"Farland,.David.-.Runelords.02.-.Brotherhood.Of.The.Wolf" - читать интересную книгу автора (Farland David)

PROLOGUE

    The week of Hostenfest began with a festive air at the Castle at Tal Rimmon

in northern Mystarria.

    On the first morning of Hostenfest, the spirit of the Earth King came as

usual. Fathers and mothers took delight in heaping gifts of food for their

children onto kitchen tables, honeycomb dripping in sweet piles, the small brown

spotted tangerines common to Mystarria, almonds roasted in butter, sweet grapes

fresh from the vine and still wet from the morning dew. All of these represented

the bounteous gifts that the Earth King would bestow upon those who loved the

land, "the fruits of the forest and of the field."

    And on that same first dawn of Hostenfest, the children rose and anxiously

ran to the hearth. There mothers had left their daughters dolls woven of straw

and dry wild flowers, or perhaps a box with a yellow kitten in it; and there

young boys might find bows carved of ash, or finely embroidered woolen cloaks to

help warm them through the coming winter.

    So the children's joy was full, and the week of Hostenfest came to Tal

Rimmon under skies so warm and blue that they belied the coming of autumn.

    Summer is forever, those skies promised. No wind shook the forested hills

around the castle.

    And if during the second day of Hostenfest, parents spoke in hushed tones of

a fortress that had fallen, few children took note. Tal Dur was far to the west,

after all, and Duke Paladane, the Huntsman, who served as regent while the King

was away, would be swift to repel the armies of Indhopal.

    Besides, it was still a season of joy, and reminders were everywhere. New

herbs were strewn on the floors: meadowsweet, pennyroyal, lavender, or rose. The

icons of the Earth King were still in place beside every doorway and window,

inviting the Earth King into the people's homes. It had been nearly two thousand

years since an Earth King had risen to lead mankind. The old images carved of

wood showed him in his green traveling robes with his staff in his hand, a crown

of oak leaves woven into his hair while rabbits and foxes played at his feet.

    The icons were meant to serve only as a reminder that an Earth King had once

come. Yet on that day, some old women approached their icons and whispered, as

if to the Earth King himself, "May the Earth protect us."

    Few children noticed.

    And later that evening, when a rider said that far to the north in Heredon a

new Earth King had indeed arisen, and that the name of that Earth King was

Gaborn Val Orden of Mystarria, the people of Tal Rimmon erupted in jubilant

celebration.

    What did it matter if the same messenger bore dire news of lords slaughtered

in far places, of the troops of the Wolf Lord Raj Ahten striking all through the

kingdoms of Rofehavan? What did it matter that Gaborn's own father, old King

Mendellas Val Orden, had fallen in battle?

    A new Earth King had arisen, after all, and of all the wonders, he was

Mystarria's own sovereign.

    Such news filled the young ones with unaccountable pride, while the elders

looked at one another knowingly and whispered, "It will be a long winter."

    Immediately the smiths around Tal Rimmon went to work forging swords and

warhammers, shields and armor for man and horse. The Marquis Broonhurst and the

other local lords all rode back to the castle early from the autumn hunt. In the

Marquis's Great Hall they argued for long hours about the portent of

dispatches--the dark tidings of sorcerous attacks, of the movements of enemy

troops, of Duke Paladane's call to prepare for battle.

    Few children noticed. As yet their joy was undiminished. But on that day it

seemed a shift in the air brought an indefinable sense of urgency and

excitement.

    All week long, the young men of Tal Rimmon had been preparing for the

tournaments that accompanied the end of Hostenfest. But now the boys who

prepared to fight suddenly had a feral gleam in their eyes. And at midweek, when

the first rounds began, those who jousted or took part in mock combat attacked

their opponents with abnormal ferocity: For now they did not seek to win honor

only among themselves, but fought for the right to someday ride into battle with

the Earth King himself.

    The Marquis noted the change, and when he told his lords, time and again,

"It is a good crop this year, the best I've ever seen," he was not speaking of

apples.

    At midweek the skies darkened, and an afternoon thunderstorm flashed above

Tal Rimmon and shook the city. Many of the local children huddled abed with

their mothers and fathers, safe beneath their quilts. That night, five hundred

powerful Runelords rode from the east, answering Duke Paladane's summons to

defend Carris, the largest castle in western Mystarria. For the latest reports

said that the Wolf Lord, who had been retreating toward his homeland in

Indhopal, had suddenly struck south toward the heart of Mystarria.

    The Marquis Broonhurst could not sleep with so many lords with his troops,

so he had many of them wait out the storm in his Great Hall or in the hostels

just outside the castle proper: There the lords and knights argued long and

forcefully about how to repel the impending invasion.

    Raj Ahten's troops had taken three border fortresses already. Worse, he had

taken endowments from perhaps twenty thousand people. He had taken to himself

their strength, wit, stamina, and grace, turning himself into such a fierce

warrior that none could best him in battle. He sought to become the Sum of All

Men, a being that old stories said would be immortal. Some feared even now that

he could not be killed.

    Worse, he had taken so many endowments of glamour that his beauty outshone

the sun. Hundreds of miles north in Heredon, when his troops besieged Castle

Sylvarresta, King Sylvarresta's people had taken one look at Raj Ahten's face

and thrown their weapons over the castle walls, welcoming him as their new lord.

And at Longmot, it was said that Raj Ahten had used the tremendous power of his

Voice to shatter the stone of the castle walls, as a songmaster might shatter

crystal.

    It was nearly dawn when Raj Ahten struck Tal Rimmon.

    He came pulling a handcart filled with onions, a battered cloak pulled low

over his forehead to keep out the night's rain. The guards at the castle gates

paid him little notice, for other peasants had also brought their carts to the

gates. They stood sheltered from the rain beneath the eaves of a weaver's shop.

    Raj Ahten began to sing a song that was not words, but instead a low throaty

moan of incredible volume, a sound that made the stone walls of Tal Rimmon hum

at first, and that made the bones of a man's inner ear vibrate as if a hornet

were trapped within his skull.

    The gatekeepers swore and drew weapons. The few farmers near Raj Ahten

grasped their heads in pain as his song began to slowly shatter their skulls.

They dropped unconscious before they died

    Within seconds the stone of Tal Rimmon's towers began to shiver violently.

Bits of stone flaked away as if artillery battered the walls.

    In moments the castle's battlements trembled, heaved, and then toppled, as

if struck by a mighty fist.

    Raj Ahten stood in his ragged cloak and lifted his voice high, until the

Marquis's towers collapsed in on themselves and his Great Hall fell in a protest

of screaming timbers.

    The Runelords within those edifices were crushed under stones. Broken oil

lamps spilled their contents into the timbers and tapestries, setting much of

the castle aflame.

    No common man could approach Raj Ahten without being slain. Two Runelords

had enough endowments of stamina to withstand his Voice. But when they charged

from the ruins of a hostel and tried to draw steel upon him, Raj Ahten drew his

own dagger in a blur and spilled their guts.

    Once the castle and most of the buildings in the market were down, Raj Ahten

turned and fled down dark city streets, into the shadows.

    Moments later, he reached his own Imperial warhorse, tied behind a farmer's

barn at the foot of a low hill. Two dozen of his Invincibles had gathered there

in the darkness, waiting for his return.

    A flameweaver named Rahjim sat upon a black horse and gazed hungrily toward

the ruins of Tal Rimmon, toward the sheets of flame twisting up into the sky.

This was the third castle his master had destroyed in a single night. He

breathed rapidly in excitement, vapors of smoke issuing from his mouth, an

unnatural light gleaming in his eyes. He had no hair, even on his eyebrows.

"Where to now, O Great Light?" the flameweaver asked.

    As Raj Ahten drew near, he felt the dry heat of the creature's skin. "Now we

ride to Carris," Raj Ahten answered.

    "Not to the Courts of Tide?" the flameweaver pleaded. "We could destroy

their capitol before their lords ever learn of the danger!"

    "Carris," Raj Ahten said more firmly, determined to resist the flameweaver's

arguments. He did not wish to raze all of Mystarria yet.

    Mystarria's king was still safely secluded far to the north in Heredon,

holed up deep within the Dunnwood, protected by the spirits of his ancestors.

    "To strike down the capitol at the Courts of Tide would be a fell stroke,"

Rahjim urged.

    "I shall not attack it," Raj Ahten whispered in a deadly tone. "The boy will

not come if I leave him nothing to save.

    Raj Ahten leapt onto the back of his warhorse, but for a long moment he did

not ride for Carris. Tal Rimmon could be seen bright as day beneath columns of

fire lit smoke.

    Distantly, people screamed and tried to throw water upon their burning homes

or to pull the fallen from beneath collapsed buildings. He could hear the

children crying.

    Raj Athen watched the city burn while reflected flames danced in his dark

eyes.

BOOK 6

DAY 30 IN THE MONTH OF HARVEST

A DAY OF CHOICES

CHAPTER 1

THE VOICES OF MICE

    As King Gaborn Val Orden rode toward Castle Sylvarresta on the last day of

Hostenfest, the day of the great feast, he reined in his horse and peered up the

Durkin Hills Road.

    Here the trees of the Dunnwood had been cleared back from the road, three

miles from town. The sun was just rising, casting a sliver of silver light over

the hills to the east, and the shadows of leafless oaks blotted the road ahead.

    Yet in a patch of morning sun around the bend, Gaborn spotted three large

hares. One hare seemed to be on guard, for it peered up the road, ears perked,

while another nibbled at sweet golden melilot that grew at the margin of the

road. The third just hopped about stupidly, sniffing at freshly fallen leaves of

brown and gold.

    Though the hares were over a hundred yards distant, the scene looked

preternaturally clear to Gaborn. After having been underground in the darkness

for the past three days, his senses seemed invigorated. The light appeared

brighter than ever before, the early morning birdsong came clearer to his ears.

Even the way the cool dawn winds swept down from the hills and played across his

face seemed new and different.

    "Wait," Gaborn whispered to the wizard Binnesman. He reached behind his

back, untied his bow and quiver from his saddle. He gave a warning glance to his

Days, the skeletal scholar who had followed him since his childhood, bidding the

Days to stay behind.

    The three were alone on the road. Sir Borenson was following some distance

behind them, bearing his trophy from the Hostenfest hunt, but Gaborn had been in

a hurry to get home to his new wife.

    Binnesman frowned. "A rabbit, sire? You're the Earth King. What will people

say?"

    "Shhh," Gaborn whispered. He reached into his quiver, pulled his last arrow,

but then paused. Binnesman was right. Gaborn was the Earth King, and it seemed

fitting that he should bring down a fine boar. Sir Borenson had slain a reaver

mage, and was dragging its head into town.

    For two thousand years, the people of Rofehavan had looked forward to the

coming of an Earth King. Each year during the seventh day of Hostenfest, this

last day of the celebration, the day of the great feast, served as a reminder of

the promise of the Earth King who would bless his people with all "the fruits of

the forest and of the field."

    Last week the Earth Spirit had crowned Gaborn, and charged him to save a

seed of humanity through the dark times to come.

     He'd fought long and hard these past three days, and the reaver's head

belonged as much to Gaborn and Binnesman as it did to Sir Borenson.

    Still, if Gaborn brought in nothing more than a single hare for the great

feast, he could imagine how the mummers and puppet-masters would ridicule him.

    He braced himself for the mummers scorn and leapt lightly from his charger,

whispering "Stand" to the beast. It was a force horse, his fine hunter, with

runes of wit branded along its neck. It stared at him knowingly, perfectly

silent, while Gaborn put the lower wing of his bow on the ground, stuck a leg

between the bow and the string, then bent the bow and pulled the upper end of

the string tight into its nock.

    With the bow strung, he took his last arrow, inspected the gray goose

quills, and then nocked the arrow.

    He crept forward, staying low along the brushy side of the road. Wizard's

violet grew tall here by the roadside, its flowers a dark purple.

    When he rounded the corner, the hares would be in full sunlight. So long as

he stayed in the shadows, they'd not be likely to see him; if he remained

silent, they'd not hear him; and while the wind blew in his face, they'd not

smell him.

    Glancing back, Gaborn saw that his Days and Binnesman remained on their

mounts.

    He began stalking down the muddy road.

    Yet he felt nervous, more nervous than mere hunting jitters could account

for. He sensed a vague apprehension dawning. Among the newfound powers that the

Earth had granted him, Gaborn could sense danger around those people he'd

Chosen.

    Only a week ago; he'd felt death stalk his father, but he'd been unable to

stop it. Last night, however, that same overpowering sense had enabled him to

avoid disaster when the reavers staged an ambush in the Underworld.

    He felt danger now, but vaguely, distantly. Death was stalking him, as

surely as he stalked these rabbits.

    The only weakness of this newfound power was that he could not know the

source of the danger. It could be anything: a crazed vassal, a boar lurking in

the underbrush.

    Yet Gaborn suspected Raj Ahten, the Wolf Lord of Indhopal, the man who had

slain Gaborn's father.

    Riders on force horses had brought word from Mystarria that in Gaborn's

homeland, Raj Ahten's troops had taken three castles by subterfuge just before

Hostenfest.

    Gaborn's great-uncle, Duke Paladane, had marshaled troops to contain the

problem. Paladane was an old lord, a master strategist with several endowments

of wit. Gaborn's father had trusted him implicitly, and had often sent him out

on campaigns to track down criminals or to humble haughty lords. Because of his

success, he was called the "Huntsman" by some, the "Hound" by others. He was

feared throughout Rofehavan; if any man could match wits with Raj Ahten, it was

Paladane. Surely Raj Ahten could not march his troops north, risk the wights of

the Dunnwood.

    Yet danger approached, Gaborn felt certain. He placed his feet carefully on

the dry mud of the road, moved as silently as a wraith.

    But when he reached the bend in the road, the hares had left. He heard a

rustling in the grass by the roadside, but it was only mice stirring, scampering

about under dry leaves.

    He stood a moment wondering what had happened. Ah, Earth, he said in his

thoughts, addressing the Power he served. Could you not at least send a stag

from the forest?

    But no voice answered. None ever did.

    Moments later, Binnesman and the Days came trotting up the road. The Days

bore the reins of Gaborn's dun colored mare.

    "The hares are skittish today, it seems," Binnesman said. He smiled slyly,

as if pleased. The morning light accentuated the creases in the wizard's face

and brought out the russet hues of his robes. A week ago, Binnesman had given

part of his life to summon a wylde, a creature strong in the earth powers.

Before that, Binnesman's hair had been brown, and his robes the green of a leaf

in summer. Now his robes had changed color, and the fellow seemed to Gaborn to

have aged decades in the past few days. Worse yet, the wylde he'd sought to

summon had vanished.

    "Aye, the hares are skittish," Gaborn answered suspiciously. As an Earth

Warden, Binnesman sought to serve the Earth, and claimed that he cared as much

about mice and snakes as he did mankind. Gaborn wondered if the wizard had

warned the hares off with some spell, or perhaps something as simple as a wave

of the hand. "More than a little skittish, I'd say." Gaborn swung up into his

saddle but kept his bow, strung and his arrow nocked. They were close to the

city, but he imagined that he still might see a stag by the roadside, some

enormous old grandfather with a rack as big as his arm span, come down out of

the mountains to eat one sweet apple from a farmer's orchard before it died.

    Gaborn glanced over at Binnesman. He still wore that secretive grin, yet

Gaborn could not tell if it was a. sly expression or a worried smile.

    "You're happy that I missed the hares?" Gaborn ventured.

    "You'd not have been pleased with them, milord," Binnesman said. "My father

was an innkeeper. He used to say, `A man with fickle innards is never pleased.'

"

    "Meaning?" Gaborn said.

    "Choose your quarry, milord," Binnesman answered. "If you are hunting

reavers, it's silly to go chasing after hares. You wouldn't allow your hounds to

do it. Neither should you." "Ah," Gaborn said, wondering if the wizard meant

more than he said.

    "Besides, the reavers proved a harder match than any of us had bargained

for."

    Bitterly, Gaborn realized that Binnesman was right. Despite the powers of

Gaborn and Binnesman combined, forty-one strong knights had died fighting the

reavers. Besides Gaborn, Binnesman, and Sir Borenson, only nine others had made

it from the ruins alive. It had been a bitter struggle. The nine were back with

Borenson now, dragging the reaver mage's head to town, opting to stay with their

trophy.

    Gaborn changed the subject. "I didn't know that wizards had fathers," he

teased. "Tell me more about yours."

    "It was long ago," Binnesman said. "I don't remember him much. In fact, I

think I just told you everything I recall about him."

    "Certainly you recall more than that," Gaborn chided. "The more I know you,

the more I know not to believe anything you say." He didn't know how many

hundred years the wizard had lived, but he suspected that Binnesman must have a

story or two.

    "You are right, milord," Binnesman said. "I don't have a father. Like all

Earth Wardens, I was born of the Earth. I was but a creature that someone

sculpted of mud, till I formed this flesh for myself of my own will." Binnesman

arched an eyebrow mysteriously.

    Gaborn glanced at the wizard, and for just a moment, he had the nagging

suspicion that Binnesman spoke more truly than he pretended.

