King Sylvarresta smiled appreciatively. “He did.”
Iome began to leave, but another perplexing question came to mind. “Father, now that we've seen Raj Ahten's knight, should we prepare for him to bring out his wizards?”
Her father's frown was answer enough.
4
Addleberry Wine
Borenson studied Gaborn's eyes. “Do I feel anything, milord? What do you mean? Like hunger, excitement? I feel many things.”
Gaborn couldn't quite express the odd sensation that assailed him in the market at Bannisferre. “No, nothing so ordinary. It's like...the earth...trembling in anticipation? Or...” He suddenly caught an image in his mind. “It's like that moment when you put your hand to the plow, and you thrill to see dark soil fold over, knowing that the seeds will soon be in the ground, and fruit will come of it. Endless trees and fields spreading across the horizon.”
It was odd, but the image came to mind with such force that Gaborn could not think to say anything else. Words did not suffice for what he felt, for he could literally feel his hand wrapping around the worn wooden handles of the plow, feel the strain of the lines from the ox cutting into his back, feel the keen edge of the plow biting into the soil, turning over dark dirt, discovering worms. He could taste the metallic tang of soil in his mouth, see fields and forests streaming out before him. His pockets were heavy with seeds, ready to plant.
He felt as if he were experiencing all these things at once, and he wondered if any gardener had really ever felt such a keen thrill of anticipation as the one that assailed him at this moment. Oddest of all, Gaborn had never done these things—had never hitched himself to a plow or stooped to plant the earth.
Yet he wished at this moment that he had. He wished that at this very second, he stood in the earth.
Myrrima looked at him strangely. Gaborn's Days gave no reply, playing the invisible observer.
But Borenson's eyes shone with laughter. “Milord, I think you have had too much air today. Your face is pale and sweaty. Do you feel well?”
“I feel...very...healthy,” Gaborn said, wondering if he was ill. Wondering if he was mad. Few weaknesses ever impaired a Runelord. An endowment of wit could repair a lord with poor memory, an endowment of stamina could bolster a sickly king. But madness...
“Well then,” Gaborn said, suddenly wanting to be alone with his thoughts, to consider what could cause these profound feelings of...planting, “I think you two should spend some time getting acquainted—the afternoon.”
“My lord, I am your body—” Borenson said, not willing to leave his side. Gaborn could count the times on his fingers when Borenson had been away for more than a night.
“And I will be lounging in a hostel, with nothing more dangerous than a joint of pork before me.” Borenson could hardly refuse. Custom dictated that he go privately to the woman's house to beg her hand in marriage. With a witless mother and no father, custom might be somewhat circumvented in this case, but it could not be put aside entirely.
“Are you certain? I don't think this is wise,” Borenson said, his manner becoming deadly earnest. Gaborn was in a strange country, after all, and he was heir apparent to the wealthiest nation in Rofehavan.
“Just go, will you?” Gaborn urged them, smiling. “If it makes you feel better, I promise that as soon as I lunch, I will go to my room and bolt the door.”
“We'll be back well before dark,” Myrrima said.
Gaborn said, “No, I'll seek out your home. I'd like to meet your kind sisters, and your mother.”
Myrrima urged, breathlessly, “Across the Himmeroft Bridge—four miles down the Bluebell Way, a gray cabin in the meadow.”
Borenson shook his head adamantly. “No, I'll come back for you. I won't have you riding alone.”
“Farewell, then, until this afternoon,” Gaborn said. He watched them scurry off through the crowd, hand-in-hand, a certain lightness to their steps.
For a few moments, Gaborn stayed in the market, watching an entertainer who had trained albino doves to do all manner of aerial acrobatics; then he wandered the cobbled streets of Bannisferre, every step dogged by his Days.
In the city's center towered a dozen graystone songhouses, six and seven stories tall, with elaborate friezes and statuary about them.
On the steps of one songhouse, a handsome young woman sang a delicate aria, accompanied by woodwinds and harp. A group of peasants crowded round. Her voice drifted hauntingly, echoing from the tall stone buildings, mesmerizing. She merely advertised, of course. She hoped to attract an audience for her performance later tonight.
Gaborn decided he would attend, bring Borenson and Myrrima.
Sturdy bathhouses and gymnasiums squatted farther down the street. On the broad avenues, several carriages could maneuver with ease. Fine shops displayed bone china, silver goods, and gentlemen's weaponry.
Bannisferre was a young city, less than four hundred years old. It had started simply as a meeting ground for local farmers to exchange wares, until iron was discovered along the Durkin Hills. The ironsmiths opened a foundry, where the quality of the goods soon attracted a wealthy clientele who demanded fine accommodations and entertainment.
So Bannisferre had grown to be a center for the arts, attracting smiths who worked iron, silver, and gold; ceramists famed for their cloisonné and bone china; glassblowers who constructed bewitching mugs and vases in magnificent colors—until finally, the city became crowded with craftsmen and performers from all walks of life.
Bannisferre was a fine place, a city free of grime. Now everywhere it was festooned with images of the Earth King—elaborate wooden images, painted and dressed with loving care. The streets had no urchins running about underfoot. And the reeves hereabout were dressed in fine leather coats with gold brocade, as if they were just another adornment to Bannisferre, not working lawmen.
Somehow, the loveliness of this place saddened Gaborn. The city's defenses seemed woefully inadequate. It was built beside a river, without benefit of a fortress. A low wall of rocks around the city would barely repel a cavalry charge—and then only if the cavalry was not riding force horses, perhaps a few soldiers could hold out for a bit in the songhouses, skirmishing among the statuary.
No, in a war, Bannisferre would be overrun, its beauty defiled. The graceful songhouses and bathhouses were made of stone, but the stonework was wrought for ornament, not with defense in mind. The doorways were too wide, the windows too expansive. Even the bridges across River Dwindell were wide enough so carriages could drive across four abreast. They could not be easily defended.
Gaborn returned to the South Market, ambled back through the cloud of honeybees into the shade of his hostel.
He intended to keep his promise to Borenson, keep safe. He found a corner table, ordered a dinner suitable to a refined palate, then rested his feet on the table.
His Days sat across from him. Gaborn felt like celebrating Borenson's good fortune. He tossed a silver coin to a towheaded servant boy perhaps five years younger than himself. “Bring us wine. Something sweet for the Days. Addleberry for me.”
“Yes, sir,” the boy answered. Gaborn looked around. The room was fairly empty. Three dozen chairs, but only a few of them filled. At the far end of the room, two gentlemen of dark complexion sat talking softly about the relative virtues of different inns in town. A few greenbottle flies wheeled in slow circles. Outside, a pig squealed in the market.
Toward evening, the inn would fill.
The serving boy returned with two brown clay mugs and two genuine bottles of yellow glass, not the hide flasks used in the south. Each bottle had a red wax seal over the cap, with the initial B inscribed. It seemed a fine vintage, the bottles well aged and covered with grime. Gaborn was not used to such nice drink. Wine laid up in bags turned vinegary after six months.
The boy poured a draught for each man, then left the bottles on the table. Moisture began to condense on the bottles. They were that cold.