The RuneLords (3 page)

His father was camped with his retinue not more than a few hours' ride off. Seldom did his father let Gaborn wander without heavy guard, but this time his father had implored him to take a little side excursion, saying, "You must study Heredon. A land is more than its castles and soldiers. In Bannisferre you will fall in love with this land, and its people, as I have."

The young woman squeezed his hand tighter.

Pain showed in her brow as she watched the flower girls. Gaborn suddenly realized what she was, how desperately this young woman needed him. Gaborn nearly laughed, for he saw how easily she could have bewitched him.

He squeezed her hand, warmly, as a friend. He felt certain that he could have nothing to do with her, yet he wished her well.

"My name is Myrrima..." she said, leaving a silence for him in which to offer his own name.

"A beautiful name, for a beautiful girl."

"And you are?"

"Thrilled by intrigue," he said. "Aren't you?"

"Not always." She smiled, a demand for his name.

Twenty paces behind, Borenson tapped the scabbard of his saber against a passing goat cart, a sign that he'd left his post at the hostel's doorway and was now following. The Days would be at his side.

Myrrima glanced back. "He's a fine-looking guardsman."

"A fine man," Gaborn agreed.

"You are traveling on business? You like Bannisferre?"

"Yes, and yes."

She abruptly pulled her hand away. "You don't make commitments easily," she said, turning to face him, her smile faltering just a bit. Perhaps she sensed now that the chase was up, that he would not marry her.

"No. Never. Perhaps it is a weakness in my character," Gaborn said.

"Why not?" Myrrima asked, still playful. She stopped by a fountain where a statue of Edmon Tillerman stood holding a pot with three spigots that poured water down over the faces of three bears.

"Because lives are at stake," Gaborn answered. He sat at the edge of the fountain, glanced into the pool. Startled by his presence, huge polliwogs wriggled down into the green water. "When I commit to someone, I accept responsibility for them. I offer my life, or at least a portion of it. When I accept someone's commitment, I expect nothing less than total commitment--their lives--in return. This reciprocal relationship is...it must define me."

Myrrima frowned, made uneasy by his serious tone. "You are not a merchant. You...talk like a lord!"

He could see her considering. She would know he was not of Sylvarresta's line, not a lord from Heredon. So he would have to be a foreign dignitary, merely traveling in Heredon, an out-of-the-way country, one of the farthest north in all the Kingdoms of Rofehavan.

"I should have known--you are so handsome," she said. "So you're a Runelord, come to study our land. Tell me, do you like it enough to seek betrothal to Princess Iome Sylvarresta?"

Gaborn admired the way that she drew the proper conclusion. "I'm surprised at how green your land is, and how strong your people are," Gaborn said. "It is richer than I'd imagined."

"Will Princess Sylvarresta accept you?" Still, she was searching for answers. She wondered which poor castle he hailed from. She sat beside him on the edge of the fountain.

Gaborn shrugged, feigning less concern than he felt. "I know her only by reputation," he admitted. "Perhaps you know her better than I. How do you think she will look on me?"

"You are handsome enough," Myrrima said, frankly studying his broad shoulders, the long dark-brown hair that fell from under his plumed cap. By now she must have realized he was not dark enough of hair to be from Muyyatin, or any of the Indhopalese nations.

Then she gasped, eyes going wide.

She stood up quickly and stepped back, unsure whether to remain standing, curtsy, or fall down and prostrate herself at his feet. "Forgive me, Prince Orden--I, uh--did not see your resemblance to your father!"

Myrrima lurched back three paces, as if wishing she could run blindly away, for she now knew that he was not the son of some poor baron who called a pile of rocks his fortress, but that he came from Mystarria itself.

"You know my father?" Gaborn asked, rising and stepping forward. He took her hand once again, trying to reassure her that no offense had been taken.

"I--once he rode through town, on his way to the hunt," Myrrima said. "I was but a girl. I can't forget his face."

"He has always liked Heredon," Gaborn said.

