Sons of the Oak

Iome surprised herself by sleeping. She didn’t often sleep. She woke in the morning to the creak of the door coming open.

Sir Borenson entered softly, tiptoeing to the hearth to stir up the embers and get a fire lit.

The children were all asleep, and Fallion still lay in Iome’s lap. She drew the blanket back over him and hugged him, regretting that she had not held him more often.

“Lots of folks awake down in the common room,” Borenson whispered. “Lots of rumors flying. Everyone in the city has heard how Asgaroth attacked Castle Coorm, and how the queen somehow took his life in single combat.”

Iome grinned, even though the news disturbed her. “All of these years we’ve been hiring spies when we might as well have just resorted to the nearest inn.”

“Common folk know an uncommon lot,” Borenson quoted an old proverb. He grinned. “Rumor says that the queen is holed up at the Courts of Tide. And to prove it, the queen’s flag is flying, to show that she is in residence.”

Someone is thinking, Iome realized. Was it Chancellor Westhaven who raised the queen’s flag?

“Maybe that’s what drew the assassins last night,” Borenson continued. “A milkmaid who delivered to the palace this morning swears that she saw thirty-nine bodies laid out on the greens: all of them Inkarrans.”

Iome bit her lower lip, imagined the Inkarrans with their bone white skin and silver hair, their strange breastplates and short spears. Inkarran assassins? It would have been a bitter fight, for the white-skinned Inkarrans could see perfectly well in the darkest night.

What worried her more was the sheer number. They’d never made an assault in such force before.

“We’ll have to spend the next couple of days inside,” Iome said. Though there was little danger from more Inkarrans for the next few days, it seemed likely that other assassins would be watching the court.

“My thoughts exactly. Myrrima can bring the meals in. She can tell our hosts that we’ve taken sick.”

So that was the plan.

They all stayed inside the small room, and Iome spent the day playing child’s games-Village Idiot and Three Pegs. Borenson showed the children how to tie some sailor’s knots-the thumb knot, the bowline, the rolling hitch and clove hitch-and described in glowing terms what life would be like aboard the Leviathan, though he avoided telling anyone of its destination.

Jaz had the good sense to ask if they would see pirates or sea monsters on the voyage, and Borenson assured him that they’d see both, but most likely only from a distance.

Such news disappointed Jaz, who certainly was the kind of boy who would want to catch his own sea monster and keep it in a watering trough.

Fallion remained thoughtful for much of the morning, and held aloof from the children’s games.

What his mother had told him last night affected him deeply. He felt that he needed to prepare, and though others had groomed him all of his life, now Fallion considered his own future.

I must get ready, he thought. I must build my army. But why would anyone want to follow me?

He thought of the soldiers he knew, the powerful lords and captains that he liked. They each had qualities that he admired: courage, fortitude, discipline, faith in themselves and in their men.

Am I like that? he wondered. If I work hard, can I be the kind of person that others look up to?

Fallion had known many great lords, men who had taken endowments of brawn so that they had the strength of five men, and endowments of wit so that they had the intelligence of three. He’d seen Anders who had taken endowments of glamour so that his face seemed to shine like the sun. Even Myrrima had taken enough glamour from others so that, despite her age, she remained seductive. He’d heard men with endowments of Voice speak in debates, enthralling audiences.

Fallion was nothing like them.

But I can be, he told himself. I have the forcibles that I need to become that kind of man.

And what of my warriors? He looked at the children playing on the floor: Jaz, Rhianna, Talon, Draken, Sage. Even little Erin still in her diaper.

Iome had told him that greatness could be found in the coming generations.

So it was with some embarrassment that he finally got up the courage to speak to the children. He didn’t know how to ask it, so he just broke in on a game and asked, “Do you want to join my army?”

All of the children stared up at him for a moment, giving him blank looks.

“No,” Talon answered. “We’re playing Rope a Horse.”

Sage, who at three never wanted to be left out of anything, blurted, “I’ll play dolls with you. Want to play dolls?”

