Runelords TheTHE RUNELORDS
David Farland

[17 mar 2002—scanned for #bookz]
[03 apr 2002—proofed by Dark...]

Chapter 1
IT BEGINS IN DARKNESS
     
    Effigies of the Earth King festooned the city around Castle Sylvarresta. 
Everywhere the effigies could be seen--hanging beneath shopwindows, standing 
upright against the walls of the city gates, or nailed beside 
doorways--stationed any place where the Earth King might find ingress into a 
home.
    Many of the figures were crude things crafted by children--a few reeds 
twisted into the form of a man, often with a crown of oak leaves in its hair. 
But outside the doors of shops and taverns were more ornate figures of wood, the 
full size of a man, often elaborately painted and coifed in fine green wool 
traveling robes.
    In those days, it was said that on Hostenfest Eve the spirit of the earth 
would fill the effigies and the Earth King would waken. At his wakening, he 
would protect the family for another season and help bear the harvest home.
    It was a festive season, a season of joy. On Hostenfest Eve the father in a 
home would play the role of Earth King by setting gifts before the hearth. Thus, 
at dawn on the first day of Hostenfest, adults received flasks of new wine or 
kegs of stout ale. For the young girls the Earth King brought toy dolls woven of 
straw and wildflowers, while boys might get swords or oxcarts carved from ash.
    All these bounties delivered by the Earth King represented but a token of 
the Earth King's wealth--the vast hoards of the "fruits of the forest and of the 
field" which legend said he bestowed on those who loved the land.
    So the homes and shops around the castle were well adorned that night, on 
the nineteenth day of the Month of Harvest, four days before Hostenfest. All the 
shops were clean and well stocked for the autumn fair that would shortly come.
    The streets lay barren, for dawn was approaching. Aside from the city guards 
and a few nursing mothers, the only ones who had reason to be up so late of the 
night were the King's bakers, who at that very moment were drawing the foam off 
the King's ale and mixing it with their dough so that the loaves would rise by 
dawn. True, the eels were running on their annual migration in the River Wye, so 
one might imagine a few fishermen to be out by night, but the fishermen had 
emptied their wicker eel traps an hour past midnight and had delivered kegs of 
live eels to the butcher for skinning and salting well before the second watch.
    Outside the city walls, the greens south of Castle Sylvarresta were dotted 
with dark pavilions, for caravans from Indhopal had come north to sell the 
harvest of summer spices. The camps outside the castle were quiet but for the 
occasional braying of a donkey.
    The walls of the city were shut, and all foreigners had been escorted from 
the merchants' quarter hours ago. No men moved on the streets at that time of 
night--only a few ferrin.
    Thus there was no one to see what transpired in a dark alley. Even the 
King's far-seer, who had endowments of sight from seven people and stood guard 
on the old graak's aerie above the Dedicates' Keep, could not have spotted 
movement down in the narrow streets of the merchants' quarter.
    But in Cat's Alley, just off the Butterwalk, two men struggled in the 
shadows for control of a knife.
    Could you have seen them, you might have been reminded of tarantulas in 
battle: arms and legs twisting in frenzy as the knife flashed upward, scuffling 
as feet groped for purchase on the worn cobblestones, both men grunting and 
straining with deadly intent.
    Both men were dressed in black. Sergeant Dreys of the King's Guard wore 
black livery embroidered with the silver boar of House Sylvarresta. Dreys' 
assailant wore a baggy black cotton burnoose in a style favored by assassins out 
of Muyyatin.
    Though Sergeant Dreys outweighed the assassin by fifty pounds, and though 
Dreys had endowments of brawn from three men and could easily lift six hundred 
pounds over his head, he feared he could not win this battle.
    Only starlight lit the street, and precious little of that made its way here 
into Cat's Alley. The alley was barely seven feet wide, and homes here stood 
three stories tall, leaning on sagging foundations till the awnings of their 
roofs nearly met a few yards above Dreys' head.
    Dreys could hardly see a damned thing back here. All he could make out of 
his assailant was the gleam of the man's eyes and teeth, a pearl ring in his 
left nostril, the flash of the knife. The smell of woodlands clung to his cotton 
tunic as fiercely as the scents of anise and curry held to his breath.
    No, Dreys was not prepared to fight here in Cat's Alley. He had no weapons 
and wore only the linen surcoat that normally fit over his ring mail, along with 
pants and boots. One does not go armed and armored to meet his lover.
    He'd only stepped into the alley a moment ago, to make certain the road 
ahead was clear of city guards, when he heard a small scuffling behind a stack 
of yellow gourds by one of the market stalls. Dreys had thought he'd disturbed a 
ferrin as it hunted for mice or for some bit of cloth to wear. He'd turned, 
expecting to see a pudgy rat-shaped creature run for cover, when the assassin 
sprang from the shadows.
    Now the assassin moved swiftly, grasping the knife tight, shifting his 
weight, twisting the blade. It flashed dangerously close to Dreys' ear, but the 
sergeant fought it off--till the man's arm snaked around, stabbing at Dreys' 
throat. Dreys managed to hold the smaller man's wrist back for a moment. 
"Murder. Bloody murder!" Dreys shouted.
    A spy! he thought. I've caught a spy! He could only imagine that he'd 
disturbed the fellow in mapping out the castle grounds.
    He thrust a knee into the assassin's groin, lifting the man in the air. 
Pulled the man's knife arm full length and tried to twist it.
    The assassin let go of the knife with one hand and rabbit-punched Dreys in 
the chest.
    Dreys' ribs snapped. Obviously the little man had also been branded with 
runes of power. Dreys guessed that the assassin had the brawn of five men, maybe 
more. Though both men were incredibly strong, endowments of brawn increased 
strength only to the muscles and tendons. They did not invest one's bones with 
any superior hardness. So this match was quickly degenerating into what Dreys 
would call "a bone-bash."
    He struggled to hold the assassin's wrists. For a long moment they wrestled.
    Dreys heard deep-voiced shouts: "That way, I think! Over there!" They came 
from the left. A street over was Cheap Street--where the bunched houses did not 
press so close, and where Sir Guilliam had built his new four-story manor. The 
voices had to be from the City Guard--the same guards Dreys had been 
avoiding--whom Sir Guilliam bribed to rest beneath the lantern post at the manor 
gate.
    "Cat's Alley!" Dreys screamed. He only had to hold the assassin a moment 
more--make sure the fellow didn't stab him, or escape.
    The Southerner broke free in desperation, punched him again, high in the 
chest. More ribs snapped. Dreys felt little pain. One tends to ignore such 
distractions when struggling to stay alive.
    In desperation the assassin ripped the knife free. Dreys felt a tremendous 
rush of fear and kicked the assassin's right ankle. He felt more than heard a 
leg shatter.
    The assassin lunged, knife flashing. Dreys twisted away, shoved the fellow. 
The blade struck wide of its mark, slashed Dreys' ribs, a grazing blow.
    Now Dreys grabbed the fellow's elbow, had the man half-turned around. The 
assassin stumbled, unable to support himself on his broken leg. Dreys kicked the 
leg again for good measure, and pushed the fellow back.
    Dreys glanced frantically into the shadows for sign of some cobblestone that 
might have come loose from its mortar. He wanted a weapon. Behind Dreys was an 
inn called the Churn. Beside the flowering vines and the effigy of the Earth 
King at its front window sat a small butter churn. Dreys tried to rush to the 
churn, thinking to grab its iron plunger and use it to bludgeon the assassin.
    He pushed the assassin, thinking the smaller man would go flying. Instead 
the fellow spun, one hand clutching Dreys' surcoat. Dreys saw the knife blade 
plunge.
    He raised an arm to block.
    The blade veered low and struck deep, slid up through his belly, past 
shattered ribs. Tremendous pain blossomed in Dreys' gut, shot through his 
shoulders and arms, a pain so wide Dreys thought the whole world would feel it 
with him.
    For an eternity, Dreys stood, looking down. Sweat dribbled into his wide 
eyes. The damned assassin had slit him open like a fish. Yet the assassin still 
held him--had thrust his knife arm up to the wrist into Dreys' chest, working 
the blade toward Dreys' heart, while his left hand reached for Dreys' pocket, 
groping for something.
    His hand clutched at the book in Dreys' pocket, feeling it through the 
material of the surcoat. The assassin smiled.
    Dreys wondered, Is that what you want? A book?
    Last night, as the City Guard had been escorting foreigners from the 
merchants' quarter, Dreys had been approached by a man from Tuulistan, a trader 
whose tent was pitched near the woods. The fellow spoke little Rofehavanish, had 
seemed apprehensive. He had only said, "A gift--for king. You give? Give to 
king?"
    With much ceremonial nodding, Dreys had agreed, had looked at the book 
absently. The Chronicles of Owatt, Emir of Tuulistan. A thin volume bound in 
lambskin. Dreys had pocketed it, thinking to pass it along at dawn.
    Dreys hurt so terribly now that he could not shout, could not move. The 
world spun; he pulled free of the assassin, tried to turn and run. His legs felt 
as weak as a kitten's. He stumbled. The assassin grabbed Dreys' hair from 
behind, yanking his chin up to expose his throat.
    Damn you, Dreys thought, haven't you killed me enough? In one final 
desperate act, he yanked the book from his pocket, hurled it across the 
Butterwalk.
    There on the far side of the street a rosebush struggled up an arbor near a 
pile of barrels. Dreys knew this place well, could barely see the yellow roses 
on dark vines. The book skidded toward them.
    The assassin cursed in his own tongue, tossing Dreys aside, and limped after 
the book.
    Dreys could hear nothing but a dull buzz as he struggled to his knees. He 
glimpsed movement at the edge of the street--the assassin groping among the 
roses. Three larger shadows came rushing down the road from the left. The flash 
of drawn swords, starlight glinting off iron caps. The City Guard.
    Dreys pitched forward onto the cobblestones.
    In the predawn, a flock of geese honked as it made its way south through the 
silvery starlight, the voices sounding to him for all the world like the barking 
of a distant pack of dogs.

     
     
Chapter 2
THOSE WHO LOVE THE LAND
     
    That morning a few hours after the attack on Dreys and a hundred or so miles 
south of Castle Sylvarresta, Prince Gaborn Val Orden faced troubles that were 
not so harrowing. Yet none of his lessons in the House of Understanding could 
have prepared the eighteen-year-old prince for his encounter with a mysterious 
young woman in the grand marketplace at Bannisferre.
    He'd been lost in thought at a vendor's stall in the south market, studying 
wine chillers of polished silver. The vendor had many fine iron brewing pots, 
but his prize was the three wine chillers--large bowls for ice with 
complementing smaller pitchers that fit inside. The bowls were of such high 
quality that they looked to be of ancient duskin workmanship. But no duskin had 
walked the earth in a thousand years, and these howls could not have been that 
old. Each bowl had the clawed feet of a reaver and featured scenes of hounds 
running in a leafy wood; the pitchers were adorned with images of a young lord 
on a horse, his lance at the ready, bearing down on a reaver mage. Once the 
pitchers were set into their silver bowls, the images complemented one 
another--the young lord battling the reaver mage while the hunting dogs 
surrounded them.
    The ornaments on the wine chiller were all cast using some method that 
Gaborn could not fathom. The silversmith's detailed workmanship was 
breathtaking.
    Such were the wonders of Bannisferre's goods that Gaborn hadn't even noticed 
the young woman sidle up to him until he smelled the scent of rose petals. (The 
woman who stands next to me wears a dress that is kept in a drawer filled with 
rose petals, he'd realized, on some subconscious level.) Even then, he'd been so 
absorbed in studying the wine chillers that he imagined she was only a stranger, 
awed by the same marvelous bowls and pitchers. He didn't glance her way until 
she took his hand, seizing his attention.
    She grasped his left hand in her right, lightly clasping his fingers, then 
squeezed.
    Her soft touch electrified him. He did not pull away. Perhaps, he thought, 
she mistakes me for another. He glanced sidelong at her. She was tall and 
beautiful, perhaps nineteen, her dark-brown hair adorned with mother-of-pearl 
combs. Her eyes were black, and even the whites of her eyes were so dark as to 
be a pale blue. She wore a simple, cloud-colored silk gown with flowing 
sleeves--an elegant style lately making its way among the wealthy ladies of 
Lysle. She wore a belt of ermine, clasped with a silver flower, high above the 
navel, just beneath her firm breasts. The neckline was high, modest. Over her 
shoulders hung a silk scarf of deepest crimson, so long that its fringes swept 
the ground. She was not merely beautiful, he decided. She was astonishing. She 
smiled at him secretively, shyly, and Gaborn smiled back, tight-lipped-hopeful 
and troubled all at once. Her actions reminded him of the endless tests that one 
of his hearthmasters might have devised for him in the House of 
Understanding--yet this was no test.
    Gaborn did not know the young woman. He knew no one in all the vast city of 
Bannisferre--which seemed odd, that he should not have one acquaintance from a 
city this large, with its towering gray stone songhouses with their exotic 
arches, the white pigeons wheeling through the blue sunlit sky above the 
chestnut trees. Yet Gaborn knew no one here, not even a minor merchant. He was 
that far from home.
    He stood near the edge of a market, not far from the docks on the broad 
banks of the south fork of River Dwindell--a stone's throw from Smiths' Row, 
where the open-air hearths gave rise to the rhythmic ring of hammers, the 
creaking of bellows, and plumes of smoke.
    He felt troubled that he'd been so lulled by the peacefulness of 
Bannisferre. He'd not even bothered to glance at this woman when she had stood 
next to him for a moment. Twice in his life, he'd been the target of assassins. 
They'd taken his mother, his grandmother, his brother and two sisters. Yet 
Gaborn stood here now as carefree as a peasant with a stomach full of ale.
    No, Gaborn decided quickly, I've never seen her; she knows I'm a stranger, 
yet holds my hand. Most bewildering.
    In the House of Understanding, in the Room of Faces, Gaborn had studied the 
subtleties of bodily communication--the way secrets revealed themselves in an 
enemy's eyes, how to differentiate traces of worry from consternation or fatigue 
in the lines around a lover's mouth.
    Gaborn's hearthmaster, Jorlis, had been a wise teacher, and over the past 
few long winters Gaborn had distinguished himself in his studies.
    He'd learned that princes, highwaymen, merchants, and beggars all wore their 
expressions and stances as if part of some agreed-upon costume, and so Gaborn 
had mastered the art of putting on any costume at will. He could take command of 
a roomful of young men simply by standing with head high, cause a merchant to 
lower his prices with a balking smile. Concealed by nothing more than a fine 
traveling cloak, Gaborn learned to lower his eyes in a busy marketplace and play 
the pauper, slinking through the crowd so that those who saw him did not 
recognize a prince, but wondered, Ah, where did that beggar boy steal such a 
nice cloak?
    So Gaborn could read the human body, and yet he remained a perpetual mystery 
to others. With two endowments of wit, he could memorize a large tome in an 
hour. He'd learned more in his eight years in the House of Understanding than 
most commoners could learn in a life of concerted study.
    As a Runelord, he had three endowments of brawn and two of stamina, and in 
battle practice he could easily cross weapons with men twice his size. If ever a 
highwayman dared attack him, Gaborn would prove just how deadly a Runelord could 
be.
    Yet in the eyes of the world, because of his few endowments of glamour, he 
seemed to be little more than a startlingly handsome young man. And in a city 
like Bannisferre, with its singers and actors from across the realm, even beauty 
such as his was common.
    He studied the woman who held him, considered her stance. Chin high, 
confident, yet slightly tilted. A question. She poses a question of me.
    The touch of her hand--weak enough to indicate hesitancy, strong enough to 
suggest...ownership. She was claiming him?
    Is this an attempt at seduction? he wondered. But no--the body stance felt 
wrong. If she had wanted to seduce, she'd have touched the small of his back, a 
shoulder, even his buttock or chest. Yet as she held him she stood slightly 
away, hesitating to claim his body space.
    Then he understood: a marriage proposal. Very uncustomary, even in Heredon. 
For a woman of her quality, the family should have easily arranged a marriage.
    Gaborn surmised, Ah, she is orphaned. She hopes to arrange her own match!
    Yet even that answer did not satisfy him. Why did not a wealthy lord arrange 
a match for her?
    Gaborn considered how she must see him now. A merchant's son. He'd been 
playing the merchant; and though he was eighteen, his growth had not come in 
fully. Gaborn had dark hair and blue eyes, traits common in North Crowthen. So 
he'd dressed like a fop from that kingdom, one with more wealth than taste, out 
wandering the town while his father conducted more important business. He wore 
green hose and pants that gathered above the knee, along with a fine white 
cotton shirt with ballooning sleeves and silver buttons. Over the shirt, he wore 
a jerkin of dark green cotton trimmed in finely tooled leather, decorated with 
freshwater pearls. Completing the disguise was a broad-brimmed hat, on which an 
amber clasp held a single ostrich plume.
    Gaborn had dressed this way because he did not want to travel openly on his 
mission to spy out Heredon's defenses, to gauge the true extent of the wealth of 
its lands, the hardiness of its people.
    Gaborn glanced back toward his bodyguard Borenson. The streets here were 
crowded, made narrow by the vendors' stalls. A beefy, bronze-skinned young man 
with no shirt and red pants was herding a dozen goats through the throng, 
whipping them with a willow switch. Across the road, beneath a stone arch beside 
the door to the inn, Borenson stood grinning broadly at Gaborn's predicament. He 
was tall and broad-shouldered, with a balding head of red hair, a thick beard, 
and laughing blue eyes.
    Beside Borenson stood a skeletal fellow with blond hair cropped short. To 
match his chestnut eyes he wore a historian's austere brownish robes and a 
disapproving scowl. The man, simply called by his vocation, Days, was a 
chronicler of sorts--a devotee of the Time Lords--who had been following Gaborn 
now since Gaborn was an infant, recording his every word and deed. He took his 
name from the order of "the Days." Like every man of his sect, Days had given up 
his own name, his own identity, when he'd twinned his mind with that of another 
of his order. Days watched Gaborn now, keenly. Alert, eyes flickering about. 
Memorizing everything. The woman who held Gaborn's hand followed his glance, 
noting the bodyguard and Days. A young merchant lord with a guard was common. 
One shadowed by a Days was rare. It marked Gaborn as someone of wealth and 
import, perhaps the son of a guildmaster, yet this woman could not possibly have 
known Gaborn's true identity.
    She pulled his hand, invited him to stroll. He hesitated. "Do you see 
anything in market that interests you?" she asked, smiling. Her sweet voice was 
as inviting as the cardamom-flavored pastries sold here in the market, yet 
slightly mocking. Clearly, she wanted to know if she interested him. Yet those 
around her would mistakenly believe she spoke of the wine chillers.
    "The silver shows some decent handiwork," Gaborn said. Using the powers of 
his Voice, he put a slight emphasis on hand. Without ever recognizing why, she 
would believe that in Understanding's House, he had studied in the Room of 
Hands, as rich merchants did. Let her believe me to be a merchant.
    The vendor of the stall, who had patiently ignored Gaborn until now, lurched 
from under the shade of his rectangular umbrella, calling, "The sir would like a 
fine chiller for the madam?"
    Until a moment ago Gaborn had seemed only a merchant boy, one who might have 
reported to his father any interesting wares. Now perhaps the merchant thought 
him a newlywed, with a wife far more handsome than himself. Merchant lords often 
married their children off young, seeking monetary alliances.
    So the vendor thinks I must buy the silver to humor my wife. Of course such 
a lovely woman would rule her household. Since the merchant did not know her, 
Gaborn imagined that she would also have to be a stranger to Bannisferre. A 
traveler from the north?
    The young woman smiled kindly at the vendor. "I think not today," she 
teased. "You have some fine chillers, but we have better at home." She turned 
her back, playing her role as wife exquisitely. This is how it would be if we 
married, her actions seemed to say. I'd make no costly demands.
    The vendor's face fell in dismay. It was unlikely that more than one or two 
merchants in all the Kingdoms of Rofehavan had such a fine wine cooler.
    She pulled Gaborn along. Suddenly, Gaborn felt uneasy. In the far south, 
ladies of Indhopal sometimes wore rings or brooches with poisoned needles in 
them. They would try to lure wealthy travelers to an inn, then murder and rob 
them. It could be that this beauty had nefarious designs.
    Yet he doubted it. A quick glance showed that Borenson was certainly more 
amused than concerned. He laughed and blushed, as if to ask, And where do you 
think you're going?
    Borenson, too, was a student of body language--particularly that of women. 
He never took risks with his lord's safety.
    The woman squeezed Gaborn's hand, readjusting her grip, holding him more 
firmly. Was she seeking a greater claim to his attentions?
    "Pardon me if I seem over familiar, good sir," she said. "Have you ever 
noticed someone from a distance, and felt a tug in your heart?"
    Her touch thrilled him, and Gaborn wanted to believe that, indeed, she'd 
seen him from afar and fallen in love.
    "No, not like this," he said. Yet he felt it a lie. He'd once fallen in love 
from afar.
    The sun shone on them; the skies were brilliant. The air blowing off the 
river smelled warm and sweet, carrying the scent of hay fields from across the 
shore. On such a fine day, how could anyone feel anything but invigorated, 
alive?
    The cobbles on the street here were smooth with age. Half a dozen flower 
girls strolled barefoot through the crowd, calling for patrons in clear voices. 
They blew past, a breeze rippling a wheat field. They all wore faded dresses and 
white aprons. They held the centers of their aprons up with one hand, making 
their aprons into a kind of sack, sacks filled with riotous colors--brilliant 
burgundy cornflowers and white daisies, long-stemmed roses in deepest reds and 
peach. Poppies and bundles of sweet-scented lavender.
    Gaborn watched the girls drift by, feeling that their beauty was as stunning 
as that of larks in flight, knowing he would never forget their smiles. Six 
girls, all with blond or light-brown hair.
    His father was camped with his retinue not more than a few hours' ride off. 
Seldom did his father let Gaborn wander without heavy guard, but this time his 
father had implored him to take a little side excursion, saying, "You must study 
Heredon. A land is more than its castles and soldiers. In Bannisferre you will 
fall in love with this land, and its people, as I have."
    The young woman squeezed his hand tighter.
    Pain showed in her brow as she watched the flower girls. Gaborn suddenly 
realized what she was, how desperately this young woman needed him. Gaborn 
nearly laughed, for he saw how easily she could have bewitched him.
    He squeezed her hand, warmly, as a friend. He felt certain that he could 
have nothing to do with her, yet he wished her well.
    "My name is Myrrima..." she said, leaving a silence for him in which to 
offer his own name.
    "A beautiful name, for a beautiful girl."
    "And you are?"
    "Thrilled by intrigue," he said. "Aren't you?"
    "Not always." She smiled, a demand for his name.
    Twenty paces behind, Borenson tapped the scabbard of his saber against a 
passing goat cart, a sign that he'd left his post at the hostel's doorway and 
was now following. The Days would be at his side.
    Myrrima glanced back. "He's a fine-looking guardsman."
    "A fine man," Gaborn agreed.
    "You are traveling on business? You like Bannisferre?"
    "Yes, and yes."
    She abruptly pulled her hand away. "You don't make commitments easily," she 
said, turning to face him, her smile faltering just a bit. Perhaps she sensed 
now that the chase was up, that he would not marry her.
    "No. Never. Perhaps it is a weakness in my character," Gaborn said.
    "Why not?" Myrrima asked, still playful. She stopped by a fountain where a 
statue of Edmon Tillerman stood holding a pot with three spigots that poured 
water down over the faces of three bears.
    "Because lives are at stake," Gaborn answered. He sat at the edge of the 
fountain, glanced into the pool. Startled by his presence, huge polliwogs 
wriggled down into the green water. "When I commit to someone, I accept 
responsibility for them. I offer my life, or at least a portion of it. When I 
accept someone's commitment, I expect nothing less than total commitment--their 
lives--in return. This reciprocal relationship is...it must define me."
    Myrrima frowned, made uneasy by his serious tone. "You are not a merchant. 
You...talk like a lord!"
    He could see her considering. She would know he was not of Sylvarresta's 
line, not a lord from Heredon. So he would have to be a foreign dignitary, 
merely traveling in Heredon, an out-of-the-way country, one of the farthest 
north in all the Kingdoms of Rofehavan.
    "I should have known--you are so handsome," she said. "So you're a Runelord, 
come to study our land. Tell me, do you like it enough to seek betrothal to 
Princess Iome Sylvarresta?"
    Gaborn admired the way that she drew the proper conclusion. "I'm surprised 
at how green your land is, and how strong your people are," Gaborn said. "It is 
richer than I'd imagined."
    "Will Princess Sylvarresta accept you?" Still, she was searching for 
answers. She wondered which poor castle he hailed from. She sat beside him on 
the edge of the fountain.
    Gaborn shrugged, feigning less concern than he felt. "I know her only by 
reputation," he admitted. "Perhaps you know her better than I. How do you think 
she will look on me?"
    "You are handsome enough," Myrrima said, frankly studying his broad 
shoulders, the long dark-brown hair that fell from under his plumed cap. By now 
she must have realized he was not dark enough of hair to be from Muyyatin, or 
any of the Indhopalese nations.
    Then she gasped, eyes going wide.
    She stood up quickly and stepped back, unsure whether to remain standing, 
curtsy, or fall down and prostrate herself at his feet. "Forgive me, Prince 
Orden--I, uh--did not see your resemblance to your father!"
    Myrrima lurched back three paces, as if wishing she could run blindly away, 
for she now knew that he was not the son of some poor baron who called a pile of 
rocks his fortress, but that he came from Mystarria itself.
    "You know my father?" Gaborn asked, rising and stepping forward. He took her 
hand once again, trying to reassure her that no offense had been taken.
    "I--once he rode through town, on his way to the hunt," Myrrima said. "I was 
but a girl. I can't forget his face."
    "He has always liked Heredon," Gaborn said.
    "Yes...yes, he comes often enough," Myrrima said, clearly discomfited. 
"I--pardon me if I troubled you, my lord. I did not mean to be presumptuous. 
Oh..."
    Myrrima turned and began to run.
    "Stop," Gaborn said, letting just a little of the power of his Voice take 
her.
    She stopped as if she'd been struck by a fist, turned to face him. As did 
several other people nearby.
    Unprepared for the command, they obeyed as if it had come from their own 
minds. When they saw that they were not the object of his attention, some stared 
at him curiously while a few started away, unnerved by the appearance of a 
Runelord in their midst.
    Suddenly, Borenson hovered at Gaborn's back, with the Days.
    "Thank you for stopping, Myrrima," Gaborn said.
    "You may someday be my king," she answered, as if she'd reasoned out her 
response.
    "Do you think so?" Gaborn said. "Do you think Iome will have me?"
    The question startled her. Gaborn continued. "Please, tell me. You are a 
perceptive woman, and beautiful. You would do well at court. I value your 
opinion."
    Gaborn held his breath, waiting for her frank assessment. She couldn't know 
how important her answer was to him. Gaborn needed this alliance. He needed 
Heredon's strong people, its impregnable fortresses, its wide-open lands, ready 
to till. True, his own Mystarria was a rich land-ripe, its markets sprawling and 
crowded--but after years of struggle the Wolf Lord Raj Ahten had finally 
conquered the Indhopalese Kingdoms, and Gaborn knew that Raj Ahten would not 
stop there. By spring, he would either invade the barbarian realms of Inkarra or 
he would turn north to the kingdoms in Rofehavan.
    In reality, it didn't matter where the Wolf Lord attacked next. In the wars 
to come, Gaborn knew he'd never be able to adequately defend his people in 
Mystarria. He needed this land.
    Even though Heredon had not seen a major war in four hundred years, the 
realm's great battlements remained intact. Even the fortress at lowly Tor Ingel, 
set among the cliffs, could be defended better than most of Gaborn's estates in 
Mystarria. Gaborn needed Heredon. He needed Iome's hand in marriage.
    More important, though he dared not admit it to anyone, something deep 
inside told him that he needed Iome herself. An odd compulsion drew him here, 
against all common sense. As if invisible fiery threads were connected to his 
heart and mind. Sometimes at night he'd lie awake, feeling the tug, an odd 
glowing sensation that spread outward from the center of his chest, as if a warm 
stone lay there. Those threads seemed to pull him toward Iome. He'd fought the 
urge to seek her hand for a year now, until he could fight no more.
    Myrrima studied Gaborn once again with her marvelous frankness. Then laughed 
easily. "No," she said. "Iome will not have you."
    There had been no hesitancy in her answer. She had said it simply, as if 
she'd seen the truth of it. Then she smiled at him seductively. But I want you, 
her smile said.
    "You sound certain." Gaborn tried to seem casual. "Is it merely my clothes? 
I did bring more suitable attire."
    "You may be from the most powerful kingdom in Rofehavan, but...how shall I 
put this? Your politics are suspect."
    It was a kind way to accuse him of being immoral. Gaborn had feared Such an 
accusation.
    "Because my father is a pragmatist?" Gaborn asked.
    "Some think him pragmatic, some think him...too acquisitive." Gaborn 
grinned. "King Sylvarresta thinks him pragmatic...but his daughter thinks my 
father is greedy? She said this?"
    Myrrima smiled and nodded secretively. "I've heard rumors that she said as 
much at the midwinter feast."
    Gaborn was often amazed at how much the commoners knew or surmised about the 
comings and goings and doings of lords. Things that he'd often thought were 
court secrets would be openly discussed at some inn a hundred leagues distant. 
Myrrima seemed sure of her sources.
    "So she will reject my petition, because of my father."
    "It has been said in Heredon that Prince Orden is 'much like his father.' "
    "Too much like his father?" Gaborn asked. A quote from Princess Sylvarresta? 
Probably spoken to quell any rumors of a possible match. It was true that Gaborn 
had his father's look about him. But Gaborn was not his father. Nor was his 
father, Gaborn believed, as "acquisitive" as Iome accused him of being.
    Myrrima had the good taste to say no more. She pulled her hand free of his.
    "She will marry me," Gaborn said. He felt confident he could sway the 
princess.
    Myrrima raised a brow. "How could you imagine so? Because it would be 
pragmatic to ally herself with the wealthiest kingdom in Rofehavan?" She laughed 
musically, amused. Under normal circumstances, if a peasant had laughed him to 
scorn, Gaborn would have bristled. He found himself laughing with her.
    Myrrima flashed a fetching smile. "Perhaps, milord, when you leave Heredon, 
you will not leave empty-handed."
    One last invitation. Princess Sylvarresta will not have you, but I would.
    "It would be foolhardy to give up the chase before the hunt has begun, don't 
you think?" Gaborn said. "In Understanding's House, in the Room of the Heart, 
Hearthmaster Ibirmarle used to say 'Fools define themselves by what they are. 
Wise men define themselves by what they shall be.' "
    Myrrima rejoined, "Then I fear, my pragmatic prince, that you shall die old 
and lonely, deluded into believing you will someday marry Iome Sylvarresta. Good 
day."
    She turned to leave, but Gaborn could not quite let her go. In the Room of 
the Heart, he'd also learned that sometimes it is best to act on impulse, that 
the part of the mind which dreams will often speak to us, commanding us to act 
in ways that we do not understand. When Gaborn had told her that he thought she 
would do well in court, he had meant it. He wanted her in his court--not as his 
wife, not even as a mistress. But intuitively he felt her to be an ally. Had she 
not called him "milord"? She could as easily have called him "Your Lordship." 
No, she felt a bond to him, too.
    "Wait, milady," Gaborn said. Once again Myrrima turned. She had caught his 
tone. With the word "milady," he sought to make his claim on her. She knew what 
he expected: total devotion. Her life. As a Runelord, Gaborn had been raised to 
demand as much from his own vassals, yet he felt hesitant to ask as much from 
this foreign woman.
    "Yes, milord?"
    "At home," Prince Orden said, "you have two ugly sisters to care for? And a 
witless brother?"
    "You are perceptive, milord," Myrrima said. "But the witless one is my 
mother, not a brother." Lines of pain showed in her face. It was a terrible 
burden she held. A terrible price for magic. It was hard enough to take an 
endowment of brawn or wit or glamour from another, to assume the financial 
responsibilities for that person. But it became more painful still when that 
person was a beloved friend or relative. Myrrima's family must have lived in 
horrible poverty, hopeless poverty, in order for them to have felt compelled to 
try such a thing--to gift one woman with the beauty of three, the cleverness of 
two, and then seek to marry her to some rich man who could save them all from 
despair.
    "However did you get the money for the forcibles?" Gaborn asked. The magical 
irons that could drain the attributes of one person and endow them on another 
were tremendously expensive.
    "My mother had a small inheritance--and we labored, the four of us," Myrrima 
said. He heard tightness in her voice. Perhaps once, a week or two ago, when 
she'd newly become beautiful, she'd have sobbed when speaking of this.
    "You sold flowers as a child?" Gaborn asked.
    Myrrima smiled. "The meadow behind our house provided little else to sustain 
us."
    Gaborn reached to his money pouch, pulled out a gold coin. One side showed 
the head of King Sylvarresta; the other showed the Seven Standing Stones of the 
Dunnwood, which legend said held up the earth. He was unfamiliar with the local 
currency, but knew the coin was large enough to take care of her small family 
for a few months. He took her hand, slipping it into her palm.
    "I...have done nothing for this," she said, searching his eyes. Perhaps she 
feared an indecent proposal. Some lords took mistresses. Gaborn would never do 
so.
    "Certainly you have," Gaborn said. "You smiled, and thus lightened my heart. 
Accept this gift, please. You will find your merchant prince someday," Gaborn 
said, "and of all the prizes he may ever discover here in the markets of 
Bannisferre, I suspect that you will be the most treasured."
    She held the coin in awe. People never expected one as young as Gaborn to 
speak with such grace, yet it came easily after years of training in Voice. She 
looked into his eyes with new respect, as if really seeing him for the first 
time. "Thank you, Prince Orden. Perhaps...I tell you now that if Iome does 
accept you, I will praise her decision."
    She turned and sauntered off through the thickening crowd, circled the 
fountain. Gaborn watched the graceful lines of her neck, the clouds of her 
dress, the burning flames of her scarf.
    Borenson came up and clapped Gaborn on the shoulder, chuckling. "Ah, milord, 
there is a tempting sweet."
    "Yes, she's altogether lovely," Gaborn whispered.
    "It was fun to watch. She just stood back, eyeing you like a cutlet on the 
butcher's block. She waited for five minutes"--Borenson held up his hand, 
fingers splayed--"waiting for you to notice her! But you--you day-blind ferrin! 
You were too busy adoring some vendor's handsome chamber pots! How could you not 
see her? How could you ignore her? Ah!" Borenson shrugged in exaggeration.
    "I meant no offense," Gaborn said, looking up into Borenson's face. Though 
Borenson was his bodyguard and should thus always be on the watch for assassins, 
the truth was that the big fellow was a lusty man. He could not walk through a 
street without making little crooning noises at every shapely woman he passed. 
And if he didn't go wenching at least once a week, he'd croon even at the woman 
who had no more shape than a bag of parsnips. His fellow guards sometimes joked 
that no assassin hiding in between a woman's cleavage would ever escape his 
notice.
    "Oh, I'm not offended," Borenson said. "Mystified, maybe. Perplexed. How 
could you not see her? You must have at least smelled her?"
    "Yes, she smells very nice. She keeps her gown in a drawer layered in rose 
petals."
    Borenson rolled his eyes back dramatically and groaned. His face was 
flushed, and there was a peculiar excitement, an intensity in his eyes. Though 
he pretended to be jesting, Gaborn could see that Borenson had indeed been 
smitten by this northern beauty more than he cared to admit. If Borenson could 
have had his way, he'd have been off chasing the girl. "At least you could have 
let her cure you of that vexing case of virginity you suffer from, milord!"
    "It is a common enough malady for young men," Gaborn said, feeling offended. 
Borenson sometimes spoke to Gaborn as if he were a drinking partner.
    Borenson reddened even more. "As well it should be, milord!"
    "Besides," Gaborn said, considering the toll a bastard child sometimes took 
on a kingdom, "the cure is often more costly than the malady."
    "I suspect that that cure is worth any price," Borenson said longingly, with 
a nod in the direction Myrrima had gone.
    Suddenly, a plan blossomed in Gaborn's mind. A great geometer had once told 
him that when he discovered the answer to a difficult calculation, he knew that 
his answer was right because he felt it all the way down to his toes. At this 
moment, as Gaborn considered taking this young woman home to Mystarria, that 
same feeling of rightness struck him. Indeed, he felt that same burning 
compulsion that had drawn him to this land in the first place. He yearned once 
again to take Myrrima back to Mystarria, and suddenly saw the way.
    He glanced at Borenson, to verify his hunch. The guardsman stood at his 
side, more than a head taller than Gaborn, and his cheeks were red, as if his 
own thoughts embarrassed him. The soldier's laughing blue eyes seemed to shine 
with their own light. His legs shook, though Gaborn had never seen him tremble 
in battle.
    Down the lane, Myrrima turned a corner on a narrow market street, breaking 
into a run. Borenson shook his head ruefully, as if to ask, How could you let 
her go?
    "Borenson," Gaborn whispered, "hurry after her. Introduce yourself 
graciously, then bring her back to me, but take a few minutes to talk as you 
walk. Stroll back. Do not hurry. Tell her I request an audience for only a 
moment."
    "As you wish, milord," Borenson said. He began running in the swift way that 
only those who had taken an endowment of metabolism could; many in the crowd 
parted before the big warrior, who wound his way gracefully between those who 
were too slow or clumsy to move for him.
    Gaborn did not know how long it might take Borenson to fetch the woman, so 
he wandered back to the shadows thrown by the inn. His Days followed. Together 
they stood, annoyed by a cloud of honeybees. The front of the inn here had an 
"aromatic garden" in the northern style. Blue morning-glory seeds were sewn in 
the thatch of the roof, and a riot of window boxes and flowerpots held creeping 
flowers of all kinds: palest honeysuckle dripped golden tears along the walls; 
mallow, like delicate bits of pearl, fluttered in the gentle breeze above the 
snow-in-summer; giant mandevilla, pink as the sunrise, was nearly strangled by 
the jasmine. And interspersed with all of these were rose vines, climbing every 
wall, splotches of peach. Along the ground were planted spearmint, chamomile, 
lemon verbena, and other spices.
    Most northern inns were decorated with such flowers. It helped mask the 
obnoxious scents of the market, while herbs grown in these gardens could be used 
for teas and spices.
    Gaborn stepped back into the sunlight, away from the heavy perfume of the 
flowers. His nose was too keen to let him stay.
    Borenson returned in a few moments with his big right hand resting gently on 
Myrrima's elbow, as if to catch her should she trip on a cobblestone. It was an 
endearing sight.
    When the two stood before him, Myrrima bowed slightly. "Milord wished to 
speak to me?"
    "Yes," Gaborn said. "Actually, I was more interested in having you meet 
Borenson, my body." He left off the word guard, as was the custom in Mystarria. 
"He has been my body for six years now, and is captain of my personal guard. He 
is a good man. In my estimation, one of the finest in Mystarria. Certainly the 
finest soldier."
    Borenson's cheeks reddened, and Myrrima glanced up at the big guard, smiling 
discreetly, gauging him. She could not have failed to notice by now that 
Borenson had an endowment of metabolism to his credit. The hastiness of his 
speeded reactions, the apparent inability to rest, were sure sign of it.
    "Recently, Borenson was promoted to the rank of Baron of the Realm, and 
given title to a land and manor in...the Drewverry March." Immediately Gaborn 
recognized his mistake. To give such a large holding was impetuous. Yet now that 
the words had been spoken...
    "Milord, I've never heard--" Borenson began to say, but Gaborn waved him to 
silence.
    "As I say, it was a recent promotion." The Drewverry estate was a major 
holding, more land than Gaborn would normally give to a distinguished soldier 
for a life of service, if he'd had time to consider. But now, Gaborn reasoned, 
this sudden act of generosity would only make Borenson that much more loyal--as 
if Borenson's loyalty would ever waver. "In any event, Myrrima, as you can see, 
Borenson spends a great deal of time in my service. He needs a wife to help him 
manage his holdings."
    The look of surprise on Borenson's face was a joy to behold. The big man was 
obviously taken by this northern beauty, and Gaborn had all but ordered them to 
marry.
    Myrrima studied the guard's face without reserve, as if noticing for the 
first time the strength of his jaw, the imposing bulge of muscle beneath his 
jerkin. She did not love him, not yet. Perhaps she never would. This was an 
arranged marriage, and marrying a man who lived his life twice as fast as you, 
one who would grow old and die while you floundered toward middle age, could not 
be an overwhelmingly attractive proposition. Thoughtfully, she considered the 
virtues of the match.
    Borenson stood dumbfounded, like a boy caught stealing apples. His face told 
that he'd considered the match, hoped for it.
    "I told you I thought you'd do well in court," Gaborn said to Myrrima. "I'd 
like you to be in my court."
    Certainly the woman would take his meaning. No Runelord could marry her. The 
best she could hope for would be some merchant prince, burdened by adolescent 
lust.
    Gaborn offered her a position of power--more than she could normally hope 
for--with an honorable and decent man whose life doomed him to a strange and 
lonely existence. It was no promise of love, but then Myrrima was a pragmatic 
woman who had taken the beauty of her sisters, the wisdom of her mother. Having 
taken these endowments, she would now have to assume responsibility for her 
impoverished kin. She knew the burden of power. She'd be a perfect woman to hold 
a place in Mystarria.
    She looked up into Borenson's eyes for a long moment, face and mouth 
suddenly hard, as she considered the offer. Gaborn could see that now that the 
proposal was made, she realized what a momentous decision this was. Almost 
imperceptibly, she nodded, sealing the bargain. Borenson offered none of the 
hesitancy that Myrrima had found with Gaborn. He reached out and took her 
slender hand in both fists.
    He said, "You must understand, fair lady, that no matter how sturdy my love 
for you grows, my first loyalty will always be to my lord."
    "As it should be," Myrrima said softly, with a slight nod. 
    Gaborn's heart leapt. I have won her love as surely as Borenson shall, he 
thought.
    At this moment, he felt strange--as if gripped by some great power. It 
seemed he could feel that power, like a buffeting wind, encircling--invisible, 
potent, overawing.
    Gaborn's pulse raced. He glanced around, certain the source of this emotion 
must have a cause--a shifting in the earth in preparation for a quake, an 
approaching thunderstorm. But he saw nothing out of the normal, those around him 
did not seem troubled.
    Yet he could feel...the earth preparing to move beneath his feet--the rocks 
to twist or breathe or shout.
    It was a distinctly odd sensation.
    As suddenly as the rush of power had come, it dissipated. Like a gust of 
wind passing over a meadow, unseen, but subtly disturbing all in its wake.
    Gaborn wiped perspiration from his brow, worried. I've come a thousand miles 
to heed a distant, unheard call. And now I feel this?
    It seemed madness. He asked the others, "Do you--do you feel anything?"

     
     
Chapter 3
OF KNIGHTS AND PAWNS
     
    When Chemoise got news that her betrothed was attacked while on guard duty, 
gutted by some spice merchant, it was as if the dawn sun went black, losing 
power to warm her. Or it was as if she'd turned to pale clay, her flesh losing 
all color, no longer able to hold her spirit.
    Princess Iome Sylvarresta watched Chemoise, her Maid of Honor, her dearest 
friend, desperately wishing for a way to console her. If Lady Jollenne had been 
here, she'd have known what to do. But the matron had been called away for a few 
weeks to care for her grandmother, who'd had a bad fall.
    Iome, her Days, and Chemoise had been up at dawn, sitting near the huge, 
U-shaped storyteller's stone in the Queen's topiary garden, reading the latest 
romance poems by Adalle, when Corporal Clewes broke in on their reverie.
    He told the news: A scuffle with a drunken merchant. An hour or more past. 
Cat's Alley. Sergeant Dreys. Fought nobly. Near death. Slit from crotch to 
heart. Called for Chemoise as he fell.
    Chemoise took the news stoically, if statues can be said to be stoic. She 
sat stiffly on the stone bench, her hazel eyes unfocused, her long, 
wheat-colored hair stirring in the wind. She'd been weaving a chain of daisies 
as Iome read. Now she laid them in her lap, on a skirt of coral-colored chiffon. 
Sixteen and heartbroken. She was to have married in ten days.
    Yet she dared not show her emotions. A proper lady should be able to bear 
such news lightly. She waited for Iome's permission to go to her fiancée. Thank 
you, Clewes," Iome said when the corporal continued standing at attention. 
"Where is Dreys now?"
    "We laid him out on the common, outside the King's Tower. I didn't want to 
move him any farther. The others are laid out down by the river."
    "The others?" Iome asked. She was sitting beside Chemoise; now she took the 
girl's hand. It had gone cold, so cold.
    Clewes was an old soldier to have such a low station. His trim beard was 
stiff as oat stubble. It poked out from under the broken strap of his iron 
pikeman's cap.
    "Aye, Princess," he said, remembering to address Iome properly for the first 
time since he'd intruded into the garden. "Two of the City Guard died in the 
fight. Poll the Squire and Sir Beauman."
    Iome turned to Chemoise. "Go to him," she said.
    The girl needed no further urging. She leapt up and ran down the path 
through the topiaries to the little wooden Bailey Gate, opened it and 
disappeared round the stone wall.
    Iome dared not stay long in the corporal's presence alone, with no one other 
than the Days, who stood quietly a few paces off. It would not be proper. But 
she had questions to ask him.
    Iome stood.
    "You're not going to look at the sergeant, are you, Princess?" Clewes asked. 
He must have caught the anger in her eye. "I mean--it's a messy sight."
    "I've seen injured men before," she said stoically. She looked out of the 
garden, over the city. The garden, a small patch of grass with trimmed hedges 
and a few shaped shrubs, sat within the King's Wall, the second of the three 
walls within the city. From here, she could see four of the King's Guards on the 
wall-walk, behind the parapet. Beyond that, to the east, lay the city market, 
just within the castle's Outer Wall. The streets in the market below were a 
jumble--roofs of slate, some covered with a layer of sand and lead, forming 
narrow chasms above the rocky streets. Smoke rose from cooking fires here and 
there. Fourteen minor lords had estates within the city walls.
    Iome studied the area where Cat's Alley could be found, a narrow market 
street just off the Butterwalk. The merchants' wattle houses there were painted 
in shades of cardinal, canary, and forest green, as if such bright colors could 
deny the general decrepitude of buildings that had been settling on their 
crooked foundations for five hundred years.
    The city looked no different today than it had yesterday. She could see Orly 
rooftops; no sign of murderers.
    Yet beyond the castle walls, beyond the farms and haycrofts, in the ruddy 
hills of the Dunnwood to the south and west, dust rose in small clouds along the 
roads for miles. People were traveling to the fair from distant kingdoms. 
Already, dozens of colorful silk pavilions had been set out before the castle 
gates. In the next few days, the population of the city would soar from ten 
thousand to four or five times that number.
    Iome looked back at the corporal. Clewes seemed like a cold man to have been 
sent to carry such ill news. Blood had been everywhere after the fight. That 
much Iome could see. Crimson smeared the corporal's boots, stained the silver 
boar embroidered into the black of his livery. The corporal himself must have 
carried Sergeant Dreys up to the common.
    "So the fellow killed two men and wounded a third," Iome said. "A heavy 
loss, for a mere brawl. Did you dispatch the spice merchant yourself?" If he 
had, she decided, the corporal would get a reward. Perhaps a jeweled pin.
    "No, milady. Uh, we busted him up a bit, but he's still alive. He's from 
Muyyatin. A fellow named Hariz al Jwabala. We didn't dare kill him. We wanted to 
question him." The corporal scratched the side of his nose, displeased at having 
left the trader alive.
    Iome began to stroll toward the Bailey Gate, wanting to be with Chemoise. 
With a nod, she indicated that the corporal should follow, as did her Days.
    "I see..." Iome mused, unsettled. A rich merchant then, from a suspect 
nation. Come to the city for next week's fair. "And what was a spice trader from 
Muyyatin doing in Cat's Alley before dawn?"
    Corporal Clewes bit his lip, as if unwilling to answer, then said coldly, 
"Spying, if you ask me." His voice choked with rage, and now he took his eyes 
from the stone gargoyle up on the keep's wall, where he'd been staring, and 
briefly glanced at Iome, to see her reaction.
    "I do ask you," Iome said. Clewes fumbled to unlatch the gate, let Iome and 
her Days through.
    "We've checked the inns," Corporal Clewes said. "The merchant didn't drink 
at any of them last night, or else he'd have been escorted from the merchants' 
quarter at ten bells. So he couldn't have gotten drunk in the city walls, and I 
doubt he was drunk at all. He's got rum on his breath, but precious little of 
it. Besides, there was no reason for him to be creeping through the streets at 
night, unless he's spying out the castle walls, trying to count the guard! So 
when he gets caught, what does he do? He feigns drunk, and waits for the guards 
to close--then, out with the knife!" Clewes slammed the gate shut.
    Just around the rock wall, Iome could see into the bailey. A dozen of the 
King's Guard stood there in a knot. A physic knelt over Sergeant Dreys, and 
Chemoise stood over them, shoulders hunched, arms crossed tightly across her 
chest. An early-morning mist was rising from the green.
    "I see," Iome whispered, heart pounding. "Then you are interrogating the 
man?" Now that they were in the public eye, Iome stopped by the wall. 
    "I wish we could!" Corporal Clewes said. "I'd put a coal to his tongue 
myself! But right now, all the traders from Muyyatin and Indhopal are in an 
uproar. They're calling for Jwabala's release. Already they're threatening to 
post a ban on the fair. And now it's got the Master of the Fair in a fright: 
Guildmaster Hollicks has gone to the King himself, demanding the merchant's 
release! Can you believe it? A spy! He wants us to release a murdering spy!"
    Iome took the news in, surprised. It was extraordinary that Hollicks would 
seek audience with the King just after dawn, extraordinary that the Southern 
merchants would threaten a ban. All of this spoke of large matters spinning 
wildly out of control.
    She glanced over her shoulder. Her Days, a tiny woman with dark hair and a 
perpetually clenched jaw, was listening. Standing quietly just outside the gate, 
petting a lanky yellow kitten that she held. Iome could read no reaction on the 
Days' face. Perhaps the Days already knew who this spy was, knew who sent him. 
Yet the Days always claimed to remain completely neutral of political affairs. 
They would answer no questions.
    Iome considered. Corporal Clewes was probably right. The merchant was a spy. 
Her father had his own spies in the Indhopalese Kingdoms.
    But if the killer was a spy, it might be impossible to prove. Still, he'd 
killed two of the City Guard, and wounded Dreys, a sergeant of the King's 
Guard--and for that, by all rights, the merchant should die.
    But in Muyyatin a man who committed a crime in a drunken stupor, even the 
crime of murder, could not be executed.
    Which meant that if her father gave the death sentence, the Muyyatin--and 
all their Indhopalese kinsmen would bridle at the injustice of the execution.
    So they threatened a ban.
    Iome considered the implications of such a ban. The Southern traders 
primarily sold spices--pepper, mace, and salt for curing meats; curry, saffron, 
cinnamon, and others for use in foods; medicinal herbs. But the traders brought 
much more: alum for use in dyeing and tanning hides, along with indigo and 
various other dyes needed for Heredon's wool. And they carried other precious 
goods--ivory, silks, sugar, platinum, blood metal.
    If these traders called a ban on the fair, they'd deal a fearsome blow to at 
least a dozen industries. Even worse, without the spices to preserve food, 
Heredon's poor would not fare well through the winter.
    This year's Master of the Fair, Guildmaster Hollicks--who, as Master the 
Dyers' Guild, stood to lose a fortune if a ban succeeded--was suing for a 
reconciliation. Iome didn't like Hollicks. Too often he'd asked the King to 
raise the import taxes on foreign cloth, hoping thus to holster his own sales. 
But even Hollicks needed the merchandise the Indhopalese brought to trade.
    Just as desperately, the merchants here in Heredon needed to sell their own 
wool and linen and fine steel to the foreigners. Most of the bourgeois traders 
had large amounts of money that they both borrowed and loaned. If a ban were 
enforced, hundreds of wealthy families would go bankrupt. And it was the wealthy 
families of Heredon who paid taxes to support King Sylvarresta's knights.
    Indeed, Sylvarresta had his hand in dozens of trading deals himself. Even he 
could not afford a ban.
    Iome's blood felt as if it would boil. She tried to resign herself to the 
inevitable. Her father would be forced to release the spy, make a 
reconciliation. But she would not like it.
    For in the long run, Iome knew full well, her family could not afford such 
reconciliation's: it was only a matter of time before Raj Ahten, the Wolf Lord 
of Indhopal, made war against the combined kingdoms of Rofehavan. Though traders 
from Indhopal crossed the deserts and mountains now, next year--or the year 
after--the trading would have to stop.
    Why not stop the trading now? Iome wondered. Her father could seize the 
merchandise brought by the foreign caravans--starting the war he'd long hoped to 
avert.
    But she knew he would not do it. King Jas Laren Sylvarresta would not start 
a war. He was too decent a man.
    Poor Chemoise! Her betrothed lay near death, and would not be avenged.
    The girl had no one. Chemoise's mother had died young; her father, a Knight 
Equitable, had been taken captive six years ago while on a quest to Aven.
    "Thank you for the news," Iome told Corporal Clewes. "I will discuss this 
matter with my father."
    Iome hurried up now to the knot of soldiers. Sergeant Dreys lay on a pallet 
in the green grass. An ivory-colored sheet lay over Dreys, pulled up almost to 
his throat. Blood looked as if it had been poured liberally over the sheet, and 
it frothed from the corner of Dreys' mouth. His pale face was covered in sweat. 
The slant of the morning sunlight left him in shadows.
    Corporal Clewes had been right. Iome should not have seen this. All the 
blood, the smell of punctured guts, the impending death--all nauseated her.
    A few children from the castle were up early and had gathered to witness the 
sight. They looked up at Iome, shock and pain in their eyes, as if hoping that 
she could somehow smile and set this whole tragic thing aright.
    Iome rushed to one small girl of nine, Jenessee, and put an arm around the 
girl, then whispered, "Please, take the children away from here."
    Shaking, Jenessee hugged Iome briefly, then did as told.
    A physic knelt over Dreys. Yet the physic seemed in no hurry. He merely 
studied the soldier. When he saw Iome, saw her questioning look, the physic just 
shook his head. He could do nothing
    "Where is the herbalist, Binnesman?" Iome asked, for the wizard was this 
physic's superior in every way.
    "He's gone-to the meadows, gathering costmary. He won't be back until 
tonight."
    Iome shook her head in dismay. It was a terrible time for her master physic 
to be out hunting for herbs to drive spiders from the castle. Yet she should 
have known. The nights were growing colder, and she herself had complained to 
Binnesman yesterday about spiders seeking warmth in her rooms.
    "I fear there is nothing I can do," the physic said. "I dare not move him 
more, for he bleeds too badly. I cannot sew the wounds, but dare not leave them 
open."
    "I could give him an endowment," Chemoise whispered. "I could give him my 
stamina." It was an offer made in pure love. As such, Iome would have wanted to 
honor it.
    "And if you did, would he thank you for it?" the physic asked. "Should you 
die next time the fever season comes around, he'd rue the bargain."
    It was true. Chemoise was a sweet girl, but she showed no sign of having 
more stamina than anyone else. She got fevers in winter, bruised easily. If she 
gave her stamina to Sergeant Dreys, she'd be weak thereafter, more susceptible 
to plagues and ills. She'd never be able to bear him a child, carry it 
full-term.
    "It's only his endowments of stamina that have kept him alive this long," 
Chemoise mused. "A little more--and he might live."
    The physic shook his head. "Taking an endowment, even an endowment of 
stamina, gives some shock to the system. I wouldn't dare try. We can only wait 
and see if he strengthens..."
    Chemoise nodded. She knelt, cleaned the blood bubbling from the corner of 
Drey's lips with the corner of her gray skirt. Dreys breathed hard, filling his 
lungs with air as if each breath would be his last.
    Iome marveled. "Has he been gasping like this long?"
    The physic shook his head, almost imperceptibly, so that Chemoise would not 
see him answer. Dreys was dying.
    They watched over him thus for a long hour, with Dreys gasping more fiercely 
for each failing breath, until, finally, he opened his eyes. He looked up as if 
waking from a troubled sleep.
    "Where?" he gasped, gazing into Chemoise's face.
    "Where is the book?" one of the Castle Guard asked. "We got it--gave it to 
the King."
    Iome wondered what the guard was speaking about. Then blood gurgled from 
Dreys' mouth, and he arched his back, reaching toward Chemoise, grasping her 
hand.
    His breathing stopped altogether.
    Chemoise grabbed the sergeant's head roughly, bent low and whispered 
fiercely, "I wanted to come. I wanted to see you this morning..."
    Then Chemoise burst into tears. The guards and physic all moved away, 
leaving her a few moments to speak some final words of love, in case his spirit 
had not yet fled the dying body. When she finished, she stood.
    Only Corporal Clewes still waited at her back. He drew his battle-axe, 
saluted smartly, touching the cross formed by the blades to the bill of his iron 
cap. He did not salute to Iome, but to Chemoise.
    He sheathed his axe and said softly, repeating his earlier tale, "He called 
for you as he fell, Chemoise."
    Chemoise startled at a thought, looked up at Corporal Clewes and said, "A 
small miracle--that. Most men, when so struck, only manage to gasp once before 
they piddle on themselves."
    She wielded the truth like an open palm, striking back at the man who had 
brought her the bad news. Then she added more mildly, "But thank you, Corporal 
Clewes, for a kind fantasy to ease a lady's pain."
    The corporal blinked twice, turned away, heading toward the Guards' Keep.
    Iome put her hand on Chemoise's back. "We'll get some rags, clean him for 
burial."
    Chemoise stared up at her, eyes going wide, as if she'd just remembered 
something important. "No!" she said. "Let someone else clean him. It doesn't 
matter. He's--his spirit isn't in there. Come on, I know where it is!"
    Chemoise raced down the street toward the King's Gate.
    She led Iome and her Days downhill through the markets, then past the Outer 
Gate to the moat. The fields beyond the moat were already filling with traders 
come for the fair, Southerners in their bright silk tents of cardinal, emerald, 
and saffron. The Pavilions sat arrayed on the south hill, up against the edge of 
the forest, where thousands of mules and horses from the caravans were tethered.
    Past the moat, Chemoise turned left and followed an overgrown trail beside 
the water to a copse on the east side of the castle. A channel had been dug from 
the River Wye to fill the moat; this copse sat between the channel and river.
    From this little rise, one could see upstream the four remaining arches of 
the old stone bridge, spanning a river that glinted like beaten silver. Beyond 
the old bridge stood the new bridge--one whose stonework was in far better 
shape, but which lacked the beautiful statuary that adorned the older bridge, 
images of Heredon's Runelords of old, fighting great battles.
    Iome had often wondered why her father did not destroy the old bridge, have 
the statues placed on the new bridge. But looking at it now, she understood. The 
old statues were rotting, the stone pitted by years of exposure to ice and sun, 
eaten by the lichens that stained the statues in vermilion and canary and dull 
green. There was something picturesque, something venerable about those ancient 
stones.
    The place where Chemoise led Iome to look for Sergeant Dreys' spirit was 
very quiet. The waters in the channel flowed as slowly as honey, as was the 
custom in late summer.
    The high castle walls loomed some eighty feet above the copse, casting blue 
shadows, bruising the waters of the moat. There was no burbling or tinkle. Pink 
water lilies bloomed placidly in the shadows. No wind stirred the air.
    The grass here grew lush. A hoary oak had once spread its branches over the 
river, but lightning had blasted it, and the sun had bleached it white as bone. 
Beneath the oak, an ancient autumn rose made its bower, its trunk as thick as a 
blacksmith's wrist, its old thorns as sharp as nails.
    The rose climbed the oak some thirty feet, creating a natural bower. Roses 
of purest white hung above Chemoise, like enormous stars in a dark-green sky.
    Chemoise took a place on the grass beneath the rose bower. The lush grass 
here was bent. Iome imagined that it had been used as a bed for lovers.
    Iome glanced over her shoulder at her Days. The thin woman stood atop the 
copse, some forty feet back, arms folded, head bowed. Listening.
    Then Chemoise did an odd thing in the privacy afforded by the rosebush: she 
lay on the grass and hiked her skirts up a little higher on her hips, and just 
lay, with legs spread. It was a shocking pose, and Iome felt embarrassed to see 
such a thing. Chemoise looked for all the world as if she waited for a lover to 
take her.
    On the banks of the river, frogs chirped. A dragonfly as blue as if it had 
been dipped in indigo flew near Chemoise's knee, hovered, flew away.
    The air was so still, so silent. It was so beautiful, Iome imagined that 
Sergeant Dreys' spirit really might come.
    All through the walk here, Chemoise had remained calm, but suddenly tears 
spilled over her long lashes, ran in rivulets down her face.
    Iome lay beside the girl, put an arm over her chest, held her, the way that 
he must have.
    "You've been here before, with him?" Iome asked.
    Chemoise nodded. "Many times. We were supposed to meet here this morning." 
At first, Iome wondered how--how did they get outside the city gates at night? 
But of course Dreys was a sergeant, in the King's Guard.
    The notion was scandalous. As Iome's Maid of Honor, it was Chemoise's duty 
to see that her mistress remained pure and undefiled. When Iome became betrothed 
Chemoise would have to swear to Iome's virtue.
    Chemoise's lip began trembling. She whispered low so that the Days could not 
hear: "He filled me with child, I think, six weeks ago." At the confession, 
Chemoise reached up and bit her own knuckle, punishing herself. By carrying this 
child, Chemoise brought dishonor to Iome.
    Who would believe any oath that Chemoise swore, if one could see that she 
herself had been defiled?
    Iome's Days might know that Iome was virtuous, but the Days was sworn to 
silence by her own vows. She would never reveal any detail so long as Iome 
lived. Only when Iome died would the Days publish the chronicles of her life.
    Iome shook her head in dismay. Ten days. In ten days Chemoise was to have 
been married, and then no one would have been able to prove that she'd been 
unchaste. But with her betrothed dead, the whole city would soon find out.
    "We can send you away," Iome said. "We can send you to my uncle's estate in 
Welkshire. We'll tell everyone that you're a newlywed, newly widowed. No one 
will know."
    'No!" Chemoise blurted. "It's not my reputation I worry about. It's yours! 
Who will swear for you, when you become betrothed? I won't be able to!"
    Plenty of women at court can serve in that capacity," Iome lied. If she sent 
Chemoise away, it could still tarnish Iome's reputation. Some people might think 
that Iome had disposed of her Maid of Honor in order to hide her own 
indiscretion.
    But Iome couldn't worry about such things now, couldn't consider her own 
reputation when her friend hurt so.
    "Maybe, maybe you could marry soon?" Chemoise said. At nearly seventeen, 
Iome was certainly old enough. "The Prince of Internook wants you. And 
then--I've heard--King Orden is bringing his son for Hostenfest..."
    Iome drew a sharp breath. King Sylvarresta had spoken to Iome several times 
during the past winter, hinting that the time would soon come for her to marry. 
Now her father's oldest friend was finally bringing his son to Heredon. Iome 
knew full well what that meant--and she felt shocked that she'd not been 
forewarned. "When did you hear this?"
    "Two days ago," Chemoise said. "King Orden sent word. Your father didn't 
want you to know. He...didn't want you to be in an excitable humor."
    Iome bit her lip. She had no desire to become allied with King Orden's 
spawn--would never have considered it for a moment.
    But if Iome accepted Prince Orden's proposal, then Chemoise could still 
fulfill her obligation as Maid of Honor. So long as no one knew that Chemoise 
carried a child, then her sworn statement of Iome's fidelity would not be 
challenged.
    Iome bristled at the thought. It seemed unfair. She wouldn't consent to a 
hasty marriage just to save her reputation.
    As the anger flared in her, Iome stood. "Come on," she said. "We're going to 
see my father."
    "Why?" Chemoise asked.
    "We'll make this Indhopalese assassin pay for his murder!" Iome hadn't 
realized what she intended to do. But she was angry now, angry with her father 
for not telling her about the impending proposal, angry with Chemoise for her 
embarrassing lack of scruples, angry that Raj Ahten's assassins could murder 
Heredon's guards--and that the city's merchants would then beg their king for 
clemency.
    Well, Iome could do something about this mess.
    Chemoise looked up. "Please, I need to stay here."
    Then Iome understood. An old wives' tale said that if a man died while his 
lover carried his child, the woman could capture her lover's spirit in the 
unformed child, so that he would be born again. Chemoise only needed to be 
present at sunset in the place where she'd first conceived, so that the father's 
ghost might find her.
    Iome couldn't believe Chemoise would put credence in that old fable, yet she 
dared not deny the girl such a boon. Letting her sleep under the rose bower 
could do no harm, would only cause Chemoise to love her babe more fiercely.
    "I'll see that you come back before sunset," Iome said. "And you can stay an 
hour after. If Dreys can come to you, he'll do so then. But for now, I must 
speak to the King."
    Before speaking to the King, Iome took her Maid of Honor to look upon Dreys' 
murderer, while the silent but omnipresent Days followed at Iome's heel.
    They found the spice merchant chained in the dungeon beneath the Soldiers' 
Keep, the sole occupant of that dreadful place. Iron shackles and cages hung 
from the stone walls, and the whole dungeon carried the scent of ancient death. 
Huge beetles scurried about. In one far corner of the dungeon was a great hole, 
the oubliette, where prisoners could be kept. The sides of the hole were stained 
from urine and feces, for those condemned to that awful hole lived in the muck 
that guards threw down from above.
    Dreys' murderer was chained hand and foot to a post. He was a young man, 
perhaps twenty-two.
    His eyes were dark, as dark as Iome's, but his skin was more brown. He 
smelled strongly of anise, curry, garlic and olive oil, as did the rest his 
countrymen. The murderer had been stripped to nothing but a breechcloth. Both 
his legs were broken. A ring had been ripped from his nose. His jaw was swollen. 
Fresh welts covered his face and ribs. Someone had bitten a chunk out of his 
shoulder. He'd live.
    On his thin ribs, one could see runes of power branded into the flesh, white 
scars each about an inch to the side. Five runes of brawn, three of grace, one 
of stamina, one of wit, one of metabolism, one of hearing, two of sight.
    No merchant in Heredon wore so many runes of power. This man was a soldier, 
an assassin. Iome felt certain.
    But mere feelings were not proof. In the South, where blood metal was mined, 
merchants could purchase the precious metals used to make forcibles more easily, 
then purchase endowments from the poor.
    Though Iome doubted that this man was a merchant, his overabundance of 
endowments alone could not convict him.
    Chemoise stared deep into the prisoner's eyes, then slapped his face, just 
once.
    Afterward, the two young women went to the King's Keep. King Sylvarresta was 
in the informal audience chamber on the first story. He sat on a bench in the 
corner, talking softly with Iome's mother, a rather somber Chancellor Rodderman, 
and a terrified Guildmaster Hollicks.
    Fresh rushes had been strewn over the floorboards, mixed with balm and 
pennyroyal. Three hounds sat before the empty hearth. A cleaning girl was 
polishing the unused tongs and pokers, Iome's Days immediately crossed the room, 
went to stand out of the way with the King's Days, and the Queen's.
    As Iome entered the hall, her father glanced up expectantly. Sylvarresta was 
not a vain man. He wore no crown, and his only ring was a signet, which he kept 
chained to his neck. He preferred to be called "Lord" rather than King. But one 
could see he was a king when one looked into his gray eyes.
    Guildmaster Hollicks, though, was another matter. He wore gaudy clothes--a 
shirt with false sleeves, parti-colored pants, a vest and half cape with cowl, 
in a rainbow of complementary colors. He was Master of the Dyers' Guild; his 
clothes advertised his wares. Beyond this penchant for gaudy attire, Hollicks 
was not a bad man. He showed uncommonly good sense, and would have been likable, 
if not for the way his unsightly black nose hairs formed half his mustache.
    "Ah," King Sylvarresta said on seeing Iome, "I'd thought you might be 
someone else. Have you seen any of the foresters this morning? Were they in the 
bailey?"
    "No, milord," Iome answered.
    The King nodded thoughtfully at this news, then said softly to Chemoise, "My 
condolences. It is a sad day for us all. Your betrothed was admired--a promising 
soldier."
    Chemoise nodded, her face suddenly pale again. She curtsied. "Thank you, 
milord."
    "You won't let this assassin get away with murder, will you?" Iome asked. 
"You should have killed him by now!"
    "You see," Hollicks blurted in his high voice, "you're all leaping to 
conclusions. You have no proof that this was anything other than an unfortunate, 
drunken brawl!"
    King Sylvarresta strode to the door to the hall, looked into the courtyard a 
moment, then closed the door, shutting them all in.
    The room suddenly became dark, shadowed, for only two small windows with 
wooden shutters stood open.
    King Sylvarresta strode across the room, head bent in thought. "Despite Your 
pleas for leniency, Master Hollicks, I know this man is a spy."
    Hollicks feigned an expression of incredulity. "You have proof?" he asked, 
as if he held serious doubts.
    "While you were off entertaining your whining cronies," King Sylvarresta 
said, "I had Captain Derrow track the man's scent. One of my far-seers spotted 
this same man yesterday just after dawn. He'd been on a roof in town, and we 
feared he'd been counting guards to the Dedicates' Keep. We tried to catch him 
then, but lost him in the market.
    "Now he shows up again today. It is no coincidence. Derrow said the man had 
not been within a hostel all night. Instead, he followed Dreys from outside the 
gates by climbing the Outer Wall. He killed Dreys because he was searching for 
this..." Sylvarresta pulled out a slim tome bound in tan-colored lambskin. "It's 
a book, a very strange book."
    Hollicks frowned at that news. It was bad enough to have the trader accused 
of spying. He didn't wish to see any damning evidence mount against the man.
    "So," Hollicks said, "is that your proof? A drunken man is wont to do 
strange things, you know. Why, my stablemaster, Wallis, climbs our apple trees 
every time the liquor has him. The fact that Dreys had a book means nothing."
    Lord Sylvarresta shook his head woefully. "No, the book has a note in it, 
addressed to me, from the Emir of Tuulistan. He is blind, you know. His castle 
was taken by Raj Ahten, and the Wolf Lord forced the Emir to give an endowment 
of sight. Yet the Emir wrote the story of his life, and sent it to me."
    "He wrote his own chronicles?" Iome asked, wondering why anyone, much less a 
blind man, would bother when the Days watched their every move, and wrote the 
chronicles after their deaths.
    "Is there news of battles in it?" Hollicks asked. "Does it describe anything 
of import?"
    "Many battles," the King said. "The Emir tells how Raj Ahten broke his 
defenses and took neighboring castles. I've only had time to glance at the book, 
but it may prove important. Important enough that Raj Ahten's spy felt he needed 
to kill Dreys to retrieve the book."
    "But--the Southerner's papers are in order!" Hollicks objected. "He has a 
dozen letters of commends from various merchants in his pouch. He has loans to 
repay! He is a merchant, I tell you! You still have no proof against him!"
    And he has more endowments than any merchant you've ever seen,"
    Sylvarresta said, "and they are a warrior's mix in proportion." ;Hollicks 
seemed deflated by this. 
    Iome s father mused, "You know, twenty years ago, when I went south to court 
Lady Sylvarresta in Jomateel, I once played chess with Raj Ahten himself." 
Sylvarresta glanced at his wife, put a comforting hand on Hollicks' shoulder.
    Iome's mother stirred uncomfortably. She did not like being reminded that 
she was the Wolf Lord's cousin.
    "Do you know how he opened?" King Sylvarresta asked.
    "King's pawn to king four?" Hollicks guessed, choosing the most common 
opening.
    "No. King's knight to king's wizard three. An unusual opening."
    "Is this significant?" Hollicks asked.
    "It is how he played the game. He left his pawns at home, and attacked with 
his knights, wizards, castles, queen--even brought out his king. Rather than 
seeking to control the center of the board, he attacked with pieces he felt 
could seize control even at the far corners."
    King Sylvarresta waited for the merchant to grasp the import of what he was 
saying, but Hollicks seemed oblivious. The King put it more simply: "That spice 
merchant in the dungeon--he is one of Raj Ahten's knights. The calluses inside 
his thumb come from years of sword practice."
    Hollicks considered this. "Surely you don't believe Raj Ahten will come 
here?"
    "Oh, he's coming," Sylvarresta said. "That's why we've sent a thousand 
knights, plus squires and archers, to fortify Castle Dreis." Iome's father 
failed to mention that seventeen kings of Rofehavan planned to meet in two 
months, to discuss strategies should Raj Ahten invade. Apparently her father 
felt it was not the merchant's business.
    Iome's mother, Queen Venetta Sylvarresta, could have told some tales to 
frighten Master Hollicks.
    Iome's mother once told Iome how her cousin "Young Ahten," at the age of 
eight, had visited her father's keep. Venetta's father had thrown the boy a 
feast, inviting all the captains of the King's Guard, various counselors, and 
important merchants to the extravaganza. When the tables were laid out, piled 
with roast peacocks and puddings and wine, Venetta's father invited young Raj 
Ahten to speak. The boy then stood, turned and addressed Venetta's father, 
asking, "Is this feast not in my honor, a gift to me?"
    Venetta's father had answered, "Indeed, it is all in your honor."
    The boy then indicated the hundred guests with a sweep of his hand, and 
said, "If this is my feast, then send these people away. I will not have them 
eating my dinner."
    Appalled, the guests departed in outrage, leaving the boy with more food 
than he could consume in a year.
    Iome's mother used to say that if her father had been wiser, he'd have slit 
the rapacious child's throat then.
    For years, Venetta had tried to convince King Sylvarresta of the necessity 
of striking the first blow, of crushing Raj Ahten when he was young. Somehow, 
Iome's father never believed the boy would conquer all twenty-two kingdoms in 
Indhopal.
    Iome urged her father now, "So you will put this spy to death? You must 
insist on justice."
    Lord Sylvarresta answered, "I will have justice. Raj Ahten will pay dearly. 
But I won't kill the knight."
    At this news, Hollicks sighed in relief.
    Iome must have appeared crestfallen, for her father quickly added. "Your 
idealistic solution to this matter is laudable, but hardly practical. We can't 
execute the spy."
    "So, I'll hold him ransom."
    "Ransom?" Hollicks asked. "Raj Ahten will never admit that this spy is his 
man!"
    Iome smiled to hear Hollicks finally admit that the man was a spy.
    "Of course not," King Sylvarresta said. "But the Indhopal merchants claim 
him as their own. They'll pay the ransom to save the fair. It's a common 
practice in Indhopal. They say a farmer can hardly go to market without coming 
home to find the neighbors holding his pigs hostage."
    "And how can you be sure they'll pay?" Iome asked.
    "Because the merchants want to save the fair. And because, I believe, Raj 
Ahten has soldiers hiding in the Dunnwood, waiting for the information this man 
will give. At least some of these merchants must know this--which is why they 
are so hasty to demand the fellow's release. So they will be eager to ransom the 
spy lest we manage to torture a confession from him."
    "And why do you suspect that warriors are hiding in the Dunnwood?" Hollicks 
asked.
    "Because days ago I sent five foresters into the woods to find out where the 
largest boars are laying up before next week's hunt. They were to report to me 
yesterday morning. None have returned. Five men. Had it been one, I'd suspect an 
accident. But these were trustworthy men. Nothing would keep them from obeying 
my command. They've either been captured, or killed. I've sent scouts to confirm 
my fears, but I think we already know what they'll find."
    Hollicks' face paled at this news.
    "So, Raj Ahten's soldiers hide in the Dunnwood, and they need to attack 
within the next three days--before the hunts begin, lest they be discovered." 
King Sylvarresta folded his hands behind his back, paced over to the hearth.
    "Will it be a large battle, milord?" Hollicks asked.
    Sylvarresta shook his head. "I doubt it. Only some prewar maneuvering is 
likely, so late of the year. I think we have a band of assassins out there. 
They'll either strike the Dedicates' Keep, seeking to weaken me, or they'll 
strike at the royal family itself."
    "But, what of us merchants?" Hollicks said. "Couldn't they as easily strike 
our manors? Why, why, no one is safe!"
    The idea that Raj Ahten would strike at the bourgeois seemed ludicrous.
    Sylvarresta laughed. "Come, old friend, bolt your doors tonight, and you'll 
have nothing to fear. But now, I need your counsel. We must set a price for this 
'merchant's' ransom. How much damage shall we say he caused the King?"
    "I would say a thousand silver hawks," Hollicks answered cautiously.
    Iome had listened to her father, followed his reasoning and found it both 
flawless and infuriating. "I don't like the idea of ransoming this spy. It's...a 
form of surrender. Certainly, you aren't considering Chemoise's feelings! Her 
betrothed was murdered!"
    King Sylvarresta looked up at Chemoise, a certain sadness, a certain 
pleading in the troubled creases around his eyes. Chemoise's tears had dried, 
yet Iome's father looked as if he could see the sadness still burning there. "I 
am sorry, Chemoise. You trust me, don't you? You trust I am doing the right 
thing? If I am right, you'll have that murderer's head on a stick by the end of 
the week--plus a thousand silver hawks of the ransom money."
    "Of course, as you please, milord," Chemoise said. She could hardly debate 
the matter.
    "Good," Sylvarresta said, taking Chemoise's words at face value. "Now, 
Master Hollicks, let's consider that ransom. A thousand pieces of silver, you 
say? Then it's good you're not king. We'll start by demanding twenty times 
that--along with fifty pounds of mace, fifty of pepper, and two thousand of 
salt. And I'll want blood metal. How much have the traders weighed in this 
year?"
    "Why, I don't know for certain!" Hollicks said, all a bluster at the King's 
outrageous demands.
    King Sylvarresta raised a brow in question. Hollicks knew how much blood 
metal was available to the ounce. Ten years before, in recognition of Hollicks' 
service to the King, Sylvarresta had granted the merchant a Petition to take out 
an endowment of wit. Though an endowment of wit did not make the merchant any 
wiser or more creative or let him think more clearly, that endowment did let 
Hollicks remember trivial details almost faultlessly.
    Taking an endowment of wit was like opening a door into another man's mind. 
A man who got an endowment of wit suddenly had the capacity to enter a mind and 
store whatever he liked, while the man who gave the wit had the doors of memory 
barred and was forbidden to even peek at the contents hidden within his own 
skull. Now Hollicks stored his tallies in the mind of his Dedicate.
    Indeed, it was said that the guildmaster could quote every contract he'd 
ever written, word for word; Hollicks always knew to the moment when his loans 
came due.
    Certainly, he knew how much blood metal the Southern traders had weighed out 
in the past week. As Master of the Fair, he was in charge of assuring that all 
goods were properly weighed, that products sold were of highest quality.
    "I...uh, so far, the Southern merchants have weighed in only thirteen pounds 
of blood metal. They...say the mines in Kartish have not produced well this 
year..."
    Enough to make less than a hundred forcibles. Hollicks cringed, as if 
Sylvarresta might fly into rage at the news.
    Iome's father nodded thoughtfully. "I doubt Raj Ahten knows that so much 
made it across his borders. We won't see any more, next year. Then to our tally 
of damages, add a ransom of thirty pounds of blood metal."
    "They don't have that much!" Master Hollicks complained.
    "They'll find it," Sylvarresta said. "If they're smuggling it in, they'll 
have some secreted away.
    "Now, go, send word to our foreign friends. Tell them that the King is 
beside himself with rage. Urge them to act quickly, for Sylvarresta can hardly 
be restrained from taking vengeance. Tell them that even now, I'm in my buttery, 
getting blind drunk on brandy, vacillating about whether I should torture 
secrets from the man first, or if I should just slit his belly and strangle him 
with his own guts."
    "Aye, milord," Hollicks said, flustered. The parti-colored merchant bowed 
and took his leave, sweating profusely at the thought of the negotiations about 
to begin.
    During this whole discussion, the somber Chancellor Rodderman had kept 
silent, sitting on a bench by the Queen, narrowly studying the exchange between 
the King and the Master of the Fair. Sometimes he stroked his long white 
sideburns. When Hollicks left, the chancellor said, "Your Grace, do you think 
you'll get that much ransom?"
    Lord Sylvarresta said simply, "Let us hope."
    Iome knew her father needed money. The costs of armor and endowments and 
supplies associated with waging the upcoming war would be onerous.
    Sylvarresta glanced about. "Now, Chancellor, fetch me Captain Derrow. If I 
am not mistaken, we shall be visited by assassins tonight. We must arrange a 
proper greeting."
    The chancellor got up stiffly, rubbed the small of his back and then left.
    Iome's father looked deep in thought. As she prepared to leave, a nagging 
question took her. "Father, when you played chess with Raj Ahten, who came off 
victor?"
    King Sylvarresta smiled appreciatively. "He did."
    Iome began to leave, but another perplexing question came to mind. "Father, 
now that we've seen Raj Ahten's knight, should we prepare for him to bring out 
his wizards?"
    Her father's frown was answer enough.

     
     
Chapter 4
ADDLEBERRY WINE
     
    Borenson studied Gaborn's eyes. "Do I feel anything, milord? What do you 
mean? Like hunger, excitement? I feel many things."
    Gaborn couldn't quite express the odd sensation that assailed him in the 
market at Bannisferre. "No, nothing so ordinary. It's like...the 
earth...trembling in anticipation? Or..." He suddenly caught an image in his 
mind. "It's like that moment when you put your hand to the plow, and you thrill 
to see dark soil fold over, knowing that the seeds will soon be in the ground, 
and fruit will come of it. Endless trees and fields spreading across the 
horizon."
    It was odd, but the image came to mind with such force that Gaborn could not 
think to say anything else. Words did not suffice for what he felt, for he could 
literally feel his hand wrapping around the worn wooden handles of the plow, 
feel the strain of the lines from the ox cutting into his back, feel the keen 
edge of the plow biting into the soil, turning over dark dirt, discovering 
worms. He could taste the metallic tang of soil in his mouth, see fields and 
forests streaming out before him. His pockets were heavy with seeds, ready to 
plant.
    He felt as if he were experiencing all these things at once, and he wondered 
if any gardener had really ever felt such a keen thrill of anticipation as the 
one that assailed him at this moment. Oddest of all, Gaborn had never done these 
things--had never hitched himself to a plow or stooped to plant the earth.
    Yet he wished at this moment that he had. He wished that at this very 
second, he stood in the earth.
    Myrrima looked at him strangely. Gaborn's Days gave no reply, playing the 
invisible observer.
    But Borenson's eyes shone with laughter. "Milord, I think you have had too 
much air today. Your face is pale and sweaty. Do you feel well?"
    "I feel...very...healthy," Gaborn said, wondering if he was ill. Wondering 
if he was mad. Few weaknesses ever impaired a Runelord. An endowment of wit 
could repair a lord with poor memory, an endowment of stamina could bolster a 
sickly king. But madness...
    "Well then," Gaborn said, suddenly wanting to be alone with his thoughts, to 
consider what could cause these profound feelings of...planting, "I think you 
two should spend some time getting acquainted--the afternoon."
    "My lord, I am your body--" Borenson said, not willing to leave his side. 
Gaborn could count the times on his fingers when Borenson had been away for more 
than a night.
    "And I will be lounging in a hostel, with nothing more dangerous than a 
joint of pork before me." Borenson could hardly refuse. Custom dictated that he 
go privately to the woman's house to beg her hand in marriage. With a witless 
mother and no father, custom might be somewhat circumvented in this case, but it 
could not be put aside entirely.
    "Are you certain? I don't think this is wise," Borenson said, his manner 
becoming deadly earnest. Gaborn was in a strange country, after all, and he was 
heir apparent to the wealthiest nation in Rofehavan.
    "Just go, will you?" Gaborn urged them, smiling. "If it makes you feel 
better, I promise that as soon as I lunch, I will go to my room and bolt the 
door."
    "We'll be back well before dark," Myrrima said.
    Gaborn said, "No, I'll seek out your home. I'd like to meet your kind 
sisters, and your mother."
    Myrrima urged, breathlessly, "Across the Himmeroft Bridge--four miles down 
the Bluebell Way, a gray cabin in the meadow."
    Borenson shook his head adamantly. "No, I'll come back for you. I won't have 
you riding alone."
    "Farewell, then, until this afternoon," Gaborn said. He watched them scurry 
off through the crowd, hand-in-hand, a certain lightness to their steps.
    For a few moments, Gaborn stayed in the market, watching an entertainer who 
had trained albino doves to do all manner of aerial acrobatics; then he wandered 
the cobbled streets of Bannisferre, every step dogged by his Days.
    In the city's center towered a dozen graystone songhouses, six and seven 
stories tall, with elaborate friezes and statuary about them.
    On the steps of one songhouse, a handsome young woman sang a delicate aria, 
accompanied by woodwinds and harp. A group of peasants crowded round. Her voice 
drifted hauntingly, echoing from the tall stone buildings, mesmerizing. She 
merely advertised, of course. She hoped to attract an audience for her 
performance later tonight.
    Gaborn decided he would attend, bring Borenson and Myrrima.
    Sturdy bathhouses and gymnasiums squatted farther down the street. On the 
broad avenues, several carriages could maneuver with ease. Fine shops displayed 
bone china, silver goods, and gentlemen's weaponry.
    Bannisferre was a young city, less than four hundred years old. It had 
started simply as a meeting ground for local farmers to exchange wares, until 
iron was discovered along the Durkin Hills. The ironsmiths opened a foundry, 
where the quality of the goods soon attracted a wealthy clientele who demanded 
fine accommodations and entertainment.
    So Bannisferre had grown to be a center for the arts, attracting smiths who 
worked iron, silver, and gold; ceramists famed for their cloisonné and bone 
china; glassblowers who constructed bewitching mugs and vases in magnificent 
colors--until finally, the city became crowded with craftsmen and performers 
from all walks of life.
    Bannisferre was a fine place, a city free of grime. Now everywhere it was 
festooned with images of the Earth King--elaborate wooden images, painted and 
dressed with loving care. The streets had no urchins running about underfoot. 
And the reeves hereabout were dressed in fine leather coats with gold brocade, 
as if they were just another adornment to Bannisferre, not working lawmen.
    Somehow, the loveliness of this place saddened Gaborn. The city's defenses 
seemed woefully inadequate. It was built beside a river, without benefit of a 
fortress. A low wall of rocks around the city would barely repel a cavalry 
charge--and then only if the cavalry was not riding force horses, perhaps a few 
soldiers could hold out for a bit in the songhouses, skirmishing among the 
statuary.
    No, in a war, Bannisferre would be overrun, its beauty defiled. The graceful 
songhouses and bathhouses were made of stone, but the stonework was wrought for 
ornament, not with defense in mind. The doorways were too wide, the windows too 
expansive. Even the bridges across River Dwindell were wide enough so carriages 
could drive across four abreast. They could not be easily defended.
    Gaborn returned to the South Market, ambled back through the cloud of 
honeybees into the shade of his hostel.
    He intended to keep his promise to Borenson, keep safe. He found a corner 
table, ordered a dinner suitable to a refined palate, then rested his feet on 
the table.
    His Days sat across from him. Gaborn felt like celebrating Borenson's good 
fortune. He tossed a silver coin to a towheaded servant boy perhaps five years 
younger than himself. "Bring us wine. Something sweet for the Days. Addleberry 
for me."
    "Yes, sir," the boy answered. Gaborn looked around. The room was fairly 
empty. Three dozen chairs, but only a few of them filled. At the far end of the 
room, two gentlemen of dark complexion sat talking softly about the relative 
virtues of different inns in town. A few greenbottle flies wheeled in slow 
circles. Outside, a pig squealed in the market.
    Toward evening, the inn would fill.
    The serving boy returned with two brown clay mugs and two genuine bottles of 
yellow glass, not the hide flasks used in the south. Each bottle had a red wax 
seal over the cap, with the initial B inscribed. It seemed a fine vintage, the 
bottles well aged and covered with grime. Gaborn was not used to such nice 
drink. Wine laid up in bags turned vinegary after six months.
    The boy poured a draught for each man, then left the bottles on the table. 
Moisture began to condense on the bottles. They were that cold.
    Gaborn studied the bottles absently, reached out with an index finger and 
touched the dust on a bottle, tasted the soil. Good, sweet earth. Good for 
planting.
    The Days took a swallow of wine, regarded it carefully. "Hmmm..." he said. 
"I've never tasted anything so fine." In seconds he downed the whole mug, 
thought a moment, then poured himself a second.
    Gaborn simply stared at the Days. He'd never seen the like. The Days was 
such a sober man--he never drank to excess. Neither did he womanize or waste 
time with any other form of diversion. He was singularly committed to his 
discipline, to chronicling the lives of kings on behalf of the Time Lords. Since 
he was twinned with another--each man having given the other an endowment of 
wit--the two completed a circle. Both men shared a single mind, knowing the same 
things. Such sharing usually led to madness, both members of the pair struggling 
for control of the joint minds. But somewhere, in a monastery in the isles 
beyond Orwynne, Days' partner transcribed all that Days learned. It was only 
because the two Days had given complete control of their own identities to their 
order that they both survived.
    So it was odd to watch a Days guzzle wine. It was an extraordinarily selfish 
act.
    Gaborn tasted his own wine. Addleberry wine was not truly made with any kind 
of berry, only with sweet grapes that were treated with herbs--such as vervain, 
evening primrose, and elderflower--that stimulated thought and reduced the 
detrimental effects of alcohol. It tasted spicier, less sweet than common wine, 
and the cost tended to be prohibitive. Its name was a jest: ironically, 
addleberry wine did not dull the wits, but instead stimulated them. If one were 
to be intoxicated, Gaborn reasoned, it was best to be intoxicated on insight.
    Here in the inn, with the pleasant smells of cooking bread and pork, Gaborn 
felt a little more at ease. He took a couple of sips of wine, found it 
surprisingly good, but not as addictive as the vintage Days guzzled.
    Yet Gaborn still worried. Outside, an hour earlier, he'd felt an odd rush of 
power. Outside, he'd just married off his bodyguard, and he'd congratulated 
himself on doing so. But inside the hostel, it seemed...so peculiar. An 
impulsive, childish thing to do.
    Though he'd someday be sovereign over one of the world's great realms, under 
normal circumstances he'd never have dared use his position to act as a 
matchmaker.
    Gaborn wondered. He was shouldered with the responsibility of becoming a 
king. But what kind of king would he make, if he did such foolish things?
    In the House of Understanding, in the Room of the Heart, Hearthmaster 
Ibirmarle had once said, "Not even a Runelord can rule affairs of the heart. 
Only a fool would try."
    Yet Gaborn had convinced Borenson to take a wife.
    What if he ends up hating her? Gaborn wondered. Will he resent what I've 
done?
    It was such a muddling thought. And what of Myrrima? Would she love 
Borenson?
    The Days began drinking his second mug of wine, downed it in a few gulps 
despite his attempts at restraint.
    "I did a good thing, didn't I?" Gaborn said. "I mean, Borenson is a good 
man, isn't he? He'll love her."
    The Days smiled a tight-lipped smile, watching Gaborn from slitted eyes. 
"There is a saying among our kind: Good deeds portend good fortune."
    Gaborn considered the words "our kind." Though the Days were human, they 
considered themselves as creatures apart. Perhaps they were right.
    Their service to the Time Lords required great sacrifices. They forsook home 
and family, loyalties to any king. Instead, these mysterious men and women 
simply studied the great lords, wrote the chronicles, published the deeds of a 
man's life when he died, and in all other ways remained aloof from common 
politics.
    Yet Gaborn did not entirely trust these watchers, with their secretive 
smiles. They only feigned aloofness in the affairs of men, of that Gaborn felt 
certain. Every Runelord was followed by a Days who recorded his words and deeds. 
Sometimes, when two Days met, they reported to one another in coded phrases. 
Gaborn's ancestors had been studying the Days for generations, trying to break 
their codes.
    But how aloof were they really? Gaborn suspected that the Days had sometimes 
betrayed secrets to enemy kings. Certain battles could only have been won on the 
advice of informers--informers who were probably Days. Yet if as a group the 
Days took sides in wars between nations, neither Gaborn nor anyone else had ever 
been able to determine where the Days placed their allegiance.
    No discernible battle lines were drawn. Evil kings prospered from Days' 
spying as often as did good. And no king could escape them. Some kings had tried 
ridding themselves of the Days, either through assassination or banishment. But 
such kings never reigned for another season. As a group, the Days were too 
powerful. Any king who dared strike down one Days would discover just how much 
information a Days' partner could divulge. Distressing information would be 
revealed to enemy kings, fortunes would be ruined, peasants would revolt.
    No one could defy the Days. Nor did Gaborn feel certain that any man should 
want to do so. An old adage went, "A man who will not bear scrutiny cannot bear 
a crown." It was said that those words were given by the Glories themselves, 
when the Days were first partnered to the kings. "A Runelord should be a servant 
to man," the Glories had said.
    So Gaborn's title came with a price. He would never be free of this man, 
never be alone. Though he might rule a kingdom, some things were right-fully 
denied even to Gaborn.
    Lost in thought, Gaborn wondered once again about Borenson. The man was a 
soldier, and soldiers did not necessarily make good lords, for they were trained 
to solve every problem through use of force. Gaborn's father preferred to sell 
titles to merchants, who were trained to barter for what they wanted. Gaborn 
suddenly realized that the Days had never fully answered him, had avoided the 
question.
    "I said, 'Borenson is a good man, isn't he?' "
    The Days looked up, his head nodding just a bit. The disciple was well on 
his way to being solidly drunk. He poured more wine. "Not nearly so good as you, 
Your Lordship. But he'll make her happy enough, I'd wager."
    Your Lordship. Not my lord.
    "But he's a good man, isn't he?" Gaborn asked a third time, suddenly angry 
at the Days' evasion.
    The Days looked away, started to mumble something.
    Gaborn struck the table hard enough so the wine bottles jumped and the mugs 
clanked. He shouted, "Answer me!"
    The Days gaped in surprise. He knew to take warning. Fists would soon fly. 
Gaborn had endowments of brawn from three men. His blow could kill a commoner.
    "Hah--what does it matter, Your Lordship?" the Days averred, struggling to 
clear his muddled thoughts. "You've never worried about his goodness before. 
You've never questioned his moral fiber."
    The Days took another swig of wine, seemed to want more, but thought better 
of it and carefully set the mug aside.
    Why am I questioning Borenson's moral character? Gaborn wondered, and the 
answers flowed to him: Because you were drinking addleberry wine and noticed how 
Days tried to evade the question. Because Myrrima said that Princess Iome doubts 
your own goodness, and now you are worrying at what others think. 
Because...because you know that any lout can win a parcel of land, but it takes 
a special kind of king to win the hearts of his people.
    Gaborn hoped to win the hearts of Iome and her people. But he dared not 
reveal details of his plan to Days--or to anyone. If Gaborn's father, King 
Orden, learned what Gaborn planned, the King might try to stop him.
    The wine was having its way with Gaborn now, bringing the world into focus. 
But Gaborn would not be sidetracked from his questioning by other observations. 
"Answer my question, Days! What do you think of Borenson ?"
    The Days put both hands on the table, screwed up his courage. "As you wish, 
Your Lordship: I once asked Borenson what his favorite animal is, and he told me 
he 'admires dogs.' I asked him why, and he answered: 'I love to hear them snarl. 
I love the way they greet strangers with senseless aggression.' "
    Gaborn laughed. It was the kind of perfect thing Borenson would say. The man 
was a terror in battle.
    The Days seemed relieved by Gaborn's good humor. He leaned forward 
conspiratorially. "To tell you the truth, Your Lordship, I think Borenson 
admires another attribute in dogs. One he did not name."
    "Which is?"
    "Loyalty."
    Gaborn laughed harder. "So, Borenson is a dog?"
    "No. He only aspires to be one. If I may be so bold, I fear he has all of 
dog's finest virtues but loyalty."
    "So you don't believe he is a good man?"
    "He's an assassin. A butcher, Your Lordship. That is why he is captain of 
your guard."
    This angered Gaborn. The Days was wrong. The historian smiled drunkenly, 
took another swig to fortify his courage.
    The Days continued, "In fact, none of your friends are very good people, 
Your Lordship. You don't value virtue in your friends."
    "What do you mean?" Gaborn asked. He'd always thought his friends had an 
acceptable level of virtue.
    "It is simple, Your Lordship," the Days said. "Some men pick their friends 
based on looks, others on wealth or political station, others on common 
interests. Some choose friends based on their virtue. But you do not value any 
of these traits, highly."
    It was true, Gaborn had friends among the ugly, the powerless. His friend 
Eldon Parris sold roasted rabbits in a public market. And Gaborn also enjoyed 
the company of more than one person who might best be described as a scoundrel.
    "Then how do I pick my friends?" Gaborn asked.
    "Because you are young, you value men based upon their insights into the 
human heart, Your Lordship."
    This statement struck Gaborn like a blast of air off a frozen lake. It was 
stunning, refreshingly honest, and, of course, obviously true.
    "I had never noticed..."
    The Days laughed. "It's one of the seven keys to understanding motives. I 
fear, young master Gaborn, you are lousy at picking friends. Hah! I sometimes 
imagine how it will be when you are a king: You'll surround yourselves with 
eccentrics, and scholars. In no time they'll have you taking garlic enemas and 
wearing pointy shoes! Hah!"
    "Seven keys? Where did you learn such lore?" Gaborn asked.
    "In the Room of Dreams," the Days said. Then he suddenly sat up straight, 
recognizing his mistake.
    In the House of Understanding, the Room of Dreams was forbidden to 
Runelords. The secrets one learned there, of human motivations and desires, were 
considered by scholars to be too powerful to put in the hands of a king.
    Gaborn smiled triumphantly at this little tidbit, raised his glass in toast. 
"To dreams."
    But the Days would not toast with him. The man would most likely never drink 
in Gaborn's presence again.
    From a far corner of the room, a small ratlike ferrin woman came out of the 
shadows, bearing one of her pups in hand. The pup squealed in its small way, but 
the Days did not hear it, didn't have Gaborn's keen ears. All six of the ferrin 
woman's nipples were red and swollen, and she wore a yellow rag tied round her 
shoulders. She stood only a foot tall, and her pudgy face was accented by thick 
jowls. She waddled up behind the Days, nearly blinded by daylight, and stuffed 
the pup in the Days' coat pocket.
    The ferrin were not an intelligent people. They had a language of sorts, 
used some crude tools. Most folk considered them vermin, since the ferrin 
constantly tunneled into houses to steal food.
    Gaborn had heard it was common for a ferrin woman to wean her pups this way, 
by finding an inn, then sending the pup off in the pocket of a stranger. But 
he'd never seen it happen.
    Many a man would have tossed a dagger into the ferrin. Gaborn smiled 
blandly, averted his eyes.
    Good, he thought, let the pup eat the lining of the damned historian's coat.
    He waited until the ferrin finished.
    "And what of me?" Gaborn asked the drunken Days. "Am I a good man?"
    "You, Your Lordship, are the soul of virtue!"
    Gaborn smiled. He could expect no other answer. In the back of the common 
room, an Inkarran singer struck up the mandolin, began to practice for the crowd 
that would gather later. Gaborn had seldom seen an Inkarran play, since his own 
father would not let them cross the borders, and he enjoyed the diversion now.
    The Inkarran had skin as light as cream and hair that fell like liquid 
silver; his eyes were as green as ice. His body was tattooed in the manner of 
his tribe--blue symbols of vines twining up his legs, with images that brought 
to mind the names of his ancestors and his home village. On his knees and arms 
were images of knots and other magic symbols.
    The man sang with a throaty crooning, a very powerful voice. It was 
beautiful in its own way, and hinted that this singer wore the "hidden runes of 
talent." The art of creating hidden runes was mastered only by a few Inkarrans. 
Yet, despite these runes, the singer's voice could not duplicate the ethereal 
tones sung by the virtuoso outside the songhouse an hour ago. His voice was more 
generous, Gaborn decided. The woman at the songhouse had sung for wealth and 
prestige, but this man sung now merely to entertain. A generous gesture.
    The Days stared down at his mug, knowing he'd said too much, needing to say 
one thing more. "Your Lordship, perhaps it is well that you do not value virtue 
in your friends. You will know not to trust them. And if you are wise, you will 
not trust yourself."
    "How so?" Gaborn asked, wondering. With each Days twinned to another, they 
were never alone, never had the luxury of trusting themselves. Gaborn wondered 
if this pairing was really an advantage.
    "Men who believe themselves to be good, who do not search their own souls, 
most often commit the worst atrocities. A man who sees himself as evil will 
restrain himself. It is only when we do evil in the belief that we do good that 
we pursue it wholeheartedly."
    Gaborn grunted, considering.
    "If I may be so bold, Your Lordship, I'm glad you question yourself. Men 
don't become good by performing an occasional kindly deed. You must constantly 
reexamine your thoughts and acts, question your virtue."
    Gaborn stared at the thin scholar. The man's eyes were getting glassy, and 
he could barely hold his head up. His thinking seemed somewhat clearer than a 
common drunk's, and he offered his advice in a kind tone. No Days had ever 
offered Gaborn advice before. It was a singular experience.
    At that moment, the inn door opened. Two more men entered, both with dark 
complexion, both with brown eyes. They were dressed as merchants fresh off the 
road, but both wore rapiers at their side, and' both had long knives strapped at 
their knees.
    One man smiled, one frowned.
    Gaborn remembered something his father had taught him as a child. "In the 
land of Muyyatin, assassins always travel in pairs. They talk with gestures." 
Then Gaborn's father had taught him the assassins' codes. One man smiling, one 
man frowning--No news, either good or bad.
    Gaborn's eyes flicked across the room, to the two dark men in the far 
corner. Like himself, they had chosen a secure position, had put their backs to 
the wall.
    One man in the corner scratched his left ear: We have heard nothing.
    The newcorners sat at a table on the far side of the room from their 
compatriots. One man put his hands on the table, palms down. We wait.
    Yet this man moved with a casual quickness that could only be associated 
with someone who had an endowment of metabolism. Few men had such an 
endowment--only highly trusted warriors.
    Gaborn almost could not believe what he was seeing. The gestures were so 
common, so casual. The speakers did not stare at one another. Indeed, what 
Gaborn thought was a discussion could have been nothing.
    Gaborn glanced around the room. No one in the room could be a target for 
assassins--no one but him. Yet he felt certain he was not their target. He'd 
traveled in disguise all day. Bannisferre was full of wealthy merchants and 
petty lords--the assassins could be hunting one of them, or could even be 
tracking one of their kinsmen from the South. Gaborn was not properly armed to 
fight such men. He rose without explanation and left the inn to search for 
Borenson. Just as he stood, the serving boy brought a passable dinner of roast 
pork and fresh bread with plums.
    Gaborn left it, made his way into the streets, his Days rising drunkenly to 
follow after.
    Whereas in the morning the city had seemed cool, invigorating, alive, now 
the heat of the day had intensified the odor. The smell of evaporating urine 
from pack animals filled the market, along with the scents of dirt and human 
sweat. The closeness of the buildings in the market held the stench in.
    Gaborn hurried down the street to the stables, where an old horseman from 
Fleeds brought Gaborn his dun-colored stallion. The horse neighed on seeing 
Gaborn, held its head high, and raised its blond tail. It seemed as eager to be 
off as Gaborn did.
    Reaching out a hand to stroke his horse's muzzle, Gaborn inspected the 
stallion. It had been well tended. Its coat was brushed, tail and mane plaited. 
Even the teeth were clean. Its belly was fat, and it was still chewing hay.
    A few moments later, the stablemaster brought out the Days' white mule. 
Though it was no force stallion with runes of power branded into its neck, the 
mule looked as if it had been well groomed, too.
    Gaborn kept glancing over his shoulder, looking for signs of more assassins, 
but spotted nothing out of the ordinary here by the stables.
    Gaborn asked the stablemaster, "Have you noticed any men ride into town--men 
of dark complexion, traveling in pairs?"
    The stablemaster nodded thoughtfully, as if just struck by the answer, "Aye, 
now that you mention it, four like men 'ave their horses stabled wit' me, and I 
seen four more ride nor', through Hay Row."
    "Is this common, to see such men?" Gaborn asked. 
    The stablemaster raised a brow. "To tell ye true, I would not 'ave noticed 
them, 'adn't you mentioned it. But two like gentlemen galloped through town late 
last night, too."
    Gaborn frowned. Assassins all along the road, heading north. To where? 
Castle Sylvarresta, a hundred miles away?
    As he left town, Gaborn became more concerned. He took his dun stallion over 
the Himmeroft Bridge, a picturesque bridge of stone that spanned the broad 
river. From its top, Gaborn could see large brown trout sunning in the deeper 
pools, rising up to leap at flies in the shallows, in the shade of the willows. 
The river here was deep, with cold pools. Peaceful.
    He saw no sign of assassins here at the bridge.
    On the far side of the river, the cobbles gave way to a dirt road that wound 
off through the country west, A side road went north. The roads met in the 
woods, and bluebells grew in the woods to the north. So late in the season, none 
were in bloom. Only a couple of dead flowers stood, ragged and faded to violet. 
Gaborn turned onto Bluebell Way, let the horse run. It was a force stallion, and 
had runes of metabolism, brawn, grace, and wit branded on its neck, giving it 
the speed of three, the strength and grace of two, the wit of four. The stallion 
was a field hunter by body type--a spirited animal bred for running and jumping 
through woodland trails. Such a beast was not made to rest in Bannisferre's 
stables, growing fat on grain.
    The Days struggled to keep up on his own white mule, a vile creature that 
bit at Gaborn's stallion at every opportunity. It soon fell far behind.
    Then a bizarre thing happened: Gaborn had been riding through fields, where 
the newly stacked haycocks hunched beside the river. And the fields were fairly 
empty, now that the heat of the day was on.
    But as Gaborn topped one small hill, three miles out of Bannisferre, he 
suddenly found himself confronted by a low wispy fog that clung to the ground, 
shrouding the haycocks ahead in mist.
    It was a strange sight, fog rolling in on a sunny day, in the early 
afternoon. Oak trees and haycocks rose from the mist. The fog seemed off in 
color, too blue. He'd never seen the like.
    Gaborn halted. His horse whinnied, nervous at the sight. Gaborn entered the 
wall of fog slowly, sniffing.
    There was an odd scent in the air, something hard to define. Gaborn had but 
two endowments of smell, wished he had more. Sulfur, he thought. Perhaps there 
were hot pools around, and the fog rose from those.
    Gaborn spurred his horse forward, along the fields for another half-mile, 
and the fog grew steadily thicker, until the sun in the sky was only a single 
yellow eye peering through the haze. Crows cawed in the lonely oak trees.
    A mile farther, Gaborn saw a gray house through the mist. A young woman with 
hair that hung out like straw was chopping wood in front of it. She looked up. 
From a distance her skin looked as rough as burlap, her features plain and 
skeletal, her eyes yellow and sickly. This was one of the sisters who had given 
Myrrima her beauty.
    He spurred his stallion, called out to the young woman.
    She gasped, put one arm up to hide her face.
    Gaborn rode to her, looked down with pity. "No need to hide. One who 
diminishes herself to enlarge another is worthy of honor. A foul face often 
hides a fair heart."
    "Myrrima is inside," the girl mumbled. She fled into the house. Borenson 
quickly came out, Myrrima on his arm.
    "It is a beautiful autumn day." Gaborn smiled at Borenson. "I smell sunbaked 
wheat fields on the wind, and autumn leaves, and...treachery."
    Borenson gaped at the fog, perplexed. "I thought it was getting cloudy," he 
said, "I had no idea..." He would not have been able to see the fog through the 
house's parchment windows. He sniffed. Borenson had four endowments of scent. 
His nose was far keener than Gaborn's. "Giants. Frowth giants." He asked 
Myrrima, "Do you have many giants around here?"
    "No," she said, surprised. "I've never seen one."
    "Well, I smell them. A lot of them," Borenson said.
    He looked into Gaborn's eyes. They both knew something odd was afoot. Gaborn 
had come hours ahead of schedule.
    Gaborn whispered, "Assassins rode into town. Muyyatin. At least ten are on 
the road north to Castle Sylvarresta, but I saw none on my way here."
    "I'll scout this out," Borenson said. "It could well be that someone is 
laying a trap for your father. His retinue will pass through town tomorrow."
    "Wouldn't I be safer with you?" Gaborn asked.
    Borenson considered, nodded. He retrieved his own horse from behind the 
house, just as the Days rode up through the mist.
    "We'll be back in a bit," Gaborn told Myrrima, then spurred his stallion out 
into the meadow behind her cottage. He felt uneasy leaving her, with giants 
about. Yet he and Borenson were certainly riding into danger.
    A slight breeze sighed from the north, carrying the haze. They rode toward 
it, over green meadows. The river twisted west, and they soon found themselves 
riding along the banks of River Dwindell, on a hay trail.
    Along the river, the unnatural fog deepened, rising in a great cloud, waking 
it dark, dark enough so swallows quit dipping in the water, and instead a few 
bats began diving for insects. Fireflies rose like green sparks out of the 
bushes. The grass along the river was deep, lush, but cropped short.
    All along here in the floodplain the farmers had harvested hay. The haycocks 
stood out along the river, like great rocks in a sea, and each time Gaborn saw 
one rising from the mist, he wondered if it was a giant, wondered if a giant 
might be hiding behind it.
    Gaborn could smell giants now, too. Their greasy hair smelled bitter, the 
musk and dung on their skins overwhelming. Mold and lichens grew on their aging 
bodies.
    Until a hundred and twenty years ago, no one in all Rofehavan had heard of 
Frowth giants. Then, a tribe of four hundred of the huge creatures had come over 
the northern ice one winter, battle-scarred, fearful. Many of them wounded.
    The Frowth could not speak well in any human tongue, had never quite been 
able to communicate what fearful enemies chased them over the ice. Yet with a 
few gestures and the odd spoken command, the giants had learned to work beside 
men to some extent--lugging huge boulders in quarries, or trees for foresters. 
The rich lords of Indhopal in particular had taken to hiring Frowth giants, so 
that, in time, most of them migrated south.
    But the Frowth excelled in only one thing--making war.
    Gaborn and Borenson came to a small croft on a hill beneath some trees, 
beside the river. The cottage's windows were dark. No smoke roiled from its 
chimney. A dead farmer lay half in the doorway, hand outstretched. His head lay 
as if he'd died trying to reach for it as it rolled away. The coppery scent of 
blood hung heavy in the air.
    Borenson swore, rode forward. The mist ahead grew thicker. Heavier.
    In the green grass, they found steaming human footprints. The grass beneath 
the footprints was blackened, dead. Gaborn had never seen the like.
    "Flameweavers," Borenson said. "Powerful ones--powerful enough to transmute 
to flame. Five of them."
    There were flameweavers in Mystarria, of course, sorcerers who could warm a 
room or cause a log to burst into flame, but none so powerful that they 
blackened the ground they trod upon. Not like this.
    These were creatures of legend, wizards of such power that they could pry 
secrets from men's souls, or summon beings of terror from the netherworld.
    Gaborn's heart pounded; he looked at Borenson, who was suddenly wary. There 
were no flameweavers like this in the northern kingdoms, nor so many Frowth 
giants. They could only have come from the south. Gaborn tasted the air again. 
That fog, that strange fog, a thinly disguised smoke? Raised by the 
flameweavers? How big an army did it hide?
    So our spies were wrong, Gaborn realized. Raj Ahten's invasion won't wait 
for spring.
    The flameweavers' footsteps led north, along the banks of the River 
Dwindell. Raj Ahten's troops must be marching through the woods, to hide their 
numbers. But they would not go far into the wood, for this was the Dunnwood. 
Wild, old, and powerful. Few men dared enter its heart. Even Raj Ahten would not 
do so.
    If Gaborn took the road north, he could reach Sylvarresta in half a day.
    But of course that was why the assassins watched the road, looking to waylay 
anyone who sought to warn King Sylvarresta. Gaborn reasoned that given the 
nature of his horse, a good solid hunter, he might be safer riding through the 
woods. He knew the dangers. He'd been in the Dunnwood before, hunting the great 
black boars.
    The giant boars in the wood often grew almost as tall as Gaborn's stallion, 
and over the centuries they had learned to attack riders. But there were more 
dangerous things in these woods, it was said--ancient duskin ruins still guarded 
by magic, and the spirits of those who'd died here. Gaborn had once seen such a 
spirit.
    Raj Ahten's men would be on warhorses, heavy creatures bred for battle in 
the desert, not for speed in the woods.
    But even riding fast through the woods, it would take Gaborn a day to reach 
Lord Sylvarresta. Such a journey would be hard on his stallion.
    Meanwhile, Gaborn's own father was not far south. King Orden was coming 
north for the autumn hunt, as was his custom, and this time he had a company of 
over two thousand soldiers. Gaborn was to have formally proposed betrothal to 
Iome Sylvarresta in a week, and King Orden had brought an impressive retinue for 
his son.
    Now those troops might well be needed in battle.
    Gaborn raised his hand, manipulated his fingers quickly in battle sign. 
Retreat. Warn King Orden.
    Borenson looked wary, signed, Where are you going?
    To warn Sylvarresta.
    No! Dangerous! Borenson signed. Let me go!
    Gaborn shook his head, pointed south.
    Borenson glared, signed, I'll go north. Too dangerous for you!
    But Gaborn could not let him. He'd intended to take a dangerous road to 
power, to try to become the kind of lord who would win men's hearts. How better 
to win the hearts of the people of Heredon, than to come to their aid now? I 
must go, Gaborn signed forcefully.
    Borenson began to argue again. Gaborn whipped out his own saber, aiming just 
so, slashing Borenson's cheek. The cut was so shallow, the soldier could have 
got it shaving.
    Gaborn fought down his rage. Almost immediately he regretted this impetuous 
act. Yet Borenson knew better than to argue with his prince in a dangerous 
situation. Arguments were poison. A man who believes he is doomed to fail tends 
to fail. Gaborn would listen to no poison arguments.
    Gaborn pointed south with his sword, looked at both the Days and Borenson 
meaningfully. With his free hand, he signed, Check on Myrrima. If Raj Ahten's 
troops slaughtered peasants just to make certain their force wasn't discovered, 
Myrrima would be in danger.
    It seemed a long moment as Borenson considered. Gaborn was no commoner. With 
his endowments of wit and brawn, he acted more like a man than he did a child, 
and in the past year, Borenson had begun treating him as an equal, rather than 
as a charge.
    Perhaps more to the point, Borenson himself had to be torn. Both King Orden 
and King Sylvarresta needed to be warned as soon as possible. He couldn't ride 
two directions at once.
    There are assassins on the road, Gaborn reminded him. The woods are safer. I 
will be safe.
    To Gaborn's surprise, the Days turned his mule, headed back. Gaborn had 
seldom been free of the historian's scrutiny. But the Days' mule couldn't keep 
up with a force stallion. If he tried to follow, the historian would only get 
killed.
    Borenson reached behind his saddle, pulled his bow and quiver, backed his 
horse, and handed the weapons to Gaborn. He whispered, "May the Glories guide 
you safely."
    Gaborn would need the bow. He nodded, grateful.
    When the men had disappeared through the mist, Gaborn licked his lips, his 
mouth dry with fear. Preparedness is the father of courage, he reminded himself. 
A teaching from the Room of the Heart. Yet suddenly all that he'd learned in the 
House of Understanding seemed...inadequate.
    He prepared to fight. First he dismounted, removed his fancy feathered hat, 
tossed it to the ground. It wouldn't do to ride ahead looking like a wealthy 
merchant. He needed to seem a humble peasant, without benefit of endowments.
    He reached into his saddlebags, drew out a stained cloak of gray, threw it 
over his shoulders. He strung the bow. He had no battle-axe to cut through 
armor--only his dueling saber, and the dirk strapped at his knee.
    Gaborn stretched his arms and shoulders, limbering them. He slid his saber 
from its sheath, as familiar with its balance as if it were part of his own 
body, then slid it back carefully.
    He couldn't disguise his horse. The beast stood too proudly, like a being of 
stone or iron come to life. Its eyes glowed with fierce intelligence.
    Gaborn whispered in his horse's ear. "We must hurry, my friend, but travel 
quietly."
    The horse nodded. Gaborn couldn't be certain how much it understood. It 
couldn't follow a conversation. But with endowments of wit from other horses in 
its herd, it followed several simple verbal commands--which was more than could 
be said of some men.
    Gaborn dared not ride the beast at first. Instead, he led it. There would be 
outriders, he knew, both behind and before Raj Ahten's army. Gaborn didn't want 
to be a silhouette in the fog for some archer to practice on.
    He began running lightly at a pace he could keep up for days. In the 
unnatural fog, the fields were strangely quiet.
    Field mice scurried from his approach; a lone crow cawed from an oak. 
Sparrows flew up in a cloud. Somewhere, in the forest, he could hear a cow 
lowing, wanting to be milked.
    For a long time as he ran, there was only the dry rattle of bending grass, 
the muted thump of his horse's hooves.
    As he sprinted north through the close-cropped fields, he made a personal 
inventory. As far as Runelords were concerned, he was not powerful. He'd never 
wanted to be so. He could not bear the guilt he'd have borne to become powerful, 
the cost in human suffering.
    But shortly after birth, his father had begun purchasing endowments for him: 
two endowments of wit, two of brawn, three of stamina, and three of grace. He 
had the eyes of two, the ears of three. Five endowments of voice, two of 
glamour.
    Not a powerful man. A weakling compared to Raj Ahten's "Invincibles." He had 
no endowment of metabolism. Gaborn wore no armor. None to protect him, none to 
slow him down.
    No, Gaborn could rely only on cunning, courage, and the speed of his 
stallion.
    Gaborn passed two more houses, both with dead occupants. At the first, he 
stopped at a garden, let the horse eat apples from a tree, pocketed a few for 
himself.
    A little beyond the last house, the fields ended at a forest of ash, oak, 
and maple. The border to the Dunnwood. The leaves on the trees were dull, as 
they will get in late summer, but so low in the valleys the colors had not yet 
turned.
    Following the edge of the field, Gaborn smelled the scent of leather now, of 
horses hard-ridden, of oiled armor. Still he'd seen no one.
    Gaborn found a track for woodcutters' carts leading into the forest. He 
stopped at the edge of the trees to tighten the cinch on his saddle, preparing 
to ride hard, when he suddenly heard the creaking of branches.
    Just inside the line of trees, not forty feet away, stood a Frowth giant. 
The huge creature, its fur a tawny yellow, stared at him from wide silver eyes, 
peering into the mist, perhaps unsure whether Gaborn was friend or foe. The sun 
slanted over the woods, sending shafts of golden light into the giant's face.
    The giant stood twenty feet tall, eight feet wide at the shoulder. Ring mail 
covered its thick hide; for a weapon it carried a large oak pole bound with iron 
rings. Its snout was much longer than that of a horse, its mouth full of sharp 
teeth. The Frowth giants looked like nothing human.
    The giant flicked one small, round ear, ridding itself of some stinging fly, 
then pushed a tree aside as it leaned forward, peering.
    Gaborn knew enough not to make a quick move. If he did, the giant would know 
he was an enemy. The fact that the giant hadn't attacked already told Gabon 
something: the outriders would be dressed like him, wearing dark robes, riding 
force horses.
    The giant merely wanted to smell Gaborn, to learn whether he was friend or 
foe. Gaborn would not smell of curry, olive oil, and cotton, as did the soldiers 
in Raj Ahten's forces.
    One way or another, the Frowth giant would be after Gaborn in a moment.
    Gaborn wanted to strike, but he couldn't drive a sword through such thick 
ring mail. He couldn't engage the monster in a drawn battle. Couldn't let it cry 
out in warning. An arrow wouldn't kill the beast quickly.
    No, Gaborn's best chance was to let the giant draw close, bend near enough 
to sniff him, so that Gaborn could pull his saber and slice the monster's 
throat. Quickly, quietly.
    "Friend," Gaborn said softly, reassuringly. He dropped the horse's reins as 
the giant approached, dropped his bow. The giant warily leaned on his pole, 
hunched forward, sniffed from ten feet away. Far, too far.
    It drew a foot closer, sniffed again. Frowth giants do not have keen noses. 
The monster must have been two feet between the eyes. Its broad nose wrinkled as 
it sniffed.
    Gabon smelled rotting meat on its breath, saw dried blood matted into its 
fur. It had fed on carrion recently.
    It drew half a step closer. Gaborn ambled forward, making soft noises as if 
he were a friendly soldier trying to prove himself.
    The size of the beast overwhelmed him. I am nothing beside it. Nothing. It 
could lift me like a pup. The beast's huge paws were each almost as long as 
Gaborn's body. It did not matter that Gaborn was a Runelord. Those enormous paws 
could smash his bones, rake through his muscles.
    The silver eyes drew near, each as large as a plate. Not the throat, Gaborn 
realized. It was too far for a lunge. Don't stab the throat. The eye. The huge 
silver eyes were not protected by thick pelt.
    The creature was old, its face scarred beneath the fur. One of the ancients, 
then, that had come over the northern ice. A venerable creature. Gaborn wished 
he knew some of its tongue, had some way to bribe it.
    The Frowth giant knelt forward, sniffed, and its eyes drew wide in surprise.
    Gaborn pulled his saber and lunged, ramming the blade deep. The blade 
twisted when it hit the giant's eye, slid behind the socket, far into the 
monster's brain. Gaborn wrenched his saber and danced aside, slicing as he 
pulled free. He was unprepared for the volume of blood that gushed from the 
wound.
    The giant lurched back, grabbing its eye. Its lower jaw went slack in that 
moment. It bolted upright, staggered a pace to the left, and raised its muzzle 
to the sky.
    Even as it died, the giant bellowed in warning. A thunderous howl shook the 
forest.
    And all around Gaborn, to the north, south, and west, giants howled in 
answer.

