The Lair of Bones (8 page)

“I hope not,” Myrrima said. “I'm the one who found her outside town yesterday afternoon. Her hoof was split, and the poor thing looked ready for slaughter, so I used the last of Binnesman's salve on her.”

“Binnesman's wondrous salve?” Borenson asked, peering through the slats in the stable at the horse's hoof. “I thought I'd used it all on you.”

“You dropped the tin,” Myrrima said, “but there was a tad left.”

There was a white blaze on the mare's hoof, as if the poor beast had injured it a year ago, but otherwise it looked fine. The mare held her weight evenly, and did not limp as she ambled close to Borenson, to nuzzle him.

Borenson stroked the horse with a sense of loss. “The old wizard outdid himself with that batch. We'll not see the likes of that ever again, I fear.” The salve had saved Myrrima's life, and Borenson's, performing wonder upon wonder. But now it was gone.

“Blessed be the brooks that flow from the slopes of Cerinpyre, and glad be the fish that swim therein,” Myrrima said, almost singing. Borenson wondered at her words, for it sounded as if she quoted a song that he had never heard. But Cerinpyre was the name of a tall mountain west of Balington, where Binnesman had made the salve.

“How far is it to Inkarra?” Myrrima asked, changing the subject.

“It's seventy miles from here to Batenne,” Borenson said. “If we make good time, we can be there before noon, and I can take my endowments at the home of the marquis. We'll reach the southern border forty miles beyond. The passage over the mountains into the Hidden Kingdoms may be slow, but afterward, the roads should be good all the way to Iselferion.”

“That's where the Storm King lives?” Myrrima asked.

Borenson nodded. “We should be there by nightfall. We can deliver Gaborn's message to the Storm King—and perhaps even learn the whereabouts of Daylan Hammer.”

“Is it that simple?” Myrrima asked.

Borenson laughed at her naivete, wondering just how much she knew about Inkarra. He peered hard at her in the darkness. “I meant it as a joke.”

They saddled their horses. Borenson took the mare from her stall gingerly, to see if indeed she was healed. To his delight, she was more than just well. She seemed positively sassy.

So Myrrima and Borenson rode into the night, toward the hills south of town. For a bit, the land dropped, and they rode through a thick fog. Myrrima's horse drew close to Borenson's then, as if fearing more wights. Borenson looked to his wife, to see if she too was afraid, but Myrrima rode her horse with her head back, her chin raised, as if savoring the moment. The fog misted her skin, so that dew formed on her brow and droplets sparkled in her hair, and she gulped the foggy air greedily.

Borenson grunted in surprise. His wife seemed to be a changed woman after last night. He could smell the water in her breath, like the wind off a lake, and her hair smelled like a still pool. But it wasn't just her scent that had changed. It was her movements, too—the easy way she seemed to flow when she walked, the calmness and sense of peace that pervaded her.

Wizardborn. She had learned that she was wizardborn, a servant to water. The water's touch had healed her, transformed her. But she had rejected the opportunity to serve it, and elected to stay with him.

Yes… something was different about her.

The land rose steadily for several miles, so that they soon could see the foggy moors behind. Bands of forest and field alternated along the road, but the woods were quiet and dry, and the land seemed healthier than the bogs to the north had been.

Still, he warily watched the margins of the road for sign of the hooded man. He and Myrrima seldom spoke, and then only in whispers. Whenever they reached a patch of woods, they'd hurry the horses through at a gallop, and each time they topped a hill, he would stop and search the starlit stretches of the road behind for long moments.

Thus they made their way into the highlands of Cragenwold, a region of dense, rocky forests. The road was so seldom used that it seemed only a ruin. Partial walls stood among the bracken where stone had been stacked upon gray stone a thousand years past. Broken statues of ancient lords lined the road, the wind and water having worn away the hollows of their eyes. Their gaping mouths bore mute testimony that Old Ferecia had once been the proudest of realms.

But that had been long ago. Now black pines crowded about the ruins of graveyards. Owls hooted in the lonesome groves, letting their voices echo among the hollows.

The road wound up and down for an hour, yet each time the path went down, it seemed to rise higher again. The morning sun rose, ponderously large on the horizon.

