Wizardborn, page 29
Gaborn closed his eyes, seeking inward. “Don’t bother. The thief is gone. Feykaald is riding to Indhopal.”
Borenson said, “He has less than an hour on us. We can catch him!”
The old Wit Jerimas urged Gaborn, “Milord, you must retrieve those forcibles. Make no mistake. If Raj Ahten learns that you still have so many, he will come after them.”
But to Myrrima’s surprise, Gaborn shook his head. “No. I feel a pall settling over Raj Ahten. There is trouble in Kartish. Surely the children of Indhopal need those forcibles as much as we do.”
Myrrima thought that someone would speak out against the notion. Knights Equitable and lords from half a dozen lands stood within hearing. But no one spoke against Gaborn.
For days he had been saying it: all of the world’s people were Gaborn’s charge. Perhaps now they had begun to believe.
So Myrrima, Borenson, and Iome’s retinue mounted up. They waited for Iome.
She and her king walked together and stood under an oak by the brook, talking for a long while. Myrrima saw tears stream down the queen’s face. They were far enough away that no one could hear what they said, but Myrrima could imagine.
Iome was leaving Gaborn. He would go to the Underworld to hunt for the One True Master. Iome feared for him even as she held him. When at last she was able to tear herself away, Iome got on her mount and spoke not at all.
Force horses pulled the treasure wagon so fast that it sang over the highways. They raced southeast through grasslands, following the river Donnestgree as it surged toward the ocean and the Courts of Tide.
Few villages dotted the plains. Myrrima asked Borenson why. He pointed out that the driving winds would not allow many trees, and the soil here blanketed a thick crust of volcanic stone. Without wood for fuel, few people wanted to settle here, though the land was bountiful enough for wild cattle.
But people had lived here once. She saw the remains of castles on many a lonely hill. Borenson pointed out the site for the Battle of the Five Wizards, and halted once to show her bones of a giant encased in a rock by the wayside. She saw the very tower where Leandra had pushed her mother to her death upon hearing that Andreas was no more.
Near the old altar at Rimmondy they scared a flock of young wild graaks up from the carcasses of some cattle that had been chased over a cliff.
In the late afternoon they reached a crossroads two hundred miles southeast of Carris where silver birches bent over a still river, their leaves perfectly mirrored in the waters.
To the south lay the road that Myrrima and Borenson would take, while Iome headed northeast. They stopped to let the force horses graze and drink.
“We can’t stay here long,” Borenson warned Myrrima. “The sun will be going down soon. We’ll want to be clear of the Westlands.”
“The Westlands?” Myrrima asked. She couldn’t keep the edge of fear from her voice. She had heard children’s tales of the wights that haunted them. “Are they close by?”
“Oh, you’ll get a close look,” Borenson assured her with a grin. “If you spit that way, you’ll hit them.” He nodded toward the south.
“But I thought they’d be farther … west,” Myrrima said.
“They’re west of Old Ferecia, and that’s all that matters.”
“But there’s supposed to be bogs and swamps.”
“They start just beyond that rise,” Borenson assured her. He nodded toward a rise where the remains of a castle wall still thrust up like a dog’s tooth. “That’s Woglen’s Tower.”
Myrrima shuddered. She knew the tales. The land here had been black with Toth, and blood had once filled this river. For three months Fallion’s armies had fought to break their siege and win that tower, only to discover that Fallion’s bride was dead inside.
Somehow she’d expected Woglen’s Tower to still be standing. In the old tales it had seemed indomitable. And she’d imagined bones here upon the ground.
She didn’t feel prepared for Borenson’s news. She’d thought only about getting to Inkarra, not about any dangers between. But there would be bogs full of wights and mountains with hazards of their own.
“Can’t we go around the Westlands?” she asked.
“It will be faster if we go through them,” he said, obviously amused to see her dismay.
Myrrima and Borenson sat for a few moments counseling about what they should take with them south. Borenson had found gold in his father’s purse. He assured Myrrima that the city of Batenne near the Alcairs would carry all the supplies that they needed. Iome walked downstream as they spoke.
