David Farland - Runelords 1.pdf - David Farland - margozap

Chapter 1

IT BEGINS IN DARKNESS

Effigies of the Earth King festooned the city around Castle Sylvarresta. Everywhere the effigies could be seen--hanging

beneath shopwindows, standing upright against the walls of the city gates, or nailed beside doorways--stationed any place

where the Earth King might find ingress into a home.

Many of the figures were crude things crafted by children--a few reeds twisted into the form of a man, often with a crown of

oak leaves in its hair. But outside the doors of shops and taverns were more ornate figures of wood, the full size of a man, often

elaborately painted and coifed in fine green wool traveling robes.

In those days, it was said that on Hostenfest Eve the spirit of the earth would fill the effigies and the Earth King would

waken. At his wakening, he would protect the family for another season and help bear the harvest home.

It was a festive season, a season of joy. On Hostenfest Eve the father in a home would play the role of Earth King by setting

gifts before the hearth. Thus, at dawn on the first day of Hostenfest, adults received flasks of new wine or kegs of stout ale. For

the young girls the Earth King brought toy dolls woven of straw and wildflowers, while boys might get swords or oxcarts

carved from ash.

All these bounties delivered by the Earth King represented but a token of the Earth King's wealth--the vast hoards of the

"fruits of the forest and of the field" which legend said he bestowed on those who loved the land.

So the homes and shops around the castle were well adorned that night, on the nineteenth day of the Month of Harvest, four

days before Hostenfest. All the shops were clean and well stocked for the autumn fair that would shortly come.

The streets lay barren, for dawn was approaching. Aside from the city guards and a few nursing mothers, the only ones who

had reason to be up so late of the night were the King's bakers, who at that very moment were drawing the foam off the King's

ale and mixing it with their dough so that the loaves would rise by dawn. True, the eels were running on their annual migration

in the River Wye, so one might imagine a few fishermen to be out by night, but the fishermen had emptied their wicker eel

traps an hour past midnight and had delivered kegs of live eels to the butcher for skinning and salting well before the second

watch.

Outside the city walls, the greens south of Castle Sylvarresta were dotted with dark pavilions, for caravans from Indhopal

had come north to sell the harvest of summer spices. The camps outside the castle were quiet but for the occasional braying of

a donkey.

The walls of the city were shut, and all foreigners had been escorted from the merchants' quarter hours ago. No men moved

on the streets at that time of night--only a few ferrin.

Thus there was no one to see what transpired in a dark alley. Even the King's far-seer, who had endowments of sight from

seven people and stood guard on the old graak's aerie above the Dedicates' Keep, could not have spotted movement down in

the narrow streets of the merchants' quarter.

But in Cat's Alley, just off the Butterwalk, two men struggled in the shadows for control of a knife.

Could you have seen them, you might have been reminded of tarantulas in battle: arms and legs twisting in frenzy as the

knife flashed upward, scuffling as feet groped for purchase on the worn cobblestones, both men grunting and straining with

deadly intent.

Both men were dressed in black. Sergeant Dreys of the King's Guard wore black livery embroidered with the silver boar of

House Sylvarresta. Dreys' assailant wore a baggy black cotton burnoose in a style favored by assassins out of Muyyatin.

Though Sergeant Dreys outweighed the assassin by fifty pounds, and though Dreys had endowments of brawn from three

men and could easily lift six hundred pounds over his head, he feared he could not win this battle.

Only starlight lit the street, and precious little of that made its way here into Cat's Alley. The alley was barely seven feet

wide, and homes here stood three stories tall, leaning on sagging foundations till the awnings of their roofs nearly met a few

yards above Dreys' head.

Dreys could hardly see a damned thing back here. All he could make out of his assailant was the gleam of the man's eyes and

teeth, a pearl ring in his left nostril, the flash of the knife. The smell of woodlands clung to his cotton tunic as fiercely as the

scents of anise and curry held to his breath.

No, Dreys was not prepared to fight here in Cat's Alley. He had no weapons and wore only the linen surcoat that normally fit

over his ring mail, along with pants and boots. One does not go armed and armored to meet his lover.

