Sons of the Oak (17 page)

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Authors: David Farland

BOOK: Sons of the Oak
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Fallion didn't know what to say to that. The folks at Castle Coorm had both respected and feared Borenson. Fallion had even suspected that Borenson carried some dark secret. But he was stunned to hear how many men Borenson had killed.
“I don't understand,” Fallion said. “How am I to be a king? How can I protect others from Asgaroth?”
“You don't need forcibles to lead,” Myrrima said. “A man can lead with wisdom and compassion without them. Kings have done it before. Even in recent history, some lords have chosen to live without them. You may consider that path.”
“And remember,” Borenson said, “no weapon forged by man can destroy a locus. In time, circumstances may force you to take endowments. But don't be in a hurry to make the same mistakes that I have made.”
 
 
 
That evening, as the children sought out their beds, Borenson went down to the common room to learn the latest news. He could feel an electric intensity to the air, the kind that portends a storm. But it was not the weather that caused it. It was the day's news.
Last night there had been an attack on the palace. Now there was talk of cities falling in the far west, a full-fledged war. Queen Lowicker of Beldinook was on a rampage.
So it was that Borenson found himself sitting on a stool, drinking strong ale, while a minstrel shouted out a lively jig and a pair of sailors danced on a table behind him, when all of a sudden he heard a sound that made his blood freeze.
At a stool nearby, just down the bar, he heard a hissing whisper. “Two boys? Both of them have dark hair, like half-breeds.”
Borenson peered out of the corner of his eye. The questioner was a scabrous little fellow, as if he suffered from gut worms, with a hunched back and milky eyes. He was leaning up to another patron of the inn, whispering into the fellow's ear.
“Nah,” the patron answered in a deeper tone.
“You sure?” the scurvy fellow asked. “They could be in this very inn. Would 'ave stumbled in last night. There's gold for ya, if we find 'em.”
The scurvy fellow turned to Borenson with a questioning stare. “'Ave you seen a pair of young lads?”
“About nine years old?” Borenson asked. “Dressed like lordlings?”
The milky eyes peered up at him and the sailor's face split into a grin. “Could be …” he said eagerly. “Could be 'em.”
Borenson gave a puzzled look. “It's odd that you ask. I saw some boys like that at my sister's house, not two hours ago. They 'ad an old woman with 'em, their granddame.”
The excitement in the fellow's eyes turned to a frenzy. “Your sister's 'ouse?”
“She takes in boarders. She doesn't run an inn, really. More of a private house.”
The fellow nodded sagely, stroked his scraggly beard.
“Where? Where can I find this 'ouse?”
Borenson licked his lips, drained his mug, and planted it meaningfully on the table. “I'm a poor man, with a poor memory.”
The scurvy fellow shifted his gaze to the left, then to the right. “We best continue our negotiations in more private like.”
The little fellow turned, stumbled through the crowd as if half drunk, and Borenson fixed his eye on the back of the fellow's long coat and followed him out the door.
The street was dark, with only a crescent moon peering through wisps of clouds, while a low fog was creeping up from the sea. The fellow headed around a back corner, and Borenson followed him down to the pier.
It was lonely and quiet outside, and as the scurvy fellow reached the pier, even that place did not seem secluded enough for him. He retreated to the shadows beneath a fishmonger's hut, and climbed down upon some rocks covered with strands of red kelp. In the pale light, Borenson could see blue-white crabs scrounging for tidbits among the kelp, could hear the clicking sounds of their pincers, the water gurgling from their mouths and joints, the scrapes of tiny feet on rocks.
“There's gold in it for ya, sure,” the scurvy fellow whispered when they were alone, “that is, if they're the ones.”
“How much gold?” Borenson said. “I mean, I wouldn't want to see anyone get hurt—especially my sister.” He feigned being a man of conscience, but a man who could be tempted. “So how much gold?”
The little fellow licked his lips. Borenson felt sure that he had a set price, but he was wondering how much he could shave off of it, pocket for himself. “Twenty gold eagles,” the fellow said. It was a small fortune.
“Pshaawww,” Borenson said. “You can pay better than that for a pair of fat princelings.”
The fellow looked up, and in the moonlight his milky eyes looked strange, like orbs of marble.
“Yes, I figured out who they are,” Borenson said. “My sister once served as a maid in King Orden's household. So it's no wonder that they came to her, not after what happened last night.”
“Thirty, thirty gold eagles,” the scurvy fellow hissed. “All right?”
“All right,” Borenson said. Before the fellow could blink, Borenson swung a punch for the little man's ribs, landing the blow with all of his might. Borenson wasn't as powerful as he had once been. His endowments were gone, and he had nothing but his own strength nowadays. Nine years ago, he'd have killed a man with that blow.
Now he just heard a few ribs snap, and the fellow went down with a grunt, holding his gut, trying to suck air. Borenson saw him reach for a dagger, and jumped on his right arm, snapping it like a twig.
The little fellow lay on the kelp, moaning while the crabs clicked and scuttled aside.
“Now,” Borenson said as he leaned over the sailor and pinned his arms. “Let's discuss a new bargain. Tell me who sent you, and I'll let you live.”
Borenson wrestled the scurvy fellow's arms behind his back, then took the sailor's own dagger from its sheath and laid the naked blade to his neck.
“A big feller,” the sailor said, and he began to sob. “White hair, with a black long coat. I 'eard someone say 'e's a captain of his own ship. Maybe, maybe even a pirate lord from the far side.”
“His name,” Borenson said, digging the knife closer. He twisted the broken arm, eliciting more sobs. “Tell me his name.”
“I 'eard tell that his name is Callamon.”
Borenson held his breath a moment, taking that in. Fortunately, this Callamon was not on the ship that they'd be taking.
Borenson knew that he couldn't leave the sailor alive. He'd go running to the enemy, telling what he'd found.
Time and time it came down to this. Borenson was a killer, a hired killer.
He was good at it, even though it pained him.
“Thank you,” Borenson said reluctantly. “I'm sorry.” He bashed the little man's skull with the pommel of his dagger, stunning him, and then slit the
fellow's throat from ear to ear, giving him a clean death, which was the most that Borenson could allow.
He hurled the body into the sea as food for the crabs.
 
