Erin felt that the day was somehow strange, surreal. To her it almost seemed as if the line of clouds was following them. Ahead, on the horizon, a thin line of blue sky still held a promise of fair weather. But above them and at their back, the billowing vapors followed, like a dog wearily treading at the heels of its master. It did not matter if the party rode fast or slow. The clouds matched their pace.
Heedless of the strange signs in the heavens, Celinor talked to his father. Over a period of several hours he calmly related all that had befallen him since he’d gone to Heredon. He began with his first meeting with Gaborn, then told of his and Erin’s battle with the Darkling Glory, and rendered his account of their race to Carris where Gaborn found Raj Ahten’s troops occupying the city while a dark sea of reavers surrounded it. He related how Gaborn had used his Earth Powers to Choose Raj Ahten and his men along with all of the citizens of Carris so that they might defend themselves from the reavers. But even after Gaborn summoned a world worm to kill the fell mage that led the reaver horde, Raj Ahten would not bend the knee to Gaborn. Instead, like a dog he sought to ambush Gaborn after the battle. Gaborn used his powers to try to kill Raj Ahten, and for that act of sacrilege, the Earth withdrew them. He told how Gaborn could now sense danger to his Chosen, but could no longer warn them how to avoid it. Instead, he had to suffer as his people were slaughtered and torn from him.
As Celinor talked, Erin held silent. She did not trust King Anders. Her thoughts were muzzy from lack of sleep, and she was so tired that the very ride today had an unreal quality. All of the trees and hills seemed to be too defined and have sharp edges, and the light that flowed from heaven was overwhelming and tinged with yellow. She could detect some cold, but she was too weary to feel pain or pressure, or even to think much.
Throughout Celinor’s recitation of his journey, King Anders rode with his head bowed and eyes nearly closed, deep in thought. It was as if he wanted to see the battle, and so was conjuring the image in his mind, living it as Celinor had done. From time to time he would break in on the narrative to ask questions. Usually, the questions were benign. For example, he asked, “The spells that the fell mage cast, you mentioned that one of them wrung the water from you. How so?”
“When it hit,” Celinor answered, “it made the sweat instantly rise from every pore, and made you feel as if your bladder would burst, you had to pee so bad. Once the sweat started, it didn’t stop. My clothes were drenched by the count of five.”
“And what about the need to pee?” King Anders asked.
“I did it where I stood, as did every other man,” Celinor said. “We were in the thick of battle, and had no time for niceties. Besides, there was no stopping it.”
King Anders nodded appreciatively at that, and let his son continue.
The account lasted for hours. Every question that King Anders asked, Celinor would answer easily—too easily for Erin’s taste.
She was reminded again that King Anders had sent his son to see Gaborn as a spy. And though Celinor said that he mistrusted his father and was worried that the old king had gone mad, killing his own far-seer, Celinor still acted the part of a spy. He spared nothing. Erin wasn’t sure if it was King Anders’s own skill at eliciting responses—for during the entire conversation, his demeanor was simply that of a kindly man who wanted to understand the whole situation more clearly—or if Celinor just had a loose tongue.
Celinor told everything, down to the time that Erin chose him for her husband, in the way that horse-sisters did.
“Really?” King Anders responded to the news, looking back at Erin. “You married her? Your mother will be mortified!”
“How so?” Celinor asked.
“She would have wanted a big wedding in the South Garden—months of planning, a thousand lords in attendance.”
“I’m sorry to disappoint her,” Celinor said.
King Anders turned back and smiled warmly at Erin. “Oh, she won’t be disappointed. Of that, I’m certain.”
When Celinor had finished his tale, King Anders asked, “You say that Gaborn traveled with a great trove of forcibles. How many of them were there?”
“Five big boxes,” Celinor said. “I suspect that Gaborn’s father captured them from Raj Ahten when he took Longmot. Each box had to be lifted by two force soldiers, so they could not have weighed less than three or four hundred pounds. I made it to be four thousand forcibles in each box.”
“Humph,” King Anders snorted in surprise. “A great trove indeed.” The soldiers at King Anders’s back made appreciative noises at the mention of the treasure.
“Aye,” Celinor said, “it was a great treasure, and there were more besides. You could hear Gaborn’s facilitators chanting night and day at Castle Sylvarresta, giving endowments, though Gaborn was loath to take any for himself.”
“Loath?” King Anders asked.
“He does not like the kiss of the forcible,” Celinor answered. “They say he is an oath-bound lord.”
“How many endowments does he have?” Anders asked. This was a deeply personal question, the kind of thing that one never discussed in public, in part out of social nicety, in part because it was so dangerous. It was the kind of thing that only an assassin would worry about.
“I haven’t seen his scars,” Celinor said, “but I know that he lost his endowments when Raj Ahten killed his Dedicates at the Blue Tower. Afterward, he took a few endowments at Longmot, but it could not have been many—I’d guess perhaps fifteen—three each of brawn, grace, and metabolism, four or five of stamina, maybe a bit of sight and hearing. He has not taken any glamour or Voice, that I could tell.”
King Anders nodded appreciatively. “It sounds as if he is a good man. I only wish that he were a better king. Remember, Celinor, none of us who are in power can afford the luxury of such scruples.”
“Some folks think that scruples are a necessity, not a luxury,” Erin said. She regretted the words before they even left her mouth.
“That they are,” King Anders said turning around as best he could to face her with a warm smile. “I meant no insult to Gaborn. He is doing his best to manage a dire situation. Still, I feel that if he cares for his people, he owes it to them to take more endowments. True, a few Dedicates will die here and there—a loss that we all regret. But if Gaborn’s people were to lose their king...”
He sighed.
Erin studied his face. Anders showed no outward sign that he planned to try to kill Gaborn and take his forcibles, but Erin could not help but suspect that such schemes were spinning in his head.
King Anders gazed at Erin sidelong. “You don’t trust me, do you?” Erin didn’t answer. The only sound was the clopping of the horse’s hooves as they pounded the dry dirt road. “Why not?”
Erin dared not tell him the truth, that she did not trust him because his own son feared that Anders was mad. He might have killed his own far-seer, and he had done all that was within his power to dispose of Gaborn.
Even now, Erin wasn’t sure why King Anders was heading south to Mystarria. He said that he was going to try to stop a war that he had set in motion. But he wasn’t going in haste.
Celinor filled the uncomfortable silence by blurting, “She had a dream about you. She dreamt that you were a locus.”
King Anders looked as if he would deny the accusation outright, but after a moment of thought gave her a queer look. “A what?”
“She dreamt of an owl in the netherworld,” Celinor went on, “that told her to beware of a creature called a locus, a, a sort of a focus for evil. It can get inside a man and wear him like a suit of armor.”
King Anders raised his hand and stopped his men. He turned his horse around and studied Erin narrowly, as if trying to think of a proper response.