The RuneLords

by David Farland

  Gaborn studied the old man, wondering. "You never needed the gift of Earth Sight, did you? Other Earth Wardens may serve the field mice and the snakes--but Earth commanded you to serve man...in the dark time to come."

  Binnesman stiffened, glanced at Gaborn. "I beg you never speak that thought aloud. Raj Ahten is not the only lord who would seek my life if he guessed at what you know."

  "Never," Gaborn said. "I will never tell."

  "Perhaps my old master was right," Binnesman said. "Perhaps I do not. serve the Earth well..."

  Gaborn knew that he thought of the loss of his wylde. "Is it lost to us, destroyed?"

  "It is of the earth. A mere fall will not kill it. Yet, I...I worry for this creature. It will have come naked from the earth. It knows nothing, will be lost without me to teach and nourish it...And it is more powerful than anyone knows. The blood of the Earth flows in its veins."

  Gaborn asked. "Dangerous? What can it do?"

  "It is a focus for my power," Binnesman said. "Just as water wizards draw power from the sea, or as flameweavers draw it from fire, I draw strength from the earth. But some earth contains more elemental force than others. For decades I have scoured the ground for just the right soils, just the right stones. Then I called my wylde from them."

  "So...it is nothing more than dirt and stones?" Gaborn asked.

  "No," Binnesman said, "it is more than that. I cannot control it; it is as alive as you or I. The wylde chose its shape from my mind. I tried to envision a warrior to fight the reavers, a green knight like the one who served your forefathers. Yet even in that, I could not control it."

  "We will have to send word," Gaborn said, "ask people to help us search for it."

  Binnesman smiled weakly, pulled a blade of wheat from the ground and chewed at its succulent end.

  "So Raj Ahten is lost to us," Binnesman mused. "I'd hoped for better."

  Leading her own mount out back, Iome found Gaborn and the wizard beside a trough, feeding the horses, which ate as only force horses can, chewing so rapidly she feared for them.

  Iome left Gaborn and Binnesman to tend the beasts while she took her father to the creek and washed him in the clear water. He had soiled himself near the Seven Stones, and she'd never had time to care for him.

  When at last Gaborn came to her, leaving the horses in Binnesman's able care, Iome had her father dried and in fresh clothes, and he lay at the edge of the orchard, using a tree root for a pillow, snoring contentedly.

  It seemed an uncommon, yet peaceful sight. Iome's father was a Runelord, with several endowments of stamina, and others of brawn. Only once in her life had she known him to sleep, and then only for half an hour. Yet she wondered if from time to time he might have slept beside her mother. Certainly, Iome knew, at times he'd lain beside her mother as he pondered the kingdom's problems, long into the night.

  But sleep? Almost never.

  The long day must have worn her father out.

  Gaborn took a seat beside Iome, both of them leaning their backs against the same tree. He took a plum from the pile near her hand, and ate.

  Clouds were beginning to scud in again, darkening the sky, and the wind gusted from the south. It was like that in Heredon in the fall. Weak fronts of cloud passed overhead in bursts, with storms that rarely lasted more than an hour or three.

  Binnesman brought the mounts down to the stream. The horses all quenched their thirst, then stopped drinking at Binnesman's command. Afterward, some grazed in the short grass at the edge of the stream; most just slept on their feet.

  Yet Raj Ahten's great mount stood by the water, restless, matching Binnesman's mood. After a few moments, Binnesman said, "I must leave you now, but I will meet you at Longmont. Ride fast, and there is little on this earth that you need fear."

  "I am not worried," Gaborn answered. Binnesman's uncertain look suggested that he disagreed, that he felt Gaborn should be concerned. Yet Gaborn had spoken courageously only to ease the wizard's mind.

  Binnesman mounted the big warhorse that had belonged to Raj Ahten. "Try to get some rest. You can only let the animals sleep for an hour or two. By midnight, Raj Ahten will be free to come after you again--though I shall lay a spell to protect you."

  Whispering some words, Binnesman pulled a sprig of some herb from the pocket of his robe. He rode forward, dropped it on Gaborn's lap. Parsley.

