The Lair of Bones (15 page)

But Averan knew what a reaver's blade could do. The huge hunk of steel weighed hundreds of pounds. It wasn't honed as sharp as a sword, but if a blow didn't slice a man in two, it would still shatter every bone in his body.

She'd seen men killed by reavers—corpses hacked into gruesome
pieces—a head here, and a hand there, blood spattered about as if by the bucketful, innards draped over tree limbs like sausages hanging from the rafters of an inn.

The wylde was going mad. The green woman keened like an animal in pain, splashed to shore. Averan wondered that it had survived at all.

Averan shakily struggled to her feet. She didn't want to look at Binnesman, for she knew what she'd find. She imagined his blank eyes staring into space, the guts knocked out of him.

“Binnesman?” Gaborn called as he rushed toward them.

Averan had to look. There was still a possibility that he might be alive.

Binnesman lay on the cave floor, sprawled on his back. His face was pale, drained of blood, and his hands quivered as if in death throes. Flecks of blood issued from his nose and mouth. Miraculously, he was all in one piece, though the reaver's blow had struck him in the chest.

“You're alive?” Averan asked.

“Glad to hear it,” Binnesman said, but the labor he had to put into speaking the jest belied the tone, and his eyes were full of fear.

He's not alive, Averan decided. But not dead yet either. He's dying. She knelt, took his hand, and squeezed hard. Binnesman gasped, struggling for breath. He didn't squeeze in return. He had no comfort to give her.

Gaborn rushed up to Averan's back.

She glanced up to see his face, pale with shock. Iome came slower.

“Why didn't you run?” Gaborn asked.

“For a hundred years,” Binnesman said, struggling for breath, “I've been the wisest person I know.” A coughing fit took him, and flecks of blood flew from his mouth. “It's hard to take advice.”

Iome was at Gaborn's back now, and she just stared at Binnesman with pain-filled eyes.

Binnesman's hands fluttered and Averan looked back to his face. He was gazing at her now, imploringly. “Not much time,” he said. “Get my staff.”

“It's broken,” Averan said. But suddenly she had a wild hope that even broken, the staff would be able to heal him. She rushed to it. The wood had not merely cracked; it had splintered in pieces, sending shards in half a dozen directions. Averan wanted every piece. Earth Power was stored in
every splinter, and runes of healing and protection had been carved all around the base of the staff. She wanted all of it. When she had all the pieces, she rushed back to Binnesman.

“I'm sorry,” he was telling Gaborn. “I failed you all.” His breath was weak, and more blood came gushing from his mouth with every word he choked out.

“Don't try to speak,” Iome said. She knelt by his side and held his hand.

“Things must be said,” Binnesman told Iome. “Foul Deliverer, Fair Destroyer,” he whispered. “I unbind you.”

The green woman howled with glee like an animal. Averan glanced up. The wylde was peering up toward the ceiling at the shaft, as if seeking a path to the reavers.

“Averan?” Binnesman called. He gazed about, but his eyes were no longer focusing.

“I'm here,” she said. “I have your staff.”

As proof she began laying the broken shards on his chest, as if they were bits of kindling. He fumbled about, grasped a piece.

“Averan, I must leave you. You must guide them. Listen to the Earth. It will be your only teacher now.”

He gasped for breath, and then could not speak at all.

Averan felt as if the world were reeling out of control beneath her. She couldn't believe that Binnesman was dying. Old wizards like him were sup-posed to be indestructible. Averan found herself trembling.

“Bury him!” Gaborn shouted. “Quickly.”

“What?” Iome asked.

“Beneath the soil!” Gaborn raised his left hand and whispered desperately, “Binnesman: may the Earth heal you; may the Earth hide you; may the Earth make you its own.”

Of course! Averan had slept beneath the earth three nights past, relieved of the need to breathe, to think. She'd never slept so soundly in her life. Nor had she ever felt as invigorated afterward.

None of them could save Binnesman, but while there was still life in him, perhaps the Earth could do it.

The cave floor was almost solid rock, with only a few pebbles here and there.

Averan grabbed her staff, struck the ground, and whispered, “Cover him.”

From all around, detritus converged in a rush, pebbles and dust rolling across the cave floor, covering Binnesman, so that he lay beneath a quilt of gray sand, flecks of stone, and cave pearls.

What a pretty grave, Averan thought.

Grief welled up in her. She feared that Binnesman was gone forever, that nothing that they did could help. After all was said and done, he'd be lying here in a pretty grave.

Gaborn glanced up at the dark shaft above. He placed a hand on Averan's shoulder, as if to offer comfort. “We'd best be on our way,” he said warily.

Iome knelt beside the grave for a moment and pressed her hand into the fresh soil, leaving her imprint, as was sometimes done at peasants' funerals. She brushed back a tear and picked up Binnesman's pack.

The green woman kept pacing the shore of the lake, seeking a route to the reavers. There was a scrape on her face, where the Consort of Shadows had bashed her into the stone wall. Other than that, Averan could see no sign of damage.

It was frightening to see the wylde's inhumanity laid bare. It was more than the green woman's indestructible nature that bothered Averan. Her total lack of concern for her fallen master was chilling. Averan kept hoping to find some sign of human sentiment in the wylde, but the green woman could offer no affection, no compassion, no grief, no love.

She paced the shore, howled in frustration at not being able to reach the reavers.

“Spring,” Averan called to the wylde, using her private name. “We're leaving.”

The green woman ignored her.

Gaborn eyed the creature, worry etched into the lines of his face. “Foul Deliverer, Fair Destroyer,” Gaborn called. “Hear me: we go to hunt the great enemies of Earth. You would best serve your master by coming with us.”

If the wylde heard at all, Averan could not tell.

