David Farland - Brotherhood of the Wolf

Myrrima climbed over a rail of the arena, found herself in the thick mud, looking for an easy path to her husband. She struggled through the deep mud, and when she reached Borenson, she found herself shaking, unsure of what she should say to him.

He’d gotten the scarf untied, and stood with his back to her, wrapping it around his own neck. He tried to tie it while wearing his gauntlets, but the thick leather and ring mail left him fumbling.

Myrrima went around to the front of him, tied the damned thing for him, and found that her own hands were trembling so badly that she was as clumsy as he was. She looked at his face. His hair was smeared with mud, and blood was thickening from a deep gouge above his right eye.

“You saw?” he asked.

Myrrima nodded wordlessly, finished tying the scarf. She could not see it anymore. Tears were filling her eyes.

“Damn you, I could be tying this around your corpse right now.”

Borenson laughed, a short nervous bark.

“Do you think so little of me that you didn’t even tell me?” She thought now that he must have fought here so that she wouldn’t see.

“I tried to find you,” Borenson explained. “But you weren’t at the King’s feast, and you weren’t at the royal games. No one had seen you since this morning. Sir Skalbairn called me to task, demanding battle before sundown. It was a matter of honor!”

Myrrima realized why no one had seen her. She’d been careful not to let anyone know that she’d gone to practice the bow. “You could have waited. Do you love me less than your own honor?”

She had not spoken to him before of love. Gaborn had arranged their marriage. In all, she’d not known Borenson for a week. Yet in spite of their short time together, she knew that she was in love. She wanted to hear Borenson admit the same.

“Of course not,” Borenson said. “But what is a life without honor? You could never grow fond of me if I were any less of a man.”

At that moment, Borenson looked over Myrrima’s shoulder, and Myrrima glanced back to see the object of his attention. It was Horsesister Connal, bringing Myrrima her bow and quiver. Myrrima had dropped them on the knoll outside the arena. Borenson smiled at the horsewoman.

“Milady,” Horsesister Connal said. “You dropped these.”

Myrrima took them in one hand.

“Erin Connal, well met!” Borenson said in greeting. “I hadn’t heard that you were in camp.”

“I’ve been here since yesterday.” Horsesister Connal said, “with nothing better to do than stare at that rotting reaver head you dragged in at dawn.”

“You two have met?” Myrrima asked.

“A couple of times,” Borenson said hesitantly. “Old King Orden was a friend of her mother’s, so he usually stopped at her palace when he rode through Fleeds.”

“Good to see you,” Erin said, ducking her head like a shy lady.

Myrrima didn’t like this. Didn’t like the idea that they knew each other, that Connal was, attracted to her husband. She asked her husband bluntly. “Did you know that she wants to have your babies?”

Borenson snorted in surprise and his face turned red. “Well, of course she wants to have my children, what Horsewoman wouldn’t?” He spoke as if to a crowd of drinking companions. Then he faltered as if he realized that he’d spoken too soon, and added jokingly, “But, of course, we won’t sell her any of our precious offspring, will we, my pet?”

Myrrima smiled with tight lips, hardly placated.

Borenson turned aside, wishing he could run, from his wife. He dared not ask her what she was doing with a bow, or why she was in the company of Erin Connal.

Fortunately, he had to clear his gear from the field for the next challengers, so he went to his horse, led his mount and the women toward the High Marshal.

The High Marshal was deep in whispered conversation with the Prince. But of course Borenson had two endowments of hearing and caught the tail of it. “Tell your father he can keep his damned money,” the High Marshal whispered. “I’ll not winter my armies in Crowthen if this boy is the Earth King. I’ll send them where needed.”

“Of course, of course,” Celinor said in almost a pleading tone. Then he looked up and saw Borenson coming.

Borenson smiled and called across the short distance, “Prince Celinor, Sir Skalbairn, may I present my wife.”

The High Marshal nodded in greeting, and Prince Celinor merely let his gaze sweep appreciatively from Myrrima’s head to her feet.

“I’ll get my horse,” Celinor said, turning aside. As he passed, Borenson smelled the stench of alcohol strong on him. Celinor headed through the throng at the north end of the field.

“What was that all about?” Borenson asked the High Marshal, looking up into the big man’s face. Skalbairn lumbered above him like a bear. “What is this about wintering in Crowthen?”

The High Marshal studied Borenson, as if gauging just how much to tell him. Obviously, what he had to say was not anything King Anders of South Crowthen would want spoken in public. But the High Marshal was a tough man, and he seemed not to care what effect the truth might have. “Word reached me in Beldinook of Raj Ahten’s attack here about four days ago. But King Anders’s messengers, who begged that I bring the Righteous Horde of the Knight Equitable to South Crowthen, carried the word. And they brought money to pay for our travel. There’s too much money by half. It smelled of a bribe to me.”

“He wants to bribe the Knights Equitable?”

“I could understand Anders’s distress,” the High Marshal continued. “What king wouldn’t want the Knights Equitable camped in their realm with Raj Ahten’s armies moving about. Indeed, it seemed a logical move. Instead, we drove Raj Ahten into the mountains and I ordered my men to hound him.

“But when I reached Crowthen last night, I found that Anders still wants my armies to stay in Crowthen, ignoring the greater threat to Mystarria. His son just pressed me to hold to their bargain, at least for now.”

“What will you do?”

“Anders will be furious. I’m sending back his gold—at least most of it.”

“Anders sounds craven,” Borenson said.

At that, the High Marshal’s black eyes glittered dangerously. “Don’t underestimate him. I fear he’s worse than a coward.”

“What do you mean?”

“He wants my troops, and he wants them badly. A coward would want them for protection. But as I rode to Crowthen, I was thinking, what if he is not afraid of Raj Ahten? What if he really fears the Earth King?”

“Gaborn?” Borenson said in astonishment, for he could not imagine that Anders would fear the lad.

“I got proof of it at the border. King Anders had troops stationed at the road, and he’s forbade any peasants and even merchants from entering Heredon. His troops proclaim Gaborn a fraud and say that it is a waste of men’s time to come see him, and harmful to Anders’s interests.”

“If Anders had no interest in learning the truth himself,” Borenson said, “that would be one thing. But to forbid his people from coming? That’s evil.”

“Look at it from his point of view,” Skalbairn said. “There has not been an Earth King in over two thousand years. In Erden Geboren’s day, he was honored as the one and only true king of all Rofehavan. But since then, lesser men have been called kings, and the lands have been divided and squabbled over.

“What will happen to Anders if the people rise up and offer to serve House Orden? Will he be relegated to the status of a petty lord? Or will he be asked to bow and scrape the knee like some common peasant?

“You and the commoners may think it is a fine thing to have an Earth King, but mark my words: if Anders could kill the boy now, he’d do so. And he’s not the only lord in Rofehavan who will feel that way.”