He lit a small fire and watched the road ahead while the twigs burned away, letting the flame consume the bark from some larger sticks, until he had enough coals so that he could roast the sausages he'd brought from the inn. There was little movement on the road ahead. He saw a huge red stag warily walking along, antlers arching so that they rested on its back, legs stiff, nose high in the air. It was scenting for a doe. But there was no sign of the mysterious rider ahead, nor of anyone else.
Still, Borenson felt uneasy. He couldn't quite name the cause of his fear. It might just have been the trip to Inkarra. That in itself was dangerous enough.
But there was something more. His main worry was for Myrrima. Over the past weeks, he had been loath to let himself fall in love with her. As a guard to the crown prince, his first duty had always been to Gaborn. He'd never felt that there would be room for a wife in his life—or at least not a woman that he would love. He'd always imagined that if he took a wife, it would be some poor woman, a starveling who would make his meals and satisfy his other physical urges in return for a warm roof. He had not imagined that he would marry a beautiful woman, a strong woman who loved him fiercely, a woman with wit and charm.
Now he was more than smitten by Myrrima. Now he felt struck dumb, like a boy whose heart was churning for the first time with unimagined passions.
Last night with Myrrima, as they had consummated their love, had been perfect.
Yet he felt that something was wrong. He feared that she would leave him—or, more exactly, that something was trying to pull her away from him.
His thoughts kept returning to the hooded man. There was something sinister about him.
Myrrima remained down by the brook, hidden in the thick of the trees. Borenson imagined that she was bathing herself, or merely resting, or perhaps gathering more firewood. But when he'd put the thick sausages on some forked sticks and begun to simmer them over the coals, he realized that he had not seen Myrrima for far too long,
Not wanting to call out with the threat of highwaymen about, he hurried back down to the brook. Myrrima wasn't by the road, but he could see her modest footprints in the soft earth beside the stream.
She'd headed downhill, following the brook. Trailing her was easy. Moss and fallen leaves covered the muddy ground, making it firm enough for a man to walk on. The low music of water burbling over rounded stones covered his footfalls, and the scent of the stream filled the air.
Borenson lightly crept along, watching her trail. No other footprints followed her, and only in one spot did he notice anything suspicious—the tracks of an enormous wolf crossed her path. The sight reminded him that they were in the wilds.
A steep slope dropped away just ahead, and the brook suddenly pitched over it, spilling into a narrow pool. Just beyond it, a wider pool opened where the water was as still and as clear as glass.
Myrrima knelt on the green grass beside the pool among afieldof posies. Cattails thrust up among some stones by the water, and beneath its surface one could see down into the depths. Silver minnows flashed among the black roots of a large pine.
Myrrima was not bathing. She merely sat gazing into the water, eyes unfocused, her bare feet dangling into the pond. As she sat, Borenson saw a little thrill at the water's surface, as if a single minnow, or perhaps even a larger fish, swam just below the surface, its dorsal cutting the water. It raced along in a near circle, then wheeled toward the heart of the circle, suddenly breaking into three parts that zigged out in different directions and disappeared.
The movement thus drew a rune on the surface of the pond, one that Borenson did not recognize. His heart thrilled at the sight. No sooner had the surface of the pond gone still when a new rune began to take shape. Borenson peered close, to see if indeed there were minnows or water beetles swimming there, but he could see nothing. The water moved of its own accord.
Suddenly, Borenson understood his fear. It wasn't an assassin that would take his wife, it was another suitor that sought to lure her away, one of the Powers.
I should have known, Borenson told himself. I should have seen it in the way that sheflowsover the ground, or inhales the morning mist, or in the way that dew sparkles in her hair. She's an undine!
Borenson picked up a small twig and angrily hurled it into the pond, disrupting the water.
Myrrima looked up, and a broad smile broke across her face.
“You said that you rejected Water,” Borenson accused, struggling to control his voice.
“No,” Myrrima replied. “I said that I love you more, and that I refused to go to the sea.”