     
     
Chapter 5
IN THE DEDICATES' TOWER
     
    Below Castle Sylvarresta that evening, the city lay quiet, hushed. Traders 
from the South had come in unusually large numbers throughout the day--caravans 
bringing valuable spices and dyes, ivory and cloth from Indhopal.
    Bright silk pavilions decorated the greens before the castle, the lanterns 
within the tents making them glow like multicolored gems--jade, emerald, topaz, 
and sapphire.
    From the dark, forbidding stone of the castle walls, it seemed a beautiful 
Yet discomfiting sight.
    The guards on the wall all knew that the "spice merchant" had been ransomed 
too quickly that day, the King's outrageous price accepted without argument. But 
the Southerners could not be happy about the ransom. Tempers were short. 
Everyone feared the Indhopalese might riot.
    But with caravans of pack mules and horses came something new and marvelous, 
something never seen in all the centuries merchants had traveled from Indhopal:
    Elephants. Fourteen white elephants, one branded with runes of power. The 
elephants wore colorful mats made of silk and beads and gold and pearls on their 
heads, and bore decorative reins and silk pavilions on their backs.
    Their owner, a one-eyed man with grizzled beard, said he'd brought them as a 
curiosity. But in Castle Sylvarresta it was known that in Indhopal force 
elephants were often dressed in armor, then sent to ram castle gates.
    And the merchants had too many "guards" hired to protect the caravans. "Ah, 
yes," the merchants would say, clasping their hands beneath their chins and 
bowing. "The hill bandits are very bad this year. Almost as bad as the reavers 
in the mountains!"
    Indeed it seemed a record year for reavers. Troops of them had harried the 
mountain borders to the south in Fleeds, and to the west in Orwynne. 
Sylvarresta's soldiers had even discovered tracks in the Dunnwood last 
spring--the first such tracks seen in thirty years.
    So the people of Heredon were willing to overlook the hordes of guards in 
the caravans, and few but King Sylvarresta and his troops worried about 
elephants in their midst.
    A cool wind blew in after sunset, and fog began roiling off the river. A fog 
that wreathed the city in mist, crept to the parapets of the Outer Wall.
    No moon burned in the sky. Only stars. Bright eternal diadems shining in the 
fields of night.
    It is no surprise that the assassins made it over the Outer Wall unobserved. 
Perhaps the men came into the city during the day, acting the part of traders, 
then hid in some dovecote or manor-house stable. Or perhaps in their escalade 
the men took advantage of the way wisps of fog seemed to play between the 
merlons like tendrils.
    Nor was it a surprise when a lone sentry in the King's Keep spotted shadowy 
figures, like black spiders, scrambling over the King's Wall, down by the 
Butterwalk.
    The King had set extra eyes to watch that direction. Indeed, eyes watched 
from every arrow slit along each tower.
    No, it was no surprise that the assassins attempted an escalade that night. 
But even the guards felt amazed at how swiftly the assassins came, how silent 
and deadly.
    Only men with endowments of metabolism could move so fast, so swiftly that 
if you blinked, you almost believed you hadn't seen them. To take such 
endowments was suicide: an endowment of metabolism let you move nearly twice as 
fast as a normal man, but also caused you to age at twice the speed.
    Yet as the King's far-seer, Sir Millman, watched the escalade, he suspected 
that some of those assassins were moving at three times the normal human rate. 
Men so endowed would be decrepit in ten years, dead in fifteen.
    And only men with inhuman strength could climb those walls, prying with toes 
and fingers to grip at cracks in the stone. Sir Millman couldn't even guess how 
many endowments of brawn each assassin had.
    Millman had been watching from inside the King's Tower. With endowments of 
sight from seven men, he was well qualified for this post. Now he called softly 
at the door to the King's chamber, "Milord, our guests have arrived."
    King Sylvarresta had been sitting in his father's favorite old reading 
chair, his back to the wall, studying the tome of Emir Owatt of Tuulistan, 
trying to decipher which of Raj Ahten's battle tactics were so original that 
he'd kill to keep them secret.
    Now Sylvarresta blew out his lantern, went to the oriel, and gazed out a 
clear pane in the stained-glass window. The window was so old that the glass was 
all wavy and distorted, had flowed down like lumps of melted butter.
    The assassins had just reached the final defensive wall in Castle 
Sylvarresta, the wall of the Dedicates' Keep, which housed those people who had 
granted endowments to House Sylvarresta, for the use of the King's family and 
soldiers.
    So, Raj Ahten's assassins came to destroy Sylvarresta's Dedicates, murder 
those whose minds and strength and vitality fed the King's forces.
    It was a vile deed. The Dedicates could not protect themselves. The 
brilliant young men who'd given endowments of wit no longer knew their right 
hands from their left. Those who had granted brawn now lay like babes, too weak 
to climb from their beds. It was craven to kill Dedicates. Yet, sadly, too often 
it was the easiest way to assail a Runelord. By murdering those who constantly 
fed a Runelord strength and support, one deprived the lord of his powers, making 
him into a common man.
    As the attack progressed, Sylvarresta barely had time to marshal his 
defenders. Boiling oil had been lugged up to the wall-walk shortly after dark. 
Though the normal complement of three guards marched along the Parapet, a dozen 
more crouched behind the battlements out of sight.
    Still, defenders needed to be warned. Archers manned the towers; soldiers 
hiding in the city needed to be notified so that they could cut off the 
assassins' escape.
    From behind his stained-glass window, Sylvarresta watched the assassins 
reach the halfway point on the stone wall of the keep; then the King opened the 
window and blew a soft, shrill whistle.
    As one, his soldiers leapt up and poured oil down the keep's walls, tossing 
great iron cauldrons over as they emptied. The oil did not have the desired 
effect. It had cooled too much since sunset, and though the assassins cried in 
dismay at their burns and some plummeted when swept from the walls by falling 
cauldrons, more than twenty still scrambled up the walls, swift as lizards.
    The guards atop the Dedicates' Keep drew swords and pikes. From the King's 
Keep, some hundred yards distant, archers let arrows fly. A few more assassins 
plummeted, but Raj Ahten's knights were frighteningly swift, terrifyingly 
determined.
    King Sylvarresta had imagined the assassins would run when they met 
resistance. Instead they scurried faster, reaching the tops of the parapet, 
where razor wire hindered them. Sylvarresta's soldiers hacked at the assassins, 
so that a dozen more plummeted from the keep's tower.
    Still, seven assassins won the top of the tower, where their incredible 
skills as fighters came into play. The assassins moved so swiftly, Sylvarresta's 
men could not well defend themselves. Yet four more assassins got cut down, 
while a dozen defenders were slaughtered.
    The three remaining assassins hurtled down the steps into the Dedicates' 
Keep--just as the King's pikemen rushed from the guardroom beneath the 
portcullis.
    The assassins ignored the guards, instead leapt to the iron grate that 
covered one low door to the Dedicates' Hall. Though the door was barred with 
heavy iron, two assassins grabbed a bar and pulled, ripping it from the wall, 
dislodging two-hundred-pound stones set with mortar.
    The third assassin faced the pikemen, ready to defend.
    But these pikemen were no common soldiers.
    Captain Derrow and Captain Ault came, side by side, holding back nothing. 
Captain Ault stabbed at the assassin's head, a lightning thrust.
    The assassin dodged, his own short sword snaking out, biting Ault's gloved 
hand. The assassin was a dark monster, draped in robes of black, a man whose 
speed astonished. He shifted on his feet, weaving from side to side so quickly 
that no commoner could have landed a blow. He drew a second knife, his hands 
whirling in the deadly Dancing Arms style.
    In that second, the door to the Dedicates' Keep screamed as if in agony.
    The two assassins pulled the door wide. One assassin bolted through the 
door.
    Captain Derrow swung his pike as if it were an axe. An assassin by the door 
took a firm knock to the head.
    The assassin guard ducked. Ault anticipated his move and lunged. Ault 
slammed the pike into the man's chest, then lifted, flinging the assassin up and 
aside.
    Ault tossed away the pike, drew a long dagger, and bolted into the 
Dedicates' Keep.
    Inside, Ault found that the last assassin had already slaughtered two guards 
posted by the door, then had run into the hall, felling some five or six 
Dedicates who should have been abed. Even now, the assassin knelt over a victim, 
scimitar in hand.
    Ault threw his short sword, caught the assassin solidly in the back. Had the 
assassin been a commoner, he'd have collapsed. Had he been an angered man with 
great stamina, he'd have turned and gone berserk.
    What the assassin did next chilled Ault to the bone.
    The assassin turned, all dressed in a black caftan and black cotton pants, a 
black kerchief hiding his face. A gold ring glittered in his ear.
    He studied Ault thoughtfully, eyes filled with deadly intent. Ault's heart 
pounded, for he wondered how many endowments of stamina it took for a man to 
ignore a sword in his back.
    A dozen soldiers rushed through the broken door, filling the Dedicates' 
Keep. Ault took a hammer from a dead guard.
    The assassin looked Captain Ault in the eye, then raised his hands. He said 
in a thick accent, "Barbarian: As you see this tide of men sweep over me, so 
shall my lord's Invincibles sweep over you!"
    Raj Ahten's Invincibles were elite troops--men with great stamina, each of 
whom had at least one endowment of metabolism. The assassin made as if to 
charge. Yet Ault knew it would be a feint. Having won through to the Dedicates' 
Keep, the assassin would now continue with his duty, to slay as many Dedicates 
as possible.
    Ault lunged, swinging his hammer, just as the assassin spun toward the beds 
of the sleeping. The warhammer bit into the assassin's neck.
    "Don't bet on it," Ault said.
    In his keep, King Sylvarresta felt the deaths of his Dedicates as he began 
to lose his magical connection to them. It was a nauseating sensation, like a 
cold snake writhing through his innards. Men who had endowed him with wit died, 
and Sylvarresta was assailed by a sudden emptiness as rooms of memory closed off 
forever.
    He'd never know what he'd lost--memories of friends from childhood or a 
picnic in the forest, memories of important sword strokes practiced time and 
again with his father, or a perfect sunset, or a wife's kiss.
    He only became aware that he was sundered. The doors to the rooms of memory 
slammed shut. The shutters to the windows fell. And in his mind there was a 
great moment of darkness, a keen sense of loss.
    As he rushed downstairs to guard his Dedicates himself if need be, he felt 
as if he wallowed through the darkness.
    A minute later, Sylvarresta reached the Dedicates' Bailey, counted his 
losses. Ten guards dead, five wounded. And five Dedicates lost.
    In studying the corpses of the Muyyatin assassins, he found that each had 
been formidable. Their leader, whom Ault had slain, had over seventy runes 
burned into his flesh. With so many endowments, he had to have been a captain 
among the Invincibles. Many others had twenty runes or more, making them equal 
to Captain Derrow.
    Five of Sylvarresta's Dedicates lay dead. Two gentlemen who had granted 
Sylvarresta wit, two who had granted sight to the King, and one who had granted 
sight to the King's far-seer. Sylvarresta imagined that the blind men must have 
been telling stories by the hearth, and the sound of their voices had brought 
the idiots their deaths.
    When the body count was taken, Sylvarresta considered himself lucky. It 
could have been worse. If the assassins had made it farther into the Dedicates' 
Keep, the result would have been devastating.
    Yet King Sylvarresta could not help but wonder at what he'd lost. He'd had 
endowments of wit from five men. Now he'd lost forty percent of all his 
memories, of years of studies. What had he known five minutes ago that he might 
need to remember in days to come...?
    He considered the dead, wondering. Was this attack a precursor to next 
year's war?
    Had Raj Ahten sent assassins to attack all the kings of the North, in an 
attempt to weaken them? Or was this a part of some more daring scheme?
    Sylvarresta's readings in the Emir's book made him worry. Raj Ahten seldom 
bothered with feints. Instead he singled out castles, striking with ferocity, 
overwhelming his opponents, then consolidated his position before moving on.
    It seemed odd to Sylvarresta that Raj Ahten would target Heredon. It was not 
the closest neighbor to Raj Ahten. Nor was it the least defensible of the 
northern realms.
    Yet he recalled his chess game from so many years ago. The way Raj Ahten 
struggled to control even far corners of the hoard. Though Heredon was at the 
edge of Raj Ahten's board, the consequences of its loss would be devastating: 
Raj Ahten would take a Northern country, forcing Fleeds and Mystarria to defend 
on fronts both to their north and south. Heredon was not a poor country. 
Sylvarresta's smiths were the finest makers of arms and armor in Rofehavan, and 
the land was rich in cattle for food, sheep for wool, in timber to build 
fortifications and engines of war, and in vassals to give endowments.
    Raj Ahten would need all of these to take the North.
    My wife is his cousin, Sylvarresta reminded himself. Perhaps he imagines she 
is a danger to him. The Powers know, Venetta Sylvarresta would have stabbed Raj 
Ahten in his sleep years ago, if she'd had the chance.
    Is this part of a grander scheme? Sylvarresta worried. Attacks like this 
could be taking place in every castle in Rofehavan. If all the assassins struck 
simultaneously, Sylvarresta would not have time to warn his fellow kings.
    He rubbed his eyes, lost in speculation.

     
     
BOOK 2

DAY 20 IN THE MONTH OF HARVEST
     
A DAY OF SACRIFICE

     
     
Chapter 6
MEMORIES OF SMILES
     
    In the forests of the Dunnwood, Prince Gaborn rode in silence through the 
starlight, avoiding the narrow gullies and darker woods where wights might 
congregate.
    The trees above him were twisted things, with limbs half-bare, the yellow 
birch leaves waggling in the night wind like fingers. The carpet of leaves 
beneath his horse's hooves was deep and lush, making for a quiet ride.
    Shortly after dusk the sorcerous mists had begun to fail. Raj Ahten no 
longer needed such mists to hide him. Instead, now the stars overhead shone with 
unnatural clarity, perhaps because of some spell cast by Raj Ahten's 
flameweavers, gathering light so that they might let the Wolf Lord's army pick 
their way through the woods.
    For hours Gaborn had been circumventing Raj Ahten's army, evading pursuers. 
He'd managed to kill two more Frowth giants, and he shot an outrider from his 
saddle. But Gaborn had seen no sign of pursuit for three hours.
    As he rode, he wondered. The Dunnwood was an old wood, and a queer place by 
any standard. The headwaters of the River Wye were said to be magical places, 
where three-hundred-year-old sturgeons as wise as any sage lived in the deep 
pools.
    But it was not these that Gaborn wondered at. It was the woods' legendary 
affinity for "right" and "law." Few outlaws had ever penetrated the forest. 
There was Edmon Tillerman, who came into the woods as an outlaw, a madman who 
took endowments of brawn and wit from bears until he became a creature of the 
wood himself. According to the folktales, he left off his stealing, and in time 
became a hero--avenging poor farmers wronged by other outlaws, protecting the 
woodland creatures.
    But there were stranger stories still: the old woman centuries ago who was 
murdered and hidden in a pile of leaves in the Dunnwood, who then became a 
creature of wood and sticks that hunted down her killers.
    Or what of the giant "stone men" that some said walked these woods? 
Creatures that sometimes came to the edge of the forest and stood gazing 
thoughtfully to the south?
    There was a time--centuries ago--when these woods loved man more than they 
did now. A time when men could travel them freely. Now, a stillness, a 
heaviness, had come under the trees, as if the wood itself were outraged and 
considering retaliation against so many uninvited men. Certainly the heat of the 
flameweavers, the iron-shod hooves of horses, the mass of men and giants would 
all cause some damage to the forest.
    The owls had fallen silent this night, and twice Gaborn had seen huge harts 
bounding through the trees, shaking their great antlers from side to side as if 
prepared to fight.
    Off to his right, the armies marched. A. feeling pervaded the forest, like 
the electric thrill of a brewing storm.
    For long hours, Gaborn rode through the trees, a heaviness growing in his 
heart, a drowsiness fogging his mind. It was a sweet, organic tiredness--like 
that brought on by mulled wine while one sits beside a fire, or like the drugged 
sleep induced by an herbalist's concoction of poppy petals.
    Gaborn's eyelids began to feel weighty. He half-dozed as he rode up a ridge, 
around a peak, and back down into a valley, where brambles and limbs blocked his 
every path.
    He became angry, drew his saber, and considered hacking his way through the 
trees, but stopped when he heard curses just ahead, and the sound of someone 
else, a man in armor, hacking through the same copse.
    Almost too late he recognized the source of the danger. Somehow he'd turned 
around in his ride.
    The trees. He wondered if they had led him to danger.
    In the shadowed woods, Gabon stopped. He glimpsed one of Raj Ahten's 
patrols. A dozen scouts hacked a path through the brush, while Gaborn held 
perfectly still.
    They passed in the darkness. Gaborn feared even to breathe.
    He reined in his horse, hard, and inhaled deeply. For long moments he tried 
to focus his thoughts. No harm, he wanted to say to the woods. I mean you no 
harm.
    It required all his will to merely sit a horse, to keep from riding headlong 
toward destruction. Sweat broke out on Gaborn's forehead, his hands trembled, 
and his breathing came ragged.
    I am your friend, he wanted to say. Feel me. Test me. For long moments, he 
tried to open himself, his mind and heart, to communicate to the wood.
    He felt the tendrils of thought move slowly, seeking him, grasping him as a 
root might grasp a stone. He could feel their ponderous power.
    The trees seized him, infiltrated every portion of his mind. Memories and 
childhood fears began to flash before Gaborn's eyes--unwanted bits of dreams and 
adolescent fantasies. Every hope and deed and desire.
    Then, just as slowly, the seeking tendrils began to withdraw.
    "Bear me no malice," Gaborn whispered to the trees when at last he could 
speak. "Your enemies are my enemies. Let me pass safely, that I may defeat 
them."
    After many long heartbeats, the heaviness around him seemed to ease. Gaborn 
let his mind drift and dream, though with his stamina he needed no sleep.
    He thought upon the thing that had brought him north, his desire to see Iome 
Sylvarresta.
    On a mad impulse last year, he had come secretly to Heredon for the autumn 
hunt, so that he could take the measure of her. His father came annually for 
Hostenfest, the autumn celebration of the great day, some sixteen hundred years 
past, when Heredon Sylvarresta had speared a reaver mage here. Now, each year in 
the Month of Harvest, the lords of Heredon rode through the Dunnwood, hunting 
the great boars, practicing the same skills with lance that had been used to 
defeat the reavers.
    So Gaborn had come to the hunt hidden in his father's retinue as if he were 
a mere squire. His father's soldiers all knew he'd come, of course, but none 
dared openly speak his name or break his cover. Even King Sylvarresta had noted 
Gaborn's presence during the hunt, but because of his fine manners dared not 
speak of it, until Gaborn chose to reveal himself.
    Oh, Gaborn had played his part as squire well for the casual observer, 
helping soldiers don their armor for the tournament games, sleeping in 
Sylvarresta's stables at night, caring for horses and gear through the week's 
hunt. But he'd also been able to sit at table in the Great Hall during the feast 
marking the end of Hostenfest, though as a mere squire he sat at the far end, 
away from the kings and nobles and knights. There he'd gawked openly, as if he'd 
never eaten in the presence of a foreign king.
    All the better to view Iome at a distance, her dark smoldering eyes and dark 
hair, her flawless skin. His father had said she was beautiful of face, and by 
recounting tales of things she'd said over the years, Gaborn felt convinced she 
was beautiful of heart.
    He'd been well schooled in etiquette, but he learned a bit about Northern 
manners at that dinner. In Mystarria, it was customary to wash one's hands in a 
bowl of cool water before the feast, but here in the North one washed both hands 
and face in bowls that were steaming hot. While in the South one dried one's 
hands by wiping them on one's tunic, here in the North thick towels were 
provided, then draped over one's knee afterward, where they could be used for 
wiping grease or for blowing one's nose.
    In the South, small dull knives and tiny forks were provided for feasts, so 
that if a fight broke out, no one would be properly armed. But here in the 
North, one ate with one's own knife and fork.
    The most disgusting difference in custom came in the matter of dogs. In the 
South, a gentleman always threw his bones over the right shoulder to feed the 
dogs. But here in the Great Hall, all the dogs had been taken outside, so bones 
were left cluttering the plate--in a most beastly and uncivilized pile--until 
the serving children removed them.
    Yet one more thing came to Gaborn's attention. At first he'd thought it a 
custom of the North, but soon realized it was only a custom of Iome. In all 
realms that Gaborn knew of, table servants were not allowed to eat until the 
King and his guests finished dining. Since the feast lasted from noon until long 
in the night--with entertainment provided between courses by minstrels and 
jesters and games of skill--the servants, of course, wouldn't eat until near 
midnight.
    So as the King and his guests dined, the serving children stared longingly 
at the puddings and capons.
    Gaborn had eaten greedily, clearing his plate--a show of respect for the 
lord's fare. But soon he saw that Iome left a bite or two of food on each plate, 
and Gaborn wondered if he'd erred in his manners. He studied Iome: as her 
serving girl, a child of perhaps nine, would bring each plate, one could see the 
longing on the girl's face.
    Iome would smile and thank the girl, as if she were some lord or lady 
bestowing a favor instead of a mere servant. Then Iome would gaze at the serving 
girl's face, gauging how savory the child thought the dish. If the girl liked 
the food well, Iome would leave a few bites, and the girl would snatch them from 
the plate as she headed for the kitchens.
    So Gaborn felt surprised when Iome hardly touched a stuffed partridge in 
orange sauce, but ate a plate of cold spiced cabbages as if it were a delicacy.
    It was not until the fourth course that Gaborn noticed that his own serving 
boy, a lad of four, had been steadily growing more pale at the thought that he 
might not get a bite to eat till midnight.
    When the boy brought a trencher of rich beef stewed in wine, shallots, and 
walnuts, Gaborn waved it away, letting the child rush off and nibble while the 
food was yet warm.
    To Gaborn's surprise, King Sylvarresta noted his action and stared hard at 
Gaborn, as if Gaborn had given insult. Gaborn marked the look well.
    However, when Iome did the same thing not five seconds later, completely 
unaware of Gaborn's faux pas or her father's reaction to it, Sylvarresta sat 
chewing his beef thoughtfully, then addressed his daughter in a loud voice, "Is 
the food not to your liking, precious? Perhaps the cooks could be brought in and 
beaten, if they have offended you?"
    Iome blushed at the jest. "I...no--the food is too good, milord. I fear I am 
a bit full. The cooks should be commended, rather than reprimanded."
    King Sylvarresta laughed, gave Gaborn a sly wink. Though Gaborn had not yet 
declared himself, the King's wink had said, You two are alike. I would welcome 
the match.
    But, in fact, from his few glimpses, Gaborn had decided that perhaps he was 
not worthy of Iome. Her serving girl's eyes had shone with too much love for 
Iome, and when those around her spoke, they held a tone of mingled affection and 
respect that bordered on reverence. Though Iome was herself only a girl of 
sixteen at the time, those who knew her best did not merely love her: they 
treasured her.
    When Gaborn had prepared to leave Heredon, his father had taken him to speak 
privately with King Sylvarresta.
    "So," King Sylvarresta had said. "You've come to visit my realm at last."
    "I'd have come before," Gaborn said, "but my schooling prevented it."
    "You will come again next year," King Sylvarresta said. "More openly, I 
hope."
    "Indeed, milord," Gaborn answered. His heart had pounded as he added, "I 
look forward to it. There is a matter between us, milord, that we must discuss."
    Gaborn's father had reached out and touched Gaborn's elbow, warning him to 
be silent, but Sylvarresta merely laughed, his gray eyes wise and knowing. "Next 
year."
    "But it is an important matter," Gaborn urged.
    With a look of warning, King Sylvarresta said, "You are overeager, young 
man. You come seeking my greatest treasure. Perhaps it shall be yours. But I 
will not command my daughter in this matter. You must win her. Next year."
    The winter had seemed long and cold, gray and lonely. It felt odd now for 
Gaborn to be coming north, seeking to win the love of a woman he'd never spoken 
to.
    As he reflected, the twang of a bowstring roused him, followed by a 
brilliant burning in the flesh of his right arm as an arrow scraped his skin.
    Gaborn gouged his heels into the flanks of his mount. It leapt forward so 
swiftly that Gaborn fell back and barely was able to cling on as the horse raced 
under the trees.
    The world went dark. Gaborn's mind blanked from pain. He couldn't imagine 
where the bowshot had come from. He'd smelled no one, heard no warning.
    Almost immediately he passed a thick knot of trees. A darkly cowled rider 
there was tossing down his horse bow, drawing a curved scimitar from the sheath 
at his back. As Gaborn passed, he saw only the frantic, killing gleam in the 
man's eye, the taper of his grizzled goatee.. Then Gaborn's horse raced past, 
leapt a fallen tree, and became a blur in the starlight. Gaborn pulled himself 
upright in the saddle, dizzy with pain, feeling blood flow liberally from the 
gash on his arm. Three inches to the left, and the arrow would have punched into 
a lung.
    Behind him, his attacker howled like a wolf and began his pursuit. The 
answering howls of dogs came from off to Gaborn's right--war dogs that would 
catch his scent.
    For a long hour he rode over hills, not stopping to stanch his wound. He'd 
been at the rear of the army, trying to circle behind their scouts. Now he 
sought to evade pursuit by rushing ahead of the hosts to the west, striking deep 
into the heart of the wood. As he got farther away, the stars dimmed, as if high 
clouds obscured their light, and he found it hard to keep to any trail.
    So, hoping his pursuers would think he'd fled, Gaborn veered back toward the 
main force of the army, directly into danger. For he still had not been able to 
learn the number and types of their forces.
    When the starlight suddenly came bright, he heard the sounds of the army in 
the woods below--branches snapping, iron-shod feet tramping in the night. His 
horse rested near the crest of a ridge, in a sheltered grotto that let him look 
down over a long bed of ferns.
    Dogs began baying in the distance behind him. They'd discovered his ruse.
    Gaborn sat tall in his saddle, looking down into the dark. He'd veered in 
front of the army. A mile ahead he could see a break in the woods--a wide swale 
that would have been a frozen lake in the winter. But the waters had receded 
over the summer, leaving only tall grasses.
    There, in the grasses, Gaborn saw a sudden light as Raj Ahten's 
flame-weavers stepped from beneath the shelter of the pines--five people, naked 
but for the red flames that licked their hairless skins, strode boldly across 
the swale. Behind and around them Gaborn saw something else--creatures that 
loped over the grass, black shadows darker than those thrown by the pines. They 
were roughly man-shaped, but often seemed to fall to all fours, running on their 
knuckles.
    Apes? Gaborn wondered. He'd seen such creatures brought north as 
curiosities. Raj Ahten had Frowth giants and flameweavers in his retinue, along 
with Invincibles and war dogs. Gaborn thought it might be possible to grant 
endowments to apes, turn them into warriors.
    But instinctively Gaborn knew that these creatures were nothing he'd ever 
seen. Larger than apes. Nomen, perhaps--creatures recalled only in ancient 
tales. Or maybe some new horror in the earth. Thousands of them issued from the 
woods, a dark tide of bodies.
    Frowth giants waded among them, and Raj Ahten's Invincibles rode behind in 
armor that flashed in the starlight.
    Far below to the west, war dogs howled and snarled, following Gaborn's blood 
scent. Gaborn glimpsed a dog on the trail in the starlight--a huge mastiff with 
an iron collar and a leather mask to protect its face and eyes. The pack leader. 
It would be branded with runes of power, to let it run faster and farther than 
its brothers, smell Gaborn more easily, and plot with the supernatural cunning 
of its kind.
    Gaborn couldn't escape the pack, not with that dog alive.
    He nocked an arrow, the last in his quiver. The grizzled mastiff raced up 
the path at incredible speed, its back and head showing from time to time as it 
leapt through low ferns. With endowments of strength and metabolism, such dogs 
could cover miles in minutes.
    Gaborn watched its progress, gauged where it would exit the ferns below him. 
The mastiff burst from the ferns a hundred yards down, snarling in rage, its 
mask making it look skeletal in the starlight.
    The beast was only fifty yards away when Gaborn loosed his arrow. It flew to 
its mark, striking the dog's leather mask, then ricocheted over its head.
    The mastiff raced forward.
    Gaborn didn't have time to clear his saber from its scabbard.
    The mastiff leapt. Gaborn saw its jaws gaping, the huge nick in its forehead 
where the arrow had pierced the leather, scraped away flesh.
    Gaborn threw himself back in the saddle. The mastiff jumped and brushed past 
Gaborn's chest, the spikes on its collar slashing Gaborn's robe, drawing blood 
on his chest.
    The stallion whinnied in terror and leapt over the crest of the hill, raced 
through the pines as Gaborn struggled to dodge low branches and remain a horse.
    Then his steed was racing down a steep, rocky hill. Gaborn managed to draw 
his sword clear, though his bow had been swept away in the branches.
    I don't need it, Gaborn tried to reassure himself. I'm ahead of Raj Ahten's 
army now. I only need to race him.
    He put heels to horse flesh, let the beast run its heart out, and raised his 
sword flashing in the night.
    Here in the mountains, the trees had begun to thin, so that for the first 
time in hours he could test this horse's speed.
    It leapt an outcropping of rocks, and Gaborn heard a snarl at his left 
elbow.
    The mastiff had caught up with him again, was running under the horse's 
hoofs.
    "Clear!" Gaborn shouted. His steed leapt and kicked--a maneuver all his 
father's hunting horses were taught. It was meant to clear wolves or charging 
boars from beneath the horse's hooves.
    Now the war dog took an iron shoe full in the muzzle, yelped as its neck 
snapped.
    But on the ridge above him, Gaborn heard yammers and growls of another dozen 
dogs. He looked up. Riders in dark mantles thundered behind the dogs, and one 
man raised a horn to his lips and blew, calling his fellows to the hunt.
    Too close, I'm too close to the army, he realized.
    But Raj Ahten was only skirting the edge of the Dunnwood, afraid to get too 
far under the older trees. For good reason.
    Last fall, when Gaborn had hunted here with his father and King Sylvarresta, 
a hundred men had ringed themselves with campfires, feasting on roasted 
chestnuts, fresh venison, mushrooms, and mulled wine.
    Sir Borenson and Captain Derrow had practiced their swordplay, each man 
mesmerizing the crowd with his tactics. Borenson was a master of the Dancing 
Arms style of battle, could swing a sword or axe in dizzying patterns so quickly 
that one seldom saw when he would deal his deadly blow. Captain Derrow was a 
more thoughtful fighter, who could choose his moment, then lunge in with a spear 
and slash a man into morsels with fascinating precision.
    Gabon's father and King Sylvarresta had been playing chess on the ground, 
beside a lamp, ignoring the mock combats, when a moaning floated through the 
trees, a sound so distinctly odd and eerie that goose pimples rose, cold as ice, 
on Gaborn's back.
    Borenson, Derrow, and a hundred retainers had all stopped instantly at that 
sound, and someone called, "Hold! Hold! No one move!" for everyone knew it was 
deadly dangerous to attract a wight's attention.
    Gaborn recalled clearly how Borenson had smiled, his teeth flashing in that 
deadly way of his, as he stood sweating, looking up the hillside of the narrow 
gully outside camp.
    A pale figure rode there, a lone man on a horse, moaning like some strange 
wind that whipped through lonely crags. A gray light shone from him.
    Gaborn only glimpsed the wight, yet his heart had pounded in terror at the 
sight. His mouth went dry, and he could not catch his breath.
    He'd looked over at his father to see his reaction. Both his father and King 
Sylvarresta remained playing at their board, neither bothering to glance up 
toward the wight.
    Yet Gaborn's father moved his wizard on the board, taking a pawn, then 
caught Gaborn's eye. Gaborn's face must have been pale as death, for his father 
smiled wryly and said, "Gaborn, calm yourself. No prince of Mystarria need fear 
the wights of the Dunnwood. We are permitted here."
    King Sylvarresta had laughed mirthlessly and turned to give Gaborn a sly, 
secretive look, as if the men shared a private joke.
    Yet Gaborn had felt it was true, felt he was somehow protected from the 
wights. It was said that in days of old, the King of Heredon had commanded this 
forest, and all the creatures in the wood had obeyed him. The kings of Heredon 
had fallen in stature. Still, Gaborn wondered if Sylvarresta really did command 
the wights of Dunnwood.
    Now, as the war dogs and the hunters trailed him, Gaborn gambled that it was 
true. He spurred his horse west, deeper into the forest, shouting, "Spirits of 
the wood, I am Gaborn Val Orden, Prince of Mystarria. I beg you, protect me!"
    Even as he called for aid, he knew it would do no good. The spirits of the 
dead care nothing for the concerns of mortal men. If Gaborn attracted their 
attention, they'd only seek to make sure he joined them in the afterlife.
    His horse thundered down a long ridge, under the boughs of some huge oaks 
and into a swamp, where it had to swim through brackish water to reach the brush 
on the far bank.
    Gaborn heard no haunting moans as his horse climbed the far shore, only the 
grunts and squeals of hundreds of huge pigs that raced from him as if they were 
hunted. He'd inadvertently wandered into a sounder of wild boar. One of the 
great black shaggy beasts, as tall as his horse, stood its ground for a moment, 
ivory tusks curling out like sabers, and Gaborn thought it would skewer his 
mount. At the last second the boar turned and rushed away with the herd.
    Gaborn took the opportunity to ride his horse under the oaks in a few quick 
circles, then drove his mount harder than ever--jumped a screen of rushes over a 
steep embankment and landed sixty feet out into the deep water before swimming 
to the far shore.
    Just past noon the next day, Gaborn raced out of the Dunnwood. Bedraggled 
and smeared with blood, he shouted to the guards at the city gates a warning of 
the impending attack. Upon showing the guards his signet ring, which identified 
him as the Prince of Mystarria, he was immediately escorted to King Sylvarresta.
    The King met Gaborn in the Great Hall, where he was already closeted with 
all his counselors. Gaborn rushed forward to grasp hands, but the King stopped 
him with a look. Though Gaborn had met him before, Sylvarresta seemed distant.
    "Milord," Gaborn said, bowing only slightly, as befitting his rank. "I've 
come to warn you of an attack. Raj Ahten's armies are south--in the Dunnwood, 
coming fast. They should arrive by nightfall."
    A look of concern and uncertainty flashed over the King's face, and he 
glanced at Captain Ault, saying, "Prepare for the siege--quickly." Many another 
king would have trusted his captains to see to the details, but now Sylvarresta 
spoke...uncertainly, it seemed to Gaborn, listing odd commands as if for Ault's 
approval. "Send a detail through the city to make sure our roofs are 
fireproofed. As for the Southern traders camped outside--I fear we must do them 
the discourtesy of seizing their goods. But don't engage in unnecessary 
butchery. Leave them mounts to ride home, and enough stores so that they don't 
starve on the trek. Oh, and kill the elephants outside the castle. I won't have 
them battering down our gates."
    "Yes, milord," Ault said, his face clouded with concern. Then he saluted and 
rushed out.
    The preparations were begun hastily enough, and in that moment, several 
counselors took leave of the room. Gaborn felt that something was terribly 
amiss.
    As the counselors filed out, during an uncomfortable silence, King 
Sylvarresta studied Gaborn from worried gray eyes. "I owe you a great debt, 
Prince Orden. We suspected something like this, but hoped it would not come 
until spring. We already suffered an attack by Raj Ahten last night. Assassins 
struck at our Dedicates. We were ready for them, though, so the damage is not 
too great."
    Suddenly, Gaborn understood, Sylvarresta's coldness, his uncertainty. The 
King did not remember him.
    Sylvarresta said, "Well met, Prince Orden!"
    He shouted over Gaborn's shoulders, "Collin, get food and a bath for Prince 
Orden--and clean clothes. We can't have our friends wandering about in bloody 
rags."
    Gaborn felt thankful for the embrace, for just then an overwhelming fear 
struck him and Gaborn needed support. If Sylvarresta has forgotten my face, 
Gaborn realized, what else has he forgotten? What of tactics in battle? What of 
self-defense?
    Of course, that was why the King's advisors had gathered, to pool their 
knowledge. But against a monster like Raj Ahten, would their resources be 
enough?

     
     
Chapter 7
PREPARATIONS
     
    That afternoon Sylvarresta's people were still preparing for battle. The 
initial hysteria of the impending attack--the screaming of children and 
peasants, the mad rush as the elderly and infirm fled the city--had all passed. 
Now uneasy farmers and soldiers alike manned the Outer Wall, and had thrown up 
hasty barriers to serve as battlements in the streets. Not in four hundred years 
had so many people gathered on the walls--for many who would not fight stood 
watch out of sheer curiosity.
    Pigs, cattle, sheep, and chickens scurried through the alleys and greens, 
frightened, disoriented. All the animals in the countryside had been herded 
within the walls--to feed the city's inhabitants during siege, while at the same 
time denying similar succor to Raj Ahten's troops.
    In the brown fields outside the castle, the Southern merchants had 
disbanded, driven off with their bright pavilions and little else.
    Throughout the afternoon, Raj Ahten's troops began massing on the southern 
hilltop at the edge of the forest, consolidating their forces. At first, only 
the Invincibles showed themselves, knights in dark splint mail or plate, wearing 
tunics of gold and red. Yet they kept to the edge of the forest, hiding their 
numbers. As the day lengthened, giants and war dogs also joined their ranks.
    By then, the city was effectively under siege. No one would dare come in or 
go out, though the Raj Ahten's siege engines had not yet made it through the 
woods. Instead, the Southern soldiers began to busy themselves by cutting trees 
to build fortifications.
    Defenders on the castle walls stood ready--archers and pikemen, spearmen and 
artillery. King Sylvarresta had sent messengers to neighboring castles, calling 
for aid.
    But while the rest of Castle Sylvarresta stood poised for battle, in the 
Dedicates' Keep, the deepest and most protected heart of the fortress, 
preparations for battle were still afoot.
    The walls of the Dedicates' Keep rang with pain as men and women offered up 
endowments to their lord.
    Two hundred of Sylvarresta's servants and vassals had gathered to offer 
endowments. While Sylvarresta's chief facilitator, Erin Hyde, worked the 
forcibles, two of his apprentices walked among the volunteers, prodding and 
testing, seeking those who had enough brawn, wit, grace, or stamina to justify 
the rigor and cost involved in taking endowments. For if a lord sought strength, 
he got it best from those who had it in abundance.
    A counselor worked as an advisor with those who were fortunate enough to 
have adequate attributes. He helped illiterate peasants fill out contracts which 
promised, in return for the endowments, Sylvarresta's lifelong protection and 
succor.
    Among those who gathered to grant endowments lingered the well-wishers, 
those who had come to offer comfort to friends or kin who would soon be horribly 
maimed.
    Last of all, throughout the courtyard, were those who had long ago given 
endowments to their lord. The Dedicates' Keep harbored some fifteen hundred 
Dedicates, most of them ambulatory enough to come watch the dedicatory 
ceremonies.
    Iome knew many of them well, for she often helped care for the old 
Dedicates--blind Carrock, one of her servants who had given his eyes; the 
drooler Mordin, once a bright young man, who had given his wit. The deaf, the 
sickly, the ugly, those nearly bedridden from weakness. Hundreds and hundreds of 
others--an army of shambling people.
    In the very center of this throng, in the keep's bailey, looking as fierce 
as the sun, as regal as the night sky with all its stars, Lord Sylvarresta 
himself sat on a gray rock among the sea of grass, his weapons handy, half in 
battle armor, his chest naked.
    Those still waiting to give endowments lay on low cots, waiting for Erin 
Hyde to come among them with his spells and his forcibles.
    Among those who had just given endowments wandered Lord Sylvarresta's own 
chief physic and herbalist, Binnesman. He was short, with a stooped back, green 
robes, and hands dirt-stained from his labors. He wore a perpetual smile as he 
spoke to the new Dedicates, offering comfort here, a whiff of medicinal aromas 
there.
    Binnesman's skill was much wanted along the castle walls. The powers of his 
herbs were legendary: his blended teas of borage, hyssop, basil, and other 
spices could give a warrior courage before a battle, lend energy during the 
conflict, and aid in healing wounds after.
    But despite the fact that he was needed on the walls, the need here was more 
pressing, for the granting of major endowments could be deadly. A great brute 
who gave strength to Lord Sylvarresta would fall down afterward, perhaps so 
weakened that for a moment or two his heart could not beat. One who had offered 
an endowment of grace, who'd always been limber, would suddenly convulse into 
spasms, become rigid as a board, his lungs unable to relax enough to let him 
draw another breath.
    For the moment, Binnesman could not go to the walls. He needed to help keep 
alive those who'd offered endowments. Sylvarresta could only benefit from the 
endowments so long as the giver still lived.
    Iome herself lent a hand in the preparations, her Days watching impassively 
from the shadows by the keep's kitchens. At the moment, Iome knelt in the dusty 
courtyard above a cot where lay the matron who had cared for her since 
childhood. The matron, a husky woman named Dewynne, sweated profusely from 
nervousness, despite the cool evening. The high walls of the fortress kept 
everyone in shade.
    Iome's father spoke, the power of his voice cutting across the courtyard: 
"Dewynne, are you sure you can do this?"
    Dewynne smiled at him weakly, her face rigid from fear. "We all fight as we 
can," she whispered. Iome could hear love in her voice, love for King 
Sylvarresta.
    The chief facilitator, Erin Hyde, stepped between Dewynne and the King, 
inspecting a forcible. The rod looked like a branding iron of reddish blood 
metal. It was a foot long, with a rune forged in a one-inch circle at one end. 
Hyde gently pressed the rune to Dewynne's fleshy arm.
    Hyde began his incantation, chanting in a high voice, his words more a 
piping birdlike song rather than anything a human would utter. The words came so 
quickly that Iome could hardly distinguish one from another. The facilitators 
called it a song of power. In conjunction with the runes carved on the forcible, 
the song drew out a Dedicate's attribute.
    The symbol on this forcible reminded Iome of an eagle flying with a giant 
spider dripping from its mouth. Yet the sinuous lines on the rune varied greatly 
in thickness, curled at odd yet seeming natural angles. The symbol for stamina. 
Dewynne had always been healthy--never sick a day of her life. Now Lord 
Sylvarresta would need her stamina in battle, need it desperately if he took a 
serious wound.
    The facilitator kept chirping in his high voice, then suddenly cried with a 
throaty growl, making earthy sounds--like lava bubbling, like lions roaring in 
the wilderness.
    The end of the forcible began to glow. Its blood metal blossomed from a dull 
rusty rose to a fierce titanium white.
    Dewynne screamed "Ah, by the Powers, it hurts!" and struggled away from the 
burning rune. Sweat poured from her as if she had a raging fever. Her face 
contorted in pain.
    Her jaw quivered, and her back arched off the cot. She began panting, sweat 
streaming from her face.
    Iome held the woman, forcing her down, forcing her still. A strong soldier 
took Dewynne's right arm so that she couldn't break contact with the forcible, 
spoil the spell.
    "Look at my father," Iome said, trying to distract Dewynne from the pain. 
"Look to your lord! He'll protect you. He loves you. My father has always loved 
you, just as you love him. He'll protect you. Just keep looking at your lord."
    Iome shot a fierce glare at the facilitator, so he moved a bit, opening 
Dewynne's view.
    "Ah, and I thought having a child hurt!" Dewynne sobbed, yet she turned and 
looked fondly at King Sylvarresta. It was necessary. It was necessary for her to 
remember why she had to pass through this pain. It was necessary for her to want 
this, to want to give up her stamina more than anything else in the world. And 
the only way to keep her focused on this desire was to put the object of her 
devotion before her eyes.
    King Sylvarresta, a strong man in his mid-thirties, was stripped to the 
waist, and sat on a stone in the courtyard. His long auburn hair fell down round 
his shoulders, and his wavy beard was neatly trimmed. At the moment, his armorer 
was trying to get him to put on a leather underjerkin in preparation for the 
full mail, but Sylvarresta needed to keep his upper torso bare so that the 
facilitator could apply the runes of power.
    The King's chancellor, Rodderman, was demanding that Lord Sylvarresta go out 
to the walls now, to bolster the courage of his people, while the King's old 
sage, Chamberlain Inglorians, urged him to stay, to get as many endowments as 
possible.
    King Sylvarresta elected to stay. He glanced Iome's way, caught Dewynne's 
eyes, and just held the suffering woman with his gaze.
    For that moment, nothing else mattered. The King ignored his counselors, his 
armorer, the resounding tumult of an impending war. There was infinite love in 
the King's eye, infinite sadness. His look told Dewynne that he knew what she 
was giving him, that she mattered. Iome knew that her father hated this, hated 
having to suck others dry in order to protect his vassals.
    In that second, something must have changed in Dewynne; she must have 
reached that necessary moment of yearning, that moment when the transfer of 
attributes could take place. The facilitator's growls turned to demanding shouts 
as the full force of his spell came unleashed.
    The white-hot blood metal of the forcibles trembled and twisted, like a 
snake in the facilitator's hands.
    Dewynne shrieked from a pain unimaginable. Something within her seemed to 
collapse--as if a great crushing weight pressed down on her, or as if she had 
become diminished, had grown smaller.
    The smell of burning hair and seared skin rose on wisps of smoke.
    Dewynne writhed, tried to squirm away. The sergeant held her, a man of 
inhuman strength.
    Dewynne turned from Lord Sylvarresta, teeth clenched. She was biting off the 
tip of her tongue, blood and spittle flowing from her chin.
    In that moment, Iome thought she could see all the pain in the world in that 
good woman's eyes.
    Dewynne collapsed into unconsciousness. The stamina had gone from her, so 
much so that she could no longer keep her eyes open, could not resist the 
fatigue of the day.
    Instead, the blood-metal runes glowed white hot and throbbed. The 
facilitator, a narrow-faced man with a crooked nose and a long gray goatee, 
studied the molten rune of power for a moment, its light reflecting in his black 
eyes; then his shouting turned to a song of joy, of triumph.
    He held the forcible over his head with both hands, waving it, so that a 
trail of white light held in the air, like a meteor's trail, but did not fade. 
The ribbon of light hung in the air, tangible. The facilitator inspected it 
carefully, as if judging its width, its heft.
    He broke into a piping song and ran to Sylvarresta, trailing the ribbon of 
light. Everyone stopped, no one daring to come near that light, to risk breaking 
the connection about to be forged between lord and Dedicate.
    At his lord's side, the facilitator bowed, placed the white-hot blood metal 
beneath the King's breast. The facilitator's song softened now, coaxing, and 
slowly the small forcible in his hand began to disintegrate, to crumble and blow 
away like white ash, even as the white umbilical of light faded.
    Iome had not taken a vassal's endowment since childhood. She had no way to 
remember how it had felt. But just as giving an endowment caused unspeakable 
pain to the giver, so the receiver felt an inexpressible euphoria.
    Lord Sylvarresta's eyes widened, and sweat poured from him. But it was a 
sheen of excitement, an almost demented thrill. His eyes glowed with joy, and 
every line in his face, every muscle, relaxed. He had the decency not to sigh, 
not to make a great show of his pleasure.
    Binnesman rushed up beside Iome, leaned near. His breath smelled of anise. 
His robe was a garment of darkest green, woven of some strange fabric that 
looked like mashed roots. It had the rich, clean scent of herbs and spices, 
which he kept in his pockets. His hair had grasses woven into it. Though he was 
not a handsome man, with fat cheeks as red as apples, there was a certain sexual 
quality to him. Iome could not have him so near without feeling aroused, a 
distinctly annoying sensation. But Binnesman was an Earth Warden, a magician of 
great skill; as such, his creative powers tended to affect those around him, 
whether he willed it or not.
    He knelt down and with dirt-stained hands felt the pulse in Dewynne's neck, 
his face looking grave, worried.
    "Damn that worthless facilitator," Binnesman muttered softly, fumbling for 
something in the pocket of his mud-stained robe.
    "What's wrong?" Iome breathed, not daring to speak loud enough for others to 
hear.
    "Hyde's using the Scorrel version of chants, draining these people too much, 
hoping I can mend them. Dewynne would not live another hour if I weren't here, 
and he knows it!"
    Binnesman was a kind man, a compassionate man. The kind who took pity on 
fledgling sparrows when they fell from a nest, or who would nurse a grass snake 
back to health after it got crushed by a passing oxcart. His sky-blue eyes 
studied Dewynne from under bushy brows.
    "Can you save her?" Iome asked.
    "Perhaps, perhaps. But I doubt I'll save them all." He nodded to the other 
Dedicates, who lay on their cots, some fighting for their lives after giving up 
an endowment. "I wish your father had hired that facilitator from the Weymouth 
school last summer."
    Iome understood little of the various schools of facilitators. The competing 
masters could be quite vociferous in proclaiming the superiority of their 
schools, and only someone well versed in the various breakthroughs and ongoing 
experiments in each school could really judge which was best on a given day. 
Some master facilitators excelled at processing certain kinds of endowments. 
Hyde was an excellent man for taking endowments of hearing and smell--endowments 
her father considered most valuable in a forest kingdom. But his work on major 
endowments--on taking stamina and metabolism in particular--suffered in 
comparison. At least, unlike some facilitators, he did not spend a fortune in 
blood metal to do research on dogs or horses.
    Finally Binnesman found something in his pocket. He pulled out a fresh 
camphor leaf, bruised it between his fingers, and set each half beneath 
Dewynne's nostrils. The sweat on her upper lip held the leaf in place.
    Reaching in the same pocket, he pulled out petals of lavender, several brown 
seeds, and other herbs, applying them to Dewynne's sweaty body, placing some 
under her lips. It was a marvel to behold. The old magician had only two 
pockets, each filled with a tangled glut of his loose herbs, yet he didn't 
bother even looking in those pockets, just seemed to recognize by touch the 
herbs he wanted.
    Iome glanced over to another cot. The butcher's apprentice, a husky boy 
named Orrin, lay ready to offer his lord an endowment of brawn. The sight of 
him, so full of courage and love and youthful strength, nearly broke her heart. 
If he gave an endowment now, he might spend the rest of his days unable to rise 
from his cot. It did not seem fair to take his life when it had hardly begun.
    Yet the boy faced no greater dangers than she. If Raj Ahten conquered 
Heredon, this boy's fate could be better than hers, she imagined. If her father 
were killed, the boy's endowment of brawn would return to him. Unable to ever 
give another endowment, the boy would be free to practice his craft in peace. 
Meanwhile, if Raj Ahten defeated House Sylvarresta, what would await Iome? 
Torture? Death?
    No, the butcher's boy knows what he's doing, Iome told herself. He makes a 
wise choice, perhaps the best choice available to him. By giving endowments to 
his king now, he might only have to lose a day in such dear service.
    Binnesman muttered, "So little time," began smearing Dewynne with healing 
soils, touching them to her lips. The woman began panting, as if every breath 
were a great labor, and Binnesman helped her by pushing down on her chest.
    "What can I do?" Iome begged, frightened that the matron would die here, 
accomplishing nothing.
    "Just...please, stay out of my way," Binnesman said in a tone seldom spoken 
to Runelords. "Ah, I almost forgot. A young man wants to see you--up there. The 
Prince of Mystarria."
    Iome glanced up the keep's wall. A stone staircase led to the south tower, 
where siege engines were poised to strike over the town.
    Up there, at the top of the tower, she could see her Maid of Honor, 
Chemoise, waving to her urgently. A watchman in black livery paced behind her.
    "I've no time for such foolishness," Iome said.
    "Go to him," her father commanded from fifty feet away. He'd used his Voice, 
speaking so that it sounded as if he confided in her ear. Even here in the 
courtyard, with all the noise and commotion, he'd heard her whispered comment. 
"You know how long I've wanted to unite our two families."
    So, he'd come to offer a betrothal. Iome was of the proper age, though she'd 
had no worthy suitors. The sons of a couple minor lords wanted her, but none had 
holdings to equal her father's.
    But would Prince Orden propose now? Now, when the kingdom was under attack? 
No, he'll offer no proposal, only extend apologies, Iome realized.
    A waste of precious time. "I'm too busy," Iome said. "There's too much to 
do."
    Her father stared at her, his gray eyes full of sadness. How handsome he 
was. "You've been working for hours. You need rest. Take it now. Go speak to 
him, for an hour."
    She wanted to argue, but looked in her father's eyes, which said, Speak to 
him now. Nothing you do can make a difference in the fight to come.

     
     
Chapter 8
LESS THAN AN HOUR
     
    An hour is not enough time to fall in love, but an hour is all they had that 
cool autumn afternoon.
    In better times, Iome would have felt grateful even for that slight 
allotment of time in which to meet a suitor alone. Over the past winter her 
father had told her much about Gaborn, praised him highly, hoping that when this 
day came, she'd accept him willingly.
    Under normal circumstances, Iome would have hoped for love. She would have 
prepared her heart for it, nurtured it.
    But on this day, when her father's kingdom was about to topple, meeting the 
son of King Orden served no purpose other than to satisfy a morbid curiosity.
    Would she have loved him? If so, then this meeting would accomplish nothing 
more than to chain her with a painful reminder of what might have been.
    More likely she'd have despised him. He was, after all, an Orden. Still, 
being wed to a man she despised would have seemed a minor inconvenience compared 
with what she feared lay ahead. Right now, she was acutely aware that her people 
owed Gaborn a debt for his service, and though she wanted nothing to do with 
him, she decided to treat him cordially, make the best of it.
    As Iome climbed the stone stairway to meet Gaborn, her Days close behind, 
feet whispering across the ancient stone, Chemoise descended, met her halfway.
    "He's been waiting for you," Chemoise said, smiling stiffly. Yet there was a 
certain excitement shining in the girl's eyes. Perhaps Chemoise hoped that Iome 
would find love, was reminded too much of the lover she herself had lost a day 
past. Chemoise had been Iome's playmate. Iome knew the girl's every slightest 
gesture. As Iome glanced up, Chemoise's features softened and her eyes shone. 
She obviously approved of the prince.
    Iome forced a smile. Of all the times to see such excitement in the girl's 
eyes, today seemed most inappropriate. Chemoise had walked in a fog for the past 
day. Shocked by her lover's death, planning for her unborn child, forgetting to 
eat if Iome did not beg her to do so.
    Right now it seemed as if Chemoise didn't recognize that a war brewed. Part 
of her mind seemed to sleep. Perhaps she really doesn't see, Iome realized. 
Chemoise could be so innocent. Once, Sergeant Dreys had teased her, saying, 
"Chemoise, believes sword fighting is much like carving a duck, the only 
difference being that you don't eat your foe after you slice him up."
    Chemoise took Iome's hands, urged her up the steps, until they stood in the 
sunlight. After the coolness of the shadowed keep, the warmth of the sunlight 
felt good.
    When she reached the top, Chemoise waved toward the prince in introduction. 
"Princess Iome Sylvarresta, may I have the honor to present Prince Gaborn Val 
Orden."
    Iome did not look at the Prince. Instead she looked out over the 
battlements. Chemoise scurried to the far side of the tower, some forty paces 
off, to give Iome and the Prince some privacy.
    To Iome's surprise, the young soldiers who manned the catapults followed 
Chemoise, affording even more privacy. Iome glanced down at the catapults, noted 
the metal shot in the weapons' baskets. These catapults had never fired on 
invaders before. The only time she'd seen them used was on feast days, when her 
father fired loaves of bread, sausages, and tangerines out over the castle walls 
to the peasants.
    Iome's Days stayed only a dozen paces away. She said, "Prince Sylvarresta, 
your Days is currently in your father's company. I will act as recorder in his 
stead, for this portion of your chronicles."
    The Prince said nothing to the Days, though Iome heard his cloak rustle, as 
if he nodded.
    Iome still did not look in the Prince's direction. Instead she hurried to 
the far side of the tower, sat on a merlon, and gazed out over the autumn fields 
at her father's kingdom.
    Iome found herself trembling slightly. She did not want to face Gaborn, 
dared not face him. He was, after all, a Runelord, the son of a very powerful 
Runelord, and would likely be handsome beyond telling. She did not want 
appearances to spoil her perceptions of him. So she looked away, beyond the 
castle walls.
    Still, when Gaborn gave a sigh of appreciation for her beauty, it drew a 
tight smile from Iome's lips. She felt certain he had seen finer women in the 
South.
    A slight wind stirred, a breeze that carried the scent of cooking fires up 
from the Great Hall. Iome shifted from her perch on the merlon, sending flakes 
of rock to plunge eighty feet below. Cocks crowed in the evening light, and just 
within the outer fortress walls, cows bawled, calling their milkers.
    Thatch-roofed stone houses dotted the brown fields outside the castle. And 
from here she could see several villages north and east along the River Wye. But 
the fields and villages were utterly empty.
    The farmers, merchants, and servants had all gathered with the soldiers in 
their black-and-silver livery on the city walls. Boys and old men alike stood 
poised with bows and spears. A few local merchants, creeping along the 
wall-walks, hawked pastries and chicken as if this were the fair, and they were 
all watching the tournaments.
    Down at the Outer Wall, carts, barrels, and crates lay piled against the 
city gates. If Raj Ahten broke down the gate, the trash would trap his men there 
in the inner court, where her father's bowmen could do some damage.
    It was nearing dusk. Crows and pigeons circled over the oak and ash forests 
to the south. Raj Ahten's armies disturbed the birds, kept them from roosting.
    Lowering campfires burned out there under the woods, so that the hills below 
her seemed to seethe with smoke, the trees glowing with flame. Iome could not 
guess how large Raj Ahten's army might be, hidden among the trees.
    But signs of the invaders were everywhere: A spy balloon in the shape of a 
graak had launched from the forest, manned by two of Raj Ahten's men. It had 
been tethered four hundred feet in the air for nearly two hours. Along the wide 
banks of the River Wye, which wound through this realm in a broad ribbon, two 
thousand warhorses were tied in a dark line, kept by a hundred or so knights and 
squires who seemed unconcerned about the possibility of an attack. Spearmen and 
shaggy Frowth giants stood watch. Deeper in the forest, Iome could hear the 
sound of axes falling as Raj Ahten's men cut trees for scaling ladders and siege 
engines. Indeed, every moment or two, a tree would shiver and topple, leaving a 
hole in the forest's canopy.
    So many men, so huge an army coming from the south. Iome still marveled that 
they'd heard no advance word. The Duke of Longmont should have sent warning. He 
should have known of the army's movements. One could only hope that Raj Ahten 
had found a way to move without Longmot's notice. If that were true, Longmont 
could send his knights to aid their king, once they discovered the siege. But 
Iome smelled treachery in the air, and feared that Longmont would send no aid.
    Prince Orden cleared his throat, politely begging Iome's attention. "This 
should have been a fairer meeting between us," he said. His voice was gentle. 
"I'd hoped to bring joyful news to your kingdom, not tales of invasion."
    As if his proposal would have been joyful! She suspected that her wiser 
vassals would have mourned the match, even though they'd see the necessity of 
tying Heredon to Mystarria, the richest kingdom in Rofehavan.
    "I thank you for your hasty ride," Iome said. "It was good of you to risk 
it."
    Prince Orden stepped to her side and looked out over the edge of the tower. 
"How long, do you think, before they mount an attack?" He sounded detached, too 
tired to think. A curious boy fascinated by the prospect of battle.
    "By dawn," she said. "They won't want anyone slipping from the castle, so 
they'll strike soon." Considering the renowned strength of Raj Ahten's 
troops--the giants and mages and his legendary swordsmen--tomorrow, her father's 
kingdom would likely fall.
    Iome glanced at Gaborn's back profile from the corner of her eye, a young 
man who would have broad shoulders when he got his full growth. He had long dark 
hair. He wore a clean blue traveling cloak, a narrow saber.
    She averted her gaze, not desiring to see more. Broad-shouldered, like his 
father. Of course he will be stunning. After all, he draws glamour from his 
subjects.
    Not like Iome. While some Runelords drew glamour heavily from their 
subjects, appropriating great resplendence to mask an imperfect countenance, 
Iome had been blessed with some natural beauty. When she was but a mere infant, 
two fair maids had stepped forward, offering to endow the princess with their 
own glamour, and her parents had accepted in Iome's behalf. But once Iome was 
old enough to understand what the endowments cost her subjects, she had refused 
further gifts.
    "I would not stand so close to the wall," Iome said to Gaborn. "You don't 
want to be seen."
    "By Raj Ahten?" Gaborn asked. "What would he see from here? A young man 
talking to a maid on the tower wall?"
    "Raj Ahten has dozens of far-seers in his band. Surely they will know a 
princess when they see her--and a prince."
    "Such a fair princess would not be hard to spot," Gaborn agreed, "but I 
doubt that any of Raj Ahten's men would give me a second glance."
    "You wear the device of Orden, do you not?" Iome asked. If Gaborn believed 
that Raj Ahten's' men would not recognize a prince by his countenance alone, she 
would not gainsay him. Still, she imagined the green knight embroidered on his 
cloak. "Better not to have it spotted within these walls."
    Gaborn chuckled mirthlessly. "I'm wearing one of your soldiers' cloaks. I 
won't give my presence away. Not before my father arrives. If history is any 
guide, this could be a long siege. Castle Sylvarresta has not fallen in eight 
hundred years. But you need only hold out three days--at the most. Only three 
days!"
    Prince Orden sounded confident. She wanted to believe him, to believe that 
the combined forces of her father's men with King Orden's soldiers could turn 
back the giants and sorcerers of Raj Ahten. Orden would raise a cry, call for 
help from Heredon's lords as he came.
    Despite the eighty-foot height of the castle's outer walls, despite the 
depth of Castle Sylvarresta's moat, despite the archers and ballisteers on the 
walls and the caltrops hidden in the grassy fields, beating Raj Ahten seemed too 
much to hope. His reputation was that terrifying. "King Orden is a pragmatic 
man. Will he even come? Surely he would not throw his life away to protect 
Castle Sylvarresta?"
    Gaborn took offense at her tone. "He may be pragmatic about some things, but 
not where friendship is concerned. Besides, fighting here is the right thing to 
do."
    Iome considered. "I see...Of course, why should your father fight at home, 
watch his own people bleed and die, watch his own castle walls crumble, when he 
could make as good a defense here?"
    Gaborn nearly growled in answer, "For twenty years my father has traveled 
here for Hostenfest. Do you know how much envy that has aroused elsewhere? He 
could have celebrated at home--or elsewhere--but he comes here! My father may 
visit other kings for political reasons, but only one does he name 'friend.' "
    Iome had only a vague idea what other kings thought of her father. None of 
it seemed good. "A softhearted fool," they called him. As an Oath-Bound Lord, 
he'd sworn never to take endowments from his own people unless they were freely 
given. Her father could have bought endowments--many a man might sell the use of 
his eyes or voice. But Sylvarresta would not lower himself to purchasing 
another's attributes. Of course, her father would never consider strong-arming 
or blackmailing men for endowments. He was not a Wolf Lord, not Raj Ahten.
    But Gaborn's father was another matter. Orden was a self-proclaimed 
"pragmatist" when it came to taking endowments--a man who took endowments freely 
offered but who, as a younger man, had also engaged in the dubious act of 
purchasing endowments. He seemed to Iome to verge on being more than pragmatic. 
He seemed morally suspect. He was too successful at winning the trust of lesser 
men; he purchased endowments far too cheaply and too often, both for himself and 
his troops. Indeed, Gaborn's father was said to personally hold over a hundred 
endowments.
    Yet, even then, Iome knew that Gaborn's father, King Orden, was no Raj 
Ahten. He'd never "forced a peasant's gift," collecting some poor farmer's brawn 
in lieu of back taxes. He'd never won a maiden's love and then asked her to give 
him an endowment as well as her heart.
    "Forgive me," Iome said, "I spoke Orden an injustice. I'm overwrought. He 
has been a good friend, and a decent king to his people. Yet I have a nagging 
fear that your father will use Heredon as a shield. And when we buckle under Raj 
Ahten's blow, he will toss us aside and flee the battlefield. That would be the 
wise thing to do."
    "Then you don't know my father," Gaborn said. "He is a true friend." He was 
still hurt, yet his tone carried such liquid notes of sincerity that Iome 
wondered briefly how many endowments of Voice Gaborn owned. How many mutes do 
you have in your service? she almost asked, sure it must be a dozen.
    "Your father won't throw his life away in our defense. Surely you know 
better."
    Gaborn said coldly, "He'll do what he must."
    "I wish it were not so," Iome whispered. Almost unwillingly she glanced down 
into the Dedicates' Keep. Against the far wall stood one of her father's smelly 
idiots, a woman whose mind was so drained of wit that she could no longer 
control her own bowels; she was being led to the dining hall by a blind man. 
Together, they weaved around an old fellow whose metabolism was so slowed that 
he could only shuffle from one room to another in the course of a day--and he 
was lucky to move at all, for many who were drained of metabolism would simply 
fall into an enchanted sleep, waking only when the lord who held their endowment 
died. The sight repulsed her.
    As Runelords, Iome and her family were heirs to great boons from their 
subjects, but at a horrifying cost.
    "Your compassion does you credit, Princess Sylvarresta, but my father has 
not earned your disrespect. Little more than his pragmatism has shielded our 
kingdoms from Raj Ahten this past dozen years."
    "That's not entirely true," Iome objected. "My father has sent assassins 
south over the years. Many of our most cunning warriors have given their lives. 
Others are held captive. Whatever time we've bought, we bought it in part with 
the lifeblood of our best men."
    "Of course," Gaborn said in a flippant tone that hinted that he dismissed 
her father's efforts. She knew that Gaborn's father had been preparing for this 
war for decades, had struggled harder than any other to bring down Raj Ahten. 
She also realized she'd been trying to goad Gaborn into arguing, but he didn't 
have his father's temper. Iome wanted to dislike Gaborn, to tell herself that 
under no circumstances would she have been able to love him.
    She felt tempted to look at him, but dared not. What if his face shone like 
the sun? What if he was handsome beyond all telling? Would her heart flutter 
within her ribs like a moth beating its wings against a glass?
    Beyond the castle walls, it was growing dark. The blush of firelight under 
the deep woods reminded Iome of glowing embers--red flame flickering under 
leaves of gold and scarlet. Frowth giants moved at the edge of the trees. In the 
gloaming, one could almost mistake them for haycocks--their golden heads and 
backs were that shaggy.
    "Forgive me for arguing," Iome said. "I'm in a foul mood. You don't deserve 
harsh treatment. I suppose that if we want to fight, we could always go down to 
the battlefield and carve up a few of Raj Ahten's troops."
    "Surely you would not go into battle?" Gaborn asked. "Promise me that! Raj 
Ahten's swordsmen are not commoners."
    Iome felt tempted to laugh at the idea of going into battle. She kept a 
small poniard strapped to her leg, under her skirt, as many a proper lady did, 
and she knew how to use it. But she was no swordswoman. She decided to bait the 
Prince one more time.
    "Why not?" she demanded, only half in jest. "Farmers and merchants man the 
castle walls! Their lives mean as much to them as ours do to us! They are 
endowed with only the gifts their mothers gave them at birth. Meanwhile, I have 
endowments of wit and glamour and stamina to defend me. I may not have a strong 
sword arm, but why should I not fight?"
    She expected Gaborn to warn her how dangerous the battle would be. The 
Frowth giants would have muscles of iron. Raj Ahten's men each had endowments of 
brawn, grace, metabolism, and stamina. Moreover, they were trained to war.
    Yet now Iome realized she would not concede to common sense, for her 
argument was just. Her vassals valued their lives as much as she valued her own. 
She might be able to save one of them, or two or three. She would help defend 
the castle walls. Just as her father would.
    Yet Gaborn's answer surprised her: "I don't want you to fight, because it 
would be a shame to mar such beauty."
    Iome laughed, clear and sweet, like the call of a whippoorwill in a glade. 
"I have refused to look at you," she said, "for fear my heart would overwhelm my 
common sense. Perhaps you should have done the same."
    "Truly, you are beautiful," Gaborn said, "but I'm no boy to be made dizzy by 
a pretty face." That use of Voice again, so sensible. "No, it is your decency 
that I find beautiful."
    Then, perhaps sensing the darkness about to descend, Gaborn said, "I must be 
honest, Princess Sylvarresta. There are other princesses I could ally with, in 
other kingdoms. Haversind-by-the-Sea, or Internook." He gave her a moment to 
think. Both kingdoms were as large as Heredon, as wealthy, and perhaps even more 
defensible--unless, of course, you feared invasion from the sea. And the beauty 
of Princess Arrooley of Internook was legendary, even here, twelve hundred miles 
away. "But you intrigued me."
    "I? How so?"
    Gaborn said honestly, "A few years ago, I had an argument with my father. 
He'd arranged to purchase grace for me from a young fisherman. I objected. 
You've seen how those who give up grace often cling to life tenuously. The 
muscles of their guts cannot stretch, and so they cannot digest food. They can 
seldom walk. Even to attempt speech or to close their eyes can cause pain. I've 
seen how they waste away, until they die after a year or so. To me it seems that 
of all the traits one might endow to another, grace would be hardest to lose.
    "So I refused the endowment, and my father grew angry. I said it was wrong 
to persist in this 'shameful economy,' accepting endowments from those vassals 
poor enough in intellect and worldly goods to count themselves fortunate to give 
up the best parts of themselves for our benefit.
    "My father laughed and said, 'You sound like Iome Sylvarresta. She called me 
a glutton when last I ate at her table--not a glutton for food, but a glutton 
who fed on the misery of others! Hah! Imagine!' " When Gaborn quoted his father, 
he sounded exactly like the King. He was using his Voice again.
    Iome remembered that comment well. For her impertinence, her father had 
administered a firm spanking in the presence of King Orden, then locked her in 
her room for a day without food or water. Iome had never regretted the remark.
    Her face burned with embarrassment. She'd often felt torn between admiration 
and loathing for King Orden. In ways, he cut a heroic figure. Mendellas Draken 
Orden was powerful, a stubborn king, and it was rumored that he fought well in 
battle. For two decades he'd kept the Northern kingdoms united. A glance from 
him would cow many a would-be tyrant, and with a curt word he could insure that 
a prince would fall out of favor with his own father.
    Some called him the Kingmaker. Others called him the Puppet Master. The 
truth was, Orden had been making himself into a man of heroic proportions for a 
reason. Like the Runelords of old, he had to become more than human because his 
enemies were more than human.
    "Forgive me those words," Iome said. "Your father did not deserve such 
chastisement from a self-righteous nine-year-old girl."
    "Forgive it?" Prince Gaborn answered. "What is to forgive? I agreed with 
you. Perhaps a thousand years ago, there was reason for our ancestors to put one 
another to the indignity of the forcibles. But the reaver invasions are long 
past. The only reason you and I are Runelords is because we were born into this 
'shameful economy'! I was so intrigued by your comment that I asked my father to 
repeat every word you had ever uttered in his presence, and the conditions under 
which they were spoken.
    "So he began recalling things you'd said since the time you were three, and 
recited anything he found pertinent."
    He gave Iome only a split second to consider the implications. King Orden, 
like any who had such heavy endowments of wit, would naturally recall everything 
he'd ever seen, every word he'd ever heard, every innocent phrase. With his 
endowments of hearing, Orden could listen to a whisper three rooms away through 
the thick stone walls of the castle. As a child, Iome hadn't quite understood 
the breadth of powers a mature Runelord held. No doubt, she'd spoken many things 
that she'd never have wanted King Orden to hear. And he remembered it all 
faultlessly.
    "I see..." Iome said.
    "Don't be offended," Gaborn said. "You didn't embarrass yourself. My father 
reported every jest you made to Lady Chemoise." He nodded toward the maid. Iome 
felt the gesture more than saw it. "Even as a child, my father found you to be 
amusing, generous. I wanted to meet you, but I had to wait for the proper time. 
Last year I came to Hostenfest in my father's retinue so I could look on you..."
    "I sat in the Great Hall and watched you through dinner, and elsewhere. I 
dare say, I feared my stare would bore a hole through you.
    "You impressed me, Iome. You laid siege to my heart. I watched those who sat 
around you, the serving children and guards and Maids of Honor, and saw how they 
craved your affection. I watched the next morning as we left, how a flock of 
children gathered round you as our caravan made to depart, and you kept the 
young ones out from under the horses' hooves. You are well loved by your people, 
and you give love freely in return. In all the Kingdoms of Rofehavan, you have 
no equal. That is why I've come. I'd hoped that like all those around you, I too 
might have the hope of someday sharing your affection."
    Fair words. Iome wondered furiously. King Orden always brought a dozen or 
two retainers to the Great Hall for dinner. It was only right that those who 
participated in the hunt share in the prize boar, served at the height of the 
feast. Iome tried to recall the faces of those men: several wore the scars of 
the forcibles, and were therefore lesser lords in their own right. Prince Gaborn 
would have been one of them. And he would be young.
    Yet, to a man, Orden's guards and retainers were older, more trusted men. 
Orden was wise enough to know that the best fighters were seldom spry youths 
bursting with enthusiasm at the thought of swinging a battle-axe or sword. No, 
the best were old, masters of technique and strategy who often stood their 
ground in a battle, seeming to hardly move, slashing and thrusting with deadly 
economy.
    Orden had had no young men in his retinue. Except...for one she recalled: a 
shy boy who'd sat at the far end of the tables--a handsome boy with straight 
hair and piercing blue eyes that twinkled with intelligence, though he gaped at 
his surroundings like some commoner. Iome had thought him merely a trusted body 
servant, perhaps a squire in training.
    Surely that common youth could not have been a prince of the Runelords! The 
very thought left her unsettled, made her heart pound. Iome turned to look at 
Prince Orden, to verify her suspicions.
    And laughed. He stood, a plain young man with a straight back, dark hair, 
and those clear blue eyes. He'd filled out in a year. Iome could hardly contain 
her surprise. He was...nothing much to look at. He had no more than one or two 
endowments of glamour.
    Gaborn smiled, charmed at her mirth. "Having seen me now, and knowing my 
reasons for coming," he said, "had I asked your hand in marriage, would you have 
given it?"
    From the core of her heart, Iome answered sincerely, "No."
    Gaborn stepped back as if she'd slapped him, as if her rejection were the 
last thing he'd expected. "How so?"
    "You're a stranger. What do I know of you? How could I love someone I don't 
know?"
    "You would learn my heart," Gaborn answered. "Our fathers desire a political 
union, but I desired a union of like minds and like hearts. You will find, Lady 
Sylvarresta, that you and I are...one in many matters."
    Iome laughed lightly. "Honestly, Prince Orden, if you had come seeking only 
the realm of Heredon, perhaps I could have given it to you. But you would have 
asked for my heart, and that I could not promise to a stranger."
    "As I feared," Gabon said honestly. "Yet you and I are strangers only by 
accident. Had we lived nearer one another, I think we could have forged a love. 
Could I not persuade you, give you a gift that might change your mind?"
    "There's nothing I desire," Iome said; then her heart pounded. Raj Ahten's 
armies stood at her gate. She wanted him gone. She realized she'd spoken too 
quickly.
    "There is something you desire, though you don't know it," Gaborn said. "You 
live here, tucked away in your castle near the woods, and you say there is 
nothing you want. Yet certainly you must be afraid. There was a time when all 
Runelords were like your father, men bound by oath to serve their fellows, men 
who took no endowment but that which was freely given.
    "Now, here we are, cornered. Raj Ahten is at your gates. All around you, the 
kings of the North call themselves 'pragmatists,' and have given themselves to 
the pursuit of gain, telling themselves that in the end they will not become 
like Raj Ahten.
    "You see the fallacy of their arguments. You saw my father's weakness when 
you were little more than a child. He is a great man, but he has vices, as do we 
all. Perhaps he has been able to remain good in part because people like you 
sometimes spoke up, sometimes warned him to beware of greed.
    "And so I have a gift for you, Princess Sylvarresta, a gift I give freely, 
asking nothing in return."
    He strode forward, took her hand. Iome imagined that he would place 
something in her palm, a precious stone or a love poem.
    Instead, Gaborn took her hand in his, and she felt the calluses on his palm, 
felt the warmth of his hand.
    He knelt before her and whispered an oath, an oath so ancient that few now 
understood the language of it, an oath so crippling that almost no Runelord ever 
dared speak it:
    "This oath I take in your presence, and my life will bear witness in every 
point:"
    "I, a Runelord, swear to serve as your protector. I, your Runelord, am your 
servant above all. I promise now that I will never take an endowment by force, 
nor by deception. Nor will I purchase such from those in need of wealth. 
Instead, if any man stands in need of gold, I will give it freely. Only those 
who would join me as I battle evil may serve as my Dedicates."
    "As the mist rises from the sea, so does it return."
    He had sworn the vow of the Oath-Bound Runelords, an oath normally spoken to 
vassals, but given also to underlords or to friendly monarchs that one intended 
to defend. It was not an oath spoken lightly to one person. Rather, it was a 
covenant, declaring a way of life. The very thought made Iome feel faint.
    With Raj Ahten battling the North, the House of Orden would need all its 
strength. For Gaborn to speak that oath now, in her hearing, was--suicidal.
    Iome had never expected such greatness of heart from House Orden. To live 
the oath would prove hard beyond bearing.
    She'd not have done the same. She was too...pragmatic.
    Iome stood gaping for just a moment, realizing that if he had sworn that 
oath to her under fairer skies, she would have thought well of him. But to speak 
the oath now, under these conditions...was irresponsible.
    She looked to her Days, to see the girl's reaction. The young woman's eyes 
were wide, the thinnest show of surprise.
    Iome looked back to Gaborn's face, found herself wanting to memorize it, to 
hold this moment in her memory.
    An hour is not enough time to fall in love, but an hour is all they had that 
day. Gaborn had won her heart in far less time, and shown Iome her own heart 
more clearly in the process. He had seen that she loved her people, and it was 
true. Yet she had to wonder: Even if Gaborn takes this oath as an act of love 
for mankind, is it not sheer folly? Does Gaborn love his honor more than the 
lives of his people?
    "I hate you for that" was all that Iome could answer.
    At that instant, a heavy beating of drums rose from the valley floor. The 
sun was dipping below the horizon. Two Frowth giants at the wood's edge pounded 
on heavy copper drums, and a dozen dappled gray horses spurred out from the 
gloom under the trees. Their riders all wore black chain mail beneath yellow 
surcoats, with the red wolves of Raj Ahten upon their chests. The foremost rider 
carried a green triangular pennant on a long' spear, a request for a parlay.
    The others in the guard all bore axes and shields the color of copper--an 
honor guard, with the emblem of the sword beneath the star of Indhopal upon 
their shields.
    That is, all bore the same uniform but one--Upon the last horse in the 
group, in his black chain armor, his high helm with white snow owl's wings 
sweeping wide, Lord Raj Ahten rode himself, shield on one arm, a horseman's 
long-handled warhammer in the other.
    Where he rode, it was as if light shone from him, as if he were one star in 
a black and empty night, or one lowly signal boat with its pyres lit upon the 
water.
    Iome could not take her eyes from him. Even at this distance, his glamour 
struck her breathless. She could not distinguish his features--for at such a 
distance, he was nothing more than a tiny stick figure. Yet she had the 
impression of great beauty, even from here. And she knew that to look upon his 
face would be dangerous.
    Iome admired his helm, with its sweeping white wings. In her bedroom she 
kept two ancient helms of the toth. What a fine addition it would make to my 
collection, she thought, with Raj Ahten's skull smiling out at me.
    Behind Raj Ahten's forces came a more common brown mare, the Wolf Lord's 
Days, struggling to catch up. Iome wondered what secrets he could tell...
    Down by the gates, her father's soldiers began shouting at one another in 
warning: "Beware the face! Beware the face!"
    She looked at her own men on the walls, saw many of them fumbling with their 
arms. Captain Derrow, who had many endowments of strength, ran along the parapet 
with a steel great bow that no other man in the kingdom could draw, hoping to 
send a few darts into Raj Ahten.
    As if in answer to her soldiers' warnings, a swirling cloud of golden light 
formed above Raj Ahten, a whirlwind of embers that descended, drawing the eyes 
of many to his features.
    It was some flameweavers' trick, Iome realized. Raj Ahten wanted her people 
to look at him.
    Iome did not fear Raj Ahten's visage from so far away. She doubted that from 
here his glamour could muddy her judgment.
    Raj Ahten hurried toward the city gates. His warriors' horses issued forth 
in formation, rippling over the fields like a gale, for these were no common 
beasts. They were force stallions. Herd leaders, that like their masters were 
transformed by the Runelords' art. The sight of them, shooting over the 
darkening fields like cormorants skimming the sea, filled Iome's heart with 
wonder. She'd never seen such fine force horses gallop in unison. She'd never 
seen anything so magnificent.
    Prince Orden ran to the top of the stairs, shouted down into the Dedicates' 
Keep, "King Sylvarresta, you are needed. Raj Ahten seeks a parlay."
    Iome's father cursed, began pulling on his armor. It clattered as he 
dressed.
    Behind Raj Ahten, beside the deserted farms that dotted the edge of the 
woods, Raj Ahten's troops began to emerge from the gloom. Five flame-weavers, so 
close to becoming one with the elements that they could no longer wear clothes, 
shone like blazing beacons, clad in twisting tongues of green fire. The dry 
grasses at their feet burst aflame.
    As warriors moved out of the shadowed woods, the light blazing from the 
flameweavers suddenly reflected on polished armor, glinted from swords.
    Among the thousands of warriors who began to advance, stranger things than 
flameweavers could he seen.
    The shaggy Frowth giants, twenty feet tall at the brow, lumbered forward 
clumsily in their chain mail, clutching huge ironbound staves. They struggled to 
keep from crushing Raj Ahten's swordsmen in their advance.
    War dogs kept pace with the giants, huge beasts, mastiffs with runes branded 
into them.
    Bowmen by the score.
    And at the edge of the forest, black shadows flickered. Furred creatures 
with dark manes hissed and growled, loping forward in a crouched gait on clawed 
knuckles, each bearing an enormous spear. "Nomen!" someone shouted. "Nomen from 
beyond Inkarra!"
    Nomen to scale the walls, scampering up the stone like monkeys. Nomen with 
their sharp teeth and red eyes.
    Iome had never seen one--alive. Only once had she seen an ancient, shedding 
pelt. They were the stuff of legend.
    Nomen. No wonder Raj Ahten's army traveled by day only through the woods, 
attacked only at night.
    It was all show of course. Raj Ahten appearing in his glory with all his 
entourage. The power of his army was astonishing, his wealth enormous.
    You see me? he was saying. You Northerners squat here in your barren 
kingdom, never knowing how impoverished you are. Behold the Wolf Lord of the 
South. Behold my wealth.
    But Iome's people were ready for battle. She saw boys and old men shifting 
on the castle walls, gripping the hafts of their spears tighter, reaching over 
to make sure that the arrows placed beside them lay just so. Her people would 
put up a battle. Perhaps a battle that would be sung about in years to come.
    Just then, Iome's father finished dressing, grabbed his weapons, and came 
bounding up the steps of the tower behind her. His Days, an elderly scholar with 
white hair, hobbled behind as fast as possible.
    Iome was not prepared for the change in her father. In the past few hours, 
he'd taken sixty endowments from his people, had grown much in power. He leapt 
up six stairs at a time, even while bearing his arms, wearing full armor. He 
moved like a panther.
    When he reached the top of the tower, the Frowth giants quit drumming, and 
Raj Ahten's army halted. The untrained nomen growled and hissed in the distance, 
as if eager to do battle.
    Lord Raj Ahten himself gave a shout, reigning in his stallion, and such was 
the power of his call--for he bore endowments of Voice from hundreds and 
hundreds of people--that his words carried clearly even this high on the 
citadel, even blowing on the wind. He sounded kindly and pleasant, belying the 
threat inherent in his deeds.
    "King Sylvarresta, people of Heredon," Raj Ahten called, his voice as fair 
as the tinkling of a bell, as resonant as a woodwind. "Let us be friends--not 
combatants. I bear you no malice. Look at my army--" He spread his arms wide. 
"You cannot defeat it. Look at me. I am not your enemy. Surely you will not 
force me to squat here in the cold tonight, while you dine beside your hearths? 
Throw open your gates. I will be your lord, and you will be my people."
    His voice sounded so pleasant, so brimming with reason and gentleness, that 
had she been on the walls, Iome would have found it hard to resist.
    Indeed, in that moment, she heard the gears to the main portcullis grind, 
and the drawbridge began to lower.
    Iome's heart pounded. She leaned forward, shouting "No!" astonished that 
some of her fool subjects, overwhelmed by a monster's glamour and Voice, were 
doing his bidding.
    Beside her, King Sylvarresta also shouted, ordering his men to raise the 
bridge. But they were far from the gates, so high up. The sound of Orden's shout 
was muffled by the visor on his helm. He pulled it up to call more clearly.
    In keeping with her own feelings of anger, down at the gates, Captain Derrow 
let a bolt loose at the Wolf Lord. Derrow's bolt flew with incredible speed, a 
blur of black iron that would have driven through any other man's armor.
    But the speed and strength of Raj Ahten outmatched him. The Runelord simply 
reached up and caught the bolt in midair.
    Such speed. Raj Ahten had done the unthinkable, taking so many endowments of 
metabolism. Even from here, she saw that he must move five or six times as fast 
as a common man. Living at such speed, he'd age and die in a matter of years. 
But before then, he might well conquer the world.
    "Here now," he called, sounding reasonable. "We'll have no more of that." 
Then with great force, with a sound of gentleness that slid past all of Iome's 
defenses, Raj Ahten commanded, "Throw down your weapons and your armor. Give 
yourselves to me."
    Iome leapt to her feet, found herself grasping for her poniard, ready to 
toss it over the walls. Only Gaborn's hand, which reached to stop her, kept her 
from dropping the weapon over the wall.
    Immediately she regretted it, saw how foolish it had been, and she glanced 
at her father, afraid at how angry he might be. She saw him struggling, 
struggling, to keep from tossing his own warhammer over the tower wall.
    For half a heartbeat she stood, terrified of how her people might respond to 
Raj Ahten's voice and glamour, fearing that those closer to the monster would be 
fooled.
    With a shout, as if in celebration, her people began tossing bows and 
weapons over castle walls. Swords and fouchards clattered on the stones beside 
the moat, along with helms and shields. The ballistas on the south wall crashed 
to the water, raising a plume of spray. From here, the sound of her people 
cheering was almost deafening, as if Raj Ahten had come as their savior, not 
their destroyer, and in that moment, the city gates opened wide.
    Several of House Sylvarresta's most loyal soldiers began to struggle, hoping 
to close the gates. Captain Derrow swung his steel bow as a weapon, fending off 
townsmen. A few warriors with great heart but lesser gifts never made it from 
their posts at the walls. As soon as they shouted in defiance, those standing 
nearby grabbed them. Brawls broke out. Iome saw several of the city guards get 
tossed over the walls to their deaths.
    From here, Iome could not see the beauty of Raj Ahten's face. From here, 
surely the wind diminished the sweetness of his voice.
    From here on the castle wall, even though Iome could comprehend how her city 
was lost, she could not quite believe what she saw with her own eyes.
    She was stunned. She found herself shaken more than she could have imagined.
    The drawbridge came down. The portcullis lifted. The inner gate opened.
    Without one enemy loss, Castle Sylvarresta fell.
    Amid cheers, Raj Ahten rode into the inner court, just inside the great 
wall, while Iome's people tossed aside the carts and barrels that littered the 
area, and chickens flew up out of the Wolf Lord's path.
    How could I have been so blind? Iome wondered. How could I have not seen the 
danger?
    Only moments before, Iome had hoped that her father and King Orden would be 
able to withstand Raj Ahten.
    How simpleminded I am.
    From beside her, Iome's father shouted, calling across the distance, calling 
for his men to surrender. He did not want to watch them die.
    The stiff evening wind carried away his words.
    In shock, Iome glanced at her father's face, saw him pale and shaken, 
beaten, beaten, and utterly hopeless.
    My father's voice is as dry and insubstantial as ash blowing in the wind, 
Iome thought. He is nothing before Raj Ahten. We are all nothing. She'd never 
imagined this.
    Raj Ahten leaned forward in his saddle, moving ever so lightly. From so far 
away, his face was no larger in her field of vision than a sparkling bit of 
quartz sand glittering on a beach; she imagined him beautiful. He seemed young. 
He seemed fair. He wore his armor more lightly than another man might wear his 
clothes, and Iome watched him in wonder. It was rumored that he had endowments 
of brawn from thousands of men. If not for fear of breaking his bones, he could 
leap the walls, slice through an armored man as if slicing through a peach.
    In battle he would be nearly invincible. With his endowments of wit--drained 
from hundreds of sages and generals--no swordsman could take him by surprise. 
His endowments of metabolism would let him move through the courtyard, dodging 
between startled guards, an unstoppable blur. With enough endowments of stamina, 
he could withstand almost any blow in battle.
    For all intents and purposes, Raj Ahten was no longer even a human. He'd 
become a force of nature.
    One intent on subduing the world.
    He needed no army to back him, no force elephants or shaggy Frowth giants to 
batter down the palace gates. No nomen to scale the walls. No flameweavers to 
set the city's roofs aflame.
    They were all minor terrors, distractions. Like the ticks that infested a 
giant's fur.
    "We can't fight," her father whispered. "Sweet mercy, we can't fight."
    Beside her, Gaborn's breath came ragged, and he moved so close that Iome 
could feel the warmth of him beside her face.
    Iome felt disconnected from her body as she simply watched the events unfold 
below. People were running to the courtyard, trying to press close to the new 
lord, their Lord, who would destroy them all.
    Iome feared Raj Ahten as she feared death; yet she also found that she 
welcomed him. The power of his Voice made her welcome him.
    Prince Gaborn Val Orden said softly, "Your people don't have the will to 
resist. My regrets to House Sylvarresta--to your father, and to you--for the 
loss of your kingdom."
    Thank you," Iome said, her voice weak, far away.
    Gaborn turned to King Sylvarresta. "My lord, is there anything I can-" 
Gaborn was looking at Iome. Perhaps he hoped to take her from here, to take her 
away.
    Iome's father turned to the Prince, still in shock. "Do? You are but a boy? 
What could you possibly do?"
    Iome's mind raced. She wondered if Gaborn could help her escape. But, no, 
she couldn't imagine it. Raj Ahten would know she was in the castle. The royals 
were marked. If Gaborn tried to free her, Raj Ahten would hunt them down. The 
most Gaborn might accomplish would be to save himself. Raj Ahten did not know 
that Prince Orden was on the grounds.
    Apparently, King Sylvarresta reached the same conclusion. "If you can make 
it from the castle, give my regards to your father. Tell him I regret that we 
won't hunt together again. Perhaps he can avenge my people."
    Her father reached under his breastplate, pulled out a leather pouch that 
held a small book. "One of my men was murdered while trying to bring this to me. 
It contains writings from the Emir of Tuulistan. Much of the end of it is only 
philosophical ramblings and poetry--but it contains some accounts of Raj Ahten's 
battles.
    "I believe the Emir wanted me to learn something from it, but I have yet to 
figure out what. Will you see that it gets to your father?"
    Gaborn took the leather pouch, pocketed it.
    "Now, Prince Orden, you had better leave, before Raj Ahten learns you're 
here. Considering the present state of my loyal subjects, it won't be long till 
he finds out."
    "Then with regrets, I take my leave." Gaborn bowed to the King.
    To Iome's surprise, Gaborn stepped forward, kissed her cheek. She was 
astonished to find how hard her heart beat in response to his touch. Gaborn 
stared keenly at her, whispered in a fierce tone, "Keep heart. Raj Ahten uses 
people. He does not destroy them. I am your protector. I will return for you."
    He turned smartly and hurried to the stairs, running so softly she did not 
hear his feet scuff the stone. If not for the racing of her heart and the warmth 
on her cheek where he'd kissed her, she almost would have thought she'd imagined 
him.
    Captain Ault stepped in behind Gaborn and followed him down into the bailey.
    How will he escape, she wondered, with Raj Ahten's guards watching the city?
    She glanced down at his retreating back, at his blue cloak flapping, as 
Gaborn made his way through the throng of the blind, the deaf, the idiots and 
other crippled Dedicates of House Sylvarresta. He was not tall. Perhaps a young 
man could escape the castle without regard.
    How odd, she considered, her thoughts still disjointed, to think I love him. 
She almost dared hope that they really might wed.
    But of course, Prince Orden had to save himself, and she had nothing to 
offer him. Dully, she realized that this day could not have turned out any other 
way.
    Perhaps we are both more pragmatic than we want to believe, she wondered.
    "Goodbye, my lord," she whispered to Gaborn's retreating form, and added an 
old blessing for wayfarers. "May the Glories guide your every step.
    She turned back to look down on Lord Raj Ahten, grinning and waving to his 
new subjects. His dappled gray stallion strode proudly through the cobbled 
streets, and the peasants parted for him easily, their cheers becoming steadily 
more deafening. He'd already made it into the second tier of the city, past the 
Market Gate. He spurred his way up through the streets, and for a moment was 
hidden from Iome's view.
    Suddenly Chemoise stood at Iome's elbow. Iome swallowed hard, wondering what 
Raj Ahten would do to her. Would she be put to death? Be tortured? Disgraced?
    Or would he leave her some position, let her father reign as a regent? It 
seemed possible.
    One could only hope.
    Down below, Raj Ahten suddenly rounded a corner and was now only two hundred 
yards away.
    She could see his face beneath the sweeping white wings of his helm--the 
clear skin, glossy black hair, the impassive dark eyes. Handsome, handsome. As 
perfectly formed as if he were sculpted by love or goodness.
    He looked up at Iome. Because she was beautiful as only a princess of the 
Runelords could be, Iome was growing accustomed to the occasional rapacious 
stares of men. She knew how sorely her appearance could arouse a man.
    Yet of all the predatory gazes she'd ever been granted, nothing compared to 
what she saw laid bare in Raj Ahten's eyes.

     
     
Chapter 9
THE WIZARD'S GARDEN
     
    Gaborn nearly flew down the stairs of the Dedicates' Tower, making his way 
through the crowded courtyard, past the smelly idiots, the cripples.
    Captain Ault was at his side, and he said, "Young sir, please go into the 
Dedicates' kitchens, and wait until I send someone for you. The sun will be down 
in moments. We can find a way to get you over a wall after nightfall."
    Gaborn nodded. "Thank you, Sir Ault."
    He'd known for hours that he'd have to make his escape from Castle 
Sylvarresta, but hadn't believed it would happen so soon. He'd imagined that the 
castle's defenders would have put up a great battle. The castle walls were 
certainly thick enough, high enough to hold Raj Ahten's army at bay.
    He'd wanted some sleep. He'd had almost none over the past three days. In 
truth, he needed almost no sleep. As an infant, he'd been given three endowments 
of stamina, and fortunately two of those who'd granted the endowments still 
lived. So, in the way of those who had great stamina, Gaborn was able to get his 
rest on horseback, to let his mind rest, as he moved about as if through a 
waking dream. Still, he sometimes wanted a nap.
    Food was another matter. Even a Runelord with great stamina needed food. 
Right now Gaborn's stomach was cramping. Yet he had almost no time to eat.
    Worse than that, he'd taken a wound--nothing major, but an arrow had pierced 
his right bicep. His sword arm. He'd washed and bandaged it, but the thing 
throbbed, burned.
    And Gaborn had no time to take care of any of these needs. Right now, he 
needed a disguise.
    He'd killed one of Raj Ahten's outriders, three of his Frowth giants. His 
arrows had taken half a dozen war dogs.
    Raj Ahten's outriders would want vengeance on Gaborn. He was cornered. He 
didn't feel certain that he could escape, even if he waited an hour for full 
darkness. Gaborn had two endowments of scent, but his keen sense of smell was 
nothing compared to that of some of Raj Ahten's troops: men with noses more keen 
than a hound's. They would track him.
    Despite his show of confidence to Iome, Gaborn felt terrified. Still, he 
took one thing at a time. He smelled food cooking in the Dedicates' kitchens, 
hurried through a broad plank door. Its brass handle felt loose in his hand.
    He found himself not in the kitchen, but in the wide entrance to the dining 
chamber. To the right of the door, he could see past several heavy beams into 
kitchens where the cooking fires burned like a blast furnace. Several plucked 
geese hung from the rafters, along with cheeses, strings of garlic, smoked eels, 
and sausages. He could hear a soup boiling in one of the big kettles next to the 
fire. The smell of tarragon, basil, and rosemary lay heavy in the air. A 
worktable lay between him and the kitchens, and a young blind girl was there, 
stacking boiled eggs, turnips, and onions on a huge metal tray.
    Down at her feet, a tawny cat toyed with a chewed and frightened mouse.
    Ahead, the room opened wide to the thick plank dining tables, black from age 
and grime, benches running down each side. Small oil lamps sat burning atop each 
table.
    The bakers and chefs of Castle Sylvarresta were hard at work, piling the 
tables with loaves of bread, bowls of fruit, filling plates with meat. While the 
rest of Sylvarresta's followers had run to the walls to gawk at the battle, the 
cooks here knew where their duty lay: in caring for the wretches who had given 
up endowments to House Sylvarresta.
    As in most Dedicates' kitchens, the staff was composed mostly of those who 
had given up endowments themselves: the ugly people who had given up glamour 
served the tables and ruled the kitchens. The mutes and the deaf worked the 
bakery. The blind and those who had no sense of smell or touch swept the plank 
floors and scoured the burnt kettles.
    Gaborn immediately noticed the silence here in the kitchens. Though a dozen 
people bustled about, no one spoke, aside from a curt order here and there. 
These people were terrified.
    The kitchens offered a mixed palate of smells: the scents of butchered 
animals and baked bread struggled to overpower the odors of moldering cheese, 
spilled wine, rancid grease. It was a ghastly combination, yet Gaborn found 
himself salivating.
    He hurried into the dining hall. A narrow corridor behind it led to the 
bakers' ovens. Gaborn smelled fresh, yeasty bread still steaming.
    He grabbed a hot loaf from the table, earning a scowl from a pretty serving 
girl. Yet he took the food as if it were his, and gave her a glance that said, I 
own this.
    The wench could not withstand the unspoken rebuke, hurried away. She held 
her arms in close, in the careful way of those who've given up an endowment of 
touch. Gaborn took a good knife, cut a thigh off a goose that lay on another 
plate. He thrust the dagger into the belt of his tunic, and stuffed as much meat 
as he could in his mouth; he uncorked a bottle of wine from the table, washed 
down the goose meat as fast as he could, surprised at the quality of the wine.
    One of the King's own red hunting hounds had been lounging under the table. 
It saw Gaborn eating, came up and sat at Gaborn's feet, eyes expectant, casually 
sweeping the floor with its tail.
    Gaborn tossed it the meaty goose bone, then grabbed another loaf of bread, 
began eating.
    All this time, his mind raced. Though someone would come to help guide him 
from the castle, he knew that it would not be easy, and he could not safely rely 
on others. He considered various plans. Castle Sylvarresta had a moat, a river 
flowing along its eastern wall, with a water wheel for the grain mill.
    There would be a boathouse by the mill, where the royals could go out for a 
casual row. Often, an underground passage led down to the boathouse from the 
castle.
    But the boathouse would be well watched by Raj Ahten's troops. The Wolf Lord 
had nomen with him, nomen who could see in the dark. It wasn't likely that 
Gaborn could make it out of the boathouse.
    The kitchen staff might have some sort of a sewer that would connect to the 
river. But that was unlikely. Nothing ever went to waste in the kitchens. Bones 
were fed to the King's dogs. Vegetable peels and animal guts went to the swine. 
Hides went to tanners. Anything that was left went to the gardens.
    Gaborn had to escape through the river. He couldn't risk trying to go out by 
land. The war dogs would find him.
    And he couldn't stay, couldn't hide in the castle for the night. He had to 
leave before nightfall. Once darkness fell, and the city quieted, Raj Ahten's 
hunters would begin searching for him, out for vengeance.
    The pretty serving wench returned with another bottle of wine, more bread 
and meat to replace what Gaborn had taken.
    Gaborn spoke to the back of her neck. "Pardon me. I am Prince Orden. I need 
to reach the river. Do you know of a passage I can take?" Almost immediately he 
felt stupid. I should not have given my name, he thought. Yet he'd felt the need 
to impress upon her the nature of his predicament, and revealing his name was 
the swiftest way to do so.
    The girl looked at him, lamplight reflecting in her brown eyes. Gaborn 
wondered why she'd divested herself of feeling. A love affair gone awry, the 
desire to never touch or be touched again? Life could not he easy for her. Those 
who gave endowments of touch could not feel heat or cold, pain or pleasure. All 
their senses dulled somewhat--hearing, sight, and smell.
    Because of this, life for them was as empty as if they were opium addicts. 
They would often burn or cut themselves, never knowing. In the cold of winter, 
they could get frostbite and bear it without tears.
    Gaborn didn't know who she'd given her endowment of touch to--whether it had 
gone to the King, to the Queen, or to Iome. Yet he felt certain that King 
Sylvarresta would be put to death. Possibly within hours, before dawn. Unless 
Raj Ahten wanted to torture the man first.
    Would this wench sit before a fire tonight, waiting for the first touch of 
warmth to her skin? Or would she stand out in the cold mists, feeling the play 
of it over her face ? Certainly life could not be easy for her.
    "There's a trail out back," she said, her voice surprisingly husky, sweet. 
"The baker's path leads down to the mill. There are some low birches that sweep 
out over the water. You might make it."
    "Thank you," Gaborn said.
    He turned, thinking to go out to the courtyard. He wanted to leave Castle 
Sylvarresta, but he needed to strike a blow against Raj Ahten. He'd seen dozens 
of forcibles lying on the green, where the facilitators had recently worked.
    The forcibles, forged from valuable blood metal from the hills of Kartish, 
were a mixture of metals believed to be derived from human blood. Only blood 
metal could be used to make forcibles. Gaborn couldn't let Raj Ahten have them.
    But as he turned to go, the maid tapped Gaborn's shoulder and asked, "Will 
you take me with you?"
    Gaborn saw fear in her eyes. "I would," he answered softly, "if I thought it 
could help. But you may be safer here." In Gaborn's experience, Dedicates were 
seldom very courageous. They were not the type of people to seize life, to 
grasp. They served their lords, but served passively. He did not know if this 
girl would have the emotional fortitude necessary to make her escape.
    "If they kill the Queen..." she said. "The soldiers--they'll use me. You 
know how they take vengeance on captured Dedicates."
    Then Gaborn understood why she had given up feeling, why she feared to be 
touched, to be hurt again. She feared rape.
    She was right. Raj Ahten's soldiers might hurt her. These people who were 
too weak to stand, or whose metabolisms were so slow they could not blink more 
than five times an hour--all were a part of their Runelord. They were his 
invisible appendages, the source of his power. By upholding their lord, they 
opposed their lord's enemies.
    If King Sylvarresta were put to death, these wretches wouldn't escape 
retribution.
    Gaborn wanted to tell the maid to stay, that he couldn't take her. Wanted to 
tell her how dangerous the trip would be. But for her, perhaps the greater 
danger lay in remaining here in the Dedicates' Keep.
    "I plan to try to swim out through the river," Gaborn answered. "Can you 
swim?"
    The wench nodded. "A little." She shook at the thought of what she planned 
to do. Her jaw trembled. Tears filled her eyes. Swimming would not be a valuable 
skill here in Heredon, but in Mystarria Gaborn had learned the finer points of 
the arts from water wizards. He still had protective spells cast over him to 
help keep him from drowning.
    Gaborn leaned close, squeezed her hand. "Be brave, now. You'll be all 
right."
    He turned to leave, and she shouldered past, taking a loaf of bread for 
herself as she scurried out. In the doorway she grabbed a walking stick and an 
old shawl, wrapped her head, and hurried out.
    On a peg near where the walking stick had been, Gaborn spotted a baker's 
tunic, an article of clothing too warm to be worn near the ovens. The bakers 
typically would strip down to a loincloth while baking.
    Gaborn put on the tunic, a grimy thing that smelled of yeast and another 
man's sweat. He hung Sylvarresta's fine blue robe in its place.
    He looked now like a menial servant, but for his sword and poniard. He 
couldn't help those. He'd need them.
    He hurried into the courtyard to gather the forcibles. The clear evening sky 
had darkened. In the courtyard, the shadows had grown surprisingly deep. Guards 
were carrying torches out of the guardroom to light the bailey.
    As he got out the door, Gaborn saw his mistake. The great wooden gates to 
the Dedicates' Keep lay open, and Raj Ah ten's battle guard had just ridden in, 
men who even to the most casual observer could be seen to move with heightened 
speed, warriors with so many endowments that Gaborn was but a pale shadow in 
comparison. All around the courtyard, Lord Sylvarresta's Dedicates had gathered, 
staring in dismay at Raj Ahten's troops.
    Raj Ahten himself, just outside the gates, was leaving the keep with Lord 
Sylvarresta and Iome.
    Gaborn glanced at the ground in the yard. The forcibles he'd wanted to 
collect were gone. Taken.
    A warrior in the guard pinned Gaborn with his eyes. Gaborn's heart beat 
fiercely. He shrank back, tried to remember his training in the House of 
Understanding.
    A wretch. I'm a wretch, he wanted to say with his whole body. Another 
miserable cripple, in service to Lord Sylvarresta. But the sword he wore told 
another story.
    A mute? A deaf man, one who still hoped to fight?
    He shrank back a pace, farther into the shadows, hunched his right shoulder 
and let his arm hang down, stared at the ground, mouth dropping open stupidly.
    "You!" the guard said, spurring his stallion forward. "What is your name?"
    Gaborn glanced at the Dedicates around him, as if unsure whether he was 
being addressed. The Dedicates weren't armed. He could not hope to blend in.
    Gaborn put on an idiot's grin, let his eyes go unfocused. There was a class 
of person who could be found in a Dedicates' Keep that he might play, a servant 
who had no attributes worth taking, yet who loved his lord and therefore 
performed what service he could.
    Squinting, Gaborn grinned up at the soldier, pointed a finger at his force 
stallion. "Ah! Nice horse!"
    "I said, what is your name?" the soldier demanded. He sported a slight 
Taifan accent.
    "Aleson," Gaborn answered. "Aleson the Devotee." He said "devotee" as if it 
were a lord's title. In fact, it was a name given to one rejected as a Dedicate, 
one found worthless. He fumbled at his sword as if trying to draw it. "I...I'm 
going to be a knight."
    Gaborn managed to draw the sword halfway, as if to show it off, then shoved 
it back into the scabbard. The soldier would recognize fine steel if he saw it.
    There, he had his disguise. A mentally deficient boy who wore a sword as an 
affectation.
    At that moment, a heavy wain pulled through the portcullis, an open wagon 
filled with men in hooded robes--men slack-jawed, with vacant eyes, their wits 
drained. Men so weak from granting brawn they could not rise, but only lay 
exhausted, arms hanging over the edge of the wagon. Men so cramped from granting 
grace that every muscle seemed clenched--backs curved, fingers and toes curled 
into useless claws.
    Raj Ahten was bringing Dedicates of his own to the keep. Four huge draft 
horses pulled the wain. The honor guards' own stallions danced and kicked. There 
was little room for so many beasts here in the square, not with Dedicates 
standing around, gawking.
    "That's a fine sword, boy," the guard grumbled at Gaborn as his horse shied 
from the wagon. "Be careful you don't cut yourself." His words were a dismissal; 
he fought to move away from the wagon without crushing the nearest bystander.
    Gaborn shuffled forward, knowing the surest way to get rid of someone was to 
hang on for dear life. "Oh, it's not sharp. Do you want to see?"
    The wagon halted, and Gaborn saw Iome's Maid of Honor, Chemoise, in its very 
back, holding the head of one of the Dedicates there. "Father, Father..." she 
cried, and then Gaborn knew that these were not just any Dedicates to Raj Ahten, 
but captured knights, brought back to their homeland as trophies. The man 
Chemoise held was in his mid-thirties, hair of palest brown. Gaborn watched the 
maid and her father, wished that he could save them. Wished he could save this 
whole kingdom. You too, he vowed silently, dazed. If I have my way, I will save 
you, too.
    From out of the shadows at Gaborn's side, a heavy man in a dirty robe 
approached. He growled, "Aleson, you stinking fool! Don't just stand in the way. 
You didn't empty the Dedicates' chamber pots, like I told you! Come along now 
and do your job. Leave the good men alone."
    To Gaborn's surprise, the fellow thrust two buckets full of feces and urine 
into Gaborn's hand, then cuffed him on the head. The buckets reeked. For one who 
had endowments of scent, the odor was unbearable. Gaborn choked back his desire 
to vomit, twisted his neck, gave the man a wounded glare. The fellow was stout, 
with bushy brows, a short brown beard going gray. In the shadows he looked like 
just another Dedicate in dirty robes, but Gaborn recognized him: Sylvarresta's 
herbalist, a powerful magician, the Earth Warden Binnesman.
    "Carry these off to the gardens for me, before it gets too dark," the 
herbalist whispered viciously, "or you'll get another beating worse than the 
last."
    Gaborn saw what was happening. The herbalist knew that Raj Ahten's scouts 
had his scent. But no man with endowments of scent would come too near these 
buckets.
    Gaborn held his breath, hefted the buckets.
    "Don't stub your toes in the shadows. Must I watch you every moment?" 
Binnesman hissed. He kept his voice low, as if to keep from being overheard, 
knowing well that each soldier in Raj Ahten's guard had enough endowments of 
hearing to discern the very sound of Gaborn's heart at this distance.
    Binnesman led him round to the back of the kitchens. There they met the 
kitchen maid. "Good, you found him!" she whispered to Binnesman. The herbalist 
just nodded, held a finger up, warning her not to speak, then led them both 
through a small iron gate out the back of the Dedicates' Keep, along a worn 
trail, into a garden. The cook's herb garden.
    Along the south wall of the garden grew some dark green vines, climbing the 
stone wall. Binnesman stopped, began picking leaves. In the failing light, even 
Gaborn recognized the narrow, spade-shaped leaves of dogbane.
    As soon as he'd picked a handful, Binnesman rolled them in his palm, 
bruising them. To a common man the dogbane had only a slightly malodorous scent, 
but it was poison to dogs. They avoided it. And Binnesman was a master magician 
capable of strengthening the effects of his herbs.
    What Gaborn smelled in that moment was indescribable--a gut-wrenching oily 
reek from a nightmare, like evil incarnate. Indeed, an image filled Gaborn's 
mind--as if suddenly a giant spider had strung webs of murder here across the 
path. Deadly. Deadly. Gaborn could imagine how the stuff would affect a hound.
    Binnesman sprinkled these leaves on the ground, rubbed some on Gaborn's 
heel.
    When he'd finished, he led Gaborn through the cook's garden, ignoring other 
herbs as he went. They jumped a low wall, came to the King's Wall--the second 
tier of the city's defenses.
    Binnesman led Gaborn along a narrow road with the King's Wall on one side, 
the backs of merchants' shops on the other, till he reached a small gate with 
iron bars, small enough so a man would have to duck to pass through. Two guards 
stood at the gate in the stone wall. At a gesture from Binnesman, one guard 
produced a key, unlocked the iron gate.
    Gaborn set down the stinking buckets of feces, wanting to be rid of the 
burden, but Binnesman hissed, "Keep them."
    The guards let the three through. Outside the wall was a kingly garden, a 
garden more lush, more magnificent than any Gaborn had ever seen. In the sudden 
openness, the last failing light of day still let Gaborn see better than he had 
in the shadows of the narrow streets.
    Yet the term "garden" did not feel entirely correct. The plants that grew 
here were not pampered and set in rows. Instead they grew in wild profusion and 
in great variety all about, as if the soil were so alive that it could not help 
but produce them all in such great abundance.
    Strange bushes with flowers like white stars joined in an arch over their 
heads. Creepers trailed up all along the garden's stone walls, as if seeking to 
escape.
    The garden rolled away for a half mile in each direction. A meadow full of 
flowers spread before them, and beyond it lay a hillock overgrown with pines and 
strange trees from the south and east.
    In this place, odd things had happened: orange and lemon trees grew beside a 
warm pool, trees that should never have survived these winters. And there were 
other trees beyond, with strange hairlike leaves and long fronds, and twisting 
red branches that seemed to rake the sky.
    A stream tinkled through the meadow. A family of deer there drank at a small 
pool. The pale forms of flowers and herbs sprouted everywhere, blossoming in 
profusion. Exotic forests rose to both the east and the west.
    Even this late in the evening, with the sun having fallen, the drone of 
honeybees filled the air.
    Gaborn inhaled deeply, and it seemed that the scents of all the world's 
forests and flower gardens and spices rushed into his lungs at once. He felt he 
could hold that scent forever, that it enlivened every fiber of his being.
    All the weariness, all the pain of the past few days seemed to wash out of 
him. The scent of the garden was rich. Intoxicating.
    Until this moment, he thought, he'd never truly been alive. He felt no 
desire to leave, no hurry to leave. It was not as if time ceased here. No, it 
was a feeling of...security. As if the land here would protect him from his 
enemies, just as it protected Binnesman's plants from the ravages of winter.
    Binnesman bent low, pulled off his shoes. He motioned for Gaborn and the 
serving wench to do the same.
    This had to be the wizard's garden, the legendary garden that some said 
Binnesman would never leave.
    Four years earlier, when the old wizard Yarrow had died, some scholars at 
the House of Understanding had wanted Binnesman to come, to assume the role of 
hearthmaster in the Room of Earth Powers. It was a post of such prestige that 
few wizards had ever rejected it. But then there had been a huge uproar. 
Binnesman had published an herbal several years earlier, describing herbs that 
would benefit mankind. An Earth Warden named Hoewell had attacked the herbal, 
claiming that it contained numerous errors, that Binnesman had misidentified 
several rare herbs, had drawn pictures of plantains hanging upside down, had 
claimed that saffron--a mysterious and valuable spice brought from islands far 
to the south--came from a specific type of flower when, in fact, everyone knew 
that it was a mixture of pollens collected from the beaks of nesting 
hummingbirds.
    Some sided with Binnesman, but Hoewell was both a master scholar and a 
ruthless politician. Somehow he had succeeded in humiliating and disaffecting a 
number of minor herbalists, even though, as an Earth Warden by training, his own 
magical powers dealt with the creation of magical artifacts--a field apart from 
herbalism. Still, his political maneuvering swayed a number of prominent 
scholars.
    So Binnesman never got the post as hearthmaster in the Room of Earth Powers. 
Now some people said that Binnesman had refused the post in shame, others that 
his appointment would never have been ratified. As Gaborn saw it, such were the 
lies and rumors that Hoewell promulgated to aggrandize himself.
    Yet a rumor more persistent than any other arose, and this one Gaborn 
believed: In the House of Understanding, some good men whispered that despite 
the pleas of many scholars, Binnesman simply would not go to Mystarria, not for 
any prestigious post. He would not leave his beloved garden.
    On seeing the exotic trees, tasting the scents of rare spices and honeyed 
flowers on the wind, Gaborn understood. Of course the herbalist could not leave 
his garden. This was Binnesman's life's work. This was his masterpiece.
    Binnesman tapped Gaborn's boot with his foot again. The serving wench 
already had her shoes off. "Forgive me, Your Lordship," Binnesman said, "but you 
must remove your shoes. This is not common ground."
    In a daze, Gaborn did as ordered, pulling off his boots. He got up, wanting 
nothing more than to stroll through these grounds for a day.
    Binnesman nodded meaningfully toward the buckets of feces. Gaborn hefted his 
unsavory burden, and they were off, strolling across a carpet of rosemary and 
mint that emitted a gentle, cleansing scent as their feet bruised the leaves.
    Binnesman led Gaborn through the meadow, past the deer that only looked at 
the old Earth Warden longingly. He reached a particular rowan tree, a tree that 
was phenomenally tall, a perfect cone. He studied it a moment, then said. "This 
is the place."
    He dug a small hole in the detritus beneath the tree, motioned for Gaborn to 
bring the dung.
    When Gaborn brought the buckets, Binnesman emptied them into the Pit. 
Something clanked. Among the feces Gaborn saw objects dark and metallic.
    With a start he recognized Sylvarresta's forcibles.
    "Come," Binnesman said, "we can't let Raj Ahten have these." He picked up 
the forcibies, placed them back into the bucket, ignoring the dung on his hands. 
He walked fifty paces to the brook, where trout snapped at mosquitoes, slapping 
the water.
    Binnesman stepped into the stream and rinsed the forcibles one by one. Then 
he placed them together on the bank. Fifty-six forcibles. The sun had set nearly 
half an hour ago, and the forcibles now seemed but dark shadows on the ground.
    When Binnesman finished, Gaborn tore a strip of cloth from his tunic and 
wrapped the forcibles into a bundle.
    Gaborn looked up, caught Binnesman appraising him, squinting in the 
half-light. The herbalist seemed lost in thought. His beefy jowls sagged. He was 
not a tall man, but he was broad of shoulder, stocky.
    "Thank you," Gaborn said, "for saving the forcibles."
    Binnesman did not acknowledge his words, merely studied him, as if peering 
behind Gaborn's eyes, or as if he sought to memorize Gaborn's every feature.
    "So," Binnesman said after a long moment. "Who are you?"
    Gaborn chuckled. "Don't you know?"
    "King Orden's son," Binnesman muttered. "But who else are you? What 
commitments have you made? A man is defined by his commitments."
    A cold dread filled Gaborn at the way the Earth Warden said "commitments." 
He felt certain that Binnesman was speaking of the oath he'd made this night to 
Princess Sylvarresta. An oath he'd rather have kept secret. Or perhaps he spoke 
of the promise Gaborn had made to the kitchen wench, the promise to save her, or 
even the silent vow he'd made to Chemoise and her father. And, somehow, he felt, 
these commitments might offend the herbalist. He glanced at the kitchen wench, 
who stood with hands folded, as if afraid to touch anything.
    "I'm a Runelord. An Oath-Bound Lord."
    "Hmmm..." Binnesman muttered. "Good enough, I suppose. You serve something 
greater than yourself. And why are you here? Why are you in Castle Sylvarresta 
now, instead of next week, when your father was scheduled to arrive?"
    Gaborn answered simply. "He sent me ahead. He wanted me to see the kingdom, 
to fall in love with its land, with its people, as he had."
    Binnesman nodded thoughtfully, stroking his beard. "And how do you like it? 
How do you like this land?"
    Gaborn wanted to say that he admired it, that he found the kingdom 
beautiful, strong and almost flawless, but Binnesman spoke with a tone in his 
voice, a tone of such respect for the word "land," that Gaborn sensed they were 
not speaking of the same thing. Yet perhaps they were. Was this garden not also 
part of Heredon? Were not the exotic trees, gathered from far corners of the 
earth, part of Heredon? "I have found it altogether admirable."
    "Humph," Binnesman grunted, glancing around at the bushes, the trees. "This 
won't last the night. The flameweavers, you see. Theirs is a magic of 
destruction, mine a magic of preservation. They serve fire, and their master 
will not let them resume human form unless they feed the flame. What better food 
than this garden?"
    "What of you? Will they kill you?" Gaborn asked. 
    "That...is not in their power," Binnesman said. "We have reached a turning 
of the seasons. Soon, my robes will turn red."
    Gaborn wondered if he meant that literally. The old man's robes were a deep 
green, the color of leaves in high summer. Could they change color of 
themselves? "You could come with me," Gaborn offered. "I could help you escape."
    Binnesman shook his head. "I've no need to run. I have some skill as a 
physic. Raj Ahten will want me to serve him."
    "Will you?"
    Binnesman whispered, "I've made other commitments." He said the word 
"commitments" with that same odd inflection he used when speaking of the land. 
"But you, Gaborn Val Orden, must flee."
    At that moment, Gaborn caught the sound of a distant barking, the snarling 
and raucous baying of war dogs.
    Binnesman's eyes flickered. "Do not fear them. The dogs cannot pass my 
barrier. Those that try will die."
    Binnesman had a certain sadness in his voice. It pained him to kill the 
mastiffs. He grunted, climbed up out of the stream, his shoulders sagging as if 
worried. To Gaborn's surprise, the wizard stooped in the near total darkness, 
plucked a vine at the water's edge, and told Gaborn, "Roll up your right sleeve, 
I sense a festering wound."
    Gaborn did as asked, and Binnesman set the leaves on the wound, held them in 
place with his hand. Immediately the leaves began drawing out the heat and pain. 
Gaborn carefully unrolled his sleeve, letting his shirt help hold the poultice 
in place.
    As if making small talk, Binnesman asked both Gabon and the kitchen maid, 
"How do you feel? Tired? Anxious? Are you hungry?"
    Binnesman began strolling through the meadow, and as he walked, he would 
stoop in the shadows and pluck a leaf here, a flower there. Gaborn wondered how 
he could find them at all in the darkness, but it was as if the wizard had 
memorized their positions, knew exactly where each grew.
    He rubbed Gaborn's feet with lemon thyme one moment, something spicier the 
next. He stopped to pick three borage flowers, their blue leaves glowing faintly 
in the darkness, and gently took each five-petaled flower between his fingers, 
then pulled so that the black stamens remained with the petals. He told Gaborn 
to eat the honeyed flower petals, and Gaborn did, feeling a sudden rush of 
calmness take him, a perfect fearlessness he'd never thought he could experience 
under such duress.
    The herbalist fed several more borage flowers to the kitchen wench, gave her 
some rosemary to help fight fatigue.
    Binnesman then strolled to a grassy slope, reached down and broke the stem 
of a flowering bush. "Eyebright," he whispered, taking the stem. A fragrant oily 
sap was dripping from it, and Binnesman drew a line over Gaborn's brows, another 
high up on his cheek.
    Suddenly, the night shadows did not seem so deep, and Gaborn marveled. He 
had endowments of sight to his credit, and could see fairly well in the dark, 
but he'd never imagined anything like this: it was as if the herbalist had added 
another half-dozen endowments in the matter of a moment. Yet Gaborn recognized 
that he was not actually seeing more light. Instead, it was as if, when he 
glanced at something that he might have been able to recognize after minutes of 
study and squinting in the darkness, he felt no strain, yet instantly discerned 
shapes and colors.
    He looked off to the woods, saw a dark shape there--a man hiding among the 
trees. A tall man, in full armor. Powerful. If not for the eye-bright, he'd 
never have seen the man at all. He wondered what the fellow might be doing, and 
yet...knew the fellow belonged.
    When Binnesman finished administering the herb to the kitchen maid, he said 
softly to her. "Keep this stem in your pocket. You may need to break it and 
apply fresh sap again before dawn."
    Gaborn realized now that the herbalist was not just chatting about idle 
matters when asking how they felt, that perhaps this wizard never chatted about 
idle matters. He was preparing Gaborn and the maid to flee in the darkness. The 
ministrations of leaves rubbed over his skin would change his scent, throw off 
his trackers. Other herbs would magnify his abilities.
    This took less than three minutes, then the herbalist began asking more 
penetrating questions. To the maid he asked, "Now how tired are you? Did the 
borage make your heart race too fast? I could give you skullcap, but I don't 
want to overtax you."
    And sometimes he spoke quickly, gave Gaborn commands.
    "Keep this poppy seed in your pocket; chew it if you are wounded. It will 
dull the pain."
    He took them next to the edge of the wood, where three dark trees with 
twisted branches reared up like great beasts with twiggy fingers and mossy 
limbs, forming a dark hollow that enclosed a small glade. Here, Gaborn felt 
smothered, constricted. Something about the closeness of the trees gave a sense 
that he was being watched and judged and would shortly be dismissed. The earth 
was all around him here, he felt--in the soil beneath his feet, in the trees 
that surrounded him and nearly covered him. He could smell it in the soil, in 
leaf mold, in the living trees.
    Among many small shrubs that huddled on a hummock near the glade's center, 
Binnesman stopped. "Here we have rue," he said. "Harvested at dawn, it has some 
medicinal and culinary value, but if you harvest just after the heat of the day, 
it is a powerful irritant. Gaborn, if the hunters come at you from downwind, 
toss this into their eyes, or into a fire--the smoke from such a fire is most 
dangerous."
    Gaborn dared not touch it. Even going near the bushes made his lungs feel 
constricted, his eyes water. But Binnesman walked up to a low bush that held a 
few wilting, yellow flowers. He pulled off some leaves, taking no harm.
    The kitchen maid would not draw close, either. Though she could feel 
nothing, she had grown careful.
    The herbalist looked back at Gaborn, and whispered, "You do not need to fear 
it."
    But Gaborn knew better.
    Binnesman reached down to his feet. "Here." He picked a handful of rich, 
loamy soil, placed it in Gaborn's palm.
    "I want you to make a commitment," Binnesman said, in that special way that 
let Gaborn know this was serious, that much depended on how he answered. He 
spoke each word with gravity and ceremony, almost chanting.
    Gaborn felt dazed by all that had happened, frightened. As he took the soil 
in his hand, he felt almost as if the ground wrenched beneath his feet. He was 
suddenly so weary. The soil seemed tremendously heavy in his palm, as if it 
contained hidden stones of enormous weight.
    The wizard is right, Gaborn thought. This is not common ground.
    "Repeat after me: I, Gaborn Val Orden, swear to the earth, that I will never 
harm the earth, that I dedicate myself to the preservation of a seed of humanity 
in the dark season to come."
    Binnesman stared into Gaborn's eyes, unblinking, and waited, with bated 
breath, for Gaborn to speak the vow.
    Something inside Gaborn trembled. He felt the soil in his hand, felt...a 
tickling at the back of his consciousness, a presence, a powerful presence.
    It was the same great presence he'd recognized yesterday, in Bannisferre, 
when he'd felt the impulse to ask his bodyguard Borenson to marry the beautiful 
Myrrima.
    Only now that presence came immensely stronger. It was the feeling of rocks 
in motion, of trees breathing. An odd power pulsed beneath his feet, as if the 
earth trembled in anticipation. Yes, he could feel it--through his bare feet, 
the power of the earth rising beneath him.
    And Gaborn saw that he'd been traveling here toward this destination for 
days. Had his father not told him to come here, to learn to love the land? Had 
some Power inspired his father to say those words?
    And in the inn at Bannisferre, when Gaborn drank the addleberry wine, the 
best wine he had ever tasted, the wine with the initial B on its wax seal, he 
had felt this power. Gaborn knew now, knew without asking, that Binnesman had 
put up that bottle of wine. How else could it have had such a marvelous effect? 
The wine had quickened his wits, led him here.
    Gaborn feared to take the wizard's vow, to become a servant of the earth. 
What would it require? Was he to become an Earth Warden like Binnesman? Gaborn 
had already taken other vows, vows he considered sacred. As Myrrima had said, he 
did not take vows lightly.
    Yet somehow he also feared not to take this vow. Even now, Raj Ahten's 
hunters would be coming after him. He needed help to escape, wanted Binnesman's 
aid.
    "I swear," Gaborn told Binnesman.
    Binnesman chuckled. "No, you fool. Don't swear to me, swear to the earth, to 
that which is in your hand, and that beneath your feet. Say the whole oath."
    Gaborn opened his mouth, painfully aware of how the herbalist clung to his 
words, painfully aware that this vow was more significant than he could imagine. 
Wondering how he could maintain a balance, keep his vows to both the earth and 
to Iome.
    "I--" Gaborn began to speak, but the earth quivered at his feet. All around, 
through the fields and woods and garden, the earth went still. No wind stirred, 
no animal called. The dark trees surrounding him seemed to loom larger, shutting 
out all light.
    Darkness, darkness. I am beneath the earth, Gaborn thought.
    Gaborn glanced round in astonishment, for he had thought the evening quiet 
until that moment. Now, absolute stillness reigned over the face of the land, 
and Gaborn sensed a strange and powerful presence rushing toward him.
    In reaction to this, Binnesman backed away from the rue plant, stood with an 
astonished demeanor, gazing about. The soil twisted near his feet, grass parting 
as if some great veil of cloth ripped.
    And from the bushes at the forest's edge, a man emerged, a black form 
stepping from the shadows. Gaborn had discerned his shape moments before, had 
seen his shadow once the eyebright was administered, but had never guessed at 
the creature's true appearance.
    For this was no mortal man. Rather it was a creature of dust, formed from 
rich black soil. Minuscule specks of dirt and pebbles clung together, molding 
his features.
    Gaborn recognized the form. Raj Ahten trod toward him. Or, more accurately, 
a being of dust in the form of Raj Ahten marched from the woods, complete in 
armor, scowling imperiously, his high helm spreading wide with owl's wings, 
black as onyx.
    Immediately, Gaborn froze in terror, wondering what this manifestation might 
mean. He looked to Binnesman; the wizard had fallen back in astonishment.
    The creature of dust stared down at Gaborn, a slight mocking disdain on its 
face. In the gathering shadows of the wood, it might have seemed human to a 
casual observer, but for its lack of color. Every eyelash, every fingernail, 
every feature and fiber of its clothing seemed perfectly formed.
    Then the earth spoke.
    The creature of dust did not move its mouth. Instead the words seemed to 
come from all around. Its voice was the sound of wind sighing through a meadow 
or hissing through lonely peaks. The groan of rocks moving through a stream, or 
tumbling downhill.
    Gaborn understood none of it, though he recognized it as speech. Beside 
Gaborn, Binnesman listened intently, and interpreted, "He says to you, Gaborn, 
'You would speak an oath to me, O son of a man?' "
    The strange sounds continued, and Binnesman thought a moment before he 
added. " 'You say you love the land. But would you honor your vows to me, even 
if I wore the face of an enemy?' "
    Gaborn looked to Binnesman for answer, and the wizard nodded, urging Gaborn 
to speak to the earth directly.
    Gaborn had never seen anything like this creature, had never heard tales of 
it. Earth had come to him, choosing a form that Gaborn could see and comprehend. 
Some men claimed to look into fire and see the face of the Power behind it, but 
it often seemed to Gaborn that fire was the most approachable of elements, while 
air was the least. Gaborn had never heard of the earth manifesting itself in 
this way.
    "I do love the land," Gaborn said at last.
    The strange clamor of faraway noises rose again. " 'How can you love what 
you cannot comprehend?' " Binnesman interpreted.
    "I love what I do comprehend, and suppose I would love the rest," Gaborn 
tried to answer truthfully.
    Earth smiled, mocking. Boulders rumbled. Binnesman said, " 'Someday you 
shall comprehend me, when your body mingles with mine. Do you fear that day?' "
    Death. Earth wanted to know if he feared death.
    "Yes." Gaborn dared not lie.
    "Then you cannot love me fully," Earth whispered. "Will you aid my cause 
despite this?"
    Raj Ahten. The thing looked so much like Raj Ahten. Gaborn knew what Earth 
desired of him. Something more than embracing life. Something more than serving 
man. To embrace death and decay and the totality that was Earth.
    A strangeness showed in Earth's dark face, emotions not human. Gaborn looked 
into those eyes, and images came to mind: a pasture far south of Bannisferre 
where white stones protruded from the green grass like teeth; the scenic purple 
mountains of Alcair as seen in the distance south of home. But there was 
more--vast crevasses and caverns and canyons deep beneath the ground, places he 
had never seen. Many-colored soils and dark rock by the shapeless ton, so deep 
within the earth that no man could hold it all, no man could begin to comprehend 
it. Gems and mud and leaves rotting on the forest floor among the bones of men. 
Smells of sulfur and ash and grass and blood. Rivers thrumming and tumbling in 
the dark places of the world, and endless seas lying over the face of the earth 
like sweet tears.
    You cannot know me, Earth was saying. You cannot comprehend me. You see only 
surfaces. Though you want me as an ally, I must also be your enemy.
    Painfully, Gaborn considered each word of the vow, wondering if he could 
keep it.
    "Why would you want me to take this vow?" Gaborn asked. "What does it mean, 
to never harm the earth? What does it mean, to preserve a seed of humanity?"
    This time, Binnesman did not hesitate when he translated Earth's answer, 
which came more as a sighing of wind than a grumble. "You will not seek to 
thwart me," Earth said, leaning back casually against the bole of one dark tree 
that seemed to cup him like a hand. "You will seek to learn my will, discern how 
best to serve the earth."
    "In what capacity?" Gaborn asked, seeking to know more precisely what the 
earth wanted.
    Clamorous noises. Binnesman frowned thoughtfully as he sought for 
words..."As you cannot comprehend me," Earth said, "I cannot comprehend you. Yet 
this much I know: You love your people, seek their welfare. You seek to save 
men."
    "There was a time when Fire loved the earth, and the sun drew nearer to me. 
That time is no more. So in this dark season, I must call others to champion my 
cause. I ask you to save a remnant of mankind."
    Gaborn's heart pounded. "Save them from what?"
    Hissing rose through the woods. "Fire. All of nature is out of balance. That 
which you call 'the First Power' has long been withdrawn, but now it will waken 
and sweep over the world, bringing death. It is in Fire's nature to seek 
constantly to consume and grow. It shall destroy much."
    Gaborn knew enough of wizardry to know that while all Powers combined to 
create life, the alliance of Powers was uneasy, and different Powers favored 
different kinds of life. Air loved birds, while Water loved fishes, and Earth 
loved plants and the things that crept upon its face. Fire seemed to love only 
serpents, and creatures of the netherworld. Earth and Water were powers of 
stability. Air and Fire were unstable. Earth itself was a protector, and 
combined with Water to protect nature.
    Immediately, Gaborn reasoned, I am a Runelord, Prince of Mystarria--a nation 
strong in water magics--who loves the land. So earth seeks to make an ally of 
me.
    "You seek my service," Gaborn said, "and only a fool would refuse to 
consider your offer. You want me to save someone, and this I would do gladly. 
But what do you offer in return?"
    Boulders rumbled, and nearby the ground vented steam as Earth laughed. Yet 
Binnesman did not smile as he translated, " 'I ask but one thing of you, to save 
a seed of humanity. If you succeed, the deed itself shall be your reward. You 
shall save those you deem worthy to live.' "
    "If--I succeed?" Gaborn asked.
    Lonely wind hissing through trees. "Once there were toth upon the land. Once 
there were duskins...At the end of this dark time, mankind, too, may become only 
a memory."
    Gaborn felt his heart nearly freeze. He'd imagined that the earth wanted him 
to help save the people of Heredon from Raj Ahten. But something more dangerous 
than a war between two nations was at hand--something more devastating.
    "What is going to happen?" Gaborn asked.
    The wind hissed as Earth spoke softly. Binnesman merely frowned for a long 
time, then answered for himself. "Gaborn, I can't tell you what the earth is 
saying. It is too complex to interpret. The earth does not itself know the full 
answer. Only the Time Lords see the future, but even for the earth, the answer 
is unclear. Earth senses wide destruction. The skies will be black with smoke, 
and everything will burn. The sun at high noon will shine dimly, as red as 
blood. Seas will be choked with ash...I--it's too much for me to untangle, too 
much to answer."
    The wizard fell silent then, and Gaborn saw that his face was ashen, as if 
trying to make sense of Earth's words was a great labor, even for him. Or 
perhaps the things he'd learned terrified Binnesman to the core, so that he 
could speak no longer.
    Gaborn did not understand how to keep the vow. Yet no matter what it 
required, he had to take it. He fell to his knees and vowed, "I, Gaborn Val 
Orden, swear to you that I will never harm the earth, that I dedicate myself to 
the preservation of a seed of humanity in the dark season to come."
    Gaborn's whole body trembled. The man of dust leaned over until its helm 
almost touched Gaborn's forehead. The sound of wind whispered in Gaborn's ears, 
and the earth rumbled ominously. Binnesman croaked the words: " 'I shall hold 
you to your word, though in time you curse me.' "
    Earth raised two fingers of dust, the forefinger and index finger of its 
left hand, to Gaborn's forehead, and there traced a rune.
    When it finished, Earth stuck the two fingers to Gaborn's lips.
    Gaborn opened his mouth. Earth placed its fingers inside. Gaborn bit, 
tasting clean soil on his tongue.
    In that moment, the fine filaments of hair on the creature of dust fell 
away, and its muscles slackened, until a pile of dust sloughed to the ground.
    Immediately, the suffocating presence of earth power diminished. Light shone 
thinly still through the trees, and Gaborn breathed deep.
    When Binnesman next moved, his face was pale, and the wizard stared at the 
mound of dust in awe. Reaching down, he respectfully prodded it with a finger, 
then tasted the dirt.
    He took another pinch and sprinkled it over Gaborn's left shoulder, then his 
right, and then his head, chanting, "The earth heal, the earth hide you, the 
earth make you its own!
    "Now," Binnesman whispered, placing his hands on Gaborn's shoulders, "Gaborn 
Val Orden, I name you Earthborn indeed. As you serve the land, it serves you in 
return."
    Gaborn still smelled rue here in the glade, but now its powerful scent only 
made his nose itch. He went to the bush, caressed a faded yellow flower, pulled 
a few leaves from branches.
    Gaborn glanced over, saw Binnesman staring at him with something like awe 
etched into his features.
    When Gaborn had taken a dozen more leaves, Binnesman grumbled.
    "You don't need enough to wipe out a whole village. Come now, time is 
short."
    The wizard rolled the rue leaves between his hands, and when he held out his 
palm, the leaves had crumbled to powder. Binnesman took a pouch from around his 
own neck, put the crumbled leaves into the pouch, and placed it around Gaborn's 
throat.
    Gaborn took it stiffly, wanting to ask a hundred questions. But when he'd 
first come into this wild, tangled garden, he'd felt a sense of safety, of being 
protected. Now he recognized time was drawing short, and he felt a sense of 
urgency. He had no time to question now.
    The kitchen maid had been standing this whole while at the edge of the 
glade, a terrified expression on her face. Now Binnesman led her and Gaborn 
downhill, to the south wall of the garden, and they hurried along a narrow 
trail, Gaborn clutching the forcibles in one hand, the hilt of his saber in the 
other.
    He felt so odd. So numb. He wanted to rest, to have time to sort things out.
    When they'd reached the far side of the meadow, beneath the shade of the 
exotic trees, Gabon heard shouting behind. He glanced back up the trail.
    Night had almost completely fallen. Gaborn could see lights shining now from 
the watchtowers of the Dedicates' Keep, and from down below at the Soldiers' 
Keep, and from the King's own chambers. A few lonely stars had begun to glow in 
the sky. This surprised him, for the eyebright so aided his vision that it did 
not seem night.
    But uphill, on the trail behind them, far brighter than any other lights, a 
fiery man strode into view, the green flames flickering across his shoulders 
like the tongues of snakes, licking the clean skin of his hairless skull.
    The flameweaver was behind the gate still, the same gate Gaborn had entered 
only minutes before. The guards had fallen back from this sorcerer, and the 
flameweaver reached out a hand. A bolt of sunlight seemed to burst hungrily from 
his palm, and the iron gate melted and twisted. The flameweaver pushed past the 
ruined gate, entered the garden.
    Behind him came Raj Ahten's scouts. Men in dark robes, searching for 
Gaborn's scent.
    "Hurry!" Binnesman whispered. If these had been normal men, Gaborn would not 
have feared. But he sensed now that this was no fight between mere mortals that 
he engaged in. This was Fire, seeking him.
    Then they were running through the woods, over marshy ground beside the 
stream. Just downhill a few hundred yards, the stream would meet with the River 
Wye, and there Gaborn hoped to find a means of escape. The maid and the wizard 
could not match Gaborn's speed. He jumped some low bushes, and in a few moments 
they reached a small cottage with whitewashed wattle and a thatch roof.
    "I must go and save my seeds," Binnesman hissed. "Rowan, you know the way to 
the mill. Take Gaborn. May the Earth be with you both!"
    "Come," Rowan said. "This way."
    She reached back for his sleeve, pulled him down a brick road. Gaborn did as 
he was told, rushing with a renewed sense of urgency. He could hear shouting in 
the meadows behind him. He still had his boots in hand, was painfully aware with 
each step that he needed to put them on, yet Rowan ran over the uneven stones 
recklessly, feeling nothing.
    Yet even as he ran, he felt...astonished, full of wonder, incapable of 
comprehending all that had just happened. He wanted to stop, to take time to 
ponder. But at the moment, he knew it was too dangerous to do so.
    At the edge of the garden, Gaborn told Rowan, "Stop, stop. Put on your 
shoes, before you break every bone in your foot!"
    Rowan stopped, put on her own shoes while Gaborn pulled on his boots; then 
they ran with greater speed.
    She raced out the garden gate, along a street to the King's stables, an 
enormous building of new wood. She pulled one of the doors open.
    A stableboy sleeping in the hay just inside the door shouted in alarm, but 
Gaborn and Rowan rushed past him, past the long stalls. Here, slung from the 
ceiling in belly harnesses, were dozens of the King's Dedicate horses--horses 
robbed of wit, brawn, stamina, or metabolism so that the King's own force horses 
could have greater power. Rowan ran past the long row of stalls, then fled out 
the back door. Here a stream, the same stream that had flowed through the 
wizard's garden, wound through a muddy corral, where the horses stamped and 
neighed in fear. The stream passed under a great stone wall, the Outer Wall to 
the city's defenses.
    Gaborn could not climb that wall, some fifty feet in height. Instead, Rowan 
squirmed under the wall, where the stone had eroded over the ages. The passage 
was narrow, too narrow to admit a warrior in armor, but the thin girl and Gaborn 
squeezed through, getting wet in the icy water.
    Now the stream tumbled downhill, down a steep green. All around the stream 
grew tall pussy willows.
    Gaborn looked up. An archer on the walls was posted just above them. He 
looked down, saw them escape, and pointedly looked the other way.
    The ground here was kept open near the walls, so that archers could shoot 
from above. Gaborn could never have sneaked into the castle from here, not 
unobserved.
    The hillside became steep just below the pussy willows, where it led into 
some deep birch and alder woods that were so dark that Gaborn could hardly see. 
Yet it was only a small grove, a triangle of trees barely two hundred yards long 
and a hundred wide.
    Through the trees Gaborn spotted the river now, broad and black. He could 
hear its soft voice burbling.
    He halted, grabbed Rowan's ankle to stop her from crawling farther. On the 
far side of the river he saw movement: nomen and Frowth giants setting camps in 
the darkness. The nomen were black shadows in the fields of grain, hunched and 
clawing. Gaborn knew that the nomen, who preferred to leap on their prey from 
trees in the starlight, would be able to see well in the night, but he did not 
know how well.
    Though the nomen had invaded from the sea a thousand years before, the 
Runelords had decimated their numbers, had even gone so far as to sail to their 
own dark lands beyond the Caroll Sea to wipe them out. Long had their war cries 
been silenced. They had not been fierce warriors, but were cunning fighters in 
the darkness. The nomen were now little more than legend. Still, rumor said that 
nomen inhabited the Hest Mountains, beyond Inkarra, and that they sometimes 
stole children to eat. The Inkarrans seemed never quite able to wipe the last of 
the creatures from the rain forests. Gaborn didn't know how much of the tales to 
believe. Perhaps the nomen could see him even now.
    But the woods grew thicker off to the left--and Gaborn spotted a wide 
diversion dam made of stones. The mill. Its huge water wheel made a great 
racket, with its grinding and the water splashing.
    "Let me lead," he whispered. He moved slowly now through the pussy willows, 
eeling on his belly, not wanting to attract the attention of the nomen on the 
far side of the river till he reached the shelter of the woods.
    They were outside the city wall now, on a steep bank that overlooked the 
River Wye to the east, the moat to the south. He hoped Raj Ahten didn't have 
soldiers posted in these woods.
    He took his time as he led Rowan deeper into the grove, careful not to snap 
a twig.
    Up on the hills behind him, in the heart of Castle Sylvarresta, he could 
hear distant cries of dismay, shouts. Perhaps a battle had broken out.
    Other shouts nearby mingled with the noise, cries of hunters, shouting in 
Taifan, "Go that way! Look over there! After him!" Raj Ahten's trackers were 
searching on the other side of the city wall.
    Gaborn crept down a steep ridge, keeping to the trees, till he and Rowan 
nearly reached the river.
    There he studied the far banks from the deep shadows.
    On the hill behind, a fire had begun raging. He smelled smoke. Binnesman's 
garden was ablaze. The flames looked like the lights thrown by a fiery sunrise.
    Gaborn spotted giants on the far bank of the river, hoary things with shaggy 
manes. The blaze reflected in their silver eyes. Nomen prowled among them, 
naked. Shades, who shielded their eyes from the conflagration.
    The river looked shallow. Though autumn was on its way, little rain had 
fallen in the past few weeks. Gaborn feared that no matter how far he dove 
beneath the water, the nomen would see him. But it looked as if the whole city 
might burst into flame, and for the moment the nomen were somewhat blinded.
    Gaborn hugged the shadows. He pointed out twigs for Rowan to avoid with each 
step.
    He heard a branch snap. He spun, drew his saber. One of Raj Ahten's hunters 
stood on the ridge above, half-hidden by trees, framed by firelight from the 
wizard's burning garden.
    The man didn't rush Gaborn and Rowan, only stood silently, trusting to the 
night to hide him. Rowan stopped at the sound, looked uphill. She apparently 
couldn't see the fellow.
    He wore a dark robe, and held a naked sword, with a lacquered leather vest 
for armor. Only the eyebright Binnesman had given Gaborn let him spot the 
hunter.
    Gaborn didn't know what endowments the man might have, how strong or swift 
he might be. But the hunter would be equally wary of Gaborn's attributes.
    Gaborn let his gaze flicker past the hunter, searched the woods to the man's 
right, as if he hadn't spotted him. After a long moment, Gaborn turned his back, 
watched the far bank.
    He set his bundle of forcibles on the ground, then pretended to scratch 
himself and drew the dagger from his belt with his left hand. He held the haft 
in his grip, the blade flat against his wrist, so that it remained concealed.
    Then he just listened. The mill wheel made a noise like the rumble of rocks 
sliding down a slope, and Gaborn could hear distant shouts, perhaps the sound of 
folks fighting a fire in the city. "Let's wait here," Gaborn told Rowan.
    He stilled his breathing as the hunter drew closer.
    Stealthy, a stealthy man, but quick. The man had an endowment of metabolism.
    Gaborn had no extra metabolism. He moved with the speed of youth, but he was 
no match for a force warrior.
    Gaborn couldn't risk letting the man cry an alarm, attract the attention of 
the nomen.
    He waited till the hunter drew close, twenty feet. A twig crunched softly. 
Gaborn pretended not to hear. Waited half a second.
    He waited until he judged that the hunter would be gazing at his feet, 
concentrating on not making another sound; then Gaborn spun and leapt past 
Rowan.
    The hunter raised his sword so fast it blurred. He took a ready 
stance--knees bent, swordpoint forward. Gaborn was outmatched in speed. But not 
in cunning.
    He flicked his dagger from ten feet, and its pommel hit the man's nose. In 
that split second, when the hunter was distracted, Gaborn lunged, aimed a 
devastating blow at the hunter's knee, slicing his patella.
    The hunter countered by dropping the tip of his sword, trying too late to 
parry. On the backstroke Gaborn whipped his blade up, slashing the warrior's 
throat.
    The hunter lunged, not yet realizing he was dead. Gaborn twisted away from 
the blade, felt it graze the left side of his rib cage. Fire blossomed there, 
and Gaborn swept aside the warrior's sword with his own, danced back.
    Gurgling escaped the hunter's throat, and he staggered forward a step. Blood 
spurted from his neck, a fountain that gushed in time with the warrior's 
heartbeat.
    Gaborn knew the man couldn't live much longer, tried to back away, afraid of 
taking another wound. He tripped over a root and fell on the ground, his sword 
tip still held high to parry any attacks.
    As the hunter's brain drained of blood, he began to lose his sight, looked 
around dumbly for half a second. He grasped at a sapling and missed, dropped his 
sword and fell forward.
    Gaborn watched the ridge above. He could see no more of Raj Ahten's hunters. 
Silently he thanked Binnesman for the spices that masked his scent.
    Gaborn felt his ribs. They bled, but not badly, not as bad as he had feared. 
He stanched the blood, then retrieved his forcibles.
    Rowan was panting in fear. She studied him in the darkness as he climbed 
back down toward her, as if terrified that his wound would kill him.
    He stood a little straighter, trying to calm her, then led her down the 
steep bank to the river's edge and they hid among the pussy willows. The fires 
burned brighter.
    The nomen were poised high on the far bank, looking anxiously in his 
direction. They had heard the ringing swords, but so long as the fire blinded 
them, so long as Gaborn and Rowan hid in the shadows, the nomen searched in 
vain. Perhaps the sound of the mill wheel upriver confused them; perhaps they 
were not sure if a fight had been fought in the woods. None seemed desirous to 
brave the river, to fight half-blind. Gaborn recalled vaguely that nomen feared 
the water.
    Wading among pussy willows into water up to his waist, Gaborn looked 
downstream.
    Three Frowth giants stood knee-deep in the water at the river's bend. One 
held a fiery brand aloft, while the other two held their huge oak rods poised 
like spears. They peered into the water like fishermen waiting for someone to 
try to escape.
    The firelight that blinded the nomen would only help the giants to see 
better. For a moment Gaborn studied them. The water downstream could not be more 
than three feet deep. There was no way that he and Rowan could make it past the 
giants.
    Rowan suddenly gasped in pain and doubled over, clutching her stomach.