  He said, "Keep it. It will absorb your scent, hide it from Raj Ahten and his soldiers. And before you leave here, Gaborn, pluck a single hair from your head and tie it in seven knots. Should Raj Ahten chase you then, he'll find himself wandering in circles."

  "Thank you," Iome and Gaborn said. Binnesman turned his great steed and galloped off in the dark, heading south.

  Iome felt tired, dreadfully tired. She glanced around for a soft spot of ground to lay her head on. Gaborn reached out, took her shoulder, guided her toward him, so she could rest her head in his lap. It was a surprising gesture. Intimate.

  She lay there, closed her eyes, and listened to him eat a plum. His stomach made surprising noises, and she couldn't quite feel comfortable.

  Gaborn reached down, gently stroked her chin, her hair. She'd have thought his touch would feel...reassuring, right. But it didn't.

  Instead it made her nervous. Partly, she feared rejection. Though he'd said he loved her, she did not believe he could love her deeply.

  She was too ugly. Of all who are ugly on the earth, she thought, I am among the worst. A frightened corner of her mind whispered to her, And you deserve to be ugly.

  It was the endowment, of course. Iome could never remember having felt this way before. So devoid of worth. Raj Ahten's rune of power pulled at her.

  Yet when Gaborn looked at her or touched her, it seemed that some part of the spell was broken for a moment. She felt worthy. She felt that he, alone of all men, might actually love her. And she feared to lose him. It was a terrible fear. For it seemed so reasonable.

  Another thing made her uneasy. She'd never been alone with a man. Now she was alone with Gaborn. She'd always had Chemoise by her side, and a Days watching her. But now here she sat with a prince, and her father slept, and it made her feel profoundly uncomfortable. Aroused.

  It was not Gaborn's touch, she knew, that made her feel this way. It was the draw of his magic. She could feel the creative desires in her stirring, like an animal burrowing into her skull. She'd felt this when she was near Binnesman, but never so powerfully. Besides, Binnesman was an older man, and none too pleasing to look at.

  Gaborn was different, someone who dared say he loved her.

  She wanted to sleep. She had no endowments of brawn or metabolism, only a single endowment of stamina she'd gotten shortly after birth. So though she had fair endurance, she needed rest almost as much as any other person.

  But now she had Gaborn's electrifying touch to contend with. This is innocent, she told herself as he stroked her cheek. Merely the touch of a friend.

  Yet she craved his touch so, wanted him to move his hand down farther, along her throat. She dared not admit even to herself that she wanted him to touch her deeper.

  She took hold of Gaborn's hand, so that he'd stop stroking her chin.

  He responded by taking her hand, kissing it softly, letting it rest between his lips. Gently, so gently it took her breath away.

  Iome opened her eyes to mere slits, looked up. The darkness had fallen so completely, it was as if the two of them lay hidden beneath a blanket.

  There are trees between us and the house, Iome thought. The woman there can't see us, doesn't know who we are.

  The thought made her heart pound fiercely. Certainly, Gaborn must have felt her heart pound, must have seen how she fought to keep from drawing a ragged breath.

  He placed his hand beside her face, began stroking her cheek again, Iome's back arched slightly at his touch.

  You can't want me, she thought. You can't want me. My face is a horror. The veins in my hand stand out like blue worms. "I wish I were sti
ll beautiful," she whispered breathlessly.

  Gaborn smiled. "You are."

  He leaned down and kissed her, full on the lips. His moist kiss smelled of plums. The touch of his lips made her dizzy; he took the back of her head in his hand, pulled her up and kissed her fervently.

  Iome grabbed him round the shoulders, scooted up until she sat in his lap, and felt him trembling softly with desire. In that moment, she knew he believed it: he believed she was beautiful despite the fact that Raj Ahten had taken her glamour, felt she was beautiful though her father's kingdom lay in ruins, felt she was beautiful and wanted her as much as she wanted him.

  Gaborn held some strange power over her. She wished he would kiss her roughly. He nuzzled her cheek and chin. Iome raised her neck for him, so he might kiss the hollow of her neck. He did.

  Wanton. I feel wanton, Iome realized. All her life, she'd been watched, had been handled so that she would remain proper and free of desire.

  Now, for the first time, she found herself alone with a man, a man whom she suddenly realized she loved fiercely.

