Worldbinder

by David Farland

  She moves like a swan, he thought, each pace bounding forward just a bit, just enough to make you want to catch your breath.

  He smiled. Ever so subtly, she was already flirting. And the eyes of the guards already had riveted upon her.

  Daylan hefted the handles to his wheelbarrow with a grunt, bent his head and back like an old man, tried to stand tall so that he looked more like one of the big folk, and followed her down to the gate.

  Siyaddah had the guards huddled around her as he passed.

  “I heard that there are strawberries down by the brook,” she was saying, “and the thought of them made me so hungry, and everyone is working so hard on repairs, I thought that some others might like them, too. Do you think that wyrmlings haunt the place? They eat strawberries too, don’t they?”

  “No, no,” the guards all agreed. “Wyrmlings only eat pretty young girls. But you shouldn’t find them by the brook. It’s too open. Just stay clear of the trees, and you should be safe.”

  A look of panic crossed Siyaddah’s face, and she asked, “Are you sure? I would feel so much safer if one of you came with me.”

  But of course the city guards all had their posts to man. A couple of the young ones stood with chests puffed out ever so subtly, and one suggested, “I would be glad to take you down to pick strawberries this afternoon.”

  Siyaddah smiled fetchingly, the damsel saved, as Daylan breezed past the guards and on out the gate.

  The road down the mountain was steep enough so that the wheelbarrow moved easily, but not so steep that he had to worry about it running away with him. Still, for the next two miles he plodded along quickly, eager to be away.

  The changes to the landscape in the past two days were amazing. He marveled at the trees along the way, wild hazelnuts and chestnuts filled with squirrels. Mourning doves cooed among the trees, and he heard the grunt of wild pigs. A stag actually crossed his path down by the creek.

  Such things had not been seen here in ages. Only two days ago this had been a wasteland.

  The city of Luciare had looked especially lush, too. By law, there were planter boxes in every window and beside every door. Herbs and wildflowers grew in a riot from them, filling the streets with perfume, filling the city with life. The flowers looked healthier than ever, rejuvenated, as if by weeks and weeks of summer rain.

  That was one of the secrets of the city’s protection: life. Luciare was a city of life pitted against a wilderness of death. The power of the Death Lords was weakened here.

  Daylan only hoped that the Wizard Sisel was strong enough to keep the land whole this time. He had been fighting a losing battle for decades.

  Daylan was just rounding the bottom of the mountain, near the dump where rock was to be cast off, when Siyaddah came loping down the hill.

  “Daylan,” she called excitedly. “Did I do well?”

  Like so many of the young, she had not yet learned that doing well was its own reward. She craved praise, which Daylan saw as a sign of her immaturity. Her brain still functioned primarily on an emotional level.

  “Yes,” he said softly, lest anyone come around the bend. “You did ever so well.”

  “Who have you got hidden under those sacks?” she asked, reaching down to snatch them off.

  Her face turned to a mask of shock at the sight of the wyrmling. Her lower jaw began to tremble, and she shot Daylan a look that said, “You have five seconds to explain yourself, and then I will begin to scream.”

  As for her part, Kan-hazur curled up, hiding her face from the sunlight. “My eyes are bleeding,” she moaned.

  “Nope,” Daylan corrected. “They’re just streaming with tears. You’ll be fine soon.”

  He turned his attention back to Siyaddah. He didn’t relish the idea of having to fight Siyaddah, of gagging her and tying her up in the brush until this whole affair was settled. He didn’t even have the ropes to do a proper job, though he imagined that if he tore his cotton bags into strips, he might manage to fashion some cords that would hold her.

  But the code he lived by demanded better.

  “Princess Siyaddah, I would like you to meet Kan-hazur. I am taking her out of the city, at the king’s command, in the hopes of arranging an exchange of hostages—the princess for our own Prince Urstone.”

  Siyaddah studied his face for a moment. Comprehension didn’t come dawning slowly, as it would on some dullard. It slid across her face in the blink of an eye, and then she was considering the deeper implications of all of this.

