David Farland - Wizardborn

Yet we know from the chronicles of Erendor that not even one in twelve kings had a Days in attendance during his lifetime. This state of affairs lasted for nearly four hundred years. Hence, because so much of our history is lost, we sometimes speak of the Dark Age of Erendor.

While the world slept, Iome retreated to the palace at the Courts of Tide, there to wait while Abel Scarby gathered the dogs that Gaborn needed.

The guards ushered her in and called a chambermaid who would have waked the whole staff in a panic if Iome had not forbidden her to do so.

The immensity of the palace overwhelmed Iome. Her father’s entire keep back at Castle Sylvarresta would have fit in the Great Hall. Sixteen huge hearths lined its walls.

Around the room hung dozens of lanterns backed by silver mirrors, their bright flames subdued beneath rose-colored crystal. The oil that they burned gave off a pleasant scent of gardenias. Enormous windows facing south would have lit the room throughout the day.

The tapestries on the walls, depicting scenes of ancient kings in love and in battle, each looked as if they might have kept a village full of women weaving for a year.

The postern and lintel above each doorway had been intricately carved to show scenes of foxes and rabbits racing over trails in an oak forest.

The king’s table was set with golden plates, brightly polished. Iome took one gasping look, and just stared in amazement. She’d never grasped how wealthy Gaborn might be. She’d never imagined how insignificant Heredon’s splendor must seem to him.

Before one great hearth, a girl in a plain scholar’s robe sat hunched on an elegant couch. Her brown hair was long and braided in cornrows, then tied together in back.

Upon hearing footsteps, she turned to look at Iome.

“Oh, there you are!” she said in a pleasant voice. The girl’s face was freckled, her eyes an ordinary brown. Iome took one look, and felt as if she’d known her all her life. She was perhaps sixteen, a little younger than Iome.

“Are you my new Days?” Iome asked.

The girl nodded. She had a pimple on her chin. “I heard that you had arrived. Did you have a good ride?”

“It went without incident,” Iome said, sure that the girl wanted only the historical details.

The girl’s face fell a little, as if she’d expected more. “But—it was pleasant, I hope?”

Iome’s mind did a little twist. She’d never had a Days inquire as to whether something pleased her.

“Very pleasant,” Iome said. “I have to admit, I’d never imagined how vast Mystarria was. The land here is so rich and fertile, and this castle overwhelms me.”

“I was born not far from here,” the Days said, “in a village called Berriston. I know everything about Mystarria. I can show you around.”

Iome had never had a Days offer to show her anything. Most of them were cold and aloof. But she recognized immediately that this girl felt just as lonely as Iome did, just as overwhelmed by her responsibilities.

“I would like that,” Iome said. She took the girl by her hand, squeezed her fingers.

It felt distinctly odd. At home, friends had always surrounded Iome. Whether they were dried-up old matrons or other young women in waiting, she’d always had a female companion nearby. She’d come to the Courts of Tide knowing that she would feel out of place.

Now she wondered what it would feel like to have a Days as a friend. “Do you know the castle?” Iome asked. “Can you show me to the tower?”

“Indeed,” the Days said. “I’ve been here all afternoon.”

The girl took Iome to the base of the tower. Together they climbed the long stairs until they reached the room where Gaborn’s father had slept.

A guardsman in Mystarria’s colors stood at the door, opened it with a key. Upon opening the door, Iome smelled King Orden’s scent—his sweat, his hair—all so strong that it seemed impossible that her husband’s father had been slain only a week ago. The scent belied his death, made Iome expect that at any moment old King Orden might appear on the parapet outside the window, or stir from an antechamber.

At the very least, his shade ought to be here, she thought.

The room was overlarge, with rich furnishings and a huge canopied four-poster bed draped with woolen curtains. Iome went to it, patted the firm mattress. This is where I am destined to sleep, she thought. This is where—the Powers preserve us—I’ll bear my son. This is where Gaborn will get more sons upon me.

Iome’s Days went to a window, opened it wide. “I’ve heard that the view of the city here is beautiful,” she exulted. “We should see it from the promenade.”

Iome wouldn’t be able to sleep, she knew. With so many endowments of stamina and metabolism and brawn, she needed very little of it. From now on when she did take rest, she would take it as powerful Runelords were wont to do—by standing quietly and staring off at private dreams. She still felt rested, and the Days’ tone was infectious.

Iome went out to the promenade. It was three stories beneath the very topmost ramparts of the tower, where the far-seers kept their vigil. The promenade was well lit. A huge red lantern hung just beneath the far-seers’ outlook.

“That wasn’t lit a while ago,” Iome remarked.

“The queen wasn’t in residence a while ago,” the Days replied. “It is lit in your honor.”

In her castle back home, there had been no such practice. Castle Sylvarresta served as the bastion of defense, and Iome had seldom left it. But Mystarria was another matter. Gaborn’s family maintained half a dozen castles that could serve as resorts during time of war, along with palaces that had sometimes served as homes during times of peace.

Below Iome the various buildings of the Courts of Tide hunched in the darkness—lordly castles with their proud towers raised high, manors and estates squatting in their splendor. Markets cascaded to the west, the light of the horned moon glinting on their slate roofs; while beyond them, in the poorer quarters, the pitched roofs of thousands upon thousands of shanties jutted up like sharp stones.

Beyond it all was the vast ocean, placid. Salt tang tickled her nostrils. It was not a cold night.

“It’s beautiful up here,” the Days said. “Just as I always imagined.”

She went on. “When I was young, my mother told me a child’s tale. She said that there was a castle filled with giants on each edge of the world, and that those of the east are making war with those of the west. Each day, the giants to the east load their catapult, and send a flaming ball high overhead, to smash against the roofs of the castle to the west. And each night, those same giants send a great stone hurtling overhead. The ball of flame is the sun. The ball of stone is the moon. And when the day comes that the sun no longer rises, you’ll know that the war has ended.

“The commoners in their shanties in town say that the King’s Tower is so high,” the girl continued, “that a far-seer standing here can look across the ocean, and spot the giants working to load their catapults.

“It was from this very tower that Fallion’s far-seers spotted the gray ships.”

Iome smiled. Overhead, several stars lanced through the sky at once. One, in particular, was a huge fireball that hurtled slowly, leaving a flaming trail. She teased. “It looks as if your giants must have run out of rocks. They’re hurling shot tonight.”

The Days laughed. She turned, her eyes sparkling. She knew her history and she loved it. The girl’s dream was to stand at the side of a queen and watch history unfold. But assuming that Gaborn even could stop the fell mage that led the Underworld, Iome would be stuck in this tower for weeks, doing nothing. The notion wrung her heart.