In that second, something must have changed in Dewynne; she must have reached that necessary moment of yearning, that moment when the transfer of attributes could take place. The facilitator's growls turned to demanding shouts as the full force of his spell came unleashed.
The white-hot blood metal of the forcibles trembled and twisted, like a snake in the facilitator's hands.
Dewynne shrieked from a pain unimaginable. Something within her seemed to collapse--as if a great crushing weight pressed down on her, or as if she had become diminished, had grown smaller.
The smell of burning hair and seared skin rose on wisps of smoke.
Dewynne writhed, tried to squirm away. The sergeant held her, a man of inhuman strength.
Dewynne turned from Lord Sylvarresta, teeth clenched. She was biting off the tip of her tongue, blood and spittle flowing from her chin.
In that moment, Iome thought she could see all the pain in the world in that good woman's eyes.
Dewynne collapsed into unconsciousness. The stamina had gone from her, so much so that she could no longer keep her eyes open, could not resist the fatigue of the day.
Instead, the blood-metal runes glowed white hot and throbbed. The facilitator, a narrow-faced man with a crooked nose and a long gray goatee, studied the molten rune of power for a moment, its light reflecting in his black eyes; then his shouting turned to a song of joy, of triumph.
He held the forcible over his head with both hands, waving it, so that a trail of white light held in the air, like a meteor's trail, but did not fade. The ribbon of light hung in the air, tangible. The facilitator inspected it carefully, as if judging its width, its heft.
He broke into a piping song and ran to Sylvarresta, trailing the ribbon of light. Everyone stopped, no one daring to come near that light, to risk breaking the connection about to be forged between lord and Dedicate.
At his lord's side, the facilitator bowed, placed the white-hot blood metal beneath the King's breast. The facilitator's song softened now, coaxing, and slowly the small forcible in his hand began to disintegrate, to crumble and blow away like white ash, even as the white umbilical of light faded.
Iome had not taken a vassal's endowment since childhood. She had no way to remember how it had felt. But just as giving an endowment caused unspeakable pain to the giver, so the receiver felt an inexpressible euphoria.
Lord Sylvarresta's eyes widened, and sweat poured from him. But it was a sheen of excitement, an almost demented thrill. His eyes glowed with joy, and every line in his face, every muscle, relaxed. He had the decency not to sigh, not to make a great show of his pleasure.
Binnesman rushed up beside Iome, leaned near. His breath smelled of anise. His robe was a garment of darkest green, woven of some strange fabric that looked like mashed roots. It had the rich, clean scent of herbs and spices, which he kept in his pockets. His hair had grasses woven into it. Though he was not a handsome man, with fat cheeks as red as apples, there was a certain sexual quality to him. Iome could not have him so near without feeling aroused, a distinctly annoying sensation. But Binnesman was an Earth Warden, a magician of great skill; as such, his creative powers tended to affect those around him, whether he willed it or not.
He knelt down and with dirt-stained hands felt the pulse in Dewynne's neck, his face looking grave, worried.
"Damn that worthless facilitator," Binnesman muttered softly, fumbling for something in the pocket of his mud-stained robe.
"What's wrong?" Iome breathed, not daring to speak loud enough for others to hear.
"Hyde's using the Scorrel version of chants, draining these people too much, hoping I can mend them. Dewynne would not live another hour if I weren't here, and he knows it!"
Binnesman was a kind man, a compassionate man. The kind who took pity on fledgling sparrows when they fell from a nest, or who would nurse a grass snake back to health after it got crushed by a passing oxcart. His sky-blue eyes studied Dewynne from under bushy brows.
"Can you save her?" Iome asked.
"Perhaps, perhaps. But I doubt I'll save them all." He nodded to the other Dedicates, who lay on their cots, some fighting for their lives after giving up an endowment. "I wish your father had hired that facilitator from the Weymouth school last summer."
Iome understood little of the various schools of facilitators. The competing masters could be quite vociferous in proclaiming the superiority of their schools, and only someone well versed in the various breakthroughs and ongoing experiments in each school could really judge which was best on a given day. Some master facilitators excelled at processing certain kinds of endowments. Hyde was an excellent man for taking endowments of hearing and smell--endowments her father considered most valuable in a forest kingdom. But his work on major endowments--on taking stamina and metabolism in particular--suffered in comparison. At least, unlike some facilitators, he did not spend a fortune in blood metal to do research on dogs or horses.
