Sons of the Oak

Sir Borenson was loath to tell Myrrima that they would have to leave Castle Coorm. It is no small feat to uproot a family and take your children to a far land. Even under the best of circumstances it can be hard, and to do it under this pall of danger…what would she say?

Borenson’s mother had been a shrewish woman, one who drove her husband half mad. Privately, Borenson held the belief that nagging was more than a privilege for a woman, it was her right and her duty. She was, after all, the one who ruled the house when the man was out.

Sheepishly, he had to admit that his wife ruled the house even when he was home.

Myrrima had become entrenched at Coorm. She was a favorite among the ladies and spent hours a day among her friends-knitting, washing, cooking, and gossiping. Her friendships were many and deep, and it would be easier for Borenson to cut off his own arm than to cut her off from her friends.

So when he went to their little house outside the main keep, he was surprised to find the children already packing.

“We’re leaving, Dad!” little five-year-old Draken shouted when he came in. The boy displayed a pillowcase full of clothing as proof. The other children were bustling in their room.

Borenson went upstairs and found his wife, standing there, peering out the window. He came up behind and put his arm around her.

“How did you know?” he asked.

“Gaborn told me. It’s time that we take care of his boys. It was his final wish…”

Myrrima peered out the window. Down in the streets, a group of peasants had gathered outside the Dedicates’ Keep. The facilitators were gathering those who would grant endowments to Mystarria’s warriors-attributes of brawn, grace, metabolism, and stamina.

The peasants were excited. To give an endowment was dangerous. Many a man who gave brawn suddenly found that his heart was too weak to keep beating. Those who gave stamina could take sick and die.

Yet this was their chance to be heroes, to give something of themselves for the good of the kingdom. To give an endowment made them instant heroes in the eyes of family and friends, and it seemed that the darker times became, the more willing folks were to give of themselves.

Myrrima felt inside herself. She had not taken an endowment in nine years. In that time, several of the Dedicates who had granted her attributes had died, and with their passing, Myrrima had lost the blessing of their attributes. Her stamina was lower than it should be, as was her brawn and grace. She still had her endowments of scent, hearing, sight, and metabolism. But in many ways she was diminished.

In the parlance of the day, she was becoming a “warrior of unfortunate proportion,” one who no longer had the right balance of brawn and grace, stamina and metabolism, to be called a true “force warrior.”

Against a more-balanced opponent, she was at an extreme disadvantage.

She caught sight of a light in the uppermost tower of the Dedicates’ Keep. A facilitator was up there singing, his voice piping in birdlike incantations. He waved a forcible in the air, and it left a glowing trail. He peered at the white light, which hung like a luminous worm in the air, and judged its heft and depth.

Suddenly there was a scream as the attribute was sucked from a Dedicate, and the worm of light flashed away into the bosom of some force warrior.

Myrrima felt a twinge of guilt. It was more than the act of voyeurism. She’d always been on the receiving end of the ceremony. They said that there is no pain on earth that compared with giving an endowment. Even childbirth paled beside it. But it was equally true that there was no greater ecstasy than receiving one. It wasn’t just the rush of strength or vigor or intelligence. There was something primal and satisfying about it.

Borenson was watching, too, of course. “Are you tempted?” he asked. “We’re going into danger, and we’ll have the king’s sons in our care. Iome would feel more confident if you were to take further endowments…”

But Myrrima and Borenson had talked about this. He’d sworn off endowments nine years ago, when his Dedicates were slain at Carris. He’d had enough of gore. Dedicates were always targets for the merciless. It was far easier to kill a Dedicate who lent power to a lord than to kill a lord himself. And once a lord’s Dedicates were slain, and he was cut off from the source of his power, killing him was almost as easy as harvesting a cabbage.

So a lord’s Dedicates became a prime target for assassins.

No longer was Borenson willing to risk the lives of others by taking their endowments.

He had children to care for, and he couldn’t count on Myrrima. She was aging faster than he.

Myrrima’s endowments of glamour hid it, and her wizardly powers would probably extend her life, but the truth was, Myrrima suspected that even without taking more endowments, she would pass away years before him.