  She'd always kept such a tight rein on her emotions, she'd never have believed she could have felt so wanton. It's only his magic, she told herself, that makes me feel so.

  Gaborn's lips strayed over the hollow of her throat, up to her ear.

  She took his right hand in her own, brought it toward her breast. But he pulled away and would not touch it.

  "Please!" she whispered. "Please. Don't be a gentleman now. Make me feel beautiful!"

  Gaborn pulled his lips away from her ear, stared hard into her face.

  If what he saw in the dim light displeased or repelled him, he gave no sign of it.

  "I--uh," Gaborn said weakly. "I'm afraid I can be nothing but a gentleman." He tried to smile reassuringly. "Too many years of practice."

  He pulled away a bit, but not entirely.

  Unaccountably, Iome found her eyes full of tears. He must think me brazen. He must think me wicked, a voice inside her whispered. He sees me truly now, a craven animal. She felt sickened by her own lust. "I...I'm sorry!" Iome said. "I've never done anything like that!"

  "I know," Gaborn said.

  "Truly--never!" Iome said.

  "Truly, I know."

  "You must think me a fool or a whore!" Or ugly.

  Gaborn laughed easily. "Hardly. I'm...flattered that you could feel that way about me. I'm flattered you could want me."

  "I've never been alone with a man," Iome said. "I've always had my maid with me, and a Days."

  "And I've never been alone with a woman," Gaborn said. "You and I have always been watched. I've often wondered if the Days watch us only so that we will be good. No one would want to have their secret deeds recorded for all the world to see. I know some lords who are generous and decent, I believe, only because they would not want the world to know their hearts.

  "But how good are we, Iome, if we are only good in public?"

  Gaborn hugged her, pulled her back against his chest, but did not kiss her. Instead, it seemed an invitation to rest again, to try to sleep. But Iome could not rest now. She tried to relax.

  She wondered if he meant it. Was he trying to be good, or did he secretly find her repulsive? Perhaps even in his own heart, he dared not admit the truth.

  "Iome Sylvarresta," Gaborn said, his voice distant, highly formal. "I have ridden far from my home in Mystarria to ask you a question. You told me two days ago that your answer would be no. But I wonder if you would reconsider?"

  Iome's heart pounded, and she thought furiously. She had nothing to offer him. Raj Ahten was still within the borders of her country, had taken her beauty, destroyed the heart of her army. Though Gaborn claimed to love her, she feared that if Raj Ahten lived, Gaborn would never see her natural face again, but would instead be forced to gaze on this ugly mask for as long as she lived.

  She had nothing to give him, except her own devotion. How could that hold him? As a princess of the Runelords, she'd never have imagined herself in this position, where she would love a man and be loved, though she had nothing but herself to offer.

  "Do not ask me that," Iome said, lips trembling, heart racing. "I...cannot consider my own desires in this matter. But, if I were your wife, I'd try to live in such a way that you would never rue the bargain. I'd never kiss another the way I just kissed you now."

  Gaborn held her, comfortably, easily, so her back was cupped against his chest. "You are my lost half, you know," Gaborn whispered.

  Iome leaned back against him, luxuriating at his touch, while his sweet breath tickled her neck. She'd never believed in the old tales which said that each person was made of but half a soul, doomed to constantly seek its companion. She felt it now, felt truth in his words.

  Playfully, Gaborn whispered into her ear. "And if you will someday have me as your husband, I'll try to live in such a way that you will never think me too much a gentleman." He wrapped his arms around her shoulders, hugged her tightly and let her lean her head back against his chest. The inside of his left wrist rested on her breast, and though she felt aroused by his touch, she no longer felt wanton or embarrassed.

  This is how it should be, she thought--him owning me, me owning him. This is how we would become one.

  She felt tired, dreamy. She tried to imagine what it would be like in Mystarria, in the King's Palace. She dared to dream. She'd heard tales of it, the white boats on the great gray river, floating through the canals in the city. The green hills, and smell of sea salt. The fog rolling in each dawn. The cries of gulls and endless crashing of waves.

  Almost she could imagine the King's Palace, a great bed with silk sheets, the violet-colored curtains flying through the open windows, and herself naked beside Gaborn.