Fallion shook his head. “This is a real army. I’m not talking about playing.”

“Who are you going to fight?” Rhianna asked.

“The strengi-saats,” Fallion said, “and Asgaroth, and anyone like him.”

Nearly all of the children backed away. Talon was maybe the best fighter that Fallion knew, for a seven-year-old. Her father had been training her for years. But she shook her head demurely and looked down at the floor. “I don’t want to fight them.”

Jaz, Draken, and the other children looked as if they were frightened witless. But Rhianna, the oldest of them, peered up at him, her fierce blue eyes growing impossibly more savage, and said through tight lips, “I’ll fight beside you.”

“You will?” Fallion asked.

She nodded slowly, surely. There was no doubt in her voice, no hesitation. She understood that this was a serious endeavor. “You saved my life. I’ll fight for you anytime, anyplace.”

“Good,” Fallion said. “As soon as we get on the ship, we start training.” He reached out, and the two shook hands at the wrist, sealing the bargain.

For the rest of the afternoon, Fallion felt as if he were floating on air. He had started his army.

Iome watched the exchange, gratified by the seriousness of their tone, but pained by it as well. She didn’t want her son to grow up so quickly.

More than that, she worried that she could offer little more in the way of guidance. She had told him to prepare, to begin building his army. But how could a nine-year-old prepare?

She had no answers for him. The truth was, she had never found them for herself.

Once, an hour later, while the rest of the children were playing, Fallion came up and asked his mother, “Do you think you can kill a locus?”

Iome looked to make certain that the others didn’t overhear. The children were huddled in a corner, giggling and snorting as they played Village Idiot, a memory game where a child said, “The village idiot went to the fair, but he forgot to take his…” and then he would add something bizarre, such as his duck or his pants or his eyes, bringing giggles and snorts of laughter. Each child in the circle then took a turn, adding something new to the list of things that the village idiot forgot-his codpiece, his bowels, his pretty pink pig-until the list became so unwieldy that the children began to forget. When a child messed up, the others would all chime, “You’re the village idiot!” and then keep going until only one child remained.

They were deep in play. “I don’t think you can kill a locus,” Iome said. Then she told him something that she’d never told anyone. “Your father fought one, as you guessed last night. He fought it, and he killed the reaver that housed it, but he could not kill the locus inside.”

“So, a locus is like a wight?” Fallion said. “It lives in a body, like a spirit?”

He was grappling with mysteries, and Iome didn’t have much in the way of real answers. “I imagine that it’s something like a spirit.”

“Then… cold iron should pierce it.”

Myrrima, who had been kneeling on the floor, repacking their clothes, looked up. “I wouldn’t recommend that.”

Borenson chuckled and said, “She killed a wight once, but it almost killed her back. Froze her arm as stiff as a board.”

Fallion glanced at the children to see if they still were playing. The rest of them were giggling. Little Sage was rolling on the floor with laughter, but Rhianna held her back stiffly, listening for all she was worth.

Fallion asked a question now that made him uncomfortable. “So Father couldn’t kill the locus. Is that why he was always so sad?”

Borenson glanced away uncomfortably.

“You could see that?” Iome asked.

“Even when he smiled,” Fallion said. “It was there behind his eyes.”

Iome nodded. Now is the time for truth, she thought. She bit her lip, and said, “Your father traded his life in order to save his people. He traded being a father for being the Earth King. He loved you. I don’t think you can understand how much he loved you, not until the day that you become a father yourself. And just looking at you… pained him.”

“He loved you boys, he did,” Borenson agreed. “But he gave too much of himself, until there was nothing left.”

“Sometimes,” Myrrima said, “I think that he thought he was a failure.”

“A failure?” Fallion asked. “But he was the greatest king who ever lived!” Everyone that Fallion had ever met spoke of his father with reverence.

“True,” Borenson said, “he saved the world in its hour of need, but he traded everything for that one moment.

“And in the years after, he managed to leave a legacy of peace and prosperity that were unmatched. But I think that he wanted so much more for us. He knew that as soon as he died, everything would collapse. It would all come down around us.”

