The Lair of Bones (29 page)

The guards turned them over to an officious fellow who led them down some long corridors in near total darkness, until at last they reached what Borenson figured was an audience room. There, two women in white dresses came and cut off his long red hair, using sharp metal scrapers. Borenson sat transfixed. Both women were beautiful. He could not help but inhale their strange, exotic scent. Their bodies seemed to have been rubbed in oil perfumed with orchids. When they finished with Borenson's head, they shaved his eyebrows, but left his beard. They laughed at the effect, and then left, and the guard escorted them to another chamber.

This room was different from those before. It had a single lamp in the center, and several large stones lay about it. By the stones' size and the way that they lay strewn about, he wasn't sure if they were adornments or if they were meant to be used as chairs. One corner of the room had a little pool in it, and a stream tinkled down from some rocks, so that the whole room smelled of water. Fresh herbs had been strewn on the floor, and from
some dark corner a cricket sang. Borenson could discern large crabs scuttling about in the pools.

“Here you wait,” the guard said, “until king speak to you.”

They rested on the stone. The cricket sang beside the quiet pool. Borenson lay on a rock, until at last the king arrived. With him came several men—counselors, it seemed, and courtiers, all in rich attire.

The Storm King himself entered the room first. He was a gnarled old man with a bent back, a bald head, and a silver moustache that hung almost to his waist. Like all Inkarran kings, he bore a reaver dart in lieu of a scepter. The dart was made of silver, with a head carved of white diamond, and his only garment was a white silk tunic. Nothing about him was adorned at all, and the question crossed Borenson's mind, “What does
he
love?”

The old Storm King glared at Borenson, but his gaze softened when he looked upon Myrrima.

Borenson studied the counselors and courtiers. From the anger in their eyes, he suspected that they hated his people more than the Storm King did. Indeed, he suddenly suspected that they were more than mere courtiers. The Storm King was the High King of Inkarra, who exacted tribute from all others. By their fine silk robes, Borenson suspected that many of these were kings from far realms.

Borenson dropped to both knees, and Myrrima knelt on one knee behind him.

“Sir Borenson,” King Zandaros whispered in thinly accented Rofeha-vanish. “I understand that you bring me a message.”

“Indeed, Your Highness.”

“You do not need to kneel to me,” the king said mildly. “Feel free to look me in the eye.”

Borenson rose to his feet, and behind him he could hear Myrrima do the same.

“You realize,” King Zandaros said, “that it is against our law for men of Mystarria to travel in Inkarra. You must have seen our wards in the mountains. Did they not warn you that your life is in peril?”

“Only great need drew me here,” Borenson said. “I came in spite of the wards.”

“You must be a man of great will,” the king said, “to pass them. How-ever, it is also against your law for men of Inkarra to travel in Mystarria, is
it not? As I am sure that you know, our people have been killed for breaking your law. Should we not, therefore, kill you?”

“It was our king's hope,” Borenson replied, “that an exception might be made, due to the fact that we travel only as his messengers.”

“You are… close to the king?”

By custom only a relative or close friend should bear the king's message in Inkarra. “I have been his bodyguard for many years,” Borenson said. “He has no father, no mother, brothers, or sisters. I am his closest friend.”

“Yet you come under his command?” the Storm King asked. It would not do for some lackey to bear the message.

“No,” Borenson said. “I was released from his service. I am a Knight Equitable, and come now as his friend, not as his servant.”

Zandaros whispered, “And what if no exception is to be made to our law? Are you prepared to die?”

Borenson had been expecting this question. “If you intend to kill me,” he said, “then I would ask for only one boon: that you let me deliver my message first.”

The king thought for a moment. “Agreed,” he whispered gently. “Your life is forfeit, along with that of your wife. I shall do with them as I deem fit. Give me your message.”

Borenson had expected such a show of power.

