Far down the dirt road to the south, fifty knights were racing north, the hooves of their chargers thundering over the earth.
“Perhaps your road north won’t be so dangerous after all,” Baron Poll said. “But mark my word. Beware of Carris.”
“Aren’t you coming north? I thought you’d ride with me.”
“Pah,” Baron Poll spat. “I’m going the wrong way—south. I have a summer estate outside Carris, so my wife wanted me to remove a few valuables before Raj Ahten’s men looted the place. I’m helping the servants guard the wagon.”
That seemed cowardly, but Roland said nothing.
“Aye,” Baron Poll said. “I know what you’re thinking. But they’ll have to fight without me at Carris. I had two endowments of metabolism until last fall when some of my Dedicates got slain. I’m feeling too old and fat for a real battle. My armor fits me no better than would my wife’s undergarments.”
Those words had come hard. The Baron did want to go north and fight.
“We could skirt this battle at Carris,” Roland suggested, “and find one more to your liking. Why don’t you come with me?”
“Hah!” Baron Poll guffawed. “Eight hundred miles to Heredon? If you’re not worried for your own health, or mine, at least you could show pity to my poor horse!”
“Let your servants haul off your treasures. They don’t need you guarding them.”
“Ah, my wife would give me such a tongue-lashing—the shrew! Better to anger Raj Ahten than her.”
A maid came out of the inn and expertly grabbed one of the hens that had been pecking in the dust. She snatched it by the neck. “You’ll be coming with me. Lord Collinsward wants your company for breakfast.” She wrung the chicken’s neck and was already pulling off feathers when she carried the hen round back.
In moments, the knights from the south reached the village, wheeled their horses toward the stable. Apparently they hoped to rest, get some news, and care for their mounts.
When the stableboy brought Roland’s horse around, he mounted, gave the boy a small coin. The filly was well rested, frolicky. She was a huge red beast with a blaze of white on her hooves and forehead. She acted ready for a brisk run in the cool morning air. Roland took off along the road, through a field shrouded with mist that soon turned into a low fog.
Roland sniffed at the smell of volcanic ash, searching the scent for signs of danger. On the road north ahead was Raj Ahten’s army—an army said to contain sorcerers and Invincibles and frowth giants and fierce dogs of war.
He could not help think how unfair life could be. That poor chicken back at the inn hadn’t had a second’s warning before it died.
Moments later, while Roland was preoccupied with such grim thoughts, the sound of a horse riding hard startled him.
He glanced behind, worried that it might be a robber or assassin. He was riding through a thick fog, and could not see a hundred feet ahead.
Spurring his mount off the road, he reached for his halfsword just as a huge shape came thundering from the mist behind him.
Baron Poll bounced up on his horse. “Well met!” the fat knight cried, sitting precariously on his charger. The beast looked about with a terrified demeanor, eyes wide and ears back, as if afraid its master would give it a good cuffing.
“Aren’t you going south with your treasures?” Roland asked.
“Damn the treasures. The servants can abscond with them for all I care! Let them take that shrew of a wife, too!” Baron Poll bellowed. “You were right. It’s better to die young with the blood hot in your veins, than to die old and slowly of being too fat!”
“I never said that,” Roland objected.
“Pah! Your eyes said it all, lad.”
Roland sheathed his sword. “Well, now that my eyes are so eloquent, perhaps I’ll give my unruly tongue a rest.” With that, he wheeled his horse into the mist.
3
HOSTENFEST
Myrrima woke at dawn with tears in her eyes. She wiped them away and lay wondering at the strange sense of melancholy that had overwhelmed her each dawn for the past three days. She did not know for certain why she woke crying.
She should not have felt this way. It was the last day of Hostenfest—the day of the great feast—and it should have been the happiest day of the year.
Moreover, in the past few weeks, she had won several small victories. Instead of sleeping in her shack outside Bannisferre, she had wakened in her room in the King’s Tower at Castle Sylvarresta. Over the past three days, she’d become a close friend to young Queen Iome Orden, and she’d married a knight with some wealth. Her sisters and her mother were here in the castle, living in the Dedicate’s Keep, where they would be taken care of for life.