     
     
Chapter 10
THE FACE OF PURE EVIL
     
    Iome stood atop the south tower of the Dedicate's Keep as Raj Ahten and his 
guard rode up to the gates. Out in the fields, night was falling, and the 
flameweavers had begun heading for town, walking across the dry grasses. A small 
range fire burned in their passage, but to Iome's surprise, it did not rage 
uncontrollably. Instead, a hundred yards behind them, the fire extinguished, so 
that the flameweavers looked like comets, with trails of dying fire in their 
wake.
    Behind them came a great wain from the forest, filled with men in robes, 
bouncing over the rutted mud road that led from the castle into the Dunnwood.
    Raj Ahten's legendary Invincibles also began marching into the city, forming 
up in twenty ranks of a hundred each.
    But others stayed behind, out on the plains. The shaggy Frowth giants kept 
to the tree lines and stalked along the rivers, while the dark nomen, their 
naked bodies blacker than night, circled the castle, squatting on the fields. 
There would be no escaping them this night.
    To the credit of the guards at the gates of the Dedicates' Keep, they did 
not open to Raj Ahten immediately. When the Wolf Lord made his way up the city 
streets to this, the most protected keep within the castle, the guards held 
fast.
    They waited for King Sylvarresta to descend from the tower, with Iome 
walking at his side, hand-in-hand. Two Days followed immediately behind, and 
Chemoise trailed.
    Good, Iome thought. Let the Wolf Lord sit outside the gates for a moment 
longer, waiting on the true lord of Castle Sylvarresta. It was a small 
retribution for what she knew would come.
    Though Iome saw no outward sign of fear in her father's face, he held her 
hand too tightly, clenching it in a death grip.
    In a moment they descended from the tower to the gates of the Dedicates' 
Keep. The guards here were the best warriors in the kingdom, for this was the 
sanctum, the heart of Sylvarresta's power. If a Dedicate were killed, 
Sylvarresta's power would be diminished.
    The guards looked smart with their black-and-silver livery over their 
hauberks.
    As King Sylvarresta strode to them, both men held their pikes, tips pointed 
to the ground. On the far side of the keep wall, Raj Ahten could be seen through 
the portcullis gates.
    "My lord?" Captain Ault asked. He was ready to fight to the death, if Iome's 
father so desired. Or to slay both the King and Iome, save them from the 
torturous end Iome feared.
    "Put them away," Sylvarresta said, his voice shaken with uncertainty.
    "Do you have any orders?" Ault asked.
    Iome's heart pounded. She feared that her father would ask him to slay them 
now, rather than let them fall into enemy hands.
    A debate had long raged among the lords in Rofehavan as to what one should 
do in such circumstances. Often a conquering king would try to take endowments 
from those he defeated. In doing so, he became stronger. And Raj Ahten was far 
too powerful already. Some thought it more noble to kill themselves than to 
submit to domination.
    Others said that one had a duty to live in the hope of serving one's People 
another day. Iome's father vacillated on this point. Since two days past, when 
he'd lost two endowments of wit, the King had become suddenly cautious, fearful 
of what he'd forgotten, afraid to make mistakes.
    King Sylvarresta looked down at Iome, tenderly. "Life," he whispered, 'is so 
sweet. Don't you think?"
    Iome nodded.
    The King said softly, "Life...Iome, is strange and beautiful, full of 
wonders, even in the darkest hours. I have always believed that. One must choose 
life, if one can. Let us live, in the hope of serving our people."
    Iome trembled, fearing that he'd made the wrong choice, fearing that the 
death of her and her father would better serve her people.
    King Sylvarresta whispered to Auk, "Open the gate. And bring us some 
lanterns. We'll need some light."
    The burly captain nodded grimly. From his eyes, Iome knew Ault would rather 
die than watch Sylvarresta lose his kingdom. He did not agree with the King's 
decision.
    Ault saluted, touching the haft of his pike to the bill of his iron cap. You 
will always be my lord, the gesture said.
    King Sylvarresta gave him a curt nod. The guards unbarred the gates; each 
took a handle, pushing them outward.
    Raj Ahten sat on his gray stallion with white speckles on its rump. His 
guards surrounded him. His Days, a tall, imperious man with graying temples, 
waited at his back. The Wolf Lord's horses were large, noble beasts, Iome had 
heard of the breed but had never seen one before. They were called imperial 
horses, brought from the almost legendary realm of the toth, across the Caroll 
Sea.
    Raj Ahten himself looked regal, his black mail covering his body like 
glistening scales, the wide owl's wings on his helm drawing the eye to his face. 
He stared impassively at the King, at Iome.
    His face was neither old nor young, neither quite male nor female, as was 
the case with those who'd taken many endowments of glamour from persons of both 
sexes. Yet he was beautiful, so cruelly beautiful that Iome's heart ached to 
look into his black eyes. His was a face to worship, a face to die for. His head 
weaved from side to side, minutely, as will happen with those who have many 
endowments of metabolism.
    "Sylvarresta," he said from his horse, omitting any title, "is it not 
customary to bow to your lord?"
    The power of Raj Ahten's Voice was so great that Iome felt almost as if her 
legs had been kicked out from under her. She could not control herself, and fell 
down to give her oblations, though a voice in the back of her head whispered, 
Kill him, before he kills you.
    Iome's father fell to one knee, too, and cried out. "Pardon me, my lord. 
Welcome, to Castle Sylvarresta."
    "It is now called Castle Ahten," Raj Ahten corrected.
    Behind Iome, there was a clanking of metal as the keep's guards brought a 
gleaming lantern from the guardroom.
    Raj Ahten stared at them a moment, firelight reflecting from his eyes, then 
dismounted his horse, jumping lightly to the ground. He walked up to 
Sylvarresta.
    He was a tall man, this Wolf Lord, half a head taller than Iome's father, 
and she had always thought her father to be a big man.
    In that moment, Iome felt terrified. She didn't know what to expect. Raj 
Ahten could sweep out his short sword in a blur, decapitate them both. She 
wouldn't even have time to flinch.
    One could not anticipate this man. He'd conquered all the Southern kingdoms 
around Indhopal in the past few years, growing in power at a tremendous speed. 
He could be magnanimous in his kindness, inhuman in his cruelty.
    It was said that when the Sultan of Aven got cornered in his winter palace 
at Shemnarvalla, Raj Ahten responded by capturing his wives and children at 
their summer home, and threatened to catapult the Sultan's sons over the palace 
walls. The Sultan responded by standing on the castle walls, grasping his groin, 
and calling out, "Go ahead, I have a hammer and anvils to make better sons!" The 
Sultan had many sons, and it was said that on that night, as each was set 
aflame, the cries were horrifying, for Raj Ahten waited until the child's cries 
died before he sent the flaming body over the castle walls. Though the Sultan 
would not surrender, his own guards could not bear to hear the cries, and so his 
men opened the gates. When Raj Ahten entered, he took the Sultan, determined to 
make an example of him. What happened next, Iome could not say. Such things were 
never discussed in civilized countries.
    But it was known that Raj Ahten sat in judgment on the kings he conquered 
before his wars were ever begun. He knew which he would butcher, which he would 
enslave, which he would make regents.
    Iome's heart pounded. Her father was an Oath-Bound Lord, a man of decency 
and honor. In her opinion, he was the most compassionate ruler in all the realms 
of Rofehavan.
    And Raj Ahten was the blackest usurper to walk the earth in eight hundred 
years. He dealt with no king as an equal, considered the world his vassals. The 
two could not share the throne to Heredon.
    Raj Ahten pulled the horseman's warhammer from the sheath at his back. It 
was a long-handled thing, almost as tall as he.
    He planted its crossbars in the cobblestones at his feet, then clasped his 
hands on its hilt, leaned his chin on one knuckle, and smiled playfully.
    "We have things between us, you and I, Sylvarresta," Raj Ahten said. 
"Differences of opinion."
    He nodded toward the street behind him. "Are these your men?"
    The huge wain Iome had seen clanking across the fields now pulled up between 
the graystone shops. In the wagon were men--soldiers all, one could tell by 
their grim faces. As they neared the lantern, in horror Iome recognized some of 
them--Corporal Deliphon, Swordmaster Skallery. Faces she'd not seen in years.
    Behind Iome, Chemoise gasped, cried out and ran forward. Her own father, 
Eremon Vottania Solette, lay in the very front of the wagon, a ruined man who 
did not blink. His back arched cruelly, and his hands clutched in useless fists. 
He grimaced in pain; all his muscles were stiff and unyielding as rigor mortis. 
Iome followed Chemoise a few steps, but dared not go nearer to Raj Ahten.
    Yet even from thirty feet, she could smell the stink and dirt on the men. 
Many had eyes that stared vacantly, stupid. Some had jaws slack, from weariness. 
Each soldier had been drained of one of the "greater" endowments--wit, brawn, 
grace, metabolism, or stamina--and thus made harmless.
    As Chemoise clutched her father to her breast and cried, Ault drew close 
with a flickering torch. In the wavering light, the faces in the wagon seemed 
pale and horrible.
    "Most of those were once my men," King Sylvarresta admitted warily. "But I 
released them from service. They are free soldiers, Knights Equitable. I am not 
their lord."
    It was a dubious denial. Though all the men in the wagon were Knights 
Equitable, knights who were sworn by oath to destroy all Wolf Lords like Raj 
Ahten, and though such an oath was considered to override any other oath of 
fealty to a single lord, the truth was that Iome's father served as patron to 
these knights--he'd supplied them with the money and arms needed to fulfill 
their quest to destroy Raj Ahten. For him to deny responsibility for their 
actions was like an archer refusing to take the blame for damage done by an 
arrow once it had left his bow.
    Raj Ahten did not accept the King's excuse. A grimace of pain crossed Raj 
Ahten's face, and he looked away for a moment. Iome felt her heart lurch as she 
saw tears glisten in Raj Ahten's eyes. "You have done me a great wrong," Raj 
Ahten said. "Your assassins killed my Dedicates, slaughtered my own nephew, and 
executed some I considered to be dear friends, good servants."
    The tone of his voice filled Iome with guilt, overwhelming guilt. She felt 
like a child caught tormenting a kitten.
    It pained her all the more because Iome saw that Raj Ahten's sorrow seemed 
to be genuine. Raj Ahten had loved his Dedicates.
    No, something in the back of her mind said, you must not believe that.
    He wants you to believe that. It is only a trick, a practiced use of Voice. 
He loves only the power his people give. Yet she found it difficult to cling to 
her skepticism.
    "Let us go to your throne room," Raj Ahten said. "You've given me no choice 
in the matter but to come settle our differences. It grieves me that we must 
discuss...terms of surrender."
    King Sylvarresta nodded, kept his head bent. Perspiration dotted his brow. 
Iome's breathing came easier. They would talk. Only talk. She dared hope for 
leniency.
    With a glance from Raj Ahten, his guards rode into the Dedicates' Keep, 
leading his horse into the courtyard, while Raj Ahten headed down the road 
toward the King's Keep.
    Iome followed behind her father, numb. Her slippered feet did not like the 
rough paving stones. Chemoise stayed behind, following the wagon into the bailey 
of the Dedicates' Keep, holding her father's hand, whispering words of 
reassurance to Eremon Vottania Solette.
    Iome, her father, and the three Days all followed Raj Ahten through the 
walled market, the richest street of Heredon, past the fine shops where silver 
and gems, china and fine cloth were sold, down to the King's Tower.
    The lanterns in the tower had already been lit. It was, Iome had to admit, 
an ugly tower. A huge square block, six stories tall, with nothing in the way of 
adornment but the granite statues of past kings that circled its base. The 
statues themselves were enormous things, each sixteen feet tall. Along the 
gutters atop the tower were carved minstrels and dancing gargoyles, but the 
figures were so small that one could not see them well from the ground.
    Iome wanted to run, to dart into an alley and try to hide behind one of the 
cows that had bedded there for the night. Her heart hammered so badly.
    When she crossed the threshold into the King's Keep, she nearly fainted. Her 
father held her hand, helped her keep standing. Iome wanted to vomit, but found 
herself following her father up the broad staircases, five stories, until they 
reached the King's chambers.
    Raj Ahten led them through the audience room, into the huge throne room. The 
King's and Queen's thrones were made of lacquered wood, with cushions covered in 
scarlet silk. Gold filigree adorned the leaves carved into the thrones' arms and 
feet, and adorned the headboards. They were unimposing ornaments. Sylvarresta 
had better thrones stored in the attic, out the room itself was enormous, with 
two sets of full-length oriel windows that looked north, south, and west over 
the kingdom. Two lanterns burned at each side of the throne, and a small fire 
danced in the huge hearth. The Wolf Lord took a seat on the King's throne, 
seeming comfortable in his armor.
    He nodded at King Sylvarresta. "I trust my cousin Venetta is well? Go and 
fetch her. Take a moment to freshen up. We will hold audience when you are more 
comfortable." He waved at Sylvarresta's armor, an order for him to remove it.
    King Sylvarresta nodded, not a sign of acknowledgment, more a bending of the 
neck in submission, then went to the royal apartments. Iome was so frightened, 
she followed him rather than go to her own room.
    Neither the King's Days nor Iome's followed. The Days chronicled every 
public movement of their lords, but even they did not dare defile the sanctity 
of the Runelords' bedchamber.
    Instead, Raj Ahten's Days held a convocation with the Days of the royal 
family in an ancient alcove outside the bedchamber, where guards and servants 
often waited for their lord. There, the Days stood speaking briefly in code. It 
was often thus when Days from opposing kingdoms met. Iome understood none of 
their code, and simply closed the bedroom door on their chatter.
    In the King's bedchamber, Queen Venetta Sylvarresta sat in a chair, dressed 
in her finest robes and regalia, staring out the windows to the south. Her back 
was to the door. She'd been painting her nails with a clear lacquer.
    She was vain, with ten endowments of glamour--much more beautiful than Iome. 
Venetta had black hair and an olive complexion, like Raj Ahten's--both darker 
than Iome's. The diadems in Venetta's crown could not match the casual 
loveliness of her face. Her scepter lay across her lap, a gold column with 
pearls embedded in a ball at one end.
    "So," she sighed without turning, "you've lost our kingdom." She sounded 
more hurt than Iome had ever heard her.
    Iome's father pulled off his armored gauntlets, tossed them on the huge, 
four-poster bed.
    "I told you you'd lose it," Queen Sylvarresta said. "You were too soft to 
hold it. It was only a matter of time." More painful words, unlike anything Iome 
had ever heard her mother say before. Unlike, Iome felt sure, anything she'd 
ever said.
    King Sylvarresta unstrapped his helm, threw it next to the gauntlets, then 
worried at the pins on his vambraces. "I'll not regret what I've done," he said. 
"Our people grew up in relative peace."
    "Without allies, without a strong king to protect them," Iome's mother said. 
"How much peace could you have really given them?"
    The bitterness in the words stunned Iome. Her mother had always seemed calm, 
austere, a quiet support to her husband.
    "We gave them the best I could," her father answered.
    "And they love us little enough in return. If you were more of a lord, they 
would rise up in your defense. Your people would fight beside you, beyond all 
hope."
    Iome helped her father remove his pauldrons, then the rebrace from his upper 
arms. Within a moment, he had his breastplate on the bed. Only then did Iome 
notice how her father was laying out the armor, like a man of steel, lying 
facedown, suffocating in the deep feather mattress.
    Venetta was right. King Sylvarresta never got the respect, the admiration he 
deserved. An Oath-Bound Runelord should have drawn followers, should have had 
the respect of his people.
    Instead, those people who gave endowments went to foreign kings, like King 
Orden, where they could sell their attributes at a higher price.
    A king like Sylvarresta seldom got the support he needed, unless a Wolf Lord 
like Raj Ahten came along. Only when confronted with a usurper who won his 
endowments through blackmail would good people flock to the banner of a king 
like Sylvarresta.
    Of course, that is why Raj Ahten attacks here first, Iome realized, when he 
could have laid waste other kingdoms closer by.
    "Did you hear me, milord?" Venetta said. "I'm belittling you."
    "I hear you," Lord Sylvarresta said, "and I love you still."
    Iome's mother turned then, her face full of tears of love, her mouth tight 
in pain. She looked to be a young woman. Just as a faithful dog in great pain 
will snap at the master who tries to save it, Iome's mother had snapped at her 
father, and now Iome saw the regret there.
    "I love you, forever," Venetta said. "You're a thousand times more the king 
than my wicked cousin could ever be."
    King Sylvarresta pulled off his chain, stood in his leather jerkin. He 
glanced pointedly at Iome, and she left the room, gave her parents their 
privacy.
    She dared not go out through the hall, into the throne room. Not with Raj 
Ahten there. So she waited in the alcove outside her father's door, and listened 
to the Days talk excitedly. In ancient times, guards and servants would have 
been stationed here during the night, but King Sylvarresta had never wanted 
either. Still, the small room with its benches was large enough to hold Iome and 
the Days.
    Several long minutes later, Iome's mother and father exited their room. Her 
mother was still in her regalia; her father wore a lordly robe and a determined 
expression.
    As her mother passed, she said to Iome, "Remember who you are." Her mother 
intended to play the role of queen to the very end.
    Iome followed them, back into the audience chamber. To her surprise, two of 
the Raj Ahten's Invincibles had joined him. They stood to either side of the 
throne. The three of them made an imposing sight.
    King Sylvarresta came forward, to the end of the crimson carpet before the 
throne. He knelt on one knee, bowed his head. "Jas Laren Sylvarresta, at your 
service, Lord. And I present my wife, your dear cousin Venetta Moshan 
Sylvarresta, as requested."
    Queen Sylvarresta watched her husband bow, stood uncertainly for a moment, 
then bowed slightly, eyes wary, watching the Wolf Lord.
    When her head was nearest the floor, Raj Ahten leapt forward, his body a 
blur, and drew the short sword from his sheath.
    Venetta's crown, snatched from her head by Raj Ahten's blade, went flying, 
rang off the stone ceiling.
    "You are presumptuous!" Raj Ahten warned.
    Iome's mother watched the Wolf Lord. "I am a queen, still," she said in her 
own defense.
    "That will be for me to decide," Raj Ahten said. He drove the sword through 
the cushion of the Queen's throne, left it as he sat back down. He pulled off 
his gauntlets, tossed them beside him on the Queen's throne. He clutched the 
arms of his chair, betraying to Iome just the slightest nervousness. He wanted 
something from them. Needed something. She could tell.
    "I've been more than patient with you. You, Jas Laren Sylvarresta, financed 
knights who attacked me without provocation. I've come to insure that such 
attacks cease. I require...an acceptable tribute."
    Iome's father said nothing for a moment. Her mother knelt near the throne. 
"What would you have of us?" King Sylvarresta asked at last.
    "Assurance, that you will never fight me again."
    "You have my word," Sylvarresta said. He looked up now, focused all his 
attention on the Wolf Lord.
    Raj Ahten said heavily. "I thank you. Your oath is not a thing I take 
lightly. You have been an honorable lord to your people, Sylvarresta. An 
evenhanded lord. Your realm is clean, prosperous. Your people have many 
endowments to give me. If times were not so dark, I would like to think you and 
I could have been allies. But...
    "We have great enemies massing, south of our borders."
    "Inkarrans?" Sylvarresta asked.
    Raj Ahten waved his hands in dismissal. "Worse. Reavers. They have been 
breeding like rabbits for thirty years. They've laid the forests of Denham bare. 
They've driven the nomen from their sanctuaries in the mountains. In another 
season, the reavers will come against us. I intend to stop them. I'll need your 
help, the help of all the Northern kingdoms. I intend to take control."
    Iome felt confused by this. Apparently, her father was just as confused. "We 
could beat them!" Sylvarresta said. "The Northern kingdoms would unite in such a 
cause. You don't need to prosecute this war alone!"
    "And who would lead our armies?" Raj Ahten asked. "You? King Orden? Me? You 
know better than that."
    The heart seemed to go out of Iome's father. Raj Ahten was right. No one 
could lead the Northern kings. There were too many political divisions, too many 
moral strifes, too many petty jealousies and ancient rivalries. If Orden led an 
army south, someone would stay to attack his weakened cities.
    Least of all would anyone trust Raj Ahten, the Wolf Lord. For hundreds of 
years, the Runelords had attacked any leader who sought too much power, who 
grasped too far. In ancient times, certain robbers, greedy for any power they 
could get, would use the forcibles to take endowments from wolves, and thus 
became known as Wolf Lords.
    Men who desired an uncanny sense of smell or hearing often took endowments 
from pups, for dogs gave them willingly and required little in the way of 
support thereafter. Even stamina or brawn were taken from mastiffs, bred for 
just that purpose.
    Yet men who took endowments from dogs became subhuman, part animal 
themselves. Thus the euphemism Wolf Lord became a term of derision used for any 
man of low morals, including men like Raj Ahten, who might never have taken an 
endowment from a dog.
    No king of the North would follow Raj Ahten. Men who earned the title Wolf 
Lord became outcasts. Honorable lords were duty bound to fund the Knights 
Equitable in their wars and assassinations. Like wolves caught in the sheep 
fold, Wolf Lords were accorded no mercy.
    "It doesn't have to be this way," Sylvarresta said. "There are other ways to 
prosecute this war. A tithe of knights from each kingdom..."
    "It does have to be this way," Raj Ahten corrected. "Would you dare dispute 
me on this point? I have a thousand endowments of wit, to your..." He gazed into 
King Sylvarresta's eyes a flickering second, studying the intelligence there. 
"...two."
    It could have been a guess, Iome thought, but she knew better. There was a 
saying: "A wise king does not garner all wit, instead he also allows his 
counselors to be wise." In the North, it was considered wasteful to take more 
than four endowments of wit. A lord who did so remembered everything he ever 
heard, all he ever saw or thought or felt. Sylvarresta would not have taken more 
than four. Yet how had Raj Ahten recognized that Iome's father had but two 
endowments active?
    Raj Ahten's declaration, that he'd taken wit from a thousand, took the 
breath from Iome. She could not comprehend such a thing. Some lords swore that a 
few more endowments of wit granted a Runelord some benefit--extra creativity, 
deeper wisdom.
    Raj Ahten folded his hands. "I've studied the reavers--how they are 
spreading into our kingdoms in tiny pockets, each with a new queen. The 
infestation is wide.
    "Now, Sylvarresta, despite your peaceable assurances, I require more from 
you. Lay bare your flesh."
    Clumsy from nervousness, with all the grace of a trained bear, King 
Sylvarresta untied the sash of his robe, shrugged off the midnight blue silk, 
till his hairy chest lay bare. The red scars of forcibles showed beneath his 
right nipple, like the mark of a lover's teeth. Raj Ahten read Sylvarresta's 
strengths in a glance.
    "Your wit, Sylvarresta. I will have your wit."
    Iome's father seemed to cave in on himself, dropped to both knees. He knew 
what it would be like, to pee his own pants, not knowing his name, not 
recognizing his wife or children, his dearest friends. In the past day he'd 
already felt keen pain as memories were lost to him. He shook his head.
    "Do you mean you will not give it, or cannot?" Raj Ahten asked.
    Lord Sylvarresta spread both hands wide, shaking his head, unable to speak.
    "Will not? But you must--" Raj Ahten said.
    "I can't!" Iome's father cried. "Take my life instead."
    "I don't want your death," Raj Ahten said. "What value is that to me? But 
your wit!"
    "I can't!" Sylvarresta said.
    To give an enemy an endowment was one thing, but Raj Ahten would take more 
than just Sylvarresta's wit. Because Sylvarresta was already endowed, Raj Ahten 
would make King Sylvarresta his vector.
    A man could only grant one endowment in his life, and when that endowment 
was granted, it created a magic channel, a bond between lord and vassal that 
could only be broken by death. If the lord died, the endowment returned to its 
giver. If the vassal died, the lord lost the attributes he had gained.
    But if a man like Sylvarresta granted his wit to Raj Ahten, he would give 
not only his own wit, but also all the wit he received from his Dedicates, plus 
all wit he might ever receive in the future. As a vector, Sylvarresta became a 
living conduit. He would give Raj Ahten the wit he had taken, and might even be 
used to channel the wit of hundreds to Raj Ahten.
    "You can give it me, with the proper incentive," Raj Ahten assured him. 
"What of your people? You care for them, don't you. You have trusted friends, 
servants, among your Dedicates? Your sacrifice could save them. If I have to 
kill you, I won't leave your Dedicates alive--men and women who can no longer 
offer endowments, men and women who might seek vengeance against me."
    "I can't!" Sylvarresta said.
    "Not even to buy the lives of a hundred vassals, a thousand?"
    Iome hated this, hated the pregnant silence that followed. Raj Ahten had to 
get the endowment willingly. Some lords sought to assure the necessary degree of 
longing through love, others by offering lucre. Raj Ahten used blackmail.
    "What of your beautiful wife--my cousin?" Raj Ahten asked. "What of her 
life? Would you give the endowment to buy her life? To buy her sanity. You would 
not want to see such a lovely thing ill-used."
    "Don't do it!" Iome's mother said. "He can't break me!"
    "You could save her life. Not only would she keep it, but she would remain 
on the throne, ruling as regent in my stead. The throne she loves so much."
    King Sylvarresta turned to his queen, jaw quivering. He nodded, hesitantly.
    "No!" Venetta Sylvarresta cried. In that moment, she spun and ran. Iome 
thought she would hit the wall, but realized too late that she'd not headed for 
the wall, but for the full-length windows behind the Days.
    Suddenly, faster than sight could account, Raj Ahten was at her side, 
holding her right wrist. Venetta struggled in his grasp.
    She turned to him, grimacing. "Please!" she said, grasping Raj Ahten's own 
wrist.
    Then, suddenly, she squeezed, digging her nails into the Wolf Lord's wrist 
until blood flowed. With a victorious cry, she looked Raj Ahten in the eyes.
    Venetta shouted to her husband, "Now you see how to kill a Wolf Lord, my 
sweet!"
    Iome suddenly remembered the clear lacquer on the nails, and she 
understood--the Queen's distress had been a ruse, a plot to get Raj Ahten near 
so that she could plunge her poisoned fingernails into his flesh.
    Venetta stepped back, holding her bloodied nails high, as if to display them 
for Raj Ahten before he collapsed.
    Raj Ahten raised his right arm, stared at the wrist in dismay. The blood in 
it blackened, and the wrist began to swell horribly.
    He held it up, as if in defiance, and gazed into Venetta's eyes for a long 
moment, several heartbeats, until Venetta paled with fear.
    Iome glanced at the arm. The bloody cuts in Raj Ahten's wrist had healed 
seamlessly in a matter of seconds, and now the blackened arm began to regain its 
natural color.
    How many endowments of stamina did the Wolf Lord have? How many of 
metabolism? Iome had never seen such healing power, had heard of it only in 
legend.
    Raj Ahten smiled, a terrifying, predatory smile.
    "Ah, so I cannot trust you, Venetta," he whispered. "I am a sentimental man. 
I had hoped family could be spared."
    He slapped her with the back of his fist, the slap of Runelord. The side of 
Venetta's face caved in under the force of the blow, splattering blood through 
the air, and her neck snapped. The blow knocked her back a dozen feet, so that 
she hit the glass of the oriel.
    She crashed through, the weight of her dead body pulling at the long red 
drapes as she did, and for half a second she seemed to stand still in the night 
air, before she plummeted the five stories.
    Her body splatted against the broad paving stones in the courtyard below.
    Iome stood in shock.
    Her father cried out, and Raj Ahten stared at the splintered panes of 
colored glass, the red drapes waving in the stiffening breeze, annoyed.
    Raj Ahten said, "My condolences, Sylvarresta. You see that I had no other 
choice. Of course, there are always those who think it easier to kill or die, 
than to live in service. And they are correct. Death requires no effort."
    Iome felt as if a hole had ripped in her heart. Her father only sat on 
bended knees, shaking. "Now," Raj Ahten continued, "we were about to conclude a 
bargain. I want your wit. A few more endowments of it benefits me little. But it 
gains much for you. Give me your wit, and your daughter, Iome, will rule in your 
stead, as regent. Agreed?"
    Iome's father sobbed, nodded dumbly, "Bring your forcibles then. Let me 
forget this day, my loss, and become as a child."
    He would give the endowment to keep his daughter alive.
    In that moment, Iome knelt again, terrified. She could not think, could not 
think what to do. "Remember who you are" her mother had said. But what did that 
mean? I am a princess, a servant of my people, she thought. Should I strike at 
Raj Ahten, follow my mother through the window? What does that buy?
    As regent she would have some power. She could still fight Raj Ahten subtly, 
so long as she lived. She could give her people some measure of happiness, of 
freedom.
    Certainly, that was why her father still lived, why he didn't choose to 
fight to the death, as her mother had.
    Iome's heart hammered, and she could think of nothing to do, could formulate 
no worthwhile plan, but remembered Gaborn's face earlier in the day. The promise 
on his lips. "I am your Protector. I will return for you.
    But what could Gaborn do? He couldn't fight Raj Ahten.
    Yet Iome had to hope.
    Raj Ahten nodded to a guard. "Call the facilitators."
    In moments, Raj Ahten's facilitators entered the room, cruel little men in 
saffron robes. One bore a forcible on a satin pillow.
    Raj Ahten's facilitators were well practiced, masters of their craft. One 
began the incantation, and the other held King Sylvarresta, coached him through 
it. "Watch your daughter, sirrah," he said in a thick Kartish accent. "This you 
do for her. Do for her. She everything. She the one you love. You do for her."
    Iome stood before him, dazed, listened to her father's cries as the forcible 
heated. She daubed the sweat from his brow as the metal suddenly twisted like 
something alive. She gazed into his clear gray eyes as the forcible drew away 
the endowment, sucked the intelligence from him, until she could tell that he no 
longer remembered her name, but only cried in stupid agony.
    She sobbed herself when he gave his final scream of pain, and collapsed at 
her feet.
    Then the facilitator went to Raj Ahten, bearing the white-hot forcible 
trailing a ribbon of light, and Raj Ahten pulled off his helm, so that his long 
dark hair fell around his shoulders, then pulled off his scale mail, opened his 
leather jerkin to expose his muscular chest. It was a mass of scars, so marked 
by forcibles that Iome could see only a few faint traces of unmarked flesh.
    As he took the endowment, Raj Ahten sat back on the throne, eyes glazed in 
satisfaction, watching Iome narrowly.
    She wanted to rage against him, to pummel him with her fists, but dared do 
nothing but sit at her father's head, smoothing back his hair, trying to comfort 
him.
    The King opened his eyes, regaining consciousness for half a second, and he 
stared up at Iome, his mouth open, as if wondering what strange and beautiful 
creature he beheld. "Gaaagh," he bawled; then a pool of urine began to spread on 
the red carpets beneath him.
    "Father, Father," Iome whispered softly, kissing him, hoping that in time he 
would at least learn that she loved him.
    Finished with their incantations, the facilitators left. Raj Ahten reached 
over to his sword, pulled it from the Queen's throne.
    "Come, take your place beside me," he said. Once again, she saw that 
undisguised lust in his face, and did not know if he lusted for her body or for 
her endowments.
    Iome found herself halfway to the throne before she realized that he'd used 
his Voice to order her. To be manipulated this way angered her.
    She sat on the throne, tried not to look at Raj Ahten's face, at his 
incredibly handsome face.
    "You understand why I must do this, don't you?" he asked.
    Iome didn't answer.
    "Someday you will thank me." Raj Ahten studied her frankly. "Have you 
studied in the House of Understanding, or have you read the chronicles?"
    Iome nodded. She'd read the chronicles--at least selected passages.
    "Have you heard the name of Daylan Hammer?"
    Iome had. "The warrior?"
    "The chroniclers called him 'the Sum of All Men.' Sixteen hundred and 
eighty-eight years ago, he defeated the Toth invaders and their magicians, here 
on Rofehavan's own shores. He defeated them almost single-handedly. He had so 
many endowments of stamina that when a sword passed through his heart, it would 
heal up again as the blade exited. Do you know how many endowments that takes?"
    Iome shook her head.
    "I do," Raj Ahten said, pulling back his shirt. "Try it, if you like."
    Iome had her poniard strapped under her skirts. She hesitated just a moment. 
It seemed ghoulish, yet she might never have another chance to stab the man.
    She pulled it, looked into his eyes. Raj Ahten watched her, confident, Iome 
plunged the dagger up between his ribs, saw the pain in his eyes, heard him give 
a startled gasp. She twisted the blade, yet no blood flowed down the runnel. 
Only a slight red film oozed where the blade met flesh. She pulled the blade 
free.
    The wound closed as the bloody blade exited.
    "You see?" Raj Ahten asked. "Neither your mother's poison nor your own 
dagger can hurt me. Among Runelords, there has never been another of Daylan's 
equal. Until now.
    "It is said in my country that when he'd received enough endowments, he no 
longer needed to take them. The love of his people supported him, it flowed to 
him. When his Dedicates died, his powers remained, undiminished."
    She'd never read that. It defied her understanding of the art of the 
Runelords. Yet she hoped it was true. She hoped that such a thing could be, that 
Raj Ahten would someday quit draining people like her father.
    "I think," Raj Ahten said softly, "that I am nearly there. I think I shall 
be his equal, and that I shall defeat the reavers without the loss of fifty 
million human lives, as would happen under any other plan."
    Iome looked into his eyes, wanting to hate him for what he'd done. Her 
father lay in his own urine on the floor at her feet. Her mother was dead on the 
paving stones outside the keep. Yet Iome looked into Raj Ahten's face, and she 
could not hate him. He seemed...so sincere. So beautiful.
    He reached out, stroked her hand, and she dared not pull away. She wondered 
if he would try to seduce her. She wondered if she'd have the strength to fight 
him if he did.
    "So sweet. If you were not my kin, I'd take you as a wife. But I'm afraid 
propriety forbids it. Now, Iome, you too must do your part to help me defeat the 
reavers. You will give me your glamour."
    Iome's heart pounded. She imagined how it would be, with skin as rough as 
leather, the cobwebs of her hair falling from her head, the way the veins would 
stick out on her legs. The dry smell of her breath. To look, to smell, to be 
repulsive.
    Yet that was not half the horror of it. Glamour was more than beauty, more 
than physical loveliness. It could be recognized partly as form, but just as 
much was manifest in the color of one's skin, the glossiness of one's hair, the 
light that shone in one's eyes. It could be seen in posture, in poise, in 
determination. The heart of it often lay somewhere in a person's confidence in 
and love of self.
    So, depending on the ruthlessness of the facilitator involved, all these 
could be drawn away, leaving the new Dedicate both ugly and filled with 
self-loathing.
    Iome shook her head. She had to fight him, had to fight Raj Ahten any way 
she could. Yet she could think of nothing, no way to strike back.
    "Come, child," Raj Ahten said smoothly. "What would you do with all your 
beauty, if I left it to you? Lure some prince to your bed? What a petty desire. 
You could do it. But afterward you would only spend your life in regret. You've 
seen how men look at you with lust in their eyes. You've seen how they stare, 
always wanting you. Certainly you must tire of it."
    When he put it that way, in such a silky voice, Iome felt wretched. It 
seemed vile and selfish to want to be beautiful.
    "In the desert near where I was born," Raj Ahten said, "a great monument, a 
statue, stands three hundred feet tall, half tilted in the sand. It is the 
statue of a king, long forgotten, his face scoured away by wind. A banner at his 
feet, written in an ancient language, says, 'All bow to the Great Ozyvarius, who 
rules the earth, whose kingdom shall never fail!'
    "Yet all the scribes in the world cannot tell me who that king is, or how 
long ago he reigned.
    "We have always been such fleeting creatures," Raj Ahten whispered. "We have 
always been so temporary. But together, Iome, we can become something more."
    The craving in his voice, the hunger, almost drove all reason from Iome's 
mind. Almost she felt willing to give him her beauty. But a wiser voice in the 
back of her mind nagged. "No, I would die, I would be nothing."
    "You would not die," Raj Ahten said. "If I become the Sum of All Men, your 
beauty would live on in me. Some part of you would always remain, to be loved, 
to be admired."
    "No," Iome said in horror.
    Raj Ahten glanced at the floor, where King Sylvarresta still lay in a foul 
heap. "Not even to save his life?"
    Then Iome knew, she knew, that her father would tell her not to make this 
bargain. "No," Iome shuddered.
    "It is a horrible thing, to put an idiot among the torturers. All that pain 
your father would have to endure, never understanding why, never knowing that 
there is such a thing as death that could bring him release, with the torturers 
repeating your name each time they put the hot irons to him, so that in time, 
even at the mention of your name, he would cry out in pain. It would be truly 
horrible."
    The cruelty inherent in such an idea left Iome numb. She looked at Raj 
Ahten, her heart breaking. She could not say yes.
    The Wolf Lord nodded to one of his men. "Bring in the girl."
    The guard left the chamber, returned quickly with Chemoise. Chemoise, who 
should have been in the Dedicates' Keep, comforting her father. Chemoise, who 
had already suffered so much this week, lost so much to Raj Ahten.
    How had Raj Ahten known what Iome felt for her dear friend? Had Iome 
betrayed the girl with a glance?
    Chemoise had wide, frightened eyes. She began weeping in terror when she saw 
the King lying on the floor. Shrieked when Raj Ahten's guard took her to the 
broken window, poised to throw her over the edge.
    Iome's heart hammered, as she watched her childhood friend begin to gibber 
in fear. Two lives. Raj Ahten would be killing two--Chemoise and her unborn 
child.
    Chemoise, forgive me for this betrayal, Iome wanted to say. For she knew, 
she knew with her whole soul, that surrender was wrong. If no one had ever 
surrendered, Raj Ahten would be dead by now. Yet she also knew that to give her 
glamour to Raj Ahten would benefit him little, while it saved the lives of 
Iome's friends.
    "I cannot give you an endowment," Iome said, unable to disguise the loathing 
in her words. She could not give it to him. Not to him personally.
    "If not me, a vector, then," Raj Ahten offered.
    Something in Iome's heart tripped. A balance was found. She could give her 
beauty--give it for her father, for Chemoise. So long as she did not have to 
give it to Raj Ahten. Her voice broke as she said, "Bring your forcible, then."
    Moments later the forcibles were fetched, along with a wretched woman who 
had given her glamour. So Iome looked upon the hag in dirty gray robes and saw 
what she would become, and struggled to see what beauty had ever been hidden 
inside the woman.
    Then the chants began. Iome watched Chemoise, still poised on the ledge, and 
silently willed her beauty away, willed herself to buy something lovely and 
eternally precious with it. The life of a friend, and the baby she carried.
    There was a rustling in the darkness, and a tiny glowing streamer of 
phosphorous fire as the facilitator approached, put the forcible low on her 
neck, almost against her bosom.
    For half a moment, nothing happened, and someone whispered, "For your 
friend. Do it for your friend."
    Iome nodded, sweat pouring down her brow. She held the image of Chemoise in 
her mind, Chemoise holding a child in her arms, nuzzling it.
    Iome felt the unspeakable pain of the forcible, opened her eyes, saw the 
skin of her hands dry and crack as if they burned in the infernal heat. The 
veins rose on her wrists like roots, and her nails became brittle as chalk.
    Her firm young breasts sank, and she grabbed at them, feeling the loss 
keenly. She regretted the trade now, but it was too late. She felt...as if she 
stood in the river, and the sand at her feet flowed out from under her, 
undermining her. Everything that was hers, all her beauty, her allure, flowed 
out and away, into the forcible.
    Her lustrous hair withered and twisted on her head like worms.
    Iome cried in pain and horror, and more flowed out from her still. For a 
moment, it was as if she gazed into oblivion and saw herself, and loathed what 
she saw. She understood for the first time in her life that she was nothing, had 
always been nothing, a no one, a cipher. She feared to cry out, lest others take 
offense at the sound of her wretched voice.
    That is a lie. I am not so ugly as that, she cried out to Raj Ahten in her 
soul. My beauty you can have, but not my soul.
    And then she moved away from the precipice, and felt only...alone. Utterly 
alone, and in unspeakable pain.
    Somehow, she managed a rare feat: she did not faint from the rigors of the 
forcible, though she imagined that her whole body would be consumed in the 
fires.

     
     
Chapter 11
COMMITMENTS
     
    Cold black river water swirled around Gaborn's thighs, like a dead hand 
trying to pull him downstream. Rowan, in the darkness on the bank just above 
him, groaned fiercely in pain, doubled over.
    "What's wrong?" Gaborn whispered, hardly daring to part his lips.
    "The Queen--she's dead," Rowan whimpered.
    Then he understood. After years of loss of feeling, years of numbness, now 
the whole world of sensation rushed upon Rowan--the cold of the water and of the 
night, the pain of her bruised feet, her fatigue after a hard day's work, and 
countless other minor injuries.
    Those who gave an endowment of touch, once all their senses returned, felt 
all the world anew, as if for the first time. The shock of it could be 
phenomenal, even deadly, for the sensations came twenty times stronger than 
before. Gaborn worried for the young woman, worried that she might not be able 
to travel. The water here was bracing cold. Certainly he could not hope to bring 
Rowan through it.
    Yet, even worse, if the Queen was dead, Gaborn feared that Raj Ahten was 
slaughtering the other members of the royal family--King Sylvarresta and Iome.
    Commitments. Gaborn had made too many commitments. He felt overwhelmed. He'd 
accepted responsibility for Rowan, dared not move her, dared not try to take her 
through the river. Yet he'd also promised to save Iome, to go to her.
    Gaborn wanted to kneel in the river, let it cool the burning wound in his 
ribs. Overhead, a slight breeze made the branches of the alders and birches 
sway. Here in the deep shadows, he could see the water downstream, reflecting 
the orange firelight.
    Binnesman's garden was aflame. On the far bank of the river, the nomen were 
grunting, shadows moving in a greater darkness, trying to spot Gaborn. Yet he 
was well hidden here in this thicket, so long as he didn't move. The Frowth 
giants hunted in the shallows downstream. He suspected that he could swim out of 
here alone, flee Castle Sylvarresta and bear the news of its fall to his father. 
He was a fast swimmer. In spite of the fact that the water was shallow, he 
thought he might make it. But he couldn't hope to do so with Rowan.
    Gaborn could not possibly leave Castle Sylvarresta.
    I swore to Iome, he realized. I took an oath. She is under my protection, 
both as a Runelord, and now as a part of my vow to the earth. Both were vows he 
could not lightly break.
    A day earlier, in the market at Bannisferre, Myrrima had chided Gaborn for 
not making commitments easily. It was true. He dared not make them.
    "What is a Runelord," his mother had taught him as a child, "but a man who 
keeps an oath? Your vassals give you endowments, and you grant them protection 
in return. They give you wit, and you lead wisely. They grant you brawn, and you 
fight like a reaver. They bestow stamina, and you work long hours in their 
behalf. You live for them. And if you love them as you should, you die for them. 
No vassal will waste an endowment on a Runelord who lives only for himself."
    These were the words Queen Orden had taught her son. She had been a strong 
woman, one who taught Gaborn that beneath his father's callous exterior, there 
lived a man of firm principle. It was true that in years past, King Orden had 
purchased endowments from the poor, and while some considered this behavior 
morally suspect, a way of taking advantage of the poor, King Orden had seen it 
differently. He'd said, "Some people love money more than they love their fellow 
men. Why not turn such people's weakness into your strength?"
    Why not indeed? It was a good argument, from a man who sought only the 
betterment of his kingdom. Yet in the past three years, his father had given up 
the practice, had quit taking endowments from the poor. He'd told Gaborn, "I was 
wrong. I'd buy endowments still, if only I had the wisdom to judge other's 
motives." But the poor who sought to sell endowments usually had many reasons 
for doing so: even the most craven of them had some ennobling love of family and 
kin and could therefore imagine that by selling an endowment, they were 
performing an act of self-sacrifice. But then there were the desperate poor, 
those who saw no other way to escape poverty than to sell themselves. "Purchase 
my hearing," one farmer had once begged Gaborn's father after the great floods 
four years past. "What need have I of ears, when all I hear are the cries of 
hungry children?" The world was full of despairing creatures, people who for one 
reason or another had given up on life. Gaborn's father had not purchased the 
farmer's hearing. Instead, he'd given the man food to last the winter, timber 
and workers to rebuild his home, seed to plant for the coming spring.
    Hope. He'd given the man hope. Gaborn wondered what Iome would think of his 
father if she knew this tale. Perhaps she'd think better of him. He hoped that 
she would live to hear it.
    Gaborn glanced up through the tree trunks, slashes of black against a dark 
background. To look toward the city, to look toward the castle walls, filled him 
with despair.
    I can do little to fight Raj Ahten, he considered. It was true that he might 
be able to hide in the city, perhaps ambush a soldier here and there. But how 
long could he last? How long could he keep it up before he was caught? Not long.
    Yet of what help am I to my charges, if I flee now? Gaborn wondered. He 
should have done more. He should have tried to save Iome, and Binnesman...and 
all the rest.
    True, his father needed to know that Castle Sylvarresta had fallen, and he 
needed to know the manner of its capture.
    And the lure of home drew Gaborn. No matter how much he admired the strength 
of people in Heredon, the stately stone buildings with their ceilings so high, 
so cool and breezy, the pleasure gardens at every turn, it was not a familiar 
place.
    Gaborn had not been to the palace much for eight years, had spent nearly all 
his time some fifty miles from home, in the House of Understanding, with its 
resolute scholars and stark dormitories. He'd looked forward to going home after 
this trip. For years now he'd longed to sleep in the big, cotton-filled bed he'd 
enjoyed as a child, to wake to the feel of the morning wind blowing from the 
wheat fields through his lace curtains.
    He'd imagined that he'd spend his winter eating decent food, studying battle 
tactics with his father, dueling with the soldiers in the guard. Borenson had 
promised to introduce Gaborn to some of the finer alehouses in Mystarria. And 
there was Iome, whose gentleness among her people had seduced him as no other 
could. He'd hoped to take her home.
    So many pleasures he'd imagined.
    Gaborn wanted to go home. It was silly, this wish to be taken care of, to 
live without cares, as if he were a child.
    Gaborn remembered being a child, hunting rabbits in the hazelnut orchard 
with his old red hound. He remembered days when his father had taken him to fish 
for trout in Dewflood Stream, where the weeping willows bent low over the water 
and green inchworms hung from the willow branches on silken threads, taunting 
the trout. In those days, life, it seemed, was an endless summer.
    But Gaborn could not return.
    He despaired at the thought of even getting away from Castle Sylvarresta 
alive.
    For the moment, he could see no convincing reason to leave here. Gaborn's 
father would hear of the castle's fall soon enough. Peasants would noise the 
tale abroad. King Orden was on his way. Perhaps three days. He'd hear of this by 
tomorrow.
    No, Gaborn did not need to warn his father, could not leave the castle. He 
needed to get Rowan to safety, someplace warm, where she could heal. He needed 
to help Iome. And he'd made a greater commitment.
    He had made a vow never to harm the earth. It should be an easy vow to keep, 
he thought, for he wished the earth no harm. Yet as he considered, he wondered 
at the intent of the oath. Right now, the flameweavers were burning Binnesman's 
garden. Was Gaborn bound by oath to fight the flameweavers, to stop them?
    He listened deep in his heart, wondering, seeking to feel the earth's will 
in this matter.
    The fire on the hill suddenly grew brighter, or perhaps the firelight was 
now also reflecting from clouds of smoke above. The smell of sweet smoke was 
cloying. Across the river, a noman barked. Gaborn could hear others growling. It 
was said that nomen feared water. Gaborn hoped they feared it enough that they 
would not swim the river to search for him.
    In the matter of the garden, Gaborn felt nothing. No urge to either stop the 
burning or to accept it. Certainly if Binnesman had wanted to fight for it, he'd 
have done so.
    Gaborn silently slogged up from the river, went to Rowan, who still crouched 
among the willows.
    He put his arm around her, held her, wondering what to do, where to hide. He 
wished the earth would hide him now, wished for some deep hole to crawl into. 
And he felt...a Tightness on wishing that, felt that the earth would protect him 
that way.
    "Rowan, do you know a place here in the city where we can hide? A cellar, a 
pit?"
    "Hide? Aren't we going to swim?"
    "The water's too shallow and too cold. You can't swim it." Gaborn licked his 
lips. "So I'm going to stay and fight Raj Ahten as best I can. He has soldiers 
and Dedicates here. I can best strike a blow against him if I stay."
    Rowan leaned close, seeking to warm herself. Her teeth chattered. He felt 
the tantalizing softness of her breasts against his chest, her hair blowing 
against his cheek. She was trembling, perhaps more from the cold than from fear. 
She'd gotten wet crawling through the stream, and she did not have Gaborn's 
stamina to help her weather the cold.
    "You're staying because you're afraid for me," she whispered, teeth 
chattering. "But I can't stay. Raj Ahten will demand an accounting..."
    It was common for a new king to take an accounting of all his people, to 
find out who owed money to the kingdom. Of course, Raj Ahten's facilitators 
would be there, looking for potential Dedicates. When Raj Ahten's men learned 
that Rowan had been a Dedicate for the dead queen, they would probably torment 
her.
    "Perhaps," Gaborn said. "We can worry about that later. But now we need to 
hide. So tell me of such a place: a hole. A place where the scent is strong."
    "The spice cellars?" Rowan whispered. "Up by the King's stables."
    "Cellars?" Gaborn said, sensing that this was the place. This was where the 
earth would lead him.
    "In the summer, Binnesman lays up herbs for sale, and at the festival the 
King buys others. The cellar is full now, with many boxes. It's up the hill, 
above the stables."
    Gaborn wondered. They wouldn't have to go far into the city, and would 
merely be doubling back on their own trail, confusing the scent. "What about 
guards? Spices are valuable."
    Rowan shook her head. "The cook's boy sleeps in a room above the cellars. 
But he--well, he's been known to nap through a thunderstorm."
    Gaborn picked up the little bundle of forcibles, struggled to put them in 
the wide pocket of his robe. The cellars seemed to be the kind of place he 
needed. Someplace secretive, someplace where his scent would be covered.
    "Let's go," he said, but he didn't head directly back uphill. Instead, he 
picked up Rowan in his arms, carried her down to the river, and began creeping 
upstream in the shallows, hunching low, trying to cover his scent.
    He headed upriver, hugging the reeds. Ahead of him, the waters grew fast. A 
millrace split off from the river, fed into the moat. The banks along the race 
had been built high, so that when Gaborn reached it, he was able to wade through 
the shallows with good cover, until he came right up under the thundering 
waterwheel, splashing and grinding. To his right was a stone wall, dividing the 
millrace from the main course of the river and its broad diversion dam. To his 
left was the mill house and a steep trail up to the castle.
    Gaborn stopped. He could go forward no farther, needed now to climb the 
banks of the millrace, then take the trail up through the trees, to the castle 
wall again.
    He turned, began climbing the bank of the millrace. The grass here was brown 
and dying, tall rye stubble.
    Ahead he spotted a ferrin, a fierce little rat-faced man with a sharp stick 
to use as a spear, outside the mill house. He stood guard over a hole in the 
foundation, his back to Gaborn.
    As Gaborn watched, a second ferrin scooted out from the hole, carrying a 
small cloth by its ends. They'd stolen flour from the floor of the mill, 
probably nothing more than sweepings. Yet it was dangerous business for a 
ferrin. Many had been killed for less.
    Before standing in plain view and frightening the creatures, Gaborn searched 
downstream for signs of pursuit, his eyes just level with the tops of the grass.
    Sure enough, six shadows moved at the edge of the water, under the trees. 
Men with swords and bows. One wore splint mail. So Raj Ahten's scouts had found 
his trail again.
    Gaborn clung to the side of the slope of the millrace, hidden in tall grass. 
He watched the soldiers for two long minutes. They'd discovered their dead 
comrade, followed Gaborn's and Rowan's scent to the river's edge.
    Several men were looking downstream. Of course they expected him to go 
downstream, to swim past the giants, into the relative safety of the Dunnwood. 
It seemed the only sane thing for Gaborn to do. Now that he'd fled the castle, 
they wouldn't expect him to sneak back in.
    If they pursued him into the Dunnwood, they'd find his scent aplenty, for 
Gaborn had ridden through this morning.
    But the fellow in splint mail was staring toward the mill, squinting. Gaborn 
was downwind from them. He didn't think the man could smell him. Yet perhaps the 
man was just cautious.
    Or perhaps he'd seen the ferrin above Gaborn, spotted movement. The ferrin 
was dark brown in color, standing before gray stone. Gaborn wanted it to move, 
so that the scout below would see the creature more clearly.
    In his years in the House of Understanding, Gaborn had not bothered to study 
in the Room of Tongues. Beyond his own Rofehavanish he could speak only a 
smattering of Indhopalese. When he had a few more endowments of wit and could 
grasp such things more easily, he planned to make languages a further study.
    Yet on cold nights during the winter, he'd frequented an alehouse with 
certain unsavory friends. One of them, a minor cutpurse, had trained a pair of 
ferrin to hunt for coins, which he exchanged for food. The ferrin could have 
gotten coins anywhere--lost coins dropped in the streets, stolen from shop 
floors, taken from dead men's eyes in the tombs.
    This friend had spoken a few words of ferrin, a very crude language composed 
of shrill whistles and growls. Gaborn had enough endowments of Voice that he 
could duplicate it.
    He whistled now. "Food. Food. I give."
    Up above him, the ferrin turned, startled. "What? What?" the ferrin guard 
growled. "I hear you." The words l-hear-you was often a request for the speaker 
to repeat himself. The ferrin tended to locate others of their kind by their 
whistling calls.
    "Food. I give," Gaborn whistled in a friendly tone. It was a full tenth of 
all the ferrin vocabulary that Gaborn could command.
    From the woods above the mill, a dozen answering voices whistled. "I hear 
you. I hear you," followed by phrases Gaborn didn't understand. It might have 
been that these ferrin spoke another dialect, for many of their shrieks and 
growls sounded familiar. He thought he heard the word "Come!" repeated several 
times.
    Then, suddenly, half a dozen ferrin were running around the paving stones of 
the mill house, coming down from the trees. More ferrin had been hiding up there 
than Gaborn had seen.
    They stuck their small snouts in the air and approached Gaborn cautiously, 
growling, "What? Food?"
    Gaborn glanced downriver, wondering at the scouts' reaction. The man in 
splint mail could see the ferrin now, a dozen of them, sauntering around the 
foundations of the mill. Reason dictated that if Gaborn were near, the ferrin 
would have scattered.
    After a moment's hesitation, the scout in splint mail waved his broadsword 
toward both banks, while he shouted orders to his men. With the thundering of 
the waterwheel in his ears, Gaborn could not hear the orders.
    But presently, all six hunters hurried back uphill into the trees, angling 
south. They would search the woods, downstream.
    When Gaborn felt sure they were gone, and that no prying eyes watched his 
direction, he carried Rowan uphill.

     
     
Chapter 12
OFFERS
     
    Chemoise Solette felt dazed. Watching her best friend, Iome, lose her 
glamour horrified Chemoise to the core of her soul.
    When Raj Ahten finished with the Princess, he turned and gazed into 
Chemoise's eyes. His nostrils flared as he judged her.
    "You are a beautiful young creature," Raj Ahten whispered. "Serve me."
    Chemoise could not hide the revulsion she felt at those words. Iome sill lay 
on the floor, dazed, barely conscious. Chemoise's father still lay in the wagon 
down in the Dedicates' Keep.
    She said nothing in response. Raj Ahten smiled weakly.
    Raj Ahten could take no endowment from a woman who hated him so intensely, 
and his Voice would not sway Chemoise. But he could take other things. He let 
his gaze drift down to her waist, as if she stood naked before him. "Put this 
one in the Dedicates' Keep, for now. Let her care for her king and her 
princess."
    A chill of horror crept over Chemoise, and she dared hope that while she was 
in the keep, Raj Ahten would forget her.
    So a guard took Chemoise's elbow, pulled her down the narrow stairs out of 
the Great Hall and up the street to the Dedicates' Keep, and thrust her through 
the portcullis. There he spoke a few words in Indhopalese to the guards who'd 
just been posted. The guards smiled with knowing grins.
    Chemoise ran back to her father, who had been dragged into the Dedicates' 
Hall, and now lay on a clean pallet.
    The sight of him felt painful, for his wound ran deep and had festered so 
many years.
    Chemoise's father, Eremon Vottania Solette, was a Knight Equitable, sworn to 
bring down the Wolf Lord Raj Ahten. It was an oath he had not taken lightly 
seven years ago, the day he disavowed himself from Sylvarresta's service to ride 
through the spring-green fields for the far kingdom of Aven.
    It was an oath that had cost him everything. Chemoise remembered how tall 
he'd sat in the saddle, how proud she'd been. He'd been a great warrior, had 
seemed invincible to a nine-year-old girl.
    Now his clothing smelled of moldy straw and sour sweat. His muscles clenched 
uselessly, his chin shoved against his chest. She got a rag and some water, 
began to clean him. He cried out in pain as she rubbed his ankle. She studied 
it, found both legs horribly scarred. The skin around his ankles was red, hair 
rubbed away.
    Raj Ahten had kept her father in chains these past six years. Such treatment 
for Dedicates was unheard of. After years of such abuse, she felt amazed that he 
even remained alive. Here in the North, Dedicates were pampered, honored, 
treated with affection. It was rumored that Raj Ahten had begun taking slaves to 
feed his need for Dedicates.
    While Chemoise waited for the cooks to bring broth from the kitchens, she 
merely held his hand, kissing it over and over. He stared up at her with haunted 
eyes, unable to blink.
    Chemoise heard a scream from the King's Keep, someone giving endowments. To 
take her mind from the noise, she began whispering. "Oh, Father, I'm so glad 
you're here. I've waited so long for this."
    His eyes crinkled in a sad smile, and he breathed heavily.
    She didn't know how to tell him she was carrying a child. She wanted him to 
be happy, to believe that all was well in her life. She did not want to admit 
how she'd dishonored the princess. She hoped her father would never need to know 
the truth, that grand illusions might give him some peace.
    "Father, I'm married now," she whispered, "to Sergeant Dreys, of the palace 
guard. He was only a boy when you left. Do you remember him?"
    Her father twisted his head to the side, half of a shake. "He's a good man, 
very kind. The King has granted him lands here near town." Chemoise wondered if 
she was spreading it on too heavily. Sergeants seldom got landed. "We live there 
with his mother and sisters. We're going to have a child, he and I. It's growing 
inside me."
    She could not tell him the truth, tell how the father had died at the hands 
of Raj Ahten, tell how she'd gone to call his ghost to the place where she'd 
made love to him so many nights, bringing dishonor to her family and to her 
princess. She dared not tell how Dreys' wight had come to her that evening, a 
cold shade that now lodged within her.
    Yet that night, when she had felt the first fluttering movements of the babe 
within her, it had seemed a miracle.
    Chemoise took her father's hand, which seemed clenched in a permanent fist, 
and smoothed out his fingers, opened it, after years of its having lain useless. 
Her father squeezed her hand, a sign of affection and thanksgiving, but he 
squeezed so hard. With several endowments of strength, he had a grip like a 
vise.
    At first, Chemoise tried to ignore it. But it grew too strong. She 
whispered, "Father, don't squeeze so hard."
    His hand tightened in fear, and he tried to pull his arm away, to loosen his 
grip. But those who gave endowments of grace could not relax, could not easily 
let their muscles stretch. He clenched her hand more painfully, so that Chemoise 
bit her lip. "Please..." she begged, wondering if somehow her father knew that 
she'd lied, was trying to punish her.
    Eremon Solette grimaced in apology, struggled with all his might to relax, 
to stretch his muscles, release Chemoise. For a minute, he only managed to hold 
her tighter; then Chemoise felt his grip soften.
    The cooks had still not brought the broth around for those who'd given 
endowments of metabolism. Chemoise's father would not be able to eat anything 
more solid. The smooth muscles of his stomach would not contract properly.
    "Father," Chemoise cried, "I've waited so long. I wanted you so long...I 
wish you could speak, I wish you could tell me what happened."
    Eremon Vottania Solette had been captured at Aven, at Raj Ahten's winter 
palace by the sea. He'd scaled the white tower where gauzy lavender curtains 
fluttered in the wind, and found himself in a room thick with jasmine incense, 
where many dark-haired women slept on cushions, naked but for thin veils to 
cover their flesh. Raj Ahten's harem.
    A brass water pipe lay on a sandalwood table, with eight mouthpieces 
wriggling from it like the tentacles of an octopus. The balls of rolled 
greenish-black opium in the pipe's bowl had all burned to ash. For one moment, 
he permitted himself to stand, admiring the beauties at his feet.
    Coals glowed in golden braziers around the beds, keeping the room pleasantly 
warm. The sweet musk of the women would have made this room smell of paradise, 
if not for the bitter tang of opium.
    In an adjoining room, he had heard a woman's deranged squealing laughter, 
the sounds of cavorting. He suddenly had the wild hope he might take Raj Ahten 
while the Runelord lay naked, his attention diverted.
    But as he stood, quietly unsheathing his long dagger, all dressed in black, 
his back against the wall, a maiden woke, saw him behind the gauzy curtains, 
hiding.
    Eremon had tried to silence her, had leapt to plunge the knife into her 
throat, but not before she screamed.
    A eunuch guard of little note leapt from an alcove, suddenly wakened, and 
clubbed Eremon with a staff.
    The eunuch's name was Salim al Daub, a heavy man with the roundness and 
womanly voice common to eunuchs, and the soft brown eyes of a doe.
    As a reward for capturing an assassin, Raj Ahten presented Salim with a 
great gift. He offered Salim an endowment of grace, from Eremon himself.
    Eremon had thought he would rather die than grant an endowment to Raj 
Ahten's guard, but Eremon held two secret hopes. The first great hope was that 
someday he would return to Heredon and see his daughter once more.
    He gazed at her, saw how she'd grown beautiful like her mother, and he could 
not help but weep at seeing his greatest dream fulfilled.
    Chemoise watched her father's eyes fill with tears. He gasped for breath, 
struggling from moment to moment to stay alive, unable to relax enough to let 
his lungs fill. She wondered how he could have kept this up for six long years.
    "Are you all right?" she asked. "What can I do for you?"
    For a long moment he struggled to speak two words: "Kill...us."

     
     
BOOK 3
     
DAY 21 IN THE MONTH OF HARVEST
A DAY OF DECEPTION

Chapter 13
PRAGMATIC KING ORDEN
     
    Thirty miles to the south of Castle Sylvarresta, a high rock called Tor 
Hollick rose four hundred feet above the Dunnwood, and from its crags one could 
gaze far.
    Once, long in the past, a fortress had stood here, but few of the stones 
remained one atop another. Many had been carried away to build walls for 
peasants' homes.
    King Mendellas Draken Orden sat uncomfortably on a broken, lichen-crusted 
pillar, staring away over the rolling hills, the tops of trees that stirred in 
the night wind. His cape of green samite fluttered on the small breeze. A cup of 
too-sweet tea warmed his hands. In the air above him, a pair of nesting graaks 
circled on leather wings, calling out softly in the darkness, their batlike 
shapes huge against the stars.
    King Orden ignored them, his attention focused elsewhere. A fire burned on a 
distant hill. Castle Sylvarresta aflame?
    Orden found the very thought to be harrowing. It was more than a pain of the 
heart, it was a pain of the mind and of the soul. Over the years, he'd learned 
to love this realm and its king dearly. Perhaps, he loved it too dearly. He was 
riding now into danger.
    According to Orden's scouts, Raj Ahten had reached the castle by midday. The 
Wolf Lord could have mounted a quick attack, burned the castle.
    On seeing the glowing sky, Orden feared the worst.
    Two thousand troops camped in the woods below his perch. His men were 
exhausted after a day of riding at an incredible pace. Borenson had raced to his 
king after leaving Gaborn. A hard flight it had been--Borenson had left four 
assassins dead in his trail.
    King Orden found his heart hammering at the thought of his son, there in 
that burning castle. He wanted to send a spy in and learn where Gaborn was, how 
he'd fared. He wanted to charge the castle and save his son. Such useless 
thoughts preyed on him. He would have stood and paced, if his rocky perch had 
given him the room.
    No, he could do nothing except grow angry at Gaborn. So foolhardy, such a 
strong-willed boy. And yet so hopelessly stupid. Did the boy really believe Raj 
Ahten sought to take only the castle? Surely Raj Ahten knew that Orden journeyed 
each year to Castle Sylvarresta for the hunt. And the key to destroying the 
North was to destroy House Orden.
    No, this entire escapade was little more than a trap. A lion hunt, in the 
manner of the South, with beaters in the bushes and the spearmen somewhere in 
the rear. Clever of Raj Ahten to beat the bushes, to take Castle Sylvarresta as 
a distraction. Orden had already sent scouts to the south and to the east, 
hoping to discover what spearmen blocked his road home. Surely every path was 
guarded. If Raj Ahten played his part well, he might yet destroy House Orden and 
take Heredon in the bargain. King Orden expected to hear nothing from his scouts 
for a day or more.
    It was foolhardy of Gaborn to go to Sylvarresta. Foolhardy and great of 
heart.
    Yet King Orden had long been Sylvarresta's friend, and he knew that had the 
tables been turned, had he been the first to hear that Jas Laren Sylvarresta 
stood in need, he'd have ridden hard to fight beside his old comrade.
    Now Orden had to satisfy himself by watching the city burn from afar, 
awaiting reports from the scouts who rode ahead. He had six scouts on good force 
horses. It would not be a long wait. Though his soldiers and their horses needed 
rest, Mendellas would not sleep this night, perhaps not for many nights to come. 
With some forty endowments of stamina, he need never sleep again, if he did not 
so desire.
    Certainly, Raj Ahten would not sleep tonight.
    On the rock above him sat Orden's Days, and his son's. King Orden looked up 
at the men, wondering. Why did Gaborn's Days not go to him? If Gaborn was at 
Castle Sylvarresta, then the Days should follow. He'd know if another Days 
spotted Gaborn. Or perhaps Gaborn's whereabouts did not matter. Perhaps his son 
was captured, or dead?
    As he kept his slow watch over the next hour, letting his mind drift and 
dream, he considered his own defenses at home. King Orden sometimes 
had...impressions...of danger, felt the presence of reavers on his southern 
border. As a child, his father had told him that these impressions were the 
heritage of kings, a birthright. He considered now, but felt nothing.
    He wondered about the fortresses on his borders. Were they secure?
    A scout soon reached King Orden with news. Sylvarresta had indeed 
fallen--captured at sunset without a fight.
    Worse than Orden had feared. At that news, King Orden took a lacquered oak 
message case that had been tucked inside his belt. It was a message to King 
Sylvarresta, sealed with the signet of the Duke of Longmont.
    King Orden's scouts had intercepted Longmot's messenger at dawn, if 
"intercepted" was the proper word. More particularly, Orden's scout had found 
the man dead, his corpse concealed in the brush beside the road, killed by an 
assassin's arrow. Orden's scouts would not have recovered the message box if not 
for the stink of the body.
    The countryside was crawling with assassins, set along the road in pairs.
    Under normal circumstances, Orden would have respected the privacy of the 
parties involved, would have delivered the message case to Sylvarresta himself. 
But Sylvarresta had fallen, and Orden worried that Longmont had sent word of 
evil tidings. Perhaps it, too, was besieged. It was, next to Castle Sylvarresta, 
the most defensible fortress in all Heredon. Though nineteen other 
fortifications dotted the kingdom, they guarded smaller cities and villages. 
Five of the fortresses were only minor keeps.
    So King Orden broke the wax seal on the message case, pulled out the fine 
yellow parchment scroll, unrolled it, and read by starlight. The flowing script 
was obviously written by a feminine hand, but had been written hastily, with 
words crossed out:
    To His Most Rightful Sovereign King, Jas Laren Sylvarresta: All Honor and 
Good Cheer Wishes, from His Most Devoted Subject, The Duchess Emmadine Ot Laren
    Dearest Uncle: You are betrayed. Unbeknown to me, my husband has sold you, 
permitting Raj Ahten's forces to move through the Dunnwood. Apparently, my 
husband hoped to rule as regent in your stead, should Heredon fall.
    But Raj Ahten himself was here two nights ago, with a powerful army. My 
husband ordered the drawbridge lowered for him, kept our soldiers at bay.
    In one long night, Raj Ahten came and took endowments from many. He repaid 
my husband's treachery with treachery of his own, hanging him by his guts from 
the iron grates outside the window of his own bedroom.
    Raj Ahten knows better than to trust a traitor.
    As for me, he treated me badly, using me as only a husband should use his 
wife. Then he forced me to grant him an endowment of glamour, and he left a 
regent, some scholars, and a small army to manage the city in his absence.
    For two days his regent has tried to suck this land dry, taking endowments 
by the hundreds. He cares little whether those who give the endowments live or 
die. So many Dedicates lie heaped in the bailey, no one will be able to care for 
them. I myself he used as a vector, taking glamour from hundreds of women, while 
my sons, Wren and Dru, though they are mere children, now vector stamina and 
grace to the Wolf Lord.
    It was not till an hour ago that our own servants and a few guards managed 
to revolt, overthrowing our tormentors. It was a bloody struggle.
    But all was not for nothing. We have captured forty thousand forcibles!
    Here, King Orden halted, for his breath suddenly left him. He stood up, 
began pacing. He felt faint.
    Forty thousand forcibles! It was unheard of! In all the Northern kingdoms, 
not so many endowments had been given in twenty years. Orden glanced up at the 
pair of Days sitting on the rock above. These men knew that those forcibles were 
hidden there. By the Powers, Orden wished he knew a hundredth of what the Days 
must know.
    Raj Ahten was a fool to hold such great wealth in one place. Someone would 
steal those forcibles.
    By the Powers, I'll steal them! Orden thought.
    Unless it was a trap! Had Raj Ahten really believed he could hold Longmont?
    Orden pondered. If one went into a foreign castle, took major endowments 
from all the royalty, all the finest soldiers, one could supplant one's enemies 
in a single night, steal their strength and leave them gasping in defeat.
    The Duchess had said it was the house servants who managed the revolt--few 
soldiers. So her soldiers were dead--or drained of endowments. Perhaps it was 
not a trap.
    Raj Ahten had trusted his own men to hold his treasure for him in 
Longmont--a fine castle, with stunning defenses. What better place to keep so 
many forcibles? And from there, he would have taken forcibles to Castle 
Sylvarresta, to drain his enemies. Indeed, he probably already had some in his 
possession.
    King Orden read on:
    I trust that these forcibles shall be of great use to you in prosecuting 
this war. Meanwhile, an occupying army approaches from the south. According to 
communiqués, it should be here in four days.
    I've sent to Groverman and Dreis, requesting aid. I believe we can withstand 
a siege, with their help.
    The Wolf Lord left me no palace guard, no soldiers. Those who have given 
endowments are vectored to Raj Ahten through my sons.
    Raj Ahten is on his way to you in Castle Sylvarresta. I do not believe he 
can reach you until the night before Hostenfest.
    He is dangerous. He has so many endowments of glamour, he shines like the 
sun. For decades now, Longmont has been home to many vain women, each hoping to 
be more beautiful than her neighbor. Their beauty is all vectored through me.
    I will not uphold your enemies.
    In two days, all those who have granted endowments in Longmont shall die by 
my hand. It grieves me that I must kill my own sons, but only by doing so can I 
revive enough troops to defend the city.
    I've hidden the forcibles. They are buried beneath the turnip field at 
Bredsfor Manor.
    I suspect you will not see me again, not alive. I'm placing Captain Cedrick 
Tempest, of the palace guard, in temporary command of Longmont.
    My husband hangs from his window still, his own intestines serving as a rope 
for his neck. I will not cut the villain down. If I had known beforehand of his 
treachery, I'd not have dealt with him so kindly.
    I go now, to sharpen a knife. Should I fail, you know what to do.
    Your Devoted Niece,
    The Duchess Emmadine Ot Laren
    Mendellas Orden finished reading the letter, heart hammering, then laid it 
aside. "You know what to do." The age-old cry of those forced to serve as 
vectors: Kill me, if I can't kill myself.
    King Orden had often met the Duchess. She'd always struck him as a mousy 
little lady, too timid for grand deeds.
    It took a strong woman to kill herself, her children. Yet King Orden knew 
that there was a time when one could follow no other course. So, Raj Ahten had 
vectored the soldiery through the royal family, forced them to grant major 
endowments, so the soldiers would never be able to fight again-unless the royal 
family was slaughtered.
    The Duchess would have to do her duty, butcher her own children to save the 
kingdom. It was an evil trade. King Orden only hoped his own son did not fall 
into Raj Ahten's clutches. Orden imagined that he had the strength to kill his 
own son, if the need arose.
    But he dreaded the deed.
    King Orden turned over the letter, read the date. Harvest 19. Written almost 
two days past, over a hundred miles away.
    The Duchess hadn't expected Raj Ahten to reach Castle Sylvarresta until 
tomorrow. So she planned to kill herself at dawn, before the occupying army 
arrived.
    A pity she hadn't killed herself this morning. Her sacrifice might have done 
King Sylvarresta some good.
    Orden quickly scrawled letters to the Duke of Groverman and the Earl of 
Dreis--the lords with castles closest to Longmont--begging them both to send aid 
while at the same time requesting it from neighbors. Though the Duchess had 
already sought aid from those lords, Orden feared that her messengers might have 
met the same fate as the man he'd found on the road. To be certain that Dreis 
and Groverman came, he said bluntly that Raj Ahten had left a hoard of treasure 
at Longmont.
    "Borenson?" King Orden called when he finished. The captain was sitting on 
the rocks above him, just a few feet below the tangled limbs of the graaks' 
nest.
    "What is it, milord?" he asked, scrambling down to Mendellas' side.
    "I have a job for you, a dangerous job."
    "Good!" Borenson said, his voice full of cheer. Borenson dropped beside the 
King in the starlight. He was a full head taller than the King, his red hair 
spilling down from under his helm, over his shoulders. It wasn't right for 
vassals to be so large. He watched the King expectantly.
    "I'm taking five hundred men south, to Castle Longmont--right now. A 
thousand more will follow at dawn. I want you to take five hundred men with you 
now. Our scouts tell me that a few thousand nomen are in the woods at Castle 
Sylvarresta. If you ride hard, you can meet them at dawn, outside the castle, 
and let the men practice their archery.
    "Keep your forces in the woods. The Wolf Lord won't dare send reinforcements 
from the castle if he can't guess your number. If he should attack, retreat 
gracefully, heading for Longmont. At noon, your men will retreat to Longmont in 
any case.
    "It seems that the Duchess of Longmont has her hands full. Raj Ahten took 
her castle, stole endowments from hundreds of her people. At dawn she plans to 
kill herself, and anyone else who is a Dedicate to Raj Ahten. And it seems that 
she's captured a great treasure. So I must go to relieve her of it. I'll want 
you to keep the Wolf Lord off my back."
    King Orden considered his next move. He knew these woods well, had hunted 
the Dunnwood many times over the past twenty years. He needed to use that 
knowledge to his advantage.
    "I will be destroying the bridge at Hayworth, for all the good it will do. 
So you will send your men to Boar's Ford--to that narrow canyon below the ford. 
There they will sit in ambush. When Raj Ahten's troops come through, your men 
will attack--push boulders on them from above, loose arrows, set the east end of 
the canyon ablaze. But don't let your men draw sword unless you have to. Your 
troops will then race for Longmont. You understand? Your only purpose is to 
harry the Wolf Lord, to cause damage, to nibble at the edge of his defenses, to 
slow his journey."
    Borenson was smiling even wider, grinning like a maniac by now. It was 
practically a suicide mission. Orden wondered why that proposition delighted 
him. Did the man wish for death, or was it merely the deadly challenge that 
thrilled him?
    "Unfortunately, you may not be with your troops."
    "I won't?" Borenson's smile faltered.
    "No, I have something more reckless in mind for you. Tomorrow at noon, while 
your troops retreat toward the ambush, I want you, personally--and you alone--to 
ride into Castle Sylvarresta, to deliver a message to Raj Ahten."
    Borenson began grinning again, but it was not the crazed, reckless grin he'd 
had before. Instead, he seemed more determined. Beads of sweat began to form on 
his brow.
    "Be surly, abuse Raj Ahten as best you know how. Tell him that I've captured 
Longmont. Crow about it. As proof of my deed, tell him that I killed his 
Dedicates there at dawn--"
    Borenson swallowed hard.
    "Make him believe that I have taken forty thousand of his forcibles into my 
possession, and that I've put them to good use. Tell him that I will sell...five 
thousand of them back to him. Tell him that he knows the price."
    "Which is?" Borenson asked.
    "Don't name it," Orden answered. "If he has my son, then he will offer my 
son. If he does not have my son, then he will think you speak of King 
Sylvarresta's family, and he will offer the King.
    "No matter what hostage is offered, check on the condition of the hostage 
before you leave. See if Raj Ahten has forced Gaborn--or King Sylvarresta--into 
giving an endowment. I suspect he will use the royal family as vectors for major 
endowments. In fifteen hours, he could easily take hundreds of such endowments. 
If so, then you know what to do."
    "Pardon me?" Borenson asked. 
    "You heard right. You know what to do."
    Borenson laughed, almost a coughing sound, but there was no longer a smile 
on his face, no longer a gleam of delight in his eye. His face had gone all 
hard, impassive, and his voice carried a tone of disbelief. "You would have me 
kill King Sylvarresta, or your son?"
    Overhead, one of the huge graaks called out, swept low. There was a time in 
Orden's life when he had been small enough to ride one of the huge reptiles. 
When he'd weighed fifty pounds, at the age of six, his father had let him take 
long journeys on the backs of tamed graaks with the other skyriders, over the 
mountains to the far kingdom of Dzerlas in Inkarra. Only boys with endowments of 
strength and wit and stamina and grace could take such journeys.
    But when King Orden's son, Gaborn, became a skyrider in his turn, Mendellas 
never let Gaborn take a far journey. He'd tried hard to protect his son. He'd 
loved the boy too much. He'd hoped the lad would have time to grow, gain some 
maturity--a commodity all too rare among Runelords, who were often forced of 
necessity to take endowments of metabolism, grow old far before their time. 
There were things that King Orden still needed to teach his son, arts of 
diplomacy and strategy and intrigue that could not be learned in the House of 
Understanding.
    Moreover, Orden's own father had been captured when he was but a boy, and 
then had been forced to give endowments to a Wolf Lord in the Southern Wastes. 
His father's friends had rescued him from his fate--with a sword.
    Borenson could never know how much giving this order hurt. King Orden felt 
determined that his men would never know: Gaborn's great heart might well have 
earned him a death sentence.
    King Orden clapped the big warrior on the shoulder in sympathy. Borenson was 
trembling. It would be a hard thing to go from being Gaborn's sworn protector to 
his assassin. "You heard me right. When Raj Ahten gets your message, he will 
race to Longmont, to meet me in battle. He will have hundreds of Dedicates in 
Castle Sylvarresta by dawn--Dedicates that he won't he able to carry south in 
such a hurry, Dedicates that he won't he able to properly guard.
    "I want you to go into the Dedicates' Keep at Castle Sylvarresta, once Raj 
Ahten leaves, and slaughter everyone left within."
    The big warrior's grin had now faded completely.
    "You understand that this must be done. My life, your life, the lives of 
everyone in Mystarria--everyone you've ever known and loved--might well depend 
on it.
    "We can show no weakness. We can show no mercy."
    From a pouch at his hip, King Orden withdrew a small ivory flask. Captured 
inside were mists from the fields of Mystarria. Orden's water wizards had said 
that the flask contained enough mist to hide an army should the need arise. 
Borenson's army might need such a mist. He handed the artifact to Borenson, and 
wondered if he should also give the man his golden shield. It had a powerful 
spell of water warding in it. Orden had brought it as a betrothal gift to 
Sylvarresta. Now, he considered that he might need that shield himself.
    Orden wondered. He did not want to kill Sylvarresta. Yet if Sylvarresta 
succumbed to Raj Ahten, then it became Orden's duty. The Kings of Rofehavan 
needed to know that no one could give endowments to the Wolf Lord. No one would 
be permitted to do so and live. Not even Orden's best friend.
    "We will do what we must to our friends, our kin," King Orden said to 
himself as much as to Borenson, "if they serve the enemy. That is our duty. This 
is war."

     
     
Chapter 14
A WIZARD IN CHAINS
     
    Shortly before dawn, the sounds of many clanking chains preceded Binnesman 
into the King's audience hall; then the guards dragged the herbalist in to face 
Raj Ahten, as Iome watched.
    She shuddered and hid in a darkened corner, afraid somehow that Binnesman 
would spot her, would loathe her very existence. In the past few hours, she'd 
had time to inspect the rune of power branded into the skin of her breast. It 
was a complex thing, a horrid thing that tried to draw far more than mere beauty 
from her. It tried to draw her pride, her hope.
    Though she fought the influence of the rune, though she denied this boon to 
Raj Ahten, still she felt less than human. A mere rag in the corner, something 
that cringed and watched.
    Legend said that long ago, the facilitator Phedrosh had created a rune of 
will, a symbol that sapped the strength of mind from its victims. Had Raj Ahten 
had such a magic symbol built into the rune that had branded Iome, she'd not 
have been able to deny him.
    Now she felt grateful that Phedrosh had destroyed that rune of power and the 
secret of its making, before he fled to Inkarra.
    As Binnesman was dragged to the room, his shackles rattled. Strong irons 
bound Binnesman neck to foot, hand to hand. Two guards merely lugged him across 
the plank floor, threw him at Raj Ahten's feet.
    Four of the Wolf Lord's flameweavers walked beside the herbalist, all 
hairless, dark of skin. Three young-looking men and a single woman, all with 
that peculiar dancing light in their eyes that only flameweavers have. The male 
flameweavers had donned saffron silk robes, the woman a crimson mantle.
    As the woman drew near, in the lead, Iome could feel the heat of her skin, a 
dry heat, as if her flesh were a warming stone to put in a bed on a cold night.
    Iome felt the woman's powers in another way: a feverish lust came with her, 
mingled with a curious intellectual arousal. This lust was nothing like the 
earthy sensuality that Iome felt in Binnesman's presence--a desire to bear 
children, to feel small lips suckling at her breast. No, the flameweavers 
carried a consuming need to rape, to take, an undirected rage all finely 
controlled by keen intellect.
    Poor Binnesman looked a dirty wreck. He was covered from head to foot in 
grimy ash, yet his sky-blue eyes showed no fear as he looked up.
    You should fear, Iome thought. You should. No one could withstand Raj Ahten, 
the light in his face, the power of his voice. In the past few hours, she'd seen 
things she could not have imagined: Two hundred of her father's guard had 
granted endowments. Most needed little persuasion. A look at Raj Ahten's face, 
an encouraging word, and they gave themselves.
    Few even thought of resisting. Captain Derrow, of the palace guard, asked to 
forbear swearing fealty to Raj Ahten, saying he was oath-bound to serve House 
Sylvarresta. He therefore begged to serve as a guard in the Dedicates' Keep, 
pointing out that other great houses would now send assassins to dispatch 
Sylvarresta. Raj Ahten agreed, but only on the condition that Derrow give a 
lesser endowment, one of hearing.
    Another who begged no boon faced rougher treatment. Captain Ault refused the 
Wolf Lord entirely, had cursed him and wished him death.
    Raj Ahten had heard the reviling with patience and a smile, but afterward, 
the woman in crimson had taken the captain's hand, tenderly. Then her eyes 
flashed in laughter as the captain burst into flames from toe to head and just 
stood, screaming and writhing as the fires consumed his flesh, melted his armor. 
The room had echoed with his shrieks. The odor of charred flesh and hair clung 
to the walls of the room even now.
    Ault's blackened corpse was placed downstairs at the entry to the King's 
Keep.
    So humbly now the people of Castle Sylvarresta came to stand before their 
new lord and give obeisance. Raj Ahten spoke calmly to them, his face shining 
like the sun, his voice as unperturbable as the sea.
    All night long, Raj Ahten's troops had been marshaling the richest of the 
local merchants into the keep, seeking tributes of gold and endowments. The 
people gave to him whatever he asked, would give all that they had.
    Thus, Raj Ahten had finally heard the name of the young man who had killed 
his giants, his outriders, and mastiffs on his errand to warn King Sylvarresta 
of the impending invasion. Even now, Raj Ahten's trackers scoured the Dunnwood, 
searching for young Prince Orden.
    King Sylvarresta sat on the floor at Raj Ahten's feet. His neck had been 
tied to the foot of the throne, and King Sylvarresta, with all the naivete of a 
kitten, kept pulling at the rope, trying to chew it in half. The idea of untying 
himself did not occur to the King. Iome watched her father at Raj Ahten's feet, 
and even to her, Raj Ahten seemed great. His glamour so affected her that 
somehow she felt it fitting that her father should be there. Other kings kept 
dogs or great cats at their feet as pets. But Raj Ahten was more than a common 
leader. He deserved to have kings at his feet.
    At Raj Ahten's side stood his personal guard, two counselors, and the fifth 
of his flameweavers, a woman whose very presence made Iome tremble, for she 
could sense the flameweaver's power. She wore a midnight-blue robe, loosely tied 
over her naked body. And she stood now before a silver brazier, like a large 
platter on a pedestal, on which she had placed twigs and knots of fiery wood. 
The green flames rose some three or four feet above the brazier.
    Once that night, the woman had looked up from her brazier, her eyes shining 
with fierce delight, and said to Raj Ahten, "Good news, O Shining One, your 
assassins seem to have slaughtered King Gareth Arrooley of Internook. His light 
no longer shines in the earth."
    On hearing this, Iome felt awed. So Raj Ahten was attacking more than one 
king of the North. She wondered at the depth of his plans. Perhaps we are all 
fools compared with him, she thought, as ignorant as my father tied at Raj 
Ahten's feet.
    Now Raj Ahten gazed down at Binnesman in the light thrown from the 
pyromancer's brazier, and thoughtfully scratched at his beard.
    "What is your name?" Raj Ahten asked the wizard.
    Binnesman looked up, "My name is Binnesman."
    "Ah, Binnesman. I know your work well. I've read your herbals." Raj Ahten 
smiled at him, patiently, glanced up at the pyromancer. "You bring him in 
chains? I would not have it so. He seems harmless."
    The flameweaver beside the Wolf Lord gazed at Binnesman as if in a trance, 
eyes unfocused, staring past him, as if she sought to work up the nerve to kill 
him.
    "Harmless enough, Your Lordship," Binnesman answered in a strong voice. 
Though he still crouched on all fours, he watched the Wolf Lord casually.
    "You may rise," Raj Ahten said.
    Binnesman nodded, struggled to his feet, though his chains kept him bowed so 
he could not raise his neck. Now Iome could see more clearly that he wore 
manacles at his feet, that his hands were cuffed, and that a short, heavy iron 
chain led from manacles to cuffs to neck. Though Binnesman could not stand 
upright, the bowed stance did not bother him. He'd hunched over plants for so 
many years, his back had become stooped.
    "Beware of him, my lord," the pyromancer at Raj Ahten's side whispered. "He 
has great power."
    "Hardly," Binnesman chided. "You've destroyed my garden, the work of master 
gardeners for over five hundred years. The herbs and spices I'd have harvested 
are all lost. You are known as a pragmatic man, Raj Ahten. Surely you know these 
were things of no small benefit!"
    Raj Ahten smiled somewhat playfully. "I'm sorry my sorcerers destroyed your 
garden. But we haven't destroyed you, have we? You can grow another garden. I 
have some fine gardens, near my villas and palaces in the South. Trees from the 
far corners of the world, rich soil, plentiful water."
    Binnesman shook his head. "Never. I can never have another garden like the 
one you burned. It was my heart. You see..." He clutched at his robes.
    Raj Ahten leaned forward. "I'm sorry. It was necessary to clip your wings, 
Earth Warden." He spoke this title with solemnity, with more respect than he'd 
shown anyone else this night. "And yet, Master Binnesman, I truly did not want 
to harm you. There are few notable Earth Wardens in the world, and I've tested 
the efficacy of the herbs that each of your kind grows, studied the ointments 
and infusions you provide. You, Binnesman, are the master of your craft, of that 
I am sure. You deserve greater honor than you have been accorded. You should be 
serving as hearthmaster in the Room of Earth Powers in the House of 
Understanding--not that fraud Hoewell."
    Iome marveled. Even in far Indhopal, Raj Ahten knew of Binnesman's work. The 
Wolf Lord seemed almost omniscient to her.
    Binnesman watched him from beneath bushy brows. The wrinkled lines of 
Binnesman's face were wise, and after years of smiling, made him look kind and 
soft. But there was no kindness behind his eyes. Iome had seen him smash bugs in 
his garden with that calculating gaze. "The honors of men do not interest me."
    "Then what does interest you?" Raj Ahten asked. When Binnesman did not 
answer, he said softly, "Will you serve me?"
    The tone of voice, the subtle inflections, were all such that many another 
man would have prostrated themselves.
    "I serve no king," Binnesman answered.
    "You served Sylvarresta," Raj Ahten gently reminded him, "just as he serves 
me now!"
    "Sylvarresta was my friend, never my master."
    "You served his people. You served him as a friend."
    "I serve the earth, and all people on it, Lord Raj."
    "Then will you give yourself to me?"
    Binnesman gave him a scolding look, as if Raj Ahten were a child caught 
doing wrong when he knew better. "Do you desire my service as a man, or as a 
wizard?"
    "As a wizard."
    "Then, alas, Lord Raj, I cannot take a vow to serve you, for it would 
diminish my powers."
    "How so?" Raj Ahten asked.
    "I've vowed to serve the earth, and no other," Binnesman said. "I serve the 
trees in their hour of need, as well as the fox and the hare. I serve men with 
no greater and no less devotion than I serve other creatures. But if I break my 
vow to serve the earth, if I seek instead to serve you, my powers would perish.
    "You have many men who will serve you, or who will serve themselves in your 
interest, Raj Ahten. Content yourself with them."
    Iome wondered at Binnesman's words. He lied now, she knew. He did serve men 
more than animals. He'd once told her it was his weakness, this peculiar 
devotion to mankind. In his eyes, it made him unworthy of his master. Iome 
feared that Raj Ahten would see through the lies, punish Binnesman.
    The Wolf Lord's beautiful face was untroubled, and it seemed to Iome to be 
full of kindness.
    Binnesman said softly to Raj Ahten, "You understand, as a Runelord, you must 
care for your Dedicates, or else in time they would starve or sicken. If they 
died, you would lose the powers you draw from them."
    "The same principles apply to me...or to your flameweavers. See how they 
feed the fire, knowing they will gain strength from it in return?"
    "Milord," the flameweaver at Raj Ahten's side whispered, "let me kill him. 
The flames show that he is a danger. He helped Prince Orden escape from his 
garden. He supports your enemies. The light within him is against you."
    Raj Ahten touched the flameweaver's hand, calming her, asking, "Is it so? 
Did you help the Prince escape?"
    Don't answer him, Iome wanted to shout. Don't answer.
    But Binnesman merely shrugged. "He had a wound. I tended it, as I would if 
he were a rabbit or a crow. Then I pointed his way into the Dunnwood, so he 
could hide."
    "Because?" Raj Ahten asked.
    "Because your soldiers want him dead," the herbalist answered. "I serve 
life. Your life, your enemy's life. I serve life, as surely as you serve death."
    "I do not serve death. I serve mankind," Raj Ahten said calmly. His eyes 
hardly narrowed, but his face suddenly seemed harder, more passionless.
    "Fire consumes," Binnesman said. "Certainly, when you surround yourself with 
so many flameweavers, you too must feel their tug, their desire to consume. It 
has you in its sway."
    Raj Ahten casually leaned back on the throne. "Fire also enlightens and 
reveals," he said. "It warms us in the cold night. In the right hands, it can be 
a tool for good, even for healing. The Bright Ones and the Glories are creatures 
of the flame. Life comes from fire, as well as from the earth."
    "Yes, it can be a tool for good. But not now. Not in the age to come. 
Certainly no beings of the greater light will come do your bidding," Binnesman 
said. "I think that you would do better to rid yourself of these...forces." He 
waved casually at the flameweavers. "Other wizards would serve you better."
    "So you will serve me?" Raj Ahten asked. "You will supply my armies with 
your herbs and ointments?" He smiled, and that smile seemed to light the room. 
Certainly Binnesman will help him, Iome thought.
    "Herbs for the sick and the wounded?" Binnesman asked. "I can do this in 
good conscience. But I do not serve you."
    Raj Ahten nodded, clearly disappointed. Binnesman's devotion would have been 
a great boon.
    "Milord," the flameweaver hissed, glancing from brazier to Raj Ahten, "he is 
not truthful. He does serve a king! I see a man in my flames, a faceless man 
with a crown! A king is coming, a king who can destroy you!"
    Raj Ahten studied the herbalist, leaning even closer in his chair, the green 
flames from the brazier licking the side of his face. "My pyromancer sees a 
vision in the flames," he whispered. "Tell me, Binnesman, has the earth granted 
you such visions? Is there a king who can destroy me?"
    Binnesman stood straighter, folded his arms. His fists were clenched. "I am 
no friend of the Time Lords, to know the future. I don't gaze into polished 
stones. But you have made many enemies."
    "But is there a king whom you serve?"
    Binnesman stood for a long moment, deep in thought, his brows furrowed, Iome 
almost believed that the old herbalist would not answer, but then he began to 
mutter, "Wood and stone, wood and stone, these are but my flesh and bone. Metal, 
blood, wood and stone, these I own, these I own."
    "What?" Raj Ahten asked, though surely he could not have failed to hear the 
old man.
    "I serve no man. But, Your Lordship, a king is coming, a king of whom the 
earth approves. Fourteen days ago, he set foot in Heredon. I know this only 
because I heard the stones whisper it in the night, as I slept in the fields. A 
voice called to me, plain as a lark, The new King of the Earth is coming. He is 
in the land.' "
    "Kill him!" the flameweavers all began shouting at this revelation. "He 
serves your enemy."
    Raj Ahten tried to silence their yammering with an upraised hand, and asked, 
"Who is this Earth King?" His eyes blazed. The flameweavers kept calling for 
Binnesman's death; Iome feared that Raj Ahten would grant their boon. The light 
in their eyes increased, and the woman at the brazier raised her fist, let it 
burst into flame. In a moment, Raj Ahten's desires would not matter. The 
flameweavers would kill Binnesman.
    In an effort to save the herbalist, Iome shouted, "It's Orden. King Orden 
crossed our border two weeks ago!"
    At that very moment, the chains holding Binnesman dropped away, both hand 
and foot, and Binnesman unclenched his fists, tossed something into the air--
    Yellow flower petals, withered roots, and dry leaves that fluttered in the 
green light.
    The flameweavers shrieked in dismay and fell back, as if blasted by the 
weight of the flowers.
    The brazier snuffed out. Indeed, all the lanterns in the audience chamber 
winked out at once, so that the only light in the room was early-morning 
starlight, shining in from the oriels.
    When her eyes adjusted, Iome looked around, mystified. The flame-weavers had 
all fallen backward from Binnesman as if struck by lightning. They lay stunned, 
gazing without seeing, whimpering in pain.
    The room had suddenly filled with a clean, pungent scent, as if a wind had 
carried with it the air of a distant meadow. Binnesman stood tall and straight, 
glaring at Raj Ahten from under bushy brows. The cuffs and manacles he'd worn 
now lay at his feet, still firmly locked. It was as if his limbs had merely 
melted through them.
    Though flameweavers lay dazed and wounded at Binnesman's feet, Iome had felt 
nothing during the attack. A flower had touched her face, then dropped to the 
floor, nothing more.
    Raj Ahten stared at the herbalist, slightly annoyed, gripped the arms of the 
throne. "What have you done?" Raj Ahten asked softly, evenly, in the starlight.
    "I will not suffer your flameweavers to kill me," Binnesman said. "I've 
diminished them for a moment, nothing more. Now, you will excuse me, Your 
Lordship. I've much work to do. You wanted herbs for your armies?" Binnesman 
turned to leave.
    "Is it true that you back King Orden? Will you fight beside him?"
    Binnesman gave the Wolf Lord a sidelong glance, shook his head as if 
appalled. "I do not wish to fight you," Binnesman intoned softly. "I have never 
taken a man's life. You are asleep to the powers of the earth, Raj Ahten. The 
great tree of life arches over you, and the leaves of it whisper to you, but you 
do not hear them rustle. Instead, you merely sleep among its roots, dreaming of 
conquest.
    "Turn your thoughts to preservation. Your people need you. I have great hope 
for you, Raj Ahten. I would call you friend."
    Raj Ahten studied the old wizard a moment. "What would it take for you and I 
to become friends?"
    Binnesman said, "Swear an oath to the earth, that you will not harm it. 
Swear that you will seek to preserve a seed of humanity in the dark season to 
come."
    "And what do you mean by these oaths?" Raj Ahten asked.
    "Divest yourself of the flameweavers who desire to consume the earth. Value 
life--all life, plant and animal. Eat from plants without destroying them, 
harvest only the animals you need. Waste no creature, either animal or man. Turn 
your armies back from this war you have initiated. There are reavers on your 
southern borders. Your struggle should be with them."
    For a long time, Raj Ahten sat on the throne, simply staring at Binnesman. 
During that moment, a servant rushed in with a fresh lantern from the anteroom, 
so that it illuminated the Wolf Lord's face. He appeared thoughtful.
    Iome could see the longing in Raj Ahten's eyes, and almost she believed he 
would take the oath.
    But as the servant drew near with the lantern, it seemed to Iome that Raj 
Ahten's resolve flickered like the tongues of the fire. "I swear, to protect 
mankind from the reavers--for their own good," Raj Ahten said. "I...do only what 
I know I must--"
    "You do nothing of the sort!" Binnesman shouted. "Listen to you: You've 
taken so many endowments of Voice that when you talk, you convince yourself of 
your own mad arguments. You are deluded!"
    Iome's heart pounded, for she suddenly realized that Binnesman was right. 
Raj Ahten was swayed by the sound of his own mad Voice. It had never occurred to 
her that such a thing might happen.
    Binnesman shouted, "Yet--there is time to change your mind--barely! Divest 
yourself of these mad notions. Don't dare rob these people and call yourself 
good!"
    He turned and ambled from the room, looking every bit the bent old man. Yet 
he walked without fear, as if, Iome thought, he had conducted the interview, as 
if he had dragged Raj Ahten to this room in chains.
    Then he was gone.
    Iome watched in astonishment, for no one else that night had merely chosen 
to leave Raj Ahten's presence. Iome feared that Raj Ahten might try to imprison 
the old man, or drag him back and bully him into service.
    But the Wolf Lord remained thoughtful, watched the dark corridor through 
which Binnesman had exited.
    Moments later, as the flameweavers began to regain consciousness, a guard 
hurried to the King's chamber to announce that the herbalist had just been 
spotted outside the city gates, hobbling across the fields to the Dunnwood. "Our 
bowmen on the wall could have shot him," the guard said, "but we did not know 
your will in this matter. The nomen are camped in the fields, but none detained 
him. Shall I send scouts to fetch him back?"
    Raj Ahten frowned. It seemed far too short a time for a man to have left 
these halls and escaped the castle. And it was equally as bizarre that none of 
Raj Ahten's highly trained soldiers had stopped the old man.
    "Did he reach the edge of the forest?" Raj Ahten asked.
    "Aye, milord."
    "What is he planning?" Raj Ahten wondered aloud. He stood swiftly, 
pondering. Then added, "Send a party of hunters to find him--if they can."
    But Iome knew it was too late. Binnesman had gained the woods, the Dunnwood, 
the ancient forest, a focus for the earth powers. Even Raj Ahten's most 
accomplished hunters could not track an Earth Warden through the Dunnwood.

