Brotherhood of the Wolf (59 page)

“What does it say?” Gaborn heard himself ask.

“I don't know, yet,” Binnesman answered, “but this is the way it usually speaks to me: in the worried stirrings of rabbits and mice, in the shifting flight of a cloud of birds, in the cries of geese. Now it whispers to the Earth King, too. You are growing, Gaborn. Growing in power.”

Then the horses were gone, and the hare rested peacefully in its warren. The hare closed its eyes while the kits drank, letting its long ears lie flat against its back, and worried about a flea on its forepaw that it wanted to bite.

Silly men, the hare thought, not to hear the voice of the Earth.

In his dream, Gaborn slithered across the forest floor, as if he were a snake. He felt the sleek scales on his belly letting him slide as easily as if the soil were ice.

He flicked a long forked tongue into the air, tasting it. He smelled fur and warmth ahead: a hare in the leaves. He lay very still for a moment, the autumn sun shining bright upon him, as he tasted the sun's last warm embrace of the season.

Nothing moved ahead. He smelled hare, but saw nothing.

He nuzzled among the oak leaves, until he saw a hole, a burrow, dark and inviting. He flicked his tongue, smelled the young kits in their burrow.

It was daytime, and the hares within would be sleeping. Ever so quietly, he slithered down into the depths.

Above him, he heard the heavy trod of horses, and the wizard Binnesman saying, “The Earth is speaking to us. It is speaking to you and to me.”

Gaborn asked, “What does it say?”

“I don't know—yet,” Binnesman said. “But this is the way it usually speaks to me: in the worried stirrings of rabbits and mice, in the shifting flight of a cloud of birds, in the cries of geese. Now it whispers to the Earth King, too. You are growing, Gaborn. Growing in power.”

“Yet I can't hear the Earth,” Gaborn said, “and I so
want
to hear its voice.”

“Perhaps if your ears were longer,” the wizard replied in
the dream. “Or maybe if you put them to the ground.”

“Yes, yes, of course, that's what I'll do,” Gaborn said enthusiastically.

Gaborn lay in the mouth of the burrow and found himself listening, straining to hear with all of his might. He flicked his long forked tongue, smelled young hares ahead.

In his dream, Gaborn walked through a new-plowed field. The soil had been turned recently, and the clods had been all broken with a mattock and raked. The loam was deep, the soil good.

His muscles ached from long hours of work, yet he could smell the spring rains coming, and he hurried through the field with a sharp planting stick. Using the stick, he poked a small hole in the soil, dropped in a heavy seed, and then covered the hole with his foot.

Thus he worked, sweat pouring down his face.

He toiled mindlessly, thinking of nothing, until he heard a voice nearby.

“Greetings!”

Gaborn turned and looked off to the side of the field. A stone fence stood there with young flowering pea vines and morning glory trailing up it. On the other side of the fence stood the Earth.

The Earth had taken the form of Gaborn's father, had become a man in shape. But Gaborn's father looked to be a creature of soil: sand and clay and twigs and leaves where flesh should have been.

“Greetings,” Gaborn said. “I'd hoped to see you again.”

“I am always here,” the Earth said. “Look down at your feet, and I should be somewhere nearby.”

Gaborn kept working, continued dropping heavy seeds from the pocket of his greatcoat as he walked along.

“So,” the Earth said, “you cannot decide whether to be the hunter or the hunted today, the hare or the snake.”

“Am I not both?” Gaborn asked.

“You are, indeed,” the Earth said. “Life and death. Nemesis and deliverer.”

Gaborn looked around, feeling uneasy. The Earth had appeared to him before in Binnesman's garden. But at the time, Binnesman had been there, and the wizard had translated. The very Earth had spoken in the movement of stones, the hissing of leaves, the venting of gases from deep underground.

And the Earth had appeared to him like this, as a creature of dirt and stones. But it had come in the form of his enemy, Raj Ahten.

Now the Earth appeared to him in the form of a friend, his father, and spoke to him as easily as one man speaks to another, as if he were a neighbor talking across a fence.

Wait, I must be dreaming, Gaborn thought.

The Earth around him rumbled as if in the throes of a quake, and the leaves of nearby great oaks hissed in the wind.

He understood the sounds made by the movement of stone, by the hiss of leaves. “What is the difference between wakefulness and dream?” the Earth asked. “I do not understand. You listen now, and you hear.”

He looked at the pebbly image of his father, and understood. The Earth was indeed speaking to him, and not with the voice of mice.

“What message do you have for me?” Gaborn asked, for he felt that he desperately needed the Earth's help. He was so confused about so many things: should he take his people and flee Raj Ahten; should he attack; how could he best serve the Earth; should he take endowments from men?

“I brought no message,” Earth said. “You summoned me, and I came.”

Gaborn could not quite believe that. Certainly there must be some important thing that the Earth could tell him. “I … you gave me all of this power, and I don't know how to use it.”

“I do not understand,” the Earth said, confused. “I gave you no power.”

“You gave me the Earth Sight, and the power to Choose.”

Earth considered. “No, those are my powers, not yours. I never
gave
them to you.”

Gaborn felt befuddled. “But I'm using them.”

“Those are
my
powers,” the Earth said again. “As you serve me, I serve you in return. You have no power unless I allow you to use mine.”

