David Farland - Wizardborn

But the Room of Faces was built in the open, a place to be visited and admired, on an island in a magnificent castle, the Castle Rue.

A merchant had built Castle Rue eight centuries ago—not as a place of retreat during war, but simply for its elegance and beauty. Thus its stonework was all covered in plaster that stained it rose at dawn and at sunset, as it lay against the emerald sea. Its lofty towers and minarets soared far into the air, and its expansive gardens grew lush, watered by reflecting pools where white water lilies bloomed year round and frogs peeped in the evening. Elegant bridges spanned its numerous water concourses.

It was a perfect place for rest and reflection. At nights, one could wander the grounds of the castle, meander through its streets and purchase extravagant foods of every kind: blue crab claws boiled in saltwater, smoked swan legs, pork seasoned with coriander and cooked in quinces, fresh pastries filled with figs and cinnamon; mugs of hot rum sweetened with goat butter and nutmeg.

The lavish Great Room at Castle Rue housed the oldest and one of the most impressive theaters in all of Mystarria. And everyone who studied there hoped someday to play the lead in some great play, such as Tanandeer’s This Cage of Iron, or Bombray’s The Simpletons Tale.

In one of his more embarrassing periods, Gaborn had dared dream of that, of being one of the great actors.

But the House of Understanding was more than just an elegant facade, or cobbled streets rich with the scent of delicacies, or ornate theaters where mimics plied their art.

It was a place of study and practice. It had dozens of training halls scattered all about, and various nooks and crannies.

The great mimic Torrin Belassi had made it his life’s work to study faces—the way that the eyes crinkled in joy, or the lips parted in lust. And while he was alive, artists had made subtle impressions of his face showing those expressions.

Now, the ten thousand faces of Torrin Belassi hung on the walls throughout Castle Rue. Each mask was cast in hardened clay at the center of a plaque perhaps three feet in diameter. In honor of the kings of Mystarria, the borders of each mask were adorned with oak leaves, and the whole mask was fired from earthenware that made it look as if it were cut from sandstone.

One could wander an alcove for hours studying masks with names such as “Recognition of an Old Friend,” or “Challenging a Thief in a Darkened Room,” or “A Father Contemplates His Firstborn Son.”

Thus it was that in the Room of Faces, Gaborn had once studied a plaque entitled “How I Imagine the Earth King Will Look.”

It was the expression of a wise conqueror, benevolent and strong and above reproach. It was a look that held love for all men, and promised salvation to children and beggars and fools.

As he rode to Carris on the second day of the month of Leaves, Gaborn wore that face.

He knew that he would never play in the Great Room at Castle Rue. He’d never act in This Cage of Iron, playing Sir Goutfeet.

Gaborn regretted that. It was a part that spoke to him. Sir Goutfeet was a man whose role as a knight left him feeling as if he were somehow entombed in his own armor. Meanwhile, the good sir’s squire always tried to make him feel valiant by directing him toward battles that he could win, until the enfeebled knight finally was reduced to bludgeoning whores and barmaids in an effort to settle their petty squabbles.

But Gaborn knew that he would never play on a stage.

Instead, as he rode for Carris he settled into his role as Earth King. All of Carris would be his audience, and never had Gaborn acted in a more prominent part.

Doubts and concerns clouded his mind. He passed through the dead-lands as if through a dream, and all along he wondered about this girl Averan and her strange gifts, wondered where she might lead him, and if he dared follow.

All too soon, his heralds began blowing golden horns, so that by the time he topped the rise overlooking the Barrens Wall, half of the population of Carris had issued from the city gates or mounted towers or the city walls.

Even at a mile and half, the volume of the cheers that greeted him was astonishing. At the noise, crows and gulls and pigeons that had been roosting in the city all flew up and circled the city’s towers like confetti.

Riding beside Gaborn, Iome gasped in horror as she saw the ruins of Carris. Words could not have described it for her—the toppled walls, the great wormhole, the field of dead reavers lying on the barren lands, their mouths all opened hideously wide as their jaws contracted.

Then Gaborn rode down to Carris to thunderous applause. Horns blew, men cheered and raised their fists and shouted in triumph. Women wept in gratitude, and many a mother raised her infant up over the crowd to show their child. “There, there is the Earth King! Remember this moment. Remember it all of your life!”

He was their savior, after all. He had summoned the world worm and destroyed the reavers’ fell mage. He had scattered the reaver horde single-handedly.

And in a moment of foolishness, he had forgotten who he was supposed to be.

As they rode over the causeway, they halted. The dead reavers from yesterday’s battle had all been dragged from the entrance to the city—all but one.

There, in the gray dust of ruin, sat the head of a single reaver, its mouth propped wide: the fell mage. The monster was incredible. Iome gasped at the size of it, for its mouth opened wide enough that it could have swallowed a hay wagon. Along the rim of its jaw and along the back of its head were the long, snakelike philia, the sensory organs of the eyeless creature. Each philium on this beast was three to five feet long, and as thick as Gaborn’s leg at the base—nearly three times the size of the philia he’d seen on other reavers. The mage’s gray head shimmered from a multitude of tattooed runes that glimmered like fire, and in the morning sunlight, its enormous crystalline teeth glittered like quartz.

Iome gasped at the trophy in awe. “I’ve never heard of one so large!”

Gaborn said, “Rumor has it there’s a bigger one.”

A messenger stood just outside the city gates. As Gaborn passed, the messenger shouted, “Milord, news from Skalbairn. The reavers have left their holes within the past hour, and are on the move south!”

Gaborn nodded at the messenger, said, “Tell him that I’m coming.”

Then he smiled and waved as he entered the city, holding his pose. Stern, regal, wise, indomitable. The mask of the Earth King.

His people cheered.

He could not stay long at Carris. He needed to reach the Place of Bones, confront the One True Master. But first he’d have to join Skalbairn, begin his campaign against the reavers. He needed to find the Waymaker, and learn the paths of the Underworld. The urge was becoming a compulsion. He felt driven.

He rode through the streets inspecting the damage. The odors of despair and rot—the residue of the fell mage’s curses—still clung to the city. He wondered how the people here could endure it.

He halted only once, when Lord Bowen shouted and pointed into the crowd. “There he is: that one’s Waggit!”

Gaborn reined in his charger and stared down at the grinning idiot. Waggit had straw for hair, and eyes so pale that they looked like holes that opened into a vast sky. But by the powers, was he big! He was cheering wildly, a pickax raised in his hands, bits of reaver gore still clinging to it.

So, he had indeed killed at least one reaver, perhaps even more. Gaborn frankly doubted the tale. Certainly the number of kills was exaggerated. No matter. Waggit was a hero now in the eyes of Carris, and the world needed heroes.

The fool did not notice that Gaborn had stopped and was staring, until Gaborn pointed at him. Then Waggit stopped, and to the delight of those around him seemed perfectly dumbfounded that the Earth King had taken notice of him.