David Farland - Brotherhood of the Wolf

“We must try,” Gaborn said. “Raj Ahten is not our greatest enemy. I need his strength. I want him to fight the reavers.”

It seemed a slim chance, one that Borenson would not have considered himself.

“Perhaps,” Erin Connal said. “But we should move forward with a doe’s caution. You say that you feel an aura of great danger around us. Even if you send riders tonight, it will take days to reach Indhopal—”

“Not with the right horse,” Jureem countered. “The fortress at Obran is in the northern provinces, just south of Deyazz, barely seven hundred miles from here.”

Borenson said, “I’ve never heard of Obran. But if it’s that close, then with a king’s mount and a little luck, I could take the Raven’s Pass out of Fleeds and be there by early afternoon tomorrow. If she consents, Saffira could deliver the message to Raj Ahten the following night.”

He spoke the words without considering the matter. It sounded like a fool’s quest. He wondered at his own reasons for wanting to go. In part, he wanted to do it because he knew that he was a good man for the job. He’d performed dozens of dangerous missions in the past.

He could also see that this would give him the opportunity to spy on Indhopal’s defenses and study the movements of enemy troops along the border. And as he did so, he would be heading far south, toward Inkarra.

Thus he would begin the quest Iome had set for him.

But a small part of him knew that he wanted something far more: He wanted redemption.

Both Lord Ingress and King Orwynne spoke casually of killing Dedicates, of holding to the endless tradition of butchery that had defined the battle strategies of Runelords in the past. Their strategies were so horrific in part because they were reliable.

But Borenson had little stomach for it now. Gaborn’s plan, no matter how poorly conceived, offered some slim hope that Indhopal and Rofehavan could reach an accord, put an end to the madness.

And it was the only such plan on the table.

Borenson had the blood of over two thousand men, women, and children on his hands. Perhaps if he could bring this off, he reasoned, he might someday feel clean again.

“I would not put all of my hopes on this one throw of the bones, Your Highness,” King Orwynne said. “You must look to your own defenses.

“Saffira may not be able or willing to do as you ask, and you would not have called this council if you did not plan to bestir yourself, and ride to the defense of Mystarria. You need to prepare to battle Raj Ahten in person, if need be....

“Or you could select a champion. I have a nephew—a lion of a man—Sir Langley. He’s here in the camps.”

“It’s all very well to send a champion,” Horsesister Connal urged Gaborn, “but you should not let Orwynne or Heredon fight alone. Raj Ahten may fear Duke Paladane, but if you ride from the north, he’ll fear you more. And it would rally every man in the north to fight beside you. The horse clans would ride with you.”

Gaborn sat pondering the proposals of his supporters.

The idealistic lad actually hopes to get out of this without fighting Raj Ahten, Borenson realized. But he suspected that Gaborn would never pull it off. A war with Raj Ahten was coming whether Gaborn or any of them willed it or not.

“What will you do?” Borenson pressed him.

Gaborn reflected for another half a second, nodded. “The fate of the world rests upon our decision. I would not make such a decision hastily, and in truth I have thought about little else for the past week.

“My people cannot hide from Raj Ahten, and I cannot drive him away. I would fight him, if I believed that in fighting we could prevail. But I don’t believe that. So I must hope to turn him, however slim that hope might be.”

Gaborn looked at Borenson. “You’ll take my horse and leave within the hour.”

Borenson slapped the table with a fist and rose from his chair, eager to be away, but found himself lingering momentarily as a courtesy.

Gaborn turned to King Orwynne. “I’ve met Sir Langley. He has a good heart. I’ll give you two thousand forcibles, to equip him as he wishes.”

“You are most generous,” King Orwynne said, seemingly astonished that the Earth King would grant such a boon Even ten years ago, when blood metal was amply available, the whole kingdom of Orwynne had probably not seen two thousand forcibles in a single year.

Last of all Gaborn turned to Connal. “You’re right. If I march at the head of our armies, Raj Ahten cannot ignore me. I’ll ride south, and Fleeds will have two thousand forcibles, too.”

Connal grunted in wonder. Her poor realm had probably, never seen two thousand forcibles in any five years.

With that, the meeting ended. The lords pushed their chairs back from the table, began to rise. Gaborn reached into the pocket of his vest, drew out the keys for the King’s treasury, and tossed them to Borenson.

“Milord,” Jureem said, “May I suggest that you have him take seven hundred of glamour, three hundred of voice?”

Gaborn nodded. “As he says.”

Borenson left the room, headed for the treasury in the Dedicates’ Keep. Myrrima followed behind, and once they were outside, she accompanied him along the stone wall a couple of steps.

She grabbed his hand. “Wait!”

He turned to look at her in the starlight. The night was a bit chill, but had no teeth that bit. Myrrima stared up at him with worry in her eyes. Even in the starlight, she was gorgeous. The sinuous curve of her waist and the gleaming sheen of her hair tempted him.

“You won’t be back, will you?” she said.

Borenson shook his head. “No. Carris is nine hundred miles south of here. I can reach the northern border of Inkarra only three hundred miles farther on. I’ll head south.”

She studied him. “Do you even plan to say goodbye?”

Borenson could see that she wasn’t going to make this easy. He wanted to hold her, to kiss her. He wanted to stay. But duty called him elsewhere, and he had ever been loyal to his duty. “There’s not much time.”

“There’s time,” she said. “You’ve had all week. Why did you even remain in Heredon, if not to say goodbye?”

She was right, of course. He’d chosen to stay in order to say goodbye to her, to all of Rofehavan, perhaps to his own life. Yet he’d not had the strength to speak of it.

He kissed her lips, tenderly, and whispered, “Goodbye.”

He began to turn away, but she grabbed his arm again. “Do you really love me?” she asked.

“As best I know how.”

“Then why have you not bedded me? You’ve wanted me. I’ve seen it in your eyes.”

Borenson had not wanted to broach the subject, but he answered her now as honestly as he could. “Because to do so would risk siring a child—”

“And you don’t want me to carry your child?”

“—and bringing a child into the world requires one to accept certain responsibilities—”

“You think I’m not ready for such responsibilities!” Myrrima said too loudly.

“If I should die, I would not want my child called a bastard!” Borenson raged. “Or the son of a kingslayer! Or worse!”

The blood came hot to his face, and Borenson found himself trembling with rage.

But despite his rage he was able to detach himself—as if he were viewing himself from somewhere outside his own body—while he mused about past and present. Ah, it’s funny how the old pains can still hurt, he thought. Here he was, kingslayer, reaver slayer, guardian to the Earth King, one of the most feared warriors in all of Rofehavan—and rightfully so. Yet deep inside he was still just a child running through the stucco-walled alleys on the Isle of Thwynn while other boys hurled insults and mud and sharp stones.