David Farland - Wizardborn

Gaborn chuckled at the notion.

“He’s serious, milord,” Skalbairn said. He related Chondler’s tale of the charitable mother and her grasping son, then said, “Chondler claims that there is only one virtue, milord: moderation. And even that is not a virtue when practiced to excess.”

“By his argument,” Gaborn countered, “I should account myself worthy so long as I give as much as I steal, or tell the truth as often as I lie.”

“He’d say that a good man gives more than he steals,” Skalbairn said, “and rescues more than he butchers.”

“That seems a damned convenient argument.”

“Very convenient,” Skalbairn said. “It saves the mind a good deal of contemplation and assuages much guilt.”

Gaborn felt angry. He saw Chondler’s points: men do train themselves to see their vice as virtue; and a virtue carried to excess can become a vice.

But Gaborn believed that wrongs were more solid, like rocks jutting in a harbor. Any man of conscience could steer the course between them. To do anything else led to guilt and suffering. Chondler’s arguments were not merely circular, they seemed contrived to deceive. “What do you think about this?”

“I can’t very well fault you for your kindness,” Skalbairn said. “After all, I am the recipient of your generosity.”

“I was wrong to Choose Raj Ahten,” Gaborn said. “I see that now. Was I also wrong to Choose you?”

Skalbairn shook his head. “I don’t know. Obviously, I wouldn’t think so. You saved my life six times yesterday in the battle for Carris. I’m in your debt. I intend to repay you.”

Gaborn looked at the man. He stood holding his lance, gazing out toward the scarlet sorceress on the plain. A falling star flashed through the heavens above Mangan’s Rock, blazing a trail of light.

During the height of the battle yesterday, Gaborn had sent warning to many people, so many thousands of times, that he could not guess how many lives he’d saved.

Out in the fields behind Skalbairn, there was a sudden whunk—the sound of falling dirt and stones. Gaborn turned, saw a plume of dust rising. Not a hundred yards west of a watch fire, the ground had caved in, leaving a gaping hole some thirty feet wide.

“What’s that?” Skalbairn shouted.

Instantly, Gaborn realized what had happened, why the feeling of portent around his guards kept rising. The reavers were digging underground, trying to flank his men! But they’d tunneled under a rock that could not hold.

He saw their plan. Averan had said that none of the reavers here could build a Rune of Desolation. The reavers had stopped because they were thirsty, terrified, and desperate.

Now he suspected that she was right.

A plan blossomed in Gaborn’s mind. “Strike,” the Earth said. “Strike now!”

“Blow retreat!” Gaborn shouted. “Get our men away from the watch fires. Have our troops form up by the creek.”

Gaborn turned and raced into the darkness. “What?” Skalbairn called, “are we going to flee?”

“No!” Gaborn shouted. “We’re going to attack. I know how. I should have thought of it before.

“We have seen wonders today. Wait a moment, and I will show you one more.”

Iome had sometimes tried to imagine the Courts of Tide, but imagination had failed her.

She knew that the city was set upon a number of islands, and she’d heard of the famous bridges that spanned them. The bridges were carved of crystal shipped from the Alcair Mountains on huge barges.

The stones did indeed vault from island to island, and though she’d fairly imagined the bridges to look as pale and translucent as ice in the moonlight, she had never envisioned their fine pillars. Each was cut in the form of a heroic figure that represented some virtue that the Runelords of Mystarria aspired to. Nurture was a woman who nursed a daughter in her arms. Courage was a stout warrior with a wavy-bladed dagger in hand, straddling a serpent that sought to entangle him. Charity was a lord hunched beneath a sack full of fruits and wheat, bearing it to the poor.

The sheer scale of the works was impressive. Ships could sail beneath the soaring bridges.

Though Iome had heard of the king’s Great Tower in Mystarria, the tallest edifice in all Rofehavan, she’d never visualized a tower that was three hundred feet tall. Even now she could make out the tiny figures of Mystarria’s vigilant far-seers, making their rounds on its highest ramparts.

Yet upon entering the city, she also saw the price that Mystarria’s king paid for this haven. Land was at a premium, and though the streets were free of clutter and well tended, they were also remarkably narrow. She rode as if through a chasm. In many places overhead, marble walkways and plazas spanned from building to building, so that as Iome’s retinue neared Gaborn’s palace, they traveled through tunnels where crystalline lanterns hung from black iron rungs. The sea wind cut through with its chill breeze.

Iome gaped up at the soaring citadels and remarkable stonework and tried to keep from gasping at each new fountain or frieze or hanging garden.

Sergeant Grimeson and the knights of Mystarria tried to keep from looking too pleased by her reaction.

But over and over again, she found herself letting her mouth fall open no matter how hard she tried to keep it shut. She didn’t want to look like some bumpkin who’d never strolled beyond the border of his village, but that is precisely how she felt.

“You should have seen it first in the morning,” Sergeant Grimeson said, “when the rising sun colors the towers gold.” They had to ride slowly now, and he seemed thoughtful, as if the words did not come easily to him. “The sunlight slants down through those towers, and fills the streets. You’ll see hummingbirds and sunbirds in shades of emerald and scarlet and streaks of blue streak through the hanging gardens to search for nectar. It’s like—By the Powers, it can be pretty.”

Hummingbirds were the pride of Mystarria. Before the Toth wars, they’d never been seen here. But after Fallion destroyed the invading armies, he sent ships to far lands beyond the Carroll Sea to hunt down the last of the Toth. In those far lands his men had found many wonders, and King Fallion himself brought back the hummingbirds as a gift for his people. They first began nesting here at the Courts of Tide.

I am the queen of this realm, Iome had to remind herself, the richest and finest in all of Rofehavan. Yet I feel like some barbarian from the frozen north.

She fell in love with the Courts of Tide, and just as quickly knew that she could never belong.

So she rode to the palace at midnight, and entered. Sergeant Grimeson ordered servants to “throw together a feast” in the grand reception hall while his men delivered the forcibles to the treasury.

Iome pulled out Gaborn’s instructions. He’d given her a note commanding Grimeson alone to contact a certain Abel Scarby so that he could secure the dogs that he needed. Gaborn wrote directions for finding the man’s house down an alley near the docks. But a cryptic message near the bottom warned Grimeson never to reveal where Scarby lived.

“Who is this Scarby fellow?” Iome asked Grimeson. “Why would Gaborn want to keep his whereabouts secret?”

“He’s the best damned dogfighter in the realm. He spends most of his time evading the King’s Guard. I can handle him.”

A dogfighter. He sounded thoroughly disreputable, as disreputable as Grimeson looked.