He'd only stepped into the alley a moment ago, to make certain the road ahead was clear of city guards, when he heard a

small scuffling behind a stack of yellow gourds by one of the market stalls. Dreys had thought he'd disturbed a ferrin as it

hunted for mice or for some bit of cloth to wear. He'd turned, expecting to see a pudgy rat-shaped creature run for cover, when

the assassin sprang from the shadows.

Now the assassin moved swiftly, grasping the knife tight, shifting his weight, twisting the blade. It flashed dangerously close

to Dreys' ear, but the sergeant fought it off--till the man's arm snaked around, stabbing at Dreys' throat. Dreys managed to hold

the smaller man's wrist back for a moment. "Murder. Bloody murder!" Dreys shouted.

A spy! he thought. I've caught a spy! He could only imagine that he'd disturbed the fellow in mapping out the castle grounds.

He thrust a knee into the assassin's groin, lifting the man in the air. Pulled the man's knife arm full length and tried to twist it.

The assassin let go of the knife with one hand and rabbit-punched Dreys in the chest.

Dreys' ribs snapped. Obviously the little man had also been branded with runes of power. Dreys guessed that the assassin

had the brawn of five men, maybe more. Though both men were incredibly strong, endowments of brawn increased strength

only to the muscles and tendons. They did not invest one's bones with any superior hardness. So this match was quickly

degenerating into what Dreys would call "a bone-bash."

He struggled to hold the assassin's wrists. For a long moment they wrestled.

Dreys heard deep-voiced shouts: "That way, I think! Over there!" They came from the left. A street over was Cheap Street--

where the bunched houses did not press so close, and where Sir Guilliam had built his new four-story manor. The voices had to

be from the City Guard--the same guards Dreys had been avoiding--whom Sir Guilliam bribed to rest beneath the lantern post

at the manor gate.

"Cat's Alley!" Dreys screamed. He only had to hold the assassin a moment more--make sure the fellow didn't stab him, or

escape.

The Southerner broke free in desperation, punched him again, high in the chest. More ribs snapped. Dreys felt little pain.

One tends to ignore such distractions when struggling to stay alive.

In desperation the assassin ripped the knife free. Dreys felt a tremendous rush of fear and kicked the assassin's right ankle.

He felt more than heard a leg shatter.

The assassin lunged, knife flashing. Dreys twisted away, shoved the fellow. The blade struck wide of its mark, slashed

Dreys' ribs, a grazing blow.

Now Dreys grabbed the fellow's elbow, had the man half-turned around. The assassin stumbled, unable to support himself on

his broken leg. Dreys kicked the leg again for good measure, and pushed the fellow back.

Dreys glanced frantically into the shadows for sign of some cobblestone that might have come loose from its mortar. He

wanted a weapon. Behind Dreys was an inn called the Churn. Beside the flowering vines and the effigy of the Earth King at its

front window sat a small butter churn. Dreys tried to rush to the churn, thinking to grab its iron plunger and use it to bludgeon

the assassin.

He pushed the assassin, thinking the smaller man would go flying. Instead the fellow spun, one hand clutching Dreys'

surcoat. Dreys saw the knife blade plunge.

He raised an arm to block.

The blade veered low and struck deep, slid up through his belly, past shattered ribs. Tremendous pain blossomed in Dreys'

gut, shot through his shoulders and arms, a pain so wide Dreys thought the whole world would feel it with him.

For an eternity, Dreys stood, looking down. Sweat dribbled into his wide eyes. The damned assassin had slit him open like a

fish. Yet the assassin still held him--had thrust his knife arm up to the wrist into Dreys' chest, working the blade toward Dreys'

heart, while his left hand reached for Dreys' pocket, groping for something.

His hand clutched at the book in Dreys' pocket, feeling it through the material of the surcoat. The assassin smiled.

Dreys wondered, Is that what you want? A book?

