The Lair of Bones (44 page)

But to the north, his spies found things to be a bit more interesting. Lowicker's daughter, Queen Rialla of Beldinook, had marshaled a powerful army, some 180,000 strong. Most of these were archers, armed with the yew tallbows common in Beldinook. They rode in war carts drawn by heavy force horses, and thus could be conveyed quickly to the battlefront. The army also boasted many powerful Runelords, cavalrymen mounted on heavily armored chargers that were both swift and powerful.

But Lowicker's daughter, it seemed, was unsure what to do. The scout said, “We saw her march some troops within a stone's throw of the gates of
Carris last night. Then she retreated twenty miles back north, to a place where the reavers' curses have not blasted the grass. There she has set camp on the road, where there is plenty of forage for the beasts. Even now her troops squat, holding the road against any allies that might seek to lend aid to Carris.”

“Is there help from the north?” Raj Ahten asked another pair of scouts that had ranged farther afield.

“Indeed there is, O Light of Heaven,” his spies answered. “Several thou-sand lords have ridden from Orwynne, along with warriors of Fleeds and Heredon.”

“What of Crowthen?” Raj Ahten asked.

“We could see no troops from Crowthen,” the spies said.

Raj Ahten smiled. He could see Rialla's plan. She had ridden south to lay siege to Carris, only to discover the reavers coming. So she had ridden back north, to get out of their way. She would let the reavers do her dirty work.

Carris didn't stand a chance. Raj Ahten had already gutted Mystarria, throwing down the northern fortresses, killing the Dedicates at the Blue Tower. The warriors that held the city were weak, lacking endowments.

And once Carris fell, nothing could stop Lowicker's daughter from over-running Mystarria—except Raj Ahten.

Her army worried him, though. Her archers and heavy cavalry could easily defeat his common troops, though with his wizards and Runelords he could probably even the score. But if the two giants wasted their strength fighting each other, who then would win Mystarria?

A plan began to form in Raj Ahten's mind.

“Gather together a thousand lords to act as an honor guard,” Raj Ahten said. “I think I shall pay Lowicker's daughter a visit.”

As Raj Ahten's most powerful lords and wizards prepared to ride, he sat in his crimson tent. He could feel himself growing from moment to moment as his facilitators in Deyazz vectored endowments of stamina to him.

He had never felt so hale, so robust. He sweated profusely, though he had done no labor to warrant it. It was as if his body recognized that the time had come to cleanse away all impurities, make him something more than human.

He felt as if life and virility were combining in him so powerfully that it bled from every pore.

This is it, he told himself. This is the moment I have been waiting for. I shall be the Sum of All Men.

“Food for the poor!” a small girl called in the markets of Ghusa in Deyazz. “Food for the poor!” The market streets were still gloomy as the morning sun rose like a ruddy coal beyond the sand hills.

Turaush Kasill, a large man grown fat from years of convenience, rounded a stall stacked with tall clay urns to discover the source of the call.

He overshadowed the waif that he found. She was small, no more than eight or nine, with huge eyes like almonds. Her brown skin was paler than the black hue of the folk of Deyazz. She gripped the hand of a small boy, perhaps five years of age.

“Please,” the girl said holding out an empty wicker basket. “We need food.”

Turaush smiled pleasantly. “I could give you food. How much do you want? A basketful? I could give you that.” The girl's eyes went wide, and her lips parted hungrily. “What would you like to eat? Peaches? Melons? Rice? Duck? Sesame cakes with honey drizzled over them? If you could have anything to eat, what would you like?”

“Sesame cakes!” the little boy cried.

The girl squeezed his hand and nudged him, begging the boy to be quiet, as if fearing that he asked too much.

“Anything,” the girl pleaded. “Anything you offer.”

“Ah,” Turaush said. “You are that hungry?”

“I have two sisters to feed, and a big brother who is hurt,” the girl said. “My father was killed by bandits, and my mother went to her sister's, and we have heard nothing since. We would be grateful for anything.”

“And what if I offer you a trade?” Turaush asked. “What if I offer to feed you all the food you want, every day, for as long as you live, and give you a beautiful home to live in?”

The girl hesitated. She must have been warned about sinister men. She studied him warily, but at last put a hand over her empty stomach, as if by pressing it she could assuage the pain. “What house?”

“The finest in all Ghusa,” Turaush said, waving toward the Dedicate's Keep. “Good food, as much as you can eat, every day for as long as you live.”

Turaush was one of Raj Ahten's most persuasive facilitators. With five endowments of glamour, he could use his smoldering eyes to lure young women. With three endowments of voice, he could mesmerize the simple-minded. He bent his whole will upon the child now.

“Think of it,” he said. “Fresh fruit—tangerines and melons and dates for breakfast. Fine lamb ribs basted with honey and cumin, cooked over apple-wood coals; red bass fresh from the sea; peacocks stuffed with rice and mushrooms.”

“I want some,” the little boy at her side said, tears coming to his eyes. She squeezed his hand, warning him to be quiet.

“And what if I did it?” the girl asked. “Would you feed my brothers and sisters.”

She was only a child, and perhaps knew that by custom, if a man or woman gave an endowment, their children would be well cared for, for life. Turaush shook his head sadly. “If you were a grown woman, we might make such a deal. But you are only a child half-grown, and so your endowment is not worth much to us. Being so small, you don't have as much stamina as an adult,” he lied. After all, he had a quota to fill. “So, if your little brother here wants food also, he will have to give up his endowment.”

