Wizardborn, page 11
giving drink to dry valleys,
where deep water stills.
I love the water, and water loves me.
I’ll drift down the slow river,
till it joins with the sea.
She watched the river, the deep pools, hoping that perhaps she’d see the dark back of a great sturgeon, swimming in mystic configurations.
But none came. She cupped the water in her palm, mixed it with the wizard’s concoction.
She daubed her fingers with the balm of honey, herbs, dirt, and water, then carried it to Borenson and reached beneath his tunic.
She gently took his organ in her hand, tried to work the mixture over the ragged wound where his walnuts had been. She was painfully aware that she had never touched him there before, even on her wedding night.
In his sleep, Borenson winced in pain. He grimaced and pounded his hand into the hay.
“I’m sorry,” Myrrima said, but she did not spare him the medicine. Nothing good comes without a price, even healing.
When she finished, he groaned deeply, and called out, “Saffira?” He raised one hand in the air, like a claw, as if to grasp her.
Myrrima found herself shaking. Binnesman’s concoction might heal a wound of the flesh, she realized, but can it heal wounds of the heart?
Sweat was pouring off Borenson, and his face was flushed. Regardless of Binnesman’s promise, she suspected that it would take hours until he regained consciousness.
She turned, knelt by the water. The morning sun winked through the leaves. It seemed pleasantly warm. She decided to keep a vigil throughout the day.
She stood silently grieving for what seemed like long minutes. With her endowments of metabolism, it was easy to lose track of time, to have it stretch out of all proportion.
The riders in town were mounting their horses when she heard her husband gasp. She climbed up, looked over the wagon. He’d wakened.
Outwardly there was little change in his appearance. Beads of sweat had sprung up on his brow, and the armpits in his tunic were drenched. His eyes still looked yellow and filmed, and his face was pallid. His lips were blistered from fever. He gazed up at the trees, at the sky.
“You’re looking a little better,” Myrrima lied. “Do you feel better?”
“I’ve never felt worse,” he said with a dry throat. She unslung her waterskin, forced a dribble down his throat. He drank weakly, pushed it away. “What are you doing?”
“Trying to save you,” Myrrima said. “You’re lucky you didn’t take sick and die.”
He closed his eyes painfully, shook his head. The tiny gesture spoke volumes. He didn’t want to live.
Myrrima held silent for a moment. She felt as if she were trying to pound through his armor, get at the soft flesh underneath. She let him sit for a moment, and asked in a softer voice, “Why? You knew you were infected, and you merely walked away. Why?”
“You don’t want to know,” Borenson said.
“I do.”
He opened his eyes to slits, studied her dispassionately. “I don’t love you. I… can’t love you.”
Myrrima felt stung by the words. Her heart suddenly pounded, and she fought to control her tone. She knew vaguely what he’d been through. She’d seen the light in his eyes when he spoke of Saffira. She’d seen him call for her in his sleep. She knew that with her endowments of glamour, Saffira would have been irresistible to a man. And Raj Ahten had castrated her husband. “Did you bed her?” Myrrima tried to keep the pain and anger from her voice. “Is that why Raj Ahten took your walnuts?”
“What is it to you?” Borenson demanded.
“I’m your wife.”
“Not—” he began to say. Borenson shook his head. “I never touched her. No man could have touched her. She was too beautiful…”
“You don’t know what love is,” Myrrima said with finality.
For a moment, neither of them spoke. “I knew it would hurt if you found out,” Borenson said.
Myrrima could think of nothing to say for a long moment. “I’m your wife, still,” Myrrima said. She could see his torment but felt incapable of reaching him. Raj Ahten had done so much to hurt him. “Why didn’t he just kill you?”
Borenson groaned, pushed himself up in the straw. “I don’t know. Raj Ahten doesn’t usually make strategic mistakes.”
There was anger in his tone, suppressed rage. Myrrima liked that. If he was angry, at least it gave him something to live for.
Myrrima heard the scuffing of a footstep, looked up.