    Then the moment passed and Gaborn laughed. "You are such a liar! I swear,

you invented the art!"

    Binnesman laughed in turn. "No, tis a fine skill, but I did not invent it. I

merely seek to perfect it."

    At that moment, a force horse came thundering along the road from the south.

It was a fast horse, with three or four endowments of metabolism, a white

charger that flashed in the sunlight as it moved between shadows and trees. Its

rider wore the livery of Mystarria, the image of the green man upon a blue

field.

    Gaborn reined in his horse and waited. He'd felt danger. Now he feared the

courier's news.

    The messenger rode up swiftly, never slowing his mount, until Gaborn raised

a hand and called out. Only then did the messenger recognize Gaborn, for the

King wore nothing now but a simple gray traveling robe, stained from the road.

    "Your Highness!" the messenger cried.

    He reached for a leather pouch at his waist, then proffered a small scroll,

its red wax seal bearing the mark of Paladane's signet ring.

    Gaborn opened the scroll. As he read, his heart sank and his breathing

quickened.

    "Raj Ahten has moved south into Mystarria," he told Binnesman. "He's toppled

castles at Gorlane, Aravelle, and Tal Rimmon. This was near dawn two days ago.

    "Paladane says that his men and some Knights Equitable made Raj Ahten pay.

Their archers ambushed Raj Ahten's troops. You can walk from the village of

Boarshead to Gower's Ridge on the backs of the dead."

    Gaborn dared not relate more of the horrific news. Paladane's observations

were extremely detailed and precise, noting the exact type and number of enemy

casualties 36,909 men, the vast majority of whom were common troops out of

Fleeds. He also noted the number of arrows spent (702,000), defenders slain

(1,274), wounded (4,951), and horses slain (3,207) versus the amount of armor,

gold, and horses captured. He then gave precise notes on the movements of enemy

troops along with the current dispositions of his own men. Raj Ahten's

reinforcements were converging on Carris from Castles Crayden, Fells, and Tal

Dur. Paladane was reinforcing Carris, convinced that Raj Ahten would seek to

capture the mighty fortress rather than casually destroy it.

    Gaborn read the news and shook his head in dismay. Raj Ahten had engaged in

savagery. Paladane had paid him in kind. The news revolted Gaborn.

    Paladane's last words were: "Obviously, the Wolf Lord of Indhopal hopes to

draw you into this conflict. He has decimated your northern border, so that you

cannot come south with the hope of bringing in fresh troops of any consequence.

I beg you to remain in Heredon. Let the Huntsman bring this dog to bay."

    Gaborn rolled the scroll back up, tucked it into the pocket of his robe.

    This is maddening, Gaborn thought, to sit here nearly a thousand miles away

and learn when my people died days after it happened.

    He could do little to. stop Raj Ahten--. But he could get news faster....

    He glanced at the messenger, a young lad with curly brown hair and clear

blue eyes. Gaborn had seen him at court on many occasions. He looked the young

man in the eyes and used the Earth Sight to stare beyond his eyes, into his

heart. The courier was proud, proud of his position and his riding skill. He was

daring, almost eager to risk his life in his lord's service. A dozen wenches at

inns across Mystarria thought they loved him, for he tipped well and kissed even

better, but the fellow was torn between his love of two women who had vastly

different personalities.

    Gaborn did not think particularly well of the young man, but saw no reason

not to Choose him. Gaborn needed servants like this, needed messengers he could

count on. Gaborn raised his left hand, stared the lad in the eyes, and

whispered, "I Choose you for the Earth. Rest now, but head back for Carris

today. I currently have one Chosen messenger there. If I sense danger to you

both, I'll know that Raj Ahten plans to attack the city. If ever you hear my

Voice warning you in your mind, obey me."

    "I dare not rest, Your Highness," the messenger said, "while Carris is in

danger."

    To Gaborn's satisfaction, the lad wheeled his mount to the south. In moments

he was gone, only the dust hovering above the road to show that he'd, come to

Heredon at all.

    With a heavy heart, Gaborn considered what he should do. He would have to

notify the lords in Heredon of this disturbing news.

    As they rode through the dawn, Gaborn suddenly had the urge to get away. He

put his heels to horseflesh, and his roan hunter raced under the shadowed trees

along the road, with Binnesman's mount easily keeping pace beside and the Days

on his white mule struggling along behind. At last they reached a wide bend on a

hilltop that afforded them an unobstructed view of Castle Sylvarresta.

    Gaborn drew in his reins; he and the wizard halted, staring in surprise.

    Castle Sylvarresta was set on a small hill at a bend in the river Wye, its

high walls and towers rising like pinnacles. All around that hill squatted a

walled city. Beyond the city walls, there was normally just the

countryside--empty fields with a few haycocks, orchards, and farmers cottages

and barns.

    But over the past week, as news of the rise of an Earth King spread lords

and peasants from all across Heredon. and even from kingdoms beyond Heredon had

begun to gather. Gaborn had a premonition of what was to come. The fields before

Castle Sylvarresta had been burned black by Raj Ahten, yet already so many

peasants had amassed that the grounds around the great walled city of

Sylvarresta were covered by pavilions. Not all of the pavilions belonged to

peasants; many tents belonged to lords and knights from around Heredon-armies

that had marched when they'd heard of the invasion but had arrived too late to

offer any aid. Banners of Orwynne and North Crowthen and Fleeds and various

merchant princes from Lysle mingled among the hosts, and off on one hill camped

thousands of merchants out of Indhopal who--after having been driven off by King

Sylvarresta had hurried back to see this new wonder, this Earth King.

    The fields around Castle Sylvarresta were dark, but they were no longer dark

from the blackened grass. They were dark with the massed bodies of hundreds of

thousands of men and animals.

     "By the Powers," Gaborn swore. "Their numbers must have quadrupled in the

past three days. It will take me the better part of a week to Choose them all."

    Distantly, Gaborn could hear music drifting above the smoke of cooking

fires. The sound of a jousting lance cracked across the countryside, followed

immediately by cheers. Binnesman sat a horse, gazing down, just as the Days rode

up. All three mounts breathed heavily after their short run.

    But something caught Gaborn's eye. In the sky above the valley, a flock of

starlings flew, thousands strong, like a living cloud. They weaved one way, then

another, swooped and then soared upward. It was as if they were lost, searching

for a place to land but unable to find safety. Starlings often flew thus in the

autumn, but these birds seemed peculiarly spooked.

    Gaborn heard the honking of geese. He looked along the Wye River, which

wound through the green fields like a silver thread. A hundred yards above the

river, miles away, the geese flew in a V along the river course. But their

voices sounded strained, crass.

    Beside him, Binnesman sat upright and turned to Gaborn. "You hear it, too,

don't you? You feel it in your bones."

    "What?" Gaborn asked.

    Gaborn's Days cleared his throat as if to ask a question, but said nothing.

The historian seldom spoke. Interference in the affairs of mankind was forbidden

by the Time Lords that the Days served. Still, he was obviously curious.

    "The Earth. The Earth is speaking to us," Binnesman said. "It is speaking to

you and to me."

    "What does it say?"

    "I don't know, yet," Binnesman answered honestly. The wizard scratched. at

his beard, then frowned. "But this is the way it usually speaks to me: in the

worried stirrings of rabbits and mice, in the shifting flight of a cloud of

birds, in the cries of geese. Now it whispers to the Earth King, too. You are

growing, Gaborn. Growing in power."

    Gaborn studied Binnesman. The wizard's skin was oddly tinged a bit of ruddy

red that almost matched his baggy robe. He smelled of the herbs that he kept in

his oversized pockets, linden blossom and mint and borage and wizard's violet

and basil and a hundred other spices. He looked like little more than a jolly

old man, except for the lines of wisdom in his face.

    "I will check into this. We shall know more tonight," Binnesman assured

Gaborn.

    But Gaborn was unable to lay aside his worries. He suspected that he would

need to convene a war council, but dared not do so until he knew the nature of

the threat that his Earth senses warned him against.

    The three riders headed down the road into a deep fold between two hills

that had been burned black last week.

    There, at the base of the hill, Gaborn saw what he took to be an old woman

sitting by the roadside with a blanket draped over her head.

    As the horses came stamping down the road, the old woman looked up, and

Gaborn saw that she was not old at all. Instead, it was a young maiden, a girl

he recognized.

    Gaborn had led an "army" from Castle Groverman to Longmot a week ago. The

army had consisted of two hundred thousand cattle, driven by peasant men and

women and children and a few aging soldiers. The dust of their passage as the

herd crossed the plains had been ruse enough to dislodge the Wolf Lord Raj Ahten

from his attack on Longmot.

    If Raj Ahten had discovered Gaborn's ruse, Gaborn felt sure the Wolf Lord

would have cut down every woman and child in his retinue out of sheer spite. The

girl at the foot of the hill had ridden in Gaborn's army. He remembered her

well. She'd carried a heavy banner in one hand and a nursing babe in the other.

    She had acted bravely and selflessly. He'd been glad for the aid of people

like her. Yet Gaborn was astonished to see her--a mere peasant who probably

didn't have access to a horse here at Castle Sylvarresta, more than two hundred

miles north of Longmot, only a week after the battle.

    "Oh, Your Highness," the girl said, ducking her head as if to curtsy.

    Gaborn realized she'd been waiting by the roadside for him to return from

his hunt. He'd been gone from Castle Sylvarresta for three days. He wondered how

long she'd been here.

    She climbed to her feet, and Gaborn saw that the dirt of the road stained

her feet. Obviously, she had walked all the way from Longmot. In her right hand

she cradled her babe. As she stood, she put her hand beneath her shawl to ease

her nipple from the babe's mouth and cover herself properly.

    After giving aid in a victorious battle, many a lord might have come to seek

a favor. Gaborn had seldom seen a peasant do so. Yet this girl wanted something

of him, wanted it badly.

    Binnesman smiled and said, "Molly? Molly Drinkham? Is that you?"

    The girl smiled shyly as the wizard dismounted and approached her. "Aye,

it's me."

    "Well, let me see your child." Binnesman took the infant from her arms and

held it up. The child, a dark-haired thing who could not have been more than two

months old, had put its fist in its mouth and was now sucking vigorously, eyes

closed. The wizard smiled beatifically. "A boy?" he asked. Molly nodded. "Oh,

he's the very image of his father," Binnesman clucked. "Such a precious thing.

Verrin would have been proud. But what are you doing here?"

    "I come to see the Earth King," Molly said.

    "Well, here he is," Binnesman said. He turned to Gaborn and introduced

Molly. "Your Highness, Molly Drinkham, who was once a resident of Castle

Sylvarresta."

    Molly suddenly froze, her face pale with terror, as if she could not bear

the thought of speaking to a king. Or perhaps she fears only to speak to me, the

Earth King, Gaborn thought.

    "I beg your pardon, sire," Molly said too shrilly. "I hope I'm not

disturbing you--I know it's early. You probably don't remember me--"

    Gaborn alighted from his horse, so that he would not be sitting high above

her, and sought to put her at ease. "You're not disturbing me," he said softly.

"You've walked a long way from Longmot. I remember the aid you gave me. Some

great need must have driven you, and I'm eager to hear your request."

    She nodded shyly. "You see, I was thinking..."

    "Go on," Gaborn said, glancing up at his Days.

    "I wasn't always just a scullery maid for Duke Groverman, you see," she

said. "My father used to muck stables for King Sylvarresta's men, and I lived in

the castle. But I did something that shamed me, and my father sent me south."

She glanced down at her child. A bastard.

    "I rode with you last week," she continued, "and I know this: If you're the

Earth King, then you should have all of Erden Gaboren's powers. That's what

makes you an Earth King."

    "Where did you hear this?" Gaborn asked, his tone betraying his concern. He

suddenly feared that she would ask some impossible task of him. Erden Gaboren's

deeds were the stuff of legend.

    "Binnesman himself," Molly said. "I used to help him dry his herbs, and he

would tell me stories. And if you're the Earth King, then bad times are coming,

and the Earth has given you the power to Choose, to Choose the knights who will

fight beside you, and to Choose who will live under your protection and who

won't. Erden Gaboren knew when his people were in danger, and he warned them in

their hearts and in their minds. Surely you should be able to do the same."

    Gaborn knew what she wanted now. She wanted to live, wanted him to Choose

her. Gaborn looked at her a long moment, saw more than her round face and the

pleasing figure hidden beneath her dirty robes. He saw more than her long dark

hair and the creases of worry lines around her blue eyes. He used his Earth

Sight to stare into the depths of her soul.

    He saw her love for Castle Sylvarresta and her lost innocence there, and her

love for a man named Verrin, a stablemaster who had died after being kicked by a

horse. He saw her dismay to find herself at Castle Groverman doing menial work.

She wanted little from life. She wanted to come home, to show her babe to her

mother, to return to the place where she'd felt warm and loved. He could see no

deception in her, no cruelty. More than anything, she was proud of her bastard

son, and she loved him fiercely.

    The Earth Sight could not show Gaborn everything. He suspected that if he

peered into her heart for long hours, he might get to know her better than she

knew herself. But time was short, and in a few seconds he saw enough.

    After a moment, Gaborn relaxed. He raised his left hand. "Molly Drinkham,"

he intoned softly as he cast his spell. "I Choose you. I Choose to protect you

through the dark times to come. If ever you hear my Voice in your mind or in

your heart, take heed. I will come to you or lead you to safety as best I can."

    It was done. Immediately Gaborn felt the efficacy of the spell, felt the

binding, the now-familiar tug in his gut that let him feel her presence, that

would warn him when she was in danger.

    Molly's eyes widened as if she felt it, too, and then her face went red with

embarrassment. She dropped to one knee.

    "No, Your Highness, you misunderstand," she said. She held up the infant in

her arms. The boy's fist flopped from his mouth, but the child seemed to be

half-asleep, and did not mind. "I want you to Choose him, to make him one of

your knights someday!"

    Gaborn stared at the child and began to shiver, unnerved by the request. The

woman had obviously been raised on tales of Erden Gaboren's great deeds, and so

she expected much of an Earth King. But she had no comprehension of Gaborn's

limits. "You don't understand," he tried to explain softly. "It's not that easy.

When I Choose you, my enemies take notice. My war is not with men or with

reavers, it is with the unseen Powers that move them. My Choosing you puts you

in greater danger, and though I might be able to send knights to your aid, more

often than not you must help yourself. My resources are far too thin, our

enemies too numerous. You have to be able to help yourself, to help me get you

out of danger. I--I couldn't do that to a child. I couldn't put him in danger.

He can't defend himself!"

    "But he needs someone to protect him," Molly said. "He doesn't have a da."

She waited for him to speak for a moment, then begged, "Please! Please Choose

him for me!"

    Gaborn studied her face, and his cheeks burned with shame. He looked from

side to side, from Binnesman to his Days, like a ferrin caught in a dark corner

of the kitchen, hoping to escape.

    "Molly, you ask that the child be allowed to grow up to become a warrior in

my service," Gaborn stammered. "But I don't think we have that long! Dark times

are coming, the darkest this world has ever seen. In months perhaps, or maybe a

year, they'll be on us in deadly earnest. Your child won't be able to fight in

battle."

    "Then Choose him anyway," Molly said. "At least you'll know when he's in

danger."

    Gaborn stared at her in utter horror. A week ago, he'd lost several people

that he'd Chosen in the battle for Longmot: his father, Chemoise's father, King

Sylvarresta. When they'd died, he'd felt stricken to the core of his soul. He

hadn't sought to explain the sensation to himself or anyone else, but he felt as

if they each had roots, and were pulled from his body, leaving dark holes that

gaped and could never be filled. Losing them was like losing limbs that could

never be replaced, and he was mortified by the thought that their deaths were a

sign of his own personal failure. He carried the guilt as if he were a father

who, through neglect, had let his own children drown in a well.

    Gaborn wetted his lips with his tongue. "I'm not that strong. You don't know

what you ask of me."

    "There's no one to protect him," Molly said. "No father, no friends. Only

me. See, he's just a babe!"

    She unwrapped the sleeping boy, held him up, and stepped in close. The child

was thin, though he slept soundly and did not appear to be hungry. He had the

sweet scent of a newborn on his breath.

    "Come now," Binnesman urged her. "If His Majesty says he can't Choose the

child, then he can't Choose him." Binnesman gently took Molly by the elbow, as

if to steer her toward town.

    Molly turned on Binnesman and shouted viciously, "So what would you have me

do, then? Dash the little bastard's head against a stone by the road and be done

with him? Is that what you want?"

    Gaborn felt dismayed, cast adrift. He glanced at his Days, and feared what

might be written of his choice. He looked to Binnesman for help. "What can I

do?"

    The Earth Warden studied the babe, frowned. With the barest movement he

shook his head. "I fear that you are correct. Choosing the child would not be

wise, nor would it be kind."

    Molly's mouth dropped in shock, and she stepped back as if she'd just

recognized that Binnesman, an old friend, had become an enemy.

    Binnesman tried to explain, "Molly, Gaborn has been charged by the Earth to

gather the seeds of mankind, to protect those he can during the dark times to

come. Yet even all that he does might not be enough. Other races have passed

from the face of the earth--the Toth, the duskins. Mankind could be next."