She should have been happy. Yet she felt as if the hand of doom weighed on her.
Outside her window, she could hear the King’s facilitators chanting out in the Dedicates’ Keep. Over the past week, thousands of people had offered to dedicate their attributes into the service of the Earth King. Though Gaborn was an Oath-Bound Lord and had sworn not to take a man’s brawn or wit or stamina unless it was freely given, and those had been freely offered, he still had not taken a single endowment. Some feared that he had forsaken the practice altogether, yet he did not forbid his knights to take endowments.
King Gaborn Val Orden seemed to have an endless supply of forcibles, and for the past week, the chief facilitator had worked with his apprentices night and day, doling out endowments to Heredon’s knights, trying to rebuild the kingdom’s decimated troops. Still, the Dedicate’s Keep was only half full.
A soft knocking came from Myrrima’s door, and she rolled over on the satin sheets of her bed, glanced out through a window of the oriel. The morning light barely glowed through the stained-glass image on the window—mourning doves winging through a blue sky, as seen through a screen of ivy. She realized that the low knocking had wakened her.
“Who’s there?”
“’Tis I,” Borenson said.
Throwing back the sheets, she leapt up, rushed to the door, and yanked it open. He stood in the doorway, a lamp in his hands, its small flame wavering in the drafty castle. He looked huge there in the darkness, grinning like a boy with a joke to tell. His blue eyes twinkled, and his red beard fanned out from his face.
“You don’t need to knock,” she laughed. They’d been married now for four days, though he’d run off and spent the last three on a hunt. Worse, they had never consummated their marriage, and Myrrima had to wonder at him.
Sir Borenson seemed smitten enough by her, but when she’d thought to bed him on her honeymoon night, he’d merely said, “How can a man take such pleasures, while tonight he will hunt in the Dunnwood?”
Myrrima was inexperienced with men. She did not know if it was right to feel so hurt by his rejection. She’d wondered if he really was overexcited by the hunt, if that was natural, or if he had a war wound that kept him from showing affection. Perhaps Borenson had married her only because Gaborn had suggested it.
For days she had felt hurt and bewildered, and had longed for Borenson’s return. Now he was home.
“I was afraid you’d be deeply asleep,” he said.
He stepped forward, ventured a small kiss, holding the lamp far out to his side. She took the lamp from him and set it on a trunk. “Not like that,” she said. “We’re married.” She grabbed him by the beard and pulled him down, kissed him roughly, leading him toward the bed. She hoped that by now he might have settled down.
Almost immediately she regretted it. He was covered in dirt, and his ring mail was caked with mud. It would take someone hours to get her bedclothes clean.
“Ah, that will have to wait.” Borenson grinned. “But not too long, of course. Just until I get cleaned up.”
She stared up into his face. The melancholy she’d felt only moments before had dissipated completely. “Go wash, then.”
“Not quite yet,” Borenson chortled. “I’ve got something to show you.”
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“You killed me a boar for Hostenfest?” she laughed.
“No boars this Hostenfest,” he answered. “The hunt didn’t go as anticipated.”
“Well, I suppose the lords at the table could make do with a rabbit,” she teased. “Though I shan’t want anything smaller. I never have developed a taste for field mice.”
Borenson smiled mysteriously. “Come on. Hurry.” He went to her wardrobe and pulled down a simple blue dress. Myrrima threw off her nightclothes, pulled on the dress, and began to tie the laces of the bodice. Borenson watched, delighted to be entertained by his new bride. She pulled on some shoes and in moments he had her rushing down the steps of the keep, trying to catch up.
“The hunt didn’t go well,” Borenson said, taking her hand. “We had some casualties.”
She wondered at that. There were still black-furred nomen prowling in the woods, and frowth giants. Raj Ahten had fled south from here more than a week ago, abandoning those troops that were too tired to flee. She wondered how the lords had been killed. “Casualties?”
He nodded, unwilling to say more.
