Wizardborn

     
     
BOOK 9
DAY 2 IN THE MONTH OF LEAVES

     
     
Chapter 1
THE CALM BETWEEN THE STORMS
    King Croenert of Toom bought dung for his fields to make the grass grow 
deeper.
    But found one day that warlords in gray would sell their sons far cheaper.
    --Nursery rhyme alluding to King Croenert, who hired cheap mercenaries from 
Internook to attack Lonnock
     
    In South Crowthen, King Anders had been entertaining guests all night. Among 
them were a dozen fierce old warlords from Internook with their sealskin capes 
and horned helms. They'd sailed on ships painted like gray serpents, and the 
smell of sea salt clung to their beards. Their silver-gold hair was braided; the 
wind had burned their faces raw.
    Any lord but Anders would have sought to buy their loyalty. The warlords of 
Internook were notoriously cheap. But Anders offered no money. He merely filled 
them with strong drink and tales of the treachery of Gaborn Val Orden. By 
midnight they were pounding the wooden tables with their silver mugs and 
shouting for the boy's head. To celebrate their decision, they killed a hog and 
dyed their braids in blood, then painted their faces with streaks of green, 
yellow, and blue. They'd take no pay for their services other than the spoils of 
war.
    Thus Anders bought half a million berserkers for less than a steel eagle's 
worth of strong ale and a butchered sow.
    Beside them the Lady Vars, counselor to the queen of Ashoven, watched how 
Anders worked the warlords of Internook with a reticent smile. She refused to 
touch even so much as a drop of his best wine. She was a stately woman, 
beautiful and cunning, with flashing gray eyes the color of slate.
    As he urged the warlords to dispatch their ships to the Courts of Tide, the 
lady's lips drew tight. Though she tried to appear neutral, King Anders knew she 
stood against him. Too bad for her.
    When the warlords were deep in their cups, she excused herself from the 
dining hall and fled to the docks, no doubt feeling lucky to escape his realm 
with her life.
    But a storm was brewing in the northern sea, Anders knew. He went out into 
the night as Lady Vars sneaked away. From the door Anders could hear the wind 
singing over the whitecaps miles away, could smell ice in the salt air.
    The beast within Anders stirred at the smell. It circled in his breast like 
a restless dog. It suggested a small spell that would insure that wind would 
fill the sails of the counselor's ship, and urge it onto the rocks. Ashoven's 
queen would no doubt find the wreckage on her own shores. She'd mourn her 
faithful servant's demise, never knowing what warning she might have borne. 
Perhaps the next counselor Ashoven sent would be more malleable.
    Anders stood for a long moment in the doorway of his keep, listening to the 
receding hooves of Lady Vars's horse as it clattered over the cobblestone 
streets of the King's Way. Thick clouds above sealed out the starlight, and the 
fires in the great hall cast a ruddy glow over the cold ground that seemed to 
strain to reach beyond the courtyard. Somewhere down in the city below, a dog 
began howling. Soon, a dozen others joined their voices with its keen wail.
    He whispered the spell that would end the lady's life, and sauntered back to 
the Great Hall.
    A one-eyed warlord named Olmarg watched him knowingly as he returned. Olmarg 
stood at the table, leaning over the roast pig. He cut an ear off, chewed as he 
said in his thick accent, "She bolted on us."
    "That she did," Anders admitted. Several other lords looked up through 
bleary eyes, too far gone into their cups to bother speaking.
    "Knew she would," Olmarg said. "The ladies of Ashoven have no taste for wine 
or war. Now that she's gone, we won't have to bridle our tongues."
    Anders smiled. Moments ago he'd have thought the man too drunk to think 
clearly. "Agreed."
    Olmarg said, "Our land is a cold one, and in the long winters our young men 
have naught to do but huddle in the keeps under the furs, warming the wenches. 
For as long as our old ones remember, we've sold our sons to the highest bidder. 
We need this war. We need the plunder. More than that, we need lands in the 
south. And there's none better to be had than Mystarria. Do you really think we 
can hold it?"
    "With ease," Anders assured him. "Gaborn's forces are in disarray. There is 
far more than just the reavers for them to worry about. When Raj Ahten destroyed 
the Blue Tower, he killed the vast majority of Gaborn's Dedicates. Though there 
be many lords in Mystarria, few of them are Runelords."
    He let those last words settle in. Mystarria was the wealthiest land in all 
of Rofehavan. For centuries it had been well protected from attack--not because 
its castles were unassailable, but because of the number and power of its 
Runelords. With their wealth, the kings of Mystarria bought forcibles--magical 
branding irons--made from rare blood metal. They used those forcibles to draw 
attributes such as strength and wit from their subjects.
    Now, without Runelords to protect it, the kingdom of Mystarria would not be 
able to stand for long.
    "What's more," Anders continued, "to your advantage the vast majority of 
Gaborn's troops have marched west to drive Raj Ahten from Mystarria's borders. 
They'll have a tough job of it, for Raj Ahten has leveled several castles, and 
his men hold the strongest that remain. Gaborn will have to spend his men to 
dislodge Raj Ahten. With any luck the two are already at one another's throats. 
That leaves Gaborn open to attack. Now his coastline is Gaborn's soft 
underbelly."
    "Soft, maybe," Olmarg said, "but soft enough? Mystarria's men outnumber mine 
twenty to one. Even with your help--"
    "Not mine alone," Anders assured him. "Beldinook will sweep down from the 
north, joining us."
    "Beldinook?" Olmarg asked, as if he could not have hoped for such a boon. 
Beldinook was the second-largest kingdom in all of Rofehavan. "You think old 
King Lowicker will bestir himself?"
    "Lowicker is dead," Anders said with finality.
    At that, several warlords gasped. "How?"
    "When?" One fellow downed a mug in the old king's honor.
    "I got word only hours ago," Anders said. "Lowicker was murdered today by 
Gaborn's own hand. His fat daughter is a surly creature. Surely she will demand 
vengeance."
    "Poor girl," Olmarg said. "I have a grandson who is not particular about his 
women. Perhaps I should send him to court her."
    "I was thinking of sending my own son." Anders grinned.
    Olmarg lifted a mug of ale in salute. "May the better man win."
    At that, Anders's wife got up from her seat at the dinner table and shot 
Anders a glare. She'd been so quiet the past hour, he'd all but forgotten her. 
"I'm going to bed," she said. "I can see that you gentlemen will be up all night 
trying to figure out how to carve up the world." She lifted the skirts of her 
gown and walked stiffly upstairs to the tower loft.
    There was a long silence. A burning log shifted in the hearth, as it 
steadily crumbled to ash.
    "Carve up the world..." Olmarg intoned. "I like the sound of that!" The 
unabashed greed that shone from his single eye gave Anders pause. There was a 
hardness to his jaw that Anders found chilling. Olmarg was a man without 
compunction. "And Gaborn is still a pup. It will take little to strike off his 
head. If I can take a few key cities quickly--dispatch his remaining 
Dedicates...Gaborn would never be able to retaliate."
    Anders smiled. Olmarg saw things more clearly with one eye than most could 
with two. The world was turning upside down. It was true that Gaborn's forces 
vastly outnumbered them, but without Runelords to lead those forces...
    "Carving up the world should not be so hard to do," Anders said. "I want 
very little of it. I'll take Heredon." Olmarg raised a single white brow. 
Heredon was no small bit of land, but Olmarg would have no use for it. 
"Lowicker's daughter will want western Mystarria, along with her vengeance. 
You'll want the coast--"
    "Everything within two hundred miles of shore," Olmarg said sternly.
    "A hundred and fifty," Anders suggested. "We'll want to leave something for 
the others."
    "Others?"
    "I've received missives from Alnick, Eyremoth, and Toom. Dignitaries should 
be arriving shortly."
    "A hundred and fifty," Olmarg agreed. But he added thoughtfully, "On the 
other hand, what if Gaborn is indeed the Earth King? Could we stand against him? 
Dare we stand against him?"
    Anders laughed, a sound that reverberated through the quiet room and made 
the hounds sleeping before the hearth look up in anticipation. "He's nothing but 
a fraud."
    But Anders tried to sound more self-assured than he felt. The beast hidden 
within him lent him special powers. Anders could hear voices carried on the wind 
from far off. He could smell scents from miles away. But even the wind took time 
to travel.
    He wished that he knew how Gaborn's battle with Raj Ahten had ended. But 
that news would not come until later. At Anders's assertion, Olmarg sliced off 
the pig's other ear, and they celebrated.
    With these affairs of state in hand, Anders climbed to the towers of his 
castle early in the night, found his wife brushing her hair in the bedchamber.
    Her back was stiff with anger. As he crossed the room, she followed him with 
her eyes, raking her brush through her hair as if she were trying to rid it of 
burrs.
    "You seem upset," Anders said casually. He knew the source of her anger, 
sought to divert her attention. "You should be overjoyed. The news was good 
today. I have done little but worry about the reavers rumored to be in North 
Crowthen, and now we hear that my cousin has driven them back."
    "A lucky shot with a ballista killed their fell mage," his wife groused, 
"and the sorceresses beneath her harvested her brain. There is nothing to 
rejoice about. They'll return in greater numbers."
    "Yes," Anders said, as if to put a bright face on it. "But next time, my 
cousin will be better prepared for them."
    His wife did not speak for a long moment. He let the tension build, until 
the words broke from her. "Why do you lower yourself like this? We should have 
no dealings with barbarians from Internook. They stink of filth and whale 
blubber. And those tales you told--"
    "Were all true," King Anders countered.
    "True?" she demanded. "You accused Gaborn Val Orden of murdering King 
Lowicker?"
    "Lowicker defied Gaborn today, denied him passage through Beldinook, just as 
I said. For that, Gaborn slaughtered him as a man would slaughter a steer."
    "How do you know this? There have been no couriers!" she shouted. "There 
could not have been: I'd have seen them."
    Years of neglecting his physical needs had left Anders thin and 
starved-looking, a rag of a man. He drew himself up, trying to appear 
authoritative. "I received the message privately." He did not want to argue the 
point. His wife knew full well that she had been at the table with him all 
afternoon. Had even a private messenger arrived, she'd have seen him.
    Her mouth twisted in anger. He could tell that she was about to rail at him. 
He silently gathered a spell, reached out and touched her lips with his 
forefinger. "Shhh..." he said. "A message did come by word of mouth only. No 
doubt we will hear more details by morning."
    Hearing the Earth's summons, believing that he would find the city besieged 
by Raj Ahten's troops. Instead he'd found Raj Ahten surrounded by a ghastly 
horde of reavers, trapped.
    He'd used his newfound powers as Earth King to summon a world worm--a beast 
of legend--from the Earth's core to dislodge the reavers.
    The aftermath of that battle would be sung for a thousand years, Myrrima 
felt sure. The carnage took her breath away.
    To the south lay a field of dead reavers, enormous and black in the 
darkness, their wet carapaces gleaming in the wan light as if they were a plague 
of dead frogs. Men and women swarmed among them, torches in hand. The plains 
were terribly broken and uneven, pocked with thousands of burrows. Squads of 
troops armed with spears and battle-axes were searching every nook for live 
reavers. But not all of the people out there were warriors. Some were coming 
from the city to cart off the dead and wounded--mothers looking for sons, 
children hunting for parents.
    A reaver suddenly lunged from a burrow three quarters of a mile away, and 
out on the plain screams arose with the blaring of warhorns. The reaver charged 
straight for a knot of footmen. Knights on chargers galloped to intercept the 
monster.
    "By my father's honor," shouted one lord of Orwynne, "there's still reavers 
about! This battle's not won yet!"
    The lords spurred their mounts down to what was left of the Barrens Wall. 
Beneath its arch, beside a bonfire, a dozen footmen huddled beneath muddy capes 
with hands wrapped around their longspears.
    "Halt!" they called as the lords approached. A couple of guards struggled 
up. They wore mismatched armor, marking them as Knights Equitable.
    Their bright eyes reflected the firelight. Jubilantly their leader shouted, 
"Most of the reavers are in a rout--fleeing south the way that they came. 
Skalbairn asks that any man who can bear a lance give chase with him! But 
there's still a few of the damned things holed up in their burrows, if you've a 
mind to fight here."
    "Skalbairn is chasing the horde in the dark? In the rain?" Sir Hoswell 
shouted. "Is he mad?"
    "The Earth King is with us, and no one can stand against us!" the guard 
shouted. "If you've ever had a fancy to slay a reaver and win some glory, 
tonight's the night for it. Some simpleton from Silverdale killed a dozen on the 
city walls today with nothing more than a pickax. True men like you should do as 
well--or better." His tone was challenging.
    The guard raised a wineskin in salute. Myrrima saw that the man's eyes 
gleamed from more than mere jubilation. He was half drunk, reveling in the 
victory. Obviously Skalbairn's men didn't know that Gaborn could no longer warn 
his Chosen warriors of danger.
    Even though they'd been Chosen only a few hours ago, Myrrima could see how 
these men were already becoming complacent. Why should they keep a close guard 
so long as the Earth King would warn them of danger?
    Obviously, Skalbairn's men hadn't heard the latest. Gaborn had used his 
abilities to dislodge the reavers from Carris, but in the aftermath of the 
battle, he'd sought to use his gift to kill Raj Ahten.
    For misusing those protective powers, the Earth had withdrawn 
them--including the ability to warn Gaborn's Chosen warriors of danger.
    These men, blithely celebrating their victory, had no idea how much trouble 
they were in. The Earth had charged Gaborn to help "Save a seed of mankind 
through the dark times to come." Full night was not yet upon them.
    Myrrima glanced right and left at the lords of the Brotherhood of the 
Wolf--sober men with hard faces. They'd come to fight, but hadn't bargained for 
such madness.
    "I'll warn Paldane's men," Sir Giles of Heredon offered.
    "Wait," Myrrima said. "Are you sure that's wise? Who knows where the rumors 
might fly, how the tale might grow in its travels?"
    "The Earth King warned us that he has lost his powers in order save our 
lives," Baron Tewkes of Orwynne said. "He can't hide the truth, and we can't 
hide it for him."
    If she were to tell Gaborn's secret, Myrrima feared she might betray a man 
who had never unjustly sought to harm another. Yet if she withheld the news, 
innocent men would die. To tell was the lesser evil.
    Sir Giles took his leave of them and galloped toward Carris.
    "The rest of us will need to warn Skalbairn," Tewkes said. He dismounted for 
a moment, cinched his saddle for a fast ride. Others drew weapons, and more than 
one man brought out a stone to sharpen a lance or a warhammer.
    Myrrima licked her lips. She wouldn't be riding south with the others 
tonight. Gaborn had said that she would find her wounded husband a third of a 
mile north of the city, near the great mound. But reavers were still hiding out 
on the field. She tried not to worry.
    "Do you want me to come with you, milady?" a voice asked, startling her. Sir 
Hoswell's horse had sidled up to her, and he was bending near. "To find your 
husband? I told you that if you ever need me, I'll be at your back."
    She could barely make out his face beneath his hood. Hoswell leaned close, 
as if expecting her to fall into his arms at the first sight of blood.
    Hah! she thought. Maybe when the stars have all burned down to ashes!
    He had tried to seduce her once. When she resisted his advances, he'd tried 
to force her. He'd apologized, but she still didn't trust him, even though she 
had enough endowments now that she knew he would never try to force her again.
    "No," she said. "I'll go alone. Why don't you find some reavers to kill?"
    "Very well," Hoswell said. He drew his steel greatbow from its pack, began 
carefully to unwrap the oiled canvas that protected it from the rain.
    "You'll fight with that?" she asked.
    Hoswell shrugged. "It's what I use best. A shot to the sweet triangle..."
    Myrrima spurred her own mount away from the other lords, rode under the arch 
toward the largest knot of dead reavers. Borenson would have fallen in the thick 
of battle. She imagined that he would be there.
    In the distance, she could hear others searching the battlefield, calling 
for loved ones. They shouted different names, but all were the selfsame cry: "I 
am alive; are you?"
    "Borenson? Borenson!" she called.
    She had no way to know how severe his wounds might be. If he lay trapped 
beneath a fallen reaver, she'd make light of it. If he was disemboweled, she'd 
stuff his guts in and nurse him back to health. She tried to steel herself for 
whatever she would find.
    She imagined what she would say when she found him, rehearsed a hundred 
variations of "I love you. I'm a warrior now, and I'm coming with you to 
Inkarra."
    He would object--perhaps on good grounds. She had only gained a little skill 
with a bow.
    She would persuade him.
    As Myrrima drew close to the fell mage's final battleground, she smelled the 
remnants of the monster's curses. Residual odors clung like a mist to the low 
ground.
    Even two hours after the mage's death, the curses' effects were astonishing. 
"Be blind," a curse still whispered, and her sight dimmed. "Be dry as dust"; 
sweat oozed from her pores. "Rot, O thou child of man"; her stomach knotted and 
every scratch felt as if it might pucker into a festering wound.
    She rode in the shadows of reaver corpses that loomed on every side. She 
gazed in awe at crystalline teeth like scythes. She caught movement from the 
corner of her eye. Her heart leapt in her throat to see a reaver's maw open.
    She yanked her mount's reins to turn it back, but realized that the reaver 
did not hiss or move.
    It was dead. Its maw merely creaked open as the monster cooled. Its muscles 
were contracting like a clam's as it dries in the sun.
    Myrrima looked around. All of the reavers' mouths were opening by slow 
degrees.
    The air seemed heavy. No katydid buzzed in a thicket. No wind sighed through 
the leaves of any trees, for the reavers had uprooted every plant.
    "Borenson!" she shouted. She scanned the ground, hoping the reflected 
firelight might reveal the form of her husband buried beneath a layer of soot.
    A trio of gree whipped past her head, wings squeaking as if in torment.
    Through the tangled legs of a dead reaver, she glimpsed a flickering light, 
and suddenly she had the wild hope that Borenson had lit the fire.
    She spurred her mount. Around a bonfire had gathered a crowd of warriors 
from Indhopal. Myrrima felt unnerved by them, even though today they'd fought 
beside her people against the reavers.
    These were no ordinary warriors. They were dark nomads who wore black robes 
over their armor, as some symbol of status. Their headgear bore steel plates 
that fell down over the ears to protect the shoulders.
    Nine of Raj Ahten's dead Invincibles lay before the fire. The nomads seemed 
to be preparing to consign the deceased to a funeral pyre.
    Among the dead Invincibles lay a girl with dark hair, practically a child. 
She rested upon a riding robe of fine red cotton, embroidered with exquisite 
gold threads to form curlicues like the tendrils of vines. On her temple rode a 
thin silver crown that accentuated her dark skin.
    She wore a sheer dress of lavender silk, and in her hand someone had placed 
a silver dagger.
    Myrrima had come upon Saffira, Raj Ahten's dead wife. Gaborn had sent 
Myrrima's husband to fetch Saffira from Indhopal so that she might plead with 
him to cease his attacks on Gaborn's people. Gaborn could have searched the 
world and found no one better to sue for peace. Rumor said that Saffira had 
taken hundreds of endowments of glamour and voice.
    She would have been more alluring than any woman alive, would have spoken 
more eloquently.
    Obviously Borenson had found Saffira and brought her to the siege at Carris. 
Now she lay dead among a few Invincibles. Myrrima imagined that the Invincibles 
had been her royal escort, and suspected that her husband would be nearby.
    The leader of the Indhopalese was immediately recognizable. Every eye in the 
crowd rested on him, and many nomad warriors knelt before him--some on one knee, 
some on two.
    He sat atop a gray Imperial warhorse, glaring down at the dead, talking in 
an even, dangerous tone. His dark eyes glowed in the firelight as if he 
struggled to hold back tears of rage. On the right breast of his black robe he 
wore the emblem of Raj Ahten, the three-headed wolf in red. Above the wolves 
were golden owl's wings, and above them flew three stars.
    His insignia identified him as more than an Invincible or even a captain of 
Invincibles.
    At his feet, several men in black burnooses knelt on hands and knees. One 
answered him in a frightened voice.
    Myrrima seemed to have wandered into a confrontation. She didn't want to 
have anything to do with it.
    A tall Invincible came up from the shadows behind her, a man with a forked 
beard and ivory beads woven into his black hair. The firelight reflected from 
his dark eyes and golden nose ring.
    He grinned at her, and Myrrima could not tell if it was meant as a seductive 
grin or a friendly greeting. He jutted his chin toward the Indhopalese leader. 
He whispered, "You see? He Wuqaz Faharaqin, warlord of the Ah'kellah."
    The news struck through Myrrima like a lance. Even in Heredon she had heard 
those names. Among Raj Ahten's warriors, Wuqaz Faharaqin was one of the most 
powerful. And of all the desert tribes, the Ah'kellah were the most respected. 
They were judges and lawgivers of the desert, hired to settle disputes among 
tribes.
    The fact that Wuqaz Faharaqin was angry did not bode well for the object of 
his wrath.
    The Invincible reached up a hand clumsily, as if he seldom greeted in this 
manner. "I am Akem."
    "What has happened here?" Myrrima asked.
    "His nephew, Pashtuk, murdered today," Akem said. "Now he question 
witnesses."
    "Faharaqin's nephew murdered someone?"
    "No, Pashtuk Faharaqin was murdered." He nodded toward an ugly dead 
Invincible who lay, as if in a place of honor, next to Saffira. "He was a 
captain among Invincibles, a man of great renown, like the others here."
    "Who killed him?" Myrrima asked.
    "Raj Ahten."
    "Oh!" Myrrima breathed softly.
    "Yes," Akem said. "One of slain live long enough to bear witness. He say, 
'Raj Ahten call to Invincibles after battle, and try to murder Earth King'--a 
man who is his own cousin by marriage to Iome Vanisalaam Sylvarresta. To fight a 
cousin, this is a great evil. To kill one's own men, this is also evil." He did 
not say it, but Myrrima could hear in his tone that Raj Ahten would have to pay.
    "These men"--Akem indicated the kneeling Invincibles--"found the dying 
witness."
    Wuqaz Faharaqin questioned the witnesses one by one. As he did, his eyes 
blazed brighter and brighter.
    Derisive shouts arose from the crowd. One lord strode forward, pointing at 
the witnesses. Myrrima did not need Akem to translate. "This man say the witness 
no good. Need more than one witness. He say Raj Ahten would not seek to kill 
Earth King."
    Myrrima could hardly restrain her rage. "I saw it!"
    Wuqaz Faharaqin growled at her outburst, asked a question in his native 
tongue. Akem looked up at Myrrima and translated, "Please, to tell name?"
    "Myrrima," she said. "Myrrima Borenson."
    Akem's eyes widened. A hush fell over the crowd as men whispered her name to 
one another. "Yes," Akem said, "I thought so--the northern woman with the bow. 
You slew the Darkling Glory. We have all heard! We are honored."
    Myrrima felt astonished. News traveled fast. "It was a lucky shot."
    "No," Akem said. "There is not so great luck in all the world, I think. You 
must tell your story."
    Myrrima nudged her mount closer to the bonfire so that she could speak to 
Wuqaz face-to-face.
    "I was thirty miles north of here when Raj Ahten caught up to Gaborn. There 
was murder in the Wolf Lord's eyes, and he'd have killed Gaborn sure, if 
Binnesman's wylde had not stopped him. I put an arrow in Raj Ahten's knee 
myself, but Gaborn forbade me or anyone else to kill him."
    Akem translated. Wuqaz tried to listen impassively, but his eyes continued 
to blaze. He spoke and Akem translated. "Can you prove that you saw this?"
    Myrrima reached into her quiver, drew out the arrow with which she'd shot 
Raj Ahten, His blood lay black upon its iron tip. "Here's the arrow. Have your 
trackers smell it. They'll know Raj Ahten's scent."
    Akem carried the arrow to Wuqaz. The warlord sniffed it curiously. Myrrima 
saw that he, too, was a Wolf Lord. He growled low in his throat, spat a few 
words in his own tongue, and raised the arrow for all to see. Other lords rode 
close, sniffed at the shaft.
    "The smell of Raj Ahten is indeed upon this arrow," Akem translated. "His 
hand pulled the shaft free, and his blood stains its tip."
    "Tell Faharaqin that I want my arrow back," Myrrima said. "Someday I intend 
to use it to finish the job."
    Akem relayed her message, retrieved Myrrima's arrow. Wuqaz and his men had 
more questions about her encounter. They seemed baffled as to why Gaborn had 
spared Raj Ahten, a man who proved to be his enemy. Myrrima looked at the stern 
faces among the Ah'kellah, and remembered something she'd once heard: in some 
places in Indhopal, there is no word for "mercy." She explained that Gaborn, as 
Earth King, could not slay one who was Chosen. The Ah'kellah listened intently. 
They asked what had happened after the fight, where Raj Ahten had gone. She 
pointed southwest toward Indhopal.
    At that, Wuqaz drew his saber from the scabbard at his back, whipped its 
curved blade overhead, and began shouting. His warhorse grew excited, fought him 
for control as it danced forward. It reared and pawed the air. Myrrima had to 
fight her own mount as it backed away.
    The Ah'kellah all began to shout, waving swords and warhammers overhead.
    "What will happen?" Myrrima asked.
    "Raj Ahten did great abomination to attack Earth King. Such deed cannot go 
unpunished. Wuqaz say, 'Raj Ahten has sided with reavers against own cousin, 
against own tribe.' He say, 'Raise Atwaba! "
    "What is that?"
    "In ancient time, when king do wrong, witnesses raise Atwaba, 'Cry for 
Vengeance.' If people get angry, they kill king--maybe."
    Wuqaz Faharaqin spoke encouragingly to his men.
    "He warn, 'Raise cry loud in markets,' " Akem translated. "Let not your 
voice tremble. Retreat not from kaif who challenges, or from guards that 
threaten. If all Indhopal does not rise against Wolf Lord, they must know why 
Ah'kellah do so."
    With that pronouncement, Wuqaz Faharaqin leapt from his charger and rushed 
to his nephew's corpse. He raised his sword, stared down at the remains, and 
began shouting. "He ask spirit to be appeased," Akem said, whispering in respect 
for the dead. "He ask it not to wander home or trouble family. Wuqaz Faharaqin 
promise justice."
    Wuqaz smote off the corpse's head with the clunk of metal piercing bone. Men 
cheered as he lifted his nephew's head in the air.
    "Now he will carry head to tribe as testament."
    Wuqaz beckoned to the crowd. Tribesmen came forward, Invincibles of the 
Ah'kellah. They were strong men, austere. Wuqaz Faharaqin took his nephew's head 
by the hair, held it high, and shouted. Akem said solemnly, "He say, There must 
be no king but Earth King.' "
    All around, the Ah'kellah repeated the words in chorus, chanting them over 
and over.
    Myrrima's heart pounded as the Ah'kellah decapitated the other murder 
victims, bagged the heads. They began to toss the bodies into the funeral pyre. 
She didn't understand everything that was going on. She didn't understand desert 
justice, desert politics.
    Myrrima asked, "Will people really rise up against Raj Ahten?"
    Akem shrugged. "Maybe. Raj Ahten has much endowments of glamour. Wuqaz 
Faharaqin--"
    "I don't understand. Raj Ahten has committed injustices against a hundred of 
your lords before this. Why should his people care if he commits one more?"
    "Because," Akem said forcefully, "now there is Earth King."
    Everything fell into place. This wasn't about Raj Ahten. This was not just 
about a small injustice. It was about self-preservation: Raj Ahten had not been 
able to drive the reavers from Carris. But Gaborn had proven himself. So Wuqaz 
would seek to overthrow his lord.
    She felt as if she had stepped into great events. Her testimony today, 
however small, would start a civil war.
    Myrrima stayed for a moment longer, watched as the slender form of Saffira 
was consigned to the funeral pyre. She studied Saffira's lovely face, tried to 
imagine the girl in life, with a thousand endowments of glamour. Imagination 
failed her.
    She turned her horse to leave. Akem folded his hands before his face and 
bowed low, out of respect. "Peace be with you. May the Bright Ones protect you."
    "Thank you," she said. "And may the Glories guide your hand."
    She rode into the thick of the reaver bodies, into the darkness.
    She found Borenson's horse, smashed like a melon. A search revealed only her 
husband's helm, a few bodies. But in the ground she found a man's handprints, 
and near them, knee prints. Big hands, like her husband's.
    He's crawled off, she thought. He might be making for the city even now, or 
maybe he crawled away and fainted.
    Myrrima climbed from her saddle, retrieved Borenson's helm. She sniffed the 
ground for his scent, but the rain and stench from the reavers' curses 
confounded her. She could not track him. She considered where she might find the 
best vantage point from which to look for her husband. The mound around the 
worm's crater on Bone Hill seemed perfect.
    She climbed to the lip of the crater. It was hard to imagine a living thing 
that could have bored such a hole.
    Firelight reflecting from the clouds showed only a yawning pit. By inclining 
her ear, Myrrima could hear water churning somewhere in that void. The worm's 
course had cut through a subterranean river, forming a waterfall. But it was far 
below. If she stepped away from the hole, the sound faded.
    Myrrima walked among the scree, sinking into loose soil with every step.
    The ground was wet and unsettled. Bits of dirt cascaded into the crater. 
Myrrima's footing shifted as if the mound might suddenly slide beneath her, 
carrying her to her doom. Instinctively she eased back to safety.
    The destruction of Carris was doubly apparent from atop the mound. But the 
view revealed nothing of her husband.
    "Borenson!" cried Myrrima, as she scanned the plain. Wuqaz Faharaqin and his 
men left the bonfire, riding east toward Indhopal.
    She glanced toward Carris. Her heart leapt. Guards had set watch fires 
against the return of any reavers. At the broken entrance of the city, she saw a 
warrior with red hair like her husband's, leaning upon the shoulder of a 
red-haired girl. He limped toward the city. Between the falling rain and 
lingering smoke, she could not be sure if it was him.
    "Borenson?" she shouted.
    If it was him, he could not hear her, so far off. He hobbled into the 
shadows thrown by the barbicans.
    Carris was a bedlam as Myrrima rode beneath the broken barbicans, searching 
for her husband.
    A week ago Myrrima had celebrated Hostenfest at Castle Sylvarresta. There, 
for the first time in two thousand years, an Earth King had arisen. The people 
of Heredon had hosted by far the finest celebration she'd ever witnessed.
    As she had strolled through the concourses outside Castle Sylvarresta, 
brightly colored pavilions had covered the fields like gems in a copper 
bracelet, greened with age. The entrance to each pavilion was decorated with 
wheat stalks braided in intricate patterns, and wooden icons of the Earth King 
all arrayed in finery.
    The smell of sweetmeats and fresh breads wafted through the air. Music 
swelled from a hundred sites around the city.
    It had seemed a feast for the senses.
    At the turn of each corner she met some new wonder: a jester in 
parti-colored clothes, carrying a wooden fool's head on a stick, came riding 
past her on a huge red sow. A young flameweaver out of Orwynne drew the flames 
of a fire until they rose up and burst into flowing shapes like golden lilies in 
bloom. A woman with five endowments of voice rendered an aria so beautiful that 
it left the heart aching for days afterward. She'd seen Runelords joust at rings 
on chargers caparisoned in colors so bright that they hurt the eyes, and dancers 
from Deyazz wearing lion-skins.
    She'd tasted rare treats--eels kept alive in a pot and cooked fresh before 
her eyes; a dessert made of sweetened cream and rose petals cooled with ice; and 
confections stuffed with coconut and pistachios from Indhopal.
    It had been a day to delight even the most downcast heart.
    Now as she rode through Carris, her ride provided the dark antithesis of 
that day.
    Instead of fair provender, her keen nose registered the stink of animals, 
spoiling vegetables, cloistered humanity, blood, urine, and war--all made more 
abominable by the lingering residue of the reavers' curses.
    Instead of seductive music, she was haunted by the entreaties and sobbing of 
the wounded, mingled with the cries of those who mourned the dead and those who 
called out for loved ones.
    Instead of celebration, there was horror. Myrrima rounded one corner to find 
half a dozen children, the youngest a girl of two, whispering words of 
encouragement to a mother that they thought was grievously wounded. A glance 
told Myrrima that the woman was dead.
    A girl of twelve wandered in front of Myrrima's horse. She had gray eyes, 
dulled by shock, and her dirty face was cleaned only by the tracks of her tears.
    That's how I looked at that age when my father died, Myrrima realized. Her 
stomach knotted in sympathetic pain.
    She searched for Borenson among thousands of grisly wounded scattered 
throughout inns, private homes, stables, the duke's Great Hall, and blankets in 
the street.
    Many wounded struggled near death. The reavers' curses set wounds to 
festering in unnatural ways. Gangrene set into abrasions that were only hours 
old.
    The search was a foul chore. Nearly every private household had taken in one 
or two wounded. The stench of the place assaulted her senses. She could not pick 
up her husband's scent among so many competing odors.
    "Borenson!" she shouted again and again as she rode through the streets, her 
throat going raw. She began to doubt her own senses, wondered if she'd only 
imagined that she'd seen her husband heading into the city.
    He could be asleep, she thought. Perhaps that's why he doesn't answer.
    Volunteers worked the battlefield, hauling the dead to the bailey outside 
the duke's palace. She worried that Borenson might be among them. Gaborn had 
said that her husband was wounded. Perhaps he'd died in the past few hours. Or 
perhaps someone had mistaken him for dead, and even now she might find him 
barely alive. She made her way toward it, and finally caught her husband's 
scent.
    She rode with rising trepidation up to the bailey. Thousands of corpses were 
laid out. Whole families marched among them, carrying torches.
    The blasted grass was a gray mat. The dead lay arrayed on blankets in rows. 
She could smell Borenson now.
    Myrrima knew that dead loved ones never look quite as you expect them to. 
The faces of men that die in battle become pale, leached of blood, while the 
countenances of strangled men turn bluish-black. The eyes of the dead glaze 
over, so that it is difficult to tell whether a man had blue eyes or brown. A 
corpse's facial muscles can either contract horribly or relax in perfect repose.
    Many a woman who has slept with a man for years doesn't recognize her own 
husband's corpse.
    In the same way, when Myrrima found Sir Borenson, she did not know him by 
sight, only by scent.
    He knelt over a dead man beneath the remains of a gnarled oak that had 
dropped all its leaves. His face was leached as pale as cream, and he stared 
down, his expression so twisted in pain that she would not have known him. Dirty 
rain matted his hair and covered him with grime, so that he looked like a 
squalid wild thing. Clotted blood from a groin wound stained his surcoat down 
the legs. His right hand gripped the handle of a horseman's battle-ax as if it 
were a crutch.
    He looked as if he had been kneeling like this for hours, as if he might 
never move again. He had become a statue, a monument to pain.
    Only his attire identified him. He wore the same clothes as he had two days 
past, including the yellow silk scarf that he'd chosen to sport into battle as a 
sign of her favor.
    A little red-haired girl knelt above him, lantern in hand, weeping savagely. 
They stared down at a dead man who looked so much like Borenson that he might 
have been a brother.
    "Borenson?" Myrrima called hesitantly. All the words of comfort that she'd 
imagined would come so easily suddenly caught in her throat. She could not 
imagine a wound that would cause the unadulterated agony she saw in his face. 
She asked softly, "What's wrong?"
    He did not look at her. Did not answer. She wasn't sure that he even heard. 
His left hand clutched at his belly, as if he'd just taken a blow to the 
stomach.
    Acorns crunched under her horse's hooves as she approached. As she drew 
close, she realized that she'd thought that he was unmoving as he knelt. Now she 
saw that he was trembling all over.
    She'd heard tales of men who had seen some great horror and retreated so far 
into themselves that they never spoke again. Borenson was a warrior. He'd been 
forced to butcher two thousand Dedicates at Castle Sylvarresta. The deed had so 
demoralized him that afterward he had quit his service to his king.
    Before her knelt a man wounded both in body and spirit. He trembled, and his 
mind was blank. He was so far gone in pain that he could not weep.
    "Myrrima," he said in a stiffly formal voice as he gazed down on the dead 
man. "I'd like you to meet my father."

     
     
Chapter 2
COMMUNION
    He, who would walk the wizard's path must abandon roads that common men 
tread.
    --Mystarrian Proverb
     
    On the road north from Carris, Gaborn still smelled of war. The curses of 
the reavers' fell mage clung to him like the smoke of a cooking fire, and sweat 
soaked the padding beneath his ring mail.
    The road was quiet, spooky. Night did not seem to fall from above so much as 
to rise up like vapors from the hollows of the fields. No birds chirped in the 
twilight. The hooves of the horses thudded dully on the muddy ground. Though 
seven people rode in the party, there was barely a creak of harness.
    They came to a village. Once, Gaborn had known the name of every hamlet in 
his realm, but his memory had faded with the loss of his Dedicates in the Blue 
Tower.
    It did not matter. The village was empty; not so much as one yellow dog 
roamed the streets, wagging its tail. He would offend no one by forgetting its 
name.
    The village was old, cramped, with buildings made of cut stones. Some 
innkeeper in the distant past had built a hostel that nearly blocked the 
highway, perhaps imagining that riders were more likely to stop than try to 
forge their way around it. A few shops had sprung up next to the inn, and 
cottages next to the shops.
    The horses' footsteps rang louder in the streets. Gaborn heard the ching of 
his ring mail thrown back from stone walls.
    The village lay silent, accusing. No children played in the dirty streets. 
No washwomen railed at one another over a fence. No cattle bawled, calling the 
milkmaids to their stools. No one swung an ax, chopping wood for the evening 
fire. No smoke carried the mouthwatering scent of a roasting hen.
    No hammers rang. No stars pierced the cloudy heavens. No children sang.
    This is the way the world will look, Gaborn thought, when we are no more.
    "We should have been for killing Raj Ahten," Erin Connal said in her thick 
Fleeds accent, her voice weary.
    "The Earth will not allow it," Gaborn answered.
    "Perhaps if we move against his Dedicates," Prince Celinor offered. "It 
would not be the same as attacking him personally."
    The thought of attacking Dedicates sickened Gaborn. The Dedicates were 
innocent, in most cases. Raj Ahten's beauty was as irresistible as lightning, 
his voice as overwhelming as thunder. In order for a Runelord to take an 
endowment from a vassal, the vassal had to offer it up freely. But no one could 
predict how he might react to Raj Ahten's sublime entreaties. It was said in 
Rofehavan that "When you look upon the face of pure evil, it will be beautiful." 
Truly, Raj Ahten was beautiful.
    Some thought him so persuasive that he deluded himself with his own voice. 
Certainly he had gulled others often enough--even his own enemies. Women loved 
him on sight, men honored him. They offered their endowments and their lives in 
his service, for he told them that serving him would be to their benefit.
    The world was heading toward a catastrophe, an all-out war with the reavers. 
Raj Ahten had already persuaded tens of thousands of people that mankind might 
survive the coming war only by pooling their attributes, their strength and 
stamina and wit, into one man who would be their champion. This one man would be 
immortal, the mythical Sum of All Men.
    Of course, not all men were swayed by Raj Ahten's argument. So he waged war 
on Rofehavan, seeking to convert its people to his own use.
    It was a vile act. Raj Ahten had grown so powerful that Gaborn despaired of 
whether he could be brought down. With such a rapacious lord, the best way to 
attack him was indirectly--as Erin said--by killing his Dedicates. For each time 
a Dedicate died, the lord lost the use of the attribute that the Dedicate 
provided.
    Thus, by slaying a few thousand Dedicates, Raj Ahten could be weakened to 
the point that he might be defeated in battle.
    But who could murder innocent Dedicates? Certainly not Gaborn. The men and 
women who gave themselves to Raj Ahten were simply too weak-minded to see beyond 
his exquisite mask. Others loaned Raj Ahten their endowments only through 
coercion. Yes, Raj Ahten managed to put the forcibles to them and take their 
attributes, but only because they feared him more than his forcibles.
    "He took children as Dedicates at Castle Sylvarresta," Gaborn chided. "I'll 
not spill the blood of children."
    "He often did so as well in Indhopal," Jureem said. "Children and beautiful 
women--he knew that men of conscience would not easily strike them down."
    Gaborn felt sickened to the core.
    Gaborn could bear no more talk of Raj Ahten. The Wolf Lord's rapaciousness 
repulsed him. Gaborn thought, I should never have tried to turn him. I should 
never have hoped to make him an ally.
    In the eerie streets, Gaborn stretched out his senses, used his Earth Sight 
to feel for any danger to his Chosen. For the past day, he'd focused all his 
attention on Carris.
    The Earth had charged Gaborn with Choosing people, selecting a seed of 
mankind to "save through the dark times to come." At the same time the Earth had 
bestowed upon him the power to sense the danger to his Chosen warriors.
    Now, however, he had lost the power to warn them of danger, even though he 
could still sense it.
    Thus weakened, in the event his people were assailed, he might be able to do 
little more than sense their danger before they died. But he hoped for more. His 
powers had dwindled, but he had to hope that if he could sense danger, he might 
be able to avert some disasters.
    So he groped like a blind man, pushing the limits of his gift.
    Danger seemed to be lurking everywhere. In Carris battles still raged. 
Skalbairn's Knights Equitable fought the reavers, driving them south. Within 
seconds of each other, two men died. Gaborn felt the loss keenly.
    To the west, Raj Ahten fled through the wilderness, retreating toward 
Indhopal. Strangely, he seemed more dead than alive, and Gaborn could not help 
but wonder at the situation.
    But to Gaborn's consternation, he sensed...dangers that were far more 
personal and far-reaching than any before. None were imminent. Instead, he could 
sense...layers beneath layers of impending doom. Close at hand, he sensed a 
threat to his wife, Iome. It would not come soon. Over the past few days, he had 
begun to learn how to gauge when threats would arise simply by the strength of 
the warning. He suspected that Iome would not face any danger until tomorrow. 
Yet he had to wonder at its source, for though he could sense peril, he could 
not always guess at its cause.
    Beneath that lay larger portents. Tens of thousands of people at Carris 
seemed to be in jeopardy still. From a second attack? he wondered. But the 
trouble brewing in Carris was farther off than the danger facing Iome. He 
suspected that it would not strike until tomorrow night or the day after.
    Beyond that, a cloud loomed over Heredon again. Gaborn imagined the dangers 
to be like peeling the layers of an onion. Iome's danger was great, and nearest 
at hand. Once it passed, there loomed a larger threat--the tens of thousands at 
Carris. Later in the week, hundreds of thousands in Heredon might die....
    Yet at the "core of the onion," at the kernel of the matter, he discerned 
one final catastrophe. It seemed to encompass every single man, woman, and child 
that he had Chosen--a million people spread over half a dozen nations.
    The Earth Spirit had warned Gaborn that the fate of mankind was upon him. 
Gaborn had accepted the role of becoming mankind's protector. He'd imagined that 
the threat would be years in the making. He'd imagined long wars and drawn-out 
sieges.
    But the end of man was nigh. Five days? he wondered--certainly no more than 
a week. His mouth grew dry, and Gaborn could not catch his breath.
    It can't be! he told himself. I'm imagining it.
    But cold certainly began to creep into his bones.
    In the streets, shuttered windows stared at him, like vacant eyes. He felt 
trapped in a hamlet of shadows.
    Gaborn spurred his horse, taking a long lead. Iome, Celinor, Erin, Jureem, 
Binnesman, and the wylde all hurried to keep up. Thankfully, none of them drew 
near or spoke.
    Just north of the village, Gaborn turned left on the track toward Balington. 
He remembered the village fondly from his youth, and had decided to spend the 
night there. He recalled its serenity, its lush gardens. It was a place strong 
in the Earth Powers, a place where he could commune with his master. The village 
lay only three miles off the road.
    The horses made toward a pair of hills that stood like sentinels. The open 
fields gave way to a grove of majestic beech trees whose limbs soared high 
overhead.
    As they reached the hills, Gaborn rounded a bend. An overturned cart blocked 
the highway. At the margin of the road, six swarthy figures huddled around a 
small fire, warming themselves in the cool night.
    They leapt up as he approached. All six men were abnormally short, almost 
dwarfish. They bore an odd array of weapons--the spoke from a wagon wheel, a 
cleaver, a reaping hook, two axes for chopping wood, and a makeshift spear. They 
wore leather work aprons instead of armor. Their leader had a grizzled beard and 
eyebrows like woolly black caterpillars.
    "Hold," he shouted. "Hold where you are. There's a hundred archers in them 
trees. Make any false move, and you'll be leaking like a winepress."
    It took Gaborn a moment to realize that all six "men" were not men at all. 
Most were boys in their teens--brothers by the look of them. Like their father, 
they were so short as to be dwarfish. They had their father's curly hair and 
strangely blunt nose. Yet they couldn't see beyond the light of their campfire; 
their threat was laughable.
    "A hundred archers?" Gaborn asked as Iome and the others drew up at his 
back. "I'd think you could turn your king into a pincushion with half as many." 
He rode into the firelight.
    The six men dropped to their knees, gaping at the lords before them. "We saw 
your lordship riding south this morning!" one shouted. "We thought looters might 
head this way. It's our homes, you see."
    "And we heard the earth groan, and saw the cloud rise up over Carris!" 
another added.
    "Is it true?" a young man asked. "Are you really the Earth King?" At that, 
all of the young men knelt and watched Gaborn expectantly.
    Am I the Earth King? he wondered. How am I to answer that question now?
    He knew what they wanted. Six small men without an endowment between them, 
come to hold the road against Raj Ahten's Invincibles. He'd seldom heard of such 
foolery--or such valor. They wanted his protection. They wanted him to Choose 
them.
    He'd have done so if he could. In the past weeks, he'd had time to reflect 
on what he valued in mankind. His Days said that he valued men of insight, while 
others valued men of strength and cunning.
    But Gaborn saw now that he valued most those who loved and lived well. He 
valued men of sound conscience and unwavering resolve, men who dared stand 
against the darkness when hope was slim. He felt honored to be in the presence 
of these good common folk.
    "I'm no Earth King," Gaborn admitted. "I can't Choose you."
    The lads could not hide their disappointment, not by any act of will--even 
in the shadows thrown by the campfire. They let out hopeful breaths, and each of 
them seemed to collapse just a bit.
    "Ah, well," the father mused, "not the Earth King maybe, but you're our 
king. Welcome to Balington, Milord."
    "Thank you," Gaborn said.
    He spurred his mount ahead in the darkness, past the men and on beneath the 
beech trees. His friends rode behind. Silence followed at their backs. The night 
was growing cold. Warm air escaped his nostrils like fog.
    He found himself breathing hard, afraid that at any moment a wracking sob 
would escape.
    Another mile down the road, where soft hills flowed together, he reined in 
his horse, and the others rode up behind. He'd had enough.
    "It's time," Gaborn said to the small group. "I must speak with the Earth."
    "You'll try so soon?" Binnesman asked. "Are you certain? The Earth withdrew 
its powers from you only two hours ago. You understand that the chances of a 
favorable response are slim?"
    "I am certain," Gaborn said.
    There are ceremonies that wizards perform that common men do not attend. 
Gaborn looked back at his followers. "Jureem, you'll care for the horses. Erin, 
Celinor, stay with him. The rest, come with me."
    He dismounted. Clouds were rushing in from the south, and only faint, broken 
starlight shone overhead.
    Iome swung from her mount and took his hand hesitantly. "Are you sure you 
want me there?"
    "Yes," Gaborn said. "I'm sure."
    Binnesman took his staff and led the way, his wylde in tow. He ushered them 
up a narrow defile, following a stony path made by goats and cattle.
    "One who approaches the Powers," Binnesman counseled as they climbed the 
trail, "one who seeks a boon, must do so in the proper frame of mind. It is not 
enough to merely seek a blessing. You must be pure of heart and single-minded in 
your purpose. You must set aside your anger at Raj Ahten, your fears for the 
future, and your selfish desires."
    "I'm trying," Gaborn said. "The Earth and I both want the same thing. We 
want to save my people."
    "If you could sublimate your desires wholly," Binnesman said, "you would be 
the most powerful wizard that this world has ever known. You would sense the 
Earth's needs and become a perfect tool for fulfilling them. Its protective 
powers would flow to you without restraint. But you have rejected the Earth's 
needs on multiple counts. The Earth bade you to save a seed of mankind, yet you 
seek to save them all--even those like Raj Ahten that you know are unworthy."
    "I'm sorry!" Gaborn whispered. But even as he did, he wondered, Who is 
worthy to live? Even if I regain my powers, who am I to decide?
    "Far more serious than this first offense was the second. You were granted 
the ability to warn your charges of danger. But you tried to corrupt it, to turn 
the powers of preservation into a weapon."
    "Raj Ahten was attacking my men," Gaborn objected.
    "You should never have Chosen that one," Binnesman said, "no matter how 
great you thought the need. I warned you against it. But once you Chose him, you 
should not have sought to turn your powers against him. Your deed is the very 
root and essence of defilement."
    "Is there no hope?" Gaborn asked. "Is that what you are telling me?"
    Binnesman turned, starlight reflecting from his eyes, and planted his staff 
in the ground. He was huffing after the climb.
    "Of course there's hope," he said firmly. "There is always hope. A man who 
lacks hope is a man who lacks wisdom."
    "But I've done great wrongs," Gaborn said. "I never should have relied on my 
own strength. I see that now."
    "Hmmmm..." Binnesman said, with an appraising look. "You see it, but have 
you truly learned? Do you really trust the Earth to protect you, or do you think 
like a Runelord--do you trust in your endowments?"
    Gaborn answered slowly. "I didn't take endowments for myself, but to better 
serve my people. I cannot bemoan the choice now. My endowments might still serve 
mankind."
    "Humph," Binnesman said. He led them to a small clearing and scrutinized 
Gaborn from beneath his bushy brows. His eyes seemed to Gaborn to be cold 
pebbles.
    Around him, the hills gave rise to dry grasses and a little oak brush. 
Stones riddled the ground, but the soil smelled rich, delicious. It was the kind 
of place where Gaborn would have expected to hear the songs of crickets, or mice 
scurrying in the leaves, or the cries of night owls. But only a dull cold wind 
sighed over the hills.
    Binnesman grumbled, "This will do."
    The Earth Warden knelt and spat on the ground. "With this libation from my 
own body, I give you drink, O Master," Binnesman said. "We seek your help in the 
hour of our need." He nodded toward Gaborn and the others. Each spat in turn.
    Binnesman raised his staff, whirled it overhead.
    "Hail, Mother.
    Hail, Protector
    The Tree of Life shades our home,
    Come, Maker.
    Come, Destroyer.
    Come make us your own."
    He touched the ground with his staff and said softly, "Open."
    A tearing sound arose as the roots of dry grass split apart. A slit 
appeared, spilling dark soil into mounds on each side of a pit.
    Gaborn stared into the shallow grave. The rich ground was full of small 
white pebbles.
    Gaborn let go of Iome's hand and began to disrobe. His eyes flicked toward 
the green woman to see her reaction, but the wylde, a warrior created by 
Binnesman from stones and wood, seemed unconcerned with notions of modesty, 
incurious about Gaborn's anatomy.
    He gazed about, filled with anticipation. In Binnesman's garden the Earth 
had taken physical form, had come to speak to him in person.
    But the hills here were bare, and he saw no shadowy figures lurking on their 
slopes.
    With his clothes off, Gaborn climbed down into the soil. He tensed at the 
touch of the cold ground, but crossed his hands over his chest, took a deep 
breath, and closed his eyes. He whispered, "Cover me."
    He lay expectantly for a moment, but nothing happened. The Earth did not 
fulfill even this small request.
    "Cover him," Binnesman said softly.
    Iome felt unsure why Gaborn had asked her to come. She had no powers, could 
not help summon the Earth Spirit that he sought. She could give him only one 
thing: comfort.
    He needed it sorely. She didn't know how to help him greet the future. They 
still faced a vast array of enemies: Raj Ahten might still badger him from the 
west, Lowicker's daughter and King Anders from the north.
    She'd encountered an assassin from Inkarra, while reavers boiled from the 
ground beneath their feet.
    If we are all to die, Iome decided, then at least we should pass with 
dignity. She could give Gaborn that much.
    But she feared that others would not.
    She silently begged the Earth, "Please, answer us."
    Soil coursed over Gaborn in a flow. Cool dirt intruded everywhere--beneath 
his fingernails, weighing between his toes, heavy on his chest, pressing against 
his lips and eyelids.
    For several long seconds, he held his breath. As he did, he sent forth his 
thoughts, his longings.
    "Forgive me. Forgive. I will not abuse the power you've loaned me again."
    He stretched out with his mind, listening for an answer. Most often the 
Earth spoke with the voices of mice or with the cry of a wild swan or with the 
sound of a twig snapping in the forest. But on rare occasions it spoke as if in 
the tongues of men.
    "Forgive me," Gaborn whispered. "I'll bend to your will. Let me save the 
seeds of mankind. I ask no more of you. Let me be your servant again."
    He heard no answer.
    He imagined the future as it might unfold before him if he did not regain 
his powers. He envisioned mankind running from reavers, holding out in wooded 
hills or hiding in caves, fighting as best they could.
    He pictured himself using his one remaining power, his ability to recognize 
danger, to save those within range of his voice.
    But in time he would fail. Perhaps he would end up alone, the last man on 
Earth, his one final gift seen for what it had become: a curse.
    He held his breath until his lungs burned and his muscles ached.
    Last night as he lay in the grave, the Earth had taken from him the need to 
breathe, had allowed him to relax every muscle, to slumber in perfect repose.
    Tonight...he recalled the words that the Earth Spirit had first spoken to 
him. "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."
    The ground trembled faintly. Iome knew that Gaborn had summoned an 
earthquake at Carris. She thought that this was an aftershock.
    But the earth continued shaking. The leaves of trees hissed, and a few 
boulders rumbled down the hillside. The soil beneath Iome's feet rattled, until 
Gaborn was thrust up from the dirt and suddenly sprawled on the surface.
    All around, the dust began to mount in the air. Pieces of what looked like 
gray stone sifted up to the surface, until suddenly she realized that they were 
bones--the corrupted jaw of a cow, the skull of a horse, a shoulder blade that 
might have belonged to a wild bear. All of them rose to the surface along with 
Gaborn.
    Gaborn desperately clawed dirt from his face, gasped for breath. He sat up, 
naked, spitting dust.
    The rumbling stopped, and a boulder bounced downhill through the little knot 
of people.
    Binnesman used his staff to point out the bits of bone that had risen. He 
frowned at them, squatted and stared. "You have your answer."
    "But what does it mean?" Gaborn asked.
    Binnesman scratched his chin. "The Earth is speaking to you. What does it 
mean to you?"
    "I'm not sure," Gaborn said.
    "Think about it," Binnesman said. "The answer will come to you. Trust what 
you feel. Trust the Earth."
    Without further ado, he took his wylde back down the hillside.
    Gaborn crawled about, picking up fragments of bone, staring at them as if to 
read some message hidden there. Iome brought him his robe, draped it over his 
shoulders.
    "Bones in the earth..." Gaborn was muttering. "The Place of Bones beneath 
the earth. Search for the Place of Bones."
    Iome needed no wizard to translate for her. Surely Gaborn had to see it: the 
Earth had rejected him, rejected his plea. She whispered, "The land will be 
covered in bones."
    Gaborn stopped, clutched the skull of a dog against his chest. "No! That's 
not it at all!"
    Iome put her arms around him, tried to hold him and give him comfort.
    Gaborn had done his best to be Earth King. He was not a cold man, not a hard 
man. He was no warrior. If he had been any of those things, she never would have 
fallen in love with him.
    Yet his mistakes were likely to get them all killed.
    Am I strong enough to support him in spite of that? she wondered.
    "What will we do now, my love?" she asked.
    Gaborn merely squatted on the ground, naked but for the cloak thrown over 
him. "First we must warn Skalbairn and the rest of my troops that I've lost my 
powers. After that, we will do what the Earth demands."

     
     
Chapter 3
A CONTRARY MAN
    The gullible often mistake the pronouncements of cynics for true insight. 
Cynics will warn that all men are corrupt, and that existence is fruitless. But 
a wise man knows that not ail men are corrupt, and that life brings joy as well 
as sorrow.
    The cynics' pronouncements are merely half-truths, the dark side of wisdom.
    --From the journal of King Jas Laren Sylvarresta
     
    "The problem is," High Marshal Skalbairn said, as he and Sir Chondler rode 
through the night woods in pursuit of the reavers, "Gaborn loves his people too 
much, and Raj Ahten loves them too little." Skalbairn had received a cryptic 
warning from Gaborn, who had taken refuge at Balington. Both Skalbairn and 
Chondler were still trying to make sense of it.
    Marshal Chondler replied, "Mark my words, nothing good will come of it. Men 
are never content to merely plant the seeds of their own destruction. They must 
first till and dung the ground, then nurture and water the tender sprout of it, 
until at last they're ready to reap the full harvest."
    High Marshal Skalbairn guffawed at the comment. "No one would knowingly 
court disaster." Chondler's mount forged through the trees ahead of Skalbairn's, 
and the marshal let a limb fly back and slap Skalbairn in the face. Obviously he 
did so in retribution for the rude noise.
    "Ah, I'm wounded," Skalbairn said.
    "Sorry."
    "If that's the most significant wound I take this night, I'll be glad for 
it," Skalbairn replied.
    He was preparing another attack on the reavers soon. He wanted to reach a 
knoll where Sir Skerret, a far-seer, had lit a signal lantern in warning, but 
not a single damned trail seemed to lead to that knoll. The night was still 
overcast; and so high up in the Brace Mountains, the misting rain was turning to 
snow.
    "Men do court disaster in a hundred ways," Chondler affirmed. "For example, 
have you ever noticed how easily a man can turn a virtue into a vice?"
    "What do you mean?"
    "Why, when I was a lad I knew a woman so charitable that everyone praised 
her. She baked bread for the poor, gave coins to the poor, gave her cow--and 
finally her house. At last she found herself begging on the streets outside of 
Broward, where she died one winter. Thus her virtue grew into a vice that 
consumed her."
    "I see," Skalbairn said. "And you think this happens often?"
    "Ah," Chondler said. "But my story is not done: now, this very same woman 
had a son, who, when he saw that he had lost his inheritance, went about the 
countryside as a highwayman, robbing every man he chanced upon. No one could 
seem to catch him, and he thought himself to be a wondrously great robber, so 
that he was always bragging, 'What a great highwayman I am!' And thus he was 
crowing to his cohorts at the very moment that I crept near to his camp and 
planted an arrow through his throat."
    "Hah, good move," Skalbairn said.
    "So, like the mother we either turn our virtues into a vice, or else like 
the son we convince ourselves that vice is virtue. But in either case we plant 
the seeds of our own destruction.
    "Our grand Earth King Gaborn Val Orden thinks that his love of mankind is a 
merit--while it serves to destroy him, and us with him. Meanwhile Raj Ahten 
hopes to ride us all like mules till we drop."
    "Hah," Skalbairn chuckled. "What a circular argument!" He spoke the words as 
if in praise, but secretly he thought that Chondler was a contrary fellow who 
merely wished that he was a deep thinker.
    "And we're stuck between the bastards! Well, damn all them kings and high 
lords, I say. It's every man for himself from here on out." Sir Chondler reined 
in his horse and peered ahead. "I can't see a path."
    Skalbairn had not known that the woods here in the Brace Mountains could be 
so murky. The pines didn't seem to branch overhead so much as press in his face; 
the wind-twisted limbs sometimes tangled like yarn.
    After a moment, Sir Chondler blindly forged ahead. Then he pronounced, as if 
he had just come to a momentous decision, "I'm going to join this 'Brotherhood 
of the Wolf.' What say you?"
    Skalbairn didn't know what to think. The rumors from Carris were so strange 
that he wanted to learn more before making a commitment.
    Raj Ahten had attacked Gaborn. That was a baffling move. And in that attack 
Gaborn had somehow lost his Earth Powers.
    This was perhaps the most discomfiting news Skalbairn had heard in his life. 
He'd not have believed it if Gaborn hadn't sent a warning, written in his own 
hand.
    Skalbairn clutched the parchment in his fist even as he rode. In the 
warning, Gaborn told Skalbairn: "Break off your attack until I join you 
tomorrow."
    Skalbairn didn't know what to think. But as High Marshal of the Righteous 
Horde of Knights Equitable, many would watch to see whom he served.
    "Me?" Skalbairn asked. He parried a limb with his ax. "I've forsworn myself 
too often. I swore fealty first to Lord Brock of Toom when I was a lad, and then 
to the Knights Equitable, and now to the Earth King. I'm getting too old for 
this. I think I'll just let my allegiance lie where it's fallen."
    "But that's my point," Chondler argued. "It's not as if you haven't forsworn 
yourself before."
    "True. But you'd have me break oath with the Earth King after only three 
days. That's fickle even for a Knight Equitable! Besides, not all men are such 
fools as you think. Gaborn's story is not all told yet."
    Chondler laughed. "You have more faith in the lad than I do." He drew rein, 
peered ahead through the swirling flakes of snow. "Pshaw!" he said in disgust. 
"The path is gone. And we're in a fine spot for an ambush."
    "True enough," Skalbairn answered, preparing to turn his horse around.
    "Listen," Chondler warned. "We must be close." He doffed his helm, cocked 
his head.
    Skalbairn pulled off his own helm and relished the cold touch of ice 
crystals on his sweaty brow. The air was thick in his nostrils. He could easily 
discern the sound of reavers--tens of thousands of them just over the hill. The 
horde trampled trees in its passage, mashing them to pulp, and pounded large 
sandstone boulders to gravel. The ground rumbled, and reavers hissed, letting 
air vent from their bodies. They were stampeding south toward Keep Haberd, over 
the same path that they'd blazed on their way to Carris.
    Distant lightning speared from the clouds and struck the jagged tooth of a 
mountaintop. By its light Skalbairn glimpsed an opening in the trees to their 
left, but waited a moment, counting. It was forty seconds until the thunder 
spoke, a distant murmur like an old man grumbling over some half-recalled 
grudge.
    Forty seconds was too long for comfort, if the tales were true. Reavers 
feared lightning. But if it was more than forty seconds off, the reavers could 
endure it.
    Well, I knew that this jig wouldn't last forever, Skalbairn thought.
    For nearly four hours the lightning had held. The height of the storm at 
Carris brought an incessant groaning from the sky, and hail pellets plummeted 
like shot from a catapult. Even when the storm quieted, a few clouds wandered 
overhead, sending out flickering tongues from time to time. Not much of a storm, 
but good enough.
    Skalbairn had seen reavers run headlong into rock walls to escape the 
lightning. He'd seen some fall insensate, like men who had endured too much 
pain. Thousands of the great beasts had merely stuck their eyeless heads into 
the sod and pushed, covering themselves with dirt in an effort to hide.
    Easy targets all--blinded reavers, wounded reavers, fleeing reavers. 
Skalbairn's Knights Equitable chased the brutes down and made such a slaughter 
as he'd never dreamed. Nine thousand reavers in four hours, by last account. His 
knights were joined by various Runelords out of Mystarria, Fleeds, Heredon--even 
Invincibles out of Indhopal, men who had been his mortal enemies at dawn.
    Skalbairn would earn a place in history. The bards would sing of Gaborn's 
victory at Carris, and forever now Skalbairn's own name would be linked to it. 
It would all sound very grand when sung to pipe and drums--the wild charge 
through the stormy night.
    Of course the truth about his deeds wasn't half so exhilarating or dangerous 
as future bards might sing. The fact was that the reavers were fleeing on a 
course that paralleled a good road. Wagonmasters from Carris were rushing wains 
filled with lances and food to outposts to the south, so that his men could 
resupply. Skalbairn's men had ample time to pick their ground and set their 
charges.
    Here in the mountains, of course, the terrain stifled him. But it stifled 
the reavers as much.
    The reavers only ran in short bursts, making less than twenty miles per 
hour. And as they climbed higher into the cold mountains, they became lethargic, 
moving at perhaps half their normal pace.
    Skalbairn said, "There's a bit of a clearing off to our left."
    "I saw. But it leads to more of a cliff than a clearing."
    "I saw a meadow," Skalbairn argued. Chondler was a contrary, stubborn man. 
"I'll prove it."
    Chondler gave a heavy sigh that would have earned him a beating in any other 
army. But among the Knights Equitable insubordination was as ubiquitous as fleas 
in the bedrolls. Chondler turned his mount toward Skalbairn's "meadow."
    Sure enough, it was a cliff. A quarter of a mile below spread a serpentine 
valley, and the reaver horde bolted through it like floodwaters through a chasm.
    They were a seething mass. In Internook in the late fall the blue eels would 
swim to the headwaters of the Ort River. When Skalbairn was a boy he'd seen eels 
so thick that he couldn't spot a single pebble in the shallow riverbed. The 
reavers forging through the canyon below reminded him of those eels, at once 
loathsome and alluring.
    Lightning flickered again, farther away. The reavers below did not miss a 
stride. The storm was blowing past.
    But in the brief illumination he saw the reavers better. Blade-bearers fled 
by the thousands. At Carris the monsters had borne weapons--enormous blades 
twelve feet long, or glory hammers with heads that weighed as much as a horse, 
or knight gigs that the monsters could use to pull warriors from their chargers 
or from castle walls. But now, it looked as if half of the reavers had abandoned 
their weapons.
    Among the blade-bearers were howlers, pale spidery creatures that even now 
stopped every few moments to send up their eerie cries.
    Few glue mums remained alive. They moved slower than other breeds, and were 
less inclined to fight. Skalbairn's men had already dispatched most of them.
    But among the reavers, the most fearsome were the scarlet sorceresses. They 
were easy to spot. The runes branded on their skulls and legs glowed dimly, like 
the light of warm coals in the midst of an ash-covered fire.
    A scarlet sorceress below raced along and suddenly stuck its shovel-shaped 
head into the soil. It dug in with its feet, tossed its head, and thrust itself 
underground.
    The whole thing happened so fast that Skalbairn could hardly credit his 
eyes. Yet he'd seen boars hide beneath the humus in the forest that way. The 
pulped trees and bottom soil on the canyon floor provided good cover--even for a 
monster that weighed twelve tons.
    "Did you see?" Skalbairn asked. Even as he spoke, another scarlet sorceress 
went to ground, and another. The blade-bearers still seemed to be fleeing 
blindly.
    "I see," Marshal Chondler replied. "They're setting an ambush."
    Just as boars in the forest did. They'd rise up out of the bushes at a man's 
feet and slash with their tusks.
    Skalbairn looked north down the canyon course to where it wound out of 
sight. His lancers were still back a couple of miles, he suspected. Well out of 
harm's way, for now.
    Up to the south, the canyon rim snaked higher. The sides of the canyon were 
steep, treacherous. A man on horseback could hardly hope to ride up those 
slopes.
    South, the blade-bearers reached a widening in the valley, and would go no 
further. They burrowed into the steep sides of a cliff.
    Sir Skerret stood atop a promontory three hundred yards off with a lantern 
hooked atop his lance. By its light Skalbairn could see his regal profile, the 
silver tip of his beard jutting from beneath his helm, the golden light on his 
burnished plate.
    "So that's why Sir Skerret summoned us. He's warning us off," Marshal 
Chondler said.
    Skalbairn couldn't let his men ride into the ambush, but the scarlet 
sorceresses tempted him. They were the prize, the heart of the reavers' forces. 
For centuries the lords of Rofehavan had offered a reward of five forcibles for 
any sorceress a man managed to kill.
    More than the temptation, these reavers still presented a threat. They were 
marching south toward the wilderness. But it would not take much for the entire 
horde to veer east, into the cities along the river Donnestgree.
    Skalbairn listened inside himself. Earlier today in the heat of the battle, 
he'd heard Gaborn's voice warn him of danger. A dozen times Gaborn had saved his 
life.
    But inside he heard nothing now. Inside he felt only apprehension.
    "Damn them," he cursed the reavers. Without the lightning to chase them, the 
reavers would regroup, begin to fight in concert. Skalbairn was trying to avert 
a catastrophe. Why was Gaborn holed up in Balington? His message said that he 
could still sense danger. So why didn't he come and direct the attack 
personally?
    Skalbairn crumpled Gaborn's warning and tossed it to the ground, then turned 
his horse back toward the road. "Until tomorrow, then."

     
     
Chapter 4
A GATHERING OF WITS
    The right use of power is the proper study of every Runelord.
    --Inscription above the door to the Room of Arms in the House of 
Understanding
     
    In rain and darkness they came to Balington well after midnight--seven 
sodden men riding between hills that bowed like bald heads in contemplation. To 
a man they wore the brown robes of scholars, their beards jutting from beneath 
peaked hoods.
    Had you seen them, you might have taken them for wights, they rode so 
silently. Only the jangle of harnesses and the splash of a hoof in a puddle 
betrayed them as living beings. They did not speak. Most dared hardly to 
breathe. Fear lay naked upon some of their faces. Other countenances were 
thoughtful or pained. Some old men clutched swords and warhammers, straining to 
hear the rasping of reavers.
    But the only sound around them was the patter of a cool rain. In the past 
few hours the storm had spread north. Water plummeted out of the heavens and 
drenched everything, turning the muddy road to a stream. The clouds above the 
hills sealed in the darkness like a lid. The sixty or so whitewashed stone 
cottages of Balington, with their thatch roofs, were only vague humped shapes in 
the night.
    A red hound struggled from beneath a woodpile and trotted beside the little 
group, its tongue lolling.
    At the crossroads ahead the only light shone from lanterns hung outside the 
inn.
    Jerimas, the leader of the band, had never been to this inn. Yet he 
remembered it well. King Orden had thought it a restful place, a hideaway from 
the heat of summer. But Jerimas's nerves were frayed now. He took no joy in the 
sight.
    He was still trying to cope with the aftermath of the battle at Carris.
    There were wounded to tend, people to feed, reavers to fight. A couple of 
hours ago, Gaborn had sent a message asking Jerimas and the other Wits who had 
served King Orden to come to Balington as soon as they handled their most urgent 
matters. But on the heels of this message, others had come, delineating the 
current state of the kingdom--the vanquishing of Raj Ahten, the threats of 
Lowicker and Anders to the north, and of Inkarran assassins to the south.
    Most concerning of all was the warning that Gaborn's powers were severely 
weakened.
    "So," a scholar behind him said, "Balington is spared once again." He was 
referring to this hamlet's peculiar history. Though battles often raged around 
it, Balington always emerged unscathed. Two days past, Raj Ahten's army had 
ridden down the road not three miles west. His troops had been starving, in need 
of shelter and horses. Yet no one at Balington had bothered to flee. The mayor, 
merchants, and peasants of Balington had felt that their village was just a 
trifle too remote from the highway and a tad too small for invaders to bother 
with.
    For the twentieth time in eight hundred years, the course of events proved 
the people of Balington right. Balington went unplundered.
    "It's a fine run of luck," another scholar said.
    "Not luck," Jerimas said. He inhaled deeply, smelled rain on the sod. He 
tasted an odd mineral tang, as if he were deep in a cave. The hills above him, 
the closed feeling, all added to the illusion. Though the ground here was 
relatively flat, for the past ten minutes he'd had a sense that he was traveling 
downward. "This place is strong in Earth Powers. The people here live under its 
protection. I'd bet my best teeth on it."
    It was a fine place for the Earth King to come, Jerimas sensed. But he still 
had to wonder at Gaborn's purpose. The same messenger that had summoned Jerimas 
here also warned that Gaborn had lost some of his Earth Powers. Perhaps he was 
merely drained, and had come here to mend himself.
    The scholars left their horses to the care of a boy who sprinted out of the 
stable as if he were dodging a hail of arrows rather than raindrops.
    A track of mud before the door showed that men had been tramping in and out 
of the inn all night. At least one was the courier sent by Jerimas himself, 
warning Gaborn that he would not be able to make it until after midnight.
    Jerimas gathered his thoughts. For over twenty years he had served as a 
King's Wit, a Dedicate to Gaborn's father. He'd seen the world through the eyes 
of King Orden, heard through his ears. The king's memories remained scattered 
through Jerimas's skull. He knew most of what Orden had thought, all that he'd 
hoped for.
    Jerimas had become King Mendellas Draken Orden in every sense but title. For 
the first time since Orden had died, Jerimas would see his son.
    For many men who had served as Wits, reuniting with the master's family 
proved painful. Widows felt unnerved by strangers who knew them intimately. 
Children resented men who too often seemed to be shades of their fathers.
    Gaborn. My prize, my joy, Jerimas thought. He recalled the exultation he 
felt on first holding his son, and his hopes watching Gaborn grow. He remembered 
the terror of the day when assassins tore Gaborn's mother and siblings from him.
    Jerimas was less than a father to Gaborn, more than a stranger.
    Now, as ordered by long tradition, he suspected that he would have to report 
on the death of King Orden. Jerimas would be able to tell Gaborn more than the 
mere events that led to the king's demise. He could relate Gaborn's father's 
dying thoughts.
    Bearing the Tale of the Dead was a ceremony that Wits routinely performed 
after the demise of a master. It was a solemn moment, a private occasion.
    But more than that, Jerimas yearned to see where he stood. Would Gaborn 
accept the counsel that Jerimas and his fellow Wits so longed to give? Would 
Gaborn treat Jerimas and the others as friends? Or would he push them away?
    Jerimas hesitated before knocking at the door, for he heard Gaborn's voice, 
raised in argument.
    Prince Celinor said, "My father already insists that you are no Earth 
King--"
    "And now I have turned his lies to truth." Gaborn forced a smile.
    The fire in the common room had dwindled down to nothing but cherry colored 
coals that brooded beneath an ashen quilt. Gaborn, Iome, Celinor, Erin, and 
Gaborn's Days, who had arrived less than an hour ago, all sat around it. The 
Days, a scholar who was charged with chronicling Gaborn's life, stood quietly at 
Gaborn's back. Jureem had left hours ago, to bear messages for Gaborn to the 
High Marshal and others. The wizard Binnesman was working on his wylde, a 
creature that looked like a woman with dark green hair, and skin of a paler 
green. She lay stretched out on a bar counter that was lit by a pair of tallow 
candles.
    "Your Highness," Celinor argued in a reasonable tone, "when the world hears 
that you've suffered a setback, it will only lend credibility to my father's 
lies. I can already hear him crowing to his friends: 'See, I told you he was a 
fraud. Now he claims to have 'lost' his powers. How convenient!' "
    "Your father has worse problems than Gaborn to contend with," Iome 
countered, "with reavers surfacing in North Crowthen. If they march south, into 
your father's realm--"
    "I'm not sure which he will see as a greater threat," Celinor said. "He 
fears your husband unreasonably. And now Gaborn is vulnerable to attack."
    "You're starting at shadows," Iome said. "Your father wouldn't dare move 
against the Earth King."
    Celinor looked to Gaborn for counsel, but with a glance Gaborn deferred to 
the wizard. Binnesman was hunched over his wylde. He held a stem with dainty 
pink flowers and dark serrated leaves. He used it to draw runes around each of 
the wylde's nostrils. The wylde held perfectly still, did not even breathe. It 
was unsettling, for she looked as if she had died. Nothing living could have 
kept so motionless. It added to the aura of mystery that Gaborn felt around the 
creature.
    "Celinor is right," Binnesman whispered without looking up. "His father is a 
danger. There is sorcery at work here. The nature of his delusions and this 
business with King Lowicker both suggest that Anders suffers from no common 
madness."
    "Perhaps I can still reason with him," Celinor said.
    "If your father is one of the wind-driven," Binnesman told Celinor, "you 
can't reason with him. It would be dangerous to try. Mark my words: we are not 
battling reavers and men, but powers unseen."
    "Yet reason may still prevail," Iome said hopefully, "if not with Anders, 
then with those he seeks to deceive. Even if Anders clings to his madness, the 
world will not hear only his lies. Gaborn summoned a world worm today and drove 
the reavers from Carris. Men will hear of that, and true men will stand by him."
    "You mean that true men will die by him," Celinor blurted, "while false men 
circle like wolves. I swear, I'll not let my father be one of those false men."
    "Could you handle him alone?" Erin cut in.
    "I believe so."
    "Even if it meant killing him?"
    "It won't come to that," Celinor said.
    "But could you?" Erin asked fiercely. "Or if sparks came to fire, would you 
be needing help to lop off his head?"
    Celinor looked at her sharply. With his fine blond hair, lean build, and 
bright hazel eyes, Celinor had the appearance of a scholar or a healer, not a 
man capable of patricide.
    Gaborn asked softly of Erin, "Have we come to this? Would you have him fight 
his own father?"
    "Not if we can avoid it. But I won't have him close his eyes to the risks 
he's taking."
    "Talk to your father then," Gaborn told Celinor in exasperation. "Tell him 
that I would like to open negotiations to renew old treaties. Perhaps that will 
assuage his fears."
    "I will, milord," Celinor promised. "May I take my leave now?"
    Gaborn had never Chosen Celinor, and therefore could not know if he was in 
danger. Yet common sense dictated the answer. "The roads are too wet tonight," 
Gaborn warned. "I think it best if you wait until morning."
    Gaborn turned to Erin Connal and asked, "Will you go with him? If I sense 
that you are in jeopardy, I'll try to warn you. But take care not to lift your 
hand against any man, except to save your own lives."
    "As you wish, milord," Erin said.
    Someone opened the front door, and a cold wind blew into the room. Several 
men stood there. Gaborn could see only vague shadows. At first he thought them 
to be lords riding from Heredon or messengers from Skalbairn.
    "Your Highness," a scratchy male voice announced, "the King's Wits. We come 
to bear the Tale of the Dead."
    For a moment, no one spoke. The only sound was the whisper of rain in the 
courtyard.
    Erin Connal said, "Milord, seeing as we've a long journey ahead, I'd best 
tend my horse." She bustled from the room with Celinor in tow. Gaborn's Days 
followed, as if he had found urgent business outside.
    Iome glanced at Gaborn, asking with her eyes if she should go. The bearing 
of the Tale of the Dead was a private affair. A man's dying thoughts could be as 
embarrassing as they were touching. "Stay," Gaborn said. Iome felt a warm flush. 
She wanted to be with him.
    Binnesman was still working on the green woman. He asked, "May I have half a 
moment? I'm drawing runes of protection with wood hetony and must finish before 
the sap hardens."
    Gaborn knew that it would take time. With five endowments of metabolism, 
Gaborn could now amble faster than a commoner could run; and when others spoke, 
their words seemed to come laboriously.
    But finishing the wylde was important. The creature was to be the Earth's 
warrior, but she could not fight until Binnesman unbound her, gave the wylde its 
free will. Yet he could not do that until he'd bound her with protective spells 
and taught her to fight on her own.
    "Stay here and work," Gaborn said softly. "We need the wylde. Every moment 
counts."
    Iome and Gaborn stood hand in hand.
    The Wits filed in. Most were elderly men. The youngest could not have been 
less than forty. Their hair was cropped short, and all wore simple brown robes 
common among the hearthmasters in the House of Understanding.
    "Gaborn!" a tall graybeard called in greeting. The love that Gaborn's father 
had felt for him came thick in the old man's voice. Perhaps for Gaborn's entire 
life, this former Dedicate had been locked in the Blue Tower, an idiot who 
loaned the use of his mind to King Orden.
    Gaborn reached out to clasp hands at the wrist, but after a moment's 
hesitation, he thought better of it and gave the man a hug. "Hello, friend," 
Gaborn said. "You are...?"
    "Jerimas." The old man spoke hesitantly, as if the name were a stranger's. 
He stared at Gaborn, searching his face. "I...my name is Jerimas."
    Jerimas was thin, with wide-set eyes so dark they were almost black, and a 
triangle of a face. His hair had receded until he was left with only a narrow 
band of white along his ears and a sweeping beard of silver.
    "Jerimas," Gaborn repeated. He studied the Wits, saw how many of them held 
their head tilted to the left, just as Gaborn's father had.
    "Are you ready to hear the Tale of the Dead?"
    "It will have to wait for a more opportune time," Gaborn answered. "I didn't 
summon you here for that. I know the manner of my father's death too well."
    "His dying thoughts were of you," one of the Wits blurted.
    "I know that he loved me," Gaborn said. "And I am comforted by your presence 
here. But we have more important matters at hand."
    Gaborn took a deep breath. In the aftermath of Carris, he felt mentally 
overwhelmed and exhausted. For the past few hours he had considered a course of 
action. Now he needed these men's help.
    "Right now, you men are in charge of Carris. You've seen to its defense, 
ministered to its people. But I require more of you--much more.
    "For all purposes, each of you who served my father is my father. His every 
mannerism is imprinted upon you. I called you gentlemen here because I need your 
wisdom and counsel. I cannot manage the affairs of my kingdom alone.
    "As Jureem should have reported to you and Skalbairn, I've lost some of my 
Earth Powers. I can still sense danger, and I sense it all around us. But I 
cannot warn my Chosen. I will need your help. I will need you to see to the 
defenses of Mystarria and Heredon."
    "You will stay close to advise us?" Jerimas asked. The look of hope in his 
eyes was hard to miss.
    "I will do all that I can," Gaborn said. "But I make no promises. At dawn I 
will ride to Carris, to offer some brief comfort to the wounded. But I propose 
to spend some time with Skalbairn on the morrow, fighting reavers. We must 
punish them for their attack on Carris. We must make them fear us."
    At that, several graybeards nodded their heads thoughtfully in agreement.
    "After that...I can't say. I sense that the Earth wishes me to fight 
elsewhere."
    "We could come with you," Jerimas offered, "stand at your side and offer 
counsel."
    "Perhaps," Gaborn said. Now he came to the heart of the matter, to the 
question that troubled him most. "Tell me, have any of you heard of the Place of 
Bones?"
    The Wits all stared at him blankly. Some shook their heads.
    "I..." Gaborn continued. "It may not be the proper name of the place. It may 
be a description. The Earth has called me there to battle. I suspect that it may 
lie...underground. Perhaps it describes a mine, or a graveyard, or an ancient 
duskin city."
    Again, the graybeards shook their heads. Gaborn had wondered about this for 
hours. Binnesman had been no help. The Earth Warden had been alive for 
centuries, knew much lore about faraway places, including duskin ruins like 
Moltar and Vinhummin far below ground. But he could not tell him where the Place 
of Bones might be.
    "Perhaps it is an ancient battlefield," Jerimas said. "Certainly, the caves 
at Warren might qualify as a 'Place of Bones.' Fallion spent four hundred 
thousand good men fighting the Toth."
    "I thought of that," Gaborn said. "And I've considered sailing for those 
ruins. But when I do, I cannot rest easy. That is not where the Earth is calling 
me."
    "Be patient," Binnesman advised. "The Earth will reveal its will in good 
time."
    Gaborn shook his head, tried to clear it. His thoughts kept circling back to 
his question.
    "My lord," Jerimas asked, "Jureem said that you've lost some of your powers, 
but you can sense danger still? You worry about the reavers, and Inkarra, and 
Anders and Lowicker, but what of Raj Ahten? With his voice alone, he toppled the 
Blue Tower. Does he pose a threat? We've had no report on his whereabouts since 
nightfall."
    "I sense him. He's fleeing toward Indhopal," Gaborn answered, "over mountain 
trails that a man on horse would not dare travel. I'm not worried about him for 
the moment. If he comes near Rofehavan again, I will sense his presence."
    "But you do know how our men fare in battle?" another lord asked.
    "Many Chosen warriors have fallen in the past five hours," Gaborn admitted. 
"I sensed their danger, but could not warn them."
    Jerimas said, "But Skalbairn's reports are phenomenal. His men are 
slaughtering reavers by the thousands. A few losses are acceptable."
    Gaborn nodded. "So long as they remain but a few. I've ordered him to pull 
back until the morrow. I will lead the attacks myself."
    Another Wit, a heavy man with a goatee, spoke up. "We have seen wonders this 
day! And tomorrow will bring more."
    "Tomorrow will bring horrors as well," Gaborn said. "I will deal with the 
reavers as best I can. But in doing so, I must leave the matter of protecting 
our borders to you. You will need to put forward every effort at your disposal."
    "In the House of Understanding," one Wit said, "in the Room of Arms it is 
said that 'A man's every asset can be a weapon.' For a wise man, his cunning may 
be a shield. For a glib man, his tongue might serve as a dagger. For a strong 
man, his brute force might be a cudgel to break the backs of nations."
    "We must call our allies to our defense," one Wit suggested, "and turn our 
enemies against each other."
    Jerimas said, "Milord, are you giving us free rein to do what we must."
    "Of course," Gaborn said. "I fear that war is coming, and we must fight 
brilliantly or perish."
    Jerimas offered cautiously, "You've been loath to make hard choices in the 
past. You've taken few endowments yourself, and you sought to spare Raj Ahten's 
Dedicates. You have a good heart. But I fear that in war, a man's conscience 
must be the first casualty."
    Gaborn stared up at the Wits. Moments ago, he'd seen their faces full of 
love. Now he saw them taciturn, hard.
    He knew his father's voice when he heard it.
    "Without your full Earth Powers to guide you," Jerimas said, "we must act 
swiftly. There are bribes to pay, mercenaries to hire, endowments to take, 
assassins to assign, weapons to forge, borders to fortify."
    Gaborn gritted his teeth. He did not want to fight his neighbors, but he 
knew that he was being backed into a corner. He might not have a choice. "What 
do you recommend?"
    "You've already begun," old King Orden answered through the mouth of 
Jerimas. "You did well to send Celinor to his father.
    "Now we must send messengers to Internook, and hire up all of the 
mercenaries we can, lest Anders or some other lord beat us to it. With the 
combined might of Mystarria and the warlords, Anders will not succeed in gaining 
any support for his cause."
    Gaborn liked that idea. It would give him men to bolster his own defenses.
    "Next we must deal with the Storm King, Algyer col Zandaros," Jerimas said. 
"Your report says that he has already sent one assassin against you?"
    "Yes," Iome said. "He carried a message case with a curse attached to it."
    "We've had no hostilities with the Storm Lord lately. So I can only conclude 
that he acted against you based on lies spread by Anders or Lowicker. You'll 
need to send a messenger to speak on your own behalf. Sue for peace, but prepare 
for the worst."
    "Agreed," Gaborn said.
    "Zandaros will feel slighted if you do not send a kinsman," Jerimas warned. 
"It is the Inkarran way. The closer the kin, the better. Paldane would have been 
your best choice."
    Gaborn felt uneasy. It was a risky thing for any man to go to Inkarra.
    The Storm King had an uneven temper. To Gaborn's consternation, Jerimas's 
gaze fixed on tome.
    "I could go," Iome offered quickly.
    Jerimas nodded, as if that would be best.
    But Gaborn stiffened. He sensed danger around her. "No, I dare not. I want 
you to stay beside me. We'll send someone else, perhaps my cousin."
    "It will have to do," Jerimas said. "I'll consider the matter."
    Gaborn felt emotionally and intellectually depleted, even with all of his 
endowments. His weariness went beyond physical pain. His mind had been racing 
now for hours, for days. He closed his eyes. "I'll leave you men to it. "Sue for 
peace and prepare our defenses. But send no assassins, make no preemptive 
strikes. Our battle--" He could not help but think of Binnesman's warnings. His 
battle was not with men or reavers, but with Powers unseen. What did that mean? 
How could he fight the Powers? How could one defeat Fire or Air?
    "Our battles are not with men or reavers," Gaborn said. "I fear the battle 
cannot be won with sword or shield."
    At that, Binnesman looked up from his table where he'd been writing on the 
wylde. "You're learning," he said. "You cannot win this battle any more than you 
can hope to stamp out the fires of the sun or draw the air from the sky."
    All eyes turned to the wizard, with his stooped back and greenish skin. 
Jerimas asked, "What do you mean, we cannot win?"
    "Simply that," Binnesman said. "Our goal is not to conquer, merely to 
survive."
    That was it. Gaborn hoped to save his people, nothing more. Gaborn stood and 
stretched as the Wits began to talk animatedly, speaking first of lords to 
contact, fences to mend. He left them to their work.
    Binnesman bent back over his wylde, continuing his preparation of her. He 
placed a twisted root upon the green woman's forehead and began to chant.
    Gaborn dared not disturb the incantation. Iome got up, and Gaborn went to 
the door. Iome followed behind him. Rain fell. As droplets blurred past the 
lighted doorway, they glowed briefly like golden ingots. Gaborn could hardly see 
the cottages hunched across the street.
    A bead of sweat trickled down Gaborn's left temple. Iome squeezed his hand, 
tried to comfort him.
    "What's wrong?" Iome asked.
    "I sense...a rising danger," Gaborn said. "I'd hoped my father's Wits might 
help, but I suspect that none of their plans, no matter how cunning they 
seem...can change much."
    "You're keeping me close on purpose," Iome accused. "Do you sense danger 
toward me?"
    "Nothing immediate. But...stay close to me."

     
     
Chapter 5
LOVE FOUND
    Love well and die well. Compared to those two things, everything else you do 
in life pales to insignificance.
    --A proverb of Fleeds
     
    Erin brushed down her mount, fed it some rich miln. It would be a long ride 
tomorrow, heading north to Fleeds and beyond that to South Crowthen. The beast 
needed all the nourishment she could give it.
    She looked forward to the journey, even if she feared that it would lead to 
an unhappy conclusion. Celinor's father sounded dangerous. King Anders was 
plotting against Gaborn, and had concocted some scheme to show that Erin was the 
rightful heir to Mystarria's crown. She suspected that she would have to 
confront the man.
    Outside the stable, cool rain thundered out of the heavens. The scent of it 
hung heavy in the air and mingled with the sweet odor of horses.
    After the battle at Carris, Erin found that she longed for the clean smell 
of rain and horses and the open field. The odor of battle, the decay at Carris, 
the images of men dying, thoughts of her father dead while Raj Ahten walked 
free--all preyed upon her mind.
    She wanted to feel clean again. She wanted to stand in the autumn showers 
and let rain wash over her.
    All evening in the inn, she'd been aware of Prince Celinor, watching her 
slyly every time she looked away. He'd done it on the ride north. He'd done it 
as she sat before the fire dwindling in the hearth.
    He'd won her fair, she knew. Before the battle at Carris, he'd asked her to 
sleep with him if he saved her life. It was a clumsy attempt at courting. They 
were from different lands, with vastly different customs. He had no idea how to 
approach a woman of Fleeds. So she'd conceded to the spirit of his request.
    He'd saved her life twice in battle, though he was too much a gentleman to 
remind her. Still, she could tell that he dwelt on those thoughts. Celinor 
worked on his mount, replacing a shoe on its left front hoof. He did not speak 
to her.
    She went up into the stable's loft. The straw there was warm, fragrant, and 
comforting. The roof didn't leak. It kept the straw dry.
    The stableboy had brought the Wits' mounts in for the night. He finished 
feeding them and brushing them, then went home to sleep at last. She was alone 
with Celinor.
    Celinor finished shoeing his charger. He went to the tack room to oil the 
leather of his saddle and bridle.
    Erin crept up behind him, found a fine leather lead rope.
    She slipped her rope over Celinor's neck. He stiffened at its touch. She 
whispered, "Come with me."
    "What?"
    She said no more, simply pulled the rope tight and laid it over her 
shoulder, guiding him toward the loft.
    "Where are we going?" he asked. "What is the rope for?"
    "In ancient times," Erin said, "the horsesisters would claim a husband in 
the same way they would claim a foal. They'd tie him up and take him to the 
corral. It's not often done that way anymore, but I'm a traditional girl."
    "You don't have to do this," Celinor said. "You don't have to sleep with me. 
I mean...I saved your life twice today, but in case you weren't counting, you 
saved me at least as often."
    Erin turned toward him. "So you're thinking that we're even? One deed erases 
another?"
    Celinor nodded. Maybe he had accomplished all that he wanted just by getting 
her attention. Maybe he was just shy.
    "The thing is," Erin whispered, "there are so many ways to save a person's 
life." She couldn't quite express all that she felt. Her dismay at the events of 
the day, her pain at the loss of her father. "I'm not doing this for you. I'm 
doing it for us."
    Celinor studied her thoughtfully. "You would marry me? Now, in the middle of 
this war?"
    "Wars are just things that happen to you," Erin said.
    Celinor stroked her hair, bent to kiss her. Erin leaned into him. "If you 
don't want me," she said, "a fellow can always be slipping from the noose."
    "And what if I want to say yes with all my heart? How does a man marry a 
horsesister of Fleeds?"
    She turned, took the lead rope, and guided him up to the loft where the 
straw was warm and dry.

