Worldbinder

by David Farland

  “Yes,” Fallion said.

  Daylan smiled secretively, as if he had just sprung a trap. “This is not just a question of principle with her,” Daylan corrected. “She is asking if you think, as leaders, you should unite. She is asking if you think that it would be in your … political interests to marry.”

  Rhianna felt all of the air go out of her lungs. She hadn’t expected the questions to take this turn, at least so soon. Siyaddah was talking marriage. This was no declaration of love. It couldn’t be. Fallion and Siyaddah didn’t really even know each other. But in many lands, on Rhianna’s own world, political marriages had nothing to do with love. Siyaddah was frankly acknowledging that she felt attracted to him, and that Fallion, with potentially millions of followers, could be a powerful ally. Indeed, Siyaddah had to recognize that if the human alliance managed to overthrow the wyrmlings, in time Fallion could become the single most powerful lord alive.

  She was right to consider such an alliance.

  From his pillow, Jaz clapped and said, “Do it! Go ahead. I’ve never seen you this silly over a woman.”

  Fallion froze, as if unsure what to say. He blushed and looked to Rhianna, as if seeking her advice.

  Don’t ask me, you fool, she thought. Don’t beg my permission. Rhianna had proven her love for him. She’d offered up her life to Shadoath, hoping to rescue him. Rhianna had tendered her soul when she tried to kill Shadoath’s Dedicates, knowing that Fallion could never murder a child.

  But Fallion begged Rhianna’s permission to marry another. He didn’t ask with his voice, but with his eyes.

  And as Rhianna’s heart seemed to break, she realized that she could not deny him.

  Right now, Rhianna could think of no greater way to prove her love than to give him the one thing that he wanted most.

  “Jaz is right,” Rhianna said. “It could be a good match.” From the expression of disbelief in Fallion’s eyes, she knew that he wasn’t convinced of her sincerity, so she added more forcefully, “I’m telling you as a sister, one who loves you and wants you to be happy, consider the offer well.”

  Fallion looked evenly at Siyaddah. “Yes,” he said, “I think that politically it could be good for us to marry. And it may be that when we know each other better, we would find more personal reasons to do so.”

  Siyaddah smiled, joy spreading across her face slowly, as pretty as an apple blossom opening. Rhianna could not help but admire her dark hair, her sparkling eyes, and her infectious smile.

  She was not evil. She wasn’t trying to hurt Rhianna, and Rhianna could not hate her for being smitten by Fallion.

  Then Siyaddah’s smile fell, and she looked to the floor and spoke.

  “She will suggest this to her father,” Daylan interpreted, “but she fears that he would not approve. For many years, here upon this world, your father and hers were the best of friends, comrades in arms, until Prince Urstone was captured. Her father longs for his return, and he has been saving her, for Prince Urstone’s return. Her father hopes to marry her to Prince Urstone.”

  How long could he have been saving her? Rhianna wondered. Siyaddah did not look to be old. Rhianna would have guessed that she was eighteen, certainly no more than twenty at the most. But Rhianna also knew that in many cultures women married young, and in royal families matches might well be made at birth.

  What was Siyaddah really saying? Rhianna wondered. Was she so weak that she thought of herself only as a pawn to be used to make the strongest political alliance? Was she that calculating?

  Or maybe she didn’t want to marry Prince Urstone. After all, he would be much older than her, and would be terribly scarred after years of torture among the wyrmlings. And if he was a large man, she had to fear the consequences of bearing his child.

  But Rhianna suspected that she understood something about the woman. In Indhopal, a woman had always been expected to be perfectly subservient. There was no greater compliment to a princess than to say that she was a “dutiful daughter.”

  As much as Rhianna might hate such attitudes, that is what Siyaddah was, dutiful. Whatever mate her father chose for her, Siyaddah would smile and accept her fate.

  “I see,” Fallion said, looking as if he had been slapped.

  Daylan must have sensed the rising tension in the room. He looked from Fallion to Siyaddah to Rhianna, then abruptly excused himself.

  Rhianna took his hand and walked with him to the door. Once outside, Daylan whispered, “You love Fallion, don’t you?”

