

Iome fought back the urge to cry out. She desperately searched for a weapon. Binnesman did not have much in the room-no sword or mace, no bow or javelin. He was not a warrior.

He had only his magic.

She heard snuffling at the door. “Can you understand me?” the creature asked.

“I smell you, too,” she answered. The beast carried the heavy odors of putrefaction and hair and wind and lightning.

She glanced about. Earth Wardens used magic soils for many spells. She recalled how Binnesman had curled up in the corner, pulling topsoil over himself like a blanket.

She grabbed a handful of the dry soil, cast it into the air.

“Come to me,” the Darkling Glory said.

“You can’t come in here!” Iome shouted, hoping it was true. She’d sensed the earth power in this room. Suddenly she recalled Binnesman’s words: the Darkling Glory was a creature of Air and Darkness. The wizard had drawn runes of warding and earth power on the floor of this room.

And earth was ever the bane of air. Outside, the Darkling Glory had used wind to lift her horse the way a cat might use a paw. But now the winds had gone silent. The beast was crippled down here, weakened. She said again, with more certainty: “You can’t come in.”

The Darkling Glory snarled like some fell beast. “I can come for you. And I will, if I must.”

Iome threw another handful of dust toward the door, hoping to drive the beast away.

“Come to me,” the Darkling Glory whispered. “Come out to me, and I will let you live.”

“No,” Iome said.

“Give me the King’s son,” the Darkling Glory said. “I smell a son.”

Iome’s heart pounded. She backed into the corner. The clubfooted boy whimpered. “The King has no son,” Iome answered, voice quavering. “There is only a young boy”

“I smell a son,” the Darkling Glory assured her. “In your womb.”

Myrrima ran with her bow, panting hard from the effort, racing up the streets of Sylvarresta toward the King’s Keep. She could not see the keep. The Darkling Glory had wrapped it in veils of night.

Hail pelted the cobblestones all around, bounced noisily from the leaded roofs of the merchants’ quarter.

A tornado of flames seemed to hover above the keep, and the fire whirled and was lost in a haze of darkness. Myrrima knew that Iome must be in the keep. She’d glimpsed Iome racing toward it only moments before.

The sky above remained black as the Darkling Glory drew light from the heavens. Yet everywhere, at the limit of vision on the horizon, beams of light shone down, as if sliver fires burned in the distance. By this dim reflected fight she found her footing over the uneven cobblestones.

As she ran, heart racing, she considered how she might shoot this beast, this Darkling Glory.

She had been practicing the bow for only a couple of hours over the past two days. All her arrows were shot from a range of eighty yards. She didn’t trust herself to try for a longer shot.

By the Powers, she thought, I don’t trust myself to try for any shot at all!

She’d do best if she got close, if she got within a comfortable shooting range. Her heart hammered, her breathing came ragged.

If I miss, I’m dead, she realized. One shot is all I’ll ever get.

The Darkling Glory would hurl bolts of lightning in return.

She reached the Black Corner. Ahead, the portcullis that led to the King’s Gate rose, a darker monolith against an almost perfect black.

Hidden beneath the portcullis stood the wizard Binnesman.

He held his staff overhead, swirling it in wide motions as he chanted softly, fearfully, words that she could not hear. A dim green light issued from his staff, as if it were a flaming ember, and Myrrima could see him clearly, outlined by the light. His steadfast gaze was fixed upon the orb of darkness that surrounded the King’s Keep.

Something strange had happened. No winds screamed about the keep, no lightning flashed.

The Darkling Glory seemed to have fallen silent.

It’s in there with Iome, Myrrima realized. The thought made her faint, and she staggered on the cobblestones.

Myrrima ran softly, afraid that the Darkling Glory might hear her footsteps.

Suddenly an inhuman cry rang from the heart of the darkness around the King’s Keep. It split the night and echoed from the stone walls of the castle.

Binnesman whirled his staff and chanted in triumph.

Eagle of the netherworld, now I curse you.

By the Power of the Earth I seal your doom.

Let the lair of stone become your tomb!”

The Darkling Glory touched the door to the room where Iome hid, so that it swung open on squeaky hinges.

The hallway behind the beast was darker than any night. A finger of blackness stole over the room. The coals in the fire began to die.

“Milady!” the clubfooted boy cried, lurching toward the fire.

In the shadows, the Darkling Glory snarled. A lightning bolt sizzled through the air, past Iome’s head, and exploded against the ancient wooden walls.

Iome held up her little pouch of leaves and roots, hoping it would ward the beast away.

The Darkling Glory roared as if in pain.

Suddenly the Keep shuddered as if an earthquake had struck. Everywhere the walls rocked. The sound of splintering wood and of stone grinding upon stone filled the air. Baskets dropped from shelves. Overhead the heavy oaken beams of the rafters shrieked in protest as they shattered

In total darkness, six stories of stone collapsed in on itself.

Gaborn lay asleep in a faint while his troops regrouped. Though men tried, none could rouse him. After listening to his heartbeat for a moment, Sir Langley merely said, “Prop him on his horse and let him sleep, if that’s what he has a mind to do. I’ll whip any man among you who dares disturb his slumber.”

In his dreams, Gaborn hovered above some great and spacious building.

It might have been the Blue Tower, near the Courts of Tide, he thought, though Gaborn had never been inside.

But no, this building seemed more begrimed and sinister than any proper building should have. No tapestries adorned the walls, no lanterns hung from wall hooks. The stonework was old, the interior plaster all worn away.

The building was as cold as a dungeon. Many of its gray stones were worn or broken loose from the wall. But it was not exactly a dungeon; it was a ruin, a maze of walls without a roof.

In this dank old building, Myrrima and Iome ran from Raj Ahten with blindfolds over their eyes. Gaborn was imprisoned in a metal cage that hung from a huge tree. He gazed down over the maze, through gaping holes in the roof.

He heard the Wolf Lord’s wet feet slap against stones, could hear what sounded like claws scraping the floor. He could sometimes glimpse Raj Ahten’s hulking black shape. Yet Iome and Myrrima were at a disadvantage and seemed not to recognize the danger. He had to warn them.

“Hide! Hide!” Gaborn pleaded. Yet each time they tried to conceal themselves in a corner, the dark creature of dream plodded unerringly toward them.

“Hide!” he warned.

Binnesman finished chanting his spell, twirled his staff. A green bolt of light, like a touch of summer bursting through leaves, shot from his staff and raced toward the keep.

The light penetrated the darkness, and was lost.

Stones cracked and splintered in the keep as rocks toppled by the ton.

The fiery tornado above the King’s Keep swirled and shattered.

Brilliant sunlight suddenly filled the sky. Dust swirled in the air, and Myrrima raced through the portcullis to stand beside Binnesman.

The wizard gazed in triumph.

Myrrima stared in horror.

The King’s Keep had collapsed in utter ruin. A pile of stones fifteen feet tall littered the ground, dust rising around them. Bits of furniture and tapestries added color to the wreckage, and a stone gargoyle that had decorated the upper reaches of the keep sat tilted on the pile of broken stones, grinning as if in mockery.

Myrrima stared in shock, her mind numb.

Binnesman glanced at her. “I’ve imprisoned the beast,” Binnesman said, his voice weary, “sealed him in the Earth.” With finality he leaned on his staff and said, “Let us only hope that I can hold him!”

Myrrima looked about the bailey. She’d seen Iome riding toward the keep only minutes before. But Iome’s mare had vanished.

Suddenly she spotted it, impaled on the merlons of the Dedicate’s Tower, eighty feet in the air. She pointed at the charger and shouted, “But Iome was in the keep! You sealed them in together!”

She staggered back in rising horror.

“No!” Binnesman cried.

And with that, the hill of stone and rubble that had been the keep surged upward. Rocks were pitched aside.

A whirlwind of fire swirled above the gaping hole, and once again darkness saturated the sky, more complete and blacker than ever before.

Binnesman shouted in terror. Myrrima could think of nothing to do but follow the counsel of the Earth King. She raced under the portcullis and put her back to the wall, quivering.

Winds rose and screamed through the portcullis, battered the castle. The stone wall at Myrrima’s back shuddered under an icy blast, but Binnesman stood in that storm, and drew runes on the ground with the tip of his staff, shouting words that the gale tore from his lips and carried away.

Yet Myrrima saw something amazing: Though the wind blasted around him, it did not touch him. It did not so much as lift the hem of his robe.

Lightning streaked from the darkness and blasted at his feet, but Binnesman’s spells of protection were powerful enough that no bolt could pierce him. Green light glowed steadily from his staff, and Binnesman gazed on in determination.

He reached into his pocket, pulled out the opal. It suddenly blazed in his hand.

Myrrima thought at first that it was sending out light, as it had done in the darkened storage room of the Boar’s Hoard. But she realized that something else was happening instead. The stone now drew light. The tornado of fire that the Darkling Glory pulled from the skies suddenly twisted, and now that light funneled into the stone. Light began to fill it as water fills a sponge.

The gloom softened, and the raging storm that ripped through the castle suddenly weakened, becoming only a stiff gale. The shadows lifted, so that the sky above seemed only to be as dark as evening.

From the deeper shadows surrounding the ruins of the King’s Keep, Myrrima heard laughter—a deep, inhuman voice.

“You think to steal my power, little wizard? Your stone is too small to hold it all!”

Myrrima trembled: She clutched her bow rightly. Her arrow had come loose, and she nocked it.

She drew the arrow now to her ear, felt the sting on her fingers where practice over the past two days had rubbed the skin off.

She took a deep breath and ran to the mouth of the portcullis, wheeled.

Ahead in the deep shadows stood the Darkling Glory. He was eight or nine feet tall, looked like a tall man covered with dark hair. Vast wings rose at his back. Cold white flames licked his naked flesh, and he regarded her with contempt.

She did not try for a fancy shot. The brute stood roughly sixty yards away, and she could not hope to hit anything other than his midsection, if even that.

She took quick aim and loosed an arrow. The wind around her suddenly howled as the Darkling Glory swept his wings.

A bolt of lightning surged from the monster’s palm and crashed into the stone archway above her head. Splinters of rock rained down upon her neck.

Her arrow flew high of its mark, and looked as if it would race above the monster’s head.

But the Darkling Glory’s wings had lifted him afoot in the air, and the arrow struck home, piercing the creature’s shoulder.

The Darkling Glory’s head snapped back, and he convulsed. He fell to the cobblestone pavement of the bailey and writhed, wounded, trying to cover himself with his wings, trying to shelter himself. He screamed in pain and terror.

Myrrima grabbed another arrow and raced toward him, the blood lust pounding in her veins. Light still funneled from the skies into Binnesman’s opal.

Now Gaborn’s shout roared in her mind, and his command came with such force that she could not fight it. “Strike! Strike now!”

Myrrima raced to the Darkling Glory. The creature hissed at her like a snake. He peered up at her in horror and contempt from behind the folds of a wing.

She drew her shaft full and let it fly, taking the beast in the eye.

Full daylight carne streaming from the skies, and Myrrima stood over the Darkling Glory, panting.

She suddenly realized that she was screaming at the thing, had been shouting all along: “Damn you, foul thing! Damn you, I’ll kill you!”

She raced up and began to kick his still-convulsing form. The monster seemed to reach for her with a hairy three-fingered claw. She danced back a step and found herself still yelling, crying out in terror and relief and pain.

“Get back!” Binnesman shouted. He raced up behind her

At that moment, the Darkling Glory arched his back, spread his wings wide, and raised a claw to the air. A sound came from his mouth, a dry hissing rattle, nothing at all like the death rattle of an animal.

A black wind tore from his throat, raising an inhuman cry. The force of that magnificent wind drove the beast hard into the ground, and Myrrima struggled to backpedal, to lift her legs and flee.

Numb, she realized that she had killed the Darkling Glory’s body, but had not reckoned with the elemental trapped within.

A great roiling fist of wind slammed into her, driving her back several paces and knocking the breath out of her. Her ribs ached as if she’d been hammered with a truncheon. She lost her footing, and the wind took her, sent her skittering back along the paving stones. It screamed about her with a thousand voices, like the wails of disembodied spirits.

The blast howled through the bailey, transformed itself into a tornado, carrying the body of the Darkling Glory up and up. The base of the tornado tore the cobblestones from the pavement, swirled them up into the mix with a sound like an earthquake. Lightning flashed at the tornado’s crown, arcing into the heavens. The roiling mass of air whirled violently once and then slammed to the north. The walls of the Dedicates’ Keep rumbled and shattered. Huge boulders heaved into the air.

Three bolts of lightning struck beside Myrrima in rapid succession. The tornado veered toward her. She felt fingers of air tug at her, inviting her into the heart of the maelstrom. Binnesman was shouting, and Myrrima twisted and scrabbled to grab some paving stones.

The wind lifted her off the ground, held her for a heartbeat as if pondering what best to do with her.

And then Myrrima saw Binnesman. The old wizard struggled through the wind, as it ripped at his hair and pummeled his robes. He thrust the end of his staff toward her, and frantically Myrrima grabbed it, felt its gnarled and polished wood in her grasp. A great boulder came bouncing down from the Dedicates’ Keep, two tons of stone rolling toward them as if hurled with unerring precision.

Binnesman raised his hand, warding it away, and the boulder’s course suddenly shifted left, narrowly missing them.

“I claim you for the Earth! Live now, live for the Earth.” Binnesman shouted.

The wind ripped at Myrrima with powerful fingers, tried to pull her away, and Myrrima clung to the staff with all her might.

Binnesman hurled a handful of leaves from his pocked sent them scattering. The wind took them, sent them whirling. “Begone, fiend!” Binnesman shouted. “She is mine!”

Suddenly the wind stilled nearby, and the great tornado roared. It ripped stones from the ruined Dedicate’s Keep, sent them roaring into the air, then let them rain down uselessly all around Binnesman and Myrrima.

A dozen bolts of lightning slashed the air nearby, leaving Myrrima blinded by the fight.

Then the elemental was gone, screaming north through the King’s tombs, uprooting cherry trees that had stood for a hundred years. It leapt down cliffs to the north, and raced then among the fields, meandering almost aimlessly as it knocked down cottages, smashed carts, ripped apart haycocks, tore through fences, and gouged a black scar in the earth.

For long minutes, bits of hay and dust still hung heavy in the air. But what was left of the Darkling Glory had departed.

Myrrima sat on the ground, quivering, mortified. Her ribs ached. Dozens of small abrasions covered her legs and hands where bits of stone had pummeled her.

She felt astonished to even be alive.

Binnesman held her, drawing her close, seeking to comfort her.

She began trembling uncontrollably as the terror and blood lust left her. Her heart pounded in her ears so hard, she could hardly hear, couldn’t quite make sense of Binnesman’s words.

“That, milady, should not have been possible!” he said in astonishment. “No common mortal could slay a Glory! And then to live—to live through it?”

“What? What do you mean?” she asked.

But he merely held her for a moment longer and said in a tone of infinite wonder, “You’re wet. You’re wet, every bit of you!”

She leaned against him for support. Tears filled her eyes. She stared over his shoulder at the pile of stones where the King’s Keep had fallen. There was a huge rent there now, a crevasse from which the Darkling Glory had escaped.

Iome will be down there, Myrrima realized. I should look for her body, give it a proper burial.

But even as the thought lodged in her mind, she saw movement at the edge of the pit.

Iome, covered in dust, stuck her head up from the wreckage, gazing about curiously. The clubfooted boy poked his head out after her.

“We hid in your room,” Iome said as she related her tale to Binnesman. “The earth power was greatest there, and the Darkling Glory didn’t want to draw near. When the keep collapsed, the boy and I got trapped in the corner, beneath some beams.”

“We was lucky,” the clubfooted boy shouted. He looked as if he’d play the fool in his cloth-of-gold coat. “The Queen has got luck!”

“No, it wasn’t luck,” Iome said, shaking her head in warning. “I felt Gaborn warn me, telling me to hide. I pushed us toward that corner because it felt safe, and when the roof collapsed, the beams were strong enough to shelter us.”

“You can thank the King for your life, when next you see him,” Binnesman said

Iome glanced off toward the valley, where the tornado wandered to the east. She shuddered before continuing. “Afterward, when the Darkling Glory broke out, we simply crawled through the rubble until we got free. The wind was howling so! I didn’t dare climb up until I heard you and Myrrima talking, and knew it was safe.”

Myrrima looked at the pile of rubble where the Darkling Glory had been sealed beneath the earth. It seemed impossible for any human inside that building to have survived when it collapsed.

Binnesman let Myrrima go. She still trembled, but not so badly as before.

“I still don’t understand.” Binnesman shook his head in wonder. “No common arrow should have been able to pierce that beast”

He retrieved one of Myrrima’s arrows from the ground, and examined it closely. He studied the narrow blade of cold iron at the bodkin’s tip. He felt the white goose feathers on the arrow’s fetching.

He cocked a brow at Myrrima. His voice was thick with suspicion. “It’s wet.”

“I fell in the moat,” Myrrima explained

Binnesman smiled as if perceiving something important.

“Of course. Air is an element of instability. But Water counters its unstable nature. Like Earth, Water can also be a counter to air. A shaft made of Earth alone could not pierce the Darkling Glory, but one of Earth and Water maybe....And, of course, I was draining the Glory’s power at the time.”

It sounded suspiciously to Myrrima as if the wizard were trying to take credit for her kill, when she felt quite certain that she was the one who had saved his life. Binnesman did not sound persuaded by his own conjecture as to the cause of the monster’s death.

Moments later, Jureem came galloping up to the keep, leading Myrrima’s mare. The horses’ hooves clattered against the stone.

Her mount had a white burn on its rump where the lightning bolt had struck it. Myrrima was amazed the horse could even walk. But it was a force horse, she reminded herself, with endowments of stamina, and therefore could endure much more than a common mount.

Jureem leapt from his charger and set down the baskets of puppies. The dogs yelped with excitement, and one pup pushed its nose through the lid of the basket and leapt out, raced to Myrrima’s side.

She reached down and petted it absently.

Jureem glanced from person to person, as if making sure everyone had survived.

Iome laughed nervously and said to Myrrima, “Your husband slew a reaver mage and brought home its head yesterday, and today, you must best him. What trophy will you gather next?”

“I can think of only one better,” Myrrima said. “Raj Ahten’s head.”

In point of fact, Myrrima could not feel easy about her kill. The air around them hung heavy and smelled of a storm. There was no corpse to the Darkling Glory, nothing that could prove she’d killed him.

She felt almost as if he were still here, hovering close, hanging on her every word.

Binnesman himself was glancing about furtively, gauging the air. It smelled thick with dust and lightning.

“He is dead, isn’t hem” Myrrima asked. “It is over?”

Binnesman gazed at her, held his tongue as he considered his answer. “A Glory is not killed so easily,” he warned. “He is disembodied now, diminished. But he is not dead, and he is still capable of much evil.”

Myrrima looked out over the valley, to where the tornado now whirled and seethed two miles off. “But...he can’t touch us now, can he?”

Binnesman answered warily. “I’ve driven him away

Iome stared off into the distance, breathing hard. “So he will lose form, the way that a flameweaver’s elemental does”

Binnesman gripped his staff, stared thoughtfully at the heaving maelstrom. The tornado moved erratically, striking in one direction, turning in another. Like a child in the throes of a tantrum.

“Not exactly,” Binnesman said heavily. “He will lose form, but I think he will not dissipate quickly, not like an elemental of flame. Nor do I think he will leave us alone.”

Down below, in the city, the city guards all began to come out of hiding, gazing nervously uphill to the ruined keep. She saw four of them standing down at the gate.

In all of the commotion, Myrrima had dropped her bow, and now she saw it lying across the bailey. She picked her way toward it among fallen stones and rubble. The Darkling Glory had so devastated this part of the castle that she was astounded to be alive.

Suddenly on the ground before her, she saw a part of the Darkling Glory, a severed hand with three claw like fingers, their dusky nails as sharp as talons. Blood leaked from the stump at its end.

To Myrrima’s horror, the hand was moving, grasping the air rhythmically.

She stomped on it and kicked the horrid thing away. It lay on the ground and groped at the paving stones, lumbered about like an enormous spider. Her pup ran after it, barking and snarling even louder.

Myrrima picked up her bow, returned to where the others stood. Jureem eyed the moving hand nervously, while Iome kept staring at the pup.

It snarled savagely, took a nip at the vile hand.

“That pup wants to protect you,” Iome said. “It’s ready to give you an endowment.”

It surprised Myrrima that the pup would be ready to give an endowment so soon, although Duke Groverman had said pups of this breed were quick to bond to their masters.

Myrrima dared hope for a boon. She had slain the Darkling Glory, slain him while good men like Sir Donnor and the city guards had failed.

She knelt to face Iome, presented her bow at the Queen’s feet. She had hoped to be considered worthy of becoming a warrior, had hoped to earn the right to use the King’s forcibles. The cost of taking endowments was tremendous. And with blood metal so scarce these days, she knew it would be impossible to gain the use of forcibles any other way.

“Your Highness,” Myrrima said. “I come before you to swear my troth. I offer my bow and my life to you, and beg for the honor to bear weapons in your service.”

Iome stood a moment, as if unsure what to do.

“She has a warrior’s heart,” Binnesman said, “and more. She fought on while stouter men hid.”

Iome nodded her head; the decision was made. She glanced about for a sword of her own. Jureem drew a curved dagger from its sheath, and handed the ruby-encrusted blade to Iome.

Iome touched Myrrima’s head and each shoulder with the blade, and said solemnly, “Arise, Lady Borenson. We accept you into our service gladly, and for your deeds this day, I shall award you ten forcibles from my personal stores, along with the maintenance of your Dedicates.”

Ten forcibles. The very thought brought tears to Myrrima’s eyes, and she thought vainly that if she were to become a warrior, she ought not cry. But with ten forcibles, she could take enough endowments to become a warrior. It was a great gift, far more than she dared hope. Yet when she considered what she’d done for the kingdom, she knew that Iome felt so many forcibles were merely payment well earned.

Myrrima took her bow in hand and stood. By right, she was now a warrior of Heredon, equal in stature to any knight. She felt...relieved.

Iome went off to the tombs. While she was gone, Iome’s Days came out of hiding, her face still pale with fear, and Binnesman and Jureem recounted for her the manner in which the Darkling Glory had been slain.

But Myrrima did not speak. Instead, she sat on the ground with her yellow pups and played with them, felt the prick of their sharp teeth, let them kiss her face with their tongues.

Her dogs. The key to her power. By tonight they would reach Castle Groverman, and there a facilitator would sing his chants and take an endowment from a pup. The pup that had sought to protect her was bred for stamina. Myrrima would sorely need the attribute if she were to continue her training.

A wolf lord. By morning she would be a wolf lord. Rumor said that those who took endowments from dogs became more feral. She wondered if it would really change her, if in time she would become no better than Raj Ahten.

