David Farland - Wizardborn

Myrrima drew backward, afraid. A green fog had begun to coalesce at the wizard’s feet, and he radiated power. The air carried a copper tang mingled with a scent of moss and old roots.

Sir Prenholm grew pale, and now stood alone, shaking. “I meant no disrespect. It was only a jest.”

Binnesman shouted and pointed at Borenson. “By the Power I serve, I tell you that this eunuch can father children still!”

Myrrima didn’t expect such a boon. She didn’t even believe it could be done. But Prenholm had goaded Binnesman into boasting. Even if Binnesman could restore her husband, there was one thing that Myrrima knew: magic carried a price. Binnesman’s deed would cost.

The knights and lords stood like scolded children, none daring to speak.

Binnesman took his bowl of honey and herbs, and swirled it through the green fog around his feet, then knelt and mixed a pinch of dirt.

He glanced at the growing crowd, handed the bowl to Myrrima. “Take this down to the river. Kneel and make the rune of healing in the water seven times. Then cup your hand in the water and mix it with this concoction. Wash your husband. He’ll be ready to ride within the hour.”

Then he leaned close and whispered, “But such a grievous wound will take longer to heal—if it can be healed at all.”

“Thank you,” Myrrima said, her heart hammering. She took the bowl carefully, afraid that she might spill it, and laid it on the buckboard.

She drove the wagon around the corner, along the stone wall of the inn’s garden, down to where the stream rushed beneath the alders. Their leaves flashed gold, and sunlight struck the tree trunks, blazing them silver.

She stopped in the shadows of the trees. A pair of mallards came up in the water, gabbling, begging for a crust of bread. Myrrima pulled off Borenson’s blanket. She climbed out of the wagon, stood by the water’s edge. After the rain last night, the golden leaves of the alders lay plastered to the ground. The stream flowed freely, gurgling through the rocks. The mallards climbed up on the bank near her feet. She knelt over the water and made the rune of healing seven times. It was peaceful, such a serene setting for a disturbing day. She felt as she made the runes that she should speak some incantation, but knew none. A song came to mind, a senseless ditty that she’d composed as a girl when she used to scrub her clothes on the washing stones beside the river Dwindell.

I love water, for water like me

whether in rain, pools, or puddles,

all runs to the sea.

Tumbling, splashing, foaming through hills,

giving drink to dry valleys, where deep water stills.

I love the water, and water loves me.

I’ll drift down the slow river,

till it joins with the sea.

She watched the river, the deep pools, hoping that perhaps she’d see the dark back of a great sturgeon, swimming in mystic configurations.

But none came. She cupped the water in her palm, mixed it with the wizard’s concoction.

She daubed her fingers with the balm of honey, herbs, dirt, and water, then carried it to Borenson and reached beneath his tunic. She gently took his organ in her hand, tried to work the mixture over the ragged wound where his walnuts had been. She was painfully aware that she had never touched him there before, even on her wedding night.

In his sleep, Borenson winced in pain. He grimaced and pounded his hand into the hay.

“I’m sorry,” Myrrima said, but she did not spare him the medicine. Nothing good comes without a price, even healing.

When she finished, he groaned deeply, and called out, “Saffira?” He raised one hand in the air, like a claw, as if to grasp her.

Myrrima found herself shaking. Binnesman’s concoction might heal a wound of the flesh, she realized, but can it heal wounds of the heart?

Sweat was pouring off Borenson, and his face was flushed. Regardless of Binnesman’s promise, she suspected that it would take hours until he regained consciousness.

She turned, knelt by the water. The morning sun winked through the leaves. It seemed pleasantly warm. She decided to keep a vigil throughout the day.

She stood silently grieving for what seemed like long minutes. With her endowments of metabolism, it was easy to lose track of time, to have it stretch out of all proportion.

The riders in town were mounting their horses when she heard her husband gasp. She climbed up, looked over the wagon. He’d wakened.

Outwardly there was little change in his appearance. Beads of sweat had sprung up on his brow, and the armpits in his tunic were drenched. His eyes still looked yellow and filmed, and his face was pallid. His lips were blistered from fever. He gazed up at the trees, at the sky.

“You’re looking a little better,” Myrrima lied. “Do you feel better?”

“I’ve never felt worse,” he said with a dry throat. She unslung her waterskin, forced a dribble down his throat. He drank weakly, pushed it away. “What are you doing?”

“Trying to save you,” Myrrima said. “You’re lucky you didn’t take sick and die.”

He closed his eyes painfully, shook his head. The tiny gesture spoke volumes. He didn’t want to live.

Myrrima held silent for a moment. She felt as if she were trying to pound through his armor, get at the soft flesh underneath. She let him sit for a moment, and asked in a softer voice, “Why? You knew you were infected, and you merely walked away. Why?”

“You don’t want to know,” Borenson said.

“I do.”

He opened his eyes to slits, studied her dispassionately. “I don’t love you. I...can’t love you.”

Myrrima felt stung by the words. Her heart suddenly pounded, and she fought to control her tone. She knew vaguely what he’d been through. She’d seen the light in his eyes when he spoke of Saffira. She’d seen him call for her in his sleep. She knew that with her endowments of glamour, Saffira would have been irresistible to a man. And Raj Ahten had castrated her husband. “Did you bed her?” Myrrima tried to keep the pain and anger from her voice. “Is that why Raj Ahten took your walnuts?”

“What is it to you?” Borenson demanded.

“I’m your wife.”

“Not—” he began to say. Borenson shook his head. “I never touched her. No man could have touched her. She was too beautiful...”

“You don’t know what love is,” Myrrima said with finality.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. “I knew it would hurt if you found out,” Borenson said.

Myrrima could think of nothing to say for a long moment. “I’m your wife, still,” Myrrima said. She could see his torment but felt incapable of reaching him. Raj Ahten had done so much to hurt him. “Why didn’t he just kill you?”

Borenson groaned, pushed himself up in the straw. “I don’t know. Raj Ahten doesn’t usually make strategic mistakes.”

There was anger in his tone, suppressed rage. Myrrima liked that. If he was angry, at least it gave him something to live for.

Myrrima heard the scuffing of a footstep, looked up.

Gaborn strode down the road, his face clouded with concern. Iome followed at his side, and appeared more shocked at Borenson’s injury than anything else.

Gaborn came straight to the wain. “How are you feeling?”

Borenson responded in a tired voice, “Fine, milord. And you?” The tone of sarcasm was impossible to miss.

Gaborn reached down, touched Borenson’s forehead. “Your fever has broken.”

“I’m glad that’s all that is broken,” Borenson said.

Gaborn said, “I...came to thank you, for all of your efforts. You’ve given much for Mystarria.”

“Only my conscience, the lives of my Dedicates, and my walnuts,” Borenson said. He was still unaware of the spell that the wizard had cast on him, the hope of regeneration. He spoke from his pain. “Is there anything else you’d like, sire?”