Wizardborn (21 page)

Throw that damned
cunning
fool to the bears

—
Duke Braithen of North Crowthen,
excerpted from the sentencing of
Chamberlain Whyte upon numerous
charges of larceny

The throng outside Duke Paldane's keep in Carris was thick with the denizens of Rofehavan—lords and merchants in their smelly woolen garments, all of them nattering loudly, or so it seemed to Feykaald.

He stood alone with his back to the stone wall, the sun shining brightly upon him. As he did, he closed his eyes and listened.

The tide of voices overwhelmed him. With a dozen endowments of hearing and only half as many endowments of stamina, the noise swelling around him set his ears to throbbing and caused a painful buzz at the base of his skull. Even the opium he had smoked earlier did little except to leave him feeling disjointed, disconnected, and slightly out of control. The bitter taste of it clung to his teeth. He frowned in concentration as he picked voices from the crowd.

“… . ‘Not even the Earth King can fix that,' I told him. Them apricot trees won't be growing back for twenty years …” said one tall peasant loudly.

“… without so much as a by-your-leave…” cried a woman deeper into the crowd.

“Pardon me. Good day. Pardon. I beg your pardon,” a young girl apologized as she nimbly weaved through the crowds.

“Mark him with the black robes. If I was king, I'd bull his kind out of the city. Who does he think he is?” some old washwoman whispered about Feykaald, while her companion grunted assent.

Soon the fanfare blared in the far hills, and Feykaald looked across the black horizon to see the king's retinue riding forward.

He leaned back and closed his eyes, like a reptile sunning himself, as he waited.

Gaborn was deeply troubled as he rode for Carris. He felt abundantly aware of his weaknesses as he listened to Binnesman begin training Averan.

The Earth Powers were great indeed. But those powers could only be controlled and handled by those who gave themselves fully into the Earth's service.

So Gaborn acted as the Earth King, though he felt that he was something less.

His mind seethed. The end of the world drew near. He could feel it like an ache in the bones. His counsel with his fathers' Wits last night, the messages he sent, the small battles he won—all of them were insignificant.

He suspected that the key to saving his people lay in confronting the One True Master.

A mad plan had begun to assume shape in his mind.

All of it hinged upon Averan. The key to finding the One True Master was for Averan to consume the brain of the Waymaker. Vainly he tried to consider other plans. Binnesman's wylde consumed the brains of reavers too, but
the creature could hardly speak. It could rarely understand questions, much less answer them.

So Averan would have to eat. Afterward… Gaborn dared not think about what he had to do.

In the more frivolous days of his youth Gaborn had dared dream that he might act upon the stages of Mystarria. To that end, he'd studied the art of mimicry in detail in the House of Understanding, in the Room of Faces.

In the city of Aneuve, the Room of Faces was unlike any other. Many “rooms” throughout the city were located at alehouses or in open squares. Thus, for example, the Room of Feet, where one learned the arts of traveling, was not a room at all, but a series of hostels and stables all about the countryside, where one had to travel in order to learn his lessons.

Other rooms were more secretive. Classes were taught in stark dormitories or dim halls. Some hearthmasters jealously guarded their intellectual properties, like Hearthmaster Vangreve in the Room of Dreams, and thus they taught in vaulted chambers underground, far away from the listening ears of any spies.

But the Room of Faces was built in the open, a place to be visited and admired, on an island in a magnificent castle, the Castle Rue.

A merchant had built Castle Rue eight centuries ago—not as a place of retreat during war, but simply for its elegance and beauty. Thus its stonework was all covered in plaster that stained it rose at dawn and at sunset, as it lay against the emerald sea. Its lofty towers and minarets soared far into the air, and its expansive gardens grew lush, watered by reflecting pools where white water lilies bloomed year round and frogs peeped in the evening. Elegant bridges spanned its numerous water concourses.

It was a perfect place for rest and reflection. At nights, one could wander the grounds of the castle, meander through its streets and purchase extravagant foods of every kind: blue crab claws boiled in saltwater, smoked swan legs, pork seasoned with coriander and cooked in quinces,
fresh pastries filled with figs and cinnamon; mugs of hot rum sweetened with goat butter and nutmeg.