“What more could he want?” Fallion asked.

“He wanted joy,” Iome said. “He wanted his people to have joy. He could look into the heart of a good man, a fine child, and see all of the decency inside, and he wanted them to have the happiness that they deserved. But he couldn’t give them that. You can’t make another person happy, even when they deserve to be.”

Iome pierced him with a gaze and said, “Most of all, it pained him that he had taken so many endowments. Hundreds of people gave him their brawn, grace, stamina, wit, and sight. They did it for the love of their families, for the love of their country. But each of them suffered for it, and your father never forgave himself.”

“He could have killed himself,” Fallion said. “That way, he would have given the endowments back to all of those people.” Fallion felt ashamed to even suggest the idea. It made it sound as if his father had been grasping, selfish. Fallion knew that that wasn’t the case.

“Would you have wanted that for him?” Iome asked.

Fallion shook his head no.

“Nor would I,” his mother said. “I’m sure he thought of it, too. He traded his virtue for power. And once he had that power, he held on to it until the last, used it to try to make the world more livable not for himself, but for you and me and everyone else.”

“It must have been a hard choice,” Fallion said, feeling somehow disappointed in his father. Surely there must have been a better way.

Borenson peered at Fallion. “The embrace of the forcible comes at a high price. Your father knew that. He took endowments, but he never hungered for them.”

“Fallion,” Iome said. “There’s something that you should know. Your father never chose to take all of those endowments. He was a decent man, and would have faced the reavers with nothing more than his Earth Powers. But I persuaded him otherwise. I talked him into taking a few endowments, and when he went to fight in the Underworld, I had the facilitators at Castle Sylvarresta vector more endowments to him, against his will. I compromised his principles so that he could beat the reavers. And I didn’t do it alone. The people of Heredon did it with me. We turned him into the world’s champion. We made a sacrifice of him, because he was too honorable to do it himself.” Iome choked upon these last words, for in making a sacrifice of him, she’d lost the love of her life.

“If I’m to be a king,” Fallion said, “don’t I have to take endowments, too?”

Borenson cut in, saying, “Not necessarily. When I was a lad, I thought it would be a grand thing to be a Runelord, to carry a warhammer and have the strength of five men, the speed of three. There was nothing in the world that I wanted more, and in time I won that honor. But it has been as much a curse to me, Fallion, as it was to your father. I killed more than two thousand men in the service of my lord. But if I could turn back time, become a child like you, I’d put my hand to the plow and never hope for the touch of the forcible again.”

Fallion didn’t know what to say to that. The folks at Castle Coorm had both respected and feared Borenson. Fallion had even suspected that Borenson carried some dark secret. But he was stunned to hear how many men Borenson had killed.

“I don’t understand,” Fallion said. “How am I to be a king? How can I protect others from Asgaroth?”

“You don’t need forcibles to lead,” Myrrima said. “A man can lead with wisdom and compassion without them. Kings have done it before. Even in recent history, some lords have chosen to live without them. You may consider that path.”

“And remember,” Borenson said, “no weapon forged by man can destroy a locus. In time, circumstances may force you to take endowments. But don’t be in a hurry to make the same mistakes that I have made.”

That evening, as the children sought out their beds, Borenson went down to the common room to learn the latest news. He could feel an electric intensity to the air, the kind that portends a storm. But it was not the weather that caused it. It was the day’s news.

Last night there had been an attack on the palace. Now there was talk of cities falling in the far west, a full-fledged war. Queen Lowicker of Beldinook was on a rampage.

So it was that Borenson found himself sitting on a stool, drinking strong ale, while a minstrel shouted out a lively jig and a pair of sailors danced on a table behind him, when all of a sudden he heard a sound that made his blood freeze.

At a stool nearby, just down the bar, he heard a hissing whisper. “Two boys? Both of them have dark hair, like half-breeds.”

