And now, Fallion thought, perfect evil has been unleashed upon the world.
2
Not all pain is evil. Sometimes we must pass through greater pain in order to be healed.
As night fell, Queen Iome Sylvarresta clutched the ramparts of Castle Coorm beside her far-seers and watched breathlessly as Sir Borenson fled down the mountains, blowing his warhorn again and again.
Iome had as many endowments of sight and hearing as any far-seer. Each time her children rode over a hilltop, she could see their frightened faces, pale and round in the failing light.
But she could not discern what enemy chased them. Her tears at the loss of her husband kept welling up, and though she wiped them away savagely with the sleeve of her cloak, new ones kept filling their place.
“There’s something in the woods above them, keeping pace,” one far-seer said. Indeed, whole pine trees shook and swayed on the ridge above, and black shades floated among the branches. Iome could hear distant bell- like barks, animal calls. But no amount of squinting would reveal the enemy.
“The boys look well,” the far-seer said, trying to comfort Iome.
The words had little effect. Iome felt numb with grief at the loss of her husband. She’d always known that this day would come, but it felt far worse than she had expected.
I should not mourn him so, she thought. I lost him years ago when he became the Earth King, and his duties stripped him from me. I should not mourn him so.
But there was an ache deep inside her, an emptiness that she knew could never be filled. She almost felt as if she would collapse.
She mentally tried to shove the pain back.
The sun was falling, retreating to the far side of the world. Already the vale around the castle was shrouded in darkness, and all too soon the last rays of sunlight would fade from the hilltops in the east, and the world would plunge into blackest night.
Iome bit her lip. A dozen force knights were already galloping into the hills to the children’s aid.
I’ve done all that I can, Iome thought bitterly.
And it did not seem enough. Worry fogged her mind. Gaborn had not been dead for two minutes before the boys fell under attack.
It reeked of a plot, of enemies lying in wait. Iome looked back into the shadows behind her, where her Days stood quietly studying the scene. The Days was a rail of a woman, with long trestles of hair braided in cornrows, a doe’s brown eyes, and the sullen robes of a scholar.
If there was a plot, the Days would probably know of it. Every king and queen had her own Days whose sole purpose in life was to chronicle their lives. And each Days had given an endowment of Wit to another of his order, thus sharing a single mind, so that in some distant monastery, this woman’s other half scribed Iome’s life, while others scribed the lives of other lords. If any king or queen in the land had a hand in her husband’s death, the woman would know.
But she would not tell, not willingly. The Days were sworn to strict noninterference. The woman would not warn Iome if her life was in danger, wouldn’t give her a drink if she was dying of a fever.
Yet there were sometimes ways to gather information from them.
Iome glanced at the far-seer, pretended to rivet her attention upon him, and said, “Gaborn was not dead five minutes when the boys were attacked. Could it be a plot?”
Iome glanced back to her Days, to see her reaction. She showed none. Inwardly, Iome grinned. When the Days had first come to her, she had been young and immature. Iome had been able to read her as easily as if she had been a child. But she could not do that anymore.
Iome felt old and weak, full of pain.
Suddenly the boys topped a hill three miles off, and there met the knights that Iome had sent to their aid.
For the moment they are safe, Iome thought. Now I must take measures to ensure that they remain that way.
By the time that Rhianna reached Castle Coorm, she was sick with grief and fear, and felt certain that something was gnawing at her belly. A few dozen commoners had begun to gather outside the castle walls to pay their respects to the fallen Earth King.
They had lit torches, which now reflected from the waters of the moat, and guttered in the evening breeze, filling the vale with sweet-smelling pine smoke.
As their mount descended from the hills toward the castle, she could hear hundreds of peasants singing:
“Lost is my hope.
Lost is my light,
Though my heart keeps beating still.
Oh, remember me when we meet again, my king beneath the hill.”
Borenson shouted for people to clear the road, and Rhianna heard cries of “Make way for the prince!” followed by gasps of astonishment as people looked up at the boy who rode in the saddle before her.
Only then did she realize that she rode behind Fallion Orden, the Crown Prince of Mystarria.
Rhianna was weeping bitterly for each precious lost second spent behind the armored knights that guarded the way and the townsfolk that gawked at the prince.
Fallion squeezed her hand, which was wrapped around him from behind so that she was clutching his chest, and whispered, “Don’t be afraid. We have good healers at the castle. They’ll take care of you.”
He seemed to be a kind boy, quick to give comfort, and she remembered how he had been the first to offer her a ride.
He’s quick to help, as well, she decided.
And what seemed to be long wasted moments later, the horses finally thundered over the bridge into the castle.
Fallion shouted “Make way, make way!” and the horses cantered through the streets up to the keep. In minutes Rhianna dismounted and was whisked inside, where she gaped at the splendor of the Great Hall.
Servants had begun preparing a feast. Maidens had begun bringing bowls of fruit-local wood-pears and shining red apples, along with more exotic fare all the way from Indhopal-star fruits and tangerines to set upon the tables. Children were strewing pennyroyal flowers upon the stone floor, raising a sweet scent. Huge fires blazed in the hearth, where young boys turned the crank on a spit, cooking whole piglets that dripped fat and juice to sizzle in the flames. A pair of racing hounds barked at all of the excitement.
No sooner had the party entered than a knot of maids surrounded Fallion and Jaz, offering sympathy for the death of their father. Fallion tried to look stoic while wiping away the tears that came to his eyes, but Jaz seemed to be more sentimental, sobbing openly.
At the far end of the hall, Rhianna saw the queen herself hurry forward, an ancient woman with watery eyes and hair as white as ice, prematurely aged from having taken numerous endowments of metabolism. She stood tall and straight like a warrior, and moved with the grace of a dancer, but even Rhianna could see that her time was near. Even the most powerful Runelords died eventually.
Amid the bustle, Sir Borenson grabbed Rhianna and picked her up, hugging her to his chest as he shouted, “Call the surgeon, hoy!”
For his part, Borenson planned to leave the boys in the care of the cooks and maids and their mother. The
