“Take this,” he said, offering her the dark ball. “It’s opium, to get rid of the pain.” He took a small pipe from the drawer—a pretty thing shaped like a silver frog upon a stick. The bowl was in the frog’s mouth, while the stick served as a stem. Borenson lit it with the candle.
She took the end in her mouth and inhaled. The smoke tasted bitter. She took several puffs, then Borenson uncorked a wine bottle that was sitting on a stand by the bed and offered her a drink. The wine tasted sweet and potent, and in a moment the bitter taste faded.
There was a soft tap at the door, and Fallion entered. The boy looked very frightened, but when he saw that she was awake, he smiled just a bit.
“Can I stay?” he asked. He did not ask Borenson. He asked her.
Rhianna nodded, and he came and sat beside her, taking Borenson’s spot.
Rhianna leaned back upon the bed, and Fallion just sat beside her, holding her hand. He was trying to offer comfort, but kept looking to the door, and Rhianna knew that he was worried that the healer would not come in time.
At last, Borenson asked the question that she knew that he must. “The creatures in the wood … where were you when they took you?”
Rhianna didn’t quite know what to answer. Once again, he was prying, and she knew that, as the old saying went, A man’s own tongue will betray him more often than will an enemy’s. “We were camping near the margin of the old King’s Road, near Hayworth. My mum had gone to Cow’s Cross to sell goods at Hostenfest. We were shanking it home when a man caught us, a powerful man. He had soldiers. They knocked Mum in the head. It was a terrible sound, like an ax handle hitting a plank. I saw her fall by the fire, practically in the fire, and bleeding she was. She didn’t move. And then he took me, and wrestled a bag over my head. After, he went to town and nabbed other girls, and he hauled us far away, up into the hills—” The words were all coming out in a rush.
Borenson put his finger to her lips. “Shhh … the man with soldiers—do you know his name?”
Rhianna considered how to answer, shook her head no. “The others called him ‘milord.’”
“He was probably a wolf lord, an outlaw,” Fallion said. “I heard that a few of them are still hiding in the hills. Did you get a good look at him?”
Rhianna nodded. “He was tall and handsome in the way that powerful lords are when they’ve taken too much glamour. You looked into his eyes, and you wanted to love him. Even if he was strangling you, you wanted to love him, and even as he killed me, I felt that he had the right. His eyes sparkled, like moonlight on snow … and when he put the bag over my head, he had a ring! Like the ones that lords wear, to put their stamp on wax.”
“A signet ring?” Fallion asked. “What did it look like?”
There was a bustle at the door as a pair of healers entered. One was a tall haggard man with dark circles under his eyes. The other was an Inkarran, a woman with impossibly white skin, eyes as pale green as agates, and hair the color of spun silver.
“Iron,” Rhianna said. “The ring was of black iron, with the head of a crow.”
Borenson stood up and stared hard at her, almost as if he did not believe her. Fallion squeezed Rhianna’s hand, just held it tight. “A king’s ring?”
“He wasn’t a king, I’m thinking,” Rhianna objected. “He seemed to be taking orders from someone named Shadoath. He was telling the men, ‘Shadoath demands that we do our part.’”
“Did you see this man, Shadoath?”
“No. He wasn’t near. They just spoke of him. They said that he’s coming, and they were worried that everything be ‘put in order’ before he gets here.”
Borenson frowned at this news. “Shadoath? That’s not a name that I’ve heard before. So your captor, once he had you, where did he take you?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “When they took off my hood, it was dark again. There was a town, a burned-out village in the woods. I saw black chimneys rising up like the bones of houses. But the fire there had been so hot, even the stones had melted. And we were sitting in the dark, on the ground, while around us there were ghost flames, green ghost flames.”
The opium was working quickly. Rhianna could no longer feel the clenching in her stomach. In fact, her whole body felt as if it were floating just a little, as if it would rise up off of the cot and just float like a leaf on a pond.
“Ghost flames?” Borenson asked.
