The RuneLords

by David Farland

  Even this late in the evening, with the sun having fallen, the drone of honeybees filled the air.

  Gaborn inhaled deeply, and it seemed that the scents of all the world's forests and flower gardens and spices rushed into his lungs at once. He felt he could hold that scent forever, that it enlivened every fiber of his being.

  All the weariness, all the pain of the past few days seemed to wash out of him. The scent of the garden was rich. Intoxicating.

  Until this moment, he thought, he'd never truly been alive. He felt no desire to leave, no hurry to leave. It was not as if time ceased here. No, it was a feeling of...security. As if the land here would protect him from his enemies, just as it protected Binnesman's plants from the ravages of winter.

  Binnesman bent low, pulled off his shoes. He motioned for Gaborn and the serving wench to do the same.

  This had to be the wizard's garden, the legendary garden that some said Binnesman would never leave.

  Four years earlier, when the old wizard Yarrow had died, some scholars at the House of Understanding had wanted Binnesman to come, to assume the role of hearthmaster in the Room of Earth Powers. It was a post of such prestige that few wizards had ever rejected it. But then there had been a huge uproar. Binnesman had published an herbal several years earlier, describing herbs that would benefit mankind. An Earth Warden named Hoewell had attacked the herbal, claiming that it contained numerous errors, that Binnesman had misidentified several rare herbs, had drawn pictures of plantains hanging upside down, had claimed that saffron--a mysterious and valuable spice brought from islands far to the south--came from a specific type of flower when, in fact, everyone knew that it was a mixture of pollens collected from the beaks of nesting hummingbirds.

  Some sided with Binnesman, but Hoewell was both a master scholar and a ruthless politician. Somehow he had succeeded in humiliating and disaffecting a number of minor herbalists, even though, as an Earth Warden by training, his own magical powers dealt with the creation of magical artifacts--a field apart from herbalism. Still, his political maneuvering swayed a number of prominent scholars.

  So Binnesman never got the post as hearthmaster in the Room of Earth Powers. Now some people said that Binnesman had refused the post in shame, others that his appointment would never have been ratified. As Gaborn saw it, such were the lies and rumors that Hoewell promulgated to aggrandize himself.

  Yet a rumor more persistent than any other arose, and this one Gaborn believed: In the House of Understanding, some good men whispered that despite the pleas of many scholars, Binnesman simply would not go to Mystarria, not for any prestigious post. He would not leave his beloved garden.

  On seeing the exotic trees, tasting the scents of rare spices and honeyed flowers on the wind, Gaborn understood. Of course the herbalist could not leave his garden. This was Binnesman's life's work. This was his masterpiece.

  Binnesman tapped Gaborn's boot with his foot again. The serving wench already had her shoes off. "Forgive me, Your Lordship," Binnesman said, "but you must remove your shoes. This is not common ground."

  In a daze, Gaborn did as ordered, pulling off his boots. He got up, wanting nothing more than to stroll through these grounds for a day.

  Binnesman nodded meaningfully toward the buckets of feces. Gaborn hefted his unsavory burden, and they were off, strolling across a carpet of rosemary and mint that emitted a gentle, cleansing scent as their feet bruised the leaves.

  Binnesman led Gaborn through the meadow, past the deer that only looked at the old Earth Warden longingly. He reached a particular rowan tree, a tree that was phenomenally tall, a perfect cone. He studied it a moment, then said. "This is the place."

  He dug a small hole in the detritus beneath the tree, motioned for Gaborn to bring the dung.

  When Gaborn brought the buckets, Binnesman emptied them into the Pit. Something clanked. Among the feces Gaborn saw objects dark and metallic.

  With a start he recognized Sylvarresta's forcibles.

  "Come," Binnesman said, "we can't let Raj Ahten have these." He picked up the forcibies, placed them back into the bucket, ignoring the dung on his hands. He walked fifty paces to the brook, where trout snapped at mosquitoes, slapping the water.

  Binnesman stepped into the stream and rinsed the forcibles one by one. Then he placed them together on the bank. Fifty-six forcibles. The sun had set nearly half an hour ago, and the forcibles now seemed but dark shadows on the ground.

  When Binnesman finished, Gaborn tore a strip of cloth from his tunic and wrapped the forcibles into a bundle.

