The Sum of All Men

6 Memories of Smiles

In the forests of the Dunnwood, Prince Gaborn rode in silence through the starlight, avoiding the narrow gullies and darker woods where wights might congregate.

The trees above him were twisted things, with limbs half-bare, the yellow birch leaves waggling in the night wind like fingers. The carpet of leaves beneath his horse's hooves was deep and lush, making for a quiet ride.

Shortly after dusk the sorcerous mists had begun to fail. Raj Ahten no longer needed such mists to hide him. Instead, now the stars overhead shone with unnatural clarity, perhaps because of some spell cast by Raj Ahten's flameweavers, gathering light so that they might let the Wolf Lord's army pick their way through the woods.

For hours Gaborn had been circumventing Raj Ahten's army, evading pursuers. He'd managed to kill two more Frowth giants, and he shot an outrider from his saddle. But Gaborn had seen no sign of pursuit for three hours.

As he rode, he wondered. The Dunnwood was an old wood, and a queer place by any standard. The headwaters of the River Wye were said to be magical places, where three-hundred-year-old sturgeons as wise as any sage lived in the deep pools.

But it was not these that Gaborn wondered at. It was the woods' legendary affinity for “right” and “law.” Few outlaws had ever penetrated the forest. There was Edmon Tillerman, who came into the woods as an outlaw, a madman who took endowments of brawn and wit from bears until he became a creature of the wood himself. According to the folktales, he left off his stealing, and in time became a hero—avenging poor farmers wronged by other outlaws, protecting the woodland creatures.

But there were stranger stories still: the old woman centuries ago who was murdered and hidden in a pile of leaves in the Dunnwood, who then became a creature of wood and sticks that hunted down her killers.

Or what of the giant “stone men” that some said walked these woods? Creatures that sometimes came to the edge of the forest and stood gazing thoughtfully to the south?

There was a time—centuries ago—when these woods loved man more than they did now. A time when men could travel them freely. Now, a stillness, a heaviness, had come under the trees, as if the wood itself were outraged and considering retaliation against so many uninvited men. Certainly the heat of the flameweavers, the iron-shod hooves of horses, the mass of men and giants would all cause some damage to the forest.

The owls had fallen silent this night, and twice Gaborn had seen huge harts bounding through the trees, shaking their great antlers from side to side as if prepared to fight.

Off to his right, the armies marched. A. feeling pervaded the forest, like the electric thrill of a brewing storm.

For long hours, Gaborn rode through the trees, a heaviness growing in his heart, a drowsiness fogging his mind. It was a sweet, organic tiredness—like that brought on by mulled wine while one sits beside a fire, or like the drugged sleep induced by an herbalist's concoction of poppy petals.

Gaborn's eyelids began to feel weighty. He half-dozed as he rode up a ridge, around a peak, and back down into a valley, where brambles and limbs blocked his every path.

He became angry, drew his saber, and considered hacking his way through the trees, but stopped when he heard curses just ahead, and the sound of someone else, a man in armor, hacking through the same copse.

Almost too late he recognized the source of the danger. Somehow he'd turned around in his ride.

The trees. He wondered if they had led him to danger.

In the shadowed woods, Gabon stopped. He glimpsed one of Raj Ahten's patrols. A dozen scouts hacked a path through the brush, while Gaborn held perfectly still.

They passed in the darkness. Gaborn feared even to breathe.

He reined in his horse, hard, and inhaled deeply. For long moments he tried to focus his thoughts. No harm, he wanted to say to the woods. I mean you no harm.

It required all his will to merely sit a horse, to keep from riding headlong toward destruction. Sweat broke out on Gaborn's forehead, his hands trembled, and his breathing came ragged.

I am your friend, he wanted to say. Feel me. Test me. For long moments, he tried to open himself, his mind and heart, to communicate to the wood.

He felt the tendrils of thought move slowly, seeking him, grasping him as a root might grasp a stone. He could feel their ponderous power.

The trees seized him, infiltrated every portion of his mind. Memories and childhood fears began to flash before Gaborn's eyes—unwanted bits of dreams and adolescent fantasies. Every hope and deed and desire.

Then, just as slowly, the seeking tendrils began to withdraw.

“Bear me no malice,” Gaborn whispered to the trees when at last he could speak. “Your enemies are my enemies. Let me pass safely, that I may defeat them.”

After many long heartbeats, the heaviness around him seemed to ease. Gaborn let his mind drift and dream, though with his stamina he needed no sleep.

He thought upon the thing that had brought him north, his desire to see Iome Sylvarresta.

On a mad impulse last year, he had come secretly to Heredon for the autumn hunt, so that he could take the measure of her. His father came annually for Hostenfest, the autumn celebration of the great day, some sixteen hundred years past, when Heredon Sylvarresta had speared a reaver mage here. Now, each year in the Month of Harvest, the lords of Heredon rode through the Dunnwood, hunting the great boars, practicing the same skills with lance that had been used to defeat the reavers.

So Gaborn had come to the hunt hidden in his father's retinue as if he were a mere squire. His father's soldiers all knew he'd come, of course, but none dared openly speak his name or break his cover. Even King Sylvarresta had noted Gaborn's presence during the hunt, but because of his fine manners dared not speak of it, until Gaborn chose to reveal himself.

Oh, Gaborn had played his part as squire well for the casual observer, helping soldiers don their armor for the tournament games, sleeping in Sylvarresta's stables at night, caring for horses and gear through the week's hunt. But he'd also been able to sit at table in the Great Hall during the feast marking the end of Hostenfest, though as a mere squire he sat at the far end, away from the kings and nobles and knights. There he'd gawked openly, as if he'd never eaten in the presence of a foreign king.

All the better to view Iome at a distance, her dark smoldering eyes and dark hair, her flawless skin. His father had said she was beautiful of face, and by recounting tales of things she'd said over the years, Gaborn felt convinced she was beautiful of heart.

He'd been well schooled in etiquette, but he learned a bit about Northern manners at that dinner. In Mystarria, it was customary to wash one's hands in a bowl of cool water before the feast, but here in the North one washed both hands and face in bowls that were steaming hot. While in the South one dried one's hands by wiping them on one's tunic, here in the North thick towels were provided, then draped over one's knee afterward, where they could be used for wiping grease or for blowing one's nose.

In the South, small dull knives and tiny forks were provided for feasts, so that if a fight broke out, no one would be properly armed. But here in the North, one ate with one's own knife and fork.

The most disgusting difference in custom came in the matter of dogs. In the South, a gentleman always threw his bones over the right shoulder to feed the dogs. But here in the Great Hall, all the dogs had been taken outside, so bones were left cluttering the plate—in a most beastly and uncivilized pile—until the serving children removed them.

Yet one more thing came to Gaborn's attention. At first he'd thought it a custom of the North, but soon realized it was only a custom of Iome. In all realms that Gaborn knew of, table servants were not allowed to eat until the King and his guests finished dining. Since the feast lasted from noon until long in the night—with entertainment provided between courses by minstrels and jesters and games of skill—the servants, of course, wouldn't eat until near midnight.

So as the King and his guests dined, the serving children stared longingly at the puddings and capons.

Gaborn had eaten greedily, clearing his plate—a show of respect for the lord's fare. But soon he saw that Iome left a bite or two of food on each plate, and Gaborn wondered if he'd erred in his manners. He studied Iome: as her serving girl, a child of perhaps nine, would bring each plate, one could see the longing on the girl's face.

Iome would smile and thank the girl, as if she were some lord or lady bestowing a favor instead of a mere servant. Then Iome would gaze at the serving girl's face, gauging how savory the child thought the dish. If the girl liked the food well, Iome would leave a few bites, and the girl would snatch them from the plate as she headed for the kitchens.

So Gaborn felt surprised when Iome hardly touched a stuffed partridge in orange sauce, but ate a plate of cold spiced cabbages as if it were a delicacy.

It was not until the fourth course that Gaborn noticed that his own serving boy, a lad of four, had been steadily growing more pale at the thought that he might not get a bite to eat till midnight.

When the boy brought a trencher of rich beef stewed in wine, shallots, and walnuts, Gaborn waved it away, letting the child rush off and nibble while the food was yet warm.

To Gaborn's surprise, King Sylvarresta noted his action and stared hard at Gaborn, as if Gaborn had given insult. Gaborn marked the look well.

However, when Iome did the same thing not five seconds later, completely unaware of Gaborn's faux pas or her father's reaction to it, Sylvarresta sat chewing his beef thoughtfully, then addressed his daughter in a loud voice, “Is the food not to your liking, precious? Perhaps the cooks could be brought in and beaten, if they have offended you?”

Iome blushed at the jest. “I...no—the food is too good, milord. I fear I am a bit full. The cooks should be commended, rather than reprimanded.”

King Sylvarresta laughed, gave Gaborn a sly wink. Though Gaborn had not yet declared himself, the King's wink had said, You two are alike. I would welcome the match.

But, in fact, from his few glimpses, Gaborn had decided that perhaps he was not worthy of Iome. Her serving girl's eyes had shone with too much love for Iome, and when those around her spoke, they held a tone of mingled affection and respect that bordered on reverence. Though Iome was herself only a girl of sixteen at the time, those who knew her best did not merely love her: they treasured her.

When Gaborn had prepared to leave Heredon, his father had taken him to speak privately with King Sylvarresta.

“So,” King Sylvarresta had said. “You've come to visit my realm at last.”

“I'd have come before,” Gaborn said, “but my schooling prevented it.”

“You will come again next year,” King Sylvarresta said. “More openly, I hope.”

“Indeed, milord,” Gaborn answered. His heart had pounded as he added, “I look forward to it. There is a matter between us, milord, that we must discuss.”

Gaborn's father had reached out and touched Gaborn's elbow, warning him to be silent, but Sylvarresta merely laughed, his gray eyes wise and knowing. “Next year.”

“But it is an important matter,” Gaborn urged.

With a look of warning, King Sylvarresta said, “You are overeager, young man. You come seeking my greatest treasure. Perhaps it shall be yours. But I will not command my daughter in this matter. You must win her. Next year.”

The winter had seemed long and cold, gray and lonely. It felt odd now for Gaborn to be coming north, seeking to win the love of a woman he'd never spoken to.

As he reflected, the twang of a bowstring roused him, followed by a brilliant burning in the flesh of his right arm as an arrow scraped his skin.

Gaborn gouged his heels into the flanks of his mount. It leapt forward so swiftly that Gaborn fell back and barely was able to cling on as the horse raced under the trees.

The world went dark. Gaborn's mind blanked from pain. He couldn't imagine where the bowshot had come from. He'd smelled no one, heard no warning.

Almost immediately he passed a thick knot of trees. A darkly cowled rider there was tossing down his horse bow, drawing a curved scimitar from the sheath at his back. As Gaborn passed, he saw only the frantic, killing gleam in the man's eye, the taper of his grizzled goatee.. Then Gaborn's horse raced past, leapt a fallen tree, and became a blur in the starlight. Gaborn pulled himself upright in the saddle, dizzy with pain, feeling blood flow liberally from the gash on his arm. Three inches to the left, and the arrow would have punched into a lung.

Behind him, his attacker howled like a wolf and began his pursuit. The answering howls of dogs came from off to Gaborn's right—war dogs that would catch his scent.

For a long hour he rode over hills, not stopping to stanch his wound. He'd been at the rear of the army, trying to circle behind their scouts. Now he sought to evade pursuit by rushing ahead of the hosts to the west, striking deep into the heart of the wood. As he got farther away, the stars dimmed, as if high clouds obscured their light, and he found it hard to keep to any trail.

So, hoping his pursuers would think he'd fled, Gaborn veered back toward the main force of the army, directly into danger. For he still had not been able to learn the number and types of their forces.

When the starlight suddenly came bright, he heard the sounds of the army in the woods below—branches snapping, iron-shod feet tramping in the night. His horse rested near the crest of a ridge, in a sheltered grotto that let him look down over a long bed of ferns.

Dogs began baying in the distance behind him. They'd discovered his ruse.

Gaborn sat tall in his saddle, looking down into the dark. He'd veered in front of the army. A mile ahead he could see a break in the woods—a wide swale that would have been a frozen lake in the winter. But the waters had receded over the summer, leaving only tall grasses.

There, in the grasses, Gaborn saw a sudden light as Raj Ahten's flame-weavers stepped from beneath the shelter of the pines—five people, naked but for the red flames that licked their hairless skins, strode boldly across the swale. Behind and around them Gaborn saw something else—creatures that loped over the grass, black shadows darker than those thrown by the pines. They were roughly man-shaped, but often seemed to fall to all fours, running on their knuckles.

Apes? Gaborn wondered. He'd seen such creatures brought north as curiosities. Raj Ahten had Frowth giants and flameweavers in his retinue, along with Invincibles and war dogs. Gaborn thought it might be possible to grant endowments to apes, turn them into warriors.

But instinctively Gaborn knew that these creatures were nothing he'd ever seen. Larger than apes. Nomen, perhaps—creatures recalled only in ancient tales. Or maybe some new horror in the earth. Thousands of them issued from the woods, a dark tide of bodies.

Frowth giants waded among them, and Raj Ahten's Invincibles rode behind in armor that flashed in the starlight.

Far below to the west, war dogs howled and snarled, following Gaborn's blood scent. Gaborn glimpsed a dog on the trail in the starlight—a huge mastiff with an iron collar and a leather mask to protect its face and eyes. The pack leader. It would be branded with runes of power, to let it run faster and farther than its brothers, smell Gaborn more easily, and plot with the supernatural cunning of its kind.

Gaborn couldn't escape the pack, not with that dog alive.

He nocked an arrow, the last in his quiver. The grizzled mastiff raced up the path at incredible speed, its back and head showing from time to time as it leapt through low ferns. With endowments of strength and metabolism, such dogs could cover miles in minutes.

Gaborn watched its progress, gauged where it would exit the ferns below him. The mastiff burst from the ferns a hundred yards down, snarling in rage, its mask making it look skeletal in the starlight.

The beast was only fifty yards away when Gaborn loosed his arrow. It flew to its mark, striking the dog's leather mask, then ricocheted over its head.

The mastiff raced forward.

Gaborn didn't have time to clear his saber from its scabbard.

The mastiff leapt. Gaborn saw its jaws gaping, the huge nick in its forehead where the arrow had pierced the leather, scraped away flesh.

Gaborn threw himself back in the saddle. The mastiff jumped and brushed past Gaborn's chest, the spikes on its collar slashing Gaborn's robe, drawing blood on his chest.

The stallion whinnied in terror and leapt over the crest of the hill, raced through the pines as Gaborn struggled to dodge low branches and remain a horse.

Then his steed was racing down a steep, rocky hill. Gaborn managed to draw his sword clear, though his bow had been swept away in the branches.

I don't need it, Gaborn tried to reassure himself. I'm ahead of Raj Ahten's army now. I only need to race him.

He put heels to horse flesh, let the beast run its heart out, and raised his sword flashing in the night.

Here in the mountains, the trees had begun to thin, so that for the first time in hours he could test this horse's speed.

It leapt an outcropping of rocks, and Gaborn heard a snarl at his left elbow.

The mastiff had caught up with him again, was running under the horse's hoofs.

“Clear!” Gaborn shouted. His steed leapt and kicked—a maneuver all his father's hunting horses were taught. It was meant to clear wolves or charging boars from beneath the horse's hooves.

Now the war dog took an iron shoe full in the muzzle, yelped as its neck snapped.

But on the ridge above him, Gaborn heard yammers and growls of another dozen dogs. He looked up. Riders in dark mantles thundered behind the dogs, and one man raised a horn to his lips and blew, calling his fellows to the hunt.

Too close, I'm too close to the army, he realized.

But Raj Ahten was only skirting the edge of the Dunnwood, afraid to get too far under the older trees. For good reason.

Last fall, when Gaborn had hunted here with his father and King Sylvarresta, a hundred men had ringed themselves with campfires, feasting on roasted chestnuts, fresh venison, mushrooms, and mulled wine.

Sir Borenson and Captain Derrow had practiced their swordplay, each man mesmerizing the crowd with his tactics. Borenson was a master of the Dancing Arms style of battle, could swing a sword or axe in dizzying patterns so quickly that one seldom saw when he would deal his deadly blow. Captain Derrow was a more thoughtful fighter, who could choose his moment, then lunge in with a spear and slash a man into morsels with fascinating precision.

Gabon's father and King Sylvarresta had been playing chess on the ground, beside a lamp, ignoring the mock combats, when a moaning floated through the trees, a sound so distinctly odd and eerie that goose pimples rose, cold as ice, on Gaborn's back.

Borenson, Derrow, and a hundred retainers had all stopped instantly at that sound, and someone called, “Hold! Hold! No one move!” for everyone knew it was deadly dangerous to attract a wight's attention.

Gaborn recalled clearly how Borenson had smiled, his teeth flashing in that deadly way of his, as he stood sweating, looking up the hillside of the narrow gully outside camp.

A pale figure rode there, a lone man on a horse, moaning like some strange wind that whipped through lonely crags. A gray light shone from him.

Gaborn only glimpsed the wight, yet his heart had pounded in terror at the sight. His mouth went dry, and he could not catch his breath.

He'd looked over at his father to see his reaction. Both his father and King Sylvarresta remained playing at their board, neither bothering to glance up toward the wight.

Yet Gaborn's father moved his wizard on the board, taking a pawn, then caught Gaborn's eye. Gaborn's face must have been pale as death, for his father smiled wryly and said, “Gaborn, calm yourself. No prince of Mystarria need fear the wights of the Dunnwood. We are permitted here.”

King Sylvarresta had laughed mirthlessly and turned to give Gaborn a sly, secretive look, as if the men shared a private joke.

Yet Gaborn had felt it was true, felt he was somehow protected from the wights. It was said that in days of old, the King of Heredon had commanded this forest, and all the creatures in the wood had obeyed him. The kings of Heredon had fallen in stature. Still, Gaborn wondered if Sylvarresta really did command the wights of Dunnwood.

Now, as the war dogs and the hunters trailed him, Gaborn gambled that it was true. He spurred his horse west, deeper into the forest, shouting, “Spirits of the wood, I am Gaborn Val Orden, Prince of Mystarria. I beg you, protect me!”

Even as he called for aid, he knew it would do no good. The spirits of the dead care nothing for the concerns of mortal men. If Gaborn attracted their attention, they'd only seek to make sure he joined them in the afterlife.

His horse thundered down a long ridge, under the boughs of some huge oaks and into a swamp, where it had to swim through brackish water to reach the brush on the far bank.

Gaborn heard no haunting moans as his horse climbed the far shore, only the grunts and squeals of hundreds of huge pigs that raced from him as if they were hunted. He'd inadvertently wandered into a sounder of wild boar. One of the great black shaggy beasts, as tall as his horse, stood its ground for a moment, ivory tusks curling out like sabers, and Gaborn thought it would skewer his mount. At the last second the boar turned and rushed away with the herd.

Gaborn took the opportunity to ride his horse under the oaks in a few quick circles, then drove his mount harder than ever—jumped a screen of rushes over a steep embankment and landed sixty feet out into the deep water before swimming to the far shore.

Just past noon the next day, Gaborn raced out of the Dunnwood. Bedraggled and smeared with blood, he shouted to the guards at the city gates a warning of the impending attack. Upon showing the guards his signet ring, which identified him as the Prince of Mystarria, he was immediately escorted to King Sylvarresta.

The King met Gaborn in the Great Hall, where he was already closeted with all his counselors. Gaborn rushed forward to grasp hands, but the King stopped him with a look. Though Gaborn had met him before, Sylvarresta seemed distant.

“Milord,” Gaborn said, bowing only slightly, as befitting his rank. “I've come to warn you of an attack. Raj Ahten's armies are south—in the Dunnwood, coming fast. They should arrive by nightfall.”

A look of concern and uncertainty flashed over the King's face, and he glanced at Captain Ault, saying, “Prepare for the siege—quickly.” Many another king would have trusted his captains to see to the details, but now Sylvarresta spoke...uncertainly, it seemed to Gaborn, listing odd commands as if for Ault's approval. “Send a detail through the city to make sure our roofs are fireproofed. As for the Southern traders camped outside—I fear we must do them the discourtesy of seizing their goods. But don't engage in unnecessary butchery. Leave them mounts to ride home, and enough stores so that they don't starve on the trek. Oh, and kill the elephants outside the castle. I won't have them battering down our gates.”

“Yes, milord,” Ault said, his face clouded with concern. Then he saluted and rushed out.

The preparations were begun hastily enough, and in that moment, several counselors took leave of the room. Gaborn felt that something was terribly amiss.

As the counselors filed out, during an uncomfortable silence, King Sylvarresta studied Gaborn from worried gray eyes. “I owe you a great debt, Prince Orden. We suspected something like this, but hoped it would not come until spring. We already suffered an attack by Raj Ahten last night. Assassins struck at our Dedicates. We were ready for them, though, so the damage is not too great.”

Suddenly, Gaborn understood, Sylvarresta's coldness, his uncertainty. The King did not remember him.

Sylvarresta said, “Well met, Prince Orden!”

He shouted over Gaborn's shoulders, “Collin, get food and a bath for Prince Orden—and clean clothes. We can't have our friends wandering about in bloody rags.”

Gaborn felt thankful for the embrace, for just then an overwhelming fear struck him and Gaborn needed support. If Sylvarresta has forgotten my face, Gaborn realized, what else has he forgotten? What of tactics in battle? What of self-defense?

Of course, that was why the King's advisors had gathered, to pool their knowledge. But against a monster like Raj Ahten, would their resources be enough?

7 Preparations

That afternoon Sylvarresta's people were still preparing for battle. The initial hysteria of the impending attack—the screaming of children and peasants, the mad rush as the elderly and infirm fled the city—had all passed. Now uneasy farmers and soldiers alike manned the Outer Wall, and had thrown up hasty barriers to serve as battlements in the streets. Not in four hundred years had so many people gathered on the walls—for many who would not fight stood watch out of sheer curiosity.

Pigs, cattle, sheep, and chickens scurried through the alleys and greens, frightened, disoriented. All the animals in the countryside had been herded within the walls—to feed the city's inhabitants during siege, while at the same time denying similar succor to Raj Ahten's troops.

In the brown fields outside the castle, the Southern merchants had disbanded, driven off with their bright pavilions and little else.

Throughout the afternoon, Raj Ahten's troops began massing on the southern hilltop at the edge of the forest, consolidating their forces. At first, only the Invincibles showed themselves, knights in dark splint mail or plate, wearing tunics of gold and red. Yet they kept to the edge of the forest, hiding their numbers. As the day lengthened, giants and war dogs also joined their ranks.

By then, the city was effectively under siege. No one would dare come in or go out, though the Raj Ahten's siege engines had not yet made it through the woods. Instead, the Southern soldiers began to busy themselves by cutting trees to build fortifications.

Defenders on the castle walls stood ready—archers and pikemen, spearmen and artillery. King Sylvarresta had sent messengers to neighboring castles, calling for aid.

But while the rest of Castle Sylvarresta stood poised for battle, in the Dedicates' Keep, the deepest and most protected heart of the fortress, preparations for battle were still afoot.

The walls of the Dedicates' Keep rang with pain as men and women offered up endowments to their lord.

