Iome waited until the head facilitator was free for a moment, and then approached.
“Gaborn will be leaving soon,” she told him. “When he does, send word to our facilitators at Castle Sylvarresta in Heredon. I have many forcibles hidden in the uppermost tomb on the hill. I want the facilitators there to use them to vector endowments to Gaborn. He has Dedicates at Castle Longmot. It shouldn't be hard.”
“How many endowments should we give him?” the facilitator asked.
“All that they can.”
“Gaborn would never agree to that!” the facilitator said too loudly. “Even as a child, he has never loved the forcible.”
“Of course not,” Iome said, trying to shush him with a gesture. “He must not know what we do for him. I ask only one boon. Gaborn is an oath-bound lord. He will not take endowment by force, nor barter for them with the poor who have no other choice. Those who give the endowments must be adults who understand the danger and who give their strengths voluntarily, out of their own pure desire to serve others.”
The facilitator studied her. He knew how hopeless Gaborn's quest would be. He also knew that the world could not allow him to fail. “You will lose him, you know,” the facilitator said. “Even if he succeeds on his quest, with so many endowments of metabolism, he will age and die while you are yet young. And you risk something even more profane. He might well become the Sum of All Men, immortal, alone, incapable of dying.”
The thought wrung tears from Iome's eyes. “Don't you think I'm aware of the dangers? This is not something that I do lightly.”
“Very well,” the facilitator said. “I will send word to Heredon at once.”
As Averan finished taking her endowments, Iome strode deeper into the cave. Binnesman and his wylde followed in Iome's wake.
Farther back in the tunnel, Gaborn stood alone with a torch in hand, peering into the void while his knights broke camp.
The opening to the Mouth of the World was more than a hundred feet wide, but quickly it tapered down to a bit over twenty-five feet wide.
The reavers had recently reinforced the walls with mucilage, which hardened into a substance tougher than concrete. The mucilage had been shaped into riblike pillars that arced up gently to reach a point some thirty feet overhead. Every dozen yards a new set of pillars rose. At the apex, where pillars from each side of the tunnel met, ran a bony ridge the length of the crawlway.
The appearance of these pillars was disconcerting. When Iome peered down the tunnel, the supports looked like bony white ribs, as if the trail led through the skeletal remains of some vast worm, long dead.
From the roof above, cave kelp hung in long tendrils, and other hairy plants dangled.
“What are you doing?” Iome asked.
“Wondering how many torches we should take,” Gaborn said. “Carrying too many would be a cumbersome burden, and taking too few will be a disaster.”
“Waxroot burns well,” Binnesman suggested. “We should find some growing along the way.”
“I may have something better than torches,” Iome said, glad to prove her worth. “I took the liberty of bringing a present from the treasury at the Courts of Tide.” She went to her pack, which sat waiting nearby beneath some coils of stout rope, and pulled out a bag filled with jewelry, all set with opals. These were but a small part of the treasures of the Mystarrian court, and represented the vast hoard of jewels collected by Gaborn's ancestors over a period of more than two thousand years. There were no less than eighty cape pins with opals of every color, to match whatever a lord might have in his courtly wardrobe: black opals from the hills above Westmoore. Fire opals from Indhopal, pearl opals from beyond the Carroll Sea, a blue opal so old that Chancellor Westhaven had told her that no one at court knew where it had come from. There were golden opals flecked with red set in a tarnished golden crown, and necklaces, bracelets, and rings by the score.
She dumped the contents onto the ground near Gaborn's feet. The jewels gleamed dully in the glow of his torch. “Can you draw the light from them,” she asked Binnesman, “as you did at Castle Sylvarresta?”
“Yes,” Binnesman exulted. “These will be marvelous!” The wizard scattered the jewels into a circle, and then drew runes outside. He waved his staff above them and spoke an incantation, then whispered softly, “Awaken.”
The stones began to glow dimly, each with its own luster. It was like watching the stars come out on a summer's evening. First, the blue opal caught a spark, and then others joined it.