  Gaborn looked up, caught Binnesman appraising him, squinting in the half-light. The herbalist seemed lost in thought. His beefy jowls sagged. He was not a tall man, but he was broad of shoulder, stocky.

  "Thank you," Gaborn said, "for saving the forcibles."

  Binnesman did not acknowledge his words, merely studied him, as if peering behind Gaborn's eyes, or as if he sought to memorize Gaborn's every feature.

  "So," Binnesman said after a long moment. "Who are you?"

  Gaborn chuckled. "Don't you know?"

  "King Orden's son," Binnesman muttered. "But who else are you? What commitments have you made? A man is defined by his commitments."

  A cold dread filled Gaborn at the way the Earth Warden said "commitments." He felt certain that Binnesman was speaking of the oath he'd made this night to Princess Sylvarresta. An oath he'd rather have kept secret. Or perhaps he spoke of the promise Gaborn had made to the kitchen wench, the promise to save her, or even the silent vow he'd made to Chemoise and her father. And, somehow, he felt, these commitments might offend the herbalist. He glanced at the kitchen wench, who stood with hands folded, as if afraid to touch anything.

  "I'm a Runelord. An Oath-Bound Lord."

  "Hmmm..." Binnesman muttered. "Good enough, I suppose. You serve something greater than yourself. And why are you here? Why are you in Castle Sylvarresta now, instead of next week, when your father was scheduled to arrive?"

  Gaborn answered simply. "He sent me ahead. He wanted me to see the kingdom, to fall in love with its land, with its people, as he had."

  Binnesman nodded thoughtfully, stroking his beard. "And how do you like it? How do you like this land?"

  Gaborn wanted to say that he admired it, that he found the kingdom beautiful, strong and almost flawless, but Binnesman spoke with a tone in his voice, a tone of such respect for the word "land," that Gaborn sensed they were not speaking of the same thing. Yet perhaps they were. Was this garden not also part of Heredon? Were not the exotic trees, gathered from far corners of the earth, part of Heredon? "I have found it altogether admirable."

  "Humph," Binnesman grunted, glancing around at the bushes, the trees. "This won't last the night. The flameweavers, you see. Theirs is a magic of destruction, mine a magic of preservation. They serve fire, and their master will not let them resume human form unless they feed the flame. What better food than this garden?"

  "What of you? Will they kill you?" Gaborn asked.

  "That...is not in their power," Binnesman said. "We have reached a turning of the seasons. Soon, my robes will turn red."

  Gaborn wondered if he meant that literally. The old man's robes were a deep green, the color of leaves in high summer. Could they change color of themselves? "You could come with me," Gaborn offered. "I could help you escape."

  Binnesman shook his head. "I've no need to run. I have some skill as a physic. Raj Ahten will want me to serve him."

  "Will you?"

  Binnesman whispered, "I've made other commitments." He said the word "commitments" with that same odd inflection he used when speaking of the land. "But you, Gaborn Val Orden, must flee."

  At that moment, Gaborn caught the sound of a distant barking, the snarling and raucous baying of war dogs.

  Binnesman's eyes flickered. "Do not fear them. The dogs cannot pass my barrier. Those that try will die."

  Binnesman had a certain sadness in his voice. It pained him to kill the mastiffs. He
grunted, climbed up out of the stream, his shoulders sagging as if worried. To Gaborn's surprise, the wizard stooped in the near total darkness, plucked a vine at the water's edge, and told Gaborn, "Roll up your right sleeve, I sense a festering wound."

  Gaborn did as asked, and Binnesman set the leaves on the wound, held them in place with his hand. Immediately the leaves began drawing out the heat and pain. Gaborn carefully unrolled his sleeve, letting his shirt help hold the poultice in place.

  As if making small talk, Binnesman asked both Gabon and the kitchen maid, "How do you feel? Tired? Anxious? Are you hungry?"

  Binnesman began strolling through the meadow, and as he walked, he would stoop in the shadows and pluck a leaf here, a flower there. Gaborn wondered how he could find them at all in the darkness, but it was as if the wizard had memorized their positions, knew exactly where each grew.