Last night, as the City Guard had been escorting foreigners from the merchants' quarter, Dreys had been approached by a

man from Tuulistan, a trader whose tent was pitched near the woods. The fellow spoke little Rofehavanish, had seemed

apprehensive. He had only said, "A gift--for king. You give? Give to king?"

With much ceremonial nodding, Dreys had agreed, had looked at the book absently. The Chronicles of Owatt, Emir of

Tuulistan. A thin volume bound in lambskin. Dreys had pocketed it, thinking to pass it along at dawn.

Dreys hurt so terribly now that he could not shout, could not move. The world spun; he pulled free of the assassin, tried to

turn and run. His legs felt as weak as a kitten's. He stumbled. The assassin grabbed Dreys' hair from behind, yanking his chin

up to expose his throat.

Damn you, Dreys thought, haven't you killed me enough? In one final desperate act, he yanked the book from his pocket,

hurled it across the Butterwalk.

There on the far side of the street a rosebush struggled up an arbor near a pile of barrels. Dreys knew this place well, could

barely see the yellow roses on dark vines. The book skidded toward them.

The assassin cursed in his own tongue, tossing Dreys aside, and limped after the book.

Dreys could hear nothing but a dull buzz as he struggled to his knees. He glimpsed movement at the edge of the street--the

assassin groping among the roses. Three larger shadows came rushing down the road from the left. The flash of drawn swords,

starlight glinting off iron caps. The City Guard.

Dreys pitched forward onto the cobblestones.

In the predawn, a flock of geese honked as it made its way south through the silvery starlight, the voices sounding to him for

all the world like the barking of a distant pack of dogs.

Chapter 2

THOSE WHO LOVE THE LAND

That morning a few hours after the attack on Dreys and a hundred or so miles south of Castle Sylvarresta, Prince Gaborn Val

Orden faced troubles that were not so harrowing. Yet none of his lessons in the House of Understanding could have prepared

the eighteen-year-old prince for his encounter with a mysterious young woman in the grand marketplace at Bannisferre.

He'd been lost in thought at a vendor's stall in the south market, studying wine chillers of polished silver. The vendor had

many fine iron brewing pots, but his prize was the three wine chillers--large bowls for ice with complementing smaller pitchers

that fit inside. The bowls were of such high quality that they looked to be of ancient duskin workmanship. But no duskin had

walked the earth in a thousand years, and these howls could not have been that old. Each bowl had the clawed feet of a reaver

and featured scenes of hounds running in a leafy wood; the pitchers were adorned with images of a young lord on a horse, his

lance at the ready, bearing down on a reaver mage. Once the pitchers were set into their silver bowls, the images

complemented one another--the young lord battling the reaver mage while the hunting dogs surrounded them.

The ornaments on the wine chiller were all cast using some method that Gaborn could not fathom. The silversmith's detailed

workmanship was breathtaking.

Such were the wonders of Bannisferre's goods that Gaborn hadn't even noticed the young woman sidle up to him until he

smelled the scent of rose petals. (The woman who stands next to me wears a dress that is kept in a drawer filled with rose

petals, he'd realized, on some subconscious level.) Even then, he'd been so absorbed in studying the wine chillers that he

imagined she was only a stranger, awed by the same marvelous bowls and pitchers. He didn't glance her way until she took his

hand, seizing his attention.

She grasped his left hand in her right, lightly clasping his fingers, then squeezed.

Her soft touch electrified him. He did not pull away. Perhaps, he thought, she mistakes me for another. He glanced sidelong

at her. She was tall and beautiful, perhaps nineteen, her dark-brown hair adorned with mother-of-pearl combs. Her eyes were

black, and even the whites of her eyes were so dark as to be a pale blue. She wore a simple, cloud-colored silk gown with

flowing sleeves--an elegant style lately making its way among the wealthy ladies of Lysle. She wore a belt of ermine, clasped

with a silver flower, high above the navel, just beneath her firm breasts. The neckline was high, modest. Over her shoulders

hung a silk scarf of deepest crimson, so long that its fringes swept the ground. She was not merely beautiful, he decided. She

was astonishing. She smiled at him secretively, shyly, and Gaborn smiled back, tight-lipped-hopeful and troubled all at once.

