In his mind’s eye, Gaborn imagined the tower walls splintering, great shards of stone cascading into the sea.
Similarly, Gaborn felt himself crumble. Strength left him as his three endowments of brawn were stripped away. His eyes dulled as the blind Dedicates in the Blue Tower fell.
He’d prided himself on all that he’d learned in the House of Understanding, yet in moments, as his twin endowments of wit fled, he forgot more than half of all he had learned; he could not even conjure Iome’s image. The distant calls of warblers over the town suddenly muted as his ears went dull.
In a blind rage, as the impact of what was happening was borne home, Gaborn shouted at his Days, “You bastard! You craven bastard! How could you not have warned me?” But his own voice sounded weak, distant, as the mutes in his service were silenced forever. “A bad day for the books, indeed!”
“I am sorry,” the Days vainly apologized again.
King Orwynne sat down on the porch beside Gaborn, held his shoulders. “Rest yourself,” the old man said. “Rest yourself. Did he kill all of your Dedicates?”
Gaborn fought the urge to surrender to exhaustion, to surrender to cruelty, to surrender all hope. “They’re dead!” Gaborn said. “The Blue Tower is gone.”
“You look, Your Highness, like a corpse,” King Orwynne said. “What shall we do now? Where shall we go? Do you want to find a facilitator and take new endowments before heading south?”
Gaborn had twenty thousand forcibles with him, and the temptation was great. But he dared not turn back for Castle Sylvarresta now.
“No, we must ride on,” he said. He would reach Castle Groverman by nightfall, and Groverman had a facilitator he could use if he had to. “I have the strength of any other man. I am still the Earth King.”
He struggled up from the porch, climbed into his saddle.
Gaborn could ignore the threat to his men no longer. The Darkling Glory drew close. “Be warned,” he sent to his Chosen warriors. “Death is coming.”
21
THE PRICE OF A MEAL
In the early afternoon, Borenson lost his endowments. He sat in the saddle feeling his metabolism leave, feeling himself slow to the speed that other men lived.
At first he wondered at the nausea that overwhelmed him, thought that it was his stomach cramping. Then the loss of endowments came so precipitously he could not quite feel what was lost next—strength or stamina, smell, hearing or sight. All of it drained away in moments, leaving him an empty husk.
As his endowments were depleted, a sense of desolate grief assailed Borenson. He’d looked into the eyes of the young farm boys who’d given him brawn years ago. They’d been promising lads who’d bequeathed their lives to him.
They should be frolicking with some milkmaids right now, Borenson thought. Not dying in the Blue Tower. And he remembered old Tamara Thane who had given him warm scones when he was a child and an endowment of metabolism when he stood in need. All those who’d known her would miss her.
But as much as he grieved for his Dedicates, he grieved more for himself. The deaths of his own Dedicates brought fresh to mind the nightmarish images he’d seen in Castle Sylvarresta a week past, when he’d been forced to butcher the Dedicates there.
Most of the morning, Borenson’s guard had been silent. They’d ridden like a gale through Deyazz, a land where the sun shone brighter than anywhere else in Borenson’s memory. It was a beautiful land, and though he was only five hundred miles south of Heredon, the weather had warmed dramatically west of the Hest Mountains.
Deyazz lay north of the great Salt Desert, the hottest heart of Indhopal, and the prevailing winds swept the desert heat in this direction. Deyazz was not a tropical land, yet the water seldom froze even in the dead of winter.
The farmers’ fields along the Anshwavi River were a lush green. Herons hunted for insects in the oft-flooded fields. Young boys in white linen loincloths worked with their mothers and sisters to harvest rice in wicker baskets.
Borenson had ridden through cities of whitewashed adobe, where the lords of the land had built majestic palaces with domed roofs plated in gold. Beautiful dark-skinned women in silk dresses, adorned with rings of gold and rubies in their ears or noses, lounged among the stately columns of the palaces or sat beside reflecting pools.
The cities had broad avenues, awash with sunlight—not narrow streets like those in the walled cities of Heredon. Deyazz’s cities therefore smelled clean—less of man and beast than in the north.