Two hundred of Sylvarresta's servants and vassals had gathered to offer endowments. While Sylvarresta's chief facilitator, Erin Hyde, worked the forcibles, two of his apprentices walked among the volunteers, prodding and testing, seeking those who had enough brawn, wit, grace, or stamina to justify the rigor and cost involved in taking endowments. For if a lord sought strength, he got it best from those who had it in abundance.

A counselor worked as an advisor with those who were fortunate enough to have adequate attributes. He helped illiterate peasants fill out contracts which promised, in return for the endowments, Sylvarresta's lifelong protection and succor.

Among those who gathered to grant endowments lingered the well-wishers, those who had come to offer comfort to friends or kin who would soon be horribly maimed.

Last of all, throughout the courtyard, were those who had long ago given endowments to their lord. The Dedicates' Keep harbored some fifteen hundred Dedicates, most of them ambulatory enough to come watch the dedicatory ceremonies.

Iome knew many of them well, for she often helped care for the old Dedicates—blind Carrock, one of her servants who had given his eyes; the drooler Mordin, once a bright young man, who had given his wit. The deaf, the sickly, the ugly, those nearly bedridden from weakness. Hundreds and hundreds of others—an army of shambling people.

In the very center of this throng, in the keep's bailey, looking as fierce as the sun, as regal as the night sky with all its stars, Lord Sylvarresta himself sat on a gray rock among the sea of grass, his weapons handy, half in battle armor, his chest naked.

Those still waiting to give endowments lay on low cots, waiting for Erin Hyde to come among them with his spells and his forcibles.

Among those who had just given endowments wandered Lord Sylvarresta's own chief physic and herbalist, Binnesman. He was short, with a stooped back, green robes, and hands dirt-stained from his labors. He wore a perpetual smile as he spoke to the new Dedicates, offering comfort here, a whiff of medicinal aromas there.

Binnesman's skill was much wanted along the castle walls. The powers of his herbs were legendary: his blended teas of borage, hyssop, basil, and other spices could give a warrior courage before a battle, lend energy during the conflict, and aid in healing wounds after.

But despite the fact that he was needed on the walls, the need here was more pressing, for the granting of major endowments could be deadly. A great brute who gave strength to Lord Sylvarresta would fall down afterward, perhaps so weakened that for a moment or two his heart could not beat. One who had offered an endowment of grace, who'd always been limber, would suddenly convulse into spasms, become rigid as a board, his lungs unable to relax enough to let him draw another breath.

For the moment, Binnesman could not go to the walls. He needed to help keep alive those who'd offered endowments. Sylvarresta could only benefit from the endowments so long as the giver still lived.

Iome herself lent a hand in the preparations, her Days watching impassively from the shadows by the keep's kitchens. At the moment, Iome knelt in the dusty courtyard above a cot where lay the matron who had cared for her since childhood. The matron, a husky woman named Dewynne, sweated profusely from nervousness, despite the cool evening. The high walls of the fortress kept everyone in shade.

Iome's father spoke, the power of his voice cutting across the courtyard: “Dewynne, are you sure you can do this?”

Dewynne smiled at him weakly, her face rigid from fear. “We all fight as we can,” she whispered. Iome could hear love in her voice, love for King Sylvarresta.

The chief facilitator, Erin Hyde, stepped between Dewynne and the King, inspecting a forcible. The rod looked like a branding iron of reddish blood metal. It was a foot long, with a rune forged in a one-inch circle at one end. Hyde gently pressed the rune to Dewynne's fleshy arm.

Hyde began his incantation, chanting in a high voice, his words more a piping birdlike song rather than anything a human would utter. The words came so quickly that Iome could hardly distinguish one from another. The facilitators called it a song of power. In conjunction with the runes carved on the forcible, the song drew out a Dedicate's attribute.

The symbol on this forcible reminded Iome of an eagle flying with a giant spider dripping from its mouth. Yet the sinuous lines on the rune varied greatly in thickness, curled at odd yet seeming natural angles. The symbol for stamina. Dewynne had always been healthy—never sick a day of her life. Now Lord Sylvarresta would need her stamina in battle, need it desperately if he took a serious wound.

The facilitator kept chirping in his high voice, then suddenly cried with a throaty growl, making earthy sounds—like lava bubbling, like lions roaring in the wilderness.

The end of the forcible began to glow. Its blood metal blossomed from a dull rusty rose to a fierce titanium white.

Dewynne screamed “Ah, by the Powers, it hurts!” and struggled away from the burning rune. Sweat poured from her as if she had a raging fever. Her face contorted in pain.

Her jaw quivered, and her back arched off the cot. She began panting, sweat streaming from her face.

Iome held the woman, forcing her down, forcing her still. A strong soldier took Dewynne's right arm so that she couldn't break contact with the forcible, spoil the spell.

“Look at my father,” Iome said, trying to distract Dewynne from the pain. “Look to your lord! He'll protect you. He loves you. My father has always loved you, just as you love him. He'll protect you. Just keep looking at your lord.”

Iome shot a fierce glare at the facilitator, so he moved a bit, opening Dewynne's view.

“Ah, and I thought having a child hurt!” Dewynne sobbed, yet she turned and looked fondly at King Sylvarresta. It was necessary. It was necessary for her to remember why she had to pass through this pain. It was necessary for her to want this, to want to give up her stamina more than anything else in the world. And the only way to keep her focused on this desire was to put the object of her devotion before her eyes.

King Sylvarresta, a strong man in his mid-thirties, was stripped to the waist, and sat on a stone in the courtyard. His long auburn hair fell down round his shoulders, and his wavy beard was neatly trimmed. At the moment, his armorer was trying to get him to put on a leather underjerkin in preparation for the full mail, but Sylvarresta needed to keep his upper torso bare so that the facilitator could apply the runes of power.

The King's chancellor, Rodderman, was demanding that Lord Sylvarresta go out to the walls now, to bolster the courage of his people, while the King's old sage, Chamberlain Inglorians, urged him to stay, to get as many endowments as possible.

King Sylvarresta elected to stay. He glanced Iome's way, caught Dewynne's eyes, and just held the suffering woman with his gaze.

For that moment, nothing else mattered. The King ignored his counselors, his armorer, the resounding tumult of an impending war. There was infinite love in the King's eye, infinite sadness. His look told Dewynne that he knew what she was giving him, that she mattered. Iome knew that her father hated this, hated having to suck others dry in order to protect his vassals.

In that second, something must have changed in Dewynne; she must have reached that necessary moment of yearning, that moment when the transfer of attributes could take place. The facilitator's growls turned to demanding shouts as the full force of his spell came unleashed.

The white-hot blood metal of the forcibles trembled and twisted, like a snake in the facilitator's hands.

Dewynne shrieked from a pain unimaginable. Something within her seemed to collapse—as if a great crushing weight pressed down on her, or as if she had become diminished, had grown smaller.

The smell of burning hair and seared skin rose on wisps of smoke.

Dewynne writhed, tried to squirm away. The sergeant held her, a man of inhuman strength.

Dewynne turned from Lord Sylvarresta, teeth clenched. She was biting off the tip of her tongue, blood and spittle flowing from her chin.

In that moment, Iome thought she could see all the pain in the world in that good woman's eyes.

Dewynne collapsed into unconsciousness. The stamina had gone from her, so much so that she could no longer keep her eyes open, could not resist the fatigue of the day.

Instead, the blood-metal runes glowed white hot and throbbed. The facilitator, a narrow-faced man with a crooked nose and a long gray goatee, studied the molten rune of power for a moment, its light reflecting in his black eyes; then his shouting turned to a song of joy, of triumph.

He held the forcible over his head with both hands, waving it, so that a trail of white light held in the air, like a meteor's trail, but did not fade. The ribbon of light hung in the air, tangible. The facilitator inspected it carefully, as if judging its width, its heft.

He broke into a piping song and ran to Sylvarresta, trailing the ribbon of light. Everyone stopped, no one daring to come near that light, to risk breaking the connection about to be forged between lord and Dedicate.

At his lord's side, the facilitator bowed, placed the white-hot blood metal beneath the King's breast. The facilitator's song softened now, coaxing, and slowly the small forcible in his hand began to disintegrate, to crumble and blow away like white ash, even as the white umbilical of light faded.

Iome had not taken a vassal's endowment since childhood. She had no way to remember how it had felt. But just as giving an endowment caused unspeakable pain to the giver, so the receiver felt an inexpressible euphoria.

Lord Sylvarresta's eyes widened, and sweat poured from him. But it was a sheen of excitement, an almost demented thrill. His eyes glowed with joy, and every line in his face, every muscle, relaxed. He had the decency not to sigh, not to make a great show of his pleasure.

Binnesman rushed up beside Iome, leaned near. His breath smelled of anise. His robe was a garment of darkest green, woven of some strange fabric that looked like mashed roots. It had the rich, clean scent of herbs and spices, which he kept in his pockets. His hair had grasses woven into it. Though he was not a handsome man, with fat cheeks as red as apples, there was a certain sexual quality to him. Iome could not have him so near without feeling aroused, a distinctly annoying sensation. But Binnesman was an Earth Warden, a magician of great skill; as such, his creative powers tended to affect those around him, whether he willed it or not.

He knelt down and with dirt-stained hands felt the pulse in Dewynne's neck, his face looking grave, worried.

“Damn that worthless facilitator,” Binnesman muttered softly, fumbling for something in the pocket of his mud-stained robe.

“What's wrong?” Iome breathed, not daring to speak loud enough for others to hear.

“Hyde's using the Scorrel version of chants, draining these people too much, hoping I can mend them. Dewynne would not live another hour if I weren't here, and he knows it!”

Binnesman was a kind man, a compassionate man. The kind who took pity on fledgling sparrows when they fell from a nest, or who would nurse a grass snake back to health after it got crushed by a passing oxcart. His sky-blue eyes studied Dewynne from under bushy brows.

“Can you save her?” Iome asked.

“Perhaps, perhaps. But I doubt I'll save them all.” He nodded to the other Dedicates, who lay on their cots, some fighting for their lives after giving up an endowment. “I wish your father had hired that facilitator from the Weymouth school last summer.”

Iome understood little of the various schools of facilitators. The competing masters could be quite vociferous in proclaiming the superiority of their schools, and only someone well versed in the various breakthroughs and ongoing experiments in each school could really judge which was best on a given day. Some master facilitators excelled at processing certain kinds of endowments. Hyde was an excellent man for taking endowments of hearing and smell—endowments her father considered most valuable in a forest kingdom. But his work on major endowments—on taking stamina and metabolism in particular—suffered in comparison. At least, unlike some facilitators, he did not spend a fortune in blood metal to do research on dogs or horses.

Finally Binnesman found something in his pocket. He pulled out a fresh camphor leaf, bruised it between his fingers, and set each half beneath Dewynne's nostrils. The sweat on her upper lip held the leaf in place.

Reaching in the same pocket, he pulled out petals of lavender, several brown seeds, and other herbs, applying them to Dewynne's sweaty body, placing some under her lips. It was a marvel to behold. The old magician had only two pockets, each filled with a tangled glut of his loose herbs, yet he didn't bother even looking in those pockets, just seemed to recognize by touch the herbs he wanted.

Iome glanced over to another cot. The butcher's apprentice, a husky boy named Orrin, lay ready to offer his lord an endowment of brawn. The sight of him, so full of courage and love and youthful strength, nearly broke her heart. If he gave an endowment now, he might spend the rest of his days unable to rise from his cot. It did not seem fair to take his life when it had hardly begun.

Yet the boy faced no greater dangers than she. If Raj Ahten conquered Heredon, this boy's fate could be better than hers, she imagined. If her father were killed, the boy's endowment of brawn would return to him. Unable to ever give another endowment, the boy would be free to practice his craft in peace. Meanwhile, if Raj Ahten defeated House Sylvarresta, what would await Iome? Torture? Death?

No, the butcher's boy knows what he's doing, Iome told herself. He makes a wise choice, perhaps the best choice available to him. By giving endowments to his king now, he might only have to lose a day in such dear service.

Binnesman muttered, “So little time,” began smearing Dewynne with healing soils, touching them to her lips. The woman began panting, as if every breath were a great labor, and Binnesman helped her by pushing down on her chest.

“What can I do?” Iome begged, frightened that the matron would die here, accomplishing nothing.

“Just...please, stay out of my way,” Binnesman said in a tone seldom spoken to Runelords. “Ah, I almost forgot. A young man wants to see you—up there. The Prince of Mystarria.”

Iome glanced up the keep's wall. A stone staircase led to the south tower, where siege engines were poised to strike over the town.

Up there, at the top of the tower, she could see her Maid of Honor, Chemoise, waving to her urgently. A watchman in black livery paced behind her.

“I've no time for such foolishness,” Iome said.

“Go to him,” her father commanded from fifty feet away. He'd used his Voice, speaking so that it sounded as if he confided in her ear. Even here in the courtyard, with all the noise and commotion, he'd heard her whispered comment. “You know how long I've wanted to unite our two families.”

So, he'd come to offer a betrothal. Iome was of the proper age, though she'd had no worthy suitors. The sons of a couple minor lords wanted her, but none had holdings to equal her father's.

But would Prince Orden propose now? Now, when the kingdom was under attack? No, he'll offer no proposal, only extend apologies, Iome realized.

A waste of precious time. “I'm too busy,” Iome said. “There's too much to do.”

Her father stared at her, his gray eyes full of sadness. How handsome he was. “You've been working for hours. You need rest. Take it now. Go speak to him, for an hour.”

She wanted to argue, but looked in her father's eyes, which said, Speak to him now. Nothing you do can make a difference in the fight to come.

8 Less Than an Hour

An hour is not enough time to fall in love, but an hour is all they had that cool autumn afternoon.

In better times, Iome would have felt grateful even for that slight allotment of time in which to meet a suitor alone. Over the past winter her father had told her much about Gaborn, praised him highly, hoping that when this day came, she'd accept him willingly.

Under normal circumstances, Iome would have hoped for love. She would have prepared her heart for it, nurtured it.

But on this day, when her father's kingdom was about to topple, meeting the son of King Orden served no purpose other than to satisfy a morbid curiosity.

Would she have loved him? If so, then this meeting would accomplish nothing more than to chain her with a painful reminder of what might have been.

More likely she'd have despised him. He was, after all, an Orden. Still, being wed to a man she despised would have seemed a minor inconvenience compared with what she feared lay ahead. Right now, she was acutely aware that her people owed Gaborn a debt for his service, and though she wanted nothing to do with him, she decided to treat him cordially, make the best of it.

As Iome climbed the stone stairway to meet Gaborn, her Days close behind, feet whispering across the ancient stone, Chemoise descended, met her halfway.

“He's been waiting for you,” Chemoise said, smiling stiffly. Yet there was a certain excitement shining in the girl's eyes. Perhaps Chemoise hoped that Iome would find love, was reminded too much of the lover she herself had lost a day past. Chemoise had been Iome's playmate. Iome knew the girl's every slightest gesture. As Iome glanced up, Chemoise's features softened and her eyes shone. She obviously approved of the prince.

Iome forced a smile. Of all the times to see such excitement in the girl's eyes, today seemed most inappropriate. Chemoise had walked in a fog for the past day. Shocked by her lover's death, planning for her unborn child, forgetting to eat if Iome did not beg her to do so.

Right now it seemed as if Chemoise didn't recognize that a war brewed. Part of her mind seemed to sleep. Perhaps she really doesn't see, Iome realized. Chemoise could be so innocent. Once, Sergeant Dreys had teased her, saying, “Chemoise, believes sword fighting is much like carving a duck, the only difference being that you don't eat your foe after you slice him up.”

Chemoise took Iome's hands, urged her up the steps, until they stood in the sunlight. After the coolness of the shadowed keep, the warmth of the sunlight felt good.

When she reached the top, Chemoise waved toward the prince in introduction. “Princess Iome Sylvarresta, may I have the honor to present Prince Gaborn Val Orden.”

Iome did not look at the Prince. Instead she looked out over the battlements. Chemoise scurried to the far side of the tower, some forty paces off, to give Iome and the Prince some privacy.

To Iome's surprise, the young soldiers who manned the catapults followed Chemoise, affording even more privacy. Iome glanced down at the catapults, noted the metal shot in the weapons' baskets. These catapults had never fired on invaders before. The only time she'd seen them used was on feast days, when her father fired loaves of bread, sausages, and tangerines out over the castle walls to the peasants.

Iome's Days stayed only a dozen paces away. She said, “Prince Sylvarresta, your Days is currently in your father's company. I will act as recorder in his stead, for this portion of your chronicles.”

The Prince said nothing to the Days, though Iome heard his cloak rustle, as if he nodded.

Iome still did not look in the Prince's direction. Instead she hurried to the far side of the tower, sat on a merlon, and gazed out over the autumn fields at her father's kingdom.

Iome found herself trembling slightly. She did not want to face Gaborn, dared not face him. He was, after all, a Runelord, the son of a very powerful Runelord, and would likely be handsome beyond telling. She did not want appearances to spoil her perceptions of him. So she looked away, beyond the castle walls.

Still, when Gaborn gave a sigh of appreciation for her beauty, it drew a tight smile from Iome's lips. She felt certain he had seen finer women in the South.

A slight wind stirred, a breeze that carried the scent of cooking fires up from the Great Hall. Iome shifted from her perch on the merlon, sending flakes of rock to plunge eighty feet below. Cocks crowed in the evening light, and just within the outer fortress walls, cows bawled, calling their milkers.

Thatch-roofed stone houses dotted the brown fields outside the castle. And from here she could see several villages north and east along the River Wye. But the fields and villages were utterly empty.

The farmers, merchants, and servants had all gathered with the soldiers in their black-and-silver livery on the city walls. Boys and old men alike stood poised with bows and spears. A few local merchants, creeping along the wall-walks, hawked pastries and chicken as if this were the fair, and they were all watching the tournaments.

Down at the Outer Wall, carts, barrels, and crates lay piled against the city gates. If Raj Ahten broke down the gate, the trash would trap his men there in the inner court, where her father's bowmen could do some damage.

It was nearing dusk. Crows and pigeons circled over the oak and ash forests to the south. Raj Ahten's armies disturbed the birds, kept them from roosting.

Lowering campfires burned out there under the woods, so that the hills below her seemed to seethe with smoke, the trees glowing with flame. Iome could not guess how large Raj Ahten's army might be, hidden among the trees.

But signs of the invaders were everywhere: A spy balloon in the shape of a graak had launched from the forest, manned by two of Raj Ahten's men. It had been tethered four hundred feet in the air for nearly two hours. Along the wide banks of the River Wye, which wound through this realm in a broad ribbon, two thousand warhorses were tied in a dark line, kept by a hundred or so knights and squires who seemed unconcerned about the possibility of an attack. Spearmen and shaggy Frowth giants stood watch. Deeper in the forest, Iome could hear the sound of axes falling as Raj Ahten's men cut trees for scaling ladders and siege engines. Indeed, every moment or two, a tree would shiver and topple, leaving a hole in the forest's canopy.

So many men, so huge an army coming from the south. Iome still marveled that they'd heard no advance word. The Duke of Longmont should have sent warning. He should have known of the army's movements. One could only hope that Raj Ahten had found a way to move without Longmot's notice. If that were true, Longmont could send his knights to aid their king, once they discovered the siege. But Iome smelled treachery in the air, and feared that Longmont would send no aid.

Prince Orden cleared his throat, politely begging Iome's attention. “This should have been a fairer meeting between us,” he said. His voice was gentle. “I'd hoped to bring joyful news to your kingdom, not tales of invasion.”

As if his proposal would have been joyful! She suspected that her wiser vassals would have mourned the match, even though they'd see the necessity of tying Heredon to Mystarria, the richest kingdom in Rofehavan.

“I thank you for your hasty ride,” Iome said. “It was good of you to risk it.”

Prince Orden stepped to her side and looked out over the edge of the tower. “How long, do you think, before they mount an attack?” He sounded detached, too tired to think. A curious boy fascinated by the prospect of battle.

“By dawn,” she said. “They won't want anyone slipping from the castle, so they'll strike soon.” Considering the renowned strength of Raj Ahten's troops—the giants and mages and his legendary swordsmen—tomorrow, her father's kingdom would likely fall.

Iome glanced at Gaborn's back profile from the corner of her eye, a young man who would have broad shoulders when he got his full growth. He had long dark hair. He wore a clean blue traveling cloak, a narrow saber.

She averted her gaze, not desiring to see more. Broad-shouldered, like his father. Of course he will be stunning. After all, he draws glamour from his subjects.

Not like Iome. While some Runelords drew glamour heavily from their subjects, appropriating great resplendence to mask an imperfect countenance, Iome had been blessed with some natural beauty. When she was but a mere infant, two fair maids had stepped forward, offering to endow the princess with their own glamour, and her parents had accepted in Iome's behalf. But once Iome was old enough to understand what the endowments cost her subjects, she had refused further gifts.

“I would not stand so close to the wall,” Iome said to Gaborn. “You don't want to be seen.”

“By Raj Ahten?” Gaborn asked. “What would he see from here? A young man talking to a maid on the tower wall?”

“Raj Ahten has dozens of far-seers in his band. Surely they will know a princess when they see her—and a prince.”

“Such a fair princess would not be hard to spot,” Gaborn agreed, “but I doubt that any of Raj Ahten's men would give me a second glance.”

“You wear the device of Orden, do you not?” Iome asked. If Gaborn believed that Raj Ahten's' men would not recognize a prince by his countenance alone, she would not gainsay him. Still, she imagined the green knight embroidered on his cloak. “Better not to have it spotted within these walls.”

Gaborn chuckled mirthlessly. “I'm wearing one of your soldiers' cloaks. I won't give my presence away. Not before my father arrives. If history is any guide, this could be a long siege. Castle Sylvarresta has not fallen in eight hundred years. But you need only hold out three days—at the most. Only three days!”

Prince Orden sounded confident. She wanted to believe him, to believe that the combined forces of her father's men with King Orden's soldiers could turn back the giants and sorcerers of Raj Ahten. Orden would raise a cry, call for help from Heredon's lords as he came.

Despite the eighty-foot height of the castle's outer walls, despite the depth of Castle Sylvarresta's moat, despite the archers and ballisteers on the walls and the caltrops hidden in the grassy fields, beating Raj Ahten seemed too much to hope. His reputation was that terrifying. “King Orden is a pragmatic man. Will he even come? Surely he would not throw his life away to protect Castle Sylvarresta?”

Gaborn took offense at her tone. “He may be pragmatic about some things, but not where friendship is concerned. Besides, fighting here is the right thing to do.”

Iome considered. “I see...Of course, why should your father fight at home, watch his own people bleed and die, watch his own castle walls crumble, when he could make as good a defense here?”

Gaborn nearly growled in answer, “For twenty years my father has traveled here for Hostenfest. Do you know how much envy that has aroused elsewhere? He could have celebrated at home—or elsewhere—but he comes here! My father may visit other kings for political reasons, but only one does he name 'friend.' ”

Iome had only a vague idea what other kings thought of her father. None of it seemed good. “A softhearted fool,” they called him. As an Oath-Bound Lord, he'd sworn never to take endowments from his own people unless they were freely given. Her father could have bought endowments—many a man might sell the use of his eyes or voice. But Sylvarresta would not lower himself to purchasing another's attributes. Of course, her father would never consider strong-arming or blackmailing men for endowments. He was not a Wolf Lord, not Raj Ahten.