“They burned, but there was nothing for them to burn,” Rhianna explained. “They just floated above the ground, like, as cold as fog.
“The soldiers set us there, and invited the darkness. Then the shadows came. We screamed, but the men didn’t care. They just … they just fed us, gave us … to them.”
Fear was rising in Rhianna’s throat, threatening to strangle her again.
“Twynhaven,” Borenson said. “You were at the village of Twynhaven. I know the place. Raj Ahten’s flameweavers burned it down, years back. What more can you tell me about the beasts that attacked you?”
Rhianna closed her eyes and shook her head. The creatures had carried her so tenderly in their mouths, as if she were a kitten.
“They licked me,” she said. “But I never even got a good look at them. But they washed me with their tongues, before … And I heard the leader talking. He called them strengi-saats.”
“‘Strong seeds,’” Borenson said, translating the word from its ancient Alnycian roots.
Rhianna looked up at him, worried. “Do you know what they are?”
“No,” Borenson said. “I’ve never heard of them. But I’ll soon find out all that I can.”
By now, the healers were examining Rhianna; the man set some herbs on the table, along with a small cloth with some surgeon’s tools—three sharp knives, a bone cleaver, and some curved needles and black thread for sewing.
Fallion must have seen her looking at the knives, for he whispered, “Don’t worry. We have the best healers here.”
The male healer began to ask questions. He prodded her stomach and asked if it hurt, but Rhianna’s mind was so muzzy that she could hardly understand him. It seemed like minutes had passed before she managed to shake her head no.
Fallion began to tell her of the huge feast that they would be having downstairs in a couple of hours. Eels baked in butter; roast swans with orange sauce; pies filled with sausage, mushrooms, and cheese. He offered to let her sit by him, but Rhianna knew that he was just trying to distract her.
Sir Borenson had pulled the Inkarran woman into a corner and now he whispered fervently. Rhianna blocked out Fallion’s droning voice, and listened to Borenson. The woman kept shaking her head, but Borenson insisted fiercely, “You have to cut it out—now! It’s the only way to save her. If you don’t, I’ll do it myself.”
“You not healer,” the woman insisted in her thick accent. “You not know how. Even I never do thing like this.”
“I’ve sewed up my share of wounds,” Borenson argued. “They say that you cut children out of wombs in Inkarra.”
“Sometimes, yes,” the woman said. “But only after woman dead, and only to save child. I not know how do this. Maybe this kill her. Maybe ruin her, so she no have babies.”
Rhianna looked at the big guard, and for some reason that she could not understand, she trusted him. His inner toughness reminded her of her mother.
Rhianna reached over to the table beside her cot and grabbed a knife. Not the big one, a smaller one, for making small cuts. Fallion grabbed at her wrist, as if he were afraid that she’d stab herself.
“Sir,” Rhianna said, her vision darkening in a drug-induced haze. “Cut me, please.”
Borenson turned and stared at her, mouth open.
“I’m not a healer,” he apologized. “I’m not a surgeon.”
“You know how to make a cut that kills,” Rhianna said. Her thoughts came muzzy. “You know how to hit a kidney or a heart. This time, make one that heals.”
He strode to her and took the knife. Rhianna touched its b
lade, tracing a simple rune called harm-me-not.
The Inkarran woman came up beside him, and whispered, “I show where to cut.” Just then, the healer who had been preparing the tools put one large hand over her eyes, so that Rhianna would not be able to see what was done to her.
Rhianna surrendered.
3
OF RINGS AND THRONES
Every man rightfully seeks to be lord of his own domain, just as every sparrow wishes to be a lord of the sky.
—Emir Owatt of Tuulistan
Night descended upon Castle Coorm. The clouds above were worn rags, sealing out the light. The air in the surrounding meadows grew heavy and wet, and in the hills, bell-like barks rang out, eerie and unsettling.
The peasants who had come to mourn the passing of the Earth King issued through the gates like nervous sheep, and the atmosphere soon changed from one of mourning to uncertainty and anticipation. The inhabitants of Castle Coorm bore themselves as if in a siege.