Yet signs of war were everywhere. Borenson had passed column after column of troops, and the castles along the border had been filled to overflowing. As he and the Invincible had passed through, the common folk in the towns along their route had watched Borenson distrustfully. Small boys hurled figs at him, while their mothers hurled curses.
Only once or twice did he hear a hopeful call from an old man or woman: “Have you seen the Earth King?”
But as Borenson’s endowments left him, he slumped over, and wrapped the chains of his manacles around the pommel of his saddle to keep himself from falling. Tears came to his eyes.
“Help!” he called. He had not slept in days, and had not eaten since late last night. With his endowments of stamina, he had not felt the hunger or fatigue. But now fatigue nearly blinded him, making it hard to focus his eyes, and hunger cramped his stomach.
His captor glanced back at him darkly, as if afraid Borenson was engaged in some ruse. They were riding through a city now, along its main market street within the gates. The vendors’ stalls in the market smelled strongly of curry and ginger, cumin and anise, paprika and hot pepper. Toothless old brown men in turbans sat beneath umbrellas in the midday sun, smiling to Borenson’s captor and calling to him to try their food. They offered steamed rice cooked in bamboo baskets over boiling water in brass pots. Beside the rice sat pots with various curry sauces and condiments. Some men sold doves barbecued in plum sauce and still attached to long skewers. Others had pickled starling eggs, or artichokes in huge barrels. Elsewhere were fruits: tangerines, oranges, melons, figs, candied dates, and piles of dried coconut.
“Stop!” Borenson begged again. “Your master is at the Blue Tower in Mystarria.”
He leaned forward, straining with the effort to stay awake. His senses reeled, and he glimpsed visions of nightmares. A deep-seated weariness overtook him, like a pain in the bones.
The Invincible glanced at him from the corner of his eye. “The Blue Tower would be a good place to strike. I would recommend such a plan to my lord.” He studied Borenson suspiciously, but if Borenson had concocted some scheme to overpower his captor, this market was the worst possible place to try it. Finally he asked, “Can I do anything for you?”
“Nothing,” Borenson said. There would be no balm that could assuage his horror and grief at the loss of his Dedicates. The Invincible would not be able to replace any memories that Borenson had lost, or grant him surcease from the mind-numbing weariness that assailed him now. Instead, he begged only for whatever succor his captor would grant him. “But I’m suddenly exhausted, and starving. I don’t know if I can stay awake much longer. I had not slept for days.”
“It is true, what they say,” the Invincible said. “‘Warriors without endowments are not warriors at all.’”
A vendor, upon seeing that they had stopped, rushed forward and presented the Invincible with a sample taste of his sweet peppered crocodile. In moments, other vendors proffered samples of their wares. But they ignored Borenson, the red-haired warrior of Mystarria.
The aroma of good warm food made Borenson’s stomach rumble, and he was overwhelmed with hunger. “Can we stop to eat?” he begged.
“I thought you were in a hurry?” the Invincible said gruffly, his mouth full of food, as the merchants circled his horse.
“I’m in a hurry, but I’m also hungry,” Borenson answered.
“Which is greater?” the Invincible said. “Your hurry, or your hunger? I sensed your haste and therefore did not stop. Besides, a
man should not be made a slave to his stomach. The stomach should serve the man. You northerners, with your fat bellies, should heed my advice.”
Borenson was a stout man, a big man; he’d never thought himself fat. On the other hand, in the course of his ride through Deyazz, he’d not seen a man as heavy as himself.
“I only want a bit of food. We do not have to stop long,” he implored.
“What will you pay me if I feed you?” the Invincible asked.
Borenson looked at the merchants’ stalls. He was a captive, and had little choice in the matter. Here in the south, lords seldom fed their prisoners. Instead, family members or friends were expected to provide food, clothing, and medicine for captives.
As a prisoner, he would not be allowed to buy food from vendors.
“I’ve got gold in my purse,” Borenson said, wondering how long such gold might last if he had to pay his captor for food. The Invincible would charge heavily, to make sure that Borenson’s future jailers got nothing.
