Wizardborn (58 page)

Little was known about Mangan—a few sayings, this statue. Over a thousand years ago he had built a fortress here. He had stopped the warriors of Muttaya from overwhelming western Mystarria. He'd built his castle and withstood enemy forces in a dozen fierce battles. He died young in some ignoble skirmish, and fifty years later his son had artisans carve the cliff face in his honor. Now the weathered stone felt rough under Gaborn's hand. The lichens grew thick.

Gaborn gazed up as a star streaked across the horizon. He'd seen a hundred in the past three hours.

Gaborn sat wondering. Things were changing, he realized. He sensed the rising danger to the wounded of Carris, who were floating down the river Donnestgree, along with some of his warriors.

He was becoming more adept at discerning such things. Sometimes, he could sense the danger well in advance. Other times, it seemed to flare up suddenly. It was like trying to stare into a pot of boiling water and decide which of the bubbles forming inside the cauldron would rise next. It seemed an inexact science, and Gaborn suspected that it had to do with agency, with the choices that he and his enemies made.

Out of nowhere, he could sense great jeopardy to Borenson and Myrrima. He desperately tried to warn them to
hide, but could not reach them. He wondered how long this might go on. Would the Earth punish him forever? Would it really let his Chosen die? Or dared he hope that his powers might be restored in his hour of need?

He could not bear the thought that his Chosen might be torn from him. It wasn't just others' lives that were lost. In some small way, when one of his Chosen died, a part of him was lost also.

But it isn't just me, he realized. If a man dies, then perhaps a wife loses a husband and child loses a father. A whole village might feel the blow. Perhaps he was a bread-maker, or someone who could ease another's pain with a joke—make them feel lighthearted. The loss of one man's skill weakens his whole community, and in a small way his nation suffers, and his world.

We are all one fabric, humankind. To tear out a single thread unbinds us.

And, oh, how many threads have been torn.

Gabom felt pangs of loss for his own father, for Iome's parents, for the hundreds of thousands who had already died, and for the millions that stood now on the threshold of death.

He sighed. “Raj Ahten is near Kartish,” Gaborn quietly informed his Days. “He is fading. He killed more of my Chosen today—a dozen men.”

“You spend a great deal of time worrying about the welfare of your adversary,” the Days pointed out.

Gaborn turned and looked at the skeletal scholar. The man sat on the cold rock, his knees drawn up to his chin, his robe pulled low over his face. Gaborn said, “I would not have any man for my enemy, if I could choose it. Do you know what Raj Ahten faces in Kartish?”

“Time will reveal all things,” the Days answered.

Gaborn said, “I sense a great danger rising. I suspect that Kartish is already destroyed.”

“I can neither confirm nor deny such suspicions,” the Days said.

After a lifetime of living with a Days, Gaborn expected
nothing more. Gaborn had tried his best to evince aid from this man, to no avail.

Gaborn had memorized the drawing made by the Emir of Tuulistan. It revealed the Days' secret teachings from the Room of Dreams in the House of Understanding. As Gaborn studied the scholar before him, the image flashed through his mind.

The Three Domains of Man

The drawing detailed how each man saw himself as the lord of his own realm. It showed how men gauge good and evil based on whether another person enlarges one's territories or tries to diminish them.

Gaborn struggled inwardly, and suddenly had an insight. It seemed to him that a man could not truly be good in isolation. To develop such virtue, he had to recognize that he was inextricably tied to his community, to the brotherhood of mankind.

A truly good man, he reasoned, could not live for himself alone. Like some of the mystics in Indhopal who refused
to wear clothes or to eat food that others might need, he gave himself in service.

Gaborn keenly felt the need to become that kind of man. Though he was born to be a lord, he wanted to dedicate every waking moment to protecting his people. He wanted to consecrate every thought in their behalf, every deed. Yet … nothing that he did seemed enough.

There was something in the nature of good and evil that he did not yet comprehend, some mystery that still eluded him.

He blinked his eyes. They felt gritty, overused. The Days merely sat on the rock.

