David Farland - The Lair of Bones

“Everyone is fine,” Aunt Constance said, her voice choked with suppressed grief. “Everyone is well.” She steered Chemoise to the house, and Chemoise felt too weak to argue. She’d discover who had died in time. She felt surprised to find the manor still standing, but the wind had blown the fire west of the old winery, across the fields, where it still burned in the hills nearby. Thus the house and town were saved.

Inside the manor, Constance poured cold water over Chemoise’s wounds, and put poultices on them. She lay in a fever all morning. By and by she woke and heard a knock on the outside door, followed by women talking.

“The Fancher boy just died,” someone from town said. “We tried everything, but he took too many bites.”

“That makes nine,” Constance said, her voice hollow from loss.

“It could have been worse,” someone added. “If not for the king, we’d all be dead.”

Chemoise lay in a daze, wondering who else might have died.

Not Dearborn Hawks, she found herself hoping. Not him.

It was an odd sentiment, one she felt guilty for even thinking, for in wishing him to be alive, she was wishing death on someone else.

But she had tended to his bites after the battle—twenty-four of them—and she could not help remembering the shy way that he smiled at her, and the way her heart skipped in return.

“Terrible, terrible,” one old woman said. “My heart breaks for every one of them. Thank the Powers that the Earth King warned us in time. I only wish that I could repay him.”

“We won’t be seeing the likes of him for a while,” Aunt Constance said. “Eber told me yesterday afternoon that there’s terrible goings-on. There’s to be a big battle down in Mystarria tonight—reavers. Reavers by the thousands. Everyone who can fight has been called to battle at Carris. And those who can’t fight are giving endowments to the Earth King.”

“Endowments?” the old woman asked. “Where?”

“At Castle Sylvarresta. Folks are gathering from all around. The king took endowments down at Castle Groverman last week, and the facilitators have brought Dedicates to Castle Sylvarresta to act as vectors.”

“Really?” the old woman asked. “Have things gotten so bad?”

Aunt Constance was silent for a moment, and Chemoise imagined that she could hear her shaking her head. “I heard Eber whispering to some of the men. He told them to get weapons ready. The Earth King says that if we don’t win at Carris...”

Chemoise crawled out of bed and steadied herself for a moment. Castle Sylvarresta wasn’t far, less than thirty miles. Uncle Eber hadn’t had a force horse, but he did have a boat, and the River Wye ran down through the forests right up to the castle. She knew that in the years past, Eber used to send his wine barrels downstream, so the water was deep enough to carry the boat all the way.

With luck, I can get there in a few hours, she told herself.

She threw on her riding cloak, and silently slipped out the window. She crept along the back of the house and was crossing the dirt lane when the door opened. Aunt Constance and her old friend Nan Fields stood there.

“I didn’t know that you were up,” Constance called. “Where are you going?”

Chemoise turned and looked her in the eye. “To Castle Sylvarresta, to give my endowment.”

Immediately Constance limped across the street, her right foot swollen by rat bites. Her expression was grim. “You can’t do that. You’re already sick. Think of your child!”

Chemoise stopped, torn. Iome had always been her best friend, and Chemoise dearly wanted to give whatever aid she could.

“There are endowments I can give that wouldn’t endanger the babe,” she argued.

Dearborn Hawks must have heard them talking. Perhaps he had been waiting all day to see Chemoise. He came from the barn, his brow furrowed in concern.

“Dearborn, stop her!” Constance begged.

The Hawks boy looked at Constance, and then at Chemoise, and nodded thoughtfully. “There’s not much water in the river at this time of year,” he said at last. “You’ll need help rowing if you’re to make it by nightfall.”

With that, he led her downhill to the boat.

Borenson and Myrrima fled Iselferion with the Inkarran Days, Sarka Kaul, as their guide. The guards handed them their weapons at the door, and Sarka led them to some underground stables where Borenson found his horses already delivered. Many an Inkarran lord was visiting the city, and Sarka had no difficulty stealing a suitable mount for himself.

Thus the three rode from Iselferion into the morning light with the city still asleep, the Inkarrans unaware that a Rune of Will gleamed darkly upon Borenson’s leg. He knew that the journey would not stay easy for long.

He suspected that once the Inkarrans learned what had happened, they’d send a legion of pale warriors to hunt them down. They’d kill him and anyone he spoke to.

Yet as Sarka guided them along lonely roads, there was no pursuit by daylight, no sign of Inkarrans at all. Empty fields lay all about the trails, cultivated and pruned, looking strangely bereft, for there were no workmen tilling them, no cottages or barns. The only sign of habitation came as the morning sun shone upon the stele that marked each city.

Borenson could not have hoped for a better escape. Sarka Kaul led them over desolate trails until they reached the shadowed forests, where winged lizards fluttered about, hunting for moths and gnats in the canopy.

Only once did anyone try to stop them. As they neared the foot of the Alcair Mountains, a dark figure raced up behind the trio. The clatter of a charger’s hooves announced that it was a force horse with great endowments, and Borenson looked back down a mountain trail, where he glimpsed the rider galloping through the trees.

“I’ll get him,” Myrrima said fiercely as they neared a meadow. She had kept her bow strung all morning, and she slowed her mount, leapt off, and slapped its rump. Her horse raced after Sarka and Sir Borenson, following them through a meadow full of white flowers so delicate that the sunlight shining through made them glow like ice.

Sarka Kaul led the way and reached a line of trees just as their pursuer exited the woods. Borenson glanced back. An Inkarran prince raced under the shadows, his blood red robes flapping behind him like wings. He rode a horse as black as night itself. The mount galloped into the meadow a few paces, and suddenly Myrrima stepped out from behind a gnarled sycamore and loosed an arrow.

The fellow cried and leaned forward, putting his heels to horseflesh. Borenson clearly saw the white plumes of goose feather from the arrow lodged in his back.

The black horse came to a halt in the meadow and spun about. Its rider was cursing, lamely struggling to get it to flee, while he struggled to keep from falling off.

Borenson raced to the wounded rider. The fellow’s long silver braids announced that it was Prince Verazeth. He lay slumped in the saddle, clinging to his horse’s neck, the arrow sticking up from his ribs. Myrrima had struck him near the heart. His horse danced around, frightened by the scent of hot blood.

Sarka Kaul rode up behind Borenson. “Cour as! Cour as!” Help me, the prince muttered.

“Gladly,” Sarka said, urging his mount forward.

He grabbed the prince by the hair and plunged his sword into the man’s back. He flung the body to the ground and took the horse’s reins in one smooth motion.