Chaosbound

by David Farland

  Just as quickly, she realized that it wasn’t the wind. The cold seemed to be inside her—reaching down to the bone. And the young woman coming toward her made too little sound. She was leaping over rocks, marching through deep grass and dry leaves.

  Myrrima recognized the young woman now. It was Erin. It was the shade of her daughter, glowing softly, as if with some inner light. Yet her form was translucent.

  Myrrima pushed herself up in a sitting position, heart racing. To be touched by a shade might mean her death. Myrrima’s every instinct was to run.

  Yet she longed to see her child one last time.

  “Ware the shade!” someone in the Walkin clan hissed in the distance. It was an ancient warning.

  Erin came, passing near Myrrima’s bed. Her feet moved as if she was walking, but her body only glided, as if carried on the wind. She was dressed just as she had been in death.

  She went past the edge of camp, over to her own still body, and stood for a moment, looking down, regarding it calmly.

  Myrrima dared hope that the shade might notice her. Very often, the dead seemed only vaguely aware of the living, so Myrrima didn’t expect much. But a loving glance would have warmed Myrrima’s heart. A smile of recognition would have been a lifelong treasure.

  The spirit knelt above her body, reached down a finger, and stroked her own lifeless chin.

  Myrrima found tears streaming down her cheeks; she let out a sob, and hurriedly shook Sage, waking her, so that she too might see her sister one last time.

  Then Erin turned and peered straight into Myrrima’s eyes. Instantly the child drew close, covering eighty feet in the flutter of a heartbeat, and she did something that no shade on Myrrima’s world had ever done before: Erin spoke, her child’s voice slicing through the air like a rapier. “What are you doing here, Mother? You should go to the tree.”

  Myrrima’s throat caught. She was too astonished to speak. But Sage had risen up on one elbow, and she spoke: “What tree?”

  Erin looked to Sage. “The Earth King’s tree: one of you should go there before night falls again. Before night falls forever.”

  A sob escaped Myrrima’s throat. She longed to touch her daughter. “I love you.”

  Erin smiled. “I know. You mustn’t worry. All of the neighbors are here. They’re having a wonderful festival!” She pointed east, up toward Mill Creek.

  As if carried on the wind, Myrrima suddenly heard the sounds of the fair: a joyful pandemonium. Minstrels strummed lutes and played the pipes and banged on drums. She heard the young men cheer uproariously as a lance cracked in a joust. There were children screaming with wild glee. In all her life, Myrrima had never heard such sounds of joy.

  Then Erin peered at her again, and said, “Go to the Earth King’s tree!”

  With that, the shade dissipated like a morning mist burning beneath the sun. Yet though Erin’s form was gone, Myrrima still felt the chill of the netherworld.

  Sage climbed to her feet and stood peering off into the east. “Why does she want us to go to the Earth King’s tree?”

  Myrrima had no idea. She knew where the tree lay, of course. It was an oak tree—the only one in all of Landesfallen, up on Bald Hill, past the town of Fossil. Legend said that before the Earth King died, he’d traveled the world, seeking out people, putting them under his protective spell.

  When he’d reached Bald Hill, he was an old man, failing in health. So he’d used the last of his powers to transform himself into a tree. Thus he stood there still, in the form of an oak, watching over the world.

  “He’s coming back!” Sage suddenly exulted as an odd notion took her. “The Earth King is returning!”

  Myrrima stood, studied her daughter’s clear face in the starlight, saw wonder in Sage’s eyes.

  “He can’t be,” Myrrima said calmly. “Gaborn is dead.”

  But Sage was too enamored of the idea. “Not dead,” she said, “transformed. He’s a wizard of wondrous power. Don’t you see? He knew that his life was failing, so he turned himself into a tree, preserving himself, until now—when we need him most! Oh, Mother, don’t you see?”

  Myrrima wondered. She was a water wizardess, and often during the changing of the tides, she felt the water’s pull. If she were to give in to it, go down into the river and let herself float out to sea, in time she would grow gills and fins, become an undine. And as the centuries slowly turned, she would lose her human form altogether.