When Iome returned from the tombs, she had more than three dozen forcibles. She knelt beside Myrrima and said, “I brought extra for me. I wouldn’t want you to be the only wolf lord in Heredon.”

“Of course not,” Myrrima said. They mounted up. Jureem gave Iome his own horse, and went to the stable to fetch a spare mount left by the King’s Guard. Myrrima and Iome each held their baskets of pups, while the wizard Binnesman rode with the clubfooted boy.

As they ambled down the cobbled streets, Myrrima kept gazing back at the skyline of the city. It looked wrong with out the King’s Keep standing, without the towers of the Dedicates Keep.

When they reached the drawbridge, Myrrima spotted the reaver’s head still lying at the far side. She stopped her horse on the bridge, and gazed down into the water. She could see no fish; none finned the surface, none drew their runes of protection as they had over the past two days.

At last she spotted a sturgeon resting in the shadows beneath the bridge, among a bed of golden water lilies.

Resting. No longer seeking to protect the castle. The water wizards knew what they’d done, she suspected. Perhaps more than anything else, their spells had helped bring down the Darkling Glory.

“Binnesman,” Myrrima said. “We should do something for the wizards. We must thank them in some way.” She felt guilty for her remark, for yesterday morning she’d hoped to eat one. Now she realized just how great a debt she owed these fish.

“Of course,” Binnesman said. The river is clearing of silt today. We could go unblock the spillway now, let the wizards go where they will. That’s not something they can do for themselves.”

Myrrima tried to imagine being a fish, imprisoned in the moat. The river had to be better, with its frogs and eels and ducklings and other delicacies.

With the help of Binnesman and Jureem, Myrrima pried loose the boards that dammed the spillway, opening the channel from the moat to the river.

As she climbed up out of the millrace, she saw the dark shapes of the wizards, their blue backs shadowy in the depths. The huge fish wriggled their tails and shot off into the river, heading upstream toward the Dunnwood and the headwaters of the river Wye.

26 Obran

Borenson rested his eyes as he rode toward the Palace of the Concubines, still weak and reeling from fatigue and grief. He was never quite sure if he’d fallen asleep for only a moment or for an hour. The horses thundered on relentlessly; it seemed only moments before Pashtuk began prodding Borenson’s ribs.

“We are here,” Pashtuk said, indicating the valley down below. “The Palace of the Concubines.”

Borenson lifted his head. He did not feel refreshed by his respite, did not feel as if he’d slept at all. And the “palace” did not live up to his expectations. He’d imagine an opulent edifice of stone, like the golden-domed palace; to the north, with soaring arches above the porticoes and vast open courtyards.

But there, on the valley’s far side, a smattering of ancient stone buildings leaned against the rock face of a cliff.

It seemed an old place from afar, a deserted ruin. The valley around it was strewn with jagged stones and ancient boulders and spinebush and greasewood. He could not smell water nearby. He saw no sign of flocks or herds, no camels or horses or goats. No fires seemed to burn in the city. He could see no guards on any walls.

“Are you sure?” Borenson asked.

The Invincible merely nodded.

“Of course,” Borenson realized. “He would not hide his greatest treasure in the open.” The palace was concealed an anonymous ruin in the wastes. Obran. Borenson had thought the word meant “City of the Ancient King.” But now another possible translation came to mind: “Ruins of the King.”

Pashtuk led him down the trail.

Even as his horse ambled within the gates of the ancient city, Borenson saw no sign of guards. Indeed the gatehouse was an indefensible pile of stones that had collapsed hundreds of years before. The piled-up stones of what he’d thought was the palace looked upon closer inspection to be a fine abode for scorpions and adders.

Everywhere he went, large gray lizards sunned on stones. They dashed off at his approach. Birds were plentiful, desert sparrows among the greasewood, yellow-crested flycatchers dipping along the trail.

There is water here, he realized. Animals would not be so plentiful otherwise. Yet he could see no sign of water, no wells, no lush trees growing in profusion.

He rode through the streets of the city, up to a large ancient ruin, a state house or manor of some kind, and the Invincible led him, still ahorse, right into the building, as if they’d not bother to dismount upon entering a lord’s throne room.

Inside the manor, the roof had collapsed The walls had once been brightly painted with murals of ancient lords in long white silk coats, all of whom seemed to have curiously curly hair. But now the sun had bleached the murals to the point that in most places only a few faded earth-toned pigments still showed.

Finally, Borenson saw evidence of life. At the far wall to the throne room, someone had recently dug through, revealing a small, narrow chasm.

At this end, the chasm was dark, but ahead he could see that it opened wider, for sunlight filtered down to light the path ahead.

Now he saw the guards.

Two Invincibles stepped from the shadows and began speaking loudly to Pashtuk in a dialect of Indhopalese that Borenson could not follow. Pashtuk showed them the forcibles and described Borenson’s message. In broken Rofehavanish, the Invincibles offered the normal death threats that Borenson was beginning to realize constituted the majority of any guard’s conversation in this country.

Borenson was so weary after having lost endowments that he frankly did not care if they killed him or not.

One Invincible ran through the chasm to bear the message that Borenson sought an audience. When he returned twenty minutes later, Borenson left his horse behind as the guards ushered him ahead.

The first thing he noted as he entered the narrow ravine was the smell of wet earth and lush vegetation. An oasis had to be ahead.

He walked through the chasm, looking up at the golden shafts of sunlight that played on the yellow sandstone. The walls of the cliff were over one hundred feet high, and all the light that reached the chasm floor now, so late in the day, reflected from the walls above.

The chasm walls were smooth, creamy in color. Borenson imagined that this place had been hidden for thousands of years, and was only newly discovered.

Odd, he thought. Terribly odd, that water, such a precious commodity here in the desert, would be lost for so long a time. He wondered at the story. What lord had hidden this oasis, walled up the entrance behind his throne? And how had the presence of the water ever been forgotten?

The chasm wound like a serpent through the hills, and spilled into a small triangular valley. To the east and west, high cliffs reared up, meeting in a V three miles farther to the south. To the north hunkered a ridge of broken rock that no beast could have traversed.

And here in the hidden valley, beside a small lake where palm trees grew in abundance, squatted the palace that Borenson had dreamed of.

Its cream-colored exterior walls rose forty feet, while the square guard towers at odd intervals each rose forty more. Over the palace spanned an enormous central dome, open to the air around the sides, so that it would serve as a veranda under the stars. The dome was all plated in gold, while copper plating served to highlight the tower walls. With the blue of the lake, the vibrant emerald of the grass, the lush palms, and the strands of wild honeysuckle and jasmine that trailed up the palace walls, in some ways it was perhaps the most exquisite palace Borenson had ever seen. It was simple, yet elegant.

Borenson approached the palace in manacles, lugging his bundle of forcibles. A thousand forcibles weighed about ninety pounds, and without his endowments of brawn, Borenson found himself grunting and panting from exertion long before he reached the palace.

Pashtuk stopped him at the palace gate, a huge portal of blackened wrought iron backed by gold-plated wood

He could not see past the gate, so Borenson stared about in wonder at the dozens of hummingbirds that flitted about, drinking from the deep-throated flowers that dripped saffron and pink from the palace wall.

Borenson could not see beyond the gate, but he could hear the splash of a fountain behind it.

A guard standing above the gate spoke in a loud, high voice to Borenson in Tuulistanese.

Pashtuk translated. “The eunuch says that Saffira will entertain you here in the courtyard. He will open the gate so that you may speak. By royal decree, you must not to look upon her. If you choose to do so, by king’s command you may be slain.” In a softer voice, he added, “However, I should warn you that if Saffira decides to intervene in your behalf, that sentence can be commuted, and instead she may elect to have you castrated, so that you can remain in the palace as her servant.”

Borenson snickered. He had never seen a woman with more than ten endowments of glamour, had never even considered the possibility, but he understood the danger. A man who took glamour might be terribly handsome, but Borenson had never felt any sexual attraction to such a man, even Raj Ahten’s astonishing beauty left him cold-though he knew others who could not say the same. So he’d never struggled with his feelings when looking upon a lord.

Sometimes, when he saw a queen or high lady with several endowments of glamour, he’d found himself striving against certain unsavory temptations. A woman’s glamour affected him far more powerfully than a man’s. But though Borenson admired women, he’d always felt that high ladies with several endowments of glamour were above him, untouchable, so gorgeous that they seemed more than human. Saffira, with her hundreds of endowments, presented an exquisite temptation.

“I’ll forgo the pleasure,” Borenson said. “I’ve always been somewhat attached to my walnuts.”

“I also am loath to sever such attachments,” Pashtuk said.

Borenson grinned. Pashtuk nodded a signal. The guards cranked the winch, raising the gate.

“Close your eyes tight,” Pashtuk warned, dropping down to his hands and knees in a formal gesture of obeisance. “Squint, so that the guards know that you do not see. Since you are a northerner, they may seek excuse to kill you. Indeed, they could offer you a blindfold, but they may prefer to have a reason to kill you.”

Borenson squinted tightly and felt a bit unsure of himself. Courtly manners differed from land to land. Saffira’s stature was hard to define. As a member of a royal harem, she was not quite as elevated in status as a queen. She would not have a Days at her side. Yet she was also Raj Ahten’s favorite, a diamond that he secreted away.

Borenson decided to treat her as a queen. He wearily climbed down to his hands and knees on the hot, sun washed paving stones, so that his nose was even with the ants.

It was a difficult feat, wearing manacles.

To his astonishment, when Saffira spoke, her clear voice came to him in Rofehavanish, with only the faintest trace, of an accent.

“Welcome, Sir Borenson,” she said. “Never have we had a visitor from Rofehavan. It is a singular pleasure. I am delighted to see that the tales are true, that there are men in the world with pale skin and fire for hair.” He listened hard to her voice. It was soft and sensual, melodic and surprisingly deep. He imagined that Saffira must be an elegant woman, with dozens of endowments of Voice. Furthermore, since she spoke Rofehavanish so perfectly without ever having seen a man from his realm, he suspected that she also had garnered one or more endowments of wit.

Saffira drew close, the rustle of a woman’s silks announcing her. In moments her shadow fell upon him, blocking the sun’s rays, and he smelled a mild, exotic perfume. Borenson did not answer, for she had not yet given him permission to speak.

“What is this?” Saffira asked “You have brown spots upon your head! Are these tattoos?”

Borenson nearly laughed Apparently her study of language was not all encompassing. Now that she had asked a question, he was free to speak. “The spots are natural, Your Highness,” Borenson said “They are called freckles.’ ”

“Freckles?” she said “But are not the spots on trout called freckles’?”

“In northern realms of Rofehavan, they are called that, Your Highness, though in Mystarria and the southern realms we call such spots speckles.’ ”

“I see,” Saffira said, amused. “So even in your own lands, you cannot agree what to call them.”

Borenson heard the patter of small feet. Children were coming out of the courtyard, drawing close.

“Sir Borenson,” Saffira said, “my children are curious. They have never seen a man of Rofehavan, and are naturally afraid. My eldest living son wishes permission to touch you. Do you object?”

Borenson had dragged the head of a reaver to the gates of Castle Sylvarresta only yesterday. Children and even many old people had gathered around to study it. Women had touched its rubbery gray flesh and screamed in mock terror. Now, he realized, the children here would do the same to him.

Have we sent so many assassins to this realm, he wondered, that they fear me so?

But of course the answer was yes. These children had been born here, hidden all their lives. And many a Knight Equitable, if he’d known of this “eldest living son,” would have considered the boy a proper target. Indeed, Borenson wondered what had happened to the eldest nonliving son.

“Your children are welcome to touch me,” Borenson said. “Though I am a Knight Equitable, I will not hurt them”

Saffira spoke quickly and softly to the boy, and the child groaned to hear that Borenson was a Knight Equitable. With hesitant steps he drew near and tentatively touched the bald spot on Borenson’s head, then raced away. Immediately after, Borenson heard the steps of a smaller child come rushing forward, and again he was touched. Last of all came a toddler, a child who could not have been more than a year or two, who grabbed Borenson’s hair and patted him as if he were a kitten.

Three children, Borenson realized. Jureem had said that Saffira had been Raj Ahten’s favorite for five years. He had not allowed himself to wonder if she’d borne him one child, much less three.

At his mother’s command, the youngest child withdrew.

“You have a message for me, and a gift?” Saffira said.

“I do, Your Highness,” Borenson answered, aware that he was being treated with some hostility. Custom dictated that she offer him food and drink before asking his quest, even if such offers were only an informal gesture. But Saffira made no such offer. “I have come from Heredon, with a gift and a message from Gaborn Val Orden, the Earth King.”

There was a long pause, and Saffira drew a sharp breath. Borenson realized that she had not heard, here in this remote place, that an Earth King had risen in Heredon.

“But Heredon is ruled by King Sylvarresta, is it not?” Saffira asked.

“We are at war,” Borenson said. “Your husband attacked—”

“He would not have killed King Sylvarresta!” Saffira said, “I forbade him to. He promised leniency. Sylvarresta was a friend to my father!”

All the air came hard out of Borenson’s lungs, causing him to cough in surprise. It was true that Raj Ahten had shown Sylvarresta uncommon courtesy, had taken his endowment of wit instead of his life. But never in Borenson’s wildest imaginings had he considered the possibility that a woman’s influence had won Sylvarresta such a reprieve.

Now he began to wonder. He’d thought he’d come on a fool’s quest, seeking to speak to Saffira at Gaborn’s insistence. Had not Pashtuk said it best when he suggested that Gaborn was a weakling for listening to the counsel of women?

Yet it appeared that Saffira could sway Raj Ahten.

“Your Highness,” Borenson admitted, “your husband was true to his word. Raj Ahten did not kill King Sylvarresta.”

“Can you name the warrior who killed him?” Saffira said. “I will see that he is punished.”

Borenson dared not speak the truth. He dared not say, “I, who kneel before you, slew King Sylvarresta.” He only hoped that the red of embarrassment did not show in his face.

Instead he averred, “I cannot say, Your Highness. I know only this, Gaborn Val Orden is in Heredon, and he has been chosen by the Earth to become its king.”

Saffira paused. “Gaborn Val Orden—the Prince of Mystarria—claims to be an Earth King?”

“It is true, Your Highness,” Borenson said. “The spirit of Erden Geboren himself appeared to a company of more than ten thousand men, and the spirit crowned Gaborn with leaves.”

She whirled and began shouting at the gatekeepers in Taifan. Borenson could easily guess the nature of her question: “Why was I not told?”

The eunuchs made apologetic noises.

Saffira turned her attention back to Borenson. “This is grave news. And you say that the Earth King has sent me gifts and a message?”

“He has, Your Highness,” Borenson said. He opened the bag of forcibles, and spread them on the ground gently so that the soft blood metal would not dent. “He offers you gifts of glamour and of Voice.”

Saffira drew an astonished breath at the sight of so many forcibles. It was an impressive gift

“And he bears this message. Gaborn has recently wed Iome Sylvarresta, so that he is now your husband’s cousin by marriage. There is news of reavers attacking in the south of Mystarria, and in Kartish. The Earth King wishes to put aside this conflict with your lord Raj Ahten, and he begs you to carry this message: Though I hate my cousin, the enemy of my cousin is my enemy.”

When Saffira drew a breath of astonishment, the sound was pure ecstasy. Sir Borenson waited for her answer. She knew what he asked. She knew that she would have to put the forcibles to use, travel to the battlefront in Rofehavan.

“The men who killed my son wish a truce?” Saffira asked. Borenson silently cursed. Jureem had not mentioned a murdered son:

“We do,” Borenson answered, as if he himself bore some responsibility for her son’s death.

“If my husband agrees to this,” Saffira asked, “does that mean that you will quit sending the Knights Equitable against us? Will you quit slaughtering our Dedicates, and the members of the royal family? Does the Earth King have that much power?”

Borenson hesitated. It was common here in Indhopal to insist on conditions when making a bargain, in hopes of getting stronger assurances. The woman wanted confirmation that she and her children would no longer have to face the fear of murder at the hands of the Knights Equitable. It was a fair request.

But Gaborn had refused to Choose the High Marshal of the Knights Equitable, though High Marshal Skalbairn had offered to turn over command of his troops. Could Gaborn truly claim to command the Knights Equitable?

The answer was both no and yes. Gaborn did not currently command that force, but he could do so if he chose.

Still, Saffira would not want to hear, a no. Could he promise her safety? Would Gaborn offer to Choose the High Marshal, if doing so would guarantee a truce?

What had Gaborn seen in the High Marshal’s heart that made him wish the man dead

Borenson felt certain that no matter what foul deeds Skalbairn had committed, Gaborn would surely Choose him if he understood how much was at stake. The answer was yes.

“The command of the Knights Equitable has been offered to the Earth King,” Borenson said, skirting the truth. “Gaborn Val Orden would ensure peace.”

“Where is my husband now?” Saffira asked. Borenson noted that it was not the first time she had called him “my husband.” So the woman was married to him. She was indeed more than a mere concubine, she was the Queen of Indhopal.

“Raj Ahten slew the Dedicates at the Blue Tower in Mystarria more than two hours ago,” Borenson said. “I believe he will ride hard now to slaughter Duke Paladane’s troops, which are amassed at Carris.”

Again Saffira drew in a sharp breath. She had to see how much depended on her. An entire nation now lay at her husband’s mercy, like a convict with his head on the chopping block. At this very moment, Raj Ahten would be racing for Carris. The axe was falling; perhaps she alone could stop it.

“Carris is far,” Saffira said. “If I am to take endowments and ride there, we must hurry.”

“Please, do,” Borenson said.

She sighed deeply, as if she’d made up her mind. With a hint of desperation, she said, “My lord has drawn most of the palace guard off into his service. I have no one to escort me to Carris, no one but my personal guards to guide the way, and I fear that I will need the guidance of a soldier of Mystarria.”

Borenson dreaded’ what was coming. Of course she’d need him. A cohort of riders coming out of Indhopal would face the risk of ambush by Mystarrian troops. And Borenson knew full well that even if Saffira carried a standard of truce, the soldiers at his borders were no more likely to honor such a truce as Indhopal’s guards had been.

She needed him. He’d imagined that she’d ride with a thousand troops at her side, that once he delivered his message, he’d be free to leave.

Saffira said heavily, regretfully, “Pashtuk, Sir Borenson, would you escort me to Carris? Knowing the cost, would you enter my service?”

Borenson felt dizzy. Of course he was her best choice for a guide, her only choice if she wanted to reach Carris alive. But the price?

He was newly married. He loved his wife.

To give up his manhood! The very thought left him reeling, made him feel weak as a babe. Worse, it filled him, with a sense of profound loss. What if I should never be able to consummate my love for my wife?

Could I do it? Dare I do it, even for Mystarria?

Pashtuk answered first. His answer was restrained, but spoken with a certain heaviness. “I will do so, if it pleases Your Highness.”

Borenson hedged, seeking escape. “Your Highness,” he apologized, “I fear that I cannot. Unlike Pashtuk, I have no endowments of brawn or stamina. If I were to give up my manhood, I could not ride a horse for six yards, much less six hundred miles!”

Pashtuk was an Invincible, with endowments of stamina and brawn. He might give up his manhood, and though the ride a few hours later would be painful, he could probably accomplish it. But Borenson could never manage such a feat.

“Of course,” Saffira said, “I would be lenient on you, Sir Borenson. I would forbear the requirements until after I have reached my lord.”

On fast horses, he realized, they would reach Carris sometime tomorrow, near dawn.

At dawn he would pay the price, if he agreed.

The thought unnerved him. Yet he was a warrior of Mystarria, bred to battle, and his people needed him. He had no choice.

“Your Highness, I will,” he offered, proud of the fact that his voice did not quaver.

“Then, Pashtuk, Sir Borenson, look upon me,” Saffira said.

Sir Borenson raised his eyes hesitantly, looking up from the sandstone pavement into the resplendent courtyard. His gaze lingered on the children. Before him stood a handsome little boy of four or five, with finely chiseled features and eyes as dark as Iome Sylvarresta’s, but with skin that was even a shade darker than hers. He wore a princely costume of embroidered red cotton sewn with pearls. He looked fierce as he stood protectively by his three-year-old sister and eighteen-month-old brother.

The children huddled next to their mother, as frightened children will. Borenson hardly noticed the ornate fountain behind her in the empty courtyard, or the tall Invincibles that made up her personal guard, standing at her back.

For all he could see was Saffira, a slight figure of a woman with skin as dark as karob, the elegant bones and grace of a doe. All that existed was Saffira. He did not hear his own racing heart, or his own in-drawn breath.

To say that her beauty was exquisite would be meaningless. No flower petal had ever seemed so lovely and delicate. No single star in the night sky had ever filled a man with such hopeless longing. No sun had ever blazed so fiercely as she did. Borenson focused on her fully, completely, and was lost.

Every muscle in his body tightened until his legs ached and he found himself gasping, having forgotten how to breathe He could not close his eyes, did not dare to blink.

When next Saffira spoke he was not even conscious of what she asked. When she gathered her children and led them into the palace to take her endowments, Borenson found himself scrabbling up off his aching knees, eager to follow, until Pashtuk stopped him.

“You can’t go in there,” Pashtuk yelled into his ear. “There are other concubines.”

Borenson struggled to escape Pashtuk’s grasp, but he had no endowments of brawn anymore. He had not a tenth of the Invincible’s strength.

So he scrabbled to the edge of the fountain in a daze, and satisfied himself with the thought that he could sit here, he could sit here and wait until Saffira returned.

Borenson did not regret his bargain. Cared not at all that within a day, he, too, would have to pay the price for having looked upon Saffira. It was worth it, he thought. It was well worth the trade.

So he sat like a wretch beside the cool fountain, and waited for a long hour before he fell asleep. As he did, three things became clear to him.

The first was that his captors no longer needed to keep him in manacles. He was a captive now, as much a slave to Saffira’s beauty as any man could be.

And the second thing he realized was that Saffira was not at all what he’d expected.

Raj Ahten was a man in his midthirties, who had aged far beyond that by reason of his many endowments of metabolism. Thus, he was rapidly becoming quite elderly.

So Borenson had naturally assumed that Saffira would have been a mature woman. But this beauty, this mother of a five-year-old son, still seemed a mere child herself.

Saffira looked as if she could not have been more than sixteen.

The thought pained him. He’d known that in Indhopal, women often married young, much younger than in Mystarria. But Saffira could not have been more than eleven years old when Raj Ahten first bedded her..

Even here, the notion bordered on the obscene.

So the third thing that Borenson realized followed from the first two. In a rage so fierce that it colored the whole palace red to Borenson’s eyes, he vowed silently that truce or no—he would find a way to make a eunuch of Raj Ahten before he killed the man.

27 Lost in the Mist

I paid all of that money for a good horse, and now I’m just going to kill it, Roland thought as he raced for Carris with Raj Ahten’s knights chasing close behind.