     
     
Chapter 6
LOVE LOST
    Treasure the memory of good times, and cast away the bad.
    --Adage from Heredon
     
    "I'd like you to meet my father." Borenson's words reverberated in Myrrima's 
mind, and she thought for a moment that he must be mad. "Roland. Roland is his 
name."
    In the guttering light of the little girl's lantern, Myrrima peered at the 
corpse. Surely the dead man at their feet looked very much like Borenson, but he 
was younger by several years. The fellow lay on the ground, staring skyward. A 
gaping wound in his shoulder had been crudely bandaged, but blood blackened his 
tunic everywhere. The girl wiped tears off her face with her sleeve. A cool 
drizzle was falling.
    "Your father?" Myrrima asked.
    "He was a Dedicate," Borenson said. "He gave his metabolism to House Orden. 
For more than twenty years he slept in the Blue Tower. He woke only a week ago. 
I...have never met him before."
    Myrrima nodded, too shocked to speak. Borenson had never met his own father 
until now?
    Borenson's voice was formal and strained, lacking inflection. "It is 
interesting that you can grieve the death of someone you never met. When I was a 
child, I knew that my mother hated me. I used to dream that my father would 
waken, and he'd discover that he had a son. I used to dream that he would save 
me from my mother. Now, it appears that he did indeed come to see me. But I 
could not save him. Ah, well..."
    The knights of Mystarria were said to be harder than stone. They were taught 
to make light of pain and death. It was said that in battle, Borenson's laugh 
unnerved even the strongest men. Now, though Borenson hardly acknowledged his 
torment, Myrrima knew it was ripping him apart.
    Myrrima recalled her mother once telling her that when a strong person spoke 
honestly about his pain, it was often because he could not hold any more, and 
therefore sought to share the burden with others.
    Every expression of consolation that came to Myrrima's mind seemed trite, 
inappropriate. Borenson looked up.
    She'd never seen such pain in a man's eyes. They were bloodshot, and the 
lids were rimmed in red. The eyes themselves looked to be glazed with a yellow 
film. She realized that what she'd thought was rainwater on his face turned out 
to be beads of sweat standing out on his forehead. She remembered the words of 
an old rhyme that children in Heredon sometimes called out during games of 
hide-and-seek.
    Let us go to Derra. Run away. Run away. Let us frolic in pools at Derra, 
Where the madmen play!
    "Can I help?" Myrrima asked.
    He turned away.
    "You're not an easy one to leave behind," Borenson said. His voice was tight 
with emotion.
    "No," Myrrima agreed. "I won't be left behind. I came for you too."
    Myrrima climbed down off her horse, stood over her husband. The air between 
them was so charged that she somehow dared not put an arm around him.
    "It would be better if you go," Borenson said as if to the ground, still 
trembling. "Go back to your home and your sisters and your mother."
    She knew how his deed this past week tormented him. He'd slain King 
Sylvarresta and two thousand Dedicates on the orders of Gaborn's father. For the 
murder of a friend, his mind was filled with torment.
    She couldn't comprehend the anguish of someone who had been forced to slay 
idiots and children--people whose only crime was to love their lord so much that 
they were willing to share their finest attributes with him.
    But now she saw something even darker in his eyes. There was a gulf of 
misery between them that words could not describe.
    "What happened?" she asked as gently as she could.
    "Ah, well," he said solidly. "Nothing much. My father's dead. I found 
Saffira, and now she's dead. Reavers got them both."
    "I know," Myrrima answered. "I saw her body."
    "You should have seen her," Borenson offered, and his eyes suddenly blazed 
as if he beheld her glory in the distance. "She shone like sunlight, and her 
voice was so...beautiful. I thought that surely Raj Ahten would listen."
    For a moment, he fell quiet. Then Borenson looked up at her again and said 
sharply, "Go home! I'm not the man you married. Raj Ahten made sure of that."
    "What?" she asked. His eyes lowered, and Myrrima's gaze went to the oozing 
and crusted blood on his surcoat, there by his thighs. She imagined that he'd 
been stabbed, had taken a gut wound and was slowly dying. "What?"
    "I succeeded in the task Gaborn set for me," Borenson explained. "I 
convinced Saffira to come here. I got her killed. I got us all killed."
    Borenson gripped the handle of his battle-ax and pulled himself to a 
standing position. He wavered for a moment, and Myrrima realized that he was on 
his last legs. Suddenly his complete dispassion made sense: she'd seen the 
wounded here in Carris, sometimes taking ill with gangrene from even the 
slightest scratch. The fell mage's curses made sure of that. Borenson had been 
down in the thick of the battlefield where the curses were strongest.
    And now he stood trembling, with sweat beaded upon his brow and eyes covered 
in film.
    He turned his back, began to hobble painfully away from them in the night, 
still using his battle-ax as a crutch. The rain had begun to fall more 
earnestly, and the cool drops hissed into the dead leaves all around. The little 
girl with the lantern let out a gasping sob. Borenson stumbled and fell in the 
muck there among the dead. He lay unmoving.
    The child let out a shriek, and Myrrima said, "Run and find a healer."
    The girl handed Myrrima a lamp, and Myrrima went to her husband, flipped his 
body over. With her endowments of brawn, it was easily done. Borenson's eyes 
were open to slits, rolled back in a faint. She touched his forehead, and it 
felt as if he were on fire.
    The child didn't run for a healer. Instead, she watched as Myrrima pulled up 
Borenson's surcoat and ring mail, looking for the source of the blood and pus 
that oozed down his legs.
    When she discovered the wound, it was far more horrifying than any that 
she'd imagined. Truly, Borenson was not the man she had married.
    Raj Ahten had made sure that he was a man no more.

     
     
Chapter 7
STORM
    When a storm sings through the trees, one often hears the voices of men far 
off. But those are the songs of the dead. Wise men do not listen.
    --Proverb of Rofehavan
     
    In Mystarria a cold wind sang above the village of Padwalton near the Courts 
of Tide an hour before dawn, shoving clouds through the sky. It stripped the 
brown leaves from the chestnut trees and let them drop on the hillsides to lie 
among the bones of leaves left from the preceding fall.
    The wind moaned through barren branches, and a gust made the laundry hanging 
upon old lady Triptoe's clothesline dance and flutter as if it would come alive, 
while the bucket above her well swung slowly in the breeze.
    A milkmaid felt the wind's prickly touch on her back. She squinted and 
turned to see if something had brushed against her. She drew her cloak tight and 
hurried her cow to the barn.
    Then a finger of wind went skittering along the village street, dancing over 
the dark surface of puddles left from the night's rain.
    It slapped against the door at the Red Stag, then slithered through a crack 
beneath.
    The lady of the inn was just pulling a platter of savories out of the 
oven--lightly toasted crusts stuffed with morel mushrooms in venison and red 
wine. She inhaled the scent as she carried them into the common room to cool, 
then noticed the chill.
    The fire beneath the oven gave the only light in the room, and had kept it 
warm and cozy for the past hour.
    The lady frowned at the draft, turned to see if the door was open.
    In an upstairs room several Runelords lay abed after a hard ride. Word had 
reached them that trouble was brewing in Carris. They were racing from the 
western provinces to the far eastern borders.
    One lord, Baron Beckhurst, lay sleeping soundly when the air brushed his 
neck.
    "Kill the queen," a voice whispered in his ear, "lest Iome's son become 
greater than the father."
    Beckhurst rolled over and his eyes came open. He whispered, "At once, 
milord."
    Without waking his companions, he got up. He briskly dressed in his ring 
mail, and went to the store of weapons that one of his fellow travelers had 
carried.
    He selected a lance, well balanced and of a comfortable heft. Iron bands 
bound it in a dozen places. As he raised it to the sky, he pointed it high. Long 
ago, his mother had taught him a rune of the Air. He drew it with the lance tip, 
and a flickering blue bolt of lightning curled along its length. He grinned, 
rode from the inn.
    The wind traveled on.

     
     
Chapter 8
IGNITING HEAVEN
    After the battle at Engfortd, asked I of gud Sir Gwyllium, "How fared ye 
with yon forcibles?"
    His demeanor became very thoughtful. Said he, "No metier weapon hath man 
devised! Forty-five strong knights cleaved I 'twixt cock's crow and eventide, 
yet weary not. By my beard, such devices shall let courteous men put down every 
barbarity!"
    Then said his wife, "Nay, but with them methinks cruel men shall perfect 
barbarity."
    --On the discovery of forcibles, from the Chronicles of Sir Gwellium of 
Seward, as recorded by his Days
     
    An hour before dawn, the stars above Raj Ahten blazed in a cold sky as if 
intent on igniting heaven. He raced over the Hest Mountains down toward the 
deserts of Indhopal, sweat drenching him, his blood crusting from wounds at his 
knee and chest. His shirt of black scale mail, torn from battle, rang like 
shackles with every step.
    His serpentine trail twisted over the tortuous ridges and through the 
crevasses, curling among black pines that struggled up to bristle like spears 
through cracked rock and a thin crust of snow.
    It was bitterly cold, and Raj Ahten clung to his warhammer. After the rout 
at Carris, reavers had fled blindly in every direction. Twice Raj Ahten had 
stumbled upon the monsters in the woods and brought them down.
    Worse than reavers hunted in these woods. Gaborn had turned many of Raj 
Ahten's own Invincibles against him. A troop of them had ridden over the pass 
recently, leaving hoofprints in the fresh snow.
    So Raj Ahten traveled over paths that horses could not follow, bypassing his 
armies in the mountains.
    Wolves howled in the shadowed pines. They'd caught his blood-scent, and now 
loped behind, trying to match his pace. Raj Ahten could smell his own vital 
fluids, cloying amid the competing scents of snow, ice, stone, and pine.
    He found himself breathing hard; the muscles in his chest were knotted. The 
air so high in the mountains was thin, pricking his lungs like needles.
    His armor seemed suffocating; its metal leeched the warmth from his bones. 
He'd carried it all night, but finally he stripped off his torn shirt of mail 
and threw it down. Black scales broke off and scattered on the snow as if he'd 
tossed a carp against a rock.
    Raj Ahten's stomach clenched from hunger.
    With so many endowments of brawn and stamina to his credit, he should have 
felt vigorous, filled with endless energy.
    He wondered at the strange illness that assailed him. Eleven hours past, 
Binnesman's wylde had attacked him, breaking the ribs in his chest. Perhaps 
they'd not healed properly. All night long, Raj Ahten had felt rising pain--in 
the wounds in his chest, in his muscles, as if he suffered from some wasting 
disease.
    He feared that some Dedicates had died, causing him to lose stamina. But a 
Dedicate's death brought a sudden nausea and a wrenching sense of loss as the 
magical connection severed. He had not felt that.
    Raj Ahten silently stalked over a small rise, and beheld an oddity: half a 
mile ahead, in a shadowed valley, his spy balloon rested in a clearing, a great 
balloon shaped like a graak.
    On the ground beneath it a fire burned, reflecting flames off the snow into 
the silk wings of the graak.
    Some of his men huddled beside the fire brewing tea--his counselor Feykaald, 
along with his flameweavers: Rahjim, Chespot, and Az. The Days that chronicled 
Raj Ahten's life was also in the group.
    Feykaald was old, his gray burnoose pulled up over his head, a black cloak 
wrapped around him like a blanket. The flameweavers wore nothing but loincloths, 
and luxuriated near the blaze. The flames of many fires had long ago licked the 
hair from their brown skins. Their eyes glowed like mirrors, perfectly 
reflecting light from the campfire.
    Raj Ahten's most loyal followers sat quietly, as if awaiting him--or as if 
they were silently summoning him.
    He thrust his warhammer into its scabbard, strode to the camp. "Salaam," he 
said. Peace. The men acknowledged him, each mumbling "Salaam" in turn.
    "Rahjim," Raj Ahten asked the most powerful of the flameweavers, "did you 
see a patrol pass by?"
    "Riders came down the trail just as we landed, judges of the Ah'kellah, led 
by Wuqaz Faharqin. He carried the head of his nephew, Pashtuk, in a bag. He will 
try to raise the Atwaba against you."
    "Troublemaker," Raj Ahten said. "I'm glad that not all of my men follow the 
Earth King."
    Rahjim shrugged. "The Earth King could not Choose me any more than he could 
Choose a water buffalo." Smoke puffed out from his mouth as he spoke.
    Raj Ahten grunted, but merely stood gasping in the campfire's glow, warming 
his hands in its pale smoke. A log crackled; cinders shot into the sky.
    The fire felt good. It burned away the cold and the pain. Flames fanned out 
along the ground, as if to lick him, though no wind blew. He suspected that the 
sorcerers manipulated the flames to his benefit.
    All three flameweavers watched Raj Ahten curiously.
    Rahjim ventured, "O Great Light, do you feel...well?"
    "I feel--" There was no word for it. Raj Ahten felt noticeably weak, frail, 
and disoriented. "I am not myself. I may have lost some endowments."
    Rahjim studied him with that penetrating gaze. Flameweavers were often 
discerning healers, capable of diagnosing a man's most minor ailment.
    "Yes," Rahjim said. "Your light is very dim. Please, breathe the smoke of 
the fire, and blow it out for me."
    Raj Ahten bent low to the fire, inhaled the pine smoke, blew it out slowly. 
The flameweavers studied the way that the smoke moved, traced its path through 
the sky.
    Suddenly Rahjim's eyes widened. He looked to the others as if for 
confirmation, but dared not speak.
    "What is it?" Raj Ahten asked. He wondered if he had contracted some illness 
due to the fell mage's curses.
    "There are changes in you--" Rahjim admitted. "This is no common illness. 
Wizardry is involved--Binnesman's curse. Remember Longmont?"
    "Yes!" Az said, his own eyes wide. "I see it too!"
    "See what?" Raj Ahten demanded.
    Rahjim said, "The Earth Powers are withdrawing from you. That is 
causing...the changes."
    "What changes?" Raj Ahten demanded.
    "You have lost stamina--a single endowment. And one of wit, one of 
brawn...."
    "Only one? It feels like more."
    "You've lost your key endowments," Rahjim said.
    "Key endowments" was a term used by facilitators. It meant the endowments a 
man was born with. Like the keystones in an arch, they held a man together. The 
news was baffling.
    "You are dying," Chespot said plainly. "In some sense, perhaps you are dead 
already."
    "What?" Raj Ahten demanded.
    Raj Ahten had heard of dead men who still breathed, of course. As a child, 
he'd been raised on such tales. Just as a senile man can often mask his 
condition with endowments of wit--effectively remembering much even as his brain 
slowly withered inside his head--a slain Runelord with many endowments of 
stamina could sometimes survive for hours or days in a morbid state.
    "What am I?" Raj Ahten asked, numb.
    Rahjim said, "You...are something that has never been before."
    Chespot eyed him critically. "To live beyond your allotted hour is not a 
small thing. Your life is ended, but the endowments you've taken have not 
returned to those who gave them. You have taken a great step. I believe that you 
are the Sum of All Men. You are eternal."
    Am I? Raj Ahten wondered. For years he had gathered endowments, sought to 
become the Sum of All Men, that mythical creature that could become immortal. 
He'd hoarded the strength, stamina, and wit of thousands of men, and grown in 
might until he felt as if he were one of the Powers, like the Earth or Air.
    Yet Raj Ahten felt diminished. This morbid state was not what he'd sought. 
Chespot was wrong. He did not feel like an eternal power. His senses warned that 
he was failing still--caught like a moth in a web somewhere between life and 
death.
    Raj Ahten's Days asked, "Your Highness, do you recall the precise moment 
that it happened?"
    Raj Ahten scowled. Part of him had died with Saffira. She had been the most 
beautiful and the rarest of flowers.
    And when he had called his Invincibles together and ordered them to help 
destroy Gaborn, they'd fought him instead. It was a grim struggle. He'd emerged 
from the battle only half alive.
    "I don't recall," Raj Ahten lied.
    No one spoke for a long moment.
    The flames from the bonfire spread out low to the ground, fanned toward him. 
Raj Ahten reached out until his right hand was nearly in them. The flame licked 
it, and in such piercing cold he felt no heat, only a warmth that seeped into 
his bones, easing the pain. Its golden curls were like sunlight shining through 
the trees, soft and glorious. The flame-weavers nodded knowingly.
    Az said, "See how the Fire seeks him?"
    Raj Ahten had imagined that the sorcerers moved the flames. Now he watched 
them curl toward him in awe.
    Chespot reassured Raj Ahten. "The Earth Powers withdraw from you. But not 
all who walk upon the face of the Earth need its sustenance. You have served our 
master well in the past. The forests of Aven are ash now, at your command. If 
you feel ill, if you continue to fade, my master will serve you. Step into the 
fire, and let it burn the dross from you. Give yourself to it, and it will 
sustain you."
    Naked desire showed in the flameweaver's face, as if he had craved this 
moment for years.
    The flames of the bonfire crept out further, as if hungrily licking the 
snow.
    Raj Ahten lurched away, stared at his right hand. It did feel better where 
the flames had touched him--as if he had applied a salve.
    Binnesman had warned Raj Ahten that he was under the sway of flame-weavers. 
It was true that they used him for their own ends, just as he used them.
    In abject horror, Raj Ahten realized that a choice lay before him. He could 
continue as he was, wasting away until not even his endowments could save him. 
Or he could step into the fire and lose his humanity, become one of the 
flameweavers.
    He staggered backward, retreated from the campfire out into the snow-field.
    Feykaald and his Days got up and made as if to follow, but Raj Ahten waved 
them off. He wanted to be alone. His heart was racing.
    Rahjim warned, "The fire beckons. It may not always do so."
    Raj Ahten turned and jogged for several minutes, then stopped on a 
switchback and stood panting. He studied the road in the valleys below. It 
twisted among trees and a few miles ahead was lost beneath a thin blanket of 
clouds. Beyond, darkness reigned over the great desert.
    A shadow flitted above the woods, an owl on the hunt. He followed it with 
his eyes until it winged into the stars. To the northeast, a few mountains 
loomed like islands of sand in a sea of mist. It was a beautiful sight.
    The starlight struck the snow-covered ground around him. Trees were black 
streaks against the snow, the wan light draining all color from them.
    Like a face drained of blood, he thought. All of his thoughts revolved 
around death. He closed his gritty eyes, blinking back the image of Saffira 
crushed on the battlefield of Carris, blood trickling down her forehead and from 
her nose.
    She is dead, yet I live on.
    He clenched his teeth, resolved not to mourn. But he could not turn aside 
his thoughts. She'd ridden down this road yesterday. With his endowments of 
scent, he could discern a trace of her jasmine perfume in the air, could smell 
the sweat of her horse. Saffira had died for her courage and compassion.
    Saffira had died. Better if it had been Gaborn.
    "Why?" Raj Ah ten whispered to the Earth. "You could have chosen me to be 
your king. Why not me?"
    He listened, not because he expected an answer, but by habit. Wind sighed 
through the forests below. Nearby, mice rustled beneath a crust of snow in dry 
mountain grasses; the sound would have been inaudible to any other. Nothing 
more.
    Raj Ahten had been raised on tales of men who had cheated death. Hassan the 
Headless was a king who'd lived eighty years ago, and had taken a hundred and 
fourteen endowments of stamina. In a battle, his enemy decapitated him. But just 
as a frog will live on after its head is removed, so did Hassan.
    Hassan's body crawled about and even wrote a message in the sand, begging 
for a merciful death. But his enemy mocked him and put the undead corpse into a 
cage. Raj Ahten's mother said that Hassan had escaped, and at night on the 
desert one could still hear his fingers scratching in the sand as Hassan the 
Headless lurched about, seeking revenge.
    It was a tale to horrify children.
    But Raj Ahten had studied the matter, knew the full tale. Hassan had only 
lost part of his head--from the roof of the mouth up. His body had lived because 
part of the lower brain remained attached. So Hassan had survived for three 
weeks, tormented by hunger and thirst, until he burst with maggots.
    Raj Ahten had performed a similar experiment with a highly endowed assassin 
named Sir Rober of Clythe. Raj Ahten felt convinced that his own endowments 
could keep him alive far longer than most would suspect.
    Now a terrible choice lay before him, but in the end he feared he might not 
have any choice.
    Raj Ahten clutched his fists. Blood raced through his veins. He vowed, 
"Gaborn, the Earth will be mine."
    As Raj Ahten opened his eyes, downhill in the trees he spotted a silvery 
sheen that only his eyes could have detected--the color of heat from a living 
body. A moment of squinting revealed two huge bucks, antlers locked. One was 
already dead, worn from combat. But the living animal could not disengage.
    It happened sometimes in the fall. The big bucks would fight, and their 
antlers would tangle hopelessly, leaving both animals locked in a death grip.
    Even the victor looked only half alive.
    I do not have to choose now, Raj Ahten told himself. I do not have to step 
into the fire and give away my humanity. Hassan had a small fraction of the 
stamina that I do.
    From the misty canyons below, an Imperial stallion came galloping up the 
road. Raj Ahten studied the rider with keen eyes. A desert boy of nine or ten 
rode the huge mount, weaving from fatigue. He was dressed in a white burnoose, 
dark cape, and had his head wrapped in a turban. A message case was tied to the 
pommel of his saddle. The glint of gold embossing identified it as an Imperial 
message case. Raj Ahten knew that he bore ill tidings.
    He stalked back to the fire, beneath the hovering spy balloon.
    The boy whipped his horse as he neared. The stallion eyed the graak-shaped 
balloon, eyes rolling in terror. It danced about, thrusting its ears backward 
and flaring its nostrils. The beast was wet with sweat. Its breath came hard.
    "O Great Light!" the boy cried when he recognized Raj Ahten. "Yesterday at 
dawn, reavers took the blood-metal mines in Kartish! The very Lord of the 
Underworld led them."
    Feykaald gasped. "If the attack was like the one in Carris..."
    Raj Ahten had never fully comprehended how dangerous a reaver horde could 
be. His perfect memory replayed images of the fell mage crouched on Bone Hill, 
her citrine staff pulsing with light, issuing her incantations through scents 
while her minions huddled nearby. Her curses had blasted every living plant, had 
blinded and deafened his troops, had wrung the water from men's flesh.
    The reavers in Kartish could do untold damage. The destruction of crops 
alone would lead to famines throughout all of Indhopal.
    "Everyone went to battle," the boy panted, "except your servants at the 
Palace of Canaries in Om. They're taking your Dedicates north. They sent me--"
    "You say the Lord of the Underworld led them?"
    "Yes," the boy said, eyes growing wide and panicked. "A fell mage, very big. 
No one has ever heard of her like."
    Of course, Raj Ahten realized. The reavers would have sent their best troops 
to Indhopal. It was more populous than Rofehavan, more powerful. Only their most 
fearsome lord would have dared come against him.
    Raj Ahten's course was decided. His people needed him desperately.
    He yanked the boy from the horse, leapt onto its back. "Follow me as you 
can," Raj Ahten shouted at the flameweavers.
    Feykaald looked up at him for orders. Raj Ahten thought swiftly. He felt 
ill, as if his very soul were waning. He needed to be strong. "Go back to 
Carris," he commanded. "Find out what the Earth King has done with my forcibles. 
I'll need them."
    "He will not trust me," Feykaald objected.
    "He will if he believes that you are there against my will," Raj Ahten said. 
He pulled out the gold message case, tossed it to Feykaald. "Tell him of the 
reavers in Kartish. Tell him that the Lord of the Underworld leads them. Say 
that you came to beg him to come to the aid of Indhopal."
    "You think he will come?" Feykaald asked.
    "He will entertain the notion."
    "As you command, O Light of the World," Feykaald said.
    Raj Ahten wheeled the stallion, raced for Kartish.

     
     
Chapter 9
WIZARDBORN
    I don't have a father. Like all Earth Wardens, I was born of the Earth.
    --The wizard Binnesman
     
    As the slow light descended from heaven, spreading across the blasted fields 
thirty miles north of Carris, Myrrima asked Averan, "So, you know nothing more?"
    "I've told you everything," Averan said. She had told how she'd first met 
Roland Borenson, Myrrima's father-in-law, on the way to Carris, along with Baron 
Poll and the green woman. Averan had taken Myrrima up through the time that 
she'd left Roland and Baron Poll, only to be rescued by Myrrima's husband in 
company with Saffira. She told Myrrima how she'd helped Sir Borenson enter 
Carris to hunt for his father.
    Averan could tell that her story hurt Myrrima.
    In the back of the wagon, Sir Borenson slept deeply. A burning fever seemed 
ready to consume him. Myrrima had done all that she could for him last night. 
She'd applied balms from the healers, had poured libations of wine over him and 
whispered incantations to Water. They'd had to stay at Carris at night, for fear 
that they'd meet a reaver in the dark. But Myrrima had fled that foul place with 
her husband at the first crack of dawn, hoping that the king's wizard in 
Balington might heal him.
    A force horse pulled the wagon, and the wheels nearly sang as they spun down 
the road through the deadlands.
    Averan had secured a ride with Myrrima by claiming that she had an "urgent 
message" for the king. But Averan had left out a few details in her story.
    The sun had begun to rise far beyond the oak-covered hills, like a cold red 
eye. Averan squinted at it, then pulled her hooded robe over her face.
    She didn't like the burning sensation that the sun caused. Her skin tingled 
at its touch. Her hands were itching, as if she'd handled poison ivy.
    But she was glad that she wasn't Borenson. Myrrima had pulled up his tunic, 
looked beneath his armor, and Averan had glimpsed how he'd been wounded.
    The wound would have been ghastly under any circumstances, even if it hadn't 
gotten infected. Averan had had no idea that people could do that to one 
another.
    "Myrrima," Averan asked, "when you take the walnuts off a bull, he's called 
a 'steer.' And when you take them off a stallion, he's a gelding. What do you 
call it when they take them off a man?"
    "A eunuch," Myrrima said. "Raj Ahten made a eunuch out of my husband."
    "Oh," Averan said. "That means he can't have babies, right?"
    Myrrima's dark eyes filled with water, and she bit at her lip. After a 
moment she said, "That's right. We can't have babies."
    Averan didn't dare ask another question. It was too painful for Myrrima.
    "I saw how you cried over Roland," Myrrima said.
    "He's dead," Averan said. "Everyone I know is dead: Roland and Brand and my 
mother."
    "I was at Longmont when the wight of Erden Geboren came," Myrrima said. "He 
blew his warhorn, and men who had died that day rose up and joined him on the 
hunt. They were happy, Averan. Death isn't an ending. It's a new beginning. I'm 
sure that Roland is happy, wherever he is."
    Averan said nothing. She couldn't be sure what the dead felt.
    "You didn't know him long," Myrrima said, as if she should feel better 
because of it.
    Averan shook her head. "He said--" She sniffled. "He said he was going to 
petition the duke, so that he could become my father. I've never had a father."
    Myrrima reached out and took Averan's hand. She looked in Averan's eyes and 
said, "If the duke had granted that petition, then I would have been your sister 
in-law." Myrrima squeezed her hand. "I could still use another sister."
    Averan clenched her jaw, and tried to put on a bold face.
    She trembled. Her guts were still cramped and twisted in terror. She'd fed 
on reaver brains last night, but she didn't dare tell Myrrima what she'd done. 
She didn't dare tell a stranger how the reaver's memories now haunted her.
    Averan crawled off the buckboard, in to the wagon, and curled up in the hay. 
The new hay smelled of sweet clover, fescue, and oat straw. She buried her face 
in it, but it could not keep out the memories.
    In her mind's eye, Averan beheld an enormous reaver mage, stalking uphill 
through a windy cave. The image and smells came preternaturally clear, like a 
waking dream, or as if the memory were more real than the life that she lived.
    Averan did not see the scene as a person would. Reavers have no eyes; 
instead, their philia sense life in ways she couldn't understand. To a reaver, 
living animals glowed in the darkness the way that lightning glows.
    Now, Averan recalled the reaver mage glowing, speaking to her in scents. 
"Follow my trail."
    In memory, Averan had no choice but to follow. Yet she felt terrified, and 
knew that she was marching to a place where she didn't want to go. She detected 
scents in the air, the cries of reavers in supreme torment.
    The philia near the One True Master's anus began excreting words, and Averan 
scuttled forward to taste them.
    "Do not fear," the One True Master said. "You smell pain, but you shall not 
be subjected to it. The Blood of the Faithful will be sweet to you."
    The image faded. Averan realized that she'd blacked out.
    She must have slept for a few minutes, because her eyes felt more rested. 
But her stomach still hurt from eating so much. She clutched it.
    Averan fought a dull sense of panic. She remembered snatches of what had 
happened next. She recalled forcibles and an incantation.
    The One True Master had given her servant an endowment. But Averan couldn't 
figure out exactly which. Averan hadn't been able to eat much of the monster's 
brains--not even a tenth of them. She didn't know all that the mage had known, 
couldn't make much sense of most of the reaver's thoughts and memories.
    And it was the things that she didn't know that scared Averan most.
    She tried not to fret, held an image of the reaver in her mind, wondered why 
the reavers saw living creatures as if they glowed like lightning. Averan 
supposed that it was because there is lightning inside of people. On warm summer 
nights when clouds used to roll low over the graak's aerie at Keep Haberd, she'd 
pull off her wool blanket and see small flashes of light against her skin. 
Beastmaster Brand had said that it was because there was lightning inside her.
    Averan lay down next to Sir Borenson and rested her head on her hand. She 
noticed some pale green things--roots--woven into her robe.
    She pulled a couple off, threw them into the hay. It had been raining all 
night, so her robe had been wet and then gotten covered in seeds.
    Now the seeds were sprouting. They were everywhere in her robe, like little 
green worms. She decided to pick them out later.
    The wagon passed under a tree, and Averan saw the shadows of leaves. She 
took a deep breath, inhaled the scent of fields and hills.
    She sat up excitedly. They'd left the deadlands! Her head still ached. She 
squinted in the sunlight, pulled her robe close.
    After a night of storm, the sun had surged into the sky, hurling splintered 
shafts of silver through broken clouds to dash against the emerald hillsides. 
The roosters at a nearby cottage celebrated by crowing as if it were the first 
sunrise in a month, and the whole land was filled with the cries of larks and 
the peeping of sparrows from under every bush.
    To her left the round hills seemed to bow to the mountains. The night's rain 
had soaked into summer-dried grass and left the land smelling drenched and new. 
The leaves of maples and alders turning on the lower slopes made them shimmer in 
shades of scarlet, russet, and gold.
    To the right, a silver stream wound through a stand of alders. White ducks 
gabbled as they fed along the stream banks downhill.
    Ahead lay a village with thatch-roofed cottages squatting by the road. 
Honeysuckle and ivy trailed over the garden walls.
    Everything here seemed so alive--everything but Sir Borenson. He had gone 
from pale to a feverish red. Sweat streamed from his forehead.
    "Where are we?" Averan asked.
    "Balington," Myrrima said. "You've been asleep for more than an hour."
    Averan looked at the cottages. Yesterday, she'd been able to sense Gaborn's 
presence in battle. She'd seen the Earth King as a green flame that stood before 
her even when she closed her eyes. The Earth King was supposed to be here.
    Now, she reached out with her feelings, tried to discern his location. But 
the flame had gone.
    Still, there was something about Balington. She felt a power here, old and 
immense. She could not detect its center, could not tell if it meant her well or 
ill. She felt as if she were riding toward her destiny.
    They drove into the village, past forty fine horses that stood all blanketed 
and barded outside the stables. Averan spotted a wagon there with several burly 
guards hovering nearby--keeping watch over the king's treasure. It looked as if 
the king were getting ready to ride.
    A village boy in leather pants, green smock, and feathered cap led a milk 
cow along the road. Cream leaked from her swollen udders.
    Myrrima stopped long enough to ask the lad, "Where's the king's wizard?"
    "Round the back," he said, pointing toward the inn.
    Myrrima drove the wagon to the back of the inn. She skirted a stone fence 
covered in jasmine and golden hop vines until she reached a wooden gate. She 
climbed down, unlatched it.
    "Are you coming?" Myrrima asked. "You said you had a message for the king's 
ears only."
    Now that she was here, Averan felt uneasy about the ruse. She feared that if 
she told Gaborn her story, he would think her mad. A dull pain throbbed at the 
base of her skull.
    She summoned her courage. "I'm coming."
    She hopped out of the wagon on stiff legs and entered the garden gate. Brown 
and white pigeons strutted atop the thatch of a dovecote, cooing softly. A gray 
squirrel went leaping up a nearby cherry tree, its tail floating behind.
    Gaborn's Days stood at the top of the garden in a patch of sunlight. The 
skeletal scholar, with his close-cut hair and rust-colored robes, stood quietly 
with his hands clasped behind his back, merely observing.
    The king himself sat on a stone beneath an almond tree in the midst of the 
garden. He wore a shirt of ring mail, as if for battle. Sweat darkened the 
quilted tunic beneath his arms, as if he had been doing heavy labor. But he 
merely talked. At least thirty knights surrounded him, all sitting on the grass 
in their finely burnished armor, the young squires with their bowl haircuts and 
rougher clothes lounging in the shadows beyond. Most of the lords hailed from 
Mystarria, but she saw some blank shields, and even a pair of Invincibles who 
had ripped off their surcoats so that they no longer wore the gold and crimson 
of Raj Ahten.
    Gaborn sat with his back straight and chin high, engaged in light 
conversation. The queen sat at his feet, in a robe as softly yellow as a rose.
    Averan saw no sign of the wizard that Myrrima was seeking. Indeed, Myrrima 
whispered a question to a lord, and he nodded toward the inn.
    Myrrima hurried back out of the garden, and Averan just stood a moment, too 
nervous to speak.
    Some minor noble was saying, "There's tales going around Carris that a 
certain commoner, a fellow named Waggit, killed nine reavers in battle."
    "Nine?" several men guffawed in disbelief.
    "No man who survived Carris should ever be called common," Gaborn said. "And 
if the tales be true, I'm tempted to have this Waggit knighted and placed in my 
personal guard. What do you know of him?"
    "He works in the mines at Silverdale," the lord said. "I hear he's 
somewhat...well, he's simple."
    "A fool killed nine reavers?" Gaborn asked in disbelief.
    "With a pickax, no less," Lord Bowen confirmed. "The bards at Carris are 
already singing about it. I'd have brought the man to your attention sooner, but 
given his incapacity..."
    "By the Powers, I would that all men were such fools!" Gaborn swore. "I'll 
have him in my guard!"
    The knights laughed, and Averan found herself smiling at the jest too. 
Gaborn could only make the man a guard if he cured him of his idiocy, and the 
only way to do that would be to have him take an endowment of wit from someone 
who was whole. Surely Gaborn would not waste a forcible on a fool, for in curing 
one fool, it would only make another--and at great cost to the kingdom. For the 
forcibles used in the endowment ceremony were made of metal that was far rarer 
than gold.
    She hadn't known what to expect of Gaborn. She normally dealt with old 
wrinkled dukes and barons. But Gaborn was not some pompous lord trying to 
impress people with his ten endowments of glamour. Instead he was a strong, 
lanky youth with dark hair and piercing blue eyes.
    She'd expected that the Earth King would be grim and stern, full of himself. 
But Gaborn did his best to fit in, to cheer the men around him.
    Averan decided that she liked him in spite of the fact that she knew that 
something was wrong.
    An unlikely pair of warriors got off the ground. One of them she recognized 
from his tunic. He wore the colors of South Crowthen, and could only be Anders's 
son, Celinor. The other was a young horsesister from Fleeds.
    "Milord," Celinor said. "We'll be leaving now, if we may."
    Gaborn looked thoughtful. "I...sense no immediate danger."
    The queen blurted an old blessing out of Fleeds: "Erin, Celinor--may the 
Glories ride before you while the Bright Ones blaze at your back."
    "And with you, My Queen," the horsesister said.
    Gaborn turned his gaze toward Averan's direction, caught her eye. Everyone 
fell silent, watched her expectantly. She still wore the robe of a skyrider. 
Averan could tell by Gaborn's tone that he feared that she carried dire news.
    "Well?" the king asked in a kindly tone. "Do you have a message?"
    Averan stammered, couldn't think how to start.
    "Have...have you forgotten the message?" Gaborn asked kindly.
    "I..." Averan didn't know what to say.
    "Spit it out, child," Gaborn's counselor said.
    Averan found herself babbling, trying to explain all that she'd learned: "A 
green woman fell from the sky, and her blood got on me, and ever since then, 
everything is so strange. I ate a reaver's brain. I can remember things--the way 
a reaver sees and smells and thinks. I know what they know. In the Underworld, 
there's a fell mage. She's called the One True Master. She's the one who sent 
the reavers to Carris. You didn't beat her--"
    Around Gaborn, knights and lords stared at Averan, dumbfounded. One lord 
blurted, "Where did this child come from? I didn't see a graak fly in. What is 
she saying?"
    Averan knew that she wasn't making much sense.
    Another knight said, "She's gone mad." He got up and started to walk toward 
her.
    Averan shouted, "No!"
    Gaborn raised his hands, warning the lords back. He looked at her sharply. 
"You say you ate a reaver's brain and learned what it knew?"
    "Yes," Averan said. "I ate the brain from the fell mage you slew. I know 
what it knows. She came to destroy all the blood metal beneath Carris, so that 
she could hurt us. But--in my visions I remember the screams of reavers. They've 
learned how to take endowments too."
    Gaborn hesitated a moment. He seemed pensive, thoughtful. Ages ago, mankind 
had developed their rune lore in an effort to mimic the way that reavers gained 
strength by eating the glands of their dead, or learned by eating the brains of 
their dead. But this was the first time anyone had discovered that reavers had 
learned to take endowments from their own.
    "Tell me," Gaborn asked. "Do you know anything about the Place of Bones?"
    "Yes!" Averan shouted. "That's what the reavers call the throne where the 
One True Master rules, among the bones of the enemies she's eaten! It's in the 
Underworld, near the burning stones."
    The queen let out a yelp of surprise and alarm, and climbed to her feet.
    "Can you tell me the way?" Gaborn asked.
    Averan stood dumbfounded. She recalled bits of the journey, flashes of 
images of reavers marching up through twisting caverns in the Underworld. But 
they were just snatches of images--a long march through dangerous territory 
where the great worms lived, the hot vents near caves of fire. There were cliffs 
and ledges that no man could scale, and the trail went past tunnels that led to 
the wilds. She couldn't describe it.
    "There is a trail," Averan said. "I...don't know how to get there. The trail 
is long and twisted, and no commoner could ever make it. Even for a reaver, the 
trail was terribly har--"
    "But there is a trail, one that a bold man might follow?" Gaborn urged 
hopefully.
    "Yes," Averan said. "But there are millions of tunnels down there. There are 
hundreds of reaver hives, each with a thousand passages. You--you could waste a 
lifetime looking for the hive of the One True Master. Even if you found it, 
finding her would be another matter!"
    Gaborn's eyes seemed to bore right into her. She knew what he was thinking. 
He wanted to go into the Underworld. But Averan didn't know the way.
    "What's going on here?" someone demanded.
    She turned. A wizard stood at the head of the garden in russet robes. He 
seemed to be a kindly looking man, with a weathered face and skin that was just 
a tad too green. His eyes were as clear blue as a summer's day. His hair might 
have once been the color of chestnuts, but now gray streaked through it. His 
cheeks were as ruddy as sandstone, and the hair of his beard grew thicker at the 
base than at the tips. His strange robe looked to be woven of reddish roots.
    Averan had never seen anyone like the wizard before. Yet everything about 
him seemed familiar. She had never met her father. By all accounts, reavers ate 
him while she was an infant. But she looked upon the wizard and wondered if 
perhaps everyone had lied. Perhaps this man was her father.
    The wizard stared at her with a gaze so intense that it could have bored 
holes through a millstone. She sensed power in him, a power older than the 
hills, stronger than iron.
    Behind him stood Myrrima and the green woman who had fallen from the sky.
    "Averan!" the green woman called.
    The wizard strode forward, his robes swishing in the silence that suddenly 
seemed to descend upon the garden. The green woman followed.
    He stopped a moment, glanced down at the pale roots sprouting in Averan's 
coat. "Here, child," Binnesman said gently, "show me your hands."
    Averan held out her hands, opened them wide. Her palms itched more than 
before. Yesterday shapeless green blobs showed on her palms. The green woman's 
blood had seemed to be seeping below her skin.
    Now, to her surprise, each palm bore a dark-green image that had enlarged 
overnight. For the all world, on each hand, it looked as if she had tattoos of 
oak leaves.
    Binnesman smiled, then touched each palm. Immediately the itching eased, and 
the dull ache at the base of her skull went away.
    One of the king's counselors, an old fellow with silver hair, gaped at her 
hands and said in astonishment, "She's wizardborn!"

     
     
Chapter 10
STRANGE TIDINGS
    If you listen closely, you'll learn as much from your child as it does from 
you.
    --Adage from Heredon
     
    Iome stared at Averan, heart pounding. Such a small, frail-looking girl, 
Iome thought. Yet she appeared like a portent of doom.
    Iome had thought her husband mistaken. She'd suspected that the Place of 
Bones existed only in his imagination, that he'd been unable to accept the 
Earth's rejection.
    Now she feared that he would coerce this innocent child into leading him 
into the Underworld to battle this One True Master.
    Binnesman leaned over the girl. Wizardborn. Jerimas's pronouncement hung in 
the air.
    "Not merely wizardborn," Binnesman said. "She's an Earth Warden--the 
apprentice I've long awaited."
    Binnesman held the girl's hands and smiled at her gently. His soft voice, 
his warm touch, all were meant to comfort her. But Iome sensed by his rigid 
stance and the way that he refused to meet the child's eyes that the wizard was 
at war with himself.
    "Let us not speak in the open daylight," Binnesman said. "Come inside with 
me."
    He took the girl's hand and led her to the common room of the inn. Every 
lord in the place followed, until there was no room around the bar where Averan 
sat, and men crowded the doorway.
    Once he had her sitting on the bar, Binnesman asked easily, "Tell me, child, 
is Averan your name?"
    The girl nodded.
    "How did my wylde know?"
    "I was riding my graak and I saw her fall from the sky. I landed, and tried 
to help, and her blood got on me. She came north with me to Carris--"
    "Hmmm..." Binnesman muttered. "A strange coincidence, don't you think, that 
I lose a wylde and that you should find it?"
    Averan shrugged.
    "It's more than a coincidence," Binnesman said. "Tell me, what were you 
thinking about when it happened?"
    "I don't remember exactly," Averan said. "I guess...I was hoping that 
someone would come help me."
    "Hmmm...You're a skyrider? You're good with animals, I suspect. Do you like 
animals?"
    "Yes," Averan admitted.
    "Are you good with graaks?"
    "Master Brand said that he thought I was the best that he'd ever seen. He 
was going to make me beastmaster someday."
    "Hmmm..." Binnesman said thoughtfully. "Do you have a favorite animal?"
    Averan shook her head no. "I like them all."
    Binnesman mused for a long moment. "Do you like plants better than animals, 
or rocks?"
    "How could you like a rock more than an animal?" Averan asked.
    "Some people do," Binnesman said. "As for myself, I like plants about as 
much as I do people. When I was a boy, I used to love to walk in the meadows and 
count buttercups, or the number of seeds on a sheaf of wheat. For hours I used 
to study how ivy curls its way up a tree. Sometimes I felt as if I were waiting 
for a revelation. I used to...I would sit and listen for the dry summer grasses 
all tangled with weeds to whisper some cosmic truth.
    "I used to try to think like an oak, and imagine how far the tangled roots 
of an aspen traveled, and wonder what dreams the willow dreamed.
    "Tell me, do you ever do that?"
    "You sound crazy!" Averan blurted.
    Jerimas barked out in laughter, and said, "Now there's a child who speaks 
her mind!"
    "I suppose I do sound crazy," Binnesman admitted. "But everyone has a touch 
of madness, and those who can't admit it are usually farther gone than the rest 
of us. Wizards are, as anyone can tell you, quite demented."
    Averan nodded, as if that sounded reasonable.
    "I love the Earth," Binnesman explained. "And what's more, I know that you 
must love it, too, in your own way. Loving it so much is not bad, or shameful. 
You'll find great power in moving outside yourself. There is power in studying 
the ways of plants and animals and stones. It lies at the heart of the Earth 
Powers.
    "The green in your hands comes because Earth Blood flows through your 
veins."
    "But..." Averan said. "I...it was an accident. I got the green woman's blood 
on me."
    Binnesman shook his head. "No, Earth Blood was inside you all along. It has 
always been a part of you, ever since you were born. You are wizardborn. But 
among us creatures of the Earth, blood calls to blood. That's why I came to the 
garden just a moment ago. I felt you here. What's more, I suspect that you 
summoned my wylde from the sky. And when you touched the green woman's blood, 
you couldn't get it off because it flowed to you. Like was seeking like."
    "I've felt so strange ever since," Averan argued. "I've had...queer new 
powers."
    "You would have developed those powers in time," Binnesman assured her. "The 
extra Earth Blood just speeded the process, heightened your awareness. But I 
assure you, if you had not already been a creature of the Earth, the blood would 
have washed off your hands."
    Iome listened in fascination. She stared hard at the girl. Averan had red 
hair and freckles, and in every way other than the odd tattoos of green on her 
hand seemed a normal child. But she had an intensity to her gaze, a fierceness 
of spirit, and a maturity that Iome would have found surprising in a woman twice 
Averan's age.
    Gaborn ventured a question. "You say that you've developed strange powers. 
Tell me about them."
    Averan glanced up at the men in the inn, as if afraid to speak openly, as if 
afraid that no one would believe her.
    "Go ahead," Binnesman urged.
    "Well, for one thing," Averan said, "I can't sleep very well unless..."
    "You're buried underground?" Binnesman asked.
    Averan nodded bravely. "And the sun hurts me now. Even when it barely 
touches me, I feel like I'm getting a sunburn."
    "I can fix that," Binnesman said. "There are runes of protection from such 
things--spells so potent that they'll almost let you walk through fire. I'll 
teach them to you."
    "And I can feel where food is--like carrots underground, and nuts hidden in 
the grass."
    "That's also a common gift for Earth Wardens," Binnesman said. "The 'Fruits 
of the Forest and of the Field' are all yours to eat. The Earth gives them to 
you freely."
    "And I used to be able to see the Earth King," Averan said. "I could close 
my eyes, and see a green flame, and imagine precisely where he was. But...that 
doesn't work anymore."
    She looked at Gaborn doubtfully. There was no condemnation in her eyes, no 
accusation. But Iome knew that she knew for certain that he had lost his powers.
    "Well," Binnesman said in surprise, "that's one for the books! I've never 
heard of any such power before. But every wizard has his own gifts, to suit his 
own needs. I'm sure that you'll discover more as you grow. Is there anything 
else?"
    "Just the reaver's brains," Averan admitted.
    All the time that this strange little girl had been speaking, several lords 
leaned close, drawn by her peculiar tale. Iome did not notice it consciously 
until one of the lords guffawed, as if unable to believe her.
    "Where did you get the reaver brains?" Binnesman asked.
    Averan pointed up to the green woman. "Spring killed one on the road and 
started eating it, and it smelled so good, I couldn't help myself. Afterward, I 
had strange dreams--dreams that let me see what it was like to be a reaver, to 
think like a reaver and talk like one and see like one."
    "What did you learn?" Jerimas asked.
    "I learned that reavers talk by making smells," Averan said. "The philia on 
their faces let them 'listen' to each other, and the ones above their bungholes 
make smells."
    A skeptical lord crowed, "So you're telling us that they talk out their 
asses?"
    "Yes," Averan said. "In that way, they're not too different from some 
people."
    Jerimas laughed aloud, and said to the lord, "She got you, Dullins."
    But the mocking affected the child. Averan withdrew, and she began to 
tremble just a bit, staring from person to person. "I'm not making this up!" she 
said. "I couldn't make this stuff up."
    Iome knew that she was right about the smells. There had long been a debate 
among lords as to whether reavers emitted any odors at all. Most swore that you 
couldn't smell a reaver. Others believed that they disguised their scent. But 
yesterday, at Carris, the fell mage had sent waves of reeking odors over 
Gaborn's armies, causing terrible damage.
    "I'm not lying," Averan said. "And I'm not crazy. You can't think I'm crazy. 
I don't want to be locked up in a cage, like Corman the Crow."
    "We believe you," Iome said, smiling gently. She'd never heard of Corman the 
Crow. But sometimes there was nothing that could be done with a madman, and such 
unfortunate souls had to be locked away for their own good, in the hope that 
time would cure their minds.
    "I know you're not crazy," Gaborn said. He seemed to want to draw her back 
out of her shell. "So reavers can talk in smells?"
    "And read and write, too."
    Iome felt perplexed. She'd never suspected such a thing.
    "How come we've never seen their writing?" Gaborn said.
    "Because they write with smells. They leave smells written on stones along 
every trail. That's the way that they like to talk best. In fact, it's easier 
for a reaver to write a message than to talk face-to-face."
    "Why?" Gaborn asked.
    Averan struggled to explain. "For a reaver, a word is a smell. Your name and 
your smell are the same thing, so that all a reaver has to do to say 'Gaborn' is 
to make your smell."
    "That sounds simple enough," Gaborn said.
    "It is, and it isn't. Imagine that we are talking, and you said to me, 
'Averan, that's a beautiful pair of rabbit-skin boots you're wearing. Where did 
you get them?' And I said, 'Thank you, I found them by the roadside, and no one 
claimed them. So now they're mine.'
    "When we talk like that, every word goes out of our mouths and stays in the 
air for a moment. Then it fades all by itself. So our words are a line of 
sounds, coming out of us.
    "But with reavers, words don't disappear on their own. All those smells, all 
those words, simply hang in the air--until you erase them."
    "And how is that done?" Binnesman asked. Everyone in Gaborn's retinue 
crowded round Averan, as if she were some great scholar in the House of 
Understanding. They hung on her every word.
    "After I create each scent, I have to make its opposite, the unsent that 
erases it."
    "What...?" Binnesman asked. "You say 'I.' But you mean the reavers?"
    "Yeah, I mean the reavers make the unsent."
    "The scent's negative?" Gaborn asked.
    "Yes," Averan said, uncertainly, as if she'd never heard the word negative 
before.
    "So when I say the word 'Gaborn,' I have to create a scent that says 'not 
Gaborn,' before I speak again. I have to take the word 'Gaborn' from the air.
    "And that can be very hard to do," Averan said. "If I scream the word, if I 
make the scent strongly, I must unscream it too. And the farther away you are, 
the longer it takes for you to get my message. So reavers learn to speak when 
they're close together, to talk softly, to make scents that are so faint, other 
animals can't even smell them. They're just whispers that float in the air."
    "Wait a minute," one lord said. "You say you have to make this word 
disappear. But why couldn't you just make all the scents anyway? You can walk 
into a room and smell carrots and beef and turnips all boiling at the same 
time."
    "You can," Averan said, "but it doesn't mean anything. To a reaver, it would 
just be a jumble of words. Imagine if you took all the words I've said in the 
last two minutes and said them all at once. Could anyone make sense of it?"
    "The reavers must talk slowly, then," Gaborn mused.
    "Not much slower than how you and I are speaking now," Averan said, "at 
least when they're close together. But it's hard to understand each other across 
great distances.
    "So reavers do write," Averan continued, "all the time. If a scout passes 
down a trail, he'll leave messages behind, telling what he sensed on side 
journeys, where he last saw enemies."
    This news astonished Iome and everyone else in the room. For ages men had 
wondered how reavers communicated. Most men assumed that they did it by waving 
their philia about. But Averan's words would profoundly change the way that men 
perceived reavers. The girl knew this, and now seemed to have lost her 
inhibitions.
    "And another thing," Averan said. "Reavers don't see like we do. They can 
only see close by, and they see the world all in one color, but it isn't a 
color. I can't explain it, but it's the color of lightning. Lightning blinds 
them. When it flashes, they feel the way you would if you were staring into the 
sun. It's very painful."
    "You're a brave little girl," Gaborn said. As if she had been waiting for 
his reassurance, Averan's resolve broke. Tears suddenly filled her eyes, and she 
began to sob. "Your tale brings certain questions to mind."
    "What?" Averan asked.
    "For example, can you tell me about the nature and disposition of the 
reavers' troops?"
    Averan stared at him blankly. "Nature?"
    "The reaver armies," Gaborn clarified. "Do you know how many reavers there 
are?"
    Averan shook her head. "I...one of the reavers I ate was a scout. The other 
a mage. I don't know about numbers."
    Gaborn turned back to Averan. "Let me pose it another way. You don't have 
any idea how many reavers there are in the Underworld?"
    Averan seemed to gather herself. She closed her eyes for a long moment and 
said, "The Underworld is full, but the reavers--they can't live just anywhere. 
Food is scarce."
    And we're food, Iome thought. Gaborn glanced back at his counselors. The 
Wits showed little emotion.
    "Your Highness," Averan continued, "I'm scared."
    "Of what?" Gaborn asked softly.
    "The One True Master has unraveled much of the Master Rune. Yesterday, you 
destroyed the Seal of Desolation that her apprentice laid on Carris."
    Gaborn nodded. Gaborn had killed the most powerful reaver mage ever 
mentioned in the tomes. Some small part of Iome had been clinging to the hope 
that Gaborn had already slain the most powerful of all reavers. But this child 
described it as being a mere "apprentice" to a far more powerful master.
    "Tell me about her," Gaborn demanded.
    Iome's glance flicked up to Binnesman. The mage, with his perpetual stoop, 
looked suddenly pale. He leaned on his staff, as if seeking support.
    "In the Underworld," Averan said, "the One True Master is taking endowments. 
And she's giving them to her leaders."
    "Reavers have always been able to eat one another and grow that way," Gaborn 
said. "Are you sure it isn't the same?"
    "This is different," Averan said. "Reavers can eat each other's brains to 
learn. And they can eat the musk glands under their arms to grow. But now 
they've discovered rune lore. She's already deciphered the runes of grace, 
scent, and brawn. Now she's trying to perfect metabolism."
    There was a moment of silence as warriors looked at one another 
meaningfully. Facing reavers was bad enough. Facing one that had endowments of 
metabolism was terrifying.
    "But there's something more," Averan said. "I don't understand it at all. 
The Seal of Desolation that you destroyed, that was part of something bigger. 
She plans to bind a Seal of Desolation to the Seal of Heaven and the Seal of the 
Inferno."
    Binnesman drew back, leaned on his staff for support. "That...that's not 
possible! No one could decipher so much of the Master Rune!"
    "It is possible," Averan said. "I saw the runes taking shape at the Place of 
Bones! You saw the Seal of Desolation--"
    "But," Jerimas blurted, "it has taken mankind thousands of years to decipher 
the shapes of even the smallest of runes--brawn and wit! How could one reaver 
learn so much?"
    "She divines them by looking into the fire," Averan said.
    Binnesman backed away. "By the Tree!" he swore. His face was hard. He looked 
bewildered, as if someone had just bludgeoned him for no apparent reason. "By 
the Tree..." He knew something that Iome didn't, she felt sure. Or perhaps he 
merely suspected something. "You're sure that this One True Master is a reaver, 
not some other creature?"
    "I've seen her," Averan said. "She's enormous, but she's just a reaver."
    Binnesman shook his head, as if he could not believe it. "Not just a 
reaver."
    "You say that she's binding these seals." Gaborn asked Binnesman, "What will 
that do?"
    "She plans to bind the Powers of Fire and Air against us," Binnesman said. 
"Earth and Water would diminish. Life would...change in ways so fundamental, I 
cannot even begin to guess at the repercussions."
    Jerimas concluded, "She'll destroy the world!"
    "No!" Averan said. "She doesn't want to destroy the world--just...change it 
into the kind of place where we can't live anymore."
    "Is that even possible?" Gaborn asked Binnesman.
    Binnesman frowned, stroked his beard. "If she comprehends so many pieces of 
the Master Rune, the world has not seen a creature with such power...."
    "Averan," Gaborn said. "This is imperative. I need to find this One True 
Master. I need to kill her, and I must do it quickly. How can I get to her? You 
say that you can't draw me a map. But you also say that you learn by eating 
reavers. Is there a certain kind of reaver that you need to eat, one who would 
know the way--another scout perhaps, or a howler?"
    Averan looked up at him. Her eyes were filled with an unnamable expression. 
Iome could see a mixture of loathing and embarrassment and a pure desire to 
help. "Maybe!" she said, as if the idea had not occurred to her. "There are 
markings in the Underworld--directions."
    "Directions?" Gaborn said. "So you need to understand their language better? 
Can't you get that from any reaver?"
    Averan shook her head, said in a confused tone, "No. Not all reavers speak 
the same language."
    "What?" Gaborn asked. "Like Rofehavanish and Taifan?"
    Averan tried to explain. "Not like that," Averan said. "But a carpenter 
doesn't speak like a warrior, does he? He has his own words for tools and the 
things he does with them, his own language. Reavers are the same way. They each 
have different jobs. If you're ever going to reach the One True Master, there's 
a certain reaver you need. The reaver...there's no name for it. There's just a 
smell."
    "Does it have any special markings?" Gaborn asked.
    Averan wrinkled her brow. "It's a Waykeeper," she said slowly, as if 
searching for the right description. "It's a Waymaker. It knows where the trails 
in the Underworld lead, and which doors are locked, and how they are guarded."
    "How many of these monsters are traveling with the horde ?"
    "One."
    "Just one?"
    "Yes!" Averan said. A fierce light came into her eyes. "Just one--a big 
male, with thirty-six philia, and huge paws, and runes on his arms. I--I might 
know him if I could see him, and could smell him!"
    Gaborn stepped backward, looked at Iome. His eyes were haunted, his 
expression that of a trapped animal. Iome knew that he was leaving, going 
someplace that she dared not follow.
    "Gentlemen," Gaborn told the knights there in the inn, "prepare your mounts. 
We'll ride for Carris within the hour."

     
     
Chapter 11
A SMALL THING
    Miracles are as common as soapwort seeds and spiderwebs. People tend to 
forget that, until they hear a newborn baby cry.
    --The wizard Binnesman
     
    Binnesman pulled up the gray blanket that covered Sir Borenson, looked 
beneath his tunic, and glanced away, frowning. "He's infected. We'll have to 
bring that fever down."
    He covered Borenson quickly, so passersby would not see, but it was too 
late. Myrrima had come out of the inn to find a couple of squires in the 
wagonbed, already gawking at the wound. She'd shooed them away. But now a number 
of knights that knew Borenson either in person or by reputation had begun to 
gather around the wain, and Myrrima was rapidly finding that nothing attracts a 
crowd like a crowd.
    Borenson lay unconscious amid the sweet-smelling hay. Myrrima felt anxious 
for his welfare. She had seen people die before. She believed that in his 
current state, her husband ought to be able to hang on for another day or two. 
But she still felt nervous. Sometimes, the sick could fool you, die just when 
you thought them recovered.
    Sweat glistened on his face. All around, the lords and squires who had come 
to ride in Gaborn's retinue were preparing for the journey south. Those with 
ready mounts stood in their armor, elbows on the wagon, gazing in. Binnesman had 
Averan and his wylde at his side.
    Binnesman turned to Averan. "Do you know what sweet woodruff looks like?"
    "White flowers?" Averan asked. "Beastmaster Brand used to put the leaves in 
his wine."
    "Good girl," Binnesman said. "I saw some growing under the hedge round back. 
Go and pluck a dozen leaves for me."
    Averan raced off around the inn, while Binnesman went back inside for a 
moment. By now twenty men were standing around the wagon.
    A knight of Mystarria came up, a fellow with a long black moustache that 
flowed over his chin guard. He glanced in the wagon. "Sir Borenson? Wounded?"
    "Aye," a bystander said. "He took the worst of them."
    "Head wound?"
    "Worse--got his walnuts cracked."
    The fellow squirmed, reached over to look under Borenson's tunic.
    "If you want to look," Myrrima said, reaching out to grab his wrist, "it 
will cost you!"
    "Cost me?" the knight asked. He smiled disarmingly. "How much?"
    "An eye," Myrrima said. Around her the crowd erupted into laughter.
    Binnesman came back out of the inn with a bit of creamed honey in a bowl. As 
soon as Averan returned with the small, pale spade-shaped leaves of the sweet 
woodruff, he said, "Now, bruise the leaves by rolling them between your hands."
    Averan rolled the leaves.
    "Put them in the honey."
    She dropped them in.
    Binnesman reached into the pocket of his robe, pulled out a bit of dark 
dried plant stem. "Hyssop," he told Averan. "Always pick it two days after it 
rains, and make sure you use the moldy leaves, down near the roots."
    He crushed the dried leaf, put it in the honey, stirred it with his finger. 
He added a dried leaf of agrimony, the herb that soldiers most often took to 
staunch wounds on the battlefield.
    At that moment, some fellow came up to the back of the crowd and blurted, 
"What's going on?"
    "Borenson has lost his walnuts," a knight said, "and Binnesman's going to 
grow him some new ones."
    Several men snorted in derisive laughter. It was a bad joke, and Myrrima 
didn't laugh.
    "Really, how soon until he can ride again?" the knight teased.
    Binnesman whirled on the crowd. "Is this what we've come to?" he shouted. 
"Do the children of Earth stand here upon sacred ground and mock the Earth?"
    Myrrima felt sure that the knights had meant no disrespect, but Binnesman 
seemed furious. He drew himself to his full height, glowered at the knights, so 
that to the man they began to back away from his challenge. More importantly, 
they all began to back away from the knight who had made the jest, Sir Prenholm 
of Heredon.
    "How dare you!" Binnesman said. "Have you learned nothing in these past few 
days?
    "You could not have withstood the Darkling Glory, but Myrrima here, a woman 
who at the time did not have a single one of the greater endowments of brawn or 
grace or stamina slew it single-handedly.
    "You with all of your endowments could not stand against the reavers at 
Carris--but Gaborn called a worm, a single worm, and routed the whole of the 
reaver horde!
    "How can you doubt the Power I serve? There is nothing broken that cannot be 
mended. There are none who are sick that cannot be healed.
    "The Earth created you. It gives you life from moment to moment. And in this 
hallowed valley, Sir Prenholm, I could plant a stick in the ground and by dawn 
it would grow into a better man than you!"
    Myrrima drew backward, afraid. A green fog had begun to coalesce at the 
wizard's feet, and he radiated power. The air carried a copper tang mingled with 
a scent of moss and old roots.
    Sir Prenholm grew pale, and now stood alone, shaking. "I meant no 
disrespect. It was only a jest."
    Binnesman shouted and pointed at Borenson. "By the Power I serve, I tell you 
that this eunuch can father children still!"
    Myrrima didn't expect such a boon. She didn't even believe it could be done. 
But Prenholm had goaded Binnesman into boasting. Even if Binnesman could restore 
her husband, there was one thing that Myrrima knew: magic carried a price. 
Binnesman's deed would cost.
    The knights and lords stood like scolded children, none daring to speak.
    Binnesman took his bowl of honey and herbs, and swirled it through the green 
fog around his feet, then knelt and mixed a pinch of dirt.
    He glanced at the growing crowd, handed the bowl to Myrrima. "Take this down 
to the river. Kneel and make the rune of healing in the water seven times. Then 
cup your hand in the water and mix it with this concoction. Wash your husband. 
He'll be ready to ride within the hour."
    Then he leaned close and whispered, "But such a grievous wound will take 
longer to heal--if it can be healed at all."
    "Thank you," Myrrima said, her heart hammering. She took the bowl carefully, 
afraid that she might spill it, and laid it on the buckboard.
    She drove the wagon around the corner, along the stone wall of the inn's 
garden, down to where the stream rushed beneath the alders. Their leaves flashed 
gold, and sunlight struck the tree trunks, blazing them silver.
    She stopped in the shadows of the trees. A pair of mallards came up in the 
water, gabbling, begging for a crust of bread. Myrrima pulled off Borenson's 
blanket. She climbed out of the wagon, stood by the water's edge. After the rain 
last night, the golden leaves of the alders lay plastered to the ground. The 
stream flowed freely, gurgling through the rocks. The mallards climbed up on the 
bank near her feet. She knelt over the water and made the rune of healing seven 
times. It was peaceful, such a serene setting for a disturbing day. She felt as 
she made the runes that she should speak some incantation, but knew none. A song 
came to mind, a senseless ditty that she'd composed as a girl when she used to 
scrub her clothes on the washing stones beside the river Dwindell.
    I love water, for water like me
    whether in rain, pools, or puddles, 
    all runs to the sea.
    Tumbling, splashing, foaming through hills,
    giving drink to dry valleys, where deep water stills.
    I love the water, and water loves me.
    I'll drift down the slow river,
    till it joins with the sea.
    She watched the river, the deep pools, hoping that perhaps she'd see the 
dark back of a great sturgeon, swimming in mystic configurations.
    But none came. She cupped the water in her palm, mixed it with the wizard's 
concoction.
    She daubed her fingers with the balm of honey, herbs, dirt, and water, then 
carried it to Borenson and reached beneath his tunic. She gently took his organ 
in her hand, tried to work the mixture over the ragged wound where his walnuts 
had been. She was painfully aware that she had never touched him there before, 
even on her wedding night.
    In his sleep, Borenson winced in pain. He grimaced and pounded his hand into 
the hay.
    "I'm sorry," Myrrima said, but she did not spare him the medicine. Nothing 
good comes without a price, even healing.
    When she finished, he groaned deeply, and called out, "Saffira?" He raised 
one hand in the air, like a claw, as if to grasp her.
    Myrrima found herself shaking. Binnesman's concoction might heal a wound of 
the flesh, she realized, but can it heal wounds of the heart?
    Sweat was pouring off Borenson, and his face was flushed. Regardless of 
Binnesman's promise, she suspected that it would take hours until he regained 
consciousness.
    She turned, knelt by the water. The morning sun winked through the leaves. 
It seemed pleasantly warm. She decided to keep a vigil throughout the day.
    She stood silently grieving for what seemed like long minutes. With her 
endowments of metabolism, it was easy to lose track of time, to have it stretch 
out of all proportion.
    The riders in town were mounting their horses when she heard her husband 
gasp. She climbed up, looked over the wagon. He'd wakened.
    Outwardly there was little change in his appearance. Beads of sweat had 
sprung up on his brow, and the armpits in his tunic were drenched. His eyes 
still looked yellow and filmed, and his face was pallid. His lips were blistered 
from fever. He gazed up at the trees, at the sky.
    "You're looking a little better," Myrrima lied. "Do you feel better?"
    "I've never felt worse," he said with a dry throat. She unslung her 
waterskin, forced a dribble down his throat. He drank weakly, pushed it away. 
"What are you doing?"
    "Trying to save you," Myrrima said. "You're lucky you didn't take sick and 
die."
    He closed his eyes painfully, shook his head. The tiny gesture spoke 
volumes. He didn't want to live.
    Myrrima held silent for a moment. She felt as if she were trying to pound 
through his armor, get at the soft flesh underneath. She let him sit for a 
moment, and asked in a softer voice, "Why? You knew you were infected, and you 
merely walked away. Why?"
    "You don't want to know," Borenson said.
    "I do."
    He opened his eyes to slits, studied her dispassionately. "I don't love you. 
I...can't love you."
    Myrrima felt stung by the words. Her heart suddenly pounded, and she fought 
to control her tone. She knew vaguely what he'd been through. She'd seen the 
light in his eyes when he spoke of Saffira. She'd seen him call for her in his 
sleep. She knew that with her endowments of glamour, Saffira would have been 
irresistible to a man. And Raj Ahten had castrated her husband. "Did you bed 
her?" Myrrima tried to keep the pain and anger from her voice. "Is that why Raj 
Ahten took your walnuts?"
    "What is it to you?" Borenson demanded.
    "I'm your wife."
    "Not--" he began to say. Borenson shook his head. "I never touched her. No 
man could have touched her. She was too beautiful..."
    "You don't know what love is," Myrrima said with finality.
    For a moment, neither of them spoke. "I knew it would hurt if you found 
out," Borenson said.
    Myrrima could think of nothing to say for a long moment. "I'm your wife, 
still," Myrrima said. She could see his torment but felt incapable of reaching 
him. Raj Ahten had done so much to hurt him. "Why didn't he just kill you?"
    Borenson groaned, pushed himself up in the straw. "I don't know. Raj Ahten 
doesn't usually make strategic mistakes."
    There was anger in his tone, suppressed rage. Myrrima liked that. If he was 
angry, at least it gave him something to live for.
    Myrrima heard the scuffing of a footstep, looked up.
    Gaborn strode down the road, his face clouded with concern. Iome followed at 
his side, and appeared more shocked at Borenson's injury than anything else.
    Gaborn came straight to the wain. "How are you feeling?"
    Borenson responded in a tired voice, "Fine, milord. And you?" The tone of 
sarcasm was impossible to miss.
    Gaborn reached down, touched Borenson's forehead. "Your fever has broken."
    "I'm glad that's all that is broken," Borenson said.
    Gaborn said, "I...came to thank you, for all of your efforts. You've given 
much for Mystarria."
    "Only my conscience, the lives of my Dedicates, and my walnuts," Borenson 
said. He was still unaware of the spell that the wizard had cast on him, the 
hope of regeneration. He spoke from his pain. "Is there anything else you'd 
like, sire?"
    "Peace and health for you and your kin," Gaborn said, "and a land without 
war, where men have never heard of Raj Ahten or reavers or the Darkling Glory."
    "May you have your wishes," Borenson said.
    Gaborn sighed. "There are forcibles to help speed your recovery, if you want 
them."
    A look of pain clouded Borenson's eyes. He looked hurt, broken. "How many 
can you spare me?"
    "How many will you want?"
    "Enough to kill Raj Ahten," Borenson said. "It's true that he's still 
alive?"
    Gaborn did not hesitate. "I can't give you so many." Now there was pain in 
Gaborn's eyes. He wanted to give in to rage, he wanted Borenson to get his 
vengeance. If any man deserved it, Borenson did. He'd been forced to kill 
children that Raj Ahten seduced to be his Dedicates. He'd been forced to slay 
even men that he called friends. Raj Ahten had ripped away his manhood.
    Borenson painfully pulled himself up to the side of the wagon, as if to 
prove his resolve. "I was the best guardsman in your father's service. If there 
is any man alive who can take him--"
    "I can't," Gaborn said. "You can't. The Earth Spirit forbids it. For the 
sake of us all--"
    "Yet you came here to seek a favor of me," Borenson said. "I can tell by 
that look on your face. And you're offering forcibles...."
    "A hundred of them," Gaborn said. "No more."
    That was a lot of forcibles, more than twice the number of endowments that 
Borenson had had before.
    Iome took Myrrima's arm, drew her away so that the two men could barter 
alone.
    "What's happening?" Myrrima asked.
    "Gaborn needs your husband to deliver a message to King Zandaros, suing for 
peace. It's a great deal to ask on the heels of what has happened."
    "I see," Myrrima said. She knew that Borenson would carry the message. Eight 
days ago he had vowed to go to Inkarra to search for the legendary Daylan 
Hammer, the Sum of All Men, in hopes of learning how to defeat the reavers and 
Raj Ahten. He'd planned to go in secret, sneaking into the land, for the borders 
of Inkarra had been closed to the men of Rofehavan for decades.
    But Myrrima could immediately see how carrying the message might work to 
their benefit. If Borenson could persuade Zandaros that it was in his best 
interest to ally himself with Mystarria, Zandaros might even help them find 
Daylan Hammer. Even if he couldn't persuade Zandaros, at least delivering the 
message would give Borenson a pretext for crossing the border.
    "Where will he get the Dedicates?" Myrrima asked as they strolled to the 
banks of the river.
    "There is a facilitator at Carris," Iome said. "Your husband can take 
endowments there."
    "The city is in ruins," Myrrima objected. "Are you sure it would be safe? 
The mage's curses are so thick in the air that illnesses are breaking out 
everywhere!"
    "He'll have to forgo taking stamina for a bit, but Batenne is along the way. 
Gaborn assures me that your husband can get endowments there."
    Myrrima paused. She'd never seen a map of Mystarria, had no idea where 
Batenne lay, though the name was familiar. It was a sprawling city in the far 
south, in the wine country along the borders of the Alcairs. Wealthy lords and 
ladies often wintered there.
    Iome asked, "Will you be going with him?"
    "If he'll have me. I guess...even if he won't."
    "Of course he'll want you at his side," Iome said. She had such childlike 
confidence that he would.
    Myrrima squeezed Iome's hands, said nothing for a long moment. She asked, 
"How do you do it? How do you love so easily?"
    The question seemed to catch Iome by surprise.
    "I see it in your eyes," Myrrima said. "I saw it when you looked at your 
servants. I see it when you look at me. There is nothing feigned about it. Yet I 
am married to a man who says that he does not love me, and I believe him. He 
will not even try to feign it."
    "I don't know," Iome said. "Love isn't something that you feel. It's 
something you give."
    "Doesn't it tear you apart, to give yourself away like that?"
    "Sometimes," Iome admitted. "But if someone loves you in return, it makes 
the occasional hurt all worthwhile."
    Myrrima wondered at the conversation. Everywhere she looked, wars were 
breaking out. Yet she worried about love. She felt guilty even talking to Iome 
about it. But life without love would be so cold and empty it would be a kind of 
death all its own.
    "I guess," Iome continued, "I learned to love from my father. He cared for 
all of his people equally. If he thought a man to be lazy or vile, he didn't 
hate the man or condemn him. He thought that men could cure their every vice, if 
they just sought to change. And he was sure that if you showed a man enough 
kindness, he'd desire to change."
    Myrrima laughed. "If only the differences between men could be settled so 
easily."
    "But you see my point? If you want love, you must first give it."
    "I don't think that my husband knows how to love."
    "You'll have to teach him," Iome said. Her face was full of concern. 
"Always, you have to set the clear example. Not everyone learns how to give love 
easily. I've heard that for some, learning to love can be all but impossible. 
They keep their feelings hidden away beneath a coat of armor."
    Only moments ago, Myrrima had been thinking the same thing--that she felt as 
if she were trying to pierce her husband's armor. Myrrima shook her head. "He's 
so full of self-loathing. How do you prove your love to a man who refuses to see 
it, or to believe it?"
    "You married him," Iome said. "That should give him some hint."
    "The marriage was all but arranged."
    "You're going with him to Inkarra. He can't fail to see that."
    Myrrima shook her head in bafflement.
    "Maybe he'll learn to love you when he can love himself," Iome said. "He's 
making great changes, great strides. He's given up his position in life, lost 
his endowments. Locked inside the warrior's coat of mail, a fine man is 
struggling to get out. Help him discover that."
    Suddenly Borenson made sense to Myrrima. Iome was telling her that he did 
not know how to love because he'd never been truly loved.
    She'd heard much about him, about his reputation for being a man who grimly 
faced the worst challenges, who laughed in battle. Of course he would laugh in 
battle. Death meant little to him. It would only bring a release from his pain.
    Up on the road, Gaborn's troops were mounted and preparing to leave. Gaborn 
called out to Iome, "Ready?"
    Iome clenched Myrrima's hands, then strode swiftly uphill to join her 
husband.
    Myrrima headed back toward the wagon to check on Borenson.
    "He wants me to take a message to King Zandaros," Borenson said as she 
approached. "When I'm ready to ride."
    "Will you?"
    "When I can ride." He winced in pain at the very thought.
    "There's something I must say," Myrrima offered. "I know that you say you 
don't love me. But I'm still your wife, and perhaps it is enough that I love 
you."
    He lay silently for a long time, and Myrrima simply touched his hand.
    After a while, he reached down under his tunic, felt his groin wound. A 
mystified expression crossed his face.
    "What's the matter?" Myrrima asked. "Are you less of a man than you thought 
you were, or more?" He kept prodding himself, unable to comprehend what had 
happened. "Binnesman treated you," Myrrima explained. "He says that you'll be 
ready to ride within the hour. In time, you may recover completely."
    The look of wonder and relief on his face warmed her heart. For a moment, he 
seemed at a loss for words, unwilling to trust his good fortune. At last 
Borenson teased in a guarded voice, "If that wizard can grow new walnuts on me, 
I'll drag him to the nearest inn and buy him a pint of ale."
    Myrrima smiled warmly and shot back, "A pint of ale? Is that all that 
they're worth to you?"

     
     
Chapter 12
THE FACE OF THE EARTH KING
    Every man is born with ten thousand faces, but he reveals them to the world 
only one at a time.
    --Torin Belassi, on the "Art of Mimicry"
     
    Gaborn and Iome went to their mounts in the stables, and Iome held silent 
for a long moment. She could tell that Borenson's bitter words had upset Gaborn. 
Borenson had always been open with Gaborn, and Iome thought them to be as close 
as brothers.
    "He will heal," Iome said as they strolled into the stable. "Binnesman 
promised."
    Gaborn shook his head. "No, I think not. Not really. We've used him badly. 
He's angry at Raj Ahten, angry at me. And he's suspicious. Zandaros is not 
likely to offer any concessions just because I send a friend as an ambassador. I 
might well be sending Borenson to his death."
    Iome bit her lower lip, troubled by what Gaborn said. Zandaros had cut off 
contact with Mystarria before Gaborn was ever born, and he'd sent an assassin to 
kill Gaborn. Zandaros sounded dangerous, but Iome knew that Inkarra was a 
strange land, with customs all its own.
    "Are you sure you want Borenson to speak to King Zandaros?" Iome asked. 
"Zandaros's nephew seemed to think that the Storm King would favor me--and I am 
your closest relation."
    Iome tried to make the offer sound as casual as possible. She did not want 
to go. It would be a long, hard journey to an unforeseeable end, and she would 
be risking her life as well as that of the son growing in her womb.
    Gaborn shook his head. "No. Not you."
    She glanced up at his face. His gaze was directed inward.
    They entered the stable, found their mounts to be well fed. The horses' 
manes and tails were plaited, and the beasts had been washed and combed. 
Gaborn's horse wore barding that had been brought from Carris during the night. 
The beast's armor gleamed like silver. The chaffron on its head had a twisted 
horn that spiraled up, and the plate mail on the horse's chest and flanks was 
burnished. Beneath its armor was a quilt covered in white silk. It looked like 
some marvelous beast that had walked out of the clouds.
    The lords in Carris wanted Gaborn to make a grand entrance, a triumphal 
entry to lift the spirits of his people. Iome and his Wits thought it expedient. 
Paldane's old chancellor, Galantine, had sent a message warning that rumors in 
Carris had begun to spread, to the effect that Gaborn had been slain in battle. 
"It would ease the people's minds," he said, "if Gaborn would come."
    So Gaborn would parade once around the city, but only because he needed to 
pass by on his way to battle.
    The reavers would be racing south over the open plains today, and he planned 
to lead his men against them. He needed Averan's help in finding the Waymaker.
    All through the night, he had huddled with his counselors, plotting the 
deed. Reports from Skalbairn came in hourly. The reavers had dug into burrows 
once it got cold, and by dawn they had still not stirred.
    The night's storm had similarly delayed Gaborn's departure from Balington. 
He dared not send warriors racing on force horses in the dark, over roads that 
had turned to mud.
    Thus, though the weather slowed Gaborn, it had stymied the reavers 
completely. The reavers had traveled only forty miles in the length of the 
night. This gave Gaborn a great advantage.
    He'd sent to castles in his lands south of the Brace Mountains and ordered 
lances, ballistas, and food delivered close to the reavers' trail.
    In the early hours of the morning, messengers brought more good news: the 
rain had almost completely bypassed everything south of the Brace Mountains.
    The fields would be dry--perfect for a cavalry charge.
    Once Gaborn had felt as ready as he could be to face the reavers, he'd 
consulted with his counselors and drawn up missives to send to kings throughout 
Rofehavan.
    Long through the night, he'd acted on matters both monumental and mundane. 
He'd drafted plans for the evacuation of Carris, and for sending the Indhopalese 
troops to help defend his castles to the north. He'd sent bribes to various 
lords, including an offer to hire mercenaries out of Internook to protect his 
coast.
    Another messenger, one from Heredon, brought astonishing information: Gaborn 
had offered aid in putting down the reaver horde that had arisen there. But the 
Iron King sent back a curt missive declining his offer. The courier himself had 
heard news that the Iron King had easily defeated the reaver horde.
    The reavers had surfaced on the northern coast and marched south along the 
seashore. A lucky ballista shot from a ship slew the fell mage that led the 
horde. Her followers immediately retreated.
    Now Gaborn was ready to ride for Carris.
    Gaborn and Iome mounted their chargers, rode out of the stable. Six young 
heralds, all dressed in the blue of House Orden with the symbol of the green man 
upon their surcoats, rode before the entourage. All six heralds had long blond 
hair, and bore golden trumpets.
    Following them, a seventh young man would bear the king's standard.
    A wain had pulled up outside, and the knights in Gaborn's retinue each took 
a long white lance from it, and held it high, so that the lances bristled 
overhead like spines.
    The knights themselves were a mixed bunch, wearing colors from half a dozen 
kingdoms, to signify that Gaborn was not the lord of one land only, but of the 
whole Earth.
    Jureem, Binnesman, the wylde, and now young Averan would ride with the 
king's counselors near the van of the troop. Near the end of the train followed 
an inconspicuous wagon that bore Gaborn's forcibles.
    As Gaborn rode out of the stables, his men gave a cheer. Binnesman spurred 
his mount forward and handed Gaborn the branch of an oak tree to bear, as if it 
were a scepter, though a bit of ivy still clung to it.
    So Gaborn began his ride to Carris looking like an Earth King out of the old 
tales.
    Yet to Iome he seemed preoccupied.
    They had ridden six miles down the road when the heralds in the vanguard 
topped a woody knoll, turned their mounts, and shouted, "Milord, there are 
giants ahead!"
    They needn't have yelled the warning, for at that very moment, a Frowth 
giant topped the hill and stood peering at Gaborn.
    A huge red stallion, hanging limp with a broken neck, was clearly visible 
upon the giant's hunched back. The giant's golden fur looked dirty and matted in 
the morning light. He was an old Frowth, with streaks of white in his hair, and 
his silver eyes were as huge as bowls. He had iron studs in his ears, and one 
through his nose. Lockets of hair beneath his long snout were braided in 
warrior's knots.
    "Wahoot!" the giant cried, raising his snout in the air. Pigeons in the 
nearby oaks flew up in alarm and began to circle. Iome knew nothing of the 
tongue of Frowth giants, and had no idea what the creature had said, although 
he'd sounded victorious. Soon other giants came running uphill, their thick mail 
rattling like the chains to a drawbridge.
    The first giant reached up with one hand, hurled the dead horse into the 
road. Other giants came and did the same--twenty-two giants in all. They left a 
grisly pile of dead horses before Gaborn's retinue.
    They're like cats that way, Iome realized, leaving headless mice on their 
master's doorstep. The leader of the giants bowed his head and closed his eyes, 
his enormous front arms extended before him and crossed at the wrists. "Wahoot!" 
the Frowth shouted again.
    Gaborn sat in his saddle, looking perplexed. Most of his men were gaping in 
awe at the monsters.
    It was an eerie moment. Until a hundred and twenty years ago, no one had 
ever seen a Frowth. Then, during a brutal winter, a tribe of four hundred of the 
huge creatures migrated over the northern ice. Many of them were wounded and 
scarred, and apparently fled some unknown enemy.
    The Frowth could not communicate well in any human tongue, had never been 
able tell what fearful creatures hounded them across the ice. Yet with a few 
gestures and words, some giants had learned to work beside men--lugging huge 
boulders in quarries or trees for foresters, or fighting as mercenaries.
    But the Frowth rarely frequented Rofehavan. They lived in the wilds along 
the mountain ranges.
    These giants had come in company with Raj Ahten's army, and had eaten people 
in Iome's kingdom. They were the first that Iome had ever seen. She was 
simultaneously terrified of the creatures and fascinated.
    "Can anyone talk to them?" Gaborn asked among his retinue. "What do they 
want?"
    "Wahoot!" the giant cried again and began nodding his head up and down 
rapidly. He pointed at Gaborn. "Wahoot!"
    "He speak Indhopalese," one knight said, a handsome Invincible out of 
Indhopal with dark skin and a Dharmadish accent. He rode up to Gaborn's side. 
"He say you mahout, an elephant rider. Very grand. Very powerful."
    "Wahoot!" the giant shouted again, pointing at the dead horses.
    "I think he likes you!" one lord jested to Gaborn.
    "No," the translator said. "He cross hands. He give self. He serve."
    The giant opened his mouth and rapidly made hissing and clicking noises with 
the back of his tongue. He raised his snout in the air and sniffed. He was no 
longer trying to speak in his pidgin dialect of Indhopalese. Instead, he was 
speaking in pure Frowth now.
    "What's he saying?" Gaborn asked.
    But no man had ever deciphered the tongue of Frowth giants well. Not even 
the translator from Indhopal ventured a guess.
    "Will you fight for me?" Gaborn asked the creature. The giants had fought 
well in Carris yesterday.
    The giant grunted, making a deep sound from his belly. He raised up his huge 
iron-bound staff, which was still stained dark from reavers' gore.
    "Maybe," the translator said. "He is offering to work."
    Gaborn looked quizzically at his men. "Does anyone have a good use for a 
giant?"
    "I do," one knight shouted jovially. "His hide would make a fair rug!"
    The other knights laughed uproariously, but Gaborn studied the creature. He 
raised his staff to the sky, and roared, "Wahoot?" then spread his arms wide, as 
if to embrace the whole world.
    "He say, you great mahout," the Indhopalese Invincible offered. "Great rider 
of the world."
    But Iome wondered. "No," she realized. "He's asking a question. He wants to 
know...if Gaborn is the Earth King!"
    Before anyone else could move, Iome pointed at Gaborn, and shouted, "Yes. 
He's the great rider. Rajah mahout."
    The giant gazed at her, as if contemplating. His silver eyes were wide and 
knowing.
    The other giants began to grumble rapidly. Each of the Frowth peered at 
Gaborn and blinked their eyes nearly closed. They began stooping and letting 
their jaws go slack as they did, so that they displayed their teeth in a 
nonthreatening way. They held the pose for several long seconds, then a dozen of 
them began to lope off to the west, toward the Hest Mountains.
    "Hey, where are they going?" Gaborn asked.
    Iome could think of only one answer. It was said that wild Frowth roamed the 
Hest. Perhaps these Frowth were going home. The other ten merely stood and 
watched Gaborn attentively, the way that a dog watches its master as he leaves 
the room. It was clear that they intended to follow him.
    Gaborn asked his men, "All of Carris is waiting. Do we dare let these giants 
come with us?"
    Binnesman said, "Well, since we have no dancing bears in our retinue, I 
suppose they'll have to do."
    The men all laughed at his jest, and the troops rode on, skirting the pile 
of dead horses. The ten giants that were left fell in line at the end of the 
retinue, behind the wagonload of forcibles.
    Gaborn rode on in silence for a few minutes, Iome saw the worry lines in his 
brow.
    "You did me no favor to lie," Gaborn whispered, "even if it was only to a 
Frowth giant."
    "Lie?" Iome asked in surprise.
    "Whatever I am, I am no Earth King anymore. I'll not betray their hopes, 
their trust."
    She saw how his failures haunted him. She realized how hard he was trying 
now to hold up under the rigors of this day. She loved Gaborn for his virtue, 
for his sense of decency and honor.
    "You are the Earth King still," she said. "The Earth asked you to perform 
one task. Your powers may be diminished...but that task remains: save your 
people."
    Iome considered telling him about the son that she carried inside her. She 
wanted him to be strong, and wondered if this news would help. But at the 
moment, guilt and useless self-recrimination tore at him. She didn't dare burden 
him with the knowledge that she carried his child.
    "You're right," Gaborn said softly. "My people need a king. Even if the 
Earth will not sanctify my calling, the people still need a king."
    Gaborn closed his eyes. His face went slack as he relaxed every muscle.
    He raised his chin high, and when he glanced at her, there was determination 
and strength in his eyes. His nostrils flared, and his look was one that held 
her, saw through her, accepted her, and dominated her all at once. It was a look 
that intimated endless power.
    "Milord!" Iome said, trying to catch her breath. She knew that he had 
studied mimicry in the Room of Faces. Yet the transformation that had come over 
Gaborn in that instant was astonishing to behold.
    For in that moment, despite every doubt that Gaborn had expressed, and 
despite the fact that he felt bereft of his powers, she recognized for the first 
time that she looked upon the face of the Earth King.