  If Prince Urstone was still alive, he might soon be free. Twenty years ago, he had been wed to Siyaddah’s aunt. Her father had been the prince’s closest friend and ally, going out on war campaigns with him many times. Siyaddah knew that her father loved the prince like a brother, and for years had hoped that Areth Urstone would regain his freedom. Even as a child, her father had said, “I hope that someday you can wed a man of his caliber.”

  Men had tried to court Siyaddah, men from good families, but her father hadn’t approved of them. Siyaddah knew that her father was grooming her, hoping that she would meet Prince Urstone, and that perhaps they would fall in love.

  What does she think of all this? Daylan wondered. Certainly she must look forward to this day with both some hope and apprehension.

  But whatever she felt, she kept masked.

  “I … am pleased to meet you,” Siyaddah said to Kan-hazur with just the slightest bow. Her manner was courtly.

  “You are not pleased to meet me,” Kan-hazur growled with the bag hiding her face. “I am not pleasant, and therefore you cannot be pleased. Why must you humans lie?”

  “It is called a pleasantry,” Siyaddah said. “Among humans, we offer pleasantries when we meet a stranger. A pleasantry is not something that you, the stranger, have earned, it is a gift that I, the host, bestow.”

  “I want none of your pleasantries,” Kan-hazur said.

  “Too late,” Siyaddah said. “I’ve already given it to you. Besides, it is indeed a pleasure to meet you. I’ve often wondered about your kind, and it is a rare treat to meet you under such hospitable circumstances, on such a beautiful day.”

  Kan-hazur pulled the bag away slightly and squinted at the burning sunlight, her eyes going red and puffy.

  Daylan fought back a chuckle. Siyaddah had only just met the woman, but already sounded as if she had mastered the art of driving a wyrmling crazy.

  Kan-hazur inhaled deeply, as if trying to think of an appropriate curse to hurl, but just growled.

  “Don’t snarl at me,” Siyaddah warned in a more abrasive tone. “I won’t tolerate it. I know how angry you must be. I too, am a princess, and have lost my home.”

  “Not lost,” Kan-hazur said. “It was ripped from your warriors’ dead hands. It was stolen because your people are weak and stupid.”

  Siyaddah gritted her teeth. It looked as if she were considering a dozen insults, trying to decide which first to hurl.

  “Speak up,” Kan-hazur challenged, “or are you so slow-witted that you can think of nothing to say?”

  “I’ll keep my thoughts to myself,” Siyaddah said.

  Kan-hazur’s face contorted with rage, and she clenched her fists tightly, as if she so wanted to hear Siyaddah’s taunts that she planned to beat them out of her.

  Siyaddah smiled at the small victory. When it came to self-control, she was obviously the stronger of the two.

  “There now,” Daylan said, hoping to defuse the situation. “Look at you—the two of you have only just met, and already you’re sparring like sisters.”

  Kan-hazur fought back her anger, apparently deciding that she wanted to beat Siyaddah at her own game. “Why … why do you treat me like this?”

  “Daylan here teaches that we should show kindness to all living creatures,” Siyaddah said gently, “including toads and wyrmlings.”

  “Then he is a fool,” Kan-hazur growled dangerously.

  “And yet, it may be that only his foolishness has kept you alive,�
�� Siyaddah countered. “When you were first captured, there were many who wanted your blood. But Daylan here argued against it. He argued that you should be set free.”

  “I owe him nothing,” Kan-hazur objected. “If he argued for my freedom, he argued in vain—and he did it for his own … obscure purposes.”

  “He did it out of compassion,” Siyaddah said. “He spoke of you as if you were a bear cub that had been lost in the woods. He said that you should have been returned to your own kind.”

  Where she would have been trained for war and given command of troops, Daylan thought. And having seen our defenses, she might well have led some devastating raids against us.

  That is what King Urstone had argued, and though Daylan’s stand was morally sound, there was much to be said for Urstone’s more pragmatic approach: keep the princess as a prisoner, safe and unharmed—but more importantly, keep here where she could do no harm.