His charger thundered across a wooden bridge, dashed across the countryside. His mount wheezed as if each breath would be its last. Its ears lay flat, and foam lathered its mouth, dripped from the bit and bridle. The force horse easily ran sixty miles per hour, but the Invincibles were gaining.

Baron Poll’s mount had surged ahead half a mile from Roland. It galloped over a hill. Poll was far enough in the lead that the big knight had little to worry about.

Roland had been born to a family of shipbuilders on his mother’s side. He began to wonder if he might gain more speed by jettisoning cargo. But he wasn’t a man with arms or armor; he really had nothing heavy in his saddlebags. He’d given the green lady his heavy bearskin cloak. His purse was laden with gold. Though he’d never had a sentimental attachment to wealth, he decided he’d rather die with it than without.

The only item that really weighed him down was the half-sword that Baron Poll had given him, and he reasoned that it might be worth more in his hand than not.

So he galloped his horse, kicked its Ranks, hunkered low; and clung tight.

Carris was but eight miles away, cloaked in a dense fog, yet from any hilltop he could see its white towers rising from the mist.

He looked back. The Invincibles had closed to within two hundred yards. Two bowmen at the van had strung their horse bows, preparing to shoot. Roland raced for the hilltop; his mount went airborne for a moment before its hooves thudded to the dirt road.

The force horse stepped left to avoid a rut. That alone saved Roland’s life, for just then two arrows whipped past Roland’s shoulder, missing his back by less than a foot. His mount burst ahead bs it raced toward a stand of heavy oaks, their browning autumn leaves blowing in a light breeze, their trunks and branches twined with dark-green ivy.

Roland hoped the road ahead was winding, for the trees might give him some extra cover. He raced for the grove, glanced back over his shoulder.

The Invincibles drew to a halt at the crest of the hill, the morning sun glistening from their brass-colored helms and saffron surcoats.

They gazed down at the wood, then turned their steeds and raced away.

Roland wondered if they feared an ambush. Perhaps friendly troops hid in these oaks.

Or perhaps another of Raj Ahten’s patrols guarded them. Roland never slowed, and not once did he spot anyone in the small wood, either friend or foe.

When he came out on the other side, the road wound on before him. Baron Poll was nowhere to be seen. The dirt highway led up over the downs, past a small village. Hedgerows marched along the left of the road, stone fences to the right. And still no sign of Baron Poll.

I’ve lost him, Roland realized.

He’d seen a couple of paths in the wood, trails that led to uncertain destinations. Baron Poll must have taken one. But Roland had no idea which, and he wasn’t about to turn back.

So he kept racing over the downs, past the village, until the trail dropped precipitously into a patch of fog. He was close to Carris now, only five miles. And if Poll was right, this fog hid friendly troops, Duke Paladane’s troops.

He slowed his horse, not wanting to charge blindly into the mist where he could well encounter pikemen or bowmen.

A dozen yards into the thick of the mist, he knew that Poll had been right: This was no common fog.

He’d never seen such a dense fog, not even in the Courts of Tide. The mist was thick as butter, and though it had been a bright and warm morning not a hundred yards back, now it turned dark and sultry as night. Sitting on his horse, he soon found that he could not even see the road at his feet.

He feared that his horse might stumble over an embankment, so Roland climbed from the charger’s back. When he knelt so that he was at a height of no more than four feet, he could barely discern the road at his feet and the grass nearby.

So it was that he led his charger, droop-eared and wheezing, through the mist

He’d seen the tops of the white towers at Carris rising from the fog, and he’d guessed the distance to be five miles.

Yet when he got off his horse and led it for many hours through the mist, sometimes stumbling from the road, sometimes slipping in puddles, always unsure what direction he was going, he seemed to make no headway.

The difficulty of finding a trail at all greatly increased when he reached a city or village, for then the road met many byways, and he twice found himself wandering around city blocks.

The road twisted and turned like a damned serpent, and though he followed the margin where grass met mud, after three hours he knew that he must have forked off somewhere, for he’d certainly gone more than five miles.

In all that time, he’d spotted not a single soldier of Mystarria, not a single defender. The water wizard’s mist might have hidden a hundred thousand men within easy bowshot of the road, but he’d never have seen one.

As he walked, he worried for Averan, a little girl hiding in some town south of here. He knew that she must be terrified, and he cursed himself for a fool for not staying with her.

And if truth be told, he realized that he was just as worried for me green woman. She’d never done him any harm, aside from having tried to suck blood out of his hand. But his feelings for her ran deeper than mere compassion.

He didn’t quite know how to express it. She was as beautiful as a Runelord’s fine lady. Though Roland fancied that he was no starry-eyed lad, he knew quite frankly that her beauty attracted him.

But he doubted he’d really ever fall in love with a woman who had fangs and green skin.

Nor could he say that he was attracted by her strength of character. So far as he could tell, she didn’t have any character. He didn’t know whether she had faith or charity or confidence or any other human virtue.

But there was one thing that he could say for the green woman: In the past day, he’d discovered that he felt...safe, when she was near.

Beyond that, he felt that she needed him, needed his wisdom and his counsel, needed him to teach her the name for the color blue, and how to wear shoes, and how to ride a horse.

No other woman had at once seemed so formidable and yet so vulnerable.

She was as impenetrable to him as the fog. The very mystery of her attracted him.

He swore to himself that as soon as he delivered the message to Paladane, he’d return south under cover of night and search for Averan and the green lady.

Roland had no illusions about himself. He did not believe that the green woman could ever love him.

He was after all a worthless man—everyone told him so. His wife had let him know it time and again. His king had thought him good for nothing but providing an endowment of metabolism. He couldn’t read words or do numbers, couldn’t fight.

Roland was reminded of Gaborn, and realized he’d never given much thought to how he would react to the rise of an Earth King.

Now, he realized it did not matter. No Earth King would Choose a man like Roland Borenson, a man who had nothing left to offer. It meant that Roland’s short, bitter life would probably remain just that, short and bitter.

When at last he did trudge out of the mist, he found that he’d gotten thoroughly lost. The sun was up well past noon, and he could still see the towers of Carris off in the distance, some five miles. Yet he’d somehow managed to bypass the castle completely, for Carris was now south of him.

He stood for a moment, feeling weak. His tunic was wet from the mist, so drenched that he took it off and wrung it out, letting the water spill into the dirt at his feet. Then he put his tunic on and trundled back into that damned fog, wondering if perhaps he’d see better if he carried a torch.

Hours later, he found himself again outside the fog, and outside Carris, to the west this time. Now it was late afternoon.

He gritted his teeth and went back under that infernal oppressive cloud, into the gloom, vowing to watch his feet more carefully.

He had not gone far, perhaps two miles, when he heard a bell chime six times, off to his left. It was getting late, and Roland realized that a message he should have delivered shortly after dawn had been delayed now till evening. He’d spent the day wandering through this fog.

He soon found a road heading left, and after a mile was greeted by the happy sounds of castle life: the ring of hammers on mail, the curses of some lord who demanded that the vassals secure the hoardings to the castle walls, roosters crowing at the last rays of daylight.

More than all of that, he heard the sounds of crows cawing, and pigeons cooing, and gulls shrieking in the air above him.

Allowing his ears to guide him toward the city, he found a narrow road that led out to a causeway. He knew he was on a causeway because he could hear water lapping at both sides of the road, and the fog had suddenly begun to smell of algae.

At last he reached a barbican, an enormous stone gate set in front of the road.

The fog was so thick that when he approached the gate, no guards hailed him, for they could see him no better than he could see the castle.

“Is anyone there?” Roland called.

A booming voice laughed from overhead, atop the barbican. “There’s about a million of us here, good fellow. Searching for anyone in particular?”

“I’ve a message for Duke Paladane,” Roland said, feeling foolish. “A message from Baron Haberd of Keep Haberd.”

“Well, come to the side gate, man, so we can have a look at you!”

Roland followed the huge iron gate to the right, found only a narrow tower with archer’s slots above and some holes for pikemen to attack through. He peered into one of the holes, and could see into the tower. Torches burned there, and at least twenty men in armor sat inside. An ignorant-looking fellow playfully thrust his pike at Roland and shouted, “Woo!”

Roland followed the iron gate back to the left, found a small portcullis with several guardsmen waiting for him. In the fog, Roland could not see much of them, only shadowy shapes.

“Sorry,” Roland said. “I can’t see my own damned feet in this fog.”

“I’ll give the wizards your compliments,” the captain of the guard said. He took Roland’s message pouch, inspected the seal. “This seal has been broken.”

“I’m not a messenger myself,” Roland admitted. “I found the messenger dead on the road, and brought the pouch. I had to open it to know where to deliver it.”

“Smart fellow,” the captain of the guard said.

He opened the portcullis gate and urged Roland onto the drawbridge, to a second barbican, then a third. Each barbican was successively more heavily guarded. Men with warhammers and pikes were stationed below, while archers and artillery threatened from above.

The fog was so dense, Roland could not see the water on either side of the bridges, though he smelled it and heard it lapping against the piles.

Walking through the fog for mile after mile, Roland had begun to worry that the castle was totally undefended. He’d not seen so much as a single guard posted on the roads.

Once he got inside, it became obvious that men were everywhere. Knights by the thousand bivouacked down in the bailey, and the walls crawled with troops.

But it was not until he got past the bailey, into the walled city of Carris proper, that he began to realize how many people had fled here. When the guard on the wall had said, “there’s about a million of us,” Roland had known he was jesting.

Still, Carris was a large island, as he’d seen from afar. Numerous towers jutted up from the walls, and the defenses inside Carris included dozens of walled manors and fortresses. The streets were full of urchins getting underfoot, serious-looking women rushing hither and thither, and men-at-arms swarming everywhere.

Crows and gulls and pigeons perched at every rooftop. Smelly goats nibbled at low-hanging laundry; nervous chickens ran underfoot; geese waddled about honking; horses whinnied in the stables, while yellow cows merely squatted in the road.

So many people and beasts in such close quarters caused a fetid smell. Even after only a few minutes of walking through the stench, Roland longed to escape to a tower or castle wall—or better yet, return to the road far from here and join Averan and the green lady.

The guards escorted him up through the city, into the main bailey of Castle Carris itself, and from there to the Duke’s Keep—an enormous tower that rose above all others.

The furnishings in the keep were as rich as any king’s. The wood on every doorpost and chair and table was oiled to a shine. The decorative brass lamp holders on each wall were covered with costly glass hoods out of Ashoven. The carpets were rich underfoot, and the plaster walls had been nicely painted with fields of red poppies.

The Duke, a crafty-looking fellow with a triangular face, was cloistered in the uppermost tower, surrounded by counselors whom Roland recognized. They were men who had granted endowments of wit to King Orden and had been Restored at the Blue Tower a week before.

With a nod toward the King’s messenger standing nearby, one of the counselors said, “If the Earth King has ordered us to flee, then we must flee.”

But Duke Paladane slammed his fist on an oak table. “It’s too late,” he said. “I have four hundred thousand civilians in my care, and Raj Ahten’s troops surround us. I can’t ask them to flee out onto the plains, where his Invincibles will cut them down for sport.”

The old counselor Jerimas shook his hoary head. “I don’t like it. If the Earth King has warned us, we should listen, my Duke.”

“Listen to what?” Paladane asked. “He has given us no direction. Flee? Flee where? How? When? From what?”

“You act as if you think the walls of Carris can protect us,” old Jerimas said. “You put great faith in stone, even after all that has happened. Perhaps you should put faith in your King.”

“I have faith in my King,” Paladane argued. “But why does he burden me with contradictory commands?”

The counselors looked worried. Roland could see that they had too many questions and not enough answers. They looked as if they were already beaten.

The Duke glanced up, saw Roland, and his mouth dropped in surprise. “Sir Borenson? What are you doing here? Do you bring further direction from the King?”

“No,” Roland said. “I’m not Sir Borenson, though we are kin.”

Roland handed the message case to the Duke, who unrolled the parchment, glanced at it distractedly, and then handed it back to Roland with a curt “Thank you.”

Reavers had overrun Keep Haberd, and Duke Paladane did not bat an eye.

“Milord?” Roland asked.

“I know,” the Duke said. “Baron Poll brought the same message hours ago. There’s nothing for it. We’re under siege here, and the King’s messengers simply ask me to flee!”

“Siege, milord?” Roland asked in surprise. Raj Ahten had not moved siege engines near the walls. Indeed, he seemed to have no troops within miles.

“Siege,” the Duke said, as if Roland were simpleminded.

“Milord,” Roland asked. “I was hoping to leave the castle. I have some friends hidden to the south, a young girl who needs me.” He wanted to plead for license to become Averan’s guardian, but knew that this was not the time.

The Duke considered for half a second. “No one leaves. It’s too dangerous, and with the Blue Tower destroyed, our walls are hopelessly undermanned.”

“Destroyed?” Roland asked, unsure he’d heard right.

The Duke nodded solemnly. “Every stone is down.”

Roland choked back a cry of astonishment. He’d served as a Dedicate in the Blue Tower for twenty years. He might have been killed in his sleep there. He had escaped just in time.

But without force soldiers to man the walls of Carris, he realized, those who died in the Blue Tower might be the lucky ones. “How did it fall?” Roland dared to ask.

Paladane shrugged. “I don’t know, but as far as we can tell, four hours ago, everyone in the tower was killed.” He studied Roland with a critical eye. “You look like a Borenson. Tell me, have you any training in war?”

“I am a butcher by trade, milord.”

Duke Paladane grunted, noted the half-sword tucked into his belt. “Now you’re a guardsman. You’ll take the south wall-between towers fifty-one and fifty-two. Gut any man or beast that comes over the wall. Understand? We’ll be down to knife-work here before daybreak, and a butcher will be of use to me on the wall.”

Roland stood, dumbfounded, until a squire led him to his post.

28 A Plot Unmasked

By the time Erin Connal reached Castle Groverman on the banks of the Wind River, she felt no desire to celebrate. True, Gaborn had wakened from his faint an hour before and given the good news: The Darkling Glory was dead—or at least disembodied, made much less dangerous.

But Erin had been left horseless, and Prince Celinor had been injured by a falling brand. The skin on the back of his neck had burned and bubbled. With his endowments of stamina, the Prince would live, but he’d not have an easy recovery. By the time Erin had dragged him from under the burning logs, the pain of his wounds had Celinor gibbering and weeping like a child. He’d fallen unconscious shortly afterward, and so had been carried behind the saddle of one of Duke Groverman’s men, and had gotten lost from Erin’s sight during the ride.

Erin rode behind a knight from Jonnick into the bailey outside Duke Groverman’s keep. Upon entering, she learned that she was not the first to arrive at the keep—far from it.

Hundreds of knights had already arrived and were feasting. Groverman’s servants had brought baskets with loaves of bread into the bailey and dispensed the food freely while a serving woman opened flasks of ale. A great bank of fires lined the east wall, where cooking boys turned whole calves on spits. Minstrels played from a balcony of the Duke’s Keep, and a crier beside the city gate welcomed them by shouting, “Eat your fill, gentleman. Eat your fill!”

The Duke spared nothing for the Earth King’s army. But Erin was not yet ready to eat.

She went to find Celinor. Duke Groverman’s men had laid him on a saddle blanket near a dark wall of the keep. Moonflowers grew along the wall, and now their pale white blossoms opened wide to the night air and the moths that fed on their nectar. A well-intentioned soldier was hunched over Celinor, trying to force whiskey down his throat.

“Drink, good sirrah,” the knight said... “It will ease your pain.”

But Celinor clenched his teeth, and, with tears of pain in his eyes, turned his head away. The knight tried to wrestle Celinor’s head around, to force him to drink, obviously believing that the Prince was delirious.

“I’ll have at him,” Erin said, urging the knight to leave. “He’ll take the poppy better.”

“Perhaps,” the knight said, “though I don’t know why he’d prefer a bitter poppy to sweet whiskey.”

“Find a physic and ask for the poppy,” Erin said wearily, and she knelt by Celinor, brushed his brow. He was sweating, and looked up at her with pain-filled eyes.

“Thank you,” he managed to whisper.

The Earth King had bidden him to put aside strong drink. Now Erin saw that he really would avoid it at any cost. “It’s nothing,” she told Celinor, then she held him a moment. He seemed to sleep.

At times he spoke deliriously, as if in evil dreams. Once he shouted and tried to push her away.

But after several long minutes, he woke. His eyes were glazed with pain, and sweat soaked his brow. “The Earth King has lost his endowments,” he said. “I heard someone say it. Is it true?”

“Sure,” Erin answered. “He’s a common one now—if an Earth King can be called ‘common.’ ”

“Then you can look upon him without his glamour. Have you seen him?”

She’d seen him on the ride toward Castle Groverman this evening, dead asleep. Even with his endowment of glamour, the young man had not been handsome. Now he looked downright plain.

“I saw him with my own eyes,” she said, thinking Celinor’s comment was merely a subject chosen by delirium.

She patted his cheek, noticed that he wore a silver chain around his neck with a silver oval locket.

As he fell back, wincing in pain, the silver locket fell out from his tunic, up by his throat. She knew immediately what it was—a promise locket. Many lords, when they had sons or daughters whom they sought to wed, would commission an artist to paint a miniature portrait of the young lord or lady who sought a match, and would then insert the portrait into a locket. Such a locket would then be sent to distant lands, to be shown to the parents of a prospective spouse, so that lords and ladies might choose a match for their son or daughter without ever having seen the person in question.

Such lockets were never trustworthy. The artists who painted them tended to ignore a child’s flaws and accentuate his or her beauty to the point that sometimes the image on a locket bore only a slight resemblance to the young lord or lady pictured therein.

Still, such lockets often inspired romance. Erin recalled that when she was twelve, her mother had shown her the image of a young lord from Internook. Erin had carried the locket about for months, dreaming of the fierce-looking blond-haired lad, until it became clear that boy had seen Erin’s own image on her promise locket and not been impressed.

Celinor seemed too old to be swooning after some child on a locket. He had to be twenty-five, and should have married years ago. But then Erin realized that no right thinking lady would have had him.

“What, Father?” she imagined some twelve-year-old girl asking. “You want me to wed the ‘Sot of South Crowthen.’ ”

“Not the boy;” the father would say, “just the kingdom. And while he drinks himself into an early grave, he’ll run about begetting bastards on every tavern slattern within three kingdoms. And after you’ve slaughtered all his wee bastards, Crowthen will be yours.”

She couldn’t imagine any girl welcoming the match.

Yet Celinor wore a promise locket, like some lovesick boy.

Erin wondered what twelve-year-old girl had caught his fancy. She glanced at Celinor, who lay breathing heavily, apparently asleep.

She surreptitiously flipped the tiny latch on the locket and caught her breath. The image of the twelve-year-old girl on it had blue eyes and long dark hair. She knew the painting instantly, even in the wan firelight reflecting from the far wall, for it was Erin’s portrait, painted ten years ago, back when she’d dreamt that such portraits meant something.

Erin snapped the locket closed. No suitor had ever come begging for the hand of a girl from the horse clans of Fleeds. She wasn’t sure what she’d have done if a suitor had come. She was a warrior, after all, not some fine lady raised with no more purpose than to bear a man sons. And it was only in kingdoms like Internook that a warlord sometimes wanted a wife who was strong enough to fight beside him.

Yet now Celinor wore her promise locket. Had he carried it for the past ten years?

Her mother might have sent it to South Crowthen, but Erin’s mother had never mentioned a possible match with Celinor. No, Erin knew her mother well enough to be sure that even if King Anders had proposed such a match, her mother would have turned him down.

Yet Celinor had her locket, had kept it for ten years.

Had Celinor dreamt of such a match? It made sense, in a small way. South Crowthen shared a border with Fleeds. Celinor and Erin could have married, enlarged their kingdoms, despite the differences in their cultures.

But King Anders would have seen it as a bad match. Fleeds was a poor country, after all, with nothing to offer. If their parents exchanged lockets, it was only as a matter of courtesy. Neither lord would have wanted the match.

Yet Celinor had kept the locket for ten years, had perhaps even worn it for ten years.

Celinor the sot.

She looked into his face. He’d come awake. He stared at her with narrow, pain-filled eyes.

Erin’s heart hammered.

“Tell me,” Celinor asked with surprising ferocity. “Young King Orden, does he look like you?”

“What?” she begged in surprise. “I’d be a sorry sight if he did.”

“Does he look like you?” Celinor asked “Like brother to sister, as my father says? No flame-headed man of Fleeds gave you that dark hair.”

Erin felt her face flush with embarrassment. She’d been imagining that he loved her. Now she saw the truth of it: Gaborn’s father, King Orden, had made an annual pilgrimage to Heredon for the autumn hunt with King Sylvarresta. On those pilgrimages, he’d passed through Fleeds, and had become a friend to Erin’s mother.

If her mother had thought Orden to be a suitable match, it was only reasonable that she’d have wanted to breed with him. It could have happened. But it hadn’t.

Still, both Erin and Gaborn had black hair and blue eyes, though Erin had her mother’s build, not King Orden’s broad shoulders.

So King Anders imagined that King Mendellas Draken Orden was her father, making Gaborn her half brother—her younger brother.

Erin dared not name her true father.

On the day that Erin had first begun her monthly bleed, her mother had taken Erin to the study, shown her a book that named her sires, told of each man’s and woman’s times and deeds. They were great men and women, heroes of old, and her mother had made Erin swear to keep the tradition, to breed with only the finest of men.

Erin knew the name of her father, but under the circumstances, she thought it better not to reveal her patronage.

“Is that the only reason you wear my promise locket?” Erin asked. “You wanted to measure my face to his?”

Celinor licked his lips, nodded barely. “My father... seeks to expose Gaborn’s deceit, label him a criminal.”

Erin wondered. If she were Gaborn’s brother, what would be the repercussions?

By the laws of Fleeds, having a royal father from another realm meant nothing. Erin’s title as a royal was handed down from her mother, but even that title would not allow Erin to become the High Queen. That post would have to be earned, bestowed by the wise women of the clans.

But if Erin were Orden’s daughter, it might have tremendous repercussions in Mystarria. Some might claim that she, as the eldest, was the rightful heir to Mystarria’s throne.

King Anders wanted to use her as a pawn.

“I—I’m not following you,” she said. “What could your father hope to gain? I’d never want the throne of Mystarria!”

“Then he would thrust it upon you,” Celinor whispered.

“Fagh! That would be a lot of trouble for nothing. I’d have no part of it.”

“You know the laws of succession: No man can be crowned a king who has won the throne by murder,” Celinor answered.

She wondered. Yesterday, before he’d met Gaborn, the High Marshal Skalbairn had warned that King Anders was spreading rumors that Gaborn had fled Longmot, leaving his father to die. Such a deed might not technically be counted as murder, but it was akin to murder.

And after the death of King Orden, was it not Gaborn’s own bodyguard who had slaughtered the witless King Sylvarresta? Borenson swore that in doing so, he only fulfilled the last command spoken to him by old King Orden, to slaughter those who had given themselves as Dedicates to Raj Ahten.