But Gaborn's father was another matter. Orden was a self-proclaimed “pragmatist” when it came to taking endowments—a man who took endowments freely offered but who, as a younger man, had also engaged in the dubious act of purchasing endowments. He seemed to Iome to verge on being more than pragmatic. He seemed morally suspect. He was too successful at winning the trust of lesser men; he purchased endowments far too cheaply and too often, both for himself and his troops. Indeed, Gaborn's father was said to personally hold over a hundred endowments.

Yet, even then, Iome knew that Gaborn's father, King Orden, was no Raj Ahten. He'd never “forced a peasant's gift,” collecting some poor farmer's brawn in lieu of back taxes. He'd never won a maiden's love and then asked her to give him an endowment as well as her heart.

“Forgive me,” Iome said, “I spoke Orden an injustice. I'm overwrought. He has been a good friend, and a decent king to his people. Yet I have a nagging fear that your father will use Heredon as a shield. And when we buckle under Raj Ahten's blow, he will toss us aside and flee the battlefield. That would be the wise thing to do.”

“Then you don't know my father,” Gaborn said. “He is a true friend.” He was still hurt, yet his tone carried such liquid notes of sincerity that Iome wondered briefly how many endowments of Voice Gaborn owned. How many mutes do you have in your service? she almost asked, sure it must be a dozen.

“Your father won't throw his life away in our defense. Surely you know better.”

Gaborn said coldly, “He'll do what he must.”

“I wish it were not so,” Iome whispered. Almost unwillingly she glanced down into the Dedicates' Keep. Against the far wall stood one of her father's smelly idiots, a woman whose mind was so drained of wit that she could no longer control her own bowels; she was being led to the dining hall by a blind man. Together, they weaved around an old fellow whose metabolism was so slowed that he could only shuffle from one room to another in the course of a day—and he was lucky to move at all, for many who were drained of metabolism would simply fall into an enchanted sleep, waking only when the lord who held their endowment died. The sight repulsed her.

As Runelords, Iome and her family were heirs to great boons from their subjects, but at a horrifying cost.

“Your compassion does you credit, Princess Sylvarresta, but my father has not earned your disrespect. Little more than his pragmatism has shielded our kingdoms from Raj Ahten this past dozen years.”

“That's not entirely true,” Iome objected. “My father has sent assassins south over the years. Many of our most cunning warriors have given their lives. Others are held captive. Whatever time we've bought, we bought it in part with the lifeblood of our best men.”

“Of course,” Gaborn said in a flippant tone that hinted that he dismissed her father's efforts. She knew that Gaborn's father had been preparing for this war for decades, had struggled harder than any other to bring down Raj Ahten. She also realized she'd been trying to goad Gaborn into arguing, but he didn't have his father's temper. Iome wanted to dislike Gaborn, to tell herself that under no circumstances would she have been able to love him.

She felt tempted to look at him, but dared not. What if his face shone like the sun? What if he was handsome beyond all telling? Would her heart flutter within her ribs like a moth beating its wings against a glass?

Beyond the castle walls, it was growing dark. The blush of firelight under the deep woods reminded Iome of glowing embers—red flame flickering under leaves of gold and scarlet. Frowth giants moved at the edge of the trees. In the gloaming, one could almost mistake them for haycocks—their golden heads and backs were that shaggy.

“Forgive me for arguing,” Iome said. “I'm in a foul mood. You don't deserve harsh treatment. I suppose that if we want to fight, we could always go down to the battlefield and carve up a few of Raj Ahten's troops.”

“Surely you would not go into battle?” Gaborn asked. “Promise me that! Raj Ahten's swordsmen are not commoners.”

Iome felt tempted to laugh at the idea of going into battle. She kept a small poniard strapped to her leg, under her skirt, as many a proper lady did, and she knew how to use it. But she was no swordswoman. She decided to bait the Prince one more time.

“Why not?” she demanded, only half in jest. “Farmers and merchants man the castle walls! Their lives mean as much to them as ours do to us! They are endowed with only the gifts their mothers gave them at birth. Meanwhile, I have endowments of wit and glamour and stamina to defend me. I may not have a strong sword arm, but why should I not fight?”

She expected Gaborn to warn her how dangerous the battle would be. The Frowth giants would have muscles of iron. Raj Ahten's men each had endowments of brawn, grace, metabolism, and stamina. Moreover, they were trained to war.

Yet now Iome realized she would not concede to common sense, for her argument was just. Her vassals valued their lives as much as she valued her own. She might be able to save one of them, or two or three. She would help defend the castle walls. Just as her father would.

Yet Gaborn's answer surprised her: “I don't want you to fight, because it would be a shame to mar such beauty.”

Iome laughed, clear and sweet, like the call of a whippoorwill in a glade. “I have refused to look at you,” she said, “for fear my heart would overwhelm my common sense. Perhaps you should have done the same.”

“Truly, you are beautiful,” Gaborn said, “but I'm no boy to be made dizzy by a pretty face.” That use of Voice again, so sensible. “No, it is your decency that I find beautiful.”

Then, perhaps sensing the darkness about to descend, Gaborn said, “I must be honest, Princess Sylvarresta. There are other princesses I could ally with, in other kingdoms. Haversind-by-the-Sea, or Internook.” He gave her a moment to think. Both kingdoms were as large as Heredon, as wealthy, and perhaps even more defensible—unless, of course, you feared invasion from the sea. And the beauty of Princess Arrooley of Internook was legendary, even here, twelve hundred miles away. “But you intrigued me.”

“I? How so?”

Gaborn said honestly, “A few years ago, I had an argument with my father. He'd arranged to purchase grace for me from a young fisherman. I objected. You've seen how those who give up grace often cling to life tenuously. The muscles of their guts cannot stretch, and so they cannot digest food. They can seldom walk. Even to attempt speech or to close their eyes can cause pain. I've seen how they waste away, until they die after a year or so. To me it seems that of all the traits one might endow to another, grace would be hardest to lose.

“So I refused the endowment, and my father grew angry. I said it was wrong to persist in this 'shameful economy,' accepting endowments from those vassals poor enough in intellect and worldly goods to count themselves fortunate to give up the best parts of themselves for our benefit.

“My father laughed and said, 'You sound like Iome Sylvarresta. She called me a glutton when last I ate at her table—not a glutton for food, but a glutton who fed on the misery of others! Hah! Imagine!' ” When Gaborn quoted his father, he sounded exactly like the King. He was using his Voice again.

Iome remembered that comment well. For her impertinence, her father had administered a firm spanking in the presence of King Orden, then locked her in her room for a day without food or water. Iome had never regretted the remark.

Her face burned with embarrassment. She'd often felt torn between admiration and loathing for King Orden. In ways, he cut a heroic figure. Mendellas Draken Orden was powerful, a stubborn king, and it was rumored that he fought well in battle. For two decades he'd kept the Northern kingdoms united. A glance from him would cow many a would-be tyrant, and with a curt word he could insure that a prince would fall out of favor with his own father.

Some called him the Kingmaker. Others called him the Puppet Master. The truth was, Orden had been making himself into a man of heroic proportions for a reason. Like the Runelords of old, he had to become more than human because his enemies were more than human.

“Forgive me those words,” Iome said. “Your father did not deserve such chastisement from a self-righteous nine-year-old girl.”

“Forgive it?” Prince Gaborn answered. “What is to forgive? I agreed with you. Perhaps a thousand years ago, there was reason for our ancestors to put one another to the indignity of the forcibles. But the reaver invasions are long past. The only reason you and I are Runelords is because we were born into this 'shameful economy'! I was so intrigued by your comment that I asked my father to repeat every word you had ever uttered in his presence, and the conditions under which they were spoken.

“So he began recalling things you'd said since the time you were three, and recited anything he found pertinent.”

He gave Iome only a split second to consider the implications. King Orden, like any who had such heavy endowments of wit, would naturally recall everything he'd ever seen, every word he'd ever heard, every innocent phrase. With his endowments of hearing, Orden could listen to a whisper three rooms away through the thick stone walls of the castle. As a child, Iome hadn't quite understood the breadth of powers a mature Runelord held. No doubt, she'd spoken many things that she'd never have wanted King Orden to hear. And he remembered it all faultlessly.

“I see...” Iome said.

“Don't be offended,” Gaborn said. “You didn't embarrass yourself. My father reported every jest you made to Lady Chemoise.” He nodded toward the maid. Iome felt the gesture more than saw it. “Even as a child, my father found you to be amusing, generous. I wanted to meet you, but I had to wait for the proper time. Last year I came to Hostenfest in my father's retinue so I could look on you...”

“I sat in the Great Hall and watched you through dinner, and elsewhere. I dare say, I feared my stare would bore a hole through you.

“You impressed me, Iome. You laid siege to my heart. I watched those who sat around you, the serving children and guards and Maids of Honor, and saw how they craved your affection. I watched the next morning as we left, how a flock of children gathered round you as our caravan made to depart, and you kept the young ones out from under the horses' hooves. You are well loved by your people, and you give love freely in return. In all the Kingdoms of Rofehavan, you have no equal. That is why I've come. I'd hoped that like all those around you, I too might have the hope of someday sharing your affection.”

Fair words. Iome wondered furiously. King Orden always brought a dozen or two retainers to the Great Hall for dinner. It was only right that those who participated in the hunt share in the prize boar, served at the height of the feast. Iome tried to recall the faces of those men: several wore the scars of the forcibles, and were therefore lesser lords in their own right. Prince Gaborn would have been one of them. And he would be young.

Yet, to a man, Orden's guards and retainers were older, more trusted men. Orden was wise enough to know that the best fighters were seldom spry youths bursting with enthusiasm at the thought of swinging a battle-axe or sword. No, the best were old, masters of technique and strategy who often stood their ground in a battle, seeming to hardly move, slashing and thrusting with deadly economy.

Orden had had no young men in his retinue. Except...for one she recalled: a shy boy who'd sat at the far end of the tables—a handsome boy with straight hair and piercing blue eyes that twinkled with intelligence, though he gaped at his surroundings like some commoner. Iome had thought him merely a trusted body servant, perhaps a squire in training.

Surely that common youth could not have been a prince of the Runelords! The very thought left her unsettled, made her heart pound. Iome turned to look at Prince Orden, to verify her suspicions.

And laughed. He stood, a plain young man with a straight back, dark hair, and those clear blue eyes. He'd filled out in a year. Iome could hardly contain her surprise. He was...nothing much to look at. He had no more than one or two endowments of glamour.

Gaborn smiled, charmed at her mirth. “Having seen me now, and knowing my reasons for coming,” he said, “had I asked your hand in marriage, would you have given it?”

From the core of her heart, Iome answered sincerely, “No.”

Gaborn stepped back as if she'd slapped him, as if her rejection were the last thing he'd expected. “How so?”

“You're a stranger. What do I know of you? How could I love someone I don't know?”

“You would learn my heart,” Gaborn answered. “Our fathers desire a political union, but I desired a union of like minds and like hearts. You will find, Lady Sylvarresta, that you and I are...one in many matters.”

Iome laughed lightly. “Honestly, Prince Orden, if you had come seeking only the realm of Heredon, perhaps I could have given it to you. But you would have asked for my heart, and that I could not promise to a stranger.”

“As I feared,” Gabon said honestly. “Yet you and I are strangers only by accident. Had we lived nearer one another, I think we could have forged a love. Could I not persuade you, give you a gift that might change your mind?”

“There's nothing I desire,” Iome said; then her heart pounded. Raj Ahten's armies stood at her gate. She wanted him gone. She realized she'd spoken too quickly.

“There is something you desire, though you don't know it,” Gaborn said. “You live here, tucked away in your castle near the woods, and you say there is nothing you want. Yet certainly you must be afraid. There was a time when all Runelords were like your father, men bound by oath to serve their fellows, men who took no endowment but that which was freely given.

“Now, here we are, cornered. Raj Ahten is at your gates. All around you, the kings of the North call themselves 'pragmatists,' and have given themselves to the pursuit of gain, telling themselves that in the end they will not become like Raj Ahten.

“You see the fallacy of their arguments. You saw my father's weakness when you were little more than a child. He is a great man, but he has vices, as do we all. Perhaps he has been able to remain good in part because people like you sometimes spoke up, sometimes warned him to beware of greed.

“And so I have a gift for you, Princess Sylvarresta, a gift I give freely, asking nothing in return.”

He strode forward, took her hand. Iome imagined that he would place something in her palm, a precious stone or a love poem.

Instead, Gaborn took her hand in his, and she felt the calluses on his palm, felt the warmth of his hand.

He knelt before her and whispered an oath, an oath so ancient that few now understood the language of it, an oath so crippling that almost no Runelord ever dared speak it:

“This oath I take in your presence, and my life will bear witness in every point:”

“I, a Runelord, swear to serve as your protector. I, your Runelord, am your servant above all. I promise now that I will never take an endowment by force, nor by deception. Nor will I purchase such from those in need of wealth. Instead, if any man stands in need of gold, I will give it freely. Only those who would join me as I battle evil may serve as my Dedicates.”

“As the mist rises from the sea, so does it return.”

He had sworn the vow of the Oath-Bound Runelords, an oath normally spoken to vassals, but given also to underlords or to friendly monarchs that one intended to defend. It was not an oath spoken lightly to one person. Rather, it was a covenant, declaring a way of life. The very thought made Iome feel faint.

With Raj Ahten battling the North, the House of Orden would need all its strength. For Gaborn to speak that oath now, in her hearing, was—suicidal.

Iome had never expected such greatness of heart from House Orden. To live the oath would prove hard beyond bearing.

She'd not have done the same. She was too...pragmatic.

Iome stood gaping for just a moment, realizing that if he had sworn that oath to her under fairer skies, she would have thought well of him. But to speak the oath now, under these conditions...was irresponsible.

She looked to her Days, to see the girl's reaction. The young woman's eyes were wide, the thinnest show of surprise.

Iome looked back to Gaborn's face, found herself wanting to memorize it, to hold this moment in her memory.

An hour is not enough time to fall in love, but an hour is all they had that day. Gaborn had won her heart in far less time, and shown Iome her own heart more clearly in the process. He had seen that she loved her people, and it was true. Yet she had to wonder: Even if Gaborn takes this oath as an act of love for mankind, is it not sheer folly? Does Gaborn love his honor more than the lives of his people?

“I hate you for that” was all that Iome could answer.

At that instant, a heavy beating of drums rose from the valley floor. The sun was dipping below the horizon. Two Frowth giants at the wood's edge pounded on heavy copper drums, and a dozen dappled gray horses spurred out from the gloom under the trees. Their riders all wore black chain mail beneath yellow surcoats, with the red wolves of Raj Ahten upon their chests. The foremost rider carried a green triangular pennant on a long' spear, a request for a parlay.

The others in the guard all bore axes and shields the color of copper—an honor guard, with the emblem of the sword beneath the star of Indhopal upon their shields.

That is, all bore the same uniform but one—Upon the last horse in the group, in his black chain armor, his high helm with white snow owl's wings sweeping wide, Lord Raj Ahten rode himself, shield on one arm, a horseman's long-handled warhammer in the other.

Where he rode, it was as if light shone from him, as if he were one star in a black and empty night, or one lowly signal boat with its pyres lit upon the water.

Iome could not take her eyes from him. Even at this distance, his glamour struck her breathless. She could not distinguish his features—for at such a distance, he was nothing more than a tiny stick figure. Yet she had the impression of great beauty, even from here. And she knew that to look upon his face would be dangerous.

Iome admired his helm, with its sweeping white wings. In her bedroom she kept two ancient helms of the toth. What a fine addition it would make to my collection, she thought, with Raj Ahten's skull smiling out at me.

Behind Raj Ahten's forces came a more common brown mare, the Wolf Lord's Days, struggling to catch up. Iome wondered what secrets he could tell...

Down by the gates, her father's soldiers began shouting at one another in warning: “Beware the face! Beware the face!”

She looked at her own men on the walls, saw many of them fumbling with their arms. Captain Derrow, who had many endowments of strength, ran along the parapet with a steel great bow that no other man in the kingdom could draw, hoping to send a few darts into Raj Ahten.

As if in answer to her soldiers' warnings, a swirling cloud of golden light formed above Raj Ahten, a whirlwind of embers that descended, drawing the eyes of many to his features.

It was some flameweavers' trick, Iome realized. Raj Ahten wanted her people to look at him.

Iome did not fear Raj Ahten's visage from so far away. She doubted that from here his glamour could muddy her judgment.

Raj Ahten hurried toward the city gates. His warriors' horses issued forth in formation, rippling over the fields like a gale, for these were no common beasts. They were force stallions. Herd leaders, that like their masters were transformed by the Runelords' art. The sight of them, shooting over the darkening fields like cormorants skimming the sea, filled Iome's heart with wonder. She'd never seen such fine force horses gallop in unison. She'd never seen anything so magnificent.

Prince Orden ran to the top of the stairs, shouted down into the Dedicates' Keep, “King Sylvarresta, you are needed. Raj Ahten seeks a parlay.”

Iome's father cursed, began pulling on his armor. It clattered as he dressed.

Behind Raj Ahten, beside the deserted farms that dotted the edge of the woods, Raj Ahten's troops began to emerge from the gloom. Five flame-weavers, so close to becoming one with the elements that they could no longer wear clothes, shone like blazing beacons, clad in twisting tongues of green fire. The dry grasses at their feet burst aflame.

As warriors moved out of the shadowed woods, the light blazing from the flameweavers suddenly reflected on polished armor, glinted from swords.

Among the thousands of warriors who began to advance, stranger things than flameweavers could he seen.

The shaggy Frowth giants, twenty feet tall at the brow, lumbered forward clumsily in their chain mail, clutching huge ironbound staves. They struggled to keep from crushing Raj Ahten's swordsmen in their advance.

War dogs kept pace with the giants, huge beasts, mastiffs with runes branded into them.

Bowmen by the score.

And at the edge of the forest, black shadows flickered. Furred creatures with dark manes hissed and growled, loping forward in a crouched gait on clawed knuckles, each bearing an enormous spear. “Nomen!” someone shouted. “Nomen from beyond Inkarra!”

Nomen to scale the walls, scampering up the stone like monkeys. Nomen with their sharp teeth and red eyes.

Iome had never seen one—alive. Only once had she seen an ancient, shedding pelt. They were the stuff of legend.

Nomen. No wonder Raj Ahten's army traveled by day only through the woods, attacked only at night.

It was all show of course. Raj Ahten appearing in his glory with all his entourage. The power of his army was astonishing, his wealth enormous.

You see me? he was saying. You Northerners squat here in your barren kingdom, never knowing how impoverished you are. Behold the Wolf Lord of the South. Behold my wealth.

But Iome's people were ready for battle. She saw boys and old men shifting on the castle walls, gripping the hafts of their spears tighter, reaching over to make sure that the arrows placed beside them lay just so. Her people would put up a battle. Perhaps a battle that would be sung about in years to come.

Just then, Iome's father finished dressing, grabbed his weapons, and came bounding up the steps of the tower behind her. His Days, an elderly scholar with white hair, hobbled behind as fast as possible.

Iome was not prepared for the change in her father. In the past few hours, he'd taken sixty endowments from his people, had grown much in power. He leapt up six stairs at a time, even while bearing his arms, wearing full armor. He moved like a panther.

When he reached the top of the tower, the Frowth giants quit drumming, and Raj Ahten's army halted. The untrained nomen growled and hissed in the distance, as if eager to do battle.

Lord Raj Ahten himself gave a shout, reigning in his stallion, and such was the power of his call—for he bore endowments of Voice from hundreds and hundreds of people—that his words carried clearly even this high on the citadel, even blowing on the wind. He sounded kindly and pleasant, belying the threat inherent in his deeds.

“King Sylvarresta, people of Heredon,” Raj Ahten called, his voice as fair as the tinkling of a bell, as resonant as a woodwind. “Let us be friends—not combatants. I bear you no malice. Look at my army—” He spread his arms wide. “You cannot defeat it. Look at me. I am not your enemy. Surely you will not force me to squat here in the cold tonight, while you dine beside your hearths? Throw open your gates. I will be your lord, and you will be my people.”

His voice sounded so pleasant, so brimming with reason and gentleness, that had she been on the walls, Iome would have found it hard to resist.

Indeed, in that moment, she heard the gears to the main portcullis grind, and the drawbridge began to lower.

Iome's heart pounded. She leaned forward, shouting “No!” astonished that some of her fool subjects, overwhelmed by a monster's glamour and Voice, were doing his bidding.

Beside her, King Sylvarresta also shouted, ordering his men to raise the bridge. But they were far from the gates, so high up. The sound of Orden's shout was muffled by the visor on his helm. He pulled it up to call more clearly.

In keeping with her own feelings of anger, down at the gates, Captain Derrow let a bolt loose at the Wolf Lord. Derrow's bolt flew with incredible speed, a blur of black iron that would have driven through any other man's armor.

But the speed and strength of Raj Ahten outmatched him. The Runelord simply reached up and caught the bolt in midair.

Such speed. Raj Ahten had done the unthinkable, taking so many endowments of metabolism. Even from here, she saw that he must move five or six times as fast as a common man. Living at such speed, he'd age and die in a matter of years. But before then, he might well conquer the world.

“Here now,” he called, sounding reasonable. “We'll have no more of that.” Then with great force, with a sound of gentleness that slid past all of Iome's defenses, Raj Ahten commanded, “Throw down your weapons and your armor. Give yourselves to me.”

Iome leapt to her feet, found herself grasping for her poniard, ready to toss it over the walls. Only Gaborn's hand, which reached to stop her, kept her from dropping the weapon over the wall.

Immediately she regretted it, saw how foolish it had been, and she glanced at her father, afraid at how angry he might be. She saw him struggling, struggling, to keep from tossing his own warhammer over the tower wall.

For half a heartbeat she stood, terrified of how her people might respond to Raj Ahten's voice and glamour, fearing that those closer to the monster would be fooled.

With a shout, as if in celebration, her people began tossing bows and weapons over castle walls. Swords and fouchards clattered on the stones beside the moat, along with helms and shields. The ballistas on the south wall crashed to the water, raising a plume of spray. From here, the sound of her people cheering was almost deafening, as if Raj Ahten had come as their savior, not their destroyer, and in that moment, the city gates opened wide.

Several of House Sylvarresta's most loyal soldiers began to struggle, hoping to close the gates. Captain Derrow swung his steel bow as a weapon, fending off townsmen. A few warriors with great heart but lesser gifts never made it from their posts at the walls. As soon as they shouted in defiance, those standing nearby grabbed them. Brawls broke out. Iome saw several of the city guards get tossed over the walls to their deaths.

From here, Iome could not see the beauty of Raj Ahten's face. From here, surely the wind diminished the sweetness of his voice.

From here on the castle wall, even though Iome could comprehend how her city was lost, she could not quite believe what she saw with her own eyes.

She was stunned. She found herself shaken more than she could have imagined.

The drawbridge came down. The portcullis lifted. The inner gate opened.

Without one enemy loss, Castle Sylvarresta fell.

Amid cheers, Raj Ahten rode into the inner court, just inside the great wall, while Iome's people tossed aside the carts and barrels that littered the area, and chickens flew up out of the Wolf Lord's path.

How could I have been so blind? Iome wondered. How could I have not seen the danger?

Only moments before, Iome had hoped that her father and King Orden would be able to withstand Raj Ahten.

How simpleminded I am.