    Binnesman did not exaggerate. When the Earth had manifested itself in

Binnesman's garden, it had said much the same thing. If anything, Binnesman was

being far too gentle with Molly, holding back the truth from her.

    "The Earth has promised to protect Gaborn, and he has sworn in turn to

protect you as best he can. But I think it best you protect your own child."

    This was how Gaborn planned to save his people--by Choosing lords and

warriors to care for their charges. Before the hunt, he'd Chosen over a hundred

thousand people around Heredon, had selected as many as he could--old and young,

lords and peasants. At any moment, if he considered one of those people, he

could reach out in his mind, know their direction and distance. He could find

them if he had to, and he knew if they were in danger. But there were so many of

them! So he'd begun Choosing knights and lords to protect certain enclaves. He

struggled to Choose wisely, and he dared not reject the frail, the deaf, the

blind, the young, or the weak-minded. He dared not value these less than any

other man, for he would not make of them human sacrifices to his own conceit. By

placing a lord, or even a father and mother, in charge of the safety of his or

her own charges, he relieved some of the pressure he felt. And to a great

degree, he'd done exactly that. He'd been using his powers to instruct his

lords, requiring them to prepare their defenses and weapons, prepare for war.

    Molly paled at the thought that she would be placed in charge of her infant,

looked so stricken that Gaborn feared she would faint. She wisely suspected that

she could not protect it adequately.

    "And I too will help protect your child," Binnesman offered in consolation.

He muttered some words under his breath, wet his finger with his tongue, and

knelt by the roadside to swirl the finger in the dirt. He stood, and with muddy

fingers he painstakingly began to draw a rune of protection on the child's

forehead.

    Yet clearly Molly believed the wizard's aid would not be enough. Tears

coursed down her cheeks, and she stood in shock, trembling.

    "If it was yours," Molly begged Gaborn, "would you. Choose it? Would you

Choose it then?"

    Gaborn knew that he would. Molly must have read the answer on his face.

    "I'll give him to you then--" Molly offered. "A wedding present, if you'll

have him. I'll give him to you, to raise as your son."

    Gaborn closed his eyes. The despair in her tone struck him like an axe.

    He could hardly Choose this child. It seemed a cruel thing to do. This is

madness, he thought. If I Choose it, how many thousands of other mothers might

justly ask the same? Ten thousand, a hundred thousand? Yet what if I don't

Choose it and Molly is right? What if by my inaction I condemn it to die? "Does

the child have a name?" Gaborn asked, for in some lands, bastards were never

named.

    "I call him Verrin," Molly said, "like his father."

    Gaborn gazed at the child, looked beyond his sweet face and smooth skin,

deep into his small mind. There was little to see--a life unlived, a few vague

longings. The child felt relieved and grateful for his mother's nipple and for

the warmth of her body and the way she sang sweetly to get him to sleep. But

Verrin did not comprehend his mother as a person, did not love her in the way

that she loved him.

    Gaborn stifled a sob. "Verrin Drinkham," he said softly, raising his left

hand. "I Choose you. I Choose you for the Earth. May the Earth heal you. May the

Earth hide you. May the Earth make you its own."

    Gaborn felt the binding take force.

    "Thank you, Your Highness," Molly said. The girl's eyes glistened with

tears. She turned and headed toward Castle Groverman, ready to walk the two

hundred miles home.

    But as she did, Gaborn felt a powerful sense of dread; the Earth was warning

him that she was in danger. If she went south again, she'd die. Whether she'd be

waylaid by a bandit or take ill from her journey or face some more dire fate, he

did not know. But although he could not guess what form the danger would take,

his premonition was as strong as on the day that his father had died.

    Molly, Gaborn thought, that way lies death. Turn and go to Castle

Sylvarresta.

    She stopped in mid-stride, turned her big blue eyes on him questioningly.

For half a second she hesitated, then spun and raced north up the road toward

Castle Sylvarresta as if a reaver were chasing her.

    Gaborn's eyes filled with tears of gratitude at the sight.

    "Good girl," he whispered. He'd been afraid she would not hear his warning,

or would be slow to heed it.

    On his white mule, Gaborn's Days glanced from Gaborn to the girl. "Did you

just turn her?"

    "Yes."

    "You felt danger in the south?"

    "Yes," Gaborn answered again, not wanting to express the vague fear that was

creeping over him. "Danger for her, at least."

    Turning to Binnesman, Gaborn said, "I don't know if I can keep this up. I

didn't expect it to be this way."

    "An Earth King is not asked to carry easy loads," Binnesman said. "After the

battle at Care Fail, it is said that no wounds were found on the body of Erden

Gaboren. Some thought he'd died of a broken heart."

    "Your words comfort me," Gaborn said sardonically. "I want to save that

child, but by Choosing it, I don't know if I did well or ill."

    "Or perhaps nothing that any of us, does matters," Binnesman said, as if he

might resign himself to the knowledge that even their best efforts might not

save mankind.

    "No, I have to believe that it matters," Gaborn countered. "I must believe

that it is worth the struggle. But how can I save them all?"

    "Save all of mankind?" Binnesman said. "It can't be done."

    "Then I must figure out how to save most of them." Gaborn looked back at his

Days, the historian who had followed him since childhood.

    The sense of foreboding Gaborn felt was discomforting. The Days could warn

him of the source of that danger, if he would.

    Far away in the north, in a monastic settlement in the islands beyond

Orwynne, lived another Days--one who had given Gaborn's Days an endowment of wit

and who had received from him the same endowment in return. Thus the two Days

now shared a single mind--a feat that had seldom been duplicated outside the

monastery, for it led to madness.

    Gaborn's Days was called a "witness," and he had been charged by the Time

Lords to watch Gaborn and to listen to his words. His companion, the "scribe,"

acted as recorder, noting Gaborn's deeds until his death, when the book of

Gaborn's life would be published.

    And because the scribes all lived in a common settlement, they shared

information. Indeed, they knew all that transpired among the Runelords.

    Thus Gaborn felt that the Days knew too much and imparted their wisdom too

seldom. This Days had long ago given up his name, given up his own identity in

service to the Time Lords. He would not speak.

    Binnesman caught the accusatory stare that Gaborn shot toward the Days, and

he wondered aloud: "If I were choosing seeds for next year's garden, I do not

know if I would seek to save most of them, or only the best."

CHAPTER 2

STRANGE BEDFELLOWS

     The village of Hay in the midlands of Mystarria was a blight on an otherwise

unremarkable landscape, but it had an inn, and an inn was all that Roland

wanted.

    He rode into Hay past midnight, without waking even one of the town's dogs.

The sky to the distant southwest was the color of fire. Hours past, Roland had

met one of the king's far-seers, a man with half a dozen endowments of sight who

had said that a volcano had erupted, though Roland was too far from it to hear

the blast. Yet the light of its fires reflected from a column of smoke and ash.

Its distant pyre added to the starlight, making everything preternaturally

clear.

    The village consisted of five stone cottages with thatch roofs. The

innkeeper kept pigs that liked to root at his doorstep. As Roland dismounted, a

couple of hogs grunted awake and staggered to their feet, sniffing the air and

blinking wisely. Roland pounded at the oaken door and stared at the Hostenfest

icon nailed there--a tattered wooden image of the Earth King, dressed in a new

green traveling robe and wearing a crown of oak leaves. Someone had replaced the

Earth King's staff with a sprig of purple flowered thyme.

    The fat innkeeper who greeted him wore an apron so dirty that he was almost

indistinguishable from his swine. Roland silently swore to ride far before he

breakfasted. But he wanted sleep now, so paid for a room.

    Since the rooms were full up with travelers fleeing from the north, he was

forced to bed with a huge fellow who smelled of grease and too much ale.

    Still, the room was dry while the ground outside was not, so Roland climbed

into bed with the fellow, shoved him onto his side so that he stopped snoring,

and tried to sleep.

    The plan went afoul. Within two minutes the big fellow rolled back over and

snored loudly in Roland's ear. While still asleep, he wrapped a leg over Roland,

then groped Roland's breast. The man had a grip so firm it could only have come

from taking endowments of brawn.

    Roland whispered menacingly, "Stop that, or I'll be leaving a severed hand

in this bed in the morning."

    The big man, who had a beard so bushy that squirrels could have hidden in

it, squinted at Roland through the dim firelight shining through a parchment

window.

    "Oh, sorry!" the big fellow apologized. "Thought you were my wife." He

rolled over and immediately began to snore.

    That was some comfort. Roland had heard tales of men getting buggered under

such circumstances.

    Roland turned aside, letting the fellow's backside warm his buttocks, then

tried to sleep. But an hour later, the big fellow was at him again, clutching

Roland's breasts. Roland gave him a sharp elbow to the chest.

    "Damn you, woman!" the fellow groaned in his sleep, rolling back over with a

huff. "You're all bones."

    Roland promised himself that tomorrow night he'd sleep with the rocks in the

field.

    The thought had hardly crossed his mind when he woke from a deep slumber.

    He was entangled in the fellow's arms again, arms as big as logs. His

bedfellow had kissed him on the forehead.

    A dim morning light shone through the window. His eyes closed, the man

seemed fast asleep, breathing deeply.

    "Excuse me," Roland said, catching the man by the beard and yanking this way

and that. He shoved the fellow's head back. "I admire a man who can show

affection, but please refrain from showing it to me."

    The fellow opened his bloodshot eyes and gazed at Roland for half a second.

Roland expected the brute to offer an embarrassed apology.

    Instead, he paled in dismay. "Borenson?" he shouted, coming fully awake. He

scuttled his three hundred pounds of bulk back against the wall and huddled

there quivering, as if terrified that Roland might strike. "What are you doing

here?"

    He was an enormous man with black hair, and a good deal of gray in his

beard. Roland didn't recognize him. But I have been asleep for twenty-one years,

he thought. "Do I know you?" Roland asked, begging a name.

    "Know me? You nearly killed me, though I must admit that I deserved it. I

was an ass back then. But I've repented my ways, and I'm only half an ass now.

Don't you know me? Baron Poll!"

    Roland had never met the fellow. He's confusing me with my son, Ivarian

Borenson, Roland realized, a son he'd only learned about after waking from his

long sleep.

    "Ah, Baron Poll!" Roland said enthusiastically, waiting for the fellow to

recognize his own mistake. It didn't seem likely that Roland's son would look so

much like him, with his flaming red hair and pale complexion. The boy's mother

was fairly dark of skin. "It's good to see you."

    "Likewise, and I'm glad you feel that way. So, our past is forgotten? You

forgive me...the theft of your purse? Everything?"

    "As far as I am concerned, it's as if we've never met," Roland said.

    Baron Poll suddenly seemed mystified. "You're in a generous mood...after all

those beatings I gave you. I suppose it turned you into a soldier, though. One

could even say that you're in my debt. Right?"

    "Ah, the beatings," Roland echoed, still astonished that the fellow didn't

realize his mistake. Roland knew only one thing about his son: He was a captain

in the King's Guard. "That was nothing. Of course I gave as good as I got,

right?"

    Baron Poll stared at Roland as if he'd gone utterly mad. Roland realized

that his son really hadn't given as good as he'd gotten. "Well..." Poll ventured

suspiciously, "then I'm glad we're reconciled. But...what are you doing down

here? I thought you'd gone north to Heredon?"

    "Alas, King Orden is dead," Roland said solemnly. "Raj Ahten met him at

Longmot. Thousands of our men fell in battle."

    "And the Prince?" Poll asked, his face pale.

    "He is well, as far as I know," Roland answered.

    "As far as you know? But you're his bodyguard!"

    "That is why I'm in a hurry to get back to his side," Roland said, climbing

off the bed. He threw his new bearskin traveling robe over his shoulders, pulled

on his heavy boots.

    Baron Poll heaved his bulk up on the side of the bed, stared about dumbly.

"Where's your axe? Your bow? You aren't traveling weaponless!"

    "I am." Roland was in a hurry to reach Heredon. He hadn't taken the time yet

to purchase weapons, had only learned last night that he might need them, as he

began to meet refugees fleeing the north.

    Baron Poll studied him as if he were daft. "You know that Castle Crayden

fell six days ago, along with Castle Fells and the fortress at Tal Dur? And two

days ago Raj Ahten destroyed Tal Rimmon, Gorlane, and Aravelle. Two hundred

thousand of Raj Ahten's men are marching on Carris and should reach it by dawn

tomorrow. You're heading weaponless into that kind of danger?"

    Roland knew little about the lay of the land. Being illiterate, he could not

read a map, and until now he had never been ten miles from his childhood home at

the Courts of Tide, but he knew that castles Crayden and Fells defended the

passes on Mystarria's western border. He'd never heard of Tal Dur, but he knew

of the castles that had been destroyed to the north.

    "Can I reach Carris before they do?" Roland asked.

    "Is your horse fast?"

    Roland nodded. "It has an endowment of stamina and one of strength and

metabolism." It was a lordly animal, such as the king's messengers rode. After

being on the road for a week, Roland had met a horse trader and purchased the

beast with money he'd inherited while he slept.

    "You should easily make a hundred miles today, then," Baron Poll said. "But

the roads are like to be treacherous. Raj Ahten's assassins are out in force."

    "Fine," Roland said. He hoped that his mount would be up to the challenge.

He turned to leave.

    "Here now, you can't go out like that," Baron Poll said. "Take my arms and

armor--whatever you want." He nodded to a corner of the room. Baron Poll's

breastplate was propped against the wall, along with a huge axe, a sword as tall

as a man, and a half-sword.

    The breastplate was too wide for Roland by half, and he doubted he could

even heft the tall sword well enough to use it in battle. Roland was a butcher

by trade. The axe was no larger than the forty-pound cleavers that Roland had

used for splitting beeves, but he doubted that he'd ever want such a clumsy

weapon in a brawl. But there was the half-sword. It was not much larger than a

good long knife. Still, Roland could not take such a gift by deception.

    "Baron Poll," Roland apologized, "I fear that you are mistaken. My name is

Roland Borenson. I am not a member of the King's Guard. You mistake me for my

son."

    "What?" Baron Poll spat. "The Borenson I knew was a fatherless bastard.

Everyone said so. We teased him mercilessly for it!"

    "No man is fatherless," Roland said. "I served as a Dedicate in the Blue

Tower these past twenty-one years, giving metabolism in service of the King."

    "But everyone said you were dead! No. Wait...I remember the story better

now: They said you were a common criminal, a killer, executed before your son

was born!"

    "Not executed," Roland objected, "though perhaps my son's mother might have

wished it."

    "Ah, I remember the harpy well," Baron Poll said. "As I recall, she often

wished all men to death. Certainly she damned me enough." Baron Poll suddenly

blushed, as if embarrassed to pry any further. "I should have known," he said.

"You look too young. The Borenson I knew has endowments of metabolism himself,

and has aged accordingly. In the past eight years, he would have aged more than

twenty. If the two of you stood together, I think you would look like father and

son now--though he would seem the father, and you the son."

    Roland nodded. "Now you have the way of it."

    Baron Poll's brows drew together in thought. "You're riding to see your

son?"

    "And to put myself into service to my king," Roland answered.

    "You've no endowments," Poll pointed out. "You're not a soldier. You'll

never make it to Heredon."

    "Probably not," Roland agreed.

    He headed for the door.

    "Wait!" Baron Poll bellowed. "Kill yourself if you want, but don't make it

easy for them. At least take a weapon."

    "Thank you," Roland said, as he took the half-sword. He had no belt to hold

the scabbard, so he tucked it under his shirt.

    Baron Poll snorted, displeased by his choice of weapons. "You're welcome.

Luck to you."

    Baron Poll got out of bed, shook Roland's hand at the wrist. The man had a

grip like a vise. Roland shook hard, as if he had endowments of brawn of his

own. Years of knife work had left him with strong wrists and a fierce grip. Even

after decades asleep his muscles were firm, his calluses still thick.

    Roland hurried downstairs. The common room was full. Peasants fleeing south

clustered at some tables, while squires who were heading north with their lords

sat at others. These young men were sharpening blades or rubbing oil into

leather or chain mail. A few of the lords, dressed oddly in tunics and hose and

quilted undermail, were seated on stools along the bar.

    The smells of fresh bread and meat were inviting enough to make Roland

repent of his vow to leave here hungry. He took a vacant stool. Two knights were

arguing vigorously about how much to feed a warhorse before charging into

battle, and one of the men nodded at Roland, as if encouraging him to enter the

fray. He wondered if the fellow knew him, or if he believed Roland was a lord

because of the fine new bearskin cloak he wore, and his new tunic and pants and

boots. Roland knew he was dressed like a noble. Soon he heard a squire whisper

the name Borenson.

    The innkeeper brought him some honeyed tea in a mustache mug, and he began

to eat a loaf of rye bread, dipping it in a trencher of rich gravy thick with

floating chunks of pork.

    As Roland ate, he began to muse about the events of the past week. This was

the second time in a week that he'd wakened to a kiss....

    Seven days earlier, he'd felt a touch on his cheek--a gentle, tentative

touch, as if a spider crawled over him and bolted awake, heart pounding.

