No rain had fallen here in over a week, and all of the dead grass and bracken and pine forests now were as dry as tinder. A spark thrown up as a horse's hoof struck a rock caused a small fire along the way. One of the captains warned the men to beware the danger.
Raj Ahten only smiled. It was only sixty miles to Queen Lowicker's camp, and on swift force horses, it took less than an hour of the morning.
As Raj Ahten's criers announced that he had come for a parley, Raj Ahten sat straight and proud upon his gray imperial warhorse, resplendent in white silk.
He rode warily into camp. He did not trust these northerners, for oft Lowicker's men had sought his life in the past, but he did not let his wariness show. He came under a green flag of truce and let his glamour waft over the soldiers. Though he asked no man for allegiance, many a stout warrior looked upon him for a moment and then dropped to one knee, bowing his head.
Rialla herself came out of her great blue pavilion and took one look at him. She was big of bone and homely, but she had a masculine toughness to her demeanor that he had always admired in women. He knew at once what kind of woman she was: knowing that she could never compete with the dainty ladies of court, she had chosen instead to challenge the lords and warriors around her.
Yet when she looked upon Raj Ahten, her mouth opened in awe, she trembled visibly, and then ducked back into her tent.
A moment later, her chamberlain came out of the quarters and announced, “Her Royal Highness, Rialla Val Lowicker, will parley with you in the privacy of her tent.”
Raj Ahten leapt lightly from his mount and strode into the pavilion as the chamberlain pulled back the flap.
Rialla Lowicker stood alone in the center of the tent. On the floor was spread a huge map of Mystarria, painted upon four steer skins, all sewn into one piece. She stood just above Carris. The map showed Lake Donnestgree to the east, the mountains to the south, and the reavers marching toward them, as signified by a little black wooden carving of a reaver. To the west were the Alcairs, where Raj Ahten's troops were signified by another wooden carving of a warrior in a white turban. To the north, her maps showed King Anders riding through Beldinook, while young King Orwynne streamed south through Fleeds. But to the east was something of a surprise.
At the Courts of Tide, the King of Mystarria had been toppled, and in his place stood a barbarian in gray, with the Orb of Internook upon his round shield.
“Your intelligence is better than mine,” Raj Ahten said, looking at the map. “Who is the warlord at the Court of Tide?”
“Olmarg,” Rialla answered. She was breathing hard. Raj Ahten glanced at her. When she had first stepped outside, her long-sleeved dress had been buttoned severely up the collar to the top of her throat. Now she had unloosed the top five buttons, to reveal a hint of cleavage.
Raj Ahten smiled. He had thousands of endowments of glamour and Voice, and few women could resist him for long. Beyond that, he was now a flameweaver. As such, the Power of his master was upon him. His very presence in a room inflamed certain passions in commoners—lust, greed, the desire for combat.
Raj Ahten took one look at the young queen and knew that she could not resist him. The combined effect of his magics overwhelmed her.
He toyed with her, stepping near. He took her right hand, stooped, and kissed it. As he did, he made sure to keep eye contact throughout, except for one calculated instant, when he glanced at her cleavage.
Her response gratified him no end. Rialla Lowicker began to pant as soon as he touched her. Her nostrils flared and her eyes rolled back as he kissed her hand. And when he glanced at her cleavage, her whole body trembled in ecstasy.
He knew that she was his to claim.
“How long ago did Olmarg attack the Courts of Tide?” he asked.
“He was to have sailed in at dawn,” Rialla answered, “under the orders of King Anders of Crowthen.”
“But the Courts of Tide are heavily defended. Are you sure that Olmarg can take them?”
Rialla breathed heavily as Raj Ahten's magics wreathed about her. “He was… my spies tell me that Gaborn Val Orden has fled to do battle with reavers in the Underworld, and commanded all of his warriors to come here. The coasts were left defenseless.”
“So what do you plan?” Raj Ahten asked. “Your map shows lords from the north riding to the aid Carris. Will you fight them?”
He held her hand, and Rialla Lowicker clutched his in return, not willing to let him go.