And like her husband, Myrrima wanted to be a commoner.

It should be our chance to grow old together, she told herself. It should be our time to fade…

She didn’t want either of them to take endowments. But there were the children to worry about.

“Are you sure we can protect them, even without endowments?” Myrrima asked.

“No,” Borenson said candidly. “I’m not sure that we can protect them even if we take endowments. I only know…that I’m done. Many a peasant raises his family with nothing but his own strength. So will I.”

Myrrima nodded. She still had some endowments, and she had a few wizardly powers to lean on, small as they were. They would have to be enough.

In her room, Rhianna drifted through dreams of pain, a recurring dream in which a strengi-saat carried her in its teeth as it leapt through the woods, landing with a jostle, then leaping again, landing and leaping. Each time that she closed her eyes, the dream recurred, startling her awake, and she would lie abed and try to reassure herself, until her eyes succumbed to sleep once again.

So it was that the strengi-saat bounded, twigs snapping between its feet, the darkness of the woods all around, a soft growl in its throat like thunder, and for an instant, as happened each time that it landed with a jar, Rhianna feared that its sharp teeth would puncture her for certain this time.

She came awake with a cry and found Sir Borenson trying to quietly lift her.

“What are you doing?” Rhianna asked.

“I’m leaving,” he whispered. “I’m going to a far land. Do you still want to come with me?”

He let go of her, laying her back in bed. Rhianna opened her eyes, and in her drug-induced haze, reality felt oily, as if it would slip from her grasp, and she had to look around the room and focus for a moment, reassure herself that this room was the reality, and that the strengi-saat had only been a dream.

She realized that Borenson had decided to let her make up her own mind. She wasn’t used to having the freedom to choose.

She felt terrified at the thought of leaving the security of the castle.

“Is it through the woods we’ll be going?”

“Only for a little way,” Borenson said. “But you’ll have me to guard you.”

She didn’t want to tell him, but she didn’t believe that he could do much to protect her. Still, he must have seen the doubt in her eyes.

“I don’t look like much,” Borenson said. “My middle is all going to fat. But I used to be the Earth King’s personal guard, and now I serve his son. I’ve killed men, too many men, and too many reavers. I’ll protect you, as if you were a princess, as if you were my own daughter.”

Rhianna wondered if that could possibly be true. Sir Borenson was going bald on top, and he didn’t look like some great warrior. Could he really protect her?

More important, what would he think once he got to know her? Rhianna knew that she was no one special. She wasn’t worth taking chances for. In time he would see that, and he would hate her.

It was still the dead of night, and Rhianna looked up, saw a woman in the door. The woman had dark hair, long and elegant, flowing over her shoulders, and eyes so black that they gleamed like the waters roiling deep in a well. Her face was kindly, loving. Several children huddled beside and behind her, clutching at her midnight blue dress, peeking shyly into the room.

Almost, it seemed a dream.

“I’m not fit to ride,” Rhianna said, all business.

“We’ll not be going by horse,” the woman said. She drew near, smiled down at Rhianna for a long moment, and took her hand. Rhianna’s heart was still thumping in fear, troubled from her nightmares. The opium had diminished her pain, and it had left the world seeming fuzzy, disturbing. But the woman’s warm smile seemed to wash away Rhianna’s fears.

“This is my wife, Myrrima,” Borenson said. “And my children-” He nodded toward a tough-looking girl with dark red hair who held a babe in her arms. “Talon, Draken, Sage, and the little one, Erin.”

“Hello,” was all that Rhianna managed to say. She couldn’t think straight. Did this man really want her, or was he just trying to be kind? And what of Myrrima, what would she be thinking? Would she want another child clinging to her dress?

Rhianna couldn’t imagine it.

But as she looked into Myrrima’s eyes she could see depths of peace and calmness that defied all understanding. Rhianna’s own mother had been a terrified creature, tough but fearful, living on the edge of madness. Rhianna had never imagined that a woman could feel the kind of peace that emanated from Myrrima.

“Come,” Myrrima whispered seductively, as if inviting Rhianna to join her in a game. “Come with us.”

