"I'll see," Myrrima said. She climbed down and touched the water, too, though no one else on the sh.o.r.e dared. Binnesman was right. It was bitterly cold, as cold and fresh as the deepest of mountain pools. And the sh.o.r.eline in the moat was indeed higher than it had been this past week.

Myrrima nodded to Iome. "It's freezing!"

Gaborn climbed down to a huge flat rock by Myrrima, leaned out over the gla.s.sy surface of the moat and began to trace runes on the water, simple runes of protection. He was mirroring the actions of the sturgeon.

A great sturgeon swam up, just under his hand, its dark blue back close to Gaborn. Its gills expanded and contracted rhythmically as it studied him, watching his fingers as if they were something edible. The fish was tantalizingly close to Myrrima.

"That's right. I'll protect you if I can," Gaborn whispered to the fish in an easy tone. "Tell me, what do you fear?"

He continued drawing the runes, stared into the fish's eyes, and into its mind, for long minutes. He frowned as if what he saw confused him. "I see darkness in the water," he murmured. "I see darkness, and I taste metal. I can feel...strangulation. I can taste...metal. Redness coming."

The young King stopped speaking, almost seemed to stop breathing. His eyes lost their focus and rolled back in his head.

"King Orden," Binnesman called, but Gaborn did not move.

Myrrima wondered if she should grab Gaborn to keep him from falling in, but Binnesman climbed down to the water's edge and touched his shoulder.

"What?" Gaborn asked, rousing from his stupor. He leaned on the flat rock.

"What is it they fear?" Binnesman asked.

"They fear blood, I think," Gaborn said. "They fear that the river will fill with blood."

Binnesman drew his staff up tight against his chest and frowned, shaking his head in dismay.

"I can't believe that. There is no sign of an army approaching, and it would take a great battle to fill the river with blood. Raj Ahten is far away. But something odd is happening," he said. "I've felt it all night. The Earth is in pain. I feel the pain like pinp.r.i.c.ks on my flesh north of here, in North Crowthen, and again far to the south. It trembles in far places, and there are slow movements even here, beneath our very feet."

Gaborn tried to make light of it.. "Still, it comforts me to have these wizards here in our moat." He turned and addressed the crowd of boys with their spears and bows and nets. "Let no man fish in this moat or foul its waters in any way. Let no one swim in it. These wizards will stay as our guests."

Gaborn asked Binnesman, "Can we seal the moat off from the river?."

Myrrima knew it should not be hard. A small diversion dam upriver let water spill into the ca.n.a.l that fed the moat.

"Of course," Binnesman said. He glanced about. "You, Daffyd and Hugh, go close the raceway. And hurry."

Two stalwart boys ran upstream, elbows and shirttails flying.

Myrrima watched the wizard draw himself to his full height, look up at the early morning sun.

She held her breath, strained to listen as Binnesman spoke. "Milord," he said so softly that most of those nearby could not have heard. "The earth is speaking to us. It speaks sometimes in the movements of birds and animals, sometimes in the crash of stone. But it is speaking nonetheless. I do not know what it is saying, but I don't like this business of rivers filled with blood."

Gaborn nodded. "What would you have me do?"

"Raj Ahten had a powerful pyromancer in his retinue, before you killed her," Binnesman said thoughtfully. "Yet I'm sure that whole forests are still being sacrificed to the powers that the flameweavers served."

"Yes," Gaborn said.

"I would not speak of plans that I want held secret now in open daylight. Nor would I do so before a fire, not even so much as a candle flame. Hold your councils by starlight if you must. Or better yet, in a darkened hall of stone, where the Earth can shield your words."

Myrrima knew that powerful flameweavers sometimes claimed that if they listened to the whispering tongues of flames, they could clearly hear words spoken by others of their ilk hundreds of miles away. Yet Myrrima had never seen a flameweaver who could really perform such feats.

"All right," Gaborn agreed. "We will hold our councils in the Great Hall, and I will have no fires lit therein throughout the winter. And I shall pa.s.s orders that no man is to discuss military strategies or secrets with another by daylight or firelight."

"That should do," Binnesman said.

With that, the King and Iome and their Days' and Binnesman went over to see the reaver's head, then walked back up to the castle. Borenson stayed behind for a few moments and posted some lads beside the moat, charging them to care for the fish.

Myrrima stood by and wondered. During the past week, much in her life had changed. But Binnesman's warning to Gaborn hinted of dire portents. Rivers of blood. With the hundreds of thousands of people camped around the city of Sylvarresta, it seemed as if the whole earth were flocking to Heredon, to the courts of the Earth King. Whatever change was coming, she stood near the center of it all.