    He'd been startled to find himself in a dim room, lying abed at midday. The

walls were of heavy stone, his mat of feathers and straw. He knew the place at

once by the tang of sea air. Outside, terns and gulls cried as if in solitary

lament, while huge ocean swells surged against battlements hewn from ancient

rock at the base of the tower. As a Dedicate who gave metabolism, he'd slept

fast for twenty years. Somehow, over the many years that he'd slept, Roland had

felt those waves lashing during storms, making the whole keep shudder under

their impact, endlessly wearing away the rock.

    He was in the Blue Tower, a. few miles east of the Courts of Tide in the

Caroll Sea.

    The small chamber he inhabited was surprisingly sparse in its decor, almost

like a tomb: no table or chairs, no tapestry or rugs to cover the bare walls or

floor. No wardrobe for clothes, or even a peg on the wall where one might hang a

robe. It was not a room for a man to live in, only to sleep in for endless ages.

Aside from the mattress and Roland, the small chamber held only a young woman

who leapt back to the foot of the bed, beside a wash bucket. He saw her by a dim

light cast from a salt-encrusted window. She was a sweet thing with an

oval-shaped face, eyes of pale blue, and hair the color of straw. She wore a

wreath of tiny dried violets in her hair. The touch of her long hair on his face

was what had awakened him.

    Her face reddened with embarrassment and she crouched back a bit on her

haunches. "Pardon me," she stammered. "Mistress Hetta bade me cleanse you." She

held up a wash rag defensively, as if to prove her good intentions.

    Yet the moisture on his lips tasted not of some stale rag but of a girl's

kiss. Perhaps she had meant to cleanse him, but decided to seek more enticing

diversion,

    "I'll get you some help," she said, dropping her rag into the bucket. She

half-turned from where she huddled.

    Roland grabbed her wrist, quick as a mongoose taking a cobra. Because of his

speed, he had been forced to give his, metabolism into the King's service.

    "How long have I slept?" he begged. His mouth felt terribly dry, and the

words made his throat itch. "What year is it?"

    "Year?" the young woman asked, barely fighting his grasp. He held her

lightly. She could have broken away, but chose instead to stay. He caught the

scent of her: clean, a hint of lilac water in her hair--or perhaps it was the

dried violets. "It is the twenty-second year of the reign of Mendellas Draken

Orden."

    The news did not surprise him; yet her words were like a blow. Twenty-one

years. It has been twenty-one years since I gave my endowment of metabolism into

the service of the King. Twenty-one years of sleeping on this cot while young

women occasionally clean me or spoon broth down my throat and make sure that I

still breathe

    He'd given his metabolism to a young warrior, a sergeant named Drayden. In

those twenty-one years, Drayden would have aged more than forty, while Roland

slept and aged not a day.

    It seemed but moments ago that Roland knelt before Drayden and young King

Orden. The facilitators sang in birdlike voices, pressing their forcibles into

his chest, calling the endowment from him. He'd felt the unspeakable pain of the

forcibles, smelled flesh and the hairs of his chest begin to burn, felt the

overwhelming fatigue as the facilitators drew forth his metabolism. He'd cried

in pain and terror at the last, and seemingly had fallen forever.

    Because Roland was now awake, he knew that Drayden was dead. If a man gave

use of an attribute to a lord, then once that lord died, the attribute returned

to the Dedicate. Whether Drayden had died in battle or abed, Roland could not

know. But now that Roland was one of the Restored, it meant Drayden was

certainly dead.

    "I'll go now," the girl said, struggling just a bit.

    Roland felt the soft hairs on her forearm. She had a pair of pimples on her

face, but in time he imagined that she would become a beauty.

    "My mouth is dry," Roland said, still holding her.

    "I'll get water," she promised. She quit struggling--as if by relinquishing

she hoped he might let her go.

    Roland released her wrist, but stared hard into her face. He was a handsome

young man--with his long red hair tied back, a strong chin, piercing blue eyes,

and a svelte, muscular body.

    He asked, "Just now, when you were kissing me in my sleep, was it me, you

wanted, or did you fantasize, about some other man?"

    The girl shook with fright, looked to the small wooden door of Roland's

chamber, as if to make sure it was closed. She ducked her head shyly, and

whispered, "You."

    Roland studied her face. A few freckles, a straight mouth, a delicate nose.

He wanted to kiss her, just behind her small left ear.

    To fill the silence, the girl began to chatter. "I've been washing you since

I was ten. I...in that time, I've come to know your body well. There is kindness

in your face, and cruelty; and beauty. I sometimes wonder what kind of man you

are, and I hoped that you would awaken before I married. My name is Sera, Sera

Crier. My father and mother and sisters all died in a mud slide when I was

small, so now I serve here in the keep."

    "Do you even know my name?" Roland asked.

    "Borenson. Roland Borenson. Everyone in the keep knows you. You are the

father of a captain of the King's Guard. Your son serves as bodyguard to Prince

Gaborn."

    Roland wondered. He'd had no son that he'd ever heard of. But he'd had a

young wife when he gave his endowment, though she would be getting old by now.

He had not known when he'd given his metabolism that she carried a child.

    He wondered if this girl spoke aright. He wondered why she was attracted to

him. He asked, "You know my name. Do you also know that I am a murderer?"

    The girl drew back in astonishment.

    "I killed a man," Roland admitted. He wondered why he told her that. But

although the man had died twenty years ago, for him it had happened only hours

ago, and the feel of the man's guts in his hand was still fresh on his mind.

    "I'm sure you had good reason."

    "I found him in bed with my wife. I slit him open like a fish, yet even as I

did, I had to wonder why. Ours was an arranged marriage and a poor match by any

measure. I did not care for the girl, and she hated me. Killing the man was a

waste. I think I did it to hurt her. I don't know.

    "For years you have wondered what kind of man I am, Sera. Do you think you

know?"

    Sera Crier licked her lips. Now she began to tremble. "Any other man would

have lost his head for such a deed. The King must have liked you well. Perhaps

he too saw some kindness masked by your cruelty."

    "I see only waste and stupidity," Roland answered.

    "And beauty." Sera leaned forward to kiss Roland's lips. He turned his head

a bit.

    "I've given myself," he said.

    "To a woman who disavowed you and married someone else long, long ago...."

Sera answered. Roland felt certain that she knew what she spoke of when she

mentioned his wife. The news saddened him. The girl had been another butcher's

daughter and she'd had a wit sharper than her father's knives. She'd thought him

stupid, he'd thought her cruel.

    "No," he answered, feeling that she did not see the deeper truth. "I'm not

given to my wife, but to my king."

    Roland sat up in his cot, gazed down at his feet. He was dressed in nothing

but a tunic--a fine red cotton garment that would breathe in the moist air. Not

the old work clothes he'd worn twenty-one years ago when he gave his endowment.

They'd rotted away.

    Sera fetched him some trousers and a pair of lambskin boots, then offered to

help dress him, though he needed no help. He had never felt so completely

rested.

    Though today was the second time in a week that Roland had wakened to a

kiss, Sera Crier's lips had been far more desirable than Baron Poll's.

    As Roland ate, a young knight in splint mail came in through the front door.

"Borenson!" he shouted in greeting. At the same instant, Baron Poll had just

come down the stairs and stood at the landing. "And Baron Poll!" the fellow said

in dismay.

    Suddenly the room swirled in commotion. The two lords beside Roland dove to

the floor. The knight at the door pulled his sword, ringing from its scabbard.

The squires in the corner shouted variations of "Fight!" "Blood feud!" One of

the lads flipped a table over and hid behind it as a barricade. A girl who was

serving the peasants threw a basket filled with bread loaves into the air and

ran for the buttery shrieking, "Baron Poll and Sir Borenson are in the same

room!" The innkeeper ran out from the kitchens, face pale, as if hoping to

rescue his furniture.

    Everywhere Roland glanced, he saw frightened faces.

    Baron Poll just stood on the landing, studying the scene, an amused smile

playing on his lips.

    Roland enjoyed the joke. He furrowed his brow, drew the half-sword, and eyed

Baron Poll menacingly. Then he chopped a loaf of bread in half and plunged the

sword tip into the counter, so that it stood there quivering.

    "It appears the stool beside me has been vacated, Baron Poll," Roland said.

"Perhaps you will join me for breakfast."

    "Why, thank you," Baron Poll said courteously. He waddled over to the stool,

sat down, took half the loaf, dipped it in Roland's trencher.

    The whole crowd gaped in wonder. Roland thought, They'd not look more

astonished if Baron Poll and I were a pair of toads flying about the room like

hummingbirds, chasing flies with long tongues.

    Horrified, the young knight exclaimed, "But you're not to be within fifty

leagues of each other--by the King's own command!"

    "True, but last night, by mere happenstance, Borenson and I were thrust into

the same cot," Baron Poll replied contentedly. "And I must say, I've never had a

more cordial bedfellow."

    "Nor I," Roland offered. "Not many a man could warm your backside as well as

Baron Poll. The man is as big as a horse and as hot as a smithy's forge. Why, I

suspect he could warm a whole village at night. You could fry fish on his feet

or bake bricks on his back."

    Everyone stared at them as if they were daft, so Roland and Baron Poll

loudly discussed such mundane topics as the weather, how the recent rains had

aggravated the gout that Poll's mother-in-law suffered from; the best way, to

cook venison, and so on.

    Everyone watched them warily, as if at any moment the truce might break, and

the two men would go at it with knives.

    Finally, Borenson slapped Baron Poll on the back, went outside into the

early morning light. The village of Hay was aptly named. Haycocks stood

everywhere in the fields, and black-eyed Susans grew huge so late in the summer.

The margin of the road out of town was a riot of yellows and deep browns. The

countryside was flat, and the grass had grown tall in the summer, but now was

sun-bleached white and dying.

    At the front of the inn, the pigs had wisely fled. A couple of red hens

pecked in the dirt by Roland's feet. Roland waited while a stableboy went to

fetch his horse.

    He stood looking up into the hazy sky. The air was moist with wisps of

morning fog. Volcanic ash drifted in the mist like flakes of warm snow.

    Baron Poll came out, stood with him a moment, staring up and stroking his

beard. "There's mischief in this volcano blowing, and powerful magic," he

predicted. "Raj Ahten has flameweavers in his retinue, I hear. I wonder if

they're mixed up in this?"

    Roland thought it unlikely that the flameweavers had anything to do with the

volcano. It had blown far to the south, and Raj Ahten's soldiers were converging

on Carris a hundred miles north. Still, it seemed ominous.

    "What is this about the King's command?" Roland asked. "Why are you not to

get within fifty leagues of my son?"

    "Ah, it's nothing." Baron Poll grinned with embarrassment. "Old news. I'd

tell you the story, but you'll hear some minstrel sing of it soon enough, I

imagine. They get most of it right." Baron Poll sheepishly glanced at the ground

and wiped some fallen ash from his cloak. "I've lived in mortal terror of your

boy these past ten years." Roland wondered what his son would have done if he'd

wakened in this man's arms. "But dark times can make even the worst of enemies

into friends, eh?" Baron Poll said. "And men can change, can't they? Wish your

son well for me, if you find him."

    His expression begged Roland for forgiveness, and Roland would have been

happy to give it to him, but he could not speak for his son. "I'll do so,"

Roland promised.

    Far down the dirt road to the south, fifty knights were racing north, the

hooves of their chargers thundering over the earth.

    "Perhaps your road north won't be so dangerous after all," Baron Poll said.

"But mark my word. Beware of Carris.

    "Aren't you coming north? I thought you'd ride with me."

    "Pah," Baron Poll spat. "I'm going the wrong way south. I have a summer

estate outside Carris, so my wife wanted me to remove a few valuables before Raj

Ahten's men looted the place. I'm helping the servants guard the wagon."

    That seemed cowardly, but Roland said nothing.

    "Aye," Baron Poll said. "I know what you're thinking. But they'll have to

fight without me at Carris. I had two endowments of metabolism until last fall

when some of my Dedicates got slain. I'm feeling too old and fat for a real

battle. My armor fits me no better than would my wife's undergarments."

    Those words had come hard. The Baron did want to go north and fight.

    "We could skirt this battle at Carris," Roland suggested, "and find one more

to your liking. Why don't you come with me?"

    "Hah!" Baron Poll guffawed. "Eight hundred miles to Heredon? If you're not

worried for your own health, or mine, at least you could show pity to my poor

horse!"

    "Let your servants haul off your treasures. They don't need you guarding

them."

    "Ah, my wife would give me such a tongue-lashing--the shrew! Better to anger

Raj Ahten than her."

    A maid came out of the inn and expertly grabbed one of the hens that had

been pecking in the dust. She snatched it by the neck. "You'll be coming with

me. Lord Collins-ward wants your company for breakfast." She wrung the chicken's

neck and was already pulling off feathers when she carried the hen round back.

    In moments, the knights from the south reached the village, wheeled their

horses toward the stable. Apparently they hoped to rest, get some news, and care

for their mounts.

    When the stableboy brought Roland's horse around, he mounted, gave the boy a

small coin. The filly was well rested, frolicky. She was a huge red beast with a

blaze of white on her hooves and forehead. She acted ready for a brisk run in

the cool morning air. Roland took off along the road, through a field shrouded

with mist that soon turned into a low fog.

    Roland sniffed at the smell of volcanic ash, searching the scent for signs

of danger. On the road north ahead was Raj Ahten's army--an army said to contain

sorcerers and Invincibles and frowth giants and fierce dogs of war.

    He could not help think how unfair life could be. That poor chicken back at

the inn hadn't had a second's warning before it died.

    Moments later, while Roland was preoccupied with such grim thoughts, the

sound of a horse riding hard startled him.

    He glanced behind, worried that it might be a robber or assassin. He was

riding through a thick fog, and could not see a hundred feet ahead.

    Spurring his mount off the road, he reached for his halfsword just as a huge

shape came thundering from the mist behind him.

    Baron Poll bounced up on his horse. "Well met!" the fat knight cried,

sitting precariously on his charger. The beast looked about with a terrified

demeanor, eyes wide and ears back, as if afraid its master would give it a good

cuffing.

    "Aren't you going south with your treasures?" Roland asked.

    "Damn the treasures. The servants can abscond with them for all I care! Let

them take that shrew of a wife, too!" Baron Poll bellowed. "You were right. It's

better to die young with the blood hot in your veins, than to die old and slowly

of being too fat!"

    "I never said that," Roland objected.

    "Pah! Your eyes said it all, lad."

    Roland sheathed his sword. "Well, now that my eyes are so eloquent, perhaps

I'll give my unruly tongue a rest" With that, he wheeled his horse into the

mist.

CHAPTER 3

HOSTENFEST

    Myrrima woke at dawn with tears in her eyes. She wiped them away and lay

wondering at the strange sense of melancholy that had overwhelmed her each dawn

for the past three days. She did not know for certain why she woke crying.

    She should not have felt this way. It was the last day of Hostenfest, the

day of the great feast--and it should have been the happiest day of the year.

    Moreover, in the past few weeks, she had won several small victories.

Instead of sleeping in her shack outside Bannisferre, she had wakened in her

room in the King's Tower at Castle Sylvarresta. Over the past three days, she'd

become a close friend to young Queen Iome Orden, and she'd married a knight with

some wealth. Her sisters and her mother were here in the castle, living in the

Dedicate's Keep, where they would be taken care of for life.

    She should have been happy. Yet she felt as if the hand of doom weighed on

her.

    Outside her window, she could hear the King's facilitators chanting out in

the Dedicates' Keep. Over the past week, thousands of people had offered to

dedicate their attributes into the service of the Earth King. Though Gaborn was

an Oath-Bound Lord and had sworn not to take a man's brawn or wit or stamina

unless it was freely given, and those had been freely offered, he still had not

taken a single endowment. Some feared that he had forsaken the practice

altogether; yet he did not forbid his knights to take endowments.

    King Gaborn Val Orden seemed to have an endless supply of forcibles, and for

the past week, the chief facilitator had worked with his apprentices night and

day, doling out endowments to Heredon's knights, trying to rebuild the kingdom's

decimated troops. Still, the Dedicate's Keep was only half full.

    A soft knocking came from Myrrima's door, and she rolled over on the satin

sheets of her bed, glanced out through a window of the oriel. The morning light

barely glowed through the stained-glass image on the window mourning doves

winging through a blue sky, as seen through a screen of ivy. She realized that

the low knocking had wakened her.

    "Who's there?"

    "Tis I," Borenson said.

    Throwing back the sheets, she leapt up, rushed to the door, and yanked it

open. He stood in the doorway, a lamp in his hands, its small flame wavering in

the drafty castle. He looked huge there in the darkness, grinning like a boy

with a joke to tell. His blue eyes twinkled, and his red beard fanned out from

his face.

    "You don't need to knock," she laughed. They'd been married now for four

days, though he'd run off and spent the last three on a hunt. Worse, they had

never consummated their marriage, and Myrrima had to wonder at him.

    Sir Borenson seemed smitten enough by her, but when she'd thought to bed him

on her honeymoon night, he'd merely said, "How can a man take such pleasures,

while tonight he will hunt in the Dunnwood?"

