to serve as Dedicates to their young king, suspecting that he was a tyrant. He responded by outlawing all minstrels-a group that by ancient law could not be silenced-and thus in the minds of many proved that he was a tyrant indeed. When the Knights Equitable slaughtered his Dedicates, and then put him to the gallows, only his wife and children protested.
In the northlands of Internook, folk who had always been too poor to afford forcibles heard songs that decried the “tyranny of the Runelords,” and were taught to long for a day when none existed. It was no surprise when the peasants revolted, slaughtering the few Dedicates that lived within Internook’s borders.
The folk of Alnick soon tried to follow in their footsteps, marching upon the castle. There Queen Rand threw herself from the battlements, ending her life so that she might free her Dedicates, sparing them from murder.
The call for revolution spread, even as the blood-metal mines in Kartish gave out.
The world grew ripe for destruction, and as it did, Shadoath prepared. Her army of strengi-saats had multiplied and grown fat on the carrion left in the wake of her small wars in Inkarra.
Shadoath had almost forgotten Fallion. But last fall she had been visiting a small port in the north of Mystarria, and as she walked down the busy streets, studying the work of local weapon-smiths, she spotted a sailor that she recognized.
She’d only seen him once, for a few seconds, yet with a dozen endowments of wit, Shadoath remembered his face vividly. He had been just another sailor in the crowd on the night when Shadoath had fought Myrrima. He was supposed to have been dead, washed up on the rocks of Toom.
She took him then, and a few days under the hot tongs loosened his tongue.
Fallion had gone ashore near Garion’s Port.
She sent her agents out again, had them search up the Hacker River with its many tributaries, and told them what to look for.
She knew Fallion better than he knew himself. She’d fought him time and again, over many lifetimes.
“Look for a lad well versed with a blade, one who has made a reputation for himself. He will be quiet and unassuming, driven and as sharp as a knife, but well liked by others.”
And so now one of her scouts had returned, a minstrel in green-andyellow-striped pants with a shirt of purple and a red vest. He looked like a fool but sang like a sweet lark, plucking his lute as he danced around.
“I found him. I found him. And for a fortune I’ll tell you whe-ere,” the minstrel sang, doing a jig around the throne, glee shining in his eyes.
Shadoath grinned. “Fallion?”
The minstrel nodded secretively.
She reached down to her belt, threw her whole purse full of gold onto the floor. “Where?”
“He’s a captain among the Gwardeen, and goes by the last name of Humble. For three years he has led graak riders at the Citadel of the Infernal Wastes, and only recently has he been transferred to the Gwardeen Wood, just north of Garion’s Port.”
“A captain-so young?” she wondered. Instinctively she knew that it was true. Young, ambitious, well liked.
The name “Fallion” was common in Landesfallen, and the boy had apparently kept it, changing only his last name.
The Gwardeen were notoriously closed and secretive, and their graak outposts were often difficult to reach. The Citadel of the Infernal Wastes was a fortress only eighty miles east of Garion’s Port. But it was high in the mountains, some said “impossible” to reach by foot.
Shadoath tried to imagine the life that he had been living. Fallion would have spent years flying missions over the inland deserts on his graak, making certain that the toth had not returned. He might even have spent the midsummer and winter months down in their ancient tunnels.
No wonder she had not found him.
The minstrel plucked his lute, as if begging attention, and then continued. “He has a brother serving under him: a boy named Draken. And there is an older woman that he visits in Garion’s Port-petite and beautiful, with raven hair.” The minstrel strummed a few notes to an ancient love ballad.
Valya.
Shadoath smiled.
The minstrel strummed and sang, “How will we catch this bird? How will we clip its wings? For with only a word, other larks will warning bring.”
Obviously he had been thinking. The Gwardeen kept watch at all times, and Fallion would be ready to fly away at a moment’s notice.
“I don’t have to find him,” Shadoath said with a smile. “He is a Gwardeen, sworn to protect Landesfallen. I shall make him come to me.”
44
In times of trouble, the world always looks for a hero to save it. Be careful that you don’t heed their call.
On a lazy summer afternoon at a tiny inn called the Sea Perch, built high among the branches of the stonewoods, Fallion sat listening to a minstrel sing.
“Where, oh, where is the Heir to the Oak,
Strong of heart and fair of face?
His people mourn, and their hearts are broke,
They say he dwells in some far-off place.
In Heredon’s wood, on Mystarria’s seas, one can hear the ravens cry.
Their calls disrupt the dreams of peace
That in tender hearts of children lie.
Where, oh, where is the Heir to the Oak?
Exiled to some fairer realm?
Does he follow his father’s roads?
Calling a field his fort, the forest home?
Where, oh, where is the Heir to the Oak?
‘Lost,’ some say, to light and life.
But faithful hearts still hold this hope:
His return will herald an end to strife.”
The song struck Fallion to the marrow. It wasn’t just the quality of the singer’s voice. Borenson had warned Fallion that the people would cry for his return.
Not yet, Fallion thought. I’m not ready yet. Do they really want me to come so soon?
Fallion had hoped to wait until he was sixteen. On his sixteenth birthday, it was customary to crown a prince as king.
But Fallion doubted that there would be anyone to crown him by the time he returned home. By all accounts, Chancellor Westhaven had tried his best to hold Mystarria together. But the Brat of Beldinook had torn it from his hands, and then had begun a reign of horror over its people, “punishing” them for the death of her father at Gaborn’s hands, persecuting any who dared admit that the Earth King may have been right in executing him.
There were tales of starvation in Mystarria, of forlorn crowds rioting at the Courts of Tide.
In Fallion’s mind, such “nobles” were waging wars that only weakened themselves and destroyed the very people they hoped to govern.