She climbed up the levee and stood looking out over the vast throng, over the pavilions that had risen up here in the past week. Dust was rising to the south and west, from the numerous travelers moving on the road. Last night, Myrrima had heard that merchant princes had come from as far away as Lysle.

The whole earth shall gather here, Myrrima realized. An Earth King's powers are legendary and are given only in the darkest of times. Every person in every land who wants to live will come here. There are reavers in the Dunnwood and wizards in the moat. Soon there will be enough people to bleed rivers of blood.

That knowledge made her feel small and helpless, worried for the future. And now that Borenson was leaving, she knew she wouldn't be able to rely on him.

I must prepare for whatever is to come, Myrrima thought.

Myrrima walked with Borenson back up to the castle. She stopped on the drawbridge for a few moments and watched the great fish finning in the moat. She felt relieved by their presence. Water wizards were strong in the arts of healing and protection.

That morning, Myrrima finished breakfast in the King's Tower, with only King Gaborn and Queen Iome and their Days in the room. Though Myrrima was becoming friends with Iome, she still felt uncomfortable to be dining in the presence of the King.

Indeed, the meal was filled with uncomfortable silences: Gaborn and Borenson refused to discuss their hunt over the past three days, saying very little at all. Gaborn also had received disturbing news out of Mystarria, and all morning long he looked haunted, somber, withdrawn.

They were nearly finished with breakfast when the elderly Chancellor Rodderman came to the door of the dining hall, looking resplendent with his white beard combed and wearing his black coat of office. "Milord, milady," he said. "The Duke of Groverman is waiting in the alcove and has requested an audience."

Iome looked at Rodderman wearily. "Is it important? I haven't seen my husband in three days."

"I don't know, but he's been skulking out here for half an hour," Rodderman said.

"Skulking?" Iome laughed. "Well, we mustn't have him skulking." Though Iome smiled at Rodderman's choice of words, Myrrima sensed that she did not much care for the Duke.

Presently, the Duke entered the room. He was a short man with gangling limbs, a hatchet face, and dark eyes that were set so close he looked nothing short of ugly. In a family of warriors and n.o.bles, he seemed out of place. Myrrima had heard it rumored that a stable mucker had sired the Duke.

In honor of Hostenfest, Groverman was wearing a gorgeous robe of black embroidered with dark green leaves. His hair was freshly combed, his graying beard expertly trimmed so that it forked from his chin. For an ugly man, he groomed and dressed well.

"Your Highnesses" the Duke smiled graciously and bowed low "I hope I did not disturb your meal?"

Myrrima realized that Groverman had asked Rodderman to wait until the King and Queen finished eating before notifying them of his presence.

"Not at all," Gaborn said. "It was kind of you to wait so patiently."

"Truly, I have a matter that I think is somewhat urgent," the Duke said, "though others might not agree." He looked pointedly at Iome. Myrrima wondered what he might mean by such a warning. Even Iome seemed baffled. "I've brought you a wedding gift, Your Highness--if I may be so bold."

Over the past few days, every lord in the kingdom had been plying the new King and Queen with wedding gifts; some were expensive gifts that would hopefully curry favor. Most of the lords had brought sons or trusted retainers to help rebuild the lists of the King's Guard. Such sons served quadruple duty: they not only rebuilt the King's army, but they also served as a constant reminder to the King of a lord's loyalty. A trusted son at court could seek favors for his father, or serve as his spy. Last of all, it allowed the boy himself to form new alliances with other n.o.bles who might live in far corners of the kingdom, or even in other nations.

Over the past three days the ranks of new soldiers had filled so quickly that it looked as if Gaborn would not even have to levy his subjects for more troops, despite the fact that Raj Ahten had decimated the King's Guard. Instead, it seemed to Myrrima that Gaborn would have problems finding posts for all of his new soldiers to fill.

"So," Iome asked. "What gift have you brought that is so urgent?"

Groverman got to the point. "This is a somewhat delicate matter," he said. "As you know, I've not been blessed with sons or daughters, else I'd offer one of them into your service. But I have brought you a gift that is just as dear to my heart."

He clapped his hands and looked expectantly toward the dining hall's door.

A boy came through, walking with arms outstretched. In each hand he held a yellow pup by the scruff of the neck. The pups looked about dolefully, with huge brown eyes. Myrrima was not familiar with the breed. They were not mastiffs or any form of war dog. Nor were they hounds or the type of hunters she was familiar with, or the lap dogs popular with ladies in colder climes.

They could have even been mongrels, except that both pups had a uniform color--tawny short hair on the back, and a bit of white at the throat.

The boy, a ten-year-old in heavy leather trousers, and a new coat, was as clean and well groomed as Duke Groverman. He handed a pup each to Gaborn and Iome.