"Yes...yes, he comes often enough," Myrrima said, clearly discomfited. "I--pardon me if I troubled you, my lord. I did not mean to be presumptuous. Oh..."

Myrrima turned and began to run.

"Stop," Gaborn said, letting just a little of the power of his Voice take her.

She stopped as if she'd been struck by a fist, turned to face him. As did several other people nearby.

Unprepared for the command, they obeyed as if it had come from their own minds. When they saw that they were not the object of his attention, some stared at him curiously while a few started away, unnerved by the appearance of a Runelord in their midst.

Suddenly, Borenson hovered at Gaborn's back, with the Days.

"Thank you for stopping, Myrrima," Gaborn said.

"You may someday be my king," she answered, as if she'd reasoned out her response.

"Do you think so?" Gaborn said. "Do you think Iome will have me?"

The question startled her. Gaborn continued. "Please, tell me. You are a perceptive woman, and beautiful. You would do well at court. I value your opinion."

Gaborn held his breath, waiting for her frank assessment. She couldn't know how important her answer was to him. Gaborn needed this alliance. He needed Heredon's strong people, its impregnable fortresses, its wide-open lands, ready to till. True, his own Mystarria was a rich land-ripe, its markets sprawling and crowded--but after years of struggle the Wolf Lord Raj Ahten had finally conquered the Indhopalese Kingdoms, and Gaborn knew that Raj Ahten would not stop there. By spring, he would either invade the barbarian realms of Inkarra or he would turn north to the kingdoms in Rofehavan.

In reality, it didn't matter where the Wolf Lord attacked next. In the wars to come, Gaborn knew he'd never be able to adequately defend his people in Mystarria. He needed this land.

Even though Heredon had not seen a major war in four hundred years, the realm's great battlements remained intact. Even the fortress at lowly Tor Ingel, set among the cliffs, could be defended better than most of Gaborn's estates in Mystarria. Gaborn needed Heredon. He needed Iome's hand in marriage.

More important, though he dared not admit it to anyone, something deep inside told him that he needed Iome herself. An odd compulsion drew him here, against all common sense. As if invisible fiery threads were connected to his heart and mind. Sometimes at night he'd lie awake, feeling the tug, an odd glowing sensation that spread outward from the center of his chest, as if a warm stone lay there. Those threads seemed to pull him toward Iome. He'd fought the urge to seek her hand for a year now, until he could fight no more.

Myrrima studied Gaborn once again with her marvelous frankness. Then laughed easily. "No," she said. "Iome will not have you."

There had been no hesitancy in her answer. She had said it simply, as if she'd seen the truth of it. Then she smiled at him seductively. But I want you, her smile said.

"You sound certain." Gaborn tried to seem casual. "Is it merely my clothes? I did bring more suitable attire."

"You may be from the most powerful kingdom in Rofehavan, but...how shall I put this? Your politics are suspect."

It was a kind way to accuse him of being immoral. Gaborn had feared Such an accusation.

"Because my father is a pragmatist?" Gaborn asked.

"Some think him pragmatic, some think him...too acquisitive." Gaborn grinned. "King Sylvarresta thinks him pragmatic...but his daughter thinks my father is greedy? She said this?"

Myrrima smiled and nodded secretively. "I've heard rumors that she said as much at the midwinter feast."

Gaborn was often amazed at how much the commoners knew or surmised about the comings and goings and doings of lords. Things that he'd often thought were court secrets would be openly discussed at some inn a hundred leagues distant. Myrrima seemed sure of her sources.

"So she will reject my petition, because of my father."

"It has been said in Heredon that Prince Orden is 'much like his father.' "

"Too much like his father?" Gaborn asked. A quote from Princess Sylvarresta? Probably spoken to quell any rumors of a possible match. It was true that Gaborn had his father's look about him. But Gaborn was not his father. Nor was his father, Gaborn believed, as "acquisitive" as Iome accused him of being.

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.