The Lair of Bones

by David Farland

  Gaborn had sent his warning all through Heredon. Chemoise realized that battles such as this were happening everywhere—in storage cellars and abandoned mines, in dungeons and dank caves. She imagined rats swarming through each village in black hordes, and men and ferrin fighting them bravely, side by side.

  The wind howled and snarled outside, and thunder pounded, until its rhythm seemed to beat its way inside of her, become one with her.

  Shaking with sobs, Chemoise fell asleep, dreaming of rats.

  23

  A LAND WITHOUT HORIZONS

  Those who surrender to despair forge the bars of their own private prison.

  —Kingjas Laren Sylvarresta

  A dispute erupted only a few hours after the Consort of Shadows threw Averan in with the other prisoners.

  There were only sixteen people here, sixteen left out of hundreds who had been brought down over the years. They were of all ages, taken from villages miles apart.

  “We have light,” one man said. “We have light for the first time… since we've been here. That's a weapon. It's the one thing that has kept us from making a run for it before. You yourself, Obar, you've said a hundred times that if you had a light, you would make a run for it, whether you lived or died.”

  “But what good is light?” Obar asked in a thick Indhopalese accent. “We are miles below surface, and tunnels go everywhere. We never find way out!”

  “So what choice do you have?” asked Barris, the man Averan had taken to be their leader. “Now that you have a light, you'll sit here and huddle around it untilflowersgrow out your arse?”

  “We're not all Runelords,” an Indhopalese woman, Inura, pleaded. “We can't all fight.”

  “Barris is right,” Averan said. “We need to escape. But we don't have to fight alone. Help is coming.”

  “Help?” Barris asked. “Down here?”

  “Yes,” Averan said. “Gaborn Val Orden, the King of Mystarria, is coming.”

  “Praise be to the Powers!” Inura cried.

  “Why?” Barris asked as if he thought Averan had gone mad. “Why would a king come down here?”

  “He's coming to find the Lair of Bones, to fight the fell mage that guides the reavers,” Averan said. “I was trying to show him the way when the reavers caught me. Gaborn will have no choice but to follow. He should be able to track me. He has taken endowments of scent from twenty dogs.

  Barris demanded, “And why would a child like you be leading a king?”

  “Because I'm an Earth Warden,” Averan said truthfully, “or at least an apprentice.”

  “If you're wizardborn,” Barris suggested, “then maybe there are other things you can do to help us.”

  “Like what?” Averan asked.

  “Could you summon animals to fight for us?”

  “I don't have my staff,” Averan apologized. “Besides, I don't think there is anything bigger than blind-crabs for miles.”

  “Please,” Inura said. “Try anything.”

  These people were desperate. Averan looked in their grimy, hopeless faces, and could think of no way to help. But anger still burned in her at the thought of her father, and she, too, wanted revenge.

  She squinted, wondering. “I'll try,” Averan said. Silently the prisoners crept near, peering at her in the darkness. She slowed her breath and let her thoughts stretch far away.

  Her mind lit first on Gaborn. She imagined his face. When she pictured it clearly, she tried to match the pace of his frantic breathing. He was running. She could sense that much at least.

  She tried to envision what he saw as he ran, tried to feel the hard stone earth pounding beneath his feet. But it was useless. She couldn't gain entry to his troubled mind.

  She needed an easier target, someone more accessible. Binnesman had had her summon a stag back in the hills above the Mangan's Rock because it was a stupid animal.

  What kind of animal do I know that's stupid? Averan wondered. A world worm, she thought. That's what Gaborn summoned.

  But the idea of some vast worm tunneling through the warrens was too frightening. She dared not try to call such a monster.

  She cleared her mind, and an image came slowly: the green woman, Binnesman's wylde.

  Averan stretched out with her thoughts.

  She envisioned the green woman, and tried to touch the wylde's mind. But the creature was so far away. After long minutes, she began to see through the wylde's eyes, hear as it heard, smell as it smelled. Averan felt astonished at the keenness of every sense. The green woman had a nose sharper than a hound's and eyes keener than an owl's. Every nerve was alive. She felt the slightest currents on her skin, and could taste the lively air with a flick of her tongue. Binnesman had wrought his wylde well indeed. Never had Averan imagined that any creature could feel so vital, so in tune with its surroundings.