     
     
Chapter 15
POETICS
     
    Once the trackers left, Gaborn made his way alongside the mill, carrying 
Rowan. For a young man with three endowments of brawn, she did not pose much of 
a burden, and Gaborn realized that carrying her now offered an added benefit: 
she would not leave her scent on the ground.
    It is hard to track a man who has just left a river. His body oils get 
washed away, so that when he steps on dry land, he is harder to smell. Gaborn 
wanted to leave only his small traces of scent.
    As he struggled up the incline, out of the millrace, the ferrin saw him 
coming, growled in fear, and scurried for cover.
    "Food, food," he whistled, for these creatures had performed him a service. 
How great a service, they would never know. Gaborn had little food to give, but 
as he reached the mill, he lifted the wooden latch on the front door, went in. A 
hopper above the grindstones was filled with wheat. Gaborn opened the hopper, 
turned to look behind him. The ferrin stood just outside the door, eyes wide in 
the darkness. One little gray-brown ferrin woman was wringing her paws 
nervously, sniffing the air.
    "Food. I give," he whistled softly.
    "I hear you," she chirped in return.
    Gaborn slowly walked past them, left the ferrin just outside the door. They 
waited, blinking at him nervously, afraid to enter the mill with him watching.
    Gaborn hurried up the trail to the castle, under the trees, then crept along 
the tree line until he reached the small stream that wound through the pussy 
willows.
    Here, he slogged through the marshes quietly. The sky was red on the hill 
now, and the archer on the city wall stood out bright against the sky. He was 
watching the fire, Binnesman's garden burning. Ashes drifted slowly through the 
air.
    Gaborn crept through the willows, up to the city wall, unseen. At the wall, 
he set Rowan down and squirmed under first, through the cold water, then waited 
for Rowan. She wriggled beneath the wall, teeth gritted in pain at the touch of 
the icy water. She staggered up to her knees, inside the castle gate, then 
pitched forward in a faint.
    He caught her, laid her in the grass beside the stream. He took off his 
dirty cloak, wrapped it around her for what little warmth it could give, then 
began making his way through the streets.
    It was an odd sensation, walking that street. Binnesman's garden was afire, 
the flames shooting now eighty feet into the air. The castle was alive with 
people shouting, running to and fro, afraid the fire would spread.
    On the street leading to the stables, dozens of people raced past Gaborn, 
many of them carrying buckets to the stream so that they could douse the thatch 
roofs of cottages, protecting them from falling cinders.
    Yet of all the people who passed Gaborn, none asked his name or sought to 
learn why he carried an unconscious woman. Is Earth protecting me, he wondered, 
or is this such a common sight this night that no one notices?
    Gaborn found the spice cellars from Rowan's description. It was a fair-sized 
building, something of a warehouse whose back was dug into the hill. A loading 
dock by the wide front doors was just the height of a wagon.
    Gaborn cautiously opened the front door into an antechamber. The scents of 
spices assailed him--drying garlic and onions, parsley and basil, lemon balm and 
mint, geranium, witch hazel, and a hundred others. The cook's son was supposed 
to be sleeping here. A pallet lay in a corner with a blanket over it, but Gaborn 
saw no sign of the boy. On a night like tonight, with soldiers in town and a 
huge fire burning, the boy was probably out watching the sights with friends.
    A wall of stone and mortar stood on the far side of the antechamber. Gaborn 
carried Rowan to it, opened it wide. A huge chamber was behind the door. A 
lantern hung by the wall, burning low, next to a flask of oil and a couple of 
spare lanterns. Gaborn poured oil into a lantern and lit the wick so that it 
burned brightly, then gaped.
    Gaborn had known that the King dealt in spices, but hadn't guessed how much. 
The chamber was filled to the brim with crates and sacks. Off to the left were 
common culinary spices in huge bins, enough to supply the city through the year. 
Ahead were smaller casks of Binnesman's medicinal herbs and oils, ready for 
shipment. To the far right lay thousands of bottles of wine, along with casks of 
ale, whiskey, and rum. The chamber must have reached back a hundred feet into 
the side of the hill.
    The place held a miasma of scents--spices rotting, spices fresh, dust and 
mold. Gaborn knew he'd found safety. Here beneath the earth, in the far chambers 
under the hill, no hunter would be able to track him.
    He closed the great door, made his way with the lantern to a corner of the 
cellar, stacked some crates to form a little hiding place, then laid Rowan 
behind them.
    He lay down with her, warmed her with his body, and for a time he slept, 
curled against her back.
    When he woke, Rowan had turned, was gazing into his eyes. He felt a pressure 
on his lips, realized that she'd just kissed him awake. She breathed softly.
    Rowan had dark skin, with thick, lustrous black hair and a gentle, caring 
face. She was not beautiful, he decided, merely pretty. Not like Iome, or even 
Myrrima. Both of those women were blessed with endowments that made them more 
than human. Both of them had faces that could make a man forget his name or 
haunt him for years after a mere glimpse of them.
    She kissed him again, softly, and whispered, "Thank you."
    "For what?" Gaborn asked.
    "For keeping me warm. For bringing me with you." She cuddled closer, spread 
his robe over them both. "I've never felt so...alive...as I do right now." She 
took his hand, placed it on her cheek, wanting him to stroke her.
    Gaborn dared not do it. He knew what she wanted. She'd just reawakened to 
the world of sensation. She craved his caress--the warmth of his body, his 
touch.
    "I...don't think I should do this," Gaborn said, and he rolled away, put his 
back to her. He felt her stiffen, hurt and embarrassed.
    He lay for a moment, ignoring her, then reached into the pocket of his 
tunic, pulled out the book that King Sylvarresta had given him earlier in the 
day. The Chronicles of Owatt, Emir of Tuulistan.
    The lambskin cover on it was soft and new. The ink smelled fresh. Gaborn 
opened it, fearing he wouldn't be able to read the language. But the Emir had 
already translated it.
    On the cover leaf, in a broad, strong hand, he'd written,
    To my Beloved Brother in Righteousness, King jas Laren Sylvarresta, 
greetings: It has been eighteen years now since we dined together at the oasis 
near Binya, yet I think fondly on you often. They have been hard years, full of 
trouble. I give you one last gift: this book.
    I beg of you, show it only to those you trust.
    Gaborn wondered at the warning. After running out of space at the bottom of 
the page, the Emir had not bothered to sign his name.
    Gaborn calmed himself, prepared to memorize everything in the hook. With two 
endowments of wit, it was a daunting task, but not impossible.
    He read swiftly. The first ten chapters told of the Emir's life--his youth, 
his marriage and family connections, details of laws he had authored, deeds he 
had done. The next ten told of ten battles fought by Raj Ahten, campaigns 
against entire royal families.
    The Wolf Lord began destroying the smaller families of Indhopal first, those 
most despised. He worked not to take a castle or to bankrupt a city, but to 
decimate entire family lines. In the South, the code of honor made it obligatory 
to avenge one's relatives.
    Among the horsemen of Deyazz, he'd attack a palace in one city, then slay 
Dedicate horses of those who might come to the city's aid, while also taking 
children for ransom on another front. With multiprong attacks, he overwhelmed 
his foes.
    Gaborn quickly saw that Raj Ahten was a master of illusion. Always one could 
see the knife flashing in his right hand, while his left kept busy elsewhere. A 
small army might lay siege to a king's palace in one land while five others 
quietly ripped at the underbelly of some lord two kingdoms away.
    Gaborn studied the patterns of the assaults. He grew terrified.
    Raj Ahten had taken Castle Sylvarresta with nothing more than his glamour 
and fewer than seven thousand knights and men-at-arms. True, he brought 
Invincibles, the heart of his army. But it left many questions unanswered. Raj 
Ahten had millions of men who could march at his command.
    Where were they?
    Gaborn wondered as he read. The tales of Raj Ahten's battles contained no 
hidden knowledge. The Emir had laid bare Raj Ahten's tactics, but a good spy 
could have gleaned as much information.
    Gaborn skimmed the Emir's poetry, found it dull, mere doggerel, each line 
ending in a full rhyme, each line perfectly metered.
    Some poems were sonnets that enjoined the reader to seek for some virtue, in 
the way of poems given to young children who are learning to read. Yet in the 
sonnets, the Emir did not always rhyme flawlessly. Sometimes he ended in near 
rhyme, and on a swift reading, Gaborn found that the near rhymes leapt out at 
him.
    It was not until reading ten pages that Gaborn stumbled on the first of 
these near rhymes, in an odd poem, a form called a sonnet menor.
    Now Gaborn focused on that poem, for it held Sylvarresta's name in the 
title.
    A Sonnet for Sylvarresta
    When the wind strokes the desert in the night, so that veils of sand obscure 
the starlight, we lie on pillows by the fire to read In books of puissant 
philosophy.
    Ah, how they clear the mind, focus the eye, Of mortal men who linger, love 
and die!
    Gaborn rearranged words in each line, seeing if he could form sentences that 
might convey some hidden meaning. He found nothing.
    He wondered at the words, longed for the days when men from the North could 
have traveled openly in Indhopal. He'd recently heard a trader bemoan those 
times by saying, "Once there were many good men in Indhopal. Now it seems they 
are all dead--or perhaps just frightened into evil."
    Five poems later, Gaborn came upon another poem in the same form, yet its 
near rhymes came in the first two lines.
    Gaborn thought back to the near rhymes in the previous poem: "Read, 
philosophy." Now the near rhymes here: "Behind, spine."
    He thumbed through the next five pages quickly, found another near rhyme, 
with the words, "Room, of dream."
    "Read philosophy behind spine. Room of Dreams," he muttered. His heart 
pounded. The teachings that the Days learned in the Room of Dreams were 
forbidden to Gaborn's kind. Surely, the Days would destroy this chronicle if 
they found the Emir disseminating such knowledge among Runelords.
    Thus the Emir's warning: "Show it only to those whom you trust."
    Gaborn glanced at the remainder of the book. The last section was dedicated 
to philosophical musings--treatises on the "Nature of a Goodly Prince," 
exhorting would-be kings to mind their manners and avoid slashing their father's 
throats while waiting for the old men to die off.
    The cover, back, and spine of the book were made of stiff leather, sewn to a 
softer covering of lambskin.
    He glanced over his back. He'd been reading for hours. Rowan lay quiet, 
breathing in the slow way of those who sleep.
    Gaborn unsheathed his knife, cut the threads that bound the cover to the 
book. As he did so, he kept fumbling; his hands shook badly.
    His forefathers had wondered at the teachings in the House of Dreams for 
generations. A man had died to bring this to Sylvarresta. Probably without 
reason. A spy knew that a book came from Tuulistan, and figured that it warned 
of Raj Ahten's invasion plans. So the spy had struck down an innocent man.
    Yet Gaborn worried--even though he suspected that it was irrational--that 
he, too, would be killed, if the Days ever learned he'd read these teachings.
    From inside the back cover dropped five thin sheets of paper with a small 
diagram and the following note:
    My Dear Sylvarresta:
    You remember at Binya, when we discussed those men who revolted against me, 
for they said I stole their wells to water my cattle? I had been taught that as 
prince, all the land in my realm belonged to me, as did the people on it. These 
things were my birthright, granted by the Powers. So I planned to punish the men 
for their theft.
    But you enjoined me to slaughter my cattle instead, for you said that every 
man is lord of his own land, and that the lives of my cattle should serve my 
people, not my people the cattle. You said that Runelords could rule only if our 
people loved and served us. We rule at their whim.
    Your views seemed wonderfully exotic, but I bowed to your wisdom. I have 
spent years since considering the nature of what is just and what is unjust.
    We both have heard forbidden fragments of doctrine from the Room of Dreams, 
but recently I learned something most secret from that place. I give you this 
diagram for your instruction:
    The Three Domains of Man
    In the Room of Dreams, the Days are taught that even the ugliest sparrow 
knows itself to be a lord of the skies, and knows in its heart that it owns all 
it surveys.
    They teach in the room that every man is the same. Every man defines himself 
as a lord unto himself, and inherits a birthright of three Domains: the Visible 
Domain of things we can see and touch; the Communal Domain made up of our 
relationships with others; and the Invisible Domain--territories we cannot see, 
but which we actively protect nonetheless.
    While some men teach that good and evil are defined by the Powers or by wise 
kings in authority, or change according to time and circumstance, the Days say 
that the knowledge of good and evil is born into us, and that the just laws of 
mankind are written on our hearts. They teach that the three domains are the 
sole medium by which mankind defines good and evil.
    If any man violates our domain, if he seeks to deprive us of our birthright, 
we call him "evil." If any man seeks to take our property or life, if he attacks 
our family or honor or community, if he strives to rob us of free will, we can 
justly protect ourselves.
    On the other hand, the Days define goodness as the voluntary enlarging of 
another's domain. If you give me money or property, if you bestow upon me honor 
or invite me to be your friend, if you give time in my service, then I define 
you as good.
    The teachings of the Days--they are so different in implication from what I 
learned from my fathers. My father taught that the Powers had ordained me to be 
lord of my realm. As was my right, I could take any man's property, any woman's 
love, for these things I owned.
    Now I am confused. I hold to what my father taught, yet feel in my heart 
that I am wrong to do so.
    I fear, my old friend, that we are under judgment by the Days, and that this 
diagram shows the rod by which we are measured. I do not know how they intend to 
manipulate us--for by their own measure, they would be evil to slay us.
    Some books say that the Glories paired the lords with the Days, but in 
ancient times, the Days were called "the Guardians of Dreams." So I wonder: Is 
it possible that the Days seek to manipulate us in some strange way? Do they 
manipulate our hopes and aspirations? Most particularly, they write the 
chronicles of our lives, but are the chronicles true? Did the heroes we aspire 
to emulate even exist? Were such men heroes even by their own standards? Or do 
the Days seek to manipulate truth for purposes we cannot guess?
    So, I have secretly written this chronicle and sent it to you. I am growing 
old. I will not live long. When I die and the Days write the tale of my life, I 
wish you to compare the two chronicles, to see what you can find. What part of 
my life story will the Days omit? What part will they embellish?
    Farewell, My Brother in Righteousness
    Gaborn read the document several times. The teachings of the Days did not 
seem particularly profound. Indeed, they seemed rather obvious and 
straightforward, though Gaborn had never encountered their like. Gaborn could 
see no reason why they should be kept secret, particularly from the Runelords.
    Still, the Emir had guarded these writings, had feared some unnamable 
retribution.
    Yet Gaborn knew that, sometimes, small things could be powerful. As a child 
of five, he'd often tried to lift the huge halberds that his father's guards 
bore in the portcullis. At that age, he'd been given his first endowment of 
brawn, and immediately had gone out and discovered that he could lift the 
halberd and swing it with ease. A single endowment of strength had seemed a 
great thing. Now, as a Runelord, he knew that it was nothing. Yet he wondered at 
these teachings. They seemed simple, yet he knew that the Days were anything but 
simple. An odd devotion, taken to an extreme, could have profound effects on a 
person--in just the same way that a simple love of food led to obesity and 
death.
    Gaborn had seldom wondered if he was good. In reading these teachings from 
the Room of Dreams, he wondered if it was possible to be a "good" Runelord by 
the Days' standards. Those who gave endowments usually regretted it, in time. 
Yet once the gift was given, it could not be returned. At that point, any 
endowment that the Runelord held would be considered a violation by the Days.
    Gaborn wondered if there might be some acceptable circumstance when it was 
all right for a person to grant an endowment. Perhaps if two men desired to 
combine their strength to fight a great evil. But this could only happen if he 
and his Dedicate were one in heart.
    Yet at the center of the Days' teachings lay a concept he could barely 
apprehend: Every man is a lord. Every man is equal.
    Gaborn was descended from Erden Geboren himself, who gave and took life, 
whom Earth itself had ordained king. If the Powers favored one man above 
another, then men could not be considered equal. Gaborn wondered where the 
balance lay, felt as if he stood poised at the edge of receiving a revelation.
    He had always thought himself a rightful lord over his people. Yet, he was 
also their servant. It was the Runelord's duty to protect his vassals, to shield 
them with his own life.
    The Days thought all men were lords? Did this mean that no man was a 
commoner? Did Gaborn really have no rights to lordship?
    For the past few days he'd wondered if he was a good prince. He'd floundered 
at the question, but he'd had no clear definition for good. So Gaborn began to 
test the Days' teachings, to consider their implications.
    As Gaborn lay on the cellar floor, the Days' teachings began to alter the 
way he would think forever after.
    Gaborn wondered how he could protect himself without violating another's 
Domains. He saw from the diagram that the outer ring, the ring of Invisible 
Domains, detailed realms that were often fuzzy. Where does my body space end and 
another man's begin?
    Perhaps, Gaborn wondered, there was an approved list of reactions. If 
someone violated your Invisible Domains, you should warn him about it. Simply 
speak to him. But if he violated your Communal Domains, if, say, he sought to 
ruin your reputation, you would take your case to others, publicly confront that 
person.
    Yet if a person sought to violate your Visible Domains, if they sought to 
kill you or steal your property, Gaborn could see no other recourse but to take 
up arms.
    Perhaps that was the answer. Inevitably, it seemed to him, each type of 
Domain became more intimate as you moved from the outer circle toward the 
center. Thus, protecting that more intimate Domain required a more forceful 
response.
    But would it be good to do so? Where did goodness fit in here? A measured 
response seemed appropriate, just, but the diagram suggested to Gaborn that 
justice and virtue were not the same. A good man would enlarge the Domain of 
others, not merely protect his own Domains. Thus, when administering justice, 
one had to choose: Is it better to be a just man at this moment, or a good one?
    Do I give to the man who robs me? Praise the man who belittles me?
    If Gaborn sought to be good, he could do little else. But if he sought to be 
a protector for his people, was that not also good? And if he sought to protect 
his people, he could not afford to be virtuous.
    The Days' teachings seemed muddling. Perhaps, he thought, the Days hide 
these teachings from the Runelords out of compassion. By. the Days' standards, 
it is a hard thing for a man to be virtuous. Raj Ahten seeks my realm. By their 
standards, if I were good, perhaps I would give it to him.
    Yet that seemed wrong. Perhaps it is a greater virtue for a Runelord to be 
just and equitable?
    He began to wonder if even the Days understood the implications of their 
diagram. Perhaps it was not three circles of Domains, but more. Perhaps if he 
rearranged the individual types within the Domains, forming nine circles, he 
could better gauge how to react to an attempt at invasion for each.
    He considered Raj Ahten. The Wolf Lord violated men's Domains at every 
level. He took their wealth and their homes, destroyed families, murdered, 
raped, and enslaved.
    Gaborn needed to protect himself, his people, from this beast who would 
ravage the world. But he could not simply frighten Raj Ahten away, could not 
bully the man or reason with him or cow him by denouncing him to the people.
    The only thing Gaborn could do to save his people would be to find a way to 
kill Raj Ahten.
    Gaborn listened closely, asking Earth if that was its will, but felt no 
response--no shaking of the earth, no burning in his heart.
    At the moment, Gaborn could not touch the Wolf Lord. Raj Ahten was too 
powerful. Still, Gaborn thought he might spy on Raj Ahten, maybe discover how 
best to wound him. Perhaps Raj Ahten had prized Dedicates he carried with him, 
or perhaps a certain counselor drove the Wolf Lord relentlessly in pursuit of 
conquest. Slaying a counselor could accomplish much.
    Gaborn might discover such things. But he'd have to get close, first. He'd 
need to find a way into the inner circles of the castle.
    Gaborn wondered if Earth would approve. Should I fight Raj Ahten? By doing 
this, would I violate my oath?
    It seemed a good plan, daring, to spy on the Wolf Lord and learn his 
weakness. Gaborn had already established some cover in the Dedicates' Keep, as 
Aleson the Devotee.
    Gaborn judged that if he and Rowan went to the gate of the Dedicates' Keep 
just after dawn, after Raj Ahten's night guard changed, and took some odd items 
of spice with them, perhaps they could gain entry. All that night, he lay awake, 
considering...
    The sun rose pink in the east, stirring a dawn chill as Gaborn and Rowan 
left the spice house, carrying small bales of parsley and peppermint. A low mist 
was creeping up from the river, over the walls, making a blanket on the fields. 
The rising sun dyed the blanket gold.
    Gaborn stopped outside the door, tasted the mist. It had an odd scent, the 
tang of sea salt where there should be none. Almost he could imagine the cries 
of gulls in that mist, and ships sailing from harbor. It made him long for home, 
but Gaborn thought he just imagined the odd scent.
    The sounds of morning were like any other morning. The cattle and sheep were 
still wandering about the city, and their bawling and baaing filled the air. 
Jackdaws chatted noisily from their nests among the chimneys of houses. The 
blacksmith's hammer rang, and from the cooking chamber in the Soldiers' Keep one 
could smell fresh loaves baking. But overwhelming the sumptuous scent of food, 
even the sea mist, was the acrid stench of burned grasses.
    Gaborn did not fear being spotted. He and Rowan were dressed like commoners, 
anonymous inhabitants of the castle.
    Rowan led Gaborn up a fog-shrouded street, until they reached an old shack, 
a sort of hermitage on the steep side of the hill, near where the wizard's 
garden had stood. Grapevines climbed the back wall of the shack. It would take 
only a minor freeze to bring out the sweetness in the grapes.
    Gaborn and Rowan filled their stomachs, unsure what other food they might 
get that day. At the sound of coughing within the hermitage, Gaborn got up, 
prepared to leave. Someone began thumping inside the cottage, hobbling on a 
cane. It was but a matter of time before the occupant came outside and 
discovered them.
    Gaborn pulled Rowan to her feet just as hunting horns sounded over the 
fields south of the castle.
    This blare of horns was followed immediately by grunts and shrieks. Gaborn 
climbed a little higher up the hill to look over the Outer Wall, to the 
mist-shrouded fields. The river lay to the east, with fields beyond it. The 
trees of the Dunnwood sat on a hill across the valley to the south.
    At the edge of the wood on the south hill, Gaborn suddenly spotted movement 
in the fog: the glint of steel armor, peaked helms--lances raised in the air. 
Horsemen rode at the edge of the woods, cantering through the fog.
    Before them raced a thousand nomen, black shadows who lumbered over the 
ground on all fours, shrieking and howling in terror. The nomen fled toward the 
castle, half-blinded by daylight.
    There, Gaborn saw a rider wearing the midnight-blue livery of House Orden, 
with the emblem of the green knight.
    He could not fathom it--his father attacking the castle.
    No! he wanted to shout.
    It was a suicide charge. His father had brought a few men as a retinue. They 
had come as a light escort--mere decoration--not prepared for war! They had no 
siege engines, no wizards or ballistas.
    As Gaborn realized all this, he knew it hardly mattered. His father believed 
that Gaborn was in Castle Sylvarresta and that the castle had fallen. His father 
would do whatever he thought necessary to win back his son.
    That recognition filled Gaborn with guilt and horror, the thought that his 
stubbornness, his stupidity, had suddenly put so many people's lives in 
jeopardy.
    Though his father's soldiers had come as "mere decoration," they did not 
fight like decorations. The horses plunged downhill, churning the fog; their 
horsemen's axes were raised high overhead. Gaborn saw nomen running, naked, 
fleeing the knights' axes. They shrieked in horror, their yellow fangs gaping 
wide. Some nomen turned, set their spear butts in the mud.
    His father's knights surged forward on armored horses, lances shattering, 
axes falling, blood and mud and fur filling the air, along with the howls of 
nomen, the screams of the dying.
    Hoofbeats thundered from the south. Hundreds of voices rose in a shout, the 
battle cry of "Orden! Brave Orden!"
    In answer, a tremendous roar came from the east. A contingent of Frowth 
giants rushed over the fields on the far side of the river, making toward the 
Dunnwood from the eastern fields--eighty giants lumbering like moving hills in 
the fog.
    Shouts arose from guards on the castle walls, the blare of horns as Raj 
Ahten's soldiers were called to battle, roused from their beds. Gaborn feared 
Raj Ahten would send his own knights riding onto the battlefield. House Orden 
had at most a contingent of two thousand men, unless his father had managed to 
summon reinforcements from one of Sylvarresta's minor keeps.
    Almost as quickly as that fear of Raj Ahten's counterattack arose, it was 
assuaged. Gaborn heard shouts at the southern gates, the clanking of gears as 
Raj Ahten's troops hurried to raise the drawbridge. The fog in the valley was so 
thick, Gaborn could not see if any nomen made it over the bridge.
    Raj Ahten could not counterattack now. He could not be certain what size 
force House Orden had brought. If he attacked, he might find himself ambushed by 
a force so large he could never withstand it. It was, after all, a common tactic 
to try to lure a castle's defenders out by feigning an inadequate force.
    A contrary wind blew from the east, and the fog suddenly thickened. Gaborn 
could see nothing more of the battle. Even the giants disappeared in the mist.
    Yet he heard horses neigh in terror, the battle cries of House Orden. On the 
hill across the valley, horns sounded--two short blasts, one long. An order to 
regroup.
    "Come on!" Gaborn told Rowan, and he took her hand. Together they raced up 
the streets, uphill toward the King's Keep.
    The city was in chaos. Raj Ahten's troops were throwing on armor, rushing to 
man the city walls.
    As Gaborn and Rowan ran to the King's Gate, the soldiers were lowering the 
portcullis leading into the business district. They ordered Gaborn back.
    Five hundred of Raj Ahten's troops rushed down from the King's Keep, trying 
to reach the Outer Walls. A small herd of startled cattle dashed this way and 
that before them, seeking escape.
    In the confusion, Gaborn and Rowan shouldered their bales of spices, raced 
through the portcullis into the market.
    The market district was undefended. Raj Ahten's men had not yet formed a 
plan for resisting attack. None of his soldiers had been posted to specific 
turrets. Watching the walls, Gaborn saw dozens of soldiers rush to the 
catapults, others manning the towers at each corner of the castle--but Raj 
Ahten's troops spread themselves thin. Some rushed for the Outer Wall; others 
tried to nail down defenses in the Dedicates' Keep.
    Practically no one manned the second wall of the city's defenses, the King's 
Wall.
    From the plain below--mingled with the screams of nomen, the neighing of 
horses as they died, the roars of giants--the knights of House Orden broke into 
song, their deep voices celebrating the glory of war.
    Gaborn's father had always insisted that each of his personal guard have 
three endowments of Voice, so that orders could be easily shouted across the 
battlefields. Their death song erupted from the fog, shook the very stones of 
Castle Sylvarresta, reverberated from hill to hill. It was a song to strike 
terror in the hearts of foe:
    "Bring your honor, swing your sword,
    You mighty men of Orden. 
    Reap your foes in fields of gore,
    You bloody men of Orden!"
    There were the sounds of horses neighing and dying--so many horses. Gaborn 
did not understand why the horses screamed until he realized that Raj Ahten's 
horses were still tethered on the far hill. His father's troops were 
slaughtering the Wolf Lord's mounts.
    Gaborn and Rowan stopped on the cobbled street, a hundred yards beneath the 
King's Keep, and stood gazing over the fog-covered greens, trying to see the 
battle. Gaborn was suddenly aware of several men rushing past.
    He turned just as a burly soldier pushed him aside, shouting, "Out of the 
way!"
    And there, racing past in black scale mail, the white owl's wings sweeping 
wide from his black helm, came Raj Ahten with his personal guard, counselors, 
and Days. Three weary flameweavers ran at his side.
    Gaborn almost reached to draw his sword, to strike at the Wolf Lord, but 
knew it would be foolish. He turned away, the blood in his face rising in anger.
    Raj Ahten ran past Gaborn at arm's length, issuing orders to his guard in 
Indhopalese: "Ready your men and horses! You flameweavers--to the walls. Send 
lines of fire from here to the woods, so that we can see into that fog. I'll 
lead the counterattack! Damn that insolent Orden!"
    "It is an unnatural fog," his flameweaver worried. "A water wizard's fog."
    "Rahjim, don't tell me you fear some young water wizard who hasn't even 
grown his gills yet?" Raj Ahten scoffed. "I expect more from you. This fog will 
work against Orden as much as work for him."
    The wizard shook his head woefully. "Some Power fights us! I feel it!"
    Gaborn could have reached out and touched the Wolf Lord, could have lopped 
off his head, yet had done nothing.
    The enormity of the lost opportunity weighed on Gaborn. As Raj Ahten and his 
troops hurried down Market Street, Gaborn fumbled to draw his sword.
    "No!" Rowan hissed, grabbing his wrist, pressing the blade back into its 
sheath.
    She was right. Yet as he surveyed the street, he saw that it was a perfect 
spot for an ambush. The shops would not normally open for another two hours--and 
this day was far from normal. Perhaps they would not open at all.
    Market Street twisted southwest, so that even though one was not far from 
the King's Keep and the inner tier of defenses for the city, one could not be 
seen from the Keep's walls above, nor from the outer walls below. The 
three-story stone buildings along Market Street blocked such a view.
    Gaborn halted. The morning shadows were still deep, the street deserted. 
Gaborn wondered if he should wait for Raj Ahten to return up the cobbled road.
    He glanced up toward the King's Keep.
    A woman ran toward him, a woman dressed in a midnight-blue silk robe that 
was tied indecently, half revealing her pert breasts. She bore in her right hand 
a silver chain that held a small metal ball in which to burn incense, but the 
incense in the ball was aflame. Lights danced madly in her dark eyes, and her 
head was bald. She carried herself with such authority, Gaborn knew she must be 
someone important.
    It was not until she was nearly upon him that he felt the heat of her--the 
dry burning under her skin--and knew she was a flameweaver.
    The woman lurched to a stop, gazed at him as if in recognition. "You!" the 
flameweaver cried.
    He did not think. He knew with every fiber of his being that she was his 
enemy. In one smooth stroke he drew his blade, swung it up, and lopped off the 
woman's head.
    Rowan gasped, put her hand to her mouth and stepped backward.
    For a split second the flameweaver stood, her head flying back, the incense 
burner still in hand.
    Then her entire body turned into a green pillar of flame that spouted high 
into the air. The heat of it made the rocks at her feet scream in protest, 
cremated her own body in a portion of a second, and Gaborn felt his own eyebrows 
curl and singe. The blade of his sword burst into flames as if stricken with a 
curse, and the fire raced down the bloodstained metal toward the hilt so that 
Gaborn had to thrust the thing to the ground.
    For good measure, he somehow felt compelled to pull off his scabbard, throw 
it down too--as if it might burst into flame from its long association with the 
blade.
    Too late he realized his mistake in killing the flameweaver.
    A powerful flameweaver cannot be killed. She can be disembodied, and in time 
she will dissipate, become one with her element. But there is a space of time, a 
moment of consciousness between death and dissipation, where the full power of 
the flameweaver is unleashed, where the flame-weaver combines with the element 
she served.
    Gaborn staggered backward as quickly as he could, pulling Rowan with him. 
Even in death, the flameweaver sought to remain human, sought to retain her 
form, so that one moment a great fountain of green fire rose skyward, and the 
next a huge woman of flame, some eighty feet tall, began to take shape.
    The inferno assumed bodily form--a marvelously compact assortment of topaz 
and emerald flames, her sculpted cheeks and eyes perfect, the small breasts and 
firm muscles of her legs all reproduced with marvelous accuracy. She stood as if 
confused, looking blindly to the south and to the east, from whence came the 
noise and clamor of battle.
    The flameweaver's elemental reached out, curious, touched the rooftop of an 
ancient shop on Market Street. As she steadied herself with one fiery hand, the 
lead on the roof melted, began running molten from the gutters.
    This was a wealthy district, and many of the shops had large glass windows, 
which shattered from the searing heat. Wooden posterns and signs burst into 
flame.
    Yet the elemental was not fully conscious. The flameweaver perhaps did not 
realize yet that she'd been murdered. For a few moments, Gaborn suspected, he 
would be safe.
    Then she would come for him.
    "Run!" Gaborn hissed, and pulled Rowan.
    But she stood in shock, for the fierce heat burned her more than it could 
him. Rowan screamed in pain, her fresh nerves suffering from the close proximity 
of the elemental.
    A china shop was to his left, and Gaborn hoped only that it had a back 
entrance as he raised his arm, ran headlong through its glass windows.
    Shards of glass rained down on him, cutting his forehead, but he dared not 
slow to assess the damage. He pulled Rowan through the mess as he ran for the 
back of the shop, toward an open door that led to a workshop. He glanced back in 
time to see a fiery green hand snake through the shop-window behind them.
    A green finger touched Rowan's back. The young woman screamed a 
bloodcurdling cry as fire pierced her like a sword. A long tongue of flame 
exited through her belly.
    Gaborn let go her hand, astonished by the pain in her eyes, by her horrible 
dying scream. He felt as if the fabric of his mind suddenly ripped. He could do 
nothing for her.
    He ran through the workshop door, slammed it behind. The chisels and awls of 
a wood sculptor lay all about. Wood shavings cluttered the floor.
    Why her? Gaborn wondered. Why did the elemental take her and not me?
    A back door stood here, bolted from inside. He threw open the bolt, felt a 
wall of heat rushing up behind him. He fled into an alley.
    Began to dodge left, up a blind run, but went right. He shot into a narrow 
boulevard, some twelve feet from doorstep to doorstep.
    Gaborn felt desolate, hurt, remembering Rowan's face, how she'd died. He'd 
sought only to protect her, but his impetuousness had killed her. He almost 
could not believe it, wanted to turn back for her.
    He rounded another corner.
    Two of Raj Ahten's swordsmen stood not twenty feet from Gaborn, eyes wide 
with fear. Both of them scrabbled backward, seeking escape, oblivious of Gaborn.
    Gaborn turned to see what they stared at.
    The flameweaver's elemental had climbed a rooftop, now straddled it like a 
lover, and the whole roof was sprouting in flames, a terrible inferno of choking 
smoke that roiled black as night.
    The elemental was losing her womanly form--the flames of it licking out 
greedily, stretching in every direction to wreak havoc. As a flame touched a 
building, the elemental grew in size and power, became less human.
    The fiery whites of her eyes gazed about, searching all directions. Here was 
a marketplace to burn--below lay the wooden buildings of the poorer market. To 
the east stood the stables, and to the south the mist-shrouded Dunnwood with its 
cries of death and shouts of horror.
    Her eyes swept past Gaborn and seemed to focus on the two soldiers, an arm's 
length away. The soldiers turned and ran. Gaborn merely stood, afraid that the 
elemental, like a wight, would be attracted by movement.
    Then the elemental gazed back toward the vast rolling hills of the Dunnwood, 
the tree limbs reaching above the fog. It was too tasty a feast for the 
elemental to ignore. The flameweaver became a hungry monster now, a devourer. 
The stone buildings of the market offered little sustenance.
    She stretched her hand, grasped a bell tower, and pulled herself upright, 
then began racing toward the woods, legs of flame spreading over rooftops.
    There were shouts of dismay down below as she reached the portcullis at the 
King's Gate. Soldiers manning the towers at either side of the gate burst into 
fire at her approach, dropped in flaming gobbets like chunks of meat burning on 
the spittle of a campfire.
    Friend, enemy, tree, or house--the flameweaver's elemental cared not what 
she consumed. To get a better view, Gaborn climbed an external stairway behind 
an inn. There he crouched just beneath the eaves of a roof.
    The stone towers at either side of the portcullis cracked and blackened from 
the heat as the elemental passed. The iron bars of the portcullis melted.
    And as she hurried down toward the lower bailey, toward the city gates, 
hundreds of voices broke out in unison, screaming in fear.
    By the time she reached the outer gates, the flameweaver had begun to lose 
her human form entirely, and instead was a creeping pillar of fire. She climbed 
the city wall, just above the drawbridge, and stood for a moment atop the 
towers, perhaps fearing the moat. A face flickered in the flames, so much like a 
woman's face, which gazed back longingly toward the wooden shacks in the lower 
part of the city, down toward the Butterwalk.
    Then the flames leapt the wall, over the moat, and raced through the fields 
toward the Dunnwood.
    Distantly, Gaborn became aware again of the sounds of war, the battle horns 
of his father's soldiers as they sounded retreat upon those mist-shrouded 
fields. His heart had been pounding so hard that he had not heard any other 
sounds for half a minute.
    The light of the elemental's fire blazed, cutting through that blanket of 
fog. In that light, Gaborn could see--as if lit by a flash of lightning--three 
mounted soldiers battling among the nomen, swinging their great horseman's axes 
wide over their heads, locked in furious combat.
    Then the soldiers were gone, consumed in fire. The elemental began sweeping 
over the plain, so greedy for dry grass and timber and human life that she 
seemed to dissipate altogether, to lose consciousness, and become nothing but a 
great river of flame gushing across the fields.
    Gaborn felt sick of heart. When the elemental had touched Rowan, he'd almost 
felt as if it pierced him, too. Now he heard shouts of despair in the fields, 
mingled with screams from the injured and dying here in Castle Sylvarresta. He 
could not block out that last horrid look of pain on Rowan's face. Almost a look 
of betrayal.
    He did not know if he had done well or ill in slaying the flameweaver. 
Killing the flameweaver had been impetuous--almost a reflex that felt somehow 
right, yet carried dire consequences.
    For the moment, the walls of fire rising up from the field kept Raj Ahten 
from exiting Castle Sylvarresta, from sending his men into battle.
    That might be a saving stroke for my men, Gaborn thought.
    But perhaps not. Gaborn had no idea how many of his troops died in that 
river of flames. He only hoped that in that fog, the men had seen the fiery 
elemental crouching on the castle walls, had been able to flee.
    Men were dead and dying in the castle. Dozens, maybe hundreds of Raj Ahten's 
troops had burned in the flames. The portcullis of the King's Gate had been 
incinerated.
    Even as Gaborn watched, the huge oak drawbridge to the Outer Gate was 
aflame; the towers beside it crumbled in ruin. The gears to raise and lower the 
bridge had melted in the wreckage.
    With one fell swipe of his blade, Gaborn had just compromised Castle 
Sylvarresta's defenses.
    If his father sought to attack now, today, he'd have an entrance into the 
castle.
    Gaborn became aware of a tiny figure atop the Outer Wall, gazing over the 
walls of flames--the figure of a man in black armor, the white owl's wings of 
his helm sweeping back.
    He clutched a long-handled horseman's warhammer in one hand, and shouted 
with the voice of a thousand men, so his words rang clear from the hills, made 
the castle walls reverberate. "Mendellas Draken Orden: I will kill you and your 
spawn!"
    From his perch at the top of the stairs, Gaborn fled to hide in the nearest 
alley.

     
     
Chapter 16
THE FEINT
     
    During his ride from Tor Rollick, Borenson had been lost in thought. The 
impending battle did not occupy his mind. It was Myrrima, the woman he'd 
betrothed in Bannisferre. Two days past, he'd escorted her, her sisters, and her 
mother into the city, to keep them from harm as Raj Ahten's troops wreaked havoc 
through the countryside.
    Myrrima had borne the attack well, kept a stout lip about it. She'd make a 
fitting soldier's wife.
    Yet in his few tender hours with the woman, Borenson had fallen deeply, 
irrevocably in love. It wasn't just her beauty, though he prized that well. It 
was everything about her--her sly, calculating manners; her grasping nature; the 
unabashed lust that flashed in her eyes when she rode with him alone to her 
mother's farm.
    She'd actually turned and smiled up into his face, her dark eyes all 
innocence as she asked, "Sir Borenson, I assume you are a man who has endowments 
of stamina?"
    "Ten of them," he'd said, bragging.
    Myrrima had raised a dark brow. "That should be interesting. I've heard that 
on her wedding night, a maid often discovers in bed that a soldier's great 
stamina is good for something more than insuring that he doesn't die from battle 
wounds. Is it true?"
    Borenson had tried to stammer some answer. He'd never dreamed that a woman 
so lovely would ask him so frankly about his skill in bed. Before he could 
manage a reply, she stopped him by saying, "I love the color red on you. It 
looks so good when you wear it on your face." He'd blushed more fiercely, felt 
grateful when she looked away.
    Borenson had fancied himself lost to love more than once. But this felt 
different. He was no moon-sick calf, bawling in the night for some heifer. This 
felt...right. Loving her felt right, all the way down to the bone.
    He'd realized he was in love as he rode to warn King Orden of the invasion. 
He'd been racing full-speed along a road, horse galloping, and had passed three 
lovely maids picking berries at the edge of the road. One had smiled at him 
seductively, and he'd been so lost in thought about Myrrima, it wasn't until he 
was ten miles down the road that he realized he hadn't smiled back.
    That was how mad he'd gone.
    On riding to Castle Sylvarresta, he'd driven Myrrima from his mind with this 
thought: The sooner I finish this battle, the sooner I can ride back to her.
    Yet well before he reached the castle, Borenson's troops began to run into 
Raj Ahten's scouts, hunting parties in fives and tens along the road. His 
fastest knights hunted and slaughtered the scouts gleefully as Borenson plotted 
his attack on the nomen.
    Near the castle he stooped at the banks of the River Wye and opened the 
flask of mist King Orden had given him. He struggled to hold it as fierce winds 
howled from the bottle's neck.
    By opening the flask over water, he'd doubled the amount of mist it normally 
would give. So he stoppered the bottle when it was still half-full.
    Yet as the smell of sea fog swept across the little valleys around Castle 
Sylvarresta, Borenson tasted the salt in the air and thought of home. He dreamt 
how it would be to take Myrrima back to his new manor at Drewverry March. He 
knew the estate--a fine manor, with a hearth in the master bedroom.
    He quickly drove such thoughts from his mind, ordered his archers to string 
their bows and charge through the dawn woods. Five minutes later, his men 
surprised the nomen, sleeping in trees. Arrows flew; nomen dropped like black 
fruit from the oaks of the Dunnwood--some of them dead, some seeking the safety 
of the castle.
    His men thundered and screamed across the downs, herding nomen before them, 
a great mass of dark fur, snarling fangs, red eyes blazing with fear and rage.
    Borenson always laughed in battle, he was told, though he seldom noticed it. 
It was an affectation he'd learned young, when Poll the squire used to beat him. 
The older boy had always laughed when he dished out punishment, and as Borenson 
grew old enough to mete out some retribution, he'd taken to laughing, too. It 
terrified some foes, angered others. Either way, it caused his opponents to make 
mistakes while his comrades took heart.
    Thus he found himself in the midst of the plain, in a thick fog, surrounded 
by a dozen nomen. The creatures hissed and roared.
    He put his warhammer to work, parried blows with his shield, called on his 
horse to kick and paw the air, clearing away attackers.
    Lost in the rhythmic rise and fall of the warhammer, he was surprised when a 
great wall of flames shot through the fog to his left.
    He shouted for his horse to retreat, to run for its life. It was a force 
stallion, after all, able to outrace the wind.
    But then the wall of flame veered, stretched out tendrils to grasp them all, 
like some living monster groping for them. The nomen saw their own deaths racing 
toward them, and one yanked Borenson's foot, trying to pull him from his mount, 
so that they might die in one another's embrace.
    He hacked at the creature with his warhammer, realizing that he might die, 
that he might never deliver the message King Orden had asked him to bear to Raj 
Ahten. He planted his warhammer in the noman's face, kicked the creature away, 
and his horse lunged through the mist.
    Borenson raced back over the plains, calling "Orden, Orden!" for his men to 
regroup. The fire raced after him, like slender fingers that would grasp and 
tear.
    Then he raced under the dark trees.
    When the fire reached the oaks, it hesitated, as if...uncertain. It prodded 
a large oak, exploding it into flame, then seemed to forget Borenson.
    Only half a dozen men managed to follow Borenson back into the woods, but 
he'd seen dozens of others scatter from the flames, into the mists.
    He waited for several long minutes for his men to regroup, hoping they'd 
reached safety. Here in the trees, he felt safe, hidden. The leaves hung over 
him, closing him in. Surrounding him like a cloak. The branches were shields 
against arrow and claw, a wall to slow the flames.
    Down in the valley, he heard a tremendous cry--Raj Ahten shouting threats of 
murder against House Orden. Borenson did not understand the reason, but the fact 
that Raj Ahten would be so outraged made him giddy.
    Borenson blew his war horn, calling men to regroup. Minutes later, four 
hundred men had gathered from all around the valley near Castle Sylvarresta. 
Some bore alarming news of battling Frowth giants east of the castle. Others 
said nomen were regrouping, trying to reach the castle gates. Other warriors had 
chased nomen deeper into the woods and hunted them to good effect. Some men had 
busied themselves slaughtering Raj Ahten's horses. This whole battle was getting 
crazy, losing focus, and Borenson almost wished now that he'd not covered the 
battlefield in fog.
    He considered what to do, felt it would be safest to stay in the woods, 
hunting the last of the nomen. But more tempting game lay before the castle, in 
the fog.
    "Right then," he ordered. "We'll do a sweep from east to west before the 
castle. Lancers in front, to handle the giants. Bowmen to the sides to clear the 
nomen."
    The air was filling with smoke from the fires in the fields and in the woods 
downhill.
    The knights of Orden formed ranks, charged through the trees, down to the 
east field. Borenson had no lance, and so took the middle of the pack, near the 
front, so that he could direct.
    As his horse thundered through the mist, Borenson saw a huge giant looming 
off to his left, a great shaggy mound in the dense fog. Two lancers veered, 
slammed into the beast.
    The wounded monster bawled out, slashed with its enormous claws, sent a 
warhorse sprawling as if it were a pup, snapped a warrior in half with its 
tremendous jaws.
    Then Borenson was charging past that battle. A few bowmen had spurred into 
that fray.
    Two more giants came wading through the fog. Nomen had gathered in their 
wake, taking courage. Twenty of Borenson's knights veered toward them. 
Borenson's heart hammered. One giant roared in rage, calling others. A vast 
horde of giants and nomen came rushing together, dark hills with a black tide of 
spearmen behind. A shout of triumph rose from the monsters' throats.
    Borenson's heart nearly stopped. For in their midst rode hundreds of 
soldiers with brass shields. At their head, one huge warrior in black scale 
mail, with a helm of white owl's wings, raised a great warhammer and shouted a 
war cry with a voice of a thousand men: "Kuanzaya!"
    The fellow struck terror into Borenson's heart, for he bore the armor and 
the weapons of kings.
    Raj Ahten had his helm raised, and he was the most astonishingly handsome 
man Borenson had ever seen. The magnificent volume of the Runelord's voice made 
Borenson's horse stagger in its tracks. Witless with fear at the sound of the 
war cry, it struggled to retreat. Borenson shouted for it to charge, but Raj 
Ahten's voice had been so deafening, perhaps it had damaged the mount's hearing.
    The horse thundered to a halt, fighting its reins, trying to turn on 
Borenson. Borenson managed to pivot it toward the enemy. Then they were in thick 
battle. Borenson's lancers frantically charged the giants, spreading the cavalry 
dangerously thin, bowmen firing a hail of arrows, while Borenson himself 
struggled to charge Raj Ahten.
    His mount would not go near that man, fought instead to flee. It raced to 
Borenson's left, and Borenson found himself charging into the thick of giants as 
Raj Ahten swept past, warhammer rising and falling with incredible speed as he 
blazed a bloody trail through the ranks of defenders.
    A giant rushed at Borenson through the fog, swung a huge oaken staff. 
Borenson ducked the blow, fled past the giant, into a knot of nomen who hissed 
and snarled, happy to see a lone soldier in their midst. Several giants raced 
past Borenson, seeking the heart of the battle.
    Somewhere behind him, one of Borenson's lieutenants began blowing his war 
horn, desperately sounding retreat.
    Borenson raised his hammer and shield, began to chuckle as he fought for his 
life.

     
     
Chapter 17
IN THE QUEEN'S TOMB
     
    Three hours after a perfect pink dawn, Iome stood atop the Dedicates' Keep 
and watched as Raj Ahten and a thousand of his Invincibles rode back into the 
castle, along with dozens of Frowth giants and hundreds of war dogs--all amid 
cheers and shouts of celebration. The fog on the downs had burned away, but a 
few wisps still clung amid the shadows of the Dunnwood.
    Apparently, the Wolf Lord had taken a great chance, had gone to skirmish 
with Orden's troops in the woods, and had succeeded in killing and scattering 
them.
    Raj Ahten's men rode smartly, weapons raised in salute.
    Chemoise had brought Iome here to the Dedicates' Keep at first sign of 
attack. "For your own protection," she'd said.
    The remains of many a tent and farm still burned out on the fields, and a 
wildfire ran amok through the Dunnwood, blown now by the easterly winds, two 
miles from the castle.
    For a while the flames had squirmed more like a living thing--tendrils 
shooting out in odd directions, plucking a tree here, exploding a haycock there, 
consuming a home with greed.
    The blazes within the castle had extinguished, for Raj Ahten's flame-weavers 
drew the power from them. And though Raj Ahten sent men among the streets to 
seek the murderer of his flameweaver, his beloved pyromancer, he did so to poor 
effect. The elemental had consumed most of Market Street, destroying any trace 
of the identity of her murderer.
    In the charred and smoking ruins outside the gates of Castle Sylvarresta, 
one could see many signs of destruction. A thousand nomen had burned near the 
moat, where they'd sought to make their stand against Orden's mounted knights. 
One could count Orden's fallen knights among them, too--two hundred or so 
blackened lumps that had once been men in bright armor, clustered in smoking 
heaps along the battle lines.
    Hundreds more nomen lay strewn at the edge of the woods, where the battle 
must first have raged fierce and heavy. The trees there were now nothing but 
blackened skeletons.
    Three dozen Frowth giants littered the battlefield, strange-looking 
creatures, with their hair burned off. Iome had never envisioned them thus--each 
with pink skin and a long snout like a camel's, the hugeness of their claws. 
From atop the Dedicates' Keep, they looked like misshapen, hairless mice, 
dotting the battlefield. Some dead giants still held knights and their horses in 
their paws.
    Raj Ahten's horses were dead, cut down with many of the guards who'd been 
stationed at the edge of the wood.
    Yet now his men celebrated a victory, a battle won.
    Iome did not know if she should rejoice at Raj Ahten's victory, or weep for 
Orden.
    She was a Dedicate now to Raj Ahten. Rather than fear Raj Ahten, Iome now 
had to fear assassination at the hands of other kings, or from the Knights 
Equitable who battled the Wolf Lord.
    Chemoise stood at Iome's side, gazed over the blackened fields, weeping as 
Raj Ahten's troops rode to the castle. Smoke still crept over the ash, and 
stumps burned all the way to the hill and into the woods.
    Why does Chemoise cry? Iome wondered. Then she realized that she, too, had 
eyes filled with tears.
    Iome understood. Chemoise cried because the world had gone black. Black 
fields. Black woods. Black days ahead. Iome drew her hooded robe more tightly 
around her, hiding her face. The heavy wool seemed thin protection.
    Some of Raj Ahten's troops waited down in the lower bailey. Raj Ahten rode 
from the battlefield toward the city gates, to meet with his flame-weavers and 
counselors. Even the Frowth giants ducked under the posterns of the gates and 
came into the lower bailey, seeking protection.
    In the hills to the south, a hunting horn rang out, followed by another 
farther east, and another. A few last stragglers from Orden's army perhaps, 
calling to one another.
    Iome waited for Raj Ahten's men to turn around, ride out, and mop up the 
survivors. Given the strength of his forces, she did not understand why so many 
of his men remained here in the castle.
    Unless something had happened on the battlefield that she couldn't see. 
Perhaps Raj Ahten feared for his own men. Perhaps they were weaker than she 
believed. The Wolf Lord must have feared to chase Orden's men any farther, for 
he knew full well that he could get drawn into an ambush.
    Raj Ahten's wisdom went far beyond Iome's. If he was frightened, perhaps he 
had good reason to fear. Yesterday, Gaborn had told Iome that King Orden could 
soon reach the castle with reinforcements.
    Iome hadn't given it much thought. Orden often brought a couple hundred men 
in his retinue. What could they do?
    Yet Gaborn clearly believed the force was powerful enough to strike at Raj 
Ahten. Gaborn had never spoken the number of his father's troops, she now 
realized. Wisely so. House Sylvarresta could not divulge information it didn't 
have.
    Iome glanced at her Days, who sat a few paces off, with her mother's Days, 
both of them watching the dark fields. They knew how many men Orden had brought, 
knew every move each king was making. Yet for good or ill, the Days only watched 
the armies move like pieces across a chessboard.
    How many men had Orden brought to Hostenfest this year? A thousand? Five 
thousand?
    Mystarria was a rich country, populous. King Orden had brought his son with 
a proposal of marriage. It was common with such proposals for a royal family to 
make some display of wealth, to marshal some soldiers, engage the knights in 
friendly competitions.
    Orden would have many of his best men on hand. Five hundred of them, 
perhaps.
    Yet Orden was also pompous, given to vain display. So double that number.
    The warriors of Mystarria were fierce. Their bowmen trained from youth to 
fire from horseback. The prowess of their knights with their long-handled 
horseman's axes and warhammers was legendary.
    Perhaps the legend of Mystarria's warriors would keep Raj Ahten at bay, so 
that he would not dare leave the castle again. Or perhaps Raj Ahten feared the 
Earth King that his pyromancers warned of.
    Iome watched for a long moment from the Dedicates' Tower. No one else 
returned to the castle--not one black-maned noman.
    Defiantly now, in the wooded hills to the east and south and west, battle 
horns blared in a dozen directions, sounding charges, calling new formations.
    Orden's knights still fighting nomen in the woods. It would be a long, 
grueling day for those warriors.
    Down at the city gate, Raj Ahten turned in his saddle to look back over the 
fields one last time, as if wondering if he should ride once more; then he 
entered the city, and his men closed the ruined drawbridge.
    Life went on. From the tower, Iome could see much of the city. Down by the 
Soldiers' Keep, women and children hunted for eggs left by the hens. The miller 
was grinding wheat by the river. The fragrance of cooking fires mingled with the 
smoke and ash of war. Iome's own stomach felt tight. When Iome judged that she 
had watched from the wall long enough, she went down to the bailey in the 
Dedicates' Keep, her Days following. Her mother's Days stood on the tower, kept 
watching the fields.
    Iome's father sat in a shaft of sunlight, playing with a pup that snarled 
and chewed at his hand. Her father had soiled his britches while Iome stood on 
the wall, so Iome went to work with bucket and rag, to clean her father. He did 
not fight her, simply stared at her ruined face, frightened by her ugliness, not 
knowing who she was.
    He was handsome as ever, with his endowments of glamour intact. Stronger 
than ever. A superman with the mind of a child. While she washed the feces off 
him, King Sylvarresta lay watching her with wide eyes, and made gawping noises, 
blowing bubbles. He smiled innocently at this newfound pleasure.
    Iome nearly broke into tears. Twelve hours. Her father had given his 
endowments nearly twelve hours ago. This was a critical time, this first 
day--the worst for him. Those who gave greater endowments went through a time 
when they were in grave danger. The facilitators called it "endowment shock." 
One who gave wit would sometimes forget to breathe, or his heart would forget 
how to beat. But if he survived through this first day, if he survived the shock 
of the endowment, he might regain a small bit of his wit. Somehow, his body 
would claim a tiny fraction, enough to survive. At the moment, Iome's father was 
at his weakest, his most helpless, but later today he could go through a 
"wakening," a moment when the endowment between lord and vassal became firm, 
when he regained some small part of his mind.
    Thankfully, Iome's father had suffered none of the worst effects of 
endowment shock. Now that twelve hours had passed, she hoped he might regain 
some wit. It was possible--if he had not wished to grant the endowment with all 
his heart, if the forcible had not been perfectly fashioned, if the facilitator 
had not chanted his spells with precision--it was possible that he might even 
remember her name.
    So Iome sang to her father softly as she finished cleaning and dressing him. 
Though he showed no signs of recognizing her, he smiled at her songs.
    Even if he never remembers who I am, Iome told herself, it will be worth it 
to sing. In time, he might learn to love my singing.
    When she finished changing him, Iome dressed him with a cloth diaper beneath 
his tunic.
    The bailey of the Dedicates' Keep was filled with ruined men and women, 
people who had given endowments the night before. The influx had overwhelmed the 
caretakers. As quickly as Iome and Chemoise finished caring for their own 
fathers, they began caring for other men--guards who'd faithfully served House 
Sylvarresta since childhood.
    The cooks got breakfast ready, and Iome carried plates of blackberry-filled 
pastries among the Dedicates. She knelt to waken one young woman who slept in 
the sunlight beneath a green blanket, a guard named Cleas, who'd escorted her on 
many a trip into the hills.
    Rarely did women serve as guards. Even less rarely did they serve as 
soldiers of the line. Yet Cleas had done both in her life. She had endowments of 
brawn from eight men, had been one of the strongest swordmasters in 
Sylvarresta's service. Raj Ahten had delighted in taking the strength from her. 
Now Cleas did not breathe. Sometime during the night, she'd become too weak to 
draw breath.
    Iome hurt at the sight, did not know whether to feel angry or grateful. With 
Cleas' death, fifteen people who had given her endowments would have suddenly 
become whole, easing the overcrowding in the Dedicates' Keep. Yet Iome had lost 
someone she'd loved. Iome's throat felt tight. She knelt over Cleas, weeping, 
looked back. Her Days stood watching. Iome expected the woman to be cold and 
dispassionate as ever, her little V of a face tight-lipped and empty. Instead, 
she could see lines of sorrow in her expression.
    "She was a good woman, a good warrior," Iome said.
    "Yes, it is a terrible waste," the Days agreed.
    "Will you help me get her to the tombs?" Iome asked. "I know a vault we can 
use, a place to honor the guards. We will place her with my mother."
    The Days nodded weakly. On such a dark day, this small gesture struck Iome 
powerfully. She felt grateful.
    So Iome finished feeding the Dedicates; then she and the Days got a litter, 
spread a blanket over Cleas to use as a pall, and carried her to the south wall 
of the keep, laid her on the ground next to five other shrouded litters. Four of 
those litters held Dedicates who had not lived out the night.
    Iome's mother, Venetta, lay under the last black burlap shroud. A slim 
golden circlet, resting atop her chest, identified the body of the Queen. A 
black-and-white jumping spider had climbed onto the circlet, hunting a 
bluebottle fly that buzzed about.
    Iome had not seen her mother's face since her demise, almost dared not pull 
back the shroud to look at it. Yet she had to see if her mother's body had been 
properly prepared.
    All morning, Iome had avoided this duty.
    Chancellor Rodderman had come in the night to tend to Venetta's funeral 
arrangements. Iome had not seen him since. Perhaps he had business outside the 
King's Keep, but Iome suspected that he had decided it was best to avoid Raj 
Ahten. He might even have dodged his responsibilities in preparing the body.
    Raj Ahten's men had brought the corpse here, to the Dedicates' Keep. He 
would not have left it in the Great Hall, where custom dictated it be placed for 
the morning, to be viewed by vassals. The Queen lying dead on a pallet, for all 
to see, might engender discord in the city.
    Instead, it had been secluded within the high and narrow walls of the most 
inner keep, where only the Dedicates might see.
    Iome pulled back the black burlap covering.
    Her mother's face was not what she'd imagined. Apart from the terrible 
wound, it was like gazing into the face of a stranger. Her mother had once had 
several endowments of glamour, had seemed a great beauty. But at death the 
beauty had gone out of her. Unexpected threads of gray hair were woven into her 
black tresses. The shadows under her eyes looked dark and sunken. The lines on 
her soft face had grown hard and old.
    The woman on the pallet had been cleaned, but nothing could hide the gash on 
the left side of her face where Raj Ahten's signet ring had torn her skin, the 
indentation in her skull where her head had met the paving stones.
    The woman beneath the shroud seemed a stranger.
    No, Raj Ahten had no need to fear the vassals. They would not rise up in 
outrage at the death of this old thing.
    Iome went to the portcullis, to the captain of the guard, a dark little 
mustached man in big armor, a helm embossed with silver. It seemed strange for 
Ault to be gone, or Derrow, when they had stood under this stone alcove for so 
many years.
    "Sir, I'd like permission to take the dead to the King's tombs," Iome said, 
holding her breath.
    "De castle is onder attack," the captain said gruffly, his Taifan accent 
thick. "Is no safe."
    Iome fought the urge to slink away. She did not want to antagonize the 
captain, yet she felt that it was her sacred duty to bury her mother, show the 
woman that one last act of dignity. "The castle isn't under attack," Iome tried 
to sound reasonable, "only a few nomen trapped in the woods are under attack." 
She waved her hand out over the burned battlefield before the castle. "And if 
Orden should attack, you would see him coming from half a mile, and he would 
have to breach the Outer Wall. No one is likely to reach the Dedicates' Keep."
    The little man listened intently, his head cocked to the side. Iome could 
not tell whether he understood her. Perhaps she'd spoken too fast. She could 
have spoken to him in Chaltic, but she doubted he'd understand.
    "No," the little man said.
    "Then let her spirit take vengeance upon you, for I am guiltless. I do not 
wish to be haunted by a Runelord."
    The little man's eyes flashed in fear. The spirits of dead Runelords were 
said to cause more trouble than most--particularly if they suffered violent 
deaths. Though Iome did not fear her mother's shade, this little Taifan captain 
was from a land where such things were taken far more seriously.
    "Hurry," the little captain answered. "Now. Go. But take nothing more than 
half an hour."
    "Thank you," Iome said, reaching out to touch him in gratitude. The captain 
shrank back from her touch.
    Iome called out to Chemoise, to her Days. "Quickly, we need bearers to carry 
these litters--and some charnel robes."
    Chemoise ran into the kitchens, brought out some of the deaf and mute 
bakers, the butcher and his apprentice, kitchen helpers with no sense of smell. 
In a few moments, two dozen people came to help bear the litters.
    The butcher trundled over to the Dedicates' Hall, came out with an armload 
of black cotton charnel robes, with their deep hoods and long sleeves.
    Each pallbearer donned a charnel robe, so that the ghosts in the tombs would 
know they had not come as grave robbers, and at the hem of each robe was a 
silver bell whose tinkling would drive off any malicious spirits.
    When they had finished, they went to the litters and began carrying the dead 
to the portcullis. Iome took the front right handle of her mother's litter, as 
was her place.
    When they were ready, the Taifan captain and his sergeant put their backs to 
work, raising the portcullis quickly, and shooed them all from the keep with a 
warning. "Be back, twenty minutes. No more!"
    It would not be enough time, Iome knew, to set the bodies in place, sing the 
soothing funerary lullabies to the dead, yet she nodded yes, just to put the 
captain's mind at ease.
    Then she began lugging the bodies to the back of the Dedicates' Keep, to a 
wooded hollow, the King's tombs.
    Iome had never done such heavy labor, so she had not gone two hundred feet 
past the gate, round the corner of Feet Street, when she found herself, heart 
pounding, moist with sweat, begging the others to stop.
    It was nearly noon. As she waited in the bright sunlight, the smell of ash 
cloying the air, a dirty young hunchback in a deep-hooded robe darted out from 
the shadows beneath a market's awning.
    Immediately she knew it was Binnesman. She could feel the earth power 
emanating from him, and she wondered what had brought him back, wondered why the 
wizard sought her.
    The hunchback sidled up to Iome, forcing her back a step. "Let ol' Aleson 
give you a hand with that, lass," he whispered, pulling back his hood a bit, and 
he reached for the right front pole to the litter.
    It wasn't Binnesman at all. Iome felt astonished to recognize Gaborn's face 
beneath a liberal coat of grime. Her heart pounded. Something was afoot. For 
some reason, Gaborn had not made it outside the castle gates and needed her 
help. And, somehow, Gaborn had grown in the past few hours; had grown in the 
Earth Powers.
    Iome pulled her hood closer to hide her face. For a moment, she felt once 
again as if all her pride and courage would leach from her. The spell woven into 
Raj Ahten's forcibles still sought to drain her self-esteem.
    Over and over again, she whispered in her mind a litany: This, I deny you. 
This I deny you.
    Yet she could not bear the thought that Gaborn might recognize her. She let 
him take the litter; then Iome walked beside him as the pallbearers cut through 
an alley, down the narrow streets that led to the tombs.
    The tombs of House Sylvarresta consisted of hundreds of small stone 
mausoleums, all painted white as bone, rising among a sheltered grove of cherry 
trees. Many of the mausoleums were designed to look like miniature palaces, with 
absurdly tall pinnacles, and statues of the dead kings and queens standing at 
the gates of each tiny palace. Others of the mausoleums, those reserved for 
trusted retainers and guards, were simply stone buildings.
    When they reached the shelter of the grove, Gaborn and the others set down 
their burdens. Gaborn whispered to Iome, "I am Gaborn Val Orden, Prince of 
Mystarria. I'm sorry to impose upon you, but I've been hiding all night, and I 
need information. Can you tell me how House Sylvarresta fares?"
    With a start, Iome realized that Gaborn didn't recognize her--not with her 
beauty gone, her skin rough as bark. Behind her, Iome's Days had her face and 
historian's robes covered beneath the charnel robes, just another anonymous 
pallbearer.
    Iome did not want Gaborn to know who she was. She could not stand the 
thought of being ugly in his sight. Yet another fear also struck her heart, for 
she saw a more compelling reason to keep her identity hidden: Gaborn might feel 
the need to kill her. She was, after all, a Dedicate to an enemy king.
    Iome spoke with a low, frightened, voice; hoping to disguise it. "Do you not 
even know whose corpse you carry? The Queen is dead. But the King lives. He has 
given his wit to Raj Ahten."
    Gaborn grasped Iome's arm. "What of the Princess?"
    "She is well. She was given a choice--to die, or to live and serve her 
people as regent. She was forced to give an endowment, also."
    Gaborn asked, "What has she given?" He held his breath, his face full of 
horror.
    Iome considered speaking the truth, revealing her identity, but she could 
not. "She has given her sight."
    Gaborn fell silent. Abruptly he lifted the litter, signaling an end to the 
break, and began walking between the tombs again, thoughtful. Iome led Gaborn 
and the pallbearers to her parents' tomb, which was of classic design. Nine 
marble spires rose from the tiny palace atop it; outside its door stood statues 
of King Sylvarresta and his wife, images carved in white marble shortly after 
their wedding eighteen years before. Iome signaled for the bearers to also bring 
Cleas into the tomb. As a faithful guard, it was only right that she be interred 
beside her queen.
    As they entered the shadowy tomb, Iome smelled death and roses. Dozens of 
skeletons of faithful guards lay in the tomb, bones gray and moldering. But last 
night, someone had brought bright red rose petals and strewn them across the 
floor of the tomb, to alleviate the smell.
    Gaborn bore Queen Sylvarresta to her sarcophagus, in the sanctum at the back 
of the tomb. It was a red sandstone box, with her image and name chiseled into 
its lid. The roof above the sanctum was a slab of sheer marble, so thin that 
light broke through it, shining down onto the sarcophagus beneath.
    Here in this deep corner, air breathed into the tomb from tiny slits in the 
stonework, so that the smell of death did not reach.
    It took a great deal of effort for Gaborn and two bakers to slide the lid of 
the sarcophagus back, exposing the empty casket. Then they lifted the queen into 
place, and were about to set the lid on the box when Iome begged them to stop, 
to let her look for a while.
    Pallbearers carried Cleas to a stone shelf, pushed back the bones of some 
loyal guard from a decade past, and laid Cleas in his place.
    They did not have Cleas' armor and weapons to bury with her, so a baker took 
a warhammer from a nearby corpse, laid it across Cleas' chest, wrapped her hands 
around its handle.
    Gaborn stood a minute in the dim light, studying the moldy skeletons, many 
of them still in armor, bearing weapons on their chests. Though the room was 
small, only forty feet long and twenty wide, five tiers of stone shelves were 
cut into the walls. Some guards had been entombed here for over twenty years. 
Bones from knuckles and toes littered the floor, borne there by rats.
    Gaborn looked as if he would ask a question.
    "You may speak freely here," Iome told him, still kneeling beside her 
mother's casket. "These pallbearers are all deaf or mute, sworn to the service 
of House Sylvarresta. No one here will betray you."
    "You bury your dead with their weapons here in House Sylvarresta?" Gaborn 
asked.
    Iome nodded.
    He seemed delighted, looked as if he would rob a corpse. "In Mystarria, we 
bequeath fine weapons and armor to the living, so it can be put to good use."
    "Mystarria does not have so many smiths to keep employed," Iome said dryly.
    Gaborn asked, "Then no one will mind if I borrow a weapon? Mine was 
destroyed."
    "Who can say what offends the dead?"
    Gaborn did not immediately take a weapon. Instead, he paced nervously. "So," 
he breathed at last, "she is in the Dedicates' Keep?"
    Iome hesitated to answer. Gaborn had not said who "she" was. Apparently he 
was distraught. "The Princess came to the keep this morning, and washed her 
father and fed him. Raj Ahten's guard put her there for safekeeping during the 
attack. But she may leave at any time. I think she still occupies her room in 
the King's Keep, with servants to attend her."
    Gaborn bit his lip, quickened his step, thinking furiously. "Can you get a 
message to her for me?"
    "It should not be hard," Iome answered.
    "Tell her that House Orden is sworn to protect her. Tell her that I will 
kill Raj Ahten, that she will look upon my face again someday, no longer a 
Dedicate."
    "Don't...please don't try," Iome said, choking back a sob. Her voice 
cracked, and she feared Gaborn would hear it, see through her disguise.
    "Try what?" Gaborn asked.
    "To kill Raj Ahten," she said deeply. "Queen Sylvarresta clawed him with 
poisoned fingernails, yet he withstood the venom. It is said that the wound of a 
sword thrust through his heart heals before the blade is withdrawn."
    "There must be a way to kill him," Gaborn said.
    "You will be forced to kill House Sylvarresta, for both the King and his 
daughter are Dedicates to Raj Ahten. Lord Sylvarresta himself received eighty 
endowments of wit last night, all in Raj Ahten's behalf."
    Gaborn turned at this news, went to the door of the tomb, staring out up 
into the sunlight, considering.
    "I will not kill my friends," Gaborn said, "or their Dedicates. If they gave 
endowments, they did not do so willingly. They are not my enemy."
    Iome wondered at this. It was common practice to kill another's Dedicates, a 
necessary evil. Few Runelords would shirk this most hateful responsibility. Did 
Gaborn hope to let men live, simply because they did not intend evil? She said, 
"Even if you spare House Sylvarresta, even if you turn instead to other houses, 
kill other kings, they are also innocents. They, too, deserve to live. They have 
no love for Raj Ahten."
    "There must be a way to get Raj Ahten without killing others," Gaborn said. 
"A decapitation."
    Iome had no advice to give. With powerful Runelords, a decapitation was the 
most certain way to insure a kill, but plotting the deed and doing it were two 
different matters. "And who will decapitate him? You?"
    Gaborn turned to her. "I could try, if I can get close to him. Tell me, is 
the herbalist Binnesman well? I need to speak with him."
    "He's gone," Iome said. "He vanished in the night. Raj Ahten's men saw 
him...at the edge of the woods."
    Perhaps of anything she could have said, this news seemed to dismay him 
most.
    "Well," Gaborn said, looking lost, "I must change my plans. If the wizard is 
in the woods, perhaps I can find him there. Thank you for the news, Lady...?"
    "Prenta," Iome whispered. "Prenta Vass."
    Gaborn took her hand, kissed it, as if she were a helpful lady-in-waiting. 
He held her hand, just a moment too long, lightly sniffed the scent of her 
perfumed wrist, and Iome's heart skipped. Her voice had not faltered, she felt 
sure; he had not recognized her voice. But did he recognize her perfume?
    He gazed into her face, with his penetrating blue eyes, and though a small 
frown formed on his lips, he did not speak. Iome pulled away, turned her face, 
heart pounding, fearing that she had been discovered.
    She knew she was hideous, that every scrap of beauty had been stripped from 
her. Her yellow eyes, her wrinkled skin, were gruesome enough. But her features 
were nothing compared to the horror she felt inside, the insidious draw toward 
self-loathing.
    Surely he would condemn her. Surely he would pull away in contempt. Instead, 
he stepped around, to better see her face.
    Iome suspected that Gaborn recognized her. He regarded her silently now, 
trying to discern any traces of the woman he had seen yesterday. But he refused 
to embarrass her by voicing his recognition. Iome could not withstand that gaze, 
felt forced to raise a hand, and with it hid herself from those eyes.
    "Don't hide from me, Prenta Vass," Gaborn said softly, taking her hand 
again, pulling it down. He'd spoken her name hesitantly. He knew her. "You are 
beautiful, even now. If there is any way I may serve you?"
    Behind Gaborn, Iome's Days shifted nervously, and the bakers suddenly left 
the tomb as if they'd just recalled urgent matters elsewhere. Iome wanted to 
break into tears, to fall into his arms. She only stood, trembling terribly. 
"No. Nothing."
    Gaborn swallowed hard. "Can you bear another message to the Princess for 
me?"
    "What?"
    "Tell her...that she haunts my dreams. That her beauty is indelible in my 
memory. Tell her that I'd hoped to save her, hoped to give her some small aid, 
and maybe I did some good--I killed a powerful flameweaver. Because I'm here, my 
father has come, though perhaps too late. Tell her I stayed the night in Castle 
Sylvarresta, but now see that I must leave. My father's soldiers are hunting for 
me in the woods. I dare stay no longer. I'm going to try for the woods, before 
my father charges the city."
    Iome nodded.
    "Will you come with me?" Gaborn asked. He stared into her face, and now she 
knew without a doubt that he recognized her. His eyes were filled not with 
contempt, but with pain, and so much gentleness, she longed to fall into his 
arms. Yet she dared not move.
    Iome's eyes filled with tears. "Come? And leave my father? No."
    "Raj Ahten will not hurt him."
    "I know," Iome said. "I--don't know what to think. Raj Ahten is not totally 
evil, not as I feared. Binnesman hopes for some good from him."
    " 'When you behold the face of pure evil, it will be beautiful.' " Gaborn 
quoted an old saying among Runelords.
    "He says he wants to fight the reavers, that he wants to unite mankind for 
our own defense."
    "And when the war is won, can the Wolf Lord give your endowments back to 
you? Will he give his own life so that all those who were robbed of endowments 
can regain them, as Good King Herron did? I think not. He will keep them."
    "You don't know that," Iome said.
    "I do," Gaborn insisted. "Raj Ahten has revealed his nature. He has no 
respect for you or any other. He will take all that you have, leave you with 
nothing."
    "How can you be sure? Binnesman seemed to want him to change. He hoped to 
convince the Wolf Lord to rid himself of the flame weavers."
    "You believe he will do it? You can stand here, over the body of your dead 
mother, and believe Raj Ahten has any degree of decency whatsoever;"
    "When he speaks, when you look in his face--"
    "Iome," Gaborn said, "how can you doubt that Raj Ahten is evil? What do you 
have that he has not yet tried to take? Your body? Your family? Your home? Your 
freedom? Your wealth? Your position? Your country? He has taken your life, as 
surely as if he'd slain you, for he desires to strip away all that you have and 
all you hope to be. What more must he do to you, before you know him to be evil? 
What more?"
    Iome could not answer.
    "I'm going to cut off the bastard's head," Gaborn said. "I'm going to find a 
way to do it, but first we need to get out of here alive. Now will you come with 
me, if I bring your father out of the city, too?"
    He took her hand, and when he touched her, all darkness fled. Iome's heart 
pounded. She almost dared not to believe her fortune, for when she looked into 
Gaborn's eyes, all her fears, all her self-loathing and sense of ugliness 
vanished. It was as if he were some living talisman that wrought a change on her 
very heart. A stone fortress, she thought. A haven. "Please," he begged, using 
all the powers of his Voice.
    She nodded yes, numb. "I'll come."
    Gaborn squeezed her hand. "I don't know how, yet, but I'll come for you and 
your father--soon--in the Dedicates' Keep."
    Iome felt again that sensual thrill, the longing she associated with the 
presence of Binnesman. Her heart pounded. He had just held her tenderly, as 
though she still had her endowments of glamour, as if she were beautiful.
    He turned, took a short sword from a corpse and tucked it in the folds of 
his robe, then hurried from the tomb, his fleeting shadow blocking the cold 
sunlight a moment.
    As he fled, she almost dared not believe he would return for her, that he 
would not save her. Yet a warm certainty filled her. He would be back.
    When he was gone, Iome's Days said, "You should be careful of that one."
    "How so?"
    "He could break your heart." Iome could not fail to note something odd in 
the Days' voice, a tone of respect.
    Iome felt terrified. If Raj Ahten caught her trying to escape, he'd show no 
mercy. Yet she knew that her heart was not pounding in fear, but for another 
reason. She held her hand over her heart, trying to still it.
    I think he already has broken it, she told herself.

     
     
Chapter 18
DUELING WITH DECEPTION
     
    Two hours after Gaborn fled Iome in the tombs, Borenson rode up to the 
ruined gates of Castle Sylvarresta, a green flag of truce flying from a dead 
nomen's lance. He forced a smile.
    His muscles ached, and his armor was covered in blood. He now rode a new 
horse, gleaned from a fellow soldier who would never ride again.
    It would be a game to match wits with Raj Ahten, one he did not want to 
play. Luck had not favored him. Most of his warriors had been slaughtered. He'd 
paid for every small victory. His soldiers had slain more than two thousand 
nomen. He had unhorsed most of the Wolf Lord's army, and had managed to slay or 
drive off a number of Frowth giants--while a dozen more of the creatures had 
perished in that insane fire. Dozens of Raj Ahten's legendary Invincibles had 
followed Borenson's men into the woods, and the Invincibles were now so full of 
arrows that their corpses looked as prickly as hedgehogs.
    Yet Borenson had not won a clear victory, despite heavy enemy losses. Raj 
Ahten had quit hunting Borenson's men when they got deep into the woods, fearing 
an ambush. In part, Borenson had hoped that Raj Ahten would brave the woods, 
where his own men, he felt sure, would have the advantage.
    But Borenson also wanted Raj Ahten to fear that ambush, needed Raj Ahten to 
believe that the woods were full of men. King Orden had often said that even a 
man with great endowments of wit could be outsmarted, for "Even the wisest man's 
plots are only as good as his information."
    So it was that Borenson rode up to the gates of Castle Sylvarresta, reigned 
his horse in at the moat. Smiling.
    On the charred wall above the ruined gate towers, one of Raj Ahten's 
soldiers waved his own lance overhead three times, an acceptance of Borenson's 
request for truce, then waved at him, beckoning him to ride into the castle. The 
drawbridge was down, its gears and chains melted. One side of the drawbridge was 
so charred it had a hole in it large enough to let a man ride through.
    Borenson stayed where he was, not wanting to deliver messages in private, 
and shouted, "I'm in no mood for a swim, not in this armor. Raj Ahten, I bear a 
message for you! Will you face me, or must you hide behind these walls?"
    It seemed madness to accuse the Wolf Lord of cowardice, but Borenson had 
long ago decided that sanity was no virtue in an insane world.
    In twenty seconds, when he heard no response, Borenson shouted again. "Raj 
Ahten, in the South they call you the Wolf Lord, but my lord says you are no 
wolf, that you are born of a common whippet, and that you have not the natural 
affections of a man, but instead are given to fondling bitches. What say you?"
    Suddenly, atop the wall, stood Raj Ahten, shining like the sun, the white 
owl's wings sweeping wide from his black helm. He gazed down, imperious, 
unperturbed by the insults.
    "Serve me," he said softly, so seductively that Borenson almost found 
himself leaping from his horse, to fall on one knee.
    But he recognized the use of Voice immediately, was able to ignore it. A 
captain in Orden's guard could not be the kind of man easily swayed by Voice.
    "Serve you, the one who's been baying from these walls all morning, 
breathing out threats to my lord? You must be mad!" Borenson said. He spat on 
the ground. "I fear there is no profit in serving you. You don't have long to 
live."
    "You claim to have a message?" Raj Ahten asked. Borenson thought that the 
Wolf Lord seemed too eager to stem the tide of insults.
    Borenson made a show of taking a long gaze at the soldiers along the castle 
walls. Thousands of archers were there, other defenders with pike and sword. And 
on the wall-walks behind them were citizens of Castle Sylvarresta--curious boys, 
eager to hear his message. Some farmers, merchants, and tradesmen stood now to 
defend the walls for Raj Ahten as vigorously as they would have stood to defend 
Sylvarresta the night before. Borenson felt acutely aware that his message was 
for these soldiers and townsmen more than for Raj Ahten. A message foretelling 
doom that was delivered in private might demoralize a single leader. The same 
message delivered before an army could subvert an entire nation.
    "Such a small army, to be trapped so far from home," Borenson said, as if 
musing to himself. Yet he threw his own voice, loud enough so the men on the far 
walls could hear.
    "They are a fine army," Raj Ahten said. "Good enough for the likes of you."
    "Indeed," Borenson countered. "I do commend them. Your men died most 
excellently in the woods this morning. They fought almost as well as expected."
    Raj Ahten's eyes blazed. Borenson had succeeded in angering him. This is 
maybe not the smartest thing I've ever done, Borenson told himself.
    "Enough of this," Raj Ahten said. "Your own men died well, too. If you 
desire a contest to see whose men die best, then I must concede that your men 
will win, for I slaughtered enough of them today. Now, deliver your message. Or 
did you come merely to try my patience?"
    Borenson raised a brow, shrugged. "My message is this. Two days ago King 
Mendellas Draken Orden took the castle at Longmont!"
    He waited a moment for this news to sink in, then added, "And though you 
have sent occupying forces to hold that piece of rock, King Orden bids me to let 
you know that your reinforcements have been slaughtered to the man."
    This news shook the defenders on the castle walls. Raj Ahten's men were 
gazing at one another, trying to consider how to react.
    "You lie," Raj Ahten said evenly.
    "You accuse me of lying?" Borenson said, using his own gift of Voice as best 
he could, trying to sound righteous and indignant. "You know the truth of it. As 
proof, you may search your own feelings. This morning at dawn, King Orden put to 
death all in Longmont who had given you endowments. You felt the attack. You 
felt his retribution. You cannot deny it!
    "And now I shall tell you how it was done: We began our march three and a 
half weeks ago," Borenson said honestly, naming the time since he'd left 
Mystarria, then calculated when Raj Ahten's own troops would have set march, 
"shortly after we received word of your departure from the South.
    "At the time, my lord King Orden sent word to the far corners of Rofehavan, 
setting his snare for a pup of a Wolf Lord. Now, Raj Ahten, the noose has your 
neck, and shortly you shall find yourself choking, choking on your greed!"
    The men on the walls began talking, looking about in dismay, and Borenson 
guessed at their question. "You wonder how my lord knew that you would attack 
Heredon?" Borenson shrugged. "My lord knows many things. He heard of your plans 
from the spies who serve at your side." Borenson glanced meaningfully at the 
counselors and magicians who stood beside Raj Ahten, barely suppressing his 
smile. He held his gaze on the imperious-looking Days at Raj Ahten's side. 
Perhaps Raj Ahten might still trust these men, but from now on, Borenson 
suspected none of them would trust each other.
    Raj Ahten chuckled at Borenson's ploy, countered with words that struck 
terror in Borenson's heart. "So, King Orden has sent you to get word of his son. 
Don't worry, the young man is for ransom. What does Orden propose to offer?"
    Borenson took a deep breath, glanced at the castle walls in desperation. 
He'd been told to offer a ransom for a nameless friend, so that Raj Ahten would 
betray the names of those he held captive. But Raj Ahten had guessed his ploy. 
Now, Borenson hoped the words he spoke next might dishearten the Wolf Lord even 
further. "I was told to offer nothing--until I have inspected the Prince."
    Raj Ahten smiled playfully. "If King Orden cannot keep track of his own son, 
I shall not oblige him. Besides, you would not like what you saw."
    Borenson wondered. This game was becoming complex, more complex than he 
liked. If Raj Ahten really had Gaborn prisoner, then he should not have 
hesitated to show the young man. Unless, indeed, he had killed the Prince.
    Yet, if Raj Ahten had not captured the Prince, then by Borenson admitting 
that he needed to inspect the merchandise, Borenson had revealed to the Wolf 
Lord that he, too, did not know Gaborn's whereabouts.
    Belatedly, Borenson realized that he had departed from the script King Orden 
had written for him. He was trying too hard to be clever, working too hard to go 
his lord one better. By doing so, he might well have jeopardized his whole 
mission.
    His face burning with shame, Borenson turned his horse around, began to 
leave. He doubted that Raj Ahten would let him go. The Wolf Lord had to be 
terrified, had to wonder whether King Orden had captured the forcibles in 
Longmont. Had to wonder how many might be offered in ransom.
    "Wait!" Raj Ahten called at Borenson's back.
    Borenson glanced over his shoulder.
    "What will you offer me, if I show you the Prince?"
    Borenson said nothing, for at the moment he feared to speak, so he just 
urged his horse to walk slowly away.
    Borenson rode his horse a hundred yards, fully conscious that this little 
encounter could still go astray. He was within bowshot of the castle, and Raj 
Ahten's wizards manned the walls. Raj Ahten would not let him escape without 
trying to wring some information from him.
    Yet Borenson asked himself once again, If Raj Ahten has the Prince, why does 
he not show him?
    Borenson turned his horse, gazed up into Raj Ahten's dark eyes. "Gaborn 
safely reached our camp last night," he lied bold-faced, "and I fear that I can 
no longer offer any ransom. I came only to bring that message."
    Raj Ahten showed no emotion, but the frightened, self-consciously determined 
faces of his counselors spoke volumes. Borenson felt sure he had guessed 
correctly, that Raj Ahten did not have the Prince. He remembered a few scouts 
his men had killed last night, and another party of scouts his men had fought 
deep in the woods an hour ago. Why else would so many of Raj Ahten's troops have 
been scouring the forest?
    "However," Borenson continued, "House Sylvarresta is an old and valued ally 
to my lord. I can offer something for the King's family, for their safe return."
    "What?" Raj Ahten asked.
    Borenson departed further from the script Lord Orden had composed for him. 
"A hundred forcibles for each member of the royal family."
    Raj Ahten laughed now, laughed with relief and scorn. Here in the North, 
where blood metal had been so scarce the past ten years, three hundred forcibles 
might seem a princely sum. But to Raj Ahten, who had forty thousand forcibles 
hidden in Longmont, it was nothing. Raj Ahten no longer believed that Orden had 
taken Castle Longmont, just as Borenson had planned.
    "Consider the offer well, before you laugh me to scorn," Borenson said. Now 
it was time to put the Wolf Lord on the rack. Borenson said confidently, "Lord 
Orden captured forty thousand forcibles in Longmont, and for the past two days, 
he has had half a dozen facilitators putting them to good use. Perhaps to a man 
as rich as you, the loss of forty thousand forcibles seems a small thing--but my 
lord will not up his offer of ransom for the King and the royal family. Of what 
use to him are such people, when they only serve you as Dedicates? A hundred 
forcibles for each, nothing more!"
    Borenson watched Raj Ahten's counselors tremble at the news, felt deeply 
gratified, though Raj Ahten himself stood stoically, the blood slowly draining 
from his face.
    "You lie," Raj Ahten said, betraying no fear. "You do not have the Prince. 
You have no forcibles. And there is no spy. I know what your game is, messenger, 
and I am not dismayed by your ruse. You...merely annoy me."
    By use of the Voice, Raj Ahten sought to bolster his troops. But the damage 
had already been done. Compared to the harrowing message Borenson had delivered, 
Raj Ahten's denial sounded hollow, thrown up vainly as a last defense.
    And yet, and yet Borenson feared that Raj Ahten did see through him. He felt 
a nagging worry.
    Borenson spurred his horse forward, out over the burned grass before the 
castle. Here and there, small puffs of smoke still boiled up from the ground. 
When he felt safely out of bow range, he wheeled about.
    "Raj Ahten," he cried, "my lord begs you to meet him at Longmont if you 
dare. Bring with you any fool who wishes to die--your five thousand against his 
fifty! There, he swears, he will grant no quarter, and he will whip you like the 
vicious cur that you are!"
    He raised his arm in signal, and out across the hills, his men began to blow 
their war horns in the woods, the short staccato blasts that commanded each 
squadron to reform.
    King Orden had sent two hundred horns on this expedition, for he had planned 
to have his men sound them in the hills when his son had secured Iome's hand.
    Yet in time of war, such horns were issued only to each captain of a 
hundred. Raj Ahten would know this, and Borenson only hoped that the Wolf Lord's 
ears were keen enough to discern the number of horns.
    It would be well if Raj Ahten believed that Borenson's eighty surviving men 
were eight thousand.

     
     
Chapter 19
SIFTING
     
    Raj Ahten's most devoted counselor Jureem watched through slitted eyes as 
his master stood atop the burned walls of Castle Sylvarresta while Borenson rode 
away. His master's face glowed with beauty, seemed almost translucent. A face so 
bright, it was the light of the world. Raj Ahten seemed unperturbed by this dire 
news.
    Yet Jureem found himself trembling. Though his master denied it, he knew 
something was wrong. Jureem could only wonder, for his master seldom confided in 
Jureem anymore, or sought his advice.
    For years these Northerners had been a thorn in his master's side, sending 
their Knights Equitable to assassinate his Dedicates. Raj Ahten's own beloved 
sister had died in his arms from a wound administered by a Knight Equitable. 
Over the years he had grown to detest these pale-skinned Northerners, until now, 
as Raj Ahten took their endowments and plotted ways to use them, he seemed to 
feel nothing for them. No remorse, no pity, no human compassion. Now this.
    At the moment, Jureem felt painfully distressed. He wanted to run to 
Longmont and learn if Borenson spoke the truth. He wanted to shoot Borenson in 
the back. He wished that Borenson had never spoken. Furthermore, Raj Ahten's 
flameweavers had seen visions of a king in their fires, a king who could destroy 
him. King Orden.
    Now the wizard Binnesman had gone to join Raj Ahten's enemy,
    Jureem held his hands in fists, trying not to let others see how they shook. 
He'd thought that eliminating House Orden would be easy. Now the matter seemed 
more complex.
    A book could not contain words enough to relay the schemes that his master, 
Raj Ahten, had laid. Jureem only understood them in part. By tradition, King 
Orden came for the hunt here at Castle Sylvarresta, bringing a couple of hundred 
men in his retinue.
    This year, his son was of an age that, Raj Ahten decided, the Prince too 
would have come. And so he'd laid his trap, besieging Castle Sylvarresta with a 
few men, hoping to send Orden scurrying south, where Raj Ahten's troops, hiding 
along the roads leading to Mystarria, would slaughter King Orden and his son. If 
the King did not run south, Raj Ahten's scouts would hunt him down eventually.
    It was but one of a hundred plots set in motion. This very day, dozens of 
parties of assassins would strike at targets. Armies marched against fortresses 
to the west and south. In other places, armies would simply show themselves, 
then disappear into some forest or mountain pass, either freezing vital forces 
in some stronghold or drawing them away from intended targets.
    Jureem knew that the heart of his master's plan lay here. The heart of his 
plan was to strike down both Orden and Sylvarresta.
    Yet dire portents now warned against it. The pyromancer had seen a king 
here, a king who could destroy the Great Light of Indhopal.
    Raj Ahten had left himself open to attack. He'd brought fewer than a 
thousand forcibles to Castle Sylvarresta, and over half of those had been used 
up last night, consumed by the spells that bound Raj Ahten and his Dedicates. 
He'd left forty thousand forcibles at Longmont, true, and he'd judged that those 
forcibles would be safe. Longmont was a great castle, with high walls bound with 
magic spells. And though Raj Ahten's forces in Longmont had been small, their 
numbers were to have been bolstered soon.
    The window of opportunity for someone to strike at Longmont had been 
dreadfully narrow. Given Longmot's defenses, it should have been able to 
withstand any attack from the smaller keeps within striking distance. Castles 
Groverman and Dreis were both within a days' ride from Longmont. But Raj Ahten's 
advance scouts had assured him that the garrisons there were small. Jureem's 
spies had seen none of Orden's forces in either castle.
    His spies only sent word that Orden had brought a "larger than anticipated 
retinue" to celebrate Hostenfest, and that they were camped outside the village 
of Hazen, on the southern borders of Heredon. The retinue contained at most 
three thousand men--including knights, squires, cooks, and camp followers. It 
was a large force, larger than Raj Ahten had planned to engage. Normally Orden 
brought fewer than three hundred men to the hunt.
    But now the scouts said that last night, over two thousand knights had been 
riding toward Castle Sylvarresta. How could that be? Did Orden bring two forces, 
one to attack Longmont, another to ride north?
    Two days. Jureem hadn't received a report from Longmont in two days. He 
should have had a status report. Jureem suspected that Longmont had fallen. King 
Orden had somehow taken the castle.
    Fifty thousand men, the messenger had said. Fifty thousand? The number 
unnerved Jureem, for it seemed too close to the number of knights he'd estimated 
Orden would marshal against his master next spring--if Orden escaped the trap. 
King Orden could marshal a quarter million knights of decent prowess, but he'd 
not attack with anywhere close to that number. He wouldn't dare leave his 
castles defenseless.
    Elaborate schemes, all on the verge of crumbling. Raj Ahten needed to take 
the North, and he needed to take it quickly. For years now the blood-metal mines 
of Kartish had been playing out. They'd be empty by midwinter.
    Only in Inkarra could he get more blood metal. It was said that the mines 
there still yielded well.
    Yet no lord of Rofehavan or Indhopal had ever succeeded in invading Inkarra. 
Wizards there were not powerful, but they were plentiful. The Inkarrans had 
adopted battle tactics well suited to their terrain--quick strikes in the hills 
on solid little ponies. And the Inkarrans could not be defeated unless one also 
defeated the high lords of the arr.
    Worst of all, in long ages past, a certain Master Facilitator named Tovil 
had fled Rofehavan to Inkarra, and there he had launched a new school for the 
study of forcibles. In Inkarra, amazing discoveries had been made, discoveries 
no other wizards had ever been able to duplicate. In Inkarra, forcibles had been 
developed that left no scar, so that one could learn from a mark the shape of a 
rune of power. These forcibles transmitted talents and skills from one person to 
another.
    In all the years of spying, the lords of Rofehavan and Indhopal had never 
been able to duplicate the Inkarrans' discoveries.
    Each time a Northern lord had tried to invade the South, he quickly found 
that the Southerners did not just fight him--they also provided forcibles to his 
enemies.
    Thus, no lord had ever been able to take Inkarra, drain its riches, or 
penetrate its secrets.
    Jureem knew that Raj Ah ten had to act soon. He had to drain the Northern 
kings now, subjugate them, and then move on. It was quite possible that in days 
now lost to legend, Daylan Hammer had taken endowments of will and talent, that 
these were an integral piece that Raj Ahten needed before he could become the 
Sum of All Men.
    Jureem prided himself on being a man who was not easily deceived. He 
strongly suspected that Borenson had told an intricate tale based on some truth, 
twisted together liberally with lies. Yet as Jureem considered the message 
Borenson had brought, it was damnably difficult to know where the truth ended 
and the lies began.
    After only a few moments on the castle wall, Raj Ahten looked to his side, 
at Jureem. "My counselors, let us walk," he said. The Wolf Lord seldom sought 
advice from Jureem or Feykaald anymore. Certainly his master was worried.
    They came down from the city wall, walking along the steps, and had not gone 
far before they were out of the crowd, heading up a small rise toward the 
stables.
    "Feykaald," the Wolf Lord asked the oldest of his counselors. "What think 
you: Does King Orden have his son?"
    "Of course not," Feykaald hissed. "The messenger was too startled, too 
frightened, when you first mentioned the ransom. That messenger was full of 
lies. He spoke not a word of truth."
    "I agree that Orden does not yet have his son, but though the messenger's 
manner showed him to be a liar, he spoke some truth."
    "He does not have his son," Jureem agreed, replaying every nuance of the 
messenger's voice, every expression.
    "Granted," Raj Ahten said. "What of Longmont?"
    "He could not have conquered it," Feykaald spat quickly.
    "He has done so," Raj Ahten said, his voice not betraying the concern that 
this must have caused. Jureem's heart nearly froze at the thought.
    "O Greatest of Lights," Jureem said, "I must argue with you. The messenger's 
demeanor clearly indicated that this, too, was a lie. Orden must be a fool, to 
send such a poor liar on such an errand!"
    "It is not the messenger's demeanor that convinced me," Raj Ahten said. "I 
felt a dizziness at dawn. Virtue left me. Many hundreds of Dedicates died, and 
their endowments are lost. Of that I am sure."
    To lose so many endowments was a deep blow, a fearsome cut. Yet it did not 
terrify Jureem. In distant lands to the south, Raj Ahten's facilitators worked 
assiduously to find new Dedicates for him. These were men with great glamour and 
powers of Voice, who could lure others into Raj Ahten's service, put the 
forcibles to them. Raj Ahten was in a constant state of flux, gaining in 
strength and wit and glamour and stamina at an astonishing rate. Jureem no 
longer knew how many thousands served as his lord's Dedicates. He knew only that 
his lord grew in power, day by day. Jureem could not yet see what his lord would 
become, when he became the Sum of All Men.
    But this morning he had suffered a blow.
    In a day or two, Raj Ahten's occupying armies would arrive, a hundred 
thousand strong, and lay siege. Orden could not have anticipated so large an 
occupying force.
    At the same time, three armies would enter the kingdom of Orwynne to the 
west, and King Theros Val Orwynne, upon seeing that he was caught in a vise, 
would have little choice but to either surrender or dig in for a siege. He would 
not be able to send aid to Orden in Longmont.
    Meanwhile, saboteurs in Fleeds had begun poisoning the grain stock to the 
stables of High King Connel, preventing the horse clans from mounting their 
fierce cavalry attacks.
    No, Orden had to be terrified. So he was sending this little yapping 
messenger to bark at Raj Ahten.
    "Perhaps," Jureem said, "Orden has taken Longmont, but he cannot hold it." 
Yet if Raj Ahten was right, if Longmont had fallen, and this messenger had 
managed to feign dishonesty through his whole speech, was it yet possible that 
in every matter he had spoken the truth?
    Now Raj Ahten said the thing Jureem dreaded most. "Do we have a spy in our 
midst?"
    Jureem considered, could see no other way to explain how Orden had known 
that Raj Ahten planned to attack Heredon. Nor could Orden have known about the 
forcibles hidden in Longmont, or known that the garrison was undermanned.
    Immediately, Jureem worried that he himself might have been the problem. Had 
he spoken of these things to any of his lovers? Had he spoken before any 
servants or strangers? A careless word to the wrong person?
    It could have been me, Jureem thought. He'd confided his fears about leaving 
Longmont undermanned to one of his lovers, a horseman who bred fine stallions. 
But had he mentioned that the forcibles would be there? No. He had not spoken of 
them.
    Jureem looked to his side. Feykaald had been with Raj Ahten for many years. 
Jureem trusted the man. As for the flameweavers, they cared nothing for Raj 
Ahten. They served the elemental fires, and would follow Raj Ahten only so long 
as he promised them war, promised to feed their master.
    So Jureem did not worry that these men were spies. True, it could be that 
one of the captains was a spy. But how? How could even a spy have notified Orden 
of the opportunity at Longmont on such short notice?
    No, it was the Days, the tall man with graying hair and chiseled, imperious 
features who most worried Jureem. He could have aided Orden in this battle. Only 
he.
    Jureem dreaded this moment, had long suspected it would come. The Days 
claimed they were neutral, that they never aided any lord against another. To do 
so would have been to interfere in the affairs of men, an action that the Days 
said the Lords of Time would not tolerate. So they merely recorded events--but 
Jureem had heard too many rumors, too many hints at unscrupulous dealings in the 
past. For years, Raj Ahten had grown in power until he reached the point where 
Jureem suspected that the Days would unite against him.
    In their own way, Jureem believed the Days were far more of a threat than 
the irrepressible Knights Equitable.
    The Days, of course, knew Raj Ahten's actions. The Days knew well in advance 
that Raj Ahten planned to attack Longmont, knew he'd left the castle without a 
sufficient garrison. The Days' twin, the man or woman who shared his mind in the 
monastery to the north, of course knew what had come to pass. And anything 
learned by one Days could swiftly be relayed to many.
    It was all Jureem could do to keep from whirling now and gutting the Days.
    "I think, we are betrayed, my lord," Jureem said, glancing at the Days. 
"Though I know not how." His master was watching, had seen the covert 
accusation.
    Yet what could the master do? If Jureem accused the Days falsely, and slew 
him, he might make matters worse. All of the Days would then openly fight Raj 
Ahten, betray his secrets into every ear.
    On the other hand, if Jureem did not slay the Days, then a spy would remain 
in the camp.
    Raj Ahten stopped.
    "What will we do now?" Feykaald asked, wringing his little hands. They stuck 
out from his turquoise silk robes like twisted knots from a tree limb.
    "What do you think we should do?" Raj Ahten asked. "You are my counselor, 
Feykaald. So counsel me."
    "We should send a message," Feykaald whispered, "to General Suh, and divert 
his armies to us for reinforcement, instead of having him attack Orwynne."
    Feykaald was old, tough, and full of experience. He'd lived long by being 
careful. But Jureem knew that Raj Ahten often desired less-cautious counsel. The 
Wolf Lord had grown in power by listening to Jureem.
    He leaned his ear to Jureem. "And what would you do?"
    Jureem bowed his head. He spoke carefully as he thought aloud. "Forgive me, 
O Blessed Light, if in this matter, I do not seem so alarmed." He flashed a 
distrustful glance at Feykaald. "It may be true that King Orden has captured 
your forcibles, but who will he use them on? You have already stripped 
endowments from everyone who was worthy at Longmont. Orden cannot use the local 
populace. Which means he would have to take endowments only from his 
warriors--an unfortunate proposition, for with each endowment he took to 
himself, he would weaken his own army."
    "So you propose?"
    "Go to Longmont and take your forcibles back!" It was, of course, the only 
possible answer. Raj Ahten could ill afford to wait for reinforcements. It would 
only give Orden time to either slip away with the treasure or draw 
reinforcements himself.
    Raj Ahten smiled at this answer. It was risky, Jureem knew. Perhaps Orden 
wanted to draw them out of Castle Sylvarresta for an ambush. But all life was a 
risk. And Raj Ahten could ill afford to do nothing.
    The Master had taken six endowments of metabolism. In doing so, he was able 
to thwart the assassins who came after him time and again.
    But taking such endowments carried a great danger, the promise of an early 
death. Metabolism could serve as a weapon against its owner. Indeed, in one 
case, according to legend, a Dedicate who gave a great king metabolism was 
kidnapped by the King's enemies. Then, the enemies gave hundreds of endowments 
of metabolism to the Dedicate, making him a vector, so that the King died of old 
age in a matter of weeks. For this reason, Raj Ahten had vectored all his 
metabolism through a single Dedicate, a man he always kept near to his side, in 
case he needed to slay the man and break his own link.
    Few kings ever dared take more than one or two endowments of metabolism. 
With six, Raj Ahten could run six times the speed of another man.
    But he also aged six times faster. And though Jureem's master had many 
thousands of endowments of stamina, and would grow old with incredible grace, 
Jureem knew that the human body was meant to wear out over time. His master had 
lived for thirty-two years now, but because of his many endowments of 
metabolism, he had aged far more than that. Physically, he was in mid-eighties.
    Raj Ahten could not hope to live much beyond the biological age of a hundred 
and ten, nor could he survive without his endowments.
    Only a few years back, Raj Ahten had made the unfortunate mistake of slaying 
some of his Dedicates, so that he could slow his own aging. But within a week, a 
Northern assassin had nearly slain the Wolf Lord. Since then, Raj Ahten had been 
forced to bear this lonely burden of high metabolism.
    Three years. He needed to unite the world, to become the Sum of All Men 
within three years, or he'd die. One year to consolidate the North. Two to take 
the South. If Jureem's master died, it might well be that the hope of all 
mankind would die with him. The reavers were that powerful.
    "So we go to Longmont," Raj Ahten said. "What of Orden's army in the 
Dunnwood?"
    "What army?" Jureem asked, certain from many small cues that there was no 
great threat. "Have you seen an army? I heard war horns blowing in the wood, but 
did I hear a thousand horses neighing? No! Orden's mists were there only to hide 
his weakness."
    Jureem squinted up at his master. Jureem's obesity, his bald head, made him 
look like an oaf, but Raj Ahten had long known that Jureem was every bit as 
dangerous as a cobra. Jureem found himself saying, "You have twenty legions 
approaching Longmont--an army Orden cannot withstand, not if you fight at our 
head. We must go and take Longmont."
    Raj Ahten nodded solemnly. Those forty thousand forcibles represented the 
labor of thousands of miners and craftsmen over the past three years. A large 
pocket of blood ore--now tapped dry. They were irreplaceable.
    "Prepare the men to march," Raj Ahten said. "We will empty Sylvarresta's 
treasury, take what food we need from villages we pass. We leave in an hour."
    "My lord, what of the horses?" Feykaald asked. "We will need mounts."
    "Our soldiers have enough endowments; most need no mounts," Raj Ahten said. 
"And common horses require food and rest, more than a man.
    My warriors shall run to Longmont. We will use what horses we can. We'll 
empty Sylvarresta's stables."
    A hundred and sixty miles by road. Jureem knew that Raj Ahten could walk 
that distance himself in a few hours, but most of his archers would not bear the 
burden of more than a single endowment of metabolism. Such soldiers could not 
run to Longmont in less than a day.
    Raj Ahten would have to leave his nomen here. They would only slow the 
march. The giants and war dogs, though, could take such abuse.
    "But," Feykaald urged, "what of your Dedicates here? You have two thousand 
in the Dedicates' Keep. We don't have horses to move them, nor do we have enough 
guards to protect them." His attention, too, had turned to logistics.
    Raj Ahten's answer was chilling. "We need leave no warriors to guard the 
Dedicates' Keep."
    "What?" Feykaald asked. "You practically beg Orden to attack. You'll get 
your Dedicates killed!"
    "Of course," Raj Ahten said. "But at least their deaths will serve some 
higher purpose."
    "Higher purpose? What higher purpose can their deaths serve?" Feykaald 
asked, wringing his hands, mystified.
    But Jureem suddenly saw the plan in all its cruelty and magnificence: "Their 
murders shall nurture facetiousness," Jureem reasoned. "For years, the Northern 
nations have united against us. But if Orden murders Sylvarresta's Dedicates, as 
he must, if he destroys his oldest and dearest friend, what will he win? He 
might weaken us for a few days, but he will weaken himself forever. Even if he 
should escape with the forcibles, the lords of the North will fear Orden. Some 
here in Heredon will revile him, perhaps even seek vengeance. All this shall 
work against House Orden, and destroying Orden is the key to taking the North."
    "You are most wise," Feykaald whispered, glancing first at Raj Ahten, and 
then at Jureem, his voice filled with awe.
    Yet such a waste saddened Jureem. So many men go through their lives content 
to do nothing, to be nothing. It was wise to harvest endowments from such men, 
put them to use. But wasting the lives of Dedicates this way--was a great shame.
    Jureem and Feykaald shouted a few curt orders, and in moments the castle 
walls became alive as the troops prepared for the march. Men rushed to and fro.
    Raj Ahten began heading along the narrow cobbled streets, wanting to be 
alone with his thoughts, walking past the King's stables--some fine new wooden 
buildings that stood two stories tall. The upper story held hay and grain. The 
lower stabled the horses.
    His men rushed everywhere, claiming the first steeds they found, shouting 
orders to stablehands.
    As he passed, Raj Ahten peered into several open doors. A few Dedicate 
horses were kept in stalls, many of them hanging from slings where 
stable-masters groomed and pampered the unfortunate beasts. Barn swallows darted 
in and out through the open doors, peeping in alarm.
    The stables became tremendously busy. Not only were Sylvarresta's horses 
stabled here, but some of Raj Ahten's finer beasts had been brought last night, 
to be cared for by Raj Ahten's own stablemasters.
    He had enough good warhorses to mount a decent cavalry.
    Raj Ahten ducked into the last stable. The odor of dung and horse sweat 
clung in the air. Such stench irritated Raj Ahten, with his overdeveloped sense 
of smell. Raj Ahten's stablemaster washed the master's horses twice daily in 
lavender water and parsley, to diminish such offensive odors.
    In the front of the stable, a boy with dark hair stood by a stall. He'd 
bridled a force horse--a good one by the number of runes on it--and stood 
grooming it, preparing it for the saddle. Several horses of equal merit stood 
by. The lad was too pale of face to be one of Raj Ahten's own stablehands, had 
to have been inherited from Sylvarresta.
    The young man turned at the sound of Raj Ahten's entry, glanced nervously 
over his shoulder.
    "Leave," Raj Ahten told the boy. "Take the horses to the gates and hold them 
yourself. Reserve the best for Counselor Feykaald and Chancellor Jureem here--no 
other. Understand?" Raj Ahten pointed to Jureem, who stood just outside the 
door, and Jureem nodded curtly at the boy.
    The young man nodded, threw a small hunting saddle over the horse's back, 
and hurried past Raj Ahten and his counselors, gawking, terrified.
    Raj Ahten sometimes had that effect on people. It made him smile. From 
behind, the boy looked familiar. Yet Raj Ahten suddenly felt a certain 
muzziness, a cloudiness of thought as he tried to recall. Then he had it--he had 
seen the boy on the street, earlier this morning.
    But no, he now remembered, it had not been the boy. Merely a statue that 
looked like him. The young man led the horse from the stable, began buckling and 
cinching the saddle, tying on saddlebags, just out of earshot.
    Alone with his Days in the shadowed stable, Raj Ahten whirled and caught the 
Days by the throat. The man had been following two paces farther back than 
normal. Perhaps a sign of guilt, perhaps in fear.
    "What do you know of this attack at Longmont?" Raj Ahten asked, lifting the 
Days from the ground. "Who betrayed me?"
    "Not, aagh, me!" the Days responded. The man grabbed Raj Ahten's wrist with 
both hands, clung for dear life, trying to keep from strangling. Fear lined his 
face. Sweat beaded on his forehead.
    "I don't believe you," Raj Ahten hissed. "Only you could have betrayed 
me--you or your kind."
    "No!" the Days gasped. "We, ugh, we take no sides in the affairs of state. 
This is...your affair."
    Raj Ahten looked in his face. The Days seemed terrified.
    Raj Ahten held him, muscles strong as Northern steel, and considered 
breaking the man's neck. Perhaps the Days was telling the truth, but he was 
still dangerous. Raj Ahten longed to crush the fellow, to rid himself of this 
pest. But if he did, every Days across the world would unite, would reveal Raj 
Ahten's secrets to his enemies--the numbers of his armies, the locations of his 
hidden Dedicates.
    Setting the Days down, Raj Ahten growled, "I am watching you."
    "Just as I watch you," the Days said, rubbing his sore neck.
    Raj Ahten turned, left the stable. The captain of his guard had said that 
Gaborn Val Orden had slain one of the Wolf Lord's scouts near here. The Prince 
would have left his scent behind.
    Raj Ahten had endowments of scent from over a thousand men. Most of his 
scouts had taken endowments of scent from dogs, and hence feared the dogbane 
that the Prince carried.
    "My lord, where are you going?" Jureem asked.
    "To hunt Prince Orden," Raj Ahten decided on impulse. His men would be long 
at work preparing for the march. With Raj Ahten's endowments of metabolism, he 
could spend time doing something of value, while others worked. "He may still be 
in the city. Some jobs you should not leave to lesser men."

     
     
Chapter 20
A PRINCE UNMASKED
     
    "Och, orders is orders! His Lor'ship tol' me to put the King and his girl on 
proper 'orses--even if I had to tie 'em in the saddle! The wagon's too slow on 
such a long march, thru them woods," Gaborn said, affecting a Fleeds accent.
    The finest horsemen came from Fleeds, and he wanted to play the part of a 
trusted stableboy.
    Gaborn sat atop his stallion, gazing down at the captain in the Dedicates' 
Keep. The guards had raised the portcullis, and busily filled a great covered 
wain with Dedicates gained here at Castle Sylvarresta--those who acted as 
vectors for Raj Ahten, including King Sylvarresta.
    "He say to me none of thees!" the captain said in his thick Taifan accent, 
glancing about nervously. His men had abandoned their posts to raid the kitchens 
for provisions. Some officers looted Sylvarresta's treasury, and others down on 
Market Street were breaking shopwindows. Every moment the captain spent talking 
to Gaborn meant the captain would have less time to stuff his own pockets.
    "Aye, what do I know?" Gaborn asked.
    Gaborn turned to leave, nudging his mount with his heels, pulling around the 
four horses he had on his lines. It was a delicate moment. Gaborn's mount grew 
skittish, laid its ears back, rolled its eyes. Several soldiers hurried into the 
Dedicates' Keep, to help loot the treasury. Gaborn's stallion flinched at each 
soldier who crowded past, ventured a small kick at one man. One of the tethered 
stallions responded to the sudden move by bucking. Gaborn whispered soothing 
words to keep the whole bunch from bolting.
    In the last few minutes, the streets had suddenly come alive with people--a 
mob of Raj Ahten's men sprinted to the armory to grab supplies, weapons, horses; 
merchants rushed hither and thither to protect what they had from looters.
    "Halt!" the captain of the guard said before Gaborn got the horses turned. 
"I put King on horse. Which one ees for him?"
    Gaborn rolled his eyes, as if the answer were obvious. If he'd truly been a 
stablehand, he'd have known which mount would remain calmest, which horse would 
try to keep the idiot king from falling. As it was, he feared that all five 
horses might bolt at any second. His own horse, the stallion he'd ridden into 
town the day before, had been trained to recognize the Wolf Lord's soldiers by 
their coat of arms, and to lash out against them with hoof and tooth. Surrounded 
by the Wolf Lord's troops, his stallion tossed its head from side to side, 
shifting its weight uneasily. Unsure. His mood unnerved the other horses.
    "Och, today, who knows?" Gaborn said. "I smell a likely storm. They're all a 
wee skittish."
    He looked at the horses. In truth, two mounts seemed less concerned by the 
commotion.
    "Prop the King on Uprising, and here's to hopin' he don't fall!" Gaborn 
patted a roan mount, inventing the horse's name on the spur of the moment. "The 
Princess, she sits on his sister 'ere, Retribution. Their Days can ride the 
skittish horses and plummet to their asses for all I care. Oh, and watch that 
girth strap on the King's saddle. It wiggles loose. Oh, and Death Knell there, 
put her last in your line. She kicks."
    Gaborn handed the lines to the captain, giving him the reins to all four 
mounts, and turned to leave.
    "Wait!" the captain said, as Gaborn suspected he would.
    Gaborn craned his neck, sat with a bored expression.
    "You geet King on horse! Everyone on horse. I want you personal to geet them 
down through gates."
    "I'm busy!" Gaborn objected. Sometimes the best way to secure a job was to 
pretend you did not want it. "I'm wanting to watch the soldiers leave."
    "Now!" the captain shouted.
    Gaborn shrugged, urged the horses through the portcullis, into the bailey of 
the Dedicates' Keep, near the huge wain.
    No one had yet managed to bring the draft horses to pull the wain, so the 
wagon merely sat, its axletree lying on the ground.
    Gaborn looked into the wagon, tried not to stare too hard at Iome. He wiped 
sweat from his forehead with the back of a sleeve, then got off his horse, 
helped Iome mount. He had no idea whether she could ride, felt relieved when she 
sat lightly atop her mare, took the reins confidently.
    The drooling King was another matter. His eyes grew frightened and he hooted 
and grasped the horse's neck with both hands as soon as Gaborn got him saddled, 
then tried to slide off. Though the King had once been a fine horseman, he gave 
no evidence of it now. Gaborn realized he would, quite literally, have to tie 
the man to the pommel.
    So Gaborn used one of his lead ropes and did just that, wrapping the rope 
around the King's waist twice, then tying him to the pommel in front, and to the 
hitches for the saddlebags in the rear.
    Gaborn's heart pounded. He was taking an insane risk: Iome could ride, but 
the King would pose a definite problem.
    Gaborn planned to take the King and Iome through the city gates, then gallop 
for the woods, where Orden's forces could protect him. Gaborn hoped that none of 
the enemy archers would dare shoot the King. As a vector, he was too valuable to 
Raj Ahten.
    Gaborn most feared that Raj Ahten's forces might lead a mounted pursuit.
    Fortunately, the King's horse seemed more intrigued by the King's whooping 
and grasping antics than frightened. After Gaborn tied the King securely into 
his saddle, Sylvarresta became more interested in petting the mount and kissing 
its neck than in trying to unhorse himself.
    Raj Ahten bent over the bloodstained ground, sniffing Gaborn's scent in the 
birch grove. On the ridge above stood his counselors and two guards, illuminated 
by the noon sun.
    But here in the shaded forest, Raj Ahten searched alone, as only he could.
    "That's the spot," one of his captains called.
    But the ground held only the odor of mold and humus, desiccated leaves. Ash 
had rained down from the fires that incinerated the wizard's garden, fouling the 
scent. Of course the tang of a soldier's blood filled the air.
    The Prince had passed through the herbalist's garden, so that his natural 
scent lay masked under layers of rosemary, jasmine, grasses, and other rich 
fragrances. Raj Ahten's own men had tramped here by the dozens last night, 
further fouling the trail.
    The more he tasted the air, the more elusive the scent seemed.
    But none of his hunting dogs could track as well as Raj Ahten did. So the 
Wolf Lord knelt in the loam, sniffing tenderly, dismissing some scents, seeking 
for that which was Gaborn. He crawled forward, searching for a vestige of Gaborn 
among the trees. Perhaps the young man had brushed a vine maple, or touched the 
bole of an alder. If he had, his scent would cling to the spot.
    Raj Ahten found no scent near the blood, but found something nearly as 
interesting: the earthy musk of a young woman, a maid who worked the kitchens. 
Odd that none of his hunters had mentioned the scent. It might be nothing, or it 
might be a woman who accompanied the Prince.
    Raj Ahten suddenly stood upright, startled. A half-dozen finches in a nearby 
tree took flight at the movement. Raj Ahten listened to a soft wind blow through 
the trees. He recognized the girl's scent, had smelled it--
    This morning.
    He'd passed her on Market Street, just outside the King's Keep.
    Raj Ahten had endowments of wit from over a thousand men. He recalled every 
beat of his heart, remembered every word ever uttered to him. He visualized the 
woman now, at least the back of her head. A shapely young thing, in a hooded 
robe. Her long hair a deep brunette. She'd been next to a statue of gray stone. 
Once again, he felt an odd sensation--a peculiar muzziness of thought.
    But--no, he suddenly realized. It could not have been a statue. The thing 
had moved. Yet when he'd passed it, he'd had the impression of stone.
    He tried to recall the statue's face, to imagine the thing he'd passed as 
living flesh. But he could not see it, could not visualize it. A statue of a 
boy--a faceless, plain-looking lad in a dirty robe.
    They'd stood in the streets near where his pyromancer had been murdered.
    But wait, Raj Ahten had it now--the scent. He recalled their smell. Held it 
in his mind. Yes, it was here in the woods. And he'd smelled it at the stable. 
The young man Raj Ahten had seen at the stable, minutes ago.
    Raj Ahten could remember everything he'd seen in years. Now he tried to 
dredge up the lad's face, to see him there in the stables.
    Instead, he saw the image of a tree: a great tree in the heart of the wood 
at dusk, so vast that its swaying branches seemed to reach up and capture the 
stars.
    It was so peaceful under that tree, watching it, that Raj Ahten raised his 
hands, felt the warmth of the starlight touching his own hands, penetrating 
them.
    He longed to be that tree, swaying in the wind. Unmoved, unmovable. Nothing 
more than trunk and roots, reaching deep into the soil, tendrils of root tickled 
by the passing of countless worms. Breathing deep. The birds soaring through his 
limbs, nesting in the crooks of branches, pecking at grubs and mites that hid in 
the folds of his bark.
    Raj Ahten stood, breath suspended, among the trees of the forest, looking 
down on his smaller brothers, tasting the wind that meandered slowly above him 
and through him. All cares ceasing. All hopes and aspirations fading. A tree, so 
peaceful and still.
    Ah, to stand thus forever!
    Fire blossomed in his trunk.
    Raj Ahten opened his eyes. One of his flameweavers stood glaring at him, had 
prodded him with a hot finger.
    "Milord, what are you doing? You've been standing here for five minutes!"
    Raj Ahten drew a deep breath of surprise, looked at the trees around him, 
suddenly uneasy. "I...Gaborn is still here in the city," Raj Ahten said. Yet he 
could not describe the boy, could not see his face. He concentrated, and saw in 
rapid succession a stone, a lonely mountain, a gorge.
    Why can I not see his face? Raj Ahten wondered.
    Then he looked up at the trees around him, and knew. A small band of trees, 
narrow along the river. A finger of the Dunnwood. But powerful, nonetheless. 
"Set fire to this wood," he told the flameweaver.
    Raj Ahten raced for the city gates, hoping he was not too late.
    Sweat poured from Gaborn's face as he urged the horses through the lower 
bailey. Thousands of troops clogged the gates.
    Five hundred knights milled outside the city wall. Their warhorses wore the 
finest armor Sylvarresta's smiths could forge, blackened and polished. Another 
thousand archers stood ready near the walls with bows strung, should an army 
race out from the woods.
    Yet the fact that so many men had already left the castle did not ease the 
congestion. Thousands of soldiers did not travel completely alone--squires, 
cooks, armorers, tailors, bearers, fletchers, prostitutes, washwomen all 
thronged the streets. Raj Ahten had seven thousand soldiers in his legion, but 
his camp contained another thousand followers. Armorers dressed the horses in 
the bailey. Children darted about underfoot. Two cows had run down the 
Butterwalk and now tramped through the crowd.
    In the turmoil, Gaborn rode from the castle, trailing Iome's mount, her 
father's, and those of two Days, trying to keep his horse from kicking and 
biting every soldier who wore the red wolves of Raj Ahten on his shield or 
surcoat.
    One dark-faced sergeant grabbed the reins of Gaborn's horse, shouting, "Give 
me horse, boy. I take that one!"
    "Raj Ahten told me to keep the reins myself," Gaborn said. "It's for 
Jureem."
    The sergeant drew back his hand as if the words burned him, eyed the horse 
longingly.
    Gaborn rode through the press of bodies, toward the throng of soldiers 
gathering on the blackened grass outside Castle Sylvarresta. He held the line to 
the King's horse tightly, glanced back.
    The idiot king smiled at everyone, waving, his mouth wide with joy. Gaborn's 
own mount, with its surly nature, waded through the masses, breaking a path for 
the horses that followed. Iome's and King Sylvarresta's Days trailed last.
    Near the blackened gates, everyone sought to surge across the damaged 
drawbridge. One side had burned through from the elemental's fires, but had been 
hastily repaired.
    "Make way for the King's mounts! 'Ware the King's mounts!" Gaborn shouted.
    Gaborn eyed the city walls as he passed beneath the portal. Archers 
everywhere guarded the outer wall, but most foot soldiers had deserted their 
posts.
    Then, suddenly, he passed under the main arch. Gaborn did not entirely trust 
the ruined bridge to hold the weight of both his people and their horses. A few 
planks had been thrown over the rent, but they looked flimsy, so he dismounted, 
had Iome do the same. As for the King, he left the man mounted and cautiously 
walked each horse across, then entered the throng of soldiers milling about in 
the charred grass.
    Raj Ahten's soldiers nervously watched the hills, anxious to be on their 
way. The troops bunched together, as men do when fearful. The sounds of King 
Orden's hunting horns less than an hour before had put them in a grim mood.
    Iome crossed the bridge, and Gaborn helped her back into the saddle, then 
led her mount over the dirt road, holding the reins to his own horse, as if he 
were but a stableman delivering the animals.
    From behind him came a sudden commotion. A strong voice shouted, "You, 
Prince Orden!"
    Gaborn leapt a horse, with a kick spurred the beast, shouting, "Game ho!" 
His mount surged forward so hard that Gaborn nearly fell from the saddle.
    He'd taken his mounts from Sylvarresta's hunting stables, trusting they were 
trained for the chase. At his command, the horses ran like the wind. These were 
horses bred for the woods, strong of leg, deep of chest.
    Some quick-thinking soldier leapt in Gaborn's path, battle-axe half-drawn. 
"Strike!" Gaborn shouted, and his horse leapt and lashed out with a forehoof, 
dashing the warrior's head open with the rim of its iron shoe.
    From atop the castle wall, Raj Ahten cried, "Stop them! Hold them! Before 
they reach the woods!" His voice echoed from the hills.
    Then Gaborn reached the fields, with Iome shouting and racing beside, 
clutching the reins to her father's mount.
    Behind them, the pair of Days had not spurred forward. One soldier grabbed 
the King's Days by the hem of his robe, dragged the man down as the horse 
bucked. Three others joined into the task. Iome's Days, a thin woman with a 
straight mouth, let her horse dance around the commotion, taking the rear.
    Dozens of knights spurred their own mounts, heavy warhorses trained for 
combat. Gaborn did not fear them. Under the crushing weight of their own armor 
and that of their armored riders, the horses should fall behind. But they were 
still force horses, with supernatural strength and endurance.
    Gaborn glanced back, shouted for Iome to go faster. He had only a short 
sword-not much to fight against such men.
    On the castle walls, many archers had great bows made of steel that could 
shoot five hundred yards. Dozens of them nocked arrows. At such a distance, no 
one could fire accurately, but a lucky shot could kill as easily as a skillful 
one.
    His horse galloped so fluidly, he felt as if it were a creature of wind, 
come to life beneath him, hooves pounding a four-beat. The stallion raised his 
ears forward, raised his tail in contentment, grateful to be free of the stable, 
grateful to race over the ground like a storm.
    The woods seemed to rush toward Gaborn.
    An arrow whipped past Gaborn's neck, grazed the ear of his mount.
    Behind him, a horse screamed in pain, and Gaborn glanced back to see it 
stumble, an arrow in its neck. Iome's Days rode the mount, her thin mouth an O 
of surprise. She somersaulted over the horse's head, a black arrow in her back 
as she fell headlong into the charred field.
    Half a dozen bowmen had let fly, the arrows sailing toward Gaborn in a long 
arc. Gaborn shouted, "Right, ho!" As one, all three remaining chargers veered, 
dodging from beneath the arrows' trajectory.
    "Bowmen, cease fire!" Raj Ahten raged. His fool archers were going to kill 
his Dedicates.
    Five dozen knights raced over blackened fields, pocked with dead nomen and 
Frowth, toward the near hills where burned trees raised twisted limbs. If the 
knights did not catch the Prince before he entered the woods, Raj Ahten 
suspected Gaborn would find safety among King Orden's troops.
    As if to confirm Raj Ahten's suspicions, a lone war horn sounded from the 
woods--a high, lonely cry--from the peak of the first hill. A signal for Orden's 
men to charge.
    Who knew how many knights lurked there?
    Beside Raj Ahten, two flameweavers ran to the top of the wall. The hairless 
men leapt beside him, the heat of their bodies rising fierce as an inferno.
    Raj Ahten merely pointed. He could not see the boy's face. Even when Gaborn 
turned, for some reason he could not focus on the boy's face. But he knew the 
back, the form. "Rahjim, see the young man who is falling behind, preparing to 
fight? Burn him."
    A satisfied light shone from the flameweaver's dark eyes. Rahjim exhaled 
nervously; smoke issued from his nostrils. "Yes, O Great One."
    Rahjim drew a rune of fiery power in the air with his finger, then raised a 
hand high, grasped for half a second toward the sun shining high in the sky. The 
heavens suddenly darkened as he gathered sunlight into fibers, threads like 
molten silk, and brought them all twisting down in ropes of energy, to focus in 
his hand--until his palm filled with molten flames.
    Rahjim held the fire for a portion of a second--long enough to gather a 
proper focus. He threw with his might.
    Gaborn fell forward as a blast of wind and energy smashed his back, felt a 
sudden burning. He wondered if an arrow had hit him, realized that his surcoat 
was afire.
    One of Raj Ahten's knights raced his horse beside Iome, trying to grab her 
reins.
    Gaborn ripped the dirty, rotting cloth that covered him, tossed the blazing 
thing in the air just in time to watch the rag burst into flame. He fancied that 
only the mud on the cloak had kept him from burning in that precious 
half-second. The garment fell over the face of Iome's pursuer's warhorse, 
catching on the horse's helm. It almost looked to be a magician's trick.
    The horse whinnied in terror, stumbled, threw its rider.
    Gaborn glanced over his back. He was now hundreds of yards from the 
flameweaver--out of range of his most dangerous spells.
    Having missed in his first attack, the flameweaver would now show his power 
in fury.
    Atop the hill, on the winding road ahead, a war horn sounded for a second 
time, calling King Orden's men to charge. The very thought terrified Gaborn. If 
King Orden charged, Raj Ahten would learn just how few soldiers Gaborn's father 
had.
    The skies darkened a second time, but the darkness held longer. Gaborn 
turned, spotted the flameweaver, hands raised. A ball of flame, bright and 
molten as the sun, formed between his fingers.
    Gaborn pressed his face close to his mount, smelled the horse's sweat, the 
sweet odor of its hair.
    The road ahead twisted east, though soon it would lead south. The road was 
broad, full of dust in this season, kicked up by the animals of thousands of 
traders. But ahead it led past some blackened trees to the promising shelter of 
the woods beyond. That is where the war horn had sounded. But if Gaborn left the 
road here, kept straight, he'd reach the woods more quickly.
    Once in the woods, out of the flameweaver's sight, he'd be safer.
    "Right, ho!" he shouted, urging the horses from the road. Ahead, Iome's 
mount obeyed the command, and the King's followed its lead. At the sudden turn, 
King Sylvarresta howled in fear, clung to his steed's neck. Gaborn let his mount 
leap an embankment like a hare, sailing over blackened logs.
    To Gaborn's left, the ball of flame hurtled past--having expanded to the 
size of a small wagon even as it lost power over the distance.
    The rush of heat and light smashed into the blackened turf, exploded. Black 
ash and fire worried in the air.
    Then Gaborn was racing through black tree trunks, dancing between trees, 
using them to shield his back. Even in death, they provided some protection.
    Raj Ahten's troops surged after, men shouting curses in Southern tongues. 
Faces lined with rage.
    Only the fact that he now had no cloak, nothing to protect him but his skin, 
reminded Gaborn of Binnesman's herbs in the pouch tied about his neck.
    Rue.
    He grasped the pouch, ripped it from his neck, and waved the thing in the 
air. The powdered leaves floated out like a cloud.
    The effect was devastating.
    The soldiers who hit that cloud of rue began hacking. Horses whinnied in 
pain, faltered and fell. Men shouted. Metal clanged on ground. Gaborn glanced 
back.
    A dozen knights lay coughing on the blackened hillside. Others had all 
veered from their inexplicably fallen comrades. Most of them had deemed it wise 
to retreat from the insistent blowing of the war horn, for they now raced 
full-tilt back to Castle Sylvarresta.
    Gaborn topped a small rise, saw the dirt road from the castle winding 
through a narrow valley.
    Among the blackened trees near the ridge top sat one lone warrior atop an 
unarmored gray mare. He wore his shield on his left hand--a small round device 
not much larger than a platter.
    Borenson, waiting. White teeth flashed beneath his red beard as the big 
guard smiled a welcome to his Prince. Gaborn never had thought he'd be so happy 
to see the green knight of House Orden on any warrior's shield.
    Borenson raised his war horn to his lips again, sounded a charge, and raced 
toward Gaborn. His steed leapt the corpse of a Frowth giant, lunged downhill.
    "Archers, draw!" Borenson shouted an obvious ruse. The valley beyond held 
nothing but blackened trees and stones. The guard drew a long-handled battle-axe 
from its sheath on his saddle, waved it above his head, thundered past Gaborn to 
cover the Prince's retreat.
    Only one of Raj Ahten's warriors had dared cross the ridge, come rushing 
down.
    A huge man on a black steed--his white war lance poised, like a spear of 
light. Yet even in the half-second as Gaborn reined his horse to wheel about, he 
glanced back.
    The knight wore blackened chain beneath a gold surcoat, with the emblem of 
Raj Ahten's wolves emblazoned in red. His lance, the color of ivory, had been 
stained with blood.
    The knight's high helm had white wings painted on it, signifying that he was 
no common soldier--but a captain of Raj Ahten's guard, an Invincible with no 
fewer than fifty endowments.
    Borenson could not equal the man.
    Yet Borenson spurred to meet the warrior head--on, his steed throwing dirt 
with every pounding of its hooves.
    Then Gaborn understood: his father's troops had fled, would not come to his 
rescue. Borenson had to kill this knight or die in the attempt, lest Raj Ahten 
learn the truth.
    Gaborn drew the short sword from the belt at his waist.
    The Invincible charged downhill, lance poised, holding as steady as the sun 
in the sky.
    Borenson raised his battle-axe high. The wise thing to do would be to time 
his swing, parry the lance before its tip speared his mail.
    But these were force warriors, and Gaborn did not know what kinds of 
strengths or talents the Invincible might have. Gaborn was not prepared for 
their tactics.
    Just as it appeared Borenson would be hit, he called "Clear!" His horse 
leapt and kicked.
    The Invincible buried his lance in the horse's neck. Only then did Gaborn 
see that this was a "pinned lance"--a lance held to the warrior's gauntlets with 
a metal pin. The pins helped when battling armored opponents, for it insured 
that the knight would not lose his grip when the lance hit metal.
    Unfortunately, one could not release the lance without removing the heavy 
steel cotter pins that held it to his gauntlet. Now as the lance buried itself 
in the horse's flesh and bone, such was the weight of the horse that the 
knight's arm wrenched up and back, then snapped, bones shattering even as his 
lance cracked under tremendous pressure.
    The Invincible howled in rage. His worthless right arm remained pinned to a 
broken lance.
    He grabbed for his mace with his left hand as Borenson launched from his own 
mount, swinging his wicked axe so hard that it pierced the Invincible's mail 
shirt, drove through his leather underjerkin, and buried its head in the hollow 
beneath the Invincible's throat.
    Borenson followed his weapon, the full weight of his shield slamming against 
the big knight. Both of them bowled over the back of the knight's horse, landed 
in the ash.
    Such fierce blows would have killed a normal man, but Raj Ahten's 
blood-crazed Invincible shouted a war cry, and shoved Borenson back downhill a 
few yards.
    The Invincible leapt to his feet, drew his mace. Gaborn wondered if the 
knight would live up to his name, for he seemed invincible. Some of these 
knights had over twenty endowments of stamina, could recover from nearly any 
blow.
    The Invincible rushed forward, a blur. Borenson lay on his back. He kicked, 
slamming an iron boot into the knight's ankle. A bone snapped like the cracking 
of an axle.
    The Invincible swung his mace. Borenson tried to block the blow with the 
edge of his shield. The shield crumpled under the impact, and the lower edge of 
it drove into Borenson's gut.
    Borenson groaned beneath the blow.
    Gaborn had nearly reached the battle, his own horse flying back uphill.
    Gaborn leapt from his horse's back. The Invincible whirled to meet him. The 
big man swung his mace high, ready to smash Gaborn under its iron spikes.
    The Invincible's full helm allowed no peripheral vision, so he could not see 
Gaborn till he turned. As he spun, Gaborn aimed his sword at the eye slits in 
the man's visor.
    The blade slid in with a sickening thud, and Gaborn let himself fall 
forward, knocking the knight backward, piercing his skull.
    He landed atop the armored knight, lay a moment, the breath knocked from 
him. Gasping. He looked the Invincible in the face, to be sure he was dead.
    The fine blade had driven through the eye slit up to the hilt, driven 
through the Invincible's skull, then punctured through the back of his helm. 
Even an Invincible could not survive such a devastating wound. This one had gone 
as limp as a jellyfish.
    Gaborn got up in shock, conscious of how close he'd come to death.
    He quickly assessed himself, checking for wounds, glanced uphill, afraid 
another knight might charge down.
    He tried to yank his short sword free of the Invincible's helm. The blade 
would not come loose.
    Gaborn climbed to his hands and knees, gazed at Borenson, panting. Borenson 
rolled to his stomach, began vomiting onto the charred earth.
    "Well met, my friend," Gaborn said, smiling. He felt as if it were the first 
time he'd smiled in weeks, though he'd left Borenson only two days past.
    Borenson spat on the ground, clearing his mouth, and smiled at Gaborn.
    "I really think you should get your butt out of here before Raj Ahten comes 
down the road."
    "Good to see you, too," Gaborn said.
    "I mean it," Borenson grumbled. "He'll not let you go so easily. Don't you 
realize that he came all this way just to destroy House Orden?"

