“Sometimes,” Iome admitted. “But if someone loves you in return, it makes the occasional hurt all worthwhile.”
Myrrima wondered at the conversation. Everywhere she looked, wars were breaking out. Yet she worried about love. She felt guilty even talking to Iome about it. But life without love would be so cold and empty it would be a kind of death all its own.
“I guess,” Iome continued, “I learned to love from my father. He cared for all of his people equally. If he thought a man to be lazy or vile, he didn’t hate the man or condemn him. He thought that men could cure their every vice, if they just sought to change. And he was sure that if you showed a man enough kindness, he’d desire to change.”
Myrrima laughed. “If only the differences between men could be settled so easily.”
“But you see my point? If you want love, you must first give it.”
“I don’t think that my husband knows how to love.”
“You’ll have to teach him,” Iome said. Her face was full of concern. “Always, you have to set the clear example. Not everyone learns how to give love easily. I’ve heard that for some, learning to love can be all but impossible. They keep their feelings hidden away beneath a coat of armor.”
Only moments ago, Myrrima had been thinking the same thing—that she felt as if she were trying to pierce her husband’s armor. Myrrima shook her head. “He’s so full of self-loathing. How do you prove your love to a man who refuses to see it, or to believe it?”
“You married him,” Iome said. “That should give him some hint.”
“The marriage was all but arranged.”
“You’re going with him to Inkarra. He can’t fail to see that.”
Myrrima shook her head in bafflement.
“Maybe he’ll learn to love you when he can love himself,” Iome said. “He’s making great changes, great strides. He’s given up his position in life, lost his endowments. Locked inside the warrior’s coat of mail, a fine man is struggling to get out. Help him discover that.”
Suddenly Borenson made sense to Myrrima. Iome was telling her that he did not know how to love because he’d never been truly loved.
She’d heard much about him, about his reputation for being a man who grimly faced the worst challenges, who laughed in battle. Of course he would laugh in battle. Death meant little to him. It would only bring a release from his pain.
Up on the road, Gaborn’s troops were mounted and preparing to leave. Gaborn called out to Iome, “Ready?”
Iome clenched Myrrima’s hands, then strode swiftly uphill to join her husband.
Myrrima headed back toward the wagon to check on Borenson.
“He wants me to take a message to King Zandaros,” Borenson said as she approached. “When I’m ready to ride.”
“Will you?”
“When I can ride.” He winced in pain at the very thought.
“There’s something I must say,” Myrrima offered. “I know that you say you don’t love me. But I’m still your wife, and perhaps it is enough that I love you.”
He lay silently for a long time, and Myrrima simply touched his hand.
After a while, he reached down under his tunic, felt his groin wound. A mystified expression crossed his face.
“What’s the matter?” Myrrima asked. “Are you less of a man than you thought you were, or more?” He kept prodding himself, unable to comprehend what had happened. “Binnesman treated you,” Myrrima explained. “He says that you’ll be ready to ride within the hour. In time, you may recover completely.”
The look of wonder and relief on his face warmed her heart. For a moment, he seemed at a loss for words, unwilling to trust his good fortune. At last Borenson teased in a guarded voice, “If that wizard can grow new walnuts on me, I’ll drag him to the nearest inn and buy him a pint of ale.”
Myrrima smiled warmly and shot back, “A pint of ale? Is that all that they’re worth to you?”
12
The Face of the Earth King
Every man is born with ten thousand faces, but he reveals them to the world only one at a time.
Gaborn and Iome went to their mounts in the stables, and Iome held silent for a long moment. She could tell that Borenson’s bitter words had upset Gaborn. Borenson had always been open with Gaborn, and Iome thought them to be as close as brothers.
“He will heal,” Iome said as they strolled into the stable. “Binnesman promised.”
Gaborn shook his head. “No, I think not. Not really. We’ve used him badly. He’s angry at Raj Ahten, angry at me. And he’s suspicious. Zandaros is not likely to offer any concessions just because I send a friend as an ambassador. I might well be sending Borenson to his death.”
Iome bit her lower lip, troubled by what Gaborn said. Zandaros had cut off contact with Mystarria before Gaborn was ever born, and he’d sent an assassin to kill Gaborn. Zandaros sounded dangerous, but Iome knew that Inkarra was a strange land, with customs all its own.
“Are you sure you want Borenson to speak to King Zandaros?” Iome asked. “Zandaros’s nephew seemed to think that the Storm King would favor me—and I am your closest relation.”
Iome tried to make the offer sound as casual as possible. She did not want to go. It would be a long, hard journey to an unforeseeable end, and she would be risking her life as well as that of the son growing in her womb.
Gaborn shook his head. “No. Not you.”
She glanced up at his face. His gaze was directed inward.
They entered the stable, found their mounts to be well fed. The horses’ manes and tails were plaited, and the beasts had been washed and combed. Gaborn’s horse wore barding that had been brought from Carris during the night. The beast’s armor gleamed like silver. The chaffron on its head had a twisted horn that spiraled up, and the plate mail on the horse’s chest and flanks was burnished. Beneath its armor was a quilt covered in white silk. It looked like some marvelous beast that had walked out of the clouds.
The lords in Carris wanted Gaborn to make a grand entrance, a triumphal entry to lift the spirits of his people. Iome and his Wits thought it expedient. Paldane’s old chancellor, Galantine, had sent a message warning that rumors in Carris had begun to spread, to the effect that Gaborn had been slain in battle. “It would ease the people’s minds,” he said, “if Gaborn would come.”
So Gaborn would parade once around the city, but only because he needed to pass by on his way to battle.
The reavers would be racing south over the open plains today, and he planned to lead his men against them. He needed Averan’s help in finding the Waymaker.
All through the night, he had huddled with his counselors, plotting the deed. Reports from Skalbairn came in hourly. The reavers had dug into burrows once it got cold, and by dawn they had still not stirred.
The night’s storm had similarly delayed Gaborn’s departure from Balington. He dared not send warriors racing on force horses in the dark, over roads that had turned to mud.
Thus, though the weather slowed Gaborn, it had stymied the reavers completely. The reavers had traveled only forty miles in the length of the night. This gave Gaborn a great advantage.
He’d sent to castles in his lands south of the Brace Mountains and ordered lances, ballistas, and food delivered close to the reavers’ trail.
In the early hours of the morning, messengers brought more good news: the rain had almost completely bypassed everything south of the Brace Mountains.
The fields would be dry—perfect for a cavalry charge.
Once Gaborn had felt as ready as he could be to face the reavers, he’d consulted with his counselors and drawn up missives to send to kings throughout Rofehavan.
Long through the night, he’d acted on matters both monumental and mundane. He’d drafted plans for the evacuation of Carris, and for sending the Indhopalese troops to help defend his castles to the north. He’d sent bribes to various lords, including an offer to hire mercenaries out of Internook to protect his coast.