But one could easily argue that Borenson told such a tale to cover the truth—that he’d murdered Sylvarresta in order for his master to gain Heredon’s throne.

Gaborn now wore a double crown of kingship—that of Heredon and that of Mystarria. But Anders would argue that both crowns had been won through murder.

Thus Gaborn was not a king at all. And if he was not rightfully the king of any nation, then how could he be the Earth King?

And if Gaborn was not a king, he could justifiably be dispatched, dealt with as a murderer.

She saw it all in a flash, realized that Anders would start his war. He was probably already sending out minor lords to gather support. He had blocked his borders and forbade his people to come to Heredon to see the Earth King.

After all, if they saw Gaborn, they might be persuaded that he was indeed the Earth King. And King Anders did not want them to learn the truth.

Yet Erin knew the truth. She’d heard Gaborn’s Voice in her head, leading her to safety. She knew him to be the Earth King.

“What foul notions your father has, to make up such things!”

Celinor laughed painfully, as much from his burns as from the sentiment that followed. “Some think me to be much like him.”

“You didn’t need to whip your horse to a froth to check out your father’s story,” Erin said. “So why are you here?”

“My father sent me to gain any information that might help expose Gaborn. But I came to learn the truth.”

Just then, a healer woman brought the poppy resin, along with a small ivory pipe that she would use to blow the opium into Celinor’s face. She set the pipe down, rolled the opium into a dark ball, then set it in the bowl of the pipe and added a hot coal from an ornate clay brazier.

Erin began to back away, to give the healer room to work, but Celinor clutched at her cloak.

“Please,” Celinor said. “I don’t know if I can go on with you to Fleeds tomorrow. You must stop my father. Have your mother issue a statement about your patronage—even if she must lie to do so.”

Erin patted Celinor’s chest reassuringly. “I’ll be back in a wee bit, to check on you.”

Erin covered him with a blanket while the healer blew opium smoke into Celinor’s face. Then Erin walked down through the portcullis and stared up at the night sky. The sun had set an hour past, and all of the day’s clouds had drifted off. Only a few high cirrus clouds still hung in the night sky, a veil for the stars. It would be a warm night, and it was too late in the year for mosquitoes. Celinor would be comfortable if she left him alone for a bit.

Knights were still surging into the castle by the hundreds. Erin stepped aside to let some men pass, and the crier at the gate behind her shouted again, “Eat your fill, gentlemen!”

She looked down over the castle walls to the city below, Groverman’s domain.

Damn King Anders, Erin thought. But she had to wonder. Why does he need me?

After all, if Anders wanted to argue that Gaborn was no king at all, had earned his crown only by murder and deceit, he only needed to allege murder. He didn’t need to provide Erin as an alternate heir to Mystarria’s throne.

Perhaps, she thought, Anders is afraid that if he kills Gaborn, the people of Mystarria will rise in war against him. By providing an alternate heir, King Anders might well hope to assuage such a war.

But that didn’t seem right. If Gaborn died, and if indeed he had won his crown through murder, then the kingship would, rightly fall to Duke Paladane.

Paladane the Huntsman. Paladane the schemer and tactician. Paladane, her true father.

Of course, Anders would fear him. Paladane would easily pierce any subterfuge that Anders might devise. And he would demand satisfaction. Paladane’s reputation was such that no king in all of Rofehavan would want to match wits with him.

No, Anders wouldn’t want the kingship to fall to Paladane after Gaborn’s death, so perhaps he hoped to offer Erin as a suitable heir to old King Orden. But what would happen then?

Anders might hope that Erin Connal and Duke Paladane would squabble over the kingship of Mystarria, possibly starting a civil war.

Or perhaps Anders hoped that Paladane would strike at Fleeds itself, crushing her poor nation.

That seemed possible. In fact, after Gaborn was dead and Fleeds lay in ruins, Anders might even imagine that he could wash his hands of the mess by claiming that Erin had deceived him

Whatever his plot, Anders was bound to be surprised when the truth came out.

Or maybe not. What if King Anders had guessed whom her father really was? What if he planned to kill Paladane so that she really would inherit Mystarria’s throne?

Would Erin dare take it?

Damn my mother for choosing Paladane, Erin though She should have known better. At the time, it had seemed improbable that Paladane would himself ever be in line for the throne, and her mother had thought Paladane the best man in Mystarria—the best lord in all of Rofehavan. But a dozen assassinations later, now Erin stood in direct line for Mystarria’s crown.

Of course, the political situation in Rofehavan had been thrown into upheaval today, now that the Blue Tower was destroyed. Mystarria’s strength had easily been halved.

But that was something Anders couldn’t have foreseen.

He couldn’t have known that Raj Ahten would destroy the Blue Tower.

Unless Anders was in Raj Ahten’s hire.

No, Erin decided, now I’m thinking nonsense.

Erin knew she was missing something. Perhaps Anders didn’t have a fully developed scheme for disposing of Gaborn—or perhaps she could not see all of it.

When Erin was a child, her mother sometimes made her perform an odd exercise. Mother and daughter played chess together with a curtain placed across the board, so that each one saw only her own half of the board Thus she always had to be protected from players that might strike out of the darkness, and Erin had to learn to pin down opponents she couldn’t see. It was an exercise in futility.

She suddenly wished that she’d played chess with King Anders. How many moves ahead could he plot? Four, eight, twelve?

She was only looking ahead four moves, at best

And Anders had thrown up a screen of secrecy that could not easily be pierced

Damn, she thought. Erin needed to consult with her mother. Once Queen Herin learned of Anders’s plot, she could help unravel it. King Anders had better beware!

Erin had to see her mother immediately. She needed to find a fast horse.

Castle Groverman smelled deliciously of horses and grass out on the heather. Here on the plains beside the Wind River, Groverman raised most of the horses and much of the beef cattle that supplied Heredon. Tolfest, the time when cattle were slaughtered for the winter, was just a few weeks away. Already the cattle were penned outside the city and soon they would be driven to various castles and villages in the north.

Now that Hostenfest was past, much of the real work for the horsemen was ending: Hundreds of wild horses had been gathered over the past weeks and penned in stalls with the finest domesticated mounts available. These domestic mounts were warhorses, trained for combat, or horses for the use of messengers, quick beasts that could outrace the wind.

The domestic mounts all had an endowment or two of strength or stamina or wit, and now were in the process of establishing their dominance by fighting with the wild herd leaders. It was a brutal thing to do to a common horse, to pen it in together with a force horse, but vital nonetheless. Once the wild horses accepted the domestic animals as their leaders, Groverman’s facilitators could take the forcibles among the wild herds and siphon off attributes for the domestics, creating force horses of tremendous worth.

With so many lords going to battle and with so many mounts now ready to take endowments, Erin knew that she would find it hard to get a decent mount. Even in a good year, force horses were hard to come by.

She headed toward the stables north of the castle, began her search for something suitable.

In the stables she found at least a hundred lords stalking about, demanding that the stableboys show them the horse’s teeth by torchlight and engaging in other forms of silliness..

Erin simply went directly to the stablemaster. A stableboy had recognized her accent and told her that his master was a fine old horseman of Fleeds, a man by the name of Bullings.

She found him in the Dedicate stables, where the horses that granted endowments to others were housed. These were weak horses that had given their brawn to others, mounts that were sickly after having given an endowment of stamina. The Dedicate stables consisted of an enormous building in a walled part of the city. Here some three thousand horses were cared for, blind horses and deaf, horses kept in slings because they could not stand. Some horses that had given an endowment of grace had to be fed on oat mash because the guts of their intestines could not stretch properly to push food into their stomachs for digestion. These mounts were difficult to tend, for they suffered from bloat and therefore required frequent massage.

“Sirrah Bullings? I’ll be wanting a horse to take to war,” she said “You know your mounts. Which is your best?”

“For a horsewoman of Fleeds he asked, as if unsure. She’d never met him before. By the way he spoke, regardless of the fact that they both hailed from Fleeds, Erin knew that he would hold back, sell her a lesser horse.

The stable door opened behind her, and Erin heard heavy footsteps, the ching of ring mail. Other knights in search of good mounts were obviously coming to speak to the stablemaster. She knew she’d not hold his attention long.

“Aye, a horse for a woman of Fleeds,” she answered.

“Any mount will be appreciated, so long as it can get me home tomorrow.”

Behind her, the Earth King himself spoke. “Not just any mount will do,” he said. “This horsewoman is the daughter of Queen Herin the Red, and today she saved the life of a prince of South Crowthen.”

Erin turned. She’d not told Gaborn that she’d saved Celinor, had not reported it to anyone, but, apparently already tongues were wagging. Both she and Celinor had been forced to ride double with other lords.

“Your Highness,” Bullings said, dropping to one knee. The stablemaster kept his floors so clean that he need not worry about soiling his leather trousers.

Gaborn looked pale, weak. Erin wanted to tell him what she’d discovered about King Anders’s schemes, but one glance warned her that she shouldn’t. He looked as if he needed nothing more than to fall into bed, and her news might keep him awake for hours.

Besides, Erin thought, I can handle it

“What is the best mount you’ve got? The very best,” Gaborn asked the stablemaster.

Bullings stammered, “I—I’ve a fine warhorse, Your Highness. It’s well trained, has a good heart, with fifteen endowments to its credit”

“A fine mount,” Gaborn said “It should do for a horsewoman of Fleeds, don’t you think?”

“But Your Highness—” Bullings objected. “I can’t be doing that. The Duke will skin my hide and sell it cheap to the tanners! That mount was to be a gift from our Duke Groverman to you!”

“If it is freely given,” Gaborn said, “then I shall give it to whomever I want.”

“Your Highness,” Erin begged in embarrassment, “I could never be accepting such a horse!” She spoke honestly, for such a horse was a kingly mount. She dared not take a beast that rightfully belonged to the Earth King. “I’ll not have it!”

Gaborn smiled playfully. “Well, if you decline, then I’m sure that the stablemaster here will find something suitable.”

“Aye, Your Highness,” Bullings said in a bluster, leaping at the opportunity. “I’ve a fine mare, with a personality so sociable I’d marry her if I could! I’ll bring her at once.” As if forgetting all other duties, he raced to the back of the stables and hurried out a door.

Erin stared at Gaborn in surprise. “You knew he wouldn’t sell me a decent horse!”

“I’m sorry he wasn’t more accommodating,” Gaborn answered. “Good horses are going to be hard to come by here in Heredon. My father killed most of Raj Ahten’s warhorses, so Raj Ahten stole what he could from Sylvarresta.

“Now we’ve plenty of forcibles to create some good mounts and replenish our supply, but King Sylvarresta only had a few hundred warhorses in training: Duke Groverman and I have been doing our best to address the shortage. But even by granting endowments to some half-trained warhorses that shouldn’t be getting endowments until next year, we’ll only add four or five hundred good new mounts to take into battle. So of course Groverman will be loath to sell a decent horse at any price. In fact, he wouldn’t have sold you one.”

Those were grim tidings, but Erin was relieved to see that Gaborn had been considering such matters. Erin herself was unused to thinking about the economics of war.

Without a decent cavalry, Heredon would be forced to rely on infantry and archers to defend themselves. Over the past couple of days, she’d been watching his troops practice. The fields south of Castle Sylvarresta had been filled with thousands of boys with bows, while west of the castle, thousands more had been learning to use pole-arms. Even with Heredon’s vast resources in the way of smithies, however, it would take months for Gaborn to properly outfit an infantry with helms and armor. But while riding through the villages today, she’d been reassured by the ring of hammers upon anvils.

It occurred to her that the weight upon Gaborn must be tremendous. No, she would not burden him now with tales of possible treachery. As she considered, she even began to wonder if she might have been overreacting. Could Anders really be plotting Gaborn’s demise? She had little evidence of it, beyond Celinor’s suspicions.

She wanted more proof; and besides, Gaborn would be better equipped to contend with such matters when he was rested

She’d never really considered what duties an Earth King might have to perform in organizing a war effort. Many a lord with a good understanding of battle tactics found that he floundered once he was faced with issues of logistics.

Gaborn would have to deal with all of the complexities of war, with the problems of supplying and training his armies, while maintaining his defenses. Add to what will be concerns over strategies and tactics, and the normal duties of maintaining justice along with fulfilling his other obligations seemed overwhelming.

Yet Gaborn’s responsibilities went further than that. She’d heard his Voice in her mind today, heard him warn her of danger personally, and she knew for a fact that he’d done the same for thousands of other people. He did not merely rule in the manner of a common monarch. He was intimately connected to and concerned with each of his vassals.

The powers of an Earth King seemed awesome, and the burden even greater. “Milord?” she asked, hoping to test him. “Have you been thinking about how you will get the feathers to fletch your arrows?”

“I’ve commanded every lord in Heredon to have every child who plucks a goose or duck or grouse or pigeon to give the wing and tail feathers into the King’s service.”

“But you’ve barely had time for such niggling details,” she said. “When did you make such a command?”

“Most of the lords of Heredon presented themselves to me on the day that I reached Castle Sylvarresta, after the battle of Longmot,” he answered wearily. “I spoke into the minds of my Chosen, just as I spoke to you today, and told them to tend to the matters of their own defense.”

“And you asked them to save feathers?”

“And nails for horses, and I warned them to make good winter cloaks that a man might sleep under as well as wear, and to store food and healing herbs, and of course to tend to a thousand other matters.”

Now as she thought about it, she’d seen it. She’d seen the people of Heredon working as she’d ridden north, had noted the intensity with which the millers ground their flour and the weavers spun their cloth. She’d seen masons working on every fortress wall.

“What would you be having me do?” Erin asked, for when others were making such heroic efforts, her own small part in this war suddenly seemed insignificant.

“Follow me,” Gaborn said. “You listened to my Voice today; and because of it, you lived. Keep listening.”

At that moment, the stablemaster threw open a door, brought in a fine-looking black warhorse, a tall mare with a spirited air, a mount with nine endowments: one each of brawn, grace, stamina, wit, sight, and smell, and three of metabolism. It was among the most noble-looking beasts she’d ever seen, almost a king’s mount.

“I’ll listen to you, Your Highness,” Erin promised. “Can you be riding with me tomorrow? I have a matter we need to discuss.”

“I look forward to it,” Gaborn said. “But as I will warn the others shortly, we must ride before dawn. We must reach Carris ahead of schedule. You’ll have a couple of hours’ rest, but come moonrise, we will ride as best we can.”

“How soon are you hoping to reach Carris?” Erin asked.

“For those mounts that can make it, I hope to be there by night fall tomorrow.”

Over six hundred miles. It was a long journey for any horse, even a fine force horse like the one he’d just given her. And riding by moonlight would be dangerous. Erin nodded, but she could only wonder.

Some of the knights in this company might be able to reach Carris tomorrow at nightfall, but in doing so, they would run their horses into the ground. Even the finest knight could not fight from the back of a dead horse.

Perhaps Gaborn might excel in matters of logistics, but she had to worry at his skill as a strategist.

29 Dove’s Pass

The facilitators had been singing in the Palace of the Concubines when Saffira left, but Sir Borenson did not hear them.

Exhausted by days of work, and deprived of the great endowments of stamina that had let him withstand the natural frailties of man, he fell asleep in the sunlight, waiting by the fountain for Saffira to return. Someone unlocked his manacles as he slept

When at last Pashtuk and Saffira’s bodyguards helped the big man into his saddle, Borenson clung to it by nature and needed no one to lash him down.

Thus he slept in the saddle for hours as Pashtuk led the group back north into Deyazz, then west past the sacred ruins of the Mountains of the Doves.

Borenson woke for a bit on that mountainous trail, looked up to the sheer white cliffs. There, four thousand feet up the mountain slopes, altars and ancient domed temples leaned precariously over the precipices. Thousands of years ago, devotees were said to have leapt to the plain, thus giving their lives to the Air.

If the devotee’s act was sanctified, then the devotee might be given the power of flight. But if the Air powers rejected him, he’d fall to his death.

In this manner, it was said that even children had gained the power to fly. Yet at the base of the cliff, in the Vale of Skulls, lay ample evidence that the Air had seldom accepted the ancients’ sacrifices.

Few people were crazed enough to try such things nowadays, and Borenson had never heard of anyone besides the Sky Lords who had gained powers over Air. Still, every once in a while someone would walk out the door of his home and simply follow the wind, letting it blow him toward whatever destination it would. Invariably the “drifting ones,” or “wind followers” as they were sometimes called, would turn to thievery and other mischief in an effort to support themselves.

Saffira’s guards rode beside her, two mountainous men named Ha’Pim, and Mahket. She covered her face as she traveled, wearing veils of silk so that no one would see her face. Yet no veil could cover the luster of her eyes or mask the translucence of her skin.

Though she said not a word, her very posture in the saddle attracted the gaze of everyone she passed.

From moment to moment, she grew more beautiful, for the Palace of the Concubines at Obran was home to hundreds of women, each of whom had many endowments of glamour.

Now, one by one, the facilitators gathered the glamour from Raj Ahten’s concubines and funneled it into Saffira through Dedicates who acted as Vectors.

She of course did not need to be present in Obran to receive endowments, for when a person gave an endowment, it opened a magical link between him and his lord, a link that could be broken only when either the lord or the Dedicate died.

Thus if a woman gave an endowment of glamour, all of her glamour was funneled to her lord. If that same Dedicate later took an endowment of glamour from another, the Dedicate did not gain any glamour. Instead it immediately transferred to her lord.

A Dedicate who acted as a link to a lord in this manner was called a Vector. So the women who already served as Saffira’s Dedicates were now taking endowments from others. Those who had given Saffira an endowment of glamour were taking glamour on Saffira’s behalf; those who had given Voice received Voice, and so on.

In this manner Saffira made good use of the Earth King’s gift of forcibles. When she pleaded with Raj Ahten for a truce between nations that had been too long at war, she hoped to have not merely hundreds of endowments of glamour; but thousands.

Pashtuk led them along the mountain trails for hours, diverting from the road when they passed Raj Ahten’s armies traveling near the fortress at Mutabayim. Borenson fell asleep again as he rode.

The five had already reached the heavily guarded borders of the Hest Mountains when Pashtuk finally stopped to wake Borenson for dinner.

Night was falling, and Pashtuk pulled Borenson from the saddle saying only, “Sleep here for an hour, while I fix dinner for Her Highness.”

Borenson landed unceremoniously in some pine needles and would have slept soundly if not for Saffira’s perfume.

He woke as she passed near him. Sitting up, he watched her graceful movements, earning a warning scowl from Ha’Pim.

Pigeons cooed in nearby pines, and the dry mountain air carried the smell of a nearby stream. Borenson glanced off into the west.

He’d never seen the sun setting over the Salt Desert of Indhopal, and once having seen it, he would never forget the magnificent sight. To the west, the desert was a soft violet, seeming almost flat for hundreds of miles, and the evening wind stirred the dust over the flats just enough so that a bit of red sand dust floated in a distant haze. The sun seemed enormous as it intersected the horizon, a great swollen pearl the color of rose.

Yet even the glories of nature could not compare with the lovely Saffira. Borenson gazed raptly as she strolled downhill to the shelter of a glen, and there knelt by a rocky pool where honeybees flew about the evening primrose that grew beside the boulders. When she removed her veil and the wrap that covered her head and shoulders, Borenson felt her loveliness like pure torture. It wracked his body and eroded his mind.

She sat for half a second, poised above the pool, and studied her own reflection. Over the past few hours, the concubines had vectored hundreds, perhaps thousands, of endowments of glamour to her, while others had endowed her with Voice.

She glanced over her shoulder, found Borenson awake and staring at her.

“Sir Borenson,” she said, her voice mellifluous. “Come sit by me.”

Borenson got up, felt his legs go weak with the effort. He manipulated the things like clumsy logs until at last he fell at her knees. She smiled pleasantly and touched his hand.

Ha’Pim moved close, and rested a beefy fist on his dagger. He was a huge man, with a dark and surly expression.

“Will I be a worthy vessel to bear your supplication for peace?” Saffira asked.

“Worthy,” was all that Borenson managed to croak. “Completely worthy.” Her voice was like music to his ears, while his own seemed the raucous caw of a crow.

“Tell me,” Saffira begged. “Do you have a wife?”

Borenson had to think a moment. He blinked nervously. “I...do, milady.”

“Is she lovely?”

What could he answer? He had thought Myrrima lovely, but compared to Saffira, she seemed...overlarge, almost cowish. “No, milady.”

“How long have you been married?”

He tried to recall, but could not quite count the days. “A few days, more than two. Maybe three.” I must sound a fool, he thought.

“But you are quite old. Have you never had a wife before?”

“What?” he asked. “Four, I think.”

“Four wives?” Saffira asked, arching a brow. “That is many wives for a man of Rofehavan. I thought your people took only one.”

“No, four days since I married,” Borenson managed. “I’m fairly sure of it. Four days.” He tried to sound as if he spoke with authority.

“But no other wives?”

“None, milady,” Borenson answered. “I... was my prince’s guard. I had no time for a wife.”

“That is a shame;” Saffira said. “How old is your wife?”

“Twenty...years,” Borenson managed. Saffira placed her hand on the rock, leaned back. In doing so, her finger touched the knuckle of Borenson’s right hand, and he stared at the spot, unable to take his eyes from his own hand.

He wanted to reach out and touch her again, to stroke her hand, but realized that it was impossible. A thing like him was not meant to touch a wonder like her. It had only been by purest chance that their flesh had met, an astonishing chance. The air smelled heavy with her perfume.

“Twenty. That seems quite old,” Saffira said. “I have heard that women often wait until they are old to marry in your country.”

He did not know what to say. She looked to be no more than sixteen herself, yet Saffira had been married for years, had borne Raj Ahten four children. She trust be older than she looks, he imagined. Perhaps seventeen, but no more than that—unless she has taken endowments of glamour from children.

“My lord took me to bed on my twelfth birthday,” Saffira said proudly. “I was the youngest of his wives, and he was the most handsome man who ever lived. He loved me from the start. Some concubines he keeps to look at, others he keeps to sing. But he loves me most. He has been very good to me. He always brings me presents. Last year he brought two white elephants for us to ride, and their headdresses and the pavilions on their backs were all covered in diamonds and pearls.”

Borenson had seen Raj Ahten. The Wolf Lord had thousands of endowments of glamour to his own credit. Now as Borenson looked upon Saffira, he understood how a woman’s heart might ache for him.

“I bore him his first child before I turned thirteen,” Saffira said proudly. “I bore him four children.” He detected a hint of sadness in her voice. He feared that he had led her to a topic that was painful for her, the death of her son.

Borenson’s mouth felt dry “Uh...um, will you give him more?” he asked, praying that she would not

“No,” Saffira said, ducking her head. “I can have no more.”

Borenson thought to ask her why, but she looked a flu askance and changed the subject.

“I do not think that men were meant to have red hair. It is not appealing.”

“I...will shave it off for you, milady.”