From beside her, Iome's father shouted, calling across the distance, calling for his men to surrender. He did not want to watch them die.

The stiff evening wind carried away his words.

In shock, Iome glanced at her father's face, saw him pale and shaken, beaten, beaten, and utterly hopeless.

My father's voice is as dry and insubstantial as ash blowing in the wind, Iome thought. He is nothing before Raj Ahten. We are all nothing. She'd never imagined this.

Raj Ahten leaned forward in his saddle, moving ever so lightly. From so far away, his face was no larger in her field of vision than a sparkling bit of quartz sand glittering on a beach; she imagined him beautiful. He seemed young. He seemed fair. He wore his armor more lightly than another man might wear his clothes, and Iome watched him in wonder. It was rumored that he had endowments of brawn from thousands of men. If not for fear of breaking his bones, he could leap the walls, slice through an armored man as if slicing through a peach.

In battle he would be nearly invincible. With his endowments of wit—drained from hundreds of sages and generals—no swordsman could take him by surprise. His endowments of metabolism would let him move through the courtyard, dodging between startled guards, an unstoppable blur. With enough endowments of stamina, he could withstand almost any blow in battle.

For all intents and purposes, Raj Ahten was no longer even a human. He'd become a force of nature.

One intent on subduing the world.

He needed no army to back him, no force elephants or shaggy Frowth giants to batter down the palace gates. No nomen to scale the walls. No flameweavers to set the city's roofs aflame.

They were all minor terrors, distractions. Like the ticks that infested a giant's fur.

“We can't fight,” her father whispered. “Sweet mercy, we can't fight.”

Beside her, Gaborn's breath came ragged, and he moved so close that Iome could feel the warmth of him beside her face.

Iome felt disconnected from her body as she simply watched the events unfold below. People were running to the courtyard, trying to press close to the new lord, their Lord, who would destroy them all.

Iome feared Raj Ahten as she feared death; yet she also found that she welcomed him. The power of his Voice made her welcome him.

Prince Gaborn Val Orden said softly, “Your people don't have the will to resist. My regrets to House Sylvarresta—to your father, and to you—for the loss of your kingdom.”

Thank you,” Iome said, her voice weak, far away.

Gaborn turned to King Sylvarresta. “My lord, is there anything I can-” Gaborn was looking at Iome. Perhaps he hoped to take her from here, to take her away.

Iome's father turned to the Prince, still in shock. “Do? You are but a boy? What could you possibly do?”

Iome's mind raced. She wondered if Gaborn could help her escape. But, no, she couldn't imagine it. Raj Ahten would know she was in the castle. The royals were marked. If Gaborn tried to free her, Raj Ahten would hunt them down. The most Gaborn might accomplish would be to save himself. Raj Ahten did not know that Prince Orden was on the grounds.

Apparently, King Sylvarresta reached the same conclusion. “If you can make it from the castle, give my regards to your father. Tell him I regret that we won't hunt together again. Perhaps he can avenge my people.”

Her father reached under his breastplate, pulled out a leather pouch that held a small book. “One of my men was murdered while trying to bring this to me. It contains writings from the Emir of Tuulistan. Much of the end of it is only philosophical ramblings and poetry—but it contains some accounts of Raj Ahten's battles.

“I believe the Emir wanted me to learn something from it, but I have yet to figure out what. Will you see that it gets to your father?”

Gaborn took the leather pouch, pocketed it.

“Now, Prince Orden, you had better leave, before Raj Ahten learns you're here. Considering the present state of my loyal subjects, it won't be long till he finds out.”

“Then with regrets, I take my leave.” Gaborn bowed to the King.

To Iome's surprise, Gaborn stepped forward, kissed her cheek. She was astonished to find how hard her heart beat in response to his touch. Gaborn stared keenly at her, whispered in a fierce tone, “Keep heart. Raj Ahten uses people. He does not destroy them. I am your protector. I will return for you.”

He turned smartly and hurried to the stairs, running so softly she did not hear his feet scuff the stone. If not for the racing of her heart and the warmth on her cheek where he'd kissed her, she almost would have thought she'd imagined him.

Captain Ault stepped in behind Gaborn and followed him down into the bailey.

How will he escape, she wondered, with Raj Ahten's guards watching the city?

She glanced down at his retreating back, at his blue cloak flapping, as Gaborn made his way through the throng of the blind, the deaf, the idiots and other crippled Dedicates of House Sylvarresta. He was not tall. Perhaps a young man could escape the castle without regard.

How odd, she considered, her thoughts still disjointed, to think I love him. She almost dared hope that they really might wed.

But of course, Prince Orden had to save himself, and she had nothing to offer him. Dully, she realized that this day could not have turned out any other way.

Perhaps we are both more pragmatic than we want to believe, she wondered.

“Goodbye, my lord,” she whispered to Gaborn's retreating form, and added an old blessing for wayfarers. “May the Glories guide your every step.

She turned back to look down on Lord Raj Ahten, grinning and waving to his new subjects. His dappled gray stallion strode proudly through the cobbled streets, and the peasants parted for him easily, their cheers becoming steadily more deafening. He'd already made it into the second tier of the city, past the Market Gate. He spurred his way up through the streets, and for a moment was hidden from Iome's view.

Suddenly Chemoise stood at Iome's elbow. Iome swallowed hard, wondering what Raj Ahten would do to her. Would she be put to death? Be tortured? Disgraced?

Or would he leave her some position, let her father reign as a regent? It seemed possible.

One could only hope.

Down below, Raj Ahten suddenly rounded a corner and was now only two hundred yards away.

She could see his face beneath the sweeping white wings of his helm—the clear skin, glossy black hair, the impassive dark eyes. Handsome, handsome. As perfectly formed as if he were sculpted by love or goodness.

He looked up at Iome. Because she was beautiful as only a princess of the Runelords could be, Iome was growing accustomed to the occasional rapacious stares of men. She knew how sorely her appearance could arouse a man.

Yet of all the predatory gazes she'd ever been granted, nothing compared to what she saw laid bare in Raj Ahten's eyes.

9 The Wizard's Garden

Gaborn nearly flew down the stairs of the Dedicates' Tower, making his way through the crowded courtyard, past the smelly idiots, the cripples.

Captain Ault was at his side, and he said, “Young sir, please go into the Dedicates' kitchens, and wait until I send someone for you. The sun will be down in moments. We can find a way to get you over a wall after nightfall.”

Gaborn nodded. “Thank you, Sir Ault.”

He'd known for hours that he'd have to make his escape from Castle Sylvarresta, but hadn't believed it would happen so soon. He'd imagined that the castle's defenders would have put up a great battle. The castle walls were certainly thick enough, high enough to hold Raj Ahten's army at bay.

He'd wanted some sleep. He'd had almost none over the past three days. In truth, he needed almost no sleep. As an infant, he'd been given three endowments of stamina, and fortunately two of those who'd granted the endowments still lived. So, in the way of those who had great stamina, Gaborn was able to get his rest on horseback, to let his mind rest, as he moved about as if through a waking dream. Still, he sometimes wanted a nap.

Food was another matter. Even a Runelord with great stamina needed food. Right now Gaborn's stomach was cramping. Yet he had almost no time to eat.

Worse than that, he'd taken a wound—nothing major, but an arrow had pierced his right bicep. His sword arm. He'd washed and bandaged it, but the thing throbbed, burned.

And Gaborn had no time to take care of any of these needs. Right now, he needed a disguise.

He'd killed one of Raj Ahten's outriders, three of his Frowth giants. His arrows had taken half a dozen war dogs.

Raj Ahten's outriders would want vengeance on Gaborn. He was cornered. He didn't feel certain that he could escape, even if he waited an hour for full darkness. Gaborn had two endowments of scent, but his keen sense of smell was nothing compared to that of some of Raj Ahten's troops: men with noses more keen than a hound's. They would track him.

Despite his show of confidence to Iome, Gaborn felt terrified. Still, he took one thing at a time. He smelled food cooking in the Dedicates' kitchens, hurried through a broad plank door. Its brass handle felt loose in his hand.

He found himself not in the kitchen, but in the wide entrance to the dining chamber. To the right of the door, he could see past several heavy beams into kitchens where the cooking fires burned like a blast furnace. Several plucked geese hung from the rafters, along with cheeses, strings of garlic, smoked eels, and sausages. He could hear a soup boiling in one of the big kettles next to the fire. The smell of tarragon, basil, and rosemary lay heavy in the air. A worktable lay between him and the kitchens, and a young blind girl was there, stacking boiled eggs, turnips, and onions on a huge metal tray.

Down at her feet, a tawny cat toyed with a chewed and frightened mouse.

Ahead, the room opened wide to the thick plank dining tables, black from age and grime, benches running down each side. Small oil lamps sat burning atop each table.

The bakers and chefs of Castle Sylvarresta were hard at work, piling the tables with loaves of bread, bowls of fruit, filling plates with meat. While the rest of Sylvarresta's followers had run to the walls to gawk at the battle, the cooks here knew where their duty lay: in caring for the wretches who had given up endowments to House Sylvarresta.

As in most Dedicates' kitchens, the staff was composed mostly of those who had given up endowments themselves: the ugly people who had given up glamour served the tables and ruled the kitchens. The mutes and the deaf worked the bakery. The blind and those who had no sense of smell or touch swept the plank floors and scoured the burnt kettles.

Gaborn immediately noticed the silence here in the kitchens. Though a dozen people bustled about, no one spoke, aside from a curt order here and there. These people were terrified.

The kitchens offered a mixed palate of smells: the scents of butchered animals and baked bread struggled to overpower the odors of moldering cheese, spilled wine, rancid grease. It was a ghastly combination, yet Gaborn found himself salivating.

He hurried into the dining hall. A narrow corridor behind it led to the bakers' ovens. Gaborn smelled fresh, yeasty bread still steaming.

He grabbed a hot loaf from the table, earning a scowl from a pretty serving girl. Yet he took the food as if it were his, and gave her a glance that said, I own this.

The wench could not withstand the unspoken rebuke, hurried away. She held her arms in close, in the careful way of those who've given up an endowment of touch. Gaborn took a good knife, cut a thigh off a goose that lay on another plate. He thrust the dagger into the belt of his tunic, and stuffed as much meat as he could in his mouth; he uncorked a bottle of wine from the table, washed down the goose meat as fast as he could, surprised at the quality of the wine.

One of the King's own red hunting hounds had been lounging under the table. It saw Gaborn eating, came up and sat at Gaborn's feet, eyes expectant, casually sweeping the floor with its tail.

Gaborn tossed it the meaty goose bone, then grabbed another loaf of bread, began eating.

All this time, his mind raced. Though someone would come to help guide him from the castle, he knew that it would not be easy, and he could not safely rely on others. He considered various plans. Castle Sylvarresta had a moat, a river flowing along its eastern wall, with a water wheel for the grain mill.

There would be a boathouse by the mill, where the royals could go out for a casual row. Often, an underground passage led down to the boathouse from the castle.

But the boathouse would be well watched by Raj Ahten's troops. The Wolf Lord had nomen with him, nomen who could see in the dark. It wasn't likely that Gaborn could make it out of the boathouse.

The kitchen staff might have some sort of a sewer that would connect to the river. But that was unlikely. Nothing ever went to waste in the kitchens. Bones were fed to the King's dogs. Vegetable peels and animal guts went to the swine. Hides went to tanners. Anything that was left went to the gardens.

Gaborn had to escape through the river. He couldn't risk trying to go out by land. The war dogs would find him.

And he couldn't stay, couldn't hide in the castle for the night. He had to leave before nightfall. Once darkness fell, and the city quieted, Raj Ahten's hunters would begin searching for him, out for vengeance.

The pretty serving wench returned with another bottle of wine, more bread and meat to replace what Gaborn had taken.

Gaborn spoke to the back of her neck. “Pardon me. I am Prince Orden. I need to reach the river. Do you know of a passage I can take?” Almost immediately he felt stupid. I should not have given my name, he thought. Yet he'd felt the need to impress upon her the nature of his predicament, and revealing his name was the swiftest way to do so.

The girl looked at him, lamplight reflecting in her brown eyes. Gaborn wondered why she'd divested herself of feeling. A love affair gone awry, the desire to never touch or be touched again? Life could not he easy for her. Those who gave endowments of touch could not feel heat or cold, pain or pleasure. All their senses dulled somewhat—hearing, sight, and smell.

Because of this, life for them was as empty as if they were opium addicts. They would often burn or cut themselves, never knowing. In the cold of winter, they could get frostbite and bear it without tears.

Gaborn didn't know who she'd given her endowment of touch to—whether it had gone to the King, to the Queen, or to Iome. Yet he felt certain that King Sylvarresta would be put to death. Possibly within hours, before dawn. Unless Raj Ahten wanted to torture the man first.

Would this wench sit before a fire tonight, waiting for the first touch of warmth to her skin? Or would she stand out in the cold mists, feeling the play of it over her face ? Certainly life could not be easy for her.

“There's a trail out back,” she said, her voice surprisingly husky, sweet. “The baker's path leads down to the mill. There are some low birches that sweep out over the water. You might make it.”

“Thank you,” Gaborn said.

He turned, thinking to go out to the courtyard. He wanted to leave Castle Sylvarresta, but he needed to strike a blow against Raj Ahten. He'd seen dozens of forcibles lying on the green, where the facilitators had recently worked.

The forcibles, forged from valuable blood metal from the hills of Kartish, were a mixture of metals believed to be derived from human blood. Only blood metal could be used to make forcibles. Gaborn couldn't let Raj Ahten have them.

But as he turned to go, the maid tapped Gaborn's shoulder and asked, “Will you take me with you?”

Gaborn saw fear in her eyes. “I would,” he answered softly, “if I thought it could help. But you may be safer here.” In Gaborn's experience, Dedicates were seldom very courageous. They were not the type of people to seize life, to grasp. They served their lords, but served passively. He did not know if this girl would have the emotional fortitude necessary to make her escape.

“If they kill the Queen...” she said. “The soldiers—they'll use me. You know how they take vengeance on captured Dedicates.”

Then Gaborn understood why she had given up feeling, why she feared to be touched, to be hurt again. She feared rape.

She was right. Raj Ahten's soldiers might hurt her. These people who were too weak to stand, or whose metabolisms were so slow they could not blink more than five times an hour—all were a part of their Runelord. They were his invisible appendages, the source of his power. By upholding their lord, they opposed their lord's enemies.

If King Sylvarresta were put to death, these wretches wouldn't escape retribution.

Gaborn wanted to tell the maid to stay, that he couldn't take her. Wanted to tell her how dangerous the trip would be. But for her, perhaps the greater danger lay in remaining here in the Dedicates' Keep.

“I plan to try to swim out through the river,” Gaborn answered. “Can you swim?”

The wench nodded. “A little.” She shook at the thought of what she planned to do. Her jaw trembled. Tears filled her eyes. Swimming would not be a valuable skill here in Heredon, but in Mystarria Gaborn had learned the finer points of the arts from water wizards. He still had protective spells cast over him to help keep him from drowning.

Gaborn leaned close, squeezed her hand. “Be brave, now. You'll be all right.”

He turned to leave, and she shouldered past, taking a loaf of bread for herself as she scurried out. In the doorway she grabbed a walking stick and an old shawl, wrapped her head, and hurried out.

On a peg near where the walking stick had been, Gaborn spotted a baker's tunic, an article of clothing too warm to be worn near the ovens. The bakers typically would strip down to a loincloth while baking.

Gaborn put on the tunic, a grimy thing that smelled of yeast and another man's sweat. He hung Sylvarresta's fine blue robe in its place.

He looked now like a menial servant, but for his sword and poniard. He couldn't help those. He'd need them.

He hurried into the courtyard to gather the forcibles. The clear evening sky had darkened. In the courtyard, the shadows had grown surprisingly deep. Guards were carrying torches out of the guardroom to light the bailey.

As he got out the door, Gaborn saw his mistake. The great wooden gates to the Dedicates' Keep lay open, and Raj Ah ten's battle guard had just ridden in, men who even to the most casual observer could be seen to move with heightened speed, warriors with so many endowments that Gaborn was but a pale shadow in comparison. All around the courtyard, Lord Sylvarresta's Dedicates had gathered, staring in dismay at Raj Ahten's troops.

Raj Ahten himself, just outside the gates, was leaving the keep with Lord Sylvarresta and Iome.

Gaborn glanced at the ground in the yard. The forcibles he'd wanted to collect were gone. Taken.

A warrior in the guard pinned Gaborn with his eyes. Gaborn's heart beat fiercely. He shrank back, tried to remember his training in the House of Understanding.

A wretch. I'm a wretch, he wanted to say with his whole body. Another miserable cripple, in service to Lord Sylvarresta. But the sword he wore told another story.

A mute? A deaf man, one who still hoped to fight?

He shrank back a pace, farther into the shadows, hunched his right shoulder and let his arm hang down, stared at the ground, mouth dropping open stupidly.

“You!” the guard said, spurring his stallion forward. “What is your name?”

Gaborn glanced at the Dedicates around him, as if unsure whether he was being addressed. The Dedicates weren't armed. He could not hope to blend in.

Gaborn put on an idiot's grin, let his eyes go unfocused. There was a class of person who could be found in a Dedicates' Keep that he might play, a servant who had no attributes worth taking, yet who loved his lord and therefore performed what service he could.

Squinting, Gaborn grinned up at the soldier, pointed a finger at his force stallion. “Ah! Nice horse!”

“I said, what is your name?” the soldier demanded. He sported a slight Taifan accent.

“Aleson,” Gaborn answered. “Aleson the Devotee.” He said “devotee” as if it were a lord's title. In fact, it was a name given to one rejected as a Dedicate, one found worthless. He fumbled at his sword as if trying to draw it. “I...I'm going to be a knight.”

Gaborn managed to draw the sword halfway, as if to show it off, then shoved it back into the scabbard. The soldier would recognize fine steel if he saw it.

There, he had his disguise. A mentally deficient boy who wore a sword as an affectation.

At that moment, a heavy wain pulled through the portcullis, an open wagon filled with men in hooded robes—men slack-jawed, with vacant eyes, their wits drained. Men so weak from granting brawn they could not rise, but only lay exhausted, arms hanging over the edge of the wagon. Men so cramped from granting grace that every muscle seemed clenched—backs curved, fingers and toes curled into useless claws.

Raj Ahten was bringing Dedicates of his own to the keep. Four huge draft horses pulled the wain. The honor guards' own stallions danced and kicked. There was little room for so many beasts here in the square, not with Dedicates standing around, gawking.

“That's a fine sword, boy,” the guard grumbled at Gaborn as his horse shied from the wagon. “Be careful you don't cut yourself.” His words were a dismissal; he fought to move away from the wagon without crushing the nearest bystander.

Gaborn shuffled forward, knowing the surest way to get rid of someone was to hang on for dear life. “Oh, it's not sharp. Do you want to see?”

The wagon halted, and Gaborn saw Iome's Maid of Honor, Chemoise, in its very back, holding the head of one of the Dedicates there. “Father, Father...” she cried, and then Gaborn knew that these were not just any Dedicates to Raj Ahten, but captured knights, brought back to their homeland as trophies. The man Chemoise held was in his mid-thirties, hair of palest brown. Gaborn watched the maid and her father, wished that he could save them. Wished he could save this whole kingdom. You too, he vowed silently, dazed. If I have my way, I will save you, too.

From out of the shadows at Gaborn's side, a heavy man in a dirty robe approached. He growled, “Aleson, you stinking fool! Don't just stand in the way. You didn't empty the Dedicates' chamber pots, like I told you! Come along now and do your job. Leave the good men alone.”

To Gaborn's surprise, the fellow thrust two buckets full of feces and urine into Gaborn's hand, then cuffed him on the head. The buckets reeked. For one who had endowments of scent, the odor was unbearable. Gaborn choked back his desire to vomit, twisted his neck, gave the man a wounded glare. The fellow was stout, with bushy brows, a short brown beard going gray. In the shadows he looked like just another Dedicate in dirty robes, but Gaborn recognized him: Sylvarresta's herbalist, a powerful magician, the Earth Warden Binnesman.

“Carry these off to the gardens for me, before it gets too dark,” the herbalist whispered viciously, “or you'll get another beating worse than the last.”

Gaborn saw what was happening. The herbalist knew that Raj Ahten's scouts had his scent. But no man with endowments of scent would come too near these buckets.

Gaborn held his breath, hefted the buckets.

“Don't stub your toes in the shadows. Must I watch you every moment?” Binnesman hissed. He kept his voice low, as if to keep from being overheard, knowing well that each soldier in Raj Ahten's guard had enough endowments of hearing to discern the very sound of Gaborn's heart at this distance.

Binnesman led him round to the back of the kitchens. There they met the kitchen maid. “Good, you found him!” she whispered to Binnesman. The herbalist just nodded, held a finger up, warning her not to speak, then led them both through a small iron gate out the back of the Dedicates' Keep, along a worn trail, into a garden. The cook's herb garden.

Along the south wall of the garden grew some dark green vines, climbing the stone wall. Binnesman stopped, began picking leaves. In the failing light, even Gaborn recognized the narrow, spade-shaped leaves of dogbane.

As soon as he'd picked a handful, Binnesman rolled them in his palm, bruising them. To a common man the dogbane had only a slightly malodorous scent, but it was poison to dogs. They avoided it. And Binnesman was a master magician capable of strengthening the effects of his herbs.

What Gaborn smelled in that moment was indescribable—a gut-wrenching oily reek from a nightmare, like evil incarnate. Indeed, an image filled Gaborn's mind—as if suddenly a giant spider had strung webs of murder here across the path. Deadly. Deadly. Gaborn could imagine how the stuff would affect a hound.

Binnesman sprinkled these leaves on the ground, rubbed some on Gaborn's heel.

When he'd finished, he led Gaborn through the cook's garden, ignoring other herbs as he went. They jumped a low wall, came to the King's Wall—the second tier of the city's defenses.

Binnesman led Gaborn along a narrow road with the King's Wall on one side, the backs of merchants' shops on the other, till he reached a small gate with iron bars, small enough so a man would have to duck to pass through. Two guards stood at the gate in the stone wall. At a gesture from Binnesman, one guard produced a key, unlocked the iron gate.

Gaborn set down the stinking buckets of feces, wanting to be rid of the burden, but Binnesman hissed, “Keep them.”

The guards let the three through. Outside the wall was a kingly garden, a garden more lush, more magnificent than any Gaborn had ever seen. In the sudden openness, the last failing light of day still let Gaborn see better than he had in the shadows of the narrow streets.

Yet the term “garden” did not feel entirely correct. The plants that grew here were not pampered and set in rows. Instead they grew in wild profusion and in great variety all about, as if the soil were so alive that it could not help but produce them all in such great abundance.

Strange bushes with flowers like white stars joined in an arch over their heads. Creepers trailed up all along the garden's stone walls, as if seeking to escape.

The garden rolled away for a half mile in each direction. A meadow full of flowers spread before them, and beyond it lay a hillock overgrown with pines and strange trees from the south and east.

In this place, odd things had happened: orange and lemon trees grew beside a warm pool, trees that should never have survived these winters. And there were other trees beyond, with strange hairlike leaves and long fronds, and twisting red branches that seemed to rake the sky.

A stream tinkled through the meadow. A family of deer there drank at a small pool. The pale forms of flowers and herbs sprouted everywhere, blossoming in profusion. Exotic forests rose to both the east and the west.