  There came the sound of singing down the road, some bumpkin torturing an old folk tune.

  Daylan threw the sacks back over Kan-hazur, looked to Siyaddah. “Will you come with me? We do not have to go far.” He didn’t want her to return to the castle, not now. He was afraid that she would have an attack of conscience, tell the guards what she knew. It would be better if she stayed close.

  “You’re going to make the exchange now?” Fear and excitement mingled in her voice. If the exchange took place as planned, it would be talked about for years. And Siyaddah would be the one that ears would lean toward as the story was told.

  Daylan did not tell her precisely when or where, lest she warn others. But he nodded just a bit.

  “Will there be wyrmlings?”

  Daylan nodded again. She glanced down at his side, saw his long knife strapped to his boot. He was acquitted for battle, if need be, and Daylan’s skill with weapons was legendary. And he had weapons at his disposal that she could not see, could not even begin to understand.

  “All right,” she said. “I will come.”

  29

  AN EXCHANGE OF HOSTAGES

  The enlightened man is incapable of plumbing the depths of a darkened mind, yet he places himself in danger if he does not try. —High King Urstone

  In a more perfect world, Fallion thought, my father and mother are still alive.

  He sat in the sun beneath the alder trees and dared to dream of this as he peered up. The sun beating down through layered sheets of leaves created a complex tapestry of shadow and light, all in shades of green. The day was only now beginning to really warm, and the air smelled sweet and fresh after a night locked in the stone box.

  Fallion drew heat from around him and warmed himself and his friends, so that they quickly dispelled the bone-numbing chill.

  They’d been so close to death, and now he felt that it was a miracle to be alive.

  “Can you believe it, Jaz?” Fallion asked. “We’ve met the shadow of our grandfather, and we are going to see father again.”

  Beyond all hope, Fallion thought, beyond my wildest dreams.

  Talon frowned. “We might see him,” she warned. “The wyrmlings have been holding him captive.” But Fallion could not think in those terms right now. Mights and maybes weren’t enough.

  No, I will see my father, he promised himself. I have come so far, been through so much, it is only fair that I should see him.

  He held the hope in his heart, pure and clean and undefiled.

  The soldiers were busy around the old fortress, taking the heads off of the enemy, preparing the dead. Some were taking lunch before heading back toward the garrison at Cantular.

  But the king was preparing for a longer journey, hand-selecting the troops who would come.

  Fallion peered up into the trees, noticed that the edges of the alder leaves were turning gold. Though it felt like high summer, as it had been at home, he realized that perhaps winter was coming on here, in this new world. Or maybe they were high enough into the mountains so that winter came early.

  But no, at the edge of hearing, in a tree high above him, he could hear the peeping of birds in a nest. He watched a fluttering shadow until it disappeared in the crook of the tree, and the peeping became loud and insistent for a moment, and then fell silent. The birds were nesting.

  No, it was early summer, Fallion decided. But the leaves were going already. There was a blight upon the land.

  Fallion peered at Jaz, who merely sat with a bemused expression. He was off to dreaming, imagining what it would be like to see his father.

  One of the big folk approached, a young man whose narrow face made him look almost childlike. He wore a blood-soaked rag around his head, and his brown hair was a riot, with a cow-lick in the back.

  He muttered something, handed out their packs full of clothes, somehow managing to hand each of them the wrong pack. By the weight alone, Fallion knew that his forcibles were all gone, probably fallen into the hands of the enemy.

  Fallion searched his pack, found that it was stuffed with some of Jaz’s clothes and Talon’s tunic. A bracelet fell out, one made of pale green stones and a single pearl upon a string. Fallion had never seen it before.

  “That’s mine,” Rhianna said, snatching it before he could get a good look at it.

  “Where did it come from?” Fallion asked.

  “A suitor,” she said.

  “Who?” Fallion asked, amused to discover that he was jealous. Many young men had smiled at her back home, especially at the fairs and dances. But he hadn’t realized that she had a suitor bringing her gifts, gifts that she kept hidden and treasured.