“No. Then I would be forced to see all of your white skin and your speckles.”

“Then I will dye my hair, milady. I have heard that one can use indigo leaves and henna to make it black.” He did not tell her that this was how northern spies and assassins colored their hair before striking south into Indhopal.

Saffira smiled captivatingly, the most beautiful smile ever to have graced a woman’s face. “Yes, in some places in Indhopal, old people dye their hair when it starts to turn gray,” she said. “I will send for such dye.”

She fell silent for a moment. “My husband,” she bragged, “is the greatest man in the world.”

Borenson flinched. He had never heard that before, and had not really thought it possible. But now that Saffira said it, he realized it was true. “Yes, O Star of the Desert,” he said, for he suddenly thought that “milady” was too common a word, a title that should be reserved only for dried-up old matrons with leathery faces.

“He is the hope of the world,” Saffira instructed him with perfect conviction. “He will unite mankind, and destroy the reavers.”

Of course, now that he saw it, Borenson realized that it was a great plan. Who was more powerful than Raj Ahten?

“I look forward to the day,” Borenson agreed.

“And I shall help him,” Saffira said. “I shall bring peace to Rofehavan, begging all men to lay aside their weapons, and thus stop the depredations of the Knights Equitable. Long has my love fought for peace, and now the Great Light of Indhopal shall shine over the whole world. The barbarians of Rofehavan will humble themselves and kneel before him, or be destroyed.”

Saffira had been speaking half to herself, as if listening in wonder to the pure tones of her own voice. From minute to minute the facilitators in her palace were adding endowments to her. “Wahoni had forty endowments of Voice. They must be mine now,” Saffira said “She sang so beautifully; I will miss it, though I can sing more beautifully now.” She raised her voice, sang a few lines in such a haunting tone that the music seemed to hang in the air about her like the down of a cottonwood tree. The song sent chills down Borenson’s spine.

She suddenly glanced at him distractedly. “You should not stare at me with your mouth open,” Saffira said. “You look as if you want to eat me. In fact, perhaps you should not look at me at all. I am going to take a bath now, and you must not look at me naked, do you understand?”

“I will close my eyes,” Borenson promised. Ha’Pim kicked at Borenson’s legs, and Borenson walked away a few yards. Then he sat with his back to a warm rock.

He listened to the delicious sound as she removed her silks, smelled the sweet scent of her body as she removed her dress, and her jasmine perfume suddenly became stronger.

He listened as she stepped timidly into the pond and made a small noise of surprise to find out how cold the mountain water could be. He listened to her splash and burble, but he did not look at her.

He closed his eyes tightly, obeying her every command, willing himself to obey no matter what the cost to himself.

Yet as he closed his eyes and tried to focus on anything but the sounds Saffira made as she splashed, he began to wonder.

She had said that Raj Ahten was the greatest man in the world, and at that moment, he’d thought the words sounded wise, reasonable, and well considered.

But now doubt began to creep in.

Saffira loved Raj Ahten?

She thought him kind? The man who had destroyed every neighboring king and now sought to subdue the world?

No, Borenson had seen Raj Ahten’s cunning and his cruelty. He’d seen the dead bodies of Gaborn’s brother and sisters and mother. When Borenson slew Raj Ahten’s Dedicates at Castle Sylvarresta, he’d been forced to take the lives of the children that Raj Ahten drew endowments from. The Wolf Lord was a man wholly given to evil.

Raj Ahten had taken Saffira to wife as a child, and though she gloried in Raj Ahten’s affection, Borenson wanted to see him die for that.

But he wondered. Saffira had gone to him willingly as a child, overpowered by his Glamour and Voice. She loved him. She loved him so much that she now promised to support him against the nations of Rofehavan.

She had never seen the world that her husband ruthlessly sought to usurp, Borenson realized. She was hopelessly naive. She’d spent all her time locked in her palace, awaiting the gifts Raj Ahten would bring, fearful of the Knights Equitable. She’d been stripped from her family at the age of twelve, and though Borenson had not been allowed to see the other concubines, he imagined that they’d be girls like Saffira—just as naive and foolish.

Already he realized how hopelessly Gaborn’s plan might go astray: Saffira offered to forge a peace between Indhopal and Rofehavan, but she would do it for her own reasons, not because the Earth King sought it.

And if Raj Ahten could not be persuaded to call a halt to his war, then Saffira would join him and use her own Glamour to subvert the armies of Rofehavan.

Faintly, a voice in the back of Borenson’s mind whispered that he had helped to create a monster, and that now he should destroy it, if possible.

Yet he could not bear the thought. Even if he’d still had his endowments, even if he thought himself capable of fighting Pashtuk, Ha’Pim, and Mahket, he did not think himself capable of killing Saffira.

No man could manage it.

And she did not deserve such rough treatment. Saffira was innocent, not evil.

Even if he had thought her evil, he knew that he would never have been able to lift a finger against her.

30 The Boon Companion

It was well after sunset when Iome reached Castle Groverman. Both Binnesman and Jureem rode the fine mounts, that Raj Ahten had graciously provided them a week before, and Myrrima rode Sir Borenson’s mount, as swift a beast as Mystarria could offer. But the force horse Iome had been constrained to take from the King’s stables had been a simple guardsman’s mount with only three endowments.

It gave out after a hundred miles of hard running, so Iome was forced to slow until they could get to Bannisferre and buy a fresh mount.

Still, the stars shone brightly and the air up here high in the Dunnwood was cold and fresh, so that the evening ride was pleasant.

Once they arrived at the castle, Iome went off in search of the King. She took a retinue consisting of Jureem, Binnesman; and Myrrima, as well as her Days and the clubfooted boy.

With a few words to a captain, she caught up to Gaborn in Duke Groverman’s Keep, where he had retired for dinner with a number of other lords.

Iome proceeded from the hall to the Duke’s audience chamber. She was about to open the red curtains at the entrance to the Great Hall when she heard someone addressing her husband in a harsh voice. “This is a travesty, Your Highness!” a knight said too loudly. “You can’t let them turn back now, not before the chase has even begun! This speaks of cowardice!”

She knew the whiny voice. It was Sir Gillis of Tor Insell.

A deep-voiced fellow roared, “Your Highness, I will not be called a coward by this man, nor will I have my king named one! I demand an apology!”

Iome motioned for those behind her to stop. She parted the curtain a bit. Duke Groverman had set a fine banquet, and Gaborn and three dozen lords crowded around a table that should not have held two dozen.

In the center of the room stood a young man with a pimpled face, Theovald Orwynne’s son, fourteen-year-old Agunter.

Word had spread along the road of the day’s events. Iome knew that King Orwynne and his son Barnell had been slain by the Darkling Glory. Agunter would be next in line for the throne. She’d also heard that Gaborn had lost his endowments.

At Agunter’s side stood a big bear of a man, Sir Langley, and at his back counselors waited

“I demand an apology from this lout...” Sir Langley roared at Sir Gillis, “or satisfaction!”

With a tone of wry amusement, Gaborn turned to his left, where Sir Gillis sat at the table, several places down. “What say you, Sir Gillis? Will you apologize for your insult, or will we all get to watch Orwynne’s champion yank your tongue from your mouth?”

Red of face, Sir Gillis threw down a swan’s leg he’d been gnawing at and glared over his dinner plate. “I say it again! Orwynne swore fealty to the Earth King, and if Agunter and his knights choose to depart now before the battle, then I say they are cowards all! Rip out my tongue if you can, Sir Langley. Though it wriggle on the floor, my tongue will still declare the truth!”

Sir Langley glared at Sir Gillis, and his hand strayed toward the dagger in his belt, but he dared not draw steel in the Earth King’s presence.

“If you please, Your Highness!” one of Orwynne’s counselors shouted “It was not milord Agunter’s wish to return to his lands. I have sought all day to persuade him that this is the most prudent course!”

“Speak on,” Gaborn told the counselor.

“I...I merely point out that Agunter is but fourteen, and though he has the size of a man about him—and a courage to equal that of any man in this room—today his kingdom suffered a tremendous loss. With King Orwynne dead, along with his oldest son, the royal family of Orwynne is now in a tenuous position. Agunter’s nearest brother is but six years old, and if by some fell chance Agunter continued south and died in battle, his brother would be incapable of ruling in his stead. With our kingdom at war, we need a proper lord to lead us. For this reason alone, we petition you for leave to return to our homes.”

Gaborn sat back in the shadows, with Duke Groverman to his left and Chancellor Rodderman to his right Now he leaned forward in his chair.

“For young Agunter here to leave is one thing,” Sir Gillis said “But must he take his entire retinue? Five hundred knights?”

Iome was torn at the thought. Agunter’s father had indeed mounted five hundred of his best knights for this campaign, and with Heredon’s forces so decimated, such knights would be sorely needed. While it was only prudent for young Agunter to turn back, it seemed excessive for him to take all of his men.

Sir Gillis was right, she decided. More than common sense lay behind Agunter’s request. Agunter was sorely afraid—and with good reason.

Gaborn’s father had stood up to Raj Ahten and been murdered for his trouble, as had her own father. Agunter’s father was slain most terribly, crushed by the Darkling Glory right before Agunter’s own eyes.

Agunter spoke now, voice shaky. “I think that to take all of my men would be excessive, but for the news my father bore last night: Reavers have surfaced in North Crowthen and again to the south in Mystarria. World worms shake the earth as they burrow beneath the Dunnwood. My kingdom borders the Hest, and we’ve spotted many signs of reavers this past summer in the mountains. How long will it be before they come at us en masse?”

“Hah! I call it robbery!” Sir Gillis said “The Earth King saves your whole nation and gives two thousand forcibles to make Sir Langley our champion, and then you think to ride off on your merry way with the booty. Shall Orwynne be named a boon companion?”

Young King Agunter glared menacingly at Gillis. If his champion was afraid to draw steel before the Earth King, Iome saw that Agunter was not. Though Agunter might fear Raj Ahten, that fear didn’t extend to such men as Sir Gillis.

A boon companion, indeed.

Iome bit her lip. If young Agunter does not like hearing such jibes to his face, she thought, then in a year or two he’ll positively loathe what is said at his back. It would be churlish for the boy to withdraw his support completely.

Gaborn had sent two thousand forcibles to Orwynne so that Langley could receive endowments. It was a tremendous investment, and Iome could see from his stance alone that Langley was receiving endowments through his Vectors. He stood tall even with his mail shirt on, and he moved with incredible fluidity and swiftness, as only a man with great endowments of grace and metabolism could do.

Langley was becoming a potent warrior, minute by minute, as Orwynne’s facilitators drew attributes in his behalf.

It would be churlish of Agunter to withdraw Langley from the coming battle, churlish and foolish. Iome would not have allowed it, would have pounded the table and demanded Orwynne’s assistance. Instead, she watched to see how Gaborn played the lad.

Gaborn leaned forward and cleared his throat. As he bent into the wan light of a candle, Iome felt astonished by the transformation she saw in his features since only this morning. His eyes were dark and hollow, his face pale. He looked ill or weary nigh unto death. Such was the havoc that losing his endowments wrought upon him.

“Sir Gillis, you owe young King Orwynne an apology,” Gaborn sad. “I have looked into his heart. It is full of wrath at Raj Ahten, and it is as difficult for him to turn aside from this conflict as it will be for you to watch him go.”

Addressing the young king, Gaborn said, “Agunter Orwynne, by all means, take your men home with my blessing. Rofehavan needs Orwynne to hold the west, and to be strong against all enemies whether they be Raj Ahten’s troops or reavers. Take your father and brother home for burial. Take your knights, and may the Powers ride with you.”

Iome couldn’t believe it. Gaborn was riding to battle with far too few men as it was. He shouldn’t be acquiescing to a coward’s demands.

“But—” Sir Gillis let out a strangled exclamation.

“I ask only one boon of you,” Gaborn told Agunter. “Let Sir Langley come to fight as your champion. It is my hope that he will still avenge both my father and yours. If he does, I will be forever grateful for your aid.”

Iome suddenly realized what Gaborn was doing. Agunter could not bear the thought of facing Raj Ahten. He was so terrified that he dared not even ride home alone.

But perhaps by declaring that the boy had courage, Gaborn lent Agunter some. At the same time, Gaborn appealed to whatever dignity the young lad had left. No child could fad to try to avenge a murdered father. If Agunter did not let Langley fight, he would never be able to live with the scorn that his people would heap upon him. Surely Agunter saw this.

Yet Agunter trembled as he said, “Take him then, along with a hundred knights.”

Gaborn nodded, as if surprised and impressed at the young king’s graciousness.

Agunter turned and stalked from the Great Hall, his counselors and his Days flapping at his tail, eager to flee Castle Groverman, eager to return to Orwynne.

Iome stepped back from the audience chamber to let Agunter pass with his retinue.

Of all Agunter Orwynne’s men, only Sir Langley stayed in the audience chamber.

He eyed Agunter’s back thoughtfully for a moment, and no one in the room spoke. When Agunter was good and gone from the keep, Sir Langley bowed to Gaborn. “I thank you, Your Highness, for letting the lad go.” Then he bowed to Sir Gillis. “And you, good sirrah, for reminding him of his duty.”

Gaborn smiled in amusement. Sir Langley obviously wanted to fight Raj Ahten far more than his king did, and though Langley might defend his king’s honor to the death, he saw the lad for what he was and felt relieved to have his lord’s permission to ride south.

Langley, too, turned to leave the room.

“Stay if you will,” Gaborn said. “There is more than enough room at the table.” It was an amusing statement, for lords were crammed elbow to rib at Groverman’s table.

“Thank you, Your Highness,” Langley said. “But I fear that when my king rides off, it will weaken the morale of your troops. If you would allow me, I’d like to take my dinner there, so that I can reassure them somewhat.”

“That would be appreciated,” Gaborn said.

Langley began to march for the exit, but Gaborn stopped him. “Sir Langley, you should know that your king is a decent lad. He has a man’s body, but not a man’s heart yet In a year or two, I suspect that he will find his courage.”

Langley glanced back over his shoulder. “I pray he does not find it too late.”

Iome let Langley pass, then proceeded into the Great Hall with Myrrima, Binnesman, Jureem, and her Days at her back. The clubfooted boy remained in the audience chamber to play with the pups.

Upon seeing her, Gaborn rose and invited Iome to sit next to him. Iome kissed him, studied him as she did. He looked ill, she decided

She took a seat beside him when Duke Groverman offered his own chair. Iome squeezed Gaborn’s right hand with her left.

She had not even settled in her chair when a page announced a messenger from Beldinook; it was the first messenger to come from Beldinook since Gaborn had been crowned as the Earth King.

Beldinook was an important nation, the second largest and wealthiest in all of Rofehavan. It bordered Mystarria on the north, and thus was a strategic ally. More than that, old King Lowicker, a frail man given to fits of indecision, had long been a friend to Gaborn’s father. Gaborn needed Lowicker now, in part because Gaborn’s small army would have to pass through Beldinook to reach Carris. But since Gaborn had to travel quickly, he was not able to carry all of the supplies he would need for battle.

At the very least, by the time his mounts reached Beldinook, they’d need good grain to eat, and Gaborn’s warriors would need food themselves.

Queen Herin the Red had sent Erin Connal to offer such support, but Gaborn had been waiting for a pledge from Beldinook, and had been forced to proceed despite a pledge.

Gaborn needed Lowicker’s assistance merely to ride through Beldinook, but he hoped for more. Gaborn faced serious supply shortages in Northern Mystarria with so many castles having fallen.

Paladane would have moved most of his remaining supplies to Carris itself, in preparation for a siege, and Raj Ahten would likely set such a siege—if he did not destroy the castle outright. Personally, Gaborn believed that Raj Ahten wanted Carris whole, so that his own troops could winter there.

Given that, Gaborn would have to break the siege by attacking Raj Ahten. If Gaborn’s warriors were to fight a pitched battle, they’d need extra weapons for the fray: arrows for archers, lances for cavalry, shields, and whatnot.

Few of the knights who rode south had burdened their mounts with any barding at all. Some had chaffrons to cover the charger’s heads, with only blankets quilted like gambesons to protect their necks and flanks. But full armor was too heavy for the mounts to carry so far. With force horses at such a premium these days, Gaborn was hesitant to send poorly armored mounts into battle. He would prefer full bard for the horses, along with some breastplates and great helms for his knights.

Gaborn hoped to get such goods from Beldinook.

If Gaborn could manage to drive Raj Ahten to ground—in Castle Crayden, Castle Fells, or at Tal Dur—Gaborn might have to lay siege to a fortress, in which case he might need tools for siege engines. In addition to this he might well need smiths, cooks, squires, washwomen, sappers, carters—a whole host of support personnel. Gaborn could call for aid from his own vassals in the south and east of Mystarria, but it would take weeks to get them all north, and time was of the essence.

Of necessity, Gaborn would have to rely upon his old ally King Lowicker of Beldinook, a man who some whispered might be too cautious in war, a man who some suspected would not have the spine to stand up to Raj Ahten.

Though Gaborn had sent letters to Beldinook nearly a week ago, seeking to purchase supplies should he need to ride south, Beldinook had not responded—probably because at the time, Raj Ahten was racing through the wilderness on the border of Beldinook with his own men, and King Lowicker was much occupied caring for his own defense. Iome herself had dispatched a second courier only two days past.

Now at last the messenger entered the room, still wearing the dust of the trail over his dun-colored tunic. The white swan of Beldinook was emblazoned on it. He was a small fellow, thin, with a long moustache that hung below his chin, and no beard.

Gaborn got up to speak with him privately, but the messenger bowed with a grand gesture and said, “If it please Your Highness, Lords of Heredon and Orwynne, the good King Lowicker bade me speak openly to you all.”

Gaborn nodded. “Please continue, then.”

The messenger bowed and said, “My lord Beldinook bade me say this, ‘Long live the Earth King Gaborn Val Orden!“ ‘

He raised his hand, and everywhere the lords at the table shouted, “Long live the King!”

“My King apologizes for the delay in bringing you word. He dispatched documents to you nearly a week past, offering his assistance in whatever manner he may. Unfortunately, it appears that our courier did not make it alive to carry my lord’s message. The roads were thick with Raj Ahten’s assassins. For this lapse, my lord apologizes.

“But he wished to convey that, just as he loved your father, he has always thought of you, Gaborn, as one like unto a son to him.”

Iome did not like the sound of this. She knew that Lowicker had often courted favor with King Orden, perhaps hoping that Gaborn would be man enough to relieve Lowicker of a notoriously unattractive daughter, his only heir.

“Milord King Lowicker bids you to be easy of mind,” the messenger continued. “He is aware of the danger brewing at Carris, and has amassed troops and supplies to aid in freeing the city. To this end, he has marshaled five thousand knights, a hundred thousand footmen, fifty thousand archers—along with engineers and an unnumbered host of support personnel—in the hopes that together we might crush Raj Ahten now, before the threat grows stronger!

“Your Highness, Lords of Heredon and Orwynne, my King Lowicker bids you be of good cheer, and to make all due haste to join him, for he himself will lead his troops to war!”

Suddenly Iome understood what Lowicker proposed. Certainly troops would be coming from the south and east of Mystarria, riding to Carris to defend against Raj Ahten. With Fleeds guarding the west, and Lowicker coming strong out of the north, Raj Ahten would find himself beleaguered on every side, like a bear caught between the hounds, and Beldinook hoped to take Raj Ahten down.

Iome grinned fiercely. Not in her wildest imaginings had she thought that frail old King Lowicker would ride to war.

The lords at the table cheered and raised their mugs in toast, and Iome felt a wave of relief wash through her such as she’d never felt in her life.

The lords saluted Beldinook’s health and toasted the Powers, each man spilling ale to the floor as an offering to the Earth.

Iome studied Gaborn’s reaction most of all. The lines of worry had gone somewhat from his face, and he thanked the messenger graciously, offered the man food and drink from his own table.

So, Iome thought, we lose a few knights of Orwynne, and find that we have gained a hundred times more! Her heart soared at this hope.

But Iome watched Gaborn carefully, studying his face for a reaction. He sensed their danger, after all, and she dared not celebrate until he was satisfied.

Gaborn had had but two endowments of glamour, and even with that, he had seemed only a plain and unpretentious lord. Now, stripped of glamour, she saw him truly for the first time in her life. Gaborn was not homely, she decided, but he was close to it.

She began to wonder. Gaborn’s external transformation, as obvious as it might be to her, was perhaps the least important. Without his endowments of stamina, he would be prone to illness, and would be easily slain in battle. Without his brawn, he would be no match for even the lowliest force warrior. Without his endowments of voice, he would not speak with any degree of eloquence.

Perhaps most horribly, Gaborn had lost his endowments of wit. Much of what he knew, so many of his memories, would have been stripped away.

It was discouraging for a Runelord to lose so many endowments at once, especially when he needed them more than ever.

She whispered into Gaborn’s ear. “Your Highness, you look positively...decrepit. I’m worried for you. At the very least, you need rest. I hope you don’t plan to sit up all night feasting with your lords.”

He squeezed her hand reassuringly, and raised a finger, as if in signal. Jureem strode forward with one of the baskets that he had used to carry the pups south.

“Your Highness, Duke Groverman, lords of Heredon,” Jureem said with great fanfare. “We all have reason to celebrate our good fortune with this news from Beldinook tonight. But I bring you something that should further lighten your hearts and lift your spirits!”

Jureem reached under the lid of the large basket, the jeweled rings on his fingers flashing in the thin lamplight, and Iome wondered if he would pull out a pup.

Instead, he drew out the hand of the Darkling Glory. Its long talons were clutched into a claw. The lords shouted and cheered and began banging their fists on the tables. Some cried out, “Well done, Binnesman! May the Powers preserve you!” Men raised their mugs in salute, while others poured further libations, upon the floor.

Dismayed at the injustice of it, Iome grabbed Gaborn’s arm and whispered fiercely, “But Binnesman didn’t kill it!”

Gaborn grinned at her and raised his own mug, as if to offer another toast, and the men all quieted.

“As you know, the Darkling Glory today slew many men,” Gaborn told the lords. “Among those dead is our good friend King Orwynne, whose support will be greatly missed.

“But of those men who died, all had one thing in common: They rejected my warnings.

“The Earth instructed us to flee, and the men did not flee. All this week, I have been wondering if the Earth will ever let us fight in our own defense. Time and again it has told us to flee.

“Finally, today, the Earth whispered that one among us should strike, should strike the Darkling Glory down!”

The lords began to pound the tables again and cheer, but Gaborn shouted over them.

“It whispered the command to a woman, a woman without an endowment of brawn or stamina, a woman without skill in war.”

He waved toward the horrid trophy in Jureem’s hands. “Here is the hand of the Darkling Glory, slain by the arrow of Sir Borenson’s wife, the Lady Myrrima Borenson!”

Iome was delighted to see jaws drop on nearly every lord in the room.

One fellow blurted, “But...but I’ve seen how badly the woman shoots That can’t be right!”