Borenson could feel the dead in these woods, pressing against the shadows, as if restrained somewhere off in the mossy trees. Yet the spirits here did not feel evil. They had once been men much like him, and he did not fear such wights. Besides, the sun beat on his back each time he exited the trees, and so long as it did, the dead were powerless to manifest themselves.

With the coming of the sun, Borenson began to watch the road for sign of tracks, but saw nothing for miles until they passed over soggy ground by a brook: and there it was, a scuff mark where there should have been a clean track.

Borenson's glance flickered over the scuff. “Our assassin. Do you think it's fresh?” he asked. He reached behind his back and drew his warhammer from its sheath.

Myrrima hopped down from her horse. She had taken endowments of scent from a dog, and now she sniffed near the track, then tested the air. “Not fresh,” she said. “A day old maybe. A man, by the smell of him, an odd one.”

“Odd?” Borenson whispered.

“His smell reminds me of open lands and lonely hills. Maybe he's only
been out in the weather for a few days, but I think its much longer. It's like… he'd rather sleep in the rain than in a cozy inn.”

“Hunh,” Borenson said. He glanced about. “More likely, Raj Ahten has had him watching this road for a month. We'll water the horses, take our breakfast here.”

He got off his mount, and led it uphill, away from the brook. Here, hazelnut trees crowded at the edge of a glen, huddled together like gossiping old women. Down below, the road wound like a ribbon over hills toward Fenraven, and Borenson could glimpse bits of it through the trees farther up the highway.

He lit a small fire and watched the road ahead while the twigs burned away, letting the flame consume the bark from some larger sticks, until he had enough coals so that he could roast the sausages he'd brought from the inn. There was little movement on the road ahead. He saw a huge red stag warily walking along, antlers arching so that they rested on its back, legs stiff, nose high in the air. It was scenting for a doe. But there was no sign of the mysterious rider ahead, nor of anyone else.

Still, Borenson felt uneasy. He couldn't quite name the cause of his fear. It might just have been the trip to Inkarra. That in itself was dangerous enough.

But there was something more. His main worry was for Myrrima. Over the past weeks, he had been loath to let himself fall in love with her. As a guard to the crown prince, his first duty had always been to Gaborn. He'd never felt that there would be room for a wife in his life—or at least not a woman that he would love. He'd always imagined that if he took a wife, it would be some poor woman, a starveling who would make his meals and satisfy his other physical urges in return for a warm roof. He had not imagined that he would marry a beautiful woman, a strong woman who loved him fiercely, a woman with wit and charm.

Now he was more than smitten by Myrrima. Now he felt struck dumb, like a boy whose heart was churning for the first time with unimagined passions.

Last night with Myrrima, as they had consummated their love, had been perfect.

Yet he felt that something was wrong. He feared that she would leave him—or, more exactly, that something was trying to pull her away from him.

His thoughts kept returning to the hooded man. There was something sinister about him.

Myrrima remained down by the brook, hidden in the thick of the trees. Borenson imagined that she was bathing herself, or merely resting, or perhaps gathering more firewood. But when he'd put the thick sausages on some forked sticks and begun to simmer them over the coals, he realized that he had not seen Myrrima for far too long,

Not wanting to call out with the threat of highwaymen about, he hurried back down to the brook. Myrrima wasn't by the road, but he could see her modest footprints in the soft earth beside the stream.

She'd headed downhill, following the brook. Trailing her was easy. Moss and fallen leaves covered the muddy ground, making it firm enough for a man to walk on. The low music of water burbling over rounded stones covered his footfalls, and the scent of the stream filled the air.

Borenson lightly crept along, watching her trail. No other footprints followed her, and only in one spot did he notice anything suspicious—the tracks of an enormous wolf crossed her path. The sight reminded him that they were in the wilds.

A steep slope dropped away just ahead, and the brook suddenly pitched over it, spilling into a narrow pool. Just beyond it, a wider pool opened where the water was as still and as clear as glass.

Myrrima knelt on the green grass beside the pool among afieldof posies. Cattails thrust up among some stones by the water, and beneath its surface one could see down into the depths. Silver minnows flashed among the black roots of a large pine.