  But could she gain her old form back? She had never heard of such thing, never heard of an undine or fish that resumed its human shape.

  Gaborn had been the Earth King, the most powerful servant of the earth in all of known history. If he’d had the power to transform himself into a tree, then perhaps he could indeed turn himself back.

  “It’s more than twenty miles from here to Bald Hill,” Myrrima said. “I don’t think I have the energy to walk that far in a single day.”

  Sage said matter-of-factly, “Father can do it.”

  4

  THE WHITE SHIP

  The generous man is beloved of his family and of all those who know him.

  —Emir Owatt of Tuulistan

  Borenson loped for seventeen miles in the darkness before he found Draken. The lad was with Baron Walkin and one of his brothers.

  The giant reached them just at the crack of dawn, as the sun rose up in the east as pretty as a rose. Wrens flitted about in the brush beside the water, while borrowbirds whistled their strange ululating calls from the white gum trees.

  The three had stopped at a huge bend in the channel where the ruins of a ship had been cast up among the dead trees and bracken. The ship must have been taking on stores at Garion’s Port. The hull was more than breached—the whole ship had cracked in half. The men had begun salvage efforts, pulling a few casks and crates from the water around the wreckage. But when they had grown tired, they had then set camp by the shore.

  Borenson found Draken groggily nursing a small fire while Baron Walkin peered out into the water and his brother slept beneath a bit of tarp. Borenson jutted his chin toward the wreck and asked Draken, “What’s the report?”

  “The only people that we found were floaters. Other than that, all we really found was this wreck.”

  Borenson was saddened to hear that there were no survivors, but he hadn’t expected better news. So his mind turned to more immediate concerns. “Anything of value on it?”

  “Not much. There were some casks of ale floating about, and bales of linen. We found a few empty barrels floating high. We got those. As for the ship, we thought that the brass fittings on the masts and whatnot might be of worth. But after our long walk, we grew too tired to try to haul it all home. We thought that we might use the empty barrels and some other flotsam to make a raft, and then pole it upstream with the tide.”

  Borenson walked over to Baron Walkin to get a better view of the wreck. Dead fish floated in the still water beside the ship’s hull, their white bellies distended and bloating. After a moment, Borenson recognized that something large and hairy floating against the wreck was a goat.

  “Do you think we could use the wood from the ship to make a smaller vessel?” Borenson asked.

  Baron Walkin peered up at him curiously. “There’s not enough left of it, even if we had the right tools. Besides, if we did manage to get something floating, where would you sail to?”

  “Haven’t decided,” Borenson averred.

  “I’m afraid there’s not much here to salvage,” Baron Walkin said. “There are a few more casks floating inside the wreck. If you dive up into it, you can see them, but it’s hard work, and risky, trying to get them out. Broken beams, shifting tides. A man takes his life into his hands every time he dives into that mess.”

  “Have you seen any other wrecks?” Borenson asked, “More lumber?”

  “About two miles farther on the sea meets the land,” Baron Walkin said. “That’s as far as we got. The whole coast is submerged.”

  In his mind�
��s eye Borenson consulted a map. The Hacker River wound through the hills here, but gently turned. That meant that most of the wreckage from the tidal wave should wash up south of the new beachfront—perhaps only five or six miles to his south.

  “You didn’t try searching for Garion’s Port?”

  “We were too tired,” Draken said, stepping up beside the two. “The land is pretty rugged. The water just sort of comes in and surrounds the trees, and the rocks are something terrible.”

  Borenson bit his lip. Draken looked done-in, too tired to go for a rigorous hike. But Borenson felt optimistic. He’d searched in vain through the night for survivors. The tidal wave had just been too brutal, but he hoped to find a couple more wrecks like this one—perhaps with enough material to patch together a real ship.

  “You gents see if you can get those barrels pulled out by noon,” he said. “I’m going to go down the coast a bit to see what I can see. . . .”