  He rubbed Gaborn's feet with lemon thyme one moment, something spicier the next. He stopped to pick three borage flowers, their blue leaves glowing faintly in the darkness, and gently took each five-petaled flower between his fingers, then pulled so that the black stamens remained with the petals. He told Gaborn to eat the honeyed flower petals, and Gaborn did, feeling a sudden rush of calmness take him, a perfect fearlessness he'd never thought he could experience under such duress.

  The herbalist fed several more borage flowers to the kitchen wench, gave her some rosemary to help fight fatigue.

  Binnesman then strolled to a grassy slope, reached down and broke the stem of a flowering bush. "Eyebright," he whispered, taking the stem. A fragrant oily sap was dripping from it, and Binnesman drew a line over Gaborn's brows, another high up on his cheek.

  Suddenly, the night shadows did not seem so deep, and Gaborn marveled. He had endowments of sight to his credit, and could see fairly well in the dark, but he'd never imagined anything like this: it was as if the herbalist had added another half-dozen endowments in the matter of a moment. Yet Gaborn recognized that he was not actually seeing more light. Instead, it was as if, when he glanced at something that he might have been able to recognize after minutes of study and squinting in the darkness, he felt no strain, yet instantly discerned shapes and colors.

  He looked off to the woods, saw a dark shape there--a man hiding among the trees. A tall man, in full armor. Powerful. If not for the eye-bright, he'd never have seen the man at all. He wondered what the fellow might be doing, and yet...knew the fellow belonged.

  When Binnesman finished administering the herb to the kitchen maid, he said softly to her. "Keep this stem in your pocket. You may need to break it and apply fresh sap again before dawn."

  Gaborn realized now that the herbalist was not just chatting about idle matters when asking how they felt, that perhaps this wizard never chatted about idle matters. He was preparing Gaborn and the maid to flee in the darkness. The ministrations of leaves rubbed over his skin would change his scent, throw off his trackers. Other herbs would magnify his abilities.

  This took less than three minutes, then the herbalist began asking more penetrating questions. To the maid he asked, "Now how tired are you? Did the borage make your heart race too fast? I could give you skullcap, but I don't want to overtax you."

  And sometimes he spoke quickly, gave Gaborn commands.

  "Keep this poppy seed in your pocket; chew it if you are wounded. It will dull the pain."

  He took them next to the edge of the wood, where three dark trees with twisted branches reared up like great beasts with twiggy fingers and mossy limbs, forming a dark hollow that enclosed a small glade. Here, Gaborn felt smothered, constricted. Something about the closeness of the trees gave a sense that he was being watched and judged and would shortly be dismissed. The earth was all around him here, he felt--in the soil beneath his feet, in the trees that surrounded him and nearly covered him. He could smell it in the soil, in leaf mold, in the living trees.

  Among many small shrubs that huddled on a hummock near the glade's center, Binnesman stopped. "Here we have rue," he said. "Harvested at dawn, it has some medicinal and culinary value, but if you harvest just after the heat of the day, it is a powerful irritant. Gaborn, if the hunters come at you from downwind, toss this into their eyes, or into a fire--the smoke from such a fire is most dangerous."

  Gaborn dared not touch it. Even going near the bushes made his lungs feel constricted, his eyes water. But Binnesman walked up to a low bush that held a few wilting, yellow flowers. He pulled off some leaves, taking no harm.

  The kitchen maid would not draw close, either. Though she could feel nothing, she had grown careful.

  The herbalist looked back at Gaborn, and whispered, "You do not need to fear it."

  But Gaborn knew better.

  Binnesman reached down to his feet. "Here." He picked a handful of rich, loamy soil, placed it in Gaborn's palm.

  "I want you to make a commitment," Binnesman said, in that special way that let Gaborn know this was serious, that much depended on how he answered. He spoke each word with gravity and ceremony, almost chanting.

  Gaborn felt dazed by all that had happened, frightened. As he took the soil in his hand, he felt almost as if the ground wrenched beneath his feet. He was suddenly so weary. The soil seemed tremendously heavy in his palm, as if it contained hidden stones of enormous weight.

  The wizard is right, Gaborn thought. This is not common ground.

  "Repeat after me: I, Gaborn Val Orden, swear to the earth, that I will never harm the earth, that I dedicate myself to the preservation of a seed of humanity in the dark season to come."