“But the Powers don't let us make that choice. You can't love both me and Water.”
“Are you so sure?” Myrrima asked. “Can a man love his wife and his children, his horse and his dog, his home and his country? Can he not love each of them deeply, in their own way?”
“He can,” Borenson said, “but life ever makes us choose between the things we love, and if you try to serve Water, it will lay its claim on you, the way that the Earth has laid its claim upon Gaborn.”
“Gaborn serves a hard master,” Myrrima said, “as firm and unyielding as stone.” She cupped her hand and dipped it into the pool, then ladled water onto a rock next to her. “But Water yields. It fills the empty spaces around us and the voids within us, and then lifts us up. I can be borne away upon deep currents of Water and still love you. I told you last night that I love you, and that I won't leave you. It's true. I will never leave you.”
Borenson knew that few who loved Water could resist its call for long, yet Myrrima's soft and reassuring tone almost allayed his fears.
“Come here,” she said, patting the ground beside her. Borenson made his way down the slope and squatted on the grass at Myrrima's side.
She reached out and touched his hand. It is said that powerful wizards evoke odd emotions when they enter the presence of common men. Flameweavers arouse men's appetites—their greed for wealth, their lust for women, their hunger for blood, and their avarice—while Earth Wardens arouse a desire to procreate, or to till the soil, or to seek solace in dark places. Borenson had never really noticed such feelings before, until now. As Myrrima took his hand, he felt a sense of peace wash over him, a clean feeling that swept away his doubts and anxiety. He'd felt that same sense of ease last night, as the two of them lay tangled together in bed. He'd thought that it came from within, that he felt only the comfort that came with consummating their love. Now he saw that it was something more.
Myrrima took his right hand in hers, and looked deep into his eyes. Her own eyes were so dark that they were almost black, and the whites of her eyes were a pale blue. Even now, when there was no morning mist, droplets of water sparkled in her dark hair, and her breath smelled like some mountain freshet. But there was no trace of the undine about her. Her eyes were not turning as green as the sea. She was not growing gill slits in the hollow of her throat. There was no hint of silvery scales in her skin.
“Don't be afraid,” she said, and the very words banished his fear. “Water requires a task of me, one that I am willing to give. A dark time is upon us, a dry time. Water needs warriors, to help bring stability and healing to the land. And I have been thinking: you and I are one. I would have you join me in my quest.”
She's to be Water's warrior? Borenson wondered. That explained why he could see no sign of the undine about her. Perhaps it also explained her uncommon prowess in battle. It was her hand that slew the Darkling Glory when all others succumbed to it. And by her hand she had banished a wight, something no mere mortal should have been able to do. And she had slain dozens of reavers in battle yesterday. Yes, he could see that she was a fit warrior. More than that, he could see that the Water chose wisely, for it tailored its request to fit Myrrima's own penchant.
There was a hunger in Myrrima's eyes. “Please, join me,” she said. “It is a battle that will leave no scars on the heart. Water will wash them all away.”
What had possessed her to say
such a thing? She knew that his guilt over killing the Dedicates at Castle Sylvarresta had nearly destroyed him. But did she also know that he had sought Water afterward, that he had made an offering beside a sacred pool?
He felt sure that even if she didn't know, her master did. And now it made an offer to him in return.
Myrrima reached down with her left hand, cupped it, and ladled a handful of water over their clasped right hands. Borenson resisted the impulse to pull away at the last instant, and the cool liquid spilled over his hand, a hand that a week ago had been so drenched in blood that he had never thought it could be clean again. She poured the water over him slowly, and it spilled down over his thumb and fingers, and around his palms, and streamed down his elbow. There was more water, he thought, than any cupped hand should be able to hold.
The water was warmer than he'd imagined it would be, as if it still held the kiss of summer. And when Myrrima washed him thus, all the pain and weariness in his right arm seemed to depart. He didn't just feel clean. He felt new.
