David Farland - Sons of the Oak

“Come, my love,” he whispered. “The moon is up and the Hunt is under way, and a place is prepared for you.”

He beckoned with his hand. Iome saw a horse not far off, a gray mare with a black mane. It was saddled, bridled, and groomed. Its mane and tail were plaited. It was the most beautiful mount, and she longed to ride.

She took a few steps, and a worry made her halt. “What of the boys?”

“Our time is now,” Gaborn said. “Theirs will come soon enough.”

It was as if his words were a balm, and Iome suddenly cast aside all worries. Our time is now, she thought, and swung up easily into the saddle and nudged her mount forward, until she was at Gaborn’s side.

He reached out and she took his hand; her flesh was young and smooth, as it had been when they first met.

He squeezed her hand, leaned toward her, and she into him, and she kissed him, long and slow. His breath smelled earthy and sweet, and her heart hammered at the touch of his lips. For long minutes, he cradled her head in his palm, and she kissed him perhaps for the very first time without a worry in the world.

When he leaned back, she whispered, “I’m sorry.”

“Leave it behind,” Gaborn whispered. “Leave your sorrows with your flesh.”

“I’m sorry that I did not spend more time with you.”

“Here,” Gaborn said, “an eternity is but a moment, and if you want, we can spend an endless string of them together.”

Iome looked around now, and could see the forest. The oak leaves were as ruddy gold as coals in a forge; every blade of grass seemed as white as fire.

The horn blew again, and she heard the hosts of the dead, riding ahead of them, a thundering horde.

Iome leaned her head back and laughed, happy to be at Gaborn’s side.

In the night, Borenson sat in the rocking chair, a naked sword across his lap.

Once he heard the floorboards creak outside his door as someone came stealthily to it. The person stood outside for a long time, as if listening, and Borenson thought for sure, We have been found.

But the fellow sniffed loudly, then ambled down the hall to another room, his feet unsteady from too much drink.

And in the pale glow of the coals from the fireplace, Borenson saw Iome’s frail body suddenly tremble.

He heard the death rattle out from her throat, and the room suddenly went cold, a feeling that he had long associated with the presence of spirits.

He did not see her shade depart, did not see who had come to escort her into the beyond, but he knew.

“Farewell, my king, my queen,” he whispered, “till we are joined in the Hunt.”

He waited for several long minutes, just listening to the sounds from the common room. The minstrels had gone silent an hour ago, and he could only hear one pair of boots creaking across the wooden floor down there.

I would like to join whoever is down there, Borenson thought, and raise a mug of ale.

He went to Iome’s body. She was smiling, a smile of perfect contentment, but she had no pulse, and she had quit breathing. In a while, she would begin to grow cold.

Borenson unwrapped Iome’s arms from around her sons. He tried not to wake them as he lifted her small frame.

Such a small body, he thought, to have held such an enormous life.

He laid it by the fire, and draped it with his own blanket.

There would be time enough in the morning to let the boys know that their mother had died. They would have their whole lives to mourn.

When he woke that morning and found the shrouded body of his mother lying before the fire, Fallion felt numb. He sat up and rubbed his eyes, peered at the blanket so innocently draped over her, and waited an eternity for her chest to rise and fall again.

But after a dozen heartbeats, he knew that it was useless. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

Myrrima sat in the rocking chair above him, the sword across her lap, keeping guard, and merely watched Fallion for a moment.

Borenson was gone: the other children still slept.

Myrrima leaned forward, forcing a smile, and whispered, “Sorry for what?”

“It’s my fault that she’s dead,” Fallion whispered.

“How can you think that?”

Fallion wasn’t sure. He felt very sad, very lonely and hurt, and somehow he felt that it was his fault. “We wore her out. The flight through the forest, the battle on the river, they were too much for her.”

“Life wears us all out,” Myrrima said. “Your mother sat on a boat for a day, which is as easy as breathing for a Runelord with her powers. And the battle? She hurled a sword. That’s not hard work, not hard at all. No, it’s not your fault. We all pass on when our time comes. And it was her time.

“Come here,” Myrrima said, and she leaned down over the side of the chair and with one hand raised the blanket so that Fallion could see his mother’s face. It was pale, lifeless, with a tint of blue to her upturned lips. “See that smile? She died at peace, beside the two boys that she loved most in this world. She’d want you to be happy, too, be happy for her. She’s with your father now.”

And the tears came. Fallion tried to hold them back, but the tears came, along with huge wracking sobs.

“Shhhh…” Myrrima whispered. “We’ve got to get ready to go. Would you like something to eat? I can go down and bring you something.”

Fallion swiped his eyes. He had thought that Borenson was getting breakfast from the common room. “Won’t Borenson bring it?”

Myrrima shook her head. “He’s taking a note to the palace, telling them where to find your mother.”

“Oh, okay,” Fallion said.

Myrrima gave him a hug, and crept out through the door. As she closed it, she bowed her head in wonder.

It had been seven years ago that the Earth King had approached Myrrima and her husband, asking them to take care of his children. He’d known that both he and his wife were destined to die young.

Myrrima had always known that it would come to this. She recalled Gaborn’s exact words. He had been standing in the kitchen, holding young Fallion in the crook of his arm. “My son will be greater than me,” Gaborn had warned in an ominous tone. “He will have a greater capacity to do good, and a greater capacity to do evil. You must nurture the good in him, lest the whole world suffer.”

Greater than the Earth King. Myrrima could not imagine such a thing. Yet she was a servant of Water, and she had to admit, she felt something in Fallion’s presence, a force that other children did not have.

Straightening her back, Myrrima hurried downstairs.

Fallion remained alone in the room with the sleeping children, and with his dead mother. He stared at her, feeling numb inside.

Everything seemed so important suddenly, every moment so deliberate, every breath so imbued with life.

To Fallion it seemed that death was a miracle. Last night his mother had been warm and alive, telling stories and dreaming of the future. Now the spirit had fled and her body was as empty and as lifeless as a loaf of bread.

Not death, he told himself. Life is the miracle. The very act of living couldn’t be more wondrous if I stretched out my arms and found that I could fly.

He went and lay by his mother, put a hand over her cold flesh, hugging her one last time.

Rhianna woke a moment later. She sat up and rubbed her eyes as she studied the shrouded body.

Fallion was lying there, weeping softly, trying not to be seen or heard. She crawled over to him. She straddled him, placing one hand on the floor on each side of his shoulders, then took his face in her hands, leaned down, and gave him a fierce kiss on the lips. She held it for a long moment, then looked at him appraisingly, to see if he liked it.