David Farland - The Lair of Bones

So Gaborn studied some weapons that Marshal Chondler’s men had retrieved from Castle Arrowshire for just this purpose, and now laid on the ground before him: reaver darts. These were heavy spears made of solid iron, much like a javelin in shape, but longer. Each dart, some eight feet in length, was pointed at each end and tipped with diamond so that it might better pierce reaver hide. Around the iron shaft a grip had been wrapped, made of rough cowhide.

It was an ancient weapon, rarely used over the past thousand years. It looked overly heavy, but with endowments of brawn the dart would be as light as a willow wand in his hand. Still, its very bulk made it clumsy, inelegant.

So what am I to do while Gaborn is out saving the world? Iome wondered. He had already rejected her plea to go with him, and she doubted that he would be easily persuaded. She carried his child, after all, and he would not subject the child to danger.

And Gaborn was afraid not just for her but for himself.

There are things I can do to help, Iome thought, even if he doesn’t let me come, things that Gaborn would never do in his own behalf.

Iome had always been more pragmatic than Gaborn. She admired his virtue, his refined sensibilities. She loved him for his gentleness.

But there comes a time when we must no longer be gentle, she told herself.

Iome went back into the tunnel, past the smoldering campfire into the deep shadows where a pair of facilitators were transferring endowments to Averan. Half a dozen Dedicates lay about the girl, like spent sacrifices.

Iome waited until the head facilitator was free for a moment, and then approached.

“Gaborn will be leaving soon,” she told him. “When he does, send word to our facilitators at Castle Sylvarresta in Heredon. I have many forcibles hidden in the uppermost tomb on the hill. I want the facilitators there to use them to vector endowments to Gaborn. He has Dedicates at Castle Longmot. It shouldn’t be hard.”

“How many endowments should we give him?” the facilitator asked.

“All that they can.”

“Gaborn would never agree to that!” the facilitator said too loudly. “Even as a child, he has never loved the forcible.”

“Of course not,” Iome said, trying to shush him with a gesture. “He must not know what we do for him. I ask only one boon. Gaborn is an oath-bound lord. He will not take endowment by force, nor barter for them with the poor who have no other choice. Those who give the endowments must be adults who understand the danger and who give their strengths voluntarily, out of their own pure desire to serve others.”

The facilitator studied her. He knew how hopeless Gaborn’s quest would be. He also knew that the world could not allow him to fail. “You will lose him, you know,” the facilitator said. “Even if he succeeds on his quest, with so many endowments of metabolism, he will age and die while you are yet young. And you risk something even more profane. He might well become the Sum of All Men, immortal, alone, incapable of dying.”

The thought wrung tears from Iome’s eyes. “Don’t you think I’m aware of the dangers? This is not something that I do lightly.”

“Very well,” the facilitator said. “I will send word to Heredon at once.”

As Averan finished taking her endowments, Iome strode deeper into the cave. Binnesman and his wylde followed in Iome’s wake.

Farther back in the tunnel, Gaborn stood alone with a torch in hand, peering into the void while his knights broke camp.

The opening to the Mouth of the World was more than a hundred feet wide, but quickly it tapered down to a bit over twenty-five feet wide.

The reavers had recently reinforced the walls with mucilage, which hardened into a substance tougher than concrete. The mucilage had been shaped into riblike pillars that arced up gently to reach a point some thirty feet overhead. Every dozen yards a new set of pillars rose. At the apex, where pillars from each side of the tunnel met, ran a bony ridge the length of the crawlway.

The appearance of these pillars was disconcerting. When Iome peered down the tunnel, the supports looked like bony white ribs, as if the trail led through the skeletal remains of some vast worm, long dead.

From the roof above, cave kelp hung in long tendrils, and other hairy plants dangled.

“What are you doing?” Iome asked.

“Wondering how many torches we should take,” Gaborn said. “Carrying too many would be a cumbersome burden, and taking too few will be a disaster.”

“Waxroot burns well,” Binnesman suggested. “We should find some growing along the way.”

“I may have something better than torches,” Iome said, glad to prove her worth. “I took the liberty of bringing a present from the treasury at the Courts of Tide.” She went to her pack, which sat waiting nearby beneath some coils of stout rope, and pulled out a bag filled with jewelry, all set with opals. These were but a small part of the treasures of the Mystarrian court, and represented the vast hoard of jewels collected by Gaborn’s ancestors over a period of more than two thousand years. There were no less than eighty cape pins with opals of every color, to match whatever a lord might have in his courtly wardrobe: black opals from the hills above Westmoore. Fire opals from Indhopal, pearl opals from beyond the Carroll Sea, a blue opal so old that Chancellor Westhaven had told her that no one at court knew where it had come from. There were golden opals flecked with red set in a tarnished golden crown, and necklaces, bracelets, and rings by the score.

She dumped the contents onto the ground near Gaborn’s feet. The jewels gleamed dully in the glow of his torch. “Can you draw the light from them,” she asked Binnesman, “as you did at Castle Sylvarresta?”

“Yes,” Binnesman exulted. “These will be marvelous!” The wizard scattered the jewels into a circle, and then drew runes outside. He waved his staff above them and spoke an incantation, then whispered softly, “Awaken.”

The stones began to glow dimly, each with its own luster. It was like watching the stars come out on a summer’s evening. First, the blue opal caught a spark, and then others joined it.

Yet unlike stars, there seemed to be no end to their glory. Even without a dozen endowments of sight, the resplendent light that shot up from the opals would have bedazzled and pained the eyes.

Streams of lustrous white, like sunlight bouncing off a snowy field, radiated from many opals. But startling colors played among them: streams of blue water running from a sapphire lake, a ruddy gold like an autumn day, greens and reds so fierce that if Iome had had to describe them, words would have failed her.

The stones blazed, and their brightness was such that Iome felt the heat from them, as if from a fire. She was forced to look away, and thus she looked up and saw the colors dancing across the roof of the cave.

Averan gasped, and even the green woman made a cooing sound in wonder.

Binnesman quickly reached down and pawed through the opals, gathering up the brightest. Iome had hastily searched among the treasure chests before she came, and many of the stones that had seemed fairest to her then were cast aside.

“Softer now,” the wizard said as he finished. The opals dimmed, so that no heat burned from them, and yet even their muted light was brighter than any lantern.

“Let us see here,” the wizard muttered. “Who shall need what?”

The wizard first picked up a silver ring that held a fine white stone that blazed hot. “Take care with this one, child,” he said, handing it to Averan. “You can cook your meals with it.”

Averan put the ring on and rejoiced, “It fits like it was made for me!”

“Perhaps it was,” the wizard jested.