     
     
Chapter 21
FAREWELL
     
    In the Dedicates" Keep, Chemoise grunted as she struggled to help her father 
from his bed of straw and dried lavender, dragged him out onto the green grass 
of the bailey so he could board the great wain for his trip back south. It was 
hard to move such a big man.
    No, it was not his weight that made dragging him difficult. Instead it was 
the way he clutched her, grasping fiercely at her shoulders, his powerful 
fingers digging into her skin like claws, his legs unable to relax enough to 
walk.
    She felt she had failed him years before, when she'd let him go south to 
fight Raj Ahten. She'd feared he would never return, that he'd be killed. She'd 
hoped her fear had been only a child's concerns. But now, after his years as a 
prisoner, Chemoise imagined she'd had a premonition, perhaps a cold certainty 
sent from her ancestors beyond the grave.
    So now she carried not only her father, but also the weight of her failure 
all those years before, a weight that somehow tangled with her feelings of 
inadequacy at having found herself pregnant. Her, the Princess's Maid of Honor.
    The western Great Hall in the Dedicates' Keep was huge, three stories tall, 
where fifteen hundred men slept on any given night. Smooth walnut planks covered 
the floors, and each wall held a huge hearth so the room could be kept 
comfortably warm all winter.
    The eastern Great Hall, on the far side of the bailey, held a third as many 
women.
    "Where...?" Chemoise's father asked as she dragged him past the rows of 
pallets where Dedicates lay.
    "South, to Longmont, I think," Chemoise said. "Raj Ahten has ordered you to 
be brought."
    "South," her father whispered a worried acknowledgment.
    Chemoise struggled to drag her father past a man who'd soiled his bed. If 
she'd had time, she'd have cared for the fellow. But the wain would leave any 
moment, and she couldn't risk being separated from her father. "You...come?" her 
father asked.
    "Of course," Chemoise said. She could not really promise such a thing. She 
could only throw herself on the mercy of Raj Ahten's men, hope they'd let her 
care for her father. They'd allow it, she told herself. Dedicates needed 
caretakers.
    "No!" her father grumbled. He quit trying to walk, suddenly let his feet 
drag, making her stagger to one side. She bore the weight, tried to carry him 
against his will.
    "Let die!" he whispered fiercely. "Feed...feed poison. Make sick. We die."
    It worried her how he pleaded. Killing himself was the only way he could 
strike back at Raj Ahten. Yet Chemoise could not bear the thought of killing any 
of these men, even though she knew that life for them would be horrible, chained 
to some dirty floor. She had to hope that her father would return someday, 
whole, undefiled.
    Chemoise hugged her father, bore him through the big oak door, into the 
light. The fresh wind carried the smell of rain. Everywhere, Raj Ahten's troops 
rushed to and fro, seeking the King's treasury and armory above the kitchens. 
She heard glass break down the street, the cries of merchants.
    She dragged her father to the huge, covered wain in the bailey. The sides 
and roof of the wain were made of thick oak planks, with only a thin grate to 
provide any light or fresh air. One of Raj Ahten's soldiers grabbed her father 
by the scruff of the neck, lifted him into the wain with no more care than if he 
were a sack of grain.
    "Ah, de last," the soldier said in a thick Muyyatin accent.
    "Yes," she said. The Raj's vectors were all in the wagon. The guard turned.
    Chemoise glanced down the road through the portcullis gate, startled, Iome, 
King Sylvarresta, two Days, and Prince Orden were riding fine horses down Market 
Street toward the city gates.
    She wanted to ride with them, or to shout a blessing to help them on their 
way.
    She waited while the guard wrestled her father through the door. The wagon 
shifted with the movement. At the front of the wagon, some horsemen expertly 
began to back four heavy horses into their traces, hitching them to the 
axletree.
    Chemoise climbed up the wagon steps, looked in. Fourteen Dedicates lay on 
straw inside the shadowed wagon. The place smelled fetid, of old sweat and urine 
that had worked into the floorboards and walls. Chemoise looked for a place to 
sit among the defeated men--the blind, the deaf, the idiots. At that moment, the 
guard was laying her father on the hay. He glanced over his shoulder at 
Chemoise.
    "No! You no get!" the guard shouted, hurrying up to push her back from the 
wagon door.
    "But--my father! My father is there!" Chemoise cried.
    "No! You no come!" the guard said, pushing her.
    Chemoise backed completely out the door of the great wagon, tried to find 
her footing on the ladder behind. The guard shoved her.
    She fell hard to the packed dirt of the bailey.
    "Ees military. For just military," the guard said, with a chopping motion of 
his hand.
    "Wait!" Chemoise cried. "My father is in there!"
    The guard stared impassively, as if a daughter's love for her father was a 
foreign concept.
    The guard rested his hand on the hilt of the curved dagger in his belt. 
Chemoise knew there would be no reasoning, no mercy.
    With a shout and a whistle, the driver of the huge wain urged the horses 
from the Dedicates' Keep. Guards ran before and behind the wagon.
    Chemoise couldn't follow the wagon to Longmont. She knew she'd never see her 
father again.

     
     
Chapter 22
A HARD CHOICE
     
    As Borenson smiled at Gaborn, watched the Prince suddenly reach the 
realization that Raj Ahten had come primarily to slay him and his father, a 
blackness came over Borenson's mind--a cloud of despair.
    He saw King Sylvarresta, told himself, I am not death. I am not the 
destroyer.
    He'd always tried to be a good soldier. Though he lived by the sword, he did 
not enjoy killing. He fought because he sought to protect others--to spare the 
lives of his friends, not to take the lives of his foes. Even his 
comrades-in-arms did not understand this. Though he smiled in battle, he smiled 
not in glee or from bloodlust. He did so because he'd learned long ago that the 
fey smile struck terror into the hearts of his opponents.
    He had an assignment from his King: to kill the Dedicates of Raj Ahten, even 
though those Dedicates might he his lord's oldest and dearest friends, even if 
the Dedicate was the King's own son.
    Borenson saw at a glance that King Sylvarresta had given his endowment. The 
idiot king no longer knew how to seat a horse. He leaned forward, eyes wide with 
fright, moaning incoherently, tied to the pommel of his saddle.
    There, Borenson assumed, beside the King rode Iome or the Queen--he could 
not tell which--all the glamour leached from her, skin as rough as cracked 
leather. Unrecognizable.
    I am not death, Borenson told himself, though he knew he'd have to bring 
death to these two. The thought sickened him.
    I have feasted at that King's table, Borenson told himself, remembering past 
years when Orden took Hostenfest with Sylvarresta. The smells of roast pork and 
new wine and turnips had always been strong at the table--fresh bread with 
honey, oranges from Mystarria. Sylvarresta had always been generous with his 
wine, free with his jokes.
    Had Borenson not thought the King too high above Borenson's own station, 
he'd have been proud to call him friend.
    On the Isle of Thwynn, where Borenson was born, the code of hospitality was 
clear: to rob or kill someone who fed you was dastardly. Those who did so were 
afforded no mercy when slain. Borenson had once seen a man stoned near to death 
for merely affronting his host.
    Borenson had ridden here hoping that he would not have to carry out his 
King's orders, hoping that the Dedicates' Keep would be so well guarded he'd 
never have a chance to gain entry, hoping that King Sylvarresta would have 
refused to grant an endowment to Raj Ahten.
    Iome. Borenson recognized the Princess now, not from her features but from 
her graceful build. He remembered one late night, seven years past, when he'd 
been sitting in the King's Keep beside a roaring fire, drinking mulled wine, 
while Orden and Sylvarresta traded humorous tales of hunts long past. On that 
occasion, young Iome, wakened by the loud laughter beneath her room, had come to 
listen.
    To Borenson's surprise, the Princess had come into the room and sat on his 
lap, where her feet could be near the fire. She had not sought out the King's 
lap, or that of one of the King's own guards. She'd chosen him, and just sat by 
the fire, gazing dreamily at his red beard. She'd been beautiful even as a 
child, and he'd felt protective, imagining that someday he might have a daughter 
so fine.
    Now Borenson smiled at Gaborn, tried to hide his rage, his own 
self-loathing, at the duty he must perform. I am not death.
    The dead enemy's warhorse had run downhill, stood now, ears back, regarding 
the situation calmly. Iome rode to it, whispered softly, and took its reins. The 
warhorse tried to nip her; Iome slapped its armored face, letting it know she 
was in command. She brought the horse to Borenson.
    She sat rigidly as she drew near; her yellowed eyes filled with fear. She 
said, "Here, Sir Borenson."
    Borenson didn't take the reins immediately. She was within striking range as 
she leaned near. Borenson could slap her with a mailed fist, break her neck 
without drawing a weapon. Yet here she stood, offering him a service, his host 
once again. He stood, unable to strike.
    "You've done my people a great service this day," she said, "dislodging Raj 
Ahten from Castle Sylvarresta."
    A thin hope rose in Borenson. It seemed barely possible that she did not 
serve as a vector for Raj Ahten, that she'd given her endowment only, and 
therefore did not pose a major threat to Mystarria. This would give him some 
reason to spare her.
    Borenson took the horse's reins, heart pounding. The stallion did not fight 
or shy from his foreign armor. It whipped its plaited tail, knocking flies from 
its rump.
    "Thank you, Princess," Borenson said with a heavy heart. I'm under orders to 
kill you, he wanted to say. I wish I'd never seen you. But he had to wonder at 
Gaborn's plan. Perhaps the Prince had a reason for bringing out the King and 
Iome, some reason Borenson didn't fathom.
    "I heard more horns in the woods," Iome said. "Where are your men? I would 
like to thank them."
    Borenson turned away, "They rode ahead an hour ago. We're alone here." It 
was not time to talk. He retrieved his weapons from his dead horse, strapped 
them to the enemy's warhorse, mounted up.
    They raced through the blackened woods down to the road, then followed it, 
thundering over one burned hill after another until they nearly reached some 
living trees, with their promise of shelter.
    By a burbling brook at the edge of the woods, Gaborn called a stop. Even a 
force horse with runes of power branded on its neck and breast needed to catch 
its wind and get a drink.
    Besides, in the green grass at the edge of the stream lay a soldier of House 
Orden. A black noman's spear protruded through the soldier's bloody neck. A 
gruesome reminder that although the small group would soon enter the woods, 
they'd still be in danger.
    True, Borenson and his men had hunted nomen all morning, had scattered this 
band. But nomen were crafty nocturnal hunters, and usually fought in small 
bands. So some bands would be here in the woods, hiding under the shadows, 
hunting.
    Gaborn dismounted as the horses drank, checked the soldier's body. He 
flipped open the man's visor.
    "Ah, poor Torin," Borenson grunted. He'd been a good soldier, had a fine 
talent with the morning star.
    Torin wore the normal dress of a Mystarrian warrior, black ring mail over a 
sheepskin jerkin. A dark-blue surcoat over the mail bore the emblem of 
Mystarria, the green knight--a man's face with oak leaves in its hair and beard. 
Gaborn traced the outline of the green knight on Torin's surcoat.
    "Beautiful colors," Gaborn whispered. "The most beautiful a man could wear." 
Gaborn began stripping Torin. "This is the second corpse I've had to rob today," 
Gaborn grumbled as if displeased at the prospect.
    "So, milord, you'll bring a new dignity to the profession," Borenson said, 
not wanting to discuss the problem facing him. He eyed Iome, saw terror in her 
posture.
    She knew what he had to do. Even she knew.
    Yet Gaborn seemed oblivious. Was Gaborn mad? Or just immature? What made him 
think he could escape Raj Ahten with a woman and an idiot in his charge? Fine 
horses are nothing if you can't ride them--and obviously Sylvarresta could not 
ride.
    "Where's my father?" Gaborn asked, stripping the corpse. 
    "Can't you guess?" Borenson said, unprepared for the question. "Right now, 
I'd say he's fifty miles from Longmont, hoping to reach it near dark. Raj Ahten 
has forty thousand forcibles there, buried among the turnips behind Bredsfor 
Manor. You know where the manor is?" Gaborn shook his head no.
    "On the road three miles south of the castle," Borenson said, "a gray 
building with a lead roof and two wings. We intercepted a message from the 
Duchess Laren that says Raj Ahten expects an army to reach Longmont within a day 
or two. Your father hopes to beat them to the treasure."
    "Raj Ahten knows this?" Gaborn asked, just as he got the ring mail untied 
from the body. "That's why he's abandoning Castle Sylvarresta? To reclaim the 
forcibles?"
    Gaborn obviously thought this foolhardy. He angrily unstrapped the dead 
man's jerkin. Borenson wondered what occupied the Prince's mind. Did he not see 
that Sylvarresta must be slain? What was the boy thinking? "Your father hoped to 
convince the Wolf Lord that Longmont was conquered days ago," Borenson 
explained, "and that he's been taking endowments day and night ever since."
    "A desperate bluff," Gaborn said, inspecting the sheepskin jerkin, looking 
close to see if it harbored fleas or lice. But if Torin had suffered from fleas 
in life, they'd all hopped away as soon as the body cooled.
    Gaborn put on the jerkin, pulled on the ring mail and the surcoat--all just 
a bit too large for him. A small shield lay by Torin's right hand--a target of 
wood, covered with a thin layer of brass, then painted dark blue. The lower edge 
of the shield was filed, so that if one slashed with that edge, it could slice a 
man's throat like a knife. Usually only a man with an endowment of metabolism 
kept such a small shield. Thrust quickly, it doubled as a weapon. Gaborn took 
the shield.
    "What of Raj Ahten?" Borenson asked. "I can see that he is on the move, but 
will he go to Longmont?"
    Gaborn said, "As Father hoped, he'll march within the hour."
    Borenson nodded. The sun shone in his blue eyes; he smiled. It was not a 
smile of relief. It was a hard smile, his battle smile. "Tell me," Borenson 
half-whispered, "where are you taking them?" He nodded at Iome, her idiot 
father.
    Gaborn said. "Longmont. I took the best horses in the King's stables. We can 
reach the castle by nightfall."
    Perhaps, if your charges knew how to ride, Borenson wanted to say. Borenson 
licked his lips, whispered, "It's a long journey, and hard. Perhaps you'd best 
leave Sylvarresta here, milord." He spoke as if it were a friendly suggestion, 
tried to hide the hard edge to his voice.
    "After all the trouble I went through to get them from Raj Ahten?" Gaborn 
asked.
    "Don't play the fool with me," Borenson spoke, voice rising in anger. His 
face felt hot; his whole body coiled. "Sylvarresta has long been our friend, but 
now he serves the Wolf Lord. How many endowments of wit does Sylvarresta vector 
to Raj Ahten? How many endowments of glamour does the Princess vector?"
    "It doesn't matter," Gaborn said. "I'll not kill friends."
    Borenson held a moment, trying to contain the rage building in him. Can even 
a prince afford such generosity? he wanted to shout. Yet he dared not give that 
insult. He reasoned instead. "They're friends no longer. They serve Raj Ahten."
    Gaborn said, "They may serve as vectors, but they chose to live, so that by 
living, they can serve their own people."
    "By letting Raj Ahten destroy Mystarria? Don't delude yourself. They serve 
your enemy, milord. Your enemy, and your father's and Mystarria's--and my 
enemies! It is a passive service--true--but they serve him no less than if they 
were warriors."
    Oh, how Borenson sometimes envied them--the Dedicates who lived like fat 
cattle on their lord's wealth, pampered.
    Certainly Gaborn must see that Borenson served his lord no less fully, gave 
his all, night and day. Borenson sweated and bled and suffered. He'd taken an 
endowment of metabolism, so that he aged two years for every other man's one. 
Though he was but twenty years old chronologically, little older than Gaborn, 
the hair on his head was falling out, and streaks of gray bled into his beard. 
For him, life rushed past as if he were adrift on a boat, watching the shore 
forever slipping by, unable to grasp anything, unable to hold on to anything.
    Meanwhile, people admired Dedicates for their "sacrifice." Borenson's own 
father had given an endowment of metabolism to one of the King's soldiers before 
Borenson was born, and had thus lain in an enchanted slumber these past twenty 
years. It seemed to Borenson a cheat, the way his father stayed young, the way 
he suffered nothing while the man he endowed grew old and faded. What did his 
father sacrifice?
    No, it was men like Borenson who suffered most for their lords, not some 
damned Dedicate, afraid to live his life.
    "You must kill them," Borenson urged.
    "I cannot," Gaborn answered.
    "Then, by all the awful Powers, you'll make me do it!" Borenson growled. He 
reached to pull his axe from its sheath, glanced toward King Sylvarresta. Iome 
had heard the scrape of the axe handle against leather, jerked at the sound, 
staring at Borenson.
    "Hold," Gaborn said softly. "I order you. They are under my protection. My 
sworn protection."
    A gust of wind sent ash skittering across the ground.
    "And I'm under order to kill Raj Ahten's Dedicates."
    "I countermand that order," Gaborn said firmly.
    "You can't!" Borenson said, tensing. "They're your father's orders, and 
yours cannot supersede his! Your father has given an order--a hard one that no 
man could envy. But I must carry it out. I will serve King Orden, even if you 
will not!"
    Borenson did not want to argue. He loved Gaborn as a brother. But Borenson 
could not see how he could ever be faithful to House Orden if the Prince and the 
King did not agree on this issue.
    In the distance, toward Castle Sylvarresta, the high call of Southern battle 
trumpets sounded--Raj Ahten marshaling his troops. Borenson's heart pounded. His 
men were supposed to delay the army, and even now were racing to Boar's Ford, 
where they would do little good.
    Borenson shoved his axe back into its sheath, drew his own horn, sounded two 
long blasts, two short. The call to prepare arms. Raj Ahten's troops would not 
hurry to Longmont if they had to watch for an ambush every moment. Almost, 
Borenson wished his troops were still here, that he had the men to fight.
    Borenson felt exposed at the edge of the woods. Gaborn took the helm off 
dead Torin, put it on his own head.
    Gaborn looked up. "Listen, Borenson: If we have forty thousand forcibles, my 
father has no need to kill his friends. He can slay Raj Ahten, then place 
Sylvarresta back on the throne where he belongs."
    "That is a frightening if" Borenson said. "Can we risk it? What if Raj Ahten 
kills your father? By sparing Sylvarresta, you may consign your father to 
death."
    Gaborn's face paled. Certainly the boy had seen this danger. Certainly he 
knew the stakes in this battle. But no, Borenson realized, the boy was too 
innocent. Gaborn promised, "I wouldn't let that happen."
    Borenson rolled his eyes, clenched his teeth.
    "Nor would I," Iome answered from where her horse stood beside the stream. 
"I'd rather kill myself than see another come to harm on my account."
    Borenson had tried to keep his voice down so she would not hear, but of 
course his voice had been rising in anger. He considered. At this moment, King 
Orden was racing to Longmont with fifteen hundred warriors. Messages had been 
sent to other castles, calling for aid. Perhaps three or four thousand might 
meet at Longmont before dawn.
    But Raj Ahten would stand at the head of a massive army, once his 
reinforcements arrived from the South.
    King Orden had to get those forcibles, and once he had them, he'd have to 
hole up in Castle Longmont. No castle in this realm could better withstand a 
siege.
    Desperate times call for desperate measures. In all likelihood, Raj Ahten 
had so many endowments from his people in the South that if Borenson killed 
Sylvarresta and Iome, it would gain no benefit for King Orden. That is what 
Gaborn believed.
    On the other hand, times were uncertain. Orden and other kings had sent 
assassins south. Perhaps even traitors in Raj Ahten's own lands would see his 
absence as a perfect time to bid for power. One could not discount the 
possibility that at any given moment, the endowments Raj Ahten had gained here 
in Heredon would become vital to him.
    No, Borenson needed to kill these vectors. He sighed. With a heavy heart, he 
pulled his war axe. Urged his mount forward.
    Gaborn caught the horse by the reins. "Stay away from them," he growled in a 
tone Borenson had never before heard from the Prince.
    "I have a duty," Borenson said, regretfully. He did not want to do it, but 
he'd argued the point so convincingly that now he saw he must.
    "And I'm obligated to protect Iome and her father," Gaborn said, "as one 
Oath-Bound Lord to another."
    "Oath-Bound Lord?" Borenson gasped. "No! You fool!" Now he saw it. Gaborn 
had been distant these past two weeks as they journeyed into Heredon. For the 
first time in his life, he'd been secretive. "It's true," Gaborn said. "I spoke 
the oath to Iome." "Who witnessed?" Borenson asked the first question that came 
to mind, "Iome, and her Maids of Honor." Borenson wondered if news of this oath 
could be covered. Perhaps by killing the witnesses, he could undo the damage. 
"And her Days."
    Borenson set his axe across the pommel of his saddle, looked hard at King 
Sylvarresta. Who knew how far this news had spread? From Iome's maids to the 
King's counselor, to all Heredon. He couldn't hide what Gaborn had done.
    Gaborn had a fierceness in his eyes. What pluck! The little ass! Borenson 
thought. He plans to fight me. He'd really fight me over this?
    Yet he knew it was true. To give the Oath of Protection was a serious 
matter, a sacred matter.
    Borenson didn't dare raise his hand against the Prince. It was treason. Even 
if he carried out Orden's commands in every other matter, he could be executed 
for striking the Prince.
    Gaborn had been watching Borenson's eyes, and now he ventured, "If you will 
not allow me to rescind my father's order, then I command you thus: Wait to 
carry it out. Wait until we reach Longmont, and I've spoken to my father."
    Gaborn might well reach the castle before Borenson. There, the King would be 
able to settle this tangled matter.
    Borenson closed his eyes and hung his head in sign of acquiescence. "As you 
command, milord," he said. Yet a horrible sense of guilt assailed. He'd been 
ordered to kill the Dedicates at Castle Sylvarresta, and if he slew the King and 
Iome now, he would thus spare other lives; he would spare all those who were 
vectored through these two.
    Yet to kill Sylvarresta would be cruel. Borenson did not want to murder a 
friend, regardless of the cost. And he dared not raise a weapon against his own 
Prince.
    Bits of arguments rushed at Borenson, fragmented. He looked up at King
    Sylvarresta, who had stopped moaning in fear, just as a jay went flying over 
the King's head in a streak of blue.
    But if I do not murder these two now, how many others must I kill in the 
Dedicates' Keep? How many endowments has Sylvarresta taken? Are the lives of 
these two worth more than the lives of their Dedicates?
    What harm has any of them done? Not one man in the keep would willingly toss 
a rotten apple at one of our people. Yet by their very existence, they lend 
power to Raj Ahten.
    Borenson clenched his teeth, lost in thought. Tears began to water his eyes.
    You will make me kill everyone vectored through these two, Borenson 
realized. That was his only choice. He loved his Prince, had always served 
faithfully.
    I'll do it, Borenson thought, though I hate myself forever after. I'll do it 
for you.
    No! some deep part of his mind shouted.
    Borenson opened his eyes, stared hard at Gaborn.
    Gaborn let go the reins of Borenson's mount, stood testily, as if he was 
still ready to try to pull Borenson from the saddle if the need arose.
    "Take them in peace, milord," Borenson said, trying to hide the sadness in 
his voice. Immediately Gaborn relaxed.
    "I'll need a weapon," Gaborn said. "Can I borrow one of yours?" Other than 
the black spear in Torin's throat, nothing was handy.
    The warhorse Borenson rode had a horseman's hammer sheathed from its 
previous owner. It was an inelegant weapon. Borenson knew that Gaborn preferred 
a saber, for he liked to slash and thrust quickly. But the hammer had its 
strengths: against an armored opponent, one could easily chop through chain mail 
or pierce a helm. The saber was as likely to snap in such a battle as to pierce 
a man's armor.
    Borenson pulled the hammer, tossed it to Gaborn. He did not rest easy with 
his decisions. Even now, he barely restrained himself from attacking 
Sylvarresta. I am not death, Borenson told himself. I am not death. It is not my 
duty to fight my Prince, to kill kings.
    "Hurry to Longmont," Borenson said at last with a sigh. "I smell a storm 
coming. It will hide your scent, make you harder to track. Take the main road 
south at first, but don't follow it all the way--the Hayworth bridge is burned. 
Go instead through the forest until you reach Ardamom's Ridge, then cut straight 
south to the Boar's Ford. Do you know where it is?"
    Gaborn shook his head. Of course he did not know.
    "I know," Iome said. Borenson studied her. Cool, confident, despite her 
ugliness. The Princess now showed no fear. At least she knew how to sit a horse.
    Borenson urged his warhorse forward a step, pulled the longspear from poor 
Torin's neck, snapped it off, and threw the bladed end to the Princess. She 
caught it in one hand.
    "Won't you escort us?" Gaborn asked.
    Doesn't he understand what I must do? Borenson wondered. Borenson had not 
yet confided that he planned to slay every Dedicate in the castle.
    No, Borenson decided. Gaborn didn't know what he planned. The lad was that 
innocent. Indeed, if the Prince had even the slightest notion what Borenson 
intended, Gaborn would try to stop him.
    Yet Borenson couldn't allow that. I'll do this alone, he thought. I'll take 
this evil upon me, stain my hands with blood so that you don't have to.
    "I've other duties," Borenson said, shaking his head. He soothed the Prince 
with a lie. "I'll shadow Raj Ahten's army, make certain he doesn't strike some 
unexpected target."
    To tell the truth, part of him wanted to escort Gaborn, to see him safe 
through the woods. He knew the Prince would need help. But Borenson did not 
trust himself to lead Gaborn for even an hour. At any moment, he might feel the 
need to turn on Gaborn, to kill good King Sylvarresta.
    "If it will make it easier for you," Gaborn said, "when I reach Longmont, 
I'll tell my father that I never saw you in the woods. He does not need to 
know."
    Borenson nodded, numb.

     
     
Chapter 23
THE HUNT BEGINS
     
    Raj Ahten stood above his dead Invincible, fists clenched. Downhill, his 
army marched for Longmont, archers running the winding road, their colored 
tunics making them look like a golden snake twisting through a black forest.
    Chancellor Jureem knelt over the fallen soldier, robes smudged, studying 
tracks in the ashes. It took no skill to see what had happened: One man. One man 
slew his master's Invincible, then stole his horse, rode off with Gaborn, King 
Sylvarresta, and his daughter. Jureem recognized the dead mare on the ground 
nearby. It had been ridden by Orden's surly messenger.
    The sight sickened him. If a few more soldiers had kept up the chase, Gaborn 
would surely have fallen into their hands.
    "There are but five of them," Feykaald said. "Heading cross-country, rather 
than over the road. We could send trackers--a dozen or so, but with Orden's 
soldiers in the wood, perhaps we should just let them go..."
    Raj Ahten licked his lips. Jureem saw that Feykaald couldn't even count. 
Only four people were heading over the trail. His master had lost two scouts to 
Gaborn already, along with war dogs, giants, a pyromancer--and now an 
Invincible. Prince Orden looked to be not much more than a boy, but Jureem began 
to wonder if he had secretly taken a great number of endowments.
    Raj Ahten's men had misjudged King Orden's whelp far too often. From the 
mounts he'd chosen, it appeared Gaborn would head into the woods, shun the 
highway.
    But why? Because he wanted to lead Raj Ahten into a trap? Did the boy have 
soldiers hidden in the forest?
    Or did he merely fear to travel by road? Raj Ahten had a few powerful force 
horses left in his retinue. Fine horses, bred for the plains and the desert, 
each with a lineage that went back a thousand years. Perhaps the lad knew his 
mounts could not outrun the Wolf Lord's horses over even ground.
    But Gaborn's mountain hunters, running without armor, with their thick bones 
and strong hindquarters, would be almost impossible to catch in this terrain. 
Jureem suspected that Gaborn and Iome would know these woods far better than 
even the most informed spy.
    Jureem drew a ragged breath, calculating how many men to send. Gaborn Val 
Orden would make a fine hostage, if the Wolf Lord found things at Longmont to be 
as he suspected.
    Though the woods were silent, little more than an hour ago Jureem had heard 
Orden's war horns blow in the Dunnwood.
    In all likelihood, Gaborn had already gained the company of Orden's 
soldiers, was surrounded by hundreds of guards. Yet...he could not just let 
Gaborn go. At the thought of Gaborn escaping, a rage burned in Jureem. Mindless, 
seething.
    "We should send men to find the boy," Jureem counseled. "Perhaps a hundred 
of our best scouts?"
    Raj Ahten straightened his back. "No. Get twenty of my best Invincibles, and 
strip their horses of armor. I'll also want twenty mastiffs to track the 
Prince."
    "As you wish, milord," Jureem said, turning away, as if to shout the orders 
down to the army that marched below. But a thought hit him. "Which of your 
captains shall lead?"
    "I'll be the captain," Raj Ahten, said. "Hunting the Prince should prove an 
interesting diversion."
    Jureem glanced at him sideways, raising a single dark brow. He bowed 
slightly, in acquiescence. "Do you think it wise, milord? Others could hunt him. 
Even I will come." The thought of such a ride, of the pain his buttocks would 
have to endure, gave Jureem pause.
    "Others might hunt him," Raj Ahten said, "but none as tenaciously as I."

     
     
Chapter 24
HOPE FOR A RAGGED PEOPLE
     
    The road to Longmont turned muddy in the late morning as storms rolled 
across the sky. King Orden raced south all the way to the village of Hayworth, a 
distance of ninety-eight miles. It was a peaceful town spread along the banks of 
the River Dwindell, a village with a small mill. Green hills rolled as far south 
as one could see, each hill covered in broad oaks.
    People here led a quiet life. Most were coopers who made barrels for wine 
and grain. In the spring, when the river swelled in flood, one could often see 
men on rafts made from hundreds of barrels all tied together, floating their 
goods down to market.
    It displeased Mendellas Orden to have to burn the bridge. He'd stopped here 
often in his journeys, savoring the fine ale brewed in the Dwindell Inn, which 
sat beside the bridge on a promontory, overlooking the river.
    But by the time Orden reached town, rain had soaked the bridge. Great 
rolling drops pelted his troops, dripped between the cracks of the four-inch 
planks. His men tried to light a fire where berry vines grew thick beneath the 
north end of the bridge. But the banks of the river were steep and the road 
sloped so that water draining down the street became a veritable creek.
    Orden had supposed a couple of well-oiled torches would do the job, but even 
they proved to be of little use.
    Orden was cursing his fortune when a couple of local boys pulled the 
innkeeper, old Stevedore Hark, out of the inn. Orden had been blessed by this 
man's hospitality many times.
    "Here, here, Your Highness, what are you and your men about?" the innkeeper 
said in a belligerent tone, waddling down the street. Orden's fifteen hundred 
troops seemed not to alarm the innkeeper in the least. He was a heavy man in 
baggy pants, an apron over his broad belly. His fat face showed red beneath his 
graying beard, and rain streamed over his cheeks. "I fear we must burn your 
bridge," Orden answered. "Raj Ahten will come down the highway tonight. I can't 
have him on my tail. I'll gladly reimburse the town for the inconvenience."
    "Oh, I don't think you'll burn that bridge any time soon," the innkeeper 
laughed. "Perhaps you'd better come in and have a drink. I can get you and some 
of your captains a nice stew, if you don't mind a thin broth."
    "Why won't it burn?" King Orden asked.
    "Magic," the innkeeper said. "Lightning struck it fifteen years back, burned 
it to the ground. So when we built it back again, we had a water wizard put a 
spell on it. Fire won't hold to that wood."
    Orden stood in the pouring rain, and the innkeeper's words took the heart 
from him. If he had had his own water wizard, he could easily have countered the 
spell. But he had no water wizard here. The way the rain was falling, perhaps 
the bridge could not be burned anyway.
    "We'll have to chop it through then," Orden said.
    "Here now," the innkeeper grumbled, "no call for that. If you want the 
bridge down, pull it down, but leave the planks so we can build it back again, 
after tomorrow. We can store them over in the mill."
    Orden considered his proposition. Stevedore Hark was more than the 
innkeeper, Orden recalled. He was also the mayor, a man with a keen eye for 
business. The bridge was made of huge planks, bored and doweled together. Three 
stone pillars planted in River Dwindell held the bridge. Pulling the bridge down 
piece by piece would take a bit longer, but with fifteen hundred men to perform 
the labor, it would come down fast enough. The Powers knew that even his force 
horses needed to rest.
    There was also a matter of friendship. Orden could not easily destroy the 
man's bridge. If he did, on the next trip through the town, he'd find that the 
ale had somehow all gone to vinegar. "I'd thank you to get me some dinner, then, 
my old friend," Orden said, "while we hide the bridge for you."
    The bargain was struck.
    While the rain poured and his men worked, Orden went into the Dwindell Inn, 
and sat brooding before a huge fire in the hearth.
    He'd been promised a quick dinner of undercooked stew, but half an hour 
later, the master of the inn himself brought out some bread pudding and a warmed 
joint of pork--from one of the great boars that made hunting in the Dunnwood 
famous. The meat smelled delicious, sprinkled with pepper and rosemary, 
marinated in dark beer, then baked on a bed of carrots, wild mushrooms, and 
hazelnuts. It tasted as fine as it smelled.
    And of course, it was strictly illegal. Commoners were not allowed to hunt 
the King's boars; Stevedore Hark could have been whipped for doing so.
    The meat was a fine and fitting gift. Though Hark had obviously hoped to 
lift Orden's spirits, his kind gesture had the opposite effect, throwing Orden 
into a dire melancholy that made him sit beside the fire, stroking his beard 
with his fingers, wondering at his own plans.
    How many times had he eaten at this inn on his trips to visit Sylvarresta? 
How often had he feasted on the bounty of these woods? How often had he thrilled 
to the baying of the hounds as they chased the great boars, taken joy in the 
toss of the javelin as he rode a pig down?
    The innkeeper's hospitality, the fineness of the meal, somehow made King 
Orden feel...desolate.
    Five years past, while Mendellas Orden hunted here, an assassin had broken 
into his keep, had slain his wife in her bed, with a newborn babe. It had been 
only six months since two daughters died in a previous attack. The murder of 
King Orden's wife and babe sparked outrage. Yet the killer was never 
apprehended. Trackers followed his trail, lost the assassin in the mountains 
south of Mystarria. He could have been escaping southeast into Inkarra, or he 
could have headed southwest to Indhopal.
    Orden had guessed Indhopal or Muyyatin. But he could not have struck out 
blindly at his neighbors, without proof.
    So he'd waited, and waited, for assassins to strike again, to come for him 
personally.
    They never did.
    Orden had lost a part of himself, he knew. He'd lost his wife, the one love 
of his life. He'd never remarried, planned never to remarry. If one cannot 
replace a lost hand or a leg, how can one hope to replace half of himself?
    For years now, he'd acutely felt the pain. With so many endowments of wit, 
he could perfectly recall her tone of voice, her face. In his dreams Corette yet 
walked and spoke with him. Often when he woke on a cold winter's morning, he 
felt surprised to find that her soft flesh was not cupping him, trying to drink 
his warmth, the way she had when still alive.
    He found it hard to describe the sense of loss he felt. King Orden had once 
tried to express it to himself.
    He did not feel that he had lost his future, that his life was at an end.
    His son was his future. King Orden would continue, go on without his wife, 
if the Powers so willed it.
    Nor did he feel he had lost his past, for Orden could remember perfectly the 
taste of Corette's kisses on the night of their wedding, the way she cried in 
joy when she first suckled Gaborn.
    No, it was the present he had lost. The opportunity to be with his wife, to 
love her, to spend each waking moment in her company.
    Yet as King Orden sat in the Dwindell Inn, eating roast off a fine china 
platter, he became keenly aware that something new had been ripped from him.
    His past was gone. All of his good memories would soon become unbearable. 
King Sylvarresta was not dead yet, so far as Orden knew, but sometime this 
evening, Borenson would try to carry out his orders. Orden would be forced to 
kill the man he most loved and admired. It was a foul thing, a bitter seasoning 
to a fine meal.
    Perhaps Stevedore Hark understood what he felt, for the innkeeper got a thin 
stew cooking for some of the men, then came to sit a few moments at Orden's 
feet, commiserating.
    "We heard the news last night from Castle Sylvarresta," he whispered. "Bad 
news. The worst of my life."
    "Aye, the worst in several lifetimes," Orden grunted, looking at the old 
innkeeper. Stevedore had gotten a few more white hairs in his sideburns this 
year. Indeed, his hair was more white now than grizzled.
    It was said that each year, the Time Lords would ring a silver bell, and at 
the ringing of the bell, all who heard it would age a year. For those whom the 
Time Lords disliked, a bell might be rung more than once, while those whom the 
Time Lords favored might not have such a bell rung in their presence at all.
    The Time Lords had not favored Stevedore Hark this year. His eyes looked 
puffy. From lack of sleep? No, the man would not have slept last night, after 
such tragic news.
    "Do you think you can dislodge the monster?" Stevedore asked. "He has you 
outnumbered."
    "I hope to dislodge him," Mendellas said.
    "If you do, then you will be our king," the innkeeper said flatly.
    King Orden had not considered the possibility. "No, your royal family is 
intact. If House Sylvarresta falls, the Countess of Arens is next in title."
    "Not likely. People won't follow her. She's married in Seward, too far away 
to rule. If you win back Heredon, the people will want no one but you for their 
lord."
    Orden's heart skipped at the thought. He'd always loved the woods, the hills 
of Heredon. He'd loved the clean, friendly people, the sparkling air. "I'll 
drive Raj Ahten out," Orden said. He knew it wouldn't be enough to drive Raj 
Ahten from this land. He'd have to go further. A Wolf Lord cannot be whipped 
like a pup. He must be slaughtered, like a mad dog.
    In his mind's eye, King Orden saw the war unfold before him, realized he'd 
have to prepare to head south, to strike Deyazz and Muyyatin and Indhopal come 
spring, from there sweep south into Khuram and Dharmad and the kingdoms beyond.
    Until all Raj Ahten's Dedicates lay dead, and the Wolf Lord himself could be 
slain.
    If he won this war, there would lands to plunder. He cared nothing for most 
of the Southern kingdoms, but he would take one thing: the blood-metal mines of 
Kartish, south of Indhopal.
    King Orden changed the conversation, talked with the innkeeper of days past, 
of hunts with Sylvarresta. Orden joked, "If the day should come that I'm king of 
Heredon, I suppose I'll have to invite you on my next hunt."
    "Indeed, I fear it is the only way you will keep me from poaching, Your 
Highness," Stevedore Hark laughed, then slapped the King on the back, a touch so 
familiar that no one in Mystarria would have dared anything similar.
    But Orden imagined that Sylvarresta had been slapped on the back by friends 
many times. He was that kind of man. The kind who did not have to be cold and 
distant to be kingly.
    "It is agreed then, my friend," Orden said. "You will come on my next hunt." 
Orden changed the subject. "Now, tonight, Raj Ahten's army should come here and 
find that the bridge is out. I ask a favor of you. Remind them that Boar's Ford 
is shallow enough to cross."
    "Well, that's where they'd naturally go, isn't it?" Hark asked.
    "They're strangers to this land," Orden said. "Their spies may only have 
marked bridges on their maps."
    "You have a surprise in mind?" Hark asked. Orden nodded. "Then I'll tell 
them."
    On that note the innkeeper went back to work. Soon after, the rain let up, 
and King Orden took his leave of the inn, ready to set back out on the march.
    He checked to make certain that the bridge at Hayworth was down, its huge 
beams and planks all safely stored, then let his men and horses finish their own 
brief meal.
    His captains had purchased grain for the horses, and kegs of ale were opened 
for his troops. Though his men lost an hour in their ride, they felt much 
invigorated afterward.
    So they set out on the road, much renewed, racing all the faster for 
Longmont.
    They proceeded through the Durkin Hills for the rest of the afternoon, 
marching near the mountains to reach Longmont before sunset.
    Castle Longmont sat on a steep, narrow hill among some downs, and had a 
cheery little town to its south and west. It was not huge, as castles go, but 
the walls rose incredibly high. The machicolations atop the walls were sturdily 
wrought. Archers could shoot through the machicolations or drop oil or stones on 
attackers from any part of the wall with little fear of reprisal.
    The stonework on the walls was phenomenal. Many stones weighed twelve to 
fourteen tons, yet the stones fit together so cleanly, a man was hard-pressed to 
find a fingerhold.
    Many considered Longmont unscalable. No one had ever achieved a successful 
escalade of the outer walls. The castle had fallen once, five hundred years 
earlier, when sappers managed to dig beneath the west wall, so that it 
collapsed.
    Other than that, the castle had never been taken.
    So as the troops neared Longmont, King Orden found himself longing for its 
safety. He felt unprepared for the scene of destruction before him.
    The village at the base of the castle had been destroyed--hundreds of homes, 
barns, and warehouses, all burned to their foundation stones. Smoke curled up 
from some of the houses. No cattle or sheep grazed the fields. Not an animal was 
in sight.
    The gray banners of Longmont rose on pennants on the castle towers, and had 
been draped over the castle walls. But the banners were all ripped and torn. 
Some few dozen soldiers manned the outer walls.
    Orden had expected to find the village as it had been when last he saw it. 
He wondered if some great battle had been fought here, unbeknownst to him.
    Then he realized what had befallen this land. The soldiers of Longmont had 
burned the town to its foundations and had brought in all the herds, expecting a 
siege by Raj Ahten's occupying forces on the morrow. By burning the city, they 
robbed the occupying forces of decent shelter. Here in these hills, with winter 
coming on, shelter would be a valuable commodity.
    As Orden's little army rode to the castle gates, he saw relief on the faces 
of the soldiers stationed on the walls. Someone sounded a war horn, a short riff 
played only when friendly reinforcements were spotted.
    The drawbridge came down.
    As King Orden rode through the gates, men cheered from the castle--but so 
few voices.
    He was not prepared for the sight that befell him: all along the walls 
inside the keep lay dead bodies and wounded townsfolk sitting in the open. Many 
wore armor--shields and helms robbed from Raj Ahten's defeated troops. Blood 
smeared the stonework along the outer wall-walks. Windows were broken. Axes, 
arrows, and spears sat stuck in the beams of buildings. A tower to a lordly 
manor had burned.
    There, outside the Duke's Keep, the Duke himself hung from a window by his 
own guts, just as Duchess Emmadine Ot Laren had described.
    Everywhere was sign of battle, few signs of survivors.
    Five thousand people had lived here. Five thousand men, women, and children 
who fought with tooth and dagger to dislodge Raj Ahten's men.
    They'd had no soldiers with heavy endowments and years of training. They'd 
had no great weapons. They had, perhaps, only an element of surprise, and their 
great hearts.
    They'd won the day, barely. Then the families had fled, fearing retribution 
from Raj Ahten.
    King Orden had anticipated that four or five thousand people would occupy 
this castle and town, people he could use to aid in his defense, people he could 
tap for endowments.
    Chickens and geese roosted on rooftops inside the keep. Some swine rooted 
just inside the bailey.
    Weak cheers greeted Orden, but they soon faded. One man called down from 
atop the Dedicates' Keep.
    "King Orden, what news have you of Sylvarresta?"
    Orden looked up. The man was dressed in a captain's smart attire. This would 
be Captain Cedrick Tempest, the Duchess's aide-de-camp, in temporary charge of 
the castle's defenses.
    "Castle Sylvarresta has fallen, and Raj Ahten's men hold it."
    Cold horror showed in Captain Tempest's face. Obviously the man hoped for 
better news. He could not have had more than a hundred men. He could not really 
defend this castle, merely hold down the fort in hope that Sylvarresta would 
send aid.
    "Take heart, men of Sylvarresta," Orden called, his Voice making his words 
ring from the walls. "Sylvarresta has a kingdom still, and we shall win it back 
for him!"
    The guards on the walls cheered, "Orden! Orden! Orden!"
    Orden turned to the man riding next to him, Captain Stroecker, and 
whispered, "Captain, go alone, south to the Bredsfor Manor, and check the turnip 
garden. Look for sign of fresh digging. You should find some forcibles buried 
there. If you do, bring me twenty forcibles with the runes of metabolism, then 
cover the rest. Hide them well."
    King Orden smiled and waved to the ragged defenders of Longmont. It would 
not do to bring all the forcibles back here in the castle--not when Raj Ahten 
might attack, tear the castle apart in his search for them.
    To the best of his knowledge, only three people alive knew where those 
forcibles lay hidden--himself, Borenson, and now Captain Stroecker.
    King Orden wanted to make certain it stayed that way.

     
     
Chapter 25
WHISPERS
     
    Iome had been in the Dunnwood for only an hour when she first heard the war 
dogs bay, a haunting sound that floated up like mist from the valley floor 
behind them.
    Wet splashes of rain had just begun to fall, and distant thunder shook the 
mountains. Contrary winds, blowing every which way, made it so that one moment 
the baying of the dogs came clear, then softened, then blew back to them.
    Here, on a rocky, barren ridge, the sound seemed far away, miles distant. 
Yet Iome knew the distance was deceiving. War dogs with endowments of brawn and 
metabolism could run miles in a matter of moments. The horses were already 
growing tired.
    "Do you hear them?" Iome shouted to Gaborn. "They're not far behind!"
    Gaborn glanced back as his mount leapt through some tall heather and plunged 
now into the deep woods. Gaborn's face was pale; he frowned in concentration. "I 
hear," he said. "Hurry."
    Hurry they did. Gaborn gripped his horseman's hammer, and instead of weaving 
among trees, he urged his mount forward and struck down branches so that Iome 
and her father did not have to dodge them.
    Iome feared this was a fool's race. Her father didn't know where he was, 
didn't know he stood in danger. He simply stared up, watching rain drop toward 
him. Oblivious.
    Her father didn't recall how to sit a horse, yet the men chasing them would 
be master horsemen.
    Gaborn responded to the danger by pushing them faster. When they cleared the 
large stand of pine, he raced his mount down a saddleback ridge, into deeper 
woods, heading west.
    The sound of hooves pounding, the straining lungs of the horses' breathing, 
was all swallowed by great dark trees, trees taller than any Iome recalled ever 
seeing in the Dunnwood.
    Here, the force horses ran with renewed speed. Gaborn gave them their heads, 
so that the beasts nearly flew down the canyon, into deepening gloom. Overhead, 
the skies boomed with the sound of thunder. The upper boughs of the pine trees 
swayed in the wind, and the trees creaked down to their roots, but no rain 
pounded in these woods. To be sure, fat droplets sometimes wove through the pine 
boughs, but not many.
    Because the horses raced so fast through these woods, Iome did not mind that 
Gaborn followed the canyon, deeper and deeper, so that they twisted around the 
roots of a mountain and found themselves heading northwest, circling back, 
somewhat, toward Castle Sylvarresta.
    But no, she decided after a bit--not toward the castle, deeper to the west, 
toward the Westwood. Toward the Seven Standing Stones in the heart of the wood.
    The thought unsettled her. No one ever went to the Seven Stones and 
lived--at least no one had seen them in the past several generations. Her father 
had told Iome that she need not fear the spirits that haunted the woods there 
among the stones. "Erden Geboren gave us these woods while he yet lived, and 
made us rulers of this land," he said. "He was a friend to the duskins, and so 
we are their friends."
    But even her father avoided the stones. Some said that the line of 
Sylvarresta had grown weak over generations. Others said the spirits of the 
duskins no longer remembered their oaths, and would not protect those who sought 
the stones.
    Iome considered these things for an hour as Gaborn raced west, through woods 
growing more dark and hoary by the minute, until at last they reached a certain 
level hilltop, and under the dark oaks she could see small holes all around, 
down in the forest floor, and from the holes she could hear distant cries and 
armor clanking, the whinny of horses, and the sounds of ancient battles.
    She knew this place: the Killing Field of Alnor. The holes were places where 
wights hid from the daylight. She shouted, "Gaborn, Gaborn: Turn south!"
    He looked back at her; his eyes were unfocused, like one lost in a dream. 
She pointed south, shouted, "That way!"
    To her relief, Gaborn turned south, spurred his horse up a long hill. In 
five minutes they reached the top of a mountain, came back out into a low wood 
of birch and oak, where the sun shone brightly. But with these trees, the limbs 
often came low to the ground, and gorse grew thick beneath them, so the horses 
slowed.
    Suddenly they leapt over a small ridge, into a wallow where a sounder of 
great boars lay resting beneath the shade of oaks. The ground here looked as if 
it were plowed, the pigs had rooted for acorns and worms so much.
    The boars squealed in rage to find the horses among them. A huge boar, its 
back coming even with the shoulder of Iome's mount, stood and grunted, swinging 
its great curved tusks menacingly.
    One moment her horse charged the boar, then the horse turned nimbly, almost 
throwing Iome from her saddle as she raced past the swine, headed downhill.
    Iome turned to see if the boar would give chase.
    But the force horses ran so swiftly, the pigs only grunted in surprise, then 
watched Iome depart from dark, beady eyes.
    Gaborn rode down a ridge through the birches, to a small river, perhaps 
forty feet wide. The river had a shallow, gravelly bottom.
    On seeing this river, Iome knew she was totally lost. She'd often ridden in 
the Dunnwood, but had kept to the eastern edge of the woods. She'd never seen 
this river. Was it the headwaters of the River Wye, or Fro Creek? If it was Fro 
Creek, it should have been dry this time of year. If it was the Wye, then they 
had wandered farther west over the past hour than even she'd imagined.
    Gaborn urged the mounts into the water, let them stand for a moment to 
drink. The horses sweated furiously, wheezing. The runes branded on their necks 
showed that each mount had four endowments of metabolism, and others of brawn 
and stamina. Iome did some quick mental calculations. She guessed they had been 
running the horses for nearly two hours without food or water, but that was the 
equivalent of running a common horse for eight. A common horse would have died 
three times over at such a furious pace. From the way these mounts gasped and 
sweated, she wasn't sure they'd live through the ordeal.
    "We have to rest the horses," Iome whispered to Gaborn.
    "Will our pursuers stop, do you think?" Gaborn asked.
    Iome knew they wouldn't. "But our horses will die."
    "They're strong mounts," Gaborn said, stating the obvious. "Those who hunt 
us will find that their horses will die first."
    "Can you be so sure?"
    Gaborn shook his head, uncertainly. "I only hope. I'm wearing light chain, 
the armor of my father's cavalry. But Raj Ahten's Invincibles have iron 
breastplates--with heavier gauntlets and greaves, and ring mail underneath. Each 
of their horses must carry a hundred pounds more than the most heavily laden of 
our beasts. Their mounts are fine animals for the desert, with wide hooves--but 
narrow shoes."
    "So you think they will go lame?"
    "I've chosen the rockiest ridges to jump our horses over. I can't imagine 
their mounts will stay shod long. Your horse has already lost a shoe. If I'm any 
judge, half their animals are lame already."
    Iome stared at Gaborn in fascination. She hadn't noticed that her mount had 
lost a shoe, but now stared down into the water, saw that her mount favored its 
left front hoof.
    "You have a devious mind, even for an Orden," she told Gaborn. She meant it 
as a compliment, but feared it came out sounding like an insult.
    He seemed to take no offense. "Battles such as ours are seldom won with 
arms," he said. "They're won on a broken hoof or a rider's fall." He looked down 
at his warhammer, resting across the pommel of his saddle like a rider's crop. 
Then added huskily, "If our pursuers catch us, I'll turn to fight, try to let 
you escape. But I tell you, I don't have either the weapons or the endowments to 
beat Raj Ahten's men."
    She understood. She desperately wanted to change the subject. "Where are you 
heading?"
    "Heading?" he asked. "To Boar's Ford, then to Longmont."
    She studied his eyes, half-hidden beneath his overlarge helm, to see if he 
lied or was merely mad. "Boar's Ford is southeast. You've been heading northwest 
most of the past two hours."
    "I have?" he asked, startled.
    "You have," she said. "I thought perhaps you were trying to deceive even 
Borenson. Are you afraid to take us to Longmont? Are you trying to protect me 
from your father?"
    Iome felt frightened. She was suspicious of Borenson, had not trusted the 
way he looked at her. He'd wanted to kill her, felt it was his duty. She feared 
he would attack her Dedicates, though Gaborn did not seem to worry about it. And 
when Borenson had said that he needed to watch Raj Ahten's troops, Iome had felt 
obligated to accept his explanation. Still, a worm of doubt burrowed in her 
skull.
    "Protect you from my father?" Gaborn asked, sounding only half-surprised at 
the accusation. "No."
    Iome did not know how to phrase her next question, but she spoke softly. "He 
will want us dead. He will see it as a necessity. He'll kill my father, and if 
he can't kill the woman that serves as my vector to Raj Ahten, he will want to 
kill me. Is that why you turn away from the path south?"
    She wondered if he so feared that road south, that without thought, without 
even knowing, he turned from it. Certainly, if King Orden felt it necessary to 
kill Sylvarresta, Gaborn would not dissuade him. The Prince would not be able to 
save her.
    "No," he said quite honestly, frowning, perplexed. Then he sat up straight, 
said, "Do you hear that?"
    Iome listened, held her breath. She expected to hear the baying of war dogs, 
or cries of pursuit, but she could hear nothing. Only wind on the ridge above 
them, suddenly gusting through yellow birch leaves.
    "I hear nothing," Iome admitted. "Your ears must be stronger than mine."
    "No--listen, up there in the trees! Can you hear it?" He pointed to the 
ridge above them, to the north and west.
    The wind suddenly stilled, the leaves quit twisting. Iome strained to hear 
something--the snap of a twig, the sound of stealthy steps. But she discerned 
nothing.
    Gaborn suddenly stood up in his stirrups, taller in the saddle, gazing into 
the trees.
    "What did you hear?" Iome whispered.
    "A voice, in the trees," Gaborn said. "It whispered."
    "What?" Iome urged her horse forward, studying the copse he spoke of, trying 
to see it from a different angle. But she could see nothing--only the white bark 
of trees, the green and golden leaves fluttering, and the shadows deeper within 
the grove. "What did it say?"
    "I've heard it three times today. At first I thought it called my name, but 
this time I heard it clearly. It called 'Erden, Erden Geboren.' "
    A chill ran down Iome's back.
    "We're too far west," she hissed. "There are wights here. They're speaking 
to you. We should go south, now, before it gets dark." Darkness would not come 
for another three hours, but they had come too close to the Westwood.
    "No!" Gaborn said, and he turned to Iome. He had a faraway look in his eyes, 
as one half-asleep. "If it is a spirit, it wishes us no harm!"
    "Perhaps not," Iome whispered fiercely, "but it is not worth the risk!" She 
feared the wights, her father's assurances aside.
    Gaborn gazed back at Iome, as if for a moment he'd forgotten she stood 
there. On the hill, the birch leaves shivered again. Iome looked toward the 
grove. The skies were drizzling, a slight gray rain that fell evenly, making it 
hard to see deeply into the grove.
    "There, it comes again!" Gaborn shouted. "Do you not hear it?"
    "I hear nothing," Iome admitted.
    Gaborn's eyes suddenly blazed. "I see it! I see now!" he whispered urgently. 
" 'Erden Geboren'--that is the old tongue for 'Earthborn.' The woods are angry 
with Raj Ahten. He has abused them. But I am Earthborn. They wish to protect 
me."
    "How do you know?" Iome asked. By claiming to be Earthborn, Gaborn was 
perhaps saying more than he knew. Erden Geboren was the last great king of 
Rofehavan when it had all been one nation. He had gifted these woods to his 
warden, Heredon Sylvarresta, after his brilliant service in the great wars 
against the reavers and the wizards of Toth. In time Iome's own forefathers had 
become called kings--and they were kings in their own right, but lesser kings 
than those who came from the loins of Geboren. Over the sixteen centuries since 
those days, Geboren's blood had spread widely among the nobility of Rofehavan, 
until it would be difficult to say who was most closely linked to the last great 
king.
    But with the union of the houses of Val and Orden, Gaborn could certainly 
contend for that honor--if he dared. By calling himself "Earth-born," was Gaborn 
suddenly claiming these woods, this kingdom, as his own?
    "I am certain," Gaborn answered. "These spirits--if spirits they be--wish us 
no harm."
    "No, that's not what I want to know," Iome said. "How can you be certain you 
are Earthborn?"
    "Binnesman named me that," Gaborn said easily, "in his garden. Earth asked 
me to swear an oath to protect it, and then Binnesman sprinkled me with soil and 
pronounced me Earthborn."
    Iome's jaw dropped. She'd known Binnesman all her life. The old herbalist 
had once told her that the Earth Wardens used to grant blessings upon new kings, 
anointing them with the dust of the earth they were sworn to protect. But this 
ceremony had not been performed for hundreds of years. According to Binnesman, 
Earth had "withdrawn such blessing" from current rulers.
    She recalled now Binnesman's words in her father's keep, as Raj Ahten 
questioned the old wizard. "The new King of the Earth is coming." She'd thought 
Binnesman spoke of King Orden, for he'd been the one to enter her father's realm 
on the day the stones spoke. Now she saw that it was not the old king whom Earth 
proclaimed: it was Gaborn, who would become king...
    Yet Raj Ahten believed Mendellas Orden was the king his pyromancers 
envisioned in the flames. Mendellas Orden was the king he feared, the one he 
rode to Longmont to destroy.
    Suddenly Iome felt so faint that she needed to dismount before she fell from 
her horse, for she had a premonition, a fear Mendellas Orden would meet Raj 
Ahten at Longmont, and that no power on earth could save King Orden in that 
battle.
    She slid from her saddle, stood a moment in the stream, letting cold water 
wash her ankles. She tried to think. She feared going to Longmont, for she knew 
that King Orden would want her dead. Yet she feared not going, for if Binnesman 
was right, then the only way Orden might be saved was if Gaborn was there to 
save him.
    By going to Longmont, she might well trade her life, and her father's, for 
King Orden's--a man whom she'd always disliked. Yet even if she did not like the 
man, did not trust him, she couldn't let him die.
    Nor could she sacrifice her own father for Orden's sake.
    Her father sat now on his horse, staring dumbly into the stream, oblivious 
of all that was said around him. Raindrops spattered him, and he glanced this 
way and that, trying to discern what had hit him. Hopeless. Hopelessly lost to 
her.
    Gaborn gazed down at Iome, as if worried at her health, and she realized he 
was oblivious of her dilemma. Gaborn hailed from Mystarria, from a kingdom near 
the ocean, where water wizards congregated. He had no knowledge of the lore of 
Earth Wardens. He had no idea that he'd been anointed to be King of the Earth. 
He had no idea that Raj Ahten feared him, would kill him, if only Raj Ahten knew 
Gaborn's identity.
    Wind gusted on the hill again; Gaborn listened as if to a distant voice. A 
few minutes ago, she'd wondered if Gaborn was mad. Now she realized that 
something marvelous was happening. The trees spoke to him, called him, for 
purposes neither he nor she understood.
    "What should we do now, milord!." Iome asked. She had never called any man 
but her father by that title, never submitted to another king. If Gaborn 
recognized the sudden shift in their relationship, he did not signal it.
    "We should go west," he whispered. "Toward the heart of the woods. Deeper."
    "Not south?" Iome asked. "Your father could be in danger--more danger than 
he knows. We might help him."
    Gaborn smiled at her words. "You worry for my father?" he said. "I love you 
for that, Princess Sylvarresta." Though he said the words lightly, she could not 
mistake the tone of his voice. He indeed felt grateful, and he loved her.
    The thought made her shiver, made her want him more than she'd ever wanted a 
man. Iome had always been sensitive to magics, knew that her desire for Gaborn 
was born of the earth powers growing in him. He was not handsome, she had to 
tell herself. Not really more handsome than any other man.
    Yet she felt drawn to him.
    How could he love me? she wondered. How could he love this face? It was like 
a wall between them, this loss of glamour, her loss of self-respect and hope. 
Yet when he spoke to her, when Gaborn assured her that he loved her, she felt 
warm all over. She dared hope.
    Gaborn frowned in thought, said softly. "No, we shouldn't go south. We need 
to follow our own track--west. I feel the spirits drawing me. My father is going 
to Longmont, where castle walls will enfold him. Bone of the earth. The earth 
powers can preserve him. He's safer there than we are here."
    With that, he urged his horse forward, reached down a hand to help lift Iome 
to her saddle.
    On the wind came the sound of war dogs baying in the far hills.

     
     
Chapter 26
A GIFT
     
    For long hours they raced, leaping over wind-fallen aspens, climbing up and 
down the hills. Iome let Gaborn lead the way, half in wonder at the trails he 
chose.
    Time became a blur--all the trees losing definition, time losing focus.
    At one point, Gaborn pointed out that Iome's father seemed to be riding 
better. As if some portion of his memories had opened, and he recognized once 
again how to sit light in a saddle.
    Iome wasn't so sure. Gaborn stopped the horses in a stream, and her father 
watched a fly buzz around his head as Gaborn asked time and again, "Can you 
ride? If I cut your hands loose from the saddle, will you hold on?"
    King Sylvarresta made no answer. Instead, he looked up into the sky and 
began squinting at the sun, making a noise like, "Gaaaagh. Gaaaaagh."
    Gaborn turned to Iome. "He could be saying yes."
    But when Iome looked into her father's eyes, she saw no light in them. He 
wasn't answering, just making senseless noise.
    Gaborn pulled out a knife, reached down, and slit the ropes that held King 
Sylvarresta's hands to the pommel of the saddle.
    King Sylvarresta seemed mesmerized by the knife, tried to grab it.
    "Don't touch the blade," Gaborn said. Her father grabbed it anyway, cut 
himself, and just stared at his bleeding hand in wonder. It was a small cut.
    "Hold on to the pommel of the saddle," Gaborn told King Sylvarresta, then 
wrapped the King's hand around the pommel. "Keep holding on."
    "Do you think it will work?" Iome asked.
    "I don't know. He's holding it tight enough now. He might stay on the 
horse."
    Iome felt torn between the desire to have her father safely tied to the 
saddle, and the desire to let him be free, unencumbered.
    "I'll watch him," Iome said. They let the horses forage for sweet grass 
alongside a hill for a few moments. Distant thunder was snarling over the 
mountains, and Iome became lost in thought. A thin rain began to fall. A golden 
butterfly flew near her father's mount, and caught his eye. He watched after it 
a moment, held out a hand toward it as it flew off into the shadowed woods.
    Moments later, they headed into the forest, into the deep gloom. The trees 
gave shelter from the brief rain showers. For another hour they rode, as the 
darkness deepened, until they reached some old trail in a burn.
    There, as they rode, another monarch butterfly flew up out of some weeds. 
Iome's father reached for it, called out.
    "Halt!" Iome shouted, leaping from her saddle. She ran to her father, who 
sat askew, listening to his force horse breathe, lamely reaching a hand out.
    "Bu-er-fly!" he shouted, grasping at the golden monarch that flashed ahead, 
as if racing the horses. "Bu-er-fly! Bu-er-fly!" Tears streamed from her 
father's eyes, tears of joy. If there was any pain behind those tears, any 
recognition of what he'd lost, Iome could not see it. These were tears of 
discovery.
    Iome's heart pounded. She grabbed her father's face, tried to pull him 
close. She'd hoped he would regain some wit, enough to talk. Now he had it. If 
he knew one word, he could learn more. He'd experienced his "wakening"--that 
moment when the connection between a new Dedicate and his lord became firm, when 
the bounds of an endowment solidified.
    In time, her father might learn her name, might know she loved him 
desperately. In time he might learn to control his bowels, feed himself.
    But for the moment, as she tried to pull him close, he saw her ruined face, 
cried out in terror, and drew away.
    King Sylvarresta was strong, so much stronger than her. With his endowments, 
he easily tore from her grasp, and pushed her so hard that she feared he'd 
broken her collarbone.
    It did not matter. The pain did not diminish her joy. Gaborn rode back to 
them, leaned over on his mount, and took King Sylvarresta's hand. "Here now, 
milord, don't be afraid," he soothed. He pulled the King's hand toward Iome, put 
the King's palm on the back of her hand, let him pet it. "See? She's nice. This 
is Iome, your beautiful daughter."
    "Iome," Iome said. "Remember? Do you remember me?"
    But if the King remembered her, he did not show it. His wide eyes were full 
of tears. He stroked her hand, but for the moment he could give her nothing 
more.
    "Iome," Gaborn whispered, "you need to get back on your horse. I know you 
can't hear them, but mastiffs are howling in the woods behind us. We don't have 
time to waste."
    Iome's heart pounded so hard she feared it would stop. Darkness could not be 
far away. The rain had momentarily halted.
    "All right," she said, and leapt on her horse. In the distance, war dogs 
began to bay, and nearby some lone wolf raised its voice in answer.

     
     
Chapter 27
THE UNFAVORED
     
    In the shadows of the birches, Jureem gazed down as his master's Invincibles 
took a moment to rest, throwing themselves on the ground. Beyond this ridge, the 
mountains wrinkled and folded like crumpled metal, and trees grew huge. Gaborn 
was fleeing into the darkest heart of the Dunnwood.
    Yet Jureem knew enough to fear this region, as did the Invincibles. Maps 
showed the Westwood only as a blank, and at its center was a crude sketch of the 
Seven Standing Stones of the Dunnwood. In Indhopal, it was said that the 
universe was a great tortoise. On the tortoise's back sat the Seven Stones, and 
on the stones rested the world. A silly legend, Jureem knew, but intriguing. For 
ancient tomes said that millennia ago, the duskins, the Lords of the Underworld, 
had erected the Seven Stones to "uphold the world."
    The Invincibles searched the ground under the birches for sign of Gaborn. 
Somehow, the Prince's scent eluded them, and now the mastiffs stood yapping 
stupidly, noses high, trying to catch the scent.
    It should not have happened. Young Prince Orden had three people a horse. 
Their scent should have been thick in the air, the prints of the horses' hooves 
deep in the ground. Yet even Raj Ahten could not smell the boy, and the earth 
was so dry and stony that it could not hold a print.
    Most of Raj Ahten's men were already unhorsed. Twelve horses dead, several 
dogs dead, too. The men who ran afoot should have been able to keep up with 
Gaborn, but complained, "This ground is too hard. We can't walk on it."
    An Invincible sat on a log, pulled off a boot. Jureem saw the black bruises 
on his sole, horrible blisters on his heels and toes. These rough hills had 
killed most of the horses and dogs. They'd kill men, too. So far, Jureem was 
lucky enough to retain a mount, though his butt hurt so badly he dared not climb 
off his horse for fear he'd never get back on. Even worse, he feared that at any 
moment his own horse would die. Not able to run with these men, he would be 
abandoned here in the woods.
    "How does he do it?" Raj Ahten wondered aloud. They'd followed Gaborn for 
six hours, astonished at how the Prince eluded them. Each time, it had been in a 
stand of birches. Each time, they'd lost Gaborn's scent completely, had to 
circle the trees until he reached pine. Yet it was getting harder and harder to 
find the Prince's trail.
    "Binnesman," Jureem said. "Binnesman has put some Earth Warden's spell on 
the Prince, hiding him." Gaborn was leading them all somewhere they did not want 
to go.
    One of Raj Ahten's captains, Salim al Daub, spoke with a soft, womanly 
voice. "O Light of the Earth," he said solemnly, "perhaps we had better 
relinquish this fruitless chase. The horses are dying. Your horse will die."
    Raj Ahten's magnificent horse did show signs of fatigue, but Jureem hardly 
imagined it would die.
    "Besides," Salim said, "this is not natural. The ground everywhere we walk 
is harder than stone, yet the Prince's horse runs over it like the wind. Leaves 
fall in his path, hiding his trail. Even you cannot smell him anymore. We are 
too near the heart of the haunted wood. Can't you hear it?"
    Raj Ahten fell silent, and his beautiful face went impassive as he listened. 
He had endowments of hearing from hundreds of men; he turned his ear to the 
woods, closed his eyes.
    Jureem imagined that his master could hear his men rustling about, the beats 
of their hearts, the drawing of their breaths, the strangling noises their 
stomachs made.
    Beyond that...must be silence. A pure, profound silence all across the dark 
valleys below. Jureem listened. No birds called, no squirrels chattered. A 
silence so deep that it was as if the very trees held their breath in 
anticipation.
    "I hear," Raj Ahten whispered.
    Jureem could feel the power of these woods, and he wondered. His master 
feared to attack Inkarra because it, too, harbored ancient powers--the powers of 
the arr. Yet here in the north the people of Heredon lived beside this wood and 
apparently did not harvest the power, or did not commune with it. Their 
ancestors had been a part of these woods, but now the northerners were sundered 
from the land, and had forgotten what they once knew.
    Or maybe not. Gaborn was aided by the wood. Raj Ahten had lost the boy's 
trail, lost it hopelessly.
    Now Raj Ahten turned his head to the northwest, and looked out over the 
valleys. The sun shone briefly on Raj Ahten as he gazed at a deep valley, far 
below.
    The heart of the silence seemed to lie there.
    "Gaborn is heading down there," Raj Ahten said with certainty.
    "O Great Brightness," Salim begged. "Haroun asks that you leave him here. He 
feels the presence of malevolent spirits. Your flameweavers attacked the forest, 
and the trees want retribution."
    Jureem did not know why this annoyed his master so. Perhaps it was because 
Salim asked him. Salim had long been a fine guard, but a failed assassin. He'd 
fallen from Raj Ahten's favor.
    Raj Ahten rode to Haroun, a trusted man who sat on a log, his shoes off, 
rubbing his maimed feet. "You wish to stay behind?" Raj Ahten asked.
    "If you please, Great One," the wounded man asked.
    Before Haroun could move, Raj Ahten drew a dagger, leaned over and planted 
it through his eye. Haroun gasped and tried to stand, then tripped backward over 
a log, gagging.
    Jureem and the Invincibles stared at their lord in fear.
    Raj Ahten asked, "Now, who else among you would like to stay behind?"

     
     
Chapter 28
AT THE SEVEN STANDING STONES
     
    Gaborn rode full-tilt, and though his mount was one of the strongest hunters 
in Mystarria, in the afternoon he felt it giving way beneath him.
    The stallion wheezed for breath. Its ears drooped, lying almost flat. 
Serious signs of fatigue. Now, when it leapt a tree or jumped some gorse, it did 
so recklessly, letting brambles scrape its hind legs, setting its feet loosely. 
If Gaborn did not stop soon, the horse would injure itself. In the past six 
hours, he'd traveled over a hundred miles, circling south, then heading back 
northwest.
    Gaborn felt certain Raj Ahten's scouts must have begun to lose mounts by 
now. He could hear but two or three dogs baying. Even Raj Ahten's war dogs had 
grown weary of the chase. Weary enough, he hoped, to make mistakes.
    He rode on, leading Iome through a narrow gorge. Night's shadows were 
falling.
    He could see quite well here. As if the eyebright administered the night 
before had not yet worn off. This amazed him, for he'd expected it to lose its 
effect long ago.
    He felt thoroughly lost, had no idea where he'd managed to end up, yet it 
was with a light heart that he raced down into a deep ravine, covered in pine.
    Here he found something he'd never expected to encounter so far into the 
Dunnwood--an ancient stone road. Pine needles had fallen on it over the ages, 
and trees grew up through the middle of it. Yet all in all, as he headed deeper 
into the gorge, the path could be tracked.
    It seemed a decidedly odd road, too narrow for even a narrow wagon, as if it 
were made to be trod by smaller feet.
    Iome must not have expected this road, either, for she watched it with wide 
eyes, looking this way and that. In the darkness, her pupils dilated.
    The woods grew silent as they rode for the next half-hour, and the trees 
grew immense. The trio descended from the pines into a grove of vast oaks, trees 
larger than Gaborn had ever seen or imagined, spreading wide over their heads, 
the oak boughs creaking softly in the night.
    Even the lowest branches rose eighty feet overhead. Old man's beard clung to 
those boughs in vast curtains, thirty and forty feet long.
    On the hill beside him, in the trees, Gaborn saw lights winking among the 
boles of trees. Tiny holes had been dug beneath a rock shelf. A ferrin warrior 
rushed before the light, his tail whipping.
    Wild ferrin, living off acorns and mushrooms. Some inhabited caves up there; 
others lived in the hollows of great oaks. Gaborn saw lights from their lamps 
among the immense roots and boles. City ferrin seldom built fires, since those 
attracted men who would dig the ferrin out of their burrows. Somehow, the 
presence of wild ferrin comforted Gaborn.
    He strained his ears, listening for sign of pursuit, but all he could hear 
was a river, somewhere off to his right, rushing down the ravine.
    Still the trail descended.
    The trees grew old and more vast. Few plants thrived beneath these trees--no 
gorse or winding vine maple. Instead the soft ground was covered in deep moss, 
unmarred by footprints.
    Yet as they traveled, Iome cried out, pointed deeper into the woods. Far 
back under the shadows, a gray form squatted--a heavyset, beardless man, 
watching them from enormous eyes.
    Gaborn called out to the old fellow, but he faded like a mist before the 
sun.
    "A wight!" Iome cried. "The ghost of a duskin."
    Gaborn had never seen a duskin. No human living ever had. But this looked 
nothing like the ghost of a man--it was too squat, too rounded.
    "If it is the spirit of a duskin, then all is well," Gaborn said, trying to 
put a good face on it. "They served our ancestors."
    Yet Gaborn did not believe for a moment that all was well. He spurred his 
horse onward a bit faster.
    "Wait!" Iome called. "We can't go forward. I've heard of this place. There 
is an old duskin road leading down to the Seven Standing Stones."
    Gaborn flinched at this news.
    The Seven Standing Stones lay at the heart of the Dunnwood, formed the 
center of its power.
    I should flee, he realized. Yet he wanted to reach those stones. The trees 
had called him.
    He listened for a long moment for sounds of pursuit. Distantly, he heard 
trees bending in the wind, speaking something...he could not quite distinguish.
    "It's not much farther," Gaborn told Iome, licking his lips. His heart 
hammered, and he knew it was true. Whatever lay ahead, it was not far distant.
    He spurred his horse into a canter, wanting to take advantage of the failing 
light by covering as much distance as possible.
    Ahead he heard a far-off rasping sound--like the buzz of rattlesnakes.
    He froze in his saddle. He'd never heard the sound before, but he recognized 
it from others' descriptions. It was the rasping of a reaver as air filtered 
from its lungs.
    "Halt!" he shouted, wanting to turn his horse and retreat.
    Yet almost immediately he heard a cry ahead, Binnesman calling, "Hold! Hold 
I say!" He sounded terrified.
    "Hurry!" Gaborn shouted and rode like a gale now, the horses' hooves 
drumming over the mossy road, beneath the black boughs.
    He drew his warhammer, and pounded the ribs of his failing horse with his 
heels.
    Sixteen hundred years ago, Heredon Sylvarresta had slain a reaver mage in 
the Dunnwood. The deed was legend. He'd put a lance through the roof of its 
mouth.
    Gaborn had no lance, did not know if a man could even kill a reaver with a 
warhammer.
    Iome shouted, "Wait! Stop!"
    Deeper the road dropped, into the endless ravine, so that when Gaborn tried 
to look up above the dark branches, he had the impression of endless land all 
around and above him.
    "The earth hide you..." the words rang in his mind. Iome and her father 
followed Gaborn down, until he felt as if at any moment he would be swallowed up 
into the belly of the earth.
    He raced under the great oaks, which spread above him taller than any he'd 
ever imagined, so he wondered if these had grown here since the world was first 
born--then suddenly he saw an end to the trees, an end to the trail ahead. The 
rasping of the reaver came from there.
    A ring of misshapen stones lay a couple of hundred yards off. Dark, 
mysterious, shaped somewhat like half-formed men. Gaborn raced to them in the 
starlight, hurtling under dark trees.
    Something seemed very wrong. Only moments before, at the top of the hill, 
the sun had been setting. It was dusk. Yet here, with the steep mountains rising 
all around--here in the deep hollow, full night had fallen.
    Glorious starlight shone all around.
    Though legend had named this place the Seven Standing Stones, it seemed the 
ring had not been named aptly. Only one stone stood now--the stone nearest to 
Gaborn, the stone facing him. Yet it was more than a stone. Once it might have 
seemed human. Its features were ragged and chipped with age, and the statue 
shone dimly with a greenish hue, as if foxfire played over its features. The 
other six stones, all of similar design, seemed to have fallen in dark ages 
past; all had toppled out from the center of the ring.
    And though they were of similar design, yet they were not. For this one's 
head lay askew, and another's leg was raised in the air, while a third looked as 
if it were trying to crawl away.
    A tremendous blast of light erupted from what Gaborn had taken to be a huge 
boulder--a beam of fire that struck the remaining statue at its feet. Gaborn saw 
movement as the boulder took a step, then another blast struck the statue, a 
blast of frost that froze the air, cracked the statue's edges, flaking them 
away.
    Before that single statue, a reaver mage spun to meet Gaborn.
    Binnesman shouted, "Gaborn! Beware!" though Gaborn could not see the old 
wizard.
    Gaborn first saw the reaver's head, row upon row of crystalline teeth 
flashing like ice in the starlight as its jaws gaped.
    It bore no common ancestor to man, looked like no other creature to walk the 
face of the earth, for its kind had evolved in the underworld, descended from 
organisms that formed countless ages ago in deep volcanic pools.
    Gaborn's first impression was of vastness. The reaver stood sixteen feet at 
the shoulder, so that its enormous leathery head, the width and length of a 
small wagon, towered above him though Gaborn rode on horseback. It had no eyes 
or ears or nose, only a row of hairlike sensors that skirted the back of its 
head, and followed the line of its jaw like a great mane.
    The reaver scrambled quick as a roach on four huge legs, each seemingly made 
only of blackened bone, that held its slimy abdomen well off the ground. As 
Gaborn drew near, it raised its massive arms threateningly, holding out a 
stalagmite as a weapon, a long rod of clear agate. Runes of fire burned in that 
rod. Dire symbols of the flameweavers.
    Gaborn did not fear the icy rows of teeth, or the deadly claws on each long 
arm. Reavers are fell warriors, but reaver mages are even more fell sorcerers.
    Indeed, the whole art of the Runelords had developed in mimicry of the 
reavers' magic. For when a reaver died, others of its kind would consume the 
body of the dead, absorb its knowledge, its strength, and its accumulated magic.
    And of all reavers, the mages were most fearsome, for they had amassed 
powers from hundreds of their dead.
    This one lunged sideways, and Gaborn heard the rasping of air exhaled from 
the vents on its back as his horse charged. He detected a whispering sound in 
that exhalation, the chanting of a spell.
    Gaborn shouted, putting all the force of his Voice into his call. He'd heard 
of warriors with such powerful voices that they could stun men with a shout.
    Gaborn had no such gift. But he knew that reavers sensed movement--whether 
it be sound or vibrations of something digging beneath their feet--and he hoped 
his shout would confuse the monster, blind it as he charged.
    The reaver pointed its stalagmite at him, hissed vehemently, and a coldness 
pierced Gaborn, an invisible beam that stung like the deepest winter. The air 
all around that beam turned to frost, and Gaborn raised his small shield.
    Legend said that the greatest of flameweavers' spells could draw the heat 
from a man, just as flameweavers could draw heat from a fire or from the 
sun--suck the warmth from a man's lungs and heart, leave him frozen on a sunny 
day.
    Yet the spell was so complex, required such concentration, that Gaborn had 
never heard of a flameweaver who'd mastered it.
    He felt that spell's touch now, and threw himself sideways in his saddle, 
dropped in a running dismount as his horse raced ahead. The chill struck him to 
the bone, left him gasping as he rushed behind his charger, let its body shield 
his attack.
    "No! Go back!" Binnesman cried from somewhere behind the ring of fallen 
statues.
    Gaborn inhaled deeply as he advanced on the monster. The reaver carried no 
scent. Reavers never do, for they mimic the scent of the soil around them.
    Yet the reaver mage rasped now, in terrible fury. The air hissed from the 
anterior of its long body.
    Gaborn's horse staggered beneath the beam of cold, and Gaborn leapt over the 
falling beast, rushed the reaver at stomach level, swinging his warhammer with 
all his might.
    The reaver mage tried to step back, tried to impale him with its staff. 
Gaborn dodged the blow and swung at its shoulder, buried the warhammer deep into 
the reaver's leathery gray hide. He quickly pulled the spike free and swung a 
second time, hoping to plunge deeper into the wound, when suddenly the reaver 
smashed the agate rod down at him.
    Gaborn's hammer hit its great paw, pierced a talon, and the iron T of his 
hammer smashed into the reaver's blazing rod. The agate staff shattered along 
its entire length, and flame leapt in the reaver's paw, a hot flash that erupted 
with explosive force, cracking the wooden haft of the warhammer.
    Iome rode in behind Gaborn now, shouting at the monster, and King 
Sylvarresta's horse danced to its left. The tumult and the horses circling round 
distracted the beast, so that it swung its great maw one way, then the other.
    What happened next, Gaborn did not see, for at that second, the reaver chose 
to flee--running over the top of him so that its huge abdomen knocked him 
backward.
    Gaborn hit the ground, the wind knocked from him as the reaver scrambled 
away. Gaborn wondered if he'd die from the blow. As a boy in tilting practice, 
he'd once fallen from his saddle, and a fully armored warhorse had trampled him. 
The reaver far outweighed the warhorse.
    Gaborn heard ribs crack. Lights flashed before his eyes, and he had the 
sense of falling, of swirling like a leaf into some deep and infinite chasm.
    When he regained consciousness, his teeth were chattering. He smelled some 
sweet leaves beneath his nose, and Binnesman had reached down beneath Gaborn's 
ring mail, was rubbing him with healing soils and whispering, "The earth heal 
you; the earth heal you."
    When the soil touched him, Gaborn's flesh seemed to warm. He still felt 
terribly cold, frozen to the bone, but the soil worked like a warming compress, 
easing each wound.
    "Will he live?" Iome asked.
    Binnesman nodded. "Here, the healing earth is very powerful. See--he opens 
his eyes."
    Gaborn's eyes fluttered. He stared, uncomprehending. His eyes could not 
focus. He tried to look at Binnesman, but it required so much effort.
    The old wizard stood over Gaborn, leaning on a wooden staff. He looked 
horrible. Grime and blood smeared his face. His clothing smelled charred, yet 
when his right hand brushed Gaborn, it felt deathly cold.
    The reaver had tried to kill Binnesman, too.
    There was a look about the wizard. He trembled, as if in pain and shock. 
Horror showed in every line of his face.
    The single standing statue was throbbing with light. Great icy blasts had 
chipped away corners of it, cracked it. Gaborn lay for a moment. He felt a 
bitter chill in the air. The sorceries of the reaver mage.
    Distant war dogs bayed. Binnesman whispered, "Gaborn?"
    The statue seemed to waver, and the aged half-human face carved into it 
glanced down at him. Gaborn thought his eyes were failing. But at that moment, 
the light within the statue died, turning black, like a candle snuffed out.
    A great splitting sound tore the air.
    "No! Not yet!" Binnesman cried, looking up toward the standing stone.
    As if in defiance of his plea, the great stone rent in two and tumbled, the 
head of it landing almost at Gaborn's feet. The ground groaned, as if the earth 
might shake apart.
    Gaborn's thoughts came sluggishly. He gazed at the huge statue, but ten feet 
from him, listened to war dogs baying.
    The Seven Stones have fallen, he realized. The stones that hold up the 
earth. "What? Happening?" Gaborn gasped.
    Binnesman looked into Gaborn's eye, and said softly, "It may be the end of 
the world."

     
     
Chapter 29
A WORLD GONE WRONG
     
    Binnesman leaned over Gaborn, peering at his wounds. "Light," he grumbled. A 
wan green light began emanating from his staff--not firelight, but the glow of 
hundreds of fireflies that had gathered on its knob. Some flew up, circled 
Binnesman's face.
    Gaborn could see the old man clearly now. His nose was blooded, and mud 
plastered his cheek. He did not look severely wounded, but he was clearly 
distraught.
    Binnesman smiled grimly at Gaborn and Iome, bent his ear, listening to the 
baying dogs in the woods. "Come, my friends. Get inside the circle, where we'll 
be safer."
    Iome seemed to need no prodding. She grabbed the reins of hers and her 
father's horse, pulled both mounts round the fallen statues.
    Gaborn rolled to his knees, felt his sore ribs. It pained him to breathe. 
Binnesman offered Gaborn his shoulder, and Gaborn hobbled into the circle of 
stones.
    His horse had already gone in, stood nibbling at the short grass, favoring 
its right front leg. Gaborn was grateful that it had survived the reaver's 
spell.
    Yet he felt reticent to enter that circle. He sensed earth power. It was 
old--a terrible place, he felt sure, to those who did not belong.
    "Come, Earthborn," Binnesman said.
    Iome walked rigidly, watching her feet, apparently unnerved by the power 
that emanated from below. Gaborn could feel it, palpable as the touch of 
sunlight on his skin, rising from beneath him, energizing every fiber of his 
being. Gaborn knelt to remove his boots, to feel the sensation more fully. The 
earth in this circle had a strong mineral smell. Though enormous oaks grew all 
round, taller than any he'd ever seen, none stood near the center of the 
circle--only a few low bushes with white berries. The earth smelled too potent, 
too vigorous for anything else to thrive. Gaborn pulled off his boots, sat on 
the grass.
    Binnesman stood gazing about, like a warrior surveying his battleground. "Do 
not be afraid," he whispered. "This is a place of great power for Earth 
Wardens." Yet he did not sound fully confident. He'd been battling the reaver 
here, and had been losing.
    Binnesman reached into the pocket of his robe, drew out some spade-shaped 
dogbane leaves, crushed and threw them.
    Up the ancient road, the baying of war dogs came fervently, high yips 
echoing through the limbs of ancient oaks. The sound sent chills down Gaborn's 
spine.
    He sat, head spinning, and said, "I heard trees calling me here."
    Binnesman nodded. "I asked them to. And I placed protective spells on you, 
to keep Raj Ahten from following. Though at such a distance, they did little 
good."
    "Why do the trees name me wrong?" Gaborn asked. "Why do they call me Erden 
Geboren?"
    "The trees here are old and forgetful," Binnesman said. "But they remember 
their king still, for this wood held allegiance to Erden Geboren. You are much 
like him. Besides, your father was supposed to have named you Erden Geboren."
    "What do you mean, 'supposed to have named' me?"
    Binnesman said, "The Lords of Time once said that when the seventh stone 
falls, Erden Geboren would come again to the stones with his Earth Warden and a 
retinue of faithful princes and kings, there to be crowned, there to plan for 
the end of their age, in hope that mankind might survive."
    "You would have anointed me king?" Gaborn asked.
    "If the world had not gone wrong," Binnesman said.
    "And Raj Ahten?"
    "Would have been one of your most ardent supporters, in a more perfect 
world. The obalin drew him here tonight, just as they drew you and King 
Sylvarresta." Binnesman nodded toward the fallen creature that looked like a 
statue.
    The obalin, these creatures had been called, though Gaborn had never heard 
the term.
    "Gaborn, we are in terrible jeopardy. Nothing is as it should be--the kings 
of all Rofehavan and Indhopal should be here tonight. Men who should have been 
great heroes in the war to come have either been slain or now lie as Dedicates 
in Raj Ahten's keeps. All the Powers shall rage in this war, but the protectors 
of the earth are few and weak."
    "I don't understand," Gaborn said.
    "I will try to make it clearer, when Raj Ahten arrives," Binnesman said.
    Of a sudden, the shadowy forms of the mastiffs burst from beneath the trees, 
their baying more fervent.
    Men and a few horses rushed out behind the dogs. Only three men rode still. 
The other mounts had succumbed during the chase. Twelve soldiers raced beside 
the horses. The fact that these twelve men had run so long, in armor, across 
such unforgiving terrain, made Gaborn nervous. Such warriors would be terribly 
powerful.
    The garish dogs with their red masks and fierce collars raced up to within a 
hundred feet of the fallen stones, then snarled and leapt as if they'd 
confronted a wall. The mastiffs looked like shadows thrown by a flickering fire. 
They would not come near Binnesman's dogbane. Some began racing around the 
fallen stones.
    "Quiet!" Binnesman said to the dogs. The fierce mastiffs cringed and tucked 
the stumps of their tails between their legs, daring not even to whimper.
    Jureem followed his master to the circle of fallen stones. His stallion 
sweated, drenched, as if it had swum a river. The horse's lungs worked like 
bellows. It would not have survived another ten miles of this chase.
    Jureem felt half-astonished to see Prince Orden's horses still alive, 
limping among the fallen statues.
    A strange scent filled the air--smoke and ice and dust.
    Raj Ahten stared hard at Gaborn, his glance askew, as if looking for 
something in particular.
    Something odd was going on, Jureem realized. All of the Seven Standing 
Stones lay fallen, like half-formed men--misshapen, as if in their death throes. 
The scents of smoke and ice said that a battle had been fought here. Binnesman 
was wounded, dirt and blood on his face.
    Overhead, a soft wind blew. The enormous oaks creaked in the slow wind, 
waving at the stars. Pale light glowed within the circle of fallen stones.
    The Earth Warden stood scrutinizing Raj Ahten's men from beneath bushy 
brows, starlight glowing on his wispy beard. Confident. Dirty and bloodied. 
Still, the wizard seemed too confident. Jureem wished that his master's 
flameweavers were here. It had been a mistake to enter these woods without them.
    Raj Ahten finally slipped from the back of his weary mount, stood holding 
the animal's reins. He smiled. "Prince Orden," Raj Ahten called in his most 
seductive voice while his men finished circling their quarry. "Your running 
comes to an end. You need not fear me. You need not run any longer. Come, my 
friend."
    Jureem felt the overawing draw of that voice. Surely the Prince would come 
to the Great Light now.
    But the Prince stood fast.
    "Princess, you, at least, would not refuse me?" the Great One asked.
    Jureem felt gratified to see Iome sway on her feet, compelled to draw 
closer.
    "No one will come with you," Binnesman said, stepping in front of her.
    "You cannot draw near, Raj Ahten--any more than can your dogs, or your 
warriors." Binnesman menacingly crushed leaves in his hand.
    Dogbane. Even when it was not in the hands of an Earth Warden, dogbane was 
as potent at driving away dogs as Solomon's Seal was at frightening off cobras. 
Raj Ahten's men began backing from the statues. The dogbane would not kill them. 
Yet their dogs' noses feared the scent.
    "Why have you come here?" Raj Ahten demanded of Binnesman. "This is none of 
your affair. Leave now, and no one will harm you."
    "More importantly," Binnesman said, "why have you come here? You are a king 
of men. Did you hear the trees calling?"
    "I heard nothing," Raj Ahten said.
    But Binnesman shook his head. "There are runes of concealment all about this 
place. Powerful runes. No man could have found it alone. Some greater Power drew 
you." He nodded knowingly, and his tone broached no argument.
    "Perhaps...I did hear a whisper, Earth Warden," Raj Ahten said. "But it was 
very faint, like the voices of the dead."
    "That is good. You are strong in the earth powers, and only they can 
preserve us. The end of an age is upon us. If our people are to survive, we must 
hold council. Earth called you, Rah Ahten, just as it calls to kings you have 
enslaved. Can you hear it now?" Binnesman stood at ease, gazing deep into Raj 
Ahten's eyes.
    "I feel it," Raj Ahten said. "This place is strong in the Power that you 
serve."
    Binnesman leaned on his staff. The light of fireflies shone on his face, 
which had an odd tint, a metallic sheen. Perhaps Binnesman had once been human, 
but his devotion to Earth had leached him of some of that humanity. Jureem 
realized that the wizard was perhaps as alien to mankind as any Frowth or 
ferrin.
    "And what of you?" Binnesman asked. "Could you serve this Power? Could you 
serve something greater than yourself?"
    "Why should I?" Raj Ahten asked. "My flameweavers ask me time and again to 
give myself into greater service to their Fires. But why should I? The Powers do 
not serve man."
    Binnesman cocked his head, as if listening deeply to Raj Ahten's words. "But 
they do--oft times, when our purposes agree. And they serve in return those who 
serve them."
    "Grudgingly they return service, when they serve at all."
    Binnesman nodded. "I am troubled by your lack of faith."
    Raj Ahten responded, "As I am troubled by your abundance of faith."
    Binnesman raised a bushy brow. "I never sought to trouble you. If I have 
offended, I beg forgiveness."
    Raj Ahten cocked his head to the side, studied young Gaborn. "Tell me, Earth 
Warden, what spell is this, that I cannot see the Prince, but instead see rocks 
or trees when I look at him? Such a spell would serve me well."
    Jureem wondered at such a strange question, for the Prince seemed...visible 
enough to him. He wore no mask or cloak.
    "It is a small thing, this spell," Binnesman answered. "But you asked 
another question of me but a moment ago. You asked why I had led you here. And I 
confess that I did lead you. Now I have something I want of you."
    "What do you want?" Raj Ahten asked.
    Binnesman said, waving to the stones that lay about, "These are the Seven 
Standing Stones of the Dunnwood. Doubtless you know of them. Perhaps you even 
know what a dire portent it is that they have fallen." He spoke sadly, as if he 
felt great loss.
    "I see them," Raj Ahten said. "In your tongue they are the obalin. In mine 
they are called the Coar Tangyasi--the Stones of Vigilance, or so the old 
scrolls name them. It is said that the duskins fashioned the watchers to protect 
mankind."
    "That is right," Binnesman said. "So you are familiar with the old scrolls. 
Then you know that the duskins were great wizards. Beside such, my power is 
nothing. Theirs were the powers of deep earth--of the shaping of things, of 
preservation. Mine is the power of the shallow earth--of the use of herbs and 
growing things.
    "Long ago, the reaver mages made war on the Underworld, slaughtering the 
duskins. The duskins could not adequately defend themselves. In time they knew 
they would be destroyed, and that the reavers would also seek to destroy 
mankind. So they sought to protect us, give us time to grow. They raised the 
obalin of the Dunnwood, channeled life into them.
    "In time, they were called the Seven Standing Stones. With eyes of stone 
they have watched the deep places of the world for us.
    "Often have the obalin whispered to our kings, warning of the presence of 
reavers. But the obalin's voices can only be heard by those attuned to the 
Earth. Thus, among men, those most sensitive to earth powers have been chosen as 
kings.
    "Surely, you, Raj Ahten, have felt urges that warned you to send your 
warriors to battle the reavers. You have been adept at thwarting them. Until 
now! Now the childhood of mankind is past. The reaver mages of the Underworld 
are free!"
    Raj Ahten stood thoughtfully through Binnesman's lesson. "I've fought 
reavers well enough in the past. But I fear that you put too much trust in your 
stones. The duskins never imagined the Runelords, nor guessed the power we would 
wield. It does not matter that a stone has fallen in the Dunnwood, any more than 
it matters that a leaf has fallen."
    Binnesman said, "Do not speak lightly of them. The obalin were more than 
mere stone, more by far." He looked down reverently. "But you, Raj Ahten, must 
fear the reavers that infest your borders. Perhaps you do not guess the full 
extent of the threat. When the obalin lived, one could learn much by touching 
them. Perhaps here is something you did not know: The reavers are in Kartish."
    In Kartish were the blood-metal mines. If the reavers captured them...
    Binnesman continued, "In your gullibility you've allied yourself with 
flameweavers, for they are strong in war. But it is no accident that reavers 
also serve fire. Nor was it an accident that a reaver came tonight and 
administered a deadly wound to the last of the obalin in an effort to hurry the 
end of man."
    Binnesman turned his back to Raj Ahten, as if no longer concerned with him, 
and said, "Yet, there are greater powers than those wielded by flame-weavers."
    Raj Ahten stepped toward Gaborn cautiously, as if he considered moving in to 
attack. Of the warriors here, only Raj Ahten had never taken an endowment from a 
dog. Thus, only he could have withstood Binnesman's dogbane. Certainly, the 
wizard and his rabble were no match for Raj Ahten.
    "Hold," Binnesman said, whirling. "Let no man even think of harming another 
on this ground. This place is strong in the earth power, and such power must be 
used to protect life, to save it. Not to take it."
    To Jureem's surprise, Raj Ahten halted in his advance, sheathed his weapon. 
Yet as Jureem considered, he realized that the wizard's words had held a 
compelling tone. "Let no man even think of harming another on this ground..."
    Binnesman held Raj Ahten with his eyes. "You say you want my help in 
fighting the reavers. Very well. I will help you, if you will join me. Give up 
your forcibles. Join us in our quest to serve the earth, Raj Ahten. Let its 
powers sustain you."
    Raj Ahten countered the offer: "Convince King Orden to give the forcibles 
back into my hands. Then we shall see..."
    Sadly, Binnesman shook his head. "You would not join us even then, I 
believe. You do not want so much to fight the reavers as you want the glory that 
would come from defeating them."
    Gaborn stepped forward and said earnestly. "Raj Ahten, please, listen to 
reason. The earth needs you. Serve the earth, as I do. I am sure that if I talk 
to my father, we can work out a plan. We can divide the forcibles among both 
nations, so that none need fear the other..."
    Gaborn stood, trembling, as if afraid to offer even this much. Obviously the 
young man doubted his ability to carry off such a scheme. Yet he seemed so 
earnest, every bit as earnest as the wizard.
    Raj Ahten dismissed Gaborn's offer without a reply and said to Binnesman, 
"You are right. I will not join you, Earth Warden--not because I seek honor, but 
because you serve the snakes and field mice as much as you do mankind. I do not 
trust you. Our affairs matter nothing to you." When he spoke of snakes and field 
mice, Raj Ahten glanced contemptuously toward young Prince Orden.
    "Ah, but the affairs of men matter very much to me," Binnesman said. "In my 
estimation, men may be no greater than field mice, but certainly men are no 
less."
    Raj Ahten said in a seductive voice, "Then serve me."
    Binnesman leapt up on a fallen obalin with all the energy of a young man. He 
stared down among the tiny white flowers that shone in the starlight, there 
among the circle of stones, and with a motion bade Prince Orden and the others 
to step back.
    He said to Raj Ahten. "You seek to use me as a weapon, but it is given to me 
only to protect. You lack faith in the power that I serve. Here then. Let me 
show you a weapon..."
    Jureem thought that the wizard would uncover some staff of power that lay 
hidden in the grass, or perhaps some ancient unbreakable sword.
    Binnesman's manner suddenly became somber, and he swung his staff above his 
head in three slow arcs, then reached down and, with its tip, pointed a few feet 
ahead.
    Suddenly a long swath of grass tore its roots away from the ground.
    There, on the dark earth, Jureem could discern what looked like bones, as if 
something had died here in ages past, and had lain rotting under the ground.
    But as he peered closer, Jureem saw that these were not bones--merely stones 
and sticks and roots that had been hidden. They appeared to be laid out in the 
form of a man. Jureem saw it first as Binnesman drew near a stone shaped like a 
head. Yellowed boars' tusks were arranged around the stone skull, like enormous 
teeth. There were dark holes in the stone, as if for eyes.
    As Jureem studied, he saw that other stones made up the bones of hands; the 
horns of oxen splayed out from them like claws.
    But if these stones and pieces of tree limb formed the skeleton of a man, 
then it was a strange man. Tendrils of roots lay among the stones and spars, 
forming odd networks, like veins running through the huge skeleton.
    Binnesman raised his staff. The oaks along the hills suddenly seemed to 
hiss. Wind stirred the high branches, so that leaves seemed to give voice. Yet 
here in the glade, the air was perfectly still.
    Terror filled Jureem, for he could feel earth power rising, as if at some 
unspoken request, from the stone beneath the ground, filling this little field.
    Binnesman again waved his staff high in slow circles as he chanted,
    "War is brooding. Peace is gone, here upon the glade. Earth is breathing. 
Life is born, from covenants long made.''
    Binnesman stopped moving his staff about, and stared hard at the pile of 
stones and wood. He breathed heavily, as if speaking these few words had cost 
him dear.
    The cadence of the chant was lost as Binnesman stared fixedly at the ground. 
He whispered to the dirt, "I've served the earth, and always shall. My life I 
give. Grant life to my creation. Grant a portion of the life I lost."
    In that moment, a strange and horrifying transformation occurred. A light, 
the color of emerald, began glowing brightly in Binnesman's chest, became a 
brilliant ball that exploded from him and smote the ground before him like a 
meteorite.
    In that moment, in an infinite moment, Binnesman screamed in pain and 
clutched his staff, suddenly leaning against it to hold him upright. The 
fireflies on the staff all flew up and buzzed about, so that Jureem could see 
the wizard easily.
    Binnesman's hair, which had been a nutty brown with streaks of gray, 
suddenly turned silver in the starlight. He leaned on the staff like a bent old 
man. His green cloak in that moment became washed in red, the russet shades of 
leaves in autumn, as if the wizard were some color-changing chameleon on the 
wall of Raj Ahten's Southern palace.
    Jureem gasped, realizing what had happened: The old wizard had given years 
of his life to that pile of sticks and bones at his feet.
    The earth surged as if in gratitude for his gift, emitted a groaning sound, 
as of timbers moving.
    If there were words in that noise, Jureem did not understand them. But 
Binnesman listened, as if the earth spoke to him. Then his manner became grave.
    He struggled slowly to lift his staff, looking weary almost to death, then 
began to wave his staff in circles again, and sparks now flew up from it in a 
blazing cloud. Binnesman chanted,
    "Dark flows your blood. Bright knit are your bones. Your heart is beating 
within the stone. Day lights your eyes, and fills your mind with thoughts of 
teeth and claws that rend."
    On the ground, the stones and horns and roots began to shiver and tremble. 
The spars that formed the bones of an arm rolled backward a pace. Binnesman 
threw his staff to the ground and shouted, "Arise now from the dust, my 
champion! Clothe yourself in flesh. I call your true name: Foul Deliverer, Fair 
Destroyer!"
    There was a clap of thunder as the dust of the earth rushed to obey his 
command, flowing toward the stones and wood, rushing like water or a low fog. 
Leaves and green grass, twigs and pebbles were all swirling into the mix.
    In one moment, there was but a pile of refuse strewn on the ground in its 
strange pattern, and the next moment, bones and sinew formed. Muscles pulsed and 
stretched, lungs gasped for one huge breath. Leaves and twigs and grass were 
woven into the flesh, mottling its body with a strange patina of greens and 
browns, reds and yellows.
    It all happened so quickly that Jureem could not really discern how the soil 
flowed up to give the being shape and life.
    "Foul Deliver, Fair Destroyer" raised a hand, incredibly long, as flesh 
formed. At first it seemed only a creature of dust, but rapidly the skin 
hardened, shining emerald along the neck and back, with the yellow mottling of 
faded leaves.
    He makes a warrior, Jureem thought. Hues of grass and the white of pebbles 
blossomed on the warrior's face and throat.
    The warrior struggled up to its knees, neck craning, starlight striking its 
eyes. The eyes were as flat and dead as pebbles from a river bottom, until the 
gleaming starlight caught them and reflected; then they began glowing brighter 
and brighter. Fierce intelligence filled those eyes--and peace, a sense of peace 
that made Jureem yearn to be somewhere else, something else.
    Jureem knew the meaning of this...creature. Among magicians, many sought to 
control earth powers. The most accomplished of these were the Arrdun, the great 
artificers and creators of magical implements among the arr. Compared with them, 
human Earth Wardens were often considered weak, for few Earth Wardens meddled in 
the affairs of men, and those who did took centuries to mature.
    But it was said that a mature Earth Warden was among the most fearsome 
creatures one could ever encounter.
    And the sign that an Earth Warden had matured came when he called forth his 
wylde--a creature born of the blood and bones of the earth, a living talisman 
that fought for its master. Eldehar had formed a giant horse to ride into battle 
against the Toth. Eldehar had said his wylde could be "destroyed, but never 
defeated."
    Jureem did not understand such oblique references to the Earth Wardens and 
their wyldes. Knowledge of them had faded over the millennia.
    Now as the wylde formed, everywhere, a terrible wind began to rise, 
shrieking about the treetops high in the glade, whipping through Jureem's hair. 
It had come fast and furiously, a veritable storm.
    Then the warrior began to grow hair--long green hair like seaweed that 
flowed down its back and over its shoulders, covering its breasts.
    As the warrior took full form, Jureem stood astonished, for he recognized 
the rounded breasts, the feminine curves assuming shape.
    A woman. A woman was forming, a tall and beautiful woman, with graceful 
curves, long hair, and clean limbs.
    Jureem gasped. The wylde shouted a cry that shook the earth as the wind 
struck, lifted her in the air--so that she became a streak of green climbing 
high above the trees toward the south. Then she was gone.
    The glade became quiet. The wind stilled.
    Jureem stood, dumbfounded. He did not know if this was what Binnesman had 
sought. Had his wylde leapt away on some errand? Had the wind carried her off?
    Had it really even been a green woman?
    Jureem's heart was pounding, and he stood breathless, overawed. Confused. He 
looked to his left and to his right, to see the reactions of the soldiers. It 
had all happened so quickly.
    Prince Orden's mount neighed in terror, reared back and pawed the air 
nervously. To the horse it would have seemed that the green woman simply 
materialized at its feet.
    "Peace," Binnesman said to the horse. It calmed at his admonition, and 
Binnesman gazed steadily upward, where his creation had disappeared into the 
sky.
    He appeared...crestfallen.
    Something was wrong. Binnesman had not expected the wylde to flee like this.
    Now Binnesman was drained. Weakened. Old and hunched in his crimson robes. 
If he'd planned for the wylde to fight for him, then the plan seemed to have 
gone horribly awry. Binnesman hung his head and shook it in dismay.
    "Faagh," Raj Ahten hissed. "What have you done, you old fool of a wizard? 
Where is the wylde? You promised me a weapon."
    Binnesman shook his head.
    "Are you so inept?" Raj Ahten demanded.
    Binnesman glanced at Raj Ahten, gave him a wary look. "It is not an easy 
thing to draw a wylde from the earth. It has a mind of its own, and it knows the 
earth's enemies better than I. Perhaps urgent matters call it elsewhere."
    Binnesman held out a hand toward Raj Ahten's horse. The three remaining 
horses all responded by moving toward him, and Jureem had to fight his mount a 
moment, to keep it from stepping forward.
    "What are you doing?" Raj Ahten asked.
    Binnesman answered, "It is growing late. It is time for the enemies of the 
earth to rest their eyes, and to dream of peace."
    Jureem fought his horse and watched in wonder as, almost instantly, Raj 
Ahten and his soldiers fell asleep. Most of them fell to the earth, snoring 
deeply, but Raj Ahten himself stood in place as he slept.
    The old wizard looked at the sleeping warriors and whispered, "Beware, Raj 
Ahten. Beware of Longmont."
    Then he looked up, caught Jureem's eye. "You are still awake? What a wonder! 
You alone among them are not an enemy of earth."
    Jureem fumbled for words, aghast to see his master thus subdued, astonished 
to see the old wizard and his charges still alive.
    "I...serve my master, but I wish the earth no harm."
    "You cannot serve both him and the earth," Binnesman said, climbing up onto 
Raj Ahten's mount. "I know his heart now. He would destroy the earth."
    "I am a king's man," Jureem said, for he could think of nothing else to say. 
His father had been a slave, and his father's father. He knew how to serve a 
king, and how to serve well.
    "The Earth King is coming," Binnesman said. "If you would serve a king, 
serve him."
    With a nod, he indicated for Prince Orden and Iome to mount up. King 
Sylvarresta was still a horse.
    Binnesman gave Jureem a long look. Then the wizard and his charges rode into 
the night, back up the road from which they'd come.
    For a long time, Jureem sat a horse, watching as Raj Ahten slept.
    The night seemed darker than any that Jureem could recall, though the stars 
were shining fierce enough. "A king is coming," the pyromancer had warned before 
her death. "A king who can destroy you."
    Not since Erden Geboren, two thousand years ago, had an Earth King risen in 
the land. Now King Orden had come. At Longmont, King Orden would be preparing 
for Raj Ahten's attack.
    Jureem gazed down at the obalin. Where once the Seven Stones had stood, now 
the creatures lay in ruin. He wondered at this portent. His heart pounded. He 
felt the warm night air, tasted the mineral tang of earth scent. Almost he 
turned to follow the wizard. But the sound of the horses' hooves was lost in the 
night.
    He stared at his master.
    For years Jureem had given his all to the Great One, had followed his every 
whim. He had struggled to be a good servant. Now, he looked into his own heart 
and began to wonder why.
    There was a time, a decade ago, when Raj Ahten had talked often of 
consolidating forces, of uniting the kings of the South under a single banner to 
repel the attacks of reavers. Somehow, over the years, the dream had changed, 
become twisted.
    The "Great Light," Jureem had called him, as if Raj Ahten were a Bright One 
or a Glory from the netherworld.
    Jureem turned his own horse.
    I am the weakest man here, he told himself. Yet perhaps Orden will accept my 
service.
    I will be branded a traitor, Jureem thought. If I leave now, Raj Ahten will 
believe that I am the spy who warned Orden where to find the forcibles.
    Jureem considered. So be it. If I am branded a traitor, I will become one. 
He had many secrets that he could divulge. And if he left Raj Ahten's service, 
then it meant that the Wolf Lord would still have a spy in his midst.
    He will expect me to head south, to Longmont, Jureem thought. And in time I 
will head south, to seek out Orden. But for tonight, I will head north to find a 
barn or a shed to sleep in.
    He felt weary to the bone, and had no strength for a long ride. He rode hard 
into the night.

