He lay down on the cot, and began trying to think about the coming journey. Tomorrow he would have to go in search of some endowments of stamina. An upwelling of sadness took him. He couldn’t think about anything but Myrrima, the taste of her lips, the feel of her cold body beneath his arms as he placed her in the water.
He ached not for himself, nor even quite for her. He felt that the world had lost something beautiful and needful and glorious.
His eyes were so gritty, he closed them only to ease the pain, and fell into a deep slumber.
He woke hours later, and came awake only slowly.
He became aware that there was a guest in his bed, and that it was night already. It was common for guests at an inn to share beds when necessary.
But it wasn’t common for a woman to share a man’s bed, and he could tell by the smell of her hair and by the light touch of the arm that wrapped around him that a woman lay beside him.
He came full awake with a start, bolted up.
Myrrima was lying next to him.
“What?” he began to ask.
Myrrima climbed up on an elbow, stared at him. Outside, there was a slim moon, and stars filled the night, shining through an open window. No one else was in the room.
“Are you awake, finally?” Myrrima asked.
“How—”
“You put me in the water,” Myrrima said. “I was weak and nearly dead, and you gave me to the water.”
“I’m sorry!” he said, horrified. He’d thought her dead for sure. But she sat here looking as healthy as ever. Her clothes were dry.
“It’s all right,” she said. “I’ve discovered something. Averan isn’t the only one around here who was wizardborn.”
Borenson was filled with a million questions.
I should have seen it before, he realized. I should have known it from her every manner, the way she’s gentle when she needs to be hard, the way her touch soothed me, just as the touch of the undine soothed me after I slaughtered the Dedicates at Castle Sylvarresta.
He’d sensed something in her. But only one word came out of his mouth. “How?”
“The water took me,” Myrrima said. “I dreamt of it—of clouds heavy with moisture and waterfalls that misted the air, and of brooks that tumbled over clean stones. I’ve always loved water. I dreamt of the great wizards in the ocean depths, and the strange and wondrous things there. The water healed me, and would have taken me out to sea, out beyond the Courts of Tide. I could have let it take me.
“But I realized something,” Myrrima said. “I realized that I love you more. So I came back, to be your wife.”
Borenson stared at her in dumb amazement. She had not truly died, he could tell. She had been near it. But she still had her endowments of glamour. Belatedly, he realized that he had put her in the water knowing that, on some level. His mind had been muddled from exhaustion, so weary that it could think no more. He’d been watching her face for some sort of transformation, for that moment when her endowments departed, but it had never come.
That’s why he’d felt that placing her in the water was an act of betrayal.
More than that, he realized how truly she loved him. She didn’t just want to follow him to Inkarra. She’d just given up a chance to serve the Powers, to become a wizardess and live in the sea. Few who were born to such a fate could resist the call of the oceans.
Myrrima leaned into him then, and kissed him. Borenson felt his body respond to her. Binnesman had healed him, beyond his wildest hopes or imagining.
The room was empty but for the two of them, and finally he felt ready to love her in return.
“I guess I ought to pay that wizard more than a pint of ale after all,” Borenson teased. He held her passionately for a long moment, and pulled her close.
As afternoon waned toward night, Erin and Celinor rode out of Fleeds, through southern Heredon, and into the borders of South Crowthen. As they went north, the land got drier, and the colors of autumn leaves lit up the countryside.
Erin had not slept last night, dared not sleep again. Yet all day long she considered the words of her dreams, the talk of the dangerous locus Asgaroth who had come to destroy her world. She did not speak of it to Celinor, for she considered that if she did, he might think that she was raving.
Yet the owl’s words had pierced her, inscribed knowledge on her heart. She suspected that the owl had summoned her, that perhaps some part of her even now was trapped in the netherworld, awaiting further instruction.
She believed that something more than a mere Darkling Glory was on their world—that a locus had come among them. She craved to know more about it, yet dared not succumb to fatigue.
Guards met Erin and Celinor at the border, several hundred knights and minor lords who had set bright pavilions along the roadside. The borders here were hilly, and filled with bracken. A few dozen carts and horses had stopped as merchants tried to pass the roadblock.
As Erin and Celinor rode past, one old man recognized Celinor and shouted, “Prince Celinor Anders, speak to your father for me. I’ve traded with him for years, eaten at his own table. This is madness!”
Celinor made to ride past the roadblock himself, but pikemen blocked the way. A young captain led them. He was dark of hair, like Celinor, and nearly as tall. His eyes had a fanatical gleam to them. “Sorry, your lordship,” he said. “I have orders to let no one cross.”
“Gantrell?” Celinor asked. “Are you going blind? Or have I changed that much?”
“These be dangerous times,” Gantrell apologized. “My orders are clear: no one in, no one out.”
“Even your crown prince?”
Gantrell gave Celinor an appraising look, said nothing, Erin could imagine the turmoil in the man’s mind. If he let Celinor through, he would be violating orders. If he didn’t, Celinor would hold it against him for the rest of his life—and King Anders was rapidly getting old, declining in health.
“I’ll let you pass,” he said cautiously, “with an escort.”
Celinor nodded. “That would be appreciated.”
“But not the woman,” Gantrell said, glancing at Erin. She wore a horsesister’s simple attire—a woolen tunic stained from the road over her leather armor.
” ‘The woman,’ ” Celinor said, “is my wife, and will someday be your queen!”
Gantrell tilted his head to the side and cringed, as if he had just recognized that he’d made a mistake that would cost him a career.
“Then,” he said, “welcome to South Crowthen, milady.”
He bowed curtly, and Erin rode into South Crowthen under heavy guard. Knights rode at every side—a dozen ahead, a dozen behind, a dozen to their left and another to their right. Gantrell rode beside them, and kept sneaking sly looks at Erin.
“Am I under arrest?” Erin demanded when she could take it no more.
“Of course not,” Gantrell replied. Yet he did not sound sure of his answer.
Sweat poured from Averan. She held the Waymaker with her mind, absorbed his knowledge. Without having tasted the brains of other reavers, she would not have been able to make sense of it all. She concentrated on building a mental image, a map of the Underworld. As she did, all other sights and sounds were gone. She was not aware of the scents of the day, or of the noises, or of the time that passed.
When Averan broke contact, she collapsed in a swoon.
In a daze she looked around her, saw that night had descended. With the sun departing, the air had cooled. She had searched the Waymaker’s memory for hours.
The Waymaker lay before her, dehydrated, rasping its last. Its mouth gaped with each breath, and the philia around its armored head hung like rags. The creature would not survive the night.
Gaborn had stayed beside her all this time.
Now he picked Averan up, held her in his strong arms. “Come,” he said, “let’s get away from this monster. It’s still dangerous.”
He won’t eat me, Averan wanted to tell him. But she didn’t know if that was true. Besides, she could hardly work her throat. Her mouth was dry, and she felt so weary, so drained, that it wasn’t worth the effort to speak.