Her actions reminded him of the endless tests that one of his hearthmasters might have devised for him in the House of

Understanding--yet this was no test.

Gaborn did not know the young woman. He knew no one in all the vast city of Bannisferre--which seemed odd, that he

should not have one acquaintance from a city this large, with its towering gray stone songhouses with their exotic arches, the

white pigeons wheeling through the blue sunlit sky above the chestnut trees. Yet Gaborn knew no one here, not even a minor

merchant. He was that far from home.

He stood near the edge of a market, not far from the docks on the broad banks of the south fork of River Dwindell--a stone's

throw from Smiths' Row, where the open-air hearths gave rise to the rhythmic ring of hammers, the creaking of bellows, and

plumes of smoke.

He felt troubled that he'd been so lulled by the peacefulness of Bannisferre. He'd not even bothered to glance at this woman

when she had stood next to him for a moment. Twice in his life, he'd been the target of assassins. They'd taken his mother, his

grandmother, his brother and two sisters. Yet Gaborn stood here now as carefree as a peasant with a stomach full of ale.

No, Gaborn decided quickly, I've never seen her; she knows I'm a stranger, yet holds my hand. Most bewildering.

In the House of Understanding, in the Room of Faces, Gaborn had studied the subtleties of bodily communication--the way

secrets revealed themselves in an enemy's eyes, how to differentiate traces of worry from consternation or fatigue in the lines

around a lover's mouth.

Gaborn's hearthmaster, Jorlis, had been a wise teacher, and over the past few long winters Gaborn had distinguished himself

in his studies.

He'd learned that princes, highwaymen, merchants, and beggars all wore their expressions and stances as if part of some

agreed-upon costume, and so Gaborn had mastered the art of putting on any costume at will. He could take command of a

roomful of young men simply by standing with head high, cause a merchant to lower his prices with a balking smile.

Concealed by nothing more than a fine traveling cloak, Gaborn learned to lower his eyes in a busy marketplace and play the

pauper, slinking through the crowd so that those who saw him did not recognize a prince, but wondered, Ah, where did that

beggar boy steal such a nice cloak?

So Gaborn could read the human body, and yet he remained a perpetual mystery to others. With two endowments of wit, he

could memorize a large tome in an hour. He'd learned more in his eight years in the House of Understanding than most

commoners could learn in a life of concerted study.

As a Runelord, he had three endowments of brawn and two of stamina, and in battle practice he could easily cross weapons

with men twice his size. If ever a highwayman dared attack him, Gaborn would prove just how deadly a Runelord could be.

Yet in the eyes of the world, because of his few endowments of glamour, he seemed to be little more than a startlingly

handsome young man. And in a city like Bannisferre, with its singers and actors from across the realm, even beauty such as his

was common.

He studied the woman who held him, considered her stance. Chin high, confident, yet slightly tilted. A question. She poses a

question of me.

The touch of her hand--weak enough to indicate hesitancy, strong enough to suggest...ownership. She was claiming him?

Is this an attempt at seduction? he wondered. But no--the body stance felt wrong. If she had wanted to seduce, she'd have

touched the small of his back, a shoulder, even his buttock or chest. Yet as she held him she stood slightly away, hesitating to

claim his body space.

Then he understood: a marriage proposal. Very uncustomary, even in Heredon. For a woman of her quality, the family

should have easily arranged a marriage.

Gaborn surmised, Ah, she is orphaned. She hopes to arrange her own match!

Yet even that answer did not satisfy him. Why did not a wealthy lord arrange a match for her?

Gaborn considered how she must see him now. A merchant's son. He'd been playing the merchant; and though he was

eighteen, his growth had not come in fully. Gaborn had dark hair and blue eyes, traits common in North Crowthen. So he'd

dressed like a fop from that kingdom, one with more wealth than taste, out wandering the town while his father conducted

more important business. He wore green hose and pants that gathered above the knee, along with a fine white cotton shirt with

ballooning sleeves and silver buttons. Over the shirt, he wore a jerkin of dark green cotton trimmed in finely tooled leather,

decorated with freshwater pearls. Completing the disguise was a broad-brimmed hat, on which an amber clasp held a single

ostrich plume.