Borenson peered out of the corner of his eye. The questioner was a scabrous little fellow, as if he suffered from gut worms, with a hunched back and milky eyes. He was leaning up to another patron of the inn, whispering into the fellow’s ear.

“Nah,” the patron answered in a deeper tone.

“You sure?” the scurvy fellow asked. “They could be in this very inn. Would ’ave stumbled in last night. There’s gold for ya, if we find ’em.”

The scurvy fellow turned to Borenson with a questioning stare. “ ’Ave you seen a pair of young lads?”

“About nine years old?” Borenson asked. “Dressed like lordlings?”

The milky eyes peered up at him and the sailor’s face split into a grin. “Could be…” he said eagerly. “Could be ’em.”

Borenson gave a puzzled look. “It’s odd that you ask. I saw some boys like that at my sister’s house, not two hours ago. They ’ad an old woman with ’em, their granddame.”

The excitement in the fellow’s eyes turned to a frenzy. “Your sister’s ’ouse?”

“She takes in boarders. She doesn’t run an inn, really. More of a private house.”

The fellow nodded sagely, stroked his scraggly beard.

“Where? Where can I find this ’ouse?”

Borenson licked his lips, drained his mug, and planted it meaningfully on the table. “I’m a poor man, with a poor memory.”

The scurvy fellow shifted his gaze to the left, then to the right. “We best continue our negotiations in more private like.”

The little fellow turned, stumbled through the crowd as if half drunk, and Borenson fixed his eye on the back of the fellow’s long coat and followed him out the door.

The street was dark, with only a crescent moon peering through wisps of clouds, while a low fog was creeping up from the sea. The fellow headed around a back corner, and Borenson followed him down to the pier.

It was lonely and quiet outside, and as the scurvy fellow reached the pier, even that place did not seem secluded enough for him. He retreated to the shadows beneath a fishmonger’s hut, and climbed down upon some rocks covered with strands of red kelp. In the pale light, Borenson could see blue-white crabs scrounging for tidbits among the kelp, could hear the clicking sounds of their pincers, the water gurgling from their mouths and joints, the scrapes of tiny feet on rocks.

“There’s gold in it for ya, sure,” the scurvy fellow whispered when they were alone, “that is, if they’re the ones.”

“How much gold?” Borenson said. “I mean, I wouldn’t want to see anyone get hurt-especially my sister.” He feigned being a man of conscience, but a man who could be tempted. “So how much gold?”

The little fellow licked his lips. Borenson felt sure that he had a set price, but he was wondering how much he could shave off of it, pocket for himself. “Twenty gold eagles,” the fellow said. It was a small fortune.

“Pshaawww,” Borenson said. “You can pay better than that for a pair of fat princelings.”

The fellow looked up, and in the moonlight his milky eyes looked strange, like orbs of marble.

“Yes, I figured out who they are,” Borenson said. “My sister once served as a maid in King Orden’s household. So it’s no wonder that they came to her, not after what happened last night.”

“Thirty, thirty gold eagles,” the scurvy fellow hissed. “All right?”

“All right,” Borenson said. Before the fellow could blink, Borenson swung a punch for the little man’s ribs, landing the blow with all of his might. Borenson wasn’t as powerful as he had once been. His endowments were gone, and he had nothing but his own strength nowadays. Nine years ago, he’d have killed a man with that blow.

Now he just heard a few ribs snap, and the fellow went down with a grunt, holding his gut, trying to suck air. Borenson saw him reach for a dagger, and jumped on his right arm, snapping it like a twig.

The little fellow lay on the kelp, moaning while the crabs clicked and scuttled aside.

“Now,” Borenson said as he leaned over the sailor and pinned his arms. “Let’s discuss a new bargain. Tell me who sent you, and I’ll let you live.”

Borenson wrestled the scurvy fellow’s arms behind his back, then took the sailor’s own dagger from its sheath and laid the naked blade to his neck.

“A big feller,” the sailor said, and he began to sob. “White hair, with a black long coat. I ’eard someone say ’e’s a captain of his own ship. Maybe, maybe even a pirate lord from the far side.”

