David Farland - Sons of the Oak

“How much gold?” Borenson said. “I mean, I wouldn’t want to see anyone get hurt-especially my sister.” He feigned being a man of conscience, but a man who could be tempted. “So how much gold?”

The little fellow licked his lips. Borenson felt sure that he had a set price, but he was wondering how much he could shave off of it, pocket for himself. “Twenty gold eagles,” the fellow said. It was a small fortune.

“Pshaawww,” Borenson said. “You can pay better than that for a pair of fat princelings.”

The fellow looked up, and in the moonlight his milky eyes looked strange, like orbs of marble.

“Yes, I figured out who they are,” Borenson said. “My sister once served as a maid in King Orden’s household. So it’s no wonder that they came to her, not after what happened last night.”

“Thirty, thirty gold eagles,” the scurvy fellow hissed. “All right?”

“All right,” Borenson said. Before the fellow could blink, Borenson swung a punch for the little man’s ribs, landing the blow with all of his might. Borenson wasn’t as powerful as he had once been. His endowments were gone, and he had nothing but his own strength nowadays. Nine years ago, he’d have killed a man with that blow.

Now he just heard a few ribs snap, and the fellow went down with a grunt, holding his gut, trying to suck air. Borenson saw him reach for a dagger, and jumped on his right arm, snapping it like a twig.

The little fellow lay on the kelp, moaning while the crabs clicked and scuttled aside.

“Now,” Borenson said as he leaned over the sailor and pinned his arms. “Let’s discuss a new bargain. Tell me who sent you, and I’ll let you live.”

Borenson wrestled the scurvy fellow’s arms behind his back, then took the sailor’s own dagger from its sheath and laid the naked blade to his neck.

“A big feller,” the sailor said, and he began to sob. “White hair, with a black long coat. I ’eard someone say ’e’s a captain of his own ship. Maybe, maybe even a pirate lord from the far side.”

“His name,” Borenson said, digging the knife closer. He twisted the broken arm, eliciting more sobs. “Tell me his name.”

“I ’eard tell that his name is Callamon.”

Borenson held his breath a moment, taking that in. Fortunately, this Callamon was not on the ship that they’d be taking.

Borenson knew that he couldn’t leave the sailor alive. He’d go running to the enemy, telling what he’d found.

Time and time it came down to this. Borenson was a killer, a hired killer.

He was good at it, even though it pained him.

“Thank you,” Borenson said reluctantly. “I’m sorry.” He bashed the little man’s skull with the pommel of his dagger, stunning him, and then slit the fellow’s throat from ear to ear, giving him a clean death, which was the most that Borenson could allow.

He hurled the body into the sea as food for the crabs.

The fare at the inn was uncommonly good, and dinner that night for the “sick guests” was spectacular-roast ducklings stuffed with rice and dates, savory pies, honey rolls, and pudding spiced with lemon rind.

When it was done, everyone felt overstuffed, and most of the children fell asleep almost instantly.

Myrrima tidied up, packing for the trip tomorrow. And while Borenson was away, Fallion lay awake beside the fire, watching flames flicker and dance before his eyes. Iome noticed how he hugged Rhianna close, as he had the night before, trying to comfort her. She smiled at his innocence.

Iome felt fulfilled after a day of just playing with her children, eating a fine meal. She had not had a great deal of time to spend with her sons in the past few years, and she had forgotten how refreshing it could be.

Borenson came to the room and found Iome and his wife awake. As he stirred the fire, he gave them the least worrisome of his news: Beldinook had attacked from the north, taking Castle Carris.

It made sense, Iome realized. Paldane had resided in Carris, and she had already seen him impaled on a stick. So the news was stale.

“But there is more important news,” Borenson said. “I met a man down in the common room, a bounty hunter. He was searching for news of young boys, princely young men. He was hired by a ship’s captain named Callamon.”

Iome took this in. “Callamon. I’ve heard of him. He’s a pirate of some repute.”

There was no way that a pirate could be looking for them, Iome knew. He wouldn’t have had time to gain the intelligence that he needed. Unless, perhaps… he was infested by a locus.

This was unsettling news.

Myrrima excused herself to go to the privy out back.

“I’m tired,” Iome said to Borenson’s back after hearing his report. “Will you keep watch? I haven’t slept in so, so long.”

“Of course.” Borenson glanced back up at her, his head half turned, the fire limning his beard, red streaked with silver. “Are you well?”

Iome smiled. He thinks I’m going to die, she realized. And maybe he is right.

The elderly often feel well just before they die, and Iome realized now that for the entire day she had gone without any of the twinges or aches that come with aging. Indeed, she had not felt so good for many, many months.

Like an apple tree, that blooms best when it blooms its last.

“I just want to go to sleep,” Iome said. “I want to hold my boys.”

She climbed down from her rocking chair and curled up on the floor with Jaz and Fallion, pulling a single blanket up to cover all three.

Borenson got up from the fire, put a hand on her shoulder, and whispered, “Good night, milady.”

“Good-bye,” she said. “I think that this is good-bye. But I’m ready for it. Life can be very… tiring.”

“Rest well,” Borenson said.

They did not talk of the boys. Iome wanted to ask him to raise them as his own but she already knew that he would.

She thought, It will be ample repayment for the killing of my father.

She dared not say those words aloud. Borenson had repaid her many times. He was a good servant, a faithful friend.

She lay for a long time, measuring her moments. Does the joy I felt outweigh the pain? she wondered.

She’d given her life in the service of others. She’d lost her husband, and now was going to lose her children.

That didn’t seem a fair bargain. But the moments of joy that had come were intense and beautiful: her girlhood friendships with Chemoise and Myrrima, her marriage to Gaborn, and the brightest moments, the births of her sons.

Is my life a tragedy, she wondered, or a triumph?

Her Days had said that she would write that Iome’s was a life well lived. But she had given away all that she loved in an effort to win peace and freedom for her people.

So it was neither a tragedy nor a triumph, Iome told herself. It was only a trade.

I’ll warn the boys, she told herself in a fit of sudden irrationality. I’ll warn them in the morning not to trade away the best parts of their lives.

But she remembered that she had already warned Fallion, over and over again.

He’s a smart boy, she told herself. Smarter than I was at his age. He will do well.

Sleep came, deep and restful, until in the night she was wakened by a horn that blew so loud it made her heart clench in her chest.

She clutched at her heart, and opened her eyes to a dawn so bright that she had to squint.

Where am I? she wondered. Am I staring into the sun?

But the light did not hurt her eyes. On the contrary, it was warm and inviting, and grew brighter and brighter. As her eyes became accustomed, she heard the horn a second time, a distant wail, followed by pounding hooves, so much like a beating heart.

Gaborn came out of the light. He was young and smiling, his hair tousled. He wore a riding cloak of green, and tall black boots, and his dark blue eyes sparkled like sapphires.