  The green woman reached a great abyss where a canyon cut across her path. Below, stone trees grew along a riverbank and canyon walls like twisted, leafless caricatures of oaks, and wormgrass flourished beside river-banks where elephant snails huddled in packs like rounded boulders.

  Reavers and humans alike would have had to spend long hours negotiating the dangerous climb past the canyon. But the wylde merely stepped off the precipice, falling hundreds of feet before she grasped a rock on the far wall.

  Averan could almost feel the stone shift, as if to mold itself to fit the green woman's hand, and then she scampered up the cliff as quickly as a spider.

  Averan marveled at the wylde's endurance. The creature drew its strength from the Earth, and now Earth was all around it, enclosing it, suf-fusing it with energy. Averan could feel endless vigor in the creature's taut muscles.

  “Spring,” Averan called. “Help me.”

  Those three words cost her. Averan felt spent merely to think them, and her head suddenly reeled.

  The green woman leapt like a cat, spinning in the air.

  “Averan?” she asked.

  “Help us,” Averan begged. “We've been caught by reavers, deep in the warrens, near the Lair of Bones.” Averan poured herself into the wylde's mind. Averan enticed her, “The enemies of the Earth are here.”

  Averan fell down in a swoon. She could hardly hold contact.

  The green woman's head snapped up. Her nostrils flared. The wylde howled like a hollow wolf and began racing down the tunnel. Averan caught the scent of a reaver's marker as she met a sudden crossroad. Averan frowned in concentration, recognized the spot.

  The wylde had been following the reavers’ horde up to the surface. The creature was hundreds of miles away.

  “Help,” Averan cried. “Turn around.”

  Bitterly, choking back her own sobs, Averan withdrew from the creature's mind, unable to maintain contact, and fell into a black place, void of desire.

  24

  SARKA KAUL

  For centuries the Days have claimed to be politically neutral. Their sole desire, they say, is to “observe” the lives of the lords and ladies of the Earth. But what lord, I wonder, can remain unchanged in the face of such scrutiny? What king among us does not seek to seem wiser, gentler, and more admirable than our base nature craves? We are forever reminded that our lives are short, measured in single heartbeats, gathered into a seeming handful of days. Thus, I believe that in observing the lords of the Earth, the Days unavoidably alter the course of history.

  Given this, I can only conclude that it is not the mere recording of his-tory that they desire: it is the alteration of affairs. Their hand is subtle but sure, and I suspect that in time of great need, they will reveal themselves.

  —King jas Laren Sylvarresta to the Emir of Tuulistan

  Myrrima's captor hustled her down a long tunnel, shoving her forward. Verazeth was not a gentle man. It was too dark for a northerner like her to see, but he forced her to rush forward blindly. She could hear the sounds of the sea—the dull crash of slow-moving waves breaking over sullen rocks, the distant cry of a gull. The scent of salt water hung thick
in the air.

  Something stirred inside of her. She had never heard sea waves before, and had not really been able to imagine them. She had thought that they might sound like waves in a lake, lapping on a shore. She had been to a lake before.

  But the sound she heard now was nothing like a lake. She could hear waves crashing upon shores that stretched far beyond what the eye could ever convey. The waves beat against the rocks at the base of Palace Iselferion, sloshing around them, making the very foundations of the palace tremble. She didn't just hear the ocean, or smell it. She could feel it quivering through her bones.

  She had never felt such power in Water before. It seemed to call to her.

  Myrrima's captor pushed her from the tunnel, and suddenly there was starlight overhead. Myrrima saw the sea, vast and limitless, stretching beyond the horizon. It was almost morning. A soft light hovered in the east. At her back, Verazeth, as pale as if he were dead and bloodless, gave her a shove, backing her over a stone parapet that leaned out over the ocean.