Myrrima stood at the far back of the room, in the shadows near the curtained entrance. She was so embarrassed that she looked ready to flee clear back into the audience chamber.

“It is true,” Iome said. “She shot her bow well enough to slay the Darkling Glory. She has the heart of a warrior, and soon will have the endowments to match!”

“Well, let us see this champion then,” a lord shouted, and Binnesman urged Myrrima out of the shadows.

The cheers and whistles that erupted from the lords were deafening. The noise rang from the stone walls, and Gaborn himself led the applause for several long minutes, letting Myrrima savor the moment.

At last Gaborn raised his hands, begging the lords for silence. “Let Myrrima’s deed ever remind you of what one may accomplish with the aid of the earth powers,” he said. “It is our protector and our strength.

“In ages past, the Earth safeguarded our forefathers. By its power, Erden Geboren withstood the dark wizards of Toth.

“Now we must strive to match his feat.

“Yesterday at dawn I heard the Earth whispering, urging me south. We rode from Castle Sylvarresta, knowing that we were few. Yet we also knew that it takes but one man to strike a grievous blow.

“Now we find that we will fight with a great army, and we fight not alone. The Earth fights with us!

“As you know,” he continued, “I have sent dozens of Chosen messengers abroad. Three of them are even now at Carris, where Raj Ahten’s troops ring them about. I feel their danger, and the Earth gives me this warning: ‘Hurry. Hurry to strike!“ ‘

He pounded the table for effect.

“As you also know, I planned to ride for Fleeds tomorrow at dawn. But now I fear I must travel sooner. I leave for Fleeds at moonrise, and I will camp there tomorrow only briefly. I call upon every man who can keep pace with my mount to ride with me, and for those who cannot, to follow as best you can. I hope to join King Beldinook at Carris no later than tomorrow at dusk. There, our numbers will swell with Knights Equitable and lords from Mystarria and Fleeds. We are going to war!”

The lords continued to cheer until Gaborn himself went to Myrrima and took her elbow, led her and Jureem down to the bailey to make the same speech to the knights camped there.

31 The Smell of the Night Wind

That night, after receiving her applause, Myrrima took her forcibles and went to the Dedicate’s Keep, begging Groverman’s facilitator to perform an act that she’d always thought an abomination.

The facilitator was weary, but understood her sense of urgency. So he bade her enter the room with her basket of pups and sit in a cold chair.

The windows of the tower were open to the starlight, and the breeze entering the room smelled crisp and fresh.

The yellow pup squirmed in Myrrima’s hand. Even as she held it, she fought back tears.

Myrrima had taken endowments from her mother and sisters. At her mother’s bidding, she had taken her mother’s wit. At her sisters’ bidding, she had taken their glamour, all so that she could make a good marriage and provide for them well.

Yet the fruit of her deeds tasted bitter.

Myrrima knew that what she’d done was evil, and now she sat prepared to repeat her deed. But while some evil acts became easier with repetition, some became more impossible.

The pup was innocent, staring up at her with big, brown, loving eyes. She knew the pain that the pup was about to endure, knew that she would hurt it grievously, withdraw its stamina for no better reason than that it loved her, that it had been born with a disposition that would allow it to love her and serve her. She stroked the pup, tried to comfort it. The pup licked her and softly nibbled her sleeve.

Myrrima had come alone to the facilitator’s room in Duke Groverman’s Dedicate’s Keep. She’d come alone because Iome was tired and had sought a bed. She’d come alone because even though all the knights in Heredon cheered her, she felt ashamed of what she had to do.

Duke Groverman’s chief facilitator was a small fellow, an old man with wizened eyes and a white beard that nearly fell to his belly.

He studied the forcible she provided carefully before he put it to use. The forcible looked like a small branding iron in shape. One long end served as a handle, while the shape of the rune at the other end determined which attribute would be magically transferred from a Dedicate to his or her lord.

The facilitator’s art was an ancient practice, one that required only a small level of magical skill, but great study. Now the facilitator took the forcible for stamina, studied the rune made of blood metal at its end. Using a tiny rattail file, he carefully began to shave off bits of blood metal, resting the forcible over a pan so that he could capture every precious flake of metal for reuse.

“Blood metal is soft and easily damaged,” the facilitator said. “This should have been transported with greater care.”

Myrrima only nodded. The damned thing had been carried thousands of miles since its forging. She did not wonder that it was a little dented. Yet she knew that if the facilitator had to, he could melt the forcible down and cast it again.

“Still, it is a good design,” the facilitator muttered reassuringly. “Pimis Sucharet of Dharmad forged this forcible, and his work shows his genius.”

Rarely had Myrrima heard anyone compliment a man of Indhopal. The nations had been too long at war.

“Hold the pup tight, now,” the facilitator said. “Don’t let it move.”

Myrrima held the pup as the facilitator pressed the forcible to its flesh, began his chants, his voice piping high and birdlike.

In moments the forcible began to glow white-hot, and the smell of burning hair and flesh filled the air. The pup yelped desperately in pain, and Myrrima pinched its legs together and held them so that it could not run or squirm. The pup nipped her as it sought to escape, and Myrrima whispered, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

In that second, the forcible blazed white-hot, and the pup howled in torment

Myrrima’s other three pups were wandering about the floor of the keep, sniffing at carpets and mopping the floor with their tongues in search of tidbits. But as this pup howled, one of the others rushed to Myrrima’s side and began barking, staring up at the facilitator, as if unsure whether to attack.

The facilitator withdrew the forcible, inspected the glowing thing. He weaved the forcible through the air, and ribbons of light hung there, as if painted in the smoky ak. He stared at the bands of light for a long moment, as if judging their thickness and width.

Then, satisfied, he came to Myrrima’s side. She pulled her riding pants up so that the facilitator could place the brand just above her knee, where it would seldom be seen beneath her clothes

The white-hot forcible seared her skin, even as the facilitator drove the blood metal into her flesh.

But even as it burned, Myrrima found herself in ecstasy. The sense of vitality that suddenly flooded into her, the invigoration, were overwhelming.

Myrrima had never taken an endowment of stamina before, had not quite imagined how satisfying it would be. She suddenly found herself covered in sweat. The sweetness of the whole experience overwhelmed her. As she struggled to reckon with her euphoria, she glanced down at the pup in her arms.

It lay there looking haggard.

Moments before, the pup’s eyes had been bright with excitement. Now they appeared dull. If she’d seen the pup with a litter, she’d have thought it sickly, a runt. She would have suggested that someone drown it, release it from its misery.

“I’ll take that one to the kennels, now that you’re done,” the facilitator said.

“No,” Myrrima said, knowing that she sounded foolish. “I’m not done with it. Let me pet it for a minute.”

The pup would be giving her so much, she wanted to give it something in return, not just abandon it to another’s care.

“Don’t worry,” the facilitator assured her. “The children at the kennels are good with the dogs. They’ll give it more than a few scraps of meat. They’ll love it as if it were their own, and the pup, will hardly miss the stamina you’ve taken today.”

Myrrima’s mind felt numb. With her stamina, she would be able to practice longer with her bow, become a better warrior, faster. By taking this guilt upon her, she hoped to help her people.

“I’ll hold it,” she said, and put a hand under the pup’s white chin and held it for a moment, stroking it.

“That pup at your feet, the one that barked at me, it’s ready, too,” the facilitator said. “Will you take the endowment now?”

She glanced down at the pup in question. It wagged its tail and gazed up at her hopefully. This was the pup with the strong nose. “Yes, I’ll do it now.”

When Myrrima took the endowment of scent, the world changed.

One moment, she sat in the chair with the pups, and then it was as if a veil dropped away.

The aroma of burning hair that had filled the room suddenly became more pungent, overwhelming, as it mingled with the scents of candle wax and dust and plaster and the pennyroyal flowers that had lain for a week upon the floor of the tower. She nuzzled a pup, could even smell its warmth.

The whole world seemed new.

With one pup’s stamina to increase her energy reserves, Myrrima felt completely invigorated and awake. With another pup’s endowment to heighten her sense of smell, the world seemed...remade, when she walked down from the keep.

The odor of horses blowing from the stables was overwhelming, and the smell of fresh-cooked beef in the bailey outside the Duke’s Keep made her mouth water.

Yet it was people that thrilled her. She left her pups with the facilitator and walked down into the bailey, where the cooking fires had been guttering only half an hour before. Gaborn had made sure that the fires were doused before he spoke openly of fighting Raj Ahten.

Now Myrrima walked in darkness among the warriors, many of whom sat cross-legged on the ground to eat or lay on the ground on blankets.

Each warrior held such a fascinating combination of scents: the oiled metal armor, the greasy scent of wool, the mixture of soils and horses and food stains and spices and soaps and blood and the men’s own natural body oils and urine.

Every scent came to her a hundred times more powerfully than she’d ever smelled it before. Many scents were completely new and alien, scents that were far too subtle for the human nose to recognize: the smell of grasses that had brushed against men’s cloaks or of their ivory buttons and the dyes in their cloth or on their leather fastenings. She found that dark hair smelled different from light, and that upon a man’s skin she could often smell the food he had eaten earlier in the day. Thousands of new and subtle scents lay ready to he tasted The men in the bailey somehow seemed more tantalizing than before.

I am a wolf lord now, she thought. I walk among men, and no one sees the change in me. But I was blind, and now I see. I was blind, just as all those around me are blind.

With little effort, she would learn to smell those around her, so that she could hunt a man by scent, or recognize someone in the dark. The knowledge gave her a wild and heady sense of power, made her feel a little less vulnerable at the thought of going to war.

Alone, in the dark, Myrrima climbed a tower up onto the wall-walk above the Duke’s Keep and stared out over the plains.

Desperately, she wanted to share this wondrous feeling with someone, and her thoughts turned to Borenson, riding on his errand far to the south.

She feared for him, so far away. Down in the bailey, some warriors who either had high stamina, and thus did not need sleep, or who were too excited to sleep, began to sing war songs, promising to slay their foes and give the Earth a taste of blood.

The night was chilly. Myrrima wished for Borenson’s arms around her. She placed her right hand above her womb and stood sniffing the night air, waiting for moonrise.

32 Crows Gather

Roland trudged up the circular stairs of a dank guard tower where the fog was so thick that it seemed to have snuffed out every second torch. Roland imagined that he’d be hours on the walls of Carris, searching for towers fifty-one and fifty-two in such fog.

He’d taken over an hour to find the armory, only to discover that with the thousands of men who’d come before him, there was no shirt of mail left that would fit a man his size, not even an aged cuirass of boiled leather. All he got for his pains was a small horseman’s shield filed to a sharp point on one side and a silly leather cap.

The walls of Carris rose twelve stories above the plain. The castle was an old keep, enormous. In ancient times, a duke from this realm had become betrothed to a princess of Muttaya, but when the woman had tried to cross a particularly treacherous portion of the Dove’s Pass, the mule that carried her had lost its footing, so that she plunged to her death.

The King of Muttaya was an elderly ruler, and of course did what his custom dictated was right. He waited a year, the proper grieving time, and then sent a replacement, one of the princess’s many younger sisters.

But over the intervening year the Duke had taken a fancy to a dark-eyed lady from Seward. He married her before the replacement bride ever crossed the mountains. When the Muttayin Princess did arrive, the Duke sent her home.

Some of the Duke’s counselors claimed afterward that he had never known that a replacement bride was coming, and that he erred only because he did not know Muttayin customs. But most historians in the House of Understanding were quite certain that the Duke feigned ignorance in order to placate his new bride.

The rejection of his daughter infuriated the King of Muttaya. He’d hoped to unite the two realms and had paid a vast fortune as a dowry. Feeling cheated, he went to the kaifs of his land and demanded to know what to do.

The kaifs said that, according to ancient law, any man found guilty of theft had one of two options: he could either restore what he had taken three times over, or lose his right hand.

So the King of Muttaya sent three kaifs and his dark-skinned daughter back over the mountains and gave the Duke three options. He offered to let the Duke take the princess as a second wife and then disavow the lady of Seward so that he could rightfully elevate the Muttayin Princess to the status of first wife. In the King’s mind, this would have rectified the whole situation, and seemed the only plausible solution.

Or the Duke could either return an amount equal to triple the dowry, which would be an apology, or send back to Muttaya his own right hand, thus admitting that he was a thief.

The whole dilemma thus presented to the Duke was quite serious. No lord of Rofehavan would dare marry two women, or turn out a wife who was now heavy with child. Nor did the Duke have the money to pay triple the dowry. But it so happened that on that very afternoon, one of the Duke’s young guardsmen lost his right hand in a dueling accident.

To placate the kaifs, the Duke called his torturer to his quarters and faked an session of mayhem. He wrapped a bloody bandage around his right arm as if the hand had been removed, then he placed his own signet ring on the finger of the guard’s severed hand and gave it to the kaifs.

The deed astonished and saddened the kaifs, for they thought that surely he would marry the fair young Princess, or at least pay triple the dowry. Instead, they returned to Muttaya with nothing but a severed hand as an admission of the Duke’s theft.

For two years the ruse worked. The King of Muttaya seemed to be appeased.

Until a trader from Muttaya spotted the Duke at the Courts of Tide, somehow having regrown his severed hand.

The resulting war was called the Dark Lady War, named for the dark-skinned lady of Muttaya and the dark-eyed lady of Seward.

The war raged for three hundred years, sometimes skipping a generation without much fighting, only to burst into flame anew.

A dozen times the kings of Muttaya overtook western Mystarria, and often managed to settle there. But eventually the commoners would overthrow them, or the kings of Rofehavan would unite against them.

So it was that castle after castle was built in western Mystarria, and time and again they were torn down. Sometimes the Muttayin built them, sometimes the Mystarrians built them—until the land justly earned the name The Ruins.

Then Lord Carris came along. Over a period of forty years he managed to hold the realm against the Muttayin while he gathered enough stone to build his great walled city, which the Muttayin were never able to conquer.

Lord Carris died peacefully in his sleep at the ripe old age of a hundred and four—a feat that had no precedent in the previous three hundred years.

That had been nearly two thousand years ago, and Carris still stood, the single greatest fortress in Western Mystarria and the lynchpin that held the west together.

The walled city covered an island in Lake Donnestgree, so that most of the walls could not be breached except by boat. Since Muttaya was landlocked, the Muttayan were poor hands with boats. But even boats could not avail much when the castle walls themselves rose a hundred feet on the side, straight up from the water.

The stone walls had been covered with plaster and lime, so a man attempting an escalade could not find a toehold.

From atop the walls, commoners could shoot arrows down through the kill holes or lob stones onto any boat. It therefore did not take force soldiers with great endowments to man most of Carris’s walls. Instead, those who sought to assail Carris had one of three options. They could try to infiltrate the castle and overthrow it from within, they could set a siege, or they could opt for a frontal assault, trying to win through the three barbicans into the fortress proper.

The castle had fallen only four times in history. Many castles in Rofehavan had thicker and higher walls or more artillery engines, but few castles were more strategically situated.

Roland climbed the stairs eight stories through a dank guard tower until he reached the top. There a steward with a key unlocked the heavy iron door that led upstairs to the top of the wall.

Roland had expected the fog to be so thick that he’d spend hours looking for his post. But as he neared the top of the wall, he found that the fog receded and he actually saw the last rays of the evening sun before it dropped over the western hills.

When he reached the crenellated wall he elbowed his way forward through the throng of warriors who sat ten deep along the wall-walks. Huge stones and stacks of arrows were piled up everywhere along the walls. Commoners lay asleep in the lee of the crenellations with nothing more than thin blankets pulled over them.

Roland trudged along the wall, past tower after tower, until he reached the baker’s tower. The yeasty scent of bread rose from it. The tower was so warm that men thronged to sleep atop it in the cold evening.

Roland could not tiptoe through the press, so he just walked across the men’s bodies, ignoring the shouts and curses that followed him.

Past the tower, peasants were hoisting up good food, lamb roast and bread loaves and fresh-pressed cider—and dispensing them to the troops. As the men ate, Roland had to avoid knocking over their mugs and stepping on plates.

Roland continued to thread a precarious path through the crowd, grabbing a loaf of bread and slicing it open, then throwing his lamb atop it so that the bread acted as a plate. A chill wind blew here atop the wall, and gulls hovered on the wind above, eyeing his food hungrily. He wished that he’d not given his thick bearskin robe to the green woman.

He wondered where she was now, wondered if Averan would fare well tonight.

He found his post on the south wall, and there spotted Baron Poll easily enough. Since Carris sat on a lake, and this particular wall faced the waters, no hoardings had been erected between these towers to protect the castle from bombardment. The fat Baron had climbed atop a merlon and sat with his legs dangling over, looking like some glum gargoyle.

Roland would never have dared hang from the wall like that His fear of heights was such that it made his heart race just to watch a friend sit in that precarious position.

Wisps of fog reached right up to Baron Poll’s feet.

Everywhere out around him the crows and pigeons were flapping about in the upper fog.

When Roland approached, the Baron glimpsed him from, the corner of his eye, and his demeanor brightened. He smiled joyfully. “Ah, Roland, my friend, you made it alive after all! I thought Raj Ahten’s men would be using your skull for a drinking cup by now.”

“Not likely,” Roland said with a grin. “They nearly had me, till they saw that my brain was the size of a hazelnut. I guess they figured my skull couldn’t hold enough to make a decent mug. They ran off and left me alone in the woods while they hunted for you.”

“Then where have you been all day?” the Baron asked in astonishment.

“Wandering down in the fog,” Roland answered.

The Baron glanced down at the mist curling just under his toes. He spat over the castle wall. “Aye, a man can’t find himself to pee in this fog. I made my way to the castle well enough, but it helps that I’d lived here half of my life, and so knew the way.”

Roland stood beside the Baron, looked out at the birds.

“So, we’re way up here with the birds. Looks as if they don’t dare find a place to roost.”

“Crows,” Baron Poll said with a wise look. He’d been right. The crows knew where to hunt for food, and they knew that a battle was coming.

Baron Poll glanced over his shoulder, up to a tower in the central keep, higher than any other except the Duke’s Keep—the graak’s tower. Dozens of vultures roosted there.

Roland looked out over the mist wondering how a fog that was so low to the ground could have been so thick. He set his small shield down on a merlon, as if it were some huge curved platter, then placed his mug and his loaf with meat on it, and began to dine. He felt guilty eating such a fine meal when Averan had complained of hunger this morning. Likely the girl would go hungry again tonight. Roland’s own stomach had been cramping as he walked through the fog, but suddenly he remembered that he’d picked some walnuts for Averan and then forgotten them while evading Raj Ahten’s troops. He reached into his pocket and took those with his meal.

He stared across the darkening landscape. He could still see three bluish clouds out there on the downs, but they had moved closer to Carris, and now were but five and a half miles away.

“What news have we?” Roland asked the Baron.

“Little news, much conjecture,” Baron Poll answered. The fogs out there have been drifting around all day, never quite stopping. They’re like guards marching atop a wall, except that sometimes they come right up to the edge of our own fog, and then they back away. I think that the troops keep moving just in case Lord Paladane should decide to strike.”

“If they’ve come up close by, isn’t it possible that those mists hide nothing but flameweavers, and all of Raj Ahten’s troops are a hundred yards from the castle?”

“It’s possible,” the Baron answered. “I heard dogs yapping in the mist not an hour ago. I suspect that it’s Raj Ahten’s war dogs down there. If you hear anyone scaling the castle wall—grunting, panting—it would be wise to drop a rock on him. But I’m thinking the walls are so slick, not even Raj Ahten’s Invincibles could chance an escalade.”

Roland grunted and merely ate for a while, tearing off chunks of lamb and gravy from his loaf. He saved his cider for last.

“Is it true about the Blue Tower?” Roland asked.

The Baron nodded darkly. “It’s true. Not one in ten of the knights on these walls is worth a damned now.”

“And you?”

“Me? My Dedicates are safely hidden,” the Baron said. “I can still eat rocks for breakfast and crap sand for a week after.”

That was somewhat reassuring, Roland thought. Though the Baron didn’t have an endowment of metabolism, and thus could not match an Invincible’s speed in battle, he had the brawn and grace of a warrior. It was better to have half a warrior next to him than none at all.

“So, what are we protecting?” Roland looked down at the mist. He couldn’t imagine why he’d need to sit atop this wall. No man could have climbed up its plaster surface. Tree frogs might do it, but not men.

“Nothing much,” the Baron said. “The boat docks are on the other side of the castle, up north, and Raj Ahten’s men could try to break in that way. But there’s nothing for us here.”

Roland sat beside the Baron for a long time, neither of them speaking. A chill wind had begun to blow from the east. As it did, the magical fog around the castle blew with it, attenuating to the west, so that it stretched along the folds of lowlands like fingers searching for something in the fields.

The same wind began to blow the blue fog away from the armies of the Invincibles, and some men along the walls chattered excitedly as they saw the first signs of Raj Ahten’s troops.

A pair of frowth giants, each twenty feet tall at the shoulder, paced, along the front of the mist. They bore huge brass shields.

At a distance of miles, Roland could not see them well, of course. Even a giant at that distance seemed only a stick figure, and while others shouted that they could see war dogs and Invincibles against a line of trees, Roland could not see anything smaller than the giants.

They looked nothing like a man, any more than a cat or a cow could be compared to a man. Their fur was a tawny gold, shaggy along the arms. Their enormous muzzles were longer than a horse’s, with sharp teeth in long rows, while their small round ears lay flat against their heads. Dark ring mail hid their stubby tails, while they wore shields in rows along their belts. Each giant carried a huge iron-bound stave as a weapon.

To Roland, they looked like some sort of giant rat or ferrin, armed and armored.

In the last light of day, the giants turned their muzzles and stared toward Castle Carris longingly. The mouth of one of them gaped open. A bit later, Roland heard the roar carry across the distance. Roland imagined that the giants were hungry, longing for human flesh.

He finished eating, then strapped his shield over his back, letting it protect him from the bite of the chill wind. Within an hour, he felt miserably cold.

As darkness fell, he suddenly saw lights begin to glow redly through the patch of fog directly to the west. A fire burned there, a big fire:

“That’s the village of Gower’s Ambush, or maybe Settekim, “the Baron said uneasily. Roland wondered why Raj Ahten’s troops had set the village afire, but the answer seemed obvious to everyone else. The flameweavers sacrificed it to the Power that they served. Roland did not much care. He only wished that he could be a little closer to the flames, so that they might warm his hands.

As the darkness deepened, villages off to the north and south also began to go up in flames, and off to the west dry fields burned bright.

It looked as if the flameweavers would raze the whole valley.

A blue spy balloon, shaped like a giant graak, lifted into the air on the eastern shore of Lake Donnestgree at about ten at night. It came hovering over the castle, its shape dark against the stars. The far-seers in the balloon rode the skies at least a thousand yards above the castle, so that no man could shoot them down, no matter how powerful his bow. The wind pushed them along quickly, so that the balloon landed far to the west.