The lavish Great Room at Castle Rue housed the oldest and one of the most impressive theaters in all of Mystarria. And everyone who studied there hoped someday to play the lead in some great play, such as Tanandeer's
This Cage of Iron,
or Bombray's
The Simpleton's Tale.

In one of his more embarrassing periods, Gaborn had dared dream of that, of being one of the great actors.

But the House of Understanding was more than just an elegant façade, or cobbled streets rich with the scent of delicacies, or ornate theaters where mimics plied their art.

It was a place of study and practice. It had dozens of training halls scattered all about, and various nooks and crannies.

The great mimic Torrin Belassi had made it his life's work to study faces—the way that the eyes crinkled in joy, or the lips parted in lust. And while he was alive, artists had made subtle impressions of his face showing those expressions.

Now, the ten thousand faces of Torrin Belassi hung on the walls throughout Castle Rue. Each mask was cast in hardened clay at the center of a plaque perhaps three feet in diameter. In honor of the kings of Mystarria, the borders of each mask were adorned with oak leaves, and the whole mask was fired from earthenware that made it look as if it were cut from sandstone.

One could wander an alcove for hours studying masks with names such as “Recognition of an Old Friend,” or “Challenging a Thief in a Darkened Room,” or “A Father Contemplates His Firstborn Son.”

Thus it was that in the Room of Faces, Gaborn had once studied a plaque entitled “How I Imagine the Earth King Will Look.”

It was the expression of a wise conqueror, benevolent and strong and above reproach. It was a look that held love for all men, and promised salvation to children and beggars and fools.

As he rode to Carris on the second day of the month of Leaves, Gaborn wore that face.

He knew that he would never play in the Great Room at Castle Rue. He'd never act in
This Cage of Iron,
playing Sir Goutfeet.

Gaborn regretted that. It was a part that spoke to him. Sir Goutfeet was a man whose role as a knight left him feeling as if he were somehow entombed in his own armor. Meanwhile, the good sir's squire always tried to make him feel valiant by directing him toward battles that he could win, until the enfeebled knight finally was reduced to bludgeoning whores and barmaids in an effort to settle their petty squabbles.

But Gaborn knew that he would never play on a stage.

Instead, as he rode for Carris he settled into his role as Earth King. All of Carris would be his audience, and never had Gaborn acted in a more prominent part.

Doubts and concerns clouded his mind. He passed through the deadlands as if through a dream, and all along he wondered about this girl Averan and her strange gifts, wondered where she might lead him, and if he dared follow.

All too soon, his heralds began blowing golden horns, so that by the time he topped the rise overlooking the Barrens Wall, half of the population of Carris had issued from the city gates or mounted towers or the city walls.

Even at a mile and half, the volume of the cheers that greeted him was astonishing. At the noise, crows and gulls and pigeons that had been roosting in the city all flew up and circled the city's towers like confetti.

Riding beside Gaborn, Iome gasped in horror as she saw the ruins of Carris. Words could not have described it for her—the toppled walls, the great wormhole, the field of dead reavers lying on the barren lands, their mouths all opened hideously wide as their jaws contracted.

Then Gaborn rode down to Carris to thunderous applause. Horns blew, men cheered and raised their fists and shouted in triumph. Women wept in gratitude, and many a
mother raised her infant up over the crowd to show their child. “There, there is the Earth King! Remember this moment. Remember it all of your life!”

He was their savior, after all. He had summoned the world worm and destroyed the reavers' fell mage. He had scattered the reaver horde single-handedly.

And in a moment of foolishness, he had forgotten who he was supposed to be.

As they rode over the causeway, they halted. The dead reavers from yesterday's battle had all been dragged from the entrance to the city—all but one.

There, in the gray dust of ruin, sat the head of a single reaver, its mouth propped wide: the fell mage. The monster was incredible. Iome gasped at the size of it, for its mouth opened wide enough that it could have swallowed a hay wagon. Along the rim of its jaw and along the back of its head were the long, snakelike philia, the sensory organs of the eyeless creature. Each philium on this beast was three to five feet long, and as thick as Gaborn's leg at the base—nearly three times the size of the philia he'd seen on other reavers. The mage's gray head shimmered from a multitude of tattooed runes that glimmered like fire, and in the morning sunlight, its enormous crystalline teeth glittered like quartz.