    Myrrima was inexperienced with men. She did not know if it was right to feel

so hurt by his rejection. She'd wondered if he really was overexcited by the

hunt, if that was natural, or if he had a war wound that kept him from showing

affection. Perhaps Borenson had married her only because Gaborn had suggested

it.

    For days she had felt hurt and bewildered, and had longed for Borenson's

return. Now he was home.

    "I was afraid you'd be deeply asleep," he said.

    He stepped forward, ventured a small kiss, holding the lamp far out to his

side. She took the lamp from him and set it on a trunk. "Not like that," she

said. "We're married." She grabbed him by the beard and pulled him down, kissed

him roughly, leading him toward the bed. She hoped that by now he might have

settled down.

    Almost immediately she regretted it. He was covered in dirt, and his ring

mail was caked with mud. It would take someone hours to get her bedclothes

clean.

    "Ah, that will have to wait." Borenson grinned. "But not too long, of

course. Just until I get cleaned up."

    She stared up into his face. The melancholy she'd felt only moments before

had dissipated completely. "Go wash, then."

    "Not quite yet," Borenson chortled. "I've got something to show you."

    "You killed me a boar for Hostenfest?" she laughed.

    "No boars this Hostenfest," he answered. "The hunt didn't go as

anticipated."

    "Well, I suppose the lords at the table could make do with a rabbit," she

teased. "Though I shan't want anything smaller. I never have developed a taste

for field mice."

    Borenson smiled mysteriously. "Come on. Hurry." He went to her wardrobe and

pulled down a simple blue dress. Myrrima threw off her nightclothes, pulled on

the dress, and began to tie the laces of the bodice. Borenson watched, delighted

to be entertained by his new bride. She pulled on some shoes and in moments he

had her rushing down the steps of the keep, trying to catch up.

    "The hunt didn't go well," Borenson said, taking her hand. "We had some

casualties."

    She wondered at that. There were still black-furred nomen prowling in the

woods, and frowth giants. Raj Ahten had fled south from here more than a week

ago, abandoning those troops that were too tired to flee. She wondered how the

lords had been killed. "Casualties?

    He nodded, unwilling to say more.

    In moments they reached the cobblestone street. The morning air carried a

keen cold bite, and Myrrima's breath fogged. Borenson hurried her through the

portcullis of the King's Gate, rushing down Market Street to the city gate.

There, just beyond the drawbridge, beside the moat, a huge crowd was gathering.

    The fields before Castle Sylvarresta were full of bright pavilions that

sprawled like a city of canvas. In the past week, another four hundred thousand

peasants and nobles from Heredon and kingdoms beyond had gathered here, come to

see the Earth King, Gaborn Val Orden. The fields were becoming an endless maze

of tents and animals, enough so that now the tents covered nearby hills, and

whole towns were springing up on the plains to the south and west.

    Everywhere, merchants and vendors were setting up booths, creating impromptu

markets among the host. The scent of cooking sausages hung over the throng, and

because this was a feast day, hundreds of minstrels were already warming up

their lutes and harps under every tree.

    Four peasant boys ahead were singing so badly to pipes and lutes that

Myrrima didn't know if they were serious or if they simply mocked others' poor

efforts.

    Borenson nudged aside some peasants and chased away a couple of mastiffs so

that Myrrima could see what was at the crowd's center.

    What she saw revolted her: a lump of gray flesh as huge as a wagon lay on

the grass, the eyeless head of a reaver. Its feelers hung like dead worms around

the back of its skull, and the rows of crystalline teeth looked terrifying as

they caught the morning sun. The thing was dirty, having been dragged for many

miles. Yet beneath that grime, along the forehead, she could see runes tattooed

into the monster's horrible flesh--runes of power that glowed even now like dim

flames. Every child in Rofehavan knew the meaning of those facial runes.

    This was no common reaver. It was a mage.

    Myrrima's heart pounded as if it were trying to batter its way out of her

chest. She found herself breathing hard, feeling faint. She went suddenly cold,

and stood letting the heat of strangers' bodies warm her while the mastiffs

sniffed at the reaver's head and wagged the stumps of their tails nervously.

    "A reaver mage?" she asked dully. No one had killed a reaver mage in Heredon

in over sixteen hundred years. She studied the thing's head. The monster could

have bitten a warhorse in half. Or a man.

    Peasants tittered; children reached out to touch the horrible thing.

    "We caught her in the Dunnwood, down in some old duskin ruins, far

underground. She had her mates and offspring there, so we killed them all and

crushed her eggs."

    "How many died?" Myrrima asked, dazed.

    Borenson did not immediately answer. "Forty-one good knights," he said at

last. "They fought well. It was a fierce battle." He added as modestly as he

could, "I killed the mage myself."

    She wheeled on him, full of rage. "How could you do this?"

    Surprised by her reaction, he sputtered, "It wasn't easy, I confess. The

mage gave me a hard time of it. She. seemed loath to lose her head."

    Suddenly she saw it all clearly: why she had wakened every morning full of

melancholy, why she could hardly sleep nights. She was terrified. She'd sought

to wed a man for his wealth, and instead had fallen in love. Meanwhile, her

husband seemed more interested in getting himself killed than in making love to

her.

    She turned and stalked off through the crowd, shoving away bystanders,

pushing toward the castle gate, blinded by tears.

    Borenson hurried after her, caught her at the foot of the drawbridge and

turned her with one big hand. "What are you so mad about?"

    The sound of his voice was so loud that it startled a fish down in the reeds

of the moat. The water swirled as something large swam away. A throng of people

heading into the castle made way for Borenson and Myrrima, skirting them as if

they were islands in a stream.

    She turned up to face him. "I'm mad because you're leaving me."

    "Of course I'm leaving you in a few days," he said. "But not by choice."

    Borenson had killed King Sylvarresta, and Myrrima knew that it shamed him,

despite the fact that Sylvarresta had given an endowment to Raj Ahten, lending

wit to the Wolf Lord. Though Sylvarresta had been a good man, one who had only

given his endowment under duress, the truth was that in such a horrible war as

this, friend could not spare friend. Brother could not spare brother.

    By granting an endowment of wit to Raj Ahten, King Sylvarresta had made

himself an enemy to every just man, and Borenson had felt bound by duty to take

the life of his old friend.

    Once the deed was done, the King's daughter, Iome, was loath to punish

Borenson, but neither could she forgive him. So in the name of justice she'd

lain a quest upon Borenson, commanded him to perform an Act Penitent to go to

the lands beyond Inkarra and find the legendary Daylan Hammer, the Sum of All

Men, and bring him back. here to Heredon to help fight Raj Ahten.

    It seemed a fool's quest. Though rumor said he lived, Daylan Hammer could

not still be alive after sixteen centuries. Sir Borenson seemed loath to go,

when he saw better ways to protect his people. Still, he was bound by honor to

depart--and he'd do so soon.

    "I don't want to go," Borenson said. "I have to."

    "It's a long way to Inkarra. A long way for a man to travel alone. I could

come with you."

    "No!" Borenson insisted. "You can't. You'd never make it alive."

    "What makes you think you will?" Myrrima asked. She knew the answer. He was

a captain in the King's Guard, with endowments of brawn and stamina and

metabolism. If any man alive could make it through the enemy territories,

Borenson could.

    Inkarra was a dangerous place: a strange land where northerners weren't

tolerated. Neither he nor Myrrima could blend in easily: the Inkarrans all had

skin as pale as ivory, with straight hair the color of silver. Borenson and

Myrrima couldn't disguise themselves enough to hide their foreign birth.

    For the most part, the Inkarrans were a nocturnal people. By day, they spent

much of their time at home or in the shadowed woods so evading them would be

nearly impossible. And if Borenson were captured, he'd be forced to fight in

their dark arena.

    In order to stay alive, he'd have to travel secretly at night, as best he

could, never risking contact with the Inkarrans.

    He said, "I can't take you. You would slow me down, get us both killed."

    "I don't like this," Myrrima said. "I don't like the idea of your going off

alone." A vendor pulling a handcart moved close, and Myrrima stepped from his

path, dragging Borenson with her.

    "Neither do I, but you can't believe for a moment that you could help me."

    Myrrima shook her head, and a tear splashed down her cheek. "I told you

about my father," she said. He'd been a fairly wealthy merchant who had

apparently been robbed and killed and then had his shop burned down around him

to cover the crime. "I sometimes wonder if I could have saved him. On the night

he was killed, he was not the wealthiest merchant in Bannisferre, or the most

feeble. But he was alone. Perhaps if I had been with him..."

    "If you had been with him, you too might be dead," Borenson said.

    "Perhaps," she Whispered. "But sometimes I think I'd rather be dead than

live without knowing if I could have been of help." Borenson stared hard at her.

"I admire your loyalty, I cherish it. But the worst day of my life came last

week when I learned that you had ridden to Longmot, hoping to join me in battle.

I want you to sleep by my side, not fight by my side--even though you have a

warrior's heart." He kissed her tenderly.

    For just a moment their eyes met. She held his outstretched hand. A plea.

    "If I cannot come with you," she said, " I will not be happy until you

return."

    Borenson smiled and leaned his forehead against hers, kissed her nose. "Let

us agree, then. Neither of us will be happy until I return."

    He held her for a long moment, letting the crowd of peasants heading for the

castle stroll past.

    Behind her, she heard a couple of men talking. "Chose that whore Bonny

Cleads, he did, not half an hour ago! Why would the Earth King Choose someone

like her?"

    "He says he Chooses those what love their fellow men," a fellow said, "and I

don't know of no one that's loved more of 'em than she."

    Myrrima felt Borenson stiffen in her arms as his attention focused on the

peasants. Though he bridled to hear such criticism of the King, he did not

challenge the men.

    Myrrima heard a shout and a splash, as if someone had thrown something into

the moat, but paid it no mind until Borenson pulled his head back from her and

turned away.

    She looked to see what had caught his eye. Four young men stood on the

levee, looking down into the moat, about a hundred yards upstream. They were

perched on a small rise, beneath an enormous willow.

    The sun was bright and the skies clear. An early morning mist rose off the

dark waters. As Myrrima watched, a huge fish came up to the surface of the moat

and swam about lazily. One boy hurled a spear at it, but the fish darted nimbly

forward and dove again.

    "Hey," Borenson shouted as if angry. "What are you boys doing?"

    One lad, a thin boy with straw for hair and a triangle for a face, said,

"Catching a sturgeon for Hostenfest. Some big ones swam into the moat this

morning."

    Even as he spoke, an enormous fish some six or eight feet long rose to the

surface and began finning, whirling about in strange patterns. It ignored a

duckling that nosed about in some nearby reeds. The huge fish did not seem to be

hunting for a meal. One lad readied a spear.

    "Stop--in the name of the King!" Borenson commanded. Myrrima had to smile to

hear him appropriate the name of the King.

    The spear-bearing lad looked at Borenson as if he were mad. "But never has

such a huge fish swum into the moat," he said.

    "Go get the King--now!" Borenson commanded. "And the wizard Binnesman, too!

Tell them it's urgent, that there are some exceeding strange fish in the moat."

The boy looked longingly at the sturgeon, spear poised at his shoulder. "Do it

now!" Borenson roared. "Or, I swear I'll gut you where you stand."

    The boy glanced back and forth between Borenson and the fish, then threw

down his spear and ran for the castle.

    By the time. Gaborn reached the moat, holding hands with his wife Iome while

the wizard Binnesman walked behind, a great crowd of peasants had gathered at

its banks. They seemed both perplexed and angry to have a knight standing there

protecting the enormous sturgeons that swam not twenty feet from shore. There

was much grumbling about how the fish were "good enough for the King's belly,

but not for ours."

    Borenson had been gathering information about the fish for several minutes.

Nine sturgeons had been spotted at dawn, swimming into the moat from the Wye

River. Now all nine fish finned at the surface, just outside the castle wall,

performing a strange and sinuous dance.

    Iome came and stood with Myrrima, smiling radiantly to have her husband

home. Gaborn's and Iome's Days followed at their backs.

    "You look well," Myrrima said. "In fact, you are glowing." It was true.

    Iome only smiled at the remark. In the past few days, Iome had invited

Myrrima to dine with her at every meal, as if Myrrima were some woman born to

the court. Myrrima felt odd and apprehensive about such behavior, as if she were

merely pretending to be a gentleman's wife, though Iome seemed in every respect

to be genuinely pleased by Myrrima's company.

    Iome's Maid of Honor, Chemoise, had departed this week to an uncle's holding

in the north. For six years, Iome and Chemoise had been constant companions. But

now that Iome was married, she no longer required a Maid of Honor to constantly

remain in her presence. Still, Myrrima wondered if Iome craved a woman's

company. Certainly Iome had sought to befriend her easily enough.

    Iome kissed Myrrima's cheek and smiled in greeting. "You look well, too.

What is the excitement all about?"

    "Big fish, I guess," Myrrima said. "I think our lords and knights are all

still boys at heart."

    "Indeed, our husbands are acting oddly today," Iome said, and Myrrima merely

laughed, for both of them had been married only four days past, and neither she

nor Iome were used to speaking of "our husbands."

    In moments young King Orden knelt beside the moat, a dark-haired, blue-eyed

young man squinting into the depths beside the pink water lilies. The Earth

Warden Binnesman followed, wearing his wizard's robes in shades of scarlet and

russet.

    When Gaborn saw the fish, he stared in frank amazement, then sat down on his

haunches, watching the fish as they wheeled and dove.

    "Water wizards?" Gaborn asked. "Here in the moat?"

    "That's what it looks like," Borenson said.

    "What do you mean, `water wizards'?" Iome asked Gaborn. "They're fish."

    The Earth Warden Binnesman gave Iome a patient look as he stroked his

grizzled beard. "Don't assume that one must be human to be a wizard. The Powers

often favor beasts. Harts and foxes and bears often learn a few magical spells

to help them hide in the woods or walk quietly. And these fish look as if they

are quite powerful."

    Gaborn beamed at Iome. "You asked me just the other day if my father had

brought any water wizards for our betrothal, and now Heredon surprises me with a

few of its own."

    Iome grinned like a child and squeezed Myrrima's hand.

    Myrrima stared at the fish, marveling. There were rumors of ancient fish up

at the headwaters of the Wye, magical fish that no man could catch. She wondered

what they were doing here.

    Iome asked, "But even if the Powers do favor them, what good can they do us?

We can't speak to them."

    "Perhaps we cannot communicate well," Binnesman said. "But Gaborn can listen

to them." Gaborn glanced up at the wizard, as if surprised that the Earth Warden

thought him capable of the feat. "Use the Earth Sight," Binnesman told him.

"That's what it's for."

    Behind them a crowd of children and onlookers gathered. Several large boys

had now brought fishing nets from the banks of the river, and others had

gathered spears and bows, hoping to make a meal of the sturgeons, if the King

would allow it. They seemed a bit forlorn at the prospect of missing a meal.

    Now that the sun had risen a bit more, slanting in, Myrrima could see the

huge sturgeons easily enough, their dark blue backs. They were circling near the

surface, their fins slicing through the water as they swam about in curious

patterns. To a casual observer, it might have appeared that they were finning

the surface like salmon, preparing to spawn.

    "What has happened to the water here in the moat since this began?" Gaborn

wondered aloud.

    "The level of the moat is rising," Binnesman said. "I'd say that it has come

up at least a foot this morning." He climbed down to the edge of the moat and

dipped his fingers in. "And the water here has become much clearer. The sediment

is settling out of it."

    One fish swam a lazy S, then dipped below the surface and rose again, just

so, to put a single dot at the end, then slashed through it. Gaborn traced the

pattern with his finger.

    "See there," Binnesman said, pointing at the sturgeon. "That fish is making

runes of protection."

    Gaborn said, "I see it. It's a simple water rune that my father taught me as

a child. What do you think they want protection from?"

    "I don't know," Binnesman said, staring deeply, as if to read the answer in

a sturgeon's eye. "Why don't you ask them?"

    "In a moment," Gaborn promised. "I've never tried to use my Earth Sight on

an animal before. Let me gather my thoughts first."

    Some deep-green dragonflies buzzed past, and Myrrima and Iome stood hand in

hand for several long moments, studying the runes that the fish drew. Myrrima

noticed that each sturgeon had taken an area free of reeds and lily pads.

    Gaborn and Binnesman, meanwhile, discussed the meaning of the runes. One

sturgeon kept tracing runes of protection next to some cattails. Gaborn said

that another drew runes of purity near the center of the pond--a rune to cleanse

the water. A third was sketching runes that Binnesman recognized as runes of

healing. Over and over again.

    Farther away, a fish was moving in the depths of the moat, tracing runes

that neither Gaborn nor Binnesman had ever seen before. Even Gaborn, a king

raised in the Courts of Tide where water wizards were common, could not divine

the purpose for all the runes. But Binnesman ventured a guess that the rune

would make the water colder.

    "Do you think the water really is much colder?" Iome whispered to Myrrima.

    "I'll see," Myrrima said. She climbed down and touched the water, too,

though no one else on the shore dared. Binnesman was right. It was bitterly

cold, as cold and fresh as the deepest of mountain pools. And the shoreline in

the moat was indeed higher than it had been this past week.