  Rhianna nodded.

  “You may have to fight her to win his affection. You should fight her, you know. If you don’t, my robin’s egg, you will always regret it.”

  “I know,” Rhianna said.

  Daylan smiled. “If she were a woman of the horse clans, it would be a simple matter. You’d get on your horses and joust, the winner taking the spoils.”

  “I’d win,” Rhianna said. “She’s weak.”

  “I dare say that you would. But don’t make the mistake of believing that Siyaddah is weak. There are many kinds of strength, and you will never find a more worthy opponent. Dare I suggest an alternative?”

  “What?” Rhianna asked.

  “In Dalharristan, it is quite common for a king to take several wives.”

  Rhianna gritted her teeth. “I will not share a husband. To do so would be to marry half a man.”

  “I only suggest it,” Daylan said, “because once Siyaddah recognizes your love for Fallion, she will see it as a perfect solution to your problem. I thought that you should be forewarned.”

  Rhianna found that the conversation was becoming uncomfortable. She sought to change the subject. “Uncle,” she said, “of all the millions of worlds, how is it that you keep watch upon these two that Fallion combined?”

  “It’s not by accident,” Daylan admitted. “The two worlds fit together, locking like joints from hand to arm. Both worlds retain something unique from the One True World, a memory of how the world should be. That is what drew Fallion’s spirit to his world.”

  Rhianna thought for a moment, bit her lip. “You know the people of Luciare. Is it possible that I have a mother here?”

  “Ah,” Daylan said. “You know that not everyone on your world had a shadow self.”

  Rhianna nodded.

  “And even those who do,” Daylan said, “may not be much like the people that they were on your world….”

  She did have a mother here, Rhianna realized. She could see it in his eyes.

  “Rather,” Daylan said, “they are like dreams of what they might have been, if they were born in another time, another place.”

  Rhianna had the distinct impression that he was trying to prepare her for bad news. She tried to imagine the worst. “Is my mother’s shadow self a criminal, or mad?”

  Daylan considered how to answer. “I don’t know who your mother is, or if she is even alive. Some people, if they saw their shadow selves, would not be recognizable even to themselves.”

  “So you don’t know if my mother lives?”

  “No,” Daylan said gently. “I have no idea.”

  “Then who are you thinking of? Who would not recognize themselves?”

  Daylan smiled as if she’d caught him. She knew the oaths that Daylan lived by. He felt compelled to speak the truth, always. He also felt free to hold his silence. So if he spoke, he’d speak the truth.

  “Siyaddah’s father, the Emir,” he said at last. “In this world, he is one of the greatest of heroes of all time, a staunch ally to the High King. A dozen times, his stratagems have saved this kingdom. Yet in your world, his shadow self became mankind’s greatest enemy. How do you think Fallion will feel when he realizes that Siyaddah is the daughter of Raj Ahten?”

  Rhianna stood for a moment, heart beating madly.

  Should I warn Fallion? she wondered. Any feelings that Fallion might be developing for the girl would quickly fade.

  But Rhianna fought back the urge.

  The Emir was no
t Raj Ahten. That was what Daylan was trying to tell her. The Emir would not even recognize his shadow self.

  Rhianna could see what Daylan was doing. Daylan wasn’t the type of man to pry into another’s personal affairs, but Rhianna had known him when she was a child, and so he counseled her now as if she were a favored niece.

  Daylan was testing her.

  For Rhianna to ruin Fallion’s and Siyaddah’s chance for love, that was a small and selfish act. To destroy another person’s chance for happiness in any way violated Daylan’s mind-numbingly strict code of ethics.

  No, Rhianna promised herself, if Fallion ever learns the truth, he will not hear it from me.

  She smiled and hugged Daylan goodnight.

  In the morning I will go hunt for my mother, Rhianna thought. All I have to do—and that we have to do—is survive the coming battle.

  37

  THE ENDOWMENT

  Men can be turned into tools if we but learn how to manipulate them. —Vulgnash

  Areth Sul Urstone lay near death in the crystal cage, while a child tortured him, creating a symphony of pain.

