Gaborn studied the bottles absently, reached out with an index finger and touched the dust on a bottle, tasted the soil. Good, sweet earth. Good for planting.
The Days took a swallow of wine, regarded it carefully. “Hmmm...” he said. “I've never tasted anything so fine.” In seconds he downed the whole mug, thought a moment, then poured himself a second.
Gaborn simply stared at the Days. He'd never seen the like. The Days was such a sober man—he never drank to excess. Neither did he womanize or waste time with any other form of diversion. He was singularly committed to his discipline, to chronicling the lives of kings on behalf of the Time Lords. Since he was twinned with another—each man having given the other an endowment of wit—the two completed a circle. Both men shared a single mind, knowing the same things. Such sharing usually led to madness, both members of the pair struggling for control of the joint minds. But somewhere, in a monastery in the isles beyond Orwynne, Days' partner transcribed all that Days learned. It was only because the two Days had given complete control of their own identities to their order that they both survived.
So it was odd to watch a Days guzzle wine. It was an extraordinarily selfish act.
Gaborn tasted his own wine. Addleberry wine was not truly made with any kind of berry, only with sweet grapes that were treated with herbs—such as vervain, evening primrose, and elderflower—that stimulated thought and reduced the detrimental effects of alcohol. It tasted spicier, less sweet than common wine, and the cost tended to be prohibitive. Its name was a jest: ironically, addleberry wine did not dull the wits, but instead stimulated them. If one were to be intoxicated, Gaborn reasoned, it was best to be intoxicated on insight.
Here in the inn, with the pleasant smells of cooking bread and pork, Gaborn felt a little more at ease. He took a couple of sips of wine, found it surprisingly good, but not as addictive as the vintage Days guzzled.
Yet Gaborn still worried. Outside, an hour earlier, he'd felt an odd rush of power. Outside, he'd just married off his bodyguard, and he'd congratulated himself on doing so. But inside the hostel, it seemed...so peculiar. An impulsive, childish thing to do.
Though he'd someday be sovereign over one of the world's great realms, under normal circumstances he'd never have dared use his position to act as a matchmaker.
Gaborn wondered. He was shouldered with the responsibility of becoming a king. But what kind of king would he make, if he did such foolish things?
In the House of Understanding, in the Room of the Heart, Hearthmaster Ibirmarle had once said, “Not even a Runelord can rule affairs of the heart. Only a fool would try.”
Yet Gaborn had convinced Borenson to take a wife.
What if he ends up hating her? Gaborn wondered. Will he resent what I've done?
It was such a muddling thought. And what of Myrrima? Would she love Borenson?
The Days began drinking his second mug of wine, downed it in a few gulps despite his attempts at restraint.
“I did a good thing, didn't I?” Gaborn said. “I mean, Borenson is a good man, isn't he? He'll love her.”
The Days smiled a tight-lipped smile, watching Gaborn from slitted eyes. “There is a saying among our kind: Good deeds portend good fortune.”
Gaborn considered the words “our kind.” Though the Days were human, they considered themselves as creatures apart. Perhaps they were right.
Their service to the Time Lords required great sacrifices. They forsook home and family, loyalties to any king. Instead, these mysterious men and women simply studied the great lords, wrote the chronicles, published the deeds of a man's life when he died, and in all other ways remained aloof from common politics.
Yet Gaborn did not entirely trust these watchers, with their secretive smiles. They only feigned aloofness in the affairs of men, of that Gaborn felt certain. Every Runelord was followed by a Days who recorded his words and deeds. Sometimes, when two Days met, they reported to one another in coded phrases. Gaborn's ancestors had been studying the Days for generations, trying to break their codes.
But how aloof were they really? Gaborn suspected that the Days had sometimes betrayed secrets to enemy kings. Certain battles could only have been won on the advice of informers—informers who were probably Days. Yet if as a group the Days took sides in wars between nations, neither Gaborn nor anyone else had ever been able to determine where the Days placed their allegiance.
No discernible battle lines were drawn. Evil kings prospered from Days' spying as often as did good. And no king could escape them. Some kings had tried ridding themselves of the Days, either through assassination or banishment. But such kings never reigned for another season. As a group, the Days were too powerful. Any king who dared strike down one Days would discover just how much information a Days' partner could divulge. Distressing information would be revealed to enemy kings, fortunes would be ruined, peasants would revolt.
No one could defy the Days. Nor did Gaborn feel certain that any man should want to do so. An old adage went, “A man who will not bear scrutiny cannot bear a crown.” It was said that those words were given by the Glories themselves, when the Days were first partnered to the kings. “A Runelord should be a servant to man,” the Glories had said.
So Gaborn's title came with a price. He would never be free of this man, never be alone. Though he might rule a kingdom, some things were right-fully denied even to Gaborn.
Lost in thought, Gaborn wondered once again about Borenson. The man was a soldier, and soldiers did not necessarily make good lords, for they were trained to solve every problem through use of force. Gaborn's father preferred to sell titles to merchants, who were trained to barter for what they wanted. Gaborn suddenly realized that the Days had never fully answered him, had avoided the question.
“I said, 'Borenson is a good man, isn't he?' ”
The Days looked up, his head nodding just a bit. The disciple was well on his way to being solidly drunk. He poured more wine. “Not nearly so good as you, Your Lordship. But he'll make her happy enough, I'd wager.”
Your Lordship. Not my lord.
“But he's a good man, isn't he?” Gaborn asked a third time, suddenly angry at the Days' evasion.
The Days looked away, started to mumble something.
Gaborn struck the table hard enough so the wine bottles jumped and the mugs clanked. He shouted, “Answer me!”
The Days gaped in surprise. He knew to take warning. Fists would soon fly. Gaborn had endowments of brawn from three men. His blow could kill a commoner.
“Hah—what does it matter, Your Lordship?” the Days averred, struggling to clear his muddled thoughts. “You've never worried about his goodness before. You've never questioned his moral fiber.”
The Days took another swig of wine, seemed to want more, but thought better of it and carefully set the mug aside.
Why am I questioning Borenson's moral character? Gaborn wondered, and the answers flowed to him: Because you were drinking addleberry wine and noticed how Days tried to evade the question. Because Myrrima said that Princess Iome doubts your own goodness, and now you are worrying at what others think. Because...because you know that any lout can win a parcel of land, but it takes a special kind of king to win the hearts of his people.
Gaborn hoped to win the hearts of Iome and her people. But he dared not reveal details of his plan to Days—or to anyone. If Gaborn's father, King Orden, learned what Gaborn planned, the King might try to stop him.
The wine was having its way with Gaborn now, bringing the world into focus. But Gaborn would not be sidetracked from his questioning by other observations. “Answer my question, Days! What do you think of Borenson ?”
The Days put both hands on the table, screwed up his courage. “As you wish, Your Lordship: I once asked Borenson what his favorite animal is, and he told me he 'admires dogs.' I asked him why, and he answered: 'I love to hear them snarl. I love the way they greet strangers with senseless aggression.' ”