 
 
The fare at the inn was uncommonly good, and dinner that night for the “sick guests” was spectacular—roast ducklings stuffed with rice and dates, savory pies, honey rolls, and pudding spiced with lemon rind.
When it was done, everyone felt overstuffed, and most of the children fell asleep almost instantly.
Myrrima tidied up, packing for the trip tomorrow. And while Borenson was away, Fallion lay awake beside the fire, watching flames flicker and dance before his eyes. Iome noticed how he hugged Rhianna close, as he had the night before, trying to comfort her. She smiled at his innocence.
Iome felt fulfilled after a day of just playing with her children, eating a fine meal. She had not had a great deal of time to spend with her sons in the past few years, and she had forgotten how refreshing it could be.
Borenson came to the room and found Iome and his wife awake. As he stirred the fire, he gave them the least worrisome of his news: Beldinook had attacked from the north, taking Castle Carris.
It made sense, Iome realized. Paldane had resided in Carris, and she had already seen him impaled on a stick. So the news was stale.
“But there is more important news,” Borenson said. “I met a man down in the common room, a bounty hunter. He was searching for news of young boys, princely young men. He was hired by a ship's captain named Callamon.”
Iome took this in. “Callamon. I've heard of him. He's a pirate of some repute.”
There was no way that a pirate could be looking for them, Iome knew. He wouldn't have had time to gain the intelligence that he needed. Unless, perhaps … he was infested by a locus.
This was unsettling news.
Myrrima excused herself to go to the privy out back.
“I'm tired,” Iome said to Borenson's back after hearing his report. “Will you keep watch? I haven't slept in so, so long.”
“Of course.” Borenson glanced back up at her, his head half turned, the fire limning his beard, red streaked with silver. “Are you well?”
Iome smiled. He thinks I'm going to die, she realized. And maybe he is right.
The elderly often feel well just before they die, and Iome realized now that for the entire day she had gone without any of the twinges or aches that come with aging. Indeed, she had not felt so good for many, many months.
Like an apple tree, that blooms best when it blooms its last.
“I just want to go to sleep,” Iome said. “I want to hold my boys.”
She climbed down from her rocking chair and curled up on the floor with Jaz and Fallion, pulling a single blanket up to cover all three.
Borenson got up from the fire, put a hand on her shoulder, and whispered, “Good night, milady.”
“Good-bye,” she said. “I think that this is good-bye. But I'm ready for it. Life can be very … tiring.”
“Rest well,” Borenson said.
They did not talk of the boys. Iome wanted to ask him to raise them as his own but she already knew that he would.
She thought, It will be ample repayment for the killing of my father.
She dared not say those words aloud. Borenson had repaid her many times. He was a good servant, a faithful friend.
She lay for a long time, measuring her moments. Does the joy I felt outweigh the pain? she wondered.
She'd given her life in the service of others. She'd lost her husband, and now was going to lose her children.
That didn't seem a fair bargain. But the moments of joy that had come were intense and beautiful: her girlhood friendships with Chemoise and Myrrima, her marriage to Gaborn, and the brightest moments, the births of her sons.
Is my life a tragedy, she wondered, or a triumph?
Her Days had said that she would write that Iome's was a life well lived. But she had given away all that she loved in an effort to win peace and freedom for her people.
So it was neither a tragedy nor a triumph, Iome told herself. It was only a trade.
I'll warn the boys, she told herself in a fit of sudden irrationality. I'll warn them in the morning not to trade away the best parts of their lives.
But she remembered that she had already warned Fallion, over and over again.
He's a smart boy, she told herself. Smarter than I was at his age. He will do well.
Sleep came, deep and restful, until in the night she was wakened by a horn that blew so loud it made her heart clench in her chest.
She clutched at her heart, and opened her eyes to a dawn so bright that she had to squint.
Where am I? she wondered. Am I staring into the sun?
But the light did not hurt her eyes. On the contrary, it was warm and inviting, and grew brighter and brighter. As her eyes became accustomed, she heard the horn a second time, a distant wail, followed by pounding hooves, so much like a beating heart.
Gaborn came out of the light. He was young and smiling, his hair tousled. He wore a riding cloak of green, and tall black boots, and his dark blue eyes sparkled like sapphires.
“Come, my love,” he whispered. “The moon is up and the Hunt is under way, and a place is prepared for you.”
He beckoned with his hand. Iome saw a horse not far off, a gray mare with a black mane. It was saddled, bridled, and groomed. Its mane and tail were plaited. It was the most beautiful mount, and she longed to ride.
She took a few steps, and a worry made her halt. “What of the boys?”
“Our time is now,” Gaborn said. “Theirs will come soon enough.”
It was as if his words were a balm, and Iome suddenly cast aside all worries. Our time is now, she thought, and swung up easily into the saddle and nudged her mount forward, until she was at Gaborn's side.

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