  Baron Walkin peered up at Borenson, gave him a warning look. “Don’t order me about,” he said. “I’m not your manservant. I’m not even your friend. My title—such as it is—is every bit as vaunted as your own.”

  Walkin wasn’t a big man. Years of hard work and little food had robbed the muscle from his frame, and Borenson had a hard time trying to see him as anything more than a starveling. But the baron held himself proudly in the manner of the noble-born.

  But nobility was a questionable thing. Sir Borenson had made himself a noble. He had won his title through his own deeds, while Owen Walkin had gained his title by birthright. Such men weren’t always as valiant or upright as their progenitors.

  This man believes that I owe him an apology, Borenson realized, and perhaps he should have one. After all, our children do want to marry.

  “Forgive me,” Borenson said. “If anything, your title is of more worth than mine, for yours was a prosperous barony, whereas I was made lord of a swamp—one where the midges were as large as sparrows and the mosquitoes often carried off lambs whole.”

  Baron Walkin laughed at that, then eyed Borenson for one long moment, as if trying to decide whether Borenson was sincere, and at last stuck out his hand.

  They clasped wrists and shook, as befitted lords of Mystarria. “I’ll forgive your insults, if you’ll forgive my children for eating your cherries.”

  “I’d say we’re even,” Borenson laughed, and the baron guffawed.

  With that, Borenson went striding off.

  Draken watched the giant lumber away, and fought down a knot of anger. In the past few weeks, he had gotten to know Baron Walkin well, and he liked him. Walkin was a wise man, hospitable. It was true that the family had fallen on hard times, and Draken pitied the family. But Walkin had a way of looking into a man’s eye and recognizing his mood that seemed almost mystical, and though he had little in the way of worldly goods, he was as generous as he could be.

  “What do you think he’s after?” Draken asked as the giant loped away, following an old rangit trail.

  “He’s heading for Rofehavan, unless I miss my guess,” Walkin said, then peered at Draken meaningfully. “You’ll be welcome to stay and make your home with us, if you prefer.”

  Draken thought for a long moment. He was in love with Rain, that much he knew. In the past six weeks, he hadn’t had a day when he’d gone without seeing her. Already he missed the touch of her skin, and he longed to kiss her.

  But he was torn. He had already guessed what had happened. Fallion had bound two worlds. Draken didn’t know what that meant precisely. He didn’t know why his father had changed, but he knew that something was terribly wrong. The binding should not have brought such a mess.

  Draken had been trained from childhood to be a soldier. He knew how to keep secrets. And Fallion’s whereabouts and mission were a family secret that he hadn’t even shared with Rain. So he had to go on pretending that he didn’t know what was wrong with their world.

  But he was worried for Fallion, and he felt torn between the desire to go to Rofehavan and learn what had happened and to stay here with Rain.

  “I don’t know what to do,” Draken admitted.

  “Let your heart guide you,” Baron Walkin suggested.

  Draken thought for a long minute. “I want to stay with you, then.”

  The baron waited and asked, “Why?”

  Draken tried to find the right words. “I can’t abide the way my father spoke to Rain. He owes her an apology, but he’ll never offer it. He won’t apologize to a girl. He’s a hard man. All that he ever taught me was how to kill. That’s all that he knows how to do. He knows nothing of kindness, or love.”

  “He taught you how to raise crops, didn’t he? How to milk a cow? It seems to me that he taught you more than war.”

  Draken just glared.

  “You’re being unfair,” the baron said. “You’re angry with him because you think he will try to keep you from the girl you love. That’s natural for a boy your age. You’re getting ready to leave home, start off on your own. When that happens, your mind sometimes plays tricks on you.

  “The truth is that your father is raising you the best way that he knows how,” Baron Walkin said. “Your father was a soldier. From all that I’ve heard, he was the best in the realm.”

  “He killed over two thousand innocent men, women, and children,” Draken said. “Did you know that?”

  “At his king’s command,” Walkin said. “He did it, and he is not proud of it. If you think that he is, you misjudge him.”

