David Farland - Brotherhood of the Wolf

She climbed up the levee and stood looking out over the vast throng, over the pavilions that had risen up here in the past week. Dust was rising to the south and west, from the numerous travelers moving on the road. Last night, Myrrima had heard that merchant princes had come from as far away as Lysle.

The whole earth shall gather here, Myrrima realized. An Earth King’s powers are legendary and are given only in the darkest of times. Every person in every land who wants to live will come here. There are reavers in the Dunnwood and wizards in the moat. Soon there will be enough people to bleed rivers of blood.

That knowledge made her feel small and helpless, worried for the future. And now that Borenson was leaving, she knew she wouldn’t be able to rely on him.

I must prepare for whatever is to come, Myrrima thought.

Myrrima walked with Borenson back up to the castle. She stopped on the drawbridge for a few moments and watched the great fish finning in the moat. She felt relieved by their presence. Water wizards were strong in the arts of healing and protection.

That morning, Myrrima finished breakfast in the King’s Tower, with only King Gaborn and Queen Iome and their Days in the room. Though Myrrima was becoming friends with Iome, she still felt uncomfortable to be dining in the presence of the King.

Indeed, the meal was filled with uncomfortable silences: Gaborn and Borenson refused to discuss their hunt over the past three days, saying very little at all. Gaborn also had received disturbing news out of Mystarria, and all morning long he looked haunted, somber, withdrawn.

They were nearly finished with breakfast when the elderly Chancellor Rodderman came to the door of the dining hall, looking resplendent with his white beard combed and wearing his black coat of office. “Milord, milady,” he said. “The Duke of Groverman is waiting in the alcove and has requested an audience.”

Iome looked at Rodderman wearily. “Is it important? I haven’t seen my husband in three days.”

“I don’t know, but he’s been skulking out here for half an hour,” Rodderman said.

“Skulking?” Iome laughed. “Well, we mustn’t have him skulking.” Though Iome smiled at Rodderman’s choice of words, Myrrima sensed that she did not much care for the Duke.

Presently, the Duke entered the room. He was a short man with gangling limbs, a hatchet face, and dark eyes that were set so close he looked nothing short of ugly. In a family of warriors and nobles, he seemed out of place. Myrrima had heard it rumored that a stable mucker had sired the Duke.

In honor of Hostenfest, Groverman was wearing a gorgeous robe of black embroidered with dark green leaves. His hair was freshly combed, his graying beard expertly trimmed so that it forked from his chin. For an ugly man, he groomed and dressed well.

“Your Highnesses” the Duke smiled graciously and bowed low “I hope I did not disturb your meal?”

Myrrima realized that Groverman had asked Rodderman to wait until the King and Queen finished eating before notifying them of his presence.

“Not at all,” Gaborn said. “It was kind of you to wait so patiently.”

“Truly, I have a matter that I think is somewhat urgent,” the Duke said, “though others might not agree.” He looked pointedly at Iome. Myrrima wondered what he might mean by such a warning. Even Iome seemed baffled. “I’ve brought you a wedding gift, Your Highness—if I may be so bold.”

Over the past few days, every lord in the kingdom had been plying the new King and Queen with wedding gifts; some were expensive gifts that would hopefully curry favor. Most of the lords had brought sons or trusted retainers to help rebuild the lists of the King’s Guard. Such sons served quadruple duty: they not only rebuilt the King’s army, but they also served as a constant reminder to the King of a lord’s loyalty. A trusted son at court could seek favors for his father, or serve as his spy. Last of all, it allowed the boy himself to form new alliances with other nobles who might live in far corners of the kingdom, or even in other nations.

Over the past three days the ranks of new soldiers had filled so quickly that it looked as if Gaborn would not even have to levy his subjects for more troops, despite the fact that Raj Ahten had decimated the King’s Guard. Instead, it seemed to Myrrima that Gaborn would have problems finding posts for all of his new soldiers to fill.

“So,” Iome asked. “What gift have you brought that is so urgent?”

Groverman got to the point. “This is a somewhat delicate matter,” he said. “As you know, I’ve not been blessed with sons or daughters, else I’d offer one of them into your service. But I have brought you a gift that is just as dear to my heart.”

He clapped his hands and looked expectantly toward the dining hall’s door.

A boy came through, walking with arms outstretched. In each hand he held a yellow pup by the scruff of the neck. The pups looked about dolefully, with huge brown eyes. Myrrima was not familiar with the breed. They were not mastiffs or any form of war dog. Nor were they hounds or the type of hunters she was familiar with, or the lap dogs popular with ladies in colder climes.

They could have even been mongrels, except that both pups had a uniform color—tawny short hair on the back, and a bit of white at the throat.

The boy, a ten-year-old in heavy leather trousers, and a new coat, was as clean and well groomed as Duke Groverman. He handed a pup each to Gaborn and Iome.

One little bundle of fur smelled the grease from the morning’s sausages on Gaborn’s hand. The pup’s wet tongue began to slide over Gaborn’s fingers, and the dog nibbled at him playfully. Gaborn ruffled the pup’s ears, turned it over to see if it was male or female. It was a male. It wagged its tail fiercely and scrambled upright, as if intent on doing damage to Gaborn’s fingers. A real fighter.

He studied the creature. “Thank you,” Gaborn said, taken aback. “But I’m not familiar with this breed. What do you do with them?”

Myrrima glanced at Iome, to see the Queen’s reaction to her pup, and was astonished. There was such a glare of rage in her eyes that she could barely contain herself.

The Duke had not missed her look. “Hear me out,” he said to Gaborn. “I do not offer these pups lightly, Your Highness. You have taken endowments from men, and I know that as an Oath-Bound Lord you feel some reluctance in doing so. Indeed, though many have offered to serve as your Dedicates this past week, neither you nor the Queen has taken endowments. Yet we must prepare for whatever is to come.”

Myrrima was startled to hear Groverman repeat aloud the thought that had been preying upon her but an hour before.

“It’s a grave decision,” Gaborn agreed. His eyes were haunted, full of pain. Myrrima had agreed to take endowments of glamour and wit from her sisters and mother. She understood the price of guilt that came from committing such an atrocity.

“I will not take another man’s strength or stamina or wit lightly,” the King said. “But I have been considering whether to do it, for the welfare of the kingdom.”

“I understand,” Groverman said honestly. “But I ask milord, milady, to consider the propriety of taking endowments from a dog.”

Iome stiffened. “Duke Groverman,” she hissed, “this is an outrage!”

The Duke looked about nervously. Now Myrrima recognized the breed. Although she had never seen such pups, she had heard of them. These were pups raised for endowments—dogs strong of stamina, strong of nose.

“Is it any less of an outrage to take endowments from a man?” Groverman countered defensively. “It takes the endowments of scent from fifty men to equal one from a dog, they say. I believe that my pups’ noses are a hundred times better than a common man’s nose. So I ask you, which is better, to take endowments of scent from a hundred men, or from one dog?