In moments they reached the cobblestone street. The morning air carried a keen cold bite, and Myrrima’s breath fogged. Borenson hurried her through the portcullis of the King’s Gate, rushing down Market Street to the city gate. There, just beyond the drawbridge, beside the moat, a huge crowd was gathering.
The fields before Castle Sylvarresta were full of bright pavilions that sprawled like a city of canvas. In the past week, another four hundred thousand peasants and nobles from Heredon and kingdoms beyond had gathered here, come to see the Earth King, Gaborn Val Orden. The fields were becoming an endless maze of tents and animals, enough so that now the tents covered nearby hills, and whole towns were springing up on the plains to the south and west.
Everywhere, merchants and vendors were setting up booths, creating impromptu markets among the host. The scent of cooking sausages hung over the throng, and because this was a feast day, hundreds of minstrels were already warming up their lutes and harps under every tree.
Four peasant boys ahead were singing so badly to pipes and lutes that Myrrima didn’t know if they were serious or if they simply mocked others’ poor efforts.
Borenson nudged aside some peasants and chased away a couple of mastiffs so that Myrrima could see what was at the crowd’s center.
What she saw revolted her: a lump of gray flesh as huge as a wagon lay on the grass, the eyeless head of a reaver. Its feelers hung like dead worms around the back of its skull, and the rows of crystalline teeth looked terrifying as they caught the morning sun. The thing was dirty, having been dragged for many miles. Yet beneath that grime, along the forehead, she could see runes tattooed into the monster’s horrible flesh—runes of power that glowed even now like dim flames. Every child in Rofehavan knew the meaning of those facial runes.
This was no common reaver. It was a mage.
Myrrima’s heart pounded as if it were trying to batter its way out of her chest. She found herself breathing hard, feeling faint. She went suddenly cold, and stood letting the heat of strangers’ bodies warm her while the mastiffs sniffed at the reaver’s head and wagged the stumps of their tails nervously.
“A reaver mage?” she asked dully. No one had killed a reaver mage in Heredon in over sixteen hundred years. She studied the thing’s head. The monster could have bitten a warhorse in half. Or a man.
Peasants tittered; children reached out to touch the horrible thing.
“We caught her in the Dunnwood, down in some old duskin ruins, far underground. She had her mates and offspring there, so we killed them all and crushed her eggs.”
“How many died?” Myrrima asked, dazed.
Borenson did not immediately answer. “Forty-one good knights,” he said at last. “They fought well. It was a fierce battle.” He added as modestly as he could, “I killed the mage myself.”
She wheeled on him, full of rage. “How could you do this?”
Surprised by her reaction, he sputtered, “It wasn’t easy, I confess. The mage gave me a hard time of it. She seemed loath to lose her head.”
Suddenly she saw it all clearly: why she had wakened every morning full of melancholy, why she could hardly sleep nights. She was terrified. She’d sought to wed a man for his wealth, and instead had fallen in love. Meanwhile, her husband seemed more interested in getting himself killed than in making love to her.
She turned and stalked off through the crowd, shoving away bystanders, pushing toward the castle gate, blinded by tears.
Borenson hurried after her, caught her at the foot of the drawbridge and turned her with one big hand. “What are you so mad about?”
The sound of his voice was so loud that it startled a fish down in the reeds of the moat. The water swirled as something large swam away. A throng of people heading into the castle made way for Borenson and Myrrima, skirting them as if they were islands in a stream.
She turned up to face him. “I’m mad because you’re leaving me.”
“Of course I’m leaving you—in a few days,” he said. “But not by choice.”
Borenson had killed King Sylvarresta, and Myrrima knew that it shamed him, despite the fact that Sylvarresta had given an endowment to Raj Ahten, lending wit to the Wolf Lord. Though Sylvarresta had been a good man, one who had only given his endowment under duress, the truth was that in such a horrible war as this, friend could not spare friend. Brother could not spare brother.
By granting an endowment of wit to Raj Ahten, King Sylvarresta had made himself an enemy to every just man, and Borenson had felt bound by duty to take the life of his old friend.