Gaborn stared at the pebbly image of his father, a distinguished-looking man of forty with a broad jaw and broad shoulders.

Gaborn narrowed his eyes. Now he saw it. “Yes,” he said. “I see. You gave me no power. You have only
lent
it to me.”

Earth seemed to consider the word “lent” for a long time, as if unsure whether that word was appropriate. It nodded at last. “Serve me, and I will serve you.”

Then Gaborn realized that even the word “lent” was not right. The Earth wanted his service, and when Gaborn served the Earth, the Earth repaid him immediately by granting Gaborn the power to serve it.

“You are sowing the seeds of mankind,” the Earth said. “Time and again, you have asked how to sow them all. I do not understand this.”

“I want to save them all,” Gaborn said.

“You see the wheat fields,” the Earth said softly. “A hundred seeds fall to the ground, but does each one grow? Are none to be left to fill the bellies of cattle and mice? Are none to rot in the sun?

“Do you want the world to be filled with wheat alone?”

“No,” Gaborn said heavily.

“Then you must accept. Life and death, death and life. They are the same. Many shall die, few may live. The Harvest of Souls is upon you.
We
do not have the power to save all the seeds of mankind. You shall have only the power to Choose a few.”

“I know,” Gaborn said. “But the more I can save—”

“Withdraw from me, and I must withdraw from you,” the Earth whispered.

“I didn't mean that!” Gaborn said. “That's not what I'm trying to do!”

“The seeds you hold in your hand?” Earth asked. “Do you wish to plant living seeds, or dead ones?”

Gaborn stared at the pebbly image of Earth, and wondered. He had not looked at the seeds, had not really been aware of their heft or shape in his hand.

Now he held seeds in his palm, and lifted them experimentally.

He could feel them moving, stirring at his touch. Dozens of seeds. Yet some did not move. He opened his hand wide, glanced down.

He held embryos in his hand, dozens of them, small and pink or brown, like the half-formed shapes of young mice. Yet he could distinguish features. Some of them waved tiny arms and legs, and he recognized them: that pink one in the center of his palm with the red down would be Borenson. The beautiful dead brown one beside it was Raj Ahten.

He held them, poked the Earth with his planting stick, and tried to decide which embryo to drop into the deep, rich humus.

When he looked up again, hoping for the Earth's advice, the sun had suddenly fallen. The time for planting had passed, and Gaborn could no longer see.

Gaborn groped and struggled up out of his shallow grave. He sat for a moment in the starlight, heart hammering. He looked about wildly for Binnesman, but the wizard was nowhere in the garden.

He felt as if the Earth had warned him against failure, but failure at what?

The Earth had lent him the power to Choose. Gaborn had accepted it gratefully, and had been doing his best. But was he Choosing too widely? Was he not Choosing well?

In Binnesman's garden, a week ago, Gaborn had accepted the task of Choosing. Because he loved his people,
the Earth had given him the task of Choosing which “seeds of mankind” to save.

But now Gaborn had been fretting, wondering how he might save all of his people in the war to come.

The Earth seemed cold and hard to Gaborn, dispassionate to the point of being cruel. Choose, the Earth said. It does not matter to me. Life and death are one.

Choose a few to save, and then save them. That was his task. Nothing more, nothing less.

It sounded simple.

But seemed impossible.

How was he to Choose?

Did the Earth expect him to let babes die merely because they could not defend themselves? Or the frail or elderly? Should he let a good man die because an evil man might make a better warrior?

How was Gaborn to Choose well?

I've lied to my people, Gaborn realized. I told so many of them that they were Chosen, that I would protect them during the dark times to come, and in my heart I really do want to save them.

But I don't have that power.

The knowledge filled him with dread and cold certainty.

He couldn't save them all, couldn't protect them all. He imagined that in a melee, he would have to choose: Let one man die so that three others might live.

But how could he make such a decision in good conscience? What would be his logic?

Could he let Iome die under any circumstances? If saving her cost the lives of a thousand men, would it be worth it?

Even if he spent lives that way, would she thank him for it afterward? Or would she damn him?

What had Binnesman said yesterday morning? That Erden Geboren had “died not of battle wounds, but of a broken heart.”

Gaborn could imagine such a thing. The Earth had selected him to be the Earth King because Gaborn was a man
of conscience. But how could Gaborn hope to live with his conscience if he did what the Earth asked?

He sat thinking about what had happened today. He had Chosen to save King Orwynne, but that fat old knight had defied Gaborn, had ridden into the cloud of swirling night in a vain attempt to defeat the Darkling Glory.

Meanwhile, Iome and Jureem had nearly lost their lives because they stayed at Castle Sylvarresta trying to save those who would not flee, as Gaborn had commanded them.

I can Choose them, Gaborn realized, but that does not mean that they will Choose me. I can try to save them, but that does not mean they will save themselves.

Let that be the first criterion for the Choosing, he decided. I will save those who listen to my Voice and thereby seek to save themselves, and I must forget the rest.

Gaborn gaped about in the starlight, until he saw his armor and tunic lying in a heap nearby, atop a bed of lavender.

He got up, dusted himself off, and dressed. By the time he reached his room, Iome was dressing for her late-night ride.

Despite his ominous dreams, Gaborn felt more completely rested than ever before in his life.

A DAY OF DESOLATION

34
ANDERS