Gaborn stifled a sob. "Verrin Drinkham," he said softly, raising his left hand. "I Choose you. I Choose you for the Earth. May the Earth heal you. May the Earth hide you. May the Earth make you its own."

Gaborn felt the binding take force.

"Thank you, Your Highness," Molly said. The girl's eyes glistened with tears. She turned and headed toward Castle Groverman, ready to walk the two hundred miles home.

But as she did, Gaborn felt a powerful sense of dread; the Earth was warning him that she was in danger. If she went south again, she'd die. Whether she'd be waylaid by a bandit or take ill from her journey or face some more dire fate, he did not know. But although he could not guess what form the danger would take, his premonition was as strong as on the day that his father had died.

Molly, Gaborn thought, that way lies death. Turn and go to Castle Sylvarresta.

She stopped in mid-stride, turned her big blue eyes on him questioningly. For half a second she hesitated, then spun and raced north up the road toward Castle Sylvarresta as if a reaver were chasing her.

Gaborn's eyes filled with tears of grat.i.tude at the sight.

"Good girl," he whispered. He'd been afraid she would not hear his warning, or would be slow to heed it.

On his white mule, Gaborn's Days glanced from Gaborn to the girl. "Did you just turn her?"

"Yes."

"You felt danger in the south?"

"Yes," Gaborn answered again, not wanting to express the vague fear that was creeping over him. "Danger for her, at least."

Turning to Binnesman, Gaborn said, "I don't know if I can keep this up. I didn't expect it to be this way."

"An Earth King is not asked to carry easy loads," Binnesman said. "After the battle at Care Fail, it is said that no wounds were found on the body of Erden Gaboren. Some thought he'd died of a broken heart."

"Your words comfort me," Gaborn said sardonically. "I want to save that child, but by Choosing it, I don't know if I did well or ill."

"Or perhaps nothing that any of us, does matters," Binnesman said, as if he might resign himself to the knowledge that even their best efforts might not save mankind.

"No, I have to believe that it matters," Gaborn countered. "I must believe that it is worth the struggle. But how can I save them all?"

"Save all of mankind?" Binnesman said. "It can't be done."

"Then I must figure out how to save most of them." Gaborn looked back at his Days, the historian who had followed him since childhood.

The sense of foreboding Gaborn felt was discomforting. The Days could warn him of the source of that danger, if he would.

Far away in the north, in a monastic settlement in the islands beyond Orwynne, lived another Days--one who had given Gaborn's Days an endowment of wit and who had received from him the same endowment in return. Thus the two Days now shared a single mind--a feat that had seldom been duplicated outside the monastery, for it led to madness.

Gaborn's Days was called a "witness," and he had been charged by the Time Lords to watch Gaborn and to listen to his words. His companion, the "scribe," acted as recorder, noting Gaborn's deeds until his death, when the book of Gaborn's life would be published.

And because the scribes all lived in a common settlement, they shared information. Indeed, they knew all that transpired among the Runelords.

Thus Gaborn felt that the Days knew too much and imparted their wisdom too seldom. This Days had long ago given up his name, given up his own ident.i.ty in service to the Time Lords. He would not speak.

Binnesman caught the accusatory stare that Gaborn shot toward the Days, and he wondered aloud: "If I were choosing seeds for next year's garden, I do not know if I would seek to save most of them, or only the best."

CHAPTER 2.

STRANGE BEDFELLOWS.

The village of Hay in the midlands of Mystarria was a blight on an otherwise unremarkable landscape, but it had an inn, and an inn was all that Roland wanted.

He rode into Hay past midnight, without waking even one of the town's dogs. The sky to the distant southwest was the color of fire. Hours past, Roland had met one of the king's far-seers, a man with half a dozen endowments of sight who had said that a volcano had erupted, though Roland was too far from it to hear the blast. Yet the light of its fires reflected from a column of smoke and ash. Its distant pyre added to the starlight, making everything preternaturally clear.