     
     
Chapter 13
A CHILD'S LESSON IN WIZARDRY
    Men name the four powers Earth, Air, Water, and Fire. Such appellations are 
good enough for common folk, but only wizards ever learn their true names. We 
call upon them only in our hour of greatest need, and sometimes at our own 
peril.
    --Excerpt from The Child's Book of Wizardry, by Hearthmaster Col
     
    Averan clung tightly to the pommel of the saddle as the cool wind whipped 
her face. The force horses galloped south across hills as green as emerald, 
beneath a blue sky marbled by high cirrus clouds.
    Binnesman had her riding in front of him, her back snug against his warm 
riding cloak, his big left hand wrapped around her protectively. He did not 
trust her on such a fast horse alone.
    She thought it laughable, for at the age of five she'd once ridden a graak 
through a wild storm where the wind blasted her while lightning sizzled under 
the clouds below. The graak fought the air currents so hard that its wings would 
sometimes buckle. It was an experience that only another skyrider could 
sympathize with, and it was one that would have loosened the bowels of many a 
brave knight.
    Still, she was glad to have the wizard ride with her. Averan had never 
traveled with so many people before, and with the dangers of the road the 
journey felt much safer for the company. There were advance guards ahead of her, 
stern Runelords armed with lances at her back, and fierce giants as the 
rearguard.
    Averan was especially glad to have Spring in the retinue, for Averan had 
been the first to find the green woman. A small part of her still felt 
responsible toward her, even if she knew now that Spring was a wylde. And Averan 
was also happy to have Iome as part of the company. With Averan being a 
skyrider, she seldom got much contact with other women.
    The force horse raced, its hooves pounding a rhythm against the road, its 
barding and the king's armor jangling like music.
    Averan suspected that riding a kingly force horse was as close as she'd ever 
again come to riding a graak.
    Binnesman remained silent for a while, and his grip on her was loose. He 
seemed weary.
    "Will Borenson truly be healed?" Averan asked.
    "I hope so," the wizard answered. "Healing a flesh wound is a small matter. 
Restoring a body part is a greater magic, and carries a hard price. But for a 
true healing such as he requires, a healing of the heart, the afflicted must 
also desire to recover."
    "Is it hard work--healing such a wound?"
    "Very hard," Binnesman said. "Nearly impossible. But we were in a place of 
Power, with a wylde at our back. On another day, in another setting, I would not 
have tried it at all." He fell silent for a while.
    They swept like a gale through villages that Averan had only seen distantly 
from the air. Garrin's Tooth she'd always thought of as merely a lord's estate 
with odd-shaped fields and some clustered buildings just north of the Solace 
Mountains. But on the ground, with the full sun shining on it in the early 
autumn, it was a riot of life. The buildings turned out to comprise a fine tall 
inn, with whitewashed sides and green trim, and flower baskets hanging from 
every window. The odd-shaped fields were vineyards and hayfields cut from the 
rolling hills, where a blue stream threaded and pooled, reflecting the sky and 
the black swans that swam upon its surface. The lordly manor there was such a 
fine estate that it took her breath away.
    Then she was out of the hills completely, galloping past villages with names 
like Seed, and Windlow, and Shelter--each an oasis of life among rolling autumn 
fields where huge black-eyed Susans grew taller than a child. Averan loved the 
way the yellow flowers bobbed in the wind, with their dark faces.
    The retinue was making as much as thirty miles per hour, traveling so fast 
that the giants at the end of the train could hardly keep up. They panted and 
grunted, sometimes emitting barking roars as they loped. They fell behind, but 
caught up whenever the horses rested.
    During one of these rests, Averan began to pick at the seeds that had 
sprouted on the cuff of her robe.
    Binnesman playfully slapped her hand. "Stop that."
    "Why?"
    "You're growing your wizard's robe," he said. "It will protect you from sun 
and from fire, from wind and cold. And whether you are walking in the woods or 
out among the open fields, whether in daylight or darkness, it will shelter 
you."
    Averan glanced at the sleeve of Binnesman's robe. The rootlike fibers in the 
robe were a reddish tan, the color of maple leaves in autumn. She couldn't see 
if there had ever been any cloth beneath those fibers. Nor could she imagine it 
offering much shelter from prying eyes.
    "Beastmaster Brand said I'm growing fast. What happens when I get too big 
for my robe?"
    "You'll never get too big for your robe," Binnesman said. "It grows to fit 
you just right."
    "I hope my robe looks better than yours," Averan said. "No offense, but it's 
kind of baggy. I'd rather have something pretty."
    Binnesman laughed. "I'm sure yours will grow to be the envy of Earth Wardens 
everywhere."
    "So," Averan asked, "when are you going to teach me how to do spells and 
stuff?"
    "Well, there's no time like the present," he said. "This will protect you 
against Fire." Binnesman drew a rune on her hand. Immediately the sun that had 
seemed blinding over the past few days dimmed. Its rays no longer burned her. 
"And this will protect you against Air." He drew a second rune. Averan had not 
even noticed in the past few days how chafing the wind had become, as if it 
carried winter upon it. But suddenly there seemed to be a lull. Averan traced 
each of the shapes again herself.
    "Those should help for the moment," Binnesman said. "I'll teach you more 
rune lore and spells later."
    Not long after they resumed their ride, they approached the deadlands that 
surrounded Carris. A dark ugly line lay on the horizon, and intuitively Averan 
wanted to stay away. Something vital had been leached from the soil there. On 
the ridges ahead stones now somehow seemed revealed to be the misshapen bones of 
a dying Earth, much in the way that the white knuckles of a leper are displayed 
as his skin sloughs off in decay.
    Averan had hoped that she would never again have to visit Carris, even in 
her nightmares, but here she was riding toward it.
    Binnesman called out to Gaborn, "Your Highness, may we stop for a moment?"
    Gaborn did not ask why. He could see the ugly line ahead, and knew that the 
animals would need to forage. "Troops, halt!" he shouted.
    The horses immediately began to forage for grass, and the giants all stopped 
and dropped to the ground, panting.
    Binnesman rode away from the troops, toward a hill half a mile to the west. 
The wylde rode at his side. At the base of the hill, Binnesman halted beside a 
stream, let the horses graze and drink.
    "You can stay here, if you like," he told Averan and the wylde.
    He climbed the hill and stood beneath a great oak tree. He bowed toward the 
desolation, and raised his staff overhead in both hands. Averan heard him 
chanting, but the wind carried his words away.
    For long minutes, it seemed as if nothing happened. Then she saw a thin 
green mist that seemed to seep from his staff, blowing on the wind as if it were 
seeds or pollen.
    The green woman had gone to the creek. She knelt in the water and picked up 
a crayfish, held it up and stared at it curiously. Someone had dressed her since 
last they'd met, and the green woman now wore a tunic of brown, with green 
leggings and some new leather boots. But she wore Roland's big black bearskin 
cloak over it all. The attire made her look more human.
    But Averan knew that it was all an illusion. She was a wylde. Binnesman had 
made her, as a woodcarver might make a doll. He'd made her from stones and bark 
and Earth blood. He'd given her a life of some sort, made her to be his warrior.
    "What's Binnesman doing?" Averan asked Spring.
    Spring looked up at Averan, followed her gaze, saw the wizard standing 
there, and squinted. "Don't...know."
    Averan studied the wylde. She was learning fast. A few days ago, she could 
only repeat a few words. Now she could answer some basic questions.
    "Spring," Averan said. "Are you scared?"
    "Scared?" the wylde asked, cocking her head to the side. She dropped her 
crayfish back into the water, studied Averan.
    "Scared," Averan said. "It's a feeling. Your heart starts to pound, and 
sometimes you shake when you're really scared. It's a feeling that comes when 
you know that something bad is going to happen."
    "No," Spring said. "Not scared."
    "You don't get scared even when you fight reavers?"
    Spring shook her head with an expression that said she was utterly baffled.
    Maybe she doesn't have feelings, Averan thought. She'd never seen Spring cry 
or laugh.
    "Do you feel anything?" Averan asked. "Do you dream when you sleep?"
    "Dream?"
    "Do you see things when you close your eyes?"
    The green woman closed her eyes. "No. Not see."
    Averan gave up. She wanted to be friends with the wylde, but the creature 
could hardly talk.
    Absently, Averan began to teach her a few more words.
    When Binnesman finished, he bowed again toward the deadlands, then climbed 
downhill.
    Nothing had changed. The lands to the south were as desolate as ever.
    But the transformation that had taken place in Binnesman over those few 
minutes was astonishing. Beads of sweat stood out on his forehead, and he 
trembled from exhaustion. He fell down at the edge of the stream and drank 
deeply for a long minute. He shook so badly that Averan worried that he would 
not be able to climb to his feet by himself.
    "What did you do?" Averan asked.
    "The land is sorely cursed," Binnesman said, "with plagues and sickness, rot 
and despair. It needed a blessing."
    "Did you fail?"
    "Fail? Not at all!" Binnesman said. "Some magic works slowly. The effects of 
this spell may not be fully seen for a century or more."
    He patted her head.
    "Binnesman," Averan said. "Can your wylde dream?"
    The wizard frowned. "Dream? No, I think not. Perhaps she'll dream of 
feeding, or of hunting. But nothing more."
    "Oh," Averan said, disappointed.
    "You mustn't think of her as a person."
    "I was hoping we could be friends."
    "That...would be dangerous."
    "You mean she'd hurt me?"
    "No," the wizard said. "Not on purpose. But she's not human. She'll protect 
you, but she has no emotions--Oh, look what you've done. You've got me calling 
'it' a 'she.' The wylde could have taken any form. It could have looked like a 
walking tree, or taken the shape of a snake.
    But I was called to protect mankind, and so I guess it is only fitting that 
my wylde take the shape of a human."
    "So she can't feel anything?" Averan asked.
    "Pain, hunger," Binnesman said. "Perhaps some other simple things. But the 
creature will never be your friend. It's like a salmon, swimming upriver. It 
will serve its purpose--if we are lucky--and then it will expire. You must get 
used to that notion. She won't be having you over for tea."
    "Oh," Averan said. She didn't tell him that she thought that Spring was 
being cheated, that it wasn't fair.
    They mounted their horses, joined Gaborn's retinue, and soon were off.
    "No more spells today," Binnesman said as they rode. "I'll talk instead. The 
path to wizardry," he offered in a lecturing tone, "is a path to Power. But it 
is not an easy path. Do you truly wish to walk it?"
    Averan asked, "How should I know?"
    "Spoken without guile," Binnesman said. "I should have expected as much from 
a silly child." He thought for a moment. Averan could tell that he'd never 
really considered how to teach this subject. "Let me put it another way: your 
path, I suspect, will be hard, full of perils. Will you undertake the journey?"
    "Are you talking about the Underworld?" Averan asked. "Do you want me to go 
with you and Gaborn?" Averan didn't want to go there, to that darkest of dark 
places.
    "Perhaps," Binnesman said. "My wylde will need to feed, and that's where her 
food is."
    "I know," Averan replied. "I can feel the hunger for blood too. I was full 
last night, but I'm already craving it again. I feel...no food that I eat 
satisfies. I mean, I can eat meat, I can eat grass, and nothing fills me. It's 
like I'm just eating air. I can't imagine what it would be like to go on this 
way for very long."
    Spring was riding a gray stallion nearby, lounging in the saddle as if she'd 
been born on one. She heard Averan talking about food, and she said, "Blood, 
yes!"
    Binnesman listened thoughtfully. She liked that about him. "It's very 
strange that among your powers, you should hunger for reavers. You can resist 
the cravings, you know. You do not have to eat reavers or anything else. The 
Earth will not force you into service. If you resist the cravings, they will go 
away. But of course, you will lose the power that comes from obeying that urge."
    "Like Gaborn?"
    "Like Gaborn."
    "And the cravings will never bother me again?" Averan asked. Binnesman shook 
his head, and his beard brushed her neck. "I...can't say. They'll diminish 
certainly, but they'll bother you from time to time. They will bother you till 
the day you die, I think. You may always crave reaver blood a little, and you'll 
try to imagine how it would have been to walk that path to power. And you'll 
perhaps wonder what could have been. But then that is the way with life. In 
choosing one path, we must ignore others."
    "Brand used to say that life should be a journey, not a destination," Averan 
said. "And you should take joy in the journey."
    "Hmmm..." Binnesman said, "many among the wise would agree with that, but I 
don't think that we have to settle for one or the other, a journey or a 
destination. Life can be both."
    "So what do I have to do to be a wizard?" Averan asked.
    "It's simple, really," Binnesman said, "though we tend to make it seem more 
complex than it needs to be: we gain power through service. I serve the Earth, 
and it serves me in return."
    "That sounds easy," Averan said.
    "Does it?" Binnesman asked. "It's impossible for most, and extremely 
difficult for the those who can manage it at all. That's why there are so few 
wizards of any merit. However, it may very well be easy for you. That's why 
you've got green oak leaves appearing on your palms, and roots sprouting in your 
cloak, and you're already gaining powers that others will never master."
    "But what have I done for the Earth?" Averan asked.
    "I have no idea," Binnesman said. "You took care of graaks. Could that be a 
service? And you tried to save my wylde as it fell from the sky."
    Averan didn't think either of those sounded very important.
    "Let me ask, have you ever seen wrongs in the Earth, and sought to make them 
right?"
    Averan's head bobbed up and down.
    "Tell me about the first time," Binnesman said.
    "I was little--"
    "How old?"
    "I don't know, maybe two or three?"
    "Go on."
    "My mother had taken me down to the river to help with her washing, and I 
saw a bush. I don't know what kind it is. I've never seen another like it, 
either before or since. But there were these icky fat green caterpillars all 
over, eating it. So I killed them."
    "All of them?"
    "Every one I could find. I got most of them the first day. My mother caught 
me, and made me go home. But I snuck back later and got every one."
    "And how did your bush do?"
    "Very well, thank you," Averan said. "It got big, and when the red berries 
came out, I planted some. Now there are more like it growing all around Keep 
Haberd."
    "I suspect that in doing this," Binnesman said, "you performed a great 
service for the Earth. Now, tell me about the reavers. What do you see when you 
see them?"
    "I see...that same wrongness," Averan said. "When they came boiling over the 
hills toward Keep Haberd, and the skies were filled with gree, and their feet 
made the earth thunder--it was wrong. They were out of place."
    "Did you want to kill them?" Binnesman asked.
    "I knew that they'd kill Brand, and my friend Heather, and everyone else 
that I knew. I didn't want to kill them really. I just wanted them to go back 
where they belong."
    "I think," Binnesman said, "that that could be your destiny, if you choose 
it--to help drive them back. Perhaps it already is your destiny and there is no 
avoiding it."
    Averan felt nervous. "But I'm just a little girl."
    "With an unnatural taste for reaver brains," Binnesman argued, "and the 
potential to become an Earth Warden."
    "And what does that mean, to be an Earth Warden?"
    "You can become the Earth's protector. Life will become your occupation, to 
protect and nurture the small and helpless things of the world."
    "Like mice and plants?" Averan asked.
    "Or humans," Binnesman said.
    "I never thought of humans as being small and helpless," Averan said.
    "Children seldom see them so," Binnesman answered. "But now that you've seen 
a reaver, you know better. There was a time, ages and ages ago, when men lived 
in packs, and ran about to and fro, hiding from the reavers. We lived in the 
forests like deer, always terrified, always huddled and shaking. Even now, 
terror comes easily to us, and men still know better how to flee than to fight.
    "But in time, mankind discovered how to dig for metal to forge weapons of 
brass and iron, and how to raise fortresses, and how to wage war in cooperation. 
The blood metal and endowments made men equal to any predator, and raised them 
to the status of Lords of the Overworld.
    "So it is easy for you to look at a Runelord and imagine that nothing could 
be so powerful, so masterful as a man.
    "Yet nothing is farther from the truth."
    Averan was quiet, thoughtful for a long moment. "How long have you known 
that mankind is in trouble?"
    Binnesman stroked his beard. "I've known that dark times were coming for 
ages, now. Mankind needed no protector, needed no Earth Warden to watch over 
them, for many thousands of years.
    "But when I heard the Earth whisper my name, when I first felt the urge to 
protect and nurture mankind, I knew that dark times were upon us. Until I saw 
the ruins at Carris, I had no idea how dark they might become."
    "Is that how it happens?" Averan asks. "You hear the Earth calling? Is that 
how you learn what to do?"
    "It's not a sound heard by human ears," Binnesman said. "It's more like a 
trembling, a knowledge that strikes to the core of you. Suddenly you just 
know...everything: why you exist, and how you are connected to the Earth, and 
what you must do."
    Binnesman could not hide how he felt. The moment he first understood his 
purpose in life, felt his connection to the Earth, must have been powerful 
indeed. He sounded rapturous....
    It filled Averan with longing.
    "So you will be called to protect the beasts, I think. You love them more 
than plants or minerals, it seems. You've heard of Alwyn Toadmaster, haven't 
you?"
    Averan laughed. The antics of Alwyn Toadmaster had made some of her favorite 
bedtime stories as a child.
    "Well, he was real," Binnesman said. "He really did live in the swamps of 
Callonbee. And when the marshes dried up for six years, he collected all of the 
frogs' eggs he could and stored them in the wells at Brachston, which of course 
drove the townspeople mad. Imagine having to fish a hundred pollywogs out of 
your cup every time you took a drink!"
    Averan giggled, but a part of her felt horrified. What if the Earth called 
her to take care of something nasty, like frogs? "Did he really hop around like 
a frog, and catch files on his tongue?"
    "What do you think?" Binnesman asked.
    "I think they made that part up."
    "I suspect you're right," Binnesman said.
    "So," she asked nervously, "you just know? You just wake up one day and know 
what you're here to save?"
    "It's not always so easy," Binnesman said. "Everything is interlinked. 
Sometimes, in order to save one thing, you have to let another go. For 
example...people," Binnesman said pointedly, glancing toward Gaborn. "Gaborn was 
given a gift, the ability to Choose people, and to save a seed of mankind 
through the dark times to come. But he wasn't commanded to save all of the 
people. So he has tried to Choose the best.
    "In the same way, the time may come when you have to choose to save 
something while letting another thing go."
    "I hope I can take care of the graaks," Averan said wistfully. "Or maybe 
deer."
    "Ah, now a graak," Binnesman said playfully, "is in my opinion a thoroughly 
unpleasant animal. So I'm glad you're here to save them, if they need saving."
    "I guess if everyone got to choose what animals to save," Averan said, "we'd 
probably all save bunny rabbits."
    Binnesman nodded sagely. "Or kittens." The old wizard wrapped a huge arm 
around her, gave her a hug, but neither of them spoke for a while. They had 
entered the deadlands.
    She thought about Roland, lying there in Carris, and wondered if she'd see 
Baron Poll.

     
     
Chapter 14
TRIUMPHAL ENTRY
    A cunning man considers him a fool who acts against his own best interests. 
An upright man considers him a fool who acts against the interests of the whole 
of mankind.
    Therefore, all men are fools.
    And since I must live in the company of fools, I'll stake my lot then with 
upright fools.
    Throw that damned cunning fool to the Bears.
    --Duke Braithen of North Croughen, excerpted from the sentencing of 
Chamberlain Whyte upon numerous charges of larceny
     
    The throng outside Duke Paldane's keep in Carris was thick with the denizens 
of Rofehavan--lords and merchants in their smelly woolen garments, all of them 
nattering loudly, or so it seemed to Feykaald.
    He stood alone with his back to the stone wall, the sun shining brightly 
upon him. As he did, he closed his eyes and listened.
    The tide of voices overwhelmed him. With a dozen endowments of hearing and 
only half as many endowments of stamina, the noise swelling around him set his 
ears to throbbing and caused a painful buzz at the base of his skull. Even the 
opium he had smoked earlier did little except to leave him feeling disjointed, 
disconnected, and slightly out of control. The bitter taste of it clung to his 
teeth. He frowned in concentration as he picked voices from the crowd.
    ".... 'Not even the Earth King can fix that,' I told him. Them apricot trees 
won't be growing back for twenty years..." said one tall peasant loudly.
    "...without so much as a by-your-leave..." cried a woman deeper into the 
crowd.
    "Pardon me. Good day. Pardon. I beg your pardon," a young girl apologized as 
she nimbly weaved through the crowds.
    "Mark him with the black robes. If I was king, I'd bull his kind out of the 
city. Who does he think he is?" some old washwoman whispered about Feykaald, 
while her companion grunted assent.
    Soon the fanfare blared in the far hills, and Feykaald looked across the 
black horizon to see the king's retinue riding forward.
    He leaned back and closed his eyes, like a reptile sunning himself, as he 
waited.
    Gaborn was deeply troubled as he rode for Carris. He felt abundantly aware 
of his weaknesses as he listened to Binnesman begin training Averan.
    The Earth Powers were great indeed. But those powers could only be 
controlled and handled by those who gave themselves fully into the Earth's 
service.
    So Gaborn acted as the Earth King, though he felt that he was something 
less.
    His mind seethed. The end of the world drew near. He could feel it like an 
ache in the bones. His counsel with his fathers' Wits last night, the messages 
he sent, the small battles he won--all of them were insignificant.
    He suspected that the key to saving his people lay in confronting the One 
True Master.
    A mad plan had begun to assume shape in his mind.
    All of it hinged upon Averan. The key to finding the One True Master was for 
Averan to consume the brain of the Waymaker. Vainly he tried to consider other 
plans. Binnesman's wylde consumed the brains of reavers too, but the creature 
could hardly speak. It could rarely understand questions, much less answer them.
    So Averan would have to eat. Afterward...Gaborn dared not think about what 
he had to do.
    In the more frivolous days of his youth Gaborn had dared dream that he might 
act upon the stages of Mystarria. To that end, he'd studied the art of mimicry 
in detail in the House of Understanding, in the Room of Faces.
    In the city of Aneuve, the Room of Faces was unlike any other. Many "rooms" 
throughout the city were located at alehouses or in open squares.
    Thus, for example, the Room of Feet, where one learned the arts of 
traveling, was not a room at all, but a series of hostels and stables all about 
the countryside, where one had to travel in order to learn his lessons.
    Other rooms were more secretive. Classes were taught in stark dormitories or 
dim halls. Some hearthmasters jealously guarded their intellectual properties, 
like Hearthmaster Vangreve in the Room of Dreams, and thus they taught in 
vaulted chambers underground, far away from the listening ears of any spies.
    But the Room of Faces was built in the open, a place to be visited and 
admired, on an island in a magnificent castle, the Castle Rue.
    A merchant had built Castle Rue eight centuries ago--not as a place of 
retreat during war, but simply for its elegance and beauty. Thus its stonework 
was all covered in plaster that stained it rose at dawn and at sunset, as it lay 
against the emerald sea. Its lofty towers and minarets soared far into the air, 
and its expansive gardens grew lush, watered by reflecting pools where white 
water lilies bloomed year round and frogs peeped in the evening. Elegant bridges 
spanned its numerous water concourses.
    It was a perfect place for rest and reflection. At nights, one could wander 
the grounds of the castle, meander through its streets and purchase extravagant 
foods of every kind: blue crab claws boiled in saltwater, smoked swan legs, pork 
seasoned with coriander and cooked in quinces, fresh pastries filled with figs 
and cinnamon; mugs of hot rum sweetened with goat butter and nutmeg.
    The lavish Great Room at Castle Rue housed the oldest and one of the most 
impressive theaters in all of Mystarria. And everyone who studied there hoped 
someday to play the lead in some great play, such as Tanandeer's This Cage of 
Iron, or Bombray's The Simpletons Tale.
    In one of his more embarrassing periods, Gaborn had dared dream of that, of 
being one of the great actors.
    But the House of Understanding was more than just an elegant facade, or 
cobbled streets rich with the scent of delicacies, or ornate theaters where 
mimics plied their art.
    It was a place of study and practice. It had dozens of training halls 
scattered all about, and various nooks and crannies.
    The great mimic Torrin Belassi had made it his life's work to study 
faces--the way that the eyes crinkled in joy, or the lips parted in lust. And 
while he was alive, artists had made subtle impressions of his face showing 
those expressions.
    Now, the ten thousand faces of Torrin Belassi hung on the walls throughout 
Castle Rue. Each mask was cast in hardened clay at the center of a plaque 
perhaps three feet in diameter. In honor of the kings of Mystarria, the borders 
of each mask were adorned with oak leaves, and the whole mask was fired from 
earthenware that made it look as if it were cut from sandstone.
    One could wander an alcove for hours studying masks with names such as 
"Recognition of an Old Friend," or "Challenging a Thief in a Darkened Room," or 
"A Father Contemplates His Firstborn Son."
    Thus it was that in the Room of Faces, Gaborn had once studied a plaque 
entitled "How I Imagine the Earth King Will Look."
    It was the expression of a wise conqueror, benevolent and strong and above 
reproach. It was a look that held love for all men, and promised salvation to 
children and beggars and fools.
    As he rode to Carris on the second day of the month of Leaves, Gaborn wore 
that face.
    He knew that he would never play in the Great Room at Castle Rue. He'd never 
act in This Cage of Iron, playing Sir Goutfeet.
    Gaborn regretted that. It was a part that spoke to him. Sir Goutfeet was a 
man whose role as a knight left him feeling as if he were somehow entombed in 
his own armor. Meanwhile, the good sir's squire always tried to make him feel 
valiant by directing him toward battles that he could win, until the enfeebled 
knight finally was reduced to bludgeoning whores and barmaids in an effort to 
settle their petty squabbles.
    But Gaborn knew that he would never play on a stage.
    Instead, as he rode for Carris he settled into his role as Earth King. All 
of Carris would be his audience, and never had Gaborn acted in a more prominent 
part.
    Doubts and concerns clouded his mind. He passed through the dead-lands as if 
through a dream, and all along he wondered about this girl Averan and her 
strange gifts, wondered where she might lead him, and if he dared follow.
    All too soon, his heralds began blowing golden horns, so that by the time he 
topped the rise overlooking the Barrens Wall, half of the population of Carris 
had issued from the city gates or mounted towers or the city walls.
    Even at a mile and half, the volume of the cheers that greeted him was 
astonishing. At the noise, crows and gulls and pigeons that had been roosting in 
the city all flew up and circled the city's towers like confetti.
    Riding beside Gaborn, Iome gasped in horror as she saw the ruins of Carris. 
Words could not have described it for her--the toppled walls, the great 
wormhole, the field of dead reavers lying on the barren lands, their mouths all 
opened hideously wide as their jaws contracted.
    Then Gaborn rode down to Carris to thunderous applause. Horns blew, men 
cheered and raised their fists and shouted in triumph. Women wept in gratitude, 
and many a mother raised her infant up over the crowd to show their child. 
"There, there is the Earth King! Remember this moment. Remember it all of your 
life!"
    He was their savior, after all. He had summoned the world worm and destroyed 
the reavers' fell mage. He had scattered the reaver horde single-handedly.
    And in a moment of foolishness, he had forgotten who he was supposed to be.
    As they rode over the causeway, they halted. The dead reavers from 
yesterday's battle had all been dragged from the entrance to the city--all but 
one.
    There, in the gray dust of ruin, sat the head of a single reaver, its mouth 
propped wide: the fell mage. The monster was incredible. Iome gasped at the size 
of it, for its mouth opened wide enough that it could have swallowed a hay 
wagon. Along the rim of its jaw and along the back of its head were the long, 
snakelike philia, the sensory organs of the eyeless creature. Each philium on 
this beast was three to five feet long, and as thick as Gaborn's leg at the 
base--nearly three times the size of the philia he'd seen on other reavers. The 
mage's gray head shimmered from a multitude of tattooed runes that glimmered 
like fire, and in the morning sunlight, its enormous crystalline teeth glittered 
like quartz.
    Iome gasped at the trophy in awe. "I've never heard of one so large!"
    Gaborn said, "Rumor has it there's a bigger one."
    A messenger stood just outside the city gates. As Gaborn passed, the 
messenger shouted, "Milord, news from Skalbairn. The reavers have left their 
holes within the past hour, and are on the move south!"
    Gaborn nodded at the messenger, said, "Tell him that I'm coming."
    Then he smiled and waved as he entered the city, holding his pose. Stern, 
regal, wise, indomitable. The mask of the Earth King.
    His people cheered.
    He could not stay long at Carris. He needed to reach the Place of Bones, 
confront the One True Master. But first he'd have to join Skalbairn, begin his 
campaign against the reavers. He needed to find the Waymaker, and learn the 
paths of the Underworld. The urge was becoming a compulsion. He felt driven.
    He rode through the streets inspecting the damage. The odors of despair and 
rot--the residue of the fell mage's curses--still clung to the city. He wondered 
how the people here could endure it.
    He halted only once, when Lord Bowen shouted and pointed into the crowd. 
"There he is: that one's Waggit!"
    Gaborn reined in his charger and stared down at the grinning idiot. Waggit 
had straw for hair, and eyes so pale that they looked like holes that opened 
into a vast sky. But by the powers, was he big! He was cheering wildly, a pickax 
raised in his hands, bits of reaver gore still clinging to it.
    So, he had indeed killed at least one reaver, perhaps even more. Gaborn 
frankly doubted the tale. Certainly the number of kills was exaggerated. No 
matter. Waggit was a hero now in the eyes of Carris, and the world needed 
heroes.
    The fool did not notice that Gaborn had stopped and was staring, until 
Gaborn pointed at him. Then Waggit stopped, and to the delight of those around 
him seemed perfectly dumbfounded that the Earth King had taken notice of him.
    Gaborn's heart went out to the young man. In a world where the cruel and the 
cunning gained status by riding upon the backs of the poor, men like Waggit were 
too often unjustly scorned. Yet his stupidity was something that a single 
endowment of wit could cure. And in granting an endowment of wit from a weak and 
cowardly man to someone like Waggit, one might thus create a warrior of great 
worth.
    Unfortunately, endowments of wit remained beyond the grasp of such simple 
folk. Gaborn would gladly have given any ten Merchant Princes of Lysle for such 
a man.
    "Waggit of Silverdale, on your knees!" Gaborn shouted.
    The man had no courtly graces. He clumsily squatted down on his knees and 
bowed his head, frowning terribly, as if he knew that he had committed some 
offense but could not remember what it was. Gaborn rode near, saw bits of oat 
straw in the big man's blond hair. He'd obviously slept in a stable last night. 
Perhaps he did so every night.
    Gaborn could heal him with a single forcible. By ancient law, any man who 
killed a reaver earned a forcible from his king. If the rumors were true, Waggit 
had earned nine. Yet Gaborn wondered if the man might not be happier if he 
remained an idiot.
    Gaborn drew his sword and touched each of the man's shoulder blades. "Baron 
Waggit of Silverdale, arise!"
    The people of Carris erupted into a wild cheer as the idiot got up from his 
knees. To their greater astonishment, Gaborn reached down a hand and urged the 
young man to ride with him, aback his charger.
    Then Gaborn put on the face of the Earth King once again.
    It was not a perfect performance. Some of his subjects had obviously heard 
rumors that he'd lost his powers. He saw frightened faces in the crowd, and one 
man shouted, "Milord, is it true?"
    For a moment he let his expression slip. People saw. A young peasant boy, 
perhaps four years old, sitting with his mother atop a pile of barrels asked, 
"Why does he look so sad?"
    Gaborn set Baron Waggit down as he left the city, and was gone.
    Feykaald watched Gaborn parade by the Ducal Palace in mild consternation. He 
searched for signs of weakness in Gaborn, but the young king looked regal, 
confident--almost everything these peasants expected from an Earth King.
    But Feykaald saw through the facade. For years now Feykaald had served Raj 
Ahten. He'd been faithful, prudent, as a servant should be. He'd watched Raj 
Ahten grow from an ungainly child into the most sublime and powerful lord the 
world had ever known.
    In great part, Raj Ahten was becoming the Sum of All Men because of 
Feykaald's faithful service. Now, even though some of his master's key 
endowments were gone, he lived and looked as glorious as ever.
    The boy who paraded through the streets of this broken city was not even a 
faded shadow of Raj Ahten.
    Gaborn rode by on a horse that Raj Ahten would not have fed to his dogs, 
with a jubilant idiot from the crowd on the saddle behind him. Gaborn's armor 
was dirty from the road, as was his mount.
    The retinue passed, ragged knights from half a dozen realms, some filthy 
Frowth giants in ragged chain mail that Raj Ahten had outfitted himself.
    In no way could Gaborn best Raj Ahten--except...in the matter of the world 
worm.
    Gaborn had indeed summoned a worm and saved Carris when Raj Ahten could not. 
One could almost imagine that he purposely kept his power veiled beneath a plain 
exterior.
    Feykaald envied the boy such power. If only his master could somehow gain 
the Earth King's crown.
    As Gaborn paraded by, Feykaald watched the faces in the throng: the jubilant 
children, the hopeful mothers, the old men with worried frowns.
    He did not feel a part of this crowd. Carris hoped for the Earth King's 
favor, but Feykaald did not. The world was large, and Gaborn could not hope to 
protect all of it. At this very moment, reavers invaded Kartish.
    While Gaborn paraded, Feykaald's people died.
    And that is the way it will remain, he told himself. The world is huge, and 
Gaborn is small. He cannot protect Rofehavan and Indhopal too.
    Feykaald put his hopes in his own king.
    So Gaborn paraded past.
    But Feykaald's presence in the crowd did not go unnoticed. A single rider 
peeled off from the king's retinue, circled behind the giants, and brought his 
horse through the crowd.
    "Greetings, Kaifba," Jureem said in Indhopalese, bending close so that he 
could look down on the kaifba from his tall horse. "The smell of opium hangs 
heavy on you today."
    Feykaald opened his eyes and cocked his "good" right ear toward Jureem, 
"Eh?" he asked, maintaining by long habit his pretense of being nearly deaf.
    "The opium--" Jureem said loudly.
    "Ah--" Feykaald nodded, and finished his sentence. "Is a pleasant reminder 
of home."
    "It can also hide deceit in a man," Jureem accused. Petty criminals in 
Indhopal often smoked opium to keep the nerves sedated and the pupils dilated. 
This could help them conceal their duplicity even during a rigorous examination 
by torture.
    "Or it can ease an old man's painful joints," Feykaald said softly.
    "What is your business here?" Jureem demanded.
    "I came to speak with your king on an urgent matter," Feykaald said. "I wish 
to seek his counsel."
    "Yet you let him pass by?"
    "Surely he will stay and hold court? His triumph was great. Will he not 
remain and accept the applause of his people?"
    "You were seen leaving the city in company with the flameweavers last 
night," Jureem argued.
    "I returned only moments ago."
    "I wonder why you are even here," Jureem said.
    Feykaald smiled kindly. "I flew last night in the balloon because I hoped to 
view the reavers' movements. I saw little of import.
    "But in the mountains, I intercepted a messenger who brought ill news. 
Reavers have attacked Kartish. The very Lord of the Underworld leads them. I 
have come to beg the Earth King for his aid."
    "Raj Ahten seeks Gaborn's support?" Jureem asked, incredulous.
    "No," Feykaald said. "He would never ask the Earth King for succor. But 
after the battle yesterday, I have to ask myself, where else can our people 
turn.'"
    "You're lying, or hiding something," Jureem said. "I will warn Gaborn 
against meeting with you."
    "He will do so anyway."
    "Remove your rings," Jureem commanded in a dangerous tone.
    "Eh?" Feykaald asked.
    "The rings!"
    Feykaald felt reluctant, but he was an old man, not naturally disposed to 
open battle, and Jureem's tone warned that if he did not give up the rings, 
Jureem would take them. He pulled five rings off his scrawny fingers, then 
placed them in Jureem's plump palm.
    Jureem pulled open the secret compartment of one ring. The needle inside 
dripped with green poison from a bush called "malefactor" in Feykaald's tongue.
    "What is this?" Jureem demanded.
    "A little protection for an old man," Feykaald said innocently. Jureem 
grunted, opened the compartment on a second ring. "One can never be too safe," 
Feykaald added.
    Jureem pocketed the rings. "I fear that there is treachery in you."
    "What?" Feykaald asked, cocking his ear as if he hadn't quite heard. 
Feykaald had learned long ago the tools of manipulation. He knew that feigning 
anger would serve him well now. "You insult me with such accusations! You broke 
oath with one master, and now you want to school me in fidelity?"
    Jureem held silent, but his eyes raged.
    Good, Feykaald thought. He feels guilty for mistrusting me. Now is the time 
to strike, to offer the hand of friendship.
    Feykaald shook his head. "Forgive my outburst, my brother. But both of us 
have led a wayward past. Now, we both hope to live only by the tender mercy of 
the Earth King. You do not trust me, I know. But I assure you that I am no 
different from you."
    Feykaald sighed heavily and glanced off to the east, out over the darkened 
battle plain to the Hest Mountains rising blue in the distance, and beyond them 
to Indhopal. "I only hope, my old friend, that for the sake of all of us, we do 
the right thing in supporting this Earth King. Do you think Gaborn will send aid 
to Indhopal?"
    "I do," Jureem said with finality. "Speak with him. Watch him closely, and 
you will see. The time may come when you wish to serve him with your whole 
heart."
    Feykaald looked him in the eye, his face a mask of hope. "Indeed, I well 
may, my brother," Feykaald said. He reached up and squeezed Jureem's bicep, as 
was the custom among his people.
    Feykaald retrieved his horse. The magnificent gray Imperial charger had been 
through much over the past few days. The gelding had its endowments, but the 
endless ride had left it lean, almost to the point of being gaunt.
    He found himself growing curious. Could Jureem be right? Would Gaborn really 
come to Indhopal's aid? What powers might he have hidden inside him still?
    If Feykaald could convince the boy to come, then dispatching him afterward 
would be that much easier.
    By the time Feykaald got his horse saddled, the king and his retinue were 
issuing out over the plain. Feykaald raced to catch up.

     
     
Chapter 15
SUBVERSIVE INFLUENCES
    Thoughts are the threads that bind us to deeds. Deeds are the ropes that 
bind us to habits. Habits are the chains that bind us to destiny. To escape your 
destiny, sever yourself from evil thought.
    --Inscription carved upon the West Wall at the Palace of the Elephant at 
Maygassa
     
    Raj Ahten raced for Kartish filled with dread and a sense of purpose.
    All of his years of work--all of his efforts to become the Sum of All Men, 
all of his training in war--were about to reach their climax.
    He envisioned the reavers at Kartish gathered as they had been at Carris, 
with the Lord of the Underworld crouched upon a Rune of Desolation while legions 
of warriors guarded her. The image filled him with apprehension.
    Yet many of Raj Ahten's finest troops were also in Kartish. He envisioned 
knights charging across the plains, warriors clad in saffron surcoats, crimson 
capes flapping in the wind, lances slamming into reavers.
    It would be a battle that children would hear of for centuries, as their 
fathers told the tales around the hearth at night.
    So it was that dawn found him racing down from the Hest Mountains while the 
morning sun crept up behind him, filling the desert of Muttaya with light as if 
it were a winnower's basket. The desert sands were the color of rose in the 
dawn, streaked in places with a faint hue of palest amethyst where streams 
boasted their lush vegetation. To the north stood the Hills of the Elephant 
Dream--ocher-colored stones heaped in blocks that looked like a herd of 
elephants from the distance.
    Fifty miles off in the desert below he spotted a knot of riders spread out 
on the highway, men in dark robes--Wuqaz Faharaqin and the Ah'kellah--racing 
before him. At this distance, the shimmering air currents and dust of the road 
clouded his vision.
    His mount was weary. Even this great stallion could not catch them easily. 
He needed a fresh horse.
    Wuqaz and his men rode for Salandar, and from there would race to the heart 
of Indhopal. There Wuqaz would seek out any lord who might oppose Raj Ahten, any 
who harbored resentment or a treacherous nature, and try to inflame such men 
against him.
    Raj Ahten knew that he could get a fresh mount there, but wondered how safe 
it might be. If these men suspected that he was on their trail, they might try 
to ambush him. Salandar would be the place for it.
    In the morning light he also saw the balloon of his flameweavers, a bright 
speck like a blue graak high in the air. He'd bade them follow as best they 
could, but they rode the air currents faster than his force horse could manage.
    At their speed, they'd reach Kartish before him.
    From the mountains the desert appeared barren, lifeless. But as he rode down 
into the valleys, life revealed itself everywhere. Nightjars flitted among the 
shadowed trees in the hills, their gray wings fluttering languidly, catching 
moths that flew in the morning. Mountain sheep ran from his path, leaping over 
brown rocks. Fire-tailed weaver birds rose up from a streambed in raucous 
clouds.
    Though he was at the border of the desert, the rains came often in winter to 
the pass, and trees grew in thickets in every fold of the mountains.
    Raj Ahten had always loved the deserts of Indhopal.
    As he passed the village of Hariq, he stopped at a well long enough to let 
some women, all dressed in white muslin with green shawls on their heads, draw 
water from the well for him and his mount. He'd ridden in upon a borrowed horse, 
without his armor, with his hooded cloak pulled over his face. To a casual 
observer, he seemed only an anonymous lord. With the murderous Ah'kellah ahead, 
he preferred it that way.
    It was not until the women saw his face beneath the hood that they 
recognized him, and began to fawn over him.
    The village was nearly empty, for at this time of year many of the mountain 
folk migrated south for the winter, following the Old Spice Way down into 
Indhopal.
    Yet for those who stayed, it was a time of celebration. The harvests were 
in, and life seemed good.
    He soon reached Salandar, with its white adobe walls baked as hard as stones 
over the centuries. He reached for his warhammer and rode with one hand on it, 
peering from beneath his hooded robe for sign of an ambush.
    The markets were filled with vendors: men with woven baskets stuffed with 
pistachios, almonds, dried fava beans, pine nuts, chickpeas, lentils, rice, and 
groundnuts. Others hawked spices: cumin and zatar, sumac and coriander, allspice 
and saffron. Old women carried pots filled with boiled eggs or turnip pickles on 
their heads, or baskets loaded with olives, eggplants, or limes. In the meat 
markets animals hung by strings from their feet: pigeons, ground squirrels, and 
succulent young lambs.
    The streets were filled with people. Nomad women in bright woven shawls in 
from the desert bartered for goods. Camel traders hawked their wares. Children 
raced about. Young men and women huddled in the shadows of vendors' stalls to 
shyly hold hands. Qat dealers bundled their herbs and sold them in a dazed 
stupor. Old men played chess by the roadside, fanning themselves with palm 
leaves. Wealthy men with jewels pinned in their turbans took breakfast on their 
verandas overlooking the avenues, served by beautiful wives.
    Red chickens strutted through the streets, while white rock doves swirled 
like snow over the gardens at every manor.
    Nothing seemed amiss in Salandar.
    He saw no sign of the Ah'kellah, and managed to negotiate the streets 
without drawing attention.
    Raj Ahten stopped to trade his horse at the fortress and announce himself. 
He questioned the warlord in charge, a wiry man from Indhopal named 
Bhopanastrat, about the Invincibles. Bhopanastrat was a competent man who had 
served Raj Ahten well--from a distance.
    "Some Invincibles did pass through an hour ago, and took fresh horses. Wuqaz 
Faharaqin led them."
    "Did he name their errand?"
    Bhopanastrat shook his head. "He said that they were going to Maygassa." 
Bhopanastrat bent near and whispered as if afraid to speak of a secret aloud. 
"It is said that there is trouble in Kartish. I thought..." He winked his left 
eye, to show that he knew how to keep a secret.
    Raj Ahten seemed to be gaining on Wuqaz, but the man was still an hour ahead 
of him. He could not yet guess Wuqaz's mission. He might well have lied to 
Bhopanastrat. Wuqaz was a portentous name. It meant "Breaker of Necks." Among 
the Ah'kellah it was a title as much as a name. He would be a formidable 
adversary.
    Raj Ahten doubted that he could stop the Ah'kellah. If he tried to catch the 
men, they would fan out like grouse fleeing the falconer. He might get one or 
two, but the rest would elude him.
    He suspected that their report could have dire consequences. Raj Ahten had 
conquered all the nations of Indhopal, but some of them had been under his 
dominion for less than a year. They were like spirited colts that had not yet 
been broken. They bucked and bit at him while he gouged with his spurs.
    They would be eager to throw off his rule, and Wuqaz Faharaqin was the type 
of man to lead them.
    Yet Raj Ahten also had to wonder at the "trouble in Kartish." If a lord at 
this distant outpost had heard of misfortune, how bad might the situation there 
be?
    He impatiently took breakfast as he waited for Bhopanastrat and a dozen 
force soldiers to prepare for the journey. He dined on a rich pigeon stew made 
with onions, and flavored with plums, saffron, and ginger.
    Raj Ahten sat for a moment, began rubbing his left wrist. He felt a numbing 
pain in the arm. He wondered at it, could not think how it might have been 
injured.
    He was, he suspected, alive now only because of the vast number of 
endowments he'd taken.
    He thought of the flameweavers in their balloon, riding the east wind faster 
than his horse. They'd invited him to join them, to become one of them.
    In company with Bhopanastrat and a dozen men, Raj Ahten forged north across 
the desert borders, racing through encampments and villages named only after the 
clans that settled them--Isgul, Qanaat, Zelfar.
    The desert came alive at this time of year. Small flowers took the 
opportunity to bloom after every spat of rain, and it had rained three days 
before. Bouquets of salmon-colored flowers blossomed on the grease-wood, while 
the ground was strewn with a carpet of white.
    Birds were everywhere. Bright yellow bee-eaters streaked across the land 
like fiery arrows, skimming among the flowers. Lapwings raced away from him on 
stilted legs, feigning broken wings to draw him from their nests, and filled the 
morning with their mournful peewit, peewit. Sand grouse by the thousands perched 
on the banks of streams, looking like round speckled brown rocks until they 
erupted into the sky.
    Everywhere that Raj Ahten rode, the illusion that he'd seen from afar--that 
the deserts of Muttaya were barren and lifeless--was dispelled.
    He stopped once again at a fortress in Maksist to trade his horses for 
camels. He asked the warlord in charge about Wuqaz.
    The warlord said warily, "I did see the men you seek. The Ah'kellah left the 
village only half an hour ago. Some took camels south, others took horses to the 
north and west."
    "How many men went south?" Raj Ahten asked.
    "Twelve men, O Light of the Universe."
    Raj Ahten bit his lip. He was only half an hour behind them now. If he 
hurried, he would catch them.
    "Give me your best force camels."
    "My lord," the man said hesitantly, a worried expression on his brow. 
"Salaam."
    "Peace," Raj Ahten assured him.
    "The camels I have are not worthy of you. The riders you seek--they took my 
best animals and kept spares for palfreys."
    Raj Ahten began to seethe. "Is there a merchant in this city who will have 
the camels I seek?"
    "I will gather the best animals in the city," the man said. "Meanwhile, sit 
at my table, eat your fill. Rest."
    The warlord took a horse and raced from the fortress. True to his word, he 
came back shortly with thirteen force camels.
    "Forgive me," he said as he leapt from his horse. "These are the best I 
could find." He got on his hands and knees, then bowed deeply, so that his white 
turban swept the ground.
    It was the pose of one who offered his life to atone for an indiscretion.
    He is a wise man, Raj Ahten realized. If I were angry, I might order him 
tortured to death. This way, he tempts me to take him quickly.
    "You serve me well," Raj Ahten said. He took the beasts gratefully.
    He ordered the captain to get eighty men on horses and take them west and 
north, to hunt for the Invincibles in that band.
    He wished that he knew which direction Wuqaz Faharaqin had gone. Raj Ahten 
went to the road at the edge of town, and for long moments he tried to catch 
Wuqaz's scent. He rode now atop a camel with a dozen other men, and Raj Ahten 
could not tell from the faint traces in the air which party he rode with.
    Raj Ahten could not let him live. Nor could he afford to take the time to 
hunt the man down.
    South, he decided at last. Wuqaz would go south into Taif, or Aven, where 
the Ah'kellah were most revered.
    Raj Ahten led a dozen of his best men south into the desert, heading through 
old Indhopal toward Kartish.
    The first leg of the journey was easy. The ground lay flat and hard.
    Baobab trees grew on the verge of the desert, rising up in twisted majesty. 
During certain seasons, wildebeests and gazelles migrated through the region in 
vast herds, but this late in the fall only a few dry bones garnished the 
prairie. Ostriches and jackals loped away as his men approached.
    After they forded the muddy Deloon River, all of the watercourses went dry. 
It had not rained this far south.
    The wells at Kazir and Makarang were both dry. It was not until he saw 
camels tied by a bright red pavilion pitched beneath a baobab tree half a mile 
from the caravan way that they found water.
    The baobab had a trunk thirty feet wide, and an enterprising trader had 
hollowed it out. The hollow held clay cisterns of precious water.
    Upon seeing the thirteen men riding out of the desert, the trader grew 
uneasy. Only the worst kind of marauders would dare steal a man's water, but the 
worst kind of marauders sometimes traveled this road.
    He rested his hand upon his khivar as Raj Ahten approached, and stared at 
him from eyes as brown as ripe almonds. He was an elderly man, with a beard 
trimmed impeccably. The old man bowed.
    Raj Ahten hailed him, tried to put him at ease. "Salaam. The trail is dry, 
and I feel weighed down by too much money."
    "Let me lighten your load, O Great One," the trader said with a satisfied 
grin, "while you drink your fill."
    With that, Raj Ahten dismounted and found a place to sit under the shade of 
the baobab. Raj Ahten took out a silver flask he'd brought from Salandar. It was 
filled with lemongrass tea flavored with honey made from morning primrose.
    As a preamble to conversation, the two men shared introductions, and Raj 
Ahten offered a drink to the old man, for as the old proverb went, "In the 
desert, drink must come before trust, trust before friendship."
    For a moment they talked cordially of poetry, weather, and the health of the 
old man's sister. The man recognized Raj Ahten and showed by his cordial 
demeanor that he, too, was of good breeding.
    "Twelve men came riding from the north, did they not?" Raj Ahten finally 
asked.
    "Yes, men of the Ah'kellah, in a great hurry," the man said. "They were 
rude."
    "Ah," Raj Ahten said, fearing that he'd asked his question too soon, had 
given offense. "Men on the run are seldom polite. Did they speak of their 
destination?"
    "They are going south to raise the Atwaba," the old man said. "They are 
angry with our beloved lord."
    "Indeed?" Raj Ahten asked, feeling mirthful. The trader was being 
extraordinarily polite by pretending that he did not recognize Raj Ahten. "What 
did they say?"
    "May my tongue be cut from me if I ever repeat such tales!" the old man 
intoned.
    "It is a secret safe with me."
    "They say that Raj Ahten, bless his name, broke a truce and sought to kill 
the Earth King, his cousin by marriage."
    Raj Ahten grinned. "I am sure that it is all a misunderstanding. When I meet 
these men, I will clear it up."
    "May the wind speed you," the old trader intoned.
    "Tell me, was Wuqaz Faharaqin among them?"
    "I could not say," the trader answered. "The name I know, but these men did 
not offer me their names."
    Raj Ahten nodded thoughtfully. He could imagine how the Ah'kellah would tell 
his tale. They would describe the Earth King as a strong leader, vying for Raj 
Ahten's rule. If things went ill for Raj Ahten in this battle at Kartish, it 
would only justify that view.
    Among the simpleminded, the charges of injustice would cause trouble. But 
here so close to Deyazz, men would ridicule such charges. A second cousin by 
marriage was still considered a stranger in this country.
    But elsewhere..."See here," the kaifs would say. "Our lord fights for the 
reavers in Mystarria, while reavers tear apart Kartish. Raj Ahten fights his own 
cousin! What is he, a man or a reaver?"
    This would be a serious accusation in the minds of the young and simple. At 
the very least, certain kaifs would use it as a pretext to demand 
apologies--bribes of gold and forcibles and spices.
    But for those who hungered to throw off his reign, no apology could ever 
suffice.
    Bhopanastrat and the other Invincibles finished watering the camels. Raj 
Ahten realized that he did not actually have any money. Normally, Feykaald 
handled such things.
    Raj Ahten went to mount his camel, and said to Bhopanastrat, "Pay the man."
    "As you wish," the warlord said.
    What happened next came so fast that Raj Ahten did not have time to stop it. 
The old man got up from his seat and dusted off the back of his burnoose, ready 
to take his coin. Bhopanastrat drew his khivar and quickly slashed the old man's 
throat.
    He staggered back three steps, turned toward the baobab, and sank to his 
knees. He slumped forward against the tree trunk, face-first, blood gushing from 
his neck.
    "What?" Raj Ahten demanded. "Why did you do that?"
    "He was rude, Great One," Bhopanastrat answered. "He demanded money. He 
should have felt honored to give water to his king."
    "Is that the kind of man you think I am, killing harmless old men in the 
desert?" Raj Ahten asked. Bhopanastrat dared not speak. "We are not in 
Rofehavan," Raj Ahten shouted. "These are my people!"
    "Salaam," Bhopanastrat begged, bowing his head low. "Forgive me. I did not 
know you could care so much for one worthless old man."

     
     
Chapter 16
TWYNHAVEN
    The women of Fleeds are coarse and barbaric. That's why the men of Fleeds 
love them so fiercely.
    --From the journal of Duke Paldane
     
    The rain and darkness held Erin and Celinor at Balington. Several times in 
the night, messengers had come and gone for Gaborn. They left their force horses 
down in the stalls, fed them rich miln, but no one climbed into the loft where 
the lovers lay wrapped in one another's arms.
    Celinor promised his undying love a dozen times during the night, until at 
last Erin realized that it must be some odd custom among his folk. She had 
worried that if he kept it up, she'd not hear the next time a messenger opened 
the door.
    "Why talk about love when you could be making love?" she finally whispered. 
That kept him quiet, except for the panting and kisses.
    But the few moments of stolen bliss could not last, and when an owl swooped 
into the rafters of the stable, Erin had known that it was time to go.
    Early morning found Erin and Celinor far north of the village, riding the 
king's highway through patches of fog that shrouded the dales between the green 
hills. Crows flew up, cawing in the distance. Their jagged path through the sky 
intersected sprawling oak trees where they might roost.
    Erin and Celinor did not talk much on the ride north. The strange wizard 
child and her warnings of danger lay heavily on Erin's mind.
    For miles around, the homes and inns were still abandoned. Raj Ahten's army 
had passed by here yesterday, and the people had fled his presence. There was no 
food along the highway, and only once did they stop at a small cottage to pick 
some pears from a tree.
    As Erin gathered the fruit, Celinor wandered to the side of the house and 
picked a peach-colored rose. He brought it back, held it up for her to admire, 
and sniffed its delicate scent. Then he offered it to her.
    "And what are you thinking I'll do with that?" Erin asked. She'd eaten rose 
apples in the winter of course. But picking the rose violated her people's 
custom. Fleeds was a poor land, especially in the southeast. Every blade of 
grass was a valuable commodity among the horseclans.
    "It's to admire," he said lamely.
    "Oh," she said. Belatedly, she recalled that in some countries men gave 
roses as cheap gifts. She sniffed it, admired it for all of thirty seconds, and 
then--not wanting it to go to waste--tried to feed it to her fine black mare. 
The mare would have none of it.
    Celinor came to her rescue. "You can wear it," he said. "In my country, 
women pin roses inside their robes. It's like perfume, but doesn't have the 
cost." He took the rose, and pinned it to the back of the silver brooch that 
Erin wore on her cloak. She could barely taste the sweet fragrance.
    "Cuts down on the smell of horse sweat, I imagine," Erin said. She wondered 
at his gesture. Did her odor offend him? Or was he just trying to be nice?
    "They say that if you bruise the petals," Celinor offered, "they smell even 
sweeter."
    He pulled her close and hugged her fiercely. She decided he was trying to be 
nice. Different lands, different customs.
    In fact, he was more than nice. She thought briefly about kicking in the 
cottage door and looking for a bed. He'd shown himself to be more than an 
adequate lover last night.
    At that moment, a pair of young horsesisters came riding south from Fleeds. 
They crested a nearby hill and sent the crows flapping up from a field.
    As they drew nearer, Erin studied them. Both girls looked to be from poor 
families, and could not be accounted as knights at all. Their boiled-leather 
armor was painted with symbols in green and yellow that identified their clans. 
Each sported a sash of horsehair, dyed red and braided for luck. Their helms 
were of leather with iron plates sewn into them, with horsetails flowing out the 
back. Instead of heavy lances, they bore only spears.
    They looked flushed with energy, as people who have recently taken 
endowments often do. Erin suspected that the girls had put the forcibles that 
Gaborn had given her people to good use.
    One girl had bloodstains from a side wound. She reeked of whiskey, which 
she'd used to clean the wound.
    "You coming or going?" the wounded girl said as they drew near.
    "Coming," Erin said.
    "The road's a hard one ahead. Lowicker's brat, Constance, is after blocking 
every byway. She's salted the roads with caltrops. And if you ride off into the 
trees, her archers will be using your hide for target practice. We barely made 
it."
    Erin had expected as much.
    "Is it war, then?" Celinor asked.
    "Who can tell?" the other girl answered. "We didn't see any troops taking 
the field, if that's what you mean. She's not hankering to throw against the 
Earth King, but she doesn't want his horses pissing on her roads. I'd say she's 
waging a tantrum instead of a war."
    Celinor laughed aloud at the notion and wished the young women well. His 
laugh rang false, though. Erin knew that he had to be worried. "Maybe we should 
veer into the mountains, and circle Beldinook," he suggested.
    "We could be for cutting across Lowicker's fields," Erin offered. "It would 
save time, and it would be like spitting in their faces."
    "An arrow loosed in a fit of tantrum will kill you as easily as one loosed 
in war. We've got more important things to do than spit in the faces of 
Lowicker's men."
    Erin wasn't so sure. Fleeds and Beldinook had gone to war dozens of times in 
the past, and the news today raised her ire.
    Still, she fought down her anger enough so that she followed when they 
neared the border and Celinor veered west on a side lane that led to Twynhaven.
    They reached the remains of the village a dozen miles down the lane. There 
was nothing left. Fire had taken the place.
    It was not a normal fire, Erin could see. For one thing, flames had engulfed 
the whole village, circling just inside the city wall. Within that circle, the 
inferno had consumed every piece of wood--every wain, every timber in every 
home, every tree.
    Rocks still stood in some places where cottages had been. Chimneys thrust up 
like blackened bones, and stone fences parceled out the squares of ash. At the 
very center of town, even the stones had melted to slag.
    No one had escaped.
    Erin and Celinor rode through the streets, saw cracked and burned corpses. 
Here was a mother carrying her child. There was a horse that died in its panic. 
Beyond that, a family lay in ruins.
    In a daze, Erin realized that flameweavers had destroyed this town. She knew 
that Raj Ahten's sorcerers had summoned the Darkling Glory somewhere in 
Mystarria. They'd burned people alive as part of their sacrifice. This had to be 
the village. Twynhaven.
    In the three days since, only one pair of footprints showed that anyone had 
ventured into town. The footprints crisscrossed the street, from burned-out 
hovel to burned-out hovel. Obviously, it was a looter, probably looking for 
lumps of gold or silver among the ashes.
    There were other villages up the road. But the peasants nearby most likely 
wouldn't brave this place. Some thought it dangerous to tread ground where 
people had been murdered.
    Erin and Celinor rode in silence. We should have killed Raj Ahten for this 
alone, Erin thought. We should have killed him.
    They were riding reverently, studying the destruction, when Celinor suddenly 
reined in his mount, and pointed. "Look at that!"
    Erin didn't realize what he was talking about for a moment. She stopped, 
studied the ground.
    In the midst of a nearby building, in the shadows thrown by the morning sun, 
she could just make out a faint green flickering. It was as if a low flame eeled 
along the ground. If the sun had been shining full, she would not have seen it.
    The green flames shimmered over the cold ashes like a fog. They seemed to 
form a circle, perhaps fifteen feet across, and within it gleamed a fiery rune. 
Footprints in the ashes showed where a flame weaver had walked out of that 
circle, in company with the Darkling Glory.
    More importantly, another pair of footprints in the ashes showed where the 
looter had stepped into that circle--and vanished.
    The hair rose on the nape of Erin's neck, and goosepimples stood up on her 
arms.
    Her glance flicked toward Celinor. "Is that what I think it is?"
    His face was hard. His nostrils flared with each breath. "A door," he said 
in awe, "to the netherworld."
    Raj Ahten's flameweaver had opened that door in his summoning. Erin would 
have expected him to close it when he was done. But she was no sorceress. 
Perhaps closing the door was harder than opening it.
    Her mouth felt dry, and her heart began to hammer. She had a curious notion, 
a thought that suddenly burned bright in her consciousness.
    "If Raj Ahten can summon a Darkling Glory through that door," she said, 
"perhaps we can summon a Glory of our own."
    Celinor reined his mount back a few steps. "It would be madness to try!"
    "Would it?" Erin asked. "You know the lore as well as I do. Erden Geboren 
had Bright Ones and Glories to fight for him. Someone had to summon them."
    Celinor asked, "How do you even know anything can get through?"
    "There's a way to find out."
    She climbed down from her mount. The ashes on the ground were cold and wet. 
None stirred beneath her feet, but the moisture intensified their bitter scent.
    Erin drew near the rune, pulled a dagger from her sheath, and tossed it into 
the circle.
    The dagger never reached the ash-covered ground. Instead the green flames 
whirled toward it, circled in a vortex, and took it.
    Then the green fire went flickering over the ashes again. So near to it, she 
could feel a dry heat. It was intense, but perhaps not enough to burn her.
    I could do this, she thought. I could step into another world. Her heart was 
hammering and her throat was dry. She edged closer to the circle until she stood 
on the very brink.
    She glanced over her shoulder at Celinor. "Don't!" he warned. "Even if you 
made it through, how do you know you can come back?"
    He's right, she realized. She imagined stepping into flames, with 
salamanders and Darkling Glories all around. Legend said that men had first come 
from the netherworld. So there had to be land and food.
    She glanced out over the fields of Mystarria, the distant oaks standing 
burnished golden in the morning sunlight, crows flapping over their path in the 
sky. Leaving it all was a wild notion.
    She had promised that she would accompany Celinor to his father. Heart still 
hammering, Erin drew back from the circle, and rode north.

     
     
Chapter 17
WARRIORS
    In Indhopal, Sky Lords are represented as men with the heads and wings of 
birds. I traveled there one time to see the bones of a Sky Lord, and found that 
it was only a child's skeleton fit with the wing bones of a graak.
    In Inkarra, enormous sea graaks are often swept inland with onrushing 
storms, and legends there say that these are the descendants of the Sky Lords.
    North of Mystarria, folktales say that powerful wizards of the Air can 
transform themselves into birds at will--with ravens, owls, and vultures being 
the most likely forms.
    --From Accounts of the Sky Lords by Sir Garion Gundell
     
    By noon Baron Beckhurst had traveled far west beyond the Red Stag inn. He 
rode as if in a dream, neither awake nor asleep. Though he rode a mount, if he 
closed his eyes he could almost sense that he was flying. He knew what it would 
feel like to have wings, to feel the air yielding beneath the sweep of his 
pinions.
    As a child it had been his favorite fantasy, one that kept him awake long 
into the night. Now, he felt as if his dreams were on the verge of becoming 
reality.
    Everywhere, if he listened, he could hear the voice of the wind. It rustled 
the dry grasses in the field, and whispered among dying leaves. It spoke 
eloquently in the flapping of a crow's wing, or in a pennant snapping above an 
inn.
    "One deed," the voice whispered. "Kill Queen Sylvarresta, and you shall 
fly."
    At a crossroads two hundred miles south of Carris, he stopped in the shadows 
of some old silver birches that leaned precariously in the sandy soil by a 
river.
    A flock of starlings zigzagged down the river in a cloud, and filled a dead 
tree so close by that Beckhurst thought almost that he could ride up and touch 
them. In one moment, the tree was naked and dead, and in the next moment the 
birds clothed every limb as if they were leaves. They kept up a raucous chorus, 
flitted up from the tree, circled and returned.
    A single starling burst from the flock, flew up and settled on the point of 
Beckhurst's lance. It cocked its head to the side and gazed down at him. It 
blinked, its dark eyes looking wiser than an animal's should.
    "Bless my lance, Great Lord," Beckhurst murmured.
    Beckhurst let his horse dip its head for a drink of water. The starling 
winged away.
    The dry leaves above him rustled like paper as they struck one another. A 
dazzling golden light played over the fields to the north.
    Presently, two knights rode up from the south and joined him. A driving wind 
came with them, scattering leaves in their wake, raising dust beneath the hooves 
of their mounts, whipping their capes and the manes of their terrified horses.
    Both were big men, like Beckhurst himself. Both bore shields and lances. 
Both had stormy gray eyes. None of them spoke when they met. They all just sat 
on their mounts, letting them drink, as if awaiting a signal. A gust circled 
them like an invisible beast, stopping to pace this way and that.
    Suddenly, Beckhurst raised his nose. He tasted a delicate perfume, as if a 
fine lady had just passed by in a closed room.
    "The queen can't be far now," one knight said. "A couple of hours more."
    "Come the draught, come the storm," Beckhurst whispered, as if in prayer.
    A blast shuddered around them, stripping leaves from the birches and roaring 
like a wounded bear. The horses staggered back, eyes showing white and ears 
thrust forward in alarm.
    As one, the knights spurred their chargers northward, following the scent.

     
     
Chapter 18
RAJ AHTEN'S SPIDER
    Beware the traders of Indhopal. They will sell their own mothers quicker 
than they will sell you a good horse.
    --Adage taught in the Room of Gold
     
    Gaborn left Carris with a heavy heart. He could sense danger to tens of 
thousands of the people in the city. So he ordered his father's Wits to remain 
there with Paldane's Chamberlain, Lord Galantine, to aid in evacuating the city, 
and asked them to bolster its defenses as best they could. He kept only one of 
the Wits at his side, the faithful old Jerimas.
    After Gaborn left Carris, scouts fanned out, searching among the dead 
reavers. It was entirely possible that the Waymaker that Gaborn sought had met 
its fate during the night, along with so many other reavers. Finding it might 
not be hard, if it was dead. Few reavers had thirty-six philia on their heads. 
It was a rare trait--perhaps one in five hundred. Fewer still would be large 
males with large forepaws.
    The scouts inspected the field but found no reavers at all that matched 
Averan's description.
    A mile south of Carris, Gaborn halted his troops to investigate a strange 
circumstance. The reavers had dug some wide trenches here that wove about in a 
braided design. Water from Lake Donnestgree had flooded the muddy banks of the 
concourse, and the waterway extended inland in a broad bow for nearly a mile. 
The trenches themselves looked to be four feet deep--rather shallow by reaver 
standards.
    The curious thing was the smell. The water gave off a horrible stink, like 
that he'd smelled at some geysers, and any fish that had swum into the concourse 
from the lake now floated belly-up in the reeking trench.
    Iome took a perfumed handkerchief from her riding cloak, held it over her 
nose.
    "What is this?" Gaborn asked as he gazed down into the water. "Is this a 
reaver's version of the jacks?"
    "I think not," Jerimas said. "It smells of sulfur."
    Gaborn was not surprised when the answer came from Averan. "It's not the 
jacks. It's their drinking water."
    Gaborn glanced at the child, who was mounted double with Binnesman, to see 
if she was joking.
    "Reavers drink?" Jerimas asked. "Popular wisdom has held for centuries that 
reavers, like desert mice, do not need water, but take all their fluid from 
their prey."
    "Of course they drink." Averan scrunched her eyebrows. "The fell mage was 
terribly thirsty when she died. Look in the water. You'll find big yellow 
stones. The reavers carried them here and threw them in, so that they would 
melt. There is no fresh water down where they come from, just water like this."
    Gaborn had seldom considered what the conditions in the Underworld might be 
like, down so deep where the reavers lived. Few men had ever dared make that 
perilous journey. But he could see one of the yellow stones now. He made a 
mental note: I'll need to take fresh water.
    "What more can you tell us?" Gaborn said. "What were the reavers going to do 
with that tower?"
    He pointed out a huge section of tower, like a twisted narwhale's horn. But 
Averan only shook her head. "I think it's part of a building. I don't know 
everything."
    As they were thus occupied, Jureem rode up in company with a fellow 
countryman of obvious importance. He was an elderly man, with a back that looked 
to be permanently stooped from years of bowing to his master. His face was 
leathery and tough as camel hide, with the exception of the baggy folds beneath 
his eyes. His long hair was still black with streaks of silver. He had his head 
cocked slightly, listening with his right ear.
    He rode proudly on a gray force horse. Across the pommel of his saddle was a 
staff of sandalwood, carved in the shape of a cobra. As he neared, even at a 
distance of twenty feet, the kaifba smelled strongly of garlic and olive oil.
    "Milord," Jureem said as he drew close. "I present Kaifba Feykaald, High 
Chancellor to Raj Ahten, Lord of Indhopal."
    "At your service," Feykaald said. He spoke with only a hint of accent. With 
his straggling teeth, the gnarly bones of his knuckles, and his intense gaze, he 
seemed to Gaborn to be a spidery thing, the very embodiment of evil. His pupils 
were dilated widely, and Gaborn could detect the bitter scent of opium poppies.
    "You honor us," Gaborn said. "What brings you to me?"
    "Eh?" Feykaald asked, cocking his head. Gaborn repeated the question. "I 
have come to beg your aid," Feykaald said. He handed a gilded message case to 
Gaborn. "In the mountains this morning, Raj Ahten received this warning. Reavers 
have attacked the blood-metal mines in Kartish. By now they are well entrenched. 
An enormous reaver leads them--the very Lord of the Underworld."
    The news made Gaborn's heart hammer. Could it be possible? No man had ever 
seen the legendary Lord of the Underworld, and thus no one could say with 
certainty what she would look like. Would the Lord of the Underworld herself 
march against Kartish? He doubted it. He'd sought communion with the Earth, and 
felt drawn to the Place of Bones, and Averan had confirmed his suspicions that 
he would find the reaver lord there.
    Gaborn studied Feykaald's movements. He spoke almost casually of the 
problem, as if it were a small matter. He was like a trader who sought to lure a 
buyer into a poor bargain. Gaborn immediately sensed a trap.
    "I warned Raj Ahten of this myself. He did not believe me. Does he really 
dare hope that I would help him now?"
    Feykaald's lower lip trembled, as if he'd held great hopes, and feared that 
Gaborn would dash them. "He...does not know that I have come to you. The 
situation is very grave. Raj Ahten rides to Kartish, but I suspect he will 
arrive too late. More than that, I fear that he will not be able to dislodge our 
enemy."
    "You speak of what you think. What does Raj Ahten think?"
    Feykaald looked down. "He thinks...that the sun and moon revolve around him. 
He thinks that all men are less than dust beneath his feet. He imagines that he 
can defeat the reavers himself. But I know he is mistaken. He does not have your 
powers."
    "I can offer no support," Gaborn said, "without your master's agreement."
    "Please," Feykaald said. "I do not ask for Raj Ahten, or even for myself. I 
ask for my people."
    Gaborn countered, "I will not take an army into a realm where they are not 
invited, to fight beside a lord who will not assure me a truce. Raj Ahten has 
broken faith with me before. He would do so again."
    "There are children in Indhopal, O Great One," Feykaald said. He spoke too 
loudly. He bowed his head and folded his hands before his eyes, in an attitude 
of supplication. "They are brown, but otherwise they are children like your 
children. They laugh like your children. They weep like your children. They 
hunger and bleed like your children. And like your children, they, too, dream 
that an Earth King will appear in their most desperate hour. If you will not 
show mercy to our men and women, at least you must show mercy to our children."
    Gaborn shook his head. He suspected that Feykaald stood against him despite 
his protestations. His Earth senses warned of danger should he go. Yet he also 
knew what he'd witnessed through Binnesman's Seer Stones two days past. He'd 
seen the reavers rising in Kartish. The situation there would be grimmer even 
than what he'd found in Carris.
    Feykaald sought to lure him to Kartish for reasons of his own. Gaborn 
doubted that Feykaald could guess how deeply he wished to help.
    But the Earth had bade him find the Place of Bones.
    "I cannot send my army," Gaborn said.
    Feykaald glanced toward Jureem as if seeking his intercession. He begged, 
"Salaam," peace, and bowed deeply.
    By asking for peace, he suggested that Gaborn might take offense at his next 
words, and begged him to remain calm.
    "Peace," Gaborn answered.
    "Hear me: one small favor I beg. It should not displease you."
    "What is it?"
    "There are Invincibles in your camp, men who rode from Indhopal. Three or 
four hundred survive. I beg you: if you will not send your own men, at least 
send these."
    Gaborn considered, felt a sense of foreboding. The Earth warned him that if 
he did send these men, they would die. Whether death would come at the hands of 
the reavers or of Raj Ahten himself, Gaborn could not know. "No. I cannot allow 
it."
    "It is a small thing that I ask," Feykaald persisted. "These men are of 
limited worth to you. They have endowments now, but you must ask yourself how 
long this will be true. Four hundred Invincibles is not a force that Raj Ahten 
takes lightly. He will order the deaths of their Dedicates, lest his own men 
come against him. They will die--innocent Dedicates--men, women, children. They 
will die, and to what purpose? So that you can parade a few Invincibles as 
trophies of war?"
    Gaborn studied Feykaald with growing dislike. "Are you begging a favor, or 
seeking to extort me?"
    "Extort? Never!" Feykaald said. "I do not speak of what I would do. But I 
know my master's mind."
    Gaborn did not doubt that Raj Ahten would do as Feykaald warned.
    "You are right," Gaborn said. "Indhopal is their homeland, and I will allow 
any Invincible who wishes to protect his people to return to Kartish."
    Jureem beamed, as if he had not expected such a boon.
    "Thank you, O King of all the Earth," Feykaald said with a bow.
    "But--" Gaborn added, "my Earth Powers also warn that there is great danger 
in Indhopal, and none of the men who go there will survive. I must warn them of 
this."
    Feykaald's eyes grew steely. He nodded acquiescence, but his face was 
unreadable. "One more small favor, I beg you."
    "Another?" Gaborn asked.
    "Forcibles. If you could spare even a few hundred, they might be of 
incalculable value."
    Now the man was asking too much. "I have none to spare."
    Feykaald bowed his head in acceptance. "Very well. One more thing I ask of 
you, then."
    Gaborn felt as if he were in a market, haggling with one of Feykaald's 
countrymen. Feykaald was asking for much, giving up nothing. Gaborn warned him, 
"One more thing you may ask of me, but I weary of your requests."
    "Peace. I beg of you: ride to Kartish yourself. If you fear Raj Ahten, you 
can Choose his armies, and thus be assured that they will protect you."
    "I cannot."
    "I beseech you by all that you hold dear, by your love of the land, by your 
honor and virtue," Feykaald begged. "Without the Earth King to guide us, our men 
are as dross in the fire. If you could but see my people, you would Choose them 
as you Chose the people of Carris."
    Gaborn shook his head. Words could not express how much he wanted to comply 
with this last request, but his power of Choosing was gone. And he had another 
path to tread. "I have battles of my own to fight, on other fronts. Your master 
will have to make do without me."
    Feykaald lowered his eyes. He shook his head. "Forgive me. I took it upon 
myself to come here, to beg your aid. I cannot go back to Indhopal--not now. Raj 
Ahten will see my deed as treason. I am willing to accept this, to be named a 
traitor, if I can do some small good for my country. Therefore, I throw myself 
on your mercy, and beg asylum. I offer my services, as Jureem has done. I will 
serve you well, so long as you do not ask me to betray my own people."
    The man sounded sincere. His hands were trembling, and his eyes pleaded for 
this boon. Yet Gaborn could not trust him. Nor did he sense any danger to 
Feykaald.
    "Go back to Raj Ahten," Gaborn said. "He will not harm you."
    "By the Powers, by the Earth, I beg of you!" Feykaald whined. "Have mercy. 
Have mercy on an old man! You cannot guess the fate he would devise for me."
    Gaborn wondered. Perhaps in Feykaald's twisted mind, these threats were 
real. Or perhaps he feigned fear to achieve some greater end.
    There was something in this man...a blackness at the core of him. Gaborn 
felt no immediate threat. Feykaald would not draw a knife on him now. Yet he did 
not doubt that Feykaald would cause great mischief if given the opportunity.
    Or is that my own fear talking? Gaborn wondered.
    In the House of Understanding, in the Room of Faces, Gaborn had learned to 
spot deceit in a man. But he could not be sure of Feykaald. A lying man will 
often avert his eyes, or blink when trying to assert his falsehood. The pupils 
of the eye may become constricted. But Kaifba Feykaald watched Gaborn steadily, 
without blinking. And the opium he had smoked obscured the true size of his 
pupils.
    A lying man may tremble, but Feykaald held calm. A lying man will often have 
muscles tighten in his neck, and so he may toss his head, trying to appear 
aloof.
    Feykaald showed none of those signs. Yet, there was a message in his body 
language. He hunched forward, possibly from a stooped back. But Gaborn suspected 
that it was more than that. His manner was not that of a liar, but of a 
merchant, intensely interested in making a sale.
    Feykaald was trying to sell him a story. Gaborn did not buy it.
    He considered possible motives. Perhaps Feykaald truly wanted to milk Gaborn 
for aid. Perhaps he sought to paralyze him into inactivity, or to divide his 
forces.
    Or perhaps...Raj Ahten wanted Feykaald to remain nearby.
    As Gaborn considered that, a cold certainty grew. Of course Feykaald was a 
spy. That's why Gaborn felt so uncomfortable in his presence, felt a lingering 
sense of danger.
    I could easily send Feykaald away, Gaborn thought.
    He looked to his counselors, considered what his Wits had told him the night 
before. "You must turn your enemies against one another." It was possible that 
he could turn Feykaald against his master, by feeding him false information.
    At the very least, there was one advantage to keeping Feykaald close by. He 
had served Raj Ahten long and well. By keeping the old man here, under any 
pretense, he would be denying Raj Ahten the use of a counselor.
    It seemed a prudent thing to do. He could put Feykaald up someplace where he 
would do no harm, have him watched. There were residences built for that very 
purpose at the Courts of Tide.
    But all such plans were swept away by one other thought: perhaps I can truly 
turn him.
    "I thank you, Kaifba Feykaald," Gaborn said. "You have given me much to 
think about. I will consider taking you into my service, but my mind must be 
clear on the matter. Will you ride with me today?"
    "Tell me only how I can better serve you," Feykaald said, bowing so low that 
Gaborn feared he would fall from his horse.

     
     
Chapter 19
BARON WAGGIT
    In exchange for his numerous worthy entitlements, the duties of a baron are 
these:
    1 To prudently oversee the lands with which he has been entrusted.
    2 To uphold the king's laws, offer up the king's taxes, and to maintain 
highways and other edifices of public benefit.
    3 To offer up his own life, or the life of a son or suitable tenant, in the 
king's service during times of war.
    --From the Book of Common Law
     
    "Did you hear that, boys! My Waggit's a baron now!" Scallon laughed. The big 
man slapped Waggit on the back and forced another mug of rum into his hand. All 
around, men in the inn at Carris grinned at Waggit and congratulated him.
    Waggit remembered riding the king's horse. Waggit remembered being knighted. 
It was better than a dream.
    He closed his eyes and promised himself that he would remember those things. 
But it was hard to remember. He always forgot everything. He'd promised himself 
last night that he'd try to remember killing the reavers, but already the 
memories were fading. He could only remember killing two or three. He only knew 
that he'd killed nine of them because everyone told him so.
    "Don't just sit there squintin' at it--drink it down, now," Scallon shouted. 
"If you're going to be a baron, you'll have to learn to hold your liquor in 
something more watertight than your hand."
    Everyone laughed and pounded Waggit on the back. They leaned in so close 
that he could smell their breath, and he took a huge swallow. The rum burned his 
throat. Waggit didn't like the feel of it, but he liked to get drunk. The only 
problem was that whenever he got drunk, he'd always wake up and find that his 
money was gone.
    And the only way to keep it safe was to give it to Scallon. He'd keep it 
hidden good.
    "Can you believe it?" Scallon shouted to the crowd. "Waggit's a baron! He'll 
be having a house and lands, and moneybags so heavy that even he won't be able 
to lug them around."
    Lugby, a friend who worked the mines in Silverdale with Waggit and Scallon, 
said, "And I suppose you'll be there to help him?"
    Scallon laughed. He was a big man with a beard, and when he laughed, spittle 
flew everywhere. "Who else but his best friend? He'll be needing a chamberlain 
now. Who better than me?"
    "Just about anyone," Lugby blurted.
    Scallon glared at Lugby, who was old and going crippled in the back from 
long hours bent double in the mine. Waggit had never seen Scallon so mad. 
"You'll be eating your words, now," Scallon said in a dangerous tone. "You'll 
eat them or choke on them."
    Scallon reached down with a beefy fist, gripped the long knife slung in his 
belt. Lugby lurched backward, terror in his pale eyes.
    The room went quiet, and men retreated from the two. Waggit wondered what 
was going on. Why was Scallon mad enough to kill? He'd seen the big man beat 
others senseless before, but he'd never seen him kill.
    "I--" Lugby said, his eyes flickering through the common room. "I meant no 
disrespect. I was only thinking that if you're to be his chamberlain, you might 
be needing a good man to work the kitchens."
    Silence hung in the room for a moment as everyone waited to see how Scallon 
would react.
    Scallon laughed heartily. "Aye, we'll need help in the kitchens."
    Lugby began to grin at his good fortunes.
    "Can he cook?" Waggit asked.
    "Can he cook?" Scallon roared. "Why, he can boil you up the finest mess of 
beans you've ever tasted!"
    That was good enough for Waggit.
    He grinned and drank some more, until he could not feel the rum burn his 
throat raw any longer and the room began to spin. Waggit lost all sense of time. 
He stared at the spit dog treading around in its circle as a young hog roasted 
over the fire. He wanted to pet the dog, but he knew that the innkeeper would 
just slap his hands with a ladle. Innkeepers were firm about that: no stopping 
the dogs from their work. That's what life was all about, after all. Work.
    Waggit worked all day long, swinging his pick in the mines. Work made money. 
Work and beans had made him strong--strong as a bear.
    Waggit roared like a bear, and everyone around him stared and laughed. So 
Waggit roared again and stood up, raking the air with his ringers. It was a good 
joke.
    Scallon was talking to another fellow, a man in a greasy leather apron. 
After a moment, Scallon jabbed Waggit with an elbow and said, "Did you hear 
that? The king owes you some forcibles for killing the reavers. Nine forcibles. 
You're going to be a rich man."
    "Oh, he doesn't...owe me nothin'," Waggit said, the words coming thick to 
his mouth. "He let me...he let me ride his horse."
    "Well, he does owe it, see," Scallon said. "It's the law. It's an old law, 
written before he was born, written before we were all born. If a man kills a 
reaver, he can go to the king and get a forcible. That way, a brave man like 
you, even if he's lowborn, can become a knight."
    "Oh," Waggit said. The room was really spinning now, and Waggit sat and laid 
his head down in his hands.
    "And you'll be needing those forcibles, see." Scallon leaned close. His face 
was covered with layers of sweat. Dirt from the mines had worked into the 
creases around his eyes. "See, you'll be needing them to sell. You're going to 
have a house and lands, and you'll be needing some money to get things going. 
Like, you'll want to buy a fine horse, and some carriages. Maybe now that you're 
going to be rich, you'll be wanting to marry Andella even."
    Once Scallon said that, Waggit could think of nothing else. Andella sold ale 
at the inn at Silverdale. She was the most beautiful woman ever. All the men 
told her so.
    "You think she'd marry me?" Waggit said.
    "My friend," Scallon said in a reassuring tone. "There's one thing in this 
world that I'm sure of: that trollop would sleep with a hog for enough money."
    Waggit grinned and tried to imagine Andella lying sound asleep beside a pig. 
His head was spinning so badly, he couldn't manage the feat.
    "So come on," Scallon said. "Let's you and me go raise your fortunes."
    "I can't," Waggit said. "I'm too drunk to walk."
    "That's okay," Scallon said. "I'll help you."
    "But...I don't want to lose nothin'."
    "You won't lose nothing," Scallon promised. "I'll hide the forcibles for 
you, along with all the other coins you've given me over the years."
    Waggit looked up through bleary eyes. "Are you...you sure you won't lose 
'em? You lost my money once!"
    "Oh, that was long ago," Scallon said. "I found it all again, remember? I 
brought it to you all shiny and new. You bought those boots with it."
    That was the problem. Waggit couldn't remember. He couldn't remember Scallon 
ever finding his money. He couldn't recall ever having new boots. He forgot 
everything. He'd even forgotten his real name. People hadn't always called him 
Waggit, but he forgot what his real name was.
    "Oh," Waggit said, as Scallon lifted him to his feet.
    They walked out of the inn, into the broad light of day, and for a long 
time, Scallon kept urging, "Come on, lad. Keep your feet moving."
    Waggit had to stop once to throw up, and it took forever to reach the duke's 
keep.
    The guards at the door seemed to recognize him, for they saluted with their 
swords.
    He'd never seen such opulence in his life. He'd never been in a fine house. 
The duke had rich panels on his walls, and beautiful tapestries. The audience 
hall had the largest hearth he'd ever seen. When a wealthy man appeared, Waggit 
was all flustered. "Duke Paldane," he blurted in awe.
    But the small fellow with the pointed beard looked at him with crafty eyes, 
and said, "No, the duke is dead. I'm Chamberlain Galantine, acting in his stead. 
I understand that you've come to demand forcibles?"
    "Er, yes, your lordship!" Scallon said. "That's what he's after--just that 
what's rightfully his."
    Chamberlain Galantine had fierce dark eyes.
    "So you want your endowments now?" Galantine asked.
    "Uh, not the endowments," Scallon said. "He just wants the forcibles for 
now."
    Galantine smiled. "Is that so?"
    Scallon shoved Waggit in the back, and Waggit nodded enthusiastically.
    "I suppose that your friend here will sell them for you, to buy you ale?" 
the chamberlain asked.
    Waggit shook his head. "No, he'll hide them good, so no one steals them. 
He's a good hider."
    Scallon shoved Waggit in the back again, and Waggit felt sure that it was a 
signal for him to say something. But he didn't know what.
    Galantine smiled even more coldly. "Sir," he said to Scallon, "I trust you 
can find the door by yourself? Or do I need the guards to...take your hand?"
    A low growling noise came from Scallon's throat. "I don't need no guards." 
He gave Waggit another angry shove in the back and stalked from the room.
    Waggit felt alone and scared. He could tell that Scallon was mad, really 
mad. Sometimes when Scallon got mad enough, he'd punch Waggit real hard. Waggit 
figured that as soon as he got out the door, Scallon would be waiting to hit 
him. The worry drove all other thoughts from his mind.
    "Now," Galantine said. "What shall we do with you?"
    Waggit shook his head. He knew that something had gone wrong. He'd been bad. 
He wasn't going to get his forcibles or his lands. But he couldn't figure out 
what he'd done bad.
    Galantine walked around him, studying him as if he were a calf in the 
market. "You've got big bones. That's good. And you did kill nine reavers. That 
means you can move fast. How, exactly, did you dispatch those reavers?"
    "I just jumped at 'em and whopped in the soft spot!" Waggit said.
    "Who showed you the soft spot on a reaver?" Galantine asked.
    To his own surprise, Waggit remembered that. "Lugby did! He drew a picture 
on the ground, and showed me over and over."
    "No doubt when the reavers came, your friend Lugby let you take the first 
swing," Galantine said.
    Waggit couldn't remember for sure. But now that he thought about it, he 
didn't have to push anyone out of the way to get at them.
    "Tell me, Waggit," Galantine said. "Do you know what death is?"
    "That's where...you go to sleep, and don't wake up."
    "Very good. Did you know that the reavers could have killed you?"
    Waggit didn't answer. Galantine sounded angry, and Waggit didn't know what 
the right answer was. He shook his head in bafflement.
    "So your friends shoved you in front of the reavers, and didn't tell you 
that they might kill you?"
    Waggit didn't remember anyone mentioning that.
    "Let me ask you this, Baron Waggit: do you think you could do it again?"
    "Kill reavers? I guess."
    Galantine studied him for a long moment, nodded his head. Waggit had got the 
right answer!
    "Let me ask you another question. Have you ever...dreamed of being like 
other men? Have you ever wondered what it would be like to remember things, to 
know things that other men know?" Waggit nodded.
    "Wouldn't that be worth more to you than gold?"
    Waggit wasn't sure. "Scallon said I should ask for the forcibles."
    "You've earned the forcibles," Galantine said, "and you may have them. But 
the law only allows it if you use them in the service of your king. In other 
words, if you take them, you must do what he says."
    Waggit got confused. It must have showed on his face, because Galantine 
added, "He'll want you to kill reavers."
    "Oh," Waggit said.
    "The king left no certain orders as to how I should handle you. Obviously, 
he wants to reward you, and he did leave some forcibles in my care to use as I 
saw fit. Rarely do our lords ever grant forcibles to fools. How about if I make 
you an offer? I'll give you one forcible now, one endowment of wit, so that you 
have the capacity of a common man?
    "After that, I'll give you a horse and let you ride after the king. You can 
take your time, make your own decision. If you wish to become a knight and enter 
our lord's service, you may take more endowments."
    Waggit wasn't exactly sure what Galantine offered. He used too many big 
words, like "capacity."
    "Will I remember things?"
    "Yes," Galantine said. "From now on, you'll be able to hide your own coins, 
and find them when you want them."
    "Will I remember...about riding on the horse with the king?"
    "Do you remember it now?"
    Waggit closed his eyes, pictured it. "Yeah."
    "Then you will remember it for as long as you live," the chamberlain 
promised.
    Waggit got so excited, he couldn't speak. He nodded his head real hard, and 
Galantine smiled.
    "Very well, sir," Galantine said, with a tone of genuine respect in his 
voice.
    Galantine led him to the facilitator. He climbed the tower to the Dedicates' 
Keep and waited for the facilitator to prepare. Peeking east out the archery 
slot was like standing on a mountain. Lake Donnestgree shimmered in the morning 
sunlight.
    Boats bobbed on the water by the thousands--riverboats with high prows used 
for hauling goods, and makeshift rafts formed by lashing barrels together and 
laying planks on top. Waggit waved at the people, but no one waved back. 
"Someday I want to ride on a boat," Waggit said.
    "Not with those unlucky souls," Galantine said. "Those are the sickest of 
the sick. The king's evacuating them downstream to safety. It's the air 
here--the fell mage's curses. Too many people died of the rot last night."
    Waggit peered harder and saw that indeed the rafts and boats were loaded 
with wounded men and women, people who had been mauled by reavers or crushed by 
falling stones. They lay on the rafts with bloody bandages wrapped around them, 
or blankets laid over. He saw the tiny forms of children, and the gray heads of 
old men. He felt sorry for them. But he still wanted to ride a boat.
    Soon the facilitator returned up the tower stairs with a Dedicate and a 
forcible.
    The facilitator took the forcible, a thin branding iron about a foot long, 
made of metal, and put it to the young man who offered himself as Waggit's 
Dedicate.
    The facilitator sang in a birdlike voice as he placed the iron to the 
Dedicate. Waggit was lost in the song for a long time, until he smelled charred 
flesh and heard the Dedicate wail in pain.
    Then the facilitator waved the forcible around the room. It left a trail of 
light that hung in the air, glowing like a fiery snake. The facilitator 
continued to sing in his piping voice as he pressed the forcible to Waggit's 
arm.
    Waggit felt good then, better than he'd ever felt before. The forcible 
burned him, and as it did, he felt as if his head exploded, and the light itself 
filled him. At the same moment, he saw the eyes of his Dedicate go dim, and the 
young man stared at him, with a mouth like an open door that led to vacant 
rooms.
    Waggit did, indeed, remember it for as long as he lived.

     
     
Chapter 20
REMARKABLE GEMS
    Since the days of King Harill, reaver bones have been a favorite trophy of 
warriors in Rofehavan, and thus gave rise to the trade in what is called "reaver 
crystal." Many a lord delights in displaying long teeth or even whole skulls 
above the doors in his keep, while bits of reaver knuckles have been used for 
rings, bracelets, and necklaces.
    New bones and teeth are nearly as clear as quartz, usually with a bluish or 
aqua tint. Impurities in the bone can sometimes make it almost opalescent, and 
some bones even seem to have images of animals or trees inside them. Unlike 
quartz, after a few dozen years, the colors in the bone mellow to a ruddy gold, 
and after two or three centuries they take on a richer reddish hue. The older 
bones are highly valued in Indhopal.
    Artisans may engrave the bones, but the cost is prohibitive, since the only 
tools strong enough to shape the bone must have edges of diamond.
    --Hearthmaster Thornish, from the Room of Stones
     
    Myrrima insisted that Sir Borenson eat a quick meal in the inn at Balington. 
His wound was healing quickly, and his fever was gone, but he no longer had his 
endowments. He was a common man, and needed food and rest like any other.
    She still had some of Binnesman's salve, and Myrrima applied it again to him 
before the meal, dipping her hands in the water and making the healing runes. 
Borenson took her ministrations patiently.
    The wizard's restoration was incomplete. Borenson's flesh had healed without 
a scar, but he didn't have his walnuts. His scrotum hung empty except for a bit 
of fluid.
    Myrrima secured a small container from the mistress of the inn and carefully 
stored the rest of the wizards' balm.
    Afterward they ate in silence. It was a goosey affair. The serving girl 
gawked at her husband, while passerby peered in through the doors or glass 
window. After the king had departed, the inn was astir. The mistress of the inn 
and the various cooks and stable hands all gathered around and gabbled like 
geese. "Oh, did you see our new queen?" the mistress said. "I didn't know the 
Sylvarresta girl would be so dark of skin."
    "It's the Taifan blood," the stablemaster said.
    "Well, I'm not one to judge," the mistress said. "There will be many tongues 
a-wagging about his choice. You can see that she's Indhopalese, but if you ask 
me, it makes her look exotic."
    "The very word," the stablemaster said. "Exotic--that's what she is. That 
Iome Sylvarresta is not an ugly girl, not in the least."
    The mistress of the inn, who had strawberry-blond hair, said, "Still, it 
makes you wonder. Will creamy skin go out of style?"
    Every word that Gaborn and Iome had said was repeated, and the greater the 
secret, the more certain it was to be bandied about. It seemed that the mistress 
of the inn had her bedroom right against the common room wall.
    Soon, the inn filled with people--a good half of the village. Myrrima heard 
some peasant ask loudly, "I heard they brought a knight into town, and the 
king's wizard turned him from a steer into a bull!"
    Immediately the room went silent. There was tittered laughter and a good 
deal of nudging, and everyone looked Borenson's way. He pretended not to notice, 
but with his pale complexion, his face turned crimson.
    Word of Binnesman's alleged healing had spread too fast. Everyone kept 
looking his way, then pretending they hadn't. Myrrima felt as if people were 
waiting for her husband to grow a new set of walnuts as they watched.
    When the lady of the inn came and asked, "Would Sir and Madam...er, uh, like 
the use of a room?" Borenson could take it no more.
    He shouted, "Why? If I wanted to rut, I'd just as well rut in the street 
like a dog, for all the privacy I'd get." The patrons of the inn fell silent. 
Most of them flinched or stepped closer to the bar, as if afraid he'd pull out a 
warhammer and start swinging.
    Borenson threw down his mug and stormed out of the inn, red in the face and 
blinking in embarrassment. Myrrima whispered an apology to the lady, set a coin 
on the table, and rushed out on her husband's heel.
    She felt...very strange.
    She was relieved to end the meal. Her husband walked quickly, as if he 
fought the urge to run as he made his way to the stables. He saddled up his 
charger. It was a huge animal, bred to carry a knight in full armor along with 
its barding. "Damned fools," he kept muttering as he cinched the saddle tight.
    He got on, turned and looked at his wife, waiting for her to climb into the 
saddle.
    "Yelling at the innkeeper was uncalled for," Myrrima said. "She meant no 
harm. It's a small town. Having the Earth King sleep here is probably the 
biggest thing that's happened since...well, forever. People will talk."
    Borenson's face burned with embarrassment. He muttered, "Uh-oh, Diddly-O! 
Ain't it funny how his walnuts grow."
    "I don't understand."
    "My...predicament will be on the mouth of every minstrel for miles," he 
said. "They've been singing this damned ballad about me and Baron Poll for 
years."
    He was right. Everywhere he went from now on, he'd draw attention. He 
couldn't escape the notoriety. All he hoped for now was that he not be thought 
of as half a man.
    "Well..." Myrrima said, her voice full of sincerity and conviction, "if 
anyone asks, I'll tell them the truth: your walnuts grew back larger than 
before. They've got to be the hairiest and most astonishingly perfect walnuts 
ever to grace a man."
    Borenson was still for a moment. Then he smiled. "That's it!" he said. "Tell 
them just like that." He grinned mischievously, and Myrrima couldn't really 
define the expression. There was real fear and embarrassment all mingled with 
his desire to burst out laughing.
    She climbed into the saddle on the big horse. He leapt behind, and they rode 
out of Balington.
    For a long time, neither of them spoke. The silence felt clumsy. Borenson 
held her lightly, one arm around her taut stomach, just beneath her breasts. His 
chin rested above her shoulder.
    She knew that he could smell her hair, feel her skin through the fabric of 
her blouse. She wished that he would kiss her, or hold her tenderly. But too 
many things held them apart. They were still more strangers than husband and 
wife.
    She needed more than that.
    "If we're going to ride together," Myrrima said as they entered the blasted 
lands, "we ought to be on better speaking terms at least."
    "Agreed," Borenson said. His tone remained noncommittal.
    "Tell me something about yourself that I don't know," Myrrima said.
    "I don't like puddings or custard," Borenson answered. "I can't abide them 
in any form. It's the damned texture."
    "All right," she said. "Then I'll be sure to bake tarts. Now tell me 
something important."
    He had to know what she wanted. She wanted him to open his soul to her, talk 
about all of his deepest feelings.
    "There's nothing important about me."
    "Tell me about Saffira, then," Myrrima said, broaching the subject that she 
knew he'd least want to discuss. "What was she like?"
    "Smug," Borenson said.
    "What makes you think she was smug?"
    He sighed heavily. "She asked about you. She wanted to know if you were 
pretty. She knew that you couldn't compare."
    "What did you tell her?"
    "You don't want to hear," he said. She knew it was not flattering. "I 
couldn't look at her, couldn't hear her Voice, without feeling...enslaved. But 
I'll tell you what she was. I think that she was mostly an empty shell of a 
girl. She doted on Raj Ahten, and knew little of the world. I thought that she 
might even betray us.
    "But she surprised me in the battle. She showed some courage, and some 
compassion. If she'd been a little smarter, she might have managed to stay 
alive.
    "Mostly, she was just a girl with too much glamour."
    "You're just saying that to comfort me," Myrrima protested. "A couple of 
hours ago, you thought you loved her."
    He fumbled for an answer. "Now I'm telling you what I think about her. What 
I think and what I feel are entirely different. Both are equally true. Maybe 
you're right. Maybe I don't know what love is."
    "My older sister warned me against marrying a warrior," Myrrima mused. "She 
said that they had to learn to close off their tender feelings."
    "I've never had any tender feelings," Borenson said.
    She looked back to give him a sidelong glance. "Really? Not even in the 
Dedicates' Keep?" She was trying to keep him off balance, move from one 
dangerous topic to another. But the expression on his face suggested that her 
words cut him too deeply.
    "I--I'll tell you true," he said, shaken. His voice began to rise. "You say 
that I don't know what love is, and I'll admit that I don't. Love is a lie. My 
mother hated me from the day I was born. Even as a child, I could see it."
    "She hated your father," Myrrima corrected. "Averan told me. You merely had 
the misfortune to look like him."
    "No," Borenson said. "She hated me." He tried to sound casual, but a person 
cannot talk casually of a wound that strikes so deeply. Pain haunted his voice. 
"She spoke about love when other women would talk about their precious children. 
My mother would say, 'Oh, yes, I love my little Ivarian.' Then she would look 
about slyly, to see if they believed her."
    "But she only spoke to reassure her friends that there wasn't something 
wrong with her."
    "Clearly there was something wrong with her," Myrrima said. She couldn't 
change the truth. But she could take away some of the pain. "Perhaps she didn't 
love you. I do."
    "How can that be?" he demanded too loudly. "What good is a husband who 
cannot give you a child?"
    "I can think of plenty of good uses for such a husband," she said. "A 
husband is someone who works beside you when you till the garden, and who keeps 
you warm in bed at night. He's someone who worries about you when no one else 
even knows that anything is wrong. And he's the one I'd want holding my hand 
when I stand at death's door."
    "People delude themselves," Borenson said as if she hadn't seen his point. 
"They want love so badly that they search for it until they pretend they've 
found it. Women will meet some worthless fool, and convince themselves that 
they've discovered a treasure, a 'remarkable gem' of a human being that the rest 
of the world has somehow managed to overlook. What rot!"
    "There is nothing to such love. People breed with abandon. The world is full 
of fools who have no other aspiration than to procreate. I can't fathom it!" 
Borenson stopped. He'd been talking so fast that he was puffing.
    "You don't understand desire?" Myrrima asked. "Didn't you feel it with 
Saffira? Didn't you feel it when you first saw me?"
    "Carnal urges have nothing to do with love--at least not any kind of love 
that I want. It doesn't last."
    "So you want more than carnal urges?" Myrrima demanded.
    He hesitated, as if he could tell by her tone that he was falling into a 
trap.
    "Yes," he said. "The best love must be founded on respect. Let desire grow 
from that, and when the desire wears thin, at least the respect will remain."
    "You have my respect," Myrrima said. "And you have my desire. But I think 
that there's more to love than that."
    "Ah!" he said, as if eager to hear her thoughts, but she could tell that he 
only wanted to argue.
    "I think," Myrrima said, "that everyone is born into the world worthy of 
love. Every babe, no matter how physically marred or how colicky, is worthy of 
its mother's love. We all know that. We all feel it deep inside when we see a 
child."
    Borenson fell silent, and for first time, she felt that he was truly 
listening. "You were born worthy of love," she said forcefully, "and if your 
mother never gave it to you, it was from no lack of your own."
    "More than that," Myrrima added. "We stay worthy. You condemn people for 
'falling in love.' You say that there really aren't any 'human treasures' to be 
found. But people are better than you think. Even the worst people have more 
potential than the common eye can see."
    "When a man and woman fall in love, I don't wonder that it happened. Instead 
I rejoice for them. I, too, sometimes wonder what qualities they saw in each 
other that I might have missed. But I respect people who have the common sense 
to love well."
    Borenson said coldly, "Then you will never respect me."
    "I already do," Myrrima said.
    "I doubt that."
    "Because you don't respect yourself."
    Borenson was getting angry. He tried to change the subject. "All right, I've 
played your game. I told you something about me that you don't know. Now tell me 
something that I don't know."
    "I got some endowments," Myrrima said. "And I learned to use the bow."
    "I can tell you got endowments," Borenson said. "Where'd you get the 
forcibles?"
    Modesty forbade her from telling. Besides, she supposed that he would learn 
the tale soon enough. "From the queen."
    He said nothing. She gave him just enough information to let him believe 
that they were merely a gift.
    "So," he said, "tell me something that I don't know." Once again, he was 
holding in his feelings. She didn't want the topic to get away from her.
    "All right," Myrrima said. "When I was a little girl, my father and mother 
both loved me enough to care for me when they were tired, and to hold me when I 
fell, and to work long hours to feed me. Maybe I was lucky, because I got 
something you never had. I learned firsthand about love from people who knew how 
to give it."
    "And I learned this: the best romantic love has a good amount of lust in it, 
and an equal amount of respect. But the main ingredient is devotion." She 
wondered that he hadn't mentioned that when defining love, and suddenly she 
realized that he didn't even see it. "And devotion is what you lack!"
    Borenson took a deep breath, and she thought he would utter some denial. 
Instead, his hand drew more tightly against her belly, and he fell silent, as if 
he were astonished.
    She was right of course, now that she saw it. Borenson could respect 
another, even feel compassion and envy. But he didn't understand devotion, not 
really. That was the part of the equation that a faithless mother could not 
teach him.
    She wondered if she should take her words back, offer some sort of empty 
apology. But she knew that she shouldn't. He had to see the truth. Maybe the 
truth was that it was good that he was a eunuch. He might never grow his walnuts 
back, she knew, despite the wizard's best efforts. Maybe it was all for the 
better. Making love wasn't love, she knew, and too many people confused the two. 
If she could help him learn to truly love, could teach him devotion, then she 
would have healed a wound beyond even Binnesman's reach.
    She took the hand that rested on her belly, squeezed it and thus held him. 
But neither spoke for a long time. She had not yet broached the topic of going 
to Inkarra with him, and she dreaded it. Her husband had to know that she 
planned to go.
    Seven miles north of Carris, they spotted a warhorse trailing its reins, 
pawing the ground as it looked for forage in the deadlands. They had to ride 
across a mile of blackened hills to get to it. Blood spattered across its back 
suggested that no owner would come seeking its services, so Borenson took the 
animal.
    By the time they reached Carris, Gaborn had already left. People had begun 
to flee the city. With the reavers gone and the darkness lifted, refugees had 
already begun to choke every road for miles.
    Common soldiers out of Mystarria and Indhopal were heading north to repair 
and defend Mystarria's shattered castles. Weary footmen marched over the 
blackened land with heavy packs on their backs. The rest of the citizenry 
departed by whatever road they saw fit.
    Hundreds of people had climbed to the lip of the giant wormhole.
    Myrrima and Borenson stopped in Carris only long enough for Borenson to take 
half a dozen endowments--one each of brawn, grace, wit, hearing, sight, and 
metabolism. Then Borenson left orders that other endowments be added over the 
next day. Because of the foul air hanging over the city, he dared take no 
endowments of stamina, lest his Dedicate take sick and die. He would have to 
wait for it.
    Afterward, they left the city, and Borenson stopped to hammer a pair of 
teeth from a reaver as war trophies, one for him and one for her. He said that 
he would have them carved.
    Afterward they raced past Carris, and soon reached the Brace Mountains. The 
lower flanks of the foothills were a dim gray, but farther up the autumn colors 
sizzled on the mountainsides, and a fresh snow dazzled the peaks.
    The reavers had cut a trail through the mountains, but Myrrima and Borenson 
followed the road.
    Soon they would catch up with Gaborn. Myrrima dreaded the meeting: she 
considered what she should really say if the knights and lords asked about her 
husband's injury.

