David Farland - The Sum of All Men

As they entered the shadowy tomb, Iome smelled death and roses. Dozens of skeletons of faithful guards lay in the tomb, bones gray and moldering. But last night, someone had brought bright red rose petals and strewn them across the floor of the tomb, to alleviate the smell.

Gaborn bore Queen Sylvarresta to her sarcophagus, in the sanctum at the back of the tomb. It was a red sandstone box, with her image and name chiseled into its lid. The roof above the sanctum was a slab of sheer marble, so thin that light broke through it, shining down onto the sarcophagus beneath.

Here in this deep corner, air breathed into the tomb from tiny slits in the stonework, so that the smell of death did not reach.

It took a great deal of effort for Gaborn and two bakers to slide the lid of the sarcophagus back, exposing the empty casket. Then they lifted the queen into place, and were about to set the lid on the box when Iome begged them to stop, to let her look for a while.

Pallbearers carried Cleas to a stone shelf, pushed back the bones of some loyal guard from a decade past, and laid Cleas in his place.

They did not have Cleas' armor and weapons to bury with her, so a baker took a warhammer from a nearby corpse, laid it across Cleas' chest, wrapped her hands around its handle.

Gaborn stood a minute in the dim light, studying the moldy skeletons, many of them still in armor, bearing weapons on their chests. Though the room was small, only forty feet long and twenty wide, five tiers of stone shelves were cut into the walls. Some guards had been entombed here for over twenty years. Bones from knuckles and toes littered the floor, borne there by rats.

Gaborn looked as if he would ask a question.

“You may speak freely here,” Iome told him, still kneeling beside her mother's casket. “These pallbearers are all deaf or mute, sworn to the service of House Sylvarresta. No one here will betray you.”

“You bury your dead with their weapons here in House Sylvarresta?” Gaborn asked.

Iome nodded.

He seemed delighted, looked as if he would rob a corpse. “In Mystarria, we bequeath fine weapons and armor to the living, so it can be put to good use.”

“Mystarria does not have so many smiths to keep employed,” Iome said dryly.

Gaborn asked, “Then no one will mind if I borrow a weapon? Mine was destroyed.”

“Who can say what offends the dead?”

Gaborn did not immediately take a weapon. Instead, he paced nervously. “So,” he breathed at last, “she is in the Dedicates' Keep?”

Iome hesitated to answer. Gaborn had not said who “she” was. Apparently he was distraught. “The Princess came to the keep this morning, and washed her father and fed him. Raj Ahten's guard put her there for safekeeping during the attack. But she may leave at any time. I think she still occupies her room in the King's Keep, with servants to attend her.”

Gaborn bit his lip, quickened his step, thinking furiously. “Can you get a message to her for me?”

“It should not be hard,” Iome answered.

“Tell her that House Orden is sworn to protect her. Tell her that I will kill Raj Ahten, that she will look upon my face again someday, no longer a Dedicate.”

“Don't...please don't try,” Iome said, choking back a sob. Her voice cracked, and she feared Gaborn would hear it, see through her disguise.

“Try what?” Gaborn asked.

“To kill Raj Ahten,” she said deeply. “Queen Sylvarresta clawed him with poisoned fingernails, yet he withstood the venom. It is said that the wound of a sword thrust through his heart heals before the blade is withdrawn.”

“There must be a way to kill him,” Gaborn said.

“You will be forced to kill House Sylvarresta, for both the King and his daughter are Dedicates to Raj Ahten. Lord Sylvarresta himself received eighty endowments of wit last night, all in Raj Ahten's behalf.”

Gaborn turned at this news, went to the door of the tomb, staring out up into the sunlight, considering.

“I will not kill my friends,” Gaborn said, “or their Dedicates. If they gave endowments, they did not do so willingly. They are not my enemy.”

Iome wondered at this. It was common practice to kill another's Dedicates, a necessary evil. Few Runelords would shirk this most hateful responsibility. Did Gaborn hope to let men live, simply because they did not intend evil? She said, “Even if you spare House Sylvarresta, even if you turn instead to other houses, kill other kings, they are also innocents. They, too, deserve to live. They have no love for Raj Ahten.”

“There must be a way to get Raj Ahten without killing others,” Gaborn said. “A decapitation.”

Iome had no advice to give. With powerful Runelords, a decapitation was the most certain way to insure a kill, but plotting the deed and doing it were two different matters. “And who will decapitate him? You?”

Gaborn turned to her. “I could try, if I can get close to him. Tell me, is the herbalist Binnesman well? I need to speak with him.”

“He's gone,” Iome said. “He vanished in the night. Raj Ahten's men saw him...at the edge of the woods.”

Perhaps of anything she could have said, this news seemed to dismay him most.

“Well,” Gaborn said, looking lost, “I must change my plans. If the wizard is in the woods, perhaps I can find him there. Thank you for the news, Lady...?”

“Prenta,” Iome whispered. “Prenta Vass.”

Gaborn took her hand, kissed it, as if she were a helpful lady-in-waiting. He held her hand, just a moment too long, lightly sniffed the scent of her perfumed wrist, and Iome's heart skipped. Her voice had not faltered, she felt sure; he had not recognized her voice. But did he recognize her perfume?

He gazed into her face, with his penetrating blue eyes, and though a small frown formed on his lips, he did not speak. Iome pulled away, turned her face, heart pounding, fearing that she had been discovered.

She knew she was hideous, that every scrap of beauty had been stripped from her. Her yellow eyes, her wrinkled skin, were gruesome enough. But her features were nothing compared to the horror she felt inside, the insidious draw toward self-loathing.

Surely he would condemn her. Surely he would pull away in contempt. Instead, he stepped around, to better see her face.

Iome suspected that Gaborn recognized her. He regarded her silently now, trying to discern any traces of the woman he had seen yesterday. But he refused to embarrass her by voicing his recognition. Iome could not withstand that gaze, felt forced to raise a hand, and with it hid herself from those eyes.

“Don't hide from me, Prenta Vass,” Gaborn said softly, taking her hand again, pulling it down. He'd spoken her name hesitantly. He knew her. “You are beautiful, even now. If there is any way I may serve you?”

Behind Gaborn, Iome's Days shifted nervously, and the bakers suddenly left the tomb as if they'd just recalled urgent matters elsewhere. Iome wanted to break into tears, to fall into his arms. She only stood, trembling terribly. “No. Nothing.”

Gaborn swallowed hard. “Can you bear another message to the Princess for me?”

“What?”

“Tell her...that she haunts my dreams. That her beauty is indelible in my memory. Tell her that I'd hoped to save her, hoped to give her some small aid, and maybe I did some good—I killed a powerful flameweaver. Because I'm here, my father has come, though perhaps too late. Tell her I stayed the night in Castle Sylvarresta, but now see that I must leave. My father's soldiers are hunting for me in the woods. I dare stay no longer. I'm going to try for the woods, before my father charges the city.”

Iome nodded.

“Will you come with me?” Gaborn asked. He stared into her face, and now she knew without a doubt that he recognized her. His eyes were filled not with contempt, but with pain, and so much gentleness, she longed to fall into his arms. Yet she dared not move.