Wizardborn (45 page)

“It will get through,” Myrrima promised. “And I'll take good care of Iome, so long as our roads lie together.”

“I know,” Gaborn said. “May the Earth protect you.” He drew close, hugged her to say goodbye. The act surprised her. Though she saw Iome as a friend, Gaborn was still “the King,” and therefore too high above her station for such a show of affection.

Myrrima went to Averan. The little girl's eyes were glazed. She looked forlorn. Myrrima took her hand, “Little
sister. I'm going to Inkarra, and I've come to say goodbye.”

“Oh,” Averan said. “That means I'll never see you again.”

“No,” Myrrima promised. “I'll be back.”

But Averan shook her head. She said matter-of-factly, “No one comes back from Inkarra, and I'm going to the Underworld.”

Myrrima wanted badly to comfort the girl. “Have faith in yourself and your king. And have faith in me. I'm your big sister now.”

But Averan just shook her head. “Not really.”

She was right. Roland had never petitioned the duke to adopt Averan as far as anyone knew. Averan had never been made Borenson's sister, and Roland's promise was left unfulfilled. This girl had no one.

Myrrima's own father had been taken at an early age. She'd had a mother and sisters to help care for her, and knew how vital their support had been in her life. Averan's own loss seemed a small matter, easily corrected.

Myrrima turned to Gaborn. “Your Highness, Roland Borenson planned to petition Paldane to become Averan's guardian. But he died before he could make his plea. I wonder now if you can grant Roland's petition, my petition, now.”

Gaborn looked to Averan. “Would you want this? Would you take Myrrima as your sister?”

Averan appeared more thoughtful than excited. She nodded.

Gaborn glanced at Sir Borenson. “If I grant this, you become her brother indeed, and her guardian.”

Binnesman cut in. “She's an Earth Warden. The Earth will clothe and feed her as it sees fit. And you may leave her training to me.”

Myrrima was taken aback by the wizard's statement. “I'm sure you intend well,” she told Binnesman. “And you might train Averan in the ways of magic. But you're not used to caring for children. Can you give her the love that she needs? And when she's hungry, will you feed her, or
merely let her grub around for roots and nuts?”

“I'm sure you mean well too,” Binnesman said. “But remember, dear lady, you are the one going to Inkarra. How well will you care for her?”

Myrrima argued, “Our estate in the Drewverry March is large enough to accommodate a child. She could stay with my mother and sisters, when she's not training.”

Binnesman warned, “Wild birds like cages as much as she'd like a house, I think.”

Gaborn eyed them both. “The child can live in a house and eat at a table and still be an Earth Warden. I see no reason why Roland's desires should not be granted. But I still haven't heard from Sir Borenson.”

“My father made that choice already,” Borenson said.

Gaborn said softly, “So be it. Then Averan, I grant you into the care of family Borenson. Even if it be in name only, you have the right to call yourself Roland's daughter.”

Myrrima nodded, looked at Averan gravely, and said,
“Now
we are sisters.”

It was a small act of decency, but the words brought tears to Averan's eyes.

Myrrima hugged Averan and said, “My mother and sisters will be going to Drewverry March.” She took a necklace from around her throat, placed it on Averan. It was a small pendant of a silver fish. “When they see this, I'm sure that they'll welcome you. It was a gift from my father. Drewverry will be your home, whenever you want.”

Averan hugged Myrrima fiercely, choked out, “Goodbye.”

Then Myrrima shook hands with Binnesman, and even his wylde. In moments she, Borenson, Iome, and Iome's escorts began packing for the quick ride. Iome would take Gaborn's forcibles to the Courts of Tide.

Gaborn called a man out of his ranks especially to lead the group, a swarthy fellow with a single black eyebrow who looked as disreputable as his namesake would imply. He was called Grimeson.

But as Grimeson began tying down a tarpaulin over the
treasure wagon, he shouted, “We've been robbed!”

There was a great commotion as he tore the lid off one crate, threw the empty box to the ground, and began opening each crate in turn.

Several men rushed to the wagon. The guards protested, “But it hasn't been out of our sight!”

“How well were you watching when the Darkling Glory attacked?” Grimeson asked.