  “I’m not trying to accuse him,” Draken said, “I’m just saying: A foul deed like that takes its toll on a man. It leaves a stain on his soul. My father knows nothing about gentleness anymore, nothing about mercy or love.

  “In the past few months, I’ve begun to realize that about him. I don’t want to be around him, for I fear that I might be forced to become like him.”

  Baron Walkin shook his head. “Your father taught you to be a soldier. Every father teaches his son the craft he knows. He is an expert at warfare, and that craft can serve you well.

  “But don’t think that your father doesn’t know a thing or two about love. He may be hard on the outside, but there’s kindness in him. You accuse him of killing innocents, and that he did. But killing can be an act of love, too.

  “He killed the Dedicates of Raj Ahten, but he did it to serve his king and his people, and to protect the land that he loved.”

  Draken glared. “From the time that I was a child—”

  “You had to flee Mystarria with assassins on your tail,” the Baron objected. “What loving father wouldn’t teach a child all that he needed to know in order to stay alive?

  “And once you were six, you went into the Gwardeen and served your country as a graak rider. You’ve hardly seen your father over the past ten years.

  “Take some time to get to know him again,” the baron suggested. “That’s all that I’m saying.”

  Draken peered into the baron’s brown eyes. The man’s long hair was getting thin on top, and a wisp of it blew across his leathery face.

  “You surprise me,” Draken said. “How can you look past his appearance so easily?”

  “Every man has a bit of monster inside him,” Walkin said, flashing a weak grin.

  In the distance, Draken could still see the giant loping along, leaping over a fallen tree.

  Perhaps the baron is right, Draken thought.

  He’d only been home from his service among the Gwardeen for a few months, and the truth was that he’d felt glad of the change. From the time that he was a child, he’d lived his life as a soldier. Now he wanted to rest from it, settle down.

  Draken felt so unsure of himself, so uprooted. He wasn’t certain that he had really ever understood his father, and right now, he felt certain that he did not know him at all—not since the binding of the worlds. That hulking brute rushing down the trail, that monster, was not really Sir Borenson.

  Of that Draken felt strangely certain.

  B
orenson’s long legs took him swiftly to the beach two miles inland, where he stood for a moment on a tall promontory and gazed out over the ocean. The waters were dark today, full of red mud and silt. The sun shone on them dully, so that the waves glinted like beaten copper.

  But he did not see the ocean, did not focus on the white gulls and cormorants out in the water. Instead he saw a wall. The ocean was a wall.

  It’s a low wall, he thought, but it’s thousands of miles across, and I have to find a way over it.

  He turned and followed a line of small hills.

  As he loped along, he found wildlife aplenty. The rangits were out in force, grazing beneath the shadows of the trees, and as he approached they would leap up and go bounding through the tall grass.

  The borrowbirds flashed like snow amid tree branches, their white bellies and wings drawing the eye, while their pink and blue crests gave them just a hint of color. They landed among the wild plum trees at the shaded creeks and squawked and ratcheted as they squabbled over fruit.

  Giant dragonflies in shades of crimson, blue, and forest green buzzed about by the tens of thousands, and tiny red day bats that had lived among the stonewoods until yesterday now flitted about in the shadows of the blue gums.

  The sun beat down mercilessly, spoiling the dead fish and kelp that lay all about.

  So for a long hour Borenson hiked, sometimes struggling to climb rocky outcroppings where perhaps no man had ever set foot, and other times wading between hills in water as quiet as a lagoon.

  He’d seen how Draken had turned his back on him there in camp. The boy had been leaning toward Baron Walkin.

  They’re getting close, Borenson realized. Draken feels more for him than he does for me.

  Borenson felt that he was losing his son.

  In his mind, he replayed an incident from yesterday. Rain Walkin had been up, stirring the cooking fire. The other Walkin children had been scurrying about, hunting for any fish or crabs that might be worth scavenging.

  Borenson had nodded cordially to the waif Rain, doing his damnedest to smile. But all he had accomplished was a slight opening of the mouth—enough to flash his overlarge canines.