Iome gasped at the trophy in awe. “I've never heard of one so large!”

Gaborn said, “Rumor has it there's a bigger one.”

A messenger stood just outside the city gates. As Gaborn passed, the messenger shouted, “Milord, news from Skalbairn. The reavers have left their holes within the past hour, and are on the move south!”

Gaborn nodded at the messenger, said, “Tell him that I'm coming.”

Then he smiled and waved as he entered the city, holding his pose. Stern, regal, wise, indomitable. The mask of the Earth King.

His people cheered.

He could not stay long at Carris. He needed to reach the
Place of Bones, confront the One True Master. But first he'd have to join Skalbairn, begin his campaign against the reavers. He needed to find the Waymaker, and learn the paths of the Underworld. The urge was becoming a compulsion. He felt driven.

He rode through the streets inspecting the damage. The odors of despair and rot—the residue of the fell mage's curses—still clung to the city. He wondered how the people here could endure it.

He halted only once, when Lord Bowen shouted and pointed into the crowd. “There he is: that one's Waggit!”

Gaborn reined in his charger and stared down at the grinning idiot. Waggit had straw for hair, and eyes so pale that they looked like holes that opened into a vast sky. But by the powers, was he big! He was cheering wildly, a pickax raised in his hands, bits of reaver gore still clinging to it.

So, he had indeed killed at least one reaver, perhaps even more. Gaborn frankly doubted the tale. Certainly the number of kills was exaggerated. No matter. Waggit was a hero now in the eyes of Carris, and the world needed heroes.

The fool did not notice that Gaborn had stopped and was staring, until Gaborn pointed at him. Then Waggit stopped, and to the delight of those around him seemed perfectly dumbfounded that the Earth King had taken notice of him.

Gaborn's heart went out to the young man. In a world where the cruel and the cunning gained status by riding upon the backs of the poor, men like Waggit were too often unjustly scorned. Yet his stupidity was something that a single endowment of wit could cure. And in granting an endowment of wit from a weak and cowardly man to someone like Waggit, one might thus create a warrior of great worth.

Unfortunately, endowments of wit remained beyond the grasp of such simple folk. Gaborn would gladly have given any ten Merchant Princes of Lysle for such a man.

“Waggit of Silverdale, on your knees!” Gaborn shouted.

The man had no courtly graces. He clumsily squatted down on his knees and bowed his head, frowning terribly,
as if he knew that he had committed some offense but could not remember what it was. Gaborn rode near, saw bits of oat straw in the big man's blond hair. He'd obviously slept in a stable last night. Perhaps he did so every night.

Gaborn could heal him with a single forcible. By ancient law, any man who killed a reaver earned a forcible from his king. If the rumors were true, Waggit had earned nine. Yet Gaborn wondered if the man might not be happier if he remained an idiot.

Gaborn drew his sword and touched each of the man's shoulder blades.
“Baron
Waggit of Silverdale, arise!”

The people of Carris erupted into a wild cheer as the idiot got up from his knees. To their greater astonishment, Gaborn reached down a hand and urged the young man to ride with him, aback his charger.

Then Gaborn put on the face of the Earth King once again.

It was not a perfect performance. Some of his subjects had obviously heard rumors that he'd lost his powers. He saw frightened faces in the crowd, and one man shouted, “Milord, is it true?”

For a moment he let his expression slip. People saw. A young peasant boy, perhaps four years old, sitting with his mother atop a pile of barrels asked, “Why does he look so sad?”

Gaborn set Baron Waggit down as he left the city, and was gone.

Feykaald watched Gaborn parade by the Ducal Palace in mild consternation. He searched for signs of weakness in Gaborn, but the young king looked regal, confident—
almost
everything these peasants expected from an Earth King.

But Feykaald saw through the façade. For years now Feykaald had served Raj Ahten. He'd been faithful, prudent, as a servant should be. He'd watched Raj Ahten grow
from an ungainly child into the most sublime and powerful lord the world had ever known.