Even this late in the evening, with the sun having fallen, the drone of honeybees filled the air.

Gaborn inhaled deeply, and it seemed that the scents of all the world's forests and flower gardens and spices rushed into his lungs at once. He felt he could hold that scent forever, that it enlivened every fiber of his being.

All the weariness, all the pain of the past few days seemed to wash out of him. The scent of the garden was rich. Intoxicating.

Until this moment, he thought, he'd never truly been alive. He felt no desire to leave, no hurry to leave. It was not as if time ceased here. No, it was a feeling of...security. As if the land here would protect him from his enemies, just as it protected Binnesman's plants from the ravages of winter.

Binnesman bent low, pulled off his shoes. He motioned for Gaborn and the serving wench to do the same.

This had to be the wizard's garden, the legendary garden that some said Binnesman would never leave.

Four years earlier, when the old wizard Yarrow had died, some scholars at the House of Understanding had wanted Binnesman to come, to assume the role of hearthmaster in the Room of Earth Powers. It was a post of such prestige that few wizards had ever rejected it. But then there had been a huge uproar. Binnesman had published an herbal several years earlier, describing herbs that would benefit mankind. An Earth Warden named Hoewell had attacked the herbal, claiming that it contained numerous errors, that Binnesman had misidentified several rare herbs, had drawn pictures of plantains hanging upside down, had claimed that saffron—a mysterious and valuable spice brought from islands far to the south—came from a specific type of flower when, in fact, everyone knew that it was a mixture of pollens collected from the beaks of nesting hummingbirds.

Some sided with Binnesman, but Hoewell was both a master scholar and a ruthless politician. Somehow he had succeeded in humiliating and disaffecting a number of minor herbalists, even though, as an Earth Warden by training, his own magical powers dealt with the creation of magical artifacts—a field apart from herbalism. Still, his political maneuvering swayed a number of prominent scholars.

So Binnesman never got the post as hearthmaster in the Room of Earth Powers. Now some people said that Binnesman had refused the post in shame, others that his appointment would never have been ratified. As Gaborn saw it, such were the lies and rumors that Hoewell promulgated to aggrandize himself.

Yet a rumor more persistent than any other arose, and this one Gaborn believed: In the House of Understanding, some good men whispered that despite the pleas of many scholars, Binnesman simply would not go to Mystarria, not for any prestigious post. He would not leave his beloved garden.

On seeing the exotic trees, tasting the scents of rare spices and honeyed flowers on the wind, Gaborn understood. Of course the herbalist could not leave his garden. This was Binnesman's life's work. This was his masterpiece.

Binnesman tapped Gaborn's boot with his foot again. The serving wench already had her shoes off. “Forgive me, Your Lordship,” Binnesman said, “but you must remove your shoes. This is not common ground.”

In a daze, Gaborn did as ordered, pulling off his boots. He got up, wanting nothing more than to stroll through these grounds for a day.

Binnesman nodded meaningfully toward the buckets of feces. Gaborn hefted his unsavory burden, and they were off, strolling across a carpet of rosemary and mint that emitted a gentle, cleansing scent as their feet bruised the leaves.

Binnesman led Gaborn through the meadow, past the deer that only looked at the old Earth Warden longingly. He reached a particular rowan tree, a tree that was phenomenally tall, a perfect cone. He studied it a moment, then said. “This is the place.”

He dug a small hole in the detritus beneath the tree, motioned for Gaborn to bring the dung.

When Gaborn brought the buckets, Binnesman emptied them into the Pit. Something clanked. Among the feces Gaborn saw objects dark and metallic.

With a start he recognized Sylvarresta's forcibles.

“Come,” Binnesman said, “we can't let Raj Ahten have these.” He picked up the forcibies, placed them back into the bucket, ignoring the dung on his hands. He walked fifty paces to the brook, where trout snapped at mosquitoes, slapping the water.

Binnesman stepped into the stream and rinsed the forcibles one by one. Then he placed them together on the bank. Fifty-six forcibles. The sun had set nearly half an hour ago, and the forcibles now seemed but dark shadows on the ground.

When Binnesman finished, Gaborn tore a strip of cloth from his tunic and wrapped the forcibles into a bundle.

Gaborn looked up, caught Binnesman appraising him, squinting in the half-light. The herbalist seemed lost in thought. His beefy jowls sagged. He was not a tall man, but he was broad of shoulder, stocky.

“Thank you,” Gaborn said, “for saving the forcibles.”

Binnesman did not acknowledge his words, merely studied him, as if peering behind Gaborn's eyes, or as if he sought to memorize Gaborn's every feature.

“So,” Binnesman said after a long moment. “Who are you?”

Gaborn chuckled. “Don't you know?”

“King Orden's son,” Binnesman muttered. “But who else are you? What commitments have you made? A man is defined by his commitments.”

A cold dread filled Gaborn at the way the Earth Warden said “commitments.” He felt certain that Binnesman was speaking of the oath he'd made this night to Princess Sylvarresta. An oath he'd rather have kept secret. Or perhaps he spoke of the promise Gaborn had made to the kitchen wench, the promise to save her, or even the silent vow he'd made to Chemoise and her father. And, somehow, he felt, these commitments might offend the herbalist. He glanced at the kitchen wench, who stood with hands folded, as if afraid to touch anything.

“I'm a Runelord. An Oath-Bound Lord.”

“Hmmm...” Binnesman muttered. “Good enough, I suppose. You serve something greater than yourself. And why are you here? Why are you in Castle Sylvarresta now, instead of next week, when your father was scheduled to arrive?”

Gaborn answered simply. “He sent me ahead. He wanted me to see the kingdom, to fall in love with its land, with its people, as he had.”

Binnesman nodded thoughtfully, stroking his beard. “And how do you like it? How do you like this land?”

Gaborn wanted to say that he admired it, that he found the kingdom beautiful, strong and almost flawless, but Binnesman spoke with a tone in his voice, a tone of such respect for the word “land,” that Gaborn sensed they were not speaking of the same thing. Yet perhaps they were. Was this garden not also part of Heredon? Were not the exotic trees, gathered from far corners of the earth, part of Heredon? “I have found it altogether admirable.”

“Humph,” Binnesman grunted, glancing around at the bushes, the trees. “This won't last the night. The flameweavers, you see. Theirs is a magic of destruction, mine a magic of preservation. They serve fire, and their master will not let them resume human form unless they feed the flame. What better food than this garden?”

“What of you? Will they kill you?” Gaborn asked.

“That...is not in their power,” Binnesman said. “We have reached a turning of the seasons. Soon, my robes will turn red.”

Gaborn wondered if he meant that literally. The old man's robes were a deep green, the color of leaves in high summer. Could they change color of themselves? “You could come with me,” Gaborn offered. “I could help you escape.”

Binnesman shook his head. “I've no need to run. I have some skill as a physic. Raj Ahten will want me to serve him.”

“Will you?”

Binnesman whispered, “I've made other commitments.” He said the word “commitments” with that same odd inflection he used when speaking of the land. “But you, Gaborn Val Orden, must flee.”

At that moment, Gaborn caught the sound of a distant barking, the snarling and raucous baying of war dogs.

Binnesman's eyes flickered. “Do not fear them. The dogs cannot pass my barrier. Those that try will die.”

Binnesman had a certain sadness in his voice. It pained him to kill the mastiffs. He grunted, climbed up out of the stream, his shoulders sagging as if worried. To Gaborn's surprise, the wizard stooped in the near total darkness, plucked a vine at the water's edge, and told Gaborn, “Roll up your right sleeve, I sense a festering wound.”

Gaborn did as asked, and Binnesman set the leaves on the wound, held them in place with his hand. Immediately the leaves began drawing out the heat and pain. Gaborn carefully unrolled his sleeve, letting his shirt help hold the poultice in place.

As if making small talk, Binnesman asked both Gabon and the kitchen maid, “How do you feel? Tired? Anxious? Are you hungry?”

Binnesman began strolling through the meadow, and as he walked, he would stoop in the shadows and pluck a leaf here, a flower there. Gaborn wondered how he could find them at all in the darkness, but it was as if the wizard had memorized their positions, knew exactly where each grew.

He rubbed Gaborn's feet with lemon thyme one moment, something spicier the next. He stopped to pick three borage flowers, their blue leaves glowing faintly in the darkness, and gently took each five-petaled flower between his fingers, then pulled so that the black stamens remained with the petals. He told Gaborn to eat the honeyed flower petals, and Gaborn did, feeling a sudden rush of calmness take him, a perfect fearlessness he'd never thought he could experience under such duress.

The herbalist fed several more borage flowers to the kitchen wench, gave her some rosemary to help fight fatigue.

Binnesman then strolled to a grassy slope, reached down and broke the stem of a flowering bush. “Eyebright,” he whispered, taking the stem. A fragrant oily sap was dripping from it, and Binnesman drew a line over Gaborn's brows, another high up on his cheek.

Suddenly, the night shadows did not seem so deep, and Gaborn marveled. He had endowments of sight to his credit, and could see fairly well in the dark, but he'd never imagined anything like this: it was as if the herbalist had added another half-dozen endowments in the matter of a moment. Yet Gaborn recognized that he was not actually seeing more light. Instead, it was as if, when he glanced at something that he might have been able to recognize after minutes of study and squinting in the darkness, he felt no strain, yet instantly discerned shapes and colors.

He looked off to the woods, saw a dark shape there—a man hiding among the trees. A tall man, in full armor. Powerful. If not for the eye-bright, he'd never have seen the man at all. He wondered what the fellow might be doing, and yet...knew the fellow belonged.

When Binnesman finished administering the herb to the kitchen maid, he said softly to her. “Keep this stem in your pocket. You may need to break it and apply fresh sap again before dawn.”

Gaborn realized now that the herbalist was not just chatting about idle matters when asking how they felt, that perhaps this wizard never chatted about idle matters. He was preparing Gaborn and the maid to flee in the darkness. The ministrations of leaves rubbed over his skin would change his scent, throw off his trackers. Other herbs would magnify his abilities.

This took less than three minutes, then the herbalist began asking more penetrating questions. To the maid he asked, “Now how tired are you? Did the borage make your heart race too fast? I could give you skullcap, but I don't want to overtax you.”

And sometimes he spoke quickly, gave Gaborn commands.

“Keep this poppy seed in your pocket; chew it if you are wounded. It will dull the pain.”

He took them next to the edge of the wood, where three dark trees with twisted branches reared up like great beasts with twiggy fingers and mossy limbs, forming a dark hollow that enclosed a small glade. Here, Gaborn felt smothered, constricted. Something about the closeness of the trees gave a sense that he was being watched and judged and would shortly be dismissed. The earth was all around him here, he felt—in the soil beneath his feet, in the trees that surrounded him and nearly covered him. He could smell it in the soil, in leaf mold, in the living trees.

Among many small shrubs that huddled on a hummock near the glade's center, Binnesman stopped. “Here we have rue,” he said. “Harvested at dawn, it has some medicinal and culinary value, but if you harvest just after the heat of the day, it is a powerful irritant. Gaborn, if the hunters come at you from downwind, toss this into their eyes, or into a fire—the smoke from such a fire is most dangerous.”

Gaborn dared not touch it. Even going near the bushes made his lungs feel constricted, his eyes water. But Binnesman walked up to a low bush that held a few wilting, yellow flowers. He pulled off some leaves, taking no harm.

The kitchen maid would not draw close, either. Though she could feel nothing, she had grown careful.

The herbalist looked back at Gaborn, and whispered, “You do not need to fear it.”

But Gaborn knew better.

Binnesman reached down to his feet. “Here.” He picked a handful of rich, loamy soil, placed it in Gaborn's palm.

“I want you to make a commitment,” Binnesman said, in that special way that let Gaborn know this was serious, that much depended on how he answered. He spoke each word with gravity and ceremony, almost chanting.

Gaborn felt dazed by all that had happened, frightened. As he took the soil in his hand, he felt almost as if the ground wrenched beneath his feet. He was suddenly so weary. The soil seemed tremendously heavy in his palm, as if it contained hidden stones of enormous weight.

The wizard is right, Gaborn thought. This is not common ground.

“Repeat after me: I, Gaborn Val Orden, swear to the earth, that I will never harm the earth, that I dedicate myself to the preservation of a seed of humanity in the dark season to come.”

Binnesman stared into Gaborn's eyes, unblinking, and waited, with bated breath, for Gaborn to speak the vow.

Something inside Gaborn trembled. He felt the soil in his hand, felt...a tickling at the back of his consciousness, a presence, a powerful presence.

It was the same great presence he'd recognized yesterday, in Bannisferre, when he'd felt the impulse to ask his bodyguard Borenson to marry the beautiful Myrrima.

Only now that presence came immensely stronger. It was the feeling of rocks in motion, of trees breathing. An odd power pulsed beneath his feet, as if the earth trembled in anticipation. Yes, he could feel it—through his bare feet, the power of the earth rising beneath him.

And Gaborn saw that he'd been traveling here toward this destination for days. Had his father not told him to come here, to learn to love the land? Had some Power inspired his father to say those words?

And in the inn at Bannisferre, when Gaborn drank the addleberry wine, the best wine he had ever tasted, the wine with the initial B on its wax seal, he had felt this power. Gaborn knew now, knew without asking, that Binnesman had put up that bottle of wine. How else could it have had such a marvelous effect? The wine had quickened his wits, led him here.

Gaborn feared to take the wizard's vow, to become a servant of the earth. What would it require? Was he to become an Earth Warden like Binnesman? Gaborn had already taken other vows, vows he considered sacred. As Myrrima had said, he did not take vows lightly.

Yet somehow he also feared not to take this vow. Even now, Raj Ahten's hunters would be coming after him. He needed help to escape, wanted Binnesman's aid.

“I swear,” Gaborn told Binnesman.

Binnesman chuckled. “No, you fool. Don't swear to me, swear to the earth, to that which is in your hand, and that beneath your feet. Say the whole oath.”

Gaborn opened his mouth, painfully aware of how the herbalist clung to his words, painfully aware that this vow was more significant than he could imagine. Wondering how he could maintain a balance, keep his vows to both the earth and to Iome.

“I—” Gaborn began to speak, but the earth quivered at his feet. All around, through the fields and woods and garden, the earth went still. No wind stirred, no animal called. The dark trees surrounding him seemed to loom larger, shutting out all light.

Darkness, darkness. I am beneath the earth, Gaborn thought.

Gaborn glanced round in astonishment, for he had thought the evening quiet until that moment. Now, absolute stillness reigned over the face of the land, and Gaborn sensed a strange and powerful presence rushing toward him.

In reaction to this, Binnesman backed away from the rue plant, stood with an astonished demeanor, gazing about. The soil twisted near his feet, grass parting as if some great veil of cloth ripped.

And from the bushes at the forest's edge, a man emerged, a black form stepping from the shadows. Gaborn had discerned his shape moments before, had seen his shadow once the eyebright was administered, but had never guessed at the creature's true appearance.

For this was no mortal man. Rather it was a creature of dust, formed from rich black soil. Minuscule specks of dirt and pebbles clung together, molding his features.

Gaborn recognized the form. Raj Ahten trod toward him. Or, more accurately, a being of dust in the form of Raj Ahten marched from the woods, complete in armor, scowling imperiously, his high helm spreading wide with owl's wings, black as onyx.

Immediately, Gaborn froze in terror, wondering what this manifestation might mean. He looked to Binnesman; the wizard had fallen back in astonishment.

The creature of dust stared down at Gaborn, a slight mocking disdain on its face. In the gathering shadows of the wood, it might have seemed human to a casual observer, but for its lack of color. Every eyelash, every fingernail, every feature and fiber of its clothing seemed perfectly formed.

Then the earth spoke.

The creature of dust did not move its mouth. Instead the words seemed to come from all around. Its voice was the sound of wind sighing through a meadow or hissing through lonely peaks. The groan of rocks moving through a stream, or tumbling downhill.

Gaborn understood none of it, though he recognized it as speech. Beside Gaborn, Binnesman listened intently, and interpreted, “He says to you, Gaborn, 'You would speak an oath to me, O son of a man?' ”

The strange sounds continued, and Binnesman thought a moment before he added. " 'You say you love the land. But would you honor your vows to me, even if I wore the face of an enemy?' ”

Gaborn looked to Binnesman for answer, and the wizard nodded, urging Gaborn to speak to the earth directly.

Gaborn had never seen anything like this creature, had never heard tales of it. Earth had come to him, choosing a form that Gaborn could see and comprehend. Some men claimed to look into fire and see the face of the Power behind it, but it often seemed to Gaborn that fire was the most approachable of elements, while air was the least. Gaborn had never heard of the earth manifesting itself in this way.

“I do love the land,” Gaborn said at last.

The strange clamor of faraway noises rose again. " 'How can you love what you cannot comprehend?' ” Binnesman interpreted.

“I love what I do comprehend, and suppose I would love the rest,” Gaborn tried to answer truthfully.

Earth smiled, mocking. Boulders rumbled. Binnesman said, " 'Someday you shall comprehend me, when your body mingles with mine. Do you fear that day?' ”

Death. Earth wanted to know if he feared death.

“Yes.” Gaborn dared not lie.

“Then you cannot love me fully,” Earth whispered. “Will you aid my cause despite this?”

Raj Ahten. The thing looked so much like Raj Ahten. Gaborn knew what Earth desired of him. Something more than embracing life. Something more than serving man. To embrace death and decay and the totality that was Earth.

A strangeness showed in Earth's dark face, emotions not human. Gaborn looked into those eyes, and images came to mind: a pasture far south of Bannisferre where white stones protruded from the green grass like teeth; the scenic purple mountains of Alcair as seen in the distance south of home. But there was more—vast crevasses and caverns and canyons deep beneath the ground, places he had never seen. Many-colored soils and dark rock by the shapeless ton, so deep within the earth that no man could hold it all, no man could begin to comprehend it. Gems and mud and leaves rotting on the forest floor among the bones of men. Smells of sulfur and ash and grass and blood. Rivers thrumming and tumbling in the dark places of the world, and endless seas lying over the face of the earth like sweet tears.

You cannot know me, Earth was saying. You cannot comprehend me. You see only surfaces. Though you want me as an ally, I must also be your enemy.

Painfully, Gaborn considered each word of the vow, wondering if he could keep it.

“Why would you want me to take this vow?” Gaborn asked. “What does it mean, to never harm the earth? What does it mean, to preserve a seed of humanity?”

This time, Binnesman did not hesitate when he translated Earth's answer, which came more as a sighing of wind than a grumble. “You will not seek to thwart me,” Earth said, leaning back casually against the bole of one dark tree that seemed to cup him like a hand. “You will seek to learn my will, discern how best to serve the earth.”

“In what capacity?” Gaborn asked, seeking to know more precisely what the earth wanted.

Clamorous noises. Binnesman frowned thoughtfully as he sought for words... "As you cannot comprehend me,” Earth said, “I cannot comprehend you. Yet this much I know: You love your people, seek their welfare. You seek to save men.”

“There was a time when Fire loved the earth, and the sun drew nearer to me. That time is no more. So in this dark season, I must call others to champion my cause. I ask you to save a remnant of mankind.”

Gaborn's heart pounded. “Save them from what?”

Hissing rose through the woods. “Fire. All of nature is out of balance. That which you call 'the First Power' has long been withdrawn, but now it will waken and sweep over the world, bringing death. It is in Fire's nature to seek constantly to consume and grow. It shall destroy much.”

Gaborn knew enough of wizardry to know that while all Powers combined to create life, the alliance of Powers was uneasy, and different Powers favored different kinds of life. Air loved birds, while Water loved fishes, and Earth loved plants and the things that crept upon its face. Fire seemed to love only serpents, and creatures of the netherworld. Earth and Water were powers of stability. Air and Fire were unstable. Earth itself was a protector, and combined with Water to protect nature.

Immediately, Gaborn reasoned, I am a Runelord, Prince of Mystarria—a nation strong in water magics—who loves the land. So earth seeks to make an ally of me.

“You seek my service,” Gaborn said, “and only a fool would refuse to consider your offer. You want me to save someone, and this I would do gladly. But what do you offer in return?”

Boulders rumbled, and nearby the ground vented steam as Earth laughed. Yet Binnesman did not smile as he translated, " 'I ask but one thing of you, to save a seed of humanity. If you succeed, the deed itself shall be your reward. You shall save those you deem worthy to live.' ”

“If—I succeed?” Gaborn asked.

Lonely wind hissing through trees. “Once there were toth upon the land. Once there were duskins...At the end of this dark time, mankind, too, may become only a memory.”

Gaborn felt his heart nearly freeze. He'd imagined that the earth wanted him to help save the people of Heredon from Raj Ahten. But something more dangerous than a war between two nations was at hand—something more devastating.

“What is going to happen?” Gaborn asked.

The wind hissed as Earth spoke softly. Binnesman merely frowned for a long time, then answered for himself. “Gaborn, I can't tell you what the earth is saying. It is too complex to interpret. The earth does not itself know the full answer. Only the Time Lords see the future, but even for the earth, the answer is unclear. Earth senses wide destruction. The skies will be black with smoke, and everything will burn. The sun at high noon will shine dimly, as red as blood. Seas will be choked with ash...I—it's too much for me to untangle, too much to answer.”

The wizard fell silent then, and Gaborn saw that his face was ashen, as if trying to make sense of Earth's words was a great labor, even for him. Or perhaps the things he'd learned terrified Binnesman to the core, so that he could speak no longer.

Gaborn did not understand how to keep the vow. Yet no matter what it required, he had to take it. He fell to his knees and vowed, “I, Gaborn Val Orden, swear to you that I will never harm the earth, that I dedicate myself to the preservation of a seed of humanity in the dark season to come.”

Gaborn's whole body trembled. The man of dust leaned over until its helm almost touched Gaborn's forehead. The sound of wind whispered in Gaborn's ears, and the earth rumbled ominously. Binnesman croaked the words: " 'I shall hold you to your word, though in time you curse me.' ”

Earth raised two fingers of dust, the forefinger and index finger of its left hand, to Gaborn's forehead, and there traced a rune.

When it finished, Earth stuck the two fingers to Gaborn's lips.

Gaborn opened his mouth. Earth placed its fingers inside. Gaborn bit, tasting clean soil on his tongue.

In that moment, the fine filaments of hair on the creature of dust fell away, and its muscles slackened, until a pile of dust sloughed to the ground.

Immediately, the suffocating presence of earth power diminished. Light shone thinly still through the trees, and Gaborn breathed deep.

When Binnesman next moved, his face was pale, and the wizard stared at the mound of dust in awe. Reaching down, he respectfully prodded it with a finger, then tasted the dirt.

He took another pinch and sprinkled it over Gaborn's left shoulder, then his right, and then his head, chanting, “The earth heal, the earth hide you, the earth make you its own!

“Now,” Binnesman whispered, placing his hands on Gaborn's shoulders, “Gaborn Val Orden, I name you Earthborn indeed. As you serve the land, it serves you in return.”

Gaborn still smelled rue here in the glade, but now its powerful scent only made his nose itch. He went to the bush, caressed a faded yellow flower, pulled a few leaves from branches.

Gaborn glanced over, saw Binnesman staring at him with something like awe etched into his features.

When Gaborn had taken a dozen more leaves, Binnesman grumbled.

“You don't need enough to wipe out a whole village. Come now, time is short.”