The village consisted of five stone cottages with thatch roofs. The innkeeper kept pigs that liked to root at his doorstep. As Roland dismounted, a couple of hogs grunted awake and staggered to their feet, sniffing the air and blinking wisely. Roland pounded at the oaken door and stared at the Hostenfest icon nailed there--a tattered wooden image of the Earth King, dressed in a new green traveling robe and wearing a crown of oak leaves. Someone had replaced the Earth King's staff with a sprig of purple flowered thyme.

The fat innkeeper who greeted him wore an ap.r.o.n so dirty that he was almost indistinguishable from his swine. Roland silently swore to ride far before he breakfasted. But he wanted sleep now, so paid for a room.

Since the rooms were full up with travelers fleeing from the north, he was forced to bed with a huge fellow who smelled of grease and too much ale.

Still, the room was dry while the ground outside was not, so Roland climbed into bed with the fellow, shoved him onto his side so that he stopped snoring, and tried to sleep.

The plan went afoul. Within two minutes the big fellow rolled back over and snored loudly in Roland's ear. While still asleep, he wrapped a leg over Roland, then groped Roland's breast. The man had a grip so firm it could only have come from taking endowments of brawn.

Roland whispered menacingly, "Stop that, or I'll be leaving a severed hand in this bed in the morning."

The big man, who had a beard so bushy that squirrels could have hidden in it, squinted at Roland through the dim firelight shining through a parchment window.

"Oh, sorry!" the big fellow apologized. "Thought you were my wife." He rolled over and immediately began to snore.

That was some comfort. Roland had heard tales of men getting b.u.g.g.e.red under such circ.u.mstances.

Roland turned aside, letting the fellow's backside warm his b.u.t.tocks, then tried to sleep. But an hour later, the big fellow was at him again, clutching Roland's b.r.e.a.s.t.s. Roland gave him a sharp elbow to the chest.

"d.a.m.n you, woman!" the fellow groaned in his sleep, rolling back over with a huff. "You're all bones."

Roland promised himself that tomorrow night he'd sleep with the rocks in the field.

The thought had hardly crossed his mind when he woke from a deep slumber.

He was entangled in the fellow's arms again, arms as big as logs. His bedfellow had kissed him on the forehead.

A dim morning light shone through the window. His eyes closed, the man seemed fast asleep, breathing deeply.

"Excuse me," Roland said, catching the man by the beard and yanking this way and that. He shoved the fellow's head back. "I admire a man who can show affection, but please refrain from showing it to me."

The fellow opened his bloodshot eyes and gazed at Roland for half a second. Roland expected the brute to offer an embarra.s.sed apology.

Instead, he paled in dismay. "Borenson?" he shouted, coming fully awake. He scuttled his three hundred pounds of bulk back against the wall and huddled there quivering, as if terrified that Roland might strike. "What are you doing here?"

He was an enormous man with black hair, and a good deal of gray in his beard. Roland didn't recognize him. But I have been asleep for twenty-one years, he thought. "Do I know you?" Roland asked, begging a name.

"Know me? You nearly killed me, though I must admit that I deserved it. I was an a.s.s back then. But I've repented my ways, and I'm only half an a.s.s now. Don't you know me? Baron Poll!"

Roland had never met the fellow. He's confusing me with my son, Ivarian Borenson, Roland realized, a son he'd only learned about after waking from his long sleep.

"Ah, Baron Poll!" Roland said enthusiastically, waiting for the fellow to recognize his own mistake. It didn't seem likely that Roland's son would look so much like him, with his flaming red hair and pale complexion. The boy's mother was fairly dark of skin. "It's good to see you."

"Likewise, and I'm glad you feel that way. So, our past is forgotten? You forgive me...the theft of your purse? Everything?"

"As far as I am concerned, it's as if we've never met," Roland said.

Baron Poll suddenly seemed mystified. "You're in a generous mood...after all those beatings I gave you. I suppose it turned you into a soldier, though. One could even say that you're in my debt. Right?"