Gaborn strode down the road, his face clouded with concern. Iome followed at his side, and appeared more shocked at Borenson’s injury than anything else.
Gaborn came straight to the wain. “How are you feeling?”
Borenson responded in a tired voice, “Fine, milord. And you?” The tone of sarcasm was impossible to miss.
Gaborn reached down, touched Borenson’s forehead. “Your fever has broken.”
“I’m glad that’s all that is broken,” Borenson said.
Gaborn said, “I… came to thank you, for all of your efforts. You’ve given much for Mystarria.”
“Only my conscience, the lives of my Dedicates, and my walnuts,” Borenson said. He was still unaware of the spell that the wizard had cast on him, the hope of regeneration. He spoke from his pain. “Is there anything else you’d like, sire?”
“Peace and health for you and your kin,” Gaborn said, “and a land without war, where men have never heard of Raj Ahten or reavers or the Darkling Glory.”
“May you have your wishes,” Borenson said.
Gaborn sighed. “There are forcibles to help speed your recovery, if you want them.”
A look of pain clouded Borenson’s eyes. He looked hurt, broken. “How many can you spare me?”
“How many will you want?”
“Enough to kill Raj Ahten,” Borenson said. “It’s true that he’s still alive?”
Gaborn did not hesitate. “I can’t give you so many.” Now there was pain in Gaborn’s eyes. He wanted to give in to rage, he wanted Borenson to get his vengeance. If any man deserved it, Borenson did. He’d been forced to kill children that Raj Ahten seduced to be his Dedicates. He’d been forced to slay even men that he called friends. Raj Ahten had ripped away his manhood.
Borenson painfully pulled himself up to the side of the wagon, as if to prove his resolve. “I was the best guardsman in your father’s service. If there is any man alive who can take him—”
“I can’t,” Gaborn said. “You can’t. The Earth Spirit forbids it. For the sake of us all—”
“Yet you came here to seek a favor of me,” Borenson said. “I can tell by that look on your face. And you’re offering forcibles… .”
“A hundred of them,” Gaborn said. “No more.”
That was a lot of forcibles, more than twice the number of endowments that Borenson had had before.
Iome took Myrrima’s arm, drew her away so that the two men could barter alone.
“What’s happening?” Myrrima asked.
“Gaborn needs your husband to deliver a message to King Zandaros, suing for peace. It’s a great deal to ask on the heels of what has happened.”
“I see,” Myrrima said. She knew that Borenson would carry the message. Eight days ago he had vowed to go to Inkarra to search for the legendary Daylan Hammer, the Sum of All Men, in hopes of learning how to defeat the reavers and Raj Ahten. He’d planned to go in secret, sneaking into the land, for the borders of Inkarra had been closed to the men of Rofehavan for decades.
But Myrrima could immediately see how carrying the message might work to their benefit. If Borenson could persuade Zandaros that it was in his best interest to ally himself with Mystarria, Zandaros might even help them find Daylan Hammer. Even if he couldn’t persuade Zandaros, at least delivering the message would give Borenson a pretext for crossing the border.
“Where will he get the Dedicates?” Myrrima asked as they strolled to the banks of the river.
“There is a facilitator at Carris,” Iome said. “Your husband can take endowments there.”
“The city is in ruins,” Myrrima objected. “Are you sure it would be safe? The mage’s curses are so thick in the air that illnesses are breaking out everywhere!”
“He’ll have to forgo taking stamina for a bit, but Batenne is along the way. Gaborn assures me that your husband can get endowments there.”
Myrrima paused. She’d never seen a map of Mystarria, had no idea where Batenne lay, though the name was familiar. It was a sprawling city in the far south, in the wine country along the borders of the Alcairs. Wealthy lords and ladies often wintered there.
Iome asked, “Will you be going with him?”
“If he’ll have me. I guess … even if he won’t.”
“Of course he’ll want you at his side,” Iome said. She had such childlike confidence that he would.
Myrrima squeezed Iome’s hands, said nothing for a long moment. She asked, “How do you do it? How do you love so easily?”
The question seemed to catch Iome by surprise.
