“I’m not sure they want to destroy the world,” Iome said. “Some think that they just want to change it, make it warmer so that reavers can take our place. Perhaps the reavers make better hosts for the loci.”
“Hearthmaster Waggit said that their spells would have destroyed the world, killed all of the plants, and then the animals would have died.”
Iome had to admit that that seemed likely.
“And if he’s right,” Fallion said, “then the loci don’t care if they live in us or not. What they really want is to destroy this world. But why?” Fallion asked.
What is the enemy’s objective? Iome thought. It was a vital question that any commander would want answered.
Fallion went on, “If there are a thousand thousand shadow worlds in the heavens, why would they want to destroy this one?”
“I don’t know,” Iome said. “Maybe they want to destroy all of them.”
“But the One True Master didn’t try to destroy the world in the beginning. She just wanted to take over. And Myrrima said that if she could, she would bind the worlds back together under her control…”
Iome had never considered this.
“Why destroy this world?” Fallion said.
“I don’t know,” Iome admitted.
Fallion wondered, “Maybe destroying this world is a key to getting the rest,” he suggested. He peered deep into her eyes. “If we found one, found a locus, do you think we could ask it? Could we torture it and make it talk?”
The notion was so bizarre, Iome was tempted to laugh. But Fallion was in earnest. “Those who are afflicted by a locus,” she explained, “aren’t likely to tell you anything of worth. Most of the time, the host has no idea what he bears inside himself. Even if you could talk to the locus, would it tell you anything? Gaborn told me that one way to discern a locus is this: a person who hosts a locus can tell you a thousand lies much easier than he can utter a single truth.”
Fallion peered up at his mother. “Yet there must be a way to fight them. They’re afraid of me. I think they know that I can beat them. All that I have to do is find the right weapons.”
Iome fell silent. She didn’t want to speak about this anymore. Indeed, she had already said too much. She didn’t want to burden her son with more knowledge, not now, not when he had just faced Asgaroth. He needed his rest, and she needed to give him hope.
“There’s something that my own father told me when I was a child,” Iome said. “It’s important for you to understand. It’s a secret. I never forgot it. In fact, more than anything else, it has helped shape who I’ve become.”
“What?” Fallion asked.
Iome waited for the expectancy inside him to grow, then repeated from memory, “ ‘The great heroes of the next age are already alive-the Fallions, the Erden Geborens. The child that you see suckling in its mother’s arm may someday command an army. The toddler that sits in the street eating dirt may become a counselor to the king. The little girl drawing water from the well may be a powerful sorceress. The only thing that separates what they are from what they shall become is time, time and preparation. You must prepare to meet your destiny, whatever that may be. Study the right books. Practice the right weapons. Make the right friends. Become the right person.’ ”
“So,” Fallion said, “I should begin now to build my army?” He looked across the room to where Jaz lay curled by the fire, and Talon cuddled with her baby sister Erin, and then his eyes settled on Rhianna, wrapped in a black blanket by the fire, her dirk in her hand.
“Yes,” Iome said. “Now is the time to start. And I think that you’ll have need of an army.”
Iome was deeply aware that she would not live long enough to see him raise an army, to see Fallion become the hero that Gaborn had said he could be. She felt old and stretched, ready to break.
Her tone softened, and she tousled his hair. “I’ve done the best that I could for you. You’ve had the best teachers, the best guards to train you. We’ll keep giving you all that we can, but others can’t live your life for you. You must choose to blossom on your own.”
Fallion thought about that. He’d lived in the shadow of the Earth King all of his life, and for as long as he could remember, he’d had dozens of trainers. Borenson had been there to train him in the battle-ax, while Hadissa taught him the arts of stealth and of poison. Waggit had filled his mind with knowledge of strategy and tactics and a dozen other topics. There had been Sir Coomb to teach him horsemanship and the ways of animals, and there were other teachers, a dozen others at least. So many times he had resented these people, but yes, he realized, his mother had given him all that she could, more than any child had a right to ask.
Even his father, who had seemingly gone to far places in the world without reason, had apparently been watching over him from afar.
But is it enough? he wondered.
“You’re growing so fast,” Iome said. “I think you must be a head taller than all of the other children your age. Sometimes I have to remind myself that you’re still just a little boy.”
“I’m not little,” Fallion whispered. “I’ll be ten in a month.”
“You are to me,” Iome said. “You’re still my baby.”
“If you want,” Fallion said. “Just for a little while more.”
Fallion lay against her, his head pillowed by her breast and cradled in her left arm, while his feet dangled over the edge of the rocking chair, too near the fire. He saw Humfrey slinking about the hearth, laying a bright button in the pile of treasures he’d brought up from below.
Fallion smiled.
It was rare that he had his mother all to himself. For as long as he could remember, his father had been out saving the world while Mother seemed busy ruling it. He looked forward to having her nearby, just being with her.
His hand was throbbing in pain, but he put it out of mind and fell asleep, imagining how someday he would drive a spear through Asgaroth’s heart-a creature who was somehow a tall thin man with impossibly long white hair, leading an army of minions in black. In his dream Fallion was now the Earth King, and he imagined that he would slay evil once and for all, while the world applauded.
So he lay, his mother stroking his hair as if he were a puppy, content for the moment to be nothing more than a child.
David Farland
Sons of the Oak
15
Military commanders all know the value of training soldiers while they are still young. After all, twist a child enough, and he shall remain twisted as an adult.
— Shadoath
Out on the open ocean, the Pirate Lord Shadoath rode on rough seas, her ship rising and falling beneath mountains of waves. Her crew was panicking, but she feared nothing, for she had laid heavy spells upon the ship. The masts would hold and the hull remain intact. They would find their way through the storm.
So she stood, lashed to the mast, grinning like a skull, enjoying the ride. Her crew was as frightened by her apparent madness as they were of the storm.
It was then that Asgaroth appeared to her in a dream.
“The torch-bearer has faced me,” Asgaroth said, “and slain me.” He was dispassionate about his death. He had taken countless bodies over the millennia and would take an endless array in the future. “In doing so, he drew upon his powers.”
He showed her a brief vision of Fallion thrusting a torch into the face of a strengi-saat, the flames bursting
