David Farland: The Sum of All Men

His father was camped with his retinue not more than a few hours' ride off. Seldom did his father let Gaborn wander without heavy guard, but this time his father had implored him to take a little side excursion, saying, “You must study Heredon. A land is more than its castles and soldiers. In Bannisferre you will fall in love with this land, and its people, as I have.”

The young woman squeezed his hand tighter.

Pain showed in her brow as she watched the flower girls. Gaborn suddenly realized what she was, how desperately this young woman needed him. Gaborn nearly laughed, for he saw how easily she could have bewitched him.

He squeezed her hand, warmly, as a friend. He felt certain that he could have nothing to do with her, yet he wished her well.

“My name is Myrrima...” she said, leaving a silence for him in which to offer his own name.

“A beautiful name, for a beautiful girl.”

“And you are?”

“Thrilled by intrigue,” he said. “Aren't you?”

“Not always.” She smiled, a demand for his name.

Twenty paces behind, Borenson tapped the scabbard of his saber against a passing goat cart, a sign that he'd left his post at the hostel's doorway and was now following. The Days would be at his side.

Myrrima glanced back. “He's a fine-looking guardsman.”

“A fine man,” Gaborn agreed.

“You are traveling on business? You like Bannisferre?”

“Yes, and yes.”

She abruptly pulled her hand away. “You don't make commitments easily,” she said, turning to face him, her smile faltering just a bit. Perhaps she sensed now that the chase was up, that he would not marry her.

“No. Never. Perhaps it is a weakness in my character,” Gaborn said.

“Why not?” Myrrima asked, still playful. She stopped by a fountain where a statue of Edmon Tillerman stood holding a pot with three spigots that poured water down over the faces of three bears.

“Because lives are at stake,” Gaborn answered. He sat at the edge of the fountain, glanced into the pool. Startled by his presence, huge polliwogs wriggled down into the green water. “When I commit to someone, I accept responsibility for them. I offer my life, or at least a portion of it. When I accept someone's commitment, I expect nothing less than total commitment—their lives—in return. This reciprocal relationship is...it must define me.”

Myrrima frowned, made uneasy by his serious tone. “You are not a merchant. You...talk like a lord!”

He could see her considering. She would know he was not of Sylvarresta's line, not a lord from Heredon. So he would have to be a foreign dignitary, merely traveling in Heredon, an out-of-the-way country, one of the farthest north in all the Kingdoms of Rofehavan.

“I should have known—you are so handsome,” she said. “So you're a Runelord, come to study our land. Tell me, do you like it enough to seek betrothal to Princess Iome Sylvarresta?”

Gaborn admired the way that she drew the proper conclusion. “I'm surprised at how green your land is, and how strong your people are,” Gaborn said. “It is richer than I'd imagined.”

“Will Princess Sylvarresta accept you?” Still, she was searching for answers. She wondered which poor castle he hailed from. She sat beside him on the edge of the fountain.

Gaborn shrugged, feigning less concern than he felt. “I know her only by reputation,” he admitted. “Perhaps you know her better than I. How do you think she will look on me?”

“You are handsome enough,” Myrrima said, frankly studying his broad shoulders, the long dark-brown hair that fell from under his plumed cap. By now she must have realized he was not dark enough of hair to be from Muyyatin, or any of the Indhopalese nations.

Then she gasped, eyes going wide.

She stood up quickly and stepped back, unsure whether to remain standing, curtsy, or fall down and prostrate herself at his feet. “Forgive me, Prince Orden—I, uh—did not see your resemblance to your father!”

Myrrima lurched back three paces, as if wishing she could run blindly away, for she now knew that he was not the son of some poor baron who called a pile of rocks his fortress, but that he came from Mystarria itself.

“You know my father?” Gaborn asked, rising and stepping forward. He took her hand once again, trying to reassure her that no offense had been taken.

“I—once he rode through town, on his way to the hunt,” Myrrima said. “I was but a girl. I can't forget his face.”

“He has always liked Heredon,” Gaborn said.

“Yes...yes, he comes often enough,” Myrrima said, clearly discomfited. “I—pardon me if I troubled you, my lord. I did not mean to be presumptuous. Oh...”

Myrrima turned and began to run.

“Stop,” Gaborn said, letting just a little of the power of his Voice take her.

She stopped as if she'd been struck by a fist, turned to face him. As did several other people nearby.

Unprepared for the command, they obeyed as if it had come from their own minds. When they saw that they were not the object of his attention, some stared at him curiously while a few started away, unnerved by the appearance of a Runelord in their midst.

Suddenly, Borenson hovered at Gaborn's back, with the Days.

“Thank you for stopping, Myrrima,” Gaborn said.

“You may someday be my king,” she answered, as if she'd reasoned out her response.

“Do you think so?” Gaborn said. “Do you think Iome will have me?”

The question startled her. Gaborn continued. “Please, tell me. You are a perceptive woman, and beautiful. You would do well at court. I value your opinion.”

Gaborn held his breath, waiting for her frank assessment. She couldn't know how important her answer was to him. Gaborn needed this alliance. He needed Heredon's strong people, its impregnable fortresses, its wide-open lands, ready to till. True, his own Mystarria was a rich land-ripe, its markets sprawling and crowded—but after years of struggle the Wolf Lord Raj Ahten had finally conquered the Indhopalese Kingdoms, and Gaborn knew that Raj Ahten would not stop there. By spring, he would either invade the barbarian realms of Inkarra or he would turn north to the kingdoms in Rofehavan.

In reality, it didn't matter where the Wolf Lord attacked next. In the wars to come, Gaborn knew he'd never be able to adequately defend his people in Mystarria. He needed this land.

Even though Heredon had not seen a major war in four hundred years, the realm's great battlements remained intact. Even the fortress at lowly Tor Ingel, set among the cliffs, could be defended better than most of Gaborn's estates in Mystarria. Gaborn needed Heredon. He needed Iome's hand in marriage.

More important, though he dared not admit it to anyone, something deep inside told him that he needed Iome herself. An odd compulsion drew him here, against all common sense. As if invisible fiery threads were connected to his heart and mind. Sometimes at night he'd lie awake, feeling the tug, an odd glowing sensation that spread outward from the center of his chest, as if a warm stone lay there. Those threads seemed to pull him toward Iome. He'd fought the urge to seek her hand for a year now, until he could fight no more.

Myrrima studied Gaborn once again with her marvelous frankness. Then laughed easily. “No,” she said. “Iome will not have you.”

There had been no hesitancy in her answer. She had said it simply, as if she'd seen the truth of it. Then she smiled at him seductively. But I want you, her smile said.

“You sound certain.” Gaborn tried to seem casual. “Is it merely my clothes? I did bring more suitable attire.”

“You may be from the most powerful kingdom in Rofehavan, but...how shall I put this? Your politics are suspect.”