     
     
Chapter 21
THE SERPENT'S REACH
    The bone structure of the reaver's head is extraordinary. The head is shaped 
roughly like a spade. Many a lord has witnessed a reaver digging with it.
    Three bony plates on the head make this digging possible, forming the 
"blade" of the reaver, as it is sometimes called. The plates are so heavily 
armored that no lance could ever pierce them. But the plates are held together 
with tough cartilage, and under extreme pressure, each plate can move 
independently.
    Thus, reavers, like cockroaches, have been seen to squeeze themselves 
between rocks in situations where it would seem impossible. Raj Chamanuran of 
Indhopal once witnessed a twenty-foot-tall reaver compress itself down enough to 
wedge into a tunnel beneath a stone cliff that was a "cobra" in height--about 
seven feet high.
    These movable plates would seem a marvel of design. Yet they are also the 
reaver's greatest weakness.
    The shovel-shaped skull leaves the reavers' brainpan close to the surface--a 
distance of only a foot on a moderate-sized reaver. The three plates of bone 
meet roughly at this spot, forming the reaver's "sweet triangle," its most 
vulnerable spot.
    --Excerpt from A Comparison of Reports on Reavers, by Hearthmaster Dungiles
     
    In the foothills south of the Brace Mountains, Gaborn's road opened to a 
switchback on a plateau. The sky had dusted the Brace with snow during the 
night, but here the morning was cool and the ground clear.
    He halted beneath a trio of poplars, and his Days drew rein beside him. 
Their golden leaves rustled in the wind as he gazed down on the plains below. 
Reavers marched down there in a line, some sixty thousand strong. The reavers 
trekked in loose ranks eight or ten individuals across, in a line no less than 
ten miles long. They wove among the hills, crossing a silver stream crowded with 
woods. If Gaborn squinted, the reavers looked like a huge gray serpent 
slithering across the cold grasslands. Ahead, the old fallen castle at Mangan's 
Rock loomed just out of the serpent's reach, with the great statue of Mangan 
himself standing boldly, staring above the monsters.
    Iome gasped at the sight, and whispered, "I never imagined there would be so 
many." Gaborn knew that she had seen images of them in Binnesman's Seer Stones, 
but somehow the stones had not conveyed the enormity of what they faced.
    Even at this distance, the ground rumbled at their passage, and the hissing 
as they vented air was a muted whisper.
    He gazed upon them in consternation. The reaver he sought had to be down 
there, somewhere.
    Skalbairn's men had killed many reavers during the night, but Gaborn's 
search among the dead for the Waymaker yielded nothing. Averan had examined two 
reavers that nearly matched her description. Both turned out to be too small.
    Which meant that the reaver he sought was still alive.
    The hills were dry and nearly barren south of the mountains. The rainstorm 
last night had missed this land completely. Dust rose up from the feet of the 
reavers like a trail of drifting smoke that mingled with the gree that flocked 
overhead.
    To the west of the reavers Skalbairn's men rode in two separate bands. One 
band of a thousand knights kept pace with the reavers about six miles ahead. The 
noonday sun flashed off shield and helm and lance. The men looked petty, 
insignificant. The rest of the army, perhaps another fifteen hundred knights 
along with various squires and a caravan of wains, ventured near the tail of the 
reavers' lines, riding as a sort of rear guard to confront the reavers if they 
should turn back to Carris. Lances bristled up among their ranks like white 
spines.
    Gaborn's mouth grew dry from anticipation. He could sense a rising danger. 
The reavers would not let this go on, would not be harried like this.
    Gaborn's heralds blew their golden horns.
    Down on the plain Skalbairn's men turned, looked up to the hills, and began 
to cheer. They waved lances and shields. Several men in Skalbairn's company 
peeled off, came galloping across the plains toward him. Gaborn decided to wait, 
get Skalbairn's latest report.
    "Company, halt!" Gaborn called to his troops. Nearly half a mile back, the 
giants were still running hard, trying to keep up. One of them roared in 
anticipation of a few moments' rest.
    Beside him, Binnesman's wylde spotted the reavers and cried out in delight, 
"Reaver blood!"
    "Yes," Averan whispered excitedly, like a little girl talking to her best 
friend. "I'll bet there's some yummy ones out there."
    Gaborn glanced over at the child resting comfortably on the saddle with the 
wizard at her back. She focused totally on the reavers.
    "Tell me," Gaborn said. "This Waymaker. Do you think you could spot it from 
a distance if we rode alongside the reavers' ranks?"
    Averan looked terrified at the very notion. "If we got close enough."
    But he knew it would be almost impossible. The reavers were running in a 
horde, and no one would dare get within three hundred yards of them.
    "Do you have any hint where we might start looking?" Gaborn asked in 
frustration.
    "I...don't know. There are lots of reavers. He's important, so he should be 
up near the front. Or maybe near the back."
    "Or perhaps in the middle," one lord offered.
    "Can you add to the description?" Gaborn said. "I might be able to put my 
far-seers to use."
    Averan shook her head. "I...don't think I can add anything. Reavers don't 
have eyes. They don't see things like we do. I--I might be able to recognize him 
by the smell--but then, I might not. I'm not sure that people can smell as good 
as reavers do."
    Gaborn grinned coldly.
    "If we find it," Averan asked. "Do I have to eat it in front of people?"
    One of the lords in the retinue made a coughing noise, to cover the sound of 
his laugh.
    "No," Gaborn promised.
    At that moment, there was the sound of galloping hooves on the trail behind, 
and Gaborn looked back up the road, expecting another messenger.
    A young man with straw-colored hair rode into view round the bend on a plain 
brown mare. He slowed and warily eyed the Frowth giants as he passed beneath 
their shadows. Gaborn tried vainly to remember where he'd seen the man. He could 
not place him, until he saw the pickax hanging from his saddlebags. "Baron 
Waggit," the lords began to mutter. The baron was wearing a new brown robe and 
leather armor, and had his yellow hair tied back. And he wore a new light of 
understanding in his eyes. Thus attired, his own mother would have been hard put 
to identify him.
    The young baron rode up. He studied the king's men as if he'd never truly 
seen them before.
    He reached the back of the king's retinue, rode past the knights and lords, 
and they broke into a cheer as he neared.
    He reined in his mount just before Gaborn. The smell of rum followed him.
    "Baron Waggit, you're looking well," Gaborn said.
    Waggit wiped his nose on his sleeve in a foolish habit. "Thanks. Um, thank 
you. Uh, milord." He still knew nothing of courtly graces. He might have the 
sense of a common man now, but he had much to learn.
    "Will you ride beside me?" Gaborn offered.
    "I...don't think so," Waggit said. "I mean, I couldn't. I'm not a real 
fighter--not like you lords. I only got one endowment, and it's just enough to 
make me a commoner. Don't know what I could do for you. I can't even cook my own 
damned dinner. I had to have a stableboy show me how to saddle this beast. I 
only come to say 'thank you.' I never dreamt...how it could be."
    "Not a real fighter?" Gaborn asked. "You slew nine reavers with a pickax."
    "Dumb luck, that was," Waggit said. He waited for Gaborn to smile at the 
joke. He'd caught sight of the reavers now, stared down at them.
    "If you will not ride as a warrior," Gaborn offered, "then ride beside me as 
a friend. You'll learn to cook your own dinner fast enough, and maybe you'll 
learn some other things that will serve you well."
    "I guess," Waggit said, "if you'll have me."
    A lord behind him said, "Good man!" and the other lords shouted, "Hurrah!" 
as if he were some champion come to fight at their side.
    More hoofbeats sounded and two riders appeared round the bend this time: Sir 
Borenson and Myrrima, riding side by side. They galloped down the mountain. 
Gaborn's entourage could not help themselves. Knights began to cheer and wave 
their weapons, shouting, "Hail Sir Borenson! See how well he rides!"
    Borenson's face turned scarlet, and he nodded sheepishly. Someone shouted, 
"Did you grow any spare walnuts for me?" and someone else called out, "Riding a 
horse with them is only half the test!" Gaborn's heralds began blowing their 
horns in a cacophonous salute, and the men would not stop ribbing Borenson until 
he spoke.
    He reined in his mount and raised his hands. "Hear, hear," he called. "It is 
indeed true, thank you! I've grown three huge walnuts, and each twice as hairy 
as anything you've ever seen on a dog!"
    The knights all laughed in an uproar, and someone shouted to Myrrima. "Is it 
true?"
    Myrrima blushed a deep crimson and tried to stifle a laugh. "He's a liar. 
There's only two. They're perfect, but enormous. It's amazing that he can even 
walk. I fear that he'll become bowlegged!"
    The knights all erupted in raucous chortles and sniggers. Some knight called 
out, "Did you hear that, Sir Sedrick? Perhaps the wizard can help you with your 
little problem!"
    Sir Sedrick's eyes grew wide, and he bellowed, "What? I haven't got no 
little problem!"
    The laughter grew louder.
    Myrrima hid her face behind her hand, seeking to conceal her embarrassment.
    Sir Borenson waved graciously toward Binnesman, as if inviting him to take a 
bow, though Gaborn felt sure that the knight merely wanted to divert attention 
from himself.
    The wizard smiled and nodded, with a dubious grin.
    The knights erupted in cheers and shouts of laughter. Gaborn could not help 
thinking of Wizard Hoewell. He'd fought hard to discredit Binnesman so that he 
could gain a teaching post in the Room of Earth Powers. Hoewell might well be a 
worthy wizard, but he'd never summoned a wylde, and he'd certainly never managed 
to grow new walnuts on a man.
    Gaborn looked over at Binnesman and said gleefully, "You're going to be 
famous!"
    Moments later, Skalbairn finished riding up from the south with a pair of 
scouts. "Milord," Skalbairn shouted as he reined in his horse. The warlord's 
charger was running fast. It skidded for the last forty yards, came to a halt so 
close to Gaborn that his own mount danced back nervously. Skalbairn's eyes shone 
with excitement.
    "Milord," he said, "the reavers froze their asses in the snow last night, 
and they still haven't thawed. The sun didn't warm their burrows enough to rouse 
them until well after dawn. Even now they're sluggish, trudging at half-pace. We 
only await your orders."
    Gaborn felt inside himself, wondering. He was tempted to attack, yet sensed 
danger. The reavers were not to he trifled with.
    "Milord," Skalbairn demanded, "may we charge?"
    Gaborn could sense layers of danger, like the peels of an onion. Many men 
here could die if he chose to attack.
    But I am the Earth King, Gaborn thought. It's my duty to protect my people 
the best way that I know how.
    The reavers were weak, had lost the fell mage that led them. They marched 
south along the very track from which they'd come, like ants following a food 
trail. He had the whole day to hunt. His knights were eager. The weather was 
excellent, and the terrain along much of the way would be perfect. In all of 
history, he had never heard of a lord attacking so many reavers in the open. 
Perhaps never again would conditions be so favorable.
    But he wondered at the losses. How many brave men might fall? He could get 
no clear sense of the answer. It would depend on his tactics. In the long run, 
could he afford the losses? What battles would he face in the coming days?
    With every moment, he felt that he was marching closer to the world's doom. 
Men here would die today. Iome would soon face danger. Tens of thousands in 
Carris. And after that, the world.
    Borenson spoke before anyone else. "Damn it, Gaborn, don't you dare hold us 
back! Are we men here? Are we men at all?"
    Gaborn looked at his old friend.
    Skalbairn said in a rush, "Milord, I cannot honestly assure you that if you 
order us to withhold, all men will obey. Many of the lords below are sworn to a 
new order, the Brotherhood of the Wolf, and acknowledge no one as their master."
    Gaborn knew what he had to do. "Gentlemen," he said. "There are thousands of 
reavers down there, heading for the Underworld. I will not have them return in a 
week to scale the walls at the Courts of Tide. There must never be another 
Carris!"
    He felt an electric thrill go through the group.
    "Will you lead a charge?" Skalbairn asked.
    His people needed an Earth King--a strong lord, and wise, riding out of the 
mists of time. Binnesman had warned that he must not fight unless he felt backed 
into a corner, but there was more than one way to get cornered. He was in a 
precarious situation. Lords on his borders were watching for any sign of 
weakness. Men he had Chosen only yesterday had foresworn themselves.
    He needed an overwhelming victory.
    Most of all, he needed to find the Waymaker.
    So men would die today, good men. Gaborn would spend his friends. He pointed 
to the dark serpent that rumbled across the golden plains. "We'll kill them 
all."

     
     
Chapter 22
THE CHARGE
    Our enemies are trained to show no fear. In Mystarria we shall teach our men 
to have no fear.
    --King Therongold Orden
     
    As soon as Gaborn announced that he would attack, he climbed down from his 
saddle and tightened the girth straps on his mount.
    Borenson did the same. When a force horse was charging at ninety miles an 
hour, a knight couldn't risk even the slightest slippage.
    Borenson took some deep breaths. He felt nervous on this charge. He had a 
good eye and a steady hand with a lance, but it had been years since he'd made a 
charge with so few endowments. He had only one of brawn, one of grace. Without 
stamina he was a "warrior of unfortunate proportion." His hands felt numb. The 
sound of men grunting and horses pawing the ground seemed unaccountably loud. 
Not for the first time he marveled at how fear could make sight and smell and 
hearing so acute, yet leave the hands and feet feeling numb and cold.
    Gaborn asked Averan, "How far can a reaver see?" Borenson leaned close to 
hear the answer. For ages it had been a question of much speculation.
    "It depends on the reaver," Averan answered. "For most of them, about from 
here to that tree. The howlers see a little farther, the glue mums hardly see at 
all. Far-seers can do better."
    "Far-seers?" Gaborn asked.
    "There are none in this horde," Averan assured him.
    "About two hundred and fifty yards, then," Gaborn said, yanking his girth 
strap tighter. "Can they count our numbers by smell?"
    Averan shook her head. "I don't think so. Our world is so strange to 
them--so full of new scents. Every man smells so different from another. But if 
you put a bunch of them together--I don't think so."
    Gaborn glanced at Skalbairn. "The wind is steady from the east?"
    "It has been so all morning," Skalbairn said.
    "Call your troops back," Gaborn said. "We'll charge the reavers' rear flank 
from downwind. By the time they see us, we'll be upon them."
    Gaborn leapt on his horse as Skalbairn pulled out his warhorn and blew a 
short riff, ordering his troops to regroup.
    Myrrima had been riding beside Borenson. She dismounted quickly and strung 
her bow. Her face was pale with fear.
    "You can't kill a reaver with that!" Borenson said.
    She looked up at him, anger in her eyes. "Why not? All I have to do is hit 
it in the sweet triangle hard enough to bury the arrow a yard."
    "Can you even hit a reaver?" Borenson asked. He could tell that she had 
taken some endowments, but it wasn't just endowments that made a warrior. One 
needed skill in battle.
    Several men in the crowd guffawed. The angry look Myrrima gave him suggested 
that if he didn't shut his mouth soon, she'd nock an arrow and practice on him.
    With that, Gaborn spurred his mount forward and his Days rode at his side. 
Myrrima leapt on her own horse and charged after him, drawing an arrow from the 
quiver at her back. Binnesman and his wylde rode beside them.
    Borenson was gathering up the reins when Iome grabbed his elbow and 
whispered, "A word to the wise, Sir Borenson. Your wife has many endowments of 
her own now. How do you think she got them?"
    "She said you gave them to her--a gift," Borenson said.
    Iome offered a wry smile. "She earned them with that bow of hers. She saved 
me and Binnesman and the lives of everyone else at Castle Sylvarresta. She slew 
the Darkling Glory, and I have paid her twenty forcibles for her service."
    Borenson felt sure that Iome was waiting for his jaw to drop, but he didn't 
give her the satisfaction.
    Instead he offered in a casual tone, "Such things are only to be expected 
from a wife of mine."
    Iome smiled. "No doubt she can roast a fine piglet, too."
    Borenson laughed and climbed on his horse, raced downhill. He left only the 
wagon of forcibles and its guard behind, accompanied by the spidery old Kaifba 
Feykaald. He passed the Frowth giants that loped steadily over the grass, their 
mail jangling like the chains to ships' anchors. They smelled strongly of sour 
fat and carrion.
    The hooves of the horses thundered over the ground through stands of golden 
alders toward the bright plain. Grasshoppers, fat from eating all summer, leapt 
away from the horse's hooves. Yellow butterflies dipped here and there in the 
grass. Overhead, the sky was a blue bowl, and the wind felt brisk in Borenson's 
face.
    Borenson wondered about his wife. She hadn't told him that she'd slain the 
Darkling Glory. He knew how hard it was to keep one's mouth shut about such 
things.
    He felt sheepish. He'd killed a reaver mage in the Dunnwood, a small one 
that wasn't even so powerful as a scarlet sorceress, and dragged it home for his 
wife. It seemed a paltry prize now.
    In the past few days, the world had turned upside down. He'd lost all his 
endowments, while she gained as many.
    But he'd never imagined when he met her in the market at Bannisferre that 
Myrrima would someday slay a Darkling Glory, a beast of legend that he'd never 
even seen. He'd never imagined that she would take a bow and charge into the 
ranks of a reaver horde. He'd never imagined that she would want to accompany 
him to Inkarra.
    Perhaps, Borenson thought, she's trying to earn my respect.
    But, no, even that seemed wrong. Myrrima wasn't some drooling pup, eager to 
please. She had a toughness that did not so much beg for admiration as command 
it. She was that tough, right down to the core of her soul.
    Borenson felt as if he were falling into a trap. He had told Myrrima himself 
that love was part attraction, part respect. He'd felt attracted to her from the 
moment he'd met her. And right now, he was feeling a whole lot of respect too.
    A trio of gree whipped overhead, blacker than bats, writhing on the wind. 
The reavers thundered over the grasslands beneath a cloud of the winged beasts. 
From a distance the reavers had looked like a great gray serpent. Closer up, 
with the way that air vented from their abdomens, now the snake could be heard 
to hiss as if in anger.
    Out on the plains, Skalbairn's army rode back to join with the Brotherhood 
of the Wolf.
    Borenson worried about his mount. He'd not have bought such an uncouth 
animal. The piebald mare had an endowment of brawn, one of grace, and two of 
metabolism, but she kept fighting the bit.
    As he neared the reaver horde, the mare tossed her head and shied away. 
She'd ridden in battle with reavers before. He needed a steady mount, one that 
trusted him enough to charge a reaver close so that he could bury a lance in it. 
The mare fought him, tried to race away from the horde.
    "Get back in line," Borenson growled. "Don't be afraid of them. Be afraid of 
me!" He slapped her ears with the reins and tried to work her toward the 
reavers, but she had endowments of her own. It was hard work. Reluctantly she 
followed the cavalry.
    Myrrima had retrieved his ring mail, helm, and warhammer from Carris. With 
only one endowment of brawn, the weight dragged him.
    He reached Skalbairn's war band. It was traveling light and fast. Most of 
the knights already held lances, but a hundred wains carried spares.
    Gaborn rode up to get a lance. Borenson bent as a squire passed him one too. 
The weapon was a heavy war lance, perhaps eighty-five pounds. He inspected its 
iron tip, sharpened to pierce the reaver's hide. The shaft was polished and 
oiled, to speed its entry. Three recessed iron rings bound the ash at equal 
distances, to keep the wood from splitting.
    Borenson hefted his lance, felt his mouth going dry. With so few endowments, 
it would be tough to keep the lance steady.
    He glanced up and down the battle lines, saw some lords take two lances, one 
in each hand. They would plant one in the ground before the charge, return to 
make a second charge quickly. A week ago, he'd have done the same.
    He saw a few knights reach for wine flasks. In the northlands, men drank 
wine mingled with borage to lend them courage. Borenson thought it a coward's 
act.
    But there was little idle chatter, little boasting, the kind of thing that 
one hears from unseasoned lads out on their first charge. These men had fought 
at Carris. They'd already pounded into the reavers' lines again and again, and 
lived to tell about it. That was a boast that damned few men could make.
    Gaborn's heralds sounded the charge, and Gaborn spurred his mount, leading 
the way. The cavalry was off. By now the reavers sluggishly loped nearly a mile 
ahead.
    Gaborn circumvented their flank, taking his men to the west. As they crossed 
the reavers' path, it looked like a shallow trench.
    The reavers had beaten this track on the way north, compacting the soil to a 
depth of four or five feet compared to the surrounding terrain. There were no 
trees in that furrow, no bushes or rocks. Everything was pulverized.
    Borenson imagined that in years to come, the reavers' trail would fill with 
rainwater, frogs, and fish. Generations from now, people might stand in the 
shallows in the summer and still find the clear footprint of a reaver.
    As his mount galloped along, he listened to the cadence of its hooves, 
imagined his heart beating in rhythm with it.
    Gaborn led them west of the horde, so that the reavers moved along to 
Borenson's left, but Gaborn kept half a mile downwind from the monsters.
    Borenson watched them intently, in case they turned to attack--huge gray 
beasts, corded muscles rippling beneath flesh so dense it almost seemed to be 
bone.
    To Borenson's surprise, Gaborn did not order the charge immediately.
    Myrrima rode up beside Borenson. She didn't speak. She merely held her bow, 
arrow nocked.
    They rode along, tense, poised to attack. Borenson's palm grew sweaty on his 
warlance.
    A pair of badgers, apparently disturbed by the trembling ground, came up out 
of their dens and sat staring toward the reavers.
    The reavers loped ahead in a rocking motion, heads rising, and then 
abdomens. Their crystalline teeth flashed in the morning sun. Their huge 
forepaws were large enough to rip a horse in two.
    Here and there, deep in the horde, Borenson spotted fiery runes branded into 
a scarlet sorceress. He looked up and down the length of the reavers' lines. The 
sorceresses kept themselves hidden.
    The reavers were a wall of flesh, far more impressive than any herd of 
elephants. Borenson found his blood thrumming through his veins. He'd often 
imagined lancing reavers as a child, but always he'd envisioned them in ones and 
twos. Never in his wildest fantasies could he have imagined this.
    Sir Hoswell rode up beside them. The small man with his dark eyes and 
enormous moustache reminded Borenson of an otter.
    He smiled at Myrrima. "Don't worry yourself. Killing reavers isn't so hard. 
Just think of them as a target--a big target. Aim for the sweet triangle. Or if 
they rise up on their hind legs, shoot between the abdominal plates. Other than 
that, don't shoot at all. You'll never get the angle to hit the soft spot under 
their palate."
    Myrrima did not answer.
    Up and down the line, men began to make jests. Someone shouted, "Has anyone 
seen a runt in the horde? Sir Sedrick wants to battle it."
    A knight rejoined, "There's no runts, but I saw a sickly one dragging its 
butt on the ground!"
    "I'll give a silver hawk," another lord cried out, "to any man who will 
catch a gree between his teeth and swallow it whole."
    Tradition held that a knight should face death with boldness and a good 
humor.
    But Borenson was in no mood for it today. He could not understand why Gaborn 
waited to charge. They rode on thus for nearly ten minutes.
    The reavers kicked up a cloud of dust a hundred yards high as they slowly 
loped across the plains, and all of it was drifting west, right into the 
knights' faces. Soon, the dirt powdered their armor and their hair, clogged 
their throats. It would take hours to clean it out of Borenson's ring mail.
    Borenson could see every reason to speed the attack before the day and the 
reavers warmed up. The fields were clear, the ground dry and even, with hardly a 
rock or a shrub. There was no reason for Gaborn to hesitate, no reason that a 
trained veteran could see.
    But Gaborn was the Earth King, and saw things that others could not.
    After a bit, a message came down the line. Warriors ahead of Borenson said, 
"The Earth King warns us not to outpace him, to charge when he does. Make no 
battle cry, blow no horns. Ranks three deep!"
    The battle line spread out, so that each knight put ten yards between 
himself and his neighbor. Borenson positioned himself to be in the front rank.
    Then he waited, and waited. His mare quit fighting him. Sometime during all 
of this, she seemed to find her courage.
    Borenson never saw a signal, never heard an order to charge. Instead, he 
suddenly became aware that the lords began turning their mounts toward the 
reavers' lines. Gaborn led the way by a dozen yards.
    Gaborn kept his left hand raised, so that none would outpace him. He began 
trotting his horse toward the reavers. For their part, the reavers did not 
react. The huge monsters trod across the grasslands, apparently unaware of the 
impending attack.
    At a thousand yards, Gaborn turned his mount a bit, began racing northeast 
toward the reavers' lines at a forty-five degree angle. He spurred his horse 
into a canter, and dropped his lance into a couched position. All the Runelords 
along the front followed his lead.
    Borenson did likewise. The mare surprised him. She ran with an especially 
fluid gait, and he found it easy to keep the lance tip from bouncing.
    He watched the reaver horde, prepared for the moment when they would turn to 
confront him.
    At five hundred yards, Gaborn spurred his charger into a gallop. Borenson's 
mount seemed to leap beneath him, and the ground became a blur beneath her 
hooves. All up and down the line, a few chargers began to outpace the rest.
    To Borenson's surprise, the piebald mare did the same. She did indeed seem 
to have found her heart, and raced now toward the reavers.
    Borenson began to search for his target. The rumbling of the reavers' 
footsteps sounded far louder than the hooves of the charging horses. The 
rumbling worked into a man's bones. Gree whipped overhead, squeaking. The 
reavers grew closer in his field of view, yet still the eyeless heads did not 
swivel his way, nor did the reavers wave the philia along their necks and jaws 
as they did when disturbed.
    He spotted a flash of opal deep in the horde, a scarlet sorceress. But there 
was no way he could get to her. Instead he picked a reaver in the front rank, 
lowered his lance.
    Time seemed to freeze as his charger raced on. He concentrated on the 
cadence of her hooves, on the little things all around him. With only one 
endowment of brawn to help, the heavy lance was a clumsy weapon, but he was a 
skilled knight. He marveled at how butterflies and grasshoppers still flew up 
from his horse's path.
    He tried to steady himself. For one instant the madness of what he sought to 
do struck him. If he missed his target on a reaver, if he fell from his horse 
and botched this in any of a hundred ways, he'd most likely end up dead.
    He fought back a maniacal upwelling of terror, and began to chuckle.
    At three hundred yards the reavers had not sensed the attack. At a hundred 
and fifty yards, some of them stumbled and began to swivel their heads.
    But his mare was charging so fast that they had only a second or two to 
respond.
    His reaver faltered, skidded to a halt, throwing up a cloud of dust. It was 
a huge blade-bearer that bore a glory hammer in its right paw.
    The black iron hammer had a handle twenty feet long, and a head that weighed 
as much as a horse. A bit of human hide was tied near the base of the handle. A 
ballista bolt had pierced the reaver's back, and stuck there still.
    Up and down the lines, Borenson could hear the clash of metal against bone, 
the shouts of men, the screams of horses, the roaring of reavers.
    His own reaver opened its mouth and raised its weapon as he approached.
    Ease the tip in, he thought.
    He pulled the tip of his lance up, adjusting for the change in angle, as his 
charger galloped. The monster loomed overhead.
    Borenson began to rein his mount in, pull hard to the left. Then he was 
practically under the reaver, could see every crease in its warty gray hide. Its 
teeth flashed above him.
    He guided the lance tip into the monster's sweet triangle, felt it pierce 
the dense cartilage there. He let the weight of the lance carry it home, made 
his release. The lance plunged into the beast's head.
    The reaver hissed and swung its glory hammer--more in a spasm than an actual 
blow.
    Borenson ducked violently, nearly colliding with the weapon as the hammer 
whooshed overhead.
    Suddenly a second reaver spurred up the embankment. Borenson's mare screamed 
and skidded, lost her footing and rolled, throwing him from the saddle.
    For a brief second, he was in the air, the smell of dirt thick in his 
nostrils, a reaver roaring as it filled his vision.
    Then he slammed into the ground. The air came out of him in a huff, and he 
seemed to ache everywhere at once. He knew he had to get up, to move, and he 
reached out for the ground and pushed with his hands.
    He thought dully that he should grab his warhammer, put up a manly fight at 
the very least.
    But he was a warrior of unfortunate proportion. Every muscle seemed to go to 
jelly, and he couldn't decide which way was up.
    He heard the reaver, rolled onto his back to face it.
    The reaver charged, towering over him, its teeth flashing in the sun, philia 
writhing like snakes. It roared and raised its massive paws.
    A bow twanged. An arrow blurred, disappeared into the reaver's skull.
    He looked toward the source. Myrrima hunched not ten feet behind him.
    The reaver lurched backward, as if seeking to escape. Her bow twanged again 
and the monster's legs went out from under it.
    There was a hissing as a third reaver came in from the north. He saw the 
flash of glowing runes on its gray hide. A smell came before it in a thin gray 
haze, a stench that blinded Borenson and set his ears to buzzing so loudly that 
he could hear no other sound. His eyes burned as if they were full of acid.
    Myrrima whirled as his sight dimmed. She shouted in fury and loosed an 
arrow.

     
     
Chapter 23
TARGETS OF FLESH
    Any archer who cannot draw, aim, and loose ten arrows in the space of a 
minute must be demoted to the ranks of the infantry.
    --Standing Decree in Heredon
     
    Myrrima's heart pounded. Her arrow struck the bony plate of the reaver 
mage's head. The shaft shattered under the impact.
    She fumbled for her quiver, quickly drew an arrow to the full. Her legs felt 
weak, as if they'd give out beneath her.
    Even with her endowments, the reaver's spell made her eyes burn as if they 
had lye spilled in them, and there was a buzzing roar in her ears. She felt as 
if she were spinning.
    Her hand shook as she drew aim.
    She let the arrow fly. It slammed into the monster's eyeless head, buried 
itself in the scarlet sorceress's sweet triangle.
    It did not kill her instantly.
    An arrow didn't have the bulk of a lance. Shooting this monster with an 
arrow was the equivalent of plunging a needle into a man's brain. It would kill 
him, but not as fast and effectively as a heavier weapon might.
    The mage roared and crouched back. She raised her crystalline staff, aimed 
it. A cloud of darkness, like a living shadow, hurtled from it, and Myrrima 
leapt aside. There was a roar, as if a huge stone had crashed to earth.
    Suddenly Hoswell was at Myrrima's right. His bow sang, and a second arrow 
plunged into the sorceress's sweet triangle.
    The monster roared in fury, and raised her arms to attack, but then wheeled 
as if to flee and collapsed to her belly. Air hissed from her posterior vents in 
rapid bursts, similar to the sound of a human panting.
    Myrrima glanced back, saw the path that the reaver's shadow blast had taken. 
The ground was crushed and broken, the grass sheared at its roots for yards 
around. She did not doubt that the spell would have shattered every bone in her 
body.
    More reavers rushed into the fray, crawling over the dead. Myrrima leapt to 
her feet, drew a shaky aim at a blade-bearer.
    "Take your time," Hoswell shouted as he drew on a monster to their left.
    She let the arrow fly. It found its mark. The reaver lunged backward, as if 
looking for an easier meal. It would be dead in seconds.
    "Good," Hoswell said.
    Hoswell sprinted forward, into the thick of the reavers' lines. Many of the 
monsters reacted to the humans' charge merely by running faster, trying to 
escape through their deeply furrowed trail.
    Myrrima glanced up and down the battle lines. Everywhere knights had come 
off their horses, and many of them now were leaping into the ranks of the 
reavers, armed with nothing but their courage, their endowments, and their 
battle-axes. She saw Gaborn's standard to the north. He fought with the green 
woman at his side.
    Myrrima followed Hoswell down into the gully, and they stopped to shoot a 
pair of reavers on the trail.
    With her endowments, everything seemed to happen in slow motion. She knew 
that the reavers were charging at twenty miles per hour, but to her it seemed as 
if they came at only a brisk walk.
    She loosed an arrow, missed again.
    "With your endowments," Hoswell said, "you can afford to miss. If a reaver 
charges you, just run away."
    His assurances had a calming effect. She drew an arrow, took aim. The 
monster was rushing at her, and it filled her vision as it reared overhead. It 
gaped its mouth. Crystalline teeth flashed like molten daggers.
    She dropped to a crouch, managed to fire up through its soft palate, then 
leapt backward as the beast kept charging on.
    Her heart hammered as the reaver collapsed. But now her heart was not 
pounding in fear so much as in the thrill of the hunt.
    Killing blade-bearers seemed easy. She felt tempted to grab Borenson's 
warhammer and leap into the fray, but resisted the impulse. She was gaining 
confidence with her bow.
    But with monsters like these, any mistake would be her last.

     
     
Chapter 24
THE WEALTH OF NATIONS
    The wealth of nations lies not in gold or arms, but in the vigilance of its 
people.
    --Rajah Farah Magreb, High King of ancient Indhopal
     
    It is amazing what an old man can learn in half a day if he keeps his eyes 
and ears open.
    Three miles behind the battle lines, Feykaald glanced at the charging 
mounts, saw the Runelords of Rofehavan sweep into the reavers' flanks.
    He'd stayed back with the carters and rode beside the wains that bore the 
king's lances and food. One wagon in particular held his attention: Gaborn's 
treasure wagon. It had a flat bed like others in the caravan, but this one had a 
tarp tied over its trunks--and guards to watch it.
    He knew that the wain carried treasure of some kind. It might be as 
insignificant as clothing and jewels from Iome's household, but he hoped for 
something better.
    Now, as the battle raged, the carters stood atop their wains to get a better 
view. Most of the guards for the precious wagon had gone to join the charge, and 
only a pair of them remained.
    Feykaald rode along behind the wagons slowly, so as not to attract 
attention. He needn't have feared. Gaborn's charge this morning was the stuff of 
dreams, the kind of thing that children only heard about in wild tales.
    The guards stood watching the battle, riveted.
    As he passed the wagon, Feykaald reached down with his cobra staff and 
pulled up a tarp, to get a peek at the boxes.
    His heart hammered.
    He saw only the corner of a box. It was made of cedar from Indhopal, instead 
of oak from Rofehavan.
    Feykaald had supervised the packing of that box himself. He knew its 
contents: Raj Ahten's forcibles.
    Feykaald could not suppress a smile. He dropped the tarp, continued riding 
past the wain. One guard glanced back at him. Feykaald nodded toward the 
battlefield. "It goes well, neh?"
    The guard turned away.
    Five boxes beneath the tarp. Five boxes--nearly twenty thousand forcibles! 
Gaborn still had half of his master's treasure!
    Feykaald briefly considered trying to murder the two guards and flee with 
the boxes. But he dared not even entertain the thought.
    Gaborn knew when his Chosen were in danger.
    Feykaald would have to come up with a better plan.

     
     
Chapter 25
     
GRUDGING RESPECT
    A keen blade, a fierce dog, a bold wife--these things are good.
    --Adage from Internook
     
    Borenson rolled to his knees and began to crawl over the rough stubble. He 
could see nothing, could hear only the vague din of battle--the screams of 
horses, the hissing of reavers as they pounded over the plain.
    He scrambled forward, struggled to hold his breath. The reaver mage's spell 
made his ears more than just ring; he'd lost his balance, and could do little 
more than crawl.
    His eyes burned like fire. Tears rolled from them. His sinuses ached as if 
he'd inhaled scalding smoke.
    The pain was excruciating. He'd smelled curses like these at Carris, but 
he'd never taken one full in the face, fifty feet downwind from a mage.
    Borenson clambered through the stubble as doggedly as he could. He reasoned 
that if he was going to be the target of a reaver's wrath, at least he would be 
a moving target.
    After a few yards, he exhaled his burning lungs, swallowed a fresh breath. 
The stench had lessened, yet even now it was too much. He vomited his breakfast 
into the grass and struggled on.
    Ten yards farther, he put his sleeve over his nose, tried inhaling again. 
The stench seemed to cling to his lungs like pitch. It brought racking coughs. 
He staggered up and ran.
    Is this how my father died? he wondered.
    He felt a terrible pity for the man.
    In less than a minute he turned, blinking at the battle lines, fiercely 
wiping tears from his face with the back of his hand.
    He strained to see. He'd reached a small rise, a hundred yards from the 
reavers' trail. Everywhere up and down the battle line, Runelords fought reavers 
tooth and nail. Few of the knights had lances. Most had dismounted and now 
rushed in to fight with battle-axes and warhammers.
    The lords had decimated the reavers' western flank. Many reavers fled east 
to escape the slaughter.
    At the rear of the reaver lines, Frowth giants roared as they waded among 
the enemy, swinging huge staves, knocking the reavers' legs from under them. 
Runelords then dispatched the wounded beasts.
    Myrrima was nowhere to be seen. Five reavers lay clumped on the battlefield 
where he had killed his reaver, including a huge scarlet sorceress emblazoned 
with runes.
    His piebald mare galloped toward him, dragging its reins.
    He leapt onto its back.
    The reaver that he'd targeted lay dead. Usually when a man lanced a reaver, 
the monster would flail at the lance, trying to draw it out, thereby snapping 
it. But by a stroke of good fortune, Borenson's lance was still intact. He rode 
to it, his mare whinnying and throwing her head in fear. He drew out the shaft.
    Armed now, he charged into the furrow of the reavers' trail. A dozen reavers 
lay dead or dying.
    He reached the far side of the trail, spotted Myrrima nearly half a mile 
away.
    Reavers were fleeing west by the thousands, trying to escape the Runelords. 
Borenson could see a scarlet sorceress trundling over the plains with Myrrima in 
pursuit, Hoswell trying to keep up. She spurred her horse faster, charged it 
from behind, and buried an arrow in the joint under its right leg. The leg 
spasmed, and the sorceress faltered, skidding on her belly. She whirled and came 
up roaring, bringing a staff of purest crystal to bear.
    Vile energies seemed to pulse through the staff, and it blazed. A cloud of 
green smoke burst from it.
    Myrrima reined in her mount just as Hoswell let an arrow fly into the 
monster's sweet triangle. The mage flipped to her side, pawing at her wound.
    Myrrima and Hoswell wheeled away from the green fog, clinging to their 
saddles. They hastened back toward Borenson. The mage dropped her staff and 
rolled, as if trying to dislodge an attacker. Then she just flailed her huge 
arms as she died.
    Borenson reined his mount.
    A barbarian from Internook rode up beside him, watched Myrrima with 
unabashed admiration. The man had a sealskin coat, and yellow cornbraids hanging 
from his sideburns. He'd painted the left half of his face orange. He bore a 
huge, wide-bladed battle-ax in a style that his folk called a "reaper." It was 
purpled in inky reaver gore.
    The barbarian offered Borenson a silver flask, nodded at Myrrima. "If I had 
a hound with half her heart, I'd never hunt again. I'd say the word, and it 
would drag bears home for dinner."
    Borenson took a swig from the flask, found that it was mead. It tasted like 
warm piss, but at least it rinsed the vomit from his mouth.
    "Aye," he said. He felt an unnamable something, an unreasonable pride. He 
felt proud of Myrrima.
    Warriors began to cheer. The charge had been an overwhelming success. The 
remainder of the horde fled south, redoubling speed.
    Myrrima rode back, dark eyes flashing. She looked euphoric. "I ran out of 
arrows!"
    He'd seen her quiver when she rode into battle. She'd had at least three 
dozen. Suddenly he looked at the dozens of dead reavers lying around all in a 
knot. While he'd managed only a single kill, Myrrima and Sir Hoswell had carved 
a swath.
    Myrrima doesn't understand me at all, he thought. Myrrima wanted his love, 
and like nearly all women, she thought him incapable of ever loving more than 
one woman at a time.
    It was strange. She talked about how warriors were not really in touch with 
their feelings, and how she wanted that from a man. But it was a lie.
    She really wanted him to have strong feelings for her, yet cut off any 
desires for other women.
    But it seemed to Borenson that women were like food laid out in a feast. One 
woman might be a satisfying loaf of bread, another an intoxicating wine, a third 
as sustaining as a boar's ham, a fourth as sweet as a tart.
    Who would want to eat only one single course at a feast? No one. And if a 
man would not devote himself to eating one thing for a single feast, how could a 
person ask him to devote a lifetime to eating that one food alone?
    That was the rub. Every woman wants to think of herself as a whole feast. 
Would a loaf of bread say to its master, don't eat that mince pie? Or would the 
wine demand, don't eat the buttered parsnips?
    The notion was absurd.
    His feelings for Saffira weren't gone. They'd never go. She was an 
intoxicating wine. He'd never desired a woman as acutely as he had Saffira, and 
suspected that he never would again. The feelings he'd had for her weren't mere 
lust. Her endowments of glamour aroused a sense of devotion, a need to serve her 
that was so powerfully compelling that it caused physical pain.
    That was the secret and the power of glamour.
    While Saffira was alive, he'd been in torment, entangled by the need to 
serve her. He'd felt...that he approached a unique singleness of purpose, a form 
of purity.
    He'd always wanted to feel that way about someone.
    Yet while he was charmed by Saffira's beauty and enthralled by her glamour, 
he hadn't really respected her. Thus, he hadn't been able to give his heart to 
her fully.
    His feelings for Myrrima on the other hand were growing in odd directions. 
His lust for her paled to insignificance when compared to his feelings for 
Saffira.
    But his respect for her was taking on immense proportions. He sensed that 
while Saffira might have been wine, Myrrima was the meat of the meal. She was 
the one that could sustain him.
    Thus as she rode back from killing the reaver mage, and the big barbarian at 
his side offered his highest words of praise, Borenson felt more than proud of 
Myrrima, he felt kind respect that he'd never felt for a woman, mingled with a 
sense of foreboding.
    To the south, a battle horn blew, calling men to regroup. He looked toward 
the sound. Men shouted in warning, ran toward the south. Frowth giants roared.
    Gaborn's charge had been aimed at the reavers' rearmost troops. To the 
south, the huge line still snaked ahead for miles.
    Many of those reavers had begun to turn. Thousands of the monsters charged 
back now toward their dead. They spread out, began forming a battle line half a 
mile wide with ranks twenty or thirty deep. It was a formidable front.
    Gaborn's heralds furiously blew their horns. A few hundred Runelords began 
forming a new front of their own.
    The barbarian at Borenson 's side shouted gleefully, "Looks as if they'll 
make a fight of it!"
    Runelords spurred their mounts toward the new battle line. Borenson shouted 
and wheeled his charger.
    He was among the first to reach Gaborn's new front. But the king seemed 
uncertain. The Runelords who stood with him were ill-armed. Not one in twenty 
had a lance.
    From the west, Binnesman raced to the battle lines, with Averan astride his 
horse. Gaborn's Days followed on his own mare.
    Averan warned Gaborn, "It's the sorceresses, come back to feed. There was a 
fell mage here. They'll want to harvest her and the rest of their kin."
    Borenson had never seen reavers harvest, but he'd heard tales. They'd rip 
out the brains of the dead or the glands beneath their arms. Sometimes they'd 
devour their brothers whole.
    Averan said forcefully, "We can't let them harvest the dead. The Waymaker 
may be among them."
    Gaborn's brows furrowed. Blindsiding sluggish reavers was one thing. But now 
the child begged him to stand against a frontal assault--thousands of reavers 
confronting his ill-armed troops.
    Gaborn's eyes flashed, and he looked at the reavers. "Hold the lines!" he 
shouted to the massing troops. "We'll allow no harvesting!"
    The reavers gathered, creating a wall of flesh about five hundred yards 
north. Reavers that had fled Gaborn's charge now circled into the rear of the 
massing horde. Huge blade-bearers began to jostle through the ranks, gaining 
better position. Here and there, reaver scouts began to creep near, heads held 
high, philia waving as they scented the air.
    The reavers were far enough away that they could not see Gaborn's army, yet 
they could smell the human host.
    The air filled with energy, as if from a rising storm. Borenson's blood 
thrummed through his veins. This battle wasn't over. It had barely begun.

     
     
Chapter 26
HOLDING FAST
    You need not fear a man who bears arms and armor--unless he also bears a 
deadly resolve.
    --Erden Geboren
    Averan studied the battle lines forming, sensed from the reavers' body 
language that things were quickly getting out of hand. The reaver scouts 
approached cautiously. They'd take three strides, then halt, rise to their back 
legs and wave their philia in the air, turning eyeless heads this way and that.
    The reavers were worried but determined. They'd not hold back for long. As 
soon as the scouts spotted Gaborn's troops, learned their number and position, 
they would tell their masters how few men stood against them.
    Gaborn seemed unsure how to withstand the horde.
    "They're going to charge you," Averan warned. "If you want to stop them, 
kill the horde's new leader."
    Gaborn looked at the mass of reavers, brow furrowed. "Which one is it?"
    The question left Averan astonished. The answer seemed obvious. But she was 
looking at the horde now through reaver's eyes. "The mage at the center of the 
front lines, hiding behind the two blade-bearers."
    Gaborn spotted the reaver slowly. She was a big brute, glittering from fiery 
runes tattooed on her thick outer skin. She held a fiery red staff. Averan 
thought her size and the configuration of her runes should have warned anyone 
that she was Battle Weaver's successor. Her name was a scent, the scent of Blood 
on Stone.
    Yet Averan saw that Gaborn had been searching to her right, where a knot of 
mages in the front rank acted as decoys. Blood on Stone was well concealed.
    Gaborn swore. It would be hard to get her.
    It was an eerie moment. Nearly all of the Runelords had ridden forward and 
were bracing for a charge. Eight Frowth giants, spattered with reaver gore, 
lined up at their backs. Two had fallen in the battle.
    Averan glanced over her shoulder at the wylde. Spring strolled through the 
midst of the dead reavers, some of which she'd killed herself, mindlessly 
feeding.
    "Milord," Borenson shouted, urging his mount through the ranks. "May I 
suggest archers? We've a few men with steel bows."
    "Archers?" Gaborn asked. "Erden Geboren never used archers."
    "But he didn't have bows made of Sylvarresta's spring steel!"
    Gaborn licked his lips. "I'd not thought of that. Can it work?"
    "Myrrima and Hoswell killed three or four dozen of them in the charge."
    Averan found it hard to imagine Myrrima killing dozens of reavers.
    "Archers," Gaborn shouted, "to me!"
    Over a hundred Runelords rode forward. Some had their bows still wrapped in 
canvas. These were powerful lords. Many moved so swiftly that it baffled 
Averan's eyes. By the time she realized that the lords were drawing bows from 
their cases, many bows were strung.
    "The big sorceress with the red staff," Gaborn ordered the archers. "Take 
her swiftly."
    "Kill the scouts, too," Averan offered. "Before they get close enough to see 
us."
    "Lancers!" Gaborn shouted, waving toward the scouts. Two hundred lancers 
rode out of the crowd.
    The men prepared for their charge, and someone blew a horn. The force horses 
surged across the field, weaving in and out.
    By the time the reaver scouts saw danger approach, and reacted by skittering 
backward, the lancers took them.
    The archers raced within a hundred yards of the reavers' lines. 
Blade-bearers leapt forward, turning themselves into living shields as they 
sought to preserve their sorceress.
    Arrows sped from steel bows, riddling the fell mage and those that sought to 
protect her. She lurched backward a pace, died as she bowled against the reavers 
behind.
    For their part, the reavers in the main rank reacted slowly. The 
blade-bearers and common troops backed away a pace, stood up waving their 
forearms and weapons, but held their line, having no other command before them. 
Far more dangerous were the blade-bearers well behind the lines.
    They began hurling stones in a deadly hail.
    Gaborn's archers and lancers all wheeled their mounts and galloped away from 
the front. Rocks hurtled from the sky. Even though the reavers threw blindly, 
some stones struck their targets.
    Half a dozen archers died outright.
    A boulder struck a knight of Heredon nearly two hundred yards from the 
reavers' front. The stone slammed into his shoulder and knocked him from his 
horse.
    For a heart-stopping second, Averan imagined that he was dead. But he 
crawled to his feet and staggered up, right arm hanging limp. In the fall he 
must have injured his hip, for he barely managed to stand. He looked about on 
the ground briefly, as if he'd lost something but could not recall what, then 
grabbed his bow.
    His horse had run ahead. The archer limped for cover, using his bow as a 
crutch.
    Around Averan, hard-faced Runelords clenched their weapons, steeled 
themselves for a charge.
    But Averan knew that there would be no charge.
    Blood on Stone's successor wasn't here. Less than a tenth of the reavers had 
made a stand. Her successor was fleeing with the main body of the horde.
    Even as Averan watched, the blade-bearers turned to Blood on Stone's corpse 
and began to pry at the sweet triangle on her skull. The bony plates ripped 
outward, and the reavers tore out her precious brains, while others sought the 
glands beneath her legs.
    The knight of Heredon limped back to safety, heading straight for Gaborn. 
When he reached his own lines, Averan saw his face. Blood streamed from his nose 
and mouth, and he gasped for every breath. His face was leached as white as 
linen.
    "Sir Hoswell!" Iome said.
    Some warriors helped Sir Hoswell to the ground, shouting that his lungs were 
burst. They laid him on a blanket. Iome got down from her own mount and held his 
hand. Myrrima rode back from the charge, and had retrieved his horse. Now she 
sat in the saddle, staring down at him.
    At Averan's back, Binnesman climbed from the saddle, knelt over the dying 
man. He reached into his pocket, pulled out an herb.
    "Chew this," Binnesman said. "It will make your passing easier."
    But Hoswell shook his head, refusing the herb. "I'm sorry," Hoswell said 
between gasping breaths. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry!" His back arched, and he stared 
up at Myrrima.
    "It's all right," Iome said. "You served well. You've nothing to be sorry 
for."
    Sir Hoswell gasped and coughed up some red flecks. He held his bow up, 
offered it to Myrrima. "Take it. It's the finest in Heredon."
    Averan had never seen a bow like it. Hoswell held it at arm's length. The 
wings of the bow were forged from Heredon's famed spring steel, but rather than 
a simple wide band of steel, this bow was made of a long, narrow piece. Many 
steel bows were short, the better for firing from horseback. But this was 
two-thirds the length of a longbow. The belly of the bow had a wooden handle 
bolted through it, ornately carved from oak, and the tips where the bow was 
strung were capped with similar pieces of oak.
    Myrrima reached out hesitantly and took the bow. She did not seem glad, nor 
did she smile. She stared evenly at the dying knight.
    Sir Hoswell began to cough, and blood foamed out of him. Averan turned away.
    Beside Averan, Baron Waggit sat on his mount. He had not participated in the 
charge, had held back with Averan, Binnesman, and Gaborn's Days. He choked back 
a sob, and Averan glanced up at him.
    She saw horror naked in his eyes. "He--he's dying? Forever?"
    She'd never seen that expression in the face of a man before. She remembered 
years ago, when her own mother had died, and Brand had come and held her 
tenderly and told her what had happened. He'd warned her then that it happened 
to everyone, that there was no escape.
    She'd felt that terror then.
    She suddenly realized that in some ways, she was older than Waggit. She'd 
learned about death long ago, as a girl of three. But Waggit had always been 
incapable of comprehending that death was the end, inescapable and interminable. 
Lucky Waggit.
    "I'm afraid so," Binnesman said softly, trying to comfort the young man.
    Waggit shook his head, as if he could not accept it.
    A cheer erupted from Gaborn's knights.
    At first Averan thought they cheered Hoswell, but the cheer had erupted 
everywhere at once.
    She looked across the battlefield.
    The reaver horde was turning. The great monsters loped away in their strange 
rocking gait, running south. Even as they did, there was a subtle change. They 
formed into seven columns, with mages taking the center.
    The warriors around Averan began to mutter. They'd never seen reavers march 
that way. Averan could remember nothing like it even in reaver experience.
    Averan felt uneasy. The reavers had begun changing tactics, adjusting. Her 
experience warned her that reavers were clever creatures--perhaps even smarter 
than men. The moment seemed ominous.
    Gaborn's own men turned their mounts, heading away from the battlefield. 
Binnesman got back on his horse, behind Averan, and for a moment they rode in 
silence.
    Gaborn gave Averan a sideways glance. He smiled. "Congratulations," he said. 
"We have our second victory, and in great part we owe it to you."
    It felt gruesome to get such a commendation now, with dead men at their 
backs.
    "I think I shall promote you," Gaborn said. "Let it be known that Skyrider 
Averan is now a chancellor to the king."
    It was supposed to be a huge honor. As chancellor, she would be called upon 
to advise the king whenever he asked. At the age of nine, she was probably the 
youngest person ever bestowed the title. Averan should have been thrilled.
    But she felt confused. The honor seemed hollow.
    Averan looked at the fleeing reavers, at knights cheering in the battle 
line. Then she looked back out over the golden plains beneath the blue bowl of 
heaven, where reavers lay in mounds like gray stones.
    She felt sad.
    She realized belatedly that she did not care for a title. It was an honor 
that a man bestowed upon men, and she felt as if she were separating from 
mankind. Her calling was to serve the Earth.

     
     
Chapter 27
IN THE CITY OF LIZARDS
    The flame lizard of Djeban takes its name from the frill at its throat. When 
expanded, the crimson frill makes the lizard appear larger and more terrifying 
than it is, and the bright red patches beneath the jaw look very much as if it 
has been feeding on the blood of its enemies. By night, the same frill can be 
made to fluoresce briefly, creating the illusion of a flickering fire.
    In the early spring, males will display their frills nightly for the 
females, rivaling for attention. Hence each evening Djeban appears to catch 
fire.
    In Inkarra the flame lizards are used like guard dogs, and called 
"draktferions," which means "watchfires." In Mystarria their name was shortened 
to "drakens." In northern Rofehavan that name was changed to "dragons."
    --Excerpt from Binnesman's Bestiary: Reptiles of the World
     
    For a long time after the baobab tree, Raj Ahten found no water. He raced 
his camels across the Wastes, sparing nothing in his attempt to catch up to 
Wuqaz.
    There was sand, and more sand, and still sand, and sand piled upon the piled 
sand. That is how one described the Wastes.
    Nothing crawled upon it but a few beetles and small web-footed geckos. All 
of the lizards had sand-colored backs to hide from predators and white bellies 
to reflect the desert sun. A few blind shrews lived beneath the sand and came 
out at night to hunt for scorpions, but there was little else.
    Overhead, large sand-colored desert graaks flew in circles, a mile into the 
air, watching everything that moved. It was not uncommon for the monsters to 
swoop low and knock a man off his camel, leaving him to die as the camel raced 
for safety. But the graaks would not dare attack a party as large as this.
    The camels had good runes of brawn, stamina, and metabolism burned into 
their flesh, but Raj Ahten soon grew to suspect that some of their Dedicate 
camels had died. One camel sat down halfway across the Waste, and would not get 
up, even when jabbed with a sharp camel prod.
    Raj Ahten had no choice but to leave his man there until the camel felt 
ready to travel again. The invincible drew his warhammer and stood over his 
mount protectively, watching the sky for graaks.
    The vast bed of the White Sea was dry at this time of year, except for a few 
miles where the water ran little deeper than a camel's ankles. The receding sea 
left a salty crust that crunched under the camels' feet with every step. The 
wind sweeping across the dry lakebed whipped bits of salt into the eyes of men 
and camels alike.
    Raj Ahten wrapped a rag around his face, and was happy to reach the waters 
of the White Sea, so named because of the white crust all along its shore. The 
sparkling amethyst waters were shallow and too salty to drink. But the presence 
of any water was welcome. No more salt crystals whipped through the air here, 
and the journey was safe, if slow. Giant crocodiles infested the eastern shores 
of this inland sea, but here in the west it was too salty even for them.
    As the mounts waded through miles of water, Raj Ahten spotted obbatas far in 
the distance--tall desert tribesmen on their ugly black camels. Whole families 
would ride together on one of the beasts, and the riders were as strange as 
their mounts, for the men and women wore little clothing. Instead, their shamans 
tattooed runes of water binding on the obbatas' lower lips to protect them from 
the blistering sun. Yet such runes had undesirable effects. They closed the 
pores on the tribesmen's lustrous black skin, leaving it colorless and flaky, as 
if covered in scales. Their fingernails and toenails became as dull as flint, 
while the whites of their eyes turned gray. In the south, in Umarish, the obbata 
tribesmen were called the "crocodile people," for they no longer looked human.
    Whole tribes of obbatas were riding north, the sun flashing on the silver 
blades of their spears. Raj Ahten took their migration as a foreboding. The 
reticent obbatas seldom traveled by day, yet now myriads of them were driving 
their monstrous camels across the shallow White Sea.
    They are fleeing, he realized. Could they have heard of the reaver invasion 
so far away?
    The portent was chilling.
    By early afternoon, he and his men had gained on the twelve Ah'kellah. He 
saw them in the distance from atop his camel, not ten miles off, and silently 
pleaded to the Powers, "Let Wuqaz he among them."
    Raj Ahten's endowments let him spy the men as they prodded the camels up the 
high plateaus, toward the ancient ruins beneath the mountains at Djeban. The 
Ah'kellah rode with their backs to him and Raj Ahten could not see if Wuqaz rode 
with them.
    Raj Ahten, clutching his reins in his numb left hand, rode on.
    Djeban, the "City of Lizards," lay quiet as a crypt when he reached it. All 
along the cliffs above the city, statues of men with the heads of hawks stood 
poised, gazing with dead eyes.
    No sparrow peeped in the thickets; no hawk wheeled in the sky. But upon 
every large stone crouched huge carnivorous flame lizards that hissed and fanned 
the bright red frills beneath their throats in warning as Raj Ahten's men drew 
near.
    Raj Ahten could smell his quarry strongly now. The men had stopped to water 
their camels at the first stream they crossed. Not far ahead was a hill, and 
beyond it a lush valley where the grass kept green throughout most of the year. 
Raj Ahten knew it well from previous journeys. The warriors would be feeding 
their camels there. Raj Ahten tasted for the scent of Wuqaz, but could not find 
it. There was a trace...of someone who might be Wuqaz. With so many endowments 
of scent, Raj Ahten felt that he ought to be more certain. He hoped that the 
odor of the man he sought was merely masked by the smells of other men.
    He called a halt, and Raj Ahten's men strung their bows. He warned, "Strike 
quickly, and take no prisoners."
    He had already thrown off his armor, which was the most recognizable part of 
his attire. Now he pulled his robe over a simple helm, rode with his face down.
    "Bhopanastrat," Raj Ahten called, "take the lead." If the Ah'kellah realized 
that Raj Ahten himself was attacking, they would flee.
    Raj Ahten knew that Gaborn had chosen Wuqaz and the Ah'kellah yesterday in 
the battle at Carris. Now he wondered at the wisdom of assailing Gaborn's Chosen 
warriors. He'd managed to defeat some before--but just barely. None of those men 
were like Wuqaz Faharaqin. That old warlord had over two hundred endowments to 
his credit.
    The men drew out their camel prods, urged the animals on mercilessly. Raj 
Ahten saw blood flow on the flanks of more than one beast.
    The camels snorted and raced now, their huge feet thudding on the ground 
with a distinctive sound. In brush and rocks the camels were of little use, and 
plodded along in a gangling way. But here in this terrain the creatures galloped 
as fast as any horse, showing that they were capable of true grace. These were 
force camels with endowments of brawn and metabolism.
    Raj Ahten's mount topped the ridge at perhaps eighty miles per hour. He saw 
the dozen Ah'kellah sitting in a circle beside an oasis, cooking fry bread over 
a fire of dried camel dung. Their mounts were spread out along the fields, 
foraging on the grass.
    The valley was devoid of trees and rocks, places where the Ah'kellah might 
try to make a stand.
    At the sight of Raj Ahten's men, they leapt to their feet, peered toward the 
hilltop in curiosity. But when they saw a dozen men with strung bows racing 
toward them, they knew there would be battle. One man ran for his camel, his 
robes flapping wildly, but the others shouted, warning him to leave it.
    The twelve warriors drew sabers and warhammers. Two men quickly strung their 
hornbows.
    By that time, Raj Ahten's men were streaming to either side, firing arrows 
into the cluster of mountless men.
    The Ah'kellah were trapped. They had no cover. Five men took arrows almost 
instantly, and stood their ground with arrows bristling from chests and legs. An 
enemy bowman put an arrow through the eye of a camel, so that one of Raj Ahten's 
men went down in a sickening thud, bones crunching. Four others of the Ah'kellah 
raced out of the knot on either side, attacked with battle-axes and sabers, 
chopping at the unprotected necks and throats of passing camels.
    Five camels tumbled in a spray of blood. Raj Ahten drew his warhammer and 
leapt from his own mount, buried a spike through the head of the first Ah'kellah 
he met. Another raced up at his back, and Raj Ahten spun the hammer instantly, 
swiping the man across the ribs with a blow that ripped out the bottoms of his 
lungs.
    Blood spattered his face as he charged into the crowd of Ah'kellah, seeking 
Wuqaz. Arrows whizzed past his head, striking two more men.
    None of the Ah'kellah prostrated themselves and begged for mercy, as a man 
of old Indhopal might have done. It was not in their nature to ask for mercy, 
not in their nature to give it.
    He looked into the stern eyes of one old kaif who shouted, "Raj Ah--" as Raj 
Ahten's warhammer tore out his throat.
    The Ah'kellah became a dark swirling mass as they rushed to attack him. 
These were not common troops. For one heart-stopping second he imagined that 
Gaborn guided them.
    But Raj Ahten was not to be trifled with. Even ailing from Binnesman's 
curse, he had his endowments.
    He kicked one man in the chest with the steel toe of his boots, crushing his 
heart. He dodged beneath a sword, slammed the head of his battle-ax into the 
man's face. He drew a dagger in his numb left hand, drove it under the chin of a 
third attacker, leapt up and kicked a fourth man with both feet so hard that the 
man's head came off.
    It was too easy. He did not take even a glancing blow. This fight was 
nothing like the brawl he'd endured yesterday, when Gaborn guided his Chosen.
    In moments it was over. Raj Ahten stood panting above the corpses of the 
Ah'kellah. Dust was thick in the air from racing camels. The smell of blood hung 
over the encampment. Camels bawled in pain, lying with their legs broken or 
missing.
    Three of his own men were dead. Another was badly wounded--his right arm 
shattered and most of his face caved in.
    Amid this, Raj Ahten walked back over to the small campfire, where the fry 
bread baked in a blackened skillet. The bread was lightly toasted on top, and he 
could smell pistachios and cumin cooking inside.
    He flipped out a piece into his hand, chewed it thoughtfully. A movement on 
the hill caught his eye. Flame lizards had begun to creep down from the bluffs 
and rocks. They'd caught the scent of blood. They'd feed well on the corpses 
tonight.
    Wuqaz is not here, Raj Ahten realized. Wuqaz was not a man prone to 
mistakes. He would never have stopped at this oasis, barren of cover. Raj Ahten 
should have known that when he crested the hill.
    The thought of Wuqaz running free worried him. It meant that he had either 
gone north into Deyazz, or more likely to the western coast--to Dharmad, Jiz, or 
Kuhran...good places to cause trouble.
    Raj Ahten had sent eighty men to ride Wuqaz down. He suspected that it would 
not be enough.

     
     
Chapter 28
A HARVEST
    A reaver's sensory organs, its philia, circle the base of its skull and run 
beneath the jaws. Blade-bearers have been seen with as few as eighteen philia 
and as many as thirty-six. Whatever the number, they are always found in 
multiples of three.
    Hearthmaster Magnus used to teach that the more philia a reaver had, the 
older it was. But I can see no evidence of this. By comparing the number of a 
reaver's philia to its apparent size and age (as measured by tooth wear), I see 
no correlation between the number of philia and the reaver's age.
    Nor does a larger number of philia seem to convey any greater status to a 
reaver, as Hearthmaster Banes once surmised. Very powerful sorceresses have had 
relatively few philia, while small blade-bearers have been found with many.
    Ultimately, the science of counting philia on a reaver in order to make any 
sort of deductions is pointless. It is analogous to trying to deduce whether a 
man is a farmer or fisherman by counting his nose hairs.
    --Excerpt from A Comparison of Reports on Reavers, by Hearthmaster Dungiles
     
    Gaborn turned from the fleeing reavers. They would not attack. His remaining 
Earth Powers let him feel confident of that much, at least.
    He did not need to fear.
    Nor did he need to count his dead. He'd felt the deaths in battle: 
twenty-four men. Twenty-four men had fallen, and with each death, he felt as if 
the man were being extracted from his own flesh.
    He'd tried to warn them, tried to call to them in the battle. He sought to 
serve the Earth in that way, and he hoped that the Earth would restore his 
Powers.
    But he'd been unable to reach them. He'd sensed their danger, shouted his 
warnings, but it was like shouting at deaf men.
    Iome and Myrrima held back, stayed with Hoswell for a moment. Gaborn felt 
eager to begin searching among the dead, hoping to find the Waymaker. His Days 
rode at his side.
    A Frowth giant roared, off to his right. Gaborn glanced at the beast. It 
pointed at the fleeing reavers, roared again. There was a question in its voice. 
It wanted to know why Gaborn was letting the reavers get away.
    "The battle was a glorious victory," the Days said. "It will be noted as 
such." Gaborn had seldom heard a word of praise from the historian.
    In his memory, Gaborn rehearsed what he'd done. He'd ridden the reavers' 
flank, sensing with his Earth Powers, until he felt the moment for the charge 
was perfect. Now, he could see that more than two thousand reavers lay dead. The 
lives of so few men were a small price to pay for such a victory.
    His Days was right. It was a great conquest.
    Out on the battlefield, a few warriors were wounded. He saw them limping 
about, bandaging themselves as best they could. Binnesman went to his wylde as 
she broke open the skull of a scarlet sorceress and began to feed.
    Binnesman had allowed the creature to enter battle. Once the charge began, 
she'd leapt from her horse and run to the center of the fray, attacking the 
monsters bare-handed with a ferocity that was hard to credit. Gaborn had not 
even numbered her kills.
    Now lords sat down and began to clean and sharpen their weapons. A few 
scouts began making a count of their fallen foes.
    Gaborn could not order a second charge immediately. He didn't have the 
lances for it.
    When he dared consider the very notion of charging, he felt uneasy. There 
was a change among the reavers. He did not yet fathom it, but he knew that he 
would never be able to charge them so successfully again.
    Binnesman began tending the wounded. Iome and Baron Waggit went with him.
    Gaborn told Averan, "Come with me. Let's see if we can find the Waymaker."
    With that, he climbed down from his mount, helped the child from hers. He'd 
promised Averan that she would not have to eat the reaver's brains in public. So 
when other lords and counselors sought to follow, he waved them back.
    They began to walk together through the reavers, down among the furrow. 
Walking into it was like stepping down into a grave. The smell of beaten soil 
was all around. The hulking reavers lay dead and bleeding, cutting off the 
light. Gree wriggled in the air above them, lit on the corpses. The small black 
creatures scurried about like bats, with the claws at the tips of their wings 
hooked into the reavers' hides. But aside from the wings, that's where the 
similarity to bats ended. The gree, like reavers, had four small legs in 
addition to their wings, and their eyeless heads had tiny philia of their own. 
The gree scampered about over the carcasses and scaled the dirty creases of 
flesh to search for shelter and to feed on the parasitic skin worms that had 
plagued the reavers in life.
    Each time Gaborn neared a dead reaver, the gree would make small squeaking 
noises and crawl away, or take flight.
    Averan strolled along, searching the reavers slowly. Her freckled face was 
pinched, her pale blue eyes alert. She stopped and looked at a blade-bearer for 
a long time, squinting and leaning her head to the side, as if she were 
inspecting an apple in the marketplace.
    It was a ghastly enterprise.
    "This one has thirty-six philia," Averan said. "And he's large enough. But 
his paws are too small, kind of delicate."
    Gaborn felt eager for any additional information he could gather on reavers. 
"Does the number of philia mean anything?"
    "More philia means that a reaver might smell things better, and hear 
better," Averan said. "But that's not always true."
    "Do you know who the new leader of the horde will be?"
    Averan thought about it. "I'm not sure who is alive still."
    Gaborn accepted that. "But they won't return to Carris?"
    "No," Averan said. "I don't think so. You held your ground, and the reavers 
worry when humans hold their ground."
    "Why would they worry about us?"
    "Because we defeated them in the past," Averan said. "Erden Geboren fought 
with the Glories beside him. To the reavers, they shone like the sun. They 
blinded the reavers."
    Two thousand years ago, Erden Geboren had fought the reavers, and nearly 
been destroyed by them. In the old songs, it had seemed to Gaborn that he fought 
overwhelming odds. He found it fascinating that the reavers would recall their 
own account of that battle, and still fear a pair of Glories.
    "Why didn't the reavers harvest one another at Carris?" Gaborn asked. "I saw 
the dead. None were harvested."
    "Because," Averan said as if she were lecturing a child, "the spoils go to 
the most powerful reaver lords. The dead belonged to Battle Weaver. They were 
hers to divide. But you killed her, and with the lightning and all of the 
confusion in the retreat, the lesser mages didn't dare to harvest. They were 
probably afraid that the Glories were returning. At the very least, they were 
afraid of getting punished."
    Gaborn understood. Even among men, when dividing the spoils of war, the 
captains and sergeants would normally get first pick of the bounty.
    Averan stopped at another reaver, squinted at it for a long time. They'd 
gone through nearly a third of the fallen.
    "This could be him," she said at last. "I can't be sure." She went around to 
the monster's anus, sniffed at it, and staggered backward, wrinkling her nose.
    "Is this the one?" Gaborn asked.
    Averan shook her head. "I can't be sure. I can't smell him well enough to 
know."
    "But you smelled something?"
    "Just his death scream. When reavers die, they warn others away. Otherwise, 
I can't smell them at all."
    Gaborn went to the hole above the anus of the monster. The philia there were 
wet and sticky, more like sweaty glands than the philia that graced a reaver's 
head. He could smell something there, certainly. Though Averan described it as a 
"scream," the scent seemed mild, like moldy garlic.
    "What does the scent mean?" Gaborn asked. If he was to go into the 
Underworld, he needed to learn to translate the reavers' language of scents.
    "It means 'Death is here. Run away,' " Averan said, translating as best she 
could.
    Averan sighed, looked down at the endless string of reavers stretched out 
for more than a mile ahead. "Let's mark this one. If I don't find one that I 
feel better about, we'll try him." Averan acted shy, self-conscious about eating 
the thing in public. It was, after all, a highly unnatural act.
    "All right," Gaborn said. He glanced about, thinking to stack some rocks in 
front of the beast, but the dark soil here in the furrow had been trampled by 
tens of thousands of reavers, and seemed nearly as hard as stone. At last he 
took off his right gauntlet and laid it in the reaver's gaping mouth.
    He and Averan trundled on. A knight came riding up through the furrow, 
weaving among the monsters. Gaborn could hear the jangle of his ring mail and 
the pounding horses' hooves before the man rounded a carcass. It was Skalbairn.
    "Good news, milord," he said. "We've counted nearly thirty-three hundred 
dead reavers in this one charge alone."
    Gaborn could hardly credit such numbers. He had fewer than twenty-five 
hundred knights in his retinue, and had lost only one in a hundred men.
    He must have been beaming. After Skalbairn left, Averan looked up at him. 
"You look like the cat that ate the bird."
    "It's a good day," Gaborn said. "It's a great victory."
    Averan shook her little head. "You mustn't think that, milord. Most of these 
reavers were innocent. Most of" them were...like peasants." She had a challenge 
in her tone.
    "You talk about them as if they were people," Gaborn said. "But these 
'peasants' marched on Carris. They killed tens of thousands of people, and would 
have killed them all."
    "They only did it because their master told them," Averan argued. "It's not 
the little reavers you have to kill--it's the One True Master. She's your 
enemy."
    The child spoke with such conviction. He noted her appearance. This morning 
he would have thought her a normal child, a girl of nine with red hair and 
freckles and a determined gleam in her eye.
    Now he saw that it was an illusion. Looking closely, he could detect the 
faintest green hue to her face, like bits of greenish mica that caught and 
reflected the sunlight.
    She doesn't look like a common child, he decided. There's more of Binnesman 
to her than I'd have first thought. And like the Earth Warden who serves as her 
master, she seems to care as much about the health of snakes as she does about 
mice, reavers as much as men.
    Averan neared another reaver. The garlicky scent was strong about this one, 
and Averan almost staggered away. "That one is rank," she said. "He must have 
died slowly."
    Gaborn didn't doubt that she was right.
    "Do you think you could learn to talk to the reavers?" Gaborn asked.
    "How? In case you didn't notice," Averan said, "I don't have any philia."
    "But if you could mix smells," Gaborn said. "For example, if you took 
garlic, couldn't you approximate the words?"
    Averan looked up at him, stunned. "I never thought of that!" She frowned. 
"No, I don't think so. Garlic isn't right. The death warning isn't really very 
much like garlic. It would be like yelling 'breath' when you meant 'death.' " 
Yet he'd planted a seed in her mind. "Maybe, though, I might be able to write a 
few words," she mused.
    Gaborn let his imagination soar. To be able to speak to the reavers! What 
would I say to them? But he had no idea. He didn't know their language, couldn't 
think how he might communicate with them.
    Averan had him mark two more reavers as they went, until at length they 
reached the end of the line.
    Then she turned back to the reaver that they had marked.
    Gaborn took his sword and crawled up into the reaver's mouth. Its teeth hung 
overhead like green icicles. He thrust his blade into the monster's soft palate 
and sliced. The inky blood of the reaver drained from the wound, and rained in 
clotted clumps at his feet.
    He stood for a long time, letting the blood flow, before he reached up and 
actually pulled out his prize--a huge handful of steaming reaver brains, like 
gray worms bathed in the reaver's dark blood.
    He gave the brains to Averan, and turned his back as she fed. She chewed 
quietly, making appreciative sounds.
    He climbed up on a reaver, looked to the south. He could see no sign of the 
horde at the moment. The last of them had climbed the hills toward Mangan's 
Rock, two miles to the south. Now they were in a depression. Only a haze in that 
direction let him know that the reavers still fled.
    It had been a glorious battle, a stunning victory. Yet he watched as knights 
picked up their fallen comrades and carried them to the wains. The dead and 
wounded were laid in the same boxes that had been used to haul the lances from 
Carris. It was an economical use, Gaborn supposed, and the dead would not mind 
that they were carted about without ceremony. Still, it seemed an unfitting end 
to the battle, an indecorous end to a human life.
    A contingent of lords saw him, came riding along the field. Their faces were 
shining, expectant. Many of them were mighty warriors: Queen Herin the Red of 
Fleeds, High Marshal Skalbairn of the Knights Equitable, Sir Langley of Orwynne.
    Skalbairn shouted, "We're ready to go when you are. I had lances transported 
from Carris and Castle Fells last night down to Ballyton, not twenty miles down 
the road. In half an hour, we can rearm and make another pass."
    Gaborn considered it, and the Earth's warning came almost as a wail. If he 
dared attempt a second charge, the reavers would devastate his troops.
    "We'll rearm, and take lunch in Ballyton," Gaborn said, stalling for time to 
come up with another plan. He could see by their faces that they'd hoped for 
instant battle. "The reavers are forewarned. We won't take them unprepared next 
time."
    The look of consternation on Langley was impossible to miss. But Skalbairn 
said simply, "As my lord commands."
    Gaborn climbed off his gruesome perch.
    Averan had just finished her meal. She knelt down and wiped her fingers in 
the dirt.
    He asked, "Did we get the right one--the Waymaker?"
    Averan merely shrugged. "I don't know yet. It takes a while."
    "How long is a while?"
    Averan thought. "About three or four hours."
    At that moment, horns began to blow over the horizon. Gaborn raced out of 
the gully, up onto the edge of the plains, as riders came over the hill to the 
south.
    One of them was shouting. "The reavers are climbing Mangan's Rock! We've run 
them to ground."

     
     
Chapter 29
THE RETREAT
    King Orden once asked me which I esteemed most in a knight: courage or 
obedience. I told him that the answer was obvious: obedience. A dutiful knight 
will be courageous on command.
    --King Jas Laren Sylvarresta
     
    Myrrima stood quietly in the dry grass and drew an arrow to her ear. The 
dyed goose pinions lightly grazed her cheek.
    She faced a dead reaver at eighty yards, took aim at its sweet triangle.
    "I'm going to Inkarra with you," she told Borenson. She waited for him to 
respond, but he said nothing. The many times that she'd rehearsed this, she'd 
always imagined that he would rebuff her immediately. She held her aim, let out 
a sigh.
    Most of the lords had ridden off, trailing the reavers that were taking 
refuge at Mangan's Rock. Borenson answered, "I knew why you'd come the moment I 
saw you."
    "And?"
    "I still think it unwise."
    A few days ago, he'd rejected her plea to accompany him out of hand. 
Something had changed in their relationship. She thought it a good sign.
    Hoswell's bow felt sweet beneath her palms. The polished wood at the bow's 
belly fit as if it had been carved for her. The long arc of spring steel drew 
easily and gracefully to the full.
    A yew bow usually had an uneven draw. Often a warp in the wood or perhaps a 
wing that was shaved too thin gave yew a catch here, a loose spot there. Thus it 
took time to learn the range an arrow might fly based upon how far the shaft was 
drawn. Even metal bows suffered this defect, if the smith hammered the metal 
roughly.
    But Hoswell's steel bow felt perfectly balanced.
    She let her shaft fly. The arrow blurred, hit the corner of the reaver's 
sweet triangle and was gone.
    Her yew bow would not have penetrated nearly so far. She'd used three dozen 
arrows in the charge, and had only managed to bring down fourteen reavers. 
Hoswell had bested her by more than a dozen kills.
    "So," she said, "I've been thinking about it. And I agree that it wouldn't 
be wise."
    Borenson gave a snort of amusement. "You agree?"
    "Aye," she said. "I'd be a fool to follow you to Inkarra. It's much safer 
here with the Darkling Glories and reaver hordes and the invading armies."
    Borenson laughed a deep resounding belly laugh. She knew that she had him.
    "All right," he said. "You've got the mettle. Come with me."
    She gave him a sidelong look.
    "But--" he said, "I don't suggest this lightly. What do you know of 
Inkarra?"
    "The people in the Night Kingdoms live in houses as big as a village," 
Myrrima answered. "They sleep by day and work by night. Dragons guard their 
doors."
    "The rune mages of Inkarra protect the land," he added. "Those foolish 
enough to enter do not come out. Their borders have been closed to men of 
Rofehavan for three centuries, and the Storm King has not answered a missive 
from Mystarria in twenty years."
    She drew an arrow from her quiver, swiftly pulled it full, and planted it in 
the reaver's sweet triangle.
    "Shall we go now?" Myrrima asked.
    "You'd go without leave of the king?"
    "I'm sworn to the Brotherhood of the Wolf," Myrrima said. "I'll serve 
mankind as I see fit--the same as a Knight Equitable."
    Borenson hesitated.
    "What?" Myrrima asked. "You still don't want me to come to Inkarra?"
    "I'm torn. The reavers are going south, we're going south," Borenson said. 
"They make fair traveling companions, aside from their table manners."
    Myrrima grinned fiercely. She supposed that any creature that tried to eat 
you could justly be accused of having bad table manners.
    So, he wanted to fight some more reavers. Myrrima glanced up at Mangan's 
Rock. "This looks like a siege, though," she said. "We could be here for weeks."
    "All right, then," Borenson conceded. "We'll leave for Inkarra."
    Myrrima couldn't quite believe that he would take her without more argument. 
She'd known from the moment they met that he desired her as a woman. Now, she 
knew that she had earned his respect.
    Only one thing remained. She would teach him devotion.
    Mangan's Rock towered above the plains, a lone sentinel. Its ragged gray 
cliffs rose three hundred feet at their highest point, and sloped on the 
southern face to only ninety feet.
    Nearly a thousand years before, at the peak of the Dark Lady Wars, the lords 
of Rofehavan had carved a fortress at the summit of Mangan's Rock, and had dug a 
road that wound along the cliff face.
    But that was ages past. Various lords had undertaken the task of restoring 
the fortifications. But there was damned little water up on the rock and too 
little forage on the plains. In the long run, the cost of maintaining the 
fortress was too high.
    Parts of a magnificent castle still stood. Its towers had been blasted by 
lightning and strong winds; some of the walls had tumbled down over the ages. 
Ivy climbed the walls of the castle, and where once a city had stood, oaks 
raised their magnificent branches. Its courtyards had become the abode of owls.
    But the image of Mangan himself stood facing north, some ninety feet high. 
Two dogs of war flanked him. At one time, it was said that he bore a huge bronze 
spear in his right hand, but now the hand was gone. Still, he stared to the 
north, ever vigilant.
    The road winding up to the castle had suffered most of all. Landslides had 
borne it away in places.
    The reavers did not mind.
    As Myrrima and Borenson rode toward Mangan's Rock, the reavers scrabbled up 
the cliff face as easily as a cat would climb a tree.
    They clambered up to the castle walls, perched in crevasses like massive 
dark gargoyles. They took posts along the sheer cliff, and all of them raised 
their heads and stood waving their philia.
    Gaborn, his Days, and the child Averan were among the last to leave the 
battlefield. Even the Frowth had gone before them. They rode together with Iome, 
Binnesman, Jureem, and Feykaald.
    "I'd not have thought that they would run to ground so easily," Gaborn was 
saying. He studied the reavers, mystified.
    "Maybe they're going to hold a tournament," Averan suggested. "We killed 
their leader. They may have to fight to pick a new one."
    But Gaborn squinted up at the reavers, shook his head in bafflement. "That's 
not it. They're planning something...more sinister."
    "Your Highness," Borenson broke in. "May I have a word?" Gaborn gave him his 
attention. "I'll be taking my leave now."
    Gaborn reined his horse to a halt, sat looking at Borenson for a long 
moment, as if to simply hold the image in his memory.
    Myrrima felt deeply aware of the fact that she might never see these people 
again. In only a few days she'd become a fast friend with Iome.
    "May the Earth Powers guide you," Gaborn said at last, "and may the Bright 
Ones light your way."
    Iome said quickly, "Sir Borenson, I repent of the quest I laid upon you. You 
are a man of honor, sir, and I was wrong to question it."
    But Gaborn raised his hand, begging Iome to be silent. She'd laid the quest 
upon his head in front of ten thousand men, and there could be no recalling the 
words. Borenson would go to Inkarra and search for Daylan Hammer, the Sum of All 
Men whom legend said had so many endowments that he could not die. Iome hoped 
that he could help Gaborn defend his people against the perils to come. More 
than that, Borenson had killed Iome's father and had slain some two thousand 
Dedicates. For the sake of his own soul, he needed to redeem himself.
    And Gaborn truly did need help. Whether it came from Zandaros, or whether 
Borenson found Daylan Hammer, or he got it from Raj Ahten himself, Gaborn needed 
help.
    "I have the letter here," Gaborn said, reaching back into his bags, "for the 
Storm King. It explains your mission and begs his aid.
    "And there is another small favor I would ask--" Gaborn broke off suddenly 
and whirled on his mount, as if someone had shouted an alarm.
    Up ahead a couple of miles, the tail end of the reavers' forces were still 
marching toward the rock. They traveled as they had before, in a file seven 
reavers across. Nothing had changed in their configuration.
    But fifty Knights Equitable with lances raced up behind, veering from the 
east.
    "Damn the fools," Gaborn muttered. He reached for the warhorn slung over his 
saddlebags, blew a retreat.
    Several knights glanced toward him, then looked away and sped their charge.
    "Humph," Borenson grunted in amusement.
    Instantly, Myrrima sensed that men were about to die.
    Gaborn blew the retreat more vigorously. All along his lines, knights turned 
and raced to Gaborn, as if the summons were meant for them. But the fifty 
lancers held their course.
    Gaborn blew more frantically.
    At two miles, the men were tiny figures on the slope. Sunlight gleamed on 
white lances, on helm and armor. Myrrima watched as they raced up to the 
reavers' lines.
    The charge did not go as had the previous one. The reavers were not 
blindsided.
    Instead as lancers approached, the blade-bearers on the eastern flank did 
something totally unexpected. The huge monsters each spun and shoved their 
shovel-shaped heads into the topsoil, then stood flailing their great battle 
arms.
    The maneuver effectively covered their sweet triangles, giving the lancers 
no target but the reavers' armored heads. In effect, the blade-bearers created a 
wall of flesh.
    From behind that wall, other reavers hurled stones over the heads of their 
companions, as if from a flight of catapults. Scarlet sorceresses cast spells.
    Thus, the reavers formed a shield wall and attacked in a way that had never 
been seen before.
    In seconds the battle concluded. Thirty-two men and horses were cut down in 
an instant. Those who managed to survive the hail of stones fled, some wounded 
and barely clinging to their horses, others leaving fallen mounts behind.
    Gaborn quit blowing retreat. He hung his head in anguish while the remaining 
reavers scaled Mangan's Rock.

     
     
Chapter 30
THE SHEPHERD
    Of all the beasts of lore, the reavers remain among the most mysterious, for 
the few who observe their habits seldom manage to survive the encounter.
    --Hearthmaster Valen, of the Room of Beasts
     
    Averan felt as if she carried the world on her shoulders. Yesterday as she'd 
run for Carris fleeing the reavers, she'd imagined that life could never get 
harder or more desperate than she'd felt at that moment.
    Now, she knew that she was wrong.
    Gaborn needed another victory from her. He wanted answers to questions, but 
she had none.
    Almost immediately after feeding on this reaver, she began to feel ill. At 
first, she thought the sickness was a product of her own worries, despair at her 
own failings.
    She knew within moments of eating the gray matter of this reaver that it was 
not a Waymaker.
    The reaver was called a Keeper and he was intimate with all facets of animal 
husbandry and butchery. He knew how to gut a carcass, prepare it for his 
masters.
    Visions of the Underworld she'd never seen unfolded to her view: she saw 
caverns where weird plants grew. Some were tough as gristle and did their best 
to look like rocks. Others were spiny like sea urchins that thrived in open air, 
or hung from the cave top like ropes.
    The reavers carefully tended the plants in special chambers. But the reavers 
did not eat their own crops.
    Instead, giant segmented worms grazed among the fields, along with strange 
animals that Averan would have taken hours to describe--spidery animals as a 
large as cottages, and horned beetles the size of bulls.
    So the reavers raised their herds.
    Keeper was filled with a jumble of intimate details about the life cycles of 
each animal. He knew how to prod a cottage-sized spider with an iron pole so 
that she would leave her cache of freshly laid eggs. He knew how to use a knight 
gig by feel, so that he hooked blindfish by the belly. He knew which parasites 
fed on giant worms, and which scents to use to rid the worms of such parasites.
    Useless information flooded Averan's young mind in a torrent, a jumble of 
images and thoughts and scents that left her dazed. She could glean almost 
nothing from it.
    Yet the images were more coherent than before. Averan had eaten more of this 
creature than she had of the others. Maybe that was part of it. Or perhaps the 
difference was that she understood the context of this reaver's thoughts better 
than she had the others'.
    She was learning the reavers' language, seeing as a reaver saw. The memories 
seemed not so much a tangle as they did intermittent journeys through the eyes 
of another.
    Yet Averan felt a pang of despair as the visions began. After spending a 
long morning looking for the Waymaker, Averan had succeeded in eating a farmer.
    So she began to think that her despair was the cause of her pains when they 
first began.
    Gaborn had her ride his horse, his gauntleted hand wrapped protectively 
around her belly. Her stomach was full, cramping, as it seemed to do every time 
that she ate a reaver.
    Gaborn's men closed in on Mangan's Rock, and he ordered various sentries and 
lords to form a picket all around the rock, to keep the reavers from escaping. 
But he kept his main force to the west, so that the prevailing wind would 
continue to blow their scent toward the horde.
    He ordered his carters to go to Ballyton and return with supplies for a 
siege, and then he rode with Averan to a small brook a mile west of the rock.
    The brook wound slowly through the grasslands. Cattails and willow grew 
thick on its banks, and a herd of deer bounded from the brush as the lords 
approached.
    Gaborn took her to an oak tree. Averan brushed away the acorns on the ground 
and sat in the shade.
    Iome sat beside her, wiped some sweat from Averan's face, and whispered, 
"You don't look well."
    "I don't feel good," Averan admitted.
    "Just sit here, little one," Iome offered, taking her hand. "I'll take care 
of you."
    Averan looked up into Iome's face. The queen was watching her intently, full 
of concern.
    She doesn't know me, Averan thought. She couldn't care about me. But Iome's 
expression informed her otherwise. Some people cared more than others did. Some 
people were born to love others until it hurt.
    The wizard Binnesman cleared the ground nearby, dragging away tree limbs. 
One of Gaborn's captains, a grizzled old man with a scarred face, gave the green 
woman a staff. He taught her how to grip it, then began teaching her some basic 
combat stances and maneuvers--jabs, thrusts, and sweeps. Baron Waggit stood by, 
soon got a staff, and began trying to learn along with the green woman.
    Averan watched them to keep her mind off her own problems. But suddenly her 
heart began to race in terror. Something was going terribly wrong.
    "Help me," Averan begged Iome.
    Iome stared hard at Averan. Gaborn's queen was a small woman, half 
Indhopalese. It was impossible to look at her and not to notice the penetrating 
eyes so brown that they were almost black, reflecting the light. In size and 
build, she was much like Saffira.
    "Jureem," Iome begged. "Get the child some water. She looks ill."
    "At once." Jureem went to the stream to fill a skin.
    "What's wrong?" Iome asked.
    Averan could hardly explain. At that moment, she was being assailed by a 
dozen memories at once--lessons in how to transplant a rock plant, how to catch 
a horn beetle, the chill of racing up the mountains through an icy river, and 
images of lightning flashing over the battle of Carris. Terror coursed through 
her in gut-wrenching waves.
    "I don't know...I feel like I'm drowning," Averan said.
    "Drowning?" Iome asked.
    Averan couldn't explain. Strange fears and cravings coursed through her. She 
struggled. "Maybe it's the memories. It's all these memories..."
    Iome put her hand over Averan's forehead. Sweat rolled off like drops of 
dew. Jureem returned with the waterskin. Iome placed it to Averan's lips, gave 
her a cool drink.
    Averan's mouth and throat were so dry. She hadn't felt this way before when 
she'd eaten reavers. Now she drank her fill until her stomach hurt, but the 
water didn't quench her.
    She started to cry.
    "It's all right," Iome said. "You've taken in the memories of three reavers 
in three days. That must be a lot for a little girl who hasn't even lived her 
own life yet."
    But Averan shook her head. That wasn't it. Sweat poured off her more 
fiercely. Her heart was racing, and she took deep breaths. The cramping in the 
stomach had never hit Averan so hard. She'd never had sweat wring from her 
before.
    She wondered if this reaver had poison in its blood.
    "Everyone I know is dying," Averan said. She didn't dare say that she was 
afraid that she might die.
    "Help me," Averan begged.
    To Averan's surprise, Iome scooted down, wrapped one arm under her neck, the 
other over Averan's chest. "I'll help you," Iome whispered. "Whenever you need 
me, whatever you ask, I'll help you if I can."
    That assurance comforted Averan. She discovered that she craved a human 
touch.
    A burst of memories welled up. Averan cried out.
    "Binnesman," Iome begged. "Can you spare a moment?"
    The wizard came to minister to Averan. He had her open her mouth, checked 
her eyes. "There's nothing wrong that I can see," Binnesman declared in a 
mystified tone.
    "She's sweating with a fever, and she's shivering in terror," Iome said.
    Binnesman argued, "Feel her head. She has no fever."
    Iome gave him a look that said she thought he must be daft. She checked 
Averan's sweaty brow, shook her head in consternation.
    Binnesman peered at Averan worriedly. He took some herbs from his pocket and 
treated her symptoms. He warned Iome, "Let me know if she worsens."
    So Averan lay in a torpid state, plagued by strange sensations. Pain cramped 
her feet and joints; dryness chafed her lungs; the consuming thirst ravaged her. 
She did her best to ignore the pain. She watched the green woman.
    The wylde's trainer put her through her paces. He was obviously astonished 
at how quickly she learned. Baron Waggit couldn't keep up. The trainer quickly 
moved from teaching the wylde how to grip the staff and do basic maneuvers into 
full-body lunges, whirling attacks, spinning parries, and combination moves. 
"I've taught the staff in the Room of Arms for twenty years," the big knight 
said to Binnesman at one point, "and never dreamed of a girl like this. When 
you're done with her, can I take her to wife?"
    Binnesman laughed.
    Averan felt jealous. Binnesman was desperate to get the wylde trained, and 
Averan thought of her as a friend. Averan didn't like what the wizard was doing 
to the green woman, turning her into a weapon. She didn't like it any more than 
she liked what Gaborn was making her do.

