Gaborn almost feared to breathe, for he knew that whatever he said this day, it would be remembered by all.
Iome looked up at Gaborn, tears glistening in her eyes. He was already holding her hand, but now she squeezed his fingers tightly, her right hand to his left. And she raised her hand high.
Among poor people in both their kingdoms, a marriage was made in a manner similar to this: the man and woman who wanted to wed would stand before witnesses, holding hands together, while a friend bound them at the wrist with a white ribbon. Then the newlyweds would raise their hands as one, for all to see.
So everyone understood the significance of her gesture. I am a poor woman, who wants to make a marriage.
Gaborn raised her hand in his higher, and shouted to all those in the camp, “You yourselves saw Sylvarresta and Orden ride together now as they did in life, united as true friends. Seeing as death cannot divide them, let our people not be divided!”
Everyone in the camp stood quiet, none yet daring to move.
Duke Mardon stood two hundred yards downfield from them. A campfire glowed at his feet, showing his face. His golden goblet had recently been filled. He was a huge man, more of a leader than any other in Heredon. A lord that men loved and looked to.
Now, it seemed that hundreds of eyes turned to the Duke, seeking sign of his approval.
Mardon was no fool. Perhaps he recognized that Heredon needed this union. Perhaps he had time to consider the wealth and power Mystarria commanded. Perhaps he recognized the necessity of allying himself with the Earth King.
Yet if such mercenary thoughts crossed the Duke's mind, they did not show. For almost immediately he raised his golden goblet in salute to Gaborn, and a broad smile creased his face. He called, “And, milady, what say you?”
Iome clenched Gaborn's hand tightly, raised it higher. She turned to Gaborn now, and looked up at him, the starlight shining in her eyes. “For Sylvarresta's part, I accept...gladly.”
Duke Mardon shouted and raised his goblet high. “It seems our King Sylvarresta celebrates Hostenfest this year with a hunt after all! Let us rejoice for him...and for his daughter. We double our cause for celebration!” He drained the cup quickly, and tossed it far into the night, into the camps of his troops, to be the prize of some poor soldier.
That action more than any other finally brought a cheer from the camp, and endeared Mardon to Gaborn forever after.
V
Day 23 in the Month of Harvest
Advent of the Earth King
Afterword
The earth powers racked Iome on the evening she became engaged to Gaborn, making her desire him more than ever before. Perhaps it was because Gaborn and Binnesman both had come together, flanking her, so that she felt herself sandwiched between the two, buffeted by their creative energies. Or maybe her fatigue left her more open to his magic than normally.
Or perhaps it was because she could feel the earth power growing in Gaborn, quietly transforming him.
In any event, she felt grateful that her people accepted their betrothal. For when he touched her that evening and raised her hand, she felt more than a human touch. His fingers twined together with hers, like two vines espaliered together. She did not believe any longer that she could remain separated from him. She did not believe she could have separated again, not and lived, not and have been truly alive. If anyone had tried to tear her from him, Iome believed wholeheartedly that she'd simply have withered and died.
That night, she called Sir Borenson to her to bestow her judgment.
To his credit, Borenson came the three miles without complaint, knelt at her feet on hands and knees, ready once again to offer his neck, should she desire it. All around them had gathered thousands of knights and warriors. Feelings among them were mixed, Iome could tell from their faces. Some would have rent the man alive. Others frowned thoughtfully, fearing that someday, under similar circumstances, they might find themselves in his position.
She could have outlawed him, stripped him of rank and protection. She could have executed him on the spot.
“Sir Borenson,” Iome said, “you have grievously injured House Sylvarresta. Do you have anything to say in your own behalf?”
Borenson just shook his head, his great red beard swaying above the dirt. No.
“Then I will speak in your behalf,” Iome said. “You may have injured House Sylvarresta, but you also have loved it, and you have served the people of Heredon.”
Iome sighed, “Yet justice demands a penalty. In ancient times, I am told, an act such as yours could be forgiven, should the offending knight complete an 'Act Penitent.' ”
Iome found it hard to breathe, found it hard to speak these next words, though the idea had been given her by Binnesman, and it had seemed adequate at the time. Now she wondered if it was too much. An act of penitence should be something a man could hope to accomplish, a great deed that would try his soul and let him grow. Not a deed that would destroy a man.
She feared her sentence would break Borenson. “I sentence you to go south, beyond the lands of Inkarra. I bid you find Daylan Hammer, the Sum of All Men, so that we can learn how best to defeat Raj Ahten.” An astonished gasp issued from the crowd of bystanders, followed quickly by whispers.
Borenson gave a little cough in surprise, looked up to Iome, then to Gaborn, who stood at her side.
“How? When? I mean—I am under oath to House Orden.”
“Then I release you from all oaths, Sir Borenson,” Gaborn said, “until your Act Penitent is complete. You shall become a Knight Equitable, answerable only to yourself, if you wish.”
“If I wish?” He seemed to consider. He would have to travel through enemy countries, facing countless dangers, in some vain hope of finding a legend. It was a deed that might take a man a lifetime. Or more. Time, for a man with endowments of metabolism, could pass so swiftly.
Borenson glanced over his shoulder at Myrrima. If he accepted Iome's punishment, he'd have to leave her behind. He might never see her again. Myrrima's face was pale, etched with fear. As a signal to him, she nodded, barely.
“I accept your judgment,” Borenson answered uncertainly. He got off his knees.
He no longer wore the livery of House Orden, and therefore had no need to strip himself of it. But he took his shield, cut the bindings behind the wood, so that the leather covering came away, with its painted image of the green knight. Beneath the leather covering, the shield was only blank steel riveted to a frame of wood.
“When will you leave?” Gaborn asked, clapping Borenson on the back.
Borenson shrugged, glanced at Myrrima. “Two weeks, four at the most. Before the mountains fill with snow.”
After he has had time to wed, Iome realized.
She saw the calculating gaze that Gaborn gave, knew he wanted to go with Borenson.
But Gaborn's duties would hold him here in the North.
The next morning at dawn, Gaborn prepared a wagon to carry the bodies of the kings back to Castle Sylvarresta. There, Sylvarresta would be buried, while Gaborn's father would be embalmed and shipped back home to Mystarria.
With the bodies, Gaborn secreted ten large boxes of forcibles, covered in soil from the gardens at Bredsfor Manor.
Gaborn oversaw the whole affair. The camp had become busy since dawn, with thousands of warriors striking their tents in preparation to leave, others still coming in from around Heredon.
When Gaborn had finished loading the bodies and checked the wagon's wheels and undercarriage to see if they could hold the heavy load, he got up to find that a small crowd had gathered. Locals who had lived here at Longmont.
“We come to ask you,” a sturdy farmer said, “if you'll be willing to take our endowments.”
“Why do you come to me?” Gaborn asked.
“You'll be our king,” a young man in the crowd spoke up.