Gaborn had dressed this way because he did not want to travel openly on his mission to spy out Heredon's defenses, to gauge

the true extent of the wealth of its lands, the hardiness of its people.

Gaborn glanced back toward his bodyguard Borenson. The streets here were crowded, made narrow by the vendors' stalls. A

beefy, bronze-skinned young man with no shirt and red pants was herding a dozen goats through the throng, whipping them

with a willow switch. Across the road, beneath a stone arch beside the door to the inn, Borenson stood grinning broadly at

Gaborn's predicament. He was tall and broad-shouldered, with a balding head of red hair, a thick beard, and laughing blue

eyes.

Beside Borenson stood a skeletal fellow with blond hair cropped short. To match his chestnut eyes he wore a historian's

austere brownish robes and a disapproving scowl. The man, simply called by his vocation, Days, was a chronicler of sorts--a

devotee of the Time Lords--who had been following Gaborn now since Gaborn was an infant, recording his every word and

deed. He took his name from the order of "the Days." Like every man of his sect, Days had given up his own name, his own

identity, when he'd twinned his mind with that of another of his order. Days watched Gaborn now, keenly. Alert, eyes

flickering about. Memorizing everything. The woman who held Gaborn's hand followed his glance, noting the bodyguard and

Days. A young merchant lord with a guard was common. One shadowed by a Days was rare. It marked Gaborn as someone of

wealth and import, perhaps the son of a guildmaster, yet this woman could not possibly have known Gaborn's true identity.

She pulled his hand, invited him to stroll. He hesitated. "Do you see anything in market that interests you?" she asked,

smiling. Her sweet voice was as inviting as the cardamom-flavored pastries sold here in the market, yet slightly mocking.

Clearly, she wanted to know if she interested him. Yet those around her would mistakenly believe she spoke of the wine

chillers.

"The silver shows some decent handiwork," Gaborn said. Using the powers of his Voice, he put a slight emphasis on hand.

Without ever recognizing why, she would believe that in Understanding's House, he had studied in the Room of Hands, as rich

merchants did. Let her believe me to be a merchant.

The vendor of the stall, who had patiently ignored Gaborn until now, lurched from under the shade of his rectangular

umbrella, calling, "The sir would like a fine chiller for the madam?"

Until a moment ago Gaborn had seemed only a merchant boy, one who might have reported to his father any interesting

wares. Now perhaps the merchant thought him a newlywed, with a wife far more handsome than himself. Merchant lords often

married their children off young, seeking monetary alliances.

So the vendor thinks I must buy the silver to humor my wife. Of course such a lovely woman would rule her household.

Since the merchant did not know her, Gaborn imagined that she would also have to be a stranger to Bannisferre. A traveler

from the north?

The young woman smiled kindly at the vendor. "I think not today," she teased. "You have some fine chillers, but we have

better at home." She turned her back, playing her role as wife exquisitely. This is how it would be if we married, her actions

seemed to say. I'd make no costly demands.

The vendor's face fell in dismay. It was unlikely that more than one or two merchants in all the Kingdoms of Rofehavan had

such a fine wine cooler.

She pulled Gaborn along. Suddenly, Gaborn felt uneasy. In the far south, ladies of Indhopal sometimes wore rings or

brooches with poisoned needles in them. They would try to lure wealthy travelers to an inn, then murder and rob them. It could

be that this beauty had nefarious designs.

Yet he doubted it. A quick glance showed that Borenson was certainly more amused than concerned. He laughed and

blushed, as if to ask, And where do you think you're going?

Borenson, too, was a student of body language--particularly that of women. He never took risks with his lord's safety.

The woman squeezed Gaborn's hand, readjusting her grip, holding him more firmly. Was she seeking a greater claim to his

attentions?