Myrrima was not bathing. She merely sat gazing into the water, eyes unfocused, her bare feet dangling into the pond. As she sat, Borenson saw a little thrill at the water's surface, as if a single minnow, or perhaps even a larger fish, swam just below the surface, its dorsal cutting the water. It raced along in a near circle, then wheeled toward the heart of the circle, suddenly breaking into three parts that zigged out in different directions and disappeared.

The movement thus drew a rune on the surface of the pond, one that Borenson did not recognize. His heart thrilled at the sight. No sooner had the surface of the pond gone still when a new rune began to take shape. Borenson peered close, to see if indeed there were minnows or water
beetles swimming there, but he could see nothing. The water moved of its own accord.

Suddenly, Borenson understood his fear. It wasn't an assassin that would take his wife, it was another suitor that sought to lure her away, one of the Powers.

I should have known, Borenson told himself. I should have seen it in the way that sheflowsover the ground, or inhales the morning mist, or in the way that dew sparkles in her hair. She's an undine!

Borenson picked up a small twig and angrily hurled it into the pond, disrupting the water.

Myrrima looked up, and a broad smile broke across her face.

“You said that you rejected Water,” Borenson accused, struggling to control his voice.

“No,” Myrrima replied. “I said that I love you more, and that I refused to go to the sea.”

“But the Powers don't let us make that choice. You can't love both me and Water.”

“Are you so sure?” Myrrima asked. “Can a man love his wife and his children, his horse and his dog, his home and his country? Can he not love each of them deeply, in their own way?”

“He can,” Borenson said, “but life ever makes us choose between the things we love, and if you try to serve Water, it will lay its claim on you, the way that the Earth has laid its claim upon Gaborn.”

“Gaborn serves a hard master,” Myrrima said, “as firm and unyielding as stone.” She cupped her hand and dipped it into the pool, then ladled water onto a rock next to her. “But Water yields. It fills the empty spaces around us and the voids within us, and then lifts us up. I can be borne away upon deep currents of Water and still love you. I told you last night that I love you, and that I won't leave you. It's true. I will never leave you.”

Borenson knew that few who loved Water could resist its call for long, yet Myrrima's soft and reassuring tone almost allayed his fears.

“Come here,” she said, patting the ground beside her. Borenson made his way down the slope and squatted on the grass at Myrrima's side.

She reached out and touched his hand. It is said that powerful wizards evoke odd emotions when they enter the presence of common men. Flameweavers arouse men's appetites—their greed for wealth, their lust for
women, their hunger for blood, and their avarice—while Earth Wardens arouse a desire to procreate, or to till the soil, or to seek solace in dark places. Borenson had never really noticed such feelings before, until now. As Myrrima took his hand, he felt a sense of peace wash over him, a clean feeling that swept away his doubts and anxiety. He'd felt that same sense of ease last night, as the two of them lay tangled together in bed. He'd thought that it came from within, that he felt only the comfort that came with consummating their love. Now he saw that it was something more.

Myrrima took his right hand in hers, and looked deep into his eyes. Her own eyes were so dark that they were almost black, and the whites of her eyes were a pale blue. Even now, when there was no morning mist, droplets of water sparkled in her dark hair, and her breath smelled like some mountain freshet. But there was no trace of the undine about her. Her eyes were not turning as green as the sea. She was not growing gill slits in the hollow of her throat. There was no hint of silvery scales in her skin.

“Don't be afraid,” she said, and the very words banished his fear. “Water requires a task of me, one that I am willing to give. A dark time is upon us, a dry time. Water needs warriors, to help bring stability and healing to the land. And I have been thinking: you and I are one. I would have you join me in my quest.”

She's to be Water's warrior? Borenson wondered. That explained why he could see no sign of the undine about her. Perhaps it also explained her uncommon prowess in battle. It was
her
hand that slew the Darkling Glory when all others succumbed to it. And by her hand she had banished a wight, something no mere mortal should have been able to do. And she had slain dozens of reavers in battle yesterday. Yes, he could see that she was a fit warrior. More than that, he could see that the Water chose wisely, for it tailored its request to fit Myrrima's own penchant.