     
     
Chapter 31
RIDERS BEFORE THE STORM
    In no contest in life does the advantage accrue to the unprepared.
    --Mendellas Val Orden
     
    Gaborn could sense danger rising around Iome. The attack against her was 
very close.
    For a day now, he'd felt it stirring.
    He checked the perimeter of his guard. He'd quietly stationed eighty men 
around the camp. Most of them lounged about--squatting on logs to sharpen axes, 
or pretending to snooze. A hundred yards away, Sir Borenson and Myrrima made a 
big show of packing their goods, as if in a hurry to be off for Inkarra, yet, as 
asked, Borenson let his keen blue eyes stray to the trees along the creek bank, 
as alert as any five men.
    But nothing Gaborn did seemed to allay the threat.
    He wandered close to Skalbairn. He'd asked the man to stay near Iome, and 
the big knight did. But for the moment he had a staff and was sparring with 
Baron Waggit. It was rough work. Sweat coursed down the baron's face, and soaked 
though his tunic. He'd ripped a sleeve in his sparring. His blue eyes gleamed 
with anticipation. He seemed to be enjoying himself immensely.
    Skalbairn spoke amiably to the baron. "Ah, you should come with me to 
Internook," he was saying as the baron tried in vain to bash him with his staff. 
"It's not so damned civilized. A man like you would do well there, put his past 
behind him."
    "Keep sharp," Gaborn whispered to Skalbairn.
    "Always," Skalbairn said under his breath.
    Gaborn made one last search of his perimeter, sauntered over toward Iome and 
Averan, who sat together. Iome's arm was wrapped around the child. Averan's 
glazed eyes stared inward. The child looked deathly ill. Perspiration poured 
from her.
    Gaborn squatted next to Averan and Iome. "Well?" he asked gently, 
expectantly. "Any word?"
    "It wasn't Waymaker that I ate," Averan said. "It was only some..."--she 
searched for the right word--"worm herder."
    Gaborn squinted at her curiously. "Worm herder?"
    "Like a shepherd or a farmer, only to worms and other animals," she said. "I 
warned you that you're fighting peasants."
    She spoke sincerely, but the reavers were up to something, whether Averan 
knew it or not.
    Could the danger actually come from this child? he wondered.
    He didn't want to believe that. Averan was an apprentice Earth Warden after 
all, dedicated to preserving life. Yet right now he wondered if she 
wasn't...deranged. He had to test the theory.
    "Iome," Gaborn asked. "Come here for a moment." He purposely walked a 
hundred yards from Averan, stood with his back to her. He rested a foot on a 
lichen-covered stone, saw that there were small holes in the ground around it 
where mice made their burrows. A cricket sang nearby.
    He briefly studied the reavers' movements on the rock.
    They'd climbed all over it, and now had begun to work. A couple dozen glue 
mums began chewing down the great trees at the center of the rock, while 
blade-bearers pushed over the walls of the ancient towers, sent them cascading 
from the cliffs in ruins. Gaborn was so busy watching the south face of the 
cliff that it took him by surprise when he heard a roar on the north face. The 
great statue of Mangan went tumbling four hundred yards to its ruin.
    Danger was rising all around him. The deaths of certain men had come this 
morning as predicted. Iome's moment was at hand. Tens of thousands in Carris 
would face their peril tomorrow. After that...the world. When would his enemy 
make the next strike? Three days? Four?
    Gaborn felt desperate. Danger was everywhere. Binnesman had warned him a few 
days ago that Raj Ahten was not his ultimate enemy. Raj Ahten, the Inkarrans, 
Lowicker, and Anders--all of them were like masks that concealed some greater 
peril. There was a mystery here.
    Sometimes, he felt that they all worked in concert, perhaps without even 
knowing it.
    Gaborn scanned the fields, searching for any sign of the impending attack.
    Iome walked up to his back and whispered, "What's so important that you must 
drag me away from the girl?"
    He didn't know how to answer, exactly. He changed the subject, trying to buy 
a moment's time, in case the danger presented itself. "It's as if they hate the 
works of man," Gaborn said, jutting his chin toward the reavers. "They can leave 
nothing that we've made intact."
    He reached out with his senses. The jeopardy to Iome was rising explosively. 
Her proximity to Averan had nothing to do with the danger.
    He drew his sword from his sheath, pressed it into Iome's hand. "Take this."
    She held it as if she'd never seen one before. "What's this? You think I'm 
in danger?"
    Gaborn could see no reavers nearby, no one close at all.
    "Iome," Gaborn said tentatively, "someone wants you dead."
    She looked at him evenly, nostrils flaring. Still, he could see no 
antagonist. He wondered if the danger was within her--a weak heart or some 
hidden ailment.
    Distantly there was an explosive sound--almost a scream--a crash of wind 
racing over the plains a mile to the south. It rose from the dead air, hurling 
grass and limbs from full-grown oak trees into the sky. It raised a front of 
dust like a rising pall nearly half a mile wide.
    Gaborn had heard that sound before in the forest of the Dunnwood--the 
shrieking wind, the clash of lightning. He knew what creature rushed toward 
them.
    He spun toward it. Before the storm, rode three men on pale horses. He 
wondered who they were.
    Iome shouted her answer: "The Darkling Glory!"

     
     
Chapter 32
IN HIS MASTER 'S SERVICE
    A good servant does not concern himself with dignity. No act of service for 
his lord should be too mean or too small.
    --Kaifba Jureem
     
    Feykaald had seen enough of the Earth King's camp. He'd seen Gaborn's 
forcibles. He'd watched Gaborn order a devastating charge against the reavers. 
He'd seen men defy Gaborn as he sought to warn them with a warhorn.
    He'd guessed at both Gaborn's strengths and his limitations. He'd learned 
that Gaborn would not help Indhopal, no matter how great the argument. Unlike 
Jureem, Feykaald could see no reason to serve the lad.
    Gaborn was a fallen Earth King, nothing more.
    Only one reason remained for Feykaald to stay near--the forcibles.
    Not in his wildest imaginings had Feykaald believed that Gaborn would have 
left so many forcibles unused.
    All morning he'd wondered what Gaborn planned to do with them, why he 
hoarded them.
    Perhaps Gaborn was too cautious. Perhaps he was the kind of man who insisted 
on taking endowments himself, rather than vectoring. Perhaps he wanted to give 
his facilitators time to pick through the finest prospective Dedicates in the 
kingdom, those with the greatest strength, the keenest intellect, or the most 
perfect health.
    If that were the case, Feykaald could not argue with Gaborn's purpose. 
Perhaps, Feykaald thought, this boy is wiser than I gave him credit for.
    But Feykaald had no more time to speculate.
    He waited only for the right moment. He expected that the reavers would 
provide it--create enough of a diversion so that he could load a box of 
forcibles onto a palfrey and make his escape.
    The right moment came sooner than he'd anticipated, and from unexpected 
quarters.
    The wall of wind roared toward the camp, rising in the air. Suddenly the 
swirling dust thrown by the front reared up and obscured the sun.
    Three riders thundered before the storm. Lightning flashed along the length 
of their lances. On Mangan's Rock, the reavers all hissed and roared.
    Gaborn sounded a warhorn. His guards rushed to his side. The wizard 
Binnesman had been watching his wylde. Now they both ran toward their king. 
Though Gaborn had thousands of knights in his retinue, most of them were 
scattered for miles around the perimeter of Mangan's Rock.
    The treasure wagon was perhaps one hundred yards east of Gaborn, along with 
dozens of other supply wagons. The guards that had been standing around the 
wains drew their warhammers and sprinted for Gaborn, intent on protecting their 
king.
    Instantly, Feykaald took the reins of his mount, scrambled for the treasure.
    Jureem drew his curved saber, hastened toward Gaborn's back.
    All morning he had been watching Feykaald, knowing that something was wrong. 
He'd been waiting for that moment when the old deaf spider sought to creep out 
of the camp.
    Now as the wind and riders approached, he glanced from the corner of his eye 
and spotted Feykaald's dark burnoose, saw the old man take the reins of his 
horse. The big gray Imperial stallion whinnied and fought, frightened by the 
sudden roar of wind.
    Soil and blades of grass hurtled through the air. Jureem raised his arm to 
shield his eyes. He shouted a warning to the guards, but for the moment the 
greater danger was to his king.
    The wind screamed through the grass, came at Myrrima in a blinding storm.
    She'd wondered why Gaborn had begged her to stay here in the camp with him 
and Iome for a little longer. She and Borenson had stayed an hour, acting as 
common guards.
    Now she knew.
    In Heredon, Myrrima had slain the Darkling Glory, killed its body. But the 
elemental wind at its heart could not be destroyed so easily. She had been 
afraid that it would seek retribution.
    Now she heard its vengeful screams as it raced over the grass. Now she felt 
its rage approach as if it were hidden in the dark thunderhead. The three riders 
raced toward her.
    All three warriors rode swift force horses. All three were knights of 
Mystarria, armored and bearing white lances.
    Myrrima drew an arrow from her quiver, checked the bodkin. It was heavy 
steel with a narrow point, meant for piercing armor.
    She spat into her palm, then slicked the shaft and quills of the arrow.
    Her heart pounded. The riders thundered near, the wind at their backs. The 
storm raging behind lifted an ancient oak from its roots, tore the grass from 
the ground, made tiny spears out of pieces of straw, sent grit flying toward 
her. Sparrows fluttered desperately, trying to escape it.
    She squinted into the howling fury and dropped to her knees as the riders 
advanced. They charged. She judged that they would not pass more than a yard to 
her left.
    She would get one shot. She drew the great steel bow to its fullest, calmed 
herself, steadied her aim.
    "I'm the one who killed you!" Myrrima shouted to the Darkling Glory. "I'm 
the one you should want!"
    One knight roared a battle cry, and dropped his lance so that it aimed for 
her heart. Ball lightning played around its iron tip.
    She heard Borenson scream in fury. He raced toward her, warhammer in hand. 
The wind pounded her like fists.
    Myrrima held her aim until the rider was thirty yards off. She loosed her 
shaft.
    Borenson came flying as if to tackle the force horse. He hit the lance's tip 
with his warhammer, so that it dropped into the dirt. The lance struck the soil 
and cracked with a sound like a tree snapping in a storm. Lightning blasted out 
from it in a blinding flash, arced along the ground.
    Borenson flipped in the air, smoke curling up from his boots, emitted a cry, 
and thudded to the dirt.
    She glanced up. Her arrow plunged through the knight's neck. The force of 
the shaft was so great that it pierced the man's spine, nearly taking his head 
off.
    The knight's head flapped back, neck broken, blood spurting from the gaping 
wound. Yet he continued to sit upright on the galloping charger for a moment, 
his dead hands clutching its reins.
    The other two warriors charged past Myrrima, and then the dust storm hit, 
blinding her in its frenzy.
    The elemental swept toward Gaborn like a storm from a nightmare. The front 
narrowed to less than a quarter of a mile wide, but rose up hundreds of feet. 
Dust whisked along the ground, and suddenly lightning flashed overhead.
    "Take cover!" Gaborn shouted, pushing Iome behind him.
    Guards, men he'd picked for this very moment, scurried to block the riders.
    Langley charged up from the left, Skalbairn on his right. Both men were 
phenomenal warriors. Neither could have been prepared for this.
    Gaborn raised his own shield: squinted over it as dirt and straw hurtled 
toward him.
    To his left there was a wrenching of wood and metal as the storm hit his 
supply wagons, sent them rolling.
    He clenched his warhammer.
    Skalbairn dove toward one of the charging knights, screaming a war cry, his 
enormous battle-ax in hand.
    The charging knight held his lance in his right fist, so that Skalbairn 
attacked from his unprotected flank.
    Yet Skalbairn did not swing at the knight, as Gaborn would have. Instead he 
aimed at the horse, taking off its right leg at the knee.
    The mount collapsed, and the rider fell with it. Lightning split from his 
lance, sizzled to the right, and slammed into Baron Handy of Heredon. The bolt 
cleaved the man in two. Charred flesh flew from him.
    Skalbairn rushed to the fallen warrior, stood above him with battle-ax 
raised high overhead.
    Both men were swallowed in the onrushing wall of dust.
    Feykaald watched the wind slam into wagons, send them tumbling. Bits of 
wooden wheel spokes popped loose while axles screamed from the abuse.
    Boxes of goods went rolling away, but the forcibles were not among them.
    He pulled up the bottom of his gray burnoose, ran into the wind. Wet leaves 
struck him in the face. He put his arm up to shelter him from oncoming debris. 
He had faced desert storms this fierce many times.
    For long years he had feigned deafness, weakness. Yet he had some endowments 
of brawn and stamina to match his hearing, and he put those to use now.
    Each box held four thousand forcibles, with a combined weight of five or six 
hundred pounds. He had packed the boxes himself, knew the contents of each. He'd 
put the forcibles in canvas bags, so that they could easily be loaded onto a 
horse.
    He lashed his horse to the treasure wagon, leapt onto it, drew his dagger 
and slashed the bindings that held the canvas cover. It floated off in the wind 
as if it had taken wing. He quickly pried the lid off one box, set it in the 
wagonbed. He found the two canvas sacks inside. They were lashed together with a 
rope.
    Lifting five hundred pounds was difficult, even with two endowments of 
brawn. Grunting and straining, he hefted the bags and managed to sling them over 
the pommel of his saddle. Later, when he had time, he would lash them properly.
    The wind screamed around him like a living thing.
    Knowing full well that his likelihood of escape increased dramatically so 
long as Gaborn did not know of the theft, Feykaald grabbed the lid of the box, 
shoved it back into place.
    But now the storm was upon him, making it almost too dark to see.
    He leapt on his mount, turned its back into the wind, and raced off under 
cover of the gale.
    One lone rider thundered toward Gaborn, the rising storm cloud black at his 
back.
    Gaborn recognized Beckhurst by the colors on his shield. He gaped at the man 
in confusion. Beckhurst had always seemed loyal to House Orden. Sir Langley 
rushed to cut Beckhurst off.
    Gaborn could hear Binnesman shouting or chanting as he struggled to get to 
Gaborn's side, but the old wizard had no endowments of his own, and he traveled 
too slowly.
    Gaborn lowered his shield. He felt with his Earth senses. Danger centered on 
Iome.
    Langley ran in front of Beckhurst's charger, roaring in fury. He swung his 
warhammer toward the charger's legs, as Skalbairn had done.
    But Beckhurst rode a mighty warhorse, replete with endowments and well 
trained for battle.
    It leapt over Langley and cleared him as effortlessly as if he were a rail 
fence. Indeed, to Gaborn's eye for that moment, it almost seemed that the 
charger flew.
    Gaborn raised his shield and set for the charge. Blinding dust rose 
everywhere, a billowing black front that roared over him.
    He reached out with his Earth senses, felt no danger to himself. Only to 
Iome. He knew where his Chosen were, knew when they were in danger. She had 
turned and run from him.
    "No!" he screamed.
    He whirled to see Iome racing toward Binnesman. She had almost reached the 
wizard.
    Jureem ran in front of her, trying to block the onrushing foe with little 
more than his bulk and a curved dagger.
    Beckhurst's mount leapt again as it brushed past Gaborn.
    "Strike!" the Earth commanded.
    For a brief second, Gaborn hesitated. He hurled his warhammer. It hurtled 
end over end through the air, but fell behind its mark.
    His heart seemed to freeze in his chest, fearing that his hesitation would 
cost Iome her life.
    The wylde raced forward, staff at the ready. She whirled it forward. The 
staff nicked the lance, and lightning erupted from it. For a moment, the wylde 
was bathed in light as ball lightning danced over her skin. But her staff 
continued its arc, slammed the warhorse in the knees, and the lightning blasted 
the poor mount.
    The horse screamed in pain, stumbled. As the charger fell, the wylde 
reversed her swing, aiming a blow at the back of Beckhurst's head.
    Beckhurst reared back and hurled his lance.
    With his endowments of metabolism, Gaborn saw it all in slow motion. The 
white lance racing for Iome's back. "Down!" he shouted.
    Jureem had nearly reached Iome, his jeweled dagger drawn. Jureem saw the 
lance and leapt in front of it. He screamed as the lance struck home, and light 
exploded all around, burst from Jureem's feet.
    For a moment Gaborn stood in a daze, saw the lance plunge clear through 
Jureem. The lance took him in the chest, wedged his ribs wide open, and 
continued on.
    Blood rained down as the wylde clubbed Beckhurst with a furious blow, 
decapitating the man.
    The lance slammed into Iome's right shoulder, and Gaborn saw a flash of red 
as blood spattered from her robes.
    She fell.
    The elemental wind roared overhead, lashing. Lightning played at its crown. 
Horses neighed in terror. Binnesman stood with his staff in hand, singing words 
of warding against the storm. He touched Iome's still form with his staff.
    And then the elemental was past them, howling in its glory, as if to mock 
the efforts of puny mortals.

     
     
Chapter 33
REVELATIONS
    Study brings wisdom. Wisdom brings power. Power brings responsibility.
    --Inscription in the Room of Numbers in the House of Understanding
     
    Iome woke with a pain like fire in her shoulder. The camp was in disarray.
    Binnesman had her lying on her belly on the ground, or perhaps that was the 
way she had fallen. She remembered it now, running from the knight, hoping to 
draw him away from Gaborn, dropping to the ground at Gaborn's warning, feeling 
the lance tip slam into her shoulder.
    She could not have been unconscious for long. Distantly she could still hear 
the roaring wind. It raced northeast, toward the mountains.
    As quickly as the Darkling Glory's elemental had struck, it was gone. It 
left the camp all but destroyed. Horses galloped about, having slipped their 
tethers in the storm.
    Everyone gathered round her, looked on with relief. Binnesman applied some 
balm to her wound. It felt as sweet to the skin as warm honey would to the 
tongue.
    She groaned in pain, tried to climb up to her hands and knees, and caught a 
glimpse of bloody corpses nearby. Jureem was not twelve feet off, shielded from 
her view by a knot of onlookers. She suspected by the fact that no one was 
kneeling over him that the good servant must have died. She knew that he had 
died to save her.
    "Jureem?" she called, in case he was still alive.
    "Don't move yet," Binnesman said. "Even the worst shoulder wound often 
doesn't hurt as badly as you would think."
    "And Jureem?" Iome asked.
    Binnesman shook his head. "Jureem and Sir Handy are both gone."
    The news left her numbed and saddened. She'd known Handy since she was a 
child. He'd been a shy boy of eight when his father first brought him to court. 
And Jureem had been an impeccable servant. Iome glanced at her own small wound. 
The men hadn't just died to save her. Gaborn had set them as guards. He'd spent 
his men. "I'm all right. It just grazed me."
    "You're lucky it didn't skewer you through the heart," Binnesman said. "If 
not for the wylde, I think it would have."
    Iome tried to get up again. Binnesman held her down for a moment, until he 
tired of resisting. "Ah, well," Binnesman said. "The bleeding has stopped. With 
your endowments, no doubt you'll be healed by tomorrow."
    Binnesman went to tend to Borenson, who lay gasping in pain, while Myrrima 
knelt at his side.
    Iome climbed to her knees, found herself circled by friends. Averan, Gaborn, 
Langley, Skalbairn--all looked on in concern. Just two dozen yards away lay the 
body of the man who had tried to kill her, a gory mess. The knights of Rofehavan 
had made triple sure of him.
    Iome crawled over to Jureem. The lance had opened him wide, and there was no 
chance that he could be alive. Still she took his hand, found it limp and warm.
    Who knows the moment of death, or what the dead can hear? she wondered.
    "Jureem," she whispered into his ear, the hot air of her breath fogging his 
golden earring. "You did well, my faithful servant. I thank you. If there is any 
way I can reward you in this world or the next, I will do so."
    She stayed with him, held his hand for a long moment. She looked up and saw 
Baron Waggit standing over her. The man had tears in his eyes, and looked on in 
confusion.
    "Is there anything we can do for him?" the baron asked.
    She wondered how it would be, to learn of death so brutally. He could not 
have had his endowment of wit for more than a few hours, yet he'd seen dozens of 
men die savagely before his eyes.
    "There is," Iome said. "We can live so that our deeds become a monument to 
his memory."
    Waggit's mouth moved, and for a moment she thought that he would beg to 
enter the king's service, take his endowments and go to war. But he said 
nothing, merely turned and stalked away.
    As a fool at Carris he had killed reavers without knowing what death was. 
Now, he seemed to have no nerve. She thought of the old adage "Make a fool to 
cure a fool." Gaborn had wasted a forcible on him.
    She let go of Jureem's hand, placed it over the gaping wound in his chest. A 
pair of knights came to take him away.
    Iome glanced at Averan. The big oak that Averan had rested under lay on its 
side, twisted roots rising twenty feet in the air. The wind had swept all of the 
straw and grass nearby bare. Averan crouched by the tree, her arms wrapped 
around her legs, and Iome marveled. The gale had been so fierce, she somehow 
expected that the girl would have blown away.
    A couple dozen yards farther off, Binnesman was asking Sir Borenson, "Can 
you breathe all right?"
    Borenson grunted in pain. "It just knocked the wind from me."
    Iome looked up, found Gaborn staring at her as if he would bore through her 
with his eyes.
    Others drew close and whispered things like, "Honor be to the Powers," but 
Gaborn just stared accusingly. With a curt motion he ordered all the others 
away.
    "Why?" he asked, when the well-wishers had left. "Why would the Darkling 
Glory come after you?"
    Iome did not want to burden him with another worry. "I don't--"
    "Please," Gaborn said.
    "It wants your son," Iome said. "It knows that I'm carrying your son."
    Gaborn asked, "My son?"
    "Yes," Iome admitted. When it was stalking me at Castle Sylvarresta "it said 
that it could smell a son in my womb."
    Iome did not know how Gaborn would react. She had not wanted him to find out 
this way. She feared that he would be angry with her for withholding such news.
    "That's why I took more endowments," Iome whispered. "I wanted to give birth 
to him quickly. If the Darkling Glory wanted him dead so badly..."
    Gaborn's eyes grew bright as he blinked back tears of joy. Or perhaps they 
were mingled with tears of sadness. Both he and Iome had taken endowments of 
metabolism--too many to ever live normal lives again. They would age and die 
before their child reached adulthood. With half a dozen endowments of metabolism 
each, by the time the child was a dozen years old, Gaborn and Iome would have 
aged to nearly a hundred. Though endowments of stamina might keep them healthy 
to that point, in time the human body was meant to wear out. This child might be 
born safely, but Iome and Gaborn would never live to see it reach adulthood. 
Gaborn had to realize that, had to know the price that she'd already paid for 
her child.
    Gaborn knelt beside her, put his hand on her back. "Here, lie down."
    "I'm all right," Iome said.
    "You're more than all right. You're magnificent," Gaborn said. "But lie down 
anyway."
    Gaborn took off his cloak and laid it on the grass, Iome lay on it. Her head 
was ringing, but she felt well enough to stand. Binnesman was still tending 
Borenson.
    "When were you going to tell me?" Gaborn asked.
    "I don't know," Iome admitted. "I thought I'd wait until there was a lull in 
the battles--or until the child was two or three. Whichever came first."
    Gaborn forced a smile. She could see worry pent up behind it. "Then I'm glad 
there was a lull in the battle."
    As the roaring of the Darkling Glory faded, the sound of thunder followed. 
In the distance, two more lightning bolts struck in rapid succession.
    Averan sat in the grass, staring inward, lost to internal nightmares. The 
stomach cramps and sweats were abating, yet she felt as if the bolts pierced 
her.
    In the distance, on Mangan's Rock, the reavers hissed in alarm.
    The memories that the thunder aroused were terrifying: racing up through the 
narrow canyons in the Brace Mountains, running with thousands of reavers, the 
sky erupting in its display of pyrotechnics, the horrible lightning storm that 
had left her blind and dazed.
    Those were some of the last memories that Keeper had formed.
    Even now, she could feel his pain. The cold last night had been so bitter 
that it nearly froze his joints, until at last he huddled in a burrow with the 
others, sharing their warmth.
    Even now, sitting in the sun, Averan shivered at the thought, and her feet 
ached from endlessly running. The weariness that Keeper had endured after days 
of marches, of fighting, of working without stop, also assailed her, along with 
an endless burning thirst.
    But most of all she felt the horror of last night, Keeper's fear of the 
lightning.
    The fear it aroused was almost primal. It moved her beyond all bounds of 
reason. While others cleared the battlefield, Averan sat wondering why this was 
so.
    But though the reavers' memories flowed into her, they came at their own 
pace. She could not choose to discover what she wanted to know.
    So she sat for long minutes, peering deeper into Keeper's dark soul. 
Memories assailed her: reavers digging trenches to channel steaming water to 
newly opened caverns, reavers herding immature worms from one tunnel to another, 
reavers cleaning their kills.
    In so many ways, Keeper had just been a peasant.
    Yet gradually she realized that Keeper was like no human farmer she'd ever 
known. She'd watched milkmaids with their cows, and shepherds with their sheep. 
She'd tended graaks in an aerie.
    There was a bond of affection that grew between a man and his animals. 
Averan used to love to pet her graaks, to feed them and stroke them between 
their eyes, or to scratch them roughly beneath the jiggling folds of skin at 
their throats.
    But Keeper had felt none of that. He tended the creatures he ate, watched 
them grow. But all of the time that he did so, he could barely restrain himself 
from tearing his charges to pieces.
    Keeper had been a creature of monstrous appetite.
    And suddenly she knew that he had come here with a charge--to learn to 
capture and harvest men and women.
    She saw it clearly now, through Keeper's memory. There had been a cave deep 
in the Underworld. Keeper had gone there to help tend the human charges, to 
learn how it was done so that he could perfect the techniques.
    In the reaver's memory, Averan recalled people huddled in that black place, 
too terrified to move as Keeper crept among them. The humans were thin, 
emaciated. Averan saw them through the monster's eyes as potential meals. They 
had all been counted, and Keeper knew that he could not eat one, could not even 
take a nibble.
    But he happened upon a mother with her newborn child. The other keepers had 
not counted the babe.
    So he quickly snatched the infant from its mother and swallowed it. The 
flavor was bland.
    Averan felt horrified--not merely at the thought that Keeper had eaten a 
child, but that she had then eaten Keeper in turn.
    She was filled with revulsion.
    Gaborn depended on her. He wanted another victory. Timidly, in the aftermath 
of the attack, she got up and walked to him as he hunched over Iome.
    Her body felt strange, as if her hands and feet were all disconnected. In 
her memory, she always ran on four legs.
    She stepped over a dead sparrow to reach Gaborn.
    "You were right," she told him. "The reavers are monsters. They're nothing 
like people."
    Gaborn shot her an inquisitive stare.
    "What makes you say that?"
    "Because of what they plan to do to us. Because of how they feel inside. I 
know how they feel when they look at us: it's a burning hunger.
    "You wondered why the reavers stopped here?" she said. "I can't say for 
sure. Maybe they did it because they are cold, tired, and starving. They aren't 
built to walk in the snow, to charge up through rivers of ice like they did in 
the mountains last night, or to go for days on end with nothing to drink. 
They're dying of thirst."
    Gaborn stared off at the reavers in wonder. "So, have we run them aground?"
    "Maybe. But I know what they're thinking, and mostly they're just afraid."
    "Of what?"
    "Of you!"
    Gaborn chuckled as if she had paid him an undeserved compliment. "How could 
they fear me?"
    "They smell you," Averan said. "Yesterday, in the battle, the fell mage 
tasted your scent. She knew that you caused the earthquakes, and that men fought 
more fiercely when you came. She sent your smell to all of her warriors, warning 
them that you were a danger.
    "She did it just before the world worm destroyed the Rune of Desolation, and 
lightning flashed in the sky."
    "Yes?" Gaborn said. He didn't understand her point.
    "Don't you see?" Averan asked. "They think that you summoned Glories into 
battle. The reavers aren't fleeing back to their caves just because they're 
afraid, they're going back to warn the One True Master!"
    A sudden silence formed around Averan. Iome, Gaborn, and dozens of other 
lords all leaned close to listen.
    "And what happens if they warn the One True Master?" Gaborn asked.
    Averan found herself breathing hard. "She'll summon her armies to destroy 
you."

     
     
Chapter 34
THE NETHERWORLD
    In the beginning, there was one world, and one sun, and all men were Bright 
Ones who thrived beneath the One True Tree.
    --Opening of the Creation Saga
     
    Erin Connal could not leave the door to the netherworld in the ruined 
village of Twynhaven behind--not really. Oh, she turned her back, rode away, but 
the knowledge that it existed preyed upon her, and her heart stayed, even when 
urgent matters demanded her attention.
    Two hours after leaving Twynhaven, she and Celinor stopped on a lonely hill 
that afforded a view of Castle Hingham, some five miles off in southeastern 
Beldinook. "There's a hornet's nest for us," Celinor said.
    The riders from Fleeds had warned that Lowicker's daughter was waging a 
tantrum, but from the hilltop it looked like war. Carpenters and masons were 
fitting hoardings on the castle walls. Perhaps three thousand mounted knights 
wheeled about on its greens, practicing with the lance. To the north, a column 
of footmen snaked over the hills. Wains filled with supplies rolled in from the 
east. Beyond them a dirty brown haze hung in the air as if an army moved, but 
Erin could not see what caused it.
    Erin and Celinor headed west, through the forests, circling Beldinook, not 
daring to take a road. They cautiously followed a dry streambed through the 
pines.
    For much of the day they kept silent, alert. Or at least Celinor remained 
alert. Erin could not.
    As she rode through a quiet glen in the early afternoon, shafts of sunlight 
spilling upon the moist leaves, the drone of mosquitoes buzzing in her ears, 
time and again her thoughts returned to the door to the netherworld at 
Twynhaven. She imagined the green flames swirling there among the black ashes of 
the ruins.
    She was transfixed. She'd found a gate between worlds. Who could guess what 
wonders might be on the other side? All she had to do was step through. That 
would be an adventure!
    But could she make it? Wizards might visit that realm, but Erin doubted that 
a common person could do so. Yet her dagger had disappeared. It had plunged into 
the flames. Perhaps it was destroyed, or even now, it might lie upon that far 
world.
    The call of a rook on the hill startled Erin. Its raucous cry indicated that 
something lurked there.
    It might have been nothing more than a boar or a bear. But both she and 
Celinor were edgy. They drew reins, made no noise, listened for other riders. 
Pines shadowed the ridge above them. Long after the rook fell silent, Erin urged 
her mount forward.
    They entered a canyon where deep pines closed in on both sides of the 
streambed. The trees stood so thick that Erin did not fear other riders. No 
horse could make it through the dense undergrowth.
    So as the shadows played upon her back, cooling her, Erin closed her eyes. 
She'd slept little in the past few days. She now took a moment to rest as 
Runelords do, letting her mind wander through realms of dream.
    She dreamt of Twynhaven--gray ash that blanketed the ground, smelling bitter 
and dry. She dreamt of families lying dead in the ashes, while a vivid green 
circle of fire shone upon the blasted earth like a flickering eye.
    In her dream she stood by the circle, and leapt.
    Her feet struck the ground of a new world with a jolt. For a moment she 
crouched in deep grass as thick as a carpet. Full night lay upon the land, and 
she smelled moisture rising from the fields. Overhead, scintillating stars 
filled the heavens--not the tens of thousands that she'd tried counting as a 
child upon the plains of Fleeds. Instead hundreds of thousands simmered in the 
sky. Each was a fiery crystal on a blanket of blue, and their combined 
brilliance gave more light than a harvest moon. Erin gasped in wonder.
    Just ahead atop a small hill stood a monolithic oak. Each limb was wider 
than the trunk of any oak she'd ever seen. The limbs snaked around, and a 
cottage could have fit in a crook of one of those limbs.
    The One Tree! she thought--the great tree that legend said sheltered men in 
the netherworld. But a glance told her otherwise. To her left, more majestic 
oaks raised their proud heads along the rolling hills. Each was perfect in its 
own way, as if some higher mind had first conceived it and then given it form.
    Not the One Tree, she realized--just a tree.
    She looked about. The fields were empty. No cricket disturbed the night. A 
strange creature, perhaps a bird, gave a throaty call in the distance, miles 
away.
    Having no destination in mind, Erin set out for the nearest tree, but 
stopped after a few paces. The green grass reached almost to her knees. But all 
around, the stalks were bent and crushed in a circle a hundred yards wide. She 
smelled burned grass. In a scorched patch ahead, something gleamed like water in 
the starlight.
    She drew forward. It looked like a scorpion, perhaps three feet in length. 
At least it had a tail like a scorpion's, and it had claws, but it gleamed like 
silver. One claw was broken. Black soot suggested that lightning had struck it.
    Was it a statue? Had it been alive? Or might it still be alive? A trail had 
been trammeled in the grass. The thing had certainly crawled to its resting 
place.
    She drew her warhammer from her sheath, and tasted the air. Yes, the grass 
smelled sweet, almost honeyed, but lightning had struck. She could make out more 
burned patches--arcane symbols burned into the grass.
    She walked around the circle and found thirteen runes--each different, each 
unknown, at equal distances. Deep hoofprints suggested that riders had combed 
this area. She could taste the scent of horses.
    She tried to understand what might have happened. Someone had burned runes 
into the grass. Perhaps in doing so, they had attracted attention--a patrol. She 
could not tell who had killed the scorpion.
    Warily, Erin stalked uphill toward the great tree. It was a mountain of a 
tree. A grove of normal trees could have sheltered beneath its boughs. Each leaf 
was as large as a knight's breastplate, and a single acorn would have fit in a 
helm.
    She had not gotten beneath the boughs when she became aware of distant 
sound, the grumble of thunder.
    Erin wondered. She tasted cool moisture rising off the fields, but the air 
was not thick with the scent of water. The still heavens heralded no wind. Yet 
distant lightning split the night. She glanced toward the source.
    The sky was black along the horizon for a dozen miles, blotting out the 
stars, as if a storm were rolling in. Tongues of flame darted in the blackness.
    But it was no natural storm: funnels of fire appeared high up. By the 
flicker of lightning she could make out vast shapes, like enormous men with the 
wings of bats.
    Erin had seen such a thing only once--when the Darkling Glory struck at 
Castle Sylvarresta. Now thousands of them streamed across the horizon in a 
flock. They were half a dozen miles away, closing fast.
    Erin raced for shelter, hoping the vast tree would hide her as a bush might 
hide a mouse from the hawk.
    It was no easy feat. The hill was steep, and as she sprinted, boughs 
overhead blotted out the starlight. It was nearly half a mile from the shade of 
the nearest limb to the deepest recesses at the bole of the tree.
    The limbs rose high overhead as she entered the shadows. The pungent leaves 
smelled so strongly that Erin realized that she'd never truly tasted the scent 
of an oak before. Her feet thudded over the ground, muted by a thick carpet of 
decaying leaves. Darkness and cold reigned under the tree. Sunlight had not 
warmed the soil here for a thousand years. Under the vast tree, nothing grew.
    Erin stumbled. Dry bones clacked beneath her feet. Fallen leaves had hidden 
them. She saw a greatsword thrust into the ground, a monument to a battle. The 
bones of creatures that might have been men lay all about. She saw the glint of 
bright armor, and a skull that was too wide of face to have been human.
    Lightning struck closer, only a mile or two off by the sound of it. It threw 
stark shadows. Erin feared that it would show her up to anything that flew 
above. The cries of Darkling Glories sounded, an unearthly howling.
    Erin ran deep under the great oak. The trunk was old, twisted, and no less 
than ninety feet across. Lightning flashed close to the ground, and a scream 
involuntarily tore from Erin's throat--for in the stark light, she saw that the 
tree had a face: eyes and a wide mouth.
    She drew to a halt and peered into the shadows, until a flickering bolt 
revealed the scene again.
    The enormous trunk was old and wrinkled, bent in on itself. Moss and lichens 
covered the hoary thing. But someone had hacked away a face on its surface--a 
woman's face. Her features were beautiful and unearthly. Her mouth was wide, as 
if she were calling out. Her open mouth led to a hollow beneath the roots of the 
tree.
    Shelter. The mouth was a vast cavern twenty feet wide. She raced through the 
opening, tripped and rolled down a long hill. She landed, clattering among 
bones.
    She smelled the musky scent of some animal's den. The tree's shadow had 
eclipsed the bright starlight. Everything was black, except when lightning split 
the sky. The heavens snarled. A tempest rose.
    Erin climbed back to the opening, kept herself low to the ground. Lightning 
flickered. Perhaps half a mile off, a hart bounded across the open fields. It 
floated over the ground as if in a dream.
    But the Darkling Glories came. A howl of warning rose from their throats, a 
hunting cry that froze the bones, like the call of a wolf mingled with a 
screaming wind and the rumble of a distant storm.
    A lightning bolt was hurled before the hart. It leapt right, making for the 
shelter of a tree. A second bolt struck the earth. The hart veered again.
    Shadows descended. Winged beasts swirled out of the sky like bats dropping 
into a cave, and the hart was gone.
    A shadow blotted out all light overhead, and Erin heard the rush of wings. 
Something enormous swept through the air above her, then rose again, into the 
den. Erin felt the wind of its passage.
    A Darkling Glory, she realized, her heart thudding. She threw her face into 
the dirt, and dared not move.
    But there was no hunting cry. No claws raked her. Instead, she heard the 
sound of wings shifting, an enormous bird primping its feathers. It made a soft 
throaty noise, the sound of an owl, "Whooo."
    But the bird was much larger than any owl. Its wingspan could not have been 
less than twenty feet.
    The lightning continued to strike out on the plains. The tree shook with the 
rumble of thunder and the roars of Darkling Glories. Lightning flashed overhead. 
Wind screamed through the tree boughs, and leaves rained down.
    Erin clutched the haft of her warhammer, turned to try to glimpse her 
companion, to see if it posed a threat.
    By the flickering thrill of lightning, she saw the beast perched above her, 
about fifty feet away. A passage looked as if it led down, into a deeper chasm, 
but the owl crouched upon a knob of moldy root. The raptor was a downy gray, 
with bits of white at its breast and a collar of black at its throat. Its golden 
eyes were as large as saucers, and lightning reflected from them.
    The owl watched her, unblinking. Its beak was large enough to rip off a 
man's arm. It held something dainty in its beak.
    Then her light was gone. An afterimage formed in her mind. She'd seen the 
gleam of bones on the floor. She recognized the owl's musty smell. This had to 
be its den.
    Lightning flashed, weaving a webwork from horizon to horizon. The owl had 
closed its eyes, and she saw now what it held in its beak--her dirk!
    The owl let the blade fall, and it flashed as it tumbled end over end in the 
unsteady light, to plunge into a skull on the floor with a whack.
    The owl spoke, a whisper that pierced Erin to the core, "Warrior of the 
Shadow World, I summon you!" The words did not merely ring in Erin's ears, they 
spoke to her flesh and trembled through her bones.
    You're dreaming, she told herself. Wake up.
    She found herself back in the forest, with a brilliant blue sky overhead. 
Celinor rode beside her as their horses picked their way through a streambed. A 
squirrel in a nearby pine raced round its trunk, chattering.
    Erin's heart pounded. In memory she still smelled the musty den beneath the 
great oak, and heard the grumble of thunder. A surety grew that on some far 
world, something had found her dagger.

     
     
Chapter 35
THINKING LIKE THE ENEMY
    Hout oft the jailer becomes the jailed! Therein lies the danger of learning 
to think like the enemy.
    --Adage from Mystarria
     
    "For one little girl," Gaborn replied to Averan, "you're sure full of bad 
news."
    He gave her a worried smile, stroked her face, and wondered at the portent 
of her words.
    As Earth King, Gaborn had ridden to Carris in hopes of saving his people. 
He'd managed to do it in glorious fashion. But in doing so, he'd called 
attention to himself. The enemy knew his name, and would come to hunt him. 
Binnesman had warned him that the more people he tried to save, the more his 
enemies would try to destroy them. Perhaps in freeing Carris he had triggered 
the battle that would destroy the world.
    He hadn't considered this.
    He wondered at his own wisdom. Even now he planned to hunt down this One 
True Master. Was it possible that in doing so, he might provoke the very 
catastrophe he sought to avoid? No, he didn't believe that. The Earth had 
whispered to his soul that this was the right course.
    Yet doubt nibbled at him. He'd lost most of his powers, and now felt bereft. 
Could it be that he was mistaken in his designs?
    He peered up at Mangan's Rock. The reavers had nearly cleared the trees from 
its crown. They'd bulled them over the cliff to the ground.
    A vast contingent of reavers manned the cliff face as if it were a castle 
wall. They stood with blades and knight gigs and staves, gazing out like 
sentries. The philia on their heads waved about, tasting the air.
    They'd taken a nearly unassailable position.
    "You said that they were racing to the Underworld," Gaborn asked. "But if 
they plan to warn their master, why stop now?"
    "Maybe it's because you killed their fell mage."
    "So we killed a mage. Does that alter the plan?"
    "Yes!" Averan said. "A new sorceress has to take the lead, and she'll...make 
changes."
    "What do you mean, 'make changes'?"
    Averan huffed. "You killed a mage. That proves that her ideas weren't good 
enough. The new mage will try new things against you, and pick new leaders for 
the blade-bearers. Killing one mage can change everything."
    Of course, it made sense when Gaborn thought about it.
    "There's no telling what they're plotting," Skalbairn said.
    Gaborn could see a weakness in relying on Averan for information. She could 
see into the reavers' minds better than any human had ever done. But all of her 
news was hours old. She couldn't tell Gaborn what he needed to know now.
    "If they are ill and thirsty," Jerimas offered, "I can see no outward sign 
of it. But every moment that they sit there on Mangan's Rock is another moment 
that they'll stay hungry and thirsty."
    "So what is their new mage thinking?" Iome asked.
    "Perhaps she's merely waiting for the sun to warm them," Binnesman offered. 
"That's what lizards do before they hunt."
    "Or maybe they just want rest or time to think," Iome suggested.
    "Not likely," Skalbairn said. "That rock is like a fortress. I think the 
reavers hope to draw us into battle."
    That seemed most probable. Gaborn looked from face to face. Jerimas's eyes 
twinkled. To the scholar this was merely an elegant puzzle. Skalbairn was 
already eyeing the rock, trying to figure out how to pull the reavers down from 
it. Iome looked scared.
    Skalbairn said, "Maybe it's a diversion. By taking a defensive position 
here, the reavers could hope to draw reinforcements away from nearby castles. 
They may even have reinforcement of their own on the way."
    That was a frightening thought. Gaborn gave Skalbairn a look. "Right," he 
said. "We'll check into it." He nodded toward a captain nearby, who rushed off 
to gather scouting parties.
    "You know," Jerimas said, "maybe the reavers have more than one objective."
    Gaborn suspected a plot. Tens of thousands of people in Carris were still in 
danger. He reached out with his Earth senses, touching them--and immediately 
noticed something odd. Those people weren't in Carris anymore!
    Instead, most had already fled the city, bearing southeast so that now they 
were just forty miles east and a little north of him. Others of his Chosen were 
heading west or northward from the city, but Gaborn sensed no trouble around 
them or those that stayed in Carris--it was only the people traveling southeast. 
And not even all of those were in danger.
    None of the roads in that direction were any good. Most travelers moving 
southeast took boats on the river Donnestgree to the large cities downstream.
    With a sinking heart, he recalled the wounded he had evacuated from Carris. 
There had been legions of sick and dying--more than ten Binnesmans could have 
handled. Now they spread for miles along the river. Were they heading into an 
ambush? The danger was rising. By this time tomorrow it would be upon them. It 
could be anything--reavers, a flash flood, or an attack by Lowicker's troops.
    Gaborn turned to Skalbairn. "While you're sending out scouts, have a dozen 
men head downstream along the Donnestgree."
    "Yes, milord," Skalbairn said. He nodded toward his captain.
    "You know," Skalbairn offered in a dangerous tone, "if these reavers do want 
to warn their master about you, you'll have to stop them."
    "Perhaps my best chance would be to ambush the One True Master," Gaborn 
said, "before she hears the news."
    But he had no idea how to reach her in the Underworld. The only person who 
might decipher the reavers' trails was Averan, and she'd need the Waymaker's 
knowledge to do it.
    She hadn't agreed to lead him. He hadn't even dared to ask her. He didn't 
want to sacrifice her.
    A dozen lords had gathered round. Gaborn asked, "Gentlemen, may we have some 
privacy?"
    He took Averan by the shoulder and led her away from the knot of warriors. 
Only Iome and Gaborn's Days dared follow.
    "Averan," Gaborn said. His stomach knotted. "I have an enormous favor to 
beg."
    "What?" Averan asked in a small voice. She was trembling. She looked very 
timid, though she tried to be brave.
    "I'm going to the Underworld, to look for the Place of Bones and the One 
True Master. Can you lead me to her?" He'd known that he would have to ask this 
of her, yet asking was hard.
    Averan swallowed and began to tremble harder.
    "You can't ask that of a child," Iome said.
    "I have to," Gaborn replied. "We're running out of time."
    "Perhaps the wylde can do it?" Iome said.
    "I thought of that," Gaborn said. "But it doesn't speak well enough yet. I 
doubt it could understand our questions, much less give us answers."
    "But she's just a little girl. Even if she said yes, she doesn't understand 
the question."
    "Yes I do," Averan told Iome fiercely. "I know what it means better than he 
does." She jabbed a finger in Gaborn's direction. "He's the one who doesn't know 
what he's asking. The path is long and dangerous. The reavers crawled through 
the Underworld for days to get here."
    "How many days?" Gaborn asked.
    Averan shook her head. "I don't know. Reavers don't measure time like we 
do."
    "Averan," Gaborn said, "this is important. I feel danger approaching. I feel 
a great danger to every man, woman, and child I've chosen. We have to leave 
soon. We don't have days to waste looking for the path. Is there any other way 
that you know of?"
    Averan shook her head emphatically.
    Gaborn wasn't sure that he believed her. "The reavers left a groove in the 
ground on the way here. Can't we just follow it?"
    "Probably much of the way," Averan admitted. "But we'll have to go to the 
deepest nesting grounds, where the sorceresses lay their eggs. All of the 
tunnels have well-beaten paths, and the sentinels keep watch."
    Gaborn sighed, rubbed his temple, trying to relieve the tight muscles.
    "If you want me to lead you," Averan offered, "then you must get the 
Waymaker off that rock!" She pointed toward the monolith on the horizon.
    "I will," Gaborn said. "And before we go, you'll need to take endowments. We 
have to make the journey swiftly, and I cannot afford to have you lag. You'll 
need brawn, grace, stamina, and metabolism. Most of all, you'll need endowments 
of scent so that you can smell the reavers' markings."
    "Averan--" Iome began to say. But Averan cut her off.
    "It's all right," Averan said. "Everyone dies. All my friends are gone. He 
wants to know if I'll die down there with him."
    "That's right," Gaborn said. "It could come to that."
    Iome bit her lip, shot Averan a mournful look. Yet she had to know that 
Gaborn could not ask this lightly.
    Averan took Iome's hand, squeezed it. "I know what I'm doing. It's better 
for one person to die, than a whole world. Don't you think?"
    Gaborn was not surprised at the tears that filled Iome's eyes. She had 
always loved her people, but he felt overwhelmed by the way she grabbed Averan, 
and hugged her fiercely. "I could never be good at that kind of math."
    Gaborn knelt, wrapped his arms around them both.
    "Iome," he whispered into his wife's ear. "I want you to go someplace safe. 
I can't think of any place safer than the Courts of Tide. I need you to carry a 
letter for me to an old friend. He'll know where we can get the endowments we 
need."
    "It will take days for the dogs to bond with her," Iome objected.
    "We'll have the dog handlers take the endowments," Gaborn said. "That way it 
can be done in hours. Then we'll give them to the girl as vectors."
    Iome nodded her consent. Gaborn quickly penned his missive. As he did, his 
mind turned to other matters.
    He knew the value of stepping outside himself, of learning to think like his 
enemy. He'd discovered it when he was Averan's age, and for a moment he was lost 
in a memory.
    When Gaborn was nine, he'd gone on an autumn hunt with his father and some 
Runelords near the headwaters of the river Dweedum.
    On the hunt, the lords found a few salmon running weeks before expected. 
Gaborn's father set up camp, and mentioned that he wanted fish for dinner.
    The lords couldn't let such a challenge lie. Catching the salmon suddenly 
loomed large.
    It was one of those cool dawns in autumn when the sun barely filters into 
the canyons, and the morning mists spend half the day trying to climb up the 
ridges to make their escape into the sky. The larks and finches had been hopping 
in the pines, and the spores on the ferns along the hillside were so thick that 
the whole of the forest carried their scent, so that a tang like iron mingled 
with the pine needles and a carpet of moss.
    With the river running low, the riverbed held more round gray boulders than 
water.
    The lords rode their horses up through the shallows of the river, driving 
the salmon up to Wildman Falls. The falls soared a hundred and seventy feet. The 
water tumbled like silver hair, leaving a cold spray in the air that misted 
Gaborn's shoulders. No salmon could leap those falls, so the basin beneath was a 
good place to hem the salmon in. The tumbling water had carved a nice little 
pond, cool and deep. A few strategically placed boulders all but blocked the 
shallow exit downstream, and that could be easily guarded.
    There weren't many salmon. Gaborn had only spotted three or four on the ride 
up, and saw only one swim into the deep waters, making it all that much more 
desirable.
    The older lords thrust a spear into Gaborn's hands and told him to stand in 
the shallows and "try" to bag any fish that headed downstream.
    Meanwhile, the lords all rode their horses out into the deeper pool, till 
the water reached their mounts' bellies. Then they launched themselves at fish 
with spears that were meant for boars.
    It was a mad episode. The horses lunging around in the pool soon muddied the 
water so that no one could see. If one man did spot a fish, he'd give a shout 
and spur his horse forward, and all of the others would give chase, for they'd 
made a game of seeing who would spear the biggest fish.
    For the most part, they spent their time chasing around trout that weren't 
much longer than Gaborn's forearm. After an hour of this, only one knight had 
speared a salmon, a little jack that was small by way of having swum upstream to 
spawn a year or two early.
    But Gaborn was his father's son, and he decided that if he were going to get 
a fish, he'd have to think like a fish.
    The knights all held to the deep, splashing and muddying the water so that a 
fish wouldn't be able to breathe.
    So Gaborn went to the shallows at the edge of the stream, where a few 
overhanging weeds provided cover and the water was fairly clear. Soon he spotted 
the tail of a salmon poking out. A quick thrust with his spear won Gaborn the 
salmon that his father had ordered.
    The lords had talked about it for days afterward--this little lad, going out 
and spearing the only salmon in the pool while a bunch of force soldiers and 
Runelords made fools of themselves.
    If I were a reaver, Gaborn wondered, what would I do? The reavers were all 
fleeing along the exact same trail that had brought them here two days ago. At 
least, that's what it looked like.
    But a smart reaver would take another trail.
    "Sir Langley, Marshal Skalbairn," Gaborn said, calling the men to his side. 
"Is it possible that this main force of reavers is acting as a decoy? Could some 
others have left the trail?"
    "I had men watching," Skalbairn said. "But it's hard to say for sure what 
they did in the night."
    "Send a hundred men to check for tracks," Gaborn ordered. "In particular, 
have them search back where the reavers dug in last night. Unless I miss my 
guess, some of them waited to leave. Your men must kill any that they find."
    "Yes, milord," Skalbairn said.
    "And after you've done that, call the lords together for a council. We have 
to get the reavers down from the rock."
    Gaborn turned to Averan. "Could the reavers be digging a well up there?"
    "On Mangan's Rock?" Iome asked.
    It didn't sound feasible even to Gaborn. The rock had to be hundreds of feet 
thick. But reavers were inordinately strong, and there were thousands up there 
to work. They had a virtually unassailable position.
    Gaborn frowned in concentration.
    He felt...rising danger around some of his men.
    He looked up. The reavers were sculpting a shallow dome atop Mangan's Rock. 
Glue mums had begun to spit out pulpy strands into a configuration he 
recognized. A brown haze rolled from it, and actinic blue lights flashed 
beneath. An enormous flameweaver crawled atop the thing, raised a crystalline 
staff to the sky.
    Gaborn's heart seemed to freeze.
    Binnesman breathed out in wonder. "They're making another Rune of 
Desolation."

     
     
Chapter 36
MAYGASSA
    Maygassa is the oldest city in the world. For twice ten thousand years it 
has stood, and if a man digs anywhere beneath its streets, he will find the 
ruins of older buildings and the bones of the ancients. The meaning of its name 
is lost in time, but the oldest texts argue that it means "First Home."
    --Excerpt from Cities and Villages of Indhopal, by Hearthmaster 
Arashpumanja, of the Room of Feet
     
    On the western slopes of the Anja Breal, in the Valley of the Lotus, lay 
sprawling Maygassa, the capital of old Indhopal, It was a city that produced 
nothing but people--a myriad of people.
    The rajahs of Indhopal had long ago built the Palace of Elephants here, a 
stronghold along the river. On the west, above the city, the palace stood atop 
an enormous gray stone nearly eight hundred feet high. All along the base of 
this huge stone were pictographs in ancient Indhopalese that gave the 
Enlightened Texts of the ancient Rajah Peshwavanju. The texts covered the gray 
rock, forming an exquisite pattern that was much admired throughout Indhopal. 
The pattern was called "Lace of Stone."
    Some legends said that the texts were not carved by human hand but had 
appeared overnight, written by the Earth for those who sought enlightenment.
    Raj Ahten glanced up at the palace, read the uppermost verse, "Bow before 
the Elephant Throne, O haughty traveler. You upon your proud camel: know that 
you are nothing."
    The words struck Raj Ahten with the force of a portent. The warnings from 
Binnesman, the way that the Earth Powers had withdrawn from him--even his 
failure to catch the insolent Wuqaz Faharaqin--all seemed evidence that the 
Earth was against him. Now the inscription in stone seemed to blaze.
    It was only a coincidence that he read that verse, of course. Peshwavanju's 
masons had known that merchants traveling the Old Spice Route would ride by on 
camels, and would of course glance up to read the verses.
    Still, it seemed to be a portent, and Raj Ahten halted along the road to 
rest his camel, as he looked down on Maygassa.
    He admired this city. Conquering it had been the high point of his life. He 
remembered well his ascent to the Elephant Throne here at the palace. Raj 
Ahten's father, Arunhah, had once told him that the name Ahten meant "the Sun." 
His given name, Avil, was so common that Raj Ahten had held it in contempt. So 
when he seized the Elephant Throne, he renamed himself Raj, "Ruler," as did all 
of the kings of Indhopal. Thus, on the day that he took the capital of Indhopal, 
he became known throughout the world as the "Sun Lord."
    Below, the walled city sprawled beside the broad banks of the Djuriparari 
River. The walls of the city, and of every palace within it, were carved of 
stone that was grayish white, almost a pale lavender, so that the city shone 
bright in the sun. The Djuriparari River was a broad band of copper beside it.
    Fleets of sailing boats, carved from teakwood, each sporting a single mast 
of brown canvas, plied the sluggish waters. They brought rich spices, rice, 
sugar cane, silk, gold, melons, and fruits from the jungles. Even from miles 
away, Raj Ahten's keen nose could smell the thick scent of cloistered humanity, 
of commerce and rotting fruit, of poverty and hope.
    But as he watched the river below, he knew that he would find trouble in 
Maygassa. The boats were all heading downstream today, and their four-pointed 
sails had been unfurled to hurry the pace. People were fleeing.
    More than that, from the upper passage he could see along the highway that 
led to Majpuhr. It was thick with oxcarts, horses, and people. From a distance, 
the seething mass of humanity marching up the broad winding road between the 
trees looked like a python twisting through the grass.
    None here dared to head northeast, along the trade routes into the 
desert--not at this time of year. The Wastes were too dry for any but the best 
force camels. Instead, the refugees were following the curve of the jungle 
through the hills northward, toward Deyazz.
    "What is happening?" Bhopanastrat asked. "Are the reavers coming?"
    "Yes," was all that Raj Ahten said. He gripped the reins of his camel in his 
numb left hand, prodded the beast with his right, and rode down into the valley.
    Maygassa was bustling. A nervous buzz filled the air, the sound of thousands 
of worried voices talking quickly, punctuated by shouts and cries. Beyond the 
markets, the city still crawled with men and women, each packing their families' 
goods and abandoning their homes. Raj Ahten saw women in their apartments 
throwing bundles of clothes and food down to children below, while men with 
daggers and swords guarded their horses and wagons.
    All of this Raj Ahten gathered as he rode in from the north, through the 
Gate of the Blind and along the broad avenues. The city was in a state of panic. 
The first few people he passed were so preoccupied with flight that none paid 
him or his men any mind. The one man who looked his way was eyeing his camel, as 
if wondering if it might be worth stealing. When at last he bothered to look at 
its rider, he fell back, speechless.
    Raj Ahten suspected that men had already begun killing one another in their 
haste to flee.
    Dull consternation began to settle over him, a creeping numbness. He was 
still nearly two hundred and sixty miles from Kartish.
    But he dared not show concern. He prodded his camel and held his head high 
as he rode into the market, past the Fountains of Paradise with their tubes of 
polished silver twisted like vines that spurted water in flowery shapes, above 
basins carved of rhodolite and filled with live crocodiles.
    Refugees had evacuated from the south with their whole families--children, 
animals, and all that they owned. Those who had mounts at all were lucky. The 
peasant men and women of Maygassa had a hungry, frenzied look in their eyes as 
they shouted, "Horses? Camels? I pay gold for camels!"
    "Food? I want food?"
    Babes cried in panic. The bazaar was normally a hive of eager merchants 
hawking their wares. Maygassa was home to the busiest markets in the world. Here 
by the north gates on the outskirts of the market, medicine men sold healing 
herbs--goku and ginseng--or potions made from ground white cobras to ward off 
old age, or lizard testicles to make a man virile. And down near the docks were 
merchants of fish, vegetables, hemp, wood, copper, and iron. Farther into the 
finer merchant district were vast stalls for the traffickers in silk and linen, 
cloth of gold, muslin, cotton, and wool, all dyed in ten thousand colors.
    On a busy day, the bazaar was so crowded that one could not ride a camel 
through.
    But now the northern bazaar was nearly empty, the stalls vacant, the 
wheedling cries of the merchants unheard. Most of the traffickers had already 
fled Maygassa. Those who remained were the most mercenary sort, rapacious men 
who would charge a peasant twenty times the normal price for a horse, only to 
deliver a sickly mule. He saw women with eyes that shone from greed selling 
saffron rice at forty times its customary value.
    Desperate peasants crowded round them.
    "Raj Ahten!" a woman cried. "Our deliverer!" All eyes in the market began to 
turn to him. For years Raj Ahten had warned his people that the reavers would 
attack. He'd promised to be their savior. Now people muttered hopefully. "O 
Great Light!"
    "He will save us!"
    Into the midst of the bustle and confusion he rode. The cries of the hawkers 
died on their lips. Everywhere, the people fell silent.
    Raj Ahten raised his hand. "What is this commotion?" he called. He pinned 
his eyes upon a man who was offering a handful of rubies for a camel so old that 
its muzzle hairs had gone gray.
    "Great One," the man said, "the reavers--they surfaced in Kartish! The very 
Lord of the Underworld marches at their head..."
    Raj Ahten nodded. "Are they marching here now?"
    "No, O Light of the Universe, it is much worse. There is a blight upon the 
land--a creeping stench that kills every plant it touches. It is moving this 
way, just a bit faster than a man can walk--unless the wind bears it faster. 
Last night, the winds blew very hard indeed."
    In rising trepidation Raj Ahten made some quick calculations. The reavers 
had surfaced yesterday at dawn, and had swiftly created a Seal of Desolation in 
Kartish, as they'd done at Carris. If the resulting blight crept forward at a 
steady pace, it could be over two hundred miles in diameter.
    "It covers all of Kartish?" He tried to imagine the consequences. There 
would be little food for his troops, so he would not be able to lay siege to the 
reavers' stronghold. He'd have to strike quickly, and with all of his might. If 
the reavers managed to hold the blood-metal mines, it would bring his ruin.
    But there were other dangers. The bulk of Raj Ahten's Dedicates were 
currently housed in the Palace of Canaries, not far from the mines themselves. 
They would be at risk.
    I am dead now, he thought. If my Dedicates die, I will die with them.
    "Indeed, Enlightened One. The blight covers Kartish and Muyyatin as well. 
But last night the winds drove it into Dharmad and Aven. Soon it will swallow 
all of the Jewel Kingdoms. Every plant in them will be blasted by nightfall."
    Raj Ahten could not imagine the pepper trees at Aven lying blackened and 
twisted in their groves, or the passion fruit orchards of Dharmad with nothing 
but rot beneath their trees. The apiaries of Osmol would be devastated, along 
with the vineyards and jungles and the rice paddies at Bina.
    The farms and orchards of southern Indhopal, of the jewel Kingdoms, were the 
richest in the world. With them gone, all of Indhopal would suffer famine this 
winter.
    "All gone," the kaif said. "All destroyed. The people are fleeing as fast as 
they can, but the blight spreads even at night. A common man, even on horse, 
cannot outrun it! To wait until it catches up with you is folly, for it means 
certain death."
    "And what of my warriors?"
    "Armies are converging on the mines at Kartish," someone yelled from the 
crowd. One of his soldiers was there, a man in a saffron surcoat with the 
three-headed wolf emblazoned in red. But he wore his surcoat hidden under a 
black cloak, so that Raj Ahten had not seen him from behind. "Aysalla Pusnabish 
leads the charge, with three million footmen and eighty thousand lancers--every 
able-bodied man in the Jewel Kingdoms."
    Pusnabish was Raj Ahten's most trusted warlord--the captain who protected 
his Dedicates. He was marshaling every troop available, but nearly all of those 
three million men would be commoners, and it might take days for them to gather.
    If the Lord of the Underworld led the reavers, if she uttered curses as the 
one had at Carris, the commoners would become as dross burning in a forge.
    Raj Ahten asked, "Yesterday the reavers took Kartish?"
    "Yes, O Wise One," the soldier said.
    "And Pusnabish is throwing every man against them?"
    "As I have said," the soldier agreed.
    "And the blight still spreads?"
    "Even as we speak," the soldier said. "I raced north from the borders at 
dawn, and saw the decimation spread with my own eyes."
    It could mean only one thing. Pusnabish had failed to dislodge the reavers, 
failed to destroy the Seal of Desolation. Perhaps he had simply been unable to 
break the reavers' defenses. Perhaps he did not know what needed to be done, or 
was still gathering his troops. But Raj Ahten suspected the worst: Pusnabish and 
all his millions might already be dead.
    Raj Ahten could not reach Kartish before nightfall, not if his camel was to 
live through it. Once he hit the blasted lands, there would be no fodder for the 
beast.
    And as the blasting spell spread, it would make it more and more difficult 
for anyone to reach Kartish, to mount an attack on the reavers lodged there.
    There was a slim hope that Pusnabish and his men still lived, that Raj Ahten 
could marshal a charge against the reavers and break the Seal of Desolation 
there. A slim chance.
    He prodded his camel through the streets of Maygassa, and as he did, he 
calculated quickly. If the Desolation spread, then by tomorrow at dawn it would 
swallow the Jewel Kingdoms and lead to a terrible famine in Indhopal. A day 
later, it would swallow Maygassa and begin taking the rich jungles to the north. 
Five days later, it would eat through the vast deserts of Indhopal, destroying 
all but Deyazz.
    Within a week, it could devastate all of Indhopal. After that, the world.

     
     
Chapter 37
MANY FAREWELLS
    True friends must be cherished beyond all worldly measure, for in our memory 
they shine brighter than gold and last longer than diamonds.
    --Jorlis, Hearthmaster from the Room of the Heart
     
    Myrrima's heart felt heavy as she prepared to leave Gaborn. Men had only 
begun to cart off the bodies of Jureem, Handy, and their attackers.
    The assault on Iome had happened so quickly that Myrrima's nerves still 
jangled. The reavers were brewing some new trouble on Mangan's Rock, while 
Gaborn spoke of going to the Underworld to fight their master.
    Langley rode out onto the plain to gather up several lords for a council. As 
the council prepared to convene, Gaborn gave Myrrima and Borenson a message case 
to carry to King Zandaros. "Be sure that this gets through," Gaborn told them. 
"Algyer col Zandaros would be a powerful ally, and we cannot afford to have him 
as our foe."
    "It will get through," Myrrima promised. "And I'll take good care of Iome, 
so long as our roads lie together."
    "I know," Gaborn said. "May the Earth protect you." He drew close, hugged 
her to say goodbye. The act surprised her. Though she saw Iome as a friend, 
Gaborn was still "the King," and therefore too high above her station for such a 
show of affection.
    Myrrima went to Averan. The little girl's eyes were glazed. She looked 
forlorn. Myrrima took her hand, "Little sister. I'm going to Inkarra, and I've 
come to say goodbye."
    "Oh," Averan said. "That means I'll never see you again."
    "No," Myrrima promised. "I'll be back."
    But Averan shook her head. She said matter-of-factly, "No one comes back 
from Inkarra, and I'm going to the Underworld."
    Myrrima wanted badly to comfort the girl. "Have faith in yourself and your 
king. And have faith in me. I'm your big sister now."
    But Averan just shook her head. "Not really."
    She was right. Roland had never petitioned the duke to adopt Averan as far 
as anyone knew. Averan had never been made Borenson's sister, and Roland's 
promise was left unfulfilled. This girl had no one.
    Myrrima's own father had been taken at an early age. She'd had a mother and 
sisters to help care for her, and knew how vital their support had been in her 
life. Averan's own loss seemed a small matter, easily corrected.
    Myrrima turned to Gaborn. "Your Highness, Roland Borenson planned to 
petition Paldane to become Averan's guardian. But he died before he could make 
his plea. I wonder now if you can grant Roland's petition, my petition, now."
    Gaborn looked to Averan. "Would you want this? Would you take Myrrima as 
your sister?"
    Averan appeared more thoughtful than excited. She nodded.
    Gaborn glanced at Sir Borenson. "If I grant this, you become her brother 
indeed, and her guardian."
    Binnesman cut in. "She's an Earth Warden. The Earth will clothe and feed her 
as it sees fit. And you may leave her training to me."
    Myrrima was taken aback by the wizard's statement. "I'm sure you intend 
well," she told Binnesman. "And you might train Averan in the ways of magic. But 
you're not used to caring for children. Can you give her the love that she 
needs? And when she's hungry, will you feed her, or merely let her grub around 
for roots and nuts?"
    "I'm sure you mean well too," Binnesman said. "But remember, dear lady, you 
are the one going to Inkarra. How well will you care for her?"
    Myrrima argued, "Our estate in the Drewverry March is large enough to 
accommodate a child. She could stay with my mother and sisters, when she's not 
training."
    Binnesman warned, "Wild birds like cages as much as she'd like a house, I 
think."
    Gaborn eyed them both. "The child can live in a house and eat at a table and 
still be an Earth Warden. I see no reason why Roland's desires should not be 
granted. But I still haven't heard from Sir Borenson."
    "My father made that choice already," Borenson said.
    Gaborn said softly, "So be it. Then Averan, I grant you into the care of 
family Borenson. Even if it be in name only, you have the right to call yourself 
Roland's daughter."
    Myrrima nodded, looked at Averan gravely, and said, "Now we are sisters."
    It was a small act of decency, but the words brought tears to Averan's eyes.
    Myrrima hugged Averan and said, "My mother and sisters will be going to 
Drewverry March." She took a necklace from around her throat, placed it on 
Averan. It was a small pendant of a silver fish. "When they see this, I'm sure 
that they'll welcome you. It was a gift from my father. Drewverry will be your 
home, whenever you want."
    Averan hugged Myrrima fiercely, choked out, "Goodbye."
    Then Myrrima shook hands with Binnesman, and even his wylde. In moments she, 
Borenson, Iome, and Iome's escorts began packing for the quick ride. Iome would 
take Gaborn's forcibles to the Courts of Tide.
    Gaborn called a man out of his ranks especially to lead the group, a swarthy 
fellow with a single black eyebrow who looked as disreputable as his namesake 
would imply. He was called Grimeson.
    But as Grimeson began tying down a tarpaulin over the treasure wagon, he 
shouted, "We've been robbed!"
    There was a great commotion as he tore the lid off one crate, threw the 
empty box to the ground, and began opening each crate in turn.
    Several men rushed to the wagon. The guards protested, "But it hasn't been 
out of our sight!"
    "How well were you watching when the Darkling Glory attacked?" Grimeson 
asked.
    The guards let out a cry of consternation, began shouting, "Search the 
camp." There were hundreds of horses tied up and down the creek in small 
enclaves. Myrrima didn't know where to begin searching, who to look for.
    Gaborn closed his eyes, seeking inward. "Don't bother. The thief is gone. 
Feykaald is riding to Indhopal."
    Borenson said, "He has less than an hour on us. We can catch him!"
    The old Wit Jerimas urged Gaborn, "Milord, you must retrieve those 
forcibles. Make no mistake. If Raj Ahten learns that you still have so many, he 
will come after them."
    But to Myrrima's surprise, Gaborn shook his head. "No. I feel a pall 
settling over Raj Ahten. There is trouble in Kartish. Surely the children of 
Indhopal need those forcibles as much as we do."
    Myrrima thought that someone would speak out against the notion.
    Knights Equitable and lords from half a dozen lands stood within hearing. 
But no one spoke against Gaborn.
    For days he had been saying it: all of the world's people were Gaborn's 
charge. Perhaps now they had begun to believe.
    So Myrrima, Borenson, and Iome's retinue mounted up. They waited for Iome.
    She and her king walked together and stood under an oak by the brook, 
talking for a long while. Myrrima saw tears stream down the queen's face. They 
were far enough away that no one could hear what they said, but Myrrima could 
imagine.
    Iome was leaving Gaborn. He would go to the Underworld to hunt for the One 
True Master. Iome feared for him even as she held him. When at last she was able 
to tear herself away, Iome got on her mount and spoke not at all.
    Force horses pulled the treasure wagon so fast that it sang over the 
highways. They raced southeast through grasslands, following the river 
Donnestgree as it surged toward the ocean and the Courts of Tide.
    Few villages dotted the plains. Myrrima asked Borenson why. He pointed out 
that the driving winds would not allow many trees, and the soil here blanketed a 
thick crust of volcanic stone. Without wood for fuel, few people wanted to 
settle here, though the land was bountiful enough for wild cattle.
    But people had lived here once. She saw the remains of castles on many a 
lonely hill. Borenson pointed out the site for the Battle of the Five Wizards, 
and halted once to show her bones of a giant encased in a rock by the wayside. 
She saw the very tower where Leandra had pushed her mother to her death upon 
hearing that Andreas was no more.
    Near the old altar at Rimmondy they scared a flock of young wild graaks up 
from the carcasses of some cattle that had been chased over a cliff.
    In the late afternoon they reached a crossroads two hundred miles southeast 
of Carris where silver birches bent over a still river, their leaves perfectly 
mirrored in the waters.
    To the south lay the road that Myrrima and Borenson would take, while Iome 
headed northeast. They stopped to let the force horses graze and drink.
    "We can't stay here long," Borenson warned Myrrima. "The sun will be going 
down soon. We'll want to be clear of the Westlands."
    "The Westlands?" Myrrima asked. She couldn't keep the edge of fear from her 
voice. She had heard children's tales of the wights that haunted them. "Are they 
close by?"
    "Oh, you'll get a close look," Borenson assured her with a grin. "If you 
spit that way, you'll hit them." He nodded toward the south.
    "But I thought they'd be farther...west," Myrrima said.
    "They're west of Old Ferecia, and that's all that matters."
    "But there's supposed to be bogs and swamps."
    "They start just beyond that rise," Borenson assured her. He nodded toward a 
rise where the remains of a castle wall still thrust up like a dog's tooth. 
"That's Woglen's Tower."
    Myrrima shuddered. She knew the tales. The land here had been black with 
Toth, and blood had once filled this river. For three months Fallion's armies 
had fought to break their siege and win that tower, only to discover that 
Fallion's bride was dead inside.
    Somehow she'd expected Woglen's Tower to still be standing. In the old tales 
it had seemed indomitable. And she'd imagined bones here upon the ground.
    She didn't feel prepared for Borenson's news. She'd thought only about 
getting to Inkarra, not about any dangers between. But there would be bogs full 
of wights and mountains with hazards of their own.
    "Can't we go around the Westlands?" she asked.
    "It will be faster if we go through them," he said, obviously amused to see 
her dismay.
    Myrrima and Borenson sat for a few moments counseling about what they should 
take with them south. Borenson had found gold in his father's purse. He assured 
Myrrima that the city of Batenne near the Alcairs would carry all the supplies 
that they needed. Iome walked downstream as they spoke.
    When it was near time to leave, Myrrima went looking for Iome. She walked 
down along a grassy trail beside the river and scared up a family of mallards.
    She smelled an apple tree somewhere in the band of woods nearby, and found 
Iome there, leaning with her back against it, looking to the northwest. The head 
of a kingly statue lay in the grass, gazing upward with blank eyes. Wind-fallen 
apples carpeted the ground at Iome's feet. Deer had nibbled many of them. Iome 
thoughtfully chewed a yellow apple. The sunlight striking the golden fields was 
piercing, brilliant.
    "Are you worrying about Gaborn?" Myrrima asked. "No," Iome said. "My 
thoughts are far more selfish."
    "Really?" Myrrima said. "Good."
    "Good?" Iome asked. She turned and stared into Myrrima's eyes. Over the past 
three hours she had been so preoccupied that she had not said a word to anyone.
    "You don't indulge yourself that way enough," Myrrima suggested.
    "Well, I'm making up for it today. I was just wondering if Gaborn would even 
spare a thought for me this afternoon."
    "I'm sure he will."
    "That's the trouble," Iome said. "He'll think about me, and with a thought 
he'll know whether I'm safe, and where I am."
    "I imagine so," Myrrima said.
    "I wish that I could go with you," Iome confided. "Jerimas said that 
Gaborn's nearest kin should deliver the message."
    "Gaborn couldn't risk that," Myrrima assured her.
    "I know," Iome said. "Now that he knows that I carry his son, he'll send me 
to 'safety.' No doubt he'll want me to lie comfortably in bed until it's time to 
spread my legs and deliver his child."
    "Your Highness!" Myrrima said, affecting a shocked tone that she really did 
not feel.
    Iome grinned wickedly, dark eyes flashing. "I'd go with you if I could. But 
Gaborn would know. He might even use his Earth Powers to hunt for me, and in 
wasting his precious time, I might place others in jeopardy. I can't risk that. 
So it seems that I must do as I'm told."
    "At least you'll be safe," Myrrima said.
    "There is no place in the world safer than at the Earth King's side," Iome 
countered. "That's where I want to be."
    Iome tossed her apple to the ground, and took Myrrima's hands. "I'll miss 
you. Though you've saved my life twice now, I think of you as far more than a 
protector. I want you for my friend. Each day, I'll beg the Earth to guide you, 
until you hurry back."
    "I'll think of you, too," Myrrima said. She found it hard to speak, could 
add little more. Words didn't suffice. "I wish you well in the birthing of your 
son."
    Iome grinned, placed her left hand low on Myrrima's stomach, just above her 
womb. "May you have a child of your own," Iome intoned.
    It was an old tradition in Heredon for a pregnant woman to offer a blessing 
upon her barren friends this way. It was merely a gesture of goodwill. Yet 
Myrrima felt a muscle spasm beneath Iome's hand, and stepped back quickly. For 
half a second she imagined that Iome's touch really could fill her empty womb.
    Iome laughed. "It will happen soon enough, now that your husband...I'm sorry 
if I've offended, or upset you," Iome quickly added. "I know that you and your 
husband have your troubles. I--only want the best for you."
    "No, it's all right," Myrrima said. "Thank you." She couldn't hide her 
uneasiness. Myrrima dared not tell Iome that Borenson had never slept with her, 
and that she had lied about his miraculous restoration.
    "Let me give you another gift," Iome said, as if hoping to atone for an 
unintended offense. "You need a necklace--to make up for the one you gave away." 
She reached around her own throat, where a necklace lay hidden beneath her 
tunic. "I've been wearing this, for luck. You'll need it more than I." She 
brought out the opal necklace that Binnesman had used to fight the Darkling 
Glory.
    "Your Highness," Myrrima said, "I could never--I have no present to give you 
in return."
    "You gave me my life, and the life of my son."
    Iome put the necklace around Myrrima's neck, hugged her, and they walked 
hand in hand back upstream to find Borenson brushing the mounts.
    Borenson said goodbye to the queen and leapt up into his saddle in a single 
fluid move, as Runelords do. Myrrima swung onto his warhorse, her back straight, 
her movements quick and efficient.
    Myrrima wondered why Borenson didn't ask for his warhorse back, for it had 
more endowments than the little piebald mare he rode. Perhaps he no longer 
wanted it. His horse was a kingly mount, and Borenson was no longer the king's 
guard. The piebald mare he rode was more appropriate for a minor lord. The two 
rode south along the river, turned at a bend and waved back through the trees.
    Iome stood among the silver-barked birches at the edge of the wood, waving 
in return.
    Myrrima had a strange view of her then. It seemed right for Iome to be there 
in the woods, as natural as berries on a holly tree. There with the golden limbs 
hanging above her head, wearing her traveling robes of green, with a son growing 
in her womb and horses at her back, Iome looked a proper wife for an Earth King.
    Iome waved farewell to Myrrima and Borenson. She felt miserable. Gaborn 
wanted her to be safe, protected. He wanted what was best for her.
    But right now, she felt very much alone.
    Her friends were riding to Inkarra. Gaborn planned to go to the Underworld. 
And she...would go where she was told while the world collapsed around her. She 
yearned to do more.
    Iome had Sergeant Grimeson call the guard together and they headed east with 
the guards and wagons.
    The golden plains soon dissipated, replaced by lands so rich that they 
remained green even at the last of summer, and great oaks pocked the fields. 
Cottages began to dot the landscape, and stone fences lined the highway.
    People were soon everywhere, and as Iome's horse raced by, more often than 
not the farmers with their pigs or sheep or wagons would hardly have time to 
recognize her, much less doff a hat or bend the knee.
    So their party was continually followed by cries of "Was that the queen?" 
and "Look, quick, there goes the queen!"
    By late afternoon, Carris was but an evil memory. The aroma of living wheat 
fields supplanted the smell of dead grass; lordly pear orchards where starlings 
soared in riotous clouds were exchanged for the gray soot; the lowing of cattle 
as they grazed in the fields replaced the cries of children.
    Iome felt invigorated.
    Grimeson named the villages and cities for her as they passed, and sometimes 
would point out an ancient battlefield or spot of ground where history had 
unfolded. She soon realized that this unsightly little man had a fine head on 
his shoulders, and was cordial enough. But she wondered why Gaborn had chosen 
him to be her escort.
    As evening gave way to night, Iome kept wishing to stop for a real meal at 
one of the inns that they passed. Time after time, she would smell the delicious 
aromas of ham cooking in a bed of leeks, or chicken savories, or warm bread 
fresh from the oven.
    But the need was on her, and so she rode like a gale through the night, 
until, as Runelords do, she slept in the saddle, passing through a dream with a 
cool wind in her face, her hair flying.
    Under starlight they rode, until one of the guards said, "Milady?"
    Iome blinked her eyes as she woke.
    They came to a stop on a rise, and the dark ocean spread before them in 
every direction. Iome had never seen an ocean, had never smelled the bitter tang 
of salt so strongly mingled with life and decay. She had not conceived how 
endless its horizons would be.
    Ahead lay several small islands, all spanned by elegant bridges made of 
white stone that were almost indiscernible from wisps of cloud in the moonlight.
    She saw stretched out above them the soaring towers at the Courts of Tide, 
like silver spears taking aim at the horned moon.