  The water lapped the rocks below her, only a hundred yards or so. With a small push, Myrrima would fall into the deep.

  Prince Verazeth pushed her backward, his black robe open, revealing his pale chest. He was a handsome man, with a sharp nose, a strong chin, and well-defined muscles in his chest and abdomen. His long silver hair had been braided in cornrows and knotted together, so that it hung over his right shoulder.

  “What are you doing?” Myrrima asked.

  Verazeth stroked her face just once. She saw undisguised lust in his expression. “It would please,” he said at last, “if you give endowment… metabolism.”

  She knew what he desired. Once she gave metabolism, she would go into an enchanted slumber until the lord that received her endowment died, and her own metabolism returned to her. In such a state, she would not be able to protect herself from his lust. She would not even know when he violated her. And when she woke, she would be pregnant with his child.

  “I'll give you nothing,” Myrrima growled.

  “Husband love you very much. He give will to save you. Make us promise to let you live. But if we let go, you make trouble for us. No can let you go. So, you must give endowment.”

  “I'll kill you first,” Myrrima said.

  He grunted as if annoyed at an idle threat. “You not understand. Give endowment, you live. Not give, I push you over.” He grabbed her roughly and held her over the ledge.

  Myrrima threw her arms around his neck. If he tried to push her over, he would come too, and Myrrima had no doubt that she would fare better in the water than he. She spat in his face.

  Verazeth's eyes glittered cruelly, and his nostrils flared. He clenched his fists impotently.

  “I give you day to think. Sun very hot.” He let her have a moment to ponder this. Inkarrans, with their white skin, had no protection against the sun. They burned easily and deeply. “While sun come, you think. Maybe not so bad give endowment. Maybe both you and husband give endowment to king. That way, when he die, you both get endowment back, you and husband. Is not better to live in hope than die in despair?”

  He grabbed the chain that bound her, and wrestled her arms down. Then he pulled off her traveling cloak, leaving her with naught but tunic and breeches. He grabbed Myrrima's chains once again and pushed her against a wall, even as he lifted her arms.

  The next moment, Myrrima found herself hanging from her fetters, unable to touch the ground with her feet.

  Verazeth said, “Many crab on rocks. Hungry crab. They climb cliff, look for food. Maybe help you think better.”

  The prince turned and entered the tunnel, bolting the iron door behind him.

  Myrrima glanced down to see a pair of small green kelp crabs scuttling for shelter under the rocks. She pulled at her restraints. The heavy fetters cut into her wrists. They fit so tightly, it was almost as if they'd been made for her. With her endowments of brawn, Myrrima knew that she could pull her hands out. But she'd break every bone in her wrist doing it, and would cut away much of the flesh at the same time.

  What good would escape be if it left her crippled?

  So she hung for a long hour as the morning sun crept over the waves. The water reflected the deep blue of the sky, and deep swelling waves were wrinkles upon the sea's ageless face. The water stretched everywhere, limitless. Myrrima had never been in the presence of anything that made her feel so small, so humble.

  She could feel it calling to her. With every wave that surged against the rocks at the base of the cliff, with the distant hiss of breakers like the clamor of spectators at a joust, she could feel the tug of the ocean, pulling her toward it, pulling her under.

  Down below the cliff, seals swam about, their heads bobbing in the waves. Myrrima longed to swim with them. Cormorants and gulls and other shorebirds flew past in flocks. A little green crab scaled the rock and regarded Myrrima with its eyes talks, drops of water oozing from its mouth.

  “Come, little friend,” Myrrima told it. “Come gnaw at my metal bindings.” But Myrrima was no summoner. The little crab scurried off.

  The early morning wore away, and Myrrima was still hanging quietly when she heard the soft pad of footsteps.

  She craned her head just as an old Inkarran woman opened the iron door. She was as white as clamshell, and hunched with age. She crept furtively, as if afraid that someone might hear.

  She whispered in Rofehavanish that was surprisingly free of accent. “You came here looking for Daylan Hammer?”

  “Yes,” Myrrima managed to answer through parched lips.