Myrrima smiled at him, as if delighted by his surprise. She reached into the pool, and water striders darted away as she ladled out a second handful. “May Water refresh you,” she whispered, as she poured it over his head. His mind seemed to go clear. All the fears he felt about her future, all the doubts he had about his own destiny, seemed borne away. She scooped up a third handful and let it wash down the front of his shirt. “May Water sustain you,” she whispered, then leaned forward to kiss him, and added, “May Water make you its own.”
She kissed him then, and took hold of his tunic passionately. With a mighty heave she shoved him into the pool. But she held him even as she did, still locked in an embrace, and her weight bore him beneath the water. The warm water was over him and under him and all around, and she clung to him, still kissing him, and he found no need to breathe, and had no desire to push her away. Instead, she merely held him, her lips against his, and he knew that indeed she loved him, almost as much as she loved Water.
4
THE BLIND-CRAB
Perhaps the most common inhabitant of the Underworld is the blind-crab. These creatures, whose philia and skeletal structure mark them as members of the same family as reavers, range broadly in size from the miniature lantern crabs of Waddles Cave in Alnick, whose glowing bodies can comfortably rest on a babes thumbnail, to the behemoth crab of Delving s Deep, whose empty carapace could house a large family.
—from Denizens of the Deep, by Hearthmaster Quicks
Gaborn Val Orden descended into the Underworld. The few small signs of life right at the cave's opening soon gave way to desolation. Just inside the tunnel, the air began to turn cool, and after a quarter of a mile it had a biting chill.
The frigid air steamed the breath of the horses, and within half a mile, ice glistened on the tunnel walls and crusted the floor. On the ceiling some ice crystals looked as if they had not been disturbed in a thousand years. Ice fans splayed out as wide as a man's hand, and in such places, the lights from the opals reflected from the roof and the icy walls in a dazzling display.
Here on the floor in their path lay a dead reaver. Whether it had merely died of natural causes, or been killed by one of its own, or trampled by the horde as it raced through the cave, was hard to tell. The grim monster had been shoved up against the wall, as if the reavers had sought to get around it, and parts of it had been trampled. Its eyeless head was intact, shoved against the wall, its jaws gaping wide. A few small blind-crabs had been lured to it by its smell, but they too had succumbed to the cold, and lay around it in piles.
The tunnel was broad enough for five people to ride abreast, so ride they did, though the horses seemed jittery and ill liked the trail.
Reaver tracks were everywhere. The tramping of over seventy thousand of the monsters had worn a rut in the tunnel and cleared the floor of vegetation. Nothing grew upright, except an occasional column of fungi or a stray plant that lay splayed against the wall. And few vines or rootlike creepers swung from overhead to brush against them, for these too had snapped away as the reaver army marched beneath. The path led gently down, a trail that could easily be negotiated by horse or mule.
Averan rode in the lead. The girl had received endowments of scent from dogs, and by taking the lead, she hoped to detect the subtle odors of reaver speech, a tongue that only she could understand. The girl sniffled and wept softly as she rode. She had said a long and sad good-bye to one of her Dedicates, a big man named Brand, who had but one arm.
Iome rode close beside Gaborn. She was no warrior, though she had taken full as many endowments as any captain had in Gaborn's guard. At the rear came Binnesman and the green woman. The tunnel led down into the heart of the mountains at a gradual slope, and rarely veered. When it did, Gaborn felt certain that it did so only to avoid enormous boulders or exceptionally hard stone.
Despite the ease of the early trail, the reaver's tunnel was not free of damage. In places, bits of ceiling had caved in, leaving rocks and rubble on the tunnel floor. In another spot, the earth had cracked wide open. The fis-sure was but four feet wide but seemed to drop away endlessly below Iome as her mount jumped over.
Still, such was the skill of the reaver's workmanship that the tunnel held, for the most part.
Reavers are used to earthquakes, Gaborn realized. They must know how to cope with them as well as we do with the wind and rain.