Finally Binnesman found something in his pocket. He pulled out a fresh camphor leaf, bruised it between his fingers, and set each half beneath Dewynne's nostrils. The sweat on her upper lip held the leaf in place.
Reaching in the same pocket, he pulled out petals of lavender, several brown seeds, and other herbs, applying them to Dewynne's sweaty body, placing some under her lips. It was a marvel to behold. The old magician had only two pockets, each filled with a tangled glut of his loose herbs, yet he didn't bother even looking in those pockets, just seemed to recognize by touch the herbs he wanted.
Iome glanced over to another cot. The butcher's apprentice, a husky boy named Orrin, lay ready to offer his lord an endowment of brawn. The sight of him, so full of courage and love and youthful strength, nearly broke her heart. If he gave an endowment now, he might spend the rest of his days unable to rise from his cot. It did not seem fair to take his life when it had hardly begun.
Yet the boy faced no greater dangers than she. If Raj Ahten conquered Heredon, this boy's fate could be better than hers, she imagined. If her father were killed, the boy's endowment of brawn would return to him. Unable to ever give another endowment, the boy would be free to practice his craft in peace. Meanwhile, if Raj Ahten defeated House Sylvarresta, what would await Iome? Torture? Death?
No, the butcher's boy knows what he's doing, Iome told herself. He makes a wise choice, perhaps the best choice available to him. By giving endowments to his king now, he might only have to lose a day in such dear service.
Binnesman muttered, "So little time," began smearing Dewynne with healing soils, touching them to her lips. The woman began panting, as if every breath were a great labor, and Binnesman helped her by pushing down on her chest.
"What can I do?" Iome begged, frightened that the matron would die here, accomplishing nothing.
"Just...please, stay out of my way," Binnesman said in a tone seldom spoken to Runelords. "Ah, I almost forgot. A young man wants to see you--up there. The Prince of Mystarria."
Iome glanced up the keep's wall. A stone staircase led to the south tower, where siege engines were poised to strike over the town.
Up there, at the top of the tower, she could see her Maid of Honor, Chemoise, waving to her urgently. A watchman in black livery paced behind her.
"I've no time for such foolishness," Iome said.
"Go to him," her father commanded from fifty feet away. He'd used his Voice, speaking so that it sounded as if he confided in her ear. Even here in the courtyard, with all the noise and commotion, he'd heard her whispered comment. "You know how long I've wanted to unite our two families."
So, he'd come to offer a betrothal. Iome was of the proper age, though she'd had no worthy suitors. The sons of a couple minor lords wanted her, but none had holdings to equal her father's.
But would Prince Orden propose now? Now, when the kingdom was under attack? No, he'll offer no proposal, only extend apologies, Iome realized.
A waste of precious time. "I'm too busy," Iome said. "There's too much to do."
Her father stared at her, his gray eyes full of sadness. How handsome he was. "You've been working for hours. You need rest. Take it now. Go speak to him, for an hour."
She wanted to argue, but looked in her father's eyes, which said, Speak to him now. Nothing you do can make a difference in the fight to come.
An hour is not enough time to fall in love, but an hour is all they had that cool autumn afternoon.
In better times, Iome would have felt grateful even for that slight allotment of time in which to meet a suitor alone. Over the past winter her father had told her much about Gaborn, praised him highly, hoping that when this day came, she'd accept him willingly.
Under normal circumstances, Iome would have hoped for love. She would have prepared her heart for it, nurtured it.
But on this day, when her father's kingdom was about to topple, meeting the son of King Orden served no purpose other than to satisfy a morbid curiosity.
Would she have loved him? If so, then this meeting would accomplish nothing more than to chain her with a painful reminder of what might have been.
More likely she'd have despised him. He was, after all, an Orden. Still, being wed to a man she despised would have seemed a minor inconvenience compared with what she feared lay ahead. Right now, she was acutely aware that her people owed Gaborn a debt for his service, and though she wanted nothing to do with him, she decided to treat him cordially, make the best of it.