     
     
BOOK 4

DAY 22 IN THE MONTH OF HARVEST
A DAY OF SLAUGHTER

Chapter 30
DEATH COMES TO THE HOUSE OF A FRIEND
     
    Wind gusted from the southeast, carrying the smell of rain; dark clouds 
rushed behind it, covering the forest. Borenson heard distant thunder, but he 
could also hear neighing on the wind that afternoon, smell horses. Raj Ahten's 
troops were marching over the blackened hills.
    It had been but half an hour since Gaborn mounted his horse, and with a nod, 
Borenson wished them good speed. In a moment Gaborn, Iome, and King Sylvarresta 
spurred up the ash-covered hill, into the shelter of the woods. A few snaps of 
branches and the snort of a horse announced their departure, yet the horses 
moved so swiftly, in a moment even those sounds faded.
    Borenson also rode his warhorse to the edge of the silent woods, taking a 
different track. Ahead lay a line of ancient oaks and ash--many of which had the 
tips of branches burned to nothing.
    But as he neared the tree line, Borenson noticed something that only now 
struck him as incredibly odd: It looked as if there were an invisible wall 
before him, and the trees beyond it had not caught fire. Not a brown twig had 
kindled, not a spider's web burned.
    As if...the flames had raged before the trees, incinerating everything, 
until the trees had said, "These woods are ours. You can come no farther."
    Or perhaps, Borenson reasoned, the unnatural fire had turned aside for 
reasons of its own. An elemental had consciously directed the flames for a time, 
before it lost focus, faded.
    Borenson halted just outside the line of trees, listening, afraid to go in. 
No birds sang under the trees. No mice or ferrin rustled through dead leaves 
under the boughs. Old man's beard hung from the hoary oaks in an odd way, like 
great curtains. This was an ancient forest, vast.
    Borenson had hunted these haunted woods, but he'd never ridden through them 
alone. He knew the dangers of doing so.
    No, it was not the fire that turned away, Borenson reasoned. The forest had 
confounded it. Old trees lived here, trees old enough to remember when the 
duskins first raised the Seven Stones. Ancient spirits walked here, powers that 
no man should face alone.
    He thought he could feel them now, regarding him. A malevolent force that 
caused the air to weigh heavy. He looked up at the graying skies, the lowering 
clouds sailing in from the southeast. Wind buffeted him.
    "I'm not your enemy," Borenson whispered to the trees. "If you seek enemies, 
you'll find them soon enough. They come."
    Cautiously, reverently, Borenson urged his mount to walk under the dark 
boughs. Only a few yards, far enough so he could tie the big warhorse in a 
shallow ravine, then creep back to the wood's edge to watch Raj Ahten's army 
pass on the road below.
    He did not have to wait long.
    In a few moments, twenty men raced over the hills below, war dogs leaping to 
keep ahead. To Borenson's horror, Raj Ahten himself led them.
    For a moment, Borenson feared the trackers would follow his trail, but down 
by the river they stopped for a long time, searching the ground at the spot 
where Gaborn had taken Torin's armor.
    Borenson made out some muffled shouting, but did not understand the dialect 
of Indhopalese the men spoke. They hailed from a Southern province, but Borenson 
knew only a few curse words in the Northern dialect.
    Raj Ahten recognized that Gaborn's party had split.
    They followed Gaborn. Borenson felt terrified, wondered why Raj Ahten 
himself would head a party to capture Gaborn. Perhaps the Wolf Lord valued Iome 
and Sylvarresta more than Borenson imagined. Or perhaps he wanted Gaborn as a 
hostage.
    Silently, he willed Gaborn to hurry, to ride hard and fast and never slow 
till he reached Longmont.
    The trackers had hardly raced over the hills to Borenson's left when the 
army of the Wolf Lord came marching down the road, their golden surcoats bright 
in the last rays of sunlight before the oncoming storm.
    Archers came first, thousands strong, marching four abreast. Mounted knights 
followed, a thousand. Then came Raj Ahten's counselors and magicians.
    Borenson cared little for the Wolf Lord's soldiers. Instead he watched what 
followed next. A huge wain, encased in wood. A wagon to hold Dedicates--probably 
fewer than three dozen of them. The wagon was guarded closely by hundreds of 
Invincibles.
    An arrow could not pierce its wooden walls. Borenson could see that one man 
alone would find it impossible to assault the wagon's occupants. No, he knew the 
truth.
    Raj Ahten could haul only a few vectors with him, hoping no one would 
slaughter the hundreds of poor Dedicates in Sylvarresta's keep, or in other 
castles he might have taken here in the North.
    When the Dedicates' wagon passed, when the cooks and armorers and camp 
followers and another thousand swordsmen hurried past, followed by the last 
thousand archers in the rear guard, Borenson grimly realized that killing Raj 
Ahten's vectors would be impossible.
    He would have to concentrate on breaking into the Dedicates' Keep in Castle 
Sylvarresta. He worried at how many guards waited for him.
    He sat at the edge of the wood for long hours, while the storm brewed and 
clouds engulfed the sky. Winds began to send dry leaves skittering from the 
trees. As evening neared, the clouds hurled bolts of lightning through the 
heavens. Rain fell thick, unrelenting.
    Borenson drew a blanket over his head and wondered about Myrrima, back in 
Bannisferre. She had three Dedicates--her witless mother and two ugly sisters. 
They'd given up much to unite the family, to win their fight against poverty. 
Myrrima had told Borenson, on the trip to her house, how her father had died.
    "My mother was raised in a manor, and had endowments of her own," she said. 
"And my father was a man of wealth, at one time. He sold fine clothes in the 
market, made winter coats for ladies. But a fire burned his shop, and his coats 
burned with him. All the family gold must have burned in that fire, too, for we 
never found any of it."
    It was a proud way to say that her father had been murdered, killed in a 
robbery.
    "My grandfather is still alive, but he has taken a young wife who spends 
more than he brings in."
    Borenson had wondered what she was getting at, until she whispered part of 
an old adage. "Fortune is a boat..." on a stormy sea, which rises and falls with 
each mountainous wave.
    Myrrima, he'd realized, had been telling him that she did not trust fortune. 
Though their arranged marriage might seem fortunate at the moment, it was only 
because, for the moment, they crested the wave, and she feared that at any 
second her little boat would crash down deep in some trough, perhaps be 
submerged forever.
    That was how Borenson felt now, submerged, drowning, hoping to keep afloat. 
The whole notion of sending one man to storm a Dedicates' Keep was a long shot. 
In all probability, Borenson would arrive at the keep, find it well guarded, and 
have to retreat.
    But he knew, he knew, that even if he had only a slim chance of breaking 
into the keep, he'd have to take it.
    When the storm passed that evening, he still sat unmoving, listening to the 
stealthy water dripping from trees, the creaking of branches in the wind. He 
smelled the leaf mold, the rich soil of the forest, the clean scent of the land. 
And ashes.
    Murdering Dedicates did not sit well with him. Borenson tried to harden his 
resolve for long hours, imagining how it might be--climbing the walls in the 
escalade, battling guards.
    Borenson imagined riding into the castle, going to the gates of the 
Dedicates' Keep, and riding down any defenders, then discharging his duty.
    Such an attack would seem heroic, would likely get him killed. He wanted to 
do it, to finish this horrible task. He would have gladly made a suicide charge, 
if not for Myrrima.
    If he tried to enter the keep during daylight, he'd jeopardize his mission. 
What's more, even if he gained entry into the keep and managed to slaughter the 
Dedicates, he'd then be forced to return to his king and report...what took 
place between him and Gaborn, and tell why he'd let Sylvarresta live.
    Borenson could not stomach the thought. He couldn't lie to King Orden, 
pretend he hadn't seen Gaborn.
    So he watched the sun drop in the west, spreading gold all through the 
clouds, even as another storm blew in.
    He fetched his horse and rode to the hill south of Castle Sylvarresta.
    I am not death, he told himself, though he had long trained to be a good 
soldier. He'd become a fine warrior, in every detail. Now he would play the 
assassin.
    An image flashed in his mind, five years past, when Queen Orden was murdered 
in bed with her newborn babe. Borenson had tried to impale the fellow--a huge 
man who moved like a serpent, a man in black robes, face covered. But the 
assassin had escaped.
    It hurt terribly to remember such things. It hurt worse to know that he 
would now go the nameless assassin one better.
    As he neared, Borenson saw that few guards walked the walls of Castle 
Sylvarresta tonight. Sylvarresta's loyal soldiers had been decimated; Raj Ahten 
had left no one to guard the empty shell of a city. Borenson could not spot a 
single man on the walls of the Dedicates' Keep.
    It saddened him. Old friends--Captain Auk, Sir Vonheis, Sir Cheatham--should 
have been on those walls. But if they lived, now they resided in the Dedicates' 
Keep. He remembered three years past, when he'd brought molasses to the hunt and 
had strewn it in a trail through the woods, leading to Derrow's feet, then 
smeared the captain's boots.
    When he'd awakened to find a she-bear licking his feet, Derrow had roused 
the whole camp with his cry.
    Borenson took out the white flask of mist, pulled the stopper, and let the 
fog begin to flow.
    So it was that half an hour later, he laid aside his armor, and went to make 
a lone escalade. He climbed the Outer Wall on the west side of the city, 
protected by the fog that crept over with him.
    Then he made his way to the inner wall, the King's Wall, and scampered over 
quickly. Only a single young man had walked that wall, and he'd turned his back 
for the moment.
    Borenson reached the base of the Dedicates' Keep near midnight, warily 
watched it. He did not trust his eyes, worried that guards might be secreted in 
the King's towers. So he scaled its wall from the north, coming at it by way of 
the woods in the tombs, where few prying eyes might spot him.
    Rain pelted the keep, making it difficult to find purchase between the 
stones. Borenson spent long minutes clinging to the wall before he reached the 
top.
    There, he found that the wall-walks really were all unmanned, but as he 
scurried down the steps into the inner court, he spotted two city guards--young 
men with few endowments--huddled away from the drenching rain in the protection 
of the portcullis.
    In a moment when lightning filled the sky, he rushed them, slaughtered them 
as thunder shook the keep, so that no one heard their cries.
    Even as he killed the young men, Borenson wondered. Not one Invincible? Not 
one man to guard all these Dedicates?
    It felt like a trap. Perhaps the guards hid among the Dedicates.
    Borenson turned and looked at the rain-slicked stones in the keep. The 
lights were out in the great rooms, though a lantern still burned in the 
kitchens. A wild wind burst through the portcullis, swept through the bailey.
    There was an art, a science to killing Dedicates. Some of the Dedicates in 
there, Borenson knew, would be guards themselves, men like him who had dozens of 
endowments of their own and long years of practice in weaponry. They might be 
crippled--deaf or blind, mute or without a sense of smell--but they could be 
dangerous still.
    So, when slaughtering Dedicates, common sense dictated that you avoid such 
men, kill first those who served as their Dedicates, weakening the more 
dangerous foes.
    Thus, you began by slaughtering the women, and the young. You always sought 
to kill the weakest first. If you killed a man who had twenty endowments, 
suddenly you would find that twenty Dedicates would waken, who could sound 
alarms or fight you themselves.
    Though it might be tempting to spare one or two Dedicates, the truth was 
that if you did, they might call for guards. So you killed them all.
    You murdered commoners who had only given endowments, never received. And 
you started at the bottom of the keep, blocking all exits, and worked your way 
to the upper stories. Unless, of course, someone in the keep was awake.
    I had best begin in the kitchen, Borenson told himself. He took the dead 
gatekeeper's key and locked the portcullis, so no one could enter the keep or 
escape, then went to the kitchen. The door stood locked, but he set the prong of 
a warhammer in its crack. With endowments of brawn from eight men, it was no 
great feat to pry the door free from its hinges.
    When he rushed into the kitchens, he found a lowly girl who'd been left to 
sweep the floor, long into the night. A young thing, perhaps ten, with 
straw-blond hair. He recognized the child--the serving girl who'd catered to 
Princess Iome last Hostenfest. Too young to have given an endowment, he'd have 
thought. Certainly Sylvarresta would never have taken one from her.
    But Raj Ahten has been here, Borenson realized. The girl had given an 
endowment to him.
    When she saw Borenson in the doorway, she opened her mouth to scream. 
Nothing came out.
    A mute who had endowed Voice on her lord.
    Almost, Borenson did not have the strength to carry his plan through. He 
felt sickened. But he was a good soldier. Had always been a good soldier. He 
couldn't let the little thing wriggle through the wet bars of the portcullis and 
summon help. Though this child would die, her sacrifice could save thousands of 
lives in Mystarria.
    He rushed, grabbed the broom from the girl's hand. She tried to shriek, 
tried to yank free from his grasp. She clawed at a table, overturned a bench in 
her terror.
    "I'm sorry!" Borenson said fiercely, then snapped her neck, not wanting to 
make the girl suffer.
    He gently laid her corpse to the ground, heard a thumping sound in the 
buttery--back in the shadows thrown by the lamplight. Another young girl stood 
back there, black eyes shining in the darkness.
    In all his heroic imaginings this day, he'd not envisioned this--an 
unguarded keep, where he would have to slaughter children.
    Thus began the most gruesome night of Borenson's life.

     
     
Chapter 31
A TIME FOR QUESTIONS
     
    As the horses raced through the woods, beneath the black trees, Binnesman 
held his staff high, shining its dim light for all to see by. Yet the very act 
seemed tiring, and Binnesman looked drained, old.
    The trees whipped past.
    Gaborn had a thousand questions, felt as many uncertainties. He wished to 
speak to Binnesman. But for now he held back his questions. In Mystarria it was 
considered rude to interrogate a stranger in the way that Gaborn wanted to 
question Binnesman now. Gaborn had always thought this rule of civility a mere 
custom, formed without reason, but now he saw that it was more.
    By asking questions, one intruded on another's Invisible Domain. At the very 
least, you took time from him. And information often had its own value, as much 
value as land or gold, so that in taking it, one robbed another.
    To keep from musing about the obalin and the loss of Binnesman's wylde, 
Gaborn concentrated on this insight, wondering how often courtly manners were 
rooted in man's need to respect the Domains of others. Certainly, he could see 
how titles and gestures of respect fit into the larger scheme.
    Yet Gaborn's thoughts quickly turned away from such matters, and instead he 
considered what he'd seen.
    Gaborn suspected that Binnesman knew far more about the dark time to come 
than he would say in front of Raj Ahten, perhaps far more than he could say. The 
study of wizards was long and arduous, and Gaborn had once heard that certain 
basic principles could only be understood after weeks or months of intent study.
    After long minutes, Gaborn decided that there were some things one should 
not ask a wizard. What price had Binnesman paid to give life to the wylde? 
Gaborn wondered.
    Now the Earth Warden turned from the road and picked his way among twisted 
paths here under the shadowed trees. No other scout could have made his way in 
such maddening darkness. Gaborn left the wizard to his work in silence, in the 
starlight, for an hour, until they came upon an old road. From there, Binnesman 
raced the horses north, until suddenly the road dropped down to a ridge 
overlooking the broad fields outside the village of Trott, twelve miles west of 
Castle Sylvarresta.
    On the plain below lay hundreds of multicolored pavilions from the hordes of 
Southern traders who had journeyed north for Hostenfest but who had been forced 
to vacate the fields near Castle Sylvarresta when Raj Ahten's troops laid siege.
    Binnesman called the horses to stop, gazed down over the dark fields. The 
grass had been burned white by the late-summer sun, so that even by starlight 
reflecting off the grass one could see.
    "Look!" Iome whispered. Gaborn followed her pointing finger, saw something 
dark creeping across the fields, toward the pavilions with their horses and 
mules for the caravans.
    Nomen were down there, eighty or a hundred, creeping toward the tents on 
their bellies to hunt for food. To the east, along the ridge, he saw several 
large boulders move, realized that a trio of Frowth giants were also prowling 
the edge of the forest.
    Hungry. They merely hungered for meat. Raj Ahten had marched the giants and 
the nomen all this way, and they'd survived the battle at dawn, but now they 
would be hungry.
    "We'll have to take care," Gaborn said. "These horses need to graze and to 
rest. But until it's safe, maybe we should ride in the open fields, where we 
can't be surprised." Gaborn turned his mount east, to head back toward Castle 
Sylvarresta. From there he could take the Durkin Hills Road south. "No, we 
should go west from here," Iome said. "West?" Gaborn asked.
    "The bridge at Hayworth is out. We can't run the horses through the forest, 
so we can't go near Boar's Ford. Besides, we don't want to run into Raj Ahten's 
army in the dark."
    "She's right," Binnesman said. "Let Iome lead you." His voice sounded tired. 
Gaborn wondered how much his spell-casting had drained him.
    "West is the only way--over the Trummock Hills Road," Iome said. "It's safe. 
The forest does not encroach on the road. My father's men cut it back."
    Binnesman let the horses rest a few moments. As one, the group dismounted, 
stretched their legs, adjusted the girths on their mounts.
    "Come," Binnesman said all too soon. "We have a few hours until Raj Ahten 
awakens. Let us make good use of them." He urged them downhill, into the plains. 
Though the horses were hungry and the grass here grew high, it was also dry and 
without seed, worthless fodder.
    They rode slowly along a dirt road for half an hour, and here at last they 
felt at ease enough to talk, to make plans.
    "My horse will be the fastest over these roads," Binnesman said. "If you do 
not mind, I will ride ahead. I will be needed at Longmont, and I hope to find my 
wylde there."
    "Do you think it is there?" Iome asked.
    "I really can't be sure," Binnesman answered, and seemed to want to say no 
more.
    The company soon reached a weathered farmhouse beside a winding stream. The 
farm had a small orchard behind it, and a sloping barn for a few pigs. It looked 
as if the peasant who lived here feared attack, for a lantern had been set in a 
plum tree out front, another out by the door to the pig shed.
    The farmer should be afraid, Gaborn realized. This hut was isolated, without 
benefit of neighbors for a mile. And giants and nomen were prowling the fields 
tonight.
    Iome's father rode his steed up to the lantern, sat staring at it, 
mesmerized, as if he'd never seen one before.
    Then Gaborn realized that the King probably never had seen one, at least not 
that he remembered. The whole world would seem new to him, like a vivid and 
fascinating dream, something he lived through but never comprehended.
    Gaborn also rode up beneath the lantern, so his face could easily be seen, 
then called to the door. In a moment, an old turnip of a woman cracked the door 
enough to frown at him. She seemed frightened by so many riders.
    "May we have some water and feed for the horses?" Gaborn asked. "And some 
food for ourselves?"
    "At this time of night?" the old woman grumbled. "Not if you was the King!" 
She slammed the door.
    Gaborn felt surprised at this, looked at Iome for a reaction. Binnesman 
smiled, Iome laughed softly, went up to the plum tree, then picked half a dozen 
of the large violet fruits. Gaborn saw movement inside the house as the woman 
tried to peer out the window, but she had no fine window of glass, only a piece 
of scraped hide, which let her see nothing but shadows.
    "Leave them plums!" she shouted from inside.
    "How about if we take all the plums we can carry, and leave a gold coin 
instead?" Gaborn called out.
    Quick as a flash, the old woman was at the door again. "You have money?"
    Gaborn reached into the pouch at his waist, pulled out a coin, tossed it to 
the woman. Her hand darted from the doorpost to catch the coin. She closed the 
door while she bit the coin, then cracked the door again to shout, more 
cordially, "There's grain in the pig shed. Good oats. Take as much as you want. 
And the plums."
    "A blessing on you and your tree," Binnesman called out, "three years' good 
harvest."
    "Thank you," Gaborn shouted, bowing low. He and Binnesman led the horses 
round back while Iome fed her father plums from the tree.
    Gaborn opened the shed, found a burlap bag of oats, and began to dump them 
in a worn wooden trough to feed the horses. As he did, he was painfully aware 
that the wizard sat quietly on his horse, watching Gaborn.
    "You have questions for me," Binnesman said.
    Gaborn dared not ask the most pressing questions first. So he said easily, 
"Your robes have gone red."
    "As I told you they would," Binnesman answered. "In the spring of his youth, 
an Earth Warden must grow in his power, tend it and nurture it. In the green 
summer of his life, he matures and ripens. But I am in the autumn of my life, 
and now must bring forth my harvest."
    Gaborn asked, "And what happens in the winter?"
    Binnesman smiled up at him discreetly. "We will not speak of that now."
    Gaborn picked a question that had troubled him more. "Why could Raj Ahten 
not see me? He thought there was a spell upon me."
    Binnesman chuckled. "In my garden, when Earth drew a rune on your forehead, 
it was a symbol of power that I, in my weakness, dared not try. You are 
invisible now, Gaborn--at least, you're invisible to your enemies. Those who 
serve Fire cannot see you, but see instead your love for the land. The closer 
they come to you, the more powerfully the spell affects them. I am amazed that 
Raj Ahten even knew that you were there in the glade. Fire could have given him 
such power. I did not realize that then, but I realize it now."
    Gaborn thought about this.
    "You cannot take great security in this gift of invisibility," Binnesman 
said. "Many evil men would do you harm, men who do not serve Fire. And 
flameweavers of great power can pierce your disguise if they get close."
    Gaborn remembered the flameweaver in Castle Sylvarresta, the way she'd 
looked at him in recognition, as if he were a sworn enemy.
    "I see..." he whispered. "I understand why Raj Ahten could not see me. But 
why could I not see him?"
    "What?" Binnesman said, his brows arching in surprise.
    "I had seen his face before, at the castle. I know his helm, his armor. Yet 
tonight his face was hidden from me, as mine was from him. I looked at him and 
saw...multitudes of people, all bowing to worship. People in flames."
    Binnesman laughed long and hard. "Perhaps you were looking too deeply. Tell 
me, what were you thinking when this vision appeared?"
    "I simply wanted to see him as he was, beneath all those endowments of 
glamour."
    "Let me tell you a tale," Binnesman said. "Many years ago, my master was an 
Earth Warden who served the animals of the forest--the harts and the birds and 
such. They would come to him, and he would feed them or heal them as needed.
    "When I asked how he knew their needs, he seemed surprised. 'You can see it 
in their eyes,' he said. As if that were all the answer. Then he sent me away, 
out of his service, for he thought me unfit to be an Earth Warden.
    "You see, Gaborn, he had the gift of Earth Sight, of looking into the hearts 
of creatures and divining what they wanted, or needed, or loved.
    "I've never had that gift. I cannot tell you how to use it, how it works. 
Believe me, I wish I had your gift."
    "But I don't have such a gift--" Gaborn objected. "I don't see into your 
heart, or Iome's."
    "Ah, but you were in a place of great earth power," Binnesman said. "You do 
have the gift, though you do not know how to use it. Study it out in your mind. 
Practice it. It will come to you, in time."
    Gaborn wondered. Wizards often said that they needed to "study things out."
    "Yet you have a greater duty now," Binnesman said. "As Erden Geboren chose 
his loyal men to fight at his side, you must also begin to choose your 
followers. It is an awesome responsibility. Those you choose will be bound to 
you."
    "I know," Gaborn said. He had heard the legends, how Erden Geboren would 
choose those to fight at his side, and always he knew their hearts, knew when 
they faced danger, so that forever after, they never fought alone.
    "You must begin to choose..." Binnesman mused, looking off over the dark 
fields.
    Gaborn studied the old man, wondering. "You never needed the gift of Earth 
Sight, did you? Other Earth Wardens may serve the field mice and the snakes--but 
Earth commanded you to serve man...in the dark time to come."
    Binnesman stiffened, glanced at Gaborn. "I beg you never speak that thought 
aloud. Raj Ahten is not the only lord who would seek my life if he guessed at 
what you know."
    "Never," Gaborn said. "I will never tell."
    "Perhaps my old master was right," Binnesman said. "Perhaps I do not. serve 
the Earth well..."
    Gaborn knew that he thought of the loss of his wylde. "Is it lost to us, 
destroyed?"
    "It is of the earth. A mere fall will not kill it. Yet, I...I worry for this 
creature. It will have come naked from the earth. It knows nothing, will be lost 
without me to teach and nourish it...And it is more powerful than anyone knows. 
The blood of the Earth flows in its veins."
    Gaborn asked. "Dangerous? What can it do?"
    "It is a focus for my power," Binnesman said. "Just as water wizards draw 
power from the sea, or as flameweavers draw it from fire, I draw strength from 
the earth. But some earth contains more elemental force than others. For decades 
I have scoured the ground for just the right soils, just the right stones. Then 
I called my wylde from them."
    "So...it is nothing more than dirt and stones?" Gaborn asked.
    "No," Binnesman said, "it is more than that. I cannot control it; it is as 
alive as you or I. The wylde chose its shape from my mind. I tried to envision a 
warrior to fight the reavers, a green knight like the one who served your 
forefathers. Yet even in that, I could not control it."
    "We will have to send word," Gaborn said, "ask people to help us search for 
it."
    Binnesman smiled weakly, pulled a blade of wheat from the ground and chewed 
at its succulent end.
    "So Raj Ahten is lost to us," Binnesman mused. "I'd hoped for better."
    Leading her own mount out back, Iome found Gaborn and the wizard beside a 
trough, feeding the horses, which ate as only force horses can, chewing so 
rapidly she feared for them.
    Iome left Gaborn and Binnesman to tend the beasts while she took her father 
to the creek and washed him in the clear water. He had soiled himself near the 
Seven Stones, and she'd never had time to care for him.
    When at last Gaborn came to her, leaving the horses in Binnesman's able 
care, Iome had her father dried and in fresh clothes, and he lay at the edge of 
the orchard, using a tree root for a pillow, snoring contentedly.
    It seemed an uncommon, yet peaceful sight. Iome's father was a Runelord, 
with several endowments of stamina, and others of brawn. Only once in her life 
had she known him to sleep, and then only for half an hour. Yet she wondered if 
from time to time he might have slept beside her mother. Certainly, Iome knew, 
at times he'd lain beside her mother as he pondered the kingdom's problems, long 
into the night.
    But sleep? Almost never.
    The long day must have worn her father out.
    Gaborn took a seat beside Iome, both of them leaning their backs against the 
same tree. He took a plum from the pile near her hand, and ate.
    Clouds were beginning to scud in again, darkening the sky, and the wind 
gusted from the south. It was like that in Heredon in the fall. Weak fronts of 
cloud passed overhead in bursts, with storms that rarely lasted more than an 
hour or three.
    Binnesman brought the mounts down to the stream. The horses all quenched 
their thirst, then stopped drinking at Binnesman's command. Afterward, some 
grazed in the short grass at the edge of the stream; most just slept on their 
feet.
    Yet Raj Ahten's great mount stood by the water, restless, matching 
Binnesman's mood. After a few moments, Binnesman said, "I must leave you now, 
but I will meet you at Longmont. Ride fast, and there is little on this earth 
that you need fear."
    "I am not worried," Gaborn answered. Binnesman's uncertain look suggested 
that he disagreed, that he felt Gaborn should be concerned. Yet Gaborn had 
spoken courageously only to ease the wizard's mind.
    Binnesman mounted the big warhorse that had belonged to Raj Ahten. "Try to 
get some rest. You can only let the animals sleep for an hour or two. By 
midnight, Raj Ahten will be free to come after you again--though I shall lay a 
spell to protect you."
    Whispering some words, Binnesman pulled a sprig of some herb from the pocket 
of his robe. He rode forward, dropped it on Gaborn's lap. Parsley.
    He said, "Keep it. It will absorb your scent, hide it from Raj Ahten and his 
soldiers. And before you leave here, Gaborn, pluck a single hair from your head 
and tie it in seven knots. Should Raj Ahten chase you then, he'll find himself 
wandering in circles."
    "Thank you," Iome and Gaborn said. Binnesman turned his great steed and 
galloped off in the dark, heading south.
    Iome felt tired, dreadfully tired. She glanced around for a soft spot of 
ground to lay her head on. Gaborn reached out, took her shoulder, guided her 
toward him, so she could rest her head in his lap. It was a surprising gesture. 
Intimate.
    She lay there, closed her eyes, and listened to him eat a plum. His stomach 
made surprising noises, and she couldn't quite feel comfortable.
    Gaborn reached down, gently stroked her chin, her hair. She'd have thought 
his touch would feel...reassuring, right. But it didn't.
    Instead it made her nervous. Partly, she feared rejection. Though he'd said 
he loved her, she did not believe he could love her deeply.
    She was too ugly. Of all who are ugly on the earth, she thought, I am among 
the worst. A frightened corner of her mind whispered to her, And you deserve to 
be ugly.
    It was the endowment, of course. Iome could never remember having felt this 
way before. So devoid of worth. Raj Ahten's rune of power pulled at her.
    Yet when Gaborn looked at her or touched her, it seemed that some part of 
the spell was broken for a moment. She felt worthy. She felt that he, alone of 
all men, might actually love her. And she feared to lose him. It was a terrible 
fear. For it seemed so reasonable.
    Another thing made her uneasy. She'd never been alone with a man. Now she 
was alone with Gaborn. She'd always had Chemoise by her side, and a Days 
watching her. But now here she sat with a prince, and her father slept, and it 
made her feel profoundly uncomfortable. Aroused.
    It was not Gaborn's touch, she knew, that made her feel this way. It was the 
draw of his magic. She could feel the creative desires in her stirring, like an 
animal burrowing into her skull. She'd felt this when she was near Binnesman, 
but never so powerfully. Besides, Binnesman was an older man, and none too 
pleasing to look at.
    Gaborn was different, someone who dared say he loved her.
    She wanted to sleep. She had no endowments of brawn or metabolism, only a 
single endowment of stamina she'd gotten shortly after birth. So though she had 
fair endurance, she needed rest almost as much as any other person.
    But now she had Gaborn's electrifying touch to contend with. This is 
innocent, she told herself as he stroked her cheek. Merely the touch of a 
friend.
    Yet she craved his touch so, wanted him to move his hand down farther, along 
her throat. She dared not admit even to herself that she wanted him to touch her 
deeper.
    She took hold of Gaborn's hand, so that he'd stop stroking her chin.
    He responded by taking her hand, kissing it softly, letting it rest between 
his lips. Gently, so gently it took her breath away.
    Iome opened her eyes to mere slits, looked up. The darkness had fallen so 
completely, it was as if the two of them lay hidden beneath a blanket.
    There are trees between us and the house, Iome thought. The woman there 
can't see us, doesn't know who we are.
    The thought made her heart pound fiercely. Certainly, Gaborn must have felt 
her heart pound, must have seen how she fought to keep from drawing a ragged 
breath.
    He placed his hand beside her face, began stroking her cheek again, Iome's 
back arched slightly at his touch.
    You can't want me, she thought. You can't want me. My face is a horror. The 
veins in my hand stand out like blue worms. "I wish I were still beautiful," she 
whispered breathlessly.
    Gaborn smiled. "You are."
    He leaned down and kissed her, full on the lips. His moist kiss smelled of 
plums. The touch of his lips made her dizzy; he took the back of her head in his 
hand, pulled her up and kissed her fervently.
    Iome grabbed him round the shoulders, scooted up until she sat in his lap, 
and felt him trembling softly with desire. In that moment, she knew he believed 
it: he believed she was beautiful despite the fact that Raj Ahten had taken her 
glamour, felt she was beautiful though her father's kingdom lay in ruins, felt 
she was beautiful and wanted her as much as she wanted him.
    Gaborn held some strange power over her. She wished he would kiss her 
roughly. He nuzzled her cheek and chin. Iome raised her neck for him, so he 
might kiss the hollow of her neck. He did.
    Wanton. I feel wanton, Iome realized. All her life, she'd been watched, had 
been handled so that she would remain proper and free of desire.
    Now, for the first time, she found herself alone with a man, a man whom she 
suddenly realized she loved fiercely.
    She'd always kept such a tight rein on her emotions, she'd never have 
believed she could have felt so wanton. It's only his magic, she told herself, 
that makes me feel so.
    Gaborn's lips strayed over the hollow of her throat, up to her ear.
    She took his right hand in her own, brought it toward her breast. But he 
pulled away and would not touch it.
    "Please!" she whispered. "Please. Don't be a gentleman now. Make me feel 
beautiful!"
    Gaborn pulled his lips away from her ear, stared hard into her face.
    If what he saw in the dim light displeased or repelled him, he gave no sign 
of it.
    "I--uh," Gaborn said weakly. "I'm afraid I can be nothing but a gentleman." 
He tried to smile reassuringly. "Too many years of practice."
    He pulled away a bit, but not entirely.
    Unaccountably, Iome found her eyes full of tears. He must think me brazen. 
He must think me wicked, a voice inside her whispered. He sees me truly now, a 
craven animal. She felt sickened by her own lust. "I...I'm sorry!" Iome said. 
"I've never done anything like that!"
    "I know," Gaborn said.
    "Truly--never!" Iome said.
    "Truly, I know."
    "You must think me a fool or a whore!" Or ugly.
    Gaborn laughed easily. "Hardly. I'm...flattered that you could feel that way 
about me. I'm flattered you could want me."
    "I've never been alone with a man," Iome said. "I've always had my maid with 
me, and a Days."
    "And I've never been alone with a woman," Gaborn said. "You and I have 
always been watched. I've often wondered if the Days watch us only so that we 
will be good. No one would want to have their secret deeds recorded for all the 
world to see. I know some lords who are generous and decent, I believe, only 
because they would not want the world to know their hearts.
    "But how good are we, Iome, if we are only good in public?"
    Gaborn hugged her, pulled her back against his chest, but did not kiss her. 
Instead, it seemed an invitation to rest again, to try to sleep. But Iome could 
not rest now. She tried to relax.
    She wondered if he meant it. Was he trying to be good, or did he secretly 
find her repulsive? Perhaps even in his own heart, he dared not admit the truth.
    "Iome Sylvarresta," Gaborn said, his voice distant, highly formal. "I have 
ridden far from my home in Mystarria to ask you a question. You told me two days 
ago that your answer would be no. But I wonder if you would reconsider?"
    Iome's heart pounded, and she thought furiously. She had nothing to offer 
him. Raj Ahten was still within the borders of her country, had taken her 
beauty, destroyed the heart of her army. Though Gaborn claimed to love her, she 
feared that if Raj Ahten lived, Gaborn would never see her natural face again, 
but would instead be forced to gaze on this ugly mask for as long as she lived.
    She had nothing to give him, except her own devotion. How could that hold 
him? As a princess of the Runelords, she'd never have imagined herself in this 
position, where she would love a man and be loved, though she had nothing but 
herself to offer.
    "Do not ask me that," Iome said, lips trembling, heart racing. "I...cannot 
consider my own desires in this matter. But, if I were your wife, I'd try to 
live in such a way that you would never rue the bargain. I'd never kiss another 
the way I just kissed you now."
    Gaborn held her, comfortably, easily, so her back was cupped against his 
chest. "You are my lost half, you know," Gaborn whispered.
    Iome leaned back against him, luxuriating at his touch, while his sweet 
breath tickled her neck. She'd never believed in the old tales which said that 
each person was made of but half a soul, doomed to constantly seek its 
companion. She felt it now, felt truth in his words.
    Playfully, Gaborn whispered into her ear. "And if you will someday have me 
as your husband, I'll try to live in such a way that you will never think me too 
much a gentleman." He wrapped his arms around her shoulders, hugged her tightly 
and let her lean her head back against his chest. The inside of his left wrist 
rested on her breast, and though she felt aroused by his touch, she no longer 
felt wanton or embarrassed.
    This is how it should be, she thought--him owning me, me owning him. This is 
how we would become one.
    She felt tired, dreamy. She tried to imagine what it would be like in 
Mystarria, in the King's Palace. She dared to dream. She'd heard tales of it, 
the white boats on the great gray river, floating through the canals in the 
city. The green hills, and smell of sea salt. The fog rolling in each dawn. The 
cries of gulls and endless crashing of waves.
    Almost she could imagine the King's Palace, a great bed with silk sheets, 
the violet-colored curtains flying through the open windows, and herself naked 
beside Gaborn.
    "Tell me of Mystarria," Iome whispered. " 'In Mystarria lagoons lay like 
obsidian, among the roots of the cypress trees...' " she quoted an old song. "Is 
it like that?"
    Gaborn sang the tune, and though he had no lute, his voice was lovely:
    "In Mystarria lagoons lay like obsidian, among the roots of the cypress 
trees. And pools are so black they reflect no sun, as they silently buoy the 
water lilies."
    Those lagoons were said to be the homes of water wizards and their 
daughters, the nymphs. Iome said, "Your father's wizards, I've never met them."
    "They are weak wizards. Most of them have not even grown their gills. The 
most powerful water wizards live out in the deep ocean, not near land."
    "But they influence your people, all the same. It's a stable country."
    "Oh yes," Gaborn said, "we in Mystarria are always seeking equanimity. Very 
stable. Some might say boring."
    "Don't speak ill of it," Iome said. "Your father is tied to the water. I can 
tell. He has a way of...counteracting instabilities. Did he bring one of his 
wizards? I'd like to meet one."
    Iome imagined that he would, that if he'd brought soldiers to parade about 
and display his power, he might have brought one of the water wizards. She hoped 
such a wizard might help fight Raj Ahten at Longmont.
    "First of all, they aren't 'his' wizards, any more than Binnesman could be 
your wizard--"
    "But did he bring one in his retinue?"
    "Almost," Gaborn said, and she could tell he wanted the wizards' help, too. 
Water wizards, unlike Earth Wardens, could be counted on to meddle in the 
affairs of mankind on a regular basis. "But it's a long journey, and there isn't 
much water on the plains of Fleeds..."
    Gaborn began to talk to her then about his life in Mystarria, the great 
campus of the House of Understanding with its many Rooms spread out all over the 
city of Aneuve. Some Rooms were great halls, where thousands came to hear 
lectures and participate in discussions. Others were cozy, more like the common 
room in a fine inn, where scholars sat beside roaring fires in winter, like the 
hearthmasters of old, and taught lessons while sipping hot rum...
    Iome woke with a start as Gaborn shifted his weight beneath her, shook her 
shoulder gently.
    "Come, my love," he whispered. "We must go. It's been nearly two hours."
    Rain drifted from the cloudy skies. Iome looked around. The tree above them 
provided surprisingly good shelter, but Iome marveled that no rain had spattered 
her or wakened her earlier. She wondered how she'd slept at all, but recognized 
now that Gaborn had used the power of his Voice to lull her to sleep, speaking 
softer and softer, in a singsong cadence.
    Her father sat beside her, wide awake, reaching out to grasp at some 
imaginary thing. He chuckled softly.
    Catching butterflies.
    Iome's face, hands, body all felt numb. Her mind was waking, but not her 
limbs. Gaborn helped her rise, unsteadily. She wondered at how to best care for 
her father. Raj Ahten has turned me into an old woman, filled with worries, and 
my father into a child, Iome thought.
    Fiercely, she suddenly wished that her father could stay this way, could 
hold on to the innocence and wonder that he had now. He'd always been a good 
man, but a worried one. In a way, Raj Ahten had given her father a freedom he'd 
never known.
    "The horses have rested," Gaborn said. "The roads are getting muddy, but we 
should make good time."
    Iome nodded, recalled how she had kissed Gaborn a few hours ago, and 
suddenly her mind was awake, swimming once again, and all that had happened 
yesterday now seemed a dream.
    Gaborn stood before her a moment, then grabbed her roughly, briefly kissed 
her lips, convincing her she recalled everything from this evening only too 
well.
    She felt weak and weary, but they rode through the night, let the horses 
run, Binnesman had left them a spare mount from Raj Ahten's men, so they stopped 
to change horses every hour, letting each beast take a turn at rest.
    They blew through villages like the wind, and as they rode, Iome had the 
most vivid memory of a dream she'd dreamt as she lay in Gaborn's arms: She'd 
dreamed she stood on the aerie tower north of the Dedicates' Keep in her 
father's castle, where the graaks would land when skyriders sometimes came in 
summer, bearing messages from the South.
    In her dream, Raj Ahten's armies moved through the Dunnwood, shaking the 
trees, flameweavers clothed only in robes of living fire. She could glimpse the 
armies only in flashes--nomen with black hides creeping in the shadows under the 
trees, knights in saffron and crimson surcoats riding armored chargers through 
the wood. And Raj Ahten stood, so proud and beautiful at the edge of the trees, 
gazing at her.
    She'd been terrified in her dream, had watched her people, the peasants of 
Heredon, racing to the safety of the castle. The hills to the north, east, and 
west were full of them--peasants in brown tunics and thick boots, hunched and 
running for cover. Hefty women with babes in tow, men pushing wheelbarrows full 
of turnips. Boys driving calves with sticks. An old woman with sheaves of wheat 
tied to her back. Young lovers with dreams of immortality in their eyes.
    All of them raced, seeking cover.
    But Iome knew the castle could not protect her people. Its walls would never 
hold back Raj Ahten.
    So she pursed her lips and blew with all her might, blew to the west, then 
to the east, then to the south. Her breath came out smelling of lavender, and it 
purpled the air. Every person it touched, everyone she breathed upon in all the 
kingdom, turned to white thistledown, white thistledown that bobbed and swirled 
in every small eddy of wind, then suddenly caught in a great gust and went 
floating high and away over the oaks and birches and alders of the Dunnwood.
    Last of all, Iome breathed on herself and upon Gaborn, who stood beside her, 
so they too turned to thistledown and went flying high over the Dunnwood, gazing 
down at the autumn leaves, all golden and flame and earthy brown.
    She watched as Raj Ahten's armies burst from under the trees with a shout, 
soldiers waving battle-axes and spears toward her castle. No one stood to oppose 
them.
    Desolation. Raj Ahten might have hoped to win something, but all he would 
inherit would be desolation.
    As her horse carried Iome south through the night, she felt as if she flew, 
leaving the world behind. Until just after midnight, when a sudden dizziness 
swept over her, and she looked up to see her father, too, weaving in his saddle. 
Grief struck her as she recognized what was happening.
    At Castle Sylvarresta, someone--Borenson, she suspected--had begun to 
slaughter her Dedicates.

     
     
Chapter 32
A HIGH PRICE FOR HOSPITALITY
     
    The army of Raj Ahten came to Hayworth after midnight, as King Orden had 
said it would.
    The innkeeper Stevedore Hark woke in his cot beside his wife to the sound of 
hoofbeats on the far side of the river. It was an odd trick of sound that let 
one hear them so clearly here on the promontory above the water. The stone 
cliffs on the hillside above the road caught the sounds of hoof-beats, sent them 
echoing down over the flood.
    Stevedore Hark had taught himself years ago to wake at the sound of such 
hoofbeats, for more often than not, if a man was riding abroad at night, it 
meant Hark would have to find the traveler a bed.
    His inn was small, with but two rooms, so often his guests were obliged to 
sleep four or five on a straw mat. A stranger coming in the middle of the night 
meant that Hark might have guests to waken and placate, as he stuffed a new 
customer in their bed--all kinds of such worries.
    So when he heard hoofbeats, Stevedore Hark lay abed trying to count the 
number of riders. A thousand, two? his sleepy mind wondered. Which bed shall I 
put them in?
    Then he recalled that the bridge was out, and that he'd promised King Orden 
to send these men south to Boar's Ford.
    He jumped up, still in his bedclothes, and struggled quickly to pull on some 
socks, for it grew cold here at night, so near the mountains. Then he rushed 
from his inn, looked out over the river. He'd left a lantern posted under the 
eaves of his roof, just for this moment, but he did not need his own light.
    The soldiers stood there, across the river. Knights in full armor, the four 
lead men carrying guttering torches to light their road. Torchlight reflected 
off brass shields, and off water. The sight of the warriors frightened him--the 
white wings engraved on the helms of the Invincibles, the crimson wolves on 
their surcoats. Mastiffs and giants and darker things could be seen, too.
    "Hail, friends, what do you want?" Hark called. "The bridge is out. You 
cannot pass. The closest place is upstream, at the Boar's Ford. Twenty miles! 
Follow the trail."
    He nodded encouragingly, pointing the way. A little-used trail led up-river 
to the ford. The night air smelled heavy-laden of rain, and the wind swirled 
about Hark's head, carrying the scent of pine. The dark waters of the river 
lapped softly at their banks.
    The soldiers studied him quietly. Tired, it seemed. Or perhaps they did not 
speak his tongue. Stevedore Hark knew a few words of Muyyatinish.
    "Chota. Chota!" he shouted, pointing toward the ford.
    Among the horsemen, a shadowy figure suddenly pushed its way forward. A 
small dark man with glittering eyes, and no hair. He gazed across the river 
toward Hark and smiled broadly, as if sharing a private joke.
    He shrugged off his robe and stood naked. For one brief moment, his eyes 
seemed to glow; then a blue flame licked the side of his face, rising into the 
night.
    "The darkness of a deception--I can see it in you!" the small man cried.
    He raised a fist, and the blue flame shot along his arm, came skipping 
across the surface of the river like a stone, and bounced toward Stevedore Hark.
    Hark shouted in terror as the thing touched the side of his inn. The ancient 
timbers screamed as if in pain, then burst into flame. The oil in the lamp 
posted under the eaves exploded all along the wall.
    The small blue light then went racing back across the river, to rest in the 
small man's eyes.
    Stevedore Hark shouted and rushed into his inn to fetch his wife and guests 
before the whole building burst into a conflagration.
    By the time he'd dragged his wife and guests from their beds, the roof of 
the inn was afire, orange flames writhing up in great sheets.
    Stevedore Hark raced from the inn, gasping from smoke, and looked out across 
the river. The dark man stood watching, smiling broadly.
    He waved toward Hark with a little flourish, then turned and headed along 
the road--downstream, toward Power's Bridge, some thirty miles to the east. It 
would take Raj Ahten's army far out of their way, but the Wolf Lord's soldiers 
would circumvent Orden's ambush.
    Stevedore Hark found his heart pounding. It was a long way for a fat old 
innkeeper to ride to get to Longmont, and there were no force horses in town. He 
couldn't warn Orden that his ambush would fail. He'd never make it riding 
through the woods at night.
    Silently, he wished Orden well.

     
     
Chapter 33
TREACHERY
     
    King Mendellas Draken Orden toured the defenses of Longmont in the failing 
light, considering how best to defend the rock. It was an odd castle, with outer 
walls exceptionally tall, carved of granite from the hill Longmont squatted 
upon. The fortress had no secondary or tertiary walls, as one found in a larger 
castle, such as at Sylvarresta. It had no fine merchants' quarter, held only two 
defensible manors for minor barons, along with the keeps for the Duke, his 
soldiers, and his Dedicates.
    But the walls were solid, protected by earth runes of bonding.
    The tallest building in the keep was the graaks' aerie--a merely functional 
building on a rock pinnacle that could nest up to six of the large reptiles. One 
reached the aerie by means of narrow stone stairs that zigzagged along the east 
wall of the pinnacle. The aerie was not meant to be defended. It had no merlons 
archers could hide behind, no landings on the stairs where swordsmen had room to 
swing. It held only a wide landing field atop the pinnacle for graaks, then six 
circular openings in nests above the field.
    The dukes of Longmont had not raised graaks here in generations. King Orden 
thought it a shame. A hundred and twenty years past, several harsh winters came, 
and here in the north the graaks had frozen from cold. During those same winters 
the Frowth giants had traveled from the north over the snow. But when the 
winters warmed and the wild graaks flew up again from the south, the kings of 
Heredon hadn't tamed them, as their forefathers had. When they sent messages, 
they trusted riders on force horses.
    It seemed a shame to Orden. A rich tradition had been lost. In some small 
way, the nation became poorer for it.
    The aeries were badly kept. Stone watering troughs lay empty. Gnawed bones 
lay about, leftovers from past feedings.
    Over the years, Orden had sent messages north by graak, and some graaks had 
stopped here. No one had ever cleaned the dung from the floors; now lime 
liberally covered the stone. The stairs leading to the aerie were age-worn. 
Vines of morning glory climbed from cracks in the rock, their blue flower petals 
open now to the evening sun.
    But Orden found that one could see well from the landing field on the 
aerie--even down to the roofs of the Dedicates' Keep and Duke's Keep. So he 
secreted six archers with steel bows there, ordering them to hide and watch, 
shooting only if Raj Ahten's forces made it through the gates. He added a single 
swordsman to guard the steps.
    In the semidarkness, he waited for his body servant to light a lantern; then 
by its light he toured the Dedicates' Keep. From the outside, it looked to be an 
austere, grim keep--a round tower that could hold a thousand Dedicates. For 
windows, it had a handful of small slits in the stone. Orden imagined few 
Dedicates ever stood in the full sunlight once they gave endowments. To become a 
Dedicate for the Duke, one virtually had to consign one's self to a prison.
    But the interior of the Dedicates' Keep was surprisingly plush. The walls 
were painted white, with images of blue roses or daisies stenciled along the 
small windowsills. Each level in the tower had its own common room, with beds 
arranged around the outer walls, and a fine hearth in the center. Such rooms 
were devised so that at night a pair of caretakers might watch over a hundred or 
more Dedicates at once. The rooms each had chessboards, comfortable chairs to 
sit in, fresh rushes mingled with lavender on the floors.
    King Orden worried for his son. He still had no word of Gaborn's 
whereabouts. Had the boy been killed? Did he sit in Sylvarresta's keep, a 
Dedicate to Raj Ahten? Perhaps he rested beside a warm fire, weak as a kitten, 
playing chess. One could only hope. One had to hope. But Orden's hope was 
waning.
    The Duke's Keep now cloistered less than a hundred Dedicates, all in a 
single room. Orden calculated that it should have held at least five hundred to 
serve the fortress defenders. But at least four hundred Dedicates had died in 
the fight to win back the castle.
    The battle for freedom claimed that many victims.
    Fortifications for the tower concentrated at its lowest level. With great 
thoroughness, Orden inspected these defenses, for he hoped to fight Raj Ahten 
here, where he might have some advantage.
    A portcullis opened to a guardroom where a dozen pikemen might keep watch. 
The gears to the portcullis were kept some eighty feet back, in a separate room. 
A pair of guards could be housed in the gear room.
    Off from the gear room lay an armory and the Duke's treasury. The armory was 
well stocked with arrows and ballista bolts--more than Orden would have 
imagined. The arrows were bound into bundles of a hundred. A quick guess told 
Orden that at least two hundred thousand arrows lay there, most newly fletched 
with gray goose feathers--as if the Duke had been vigorously preparing for the 
end of the world.
    The Duke's armor and that of his horse were gone, taken by one of Raj 
Ahten's Invincibles, no doubt. Still, Raj Ahten's men had left a princely long 
sword--fine Heredon spring steel, honed to a razor's edge.
    Orden studied its hilt. The name of Stroehorn was branded into it, an 
artificer of exceptional skill some fifty years past--a veritable Maker.
    The Indhopalese, who'd never worn anything but leather mail in battle till 
fifty years ago, didn't value Northern armor or swords. In the desert, heavy 
ring mail or plate was too hot to fight in. So men there had worn lacquered 
leather armor, and instead of the heavy blades of the North fought with curved 
scimitars. The curved blades maximized the cutting edge of the sword, so that a 
single strike could slice through a man's body. Against lightly armored 
opponents, curved scimitars proved to be elegant, graceful weapons. But when a 
scimitar's edge met ring mail, the blade quickly dulled or bent.
    For fighting a man in ring, one needed a thick Northern blade, with its 
straight edge and hard steel. These could pierce armor with a lunge, or could 
chop through small rings.
    Seeing this fine sword abandoned here in the armory gave Orden hope. Raj 
Ahten marshaled a great number of troops. He might terrify, but he fought in an 
unfamiliar clime, with inferior Southern steel. How would his desert troops fare 
come winter?
    Eight hundred years ago, the kings of Indhopal had sent gifts of spices, 
ointments, and silk, along with pet peacocks and tigers, to Orden's ancestors, 
in hopes of opening trade. In return, Orden's forefather sent back a gift of 
horses, gold, fine furs, and wool, along with Northern spices.
    The kings of Indhopal spurned the gifts. The furs and wool seemed 
overburdensome in warm lands, the spices unsatisfactory. The horses--which they 
thought of inferior quality--were fit only for use as draft animals.
    But they loved the gold, enough to send the caravans.
    So Orden had to wonder how the Indhopalese would acclimate. Perhaps they'd 
not learn the value of wool or fur until half of them froze. Perhaps they'd 
spurn mounts bred for Northern mountains, just as they spurned Northern steel.
    Last of all, Orden inspected the treasury. The Duke had stocked it with a 
surprising amount of gold blanks, used for striking coin. King Orden studied the 
stamps--which bore Sylvarresta's image on the front and the Seven Stones on the 
back.
    It seemed odd that the Duke should be striking coins. A balancing scale sat 
on the floor, and Orden took a golden coin from his own pocket, placed it on one 
pan of the scale, then placed the Duke's blank on the other pan of the scale.
    The blank was light. Whether it had been shaved too small, or whether it was 
light because the gold had been mixed with zinc or tin, King Orden could not 
tell.
    But it was clear that the Duke of Longmont had been a counterfeiter before 
he'd turned traitor. "Scurvy-infested dog!" Orden muttered.
    "Milord?" one of his captains asked.
    "Go cut down the carcass of the Duke of Longmont. Cut through the intestines 
that keep him hanging from the keep, then fling the corpse into the moat."
    "Milord?" the captain asked. It seemed a singularly disrespectful way to 
treat the dead.
    "Do it!" Orden said. "The man doesn't deserve another night of royal 
hospitality."
    "Yes, milord," the captain answered, rushing off.
    After touring the Dedicates' Keep, Orden decided not to tour the others in 
the castle. The manors for the Duke and his lords seemed paltry. Orden saw no 
sense in guarding them.
    Besides, it would be better to concentrate his men on the outer walls. 
Longmont was so narrow that an archer on the east wall could shoot the hundred 
yards to the west wall, which meant that if enemy soldiers managed to breach one 
wall, numerous defenders could still fire on them.
    Fifteen hundred men, maybe sixteen hundred. That was all King Orden had at 
the moment. He'd sent messengers to Groverman and Dreis, hoped for 
reinforcements. Perhaps Borenson would return with most of his army intact.
    But they would have to get here soon. Reinforcements that did not arrive 
before dawn would not get in.
    King Orden had finished inspecting the Dedicates' Keep when Captain Cedrick 
Tempest, the Duchess's aide-de-camp, came to meet him, followed by a Days, a 
plump woman of middle age. Captain Tempest was a stout man, with thick curly 
brown hair cropped close. He carried his helm in hand, a sign of respect, but 
did not bow on meeting King Orden. For a flicker of a second, Orden felt 
slighted, then realized this man was acting lord of the castle. As such, by 
right, he did not need to bow.
    Instead, Tempest reached out to shake hands at the wrist, as an equal. "Your 
Highness, we are happy to receive you, and offer you and your men such comforts 
as we can. But I fear there may be a battle soon. Raj Ahten has an army 
advancing from the south."
    "I know," Orden said. "We'd like to fight beside you. I've sent to Groverman 
and Dreis, begging reinforcements, but I suspect they'll hesitate to honor a 
request from a foreign king."
    "The Duchess also sent for reinforcements," Tempest said. "We should soon 
see what it gains us."
    "Thank you," Orden said, watching the man's eyes.
    This was the worst news. If no help had come yet, it meant Dreis and 
Groverman, on hearing of the invasion, had chosen to fortify their own positions 
rather than send aid. One could hardly blame them.
    After a moment Orden asked, "May we speak privately?"
    Tempest nodded discreetly; together they walked into the Duke's Keep, 
climbed a flight of stairs. Orden's men waited outside. Only Orden's and his 
son's Days followed him into the room, with the matronly Days who followed 
Tempest at their heels.
    In the great room, blood still smeared the floors from a fierce battle. Wood 
chairs lay in splinters; a gore-covered axe lay on the floor, along with a pair 
of long daggers.
    The Duchess's battle had come down to knife work in here.
    A pair of red hounds looked up curiously as Orden entered, thumped their 
tails in greeting. They'd been sleeping before the cold fireplace.
    King Orden got a torch, lit it, placed it under the kindling in the 
fireplace. Then he took a seat by the fire, ten feet from Tempest's own chair.
    Tempest looked to be in his early fifties, though it was impossible to tell. 
A man with endowments of metabolism would age fast. But Mendellas could often 
guess a warrior's age by looking in his eyes. Even with endowments of 
metabolism, some men maintained a look of innocence, a look of inexperience. A 
man's eyes stayed young--like his teeth and his mind and his heart--though his 
skin might become spotted and wrinkled.
    But Tempest's brown eyes looked full of pain, battle, and fatigue. Orden 
could tell nothing by gazing into them. Tempest's eyes looked a thousand years 
old.
    The King decided to lead to his subject tactfully. "I'm curious to know what 
happened. Raj Ahten obviously garrisoned soldiers here--good force soldiers. How 
is it that the Duchess defeated them?"
    Captain Tempest said, "I--must base my report on hearsay. I myself was 
forced to give an endowment, and so was housed in the Dedicates' Keep when the 
revolt took place."
    "You say Raj Ahten 'forced' you to give an endowment?"
    A strange look came over Captain Tempest, one of revulsion mingled with 
worship. "You must understand, I gave myself willingly. When Raj Ahten asked for 
my endowment, his words seemed to be daggers that pierced me. When I looked at 
his face, it seemed more beautiful than a rose or the sun rising over a mountain 
lake. He seemed beauty itself; everything else I've ever thought noble or 
beautiful seemed a dim forgery.
    "But after I gave the endowment, after his men dragged my body down to the 
Dedicates' Keep, I felt as if I awoke from a dream. I realized what I'd lost, 
how I'd been used."
    "I see," King Orden said, wondering idly how many endowments of glamour and 
Voice Raj Ahten had, that he could gain such power over men. "So, what happened 
here? How did the Duchess manage this coup?"
    "I am not certain, for I was weak as a pup in the Dedicates' Keep, and could 
not stay awake. I heard only snatches of reports.
    "As I understand, the Duke apparently got paid to let Raj Ahten pass through 
the Dunnwood. But he dared not let his wife know of the payment, and so kept it 
hidden in his private apartments, not daring to show it.
    "After his death, when the Duchess realized that he must have been paid for 
his treason, she searched his private apartments and found some hundred 
forcibles."
    "I see," King Orden said. "So she used the forcibles to furnish some 
assassins?"
    "Yes," Tempest answered. "When Raj Ahten entered the city, not all our guard 
was in the keep. Four young soldiers were in the wilds, investigating a report 
that a woodcutter in Greenton had spotted a reaver--"
    "Have you had many reports of reavers hereabouts?" Orden asked, for this was 
important news.
    "No, but last spring we tracked a trio in the Dunnwood."
    Orden thought. "How large were the tracks?"
    "Twenty to thirty inches long."
    "Four-toed, or three-toed tracks?"
    "Two were three-toed. The largest was four-toed."
    Orden licked his lips, found his mouth suddenly dry. "You knew what that 
meant, didn't you?"
    "Yes, Your Highness," Captain Tempest said. "We had a mating triad."
    "And you did not kill them? You didn't find them?"
    "Sylvarresta knew of it. He sent hunters after them."
    No doubt Sylvarresta would have told Orden of the reavers. We might have 
hunted more than boars this year, Orden thought. Yet this news bothered him, for 
he'd heard other troubling reports of reavers moving through the mountains along 
the borders of Mystarria--war bands of nines and eighty-ones. Not since his 
great-grandfather's day had he heard so many reports. And on his journey north, 
while traveling through Fleeds, Queen Herin the Red mentioned problems with 
reavers killing her horses. But Orden had not expected the depredations to 
extend so far north.
    "So," Orden said, "you had soldiers on patrol when Raj Ahten took 
possession..."
    "Right. They stayed out of the city, until Raj Ahten left. They saw the Duke 
hanged, so they sent a note to the Duchess, asking her orders. She sent her 
facilitator into town with the forcibles, and the soldiers took endowments from 
whomever would grant them, until they had enough to attack."
    "So they performed an escalade?" Orden asked.
    "Hardly. They entered casually enough, after Raj Ahten left. They played at 
being candlemakers and weavers, bringing in goods to display to the Duchess. But 
they hid daggers beneath the candles, and chain mail beneath folds of cloth.
    "Raj Ahten had only two hundred loyal soldiers here, and those young 
lads--well, they handled the situation."
    "Where are they now?"
    "Dead," Captain Tempest said, "all dead. They broke into the Dedicates' Keep 
and killed half a dozen vectors. That's when the rest of us joined the fray. It 
wasn't easy."
    Orden nodded thoughtfully.
    "Captain Tempest, I suppose you know why my men and I have come?" It was a 
delicate subject, but Orden needed to know if Tempest had captured the 
forcibles, moved them from Bredsfor Manor. Though he'd sent a man to find them, 
Orden didn't want to be kept waiting, especially if he waited only for bad news.
    The captain stared up at him, incurious. "You heard we were under attack?"
    "Yes," Orden said, "but that is not why I came. All of Heredon is under 
attack, and I'd have preferred to bend my efforts to freeing Castle Sylvarresta. 
I came for the treasure."
    "Treasure?" Captain Tempest asked. His eyes widened. Almost, Orden believed 
the man knew nothing about it. But he didn't quite trust that response. Tempest 
was working too hard to control his emotions, to show no reaction.
    "You know what I'm talking about?"
    "What treasure?" Tempest asked, with no hint of deception in his eyes.
    Had the Duchess kept the existence of the forcibles hidden even from her own 
aide-de-camp? Orden had expected so, had hoped so.
    "You knew the Duke was a forger, didn't you?" Orden asked. He let just a 
little of the power of his Voice slide into the question, in a tone that would 
elicit guilt.
    "No!" Tempest protested, but his eyes flickered, and his pupils contracted.
    The dishonest, miserable cur, Orden thought. The man lies to me now. When I 
asked about treasure, he thought I spoke of the gold blanks in the treasury. 
Truly, he had not heard of Raj Ahten's forcibles. That interested Orden.
    So the Duchess had not trusted Tempest. Which meant Orden could not trust 
him, either.
    King Orden forged ahead with a half-truth. "King Sylvarresta sent a message, 
saying the Duchess had overthrown Raj Ahten's forces here, and she had hidden or 
buried a treasure here in the castle. Have you seen signs of digging hereabout? 
Has anyone recovered the treasure?"
    Tempest shook his head, eyes wide. Orden felt sure Tempest's men would be 
digging within the hour.
    "Who did the Duchess trust most? Who would she have had bury the treasure?"
    "The chamberlain," Tempest said quickly.
    "Where is he now?"
    "Gone! He left the castle shortly after the uprising. He--I haven't seen him 
since!" From the tone of Tempest's voice, he seemed worried that the chamberlain 
had made off with the treasure.
    "What did he look like?"
    "A thin fellow, like a willow switch, with blond hair and no beard."
    The very messenger Orden had found slain. So the Duchess had sent the 
message to Sylvarresta using the man who'd hidden the forcibles, then told no 
one else about them. Captain Tempest might be a fine soldier, capable of 
defending the castle, but he was obviously dishonest. Knowledge of the treasure 
would have tempted him, and the Duchess had not wanted to let her king get 
betrayed again.
    This news filled King Orden with sadness, a heaviness. Such a waste, that a 
fine king like Sylvarresta could suffer from such disloyalty. A whole nation 
compromised.
    If a fine man like Sylvarresta was so little loved by his lords, Orden 
wondered, how can I trust my own vassals?
    "Thank you, Captain Tempest," King Orden said, in a tone of dismissal.
    "Oh, and Captain," Orden added, as Tempest hesitated in the doorway, 
strapping on his helm, "relief will come from Groverman and Dreis, as soon as 
they make arrangements. I sent a message asking for aid, and I told them of the 
treasure. The armies of the North will gather here!"
    Tempest nodded, breathed a sigh of relief, departed. The matronly Days 
followed him out.
    Orden sat for a long hour in the darkness, in a chair carved of dark walnut, 
finely wrought--too finely. The chiseled emblems of feasting men on its 
backboard dug into his flesh. One could not rest in these chairs.
    So Orden stoked the fire in the fireplace, threw in a couple of shattered 
chairs for fuel, then lay on a bearskin, petting the Duke's hunting hounds, who 
batted the floor with their tails, reveling in his affection.
    His Days had been standing in a corner, forgotten. Now the man came and sat 
in one of the uncomfortable chairs. Gaborn's Days remained in the corner.
    Orden had not lain on the floor with a dog since he was a boy. He remembered 
the first time he'd come to Longmont with his father. He'd been nine years old, 
on his way home from his first big hunt, a hundred men in his retinue. It was in 
the fall, at Hostenfest, of course, where he'd met a young prince with long 
amber hair and narrow shoulders.
    Sylvarresta. Prince Mendellas Orden's first friend. His only true friend. 
Orden had had soldiers who schooled him in the arts of war, and he'd made 
alliances with fawning sons of minor nobles who might have liked him but who 
always seemed too much aware how their inherited stations forever separated them 
from a prince.
    Even the other princes had treated Orden with too much deference--always 
aware that his realm was richer and larger than any other.
    It was only Sylvarresta whom Mendellas could trust. Sylvarresta would tell 
him if some hat made him look stupid instead of stylish, or would laugh at him 
when he missed a quintain with his lance. Only Sylvarresta ever dared tell him 
when he was wrong.
    King Orden found himself breathing hard. I am wrong now, he realized. Wrong 
to have sent Borenson to kill Raj Ahten's Dedicates.
    What if Borenson kills Sylvarresta? Could I ever forgive myself? Or will I 
have to bear the scar of it for the rest of my life, as a badge of this war?
    Other kings had borne such scars, Orden told himself. Others had been forced 
to slaughter friends. As a child, Orden had begrudged the men who killed his own 
grandfather. Now he knew that too often, guilt became the price of leadership.
    "Days?" King Orden whispered to the man who sat at his back.
    "Yes, Your Lordship," his Days answered.
    "What news have you of my son?" He had known the man all his life, had never 
considered the Days a friend or confidant. Yet he also admired the man as a 
scholar.
    "To speak of it would violate my most sacred oaths, milord. We do not meddle 
in the affairs of state," the Days whispered.
    Of course he knew the answer. The Days were never to hinder or help. If the 
King were drowning two feet from shore, the Days could not grasp his hand. "Yet 
you could tell me," King Orden asked. "You know the answer."
    "Yes," the Days whispered.
    "Do you not care for me? Are my feelings unimportant?" Orden asked. "Is my 
fate unimportant, or the fates of my people? You could help me beat Raj Ahten."
    The Days did not speak for a long moment, and Orden knew he was considering. 
Other Days had broken their vows, spoken to kings of great secrets. Of that, 
Orden felt sure. So why not this man? Why not now?
    From the corner, Gaborn's Days said, "If he answers your questions, he would 
violate a most sacred vow. His twin would know." A threat sounded in those 
words. Watchers watching the watchers. "Surely you understand, milord."
    Orden didn't really understand, could hardly comprehend such callousness. 
Often he'd thought the Days and their religion quaint and strange. Now he 
thought them hard of heart.
    Yet he sought to understand them. Gaborn's Days remained here, instead of 
going to Gaborn. Why? Had his son died, so the Days could not follow? Or did the 
Days merely wait for Gaborn to come back here? Or...had his son disappeared even 
from the sight of the Days?
    Orden pondered. His Days had called him "milord," a title he'd never used 
before. The man wanted to speak, found it hard to remain a bystander. He 
restrained himself, but wanted to ameliorate any hard feelings in the nasty 
affair.
    Might a Days not counsel him, even if his own life became forfeit in the 
process? Orden had studied history, knew that in some wars a Days had revealed 
secrets. But Orden had never learned the fate of such Days.
    The chronicles told the deeds of kings and nations. If a Days had ever gone 
rogue, had become a counselor, the fate of such a Days was never mentioned.
    Instead, the chronicles flowed as if a single dispassionate watcher had 
observed the king, studying his affairs. For a long hour, Orden wondered at 
this.
    When Captain Stroecker returned from Bredsfor Manor, he found Orden lying 
before a dying fire, petting the hounds.
    "Excuse me, milord," Captain Stroecker said from the doorway.
    King Orden turned over, sat up. "What did you find?"
    Stroecker smiled grimly. He held a bunch of fresh turnips in his right hand; 
his eyes shone with what might have been anger. "These, milord. Enough turnips 
to feed an army."
    Intense terror struck King Orden as he realized the forcibles were gone, had 
been taken.
    Stroecker smiled wickedly. "And these," he said, reaching behind his back. 
He pulled a small bundle of forcibles from his belt.
    King Orden's heart leapt in relief, so much so that he forgave the captain's 
jest immediately.
    He jumped up, grabbed the forcibles, inspected them. The runes in each 
looked perfect, without dents or abrasions in the blood metal, all in the 
Kartish style. Orden had no facilitator here to perform the rites, but he needed 
none. With the wits of twenty men, and gifts of voice from fifteen, Orden could 
chant the spells as well as the best of them.
    A weapon. He had his weapon.
    "Captain Stroecker," Orden said softly. "You and I and Borenson are the only 
three men who know where this treasure lies. We must keep it that way. I can't 
risk that the enemy find these. I can't risk that you get captured."
    "Agreed," Stroecker said in such a tone that Orden realized the man thought 
Orden wanted him to make the ultimate sacrifice. In a moment, Stroecker would 
disembowel himself.
    "Therefore, Captain," Orden said, "I want you to tell the men that we need 
guards to take a great treasure back to Mystarria. Choose three men--young 
family men with children--to accompany you as guards. Choose them carefully, for 
you may be saving their lives. Then take the men and four fast horses, and fill 
your saddlebags with stones, and leave here, taking every effort not to get 
caught."
    "Milord?" Stroecker asked.
    "You heard me right. A war will be fought here near dawn. I expect Raj Ahten 
to throw his full force against us. He anticipates the help of an army of a 
hundred thousand, and I--do not know what allies I might have. If this castle 
falls, if we all die, it will be your duty to return here and retrieve the 
treasure, then deliver it to Mystarria."
    "Milord, have you considered retreat?" Stroecker asked. One of the dogs 
stood, pushed its muzzle against the King's thigh. The dog seemed hungry, but 
would settle for affection.
    "I think about it every moment," Orden said, "but my son is missing in the 
wilderness, and, so far, I have no word of him. Until I hear word, I must 
consider that Raj Ahten holds him prisoner and has taken an endowment--or that 
he is dead." Orden took a deep breath. For all his life, he'd sought to protect 
and nurture his son. His wife had borne him four children. Only Gaborn had 
survived. Yet his worry for Gaborn was but one of a multitude of pains. His 
voice faltered as he admitted, "And I have sent my most fearsome warrior to kill 
my best friend. If my fears prove true, Captain Stroecker--if the worst comes to 
pass--I won't want to live through this battle. I'm going to raise my sword 
against Raj Ahten. I'm going to attack him, personally. Either he will die or I 
will die. At dawn we will be forming a serpent ring."
    King Orden held up the forcibles.
    Captain Stroecker's face paled. Creating a serpent ring was a dangerous 
gambit. With these forcibles, Orden could take an endowment of metabolism from a 
man, who would then take an endowment from another, who would take an endowment 
from another, so that each man became one in a long line of vectors. In the 
parlance of facilitators, this line of men was called a "serpent," for the man 
at the head of the chain became very powerful, deadly as a poisoned serpent, and 
should he be destroyed, should the serpent be beheaded, the next man in line 
would arise, hardly diminished in power from the first.
    But if a man took too many endowments of metabolism, it was sure death. He 
might become a great warrior for a few hours or days, but he would burn himself 
out like a shooting star. Desperate men had done it in the past, at times. But 
it would be hard to find twenty able fighters willing to form a serpent, to 
throw away their lives.
    So Orden offered them some hope. In this case, last of all, the King would 
give his own endowment of metabolism to the last man in the serpent, so that 
every man in the serpent became vectored to another. Thus, with twenty 
forcibles, twenty men could all share their metabolism, forming a pool from 
which any one warrior could draw. Since Orden had the most endowments and the 
greatest skill in battle, the task of fighting Raj Ahten would fall to him. He 
would volunteer to act as "the serpent's head," and so long as the other men in 
the ring remained inert, Orden would be able to draw upon their surplus 
metabolism. Many of Orden's soldiers had metabolism from one or two men. So, as 
the serpent's head, Orden would be able to move with the speed of thirty or 
forty men.
    And the hope that Orden offered his men was this: that if he himself managed 
to survive the battle, the serpent ring would remain unbroken, and each man in 
the ring would thus be able to continue his life with some degree of normalcy.
    But still it was a dangerous gambit. If any other man in the ring were 
forced into battle, that man might well draw away metabolism that Orden needed 
at a critical moment, sabotaging Orden's chances in the fight. Even worse, if a 
member of the serpent ring were slain, Orden might find himself a mere vector to 
another man, might suddenly fall in battle, unable to move.
    No, if anyone died in this battle, it would best be the serpent's 
head--Orden himself. For if Orden died, if the ring broke, then the burden of. 
metabolism would fall to the person who had granted Orden his endowment.
    This next man in line would become the new serpent's head. And he could 
continue to fight Raj Ahten's forces, spreading destruction.
    Yet even if Orden won his battle with Raj Ahten, even if the serpent ring 
remained intact today, Orden was still calling upon all his men to make a 
terrible sacrifice. For at some time, hopefully on some distant morning, the 
circle would break. A man from the circle would die in some battle, or would 
fall prey to illness. When that happened, all other vectors would fall into the 
deep slumber of those who'd given metabolism, with the exception of one man, the 
new serpent's head, doomed to age and die in a matter of months.
    Regardless of how the battle played out today, every man in the ring would 
be called upon to sacrifice some portion of his life.
    Knowing all this, Orden felt gratified when his captain bent low at the 
waist, smiling, and said, "I would be pleased to serve with you, if you would 
have me in this ring."
    "Thank you," Orden said, "but you'll have to miss this opportunity to waste 
your life. Duty calls you elsewhere."
    Captain Stroecker turned smartly and left the great hall. Orden followed him 
out to gather his troops for battle.
    Already his captains had set men on the walls. Artillerymen had pushed the 
catapults out from beneath the protective enclosures in the towers above the 
gates, had begun firing, testing their ranges in the dark. It was a poor time 
for such tests, but Orden did not know if they'd ever get a chance to test the 
catapults in daylight.
    At that moment, a horn sounded in the western hills, off toward the road 
from Castle Dreis.
    Orden smiled grimly. So, he thought, the Earl comes at last, hoping for a 
share of the treasure.

     
     
Chapter 34
THE RUNNING MAN
     
    In Khuram it is said that a running man with a knife can kill two thousand 
men in a single night. Borenson worked faster than that, but then he was a force 
soldier, and he carried a knife in each hand.
    He did not think about what he did, did not watch the quivering of his 
victims or listen to the thrash of limbs or gurgle of blood. For most of the 
night, he hurried through the job in a mindless horror.
    Three hours after he entered the Dedicates' Keep, he finished the deed. It 
was inevitable that some of the Dedicates woke and fought him. It was inevitable 
that some women he killed were beautiful, and some men were young and should 
have had full lives before them. It was inevitable that no matter how hard he 
tried to block the memories of their faces from his mind, moments would come 
that he knew he'd never forget: a blind woman clutching at his surcoat, begging 
him to wait; the smile of a drinking companion from the hunts, Captain Derrow, 
who bid him a final goodbye with a knowing wink.
    Halfway through the deed, Borenson recognized that this was wanted of him, 
that Raj Ahten had left the Dedicates unguarded knowing they would be killed. He 
had no compassion for these people, valued them not at all.
    Let friend dispose of friend, brother raise knife against brother. Let the 
nations of the North be torn asunder. That was what Raj Ahten wanted, and 
Borenson knew that even as he slaughtered these innocents, he had become a tool 
in Raj Ahten's hand.
    Leaving the Dedicates totally unguarded was not necessary. Four or five good 
men could have provided some protection. Could the monster take such delight in 
this?
    Borenson felt his mind tear open like a seeping wound, every moment became a 
pain. Yet it was his duty to obey his lord without question. His duty to kill 
these people, and even as he revolted at the slaughter, he found himself 
wondering time and time again, Have I killed them all? Have I fulfilled my duty? 
Is this all, or has Raj Ahten hidden some of them?
    For if he could not reach the vectors that Raj Ahten had taken, Borenson 
needed to kill every Dedicate who fed Raj Ahten's power.
    Thus, when he finally unlocked the portcullis to the keep, blood covered 
Borenson from helm to boot.
    He walked into Market Street, dropped his knives to the pavement, then stood 
for a long time, letting rain wash over his face, letting it wash over his 
hands. The coldness of it felt good, but during the past hours the blood had 
clotted in gobbets. A little rainwater would not wash it free.
    A fey mood took Borenson. He no longer wanted to be a soldier for Orden, or 
for any king. His helm felt too constraining, as if it would crush his head, it 
hurt so. He threw it to the ground so that it rattled and clattered as it rolled 
along the paving stones, down the street.
    Then he walked out of Castle Sylvarresta.
    No one stopped him. Only a pitiful guard had been set.
    When he reached the city gate, the young fellow on guard took one look at 
his blood-covered face and fell back, crying, raising his index finger and the 
thumb as a ward against ghosts.
    Borenson shouted a cry that rang from the walls, then ran out into the rain, 
across the burned fields toward the distant copse where he'd hidden his horse.
    In the darkness and rain, a half-dozen nomen with long spears made the 
mistake of jumping him. They came rushing toward him in a little vale, leaping 
from the blackened earth like wild things, running forward with their 
longspears.
    Their red eyes nearly glowed in the darkness, and their thick manes made 
them look somehow wolfish. They snarled and loped forward on short legs, 
sometimes putting a knuckle to the ground.
    For a moment, Borenson considered letting them kill him.
    But instantly an image of Myrrima formed in his mind: her silk dress the 
color of clouds, the mother-of-pearl combs in her dark hair. He recalled the 
smell of her, the sound of her laugh when he'd kissed her roughly outside her 
little cottage.
    He needed her now, and saw the nomen as mere extensions of Raj Ahten. They 
were his agents. He'd brought them here to kill, and though Borenson's men had 
driven and scattered the nomen through the hills, they would become a scourge on 
this land for months.
    It did not matter to Raj Ahten. The nomen would do his will as they sought 
to feed on human flesh. They would do all the killing he'd asked, but they'd 
take the weak first--the children from cradles, the women at their wash.
    The first noman rushed Borenson, hurled its spear at close range, so that 
the stone blade shattered against Borenson's mail.
    Quick as a snake, Borenson drew the battle-axe at his hip, began swinging.
    He was a force warrior to be reckoned with. He cleaved the arm off one 
noman, spun and hit another full in the chest.
    He began smiling as he did so, considered each move in the battle. It was 
not enough to kill the nomen; he wanted to do it well, to turn the battle into a 
dance, a work of art. When one noman rushed him, Borenson slammed his left 
mailed fist into its fangs, then grabbed its tongue and pulled.
    Another tried to run. Borenson gauged its pace, watched the bobbing of its 
upright ears, and threw his axe with all his might. It was not enough to split 
the beast's skull; he wanted to do it perfectly, to hit the target just so, so 
the bone would make that splitting noise and part like a melon.
    The noman went down. Only two stood, rushing him as a pair, spears ready. 
Without his endowments of sight, Borenson would never have been able to evade 
those black spears.
    As the nomen lunged, Borenson simply slapped the speartips away, so the jabs 
went wide, then he grabbed a spear, launched himself forward and spun, impaling 
both beasts through the navel.
    Both nomen stood in shock, pinned together.
    When he finished, Borenson stepped back and observed the nomen. They knew 
they would die. They couldn't heal from such a wound. The creature in back 
fainted, dragging its companion to its knees.
    Borenson walked on, considered the way he'd fought, the precise movements. 
His deed had been as close to poetry or dance as he could achieve.
    He began laughing, chuckling a throaty rumble, for this was the way war 
should have been--men fighting for their lives. A good man struggling to protect 
home and family.
    The skirmish itself somehow seemed more a balm for his troubles than the 
rain. Borenson retrieved his axe and helm and hurried to his horse, running 
through the downpour.
    I will not wash these hands, he told himself. I will not wash my face, until 
I stand before my prince and my king again, so they can see what they have done.
    Thus Borenson took horse and began racing through the darkness. Four miles 
down the road east of town, he found a dead knight of Orden, took the man's 
lance.
    His mount could not equal Gaborn's fine hunter. But the road was clear, if 
somewhat muddy, and on a night like this, with rain to cool them, Borenson's 
horse could run forever.
    So Borenson raced over the hills until the rain stopped and the clouds 
dispelled and stars shone bright and clean.
    He'd planned to head to Longmont. But when the road branched both east and 
south, the fey mood was still on him, and he suddenly turned east, toward 
Bannisferre.
    Dawn found him riding over green fields that held no sign of war, through 
vineyards twenty miles north of Bannisferre where young women stooped to fill 
baskets of ripe grapes.
    He stopped in such a field and ate, found the grapes dripping with water 
from the night's rain; they tasted as succulent as the first grape must have 
tasted to the first man who ate it.
    The river here was wide, a broad silver ribbon gleaming beneath the green 
fields. Borenson had thought last night to leave himself bloody, but now he did 
not want Myrrima to see him this way, to ever guess what he'd done.
    He went down to the river and swam, naked, unmindful of the pig farmers who 
herded animals past on the road.
    When the sun dried him, Borenson put on his armor, but threw his bloodied 
surcoat into the water, letting the river carry away the image of the green 
knight on the blue field.
    Surely, he thought, Raj Ahten's troops have reached Longmont. I'm so far 
behind them, I'm too late to join the battle. In truth, he no longer cared. No 
matter what the outcome at Longmont, he planned to renounce his lord.
    In assassinating innocent Dedicates, men and women who had committed no 
crime but that of loving a good and decent king, Borenson had done more than any 
master had a right to ask. So now he'd renounce his vows to Orden, become a 
Knight Equitable. Of his own free will he'd fight as he deemed best.
    Borenson went on to a pear tree beside an abandoned farm, and climbed, 
taking the fattest pears from the top--same for himself, some for Myrrima and 
her family.
    From the treetop he saw something interesting: over a rise lay deep pools 
with steep sides beneath a grove of willow trees, pools as blue as the sky. 
Yellow willow leaves had fallen into water in great drifts, floating over the 
surface. But also on the pools were roses bobbing, red and white.
    A wizard lives there, Borenson realized, dully. A water wizard, and people 
have thrown roses into the water, seeking its blessings.
    He climbed quickly down from the tree, ran over the rise to the still 
waters, and approached solemnly, hopefully. He had no roses or flowers to 
sweeten the wizard's water, but he had pears that it might eat.
    So he went to the edge of the pool, where the willow roots twisted down a 
gravel bank, and there he sat on a broad black root. The crisp leaves of the 
trees above him blew in a small breeze, rustling, and Borenson called for long 
minutes, "O wizard of the water, lover of the sea, O wizard of the water, hear 
my plea."
    But the surface of the pool remained unperturbed, and he saw nothing in the 
shining pool but water striders that skated over its flat surface and a few 
brown newts that floated beneath, watching him from golden eyes.
    In despair, he began to wonder if the wizard had died long ago, and people 
still sweetened the pools in hopes that someday another might come. Or if this 
was a haunted place, and the local girls threw roses in the water to placate 
someone who had drowned.
    After long minutes of sitting on the willow root, and calling with no 
results, Borenson closed his eyes, just smelling the sweet water, thinking of 
home, of Mystarria, of the peaceful healing waters in the pools of Derra where 
madmen might go to bathe, and have their troubling thoughts and memories washed 
from them.
    As he lay thinking of that place, he realized that a cold root was brushing 
his ankle, and thought to move his foot, when suddenly the root wrapped round 
his foot, squeezed tenderly.
    He looked down. At the water's edge, just beneath the waves, was a girl of 
ten, skin as pale blue and flawless as ceramics, hair of silver. She stared up 
at him from beneath the water with eyes as wide and green as all the seas, and 
her eyes were unblinking, completely motionless. Only the crimson gill slits at 
her throat pulsed slightly as she breathed.
    She withdrew her hand from his foot, instead reached underwater and grasped 
at the willow roots.
    An undine. Too young to be of great power.
    "I brought you a pear, sweet one, if you will have it," Borenson said.
    The undine did not answer, only stared up at him and through him with 
soulless eyes.
    I killed girls your age last night, Borenson wanted to tell her, wanted to 
cry.
    I know, her eyes said.
    I will never have peace, Borenson whispered wordlessly.
    I could give you peace, the undine's eyes said.
    But Borenson knew she lied, that she'd pull him down into the waves, give 
him love, and that while she loved him, he could survive beneath the pools. But 
in time she'd forget about him, and he would drown. She could give him only a 
brief few days of pleasure before death.
    I wish that, like you, I could be one with the water, and know peace, 
Borenson thought. He remembered the great seas of home, the white breakers 
rolling over a green as deep as aged copper.
    The undine's eyes went wide at his memories of the sea, and a smile formed 
on her lips, as if grateful for the vision.
    Then he took one of his golden pears, reached down to the water, gave it to 
the undine.
    She reached for it with a wet, slender blue hand, with long nails of silver, 
but then grasped his wrist and pulled herself up enough so that she could kiss 
his lips.
    The move was unexpected, quick as a fish jumping for a fly, and Borenson 
felt her lips brush his for only a moment.
    He placed the pear in her hand and left, and for a long hour afterward he 
could not quite remember what pain had brought him to that pool, with roses of 
red and white bobbing among the golden leaves.
    He managed to find his mount, then rode at leisure, letting the horse graze 
as it walked; soon enough he reached the little meadow outside Bannisferre where 
Myrrima's cottage lay among the wild daisies.
    Blue smoke curled up from a cooking fire, and one of Myrrima's ugly 
sisters--Inette, he recalled her name--stood feeding grain to the scrawny black 
chickens at the front door.
    As he rode up, Inette looked up at him, a smile on her ruined face. The 
smile quickly faded. "You all right?"
    "No," Borenson said. "Where's Myrrima?"
    "A messenger came through town," Inette said. "Troops are gathering. Lord 
Orden is at Longmont. She--Myrrima left last night. Many of the boys from town 
have gone to fight."
    All the ease of heart he'd felt for the past hour now drained from him. "To 
Longmont!" Borenson shouted. "Why?"
    "She wants to be with you!" Inette answered.
    "This--this won't be a picnic or a day at the fair!" Borenson shouted.
    "She knows," Inette whispered. "But--you're betrothed. If you live through 
it, she wants to live with you. And if you don't..."
    Borenson hung his head, thinking furiously. Sixty miles. Nearly sixty miles 
to Longmont. She could not have walked there in a night, even in a pair of 
nights.
    "Did she travel afoot?"
    Inette shook her head numbly. "Some boys from town went. In a wagon..."
    Too late. Too late. Borenson spun his horse, raced to catch her.

     
     
Chapter 35
BETWEEN STRONG ARMS
     
    Gaborn heard Iome cry out as he rode toward Longmont. Her cry was so 
startling that at first he feared that she'd been shot with an arrow. For hours 
now they had been traveling, stopping every few minutes to switch horses, and 
Iome had not made a single complaint. He slowed and turned in his saddle to look 
back.
    He saw at first that King Sylvarresta sat in his saddle, head nodding. The 
King clutched the pom of his saddle with both hands. He wept softly, breathing 
in gasps. Tears streamed from his eyes.
    Iome, too was hunched. "Gaborn, stop. We've got to stop!" she cried, taking 
the reins of her father's horse.
    "What's wrong?" Gaborn asked.
    "Gaagh," King Sylvarresta said.
    "Our Dedicates are dying," Iome said. "He...I don't know if my father has 
the strength to go on."
    Gaborn felt an overwhelming sadness envelop him. "Borenson. I should have 
guessed." He felt dazed. "I am so sorry, Iome."
    He rode up next to the King, took the King's jaw in his hand. "Can you ride? 
Can you stay on the horse? You have to ride! Hold on!"
    Gaborn pushed the King's hands firmly to the pommel of the saddle. "Hold! 
Like this!"
    King Sylvarresta looked into Gaborn's face, clutched the pommel.
    "Do you have strength to ride?" Gaborn asked Iome.
    She nodded grimly in the dark.
    Gaborn let the horses canter lightly, kept a close watch on his charges.
    King Sylvarresta was gazing up at the stars as they rode, or watching the 
lights of a town as they passed.
    Five miles later, they rounded a corner, and King Sylvarresta went flying 
off his horse. He landed on his hip, slid in the mud and grass at the side of 
the road. Then just lay, sobbing.
    Gaborn went and whispered soft words to him, helped King Sylvarresta back on 
his horse; then Gaborn rode behind, cradling King Sylvarresta between strong 
arms.

     
     
Chapter 36
THE SERPENT RING
     
    Through the long night, King Orden waited impatiently for sign of his son. 
It was hard, this waiting, the hardest thing he'd ever done.
    Orden's men carried all two hundred thousand arrows from the armory to their 
perches along the castle's battlements. On the wall-walk beneath the west tower, 
they set a great bonfire, a message of distress, in an effort to call aid from 
any who might see its light or smoke. Near that fire, his men set great 
cauldrons of oil to boil, so that the putrid scent of them filled the castle.
    Orden commanded five men to go north three miles, to set a similar fire on 
the peak of Tor Loman, so everyone within twenty leagues might see it. Duke 
Groverman had not heeded Orden's petitions. Perhaps sight of the battle pyres 
would shame him into it.
    Just before dawn, two thousand knights arrived from Groverman, explaining 
their delay. Groverman had heard of the fall of Longmont, and thought to retake 
it, but had sent word to Sylvarresta. Apparently his messengers never made it to 
the King alive. After a day of waiting, he'd sent a hundred scouts on force 
horses to Sylvarresta and learned that the castle had fallen.
    Orden wondered which road the scouts had taken, thought it odd that his men 
hadn't spotted them. Which meant that the knights had taken trails through the 
forest.
    Then the scouts had returned with the ill news of Sylvarresta's defeat, and 
Groverman waited still for reinforcements from distant castles.
    The knights Groverman sent were good men, solid warriors. But despite his 
best efforts, Orden did not feel prepared. He suspected this battle would bring 
trials he couldn't prepare for.
    The Earl of Dreis gave King Orden no comfort. The man was incompetent. He 
had been in the castle for less than an hour before he tried to assume command. 
One of his first tasks had been to order the artillerymen to push the catapults 
back into the shelter of the towers, foiling all the work the artillerymen had 
done setting the ranges.
    Orden found the Earl lounging in the Duke's old quarters, letting a body 
servant massage his feet while he sipped warm tea.
    "Why have you ordered the artillery stored?" Orden asked.
    The Duke seemed to struggle to decide whether to affect an imperious tone or 
become defensive. "A stratagem, my dear fellow, a stratagem. You see, I realized 
that if we keep them hidden until the heat of battle, we can whisk them out 
suddenly, and the sight of them will dismay Raj Ahten's forces!"
    King Orden did not know whether to laugh or weep at such stupidity. "Raj 
Ahten has seen many catapults," he said simply. "He has taken a hundred castles 
by force. His men will not be dismayed at the sight of these."
    "Yes, but--"
    "Indeed, Raj Ahten has seen these catapults, for he came here not a 
fortnight ago. He knows they are here."
    "Ah, of course! Point well taken!" the Earl said, shoving his masseuse away 
as he struggled from his chair.
    "We need to put the catapults back, then let our men test the settings once 
again, and their ranges."
    "Well...all right," the Earl grumbled, as if considering some other plan.
    "Also," King Orden said, "you've ordered your men to defend the castle 
gates, and my men to man the walls. Is there some reason for this?"
    "Ah, of course!" Dreis said. "You must realize that my men are fighting for 
home and country. It is a matter of honor for them to defend the gates."
    "Your Lordship," Orden tried to explain patiently, "you must understand that 
in the thick of this battle, all our men will be fighting for their lives. My 
men fight for their homes and their countries, as well as yours do. And I've 
brought my best force warriors, men with ten and twenty endowments each. They 
will fight better than commoners."
    Dreis rebutted, "Ah, your men may fight with swords and hammers, but our men 
will fight with heart, and with a will!"
    "Your Lordship--"
    Dreis raised a hand to stop him. "You forget your place, Orden," he said 
fiercely. "This is Heredon, not Mystarria. I command this castle, until some 
greater lord takes my place."
    "Assuredly," Orden said with a slight bow, though a bending of his back had 
never come harder. "I did not mean to seem presumptuous. I merely hoped that 
some of my better guards might fight beside yours. It would show Raj Ahten...our 
unity."
    "Ah, unity!" Dreis said, taking the bait. "A noble concept. A fine ideal. 
Yes, yes, I'll order it immediately."
    "Thank you, Your Lordship," King Orden said with another bow, then turned to 
leave. He felt he had just got a handle on how Dreis' counselors must have had 
to work him.
    "Ah," Dreis said, "do not leave. If I might ask: I understand you are 
recruiting men for a serpent ring?"
    "Yes, Your Lordship," Orden answered, dreading the next question.
    "I will be in it, of course. I should be the head."
    "And expose yourself to such risk?" Orden asked. " 'Tis a brave and noble 
sentiment, but surely we will need you to direct the battle." He could not help 
but put a little whine in his tone, as Dreis' counselors must have done.
    "Ah, well, I believe in teaching men correct principles, then letting them 
direct themselves," Dreis countered. "I will not need to direct the battle."
    "Then, please, milord, at least consider the safety of your lands after the 
battle. Heredon has suffered losses enough. Should you get killed, it would be a 
terrible burden. Let us not have you serve as the serpent's head, but only 
somewhere near the head, in a place of honor."
    "Oh, no, I insist--"
    "Have you ever killed a man, milord?" Orden asked.
    "Why, yes, yes I have. I hanged a robber not three years back."
    Of course the Earl had not hanged the man, Orden knew. He'd have let the 
captain of his guard perform the feat.
    "Then you know how difficult it is," Orden said, "to sleep at nights 
afterward. You know how it is to look another man in the eye as you seize his 
very existence. Guilt. Guilt is the price we pay for leading our people.
    "I killed my first man when I was twelve," Orden added. "Some mad farmer who 
tried to cudgel me. I've killed some twenty men in battle since.
    "My wife...grew distant over the affair, cold and unresponsive. You would 
think they'd love you better for it, but the women imagine that a little blood 
on your hands makes you grow more callous and cruel. It stains the soul, so. Of 
course, I am no Raj Ahten...Who knows how many men he has personally killed. Two 
thousand, ten?"
    "Yes, the guilt..." the Earl mused. "Nasty business, that."
    Orden could see the slow wheels of the Earl's mind begin to creep, as he 
wakened the man's fears. Orden was not at all concerned with guilt. He needed 
only to remind this fool how many men had died at Raj Ahten's hands. "It does 
stain a man's soul." Now the Earl had a way out of battle. He could flee it in 
the name of righteousness, rather than fear.
    "Very well, they are your forcibles," the Earl said. "Perhaps you should be 
the serpent's head."
    "Thank you, milord," King Orden said. "I will try to serve with honor."
    "But I will be next in line."
    "Actually," King Orden said, "I hoped to reserve that spot for another, the 
captain of my guard. A very formidable fighter."
    "Ah, aha!" Dreis said. Now that he was considering it, he did not seem at 
all certain he wanted to fight this battle. "Well, perhaps that would be best."
    "But we can reserve the spot after him for you, milord," Orden said. He knew 
that he did not have to reserve a place of honor for this nincompoop. Once Dreis 
gave his endowment to the captain, Orden would be free to put the Duke anywhere 
in the serpent. Someplace close to the middle would be nice.
    "Very well, then," Dreis said in a tone of dismissal. Then he made it clear 
to his servants that he was not to be disturbed before dawn, for he would need 
his sleep.
    So King Orden went back to the battlements and fretted and watched for signs 
of aid, signs of trouble. He put his far-seers, men with many endowments of 
sight, on the highest pinnacle of the graak's aerie, then sent scouts out to 
keep watch on the hills and roads both east and west for sign of Raj Ahten's 
occupying army.
    But they caught no wind of it.
    Instead, hour by hour, all through the night, men came riding in to give 
aid--three hundred more farmers from the area around Castle Dreis, all with 
longbows; they had no armor, but wore woolen vests that might keep out a poorly 
sent shaft. Borenson's regiment came racing in near dawn--eighty warriors who 
bore many wounds from yesterday's battle.
    They told how Raj Ahten's troops never showed for the ambush at Boar's Ford. 
Said they'd heard no word of Gaborn.
    From the west came a regiment of two hundred lancers on force horses from 
out of Castle Jonnick, men who'd ridden when they heard Castle Sylvarresta had 
fallen, then had neared it only to hear that a battle would be fought at 
Longmont.
    From the east, Knights Equitable trickled in from freeholds, a dozen here, 
fifty there. Mostly they were older men who had nothing to lose, or young men 
still naive enough to believe that war is glorious. All of these added to the 
fifteen hundred knights and archers that the Earl of Dreis had brought in, and 
the two thousand from Groverman.
    Then there were the farmers' sons and the merchants out of towns that 
bordered the woods. Boys with grim faces, some armed with nothing but an axe or 
a scythe. Young men from the cities who were dressed in finery, who bore light 
swords that had too much gold in the baskets of their ornate hilts.
    Orden did not relish the arrival of such commoners, hardly counted them as 
defenders. Yet he dared not deny them the right to fight. This was their land to 
protect, not his.
    As each little troop rode between the twin fires burning along the road 
before the castle gates, men on the walls would shout in triumph and blow their 
horns, calling "Hail Sir Freeman!" or "Hail Brave Barrows!"
    Orden knew men's devices, could name most knights by glancing at their 
shields. But one rider who came in near dawn both mystified and excited him.
    Almost last to ride in that night was a huge fellow, big as a bear, riding a 
black, swaybacked donkey as fast as it would trot. He bore no coat of arms, only 
a round shield with a huge spike in it, and he wore a squat helm from which a 
single cow's horn curled. He had no mail but a thick coat of pig's hide, and his 
only weapon, beside the dagger on his belt, was a huge axe with an iron handle 
some six feet long, which rested across the pommel of his saddle. With him rode 
fifty men as grungy as himself--men with longbows and axes. Outlaws.
    The knights on Longmot's walls hesitated to name this warrior and his band, 
though they could not help but recognize him. Shostag the Axeman. For twenty 
years, Shostag and his outlaws had been a scourge to every Runelord along the 
Solace Mountains.
    It was said that he was a Wolf Lord of the old school, that he'd taken many 
endowments from dogs. As Shostag neared the castle gates, King Orden watched the 
downs behind him, saw the fleeting gray shadows of wolves race nervously through 
the starlight along the hedgerows, leaping stone fences.
    Shostag stopped a hundred yards from the gates with his henchmen, among the 
last ruins of the burned city. Even in the near-total darkness, the firelight 
showed his face to be dirty and unshaven, his every manner vile. He spat in the 
ashes, looked up to the battlements, stared Orden in the eye.
    Shostag asked, "I saw your signal fires. I hear you want a Runelord dead. 
Are we invited to this festivity?"
    Orden was not certain he trusted the man. The Axemen might well turn on him, 
wreaking havoc within the castle's walls at the battle's climax.
    "I'd be honored to fight beside men of your...reputed skill," King Orden 
answered. He could not afford to turn down any aid, even from the Axeman.
    Shostag cleared his throat, hawked on the ground. "If me and my boys kill 
this fellow for you, I'll want a pardon."
    Orden nodded.
    "I'll want a title and lands, same as any other lord."
    Orden considered. He had an estate in the dark forests on the borders of 
Lonnock. It was a gloomy swamp, infested with bandits and mosquitoes. The estate 
had lain idle now for three years, waiting for the right man. Shostag would 
either clear the bandits from the woods, or he'd let them join him.
    "I can promise an estate in Mystarria, if King Sylvarresta cannot do 
better."
    "I'll take it," Shostag grunted, waved his men in.
    Two hours before dawn, Orden still had seen no sign of Gaborn or Borenson, 
had heard no word. Another messenger brought news that the Duke of Groverman 
would offer more aid from neighboring castles, but couldn't reach Longmont 
before dusk.
    Of course, Raj Ahten will get here first, Orden realized.
    Groverman did right by maintaining his own hold until he was sure it could 
be defended, regardless of the promise of treasure.
    So it seemed that no more aid would come. Though his scouts had not yet 
warned him of Raj Ahten's approach, Orden expected it within an hour or two.
    The very fact that he hadn't yet received word of Gaborn worried King Orden. 
Hour by hour, his hopes for his son's well-being dwindled, until he felt it vain 
to hope. Surely Raj Ahten had captured him.
    And the Wolf Lord would have either killed him or taken the boy's 
endowments.
    So Orden took his forcibles, lined up his volunteers, and let the 
facilitator for the Earl of Dreis sing the ancient spells that made the 
forcibles glow, creating ribbons of light as man after man gave up metabolism.
    Last of all, Orden gave his own endowment, completing the serpent ring. It 
was a desperate act.
    With a heavy heart and fewer than six thousand men, Orden closed his gates 
at dawn and waited for the gathering conflict. He'd left a few scouts outside 
the walls to bring advance word of any sighting of Raj Ahten's troops, but had 
no more hopes of reinforcements.
    He gave one last speech, calling on the full powers of his Voice to cut 
across distance, penetrate every stone of the castle. The knights and commoners 
and felons on the walls all looked up at him expectantly, every man bundled in 
his armor.
    "Men," he said, "you've heard that Raj Ahten took Castle Sylvarresta without 
benefit of arms. He used nothing but glamour and Voice to disarm Sylvarresta's 
troops. And you know what happened to the knights in that castle afterward."
    "Well, we'll allow none of that here. If Raj Ahten seeks to use his Voice, 
I'll expect every man within range to fire on him the same as if he were a 
charging army."
    "When he leaves this field, either he'll be dead, or we'll be dead. If any 
of you young men succumb to the power of his Voice, my knights will throw you 
over the castle walls."
    "We'll not suffer children to spoil a man's fight."
    "May the Powers be with us!"
    When he finished speaking, six thousand men raised their arms, chanting 
"Orden! Orden! Orden!"
    King Orden gazed out over the walls. He knew that this warning, against Raj 
Ahten, given with the full power of his Voice, would have great influence over 
his men. He only hoped Raj Ahten would not be able to unravel the spell his 
words had woven.
    On the horizon, over the Dunnwood, he felt cool air blowing in. It felt like 
snow.
    But where was Gaborn?

     
     
Chapter 37
BOYS ON THE ROAD
     
    Myrrima sat in the bed of a rickety wagon as the team of horses hurried down 
the road early that morning. The wagon swayed and creaked as it followed its 
rut. Once they'd moved up from the fields near Bannisferre, and crossed into the 
Dunnwood, the wagon had become especially uncomfortable, for large tree roots 
that crossed the road underground provided ample bumps.
    She was but one of ten passengers from Bannisferre. The others were all 
young farm boys armed with nothing but their bows and spears and dreams of 
retribution for the murders committed against their kin during the past week.
    Even the wagon did not belong to any one of them, but had only been lent by 
farmer Fox up the road toward town. These boys had no horses of their own to 
ride into war.
    But they talked like the brave sons of noblemen. Ah, they could talk. "I'll 
kill me an Invincible, sure as I'm ugly," said one young lad, Hobie Hollowell. 
He was slender and strong, with wheat-straw hair and blue eyes that shone each 
time he looked at Myrrima. There was a time not many weeks past when she'd have 
hoped for a match with him.
    "Ah, you can't hit anything with that bow of yours." Wyeth Able chortled. 
"All your arrows are as crooked as your aim."
    "It's not arrows I plan to kill him with." Hobie laughed. "I plan to wait 
till one is scaling the castle walls, then throw your fat carcass over on him! 
It would flatten him sure, without any harm to your wide buttocks."
    "Hah, as if you could wrestle me over the wall," Wyeth said, pulling off his 
hat and slapping Hobie. Wyeth was a stout boy, destined to be almost as wide as 
he was tall, and then the boys were at it, tussling and laughing in the wagon.
    Myrrima smiled faintly. She knew their antics were for her, that they all 
competed for her attention. She'd known most of these young men all her life, 
yet since she'd received her endowments of glamour, their relationships had 
shifted dramatically. Boys who had once thought her just another waif now smiled 
shyly and forgot their manners, if not their own names, in her presence.
    It seemed a great shame that her beauty had become a barrier to common 
relationships. She'd not have wished it.
    Wyeth wrestled Hobie to the bottom of the wagon with little effort, then 
grinned up at Myrrima for approval.
    She nodded kindly, smiled.
    So the team of horses raced the last few miles to Longmont, over grassy 
hills where oaks spread their branches wide. She felt very tired after the long 
ride. The horses that drew the wagon were no force horses, but they were a 
strong team, used to working together, much like the boys in the wagon.
    When they reached Longmont, saw its long, high walls and foreboding towers, 
Myrrima almost wished she had not come. It hurt to see the blight on the land, 
the charred ruins of the city before the castle, the burned farmhouses dotting 
the downs.
    The hills and mountains to the north and northwest of Longmont were still 
part of the Dunnwood, covered in oak and aspen and pine. But the hills south of 
the castle undulated like huge, gentle waves. Grasslands, orchards, vineyards, 
and gardens covered these hills.
    Fences made of piled stones or hedgerows of sturdy thorns divided the land 
into squares and rectangles, each of different colors, like the rags in a quilt.
    But the land lay empty now. Wherever a farmhouse or a barn or a dovecote had 
stood, now there squatted only a blackened ruin, like an open sore upon the 
land. All the gardens and orchards had been harvested. Not a cow or horse or pig 
or duck could be seen in the fields.
    Myrrima understood why the people of Longmont had done it, why the soldiers 
had burned the town, salted their own wells. They would not give succor to 
Heredon's enemies. So they had destroyed everything of value near the castle.
    This land...looked too much like the fertile fields of Bannisferre. That was 
why Myrrima mourned it. Seeing the houses black, the fields empty, gave her a 
chill, for it seemed a portent of the future.
    When the wagon reached the castle gates, the gates stood closed. The guards 
nervously watched the fields and hills to the west.
    Seeing the men who stood on those walls, Myrrima became even more nervous. 
If most of those defenders were common boys like those she rode with, how could 
Orden hope to defend himself against Raj Ahten's Invincibles?
    "Who are you? Where do you hail from?" a guard at the gate asked gruffly.
    "Bannisferre," Wyeth Able shouted, raising his bow. "We've come to avenge 
the deaths of our people."
    Above the gates, on the castle wall, stepped a man with a broad face, 
wide-set smoldering eyes. He was dressed in full armor. His fine breastplate was 
enameled with the image of the green knight, and he wore a cape of shimmering 
green samite, embroidered with gold.
    King Orden.
    "Can you gentlemen hit anything with those bows?" Orden asked. "Raj Ahten's 
soldiers move quickly."
    "I've dropped my share of pigeons," Wyeth answered.
    Orden jutted a chin at Wyeth's portly figure. "I'd say you'd dropped more 
than your share of pigeons. Welcome."
    Then his eyes lighted on Myrrima, and there was such admiration in them that 
his glance took her breath away.
    "And what have we here, a swordswoman? A noble?"
    Myrrima looked down at her hands folded in her lap, more from shyness than 
from respect.
    "A friend...of your son's. I'm betrothed to one of your guard--Borenson. I 
came to be with him. I'm no swordswoman, but I can cook a good stew, and I can 
wrap bandages."
    "I see," Orden said softly. "Borenson is a worthy man. I had not known he 
was betrothed."
    "Only recently," Myrrima said.
    "Milady, he has not reached the castle yet. I'd hoped he would have come by 
now, but I left him with an assignment at Castle Sylvarresta. I hope to see him 
shortly, but to tell the truth, Raj Ahten's troops will also reach us soon. I 
cannot say who will reach us first."
    "Oh," Myrrima said, thinking furiously. Borenson did not expect her, and she 
had not imagined he would be occupied elsewhere. She had no illusions about how 
well this battle might go. But in the short time she'd had with Borenson, she'd 
grown to see how important devotion was to him. It did not occur to her to think 
that he might have failed his mission, that Borenson might already have died.
    She wanted to be with him now, in his hour of need. For in her family, 
devotion to loved ones was all that had ever allowed them to survive.
    Myrrima licked her lips. "I'll wait for him here, if you don't mind."

     
     
Chapter 38
THE HOPE
     
    Just after dawn, Iome and Gaborn rode to the tiny village of Hobtown, 
twenty-two miles northwest of Longmont. Hobtown was a collection of fifteen 
cottages with a smithy. But on Saturdays, like today, a few farmers brought 
merchandise to town to exchange.
    So when Gaborn, Iome, and King Sylvarresta rode into the village, a couple 
of people had already wakened. The horses needed food and rest.
    Iome spotted a young woman, perhaps twelve, digging onions and leeks from 
her garden. Clover grew high next to the garden fence. Iome called out, "Excuse 
me, good lady. May we let our horses graze on your clover?"
    The girl said, "Of course, you're welcome to...it." She'd turned at the last 
moment, and froze at the sight of Iome.
    "Thank you," Gaborn said. "We'd gladly pay, if we may purchase something for 
breakfast."
    The girl turned, stared at Gaborn, pointedly avoiding the sight of Iome, 
trying to regain her composure. "I have bread from last night, and some meat," 
she offered, delighted at the prospect of money. In a farming community such as 
this, barter was the norm, and a man could live from one season to the next 
without feeling the weight of a worn coin in his palm.
    "Please, that would be good," Gaborn said.
    The girl dropped her onion basket, ran into the house.
    Iome tried to calm herself, to forget how the girl's slight had affected 
her, made her feel worthless and wretched.
    Iome's father had drifted to sleep in the saddle last night. Iome felt glad 
of it. King Sylvarresta had fallen from his horse, spent much of the night 
sobbing. Gaborn now held the King in the saddle in front of him, the way one 
might hold a child.
    The mounts began to tear at the clover, ravenous.
    Iome looked about. The cottages here were of stone and wood, with thatch 
roofs. Flowers and herbs grew from pots beneath windows made of real glass. The 
few people in Hobtown seemed wealthy enough.
    The town occupied a lovely meadow between the oak-covered hills. Bachelor's 
buttons and pinks grew wild in the grass, alongside daisies. Fat cattle grazed 
just outside town. Rich. This town is rich in contentment, Iome thought.
    If Gaborn's fears proved true, Raj Ahten's army of reinforcements would 
march through this town today. Something of great value would be lost, a sort of 
innocence.
    Iome looked up, caught Gaborn smiling at her. Yet only a moment before, the 
girl had put her hand to her mouth in horror at the sight of Iome.
    Iome feared she'd never be beautiful again. Yet when Gaborn turned his gaze 
on her, he made her feel that she'd never lost her glamour.
    "How do you do that?" Iome said, grateful for his attention.
    "Do what?"
    "How do you look at me like that and make me feel beautiful?"
    "Let me ask you another question," Gaborn said. "In Internook, a woman must 
have flaxen hair to be beautiful, but in Fleeds she must have red hair and 
freckles. In Mystarria, our people have long admired women with wide hips and 
pendulous breasts. But here in Heredon, beautiful women must have small, pert 
breasts and boyish figures."
    "All over Rofehavan, women must be pale to be beautiful. But in Deyazz they 
must be dark and brown. Also in Deyazz, the women wear heavy golden earrings 
that pull down the ears. But here, such enlarged ears would seem grotesque."
    "So I ask you, who is right? Are all these women really beautiful, or are 
they all ugly, or are they all the same?"
    Iome considered. "Perhaps physical beauty is only an illusion," she said. 
"And you look beyond the illusion?"
    "I do not think beauty is an illusion," Gaborn said. "It's just so common, 
we often don't see it. It is like these meadows: We as travelers see the 
flowers, but the townsfolk probably seldom notice how handsome their lands are."
    Iome countered, "But what if our beauty is taken from us, and there is 
nothing left to see?"
    Gaborn's horse stood next to hers, and it shifted its feet, so Gaborn's knee 
suddenly touched Iome's. "Then you should rejoice," Gaborn said. "People can be 
beautiful on the inside, too. And when they feel most bereft of outer beauty, 
then they so long to be beautiful that they rearrange their hearts. And beauty 
springs from them, like these flowers spring from this field."
    "When I look inside you," Gaborn said, staring at her, staring into her, "I 
see your people smiling. You love their smiles, above all. How can I not love 
what is in your heart?"
    "Where did you get such strange ideas?" Iome said, wondering at his last 
words, wondering how he had managed to capture her love and hope for her people 
in so few words.
    "From Hearthmaster Ibirmarle, who taught me in the Room of the Heart."
    Iome smiled. "I should like to meet him someday, and thank him. But I begin 
to wonder about you, Gaborn. In the House of Understanding you studied in the 
Room of the Heart--a strange place for a Runelord to spend his time. Why spend 
your time among troubadours and philosophers?"
    "I studied in many places--the Room of Faces, the Room of Feet."
    "To learn the ways of actors and travelers? Why not the Room of Arms, and 
the Room of Gold?"
    Gaborn said, "I received training in arms from my father and from the palace 
guards, and I found the Room of Gold...boring, with all those little merchant 
princes watching one another with such envy."
    Iome smiled at Gaborn, bemused.
    Presently the girl issued from her cottage with some scones and meat, and 
three fresh figs. Gaborn paid her, warned her that Raj Ahten's army might pass 
this way in a matter of hours, then let the horses walk for a while.
    They stopped outside town, beneath a tree, and let the horses drink from a 
pool beside the highway. Gaborn watched Iome eat in silence. He tried to rouse 
the King, so he might eat too, but Iome's father remained asleep.
    So Gaborn saved some bread, meat, and a fig in his pocket. Ahead of them, 
the mountains rose dark blue and threatening. Iome had never been so far south. 
She knew of Harm's Gorge, of the deep canyon just beyond the mountains, which 
divided much of the realm.
    She'd always wanted to see it. The road, she'd been told, was very 
dangerous. For miles it consisted of a narrow track beside a precipice. The 
duskins had carved that road centuries ago, made the great bridge across Harm's 
River.
    "I still think it odd," Iome said, "that you spent your time schooling in 
the Room of the Heart. Most lords study little else but arms, or perhaps Voice."
    "I suppose," Gaborn said, "if we Runelords only want to win battles and hold 
our fortresses, we need only study in the Room of Arms.
    "But...I guess I don't believe in it. We seek ways to use one another all 
too much. It seems deplorable that the strong should dominate the weak. Why 
should I study that which I deplore?"
    "Because it's necessary," Iome said. "Someone must enforce the laws, protect 
the people."
    "Perhaps," Gaborn said. "But Hearthmaster Ibirmarle always found it 
deplorable, too. He taught that not only is it wrong for the strong to bully the 
weak, but that it is just as vile for the wise to rob the stupid, or the patient 
to take advantage of another's impatience.
    "These are all just ways that we harness other men to our plows. Why should 
I treat men as tools--or worse, as mere obstacles to my enjoyment?" Gaborn fell 
silent a moment, and his glance strayed northward, to Castle Sylvarresta, where 
Borenson had slain the Dedicates last night. Iome could see how Gaborn regretted 
it, how he perhaps even thought it a personal failure that he had been so naive.
    He said, "Once, ages ago, an old shepherd, who was the highman of his town, 
sent word to my grandfather, asking him to buy his wool. The shepherd's town had 
long had a contract with a certain merchant from Ammendau, who carried their 
wool to market, but the merchant died unexpectedly. So the highman sent to the 
King, asking him to purchase the wool for his troops at a bargain price.
    "But the highman did not know that rain in the west hills had caused a 
blight of wool rot on the sheep there. In all likelihood, the highman's wool 
would fetch triple its price, if the townsmen could get it to market.
    "My grandfather, on seeing the situation, could have leapt at the chance to 
buy the wool cheap. If he'd listened to the merchants who schooled in the Room 
of Gold, he'd have done so. For they think it a virtue to buy cheap and sell 
high.
    "Instead, Grandfather sent to the hearthmaster at the Room of Feet and 
arranged for a caravan to transport the wool at a fair price, cheaper than the 
villagers had paid before.
    "He then sent to the highman and told him all that he had done. He begged 
the highman to sell his wool to the poor at its normal price, so that they would 
not go cold through the winter."
    Iome listened to the tale somewhat in awe, for she'd often thought Orden's 
line to be hard, cold men. Perhaps it was only Gaborn's father. Perhaps he'd 
grown cold, after his own father's bad end.
    "I see," Iome said. "So your grandfather won the love of the poor."
    "And the respect of the highman and his village," Gaborn said. "That is the 
kind of Runelord I would want to be, one who can win a man's heart and his love. 
That is my hope. It is harder to storm a heart than to storm a castle. It is 
harder to hold a man's trust than to hold any land. That is why I studied in the 
Room of the Heart."
    "I see," Iome said. "And I am sorry."
    "For what?" Gaborn asked.
    "That I ever said I would turn you down, if you asked me to marry you." She 
smiled at him, and spoke teasingly, but realized it was true. Gaborn was a 
strange and wondrous young man, and in the past day she had begun to recognize 
that he was much more than he seemed. She feared that at this rate, she'd fall 
in love with him so fiercely by the end of another day that she'd never want to 
separate from him again.
    When the horses finished watering, Gaborn loped them for a while.
    The magnificent crevasse at Harm's Gorge opened suddenly--a deep rent where 
a river rushed, and the trail they took snaked around its edge. According to 
legend, the duskins had created this place, had broken the pillars that held the 
Overworld.
    They let their animals creep along a narrow trail beside the ledge, and Iome 
looked at the pillars of gray and white stone that rose up from the canyon, a 
marvel to see. She wondered if these were the pillars of legend or merely the 
roots of mountains long since eroded away.
    Beside the steep sides of the canyon, huge trees clung, looking like 
bristles on a horse brush. A mile to the north, Harm's River churned in a 
waterfall and fell far into the chasm, but Iome could not see where the waters 
landed, for the canyon was so deep that its heart was lost in darkness, and no 
sound escaped from its silent depths. Enormous bats wheeled in the canyon, down 
where the shadows filled the endless chasm.
    If a person fell from the road, it was said that you could hear his scream 
for a month until the sound was lost.
    They took the narrow pass slowly, the idiot King Sylvarresta walking along 
the treacherous edge of the road, often stopping to peer into the mists so far 
below.

     
     
Chapter 39
THE GREEN MAN
     
    King Sylvarresta woke, and moved through a world of dream. The doors of his 
mind were closed. He did not remember much. No words, no names--not even his 
own. Yet much in the world had a vague familiarity. The horses, trees.
    He woke to see a great light in the sky, the color of gold and roses. He 
felt certain that he had seen it somewhere before.
    They rode slowly on a narrow road, with a gray earth wall to his left, a 
tremendous precipice to his right. He had no words for names, nor for left and 
right. Everything carried with it a sense of discovery. Far, far down, he could 
see only misty grayness. Pine trees stood far below, prickling along the edges 
of rock.
    They reached a narrow bridge carved from a single stone, spanning the gorge. 
The bridge curved up into the sky, and Sylvarresta looked down into the gorge, 
and felt as if he hung in the air, just so.
    He did not recall ever having been here before, nor having felt thus.
    A few dozen soldiers were on the bridge, guardsmen in dark-blue surcoats, 
wearing the face of the green man on their shields--a knight whose face was 
surrounded by green leaves. The young man and woman that King Sylvarresta rode 
with greeted these soldiers joyfully. For a while, the soldiers talked to the 
young man of their plans for guarding the bridge; then the young man bid the 
soldiers farewell, leaving them behind.
    King Sylvarresta, the young man, and the young woman crossed the bridge, 
rode high up in the pine woods toward a mountain's summit. Then the horses raced 
under the trees.
    Huge birds, the color of sky, flitted overhead, calling among the trees, and 
the wind came fresh and cold. Then they reached a mountaintop and rode down from 
the wooded hills, to a land where fields of crops checkered the downs.
    A castle loomed up from the fields, a tall edifice of gray stone. Horns 
began blowing on its battlements at Sylvarresta's approach, and a dimly 
remembered pennant flew--the midnight black with the silver boar.
    Men stood on the walls of the castle by the hundreds--men with bows and 
helms with wide brims, men with spears and hammers. Other men wore surcoats with 
the image of the green man, and they bore bright shields that shone silver like 
water.
    The men all cheered and waved as they saw him, and King Sylvarresta waved 
back and cheered himself, until the huge drawbridge on the castle opened, and 
they entered.
    The horses walked up a short, steep hill, hooves clanking over cobblestones. 
Men shouted joyfully at him and clapped, until an odd look came over their 
faces.
    Some pointed at him, faces pale with emotions he did not recognize--horror, 
shock, dismay. They shouted, "Dedicate! He's a Dedicate!"
    Then his horse stopped in front of a gray building, a small keep. King 
Sylvarresta sat for a moment watching a reddish-brown lizard, as long as 
Sylvarresta's finger, sun itself on the stones in the rock garden beside the 
door. He could not recall having ever seen such a thing, and wondered.
    Then, in all the commotion, the lizard raced up the side of the building and 
over its gray roof. The King knew it was alive and he began shouting and 
pointing.
    The young man behind King Sylvarresta had dismounted, and now he helped 
Sylvarresta down from his horse.
    Together with the young man and the ugly woman, Sylvarresta walked under the 
eaves of the building, up some stairs. He felt so tired. Walking the stairs hurt 
his legs, made them stretch uncomfortably. He wanted to rest, but the young man 
urged him forward, into a room thick with good smells of cooked food, where a 
warm fire burned.
    A pair of dogs thumped their tails as King Sylvarresta approached, so that 
at first he did not really notice the two dozen men sitting at a table, eating 
things that smelled good.
    Then he looked across the table and gasped. There sat a tall man, 
dark-haired and beautiful, with wide-set blue eyes and a square jaw beneath his 
beard.
    Sylvarresta knew the man, knew him better than he knew anything else. A 
green man. In a green tunic, with a shimmering cape of green samite.
    A warm sensation filled King Sylvarresta's heart, an overwhelming joy. He 
recalled the man's name. "Orden!"
    At King Sylvarresta's side, the young man shouted, "Father, if you want this 
poor man dead, at least have the decency to kill him yourself!"
    King Orden half rose from the table, stepped hesitantly forward. He glanced 
back and forth between Sylvarresta and the young man. His eyes looked pained and 
angry, and his hand went to the hilt of his short sword. He struggled with it, 
as if he could not draw it, brought it halfway out.
    Then in rage he slammed the sword back into its sheath and staggered 
forward, threw his arms around Sylvarresta's shoulders, and began to weep.
    King Orden sobbed, "My friend, my friend, what have we done? Forgive me. 
Forgive me!"
    Sylvarresta let King Orden hold him for a long time, wondering what was 
wrong, until his friend's sobbing lessened.