“Until I know what you and Anders are up to, I can't decide.”
“King Anders?” Raj Ahten asked.
“He's a slippery one—plots within plots within plots.”
“And… you don't like him?” Raj Ahten asked.
“I was afraid to stand against Gaborn after what he did to my father. I wrote to King Anders and told him that any deals my father made died with him. In response, he sent messengers south, claiming to be the new Earth King. He says that Gaborn has lost his powers, and the Earth has called him in Gaborn's stead.”
Raj Ahten laughed aloud. “First Anders claimed that Gaborn was no Earth King, and now he claims that Gaborn was an Earth King, but Anders is a better man still?”
“In my experience,” Rialla said, “when a man cannot choose between the lies he loves, it is because there is no truth in him. Mark my word, there is no more dangerous man in Rofehavan than King Anders.”
“I'm in Rofehavan,” Raj Ahten said, still holding her hand.
“And do you claim to be more dangerous than he?” she teased.
Passion filled her eyes now, and laughter, and lust. Raj Ahten decided that he liked this woman. Her boldness was tempered with caution, and he sensed a streak of cunning and cruelty in her.
Raj Ahten reached up with his right hand and smoothed back her drab brown hair. Rialla closed her eyes and grasped his hand, held it to her cheek.
There was nothing lovely about her, but at the moment, Raj Ahten felt an excess of wholeness. So many endowments of stamina had been vectored to him that he felt as if light and life were oozing from every pore. If he did not plant his seed in a woman soon, the desire to do so would become pure torture.
“Let the lords of the north ride into Carris,” Raj Ahten suggested. “The city is indefensible, and they will die together, leaving all of the north and west of Rofehavan vulnerable to attack. Orwynne, Fleeds, and even South Crowthen could be ours along with Mystarria and Heredon. Meanwhile, I suggest that you hold your army here and I will keep mine in the hills to the west, until after the reavers finish Carris. Thus, we will have them boxed in against the lake. Only then will we muster our armies and drive the reavers back to the Underworld.”
Raj Ahten held her eyes, and Rialla moved in closer.
“You think we could do it,” she asked, “with only three hundred thou-sand men between us?”
“Reavers,” Raj Ahten said, “frighten easily when their leaders are stripped from them. They become confused. And I have brought with me from Maygassa a few surprises that even the reavers have never seen before. Once I slaughter their fell mages, our men will strike fear into them.”
“What do you want out of the bargain?” she asked.
“Reaver curses have blackened the land through all of the southern kingdoms of Indhopal. My people need food to last out the winter.”
“The stores at Carris won't be enough to do much good,” Rialla argued.
“It will be enough to ensure that the strong and the cunning survive,” Raj Ahten said. “The rest can starve.
“Beyond this,” he continued, “I'll need Dedicates to grant me endowments. Any lords that I capture in Rofehavan will become mine, spoils of war.”
“And what do you offer in return, if I grant your request?” Rialla asked.
“In a year's time I will rule as king of all Rofehavan, and you shall rule beside me as my queen.”
Rialla was breathing hard. Now she stepped back, and though her lust had nearly overpowered her, her face took on a ca
lculating look. Indeed, Raj Ahten realized that she had been playing him as much as he played her. He had just revealed his heart to her. Now she revealed her heart to him. “You have many wives in your harem. If I'm to rule at your side, there must be only one.”
Raj Ahten liked her pluck. “They are not wives, merely baubles, toys. I had but one wife, and Gaborn took her from me as surely as he took your father from you.”
“If your wives mean nothing to you,” Rialla said, “kill them for me.”
Fire whispered within him, “Yes, let her have them. Thus will I make her mine.”
“Better than that,” Raj Ahten said, “I will give you a knife, and let you kill them yourself.”
He waited to see if she would flinch or back away from the deed. Instead, Rialla Lowicker, the future Queen of Rofehavan grabbed by him the throat and pushed him to the floor as she struggled to tear off his clothes.