"Pardon me if I seem over familiar, good sir," she said. "Have you ever noticed someone from a distance, and felt a tug in

your heart?"

Her touch thrilled him, and Gaborn wanted to believe that, indeed, she'd seen him from afar and fallen in love.

"No, not like this," he said. Yet he felt it a lie. He'd once fallen in love from afar.

The sun shone on them; the skies were brilliant. The air blowing off the river smelled warm and sweet, carrying the scent of

hay fields from across the shore. On such a fine day, how could anyone feel anything but invigorated, alive?

The cobbles on the street here were smooth with age. Half a dozen flower girls strolled barefoot through the crowd, calling

for patrons in clear voices. They blew past, a breeze rippling a wheat field. They all wore faded dresses and white aprons. They

held the centers of their aprons up with one hand, making their aprons into a kind of sack, sacks filled with riotous colors--

brilliant burgundy cornflowers and white daisies, long-stemmed roses in deepest reds and peach. Poppies and bundles of

sweet-scented lavender.

Gaborn watched the girls drift by, feeling that their beauty was as stunning as that of larks in flight, knowing he would never

forget their smiles. Six girls, all with blond or light-brown hair.

His father was camped with his retinue not more than a few hours' ride off. Seldom did his father let Gaborn wander without

heavy guard, but this time his father had implored him to take a little side excursion, saying, "You must study Heredon. A land

is more than its castles and soldiers. In Bannisferre you will fall in love with this land, and its people, as I have."

The young woman squeezed his hand tighter.

Pain showed in her brow as she watched the flower girls. Gaborn suddenly realized what she was, how desperately this

young woman needed him. Gaborn nearly laughed, for he saw how easily she could have bewitched him.

He squeezed her hand, warmly, as a friend. He felt certain that he could have nothing to do with her, yet he wished her well.

"My name is Myrrima..." she said, leaving a silence for him in which to offer his own name.

"A beautiful name, for a beautiful girl."

"And you are?"

"Thrilled by intrigue," he said. "Aren't you?"

"Not always." She smiled, a demand for his name.

Twenty paces behind, Borenson tapped the scabbard of his saber against a passing goat cart, a sign that he'd left his post at

the hostel's doorway and was now following. The Days would be at his side.

Myrrima glanced back. "He's a fine-looking guardsman."

"A fine man," Gaborn agreed.

"You are traveling on business? You like Bannisferre?"

"Yes, and yes."

She abruptly pulled her hand away. "You don't make commitments easily," she said, turning to face him, her smile faltering

just a bit. Perhaps she sensed now that the chase was up, that he would not marry her.

"No. Never. Perhaps it is a weakness in my character," Gaborn said.

"Why not?" Myrrima asked, still playful. She stopped by a fountain where a statue of Edmon Tillerman stood holding a pot

with three spigots that poured water down over the faces of three bears.

"Because lives are at stake," Gaborn answered. He sat at the edge of the fountain, glanced into the pool. Startled by his

presence, huge polliwogs wriggled down into the green water. "When I commit to someone, I accept responsibility for them. I

offer my life, or at least a portion of it. When I accept someone's commitment, I expect nothing less than total commitment--

their lives--in return. This reciprocal relationship is...it must define me."

Myrrima frowned, made uneasy by his serious tone. "You are not a merchant. You...talk like a lord!"

He could see her considering. She would know he was not of Sylvarresta's line, not a lord from Heredon. So he would have

to be a foreign dignitary, merely traveling in Heredon, an out-of-the-way country, one of the farthest north in all the Kingdoms

of Rofehavan.

"I should have known--you are so handsome," she said. "So you're a Runelord, come to study our land. Tell me, do you like

it enough to seek betrothal to Princess Iome Sylvarresta?"

Gaborn admired the way that she drew the proper conclusion. "I'm surprised at how green your land is, and how strong your

people are," Gaborn said. "It is richer than I'd imagined."

"Will Princess Sylvarresta accept you?" Still, she was searching for answers. She wondered which poor castle he hailed

from. She sat beside him on the edge of the fountain.

