“Gaborn would help you be strong, if you would let him,” Binnesman offered.
“I know,” Iome said.
Down below her, most of the knights had begun to set a camp in the fields. The thin snow had melted now, and the night would not be cold. But only part of the castle looked serviceable. The Duke's barracks and one of the manor houses still stood, though they had cracks in them. By no means could the castle house the thousands here, but some knights had brought squires and tents—enough so everyone would have shelter for the night.
Yet as the people put up tents, Iome caught many distrustful glances, heard grumbled comments. “What are the people down there saying about Gaborn?”
“The usual things...” Binnesman said. “Rumor-mongering.”
“What kinds of things?” Iome demanded.
“They feel you should have reacted more strongly to your father's death.”
“He died when Raj Ahten took his wit. There was nothing left of my father.”
“You are made of stern stuff,” Binnesman said. “But had you cried and demanded Borenson's death, perhaps your people would feel more...relieved.”
“Relieved?”
“Some people suspect that Gaborn ordered your father's death.”
“Gaborn? How could they suspect that?” Iome asked, astonished. She looked downhill. An old woman bearing a load of sticks from the woods glanced at Iome, suspicion deep in her eyes.
“So he could marry you, take over your kingdom. Some people think that the fact that you let him live is ample proof that he has you fooled, and that now you are about to swoon into his foul clutches.”
“Who would say such things? Who would even think such things?” Iome asked.
“Do not blame them,” Binnesman smiled at her. “It is only natural. They have been deeply hurt these past few days, and suspicion comes easily. Trust comes much harder, and it takes time.”
Iome shook her head, dumbfounded. “Is it safe for Gaborn here? He's not in danger?”
“As it stands,” Binnesman said, “I think some people in this valley pose a threat, yes.”
“You must go warn him to stay away!” Iome said. She realized that she'd been hoping for Gaborn to come back tonight, that she could not stand the thought of being away from him. “Tell him...tell him we cannot see each other, that it's dangerous. Maybe in time...a few months.” Iome found herself shaking at the thought, tormented.
A few months seemed an eternity. Yet in another month or two the snows would begin to fly in earnest. Travel between their kingdoms would become difficult.
She wouldn't see Gaborn again before spring. Five months or six at the soonest.
Iome nearly collapsed in on herself at the thought. Yet it would be best for both of them to take this slowly, to give her people time to see. No other prince would want her, no one would take a wife who had been an enemy's Dedicate.
Now that her father and King Orden were dead, within a few weeks the chronicles of their deeds would begin to be slowly distributed by the Days, a volume here, a volume there. Perhaps when the truth came out, Iome's people would think better of Gaborn.
Yet another problem presented itself. Iome's Maid of Honor, Chemoise, would be heavy with child by the time Iome saw Gaborn again. If Iome's people disapproved of her match with Orden, how would Gaborn s people feel about her?
Ostensibly, Gaborn had come here seeking a union because the wealth and security of Heredon were to have been a boon to Mystarria. But Raj Ahten had taken the wealth, made a mockery of Heredon's castles, stolen away the Princess's beauty.
Iome had nothing to offer but her affection. And she knew that affection comes cheaply.
She still hoped that Gaborn might love her. She feared that she deluded herself in even hoping for a union with him. It seemed foolish, like the child's fable of the lazy man who planned to get rich someday by discovering that rain had washed dirt off a pot of gold that lay hidden in his fields.
Surely, in the months to come, Gaborn would come to see that she had nothing to offer, would reconsider. Though he spoke of loving her, surely he'd see that love was not reason enough to unite their kingdoms.
As Iome considered these things, Binnesman nodded kindly, worry on his face, lost in his own private musings. He studied her from under bushy brows. “So you want me to warn Gaborn away. Do you have any more messages for him?”
“None,” Iome said. “Except...there is the matter of Borenson.”
“What of him?” Binnesman asked.
“I...don't know what to do about him. He killed my father, a king. Such a deed cannot go unpunished. Yet his guilt is almost more than he can bear. To lay further punishment upon him would be cruel.”
Binnesman said, “There was a time when knights who inadvertently erred were given a second chance...”
60
A Treasure Found
In the House of Understanding, in the Room of the Heart, Gaborn had learned that there are dreams and memories so disturbing the mind cannot hold them.
As Gaborn rode in silence on the road south to Bredsfor Manor, he caught up to Borenson, watched his knight's face, and wondered if the man would break.
Time and time again, Borenson's head would nod, his lips quivering as if he were about to say something unspeakable. Yet each time he raised his head, his eyes would be a little clearer, a little brighter, his gaze a little steadier.
Gaborn suspected Borenson would forget his deeds, given a week or a month. He might claim that some other knight had slaughtered Sylvarresta, or that the good king had died in battle or fallen from a horse.
Gaborn hoped Borenson would forget. They rode in silence. Gaborn's Days coughed from time to time, as if he were developing a cold.
After twenty long minutes of this, Borenson turned, and on the surface his manners seemed almost carefree, the pain had retreated so deeply. But it was there, lying far within. “Milord, I was up above the Duke's lodge a bit ago, and I saw the tracks of a reaver. A big female. May I have your leave to hunt her tonight?”
It was an obvious jest. “Not without me,” Gaborn said, musing. “Last autumn, I came to the Dunnwood to hunt boars. This year we shall hunt reavers. Perhaps Groverman will ride with us. What think you?”
“Hah, not bloody likely,” Borenson spat. “Not after what I've done!”
Immediately, Borenson's eyes looked troubled again, and Gaborn sought to turn his thoughts. “Tell you what, if we kill a reaver, you get to eat the ears,” Gaborn jested. To eat the ears of the first boar of the hunt was a great honor. But reavers had no ears, and no part of a reaver was edible. “Or at least I'll cut off a patch of hide shaped like an ear.”
“Oh, you are too generous, milord,” Borenson chortled like some peasant woman in the marketplace, heaping unearned praise on a noble. “Oh, you're so gracious. All you lords are so...er, well, lordly, if you catch my meaning.”
“Well, uh, thank you, dear lady,” Gaborn said, affecting a stodgy accent much like that of the Marquis of Ferecia, a noted poser. He raised his nose in the air, just as the Marquis would, then used the full powers of his Voice to imitate the Marquis' accent. “A blessing on you and your hovel and all your snot-nosed prodigy, dear lady. And please don't come any nearer, or I think I might sneeze.”
Borenson laughed deeply at the jest, for the Marquis often sneezed when dirty peasants got too near his person. His threats of illness kept peasants away, so that the Marquis would not have to tolerate the scent of their poverty.
It was a grim sort of humor, but it was the best Gaborn could manage at the moment, and it eased Borenson's spirits somewhat. Gaborn almost hoped that someday things between them would be as they had been before.
Two weeks ago, Gaborn had ridden into Heredon with hardly a care. Now he felt the weight of the whole world landing squarely on his shoulders. Deep in his heart, he knew nothing could ever be the same.