Shortly after dawn, a bloody sun rose over Deyazz. The roosters crowed loudly in the streets of Ghusa, as if they were seeing the sun for the very first time.
Raj Ahten's facilitator Turaush Kasill trudged down the streets of the city, until he found an old ramshackle hut behind the brickyard. The hut was a lean-to made of sticks angled against an ancient stone wall. Hides atop the sticks served as a roof to keep out the rain and the noonday sun.
The smoldering ashes of a campfire still burned before the hut. The smell of human waste was everywhere. Turaush wrinkled his nose in dis-gust, and clapped his hands twice.
“Balimar?” he called. “Balimar Mahaddim?”
A young man quickly thrust his head out from behind a hide flap of the lean-to. His eyes were red, as if he had been weeping or had lain awake sleepless the whole night.
Surely he had been searching for his little sister and brother, the beggars from the market. Now, worn from a lack of sleep, his wits would be dull. At least, Turaush hoped that they would.
“Yes?” the boy asked. “You called”—he glanced at Turaush's fine robes and lowered his eyes in respect—” O Great Kaif?”
“I called,” Turaush said. “Your little sister and brother were found begging for food in the markets last night.”
“You know where they are?” Balimar asked with a tone of relief.
“I do,” Turaush answered. “Would you like to see them?”
The boy Balimar pushed himself out from under the flaps of his lean-to, and grabbed onto the wall for support. Turaush could see the white weal of a scar on his hip, and the boy's leg was still bandaged, but he looked to be mostly healed. He had a brawny build, with a thick neck and strong biceps, but his eyes showed no intelligence. He was a facilitator's dream—brawn, stamina, perhaps even grace. Such a young man had a wealth of possibilities.
“Where are they?” the boy asked suspiciously.
“They sold themselves for food,” Turaush said.
“As slaves?” the boy asked, his voice thick with disbelief.
“As Dedicates,” Turaush said. “They now serve our lord Raj Ahten.” Turaush put all the power of his voice into this last, hinting by his tone that theirs was a noble service, something to be desired.
“I… “the boy's voice faltered. Words failed him. “I've never met the man,” he apologized.
“He is a great lord,” Turaush said, “the greatest who ever lived. Not two days ago, they say he slew a great reaver in Kartish, the Lord of the Under-world. And even now he rides to defend our realm from the evil kings of Rofehavan. You should be proud of your brother and sister. They render a great service to our lord.”
Balimar looked about in confusion. He was a bit darker of skin than his brother and sister, almost as if he were a bastard, fathered by a stranger. His eyes were darker than almond. He had his hair cropped short, in the style of young men who like to wrestle in the streets on feast days, hoping that by their skill they may win entry into the Raj's army. “My mother will be sad to hear this, when she gets back.”
“Where is your mother?” Turaush asked.
“She went to see her sister, who lives in Jezereel. She was hoping that her sister's husband would take us all in. But that was last spring, and she hasn't returned.”
“The village of Jezereel is less than a week's walk from here,” Turaush said after a moment's thought. He was an inspired liar, and often amazed even himself with the way he managed to twist the truth. “But the trail through the hills is rife with robbers and thieves. I suspect that your mother will not return. I fear that she fell to them.” Turaush let a note of false grief accompany his tone, as if to confirm the woman's death, rather than just raise the possibility. “How will you ever take care of your brothers and sisters?”
Balimar looked down hopelessly. “My leg is healing well. I'll be able to work again in a month or two.”
“Without nourishing food,” Turaush whispered, “you will only languish. And when you die, the little ones will surely follow.”
Balimar looked about hopelessly, his eyes watering with grief at the thought. “What can I do?” At his back, a pair of toddlers now appeared. Two small children with big eyes, staring plaintively at Turaush. Their hunger was plain on their faces.
“Come follow me,” Turaush said. “Give yourself to our lord, and we shall feed you well—you and the little ones. You can tend them there in the palace. They will not be left comfortless.”
Balimar looked about helplessly. “What can I give that would let me care for the children. My hearing?”
