David Farland - Sons of the Oak

“Of course.” There was so much to plan, Iome’s mind was spinning. If the boys did not have guards, then perhaps they’d need to protect themselves. “Do you think the boys are ready for their first endowments?”

Borenson gave her a hard look. Iome and Gaborn had both been loath to let their sons taste the first kiss of the forcible, to let them feel the ecstasy of having another’s attributes flow into them, lest they yearn to repeat the experience over and over, and thus become corrupted.

Worse, Iome knew firsthand the toll paid by those who gave endowments. She’d seen her own father become a drooling idiot after he gave his Wit to the wolf lord Raj Ahten. Iome had given her glamour to Raj, and had watched her own beauty turn to corruption.

“It’s a heady thing for a child,” Borenson said. “Jaz isn’t ready yet. He acts like any other child his age, but Fallion’s a good boy, very mature for his age. He could bear it…if you are ready to lay that burden on him.”

Iome bit her lip. She knew what he meant by “burden.” Iome had laid endowments upon her own husband, had given him endless strength and stamina with which to fight the reavers. And as a result, she had lost him.

In the very same way, she would be sacrificing her sons if she gave them endowments now. Their childhood would end the instant the forcibles touched their flesh. She might give them greater strength, speed, wit, and stamina with which to fight their battles, but in doing so she would lay upon them an onus, a burden of responsibility that no child should have to bear. The very attributes that saved them would warp them, suck the joy from their lives.

It was a quandary. Do I ruin a boy’s life in order to save it?

“A thought, if I may?” Borenson said. “Your sons are going into hiding. But how long can they remain hidden if they bear the scars of the forcible?”

He had a point. If her boys had the strength of three men, the grace of two, the wit of four, the speed of three-how long could they hide such powers? Even if they managed to hide them, the runes that the forcibles branded into their skin would mark them for what they were.

And it would leave them only half alive, as she’d left Gaborn only half alive when she sacrificed him for the good of her people.

“Very well,” Iome said, letting out a sigh. “If my children cannot protect themselves, then we will have to protect them.” She gave Borenson a long, appraising look. “Sir Borenson, you were once the greatest warrior of our generation. With a few endowments, you could be again.”

Borenson went to the window and looked away, uncertain what to say, considering the offer. He had thought about this many times, and had turned it down just as many.

He had taken endowments when he was young, and in doing so, had turned strong men into weaklings, wise men into fools, hale men into sicklings-all so that their attributes would be bound into him.

But for what?

When a lord took endowments, those who gave them, his Dedicates, lost their attributes and stood in need of protection, protection that never seemed quite ample.

For once Borenson took endowments, every lord and brigand would know that the easiest way to take him down would be to kill his Dedicates, stripping Borenson of the attributes that they magically channeled to him.

Thus, in the past, those who had served Borenson the best had all paid with their lives.

Worse than that, Borenson himself had been forced to play the assassin, slaughtering the Dedicates of Raj Ahten, killing more than two thousand in a single night. Many of those had been men and women that were numbered among his friends. Others were just children.

Nine years past, Borenson had put away his weapons and sworn to become a man of peace.

But now, he wondered, dare I take this charge without also taking endowments?

I made that choice long ago, he decided. When I became a father.

“My daughter Erin is still in diapers,” Borenson said. “If I were to take three or four endowments of metabolism, she’d be ten when I died of old age.”

“So you dare not make my mistake?” Iome said.

Borenson had not meant to offer this painful reminder, but Iome had to understand what he was faced with.

“I want to grow old with my children. I want to watch them marry and have my grandbabies, and be there to give them advice when they need. I don’t want to take endowments of metabolism. And without those, the rest would be almost meaningless.”

It was true. A man might take great endowments of grace and brawn and stamina, but that would not make him a great warrior-not if an opponent charged into battle with three or four endowments of metabolism. Borenson would die in a blur to a weaker man before he could ever land a blow.

“Very well,” Iome said. “I not only respect your position, I wish that I had been as wise in my youth. But if you will not take the endowments necessary to ensure my son’s safety, then I will be forced to ensure his safety. At least, I’ll come with you as far as I can.”

Borenson felt astonished. He had not expected her to abandon her kingdom. At the most, he’d thought that she might only accompany him to the border. He gave her an appraising look. “As far as you can, milady?” Then he asked tenderly, “How far will that be?”

Iome knew what he meant. She hid the signs of aging from others, but she could not hide them from herself. Though she had been on the earth for less than twenty-five years, her endowments of metabolism had aged her more than a hundred. She moved like a panther, but she could feel the end coming. Her feet had begun to swell; she had lost sensation in her legs. Iome felt fragile, ready to break.

“You and my son had the same warning,” she said. “ ‘Hide.’ But my husband’s last words to me were, ‘I go to ride the Great Hunt. I await you.’ ”

Iome continued. “I suspect that I have only a few weeks left, at best. And it is my greatest wish to spend that time in the company of my sons.”

As she spoke, Iome felt a thrill. She had never considered abdicating her throne. It was a burden that she had carried all of her life. Now that the choice was made, she found herself eager to be rid of it, to relinquish it to Duke Paldane. No more meetings with the chancellors. No more court intrigues. No more bearing the weight of the world upon her back.

“I see,” Borenson said softly. “I will miss you, milady.”

Iome gave him a hard little smile. “I’m not dead yet.”

Borenson did something that she would never have expected: he wrapped his huge arms around her and hugged her tightly. “No,” he said. “Far from it.”

She escorted him to the door, let Sir Borenson out. Outside, her Days stood beside the door, waiting as patiently as a chair.

Iome smiled at the woman, feeling a strange sense of loss to be losing this piece of furniture. “Your services will no longer be required,” Iome said. “I hereby abdicate my throne in favor of Duke Paldane.”

The rules were clear on this. Once Iome abdicated and named her successor, the Days was to leave.

The young woman nodded, seemed to think for a moment as she listened to the counsel of distant voices. “Will Fallion be needing my services?”

Iome smiled patiently. The Days performed no “services.” They merely watched their lords, studied them. Perhaps at times there were lords whose endowments of glamour and Voice could sway a Days, but Iome had not known of one. Iome had had a Days haunting her for as long as she could remember. She would be glad to be rid of the woman, finally. “No, he won’t be needing you.”

The Days took this in. She had to know that Iome was taking her sons into hiding. An ancient law forbade a Days from following a lord into exile, for to do so would be to alert the very people that the lord was forced to hide from.