The wizard rolled the rue leaves between his hands, and when he held out his palm, the leaves had crumbled to powder. Binnesman took a pouch from around his own neck, put the crumbled leaves into the pouch, and placed it around Gaborn's throat.

Gaborn took it stiffly, wanting to ask a hundred questions. But when he'd first come into this wild, tangled garden, he'd felt a sense of safety, of being protected. Now he recognized time was drawing short, and he felt a sense of urgency. He had no time to question now.

The kitchen maid had been standing this whole while at the edge of the glade, a terrified expression on her face. Now Binnesman led her and Gaborn downhill, to the south wall of the garden, and they hurried along a narrow trail, Gaborn clutching the forcibles in one hand, the hilt of his saber in the other.

He felt so odd. So numb. He wanted to rest, to have time to sort things out.

When they'd reached the far side of the meadow, beneath the shade of the exotic trees, Gabon heard shouting behind. He glanced back up the trail.

Night had almost completely fallen. Gaborn could see lights shining now from the watchtowers of the Dedicates' Keep, and from down below at the Soldiers' Keep, and from the King's own chambers. A few lonely stars had begun to glow in the sky. This surprised him, for the eyebright so aided his vision that it did not seem night.

But uphill, on the trail behind them, far brighter than any other lights, a fiery man strode into view, the green flames flickering across his shoulders like the tongues of snakes, licking the clean skin of his hairless skull.

The flameweaver was behind the gate still, the same gate Gaborn had entered only minutes before. The guards had fallen back from this sorcerer, and the flameweaver reached out a hand. A bolt of sunlight seemed to burst hungrily from his palm, and the iron gate melted and twisted. The flameweaver pushed past the ruined gate, entered the garden.

Behind him came Raj Ahten's scouts. Men in dark robes, searching for Gaborn's scent.

“Hurry!” Binnesman whispered. If these had been normal men, Gaborn would not have feared. But he sensed now that this was no fight between mere mortals that he engaged in. This was Fire, seeking him.

Then they were running through the woods, over marshy ground beside the stream. Just downhill a few hundred yards, the stream would meet with the River Wye, and there Gaborn hoped to find a means of escape. The maid and the wizard could not match Gaborn's speed. He jumped some low bushes, and in a few moments they reached a small cottage with whitewashed wattle and a thatch roof.

“I must go and save my seeds,” Binnesman hissed. “Rowan, you know the way to the mill. Take Gaborn. May the Earth be with you both!”

“Come,” Rowan said. “This way.”

She reached back for his sleeve, pulled him down a brick road. Gaborn did as he was told, rushing with a renewed sense of urgency. He could hear shouting in the meadows behind him. He still had his boots in hand, was painfully aware with each step that he needed to put them on, yet Rowan ran over the uneven stones recklessly, feeling nothing.

Yet even as he ran, he felt...astonished, full of wonder, incapable of comprehending all that had just happened. He wanted to stop, to take time to ponder. But at the moment, he knew it was too dangerous to do so.

At the edge of the garden, Gaborn told Rowan, “Stop, stop. Put on your shoes, before you break every bone in your foot!”

Rowan stopped, put on her own shoes while Gaborn pulled on his boots; then they ran with greater speed.

She raced out the garden gate, along a street to the King's stables, an enormous building of new wood. She pulled one of the doors open.

A stableboy sleeping in the hay just inside the door shouted in alarm, but Gaborn and Rowan rushed past him, past the long stalls. Here, slung from the ceiling in belly harnesses, were dozens of the King's Dedicate horses—horses robbed of wit, brawn, stamina, or metabolism so that the King's own force horses could have greater power. Rowan ran past the long row of stalls, then fled out the back door. Here a stream, the same stream that had flowed through the wizard's garden, wound through a muddy corral, where the horses stamped and neighed in fear. The stream passed under a great stone wall, the Outer Wall to the city's defenses.

Gaborn could not climb that wall, some fifty feet in height. Instead, Rowan squirmed under the wall, where the stone had eroded over the ages. The passage was narrow, too narrow to admit a warrior in armor, but the thin girl and Gaborn squeezed through, getting wet in the icy water.

Now the stream tumbled downhill, down a steep green. All around the stream grew tall pussy willows.

Gaborn looked up. An archer on the walls was posted just above them. He looked down, saw them escape, and pointedly looked the other way.

The ground here was kept open near the walls, so that archers could shoot from above. Gaborn could never have sneaked into the castle from here, not unobserved.

The hillside became steep just below the pussy willows, where it led into some deep birch and alder woods that were so dark that Gaborn could hardly see. Yet it was only a small grove, a triangle of trees barely two hundred yards long and a hundred wide.

Through the trees Gaborn spotted the river now, broad and black. He could hear its soft voice burbling.

He halted, grabbed Rowan's ankle to stop her from crawling farther. On the far side of the river he saw movement: nomen and Frowth giants setting camps in the darkness. The nomen were black shadows in the fields of grain, hunched and clawing. Gaborn knew that the nomen, who preferred to leap on their prey from trees in the starlight, would be able to see well in the night, but he did not know how well.

Though the nomen had invaded from the sea a thousand years before, the Runelords had decimated their numbers, had even gone so far as to sail to their own dark lands beyond the Caroll Sea to wipe them out. Long had their war cries been silenced. They had not been fierce warriors, but were cunning fighters in the darkness. The nomen were now little more than legend. Still, rumor said that nomen inhabited the Hest Mountains, beyond Inkarra, and that they sometimes stole children to eat. The Inkarrans seemed never quite able to wipe the last of the creatures from the rain forests. Gaborn didn't know how much of the tales to believe. Perhaps the nomen could see him even now.

But the woods grew thicker off to the left—and Gaborn spotted a wide diversion dam made of stones. The mill. Its huge water wheel made a great racket, with its grinding and the water splashing.

“Let me lead,” he whispered. He moved slowly now through the pussy willows, eeling on his belly, not wanting to attract the attention of the nomen on the far side of the river till he reached the shelter of the woods.

They were outside the city wall now, on a steep bank that overlooked the River Wye to the east, the moat to the south. He hoped Raj Ahten didn't have soldiers posted in these woods.

He took his time as he led Rowan deeper into the grove, careful not to snap a twig.

Up on the hills behind him, in the heart of Castle Sylvarresta, he could hear distant cries of dismay, shouts. Perhaps a battle had broken out.

Other shouts nearby mingled with the noise, cries of hunters, shouting in Taifan, “Go that way! Look over there! After him!” Raj Ahten's trackers were searching on the other side of the city wall.

Gaborn crept down a steep ridge, keeping to the trees, till he and Rowan nearly reached the river.

There he studied the far banks from the deep shadows.

On the hill behind, a fire had begun raging. He smelled smoke. Binnesman's garden was ablaze. The flames looked like the lights thrown by a fiery sunrise.

Gaborn spotted giants on the far bank of the river, hoary things with shaggy manes. The blaze reflected in their silver eyes. Nomen prowled among them, naked. Shades, who shielded their eyes from the conflagration.

The river looked shallow. Though autumn was on its way, little rain had fallen in the past few weeks. Gaborn feared that no matter how far he dove beneath the water, the nomen would see him. But it looked as if the whole city might burst into flame, and for the moment the nomen were somewhat blinded.

Gaborn hugged the shadows. He pointed out twigs for Rowan to avoid with each step.

He heard a branch snap. He spun, drew his saber. One of Raj Ahten's hunters stood on the ridge above, half-hidden by trees, framed by firelight from the wizard's burning garden.

The man didn't rush Gaborn and Rowan, only stood silently, trusting to the night to hide him. Rowan stopped at the sound, looked uphill. She apparently couldn't see the fellow.

He wore a dark robe, and held a naked sword, with a lacquered leather vest for armor. Only the eyebright Binnesman had given Gaborn let him spot the hunter.

Gaborn didn't know what endowments the man might have, how strong or swift he might be. But the hunter would be equally wary of Gaborn's attributes.

Gaborn let his gaze flicker past the hunter, searched the woods to the man's right, as if he hadn't spotted him. After a long moment, Gaborn turned his back, watched the far bank.

He set his bundle of forcibles on the ground, then pretended to scratch himself and drew the dagger from his belt with his left hand. He held the haft in his grip, the blade flat against his wrist, so that it remained concealed.

Then he just listened. The mill wheel made a noise like the rumble of rocks sliding down a slope, and Gaborn could hear distant shouts, perhaps the sound of folks fighting a fire in the city. “Let's wait here,” Gaborn told Rowan.

He stilled his breathing as the hunter drew closer.

Stealthy, a stealthy man, but quick. The man had an endowment of metabolism.

Gaborn had no extra metabolism. He moved with the speed of youth, but he was no match for a force warrior.

Gaborn couldn't risk letting the man cry an alarm, attract the attention of the nomen.

He waited till the hunter drew close, twenty feet. A twig crunched softly. Gaborn pretended not to hear. Waited half a second.

He waited until he judged that the hunter would be gazing at his feet, concentrating on not making another sound; then Gaborn spun and leapt past Rowan.

The hunter raised his sword so fast it blurred. He took a ready stance—knees bent, swordpoint forward. Gaborn was outmatched in speed. But not in cunning.

He flicked his dagger from ten feet, and its pommel hit the man's nose. In that split second, when the hunter was distracted, Gaborn lunged, aimed a devastating blow at the hunter's knee, slicing his patella.

The hunter countered by dropping the tip of his sword, trying too late to parry. On the backstroke Gaborn whipped his blade up, slashing the warrior's throat.

The hunter lunged, not yet realizing he was dead. Gaborn twisted away from the blade, felt it graze the left side of his rib cage. Fire blossomed there, and Gaborn swept aside the warrior's sword with his own, danced back.

Gurgling escaped the hunter's throat, and he staggered forward a step. Blood spurted from his neck, a fountain that gushed in time with the warrior's heartbeat.

Gaborn knew the man couldn't live much longer, tried to back away, afraid of taking another wound. He tripped over a root and fell on the ground, his sword tip still held high to parry any attacks.

As the hunter's brain drained of blood, he began to lose his sight, looked around dumbly for half a second. He grasped at a sapling and missed, dropped his sword and fell forward.

Gaborn watched the ridge above. He could see no more of Raj Ahten's hunters. Silently he thanked Binnesman for the spices that masked his scent.

Gaborn felt his ribs. They bled, but not badly, not as bad as he had feared. He stanched the blood, then retrieved his forcibles.

Rowan was panting in fear. She studied him in the darkness as he climbed back down toward her, as if terrified that his wound would kill him.

He stood a little straighter, trying to calm her, then led her down the steep bank to the river's edge and they hid among the pussy willows. The fires burned brighter.

The nomen were poised high on the far bank, looking anxiously in his direction. They had heard the ringing swords, but so long as the fire blinded them, so long as Gaborn and Rowan hid in the shadows, the nomen searched in vain. Perhaps the sound of the mill wheel upriver confused them; perhaps they were not sure if a fight had been fought in the woods. None seemed desirous to brave the river, to fight half-blind. Gaborn recalled vaguely that nomen feared the water.

Wading among pussy willows into water up to his waist, Gaborn looked downstream.

Three Frowth giants stood knee-deep in the water at the river's bend. One held a fiery brand aloft, while the other two held their huge oak rods poised like spears. They peered into the water like fishermen waiting for someone to try to escape.

The firelight that blinded the nomen would only help the giants to see better. For a moment Gaborn studied them. The water downstream could not be more than three feet deep. There was no way that he and Rowan could make it past the giants.

Rowan suddenly gasped in pain and doubled over, clutching her stomach.

10 The Face of Pure Evil

Iome stood atop the south tower of the Dedicate's Keep as Raj Ahten and his guard rode up to the gates. Out in the fields, night was falling, and the flameweavers had begun heading for town, walking across the dry grasses. A small range fire burned in their passage, but to Iome's surprise, it did not rage uncontrollably. Instead, a hundred yards behind them, the fire extinguished, so that the flameweavers looked like comets, with trails of dying fire in their wake.

Behind them came a great wain from the forest, filled with men in robes, bouncing over the rutted mud road that led from the castle into the Dunnwood.

Raj Ahten's legendary Invincibles also began marching into the city, forming up in twenty ranks of a hundred each.

But others stayed behind, out on the plains. The shaggy Frowth giants kept to the tree lines and stalked along the rivers, while the dark nomen, their naked bodies blacker than night, circled the castle, squatting on the fields. There would be no escaping them this night.

To the credit of the guards at the gates of the Dedicates' Keep, they did not open to Raj Ahten immediately. When the Wolf Lord made his way up the city streets to this, the most protected keep within the castle, the guards held fast.

They waited for King Sylvarresta to descend from the tower, with Iome walking at his side, hand-in-hand. Two Days followed immediately behind, and Chemoise trailed.

Good, Iome thought. Let the Wolf Lord sit outside the gates for a moment longer, waiting on the true lord of Castle Sylvarresta. It was a small retribution for what she knew would come.

Though Iome saw no outward sign of fear in her father's face, he held her hand too tightly, clenching it in a death grip.

In a moment they descended from the tower to the gates of the Dedicates' Keep. The guards here were the best warriors in the kingdom, for this was the sanctum, the heart of Sylvarresta's power. If a Dedicate were killed, Sylvarresta's power would be diminished.

The guards looked smart with their black-and-silver livery over their hauberks.

As King Sylvarresta strode to them, both men held their pikes, tips pointed to the ground. On the far side of the keep wall, Raj Ahten could be seen through the portcullis gates.

“My lord?” Captain Ault asked. He was ready to fight to the death, if Iome's father so desired. Or to slay both the King and Iome, save them from the torturous end Iome feared.

“Put them away,” Sylvarresta said, his voice shaken with uncertainty.

“Do you have any orders?” Ault asked.

Iome's heart pounded. She feared that her father would ask him to slay them now, rather than let them fall into enemy hands.

A debate had long raged among the lords in Rofehavan as to what one should do in such circumstances. Often a conquering king would try to take endowments from those he defeated. In doing so, he became stronger. And Raj Ahten was far too powerful already. Some thought it more noble to kill themselves than to submit to domination.

Others said that one had a duty to live in the hope of serving one's People another day. Iome's father vacillated on this point. Since two days past, when he'd lost two endowments of wit, the King had become suddenly cautious, fearful of what he'd forgotten, afraid to make mistakes.

King Sylvarresta looked down at Iome, tenderly. “Life,” he whispered, 'is so sweet. Don't you think?”

Iome nodded.

The King said softly, “Life...Iome, is strange and beautiful, full of wonders, even in the darkest hours. I have always believed that. One must choose life, if one can. Let us live, in the hope of serving our people.”

Iome trembled, fearing that he'd made the wrong choice, fearing that the death of her and her father would better serve her people.

King Sylvarresta whispered to Auk, “Open the gate. And bring us some lanterns. We'll need some light.”

The burly captain nodded grimly. From his eyes, Iome knew Ault would rather die than watch Sylvarresta lose his kingdom. He did not agree with the King's decision.

Ault saluted, touching the haft of his pike to the bill of his iron cap. You will always be my lord, the gesture said.

King Sylvarresta gave him a curt nod. The guards unbarred the gates; each took a handle, pushing them outward.

Raj Ahten sat on his gray stallion with white speckles on its rump. His guards surrounded him. His Days, a tall, imperious man with graying temples, waited at his back. The Wolf Lord's horses were large, noble beasts, Iome had heard of the breed but had never seen one before. They were called imperial horses, brought from the almost legendary realm of the toth, across the Caroll Sea.

Raj Ahten himself looked regal, his black mail covering his body like glistening scales, the wide owl's wings on his helm drawing the eye to his face. He stared impassively at the King, at Iome.

His face was neither old nor young, neither quite male nor female, as was the case with those who'd taken many endowments of glamour from persons of both sexes. Yet he was beautiful, so cruelly beautiful that Iome's heart ached to look into his black eyes. His was a face to worship, a face to die for. His head weaved from side to side, minutely, as will happen with those who have many endowments of metabolism.

“Sylvarresta,” he said from his horse, omitting any title, “is it not customary to bow to your lord?”

The power of Raj Ahten's Voice was so great that Iome felt almost as if her legs had been kicked out from under her. She could not control herself, and fell down to give her oblations, though a voice in the back of her head whispered, Kill him, before he kills you.

Iome's father fell to one knee, too, and cried out. “Pardon me, my lord. Welcome, to Castle Sylvarresta.”

“It is now called Castle Ahten,” Raj Ahten corrected.

Behind Iome, there was a clanking of metal as the keep's guards brought a gleaming lantern from the guardroom.

Raj Ahten stared at them a moment, firelight reflecting from his eyes, then dismounted his horse, jumping lightly to the ground. He walked up to Sylvarresta.

He was a tall man, this Wolf Lord, half a head taller than Iome's father, and she had always thought her father to be a big man.

In that moment, Iome felt terrified. She didn't know what to expect. Raj Ahten could sweep out his short sword in a blur, decapitate them both. She wouldn't even have time to flinch.

One could not anticipate this man. He'd conquered all the Southern kingdoms around Indhopal in the past few years, growing in power at a tremendous speed. He could be magnanimous in his kindness, inhuman in his cruelty.

It was said that when the Sultan of Aven got cornered in his winter palace at Shemnarvalla, Raj Ahten responded by capturing his wives and children at their summer home, and threatened to catapult the Sultan's sons over the palace walls. The Sultan responded by standing on the castle walls, grasping his groin, and calling out, “Go ahead, I have a hammer and anvils to make better sons!” The Sultan had many sons, and it was said that on that night, as each was set aflame, the cries were horrifying, for Raj Ahten waited until the child's cries died before he sent the flaming body over the castle walls. Though the Sultan would not surrender, his own guards could not bear to hear the cries, and so his men opened the gates. When Raj Ahten entered, he took the Sultan, determined to make an example of him. What happened next, Iome could not say. Such things were never discussed in civilized countries.

But it was known that Raj Ahten sat in judgment on the kings he conquered before his wars were ever begun. He knew which he would butcher, which he would enslave, which he would make regents.

Iome's heart pounded. Her father was an Oath-Bound Lord, a man of decency and honor. In her opinion, he was the most compassionate ruler in all the realms of Rofehavan.

And Raj Ahten was the blackest usurper to walk the earth in eight hundred years. He dealt with no king as an equal, considered the world his vassals. The two could not share the throne to Heredon.

Raj Ahten pulled the horseman's warhammer from the sheath at his back. It was a long-handled thing, almost as tall as he.

He planted its crossbars in the cobblestones at his feet, then clasped his hands on its hilt, leaned his chin on one knuckle, and smiled playfully.

“We have things between us, you and I, Sylvarresta,” Raj Ahten said. “Differences of opinion.”

He nodded toward the street behind him. “Are these your men?”

The huge wain Iome had seen clanking across the fields now pulled up between the graystone shops. In the wagon were men—soldiers all, one could tell by their grim faces. As they neared the lantern, in horror Iome recognized some of them—Corporal Deliphon, Swordmaster Skallery. Faces she'd not seen in years.

Behind Iome, Chemoise gasped, cried out and ran forward. Her own father, Eremon Vottania Solette, lay in the very front of the wagon, a ruined man who did not blink. His back arched cruelly, and his hands clutched in useless fists. He grimaced in pain; all his muscles were stiff and unyielding as rigor mortis. Iome followed Chemoise a few steps, but dared not go nearer to Raj Ahten.

Yet even from thirty feet, she could smell the stink and dirt on the men. Many had eyes that stared vacantly, stupid. Some had jaws slack, from weariness. Each soldier had been drained of one of the “greater” endowments—wit, brawn, grace, metabolism, or stamina—and thus made harmless.

As Chemoise clutched her father to her breast and cried, Ault drew close with a flickering torch. In the wavering light, the faces in the wagon seemed pale and horrible.

“Most of those were once my men,” King Sylvarresta admitted warily. “But I released them from service. They are free soldiers, Knights Equitable. I am not their lord.”

It was a dubious denial. Though all the men in the wagon were Knights Equitable, knights who were sworn by oath to destroy all Wolf Lords like Raj Ahten, and though such an oath was considered to override any other oath of fealty to a single lord, the truth was that Iome's father served as patron to these knights—he'd supplied them with the money and arms needed to fulfill their quest to destroy Raj Ahten. For him to deny responsibility for their actions was like an archer refusing to take the blame for damage done by an arrow once it had left his bow.

Raj Ahten did not accept the King's excuse. A grimace of pain crossed Raj Ahten's face, and he looked away for a moment. Iome felt her heart lurch as she saw tears glisten in Raj Ahten's eyes. “You have done me a great wrong,” Raj Ahten said. “Your assassins killed my Dedicates, slaughtered my own nephew, and executed some I considered to be dear friends, good servants.”

The tone of his voice filled Iome with guilt, overwhelming guilt. She felt like a child caught tormenting a kitten.

It pained her all the more because Iome saw that Raj Ahten's sorrow seemed to be genuine. Raj Ahten had loved his Dedicates.

No, something in the back of her mind said, you must not believe that.

He wants you to believe that. It is only a trick, a practiced use of Voice. He loves only the power his people give. Yet she found it difficult to cling to her skepticism.

“Let us go to your throne room,” Raj Ahten said. “You've given me no choice in the matter but to come settle our differences. It grieves me that we must discuss...terms of surrender.”

King Sylvarresta nodded, kept his head bent. Perspiration dotted his brow. Iome's breathing came easier. They would talk. Only talk. She dared hope for leniency.

With a glance from Raj Ahten, his guards rode into the Dedicates' Keep, leading his horse into the courtyard, while Raj Ahten headed down the road toward the King's Keep.

Iome followed behind her father, numb. Her slippered feet did not like the rough paving stones. Chemoise stayed behind, following the wagon into the bailey of the Dedicates' Keep, holding her father's hand, whispering words of reassurance to Eremon Vottania Solette.

Iome, her father, and the three Days all followed Raj Ahten through the walled market, the richest street of Heredon, past the fine shops where silver and gems, china and fine cloth were sold, down to the King's Tower.

The lanterns in the tower had already been lit. It was, Iome had to admit, an ugly tower. A huge square block, six stories tall, with nothing in the way of adornment but the granite statues of past kings that circled its base. The statues themselves were enormous things, each sixteen feet tall. Along the gutters atop the tower were carved minstrels and dancing gargoyles, but the figures were so small that one could not see them well from the ground.

Iome wanted to run, to dart into an alley and try to hide behind one of the cows that had bedded there for the night. Her heart hammered so badly.

When she crossed the threshold into the King's Keep, she nearly fainted. Her father held her hand, helped her keep standing. Iome wanted to vomit, but found herself following her father up the broad staircases, five stories, until they reached the King's chambers.

Raj Ahten led them through the audience room, into the huge throne room. The King's and Queen's thrones were made of lacquered wood, with cushions covered in scarlet silk. Gold filigree adorned the leaves carved into the thrones' arms and feet, and adorned the headboards. They were unimposing ornaments. Sylvarresta had better thrones stored in the attic, out the room itself was enormous, with two sets of full-length oriel windows that looked north, south, and west over the kingdom. Two lanterns burned at each side of the throne, and a small fire danced in the huge hearth. The Wolf Lord took a seat on the King's throne, seeming comfortable in his armor.

He nodded at King Sylvarresta. “I trust my cousin Venetta is well? Go and fetch her. Take a moment to freshen up. We will hold audience when you are more comfortable.” He waved at Sylvarresta's armor, an order for him to remove it.