“My lord,” Borenson said, “an Earth King has risen in Mystarria, in the person of Gaborn Val Orden. And against him, other kings have raised their hands: Raj Ahten of Indhopal, Lowicker of Beldinook, and Anders of South Crowthen. Gaborn has driven back these enemies, but
is
concerned with a much greater threat. Even now he fights reavers that have been a scourge to Carris. You've seen how the stars fall at night, and how the sun grows large on the horizon. You cannot doubt that we are in great jeopardy. Deep in the earth, the reavers have created magic runes—the Seal of Heaven and the Seal of the Inferno. By uniting these runes with the Seal of Desolation, the reavers will wreak great havoc across the world. Gaborn wishes to put aside old enmities, and asks that you unite with him in his battle against the reavers.”

King Zandaros thought for a long moment, then pointed at Borenson's chest. “How many reavers has your king killed?”

“Some seventy thousand attacked Carris. When last I saw Gaborn, his
knights were charging them on the plains of Mystarria. I would say that he had killed at least thirty percent of them. Those that remained seemed… worn and humbled. I do not doubt that he will bring them all down.”

“He has slain twenty thousand reavers?” Zandaros asked, his voice thick with suspicion.

Behind the king, Borenson heard someone whispering excitedly in Inkarran, followed by gasps of astonishment. Indeed the kings and counselors there began to argue loudly, and two of them made violent motions, pointing off to the north. The Storm King silenced them all with a harsh word and a wave of his hand.

“So,” Zandaros whispered. “Your king sues for peace, and asks the help of Inkarra. He must be desperate indeed.”

“It is not just desperation that drives him,” Borenson said. “He is not like other kings. He didn't make the old laws. He does not want to count Inkarra among his foes. He feels the need to protect men of all nations through the dark times to come.”

At that, King Zandaros laughed mirthlessly. “Inkarrans like dark times,” he whispered. He went and sat down on a stone, near Myrrima. He motioned for Borenson to sit beside him. “Come, tell me more about this Earth King of yours. How many endowments does he have?”

Borenson sat beside him. “Gaborn has few endowments, Your Highness. He does not like to put men to the forcible. He has none of glamour or Voice anymore. And only a few each of brawn, grace, stamina, and metabolism.”

“I hear that Raj Ahten has taken thousands of endowments. How then can Gaborn hope to stand against him?”

“He relies on his Earth Powers to protect him,” Borenson said. “And on his wits.”

“And you say that this king of yours would protect us, too?”

“He would,” Borenson answered.

At the Storm King's back, there was a derisive bark, and one of the lords began raging insults. But the Storm King's demeanor remained pacific. He stared deep into Borenson's eyes, and then gazed over at Myrrima.

“And you agree?”

“I do, Your Highness,” Myrrima whispered.

The old king peered hard at her, and sniffed the air. “You are not the
lackey of any Earthly King,” he said at last. “Of that much I am certain.”

Myrrima nodded as if he had paid her a compliment.

“And what of the rest of your message?” the king asked. “I understand that you search for someone?”

“Gaborn seeks the help of Daylan Hammer, whom we believe to be here in Inkarra.”

Zandaros nodded and turned his back, staring at the knot of men who stood there. “Perhaps you should look harder in your own lands. The kings of the south knew more of him than I did. There was a matter against him some time ago, a war of makeffela ki. Daylan of the Black Hammer fled the battle, and has not been seen in many long years. It is said that he may be living in Mystarria, where any Inkarran that might pursue him would be killed on sight, though he may have gone farther north.”

Borenson took in this news. He had never heard of Daylan Hammer being anywhere in Rofehavan. But if he was afraid of Inkarrans sworn to vengeance, he could be hiding anywhere.

“How long ago was this?” Borenson asked.

King Zandaros turned to one of the kings behind him, an old fellow with an almost grandfatherly look about him. “Sixty-one years,” the old fellow answered. “Please forgive bad Rofehavan talk I make. Wife can tell more.”

King Zandaros patted Borenson on the shoulder, and stood as if to leave. “You and your wife are free to go, Sir Boretison. King Criomethes here will tell you all that you need to know. Feel free to enjoy our hospitality here at Iselferion for as long as you like.”

At that, King Zandaros turned to leave the room. A lord behind him, a tall man with sweeping silver hair, all dressed in a black tunic, growled angrily and made some demand.

Zandaros turned to Sir Borenson. “My sister's son asks a question of you. It seems that he suffered many things yesterday in a dream. He believes that one of my nephews, Pilwyn Coly Zandaros, is dead, and that you might know something of this?”