“You would not hear the cries of the young ones in the night then,” Turaush argued gently. “Give stamina, I think. You will be able to care for them.”
“And what of my leg?” Balimar asked. “It will never heal.”
Turaush merely smiled, letting his glamour argue for him. You fool, his smile said, to be so full of concern. He added after a moment, “The finest physics in all of Indhopal grace the Palace at Ghusa. For a thousand years, the lords of the land have come to take the air in its lofty towers, to bathe in the healing springs at its base. We shall find herbs and balms for your wound. In a week or two, the muscles will mend, and the pain will be gone.”
Balimar's lower lip was quivering, and he stood belligerently, the way an ox will stop at the butcher's stall when it smells the blood of its fellows.
This one is not as stupid as he looks, Turaush thought. The leg will never heal once he grants his stamina, and the boy knows that.
He reached out his hand, and grasped Balimar's. “Come,” Turaush urged. “The time is short. Your brother and sister call for you, and breakfast awaits….”
32
THE GIVING
Each of the greater endowments—brawn, wit, stamina, and grace—can be transferred only at great risk to the giver. Often the death is instantaneous. For example, if a man gives too much brawn, his heart may stop for lack of strength, or a man who gives wit may simply forget how to breathe. But with both stamina and grace, the death is more often lingering.…
—excerpt of a letter sent to Raj Ahten by his chief facilitator, Beru Shan
Chemoise tried her best to wait patiently to give her endowment. She dis-covered as she stood in line that all the facilitators in Heredon, along with all of their apprentices, had gathered at the castle. Sixteen of them worked near the hilltop. They'd been slaving for nearly two days in an effort to complete their great work, taking no time to eat, no time to rest.
Their voices were weary and coarse.
“Are you sure that you dare do this?” Dearborn asked at her back in a whisper. “Won't giving grace put your child at risk?”
“It's a small risk,” Chemoise said. “Yet don't we ensure our destruction if we refuse to stand against our enemies?”
“Let someone else stand in your place,” Dearborn said.
“I can't,” Chemoise whispered. “Iome was my best friend at court, and in the short time that I've known Gaborn, I've learned to admire him as much as any man I've ever known. The facilitators need your love and devotion to trans
fer an endowment. How many others here really know the Earth King?”
“I've never met the man,” Dearborn admitted, “but I know what he's up against, and I'm willing to give whatever I can.”
“So, you offer an endowment because of your love for a principle, while I offer mine for love of the man. Do you think our love is equal?”
“It could be,” Dearborn said, “if one loves one's principles enough.”
There was a cry up the hill from an attendant. Chemoise glanced up, knowing before she looked what she would see. One of those who had granted brawn lay on the lawn, and several healers quickly threw a black sheet over his body, then hustled him away, lest the death of one Dedicate poison the resolve of others who had come to grant endowments.
Chemoise took that moment to push her way to the front of the crowd, past others who offered themselves as Dedicates. Darkness was falling, and soon full night would be upon them. Gaborn had warned that the attack would commence by sunset.
She only hoped that she could give her endowment in time.
“Let me through,” she said, elbowing past a fat man to the front of the crowd.
Almost immediately, a blunt-faced facilitator came downhill. “Next?”
Chemoise didn't recognize him. If he had been King Sylvarresta's old chief facilitator or one of his apprentices, she'd have stayed in the crowd. For the facilitator would have known of her pregnancy and refused to take her endowment.
“Here,” Chemoise called.
She burst from the crowd just as the facilitator reached the front. “An eager one!” he rasped. “What's your pleasure?”
“Grace,” Chemoise said. “I offer my grace.”
He took her elbow. “Thank you,” he said. “Few there be who will give up grace. I'd walk in your footsteps, if I could.”
“You have your job to do,” Chemoise said, “and I have mine.”
He led her up to a tent, past Dedicates who lay all around the entrance in piles, like the wounded on some macabre battlefield. People were moaning, like the sound of wind through rocks, and nearby crickets had begun their nightly carols. The scent of stewing meats wafted over the fields.
The Lair of Bones Page 33
