David Farland - The Lair of Bones

Myrrima saw anger on her husband’s face. “What’s wrong?” she asked under her breath, lest the guards hear her.

“This—” Borenson said, nodding toward the castle. “The people of Carris bleed and die on the castle walls less than three hundred miles from here, while the marquis and his dandy knights cower in splendor. I have half a mind to toss the fine flower boxes from the tower windows, and hurl the marquis out after them.”

Myrrima didn’t know what to say. The marquis was a powerful man from one of the oldest and wealthiest families in all of Rofehavan, while Borenson was only a Knight Equitable. For days now she had been afraid that she would lose him. She could feel him slipping away. His growing resentment toward Gaborn, the marquis, and indeed all lords was certainly part of the problem.

By the time that they reached the marquis’s Keep, Borenson was in a black mood. His jaw was set, and the blood flowed hot in his face. A servant showed them into a stately antechamber where fine paintings of the marquis and his ancestors hung in gilt frames. Enormous candelabras graced the mantel above the fireplace.

“Wait here,” the servant begged.

Borenson paced like an angry dog, and looked as if he would go follow the servant at any minute, tracking down the marquis. Yet they had not waited two minutes when a young man raced in, face flushed and eyes shining with eagerness.

“Sir Borenson, is it true?” the lad begged. “Is the Earth King battling reavers at Carris?”

Borenson looked that lad over. “Do I know you?”

“I’m Bernaud—”

“The marquis’s son?” Borenson asked in disbelief.

“At your service,” Bernaud said with a half bow.

A wicked twinkle sparked in Borenson’s eye. “Aye, your king is battling reavers,” Borenson said, “as you will be—soon.”

At that moment, a servant entered through the same open door. “The marquis begs you to join him for breakfast in the Great Room.”

Borenson and Myrrima followed the servant, with Bernaud trailing, into the marquis’s Great Hall. An enormous table, some fifty feet long, occupied the length of the room. The table was set with enough pastries, fruit, and boar’s ham to feed a dozen men, but the marquis sat there all alone, as if brooding over which dainty to taste.

Above the table, the shields of the marquis’s ancestors adorned the walls. Each shield, plated with gold foil, was a monument to the great families from which the marquis had descended. Myrrima knew little of such lore, yet even she recognized some of the devices: here was the crouching lion of Merigast the Defiant, who stood fast against the sorcerers of the toth at Woglen’s Tower when all hope of rescue had failed. And there were the double eagles of King Hoevenor of Delf, who drove the arr from the Alcair Mountains. Each shield was elegant, and many had been forged by the finest craftsmen of their era. Yet most impressive of all was a small round shield above the head of the table, a crude thing that almost looked as if a child might have fashioned it on his own. On it was painted a red graak, wings spread as it soared above two worlds. Myrrima did not doubt that it was the shield of Ferrece Geboren himself, son of the Earth King Erden Geboren. In his own day he had been called The Ferocious, for he was fearless in battle. According to legend, at the age of thirteen he had instigated the journey to the netherworld with the Wizard Sendavian and Daylan of the Black Hammer. There Ferrece implored the Bright Ones to fight in mankind’s behalf. In all the lore of knights, no man was more universally admired than Ferrece Geboren.

It was a sad reminder that Ferecia had once been a proud land. An even sadder reminder of its ruin was the marquis himself, who sat just beneath the shield in a silk housecoat, looking down his nose at Myrrima and Borenson. He held a white perfumed kerchief up to his face, and by his sour expression seemed appalled that two people as squalid as Myrrima and her husband should appear in his appointments.

“Oh dear,” the marquis said, “Sir Borenson, it is so good to see you! You look...well.”

“And you,” Borenson said with a strain, the veins bulging in his neck. “Although, last time we met, you had four or five endowments of glamour to your credit. You look to be...a much more withered specimen of humanity without them.” The marquis’s face paled at the insult. Borenson affected a cough into his hand, and then clapped the marquis on the shoulder in a manner that was common with men in arms. The marquis looked down at the offensive hand, eyes popping.

Borenson seemed as if he were ready for murder, and the marquis looked as if he might faint.

“I, I, I trust that all is well with...our king,” the marquis stammered.

“Oh, the kingdom is in a shambles, as I’m sure you know,” Borenson said. “So, Gaborn sent me to give you an urgent message. As you also know, he is battling reavers south of Carris.”

“Is he?” the marquis affected ignorance.

“He is,” Borenson affirmed, “And he wonders where his old friend, the Marquis de Ferecia is hiding.”

“He does?” the marquis asked.

“You did receive the call to battle?”

“Indeed,” the marquis pleaded, “and I prepared to ride at once, but then Raj Ahten destroyed the Blue Tower and my men were left with less than two dozen endowments between them. Surely, one cannot be expected to fight without endowments!”

“One can,” Borenson said dangerously, “and one must. At Carris men, women, and children charged into the reavers’ ranks without regard for their own lives. They fought with the strength of desperation because they had no choice.”

“A nasty business, that,” the marquis said, appalled.

“And now,” Borenson said, “it’s your turn.” Beads of sweat began to break on the marquis’s brow. He held the perfumed kerchief closer to his face. “You are to equip your soldiers and ride toward Carris at once, giving battle to any foe that presents itself, be it man or reaver.”

“Oh dear,” the marquis moaned.

“Father, may I go?” Bernaud cut in.

“I think no—” the marquis began.

“A fine idea,” Borenson urged. “You’ll want to present your son to the Earth King, both as a show of family solidarity and to receive his blessing. Any other choice would leave you...exposed.” He studied the marquis’s neck as if pondering where the headsman might make a cut.

The marquis was in torment, but his son said, “Father, now is our chance! We can show the world that Ferrece is still one of the great houses. I’ll apprise the guard!”

The lad ran from the room, leaving Borenson to hover above the marquis.

Myrrima found her heart pounding. Borenson and the marquis had no love for one another, but Borenson was playing a dangerous game. Gaborn had not ordered the marquis to battle, had not made any threats veiled or otherwise. Yet Borenson threatened the man with the king’s vengeance.

Borenson smiled dangerously. “A fine lad, your son.” Now he got down to the real business at hand. “Have you a facilitator handy? I’m riding for Inkarra and need three endowments of stamina.”

“I—I’ve a facilitator,” the marquis stammered, “and suitable Dedicates may be found, but I’m afraid that I haven’t any forcibles.”

“I brought my own,” Borenson said. “Indeed, I have a dozen extra which I should like to present to your son.”

Outside the castle, Bernaud shouted to the captain of the guard, warning him to prepare some mounts.

The marquis gave Borenson a calculating look, and suddenly the terror in his eyes seemed to diminish. His face went hard.

“You see it, too, don’t you?” the marquis asked. “My son is more a man now than I could ever hope to be. He looks much as his grandfather did, when he was young. In him the House of Ferrece might hope to return to grandeur.”