     
     
Chapter 38
A WIZARD'S PERSPECTIVE
    Wizards never infringe upon the affairs of common men. It's just that common 
men sometimes get entangled in the affairs of wizards.
    --The Earth Warden Binnesman
     
    As afternoon dimmed into night, Averan watched Gaborn and various lords 
gathered in the council. They all sat on rocks and stumps that they had pulled 
into a circle near the creek. The reavers had been up on Mangan's Rock for 
nearly three hours, roosting there like crows. The sun slanted toward the 
horizon, and a cool breeze wafted out of the mountains, carrying with it the 
scent of pine.
    The Rune of Desolation that the reavers formed was only just beginning to 
take shape. Many scarlet sorceresses had been slain in the march, along with the 
glue mums, so that this construct was growing slowly. But the sickly design was 
evident, and foul-smelling smokes rolled off the hill as if bubbling from a 
cauldron.
    Still, Averan had to wonder. From Battle Weaver's memories, she knew that 
Battle Weaver had been sent here precisely because she had mastered the Rune of 
Desolation. Other reavers might duplicate portions of the rune, but each 
sorceress knew only a small piece of the whole.
    Gaborn's men still held the plains in a vast circle. The reavers' smoke 
burned a man's sinuses and made his eyes water. It was bad enough so that the 
Frowth giants moved their camp well upwind of the rock. Yet there was still no 
sign of the blasting that had destroyed crops for miles around Carris.
    To Averan, that seemed proof that the reavers were destined to fail at 
duplicating the rune.
    But Gaborn was worried. He wanted the rune destroyed, and he wanted the 
Waymaker.
    He huddled with dozens of lords: Skalbairn, Sir Langley, Queen Herin the 
Red, Duke Groverman, Jerimas, and dozens of others. They raised loud voices and 
planned to assault the rock.
    Averan sat quietly at the edge of the circle.
    There was a thrill of expectation in the air, the sense of a rising battle. 
"I say we take artillery to them," Skalbairn was saying. "We put ballistas south 
of the rock, and shoot the reavers down until they retreat. Then we send 
Runelords up the cliffs on scaling ladders."
    Gaborn looked evenly at Skalbairn. "I told you before: artillery won't 
work."
    "Of course it will work!" Skalbairn argued.
    "The king's right," Jerimas said. "The reavers would just throw rocks back 
at us. There's no getting at them."
    "There has to be a way," Queen Herin offered. "What if we built large siege 
towers, attacked from downwind? We could draw the towers in fast, using force 
horses. We might gain some element of surprise."
    Gaborn shook his head sadly. "The Earth warns against it."
    So he had said of every plan that the men propounded. The Earth did not 
grant him leave to act.
    If only he could summon an earthquake, Averan thought, as he did at Carris. 
I'd see the reavers shaken from their perches, the whole hillside sliding into 
ruin.
    But Gaborn could not summon earthquakes or world worms anymore. He could not 
even come up with a plan of attack. Always the Earth's counsel was the same: no.
    Averan glanced up, found Gaborn gazing toward her, as if hoping she would 
come to his rescue. Averan leaned forward, wrapped her hands over her head. She 
felt as if it were crammed to bursting. Memories still rushed into her, even 
though her mind was full. It was as if she'd devoured a huge feast, and now sat 
torpid, bloated, and kept shoving snacks down her mouth.
    She had a sudden vivid vision of the nesting site of the Soft Stone Clan 
where Keeper had hatched, down where the rocks were warm from magma. She 
recalled cutting her way out of a leathery sack at birth by using her egg tooth, 
only to be attacked by one of her older siblings while still weary from the 
ordeal.
    Keeper had wrestled with his sister, ripping off a hind leg as she fled. It 
was a hollow victory, for Keeper would have been better nourished by his 
sister's corpse. Still, the leg provided him with his first real taste of flesh, 
and he fashioned the broken bone into a weapon, which he used to stab the next 
few hatchlings. He tore off the sweet musk glands beneath their forearms for 
nourishment, and ate their brains so that he quickly grew strong and wise.
    Keeper's memories were macabre, fascinating, although sketchy. She 
remembered haunting fragments of incidents: reavers desperately placing huge 
stones to form a conduit so that magma rising around them would shoot up to heat 
an underground lake.
    The discussion had hit a lull. In the background there was a yelp and the 
sound of a staff smacking flesh. Beneath the fallen oak behind them, Gaborn's 
captain was still training the wylde. He'd shown her how a Runelord could use a 
staff to vault over the head of an enemy. Now he taught her how to whirl her 
staff to engage multiple attackers. Even without endowments of brawn, the green 
woman matched his expert maneuvers.
    A voice of reason suddenly spoke up. It was Jerimas. "We've been talking for 
hours now, and each time we come up with a plan, Gaborn says that the Earth 
forbids it. Are we sure that we even want the reavers off that rock?"
    "What do you mean?" Skalbairn said in his deep voice. The huge warrior was 
sitting on a stone, sharpening his battle-ax. He tilted his head to hear the 
answer.
    "I mean," Jerimas said, leaning forward eagerly, so that his long silver 
beard nearly swept his knees, "that Averan tells us that the reavers are 
suffering from thirst. Once they come off that rock, they're likely to head for 
the nearest drinking water--the water they left in Carris. Perhaps that's why 
the Earth warns us against attacking."
    "Aye," Queen Herin said. "I'm all for letting them sit up there till they 
dry up like jerk."
    "We can't wait," Gaborn said. "I have greater worries than Carris. I need 
the Waymaker."
    "For what it's worth, I don't think they'll go back to Carris," Averan said. 
"The mountains were too cold last night. They'll be afraid to try them again."
    "The weather has turned," Skalbairn reasoned. "It won't be that cold 
tonight."
    "The reavers don't know that," Averan said. "The weather is a mystery to 
them. To them, weather is just something that happens."
    Old Jerimas said, "If the reavers feel too desperate, it may be that once 
they come off the rock, they'll simply attack in full force. We must leave them 
an escape route, a way that looks safe."
    "Agreed," Gaborn said. "We'll give them an open road to the south--for a 
while." The wilds of Mystarria to the south were scarcely inhabited. Keep Haberd 
had been one of the largest fortresses, and now it was gone. "But I'd still like 
to know what can get them off the rock."
    Averan glanced up. Everyone was looking at her expectantly. She shook her 
head. "I don't know. I can't understand what they're doing up there. Only Battle 
Weaver knew how to build the Rune of Desolation."
    "They learn fast," Gaborn said. "Perhaps this new leader is feeling 
confident."
    "I'll tell you what can get them off that rock," Skalbairn said to Averan. 
"Fear. They have to be more frightened of staying up there than of leaving. What 
is it that reavers fear in the Underworld?"
    Averan dredged up what images she could. There were lots of things. She 
recalled one reaver that had stepped on a creature that burrowed in the ground. 
It was long, with a thin tail that poked up. The tail had pierced the reaver's 
foot, and the small creature had injected its eggs.
    Battle Weaver had used a spell to burn the eggs, but the wound was too deep, 
and the eggs were already in the reaver's blood. Thousands of parasites soon 
began hatching in the unfortunate reaver, so that it had to be cast into a pit.
    There were other denizens of the Underworld that reavers feared or 
respected.
    But one thing came to mind more than others. "Smoke."
    "Of course," Skalbairn said. "Smoke in a closed tunnel. It would kill 
reavers as fast as it does men."
    Gaborn shook his head. "Carris was burning, yet the reavers didn't flee. 
They're afraid of smoke, but not mindlessly so."
    A sudden disjointed image came to Averan's mind of Keeper handling a clutch 
of spider eggs, turning them over one by one so that the fluids inside wouldn't 
settle, and the eggs would eventually hatch. When no other reavers were near, he 
stuck one in his mouth.
    To her surprise, Binnesman came to her rescue. "Lords, ladies," the wizard 
said, "I'm afraid my charge is done for a while."
    Binnesman took Averan's hand, drew her from the crowd.
    "Binnesman?" Gaborn asked, surprised at his move.
    But the wizard planted his staff in the ground. "You ask too much of the 
girl. She's not a warrior, and she's not your counselor. She's an Earth Warden. 
It's time that she began her schooling."
    "Can't it wait?" Skalbairn demanded. His tone suggested that he would gladly 
fight the wizard.
    "I think not," Binnesman said. "It's an important lesson. It has to do with 
obedience, and remembering one's place in the world."
    Gaborn stood up as if to challenge the wizard, but Binnesman stuck a gnarled 
finger in Gaborn's chest. "It has to do with obedience, milord. You are not the 
Earth's warrior any more than this child is. When it is time to strike the 
reavers, the Earth will warn you as it has in the past, or maybe a lightning 
storm is already on its way and will drive the reavers from the rock. Trust 
me--or trust the Power that we serve. The Earth knows the danger better than we 
do, and will prepare an escape. We must only do our part when the time comes.
    "So, for now, I suggest that all of you lords get some rest. Have some 
dinner. Feed your horses. Maybe play a game of chess."
    Gaborn grinned coldly at the wizard. He had a twinkle in his eye. He nodded. 
"That," Gaborn said, "is the best advice I have heard all afternoon."
    Averan couldn't quite fathom it. She knew how desperately Gaborn needed to 
go to the Underworld. Time was so short.
    Yet he agreed to bide his time, in hopes that the Earth would guide him. It 
seemed to Averan to be a terrible gamble.
    Binnesman led Averan to his horse, helped her into the saddle. "Where are we 
going?" Averan asked.
    He nodded. "Up into the mountains, to start your training."
    "Can Spring come with us?" She was still sparring with Gaborn's captain. 
He'd set down the staff, now began to teach her the use of the longspear.
    "She has more important things to do," Binnesman said, nodding in approval.
    He climbed onto the saddle behind Averan, spurred the big gray Imperial 
stallion out over the prairie. The golden fields seemed to roll back beneath the 
horse's hooves, and the Runelords' camp fell behind.
    "Why did you take me away from them?" Averan asked.
    "Gaborn is trying too hard," Binnesman said. "He wants to attack, though the 
Earth warned him against it. He needs to learn his lesson. And you need a rest."
    His answer made sense, but Averan couldn't stop feeling guilty. She wanted 
to help Gaborn.
    Binnesman reached behind his saddle, pulled his old oak staff from a sheath 
at his back, handed it to Averan.
    As soon as her palm touched it, she felt...the wood thriving beneath her 
fingers. It was as if she touched a living tree, sun-warmed on a hill. She 
turned the staff over, studied it. The staff was perhaps five feet long, made of 
an oak limb that seemed to be polished a rich orange-brown from long handling. 
Near the top, a bit of leather had been tied around it as a grip, and the laces 
to the bindings held the only decorations: four large beads--one forged from 
silver, one from iron, one carved of reaver bone, and one of obsidian. The knob 
at the top had no fancy decorations, only a few runes delicately carved above 
the grip. There were no holes from woodworms, no cracks or blazes from a fire. 
All in all, it looked unremarkable.
    But Averan could feel power surging within it.
    "Do you sense it?" Binnesman asked. "Earth Power is bound into that staff."
    "Yes," Averan said.
    "You must find your own staff. Any limb will do. All you have to do is ask a 
tree for it."
    "Any limb?" Averan asked, eyeing some willows along the creek up ahead.
    "Not quite any," Binnesman said. "You must find the one that is right for 
you."
    "Is one kind better than another?" Averan asked. "Could I take a willow 
limb?"
    "A willow limb is good," Binnesman said. "A wizard who bears a willow staff 
will be strong in the healing arts, and will be closely allied to Water. Do you 
feel drawn to the willows?"
    Averan studied the willows, their leaves flashing green and yellow in the 
sunlight. She didn't feel drawn to them, not the way that she'd felt drawn to 
sleep in the ground.
    "No." She pointed out, "You have oak."
    "Oak is strong, and resists Fire," Binnesman said.
    Averan peered over her shoulder at him. There had been an odd tone to his 
voice, almost reverence for the oaks.
    "What of other trees?" Averan asked. "Do they have certain powers?"
    "I wouldn't call them 'powers,' " Binnesman said. "Different trees have 
different personalities. The tree that you pick, the tree that picks you, is 
something of a gauge of an Earth Warden. Your choice will give me clues about 
the kinds of abilities that you will develop."
    "Are there kinds of staves you shouldn't want?"
    Binnesman frowned. "Some are weaker than others. There are some that I would 
not want.... But I'll say no more on the subject, child. I don't want to 
influence your decision."
    Averan glanced back at the willows that she was passing. They looked pretty 
with their leaves all going gold. She bit her lip. No, not willow.
    Nor did she feel drawn to the oaks that stood like lonely sentinels on the 
plains, their limbs all twisted and bound with ivy. She barely glanced at a 
stand of prickly hawthorn by an outcropping of rock.
    "Must I find one today?" Averan asked.
    "No." Binnesman chuckled. "Your staff is important, and here at the base of 
the mountains are many kinds of trees. That's the only reason I mentioned it, so 
that you would be aware in that moment when you feel the trees calling you."
    He neared a second small stream.
    "See the yellow clover," Binnesman said as they passed. Averan nodded. "It's 
called melilot. If you roll the golden leaves between your fingers and apply 
them to varicose veins, you can heal them in moments. It can also relieve 
swelling from bruises, and can be added to a compress of lamb's ear to stop 
bleeding wounds."
    The horse leapt the stream, and Binnesman said, "As for the willows, you may 
not want a staff made of one, but you can steep the leaves to make a tea that 
will cure most pains, including those of a weakened heart. I find that if you 
pick them at midsummer it is best. Some old women prefer to strip the bark from 
the willow and use it, but the plant dies."
    Averan knew about willow bark, of course. The wizard drew rein and climbed 
down from his mount.
    He picked the leaves from a flower with purple petals on the tip, light 
yellow in the center. "This is heartsease," he said. "Silly girls not much older 
than you use it for love potions. Personally, I think that clean hair and an 
inviting smile do as much good. But if you chew the fresh leaves for a few 
minutes, you'll find that your mood brightens, and cares weigh less heavily on 
your mind."
    Averan put the leaves in her mouth. They had a pungent odor that seemed to 
open her chest, allow the air in easier. She chewed them thoughtfully as 
Binnesman remounted and rode along.
    "If someone is following you, tie morning glory in a loop and cast it on the 
trail behind," Binnesman said. "Your enemies will get tangled in the brush."
    For long minutes he extolled the virtues of goosegrass and feverfew, elder 
flowers and smallage. As he did, his horse climbed the foothills until they 
reached the forest. There he stopped in the shade of some alders. In the higher 
hills Averan could see the red leaves of maples, tan leaves of beech, the greens 
and blues of pine and spruce.
    Averan looked out over the fields to the south. Mangan's Rock was miles 
away. She cried out, "From here you can't see the reavers at all!"
    "It helps put the problem in perspective, doesn't it?" Binnesman said. "Up 
close they're monsters, towering over you with dripping fangs. But from 
here...the Earth swallows them."
    Averan stared off. She didn't know what to say. The falling sun cast its 
slanting shadows. She could see the folds and undulations of the ground that she 
hadn't noticed in the full sunlight. The air had begun to cool.
    "Gaborn wants me to come to the Underworld with him. Was I wrong to say 
yes?"
    "What does your heart tell you?" Binnesman asked.
    Averan felt inside. She hadn't noticed it, but all of her concerns, all the 
fears that had paralyzed her today, were suddenly gone, lifted by the 
heartsease. For the first time she felt as if she could really look at her 
problems.
    "I'm not afraid. Not now."
    "Good," Binnesman said. "You're not a child going into the Underworld: 
you're an Earth Warden. The Earth can hide you. The Earth will heal you. The 
Earth will make you its own. You must understand that. You're not a child any 
longer. You're a powerful wizard. And I'm coming with you, of course, as is 
Spring."
    "Good." Averan felt genuinely relieved.
    "But you must promise me something," Binnesman said. "You must promise to 
remember what you are."
    "A wizard?" she asked.
    "An Earth Warden. You are here to protect the small things of the world."
    "Yes?" She could tell by his tone that she had done something wrong.
    "Don't let Gaborn mislead you. You are not here to fight reavers--that much 
I can assure you."
    "I'm protecting people," Averan objected.
    "It's only natural to want to protect your own kind," Binnesman said. "But 
mankind is not your domain. You aren't called to serve it."
    "How can you know?" Averan asked.
    "Because it is my domain," Binnesman said forcefully. "There is only one 
Earth Warden to a species. It is my duty to watch over and heal mankind. You--I 
don't know what you're here for."
    "You're getting old," Averan said. "What happens when you die? Won't you 
need a replacement?" She liked the idea of carrying on in his stead.
    "When the Earth no longer needs my services," Binnesman said, "then I'll be 
released. Not before."
    "I won't take over your charge?"
    "No," Binnesman said. "When I am gone, mankind will either be saved or 
destroyed. But in either case, the danger will have run its course."
    Averan looked up and, despite the heartsease, his words filled her with 
sadness. She could not comprehend how he must feel, knowing that he bore such a 
weight on his shoulders.
    "How can you even talk about it?" she wondered.
    "If mankind is swept away," Binnesman said with a wise nod, "I will grieve. 
But in time a new kind of men will arise to take their place. They may be as 
different from us as we are from the Toth. But life will go on."
    Binnesman stared off toward Gaborn's army at Mangan's Rock for a long 
moment. His blue eyes seemed unnaturally clear in the fading sun, and shadows 
filled every crease in his face.
    "Now, girl, to work."
    For a long hour he schooled her. He pulled seven small white agates from his 
pocket, and laid them out on the ground. "I apologize that these are all I have. 
Such small stones are of limited use, but they may come in handy."
    He drew runes about them in the dirt, and then called forth images in the 
stones. At first it was simply mountain ridges as seen from the ground--blue in 
the distance with a dusting of snow. Averan could look uphill and see the same 
ridges, overhead.
    But then Binnesman began to move the stones about. Each time he set a stone 
down, the viewpoint changed. She saw the roads that they had traveled this 
morning as they followed the reavers' trail--all as if she were standing on some 
high escarpment, looking down. The sound of wind rushing over the hills issued 
from the pebbles, and she could smell the twisted pines there among the rocks.
    The stones are showing me what stones see, she realized. She saw more than 
just roads. She saw lakes and hills, a bear running over a ridge, huffing and 
grunting. She saw carters driving wains south from Carris, their wheels 
squeaking and horses whinnying, and a long line of people fleeing that city.
    Binnesman dabbled with his stones, as if searching for something in 
particular. At last she witnessed movement in one valley. Binnesman adjusted his 
stones, twisting one. The scene changed to a much closer view. She saw 
Skalbairn's knights in the mountains, flushing a scarlet sorceress from the 
pines on a ridge. It was growing dark now. Thirty men had her surrounded, and 
the monster was digging in the sod, desperately trying to escape by burying 
herself.
    Just downhill, eight blade-bearers lay dead.
    "That's what I was looking for," Binnesman whispered. "Gaborn sent his 
riders to hunt for any reavers that might have escaped. It looks as if they've 
found some."
    "A throng of nines," Averan corrected. Reavers often traveled in threes or 
multiples of threes. For an important mission, nine was a minimum number.
    Several men charged into the trees, rode the sorceress down, lancing her 
from behind. Averan could not merely see the men, she could hear their shouts, 
the jangle of armor, the pounding of horses' hooves, the wing beats of a 
startled grouse, and the rasping breath of the reaver.
    When he finished, Binnesman waved his hands over the agates, and the image 
dissipated. He seemed thoughtful. "So, Gaborn was right. The reavers down on 
Mangan's Rock were trying to divert his forces while they sent a warning."
    Averan knew that the danger was far from over. Perhaps he'd won a small 
round, but there were still nearly sixty thousand reavers down on Mangan's Rock, 
and they would not wait for long.
    Binnesman moved three of the pebbles and said, "Now, look into the stones 
yourself and draw forth an image. Do not try to picture what you will see. I've 
moved the stones so that nothing I've shown you will appear again. Instead, I 
want you to merely open yourself to what they will show you. Once you unlock the 
power of the stones, you can change your viewpoint by moving them."
    He instructed her for long minutes, but no matter how hard she tried, she 
could not manage to draw forth any image at all. She struggled to imagine 
things, tried not to imagine anything--it didn't matter.
    The stones remained mere stones under her hands. Binnesman pocketed them at 
last and said, "Don't worry. It may be that in time you will develop the skill."
    "What if I never learn to do it?" Averan said.
    "Not all wizards need all powers," Binnesman consoled her. "You already have 
a gift that I don't: you can learn from reavers. That's a very strange gift--a 
powerful one, I'd think."
    He sighed, looked contemplative.
    "I know," he said. "I have another idea. Try this: close your eyes and 
imagine a deer in the forest, any deer at all."
    Averan did. At first she tried to imagine a spotted fawn, lying in a bed of 
ferns.
    But Keeper's memories still flowed to her, and she recalled a scene of 
herself learning to gut one of the great horn beetles. Her master was 
instructing her in the art, saying, "Pull off its head-plate first, to get at 
the brains."
    Averan recoiled from the image that assailed her. For a moment she stood 
blinking, trying to dredge up any image of a deer.
    She imagined a stag, a huge stag with antlers as wide as tree limbs.
    "Do you have it?" Binnesman asked.
    "Yes," Averan said.
    "Good. Hold the image in your mind. Think of nothing else. Try to look 
closely at the animal, imagine its details. Every deer is different. There are 
males and females, different ages, different shades of red or tan. How does it 
look? What sounds does it make? How does it smell? What details separate it from 
any other deer in the woods? Hold the image in your mind and think of nothing 
else."
    For ten long minutes she did just that. She imagined a stag, an old buck 
with silver hairs in his coat, a ragged right ear from a battle. He had six 
tines on his left antler, and eight on his right.
    The image came so vividly that she could see his nostrils flaring as he 
breathed, the way he ducked his head and flashed his tail at a strange scent. 
She could smell the musk of him, strong now that mating season was on.
    She pictured him in her mind until she heard the buck. Sounds came, and at 
first she was not sure if she just imagined them: the buck snorting as it tested 
the air for her scent. She heard it swish through brush, step on a dry twig, and 
bound twice downhill as if startled by its own noise.
    The sound wasn't fantasized. She felt sure of that. The snap of the twig 
echoed twice in her memory. The first time it came loud and clear, as if she 
heard it with the stag's ears. The second time it was a distant snap, up the 
hill. The same was true with its bounding.
    She felt...as if she didn't merely hear it. She felt as if she were dredging 
the creature up from a dream, giving it form.
    She waited, heart hammering, expectant, until she discerned the thud of 
hooves draw close. Still she kept her eyes closed.
    "Hold out your hand," Binnesman ordered.
    She did. She reached out with her palm upward, and the stag drew near. The 
moist hairs of its muzzle brushed against her wrist, and his warm breath spread 
over her palm.
    "Now open your eyes," Binnesman instructed.
    When she did, Averan gasped. She'd expected a stag, any stag, to have 
appeared at her summons.
    But the stag nuzzling her hand was exactly the one she'd envisioned, 
complete with the fly that it flicked from its rump.
    She stroked its muzzle, and the stag stood for her touch as if he were a 
faithful pet.
    "Did I make him?" Averan asked.
    "What do you think?" Binnesman said.
    "No, I couldn't have made him. But he looks..."
    "You envisioned him because he was near. Your mind sought for him, and found 
him, and he answered your call. It is a common enough power among Earth Wardens. 
And because you have it, I suspect even more strongly that you are here to 
protect an animal of some kind."
    "Not a rock?" Averan teased.
    But Binnesman's lesson was not done. He said sternly, "This is not a small 
matter. Each Earth Warden has his own charge, and each is of equal import. To 
answer his calling, each Earth Warden develops different powers. I could never 
summon animals. All that I know of the art is hearsay. But you are quite 
powerful. I tested you with a deer, and you summoned it the very first time."
    "Are deer hard?"
    "The more complex the intellect, the keener the mind, the more difficult it 
is to summon an animal. Had you failed with a deer, I'd have had you try a mouse 
or a bug."
    "So a deer is harder than a mouse, and a man is harder than a deer?"
    "Only the very greatest of summoners can call forth a man."
    "Can they be summoned even if they are dead?" She was thinking of Brand, 
Roland, and her mother.
    "They can," Binnesman said. "It is nothing at all like summoning a living 
being. It is far easier to summon the dead. Even I can do that."
    "Really?"
    "Who do you think called the spirit of Erden Geboren to Longmont?" He 
pointed a finger at his own chest.
    Averan wondered at that. Her summoning seemed a marvelous power. "Can a 
creature refuse the summons?"
    "Yes," Binnesman said. "In a sense, the stag here thinks it came of its own 
volition. And it did. You performed the summoning, and the stag answered in 
return. But it could have refused."
    Averan placed her hand on the stag's muzzle and stroked it. She smiled.
    Binnesman stepped closer, gazed at the stag. "Now," he said softly, "look 
into its eyes. Peer into them, and tell me what you see."
    Averan continued petting the stag, scratched under its jaw. She'd never 
imagined that she could get so close to a wild animal and have it become so 
tame. But she remembered how Brand always used to say that even with the graaks, 
she had a gentle touch.
    She peered into its deep brown eyes, looked far behind. She smelled the 
scent of men--woolen cloaks and horse sweat and armor and the sour odor of human 
flesh. It came strong to the stag's nostrils, and involuntarily the muscles in 
its calves quivered. It remembered a hunt long past--the yammer of hounds as it 
fled mounted archers. It started backward, as if to leap away.
    "Fear," Averan said. "The stag's fear is a terrible thing. There are too 
many men in the woods today, Runelords charging about on horses. It's made him 
wary."
    Binnesman crouched at her side as Averan let the stag bound away. It took 
six great leaps, then stood at the edge of the trees, head held high, as it 
froze in profile for a moment. At last it stalked back into the shadows, and 
began to feed.
    "Very good," Binnesman said. "You have a power that I never gained. I could 
never summon animals, and I could never see into the minds of people. I've 
always had to settle for talking to them."
    "But--the way you looked at me when we met! I was sure that you knew what I 
was thinking."
    "Ah, well. When you're as old as I am, you don't need Earth Powers to read 
the minds of children." Binnesman said, "My mentor, on the other hand, used his 
powers often. He looked into the minds of birds and rabbits to find out who had 
passed along a trail before him, or who might be following...."
    By now the shadows had grown long. Night was enfolding the land. The sweet 
smell of autumn straw from the plains below mingled with the scent of alder bark 
and dying leaves in the woods above. Wild pigeons cooed in the hills.
    Binnesman and Averan sat in the grass. Campfires burned like diamonds upon 
the black plain, and strange blue lights flickered and throbbed over Mangan's 
Rock.

     
     
BOOK 10
DAYS IN THE MONTH OF LEA VES
A DAY OF MAGES

     
     
Chapter 39
ASGAROTH
    Our world is but a shadow of the One True World. You are but an intimation 
of the Bright Ones.
    --Excerpt from the Creation Saga
     
    Erin and Celinor rode through the day without event. Their journey around 
Beldinook had slowed them to a crawl, for even their fast force horses could not 
negotiate the rocky streambeds and steep trails easily. By nightfall they'd 
skirted the southern tip of Beldinook and reached the plains of Fleeds. Clouds 
were rolling in, and now darkness and an approaching storm slowed them once 
again.
    They stopped at a good roadside inn and had their first decent meal of the 
day--rye bread and a trencher of gravy made of stewed starlings in rosemary. On 
the side were scallions and parsnips cooked in butter and honey.
    After dinner they went to bed and lay in one another's arms. Celinor held 
Erin for a long while, and she wondered at it. She'd never slept in a man's arms 
before. She loved his touch, but knew that it would not make for a restful 
sleep. She wondered how long men and women needed to sleep together before they 
got used to it.
    Celinor seemed distracted, Erin more so.
    "Tomorrow is the day," he whispered. She knew what he meant. Tomorrow they 
would reach South Crowthen, probably late in the afternoon. They would meet his 
father, and try to discover how deep his madness went.
    "Promise me that you won't do anything rash," Celinor asked. "My father has 
always been a good man. He treated me well as a child. If he has gone mad, let 
me deal with it in my own way."
    She knew what he wanted. Celinor had said that his grandfather had gone mad, 
and had to be locked away beneath the castle, until he finally died of old age. 
It was a family curse, apparently. Celinor had promised his father that if the 
curse ever struck, he would lock him away. Erin did not envy Celinor his duty.
    "All right," she conceded. "But be careful. Some men, you can see the 
madness in their eyes. Others can hide it. Your father is dangerous."
    Celinor nodded. His father was plotting against the Earth King, and had 
already gained some support. Anders claimed that Gaborn had masterminded the 
death of his own father in order to gain the throne.
    "My father isn't a danger to us," Celinor said. "He's just...so confused. 
I'll talk to him."
    "Be careful what you say," Erin said. "Your father is a smart man, a cunning 
man."
    Celinor seemed to think a moment, then said, "He would think it a compliment 
if you told him so. Why do you call him cunning?"
    "I've been thinking about what you said. Your father told you that I was 
Gaborn's sister..."
    "It's an interesting deduction," Celinor said. "Given the habits of the 
horsesisters, it makes sense that your mother would choose a sire from a noble 
line. You look as if you could be Gaborn's sister. And you were born nine months 
after old King Orden's hunting party passed through Fleeds...."
    "I know who my father is," Erin said. She did not know if she dared tell 
him. The truth was as bad as the lie. "I've seen the genealogy. My mother chose 
a sire from House Orden, but it was not Mendellas. She thought there was a 
better man in the party--Paldane."
    "Of course--you're not his sister, but his cousin!" Celinor said. "Better 
breeding, but without the title."
    He saw her dilemma. Paldane was Gaborn's uncle. As Paldane's only offspring, 
Erin was still his heir by Mystarrian law. So even though she wasn't Gaborn's 
sister, her predicament remained.
    Celinor held silent for a long moment. She knew what he was thinking. By the 
laws of her people, they were wed. Celinor was a prince of South Crowthen, and 
now he had married into the family of House Orden. If Gaborn died, Celinor could 
assume the throne of Mystarria.
    She wondered if he was tempted by the prospect.
    At last he whispered, "You must never reveal that to anyone, especially to 
my father." Erin didn't plan to, but she wondered just how much Anders knew, or 
guessed at.
    Erin tried to sleep, but her mind could not rest. She kept recalling her 
dream during the afternoon, the great owl of the netherworld summoning her.
    She knew that dreams were often just bits and pieces of memories. Could it 
have been that alone? It had seemed so real. Yet some things did not quite make 
sense, if the dream came only from memories. The owl had called a "warrior of 
the Shadow World." Erin had heard that the netherworld was sometimes called "the 
One True World," but she'd never heard of her world referred to as a shadow 
world. And the details of the place were like nothing she'd ever conceived.
    For a long time, she lay, afraid to sleep, but finally slipped off to 
slumber....
    She woke in the owl's lair. It was daylight now, and an early morning sun 
streamed under the branches of the tree. It barely lit the burrow. The owl sat 
high up on its perch, as it had before. Beneath it lay a pile of bones: 
squirrel, rabbit, and fawn. Her dagger still sat there, piercing the skull of 
some froglike creature.
    The owl's eyes were closed, and it breathed softly. She could smell it more 
strongly now, its oily feathers, the scent of blood and old bones.
    The burrow descended farther into the ground, a tunnel. Sconces in the wall 
suggested that it had been dug with human hands, but had long lain unused. 
Arcane symbols were carved into the living wood of the tree, runes unlike any 
that Erin had ever seen before.
    "You have returned. Thank you for coming in our hour of need," the owl 
whispered. Erin glanced up. The owl still breathed softly. The beast did not 
speak in her tongue, yet its words pierced her, filled her with understanding 
and communicated emotion all at once. She felt its deepest gratitude.
    "I didn't come," Erin said uneasily. "You brought me. I don't deserve your 
gratitude."
    "Don't you wish to be here?" the owl asked. "You answered the summons. Is 
this not your dagger?"
    Erin blinked, looked around in the shadows for some avenue of escape. "I 
only thought of coming because I was looking for help."
    "Ah, you have troubles in your world?" Erin sensed amusement in the 
question.
    "To put it mildly," she said.
    The owl shifted on its limb, peered at her. "The hope of our world may rest 
on you."
    "The hope of your world?"
    "Perhaps the hope of both our worlds. Asgaroth has come to your realm."
    The name Asgaroth struck Erin like a mace. The owl's words were heard by the 
heart more than the ears. They conveyed knowledge, seemed to inscribe it upon 
Erin's bones. Asgaroth was the Darkling Glory that had attacked Castle 
Sylvarresta. He was a lord of tremendous power. His name struck terror into the 
hearts of Bright Ones and Glories alike.
    "Asgaroth!" she said. "He's dead."
    "Dead?" the owl asked. "A mighty warrior you may be, but even a Fury Blade 
could not kill a locus."
    Erin bolted awake, sat up in her bed. Celinor stirred beside her, tried to 
hold her close. But her heart still hammered. She could not rest, could not 
sleep. She felt certain that if she slumbered, she would only awaken in the 
netherworld.
    And right now, her head felt near to bursting. The owl's words had pierced 
her so. This was not the stuff of dreams. The words that the owl used were 
unfamiliar. In all of Rofehavan, there was no word for a being called the 
"locus."
    Yet in a flash she understood. A locus was a creature that housed itself 
within the mind of a vile man or beast. It entered like a parasite, but soon 
assumed control of its host.
    Asgaroth was a great ruler among them, an evil that had existed from time 
immemorial. He was not a Darkling Glory. He was something much more, a powerful 
servant of a darker master. A thousand, thousand Shadow Worlds he had helped to 
destroy in a war that would rage through eternities.

     
     
Chapter 40
A MIGHTY WIND
    The beings that men call "ferrin" have their own names for themselves, which 
are known to the wise. There are three distinct subspecies. The woodland ferrin 
are the largest, and perhaps the least fierce. Their range covers hills and 
woods throughout most of Rofehavan. The water ferrin have a darker fur, prefer 
moist habitats, and are excellent swimmers. The desert ferrin has short, sandy 
hair, and seems well adapted to its own harsh environment.
    None of the breeds survive well in the snow. I have seldom seen one even 
fifty miles north of Castle Sylvarresta.
    It is well documented that ferrin were brought from beyond the Caroll Sea by 
one Yakor the Bold, apparently for the express purpose of ridding his realm of 
rats and the plagues that they carry. They serve the purpose well in southern 
climes, but are considered a nuisance even by those who benefit from them, for 
though ferrin spread no disease, they eat far more than their smaller 
counterparts.
    --Excerpt from Binnesman's Beastiary: Mammals of the World
     
    As King Anders took dinner, the dying screams of men suddenly filled his 
castle.
    They came in through the uppermost tower and whirled down the stairwell. The 
wind carried the sound down to the Great Hall, then swirled up again through the 
chimney.
    To an ear that was not attuned, it sounded like a simple moaning wind. But 
Anders had been listening for that sound all afternoon.
    For a moment, the fire flared.
    Ander's wife felt the draft and said, "Oh my."
    Anders had hoped to hear a woman's dying cry. But only five voices mingled 
in that scream, and all were male.
    Anders raised his head and held a goblet of wine up to his latest guests: a 
Duke Stote from Lonnock, and Prince Grunensen from Eyremoth.
    The prince was talking. He was a big strapping lad with soft dark hair and 
the mannerisms of a girl. "I can't abide travel by ship," he was saying. "The 
last time I rode one, the galley was full of rats. They spread diseases, you 
know. That's why I travel by land. At least in the inns, the ferrin keep their 
number down."
    "I thought it was too cold in Eyremoth for either rats or ferrin," Duke 
Stote jested.
    "Milord," Ander's wife hissed into his ear, dismayed at the turn in 
conversation at the dinner table.
    He smiled. The conversation would surely turn to grimmer matters than rats. 
"A toast," King Anders said, "to friends from far lands."
    The guests smiled coldly, drank. It was a quiet dinner, filled with clumsy 
conversation and long silences. Anders excused himself between courses and 
climbed his tower.
    There he stood looking far to the south. Iome was so far away. He could do 
little from here.
    His attack had been clumsy, inelegant. His master was not pleased. 
Perhaps...
    For a long while he thought about rats. Huge rats, black as coal, burrowing 
beneath houses. Fat rats on the wharf, feeding on fish heads. Sleek rats in the 
woods climbing the trees. Rats that carried pestilence and disease.
    A notion took him. There were few men so susceptible to his spells that they 
would fight in his behalf. He had used up three already. But wars did not always 
need to be fought with men and arms.
    Still, to send rats? To call down a plague upon a whole nation--the old, the 
infirm, women, and children?
    In some bright corner of his mind, the man that Anders had once been cried 
out, The notion is monstrous!
    Anders thought himself to be a hard man. He was a king after all. He'd 
ordered the execution of a highwayman when he was twelve. He'd fought men in 
battle.
    He'd thought little of sending men to kill Iome.
    But he'd never brought death upon innocents in such a wholesale fashion.
    A cold wind tugged at the hair around his ear and whispered, It would please 
me.
    "No!" he said aloud, shaking his head vehemently.
    A cold gust slapped his back. The iciness took his breath. His head seemed 
to reel, and for a moment he felt dazed, as if he were drunk and spinning.
    He suddenly trembled in fear, realizing that the rough paving stones 
stretched wide below, so close, so very close. He clung to the merlons as the 
wind rushed at his back. It would take so little to push him over.
    Please me, a voice whispered in his ear.
    For a second, Anders felt desperate. He'd sought to serve the wind, hoping 
that it would serve him in return. To some degree it did. Now, he saw that it 
could turn on him at any moment. He was in its thrall, would either do its 
bidding, or be discarded.
    The cold wind pummeled him, slashing at his thin robes and tunic like a 
blade. It pierced his heart.
    He suddenly stood tall and let the coldness seep into him. "Come, my 
warriors," he whispered. "Come."
    The wind had been blowing from the south all day. Now the wizard on the 
weather vane of the highest tower turned and pointed to the west.
    The wind beat down with a new ferocity.
    Presently, Anders could hear sounds in the streets, the patter of tiny feet, 
the squeaking of small voices. He looked down in the deepening shadows, saw dark 
shapes darting across the cobblestones.
    A terrier leapt out, barking, grabbed one of the small beasts. It shrieked 
in pain as the terrier broke its back.
    But the rats continued to rise up from beneath the city. They scuttled out 
of drains and sewers, came leaping out of barns. They scurried down from trees 
and crawled up from beneath rotting floors. They went racing over the rooftops 
in furry little packs, flowing out the castle walls in a dark tide, casting off 
dank turds in their wake.
    Here and there in the city below, a woman would cry out as she discovered a 
pack of rats scampering beneath her feet.
    People would talk about it for days, Anders knew, the mysterious exodus of 
rats. But he needed them, the dirty little beasts, with their penchant for 
spreading disease.
    They fled the city under the cover of darkness, traveling east with the 
wind.
    Anders whispered softly to the south, "Iome, come home. Your land needs 
you."
    He had hardly finished when his wife came up to the tower. "Are you going to 
stay here all night? You have guests, you know."
    King Anders smiled.

     
     
Chapter 41
FARION'S FATHER
     
    Parian is the Queen of Slumber. She rewards good children by leading them 
into fair realms of dream, and punishes the wicked by directing them along dark 
paths into the lands of the twisted phantasms.
    To win her favor, a child who has been bad may leave a piece of fruit or a 
sweet by his bed.
    --A myth from Ashoven
     
    Stars smoldered in the cold heavens above Mangan's Rock. Sunset was gone an 
hour ago, and still the reavers sat on their pile of stones, casting their 
spells.
    Wains filled with supplies had arrived from Castle Fells, and Gaborn's army 
was well fed for the night. Many lords lay in their bedrolls, taking the first 
real slumber they'd had in days.
    Everything seemed quiet, yet Gaborn sat beside his campfire, poised, 
pensive. He could sense danger approaching his perimeter guards.
    Baron Waggit, who was acting as a sentry, called out to Gaborn from the edge 
of his campfire, "Milord, Skalbairn says that there's something you should see."
    Immediately Gaborn came alert, sensing for danger. Yes, he could feel 
trouble brewing along the perimeter. He got up, with his Days in attendance, and 
followed Baron Waggit. The big man's yellow hair shone like silk in the 
starlight, and his back looked broad enough to ride. Watch fires burned steadily 
in a ring around Mangan's Rock, every two hundred yards.
    Sounds carried preternaturally in the cool night air. Gaborn could hear the 
rasping of the reavers' breath, as if the monsters had crawled closer in the 
darkness. Smoke still roiled from the top of Mangan's Rock, and blue lights 
crackled around the Rune of Desolation.
    As Gaborn followed, he spotted other sentries out on the plains in their 
pale livery, starlight reflecting from arms and helms.
    He came upon Skalbairn. The big High Marshal had saddled his mount, and 
stood in the darkness bearing a lance in one hand, the reins of his horse in the 
other. He gazed longingly over the plains. Marshal Chondler stood watch at his 
side. They were nearly a mile from the base of Mangan's Rock.
    Chondler was whispering, "You are either the bravest man I ever knew, or 
more of a fool than I'd have given you credit for."
    "He's no fool," Waggit boomed. "You have the word of an expert on that."
    Skalbairn slapped the baron on the back in a friendly greeting.
    Gaborn strode up behind the men. "What's going on?"
    "A reaver, Milord," Skalbairn said. "A monstrous big one, behind those 
rocks. I want to kill her."
    Gaborn followed his gaze. Behind three humped rocks, a scarlet sorceress 
ambled on the valley floor. The huge creature glimmered softly, her entire body 
covered in fiery runes. She circled as if in a daze, dragging her rear legs like 
one wounded. She was less than half a mile off, about midway between the men and 
Mangan's Rock.
    "How did she get there?" Gaborn asked.
    "We saw her climbing down the cliff," Chondler said. "She was about a 
hundred yards up when she slipped and fell. Since then, she's been wandering all 
over the field, much as you see her now."
    Gaborn considered attacking, felt inside himself. The notion aroused a sense 
of near panic.
    "Leave her," Gaborn said. "She's not as helpless as she seems."
    "Ah, if only I had a ballista out here," Chondler said, "I'd plant a bolt 
through her gizzard."
    "We have ballistas," Gaborn told him. "They came on the wains about an hour 
ago."
    Chondler and Waggit looked at each other gleefully. Gaborn felt inside 
himself...yes, it would be safe to get in range of the monster. He urged, "Go 
get the ballistas."
    Chondler and Waggit hurried off into the darkness, leaving Gaborn alone with 
Skalbairn.
    "You've taken a liking to Waggit," Gaborn observed.
    Skalbairn grunted. "He's a good man, I think. Perhaps good enough for the 
likes of my daughter, Farion. I've long thought that she'd need a kind man, 
someone who will not condemn her for her weakness. She's a bit simple, you see."
    Gaborn said nothing.
    "You know," Skalbairn said, nodding toward Chondler, "that man may serve you 
yet."
    "You mean he doesn't now?"
    Skalbairn shook his head. "He's sworn to the Brotherhood of the Wolf. He 
doesn't completely trust your judgment. He thinks you...too much a gentleman."
    Gaborn chuckled at the notion.
    "He's serious, milord," Skalbairn said. He related Chondler's tale of the 
charitable mother and her grasping son, then said, "Chondler claims that there 
is only one virtue, milord: moderation. And even that is not a virtue when 
practiced to excess."
    "By his argument," Gaborn countered, "I should account myself worthy so long 
as I give as much as I steal, or tell the truth as often as I lie."
    "He'd say that a good man gives more than he steals," Skalbairn said, "and 
rescues more than he butchers."
    "That seems a damned convenient argument."
    "Very convenient," Skalbairn said. "It saves the mind a good deal of 
contemplation and assuages much guilt."
    Gaborn felt angry. He saw Chondler's points: men do train themselves to see 
their vice as virtue; and a virtue carried to excess can become a vice.
    But Gaborn believed that wrongs were more solid, like rocks jutting in a 
harbor. Any man of conscience could steer the course between them. To do 
anything else led to guilt and suffering. Chondler's arguments were not merely 
circular, they seemed contrived to deceive. "What do you think about this?"
    "I can't very well fault you for your kindness," Skalbairn said. "After all, 
I am the recipient of your generosity."
    "I was wrong to Choose Raj Ahten," Gaborn said. "I see that now. Was I also 
wrong to Choose you?"
    Skalbairn shook his head. "I don't know. Obviously, I wouldn't think so. You 
saved my life six times yesterday in the battle for Carris. I'm in your debt. I 
intend to repay you."
    Gaborn looked at the man. He stood holding his lance, gazing out toward the 
scarlet sorceress on the plain. A falling star flashed through the heavens above 
Mangan's Rock, blazing a trail of light.
    During the height of the battle yesterday, Gaborn had sent warning to many 
people, so many thousands of times, that he could not guess how many lives he'd 
saved.
    Out in the fields behind Skalbairn, there was a sudden whunk--the sound of 
falling dirt and stones. Gaborn turned, saw a plume of dust rising. Not a 
hundred yards west of a watch fire, the ground had caved in, leaving a gaping 
hole some thirty feet wide.
    "What's that?" Skalbairn shouted.
    Instantly, Gaborn realized what had happened, why the feeling of portent 
around his guards kept rising. The reavers were digging underground, trying to 
flank his men! But they'd tunneled under a rock that could not hold.
    He saw their plan. Averan had said that none of the reavers here could build 
a Rune of Desolation. The reavers had stopped because they were thirsty, 
terrified, and desperate.
    Now he suspected that she was right.
    A plan blossomed in Gaborn's mind. "Strike," the Earth said. "Strike now!"
    "Blow retreat!" Gaborn shouted. "Get our men away from the watch fires. Have 
our troops form up by the creek."
    Gaborn turned and raced into the darkness. "What?" Skalbairn called, "are we 
going to flee?"
    "No!" Gaborn shouted. "We're going to attack. I know how. I should have 
thought of it before.
    "We have seen wonders today. Wait a moment, and I will show you one more."

     
     
Chapter 42
CROW'S BAY
    Nine worldships built Fallion of old, and set them sail from the Courts of 
Tide. And filled them all with warriors bold, to hunt the Toth, across oceans 
wide.
    --From the "Ballad of Fallion"
     
    Iome had sometimes tried to imagine the Courts of Tide, but imagination had 
failed her.
    She knew that the city was set upon a number of islands, and she'd heard of 
the famous bridges that spanned them. The bridges were carved of crystal shipped 
from the Alcair Mountains on huge barges.
    The stones did indeed vault from island to island, and though she'd fairly 
imagined the bridges to look as pale and translucent as ice in the moonlight, 
she had never envisioned their fine pillars. Each was cut in the form of a 
heroic figure that represented some virtue that the Runelords of Mystarria 
aspired to. Nurture was a woman who nursed a daughter in her arms. Courage was a 
stout warrior with a wavy-bladed dagger in hand, straddling a serpent that 
sought to entangle him. Charity was a lord hunched beneath a sack full of fruits 
and wheat, bearing it to the poor.
    The sheer scale of the works was impressive. Ships could sail beneath the 
soaring bridges.
    Though Iome had heard of the king's Great Tower in Mystarria, the tallest 
edifice in all Rofehavan, she'd never visualized a tower that was three hundred 
feet tall. Even now she could make out the tiny figures of Mystarria's vigilant 
far-seers, making their rounds on its highest ramparts.
    Yet upon entering the city, she also saw the price that Mystarria's king 
paid for this haven. Land was at a premium, and though the streets were free of 
clutter and well tended, they were also remarkably narrow. She rode as if 
through a chasm. In many places overhead, marble walkways and plazas spanned 
from building to building, so that as Iome's retinue neared Gaborn's palace, 
they traveled through tunnels where crystalline lanterns hung from black iron 
rungs. The sea wind cut through with its chill breeze.
    Iome gaped up at the soaring citadels and remarkable stonework and tried to 
keep from gasping at each new fountain or frieze or hanging garden.
    Sergeant Grimeson and the knights of Mystarria tried to keep from looking 
too pleased by her reaction.
    But over and over again, she found herself letting her mouth fall open no 
matter how hard she tried to keep it shut. She didn't want to look like some 
bumpkin who'd never strolled beyond the border of his village, but that is 
precisely how she felt.
    "You should have seen it first in the morning," Sergeant Grimeson said, 
"when the rising sun colors the towers gold." They had to ride slowly now, and 
he seemed thoughtful, as if the words did not come easily to him. "The sunlight 
slants down through those towers, and fills the streets. You'll see hummingbirds 
and sunbirds in shades of emerald and scarlet and streaks of blue streak through 
the hanging gardens to search for nectar. It's like--By the Powers, it can be 
pretty."
    Hummingbirds were the pride of Mystarria. Before the Toth wars, they'd never 
been seen here. But after Fallion destroyed the invading armies, he sent ships 
to far lands beyond the Carroll Sea to hunt down the last of the Toth. In those 
far lands his men had found many wonders, and King Fallion himself brought back 
the hummingbirds as a gift for his people. They first began nesting here at the 
Courts of Tide.
    I am the queen of this realm, Iome had to remind herself, the richest and 
finest in all of Rofehavan. Yet I feel like some barbarian from the frozen 
north.
    She fell in love with the Courts of Tide, and just as quickly knew that she 
could never belong.
    So she rode to the palace at midnight, and entered. Sergeant Grimeson 
ordered servants to "throw together a feast" in the grand reception hall while 
his men delivered the forcibles to the treasury.
    Iome pulled out Gaborn's instructions. He'd given her a note commanding 
Grimeson alone to contact a certain Abel Scarby so that he could secure the dogs 
that he needed. Gaborn wrote directions for finding the man's house down an 
alley near the docks. But a cryptic message near the bottom warned Grimeson 
never to reveal where Scarby lived.
    "Who is this Scarby fellow?" Iome asked Grimeson. "Why would Gaborn want to 
keep his whereabouts secret?"
    "He's the best damned dogfighter in the realm. He spends most of his time 
evading the King's Guard. I can handle him."
    A dogfighter. He sounded thoroughly disreputable, as disreputable as 
Grimeson looked.
    "And my husband knows this man well?"
    "Well?" Grimeson said. "Of course! Why, they're old friends."
    Iome was astonished that Gaborn knew either man on a first-name basis.
    Gaborn needed good dogs. Though she suspected that Grimeson could handle 
this Scarby fellow, curiosity drove her to say, "If he's Gaborn's friend, I'd 
like to meet him. I'm coming with you."
    "But Your Highness, dinner is cooking!"
    "It can wait until we get back. This is far more important."
    Grimeson nodded reluctantly, for there was nothing more that he could do.
    In moments they were on fresh horses, and Grimeson let them canter through 
the city. The streets were empty so late of the night, except for the occasional 
alley cat or ferrin.
    In minutes they reached the seamy side of the city, in Crow's Bay, where 
cramped shanties and inns perched along the sea wall, and the smell of dead 
fish, whale oil, urine, and boiled crab hung heavy in the air. Soot blackened 
the stonework on ancient buildings.
    Though it was late at night, music and raucous laughter escaped the open 
doors of the hostels. Everywhere, bandy-legged men lounged about on ale kegs, 
and painted whores laughed and advertised their wares. Old women cleaned and 
mended fishnets by lantern light, while seagulls wheeled and cried in the night 
as they scavenged for scraps. Children scampered to and fro like wharf rats.
    This part of the city never slept. Near dawn, the boats would go out with 
the tide, and so long as no leviathans were sighted, they'd not return until 
sundown.
    From time to time Iome could glimpse between various shops, inns, and 
fisheries out to the thousands of fishing boats--coracles and trimarines--moored 
in the horseshoe-shaped bay. They bobbed like bits of cork bark on the 
star-dusted water. Many boats had serpent heads carved at the prows, with white 
runes of steadiness and wayfinding painted on as eyes.
    Sergeant Grimeson slowed his mount and entered one dark alley where sooty 
buildings leaned together. Iome had the good sense to know that she should never 
go in there alone--at least not if she were a commoner.
    But she was Runelord, and rode with a guardsman. That lent her courage.
    The hooves of their horses clattered over salt-crusted cobblestones. Swarthy 
men slouched on narrow porches, and the only light in the alley spilled from an 
open door far up the street. A pair of mastiffs with spiked collars lunged from 
behind a crate, barking and snarling at the horses.
    Grimeson's mount reared and pawed the air while Iome's danced backward. In 
the confusion, as she struggled to regain control of her horse, half a dozen men 
swarmed from dark doorways.
    One man began shouting at the mastiffs, aiming rough kicks into the flanks 
of the dogs while he cursed in language so amazingly coarse that Iome had never 
heard the like. Another young man jumped out, and with grimy hands took the 
reins to Iome's mount and stood staring at her, his gap-toothed face hardly 
visible in the wan light.
    Other men closed behind. One big fellow with white streaking his beard 
separated from the shadows. He held a spiked cudgel in hand. While the mastiffs 
barked, he challenged Grimeson, "Here now, lad, that's a fine horse you've got, 
and a fine woman! And I'm sure you've gold in your purse besides. So tell me one 
reason why I shouldna slit your weasand and take them all?"
    Iome fought her horse as the mastiff growled and snarled, barking at its 
feet. The gap-toothed man holding her reins didn't let go, even when Iome 
reached down and drew the dagger from her boot. With her endowments, she could 
have gutted him like a fish, but she held back.
    "You couldn't handle either the woman or my horse," Grimeson replied, "but 
you can have some gold, for 'Much wealth is surely a curse.' " He pulled out his 
purse and tossed it to the scoundrel. Iome stifled a cry of outrage.
    The scoundrel aimed his cudgel at one of his dogs and sent it yapping into 
the shadows, then began to laugh deeply.
    "Grimeson," he said, "what are ya doing down here among the galley rats? 
Surely ya can find men of lesser character to hobnob with? Or has Gaborn finally 
decided to arrest me?"
    "It's not men of character I'm looking for tonight," Grimeson said easily. 
"For if I did, I wouldna be down here with you."
    As he spoke, a door opened in a nearby shanty. A trio of curious children 
dressed in rags peeked out to see the cause of the commotion.
    The rogue hefted Grimeson's purse curiously, then tossed it back to him. 
"How can I do for you?"
    Grimeson threw the purse back, and the villain's eyes went wide. "The king 
is in need of some dog flesh. And he says that Abel Scarby always knows where to 
find the best pit dogs in the city."
    Abel grinned broadly. "Fighting dogs, is it? Mastiffs? Bulls?"
    "No, a peculiar breed," Iome said. "Yellow dogs, and small, but known to 
take a liking to man quickly, and have certain other valuable assets. Some lords 
would take exception to such animals, but perhaps you know of them?"
    Abel Scarby peered up at her. Iome had her hood pulled up to hide her face, 
but he could not fail to notice the quality of her mount, or of her clothes. She 
could tell that he was used to dealing with rogues, for he did not ask her name.
    Abel spat on the cobblestones. "Na a popular sporting dog, but they can be 
had. And pound for pound, there's na a more vicious dog in the pits. I remember 
one unlikely bitch--as treacherous as a sack of weasels--"
    "Can you get some dogs?" Iome asked. "Tonight? Now? They're not for me. 
They're for the king. We'll want thirty at least, more if you can find them."
    Abel said, "I'll have 'em for ya by sunrise."
    Iome bit her lip. "One more thing. The men who sell the dogs must take 
endowments of scent, and vector them to the king's agent. I will pay well for 
this service."
    Abel Scarby swallowed hard and suddenly realized whom he was talking to. He 
bowed to one knee. He growled at the fellow who held Iome's reins, "Kador, take 
your paws off the queen's horse."
    Kador backed away and raised his hands, as if to ward off a blow.
    "Excuse us, Your Highness," Abel said. "We're hard men, used to guarding our 
own backs. We keep the law in this alley. We meant no offense."
    "None was taken," Iome said. "Any friend of Gaborn's is a friend of mine."
    Abel stared up at her with solemn eyes and a troubled expression. "Is't 
true, Your Highness? Gaborn is really the Earth King?"
    "It is."
    "An'...dark times are 'pon us?"
    Iome nodded.
    Abel tossed the purse up to her and said loudly, "Yer Highness, I'll want na 
coin." He rested the knob of his cudgel on the ground in parody of a lord 
offering his sword, and his bright eyes shone with a mixture of hope and fear of 
rejection as he explained. "Milady, I'm na a fancy-pantser. Ya won't find me 
wearing silk hose on feast days, and if ya ventured into my hovel, ya'd find it 
smelly as a bear's den, and na a chair at the table clean enough for the likes 
of you to sit at. But my heart is as right and proud as any lord's who ever bent 
a knee to ya. I'm na a knight, but I've got as much gristle in me as any animal 
what ever lived. An' I've seventeen sons and daughters to my credit. So, I'm 
beggin' you to ask the king--him what's called me a friend--to Choose me an' me 
kids."
    The young thugs around Iome all looked up at her expectantly, like dogs 
begging for scraps at their master's table. The children in the doorway, wearing 
grime instead of cloaks and rags instead of clothes, timidly stepped out and 
crept to their father's side. He threw his arms around the young ones. Iome 
hesitated.
    Gaborn had no power to Choose the man, yet she dared not tell him. The man 
looked hopeless, forlorn.
    Seventeen children. She thought of the one in her womb. Could she bear to 
have it torn from her?
    "Gaborn is far away," she said, "fighting reavers. I'm sure that he would 
Choose you, if he could."
    "When he comes, then?" Abel said. "Ya'll ask him for us?"
    There is a chance he will get his powers back, Iome assured herself. Yet she 
suspected that he never would.
    "I'll ask him," she promised.
    Abel's lips were quivering, and his eyes shone dully from tears of 
gratitude. He stifled a sob, and his children all stood with wide eyes, till one 
young girl ran back into the house shouting, "Ma! Ma!"
    Abel said through a tight throat, "Thank ya, milady. I'll try ta be worthy 
of ya."
    Iome tossed back the purse. "Please, keep the money too. If not for your own 
sake, then for your wife and the little ones."
    Abel dropped his head, bowed lower. "My condolences for your father. He was 
a great king, from all I hear."
    "Thank you," she said. Iome no sooner began turning her mount than Abel 
shouted, "Ya heard 'em, boys, look lively!"
    Iome spurred her horse from the alley, and for a moment Grimeson was 
hard-pressed to keep up with her as she fled. Half a mile up the road she left 
the squalid waterfront at Crow's Bay.
    Iome reined in her mount and dropped to the street, then stood for a moment, 
looking out to the water.
    Her hands would not stop shaking.
    "Will you be all right?" Grimeson asked.
    "By the Powers, I have never felt so dirty and ashamed," Iome said, shaking. 
"I couldn't tell him no. I couldn't tell him that his children might die, not 
with the little ones standing there. What can I do? I never imagined I could 
feel--"
    Suddenly she realized how Gaborn must feel. Only for him it had to be a 
thousand times stronger.
    She leaned against the wall of a fishery and emptied her stomach. Grimeson 
said nothing. There could be no consolation.
    Iome wept for her people.

     
     
Chapter 43
     
    The horseman's warhammer is the favored weapon of Mystarria. The handle of 
such a hammer can be from four to six feet long, and is made of the finest 
steel. The crosspiece is narrow, spiked at each end, and of sufficient depth so 
that it is suitable for piercing a reaver's skull--or a man's armor.
    --Hearthmaster Bander's Guide to Weapons
     
    Averan and Binnesman sat on the hillside under the starlight. The sun had 
fallen hours ago, and a horned moon lingered on the horizon. In the distance 
Averan could see fires winking around Mangan's Rock.
    Deer had come down from the hills to feed in the meadow. They walked around 
Averan on dainty hooves, as unmindful of her as if she were a dandelion.
    Binnesman had planted his staff in the ground, left it sitting upright, and 
explained to Averan that an Earth Warden always did so, that the staff might 
draw power from the soil.
    Afterward, he fell silent. He did not take Averan aside and show her plants 
in the dark, fretting about how little time he had. For once he merely sat, 
resting, gazing across the fields, as if he could see to the ends of the world. 
He'd done nothing more for hours.
    Perhaps he only remains silent to keep from frightening the deer away, 
Averan thought.
    "Are you casting a spell?" she asked at long last, afraid to disturb him. 
The doe that grazed beside her did not so much as twitch an ear at the sound of 
her voice.
    Binnesman turned his head, glanced at her from the corner of his eye.
    Binnesman pondered a moment. "Yes, I am casting a spell of sorts," he said. 
"I'm taking time to renew. The touch of grass, the smell of pines in the wind, 
the taste of soil--they invigorate me. Sometimes, rest can feel magical, can't 
it?"
    "I suppose."
    She said nothing more for a long minute, then asked, "Binnesman, what 
happens when people die?"
    "Their bodies go back to the Earth, and their spirits...do whatever spirits 
do."
    "You saw Erden Geboren," Averan said. "Was he happy?"
    "About as happy as wights get," Binnesman grumbled. She could tell that he 
turned aside hard questions. In her experience, adults seldom liked answering 
hard questions. In time, they even learned never to wonder about things at all.
    "But...not all spirits rise, do they? What happens to the others?"
    Binnesman glanced at her. "No one knows, really. It is said that some are 
reborn in the netherworld, or perhaps are born into worlds that are shadows of 
ours, just as our world is but a shadow of the one world. But not all spirits go 
away, it seems--for some remain behind as wights."
    "I think I'd rather be a wight," Averan said. "I like it here."
    "Why?" Binnesman asked. "Do you want to cheat death?"
    "Of course," Averan said.
    Binnesman smiled. "You can't cheat it, but some people learn to face it 
calmly. Some even embrace it as a friend."
    "That's just conquering fear," Averan objected. "Anyone can do that. I want 
to cheat death too."
    "Well," Binnesman said. "So you want to know how to come back as a wight. 
I'm not sure I know the answer. I think that the dead may hear our thoughts. 
It's almost as if we can summon them by thinking about them, or wishing them 
near. Or maybe by thinking about them, we merely lend them greater form. I don't 
know...."
    He fell silent a moment, then added, "I've noticed that wights are almost 
always creatures of great will in life. By far, most of them are people who 
desired to do good, who sought to create rather than to tear down."
    "But not all?"
    "Not all," Binnesman said. "Some were people or creatures of great will 
alone, beings with black hearts."
    "What else makes a wight?" Averan asked.
    "Who knows?" Binnesman said. "You see the stars in the sky. There are 
millions of them, and all of them have worlds like ours whirling around them. Or 
at least they have bits of world like ours."
    "I've heard that before," Averan said. "Beastmaster Brand sang that--part of 
the Creation Saga."
    "Really?" Binnesman asked. "He must have been a wise man. Few know it 
nowadays."
    "He only knew part of it," Averan said.
    "Then I will tell you what I know. You see, once there was only one world, 
and one star, and beneath it grew the One True Tree.
    "And One Rune bound them all together. But an enemy sought to change it, to 
take control. The enemy smashed the rune, and the pieces flew apart. They dashed 
out like shards of glass, and scattered through the cosmos.
    "Now there are a billion, billion worlds or more, each one spinning around 
its own sun. Each a broken piece of the One True World, each one more or less 
true in its own way."
    "So there are people like us on those worlds?" Averan asked.
    "Not exactly, I think. We are all distorted reflections of something 
greater, of what we once were. We might not pass for human on their worlds; they 
might not pass for human on ours. But we are similar in our hearts, if not in 
appearance. We all yearn to return to the One True World. Some say that our 
spirits, our wights, are pieces of our true self, longing to return home."
    Wizards had traveled to the netherworld, Averan knew. Raj Ahten's 
flameweavers had summoned a Darkling Glory from the One True World, as it was 
sometimes called. And she'd heard of other creatures from that mystic realm.
    Binnesman furrowed a brow. "Averan," he said. His voice suddenly sounded 
choked. "Averan, the Earth...needs us to be strong now. The future is rushing 
toward us. I can feel it like a rising storm,
    "I created the wylde to fight the Earth's battles, but I have not had time 
to finish her, to train her. There will be no time. I can see that now. Though I 
cannot unbind her, we'll take her with us. I'm sure she'll be of use."
    "What are you talking about?" Averan asked. She was afraid that he would 
take her into the Underworld at that very moment, just lead her down into some 
cavern.
    Suddenly the ground began to tremble and rock beneath Averan. There was a 
hissing from the forest, and Averan imagined that some world worm was about to 
rise, like the one she'd seen at Carris.
    But no, it was only an earthquake.
    She looked at Binnesman for comfort, but the wizard stood up and pointed to 
the sky. Eight stars fell in rapid succession.
    "What's wrong?" Averan asked. "What's happening?"
    He jutted his chin down toward the grasslands, toward Mangan's Rock. Averan 
gaped in surprise.
    The watch fires around the rock all suddenly blazed. They were coming 
together in a huge crescent.
    Gaborn's men were setting fire to the plains!
    "Come now," Binnesman said. "We'll get no more rest. Let us join the 
battle."
    As Binnesman's mount galloped down from the hills and over the grasslands, 
Averan watched the flames shoot higher, filling her vision.
    Gaborn had sent horsemen charging over the fields, spreading logs from watch 
fires upwind from Mangan's Rock.
    Now the flames leapt skyward, the fire spreading. They roared palpably, and 
rose a hundred yards in the air. Firelight smote against clouds of smoke, making 
them glow a ruddy orange, and through those glowing clouds Averan could glimpse 
the reavers on Mangan's Rock, beginning to pace, their philia waving 
frantically.
    What is he doing? Averan wondered. The fire could never climb the rock. The 
sides were too steep, too high. The few vines and grasses along the slopes would 
not catch.
    But the reavers might well have sealed their own doom. They'd pushed the 
vast old oaks from the top of the rock, hurled them over its sides. The dry bark 
of the trees would burn, sending up clouds of smoke.
    Did Gaborn hope to suffocate the reavers?
    The very idea somehow terrified her.
    She had smelled the world as a reaver, knew something of the beasts' darkest 
fears. The smell of smoke loomed huge among those fears.
    More than that, Fire itself scared her. It was the enemy of Earth, the 
antagonist to her Power.
    "Can you feel that?" she shouted at Binnesman.
    "What do you feel?" he demanded.
    "The Fire. It's aware of us. It's angry that Gaborn seeks to use it against 
itself."
    "Don't be afraid," Binnesman said. "Fire consumes. Its appetite overwhelms 
its intellect. It destroys, and will spread devastation when it can. It cares 
nothing for life, either human or reaver. But that is also its weakness. 
Remember that. Fire will consume everything around it, until it burns itself 
out."
    She'd never sensed Fire as a power, at least not as strongly as she did now. 
Her growing Earth senses made her aware of the rising danger. "What's he doing?" 
Averan cried, even when they were two miles away.
    She could see men outside the line of flames, knights mounted on chargers, 
bearing down with lances. The firelight gleamed on burnished mail.
    A scarlet sorceress suddenly came thundering out of the wall of fire, her 
runes glowing fiercely, her staff held in a great foreclaw. Smoke roiled around 
her, came rushing with her.
    She strode out of the fumes and blaze, and brought her staff to bear as 
knights charged her from three directions.
    One fellow lanced her side, and she spun to meet him, hissing furiously. 
Suddenly other sorceresses came loping out of the inferno in her wake. Clouds of 
noxious fumes hovered around them.
    "They're coming from underground!" Binnesman shouted.
    Averan saw it now. The reavers had been digging under the men, hoping to 
ambush them from beneath. Gaborn must have discovered it, broken into their 
tunnel. So he had lit the fires, thus filling their caverns with smoke.
    The reavers burst up from a single chasm, just beyond the wall of flames, 
and made straight for Gaborn's warriors.
    Binnesman wrapped his arms tight around Averan's waist, spurred his charger 
on.
    As they drew near, she saw that not all of Gaborn's troops rode. Hundreds of 
men now manned smaller blazes at the edge of the creek. They stood there over 
the logs, cooking huge slabs of meat.
    In rising horror she realized what they were doing: they had cut the philia 
from the bungholes of dead reavers, and were throwing them onto the burning 
logs.
    Even now she could smell the garlicky scent of them cooking, a stench that 
sent words shrieking in her mind. "Death, beware! Death! Death!"
    She glanced back toward Mangan's Rock. The wall of flames blew quickly to 
the east, had just begun to engulf the base of the cliff. It struck the wood and 
dry leaves, sent a tower of flame soaring up three hundred feet along the sheer 
walls.
    She had no sooner realized what Gaborn was up to than it started: the 
reavers panicked.
    All along the top of Mangan's Rock, they scurried to escape.
    A moving mass of monsters stampeded to the south, heading for the lowest 
cliffs, and began to rush down.
    Reavers slipped from the top, pushed by their fellows behind. Black crablike 
monsters flailed their arms and legs as they fell.
    Some of the plunging reavers slammed into their fellows below, knocking them 
from the cliffs. Rocks crumbled beneath their mighty claws. Some of the reavers' 
carapaces shattered as they met stones below. Others flailed about on broken 
legs.
    Another tremor struck, and Averan wondered if Gaborn had suddenly regained 
his powers. Was he making the earth shake?
    An entire escarpment collapsed, and the resulting avalanche hurled two 
thousand reavers into a pile. Those on the bottom died, while those on the top 
scurried off. Walls of flame shot up along the eastern slope of Mangan's Rock, 
sending clouds of smoke billowing.
    And all through it, Averan could hear the death screams of the reavers in 
her mind. The scent of the burning philia nearly overwhelmed her.
    Binnesman rode to Gaborn, who sat on his mount. Gaborn stared at the 
destruction with eyes that gleamed from reflecting fires. His charger stamped 
its feet nervously.
    "Isn't it beautiful!" he shouted. "The reavers were bluffing, like Averan 
said. They couldn't build another Rune of Desolation. They only hoped that we 
would spend ourselves trying to dislodge them.
    "Once I figured that out, and thought of setting fire to the plains, the 
rest was easy. Not a man will die!
    "Knowledge!" he shouted. "Knowledge is better than a fine warhammer!"
    Reavers threw themselves from the rock. Instead of merely climbing down, 
some dared to try leaping a hundred yards to safety, only to shatter legs under 
the impact.
    From out of the smoking tunnel, the last few scarlet sorceresses and 
blade-bearers fled.
    Averan had given Gaborn the weapons he needed to dislodge the reavers. A 
sense of horror welled up in her. She had not meant to cause such mindless 
slaughter.
    A sound like rising thunder rose on the plains south. The surviving reavers 
formed into columns and began to retreat. The earth trembled at the sound of the 
stampede.
    Gaborn glanced at her and jutted his chin toward the cliffs. "Let's go see 
if we can find the Waymaker."

     
     
Chapter 44
PRAYERS IN THE DARK
    When seeking the aid of higher powers, any place of power is suitable. 
Wizards of the Air will climb a mountaintop, sorcerers of Fire need only stare 
into the flames, wizards of Water bathe in a pool, while those who serve the 
Earth seek the touch of soil.
    The higher powers often answer our petitions.
    Men seldom listen.
    --Except from The Child's Book of Wizardry, by Hearthmaster Col
     
    Raj Ahten and his men hurried along the Old Fortress Trail south of 
Maygassa. He'd hoped to get fresh horses, but rode his camel still.
    The trickle of fleeing humanity had become a flood--a surging tide of bodies 
that could not fit within the confines of the trail, but which spilled out on 
both sides, so that hundreds upon hundreds marched abreast through the jungle. 
For long hours Raj Ahten had to ride slowly along the side of the road to make 
it through the throng.
    Overhead, in the dark of night, monkeys leapt through the trees shouting in 
panic and hurling bits of fruit and leaves, until the very jungle seemed to 
shake.
    On the banks of the Kelong River he stopped near a bridge an hour past 
midnight and watched his people all in one sweep. The Kelong was wide, with rice 
paddies planted along both banks, and afforded him a good view of the exodus. 
What he saw made him tremble:
    The people hurried along the river by torchlight. At any moment, he saw tens 
of thousands of them--men with walking sticks and immense bundles on their 
backs, struggling forward like oxen, wearing only loincloths and a thick coating 
of sweat. Women carried baskets on their heads or babes strapped to their 
chests.
    Too many men and elephants had tried to cross the bridge at once.
    Now the bodies of elephants lay among the shattered timbers in the shallows.
    So the people slowed to wade across the river.
    All of humanity was there--a proud lord rode beneath a silk canopy upon a 
white elephant, arrayed in a coat made of cloth of gold. His guards sported fine 
red silk trimmed with otter fur. They surged through a throng of peasant women 
adorned only in shifts of crudely dyed cotton. Wealthy merchants traveled as 
merchants will--in rickshaws pulled by poor laborers so blunt faced and brutish 
that they seemed more animal than human.
    Whole families rode in rugged flatbed wagons drawn by water buffalo. One man 
pulled a handcart, with his infirm wife loaded in the back as if she were a sack 
of gingerroot on its way to market. An old philosopher had students, their heads 
all shaved except for their scholars' knots, carrying cases of scrolls. 
Elsewhere, caretakers used bamboo rods to herd madmen and fools who were naked 
and chained together at the ankle.
    The waters of the Kelong flowed slowly. Burning torches reflected from its 
surface, while smoke hovered above it in a blue haze.
    Fathers and mothers groped for a foothold as they bore their young. Raj 
Ahten spotted a small girl who looked much like Saffira's eldest daughter, 
riding in a pack on her mother's back.
    The mother stumbled and slipped beneath the muddy waters of the Kelong. When 
she surfaced, her child was gone. Peasants nearby shouted and peered into the 
depths of the river. Some dove under the dark water, seeking the girl by feel 
alone.
    But their panicked search yielded nothing. Soon the child would surface, Raj 
Ahten knew. She would float facedown for a while, perhaps, until she washed up 
on the shore with the others that failed to make the passage.
    The people kept coming. The exodus stretched beyond the horizon.
    A peasant who had nearly crossed the river spotted Raj Ahten's camel. He 
pointed and began to shout, "O Great Light, protect us! O Sun Lord, we beg of 
you!"
    Other men and women heard the call, spotted Raj Ahten in the darkness. They 
began struggling to reach him, staggering in the muddy water. Soon a vast throng 
began shouting, clasped hands raised before their faces.
    Distantly, he could smell death--the familiar stench of reaver's blight.
    He ordered his men to bypass the throng, and quickly forged the river, while 
pleas for his aid rose up as if on dark wings into the night.
    An hour later he reached a hillside that looked over the plains. Three miles 
off, the jungles and grasslands steamed, turning gray before his eyes.
    Masses of humanity snaked over the road in a vast throng. Their lanterns 
shone like a river of light. They would never outrace the reaver mage's curse.
    On each side of the road, an ancient city carved of white stone lay like 
broken bones upon the jungle floor.
    The air filled with hissing, as if wet flesh sizzled in a fire. Not half a 
mile downhill the reaver's curses struck: leaves instantly curled inward, then 
fell from the trees, leaving branches naked. Vines and smaller limbs dropped or 
writhed under the onslaught. Entire trees cracked as if lightning had taken 
them.
    Clouds of parrots, weavers, and finches rose up and wheeled above the 
destruction.
    The horizon showed an empty landscape of blight for as far as the eye could 
see. He was still a hundred and eighty miles north of Kartish.
    "There will be famines this year," Bhopanastrat said, "no matter what we 
do."
    The enormity of the destruction overwhelmed Raj Ahten. It would take days to 
truly settle into his bones.
    Raj Ahten swatted his camel's nose with his riding prod, forced it to kneel. 
He climbed down. "Let the animals forage," he told his men. "It might be the 
last food they get for days."
    The eyes of Bhopanastrat and his men bored into his back. He could tell that 
they all wanted to know what he would do. But no man dared ask.
    All day long, his muscles had felt weak somehow. Now his left hand was 
trembling.
    Despite all that he could do, despite his endowments, Binnesman's curse 
threatened to destroy him.
    He rode through the night, past vacant cities over a landscape that was a 
surreal horror.
    Creatures still lived. Tarantulas crept through the ruins, feeding on mice 
and linnets. But the trees were down. From horizon to horizon, not a blade of 
grass survived. The stench of rot filled his nostrils.
    His people fled, but not all could make it. Raj Ahten found the dead along 
the roadsides--men who had worn their hearts out in a single day of running, the 
old, the infirm. Some of the dead had had their throats cut for a morsel of 
bread or the use of an ox.
    The utter desolation drove out all worries of Wuqaz Faharaqin crying for his 
blood in the streets, or of Gaborn plotting his downfall. Nothing that men could 
do would ever compare to the malice of the reavers.
    Hours later, just before dawn, he came upon one of his armies--three hundred 
thousand common soldiers twelve miles north of the Palace of Canaries.
    They'd camped in a deserted city for the night to chew their rations and 
make peace with themselves. Their sullen faces stared up as he rode through the 
city, men in straw hats or turbans, eyes clouded with despair.
    Even if they managed to drive back the reavers, there would be no food for 
man or horse for more than a hundred miles in any direction. Judging by the grim 
expressions on their faces, the warriors knew that they went to die. Here and 
there he heard men muttering solemn prayers in the dark.
    When they saw Raj Ahten, some raised a shout of triumph, but most just gazed 
at him with sullen curiosity.
    Hovering over the midst of the camp was a silken balloon shaped like a 
graak.
    Beneath it, his flameweavers sat cross-legged before a campfire, along with 
his Days. The hairless flameweavers gazed up expectantly as he neared.
    "What news from the front?" Raj Ahten asked.
    "Aysalla Pusnabish leads your men," Rahjim answered. "All day yesterday he 
probed the reavers' defenses. Many men died."
    "How many?" Raj Ahten asked.
    "Most of the knights in your cavalry, O Great One," Rahjim said.
    Raj Ahten breathed out a curse. The mines at Kartish were an open pit with 
steep sides and tailings piled haphazardly. Such terrain favored reavers, not 
cavalry.
    "How can this be?" Raj Ahten asked.
    Rahjim shrugged. "The reavers have built a fortress. The fell mage who 
guards it is mightier than the beast you faced in Carris. But all is not lost. 
Pusnabish has prepared well for the battle tomorrow."
    Raj Ahten stood rubbing his numb left hand, trying to increase the 
circulation.
    The flameweaver Az nodded toward it. "You are feeling worse?"
    "I'm well enough," Raj Ahten said.
    "I can heal you," Az offered. But Raj Ahten wanted none of his healing--not 
at the price of his humanity.
    Raj Ahten cast a cold eye on his army. These were troops of old Indhopal, 
dressed in simple breastplates with spiked helms on their heads, and round 
targets clamped to their left forearms. They bore weapons fit to kill 
reavers--oversized longspears, warhammers, and axes. But men without endowments 
would not fare well with such weapons. Even if a man could swing these 
warhammers, he'd tire quickly.
    Three hundred thousand common troops would be ineffectual against the 
reavers. But Raj Ahten could think of some use for them. At the battle for 
Carris, when confronted by masses of men, the reavers balked. They could not 
detect which men might be Runelords and which were commoners.
    The reavers' ignorance might be his best weapon.
    Raj Ahten called upon the powers of his Voice and his glamour, and shouted. 
"Honorable warriors of Indhopal, I salute you! Now is the hour we have feared. 
Desolation is upon us. Only your strong arms and brave hearts can save the day. 
Tonight the kingdoms of Indhopal live or die by our valor. Tonight I will lead 
you in a war like none that mankind has ever known! Ride with me now, ride for 
Indhopal!"
    The power of his Voice surprised even Raj Ahten. The weary men raised their 
weapons and cheered like berserkers.
    He leapt on his camel and raced before them so that even the wind could not 
catch him.
    In the winter, snow fell heavily in the Alcairs, leaving the mountains 
white. It melted throughout the summer, feeding the rivers that tumbled over the 
green slopes. In the Valley of Om on the southern verge of Kartish, twelve 
waterfalls spilled down from the hills.
    It was Raj Ahten's favorite place in the world. Every year on the first day 
of the month of Poppies, he would journey to Om. Always the pecan blossoms were 
in bloom, and the new grass grew lush and fragrant, and the red poppies covered 
the valley while the waterfalls spilled from the freshets into languid pools, 
misting the air above the Palace of Canaries.
    The grounds around the palace were pristine. No man or animal was allowed to 
trample them, and the palace itself was a gem.
    Its walls were made of thin slabs of yellow marble, and at night when the 
lanterns were lit within, the whole complex shone like burnished gold beneath 
the starlight. On such nights the palace earned its name: for the palace took 
its name not from canaries, as some supposed, or even for its yellow walls--but 
rather from the songsters who vied for the honor of performing within its great 
arching acoustic hall.
    Many were the pleasant nights that Raj Ahten had spent listening to 
songsters in the jasmine-scented hall, wandering the pristine poppy fields, 
gazing at the waterfalls and the palace in the moonlight, seducing young women.
    He'd lain with Saffira here.
    Raj Ahten shook the memories away. There was nothing for it. The joy of his 
life was gone.
    Among the Jewel Kingdoms, blood-metal mines had always made Kartish the 
richest. The kaifs of the land had grown fat over the centuries. They had 
controlled the blood metal, and could set the prices they saw fit. Beyond that, 
they knew precisely how many forcibles each lord purchased over the years, and 
thus by regulating shipments ensured that no one ever built a force powerful 
enough to strike against them.
    Over centuries they acted as puppetmasters, orchestrating the rise and fall 
of nations that they knew only by rumor. The fat old men had kept their knives 
to the jugular vein of the world, and congratulated themselves on their cunning.
    Of course, they made mistakes. From time to time, shipments would fall into 
the wrong hands, and the kaifs of Kartish would be slaughtered wholesale. The 
world hardly noticed, for the sun set on one despot only to rise on another.
    Raj Ahten had killed them all easily enough.
    When Raj Ahten reached the Palace of Canaries, the palace itself shone as 
usual, and the falls tumbled like a silver mist in the starlight.
    But on his pristine grounds, an army had settled, blackening the land with 
tents and bodies. The valley would never heal from the double curse of the 
reavers' blight and the damage done by the troops.
    Dingy fires guttered in the vale. No fewer than two million men bivouacked 
for miles around the palace. The stench of men, horses, and elephants was 
unbearable. All through the camps, horses whinnied and elephants trumpeted in 
hunger while men short of rations sounded loud and raucous in turn. So the 
valley filled with a noise of pandemonium.
    Raj Ahten rode down through the hills while an army of three hundred 
thousand men raced to keep up.
    As he did, heralds bore torches on either side of him, both ahead and 
behind. Men beheld his countenance, and were cowed by his glamour.
    He shouted to the common troops huddled below, his voice a roar. "Men of 
Indhopal, how can you sit here idle while the reavers call us to war? Rise now! 
Grab your weapons and armor. We go to battle at dawn. I promise you victory!"
    He met Warlord Aysalla Pusnabish at the palace gates. Pusnabish dropped to 
his hands and knees and did obeisance.
    "O Great Dawn of Our Lives," he said, "we thank you for delivering us."
    "My Dedicates are safe?" Raj Ahten asked.
    "We hastened them away at the first sign of trouble, O Great One. By now 
they have reached the coast, and are sailing north for the Palace of Ghusa in 
Deyazz."
    Raj Ahten felt weak, disjointed. His left hand trembled.
    "What of my forcibles?"
    "They are in the treasury, O Sun of Our Morning," Pusnabish said.
    Raj Ahten did not want to hear more. His troops were preparing for battle, 
and he had enough men that he suspected he could swarm the hills, take the 
reavers in their lair.
    He pushed past Pusnabish and strode through the gilded halls of the Palace 
of Canaries, up toward his treasury.
    "I'll need my facilitators," Raj Ahten said, "and men to grant me stamina."
    Pusnabish snapped his fingers at a servant, and the man ran to get the 
facilitators.
    "There is some good news," Pusnabish insisted, running in his wake. "Our 
miners struck a new vein of blood ore. It is quite promising, as you will see."
    Raj Ahten smiled grimly.

     
     
Chapter 45
THE NIGHTRIDERS
    Many adventures await you upon the road of life. Enter these doors, and take 
your first step...
    --From a placard above the Horn and Hound Pub, the first stop in the Room of 
Feet
     
    Myrrima didn't fancy being followed. It was doubly worrying that she wasn't 
sure whether the creature tracking them was human or not.
    Borenson did not speak as they rode. He peered about, his bright blue eyes 
alert. Each time she started to open her mouth, he would raise a hand, begging 
her to be silent. So she held her tongue.
    She was a wolf lord now, with endowments of scent from a dog, and sight from 
a man. Borenson's nervousness kept her wary, and she strained her senses, 
sniffing the air and keeping her eyes open for signs of danger.
    In the Westlands, the barren plains gave way to woods where hoary trees grew 
among craggy rocks, limbs heavy with moss. The trees were tall and dark, with 
only a few ragged gray leaves clinging to them. The earth smelled of mold and 
fungus. Toadstools thrust up from the detritus in the fens.
    It was not hard to envision the wars fought here against the Toth so long 
ago, or to imagine that the dark pools still held traces of blood.
    She wanted to ride through quickly. But the muddy roads forced them to slow 
their horses to a walk.
    It was a stagnant land. In spite of the yawning emptiness, time and again 
she found herself reaching for her steel bow, slung in its case on her saddle 
pack.
    The forest was dead. No squirrels danced round the sides of the trees to 
hide when they passed. No deer were startled from the grass if they happened on 
a glade. Only once in a great while would she catch sight of some dark-winged 
bird as it darted for cover in a shadowed glen.
    She strained for any sound--the buzz of a locust, the pattering of a 
woodpecker, or the caw of a crow.
    But the woods held little in the way of life, and none of it was pleasant. 
Myrrima imagined that nothing much could live here. Biting flies and mosquitoes 
swarmed in clouds over brackish pools, and in places they seemed so thick that 
she imagined that they'd simply strip the hide off any animal that held still 
long enough.
    She did not hold still.
    Wights haunted this place, Myrrima knew.
    That's why Borenson shushed her every time she wanted to speak. Wights were 
drawn to sound, to movement. They hid in shadows. Their icy touch would kill a 
man.
    The shrouded bogs where oily water gave rise to night mists, the creepy 
woods with their folds and hollows, both were the perfect abode for such 
creatures.
    And while the wights of the Dunnwood back home protected the realm, the same 
was not true of the Westlands. Sixteen hundred years ago, nomen and Toth had 
died here by the uncounted score. Their revenants craved vengeance. At times it 
was said that the shades of men could be seen fighting them still, as if 
reenacting their deaths on old battlegrounds.
    Once, they came upon a hill and heard the rush of wind through the trees in 
the valley to their left, a distant sigh like the beating of waves upon an 
endless shore.
    Myrrima imagined that the wind heralded a coming storm, and that soon all of 
the trees would begin bobbing and creaking in the gale.
    Instead, the wind merely passed--as if it were an invisible rider heading 
south through the forest.
    When it was gone, Borenson whispered, breaking an hours-long silence, "What 
was that, do you think?"
    "Wights?"
    "There are wights here," he admitted, "and they're aware of us. But that 
wasn't one. Something else passed by."
    Myrrima's mind returned to the Darkling Glory, to the howling tornado that 
had issued from it. Binnesman had warned that it was capable of great evil 
still.
    "If we ride slowly," Borenson whispered, "we won't reach Fenraven by sunset, 
but if we ride fast, we might catch up to whatever passed us by."
    Myrrima bit her lip. "Ride fast," she whispered.
    Myrrima glimpsed another rider just before sunset, and knew for sure that 
they were being followed.
    They'd been cantering through the hills, and had come down for the hundredth 
time into another marsh. They let their horses forage for a few short minutes, 
and had then ridden on for half a mile, until they reached a bog so wide that 
the road itself was submerged.
    The forest ended here. A few gray skeletal trees struggled up from fetid 
pools, but otherwise there was no cover for nearly a quarter of a mile. In 
midwinter the bog would have been a lake.
    So Myrrima slowed her horse and let it pick its way through the water, 
wading through muddy pools where it sank up to its withers. With every step, the 
smell of rot rose from the depths, and the splashing of the horse obscured any 
other sound. Myrrima had to lug her saddlebags on her own shoulder, lest her 
provisions get wet. Mosquitoes buzzed around her in a starving cloud.
    As her horse waded through the pools she saw someone--or something. She 
happened to glance over her shoulder, checking the road behind, when she 
glimpsed a horseman on the hill three quarters of a mile back.
    A dark, hooded figure sat ahorse under the trees, peering toward her 
intently. In the gloaming woods, she couldn't see the color of his horse. So 
well concealed was he that at first she wasn't sure if he was real or simply an 
unhappy confluence of sticks and shadows, an invention of her fears.
    But a moment of squinting through the cloud of mosquitoes convinced her 
otherwise.
    It was a man, hiding in the trees just off the road.
    Myrrima swallowed hard, thinking, Assassin? Or the wight of some long-dead 
wolf hunter?
    It could be anyone. Perhaps it was only a fellow traveler who had been 
frightened to hear a force horse riding through these lone woods, and had 
decided to exit into the trees.
    She haltingly waved at the fellow in greeting. But he didn't move. He held 
as still as a deer as it tastes the air for the scent of the hounds.
    "Who are you waving at?" Borenson hissed.
    "There's a man in the trees," Myrrima said.
    "Are you sure it's a man?"
    She suddenly realized that she hadn't seen fresh-cut tracks in the road. Nor 
had she smelled warm horseflesh along the trail either. Which meant that the 
fellow had not been ahead of them on the road.
    That left only two possibilities. He might have been riding cross-country 
through the bogs--something only a madman would try--or he might be following 
them.
    Only a man on a fast force horse could have kept up.
    Muyyatin assassins rode force horses.
    She reined in her mount, and sat for a moment, braving the mosquitoes, 
pointedly staring at the fellow. At last he turned his head and urged his horse 
forward, onto the road, spurred it north into the shadowed woods, and was gone.
    His horse made no sound as it trotted through the trees.
    "I saw him," Borenson whispered. "Can't tell if he's alive or dead."
    A wight, she decided, one that has no interest in us. Or perhaps it was 
still too light yet, and he would come after them in the full darkness.
    Her heart was pounding. She suddenly recalled a tale of Muyyatin assassins 
who booted the hooves of their horses with layers of lamb's wool, so that they 
could ride quietly.
    "Water and cold iron can sometimes turn a wight," Borenson whispered. "But 
if that fellow is alive, just give him cold iron."
    Myrrima reached into a pouch, pulled out an iron spear tip that Hoswell had 
once showed her. It had a flaring blade, and fit nicely onto the end of her 
steel bow. She twisted it in place.
    She spurred her horse through the fetid swamp, and rode on for five miles. 
The woods grew darker as night thickened, and in many places the roots of huge 
trees snaked out into the road, creating a hazard for any who dared ride at 
night.
    A dim haze covered the sky, muting the stars, and Borenson convinced her to 
abandon their journey for a while as they waited for moonrise.
    They reached a dark copse on a hillside, where the roots were especially 
thick, and turned off the road. They led their mounts into blackness under the 
trees. Myrrima's horse lowered its head, then sniffed at molding leaves as it 
sought forage. She'd ridden far, and the mount had got nothing to eat for the 
past two hours. It whickered in consternation.
    "Quiet," Myrrima whispered. The beast had endowments of wit from other 
horses, and was well trained. It suddenly went still as a statue, ignoring even 
the mosquitoes that eagerly settled on its rump.
    For long minutes, Myrrima and Borenson waited.
    She hated the silence, wished that they could speak. She occupied herself by 
watching the heavens. Almost immediately a trio of shooting stars arced across 
the sky. One was a fireball that left a guttering trail of ash. She'd seldom 
seen such a display. No crickets chirped. No frogs croaked.
    The night seemed perfectly still.
    Until a wailing cry arose that was like nothing human. Goosepimples formed 
on her arms immediately, and the sound sent a shiver down her spine. Her horse 
pawed the ground nervously, and Borenson's danced forward.
    On a windswept hillside not a mile away, she saw the gray ghost light of a 
wight--incredibly thin and tall. At first glance, it seemed vaguely human in 
shape, until one made out its impossible form. Its gangling arms were as thin as 
branches, a crepuscular white in color, like a warty fungal growth, that ended 
in scythelike talons. Its four legs were also inhumanly long and slender. The 
rearmost legs were attached to flaring hips that tilted up like a grasshoppers', 
with an inverted knee. But the rear hips were set no more than two feet from the 
forelegs, so that it squatted oddly. Its narrow skull tapered so that the 
protracted muzzle looked almost like a bill. The flaring at the back of the 
skull was not from bone, but from philia.
    Though from a great distance one could almost mistake it for a human in 
shape, the beast was far more closely related to a reaver than a human.
    A Toth.
    Myrrima's heart hammered in her throat. Sweat spilled down her forehead. She 
dared not move, lest she attract its attention.
    The Toth enchanters from beyond the Carroll Sea were all but legend now, and 
most of their specters had faded. This could only be the shade of a powerful 
sorcerer.
    Water and cold iron wouldn't be enough to ward it. Only a great wizard might 
drive the monster away.
    The wight stood upon the hillside, its head tilted upward, as if it were a 
hound tasting the air. As it did, the philia hanging like a thick beard beneath 
its long jaws quivered. It swayed on its legs, an incredibly graceful gesture, 
then went striding northwest with a determined gait.
    He's caught the scent of something, Myrrima realized. And given that I'm 
riding from the north, it could be me.
    She was about to leap on her horse when Borenson stopped her.
    Almost immediately she heard hoofbeats. A rider came galloping along the 
road behind them, whipping his mount with his reins.
    A heavy warhorse charged past, its cloaked rider hunched low in the saddle, 
wheezing in terror. She heard the muted ching of studded mail. Even the heavy 
sheepskin slippers that quieted the horse's pounding hooves couldn't silence it 
completely.
    Muyyatin. And the wight was after the assassin.
    The only problem was, she was hiding in these woods too. The wight wouldn't 
care who it caught first.
    Which do you want to risk, she asked herself, Death from an assassin, or 
death from the wight of a Toth?
    Borenson decided for her. He gouged his horse's flanks with his heels and 
was gone.
    Myrrima reined her mount around. She kicked his flanks harder than she'd 
wanted, and the stallion lurched beneath her in a dead run.
    It was nearly all that she could do to hang on. She grabbed her steel bow 
anyway, hoping against hope that its iron spear tip might keep the wight at bay.
    The force horse galloped under the trees. Behind her, a quarter mile back, 
Myrrima heard that inhuman cry. It was not a wail of sorrow, but more of an 
ululating shriek, like the sound an eagle makes as it stoops for the kill.
    Her force horse redoubled its speed in blind panic, and Myrrima bent low in 
the saddle, clinging tightly. Borenson's mount set the pace ahead. His robes 
flapped behind him.
    She came up on a strait where the trees thinned. She spared a glance 
backward.
    Her blood froze in her veins. The wight was leaping toward her on incredibly 
long legs. It glowed with its own inner light so that she could see it clearly 
now, only a couple hundred yards behind. Its skin shone pale as polished ivory, 
and its huge eyes glowed a deep, deep crimson. Upon its arms, faint blue runes 
burned, ancient wards against death. Philia swayed from its narrow chin like a 
beard, and scythelike teeth glimmered in its lipless mouth. It made grasping 
motions with its right paw, as if grabbing for her. Its paws were incredibly 
long, each with three talons that had many joints.
    "Fly!" she shouted at her mount, and the force horse redoubled its effort 
again, shooting through the shadowed copses, leaving the wight to flounder in 
its wake. Her beast had four endowments of metabolism, and two of brawn. With 
those endowments it could attain incredible speeds. Given the choice, she'd not 
have dared a run like this even in daylight.
    Myrrima suspected that she was racing at eighty miles an hour when she heard 
Borenson's horse stumble.
    He was galloping through a copse ahead when its forehoof clipped a root with 
a report like a lance shattering.
    As the beast floundered, Myrrima's first thought was for her husband.
    He's as good as dead, she thought. Yet she saw Borenson jump or fall free of 
the saddle, roll to the grass.
    Myrrima reined her own mount, leapt from her saddle while the horse 
continued to run. She tried to land on her feet, but they slipped from beneath 
her on the slick road and she fell on her right hip. She skidded over some roots 
or rocks, then flipped onto her chest.
    Pain wracked her, surging from hip and arm.
    She climbed to her feet, ignoring the agony. Her horse was gone. But during 
the fall she'd managed to cling to her bow.
    She spat on the iron spear tip. Water and cold iron, she thought hopefully, 
the same as she'd used against the Darkling Glory.
    A shriek sounded as she looked up.
    The wight was nearly upon her, mouth gaping as if to swallow. It was too 
late to stand still like a terrified rabbit, too late to hope that it might pass 
her by.
    She lunged with her bow, sent its spear tip into the sweet triangle between 
the monster's eyes.
    The Toth shrieked, and there was a blinding flash. Invisible shards of ice 
seemed to fly through the air, sending pinpricks of cold that rushed through 
her.
    Myrrima stared at the Toth. Its runic death wards suddenly blazed into blue 
fire, and for a brief second she had a vision: she thought she stared into a 
blinding haze, and in that light she saw warriors dressed in the ancient mode, 
with rounded helms and round shields. They surrounded the Toth on all sides, and 
plunged their spears into its flanks. She could hear them shouting, "Ahten! 
Ahten da gaspeilten!"
    The vision faded, and Myrrima was thrown backward by the icy blast. The 
world went bitter cold. She'd never faced such cold.
    Myrrima felt as if a glory hammer had slammed into her chest. Every single 
muscle in her body ached. In a daze she struggled to sit up, but her head reeled 
too much, and she fell backward.
    Borenson grabbed her, picking her head up. "Are you alive? Can you hear me?"
    "Wha--?" Myrrima managed to blurt.
    His breath steamed in the icy air. Her right hand felt as if it had frozen 
at the knuckles.
    "By the Seven Stones!" he swore. "That--that's not possible!"
    She pulled herself up, ignoring the ache in her bones.
    For fifty yards in every direction, the ground was blasted with hoarfrost. 
White crystals glistened under the starlight.
    The wight was gone.
    Yet her right hand ached, as if it blazed in a cold fire. She held it up, 
realized belatedly what had happened. She'd plunged her spear tip into the wight 
so hard that she had struck the beast with her hand. Her fist was as white as 
ice, and crystals shone brightly on the pale skin.