It was more than an hour after Fallion had made his way home, and now his mother waited, pacing in her quarters, often going out onto the veranda to gaze at the hills, where every cottage was as empty and lifeless as a pile of stones. She ignored the local dignitaries that arrived, hoping for news of Gaborn’s death. How had he died? Where? She had no answers for them yet, none for herself.
Iome hoped that messengers would come. But she could not know for certain that anyone would bring news. She might never learn the truth.
In the past few years, Gaborn had taken to wandering afar. With his dozens of endowments of metabolism, he had become something of a loner.
How many folk in far lands had met her husband, a stranger in green robes whose quick movements baffled the eye and left the visitant wondering if he’d really seen the Earth King or was only having a waking dream? Often Gaborn merely appeared to a peasant who was walking the highway or working in the fields, looked into his eyes for a moment, pierced his soul, and whispered the words, “I Choose you. I Choose you for the Earth. May the Earth hide you. May the Earth heal you. May the Earth make you its own.” Then Gaborn would depart in a blur as soundlessly as a leaf falling in the forest.
He lived at dozens of times the speed of a normal man, and had aged accordingly. For him, a winter’s night would feel like more than two months of solid darkness. For him, there was no such thing as a casual conversation. He had lost the patience for such things years ago. Even a few words spoken from his mouth were a thing to be treasured.
Iome had not seen him in three years. Ten months ago, Daymorra had met him on an island far to the south and east of Inkarra. Iome felt sure that he was working his way across the world.
But why? She suspected that it had to do with Fallion.
It was while Iome fretted that Sir Borenson stalked into her private quarters bearing a bowl, with Fallion in tow. The servants closed the door, and even her Days would not enter the sanctum of her private quarters, leaving them to talk in secret.
In the bowl were half a dozen eggs, black and leathery, floating in a thin soup of blood. Iome could see through the membranes of the eggs—eyes and teeth and claws. One egg had hatched, and a tiny creature thrashed about in the blood, clawing and kicking. It was as black as sin, with vicious teeth. Even as Iome watched, a second creature breached its egg, a gush of black fluid issuing forth.
“It looks almost like a squirrel,” Iome mused, “a flying squirrel.”
“It doesn’t have any ears,” Fallion said.
It was not like a squirrel at all, Iome knew. It was more like the egg of a fly, planted into the womb of its victim, then left to eat its way out and dine on the girl’s dead remains. Apparently the egg didn’t need the blood supply of a mature woman to hatch—perhaps only warmth and wet and darkness.
Sir Borenson cleared his throat. “We got all of the creatures out. Only one had hatched, and it only moments before.”
Iome had already heard some of the news of their adventure. Fallion and Jaz had given a wild account, nearly witless with terror. Daymorra and Hearthmaster Waggit had been more cogent.
And in the midst of the questioning, Fallion had gone to give the girl comfort as others cut her open. He’d seen the eggs torn from her stomach, and now he looked very wise and sad for a nine-year-old. Iome felt proud of him.
“Do you even have any idea what these creatures are?” Iome asked.
Borenson shook his head. “Rhianna told me that they were summoned from the netherworld. The summoner called them strengi-saats. But I’ve never heard of them.”
He went over to the hearth, hurled the bowl and its contents into the flames. The young monsters made mewling noises as they died, like kittens.
Rhianna, Iome thought. So the girl has a name. And so do the monsters that she held within her.
“I wish that Binnesman were here,” Fallion said. The Earth Warden Binnesman had made detailed studies of flora and fauna in the hills and mountains of Rofehavan, in the caverns of the Underworld, and had even collected lore from the netherworld. He would know what these creatures were, if anyone would. But he had gone back to Heredon, home to his gardens at the edge of the Dunnwood.
“Will the girl survive?” Iome asked.