    Myrrima nodded to Iome. "It's freezing!"

    Gaborn climbed down to a huge flat rock by Myrrima, leaned out over the

glassy surface of the moat and began to trace runes on the water, simple runes

of protection. He was mirroring the actions of the sturgeon.

    A great sturgeon swam up, just under his hand, its dark blue back close to

Gaborn. Its gills expanded and contracted rhythmically as it studied him,

watching his fingers as if they were something edible. The fish was

tantalizingly close to Myrrima.

    "That's right. I'll protect you if I can," Gaborn whispered to the fish in

an easy tone. "Tell me, what do you fear?"

    He continued drawing the runes, stared into the fish's eyes, and into its

mind, for long minutes. He frowned as if what he saw confused him. "I see

darkness in the water," he murmured. "I see darkness, and I taste metal. I can

feel...strangulation. I can taste...metal. Redness coming."

    The young King stopped speaking, almost seemed to stop breathing. His eyes

lost their focus and rolled back in his head.

    "King Orden," Binnesman called, but Gaborn did not move.

    Myrrima wondered if she should grab Gaborn to keep him from falling in, but

Binnesman climbed down to the water's edge and touched his shoulder.

    "What?" Gaborn asked, rousing from his stupor. He leaned on the flat rock.

    "What is it they fear?" Binnesman asked.

    "They fear blood, I think," Gaborn said. "They fear that the river will fill

with blood."

    Binnesman drew his staff up tight against his chest and frowned, shaking his

head in dismay.

    "I can't believe that. There is no sign of an army approaching, and it would

take a great battle to fill the river with blood. Raj Ahten is far away. But

something odd is happening," he said. "I've felt it all night. The Earth is in

pain. I feel the pain like pinpricks on my flesh north of here, in North

Crowthen, and again far to the south. It trembles in far places, and there are

slow movements even here, beneath our very feet."

    Gaborn tried to make light of it.. "Still, it comforts me to have these

wizards here in our moat." He turned and addressed the crowd of boys with their

spears and bows and nets. "Let no man fish in this moat or foul its waters in

any way. Let no one swim in it. These wizards will stay as our guests."

    Gaborn asked Binnesman, "Can we seal the moat off from the river?."

    Myrrima knew it should not be hard. A small diversion dam upriver let water

spill into the canal that fed the moat.

    "Of course," Binnesman said. He glanced about. "You, Daffyd and Hugh, go

close the raceway. And hurry."

    Two stalwart boys ran upstream, elbows and shirttails flying.

    Myrrima watched the wizard draw himself to his full height, look up at the

early morning sun.

    She held her breath, strained to listen as Binnesman spoke. "Milord," he

said so softly that most of those nearby could not have heard. "The earth is

speaking to us. It speaks sometimes in the movements of birds and animals,

sometimes in the crash of stone. But it is speaking nonetheless. I do not know

what it is saying, but I don't like this business of rivers filled with blood."

    Gaborn nodded. "What would you have me do?"

    "Raj Ahten had a powerful pyromancer in his retinue, before you killed her,"

Binnesman said thoughtfully. "Yet I'm sure that whole forests are still being

sacrificed to the powers that the flameweavers served."

    "Yes," Gaborn said.

    "I would not speak of plans that I want held secret now in open daylight.

Nor would I do so before a fire, not even so much as a candle flame. Hold your

councils by starlight if you must. Or better yet, in a darkened hall of stone,

where the Earth can shield your words."

    Myrrima knew that powerful flameweavers sometimes claimed that if they

listened to the whispering tongues of flames, they could clearly hear words

spoken by others of their ilk hundreds of miles away. Yet Myrrima had never seen

a flameweaver who could really perform such feats.

    "All right," Gaborn agreed. "We will hold our councils in the Great Hall,

and I will have no fires lit therein throughout the winter. And I shall pass

orders that no man is to discuss military strategies or secrets with another by

daylight or firelight."

    "That should do," Binnesman said.

    With that, the King and Iome and their Days' and Binnesman went over to see

the reaver's head, then walked back up to the castle. Borenson stayed behind for

a few moments and posted some lads beside the moat, charging them to care for

the fish.

    Myrrima stood by and wondered. During the past week, much in her life had

changed. But Binnesman's warning to Gaborn hinted of dire portents. Rivers of

blood. With the hundreds of thousands of people camped around the city of

Sylvarresta, it seemed as if the whole earth were flocking to Heredon, to the

courts of the Earth King. Whatever change was coming, she stood near the center

of it all.

    She climbed up the levee and stood looking out over the vast throng, over

the pavilions that had risen up here in the past week. Dust was rising to the

south and west, from the numerous travelers moving on the road. Last night,

Myrrima had heard that merchant princes had come from as far away as Lysle.

    The whole earth shall gather here, Myrrima realized. An Earth King's powers

are legendary and are given only in the darkest of times. Every person in every

land who wants to live will come here. There are reavers in the Dunnwood and

wizards in the moat. Soon there will be enough people to bleed rivers of blood.

    That knowledge made her feel small and helpless, worried for the future. And

now that Borenson was leaving, she knew she wouldn't be able to rely on him.

    I must prepare for whatever is to come, Myrrima thought.

    Myrrima walked with Borenson back up to the castle. She stopped on the

drawbridge for a few moments and watched the great fish finning in the moat. She

felt relieved by their presence. Water wizards were strong in the arts of

healing and protection.

    That morning, Myrrima finished breakfast in the King's Tower, with only King

Gaborn and Queen Iome and their Days in the room. Though Myrrima was becoming

friends with Iome, she still felt uncomfortable to be dining in the presence of

the King.

    Indeed, the meal was filled with uncomfortable silences: Gaborn and Borenson

refused to discuss their hunt over the past three days, saying very little at

all. Gaborn also had received disturbing news out of Mystarria, and all morning

long he looked haunted, somber, withdrawn.

    They were nearly finished with breakfast when the elderly Chancellor

Rodderman came to the door of the dining hall, looking resplendent with his

white beard combed and wearing his black coat of office. "Milord, milady," he

said. "The Duke of Groverman is waiting in the alcove and has requested an

audience."

    Iome looked at Rodderman wearily. "Is it important? I haven't seen my

husband in three days."

    "I don't know, but he's been skulking out here for half an hour," Rodderman

said.

    "Skulking?" Iome laughed. "Well, we mustn't have him skulking." Though Iome

smiled at Rodderman's choice of words, Myrrima sensed that she did not much care

for the Duke.

    Presently, the Duke entered the room. He was a short man with gangling

limbs, a hatchet face, and dark eyes that were set so close he looked nothing

short of ugly. In a family of warriors and nobles, he seemed out of place.

Myrrima had heard it rumored that a stable mucker had sired the Duke.

    In honor of Hostenfest, Groverman was wearing a gorgeous robe of black

embroidered with dark green leaves. His hair was freshly combed, his graying

beard expertly trimmed so that it forked from his chin. For an ugly man, he

groomed and dressed well.

    "Your Highnesses" the Duke smiled graciously and bowed low "I hope I did not

disturb your meal?"

    Myrrima realized that Groverman had asked Rodderman to wait until the King

and Queen finished eating before notifying them of his presence.

    "Not at all," Gaborn said. "It was kind of you to wait so patiently."

    "Truly, I have a matter that I think is somewhat urgent," the Duke said,

"though others might not agree." He looked pointedly at Iome. Myrrima wondered

what he might mean by such a warning. Even Iome seemed baffled. "I've brought

you a wedding gift, Your Highness--if I may be so bold."

    Over the past few days, every lord in the kingdom had been plying the new

King and Queen with wedding gifts; some were expensive gifts that would

hopefully curry favor. Most of the lords had brought sons or trusted retainers

to help rebuild the lists of the King's Guard. Such sons served quadruple duty:

they not only rebuilt the King's army, but they also served as a constant

reminder to the King of a lord's loyalty. A trusted son at court could seek

favors for his father, or serve as his spy. Last of all, it allowed the boy

himself to form new alliances with other nobles who might live in far corners of

the kingdom, or even in other nations.

    Over the past three days the ranks of new soldiers had filled so quickly

that it looked as if Gaborn would not even have to levy his subjects for more

troops, despite the fact that Raj Ahten had decimated the King's Guard. Instead,

it seemed to Myrrima that Gaborn would have problems finding posts for all of

his new soldiers to fill.

    "So," Iome asked. "What gift have you brought that is so urgent?"

    Groverman got to the point. "This is a somewhat delicate matter," he said.

"As you know, I've not been blessed with sons or daughters, else I'd offer one

of them into your service. But I have brought you a gift that is just as dear to

my heart."

    He clapped his hands and looked expectantly toward the dining hall's door.

    A boy came through, walking with arms outstretched. In each hand he held a

yellow pup by the scruff of the neck. The pups looked about dolefully, with huge

brown eyes. Myrrima was not familiar with the breed. They were not mastiffs or

any form of war dog. Nor were they hounds or the type of hunters she was

familiar with, or the lap dogs popular with ladies in colder climes.

    They could have even been mongrels, except that both pups had a uniform

color--tawny short hair on the back, and a bit of white at the throat.

    The boy, a ten-year-old in heavy leather trousers, and a new coat, was as

clean and well groomed as Duke Groverman. He handed a pup each to Gaborn and

Iome.

    One little bundle of fur smelled the grease from the morning's sausages on

Gaborn's hand. The pup's wet tongue began to slide over Gaborn's fingers, and

the dog nibbled at him playfully. Gaborn ruffled the pup's ears, turned it over

to see if it was male or female. It was a male. It wagged its tail fiercely and

scrambled upright, as if intent on doing damage to Gaborn's fingers. A real

fighter.

    He studied the creature. "Thank you," Gaborn said, taken aback. "But I'm not

familiar with this breed. What do you do with them?"

    Myrrima glanced at Iome, to see the Queen's reaction to her pup, and was

astonished. There was such a glare of rage in her eyes that she could barely

contain herself.

    The Duke had not missed her look. "Hear me out," he said to Gaborn. "I do

not offer these pups lightly, Your Highness. You have taken endowments from men,

and I know that as an Oath-Bound Lord you feel some reluctance in doing so.

Indeed, though many have offered to serve as your Dedicates this past week,

neither you nor the Queen has taken endowments. Yet we must prepare for whatever

is to come."

    Myrrima was startled to hear Groverman repeat aloud the thought that had

been preying upon her but an hour before.

    "It's a grave decision," Gaborn agreed. His eyes were haunted, full of pain.

Myrrima had agreed to take endowments of glamour and wit from her sisters and

mother. She understood the price of guilt that came from committing such an

atrocity.

    "I will not take another man's strength or stamina or wit lightly," the King

said. "But I have been considering whether to do it, for the welfare of the

kingdom."

    "I understand," Groverman said honestly. "But I ask milord, milady, to

consider the propriety of taking endowments from a dog."

    Iome stiffened. "Duke Groverman," she hissed, "this is an outrage!"

    The Duke looked about nervously. Now Myrrima recognized the breed. Although

she had never seen such pups, she had heard of them. These were pups raised for

endowments--dogs strong of stamina, strong of nose.

    "Is it any less of an outrage to take endowments from a man?" Groverman

countered defensively. "It takes the endowments of scent from fifty men to equal

one from a dog, they say. I believe that my pups' noses are a hundred times

better than a common man's nose. So I ask you, which is better, to take

endowments of scent from a hundred men, or from one dog?

    "As for stamina, these pups are bred for toughness. For a thousand

generations, the Wolf Lords have fought them in the pits, so that only the

strongest survive. Ounce for ounce, no man alive can provide you a better source

of stamina.

    "Metabolism and hearing too can be gained from such dogs, though I fear my

pups are too small to give brawn. And whereas a man must give an endowment

willingly and therefore can often fail to transfer an attribute completely, if

you feed these pups and play with them for a day or two, they will develop such

an undying devotion to you that their attributes can be transferred without

loss. No other animal loves man as completely, will give themselves to you as

wholly as these pups."

    Iome looked so furious, she could not speak. To take endowments from a dog

was considered an abomination. Some high-minded kings would have thrown the Duke

into the nearest moat for suggesting that the pups be so used for endowments.

    Gaborn himself was an Oath-Bound Lord, and Iome was the daughter of an

Oath-Bound Lord. An Oath-Bound Lord swore only to take endowments from those

vassals who gave them freely. Such vassals would be men or women who had some

great attribute, such as a quick wit or tremendous stamina, but often lacked the

other necessary attributes to be good warriors. Knowing that they couldn't serve

their lord as warriors, they might opt to give their wit or stamina into their

lord's use, subjecting themselves to the indignity of the forcible for the

greater good of those around them.

    But not all of the lords in Rofehavan were Oath-Bound Gaborn's own father

had once considered himself a "pragmatist." Pragmatists would often purchase

endowments. Many a man was willing to sell the use of his eyes or ears to his

lord in return for gold, for many a man loves gold more than he loves himself.

But Iome had told Myrrima that even Gaborn's father had eventually given up his

pragmatic ways, for King Orden could not always be sure of a man's motives when

selling an attribute. Often a peasant or even a minor lord who suffered from

heavy debts would see no way out, and would therefore try to sell an endowment

to the highest bidder.

    Gaborn's father had been confronted by the realization that his own

pragmatic ways were unscrupulous--for he could never be completely certain what

drove a man to sell his endowments. Was it greed? Or was it hopelessness or

plain stupidity that led a man to trade his greatest asset for a few pieces of

gold?

    Indeed, Myrrima knew that some rapacious lords hid their lust for other's

attributes beneath a cloak of pragmatism. Such lords would gladly accept

endowments in lieu of payment for taxes, and time and again, in such kingdoms,

whenever a king raised the taxes, the peasants were forced to wonder what he

really sought.

    Worst of any lord, of course, were the Wolf Lords. Since a vassal had to be

"willing" to give an endowment before an attribute could be transferred, the

Wolf Lords constantly sought ways to make men more pliable. Blackmail and

tortures both physical and mental were the Wolf Lords' coin. Raj Ahten had

blackmailed King Sylvarresta into giving away his wit by threatening to kill his

only daughter, Iome. After King Sylvarresta complied, Raj Ahten then had forced

Iome to give her own endowment of glamour, rather than to watch her witless

father be tortured, her friend Chemoise be murdered, her kingdom taken from her.

Raj Ahten was thus the most despicable kind of man--a Wolf Lord.

    The euphemism "Wolf Lord" had been coined to name those men of such

relentless rapacity that they stole attributes even from dogs. In dark times

past, men had done more than take endowments of scent, stamina, or metabolism

from dogs; some had taken even endowments of wit. It was said that doing so

increased a man's cunning in battle, his thirst for blood.

    The very notion of taking endowments from dogs had therefore become anathema

in Rofehavan. Though Raj Ahten, Gaborn's great enemy, had never stooped to take

an endowment from a dog, he was called a "Wolf Lord" still.

    Now, Groverman dared affront Iome by begging her to become a Wolf Lord.

    "So long as a man does not take a dog's endowment of wit, it is not a bad

practice," Groverman said as if encouraged by the fact that no one argued with

him. "A dog that has no sense of smell makes a fine pet. So long as one has a

good dog handler to care for the animal, it can be well maintained. Even loved.

It will give you its sense of smell, even as your children wrestle with it on

the floor.

     "Indeed, I have calculated the number of farmers and tanners and craftsmen

and builders and clothiers that it takes to sustain a Dedicate. I figure that it

takes the combined labor of twenty-four peasants to care for a single human

Dedicate, and another eight for a Dedicate horse. But it only takes a single man

to care for each seven Dedicate dogs. It makes for a frugal trade.

    "For a king at war, fine dogs are as necessary as arms or armor. Raj Ahten

has war dogs in his arsenals--mastiffs with endowments. If you will not let

these pups serve as Dedicates, to your warriors, consider at least that they

could give endowments to your own war dogs."

    "This is an outrage!" Iome said. "An outrage and an insult!" She looked at

Gaborn pleadingly.

    "It is meant as neither," Groverman said. "I mention the possibility only to

be practical. While you were dining, I stood for half an hour outside your door,

and you never knew it! Had I been an assassin, I might well have set an ambush

for you. But if you had an endowment of scent from a single dog, you'd have no

need to see me or hear me to know that I hid outside your door."

    "I will not be called a `Wolf Lord, " Iome objected. She set her pup on the

floor. It wandered over to Myrrima, sniffed her leg.

    She scratched its ear.

    Gaborn seemed not to be perturbed by the proposal. Myrrima wondered if it

was because of his father's influence. His father had always been recognized as

a prudent man.

    Could a man of principle be both an Oath-Bound Lord and a Wolf Lord, she

asked herself.

    "Your Highness," Duke Groverman urged Gaborn, "I must beg you to consider

this. It is only a matter of time before Raj Ahten sends his assassins. Neither

you nor your wife is prepared to meet an Invincible, and it is already noised

about that Your Highness has sworn to be an Oath-Bound Lord. I don't know how

you plan to stand against Raj Ahten. Indeed, the lords of Heredon worry about

little else. But it may be that you will stand in sore need of Dedicates, if you

refuse to pay men for their endowments."

