“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.
“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.