“His name,” Borenson said, digging the knife closer. He twisted the broken arm, eliciting more sobs. “Tell me his name.”

“I ’eard tell that his name is Callamon.”

Borenson held his breath a moment, taking that in. Fortunately, this Callamon was not on the ship that they’d be taking.

Borenson knew that he couldn’t leave the sailor alive. He’d go running to the enemy, telling what he’d found.

Time and time it came down to this. Borenson was a killer, a hired killer.

He was good at it, even though it pained him.

“Thank you,” Borenson said reluctantly. “I’m sorry.” He bashed the little man’s skull with the pommel of his dagger, stunning him, and then slit the fellow’s throat from ear to ear, giving him a clean death, which was the most that Borenson could allow.

He hurled the body into the sea as food for the crabs.

The fare at the inn was uncommonly good, and dinner that night for the “sick guests” was spectacular-roast ducklings stuffed with rice and dates, savory pies, honey rolls, and pudding spiced with lemon rind.

When it was done, everyone felt overstuffed, and most of the children fell asleep almost instantly.

Myrrima tidied up, packing for the trip tomorrow. And while Borenson was away, Fallion lay awake beside the fire, watching flames flicker and dance before his eyes. Iome noticed how he hugged Rhianna close, as he had the night before, trying to comfort her. She smiled at his innocence.

Iome felt fulfilled after a day of just playing with her children, eating a fine meal. She had not had a great deal of time to spend with her sons in the past few years, and she had forgotten how refreshing it could be.

Borenson came to the room and found Iome and his wife awake. As he stirred the fire, he gave them the least worrisome of his news: Beldinook had attacked from the north, taking Castle Carris.

It made sense, Iome realized. Paldane had resided in Carris, and she had already seen him impaled on a stick. So the news was stale.

“But there is more important news,” Borenson said. “I met a man down in the common room, a bounty hunter. He was searching for news of young boys, princely young men. He was hired by a ship’s captain named Callamon.”

Iome took this in. “Callamon. I’ve heard of him. He’s a pirate of some repute.”

There was no way that a pirate could be looking for them, Iome knew. He wouldn’t have had time to gain the intelligence that he needed. Unless, perhaps… he was infested by a locus.

This was unsettling news.

Myrrima excused herself to go to the privy out back.

“I’m tired,” Iome said to Borenson’s back after hearing his report. “Will you keep watch? I haven’t slept in so, so long.”

“Of course.” Borenson glanced back up at her, his head half turned, the fire limning his beard, red streaked with silver. “Are you well?”

Iome smiled. He thinks I’m going to die, she realized. And maybe he is right.

The elderly often feel well just before they die, and Iome realized now that for the entire day she had gone without any of the twinges or aches that come with aging. Indeed, she had not felt so good for many, many months.

Like an apple tree, that blooms best when it blooms its last.

“I just want to go to sleep,” Iome said. “I want to hold my boys.”

She climbed down from her rocking chair and curled up on the floor with Jaz and Fallion, pulling a single blanket up to cover all three.

Borenson got up from the fire, put a hand on her shoulder, and whispered, “Good night, milady.”

“Good-bye,” she said. “I think that this is good-bye. But I’m ready for it. Life can be very… tiring.”

“Rest well,” Borenson said.

They did not talk of the boys. Iome wanted to ask him to raise them as his own but she already knew that he would.

She thought, It will be ample repayment for the killing of my father.

She dared not say those words aloud. Borenson had repaid her many times. He was a good servant, a faithful friend.

She lay for a long time, measuring her moments. Does the joy I felt outweigh the pain? she wondered.

She’d given her life in the service of others. She’d lost her husband, and now was going to lose her children.

That didn’t seem a fair bargain. But the moments of joy that had come were intense and beautiful: her girlhood friendships with Chemoise and Myrrima, her marriage to Gaborn, and the brightest moments, the births of her sons.

Is my life a tragedy, she wondered, or a triumph?