Up and down the ranks, worried men kept saying, “They’re planning something big. Keep your eyes open!”

Word had it from the north that Raj Ahten had let his flameweavers destroy the whole of Castle Longmot. They’d summoned fell creatures that sent a wave of flame washing over the castle, slaying thousands of men. Such a plan wouldn’t work at Carris, others ventured. Carris was protected by water, while Longmot had only had earth runes carved into it.

Still, the knowledge settled uneasily into Roland’s stomach, along with the lamb and loaf.

Who knew what the flameweavers might do? Perhaps they were burning the countryside in an effort to build up some spell powerful enough so that no water wizard’s ward could repel it.

Yet for hours he kept watch in the bitter cold, and nothing more happened. The fires burned across the fields and hills outside of Carris. The spy balloon flew over twice more during the night.

On the castle walls, men sat above the fog and told tall tales or sang, so that in some ways the long night’s watch took on an almost festive atmosphere.

By the third time the balloon hovered over, at three in the morning, Roland was hunched down behind Baron Poll, shivering violently, wishing for a blanket because with flameweavers about, the Duke had forbidden any fires on the wall, lest the sorcerers turn the fire against its makers.

The Baron just stared up at the damned balloon. “Pshaw,” he said to Roland. “You might as well get some sleep. I’ll wake you if anything happens.”

Trembling from cold, Roland lay with his back to the stone and closed his eyes. It was cold, terribly cold, and he would have slept soundly except for the cold.

He managed to doze in brief snatches, sometimes disturbed by nothing more than the wind or someone bumping against him as they stumbled past in the dark. Once, he woke to hear some nearby fellow with a lute plucking an endless bawdy ballad such as a jester might fancy.

He listened to it only distantly; half-asleep. The song spoke of a running feud between two men in the King’s Guard, and the various embarrassing and dangerous tricks they played on one another.

Roland was not really listening as the tune spoke of a young squire who made a tryst to meet a girl at a pond after dark, only to have his nemesis manage to get the young squire assigned to other duties. Afterward, the nemesis went to the pond himself, under cover of darkness. Roland came fully awake when he recognized a name...

“Then comes the squire, to catch Sir Poll:

and it ain’t a bass he’s kissin’ in the fishin’ hole.

For Poll’s got the squire’s lass,

and he’s making quite a splash,

with his naked little ass—Uh-oh!

Diddly-oh!

Ain’t it funny how the story grows?”

Though Roland came fully awake, he suddenly realized that he’d missed most of the song, for in the next verse, Squire Borenson leapt into the pond and chased Sir Poll “Without any luck, whilst quacking like an angry duck.”

The good squire cornered and stabbed the “foul” Sir Poll, “And his fondest wish was to gut him like a fish.”

But the trollop in the pond managed to “nurse Sir Poll back to life, and become his nagging wife.” Each stanza of the ballad ended with the chorus, “Uh-oh! Diddly-oh! Ain’t it funny how the story grows?”

Roland glanced up to see Baron Poll’s reaction. The old fellow took it stoically. There was nothing he could do, after all. Bards were historians, and songs about living lords could only be sung openly by the King’s consent. Thus, both Roland’s son and Baron Poll had displeased their King enough so that as part of their punishment, their deeds were left open to the “scorn of bards.”

Roland silently wished he’d been awake during the whole song. When Baron Poll had said that Roland would likely hear his story at the mouths of minstrels, Roland hadn’t taken him seriously. Normally, only the most craven enemies of the King were so ridiculed.

But then another thought struck Roland. “Ain’t it funny how the story grows....” Now Roland had come into the story, and maybe someday the bards might sing a verse about him.

Roland finally felt so cold that he made his way back to the baker’s tower, where the heat of the ovens and the smell of baking bread tantalizingly wafted up from below. But far too many men lay there for him to comfortably squeeze in.

He returned to Baron Poll, who said; “Can’t find a warm place to sleep?”

Roland shook his head, too weary to answer.

“Here’s how you do it,” the Baron said. He escorted Roland back to the baker’s tower, and Baron Poll growled, “Up, you slackers! Back to your posts, you lazy dogs, or to a man I’ll throw you from the tower into the drink!”

He aimed a few timid kicks, and in no time at all, dozens of men were scurrying from the warm tower. Baron Poll then bowed to Roland and gestured in a servile manner, like some chamberlain eager to ingratiate a visiting lord. “Your bed, sirrah.”

Roland grinned. Baron Poll was a trickster.

Roland lay down next to the warmth of a chimney, his teeth still chattering, and found it almost too hot. Baron Poll went back to his post. Soon, men began sneaking back to sleep next to Roland.

He lay hoping that sometime before dawn he’d get warm enough to sleep.

But half an hour later, men began to shout when a city to the south was put to the torch. Roland looked up, saw the Baron and other warriors gazing off, the firelight reflecting from their eyes. But he was too tired to watch the flameweaver’s show, and he reasoned that if a huge wave of fire did come sweeping toward the castle, the safest place he could be was down there, hidden behind the stone.

Moments later, he heard a deep rumbling sound that filled the whole sky for sixty seconds. The walls of Carris trembled beneath him, and he could feel the tower sway. People screamed in terror, for Raj Ahten had destroyed Longmot, Tal Rimmon, and other castles by the power of his Voice, and everyone imagined that it was happening to Carris now.

Yet as the rumbling subsided and Carris still held, Roland felt intense relief that lasted for only a few seconds. For immediately the rumbling was followed by the shouts of men on the nearby walls: “Trevorsworthy Castle is down!”

“Raj Ahten has come!”

Roland climbed up, and gazed to the south where everyone pointed. There a city burned, flames leaping high into the sky.

Trevorsworthy Castle, four miles to the south, was not nearly, as large as Carris, was not even manned, yet Roland had not been able to miss seeing it earlier in the day. It stood on a hill and had risen like a beacon from the fog. Now the hillside roared in an inferno, great clouds of smoke roiling up into the night, while flames licked at them.

In that light, Roland could see what remained of the castle: a heap of stone and a couple of jagged towers and sections of wall. Dust rose from the castle, and even as he watched, a tower leaned over like a drunkard and crumbled in ruin.

Carris had not been the focus of the attack. Trevorsworthy had. Roland ran back to his post.

“Well,” grumbled Baron Poll, “at least he’s given us fair warning.”

“What do you mean?” Roland asked.

“I mean that Raj Ahten’s men have been forced to race at least eighteen hundred miles in the past two weeks, and he knows he can’t run them any farther.” Baron Poll spat over the castle wall. “So he wants a nice cozy place to lay up for a few months, and Carris is the best that Mystarria has to offer.”

“So he wants to take the castle?” Roland asked.

“Of course! If he wanted these castle walls down, they’d be down. Mark my words, he’ll be offering us terms of surrender within the hour.”

“Will Paladane accept?” Roland asked. “He said we’d be down to knife work by dawn.”

“If he doesn’t surrender,” Baron Poll said, “then just listen for that sound Raj Ahten makes. When you hear it, take a running leap and throw yourself off the castle walls, as far into the water as you’re able. If the fall doesn’t kill you, and a rock doesn’t land on you, and if you don’t drown, you just might make it.”

Roland was stunned.

He waited for along hour, until the sky in the east began to lighten in the cold of dawn.

Roland never saw Raj Ahten draw near the castle, though he saw the work of his flameweavers.

A brilliant glow arose beneath the fog, as if a great fire raged on the ground, but that glow moved forward steadily, from the south at the pace of a walking man. Accompanying that glow, Roland could hear the creaking of harnesses, the occasional slap of a shield against a breastplate, a man’s cough or the yap of a dog.

Raj Ahten’s army moved toward Carris almost sullenly, and the troops at Carris accepted them with similar reserve. Duke Paladane and his counselors labored up the stairs above the castle gate, a ragtag band. As they reached the top of the gate, so that Paladane himself could see out over the fog, he shouted, “Archers, make ready! Artillery, take aim!”

Yet Raj Ahten’s progress was undeterred. When the great light reached the causeway west of Carris and suddenly stopped, Roland waited expectantly for Paladane’s artillerymen to open fire, or for Paladane to shout some command.

Instead, the glow beneath the fog intensified, as if the sun itself blazed there for several long moments, until at last pure rays of light began to pierce the opal mists. Roland lifted his arm to shield his eyes. The light burned the magical fog back for a hundred yards in every direction.

There at me end of the causeway sat Raj Ahten on a gray Imperial charger, while two flameweavers blazed beside him, pillars of living fire, naked but for the flames that wreathed them.

Raj Ahten wore a simple footman’s helm and a shirt of black scale mall under a golden silk surcoat. He looked tired, grim.

Roland found that his heart was racing, and his breath came fast Raj Ahten was the most handsome man he’d ever seen, more glorious than any he’d ever imagined, and completely unanticipated. Roland had expected a man who would be monstrous in form, cruel and deadly.

Yet Raj Ahten seemed to embody everything that Roland had ever hoped for in a lord. He appeared bold and imperious, powerful yet capable of great kindness.

He had only to open his mouth, and he could bring down the walls of Carris, as he had so many other castles in the past week.

If he is going to kill me, Roland thought, I wish he would do it now and get it over with.

No one shot from the castle walls.

An army rode at Raj Ahten’s back. Roland could only see the front ranks protruding from the line of fog. Two dozen frowth giants stood like living walls, their faces grim and troubled. Huge black mastiffs at their feet bristled behind red-lacquered leather masks. Raj Ahten’s Invincibles formed ranks behind, men with dark armor and round brass shields that reflected the light of the flameweavers as if they were hundreds of glowing yellow eyes.

For a moment, no one spoke. In a stern tone, Paladane called, “If it is battle you want, then come against us! But if you hope to find refuge in Carris, you hope in vain. We will not surrender at any cost”

33 Earth Dreams

As Gaborn reached the top step of the landing to his room, he stumbled in the darkness and fell to the floor.

He’d never stumbled and fallen in his life, not that he could remember. Born as a prince among Runelords, he had been endowed as a child with grace from a dancer. It aided his flexibility and sense of balance. Always in the past he’d landed on his feet no matter how far he’d fallen. He’d been granted endowments of brawn to give him greater strength, endowments of stamina to let him work tirelessly into the night, an endowment of sight to let his keen eyes pierce the darkness, an endowment of wit so that he knew every uneven step in every castle he’d ever walked.

Warily, he climbed up and made for the bedroom Groverman had provided. At the top of the stairs, he said goodnight to his Days.

A boy lay curled on the floor in front of his door. Gaborn wondered if the lad served as a page for Groverman, though he couldn’t imagine why the boy would be sleeping at his door. Gaborn carefully stepped over the lad.

To his surprise, in the room he found Iome asleep. She lay abed with five pups snuggling against her. One of the pups looked up at him and barked querulously.

A single candle burned in the room beside a bowl of washwater. The washbowl had been sweetened with rose petals. Clean riding clothes were draped over a chair. The room smelled pleasantly of roast beef, and a silver platter bearing food sat on a table, as if the feast an hour past had not been enough. A small fire burned in the hearth.

Gaborn looked at it all, realized that Jureem must have been here. No chamberlain had ever served Gaborn quite so well. The fat servant was always underfoot, yet seldom in sight.

Gaborn had hardly had time to speak to Iome tonight. Though she’d said he looked decrepit, she herself had looked overworn. He was glad that she slept. She’d need her rest. In two hours he’d ride for Fleeds.

He did not bother to remove his dirty ring mail and clothes, just lay down beside Iome.

She rolled toward him, laid a hand over his neck, and came awake. “My love,” she said. “Is it time to ride?”

“Not yet. Get some rest,” Gaborn said. “We’ve got two hours to rest.”

Instead, Iome came fully awake. She climbed up on one elbow, studied his face. She looked pale, worn. He closed his eyes.

“I heard about the Blue Tower,” Iome said. “You can’t get all the sleep you need in two hours. You must take some endowments.”

She spoke only hesitantly. She knew how he resisted taking endowments for himself.

Gaborn shook his head “I am an Oath-Bound Lord,” he groaned. “Did I not swear an oath to you?”

It was not a purely rhetorical question. He’d lost two endowments of wit today, and with that loss, he’d forgotten much. Memories had been stolen, lessons forgotten. He recalled being on the tower above Castle Sylvarresta and watching Raj Ahten’s forces take formation on the hills south of the city. But his memory of taking the ancient vow of the Oath-Bound Lords seemed muzzy, incomplete. If he’d spoken the vow, he could not recall it.

Gaborn had feared to speak to Iome tonight. He dared not admit that he could not recall the minute that he’d asked Iome to marry him, or remember his own mother’s face, or bring to mind a thousand other facts that he thought he should know.

“You did,” she said. “And I’ve heard your arguments against taking a man’s endowments. But there has to be some point...some point at which you will accept another man’s endowment. I’d give you the use of my pups, if I could, but they won’t bond to you in time. Your people need you to be strong now.”

Gaborn stared hard at her.

“My love, you must take endowments,” Iome said. “You cannot completely forsake them.”

Gaborn had been taught as a youth that a lord who had great stamina could use that stamina to serve his people tirelessly. A lord with great brawn could fight for his people. To take endowments was a noble thing, if done properly.

Yet the thought of taking them himself seemed wrong.

It seemed wrong in part because it put those who took the endowments in great jeopardy. Many a man who gave brawn would have his heart stop afterward, too weak to beat anymore. A man who gave wit might forget how to walk or eat. A man who gave stamina could easily be ravaged by illness, though it was perfectly safe to give the “lesser” endowments that did not endanger the giver, those of metabolism, or sight, or smell, or hearing, or touch.

It seemed wrong in part also because he knew that he put those who offered endowments at risk from outside attack. He’d seen the bloody rooms where Borenson had slaughtered Sylvarresta’s Dedicates.

Gaborn felt lost. He recalled the drawings he’d discovered in the Emir of Tuulistan’s book, the secret teachings from the Room of Dreams in the House of Understanding.

A man owned certain things: his body, his family, his good name. Though these things were not named in the Emir’s book, a man certainly owned his own brawn, his own wit.

To take a man’s attributes and never return them so long as both of you remained alive seemed to Gaborn an inescapable violation of another man’s domain.

It was evil, thoroughly evil.

Though Gaborn dared not say it, in a sense he felt lighter, happier, right now than he had in years.

For the first time since he was old enough to understand what it cost for another man to grant him endowments, Gaborn felt free, totally free of guilt.

For the first time in his life, he was only himself. True, his Dedicates had died today, and he felt deeply saddened to know that they had died for him, died so that they might lend him their attributes.

But though he felt weak and frail and tired, he was also no longer encumbered by guilt.

“I had hoped to forsake endowments,” Gaborn said. “I am the Earth King, and that should be enough to sustain any man.”

“It might be enough if you were alone in the world, but is it enough for us?” Iome asked. “When you go into battle, you will not risk yourself alone. You risk the future of us all.”

“I know,” Gaborn said.

“Your forcibles, your people, offer you power,” Iome said again. “Power to do good. Power to do evil. If you will not take it, Raj Ahten will.”

“I don’t want it,” Gaborn said.

“You must take it,” Iome said. “Guilt is the price of leadership.”

Gaborn knew that she was right. He could not risk going into battle without endowments.

“Tomorrow, before I leave,” Iome said, “I will take endowments from my pups. I have been giving it great thought, and I will not stop with them alone. The future is rushing toward us and we must rush to meet it. I will take enough endowments of metabolism to make myself battle ready.”

The thought pained Gaborn. Battle ready? If she were to protect herself from Raj Ahten’s Invincibles, she’d need five endowments at least. With so many, she’d grow old and die in ten or twelve years. To take so many endowments was like taking a slow poison.

“Iome!” Gaborn said, unable to express his dismay.

“Don’t make me leave you behind,” Iome said. “Come with me! Grow old with me!”

Of course, that was the answer. She did not want to leave him, did not want to grow old alone. For those who took endowments of metabolism, it became difficult to speak to people who lived in common time. The sense of isolation from the rest of humanity carried a great toll.

Yet he wondered at Iome. He knew that she did not want to take endowments any more than he did. He suspected that she sought to lure him into doing this, or perhaps force him.

“Don’t do this on my account,” Gaborn said. “If you want me to take endowments, I will. I know that I must. But you don’t have to do this. I will do it alone.”

Iome reached out, squeezed his hand shut her eyes as if to sleep.

Outside the door, the clubfooted boy stirred in his dreams like a restless pup, kicking the door with a soft whump.

“Who is the child outside our door?” Gaborn asked.

“Just a boy,” Iome said. “He walked a hundred miles to see you. I wanted you to Choose him, but when you passed him in the hall tonight, he was afraid to address you. So I asked him to wait for you here. I thought he might help out here at Groverman’s kennels.”

“All right,” Gaborn said.

“All right? Aren’t you going to look into his heart before you Choose him?”

“Sounds like a good kid,” Gaborn said, too weary to get up and Choose the boy, or to discuss the matter further.

“We saved the people at Castle Sylvarresta today,” Iome said. “Every one of them, except for Sir Donnor.”

“Good,” Gaborn said. “Jureem told me all about it.”

“It was hard...” Iome agreed, drifting off to sleep.

Preparing for sleep, Gaborn used his earth senses to reach out and feel how his people were doing.

Sir Borenson had reached the Hest Mountains and seemed to be encamped—or at least stationary for the moment—and like Gaborn, dared not ride until moonrise. But Gaborn could feel danger rising about Borenson, had felt it for hours. The knight was riding toward trouble.

Beyond that, Gaborn had to wonder about the men with him. He’d felt that they were in tremendous danger all day long. Some of that cloud had lifted when Myrrima slew the Darkling Glory.

But death still stalked his warriors—every single man among them.

It was true that the Earth had bidden Gaborn go south into war. It was true that the Earth was allowing him to go into battle. But it was also true that the Earth had warned him to tell his messengers to flee Carris.

Attack and flee? Gaborn felt befuddled by the conflicting inspirations.

He had begun to wonder, did the Earth allow him to attack only because he so craved it? Or did the Earth perhaps want something of him that he could not name? It was possible these men were to sacrifice themselves in some cause he did not understand. Was he taking his men to their deaths?

Perhaps not all of them would die. Certainly some would be killed at Carris, maybe even most of them.

Yet the Earth allowed it. Take them to battle, it said. Many will die.

It seemed a violation of his vows, for Gaborn had sworn to protect those he had Chosen.

Indeed, Gaborn had let young Agunter Orwynne retreat north because he so feared for that boy in particular, though he dared not tell anyone.

How can I save them all? Gaborn wondered.

Outside his door, Gaborn heard the ching of ring mail and the thud of iron boots on the carpet as a knight came up the stairs. Gaborn used his earth senses, determined that the man posed no threat to him.

Since Gaborn’s room was at the top of the keep, he knew the fellow had come to see him. Gaborn waited for the knight to knock at his door. Instead, he heard the fellow stand outside the door for a while, then sit down and sigh wearily as he put his back against the plaster wall.

The man dared not disturb him.

Wearily, Gaborn got up, then took the burning candle, opened the door. He glanced at the clubfooted boy, saw into the lad’s heart. A good kid, as Iome had promised. The boy had nothing to offer in the wars to come. He was perhaps worthless, unable to fight or save himself, unsalvageable: Yet Gaborn felt too emotionally drained to restrain the impulse to reject him.

Gaborn Chose him.

The fellow who sat on the floor across the hall wore the colors of Sylvarresta, the black tunic with a silver boar, and his uniform indicated that he was a captain. The man had dark hair and haunted eyes, a face that was unshaven, filled with pain and terror.

Gaborn had never seen him before, at least not that he could remember, which suggested that perhaps the captain served here under Duke Groverman.

“Your Highness,” the fellow said, climbing to his feet and saluting.

Gaborn spoke softly so that he wouldn’t wake Iome. “Do you have a message?”

“No, I...” the fellow said. He dropped to one knee and seemed to struggle, as if unsure whether he should draw his sword and offer it.

Gaborn looked into the captain’s heart using his Earth Sight. The captain had a wife and children that he loved. The men who had served under him were like brothers to him. “I Choose you,” Gaborn said. “I Choose you for the Earth.”

“No!” the fellow wailed, and when he looked up, tears misted his dark eyes.

“Yes,” Gaborn said, too tired to argue. Many a man who was worthy of the Choosing seemed to feel unworthy.

“Don’t you know me?” the fellow demanded.

Gaborn shook his head.

“My name is Tempest, Cedrick Tempest,” he said. “I was captain of the guard at Longmot, before it fell. I was there when your father died. I was there when everyone died.”

Gaborn knew the name. But he’d lost an endowment of wit, and if he’d ever seen Cedrick Tempest’s face, it was erased from memory.

“I see,” Gaborn said. “Go get some sleep: You look as if you need it more than I do.”

“I...” Cedrick Tempest gaped at the floor in dismay and shook his head in wonder. “I did not come to ask for the Choosing. I am unworthy. I came to confess, milord.”

“Confess, then,” Gaborn said, “if you feel you need it.”

“I am not worthy to be a guardsman! I have betrayed my people.”

“How?”

“When Longmot fell, Raj Ahten gathered the survivors, and offered...he offered life to any man who would betray you.”

“I see no treachery in your heart,” Gaborn said. “What deed did he require?”

“He was seeking forcibles. He’d brought many forcibles to Longmot, and he wanted to know where they had gone, and when. He offered life to any man who would tell him.”

“And what did you say?” Gaborn asked.

“I told him the truth: that your father had sent them south with his messengers.”

Gaborn licked his lips, barely restraining a painful laugh. “South? Did you mention the Blue Tower?”

“No,” Tempest said. “I told him the truth, that the men had gone south, but I knew not where.”

But of course Raj Ahten would have believed that the forcibles had gone to the Blue Tower. Where else would a King of Mystarria send his forcibles? If Gaborn were putting the forcibles to good use, the Blue Tower was the only fortress in all of Mystarria that might have housed forty thousand new Dedicates.

Why didn’t I see it? Gaborn wondered. Raj Ahten did not destroy the Blue Tower to bring down Mystarria; he did it to humble me!

Gaborn laughed painfully, imagining how Raj Ahten must have feared him, never knowing that the forcibles lay hidden in a tomb in Heredon.

Cedrick Tempest looked up, anger burning in his eyes. He did not like having a man laugh at him.

“You did not betray me,” Gaborn said. “If my father sent anything south, it was not forcibles. My father counted on someone like you to tell where the forcibles had gone, so that Raj Ahten might race off on some fruitless quest. By speaking as you did, you served my father well.”

“Milord?” Tempest asked, shame burning in his face.

Gaborn realized that he should have known. His father had been a far better strategist than Gaborn would ever be.

Since he’d become the Earth King, Gaborn had relied upon his newfound powers to protect him.

Yet his father had always taught him to use his brain, to plot and scheme and look ahead. Gaborn had not been doing that, or he would have thought to reinforce the Blue Tower a hundredfold, to set a trap for Raj Ahten.

