“And another thing,” Averan said. “Reavers don’t see like we do. They can only see close by, and they see the world all in one color, but it isn’t a color. I can’t explain it, but it’s the color of lightning. Lightning blinds them. When it flashes, they feel the way you would if you were staring into the sun. It’s very painful.”
“You’re a brave little girl,” Gaborn said. As if she had been waiting for his reassurance, Averan’s resolve broke. Tears suddenly filled her eyes, and she began to sob. “Your tale brings certain questions to mind.”
“What?” Averan asked.
“For example, can you tell me about the nature and disposition of the reavers’ troops?”
Averan stared at him blankly. “Nature?”
“The reaver armies,” Gaborn clarified. “Do you know how many reavers there are?”
Averan shook her head. “I...one of the reavers I ate was a scout. The other a mage. I don’t know about numbers.”
Gaborn turned back to Averan. “Let me pose it another way. You don’t have any idea how many reavers there are in the Underworld?”
Averan seemed to gather herself. She closed her eyes for a long moment and said, “The Underworld is full, but the reavers—they can’t live just anywhere. Food is scarce.”
And we’re food, Iome thought. Gaborn glanced back at his counselors. The Wits showed little emotion.
“Your Highness,” Averan continued, “I’m scared.”
“Of what?” Gaborn asked softly.
“The One True Master has unraveled much of the Master Rune. Yesterday, you destroyed the Seal of Desolation that her apprentice laid on Carris.”
Gaborn nodded. Gaborn had killed the most powerful reaver mage ever mentioned in the tomes. Some small part of Iome had been clinging to the hope that Gaborn had already slain the most powerful of all reavers. But this child described it as being a mere “apprentice” to a far more powerful master.
“Tell me about her,” Gaborn demanded.
Iome’s glance flicked up to Binnesman. The mage, with his perpetual stoop, looked suddenly pale. He leaned on his staff, as if seeking support.
“In the Underworld,” Averan said, “the One True Master is taking endowments. And she’s giving them to her leaders.”
“Reavers have always been able to eat one another and grow that way,” Gaborn said. “Are you sure it isn’t the same?”
“This is different,” Averan said. “Reavers can eat each other’s brains to learn. And they can eat the musk glands under their arms to grow. But now they’ve discovered rune lore. She’s already deciphered the runes of grace, scent, and brawn. Now she’s trying to perfect metabolism.”
There was a moment of silence as warriors looked at one another meaningfully. Facing reavers was bad enough. Facing one that had endowments of metabolism was terrifying.
“But there’s something more,” Averan said. “I don’t understand it at all. The Seal of Desolation that you destroyed, that was part of something bigger. She plans to bind a Seal of Desolation to the Seal of Heaven and the Seal of the Inferno.”
Binnesman drew back, leaned on his staff for support. “That...that’s not possible! No one could decipher so much of the Master Rune!”
“It is possible,” Averan said. “I saw the runes taking shape at the Place of Bones! You saw the Seal of Desolation—”
“But,” Jerimas blurted, “it has taken mankind thousands of years to decipher the shapes of even the smallest of runes—brawn and wit! How could one reaver learn so much?”
“She divines them by looking into the fire,” Averan said.
Binnesman backed away. “By the Tree!” he swore. His face was hard. He looked bewildered, as if someone had just bludgeoned him for no apparent reason. “By the Tree...” He knew something that Iome didn’t, she felt sure. Or perhaps he merely suspected something. “You’re sure that this One True Master is a reaver, not some other creature?”
“I’ve seen her,” Averan said. “She’s enormous, but she’s just a reaver.”
Binnesman shook his head, as if he could not believe it. “Not just a reaver.”
“You say that she’s binding these seals.” Gaborn asked Binnesman, “What will that do?”
“She plans to bind the Powers of Fire and Air against us,” Binnesman said. “Earth and Water would diminish. Life would...change in ways so fundamental, I cannot even begin to guess at the repercussions.”
Jerimas concluded, “She’ll destroy the world!”
“No!” Averan said. “She doesn’t want to destroy the world—just...change it into the kind of place where we can’t live anymore.”
“Is that even possible?” Gaborn asked Binnesman.
Binnesman frowned, stroked his beard. “If she comprehends so many pieces of the Master Rune, the world has not seen a creature with such power....”
“Averan,” Gaborn said. “This is imperative. I need to find this One True Master. I need to kill her, and I must do it quickly. How can I get to her? You say that you can’t draw me a map. But you also say that you learn by eating reavers. Is there a certain kind of reaver that you need to eat, one who would know the way—another scout perhaps, or a howler?”
Averan looked up at him. Her eyes were filled with an unnamable expression. Iome could see a mixture of loathing and embarrassment and a pure desire to help. “Maybe!” she said, as if the idea had not occurred to her. “There are markings in the Underworld—directions.”
“Directions?” Gaborn said. “So you need to understand their language better? Can’t you get that from any reaver?”
Averan shook her head, said in a confused tone, “No. Not all reavers speak the same language.”
“What?” Gaborn asked. “Like Rofehavanish and Taifan?”
Averan tried to explain. “Not like that,” Averan said. “But a carpenter doesn’t speak like a warrior, does he? He has his own words for tools and the things he does with them, his own language. Reavers are the same way. They each have different jobs. If you’re ever going to reach the One True Master, there’s a certain reaver you need. The reaver...there’s no name for it. There’s just a smell.”
“Does it have any special markings?” Gaborn asked.
Averan wrinkled her brow. “It’s a Waykeeper,” she said slowly, as if searching for the right description. “It’s a Waymaker. It knows where the trails in the Underworld lead, and which doors are locked, and how they are guarded.”
“How many of these monsters are traveling with the horde ?”
“One.”
“Just one?”
“Yes!” Averan said. A fierce light came into her eyes. “Just one—a big male, with thirty-six philia, and huge paws, and runes on his arms. I—I might know him if I could see him, and could smell him!”
Gaborn stepped backward, looked at Iome. His eyes were haunted, his expression that of a trapped animal. Iome knew that he was leaving, going someplace that she dared not follow.
“Gentlemen,” Gaborn told the knights there in the inn, “prepare your mounts. We’ll ride for Carris within the hour.”
11
A Small Thing
Miracles are as common as soapwort seeds and spiderwebs. People tend to forget that, until they hear a newborn baby cry.
Binnesman pulled up the gray blanket that covered Sir Borenson, looked beneath his tunic, and glanced away, frowning. “He’s infected. We’ll have to bring that fever down.”
He covered Borenson quickly, so passersby would not see, but it was too late. Myrrima had come out of the inn to find a couple of squires in the wagonbed, already gawking at the wound. She’d shooed them away. But now a number of knights that knew Borenson either in person or by reputation had begun to gather around the wain, and Myrrima was rapidly finding that nothing attracts a crowd like a crowd.