But other acts of nature could not be so easily avoided. In places water had seeped through the rocks above, and over the ages had formed stalagmites and stalactites. The reavers had cleared these away just four days past as they marched through the tunnel. But in some places water would spill down the walls, forming shallow streams and icy pools, and ultimately these would find some crevasse to seep into. Such crevasses widened over time, and cut away the floor.
After a dozen miles, the caves began to warm. The ice fans disappeared, and quite suddenly the cave was filled with a dense, cool fog.
The horses slowed to a walk, and despite the fact that Gaborn could not sense any immediate danger, his heart beat faster. Until now, the view had been clear before them, and Gaborn hadn't feared that they would meet a reaver. At least, if they had met one, he'd have been able to see it. But now, the light thrown by his opal pin failed him, and he could hardly see his hand in front of his face.
The whole party was forced to dismount, and Gaborn walked for a bit in the fog, his skittish horse pulling at the reins with nearly each step.
He thought back to a conversation that he had had while Averan finished taking her endowments.
Gaborn's Days had asked, “Your Highness, I beg you to take me with you. At least let me ride part of the way.”
Gaborn felt annoyed by the request from the historian. “You ask much of me, and never once have you given anything in return. You say that the Days are forbidden to become involved in political intrigues, that you are merely observers of the affairs of men, servants beholden to no one but the Time Lords. Yet I ask you one last time to become involved. Help me. Bid your Days around the world to warn the people: tell them to set sail north or south for the isles of the sea. If we do not defeat the reavers at Carris, there may be no other refuge.”
To Gaborn it seemed a small request, one that could easily be fulfilled. Each Days had given an endowment of wit to another, who then granted his own endowment in return, so that the two Days shared one joint memory.
The Days that stood before Gaborn acted as the “witness” for the “twins,” scrutinizing Gaborn's every word and deed. His twin acted as a scribe, and lived a retired life on an island in the cold seas north of Orwynne, where she wrote the chronicles of Gaborn's life.
Thus, with all of the scribes living together, they formed a vast network. In theory, the Days could do as Gaborn asked. They could warn every lord in every realm of the impending doom.
“This would violate our political neutrality,” the Days answered Gaborn.
“Not if you warn all men equ
ally,” Gaborn said. “I don't ask you to favor any one nation above another. Warn all men. Help me save any man who will save himself.”
For the first time in his life, Gaborn saw a Days flinch and seriously consider a request for help. By the Days's own law, if a prince, though he be but a child, should fall into a pool and begin to drown, the Days was not allowed to offer a hand.
“You understand,” his Days answered after a moment, “that whether you want it or not, there would be political repercussions. Kings and queens would flee their own lands, or send their children into exile. Nations would tumble, populaces shift. Wars would erupt as men struggled for control of the islands in the north.”
“At least some would live,” Gaborn said. “At least in the northern wastes, they'd stand a chance against the reavers.”
Iome's Days, a young girl who was new to the task, looked to Gaborn's Days and said, “We should take the request to the council.”
“You would risk a schism!” Gaborn's Days objected.
“And you would risk the fate of mankind!” Iome's Days shouted back.
The two glared at each other, and Gaborn's heart pounded. Never had he seen two Days argue.
Gaborn's Days abruptly went to his horse and rode off in a fit of rage. Iome's Days said to Gaborn, “Your Highness, I will do what I can to honor your request.”
“Thank you,” Gaborn said. He reached out and squeezed her hand.
The girl looked at Gaborn's Days'sfleeingback and shook her head sadly. “Old ones like him, they forget what it is like to love, to have family and friends. Their only love is watching, and their only friends are their twins.”
“In this council of yours,” Gaborn asked, “will you stand much chance against others like him?”
The girl shook her head. “I don't know. We serve the Time Lords. We keep the chronicles. But what will we chronicle if all men die? The advance of the reavers, the slow cooling of the sun, the end of all things? I think we have reached a time when we must take action, but if we do, we must all take it together.”
The Lair of Bones Page 6