Myrrima had the good taste to say no more. She pulled her hand free of his.
“She will marry me,” Gaborn said. He felt confident he could sway the princess.
Myrrima raised a brow. “How could you imagine so? Because it would be pragmatic to ally herself with the wealthiest kingdom in Rofehavan?” She laughed musically, amused. Under normal circumstances, if a peasant had laughed him to scorn, Gaborn would have bristled. He found himself laughing with her.
Myrrima flashed a fetching smile. “Perhaps, milord, when you leave Heredon, you will not leave empty-handed.”
One last invitation. Princess Sylvarresta will not have you, but I would.
“It would be foolhardy to give up the chase before the hunt has begun, don't you think?” Gaborn said. “In Understanding's House, in the Room of the Heart, Hearthmaster Ibirmarle used to say 'Fools define themselves by what they are. Wise men define themselves by what they shall be.' ”
Myrrima rejoined, “Then I fear, my pragmatic prince, that you shall die old and lonely, deluded into believing you will someday marry Iome Sylvarresta. Good day.”
She turned to leave, but Gaborn could not quite let her go. In the Room of the Heart, he'd also learned that sometimes it is best to act on impulse, that the part of the mind which dreams will often speak to us, commanding us to act in ways that we do not understand. When Gaborn had told her that he thought she would do well in court, he had meant it. He wanted her in his court—not as his wife, not even as a mistress. But intuitively he felt her to be an ally. Had she not called him “milord”? She could as easily have called him “Your Lordship.” No, she felt a bond to him, too.
“Wait, milady,” Gaborn said. Once again Myrrima turned. She had caught his tone. With the word “milady,” he sought to make his claim on her. She knew what he expected: total devotion. Her life. As a Runelord, Gaborn had been raised to demand as much from his own vassals, yet he felt hesitant to ask as much from this foreign woman.
“Yes, milord?”
“At home,” Prince Orden said, “you have two ugly sisters to care for? And a witless brother?”
“You are perceptive, milord,” Myrrima said. “But the witless one is my mother, not a brother.” Lines of pain showed in her face. It was a terrible burden she held. A terrible price for magic. It was hard enough to take an endowment of brawn or wit or glamour from another, to assume the financial responsibilities for that person. But it became more painful still when that person was a beloved friend or relative. Myrrima's family must have lived in horrible poverty, hopeless poverty, in order for them to have felt compelled to try such a thing—to gift one woman with the beauty of three, the cleverness of two, and then seek to marry her to some rich man who could save them all from despair.
“However did you get the money for the forcibles?” Gaborn asked. The magical irons that could drain the attributes of one person and endow them on another were tremendously expensive.
“My mother had a small inheritance—and we labored, the four of us,” Myrrima said. He heard tightness in her voice. Perhaps once, a week or two ago, when she'd newly become beautiful, she'd have sobbed when speaking of this.
“You sold flowers as a child?” Gaborn asked.
Myrrima smiled. “The meadow behind our house provided little else to sustain us.”
Gaborn reached to his money pouch, pulled out a gold coin. One side showed the head of King Sylvarresta; the other showed the Seven Standing Stones of the Dunnwood, which legend said held up the earth. He was unfamiliar with the local currency, but knew the coin was large enough to take care of her small family for a few months. He took her hand, slipping it into her palm.
“I...have done nothing for this,” she said, searching his eyes. Perhaps she feared an indecent proposal. Some lords took mistresses. Gaborn would never do so.
“Certainly you have,” Gaborn said. “You smiled, and thus lightened my heart. Accept this gift, please. You will find your merchant prince someday,” Gaborn said, “and of all the prizes he may ever discover here in the markets of Bannisferre, I suspect that you will be the most treasured.”
She held the coin in awe. People never expected one as young as Gaborn to speak with such grace, yet it came easily after years of training in Voice. She looked into his eyes with new respect, as if really seeing him for the first time. “Thank you, Prince Orden. Perhaps...I tell you now that if Iome does accept you, I will praise her decision.”
She turned and sauntered off through the thickening crowd, circled the fountain. Gaborn watched the graceful lines of her neck, the clouds of her dress, the burning flames of her scarf.
Borenson came up and clapped Gaborn on the shoulder, chuckling. “Ah, milord, there is a tempting sweet.”
“Yes, she's altogether lovely,” Gaborn whispered.
“It was fun to watch. She just stood back, eyeing you like a cutlet on the butcher's block. She waited for five minutes”—Borenson held up his hand, fingers splayed—"waiting for you to notice her! But you—you day-blind ferrin! You were too busy adoring some vendor's handsome chamber pots! How could you not see her? How could you ignore her? Ah!” Borenson shrugged in exaggeration.
“I meant no offense,” Gaborn said, looking up into Borenson's face. Though Borenson was his bodyguard and should thus always be on the watch for assassins, the truth was that the big fellow was a lusty man. He could not walk through a street without making little crooning noises at every shapely woman he passed. And if he didn't go wenching at least once a week, he'd croon even at the woman who had no more shape than a bag of parsnips. His fellow guards sometimes joked that no assassin hiding in between a woman's cleavage would ever escape his notice.
“Oh, I'm not offended,” Borenson said. “Mystified, maybe. Perplexed. How could you not see her? You must have at least smelled her?”
“Yes, she smells very nice. She keeps her gown in a drawer layered in rose petals.”
Borenson rolled his eyes back dramatically and groaned. His face was flushed, and there was a peculiar excitement, an intensity in his eyes. Though he pretended to be jesting, Gaborn could see that Borenson had indeed been smitten by this northern beauty more than he cared to admit. If Borenson could have had his way, he'd have been off chasing the girl. “At least you could have let her cure you of that vexing case of virginity you suffer from, milord!”
“It is a common enough malady for young men,” Gaborn said, feeling offended. Borenson sometimes spoke to Gaborn as if he were a drinking partner.
Borenson reddened even more. “As well it should be, milord!”
“Besides,” Gaborn said, considering the toll a bastard child sometimes took on a kingdom, “the cure is often more costly than the malady.”
“I suspect that that cure is worth any price,” Borenson said longingly, with a nod in the direction Myrrima had gone.
Suddenly, a plan blossomed in Gaborn's mind. A great geometer had once told him that when he discovered the answer to a difficult calculation, he knew that his answer was right because he felt it all the way down to his toes. At this moment, as Gaborn considered taking this young woman home to Mystarria, that same feeling of rightness struck him. Indeed, he felt that same burning compulsion that had drawn him to this land in the first place. He yearned once again to take Myrrima back to Mystarria, and suddenly saw the way.
He glanced at Borenson, to verify his hunch. The guardsman stood at his side, more than a head taller than Gaborn, and his cheeks were red, as if his own thoughts embarrassed him. The soldier's laughing blue eyes seemed to shine with their own light. His legs shook, though Gaborn had never seen him tremble in battle.