  Binnesman stared into Gaborn's eyes, unblinking, and waited, with bated breath, for Gaborn to speak the vow.

  Something inside Gaborn trembled. He felt the soil in his hand, felt...a tickling at the back of his consciousness, a presence, a powerful presence.

  It was the same great presence he'd recognized yesterday, in Bannisferre, when he'd felt the impulse to ask his bodyguard Borenson to marry the beautiful Myrrima.

  Only now that presence came immensely stronger. It was the feeling of rocks in motion, of trees breathing. An odd power pulsed beneath his feet, as if the earth trembled in anticipation. Yes, he could feel it--through his bare feet, the power of the earth rising beneath him.

  And Gaborn saw that he'd been traveling here toward this destination for days. Had his father not told him to come here, to learn to love the land? Had some Power inspired his father to say those words?

  And in the inn at Bannisferre, when Gaborn drank the addleberry wine, the best wine he had ever tasted, the wine with the initial B on its wax seal, he had felt this power. Gaborn knew now, knew without asking, that Binnesman had put up that bottle of wine. How else could it have had such a marvelous effect? The wine had quickened his wits, led him here.

  Gaborn feared to take the wizard's vow, to become a servant of the earth. What would it require? Was he to become an Earth Warden like Binnesman? Gaborn had already taken other vows, vows he considered sacred. As Myrrima had said, he did not take vows lightly.

  Yet somehow he also feared not to take this vow. Even now, Raj Ahten's hunters would be coming after him. He needed help to escape, wanted Binnesman's aid.

  "I swear," Gaborn told Binnesman.

  Binnesman chuckled. "No, you fool. Don't swear to me, swear to the earth, to that which is in your hand, and that beneath your feet. Say the whole oath."

  Gaborn opened his mouth, painfully aware of how the herbalist clung to his words, painfully aware that this vow was more significant than he could imagine. Wondering how he could maintain a balance, keep his vows to both the earth and to Iome.

  "I--" Gaborn began to speak, but the earth quivered at his feet. All around, through the fields and woods and garden, the earth went still. No wind stirred, no animal called. The dark trees surrounding him seemed to loom larger, shutting out all light.

  Darkness, darkness. I am beneath the earth, Gaborn thought.

  Gaborn glanced round in astonishment, for he had thought
the evening quiet until that moment. Now, absolute stillness reigned over the face of the land, and Gaborn sensed a strange and powerful presence rushing toward him.

  In reaction to this, Binnesman backed away from the rue plant, stood with an astonished demeanor, gazing about. The soil twisted near his feet, grass parting as if some great veil of cloth ripped.

  And from the bushes at the forest's edge, a man emerged, a black form stepping from the shadows. Gaborn had discerned his shape moments before, had seen his shadow once the eyebright was administered, but had never guessed at the creature's true appearance.

  For this was no mortal man. Rather it was a creature of dust, formed from rich black soil. Minuscule specks of dirt and pebbles clung together, molding his features.

  Gaborn recognized the form. Raj Ahten trod toward him. Or, more accurately, a being of dust in the form of Raj Ahten marched from the woods, complete in armor, scowling imperiously, his high helm spreading wide with owl's wings, black as onyx.

  Immediately, Gaborn froze in terror, wondering what this manifestation might mean. He looked to Binnesman; the wizard had fallen back in astonishment.

  The creature of dust stared down at Gaborn, a slight mocking disdain on its face. In the gathering shadows of the wood, it might have seemed human to a casual observer, but for its lack of color. Every eyelash, every fingernail, every feature and fiber of its clothing seemed perfectly formed.

  Then the earth spoke.

  The creature of dust did not move its mouth. Instead the words seemed to come from all around. Its voice was the sound of wind sighing through a meadow or hissing through lonely peaks. The groan of rocks moving through a stream, or tumbling downhill.

  Gaborn understood none of it, though he recognized it as speech. Beside Gaborn, Binnesman listened intently, and interpreted, "He says to you, Gaborn, 'You would speak an oath to me, O son of a man?' "

  The strange sounds continued, and Binnesman thought a moment before he added. " 'You say you love the land. But would you honor your vows to me, even if I wore the face of an enemy?' "