Yet unlike stars, there seemed to be no end to their glory. Even without a dozen endowments of sight, the resplendent light that shot up from the opals would have bedazzled and pained the eyes.
Streams of lustrous white, like sunlight bouncing off a snowy field, radiated from many opals. But startling colors played among them: streams of blue water running from a sapphire lake, a ruddy gold like an autumn day, greens and reds so fierce that if Iome had had to describe them, words would have failed her.
The stones blazed, and their brightness was such that Iome felt the heat from them, as if from a fire. She was forced to look away, and thus she looked up and saw the colors dancing across the roof of the cave.
Averan gasped, and even the green woman made a cooing sound in wonder.
Binnesman quickly reached down and pawed through the opals, gathering up the brightest. Iome had hastily searched among the treasure chests before she came, and many of the stones that had seemed fairest to her then were cast aside.
“Softer now,” the wizard said as he finished. The opals dimmed, so that no heat burned from them, and yet even their muted light was brighter than any lantern.
“Let us see here,” the wizard muttered. “Who shall need what?”
The wizard first picked up a silver ring that held a fine white stone that blazed hot. “Take care with this one, child,” he said, handing it to Averan. “You can cook your meals with it.”
Averan put the ring on and rejoiced, “It fits like it was made for me!”
“Perhaps it was,” the wizard jested.
The ring glowed fiercely, and Averan stroked it and whispered, “Softer now.” The light from it dimmed, as if she wore a star upon her finger.
For his wylde, the wizard chose a necklace with dozens of golden opals in it. He draped it over her head, and the green woman merely stared into the stones, bedazzled.
Last of all, he picked cape pins for himself and Gaborn.
Gaborn's was the pin with the green opal, which blazed the brightest of all the colored stones. “A singular stone for a singular man,” Binnesman said as he pinned Gaborn's cape.
He stretched out his hand above the rest of the jewels, preparing to snuff out their light, when Iome grabbed his wrist and said, “Wait. I'm going with you.”
She reached into the pile of jewels and picked up the ancient golden crown. Not many of its opals were bright, but with the hundreds of opals therein, Iome suspected that she could see nearly a quarter of a mile back into the cave.
Gaborn stared at her evenly. “No, you won't be coming. I have another task for you.” He glanced up, as if afraid that others might hear. “If Chondler fails us, if he is overwhelmed at Carris, then I suspect that all of my Chosen may die. But there may still be one slim hope.”
“Name it,” Iome said.
“Some folks might flee to safety on the sea,” Gaborn said. “Reavers hate water, and cannot see far enough to safely reconnoiter the oceans. They never surface on islands. So why not take some people to safety? You could sail north, into the frozen seas where no reavers would dare follow!”
“So,” Iome said, letting only the slightest tone of bitterness creep into her voice, “you still hope to send me to safety?”
“I'm hoping that you will lead our people to safety.”
“Fine,” Iome said. “Send word to Chancellor Westhaven for Mystarria, and to Chancellor Rodderman in Heredon, and let them make the prepa-rations. They don't need my help.”
; “But—” Gaborn began to say.
“Don't play upon my sense of duty,” Iome warned him. “I'm not some servant. I'm sworn to your service more closely than any man could be. I know what you're thinking. You want to send me to safety, but you are the Earth King, and the only place that I can be safe is at your side. You swore, you swore in your wedding vows, that you would be my protector.”
“I don't know what we'll find down there,” Gaborn argued. “I can't promise that you'll be safe.”
“Then what good is your Earth sight?” Iome asked. “You're as blind to our fate as any common man. But I can promise you this. When others falter, I'll be your shield. And while you're thinking about how to save the world, I'll be thinking about how to save you.”
Gaborn peered hard into her face, searching for an argument. He said as if the words were wrenched from him in agony, “All right. We will face the pit together.”
3
WED TO A WOMAN OF WATER
Of all the Powers, Water is the most seductive. Perhaps that is because it is easily unleashed. But all too soon, the streams become a raging torrent that cannot be stopped, and he who sought to master Water becomes but another bit of debris, borne away to the sea.
