David Farland - The Lair of Bones

“That can’t be the whole argument,” Myrrima said. “I’ve seen Inkarrans in Heredon. They didn’t seem to hold us in contempt at all. There has to be something more.”

“All right,” Borenson said, “A history lesson, then. Some sixty years ago, Gaborn’s grandfather, Timor Rajim Orden, discovered that many Inkarrans who were entering our lands were criminals fleeing justice, so he closed the borders. He turned back many of their traders, and told the minor nobles to put on trial any man that they believed posed a threat. Three minor Inkarran nobles in Duke Bellinghurst’s realm thus went to trial, and proudly admitted that they were more than criminals—they were assassins bent on killing the king’s Dedicates. They were from a southern tribe of Inkarra, one that despises us more than most, and had sworn to destroy us barbarians in Mystarria. Bellinghurst executed the men summarily, without first seeking King Orden’s approval. King Orden was a moderate man, and some say that he would have merely outlawed the offenders. But I think that unlikely, and in any case, it was too late. So he sent their bodies home as a warning to all Inkarrans.

“When the dead men reached their own land, their families cried out for vengeance to their high king. So King Zandaros fired off a choleric missive protesting the executions and cursing all northerners. Gaborn’s grandfather sent a skyrider over the mountains, telling Zandaros that if he refused to patrol his own borders, then he had no business protesting our attempts to protect ourselves. A day later, a skyrider from Inkarra dropped a bag on the uppermost ramparts at the Courts of Tide, at the very feet of King Orden. In it was the head of the child that had borne the message to the Storm King, and with the head came an edict warning that the citizens of Mystarria—and all of the other kingdoms in Rofehavan—would no longer be tolerated in Inkarra. Soon after, the Inkarrans began building their runewall across the northern borders, a shield that none dare now pass.”

“But that was a long time ago,” Myrrima argued. “Perhaps the new high king will be more tolerant?”

“Zandaros is still the High King of Indhopal. It’s true that he’s old, but he’s more than a king, it is said. He is a powerful sorcerer who can summon storms, and he uses his powers to extend his life.”

“But,” Myrrima protested, “in sixty years, surely his anger has cooled. His argument was with Gaborn’s grandfather, not with us.”

“Aye,” Borenson said. “That’s my hope. It is the only thing that might save us. We come as the envoys not of the old king but of a new, and we bear entreaties of peace. Even that black-hearted old badger should respect that.”

There was a pregnant silence. Borenson loved his wife, and was offering her one last opportunity to abandon their quest. But Myrrima said with finality, “I won’t be left behind.”

“Very well,” Borenson said.

Borenson gave over three forcibles of stamina to the marquis’s facilitator, an elderly man who studied the forcibles with glee, as if he had not seen so many together in a long, long time. The facilitator went to a logbook and came back shaking his head. “Only two folks have offered to give stamina in the past year. Would you like to wait until our criers find a third?”

“That could take weeks.” Borenson sighed. “Give me what you can now, and send out the criers. Perhaps you can vector the third endowment to me?”

“Done,” the facilitator said, disappearing from the room to make the arrangements. For a moment they stood in the silence, and Myrrima gazed about at the work chamber filled with implements of the facilitators’ craft. There were scales for weighing blood metal, tongs and hammers and files, a small forge, thick iron molds for making forcibles. A chart on the wall showed the various runes that allowed the transfer of each type of endowment, like sight and wit, along with possible minor variations in the shape of the runes. Cryptic notes written in the secret language of facilitators were scrawled upon the charts.

Myrrima gazed curiously at Borenson. She noticed that he was pacing, and his face seemed a bit pale. “How do you feel?”

“Fine,” he replied. “Why?”

“The facilitator back in Carris said that he’d vector endowments to you: metabolism, brawn, wit. But you’re not moving any faster now than you did two days ago. Do you think he forgot?”

“No,” Borenson said. “The facilitators keep copious notes. I’m sure he’s just too busy. The city was—” He searched for the right word for the destruction of Carris. The walls of the city had buckled under the onslaught of the reavers, and many of its finest towers had fallen. The lands for thirty miles around lay black and blasted, every plant dead. The corpses of reavers, black monoliths with mouths gaping wide, littered the fields along with dead men. The reavers’ curses hung over the city—a reek that demanded that the men inside dry up, be blind, and rot and putrefy. Recalling the nightmare of Carris, Myrrima could think of no word to describe it. Destroyed was too weak. Demolished? Devastated? Borenson offered “Expunged.”

“Still,” Myrrima said, “plenty of people survived. He should be able to get Dedicates.”

“But those people want nothing more than to get away from Carris,” Borenson said. “The facilitators had their hands full just trying to move the Dedicates, boat them downstream. I’m sure that he’ll get the endowments vectored as soon as he can.”

Though he reassured Myrrima, Borenson didn’t seem so confident himself. He began to pace about the room. In all likelihood, his Dedicates were floating downriver now, perhaps on their way to the Courts of Tide. If the facilitator was with them, he’d be looking for a place to settle them, and Myrrima knew by report that most of the towns along the river would be too full of injured and homeless refugees to take on a large number of Dedicates. Under such conditions, it might be days or weeks before the facilitator returned to his normal duties.

Borenson’s lack of endowments put an uneven burden on Myrrima. As a soldier she didn’t have Borenson’s years of training, but she had more endowments and was definitely stronger, faster, smarter. In every way, she was more prepared for a journey to Inkarra than he.

Perhaps that was why Borenson paced. He went to a window, looked out, sighed, and then sat down with his back against the wall. He was pale, trembling all over. Sweat stood out on his forehead.

“What’s wrong?” Myrrima asked.

“I don’t know if I can do this anymore,” he said. “I’ve seen too many Dedicates die.”

Myrrima knew what he was thinking. He had been forced to butcher Raj Ahten’s Dedicates at Castle Sylvarresta—thousands of men, women, and children in a single night. And he was thinking of his own Dedicates that Raj Ahten had murdered at the Blue Tower.

“You know,” he said softly, “the marquis was right about me. As a young man, I always wanted to be a Runelord. I wanted to prove myself, and I thought that taking endowments would make me powerful. But it doesn’t just give you power. It gives you new responsibilities, and leaves you open to...whole new worlds of suffering.”

Within the hour the facilitator brought the Dedicates, two robust young girls, aged eleven and twelve. They stood just behind a curtain in the receiving room, a comfortable room, gaily painted, with warm couches to put the potential Dedicates at ease. Myrrima could hear the girls talking to the facilitator, begging for assurances that their widowed mother and younger brothers would receive food from the king’s stores.

“Fine young sacrifices, both of them,” Borenson whispered angrily as he peered through the curtain.