     
     
Chapter 46
THE DAYS
    For as long as there have been Runelords, there have been Days. But the 
number of Days in the world is never precisely known, and seems to swell and 
wane from time to time. Mad King Harrill, it is said, had three Days in his 
attendance at all times, and went to great lengths to evade them. One can well 
imagine that he needed more watching than others.
    Yet we know from the chronicles of Erendor that not even one in twelve kings 
had a Days in attendance during his lifetime. This state of affairs lasted for 
nearly four hundred years. Hence, because so much of our history is lost, we 
sometimes speak of the Dark Age of Erendor.
    --Excerpt from Chronicles, by Deverde, Hearthmaster in the Room of Time
     
    While the world slept, Iome retreated to the palace at the Courts of Tide, 
there to wait while Abel Scarby gathered the dogs that Gaborn needed.
    The guards ushered her in and called a chambermaid who would have waked the 
whole staff in a panic if Iome had not forbidden her to do so.
    The immensity of the palace overwhelmed Iome. Her father's entire keep back 
at Castle Sylvarresta would have fit in the Great Hall. Sixteen huge hearths 
lined its walls.
    Around the room hung dozens of lanterns backed by silver mirrors, their 
bright flames subdued beneath rose-colored crystal. The oil that they burned 
gave off a pleasant scent of gardenias. Enormous windows facing south would have 
lit the room throughout the day.
    The tapestries on the walls, depicting scenes of ancient kings in love and 
in battle, each looked as if they might have kept a village full of women 
weaving for a year.
    The postern and lintel above each doorway had been intricately carved to 
show scenes of foxes and rabbits racing over trails in an oak forest.
    The king's table was set with golden plates, brightly polished. Iome took 
one gasping look, and just stared in amazement. She'd never grasped how wealthy 
Gaborn might be. She'd never imagined how insignificant Heredon's splendor must 
seem to him.
    Before one great hearth, a girl in a plain scholar's robe sat hunched on an 
elegant couch. Her brown hair was long and braided in cornrows, then tied 
together in back.
    Upon hearing footsteps, she turned to look at Iome.
    "Oh, there you are!" she said in a pleasant voice. The girl's face was 
freckled, her eyes an ordinary brown. Iome took one look, and felt as if she'd 
known her all her life. She was perhaps sixteen, a little younger than Iome.
    "Are you my new Days?" Iome asked.
    The girl nodded. She had a pimple on her chin. "I heard that you had 
arrived. Did you have a good ride?"
    "It went without incident," Iome said, sure that the girl wanted only the 
historical details.
    The girl's face fell a little, as if she'd expected more. "But--it was 
pleasant, I hope?"
    Iome's mind did a little twist. She'd never had a Days inquire as to whether 
something pleased her.
    "Very pleasant," Iome said. "I have to admit, I'd never imagined how vast 
Mystarria was. The land here is so rich and fertile, and this castle overwhelms 
me."
    "I was born not far from here," the Days said, "in a village called 
Berriston. I know everything about Mystarria. I can show you around."
    Iome had never had a Days offer to show her anything. Most of them were cold 
and aloof. But she recognized immediately that this girl felt just as lonely as 
Iome did, just as overwhelmed by her responsibilities.
    "I would like that," Iome said. She took the girl by her hand, squeezed her 
fingers.
    It felt distinctly odd. At home, friends had always surrounded Iome. Whether 
they were dried-up old matrons or other young women in waiting, she'd always had 
a female companion nearby. She'd come to the Courts of Tide knowing that she 
would feel out of place.
    Now she wondered what it would feel like to have a Days as a friend. "Do you 
know the castle?" Iome asked. "Can you show me to the tower?"
    "Indeed," the Days said. "I've been here all afternoon."
    The girl took Iome to the base of the tower. Together they climbed the long 
stairs until they reached the room where Gaborn's father had slept.
    A guardsman in Mystarria's colors stood at the door, opened it with a key. 
Upon opening the door, Iome smelled King Orden's scent--his sweat, his hair--all 
so strong that it seemed impossible that her husband's father had been slain 
only a week ago. The scent belied his death, made Iome expect that at any moment 
old King Orden might appear on the parapet outside the window, or stir from an 
antechamber.
    At the very least, his shade ought to be here, she thought.
    The room was overlarge, with rich furnishings and a huge canopied 
four-poster bed draped with woolen curtains. Iome went to it, patted the firm 
mattress. This is where I am destined to sleep, she thought. This is where--the 
Powers preserve us--I'll bear my son. This is where Gaborn will get more sons 
upon me.
    Iome's Days went to a window, opened it wide. "I've heard that the view of 
the city here is beautiful," she exulted. "We should see it from the promenade."
    Iome wouldn't be able to sleep, she knew. With so many endowments of stamina 
and metabolism and brawn, she needed very little of it. From now on when she did 
take rest, she would take it as powerful Runelords were wont to do--by standing 
quietly and staring off at private dreams. She still felt rested, and the Days' 
tone was infectious.
    Iome went out to the promenade. It was three stories beneath the very 
topmost ramparts of the tower, where the far-seers kept their vigil. The 
promenade was well lit. A huge red lantern hung just beneath the far-seers' 
outlook.
    "That wasn't lit a while ago," Iome remarked.
    "The queen wasn't in residence a while ago," the Days replied. "It is lit in 
your honor."
    In her castle back home, there had been no such practice. Castle Sylvarresta 
served as the bastion of defense, and Iome had seldom left it. But Mystarria was 
another matter. Gaborn's family maintained half a dozen castles that could serve 
as resorts during time of war, along with palaces that had sometimes served as 
homes during times of peace.
    Below Iome the various buildings of the Courts of Tide hunched in the 
darkness--lordly castles with their proud towers raised high, manors and estates 
squatting in their splendor. Markets cascaded to the west, the light of the 
horned moon glinting on their slate roofs; while beyond them, in the poorer 
quarters, the pitched roofs of thousands upon thousands of shanties jutted up 
like sharp stones.
    Beyond it all was the vast ocean, placid. Salt tang tickled her nostrils. It 
was not a cold night.
    "It's beautiful up here," the Days said. "Just as I always imagined."
    She went on. "When I was young, my mother told me a child's tale. She said 
that there was a castle filled with giants on each edge of the world, and that 
those of the east are making war with those of the west. Each day, the giants to 
the east load their catapult, and send a flaming ball high overhead, to smash 
against the roofs of the castle to the west. And each night, those same giants 
send a great stone hurtling overhead. The ball of flame is the sun. The ball of 
stone is the moon. And when the day comes that the sun no longer rises, you'll 
know that the war has ended.
    "The commoners in their shanties in town say that the King's Tower is so 
high," the girl continued, "that a far-seer standing here can look across the 
ocean, and spot the giants working to load their catapults.
    "It was from this very tower that Fallion's far-seers spotted the gray 
ships."
    Iome smiled. Overhead, several stars lanced through the sky at once. One, in 
particular, was a huge fireball that hurtled slowly, leaving a flaming trail. 
She teased. "It looks as if your giants must have run out of rocks. They're 
hurling shot tonight."
    The Days laughed. She turned, her eyes sparkling. She knew her history and 
she loved it. The girl's dream was to stand at the side of a queen and watch 
history unfold. But assuming that Gaborn even could stop the fell mage that led 
the Underworld, Iome would be stuck in this tower for weeks, doing nothing. The 
notion wrung her heart.
    How long, Iome wondered, before this girl grows bored with me and regrets 
her choice of occupations?
    Iome scanned the far horizon where water sparkled in the night. She couldn't 
discern any ships, or even a pod of whales. "No giants," Iome said. "No ships 
either."
    At that, the girl stiffened involuntarily just a bit, and her fingers 
tightened on the stone rail around the parapet. She laughed again, but her laugh 
sounded forced.
    Ships are coming, Iome realized. The Days knows it. Ships are coming to 
attack the Courts of Tide.
    But whose ships?
    Iome began to think furiously. To the south were the Inkarrans, who had 
never made war upon the north, though they were doing so now. Still, sending 
fleets was not how they practiced war. To the north were half a dozen countries 
that could muster a fleet--Lonnock, Toom, Eyremoth, Alnick, Ashoven, and 
Internook.
    I'm jumping to conclusions, Iome thought. Yet she had to wonder. This Days 
was young, perhaps the youngest she'd ever seen. The rest had always been far 
more mature. Perhaps she wasn't fully trained.
    For long centuries there had been rumors that Days sometimes acted as spies. 
Could this be the source of such rumors--a Days who involuntarily twitched an 
eye or looked away nervously when the conversation strayed to dangerous topics?
    "So," Iome said. "You said you grew up here, in Berriston?"
    "Yes, it's nearby," the girl answered.
    "Can we see it from here?"
    The Days took her to the north side of the tower, pointed up along the coast 
four miles. "You see the village there, the one with just a few lights."
    "Ah, so close," Iome said. "You could see the towers here from your home 
every day."
    "Not in the winter," the Days said. "Not when the fog rolls in."
    Iome had never known a Days who spoke so much. "Does your family still live 
there, your mother, father, brothers, sisters?"
    "My mother died years back," the Days said. "But my father is here, and my 
older brothers. They're twins. I never liked my stepmother."
    "Have you visited them recently?" Iome asked.
    Now the girl clutched at the railing again, nervous. "No." Was she worried 
for her family, or did the idea of visiting them make her nervous?
    "Would you like to?" Iome said. "Perhaps I could take you."
    "No!" the Days answered. "Time does not roll backward. We should not try to 
make it do so." She did not speak this last with full conviction.
    "I suppose not," Iome said. "I shall certainly never see my parents again, 
and nothing I can do will ever bring them back. It seems a shame, though, that 
your family would be so close, and you not able to see them."
    The Days clutched at the railing again, then looked away to the northwest, 
avoiding the subject.
    Iome strolled around the promenade, until she faced west. Overhead, a star 
streaked across the sky, followed almost instantly by another.
    "My husband is out there," Iome said, "fighting the reavers. He fears that 
the end may be coming, three or four days from now. But I suppose you know all 
that."
    The girl fell silent and leaned forward, gazing west.
    Iome continued. "He's facing so many enemies. It's not just the reavers. 
It's the Inkarrans to the south, now, and Raj Ahten. And mad King Anders. I 
worry for him."
    The Days did not clench the rail. She merely stood gazing out. Iome read her 
reaction: Gaborn is safe. Don't worry.
    Iome's head felt near to bursting. She suspected that she was on to 
something. This girl was not fully trained. So long as she did not suspect that 
Iome could read her, she would continue to reveal what she knew in her 
reactions.
    Iome circled the promenade. "It's getting late. You'll probably want some 
sleep. I hope that your quarters are adequate?"
    "They're wonderful." To a girl of peasant stock, any quarters here would 
seem luxurious.
    "And you've had dinner?"
    "Yes."
    "Good," Iome said. "I've never given it much thought before, but I suspect 
it must be hard for a Days at first, to be stuck here without any friends."
    "Oh, I have friends," the Days answered.
    Iome knew of them. She knew that the girl had given an endowment of wit to 
another, a friend who granted the endowment back, so that now they were of one 
mind. Gaborn had spoken of how he himself envied those who had such deep 
relationships.
    Beneath Iome, the tower began to sway slightly, and stones bucked under her 
feet.
    At first she thought that she imagined it, and she reached for the railing 
more worried that she would look silly than from any concern about the safety of 
the tower.
    Then the tower really did sway, and the ground trembled and shook, Iome's 
heart pounded.
    "Earthquake!" the Days cried.
    Her mouth opened in surprise, just as a rumbling sound rolled through the 
city.
    The great tower began to thump up and down as the soil rolled beneath it in 
waves. Of all the places in the world that Iome would want to be during an 
earthquake, this tower was the last.
    She heard glass shatter down in the palace as the huge windows in the Great 
Hall burst.
    Throughout the Courts of Tide, people began to scream in alarm. Dogs barked 
and horses whinnied. In a castle on an island nearby, a whole tower collapsed, 
went sliding into the sea.
    The Days grabbed the railing around the parapet, as if afraid that she might 
fall.
    "Let's get out of here!" Iome shouted. She grabbed the girl's hands and 
pulled her through the door, into the tower proper. The king's books tumbled 
from a shelf, along with a helm that clattered loudly. The canopy above the bed 
swayed.
    Iome pulled the Days into the room just as a sound of cracking rock split 
the night air. The parapet outside splintered and fell.
    The Days shouted and grabbed Iome, clutching her for support.
    Still the tower swayed as if it might topple any second.
    "Come on," Iome said. She began dragging the girl from the room. Overhead, 
Iome could hear shouting as the far-seers raced for safety.
    She leapt into the stairwell. Lamps were hung along the wall, and they 
swayed, spilling flaming oil. As the tower leaned, plaster on the walls buckled 
and fell in heavy chunks. The air inside the castle filled with dust and smoke.
    Iome ran downstairs with her hand shielding her head from the debris. With 
her endowments of metabolism, the plaster seemed to slough off slowly. With her 
endowments of brawn, she was able to knock chunks of it aside, protecting 
herself and the girl.
    She leapt past a wall of fire.
    Enormous slabs of plaster skittered down the steps, and Iome had to fight 
for decent footing. The farther down she ran, the more it felt as if she were 
negotiating a landslide.
    She felt inside her. Gaborn did not warn her of any danger as he had at 
Castle Sylvarresta. She felt only panic. At any moment the whole tower might 
collapse.
    She had not reached the bottom of the stairs when the first tremor stopped.
    The Days halted for a second. "Wait. Wait. It's over." She wiped tears of 
terror from her eyes and began to sob.
    But Iome had seen more than one quake in Heredon, and she knew better. "You 
can't know that!"
    She grabbed the Days and urged her down the stairwell, out of the castle. It 
was good that she did.
    Iome had just fled the building when a stronger tremor began to humble the 
Courts of Tide.

     
     
Chapter 47
SEARCHING FOR THE WAYMAKER
    Honor often goes to the warrior who gives his life in battle. But few 
properly venerate the bravest of all: those who willingly endure endless agony 
for a higher cause.
    --Lord Mangan
     
    At the base of Mangan's Rock the ground lay scorched for a mile around. Here 
and there, small shrubs still burned, so that the land grew blacker than a night 
sky, even though a thousand small fires lit it.
    To the east, Gaborn's fire raged, blowing into the foothills of the 
mountains. In all likelihood, it would continue to sputter and blaze into the 
forests for days.
    With each step that Averan took, ashes stirred in the air, clogging her 
lungs. Averan, Binnesman, Gaborn, his Days, stalked toward the dead reavers that 
lay in sordid humps, each monster taller than an elephant.
    Thousands had leapt or fallen from Mangan's Rock in a grisly hail. Some had 
actually died. The land was covered with them at the south end of the cliff. In 
a few places, bodies lay three or four deep.
    Thousands of the wounded retreated over the plains, legs broken or carapaces 
cracked. The rest of the horde outran them. Most of Gaborn's knights went to 
hunt down the injured, but he'd sent some scouts with torches in hand to search 
among the grim carcasses for the Waymaker.
    Averan did not want to eat another reaver. The last one had wrung sweat from 
her, sickened her, caused her profound pain. Her nerves still jangled, and her 
muscles ached. It was too soon to eat again.
    But dead reavers lay everywhere, and Gaborn didn't dare waste an 
opportunity.
    Averan stalked through the ashes. A falling star streaked above her.
    She looked up, saw another almost immediately, and noted that only a few 
gree remained with the dead reavers. Either the smoke had killed them, or they'd 
flown off after the rest of the horde.
    The ground shook again, and a few stones tumbled down from Mangan's Rock, 
bouncing among the reavers.
    "Did you make the earthquake?" Averan asked Gaborn.
    "No," he said. "It's none of my doing."
    She recognized a dying glue mum ahead. It lay on its back, gasping, drawing 
air in massive gulps. The sacs beneath its jaws excreted oozing mucilage.
    "Don't go near," Gaborn warned her.
    "It's all right," she said. "Its philia aren't even moving." She stared at 
it. "This one was called Maker of High Things. It built the nesting hall for the 
One True Master."
    She went to it. This glue mum had been a fine beast. Many glue mums were 
trained to use their mucilage to reinforce ceilings in caverns and tunnels, but 
this one had excelled. Her vaulted arches and buttresses were a marvel of 
strength and grace.
    "You feel sympathy for the monster?" Gaborn asked.
    Averan closed her eyes, peered into a snatch of memory. "They're alive," she 
answered. "This one--was an artist. It should have stayed where it belongs."
    Binnesman said, "Good, child. You are learning. All life is precious. All 
must be revered."
    For a long while Averan and Gaborn hunted, along with a hundred scouts. Word 
came to them after an hour that more than a thousand reavers had died in the 
stampede, and Skalbairn's men were still lancing the wounded, having made 
another two thousand kills. The main body of the horde was heading south, 
running along their trail to their bolt-hole in the Underworld.
    So Gaborn and Averan hunted among the dead.
    At Mangan's Rock the bodies lay thick against the cliffside, stacked to a 
depth of five or six deep. The corpses rose in morbid piles. The scouts searched 
as best they could, climbing down through little gaps where a reaver's leg or 
head wedged open a crawlspace.
    But in some cases, it was simply impossible to see what might lie beneath 
the pile. Even Runelords with force horses couldn't easily move the massive 
carcasses of the reavers, and Gaborn was left to worry that the Waymaker would 
lie forever hidden.
    "Milord!" a scout shouted. "I think I've found him!" The scout appeared 
three hundred yards down the cliff, and stood atop a pile of dead reavers, 
waving his torch eagerly.
    Averan jogged to the pile of corpses against the cliff. "He's a big brute," 
the scout said as she neared, "just like you told us. And he's got thirty-six 
philia, and big paws. It's hard to see much down there, but there's a rune on 
his right shoulder, just like you said. The rest of him is buried down where I 
can't see it."
    Averan scampered up a jagged rock, the lichens on it rubbing her hands raw.
    She climbed up on the corpse of a reaver with Gaborn's help. The pile of 
dead reavers here was deep, and to get to the one that she wanted, she had to go 
up and over. She was on a sorceress when the reaver twitched, and for one 
heart-stopping moment she dared not move, thinking it was alive.
    She watched the scout crawl into a little cave formed by dead bodies. He 
squeezed under one reaver's leg, into a grotto. The torch lit the way.
    Averan followed him down. The path was precarious--step on this reaver's leg 
here, watch out for the spike on that one's elbow, climb onto that one's head, 
don't let the torch burn you. And try not to worry that one of the reavers might 
twitch or shift, and the whole pile of them collapse on top of you.
    Gaborn and Binnesman followed her down.
    The scout reached the bottom, stepped back into a smaller space, and 
stopped. Averan followed. Smoke swirled in the still air, and the torch burned 
hot. She looked up in the torchlight and saw a reaver's head. She stifled a cry.
    That's him! she thought immediately. Four dead reavers covered much of the 
corpse. But one huge paw protruded near his muzzle, and part of his shoulder 
could be made out between the legs of another reaver.
    In size and shape, it looked like the Waymaker. Averan closed her eyes. Her 
only memories were seen from a reaver's point of view. They didn't see the world 
exactly like people do. To a reaver, the whole body glowed in different shades 
of blue light. So it was hard to tell.
    "Yeah," Averan said, her voice coming out rough with anticipation and dread. 
"It could be him." After hunting through thousands of reavers today, she felt 
skeptical.
    The body of another reaver squashed the Waymaker's face so that the bony 
plate on its skull angled back, distorting the reaver's visage. "Maybe if it 
wasn't squashed, I could be more sure."
    "What of the rune?" Gaborn asked. The reaver had a rune on his shoulder, 
still glowing in smoldering colors.
    "I don't know," Averan admitted. "Reavers can't see those colors. To them, 
the runes are just smells, magical incantations written in smells." Averan 's 
memory didn't let her see the shape of the rune, and she couldn't tell if it was 
placed properly on the body.
    She stared for long minutes. She couldn't smell anything but smoke. If she'd 
had a reaver's strong nose, and if she'd been able to get at its bunghole, she 
would know. "I just can't be sure."
    "Will you eat from this one?"
    Averan looked up. Fear made her breath come out ragged, and she found 
herself clenching her fist, so that her nails bit into her palm. "I'm not sure. 
It might not be him."
    "But it's the closest match you've seen?"
    Averan's stomach cramped in fear. "Yes," she said. "But I can't do it."
    Gaborn took her chin in his hand and looked into her eyes. "Listen, the 
world needs you to be strong. We may have driven the reavers from the rock, but 
already I sense a rising threat. Men are going to die in battle tomorrow, 
hundreds of men, maybe thousands. And tens of thousands more are at risk."
    "Is that supposed to make it easier?" Averan asked. "I'm afraid. I got so 
sick last time--"
    "Men are taught to give their lives," Gaborn said. "They give them in war. 
They wear themselves out working to support their wives and children."
    "Women wear themselves out, too," Averan said, thinking of her mother.
    "Agreed," Gaborn said. "I'm not asking you to do anything more than what 
every man and woman does. When you grow up, you have to give yourself away. 
Sometimes you give your life all in a moment, but mostly you give yourself away 
laboring one minute at a time. I need you to grow a lot now."
    Binnesman hugged her close, offering comfort. Gaborn could give her none. He 
couldn't let her back down from her duty.
    "My men have searched most of this pile in the past two hours," Gaborn 
urged. "We've found no other match."
    Averan swallowed hard. Gaborn was only asking her to grow up. That would 
happen whether she wanted to or not. "I'll eat."
    As soon as she agreed, relief overwhelmed her. She'd only have to do it this 
one more time.
    Gaborn let out a heavy sigh, knelt down, and put his arms around her. "Thank 
you," he said.
    Gaborn felt exhausted--not just physically exhausted, but mentally and 
emotionally drained in a way he'd never felt in his life.
    "Get her what she needs," he told the scout. The reaver's sweet triangle was 
exposed enough so that a man ought to be able to get some of its brains out.
    He patted Binnesman on the shoulder, and whispered, "Stay with her. Give her 
what comfort you can. I need some rest."
    He went to his horse, rode his mount north for a mile along the cliff face. 
His Days followed, until they reached the fallen statue of Mangan.
    The warrior had broken into a dozen chunks when he fell. Gaborn dismounted, 
scaled the side of Mangan's pitted head, and just sat with his hand against the 
rock, feeling a sort of reverence.
    Little was known about Mangan--a few sayings, this statue. Over a thousand 
years ago he had built a fortress here. He had stopped the warriors of Muttaya 
from overwhelming western Mystarria. He'd built his castle and withstood enemy 
forces in a dozen fierce battles. He died young in some ignoble skirmish, and 
fifty years later his son had artisans carve the cliff face in his honor. Now 
the weathered stone felt rough under Gaborn's hand. The lichens grew thick.
    Gaborn gazed up as a star streaked across the horizon. He'd seen a hundred 
in the past three hours.
    Gaborn sat wondering. Things were changing, he realized. He sensed the 
rising danger to the wounded of Carris, who were floating down the river 
Donnestgree, along with some of his warriors.
    He was becoming more adept at discerning such things. Sometimes, he could 
sense the danger well in advance. Other times, it seemed to flare up suddenly. 
It was like trying to stare into a pot of boiling water and decide which of the 
bubbles forming inside the cauldron would rise next. It seemed an inexact 
science, and Gaborn suspected that it had to do with agency, with the choices 
that he and his enemies made.
    Out of nowhere, he could sense great jeopardy to Borenson and Myrrima. He 
desperately tried to warn them to hide, but could not reach them. He wondered 
how long this might go on. Would the Earth punish him forever? Would it really 
let his Chosen die? Or dared he hope that his powers might be restored in his 
hour of need?
    He could not bear the thought that his Chosen might be torn from him. It 
wasn't just others' lives that were lost. In some small way, when one of his 
Chosen died, a part of him was lost also.
    But it isn't just me, he realized. If a man dies, then perhaps a wife loses 
a husband and child loses a father. A whole village might feel the blow. Perhaps 
he was a breadmaker, or someone who could ease another's pain with a joke--make 
them feel lighthearted. The loss of one man's skill weakens his whole community, 
and in a small way his nation suffers, and his world.
    We are all one fabric, humankind. To tear out a single thread unbinds us.
    And, oh, how many threads have been torn.
    Gaborn felt pangs of loss for his own father, for Iome's parents, for the 
hundreds of thousands who had already died, and for the millions that stood now 
on the threshold of death.
    He sighed. "Raj Ahten is near Kartish," Gaborn quietly informed his Days. 
"He is fading. He killed more of my Chosen today--a dozen men."
    "You spend a great deal of time worrying about the welfare of your 
adversary," the Days pointed out.
    Gaborn turned and looked at the skeletal scholar. The man sat on the cold 
rock, his knees drawn up to his chin, his robe pulled low over his face. Gaborn 
said, "I would not have any man for my enemy, if I could choose it. Do you know 
what Raj Ahten faces in Kartish?"
    "Time will reveal all things," the Days answered.
    Gaborn said, "I sense a great danger rising. I suspect that Kartish is 
already destroyed."
    "I can neither confirm nor deny such suspicions," the Days said.
    After a lifetime of living with a Days, Gaborn expected nothing more. Gaborn 
had tried his best to evince aid from this man, to no avail.
    Gaborn had memorized the drawing made by the Emir of Tuulistan. It revealed 
the Days' secret teachings from the Room of Dreams in the House of 
Understanding. As Gaborn studied the scholar before him, the image flashed 
through his mind.
    The Three Domains of Man
    The drawing detailed how each man saw himself as the lord of his own realm. 
It showed how men gauge good and evil based on whether another person enlarges 
one's territories or tries to diminish them.
    Gaborn struggled inwardly, and suddenly had an insight. It seemed to him 
that a man could not truly be good in isolation. To develop such virtue, he had 
to recognize that he was inextricably tied to his community, to the brotherhood 
of mankind.
    A truly good man, he reasoned, could not live for himself alone. Like some 
of the mystics in Indhopal who refused to wear clothes or to eat food that 
others might need, he gave himself in service.
    Gaborn keenly felt the need to become that kind of man. Though he was born 
to be a lord, he wanted to dedicate every waking moment to protecting his 
people. He wanted to consecrate every thought in their behalf, every deed. 
Yet...nothing that he did seemed enough.
    There was something in the nature of good and evil that he did not yet 
comprehend, some mystery that still eluded him.
    He blinked his eyes. They felt gritty, overused. The Days merely sat on the 
rock.
    Why? If the Days understood the nature of good and evil, why did they not 
act?
    Was the Days even human anymore? Had he no compassion? Suddenly connections 
seemed to weave together through Gaborn's mind, like lightning weaving across 
the clouds. He considered the diagram. Everything about it seemed to converge. 
He felt as if he were on the verge of revelation.
    "Time!" he whispered in triumph. Perhaps the diagram wasn't about good and 
evil at all. Perhaps it was about Time.
    The Days claimed to be servants to the Time Lords. Yet, who had ever seen a 
Time Lord? They were only legends, personifications of a force of nature.
    Now he saw something more clearly. The Days' teachings said that when a man 
seeks to take your money, or your wife, or your place in the community, you 
think him evil. But if he enlarges your stature, if he gives you praise or 
wealth or gives of his time, you think him good.
    But a thought struck Gaborn: what do I have that Time won't take from me? My 
wife, my father, my family? My wealth, my life? All that I am, Time will steal 
from me. I have nothing!
    Obviously, the Days recognized this. But something about the recognition ate 
at Gaborn. One could deduce by this argument that Time was the ultimate evil, 
for it would surely strip a man of all pride and pretentiousness.
    Gaborn wondered about his Days. He could not expect one of them to elaborate 
on his observation, or even to verify his suspicions. The order that they 
belonged to required them to remain aloof from the lords, to watch only, and 
never to influence the course of events that Time decreed.
    So they merely watched events unfold. But to what end? Why would they give 
themselves in service to Time if it was the ultimate villain?
    He had to be missing something.
    If it was true that Time strips a man of everything that he thinks he owns, 
Gaborn wondered, then perhaps the Days see ownership as an illusion? Perhaps 
they believe that good and evil are mere phantasms?
    Or maybe, Gaborn wondered, his thoughts coming in a rush, they recognize 
that Time also gives us all that we have. It brings us our homes, our wealth, 
our loved ones. Time gives us every precious second to enjoy.
    So Time may ultimately be a paradox: creator and destroyer, bringer of joy 
and sorrow.
    Perhaps the Days saw themselves as enlightened, standing aloof from that 
paradox. It certainly fit with their actions--and inaction.
    But what could they hope to gain from their service? Time. The Days served 
the Time Lords. Could they hope to gain more Time for their service? Binnesman 
had lived for hundreds of years. The Earth had extended his life. Water wizards 
also were known to live for long ages.
    Could his Days hope to similarly extend his life? It was a curious thought.
    A nagging suspicion took hold of Gaborn. In all of the chronicles of the 
lives of various kings, nothing was ever said of the Days. The authors did not 
name themselves, remained completely anonymous. From time to time, they were 
reassigned. Gaborn's own Days had come to him when he was still only a child. He 
had looked then much as he did now--skeletal, fiftyish. His hairline had not 
receded farther, no age spots had appeared in, what, fifteen years?
    Yet Gaborn could not credit the notion. If the Days did live to a long age, 
someone would have noted it before--unless, like other wizards, the Days each 
had varying degrees of power.
    Perhaps there really were Time Lords. If one of them stood before Gaborn, 
would he even know?
    "How old are you?" Gaborn asked the Days.
    The Days' head swiveled. "How old do I look?"
    "Fifty years."
    The Days nodded. "That would be about right."
    The answer was imprecise, an obvious evasion. "Whose life did you chronicle 
before you began writing my history?"
    "Picobo Zwanesh, a prince of Inkarra," the Days replied.
    Gaborn had never heard the name, or even one similar to it. Nor had he known 
that his Days could speak Inkarran. "He was the first person you chronicled?"
    "Yes." It was spoken slowly. Another evasion?
    "How long do you hope to live?"
    "From all that you say, anything beyond a week would be a great boon."
    There was a puzzle here. Something was still missing. For a moment he'd 
thought he was on the verge of a revelation. Now he wasn't sure he'd come any 
closer to the truth at all.
    His Days certainly would not provide him with any clues. Gaborn couldn't 
afford to ponder it anymore. He was too appreciative of how every precious 
second passed. The future rushed toward him. He needed to rest. The time was 
coming when he'd not be able to afford the luxury.
    Every couple of minutes, a falling star would arch through the sky like an 
arrow shot from the bow of the heavens. Shortly after midwinter, for three days 
after Bride's Feast, it was normal for the heavens to put on a display like 
this, but not now.
    "When you write the book of my life," Gaborn asked, "will you tell the world 
that it pained me to use my friends? Will you write that I wished evil upon no 
man, even my enemies?"
    The Days answered, "It is said that 'Deeds reveal the inner man, even when 
he would cloak himself in fine words.' "
    "Yet sometimes deeds tell only half a tale," Gaborn said. "I don't like 
using this child, Averan. She should be allowed to grow into a beautiful woman, 
with sons and daughters of her own, and a husband that loves her true. Your book 
will only tell that I used her badly. It shames me that I must use her at all."
    "Your sentiments will be added as a footnote," the Days said.
    "Thank you," Gaborn said sincerely.
    A shout rose in the distance, hailing Gaborn. Gaborn looked south. A knight 
rode hard toward him, a flaming brand in his hand. He recognized the scout who 
had been with Averan and Binnesman.
    "Yes?" Gaborn called.
    "Milord," the knight said, riding closer, "I've been looking for you.
    I thought you should know: the girl Averan ate of the reaver. She's very 
ill."
    Gaborn went cold. "How ill?"
    "She cried out a few times, and sweat began to pour from her. Then she fell 
to the ground and began to convulse. She bit her tongue badly, and swallowed 
some blood. She was choking on it--"
    "By the Powers!" Gaborn swore. What have I done?
    "I got a knife between her teeth and pried her mouth open, but we had to put 
her on her belly lest she smother in her own blood. We can't get drink down her 
at all."
    Gaborn leapt down from the rock, ran to his horse.
    "Binnesman and his wylde are doing their best to keep her alive," the scout 
said.
    He swung up onto his mount, urged it galloping back to the south. He came up 
on a small knot of men all in a circle.
    Two lords held Averan pinned to the ground, so that she wouldn't hurt 
herself as she convulsed. Her eyes were rolled hack in her head, showing white, 
and her eyelids quivered. Her breath came out in great wheezes.
    Binnesman stood over her, swinging his staff slowly, as he finished a higher 
incantation.
    The stench told Gaborn that she'd retched, and wet puddles in the ash showed 
the remains of her meal.
    He turned away in disgust. After long minutes, Binnesman came to his side, 
put a hand on his shoulder.
    "The reaver she ate must have been near death. It was suffering greatly. She 
had hardly finished eating, when she cried out, 'I'm dying. I'm dying.' "
    Gaborn dared not say anything.
    "She regurgitated most of the meal," Binnesman said. "In doing so, I suspect 
she saved her life."
    Gaborn shook his head, confounded, unable to think what to do next. "And 
perhaps because of it, we have lost ours."

     
     
Chapter 48
     
MATTERS OF THE HEART
    I know not which to fear most--the asp's poison, the wight's touch, or my 
wife's wrath.
    --King Daverry Morgaine
     
    Borenson stared by starlight at Myrrima's right hand. The knuckles and 
middle three fingers were icy and almost as white as the hoarfrost that blasted 
the ground for fifty yards in every direction.
    He touched her flesh, found it so bitter cold that it felt hot. Her teeth 
were chattering, and she trembled from the chill.
    The Toth wight had cast some sort of spell on her.
    "Damn," he swore. Her fingers were as good as gone. She'd lose them for 
sure--maybe the whole hand.
    Borenson's heart was still pumping frantically. The wight's dying scream 
echoed endlessly in his mind. His thoughts were racing. His wife had banished a 
wight. That couldn't happen. Only a powerful mage might have done it. And it 
looked as if she would lose her hand.
    She did it for me, he realized. She stood over me and fought the monster, 
just as she fought the reavers near Mangan's Rock.
    He couldn't think clearly. He breathed on her hand, trying to heat it.
    "Let's wrap it and try to keep it warm," he offered, pulling off his own 
cloak. He gingerly bundled the cloak around the injured hand.
    "There's no warmth left in it," Myrrima said. "The cold is spreading."
    The touch of the air around him was surprisingly bitter, as if this place 
might not thaw in a week. Ice clung to his beard. The very air felt as brittle 
as the crust of ice at his feet.
    A fire? he considered. But his fire kit was in his saddlebags. He looked 
down the road. The horses had both run off. With a wight on their tails, they'd 
probably keep running until dawn.
    "Can you walk?" Borenson asked. "Fenraven can't be far."
    "I can walk," Myrrima said through chattering teeth. "But can you keep up 
with me?" She was a Runelord now, with more endowments of brawn and metabolism 
than he, and endowments of stamina to boot. She could run farther and faster 
than he.
    "No," he said. "There's bound to be a healer in Fenraven, a midwife at 
least. Maybe you should go ahead."
    Myrrima climbed shakily to her feet. Even with all of her endowments, the 
effort seemed to drain her. She grabbed her bow, used it as a staff, and began 
to hobble forward. In his mind, Borenson recalled how Hoswell had fled the 
battlefield only hours ago using the same bow in just such a manner. He'd not 
survived.
    Borenson jogged along beside her.
    She looked down the road determinedly. "We've got to find the horses," 
Myrrima said between chattering teeth. "I put some of Binnesman's healing salve 
in my saddlebags."
    Passing out of the blasted area was a relief. The warm night air seemed to 
surge around Borenson. He felt refreshed by it, more hopeful. He realized that 
moments before he'd felt...depleted of some vital essence. He hoped that Myrrima 
would feel it too.
    Starlight shone overhead, a powder in the heavens that barely pierced the 
gauzy clouds. Soon they topped a small rise, and he looked eagerly along the 
road ahead. Night vapors spread over the muddy trail in patches. Black trees 
raked the sky with leafless limbs.
    He could see no cheering lights for miles ahead, and no sign of his horses.
    It looked like a good patch of road in which to find another wight.
    There is a rider ahead of us, he recalled. Most likely he is an assassin out 
of Muyyatin.
    Borenson had few endowments. His warhammer remained sheathed on his horse's 
back. His only weapon was the long knife strapped to his leg.
    Myrrima took a look at the horizon, groaned in despair. "How big is 
Fenraven?" she asked as she stood panting.
    "Not big," he said. He'd never been there, but knew it by reputation.
    "So, maybe--maybe we just can't see its lights. It could be close ahead."
    Borenson knew that Fenraven was situated just beyond the bogs on a small 
island. The flowing water around it was a bane to wraiths, but the people of 
Fenraven also kept lanterns outside every doorway, to make doubly sure.
    If we were even close, he knew, we'd see those lights, or smoke rising from 
the town. But there was nothing. "You could be right," he lied, trying to offer 
some comfort. "It could be anywhere."
    Myrrima nodded, hobbled on.
    For nearly half an hour he jogged to keep pace with her. He pulled off his 
armor, threw it to the ground, along with his helm.
    Myrrima's breath came in quick, shallow gasps. She held her wounded arm 
cupped against her chest like a claw, Borenson's cloak wrapped around it. He 
could tell that she was in great pain.
    They ran through the fog-shrouded woods, and Borenson listened for the 
sounds of danger or for his horses. Water dripped from tree limbs, landing in 
the mud with sucking sounds. The wind blew softly, making leaves skitter 
nervously. Borenson recalled the elemental of the Darkling Glory that had 
attacked Gaborn's camp earlier in the day, and the gale that had raced ahead of 
them inexplicably this afternoon.
    Was this some kind of vengeance? he wondered. Myrrima had done the creature 
great harm, after all. He only wished that she could have killed it.
    Myrrima slowed and began to move erratically after the first half hour, 
scampering forward in little starts and stops. He could walk as fast as she 
could by then.
    He was winded. He figured that they had covered nearly three miles. He felt 
numb all over. He kept watching her. She seemed more drained with each passing 
moment. He feared that she would collapse with nearly every step.
    They reached another hillock, looked down the road below. Stars fell, as if 
to empty the heavens.
    The hills were rising, becoming a bit taller. The fog lay thicker in the 
folds beneath. Finally, a horned moon began to climb above the horizon, limning 
it with light. In the distance to the south, he could make out the jagged white 
peaks of the Alcairs. No sign of horses, no sign of town.
    He glanced at Myrrima, and what he saw made chills lance through him. Her 
face had a deathly pallor and she breathed roughly, shallowly. With every 
breath, fog rolled out of her mouth and hung round her face in a little cloud.
    Yet it was not so cold that his breath did so.
    The Bright Ones protect her! he swore inwardly.
    "Are you all right?" he asked.
    Weakly, she shook her head no.
    "Let's have a look at that hand," he said.
    Myrrima shook her head no, pulled back, but he took her gingerly. Her right 
arm would not move. It felt as if it were frozen at the elbow. He began gently 
unwinding his cloak from around her arm. The folds of cloth had frozen to her 
flesh.
    He got it off, and found that more than her knuckles and fingers were white 
now. The ice reached all the way up her arm, and was spreading to her shoulder.
    It was as if death crept through her flesh.
    He stared at her, stricken with horror.
    Myrrima nodded, as if the sight only gave her visual confirmation of how she 
felt.
    "It will kill me," she said.
    Borenson looked about, bewildered. There was no fighting otherworldly 
powers. He was no sorcerer, had no weapons.
    "Maybe...if we cut it off..." The very notion horrified him. He had never 
performed an amputation. He had no bandages, nothing that would relieve her 
pain. And from the look of it, the arm would have to come off at the shoulder. 
He wouldn't be able to control the bleeding.
    Myrrima shook her head. "I don't...I don't think it will work."
    "Here," he said, "lean against me for a moment." He still wore the padding 
that he'd had beneath his armor, and his sweat was slick beneath it. He unlaced 
the front of it, along with his tunic, then put her arm against his side. Her 
touch was like bitter ice, and he wondered for a moment if the wight's curse 
would take him too.
    He no longer cared if it did.
    Early in the morning, he'd asked Gaborn what more he might be required to 
give. Borenson had already lost his manhood, and his virtue. Now he realized 
that he was about to lose something more, something so precious he had never 
even guessed at its worth: his wife.
    Myrrima leaned against him heavily, as if to steady herself, as her breath 
came quick and frightened.
    This isn't how it was supposed to be, he thought. When he'd left Castle 
Sylvarresta four nights ago, he'd imagined that he was leaving Myrrima forever.
    I was the one taking the road to Inkarra. I was the one who was never 
supposed to return.
    He'd been protecting himself from that knowledge. He'd refused to give 
himself to her in hopes that he would protect her too. He saw that now, all in 
flash. Myrrima was right.
    He'd tried to divorce himself from any feeling for her. But he'd loved her 
from the moment he saw her.
    He began to suspect that he knew what that meant. He'd stood at Gaborn's 
back as he studied in the House of Understanding. Borenson had never been a 
student, had kept his eyes and ears open for danger. But he had learned some 
things.
    Now, he tried to recall something he'd heard once while Gaborn listened to a 
lecture in the Room of the Heart. The memories came slowly, and Borenson 
wondered at that. Perhaps they came slowly because he'd lost endowments of wit 
when Raj Ahten destroyed the Blue Tower. Perhaps they came slowly because he'd 
never paid much attention to Hearth-master Jorlis. Who could take a man 
seriously who spent his whole life thinking about emotions?
    In the Room of the Heart, Hearthmaster Jorlis had taught that every man has 
two minds, the "scant mind" and the "deep mind."
    Jorlis had said that the scant mind was cold, logical, and rational. It knew 
little of love. It was the part of the mind that fretted about numbers and 
accounts.
    But Jorlis said that every man has another mind, a deep mind. It was the 
part of the brain that dreamed and struggled to comprehend the world. It was the 
creative mind that made unexpected insights. It was the part of the mind that 
assured you when you'd made a right choice, or that warned against danger by 
sending feelings of uncertainty or fear.
    Borenson had always felt skeptical of such teachings. After all, Jorlis was 
a bit of a pansy--a big-boned man with red cheeks and soft flesh.
    But Jorlis claimed that the deep mind would ponder problems for weeks or 
months, independent of the scant mind, until it discovered solutions that the 
scant mind could never fathom. Thus, he believed that the deep mind was far 
wiser than the scant mind.
    Jorlis had said that when a man fell in love with a woman at first sight, it 
was a warning from the deep mind that the woman before him matched his vision of 
an ideal mate.
    The deep mind created that image. It told a man that his perfect love would 
have the kindness of his aunt, and the eyes of his mother. She might treat 
children as tenderly as a neighbor did, and have his father's sense of humor. 
All of these traits were then bound into an image, woven from borrowed threads 
into a crude tapestry.
    "The recognition you feel when you meet the woman of your dreams, that rush 
of dizziness and thrill of discovery," Jorlis had taught, "is merely the deep 
mind speaking to you. It is warning you that it recognizes in someone some 
virtues that you've long sought. The deep mind is not always right, but it is 
always worth listening to."
    Nonsense, Borenson had thought. Jorlis had always seemed to be a touch off.
    But with Myrrima, everything that she had done was beginning to convince 
Borenson that in his case, the deep mind was right.
    She was everything that he'd ever hoped for in a woman. She was full of 
warmth and compassion and endless devotion. All his life, he'd felt as if he 
were but half a man.
    Myrrima completed him.
    So he held her.
    The cold of her wound seeped into his side, and if his attempt to warm her 
did any good, he could not tell. He bore it for long minutes, as her face went 
pale and her trembling increased. The fog around her mouth came out thicker with 
every breath.
    "Hold my hand," she begged weakly, through chattering teeth. He took her 
frozen right hand in his, but she shook her head. "Not that one. I can't feel 
anything."
    He gripped it anyway, took her left hand too. The cold from her right hand 
was like a fire, burning up his arm. It could not easily be borne.
    He wondered if he could divert the cold, let himself become a conduit for 
her death.
    Take me, he begged of the Powers. Take me instead.
    She leaned against him heavily, her head resting against his shoulder.
    "I love you," he whispered into her ear.
    She nodded slightly. "I know."
    In the distance, a lone wolf howled at the rising moon out in the woods, 
while stars streaked through the night sky.
    He kissed her brow, and Myrrima fell into him, a dead weight. He held her up 
for a moment. She was breathing still, but he could not guess how much longer 
she might hold on.
    It was late, past midnight, he figured. He felt hungry and exhausted. He had 
few endowments to help him, none of stamina, and he had no idea how far Fenraven 
might be. Miles, he suspected.
    He considered abandoning Myrrima while he went for help. She was a large 
woman, and he didn't know how far he could carry her. But the wolf was howling, 
and he dared not leave her. Besides, he knew that she would not want to die 
alone. He carried her.

     
     
Chapter 49
STARFALL
    Catastrophe teaches us humility, compassion, courage, and perseverance. 
Beyond that, it's an absolute bother and I have no use for it.
    --Duke Paldane
     
    At the Courts of Tide, yet another tremor struck. Messengers from all over 
the countryside carried reports of the damage to Iome. In the hours since the 
quakes first hit, towers in a dozen castles had collapsed, along with a bridge 
that joined two of the larger islands in the city.
    More frightening were reports of damage in the poorer quarters. There, cheap 
shanties collapsed and caught flame, so that even now the people of the Courts 
of Tide battled fires on a dozen fronts. Worse, huge waves beat the northern 
shores after the first temblor. The waves capsized boats and swept more than a 
thousand cottages into the sea.
    The death toll would not be known for days.
    So fires lit the city, while pillars of smoke rose.
    Servants and guards from Gaborn's palace all took refuge outside, bringing 
blankets and furs to lie on.
    No one slept.
    Lanterns brightened the courtyard. The cooks carried out stores of bread, 
huge hams, and slabs of beef. In an attempt to lighten the mood, the king's 
minstrels decided to play.
    It made for a macabre carnival.
    Iome felt almost as if she were accursed by the Earth.
    But as reports came in, she realized that the tremors had nothing to do with 
her. Apparently the devastation was worse a dozen miles north, where whole 
villages had been flattened.
    Messengers inundated the castle, requesting men to help in rescue efforts. 
Chamberlain Westhaven, who handled the normal duties while the king was gone, 
deferred judgment on such matters to Iome.
    For hours Iome sat in the open courtyard while the minstrels played and 
couriers bore tales of woe. With the help of various scribes and minor lords, 
she levied lords for men to help with the rescue efforts and to feed and shelter 
the homeless. She appropriated funds to begin rebuilding.
    In one night she spent twelve times as much gold as her father would have in 
a year, until she began to worry whether she squandered Gaborn's wealth.
    She had no experience running such a large kingdom. The problem threatened 
to overwhelm her. Time and again, Chamberlain Westhaven offered advice at 
crucial moments. He was a competent man and knew the realm far better than she 
did.
    As she worked, her Days curled up on the ground and merely watched, trying 
not to sleep. A dozen times after Iome had brought the girl out of the tower, 
the Days thanked her profusely. For long minutes, the girl could not help 
crying, and Iome longed to give her comfort.
    Obviously, the Days worried for her family, a few miles to the north.
    Yet Iome could not feel any comfort herself. There had been strange tremors 
in Heredon before she left. She'd felt them again south of Carris, and now here 
at the Courts of Tide. Were they related?
    Gaborn claimed it was a message: The Earth was in pain. But if the minor 
tremors had been a sign of its pain, Iome wondered, what could this devastating 
quake mean?
    Intuition told her that these matters were related. She tried not to worry 
about it.
    Thus the ground shook and fires raged throughout the city when a tall, gaunt 
scholar came through the crowd that had gathered in the courtyard around the 
King's Keep.
    He wore a blue robe with silver stars sewn upon it, marking him as a 
stargazer. He had a long silver beard and piercing eyes.
    Chamberlain Westhaven leaned close and whispered, "Hearthmaster Jennaise, 
from the Room of Stars. I suspect that his watchtower has fallen. But may I 
remind Your Highness that we do not spend funds repairing their buildings. The 
House of Understanding has always been supported solely by its patrons."
    Iome nodded.
    The stargazer strode to Iome and said in a Ferecian accent, "Your Highness, 
I beg the queen's ear. We have a great problem, an unprecedented problem."
    "How may I help you, Hearthmaster Jennaise?"
    "I'm not sure where to begin," the stargazer said in a befuddled tone. Of 
course not, she thought. Ferecians never know where to begin, or how to finish, 
or when to get to the point.
    "Your watchtower has sustained damage?"
    "The observatory? It's a mess--charts and scrolls everywhere. And there was 
a fire! My assistant nearly died trying to save the maps. It will take weeks to 
clean it. I'm sure the water we threw on the fire did as much damage as the 
flames themselves--but, er, uh, that is not your concern, is it? Indeed, I'm not 
sure if any of this is your concern."
    "Nor am I," Iome said quite frankly, for she had no more idea what his 
problem was than when he had first opened his mouth.
    He looked at the crowd of servants and whispered, "Your Highness, may we 
speak privately?"
    Iome nodded, and together they strolled through the courtyard over to the 
shadows beneath a pair of pecan trees, in a dark corner by the castle wall.
    "Milady," he said, "what do you know of the stars?"
    "They're pretty," Iome said dryly.
    "Yes," Jennaise said. "And you may also know that as the seasons progress, 
the constellations rotate about the sky. At the first of the year, Elwind rides 
over the mountains of the north. But at high summer he is almost straight 
overhead."
    "I know," Iome said.
    "Then it is with great...bewilderment that I must report that the stars are 
wrong."
    "What?" Iome asked.
    "The stars are wrong tonight. It is all very baffling. Tonight is the third 
of the month of Leaves. But by our charts, the stars read as if it were the 
twentieth of the month of Harvest--off by two weeks."
    "How can that be?" Iome asked. "Could the charts be wrong? Perhaps--"
    "The charts are not wrong. I've been over them a hundred times. I can think 
of only one explanation," Jennaise answered. "The world is taking some new path 
through the heavens. Even the moon--by my preliminary measurements--"
    A moment before Iome had felt overwhelmed. Now she was staggered. She stared 
at him with her mouth open, and finally managed to ask, "What can we do?"
    Jennaise shook his head. "I--perhaps no one can help. But your husband is 
the Earth King."
    Suddenly she recalled Averan's words. The One True Master was binding the 
Rune of Desolation to the Runes of Heaven and the Inferno. She planned to make a 
new world, where mankind would not survive.
    Could she wrest the Earth from its appointed course? "Of course," Iome said. 
"I'll--send word immediately."
    Even if the One True Master had done this, how could Gaborn stop her? He'd 
lost most of his own powers.
    The stargazer turned to leave, and Iome desperately cast her eyes over the 
courtyard. She called for a courier, thinking to pen a message to Gaborn.
    But even as she began thinking how to frame the words, she realized that she 
wasn't telling Gaborn anything that he didn't already know.
    He'd warned Iome that if he did not destroy the reavers' lord, his people 
would all die. He knew the danger as well as she did.
    Or did he? she wondered. Gaborn could sense danger, but he could never tell 
from what quarter it might come. And nearly all of his Chosen in Mystarria were 
still near the city of Carris. He couldn't sense danger to those outside the 
city. She wondered what Gaborn would say if she warned him of her suspicions of 
an impending attack here at the Courts of Tide. Would he ask her to go, or to 
stay? She wondered what he would say if he knew that the world was out of its 
course.
    Just then, Grimeson came into the courtyard with a facilitator in tow. 
"Milady," he shouted. "We got them endowments that Gaborn wanted."
    Iome's thoughts had been a jumble. She'd forgotten about the endowments. 
Gaborn had ordered the facilitators to prepare vectors for Averan. Now, the 
facilitator would need to escort the vectors to Gaborn.
    "Get horses and set off immediately," Iome told Grimeson. "Every second 
counts."
    "Milady," Grimeson said, "these vectors have been up all night. I wouldn't 
want one of them to fall off his horse. There's royal carriages that would be 
almost as fast as a horse."
    "By all means then, we'll take carriages."
    "We?"
    Iome felt as if the world were falling apart around her. Gaborn had sent her 
here to be "safe." But the quakes had struck and towers collapsed and the stars 
were falling. The world was out of its course.
    No place was safe.
    Her place was beside Gaborn, but she couldn't follow him into the 
Underworld. There, she would only be a liability to him. He was the Earth King 
still, and though his powers were diminished, he alone might stand against the 
reaver lord.
    Yet there had to be something more that she could do than wait here at the 
Courts of Tide. She glanced back over her shoulder, saw Chamberlain Westhaven 
taking a few moments to advise half a dozen lords in her absence. He knew this 
realm better than she did.
    "Grimeson," she said with finality. "Get my escort. I'm coming with you. I 
need to speak to Gaborn."
    She penned a note to Chamberlain Westhaven, warning him to prepare for an 
attack from the sea, and handed it to a page.
    In moments she was gone.

     
     
Chapter 50
REMEMBERING SUMMER
    A thousand blows struck in battle bring a man less honor than a single act 
of compassion.
    --Ivarian Borenson
     
    Borenson staggered through the dark moors, carrying Myrrima in his arms. She 
was a big woman, and even with an endowment of brawn, he could not carry her 
easily--he tired too quickly.
    As he carried her, he clung to her right hand, gripping it for life, hoping 
that by some miracle he could help her hold on for a while longer.
    It made little difference, he suspected.
    In fact, after an hour, he knew that it made no difference. The bleak cold 
from her hand froze his bones, making them hard as iron. His own right hand 
became locked to hers.
    He did not regret his decision to hold her, to warm her. He regretted only 
that he could not feel her hand anymore, for his own flesh seemed to have frozen 
as solid as midwinter ice.
    So he bore her over uneven ground. He listened to her teeth chatter, and 
each time a puff of icy air came from her mouth, he thought it a small miracle.
    It became a chore to walk. Sweat poured from him and his legs burned. 
Without an endowment of stamina, he tired as quickly and deeply as any other 
man. He dared not rest, for fear that if he stopped, then he would not regain 
the will to move again.
    So he staggered on beneath the dripping trees and starlit skies over a land 
so dank it was fit only for newts and worms. The wolf continued to howl. He no 
longer feared assassins or wights. He knew his own death would not be far away. 
The cold of the Toth's wight stole the heat from his own hand, had worked its 
way down to his elbow. His prayer had been answered in part.
    Myrrima would die. He could not stop it. But he also knew that he could not 
live much longer. He had taken her death into himself as well.
    So it was that as he walked, he felt an odd sensation between his legs as 
his testicles suddenly dropped.
    He had had no premonition, no tingling or warning. Indeed, he had forgotten 
that little boys are not born with hanging walnuts. Instead, they ripen in small 
sacs between their legs, and drop after a couple of years.
    The wizard's balm had worked its miracle. There could have been no more 
natural way for it to happen.
    "I'll pay that damned wizard no more than a pint for the both of them," 
Borenson choked, and laughed at fate's cruel jest.
    He kept walking. Lift a foot, plod forward. Lift a foot, stagger on.
    He could no longer hold his head up. With every step, the world seemed to 
swim, and his eyes would not focus.
    He lost consciousness, and walked for a while in a dreamscape where 
Myrrima's shade floated beside him.
    "I'm coming with you to Inkarra no matter what," she said. "Leave my body 
here, and I'll follow. It's all gone cold anyway."
    An overwhelming sadness took him, and he looked down to discover if it was 
true. He couldn't see whether she was breathing anymore. Icy cold ran up the 
length of his own arm, pierced his shoulder now.
    He wanted nothing more than to lie down with Myrrima to die.
    He thought about the message for King Zandaros. He wasn't sure that he could 
deliver it any longer. He'd always tried to be faithful to Gaborn. It hurt to 
find that he had failed him at last.
    It was bound to happen, Borenson told himself.
    And Daylan Hammer, that mythical figure, was still supposed to be in 
Inkarra. What of the Sum of All Men? Did he even exist?
    He kept walking, and must have slept as he did. He stumbled into a 
streambed, slipped on round wet stones. One of them drove into his knee, waking 
him. It was hazy. Mist rose up from the brook, filling its channel with a thick 
fog. He got up, waded in water up to his hips across the stream, under the dark 
trees.
    I must be getting close to Fenraven, he thought.
    He heard a horse whicker. He jumped, realized that he had passed it in the 
dark, or fog, or perhaps in his sleep.
    His own warhorse, the one he'd let Myrrima ride, stood beside the brook, its 
reins tangled in a limb. He went to it, held Myrrima still as he dug into the 
saddlebags.
    He found the wizard's balm, as she'd said.
    He pulled it out, managed to open the tin with one hand. He looked at 
Myrrima for a long moment. It was dark and foggy. He could hardly see for the 
burning sweat that stung his eyes. He could not tell if she breathed anymore. If 
her chest rose and fell, he could not detect it.
    He gazed up at the sky, saw a pair of stars plunging through the night. The 
horizon seemed to be lighter. Soon dawn would come. He wondered if he would live 
to see it.
    He sat down with Myrrima, and smeared the wizard's balm up her arm, over her 
wrist, and between each finger on her right hand.
    He spared only the tiniest bit for himself. There was precious little of it 
left.
    Then he lay down with her beside the stream. He tried to listen to the plink 
of water as it tumbled over stones. He gazed at the odd way that fog coursed 
along the channel. He sniffed the scent of moist ground. A cricket chirped in a 
thicket of brambles, adding a lonely serenade to the music of the water. He 
could feel nothing in his right hand. He lay against Myrrima, hoping to warm 
her.
    His thoughts came muzzily. He felt weary nigh to death, but could not sleep.
    For a long hour he remained as the stars began to fade, and if his wife 
breathed, he could not see it, could not feel it. He caressed her chin. It was 
cold to the touch.
    She's dead, he finally admitted, his mind reeling in a daze.
    The balm had warmed his hand, brought some life back to it. He pried it 
loose from Myrrima's frozen grasp.
    There was no use pretending any longer, or hoping that she might live. On 
the Isle of Thwynn, where Borenson was born, the dead were not consigned to the 
earth, but to the sea.
    So he kissed Myrrima goodbye, and begged her forgiveness for loving her 
poorly. Then he carried her back to the brook, and waded in to his hips. The 
water seemed warmer than the night air. It still remembered summer.
    Somewhere in the distance, a cock crowed. His mind was a muddle from 
fatigue. He gave his wife to the stream and to the mist, let her float along the 
brook. Part of him could not believe that she was gone. It is that way with 
death. He stared into the mist, listened to the stream's music. "Let her find 
peace in your embrace," he whispered to the brook, "as you carry her to the 
sea."
    He felt as if he had somehow betrayed his wife. But in his spent and 
confused state, he couldn't figure out why. He turned and staggered to his 
mount. There would be an inn at Fenraven, but he doubted that he would find 
comfort there.

     
     
Chapter 51
THE POINT OF NO RETURN
    Life is a journey, and with every step we reach a point of no return.
    --Gaborn Val Orden
     
    Dawn found Averan lying in a fetal position beside Spring in the back of a 
wagon as it thundered along a road, heading south from Carris. Averan's tongue 
had quit bleeding where she'd bitten it, but sweat soaked her thin robe. A large 
praying mantis rode on the buckboard above her, having turned as gray-brown as 
the wagon. It stood perfectly still.
    Averan lay trembling in pain, wrung out. But the convulsions had mostly 
stopped an hour ago. She knew that she would live.
    Worst of all, she knew that she had failed. She'd fed upon the wrong reaver 
again. The Waymaker was still out there in the reaver horde, waiting for Gaborn 
to hunt him down. Waiting for Averan.
    She shook her head in despair. The reavers were suffering more than men 
could suffer. She knew that now. Their capacity to endure pain far exceeded that 
of a man. Averan feared that if she tried to eat again, she'd die. Yet if she 
found the Waymaker, she couldn't refuse to try.
    She knew little of the blade-bearer she had eaten. Cunning Eater was its 
name. His few memories tormented her.
    Cunning Eater had often tunneled beneath enemy hives and masterminded his 
queen's wars of genocide. The visions Averan faced were atrocious--charging 
through enemy tunnels, tearing off the sweet meat of enemy corpses and gulping 
them down with a ravenous appetite. In her memory, none were spared. Even the 
eggs of enemy queens became food for Cunning Eater's horde. No human lord had 
ever been as rapacious as the monster Averan had eaten.
    He had been a master of war, one who had studied ancient battles against 
mankind and sought to devise new stratagems.
    Averan closed her eyes against the rising sun, tried to forget.
    Still the wagon raced on, chasing the reavers' trail. In the still dawn the 
high clouds blanketed the skies like a sheet of white silk, while behind it the 
sun was a rose-colored lamp, all incandescent. A morning mist roamed the fields.
    The reavers thundered over the plains, black in the wan morning light, like 
a vast stampede of elephants as they rocked across the golden grasslands, 
stirring up dust and sending starlings to wheel through the sky in fretful 
clouds.
    But the reavers plodded slowly now. In five hours during the night they had 
traveled fewer than forty miles.
    The reavers had spent themselves. Averan could feel it from Cunning Eater's 
every memory. Sweat still squeezed from her every pore. A ravenous thirst still 
assailed her. She drank, but water did not satisfy. She craved more, but when 
men offered it to her fresh, she sniffed at it and panicked. She wanted sulfur 
in it.
    The reavers themselves had begun to show signs that they were failing. In 
the night, first one reaver and then another dropped from the marching line. 
They did not stop, just simply began loping in circles. Their left legs kept 
marching while their right could not, so that they spun around on the ground 
like water beetles on the surface of a pool.
    Gaborn himself had ridden up to her wagon in the predawn darkness an hour 
ago, pointed out the afflicted reavers by moonlight and asked, "Do you know what 
it means?"
    "They're dying of thirst," she confirmed.
    "Let's hope for a warm day then," he'd said. "Maybe a bit of sun will hurry 
their end."
    Now, Averan's left arm spasmed in a cramp. She cried out. Spring crept up 
beside her in the bed of the wagon and began stroking Averan's hair.
    A memory carried Averan back to when she was small. She remembered a picnic 
with her mother at Kellysbrook, just outside the Boar and Stag back home.
    She must have been very small. It was the first time she remembered ever 
really seeing a stream.
    The water of Kellysbrook tumbled down from the hills, burbling over round 
stones pounded as smooth as porcelain by the waves. Water so cold that it should 
have been ice spilled upon the gravelly banks. The taste of the freshet was like 
freezing rain in the air, and the jingle and chink of water on rock became a 
soothing music. The water misted her face.
    In places the stream slowed and dropped into languid pools. There, minnows 
darted in the shadows of moss-laden logs, and water striders danced upon the 
deep.
    For hours she had searched among the pools for shy crayfish that walked 
about with their bouncing gait.
    Afterward, Averan lay beneath a willow in a patch of sunlight as her mother 
told her stories, stroking her hair. But Averan was a long way from Kellysbrook 
now. It seemed like forever ago.
    As Averan shivered in the green woman's arms, she looked up into the 
creature's eyes. Spring's touch was soothing, and Averan could feel Earth Power 
in her, but it wasn't soothing like a mother's touch.
    Something enigmatic, wild and feral, gleamed in Spring's eyes. The green 
woman was not a woman at all, not her mother or a friend. Spring was not even an 
animal.
    "Can you help me?" Averan asked. "Can you help me find the Waymaker?"
    The green woman made no answer. She didn't even understand the question.
    Suddenly, from the wagons and men all around, a cheer arose.
    Averan climbed up, looked around. The soldiers were riding slowly across the 
plains, the Frowth giants following in their trail. The reavers kept to their 
formation. She could see no cause for celebration.
    "What's going on?" Averan asked the wagon driver.
    He glanced back over the buckboard. "We've passed the point of no return. 
It's closer for the reavers to head to the Underworld now than to turn back for 
Carris."
    The men cheered as if it were a great victory.
    Gaborn spurred his mount past the line of wains, and a wounded knight in a 
wagon ahead called, "Are we going to make another charge?"
    "Not yet!" he warned. Gaborn studied the reavers pensively, looked to Averan 
as if for advice, but asked nothing. Instead, he continued to ride alongside her 
wagon.
    The reavers dragged themselves homeward at a plodding pace as Gaborn's 
armies rode their flanks.
    The sun had just topped the horizon when Gaborn suddenly blew his warhorn, 
calling retreat. He shouted to the wagon drivers. "Turn the wains around, 
quickly! Go back!"
    "What is it? What's going on?" Averan's driver asked. He studied the reavers 
uncertainly. Nothing had changed. They still moved south. He slowed the horses, 
wheeled the wagon. He snapped his whip over the horses' heads, and the wagon 
began to bounce over the highway as the force horses gathered speed.
    Still, he couldn't give the animals their heads. These were big draft horses 
used for carrying goods swiftly, but few had more than a single endowment of 
metabolism. The train could move along the road only as fast as the slowest 
team.
    "Get off the road!" Gaborn shouted to the drivers. "Give your horses their 
heads. The reavers are going to charge!"
    Averan climbed up from her blanket, and watched the reavers for any sign of 
danger.
    She could see no hint of it. Her driver pulled off the road and snapped his 
whip. The wheels sang and the wagon bounced over rocks and roots. The wagons and 
their drivers threw long shadows in the early morning light.
    After two or three minutes, suddenly the whole horde halted in their march, 
and a hissing erupted from the reavers' lines.
    Thousands of the behemoths rose up on their back legs and stood for several 
long seconds. They faced east into the morning light, philia waving excitedly.
    The hissing grew louder and louder. The reavers seemed agitated, or maybe 
frightened.
    Averan's driver cursed his horses and asked, "What's going on?"
    "They smell something," Averan warned. Gaborn's men had been riding their 
flanks. Averan's wagon was perhaps two miles up the side of their lines.
    It looked almost as if the reavers were trying to catch a glimpse of 
something, or to taste an elusive scent.
    Averan turned east, but could spot nothing on the horizon--only golden 
plains with oaks rising here and there, some distant hills.
    Do they smell another war party? she wondered. Were they hoping for 
reinforcements, or was an army riding to Gaborn's aid? She doubted it.
    She searched the skies for sign of thunderclouds on the horizon.
    As she did, the reavers charged straight toward Gaborn's troops. The lords 
on their force horses easily outpaced the monsters, but the Frowth giants were 
hard-pressed. They loped along the field, swinging their arms hugely in a 
bouncing gait. The frowth's nostrils flared, and they called out to one another 
in their own tongue.
    Now the wagon drivers whistled and cracked their whips, shouting, "Haw, 
there! Haw!"
    Horses whinnied in terror.
    She saw one team of horses swerve into another. Their lines tangled and a 
horse tripped. A wagon spilled lances to the ground, throwing the drivers down 
like dolls.
    One driver limped up to grab the back of the closest passing wain. The other 
driver did not move.
    Reavers thundered toward Gaborn's flank. They ran with renewed vigor, faster 
than she'd have thought possible, their teeth flashing in the morning sunlight.
    Averan couldn't understand why the reavers suddenly took the offensive.
    Gaborn's knights wheeled northeast. The men on chargers could easily outpace 
the monsters. But her wagon was another matter. It bounced over the plains, and 
threw Averan into the air each time a wheel hit a rock. She heard a crack as an 
axle split.
    She clutched the sideboards. The Frowth giants raced along now, almost to 
the wagons. The reavers closed the gap. Her heart hammered.
    Spring stood up in the wagonbed. The Wylde watched the monsters intensely, 
as if she would pounce on the first one that drew near.
    A reaver close to the front ranks grabbed a fair-sized boulder and hurled 
it. The stone streaked ahead two hundred yards and slammed a nearby wain.
    The wain shattered. Its driver and horses disintegrated without a scream, 
becoming a bloody spray. Splinters of the wood hurtled dozens of yards in the 
air, and spokes and bits of metal rained down over the plain, among gobbets of 
flesh.
    Other reavers quickly repeated the feat, demolishing another dozen supply 
wains.
    Averan's driver cracked his whip, sent his wagon bouncing over the prairie 
even faster. It hit a dip, and Averan heard the axle crack again.
    A reaver roared, went striding past her wagon.
    One reaver galumphed forward, an enormous blade-bearer with a knight gig in 
its front paws. She recalled from Cunning Eater's memories how brutally 
effective such a weapon could be in experienced hands.
    "Help!" Averan screamed.
    She needn't have bothered. Her driver was snapping the whip at the horses' 
ears, shouting for them to hurry. He urged the team east, nearly tipping the 
wagon, but effectively racing from the monster's path.
    The enormous blade-bearer cut off the retreat of the wagon behind them.
    Averan saw the driver's face. He was an old man with silver hair and a worn 
leather coat over his ruddy tunic. He screamed in panic, tried to veer east too.
    The blade-bearer's huge paw snaked out, and she feared that the monster 
would impale the man before her eyes. Instead its knight gig snagged the lead 
horse by the neck. The reaver jerked hard, tearing the horse away. But it was 
tied to its traces.
    The whole wagon jerked violently, and the second horse went down as the 
single tree snapped. The wagon's front wheel hit a falling horse, and the wain 
bounced high in the air. Then the whole wain came down hard, flipping end over 
end.
    Averan closed her eyes, didn't want to see what happened to the wagonmaster.
    Suddenly she realized that her driver was pulling away from the reaver's 
lines.
    The reavers could have turned to press the attack, wiping out another thirty 
or forty wagons, but they didn't. Instead the horde flowed together, taking a 
new formation, as they rushed to the east.
    Huge blade-bearers joined ranks in a pentagon nearly a mile to each side, 
while smaller reavers made up a star at its center. Within each arm of the star, 
a few scarlet sorceresses gathered in an elongated triangle. A fell mage and her 
escorts took up the center of the star. Averan recognized the formation, dredged 
it from Cunning Eater's few memories.
    The reavers called it the Form of War.
    It was not a formation designed for speedy flight. It was designed for a 
military charge.
    She clung to the side panels of the wagon, heart pounding in terror, 
thinking furiously. Her stomach knotted. She fought to calm herself.
    The driver let his wagon slow. The reavers had passed them now, were 
charging away.
    Averan had flown over these plains before, knew every city, every hamlet. To 
the east lay only hills for a bit, and beyond that the Donnestgree River twisted 
lazily over the plain. Villages and farms were everywhere along its banks. But 
the only city of import was Feldonshire, forty-five miles east.
    Feldonshire was a sprawling tangle of cottages, shops, wheat mills, farms, 
and breweries set in wooded hills. From the sky it didn't look like a city quite 
so much as a cluster of villages strung together.
    Averan could think of nothing there that the reavers might want--no 
fortresses, nothing.
    Gaborn shouted as his charger raced up, paced beside the wain. "They're 
attacking Feldonshire."
    Gaborn, riding hard, watched the reavers' lines in confusion. He could feel 
danger rising rapidly in Feldonshire, some forty-five miles to his east. Many of 
the wounded from Carris had floated downriver in the night. Now they were 
bivouacked in the city. His Earth senses screamed a warning to his Chosen, 
"Flee! Flee!"
    The horde stampeded in a strange new formation over the golden plains. Dust 
and chaff thrown in the air during their passage rose for thousands of feet. The 
morning sun arching through the clouds cast a strange, yellowish pall.
    But why Feldonshire?
    "Water!" Averan said. "They're going to water!"
    "In Feldonshire?" Gaborn asked.
    "No, to the ponds at Stinkwater, just three miles past the city!" Averan 
said. "I've seen them from the air--like green gems. The water has sulfur in 
it!"
    Gaborn knew of the ponds. The hot mineral water that flowed up from the 
ground was a curse to those who lived nearby. No one farmed for miles around, 
and on cold winter mornings, vapors from ponds sometimes blew all the way to 
Feldonshire.
    Could it be? he wondered. "But Feldonshire is forty-five miles from here!"
    Averan nodded vigorously. "We know it's forty-five miles, but maybe the 
reavers don't. To them the water is just a smell in the air."
    Could a reaver scent water that far away? he wondered. Wolves could smell 
blood at four miles, and the Stinkwater probably had an odor stronger than 
blood.
    So the reavers charged east, straight into the wind. A line of oak-covered 
hills rose up. The reavers would bull through the woods, blazing a trail of 
devastation a mile wide.
    Gaborn licked his lips. Some reavers had already fallen out of the ranks, 
too weak to keep up the grueling pace. Several hundred lancers chased after 
them.
    Forty-five miles. How long could they run before they exhausted themselves?
    One way or another, he was determined to kill the Waymaker. He'd have to 
move quickly to head them off.
    "Skalbairn," Gaborn shouted. "Send a dozen of your fastest riders to 
Feldonshire. If it's water that the reavers want, make sure that they don't get 
it."
    "Milord?" Skalbairn asked.
    "Poison the ponds," Gaborn ordered.
    "Poison them?" Binnesman demanded.
    Gaborn frowned. He was the Earth King, and the Earth was allied with Water. 
For generations, his forefathers had allied with Water.
    "It's not a choice I make lightly," Gaborn said.
    "What should we use?" Skalbairn asked.
    "Anything at hand," Gaborn said. "Go to the woodcarvers' guild. Ask 
Guildmaster Wallachs for help."
    "Aye," Skalbairn said. He called out to some men, sent them racing off for 
Feldonshire. Baron Waggit rode with them.
    But poisoning the water wouldn't be enough. The reavers would head through 
Feldonshire.
    Gaborn sensed danger to thousands of refugees. He could imagine what the 
banks of the river must look like, with the camps of the wounded there.
    He would need to turn the horde if he could, block their path--or at least 
delay them long enough to save his people.
    At the rate the horde was running, they'd reach Feldonshire in two hours. 
Even his fastest couriers would have to ride up the road nine miles to Ballyton, 
then cut southeast. Their trail would be sixty miles. Even on force horses, that 
would take the better part of an hour.
    That would leave the people of Feldonshire only an hour to evacuate.
    "You men," Gaborn called to another dozen Runelords. "Go get the philia from 
some reavers' bungholes. We'll set another fire against them! Perhaps we can 
scare them off again. Does anyone here know Feldonshire?"
    A young lord answered from the ranks. "Your Highness, my family is from 
there. I grew up in Darkwald."
    Darkwald was a forest of black walnut north of Feldonshire. The local 
craftsmen used the wood for carving tables, placards, wooden howls, fine chests 
and wardrobes, decorative mantels, and ornate doors. Many of Mystarria's finest 
treasures had been carved in Feldonshire.
    "Then you'll know where to start the fire?"
    The lord glanced at the reavers' trail. "Shrewsvale."
    "You'd burn a village?" Gaborn asked.
    "I don't want to--I have a sister who lives there. But that's where the 
reavers are heading, if I have my guess."
    Another lord spoke. "He's right. The hills rise up on either side, and 
Shrewsvale is in the midst of the pass. There'd be no better place to stop the 
reavers."
    Gaborn had heard that there was a good inn at the top of the pass.
    He jutted his chin at Langley. "Take a thousand lancers on slow mounts, 
along with the Frowth, and follow the reavers. Cut down any that fall behind, 
but don't engage the main force. Be sure to note the position of any that might 
be the Waymaker.
    "I'll take the thousand fastest men to Shrewsvale."

     
     
Chapter 52
THE FORTRESS
    If we must die, at least let us die in splendor.
    --A Prayer of Indhopal
     
    The slow dawn rose above Kartish, painting a pink haze above the gray and 
blasted lands. Raj Ahten prepared for his attack on the reaver fortress. No 
birds sang. No cattle walked the fields. Not even a lonely wind sighed.
    Shadows puddled in the hollows, while sunlight gilded the hilltops. 
Overhead, a single flameweaver rode the spy balloon, along with two common 
troops. The graak-shaped balloon hovered in the still air like a seagull.
    Raj Ahten stood on a ridge, glaring down. Below him, the reaver fortress was 
a monstrosity. A vile brown haze circled the place, swirling in a vast circle as 
if it were a slow tornado. Through wisps of fog he could see hundreds of 
thousands of dead men lying on the battlefield. Pusnabish had led his men to 
war, but the fell mage's curses were so strong that no commoner could survive 
that swirling mist. Men and mounts with as many as three endowments of stamina 
stepped into the nebula and could only stagger a dozen yards before collapsing.
    Worse than that, Raj Ahten's sorcerers warned him that the mist was bound to 
its course. Even a driving wind at sunset had not diminished it. Instead, the 
haze circled maddeningly, as if it occupied its own space and time.
    Raj Ahten would not be able to send commoners into this fray. They would 
only avail if the reavers sought to escape.
    At Carris, Raj Ahten had seen glue mums erect a single black tower that 
leaned at an odd angle. The tower had twisted around like a narwhale's horn.
    Here, the reavers had constructed nine such spires in a circle, each leaning 
out. It reminded Raj Ahten of a glistening black crown of thorns.
    Within that circle was a nest, or fortress, concocted of strands of 
blue-white mucilage laid out in a bizarre and complex pattern. Smaller black 
spikes and spires shot out of the fortress like the spines of a sea urchin, and 
everywhere were diminutive holes--similar to kill holes and archery slots in a 
human castle.
    Raj Ahten could see no exterior guards. Yet through the kill holes he 
spotted an eerie sheen the color of life, a color that only his eyes could see.
    Reavers hid inside their fortress in vast numbers.
    Around the fortress, steep trenches would prevent a charger from drawing 
near. The trenches looked to be twenty feet deep or more. Even a Runelord in 
armor would be hard-pressed to climb their sides.
    Beyond the fortress itself, amid the piles of tailings from the mine, was a 
reaver city. The entrances to burrows reared up by the thousands.
    This is folly, Raj Ahten told himself. At Carris his knights had fought to 
hold the walls of a sturdy castle with only one entrance. It had proven to be 
nearly impossible. Here he would have to attack the reavers in their own 
fortress, a stronghold of unknown design.
    Strange looking reavers clung to the top of each black spire. He had not 
seen such reavers at Carris. They were a new subspecies, never described in the 
old bestiaries.
    The bony plates of their heads jutted back at a peculiar angle, making their 
muzzles exceptionally long. Each of these reavers had thirty-six philia. Their 
forearms also seemed to be longer than those on a blade-bearer. Their hides were 
a tannish-gray. They stood atop their spires, and their heads swiveled.
    Though Raj Ahten crouched on a ridge nearly two miles away, the reavers 
swung toward him and waved their philia questioningly.
    A common reaver would not have spotted him.
    Even reavers have their far-seers, he realized. This breed must be rare 
indeed, if only these few keep guard here.
    He took it as a sign. Truly, the legendary Lord of the Underworld had 
surfaced. Now Raj Ahten would battle the monster.
    He studied the reaver's fortress in mingled wonder and confusion. No castle 
had ever survived Raj Ahten's attack.
    A fortress is merely a shell for the cornered enemy to hide in, he reminded 
himself.
    Raj Ahten squinted, checking the strange building for signs of weakness. He 
could see none, but he was not dissuaded. He had shattered fortresses with his 
Voice alone, and though it had proven ineffective when he tried it with the 
reavers' construct at Carris, he felt certain that he would find some weakness 
in the reavers' defenses.
    Pusnabish had served him well in preparing for this battle. For the past two 
days, he'd kept his troops busy. Force horses had brought ballistas from every 
fortress within two hundred miles, raiding the defenses of the richest castles 
in all of Indhopal.
    Pusnabish had sent to Aven and retrieved the volatile powders that Raj 
Ahten's flameweavers had been experimenting with.
    He'd gathered ten thousand elephants, including fourteen war elephants that 
had endowments of brawn, metabolism, and stamina.
    More than that, Pusnabish had recognized that fire might be the key to 
driving out the reavers.
    Kartish was not known for its many trees, but figs and citrus grew along the 
creek beds. The blight had devastated the orchards. So his men had scavenged 
every dead tree for thirty miles and piled them north of the reavers' fortress. 
The hot sun had dried them over the past two days.
    So it was that from the moment Raj Ahten arrived at the Palace of Canaries, 
his men were ready for war.
    Now Raj Ahten blew the winding horn of a ram, and his men prepared the 
attack.
    A mile behind him, two hundred thousand men began dragging twenty-five 
thousand pieces of artillery in place. With them marched a million well-armed 
common troops as escorts.
    Beyond that, two million more men and ten thousand elephants began to drag 
dead trees toward the fortress.
    Raj Ahten held to the ridge, and four thousand Invincibles--every lord in 
Southern Indhopal--rode up to join him.
    They were a glorious band, wearing the riches of Indhopal. For this battle, 
they abandoned the heavy splint mail and scale mail that men wore into battle in 
northern climes. Instead, they donned armor in the styles of the 
ancients--tight-woven silk a dozen layers thick. It was both lighter and 
stronger than lacquered leather, and it would still breathe in the heat.
    So the lords of Indhopal rode to war in bright silk long-coats dyed crimson 
and gold. Their turbans were pinned with rubies, emeralds, and diamonds as large 
as hens' eggs. Their horses and war elephants were caparisoned as if for a 
parade. They bore bright lances, richly carved and decorated with gold foil, and 
their scabbards glittered with gems and silver.
    Never in all the history of Indhopal had such an army gathered. Raj Ahten 
rode proudly at their head, dressed in armor of shining white silk, as befitted 
his station.
    The ground rumbled from the feet of Raj Ahten's troops, while clouds of dust 
rose over the plains, thrown up from dragging logs and artillery.
    The reavers did not stir.
    For an hour the commoners approached the swirling mists, and began laying 
down their logs. Raj Ahten watched the fortress, saw reavers frantically 
scurrying about near the kill holes. But they did not flee, did not seek to 
attack. He'd expected some form of resistance, but the reavers did not so much 
as hurl a stone against his men.
    As he considered, the reason seemed obvious. The swirling nebula of vapors 
extended for nearly a quarter of a mile outside the fortress. The reavers 
couldn't see his army.
    So their horde elected to wait.
    Hills of logs began to rise. The flameweavers supervised the commoners and 
their elephants. They set the logs in two piles, one to the east of the reaver 
fortress, one to the west.
    Raj Ahten had expected the sorcerers to pile the dead trees in simple 
mounds, but there were copious logs, and the flameweavers ordered each pile to 
be arranged in a vast rune nearly a quarter of a mile across. To the east was 
the Rune of Fire. To the west was the Rune of Night.
    Tens of thousands of workmen still toiled among the logs when the 
flameweavers reached up into the heavens. Night fell from horizon to horizon as 
they drew fire swirling from the sky and sent it sizzling through the logs.
    The screams of burning men filled the air, and they began the lurid dance of 
the dying.
    Raj Ahten took it stoically. He did not like to watch his people die, but 
Rahjim had assured him that a sacrifice was necessary. "A few thousand men will 
die. But it is better that a few thousand men are lost, than all of us."
    The smell of singed hair and cooking fat filled the plains. Now Rahjim and 
Az stood in the runes, glowing in flame.
    Raj Ahten had seldom sacrificed to the greater Powers. But he felt 
desperate. Despite the fact that he'd taken endowments of stamina last night, 
the numbness in his left arm was spreading.
    Raj Ahten's sorcerers, clothed in fire, began to dance among the flames, 
twisting and writhing until they almost seemed to become flames themselves. Heat 
from the burning runes smote Raj Ahten on the hillside even half a mile away. 
Logs screamed in protest and sent up a cloud of smoke.
    Atop the spires of the fortress, one of the reavers' far-seers collapsed, 
while the others began to back from the heat.
    Pusnabish held his hand before his face, and called, "O Great One, the fire 
is too hot. Even men with many endowments will not be able to charge the 
fortress."
    "Perhaps the reavers will do us a favor and bake in an oven of their own 
design," a second lord chimed in.
    Raj Ahten's heart hammered. He felt the heat, but did not fear it. The 
coldness in his left hand eased a little. It felt more alive.
    Az had promised him again and again that fire would heal him, but only if he 
let it burn away his humanity.
    Raj Ahten's pulse quickened.
    For several moments the inferno grew more murderous. Flames danced hundreds 
of feet in the air, and billowed up in clouds.
    "There is a great rune carved in the ground at the center of that fortress," 
Raj Ahten shouted to his nobles. "I will grant a chest full of rubies to the 
first man who buries his warhammer in it." He blew his horn again, preparing his 
men for attack.
    His lords shouted their war cries.
    Above the reaver fortress, the commoners in the graak began dumping bags of 
volatile powders into the air. The powders fell in dirty streaks--curtains of 
red, gray, yellow. The heat was so intense that the men themselves succumbed. 
One man tumbled over, unable to throw the bag. For a moment, one of the silk 
wings of the graak began to smolder, but the flameweaver Chespot quickly drew 
the heat to himself, kept hurling out the powders.
    Suddenly a ball of fierce white light came screaming from the west, ignited 
the fell powders.
    The resulting fireball erupted high in the air, sent out a deep boom that 
went echoing for miles. The ground trembled, and three black spires on the 
reavers' fortress shattered. The reavers could endure it no more.
    From the warrens to the south, thousands of reavers came streaming from 
their burrows, weapons in hand.
    Meanwhile, from the fortress, the fell sorceress hurled a counterspell. A 
thundering gasht sound erupted, and noxious fumes billowed from every kill hole 
in the fortress. The flames near the fortress sputtered and died.
    "Attack," Raj Ahten screamed, filling the hills with the power of his Voice.
    The artillerymen south of the flames loosed volleys of rocks and ballista 
bolts into the onrushing horde. His army of commoners did not balk. They split 
into two wings and raced to meet the reavers.
    Raj Ahten did not concern himself with the battle on the plains. He spurred 
a great Imperial warhorse toward the fortress, drew his hammer. Men charged 
around him and ahead.
    Flanked by burning runes, he felt a sudden sense of serenity. There was a 
presence here in battle that he had never sensed before. It had no body or form, 
only a vast appetite. He felt as if it were a cloud, hovering above the 
battlefield, like an eagle waiting to feast.
    It did not speak, yet he felt certain that it was mindful of him.
    He hit the swirling mists, held his breath as his charger plunged through. 
His eyes and nose burned at the very touch of the air.
    His mount reached the pits, and Raj Ahten leapt down. The sky went black as 
he scrambled up the other side. The flameweavers drew fire from the heavens. In 
moments they would begin hurling massive fireballs toward the kill holes of the 
fortress.
    Screams filled the battlefield as his armies clashed with the reaver horde.
    The sky brightened again, filled with fiery light and a whooshing sound. A 
fireball streaked from Az.
    Half a dozen warriors gained the entrance to the fortress, ran inside. The 
reavers' lair was painfully dark.
    Kill holes were set above and below the entrance. The first warrior who 
raced inside halted for half a second as a knight gig dropped down, hooked him 
beneath the chin, and jerked him upward.
    A second man took a reaver's blade through the crotch. The force of the blow 
drove him upward a dozen feet into the ceiling. He rained a spray of blood as he 
fell. A third man saw the danger and leapt through quickly, dodging past a blow 
from above, another from a side slot. The entrance became a deadly gauntlet.
    The tunnel sloped up along a sinuous curve into perfect blackness. Raj Ahten 
smelled the rising danger of a reaver's curse back at the end of the tunnel, and 
it issued forth before he could warn his men.
    He leapt from the entrance. A cloud of green-gray shot from the gullet of 
the lair. Twenty men disappeared.
    Raj Ahten leapt through before the sorceress could hurl another spell.
    He realized that he might well be the only man in the world fit to breach 
the reavers' fortress. He had endowments of sight that let him see the reavers' 
shimmering forms even in perfect darkness. His metabolism and grace let him leap 
past deadly blades faster than the reavers could move.
    In less than a second after the sorceress had cast her spell, he was up the 
tunnel.
    He leapt into her open mouth, thrust his warhammer into her soft upper 
palate before she knew he had even charged. Brains and blood rained down as she 
opened her mouth in alarm, staggered back.
    He rolled from her mouth, ducked beneath her legs. He felt a rush of peace 
and comfort. There was something deeply satisfying about killing reavers.
    The walls around him shuddered as a fireball slammed against the fortress, 
spilling light through a thousand kill holes. Up ahead he saw his next target, 
another sorceress.
    He had gained ingress to the reavers' fortress.

     
     
Chapter 53
THE HEAD OF THE BLACK QUEEN
    What avails a blow that does not take a man's life? It only alerts the prey 
to danger.
    --From the Teachings of the Silent Ones
     
    "Hear me! Hear me, O People!" a man shouted in the dawn, filling the streets 
with the sound of his voice.
    The Emir Owatt woke from his slumber in the Dedicate's tower at his palace 
in Bel Nai, a city near the sea in the small country of Tuulistan, just north of 
Kuhran.
    The emir was blind. He had given the use of his eyes to Raj Ahten. And 
because the emir was beloved by his people, he had been made Raj Ahten's vector.
    As such, he was pampered here in Bel Nai, like some woman's old cat.
    The emir did not stir, did not stumble out to the balcony to better hear. 
The fellow who shouted had great endowments of voice, so that his words flew 
above the dusty streets and trumpeted above the noise of the city--the bawling 
of camels, the crowing of roosters, the first morning cries of vendors in the 
bazaar. "Hear the words of Wuqaz Faharaqin, Warlord of the Ah'Kellah, as I raise 
the Atwaba against a murderer most despicable: he who calls himself 'Lord of the 
Sun,' Raj Ahten."
    It had been but six short years ago that Emir Owatt was captured in the 
Palace of Weeping Vines at Ma'al. At the time, Raj Ahten's Invincibles had 
surrounded the entire city. By surrendering, the emir had hoped to save his 
people from outright slaughter.
    Now he climbed from his bed and hobbled to the small open window, grasping 
the bars with both hands. The cool night air off the ocean slapped him like a 
woman's open palm.
    Nine-year-old Messan came rushing up the tower stairs. "Father! Father! Do 
you hear?"
    "Yes, I hear very well," the emir said. "Come, be my eyes. Tell me what you 
see?"
    The boy grabbed the elbow of his father's burnoose, and stood on tiptoe. The 
smell of dust, camels, and smoke hung over the city, along with the scent of wet 
hemp, which women in the markets wove into rope and baskets.
    Emir Owatt could hear the scuffle of feet as people went running. Guards 
shouted at the gate.
    "There is a great crowd gathering outside the keep," Messan whispered. 
"Three Invincibles sit on their horses in the square."
    "You are sure they are Invincibles?"
    "They are sitting on Imperial warhorses, and all wear the surcoats of 
Invincibles among the Ah'kellah. One man has wings on his breast and helm. He is 
holding something--the head of a man. He has it by the hair!"
    Owatt could hear the ring of mail, the scuff of boots over stone down below 
him.
    "What are our guards doing?"
    "Some are running to the gates, others are taking posts on the towers. Some 
have strung their horn bows, and look as if they will shoot."
    "Our guards will not shoot," the emir predicted. "Wuqaz Faharaqin has great 
respect. They must listen to what he has to say."
    "Hear me!" Wuqaz shouted. "In Rofehavan, an Earth King has arisen, Gaborn 
Val Orden. He has wed Iome Vanisalaam Sylvarresta, and is now our lord's own 
cousin by marriage. The Earth King has warned that we are in great danger, and 
begs Raj Ahten to put aside his conflict until the enemies of mankind are laid 
low. But Raj Ahten dishonors our nation. He champions the reavers' cause by 
battling his own kin!"
    At that there were shouts of horror and cries of disbelief from the square. 
Some people shouted, "Liar. This man is lying."
    "Wuqaz is holding up the head, to show the people," Messan said.
    The boy fell silent as Wuqaz relayed what had befallen Carris. Wuqaz told of 
a battle, with reavers surrounding a castle. He told how his men fought to 
defend Carris, for in doing so they defended all mankind.
    But Raj Ahten tried to flee the city by boat, leaving women, children, and 
his own common troops to suffer the ministrations of reavers.
    And when the Earth King charged from the hills, Choosing for his army Raj 
Ahten and all of his Invincibles, Raj Ahten sought to restrain his troops from 
giving aid, leaving the Earth King to die.
    "Even when his favored wife, Saffira, appeared and bade our king lay aside 
his war," Wuqaz shouted, "Raj Ahten withheld aid. She had endowments of glamour 
and voice from thousands, and only the strongest being could have resisted her. 
Raj Ahten resisted.
    "He let the reavers slaughter his own wife, as the Earth King faced the 
reaver horde alone!"
    At this news, Emir Owatt gasped, then dropped to his knees, leaning against 
the wall for support. Messan grabbed him.
    The emir had long feared this. He'd feared it ever since that dreadful night 
when Raj Ahten laid his siege at Ma'al. He had known then that he in his tiny 
kingdom would never be able to fight Raj Ahten.
    His mind flashed back to that night. He could not fight, but he'd devised 
another plan, one that offered hope that he might yet vanquish the Wolf Lord.
    He took all of the forcibles in his treasury, and had the facilitators forge 
them anew, so that each held a rune of glamour or voice. Then he'd used them on 
his tender daughter, Saffira.
    Raj Ahten was a man of fierce appetites. The emir had suspected that the 
Wolf Lord would not be able to resist the child. "Beg him not to kill us," Owatt 
had warned Saffira. "He will spare us for your sake. Ask him to prepare a place 
of honor among his Dedicates."
    After the surrender, Raj Ahten demanded the use of the emir's tongue, 
believing that the emir must have great endowments of voice with which to 
beguile his people. After all, how else could a lord be so beloved by the 
commoners?
    But a search of the emir's scars showed that he bore no endowments of voice. 
Owatt offered instead his eyes, saying to Raj Ahten, "Take them, for I do not 
wish to see how you will make my people suffer."
    It had been a poor choice. Too often Owatt had heard the cries of his people 
in the markets.
    He'd long suspected that Saffira would die by violence. He'd been afraid 
that in some petty fit, Raj Ahten might strike her. With his endowments of 
brawn, any blow he delivered would destroy the girl.
    But Raj Ahten became fond of Saffira--as fond as his nature allowed. He'd 
pampered her, conceded to her wishes, sired her children, and showered her with 
gifts. She was as much a wife as he would ever know.
    Now, the emir learned that, indeed, Raj Ahten had murdered Saffira--pretty 
little Saffira.
    In the square, an old woman began to cry out angrily, "Liar! Tongue of the 
snake!"
    Always, the emir felt surprised to hear any common person rise in defense of 
Raj Ahten. To speak against him was outlawed, and so one could go for months 
without hearing a single whisper of discontent, yet he often imagined that 
others kept their discontent hidden inside, as he did.
    I am a blind man, the emir thought, and even I can see his evil.
    Wuqaz shouted, "I do not lie. Let me tell you all: Here is the head of an 
Invincible--Pashtuk by name--whom Raj Ahten slew in an effort to kill the Earth 
King.
    "By the Atwaba, I call upon all good men: Throw off the yoke of Raj Ahten! 
There must be only one king--the Earth King!"
    The emir's heart pounded fiercely in his chest. He knew that Wuqaz spoke to 
him. True, he was in the market more than a hundred yards below, but he had come 
here to shout outside these walls, knowing that the emir was here, knowing that 
Owatt might be cowed, but would never surrender.
    As Wuqaz cried these last words, bowstrings twanged and arrows hissed 
through the air. From the streets below a roar of panic rose.
    Emir Owatt did not need eyes to know what was happening. Archers in the 
tower fired at the Ah'kellah. Arrows struck among the crowd, skewering men, 
women, and children. From the sounds of it, fighting broke out even among the 
crowd--some going to battle against Raj Ahten, others fighting to protect him.
    "Father!" Messan cried. "One of Wuqaz's men is hit. He took an arrow in his 
eye. He has fallen from his horse. Wuqaz and one other are trying to ride away."
    Now a battle raged. A woman shrieked in pain, a horse whinnied, accompanied 
by the sound of hooves smacking flesh. Men roared. Children cried in terror.
    People shouted as horses broke into the streets, and fled.
    His son said, "Wuqaz is gone!" But the sound of fighting continued.
    "Who is winning?" the emir asked.
    "The guards who fight for Raj Ahten," his son confirmed.
    In that moment, a realization struck the emir. He had always thought of the 
throng below as "his" people. But by surrendering to Raj Ahten, he had given 
those people away--given them to a man without conscience, a man without honor, 
who would use them as cattle.
    He had not saved himself, his daughter, or his people. He had surrendered 
them.
    Now was the time to take them back.
    "Hurry," the emir said. He went to a box and pulled out a bag of coins that 
held a particularly large ruby. "While the guards are busy at the front gate, I 
want you to slip out into the streets by the back. If the guards there try to 
stop you, tell them that today is my purifam, and you are going to buy me some 
figs for breakfast." He handed the coins to the child and urged, "Once you leave 
the palace, go to my sister's villa. Do you remember the place?"
    "On the hill?"
    "Yes. Beg her to hide you. Do you understand? You must never come back! I 
will not be here."
    "Why?" his son asked. "Where are you going?"
    "I am going to war," the emir said.
    Down below, in the Dedicates' Keep, Raj Ahten kept his most valued vectors. 
The air here at Bel Nai was especially healthy, and so over the years Saffira 
had convinced Raj Ahten to house here in abundance those who vectored stamina.
    The emir was well prepared for this day. He'd long known that he could not 
strike a meaningful blow against the Wolf Lord of Indhopal from the front lines. 
But here, from behind the lines, he could be devastating.
    He'd have struck a year ago, if not for his children. He'd once held great 
hopes that his daughter might persuade Raj Ahten to turn away from his evil. 
Later, the emir knew that Raj Ahten kept Messan here as a veiled threat. If 
Owatt moved against him, the life of his son would be forfeit.
    "What do you mean?" his son asked. "I want to stay with you."
    The emir did not dare tell his son what he was about to do. Instead, he went 
to the chess set where he and his son had played now for years. Over and over he 
had warned his son that he must sometimes make sacrifices if he hoped to win a 
game. He hoped that his son would understand. He twisted the head off the black 
queen, pulling out a poisoned needle. The body of the queen was like an inkpot, 
filled with the deadly stuff.
    The guards would kill Emir Owatt for what he would do. He only hoped that he 
could save his son.
    "Go quickly now," he whispered. "Keep your head up and your manner easy."

