Wizardborn (10 page)

Binnesman bent back over his wylde, continuing his
preparation of her. He placed a twisted root upon the green woman's forehead and began to chant.

Gaborn dared not disturb the incantation. Iome got up, and Gaborn went to the door. Iome followed behind him. Rain fell. As droplets blurred past the lighted doorway, they glowed briefly like golden ingots. Gaborn could hardly see the cottages hunched across the street.

A bead of sweat trickled down Gaborn's left temple. Iome squeezed his hand, tried to comfort him.

“What's wrong?” Iome asked.

“I sense … a rising danger,” Gaborn said. “I'd hoped my father's Wits might help, but I suspect that none of their plans, no matter how cunning they seem… can change much.”

“You're keeping me close on purpose,” Iome accused. “Do you sense danger toward me?”

“Nothing immediate. But… stay close to me.”

   5   

Love well and die well. Compared to those two things, everything else you do in life pales to insignificance.

—
A proverb of Fleeds

Erin brushed down her mount, fed it some rich miln. It would be a long ride tomorrow, heading north to Fleeds and beyond that to South Crowthen. The beast needed all the nourishment she could give it.

She looked forward to the journey, even if she feared that it would lead to an unhappy conclusion. Celinor's father sounded dangerous. King Anders was plotting against Gaborn, and had concocted some scheme to show that Erin was the rightful heir to Mystarria's crown. She suspected that she would have to confront the man.

Outside the stable, cool rain thundered out of the heavens. The scent of it hung heavy in the air and mingled with the sweet odor of horses.

After the battle at Carris, Erin found that she longed for the clean smell of rain and horses and the open field. The odor of battle, the decay at Carris, the images of men dying, thoughts of her father dead while Raj Ahten walked free—all preyed upon her mind.

She wanted to feel clean again. She wanted to stand in the autumn showers and let rain wash over her.

All evening in the inn, she'd been aware of Prince Celinor, watching her slyly every time she looked away. He'd done it on the ride north. He'd done it as she sat before the fire dwindling in the hearth.

He'd won her fair, she knew. Before the battle at Carris, he'd asked her to sleep with him if he saved her life. It was a clumsy attempt at courting. They were from different lands, with vastly different customs. He had no idea how to approach a woman of Fleeds. So she'd conceded to the spirit of his request.

He'd saved her life twice in battle, though he was too much a gentleman to remind her. Still, she could tell that he dwelt on those thoughts.

Celinor worked on his mount, replacing a shoe on its left front hoof. He did not speak to her.

She went up into the stable's loft. The straw there was warm, fragrant, and comforting. The roof didn't leak. It kept the straw dry.

The stableboy had brought the Wits' mounts in for the night. He finished feeding them and brushing them, then went home to sleep at last. She was alone with Celinor.

Celinor finished shoeing his charger. He went to the tack room to oil the leather of his saddle and bridle.

Erin crept up behind him, found a fine leather lead rope.

She slipped her rope over Celinor's neck. He stiffened at its touch. She whispered, “Come with me.”

“What?”

She said no more, simply pulled the rope tight and laid it over her shoulder, guiding him toward the loft.

“Where are we going?” he asked. “What is the rope for?”

“In ancient times,” Erin said, “the horsesisters would claim a husband in the same way they would claim a foal. They'd tie him up and take him to the corral. It's not often done that way anymore, but I'm a traditional girl.”

“You don't have to do this,” Celinor said. “You don't have to sleep with me. I mean… I saved your life twice today, but in case you weren't counting, you saved me at least as often.”

Erin turned toward him. “So you're thinking that we're even? One deed erases another?”

Celinor nodded. Maybe he had accomplished all that he wanted just by getting her attention. Maybe he was just shy.

“The thing is,” Erin whispered, “there are so many ways to save a person's life.” She couldn't quite express all that she felt. Her dismay at the events of the day, her pain at the loss of her father. “I'm not doing this for you. I'm doing it for us.”

Celinor studied her thoughtfully. “You would marry me? Now, in the middle of this war?”

“Wars are just things that happen to you,” Erin said.

Celinor stroked her hair, bent to kiss her. Erin leaned into him. “If you don't want me,” she said, “a fellow can always be slipping from the noose.”

“And what if I want to say yes with all my heart? How does a man marry a horsesister of Fleeds?”

She turned, took the lead rope, and guided him up to the loft where the straw was warm and dry.

   6   

Treasure the memory of good times, and cast away the bad.

—
Adage from Heredon

“I'd like you to meet my father.” Borenson's words reverberated in Myrrima's mind, and she thought for a moment that he must be mad. “Roland. Roland is his name.”

In the guttering light of the little girl's lantern, Myrrima peered at the corpse. Surely the dead man at their feet looked very much like Borenson, but he was younger by several years. The fellow lay on the ground, staring skyward. A gaping wound in his shoulder had been crudely bandaged, but blood blackened his tunic everywhere. The girl wiped tears off her face with her sleeve. A cool drizzle was falling.

“Your father?” Myrrima asked.

“He was a Dedicate,” Borenson said. “He gave his metabolism to House Orden. For more than twenty years he slept in the Blue Tower. He woke only a week ago. I… have never met him before.”

Myrrima nodded, too shocked to speak. Borenson had never met his own father until now?

Borenson's voice was formal and strained, lacking inflection. “It is interesting that you can grieve the death of someone you never met. When I was a child, I knew that my mother hated me. I used to dream that my father would waken, and he'd discover that he had a son. I used to dream that he would save me from my mother. Now, it appears
that he did indeed come to see me. But I could not save him. Ah, well…”

The knights of Mystarria were said to be harder than stone. They were taught to make light of pain and death. It was said that in battle, Borenson's laugh unnerved even the strongest men. Now, though Borenson hardly acknowledged his torment, Myrrima knew it was ripping him apart.

Myrrima recalled her mother once telling her that when a strong person spoke honestly about his pain, it was often because he could not hold any more, and therefore sought to share the burden with others.

Every expression of consolation that came to Myrrima's mind seemed trite, inappropriate. Borenson looked up.

She'd never seen such pain in a man's eyes. They were bloodshot, and the lids were rimmed in red. The eyes themselves looked to be glazed with a yellow film. She realized that what she'd thought was rainwater on his face turned out to be beads of sweat standing out on his forehead. She remembered the words of an old rhyme that children in Heredon sometimes called out during games of hide-and-seek.

Let us go to Derra. Run away. Run away.
Let us frolic in pools at Derra,
Where the madmen play!

“Can I help?” Myrrima asked.

He turned away.

“You're not an easy one to leave behind,” Borenson said. His voice was tight with emotion.

“No,” Myrrima agreed. “I won't be left behind. I came for you too.”

Myrrima climbed down off her horse, stood over her husband. The air between them was so charged that she somehow dared not put an arm around him.

“It would be better if you go,” Borenson said as if to the ground, still trembling. “Go back to your home and your sisters and your mother.”