The green woman ignored her.
Gaborn eyed the creature, worry etched into the lines of his face. “Foul Deliverer, Fair Destroyer,” Gaborn called. “Hear me: we go to hunt the great enemies of Earth. You would best serve your master by coming with us.”
If the wylde heard at all, Averan could not tell.
Averan smelled reavers up in the shaft, whispering, wondering what to do. Dozens hid there. She suspected that the wylde could smell them, too.
“Let’s go,” Gaborn said, grabbing Averan’s hand. Iome was already forging ahead, down the old river channel. Gaborn pulled Averan, their footsteps echoing behind them.
For a long time as they raced down the cavern, Averan could hear the keening cries of the wylde.
7
Ties that Bind
The transfer of endowments is more of an art than a science. Every facilitator has heard of those sublime cases where the transfer of endowments seems miraculous—where, for example, the strength of a lord is greatly enhanced after the application of a forcible, yet his Dedicate’s strength seems hardly diminished—or rarer yet, those cases where effects seem to linger even after the Dedicate passes away. By learning the art of making a perfect match, it is our hope that such wondrous cases will, in the future, become the norm.
A few hours past dawn, Myrrima and Borenson reached Batenne, an ancient city whose tall houses were built in the old Ferecian style, with well-cut stones that fit seamlessly together. The roofs were made of copper plates from nearby mines, green with age, overlapping like fish scales. Old manors in the hills soared above expansive gardens where marble statues of nubile maidens, all swinging exotic long swords, could be glimpsed among the golden-leafed willows.
They bypassed the city and rode to the Castle of Abelaire Montesfromme, the Marquis de Ferecia. The castle, with its stately towers, sat on the highest hill above the city. The outer walls had been limed over the summer, and they gleamed so brightly that when the morning sun struck them it pained the eyes. It almost seemed as if the castle were a bit of bright cloud fashioned into walls. The guards at the gate wore polished silver armor, enameled with the red graak of Ferecia upon their chests. Their helms sported visors with slits so small that the warriors within seemed eyeless. They bore long spears of blackened iron, with decorative silver tips.
Myrrima tried not to look at her own clothes, still wet from her dip in the pool and muddied and stained from the road. She gazed about in wonder.
“Close your mouth,” Borenson warned softly, “you’ll not be catching any flies around here.”
“It’s so beautiful,” Myrrima said. “I’ve never imagined such a place.” Indeed, as they rode into the courtyard, the cobbled stones were so perfectly level that they might have been laid that very morning. A mosaic showed the red graak upon a white background. Along the margins of the road, the lawn was perfectly clipped. Gardens of jasmine trailing down from window boxes in the castle’s archery slots joined with mallow and rose on the lawns to lend the air a natural perfume. Hummingbirds swooped and darted among the bruised shadows of the towers, sparkling like gems when they caught the sunlight.
Myrrima saw anger on her husband’s face. “What’s wrong?” she asked under her breath, lest the guards hear her.
“This—” Borenson said, nodding toward the castle. “The people of Carris bleed and die on the castle walls less than three hundred miles from here, while the marquis and his dandy knights cower in splendor. I have half a mind to toss the fine flower boxes from the tower windows, and hurl the marquis out after them.”
Myrrima didn’t know what to say. The marquis was a powerful man from one of the oldest and wealthiest families in all of Rofehavan, while Borenson was only a Knight Equitable. For days now she had been afraid that she would lose him. She could feel him slipping away. His growing resentment toward Gaborn, the marquis, and indeed all lords was certainly part of the problem.
By the time that they reached the marquis’s Keep, Borenson was in a black mood. His jaw was set, and the blood flowed hot in his face. A servant showed them into a stately antechamber where fine paintings of the marquis and his ancestors hung in gilt frames. Enormous candelabras graced the mantel above the fireplace.
“Wait here,” the servant begged.
Borenson paced like an angry dog, and looked as if he would go follow the servant at any minute, tracking down the marquis. Yet they had not waited two minutes when a young man raced in, face flushed and eyes shining with eagerness.
“Sir Borenson, is it true?” the lad begged. “Is the Earth King battling reavers at Carris?”
Borenson looked that lad over. “Do I know you?”
“I’m Bernaud—”
“The marquis’s son?” Borenson asked in disbelief.
“At your service,” Bernaud said with a half bow.
A wicked twinkle sparked in Borenson’s eye. “Aye, your king is battling reavers,” Borenson said, “as you will be—soon.”
At that moment, a servant entered through the same open door. “The marquis begs you to join him for breakfast in the Great Room.”
Borenson and Myrrima followed the servant, with Bernaud trailing, into the marquis’s Great Hall. An enormous table, some fifty feet long, occupied the length of the room. The table was set with enough pastries, fruit, and boar’s ham to feed a dozen men, but the marquis sat there all alone, as if brooding over which dainty to taste.
Above the table, the shields of the marquis’s ancestors adorned the walls. Each shield, plated with gold foil, was a monument to the great families from which the marquis had descended. Myrrima knew little of such lore, yet even she recognized some of the devices: here was the crouching lion of Merigast the Defiant, who stood fast against the sorcerers of the toth at Woglen’s Tower when all hope of rescue had failed. And there were the double eagles of King Hoevenor of Delf, who drove the arr from the Alcair Mountains. Each shield was elegant, and many had been forged by the finest craftsmen of their era. Yet most impressive of all was a small round shield above the head of the table, a crude thing that almost looked as if a child might have fashioned it on his own. On it was painted a red graak, wings spread as it soared above two worlds. Myrrima did not doubt that it was the shield of Ferrece Geboren himself, son of the Earth King Erden Geboren. In his own day he had been called The Ferocious, for he was fearless in battle. According to legend, at the age of thirteen he had instigated the journey to the netherworld with the Wizard Sendavian and Daylan of the Black Hammer. There Ferrece implored the Bright Ones to fight in mankind’s behalf. In all the lore of knights, no man was more universally admired than Ferrece Geboren.
It was a sad reminder that Ferecia had once been a proud land. An even sadder reminder of its ruin was the marquis himself, who sat just beneath the shield in a silk housecoat, looking down his nose at Myrrima and Borenson. He held a white perfumed kerchief up to his face, and by his sour expression seemed appalled that two people as squalid as Myrrima and her husband should appear in his appointments.
“Oh dear,” the marquis said, “Sir Borenson, it is so good to see you! You look...well.”
“And you,” Borenson said with a strain, the veins bulging in his neck. “Although, last time we met, you had four or five endowments of glamour to your credit. You look to be...a much more withered specimen of humanity without them.” The marquis’s face paled at the insult. Borenson affected a cough into his hand, and then clapped the marquis on the shoulder in a manner that was common with men in arms. The marquis looked down at the offensive hand, eyes popping.
Borenson seemed as if he were ready for murder, and the marquis looked as if he might faint.