David Farland - The Lair of Bones

The ring glowed fiercely, and Averan stroked it and whispered, “Softer now.” The light from it dimmed, as if she wore a star upon her finger.

For his wylde, the wizard chose a necklace with dozens of golden opals in it. He draped it over her head, and the green woman merely stared into the stones, bedazzled.

Last of all, he picked cape pins for himself and Gaborn.

Gaborn’s was the pin with the green opal, which blazed the brightest of all the colored stones. “A singular stone for a singular man,” Binnesman said as he pinned Gaborn’s cape.

He stretched out his hand above the rest of the jewels, preparing to snuff out their light, when Iome grabbed his wrist and said, “Wait. I’m going with you.”

She reached into the pile of jewels and picked up the ancient golden crown. Not many of its opals were bright, but with the hundreds of opals therein, Iome suspected that she could see nearly a quarter of a mile back into the cave.

Gaborn stared at her evenly. “No, you won’t be coming. I have another task for you.” He glanced up, as if afraid that others might hear. “If Chondler fails us, if he is overwhelmed at Carris, then I suspect that all of my Chosen may die. But there may still be one slim hope.”

“Name it,” Iome said.

“Some folks might flee to safety on the sea,” Gaborn said. “Reavers hate water, and cannot see far enough to safely reconnoiter the oceans. They never surface on islands. So why not take some people to safety? You could sail north, into the frozen seas where no reavers would dare follow!”

“So,” Iome said, letting only the slightest tone of bitterness creep into her voice, “you still hope to send me to safety?”

“I’m hoping that you will lead our people to safety.”

“Fine,” Iome said. “Send word to Chancellor Westhaven for Mystarria, and to Chancellor Rodderman in Heredon, and let them make the preparations. They don’t need my help.”

“But—” Gaborn began to say.

“Don’t play upon my sense of duty,” Iome warned him. “I’m not some servant. I’m sworn to your service more closely than any man could be. I know what you’re thinking. You want to send me to safety, but you are the Earth King, and the only place that I can be safe is at your side. You swore, you swore in your wedding vows, that you would be my protector.”

“I don’t know what we’ll find down there,” Gaborn argued. “I can’t promise that you’ll be safe.”

“Then what good is your Earth sight?” Iome asked. “You’re as blind to our fate as any common man. But I can promise you this. When others falter, I’ll be your shield. And while you’re thinking about how to save the world, I’ll be thinking about how to save you.”

Gaborn peered hard into her face, searching for an argument. He said as if the words were wrenched from him in agony, “All right. We will face the pit together.”

Sir Borenson and his wife Myrrima fled the village of Fenraven before dawn, when the mist was lifting from the mire while the stars drifted from the heavens like sparkling cinders.

Borenson first raided the kitchen, grabbing a few sausages and some loaves of bread, which he stuffed in his pack. Then he crept to the door of the inn, warhammer in hand, and peered out into the street. Cottages hunkered dazedly in the darkness, casting long shadows, and the bare limbs of trees rose up all around behind them like black fingers, silently straining to catch the falling stars. Nothing in the village seemed to be awake. No smoke from a morning fire yet drifted from a chimney. No dogs barked, no pigs grunted curiously.

Yet Borenson’s mind was uneasy, for he still remembered the hooded man who had followed them two nights before. The fellow had ridden a force horse in the darkness, braving the wight-infested bogs of the Westlands. That showed that he was a bold man. But he had also ridden hooded, with sheepskin boots pulled over the hooves of his mount to soften its footfalls, in the manner of assassins out of Inkarra. He might have just been a lone highwayman, hoping to waylay unsuspecting merchants. But Borenson had long ago learned to nurture his suspicions.

So he watched the street for several long minutes, peering into the shadows. When he felt reasonably certain that no one was watching, he whispered, “Let’s go,” and crept like a shadow out the door, around the side of the inn, and into the stables.

Inside the stables a lantern burned dimly, and the stalls were dark. The hay up in the loft smelled moldy, which one might have expected in late winter or early spring, but which seemed odd here in autumn. Borenson watched Myrrima as she lit a lantern. She did not wince when she lifted the light from its hook, and as she carried it to the stalls, she moved gracefully, seeming to flow smoothly over the ground like water. A night past, she had managed to banish a wight with cold iron, but its touch had nearly stopped her heart. Now, to all appearances, her healing was complete.

Myrrima held the lantern high as they neared the stalls, searching for their horses, and Borenson grunted in surprise, giving a little laugh.

“What?” Myrrima whispered.

“My piebald mare! Look, she’s here! Someone must have found her.” She was stabled next to Borenson’s own warhorse. He’d found the little mare outside Carris, and in the past few days had become quite fond of her. But he’d lost her while fleeing the wight. She’d struck her hoof on a root while running in the darkness. “Do you think she’ll be lame?”

“I hope not,” Myrrima said. “I’m the one who found her outside town yesterday afternoon. Her hoof was split, and the poor thing looked ready for slaughter, so I used the last of Binnesman’s salve on her.”

“Binnesman’s wondrous salve?” Borenson asked, peering through the slats in the stable at the horse’s hoof. “I thought I’d used it all on you.”

“You dropped the tin,” Myrrima said, “but there was a tad left.”

There was a white blaze on the mare’s hoof, as if the poor beast had injured it a year ago, but otherwise it looked fine. The mare held her weight evenly, and did not limp as she ambled close to Borenson, to nuzzle him.

Borenson stroked the horse with a sense of loss. “The old wizard outdid himself with that batch. We’ll not see the likes of that ever again, I fear.” The salve had saved Myrrima’s life, and Borenson’s, performing wonder upon wonder. But now it was gone.

“Blessed be the brooks that flow from the slopes of Cerinpyre, and glad be the fish that swim therein,” Myrrima said, almost singing. Borenson wondered at her words, for it sounded as if she quoted a song that he had never heard. But Cerinpyre was the name of a tall mountain west of Balington, where Binnesman had made the salve.

“How far is it to Inkarra?” Myrrima asked, changing the subject.

“It’s seventy miles from here to Batenne,” Borenson said. “If we make good time, we can be there before noon, and I can take my endowments at the home of the marquis. We’ll reach the southern border forty miles beyond. The passage over the mountains into the Hidden Kingdoms may be slow, but afterward, the roads should be good all the way to Iselferion.”

“That’s where the Storm King lives?” Myrrima asked.

Borenson nodded. “We should be there by nightfall. We can deliver Gaborn’s message to the Storm King—and perhaps even learn the whereabouts of Daylan Hammer.”