“Where to?” Rhianna asked.

“To a place where children don’t have anything to fear,” Myrrima promised. “To a place where the skies are blue and daisies cover the hill, and all you have to do all day long is roll in the grass and play.”

Rhianna’s mind balked at such notions. She didn’t trust strangers. The opium haze held her, and she tried to imagine a place where the skies were blue, and daisies bobbed in a summer breeze, and it almost felt as if no such place had ever existed.

Rhianna smiled, and Myrrima peered at that innocent smile, relieved to see it, happy to see Rhianna grinning the way that a child should.

“All right,” Rhianna agreed.

“Fine,” Myrrima said. “I’m glad that you’re coming.”

Could it be true? Rhianna wondered. Could she really be glad? What did Rhianna know of these people?

I know that others trust them, she realized. Kings and lords trust them with their own lives, even with the lives of their children. Maybe I can trust them, too.

“Okay,” Rhianna said, surrendering completely.

And then Sir Borenson checked her wound, peering under the bandage. “It’s healing some,” he said, but looked worried. Very tenderly he lifted her, and bore her as if she were as light as a maple leaf, floating down the hallways of the castle, past nooks where bright lamps glowed like small stars, to a worn cellar door beneath the buttery where an old crone in dark robes waited with Jaz and Fallion, who had a bloody rag wrapped around his hand.

Rhianna was borne into a dank tunnel, where men with lanterns waded ahead of them, splashing through shallows as black as oil, in a tunnel where the walls of rounded stone were covered with green algae, and water and slime molds dripped from every crevice.

Rhianna peered up at Sir Borenson and admired his fine beard, which was red at the chin but going to silver on the side. In her opium haze she felt that every hair looked abnormally strong, as if each was spun from steel, while the sweat rolling down Borenson’s cheek was like wax melting off a candle. She imagined that he too would melt away.

She closed her weary eyes for a bit, and her heart seemed to soar.

Do I want to go with them? she wondered. What would Mother say?

But Rhianna didn’t even know if her mother was still alive, or if she was alive, how Rhianna would ever find her.

And she knew one other thing: her mother would want her to leave this place, run far away to hide.

She woke to find that Sir Borenson had stopped and that he was setting her in the back of a boat.

They were in a cave now, and above them she could see muddy gray stalactites dripping mineral water. Dark water churned and swirled all around the boat; they were in an underground river.

The smell of minerals and ripe cheese filled her nostrils. Rhianna peered up to a tunnel overhead.

Of course, she realized, the water keeps the tunnels cold and moist, perfect for aging cheese. That’s probably how they discovered the river, cheese-makers tunneling through the rock, widening the caves.

The boat was long and wide of beam, like the ones that traders sometimes used to cart freight up and down the River Gyell. At the prow, the carved head of a heron rose up, its long beak pointing downriver; the gunwales were wide and carved to look like feathers, but there was no other adornment. Instead the boat had been painted a plain brown, and was loaded with crates. A crevasse between the boxes made up the sleeping quarters, and a dingy canvas stretched over the top served as a small tent.

Myrrima knelt at the edge of the water, drawing runes upon its surface with her finger, whispering as if to the river. Rhianna saw her draw a rune of fog, a rune of protection from Air, and runes of blessing for battles ahead. She dipped her arrows in the water one by one.

For a moment Rhianna had a vision of her uncle in the morning sun under the Great Tree, teaching her to scry runes as he traced them for her in the dust, then erased them with his hand, and had her repeat each one. Those had been happy times.

The old crone was at the front of the boat, loading the boys in, her voice tender and comforting, and Rhianna thought that this woman must be their grandmother.

“Where are we?” Rhianna suddenly asked, worried.

“We’re on the Sandborne,” the crone whispered, “above where it flows up out of the ground.”

Rhianna tried to focus. The Sandborne was a small river that came out of the hills three miles from Castle Coorm, then joined the River Gyell. She puzzled for a moment, trying to imagine just where they might be.

