David Farland - The Lair of Bones

“Is there help from the north?” Raj Ahten asked another pair of scouts that had ranged farther afield.

“Indeed there is, O Light of Heaven,” his spies answered. “Several thousand lords have ridden from Orwynne, along with warriors of Fleeds and Heredon.”

“What of Crowthen?” Raj Ahten asked.

“We could see no troops from Crowthen,” the spies said.

Raj Ahten smiled. He could see Rialla’s plan. She had ridden south to lay siege to Carris, only to discover the reavers coming. So she had ridden back north, to get out of their way. She would let the reavers do her dirty work.

Carris didn’t stand a chance. Raj Ahten had already gutted Mystarria, throwing down the northern fortresses, killing the Dedicates at the Blue Tower. The warriors that held the city were weak, lacking endowments.

And once Carris fell, nothing could stop Lowicker’s daughter from overrunning Mystarria—except Raj Ahten.

Her army worried him, though. Her archers and heavy cavalry could easily defeat his common troops, though with his wizards and Runelords he could probably even the score. But if the two giants wasted their strength fighting each other, who then would win Mystarria?

A plan began to form in Raj Ahten’s mind.

“Gather together a thousand lords to act as an honor guard,” Raj Ahten said. “I think I shall pay Lowicker’s daughter a visit.”

As Raj Ahten’s most powerful lords and wizards prepared to ride, he sat in his crimson tent. He could feel himself growing from moment to moment as his facilitators in Deyazz vectored endowments of stamina to him.

He had never felt so hale, so robust. He sweated profusely, though he had done no labor to warrant it. It was as if his body recognized that the time had come to cleanse away all impurities, make him something more than human.

He felt as if life and virility were combining in him so powerfully that it bled from every pore.

This is it, he told himself. This is the moment I have been waiting for. I shall be the Sum of All Men.

“Food for the poor!” a small girl called in the markets of Ghusa in Deyazz. “Food for the poor!” The market streets were still gloomy as the morning sun rose like a ruddy coal beyond the sand hills.

Turaush Kasill, a large man grown fat from years of convenience, rounded a stall stacked with tall clay urns to discover the source of the call.

He overshadowed the waif that he found. She was small, no more than eight or nine, with huge eyes like almonds. Her brown skin was paler than the black hue of the folk of Deyazz. She gripped the hand of a small boy, perhaps five years of age.

“Please,” the girl said holding out an empty wicker basket. “We need food.”

Turaush smiled pleasantly. “I could give you food. How much do you want? A basketful? I could give you that.” The girl’s eyes went wide, and her lips parted hungrily. “What would you like to eat? Peaches? Melons? Rice? Duck? Sesame cakes with honey drizzled over them? If you could have anything to eat, what would you like?”

“Sesame cakes!” the little boy cried.

The girl squeezed his hand and nudged him, begging the boy to be quiet, as if fearing that he asked too much.

“Anything,” the girl pleaded. “Anything you offer.”

“Ah,” Turaush said. “You are that hungry?”

“I have two sisters to feed, and a big brother who is hurt,” the girl said. “My father was killed by bandits, and my mother went to her sister’s, and we have heard nothing since. We would be grateful for anything.”

“And what if I offer you a trade?” Turaush asked. “What if I offer to feed you all the food you want, every day, for as long as you live, and give you a beautiful home to live in?”

The girl hesitated. She must have been warned about sinister men. She studied him warily, but at last put a hand over her empty stomach, as if by pressing it she could assuage the pain. “What house?”

“The finest in all Ghusa,” Turaush said, waving toward the Dedicate’s Keep. “Good food, as much as you can eat, every day for as long as you live.”

Turaush was one of Raj Ahten’s most persuasive facilitators. With five endowments of glamour, he could use his smoldering eyes to lure young women. With three endowments of voice, he could mesmerize the simpleminded. He bent his whole will upon the child now.

“Think of it,” he said. “Fresh fruit—tangerines and melons and dates for breakfast. Fine lamb ribs basted with honey and cumin, cooked over apple-wood coals; red bass fresh from the sea; peacocks stuffed with rice and mushrooms.”

“I want some,” the little boy at her side said, tears coming to his eyes. She squeezed his hand, warning him to be quiet.

“And what if I did it?” the girl asked. “Would you feed my brothers and sisters.”

She was only a child, and perhaps knew that by custom, if a man or woman gave an endowment, their children would be well cared for, for life. Turaush shook his head sadly. “If you were a grown woman, we might make such a deal. But you are only a child half-grown, and so your endowment is not worth much to us. Being so small, you don’t have as much stamina as an adult,” he lied. After all, he had a quota to fill. “So, if your little brother here wants food also, he will have to give up his endowment.”

He smiled kindly at the boy. Turaush had rarely resorted to taking endowments from children so young. But these two looked healthy enough.

“I hear that it hurts,” the girl objected.

“Only a little, and only for a moment,” Turaush said. His tone promised a lifetime of joy afterward, though to be sure, it would not be a long life. Raj Ahten needed stamina, and a starveling like this was not likely to live through the winter plague season.

“But what of my sisters?” the girl asked. “Who will take care of them?”

“How old are they?”

“One is three, and the other barely a year.”

Turaush frowned. Such children were too young to surrender endowments. A Dedicate had to want to give his endowment with his whole soul, and small children, not understanding the consequences of their decision, could not muster the proper resolve.

Still, Turaush thought, we could raise them for a couple of years, until they are old enough.

“I will make you a deal. If you and your brother give your endowments, perhaps I could arrange that your sisters get fed, too. In fact, I know a nice woman who has long wished for a daughter of her own. She would count herself fortunate indeed to be blessed with two.”

“And my big brother?”

“Tell me about your brother.”

“His name is Balimar. He’s big enough to work. But he was gored by a water buffalo last summer, and is only now beginning to walk.”

“So Balimar is mending?”

“Yes,” the girl answered. “He is very strong.”

Turaush considered. Balimar might not be able to give stamina now, but he might give his brawn. He would of course feel accountable for the younger children, and if they were suddenly spirited away to the Dedicate’s Keep in the palace, he would be easily persuaded to follow. “I’m sure that an arrangement can be made. Come now, let us go take your endowments and get some food in you. Then I will talk to Balimar.”

Turaush took the girl’s tiny hand. In the distance, borne on the dawn winds, he could hear the keen piping of a facilitator as he coaxed the stamina from someone, followed by a howl of pain as the attribute was wrenched away. To him, the sound seemed sweeter than the coo of the wood doves as he led the children to the palace.