     
     
Chapter 40
AN ORDER RESCINDED
     
    Gaborn had never seen his father cry. No tears of sadness escaped him when 
Gaborn's mother and infant brother were murdered. No tears of joy had ever 
glistened in King's Orden's eye when proposing a toast.
    Now, as Gaborn's father hugged king Sylvarresta, he wept tears of joy and 
relief.
    King Mendellas Draken Orden cried in great racking sobs. Orden's sorrow was 
such an embarrassing sight that the two dozen lords and dignitaries who had been 
breakfasting in the room now all took their leave, so that only Iome, King 
Sylvarresta, three Days, and Gaborn stood in the room.
    For the barest moment, Gaborn glanced across the room, saw his Days and felt 
uncomfortable. He had been without a Days for nearly half a week, and had found 
it pleasant.
    Now he felt like an ox waiting to be yoked. The small fellow nodded 
politely, and Gaborn knew he would not be left alone again for a while. Another 
Days in the room was a matronly woman in her forties, a woman with reddish hair 
going silver. She'd have been Emmadine Ot Laren's Days when the Duchess still 
lived. Now she nodded a greeting at Iome, perhaps all the formal introduction 
the woman would ever give, yet with that introduction she spoke volumes: I am 
assigned to you.
    So the Days watched, and recorded.
    Gaborn felt grateful that the Days had not had to record how King Orden 
murdered his best friend in his hour of greatest need. Instead, in some far day 
when his father died and his chronicles were penned, it would be told how Orden 
hugged Sylvarresta and sobbed like a child.
    How odd, Gaborn thought, that he cries no tears of relief at seeing me.
    Sylvarresta let King Orden hug him until he could no longer withstand the 
power in the King's arms, then tried to pull away. Only then did King Orden 
grasp Sylvarresta's biceps, feel the lack of muscle there.
    "He's lost his own endowments?" Gaborn's father asked.
    Iome nodded.
    Gaborn added angrily, "They both have. Borenson was at Castle Sylvarresta 
yesterday. He stayed behind when we left. You sent him to kill them, didn't 
you?"
    Gaborn watched his father's eyes as he considered the accusation. Gaborn had 
foolishly believed--when Borenson had said that he was under orders to kill Raj 
Ahten's Dedicates--that he spoke only in general terms. He hadn't imagined that 
one man alone would be sent to kill those in the Dedicates' Keep at Castle 
Sylvarresta.
    Now his father's expression confirmed it. His father glanced down, but 
recovered quickly, looking sorrowful instead of guilt-ridden. Gaborn gave his 
father time to consider the implications. All the Dedicates in Sylvarresta's 
keep had died. Even if Iome and the King had become vectors for Raj Ahten, now 
they gave him almost nothing, only their own endowments.
    "So," Gaborn's father asked, "did Raj Ahten leave all his Dedicates behind 
when he fled Castle Sylvarresta?"
    "Almost. He took his vectors--" Gaborn answered. His father raised a brow. 
"But I managed to get Iome and King Sylvarresta out."
    King Orden titled his head, considering. He must have recognized the 
struggle Gaborn had gone through. "I--wonder..." He cleared his throat. "...why 
Borenson would let these two go. I ordered him to do otherwise."
    "I countermanded your order," Gaborn said.
    His father's reaction was so swift, Gaborn had no time to react. His father 
lashed out and slapped Gaborn's face so hard that when spittle and blood flew 
from his mouth, Gaborn thought it was a tooth.
    "How dare you!" King Orden said. "You may disagree with me, and belittle me, 
and even second-guess me. But how dare you fight me!"
    Rage burned in Orden's eyes.
    Then his mouth opened in a little O of grief at what he'd done. He turned 
away and walked to an archery slot, stood with both hands on the stones of the 
casement, gazing outside.
    "Iome and her father were under my protection, bound by oath," Gaborn said 
hastily, realizing that he'd just broken his promise to Borenson. He'd told 
Borenson that he'd not let his father know that they'd met. Yet, at the moment, 
Gaborn felt so betrayed he did not much care if he broke his word. "I'd have 
fought him for them. I told him that I would take the matter up with you." He 
hoped these final words might appease his father.
    Through a window, Gaborn could hear men cheer. More troops were coming into 
the castle, gathering for battle.
    "Your actions are akin to treason," King Orden muttered, back still turned. 
"They run against everything I've ever taught you."
    "Yet they followed precisely the desires of your own heart," Gaborn said. 
"You ordered your friends' deaths with your lips, but could not consent to it in 
your heart."
    "How can you think to know my heart?" Orden said distantly.
    "I...just do," Gaborn said.
    King Orden nodded thoughtfully, then turned and gazed at Gaborn a long 
moment, at war with himself. He took a deep breath, tried to sound casual. "Then 
I, too, rescind the order. Thank you, Gaborn, for bringing my friend back..."
    Gaborn sighed in relief.
    King Sylvarresta had wandered over to the breakfast table. He began eating 
from plates, pulling off huge chunks of ham with both fists. Gaborn's father 
whispered, "But I fear he is lost to me still."
    "Until Raj Ahten is dead," Gaborn said. "Then you will win back your friend, 
and I will win my wife."
    Gaborn did not want to bear this news now, but he felt it was important, and 
he wanted his father to hear it from him, rather than hear it later from a 
stranger. He fully expected another blow. "Father, I told you that I took an 
oath to protect Iome. I am bound to her, as one Oath-Bound Lord to another."
    Gaborn's father looked off toward the hearth. His jaw clenched. He seemed 
dismayed by the news, but his voice cracked only the tiniest bit as he said, 
"Ah, I see. It was only a matter of time, I suppose."
    "You are not disappointed?" Gaborn asked.
    "Disappointed, yes," Orden said, "but not surprised. Though I cannot help 
but say that you picked the worst possible time to have this attack of 
conscience."
    "But you are not angry?"
    His father suppressed a chuckle. "Angry? Hardly. Dismayed, perhaps. 
Saddened. But how can I be angry? My only friend is an Oath-Bound Lord."
    He stood a moment in thought, nodding his head. "But still...I feel that 
I've lost you."
    "Once we've beaten Raj Ahten, you will see that we've lost nothing," Gaborn 
said.
    "You make it sound easy."
    "With forty thousand forcibles, it should be."
    "Ah, so Borenson told you about those? Well, we have the forcibles, now 
we're only forty thousand people shy of the Dedicates necessary to make them 
worthwhile."
    "You mean you haven't begun putting them to use?" Gaborn asked.
    "I have them hidden still, in the place where the Duchess hid them," Orden 
said. "I've used only a handful."
    Gaborn gasped, felt his chest constricting. Without Dedicates there was only 
one way his father could hope to beat Raj Ahten. "A serpent? You've created a 
serpent? How large?"
    "A serpent ring," he answered easily, trying to soothe Gaborn. "Twenty-two 
men, most with at least two endowments of metabolism. Most of the same men you 
just saw here, leaving this room."
    A moment before, King Orden had said he felt he'd lost his son. It seemed an 
overreaction to Gaborn's announcement. Now Gaborn saw that in all likelihood his 
father was right. One way or another, they were lost to each other. In time, the 
serpent ring would be broken, and only then would Gaborn learn how great a 
sacrifice his father had made this day.
    Yet his father's announcement explained why he did not grow angry when 
Gaborn told him of his oath. His father was withdrawing, pulling away from 
Gaborn.
    King Orden licked his lips. "I plan to kill Raj Ahten for you, today, 
myself. A wedding present, let's call it. I'll make his head a wedding present 
for you, Gaborn. And my friend will have his wits back."
    "How? How many troops do you have?" Gaborn asked.
    "Six thousand, more or less," Orden answered. He went to the window, looked 
out, spoke thoughtfully. "We had riders from Groverman this morning. He refused 
us aid. Instead he's fortifying his own keep. Only a few men have come from him, 
some Knights Equitable who couldn't support him in his cowardice.
    "It's too bad--we'd had high hopes. Groverman is a fine man, a sensible man, 
really. He's doing what I'd do, fortify my keep."
    Gaborn smiled. "Your keep is in Mystarria, twelve hundred miles from here. 
You would not turn your back on a friend."
    King Orden gave Gaborn a sidelong look. "I want you to take Iome and King 
Sylvarresta, now, and get away from here. Go to Castle Groverman. It should be 
well defended."
    "I think not," Gaborn said. "I'm tired of running."
    "And if I order you to do it?" his father asked. "I'm not divided on this 
matter. My heart and my mind both agree."
    "No," Gaborn said more firmly. His father had always tried to protect him. 
Now he saw that his father would continue to do so, even if it cost his own 
life. But Gaborn was a Runelord, and though his endowments were few, they were 
over a broad spectrum. With wit and grace and stamina, he could fight in a 
battle like this better than any common soldier. Besides, he'd trained a good 
deal in tactics and swordplay. 
    As the son of a king, he'd learned to defend himself, though he doubted he'd 
be much of a match for one of Raj Ahten's Invincibles.
    Iome grabbed the sleeve of Gaborn's tunic, whispered fiercely. "Do as your 
father says! Take me to Groverman. When we reach him, I will order him to 
fight!"
    With a sinking feeling, Gaborn realized she was right. Groverman's castle 
stood little more than thirty miles away. If he ran the horses, he could be 
there within a couple of hours.
    "Do as she asks," Orden said. "Perhaps it would help. Groverman has been 
gathering his forces. He may have ten thousand defenders on his walls by now."
    Gaborn knew he would have to do it, would have to take Iome to Groverman. 
Yet he'd be five hours or more at the task. He wouldn't be able to return here 
before noon. By then Raj Ahten's troops would have reached Longmont; their siege 
would be set.
    If Raj Ahten's hundred thousand reinforcements arrived, Gaborn wouldn't be 
able to dislodge the Wolf Lord.
    "Iome," Gaborn asked, "may my father and I speak alone for a moment?"
    "Of course," Iome said, and she left. King Sylvarresta remained in the room, 
eating at the tables. Gaborn's and his father's Days also stayed.
    Gaborn felt...strangely cognizant of their presence, embarrassed by it. 
Still, when Iome left, he went to his father, put his arms around the man's 
shoulders, and cried.
    "Here now," his father whispered, "why should a prince weep?"
    "You're sending me on a fruitless mission," Gaborn said. "I can feel it. 
Something...is terribly wrong." He did not know how to speak of it, but he felt 
that they needed to discuss things--what should happen if one of them died. 
They'd spoken of this possibility many times over the years, after Gaborn's 
mother was murdered, other times since. Yet this time, Gaborn felt a sense of 
inevitability.
    What he really wanted, what he needed, was to say goodbye.
    "How can we know our fight is fruitless?" his father asked. "I can detain 
Raj Ahten until you return.
    "I'll put mounted knights in the bailey, ready to issue from the castle 
gate. When Groverman's men come in, I want you to have them sweep in from the 
north side of the hill. It's a gentle slope down. It should give your lancers a 
great deal of benefit. Then my knights will ride out to your side, and we'll 
have the old monster in a vise--
    "But you must promise me one thing, Gaborn. You will let me fight Raj Ahten 
personally. I will be the serpent's head. I alone am prepared for this fight."
    "Raj Ahten may be more dangerous than you know," Gaborn said. "He seeks to 
become the Sum of All Men. He has so many endowments of stamina, you cannot kill 
him easily. You will need to strike for the head, take off his head."
    "I surmised as much," King Orden said, smiling down at his son.
    Gaborn looked into his father's eyes, felt his heart lightened a bit. The 
castle walls were growing thick with men, and this was a small castle, easily 
defensible. With six thousand men on those walls, his father should be able to 
hold this castle even against Raj Ahten's Invincibles.
    His father wasn't rushing headlong to his death. He'd fight a measured 
battle. Already the die had been cast. As head of the serpent ring, his father 
would have to battle Raj Ahten. In his heart, Gaborn knew that of all the men in 
the castle, his father was most qualified for this task.
    Yet it hurt, it hurt terribly to know what might come, to let it come 
without saying goodbye.
    "Where is Binnesman?" Gaborn asked. "He can help protect you."
    "Sylvarresta's wizard?" Orden asked. "I haven't the slightest idea."
    "He said...he'd meet me here. He called a wylde from the earth last night, 
and hopes to bring it into battle. He is coming to Longmont." Gaborn felt 
certain that Binnesman would come.
    Gaborn hugged his father, leaned his forehead against the older man's cheek. 
I've been anointed to become King of this Earth, Gaborn thought. It was said 
that Erden Geboren had been so sensitive to the earth powers, to life, that when 
one of his chosen friends was in danger, he could sense that man's fear. When 
one of them died, he sensed the loss of that life.
    Right now, Gaborn could smell danger around his father, and as he leaned 
against his father's face, he probed with his mind, sensed life there, like a 
lamp struggling to stay lit. It was an odd sensation, one he'd never imagined 
before, and Gaborn wondered if he only imagined it now.
    Yet Gaborn had ridden all last night. In that time, he'd seen the world more 
clearly than ever before. The eyebright still affected him, long after he 
thought its effects would diminish. Perhaps it always would affect him.
    It was but one change in him. Something more wondrous was happening. He 
suspected that if he only tried, he could see much farther, much deeper now. He 
could use the Earth Sight. He hugged his father tight, and closed his eyes, and 
with his heart, he sought to peer into King Orden.
    For a long moment, he saw nothing, and he wondered if he really had seen 
into Raj Ahten's heart last night.
    Then, as if at a great distance, a strange collage of sights and smells and 
sounds assaulted Gaborn. First he saw the sea, the blue waves of the ocean 
rolling proud and strong under clear skies, the whitecaps rolling toward shore. 
Gaborn's own mother and sisters and even himself rode in those waves, bobbing 
like seals in the water, and King Sylvarresta rode those waves, too. Yet 
Gaborn's mother was larger than all the rest, as if she were a great walrus, 
while the others were mere harbor seals. Gaborn tasted fresh pumpkin bread in 
his mouth, all covered with sunflower seeds, then washed it down with apple 
wine. Distantly he heard the horns of the hunt. As he listened, he sensed the 
motion of a horse running beneath him, then his chest seemed to swell wide in 
exultation as he looked out over the rooftops of the castle in Mystarria and 
heard the swell of people chanting "Orden, Orden, Orden."
    A tremendous swelling sensation rose in Gaborn's chest, a sense of love and 
warmth, as if all the tender feelings he'd ever felt rolled into one great 
burst.
    Gaborn could see more clearly today than ever before. He could see into his 
father's heart, and these were the things his father loved: the sea, his family, 
pumpkin bread and apple wine, the hunt, and to please his people.
    At this insight, Gaborn pulled back, suddenly feeling guilty. Why am I doing 
this? he wondered. Looking into his father's soul was somehow embarrassing, an 
act of voyeurism.
    Clearly, Gaborn recalled his duty, remembered the tales of what Erden 
Geboren had done when choosing warriors. Gaborn feared for his father, wished to 
do all that he could to protect him in this, his darkest hour.
    You will fight today, Gaborn whispered within himself, but I will fight 
beside you.

     
     
Chapter 41
SELECTING A SACRIFICE
     
    The race from the Seven Stones to meet up with his army was long and hard, 
even for Raj Ahten. A Runelord with endowments of stamina and metabolism can run 
faster than other men, and far longer, but it requires energy. Even a Runelord 
cannot run forever.
    So it was that Raj Ahten reached his army well before dawn, but the toll was 
heavy. In jogging well over a hundred miles in armor, with no food, he lost some 
twenty pounds of fat. The sweat stormed off him in waves, so that even though he 
stopped frequently to drink from streams and puddles, he'd lost another ten 
pounds of water. The pounding to his kidneys and bones left him weakened. It was 
not the condition he would have chosen to fight in.
    As Raj Ahten traveled, he found signs that his army, which had forged ahead, 
was faltering. Dozens of horses had fallen by the roadside, still in their 
armor. Another dozen foot soldiers had succumbed during the march. He found 
Frowth giants and mastiffs lying senseless by pools, wheezing, overheated from 
their run.
    When he reached his troops, he did not mind that his men had been delayed by 
the ruined bridge at Hayworth, for the delay had cost them but four hours. Four 
hours he spent resting and eating as he rode the remainder of the way to 
Longmont.
    All the way, he worried. Jureem's betrayal and running off into the night, 
the portents at the Seven Stones--both weighed on him. Yet Raj Ahten discounted 
them. He wanted but one thing from Longmont: his forcibles. Once he had them, he 
would have time to consider other matters.
    His men made such good time that he called a halt for an hour, in the city 
of Martin Cross, so his men could rummage through the houses and barns for food.
    Shortly after dawn, thirty miles from Longmont, his outriders reported that 
a contingent of several hundred knights was fleeing before their army, men 
riding under a dozen banners. Knights Equitable from Castle Dreis and estates 
thereabouts.
    Raj Ahten felt tempted to give chase in earnest, but knew that his men were 
now ill equipped for a race.
    So he took his time riding to Longmont, resting on the way. At ten in the 
morning, he rounded the big bend in the hills and spotted Castle Longmont on its 
promontory, some two miles distant.
    His outriders climbed a hill to get a clearer view, then called down a 
report. "General Vishtimnu hasn't arrived yet, O Great Light."
    Raj Ahten did not worry. With over six thousand men and giants, he could 
hold Longmont until reinforcements arrived. In fact, he could set up the siege 
engines and begin pounding the castle within hours, while waiting for 
Vishtimnu's advent.
    Orden had not bothered to raise Longmot's hoardings--timber frames that 
could protect the castle's roofs from missiles. With Raj Ahten's flame-weavers, 
the hoardings would have simply become fuel for a grand blaze.
    So the bombardment would begin soon. If Raj Ahten had to wait a day for 
reinforcements, his men could begin working on mantelets and shelters, siege 
towers and belfries. There were plenty of stone fences around that could be 
dismantled, either to help fortify entrenchments or to hurl as missiles. But Raj 
Ahten did not want to try to build a city here at the foot of Longmont while 
waiting out some elaborate siege. The longer he camped here, regardless of what 
fortifications he managed to erect, the longer the kings of Rofehavan would have 
to mount a counterattack. No, he'd not set a great siege.
    Not when he had so many Invincibles, so many weapons magical and mundane 
that he could employ.
    Damn your meddling ways, King Orden, Raj Ahten thought. I will roust you 
from your burrow by tomorrow dawn!
    So his men overturned some wagons as temporary shelters and erected 
Pavilions on the hill south of Longmont, began setting the siege. Watchmen were 
posted on every road to the castle. Three thousand archers and knights took 
positions in the field. Another five hundred men and giants went under the trees 
on the western hills to cut tall pines for use in building siege ladders and 
battering rams.
    Raj Ahten brought his spy balloon out, tied its basket to a stout tree, and 
set a flameweaver to heating the air for it.
    Then the Wolf Lord let the remainder of his men eat and relax. Raj Ahten 
himself rested in the shade of the single huge oak tree on the hill, thirty feet 
from his Dedicates' wagon. He sat on pillows covered in purple silk, and ate 
dates and rice while he studied Longmot's defenses.
    He counted only some four thousand men on the walls--a haphazard collection 
of nobles, young boys, and ruffians. The wizard Binnesman was not with them. Nor 
did Raj Ahten see Jureem.
    "A king is coming, a king who can destroy you!" The words rang through
    Raj Ahten's memory. King Orden was all shimmering in green samite, with his 
gold shield.
    The king of one of the world's most powerful nations. It gave him pause. The 
men here on the walls would fight like berserkers for such a king. This was the 
kind of battle songs were made of. And if Raj Ahten was right, Orden was the 
Earth King.
    Raj Ahten's Invincibles would normally take such a castle with relative 
ease. Yet, today, he felt uncertain.
    Though he did not tremble at the sight of the warriors on the wall, 
something about their positioning bothered him--a wrongness that left him 
unbalanced. He studied the men, checking their spacing, armaments, armor, and 
expressions. He could see worry in their faces, saw that those who had no armor 
were evenly spaced between those who did. The men were clustered in fighting 
groups--pikemen and swordsmen together, archers at their backs.
    Nothing he saw explained the worry that gnawed him.
    The moat around the castle was brackish and foul this time of year, a 
breeding ground for mosquitoes and disease. A corpse floated in the moat. 
Despite the fact that the water was stagnant, Raj Ahten knew from his own 
measurements that it was quite deep--some forty feet. Too deep to let sappers 
easily dig at the castle's founding stones.
    There had been a city here last week, a small city of five thousand souls. 
Over generations, the walls of the city had crept within bowshot of the castle. 
One could have moved siege engines up behind those homes, tossed rocks over the 
battlements. But Orden's soldiers had wisely burned the city, cleared the ground 
of cover in preparation for battle.
    No, this castle could not easily be taken, not with four or five thousand 
men on the walls, others waiting in the baileys and towers. The castle's 
armaments were well stocked. He'd seen arrows piled in the armory not a week 
ago.
    He sighed. If Raj Ahten laid siege to the castle through the winter, Orden's 
men might be forced to burn some of those arrows just to stay warm. But, of 
course, this siege would not last so long.
    An hour before noon, General Vishtimnu still had not arrived, and the first 
six catapults were built. Raj Ahten's men fashioned a hundred crude siege 
ladders and brought them to the hill, laid them out, ready for battle.
    The far-seers in the balloon could spot few men inside the castle--most held 
the walls, though several hundred knights waited on their mounts in the inner 
bailey. None of the inhabitants from the city were inside the gates. The only 
exception was possibly the Dedicates' Keep, where two hundred of Orden's elite 
guard watched the keep. Perhaps Orden had drained some of the people of this 
city for endowments, and hundreds of Dedicates secreted in the keep. Yet the 
keep could not hold many.
    This was good news. Though Orden had captured the forcibles, he did not have 
forty thousand or even four thousand people here who could have granted 
endowments.
    It meant that the vast majority of the forcibles might still be within the 
castle, unused.
    Raj Ahten had four hundred forcibles remaining in his possession from the 
hoard he'd taken to Castle Sylvarresta.
    He called his facilitators and studied his assets. Most of the forcibles 
were worthless to him. The irons bore only runes of the senses. He had no use 
for more endowments of hearing or smell or touch.
    He'd used most of the forcibles for taking major endowments in subduing 
Sylvarresta. None in his hoard bore runes of strength or grace. He had many of 
wit.
    To his surprise, he found only twelve forcibles that bore the runes of 
metabolism.
    He wished now that he'd brought more. A cold uncertainty took him as he 
pondered. His pyromancer had gazed into the future, warned him that a king in 
Heredon could slay him. He'd already humbled Sylvarresta. So it was Orden.
    And Orden had surely taken endowments of metabolism. A Runelord of his 
stature would not need more grace or brawn in battle. He would not need more 
wit. Stamina would be of some help. But the only attribute that would let him 
defeat Raj Ahten would be metabolism.
    But how much had Orden taken? Twenty endowments? Orden was chronologically 
in his mid-thirties, but if he had taken the customary endowment of metabolism 
after rearing his family, he'd have a physiological age close to forty-five. 
Even a dozen endowments of stamina could not completely ameliorate the effects 
of his advancing age. So he'd have endowments of brawn, grace, stamina, and wit 
to counteract his aging.
    Raj Ahten's spies had told him that as of a year ago, Orden had had over a 
hundred endowments to his reckoning. How many over a hundred, Raj Ahten could 
not guess.
    At any event, Orden would be a worthy adversary. So how many endowments of 
metabolism had he taken? Five? No, that would be too few. Fifty? If so, he'd 
have taken his death. He would age and wither within a year. Raj Ahten would not 
even need to fight today. He could simply withdraw his troops for the winter, 
and Orden would age. By spring he'd be a dotard.
    It was said that in the days of Harridan the Great, the messenger Marcoriaus 
had so needed speed to deliver news of the impending battle at Polypolus that 
he'd taken a hundred endowments of metabolism--enough so that he ran barefoot 
across the Caroll Sea, relying only on the surface tension of the water to keep 
him aloft. Marcoriaus had died within three months, of course.
    But the idea of such phenomenal speed attracted some men. Yet, such speed 
could be a great danger. A Runelord who moved too suddenly, too sharply, could 
snap a leg. The force of an object seeking to remain at rest was too great. It 
took a great deal of wit and grace to learn how to move with control.
    Orden had that wit and grace, and now he might have the metabolism to go 
with it.
    So, King Orden would have taken between ten and twenty endowments of 
metabolism, Raj Ahten decided.
    He would need to match him.
    Or, I could take endowments of metabolism, then kill my own Dedicates 
afterward.
    He had used the tactic before. However, in order to maintain the proper 
fighting spirit among his men, he'd made certain that he left no witnesses.
    "Call to me the twelve Invincibles who have great endowments of metabolism," 
Raj Ahten told Hepolus, his chief facilitator. "I need them."
    The facilitators left the tent, hurried back a few minutes later, bringing 
the desired Invincibles--elite guards and assassins who each had at least three 
endowments of metabolism. They were all big men, strong of bone, so that they 
could handle the stress of great brawn and metabolism. And they were strong in 
wit and grace. He would sorely miss any one of them.
    Raj Ahten knew his men well. The man he least valued was Salim al Daub, an 
old household guard who had been elevated in status several times, despite the 
fact that Salim had failed him as an assassin. Twice he'd gone to kill Prince 
Orden, and twice he'd returned a failure, with only the ears of women and 
children.
    "Thank you for coming, my friends," Raj Ahten said when he'd decided. "You 
have all served me valiantly for many years. I ask now that you serve me once 
again, for I need your metabolism. You, my friend Salim, will have the honor to 
serve as vector."
    The words slid from Raj Ahten's tongue as sweetly as candied dates. The men 
could not resist the power of his Voice. The facilitators drew out the 
forcibles.
    A cold wind blew from the south, rippling the silk walls of Raj Ahten's 
Pavilion.

     
     
Chapter 42
A COLD WIND
     
    Faintly, across the battlefield, from the huge purple royal tent that Raj 
Ahten had entered, Orden heard the chants of facilitators borne on the cold 
wind. The sound came dimly, so dimly that few men on the walls could have 
discerned it. Orden could hear it only because he focused, detected it beneath 
the song of the wind rushing through the leaves of grass along the hills, a 
sound so much like the waves of the ocean back home.
    "What's taking them so long?" an archer on the castle walls asked, a farm 
boy who knew nothing of war. They'd been waiting an hour. In that time, Raj 
Ahten's men had not sought to parlay. They did not seem to want to attack.
    King Orden began to pace the walls, past men who stood shoulder to shoulder, 
four deep. He watched with mounting nervousness as Raj Ahten set his forces, 
laid his siege.
    "I do not like that chanting," Captain Holmon said softly in Orden's ear. 
"Raj Ahten has endowments enough without it. We would be better off if we got 
this battle under way, before their reinforcements arrive."
    "How?" Orden asked. "Mount a charge?"
    "We can goad the old dog into battle."
    Orden nodded to Captain Holmon. "Sound your horn, then. Call Raj Ahten to a 
parlay. I want him out here, within bowshot."

     
     
Chapter 43
THE SPARK
     
    The facilitators had just finished granting endowments of metabolism from 
nine of Raj Ahten's men to Salim when the horns sounded, calling for a parlay.
    The facilitators looked at Raj Ahten, curiously.
    "Finish it," Raj Ahten said to his chief facilitator. He'd stripped from his 
armor, and sat on a cushion, awaiting the endowment.
    He listened with rising excitement as the facilitator sang the familiar 
words to the chants. Salim shrieked in pain while the forcible burned his flesh, 
adding to the scent of charred fat and burning hair that filled the Pavilion.
    To take an endowment, to feel the kiss of the forcibles, gave profound 
delight. It was like making love to a beautiful woman. But to take an endowment 
from someone who already had received many endowments, to combine that euphoria 
over and over again--that gave unspeakable ecstasy. By the time Salim had taken 
his endowments from eleven men--men who had all received endowments of their 
own--he had combined nearly forty endowments of metabolism, all waiting to burst 
free into Raj Ahten at once.
    Seldom did Raj Ahten receive such great pleasure.
    He was sweating with anticipation by the time the facilitator drew the 
forcible away from Salim, held its glowing tip high, and danced across the room, 
painting the air inside the tent with ribbons of sulfurous light.
    When the tip of the forcible touched the skin beneath Raj Ahten's nipple, 
the Wolf Lord shuddered with such unspeakable ecstasy that he could barely 
contain it. He fell to the floor, his body racked by waves of pure pleasure, and 
he cried out as if in orgasm. Only his many endowments of stamina allowed him to 
survive the pleasure. For several moments, he blacked out.
    When he woke, the facilitators knelt over him nervously. Raj Ahten's sweaty 
skin shivered. He looked up at his men.
    "My lord, are you well?" Facilitator Hepolus asked. The words slurred, as if 
he spoke very slowly. The whole world seemed strange and exotic, as if in some 
liquid dream. The men around him moved slowly, and the air felt heavy, thick.
    Raj Ahten wiped the sweat from his body, took care not to leap up too 
quickly.
    Long ago, he'd learned that when one takes an endowment of metabolism, it 
affects the hearing. Not only do people around you speak and move very slowly, 
but the entire way that sound is perceived is affected. High pitches become 
lower, while low pitches become almost inaudible. To reply to a question in a 
manner that others could understand required both patience and great control of 
Voice.
    "I am well," Raj Ahten answered with care.
    The facilitators glanced around meaningfully, moving with such seeming 
deliberation they looked like old, old men.
    Raj Ahten waved at Salim, lying on the carpets within the tent. "Move my 
vector to the Dedicates' wagon. Place guards to watch these others."
    Raj Ahten currently had forty-two endowments of metabolism. With so many, if 
he tried to walk at an average pace, he'd travel at over a hundred and forty 
miles per hour. If the air stood still, his movement alone would make it feel as 
if he pressed through a hurricane.
    With forced slowness he pulled on his scale mail, donned his helm. He 
accidentally moved too fast while fastening his helm, so that his left pinky 
finger snapped under unexpected pressure. It healed instantly in a crooked 
position.
    Raj Ahten broke it again, pulled it straight, let it heal.
    He ambled slowly outside the tent, tried to appear as natural as ever.
    On the battlements of Castle Longmont, above the gate, King Orden's men 
waved the green flag of parlay.
    Between a pair of giants who stood like a wall, eleven Invincibles had 
already mounted imperial horses, prepared to act as Raj Ahten's honor guard. A 
footman held the twelfth horse for him.
    Raj Ahten ambled to his horse, nodded toward his flameweavers, giving them 
their signal.
    Then he forced himself to sit very still as the horse galloped toward 
Longmot's gates.
    It was an odd situation. As the horse ran, Raj Ahten often found himself 
momentarily thrust into the air, but those moments stretched out interminably, 
so that for half of the short ride, it seemed he was airborne, just floating 
above the ground.
    He had not gone far when a shimmering nimbus took shape above his head, 
courtesy of the flameweavers, a scintillating golden light that emitted brief 
sparks of titanium white.
    In the glimmering light he gazed steadfastly at the wide eyes of the 
defenders on the castle walls.
    The knights were grim men, skeptical. Not the soft city folk he'd seen at 
Castle Sylvarresta. Many of them clutched their weapons fiercely, and it seemed 
a thousand bowmen on the walls nocked their bows, drew arrows full. Their eyes 
shone with calculation.
    "People of Longmont," Raj Ahten called, modulating so that he spoke slowly, 
sliding all the power of his Voice into the words, so that he'd seem like a man 
of peace and reason.
    On the castle walls, Orden clenched his fists, calling, "Shoot!"
    In slow motion, the hail of arrows descended, a black wall of arrows and 
bolts from steel longbows and ballistas.
    Raj Ahten tried to sit still in his saddle, tried not to overreact as bolts 
sped toward him. He could dodge them or push them aside, as needed.
    The arrows hurtled toward him in a deadly rain, and Raj Ahten glanced to 
each side. The knights in his honor guard were raising their shields, dismayed 
by this act of premeditated butchery.
    He did not have time to save them.
    As the first arrow sped to him, he grabbed for it, thinking to knock it from 
the air. But when his mailed fist slapped the arrow, such was the velocity and 
momentum at which both his hand and the arrow traveled, that the wooden shaft 
snapped in two. The head of the arrow veered toward his chest, and Raj Ahten had 
to grab for it again quickly, catch it in his hand.
    At that moment, the deadly rain of arrows slammed into his knights, their 
mounts.
    A huge iron ballista bolt unseated the knight next to him, and the Wolf Lord 
was forced to raise his small shield, knock away more arrows that sang through 
the air toward him.
    A shaft struck between the plates of his horse's armor, sliding into its 
ribs, and the mount began to stagger. It stepped on a caltrop and let its feet 
give way.
    Suddenly Raj Ahten found himself flying through the air, seemingly in slow 
motion, unhorsed, grabbing and kicking arrows from his path, twisting so that a 
shaft broke against his vambrace rather than pierced his scale mail.
    He was a strong man, but even Raj Ahten could not break the fundamental laws 
of motion.
    The momentum of the horse's fall threw him somersaulting headfirst over the 
beast's shoulder.
    He knew that if the force of his landing did not crack his skull, the weight 
of the armored horse rolling over him afterward might crush him.
    Raj Ahten managed to reach out, push himself slowly off the ground as he 
moved toward it, then tuck, so that he rolled cleanly over the grass, away from 
his charger.
    But that maneuver cost him, for as he came around, a vividly painted red 
arrow lodged in his collarbone just above the line of his mail, and another bit 
into his thigh.
    Raj Ahten crawled away from his falling horse, looked up at the grim 
soldiers on the castle walls.
    He grabbed the arrow in his thigh, pulled it free, and hurled it back at his 
attackers.
    But when he grasped the red shaft in his collarbone, it snapped in two.
    He held it up, astonished, for he'd taken it gingerly. It should not have 
broken under so slight a pressure.
    The shaft broke, he now saw, because the arrow had been hollowed and 
notched. The shaft was meant to break away. Raj Ahten guessed the reason behind 
this even before he felt the fiery poison creeping toward his heart. He stared 
hard at the castle wall, saw one soldier a hundred feet above him--a tall fellow 
with a thin face and yellow teeth, a tunic made of pig hide. The fellow threw 
his longbow in the air, shouting in triumph at having killed the Wolf Lord of 
Indhopal.
    As this first volley of arrows finished landing, a quiet moment followed 
where the skies remained relatively free of missiles.
    Raj Ahten pulled his dagger from its sheath. The wound in his collar hurt 
fiercely. The poison rushed through his bloodstream so fast, Raj Ahten did not 
know if even his thousands of endowments of stamina could save him.
    The skin on his collarbone had already healed over the wound, sealing the 
arrowhead beneath. With a quick shove, Raj Ahten slammed his dagger into his 
collar, cutting it open, and pulled out the arrowhead.
    With deadly accuracy, he then hurled the dagger at the jubilant archer.
    He turned and began slowly running before more arrows fell, not even 
bothering to watch the archer on the castle wall take the dagger through the 
forehead, fall back under the force of the blow.
    It was enough to hear the man's death scream.
    Raj Ahten ran a hundred yards over the grass. The poison made him weary, 
made it hard to raise one foot, then the next. His breath came slow and labored. 
He feared that the poison would asphyxiate him. The arrow had fallen close to 
his lungs, deep in his chest, and the poison had not been able to bleed out 
before the skin healed over the wound.
    He struggled for each step, collapsed from fatigue. The wound in his 
shoulder hurt like death, and he could feel the poison clutching at his heart, 
holding it like a mighty fist.
    He reached toward his men, begging aid, begging for healers. He had physics 
to care for him, herbalists and surgeons. Yet he was living so quickly, a minute 
to him now seemed like the better part of an hour. He feared he'd succumb long 
before an herbalist could arrive.
    His heart beat sporadically, pumping hard. Raj Ahten gasped for each breath. 
With his endowments of hearing, Raj Ahten could hear every surge and gurgle of 
his failing heart. With his head pressed against the ground, he could hear worms 
stirring in the earth beneath him.
    Then his heart stopped.
    In the sudden silence, the sound of worms beneath the ground came louder, as 
if it were all the sound in the world.
    Raj Ahten willed his heart to beat again, willed it to start. Beat, damn 
you. Beat...
    He struggled for air, gasped. He slapped his own mailed chest in 
frustration.
    His heart beat, weakly, once. Then it began to stutter, jerking spastically.
    Raj Ahten concentrated. Felt his heart beat once, strongly. A second later, 
it came again. He gasped air that felt black in his lungs.
    Silently, he cried out, willed his facilitators in far lands to give him 
more stamina, so that he might withstand this. "A king is coming," he heard the 
words echoing through his memory. "A king who can kill you!"
    Not like this, he begged the powers. Not so ignoble a death.
    Suddenly the clutching in his heart eased. It began pumping furiously, and 
Raj Ahten peed in his armor like an old man with no control over his bladder. He 
felt some relief as his body rid itself of poison.
    As he lay on the grass, the pain receded. He'd been lying on the ground for 
what seemed to him minutes, though the archers on the wall must have felt only 
seconds fly by.
    He fought to his feet once again, staggered to his line of troops, fell to 
his knees behind a Frowth giant that he used as a shield.
    He glanced back, saw some of his honor guard still struggling to rise under 
the onslaught of arrows, shields high. But bowmen on the walls were riddling 
them with shafts.
    Rage threatened to take him, a blind and burning rage. Raj Ahten fought it 
down. Destroying these men would gain him nothing.
    Out of bowshot, Raj Ahten stood, panting, and shouted at the castle, "Brave 
knights, dishonorable lords: I come as a friend and ally in these harsh times. 
Not as your enemy!"
    He let the full power of his Voice flavor the words. Surely these men could 
see he was the injured party here. Eleven of his finest warriors lay dying on 
the battlefield.
    Though he was far away, too far for his glamour to take full effect, his 
Voice alone might sway the men.
    "Come, King Orden," he shouted reasonably. "Let us counsel together. Surely 
you know I have a great army in the wings. Perhaps you can see them now from 
your vantage point?"
    He hoped Vishtimnu was coming. Perhaps such a sighting had prodded Orden to 
this dastardly deed. With all the sweetness he could muster, he said soothingly, 
"You cannot defeat me, and I bear you no malice. Throw down your weapons.
    "Throw open your gates. Serve me. I will be your king, and you will be my 
people!" He waited for surrender expectantly, as he had at Castle Sylvarresta.
    It seemed he waited for a full minute for any reaction at all. When it came, 
it was not what he had hoped.
    Only a couple dozen of the younger men tossed weapons over the walls, so 
that spears and bows clattered against the battlements, splashed into the moat.
    But as quickly as the weapons fell, so did their bearers--for the hardened 
warriors on the wall tossed their weak-willed companions to their deaths. The 
bodies bounced down along the sloped walls of the castle.
    A great, greasy-looking bear of a man stood directly above the gates, and he 
spat as far as he could, so that a wad of spittle hit Raj Ahten's dying knights. 
Orden's men burst into laughter and shook their weapons.
    Raj Ahten sat in the cool wind, gritted his teeth. He had not spoken any 
better at Castle Sylvarresta, but the effect had been profoundly different.
    It might have been that with his increased metabolism, he had not spoken the 
words as slowly as he'd hoped, enunciated them with the proper intonation. Each 
time one took endowments of metabolism, one had to learn the arts of speaking 
and hearing all over again.
    Or perhaps it was the endowments of glamour, he told himself. I've lost 
glamour since Castle Sylvarresta. He'd felt it when the Duchess of Longmont had 
died, taking her endowments of glamour with her.
    "Very well!" Raj Ahten shouted. "We shall do this the hard way!" If Orden 
had been seeking for some goad to spark Raj Ahten's anger, he'd found it.
    Raj Ahten struggled for control, found himself seething. He knew it would be 
hard for those men in the castle. It would have been quicker for all concerned 
if they had surrendered. Raj Ahten had taken a hundred castles, many as stout as 
this, until it was a practiced art. I'll make an example of haughty King Orden, 
he vowed.
    He stood before his battle lines, raised his warhammer high, then dropped it 
with a cutting motion.
    The first volley of stones lofted from his catapults. Some smaller stones 
disappeared over the walls, while heavier loads slammed lower on the 
battlements. Two of Orden's cutthroats dropped under the weight of the stones.
    Orden countered with artillery from the city walls--six catapults, and four 
ballistas. The catapults hurled small iron shot that fell like a deadly 
hail--five yards short of his men. Orden would have done better with some 
lighter shot.
    The ballistas were another matter. In all the South, Raj Ahten had never 
seen a ballista made with Heredon's spring steel. In cities like Bannisferre and 
Ironton, artificers--earth wizards who had mastered secret arts of metallurgy 
and artifice--had labored long to make such steel. Raj Ahten was unprepared when 
bolts flashed from the walls in a dark blur, striking through the ranks of his 
men.
    One ballista bolt, like a huge arrow cast of iron, flashed toward him. He 
leaned away from it, only to hear the bolt plummet into someone behind with a 
sickly thud.
    He turned to see a flameweaver sit roughly to the ground, a hole the size of 
a grapefruit through his navel.
    The young man's saffron robes suddenly burst into white flame, as his power 
raged out of control.
    "Retreat!" Raj Ahten called for his men to take cover. They needed little 
urging.
    Raj Ahten raced over the hill as the flameweaver erupted--the massive form 
of the elemental that had coiled like a worm at the center of his soul suddenly 
escaping.
    A lean, bald man took form, a hundred feet tall, sitting on the ground. 
Flames licked at his skull and swirled at his fingertips. He gazed at Longmont 
with a troubled expression.
    Raj Ahten watched. Such an elemental could wreak havoc, blast the stone 
walls to oblivion, burn the gate, fry the inhabitants of the castle like maggots 
on a griddle. Just as the elemental had done at Castle Sylvarresta.
    Yet Raj Ahten felt disappointed. For years he'd nurtured these 
flame-weavers. Now two had already been slaughtered in this campaign. It was a 
damnable waste of resources.
    There was nothing to do for it but wait, watch the elemental do its work, 
then clean up after.
    The elemental became a raging inferno that set the grass at his feet 
burning. The air roared like a furnace, and heat smote Raj Ahten, searing his 
lungs with each breath.
    The hot-air balloon still hovered five hundred feet over the battlefield. 
Raj Ahten's men pulled it away before the elemental's heat made its silk burst 
into a ball of fire.
    The elemental pointed itself toward the city, began striding across the 
battlefield.
    Men on the walls of Longmont fired bows in terror. The tiny arrows flew 
toward the monster like stars that burst into flame in the night sky before they 
were consumed. The arrows could not defeat the elemental, only feed it.
    The elemental reached for the nearest wood, its fingers extending in a 
twisting green flame that caressed the drawbridge of Longmont. The sounds of 
crackling wood and splintering beams filled the air. The soldiers atop the walls 
rushed to escape as a fiery blast slammed against the castle.
    A cheer now rose from the throats of Raj Ahten's men, though Raj Ahten only 
smiled grimly.
    Suddenly, water began gushing from the walls over the arch, flowing in 
runnels from the mouths of the gargoyles above the gate, wept from the castle's 
stone everywhere in great waves, so that the gray walls glistened.
    Everywhere, water was rushing up the stone battlements from the moat, 
forming a wall. The great elemental turned to steam at its touch, began to 
shrink and dissipate.
    Raj Ahten seethed, wondering.
    One of his flameweavers shouted, "A water wizard's ward!" It seemed the 
castle had some unanticipated magical protection. Yet there were no water 
wizards here in Heredon that Raj Ahten had ever heard of.
    Raj Ahten wondered. Such wards could not last out a year and required a 
magical emblem to be placed on the castle gate. He'd seen no such emblem or rune 
four days past.
    Then he looked above the gate: Orden stood on the arch, holding his golden 
shield against the castle wall. The ward had been built into his shield, and by 
laying the shield against the castle wall, the entire castle, by extension, 
became shielded.
    Raj Ahten's face twisted in rage as he watched his elemental shrivel amid 
the water's onslaught. It cringed and huddled like a lonely child, then became a 
common fire burning in the grass. In half a moment, even that was smothered.
    Raj Ahten felt impotent, maddened.
    Then the wizard Binnesman appeared on Raj Ahten's own horse, racing down 
from the wooded hills to the west, to put himself between the Wolf Lord's army 
and the castle.

     
     
Chapter 44
THE WIZARD BINNESMAN
     
    King Orden pulled his golden shield up to his chest. He'd brought it as a 
gift to Sylvarresta, to celebrate their children's betrothal. The ward on the 
shield was to have protected Castle Sylvarresta. Now it had saved Longmont.
    But the shield had become worthless, save as a target for arrows, drained of 
all its water spells.
    Silently, Orden cursed himself. When he'd seen Raj Ahten fall from the 
arrow, he'd hesitated. He could have gone then, rushed down to attack the Wolf 
Lord and lopped off his head. Instead, he'd let his hopes soar, had thought for 
one breathtaking moment that the Wolf Lord would succumb from the poison. Then 
the opportunity to strike was gone.
    Now this.
    Orden studied the herbalist as he rode across the green grass on a great 
force horse, felt bemused. Earth Wardens seldom meddled in the affairs of men. 
But this one, it appeared, was fool enough to try to stop a war.
    Though Orden had not seen Binnesman in a year, the old wizard had changed 
much. He wore robes in the colors of autumn forest--scarlets with bits of tan 
and gold. His brown hair had turned the color of ice. But his back was unbowed. 
He looked older, yet vigorous.
    On the battlefield before him stood Raj Ahten's Invincibles, archers by the 
thousands, giants in armor, and mastiffs with leather helms and fierce collars.
    Binnesman rode his mount before the castle gates.
    Orden felt strange, expectant, filled with vast reserves of energy. 
Twenty-one warriors hid in various cellars, closets, and rooms throughout Castle 
Longmont. Each man, bearing arms and armor, was curled in a ball, waiting for 
the moment when Orden would draw upon their metabolism. Orden could feel their 
energy course through him. His blood seemed to burn, as if he were a pot ready 
to boil.
    Across the battlefield, Raj Ahten's men stood under the trees, bristling at 
the way the battle had gone. Raj Ahten strode toward Binnesman, his motions 
almost a blur.
    "Raj Ahten," the old wizard grumbled, straightening his back to gaze at the 
Wolf Lord from beneath bushy brows, "why do you insist on attacking these 
people?"
    Raj Ahten answered calmly, "It is no concern to you, Earth Warden."
    Binnesman said, "Oh, but it is my concern. I've spent the night riding 
through the Dunnwood, listening to the talk of trees and birds. Do you know what 
I've learned? I have news that pertains to you."
    Raj Ahten had moved forward a hundred yards--still out of easy bowshot, yet 
once again he stood before his army.
    "Orden has my forcibles," Raj Ahten said in answer to Binnesman's earlier 
query. "I want them back!" The sound carried well over the fields. Orden could 
hardly believe Raj Ahten spoke from so far away.
    The old wizard smiled, leaned back in his saddle, as if to rest. On the 
green across the field, Raj Ahten's three remaining flameweavers stood. Each 
began giving their bodies to fire, so that their clothes burst into flame and 
tendrils flared out from them, yellow, red, and blue.
    "Why is it," Binnesman asked, "that every forcible on earth must be yours?"
    "They came from my mines," Raj Ahten said, striding forward, his face alight 
with seductive beauty. "My slaves dug the ore."
    "As I recall, the Sultan of Hadwar owned those mines--until you slit his 
throat. As for the slaves, they were someone's sons and daughters before you 
took them. Even the blood metal you cannot claim--for it is only the crusty 
remains of your ancestors who died long ago in a great slaughter."
    "Yet I claim it as mine," Raj Ahten said softly, "and no man can stop me."
    "By what right?" Binnesman called. "You claim the whole earth as your own, 
but you are a mere mortal. Must death force you to release all that you claim 
before you recognize that you own nothing? You own nothing. The earth nourishes 
you from day to day, from breath to breath! You are chained to it, as surely as 
your slaves are chained to the walls of your mines. Acknowledge its power over 
you!"
    Binnesman sighed, glanced up to Orden on the castle wall. "What of it, King 
Orden? You strike me as a fair-minded man. Will you give these forcibles to Raj 
Ahten, so that you two may finish with this squabbling?" Binnesman's eyes 
smiled, as if he expected Orden to laugh.
    "No," Orden said. "I'll not give them. If he wants them, he must come 
against me!"
    Binnesman clucked his tongue as if he were an old woman, scolding a child. 
"You hear, Raj Ahten? Here is a man who dares defy you. And I suspect he will 
win..."
    "He has no chance against me," Raj Ahten said with dignity, though his face 
seemed livid with rage. "You lie."
    "Do I?" Binnesman asked. "For what purpose do I lie?"
    "You seek to twist us all, to do your own bidding."
    "Is that how you see it? Life is precious--yours, mine, your enemy's. I 
cherish life. Am I 'twisting' you to save your miserable life?"
    Raj Ahten did not answer, but only studied Binnesman with subdued rage.
    Binnesman said, "I've come before you twice now. I warn you one last time, 
Raj Ahten: Give up this foolhardy war!"
    "You had best move from my way," Raj Ahten said. "You can't stop me."
    Binnesman smiled. "No, I can't stop you. But others can stop you. The new 
King of the Earth has been ordained. You cannot prevail against him.
    "I see hope for House Orden, but none for you. I did not come here to beg 
you yet again to join my cause," Binnesman said. "I know you will not join me."
    "But hear me well: I speak now in the name of the Power I serve: Raj Ahten, 
the Earth that gave you birth, the Earth that nurtured you as a mother and 
father, now rejects you! No longer will it nourish or protect you."
    "I curse the ground you walk upon, that it will no longer give you 
sustenance! The stones of the earth shall trouble you. Accursed be your flesh, 
your bone, your sinew. Let your arms be weakened. Cursed be the fruit of your 
loins, that you leave no issue. Cursed be those who band themselves with you, 
that they too shall suffer your lot!"
    "I warn you: Leave this land!"
    The Earth Warden spoke with such force that Orden expected some sign--the 
ground to sway and tremble or swallow Raj Ahten, or for stones to drop from the 
sky.
    But the downs looked the same as ever, the sun still shone bright.
    Earth does not kill, Orden knew. It does not destroy. And Orden could see 
that Binnesman had no wylde to back him, no power to effect some astonishing 
curse.
    Or perhaps, in time, the effects of the wizard's curse would be seen. Such 
curses were never given lightly, and old wives' tales warned that they were the 
most potent form of magic. If that were true, Orden almost pitied Raj Ahten.
    Yet, for the moment, nothing happened. Orden shouted a warning. "Binnesman, 
leave this battle. You can do nothing more."
    Binnesman turned up and looked at Orden, and there was such a look of anger 
there in the wizard's eyes that Orden stepped back a pace.
    As if Binnesman, too, suddenly recognized the danger, he turned his mount 
west, toward the Dunnwood, and fled.

     
     
Chapter 45
THE CAVILING CAVALIER
     
    Castle Groverman lay on a shallow, sandy mound on Mangon's Heath, just where 
Wind River made a slow turn. It was not the stoutest castle in Heredon, nor the 
largest, but as Iome rode across the plains that morning, it seemed the most 
beautiful, with its sprawling grounds, its palatial towers, and its vast gates. 
The morning sun shone golden on the heather and on the yellow sandstone of the 
castle, so it gleamed like something molten.
    Iome, her father, Gaborn, and the three Days swept over the heather, racing 
past herds of half-wild horses and cattle that startled away each time they 
crossed a line of hills.
    Iome knew this place only from maps and tomes and conversations. Groverman 
came to her father's castle for the Council of Lords each fall and winter, but 
she'd never seen his home. For centuries the lords of Groverman had governed 
this land, supplying Heredon with force horses and beef. Iome's father did not 
keep large stables in his own castle--not like the extensive stables at 
Groverman. Here, on the green banks of Wind River, the horses grew fat and 
frolicked, until the lord's horsemen brought them to the King's stables and 
introduced the foals to the herd leaders.
    The herd leaders were spirited. A herd leader, once given endowments of 
strength and metabolism, would dominate any wild horse. The wild foals were used 
as Dedicates, for these horses stood most in awe of the herd stallions, and 
could therefore best be counted on to provide attributes.
    Thus Castle Groverman had grown to be an important fortress, for this was 
the Dedicates' Keep for the horses that supplied Sylvarresta's messengers and 
soldiers.
    But this late in the fall, it was also a busy center for commerce. The local 
vassals and villeins herded cattle in for the fall slaughter. Tomorrow was the 
first day of Hostenfest, a time of celebration before the last of the fall 
labors. A week from today, when the feasting ended, the fatted beeves would be 
driven all across Heredon for slaughter on Tolfest, in the twenty-fifth day of 
the Month of Leaves, before the winter snows set in.
    With the beef came horsemen, driving in the summer's foals. The fields 
around Castle Groverman had thus become a maze of stockyards and tents.
    On seeing it, Iome's heart sank.
    She'd been outraged to learn that Duke Groverman refused aid to Longmont. It 
had seemed a small and evil gesture, not in keeping with the graciousness and 
courage expected from the lords of Heredon.
    But now Iome saw that Groverman might not go to Longmont, with good reason. 
Outside the castle, people and animals crowded the grounds--the horsemen and 
cattlemen, merchants for the festival, refugees from Longmont, plus some 
refugees who'd left their own unprotected villages.
    The refugees from Longmont broke tome's heart. They huddled on the banks of 
Wind River--women, babes, men. For most of them, only blankets slung over poles 
would shelter them from the snows this winter. Groverman had generously allowed 
the refugees to camp near the castle walls, protected from the winds that swept 
these plains.
    Still, it looked as if a town of rags had sprung up by the river, a town 
inhabited by ragged people. Silver-haired men puttered aimlessly, as if only 
waiting for winter so they could freeze. Women wrapped their babes in thick 
woolen blankets and kept them tucked under their arms, having nothing better 
than their bodies and cloth to warm the children.
    From the sounds of coughing as she passed through this crowd, it looked as 
if plagues would soon sweep the camp.
    Iome estimated that between refugees, the inhabitants of Castle Groverman, 
and those who had come for the fair, some thirty thousand people had gathered. A 
vast throng, not easily protected.
    And Groverman's walls, for some reason, were not as thick with knights as 
Iome would have expected. So Groverman must be exerting all his influence to 
care for his people.
    All this Iome saw as she rode past corrals filled with red cattle, through 
the broad streets. Everyone stared at Gaborn as he entered the city. Groverman 
was not used to entertaining soldiers who wore the livery of the green knight. 
The trio of Days who rode behind signaled that this was an important procession, 
regardless of how ragged Iome and her father looked.
    At the castle gate, four guards stopped them. "You have another message for 
milord?" one guard asked Gaborn, ignoring Iome and her father.
    "Yes," Gaborn said softly, "please tell His Lordship that Prince Gaborn Val 
Orden begs his audience, and that he has come in company with King Jas Laren 
Sylvarresta, and the Princess Iome."
    The guards gaped at the news, stood staring at Iome's mud-stained robes. 
King Sylvarresta did not look kingly, not with his endowments stripped. In fact, 
Iome imagined she and her father were the saddest-looking pair on the road.
    So Iome tried to sit all the more proudly, high in the saddle. It cost her 
dearly, for she could ill bear the stares of the guards.
    Behold the horror of your princess, a sad voice whispered in her mind. She 
desired to cringe and hide her face, as some Dedicates did after giving glamour. 
Yet Iome steeled herself for the guards' inspection, still fighting the power of 
the rune Raj Ahten's men had branded into her flesh.
    The guards studied the three Days who rode, as if to verify his claim. Two 
men bumped into each other in their rush to fetch Duke Groverman.
    The Duke hurried into the broad courtyard of his estate, his richly 
embroidered robes flapping in the wind. Azurite and pearls were bound into the 
leather trim of his ocher cloak. His Days hurried behind.
    "Here now! What's this? What's going on?" Groverman cried, pulling his cloak 
tighter about his neck. The morning was growing cold; gray clouds raced in from 
the south.
    He stopped a dozen yards off, gawking back and forth between Gaborn, Iome, 
and the King.
    "Good morning, sir," Iome said softly, without dismounting, proffering her 
hand so that he could kiss her ring. "Though it has been but four months since 
last you visited Castle Sylvarresta, I fear much about my appearance has 
changed."
    It was understatement, of course. As for her father, he looked but a shadow 
of his former self. Stripped of glamour, his face seemed a worn mockery of the 
handsome figure he had cut. Shorn of his brawn, he slumped wearily in his 
saddle. Without wit, Lord Sylvarresta gaped about stupidly, enamored of the 
cattle.
    "Princess Iome?" Groverman asked, as if unconvinced.
    "Yes."
    Groverman stepped forward, took her hand, and unashamedly sniffed it.
    Groverman was an odd man. Some might have called him a Wolf Lord, for he'd 
taken endowments from dogs, but unlike men who took such endowments only to 
satisfy a rapacious hunger for power, Groverman had once argued with Iome's 
father long into the night, suggesting that it was more morally correct to take 
endowments from animals than from men. "Which is more benevolent, to garner 
fifty endowments of scent from a man, or to take one endowment of scent from a 
tracking dog?"
    So Duke Groverman had several endowments from dogs, yet he was a kind 
leader, well-liked by his people.
    He had a narrow face, and dark-blue, close-set eyes. He looked nothing like 
King Sylvarresta. No one who saw them together would have ventured that the Duke 
hailed from the same family.
    Satisfied with her scent, the Duke kissed her ring. "Welcome, welcome to my 
home." With a wave of his hand, Duke Groverman bid Iome dismount, come into the 
courtyard.
    "We have urgent matters to discuss," Gaborn said, as if to get to the point. 
He was in such a hurry to get back to his father, he did not even want to 
dismount.
    "Assuredly," Groverman said, still waving Iome toward his palace.
    "We are in a hurry," Iome said. Almost, she wanted to shout at Groverman 
that she had no time for formalities, that he needed to call his warriors, send 
them to battle.
    Iome suspected Groverman would resist her will, would try to dissuade her or 
placate her with lesser offers of aid. She did not want to listen to his 
caviling and his dodges.
    "We must speak immediately," Gaborn said.
    The Duke caught Gaborn's tone, glanced up with a hurt look. "Milady, does 
Prince Orden speak for you and the King?"
    "Yes, he does," Iome said. "He's my friend, and our ally."
    "What would you have of me?" Groverman asked. "You have only to name it." 
His tone was so submissive, his manner so meek, that, almost, Iome thought he 
feigned it. Yet when she looked into the Duke's eyes, she saw only submission.
    Iome came to the point, "Longmont will soon be under attack. King Orden is 
there, with Dreis and others. How dare you refuse him aid!"
    Groverman opened his hands wide, as if stunned. "Refuse him aid? Refuse aid? 
What more can I do? I've sent the best knights I could, having them ride as soon 
as they were able--over two thousand men. I've sent word to Cowforth and Emmit 
and Donyeis and Jonnick--and they'll converge here before noon. As I wrote in my 
message, I can promise another five thousand men by nightfall!"
    "But..." Iome said, "Orden told us you refused aid."
    "On my honor, he is mistaken! I never!" Groverman shouted. "If women were 
squires and beeves were mounted knights, I'd march within the hour with an army 
of a quarter million. But I never denied him aid!"
    Then she wondered. There had been too many knights on Longmot's walls. She'd 
thought they'd come from Dreis, or that Orden had gathered them in his travels.
    Gaborn touched Iome's elbow. "My father has played us for fools. I see it 
now. I should have recognized what I felt. My father has always said that even 
the wisest man's plots are only as good as his information. He's fooled us, just 
as he seeks to fool Raj Ahten. He knew we wouldn't leave Longmont, so long as we 
trusted in reinforcements. For our own protection, he schemed a way to get us 
out of danger."
    Iome's head spun. Orden had lied with such seeming sincerity, had made her 
so furious with Groverman, it took her a moment to reassess the situation.
    By now, if her estimates were right, Raj Ahten's troops should be reaching 
Longmont. Even if she and Gaborn turned now, they'd never make it back inside 
Longmot's gates. And a hundred thousand men should join Raj Ahten this day.
    If Groverman waited until tonight to ride, he'd ride too late. Yet Iome 
could not bear to sit here while her allies fought in Longmont. There had to be 
something she could do. Iome tensed in her saddle as a plan took shape.
    "Duke Groverman," she asked, "how many shields do you have, at this very 
moment?"
    "Ten thousand fighting men," Groverman said. "But they are only commoners. 
My finest knights are in Longmont."
    "Not men--shields. How many shields do you have?"
    "I--maybe I could scrounge twelve thousand, if we raided the armories of 
nearby estates."
    "Do so," Iome said, "and get all the lances and armor and mounts you 
can--and all the women and men and children above the age of nine who can 
ride--and all the cattle and horses from their corrals. We'll make every blanket 
from your refugees into a pennant, and they shall fly hoisted on rails from your 
corrals. Bring all the war horns you can find. And do so quickly. We must depart 
no later than two hours from now.
    "A great army is about to march on Longmont, so huge an army that even Raj 
Ahten must tremble!"

     
     
Chapter 46
THE CURSE
     
    In the cold, graying skies above Longmont, darkness flashed among the clouds 
like inverse lightning. Raj Ahten's three remaining flameweavers were in their 
battle-splendor now, clothed only in brilliant crimson flames. They hunched 
behind a battle wall of piled stones--a stone fence left by a farmer, 
really--and hurled flames at Castle Longmont. Each of the flame-weavers would 
reach up to the sky and grasp the sunlight, so that for a moment the whole sky 
would darken, and then strands of twisted light and heat would plummet into 
their hands and sit glowing like small suns, just before the flameweavers 
hurled.
    It did little good. Castle Longmont was made of ancient stone. Spells had 
been woven into it by Earth Wardens over the ages. The balls of light and heat 
would sail from the flameweavers' hands, expanding in size as they moved toward 
the castle--for the flameweavers could not concentrate their power at this 
distance--until the giant glowing balls harmlessly splashed against the 
battlements.
    Yet the efforts had some effect. King Orden's warriors had been forced to 
hide behind the battlements, seeking cover, and one flameweaver had hit a 
ballista on his first toss, forcing Orden's artillerymen to withdraw the 
ballistas and catapults into the towers.
    So, for the moment, the battle was a quiet struggle--flameweavers hurling 
fireballs with little effect, tiring themselves, giants loading the catapults to 
send stones over the walls.
    Sometimes, when a ball of flame smashed the high walls just below the 
machicolations, the inferno would send a blast of heat upward through the kill 
holes, where archers hid. Then Raj Ahten would hear a gratifying scream as a 
soldier felt the sharpness of his teeth. In places, bundles of arrows had burst 
into flame like kindling.
    Even now, Raj Ahten had men and giants gathering fuel to build a huge 
inferno. Sunlight often served adequately as a source of energy for his 
flameweavers, but the afternoon skies were going gray, and the weavers' work was 
of poorer quality. If they could depend on a more immediate source of energy, 
their balls of flame would be tighter--perhaps small enough, even, to penetrate 
the archers' slots along the twin towers.
    So the giants hacked down great oak trees and pulled fallen logs from the 
hills, where they stacked them before the castle like a great dark crown made of 
writhing limbs. When the flameweavers tapped this crown for fuel, they would 
increase their powers greatly.
    Half an hour after Binnesman left the castle, an outrider came thundering 
from the west with urgent news. He raced his horse through camp and leapt to the 
ground at Raj Ahten's feet.
    Ah, Raj Ahten thought, Vishtimnu's army has finally been sighted. In Raj 
Ahten's state, with his high metabolism, it seemed the man took forever to 
speak. Fortunately, he did not wait for permission.
    "I beg pardon, Great King," he said, head bowed. The man's eyes were wide 
with fear. "But I have urgent news. I was placed to watch at Harm's Gorge. I 
must report that a horseman came to the gorge and destroyed the bridge. He 
pointed a finger, uttered a curse, and the bridge collapsed."
    "What?" Raj Ahten asked. Could the Earth Warden be seeking to cut off Raj 
Ahten from his reinforcements? The wizard had claimed that he would not take 
sides in this battle, and Raj Ahten had believed him. But the wizard was 
obviously up to something.
    "The bridge is destroyed. The gorge is impassable," the scout repeated.
    Raj Ahten's scouts were trained to treat every question, even rhetorical 
questions, as queries. They reported only what they saw, without embellishment.
    "Have you spotted signs of Vishtimnu?"
    "No, O Great Light. I saw no signs--no scouts, no clouds of dust on the 
road. The forest lies quiet."
    Raj Ahten considered. Just because his scout did not see signs of 
reinforcements, it did not mean that Vishtimnu was not coming. It could well be 
that the wizard had his own means of detecting them. And in an effort to delay 
the army from reaching Longmont, the wizard had destroyed the bridge. But this 
would only slow Vishtimnu, not stop him. Vishtimnu's armies brought great wains 
filled with food, clothing, and weapons, supplies enough to last the whole 
winter, to last for a long campaign. The wagons would not be able to pass the 
gorge, would have to go around, some hundred and twenty miles.
    This would slow the caravan at least four days, probably five or six. It 
would slow even those knights mounted on force horses, so that they wouldn't 
reach Longmont today.
    Destroying the bridge would do Raj Ahten little harm. Unless...the wizard 
knew that more than one army marched through these woods, and therefore sought 
to cut off Raj Ahten's escape.
    Raj Ahten suddenly realized that Jureem had run off only hours ago. Perhaps 
he had feared to come to Longmont. Perhaps Jureem himself had conspired to 
create a trap!
    Raj Ahten didn't hesitate. Two and a half miles northeast of Longmont, on a 
lonely mountain, an ancient observatory stood on a promontory that rose above 
the woods higher than any other hill for many miles. Raj Ahten could see the 
observatory from here--a round tower with a flat top, made of blood-red stone. 
It was called the Eyes of Tor Loman.
    From its lonely seat, the Duke's far-seers could watch the land for many 
leagues. Raj Ahten did not have a man there now. His scouts and far-seers had 
spread out along the roads north, south, east, and west, increasing their view. 
Yet it was possible that at this moment, his far-seers could be racing this way 
with some evil report.
    Raj Ahten called to his men, "Maintain the attack! Get the pyre burning!"
    He spun and raced over the green fields of Longmont with all the speed he 
could safely muster.

     
     
Chapter 47
THE EYES OF TOR LOMAN
     
    On the castle wall, Orden watched in fascination as the messenger rode to 
Raj Ahten, gesticulating. Several giants ambled between Orden and the Wolf Lord, 
blocking Orden's view.
    Orden had studied the Wolf Lord, hoped the man would try to rush the castle. 
He had his men and dogs and giants and ladders all prepared. The mages were 
ready. But Raj Ahten remained patient.
    Yet when the messenger came, Orden took heart. Bad news for Raj Ahten, Orden 
guessed by the demeanor of the messenger. Desperation might only be a moment 
away.
    Then Raj Ahten fled. He leaped a stone fence, raced over the downs.
    Orden counted off seconds, trying to guess Raj Ahten's speed. A hundred and 
ten, perhaps a hundred and twenty miles per hour the Runelord raced over the 
flats, slowing as he careered round the castle, taking to the air as he raced 
over a hill up the north road--toward the old observatory.
    If that is the fastest you can run, I can beat you, Orden exulted. He 
glanced at his men along the wall-walk.
    He had a hundred young men lying beneath the merlons, waiting for 
flameweavers to send their infernal missiles to smash against the castle. Spurts 
of fire would rise up through the grillwork of the machicolations. Each four or 
five times such a missile hit, the young men were to cry out as if wounded. Some 
young men were very dramatic, and at that moment, one of them leapt up, holding 
a leather vest against himself and batting at it furiously before pretending to 
fall as one slain. The boy had set the vest there ten minutes earlier, waiting 
for it to catch fire.
    Many boys nearby tried to stifle chuckles at these antics. But those antics 
served a purpose. So long as Raj Ahten believed his tactics wore the castle 
down, he'd keep at them.
    Orden took quick stock. If he could follow Raj Ahten, catch him, he'd be 
able to battle him alone, man to man.
    "I'd better go," Orden said.
    Beside him, one of his captains gazed longingly toward Raj Ahten. "May the 
Powers be with you!" The captain clapped Orden on the back.
    "You and I and Sylvarresta shall be hunting in the Dunnwood by nightfall," 
Orden said. "Have no fear."
    Orden blew a deep, bass hunting horn in signal. Immediately his men at the 
gates let the drawbridge drop. His energies swelled as all through the castle 
the men in his serpent ring held perfectly still.
    Suddenly the air seemed to thicken to the consistency of syrup. Orden had 
the strength of twelve men, but with the metabolism of sixty, it required 
considerable effort to breathe.
    He leapt forward, bearing a single weapon--a thin half-sword, sharp enough 
to strike off Raj Ahten's head. He planned to take Gaborn's warning to heart, 
decapitate the Wolf Lord. And he carried his shield.
    He began running, leaping down the stairs from the castle wall, surprised at 
the initial push it took to combat inertia. Running required constant, steady 
pressure. As he spun round a corner, his momentum was such that he accidentally 
veered from his course.
    He raced down to the gate, and already his men had begun raising the 
drawbridge, as he had ordered. He bounded up the slight incline, gingerly leapt 
forty feet to clear the moat, running as he landed, and hurried after Raj Ahten.
    The resistance of the wind against his shield felt tremendous. After a few 
yards he dropped it, hurried through the charred streets of the city, then 
veered onto a footpath that led over the downs.
    The grass seemed marvelously green this morning, having been cleansed by 
last night's rains, and everywhere the little white winterstar flowers lay among 
the fields.
    Orden raced over the downs, found that like Raj Ahten, when he reached the 
top of a mound, he was traveling so fast that he became airborne.
    Orden had read of men who had taken great endowments of metabolism. He knew 
that going airborne was of little danger, so long as when he landed he made 
certain that he sped a little, kept his feet moving to absorb the impact of his 
fall.
    He turned a corner. Learning to lean into a turn, he knew, was perhaps the 
most difficult aspect of running with high metabolism.
    Many people found it difficult to adopt the easy rolling gait necessary to 
run. They wanted to move fast by pressing hard with their feet, as a normal man 
would when seeking a quick start, but those who tried it would snap their legs. 
The resting body had too much inertia to overcome.
    Orden understood this principle well.
    But remembering to lean into curves at the proper angle, that just felt 
unnatural. As Orden gained speed, he found he'd be running, trying to make a 
turn in the trail, and it seemed that strange forces grasped him. Gravity did 
not pull down so much as momentum kept him running in whatever direction he'd 
taken, and as he hit a muddy spot on one turn, only a great deal of dancing let 
him stay afoot and keep from smashing into a tree beside the trail.
    Now he saw that Raj Ahten had kept his running speed down to a hundred miles 
per hour for good reason. It didn't feel safe to run faster.
    Yet Orden sped up, for his life and the lives of all his people depended on 
it. He raced higher up Tor Loman, through the white-trunked aspens, under their 
golden leaves.
    As he climbed one hill, looked down into the sun-dappled glen below, he saw 
a huge hart, its antlers wider than a man's arm span. Startled, it leapt 
gracefully in the air, seemingly to hang just a few feet above the ground.
    I could run that deer down in a heartbeat, Orden realized, as he raced 
toward it, passing a span behind as it dropped toward a creek.
    Orden climbed toward the pines, running up a rocky, narrow crag. Ahead, he 
saw the glint of dark metal as Raj Ahten entered the woods.
    The sound of the steel rings in mail warned Raj Ahten of a pursuer. He 
glanced back. Orden rushed up the trail.
    Raj Ahten could not imagine someone running fast enough to catch him. He 
redoubled his speed. The trail now led straight between the dark pines. A shaft 
of sunlight shone at the trail's end. Beyond it stood the red sandstone of the 
Eyes of Tor Loman.
    Raj Ahten knew that fleeing was useless. Orden was gaining on him, and had 
the greater speed.
    "I have you!" Orden shouted in triumph, a hundred yards behind.
    Raj Ahten decided to use Orden's speed against him. He crested a small rise, 
leapt. He felt a sharp pain in his right leg, for his fibula snapped on takeoff.
    He knew he could heal in seconds.
    As Raj Ahten rose, he twisted, drew the hatchet from his belt, and hurled 
just where Orden should be.
    To his surprise, Orden had begun to stutter-step, slowing. The hatchet 
should have cleaved him at something close to two hundred miles per hour, but 
the aim was high.
    Deftly, Orden dodged under the projectile.
    Raj Ahten's trajectory carried him high. Though the break in his leg seemed 
minor, it did not have time to do more than begin healing before he hit ground.
    His tibia snapped, along with the first break, and he tried to let himself 
roll forward, take the weight from his fall on his good leg and shoulders.
    As Raj Ahten came up, Orden fell on him, hacking viciously with his short 
sword. With Orden having so many endowments of metabolism, Raj Ahten could not 
prepare for the assault.
    Raj Ahten leaned back from the attack. Orden's first swing hit him full in 
the throat. Crimson droplets sprayed from Raj Ahten's neck, and he felt the 
chink of metal as the blade struck bone.
    King Orden exulted as he saw the horrible wound, watched flesh peel from Raj 
Ahten's throat, saw the Wolf Lord's handsome eyes widen in terror.
    Yet the blade had hardly cleared Raj Ahten's flesh when the wound began to 
close over, seamlessly. The man had so many endowments of stamina, he seemed no 
longer human.
    The Sum of All Men, Orden feared, that creature which drew life from so many 
people that it could no longer be classified as mortal, could no longer die. Raj 
Ahten was becoming a Power, one to vie the elements or the Time Lords.
    The chronicles spoke of it. The chronicles said Daylan Hammer had lived in 
Mystarria for a time, sixteen centuries past, before he went south, seeking to 
suffer in silence. For immortality had become a burden. Daylan's Dedicates 
passed away, yet he could not die, for in some fashion he had been transformed. 
The gifts transmitted through the forcibles remained with him 
eternally--unwanted, a curse.
    Orden had perfect recall, and he saw the words now before him, as he'd read 
them while young, studying the fragment of an ancient chronicle written by a 
distant forefather:
    "Having loved his fellow men too deeply, Daylan found that life became a 
burden. For men he befriended, women he loved, blossomed and died like the roses 
of a single season, while he alone remained perennial. So he sought solitude 
beyond Inkarra, in the Isles of Illienne, and I suppose he lives there still."
    All this flashed through Orden's mind as his sword cleared Raj Ahten's 
throat; then he realized he had swung so hard that the blade was getting away 
from him. Pain filled his arm as he strained muscles and pulled tendons, trying 
to hold it.
    The sword flashed away into a bed of ferns upon the knoll.
    He had no other weapon. But Raj Ahten still sat, frozen in horror at the 
power of his attack. Orden leapt, kicking at Raj Ahten's head with all his 
might.
    He wore the steel-toed hoots of war, each with a heavy bar across the toe. 
The blow, he knew, would shatter his own leg. But it could also crush Raj 
Ahten's skull.
    As Orden kicked, Raj Ahten twisted away. Orden's heel struck beneath Raj 
Ahten's epaulets.
    A ripping pain tore through Orden's leg as every bone in it shattered, a 
pain so profound it wrung a cry from his throat.
    Yet if I ruin myself, Orden thought, then I ruin Raj Ahten. Raj Ahten's 
shoulder crumpled. Orden felt the bones of the Wolf Lord's arm snap, followed by 
his collarbones, then the ribs caving in, one by one, snapping like twigs 
beneath his heel.
    Raj Ahten screamed like one dying.
    Orden landed on Raj Ahten's shoulder, and sat for what seemed a few seconds, 
gasping, wondering what to do next. He rolled off the Wolf Lord, to see if the 
man had died.
    To his astonishment, Raj Ahten groaned in pain, rolled in the grass. The 
impression of Orden's boot lay stamped on the Wolf Lord's shoulder.
    The scapula had caved in. Raj Ahten's right arm twisted at an unnatural 
angle. The flesh of his shoulder was pushed down six inches.
    Raj Ahten lay in the grass, eyes glazed with pain. Blood frothed from his 
mouth. The Wolf Lord's dark eyes and chiseled face were so beautiful in that 
moment, Orden marveled. He'd never seen the Wolf Lord so close, in all his 
glamour. It took Orden's breath away.
    "Serve me," Raj Ahten whispered fervently.
    In that second, Mendellas Draken Orden was swept away by the force of Raj 
Ahten's glamour, and wished to serve him with his whole heart.
    Then the second passed, and he grew frightened: for something moved beneath 
Raj Ahten's armor; the shoulder settled and swelled, settled once again, as if 
years of inflammation and healing and pain all rolled into one infinite, 
heart-stopping moment. The shoulder finally grew to a bulbous hump.
    Orden tried to roll to his feet, knowing the fight was not over.
    Raj Ahten crawled after him, grasped Orden's right arm by the wrist, and 
smashed his helm into Orden's own shoulder, so hard that the helm was jarred 
loose from Raj Ahten's head.
    Bones shattered all along Orden's arm, and he cried out. He writhed on the 
ground, his right leg a ruin, his arm and shoulder useless.
    Raj Ahten backed away, stood gasping for breath. "It is a shame, King Orden. 
You should have taken more stamina. My bones are already fully healed. How many 
days will it be until you can say the same?" He kicked hard, snapping Orden's 
good leg. Orden collapsed to the ground, on his hack.
    "Where are my forcibles?" Raj Ahten said calmly.
    Orden gave no answer.
    Raj Ahten kicked King Orden in the face.
    Blood spurted from Orden's right eye, and he felt it hanging against his 
cheek. Orden fell to the ground in a near faint, and covered his face with his 
good hand. Raj Ahten kicked his unprotected ribs. Something tore loose inside, 
and Orden began coughing, spewing flecks of blood.
    "I'll kill you!" King Orden spat. "I swear it!"
    It was a vain threat. Orden couldn't fight back. He needed to die. Needed 
Raj Ahten to kill him so the serpent ring would break and another warrior could 
fight in his stead.
    King Orden began to cough; he could hardly breathe in air so thick, so 
liquid. Raj Ahten kicked his ribs again, so that Orden lay gasping.
    Raj Ahten turned and scrambled up the trail fifty yards, through dry grass 
filled with yellow tansy, to the base of the Eyes of Tor Loman. A stone stair 
spiraled three times outside the circumference of the tower. Raj Ahten scrambled 
up it, limping painfully, one shoulder five inches lower than the other. Though 
his face looked beautiful, he seemed from the back to be little more than just 
another twisted hunchback. His right arm hung askew, and his right leg might 
have healed, but it looked shorter than the left.
    Orden panted, sweated with exertion, tried to breathe in air that felt thick 
as honey. The grass near his head smelled so rich, he wanted to lie in it a 
moment, to rest.
    On the heath, Iome and Gaborn rode side by side through the great throng. 
Gaborn held a shield high, and carried one of the Duke's lances. Tied atop it 
was a bit of a red curtain from the windows of the Duke's Keep. A white circle 
of cloth pinned in its middle would make it look, at a great distance, much like 
the Orb of Internook.
    That is, it would appear like Internook's colors to anyone watching twenty 
miles away. Gaborn suspected Raj Ahten's far-seers would be watching. It was 
standard tactics during any siege to place scouts all around the battle.
    For the past half-hour, Gaborn had been busy worrying about the logistics of 
what he did: trying to drive a couple of hundred thousand head of cattle and 
horses across the plain was hard work. Even the experienced drovers and horsemen 
in the retinue could not manage the task easily.
    The work was made harder by inexperienced boys who tried desperately to help 
but who tended to startle the cattle at every turn. Gaborn feared that at any 
moment, the huge herd might stampede right or left, tramping the women and 
children who bore shields in a great line before the herd, as if they were 
warriors.
    Yet as he watched the skies above Longmont, fear seized Gaborn even more. 
The skies looked gray overhead, but far on the horizon darkness flashed as Raj 
Ahten's flameweavers pulled fire from the heavens.
    Gaborn feared he had caused it, that his ruse had led Raj Ahten to hurry his 
attack on Longmont rather than to simply drive the Wolf Lord off in terror, as 
Gaborn had hoped to do.
    As he rode, words began to form in his mind, a half-remembered spell from an 
ancient tome. Though he'd never fancied himself as one with earth powers, now he 
found himself chanting,
    "Earth that betrays us, on the wind, become a cloak to hide us, wrapped 
within. Dust that reveals us, in the sky, Hide our numbers from the predator's 
eye."
    Gaborn felt shocked that such a spell had come unbidden to his mind. Yet at 
that moment, he recalled the spell, and it felt right to speak it, as if he had 
stumbled upon the key to a nearly forgotten door.
    The earth powers are growing in me, he realized. He did not yet know what he 
would become.
    He worried for his father, and as he did so, he felt the man's imminent 
danger, felt danger wrapped around him like grave clothes.
    Gaborn hoped his father could hold out through the attack. He raised his war 
horn to his lips, blew once, and all around him, others did the same. Before his 
army, the marchers began singing songs of war.
    Raj Ahten had dozens of far-seers in his retinue, but none were like him, 
none had so many endowments of sight. Raj Ahten did not know how many endowments 
he had, but he knew it numbered in the thousands. He could discern the veins in 
a fly's wings at a hundred yards, could see as clearly by starlight as the 
average man did by sunlight. While most men with so many endowments of sight 
would have gone day-blind, Raj Ahten's stamina let him withstand the full sun.
    It took nothing to spot the towering cloud to the east, an army marching on 
him.
    As he made his way up the tower, Raj Ahten kept searching to the south and 
west for signs of Vishtimnu's army, signs of help. With his heightened 
metabolism, it seemed he scanned the horizon for many long minutes for sign of a 
yellow pennant rising through the forest canopy, or the glint of sunlight on 
metal, the dust rising from the march of many feet, or the color that mankind 
had no name for--the hue of warm bodies.
    But there are limits even to a far-seer's vision. He could not see through 
walls, and the forest canopy off to the west was wall enough that it could have 
hidden many armies. Moreover, a moist wind from the south blew in off the heath, 
from the vast fields of Fleeds, which were thick with dust and pollen, limiting 
his vision to thirty or forty miles.
    He stood breathlessly, for a long moment. He did not worry about time. With 
so many endowments of metabolism, he could not have been six seconds searching 
the horizon in the southwest before he realized he'd see nothing. Vishtimnu's 
army was too far away.
    He turned east, felt his heart freeze. In the distance, Binnesman's horse 
hurtled across the plains. Raj Ahten could see his destination: at the limit of 
vision, the golden towers of Castle Groverman rose from the plains beside a 
river of silver. And before the castle marched an army the likes of which he had 
seldom seen: hundreds of thousands of men.
    A line of spearmen marched in front, five thousand across, and sunlight 
gleamed on their shields and helms. Behind them marched bowmen by the thousands, 
and knights mounted on chargers.
    They had already crossed the heath a distance of some five to seven miles 
from Castle Groverman. At such a great distance, in such dirty air, he could not 
see them clearly. The dry dust of their passage obscured their numbers, rose 
from their feet in a cloud hundreds of feet high. It looked almost like the 
smoke of a range fire.
    But it was not the heat of a fire he saw beneath that dust. He saw the heat 
of life, of hundreds of thousands of living bodies.
    Among the horde, pennants waved in dozens of colors--the green banners of 
Lysle, the gray of North Crowthen, the red of Internook. He saw horns among the 
crowd, the horned helms of hundreds of thousands of warriors--the fierce axemen 
of Internook.
    It can't be, he reasoned. His pyromancer had said that the King of Internook 
was dead. Perhaps, Raj Ahten's troubled mind told him, but Internook's armies 
are marching.
    Raj Ahten stilled his breathing, closed his eyes. In the field below, rising 
winds hissed through the trees, but distantly, distantly, beneath the sound of 
the blood rushing through his veins, war horns pealed. The cries of thousands of 
voices raised in war song.
    All the armies of the North, he realized, gathering against him. At the 
gates of Castle Sylvarresta, Orden's messenger had said King Orden planned this 
assault for weeks. And he'd hinted that traitors in Raj Ahten's own ranks had 
revealed the presence of the forcibles to King Orden.
    Raj Ahten had rejected the tale, never considered the possibility it might 
be true--for if it was true, it portended such dire consequences for this 
invasion that Raj Ahten could hardly dare ponder them.
    If it was true, if Orden had planned this raid weeks ago, then he could have 
sent for aid, he could have summoned the kings of the North to battle.
    Four weeks ago Orden had set march. Four weeks. It was possible. The fierce 
Warlord of Internook could have marshaled his hordes, sent them in longboats to 
land on the rocky beaches of Lysle, then marched them here, joining with Knights 
Equitable of various kingdoms.
    These would not be common soldiers. These would not be men who trembled at 
the sight of Raj Ahten's Invincibles.
    Raj Ahten opened his eyes again, just as Binnesman's horse wheeled to join 
the procession, taking its lead.
    "The new King of the Earth is coming," the old wizard had said. Now Raj 
Ahten saw the truth. This Earth Warden would join his enemies. This Earth Warden 
would indeed serve a king. "The Earth rejects you..."
    Raj Ahten felt a strange terror beginning to well up inside him. A great 
king marched at the head of that army, he felt sure. The wizard's king. The king 
his pyromancer had warned him of.
    And he brought an army Raj Ahten could not match.
    Even as he watched, a marvelous thing happened: at that very moment, the 
great cloud of dust over the army began to form--tall spires of dust rose 
hundreds of yards into the air like the points of a crown, and a face took form 
in the roiling dust, a stern visage of a cruel man with death in his eyes.
    The Earth King.
    I came here to hunt him, and now he hunts me, Raj Ahten realized.
    Raj Ahten had little time remaining. He needed to return to the castle, take 
it quickly, win back his forcibles before he retreated.
    He raced down the stairs of Tor Loman, heart pounding in terror.

     
     
Chapter 48
FIRE
     
    Raj Ahten raced back down the forest trail, leaping rocks, speeding through 
glens. He suspected now that Longmont held no treasure, that the forcibles had 
moved.
    Everything pointed to it--Orden practically begging for execution. The man 
was obviously joined in a serpent. To kill him would behead the serpent, freeing 
another soldier to fight with almost as much metabolism as Orden now carried.
    But leaving Orden alive and incapacitated kept the serpent intact. Raj Ahten 
had only to find warriors dedicated to the serpent, slaughter them quickly, and 
cut the serpent into pieces.
    The existence of a serpent seemed evidence that the forcibles had left 
Longmont, for if Orden had really taken hundreds of endowments, he'd not have 
relied on a serpent for power. He'd have garnered greater stamina. But the man 
was too easily wounded, too slow to heal.
    No, he couldn't have taken hundreds of endowments, or even dozens. He didn't 
have the people here to serve as Dedicates. So he'd moved the forcibles. 
Probably not far. People who hide valuables seldom want to hide them far. They 
want to be able check on them frequently.
    Yet it was possible Orden had given them to another.
    All morning, Raj Ahten had hesitated to attack the castle for some reason he 
could not name. Something about the soldiers on the walls had disturbed him. Now 
he realized what it was: Prince Orden wasn't on those walls. He'd expected 
father and son to fight together, as in the old songs,
    But the son was not here.
    The new King of the Earth is coming, the old wizard had told him. But the 
wizard had not emphasized the word new. "I see hope for House Orden," the wizard 
had said.
    Prince Orden. It made sense. The boy had earth spells protecting him, a 
wizard in his employ. Gaborn was a fighter. Raj Ahten knew. He'd sent Salim to 
kill Gaborn on two occasions, in an effort to keep Mystarria from uniting with a 
more defensible realm. Yet the assassin had failed.
    He has bested me at every turn, slain my pyromancer, evaded me.
    So Gaborn now has the forcibles, Raj Ahten realized, and has taken 
endowments, and rides at the head of the advancing army. True, Gaborn hadn't had 
much time to garner endowments, but the matter could be easily handled. Orden 
had recaptured Longmont three days ago. In that time, a dozen faithful soldiers 
could have taken endowments on Gaborn's behalf, preparing themselves to act as 
vectors, waiting for Gaborn to return to Castle Groverman to collect his due. 
The new Dedicates might be secreted in Longmont or Groverman or any of half a 
dozen castles nearby.
    Raj Ahten had used the same tactic on occasions. As Raj Ahten raced back to 
Longmont, he considered all these things. He calculated how much time it would 
take to seize Longmont, destroy the forces within, and search for his treasure, 
to verify his guess.
    He had tricks up his sleeves, weapons he'd not planned to employ this day. 
He'd not wanted to reveal his full strength in battle, but perhaps it would be 
necessary.
    He considered how much time it would take afterward to flee. Groverman's 
army stood twenty-five miles off. Many of those men were afoot. If every soldier 
had an endowment of metabolism and one of strength, they might make it here in 
three hours.
    Raj Ahten planned to be gone in one.
    In Castle Longmont, Captain Cedrick Tempest worried for his people, worried 
for Orden, worried for himself. After Orden and Raj Ahten had raced north, both 
armies waited expectantly while Raj Ahten's men prepared for battle.
    The giants had carried whole trees of oak and ash to the slope of the 
hillside, as if to make a bonfire, and there the flameweavers had stepped 
inside, turning the dead trees into a conflagration.
    For long minutes, the three danced within the fire, letting it caress their 
naked flesh, each of them walking around the edge of the bonfire, drawing 
magical signs in the air, emblems of blue-glowing fire that clung in the smoke 
as if they hung on a castle wall.
    It was an eerie, mesmerizing sight.
    Then they began to whirl and chant in an odd dance, as if each man himself 
were synchronizing with the flames, dancing with the flickering lights of the 
fire, becoming one with it.
    Thus each flameweaver weaved and bobbed and cavorted, and began to sing a 
song of desire, calling, calling.
    It was one of the flameweaver's greatest powers--that of summoning fell 
creatures from the netherworld. Tempest had heard of such things, but few men 
ever witnessed a Summoning.
    Here and there, men on the walls began drawing symbols of protection, vainly 
muttering half-remembered spells. Some hedge wizard from out of the wild began 
to draw runes in the air, and the men around him clustered near for protection.
    Tempest chewed his lip nervously as the wizards gathered their powers. Now, 
in the bonfire, the walls of flame thickened, becoming green things like no 
earthly fire. A luminous portal was forming.
    In another moment, Tempest saw shapes materialize within that light-white 
flaming salamanders from the netherworld, bobbing and leaping, not wholly 
formed.
    At the sight of those creatures summoned into the flames, Cedrick Tempest 
was chilled to the bone. His men could not fight such monsters. It was folly to 
stay here, folly to fight.
    A cry of consternation caught in Tempest's throat. Help. We need help, he 
thought.
    He'd hardly thought this, when he spotted a blur to the east of the castle, 
someone rushing over the downs, returning from Tor Loman. He hoped it was King 
Orden, pleaded to the Powers that Orden had returned victorious.
    But the man racing over the downs did not wear Orden's shimmering cape of 
green samite. Raj Ahten raced toward them, his helm gone.
    Tempest wondered if Orden had even caught the Wolf Lord, then glanced down 
into the keep. Shostag the Axeman was Orden's second. If Orden had died, then 
Shostag should be up, should be the new head of the serpent. Tempest saw no sign 
of the burly outlaw down in the keep.
    Perhaps Orden still lived, would come to fight in their behalf.
    Raj Ahten shouted a command, ordering his troops to prepare for battle.
    An old adage said, "When Runelords battle, it is the commoners who die." It 
was true. The Dedicates in their well-protected keeps, the common archers, the 
farm boys skirmishing for their lives--all would fall without notice before a 
Runelord's wrath.
    All his life, Cedrick Tempest had sought to be more than a commoner, to 
avoid such a fate. He'd become a force soldier at the age of twelve, made 
sergeant at sixteen, captain of the guard at twenty-two. In all those years, 
he'd grown accustomed to feeling the strength of others in his arms, to having 
the health of Dedicates flowing in his blood.
    Until now. He stood in nominal command of Longmont, struggling to marshal 
his forces against Raj Ahten's troops. Yet he was little more than a commoner. 
In the battle for Longmont, most of his Dedicates had been slaughtered. He had 
an endowment of wit, one of stamina, one of grace. Nothing more.
    His chain mail weighed on him heavily, and his warhammer felt clumsy in his 
hand.
    The winds sweeping from the south chilled him, and he wondered what this day 
would bring. He cowered behind the battlements. Certainly, he felt death in the 
air.
    Yet for the moment the preparation for battle stood at a standstill. The 
soldiers and giants and dogs of Raj Ahten all kept beyond bowshot. For several 
more long minutes, only the flameweavers worked, dancing, twisting, gyrating in 
the heart of their bonfire, one with the flames; and the glowing salamanders 
took clearer form, becoming worms of white light, adding their own magical 
powers to those of the flameweavers.
    Now, in the center of the great fire, the flameweavers stopped their wild 
dance and raised their hands to the sky as one.
    The skies went black as onyx as the flameweavers began drawing ropes of 
energy from the heavens. Time and again, the flameweavers reached into the sky 
and caught the light. Time and again, they gathered it into their hands and 
merely held it, so that their hands became green blazing lights of their own 
that glowed brighter and brighter.
    The hedge wizard muttered and cursed.
    The flameweavers' magics took more than the mere light from heaven. For 
minutes now, the air had been growing colder. Tempest saw that a rime of frost 
began to cover the castle walls, and the haft of the warhammer in his hand had 
gradually become stinging cold.
    Frost formed along the ground--heaviest near the bonfire, and fanning out 
over the fields and all around the army, as if this otherworldly fire drew heat, 
rather than gave it off. The flameweavers were drawing the energy from the fire 
so efficiently now that Tempest imagined that even he could have stood in those 
emerald flames, walked through them unburned.
    Tempest's teeth chattered. It seemed that the very heat of his body was 
beginning to be sucked from him. Indeed, he could see the salamanders more 
clearly in the flames now--ethereal beings with tails of flame, leaping and 
dancing about, staring at the men on the castle walls.
    "Beware the salamander's eyes. Don't look into the flames!" the hedge wizard 
began to shout. Tempest recognized the danger. For when his eyes met those 
pinpricks of flame that formed the orbs of a salamander, though for only a 
flickering instant, the salamander grew more solid in form while Tempest's blood 
ran all the colder. Men averted their gaze, studied the Frowth giants or the 
mastiffs or the Invincibles in Raj Ahten's army--anything but the salamanders.
    In the foreboding gloom, the bonfire grew surreal--became a green flaming 
world of its own, its walls decorated in fierce runes, the creatures at its 
heart growing in power with each passing moment.
    The clouds above had become so cold that a thunderous hail now began to fall 
lightly, bouncing like gravel from the battlements, pinging against the helms 
and armor of the castle's defenders.
    Tempest felt frightened to the core of his soul. He did not know what the 
flameweavers might try. Would they simply suck the life heat from the men on the 
walls? Or would they send gouts of fire lancing into the ranks? Or did they have 
some scheme that was even more nefarious?
    As if to answer his question, one flameweaver suddenly stopped his gyrations 
among the heart of the emerald flames. For a long moment, ropes of green energy 
coiled from the skies, falling into each of his hands. Now, the skies all around 
grew blacker than the darkest night. Distantly, thunder grumbled, yet if 
lightning flashed, Tempest never saw it.
    In that moment, it seemed as if all time, all sound, suddenly stilled in 
expectation.
    Then the flameweaver compacted the energy in his hand, as if he were forming 
a snowball, and hurled a green bolt of fire toward the castle walls. Immediately 
the flameweaver dropped back, as if spent.
    The green bolt exploded into the drawbridge with a sound of thunder, as if 
answering the heavens. The castle rattled under the impact, and Tempest grasped 
a merlon for support. The ancient earth spells that bound the oak planks and 
stone of the bridge were supposed to resist fire. Even the touch of the 
elemental some fifteen minutes earlier had only barely charred the wood of the 
bridge.
    But never was anything made to resist an accursed fire like this. The green 
flames smote the iron crossbars on the bridge, then raced up the metal, burning 
the iron with a fierce light, racing up the chains that held the drawbridge 
closed. Wondrously, the flames did not scorch the wooden planks of the bridge, 
did not burn the stone casements around it. Instead, they ate only the iron, 
burned only iron.
    In horror, Cedrick Tempest imagined how the touch of that flame would have 
affected an armored warrior.
    With a creaking sound, the bridge fell open.
    Tempest shouted, ordering defenders down from the walls, to bolster the 
troops behind the ruined bridge. Three hundred knights were down in the bailey, 
mounted on warhorses, ready to issue out to attack if needed. But carts and 
barrels were also crowding the bailey, forming a barricade that would not be 
enough. In the hail and darkness, men struggled for better positions. Some 
knights were shouting, wanting to charge out now, attack while they might be of 
use. Other defenders on the ground sought to further barricade the gates. 
Warhorses were whinnying and kicking, and more than one knight fell from his 
charger and was trampled.
    Overhead, the whole sky went black again while ropes of twisted energy began 
to feed a second flameweaver. A long minute later, the flameweaver hurled a 
great ball of green flames at the east tower, which overlooked the drawbridge.
    Instantly the flames raced in a circle all about the base of the tower, so 
that for a moment it looked like a green ring upon a stone finger. But these 
flames were alive, seeking entry. They seemed to squirm through archery slots 
and up the kill holes. They flickered and licked the dull stone, limning the 
mortar that sealed the tower closed, then raced into windows. If anything, 
Tempest realized with mounting horror, this flameweaver's spell was more 
powerful than the first's.
    What happened next, Cedrick Tempest did not want to know, yet he could not 
help but watch.
    The stones of the tower seemed to wail in pain, and a rush of wind and light 
escaped all the holes in the tower from ground to rooftop as every piece of 
wooden planking or shield, as every wool tapestry, as every scrap of hide and 
hair and cloth on every man in that tower all simultaneously burst into flames.
    Fierce lights raged from the windows, and Captain Tempest could see his 
warriors trapped inside, lurid dancers shrieking in horror among the inferno.
    There could be no fighting such magic. In despair, Tempest wondered what to 
do. No charge had begun, yet already the castle gates were down, and 
half-undefended.
    Before the castle gates, with a shout that seemed to echo from the sky, 
cutting through the blackness and the curtain of hail, came Raj Ahten's voice: 
"Prepare the charge!"
    Somehow, in the past minutes, Tempest had lost sight of the enemy commander. 
Now he saw Raj Ahten on the hillside, standing among his men, staring toward the 
castle with an expression of apathy.
    The Wolf Lord's well-trained troops knew what to do. His artillerymen began 
to feed iron shot into the baskets of their engines, send it hurling high 
against the walls.
    All along the walls, Tempest's men hunched behind the battlements, and now 
the hail that fell from the skies grew deadly to the castle's defenders. An 
archer next to Tempest took a ball to the head, was swept from the castle walls. 
Men raised their shields high for protection.
    Tempest looked to the hedge wizard, but now the wizard was crouched behind 
the battlements, eyes filled with terror.
    Wind buffeted from the south, and for a few seconds there was light as the 
flameweavers took their rest. Tempest saw Raj Ahten's spy balloon, which had 
been moored a moment earlier, suddenly lift like a graak, despite the battering 
hail. Four balloonists began emptying sacks of arcane powders into the air, 
powders that floated down toward the castle in dirty clouds of yellow, red, and 
gray.
    Tempest gaped, wondering where King Orden might be, whispering under his 
breath for the King to come, to save them all. Longmont is a great castle, 
protected by earth runes, he told himself. Yet already the gate was down, and 
Raj Ahten had not even begun his attack in earnest.
    Now, seeking power once again, Raj Ahten's flameweavers began grasping ropes 
of fire from the skies. Green walls of flame shone like emerald around the great 
bonfire, bedazzling, their intricate runes gleaming. The blackening trees within 
the wall were a bizarre sight, like twisted fingers and arms in an enormous heap 
of burning body parts. Or like scraps of iron in the forge. Everything became 
luminous in the heart of the inferno--flameweavers, fiery salamanders, dancing 
among the logs at the fire's center.
    As the flameweavers stole fire from heaven, darkness deepened, making the 
battlefield a garish, flickering, half-glimpsed sight. The hail fell heavier for 
a few seconds then, and the air froze in a cloudy fog before his face as Cedrick 
Tempest breathed.
    In that flickering darkness, Tempest glimpsed giants gathering their 
ladders, men on the battlefield drawing weapons.
    "Bowmen at the ready!" Tempest shouted. He watched the track to the north, 
hoping Orden would appear.
    Yet he now feared it would not happen, feared that Orden still lived, and 
that the serpent ring had not broken. Perhaps Orden had never met up with Raj 
Ahten, and was even now racing off on some fruitless hunt. Or perhaps Orden was 
incapacitated.
    Tempest's heart pounded. He needed a protector. There was only one thing to 
do--call upon the knights in the ring to form a new head. But no, he realized, 
that would not do. The Dedicates in the castle were widely dispersed. He did not 
have time to find them, speak to them all.
    He needed to break the serpent ring, slay a Dedicate so that the serpent 
would form a head.
    Across the hill, Raj Ahten made a pulling gesture with his hand, as if to 
yank clouds from the sky. Hundreds of mastiffs began racing for the castle in a 
black wave, their red masks and iron collars making the mastiffs a horrendous 
sight, their commander barking in short yaps.
    Now the Frowth giants hoisted the great siege ladders, two giants to a 
ladder, and loped for the castle at a seemingly slow pace, yet covering four 
yards to the stride. Black behemoths struggling in the night.
    Tempest did not have time to explain to another what needed to be done. He 
turned from his post above the gate, and ran for the stairs.
    "Captain?" one of his men cried, as if worried that Tempest had become a 
craven coward in that moment.
    Tempest had no time to explain. A shout rose across the battlefield as three 
thousand of Raj Ahten's archers raced forward, hurrying to give cover fire 
against the castle walls.
    Tempest glanced over his shoulder before descending the stone steps. Raj 
Ahten's Invincibles raised their shields and charged. At their head, fifty men 
raced with a battering ram, a giant iron wolf's head at the ram's end. Tempest 
knew little of siege magics, but he could see that the iron wolf's head was 
bound with powerful spells. Fire glowed in its dead eyes.
    Though the drawbridge had fallen open, Tempest's men had hastily set a 
wooden mantelet--a frame of timbers--just inside the green. The ram would smash 
into the inner defenses. Behind those defenses, Longmot's mounted knights had 
become restive. They held their great lances at the ready, helm visors down. 
Their horses shifted their weight from foot to foot, eager to charge.
    Raj Ahten's Invincibles raced forward, the earth thundering beneath their 
iron-shod feet, pounding under the hail that began to fall more earnestly. These 
Invincibles were men with great endowments of stamina and brawn and metabolism.
    Giants loped ahead with ladders, Invincibles with their ram. Arcane powders 
strewn from the balloon hung over the castle gate now, like a gray hand of doom.
    For a moment, Tempest hesitated behind the ramparts inside the gate, 
wondering if he should stand with his men or hurry forward to slay Shostag.
    Across the fields, Raj Ahten's artillerymen let catapults fly...
    Raj Ahten watched approvingly as the catapults let fly shells bearing 
mineral powders of sulfur, potash, and magnesium that would mix with other salts 
in the cloud above the castle wall.
    The firing of these shells was timed so that they would stream through the 
skies at the same moment his battering ram drew within a hundred yards of the 
drawbridge.
    In the darkness and hail, the bowmen on Longmot's walls saw the catapults 
fly, and dropped for cover, losing the precious second they needed to choose a 
target from among Raj Ahten's Invincibles.
    For long years Raj Ahten had nurtured his flameweavers, feeding them. On the 
mountains south of Aven, fires burned constantly so they might appease the Power 
that the sorcerers served. His flameweavers were, Raj Ahten believed, the most 
fearsome of their kind on earth.
    And these flameweavers had made great studies in the use of explosive fires. 
It had long been known that when wheat and rice were poured into their 
granaries, the flame of a small lantern could ignite the air with explosive 
force. Miners pounding out coal deep beneath the mountains of Muyyatin had long 
known that coal dust would spark at the touch of their lamps, sometimes 
exploding so ferociously that entire passages within the mine would cave in.
    For generations, people had raised borage flowers to give them courage, and 
children had delighted in throwing the dried stalks into the fire to hear the 
popping sounds they exuded as they exploded.
    But no one had considered how to benefit from the explosive force of such 
agents. So Raj Ahten's flameweavers studied the phenomenon, learned to prepare 
and grind and mix the powders.
    Now Raj Ahten watched in awe and satisfaction as years of nurturing his 
sorcerers and financing their grim study paid off. The skies all around went 
blacker than the deepest night as the final ropes of fire twisted down from 
heaven. Hail plummeted from the air, and the sound of thunder raged overhead.
    The huge bonfire where the flameweavers stood with the beings they summoned 
suddenly snuffed out like a candle, the green walls collapsing, the creatures 
within drawing all light and heat into themselves.
    The skies remained black, and in that sudden total darkness, no archer could 
have seen his target to shoot. For ten seconds, the skies gave no light.
    Atop the castle walls, Orden's knights performed one last defiant act. They 
broke into a grim song.
    Under the cover of that shadow, Raj Ahten's troops continued to race for the 
walls.
    As the bowmen on the castle rose to shoot at unseen attackers, a blinding 
light shot from the center of the flameweavers' infernos.
    The sorcerous blast roared like a living sun from flameweavers and 
salamanders, and a green flaming wave of fire swept from the hilltop, raced 
toward the castle.
    In the sudden rush of light, one could see the terrified faces of Longmot's 
defenders. Brave boys unmanned, brave men trembling but still defiant.
    As the wave of flame traveled inexorably toward Longmont, it touched the 
arcane powders in the sky.
    Then the whole arch above the gate roared into an inferno. Raj Ahten's 
powders exploded in a cloud of fire that rose like a mushroom some hundred yards 
at the base, slowly ascending a mile into the air. The concussion threw 
defenders from the walls like rag dolls. Many fell, stunned. Others staggered 
back in abject terror.
    But the great green wave of flame was not a mere spark to touch off the 
explosive powders. It was much more than that.
    The wave of green fire smote the castle walls, washing over hundreds of 
defenders who still stood.
    On the crowded walls, away from the initial explosion above the arch, 
warriors were crammed shoulder to shoulder in ranks six deep. The green flames 
rolled over them like the roaring waves of the sea.
    Longmont had been the perfect castle for Raj Ahten to use his powders on. 
Its south face was but a hundred and twenty yards wide. Defenders had 
concentrated along the upper wall-walk in that hundred yards.
    Raj Ahten's flameweavers incinerated perhaps some two thousand men. As the 
mushroom cloud rose, Raj Ahten's flameweavers now fell unconscious into the 
ruins of their own bonfire. No flames leapt in the remains of the fire. No smoke 
rose, for the flameweavers had drained the vast majority of the energies from 
it, and in an instant the great blackened logs had incinerated, become ash. So 
now the flameweavers lay dazed among the hot coals.
    But the white-hot salamanders suddenly leapt, as if freed from a cage, 
rushing hungrily toward the castle.
    The scene before the castle gate was a pandemonium. Under the cover of 
darkness, Raj Ahten's giants had made the wall. Raj Ahten's archers unleashed a 
hail of deadly arrows--a hail that proved almost unnecessary--while his 
Invincibles began to race up ladders to the tops of the battlements.
    No defenders stood on that south wall now. The explosion and waves of fire 
had all but emptied the wall-walk.
    The castle gate stood undefended. The east tower was a smoking ruin. But 
within the west tower, a few men tried one last trick. King Orden's men 
unleashed a rain of burning oil, pouring it down runnels within the tower. Stone 
gargoyles above the gate suddenly spewed the vile stuff as Raj Ahten's troops 
raced in with their battering ram.
    Some of Raj Ahten's men faltered under the heat of that oil, but such was 
the speed of the men running that the head of the ram still struck the mantelet 
behind the castle gate.
    All the energy of the spells bound within the wolf's head exploded against 
the mantelet, sending timbers of wood splintering in all directions. Defenders 
behind the mantelet shrieked and died under the onslaught.
    And in Raj Ahten's mind, a peculiar flame began to dance.
    He knew that he should restrain himself now, that it was wrong to destroy 
men so ruthlessly. It would have been better to use those he could, take their 
endowments. These men had virtues and strengths that should not have been wasted 
in such a brutish fashion. Their ugly, fleeting little lives could have been 
converted to a grander purpose.
    Yet the smell of burning flesh suddenly enticed Raj Ahten, left him tingling 
in anticipation. Against all his better reason, he hungered for destruction.
    Cedrick Tempest had been standing behind the mantelet, racing between two 
warhorses toward the Duke's kitchens, where Shostag lay hidden, when the green 
wave of flame touched the battlements and a great ball of fire filled the sky 
overhead.
    Fortunately, he'd been staring down, running away from the blast. The heat 
and energy of it shoved him face-first into the paving stones, so that his helm 
bent close to his head. For one moment, he'd felt the searing heat of the blast 
crisp his clothing, burn his skin at a touch. Then he tried to draw a breath in 
the hot wind of the fireball's passage.
    Horses kicked and fell under the impact of the blast. One of them landed 
half atop him, the body of a knight crushing him.
    For a moment, Tempest fell unconscious. Found himself crawling among the 
stones, among the fallen horses. Men and parts of men rained from the castle 
walls, a gruesome storm of burned bodies, destroyed flesh.
    In that moment, he gazed about in horror as a blackened boy plopped at his 
head, an arm fell near his hand. He knew then that he would not survive this 
day. Three days past, he'd sent his wife and children to Castle Groverman, 
hoping they'd be safe, hoping he'd live to see them again. He remembered how 
they'd looked as they left--his two toddlers riding the back of a goat, his wife 
carrying their babe in her arms, his oldest daughter trying to look mature, her 
lips trembling as she stifled tears of fear.
    Tempest looked up to the castle walls, on the west. The walls were nearly 
empty. Those men still up looked dazed, confused.
    Suddenly, a flaming white salamander leapt up on the merlon of the south 
tower, gazing about. Tempest hid his face, lest the pearly orbs of its eyes 
touch him.
    A second, smaller explosion sounded fifty yards behind him. Tempest tried to 
scrabble to his knees, looked back. Raj Ahten's Invincibles had just hit the 
little mantelet barricade inside the gates with their ram. The barricade 
exploded, sending shards of woods flying, flaming out.
    Any men who stood near that barricade blew back under the onslaught of fiery 
debris, yet painfully few men had been standing at all. A few knights were still 
up on their horses, but the fallen bodies of their comrades hemmed them in.
    The battle was lost. All along the walls before him, defenders were down. 
Thousands of men screamed and writhed in pain. Arrows were hurtling over the 
castle walls now, a dark and deadly rain, dropping into wounded men.
    Some few hundred men were rushing from the north side of the castle, trying 
to reach the gates, to put up some kind of defense. Yet Raj Ahten's Invincibles 
rushed to meet them by the thousands.
    War dogs in grim leather masks raced through the streets, leaping over 
fallen knights and their horses, ripping apart any man or beast that lived, 
feeding as they slaughtered.
    Tempest hoped still that he might find Shostag, slay him so that the serpent 
would form a head. Yet he felt stunned, confused. Blood dripped from his face.
    He collapsed as Raj Ahten's war dogs raced over him, leaping through the 
fray.

     
     
Chapter 49
THE EARTH KING STRIKES
     
    Binnesman rode over the heath toward Gaborn and Iome, beneath the cloud of 
dirt and pollen raised by the feet of hundreds of thousands of men and cattle.
    Gaborn stared at the wizard. It was the first time he had seen him in full 
daylight. His hair had gone white, and the baggy robes he wore had turned from a 
forest green to shades of scarlet and orange, like leaves that had changed 
color.
    Gaborn rode so close to Iome that at times her knee touched his. He dared 
not try to call a halt as the wizard neared, his mount speeding over the purple 
heather. Too many people and animals moved in the great throng. Yet Gaborn 
wanted to talk to Binnesman, wanted to hear his report.
    Binnesman stared at Gaborn's troops for a long moment, wheeled his horse to 
a near halt, and at last asked in surprise, "Do you plan to feed Raj Ahten's 
army with all these cattle, or trample him with them?"
    "Whatever he desires," Gaborn said.
    Binnesman shook his head in wonder. "I heard the startled cries of birds 
here, felt the earth groan under the weight of feet. I thought that you had 
conjured an army. I thought it fortunate that I'd gone to the trouble of 
destroying the old Harm's Gorge Bridge, blocking Raj Ahten's hopes for 
reinforcements from the west."
    "I appreciate the gesture," Gaborn said. "What can you tell me? Have Raj 
Ahten's reinforcements been spotted?"
    "No," Binnesman said, "nor do I think they are close."
    "Perhaps luck is with us," Gaborn said.
    "Perhaps so," Binnesman said.
    On the horizon, just along the line of green hills covered with trees, the 
blackness flashed again, much more fiercely than ever before--a line of 
blackness that split the sky from horizon to horizon.
    Then a great pillar of fire roared slowly into the air, an explosion so 
massive, Gaborn had never seen the like. Something terrible was happening.
    "Gaborn," Binnesman said. "Close your eyes. Use your Earth Sight. Tell me 
what is happening."
    Gaborn closed his eyes. For a moment, he felt nothing, and he wondered if 
Binnesman had erred in asking him to use the Earth Sight.
    Then, faintly, he felt the connections, felt the invisible lines of power 
between him and his people. He had only consciously chosen his father. Now he 
realized that he'd been choosing people for days. He'd chosen Myrrima that 
morning in the market, and he'd claimed Borenson. He'd chosen Chemoise when he 
saw her helping her father in the wagon, and had chosen her father.
    Now, he felt all those he had claimed--Borenson, his father, Myrrima, 
Chemoise and her father. He felt...danger. Terrible danger. He feared that if 
they did not fight now, they would all die.
    Strike, Gaborn silently willed them. Strike now, if you can!
    Twenty seconds later, the sound of an explosion roared across the plain, 
shaking the earth, like distant thunder.

     
     
Chapter 50
THE OPENING
     
    At Castle Sylvarresta, Chemoise was getting dinner in the buttery when she 
felt the urge to strike. The desire came so quickly and so profoundly that she 
struck her hand against the table by reflex, smashing a round of cheese.
    Myrrima tempered her response with reason. The thunders of war shook the 
manor house where she hid, and outside the sky was black. She couldn't strike 
against Raj Ahten's soldiers, knew she was no match. So she raced upstairs, 
hoping to hide beneath some lord's bed.
    Six years past, Eremon Vottania Solette had chosen to live as a Dedicate to 
Salim al Daub because he had two dreams: The first was to see his daughter 
again. The second was to survive until his grace returned so he would waken 
among Raj Ahten's Dedicates, able to fight.
    Yet over the years, Eremon's hopes faded. Raj Ahten's facilitators drained 
too much grace from him, left him near death. Robbed of flexibility, his arms 
and legs became useless, so that he lay as stiff as in rigor mortis.
    Life became torment. The muscles in his chest contracted easily enough to 
let him inhale, but afterward for long moments he had to consciously relax in 
order to exhale. Sometimes, his heart would clench and not open, and he'd 
struggle silently, fearing death.
    Unable to relax his lips, he spoke with difficulty, through clenched teeth. 
He could not chew. If he swallowed anything but the weak broth Raj Ahten's 
servants fed, it sat like lead in his stomach; the muscles in his gut could not 
contract enough to digest it.
    To empty his bladder or pass a stool was an embarrassment, a process 
requiring hours of work.
    His five endowments of stamina had become a burden, for they kept him alive 
long after he wished for death. Often he'd wished that King Sylvarresta would 
slay the men who served Eremon as Dedicates. But the King had been too soft, and 
so Eremon languished. Until last night. Now, at last, it seemed that death was 
within reach.
    His fingers curled into useless fists. He had lain for years in a ball, bent 
at the hips. Though endowments of brawn kept him strong, some muscles in his 
legs and arms had atrophied. So he'd lain imprisoned in weakening flesh, knowing 
he'd never get vengeance, a helpless tool of Raj Ahten.
    Thus it seemed miraculous when his first dream came true, when Raj Ahten 
decided to take him to Heredon and throw his failing body in front of King 
Sylvarresta. The deed was supposed to shame the good king. Raj Ahten often went 
to great lengths to shame a man.
    It had seemed miraculous when Eremon saw his daughter Chemoise. She'd grown 
beautiful, no longer the freckle-faced child of his memory.
    Seeing her had been enough. Eremon now felt his life was complete; hereafter 
he'd take a long slide into oblivion.
    Yet one deed more lay before him. As he languished in the Dedicates" wagon, 
it began to shake as men climbed onto the buckboard, opened the door. Slowly, 
Eremon opened his eyes. In the dark wain, flies rose in clouds from forlorn 
Dedicates around him. Men and women were crammed together like salted minnows in 
a keg, lying on beds of moldering hay.
    Facilitators in gray robes stood huffing by the open door. Shafts of 
sunlight stabbing into the room blinded him, but Eremon could see that they'd 
set a body against the wall. A new Dedicate. Another victim.
    "What have we here?" the guard asked. "Metabolism?"
    The facilitator nodded. Eremon could see the scars on the man--a dozen 
endowments of metabolism he'd taken, and now he served as a vector.
    Raj Ahten's facilitators looked for a place to lay the newcorner. A blind 
Dedicate who slept next to Eremon rolled in his sleep, huddling for warmth next 
to a limp rag of a man.
    Thus a slim spot opened beside Eremon, and now the facilitators muttered in 
their own tongue, "Mazza, halabdaoabo"--"Here, move this brick of camel dung."
    One man nudged Eremon's stiff legs aside, as if he were the brick in 
question. They lay the new Dedicate beside him.
    Eremon stared into the fat face of the eunuch Salim al Daub, not five inches 
from his own. The fat man breathed oh so slowly, in the way of one who has given 
metabolism. The man who held Eremon's endowment lay next to him, defenseless. A 
vector for metabolism. A vector, Eremon suspected, for Raj Ahten.
    Salim slept a deep slumber from which Eremon swore he'd never wake.
    A guard sat in the wagon, an Invincible on a stool in the far corner, 
wearing a curved dagger and bored expression. Eremon could not risk moving 
quickly, could not attract attention, but, then, he'd not moved quickly in six 
years.
    For long minutes Eremon slowly tried to unclench his right hand. This 
unclenching came hard. He felt too excited, too wrathful. A thrill took him, for 
if he could destroy this man, he would win a double boon--his own endowments 
back, while he robbed Raj Ahten of metabolism.
    Yet outside, a battle raged. Darkness strobed the sky, glimpsed as shadows 
and light breaking into the wagon. Men were screaming on the castle walls.
    Eremon wished that he still had his endowments of strength, wished he could 
throttle Salim with supernatural finesse. But those had been lost last night.
    For many long minutes he worked to open his damned, useless hand.
    Suddenly, as he struggled, Eremon felt a great burning desire. Strike. 
Strike now if you can!
    And as the thought filled him, his hand suddenly unclenched as effortlessly 
as a flower opening.

     
     
Chapter 51
ON A MOUNTAIN TRACK
     
    Borenson felt more than half-crazed when he rode from Bannisferre. He was 
possessed, only partly conscious. He imagined the havoc he'd wreak upon Raj 
Ahten's troops.
    Coming from the north, he saw no signs of battle. Too many hills and 
mountains sheltered Longmont from his view. He could see no darkening skies, for 
the low clouds sweeping over the mountains blackened everything. Once he thought 
he heard cries, but he heard them distantly and thought them voices from some 
waking dream, a remnant of the fantasies of destruction that played in his mind.
    South of the mountain village of Kestrel, he turned aside on his trail, 
spurred his mount over the forest track, hoping to make better time. He had 
hunted these hills often with his king. He was a bit north of Groverman's 
hunting retreat, a lodge both large and comfortable.
    He did not fear wights or beasts of the wood. He feared only that he'd reach 
Longmont too late.
    As he climbed the mountains, the day turned cold. An icy drizzle soaked him, 
made the mountain trail slippery. Soon rain turned to sleet and snow, so that he 
lost more time by taking this trail than if he'd stayed to the road.
    High in the hills where aspens bordered a glade, he saw sign of a 
reaver-tracks crossing the wooded trail. The reaver had dragged something heavy 
through here within the past few hours, just before dawn. Red blood clots lay on 
the ground, with bits of oily synovial fluid from a cracked joint. The scuff 
marks where the creature had been dragged still had tiny balls of clay rolled in 
them. Very recent marks.
    The imprint of the reaver's track was nearly three feet long, two wide. Four 
toes. A female. A big female.
    Borenson stayed on his horse as he studied the trail. Among a jumble of 
sharp stones lay some black hairs. It looked as if the reaver had dragged a 
carcass across the road, perhaps a boar. But the hair was too fine for a boar. 
Borenson sniffed. Bear, definitely. A big male. As musky as the scent of 
Dunnwood's boars, but not as dirty.
    Borenson sniffed again, tried to catch the scent of the reaver, but smelled 
nothing. Reavers were uncanny in their ability to mimic the scent of their 
surroundings.
    Borenson looked up the trail, wishing that he could track the reaver--if 
only for a moment.
    Myrrima could be in danger. Mostly likely, Raj Ahten would lay siege for a 
bit, spend the day resting, preparing for battle. His occupying army should 
arrive soon.
    Borenson feared he couldn't possibly reach the castle before the siege, 
couldn't help Myrrima.
    Then he had to consider the challenge of hunting the reaver. She'd be up in 
the woods, near the mountaintop, feeding on the bear. The ground here was too 
cluttered for a man to negotiate easily: aspen limbs had blown from trees; 
underbrush grew thick and tall after a long summer.
    Catching her would be hard. Reavers could sense movement, feel sound as a 
trembling. The only way to get close to one was to sneak, ever so slowly, 
letting footfalls come at uneven intervals.
    For a moment, Borenson considered following the reaver.
    Distantly, as if a voice called from far off, he felt a powerful compulsion. 
Strike. Strike now if you can!
    His king needed him. Myrrima needed him.
    He spurred his charger over the mountain trails as snow began to pile, the 
first of the season. The breath of Borenson's warhorse came in tiny swirls of 
cloud. His heart pounded.
    Tomorrow is the first day of Hostenfest, the first day of the hunt, Borenson 
realized, and he started thinking about this in order to keep calm. It would 
have been a good hunt, with snow falling. The boars would have moved to the 
valleys, leaving tracks at the edges of glades. He'd have bet with Derrow and 
Ault as to which of their lords would first put a spear into a pig.
    He longed for the yapping of dogs, the deep calls of the horns. The nightly 
feasts beside the fires.
    But I must strike now, he thought, spurring his mount faster. He wished to 
strike, wished he had a target.
    Again he worried whether he'd killed all the Dedicates at Castle 
Sylvarresta. I've struck as I can, he told himself. He'd killed all he'd seen, 
but some might have been taken from the keep into the city, so that invisible 
lines of power still tied Raj Ahten to Dedicates there.
    A battle between Runelords could be complex. The number of endowments played 
a great part in a battle, as did the skill and training of the warriors.
    But a balance of traits was also important. Raj Ahten had so many 
endowments, it seemed almost futile to slay his Dedicates. But a strong Runelord 
stripped of wit and grace could become a mere lout, nothing in battle. Take away 
his metabolism, and though a Runelord had ten thousand endowments of brawn, he 
moved so slowly compared to a balanced soldier that he might as well be a coat 
rack; he became a "warrior of unfortunate proportion."
    By killing men in Castle Sylvarresta, Borenson had robbed Raj Ahten of many 
endowments of grace. The Runelord had been hoarding it, had drawn it from 
hundreds of men at the castle. Which meant he felt overbalanced in brawn. This 
would leave him muscle-bound, lacking agility. Perhaps, given such imbalance, 
King Orden might stand a chance against the Wolf Lord.
    So Borenson hoped he'd accomplished his job. He couldn't bear to think his 
incompetence might cost Orden this battle. Couldn't bear--couldn't stomach the 
shame that coursed through him when he thought of King Sylvarresta and Iome, 
still alive.
    Sparing those two had cost the lives of dozens of others. Sparing them lent 
power to Raj Ahten.
    A small amount of power, true. But if Borenson and some other assassins 
struck Raj Ahten's Dedicates at the right time, the Wolf Lord might reach some 
unfortunate proportion.
    Today I hunt Raj Ahten, Borenson told himself, and he let a killing mood 
seep through every muscle and bone, blanket him like a cloak.
    Today I am death. Today I hunt him, and nothing else.
    In his imagination, he practiced killing, preparing his every fiber, his 
every response for cold murder. He imagined how it would be when he met Raj 
Ahten's scouts here, miles north of Longmont, along the road. He'd ride them 
down, impale them on his lance so that their warm blood washed him in a wave, 
leaving no witnesses. Then he'd steal a uniform and ride pell-mell to the battle 
lines, bursting in on Raj Ahten, as if delivering a message. His message would 
be death.
    The warriors of Inkarra claimed that War was a dark lady, and that those men 
who served her best gained her favor. They claimed she was a Power, like Earth 
or Air, Fire or Water.
    Yet in the Kingdoms of Rofehavan, it was said that War was but one aspect of 
Fire, and that no one should serve it.
    But the damned Inkarrans should know, Borenson thought. They were masters of 
war.
    Borenson had never sought the Dark Lady's favor, had never addressed her 
before, hut now a prayer formed on his lips, an ancient prayer he'd heard from 
others but never dared voice himself.
    "Take me in your arms, Dark Lady, take me. Wrap me in grave clothes, and let 
your sweet breath lie cold on my cheeks. Let darkness steal over me, and fill me 
with your power. Today, I call to you. Today, I am death."
    As he rode, Borenson began to smile, then to laugh a deep, throaty chuckle 
that seemed to rumble from someplace outside him, to well up from the hills or 
from the trees.

     
     
Chapter 52
A PERFECT DAY
     
    Orden woke in pain, unable to tell how long ago he had passed out. The blood 
around his mouth was still wet, tasted coppery on his tongue. Any moment, 
Mendellas Orden thought, Raj Ahten will kick me again, begin pummeling me to 
death.
    But nothing happened. Orden lay weak, at the edge of consciousness, waiting 
for a killing blow that never came.
    With his many endowments of stamina, Orden could sustain tremendous damage. 
His wounds, as extensive as they were now, would not lead to his death. Weeks of 
convalescence, perhaps, but not death.
    That is what he feared.
    He opened his good eye, tried to see. The sun high above shone very dim 
through clouds; then the sky went black.
    The glade nearby was empty.
    He swallowed, struggled to think. He'd heard the faint ching of ring mail as 
he passed out. Realized numbly that it could have been the sound of Raj Ahten 
lunging away.
    Orden looked around the field at the edge of the knoll. The wind faintly 
swayed the pines; the grass sat as if bent in a stiff gale. A flock of starlings 
hung in the air like thistledown, not five spans from him. But Orden was living 
so quickly, the wind seemed to blow slowly in comparison.
    Raj Ahten had fled.
    He's left me, Orden realized, because he suspects I'm part of a serpent. 
He's left me so he can attack the castle. Dimly, he heard a roar like the sound 
of the sea. Loud sounds, as if tides surged and churned. In his quickened state, 
the world of sound had vastly changed.
    Now he recognized that these must be loud noises, must be cries of war. With 
one hand, he pushed himself up, gazed over the rolling slope of Tor Loman to 
Castle Longmont.
    What he saw horrified him.
    Beyond a curtain of rain or sleet, a huge fire raged on the hillside above 
Longmont. From that otherworldly fire, flameweavers and salamanders had drawn 
terrible energies, sending a green wave of flame screaming across the downs to 
the castle. Frowth giants lumbered over the fields carrying great scaling 
ladders. The mastiffs of war, with their iron collars and fierce masks, boiled 
like a dark tide toward the castle gates.
    Everywhere in the blackness Raj Ahten's Invincibles raced like dark roaches 
for the castle, shields high to deflect arrows, weapons drawn.
    Raj Ahten's forces were storming Longmont. The sky above the castle was 
black, ropes of twisted fire funneling from the sky.
    King Orden watched from Tor Loman. With his endowments of metabolism, it 
seemed the skies had gone black for long minutes; one could only discern the dim 
ropes of flame winding down from heaven--coiled and churning like the winds 
within a tornado.
    He could do nothing to help. He could not charge into battle, could barely 
crawl.
    Quietly, he began to sob. Raj Ahten had taken everything from him--his past, 
his present. Now his future.
    In the darkness, Mendellas turned and painfully struggled up the rough stone 
steps of the tower to the Eyes of Tor Loman.
    To block the agony of his ruined limbs from his mind, he tried to remember 
good times. The feasts in his palace in Mystarria during midwinter, on Alms Day.
    Always the fogs washed over the green swales on those winter mornings, and 
from the pinnacles of the great tower one could look down over the marshes as if 
one were a Sky Lord in a ship of cloud--the gauzy fog so pure. In places, lesser 
towers of the Courts of Tide could be seen, or the greens of distant pine 
forests on the western hills, or to the south the shimmering waters of the 
Caroll Sea reflecting the sky.
    On such mornings, he'd always loved to stand on his own observatory in the 
tower, and watch the geese in their winter migration come winging below him in 
dark Vs.
    He conjured the memory of a perfect day long ago, when he'd descended from 
his tower, invigorated at dawn, gone to his wife in her bedchamber.
    He'd planned to fetch her up to the observatory, to show her the sunrise. 
Weeks before, an early frost had killed the roses in her garden, and he'd 
planned to show her how the sun crept up the horizon in the color of the softest 
blushing rose, a rose that painted the fog for miles around.
    But when he reached her bedchamber, she had only smiled at his request, then 
devised other entertainments.
    They'd made love on the tiger-skin rug before the hearth.
    By the time they finished, the sun had been up for hours. The poor of 
Mystarria had gathered in the streets before the castle to collect the winter's 
alms.
    Thus the King and Queen had been required to go out in the afternoon, to 
spend the remainder of the day riding the huge wains through the street, where 
they passed out meat, turnips, dried fruits, and silver to those who stood in 
need.
    Orden and his wife had labored hard, stopping often to exchange smiles, or 
to let a touch linger.
    Orden hadn't thought of that day for years, though every sight, sound, and 
smell remained perfect in his memory. With twenty endowments of wit, Orden could 
relive such moments at will. It had been a magic day. It was the day, he 
discovered weeks later, he'd got his wife with her first child, Gaborn.
    Ah, how he longed for her still.
    As Orden reached the top of the Eyes of Tor Loman, the light reappeared in 
the heavens, and he stared in horror to see the monstrous wall of fire that Raj 
Ahten's beasts had hurled against the castle. The skies were painted with 
strange powders--gray and black, the yellow of sulfur, something red.
    The vast, seething green wave of fire seemed to roll through the sky slowly 
from this distance, at the pace he lived. For what seemed agonizing minutes, 
Orden crawled across the stone steps.
    As he crawled, Orden wondered why Raj Ahten had come here. Certainly not to 
see down into Longmont. The view here offered nothing.
    No, something else had alarmed the Wolf Lord.
    So King Orden gazed east, saw dust rising from the plains as if they were 
aflame, the light shining from shields. An army marching from Castle Groverman.
    Despite the immense dust cloud, it could not have been a large army, Orden 
knew. Thirty thousand commoners come to his aid, marching across a dusty heath, 
nothing more. They'd be no match for Raj Ahten's Invincibles.
    But Orden knew his son marched at the head of that army. Certainly Gaborn 
would not be fool enough to attack Raj Ahten. No, this had to be a ruse. Orden 
smiled. Against a man of Raj Ahten's wit, misinformation could be a potent 
weapon. His son was fighting as best he could.
    In almost every contest, victory came to those who refused to be subdued. 
The Prince was not cowed.
    A good ruse, this, Orden told himself. Raj Ahten believes Longmont was taken 
days ago. Now he sees an army come to smash him. King Orden only hoped the ruse 
would work.
    And a darker fear crept into his mind. Certainly Gaborn would not attack, 
would he? Would he?
    Yes, he would, Orden realized. If he believed that by doing so he could save 
his father. Didn't I tell him to attack? Orden thought. Didn't I tell him to 
sweep down the hill with his knights?
    Orden was filled with dread. This was a boy who risked himself to save enemy 
Dedicates. This was a boy who had become an Oath-Bound Lord.
    Orden didn't doubt. Though he'd die in the attempt, Gaborn would certainly 
attack!
    At that moment, the great wave smashed into the castle, sent pillars of fire 
racing into the sky. Orden could see the horrible damage it wrought, men flying 
over the walls like flaming birds, could see giants and war dogs, Invincibles 
and archers all rushing for the castle gates.
    Yet he could not feel the stirring within that marked the death of a 
Dedicate. None of the Dedicates in his serpent ring burned in that flame. Surely 
the castle would fall.
    Deep inside, he felt an overpowering urge. Strike. Strike now as best you 
can!
    Orden recognized that he himself might hold the key to insuring that this 
great fiasco of a battle served some higher purpose. The men in the castle were 
joined in a serpent ring, and if the castle were overrun, the men in the ring 
would all be forced to fight, none drawing metabolism from the others. 
Eventually one of them would die, and a serpent would form. But who would be at 
its head?
    Certainly not that idiot Dreis, Orden hoped.
    No. It had to be Shostag. Formidable, venerable in his own crude way. A 
fierce warrior.
    Orden crawled to the edge of the observatory, looked down.
    The Eyes of Tor Loman perched on the edge of a promontory, and on the west 
edge, huge rocks thrust up from the ground. There, Orden thought. I will hit 
there.
    He threw himself from the tower. It was time for the serpent ring to break. 
Now let Shostag the Axeman earn his lands and title. Let Gaborn live to inherit 
his birthright.
    And let me return to the arms of the woman I love.
    With so many endowments of metabolism, Orden seemed to fall slowly, almost 
as if he floated to his death.