“I see it in your eyes,” Myrrima said. “I saw it when you looked at your servants. I see it when you look at me. There is nothing feigned about it. Yet I am married to a man who says that he does not love me, and I believe him. He will not even try to feign it.”
“I don’t know,” Iome said. “Love isn’t something that you feel. It’s something you give.”
“Doesn’t it tear you apart, to give yourself away like that?”
“Sometimes,” Iome admitted. “But if someone loves you in return, it makes the occasional hurt all worthwhile.”
Myrrima wondered at the conversation. Everywhere she looked, wars were breaking out. Yet she worried about love. She felt guilty even talking to Iome about it. But life without love would be so cold and empty it would be a kind of death all its own.
“I guess,” Iome continued, “I learned to love from my father. He cared for all of his people equally. If he thought a man to be lazy or vile, he didn’t hate the man or condemn him. He thought that men could cure their every vice, if they just sought to change. And he was sure that if you showed a man enough kindness, he’d desire to change.”
Myrrima laughed. “If only the differences between men could be settled so easily.”
“But you see my point? If you want love, you must first give it.”
“I don’t think that my husband knows how to love.”
“You’ll have to teach him,” Iome said. Her face was full of concern. “Always, you have to set the clear example. Not everyone learns how to give love easily. I’ve heard that for some, learning to love can be all but impossible. They keep their feelings hidden away beneath a coat of armor.”
Only moments ago, Myrrima had been thinking the same thing—that she felt as if she were trying to pierce her husband’s armor. Myrrima shook her head. “He’s so full of self-loathing. How do you prove your love to a man who refuses to see it, or to believe it?”
“You married him,” Iome said. “That should give him some hint.”
“The marriage was all but arranged.”
“You’re going with him to Inkarra. He can’t fail to see that.”
Myrrima shook her head in bafflement.
“Maybe he’ll learn to love you when he can love himself,” Iome said. “He’s making great changes, great strides. He’s given up his position in life, lost his endowments. Locked inside the warrior’s coat of mail, a fine man is struggling to get out. Help him discover that.”
Suddenly Borenson made sense to Myrrima. Iome was telling her that he did not know how to love because he’d never been truly loved.
She’d heard much about him, about his reputation for being a man who grimly faced the worst challenges, who laughed in battle. Of course he would laugh in battle. Death meant little to him. It would only bring a release from his pain.
Up on the road, Gaborn’s troops were mounted and preparing to leave. Gaborn called out to Iome, “Ready?”
Iome clenched Myrrima’s hands, then strode swiftly uphill to join her husband.
Myrrima headed back toward the wagon to check on Borenson.
“He wants me to take a message to King Zandaros,” Borenson said as she approached. “When I’m ready to ride.”
“Will you?”
“When I can ride.” He winced in pain at the very thought.
“There’s something I must say,” Myrrima offered. “I know that you say you don’t love me. But I’m still your wife, and perhaps it is enough that I love you.”
He lay silently for a long time, and Myrrima simply touched his hand.
After a while, he reached down under his tunic, felt his groin wound. A mystified expression crossed his face.
“What’s the matter?” Myrrima asked. “Are you less of a man than you thought you were, or more?” He kept prodding himself, unable to comprehend what had happened. “Binnesman treated you,” Myrrima explained. “He says that you’ll be ready to ride within the hour. In time, you may recover completely.”
The look of wonder and relief on his face warmed her heart. For a moment, he seemed at a loss for words, unwilling to trust his good fortune. At last Borenson teased in a guarded voice, “If that wizard can grow new walnuts on me, I’ll drag him to the nearest inn and buy him a pint of ale.”
Myrrima smiled warmly and shot back, “A pint of ale? Is that all that they’re worth to you?”
12
THE FACE OF THE EARTH KING
Every man is born with ten thousand faces, but he reveals them to the world only one at a time.
—Torin Belassi, on the “Art of Mimicry”
Gaborn and Iome went to their mounts in the stables, and Iome held silent for a long moment. She could tell that Borenson’s bitter words had upset Gaborn. Borenson had always been open with Gaborn, and Iome thought them to be as close as brothers.