When it was near time to leave, Myrrima went looking for Iome. She walked down along a grassy trail beside the river and scared up a family of mallards.
She smelled an apple tree somewhere in the band of woods nearby, and found Iome there, leaning with her back against it, looking to the northwest. The head of a kingly statue lay in the grass, gazing upward with blank eyes. Wind-fallen apples carpeted the ground at Iome’s feet. Deer had nibbled many of them. Iome thoughtfully chewed a yellow apple. The sunlight striking the golden fields was piercing, brilliant.
“Are you worrying about Gaborn?” Myrrima asked.
“No,” Iome said. “My thoughts are far more selfish.”
“Really?” Myrrima said. “Good.”
“Good?” Iome asked. She turned and stared into Myrrima’s eyes. Over the past three hours she had been so preoccupied that she had not said a word to anyone.
“You don’t indulge yourself that way enough,” Myrrima suggested.
“Well, I’m making up for it today. I was just wondering if Gaborn would even spare a thought for me this afternoon.”
“I’m sure he will.”
“That’s the trouble,” Iome said. “He’ll think about me, and with a thought he’ll know whether I’m safe, and where I am.”
“I imagine so,” Myrrima said.
“I wish that I could go with you,” Iome confided. “Jerimas said that Gaborn’s nearest kin should deliver the message.”
“Gaborn couldn’t risk that,” Myrrima assured her.
“I know,” Iome said. “Now that he knows that I carry his son, he’ll send me to ‘safety.’ No doubt he’ll want me to lie comfortably in bed until it’s time to spread my legs and deliver his child.”
“Your Highness!” Myrrima said, affecting a shocked tone that she really did not feel.
Iome grinned wickedly, dark eyes flashing. “I’d go with you if I could. But Gaborn would know. He might even use his Earth Powers to hunt for me, and in wasting his precious time, I might place others in jeopardy. I can’t risk that. So it seems that I must do as I’m told.”
“At least you’ll be safe,” Myrrima said.
“There is no place in the world safer than at the Earth King’s side,” Iome countered. “That’s where I want to be.”
Iome tossed her apple to the ground, and took Myrrima’s hands. “I’ll miss you. Though you’ve saved my life twice now, I think of you as far more than a protector. I want you for my friend. Each day, I’ll beg the Earth to guide you, until you hurry back.”
“I’ll think of you, too,” Myrrima said. She found it hard to speak, could add little more. Words didn’t suffice. “I wish you well in the birthing of your son.”
Iome grinned, placed her left hand low on Myrrima’s stomach, just above her womb. “May you have a child of your own,” Iome intoned.
It was an old tradition in Heredon for a pregnant woman to offer a blessing upon her barren friends this way. It was merely a gesture of goodwill. Yet Myrrima felt a muscle spasm beneath Iome’s hand, and stepped back quickly. For half a second she imagined that Iome’s touch really could fill her empty womb.
Iome laughed. “It will happen soon enough, now that your husband … I’m sorry if I’ve offended, or upset you,” Iome quickly added. “I know that you and your husband have your troubles. I—only want the best for you.”
“No, it’s all right,” Myrrima said. “Thank you.” She couldn’t hide her uneasiness. Myrrima dared not tell Iome that Borenson had never slept with her, and that she had lied about his miraculous restoration.
“Let me give you another gift,” Iome said, as if hoping to atone for an unintended offense. “You need a necklace—to make up for the one you gave away.” She reached around her own throat, where a necklace lay hidden beneath her tunic. “I’ve been wearing this, for luck. You’ll need it more than I.” She brought out the opal necklace that Binnesman had used to fight the Darkling Glory.
“Your Highness,” Myrrima said, “I could never—I have no present to give you in return.”
“You gave me my life, and the life of my son.”
Iome put the necklace around Myrrima’s neck, hugged her, and they walked hand in hand back upstream to find Borenson brushing the mounts.
Borenson said goodbye to the queen and leapt up into his saddle in a single fluid move, as Runelords do. Myrrima swung onto his warhorse, her back straight, her movements quick and efficient.