Gaborn shrugged, feigning less concern than he felt. "I know her only by reputation," he admitted. "Perhaps you know her

better than I. How do you think she will look on me?"

"You are handsome enough," Myrrima said, frankly studying his broad shoulders, the long dark-brown hair that fell from

under his plumed cap. By now she must have realized he was not dark enough of hair to be from Muyyatin, or any of the

Indhopalese nations.

Then she gasped, eyes going wide.

She stood up quickly and stepped back, unsure whether to remain standing, curtsy, or fall down and prostrate herself at his

feet. "Forgive me, Prince Orden--I, uh--did not see your resemblance to your father!"

Myrrima lurched back three paces, as if wishing she could run blindly away, for she now knew that he was not the son of

some poor baron who called a pile of rocks his fortress, but that he came from Mystarria itself.

"You know my father?" Gaborn asked, rising and stepping forward. He took her hand once again, trying to reassure her that

no offense had been taken.

"I--once he rode through town, on his way to the hunt," Myrrima said. "I was but a girl. I can't forget his face."

"He has always liked Heredon," Gaborn said.

"Yes...yes, he comes often enough," Myrrima said, clearly discomfited. "I--pardon me if I troubled you, my lord. I did not

mean to be presumptuous. Oh..."

Myrrima turned and began to run.

"Stop," Gaborn said, letting just a little of the power of his Voice take her.

She stopped as if she'd been struck by a fist, turned to face him. As did several other people nearby.

Unprepared for the command, they obeyed as if it had come from their own minds. When they saw that they were not the

object of his attention, some stared at him curiously while a few started away, unnerved by the appearance of a Runelord in

their midst.

Suddenly, Borenson hovered at Gaborn's back, with the Days.

"Thank you for stopping, Myrrima," Gaborn said.

"You may someday be my king," she answered, as if she'd reasoned out her response.

"Do you think so?" Gaborn said. "Do you think Iome will have me?"

The question startled her. Gaborn continued. "Please, tell me. You are a perceptive woman, and beautiful. You would do

well at court. I value your opinion."

Gaborn held his breath, waiting for her frank assessment. She couldn't know how important her answer was to him. Gaborn

needed this alliance. He needed Heredon's strong people, its impregnable fortresses, its wide-open lands, ready to till. True, his

own Mystarria was a rich land-ripe, its markets sprawling and crowded--but after years of struggle the Wolf Lord Raj Ahten

had finally conquered the Indhopalese Kingdoms, and Gaborn knew that Raj Ahten would not stop there. By spring, he would

either invade the barbarian realms of Inkarra or he would turn north to the kingdoms in Rofehavan.

In reality, it didn't matter where the Wolf Lord attacked next. In the wars to come, Gaborn knew he'd never be able to

adequately defend his people in Mystarria. He needed this land.

Even though Heredon had not seen a major war in four hundred years, the realm's great battlements remained intact. Even

the fortress at lowly Tor Ingel, set among the cliffs, could be defended better than most of Gaborn's estates in Mystarria.

Gaborn needed Heredon. He needed Iome's hand in marriage.

More important, though he dared not admit it to anyone, something deep inside told him that he needed Iome herself. An odd

compulsion drew him here, against all common sense. As if invisible fiery threads were connected to his heart and mind.

Sometimes at night he'd lie awake, feeling the tug, an odd glowing sensation that spread outward from the center of his chest,

as if a warm stone lay there. Those threads seemed to pull him toward Iome. He'd fought the urge to seek her hand for a year

now, until he could fight no more.

Myrrima studied Gaborn once again with her marvelous frankness. Then laughed easily. "No," she said. "Iome will not have

you."

There had been no hesitancy in her answer. She had said it simply, as if she'd seen the truth of it. Then she smiled at him

seductively. But I want you, her smile said.

"You sound certain." Gaborn tried to seem casual. "Is it merely my clothes? I did bring more suitable attire."

David Farland - Runelords 1.pdf

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