—excerpt from The Child's Book of Wizardry, by Hearthmaster Col
Sir Borenson and his wife Myrrima fled the village of Fenraven before dawn, when the mist was lifting from the mire while the stars drifted from the heavens like sparkling cinders.
Borenson first raided the kitchen, grabbing a few sausages and some loaves of bread, which he stuffed in his pack. Then he crept to the door of the inn, warhammer in hand, and peered out into the street. Cottages hunkered dazedly in the darkness, casting long shadows, and the bare limbs of trees rose up all around behind them like black fingers, silently straining to catch the falling stars. Nothing in the village seemed to be awake. No smoke from a morning fire yet drifted from a chimney. No dogs barked, no pigs grunted curiously.
Yet Borenson's mind was uneasy, for he still remembered the hooded man who had followed them two nights before. The fellow had ridden a force horse in the darkness, braving the wight-infested bogs of the West-lands. That showed that he was a bold man. But he had also ridden hooded, with sheepskin boots pulled over the hooves of his mount to soften its footfalls, in the manner of assassins out of Inkarra. He might have just been a lone highwayman, hoping to waylay unsuspecting mer-chants. But Borenson had long ago learned to nurture his suspicions.
So he watched the street for several long minutes, peering into the shadows. When he felt reasonably certain that no one was watching, he whispered, “Let's go,” and crept like a shadow out the door, around the side of the inn, and into the stables.
Inside the stables a lantern burned dimly, and the stalls were dark. The hay up in the loft smelled moldy, which one might have expected in late winter or early spring, but which seemed odd here in autumn. Borenson watched Myrrima as she lit a lantern. She did not wince when she lifted the light from its hook, and as she carried it to the stalls, she moved gracefully, seeming to flow smoothly over the ground like water. A night past, she had managed to banish a wight with cold iron, but its touch had nearly stopped her heart. Now, to all appearances, her healing was complete.
Myrrima held the lantern high as they neared the stalls, searching for their horses, and Borenson grunted in surprise, giving a little laugh.
“What?” Myrrima whispered.
“My piebald mare! Look, she's here! Someone must have found her.” She was stabled next to Borenson's own warhorse. He'd found the little mare outside Carris, and in the past few days had become quite fond of her. But he'd lost her while fleeing the wight. She'd struck her hoof on a root while running in the darkness. “Do you think she'll be lame?”
“I hope not,” Myrrima said. “I'm the one who found her outside town yesterday afternoon. Her hoof was split, and the poor thing looked ready for slaughter, so I used the last of Binnesman's salve on her.”
“Binnesman's wondrous salve?” Borenson asked, peering through the slats in the stable at the horse's hoof. “I thought I'd used it all on you.”
“You dropped the tin,” Myrrima said, “but there was a tad left.”
There was a white blaze on the mare's hoof, as if the poor beast had injured it a year ago, but otherwise it looked fine. The mare held her weight evenly, and did not limp as she ambled close to Borenson, to nuzzle him.
Borenson stroked the horse with a sense of loss. “The old wizard outdid himself with that batch. We'll not see the likes of that ever again, I fear.” The salve had saved Myrrima's life, and Borenson's, performing wonder upon wonder. But now it was gone.
“Blessed be the brooks that flow from the slopes of Cerinpyre, and glad be the fish that swim therein,” Myrrima said, almost singing. Borenson wondered at her words, for it sounded as if she quoted a song that he had never heard. But Cerinpyre was the name of a tall mountain west of Balington, where Binnesman had made the salve.
“How far is it to Inkarra?” Myrrima asked, changing the subject.
“It's seventy miles from here to Batenne,” Borenson said. “If we make good time, we can be there before noon, and I can take my endowments at the home of the marquis. We'll reach the southern border forty miles beyond. The passage over the mountains into the Hidden Kingdoms may be slow, but afterward, the roads should be good all the way to Iselferion.”
“That's where the Storm King lives?” Myrrima asked.