King Sylvarresta nodded, not a sign of acknowledgment, more a bending of the neck in submission, then went to the royal apartments. Iome was so frightened, she followed him rather than go to her own room.

Neither the King's Days nor Iome's followed. The Days chronicled every public movement of their lords, but even they did not dare defile the sanctity of the Runelords' bedchamber.

Instead, Raj Ahten's Days held a convocation with the Days of the royal family in an ancient alcove outside the bedchamber, where guards and servants often waited for their lord. There, the Days stood speaking briefly in code. It was often thus when Days from opposing kingdoms met. Iome understood none of their code, and simply closed the bedroom door on their chatter.

In the King's bedchamber, Queen Venetta Sylvarresta sat in a chair, dressed in her finest robes and regalia, staring out the windows to the south. Her back was to the door. She'd been painting her nails with a clear lacquer.

She was vain, with ten endowments of glamour—much more beautiful than Iome. Venetta had black hair and an olive complexion, like Raj Ahten's—both darker than Iome's. The diadems in Venetta's crown could not match the casual loveliness of her face. Her scepter lay across her lap, a gold column with pearls embedded in a ball at one end.

“So,” she sighed without turning, “you've lost our kingdom.” She sounded more hurt than Iome had ever heard her.

Iome's father pulled off his armored gauntlets, tossed them on the huge, four-poster bed.

“I told you you'd lose it,” Queen Sylvarresta said. “You were too soft to hold it. It was only a matter of time.” More painful words, unlike anything Iome had ever heard her mother say before. Unlike, Iome felt sure, anything she'd ever said.

King Sylvarresta unstrapped his helm, threw it next to the gauntlets, then worried at the pins on his vambraces. “I'll not regret what I've done,” he said. “Our people grew up in relative peace.”

“Without allies, without a strong king to protect them,” Iome's mother said. “How much peace could you have really given them?”

The bitterness in the words stunned Iome. Her mother had always seemed calm, austere, a quiet support to her husband.

“We gave them the best I could,” her father answered.

“And they love us little enough in return. If you were more of a lord, they would rise up in your defense. Your people would fight beside you, beyond all hope.”

Iome helped her father remove his pauldrons, then the rebrace from his upper arms. Within a moment, he had his breastplate on the bed. Only then did Iome notice how her father was laying out the armor, like a man of steel, lying facedown, suffocating in the deep feather mattress.

Venetta was right. King Sylvarresta never got the respect, the admiration he deserved. An Oath-Bound Runelord should have drawn followers, should have had the respect of his people.

Instead, those people who gave endowments went to foreign kings, like King Orden, where they could sell their attributes at a higher price.

A king like Sylvarresta seldom got the support he needed, unless a Wolf Lord like Raj Ahten came along. Only when confronted with a usurper who won his endowments through blackmail would good people flock to the banner of a king like Sylvarresta.

Of course, that is why Raj Ahten attacks here first, Iome realized, when he could have laid waste other kingdoms closer by.

“Did you hear me, milord?” Venetta said. “I'm belittling you.”

“I hear you,” Lord Sylvarresta said, “and I love you still.”

Iome's mother turned then, her face full of tears of love, her mouth tight in pain. She looked to be a young woman. Just as a faithful dog in great pain will snap at the master who tries to save it, Iome's mother had snapped at her father, and now Iome saw the regret there.

“I love you, forever,” Venetta said. “You're a thousand times more the king than my wicked cousin could ever be.”

King Sylvarresta pulled off his chain, stood in his leather jerkin. He glanced pointedly at Iome, and she left the room, gave her parents their privacy.

She dared not go out through the hall, into the throne room. Not with Raj Ahten there. So she waited in the alcove outside her father's door, and listened to the Days talk excitedly. In ancient times, guards and servants would have been stationed here during the night, but King Sylvarresta had never wanted either. Still, the small room with its benches was large enough to hold Iome and the Days.

Several long minutes later, Iome's mother and father exited their room. Her mother was still in her regalia; her father wore a lordly robe and a determined expression.

As her mother passed, she said to Iome, “Remember who you are.” Her mother intended to play the role of queen to the very end.

Iome followed them, back into the audience chamber. To her surprise, two of the Raj Ahten's Invincibles had joined him. They stood to either side of the throne. The three of them made an imposing sight.

King Sylvarresta came forward, to the end of the crimson carpet before the throne. He knelt on one knee, bowed his head. “Jas Laren Sylvarresta, at your service, Lord. And I present my wife, your dear cousin Venetta Moshan Sylvarresta, as requested.”

Queen Sylvarresta watched her husband bow, stood uncertainly for a moment, then bowed slightly, eyes wary, watching the Wolf Lord.

When her head was nearest the floor, Raj Ahten leapt forward, his body a blur, and drew the short sword from his sheath.

Venetta's crown, snatched from her head by Raj Ahten's blade, went flying, rang off the stone ceiling.

“You are presumptuous!” Raj Ahten warned.

Iome's mother watched the Wolf Lord. “I am a queen, still,” she said in her own defense.

“That will be for me to decide,” Raj Ahten said. He drove the sword through the cushion of the Queen's throne, left it as he sat back down. He pulled off his gauntlets, tossed them beside him on the Queen's throne. He clutched the arms of his chair, betraying to Iome just the slightest nervousness. He wanted something from them. Needed something. She could tell.

“I've been more than patient with you. You, Jas Laren Sylvarresta, financed knights who attacked me without provocation. I've come to insure that such attacks cease. I require...an acceptable tribute.”

Iome's father said nothing for a moment. Her mother knelt near the throne. “What would you have of us?” King Sylvarresta asked at last.

“Assurance, that you will never fight me again.”

“You have my word,” Sylvarresta said. He looked up now, focused all his attention on the Wolf Lord.

Raj Ahten said heavily. “I thank you. Your oath is not a thing I take lightly. You have been an honorable lord to your people, Sylvarresta. An evenhanded lord. Your realm is clean, prosperous. Your people have many endowments to give me. If times were not so dark, I would like to think you and I could have been allies. But...

“We have great enemies massing, south of our borders.”

“Inkarrans?” Sylvarresta asked.

Raj Ahten waved his hands in dismissal. “Worse. Reavers. They have been breeding like rabbits for thirty years. They've laid the forests of Denham bare. They've driven the nomen from their sanctuaries in the mountains. In another season, the reavers will come against us. I intend to stop them. I'll need your help, the help of all the Northern kingdoms. I intend to take control.”

Iome felt confused by this. Apparently, her father was just as confused. “We could beat them!” Sylvarresta said. “The Northern kingdoms would unite in such a cause. You don't need to prosecute this war alone!”

“And who would lead our armies?” Raj Ahten asked. “You? King Orden? Me? You know better than that.”

The heart seemed to go out of Iome's father. Raj Ahten was right. No one could lead the Northern kings. There were too many political divisions, too many moral strifes, too many petty jealousies and ancient rivalries. If Orden led an army south, someone would stay to attack his weakened cities.

Least of all would anyone trust Raj Ahten, the Wolf Lord. For hundreds of years, the Runelords had attacked any leader who sought too much power, who grasped too far. In ancient times, certain robbers, greedy for any power they could get, would use the forcibles to take endowments from wolves, and thus became known as Wolf Lords.

Men who desired an uncanny sense of smell or hearing often took endowments from pups, for dogs gave them willingly and required little in the way of support thereafter. Even stamina or brawn were taken from mastiffs, bred for just that purpose.

Yet men who took endowments from dogs became subhuman, part animal themselves. Thus the euphemism Wolf Lord became a term of derision used for any man of low morals, including men like Raj Ahten, who might never have taken an endowment from a dog.

No king of the North would follow Raj Ahten. Men who earned the title Wolf Lord became outcasts. Honorable lords were duty bound to fund the Knights Equitable in their wars and assassinations. Like wolves caught in the sheep fold, Wolf Lords were accorded no mercy.

“It doesn't have to be this way,” Sylvarresta said. “There are other ways to prosecute this war. A tithe of knights from each kingdom...”

“It does have to be this way,” Raj Ahten corrected. “Would you dare dispute me on this point? I have a thousand endowments of wit, to your...” He gazed into King Sylvarresta's eyes a flickering second, studying the intelligence there. "...two.”

It could have been a guess, Iome thought, but she knew better. There was a saying: “A wise king does not garner all wit, instead he also allows his counselors to be wise.” In the North, it was considered wasteful to take more than four endowments of wit. A lord who did so remembered everything he ever heard, all he ever saw or thought or felt. Sylvarresta would not have taken more than four. Yet how had Raj Ahten recognized that Iome's father had but two endowments active?

Raj Ahten's declaration, that he'd taken wit from a thousand, took the breath from Iome. She could not comprehend such a thing. Some lords swore that a few more endowments of wit granted a Runelord some benefit—extra creativity, deeper wisdom.

Raj Ahten folded his hands. “I've studied the reavers—how they are spreading into our kingdoms in tiny pockets, each with a new queen. The infestation is wide.

“Now, Sylvarresta, despite your peaceable assurances, I require more from you. Lay bare your flesh.”

Clumsy from nervousness, with all the grace of a trained bear, King Sylvarresta untied the sash of his robe, shrugged off the midnight blue silk, till his hairy chest lay bare. The red scars of forcibles showed beneath his right nipple, like the mark of a lover's teeth. Raj Ahten read Sylvarresta's strengths in a glance.

“Your wit, Sylvarresta. I will have your wit.”

Iome's father seemed to cave in on himself, dropped to both knees. He knew what it would be like, to pee his own pants, not knowing his name, not recognizing his wife or children, his dearest friends. In the past day he'd already felt keen pain as memories were lost to him. He shook his head.

“Do you mean you will not give it, or cannot?” Raj Ahten asked.

Lord Sylvarresta spread both hands wide, shaking his head, unable to speak.

“Will not? But you must—” Raj Ahten said.

“I can't!” Iome's father cried. “Take my life instead.”

“I don't want your death,” Raj Ahten said. “What value is that to me? But your wit!”

“I can't!” Sylvarresta said.

To give an enemy an endowment was one thing, but Raj Ahten would take more than just Sylvarresta's wit. Because Sylvarresta was already endowed, Raj Ahten would make King Sylvarresta his vector.

A man could only grant one endowment in his life, and when that endowment was granted, it created a magic channel, a bond between lord and vassal that could only be broken by death. If the lord died, the endowment returned to its giver. If the vassal died, the lord lost the attributes he had gained.

But if a man like Sylvarresta granted his wit to Raj Ahten, he would give not only his own wit, but also all the wit he received from his Dedicates, plus all wit he might ever receive in the future. As a vector, Sylvarresta became a living conduit. He would give Raj Ahten the wit he had taken, and might even be used to channel the wit of hundreds to Raj Ahten.

“You can give it me, with the proper incentive,” Raj Ahten assured him. “What of your people? You care for them, don't you. You have trusted friends, servants, among your Dedicates? Your sacrifice could save them. If I have to kill you, I won't leave your Dedicates alive—men and women who can no longer offer endowments, men and women who might seek vengeance against me.”

“I can't!” Sylvarresta said.

“Not even to buy the lives of a hundred vassals, a thousand?”

Iome hated this, hated the pregnant silence that followed. Raj Ahten had to get the endowment willingly. Some lords sought to assure the necessary degree of longing through love, others by offering lucre. Raj Ahten used blackmail.

“What of your beautiful wife—my cousin?” Raj Ahten asked. “What of her life? Would you give the endowment to buy her life? To buy her sanity. You would not want to see such a lovely thing ill-used.”

“Don't do it!” Iome's mother said. “He can't break me!”

“You could save her life. Not only would she keep it, but she would remain on the throne, ruling as regent in my stead. The throne she loves so much.”

King Sylvarresta turned to his queen, jaw quivering. He nodded, hesitantly.

“No!” Venetta Sylvarresta cried. In that moment, she spun and ran. Iome thought she would hit the wall, but realized too late that she'd not headed for the wall, but for the full-length windows behind the Days.

Suddenly, faster than sight could account, Raj Ahten was at her side, holding her right wrist. Venetta struggled in his grasp.

She turned to him, grimacing. “Please!” she said, grasping Raj Ahten's own wrist.

Then, suddenly, she squeezed, digging her nails into the Wolf Lord's wrist until blood flowed. With a victorious cry, she looked Raj Ahten in the eyes.

Venetta shouted to her husband, “Now you see how to kill a Wolf Lord, my sweet!”

Iome suddenly remembered the clear lacquer on the nails, and she understood—the Queen's distress had been a ruse, a plot to get Raj Ahten near so that she could plunge her poisoned fingernails into his flesh.

Venetta stepped back, holding her bloodied nails high, as if to display them for Raj Ahten before he collapsed.

Raj Ahten raised his right arm, stared at the wrist in dismay. The blood in it blackened, and the wrist began to swell horribly.

He held it up, as if in defiance, and gazed into Venetta's eyes for a long moment, several heartbeats, until Venetta paled with fear.

Iome glanced at the arm. The bloody cuts in Raj Ahten's wrist had healed seamlessly in a matter of seconds, and now the blackened arm began to regain its natural color.

How many endowments of stamina did the Wolf Lord have? How many of metabolism? Iome had never seen such healing power, had heard of it only in legend.

Raj Ahten smiled, a terrifying, predatory smile.

“Ah, so I cannot trust you, Venetta,” he whispered. “I am a sentimental man. I had hoped family could be spared.”

He slapped her with the back of his fist, the slap of Runelord. The side of Venetta's face caved in under the force of the blow, splattering blood through the air, and her neck snapped. The blow knocked her back a dozen feet, so that she hit the glass of the oriel.

She crashed through, the weight of her dead body pulling at the long red drapes as she did, and for half a second she seemed to stand still in the night air, before she plummeted the five stories.

Her body splatted against the broad paving stones in the courtyard below.

Iome stood in shock.

Her father cried out, and Raj Ahten stared at the splintered panes of colored glass, the red drapes waving in the stiffening breeze, annoyed.

Raj Ahten said, “My condolences, Sylvarresta. You see that I had no other choice. Of course, there are always those who think it easier to kill or die, than to live in service. And they are correct. Death requires no effort.”

Iome felt as if a hole had ripped in her heart. Her father only sat on bended knees, shaking. “Now,” Raj Ahten continued, “we were about to conclude a bargain. I want your wit. A few more endowments of it benefits me little. But it gains much for you. Give me your wit, and your daughter, Iome, will rule in your stead, as regent. Agreed?”

Iome's father sobbed, nodded dumbly, “Bring your forcibles then. Let me forget this day, my loss, and become as a child.”

He would give the endowment to keep his daughter alive.

In that moment, Iome knelt again, terrified. She could not think, could not think what to do. “Remember who you are” her mother had said. But what did that mean? I am a princess, a servant of my people, she thought. Should I strike at Raj Ahten, follow my mother through the window? What does that buy?

As regent she would have some power. She could still fight Raj Ahten subtly, so long as she lived. She could give her people some measure of happiness, of freedom.

Certainly, that was why her father still lived, why he didn't choose to fight to the death, as her mother had.

Iome's heart hammered, and she could think of nothing to do, could formulate no worthwhile plan, but remembered Gaborn's face earlier in the day. The promise on his lips. “I am your Protector. I will return for you.

But what could Gaborn do? He couldn't fight Raj Ahten.

Yet Iome had to hope.

Raj Ahten nodded to a guard. “Call the facilitators.”

In moments, Raj Ahten's facilitators entered the room, cruel little men in saffron robes. One bore a forcible on a satin pillow.

Raj Ahten's facilitators were well practiced, masters of their craft. One began the incantation, and the other held King Sylvarresta, coached him through it. “Watch your daughter, sirrah,” he said in a thick Kartish accent. “This you do for her. Do for her. She everything. She the one you love. You do for her.”

Iome stood before him, dazed, listened to her father's cries as the forcible heated. She daubed the sweat from his brow as the metal suddenly twisted like something alive. She gazed into his clear gray eyes as the forcible drew away the endowment, sucked the intelligence from him, until she could tell that he no longer remembered her name, but only cried in stupid agony.

She sobbed herself when he gave his final scream of pain, and collapsed at her feet.

Then the facilitator went to Raj Ahten, bearing the white-hot forcible trailing a ribbon of light, and Raj Ahten pulled off his helm, so that his long dark hair fell around his shoulders, then pulled off his scale mail, opened his leather jerkin to expose his muscular chest. It was a mass of scars, so marked by forcibles that Iome could see only a few faint traces of unmarked flesh.

As he took the endowment, Raj Ahten sat back on the throne, eyes glazed in satisfaction, watching Iome narrowly.

She wanted to rage against him, to pummel him with her fists, but dared do nothing but sit at her father's head, smoothing back his hair, trying to comfort him.

The King opened his eyes, regaining consciousness for half a second, and he stared up at Iome, his mouth open, as if wondering what strange and beautiful creature he beheld. “Gaaagh,” he bawled; then a pool of urine began to spread on the red carpets beneath him.

“Father, Father,” Iome whispered softly, kissing him, hoping that in time he would at least learn that she loved him.

Finished with their incantations, the facilitators left. Raj Ahten reached over to his sword, pulled it from the Queen's throne.

“Come, take your place beside me,” he said. Once again, she saw that undisguised lust in his face, and did not know if he lusted for her body or for her endowments.

Iome found herself halfway to the throne before she realized that he'd used his Voice to order her. To be manipulated this way angered her.

She sat on the throne, tried not to look at Raj Ahten's face, at his incredibly handsome face.

“You understand why I must do this, don't you?” he asked.

Iome didn't answer.

“Someday you will thank me.” Raj Ahten studied her frankly. “Have you studied in the House of Understanding, or have you read the chronicles?”

Iome nodded. She'd read the chronicles—at least selected passages.

“Have you heard the name of Daylan Hammer?”

Iome had. “The warrior?”

“The chroniclers called him 'the Sum of All Men.' Sixteen hundred and eighty-eight years ago, he defeated the Toth invaders and their magicians, here on Rofehavan's own shores. He defeated them almost single-handedly. He had so many endowments of stamina that when a sword passed through his heart, it would heal up again as the blade exited. Do you know how many endowments that takes?”

Iome shook her head.

“I do,” Raj Ahten said, pulling back his shirt. “Try it, if you like.”

Iome had her poniard strapped under her skirts. She hesitated just a moment. It seemed ghoulish, yet she might never have another chance to stab the man.

She pulled it, looked into his eyes. Raj Ahten watched her, confident, Iome plunged the dagger up between his ribs, saw the pain in his eyes, heard him give a startled gasp. She twisted the blade, yet no blood flowed down the runnel. Only a slight red film oozed where the blade met flesh. She pulled the blade free.

The wound closed as the bloody blade exited.

“You see?” Raj Ahten asked. “Neither your mother's poison nor your own dagger can hurt me. Among Runelords, there has never been another of Daylan's equal. Until now.

“It is said in my country that when he'd received enough endowments, he no longer needed to take them. The love of his people supported him, it flowed to him. When his Dedicates died, his powers remained, undiminished.”

She'd never read that. It defied her understanding of the art of the Runelords. Yet she hoped it was true. She hoped that such a thing could be, that Raj Ahten would someday quit draining people like her father.

“I think,” Raj Ahten said softly, “that I am nearly there. I think I shall be his equal, and that I shall defeat the reavers without the loss of fifty million human lives, as would happen under any other plan.”

Iome looked into his eyes, wanting to hate him for what he'd done. Her father lay in his own urine on the floor at her feet. Her mother was dead on the paving stones outside the keep. Yet Iome looked into Raj Ahten's face, and she could not hate him. He seemed...so sincere. So beautiful.

He reached out, stroked her hand, and she dared not pull away. She wondered if he would try to seduce her. She wondered if she'd have the strength to fight him if he did.

“So sweet. If you were not my kin, I'd take you as a wife. But I'm afraid propriety forbids it. Now, Iome, you too must do your part to help me defeat the reavers. You will give me your glamour.”

Iome's heart pounded. She imagined how it would be, with skin as rough as leather, the cobwebs of her hair falling from her head, the way the veins would stick out on her legs. The dry smell of her breath. To look, to smell, to be repulsive.

Yet that was not half the horror of it. Glamour was more than beauty, more than physical loveliness. It could be recognized partly as form, but just as much was manifest in the color of one's skin, the glossiness of one's hair, the light that shone in one's eyes. It could be seen in posture, in poise, in determination. The heart of it often lay somewhere in a person's confidence in and love of self.

So, depending on the ruthlessness of the facilitator involved, all these could be drawn away, leaving the new Dedicate both ugly and filled with self-loathing.

Iome shook her head. She had to fight him, had to fight Raj Ahten any way she could. Yet she could think of nothing, no way to strike back.

“Come, child,” Raj Ahten said smoothly. “What would you do with all your beauty, if I left it to you? Lure some prince to your bed? What a petty desire. You could do it. But afterward you would only spend your life in regret. You've seen how men look at you with lust in their eyes. You've seen how they stare, always wanting you. Certainly you must tire of it.”

When he put it that way, in such a silky voice, Iome felt wretched. It seemed vile and selfish to want to be beautiful.

“In the desert near where I was born,” Raj Ahten said, “a great monument, a statue, stands three hundred feet tall, half tilted in the sand. It is the statue of a king, long forgotten, his face scoured away by wind. A banner at his feet, written in an ancient language, says, 'All bow to the Great Ozyvarius, who rules the earth, whose kingdom shall never fail!'

“Yet all the scribes in the world cannot tell me who that king is, or how long ago he reigned.

“We have always been such fleeting creatures,” Raj Ahten whispered. “We have always been so temporary. But together, Iome, we can become something more.”

The craving in his voice, the hunger, almost drove all reason from Iome's mind. Almost she felt willing to give him her beauty. But a wiser voice in the back of her mind nagged. “No, I would die, I would be nothing.”

“You would not die,” Raj Ahten said. “If I become the Sum of All Men, your beauty would live on in me. Some part of you would always remain, to be loved, to be admired.”

“No,” Iome said in horror.

Raj Ahten glanced at the floor, where King Sylvarresta still lay in a foul heap. “Not even to save his life?”

Then Iome knew, she knew, that her father would tell her not to make this bargain. “No,” Iome shuddered.

“It is a horrible thing, to put an idiot among the torturers. All that pain your father would have to endure, never understanding why, never knowing that there is such a thing as death that could bring him release, with the torturers repeating your name each time they put the hot irons to him, so that in time, even at the mention of your name, he would cry out in pain. It would be truly horrible.”

The cruelty inherent in such an idea left Iome numb. She looked at Raj Ahten, her heart breaking. She could not say yes.

The Wolf Lord nodded to one of his men. “Bring in the girl.”

The guard left the chamber, returned quickly with Chemoise. Chemoise, who should have been in the Dedicates' Keep, comforting her father. Chemoise, who had already suffered so much this week, lost so much to Raj Ahten.

How had Raj Ahten known what Iome felt for her dear friend? Had Iome betrayed the girl with a glance?

Chemoise had wide, frightened eyes. She began weeping in terror when she saw the King lying on the floor. Shrieked when Raj Ahten's guard took her to the broken window, poised to throw her over the edge.

Iome's heart hammered, as she watched her childhood friend begin to gibber in fear. Two lives. Raj Ahten would be killing two—Chemoise and her unborn child.