The guards let out a cry of consternation, began shouting, “Search the camp.” There were hundreds of horses tied up and down the creek in small enclaves. Myrrima didn't know where to begin searching, who to look for.

Gaborn closed his eyes, seeking inward. “Don't bother. The thief is gone. Feykaald is riding to Indhopal.”

Borenson said, “He has less than an hour on us. We can catch him!”

The old Wit Jerimas urged Gaborn, “Milord, you must retrieve those forcibles. Make no mistake. If Raj Ahten learns that you still have so many, he
will
come after them.”

But to Myrrima's surprise, Gaborn shook his head. “No. I feel a pall settling over Raj Ahten. There is trouble in Kartish. Surely the children of Indhopal need those forcibles as much as we do.”

Myrrima thought that someone would speak out against the notion. Knights Equitable and lords from half a dozen lands stood within hearing. But no one spoke against Gaborn.

For days he had been saying it: all of the world's people were Gaborn's charge. Perhaps now they had begun to believe.

So Myrrima, Borenson, and Iome's retinue mounted up. They waited for Iome.

She and her king walked together and stood under an oak by the brook, talking for a long while. Myrrima saw tears stream down the queen's face. They were far enough away that no one could hear what they said, but Myrrima could imagine.

Iome was leaving Gaborn. He would go to the Underworld
to hunt for the One True Master. Iome feared for him even as she held him. When at last she was able to tear herself away, Iome got on her mount and spoke not at all.

Force horses pulled the treasure wagon so fast that it sang over the highways. They raced southeast through grasslands, following the river Donnestgree as it surged toward the ocean and the Courts of Tide.

Few villages dotted the plains. Myrrima asked Borenson why. He pointed out that the driving winds would not allow many trees, and the soil here blanketed a thick crust of volcanic stone. Without wood for fuel, few people wanted to settle here, though the land was bountiful enough for wild cattle.

But people had lived here once. She saw the remains of castles on many a lonely hill. Borenson pointed out the site for the Battle of the Five Wizards, and halted once to show her bones of a giant encased in a rock by the wayside. She saw the very tower where Leandra had pushed her mother to her death upon hearing that Andreas was no more.

Near the old altar at Rimmondy they scared a flock of young wild graaks up from the carcasses of some cattle that had been chased over a cliff.

In the late afternoon they reached a crossroads two hundred miles southeast of Carris where silver birches bent over a still river, their leaves perfectly mirrored in the waters.

To the south lay the road that Myrrima and Borenson would take, while Iome headed northeast. They stopped to let the force horses graze and drink.

“We can't stay here long,” Borenson warned Myrrima. “The sun will be going down soon. We'll want to be clear of the Westlands.”

“The Westlands?” Myrrima asked. She couldn't keep the edge of fear from her voice. She had heard children's tales of the wights that haunted them. “Are they close by?”

“Oh, you'll get a close look,” Borenson assured her with a grin. “If you spit that way, you'll hit them.” He nodded toward the south.

“But I thought they'd be farther … west,” Myrrima said.

“They're west of Old Ferecia, and that's all that matters.”

“But there's supposed to be bogs and swamps.”

“They start just beyond that rise,” Borenson assured her. He nodded toward a rise where the remains of a castle wall still thrust up like a dog's tooth. “That's Woglen's Tower.”

Myrrima shuddered. She knew the tales. The land here had been black with Toth, and blood had once filled this river. For three months Fallion's armies had fought to break their siege and win that tower, only to discover that Fallion's bride was dead inside.

Somehow she'd expected Woglen's Tower to still be standing. In the old tales it had seemed indomitable. And she'd imagined bones here upon the ground.

She didn't feel prepared for Borenson's news. She'd thought only about getting to Inkarra, not about any dangers between. But there would be bogs full of wights and mountains with hazards of their own.

“Can't we go around the Westlands?” she asked.

“It will be faster if we go through them,” he said, obviously amused to see her dismay.

Myrrima and Borenson sat for a few moments counseling about what they should take with them south. Borenson had found gold in his father's purse. He assured Myrrima that the city of Batenne near the Alcairs would carry all the supplies that they needed. Iome walked downstream as they spoke.

When it was near time to leave, Myrrima went looking for Iome. She walked down along a grassy trail beside the river and scared up a family of mallards.

