David Farland - Wizardborn

Gaborn’s heart went out to the young man. In a world where the cruel and the cunning gained status by riding upon the backs of the poor, men like Waggit were too often unjustly scorned. Yet his stupidity was something that a single endowment of wit could cure. And in granting an endowment of wit from a weak and cowardly man to someone like Waggit, one might thus create a warrior of great worth.

Unfortunately, endowments of wit remained beyond the grasp of such simple folk. Gaborn would gladly have given any ten Merchant Princes of Lysle for such a man.

“Waggit of Silverdale, on your knees!” Gaborn shouted.

The man had no courtly graces. He clumsily squatted down on his knees and bowed his head, frowning terribly, as if he knew that he had committed some offense but could not remember what it was. Gaborn rode near, saw bits of oat straw in the big man’s blond hair. He’d obviously slept in a stable last night. Perhaps he did so every night.

Gaborn could heal him with a single forcible. By ancient law, any man who killed a reaver earned a forcible from his king. If the rumors were true, Waggit had earned nine. Yet Gaborn wondered if the man might not be happier if he remained an idiot.

Gaborn drew his sword and touched each of the man’s shoulder blades. “Baron Waggit of Silverdale, arise!”

The people of Carris erupted into a wild cheer as the idiot got up from his knees. To their greater astonishment, Gaborn reached down a hand and urged the young man to ride with him, aback his charger.

Then Gaborn put on the face of the Earth King once again.

It was not a perfect performance. Some of his subjects had obviously heard rumors that he’d lost his powers. He saw frightened faces in the crowd, and one man shouted, “Milord, is it true?”

For a moment he let his expression slip. People saw. A young peasant boy, perhaps four years old, sitting with his mother atop a pile of barrels asked, “Why does he look so sad?”

Gaborn set Baron Waggit down as he left the city, and was gone.

Feykaald watched Gaborn parade by the Ducal Palace in mild consternation. He searched for signs of weakness in Gaborn, but the young king looked regal, confident—almost everything these peasants expected from an Earth King.

But Feykaald saw through the facade. For years now Feykaald had served Raj Ahten. He’d been faithful, prudent, as a servant should be. He’d watched Raj Ahten grow from an ungainly child into the most sublime and powerful lord the world had ever known.

In great part, Raj Ahten was becoming the Sum of All Men because of Feykaald’s faithful service. Now, even though some of his master’s key endowments were gone, he lived and looked as glorious as ever.

The boy who paraded through the streets of this broken city was not even a faded shadow of Raj Ahten.

Gaborn rode by on a horse that Raj Ahten would not have fed to his dogs, with a jubilant idiot from the crowd on the saddle behind him. Gaborn’s armor was dirty from the road, as was his mount.

The retinue passed, ragged knights from half a dozen realms, some filthy Frowth giants in ragged chain mail that Raj Ahten had outfitted himself.

In no way could Gaborn best Raj Ahten—except...in the matter of the world worm.

Gaborn had indeed summoned a worm and saved Carris when Raj Ahten could not. One could almost imagine that he purposely kept his power veiled beneath a plain exterior.

Feykaald envied the boy such power. If only his master could somehow gain the Earth King’s crown.

As Gaborn paraded by, Feykaald watched the faces in the throng: the jubilant children, the hopeful mothers, the old men with worried frowns.

He did not feel a part of this crowd. Carris hoped for the Earth King’s favor, but Feykaald did not. The world was large, and Gaborn could not hope to protect all of it. At this very moment, reavers invaded Kartish.

While Gaborn paraded, Feykaald’s people died.

And that is the way it will remain, he told himself. The world is huge, and Gaborn is small. He cannot protect Rofehavan and Indhopal too.

Feykaald put his hopes in his own king.

So Gaborn paraded past.

But Feykaald’s presence in the crowd did not go unnoticed. A single rider peeled off from the king’s retinue, circled behind the giants, and brought his horse through the crowd.

“Greetings, Kaifba,” Jureem said in Indhopalese, bending close so that he could look down on the kaifba from his tall horse. “The smell of opium hangs heavy on you today.”

Feykaald opened his eyes and cocked his “good” right ear toward Jureem, “Eh?” he asked, maintaining by long habit his pretense of being nearly deaf.

“The opium—” Jureem said loudly.

“Ah—” Feykaald nodded, and finished his sentence. “Is a pleasant reminder of home.”

“It can also hide deceit in a man,” Jureem accused. Petty criminals in Indhopal often smoked opium to keep the nerves sedated and the pupils dilated. This could help them conceal their duplicity even during a rigorous examination by torture.

“Or it can ease an old man’s painful joints,” Feykaald said softly.

“What is your business here?” Jureem demanded.

“I came to speak with your king on an urgent matter,” Feykaald said. “I wish to seek his counsel.”

“Yet you let him pass by?”

“Surely he will stay and hold court? His triumph was great. Will he not remain and accept the applause of his people?”

“You were seen leaving the city in company with the flameweavers last night,” Jureem argued.

“I returned only moments ago.”

“I wonder why you are even here,” Jureem said.

Feykaald smiled kindly. “I flew last night in the balloon because I hoped to view the reavers’ movements. I saw little of import.

“But in the mountains, I intercepted a messenger who brought ill news. Reavers have attacked Kartish. The very Lord of the Underworld leads them. I have come to beg the Earth King for his aid.”

“Raj Ahten seeks Gaborn’s support?” Jureem asked, incredulous.

“No,” Feykaald said. “He would never ask the Earth King for succor. But after the battle yesterday, I have to ask myself, where else can our people turn.’”

“You’re lying, or hiding something,” Jureem said. “I will warn Gaborn against meeting with you.”

“He will do so anyway.”

“Remove your rings,” Jureem commanded in a dangerous tone.

“Eh?” Feykaald asked.

“The rings!”

Feykaald felt reluctant, but he was an old man, not naturally disposed to open battle, and Jureem’s tone warned that if he did not give up the rings, Jureem would take them. He pulled five rings off his scrawny fingers, then placed them in Jureem’s plump palm.

Jureem pulled open the secret compartment of one ring. The needle inside dripped with green poison from a bush called “malefactor” in Feykaald’s tongue.

“What is this?” Jureem demanded.

“A little protection for an old man,” Feykaald said innocently. Jureem grunted, opened the compartment on a second ring. “One can never be too safe,” Feykaald added.

Jureem pocketed the rings. “I fear that there is treachery in you.”

“What?” Feykaald asked, cocking his ear as if he hadn’t quite heard. Feykaald had learned long ago the tools of manipulation. He knew that feigning anger would serve him well now. “You insult me with such accusations! You broke oath with one master, and now you want to school me in fidelity?”

Jureem held silent, but his eyes raged.

Good, Feykaald thought. He feels guilty for mistrusting me. Now is the time to strike, to offer the hand of friendship.

Feykaald shook his head. “Forgive my outburst, my brother. But both of us have led a wayward past. Now, we both hope to live only by the tender mercy of the Earth King. You do not trust me, I know. But I assure you that I am no different from you.”