     
     
Chapter 53
THE FLUTTERING
     
    A pillar of fire rose into the far-off skies like a mushroom, and the sound 
of thunder rumbled over the plain.
    Yet Gaborn felt something far more disturbing--distantly, distantly he felt 
a single heartbeat flutter and fail.
    It tore him, dismayed him, far more than that flash of light or the groaning 
of the earth.
    He swayed in his saddle, whispered, "Father."
    Somehow, somehow Gaborn feared that his wish to strike at Raj Ahten had 
caused his father's death.
    It had not been the will of the earth to strike. Gaborn had felt no 
compulsion greater than his own anger. Yet he'd given the command.
    No, Gaborn thought. I don't believe it. I don't believe I caused it. How can 
I know he's dead until I've seen it?
    The wizard Binnesman turned to Gaborn, infinite sadness in his eye, and 
whispered, "You called for your father. Is he gone, then?"
    "I...don't know," Gaborn said.
    "Use the Earth Sight. Is he gone?"
    Gaborn felt inside himself, tried to reach out to his father, but could feel 
nothing. He nodded.
    Binnesman whispered so that only Gaborn could hear. "So the mantle passes. 
Until now you have been but a prince. Now you must become a king in deed."
    Gaborn slumped forward in his saddle, sick to his heart. "What? What can I 
do? How can I stop this?" Gaborn asked. "If I am Earth King, what good can I 
do?"
    "Much good. You can call the earth to your aid," Binnesman said. "It can 
help protect you. Hide you. You only need to learn how to do so."
    "I want Raj Ahten dead," Gaborn said blankly.
    "The earth will not kill," Binnesman whispered. "Its strength lies in 
nurturing life, protecting. And Raj Ahten is backed by other Powers. You must 
think, Gaborn. How can you best protect your people? All mankind is in jeopardy, 
not just these few at Longmont. Your father is but one man, and I fear he chose 
to place himself in jeopardy."
    "I want Raj Ahten dead! Now!" Gaborn shouted, not at Binnesman, but to the 
earth that had promised to protect him. Yet he knew the earth was not at fault. 
Gaborn had felt a premonition that his father was in jeopardy. Yet he had not 
heeded that warning, had not pulled his father from Longmont.
    Gaborn felt ill to his heart.
    He was twenty miles from Longmont. His force horse could cover that distance 
in less than half an hour. But if he did, what would it gain him? He'd lose his 
life.
    He considered spurring his horse on, anyway.
    Beside him, Iome seemed to read his thoughts. She touched his knee with her 
hand. "Don't," she whispered. "Don't go."
    Gaborn looked at the ground. At his horse's feet, gray-green grasshoppers 
flew up in fright, fat grasshoppers, sluggish at the end of the autumn.
    "Can we help them at Longmont, do you think?" Gaborn asked Binnesman.
    The wizard shrugged. Worry lined his face. "You help their cause even now, 
with this ruse. But do you mean, can you defeat Raj Ahten? Not with these 
troops. The battle goes ill for Longmont--as it would for you, should you attack 
too soon. Your strength lies not in slaughter, but as a defender. Let your men 
kick up more dust as they walk. Then we will see what happens..."
    They rode on in palpable silence for two long minutes. All that time, Gaborn 
felt torn, fey. He blamed himself for his father's death, for the death of 
Rowan, for the deaths of all the Dedicates at Castle Sylvarresta. Such a toll, 
such a heavy price the world was paying for his weakness. For he felt sure that 
if he were stronger, if he had just done something different, turned left when 
he'd turned right, he could have saved them all.
    A strange noise began to rumble across the plains--a single note, a cry like 
none Gaborn had ever heard or thought to imagine. It rolled over the plains like 
a distant shout.
    Raj Ahten's death cry! he thought.
    But almost immediately, it was followed by another such cry, echoing over 
the heath.
    Binnesman's mount kicked and raised its ears, just as heavy wet drops of 
sleet began to splash over the ground. With an ache in his heart, Gaborn watched 
the wizard spur his horse toward Longmont, and wished he could follow.
    "Come, Gaborn, bring your army!" Binnesman shouted. "The earth is in pain!"
    Then he saw--the sleet ahead had begun to fall in great sheets from the sky, 
watering the heath. No far-seer would be able to pierce the oncoming deluge. If 
Gaborn's ruse had not worked already, it could have no further effect.
    With a shout, Gaborn raised his fist, called the charge.

     
     
Chapter 54
SHOSTAG
     
    Shostag the Axeman hid in the Duke's cellars when he felt the quickening. A 
sense of profound energy tingled through every inch of his skin, and he leapt 
into action.
    So Orden had died. Shostag wondered how it had happened.
    Shostag had outwitted dozens of Runelords in his short life. He was not a 
man of deep understanding or broad study, but he kept his eyes open, reached 
decisions fast. Most people assumed that because fat covered his bearlike 
muscles, he was also dull-witted. Not so.
    As he clutched his huge double-headed axe, he raced up the steps and burst 
through the cellar doors. He did so with calculated efficiency, hitting doors no 
more quickly than if he'd run full-tilt. He even slipped the bar from a door as 
he exited, so the door burst open from the impact of his blow.
    Then he raced through the buttery of the Duke's kitchens, out the kitchen 
doors, and to the green before the great hall.
    Hundreds of Raj Ahten's Invincibles were in the green, battling the 
defenders of Longmont. War dogs raced among them, huge mottled gray horrors in 
red leather masks. Along the west wall he saw a fiery salamander, and along all 
the walls were men, burning or fallen in battle.
    A few of Orden's archers along the north castle walls were firing into the 
green, for his men were faring so poorly that any arrow would likely strike Raj 
Ahten's men without a chance of hitting a defender.
    But even the fastest war dog or Invincible in the group could hardly move at 
an eighth of Shostag's speed. They seemed little more than statues. Here in the 
green, Shostag could see no sign of Raj Ahten.
    Shostag took his great iron axe and began moving through the crowd, swinging 
in complex arcs, lopping the heads off of Raj Ahten's Invincibles in almost a 
casual manner, cleaving dogs in two, dodging arrows and whatnot.
    He'd hardly murdered two hundred of the bastards when he spotted a swift 
movement at the gates. Raj Ahten himself, rushing toward him.
    The Wolf Lord wore no helm, but bore a battle-axe in one hand and a scimitar 
in the other. Or at least Shostag imagined it was the Wolf Lord. His face shone 
like the sun, but he had a hideously deformed shoulder. All the easier to fight 
him, Shostag imagined.
    Raj Ahten took one look at Shostag, smiled. "So, King Orden is dead, and you 
think you are next, do you?"
    Shostag jutted his chin, and spun his huge axe with a flourish. "You know, 
that arm would look better if I hacked off the rest of it for you."
    "Come give it a try," Raj Ahten urged. The Wolf Lord was studying the swath 
of corpses, some of them still in the process of falling, strewn in a path from 
the kitchens.
    With a start, Raj Ahten dashed left, darted up the narrow road to some 
lord's manor, away from Shostag. As he sped along the street, he slashed the 
throat of any defender within reach, shoved his own men from his path.
    Shostag leapt after him. He saw Raj Ahten's plan.
    Shostag was at the pinnacle of twenty men, each vectoring metabolism to him. 
And several of those men had taken endowments of metabolism before, so that 
Shostag now ran with the speed of forty. If Raj Ahten could find a man in the 
serpent and slaughter him, he'd break the line of Shostag's power, "slice the 
serpent" in two.
    By doing so, he'd give two separate warriors high metabolism, create two 
serpents' heads, neither able to strike as quickly as Shostag could now. Raj 
Ahten was hunting for Dedicates.
    If Shostag was lucky, Raj Ahten would find a man near the tail of the 
serpent. Killing the tail would still leave Shostag with high metabolism, leave 
him with the speed of something close to forty.
    But Shostag preferred not to rely on luck.
    Raj Ahten had glanced at the corpses strewn across the yard, seen that 
Shostag came from the kitchens. Now Raj Ahten suspected that the Dedicates 
wouldn't be hiding in the Dedicates' Keep, hut were secreted around the castle. 
Raj Ahten ran to the nearest unsecured building.
    Shostag followed, rounded a corner too fast. His center of gravity kept him 
traveling so that he bowled into half a dozen of the castle's defenders. He 
scraped his leg on some man's pike. Regained his feet. Ran.
    The air felt heavy, hard to breathe. Shostag did not have the endowments of 
brawn necessary to easily draw breath with such high metabolism. His head spun; 
he felt dizzy.
    Raj Ahten turned at a doorway leading to the lord's apartments, raced into 
the manor. Shostag followed.
    Shostag was a Wolf Lord, with endowments of scent from three dogs. He could 
smell better than most men ever dreamed, and men are such smelly brutes. Thus he 
wasn't surprised to enter the room and see Raj Ahten tearing at the door of a 
cedar wardrobe. Like Shostag, Raj Ahten didn't need to see a man to know that 
one was hiding in the room.
    Shostag rushed Raj Ahten, axe whirling.
    Raj Ahten spun, blocked Shostag's blow with his own battle-axe; sparks flew 
from the weapons. The iron handle of Raj Ahten's smaller axe bent. Shostag 
marveled that his blow didn't shatter Raj Ahten's arm. With deadly grace Raj 
Ahten swung his icy scimitar beneath Shostag's guard, pierced Shostag's belly 
with a blow of cold horror.
    But Shostag was no commoner, dismayed at the sight of his own guts. He had 
more stamina than most lords, the stamina of wolves who hunted the winter woods 
for bear and boar.
    The little prickling wound only angered him, so that Shostag whirled his 
mighty axe with both hands, spun and delivered a blow that should have cleaved 
the Wolf Lord in two.
    But Raj Ahten threw himself back, dropping his bent axe, dodging Shostag's 
blow, smashing the finely wrought cedar door of the wardrobe, falling into it 
himself.
    A Dedicate lay beneath Raj Ahten, half buried by splintered cedar, crouching 
among some maids' dresses, a warhammer in one hand, shield in another. Sir 
Owlsforth, a warrior five men down the line of defenders from Shostag in the 
serpent.
    If Shostag didn't kill Raj Ahten now, he'd never get another chance. He drew 
back his great axe, preparing to cleave the Wolf Lord in two.
    At that moment, Raj Ahten plunged two fingers through the eye slits of 
Owlsforth's helm, into his brain.
    Shostag felt a piercing nausea, and watched in horror as Raj Ahten leaned 
away from the falling axe and suddenly became an indistinct blur, leaping toward 
him.
    Shostag knew nothing more.

     
     
Chapter 55
THE CRY
     
    Raj Ahten did not trouble himself with finding the heads of the serpent. He 
followed his keen nose through buildings, and in a few moments found several 
more men hiding, slaughtered six more Dedicates. As he did so, he also murdered 
another sixty of Longmot's defenders. He half-hoped to find Jureem here.
    The battle was winding down. King Orden was dead, most of the defenders. 
Seldom had Raj Ahten dealt a foe such a fell beating. Never had he personally 
spilled so much good blood.
    Once, he came upon a man running from a building with uncommon speed--a 
nobleman. He recognized the Earl of Dreis by the gray horse and four arrows on 
his shield, more than by any finery. Another head to a serpent.
    A fine-looking warrior, the Earl was. Spooky gray eyes, tall and noble in 
every mannerism.
    Ahten slowed enough to hamstring the fellow, then slashed the Earl's throat 
as he fell.
    By now, Raj Ahten had the battle well in hand. He stood on the rise below 
the Dedicates' Keep, perhaps fifty paces from the two hundred or so knights who 
kept guard there.
    He stopped for a moment to survey the battlefield. Down below, his men had 
taken the courtyard. The walls were almost empty of defenders.
    Now Raj Ahten's men raced along the wall-walks to the east, while a trio of 
salamanders cleared the walls to the west. Everywhere the cries of dying men 
arose, insubstantial to his ears. The scents of blood and smoke and sulfurous 
powders carried on the wind.
    Little remained for him to do.
    He raced for the Dedicates' Keep, thinking to slaughter the two hundred 
warriors who stood guard, when a great feeling of anxiousness swept over him, 
that familiar twist of the stomach that accompanies the death of a Dedicate.
    Eremon Vottania Solette throttled Salim al Daub. It takes a long time to 
strangle a man, particularly if he has endowments of stamina. Eremon found the 
job immensely difficult. Sweat began to bead on his brow, and his fingers grew 
wet, making his fingers slip.
    Salim didn't fight, remained unconscious. Yet he turned his head slowly, 
uncomfortably, tried even in his stupor to escape. His legs began to kick 
feebly, rhythmically. Salim's lips went blue, and his tongue bulged. His eyes 
opened in blind panic.
    The guard didn't see, for the man stood gazing out the rough door of the 
wagon to watch the storming of the castle. Among the stinking, ill-kept 
Dedicates, the silent struggle attracted no notice. The rhythmic kick of Salim's 
feet seemed but a background noise, the shuffle of a sleepy Dedicate as he 
sought comfort among the moldy hay.
    Nearby a deaf Dedicate watched Eremon, eyes wide in fear. This was no knight 
brought to embarrass a Northern lord. This was one of Raj Ahten's own Dedicates, 
a fellow who vectored hundreds of endowments of hearing to the Wolf Lord. For 
his service, he was treated worse than a dog. The Dedicate had reason to hate 
his lord, had reason to wish him dead. Eremon held the deaf man's eye as he 
strangled Salim, silently hoped the man would not raise a cry.
    Salim kicked once, hard, made a pounding noise with his boot.
    At the wagon door the guard spun, saw Salim's feet kicking. The guard lunged 
forward, sliced Eremon's arm with his curved knife, hacking it off.
    Blood spurted from Eremon's arm, just below the elbow, and the severed stump 
burned like fire. But his hand, the hand that had been robbed of grace, that 
could hardly unclench over these many years, clung to Salim's throat like death 
itself, fingers locked on the big eunuch's esophagus.
    The guard snatched at it, tried to pull the severed hand from Salim's 
throat. Eremon managed to kick the guard behind the knee, so that he fell back 
among the Dedicates.
    In that moment, Eremon felt a great easing in his chest as grace flowed 
through him, felt his heart and muscles unclench completely for the first time 
in many years. Salim was dead.
    Eremon gasped a deep breath, tasted in one last gasp the sweet air of 
freedom. Then the guard was on him.
    In a moment of vertigo, the world slowed profoundly for Raj Ahten. The 
deep-toned clickings of the Earl of Dreis' dying shout now came as a call for 
aid to his ears, and Raj Ahten found himself sliding on his feet as he tried to 
stop before the crowd of soldiers who guarded the Dedicates' Keep.
    He realized he had only his normal six endowments of metabolism. Some of 
these guards might nearly equal him.
    He shouted a battle cry of such incredible volume that no human tongue had 
ever matched it. He had begun thinking only that he might dishearten a few 
warriors.
    But as he shouted, the effect astonished even him.
    The men began to drop to their knees, grasping in pain at their helmets. The 
walls of the keep behind them shuddered and vibrated, dust cascading from cracks 
in the stone as if the walls were a rug, and his Voice a stick that beat it.
    The Wolf Lord had endowments of Voice from thousands, and brawn that let him 
expel air with incredible force. Yet even he had never guessed that his cry 
might carry such power.
    So astonished was he that as Raj Ahten shouted, he shaped his call, lowering 
the tone several octaves until stone and gravel chipped away from the wall.
    Then he shouted anew, increased his volume, chipping deeper at the stone, 
turning his voice into a fey weapon.
    It was written in Taif that the Emir Moussat ibn Hafir once had his warriors 
raise such a cry. In the deserts of Dharmad, the brick walls of the city of 
Abanis had crumbled under such a sound, letting the Emir send his cavalry 
through the rubble.
    But then the sound had come from the voices of a thousand trained warriors, 
crying as one, and the city walls had been made of weak adobe brick.
    It was called the Death Cry of Abanis, a sound legend said could rend stone 
much as certain singers could train themselves to shatter crystal.
    Now, Raj Ahten raised such a shout alone.
    The effect felt gratifying. Before him, warriors dropped as if clubbed, many 
falling in shock, some dropping in death. Blood poured from men's ears and from 
their noses.
    Behind them, as Raj Ahten reached his crescendo, the huge stone tower of the 
Dedicates' Keep suddenly cracked, rending nearly from top to bottom.
    Yet the tower did not quite crumble or fall.
    Raj Ahten raised the shout again, playing his voice back and forth over the 
stone, experimenting with various harmonic frequencies, until he struck just the 
right chord.
    This time the tower crumbled like magic, falling in a mighty crash that 
pummeled the earth, raising a cloud of dust. Great stones dropped, slamming into 
prostrate defenders who had guarded the tower's steps.
    Raj Ahten turned, looked on the walls of Castle Longmont. In places, the 
walls of the castle had cracked. The Duke's Keep looked as if artillery had 
struck it, blasting off huge chunks of stone, crumbling a windowsill, toppling 
gargoyles.
    Those men who still could gazed at Raj Ahten in horror.
    Defeated. Longmont lay defeated.
    Raj Ahten stood, gloating in his power. The King of the Earth may come, he 
thought, but I am mightier than the earth.
    Everyone, even Raj Ahten's own men, watched him in terror. Among his 
Invincibles, few had been damaged by the Death Cry. Raj Ahten's Invincibles each 
had a minimum of five endowments of stamina--and, apparently, that was enough 
for them to withstand the destructive power of his Voice.
    But many commoners who had defended the walls had punctured eardrums or had 
lost consciousness.
    In the moment that followed, Raj Ahten's Invincibles finished their 
swordplay, slaughtering those who resisted, dragging those who surrendered down 
into the courtyard.
    When the defenders of Longmont were disarmed, their armor taken, fewer than 
four hundred men remained. To Raj Ahten's pleasure, the others had all died, 
either in battle or from his shout.
    On the castle walls, the salamanders stood a moment, gazing longingly at the 
prisoners. But with the battle won and no more prey to be had, they began to 
waver, until their fiery forms became a mere shimmering heat, and were gone back 
to the netherworld from whence they had been drawn.
    For a long moment, Raj Ahten merely stood, surveying the scene, tasting his 
victory.
    He addressed the survivors simply. "I need information. To the man who 
supplies an answer first, I'll grant life. The rest of you shall die. Here is my 
question: Where are my forcibles?"
    To their credit, most of the knights refused to answer. Some shouted curses, 
but half a dozen shouted variations of "Gone! Orden sent them away!"
    Six men tried to purchase their lives. Some had blood trickling from ears. 
Some wept. Some were young men who had never faced danger. Others were family 
men, perhaps, who worried for the welfare of wives and children. Raj Ahten 
recognized a captain who had been made a Dedicate just days before, but he did 
not know the captain's name. One silver-haired old fellow, Raj Ahten imagined, 
was just a coward.
    Raj Ahten called them forward, led them to the drawbridge while his 
Invincibles moved in for the slaughter.
    "You six men," Raj Ahten said. "One of you has saved your life, but I do not 
know yet who among you shall live. Perhaps one shall live, perhaps all..." He 
knew full well who had spoken first--the old coward. But he dared not admit it. 
He needed them all to answer, needed to learn if his source spoke truthfully. 
"So, I must ask you another question. Where did he send my forcibles?"
    "We don't know. His guards rode off without telling," the men answered in 
unison.
    Two men had been slow to answer. Raj Ahten lunged forward with his saber, 
cut them down, perhaps with too much enthusiasm. He'd feared that the forcibles 
would be gone, that this attack had been a waste of his time.
    "The odds narrow," he whispered viciously. The four remaining men watched in 
terror. Beads of sweat formed on their brows. "Tell me, when did the forcibles 
leave?"
    Two more men hesitated. The captain said, "Just after Orden's men arrived."
    A fourth man nodded silent agreement, eyes blazing, becoming suddenly 
disheartened. The older fellow, the coward. He'd been too late to speak, he 
knew.
    Raj Ahten slaughtered two more men, left only the last two soldiers. The 
captain still wore the colors of Longmont. Perhaps the man would make a valuable 
spy. The older coward was dressed in pigskins, a gamy fellow of the woods. Raj 
Ahten suspected that he did not really know his answers firsthand, and so was 
forced to merely concur.
    "Where is Gaborn Orden?" Raj Ahten asked. The man in pigskins had no answer. 
Raj Ahten could see it in his face.
    "He rode into the castle at dawn, then rode out again just after," the 
captain of Longmont answered.
    From the castle, the last agonized cries of dying prisoners sounded, the 
grunting and screams. The old man in pigskins cringed, knowing he would be next, 
while the captain sweated heavily, panting.
    The captain had that inward gaze that men of conscience get when doing evil. 
Raj Ahten did not trust him to answer another question honestly. You could only 
push a man so far.
    Raj Ahten stepped forward, slashed the old fellow who wore pigskins in half.
    He considered killing the captain of Longmont. He had not wanted to leave 
any witness to tell the secret of his magic powders, or to reveal his battle 
tactics. It would be a small matter to gut the fellow.
    Yet the captain might serve a greater purpose. By telling how Raj Ahten had 
destroyed the walls of Longmont with a mere battle cry, this lone survivor would 
spread fear across the kingdoms of the North.
    All the Northern castles, all the proud fortresses that had stood for 
thousands of years as men battled the Toth and the nomen and each other--all 
were useless now. Death traps.
    The men of the North should know. They should be prepared to surrender.
    "I'm most grateful," Raj Ahten told the captain. "You've won your life. You 
served as my Dedicate once. Now you shall serve me again. I want you to tell 
others what happened here. When men ask how you survived the battle, tell them: 
Raj Ahten left me to testify of his power."
    The soldier nodded weakly. His legs shook. The captain wouldn't be able to 
stand much longer. Raj Ahten put a hand on his shoulder, and asked casually, "Do 
you have a family, children?"
    The man nodded, burst into tears, and turned away.
    "What is your name?"
    "Cedrick Tempest," the young man cried.
    Raj Ahten smiled. "How many children, Cedrick?"
    "Three...girls and a boy."
    Raj Ahten nodded appreciatively. "You think yourself a coward, Cedrick 
Tempest. You think yourself disloyal. But today, you were loyal to your 
children, yes? 'Children are gems, and he who has many is rich indeed.' You will 
live for them?"
    Cedrick nodded vigorously.
    "There are many kinds of heroes, many forms of loyalty," Raj Ahten said. "Do 
not regret your decision."
    He turned to walk back to his pavilion on the hill, stopped to clean the 
gore from the blade of his scimitar on a dead man's cape. He considered his next 
move. His forcibles were gone--to Mystarria, perhaps, or any of a hundred keeps. 
His reinforcements were late. An army was marching on him.
    Yet he had a new weapon, one that might yet win the day, beyond all hope or 
expectation.
    The men closest to Raj Ahten had taken great damage from his cry, as did men 
with but a few endowments of stamina. Raj Ahten dared not use his weapon too 
near his own men. Which meant that if he sought to kill Gaborn by the power of 
his Voice, he'd have to stand alone.
    A few small flakes of snow began to fall from the leaden skies, swirling at 
his feet. He had not noticed how cold it had become.
    He studied the damage to Castle Longmont from outside. Cracks had broken the 
walls, splitting the stone in numerous places. Massive walls of black stone 
nearly a hundred feet tall still loomed above him. The foundation stones were 
thirty feet thick, fourteen feet wide, twelve feet tall. Each stone weighed 
thousands of tons. This fortress had stood for centuries, indomitable. He'd seen 
the wards of earth-binding on its gates.
    His flameweavers' most powerful spells could hardly pierce the walls. His 
catapults hadn't chipped them. Yet his voice had rent some of the massive 
foundation stones.
    Even Raj Ahten marveled. It was not clear yet what he was becoming. He'd 
taken Castle Sylvarresta with nothing more than the power of his glamour. Now he 
found that his Voice was becoming a potent, dazzling weapon.
    In his realms to the south, Dedicates died from moment to moment, while new 
ones were recruited. The configuration of his attributes was always in flux. But 
of one thing he felt certain: More endowments were being added than were lost. 
He was being added upon. Becoming the Sum of All Men.
    Perhaps now was the time to face this young fool--the Earth King and his 
armies. Raj Ahten glowered.
    He turned and gave a great roar, threw his voice against the near wall. "I 
am mightier than the earth!"
    Longmont cracked--the whole southern wall shuddered. Cedrick Tempest fell, 
too, running from the gate, clutching his helm, curling in on himself when he 
could run no more.
    To Raj Ahten's dismay, the upper half of the Duke's Keep crumbled to the 
left. Some of his men screamed within the castle as the building collapsed on 
them. It was as if the wards of earth power that bound the castle crumbled, 
leaving the keep in ruin.
    At the same time, on the hill behind him, Raj Ahten heard a branch crack.
    He turned, glimpsed the great oak by his pavilion. The trunk of the great 
oak snapped...and half of the tree crashed through the roof of his Dedicates' 
wagon.
    In that moment, Raj Ahten felt a dozen small deaths, the dizzying 
breathlessness that accompanied the loss of virtue.
    The world slowed terrifyingly. For long years, Raj Ahten had brought his 
wagon with him. In it he bore Dervin Feyl, a man who had bequeathed Raj Ahten an 
endowment of metabolism many years back, had become a vector.
    Dervin had just died, along with the Dedicate who vectored glamour to Raj 
Ahten, and several other minor men.
    Raj Ahten marveled at his sudden sluggishness. Did my Voice smite the tree, 
or does Earth seek to punish me? he wondered.
    Did the earth strike at me? He had no way to answer the question. Yet it 
mattered a great deal. The wizard Binnesman had cursed him, seemingly with no 
effect. Had the wizard's curse weakened that tree?
    Or had his own Voice been his downfall?
    Such a small blow. Yet so profoundly effective.
    Raj Ahten wondered, but at that moment, it no longer mattered. Raj Ahten, 
despite his victory at Longmont, stood defeated. Though he had the wit and grace 
and brawn of thousands, without his speed he'd become a "warrior of unfortunate 
proportion." Even a common soldier, some boy without endowments, might be able 
to slaughter him.
    If Gaborn came against him with the speed of even five men and endowments of 
stamina from another five, Raj Ahten could not prevail against him.
    Raj Ahten cast his eyes about in desperation. His flameweavers had burned 
themselves out. His forcibles were gone. The salamanders had returned to the 
netherworld, and would not be summoned easily for a long while. His arcane 
explosive powders were all used up.
    I came to destroy Orden and Sylvarresta, he thought, and that much I've 
accomplished. But in doing this, I've created a greater enemy.
    It was time to flee Longmont, flee Heredon and all the Kingdoms of Rofehavan 
while he reconsidered his tactics. At this moment, despite whatever other 
victories his men might win here in the North, he could feel the Kingdoms of 
Rofehavan all slipping from his grasp.
    Raj Ahten had his endowments, thousands upon thousands of them. But his 
mines were petering out, and his forcibles were in the hands of his enemy. 
Whatever gifts he had now, the young king might soon match.
    Raj Ahten felt utterly dismayed.
    The snow was blowing. The first snow Raj Ahten would see this winter. In a 
few weeks, the passes in the mountains would be blocked.
    He could continue this contest later, he reasoned. Shocked. He dreaded the 
thought of waiting until spring.
    He shouted orders for his men to begin the retreat, leaving no time to loot 
the castle.
    He stood for several long minutes as his soldiers scrambled to obey, pulling 
down pavilions, harnessing the horses, loading wagons.
    The Frowth giants emerged from the castle, bearing corpses of defenders in 
their paws to eat on the way home. Along the western hills, wolves howled 
mournfully, as if in loss at the sight of Longmont in ruins.
    Raj Ahten's counselor, Feykaald, shouted in a high voice, "Move, you 
sluggards! Leave the dead! You, there--help load those wagons!"
    The snow thickened. In moments it piled two inches deep at Raj Ahten's feet. 
He only stood, gazing at Castle Longmont. He wondered how he had failed here, 
considered how Jureem had betrayed him to King Orden.
    When he finished musing, Castle Longmont lay dead. No fires burned in it, no 
men cried out in pain.
    Cedrick Tempest wandered before the gates, the lone soldier holding his 
bleeding ear, cursing and muttering under his breath. Perhaps his mind had gone.
    Raj Ahten took a horse, considered again how the wizard Binnesman had stolen 
his, and rode over the hills.

     
     
Chapter 56
THE GREETING
     
    By the time Gaborn reached Longmont, the land lay empty of troops, the ruins 
of the castle covered beneath a layer of new-fallen snow.
    Most of Gaborn's army was still far behind. Only some fifty knights rode 
mounts swift enough to keep up. In the woods to the west, wolves howled 
forlornly, their voices rising and falling in eerie cadences.
    Binnesman had ridden ahead, rummaged near the ruins of the Dedicates' Keep, 
searching among the rubble.
    Everywhere lay carnage and destruction--walls and towers of Longmont in 
ruin, the soldiers of Orden crumpled under stone. Only a dozen or so of Raj 
Ahten's troops lay dead outside the castle, riddled with arrows.
    Raj Ahten had carried off a great victory here, a mind-numbing victory, 
almost unparalleled in any chronicle Gaborn had ever read. For the past hour, 
Gaborn had tried to deny his feelings, his suspicion that his father had died. 
Now he feared the worst.
    Only one warrior stood alive on the battleground, a captain who wore the 
colors of Longmont.
    Gaborn rode up to him. The soldier's face was pale, his eyes full of horror. 
Blood dribbled under his helmet from his right ear and had crusted in the dark 
hair of his sideburns.
    "Captain Tempest," Gaborn asked, recalling the man's name from earlier in 
the day, "where is my father, King Orden?"
    "Dead, mi-milord," the captain said, then sat down in the snow, his head 
hanging. "They're all dead."
    Gaborn had expected it. Yet the news punched him. He put one hand over his 
belly, found himself breathing hard. I was no help, he thought. Everything I've 
done has been in vain.
    He surveyed the damage, his shock and horror growing more profound. He'd 
never seen a castle so destroyed--not in a matter of hours.
    "How is it that you survived?" Gaborn asked weakly.
    The captain shook his head, as if searching for an answer. "Raj Ahten took 
some of us prisoners. He--killed the others. He left me alive, to bear witness."
    "To what?" Gaborn asked.
    Tempest pointed numbly at the towers. "His flameweavers struck first. They 
summoned creatures from the netherworld and hit the castle with spells that 
burned iron--and a fireball that burst in the air above the gates, tossing men 
about like sticks.
    "But that was not the worst of it, for then Raj Ahten himself came and 
shattered the castle's foundations with the cry of his Voice. He killed hundreds 
more of us!
    "I...my helm has thick leather pads, but I can't hear from my right ear, and 
my left is still ringing."
    Gaborn stared at the castle, numb.
    He'd imagined that Raj Ahten had brought some terrible engines to bear on 
those walls, or had his flameweavers conjure some unspeakable spell.
    He'd seen that great mushroom of fire rise in the air. But he'd never 
imagined that the walls could crumble from a mere shout.
    The soldiers behind him had spread out, were slowly riding over the 
battleground, to seek for signs of life among the ruins.
    "Where is--where can I find my father?"
    Tempest pointed up a trail. "He ran that way, toward Tor Loman, chasing Raj 
Ahten, just before the battle commenced."
    Gaborn turned his horse, but Captain Tempest rushed forward, dropped to his 
knees. "Forgive me!" he cried.
    "For what, surviving?" Gaborn asked. Gaborn himself felt the guilt of those 
who live, unaccountably, while all around them die. It was heavy on him now. "I 
not only forgive you, I commend you."
    He let his horse trot over the snowfield to the sound of Tempest's sobbing 
and the howls of wolves.
    The rings in his mail rang as the horse broke into a gallop, and Gaborn rode 
up a muddy trail. At first he could not be certain he headed in the right 
direction. Snow covered the trail, and he could discern no tracks.
    But after half a mile, as the trail moved under the aspens, he saw signs in 
the mud and fallen leaves--the huge strides of men with enormous metabolism 
racing through the woods. Tracks ten steps across.
    After that the trail was easy to follow. The path to Tor Loman had been well 
maintained, the brush cut away. It made for an easy, almost pleasant ride.
    Along the path, Gaborn watched for sign of his father, but found none.
    At last he reached the bare peak of Tor Loman, found the meadow with the 
Duke's old observatory at its top. The snow had fallen heavy here, stood three 
inches deep, and Gaborn found Raj Ahten's fine helm lying at the base of the 
observatory.
    The helm itself was deeply embossed, with intricate silver designs like 
braided ropes or the braided fires a flameweaver pulled from heaven. These ran 
down the noseguard and over the eye slots. A single huge diamond fit between the 
eyes. Gaborn took it as a prize of war, tied its broken strap to his saddle, 
careful not to crush the white owl's wings on the helm.
    As he tied it, he sniffed the cold air. The snow had cleansed the sky, 
carried away most of the scent, yet Gaborn could still discern the odor of his 
father's heavy samite cape, the oil he used to protect his armor. His father had 
been here. Might be nearby--alive and wounded, perhaps.
    Gaborn climbed the observatory, gazed off into the distance. The snow had 
stopped falling ten minutes ago, so he could see fairly well, though with but 
two endowments of sight, he could not be called a far-seer. To the east, Iome 
and her people pushed across the heath, ten miles back. They had neared the 
Durkin Hills Road.
    In the distance to the southwest, at Gaborn's limit of vision, Raj Ahten's 
troops retreated over the hills, the red and gold of their colors muted by 
distance.
    He saw men stopping on their horses, gazing back toward him. Gaborn imagined 
that some far-seers watched him, wondering who now stood on the Eyes of Tor 
Loman. Perhaps even Raj Ahten himself watched.
    Gaborn whispered, "I reject you, Raj Ahten. I will destroy you." Gaborn 
raised a fist in the sign of challenge. But if the men on the far hill made any 
gestures of their own, he could not see. They merely turned their mounts and 
galloped over the crest of the hill.
    Even with an army, Gaborn realized, I couldn't catch Raj Ahten now.
    Yet in his heart, Gaborn felt some relief. He loved this land, as his father 
had. They had wanted nothing more than to drive Raj Ahten from it, keep it 
beautiful and free. For a time, perhaps, they had succeeded.
    But at what price?
    Gaborn glanced down at his feet. The snow had fallen after Raj Ahten's 
descent. Yet the scent of both Gaborn's father and the Wolf Lord lingered here. 
The metallic tang of blood.
    So, Gaborn surmised, Raj Ahten had come here, had seen the clouds of 
Gaborn's passage, the distant herds of cattle and soldiers mingled together, had 
fallen for the ruse.
    That gave Gaborn some comfort. Raj Ahten could be fooled, could be beaten.
    Gaborn circled the tower, tried to see down into the woods. He imagined his 
father and Raj Ahten struggling on the tower, until at last, perhaps, his father 
was thrown over.
    He looked down, saw what he dreaded: at the base of the observatory, among 
the rocks, a hand thrust up, dead fingers clutching a palm full of snow.
    Gaborn raced down the winding stairs, found his father, and pulled at the 
corpse, shaking it to clear the snow off.
    What he saw broke his heart. For on his father's frozen face was a broad 
smile. Perhaps in death, some fleeting memory had made him smile. Or perhaps it 
was but a grimace of pain. Yet Gaborn imagined that his father smiled at him, as 
if to congratulate him for his victory.

     
     
Chapter 57
TODAY I AM DEATH
     
    Gaborn had already ridden ahead when Iome's glamour returned. Iome had no 
idea how Raj Ahten's vector had died, felt little relief at the woman's passing. 
Like Iome, the woman had been a mere tool in Raj Ahten's hand, one that was 
poorly used.
    Yet Iome's beauty returned. She felt it as an easing of her heart, a return 
of her confidence. Like a flower blossoming.
    Yet it was not the unnatural beauty she'd had since birth, not the borrowed 
glamour. The skin on her hands softened and lost their wrinkles. The blush of 
youth returned to her cheeks. For once in her life, for the first time, Iome was 
simply herself, without benefit of endowments.
    It was enough. She wished that Gaborn could have been here to see, but he 
had ridden ahead.
    Though messengers from Longmont had told Iome what to expect when she 
reached the castle, had said that Raj Ahten had destroyed it with a shout, 
nothing they said could have prepared her for the ruin.
    She rode at the head of ten thousand people from out of Groverman and the 
villages round about. Many of the women had already turned back, heading for 
their own hearths, their own homes. Their work here was done.
    But others followed Iome, particularly people who'd lived in Longmont, who 
had come to see what was left of their homes.
    As they neared the ruined castle, saw the empty fields with wolves slinking 
about the hedgerows, many women and children began crying for what they'd lost.
    They'd deserted their homes three days ago, but a few days of huddling under 
ragged shelters at Groverman had shown them just how difficult it would be to 
make do once the snows fell.
    Certainly, most of them hoped to come home, to rebuild. But in hard times, 
with war approaching, Iome's people could not rebuild without some nearby 
fortification.
    The castle was nearly ruined. Huge blocks of stone that had lain in place 
for twelve centuries now lay cracked and shattered.
    Almost subconsciously, Iome began calculating what it would take to repair 
the fortress: five hundred stonemasons out of Eyremoth, for they were the best. 
Carters to drag the stones, Frowth giants hired out of Lonnock to place them. 
Men to dig moats. Lumberjacks to cut trees. Cooks and ironsmiths, with mortar, 
chisels, saws, awls, axes, and...the list went on and on.
    But to what purpose? If Raj Ahten could simply shatter the castle with a 
shout?
    She looked up on the hill, saw Gaborn kneeling in a patch of snow, in the 
field. Gaborn had laid his father's body out on the hill above the castle, 
beneath a great oak tree. A huge limb lay near them.
    Gaborn had collected dozens of spears, and he ringed these about his 
father's corpse, creating a fence of sorts, to keep out the wolves.
    In the tree above his father's corpse, he had hung his father's golden 
shield. He took his father's helm, laid it in the snow at his father's feet--a 
sign that his father had fallen in battle.
    She turned her horse, went to him, leading her father's stallion. Behind 
King Sylvarresta followed the three Days: hers, her father's, and Gaborn's. King 
Sylvarresta had verged on falling dead asleep in his saddle a few minutes 
before, but now stared about, grinning broadly at the snow through bleary eyes, 
a child filled with delight.
    Gaborn looked up at Iome as she approached; his face looked bleak, desolate. 
Iome knew then that she would find no words to comfort him. She had nothing to 
offer him. In the past few days, she'd lost nearly everything--her home, her 
parents, her beauty...and things less tangible.
    How will I ever sleep again? she wondered. In her mind, the castle had 
always been the supreme icon of security. In a world fraught with danger, it had 
always been a safe haven.
    No more.
    She felt now that she'd lost her childhood, her innocence. Her peace of mind 
was torn from her.
    Not just because her mother lay dead and one of her castles lay in ruins. As 
she rode that morning, she considered what had happened. Yesterday, she'd feared 
that Borenson would sneak into Castle Sylvarresta, kill her Dedicates. She 
imagined that secretly she'd known what he would do, though she hated it.
    By not challenging him, not confronting him, Iome had agreed to it. The 
horror of it had all been creeping up on her since noon yesterday. Now she found 
herself defenseless. She hadn't slept for two nights. She'd felt dizzy for 
hours, had feared she would topple from her horse.
    Now it seemed as if a great invisible beast, lurking beneath her 
consciousness, suddenly sprang and seized her.
    Iome had meant to say some word of comfort to Gaborn, but suddenly found icy 
tears coursing down her cold cheeks. She tried to wipe them, began shuddering 
quietly.
    Gaborn had prepared his father's body well. The King's hair was combed, his 
face was pale in death. The glamour he'd worn had died with him, so that the man 
she saw was not the King Orden who had seemed so regal, so powerful, during 
life.
    He looked like some aging statesman, with a broad face, skin somewhat 
weather-beaten. He smiled enigmatically. He was dressed in his armor, and lay on 
a plank. His richly embroidered cape of shimmering samite covered him like a 
robe.
    In his hands, he clasped the bud of a single blue rose, perhaps taken from 
the Duke's garden.
    Gaborn turned to look up at Iome, saw the expression on her face, then stood 
slowly, as if the effort pained him. He walked to her, grabbed her shoulders as 
she slid from her horse, and held her close.
    She thought he would kiss her, tell her not to weep.
    Instead his voice sounded hollow and dead as he whispered fiercely, "Grieve 
for us. Grieve."
    Borenson thundered into Longmont in a red fury. From the moment he had 
crested a ridge five miles back and seen the ruined towers, the crowd milling on 
the downs outside the castle, he'd known the news would be bad. Among the crowd, 
many colors flew, but none for Raj Ahten.
    He wished Raj Ahten were dead, wanted to strike against him with a rage so 
burning that Borenson had never felt its like.
    So he was still in a frustrated rage when he galloped down the north road 
into Longmont and met the ragged commoners milling about by the thousands. He 
looked among the crowd for the colors of Orden, saw them nowhere.
    He rode up to a pair of teens who scrambled among the snow outside the 
castle, robbing the corpse of one of Raj Ahten's soldiers. One young man was 
perhaps fourteen, another eighteen. At first he thought the vermin were stealing 
money pouches or rings, and he'd have belittled them for doing so. Then he 
recognized that one lad was wrestling the armor from the corpse, while the other 
helped lift the dead weight.
    Good. They sought armor and weapons that they could never otherwise 
purchase.
    "Where is King Orden?" Borenson asked, trying to keep the emotion from his 
voice.
    "Dead, like all them buggers in the castle," the youngest lad answered. He 
had his back to Borenson, hadn't seen to whom he was speaking.
    A sound escaped Borenson's throat, something like a growl or a snort. 
"Everyone?"
    Pain must have sounded in his voice, for the lad turned and looked up, eyes 
widening in fear. He dropped the body and backed away, raising a hand in salute. 
"Yes--yes, sir," his older friend said formally. "Only one man lived to tell the 
tale. Everyone else is dead."
    "A man survived?" Borenson asked distantly, though he wanted to cry out, 
call Myrrima's name and see if she would answer. Myrrima had been in this 
castle.
    "Yes, sir," the older lad said. He staggered backward, afraid Borenson would 
strike. "You--your men fought bravely. King Orden made a serpent, and fought the 
Wolf Lord man-to-man. They--we won't forget such sacrifice."
    "Whose sacrifice?" Borenson asked. "My king's, or the buggers'?"
    The young men turned and ran as if Borenson would strike them both down, and 
he very nearly did, but he felt little anger toward them.
    Borenson scanned the downs wildly, as if Myrrima might stand on the brow of 
a hill waving to him, or as if he might see one of Raj Ahten's scouts crest a 
ridge. Instead, as he looked up, he spotted Gaborn beneath an oak.
    The Prince had laid out King Orden's body, ringed it with spears from his 
fallen guards, as was the custom in Mystarria. He just stood there, over his 
dead father, hugging Iome. The Princess had her back to Borenson, and wore a 
hood, but there could be no mistaking the curves of her body. A knot of three 
Days all huddled a few yards off to the side, watching the scene with studied 
patience.
    The idiot King Sylvarresta had come off his horse, was in the circle of 
spears, fawning over King Orden, gazing about dumbly, as if to beg for help.
    A sense of horror and desolation swept Borenson, so that he cried out in 
astonishment and despair.
    The fallen castle, the fallen king.
    I may have killed him, Borenson thought wildly--my own king. Orden had 
fought Raj Ahten hand-to-hand, and lost. I could have followed my king's orders, 
slain all the Dedicates. Had I obeyed in every detail, perhaps it would have 
changed something. Perhaps Raj Ahten would have died in that battle.
    I let my king die.
    The guilt that welled up in Borenson was a wild thing, a storm that came 
from everywhere and seemed to uproot every fiber of his sanity.
    An ancient law in Mystarria said the last command of a king must be obeyed, 
even if the king falls in battle. The command must be obeyed.
    The air seemed to grow thick around Borenson. From deep in his throat, the 
battle chuckle issued as he lowered his lance, flipped down the visor of his 
helm with a rapid nod of his chin, then spurred his horse into a gallop.
    His lips clenched tight against his teeth.
    White had fallen from gray clouds earlier. Soft cold. Frozen beauty, 
covering everything, sparkling when a patch of sunlight struck it.
    King Sylvarresta gaped in wonder, sometimes moaning in delight when he saw a 
new beauty--the mounds of snow crusting a pool in the road, or clumps of melting 
snow dropping from a tree. He had no word for "snow," could not recall it.
    Everything seemed new, brimming with wonder. He felt very tired, but could 
not sleep once he came to the castle.
    There were too many oddities here, people behind him crying out in pain. He 
looked at the castle, saw fallen towers. He could only marvel at how they had 
fallen.
    A woman led his horse up a hill, to a great tree where spears stood about in 
a circle.
    Sylvarresta listened to the young man talk to the woman, then gazed up in 
the tree. An orange cat, the kind of half-wild mouser common to farms, sat on a 
branch, staring down at him. It stood, arched its back, then walked out on a 
huge limb above King Sylvarresta, its tail twisting in the air. It meowed 
hungrily and gazed at something on the ground.
    King Sylvarresta followed its gaze, noticed a man lying on the ground, under 
a shimmering green cape. He recognized that royal cape, the one that had 
mesmerized him just this morning. He recognized the man beneath it.
    King Orden. His friend.
    At the same moment, he knew something was profoundly wrong. Orden did not 
move. His chest did not fall and rise. He only clasped his hands over a blue 
flower.
    In an instant Sylvarresta's world shattered. He remembered what this was, 
dredged it up from some deep place where all horrors lay hidden.
    He shouted wordlessly, not knowing the name for this thing, and leapt from 
his horse. He hit the ground, scrambled over the snow, sliding in the muck, till 
he broke through the fence of spears that stuck in the ground, reached Orden's 
hand.
    Orden's cold fingers held a single flower, blue as sky. Sylvarresta grasped 
the cold fingers, picked them up and tried to get them to move. Reached for 
Orden's cheek, stroked it, to find it as cold as the rest of him.
    Sylvarresta cried, and turned back, to discover whether the others knew this 
great dark secret, knew of this beast that stalked them all.
    As he caught the eyes of the young man and the woman, he saw horror there.
    "Yes," the young man said softly. "Death. He is dead."
    Yes, they knew the secret.
    The woman said in a sad if scolding tone, "Father--oh please, come away from 
there!"
    In the fields below, a knight rode a great warhorse, speeding toward them 
like an arrow, his visor and his lance lowered. So swift he came. So swift.
    Sylvarresta shouted the great secret. "Death!"

     
     
Chapter 58
BROKEN MEN
     
    Gaborn heard the thud of hoofbeats, the ringing of mail as links clanged 
against one another. He had thought it only a local knight riding across the 
downs--until he recognized the throaty battle chuckle, a sound that filled him 
with dread.
    Gaborn had been watching King Sylvarresta, shocked and saddened that the 
poor fool, though he knew almost nothing at all, had been forced to confront 
mortality. It felt like watching a child get torn apart by dogs.
    Gaborn only had time to push Iome behind him, spin and raise a hand to shout 
"No!"
    Then Borenson's gray steed thundered past, its armor rattling. Huge. 
Unstoppable.
    Borenson's lance was lowered on the far side of the horse, twenty feet of 
polished white ash with its blackened steel tip at the end. Gaborn thought of 
throwing himself forward, pushing that lance tip away.
    But Borenson raced past before Gaborn could act.
    Gaborn stood but thirty feet from King Sylvarresta, yet time seemed to slow 
in that second.
    Gaborn had seen Borenson joust a hundred times. The man had a steady hand, a 
deft touch. He could skewer a plum off a fence post with a lance, even on a 
force horse galloping sixty miles an hour.
    Borenson approached with his lance low, as if he'd go for a stomach wound, 
and Gaborn saw him raise it just a bit, holding steady, aiming at Sylvarresta's 
heart.
    For his part, Sylvarresta seemed not to recognize what was happening. The 
King's face had twisted in a grimace, for he'd just remembered the one thing 
Gaborn had hoped he'd never come to learn, and he had been shouting the word 
"death," though he could not have foreseen his own.
    Then the steed bore down on Sylvarresta. Borenson pulled his lance to the 
right a fraction of an inch, so it would not graze one of the spears in Gaborn's 
spear wall.
    Then the horse charged through the spear wall, sent some shafts flying, 
shattered others. Almost at that same moment, the tip of Borenson's lance took 
King Sylvarresta just below the sternum.
    The spear entered deftly, pushing the King backward and lifting him from his 
feet.
    Borenson let the lance slide ten feet through the King's chest, so the 
tapering wood spread his ribs open wide, then suddenly released the haft and 
leaned clear of the dying man.
    The horse thundered two steps, leapt the corpse of Gaborn's father, crashed 
through the far wall of spears, and charged on past the trunk of the huge oak 
tree.
    King Sylvarresta stood a moment, blinking stupidly at the huge lance that 
skewered him, staring in wonder at his own blood as it spurted over the polished 
white ash. Then his knees buckled. His head sagged, and he pitched to his left.
    As he died, he looked at his daughter and moaned weakly.
    Gaborn had no weapons at hand. He'd left his horseman's warhammer sheathed 
in his saddle.
    He rushed forward, grabbed a spear from the ground, and called to Iome. She 
did not need prodding. Her horse had startled away at Gaborn's shout.
    Iome ran behind Gaborn. He thought that she would let him shield her. But in 
a moment it became clear that she did not plan to hide behind him at all. She 
merely sought her way past him, to get to her father, who lay crumpled and 
bleeding.
    Borenson spun his horse, pulled the horseman's battle-axe from its sheath on 
the back of the saddle, and flipped up the visor of his helm. For half a second, 
he merely glared.
    There was pain in his blue eyes, the pain of madness. His face was red from 
rage, his teeth gritted. He smiled no longer.
    Running forward, Gaborn grabbed his father's shield from the spot where it 
hung to the oak, raised it to protect Iome and Sylvarresta, then backed away, 
standing five feet behind the cold corpse of King Orden.
    Gaborn knew Borenson would not risk letting his mount trample King Orden's 
corpse, defiling it. He'd not spur his horse into battle.
    But Gaborn did not feel so certain Borenson would refrain from striking him: 
Borenson had been compelled to commit bloody murder in assassinating the 
Dedicates at Castle Sylvarresta. He'd been forced to choose between slaughtering 
King Sylvarresta and the King's men--his own friends--or letting the Dedicates 
live to serve Raj Ahten.
    It was an evil choice, with no fair answer, no answer that any man could 
hope to live with.
    "Give her to me!" Borenson shouted.
    "No!" Gaborn said. "She is a Dedicate no longer!"
    In that moment, Borenson looked down beneath Iome's hood, saw her fair face, 
no longer wrinkled. Saw her eyes clear. A look of astonishment came over him.
    A dark blur rushed past Gaborn, some knight of Sylvarresta with great 
metabolism, running with his might at Borenson. The fellow leapt, and Borenson 
leaned back from the attack, swung his warhammer, caught the warrior full in the 
face. Blood sprayed the air as the dying warrior hurtled over Borenson's horse.
    Hundreds of people had witnessed Sylvarresta's murder. Gaborn had been 
totally focused on Borenson, but now he became aware of the others.
    Duke Groverman and a full hundred knights were rushing up the hill with 
weapons drawn. Behind them ran commoners. Some looked furious, others dismayed. 
Some could not believe what had happened. Gaborn heard shouts, the hue and cry 
of "Murder, murder most foul!" and "Kill him!" and others shouting in wordless 
grief at the death of their King.
    Young boys with scythes and sticks were running up the hill, their bloodless 
faces twisted in dismay.
    Iome dropped to her knees, took her father's head in her lap. She rocked 
back and forth, weeping. Her father's blood was pumping out quickly through the 
huge wound, as if he were a steer being bled by a butcher. The blood pooled and 
mingled with the melting snow.
    Things had happened so quickly, Gaborn just stood, dazed. His guard had 
killed the father of the woman he loved. Gaborn's own life might well be in 
jeopardy.
    Some here would see it as their duty to avenge House Sylvarresta. A tide of 
people swept toward Borenson. Some young men were stringing longbows.
    Gaborn shouted, using all the power he could muster in his Voice, "Stop! 
Leave him to me!"
    Borenson's horse danced backward at the shout, and he fought to control the 
mount. Those nearest Gaborn all stopped expectantly. Others still rushed up the 
hill, unsure.
    Iome looked down at her people, raised a hand for them to halt. Gaborn 
suspected that her command alone would not have stopped the mob, if Borenson 
were not such a deadly foe. But partly from fear, partly from respect for their 
Princess, the crowd advanced only falteringly, and some older and wiser lords 
near the front spread their arms, to hold the more hot-tempered men back.
    Borenson glared at the mob in contempt, then flourished his hammer, pointing 
at Iome, and gazed into Gaborn's eyes: "She should have died with the rest of 
them! By your father's own orders!"
    "He rescinded that order," Gaborn said calmly, using all his training in the 
control of Voice, precisely repeating every studied inflection, so he could 
convey to Borenson that he spoke the truth.
    Borenson's mouth fell open in horror, for he was full of guilt, and Gaborn 
now laid it on him thicker. Almost, Gaborn imagined that he could hear the 
sneers that would be cast at Borenson's back for years: "Butcher. Assassin. 
Kingslayer!"
    Yet Gaborn could not speak anything but the truth, no matter how horrible it 
might be, no matter how it might destroy his friend. "My father rescinded that 
order, when I presented King Sylvarresta before him. He hugged the man as a 
friend dearer than a brother, and begged forgiveness!"
    Gaborn pointed down with his spear at King Sylvarresta for effect.
    If he had thought Borenson gone in madness before, now he became certain of 
it.
    "Noooo!" Borenson howled, and tears filled eyes, eyes that now gazed past 
Gaborn's head, at some private torment. "Noooo!"
    He shook his head violently. He could not bear for it to be true, could not 
live with it being true.
    Borenson half-dropped and half-threw his warhammer to the ground, then 
turned in his saddle, pulled his right leg over and stepped off his horse 
awkwardly, as if he were walking down a great stair.
    "No, please, no!" he said, shaking his head from side to side. He grabbed 
his helm, pulled it off, so that his head lay bare. He bowed to the ground, neck 
stretched, and as he walked forward, he stammered under his breath, staring at 
the ground.
    He walked in a strange gait--back bent, head low, knees almost touching the 
ground at every step.
    Gaborn realized that Borenson was torn, did not know whether to approach him 
or drop to his knees. He was trying to keep his head bowed.
    "My lord, my lord, ah, ah, take me, milord. Take me!" Borenson said as he 
crept forward.
    A young man dashed up with a hammer, as if to deal the death blow himself, 
but Gaborn shouted at the lad to stay back. The mood of the crowd was growing 
uglier. People were bloodthirsty.
    "Take you?" Gaborn asked Borenson.
    "Take me," Borenson begged. "Take my wit. Take it. Please! I don't want to 
know anymore. I don't want to see anymore. Take my wit!"
    Gaborn did not want Borenson to become as Sylvarresta had been, did not want 
to see those eyes that had laughed so often grow vacant. Yet, at that moment, he 
wondered if he'd be doing the man a kindness.
    Father and I are the ones who took him to the brink of madness, Gaborn 
realized. To take his endowment would be vile--like a king who taxes the poor 
till they can pay no more, then tells himself that by relieving them of 
endowments he shows generosity.
    I have violated him, Gaborn realized. I have violated his Domain Invisible, 
taken his free will. Borenson had always tried to be a good soldier. Now he will 
never see himself as good again.
    "No," Gaborn said softly. "I will not take your wit." Yet even as he said 
the words, he wondered at his own reasons. Borenson was a great warrior, the 
best fighter in Mystarria. To take wit from him would have been wasteful, like a 
farmer killing a fine horse in order to fill his belly when a chicken would have 
served as well. Do I deny him this because it is merely pragmatic? Gaborn 
wondered.
    "Please," Borenson shouted again. He hobbled next to Gaborn now, not more 
than an arm's length away. His whole head shook, and his hands trembled as he 
pulled at his own hair. He dared not look up, but kept his eyes at Gaborn's 
feet. "Please--you, ah, you don't understand! Myrrima was in that castle!" he 
pointed to Longmont and wailed, "Myrrima came. Take my--my metabolism then. Let 
me know nothing until this war is over!"
    Gaborn shrank back a step in horror, wondering. "Are you certain?" he asked 
trying to sound calm, trying to sound reasonable when all reason left him. 
Gaborn had felt other deaths--his father's, Chemoise's father's, even King 
Sylvarresta's. But he had not felt Myrrima's. "Have you seen her? Have you seen 
her body?"
    "She rode from Bannisferre yesterday, to be here in the battle, with me. She 
was in the castle." Borenson's voice broke, and he fell to his knees and sobbed.
    Gaborn had felt so right when he matched Borenson and Myrrima. He'd thought 
he felt another Power guide him, the powers of the earth coursing through him. 
Surely he had not felt impressed to match them so that they could meet so tragic 
an end?
    "No," Gaborn said more firmly, deciding. He would not take Borenson's 
endowment, even if the guilt did promise to destroy him. Kingdoms were at stake. 
He could not afford such mercy, no matter how it rankled him.
    Borenson dropped to his knees, put both hands palm-forward on the ground. It 
was the traditional stance of prisoners in war who offered themselves for 
beheading. He cried, "If you will not take my endowment, then take my head!"
    "I will not kill you," Gaborn answered. "If you give your life to me, I will 
take it--glad for the bargain. I choose you. Serve me. Help me defeat Raj 
Ahten!"
    Borenson shook his head and began to sob, great racking sobs that left him 
breathless. Gaborn had never seen anything like that from the warrior, felt 
stunned to learn the man was capable of experiencing such pain.
    Gaborn put his hands on Borenson's shoulders, signaling for him to rise, but 
Borenson only knelt, weeping. "Milady?" someone called.
    Down in the fields below Gaborn, utter silence reigned. Groverman and a 
hundred other knights now drew near, aghast. Staring at Borenson in horror. 
Wondering what they should do. Some knight had called Iome, but she only held 
her father's head, rocking it, almost oblivious of her surroundings.
    After a long moment, Iome looked up. Her eyes filled with tears. She bent to 
kiss her father goodbye, on the forehead.
    Her father had not even known her at the last, Gaborn realized. He'd 
forgotten her existence, or did not recognize her, robbed of glamour. That 
seemed perhaps the worst blow of all.
    Iome straightened, looked downhill at her knights. "Leave us," she said in 
the firmest voice she could muster.
    There was a long, uncomfortable silence. Someone coughed. Duke Groverman 
watched her with unblinking eyes. "My Queen..."
    "There's nothing you can do. There's nothing anyone can do!" Iome said. 
Gaborn knew she spoke not of the murder, not of the demands of justice, but of 
everything--Raj Ahten, this whole senseless war. Most of all, she spoke of 
death.
    "These men...this is murder," Groverman insisted. "House Orden should pay 
for this insult!" By ancient law, a lord was responsible for the behavior of his 
vassals, just as a farmer was responsible for damage done by his cow. By law, 
Gaborn was as guilty of murder as Borenson.
    "Gaborn's father lies dead with two thousand of his best knights," Iome 
answered. "What more do you want of House Orden?"
    "He's not the killer--it's the knight at his feet we want! This is a matter 
of honor!" some knight shouted, after having decided all on his own that Gaborn 
was innocent. Gaborn did not recognize the fellow's device, two crows and an oak 
tree over the Sylvarresta boar.
    Iome said, "You say honor is at stake? The knight at Gaborn's feet, Sir 
Borenson, saved my life yesterday, and the life of my father. He slew an 
Invincible outside Longmont for us. And he matched wits with Raj Ahten and 
helped drive the knave from our kingdom--"
    "It's murder!" the knight shouted, shaking his axe. But Groverman reached 
out a hand, silencing the fellow.
    "You say," Iome stammered, "it's a matter of honor, and perhaps it is. King 
Orden, my father's best friend, first ordered our deaths.
    "And who among you is to say he is not right in this? My father and I were 
Dedicates to our sworn enemy. Who of you would have disobeyed such an order, 
were our roles reversed?"
    "My father gave endowments to Raj Ahten, thinking it a small thing, just as 
I did. But many small wrongs can make a very great evil."
    "Is it murder for this knight to slay his enemies, to follow orders? Or is 
it honorable?"
    Iome arose now, hands covered in blood; tears streamed down her face. She 
argued for Borenson's acquittal with her whole heart, and Gaborn wondered if 
he'd have had the presence of mind to do the same under such circumstances.
    For his part, Borenson just glared at the knights blankly, as if he did not 
care how they judged him. Kill me, his eyes said, or let me live. Just be done 
with it.
    Groverman and his men neither advanced nor retreated. They held their 
ground, as yet undecided.
    Iome bit her lip, and her jaw trembled so that she pierced the lip, 
unnoticed. Such rage and hurt shone in her eyes. She couldn't deal with this any 
longer, couldn't argue. Her people were angry; she felt hurt and betrayed to the 
core of her soul--to lose all her family in the space of two days.
    Gaborn had seen the aftermath when his own mother was slain, and now his 
father. He knew how desolate Iome must feel, knew how her own pain must outmatch 
his own.
    Iome said to Gaborn facetiously, "Milord King Orden, Sir Borenson--after all 
your great kindness these past two days, I bid you get away from here, lest my 
people slay you. Ours is a poor land, and our hospitality suffers for it. Get 
out of here. For your service, I grant you your lives, though my vassals wish me 
to be more penurious."
    She spoke in a tone that mocked her own people, but Gaborn knew that she was 
serious, that she could not cope any longer.
    "Go on," Gaborn whispered to Borenson. "I'll see you at Bredsfor Manor." To 
his relief, Borenson stood and marched to his horse, executing the order without 
complaint.
    Gaborn went to Iome, pulled off his right gauntlet, and let his hand rest on 
her shoulder. She seemed so slight, so frail beneath the thin cotton of her 
dress. He could not imagine that she'd hold up under the pressure she now felt.
    She no longer looked as beautiful as the first star of evening. She no 
longer looked wretched. Her only glamour now was her own, and Gaborn could not 
have loved her any more than he did at this moment, could not have longed to 
hold her any more than he did right now.
    "I love you, you know," he said. Iome nodded once, only slightly. "I came to 
Heredon to ask for your hand, milady. I want you still. I'd have you for my 
wife." He did not say it to confirm his feelings to Iome. He said it only for 
the benefit of her people, so that they would know.
    In the crowd, several people hissed at the proposal. Some cried aloud, "No!"
    Gaborn could see he wasn't in favor at this moment. These people didn't know 
how he had schemed and fought for their freedom. They'd witnessed only this last 
craven deed. He would not win their hearts this day, though he hoped to, in 
time.
    Iome reached up and stroked his hand, but offered no words of comfort.
    Gaborn walked to the top of the hill, where his horse pawed the snow in an 
effort to graze on the sweet grass beneath, then followed Borenson south.
    At his back, Gaborn's Days broke from the crowd, following in his shadow.

     
     
Chapter 59
THE HEALER
     
    As Iome sat over the body of her father, she wondered if she could even live 
another day. It seemed that her energy, her will to struggle, had been drawn out 
from her as completely as her beauty had been drawn out two days before.
    She stood over her father's body, wanting desperately to sleep or to scream. 
The cold snow melted, penetrating her thin boots, just as the stout wind 
penetrated her thin dress.
    Her people were a cold comfort. They knew they needed a lord to protect 
them, but Iome had no wit with which to guide them, no glamour to inspire them 
to follow, no brawn or skill in battle.
    Without my glamour, they see through me, Iome thought. They see that I am a 
sham, a nothing. All Runelords are nothing, without their Dedicates to fill them 
with power, make them substantial.
    As she shivered on the hill, Iome found that her people offered her nothing 
now. No one brought her a shawl or offered a shoulder to lean on.
    None dared approach her. Perhaps they believed she needed time to suffer 
alone.
    But Iome was no good at suffering alone.
    She felt confused. Gaborn had not ordered her father's death. He'd struggled 
mightily to keep her father alive. Yet, somehow, she felt betrayed. Perhaps it 
was because he did not grow irate at Borenson.
    Had Gaborn taken the man's wit, or his head, Iome would have thought Gaborn 
cruel and hard. Yet part of her felt Borenson deserved some unnamable 
punishment.
    To her surprise, it was the wizard Binnesman who first came to her, after an 
hour, and wrapped a blanket over her. The wizard huddled beside her, handed her 
some warm tea.
    "I--don't want anything," Iome said. It was true. Her throat felt tight, her 
stomach in knots. "I just need sleep." She was too weary to even look up at him.
    "Sometimes rest is as good as sleep," Binnesman said, and he stood watching 
her. "I put lemon balm and linden blossoms in the tea, along with a bit of 
chamomile and honey."
    He pressed the hot mug into her hands, and Iome drank. She'd learned long 
ago that Binnesman knew her needs better than she did, that he could soothe a 
heart as easily as he could soothe wounds.
    The tea seemed to loosen her tight muscles, unknot her. She closed her eyes, 
leaned her head back, marveling at its effect. The tea made her feel almost as 
if she'd just been wakened from bed a few moments ago. Yet she felt a 
deep--seated weariness even the tea could not touch, a tiredness and ache close 
to the bones.
    "Oh, Binnesman, what should I do?" Iome asked.
    "You must be strong," Binnesman said. "Your people need you to be strong for 
them."
    "I don't feel strong."
    Binnesman said nothing in answer, only put his gnarled arms around her 
shoulders and held her, as her father had when she was a child and she'd 
awakened from an evil dream.
    "Gaborn would help you be strong, if you would let him," Binnesman offered.
    "I know," Iome said.
    Down below her, most of the knights had begun to set a camp in the fields. 
The thin snow had melted now, and the night would not be cold. But only part of 
the castle looked serviceable. The Duke's barracks and one of the manor houses 
still stood, though they had cracks in them. By no means could the castle house 
the thousands here, but some knights had brought squires and tents--enough so 
everyone would have shelter for the night.
    Yet as the people put up tents, Iome caught many distrustful glances, heard 
grumbled comments. "What are the people down there saying about Gaborn?"
    "The usual things..." Binnesman said. "Rumor-mongering."
    "What kinds of things?" Iome demanded.
    "They feel you should have reacted more strongly to your father's death."
    "He died when Raj Ahten took his wit. There was nothing left of my father."
    "You are made of stern stuff," Binnesman said. "But had you cried and 
demanded Borenson's death, perhaps your people would feel more...relieved."
    "Relieved?"
    "Some people suspect that Gaborn ordered your father's death."
    "Gaborn? How could they suspect that?" Iome asked, astonished. She looked 
downhill. An old woman bearing a load of sticks from the woods glanced at Iome, 
suspicion deep in her eyes.
    "So he could marry you, take over your kingdom. Some people think that the 
fact that you let him live is ample proof that he has you fooled, and that now 
you are about to swoon into his foul clutches."
    "Who would say such things? Who would even think such things?" Iome asked.
    "Do not blame them," Binnesman smiled at her. "It is only natural. They have 
been deeply hurt these past few days, and suspicion comes easily. Trust comes 
much harder, and it takes time."
    Iome shook her head, dumbfounded. "Is it safe for Gaborn here? He's not in 
danger?"
    "As it stands," Binnesman said, "I think some people in this valley pose a 
threat, yes."
    "You must go warn him to stay away!" Iome said. She realized that she'd been 
hoping for Gaborn to come back tonight, that she could not stand the thought of 
being away from him. "Tell him...tell him we cannot see each other, that it's 
dangerous. Maybe in time...a few months." Iome found herself shaking at the 
thought, tormented.
    A few months seemed an eternity. Yet in another month or two the snows would 
begin to fly in earnest. Travel between their kingdoms would become difficult.
    She wouldn't see Gaborn again before spring. Five months or six at the 
soonest.
    Iome nearly collapsed in on herself at the thought. Yet it would be best for 
both of them to take this slowly, to give her people time to see. No other 
prince would want her, no one would take a wife who had been an enemy's 
Dedicate.
    Now that her father and King Orden were dead, within a few weeks the 
chronicles of their deeds would begin to be slowly distributed by the Days, a 
volume here, a volume there. Perhaps when the truth came out, Iome's people 
would think better of Gaborn.
    Yet another problem presented itself. Iome's Maid of Honor, Chemoise, would 
be heavy with child by the time Iome saw Gaborn again. If Iome's people 
disapproved of her match with Orden, how would Gaborn s people feel about her?
    Ostensibly, Gaborn had come here seeking a union because the wealth and 
security of Heredon were to have been a boon to Mystarria. But Raj Ahten had 
taken the wealth, made a mockery of Heredon's castles, stolen away the 
Princess's beauty.
    Iome had nothing to offer but her affection. And she knew that affection 
comes cheaply.
    She still hoped that Gaborn might love her. She feared that she deluded 
herself in even hoping for a union with him. It seemed foolish, like the child's 
fable of the lazy man who planned to get rich someday by discovering that rain 
had washed dirt off a pot of gold that lay hidden in his fields.
    Surely, in the months to come, Gaborn would come to see that she had nothing 
to offer, would reconsider. Though he spoke of loving her, surely he'd see that 
love was not reason enough to unite their kingdoms.
    As Iome considered these things, Binnesman nodded kindly, worry on his face, 
lost in his own private musings. He studied her from under bushy brows. "So you 
want me to warn Gaborn away. Do you have any more messages for him?"
    "None," Iome said. "Except...there is the matter of Borenson."
    "What of him?" Binnesman asked.
    "I...don't know what to do about him. He killed my father, a king. Such a 
deed cannot go unpunished. Yet his guilt is almost more than he can bear. To lay 
further punishment upon him would be cruel."
    Binnesman said, "There was a time when knights who inadvertently erred were 
given a second chance..."

     
     
Chapter 60
A TREASURE FOUND
     
    In the House of Understanding, in the Room of the Heart, Gaborn had learned 
that there are dreams and memories so disturbing the mind cannot hold them.
    As Gaborn rode in silence on the road south to Bredsfor Manor, he caught up 
to Borenson, watched his knight's face, and wondered if the man would break.
    Time and time again, Borenson's head would nod, his lips quivering as if he 
were about to say something unspeakable. Yet each time he raised his head, his 
eyes would be a little clearer, a little brighter, his gaze a little steadier.
    Gaborn suspected Borenson would forget his deeds, given a week or a month. 
He might claim that some other knight had slaughtered Sylvarresta, or that the 
good king had died in battle or fallen from a horse.
    Gaborn hoped Borenson would forget. They rode in silence. Gaborn's Days 
coughed from time to time, as if he were developing a cold.
    After twenty long minutes of this, Borenson turned, and on the surface his 
manners seemed almost carefree, the pain had retreated so deeply. But it was 
there, lying far within. "Milord, I was up above the Duke's lodge a bit ago, and 
I saw the tracks of a reaver. A big female. May I have your leave to hunt her 
tonight?"
    It was an obvious jest. "Not without me," Gaborn said, musing. "Last autumn, 
I came to the Dunnwood to hunt boars. This year we shall hunt reavers. Perhaps 
Groverman will ride with us. What think you?"
    "Hah, not bloody likely," Borenson spat. "Not after what I've done!"
    Immediately, Borenson's eyes looked troubled again, and Gaborn sought to 
turn his thoughts. "Tell you what, if we kill a reaver, you get to eat the 
ears," Gaborn jested. To eat the ears of the first boar of the hunt was a great 
honor. But reavers had no ears, and no part of a reaver was edible. "Or at least 
I'll cut off a patch of hide shaped like an ear."
    "Oh, you are too generous, milord," Borenson chortled like some peasant 
woman in the marketplace, heaping unearned praise on a noble. "Oh, you're so 
gracious. All you lords are so...er, well, lordly, if you catch my meaning."
    "Well, uh, thank you, dear lady," Gaborn said, affecting a stodgy accent 
much like that of the Marquis of Ferecia, a noted poser. He raised his nose in 
the air, just as the Marquis would, then used the full powers of his Voice to 
imitate the Marquis' accent. "A blessing on you and your hovel and all your 
snot-nosed prodigy, dear lady. And please don't come any nearer, or I think I 
might sneeze."
    Borenson laughed deeply at the jest, for the Marquis often sneezed when 
dirty peasants got too near his person. His threats of illness kept peasants 
away, so that the Marquis would not have to tolerate the scent of their poverty.
    It was a grim sort of humor, but it was the best Gaborn could manage at the 
moment, and it eased Borenson's spirits somewhat. Gaborn almost hoped that 
someday things between them would be as they had been before.
    Two weeks ago, Gaborn had ridden into Heredon with hardly a care. Now he 
felt the weight of the whole world landing squarely on his shoulders. Deep in 
his heart, he knew nothing could ever be the same.
    They crossed the downs for several miles, riding over the rolling hills.
    The clouds began to break, and the afternoon sun began melting the snow. A 
mile from Longmont, farmhouses still stood along the road, stone cottages whose 
thatch roofs had not been torched. All the animals were gone from their pens and 
the fruit had been harvested, giving the place an eerie sense of emptiness, but 
the shelters still stood.
    Then they crossed a hill and saw Bredsfor Manor nestled in a cozy vale, a 
long building of gray stone with two wings fanning out. Behind it lay barns and 
dovecotes, carriage houses, servants' quarters, and walled gardens. A circular 
drive curved among the flower beds and topiaries before the manor, A deep brook 
cut through the vale, and a white bridge spanned the brook farther down the 
road.
    On the steps of the manor sat a woman in cloud-colored silk, her dark hair 
cascading over her left shoulder.
    Myrrima gazed up at them, stood nervously. Her beauty had not diminished in 
the past few days. Gaborn had almost forgotten how lovely she looked, how 
inviting.
    Borenson spurred his horse and charged downhill, shouting, "How--what are 
you doing here?"
    In a moment Borenson leapt from his horse, and Myrrima melted into his arms.
    Gaborn halted a hundred yards off.
    Myrrima laughed and hugged Borenson, weeping. "You didn't make it to 
Longmont in time. King Orden told me to wait here for you. Oh, I was so afraid. 
The skies went black, and frightful screams shook the ground.
    Raj Ahten's army passed here--right down this road, so I hid, but they were 
in such a hurry--they never slowed..."
    Gaborn turned his horse around, rode back over the hill, followed by his 
Days, so that the two could have a few moments of privacy. There he rested 
beneath an elm tree, where the ground was free of the slushy melting snow. Part 
of him felt relieved. He'd believed, somehow, that Myrrima was important to his 
future, that she would play a major role in the wars to come, and he felt 
grateful to find that his father had chosen to save her, to send her out of 
harm's way.
    Yet at the same time, he could not help but feel somewhat jealous of 
whatever happiness she and Borenson might have.
    Iome had been so horribly scarred by her encounter with Raj Ahten, so 
shattered. The manner of her father's death was sure to divide them. Gaborn did 
not know if she would ever want to speak to him again.
    Perhaps it would be better to forget her, he mused. Yet her happiness 
mattered to him. Gaborn still felt numb; his breathing came ragged, and he 
trembled.
    Both of them bore wounds from this war, and these deep cuts were just the 
beginning.
    But we cannot give in to pain, Gaborn thought. It is a Runelord's duty to 
place himself between his vassals and danger, to take the enemy's blows, so that 
fragile people do not have to suffer.
    Though Gaborn felt hurt beyond telling, he did not weep, and he did not let 
himself mourn his loss. Just as, he vowed, he'd never let himself flinch in the 
face of danger.
    Yet he feared that this day, these deeds, would haunt his dreams.
    Gaborn's Days stood behind him, under the elm. Gaborn said, "I missed you, 
Days. I'd not have thought it, but I missed your presence."
    "As I missed you, Your Lordship. I see you have had a little adventure."
    It was the Days' way of asking Gaborn to fill in the blanks in his 
knowledge. It occurred to Gaborn that the Days did not really know how many 
things had happened to him, how he'd given himself to the Earth, or how he'd 
read the Emir of Tuulistan's book, or how he'd fallen in love.
    "Days, tell me," Gaborn said, "in ancient times, the men and women of your 
order were called the 'Guardians of Dream.' Is that not right?"
    "Long ago, in the South, yes," the Days answered.
    "Why is that so?"
    "Let me ask you another question, Your Lordship. When you dream, do you 
sometimes find yourself wandering through familiar lands, to places 
unconnected?"
    "Yes," Gaborn said. "There is a path behind my father's palace in Mystarria, 
and in my dreams, when I ride my horse behind it, I sometimes find myself in the 
fields behind the Room of the Heart, which is at least forty miles from the 
palace, or I ride through those fields and find myself by a pond in the 
Dunnwood. Is this significant?"
    "It is only the sign of an organized mind, trying to make sense out of the 
world," his Days answered.
    "Then how does this answer my question?" Gaborn asked.
    "In your dreams, there are paths you fear to tread," the Days answered. 
"Your mind shies from the memory, but they too are part of the landscape of 
dream. Do you remember them, also?"
    Gaborn did. As the Days spoke, he remembered a time many years ago, when 
he'd been traveling with his father in the mountains, and his father had wanted 
him to ride up a trail through a steep, narrow ravine of black stone, where 
cobwebs hung between the rock. "I remember."
    His Days looked at Gaborn with slitted eyes, nodded slightly. "Good, then 
you are a man of courage, for only men of courage remember that place. Someday 
soon, you will find yourself riding through your dreams. When you do, take that 
trail, and see where it leads you. Perhaps then you will have the answer to your 
question."
    Gaborn gazed at the Days, wondering. It was a trick, he knew, to tell 
someone what to do in their dreams. The mind would do as instructed, fulfill the 
command.
    "You want to know what happened to me over the past three days," Gaborn 
said. "Would it be selfish, if I kept that knowledge to myself?"
    "A man who fancies himself to be the servant of all, should never give in to 
a selfish desire," the Days answered.
    Gaborn smiled. "After I left you," he said, and he told the tale in full, 
though he never mentioned the Emir's book.
    For a long hour Gaborn related his tale, and as he did so, he considered his 
new responsibilities. By now, his father's Dedicates had regained their 
endowments, and so the people of Mystarria would know that their king was dead. 
People would be frantic for news. Already, little boys riding their graaks would 
be on their way to Castle Sylvarresta. Gaborn would need to go there, send 
letters home. Plan his war.
    Myrrima herself walked over the hill to disturb his worrying, her hips 
moving like boiling waves beneath her gray silk.
    She did something no woman had ever done to him.
    She came to him, put a hand over his in sympathy, and just stroked it, 
staring deep into his face. Few women had ever dared touch him so familiarly.
    "Milord," she whispered, "I...Your father was a good man. As deeply as he 
loved, so shall he be missed. I will always...revere his memory."
    "Thank you," Gaborn said. "He deserved that."
    Myrrima pulled at Gaborn's hand, and said, "Come down to the manor, into the 
garden. It is a beautiful garden. It will ease your spirits while Borenson and I 
fix dinner. Grapes hang on the vines, and vegetables are in the field. I found 
hams in the smokehouse."
    Gaborn had not eaten since last night. He nodded wearily, took her hand, led 
his horse down to the manor. Behind them, his Days rode in silence.
    The garden behind the manor was everything Myrrima had promised. The snow 
had nearly all melted, leaving the garden wet, fresh. Rock walls covered with 
rose and wisteria enclosed the garden; herbs and pleasant flowers grew all 
about.
    A wide brook meandered through the lawn. In its deep, rocky pools, fat trout 
sunned themselves and snapped at bees that buzzed through the flowers beside the 
water.
    Gaborn walked among the herbs for a long hour, examining plants. It was not 
as marvelous as Binnesman's garden had been, nowhere near as sprawling and wild 
and diverse. Gaborn had a little knowledge of herb lore, as much as most princes 
learned. So as Gaborn wandered about, he could not help but find things he'd 
need: dogbane growing on a trellis on the south wall of the manor, a bit of 
shepherd's purse for stanching wounds, nightcap poppy to help him sleep. There 
were so many herbs, and Gaborn did not know what to do with them.
    He was so involved in harvesting the root of mallow to treat burns, that at 
first he did not notice when Binnesman arrived just before dinner.
    "Hello," Binnesman said at Gaborn's back, startling him. "So, you gather 
herbs now?"
    Gaborn nodded, afraid that to a master herbalist such as Binnesman, his 
efforts would seem feeble. Gaborn knelt near the aromatic, serrated leaves by 
the ground, and suddenly felt unsure, wondered if these rose-pink petals really 
were mallow, or if he'd been mistaken.
    Binnesman only nodded kindly, and smiled, then knelt beside Gaborn and 
helped him dig. "The root of mallow is best for burns when it is still fresh," 
he said, "though vendors hawk it dried. It is the cooling sap that you need, not 
some desiccated twig. But a dried mallow root, once soaked in water, can still 
give some relief."
    Gaborn stopped digging, but Binnesman urged him to keep on. "Look to the 
tops of the roots, the thickest parts. It's good that you do this, learn which 
parts to use."
    He pulled at the mallow, then broke off its purplish-brown root for Gaborn 
to see. The sap oozed onto Binnesman's fingers, and the old wizard touched the 
cool stuff to Gaborn's forehead. "See?"
    "Yes, I see," Gaborn answered.
    There was an uncomfortable silence between them, and the wizard stared into 
Gaborn's eyes. Gaborn could see flecks of green in the old man's skin, but his 
robes had gone a ruddy flame, the color of maple leaves in autumn.
    "You think I have some great powers," Binnesman said, "but it is only the 
power that comes from serving the Earth."
    "No, your herbs are far more potent than any I've seen in Mystarria," Gaborn 
said.
    "Would you like to know the secret of it?" the wizard asked.
    Gaborn nodded dumbly, hardly daring believe the wizard would tell him.
    "Plant the seeds yourself, My King," Binnesman said, "in soil fertilized and 
turned by your own hands. Water them with your own sweat. Serve them--fulfill 
their every need--and they'll serve you fully in return. Few men, even among the 
wise, understand the great power one can gain from service."
    "There is nothing more?" Gaborn asked.
    "My plants grew to serve the people of this land. You saw how I dunged them 
with human waste. I used dung from many people, over many generations. So the 
plants serve these people.
    "We are all...intertwined. Man, plant, earth, sky, fire, water. We are not 
many things, but one thing. And when we recognize that we are all but one thing, 
then we begin to tap into that One Greater Power--the communion."
    Binnesman fell silent and watched Gaborn intently. "Do you understand?"
    As he considered, Gaborn thought he began to apprehend what Binnesman tried 
to say, but he did not know if he could comprehend it yet.
    "There are gardens in Mystarria," Gaborn said, for lack of any other 
response. "I'll speak to my gardeners, learn what seeds I have to plant. I 
should be able to get many kinds of seeds, at the House of Understanding."
    "May I see your gardens?" Binnesman asked. "Perhaps I could advise you on 
matters of their cultivation."
    "I'd like that," Gaborn said. "But you've spent your life here. Won't you 
stay in the Dunnwood?"
    "To what purpose?" Binnesman asked. "The Seventh Stone has fallen. The last 
of the obalin is dead. I've nothing more to learn from it, and can no longer 
serve it. My garden is destroyed."
    "Your wylde. What of it?"
    "I searched for it all this afternoon, listened to the trees and grass. If 
it walks the earth, it does so far from here. I will search for it in Fleeds and 
farther south, until I find it. Perhaps in Mystarria."
    "But the woods?"
    "Are beautiful indeed," Binnesman said. "I will miss them. Now you are my 
king. I will follow you."
    It had such an odd sound, this exclamation of devotion. To Gaborn's 
knowledge, no Earth Warden had ever claimed fealty to a king. Wizards were 
solitary beings, living outside the bounds of common men.
    "It will be terrible, won't it?" Gaborn asked. "The war. I feel it coming. I 
feel...a shifting under the earth. Energies stirring."
    Binnesman merely nodded. Gaborn looked down, noticed that the old wizard 
stood barefoot, though a few dollops of snow still hid among the leaves in the 
garden.
    Gaborn said now the thing that had been haunting him all afternoon. "I 
claimed him with my whole heart. I claimed my father. I tried to protect him, 
and I tried to serve him--just as I claimed Sylvarresta and Chemoise's father 
and Rowan. Yet I failed them. They're all dead--seeds of mankind that I chose to 
save. Tell me, Binnesman, what more must I do?"
    The wizard studied Gaborn frankly. "Don't you understand, milord? It is not 
enough simply to want them. You must serve them with your whole mind, your whole 
will."
    Gaborn wondered deep in his heart what he needed to do, and in answer he 
felt a terrifying sense of distress, a sense that the whole world was rocking, 
shifting under his feet, and he had nothing to cling to. Certainly he'd loved 
his father and Sylvarresta, had struggled to keep both kings alive.
    "It is my fault that Raj Ahten still lives," Gaborn mused. "I spun too thin 
a web to catch such a large fly." Gaborn smiled at the image.
    Yet there was something more he needed to do, something he could not quite 
grasp or voice. Gaborn was so new in his powers. He didn't know his own measure, 
his own responsibilities.
    Binnesman said something then, words that would haunt Gaborn forever. And as 
Binnesman spoke the secret, Gaborn felt his mind begin to unhinge: "Milord, have 
you not understood? Choosing a man for the Earth is not enough. The powers of 
Earth are weakening, while Fire grows strong. Each person you seek to save, Fire 
will only seek more fully to destroy. And it will seek to destroy you above 
all."
    Gaborn gasped and his heart froze at the recognition, for surely he'd felt 
this all along--this secret nagging suspicion. The new powers he'd felt stirring 
within him bore a tremendous price. By choosing to love someone, by seeking to 
save a person, he marked the person, made him a target.
    "How then? How can I do anything?" Gaborn asked. "What does it benefit a man 
to be chosen?"
    "In time, we will learn to use your powers," Binnesman said. "You think that 
benefit is slight, and perhaps that is so. But is the benefit slight to a man, 
if it means the difference between life and death?"
    As Gaborn considered, he recognized that he'd done some things right. He'd 
saved Iome when Raj Ahten hunted them. He'd managed to save Borenson at 
Longmont. He'd drawn Myrrima here for reasons he did not yet understand, and he 
suddenly felt sure to the marrow of his bones that if he'd not sent Borenson 
back to warn Myrrima of the invaders in the woods, the whole family would have 
been slaughtered.
    Without the aid of Gaborn's fledgling powers, many more would be dead now.
    Yes, I've done something. But I must do far, far more.
    "What will you now, milord?" Binnesman asked, almost as if divining his 
thoughts.
    "What would you advise?" Gaborn said.
    "You are the king; I am merely a servant, and no counselor," Binnesman said. 
"The earth will serve you in ways it would never serve me. I have no idea what 
you should do."
    Gaborn considered. "There are forcibles hidden here in the garden," Gaborn 
said with a sigh. "I'll dig them up. Raj Ahten believes I already have them, 
that I've already used them. By the time he returns, I shall have done it. He 
may become the Sum of All Men, but I shall be the sum of all his nightmares.
    "You know much about ancient lore," Gaborn said. "Can he do it? Can he 
become the Sum of All Men?"
    "Not of all men," Binnesman said. "He craves power, the guarantee of a 
continued existence. I do not know much of the Runelords' arts, but I know this: 
If he seeks to become the Sum of All Men, perhaps he should go to the source, 
learn how it is done."
    "What do you mean?" Gaborn asked.
    "We Earth Wardens live a long time. Lives given in service are usually long, 
and lives given in service to the land can be longest of all. Yet when I was 
young, four hundred years ago, I once met a man of the South. I met him at an 
old inn near Danvers Landing. He seemed only a young Runelord, some traveling 
noble. But a hundred and eighty years ago, he came north and visited Castle 
Sylvarresta for the summer. At least I believe it was him. There had been 
trouble that year to the north with reavers and with robbers. He put an end to 
them both. Then he went south again."
    "Daylan Hammer? You are telling me that Daylan Hammer still lives? The Sum 
of All Men? After sixteen hundred years?"
    "I am telling you that he may live," Binnesman said. He shook his head 
thoughtfully. "I could be mistaken. I've never told this tale to anyone. Perhaps 
it is unwise to tell you now."
    "Why?"
    "He did not seem to be a happy man. If he has secrets, they should remain 
with him."
    "Is happiness everything?" Gaborn asked.
    "Yes, ultimately I believe it is," Binnesman said. "It should be the goal of 
your existence, to live life in peace and joy."
    Gaborn considered. "Am I wrong to fight Raj Ahten using his own tactics? To 
fight him at all."
    "To fight him is dangerous," Binnesman said. "Not just dangerous for you, 
dangerous for the whole world. If he would join your cause, I would rejoice. But 
he will oppose you, and it is not for me to say whether you should fight him. It 
shall be your task to gather the seeds of humanity. You must decide which to 
save, which to toss aside.
    "You have already begun your task." He waved to the manor house, where 
Borenson and Myrrima cooked in the dining hall.
    Gaborn shuddered at the thought of his task, that he was supposed to somehow 
gauge the worth of men, save some, discard others. This would have to become the 
work of his whole soul, his every waking thought. Yet even then, he had no 
guarantee that he could succeed. "What of Iome?"
    "A good woman, I think," Binnesman said. "She is very much in touch with the 
powers, can feel their most subtle influence, better than you--or I. She would 
be an asset."
    "I love her," Gaborn said.
    "Then what are you doing here?" Binnesman asked.
    "Giving her time alone, to grieve. I fear that if she accepts me, her people 
might revolt. They will not want me."
    "I would not worry about her people, only about her. Do you think she wants 
you to leave her alone? Do you think she doesn't love you?"
    "She loves me," Gaborn said.
    "Then go to her, soon. If she grieves, then grieve with her. Sharing our 
pain makes our wounds heal faster."
    "I...it wouldn't be a good idea. Not now. Not so soon--after."
    "I spoke with her not an hour ago," Binnesman said. "She asked for you. She 
wants to see you on some urgent matter, tonight--soon."
    Gaborn studied the wizard's face, wondering. It seemed madness to go to her 
now, considering how her people felt about him. Yet if Iome had asked for him, 
perhaps she had good reason. Perhaps, he thought, they had treaties to discuss. 
She would need money to repair her castle. House Sylvarresta knight need loans, 
armies...
    He would give whatever she asked, of course.
    "All right," Gaborn said. "I'll see her."
    "At sunset," Binnesman said. "Don't let her be alone after sunset."
    Binnesman's words encouraged Gaborn. What good was it to have a wizard as 
your counselor, he reasoned, if you did not listen to his wisdom?

     
     
Chapter 61
PEACE
     
    Gaborn did not leave the manor before sunset. He took time to warm some 
water in the kitchens, to bathe and rub his hair with lavender; to scrub his 
armor with the soft leaves of lamb's ear, so that he'd present himself well.
    By evening the clouds blew out of the region altogether, and warmer air now 
suffused the night, almost as if it were any other afternoon in late summer. The 
scents of grass and oak grew strong in the air.
    Borenson and Myrrima stayed behind at the manor.
    Only the wizard Binnesman and Gaborn's Days rode with him to Longmont. 
There, thousands of people worked in the twilight, salvaging supplies from the 
castle, cleaning the dead. More warriors arrived from farther north--eight 
thousand knights and men-at-arms from Castle Derry, headed by Duke Mardon, 
arriving unexpectedly at the summons of Groverman.
    Gaborn reached camp, and was escorted to Iome by a guard who seemed friendly 
enough.
    Custom in Heredon dictated that the dead be interred before sunset on the 
day of their death, but so many lords and knights were swelling in from the 
hills around Longmont, setting up tents, that King Sylvarresta could not be 
buried. King Orden, too, had not been interred, and whether this was done as an 
honor, so that the kings might be buried together, or because the people did not 
want to bury a foreign king on their soil, Gaborn did not know.
    But too many people wanted to view the bodies, to pay their last respects.
    Gaborn found Iome still mourning her father. The bodies had been cleaned and 
laid out on fine blankets over beds of paving stones. The Earl of Dreis lay near 
their feet, in a place of honor.
    Upon seeing the dead, the wounds on Gaborn's heart felt all fresh and new. 
He went to Iome, sat beside her, and took her hand. She clenched his fingers 
tightly, as if her very life depended on his touch.
    She sat with her head lowered, eyes forward. Gaborn did not know if she was 
only deep within herself, fighting her pain, or if she kept her face down simply 
to hide it, for now she was no more lovely than any other maid.
    For a long half-hour they sat while the soldiers of Sylvarresta came to pay 
their last respects, talking to one another in hushed whispers. Many a proud 
soldier shot Gaborn a disapproving scowl on seeing how he touched Iome so 
familiarly, but Gaborn defied them.
    He feared Raj Ahten had won a small victory here, had succeeded in driving a 
wedge between two nations that had long been friends. Vainly, he wondered how he 
could ever heal that wound.
    All along the downs, for a mile around, campfires began to spring up for the 
night. A soldier came with two large torches, and planned to set one at the 
heads, the other at the feet of the two kings, but Binnesman warned the man 
away.
    "They died fighting flameweavers," he said. "It would be inappropriate to 
put flames so close to them now. There is starlight enough tonight to see by."
    Indeed, the sky was alive with stars, just as campfires lit the valley.
    Gaborn had thought it an odd sentiment on Binnesman's part. Perhaps he 
feared the flames as much as he loved the earth. Even now, on the cool of the 
evening, he walked barefoot, keeping himself in contact with the source of his 
power.
    Yet almost as soon as the torches were withdrawn, Iome tensed, as if every 
muscle in her body spasmed.
    She leapt to her feet and raised her hands high over her eyes, gazing up to 
the surrounding hills, and shouted, "They come! They come! Beware!"
    Gaborn wondered if Iome had lost too much sleep over the past few days, 
wondered if she dreamed now with her eyes open. For she was gazing all about, at 
the line of trees on the western hills, her eyes shining with a fierce wonder.
    Gaborn could see nothing. Yet Iome began shouting and grabbing at Gaborn as 
if something horrible and wonderful were happening.
    Then the wizard Binnesman leapt away from the bodies of the dead kings, 
shouting, "Hold! Hold! Everyone get back! No one move, on your peril!"
    All over the camp, for hundreds of yards, people looked up toward the 
campfire at their mad princess, at the shouting of the wizard, worry etched on 
their brows.
    Binnesman took Iome by one shoulder, holding her close, and whispered in 
satisfaction, "Indeed, they do come."
    Then, distantly, distantly, Gaborn heard something: the sound of a wind 
moving through the trees, sweeping toward them from the forest northwest of the 
castle. It was an odd sound, an eerie sound that rose and fell, like the baying 
of wolves, or like the song of the night wind playing through the chimneys of 
his father's winter palace. Only there was a fierceness, an immediacy to the 
windsong he had heard only once before.
    Gaborn gazed to the west, and it seemed that a chill breeze touched him. But 
it was an invisible wind, one that moved without swaying branches or bending 
grass in its wake.
    Not a wind, Gaborn decided, but the sounds of many dainty feet, rustling the 
leaves and grass. And from the woods, mingled with that odd windsong, came the 
faint sounds of hunting horns, and the yapping of dogs, and the shouts of men.
    On the far hills, pale gray lights began playing under the trees as mounted 
riders appeared by the thousands. The gray lights shone dimly. The colors of the 
riders' livery was muted--as if Gaborn watched them through a smoked glass.
    Yet he could make out the details of their livery and devices: ancient lords 
of Heredon rode those horses, with their ladies and their dogs and their 
retainers and squires, all dressed for a great hunt, carrying pig spears. And 
more than lords rode with them, for Gaborn could see commoners and children in 
that retinue, madmen and fools, scholars and dotards and dreamers, maids and 
ladies, farmers by the drab score, pages and smiths and weavers and horsemen and 
wizards--a whole rollicking nation.
    The strange howling in the woods was that of ghostly laughter, for all were 
laughing gaily, as if in celebration.
    The spirits of the Dunnwood rode their mounts to a halt, just under the 
trees on the western hills, and stood, staring expectantly toward Gaborn and 
Iome.
    Gaborn recognized some of the men there--Captain Derrow and Captain Ault, 
Rowan and other men and women from Castle Sylvarresta, most of whom remained 
nameless to him.
    At their head rode a great king Gaborn recognized only from his device, for 
on his golden shield he bore the ancient emblem of the green knight.
    It was Erden Geboren.
    Tens and tens of thousands of other lords and ladies and peasants rode with 
him or followed after, a great horde that covered the hills and downs. The ghost 
king raised a great hunting horn to his lips with both hands, and blew.
    Its deep call echoed over the hills, silencing everyone who still spoke 
throughout all the mortal camp. He blew it plaintively twice more, in short 
riffs.
    It was the call that King Sylvarresta had blown last year at the beginning 
of his hunt, an invitation for all riders to mount their horses.
    At Gaborn's side, a cold wind stirred, a chill that smote him to the bone, 
so powerful and frightening was it.
    Fear gripped him, made him terrified to blink or twitch. To do so would 
surely kill him, Gaborn felt. So he stood, frozen, until he recalled his 
father's words. "No prince of Mystarria need fear the spirits of the Dunnwood."
    He looked from the corner of his eye to see the ghost of King Sylvarresta 
rise from the corpse there on its pallet. Sylvarresta bent at the waist, sitting 
up, and gazed longingly across the field, to the men of the great hunt.
    Then he reached over and shook King Orden's shoulders, rousing him as if 
from a deep slumber, so that he, too, awoke.
    The kings rose together and seemed to call across the valley. Though their 
lips moved, they spoke no words that Gaborn could hear, yet a strange moaning 
issued over the downs.
    Across the far valley came a quick response. Two ladies rode out of that 
distant crowd, emerging fifty yards from the edge of the wood, each of them 
leading a saddled horse.
    Gaborn recognized them. One woman was the Queen Venetta Sylvarresta, and the 
other was Gaborn's own mother.
    They smiled radiantly, and seemed to be talking as if neither had a care in 
the world. Grand. Happy.
    King Sylvarresta and King Orden took each other's hands and walked casually 
down the field as they used to when they were but young men. Sylvarresta seemed 
to be telling a long joke, and Orden laughed at him heartily, shaking his head. 
Their voices carried on the wind as an odd twitter, the words escaping Gaborn.
    They moved with deceptive swiftness, these ghosts, like deer leaping through 
the grass. In but a handful of steps, King Orden and King Sylvarresta both met 
their wives, and kissed them in greeting, then mounted their own steeds.
    All across the fields, other knights rose to join the hunt. Men from the 
fallen castle. Chemoise's father appeared at the base of the oak, hurried across 
the fields to the great throng.
    As the knights and kings all joined the great hunt, the wraiths behind them 
all turned away, began riding back into the Dunnwood, the hounds baying 
distantly, faint sounds of laughter and cries of the hunt issuing from the lips 
of various lords, and Erden Geboren's horn sounding above all.
    From his horse's back, Gaborn's father stared across the valley, as if 
glimpsing the living knights camped in their fields for the first time. For half 
a heartbeat, his mouth opened in dismay, as if he recalled the things of his 
mortal life, or as if he'd just remembered a troubling dream. Then his eyes 
cleared, and he smiled broadly. The mortal world concerned him no longer.
    He turned his horse, galloped into the woods. Then he was gone.
    Gone forever, Gaborn realized, until I can join him.
    Gaborn found himself weeping, not in pain or joy, but in wonder. Last year 
as his father had camped with him during his hunt in the Dunnwood, his father 
had said that the kings of Mystarria and Heredon did not need to fear the ghosts 
of the Dunnwood. Now Gaborn understood why.
    We are the ghosts of the Dunnwood, he realized.
    Yet as the great horde turned and began disappearing into the wood, one 
rider remained. Erden Geboren stared off toward Gaborn for a long minute, his 
eyes piercing, then spurred his horse forward.
    He sees me. He sees me, Gaborn realized, and his heart pounded in terror, 
for everyone knew that to attract the gaze of a wight brought death.
    The great king moved as if in a dream, crossing the downs in a seeming 
heartbeat, so that only seconds later, Erden Geboren himself sat in his saddle 
above Gaborn's head, staring down.
    Gaborn gazed up into the face of the wight. He bore his shield, and wore 
armor of green leather. His helm was a simple round thing of ancient design.
    He stared deep into Gaborn's eyes, in recognition.
    Gaborn had imagined that Erden Geboren would be young, as in the songs of 
old, that he would look noble and brave. But he was an aging man, well past his 
prime.
    Erden Geboren pointed to the ground at Gaborn's feet, and Gaborn looked 
down, to see where he pointed.
    As Gaborn did, dry oak leaves in the grass began to rustle and stir in a 
slight breeze, drawing upward as if in a whirlwind, then suddenly rose high and 
twined their stems together, then lodged in his fresh-combed hair.
    All around the downs, the men and women of Heredon gasped in wonder.
    Erden Geboren had crowned Gaborn with the circlet of leaves. It was the 
ancient symbol of Mystarria, the sign of the Earth King. Tonight was the eve of 
Hostenfest.
    Yet among all the vast throng of people gathered there, only one man dared 
call out from the fields below, "All hail the new King of the Earth!"
    Gaborn looked up into the eyes of the ghost king, Erden Geboren, and 
suddenly understood something. He could command these spirits. He could have 
commanded them all along. In rage Gaborn said, "If you make me your king, then I 
order you and your legions to do what you can to protect these woods. Raj Ahten 
has taken many lives here. See that he takes no more."
    Erden Geboren nodded solemnly, then turned his pale horse and rode over the 
fields, his great charger leaping the fences and hedgerows as he retreated into 
the Dunnwood.
    In moments, the sounds of hunting horns rang suddenly loud, and then faded 
again into the distance as the wights departed.
    Everyone stared at Gaborn, utterly silent. Many looked troubled, as if 
uncertain what had happened, or unwilling to believe. Others merely gaped in 
astonishment. It was said that the ancient kings commanded the Dunnwood, that 
the wood served them. Gaborn understood now that it was the ghosts of the wood 
that had served his forefathers--and now Gaborn had dared command them.
    Gaborn almost feared to breathe, for he knew that whatever he said this day, 
it would be remembered by all.
    Iome looked up at Gaborn, tears glistening in her eyes. He was already 
holding her hand, but now she squeezed his fingers tightly, her right hand to 
his left. And she raised her hand high.
    Among poor people in both their kingdoms, a marriage was made in a manner 
similar to this: the man and woman who wanted to wed would stand before 
witnesses, holding hands together, while a friend bound them at the wrist with a 
white ribbon. Then the newlyweds would raise their hands as one, for all to see.
    So everyone understood the significance of her gesture. I am a poor woman, 
who wants to make a marriage.
    Gaborn raised her hand in his higher, and shouted to all those in the camp, 
"You yourselves saw Sylvarresta and Orden ride together now as they did in life, 
united as true friends. Seeing as death cannot divide them, let our people not 
be divided!"
    Everyone in the camp stood quiet, none yet daring to move.
    Duke Mardon stood two hundred yards downfield from them. A campfire glowed 
at his feet, showing his face. His golden goblet had recently been filled. He 
was a huge man, more of a leader than any other in Heredon. A lord that men 
loved and looked to.
    Now, it seemed that hundreds of eyes turned to the Duke, seeking sign of his 
approval.
    Mardon was no fool. Perhaps he recognized that Heredon needed this union. 
Perhaps he had time to consider the wealth and power Mystarria commanded. 
Perhaps he recognized the necessity of allying himself with the Earth King.
    Yet if such mercenary thoughts crossed the Duke's mind, they did not show. 
For almost immediately he raised his golden goblet in salute to Gaborn, and a 
broad smile creased his face. He called, "And, milady, what say you?"
    Iome clenched Gaborn's hand tightly, raised it higher. She turned to Gaborn 
now, and looked up at him, the starlight shining in her eyes. "For Sylvarresta's 
part, I accept...gladly."
    Duke Mardon shouted and raised his goblet high. "It seems our King 
Sylvarresta celebrates Hostenfest this year with a hunt after all! Let us 
rejoice for him...and for his daughter. We double our cause for celebration!" He 
drained the cup quickly, and tossed it far into the night, into the camps of his 
troops, to be the prize of some poor soldier.
    That action more than any other finally brought a cheer from the camp, and 
endeared Mardon to Gaborn forever after.

     
     
BOOK 5

DAY 23 IN THE MONTH OF HARVEST
ADVENT OF THE EARTH KING

AFTERWORD
     
    The earth powers racked Iome on the evening she became engaged to Gaborn, 
making her desire him more than ever before. Perhaps it was because Gaborn and 
Binnesman both had come together, flanking her, so that she felt herself 
sandwiched between the two, buffeted by their creative energies. Or maybe her 
fatigue left her more open to his magic than normally.
    Or perhaps it was because she could feel the earth power growing in Gaborn, 
quietly transforming him.
    In any event, she felt grateful that her people accepted their betrothal. 
For when he touched her that evening and raised her hand, she felt more than a 
human touch. His fingers twined together with hers, like two vines espaliered 
together. She did not believe any longer that she could remain separated from 
him. She did not believe she could have separated again, not and lived, not and 
have been truly alive. If anyone had tried to tear her from him, Iome believed 
wholeheartedly that she'd simply have withered and died.
    That night, she called Sir Borenson to her to bestow her judgment.
    To his credit, Borenson came the three miles without complaint, knelt at her 
feet on hands and knees, ready once again to offer his neck, should she desire 
it. All around them had gathered thousands of knights and warriors. Feelings 
among them were mixed, Iome could tell from their faces. Some would have rent 
the man alive. Others frowned thoughtfully, fearing that someday, under similar 
circumstances, they might find themselves in his position.
    She could have outlawed him, stripped him of rank and protection. She could 
have executed him on the spot.
    "Sir Borenson," Iome said, "you have grievously injured House Sylvarresta. 
Do you have anything to say in your own behalf?"
    Borenson just shook his head, his great red beard swaying above the dirt. 
No.
    "Then I will speak in your behalf," Iome said. "You may have injured House 
Sylvarresta, but you also have loved it, and you have served the people of 
Heredon."
    Iome sighed, "Yet justice demands a penalty. In ancient times, I am told, an 
act such as yours could be forgiven, should the offending knight complete an 
'Act Penitent.' "
    Iome found it hard to breathe, found it hard to speak these next words, 
though the idea had been given her by Binnesman, and it had seemed adequate at 
the time. Now she wondered if it was too much. An act of penitence should be 
something a man could hope to accomplish, a great deed that would try his soul 
and let him grow. Not a deed that would destroy a man.
    She feared her sentence would break Borenson. "I sentence you to go south, 
beyond the lands of Inkarra. I bid you find Daylan Hammer, the Sum of All Men, 
so that we can learn how best to defeat Raj Ahten." An astonished gasp issued 
from the crowd of bystanders, followed quickly by whispers.
    Borenson gave a little cough in surprise, looked up to Iome, then to Gaborn, 
who stood at her side.
    "How? When? I mean--I am under oath to House Orden."
    "Then I release you from all oaths, Sir Borenson," Gaborn said, "until your 
Act Penitent is complete. You shall become a Knight Equitable, answerable only 
to yourself, if you wish."
    "If I wish?" He seemed to consider. He would have to travel through enemy 
countries, facing countless dangers, in some vain hope of finding a legend. It 
was a deed that might take a man a lifetime. Or more. Time, for a man with 
endowments of metabolism, could pass so swiftly.
    Borenson glanced over his shoulder at Myrrima. If he accepted Iome's 
punishment, he'd have to leave her behind. He might never see her again. 
Myrrima's face was pale, etched with fear. As a signal to him, she nodded, 
barely.
    "I accept your judgment," Borenson answered uncertainly. He got off his 
knees.
    He no longer wore the livery of House Orden, and therefore had no need to 
strip himself of it. But he took his shield, cut the bindings behind the wood, 
so that the leather covering came away, with its painted image of the green 
knight. Beneath the leather covering, the shield was only blank steel riveted to 
a frame of wood.
    "When will you leave?" Gaborn asked, clapping Borenson on the back.
    Borenson shrugged, glanced at Myrrima. "Two weeks, four at the most. Before 
the mountains fill with snow."
    After he has had time to wed, Iome realized.
    She saw the calculating gaze that Gaborn gave, knew he wanted to go with 
Borenson.
    But Gaborn's duties would hold him here in the North.
    The next morning at dawn, Gaborn prepared a wagon to carry the bodies of the 
kings back to Castle Sylvarresta. There, Sylvarresta would be buried, while 
Gaborn's father would be embalmed and shipped back home to Mystarria.
    With the bodies, Gaborn secreted ten large boxes of forcibles, covered in 
soil from the gardens at Bredsfor Manor.
    Gaborn oversaw the whole affair. The camp had become busy since dawn, with 
thousands of warriors striking their tents in preparation to leave, others still 
coming in from around Heredon.
    When Gaborn had finished loading the bodies and checked the wagon's wheels 
and undercarriage to see if they could hold the heavy load, he got up to find 
that a small crowd had gathered. Locals who had lived here at Longmont.
    "We come to ask you," a sturdy farmer said, "if you'll be willing to take 
our endowments."
    "Why do you come to me?" Gaborn asked.
    "You'll be our king," a young man in the crowd spoke up.
    "You've got gold," the farmer said. "You can pay. We don't ask much, only 
that you care for our families, keep them through the winter. I'm a strong man. 
Been working all my life. I could sell you my brawn. And my son over 
there--never has been sick a day. You could use him."
    Gaborn shook his head sadly. "There will be gold enough for you without 
selling your endowments." Gaborn spoke loudly, so that all the crowd could hear. 
"I'll need men to rebuild this fortress. I'll pay you well for your labor. Bring 
your families for the winter, and stay in the buildings that still stand. Every 
man of you will have beef for your children, and bread in your bellies." He 
thought to promise them more--acorns and mushrooms, deer and boar, all the 
fruits of the forest and of the fields. "You can work some days for me, others 
for yourselves, so you may build your own homes. I won't buy endowments from a 
man in need."
    "And what about the rest of us who want you to fight for us?" an older man 
asked. "I've got no family. I'm too old to swing a warhammer. But you can have 
my wits. They're sharp as ever. I'll fight with you as I can."
    Gaborn looked out over the crowd. This was the only kind of man he'd be 
willing to take endowments from, a man who knew that this was an act of war, 
that giving himself was a commitment to be made in deadly earnest. Yet Gaborn 
did not want any endowments, thought to wait before taking them until spring or 
some far future day. Still, he knew that Raj Ahten was not far away, and might 
still send assassins. These people needed a lord, and Gaborn needed their aid.
    "How many of the rest of you feel as this man does?" Gaborn asked.
    As one, some fifty men and women shouted, "I!"
    That day, Gaborn and Iome rode with five hundred lords and knights back to 
Castle Sylvarresta on force horses.
    At each village and town, they slowed their movements and let the heralds 
announce their presence: the Earth King, Gaborn Val Orden, and his bride-to-be, 
Iome Sylvarresta. By now, the word of the rise of an Earth King had been shouted 
along almost every road in Heredon, and was making its way through the 
neighboring countries of Fleeds and South Crow--then, besides.
    And before the King and Queen rode the wizard Binnesman, with an oak branch 
in his hand.
    At every village, the children stared in awe and grinned at Gaborn, the 
young king. The wooden effigies of the Earth King all adorned the doors and 
windows of every house, and the faces of the children were all filled with joy, 
for this day marked more than the defeat of Raj Ahten. This was the first day of 
Hostenfest, and finally, after 1629 years, a new Earth King walked the land, one 
who could bless his people as did the great king of old.
    And though children greeted Gaborn in awe and joy, the elders more often 
waved with tearstained faces. For some of them understood what a dire portent it 
was that an Earth King once again walked in the land. Hard times were upon them, 
harder than any known before.
    As Gaborn passed one inn, the innkeeper went to the effigy by his door, tore 
off its fine crown of braided oak branches, and brought it to Gaborn to wear. 
After that, as a token of submission, at every home the people tore the crowns 
of oak leaves from the effigies by their doors, tossed them at Gaborn's feet, 
along with flowers.
    And though the people could not understand the significance of what he did, 
as Gaborn passed each such humble home, time and again he would gaze into the 
face of some stout farmer or his wife and children, staring far away, as if 
looking deep into them or through them. Then he would smile secretively and 
raise his left hand in blessing, calling out gently, "I choose you. I choose 
each of you--for the Earth. May the Earth hide you. May the Earth heal you. May 
the Earth make you its own!"
    As he spoke, he groaned within himself, for he could not bear the thought 
that any might be lost. Thus he began to gather the seeds of mankind, choosing 
for himself an entire nation.
    The troop had not gone twenty miles when the soldiers began to notice that 
every oak tree in the forest seemed to have dropped its leaves during the night, 
for surely the leaves had still been on the trees when they'd passed the evening 
before.
    When they remarked about it to the wizard, Binnesman told them, "This the 
oaks do in respect for their new king." And they found it was true. Every oak in 
all the Dunnwood had dropped its leaves in a single night.
    Yet on that track, Gaborn found what seemed to him to be an even greater 
wonder. For as he rode, a man came out of the woods, riding a great imperial 
warhorse and wearing a robe of gold silk. A fat man, old and dark of skin. He 
tossed a jeweled dagger to the ground, and Gaborn recognized Raj Ahten's 
counselor from the Seven Standing Stones.
    "All hail the King of Earth," the man said in a thick accent, folding his 
hands beneath his chin and bowing his head.
    "I know your face," Gaborn said.
    "My life is forfeit, if you wish to take it," the counselor said. "Or, if 
you wish, I will serve you. My name is Jureem."
    Gaborn stared into the man's face a moment. "For long, the servants of Fire 
have bedazzled you. How can I trust you?"
    "I was a slave, the son of a slave," Jureem said. "My father believed that a 
good servant was the best of men, and a good servant would anticipate his lord's 
needs. If you have not done so already, I bid you send messengers to Indhopal, 
bearing the news that an Earth King has risen in Heredon, and that Raj Ahten 
flees before him. Tell the people also that Raj Ahten fights the earth powers in 
his attempt to bring down the Kingdoms of Rofehavan."
    "In Orwynne, two hundred thousand troops have laid siege to the capital. 
They have orders to simply hold the capital, draw off defenders, so that no aid 
may come here to Heredon."
    "In your own homeland of Mystarria, three of your southern castles will have 
fallen by now. I will tell you the names of the lords who hold those keeps. I 
believe Raj Ahten will not return home, but will instead flee to one of those 
strongholds to advance his conflict."
    "I will tell you also the castles where Raj Ahten has hidden his Dedicates, 
and give you the names and descriptions of his most important vectors."
    "Whatever my lord desires, that will I give. For I, too, will now serve the 
earth."
    "Great is the battle you have won, milord, but I promise you, it is only the 
beginning."
    Gaborn wondered at all of this. "So you think that if I spread dissent in 
his homelands, Raj Ahten will be forced to retreat?"
    Jureem shook his head. "I am thinking very much that he will not retreat, 
but such news will distract him. I am thinking, O Great Light, that I can be of 
some small help to win this war, if you let me. I offer myself as your good 
servant."
    "Your life is your own," Gaborn said. "I keep no slaves, though I accept 
your service."
    For long the two men rode together that day, plotting war.
    As for Gaborn, there was great celebration when he reached Castle 
Sylvarresta that night. Riders had gone ahead to announce, the King and Queen, 
and after King Sylvarresta was laid in a tomb beside his wife, a great feast 
took place.
    Late in the night, some thousand knights rode hard to the castle, soldiers 
out of Orwynne. Old fat King Orwynne himself rode at their head.
    Orwynne broke into tears at the sight of Gaborn, and bowed at Gaborn's knee. 
"Thank you," he said, sobbing.
    "What have I done to merit such thanks?" Gaborn asked.
    "Yesterday evening, my castles were besieged by two hundred thousand of Raj 
Ahten's troops, and I thought all was lost. But at your command, aid came to 
us."
    Gaborn did not want to hear the rest, how the spirits had issued from the 
Dunnwood, what they had done. But he had to know.
    "All of Raj Ahten's men, lost?"
    "Every man within sight of the woods," Orwynne said triumphantly.
    At this news, many in the Great Hall cheered, but Gaborn bid them to 
silence. "There is no triumph in the deaths of these men," Gaborn murmured. "By 
their deaths we are all diminished. We will need such men, in the dark time to 
come."
    That night, Gaborn could not sleep. He went out into Binnesman's garden. The 
trees and grasses were but gnarled ash. Yet beneath him he could feel 
life--seeds and roots already beginning to stir. Though fire had burned this 
place, come spring it would once again become a riot of life.
    On the plains of Fleeds, far from the borders of the Dunnwood, Raj Ahten's 
troops raced south for a day before they met the remains of Vishtimnu's army, 
bivouacked near a pinnacle of rock.
    The Clan Lords of Fleeds had discovered the army moving through the 
wilderness, had feared that it had come to attack the stronghold at Tor Billius, 
so they had surrounded the army, then slain some eighty thousand men.
    Raj Ahten broke the enemy lines. As he appeared before the clans, he 
admonished them to serve him. Thirty thousand men joined his army that day, 
though many others continued to fight against Raj Ahten.
    Chief among those who fought were the great High King Connel and his valiant 
warriors, who led charge after charge against the Wolf Lord, until the knights' 
lances were all broken and their shields shattered. Still, Connel fought on with 
hatchet and dagger.
    At sunset, Raj Ahten fed Connel, alive, to his Frowth giants.
    Then for a long time Raj Ahten stood, gazing at the remnants of his army, 
considering, then he looked back to the north, as if torn in indecision.
    Some say that he muttered curses under his breath, and that he trembled, 
alternately gripped by rage and fear. Others say that he merely stood, 
thoughtfully. With so many more men at his back, he felt sorely tempted to 
return to Heredon, strike at the Earth King now, and finish it.
    At last, Raj Ahten turned his back on Heredon and raced for the mountains.
    Three nights after the fall of Longmont, Gaborn and Iome married in Castle 
Sylvarresta.
    The ceremony was a large one, for thousands of lords were gathering from 
nearby nations. Iome wore no veil, and if Gaborn was pleased that Iome's beauty 
had returned, he did not show it. His devotion had not faltered when she grew 
ugly; it did not suddenly sprout greater wings now.
    On her wedding night, Gaborn kept his promise. He proved to be no gentleman 
in bed, at least no more a gentleman than she wanted him to be.
    That night, after making love, Iome lay in bed for a long time with her hand 
gently placed over her womb, wondering what manner of child she carried. '
    For she knew she carried a child. The earth power in Gaborn was growing so 
strong, it was no longer possible that he could plant a seed and not have it 
take root.
    Borenson and Myrrima married that same day with little fanfare, choosing a 
poor couple's wedding.
    The next night, a quarter moon rose over the eastern hills outside Castle 
Sylvarresta. By its faint light, Gaborn, Borenson, and fifty Knights Equitable 
mounted their chargers and rode pell-mell into the Dunnwood, lances at the 
ready, to hunt for reavers.
    The men were ferocious, longing for the hunt, and all promised that this 
would be one to remember.
    Binnesman went with them, for he said that there were soils deep beneath the 
Dunnwood, soils once mined by the duskins, soils that carried magics of the deep 
earth, which could grant magical properties to the weapons that the Earth King's 
smiths would forge this winter.
    Of what transpired on that great hunt, little was ever said thereafter. But 
the Earth King and his wizard and some of his knights returned shortly after 
dawn, three days later, on the last and greatest day of the Hostenfest, the day 
of the great feast.
    By great misfortune, in the duskin mines they had found more than they could 
easily handle twenty-seven juvenile reavers, along with their reaver mage.
    Forty-one brave knights died in that battle.
    Borenson himself slew the reaver mage in her lair, and brought back with him 
a trophy, dragging the creature's massive head behind his steed.
    He laid the head of lumpy gray leather out on the green before Castle 
Sylvarresta for all to see. It was almost six feet in length, four feet high, 
and somewhat ovoid in shape. It looked much like the head of an ant or some 
insect, except that it had no eyes, ears, or nose. Its only sensory apparatus 
was the patches of feelers that hung like gray worms from the back of its head, 
in mockery of hair, and down near its mouth.
    The rows of crystalline teeth in its great maw made a huge impression on the 
peasants and children, many of whom were afraid to touch the rigid lips. The 
thousands of teeth inside that maw sat in seven rows, like those of a shark, but 
each jagged tooth was as clear and tough as quartz. Like the bones of the skull 
behind it.
    Peasants by the tens of thousands came to view the monster's head. The 
children shrieked in delight to touch it, and many a maid gaped at it, and 
tittered, while the old folks just stared long and thoughtfully.
    It was the first reaver mage found within the Dunnwood in nearly seventeen 
hundred years, and many of those present believed it would be the last one 
they'd see in their lifetimes.
    But they were wrong. For it was not the last.
    It was only the first.