Her Days had said that she would write that Iome’s was a life well lived. But she had given away all that she loved in an effort to win peace and freedom for her people.

So it was neither a tragedy nor a triumph, Iome told herself. It was only a trade.

I’ll warn the boys, she told herself in a fit of sudden irrationality. I’ll warn them in the morning not to trade away the best parts of their lives.

But she remembered that she had already warned Fallion, over and over again.

He’s a smart boy, she told herself. Smarter than I was at his age. He will do well.

Sleep came, deep and restful, until in the night she was wakened by a horn that blew so loud it made her heart clench in her chest.

She clutched at her heart, and opened her eyes to a dawn so bright that she had to squint.

Where am I? she wondered. Am I staring into the sun?

But the light did not hurt her eyes. On the contrary, it was warm and inviting, and grew brighter and brighter. As her eyes became accustomed, she heard the horn a second time, a distant wail, followed by pounding hooves, so much like a beating heart.

Gaborn came out of the light. He was young and smiling, his hair tousled. He wore a riding cloak of green, and tall black boots, and his dark blue eyes sparkled like sapphires.

“Come, my love,” he whispered. “The moon is up and the Hunt is under way, and a place is prepared for you.”

He beckoned with his hand. Iome saw a horse not far off, a gray mare with a black mane. It was saddled, bridled, and groomed. Its mane and tail were plaited. It was the most beautiful mount, and she longed to ride.

She took a few steps, and a worry made her halt. “What of the boys?”

“Our time is now,” Gaborn said. “Theirs will come soon enough.”

It was as if his words were a balm, and Iome suddenly cast aside all worries. Our time is now, she thought, and swung up easily into the saddle and nudged her mount forward, until she was at Gaborn’s side.

He reached out and she took his hand; her flesh was young and smooth, as it had been when they first met.

He squeezed her hand, leaned toward her, and she into him, and she kissed him, long and slow. His breath smelled earthy and sweet, and her heart hammered at the touch of his lips. For long minutes, he cradled her head in his palm, and she kissed him perhaps for the very first time without a worry in the world.

When he leaned back, she whispered, “I’m sorry.”

“Leave it behind,” Gaborn whispered. “Leave your sorrows with your flesh.”

“I’m sorry that I did not spend more time with you.”

“Here,” Gaborn said, “an eternity is but a moment, and if you want, we can spend an endless string of them together.”

Iome looked around now, and could see the forest. The oak leaves were as ruddy gold as coals in a forge; every blade of grass seemed as white as fire.

The horn blew again, and she heard the hosts of the dead, riding ahead of them, a thundering horde.

Iome leaned her head back and laughed, happy to be at Gaborn’s side.

In the night, Borenson sat in the rocking chair, a naked sword across his lap.

Once he heard the floorboards creak outside his door as someone came stealthily to it. The person stood outside for a long time, as if listening, and Borenson thought for sure, We have been found.

But the fellow sniffed loudly, then ambled down the hall to another room, his feet unsteady from too much drink.

And in the pale glow of the coals from the fireplace, Borenson saw Iome’s frail body suddenly tremble.

He heard the death rattle out from her throat, and the room suddenly went cold, a feeling that he had long associated with the presence of spirits.

He did not see her shade depart, did not see who had come to escort her into the beyond, but he knew.

“Farewell, my king, my queen,” he whispered, “till we are joined in the Hunt.”

He waited for several long minutes, just listening to the sounds from the common room. The minstrels had gone silent an hour ago, and he could only hear one pair of boots creaking across the wooden floor down there.

I would like to join whoever is down there, Borenson thought, and raise a mug of ale.

He went to Iome’s body. She was smiling, a smile of perfect contentment, but she had no pulse, and she had quit breathing. In a while, she would begin to grow cold.

Borenson unwrapped Iome’s arms from around her sons. He tried not to wake them as he lifted her small frame.

Such a small body, he thought, to have held such an enormous life.

He laid it by the fire, and draped it with his own blanket.

There would be time enough in the morning to let the boys know that their mother had died. They would have their whole lives to mourn.