One little bundle of fur smelled the grease from the morning's sausages on Gaborn's hand. The pup's wet tongue began to slide over Gaborn's fingers, and the dog nibbled at him playfully. Gaborn ruffled the pup's ears, turned it over to see if it was male or female. It was a male. It wagged its tail fiercely and scrambled upright, as if intent on doing damage to Gaborn's fingers. A real fighter.

He studied the creature. "Thank you," Gaborn said, taken aback. "But I'm not familiar with this breed. What do you do with them?"

Myrrima glanced at Iome, to see the Queen's reaction to her pup, and was astonished. There was such a glare of rage in her eyes that she could barely contain herself.

The Duke had not missed her look. "Hear me out," he said to Gaborn. "I do not offer these pups lightly, Your Highness. You have taken endowments from men, and I know that as an Oath-Bound Lord you feel some reluctance in doing so. Indeed, though many have offered to serve as your Dedicates this past week, neither you nor the Queen has taken endowments. Yet we must prepare for whatever is to come."

Myrrima was startled to hear Groverman repeat aloud the thought that had been preying upon her but an hour before.

"It's a grave decision," Gaborn agreed. His eyes were haunted, full of pain. Myrrima had agreed to take endowments of glamour and wit from her sisters and mother. She understood the price of guilt that came from committing such an atrocity.

"I will not take another man's strength or stamina or wit lightly," the King said. "But I have been considering whether to do it, for the welfare of the kingdom."

"I understand," Groverman said honestly. "But I ask milord, milady, to consider the propriety of taking endowments from a dog."

Iome stiffened. "Duke Groverman," she hissed, "this is an outrage!"

The Duke looked about nervously. Now Myrrima recognized the breed. Although she had never seen such pups, she had heard of them. These were pups raised for endowments--dogs strong of stamina, strong of nose.

"Is it any less of an outrage to take endowments from a man?" Groverman countered defensively. "It takes the endowments of scent from fifty men to equal one from a dog, they say. I believe that my pups' noses are a hundred times better than a common man's nose. So I ask you, which is better, to take endowments of scent from a hundred men, or from one dog?

"As for stamina, these pups are bred for toughness. For a thousand generations, the Wolf Lords have fought them in the pits, so that only the strongest survive. Ounce for ounce, no man alive can provide you a better source of stamina.

"Metabolism and hearing too can be gained from such dogs, though I fear my pups are too small to give brawn. And whereas a man must give an endowment willingly and therefore can often fail to transfer an attribute completely, if you feed these pups and play with them for a day or two, they will develop such an undying devotion to you that their attributes can be transferred without loss. No other animal loves man as completely, will give themselves to you as wholly as these pups."

Iome looked so furious, she could not speak. To take endowments from a dog was considered an abomination. Some high-minded kings would have thrown the Duke into the nearest moat for suggesting that the pups be so used for endowments.

Gaborn himself was an Oath-Bound Lord, and Iome was the daughter of an Oath-Bound Lord. An Oath-Bound Lord swore only to take endowments from those va.s.sals who gave them freely. Such va.s.sals would be men or women who had some great attribute, such as a quick wit or tremendous stamina, but often lacked the other necessary attributes to be good warriors. Knowing that they couldn't serve their lord as warriors, they might opt to give their wit or stamina into their lord's use, subjecting themselves to the indignity of the forcible for the greater good of those around them.

But not all of the lords in Rofehavan were Oath-Bound Gaborn's own father had once considered himself a "pragmatist." Pragmatists would often purchase endowments. Many a man was willing to sell the use of his eyes or ears to his lord in return for gold, for many a man loves gold more than he loves himself. But Iome had told Myrrima that even Gaborn's father had eventually given up his pragmatic ways, for King Orden could not always be sure of a man's motives when selling an attribute. Often a peasant or even a minor lord who suffered from heavy debts would see no way out, and would therefore try to sell an endowment to the highest bidder.

Gaborn's father had been confronted by the realization that his own pragmatic ways were unscrupulous--for he could never be completely certain what drove a man to sell his endowments. Was it greed? Or was it hopelessness or plain stupidity that led a man to trade his greatest a.s.set for a few pieces of gold?

Indeed, Myrrima knew that some rapacious lords hid their l.u.s.t for other's attributes beneath a cloak of pragmatism. Such lords would gladly accept endowments in lieu of payment for taxes, and time and again, in such kingdoms, whenever a king raised the taxes, the peasants were forced to wonder what he really sought.