  “Long have I wondered what has become of him,” the old woman said. “He was my tutor once, when I was a girl. My father hired him to teach us about the distant past, faraway lands, and the tongues of nations. I loved him greatly, but I could never tell him. I was a princess, you see.”

  Myrrima understood. It would have been considered scandalous for a woman of the Inkarran court to love a man of Rofehavan, even a hero like Daylan Hammer.

  “But as much as I loved him, my sister loved him more. Often she tried to be with him alone, and at night she would tell me how she dreamed of him. As often as she sought him, he rejected her.

  “Her marriage had been arranged before her birth, you see. She was to marry Sandakra Criomethes, Prince of Inturria. As the date of her marriage drew near, she grew sick in the heart, and at last thought of a way to revenge herself against our teacher. On the night before her wedding, she cut out her own womb, and died.”

  Myrrima stood for a moment, unsure what she was hearing. “Why?”

  “It is the Inkarran way,” the old woman said. “When a woman has dirtied herself with a man, this is how she confesses and makes it right.”

  So, Myrrima realized, to spite Daylan Hammer, the princess implicated him in her death.

  “My father gave me to the prince in my sister's place, and so I have heard over the years some of what happened next. My lord Criomethes was out-raged, and demanded revenge upon your Daylan Hammer. The immortal one fled north, and many men went to hunt him. There was a great battle in Ferecia. Many of our men never returned.”

  “Did they kill him?”

  “I do not know,” the old woman answered. “I know only this. I did nothing to save him, a man that I admired and loved far more than I could ever care for my lord Criomethes. So, I ask that you forgive me.”

  The old woman opened her clenched fist, and held out a key. Swiftly she climbed up on the lip of the parapet and unlocked Myrrima's fetters. Myrrima slid to the ground.

  “Go now,” the old woman said. “Almost everyone is asleep in the palace. Now is your chance to escape!”

  “Not without my husband,” Myrrima said.

  “It is too late for him,” the old woman said. “He has already given an endowment of will. He is one of the living dead.”

  “Then I'll take the endowment back,” Myrrima said dangerously. She stripped the chains from her, and only then did the old woman seem to recognize her mist
ake.

  She let out a yelp, as if she would scream, but Myrrima grabbed her by the throat. The old woman pawed and kicked, but Myrrima had many endowments, and she choked the old woman until she lost consciousness, and then chained her, and hung her from the peg.

  “I'm sorry,” Myrrima whispered as she locked the old woman into place. “I'm sorry.”

  Myrrima turned the woman, so that she wouldn't be burned by the sun, and crept back into the dark tunnel.

  Sir Borenson lay upon his wooden bed, breathing in, breathing out. A cozy fire burned in the hearth, and Borenson could see the room clearly for the first time in more than an hour. He was in the main chamber of King Criomethes's apartments. The Inkarran facilitator hunched over Borenson's bare foot. He painstakingly dipped a long needle into an inkpot, and then inserted it into Borenson's foot. He was constructing a tattoo to cover the whole of Borenson's leg.

  I could look down, Borenson told himself. I could see the shape of the rune of Will.

  But he had no desire to do it. For ages the men of Rofehavan had sought to learn the secret of its making. But Borenson did not bother to look. There was a fat black spider on the stone ceiling, meandering along. Borenson watched it, unblinking. His eyes felt dry and itchy, and each time that the pain grew too great, he would try to summon the energy to blink them. This he did only because his tormentor forced him to do so.

  His tormentor was a woman. She had stood over him with a bamboo rod since he first bestowed his endowment, and had given him orders. “Breathe for me, or I shall hit you,” she warned. And whenever he stopped breathing, she would rap his shins with the rod, causing excruciating pain. And so he breathed in for her, and he breathed out. Thus she taught him to breathe.

  Left to his own devices, he would have merely stopped and suffocated. He no longer cared if he breathed or not.

  “Blink for me when eyes get dry,” the woman told him after he had lain staring at the spider on the ceiling for an hour. She rapped him across the hands to show how much pain she could cause. And thus he learned to blink, though he did not care if his eyes went dry in their sockets.