  “No one,” she said. Rhianna only hid the bracelet away in her pack.

  “You should wear it,” Talon told Rhianna. “It would look lovely with your hair.”

  “Do you think?” Rhianna asked, giggling like a younger girl. It sounded strange, Fallion thought, that she should sound so carefree after the events of the night. But somehow the woods were healing that way, like a balm to the heart. Or perhaps it was the news that his father lived again.

  Or perhaps … he looked to the Wizard Sisel. Fallion had heard that Earth Wardens could affect people that way—calming their fears, making them feel whole and in touch with nature.

  The Wizard Sisel was watching them with worry lining his brow.

  Of course, Fallion realized. The wizard is having an effect upon us, healing our mood, filling us with renewed vigor.

  Fallion felt grateful for this small favor.

  They all exchanged packs, began dumping things out, each taking his or her clothing, folding it neatly. Fallion was relieved to find that he still had the silver locket with his mother’s picture painted inside upon a piece of ivory, a picture from when she was young and lovely, with the endowments of glamour given to her at birth. In the picture she was forever young, forever beautiful. It was the only thing that he had of hers, and he had always treasured it.

  But as he looked at it now, he wondered, Is there really some shadow world where she still lives? Is there perhaps some place even where she is young and beautiful?

  If I could combine that world with ours, could I bring her back to life?

  The thought made him tremble with excitement.

  “Uh, Fallion,” Rhianna said. She nodded toward the young man who had brought their packs. He was, with an air of tremendous dignity, holding out Fallion’s long sword, presenting it to him, the blade un-sheathed. But the blade was covered with a thick patina of rust, and the ebony handle was cracked.

  “No,” Fallion said, suddenly afraid to take it. “It was touched by him—by the Knight Eternal. I can feel the curse upon it.”

  “Take it,” the Wizard Sisel said, strolling close, “The curse is upon the steel. I doubt that it will make you rust. Besides, you may have need of it all too soon.”

  Fallion could see that he would hurt the young man’s feelings if he did not take it. Obviously, the blade had been won in battle, and had been borne here at great price.

  “Thank you,” Fallion sa
id, taking his sword.

  “Alun,” the wizard Sisel said. “His name is Alun.”

  “Thank you, Alun.”

  The boy smiled shyly.

  Sisel bent near Fallion. “We found some forcibles in one of the packs,” he said. “I had the king send them to Luciare already.”

  “You found them in only one bag?” Talon said.

  “There were more?” Sisel asked.

  “We each were carrying some,” Fallion explained. “There were three hundred in all.”

  “I fear that most of them have fallen into the hands of the enemy,” Sisel said. “Let us hope that they don’t know how to use them.”

  Fallion sat for a moment, feeling disconcerted.

  One by one, other warriors stepped forward and presented each of Fallion’s companions with their weapons—Talon with her sword, Rhianna with her staff, Jaz with his bow. Each of the weapons looked to have been cursed, all except for Rhianna’s staff, which Fallion had found three years past.

  It had once been his father’s, the staff of an Earth King, and so was adorned in kingly fashion. It looked to be a branch hewn from some kind of oak, honey gold in color, and richly lacquered. It had a handle wrapped in leather, and beneath the leather were potent herbs that refreshed and invigorated any room where the staff was housed. Powerful gems encircled the staff both above and below that grip—jade to lend strength to the staff, opals to give light by night (should the bearer be a wizard with the power to release their inner fire), pearls to lighten the heart, cloudy quartz to hide the bearer from unwanted eyes. There were hundreds of runes etched into the staff, too, running up and down the length of it, runes of protection from various sorceries. Fallion suspected that even if the staff had been cursed, the Knights Eternal could not have succeeded. He knew for a fact that its wood could not be harmed by fire, and as a flameweaver, he could not handle the thing without feeling a strong sense of discomfort. Thus, he had given it to Rhianna, not because she had great talent with such a weapon, but because he suspected that there was great healing power in the staff, and given the torments that she had been put through in her short life, she needed healing more than anyone that he knew.