The Invincible laughed, glanced back at Borenson with an expression of pure amusement. “You are in chains, my friend. I shall have your purse whenever I want it. No, you must come up with a better coin.”
“Name your price,” Borenson said, too weary to argue.
The Invincible nodded. “I will consider it.…”
The Invincible bought some roasted duckling and rice, and a pair of lemons from an old vendor who also provided cheap clay bowls to eat from.
Then the Invincible rode through the city swiftly and stopped at a bend in the Anshwavi River. An old palace had fallen into ruins here perhaps a thousand years before.
They let the horses drink and graze. The Invincible led Borenson to the water by the manacles so that he could wash in the river before eating. Then the men sat on an ancient marble pillar to dine. The green-veined stone was worn smooth, as if travelers often sat here to eat.
The Invincible cut his lemons with a curved dagger and squirted their juice over the delicately spiced duck and rice. Borenson’s stomach cramped at the sight. He reached out for the bowl, but the Invincible only smiled and taunted him. “First, your payment.”
Borenson stared expectantly, waiting for the man to name a price. Perhaps his fine bow, or a piece of armor.
“Tell me about your Earth King,” the Invincible said. “Tell me what he is like, and speak honestly.”
Borenson considered wearily. “What would you like to know?”
“It is said that My Lord Raj Ahten fled before him in battle. Is this true?”
“It is,” Borenson said.
“He must be a fearsome warrior,” the Invincible said. “My Lord Raj Ahten seldom retreats.”
“Not really,” Borenson said. He did not want to speak the full truth. He was unwilling to admit that Gaborn hated to take endowments from other men, and thus was no match at all for Raj Ahten.
“He is a tall man, though?” the Invincible said. “Strong?”
Borenson laughed outright. He saw what game the man played. He too had sometimes dreamt that someday an Earth King would arise.
“No, he is not tall,” Borenson said, though great height was considered a virtue in some parts of Indhopal. Leaders were expected to be tall. “He is shorter than you by a hand.”
“Yet he is handsome in spite of this, surely?” the Invincible asked. “As handsome as My Lord Raj Ahten.”
“He does not take endowments of glamour,” Borenson admitted. “Raj Ahten’s beauty is a bonfire. My lord’s beauty is … a cinder, shooting up into the night.”
“Ah!” the Invincible said, as if having made a discovery. “Then it is true what I have heard, that the Earth King is short and ugly!”
“Yes,” Borenson admitted. “He is shorter and uglier than Raj Ahten.”
“But he is very wise,” the Invincible said. “Very cunning and crafty.”
“He is a young man,” Borenson admitted. “He is not wise. And he would be insulted if you said he was cunning and crafty.”
“Yet he outwitted My Lord Raj Ahten in battle?” the Invincible said. “He drove women and cattle across the plains, and frightened my lord.”
“It was luck, I suspect,” Borenson said. “In fact, it wasn’t even Gaborn’s idea. His wife suggested it.”
“Ah, so he takes the counsel of women?” the Invincible asked. In parts of Indhopal, to suggest that a man took the counsel of women was to suggest that he was either unmanly or a fool.
“He listens to the counsel of men and women,” Borenson corrected.
The Invincible smiled at Borenson in a superior way, the pockmarks on his dark skin showing better as he angled his face against the sunlight.
“You have seen My Lord Raj Ahten?” the Invincible asked.
“I have seen your lord,” Borenson agreed.
“There is none better. There is none more handsome, or so fierce in battle,” the Invincible said. “His enemies rightly fear him, and his people obey him implicitly.”
Yet Borenson caught something in his tone. It was as if the Invincible were testing him somehow. “On this we agree. None is stronger, or more cunning, or more handsome, or more feared.”
“So why do you serve the Earth King?” the Invincible demanded.
“There is none so handsome as your lord,” Borenson said, “or so corrupt in his heart. Do I not say well that his own people fear him as much as his enemies do? And rightly so?”
“To say such things in Indhopal,” the Invincible warned, “is death!” His eyes flared, and his hand strayed toward the curved dagger at his side. He half drew it from its scabbard.
“To speak truly is death in Indhopal?” Borenson said. “Yet you are the one who bade me speak the truth. Is the price of my lunch going to be my life?”