Borenson nodded. “We should be there by nightfall. We can deliver Gaborn's message to the Storm King—and perhaps even learn the whereabouts of Daylan Hammer.”
“Is it that simple?” Myrrima asked.
Borenson laughed at her naivete, wondering just how much she knew about Inkarra. He peered hard at her in the darkness. “I meant it as a joke.”
They saddled their horses. Borenson took the mare from her stall gingerly, to see if indeed she was healed. To his delight, she was more than just well. She seemed positively sassy.
So Myrrima and Borenson rode into the night, toward the hills south of town. For a bit, the land dropped, and they rode through a thick fog. Myrrima's horse drew close to Borenson's then, as if fearing more wights. Borenson looked to his wife, to see if she too was afraid, but Myrrima rode her horse with her head back, her chin raised, as if savoring the moment. The fog misted her skin, so that dew formed on her brow and droplets sparkled in her hair, and she gulped the foggy air greedily.
Borenson grunted in surprise. His wife seemed to be a changed woman after last night. He could smell the water in her breath, like the wind off a lake, and her hair smelled like a still pool. But it wasn't just her scent that had changed. It was her movements, too—the easy way she seemed to flow when she walked, the calmness and sense of peace that pervaded her.
Wizardborn. She had learned that she was wizardborn, a servant to water. The water's touch had healed her, transformed her. But she had rejected the opportunity to serve it, and elected to stay with him.
Yes… something was different about her.
The land rose steadily for several miles, so that they soon could see the foggy moors behind. Bands of forest and field alternated along the road, but the woods were quiet and dry, and the land seemed healthier than the bogs to the north had been.
Still, he warily watched the margins of the road for sign of the hooded man. He and Myrrima seldom spoke, and then only in whispers. Whenever they reached a patch of woods, they'd hurry the horses through at a gallop, and each time they topped a hill, he would stop and search the starlit stretches of the road behind for long moments.
Thus they made their way into the highlands of Cragenwold, a region of dense, rocky forests. The road was so seldom used that it seemed only a ruin. Partial walls stood among the bracken where stone had been stacked upon gray stone a thousand years past. Broken statues of ancient lords lined the road, the wind and water having worn away the hollows of their eyes. Their gaping mouths bore mute testimony tha
t Old Ferecia had once been the proudest of realms.
But that had been long ago. Now black pines crowded about the ruins of graveyards. Owls hooted in the lonesome groves, letting their voices echo among the hollows.
The road wound up and down for an hour, yet each time the path went down, it seemed to rise higher again. The morning sun rose, ponderously large on the horizon.
Borenson could feel the dead in these woods, pressing against the shadows, as if restrained somewhere off in the mossy trees. Yet the spirits here did not feel evil. They had once been men much like him, and he did not fear such wights. Besides, the sun beat on his back each time he exited the trees, and so long as it did, the dead were powerless to manifest themselves.
With the coming of the sun, Borenson began to watch the road for sign of tracks, but saw nothing for miles until they passed over soggy ground by a brook: and there it was, a scuff mark where there should have been a clean track.
Borenson's glance flickered over the scuff. “Our assassin. Do you think it's fresh?” he asked. He reached behind his back and drew his warhammer from its sheath.
Myrrima hopped down from her horse. She had taken endowments of scent from a dog, and now she sniffed near the track, then tested the air. “Not fresh,” she said. “A day old maybe. A man, by the smell of him, an odd one.”
“Odd?” Borenson whispered.
“His smell reminds me of open lands and lonely hills. Maybe he's only been out in the weather for a few days, but I think its much longer. It's like… he'd rather sleep in the rain than in a cozy inn.”
“Hunh,” Borenson said. He glanced about. “More likely, Raj Ahten has had him watching this road for a month. We'll water the horses, take our breakfast here.”
He got off his mount, and led it uphill, away from the brook. Here, hazelnut trees crowded at the edge of a glen, huddled together like gossiping old women. Down below, the road wound like a ribbon over hills toward Fenraven, and Borenson could glimpse bits of it through the trees farther up the highway.
The Lair of Bones Page 5