Chemoise, forgive me for this betrayal, Iome wanted to say. For she knew, she knew with her whole soul, that surrender was wrong. If no one had ever surrendered, Raj Ahten would be dead by now. Yet she also knew that to give her glamour to Raj Ahten would benefit him little, while it saved the lives of Iome's friends.

“I cannot give you an endowment,” Iome said, unable to disguise the loathing in her words. She could not give it to him. Not to him personally.

“If not me, a vector, then,” Raj Ahten offered.

Something in Iome's heart tripped. A balance was found. She could give her beauty—give it for her father, for Chemoise. So long as she did not have to give it to Raj Ahten. Her voice broke as she said, “Bring your forcible, then.”

Moments later the forcibles were fetched, along with a wretched woman who had given her glamour. So Iome looked upon the hag in dirty gray robes and saw what she would become, and struggled to see what beauty had ever been hidden inside the woman.

Then the chants began. Iome watched Chemoise, still poised on the ledge, and silently willed her beauty away, willed herself to buy something lovely and eternally precious with it. The life of a friend, and the baby she carried.

There was a rustling in the darkness, and a tiny glowing streamer of phosphorous fire as the facilitator approached, put the forcible low on her neck, almost against her bosom.

For half a moment, nothing happened, and someone whispered, “For your friend. Do it for your friend.”

Iome nodded, sweat pouring down her brow. She held the image of Chemoise in her mind, Chemoise holding a child in her arms, nuzzling it.

Iome felt the unspeakable pain of the forcible, opened her eyes, saw the skin of her hands dry and crack as if they burned in the infernal heat. The veins rose on her wrists like roots, and her nails became brittle as chalk.

Her firm young breasts sank, and she grabbed at them, feeling the loss keenly. She regretted the trade now, but it was too late. She felt...as if she stood in the river, and the sand at her feet flowed out from under her, undermining her. Everything that was hers, all her beauty, her allure, flowed out and away, into the forcible.

Her lustrous hair withered and twisted on her head like worms.

Iome cried in pain and horror, and more flowed out from her still. For a moment, it was as if she gazed into oblivion and saw herself, and loathed what she saw. She understood for the first time in her life that she was nothing, had always been nothing, a no one, a cipher. She feared to cry out, lest others take offense at the sound of her wretched voice.

That is a lie. I am not so ugly as that, she cried out to Raj Ahten in her soul. My beauty you can have, but not my soul.

And then she moved away from the precipice, and felt only...alone. Utterly alone, and in unspeakable pain.

Somehow, she managed a rare feat: she did not faint from the rigors of the forcible, though she imagined that her whole body would be consumed in the fires.

11 Commitments

Cold black river water swirled around Gaborn's thighs, like a dead hand trying to pull him downstream. Rowan, in the darkness on the bank just above him, groaned fiercely in pain, doubled over.

“What's wrong?” Gaborn whispered, hardly daring to part his lips.

“The Queen—she's dead,” Rowan whimpered.

Then he understood. After years of loss of feeling, years of numbness, now the whole world of sensation rushed upon Rowan—the cold of the water and of the night, the pain of her bruised feet, her fatigue after a hard day's work, and countless other minor injuries.

Those who gave an endowment of touch, once all their senses returned, felt all the world anew, as if for the first time. The shock of it could be phenomenal, even deadly, for the sensations came twenty times stronger than before. Gaborn worried for the young woman, worried that she might not be able to travel. The water here was bracing cold. Certainly he could not hope to bring Rowan through it.

Yet, even worse, if the Queen was dead, Gaborn feared that Raj Ahten was slaughtering the other members of the royal family—King Sylvarresta and Iome.

Commitments. Gaborn had made too many commitments. He felt overwhelmed. He'd accepted responsibility for Rowan, dared not move her, dared not try to take her through the river. Yet he'd also promised to save Iome, to go to her.

Gaborn wanted to kneel in the river, let it cool the burning wound in his ribs. Overhead, a slight breeze made the branches of the alders and birches sway. Here in the deep shadows, he could see the water downstream, reflecting the orange firelight.

Binnesman's garden was aflame. On the far bank of the river, the nomen were grunting, shadows moving in a greater darkness, trying to spot Gaborn. Yet he was well hidden here in this thicket, so long as he didn't move. The Frowth giants hunted in the shallows downstream. He suspected that he could swim out of here alone, flee Castle Sylvarresta and bear the news of its fall to his father. He was a fast swimmer. In spite of the fact that the water was shallow, he thought he might make it. But he couldn't hope to do so with Rowan.

Gaborn could not possibly leave Castle Sylvarresta.

I swore to Iome, he realized. I took an oath. She is under my protection, both as a Runelord, and now as a part of my vow to the earth. Both were vows he could not lightly break.

A day earlier, in the market at Bannisferre, Myrrima had chided Gaborn for not making commitments easily. It was true. He dared not make them.

“What is a Runelord,” his mother had taught him as a child, “but a man who keeps an oath? Your vassals give you endowments, and you grant them protection in return. They give you wit, and you lead wisely. They grant you brawn, and you fight like a reaver. They bestow stamina, and you work long hours in their behalf. You live for them. And if you love them as you should, you die for them. No vassal will waste an endowment on a Runelord who lives only for himself.”

These were the words Queen Orden had taught her son. She had been a strong woman, one who taught Gaborn that beneath his father's callous exterior, there lived a man of firm principle. It was true that in years past, King Orden had purchased endowments from the poor, and while some considered this behavior morally suspect, a way of taking advantage of the poor, King Orden had seen it differently. He'd said, “Some people love money more than they love their fellow men. Why not turn such people's weakness into your strength?”

Why not indeed? It was a good argument, from a man who sought only the betterment of his kingdom. Yet in the past three years, his father had given up the practice, had quit taking endowments from the poor. He'd told Gaborn, “I was wrong. I'd buy endowments still, if only I had the wisdom to judge other's motives.” But the poor who sought to sell endowments usually had many reasons for doing so: even the most craven of them had some ennobling love of family and kin and could therefore imagine that by selling an endowment, they were performing an act of self-sacrifice. But then there were the desperate poor, those who saw no other way to escape poverty than to sell themselves. “Purchase my hearing,” one farmer had once begged Gaborn's father after the great floods four years past. “What need have I of ears, when all I hear are the cries of hungry children?” The world was full of despairing creatures, people who for one reason or another had given up on life. Gaborn's father had not purchased the farmer's hearing. Instead, he'd given the man food to last the winter, timber and workers to rebuild his home, seed to plant for the coming spring.

Hope. He'd given the man hope. Gaborn wondered what Iome would think of his father if she knew this tale. Perhaps she'd think better of him. He hoped that she would live to hear it.

Gaborn glanced up through the tree trunks, slashes of black against a dark background. To look toward the city, to look toward the castle walls, filled him with despair.

I can do little to fight Raj Ahten, he considered. It was true that he might be able to hide in the city, perhaps ambush a soldier here and there. But how long could he last? How long could he keep it up before he was caught? Not long.

Yet of what help am I to my charges, if I flee now? Gaborn wondered. He should have done more. He should have tried to save Iome, and Binnesman...and all the rest.

True, his father needed to know that Castle Sylvarresta had fallen, and he needed to know the manner of its capture.

And the lure of home drew Gaborn. No matter how much he admired the strength of people in Heredon, the stately stone buildings with their ceilings so high, so cool and breezy, the pleasure gardens at every turn, it was not a familiar place.

Gaborn had not been to the palace much for eight years, had spent nearly all his time some fifty miles from home, in the House of Understanding, with its resolute scholars and stark dormitories. He'd looked forward to going home after this trip. For years now he'd longed to sleep in the big, cotton-filled bed he'd enjoyed as a child, to wake to the feel of the morning wind blowing from the wheat fields through his lace curtains.

He'd imagined that he'd spend his winter eating decent food, studying battle tactics with his father, dueling with the soldiers in the guard. Borenson had promised to introduce Gaborn to some of the finer alehouses in Mystarria. And there was Iome, whose gentleness among her people had seduced him as no other could. He'd hoped to take her home.

So many pleasures he'd imagined.

Gaborn wanted to go home. It was silly, this wish to be taken care of, to live without cares, as if he were a child.

Gaborn remembered being a child, hunting rabbits in the hazelnut orchard with his old red hound. He remembered days when his father had taken him to fish for trout in Dewflood Stream, where the weeping willows bent low over the water and green inchworms hung from the willow branches on silken threads, taunting the trout. In those days, life, it seemed, was an endless summer.

But Gaborn could not return.

He despaired at the thought of even getting away from Castle Sylvarresta alive.

For the moment, he could see no convincing reason to leave here. Gaborn's father would hear of the castle's fall soon enough. Peasants would noise the tale abroad. King Orden was on his way. Perhaps three days. He'd hear of this by tomorrow.

No, Gaborn did not need to warn his father, could not leave the castle. He needed to get Rowan to safety, someplace warm, where she could heal. He needed to help Iome. And he'd made a greater commitment.

He had made a vow never to harm the earth. It should be an easy vow to keep, he thought, for he wished the earth no harm. Yet as he considered, he wondered at the intent of the oath. Right now, the flameweavers were burning Binnesman's garden. Was Gaborn bound by oath to fight the flameweavers, to stop them?

He listened deep in his heart, wondering, seeking to feel the earth's will in this matter.

The fire on the hill suddenly grew brighter, or perhaps the firelight was now also reflecting from clouds of smoke above. The smell of sweet smoke was cloying. Across the river, a noman barked. Gaborn could hear others growling. It was said that nomen feared water. Gaborn hoped they feared it enough that they would not swim the river to search for him.

In the matter of the garden, Gaborn felt nothing. No urge to either stop the burning or to accept it. Certainly if Binnesman had wanted to fight for it, he'd have done so.

Gaborn silently slogged up from the river, went to Rowan, who still crouched among the willows.

He put his arm around her, held her, wondering what to do, where to hide. He wished the earth would hide him now, wished for some deep hole to crawl into. And he felt...a Tightness on wishing that, felt that the earth would protect him that way.

“Rowan, do you know a place here in the city where we can hide? A cellar, a pit?”

“Hide? Aren't we going to swim?”

“The water's too shallow and too cold. You can't swim it.” Gaborn licked his lips. “So I'm going to stay and fight Raj Ahten as best I can. He has soldiers and Dedicates here. I can best strike a blow against him if I stay.”

Rowan leaned close, seeking to warm herself. Her teeth chattered. He felt the tantalizing softness of her breasts against his chest, her hair blowing against his cheek. She was trembling, perhaps more from the cold than from fear. She'd gotten wet crawling through the stream, and she did not have Gaborn's stamina to help her weather the cold.

“You're staying because you're afraid for me,” she whispered, teeth chattering. “But I can't stay. Raj Ahten will demand an accounting...”

It was common for a new king to take an accounting of all his people, to find out who owed money to the kingdom. Of course, Raj Ahten's facilitators would be there, looking for potential Dedicates. When Raj Ahten's men learned that Rowan had been a Dedicate for the dead queen, they would probably torment her.

“Perhaps,” Gaborn said. “We can worry about that later. But now we need to hide. So tell me of such a place: a hole. A place where the scent is strong.”

“The spice cellars?” Rowan whispered. “Up by the King's stables.”

“Cellars?” Gaborn said, sensing that this was the place. This was where the earth would lead him.

“In the summer, Binnesman lays up herbs for sale, and at the festival the King buys others. The cellar is full now, with many boxes. It's up the hill, above the stables.”

Gaborn wondered. They wouldn't have to go far into the city, and would merely be doubling back on their own trail, confusing the scent. “What about guards? Spices are valuable.”

Rowan shook her head. “The cook's boy sleeps in a room above the cellars. But he—well, he's been known to nap through a thunderstorm.”

Gaborn picked up the little bundle of forcibles, struggled to put them in the wide pocket of his robe. The cellars seemed to be the kind of place he needed. Someplace secretive, someplace where his scent would be covered.

“Let's go,” he said, but he didn't head directly back uphill. Instead, he picked up Rowan in his arms, carried her down to the river, and began creeping upstream in the shallows, hunching low, trying to cover his scent.

He headed upriver, hugging the reeds. Ahead of him, the waters grew fast. A millrace split off from the river, fed into the moat. The banks along the race had been built high, so that when Gaborn reached it, he was able to wade through the shallows with good cover, until he came right up under the thundering waterwheel, splashing and grinding. To his right was a stone wall, dividing the millrace from the main course of the river and its broad diversion dam. To his left was the mill house and a steep trail up to the castle.

Gaborn stopped. He could go forward no farther, needed now to climb the banks of the millrace, then take the trail up through the trees, to the castle wall again.

He turned, began climbing the bank of the millrace. The grass here was brown and dying, tall rye stubble.

Ahead he spotted a ferrin, a fierce little rat-faced man with a sharp stick to use as a spear, outside the mill house. He stood guard over a hole in the foundation, his back to Gaborn.

As Gaborn watched, a second ferrin scooted out from the hole, carrying a small cloth by its ends. They'd stolen flour from the floor of the mill, probably nothing more than sweepings. Yet it was dangerous business for a ferrin. Many had been killed for less.

Before standing in plain view and frightening the creatures, Gaborn searched downstream for signs of pursuit, his eyes just level with the tops of the grass.

Sure enough, six shadows moved at the edge of the water, under the trees. Men with swords and bows. One wore splint mail. So Raj Ahten's scouts had found his trail again.

Gaborn clung to the side of the slope of the millrace, hidden in tall grass. He watched the soldiers for two long minutes. They'd discovered their dead comrade, followed Gaborn's and Rowan's scent to the river's edge.

Several men were looking downstream. Of course they expected him to go downstream, to swim past the giants, into the relative safety of the Dunnwood. It seemed the only sane thing for Gaborn to do. Now that he'd fled the castle, they wouldn't expect him to sneak back in.

If they pursued him into the Dunnwood, they'd find his scent aplenty, for Gaborn had ridden through this morning.

But the fellow in splint mail was staring toward the mill, squinting. Gaborn was downwind from them. He didn't think the man could smell him. Yet perhaps the man was just cautious.

Or perhaps he'd seen the ferrin above Gaborn, spotted movement. The ferrin was dark brown in color, standing before gray stone. Gaborn wanted it to move, so that the scout below would see the creature more clearly.

In his years in the House of Understanding, Gaborn had not bothered to study in the Room of Tongues. Beyond his own Rofehavanish he could speak only a smattering of Indhopalese. When he had a few more endowments of wit and could grasp such things more easily, he planned to make languages a further study.

Yet on cold nights during the winter, he'd frequented an alehouse with certain unsavory friends. One of them, a minor cutpurse, had trained a pair of ferrin to hunt for coins, which he exchanged for food. The ferrin could have gotten coins anywhere—lost coins dropped in the streets, stolen from shop floors, taken from dead men's eyes in the tombs.

This friend had spoken a few words of ferrin, a very crude language composed of shrill whistles and growls. Gaborn had enough endowments of Voice that he could duplicate it.

He whistled now. “Food. Food. I give.”

Up above him, the ferrin turned, startled. “What? What?” the ferrin guard growled. “I hear you.” The words l-hear-you was often a request for the speaker to repeat himself. The ferrin tended to locate others of their kind by their whistling calls.

“Food. I give,” Gaborn whistled in a friendly tone. It was a full tenth of all the ferrin vocabulary that Gaborn could command.

From the woods above the mill, a dozen answering voices whistled. “I hear you. I hear you,” followed by phrases Gaborn didn't understand. It might have been that these ferrin spoke another dialect, for many of their shrieks and growls sounded familiar. He thought he heard the word “Come!” repeated several times.

Then, suddenly, half a dozen ferrin were running around the paving stones of the mill house, coming down from the trees. More ferrin had been hiding up there than Gaborn had seen.

They stuck their small snouts in the air and approached Gaborn cautiously, growling, “What? Food?”

Gaborn glanced downriver, wondering at the scouts' reaction. The man in splint mail could see the ferrin now, a dozen of them, sauntering around the foundations of the mill. Reason dictated that if Gaborn were near, the ferrin would have scattered.

After a moment's hesitation, the scout in splint mail waved his broadsword toward both banks, while he shouted orders to his men. With the thundering of the waterwheel in his ears, Gaborn could not hear the orders.

But presently, all six hunters hurried back uphill into the trees, angling south. They would search the woods, downstream.

When Gaborn felt sure they were gone, and that no prying eyes watched his direction, he carried Rowan uphill.

12 Offers

Chemoise Solette felt dazed. Watching her best friend, Iome, lose her glamour horrified Chemoise to the core of her soul.

When Raj Ahten finished with the Princess, he turned and gazed into Chemoise's eyes. His nostrils flared as he judged her.

“You are a beautiful young creature,” Raj Ahten whispered. “Serve me.”

Chemoise could not hide the revulsion she felt at those words. Iome sill lay on the floor, dazed, barely conscious. Chemoise's father still lay in the wagon down in the Dedicates' Keep.

She said nothing in response. Raj Ahten smiled weakly.

Raj Ahten could take no endowment from a woman who hated him so intensely, and his Voice would not sway Chemoise. But he could take other things. He let his gaze drift down to her waist, as if she stood naked before him. “Put this one in the Dedicates' Keep, for now. Let her care for her king and her princess.”

A chill of horror crept over Chemoise, and she dared hope that while she was in the keep, Raj Ahten would forget her.

So a guard took Chemoise's elbow, pulled her down the narrow stairs out of the Great Hall and up the street to the Dedicates' Keep, and thrust her through the portcullis. There he spoke a few words in Indhopalese to the guards who'd just been posted. The guards smiled with knowing grins.

Chemoise ran back to her father, who had been dragged into the Dedicates' Hall, and now lay on a clean pallet.

The sight of him felt painful, for his wound ran deep and had festered so many years.

Chemoise's father, Eremon Vottania Solette, was a Knight Equitable, sworn to bring down the Wolf Lord Raj Ahten. It was an oath he had not taken lightly seven years ago, the day he disavowed himself from Sylvarresta's service to ride through the spring-green fields for the far kingdom of Aven.

It was an oath that had cost him everything. Chemoise remembered how tall he'd sat in the saddle, how proud she'd been. He'd been a great warrior, had seemed invincible to a nine-year-old girl.

Now his clothing smelled of moldy straw and sour sweat. His muscles clenched uselessly, his chin shoved against his chest. She got a rag and some water, began to clean him. He cried out in pain as she rubbed his ankle. She studied it, found both legs horribly scarred. The skin around his ankles was red, hair rubbed away.

Raj Ahten had kept her father in chains these past six years. Such treatment for Dedicates was unheard of. After years of such abuse, she felt amazed that he even remained alive. Here in the North, Dedicates were pampered, honored, treated with affection. It was rumored that Raj Ahten had begun taking slaves to feed his need for Dedicates.

While Chemoise waited for the cooks to bring broth from the kitchens, she merely held his hand, kissing it over and over. He stared up at her with haunted eyes, unable to blink.

Chemoise heard a scream from the King's Keep, someone giving endowments. To take her mind from the noise, she began whispering. “Oh, Father, I'm so glad you're here. I've waited so long for this.”

His eyes crinkled in a sad smile, and he breathed heavily.

She didn't know how to tell him she was carrying a child. She wanted him to be happy, to believe that all was well in her life. She did not want to admit how she'd dishonored the princess. She hoped her father would never need to know the truth, that grand illusions might give him some peace.

“Father, I'm married now,” she whispered, “to Sergeant Dreys, of the palace guard. He was only a boy when you left. Do you remember him?”

Her father twisted his head to the side, half of a shake. “He's a good man, very kind. The King has granted him lands here near town.” Chemoise wondered if she was spreading it on too heavily. Sergeants seldom got landed. “We live there with his mother and sisters. We're going to have a child, he and I. It's growing inside me.”

She could not tell him the truth, tell how the father had died at the hands of Raj Ahten, tell how she'd gone to call his ghost to the place where she'd made love to him so many nights, bringing dishonor to her family and to her princess. She dared not tell how Dreys' wight had come to her that evening, a cold shade that now lodged within her.

Yet that night, when she had felt the first fluttering movements of the babe within her, it had seemed a miracle.

Chemoise took her father's hand, which seemed clenched in a permanent fist, and smoothed out his fingers, opened it, after years of its having lain useless. Her father squeezed her hand, a sign of affection and thanksgiving, but he squeezed so hard. With several endowments of strength, he had a grip like a vise.

At first, Chemoise tried to ignore it. But it grew too strong. She whispered, “Father, don't squeeze so hard.”

His hand tightened in fear, and he tried to pull his arm away, to loosen his grip. But those who gave endowments of grace could not relax, could not easily let their muscles stretch. He clenched her hand more painfully, so that Chemoise bit her lip. “Please...” she begged, wondering if somehow her father knew that she'd lied, was trying to punish her.

Eremon Solette grimaced in apology, struggled with all his might to relax, to stretch his muscles, release Chemoise. For a minute, he only managed to hold her tighter; then Chemoise felt his grip soften.

The cooks had still not brought the broth around for those who'd given endowments of metabolism. Chemoise's father would not be able to eat anything more solid. The smooth muscles of his stomach would not contract properly.

“Father,” Chemoise cried, “I've waited so long. I wanted you so long...I wish you could speak, I wish you could tell me what happened.”

Eremon Vottania Solette had been captured at Aven, at Raj Ahten's winter palace by the sea. He'd scaled the white tower where gauzy lavender curtains fluttered in the wind, and found himself in a room thick with jasmine incense, where many dark-haired women slept on cushions, naked but for thin veils to cover their flesh. Raj Ahten's harem.

A brass water pipe lay on a sandalwood table, with eight mouthpieces wriggling from it like the tentacles of an octopus. The balls of rolled greenish-black opium in the pipe's bowl had all burned to ash. For one moment, he permitted himself to stand, admiring the beauties at his feet.

Coals glowed in golden braziers around the beds, keeping the room pleasantly warm. The sweet musk of the women would have made this room smell of paradise, if not for the bitter tang of opium.

In an adjoining room, he had heard a woman's deranged squealing laughter, the sounds of cavorting. He suddenly had the wild hope he might take Raj Ahten while the Runelord lay naked, his attention diverted.

But as he stood, quietly unsheathing his long dagger, all dressed in black, his back against the wall, a maiden woke, saw him behind the gauzy curtains, hiding.

Eremon had tried to silence her, had leapt to plunge the knife into her throat, but not before she screamed.

A eunuch guard of little note leapt from an alcove, suddenly wakened, and clubbed Eremon with a staff.

The eunuch's name was Salim al Daub, a heavy man with the roundness and womanly voice common to eunuchs, and the soft brown eyes of a doe.

As a reward for capturing an assassin, Raj Ahten presented Salim with a great gift. He offered Salim an endowment of grace, from Eremon himself.

Eremon had thought he would rather die than grant an endowment to Raj Ahten's guard, but Eremon held two secret hopes. The first great hope was that someday he would return to Heredon and see his daughter once more.

He gazed at her, saw how she'd grown beautiful like her mother, and he could not help but weep at seeing his greatest dream fulfilled.

Chemoise watched her father's eyes fill with tears. He gasped for breath, struggling from moment to moment to stay alive, unable to relax enough to let his lungs fill. She wondered how he could have kept this up for six long years.

“Are you all right?” she asked. “What can I do for you?”

For a long moment he struggled to speak two words: “Kill...us.”