Perhaps, if your charges knew how to ride, Borenson wanted to say. Borenson licked his lips, whispered, “It's a long journey, and hard. Perhaps you'd best leave Sylvarresta here, milord.” He spoke as if it were a friendly suggestion, tried to hide the hard edge to his voice.
“After all the trouble I went through to get them from Raj Ahten?” Gaborn asked.
“Don't play the fool with me,” Borenson spoke, voice rising in anger. His face felt hot; his whole body coiled. “Sylvarresta has long been our friend, but now he serves the Wolf Lord. How many endowments of wit does Sylvarresta vector to Raj Ahten? How many endowments of glamour does the Princess vector?”
“It doesn't matter,” Gaborn said. “I'll not kill friends.”
Borenson held a moment, trying to contain the rage building in him. Can even a prince afford such generosity? he wanted to shout. Yet he dared not give that insult. He reasoned instead. “They're friends no longer. They serve Raj Ahten.”
Gaborn said, “They may serve as vectors, but they chose to live, so that by living, they can serve their own people.”
“By letting Raj Ahten destroy Mystarria? Don't delude yourself. They serve your enemy, milord. Your enemy, and your father's and Mystarria's—and my enemies! It is a passive service—true—but they serve him no less than if they were warriors.”
Oh, how Borenson sometimes envied them—the Dedicates who lived like fat cattle on their lord's wealth, pampered.
Certainly Gaborn must see that Borenson served his lord no less fully, gave his all, night and day. Borenson sweated and bled and suffered. He'd taken an endowment of metabolism, so that he aged two years for every other man's one. Though he was but twenty years old chronologically, little older than Gaborn, the hair on his head was falling out, and streaks of gray bled into his beard. For him, life rushed past as if he were adrift on a boat, watching the shore forever slipping by, unable to grasp anything, unable to hold on to anything.
Meanwhile, people admired Dedicates for their “sacrifice.” Borenson's own father had given an endowment of metabolism to one of the King's soldiers before Borenson was born, and had thus lain in an enchanted slumber these past twenty years. It seemed to Borenson a cheat, the way his father stayed young, the way he suffered nothing while the man he endowed grew old and faded. What did his father sacrifice?
No, it was men like Borenson who suffered most for their lords, not some damned Dedicate, afraid to live his life.
“You must kill them,” Borenson urged.
“I cannot,” Gaborn answered.
“Then, by all the awful Powers, you'll make me do it!” Borenson growled. He reached to pull his axe from its sheath, glanced toward King Sylvarresta. Iome had heard the scrape of the axe handle against leather, jerked at the sound, staring at Borenson.
“Hold,” Gaborn said softly. “I order you. They are under my protection. My sworn protection.”
A gust of wind sent ash skittering across the ground.
“And I'm under order to kill Raj Ahten's Dedicates.”
“I countermand that order,” Gaborn said firmly.
“You can't!” Borenson said, tensing. “They're your father's orders, and yours cannot supersede his! Your father has given an order—a hard one that no man could envy. But I must carry it out. I will serve King Orden, even if you will not!”
Borenson did not want to argue. He loved Gaborn as a brother. But Borenson could not see how he could ever be faithful to House Orden if the Prince and the King did not agree on this issue.
In the distance, toward Castle Sylvarresta, the high call of Southern battle trumpets sounded—Raj Ahten marshaling his troops. Borenson's heart pounded. His men were supposed to delay the army, and even now were racing to Boar's Ford, where they would do little good.
Borenson shoved his axe back into its sheath, drew his own horn, sounded two long blasts, two short. The call to prepare arms. Raj Ahten's troops would not hurry to Longmont if they had to watch for an ambush every moment. Almost, Borenson wished his troops were still here, that he had the men to fight.
Borenson felt exposed at the edge of the woods. Gaborn took the helm off dead Torin, put it on his own head.
Gaborn looked up. “Listen, Borenson: If we have forty thousand forcibles, my father has no need to kill his friends. He can slay Raj Ahten, then place Sylvarresta back on the throne where he belongs.”
“That is a frightening if” Borenson said. “Can we risk it? What if Raj Ahten kills your father? By sparing Sylvarresta, you may consign your father to death.”
Gaborn's face paled. Certainly the boy had seen this danger. Certainly he knew the stakes in this battle. But no, Borenson realized, the boy was too innocent. Gaborn promised, “I wouldn't let that happen.”
Borenson rolled his eyes, clenched his teeth.
“Nor would I,” Iome answered from where her horse stood beside the stream. “I'd rather kill myself than see another come to harm on my account.”
Borenson had tried to keep his voice down so she would not hear, but of course his voice had been rising in anger. He considered. At this moment, King Orden was racing to Longmont with fifteen hundred warriors. Messages had been sent to other castles, calling for aid. Perhaps three or four thousand might meet at Longmont before dawn.
But Raj Ahten would stand at the head of a massive army, once his reinforcements arrived from the South.
King Orden had to get those forcibles, and once he had them, he'd have to hole up in Castle Longmont. No castle in this realm could better withstand a siege.
Desperate times call for desperate measures. In all likelihood, Raj Ahten had so many endowments from his people in the South that if Borenson killed Sylvarresta and Iome, it would gain no benefit for King Orden. That is what Gaborn believed.
On the other hand, times were uncertain. Orden and other kings had sent assassins south. Perhaps even traitors in Raj Ahten's own lands would see his absence as a perfect time to bid for power. One could not discount the possibility that at any given moment, the endowments Raj Ahten had gained here in Heredon would become vital to him.
No, Borenson needed to kill these vectors. He sighed. With a heavy heart, he pulled his war axe. Urged his mount forward.
Gaborn caught the horse by the reins. “Stay away from them,” he growled in a tone Borenson had never before heard from the Prince.
“I have a duty,” Borenson said, regretfully. He did not want to do it, but he'd argued the point so convincingly that now he saw he must.
“And I'm obligated to protect Iome and her father,” Gaborn said, “as one Oath-Bound Lord to another.”
“Oath-Bound Lord?” Borenson gasped. “No! You fool!” Now he saw it. Gaborn had been distant these past two weeks as they journeyed into Heredon. For the first time in his life, he'd been secretive. “It's true,” Gaborn said. “I spoke the oath to Iome.” “Who witnessed?” Borenson asked the first question that came to mind, “Iome, and her Maids of Honor.” Borenson wondered if news of this oath could be covered. Perhaps by killing the witnesses, he could undo the damage. “And her Days.”
Borenson set his axe across the pommel of his saddle, looked hard at King Sylvarresta. Who knew how far this news had spread? From Iome's maids to the King's counselor, to all Heredon. He couldn't hide what Gaborn had done.
Gaborn had a fierceness in his eyes. What pluck! The little ass! Borenson thought. He plans to fight me. He'd really fight me over this?
Yet he knew it was true. To give the Oath of Protection was a serious matter, a sacred matter.
Borenson didn't dare raise his hand against the Prince. It was treason. Even if he carried out Orden's commands in every other matter, he could be executed for striking the Prince.
Gaborn had been watching Borenson's eyes, and now he ventured, “If you will not allow me to rescind my father's order, then I command you thus: Wait to carry it out. Wait until we reach Longmont, and I've spoken to my father.”