  He did not mind. He was too near death to care. He had grown numb to his surroundings, accustomed to pains that would have made another man’s knees buckle.

  The cage itself was made of quartz and shaped like a sarcophagus, one which conformed nicely to his body and forced him to lie prone, with legs splayed and his hands stretched painfully above his face. Drilled into the sarcophagus were hundreds of small holes. Through these, the wyrmlings had shoved crystalline rods, which pierced his body and pricked certain nerves—the ganglia in his wrists and elbows; the nerves in his sinuses, ears, and eyes; the pain sensors in his stomach, kidneys, groin, toes, and hundreds of other areas.

  Some of the rods were as thin as eyelashes, others as thick as nails. By simply tapping them with a willow wand, the child could create indescribable pain.

  Tap. A touch to the small rod made it vibrate, and suddenly Areth’s eye felt as if it were melting in his socket.

  A brush over his lips made Areth’s teeth feel as if they had exploded.

  Yet the pain could not touch Areth anymore. Free of all hope and desires, he had discovered a reservoir of inner calm. Yet with each tap, he groaned, in order to satisfy the young wyrmling girl who seemed to think that torture was play. She smiled, tapping the rods in a rhythm as if to some mad melody, creating her symphony of pain.

  “You’re lucky,” the apprentice torturer told him as she played. “By dawn you’ll be the last human alive.”

  Suddenly, all of the pain receded. “Wha?”

  “Our armies are marching on Luciare,” the girl said. “Didn’t anyone tell you?”

  Of course no one had told him. The girl tapped a rod, and Areth’s stomach convulsed as if he suffered from food poisoning.

  “Lie,” Areth groaned. “You lie.” They had told him so many lies before.

  “Have it your way,” the girl said, brushing her wand over dozens of crystals at once. Suddenly the world went away in a white-hot tornado of pain.

  When he resurfaced to consciousness, Areth heard the clank of locks and the squeak of a wooden door that announced a visitor, followed by the tread of feet.

  It could not be someone bringing a meal.

  Too soon, he thought. Too soon since the last one.

  He had learned to gauge the time by the knot that formed in his stomach.

  Locked in his crystal cage, skewered in so many places, Areth could not turn his eyes to see the stranger. Even if he had, he would have seen little. The wyrmlings seldom used lights. Their skin was faintly bioluminescent, so faintly that a human could hardly see it. Yet it sufficed for the wyrmlings.

  Blessedly, the girl shrieked in fear and the torture stopped. “Welcome, Great Executioner,” she said.

  That was a title reserved only for Knights Eternal.

  “Open the cage,” a soft voice hissed.

  “Immediately,” the girl answered.

  Suddenly the cage’s lid flipped open, and Areth cried out as hundreds of crystalline rods were ripped from his flesh. For a moment he lay gasping in relief to feel the rods gone. He had been in the cage for more than a day.

  Strong hands grabbed Areth and pulled him from the cage. He did not fight. He no longer had the strength for it. His head lolled and he fought to hold onto consciousness as he was dragged down a hall. He lost the fight.

  When next he woke, it was to the sniveling of some wyrmling child. Two wyrmling warriors held Areth upright, while his knees rested on the cold stone floor. The chamber was dim, for it was full night outside, and the only light came from a single thumb-lantern that hung from the ceiling. Beneath the light, a gawky boy of perhaps eleven huddled in a fetal position, jaws clenched, as if fighting back tremendous pain.

  Areth peered around the room at several dignitaries. Some were wyrmling warlords, dressed in fine mail. Several others, shadow creatures with wisps of black silk as their only covering, hovered at the head of the room in a place of honor. These were wights, Death Lords. One of them, the tallest, wore silks with diamonds sewn into them, so that they shimmered in the wan light.

  Emperor Zul-torac, Areth realized in sudden awe. I’ve been brought before the emperor.

  But why? he wondered. To be put to death for the emperor’s amusement?

  That seemed likely. But Areth wondered if it had to do with the alleged attack on Luciare. Perhaps the city really had fallen at long last, and the emperor wanted nothing more than to watch Areth be put to death.