He smiled kindly at the boy. Turaush had rarely resorted to taking endowments from children so young. But these two looked healthy enough.

“I hear that it hurts,” the girl objected.

“Only a little, and only for a moment,” Turaush said. His tone promised a lifetime of joy afterward, though to be sure, it would not be a long life. Raj Ahten needed stamina, and a starveling like this was not likely to live through the winter plague season.

“But what of my sisters?” the girl asked. “Who will take care of them?”

“How old are they?”

“One is three, and the other barely a year.”

Turaush frowned. Such children were too young to surrender endowments. A Dedicate had to want to give his endowment with his whole soul, and small children, not understanding the consequences of their decision, could not muster the proper resolve.

Still, Turaush thought, we could raise them for a couple of years, until they are old enough.

“I will make you a deal. If you and your brother give your endowments, perhaps I could arrange that your sisters get fed, too. In fact, I know a nice woman who has long wished for a daughter of her own. She would count herself fortunate indeed to be blessed with two.”

“And my big brother?”

“Tell me about your brother.”

“His name is Balimar. He's big enough to work. But he was gored by a water buffalo last summer, and is only now beginning to walk.”

“So Balimar is mending?”

“Yes,” the girl answered. “He is very strong.”

Turaush considered. Balimar might not be able to give stamina now, but he might give his brawn. He would of course feel accountable for the younger children, and if they were suddenly spirited away to the Dedicate's Keep in the palace, he would be easily persuaded to follow. “I'm sure that an arrangement can be made. Come now, let us go take your endowments and get some food in you. Then I will talk to Balimar.”

Turaush took the girl's tiny hand. In the distance, borne on the dawn winds, he could hear the keen piping of a facilitator as he coaxed the stamina from someone, followed by a howl of pain as the attribute was wrenched away. To him, the sound seemed sweeter than the coo of the wood doves as he led the children to the palace.

29

There is nothing more noble than to give of oneself out of love. There is nothing more humiliating than feeling compelled to take that gift.

—
Kingjas Laren Sylvarresta

Dearborn rowed the boat steadily in the late afternoon, his eyes dull from fatigue. Beads of perspiration trickled down his cheek and off his nose, and sweat liberally stained the armpits of his work shirt.

“Almost there,” he said. “We should see the castle as we round this next bend.”

For hours he had rowed, seeming never to tire, never stopping to rest. He watched the currents, keeping the boat in the center of the V each time he rounded a bend, in order to borrow more speed from the fast water.

A chill shook Chemoise. She tried to ignore it. Instead, she watched the flat green water and rejoiced in the warm sunlight on her skin. It made her feel clean, as if its heat could burn the infection from her.

“Have you decided what to give?” Dearborn asked.

“Metabolism,” she said at last.

It was the least dangerous endowment to grant. It wouldn't hurt Chemoise's child, and would hardly inconvenience her. She could give it easily. If Gaborn won, and killed the reavers, then she would wake in some distant day when the war was over, only a bad dream, fading into insignificance.

“Hmmm… “Dearborn muttered. He was obviously displeased. By giving metabolism, she would leave him in a way. She'd sleep as he grew old. But she wasn't about to let some minor attachment deter her.

Her journey downstream had been almost like a pleasure outing. The banks of the River Wye were overgrown with cattails along the route, and
trout could be seen slapping the water in their quest for midges. Mallards paddled near shore, ever vigilant as their ducklings followed behind. Once, Chemoise saw a huge stag leap up from its bed beneath an apple tree.

All of the sudden, they rounded the bend, and Chemoise spotted Castle Sylvarresta ahead, a walled city built upon a long hill; the tall watchtowers looked like gray arrows taking aim at the sky. From here, you could hardly see the damage wreaked by the Darkling Glory. The Graak's Aerie hid most of the wreckage of the King's Tower and the Dedicate's Keep, and the burnt front gates remained concealed by the castle walls. Only blackened grass on nearby hills reminded one that a battle had been fought here.

Chemoise felt surprised to see crowds surrounding the castle. Tens of thousands of bright tents and pavilions were pitched upon the nearer hills. The smoke of cooking fires hung above the fields like gray cobwebs. Horses were tethered along the riverbank ahead.

Chemoise had lived in the city before the Darkling Glory came. Four hundred thousand people or more had camped in the fields round about, eager to meet the Earth King. They'd fled at Gaborn's warning, fading into the forest to hide from the Darkling Glory. Now it looked as if nearly everyone had returned.

“Look at them all,” Chemoise said in wonder. “It's like Hostenfest.”

Dearborn craned his head as he rowed, glanced over his shoulder, and grunted in dull surprise. Soon, they passed along shores where hundreds of women and children were washing clothes or fetching pails of water.

Chemoise shouted to one washwoman, “Why is everyone at Castle Sylvarresta?”

“The Earth King needs endowments,” she replied.

“That can't be it,” Chemoise whispered to Dearborn. “That many people wouldn't give endowments. There must be another reason. Maybe they came to hide from the rats.”

“Did the rats come last night?” Dearborn asked the washwoman.

“They came,” she answered. “Drowned trying to swim the moat. The ferrin took those what made it over the city walls.” She seemed little concerned, and Chemoise envied her. In Ableton the rats had given them a bitter struggle.