    Gaborn thoughtfully stroked the fat ball of fur under its nose. The pup

growled and bit hard on Gaborn's thumb.

    "Take your mongrels and get out of here," Iome told Groverman. "I want no

part of it."

    Gaborn smiled fiercely, looking from Iome to the Duke, then merely shook his

head. "Personally, I have no need of endowments from dogs," Gaborn said. Turning

to Iome, he said, "And if you will not be a Wolf Lord, then so be it. We can

still train the pup to bark at strangers, and keep him in your room. The pup

will be your guard, and perhaps in its own way, it can save your life."

    "I'll not have it in my sight," Iome said. Myrrima picked up the Queen's pup

protectively. It nuzzled its head between her breasts, then just stared in her

eyes.

    "So our choice is made," Gaborn said to Iome. "But as for the troops,

Groverman is right. I'll need scouts and guardsmen with strong noses to sniff

out ambushes. I'll let my men choose whether it be a compliment or curse to be

called a Wolf Lord."

    Gaborn nodded acceptance of the gift to Groverman. "My thanks to you, Your

Lordship."

    He turned his attention to the boy who'd brought in the pups, and Myrrima

realized that the gift did not consist merely of dogs, but of the boy. He was a

dark-haired lad, rangy. Like a wolf himself.

    "Tell me, what is your name?" Gaborn asked.

    "Kaylin," the boy answered, dropping to one knee.

    "These are fine dogs. You are their keeper, I take it?"

    "I been helping." The boy's language was uncouth, but his sharp eyes marked

his intelligence.

    "You like these puppies?" Gaborn asked. The boy sniffed and blinked back a

tear. He nodded.

    "Why are you so sad?"

    "I been watchin' 'em since they was born. I don't want nothin' to happen to

'em, Yer Highness."

    Gaborn met Groverman's eyes. The Duke smiled and nodded toward the boy.

    "Then, Kaylin," Gaborn asked, "would you be willing to stay in the castle,

and help care for them for me?"

    The boy's mouth dropped in astonishment. As Myrrima had guessed, Groverman

had not forewarned the child of the possibility.

    Gaborn merely smiled pleasantly at the Duke. "How many of these pups can you

provide me with?"

    The Duke smiled. "I've been letting them breed at will now for four years. I

smelled trouble brewing. Would a thousand suit Your Highness?"

    Gaborn grinned. It was a princely wedding gift, in spite of the fact that

Iome looked as if she were about to fly into a rage and tear out the Duke's

hair.

    "You think we could have that many by spring?" Gaborn asked. "It seems a

large number."

    "Far sooner than that," Groverman said. "Seven hundred pups are waiting

outside in wagons. The others will be ready within a few weeks."

    Autumn was not normally the best time of year to get pups, Myrrima knew.

More births occurred in early spring and summer. These seven hundred had to have

been born within the last sixteen weeks or so.

    "My thanks," Gaborn said. He put his pup on the floor and returned to the

breakfast table as Groverman left with. Kaylin in tow.

    The King's pup came and worried at Myrrima's shoe for a moment, trying to

drag her foot from her leg, until she gave it a sausage from her plate.

    Iome seemed so upset by the presence of the pups that Myrrima offered to put

them out with the others. When Iome agreed, Myrrima grabbed the pups and a plate

of sausages. She went outside the keep, and found Kaylin on the green, looking

somewhat forlornly at a wagon of pups.

    Gaborn's new counselor, Jureem, who had served Raj Ahten until only

recently, was standing next to the boy with his back turned to Myrrima, giving

instructions to Kaylin. To be heard over the yapping of the creatures, Jureem

spoke loudly.

    "You will of course be tireless in your service," Jureem said. "The dogs

will depend on you for food and water and shelter and bathing. You must keep

them strong."

    The boy Kaylin nodded vigorously. Myrrima stopped behind Jureem. She had

seen Jureem instructing the household staff over the past few days, badgering a

chambermaid here, a horse groom there. Now, she was curious to hear what this

former slave from a far country had to say.

    "A good servant gives his all to his lord," Jureem intoned with mock

exaggeration in a thick Taifan accent. "He never lets himself tire, never shirks

his duty. He must never become weary of performing his tasks well. He serves his

lord in every thought and every deed, administering to his lord's needs before

they are ever voiced. He gives up his own life--his dreams and pleasures--to

serve his lord. Can you do that?"

    "But," the boy said, "I just want to take care of the pups."

    "When you serve them, you are serving your lord. That is the task he has

chosen for you. But if he should choose a different task for you, then you must

be prepared to fulfill his every command. Do you understand?"

     "You mean he might take me away from the pups?" the boy whined.

    "Someday, yes. If you do this job well, he will expand your duties. In

addition to the kennels, he might place you in charge of his stables or ask you

to train dogs for war. You might even be called upon to become a guard and bear

arms for even the Dedicate dogs of the kennels might be a target for Raj Ahten's

assassins.

    "Watch the King. He works for his people tirelessly. Learn from his

devotion. We all live in service to one another. A man is nothing without his

lord. A lord is nothing without his servants." Jureem walked away, hurrying to

fulfill some other obligation.

    The boy seemed to consider the counselor's words, then looked up at Myrrima

and caught his breath. He smiled at her in that hopeful way that men did ever

since she'd been endowed with glamour.

    She put both pups down by her feet, and stroked them as they wolfed their

sausages. Until that moment, even Myrrima had not known what she would do.

    But she knew that she must prepare, and Jureem's words convinced her that

she had to begin doing so tirelessly, to anticipate the threat before it

arrived.

    "The pups like you," Kaylin mused.

    "You know the pups well?" Myrrima asked. "Do you know which dogs were born

of which bitches?"

    Kaylin nodded soberly. Of course he did. That was the only reason that

Groverman had sent the boy to serve young King Orden.

    "I'll want four of them," Myrrima said softly, lest someone overhear. She

was terribly conscious of the fact that she planned to take these pups from her

own king without asking. But Kaylin would never know that she was stealing.

Hadn't he just seen her dining with the King and Queen? The boy would assume

that she was some lady who had a right to the pups. Myrrima hoped that if she

worked hard, perhaps she could truly earn that right. "Two for stamina, one for

scent, and one for metabolism. Can you pick out the best ones for me?"

    Kaylin nodded vigorously.

    After breakfast, Iome and Gaborn retired to their bedchamber for a moment,

and closed the doors behind them, leaving their Days out in the alcove.

    Iome could not feel perfectly at ease in this room. The huge bed, with its

images of fools and lords carved into its posterns and the pineapples at its

top, had been her mother and father's bed a week ago. Her mother's perfumes and

cosmetics were in their case beside the oriel, where the morning light was best.

Her father's clothes were still in the wardrobes; Gaborn had brought few of his

own clothes from Mystarria, but her father's garments fit Gaborn well enough.

    But more than the objects in this room, the scent of it reminded Iome of her

parents. She could smell her mother's hair on her pillow, her body oils, her

perfume.

    Should I tell him? she wondered. Iome was carrying Gaborn's child, she felt

certain. They'd been married for only four days, and Iome felt no nausea. She

would not know for a few days yet whether she had even missed her time of month.

But she did feel a strangeness to her body, and Myrrima had seen it today. She'd

said that Iome was "glowing."

    But was that proof enough? Iome doubted it. She dared not speak of her hopes

to Gaborn.

    Iome sat on the edge of the bed, wondering if Gaborn would want her, but he

merely went to the oriel and stared south for a long time, deep in thought.

    "Have you decided what to do yet?" she asked. Before the wedding, he'd been

in constant turmoil, wondering how he could best fight Raj Ahten, wondering

where Raj Ahten would strike next. As Earth King, he was the protector of

mankind, and now Gaborn shuddered at the very thought of taking a human life,

even the life of an enemy. This morning's news of Raj Ahten's attacks had left

him deeply worried.

    She'd encouraged him to go on the hunt, hoping that by having a few days

away; slipping into some sort of routine, he might be able to clear his mind,

while at the same time it would ease concerns among his people.

    "Will you take endowments? Thousands have offered themselves as your

Dedicates."

    Gaborn bowed his head in thought. "I can't," he said. "Of that I am becoming

more and more certain."

    A week ago, both of their fathers had been slain. Afterward, Gaborn had

wanted to take endowments, to take the strength of a thousand men and the grace

of another thousand and to take the stamina of ten thousand and the metabolism

of a hundred men and use it all to slay Raj Ahten.

    Yet now that deed seemed beyond him. Taking a man's endowments was risky. A

man might give them willingly enough, but there was always a danger. A man who

gave brawn would find that his heart was suddenly too weak to beat, and might

pass away within moments. A man who gave grace could not properly digest his

food, or relax his lungs enough to let out a breath, so might fall prey to

starvation or suffocation. A man who gave stamina to his lord could die from

infection the next time an illness swept through the castle.

    So a man who took another's endowments could soon find himself poisoned by

guilt. Worse than that, since a powerful Runelord was so nearly Invincible, only

a fool would attack him directly. Instead, the Runelord's Dedicates became the

targets of his enemy's wrath. If one were to slay a lord's Dedicates, he would

sever the magical link that raised the lord's attributes, and in doing so, he

would make the lord himself more human, more vulnerable to attack.

    Borenson had slain Iome's own Dedicates a week ago. The pain of it was

astonishing. Good men and women had died. She'd wept bitterly about it night

after night, for the Dedicates were often friends, people who had loved the

kingdom and therefore sought to strengthen it so that they could better maintain

her realm.

    As Earth King, Gaborn sought to defend his people. He could lock his

Dedicates in towers, guard them with his most powerful knights, provide the best

physicians to care for them. Still it might not be enough.

    Gaborn's arguments against taking endowments were morally sound. Yet Iome

had to wonder. He was the Earth King, the hope of the World. But how great a

king could he be, if he left himself open to attack?

    "Last week," Iome said, "you swore to me that you would be an Oath-Bound

Lord. Are you forsaking endowments completely? I can't imagine why. You are a

good man. If you take endowments only from your Chosen, I know that you will use

them wisely, and prudently. You will be a better king because of it. And because

you are the Earth King, you will know when your Dedicates are in danger, and be

better able to preserve them."

    "Knowing that a man is in danger and rescuing him are entirely different

matters," Gaborn said heavily. "Even with all of my powers, I may not be able to

protect them."

    "But what of Raj Ahten? What will happen when he does send his assassins?

Surely he will!"

    "If he sends assassins, then I will sense the danger, and we will flee."

Gaborn said. "But I will not fight another man ever again, unless I have no

choice."

    Iome felt confused by such talk. She valued life, valued the lives of her

people above all. But she couldn't just turn her back on Raj Ahten. She'd never

be able to forgive him for what he'd done. Iome's mother and father were dead at

his hands. Gaborn's mother and father, too. Gaborn should have been shouting for

vengeance. Even now; Raj Ahten was marching on his homeland in Mystarria. All of

Gaborn's counselors had agreed that Heredon's forces were too weak to pursue the

Wolf Lord south. They lacked the warriors and force horses to do so. Raj Ahten's

troops had stolen all of the good horses in Sylvarresta's stables when they

fled. One of the first things that Gaborn did when he reached Castle Sylvarresta

was to learn from the stablemasters the names of every horse that had been

taken, and the names of their Dedicates. Then he'd sent the list to Duke

Groverman, where the Dedicate horses were kept, and had the Dedicates slain.

    It was a desperate effort to slow Raj Ahten in his flight toward Mystarria.

Raj Ahten's knights would have been forced to ride common mounts. Perhaps

because of this slaughter of Dedicate horses, hordes of Knights Equitable had

been able to mount ambushes that took a toll against Raj Ahten's Invincibles.

    Gaborn had bought Duke Paladane the time he'd need to set his defenses

against the Wolf Lord, and might well have made it possible to run some of Raj

Ahten's forces into the ground. Gaborn's home country of Mystarria was the

largest and richest realm in all the kingdoms of Rofehavan. A full third of all

the force soldiers in the north were under the command of Paladane the Huntsman.

    But Iome doubted that Paladane could stop Raj Ahten's armies. She only hoped

that Paladane could somehow hold the Wolf Lord at bay until the kings of the

north could combine their armies. Gaborn had sent messengers all across

Rofehavan, begging for aid.

    Still, Gaborn had not sent men from Heredon to help Paladane.

    "Why?" Iome asked. "Why won't you stop Raj Ahten? You don't have to do it

yourself. Many are gathering here, lords from all over Heredon. You have men who

could fight, the lords of Heredon are eager for revenge! I would fight! I

hesitate to ask you this, but are you afraid of him?"

    Gaborn shook his head, looked at her as if hoping she would understand. "I

am not afraid of him," Gaborn said. "Yet something holds me back.

    "There is something...I feel so profoundly...and I cannot express it well.

Perhaps I cannot express it at all. But...I am the Earth King, and am charged

with saving a seed of mankind through the dark season to come. I don't feel that

the people of Indhopal are my enemies. I cannot harm them. I will not willingly

destroy men and women. Not when I fear that the reavers are my true enemies."

    "Raj Ahten is our enemy," Iome said. "He is as bad as any reaver."

    "He is," Gaborn admitted, "but think of this: For each four hundred men and

women alive, we have but one force soldier, one protector capable of stopping a

reaver. And if that one protector dies, then it is probable that four hundred

people will die because of that loss."

    It was a terrifying thought, and Iome herself had worried about little else

but logistics for the past seven days as she began to consider the enormity of

the problem. How many warriors could Gaborn spend fighting Raj Ahten? Was even

one warrior one too many?

    Time and again Gaborn hinted that he thought so. With the forty thousand

forcibles that Gaborn's father had captured at Longmot, Gaborn might equip four

thousand force soldiers. It was a number ten times what Iome's father had had.

Yet it would be a small force compared to what Raj Ahten could marshal.

    And there was the Wolf Lord himself to contend with. Raj Ahten had thousands

of endowments of his own. Gaborn had talked about using the forcibles to make

himself Raj Ahten's equal, so that he could fight the Wolf Lord man to man.

    But if Gaborn did so, if he drained endowments from even several hundred

men, he worried that he Would be wasting resources. He did not know if he'd ever

get another forcible again. Jureem had warned him that the blood-metal mines of

Kartish were played out. These forty thousand forcibles were Gaborn's best

weapons against the reavers.

    But suddenly Iome understood something that had eluded her. "Wait, are you

saying that you don't want to kill Raj Ahten?" Until this moment, she had

thought that Gaborn would merely stay here in Heredon, hide behind the

protective borders of the Dunnwood, and let the shades of his ancestors protect

him from Raj Ahten. But Gaborn seemed nervous, and there was an intensity to

him, a pleading demeanor, that made her realize that he needed to tell her

something she would not want to hear.

    Gaborn turned aside and looked at her from the corner of his eye, as if he

could not bear to face her fully. "You have to understand my love: The people of

Indhopal are not my enemies. The Earth has made me its king, and Indhopal is my

realm also. I must save those I can. The people of Indhopal also need a

defender."

    "You can't go to Indhopal," Iome said. "You can't even be thinking such a

thing. Raj Ahten's men will kill you. Besides, you'll be needed here."

    "I agree," Gaborn said. "Yet Raj Ahten has the most powerful army in the

world, and he is the most powerful Runelord of us all. If I fight him, we may

all be destroyed. If I ignore him, I surely do so at my own peril. If I try to

flee him, he will catch me. I can see only one alternative..."

    "Are you saying that you would use your power to Choose him? After what he

has done?" Iome could not hold back the shock and anger in her voice.

    "I hope to arrange a truce," Gaborn admitted, and she knew from his tone

that his decision was final. "I have discussed the possibility with Jureem."

    "Raj Ahten will not grant you a truce," Iome said with certainty. "Not

unless you return the forcibles your father won with his own life. And that

would not be a truce, that would be surrender!"

    Gaborn nodded, stared at her evenly.

    "Don't you see it?" Iome said. "It wouldn't even be surrender with honor,

for once you give the forcibles back, Raj Ahten would use them against you. I

know my cousin. I know him. He will not leave you alone. The fact that Earth has

given you dominion over mankind does not mean Raj Ahten will concede the honor."

    Gaborn gritted his teeth, looked as if he would turn away. She could see the

anguish in his features. She knew that he loved his people, that he sought to

protect them as best he knew how, and that right now he could see no way to

bring Raj Ahten down.

    "Still, I must ask for a truce," Gaborn answered. "And if a truce cannot be

won, then...I must ask for honorable conditions of surrender. Only if such

conditions cannot be met, will I be forced to fight."

    "There can be no surrender," Iome said. "My father surrendered, and once he

did, Raj Ahten changed the terms to fit his whim. You cannot be Raj Ahten's

Dedicate and the Earth King!"

    "I fear you are right," Gaborn said with a heavy sigh, and he came and sat

on the bed next to Iome, took her hand. But it was cold comfort.

    "Why can't you just kill him and be done with it?" Iome asked.

    "Raj Ahten has perhaps ten thousand force warriors in his service," Gaborn

said. "Even if I defeated him roundly, and lost half as many men, would it be

worth the price? Think of it, four and a half million children, women! Could I

knowingly throw away the life of even one? And who is to say that it would stop

there? With so many warriors lost, would it even be possible anymore to stop the

reavers?"