The Invincible said nothing, so Borenson continued. “Yet I have not answered your question in full: I serve the Earth King because he has a good heart,” he declared loudly. “He loves his people. He loves even his enemies, and he seeks to save them all. I serve the Earth King because the Earth chose him and gave him his power, and that is something that Raj Ahten with all of his armies and his fine face will never have!”
The Invincible burst into amiable laughter. “You have earned your lunch, my friend! You spoke honestly, and for that I thank you.” He clasped hands with Borenson. “My name is Pashtuk.”
Pashtuk handed Borenson the bowl of rice and duckling. Borenson could not help but notice that he had called him “my friend.” In Indhopal, such words were not spoken lightly.
That encouraged him to ask, “When you were a boy, Pashtuk, did you also dream that someday the Earth King would come? Did you dream of being a knight in his retinue? Do you, too, intend to serve the Earth King now?”
The Invincible took a spoonful of rice and stared at it thoughtfully. “I did not think he would be short and ugly and take counsel from women. Nor did I think he would hail from enemy lands.…”
Borenson ate thoughtfully. The bowl of rice was not big, and barely assuaged his hunger. It filled him without making him overfull, renewed his energy a bit.
Borenson considered the implications of the deaths at the Blue Tower. If he’d lost his endowments, thousands of other warriors would have done the same. Many lords had preferred to keep their Dedicates under their own personal guard. Yet the Blue Tower had stood for thousands of years, had not been successfully attacked since the naval blockade of King Tison the Bold, four hundred years ago.
The lords of Mystarria would be in a panic.
Worse than that, Borenson had to wonder about Gaborn. Gaborn would also have lost his endowments.
Raj Ahten had not been able to flush Gaborn from his lair in Heredon, could not risk bringing his armies north so long as the wights of the Dunnwood served the Earth King. So he was seeking to force Gaborn’s hand, bring him within striking range. Gaborn had counted on Duke Paldane to repel any attacks against Mystarria. Paldane was old and wise, a grizzled veteran who had led dozens of campaigns
against petty tyrants and criminals in Orden’s behalf. No one was more trustworthy than Paldane.
But Paldane couldn’t fight with his hands tied behind his back, and Raj Ahten had succeeded in tying his hands.
Even in his weak and weary state, Borenson saw it all clearly. Raj Ahten knew that Gaborn could no longer resist the temptation to come into battle.
There could have been no more perfect a lure than the life of a nation, the lives of everyone that Gaborn knew and loved.
Borenson wished that he could speak to Gaborn now, urge his lord to flee, to return to the north. Yet he was not sure it would be the right thing to do. For if Gaborn did not go south, Raj Ahten would destroy Mystarria.
22
THE DARKLING GLORY
Erin and Celinor raced far ahead of the others. They were riding through the hills twenty miles south of Hayworth when Gaborn’s warning came. “Hide!”
It coursed through Erin, and she found her heart pounding. Immediately she glanced around, searching for the source of danger, and reined in her mount.
Celinor did the same, asking, “What’s wrong?”
Erin looked up at the steel-gray clouds. On the horizon a darker cloud rushed toward them.
Her breath came fast, and she could barely speak. “String your bow,” she whispered, for she thought she had time.
She leapt from her horse and grabbed her bow, tried to string it, fumbling. Celinor did the same, as he gaped up at the band of approaching night. It was like a great fish swimming behind the clouds, Erin thought. A great fish that lurks in the depths, half-hidden, half-revealed, waiting to strike.
I’m not afraid, she told herself. I’m a horsesister. The horsewomen of Fleeds do not give in to fear.
But though Erin was a horsewoman and had often engaged in mock combat and tournaments and even the occasional brawl, she’d never faced danger like this. She’d never felt helpless.
She had her bow strung when Gaborn spoke to her again. “Flee, Erin. Hide!”
She dropped her bow and leapt back into the saddle. She was mounted before she realized that Celinor had not been Chosen, and had not heard Gaborn’s command. He was still on the ground trying to string his bow. “There’s no time!” she shouted. “Into the woods! Come on!”
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