David Farland - Wizardborn

Erin Connal said, “Milord, seeing as we’ve a long journey ahead, I’d best tend my horse.” She bustled from the room with Celinor in tow. Gaborn’s Days followed, as if he had found urgent business outside.

Iome glanced at Gaborn, asking with her eyes if she should go. The bearing of the Tale of the Dead was a private affair. A man’s dying thoughts could be as embarrassing as they were touching. “Stay,” Gaborn said. Iome felt a warm flush. She wanted to be with him.

Binnesman was still working on the green woman. He asked, “May I have half a moment? I’m drawing runes of protection with wood hetony and must finish before the sap hardens.”

Gaborn knew that it would take time. With five endowments of metabolism, Gaborn could now amble faster than a commoner could run; and when others spoke, their words seemed to come laboriously.

But finishing the wylde was important. The creature was to be the Earth’s warrior, but she could not fight until Binnesman unbound her, gave the wylde its free will. Yet he could not do that until he’d bound her with protective spells and taught her to fight on her own.

“Stay here and work,” Gaborn said softly. “We need the wylde. Every moment counts.”

Iome and Gaborn stood hand in hand.

The Wits filed in. Most were elderly men. The youngest could not have been less than forty. Their hair was cropped short, and all wore simple brown robes common among the hearthmasters in the House of Understanding.

“Gaborn!” a tall graybeard called in greeting. The love that Gaborn’s father had felt for him came thick in the old man’s voice. Perhaps for Gaborn’s entire life, this former Dedicate had been locked in the Blue Tower, an idiot who loaned the use of his mind to King Orden.

Gaborn reached out to clasp hands at the wrist, but after a moment’s hesitation, he thought better of it and gave the man a hug. “Hello, friend,” Gaborn said. “You are...?”

“Jerimas.” The old man spoke hesitantly, as if the name were a stranger’s. He stared at Gaborn, searching his face. “I...my name is Jerimas.”

Jerimas was thin, with wide-set eyes so dark they were almost black, and a triangle of a face. His hair had receded until he was left with only a narrow band of white along his ears and a sweeping beard of silver.

“Jerimas,” Gaborn repeated. He studied the Wits, saw how many of them held their head tilted to the left, just as Gaborn’s father had.

“Are you ready to hear the Tale of the Dead?”

“It will have to wait for a more opportune time,” Gaborn answered. “I didn’t summon you here for that. I know the manner of my father’s death too well.”

“His dying thoughts were of you,” one of the Wits blurted.

“I know that he loved me,” Gaborn said. “And I am comforted by your presence here. But we have more important matters at hand.”

Gaborn took a deep breath. In the aftermath of Carris, he felt mentally overwhelmed and exhausted. For the past few hours he had considered a course of action. Now he needed these men’s help.

“Right now, you men are in charge of Carris. You’ve seen to its defense, ministered to its people. But I require more of you—much more.

“For all purposes, each of you who served my father is my father. His every mannerism is imprinted upon you. I called you gentlemen here because I need your wisdom and counsel. I cannot manage the affairs of my kingdom alone.

“As Jureem should have reported to you and Skalbairn, I’ve lost some of my Earth Powers. I can still sense danger, and I sense it all around us. But I cannot warn my Chosen. I will need your help. I will need you to see to the defenses of Mystarria and Heredon.”

“You will stay close to advise us?” Jerimas asked. The look of hope in his eyes was hard to miss.

“I will do all that I can,” Gaborn said. “But I make no promises. At dawn I will ride to Carris, to offer some brief comfort to the wounded. But I propose to spend some time with Skalbairn on the morrow, fighting reavers. We must punish them for their attack on Carris. We must make them fear us.”

At that, several graybeards nodded their heads thoughtfully in agreement.

“After that...I can’t say. I sense that the Earth wishes me to fight elsewhere.”

“We could come with you,” Jerimas offered, “stand at your side and offer counsel.”

“Perhaps,” Gaborn said. Now he came to the heart of the matter, to the question that troubled him most. “Tell me, have any of you heard of the Place of Bones?”

The Wits all stared at him blankly. Some shook their heads.

“I...” Gaborn continued. “It may not be the proper name of the place. It may be a description. The Earth has called me there to battle. I suspect that it may lie...underground. Perhaps it describes a mine, or a graveyard, or an ancient duskin city.”

Again, the graybeards shook their heads. Gaborn had wondered about this for hours. Binnesman had been no help. The Earth Warden had been alive for centuries, knew much lore about faraway places, including duskin ruins like Moltar and Vinhummin far below ground. But he could not tell him where the Place of Bones might be.

“Perhaps it is an ancient battlefield,” Jerimas said. “Certainly, the caves at Warren might qualify as a ‘Place of Bones.’ Fallion spent four hundred thousand good men fighting the Toth.”

“I thought of that,” Gaborn said. “And I’ve considered sailing for those ruins. But when I do, I cannot rest easy. That is not where the Earth is calling me.”

“Be patient,” Binnesman advised. “The Earth will reveal its will in good time.”

Gaborn shook his head, tried to clear it. His thoughts kept circling back to his question.

“My lord,” Jerimas asked, “Jureem said that you’ve lost some of your powers, but you can sense danger still? You worry about the reavers, and Inkarra, and Anders and Lowicker, but what of Raj Ahten? With his voice alone, he toppled the Blue Tower. Does he pose a threat? We’ve had no report on his whereabouts since nightfall.”

“I sense him. He’s fleeing toward Indhopal,” Gaborn answered, “over mountain trails that a man on horse would not dare travel. I’m not worried about him for the moment. If he comes near Rofehavan again, I will sense his presence.”

“But you do know how our men fare in battle?” another lord asked.

“Many Chosen warriors have fallen in the past five hours,” Gaborn admitted. “I sensed their danger, but could not warn them.”

Jerimas said, “But Skalbairn’s reports are phenomenal. His men are slaughtering reavers by the thousands. A few losses are acceptable.”

Gaborn nodded. “So long as they remain but a few. I’ve ordered him to pull back until the morrow. I will lead the attacks myself.”

Another Wit, a heavy man with a goatee, spoke up. “We have seen wonders this day! And tomorrow will bring more.”

“Tomorrow will bring horrors as well,” Gaborn said. “I will deal with the reavers as best I can. But in doing so, I must leave the matter of protecting our borders to you. You will need to put forward every effort at your disposal.”

“In the House of Understanding,” one Wit said, “in the Room of Arms it is said that ‘A man’s every asset can be a weapon.’ For a wise man, his cunning may be a shield. For a glib man, his tongue might serve as a dagger. For a strong man, his brute force might be a cudgel to break the backs of nations.”

“We must call our allies to our defense,” one Wit suggested, “and turn our enemies against each other.”

Jerimas said, “Milord, are you giving us free rein to do what we must.”

“Of course,” Gaborn said. “I fear that war is coming, and we must fight brilliantly or perish.”