“I think so,” Borenson said. “We found her womb easily enough, and I got all of the … eggs out.” Iome didn’t imagine that anyone had ever said the word eggs with more loathing. “The healers sewed her back up … but there was a lot of blood. And I worry about rot.”
“I’ll see that she’s well tended,” Iome said.
Borenson said. “I was hoping that you could spare a forcible … .”
“An endowment of stamina?” Iome asked. “What do we know of her? Is she of royal blood?”
There was a time in her life when Iome would have allowed such a boon out of pity alone. But the blood-metal mines were barren. Without blood metal, her people could not make forcibles, and without forcibles they could not transfer attributes. So the forcibles had to be saved for warriors who could put them to good use.
“She has no parents,” Borenson said. “I’d like to take her as my daughter.”
Iome smiled sadly. “You were ever the one for picking up strays.”
“There’s something about her,” Borenson said. “She knows some rune casting. At least, she put a blessing on the knife before she would let it touch her. Not many children her age would know how to do that. And she didn’t do it out of hope. She did it with confidence.”
“Indeed,” Iome said. “Too few even of our surgeons know such lore. Did she say where she learned it?”
Borenson shook his head. “Fell asleep too soon.”
“We’ll have the healers watch her,” Iome said in a tone of finality.
Borenson bit his lip as if he wanted to argue, but seemed to think better of it.
Fallion cut in. “Mother? Won’t you give her one forcible?”
Iome softened. “If her situation begins to worsen, I will permit her a forcible.” She turned to Borenson. “Until then, perhaps you should ask your wife to wash the child. Myrrima has a healing touch.”
Borenson nodded in acquiescence.
Iome changed the subject. “Daymorra told me of bodies in the hills,” Iome said. “I’ve sent her to lead twenty men to burn the corpses. We can’t let these monsters continue to breed.”
“I agree,” Borenson said. “But there is something else. Rhianna did not see the face of the man who summoned the creatures. She only saw his ring: black iron, with a crow.”
Iome stared hard at Sir Borenson, unsure whether she should believe it. She looked at Fallion, hesitant to continue speaking in front of her son.
Fallion must have sensed something amiss, for he said, “An iron ring, with a crow. For Crowthen?”
“King Anders, you think?” Iome asked. “Back from the dead?” That drew Fallion’s attention. Fallion peered up at her with eyes gone wide, riveted.
“It couldn’t be. I saw his body myself,” Borenson said. “H
e was cold when they took him from the battlefield at Carris. No matter how much of a wizard he was, I doubt that he could have come back.”
Yet Iome gave him a hard look.
Fallion asked, “How can a man come back from the dead?”
“Anders was mad,” Iome answered, “wind-driven. He gave himself to the Powers of the Air. As such, he could let his breath leave him, feign death.”
Fallion looked to Borenson. “Can he really do that?”
“I’ve seen it,” Borenson said. “Such men are hard to kill.”
Iome dared not reveal more of what she suspected about Anders. Borenson put in, “Whoever he is, he isn’t working alone. He mentioned a superior: someone named Shadoath. Have you heard the name?”
Iome shook her head no. “It sounds … Inkarran?” she mused. It didn’t sound like any name that she had ever heard. “If Anders is back, that could explain much,” Iome said. She turned to Fallion. “You were attacked only moments after your father … passed. I doubt that anyone could have known that he was going to die—unless they had a hand in it.”
Fallion shook his head and objected, “No one could have killed him! His Earth Powers would have warned him.”
That was the kind of thing that the cooks and guards would have told Fallion. Gaborn was invincible. Iome half believed it herself. But she also knew that Anders was both more powerful and more evil than her son could know.
“I’m with the boy,” Borenson said. “It seems more likely that his enemies just waited for him to die. His endowments were aging him prematurely. He was old, even for a wizard.”
Fallion had to wonder. His father should have known that he was going to die. His Earth Powers would have warned him weeks, perhaps months, in advance. And thus if he had foreseen his own death, why had he not avoided it?
Perhaps he could not avoid it, Fallion thought. But at least, he could have come home to say good-bye.
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