"Ah, the beatings," Roland echoed, still astonished that the fellow didn't realize his mistake. Roland knew only one thing about his son: He was a captain in the King's Guard. "That was nothing. Of course I gave as good as I got, right?"

Baron Poll stared at Roland as if he'd gone utterly mad. Roland realized that his son really hadn't given as good as he'd gotten. "Well..." Poll ventured suspiciously, "then I'm glad we're reconciled. But...what are you doing down here? I thought you'd gone north to Heredon?"

"Alas, King Orden is dead," Roland said solemnly. "Raj Ahten met him at Longmot. Thousands of our men fell in battle."

"And the Prince?" Poll asked, his face pale.

"He is well, as far as I know," Roland answered.

"As far as you know? But you're his bodyguard!"

"That is why I'm in a hurry to get back to his side," Roland said, climbing off the bed. He threw his new bearskin traveling robe over his shoulders, pulled on his heavy boots.

Baron Poll heaved his bulk up on the side of the bed, stared about dumbly. "Where's your axe? Your bow? You aren't traveling weaponless!"

"I am." Roland was in a hurry to reach Heredon. He hadn't taken the time yet to purchase weapons, had only learned last night that he might need them, as he began to meet refugees fleeing the north.

Baron Poll studied him as if he were daft. "You know that Castle Crayden fell six days ago, along with Castle Fells and the fortress at Tal Dur? And two days ago Raj Ahten destroyed Tal Rimmon, Gorlane, and Aravelle. Two hundred thousand of Raj Ahten's men are marching on Carris and should reach it by dawn tomorrow. You're heading weaponless into that kind of danger?"

Roland knew little about the lay of the land. Being illiterate, he could not read a map, and until now he had never been ten miles from his childhood home at the Courts of Tide, but he knew that castles Crayden and Fells defended the pa.s.ses on Mystarria's western border. He'd never heard of Tal Dur, but he knew of the castles that had been destroyed to the north.

"Can I reach Carris before they do?" Roland asked.

"Is your horse fast?"

Roland nodded. "It has an endowment of stamina and one of strength and metabolism." It was a lordly animal, such as the king's messengers rode. After being on the road for a week, Roland had met a horse trader and purchased the beast with money he'd inherited while he slept.

"You should easily make a hundred miles today, then," Baron Poll said. "But the roads are like to be treacherous. Raj Ahten's a.s.sa.s.sins are out in force."

"Fine," Roland said. He hoped that his mount would be up to the challenge. He turned to leave.

"Here now, you can't go out like that," Baron Poll said. "Take my arms and armor--whatever you want." He nodded to a corner of the room. Baron Poll's breastplate was propped against the wall, along with a huge axe, a sword as tall as a man, and a half-sword.

The breastplate was too wide for Roland by half, and he doubted he could even heft the tall sword well enough to use it in battle. Roland was a butcher by trade. The axe was no larger than the forty-pound cleavers that Roland had used for splitting beeves, but he doubted that he'd ever want such a clumsy weapon in a brawl. But there was the half-sword. It was not much larger than a good long knife. Still, Roland could not take such a gift by deception.

"Baron Poll," Roland apologized, "I fear that you are mistaken. My name is Roland Borenson. I am not a member of the King's Guard. You mistake me for my son."

"What?" Baron Poll spat. "The Borenson I knew was a fatherless b.a.s.t.a.r.d. Everyone said so. We teased him mercilessly for it!"

"No man is fatherless," Roland said. "I served as a Dedicate in the Blue Tower these past twenty-one years, giving metabolism in service of the King."

"But everyone said you were dead! No. Wait...I remember the story better now: They said you were a common criminal, a killer, executed before your son was born!"

"Not executed," Roland objected, "though perhaps my son's mother might have wished it."