Worst of any lord, of course, were the Wolf Lords. Since a va.s.sal had to be "willing" to give an endowment before an attribute could be transferred, the Wolf Lords constantly sought ways to make men more pliable. Blackmail and tortures both physical and mental were the Wolf Lords' coin. Raj Ahten had blackmailed King Sylvarresta into giving away his wit by threatening to kill his only daughter, Iome. After King Sylvarresta complied, Raj Ahten then had forced Iome to give her own endowment of glamour, rather than to watch her witless father be tortured, her friend Chemoise be murdered, her kingdom taken from her. Raj Ahten was thus the most despicable kind of man--a Wolf Lord.

The euphemism "Wolf Lord" had been coined to name those men of such relentless rapacity that they stole attributes even from dogs. In dark times past, men had done more than take endowments of scent, stamina, or metabolism from dogs; some had taken even endowments of wit. It was said that doing so increased a man's cunning in battle, his thirst for blood.

The very notion of taking endowments from dogs had therefore become anathema in Rofehavan. Though Raj Ahten, Gaborn's great enemy, had never stooped to take an endowment from a dog, he was called a "Wolf Lord" still.

Now, Groverman dared affront Iome by begging her to become a Wolf Lord.

"So long as a man does not take a dog's endowment of wit, it is not a bad practice," Groverman said as if encouraged by the fact that no one argued with him. "A dog that has no sense of smell makes a fine pet. So long as one has a good dog handler to care for the animal, it can be well maintained. Even loved. It will give you its sense of smell, even as your children wrestle with it on the floor.

"Indeed, I have calculated the number of farmers and tanners and craftsmen and builders and clothiers that it takes to sustain a Dedicate. I figure that it takes the combined labor of twenty-four peasants to care for a single human Dedicate, and another eight for a Dedicate horse. But it only takes a single man to care for each seven Dedicate dogs. It makes for a frugal trade.

"For a king at war, fine dogs are as necessary as arms or armor. Raj Ahten has war dogs in his a.r.s.enals--mastiffs with endowments. If you will not let these pups serve as Dedicates, to your warriors, consider at least that they could give endowments to your own war dogs."

"This is an outrage!" Iome said. "An outrage and an insult!" She looked at Gaborn pleadingly.

"It is meant as neither," Groverman said. "I mention the possibility only to be practical. While you were dining, I stood for half an hour outside your door, and you never knew it! Had I been an a.s.sa.s.sin, I might well have set an ambush for you. But if you had an endowment of scent from a single dog, you'd have no need to see me or hear me to know that I hid outside your door."

"I will not be called a 'Wolf Lord, " Iome objected. She set her pup on the floor. It wandered over to Myrrima, sniffed her leg.

She scratched its ear.

Gaborn seemed not to be perturbed by the proposal. Myrrima wondered if it was because of his father's influence. His father had always been recognized as a prudent man.

Could a man of principle be both an Oath-Bound Lord and a Wolf Lord, she asked herself.

"Your Highness," Duke Groverman urged Gaborn, "I must beg you to consider this. It is only a matter of time before Raj Ahten sends his a.s.sa.s.sins. Neither you nor your wife is prepared to meet an Invincible, and it is already noised about that Your Highness has sworn to be an Oath-Bound Lord. I don't know how you plan to stand against Raj Ahten. Indeed, the lords of Heredon worry about little else. But it may be that you will stand in sore need of Dedicates, if you refuse to pay men for their endowments."

Gaborn thoughtfully stroked the fat ball of fur under its nose. The pup growled and bit hard on Gaborn's thumb.

"Take your mongrels and get out of here," Iome told Groverman. "I want no part of it."

Gaborn smiled fiercely, looking from Iome to the Duke, then merely shook his head. "Personally, I have no need of endowments from dogs," Gaborn said. Turning to Iome, he said, "And if you will not be a Wolf Lord, then so be it. We can still train the pup to bark at strangers, and keep him in your room. The pup will be your guard, and perhaps in its own way, it can save your life."

"I'll not have it in my sight," Iome said. Myrrima picked up the Queen's pup protectively. It nuzzled its head between her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, then just stared in her eyes.

"So our choice is made," Gaborn said to Iome. "But as for the troops, Groverman is right. I'll need scouts and guardsmen with strong noses to sniff out ambushes. I'll let my men choose whether it be a compliment or curse to be called a Wolf Lord."

Gaborn nodded acceptance of the gift to Groverman. "My thanks to you, Your Lordship."

He turned his attention to the boy who'd brought in the pups, and Myrrima realized that the gift did not consist merely of dogs, but of the boy. He was a dark-haired lad, rangy. Like a wolf himself.

"Tell me, what is your name?" Gaborn asked.

"Kaylin," the boy answered, dropping to one knee.

"These are fine dogs. You are their keeper, I take it?"

"I been helping." The boy's language was uncouth, but his sharp eyes marked his intelligence.

"You like these puppies?" Gaborn asked. The boy sniffed and blinked back a tear. He nodded.

"Why are you so sad?"