Myrrima wondered why Borenson didn’t ask for his war-horse back, for it had more endowments than the little piebald mare he rode. Perhaps he no longer wanted it. His horse was a kingly mount, and Borenson was no longer the king’s guard. The piebald mare he rode was more appropriate for a minor lord. The two rode south along the river, turned at a bend and waved back through the trees.
Iome stood among the silver-barked birches at the edge of the wood, waving in return.
Myrrima had a strange view of her then. It seemed right for Iome to be there in the woods, as natural as berries on a holly tree. There with the golden limbs hanging above her head, wearing her traveling robes of green, with a son growing in her womb and horses at her back, Iome looked a proper wife for an Earth King.
Iome waved farewell to Myrrima and Borenson. She felt miserable. Gaborn wanted her to be safe, protected. He wanted what was best for her.
But right now, she felt very much alone.
Her friends were riding to Inkarra. Gaborn planned to go to the Underworld. And she… would go where she was told while the world collapsed around her. She yearned to do more.
Iome had Sergeant Grimeson call the guard together and they headed east with the guards and wagons.
The golden plains soon dissipated, replaced by lands so rich that they remained green even at the last of summer, and great oaks pocked the fields. Cottages began to dot the landscape, and stone fences lined the highway.
People were soon everywhere, and as Iome’s horse raced by, more often than not the farmers with their pigs or sheep or wagons would hardly have time to recognize her, much less doff a hat or bend the knee.
So their party was continually followed by cries of “Was that the queen?” and “Look, quick, there goes the queen!”
By late afternoon, Carris was but an evil memory. The aroma of living wheat fields supplanted the smell of dead grass; lordly pear orchards where starlings soared in riotous clouds were exchanged for the gray soot; the lowing of cattle as they grazed in the fields replaced the cries of children.
Iome felt invigorated.
Grimeson named the villages and cities for her as they passed, and sometimes would point out an ancient battlefield or spot of ground where history had unfolded. She soon realized that this unsightly little man had a fine head on his shoulders, and was cordial enough. But she wondered why Gaborn had chosen him to be her escort.
As evening gave way to night, Iome kept wishing to stop for a real meal at one of the inns that they passed. Time after time, she would smell the delicious aromas of ham cooking in a bed of leeks, or chicken savories, or warm bread fresh from the oven.
But the need was on her, and so she rode like a gale through the night, until, as Runelords do, she slept in the saddle, passing through a dream with a cool wind in her face, her hair flying.
Under starlight they rode, until one of the guards said, “Milady?”
Iome blinked her eyes as she woke.
They came to a stop on a rise, and the dark ocean spread before them in every direction. Iome had never seen an ocean, had never smelled the bitter tang of salt so strongly mingled with life and decay. She had not conceived how endless its horizons would be.
Ahead lay several small islands, all spanned by elegant bridges made of white stone that were almost indiscernible from wisps of cloud in the moonlight.
She saw stretched out above them the soaring towers at the Courts of Tide, like silver spears taking aim at the horned moon.
38
A WIZARD’S PERSPECTIVE
Wizards never infringe upon the affairs of common men. It’s just that common men sometimes get entangled in the affairs of wizards.
—The Earth Warden Binnesman
As afternoon dimmed into night, Averan watched Gaborn and various lords gathered in the council. They all sat on rocks and stumps that they had pulled into a circle near the creek. The reavers had been up on Mangan’s Rock for nearly three hours, roosting there like crows. The sun slanted toward the horizon, and a cool breeze wafted out of the mountains, carrying with it the scent of pine.
The Rune of Desolation that the reavers formed was only just beginning to take shape. Many scarlet sorceresses had been slain in the march, along with the glue mums, so that this construct was growing slowly. But the sickly design was evident, and foul-smelling smokes rolled off the hill as if bubbling from a cauldron.
Still, Averan had to wonder. From Battle Weaver’s memories, she knew that Battle Weaver had been sent here precisely because she had mastered the Rune of Desolation. Other reavers might duplicate portions of the rune, but each sorceress knew only a small piece of the whole.