Once the deed was done, the King’s daughter, Iome, was loath to punish Borenson, but neither could she forgive him. So in the name of justice she’d lain a quest upon Borenson, commanded him to perform an Act Penitent—to go to the lands beyond Inkarra and find the legendary Daylan Hammer, the Sum of All Men, and bring him back here to Heredon to help fight Raj Ahten.
It seemed a fool’s quest. Though rumor said he lived, Daylan Hammer could not still be alive after sixteen centuries. Sir Borenson seemed loath to go, when he saw better ways to protect his people. Still, he was bound by honor to depart—and he’d do so soon.
“I don’t want to go,” Borenson said. “I have to.”
“It’s a long way to Inkarra. A long way for a man to travel alone. I could come with you.”
“No!” Borenson insisted. “You can’t. You’d never make it alive.”
“What makes you think you will?” Myrrima asked. She knew the answer. He was a captain in the King’s Guard, with endowments of brawn and stamina and metabolism. If any man alive could make it through the enemy territories, Borenson could.
Inkarra was a dangerous place: a strange land where northerners weren’t tolerated. Neither he nor Myrrima could blend in easily: the Inkarrans all had skin as pale as ivory, with straight hair the color of silver. Borenson and Myrrima couldn’t disguise themselves enough to hide their foreign birth.
For the most part, the Inkarrans were a nocturnal people. By day, they spent much of their time at home or in the shadowed woods so evading them would be nearly impossible. And if Borenson were captured, he’d be forced to fight in their dark arena.
In order to stay alive, he’d have to travel secretly at night, as best he could, never risking contact with the Inkarrans.
He said, “I can’t take you. You would slow me down, get us both killed.”
“I don’t like this,” Myrrima said. “I don’t like the idea of your going off alone.” A vendor pulling a handcart moved close, and Myrrima stepped from his path, dragging Borenson with her.
“Neither do I, but you can’t believe for a moment that you could help me.”
Myrrima shook her head, and a tear splashed down her cheek. “I told you about my father,” she said. He’d been a fairly wealthy merchant who had apparently been robbed and killed and then had his shop burned down around him to
cover the crime. “I sometimes wonder if I could have saved him. On the night he was killed, he was not the wealthiest merchant in Bannisferre, or the most feeble. But he was alone. Perhaps if I had been with him …”
“If you had been with him, you too might be dead,” Borenson said.
“Perhaps,” she whispered. “But sometimes I think I’d rather be dead than live without knowing if I could have been of help.”
Borenson stared hard at her. “I admire your loyalty, I cherish it. But the worst day of my life came last week when I learned that you had ridden to Longmot, hoping to join me in battle. I want you to sleep by my side, not fight by my side—even though you have a warrior’s heart.” He kissed her tenderly.
For just a moment their eyes met. She held his outstretched hand. A plea.
“If I cannot come with you,” she said, “I will not be happy until you return.”
Borenson smiled and leaned his forehead against hers, kissed her nose. “Let us agree, then. Neither of us will be happy until I return.”
He held her for a long moment, letting the crowd of peasants heading for the castle stroll past.
Behind her, she heard a couple of men talking. “Chose that whore Bonny Cleads, he did, not half an hour ago! Why would the Earth King Choose someone like her?”
“He says he Chooses those what love their fellow men,” a fellow said, “and I don’t know of no one that’s loved more of ’em than she.”
Myrrima felt Borenson stiffen in her arms as his attention focused on the peasants. Though he bridled to hear such criticism of the King, he did not challenge the men.
Myrrima heard a shout and a splash, as if someone had thrown something into the moat, but paid it no mind until Borenson pulled his head back from her and turned away.
She looked to see what had caught his eye. Four young men stood on the levee, looking down into the moat, about a hundred yards upstream. They were perched on a small rise, beneath an enormous willow.
The sun was bright and the skies clear. An early morning mist rose off the dark waters. As Myrrima watched, a huge fish came up to the surface of the moat and swam about lazily. One boy hurled a spear at it, but the fish darted nimbly forward and dove again.
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