"Ah, I remember the harpy well," Baron Poll said. "As I recall, she often wished all men to death. Certainly she d.a.m.ned me enough." Baron Poll suddenly blushed, as if embarra.s.sed to pry any further. "I should have known," he said. "You look too young. The Borenson I knew has endowments of metabolism himself, and has aged accordingly. In the past eight years, he would have aged more than twenty. If the two of you stood together, I think you would look like father and son now--though he would seem the father, and you the son."

Roland nodded. "Now you have the way of it."

Baron Poll's brows drew together in thought. "You're riding to see your son?"

"And to put myself into service to my king," Roland answered.

"You've no endowments," Poll pointed out. "You're not a soldier. You'll never make it to Heredon."

"Probably not," Roland agreed.

He headed for the door.

"Wait!" Baron Poll bellowed. "Kill yourself if you want, but don't make it easy for them. At least take a weapon."

"Thank you," Roland said, as he took the half-sword. He had no belt to hold the scabbard, so he tucked it under his shirt.

Baron Poll snorted, displeased by his choice of weapons. "You're welcome. Luck to you."

Baron Poll got out of bed, shook Roland's hand at the wrist. The man had a grip like a vise. Roland shook hard, as if he had endowments of brawn of his own. Years of knife work had left him with strong wrists and a fierce grip. Even after decades asleep his muscles were firm, his calluses still thick.

Roland hurried downstairs. The common room was full. Peasants fleeing south cl.u.s.tered at some tables, while squires who were heading north with their lords sat at others. These young men were sharpening blades or rubbing oil into leather or chain mail. A few of the lords, dressed oddly in tunics and hose and quilted undermail, were seated on stools along the bar.

The smells of fresh bread and meat were inviting enough to make Roland repent of his vow to leave here hungry. He took a vacant stool. Two knights were arguing vigorously about how much to feed a warhorse before charging into battle, and one of the men nodded at Roland, as if encouraging him to enter the fray. He wondered if the fellow knew him, or if he believed Roland was a lord because of the fine new bearskin cloak he wore, and his new tunic and pants and boots. Roland knew he was dressed like a n.o.ble. Soon he heard a squire whisper the name Borenson.

The innkeeper brought him some honeyed tea in a mustache mug, and he began to eat a loaf of rye bread, dipping it in a trencher of rich gravy thick with floating chunks of pork.

As Roland ate, he began to muse about the events of the past week. This was the second time in a week that he'd wakened to a kiss....

Seven days earlier, he'd felt a touch on his cheek--a gentle, tentative touch, as if a spider crawled over him and bolted awake, heart pounding.

He'd been startled to find himself in a dim room, lying abed at midday. The walls were of heavy stone, his mat of feathers and straw. He knew the place at once by the tang of sea air. Outside, terns and gulls cried as if in solitary lament, while huge ocean swells surged against battlements hewn from ancient rock at the base of the tower. As a Dedicate who gave metabolism, he'd slept fast for twenty years. Somehow, over the many years that he'd slept, Roland had felt those waves lashing during storms, making the whole keep shudder under their impact, endlessly wearing away the rock.

He was in the Blue Tower, a. few miles east of the Courts of Tide in the Caroll Sea.

The small chamber he inhabited was surprisingly spa.r.s.e in its decor, almost like a tomb: no table or chairs, no tapestry or rugs to cover the bare walls or floor. No wardrobe for clothes, or even a peg on the wall where one might hang a robe. It was not a room for a man to live in, only to sleep in for endless ages. Aside from the mattress and Roland, the small chamber held only a young woman who leapt back to the foot of the bed, beside a wash bucket. He saw her by a dim light cast from a salt-encrusted window. She was a sweet thing with an oval-shaped face, eyes of pale blue, and hair the color of straw. She wore a wreath of tiny dried violets in her hair. The touch of her long hair on his face was what had awakened him.

Her face reddened with embarra.s.sment and she crouched back a bit on her haunches. "Pardon me," she stammered. "Mistress Hetta bade me cleanse you." She held up a wash rag defensively, as if to prove her good intentions.