  Areth waited for some explanation as to why he was here, but the wyrmling lords said nothing. Instead, they merely watched.

  A Knight Eternal held up a metal rod and inspected it, his eyes straining in the gloom. The rod was red, like rusted iron perhaps mingled with copper. At one end was a glyph. He scrutinized the glyph under the light of a thumb-lantern, and pronounced it “Exquisite.”

  Then he held the glyph-end of the rod overhead and began to sing. His song came out as a deep bass. The sounds were soothing, and after several long moments, the metal rod began to glow like a branding iron, turning white at the tip, as if it were being heated in a forge.

  What magic is this? Areth wondered.

  The whimpering child looked at the glowing iron, eyes widening in fear, for it appeared to be scalding hot. He licked his lips and sweat streamed down his forehead.

  But the Knight Eternal began to whisper soothing words.

  “Have no fear,” the Knight Eternal was saying. “You are in great pain now. But that pain can leave you. All that you have to do is give it away—to him.”

  The Knight Eternal held the glowing rod, peered over his shoulder at Areth.

  “There will be pain,” the Knight Eternal promised, “but it will only last for a small moment, while your honor and glory will remain for all eternity. Will you give your pain away?”

  The child was in such fear and agony that he could not speak, but he managed a small nod of the head.

  “Good,” the Knight Eternal said.

  He pressed the glowing rod to the child, and began to sing. The rod brightened, and the smell of singed skin and burning hair filled the chamber. The child did not wince or cringe away from the heat. But as soon as the metal rod flared and gave off a flicker of flame, the Knight Eternal pulled it away.

  The lad grunted in pain, like a boar that has been struck with a lance.

  The rod left a white trail of light, which lengthened as the Knight Eternal pulled back. Around the chamber, wyrmlings growled or oohed and aaahed, for the trail of light was far brighter than the illumination thrown by the small lantern. The Knight’s singing became faster, more insistent. There were no words to his song, only calls like a lark and harking sounds.

  He waved the branding iron—for Areth had decided that it was some sort of branding iron—in the air, and then studied the trail of light that remained.

  He nodded, as if the light passed his inspection, then whirled
toward Areth, and approached, leaving a trail of light as he came.

  “What is this?” Areth demanded. He was weak, so weak. His muscles had wasted away in prison. But it was more than that. He felt a sickness deep inside him. The crystal rods had pierced him deeply, in his gut, in his liver and groin. He had been fighting infections for years, and losing. It was only the spells of the Death Lords that kept him alive, feeding him life from those around him.

  “It is called a forcible,” the Knight Eternal said, his blood red robes flaring as he approached. He spread his wings out, flapped them in excitement. “It is used to grant endowments, to pass attributes from one person to another. Those who give endowments are called Dedicates. This boy will be your Dedicate.”

  Areth knew that this couldn’t be good. Wyrmlings were notorious for not giving information. This one would only be explaining himself if the news was going to be bad.

  “This child has taken endowments of touch from four other Dedicates, four who are at this very moment being placed in crystal cages.

  “And now we will give his endowment of touch to you.”

  “Why?” Areth asked.

  “This is an experiment,” the Knight Eternal said as he ripped off the stinking rag that served as Areth’s only scrap of clothing, “an experiment in pain. So far, we have been very gratified at the results. For years you have endured our tortures. Now you will learn what it feels like to endure others’ pain.”

  The Knight Eternal plunged the forcible into Areth’s chest. The skin sizzled and puckered as his hair burned.

  The white snake of light raced from the boy’s arm, blanking out, until it reached Areth’s chest and entered with a hissing sound.

  From across the room, the young boy cried out in unimaginable anguish, then wept for joy at his release.

  Areth drew back in surprise, for the first kiss of the forcible gave him great pleasure, surprising in intensity, and just as suddenly it turned to agony.

  The pain that smote him drove him to his knees, left his head whirling. He vomited at the distress as his stomach suddenly cramped. Unseen tortures assailed him from every side. His ear drums felt as if they would burst, and his sinuses flared. His groin ached as if he’d been kicked by a war horse, and it seemed that every bone in his feet had suddenly been cracked into gravel.