As Iome climbed the stone stairway to meet Gaborn, her Days close behind, feet whispering across the ancient stone, Chemoise descended, met her halfway.
"He's been waiting for you," Chemoise said, smiling stiffly. Yet there was a certain excitement shining in the girl's eyes. Perhaps Chemoise hoped that Iome would find love, was reminded too much of the lover she herself had lost a day past. Chemoise had been Iome's playmate. Iome knew the girl's every slightest gesture. As Iome glanced up, Chemoise's features softened and her eyes shone. She obviously approved of the prince.
Iome forced a smile. Of all the times to see such excitement in the girl's eyes, today seemed most inappropriate. Chemoise had walked in a fog for the past day. Shocked by her lover's death, planning for her unborn child, forgetting to eat if Iome did not beg her to do so.
Right now it seemed as if Chemoise didn't recognize that a war brewed. Part of her mind seemed to sleep. Perhaps she really doesn't see, Iome realized. Chemoise could be so innocent. Once, Sergeant Dreys had teased her, saying, "Chemoise, believes sword fighting is much like carving a duck, the only difference being that you don't eat your foe after you slice him up."
Chemoise took Iome's hands, urged her up the steps, until they stood in the sunlight. After the coolness of the shadowed keep, the warmth of the sunlight felt good.
When she reached the top, Chemoise waved toward the prince in introduction. "Princess Iome Sylvarresta, may I have the honor to present Prince Gaborn Val Orden."
Iome did not look at the Prince. Instead she looked out over the battlements. Chemoise scurried to the far side of the tower, some forty paces off, to give Iome and the Prince some privacy.
To Iome's surprise, the young soldiers who manned the catapults followed Chemoise, affording even more privacy. Iome glanced down at the catapults, noted the metal shot in the weapons' baskets. These catapults had never fired on invaders before. The only time she'd seen them used was on feast days, when her father fired loaves of bread, sausages, and tangerines out over the castle walls to the peasants.
Iome's Days stayed only a dozen paces away. She said, "Prince Sylvarresta, your Days is currently in your father's company. I will act as recorder in his stead, for this portion of your chronicles."
The Prince said nothing to the Days, though Iome heard his cloak rustle, as if he nodded.
Iome still did not look in the Prince's direction. Instead she hurried to the far side of the tower, sat on a merlon, and gazed out over the autumn fields at her father's kingdom.
Iome found herself trembling slightly. She did not want to face Gaborn, dared not face him. He was, after all, a Runelord, the son of a very powerful Runelord, and would likely be handsome beyond telling. She did not want appearances to spoil her perceptions of him. So she looked away, beyond the castle walls.
Still, when Gaborn gave a sigh of appreciation for her beauty, it drew a tight smile from Iome's lips. She felt certain he had seen finer women in the South.
A slight wind stirred, a breeze that carried the scent of cooking fires up from the Great Hall. Iome shifted from her perch on the merlon, sending flakes of rock to plunge eighty feet below. Cocks crowed in the evening light, and just within the outer fortress walls, cows bawled, calling their milkers.
Thatch-roofed stone houses dotted the brown fields outside the castle. And from here she could see several villages north and east along the River Wye. But the fields and villages were utterly empty.
The farmers, merchants, and servants had all gathered with the soldiers in their black-and-silver livery on the city walls. Boys and old men alike stood poised with bows and spears. A few local merchants, creeping along the wall-walks, hawked pastries and chicken as if this were the fair, and they were all watching the tournaments.
Down at the Outer Wall, carts, barrels, and crates lay piled against the city gates. If Raj Ahten broke down the gate, the trash would trap his men there in the inner court, where her father's bowmen could do some damage.
It was nearing dusk. Crows and pigeons circled over the oak and ash forests to the south. Raj Ahten's armies disturbed the birds, kept them from roosting.
Lowering campfires burned out there under the woods, so that the hills below her seemed to seethe with smoke, the trees glowing with flame. Iome could not guess how large Raj Ahten's army might be, hidden among the trees.