     
     
Chapter 54
SMALL SACRIFICES
    Every day, we each make small sacrifices to ensure the continuity of 
civilization. In our own way, each of us is a Dedicate.
    --King Mendellas Val Orden
     
    Gaborn's troops began racing north in hopes of cutting off the reavers. 
Langley led the other half, along with the Frowth giants, on the reavers' trail, 
to slaughter any that fell behind.
    Binnesman rode to Averan's wagon, took her by the arm, and scooped her up 
into his saddle. In the skirmish, a lord had fallen from his horse. Binnesman 
pointed at a white mare, a mile off, standing over her dead master.
    "Would you dare ride a warhorse without help?" Binnesman asked.
    "It's easier than riding a graak," Averan assured him. "And if you fall, the 
ground isn't a mile below."
    "I daresay," Binnesman agreed.
    They galloped over to the animal, Spring following on her own gray stallion. 
Binnesman hopped down, and Averan held the mount's reins. She tried not to look 
at the dead knight while Binnesman used his knife to cut the leather straps of 
the horse's heavy chaffron.
    But she had to look, if only to be sure he was dead.
    He'd surely never ride again. He'd fallen badly, snapped his neck and 
scraped his head against the rocks. The flies were already at him.
    In moments Binnesman stripped the animal of its precious barding, leaving 
only its saddle beneath a quilted blanket. Now the horse was ready for a quick 
ride.
    By that time, Gaborn's troops had all fled north, and the wagons followed. 
Averan imagined that she'd be eating trail dust for lunch.
    Instead, Binnesman swung onto his mount, got her on the white mare, and 
spurred east, in the wake of Langley's men.
    "What are we doing?" Averan asked.
    "We'll carry a warning to Feldonshire," Binnesman said.
    "You mean we won't take the road?" Averan asked.
    "We can make it through the forest faster than Gaborn's men can travel the 
roads."
    Averan found that hard to credit. The huge Imperial stallion that the wizard 
rode was built for speed on the plains, not in the hills. Her own mount, with 
its small hooves and sturdy legs, might do better in the mountains, she thought. 
Yet she knew that earth mages had an uncanny gift for finding trails in the 
forest.
    "All right," Averan said. "But won't Gaborn disapprove? He'll want me at his 
side, to give him counsel." The thought of riding with him terrified her. He'd 
ask her to eat another reaver if they found one that looked anything like the 
Waymaker.
    "Hmmm..." Binnesman said, frowning in concentration. "I've never seen the 
Stinkwater. How large did you say the pools are?"
    "Not large," Averan said. "They get bigger in winter when the rain fills 
them, shrink in the summer."
    "I have an idea," Binnesman said. "It may be that I can heal the Stinkwater, 
cleanse it rather than poison it. But we must hurry. It's a slow magic."
    "Do you think?" Averan asked. "You're no water wizard."
    Binnesman sighed uncertainly. "I can only try."
    So they rode hard for the hills, the horses racing over plains beneath a 
yellow cloud. They bypassed Langley's troops.
    The wizard spurred his mount up a steep ridge. He stopped a moment, while 
Averan and the wylde caught up. The forest ahead was a tangle, with only a few 
wild game trails. Boars had been rooting for acorns here recently. The ground 
looked as if it had been plowed.
    Just to the south, the reavers had gained the woods. Trees began to snap 
under the onslaught of their charge. A hart came bounding down the trail in a 
frenzy, its huge antlers clacking against the brush. It saw the wizard, leapt 
away.
    Binnesman raised his staff and chanted, "The road is long, and short the 
day. Make for us now, a swifter way."
    Ahead a rustling sound broke from the trees, as if a great beast trudged 
through the woods, scraping against boughs and papery leaves. Suddenly Averan 
spotted a trail that she'd not seen before. The branches on each side were 
bobbing.
    "There!" she shouted.
    "Indeed," Binnesman said wryly.
    He spurred his mount up the trail, galloping like the wind. Averan let him 
take the lead, followed by Spring. She didn't want to meet any low branches.
    But she noticed after the first mile that there were no low branches. The 
trail remained clear ahead, and almost straight. Though leaves covered the 
forest floor, the game trails they rode over seemed as free of rocks and limbs 
as if it were a well-traveled road.
    Yet when she looked behind, she could see no trail at all. Branches flung 
backward like arms, blocking her retreat.
    Averan's heart hammered, and she rode in awe. She'd seen the fell mage in 
battle, casting her destructive spells, and she'd seen Spring kill a reaver with 
a single blow. But she suspected now that Binnesman was far more powerful than 
the wylde or any reaver mage.
    Thus they raced. The mounts galloped tirelessly, until they gained the main 
road. Long before Gaborn's men arrived, Binnesman reached the village of 
Shrewsvale.
    She saw it when they came up out of the woods. White cottages with thatch 
roofs dotted the green meadows along the northern slope of the vale. Stone 
fences that had stood for a thousand years sectioned off acreage: here was a 
meadow speckled with sheep, beyond spread a field of barley. There lay a garden 
where sunflowers grew tall. Along the southern ridge of the valley, the road 
wound up to town. A huge inn with a tile roof loomed over the main street, while 
shops with stone walls squatted to either side.
    Binnesman raced to the first shepherd's cottage. Red chickens scrambled from 
their path as they neared the door. He shouted, "Flee from here, the reavers are 
coming!"
    A shepherd's wife rushed out, wiping her hands on her apron. She was a blunt 
woman with graying hair and a wide mouth. "What?" she asked gruffly. "What are 
you yelling about out here? I'm baking." Obviously she thought that some madman 
called.
    "I'm sorry to disturb you, madam," Binnesman said in a tone of mock 
formality. "But reavers are coming, and King Orden is about to fight a war on 
your doorstep. I suggest that you warn your neighbors, and prepare to flee."
    Averan watched the woman in pity.
    The same reavers had destroyed her home at Keep Haberd, and had laid Carris 
to waste. Now they would tear through this valley, destroying cottages that had 
stood for generations.
    The old woman finished wiping her hands, gave Binnesman a stern look. "You'd 
best not be telling tales," she warned. Even as she did, she gaped up at the 
wylde in confusion. It obviously wasn't every day that she'd had a green woman 
and wizard show up on her doorstep, warning of imminent peril.
    "You'd best run," Binnesman said.
    Then they spurred their horses onward, onto the cobblestone streets of 
Shrewsvale itself.
    It was a pleasant town. Averan could tell by the architecture that they were 
nearing Feldonshire. The doorposts and lintel of the inn were intricately carved 
of fine oak. The post on the left depicted a minstrel with a lute under his arm. 
The one on the right was a lord talking to him amiably. The perspective was 
skewed, so that it looked as if both were walking through the door. A carved 
frieze overhead showed a table filled with fine foods: grapes and apples, bread 
and a rabbit.
    The sign above the inn was gorgeously carved to show travelers on their 
journey. The sign itself named the place as the Loaf and Brew.
    Binnesman's shouting soon drew every shopkeeper in town. The mayor of 
Shrewsvale owned the inn. He rang the city bell.
    Averan said little, only nodded vigorously to second Binnesman's warnings. 
She caught the eyes of a dark-haired girl who held a doll woven of reeds in one 
hand, and the chubby fist of her little brother in the other.
    The girl could not have been seven years old, and Averan suddenly realized 
that in the next hour she'd face terrors that many a graybeard had never met.
    They left Shrewsvale and raced along the dirt road through village after 
village. Binnesman stopped in each hamlet, relating his tale. At every stop, the 
village bells began to ring, so that one could listen to the path that they 
followed. With each stop, the people were already gathering, waiting for the 
news.
    They were only halfway between Shrewsvale and Feldonshire proper when 
Gaborn's messengers passed them on the road.
    By the time they reached the city, the bells were already ringing out in 
warning. Word of the attack had raced ahead.
    People scattered to and fro in the streets. Horses whinnied and snorted and 
pranced with ears back and nostrils flaring. They could smell their masters' 
terror. Eight miles to the west, smoke could be seen rising from the hills.
    Averan imagined that Gaborn had already set fire to the woods at Shrewsvale.
    The citizens of Feldonshire fled from their shops and cottages, and became a 
steady stream, heading north out of town, across the bridge that spanned the 
Donnestgree.
    Peasants in plain hooded frocks ran along with all their belongings stuffed 
into tote sacks made by trying four corners of a sheet together. Farmers 
thundered away in wagons filled with grimy children. A wealthy merchant rode 
through town with his family in a carriage, shouting in his hurry and snapping 
his whip over the heads of anyone who dared to hinder his escape.
    Commoners all. Without force horses or endowments, they would travel slowly. 
Worse, they were taking time to pack their things. Husbands at work in their 
shops had to run about fetching children. There was food to gather, belongings 
to save.
    Loaded under the weight of their goods, the peasants would not be able to 
run fast or far.
    Already the bridge was turning into a bottleneck.
    Worst of all, on the banks of the Donnestgree camped thousands of wounded 
refugees from Carris. The tents lining the river were a city to themselves, and 
the wounded lay attended by their healers. Fires hugged the riverbank, and most 
of the cooking pots there were not for food, but for boiling the dressings for 
wounds. Rags and cloths were draped over every bush to dry.
    Averan had never seen a sickyard, as the soldiers called them, where the 
battle-torn lay in the open air like this. Between the drying bandages and the 
gray canvas tents, and smoke smudging everything, the sickyard looked like a 
city formed from rags.
    Most of the wounded were heavily bandaged. Few could yet rise or walk on 
their own, and their was no way to move them easily. The boats that had brought 
them downstream had all departed--returned north for another load.
    Evacuating these people on foot was not something that could be done in 
hours. It was a labor that would take days.
    They knew what would happen.
    Wounded men and women cried out in terror and pain. Pleas of "Help me! 
Help!" and "Have mercy!" rose from dozens of throats, adding to the general din 
of people scurrying for shelter.
    Some invalids climbed to their feet in heroic efforts, and staggered across 
the bridge. They shuffled slowly, blocking the exit for those who followed. 
Staves or canes might have helped speed many of them, but every stick along the 
riverbank had already been salvaged. Two men dressed in the bright red of the 
City Guard stood on the bridge, pleading with everyone. "Help the wounded. Grab 
someone and help him across! There's plenty of time!"
    But everyone knew that time was far too short.
    Among the rows of tents, healers and townsfolk sought to save many of the 
injured. Wains from farmhouses lined the river roads. But the healers were 
taking only the children and the women, the vast minority of the wounded, 
leaving the men to die.
    She saw one fellow nearby lying on a cot before his tent, curled into a 
fetal position, merely waiting.
    She recalled Gaborn's words last night. He'd tried to tell her that men did 
most of the dying in this world, that they wore themselves out. She hadn't 
wanted to believe it. Now she saw the proof of it, and wondered how it would be.
    As Binnesman rode up to the woodcarvers' guildhall, Averan sat on her white 
mare and stared down at the men, and felt the most profound pity and sense of 
desolation.
    I'm not like them anymore, she realized. Her horse could carry her away 
fast. She didn't feel their terror, felt only pity.
    Once, when Averan was small, Brand had picked up an old door that lay in a 
field below the graaks' aerie back at Keep Haberd. Averan had seen a family of 
mice scurry about in a panic, blinded by the sunshine.
    Three generations of mice lived there--a mother and five children, along 
with six little pink babes. Neither Averan nor Brand meant the mice any harm. 
Yet they watched them scurry in panic for a moment, before setting down the 
door.
    That's how Averan felt now, distanced from the turmoil, high and above it 
all. Yet the loud noises and confusion made Binnesman's wylde jumpy. The green 
woman's eyes darted this way and that, and she flinched at every nearby noise, 
as if she were a caged fox just captured from a field.
    Binnesman had come to the guildhall to speak to the officials. He 
dismounted, saying, "Watch the horses while I speak to Guildmaster Wallachs." 
Wallachs was more than just the guildmaster of the woodcarvers here in 
Feldonshire. He served as mayor of the city, and though he had no endowments, 
his people held him in as high estimation as if he were a lord.
    Binnesman led his spooked wylde into the guildhall. Averan held the reins to 
the mounts, sat alone outside.
    The guildhall of the woodcarvers dominated the center of Feldonshire. The 
massive building was an advertisement for the guild's wares. It stood five 
stories high and was made of finely cut multicolored stone set in mortar. The 
high ceilings of the upper stories were supported by abutments, with flying 
buttresses made of black walnut, all elegantly chiseled to show woodland scenes 
from the Darkwald: wild bears and stags in the forest, geese winging 
majestically over the Donnestgree.
    Every gable, every panel on every door, every lintel and every shutter was a 
minor miracle of precision and detail. The carvers had carried their motif of 
the woods throughout the building. Perfectly sculpted squirrels raced over pine 
boughs carved into the gables and support beams. The front doors were carved to 
look like a path leading into the woods, with a pair of grouse preening beside a 
rock not far ahead. A gallery near the top of the building boasted wooden 
statues of renowned carvers at work with chisels, hammers, and saws.
    The guildsmen had taken great pains to care for the exterior. The dark 
wooden surfaces all gleamed, as if the craftsmen had applied a layer of shellac 
only days ago. With winter coming, Averan realized that this was likely true.
    The building served as a monument to the beauty of wood in all its forms. 
Walnut trees bordered its front, and wrapped around the east lawn along the 
river. The leaves had gone a dark brown with the coming of winter.
    Too bad the building is all coming down, she thought. I'd best admire it 
while I can.
    She was staring up at the guildhall when someone said, "Here, girl, let me 
help you down from there."
    A man put his hands around her waist, and yanked. She turned to see a fellow 
with a grizzled face and a mouth full of rotting teeth. His hood was pulled up 
over his head.
    "What?" she asked. She gripped her reins, but he had her off her horse so 
fast, she hardly had time to wonder what happened.
    He set her on the ground near her mount, taking the reins in his hand as he 
did, and said urgently, "Here, now. These aren't your horses. They're worth a 
lot of money. What do you think you're doing with them?"
    She thought that maybe he knew the owner of the white mare, and had some 
fair argument. She was about to object when he slugged her. One moment she was 
standing there, and the next his fist came up in a quick jab, and Averan went 
reeling.
    The world spun and went dark for a moment. Pain lanced through her head and 
jaw. Everything seemed to go cold.
    She found herself lying on the cobblestones, while people shouted, "Thief! 
That man stole her horses."
    She could hear the fellow shouting, "Haw!" as he raced away. Hooves 
clattered over the stone.
    Averan looked up to see where he'd gone, but a crowd was closing in on her. 
" 'Ere now, poor dear," some old woman said, bending close to pull Averan to her 
feet. Averan could smell cooked vegetables on her woolen shawl.
    Averan's jaw stung, and she worked it experimentally, trying to see if it 
was broken. Her stomach churned, as if she would lose her breakfast. She'd 
slammed the back of her head on the cobblestones when she fell. Averan reached 
up and touched it, winced, and stared blankly at the blood on her fingers.
    A moment ago she'd felt so smug and self-contained. Now she was no different 
from everyone around her.
    Averan felt furious at the stranger who had stolen her horse. She felt 
furious at herself for letting him do it.
    Almost without realizing it, she cast a spell.
    She pictured Binnesman's big Imperial stallion and focused on it. She saw it 
running down the road, its new master dragging it in tow.
    The horse's mind was frenzied. It could sense the fear of the people around 
it, could hear the distant thunder of the horde. It longed to escape, to reach 
the open plains of Indhopal.
    It dreamed of sweet grass, and running through fields at night, nostrils 
flaring while its mane and tail floated out behind it. It remembered the mares 
of its herd, and the sweet taste of streams that flowed from the mountains.
    The thrill of it all was marvelous, and utterly alien. Averan touched the 
horse's consciousness, and immediately realized that she felt almost no kinship 
to this magnificent beast.
    Averan called to it, and immediately the image slipped from her mind. She 
could not hold it. Binnesman's charger would not respond to her summons. It 
wanted to get away from here.
    She tried another tactic. She considered instead her attacker. She focused 
on his face. She could envision his grizzled beard, his rotting teeth, the warty 
mole just beneath his left eye.
    He was racing from town, leading the spare horses, glancing behind to make 
sure that no one followed. He chuckled in glee, thinking he had escaped.
    Averan reached out with her mind, tried to touch him more fully. She inhaled 
with his inhalations, exhaled as he did. She could feel that his bladder was 
full. He felt so excited, he really had to take a pee.
    She delved deeper into his mind, could hear the whisper of his thoughts. 
"Fine horses. Sell 'em in Gandry--and this time, won't settle fo' no pint of 
ale, neither!" She glimpsed flashes from his imagination--the thief cavorting 
with naked wenches.
    His mind was a seething place, full of filth. She almost dared not touch it.
    She summoned him, commanded him to turn the horses. "Go back," she sent the 
warning. "You may be leaving a child to die."
    For an instant the thief caught his breath.
    Where'd a thought like that come from? he wondered. He muttered in a prissy 
voice, "You may be leaving a child to die!"
    Then he cackled in delight and spurred Averan's white mare on.
    Averan withdrew, snapped back into her own consciousness, and her legs 
nearly buckled beneath her. Her attempt had drained her, and drawn beads of 
perspiration on her brow.
    Maggots would be easier to summon than that piece of filth, she realized. 
And they would be a whole lot cleaner, besides. Binnesman had warned her that it 
was harder to reach a complex mind.
    Maybe I should have stuck with the horses, she thought regretfully.
    Averan went to the guildhall. Just inside, Binnesman was coming down a grand 
staircase, talking urgently to Guildmaster Wallachs, an imposing man who wore 
wooden chains of office and bore himself with great authority. Spring walked 
behind them.
    The guildmaster was saying, "I understand your concerns, but my men left 
fifteen minutes ago. I suspect that the first wagons full of poison are already 
in the water."
    "What did you send?"
    "Nothing much--lye soap and lacquer. I thought to use ale. Not all of it 
that comes out of Feldonshire is fit for consumption. I'd rather see it used to 
poison a pond than to affront my gut."
    The men were so deep in conversation, neither of them even noticed Averan. 
"Binnesman," she called, grabbing a nearby wall for support. "We've been robbed: 
a man took our horses!"
    "What?" Wallachs demanded. "What man?"
    "A stranger," Averan said, searching for a way to describe him. "His...his 
breath smelled like rye bread and...fish."
    "Where is he?" the guildmaster demanded.
    "Long gone!" Averan said. Outside, the noises of the city could be heard, 
the shouts of people, the tumult of horses.
    The guildmaster sighed deeply. He apologized. "Don't worry. You can ride out 
of town on my wain. I'm sorry about your horses. We're good people in 
Feldonshire. But--"
    Binnesman looked to Averan. "Did you try to summon the beasts?"
    "I...tried that, and the thief, too. He won't come back." Averan crossed the 
room and collapsed into a chair in defeat.

     
     
Chapter 55
A FIRE IN THE HILLS
    In ancient texts it is said that Fallion's men scouted the Underworld, 
searching for Toth. It was only in the deepest recesses, many mites below the 
surface, that they began to find "much foretoken" of reavers. Most of Fallion's 
men died not in battle with reavers or Toth, but from the "arduous heat which 
grieved us unto death."
    --Hearthmaster Vaien, of the Room of Beasts
     
    An unending thunder rumbled through the hills beneath Shrewsvale. With it 
came a sound as if a million dry leaves hissed to the forest floor at once.
    The horde forged onward.
    Crows flapped up from the old forest, black pinions groping the sky as they 
sought to escape the onslaught. They winged about in a dirty haze amid the gree. 
A cold sun glared down through a thickening yellow brume. Huge oak trees, 
browned by autumn, shivered and cracked, leaving holes to gape in the canopy.
    The reavers advanced in a formation that men had never seen, the strange new 
Form of War. Gaborn stopped his mount on a hilltop and peered at the forest. He 
saw the reavers scurrying forward, glimpsed gray carapaces beneath the trees. 
They loped with a newfound fury. A hundred times he considered sending men to 
ambush the reavers, but his Earth Powers warned against it. No lancers dared 
attack. To even send men within archery range was futile. Something had happened 
to the horde.
    The hope of water lent the reavers new heart. They were learning, surely. 
Averan said that they knew his name, and feared him.
    Gaborn had beaten them easily enough at Carris, when the lightning threw 
them into a panic. But he'd lost so many of his powers. Now, he dared not 
attack.
    Perhaps they sensed his weakness.
    The very fact that they were learning how to defend themselves alarmed him. 
What if they taught other reavers their secrets?
    With each minute, Gaborn more strongly suspected that he could neither stop 
the horde nor turn them from their destination.
    He worried about whether his men could reach the ponds at Stinkwater in time 
to poison the pools. A cold terror seized him.
    He'd passed through his ranks on the way up, and had expected to find 
Binnesman near the lead, riding his fine gray warhorse. But the wizard was 
nowhere in sight.
    He reached the green fields and meadows of Shrewsvale barely half an hour in 
advance of the reavers. When he arrived, he found Baron Waggit ringing the town 
bell.
    "Have you seen Binnesman?" Gaborn asked Waggit.
    "He's gone to warn Feldonshire," Waggit offered.
    Gaborn breathed a sigh of relief.
    In the village, peasants and merchants had already harnessed horses to 
wagons. They were pulling goods from their homes and barns--pillows, food, 
blankets, piglets, and lambs. One woman outside the inn stood beating a pan, 
shouting frantically for her son. Another man was not fleeing at all. Instead he 
had opened the door to a root cellar, and Gaborn watched him usher his wife and 
eight children down into it; then he came back up and started carrying a lamb 
down in one hand, and a rooster in another.
    Gaborn shouted to Waggit, "Go and get that man and his children out of 
there!"
    He could not hide his despair. He was not just a king, he was the Earth 
King. Yet his subjects would not always follow his counsel, even to save their 
own lives.
    Gaborn sized up the terrain, decided where to set his battle lines. No one 
had ever built a siege wall here at Shrewsvale. A sheep stockage bordered the 
woods, and would have to serve as the only barricade. The low wall would not 
hold back reavers, wouldn't even slow them down. The carefully piled slabs of 
gray stone were no more significant than a line drawn in the sand.
    He went down into a field where an old haycock sat, the straw in it having 
grayed with mold over the past year. He fumbled with flint and steel to get a 
fire going. In five minutes the haycock was ablaze.
    The wind worked against him. Down on the plains the wind had gusted to the 
east. But here in the vale at midmorning, the air grew still. He'd not have a 
driving fire.
    He'd hardly got the haycock to blaze when the main force of his army began 
to ride in, just over a thousand men, with lances held high. Lords hurried down 
to the vale and formed up in ranks behind the sheep stockage, as if they would 
hold fast if the reavers charged.
    Skalbairn reported, "Milord, the reavers are less than six miles off, and 
they're running faster now. They know that they're close to water. We got word 
not half an hour ago that Langley's men are making a good accounting. Many 
reavers can't keep up the pace."
    Gaborn nodded, numb. He looked uphill. "Where are those men with the 
philia?"
    Skalbairn just shook his head in consternation. "They'll be here soon."
    Gaborn couldn't wait. "Put a torch to the trees," he ordered. Fifty lords 
came forward in a rush. They tied cords of twisted straw to their lances, then 
set them afire. The mounts leapt the low stone wall and charged into the trees.
    The autumn leaves had begun piling in the woods, and the ground here had 
been dry for a couple of days. Yet the fire did not rage as Gaborn had hoped. It 
fumed and sputtered, filling the sky with a dim gray.
    Still the reaver horde marched. The mass of bodies running and heaving 
themselves over the rocks and trails became a dull roar.
    Baron Waggit rode down the hill, pick in hand. Gaborn looked at the young 
man, felt deeply troubled. Waggit was in danger, might not survive the battle.
    "So," Gaborn said. "You've decided to join the fight?"
    "If I may. I'll give it a go. But...I'm really not sure what to do."
    "You rang the bell in town, and already saved a man and his family," Gaborn 
said. "You don't have to give yourself in battle. Certainly not in this battle."
    "I...I want to stay."
    "I'll see that you begin training for knighthood soon."
    "Thank you," Waggit said softly.
    "Stick close to me," Gaborn said. "Move when you see me move."
    Waggit nodded.
    Skalbairn caught sight of the baron, rode up and shouted, "Good man! Good 
man!" He looked out over the Knights Equitable gathered in the ranks, and 
shouted, "Did I tell you that he's going to marry my daughter?"
    Waggit shook his head at Skalbairn's jest. "I said no such thing!"
    But the knights all cheered as if it were a made match.
    Gaborn's senses screamed in warning. A few miles west, the wounded refugees 
were still puttering around in Feldonshire. He struggled to send the message, 
"Flee!"
    But if his people heard, none obeyed.
    The thousand knights had all joined ranks across the field. Gaborn shouted, 
"Gentlemen, we'll hold here as long as we can. We've got to make the reavers 
believe that we'll fight, in hopes that they'll retreat. But be ready to fall 
back on my command."
    Even as he spoke, gree flapped overhead, squeaking with a sound like aging 
joints. The ground began to tremble, and he looked down the valley to the south. 
Two miles off, trees creaked and toppled.
    On the slopes of the vale, a couple of fires had begun to rage. Pillars of 
red and yellow twisted up, enveloping oaks whole. The heat smote Gaborn's face, 
and the smell of it came drier than before. Limbs crackled and branches hissed. 
Yet the center of the valley floor merely smoldered.
    We should have been here an hour ago, with barrels of oil and pitch, Gaborn 
realized.
    For a moment he dared wish that he had a flameweaver in his retinue.
    The reavers were two miles away, and then one. The front of their formation 
filled the valley from north to south. Distantly to the northwest, beyond the 
thunder of the reavers' pounding feet, a single warhorn blared, signaling that 
troops had been cut off behind enemy lines.
    Gaborn realized what had happened.
    The men who bore the philia were cut off, surprised at the reavers' pace, no 
doubt. Gaborn sniffed at his own hands. He could still smell the garlicky mildew 
scent that Averan told him was a reaver's death cry. He hoped that there was 
enough residue on his men's hands so that the reavers would feel some 
trepidation.
    "Hold your positions, men," Gaborn shouted. "Hold your positions." The 
warriors were ranged on horseback about fifty feet behind the stone wall. If 
Gaborn ordered a charge, the force horses would merely leap the wall.
    Among his troops, lords began to lower their lances. Others had already 
strung bows. Now they nocked arrows.
    The faintest breath of a breeze swept down from the hills, teasing the 
flames, raising Gaborn's hopes. A flickering wall of incandescence licked the 
forest floor in some places, making a low curtain of fire beneath the trees.
    Just as quickly, the wind dropped off.
    In the distance he glimpsed reavers between the boles of oaks now. They had 
been traveling in a loose pack, but they smelled trouble ahead. The reavers 
closed ranks, making a wall half a mile wide. Blade-bearer walked shoulder to 
shoulder with blade-bearer.
    Charging into those lines would be suicide. Reavers with stones behind that 
wall would provide artillery cover, while mages cast their noxious spells.
    The reavers came slowly, philia waving. When they reached a tree, the 
blade-bearers merely lowered their massive heads and rammed. Thus they cut a 
huge swath through the forest.
    The reavers were a quarter of a mile away now. Gaborn sought to put on a 
bold face, yet his Earth senses warned, "Flee! Flee!"
    Every man under his charge was at risk.
    "Not yet," Gaborn whispered to his master. In Feldonshire, his Chosen still 
lay abed, while others puttered over the bridge of the river Donnestgree. He 
hoped to buy them time. Every minute that he slowed the reaver horde might win 
him another hundred souls. "Not yet."
    Then the reavers were two hundred yards ahead, almost to the smoldering 
woods.
    The reavers did not slow. In fact, they seemed to lope faster as they neared 
the flames, as if in welcome.
    When they reached the fire, they lowered their heads into the dirt, bowling 
over and burying the burning leaves. Even trees that crackled with flame fell 
back under the onslaught.
    The horde marched forward, irrepressible, trampling the flames. Reavers 
hissed in warning to their neighbors.
    "Retreat!" Gaborn shouted.
    The reavers began to hurl a hail of stones. Boulders that weighed as much as 
a man came soaring overhead, falling into his front ranks.
    "Dodge," the Earth warned, and Gaborn spurred his charger to the left. A 
great boulder slammed into the stone sheep wall, toppled it. Flaming debris and 
flakes of stone hurtled past Gaborn and into the ranks of his men behind. Horses 
and riders burst into a spray of bloody gobbets. Gaborn felt sickened to the 
core as half a dozen men were ripped from him.
    He glanced over his shoulder, Baron Waggit rode on his tail. The young man 
had followed his instructions precisely, and it saved his life. The pasty color 
of Waggit's face showed that he knew how close it had been.
    To the left of the battlefield, another boulder hurtled from the reavers' 
ranks and slashed through Gaborn's lines.
    His men wheeled their mounts and raced for safety.

     
     
Chapter 56
LORD OF DARKNESS, LORD OF THE SUN
    Many men dream of doing well, but few give form to their dreams.
    Therefore, we cannot insist that greatness is a condition of the heart or 
mind in abeyance of deeds. To do so would diminish the achievement of those who 
prove their greatness by their deeds.
    --Arunhah Ahten, Father of Raj Ahten
     
    In the reavers' fortress, darkness reigned. Fireballs hammered the outer 
walls, and briefly illuminated the reavers' kill holes. The hive shuddered under 
their impact. But deep in the heart of the lair, no outside light could pierce.
    With his keen ears, Raj Ahten heard the cries of war out on the plains.
    He raced through a tunnel, a string of dead sorceresses and blade-bearers 
strewn behind him.
    There were no kill holes so deep in the lair. Only a little light issued 
from the flickering blue runes tattooed on the dead sorceresses.
    Darkness was the reavers' element. They did not need light to hunt by. Even 
the watery lights of the runes were most likely an accident. The reavers would 
not know that their tattoos glowed.
    But ahead of Raj Ahten, a room seemed to be filled with fire. He raced to an 
entrance and looked down from a parapet to a floor twenty-five feet below.
    The Seal of Desolation spread before him, pulsating with color, throbbing. 
It was nearly two hundred yards across. A dozen scarlet sorceresses filled the 
room. At the center of the seal, like a great spider in its web, hunched a great 
mage.
    Indeed, she was larger than the one at Carris.
    Raj Ahten dared not give the reavers time to react. His left arm was still 
numb, and he could not hold his breath much longer. Soon he would be forced to 
take the foul air, and learn just how vile it tasted.
    He ran several paces, leapt from the parapet, vaulted onto the head of the 
great mage. His right leg snapped from the impact, just below the knee.
    He bore the pain, slammed his warhammer into the mage's sweet triangle. He 
feared that for such a huge monster, the blade itself was too short. He reversed 
the weapon and plunged the handle into the hole as if it were a lance.
    She seemed unaffected by the wound. The mage shook her head and tossed him. 
Even with all his metabolism, all his stamina, Raj Ahten's leg had not yet 
healed when he slammed painfully to the ground.
    The Seal of Desolation itself looked to be made of molten glass, but felt as 
solid as stone. The mucilage of the glue mums had hardened into knobby shapes. 
Ghost fires in shades of deepest purple flickered through the thing, bursting 
out in actinic flashes. A sorcerous smoke filled the room.
    The Rune of Desolation was powerful.
    Raj Ahten swung his hammer, broke off a knob. A blinding flash of white 
light burst from the broken rune.
    The great mage wheeled to confront him. Gree flew up from her bloated body 
in a swarm, and her staff blazed a sickly yellow.
    Raj Ahten leapt aside as a bolt of pure night shot from the staff. It 
slammed into the rune where he'd stood, demolishing a wide swath.
    The rune simply shattered. A scarlet sorceress caught in the blast hissed in 
agony, was bowled over on her side. The left half of her body had disintegrated 
or been blown away, as if it had been eaten by acid.
    Raj Ahten dared not give the mage time for a second attack. He raced across 
the Rune of Desolation, darting left and right.
    The huge mage reared back in alarm.
    She stood a full six feet taller than the monster at Carris. Never in legend 
had a reaver grown to such a size. Surely, he told himself, this is the great 
Lord of the Underworld.
    He would never be able to leap high enough to slam his hammer into her 
massive brain, and she had the wisdom to close her mouth so that he could not 
strike up through the palate.
    His best target was the soft spot of her thorax, but he would have preferred 
a lance to pierce so deeply.
    He reversed his warhammer. The handle was nearly six feet long. With his 
endowments of brawn, it was no great feat to leap high in the air. He hurled the 
hammer with all his might, wrenching his shoulder from its socket as he did.
    The warhammer buried itself into the monster's thorax, and the fell mage 
reared higher, trying to escape. Raj Ahten hit the ground, scurried out of 
danger.
    The fell mage threw down her staff, reached up with her huge clumsy paws and 
began trying to yank the warhammer out. She got it between two claws, thrust it 
away from her. It rang against the roof, then clattered a dozen yards off.
    She reached for her staff. Raj Ahten lunged for his warhammer.
    He had not struck deeply enough. A sound hit to the thorax should have 
caused her to die almost instantly, similar to a blow to a man's kidneys.
    All around, scarlet sorceresses rushed to join the fray. The great mage 
lowered her head and charged him, gaping her jaws wide at Raj Ahten.
    That was what he needed. He gripped his warhammer, and vaulted into her 
mouth. The dry, raspy surface of her tongue felt as if it were made of gravel.
    Her jaws snapped closed around him, and she tilted her head back in an 
attempt to swallow. He jumped, plunging the warhammer deep into her soft palate, 
raking a long gash.
    He pulled out the hammer in a rain of gore. Blood and brains cascaded down, 
spattering.
    The fell mage staggered a few feet, wobbled.
    Raj Ahten slammed has hammer against the back of her throat to make her gag.
    As she coughed him out, a dozen other Runelords in fine silks came leaping 
into the room. Bhopanastrat shouted, "Kill them all, secure the fortress!"
    The scarlet sorceresses backed away, tried to retreat. But there would be no 
escape. The fortress was surrounded. Raj Ahten had already cleared a path into 
it, and ripped out the heart of the reavers' defenses.
    Pusnabish entered seconds later. Runelords swarmed into the fortress by the 
hundreds.
    Raj Ahten ran for the open air, leaving lesser men to complete the job.
    He imagined how the world would now sing his praise. There would be parades 
at Maygassa as he ascended the Elephant Throne. The people would carpet the road 
beneath his feet with petals of rose, gardenia, and lotus. The enormous golden 
gongs outside the city's western gate would pound night and day for a month. The 
most beautiful women in the realm would seek him out, hoping to bear his sons, 
while wealthy lords and merchants showered him with gifts.
    His victory would far outshine any deeds that Gaborn Val Orden had 
accomplished. He, Raj Ahten, had killed the greatest of reaver mages, had saved 
the Earth.
    Songs would be sung about him for a thousand years. Children as yet 
undreamed of would sit around the campfires at night and hear how Raj Ahten 
stood against the Lord of the Underworld. Their mouths would gape in wonder, and 
they would try to hide from their fathers how they shivered in fear.
    All of this, and more, Raj Ahten envisioned as he cleared the mouth of the 
fortress, came back into the daylight. The poisoned air swirled round the 
reavers' hive in a dingy cloud.
    He plunged down the ridge into the reavers' dry moat and suddenly felt a 
nauseating wrench.
    He knew the sensation far too well.
    His Dedicates were dying.
    At the palace in Bel Nai, the markets were awash with morning light. White 
doves fluttered about the spires of the citadels, or strutted along rooftops, 
cooing contentedly.
    In the bazaar, a merchant cried as always, "Fresh roasted pistachios, still 
hot!"
    Camels lay in the street, chewing lazily.
    Here, a thousand miles north of Kartish, word had not yet reached the city 
of a reaver attack in far lands. Raj Ahten's ministers had not wished to alarm 
the populace.
    Yet in the deepest heart of the Dedicates' Keep, four men lay dying. Three 
were men who vectored stamina to Raj Ahten. The Emir Owatt knew them by voice. 
One was Korab Manthusar, a Dedicate who had acted as a vector for nearly twelve 
years. Another was Jinjafal Dissai, who had vectored stamina for less than five.
    Between them, they accounted for hundreds of endowments. They had been 
sipping tea as they played chess when the emir came upon them and jabbed each 
with his poisoned needle.
    The resin of the malefactor bush paralyzed the lungs, and would leave the 
men gasping on the floor. Without stamina, they would not resist death for long.
    But though the poison promised to make quick work of them, it did not do so 
soon enough. Both men managed to cry out a brief warning.
    The emir spun and stabbed a third dedicate.
    A nearby guard heard the noise, rushed into the common room, and sliced the 
emir in half.
    As the old king died, the guard held his hand.
    For a moment, the emir imagined the man sought to offer him comfort. But 
only in his final seconds did he realize that the guard held him to keep the 
poison needle from piercing another victim.
    Raj Ahten gasped outside the reavers' stronghold, choking on the fetid air. 
Even now he could taste the great mage's curse: "Breathe no more."
    The power of it was undeniable.
    The curse reached into his lungs, its decimating grip clutching them like a 
vise. He fought it desperately, but all his remaining endowments of stamina 
would not keep him alive.
    Dedicates were dying, his vectors. His defenses were crumbling. Binnesman's 
curse had undone him. He was not the Sum of All Men.
    He struggled for air, and his heart beat wildly. Moments before he had 
imagined the praise that would be his as savior of the world. Now, he lay 
beneath clouds of darkness, gasping in the pit.
    Over Raj Ahten's head, a fireball hurtled toward the fortress, slammed into 
its side. Delicious heat spilled out in a hundred directions. Flames roared 
nearby.
    He felt the warmth like a soothing balm, recalled how delicious it had felt 
against his skin at the campfire high in the Hest Mountains.
    "I can heal you," Az whispered in his memory.
    The skies went dark as Az enticed fire from the heavens again. It swirled 
down into his hands, a brilliant maelstrom, a webwork of light piercing the 
darkness.
    Unable to walk, Raj Ahten crawled toward it. His frame shook. Despite all 
his endowments of brawn, he trembled like an old woman, and gasped in the fetid 
air. He gained the lip of the pit, and looked up at the burning rune only three 
hundred yards away.
    A wave of nausea rushed over him. He gasped as if he felt his own heart had 
been ripped away. Another vector gone.
    There is an assassin at Bel Nai, he realized.
    I will never live to reap my reward. I will not hear the songs I have 
earned.
    He tottered up the lip of the pit, began stalking toward the great fire.
    Az stood at the heart of the Rune of Night, drawing flames to himself, 
stealing the very light from heaven.
    "Az!" Raj Ahten shouted with the last of his strength. His voice rang over 
the battlefield. He collapsed to his knees, struggled to even hold up a hand, 
pleading.
    Az glanced down at him, saw his failing condition, and hurled the fireball.
    It expanded as it roared near, until it filled Raj Ahten's vision.
    In one instant, the white silks on his back seared to ashes. The fire 
pierced him with a thousand burning fangs. The flesh of his face bubbled. Ears 
and eyelids roasted to nothingness.
    Old parts of him, unneeded parts, the dross of his humanity, melted away.
    An intense light burned into his mind, expanded his vision. In an instant he 
saw that he had been traveling toward this destination all his life. He had 
imagined that he fought to serve mankind by becoming the Sum of All Men, while 
others said that he only served himself.
    But at every juncture in the path of his life, he had chosen to serve Fire.
    Even as a young man, he had appropriated for himself the title Sun Lord.
    Now his master seized him and, like precious ore, purified him in the 
flames. The dross melted away, and that which remained was hardly flesh at 
all--only a vessel that veiled an immaculate light.
    Raj Ahten was no longer human. He was the power that he had served so 
faithfully, and now, all of the lesser flameweavers of this world would bow 
before him and call him by his secret name.
    Burned, naked, transformed, and trailing glorious clouds of smoke, he 
climbed to his feet. The flames hissed his new name: Scathain.

     
     
Chapter 57
FELDONSHIRE
    I crave peace. I would that all the villages in my realm would continually 
overflow with peace, like foam overflowing a mug of warm ale.
    --Erden Geboren
     
    Guildmaster Wallachs led Averan, Binnesman, and the wylde out the back of 
the guildhall to a cobbled square bordered on one side by shops.
    Here, draftsmen designed the works to be created while young wrights cut the 
timbers and master carvers did the detail work. Averan was surprised to see two 
blacksmith forges for the smiths that fashioned the carvers' myriad tools.
    In a finishing shop where pieces were stained and varnished, four burly men 
were loading wooden barrels into the back of a wagon. The team was already in 
its traces. The odors that arose from the wagon were noxious--the barrels were 
filled with spoiled linseed oil, denatured alcohol, poisonous lac, bags of salt 
crystals, and colored powders that she didn't even recognize. All of them seemed 
to be ingredients for various types of varnishes and wood preservatives. The 
woodcutters were carting off virtually anything that they hoped might poison a 
reaver.
    "Are the other wagons gone?" Wallachs asked.
    "Aye," one of his men muttered. He wiped an arm across his sweaty face.
    "Leave the rest," Wallachs told the laborers, indicating the poison. "Go 
save your families."
    The workers leapt from the wagon. Binnesman and Wallachs sat on the driver's 
seat. Averan and the wylde climbed in.
    As they left the stable, Averan could hear a distant roar, like the pounding 
of the sea. The reavers were coming.
    She tried to judge her distance from the reavers by sound alone. Over the 
past two days, she'd become good at it. "They're maybe three miles out, I think. 
They'll be here in five minutes, maybe less."
    Her words seemed to have caught Wallachs by surprise. "So soon?"
    "Maybe less," Averan emphasized.
    Wallachs glanced at Binnesman for verification. The wizard arched a brow. 
"Less than that, I'd say. The reavers are racing full tilt."
    Wallachs snapped his whip over the heads of his mounts, whistled and 
shouted. The horses erupted from the stable, went charging up the hill.
    They're slow, Averan realized. So slow.
    These weren't force horses. They were common animals, and big. Pulling logs 
and heavy loads over the years had strengthened them. But even with a light 
wagon racing at full speed, they'd be hard-pressed to outrun a reaver.
    So Wallachs went stampeding south along the road, shouting, "Clear the way," 
when anyone dared stand in front of him. "Five minutes. In five minutes the 
reavers will be here!"
    Only then did Averan begin to see the danger. Heading east of town, where 
workmen's cottages lined the dirt road, she still saw people everywhere. Many 
were emptying their houses, packing goods onto horses. One old woman quickly 
tried to pick an apple tree clean. Another young mother was grabbing laundry off 
a drying bush while her children tugged at her apron strings.
    Dogs yapped at the wagon as it passed.
    The road climbed a small hill, and for a couple of minutes Averan could see 
all of Feldonshire spread out below her. To the northwest the Darkwald was a 
brown blot along the silver waters of the Donnestgree. To the south lay a dozen 
hamlets in the folds of the hills. Boats plied the river, floating downstream on 
a glimmering road. Everywhere on the east of town, the highway was black and 
cluttered with travelers. Many of them were folks from Shrewsvale and villages 
to the west. They raced across the country on horse, on wagon, on foot.
    Beyond them, three miles away, a cloud of dust rose in the hills where the 
reavers raged. From up here, the sound of their advance was louder, a continuous 
thunder.
    People screamed across the miles.
    "They're all going to die," Averan whispered. She climbed to the back of the 
wagon and stared out, feeling helpless.
    She'd thought that she and Binnesman had done some good. They'd given the 
people all the warning that they could. But it wasn't going to be enough.
    "Not all of them," Binnesman said. "We've saved some. Perhaps many."
    But as the buckboard topped the hill, she saw the reavers' front ranks 
charging over a distant rise. Wagons and people fled before them.
    A man's legs would not carry him fast enough. Hiding would do no good. Men 
were less than mice before the reaver horde.
    Gaborn's troops fled in a long column, their armor flashing in the sun. They 
headed south into the hills, helpless before the onslaught.
    Binnesman pulled Averan back. "Come away," he warned. "Watching doesn't do 
any good."
    But it does, Averan thought. Watching made her angry, and anger made her 
strong.
    On a bald hill above Feldonshire, Gaborn tried to decide whether to make 
another stand. Hundreds of commoners had ridden up here on horseback. Most were 
young men who bore bows or spears. They were eager to prove themselves, hoped to 
earn the Choosing. Thus, Gaborn's small army had begun to swell.
    Still, he could do nothing for Feldonshire.
    Below him lay his last hope: a stream cut through a narrow defile, and would 
provide some small distance between men and reavers. Farmers had built stone 
walls to keep their sheep from wandering into the ravine. Perhaps a hundred 
local men had taken position behind the eastern wall, and now stood with bows 
ready.
    The reavers advanced on Feldonshire.
    Too few people had left the city. Gaborn's men could see the peasants down 
in the valley, still loading food and wagons. Their hearts went out to the 
commoners preparing to die down there.
    "Milord?" Skalbairn asked.
    Gaborn warned, "Stay back. We can't do any more good. The cover is 
inadequate, as anyone can see."
    Gaborn dared not tempt fate. He knew that he could not turn the horde.
    Skalbairn's men chafed at his command.
    Beside him, Baron Waggit was breathing heavily, almost unable to restrain 
himself from riding down into the valley, to join the doomed men. The minutes 
stretched interminably, though the wait was short.
    Nearly a mile below, the reavers marched in the Form of War. The ground 
trembled from their passage.
    He could not stop them.
    When the reavers neared the far side of the ravine, the hundred archers rose 
up and let loose a volley of arrows.
    Few men had bows powerful enough to penetrate a reaver's hide at a hundred 
yards. Fewer still had the skill to use them effectively at such a distance. Yet 
three or four men managed to make kills before the reavers retaliated.
    Blade-bearers hurled stones, then leapt through the ravine. Mages blasted 
with their staves.
    Some of Feldonshire's archers raced for their horses. A few lucky ones ran 
fast and lived. But most of the commoners died by the droves.
    Then the horde was beyond the ravine, into the borders of Feldonshire 
itself.
    Reavers knocked down orchards in their path, smashed cottages that had stood 
for centuries, demolished fields and flocks.
    People fled--peasants running as fast as their legs could carry them, 
mothers with babes in their arms and children in tow.
    Their screams rose above the thunder of the reavers.
    Those that ran clear of the reavers' path would live. Those who failed would 
never fail at anything again.
    The blade-bearers at the front fed on sheep and peasants until they could 
stomach no more. Then they regurgitated their meals and moved on, feeding anew.
    Gaborn felt numb. To the west, Langley's knights rode behind the reavers, 
slaughtering the laggards. The men's lances were all broken, so they resorted to 
horsemen's warhammers.
    But to the east, peasants and wagons darkened the road. The highway through 
town served as a bottleneck for those who fled. People shouted in terror but 
could not move fast enough. At least ten thousand people still remained in the 
reavers' path.
    One of Skalbairn's men peeled off from his ranks, came riding up from the 
valley below. When he drew near, he raised the visor of his helm. It was Marshal 
Chondler.
    "Good news!" Chondler cried. "The reavers couldn't keep the pace. We rid 
ourselves of thousands in the hills!"
    No one cheered. The warrior looked over his back, to see why the others 
stared. His smile turned to a scowl.
    "Milord," Chondler asked. "What can we do?"
    Gaborn did not answer for a moment. In the past hour, he had considered 
every option--archery barrages from the hillsides, charges with lances, holding 
fast behind the stone wall and braving the worst that the reavers could bring 
against them. All paths led to disaster. Only one answer sufficed.
    Gaborn whispered angrily, "Stay out of their way. Kill any that fall 
behind."
    A part of him refused to believe that this could ever happen. He was the 
Earth King, and could still hear its voice. He'd felt certain that in his hour 
of greatest need, the Earth would respond. Yet now he watched the slaughter, and 
could not stop it. Most of all, he mourned the sick and wounded still trapped 
beside the river. Their fate was sealed.
    Now the reavers neared the heart of Feldonshire. They slowed as they pushed 
over cottages and shops, took a few seconds to ferret people from their hiding 
holes and gobble them down.
    Gaborn reached out with his senses. Many of his people had fled. Some were 
on the far side of the river to the north. Others had gone south into the hills. 
The reavers' course would lead straight through Feldonshire. His people to the 
north and south should have been safe.
    Yet Gaborn felt a rising danger, even for those who had left the reavers' 
path. It could mean only one thing. Once the reavers reached the pools at 
Stinkwater, they would swing back to hunt the people of Feldonshire.
    Yet something even more profound had happened. Gaborn reached out with Earth 
senses. The Earth warned him that now the danger had risen tenfold. The world's 
peril had increased. Gaborn wondered what might have changed.
    Then he felt it. Raj Ahten was gone. Gaborn could only surmise that the 
reavers in Kartish had killed him. With his death, everything seemed ready to 
fall apart.
    Gaborn felt staggered.
    Chondler watched the reavers spread their decimation and argued, "Milord, 
I'm sworn to the Brotherhood of the Wolf. I'll not stand here idle while people 
die."
    Gaborn shook his head sadly, tried to make the man understand. "You see 
their formation? If you attack their lines, the front ranks will retreat a few 
steps while those at your side move up. Then the arms of the star will swing 
round and close on your position, circling you. You'll die!"
    "All men die," Chondler said. "I'm sworn to protect mankind."
    Couldn't he see? Couldn't he see that Gaborn acted in their best interests?
    "Damn you, Marshal Chondler," Gaborn shouted. "What do you think I'm trying 
to do? If you go down there, the reavers will have you and destroy Feldonshire 
anyway."
    "I'm sworn--" Chondler began to say.
    Gaborn drew his sword ringing from its sheath. "For mankind," he said 
solemnly, "and for the Earth." Around him, the men of the Brotherhood of the 
Wolf cheered.
    Chondler stared at him in surprise, unsure how to take this. The king would 
join the Brotherhood of the Wolf? Was he renouncing his kingdom?
    Gaborn knew that his deed put Chondler off balance. But in his own mind, he 
was only reaffirming the commitment he'd made to his people long ago.
    He looked out over the crowd. "So, good sirs, it's a fight you want?" he 
asked. "I assure you, this battle has only begun."

     
     
Chapter 58
THREE KILLS
    The most enigmatic of reavers is the "fell mage," the leader of an attacking 
horde.
    Hearthmaster Magnus contended that they are a separate species from other 
reavers, while others suggest that powerful leaders always rise from within the 
ranks of sorceresses.
    It is of course tempting to assume that something as malign as a reaver 
horde would have to have a leader. But I often wonder if even the eyewitness 
accounts of fell mages are not faulty. In what respect does a "fell mage" differ 
from any other large sorceress?
    And since the last eyewitness documentation of a fell mage leading a reaver 
horde is nearly 1400 years old, I wonder if it is prudent to discount the notion 
completely.
    Rather, I suspect that reavers form a loose society that is ultimately 
leaderless.
    --Hearthmaster Vaien, of the Room of Beasts
     
    Guildmaster Wallachs's wagon rounded a corner too fast, slewed as if it 
would leave the road. They'd left Feldonshire, and as she topped a hill Averan 
spotted two disreputable warehouses on the flats below. Hides stretched on racks 
in the sun outside one building identified it as a tannery.
    Wallachs slowed his wagon, whistled to some men loading barrels outside the 
tannery. "Reavers will be here in five minutes. Get to safety!"
    The men left off loading their barrels and Wallachs was off again. The 
horses heaved with every breath, and they frothed now. Wallachs shouted as he 
sent the whip whistling over their tails.
    Wallachs eyed the second building as he passed. Averan could smell the 
pungent, greasy odor of lye soap cooking.
    After that, there was no true road. No cottages bordered the Stinkwater, not 
even the lowest hovel. Here on the east of town, the only businesses had been 
those that smelled so bad that no one would want them near.
    To the west of town the land had been rich and fertile, covered with 
cottages and gardens, orchards, vineyards, and fields of hops and barley.
    But here even the ground seemed defiled. The land flattened out. During the 
winters, rain would swell the Stinkwater Ponds, flooding their banks. In summer 
the water receded, leaving a yellowish-gray crust where almost nothing could 
grow. Coarse grass thrust up from sandy patches along with a few black, stunted 
trees that were so twisted they might never have been alive.
    Averan could smell the Stinkwater, a stench like rotten eggs.
    The ponds, green with scum, boiled out of the ground not far ahead. A thin 
haze rose up from the steaming waters. A dozen wagons were there, with twenty or 
thirty men offloading barrels.
    Wallachs drew near, shouted, "How do you fare?"
    "We've got enough lye in there to eat the flesh off your bones," one man 
shouted, "and with all the turpentine, I'd not get a flame close to it for any 
woman's love!"
    Averan looked at Binnesman's face. He seemed unprepared for how large the 
ponds really were. They looked larger down here than they did from up in the 
sky. Each one covered several acres. Kegs of poison floated in them.
    In the distance, the earth thundered as the reavers approached. Binnesman's 
countenance was pale.
    "By the Powers," he whispered, "I can't heal those waters--not in an hour, 
not in a day!"
    Wallachs grunted and nodded, as if his suspicions had been confirmed. He 
shouted to his men. "You've got three minutes to clear the ponds. The reavers 
are coming!"
    He snapped his whip over the ears of his team, and raced ahead.
    "The road gives out just east of here," Wallachs apologized to Binnesman in 
a worried tone. "Not more than a mile, and you're in the woods."
    He left much unsaid. If the reavers came after them, there'd be no place to 
run.
    "A mile should be far enough," Binnesman said. "Take us to yonder rise, and 
let's see what happens."
    Wallachs urged the horses on, and the buckboard bounced mercilessly over the 
bumpy trail, rattling Averan's teeth. Behind them, a cloud of dust rose from 
where Feldonshire had stood, and the faint screams drifted over the plain.
    Averan's stomach knotted. The horses were tiring. They couldn't keep up this 
pace for mile after mile. Even if the road had kept going, the horses couldn't.
    Now the wagon rolled up a small knoll where a few black trees thrust from 
the sparse grass. From there, Averan could see the hills above town and look out 
over the Stinkwater.
    She'd seen the ponds before from the sky. Up high, they looked like three 
bright green gems with white edges. But she knew that it was just a trick of the 
light.
    Now the wagons pulled away from the ponds, with men whipping their horses. 
Broken barrels bobbed on the water, spilling scum. The steam rising from the 
ponds' surface made them look like bubbling cauldrons.
    Averan's heart pounded. They had barely stopped, when the reavers crowned 
the hill above Feldonshire, stampeding for the Stinkwater.
    The horde thundered across the plain, teeth gleaming wickedly in the 
sunlight. For hours they had been running in the Form of War.
    Now they broke ranks. The largest and greediest blade-bearers surged ahead, 
making for the ponds.
    But even half a mile from water, most reavers sensed something wrong. Many 
rose up on their back legs, philia waving madly, and drew back from the stench. 
Others merely slowed, stalked forward cautiously.
    A few thousand reavers, so crazed that their senses were gone, galloped 
forward and threw themselves into the ponds, dipping their heads down deep in 
the water, then throwing them back up as they drank in a strangely birdlike 
fashion. They crowded together, cheek to jowl, a solid mass of gray leathery 
hides and flashing teeth.
    It was a horror to watch.
    Behind the reaver horde, Gaborn's knights advanced over the hills.
    With the breaking ranks and their loss of hope, many reavers floundered. 
They dropped and lay insensate, unwilling to move.
    Knights on their force horses raced to take them while they were down. Their 
silver mail flashed as horses wheeled and turned, darting after the slowest gray 
reavers. Through half-closed eyes, the knights reminded Averan for all the world 
of silver minnows in a pool, flashing in the sunlight as they struck at a bit of 
food.
    The knights brought down a few hundred reavers, then wheeled their chargers 
south to a small hill nearly a mile and a half away. They formed ranks there. 
Lances bristled as they aimed at the sky. Local farmers and merchant boys rode 
up to meet them, swelling their ranks to thousands.
    Closer to hand, the reavers that had reached the Stinkwater and drunk the 
most began to die. Muscle spasms caused them to flip to their sides, kicking 
dust in the air as they spun.
    Those that drank only a little drew away from the fouled water after a 
swallow or two, and simply heaved the contents of their stomachs onto the 
ground. They groped about, almost too weak to move.
    By far the vast majority of the reavers merely retreated from the ponds and 
stood, dazed with dehydration. Their philia drooped in exhaustion, hanging from 
their heads like dead vines. The rasping of their heavy breathing filled the 
air, becoming a dull rumble.
    Dozens of reavers began to trudge in aimless circles, no longer cognizant of 
where they went.
    From the south, a hundred force horses came charging over the plains out of 
the wooded hills. Gaborn led them, riding with Knight's Equitable, as if to race 
the wind. He'd circled the reaver horde. Now he rode up toward Averan on the 
hillock. Skalbairn rode with him, along with Baron Waggit and many other 
knights.
    Gaborn nodded at Averan and leapt from his horse, gazing west at the 
reavers. "What's happening?" he demanded. His countenance was grim, determined.
    "Their run to water has left them broken," Binnesman answered. "I suspect 
that over half of the horde has succumbed."
    "Not quite half," Gaborn said. "I estimate nearly forty thousand reavers 
left in the horde."
    "They're dying," Averan added. "They won't make it back to Keep Haberd."
    "I think," Wallachs said hopefully, "I think we've done it. I think we've 
won!"
    Averan watched Gaborn as he licked his lips and stared hard at the reavers. 
Eventually they would all die, and Gaborn would lead her to the Waymaker. There 
she would feed, and learn the path to the One True Master.
    "We haven't won," Gaborn told Wallachs. "They may die, but not without a 
fight."
    Even as he spoke, a great hissing erupted among the center of the horde.
    A mage rose up high on her legs, began casting her scent far and wide.
    The glowing runes on her body glimmered in the sun, and her staff suddenly 
blazed like white lightning.
    Three Kills was her name. In Averan's memory, she was young and fearsome, 
easily the most cunning mage in the horde. Only her relative youth and small 
size had kept her from leading the band before. Three more reavers rose up, 
faced Three Kills and began hissing in return.
    "What's happening?" Gaborn demanded.
    "It's an argument between lords," Averan said. "They often argue."
    "Which one is their leader?" Gaborn asked.
    Averan was astonished by the question. It was so obvious. "The one with her 
butt highest in the air. See how the others keep theirs lower? She'll kill them 
if they don't."
    Gaborn watched them so intently that Averan felt guilty for not being able 
to tell him more. He went to the lip of the hill, drew his warhammer and planted 
it in the ground, much as Binnesman did his staff. Then he held the handle, and 
peered at the reavers, as if trying to read their thoughts.
    If I had the senses of a reaver, she knew, I'd be able to smell what they 
said. I'd know what they were arguing about.
    But she only knew that an argument like this might last for an hour or more.
    The sunlight seemed so bright, so painful. As the reavers held their 
council, Averan half closed her eyes.
    Down in the valley below, Three Kills's argument ended abruptly. A rival 
raised her tail slightly, and Three Kills leapt, thrust her crystalline staff 
through the sweet triangle of her adversary. There was a dull explosion, and the 
sorceress's head ripped into ragged chunks.
    She had had her say.
    Now Three Kills snatched gobbets of her brain, while others in the horde 
ripped out the sweet glands below her legs.
    The remaining reavers drew back, began rushing about, taking up new 
formations. They separated into nine camps, each led by a scarlet sorceress, 
each in the Form of War.
    They turned and began stalking east, spreading to the north and south as 
they went. It was a distinctly odd maneuver for a reaver.
    Reavers lived in tunnels, and tended to walk in single file through the 
Underworld--head to tail. That way, orders could be relayed backward easily.
    Spreading their forces went against the reavers' most fundamental instincts. 
More than that, the horde was heading downwind. They wouldn't easily be able to 
smell adversaries in front of them.
    "What are they doing?" Gaborn asked. "Is this what I think?"
    Averan began shaking. She could see it all so clearly. The nine armies would 
create a front perhaps eight miles wide. Already Gaborn's troops on the far hill 
recognized the danger and began to retreat. "You're right. The reavers know 
they're going to die," she said. "But there are a lot of people in Feldonshire. 
They'll hunt down as many peasants as they can. After that..."
    "They'll keep hunting," Gaborn said. "I can sense ripples of danger 
everywhere. They'll circle and head downriver, through city after city until 
they reach the Courts of Tide.
    "Averan, how can I stop them?"
    The reavers loped off to the east.
    Averan thought quickly. Each time they'd killed a leader, the new mage had 
changed tactics. Even now, the other sorceresses questioned Three Kills's 
wisdom. She'd led them to water, only to find it poisoned. The reavers were on 
the verge of mutiny.
    "You must get rid of Three Kills..."
    "Of course!" Gaborn said. But he'd lost sight of her. "Where is she?"
    "The middle formation," Averan answered.
    His face paled. She knew that he was considering strategies, counting the 
potential cost. He looked grim, lost.

     
     
Chapter 59
BROTHERHOOD
    I have learned that my kingdom has no borders.
    And that all men are more than mere subjects--they are my kinsmen, my 
brethren--and therefore deserving of my devotion.
    I find that I grieve the loss of strangers as I would grieve the loss of my 
only child.
    --Erden Geboren
     
    Skalbairn sat on his charger as Gaborn studied the reavers. Skalbairn could 
see the wheels of the lad's mind turning as he considered how to best the 
reavers. The reavers were stalking toward Feldonshire.
    The boy had no time to plot any elegant strategies. The main force of his 
cavalry held the hill to the west. But if Gaborn raced to them now, he would 
have to skirt the reavers' lines. By the time he reached his men, the reavers 
would be into Feldonshire, hunting.
    "Gentlemen," Gaborn said firmly. "I believe we can stop the slaughter before 
it begins--but only at great cost."
    Gaborn looked up at the hundred men who had ridden with him, staring each in 
the eye. "I'm for the Underworld, and cannot lead the charge. And any man who 
rides now must consider his life forfeit. Will you ride?"
    The lad was serious. Skalbairn had never seen an expression like Gaborn wore 
now. There was suffering and pain in his eyes, and sorrow in his brow, and a 
consuming need.
    Skalbairn's blood went chill. As a child he'd dreamt of being a warrior, and 
in his fondest dreams he'd imagined that an Earth King would arise someday, and 
Skalbairn would fight at his side.
    But he'd never dreamt of it like this. The Earth King never asked him to 
die.
    There was a moment of silence from the lords. Skalbairn knew that his men 
would ride, but none wanted to be the first to speak.
    "In the world to come," Skalbairn inquired, "may I ride beside you in the 
Great Hunt?"
    "Aye," Gaborn said. "Any man who rides now will ride with me then." It was 
an empty promise, Skalbairn knew. Not all men rose as wights.
    Skalbairn spat on the ground. " 'Tis a bargain, then!"
    A cheer rose from the men at Skalbairn's back. Some drew their war-hammers 
and beat them against shields, others waved their lances.
    The only man who did not cheer was Baron Waggit, who sat silently on his 
mount, thinking. It was a capacity new to him, Skalbairn reasoned, an unfamiliar 
tool.
    Gaborn raised a hand, warning them to silence.
    "We'll need a diversion," Gaborn said. He drew a hexagon on the ground. 
"You'll break into three squadrons. We'll send fifty men on a charge here to the 
left, another fifty to charge to the right. As the reavers' move to attack, it 
should thin the line here at the front. A small force of men on fast horses can 
race through the lines and lance the mage."
    "Milord," Skalbairn asked, "may I volunteer to strike the blow?"
    The lad's face was pale. He took a deep breath, nodded.
    Skalbairn was sure then that he would die. Marshal Chondler said, "I'll ride 
with him, as should any man of the Brotherhood of the Wolf."
    With that, a third man made the offer, Lord Kellish, and Gaborn nodded, and 
said, "That's enough."
    Gaborn stared evenly at the hundred Knights Equitable who were going to ride 
into battle, said in a solemn tone, "Thank you. I'll need each of you to fight 
like reavers now."
    Gaborn pulled out his warhorn and said, "The left wing charge on my command, 
two blasts quickly. The right wing will go on one blast long. Skalbairn, I'll 
ride with you part of the way."
    Skalbairn and the knights quickly dismounted, checked their girth straps. 
Not every man had a lance, but every man wanted one. He quickly checked his 
charger's hooves. The heavy war shoes were all in place. The leather bindings 
for its barding were tight.
    For years, Skalbairn had lived as a moral failure. For years he had believed 
that only death might bring him some release.
    He pulled off his purse, looked up at Baron Waggit. The young man sat on his 
horse, looking grim and thoughtful. He was big, handsome in a brutish sort of 
way, with a color of blond hair favored back in Internook. He wasn't riding into 
battle, and that was good. He knew that this fight was beyond him. Maybe he'd 
never be a warrior. He'd make a fine farmer, or perhaps someday go back to the 
mines. With any luck, he'd live to a ripe old age. Right now, that was all that 
Skalbairn wanted from the man.
    Damn it, Skalbairn thought. A day ago we all thought him a fool, and now 
he's wiser than all the rest of us put together.
    "Waggit," Skalbairn called. The young man turned, his pale blue eyes 
piercing in the midmorning sun. "Some gold. I'd be grateful if you'd take it to 
my daughter, Farion. See that she's well cared for."
    Waggit considered the request.
    Skalbairn felt certain that if Waggit saw the girl, he'd feel for her 
plight. Waggit knew better than any man the world his idiot daughter was trapped 
in. He'd recognize her virtues and her goodness. His daughter was as kind as she 
was simple, and her smile was as infectious as a plague. She'd never make 
another man a proper wife. She could do small chores--bring in firewood or pluck 
a chicken for dinner. All she needed was a good man, capable of loving her. He'd 
need to be a patient man to care for her, to buy goods at the market, and help 
her rear her children--one forgiving of her weaknesses.
    Skalbairn whispered to the Powers, Let him be that man.
    Waggit nodded. "I'll give it to her."
    "May the Bright Ones protect you," Skalbairn said softly.
    Skalbairn climbed on his horse, spurred the mount down the slope, leading 
the way. There was no more time for niceties.
    In moments, Gaborn and the others all gathered around him, and the assault 
began without fanfare, a hundred men against more than three thousand reavers.
    The reavers were running fast, heading toward Feldonshire, loping over the 
plains with their backs to him, each reaver like a gray hill.
    Skalbairn let his huge black charger race. He dropped his lance into a 
couch. Beside him, a hundred men fanned out. The sulfur and alkali crusting the 
plains muted the sound of the horse's hooves, and went flying as they charged.
    The plain was as flat and barren of stones as it could be. There were 
painfully few trees or bushes, hardly even any grass.
    He'd never had a better surface for a cavalry charge.
    Langley veered to the right, leading fifty men to the far side of the 
hexagon. Lord Gulliford guided another fifty left.
    "Ranks three deep," Gaborn said to Skalbairn, Marshal Chondler, and Lord 
Kellish. "Make sure that you cut through the lines!"
    Gaborn sounded two blasts short. Gulliford's riders gave their chargers 
their heads.
    Gaborn sounded one blast long, and Langley's men swept to the right, driving 
hard.
    Gaborn held his three champions back. Baron Waggit rode beside them.
    Skalbairn reined his mount, watched the enemy lines.
    Gulliford's men swept into the reavers, lanced dozens from behind, then 
veered away from the front, riding as if in a Knight's Circus. The reavers spun 
to face them, blade-bearers closing ranks to form a wall of flesh while 
sorceresses leveled their staves and hurled dire spells. Clouds of green smoke 
rained down on the fifty. In the mountains the reavers had thrown stones, but 
the sandy soil here left their artillery with nothing at hand. Only half a dozen 
men fell under the onslaught.
    Almost immediately, Langley's men hit the reavers' right flank.
    As Gaborn had predicted, the untrained reavers broke rank on both flanks, 
rushed to do battle.
    Thus the front before Skalbairn thinned.
    "Fare thee well!" Gaborn shouted.
    "Till we meet in the shadowed vale!" Skalbairn roared, and spurred his 
mount. The ground blurred beneath his charger's feet. Skalbairn's black stallion 
had three endowments of metabolism, and would rank among the fastest in the 
world. Many better endowed mounts could hit speeds of eighty or ninety miles an 
hour, but his outraced them.
    To hit a reaver at that speed would surely leave him dead. To fall from his 
horse would break every bone in his body.
    Skalbairn held his lance steady. He glanced back, saw Chondler a hundred 
yards behind him, followed by Lord Kellish.
    He spurred his mount and shouted, "Faster!"
    Many of the blade-bearers held no weapons at all. He aimed his mount between 
two of them.
    At two hundred yards he drew close enough so that the reavers could sense 
him. But with his mount racing at over a hundred miles an hour, the reavers 
barely had time to spin. Without a glory hammer or a blade for the reavers to 
defend themselves, he darted easily between the first ranks.
    A hiss of warning rose from reavers all around.
    Off to his right, a quick-thinking sorceress hurled a spell.
    A billowing stench flowed out behind him, bowled into the lines ahead, 
staggering a blade-bearer.
    He swerved left now, into the second rank of reavers, never slowing. These 
were smaller beasts, without weapons. A reaver off to his right did not even 
spin to meet him. It was loping along, philia dangling, dead on its feet.
    He aimed his mount toward it.
    He heard the clatter of armor behind him--a shattering lance and a man 
shouting a war cry. A horse screamed. Reaver spells exploded in the air.
    Baron Waggit's horse walked beside that of the Earth King, and he watched 
the Runelords charge into battle. He'd witnessed a hundred deaths in the past 
day, but would never grow used to it.
    He felt loath to lose Skalbairn. As High Marshal of the Knights Equitable, 
the huge warrior had the respect of every lord in Rofehavan, and to Waggit's 
surprise, the man had taken him under his wing. He'd taught him a little of how 
to use the staff yesterday. Miraculously, he'd even sought to match him with his 
daughter.
    In all his life, Waggit could not remember any man ever wishing him as a 
son-in-law. No woman had ever desired him as a lover. No man would have wanted 
him as a brother.
    The gift of memory was such a many-faceted thing. Now, for the first time in 
his life, he was desired. Yet his memory was unstable.
    For the past day, he'd troubled himself in idle moments, trying to recall 
his real name. From time to time, it had come to him in the past, but he'd never 
been able to hold it for more than a few minutes. He did not want to go through 
life called by the name Waggit, for he felt sure it had been foisted on him 
derisively.
    Yet his real name would not come to him, and the few memories he dredged up 
were full of pain. He recalled his father beating him as a child, for he had put 
too much wood in the hearth and the whole house nearly caught fire. He recalled 
sitting up in a tree one night, feeling lonely as he watched a V of geese wing 
past the rising moon, while children taunted him below. Of his mother, he could 
remember nothing at all.
    It seemed that the memories he was making now were all darker still. He'd 
watched from afar as the horde destroyed Feldonshire. He'd heard the muted death 
cries on the banks of the river Donnestgree as the reavers fell among the 
wounded from Carris. Even now, they echoed in his memory. He suspected that they 
would forever.
    Thus Gaborn's blessing became a curse.
    "Skalbairn's going to die, isn't he?" Waggit asked Gaborn.
    "Yes," Gaborn said. "I believe so."
    There must be an end to the dying, Waggit told himself.
    "Am I going to die today?" Waggit asked.
    "No."
    "Good," Waggit said.
    He spurred his mount toward the reavers' battle lines.
    Skalbairn glanced back. Chondler had tried to cut past a huge blade-bearer 
armed with a knight gig, but it darted in front of him. The monster snagged 
Chondler's charger out from beneath him, ripping open the mount's belly. The 
horse's gut spilled to the ground, and Chondler went down with it.
    Behind him, Kellish veered and slowed. A sorceress hurled a dark yellow 
cloud that swallowed man and horse. Lord Kellish screamed and his horse never 
made it from under the shadow of that foul curse.
    There would be no second chance, not in this charge.
    Skalbairn burst past the second rank, neared the mage's escorts--a dozen 
large blade-bearers. Their ranks drew tight around her. Several of the monsters 
shifted to meet him.
    But the mage was larger than her escorts, towered over them. He could see 
her well, marching away from him, ass high in the air.
    In the distance ahead, he heard warhorns blowing. The foothills that hid 
Feldonshire rose in brown humps, and suddenly two thousand Knights Equitable 
topped the nearest rise, not half a mile ahead.
    They had heard Gaborn sound the charge, and thought that he called to them!
    A blade-bearer swung his knight gig and Skalbairn knew he would never evade 
it.
    Yet the great mage was tantalizingly close. He wouldn't get a quick-killing' 
blow, not one to the sweet triangle.
    "Farion!" he cried, as he hurled his lance over the escort's head.
    It lofted up twenty feet, and began to descend in a graceful curve toward 
the mage's back. He never got to see it land.
    His horse whinnied in terror, tried to turn. The emerald staff hit its 
breastplate, and searing flames erupted from it, cutting the horse in two. 
Skalbairn's weight bore him over as the charger stumbled, and he knew no more.
    Waggit raced through the reavers' ranks. The monsters hissed in seeming 
astonishment as two thousand knights charged the far side of the field. 
Sorceress's spells welled up in dark clouds, sweeping the front ranks. Dozens of 
lords died under the onslaught.
    Suddenly, the reavers' attention was diverted.
    Waggit rode through the horde with no weapon drawn. He dodged past a huge 
blade-bearer that swiveled its head as if looking for other prey. He rode past a 
second, using its bulk to shield him from the spell of a nearby sorceress.
    He'd had little time to reason it through, but suspected that without a 
lance, the reavers would not consider him much of a threat. And of all the men 
in Gaborn's retinue, he was the least able to bear a weapon here.
    Desperately Gaborn sounded his warhorn, blowing retreat.
    Waggit had lost track of Skalbairn, but saw the fell mage rear up and whirl 
about. Skalbairn's lance had skewered her through the abdomen, and now she tried 
to pull it out. It was a deadly blow. She'd not last an hour under normal 
circumstances. But among her faithless companions, she would not last fifteen 
seconds.
    Around her, a few young sorceresses saw her grim wound and rushed in for the 
harvest. Blade-bearers followed in a grotesque knot.
    They tore the mage from limb to limb.
    "Skalbairn!" Waggit called.
    There was no answering cry. But Waggit spotted Skalbairn's remains on the 
field, beneath the legs of a reaver. The reavers had made doubly sure of him. 
There was nothing left to save, nothing he could do.
    Waggit spurred his charger away from the bloodbath, and the poor mount 
wheezed as it set off through the horde.
    He guided it swiftly through a knot of smallish reavers that all fled as if 
a Glory had appeared among them, and in moments he was racing away from the 
horde altogether, his horse's hooves blurring as it sped over the sandy soil.
    He charged toward the Stinkwater for a hundred yards, then wheeled back 
toward Gaborn. Langley and his men raced before him in full retreat.
    Waggit looked up, saw a flock of geese in a V above the hills. The sun shone 
on the sparse fields and the woods beyond, making them shine in shades of wheat 
and vermilion.
    From the dim recesses of memory, he recalled a time long ago, when he 
watched the geese fly over his father's barn during the bleak midwinter, and his 
mother called out warning him to put on his cloak. The memory rose like a clear 
bubble, and it burst within him.
    In the memory, his mother called him by a truer name.

     
     
Chapter 60
THE WAYMAKER
    Every road will lead you to a thousand byways. The easiest path is often not 
the best.
    --From a placard at the Partridge and Peacock Inn, a training stop in the 
Room of the Feet
     
    Dust rose in the vale below Averan--the dust of reavers marching to war, the 
dust of men charging into battle. From her vantage, the dust obscured the 
details of the fight. Gaborn's men swept into the horde on their force-horses, 
their actions a blur.
    The lords pounded into the reavers on four fronts, providing the much needed 
diversion. Skalbairn rode in and died as he skewered Three Kills.
    When it was done, fewer men rode back.
    Averan thought that she should mourn, but no tears would come. Too many 
friends had died already.
    The reavers hissed, sending their undetectable words across the field, and 
at once the nine Forms of War began to merge into one. Under new leadership, the 
reavers marched back west toward Feldonshire.
    When Gaborn's army fled to the south, the reavers did not give pursuit.
    The horde was leaving, thundering across the earth in dwindling numbers, 
hissing like the waves of a retreating tide. The reavers were heading back for 
their lair, though few had the stamina to survive the arduous journey.
    In the distance Gaborn's men began to cheer. They rode to the hilltops south 
of Feldonshire and gave a rising shout as the reavers passed. She saw men 
leaping, hugging each other.
    In the hills and in the woods across the river Donnestgree, cheers also 
arose from villagers.
    At Averan's back, Gaborn's Days had been studying the battle in silence. Now 
he whispered, "A great victory." But Gaborn merely sat on his charger, his lance 
balanced across the pommel of his saddle, head hanging. He had lost dozens of 
troops in the fray.
    "I've warned him," Binnesman said. "Erden Geboren did not die of a mortal 
wound, but of a broken heart. Gaborn will do the same."
    "How can we help him?" Averan asked.
    But she already knew what Gaborn would want. He'd dog the reavers for the 
day, and have her search for the Waymaker. He'd want her to feed again.
    "Listen..." Binnesman said. He looked off to the north and then south. 
Beside him, the green woman cocked an ear, as if Binnesman had given her the 
command to listen.
    Averan could hear nothing unusual. "What?"
    "The silence is profound. It spreads for miles."
    Averan wasn't quite sure what he meant. People were still cheering. The 
reavers rasped and the earth seemed to groan beneath their weight.
    "No birds sing, no crickets," Binnesman whispered. "No cattle bawl--not a 
sound other than man and reavers for miles and miles. What is the Earth telling 
you?"
    Averan didn't know what he meant. To her, it felt as if...suffering. The 
earth could be suffering.
    She felt tired. She wanted to end this war.
    On the hills across the valley, Gaborn's knights gathered in a great circle. 
Now they held up their shields in unison and began to flash them, sending news 
of their victory in every direction as far as the eye could see.
    The sunlight was too bright. Averan raised her hands to protect her eyes.
    Downhill a hundred yards she noticed a black tree that thrust from the 
ground--a small, gnarled thing. It wasn't really a tree. It was hardly taller 
than a man--more of a bush, with a dozen twisted branches. Stunted, 
vile-looking.
    Yet she sensed life within it. It had managed to survive beside the 
Stinkwater where no other tree could. It was noble and hardy.
    She didn't think about what she was doing.
    She merely leapt from the back of the wagon and walked down to the tree.
    It looked at first as if it had never had leaves, but as she neared she saw 
that they had already fallen for the winter. They lay upon the ground, broad and 
brown.
    Up close, the bark was shiny, a deep gray that almost seemed charcoal. A few 
wrinkled seedpods still clung to the limbs.
    She had never seen a tree like it, could not have named it. Yet it held her 
spellbound, enthralled.
    She reached out experimentally, grabbed the central branch, and gave it a 
tug.
    The limb pulled away so easily she almost thought that the tree must have 
died long ago, and the wood had all gone to rot. But she could feel power 
beneath the bark, could feel its vital essence.
    No, the tree had given itself to her.
    It was a good staff, strong and powerful and dangerous. It was her staff. 
She began breathing hard with excitement, shaking.
    At her back, Binnesman broke her reverie. "Hmmm...black laburnum--a strange 
choice."
    "What is its nature?" Averan asked. "What does it tell you about me?"
    "I don't know," Binnesman said. His tone was thick with suspicion, and he 
peered at her closely from beneath his bushy brow. "No one has ever chosen it 
before. I have never heard of an Earth Warden who chose his staff from a 
poisonous tree."
    "Poisonous?"
    "Every part of a laburnum is deadly--root, bark, leaf, berry, nut. The black 
laburnum is the most poisonous of all. In the hills of Lysle, where most of them 
grow, the locals call it poisonwood."
    "Poisonwood," Averan repeated. The name had an ominous ring. Yet it seemed 
fitting that she should choose her staff from such wood, here, where so many of 
the reavers lay poisoned.
    She looked into his eyes. Averan had never been good at reading people, at 
knowing when they lied. But she wondered about Binnesman now. He was studying 
her narrowly, suspiciously. He knew something about her, or guessed something 
from her choice of staff.
    Gaborn had turned his mount, now he raced back up to the hillside. He looked 
distraught. He bore sad news. He called up to his Days, "Queen Herin the Red 
died a few moments ago in the charge." He shook his head wearily.
    "Averan," he begged, "I saw a reaver with thirty-six philia, down by the 
pools. It has big forepaws. Will you look at it?"
    Averan swallowed hard. She could not bear to feed again, not from a reaver 
that had knowingly drunk its own death.
    She raised her staff, held it defensively as if she were Spring, ready to 
parry a blow. Then she realized that she really was trying to parry a blow.
    She raised the staff, holding each end overhead, as Binnesman had done when 
blessing Carris. She did not know why she held it thus. It merely felt as if the 
staff needed to be held that way.
    As she did, an image came to mind: the Waymaker, with his thirty-six philia 
and his huge paws. She could see him in her mind's eye--still running among the 
horde, racing toward the Underworld. He had a scar on his flank, a lance wound 
by the look of it. His philia drooped from fatigue. Around him, reavers marched 
by the weary thousands, and he could smell the scent trails of those who marched 
before, the whispered mutterings of pain and despair that reverberated through 
the horde. There were thousands of them speaking, thousands of voices that 
humans had never heard. The scents overwhelmed Averan.
    "He's alive!" she told Gaborn. "The Waymaker is still alive."
    Gaborn gazed at her, mouth open.
    She glanced back at the wylde, eager to try something. "Spring, come help 
me!" she said. The green woman came and Averan said, "Grab my staff. Help me 
summon."
    Spring stood at Averan's back, so that Averan could lean back and feel her 
taut body against her shoulder blades. The wylde reached up, grasped each end of 
the staff.
    Averan closed her eyes and held the reaver's image, until she found herself 
breathing in rhythm to the Waymaker's rasping, felt as if she ran each step with 
him.
    He was weak, burning from thirst. The muscles in his four legs were worn. 
Each loping stride was a jarring blow to his knees. He knew that he was dying.
    He felt too weary to keep up with the horde much longer. Yet he ran in 
measured terror, counting his fluttering heartbeats.
    Averan felt his mind, the vast intellect. It was overpowering. She could 
never have reached him, could never have touched him, without the help of her 
staff, and of the wylde.
    But now shadowy fingers seemed to form in the air, and it grew cold around 
Averan. Tendrils snaked out through the sky, grasped the Waymaker's weary mind. 
She seized his consciousness, called to him desperately. "Come to me."
    Far across the valley, a lone reaver stopped, as the others marched on. 
After a long moment it turned and began loping wearily toward Averan. Gaborn's 
troops had all topped the hill. There was no one down on the plains seeking to 
slay the beast.
    He was coming! Averan tried to stifle her excitement. She took the staff in 
hand, held the Waymaker on her own, now that he had turned.
    Averan looked up to Gaborn on his mount. "See the Waymaker coming toward us? 
Take me to him."
    Gaborn grabbed her arm, and swung her up before him into the saddle.
    Averan held her staff high, and together they rode over the scarred plains, 
past Gaborn's troops, past Langley and Baron Waggit, past the sulfurous ponds 
and the dead reavers that lay black around them, out over the battlefield.
    Sweat began to drench Averan. Holding the contact was hard work.
    The Waymaker loped toward them at a sluggish pace, and stopped.
    Averan could sense his consternation. He had answered her call, felt 
overwhelmed by her. Yet he began to panic in the presence of a human wizard. She 
wasn't sure that she could hold him for long.
    Averan sat in the saddle, and peered into his mind.
    "Show me the way," she begged. "For the good of both our people, show me the 
way."
    His consciousness unfolded to her, as gently as a flower opening, laying his 
thoughts and memories bare.
    The Waymaker was a powerful reaver, his intellect deep, and his memories 
vast. He had fed upon the brains of Waymakers before him--an endless line of 
them that spanned thousands of years. The knowledge came to her in a blur.
    Reavers recall scents far better than men recall words or images. So the map 
of the Underworld that began to take shape in Averan's mind was a map of scents.
    The map revealed the meanings of various warning posts that would tell how 
to open secret doors, or find hidden tunnels, or avoid dangerous beasts.
    The Waymakers had traveled far in the Underworld, had even sailed the 
Idumean Sea in boats made of stone. They had followed paths that other reavers 
feared to tread. Averan recalled wonders and horrors and the positions of 
ancient duskin ruins and other historic sites.
    She climbed from her saddle, stood before him.
    The great reaver merely knelt, overcome by exhaustion. He was huge, towering 
above her, peering at her with philia that merely twitched.
    She stared into his mind, sifting his thoughts.
    He had come to the Overworld to begin mapping it, to study its paths and 
blaze new trails. It had been a grand adventure, a journey that promised danger 
and excitement. He knew now that it led to death.

     
     
Chapter 61
PASSAGES
    We are often called upon to make our way through dim passages, never knowing 
whether they open into shadow or to light.
    --Jas Laren Sylvarresta
     
    Borenson stumbled upon Fenraven shortly after setting Myrrima adrift in the 
stream. His mind was reeling with fatigue, and his sight was blurry. He stood 
looking for a long moment. The dilapidated village sprawled on a small hill, 
open so that morning sunlight played upon the thatch roofs of its cottages. 
Around the village, the fog still held thick upon the moors, so that the hill 
rose up like an island in a sea of mist. It had a gate that stood halfway open, 
and beside the gate were braziers where dwindling watch fires burned. Silver 
mirrors behind the braziers would reflect their light, focusing it onto the 
road.
    Borenson staggered forward, feeling as if every muscle in his body were 
slowly transforming into pure weariness.
    The inn at Fenraven was a small affair, with nothing more than a single 
room. It was in the process of being vacated by a pair of gentlemen from the 
south.
    The mistress of the inn was cooking breakfast, morning savories with 
mushrooms and chestnuts. Borenson was worn to the bone, and heartsick. All of 
his thoughts were on Myrrima. But he had a job before him still, and he knew he 
had to keep focused for a little while, at least until he went to sleep. He sat 
on a stool, and solemn pain settled into his back, between his shoulder blades.
    As he waited for breakfast he asked, "So you've just the two boarders? No 
one came through in the night?" His voice felt rough, as if from disuse.
    "In the night?" she asked.
    "A man--a lone rider with sheepskin boots on his horse?"
    "No!" she said, in exaggerated horror. "He sounds like a highwayman, maybe, 
or worse! There's assassins on the road, I hear. They found the body of Braithen 
Towner nine miles down the road yesterday morning."
    Borenson wondered at that. Assassins on the road still. Raj Ahten's troops 
down here probably hadn't heard about the fall of Carris. It might only have 
been a random assassin. But Borenson wondered. He couldn't escape the feeling 
that the fellow had been searching for him.
    He rubbed his gritty eyes, all done in, and ate a small bite of pastry while 
the other guests vacated the inn.
    Afterward, he told the mistress that he would be leaving when he woke, and 
asked her to go about town purchasing supplies for his trip to Inkarra. Here at 
Fenraven, he was but a hundred miles from the mountains at the border, with few 
cities between.
    He went to the single room and found it more than adequate. It was clean and 
cozy. The straw beneath the mattress was fresh, and the mistress's daughter took 
out the old blankets and brought in new. He didn't have to worry about fleas or 
lice.
    The food had been good, and the stableboy knew his business. Borenson felt 
well provided. It was his first chance for some real rest in days, and without 
an endowment of stamina, he needed it sorely.
    He lay down on the cot, and began trying to think about the coming journey. 
Tomorrow he would have to go in search of some endowments of stamina. An 
upwelling of sadness took him. He couldn't think about anything but Myrrima, the 
taste of her lips, the feel of her cold body beneath his arms as he placed her 
in the water.
    He ached not for himself, nor even quite for her. He felt that the world had 
lost something beautiful and needful and glorious.
    His eyes were so gritty, he closed them only to ease the pain, and fell into 
a deep slumber.
    He woke hours later, and came awake only slowly.
    He became aware that there was a guest in his bed, and that it was night 
already. It was common for guests at an inn to share beds when necessary.
    But it wasn't common for a woman to share a man's bed, and he could tell by 
the smell of her hair and by the light touch of the arm that wrapped around him 
that a woman lay beside him.
    He came full awake with a start, bolted up.
    Myrrima was lying next to him.
    "What?" he began to ask.
    Myrrima climbed up on an elbow, stared at him. Outside, there was a slim 
moon, and stars filled the night, shining through an open window. No one else 
was in the room.
    "Are you awake, finally?" Myrrima asked.
    "How--"
    "You put me in the water," Myrrima said. "I was weak and nearly dead, and 
you gave me to the water."
    "I'm sorry!" he said, horrified. He'd thought her dead for sure. But she sat 
here looking as healthy as ever. Her clothes were dry.
    "It's all right," she said. "I've discovered something. Averan isn't the 
only one around here who was wizardborn."
    Borenson was filled with a million questions.
    I should have seen it before, he realized. I should have known it from her 
every manner, the way she's gentle when she needs to be hard, the way her touch 
soothed me, just as the touch of the undine soothed me after I slaughtered the 
Dedicates at Castle Sylvarresta.
    He'd sensed something in her. But only one word came out of his mouth. 
"How?"
    "The water took me," Myrrima said. "I dreamt of it--of clouds heavy with 
moisture and waterfalls that misted the air, and of brooks that tumbled over 
clean stones. I've always loved water. I dreamt of the great wizards in the 
ocean depths, and the strange and wondrous things there. The water healed me, 
and would have taken me out to sea, out beyond the Courts of Tide. I could have 
let it take me.
    "But I realized something," Myrrima said. "I realized that I love you more. 
So I came back, to be your wife."
    Borenson stared at her in dumb amazement. She had not truly died, he could 
tell. She had been near it. But she still had her endowments of glamour. 
Belatedly, he realized that he had put her in the water knowing that, on some 
level. His mind had been muddled from exhaustion, so weary that it could think 
no more. He'd been watching her face for some sort of transformation, for that 
moment when her endowments departed, but it had never come.
    That's why he'd felt that placing her in the water was an act of betrayal.
    More than that, he realized how truly she loved him. She didn't just want to 
follow him to Inkarra. She'd just given up a chance to serve the Powers, to 
become a wizardess and live in the sea. Few who were born to such a fate could 
resist the call of the oceans.
    Myrrima leaned into him then, and kissed him. Borenson felt his body respond 
to her. Binnesman had healed him, beyond his wildest hopes or imagining.
    The room was empty but for the two of them, and finally he felt ready to 
love her in return.
    "I guess I ought to pay that wizard more than a pint of ale after all," 
Borenson teased. He held her passionately for a long moment, and pulled her 
close.
    As afternoon waned toward night, Erin and Celinor rode out of Fleeds, 
through southern Heredon, and into the borders of South Crowthen. As they went 
north, the land got drier, and the colors of autumn leaves lit up the 
countryside.
    Erin had not slept last night, dared not sleep again. Yet all day long she 
considered the words of her dreams, the talk of the dangerous locus Asgaroth who 
had come to destroy her world. She did not speak of it to Celinor, for she 
considered that if she did, he might think that she was raving.
    Yet the owl's words had pierced her, inscribed knowledge on her heart. She 
suspected that the owl had summoned her, that perhaps some part of her even now 
was trapped in the netherworld, awaiting further instruction.
    She believed that something more than a mere Darkling Glory was on their 
world--that a locus had come among them. She craved to know more about it, yet 
dared not succumb to fatigue.
    Guards met Erin and Celinor at the border, several hundred knights and minor 
lords who had set bright pavilions along the roadside. The borders here were 
hilly, and filled with bracken. A few dozen carts and horses had stopped as 
merchants tried to pass the roadblock.
    As Erin and Celinor rode past, one old man recognized Celinor and shouted, 
"Prince Celinor Anders, speak to your father for me. I've traded with him for 
years, eaten at his own table. This is madness!"
    Celinor made to ride past the roadblock himself, but pikemen blocked the 
way. A young captain led them. He was dark of hair, like Celinor, and nearly as 
tall. His eyes had a fanatical gleam to them. "Sorry, your lordship," he said. 
"I have orders to let no one cross."
    "Gantrell?" Celinor asked. "Are you going blind? Or have I changed that 
much?"
    "These be dangerous times," Gantrell apologized. "My orders are clear: no 
one in, no one out."
    "Even your crown prince?"
    Gantrell gave Celinor an appraising look, said nothing, Erin could imagine 
the turmoil in the man's mind. If he let Celinor through, he would be violating 
orders. If he didn't, Celinor would hold it against him for the rest of his 
life--and King Anders was rapidly getting old, declining in health.
    "I'll let you pass," he said cautiously, "with an escort."
    Celinor nodded. "That would be appreciated."
    "But not the woman," Gantrell said, glancing at Erin. She wore a 
horsesister's simple attire--a woolen tunic stained from the road over her 
leather armor.
    " 'The woman,' " Celinor said, "is my wife, and will someday be your queen!"
    Gantrell tilted his head to the side and cringed, as if he had just 
recognized that he'd made a mistake that would cost him a career.
    "Then," he said, "welcome to South Crowthen, milady."
    He bowed curtly, and Erin rode into South Crowthen under heavy guard. 
Knights rode at every side--a dozen ahead, a dozen behind, a dozen to their left 
and another to their right. Gantrell rode beside them, and kept sneaking sly 
looks at Erin.
    "Am I under arrest?" Erin demanded when she could take it no more.
    "Of course not," Gantrell replied. Yet he did not sound sure of his answer.
    Sweat poured from Averan. She held the Waymaker with her mind, absorbed his 
knowledge. Without having tasted the brains of other reavers, she would not have 
been able to make sense of it all. She concentrated on building a mental image, 
a map of the Underworld. As she did, all other sights and sounds were gone. She 
was not aware of the scents of the day, or of the noises, or of the time that 
passed.
    When Averan broke contact, she collapsed in a swoon.
    In a daze she looked around her, saw that night had descended. With the sun 
departing, the air had cooled. She had searched the Waymaker's memory for hours.
    The Waymaker lay before her, dehydrated, rasping its last. Its mouth gaped 
with each breath, and the philia around its armored head hung like rags. The 
creature would not survive the night.
    Gaborn had stayed beside her all this time.
    Now he picked Averan up, held her in his strong arms. "Come," he said, 
"let's get away from this monster. It's still dangerous."
    He won't eat me, Averan wanted to tell him. But she didn't know if that was 
true. Besides, she could hardly work her throat. Her mouth was dry, and she felt 
so weary, so drained, that it wasn't worth the effort to speak.
    Gaborn carried her a dozen yards, to a cart. A driver sat atop it, rubbing 
his eyes, fighting sleep. The team of horses stood dozing in their traces.
    "What happened? Where is everyone?" Averan managed to croak. Her head was 
spinning.
    "You've been standing over that reaver for hours, for the whole day," Gaborn 
said. "The rest of the knights are following the horde south. But Binnesman is 
here, and his wylde."
    "Good," Averan said. She always felt comforted in Binnesman's presence. 
Overhead a fireball raced across the sky. It left a churning red trail of smoke 
behind. Almost immediately she saw another flash of light, and another. 
Everywhere in the sky, the stars were falling. Dozens came in the space of a few 
heartbeats.
    "What's going on?" Averan asked, as Gaborn put her on a seat. He climbed up 
beside her. The driver cracked his whip, and the cart lurched forward.
    "The One True Master has bound the Seal of Heaven to the Seal of Desolation 
and the Seal of the Inferno," Gaborn answered. His jaw was tight. "We must break 
those seals."
    "You mean it's already done?"
    "Already," he said. "And there's something else. I suspect that the reavers 
defeated Raj Ahten at Kartish. Now the danger is...far more immediate, and 
growing by the minute. Do you know the way now to the Place of Bones?"
    "Yes," Averan said with conviction.
    "Can you tell me how to get there?"
    "No," she said. "Not if we had a month."
    "Will you lead me then? While you were busy, Iome brought some men--a 
facilitator and some vectors. I've already taken endowments of scent. I can 
smell the reavers' words here, thick on the ground. But I can't make sense of 
them."
    Averan shuddered. She had glimpsed the Underworld through the eyes of 
reavers, through the eyes of the Waymakers who knew it best. The journey would 
be long and perilous. Worse things than reavers lay before them.
    Her thoughts seemed muddled.
    The darkening skies yawned wide, and stars dropped from the firmament. What 
happens when they all fall down? she wondered. Will the night go dark?
    She shuddered again. This is not what she'd have wanted from life.
    "Take me to the vectors," she said. "I'll lead you the best that I can."