Gaborn’s men still held the plains in a vast circle. The reavers’ smoke burned a man’s sinuses and made his eyes water. It was bad enough so that the frowth giants moved their camp well upwind of the rock. Yet there was still no sign of the blasting that had destroyed crops for miles around Carris.
To Averan, that seemed proof that the reavers were destined to fail at duplicating the rune.
But Gaborn was worried. He wanted the rune destroyed, and he wanted the Way maker.
He huddled with dozens of lords: Skalbairn, Sir Langley, Queen Herin the Red, Duke Groverman, Jerimas, and dozens of others. They raised loud voices and planned to assault the rock.
Averan sat quietly at the edge of the circle.
There was a thrill of expectation in the air, the sense of a rising battle. “I say we take artillery to them,” Skalbairn was saying. “We put ballistas south of the rock, and shoot the reavers down until they retreat. Then we send Runelords up the cliffs on scaling ladders.”
Gaborn looked evenly at Skalbairn. “I told you before: artillery won’t work.”
“Of course it will work!” Skalbairn argued.
“The king’s right,” Jerimas said. “The reavers would just throw rocks back at us. There’s no getting at them.”
“There has to be a way,” Queen Herin offered. “What if we built large siege towers, attacked from downwind? We could draw the towers in fast, using force horses. We might gain some element of surprise.”
Gaborn shook his head sadly. “The Earth warns against it.”
So he had said of every plan that the men propounded. The Earth did not grant him leave to act.
If only he could summon an earthquake, Averan thought, as he did at Carris. I’d see the reavers shaken from their perches, the whole hillside sliding into ruin.
But Gaborn could not summon earthquakes or world worms anymore. He could not even come up with a plan of attack. Always the Earth’s counsel was the same: no.
Averan glanced up, found Gaborn gazing toward her, as if hoping she would come to his rescue. Averan leaned forward, wrapped her hands over her head. She felt as if it were crammed to bursting. Memories still rushed into her, even though her mind was full. It was as if she’d devoured a huge feast, and now sat torpid, bloated, and kept shoving snacks down her mouth.
She had a sudden vivid vision of the nesting site of the Soft Stone Clan where Keeper had hatched, down where the rocks were warm from magma. She recalled cutting her way out of a leathery sack at birth by using her egg tooth, only to be attacked by one of her older siblings while still weary from the ordeal.
Keeper had wrestled with his sister, ripping off a hind leg as she fled. It was a hollow victory, for Keeper would have been better nourished by his sister’s corpse. Still, the leg provided him with his first real taste of flesh, and he fashioned the broken bone into a weapon, which he used to stab the next few hatchlings. He tore off the sweet musk glands beneath their forearms for nourishment, and ate their brains so that he quickly grew strong and wise.
Keeper’s memories were macabre, fascinating, although sketchy. She remembered haunting fragments of incidents: reavers desperately placing huge stones to form a conduit so that magma rising around them would shoot up to heat an underground lake.
The discussion had hit a lull. In the background there was a yelp and the sound of a staff smacking flesh. Beneath the fallen oak behind them, Gaborn’s captain was still training the wylde. He’d shown her how a Runelord could use a staff to vault over the head of an enemy. Now he taught her how to whirl her staff to engage multiple attackers. Even without endowments of brawn, the green woman matched his expert maneuvers.
A voice of reason suddenly spoke up. It was Jerimas. “We’ve been talking for hours now, and each time we come up with a plan, Gaborn says that the Earth forbids it. Are we sure that we even want the reavers off that rock?”
“What do you mean?” Skalbairn said in his deep voice. The huge warrior was sitting on a stone, sharpening his battle-ax. He tilted his head to hear the answer.
“I mean,” Jerimas said, leaning forward eagerly, so that his long silver beard nearly swept his knees, “that Averan tells us that the reavers are suffering from thirst. Once they come off that rock, they’re likely to head for the nearest drinking water—the water they left in Carris. Perhaps that’s why the Earth warns us against attacking.”
“Aye,” Queen Herin said. “I’m all for letting them sit up there till they dry up like jerk.”