She smelled an apple tree somewhere in the band of woods nearby, and found Iome there, leaning with her back against it, looking to the northwest. The head of a kingly statue lay in the grass, gazing upward with blank eyes. Wind-fallen apples carpeted the ground at Iome's feet. Deer had nibbled many of them. Iome thoughtfully chewed a yellow apple. The sunlight striking the golden fields was piercing, brilliant.

“Are you worrying about Gaborn?” Myrrima asked.

“No,” Iome said. “My thoughts are far more selfish.”

“Really?” Myrrima said. “Good.”

“Good?” Iome asked. She turned and stared into Myrrima's eyes. Over the past three hours she had been so preoccupied that she had not said a word to anyone.

“You don't indulge yourself that way enough,” Myrrima suggested.

“Well, I'm making up for it today. I was just wondering if Gaborn would even spare a thought for me this afternoon.”

“I'm sure he will.”

“That's the trouble,” Iome said. “He'll think about me, and with a thought he'll know whether I'm safe, and where I am.”

“I imagine so,” Myrrima said.

“I wish that I could go with you,” Iome confided. “Jerimas said that Gaborn's nearest kin should deliver the message.”

“Gaborn couldn't risk that,” Myrrima assured her.

“I know,” Iome said. “Now that he knows that I carry his son, he'll send me to ‘safety.' No doubt he'll want me to lie comfortably in bed until it's time to spread my legs and deliver his child.”

“Your Highness!” Myrrima said, affecting a shocked tone that she really did not feel.

Iome grinned wickedly, dark eyes flashing. “I'd go with you if I could. But Gaborn would know. He might even use his Earth Powers to hunt for me, and in wasting his precious time, I might place others in jeopardy. I can't risk that. So it seems that I must do as I'm told.”

“At least you'll be safe,” Myrrima said.

“There is no place in the world safer than at the Earth King's side,” Iome countered. “That's where I want to be.”

Iome tossed her apple to the ground, and took Myrrima's hands. “I'll miss you. Though you've saved my life twice now, I think of you as far more than a protector. I want
you for my friend. Each day, I'll beg the Earth to guide you, until you hurry back.”

“I'll think of you, too,” Myrrima said. She found it hard to speak, could add little more. Words didn't suffice. “I wish you well in the birthing of your son.”

Iome grinned, placed her left hand low on Myrrima's stomach, just above her womb. “May you have a child of your own,” Iome intoned.

It was an old tradition in Heredon for a pregnant woman to offer a blessing upon her barren friends this way. It was merely a gesture of goodwill. Yet Myrrima felt a muscle spasm beneath Iome's hand, and stepped back quickly. For half a second she imagined that Iome's touch really could fill her empty womb.

Iome laughed. “It will happen soon enough, now that your husband … I'm sorry if I've offended, or upset you,” Iome quickly added. “I know that you and your husband have your troubles. I—only want the best for you.”

“No, it's all right,” Myrrima said. “Thank you.” She couldn't hide her uneasiness. Myrrima dared not tell Iome that Borenson had never slept with her, and that she had lied about his miraculous restoration.

“Let me give you another gift,” Iome said, as if hoping to atone for an unintended offense. “You need a necklace—to make up for the one you gave away.” She reached around her own throat, where a necklace lay hidden beneath her tunic. “I've been wearing this, for luck. You'll need it more than I.” She brought out the opal necklace that Binnesman had used to fight the Darkling Glory.

“Your Highness,” Myrrima said, “I could never—I have no present to give you in return.”

“You gave me my life, and the life of my son.”

Iome put the necklace around Myrrima's neck, hugged her, and they walked hand in hand back upstream to find Borenson brushing the mounts.

Borenson said goodbye to the queen and leapt up into his saddle in a single fluid move, as Runelords do. Myrrima
swung onto his warhorse, her back straight, her movements quick and efficient.

Myrrima wondered why Borenson didn't ask for his war-horse back, for it had more endowments than the little piebald mare he rode. Perhaps he no longer wanted it. His horse was a kingly mount, and Borenson was no longer the king's guard. The piebald mare he rode was more appropriate for a minor lord. The two rode south along the river, turned at a bend and waved back through the trees.