    Gaborn paused. After a moment, he held a finger up to his lips, motioning

for Iome to keep quiet, and went over to King Sylvarresta's old writing table.

He drew out a small book from the top drawer, and began pulling out papers

hidden in its bindings.

    He brought them to Iome and whispered, "In the House of Understanding, in

the Room of Dreams, the Days are taught thus about the nature of good and evil,"

Gaborn said. This surprised Iome. The teachings of the Days were hidden from

Runelords. Now she knew why he whispered. The Days were right outside their

doorway.

    Gaborn showed her a diagram he had scribed out on parchment.

    "Every man sees himself as a lord," Gaborn said, "and he rules over three

domains: the Domain Invisible, the Domain Communal, and the Domain Visible.

    "Each domain can have many parts. A man's time, his body space, his free

will, are all part of his Domain Invisible, while all of the things he owns, all

of the things he can easily see, are part of his Domain Visible.

    "Now, whenever someone violates our domain, we call him evil: If he seeks to

take our land or our spouse, if he seeks to destroy our community or our good

name, if he abuses our time or tries to deny us our free will, we will hate him

for it.

    "But if another enlarges your domain, you call him good. If he praises you

to others, enlarging your stature in the community, you love him for it. If he

gives you money or honor, you love him for it.

    "Iome, there is something I feel so deeply, and I can only express it this

way: the lives of all men, their fates, are all here, a part of my domain!"

    He pointed to the drawing, waving vaguely toward the Domain Communal and the

Domain Invisible. Iome looked up into his eyes, and she thought she understood

She'd been a Runelord all her life, had been entrusted in small ways with the

affairs of state. She had accepted the hopes and dreams and fates of her people

as part of her domain.

    "I see," Iome whispered.

    "I know you do, in part," Gaborn breathed, "but not in full. I feel...I feel

the cataclysm approaching. The Earth is warning me. Danger is coming. Not just

danger for you and for me, but for every man, woman, and child I've Chosen.

    "I must do what I can to protect them--everything I can to protect them,

even if I am doomed to failure.

    "I must seek alliance with Raj Ahten."

    Iome noted the vehemence in his demeanor, and knew that he was not just

stating his resolution. He was soliciting her approval.

    "And where do I fit in your circles?" Iome asked, waving to the drawing in

Gaborn's lap.

    "You are all of it," Gaborn said. "Don't you understand? This is not my bed

or your bed. This is our bed." He waved at himself. "This is not my body or your

body, it is our body. Your fate is my fate, and my fate is yours. Your hopes are

my hopes, and my hopes need to be yours. I don't want walls or divisions between

us. If there are any, then we are not truly married. We are not truly one."

    Iome nodded. She understood. She'd seen couples before, seen how over time

they'd shared so much, become so close, that they'd picked up even one another's

oddest habits and notions.

    Iome craved such union.

    "You think you're so wise," she said, "quoting forbidden teachings. But I've

heard something from the Room of Dreams, too.

    "In the House of Understanding, in the Room of Dreams, it is said that a man

is born crying. He cries to his mother for her breast. He cries to his mother

when he falls. He cries for warmth and love. As he grows older, he learns to

differentiate his wants. I want food! he cries. I want warmth. I want daylight

to come. And when a mother soothes her child, her own words are but a lament: I

want joy for you.'

    "As we learn to speak, nearly all of our utterances are merely cries better

defined. Listen to every word a man speaks to you and you can learn to hear the

pleas embedded beneath every notion he expresses. I want love. I want comfort. I

want freedom.'"

    Iome paused for a moment, for effect, and in that profound and sudden

silence, she knew that she had his full attention.

    Then she voiced her plea. "Gaborn, never surrender to Raj Ahten. As you love

me--as you love your life and your people--never surrender to evil."

    "So long as I have the choice," Gaborn said, at last listening to reason.

    She pushed his book to the floor and took Gaborn's chin in her hand, kissed

him firmly, and drew him down to the bed.

    Two hours later, guards atop the castle wall called out in dismay and

pointed to the Wye River, where it snaked among the verdant fields. The river

upstream had turned red, red as blood.

    But the flood of red washing downstream bore the strong mineral smells of

copper and sulfur. It was only mud and silt thick enough to foul the waters, to

clog the gills of fish and slowly suffocate them.

    Gaborn took his wizard to investigate. Binnesman stood knee-deep in the

water, experimentally dipped his hand in and tasted it, then made a sour face.

"Mud from the deep earth."

    "How did it get in the river?" Gaborn wondered. He stayed on the riverbank,

not liking the smell of the fouled water.

     "The headwaters of the Wye," Binnesman said, "spring up from deep

underground. The mud is coming from there."

    "Could an earthquake cause this?" Gaborn asked.

    "A shift in the earth could cause it," Binnesman mused. "But I fear it

didn't. The ruins where we slew the reaver mage are near the source of the

water. My guess is that reavers are tunneling there. Perhaps we didn't kill them

all."

    Because so many lords had gathered outside Castle Sylvarresta for the

celebration of Hostenfest, it was not hard to gather some worthy men quickly and

ride the thirty miles into the mountains. Six hours later in the early

afternoon, a full five hundred warriors reached the ancient duskin ruins, with

Gaborn and Binnesman leading the way.

    The ruins looked exactly as they had the night before, when Binnesman,

Gaborn, and Borenson had emerged. The gnarled roots. of a great oak on a hill

half hid the entrance. The men lit their torches and made their way down an

ancient broken stairway, where the earth held a thick mineral smell. Gaborn

could tell that the scent had changed since yesterday.

    The entrance to the ancient duskin city was a perfect half-circle some

twenty feet in diameter. The stones along the walls were enormous, and each was

perfectly carved and fitted, so that even after thousands of years, they still

held solid.

    For the first quarter mile, there was a myriad of side tunnels and chambers,

houses and shops where duskins had once lived, now overgrown with the strange

subterranean fauna of the Underworld, dark rubbery leaves of man's ear and

spongy mats of foliage that clung to the wall. The place had been picked clean

of any duskin artifacts ages ago, and now was the abode of glowing newts and

blindcrabs and other denizens of the Underworld.

    The troops had not gone half a mile down the winding stairs when it ended

abruptly.

    The path ahead had recently been shorn away. Where the stair should have

been leading down miles and miles to the Idymean Sea, instead a vast tunnel

crossed the path.

    Binnesman edged close to the bottom stair, but the rock cracked and shifted

under his feet and he leapt back. He held a lantern high, peering down.

    The tunnel opening there was a huge circle, at least two hundred yards

across, and had been hewn through thick dirt and debris. The bottom was a mess

of sludge and stone. No human could have dug this passage. No reaver, either,

for that matter.

    Binnesman stared down, stroking his beard. Then he picked up a stone and

dropped it. "So, I did feel something stirring beneath my feet," he mused aloud.

"The Earth is in pain."

    Just then, a flock of small dark creatures flew through the black tunnel

below, creatures of the Underworld that could not easily abide the light of day.

They made shrieking sounds of pain, then wheeled away from the lanterns.

    Nervously, Borenson broke the silence. "What could have burrowed such a

tunnel?"

    "Only one thing," Binnesman answered, "though my bestiary of the Underworld

describes it as a creature only witnessed once before by a single man, and

therefore describes it as a thing of legend. Such a passage could only have been

dug by a hujmoth, a world worm."

CHAPTER 4

THE REAVERS

    "Skyrider Averan," the beast master Brand said, "you are needed."

    Averan turned to look at him in the predawn light, but not too quickly. In

the huge shadowy loft of the graak's aerie, she located Brand more by the sound

of his footsteps than by sight. She was feeding some fledgling graaks and dared

not look away from the reptiles. The graaks stood fourteen feet at the shoulder

and could easily swallow a child like Averan whole. Though the graaks adored her

and she'd been feeding them since they first clawed their way out of their

leathery eggs, the graaks were likely to snap when hungry. Sometimes they would

try to hook meat from her hand with a long wing claw. Averan did not want to

lose an arm, as Brand had done so long ago.

    Skyrider, she thought. He called me "skyrider." Not "beast handler." At nine

years of age, Averan was too big, too old, to be a skyrider. She hadn't been

allowed to fly in two years.

    Brand stood in the doorway to the aerie, the dim morning light casting a

halo around him. The haunch of a young lamb was tied to his belt with a coil of

rope, a lure for the graaks. He squinted and stroked his gray beard with his

left hand.

    She wondered if he'd had too much new wine last night, had forgotten how old

she was. "Are you--"

    "Sure? Yes." Brand grunted, and his words were clipped, strained. She

suddenly realized that he was shaking. "And we must hurry." He turned then, and

headed for the lofts.

    In the dim light, Averan and Brand climbed stairs chiseled in stone, into

the upper aerie. The nests up here smelled fetid. The older graaks carried a

scent not unlike that of a snake, and after centuries of habitation, that odor

permeated the very rock of the aerie. Averan had learned to like the smell long

ago, just as some people were said to enjoy the stench of horse sweat or the

odor of dogs.

    The stairs opened into a wide chamber with a single narrow entrance chiseled

in the east side of the hill. In the dim light, Averan could see that the

chamber was empty. The graaks were out for their morning hunt. The cool autumn

weather tended to make them restless and hungry.

    Averan followed Brand onto the landing. He stood for a moment, took the

haunch of lamb from his belt, and made sure that the rope was tied snugly

between a ligament and the bone at the joint. Then he stood swinging the huge

clumsy lure. It took a full-grown man to swing the graak bait like that.

    "Leatherneck!" he called. "Leatherneck."

    The graak was trained to respond to his name. The lamb would serve as a

reward for the monster's obedience, when he came.

    Averan searched the morning sky. The reptile was nowhere in sight.

Leatherneck was old and large, a beast of great stamina, but not much speed. He

was seldom used as a mount anymore. Over the past summer, he'd taken to hunting

farther and farther afield.

    To the west, the Hest Mountains rose, their sheer peaks white from last

night's dusting of snow. On the mountainside below the aerie, Keep Haberd

rose--five stone towers, its walls spanning both sides of the narrow pass that

led into the mountains. People were running about within the castle walls,

shouting. Some still bore torches. Their voices sounded dim and distant. Women

and children were climbing onto wagons down on the green, seeking to escape.

    Only then did Averan realize that something was terribly wrong. "What's

happening?"

    Brand set down the haunch of lamb as if weary, measured her with a gaze. "A

squire just rode in with news out of the hills of Morenshire. A volcano erupted

in the Alcair Mountains last night, spewing ash. Reavers are approaching in its

wake. The rider estimates that among the reavers are some eighty thousand

blade-bearers, and another thousand lesser mages with a fell mage. A cloud of

gree flies above them, blackening the skies. You must get the news to Duke

Paladane at Carris."

    Averan struggled to understand the implications of what Brand had just said.

Morenshire was a region in the farthest west of Mystarria, bordering the

juncture of the Hest and Alcair mountains. The citadel here, Keep Haberd, the

nearest fortress, was old and stalwart. It served as a refuge for travelers in

the mountains, and the soldiers here mostly kept the trails safe against robbers

and reavers and other vermin. But the fortress would never hold out against a

force like the one that Brand described. The reavers would overrun the walls in

an hour, and they wouldn't take prisoners.

    Duke Paladane was the King's strategist. If anyone could defeat the reavers,

Paladane could. But Paladane had his hands full. Raj Ahten's men had taken or

destroyed several castles on the borders, and lords and peasants alike were

fleeing from the north.

    "Our lord thinks that the volcanic eruption has flushed the reavers from

their lairs," Brand went on. "It happened once that way, in my grandfather's

time. The volcano filled their burrows with lava and all the monsters fled in

its wake. But this eruption will bring greater misery than that one did. The

reavers have been breeding unchecked in those hills for far too long." He rubbed

his whiskers.

    "What about you?" Averan asked. "What will you do?"

    "Don't worry about me," Brand said. "I'll take them on with one hand, if I

must." He wiggled the stump of his right arm and laughed painfully at his own

joke.

    But she could see the terror in his eyes.

    "Don't worry about me. You just take old Leatherneck," Brand said. "You'll

fly without benefit of saddle or food or water to keep your weight down."

    "What of Derwin?" Averan asked. "Shouldn't he take the message to Duke

Paladane?" Derwin was younger. At the age of five, he was the official skyrider

for Keep Haberd.

    "I sent him off late last night on another errand," Brand answered, gazing

off to the south, searching for his beast. Then he muttered bitterly, "Our fool

of a lord sending skyriders to fetch letters to his mistress."

    Averan already knew that. Years ago, she'd often carried letters and roses

from her Lord Haberd to Lady Chetham in Arrowshire. In return, the lady would

send notes of her own with lockets of her hair or a perfumed handkerchief. Lord

Haberd apparently believed that he could hide his adulterous affair more easily

if he used children for messengers rather than one of his older soldiers.

    The fertile plains to the east were shrouded in morning fog that turned a

dim gold as the sun's first rays touched upon it. Here and there, a green hill

rose like an emerald island from the mist. Averan watched among the valleys for

sign of the graak. Leatherneck would be there, searching for something slow and

fat to eat.

    "How soon will the reavers be here?" Averan asked.

    "Two hours," Brand answered. "At the most."

    Hardly time to mount a defense. If Lord Haberd called for aid from the

nearest fortress, it would take a day, even for knights riding force horses. She

wondered if the men here could hold out so long.

    Brand put his hand to his mouth, called again. In the far distance, Averan

saw a winged speck rise from the mist, tan-colored flesh aglow with the morning

light Leatherneck answering the summons.

     "Leatherneck is old," Brand said. "You'll have to stop and rest him

frequently."

    Averan nodded.

    "Fly above the woods to the north, then cut across the ridges to the Brace

Mountains. It's only two hundred and forty miles--not far. You can reach Carris

by nightfall."

    "Won't resting slow me?" Averan asked. "Maybe I should just fly on through."

    "This is safer," Brand said. "No need to kill the beast in your hurry."

    What could he mean? she wondered. Of course she had to hurry--and the death

of her mount was nothing compared with the deaths of the men.

    She realized the truth then. Keep Haberd was isolated. Nothing that she did

would make any difference. No help could arrive in time. Lord Haberd had

probably already sent out messengers riding force horses. And the horses would

make better time than she could. Her top speed was forty miles per hour, and

flying north at this time of the year, she might have to battle headwinds. A

fast horse, one with enough endowments of metabolism and strength and stamina,

could easily run eighty.

    "You're not sending me out to carry a message," Averan said. Her voice felt

tight in her throat, and her heart was pounding.

    Brand glanced down at her, smiled fondly. "Of course not. I'm saving your

life, child," he admitted. "Take the message to Duke Paladane if you want.

There's always a chance that the horsemen won't get through."

    He leaned over and whispered conspiratorially, "But if you take my advice, I

wouldn't stop there. The palace at Carris is a death trap. If the reavers head

that way, they could take it in a fortnight, and there's no guarantee that

Paladane will let you ride out on the beast you flew in on. Tell Paladane that

you've been instructed to carry a message of warning farther north, to our

lord's second cousin at Montalfer. Paladane wouldn't dare hold you back then."

    Leatherneck was laboriously winging his way up from the foggy downs,

carrying some shepherd's ewe in his great maw. He flew eagerly, his small golden

eyes gazing all around.

    The beast dropped to the landing, flapping his great wings so that the air

whipped Averan's hair. Leatherneck took a clumsy bounce, then gently laid the

sheep's carcass at Brand's feet, as if he were some giant cat making a present

to his master of a dead mouse. The graak stood panting, the folds of skin at his

throat jiggling, as he sought to catch his breath.

    He leaned forward, nuzzled Brand's chest.

    Brand smiled wistfully, reached out with his one good hand and patted the

brute's nose, pried a chunk of meat out from between Leatherneck's saberlike

teeth.

    "I'm going to miss you, old lizard," Brand said. He tossed the haunch of

lamb up into the air as high as he could. Leatherneck snagged it before it could

touch ground.

    To Averan, Brand said, "I used to ride him as a lad, you know, forty years

back--as did King Orden. This is a kingly mount you'll ride."

    Leatherneck was one of the oldest graaks in the aerie, not the one she'd

have chosen to take. But he was well trained, and Brand had always held a

special affection for the monster. "I'll take good care of him," Averan said.

    Brand made a fist, palm down, and the great reptile. leaned forward,

crouching so that Averan could mount. She ran a step and leapt onto its back.

Like all skyriders, she had an endowment of stamina and of brawn. She had more

strength and endurance than any commoner, and with her small size she was easily

able to leap up and scramble over the monster's back. Beyond those endowments,

she had one of wit, and could therefore recount verbatim almost any message her

lord ever wanted her to deliver. Such endowments set her apart from other

children. She was only nine, but had learned much in that time.

    Averan settled in before the first horny plate on the beast's neck. She

scratched the graak's leathery hide.

    "Never fall," Brand said. It was the first rule a skyrider was taught as a

child. It was also a farewell among the skyriders, an invocation to begin every

journey.

    "I never shall," Averan answered. He tossed her a small bag that clanked