“He will heal,” Iome said as they strolled into the stable. “Binnesman promised.”
Gaborn shook his head. “No, I think not. Not really. We’ve used him badly. He’s angry at Raj Ahten, angry at me. And he’s suspicious. Zandaros is not likely to offer any concessions just because I send a friend as an ambassador. I might well be sending Borenson to his death.”
Iome bit her lower lip, troubled by what Gaborn said. Zandaros had cut off contact with Mystarria before Gaborn was ever born, and he’d sent an assassin to kill Gaborn. Zandaros sounded dangerous, but Iome knew that Inkarra was a strange land, with customs all its own.
“Are you sure you want Borenson to speak to King Zandaros?” Iome asked. “Zandaros’s nephew seemed to think that the Storm King would favor me—and I am your closest relation.”
Iome tried to make the offer sound as casual as possible. She did not want to go. It would be a long, hard journey to an unforeseeable end, and she would be risking her life as well as that of the son growing in her womb.
Gaborn shook his head. “No. Not you.”
She glanced up at his face. His gaze was directed inward.
They entered the stable, found their mounts to be well fed. The horses’ manes and tails were plaited, and the beasts had been washed and combed. Gaborn’s horse wore barding that had been brought from Carris during the night. The beast’s armor gleamed like silver. The chaffron on its head had a twisted horn that spiraled up, and the plate mail on the horse’s chest and flanks was burnished. Beneath its armor was a quilt covered in white silk. It looked like some marvelous beast that had walked out of the clouds.
The lords in Carris wanted Gaborn to make a grand entrance, a triumphal entry to lift the spirits of his people. Iome and his Wits thought it expedient. Paldane’s old chancellor, Gallentine, had sent a message warning that rumors in Carris had begun to spread to the effect that Gaborn had been slain in battle. “It would ease the people’s minds,” he said, “if Gaborn would come.”
So Gaborn would parade once around the city, but only because he needed to pass by on his way to battle.
The reavers would be racing south over the open plains today, and he planned to lead his men against them. He needed Averan’s help in finding the Waymaker.
All through the night, he had huddled with his counselors, plotting the deed. Reports from Skalbairn came in hourly. The reavers had dug into burrows once it got cold, and by dawn they had still not stirred.
The night’s storm had similarly delayed Gaborn’s departure from Balington. He dared not send warriors racing on force horses in the dark, over roads that had turned to mud.
Thus, though the weather slowed Gaborn, it had stymied the reavers completely. The reavers had traveled only forty miles in the length of the night. This gave Gaborn a great advantage.
He’d sent to castles in his lands south of the Brace Mountains and ordered lances, ballistas, and food delivered close to the reavers’ trail.
In the early hours of the morning, messengers brought more good news: the rain had almost completely bypassed everything south of the Brace Mountains.
The fields would be dry—perfect for a cavalry charge.
Once Gaborn had felt as ready as he could be to face the reavers, he’d consulted with his counselors and drawn up missives to send to kings throughout Rofehavan.
Long through the night, he’d acted on matters both monumental and mundane. He’d drafted plans for the evacuation of Carris, and for sending the Indhopalese troops to help defend his castles to the north. He’d sent bribes to various lords, including an offer to hire mercenaries out of Internook to protect his coast.
Another messenger, one from Heredon, brought astonishing information: Gaborn had offered aid in putting down the reaver horde that had arisen there. But the Iron King sent back a curt missive declining his offer. The courier himself had heard news that the Iron King had easily defeated the reaver horde.
The reavers there had surfaced on the northern coast and marched south along the seashore. A lucky ballista shot from a ship slew the fell mage that led the horde. Her followers immediately retreated.
Now Gaborn was ready to ride for Carris.
Gaborn and Iome mounted their chargers, rode out of the stable. Six young heralds, all dressed in the blue of House Orden with the symbol of the green man upon their surcoats, rode before the entourage. All six heralds had long blond hair, and bore golden trumpets.