  "Tell me of Mystarria," Iome whispered. " 'In Mystarria lagoons lay like obsidian, among the roots of the cypress trees...' " she quoted an old song. "Is it like that?"

  Gaborn sang the tune, and though he had no lute, his voice was lovely:

  "In Mystarria lagoons lay like obsidian, among the roots of the cypress trees. And pools are so black they reflect no sun, as they silently buoy the water lilies."

  Those lagoons were said to be the homes of water wizards and their daughters, the nymphs. Iome said, "Your father's wizards, I've never met them."

  "They are weak wizards. Most of them have not even grown their gills. The most powerful water wizards live out in the deep ocean, not near land."

  "But they influence your people, all the same. It's a stable country."

  "Oh yes," Gaborn said, "we in Mystarria are always seeking equanimity. Very stable. Some might say boring."

  "Don't speak ill of it," Iome said. "Your father is tied to the water. I can tell. He has a way of...counteracting instabilities. Did he bring one of his wizards? I'd like to meet one."

  Iome imagined that he would, that if he'd brought soldiers to parade about and display his power, he might have brought one of the water wizards. She hoped such a wizard might help fight Raj Ahten at Longmont.

  "First of all, they aren't 'his' wizards, any more than Binnesman could be your wizard--"

  "But did he bring one in his retinue?"

  "Almost," Gaborn said, and she could tell he wanted the wizards' help, too. Water wizards, unlike Earth Wardens, could be counted on to meddle in the affairs of mankind on a regular basis. "But it's a long journey, and there isn't much water on the plains of Fleeds..."

  Gaborn began to talk to her then about his life in Mystarria, the great campus of the House of Understanding with its many Rooms spread out all over the city of Aneuve. Some Rooms were great halls, where thousands came to hear lectures and participate in discussions. Others were cozy, more like the common room in a fine inn, where scholars sat beside roaring fires in winter, like the hearthmasters of old, and taught lessons while sipping hot rum...

  Iome woke with a start as Gaborn shifted his weight beneath her, shook her shoulder gently.

  "Come, my love," he whispered. "W
e must go. It's been nearly two hours."

  Rain drifted from the cloudy skies. Iome looked around. The tree above them provided surprisingly good shelter, but Iome marveled that no rain had spattered her or wakened her earlier. She wondered how she'd slept at all, but recognized now that Gaborn had used the power of his Voice to lull her to sleep, speaking softer and softer, in a singsong cadence.

  Her father sat beside her, wide awake, reaching out to grasp at some imaginary thing. He chuckled softly.

  Catching butterflies.

  Iome's face, hands, body all felt numb. Her mind was waking, but not her limbs. Gaborn helped her rise, unsteadily. She wondered at how to best care for her father. Raj Ahten has turned me into an old woman, filled with worries, and my father into a child, Iome thought.

  Fiercely, she suddenly wished that her father could stay this way, could hold on to the innocence and wonder that he had now. He'd always been a good man, but a worried one. In a way, Raj Ahten had given her father a freedom he'd never known.

  "The horses have rested," Gaborn said. "The roads are getting muddy, but we should make good time."

  Iome nodded, recalled how she had kissed Gaborn a few hours ago, and suddenly her mind was awake, swimming once again, and all that had happened yesterday now seemed a dream.

  Gaborn stood before her a moment, then grabbed her roughly, briefly kissed her lips, convincing her she recalled everything from this evening only too well.

  She felt weak and weary, but they rode through the night, let the horses run, Binnesman had left them a spare mount from Raj Ahten's men, so they stopped to change horses every hour, letting each beast take a turn at rest.

  They blew through villages like the wind, and as they rode, Iome had the most vivid memory of a dream she'd dreamt as she lay in Gaborn's arms: She'd dreamed she stood on the aerie tower north of the Dedicates' Keep in her father's castle, where the graaks would land when skyriders sometimes came in summer, bearing messages from the South.

  In her dream, Raj Ahten's armies moved through the Dunnwood, shaking the trees, flameweavers clothed only in robes of living fire. She could glimpse the armies only in flashes--nomen with black hides creeping in the shadows under the trees, knights in saffron and crimson surcoats riding armored chargers through the wood. And Raj Ahten stood, so proud and beautiful at the edge of the trees, gazing at her.