Borenson laid her under the tarp, upon a bed of straw. His daughter Talon came and sat beside her, giggling, as if this was some great game, all the while balancing baby Erin, who was still just a crawler, asleep in the crook of her arm. Then Borenson handed them a basket full of fresh beer bread, a shank of ham, a few pear-apples, and candied dates stuffed with pistachios.

Rhianna felt frightened and tried to rise up, but Borenson saw her fear. He spoke to one of the guards that bore a torch, “Your dirk.”

The man tossed it to Borenson, and he passed it to Rhianna, let her hold it close, as if it were a doll. “Quiet now,” Borenson said. “Make no noise.”

Then the other children piled into the tiny space as Rhianna traced a rune upon her blade: death-to-my-enemies.

Rhianna glanced up. The old crone was staring at her severely, but to Rhianna it was not a look of anger-more of a question.

Rhianna suddenly realized that this was no grandmother at all. This was the queen. But without her courtiers and finery, Rhianna had not recognized her.

Iome studied the injured Rhianna and thought, She is a rune-caster. What a special child. I should have let her have a forcible when I could.

The Lady Myrrima finished drawing her own runes, and then looked up at Iome, as if seeking her approval, and assured her, “There will be heavy fog on the river tonight.”

Iome nodded, grateful to have Myrrima beside her. Once, years ago, they had been young maidens. Iome’s own endowments of metabolism had aged her, and though Myrrima had taken such endowments, too, she still looked young, perhaps in her early forties, still beautiful and voluptuous. Myrrima’s powers in wizardry kept her young. Any man who saw her on the street would ache for her.

Iome felt like a wraith in her presence.

Don’t flatter yourself, Iome told herself, there isn’t even a ghost of beauty left in you.

And it was true. Iome had aged gracefully in some ways, but her skin and flesh were going. After having given up her own endowment of glamour to Raj Ahten, she’d never been able to force herself to seek glamour from another woman. Draining a woman of both her physical beauty and her self-confidence was too cruel. Iome would never subject another person to such torment.

And so I am a wraith, she thought, and I will leave my children in Myrrima’s care. In time they will grow to love her more than they could ever have loved me.

Myrrima walked around the boat, and with her wet finger, she anointed the eyes of each person. “This will help you see through the fog,” she whispered.

Iome took her own place, standing at the rudder, feeling both sad and comforted by her vision of the future. She threw her cowl over her face and shrugged her shoulders, adopting the part of some anonymous old trader, while the children lay down in hiding, and Borenson and Iome’s own guard, Hadissa, sat just under the lip of their shelter.

Fallion’s pet ferrin whistled and lunged out of the cubbyhole, then hopped around the boat, giving soft little barks of alarm at the idea of being surrounded by water.

Fallion whistled, “Hush,” in Ferrin, a command that was soft and not too judgmental, a command that might be spoken by a ferrin mother to her child. Not for the first time Iome marveled at how swiftly the boy had learned the creature’s tongue.

Like his father, she thought.

Rhianna backed away from the creature and asked, “What’s that?”

“That’s Humfrey,” Jaz said. “Our ferrin.”

“Oh,” Rhianna said. But there was a hesitancy in Rhianna’s tone that made Iome suspect that the girl had never seen a ferrin before.

“Did you know that ferrins lay eggs?” Jaz asked. “They’re not like other mammals that way. They lay eggs. We saw the cobbler and the baker digging out a ferrins’ lair last spring, and there were eggs in it. Humfrey hatched out of one of the eggs.”

A young page set a small chest at Iome’s feet, and it tinkled softly with the sound of metal clinking against metal.

Borenson looked up at the page and said needlessly, “Careful!” but the damage had already been done.

In the box was a fortune in forcibles, hundreds of them, like little branding irons, each painstakingly crafted with runes on the end that would allow her sons to draw attributes from their vassals. Surely a few of the forcibles had been damaged-nicked or dented.

“They can be repaired,” Iome said.

As the guards shoved the boat from the dock, out into the oily waters, Iome took comfort.

Things can be repaired, she thought: Fallion’s hand, the forcibles, our kingdom.

And as she steered out into the current, which would carry them inexorably through the tunnel, past columns of twisted limestone, Iome whispered to herself, “Hurry the day. Hurry the day.”