Averan smelled reavers up in the shaft, whispering, wondering what to do. Dozens hid there. She suspected that the wylde could smell them, too.

“Let's go,” Gaborn said, grabbing Averan's hand. Iome was already
forging ahead, down the old river channel. Gaborn pulled Averan, their footsteps echoing behind them.

For a long time as they raced down the cavern, Averan could hear the keening cries of the wylde.

7

The transfer of endowments is more of an art than a science. Every facilitator has heard of those sublime cases where the transfer of endowments seems miraculous
—
where, for example, the strength of a lord is greatly enhanced after the application of a forcible, yet his Dedicated strength seems hardly diminished
—
or rarer yet, those cases where effects seem to linger even after the Dedicate passes away.
By
learning the art of making a perfect match, it is our hope that such wondrous cases will, in the future, become the norm.

—
from
The Art of the Perfect Match,
by Ansa Per and Dylan Fendemere, master facilitators

A
few hours past dawn, Myrrima and Borenson reached Batenne, an ancient city whose tall houses were built in the old Ferecian style, with well-cut stones that fit seamlessly together. The roofs were made of copper plates from nearby mines, green with age, overlapping like fish scales. Old manors in the hills soared above expansive gardens where marble statues of nubile maidens, all swinging exotic long swords, could be glimpsed among the golden-leafed willows.

They bypassed the city and rode to the Castle of Abelaire Montesfromme, the Marquis de Ferecia. The castle, with its stately towers, sat on the highest hill above the city. The outer walls had been limed over the summer, and they gleamed so brightly that when the morning sun struck them it pained the eyes. It almost seemed as if the castle were a bit of bright cloud fashioned into walls. The guards at the gate wore polished silver armor, enameled with the red graak of Ferecia upon their chests. Their helms sported visors with slits so small that the warriors within seemed
eyeless. They bore long spears of blackened iron, with decorative silver tips.

Myrrima tried not to look at her own clothes, still wet from her dip in the pool and muddied and stained from the road. She gazed about in wonder.

“Close your mouth,” Borenson warned softly, “you'll not be catching any flies around here.”

“It's so beautiful,” Myrrima said. “I've never imagined such a place.” Indeed, as they rode into the courtyard, the cobbled stones were so perfectly level that they might have been laid that very morning. A mosaic showed the red graak upon a white background. Along the margins of the road, the lawn was perfectly clipped. Gardens of jasmine trailing down from window boxes in the castle's archery slots joined with mallow and rose on the lawns to lend the air a natural perfume. Hummingbirds swooped and darted among the bruised shadows of the towers, sparkling like gems when they caught the sunlight.

Myrrima saw anger on her husband's face. “What's wrong?” she asked under her breath, lest the guards hear her.

“This—” Borenson said, nodding toward the castle. “The people of Carris bleed and die on the castle walls less than three hundred miles from here, while the marquis and his dandy knights cower in splendor. I have half a mind to toss the fine flower boxes from the tower windows, and hurl the marquis out after them.”

Myrrima didn't know what to say. The marquis was a powerful man from one of the oldest and wealthiest families in all of Rofehavan, while Borenson was only a Knight Equitable. For days now she had been afraid that she would lose him. She could feel him slipping away. His growing resentment toward Gaborn, the marquis, and indeed all lords was certainly part of the problem.

By the time that they reached the marquis's Keep, Borenson was in a black mood. His jaw was set, and the blood flowed hot in his face. A servant showed them into a stately antechamber where fine paintings of the marquis and his ancestors hung in gilt frames. Enormous candelabras graced the mantel above the fireplace.

“Wait here,” the servant begged.

Borenson paced like an angry dog, and looked as if he would go follow the servant at any minute, tracking down the marquis. Yet they had not
waited two minutes when a young man raced in, face flushed and eyes shining with eagerness.

“Sir Borenson, is it true?” the lad begged. “Is the Earth King battling reavers at Carris?”

Borenson looked that lad over. “Do I know you?”

“I'm Bernaud—”

“The marquis's son?” Borenson asked in disbelief.

“At your service,” Bernaud said with a half bow.

A wicked twinkle sparked in Borenson's eye. “Aye, your king is battling reavers,” Borenson said, “as you will be—soon.”

At that moment, a servant entered through the same open door. “The marquis begs you to join him for breakfast in the Great Room.”

Borenson and Myrrima followed the servant, with Bernaud trailing, into the marquis's Great Hall. An enormous table, somefiftyfeet long, occupied the length of the room. The table was set with enough pastries, fruit, and boar's ham to feed a dozen men, but the marquis sat there all alone, as if brooding over which dainty to taste.

Above the table, the shields of the marquis's ancestors adorned the walls. Each shield, plated with gold foil, was a monument to the great families from which the marquis had descended. Myrrima knew little of such lore, yet even she recognized some of the devices: here was the crouching lion of Merigast the Defiant, who stood fast against the sorcerers of the toth at Woglen's Tower when all hope of rescue had failed. And there were the double eagles of King Hoevenor of Delf, who drove the arr from the Alcair Mountains. Each shield was elegant, and many had been forged by the finest craftsmen of their era. Yet most impressive of all was a small round shield above the head of the table, a crude thing that almost looked as if a child might have fashioned it on his own. On it was painted a red graak, wings spread as it soared above two worlds. Myrrima did not doubt that it was the shield of Ferrece Geboren himself, son of the Earth King Erden Geboren. In his own day he had been called The Ferocious, for he was fearless in battle. According to legend, at the age of thirteen he had instigated the journey to the nether-world with the Wizard Sendavian and Daylan of the Black Hammer. There Ferrece implored the Bright Ones to fight in mankind's behalf. In all the lore of knights, no man was more universally admired than Ferrece Geboren.