Borenson didn't know how to answer. He could see rage in the tall fellow's eyes, and dared not admit that he had killed Zandaros himself.

Myrrima spoke up quickly, her voice as soft and liquid as water. “It was Pilwyn Coly Zandaros who caused us to initiate our visit, Your Highness,” Myrrima said, “when he sought to assassinate the Earth King.”

“Assassinate?” Zandaros asked.

“He bore a message case,” Myrrima said, “and on it was inscribed a curse in runes of Air. He claimed that that message came from you.”

The lord behind the Storm King suddenly grew fearful and backed away. Zandaros whirled on him with lightning in his eyes. He smiled cruelly, like a cat considering how to torment a mouse.

“I apologize for that,” Zandaros said. “Our kingdom is ever rife with intrigues. Believe me, reparations will be made. And if Pilwyn is indeed dead, then it only relieves me of the chore.”

“What of an answer?” Borenson asked. “What would you have me tell King Orden?”

Zandaros turned on him and nodded graciously. “I think that I should like to meet this king of yours that has killed twenty thousand reavers. Indeed, I have a sudden urge to hunt at his side. I leave within the hour. I hope to reach the mountains by dawn. Would that be advisable, milady?”

Zandaros gazed into Myrrima's eyes, as if asking if that was what she wanted. Something had passed between them, Borenson felt sure.

“Yes,” Myrrima said. She seemed to be pondering, almost in a trance. “He will need your peculiar strengths.”

The Storm King whirled and left, and many of the other lords followed at his heel, except for two men who stood by the door. One of them was the grandfatherly king that had spoken earlier. The other was a handsome young Inkarran, dressed in black silk, so much like him that he had to be his son.

“I King Criomethes,” the old man introduced himself again, “and this son, Verazeth. Our kingdom far south. Please, follow.”

Borenson glanced back uncertainly at Myrrima.

“Please,” Criomethes said. “You guest. You hungry? We feed.”

By now, Borenson's stomach was cramping from want of food. The lizard he'd eaten last night, and the bit of fruit, had not filled him.

“Yes, we're hungry,” he said, thinking to himself, hungry enough even to eat Inkarran food. “Thank you.”

Criomethes took his elbow and led him back the way that they had come. “This way,” the king said. “Is time for feast here. Our room quite small. For this I sorry.”

They walked through shadowed corridors until they reached the great
hall. A throng filled that hall, young Inkarran lords dressed in dark, deep-hooded cloaks, with their armor gleaming beneath. They were already making preparations to ride with the Storm King. There was excitement in the air, a smell of war.

King Criomethes led them into a side corridor, along busy streets that seemed to stretch for miles. They passed doorway after rounded doorway, each covered with nothing more than a curtain, until at last the king steered them to a large room.

“Come in, come in,” the king said. He stood aside from the door and urged Borenson inside, slapping him on the back.

Borenson stopped just outside the doorway, hesitant to enter a room before a king. A cooking fire burned dully in a hearth, and four girls were frying vegetables in its coals. Thick furs and pillows covered the floor, and a tall golden carafe sat on a low table, along with several half-empty glasses of wine.

“Please,” Criomethes said, gesturing for Borenson to enter. Borenson stepped inside, and Criomethes came on his heel, still patting him on the shoulder like an old friend. “I glad Zandaros spared life. You be very useful.”

At that, Borenson heard a gasp behind him, and turned to see Myrrima stumbling toward the floor. Prince Verazeth stood over her, and Borenson saw the glint of gold from a needle ring on his hand. At that very instant, he felt something prick his shoulder, where Criomethes had been touching him.

“Wha—?” he started to say.

His shoulder went numb instantly, and his arm went slack.

A poison, Borenson realized, a paralying drug.

His heart pounded furiously in terror, causing ice to lance through his arm. The Inkarrans were masters in the art of poisons, and their surgeons used a number of paralyzing drugs collected from the skins of flying lizards and various plants.

Borenson reached for Criomenes, thinking to deal him a death blow, but the room spun violently, his thoughts became clouded, and he grabbed the man for support.