David Farland - The Lair of Bones

“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 supposed 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.

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.