“Tell me,” Gaborn asked, “were you the only man who offered to trade his life for a bit of useless knowledge?”

“No, milord,” Tempest said, looking down. “Others offered, too.”

Gaborn dared not tell Tempest the truth. That because of the lie he’d spread in King Orden’s behalf, tens of thousands of men had died, and perhaps hundreds of thousands more would die in the war to come. Such knowledge was too heavy for anyone to bear.

“So if you had not borne the news to Raj Ahten, some other man would have?”

“Yes,” Tempest said.

“Have you considered,” Gaborn asked, “how poorly you would have served your King, if you’d let yourself die?”

“Death would have been easier than this guilt I bear,” Tempest said. His eyes searched the floor.

“Undoubtedly,” Gaborn said. “So those who chose death made the easy choice, did they not?”

Tempest looked up uncertainly. “Milord, my wife used my warhorse to bear my children and a wagon here to Groverman. I have my horse and my armor still. I am an uncommonly good lancer. Though I no longer hold any endowments, I beg to ride south with you.”

“You would not survive longer than your first charge,” Gaborn said.

“Be that as it may,” Tempest growled.

“As penance for your deed,” Gaborn said; “I will not accept your death. I want your life in service. I have hundreds of men riding now into war, and many of them will not return. I need warriors. I beg you to stay here at Groverman with your wife and children, and protect them. Furthermore, I bid you to begin training warriors. I need a thousand young lancers.”

“A thousand?” Tempest asked.

“More, if you can get them,” Gaborn said. He was making an outrageous demand. Normally, a knight might choose two or three squires to train to knighthood during his entire lifetime. “I will notify Groverman of what I require,” Gaborn said with a heavy heart. “There will be dogs to serve as Dedicates and forcibles for every young lad or lady who joins under your command. You say you are a fine lancer, so you can teach the lance and the care of horses. Other men can teach the warhammer and the bow and how to care for armor.

“Choose only the smartest and strongest that you can find,” Gaborn said, “for you have only until spring. The warriors’ training must be completed by spring. The reavers will come upon us this spring.”

Gaborn wasn’t sure why he believed that. Evidence said that the reavers were already rising from their lairs, but it was common knowledge that reavers could not well abide the cold. They made their lairs deep in the hot parts of the Underworld, and when they did make forays to the earth’s surface at all, they tended to do so in the summer. They retreated underground with the snow. He hoped the reavers would not travel far in the cold.

“Six months?” Tempest asked. He did not say it was impossible, though his tone spoke for him.

Gaborn nodded. “I hope for so much time.”

“I will begin tonight, milord,” Tempest said. He rose to his feet, saluted, turned, and marched down the stairs.

Gaborn stood holding his candle. He looked back at Iome through the open door. The bed had not seemed comfortable; it was too soft or too hard or something. He doubted he would be able to sleep, and instead found himself wanting to walk in the Duke’s garden.

The smell of the herbs there would be a better balm than sleep, he thought.

Gaborn bore the candle downstairs to light his way out the back door of the keep and into the Duke’s herb garden. In the starlight, he could hardly see. In one corner of the garden set a white statue of a lord on a charger, spear raised to the sky. Willows hung down to brush the soldier’s head, and a small pool reflected starlight at the charger’s feet. Gaborn blew out the candle.

He smelled lavender and savory, anise and basil, in the garden. It was nothing so marvelous and large as Binnesman’s garden at Castle Sylvarresta had been, before Raj Ahten’s flameweavers burned it, yet still Gaborn felt refreshed by its presence. Just being here lightened his hear

He pulled off his boots, letting his feet touch the cold night soil. The feel of it was like a balm, soothing his nerves, restoring him.

He realized that he needed more. He pulled off his armor and had half-removed his robes before he realized what he was doing.

He looked about guiltily, as if afraid that someone might see him naked. To his astonishment, at that moment the wizard Binnesman stepped out from behind a screen of yellow roses.

“I wondered how long it would take,” Binnesman said.

“What do you mean?” Gaborn asked.

“You are a servant of the Earth now,” Binnesman said. “You need its touch, as much as you need breath.”

“I...wasn’t going to lie down,” Gaborn said

“Why not?” Binnesman said, as if mocking the falsehood. “Does the soil displease you?”

Gaborn was unable to answer. He felt somehow embarrassed, though he knew that the wizard was right. His skin craved the touch of the Earth. That is why he had not been able to sleep. Slumber would not suffice. His weary ache required something more.

“It should please you,” Binnesman said “May the Earth hide you. May the Earth heal you. May the Earth make you its own.” The wizard struck the ground with his staff, and the grass at Gaborn’s feet parted with a ripping sound Rich dark soil lay exposed.

Gaborn reached down, tasted it.

“Good soil,” the wizard said, “strong in the Earth Powers. That’s why this castle was built here. When old Heredon Sylvarresta first came to this land, he looked for the good soil and built his castles atop such places. An hour asleep here will rest you more fully than many hours in bed.”

“Truly?” Gaborn asked.

“Truly,” Binnesman said. “You serve the Earth now, and if you serve it well, it will serve you well in return.”

Gaborn resisted the urge to lie down. Instead, he looked up at Binnesman, studied the wizard in the dark. In the starlight, Binnesman’s face glowed lightly, and starlight limned his graying hair.

The color in the wizard’s face was off. Still too green, so that he no longer looked quite human.

“I have something to confess,” Gaborn said.

“I will help you if I can,” Binnesman said.

“I...I lied to my men tonight. I told them that the Earth commanded me to strike at Raj Ahten...but that’s not exactly right.”

“It isn’t?” Binnesman asked in a dubious tone.

“The Earth warns me that many will die if they do not flee,” Gaborn said. “Yet it allows me to strike. I...I’m not sure what the Earth wants.”

Binnesman hunched close to the ground, held his staff loosely. “Perhaps...” Binnesman said, “you are deceived.”

“Deceived?”

“You say the Earth wants you to strike at Raj Ahten? But are you sure it isn’t you who wants to strike Raj Ahten?”

“Of course I want to strike him,” Gaborn said.

“So you hold the banner of truce with one hand, and the battle-axe with the other. Do you offer death or peace? And how can Raj Ahten trust you, if even you have not made up your mind?”

“So you think I should offer him peace? But what of the Earth’s command to strike?”

“I think,” Binnesman said firmly, “that you must look beyond illusions. Raj Ahten is not your ultimate enemy. You were sent to save mankind, not to fight it. You must see that, before you understand the Earth’s will.”

“The reavers too are an illusion. You fight powers unseen. Whether you strike at Raj Ahten, or the reavers, or someone else, you must realize that they are only substitutes for your true enemy”

Gaborn shook his head. “I don’t understand.”

“I suspect it will become clearer when you reach Carris,” Binnesman tried to reassure him. “The Earth knows its enemies, and you have the gift of Earth Sight. You will know the Earth’s enemies, too, when you see them.”

Gaborn merely hung his head, too weary to puzzle it out.

Binnesman looked at him with concern, touched Gaborn’s shoulder. “Gaborn, I must tell you something now. I don’t want to offend you, but it has been much on my mind.”

“What is it?”

“You have determined to go to war,” Binnesman said. “You will ride to battle, am I right?”

“Yes. I believe so.”

“Then I must wonder: Do you understand your role as an Earth King?”

“I believe so. I am to Choose the seeds of mankind, to save them through the dark times to come.”

“That is right,” Binnesman said. “But don’t you understand that no matter how much you want to fight, it is not your place to do so? You would be offended if the stablemaster decided to serve your dinner, wouldn’t you? Nor would you allow your chief steward to sit in judgment for the King. It is not the Earth King’s duty to engage in conflict. If I understand correctly, it is your duty to avoid conflict ”

Gaborn knew that. He knew, yet could not quite live with it “Erden Geboren fought battles two thousand years ago. He fought and won them decisively!”

“He did,” Binnesman said “But he did so only when his back was to the wall and he could run no farther. He did not lightly, put his people at risk.”

“Are you saying that I must not ride to battle?” Gaborn asked, still incredulous.

“You are the Earth King, and you must Choose the seeds of mankind,” Binnesman said. “I am the Earth’s Healer, and I must do what I can to help it recover after the coming scourge. There is another who will be the Earth’s warrior. You cannot claim that title.”

“Another?” Gaborn asked. “Who?”

“I speak of the wylde.”

“The wylde?” Gaborn asked, uncertain. Binnesman had given part of his life to raise a wylde, a creature made of Earth to be its champion. But the thing had leapt high into the air at its inception. Though Gaborn’s men had scoured all of Heredon, the wylde had not been seen since.

“Yes, the wylde,” Binnesman said. “I formed the green knight to fight in the Earth’s behalf, and it will fight, once I complete its creation. A wylde lives only to fight, and it is a far more powerful foe than you will ever be.”

“Are you sure it is still alive?” Gaborn asked.

“Yes,” Binnesman said. “I have studied the tomes thoroughly in the past week. It is alive and aware, I think. It is most likely just lost, wandering in the wilderness. So long as there is enough healing power left in the Earth, the wylde cannot easily be destroyed.”

“You say you have not completed it, but the wylde did take form, didn’t it?” Gaborn asked. He had seen the thing take shape in the darkness, at the ruins of the Seven Standing Stones. But the soil and stones and bones that Binnesman had laid out to create the wylde had flowed together so quickly, Gaborn had not seen much before it departed.

“It has form,” Binnesman said. “But still the creature is not finished. I created the wylde, but I must still unbind it.”

“What do you mean?”

Binnesman considered for a moment. “Think of it as a child, a dangerous child. The wylde is newly formed, but it is still ignorant, and thus needs a parent. It needs my care. I must teach it right from wrong, as I would any child, and I must teach it to fight.

“When it has learned enough, then I will unbind it, grant it its free agency, so that it will be released to fight as it sees best. Only then will it become fully effective, capable of defending the Earth.”

“It has no free agency?” Morn asked. “Is it like a marionette then, waiting for you to move it? If that’s so, then it could be lying in the bushes somewhere. We might never find it!”

“No,” Binnesman said. “It can move. But until I unbind it, it must obey my commands—or the commands of those who invoke its true name. After the unbinding, no man will be able to control it.”

“It will still follow your orders, won’t It?” Gaborn asked. “Eldehar created a warhorse and rode it into battle.”

“He could not have ridden it once it was unbound.” Binnesman shook his head. “No...there are no words to describe the unbinding. The wylde is itself, independent. It can exist only so long as it feeds upon the blood of its enemies. It must fight—with or without me. It cannot be constrained. It must be allowed to remain wild in ways that you cannot understand, as feral and untamable as the most vicious pack of wolves.

“The wylde is not a beast, so much as it is a concept formed by the Earth, a concept for which we have no words.”

Binnesman sat for a moment, clutched his staff with both hands. He looked up at the starlight. As if he had not sufficiently stressed an earlier point, Binnesman said, “You must not seek out battles. That is not your domain. I wonder...are you striking out in anger?”

Gaborn fixed Binnesman with a calm expression of certainty. “There is no anger in the Earth’s desire,” he tried to explain. “I do not wish to strike in anger. Instead, I feel the Earth’s call as a plea for help. Strike, it begs me. Strike before it is too late!”

“All right,” Binnesman said in a placating tone. “I believe you. I believe that the Earth begs you to strike. So I will ask you only one thing: to be mindful of your target.”

“I am the Earth’s King,” Gaborn promised. “I will do as it wishes.”

“Good,” Binnesman said. “That is all I can hope for. You must rest now, milord.”

Gaborn was tired, terribly tired. He pulled off his tunic, lay down naked on the soil.

It seemed surprisingly overwarm to the touch, as if it still held the heat of the day.

Binnesman waved his staff, and soil washed over Gaborn, a comforting blanket.

Beneath the soil, Gaborn lay with eyes closed and felt the tension ease from his muscles.

At first, he felt afraid, for he did not know how he would breathe, but after a long minute of holding his breath, he realized that he did not need to breathe Even his lungs rested, and he lay with warm humus sifting into his ears, pressing upon his chest and face, filling the tiny spaces between his fingers.

In moments he was fast asleep, and for a time he dreamt that he was a hare on the road outside Castle Sylvarresta, running from some unknown danger to reach the safety of its hole. He bolted through some blackberry vines and raced into a nice safe warren, down into the darkness where the scent of young hares came strong.

There, in the very back of the warren, Garborn found his young kits, four small hares that were just a day old.

His breasts were heavy with milk. He lay on his side, panting from his exertions, and let the kits nuzzle, pressing hard against his breasts to release the milk.

As Garborn lay there, panting, his heard the wizard Binnesman speaking up above the warren. He leaned his long ears back, heard the conversation distinctly as horses pounded the hardpan of the road overhead. “The Earth is speaking to us. It is speaking to you and to me.”

“What does it say?” Gaborn heard himself ask.

“I don’t know, yet,” Binnesman answered, “but this is the way it usually speaks to mean the worried stirrings of rabbits and mice, in the shifting flight of a cloud of birds, in the cries of geese. Now it whispers to the Earth King, too. You are growing, Gaborn. Growing in power.”

Then the horses were gone, and the hare rested peacefully in its warren. The hare closed its eyes while the kits drank, letting its long ears lie flat against its back, and worried about a flea on its forepaw that it wanted to bite.

Silly men, the hare thought, not to hear the voice of the Earth.

In his dream, Gaborn slithered across the forest floor, as if he were a snake. He felt the sleek scales on his belly letting him slide as easily as if the soil were ice.

He flicked a long forked tongue into the air, tasting it. He smelled fur and warmth ahead: a hare in the leaves. He lay very still for a moment, the autumn sun shining bright upon him, as he tasted the sun’s last warm embrace of the season.

Nothing moved ahead. He smelled hare, but saw nothing.

He nuzzled among the oak leaves, until he saw a hole, a burrow, dark and inviting. He flicked his tongue, smelled the young kits in their burrow.

It was daytime, and the hares within would be sleeping. Ever so quietly, he slithered down into the depths.

Above him, he heard the heavy trod of horses, and the wizard Binnesman saying, “The Earth is speaking to us. It is speaking to you and to me.”

Gaborn asked, “What does it say?”

“I don’t know—yet,” Binnesman said. “But this is the way it usually speaks to me: in the worried stirrings of rabbits and mice, in the shifting flight of a cloud of birds, in the cries of geese. Now it whispers to the Earth King, too. You are growing, Gaborn. Growing in power.”

“Yet I can’t hear the Earth,” Gaborn said, “and I so want to hear its voice.”

“Perhaps if your ears were longer,” the wizard replied in the dream. “Or maybe if you put them to the ground”

“Yes, yes, of course, that’s what I’ll do,” Gaborn said enthusiastically.

Gaborn lay in the mouth of the burrow and found himself listening, straining to hear with all of his might He flicked his long forked tongue, smelled young hares ahead

In his dream, Gaborn walked through a new-plowed field The soil had been turned recently, and the clods had been all broken with a mattock and raked The loam was deep, the soil good.

His muscles ached from long hours of work, yet he could smell the spring rains coming, and he hurried through the field with a sharp planting stick. Using the stick, he poked a small hole in the soil, dropped in a heavy seed, and then covered the hole with his foot

Thus he worked, sweat pouring down his face.

He toiled mindlessly, thinking of nothing, until he heard a voice nearby.

“Greetings!”

Gaborn turned and looked off to the side of the field A stone fence stood there with young flowering pea vines and morning glory trailing up it. On the other side of the fence stood the Earth.

The Earth had taken the form of Gaborn’s father, had become a man in shape. But Gaborn’s father looked to be a creature of soil: sand and clay and twigs and leaves where flesh should have been.

“Greetings,” Gaborn said “I’d hoped to see you again.”

“I am always here,” the Earth said. “Look down at your feet and I should be somewhere nearby.”

Gaborn kept working, continued dropping heavy seeds from the pocket of his greatcoat as he walked along.

“So,” the Earth said, “you cannot decide whether to be the hunter or the hunted today, the hare or the snake.”

“Am I not both?” Gaborn asked.

“You are, indeed,” Earth said “Life and death. Nemesis and deliverer.”

Gaborn looked around, feeling uneasy. The Earth had appeared to him before in Binnesman’s garden. But at the time, Binnesman had been there, and the wizard had translated. The very Earth had spoken in the movement of stones, the hissing of leaves, the venting of gases from deep underground.

And the Earth had appeared to him like this, as a creature of dirt and stones. But it had come in the form of his enemy, Raj Ahten.

Now the Earth appeared to him in the form of a friend, his father, and spoke to him as easily as one man speaks to another, as if he were a neighbor talking across a fence.

Wait, I must be dreaming, Gaborn thought.

The Earth around him rumbled as if in the throes of a quake, and the leaves of nearby great oaks hissed in the wind.

He understood the sounds made by the movement of stone, by the hiss of leaves. “What is the difference between wakefulness and dream?” the Earth asked. “I do not understand. You listen now, and you hear.”

He looked at the pebbly image of his father, and understood. The Earth was indeed speaking to him, and not with the voice of mice.

“What message do you have for me?” Gaborn asked, for he felt that he desperately needed the Earth’s help. He was so confused about so many things: should he take his people and flee Raj Ahten; should he attack; how could he best serve the Earth; should he take endowments from men?

“I brought no message,” Earth said. “You summoned me, and I came.”

Gaborn could not quite believe that. Certainly there must be some important thing that the Earth could tell him. “I...you gave me all of this power, and I don’t know how to use it.”

“I do not understand,” the Earth said, confused. “I gave you no power.”

“You gave me the Earth Sight, and the power to Choose.”

Earth considered “No, those are my powers, not yours. I never gave them to you.”

Gaborn felt befuddled. “But I’m using them.”

“Those are my powers,” the Earth said again. “As you serve me, I serve you in return. You have no power unless I allow you to use mine.”

Gaborn stared at the pebbly image of his father, a distinguished looking man of forty with a broad jaw and broad shoulders.

Gaborn narrowed his eyes. Now he saw it “Yes,” he said. “I see. You gave me no power. You have only lent it to me.”

Earth seemed to consider the word “lent” for a long time, as if unsure whether that word was appropriate. It nodded at last. “Serve me, and I will serve you.”

Then Gaborn realized that even the word “lent” was not right. The Earth wanted his service, and when Gaborn served the Earth, the Earth repaid him immediately by granting Gaborn the power to serve it.

“You are sowing the seeds of mankind,” the Earth said. “Time and again, you have asked how to sow them all. I do not understand this.”

“I want to save them all,” Gaborn said

“You see the wheat fields,” the Earth said softly. “A hundred seeds fall to the ground, but does each one grow? Are none to be left to fill the bellies of cattle and mice? Are none to rot in the sun?

“Do you want the world to be filled with wheat alone”

“No,” Gaborn said heavily.

“Then you must accept. Life and death, death and life, They are the same. Many shall die, few may live. The Harvest of Souls is upon you. We do not have the power to save all the seeds of mankind. You shall have only the power to Choose a few.”

“I know,” Gaborn said. “But the more I can save—”

“Withdraw from me, and I must withdraw from you,” the Earth whispered

“I didn’t mean that!” Gaborn said. “That’s not what I’m trying to do!”

“The seeds you hold in your hand?” Earth asked. “Do you wish to plant living seeds, or dead ones?”

Gaborn stared at the pebbly image of Earth, and wondered. He had not looked at the seeds, had not really been aware of their heft or shape in his hand.

Now he held seeds in his palm, and lifted them experimentally.

He could feel them moving, stirring at his touch. Dozens of seeds. Yet some did not move. He opened his hand wide, glanced down.

He held embryos in his hand, dozens of them, small and pink or brown, like the half-formed shapes of young mice. Yet he could distinguish features. Some of them waved tiny arms and legs, and he recognized them: that pink one in the center of his palm with the red down would be Borenson. The beautiful dead brown one beside it was Raj Ahten.

He held them, poked the Earth with his planting stick, and tried to decide which embryo to drop into the deep, rich humus.

When he looked up again, hoping for the Earth’s advice, the sun had suddenly fallen. The time for planting had passed, and Gaborn could no longer see.

Gaborn groped and struggled up out of his shallow grave. He sat for a moment in the starlight, heart hammering. He looked about wildly for Binnesman, but the wizard was nowhere in the garden.

He felt as if the Earth had warned him against failure, but failure at what?

The Earth had lent him the power to Choose. Gaborn had accepted it gratefully, and had been doing his best. But was he Choosing too widely? Was he not Choosing well?

In Binnesman’s garden, a week ago, Gaborn had accepted the task of Choosing. Because he loved his people, the Earth had given him the task of Choosing which “seeds of mankind” to save.

But now Gaborn had been fretting, wondering how he might save all of his people in the war to come.

The Earth seemed cold and hard to Gaborn, dispassionate to the point of being cruel. Choose, the Earth said. It does not matter to me. Life and death are one.

Choose a few to save, and then save them. That was his task. Nothing more, nothing less.

It sounded simple.

But seemed impossible.

How was he to Choose?

Did the Earth expect him to let babes die merely because they could not defend themselves? Or the frail or elderly? Should he let a good man die because an evil man might make a better warrior?

How was Gaborn to Choose well?

I’ve lied to my people, Gaborn realized. I told so many of them that they were Chosen, that I would protect them during the dark times to come, and in my heart I really do want to save them.

But I don’t have that power.

The knowledge filled him with dread and cold certainty.

He couldn’t save them all, couldn’t protect them all. He imagined that in a melee, he would have to choose: Let one man die so that three others might live.

But how could he make such a decision in good conscience? What would be his logic?

Could he let Iome die under any circumstances? If saving her cost the lives of a thousand men, would it be worth it?

Even if he spent lives that way, would she thank him for it afterward? Or would she damn him?

What had Binnesman said yesterday morning? That Erden Geboren had “died not of battle wounds, but of a broken heart.”

Gaborn could image such a thing. The Earth had selected him to be the Earth King because Gaborn was a man of conscience. But how could Gaborn hope to live with his conscience if he did what the Earth asked?

He sat thinking about what had happened today. He had Chosen to save King Orwynne, but that fat old knight had defied Gaborn, had ridden into the cloud of swirling night in a vain attempt to defeat the Darkling Glory.

Meanwhile, Iome and Jureem had nearly lost their lives because they stayed at Castle Sylvarresta trying to save those who would not flee, as Gaborn had commanded them.

I can Choose them, Gaborn realized, but that does not mean that they will Choose me. I can try to save them, but that does not mean they will save themselves.

Let that be the first criterion for the Choosing, he decided. I will save those who listen to my Voice and thereby seek to save themselves, and I must forget the rest.

Gaborn gaped about in the starlight, until he saw his armor and tunic lying in a heap nearby, atop a bed of lavender.

He got up, dusted himself off, and dressed. By the time he reached his room, Iome was dressing for her late-night ride.

Despite his ominous dreams, Gaborn felt more completely rested than ever before in his life.