Why? If the Days understood the nature of good and evil, why did they not act?

Was the Days even human anymore? Had he no compassion?

Suddenly connections seemed to weave together through Gaborn's mind, like lightning weaving across the clouds. He considered the diagram. Everything about it seemed to converge. He felt as if he were on the verge of revelation.

“Time!” he whispered in triumph. Perhaps the diagram wasn't about good and evil at all. Perhaps it was about
Time.

The Days claimed to be servants to the Time Lords. Yet, who had ever seen a Time Lord? They were only legends, personifications of a force of nature.

Now he saw something more clearly. The Days' teachings said that when a man seeks to take your money, or your wife, or your place in the community, you think him evil. But if he enlarges your stature, if he gives you praise or wealth or gives of his time, you think him good.

But a thought struck Gaborn: what do I have that
Time
won't take from me? My wife, my father, my family? My wealth, my life? All that I am, Time will steal from me. I
have
nothing!

Obviously, the Days recognized this. But something about the recognition ate at Gaborn. One could deduce by this argument that Time was the ultimate evil, for it would
surely strip a man of all pride and pretentiousness.

Gaborn wondered about his Days. He could not expect one of them to elaborate on his observation, or even to verify his suspicions. The order that they belonged to required them to remain aloof from the lords, to watch only, and never to influence the course of events that Time decreed.

So they merely watched events unfold. But to what end? Why would they give themselves in service to Time if it was the ultimate villain?

He had to be missing something.

If it was true that Time strips a man of everything that he thinks he owns, Gaborn wondered, then perhaps the Days see ownership as an illusion? Perhaps they believe that good and evil are mere phantasms?

Or maybe, Gaborn wondered, his thoughts coming in a rush, they recognize that Time also gives us all that we have. It brings us our homes, our wealth, our loved ones. Time gives us every precious second to enjoy.

So Time may ultimately be a paradox: creator and destroyer, bringer of joy and sorrow.

Perhaps the Days saw themselves as enlightened, standing aloof from that paradox. It certainly fit with their actions—and inaction.

But what could they hope to gain from their service?

Time.
The Days served the Time Lords. Could they hope to gain more
Time
for their service? Binnesman had lived for hundreds of years. The Earth had extended his life. Water wizards also were known to live for long ages.

Could his Days hope to similarly extend his life? It was a curious thought.

A nagging suspicion took hold of Gaborn. In all of the chronicles of the lives of various kings, nothing was ever said of the Days. The authors did not name themselves, remained completely anonymous. From time to time, they were reassigned. Gaborn's own Days had come to him when he was still only a child. He had looked then much as he did now—skeletal, fiftyish. His hairline had not receded
farther, no age spots had appeared in, what, fifteen years?

Yet Gaborn could not credit the notion. If the Days did live to a long age, someone would have noted it before—unless, like other wizards, the Days each had varying degrees of power.

Perhaps there really were Time Lords. If one of them stood before Gaborn, would he even know?

“How old are you?” Gaborn asked the Days.

The Days' head swiveled. “How old do I look?”

“Fifty years.”

The Days nodded. “That would be about right.”

The answer was imprecise, an obvious evasion. “Whose life did you chronicle before you began writing my history?”

“Picobo Zwanesh, a prince of Inkarra,” the Days replied.

Gaborn had never heard the name, or even one similar to it. Nor had he known that his Days could speak Inkarran. “He was the first person you chronicled?”

“Yes.” It was spoken slowly. Another evasion?

“How long do you hope to live?”

“From all that you say, anything beyond a week would be a great boon.”

There was a puzzle here. Something was still missing. For a moment he'd thought he was on the verge of a revelation. Now he wasn't sure he'd come any closer to the truth at all.

His Days certainly would not provide him with any clues. Gaborn couldn't afford to ponder it anymore. He was too appreciative of how every precious second passed. The future rushed toward him. He needed to rest. The time was coming when he'd not be able to afford the luxury.

Every couple of minutes, a falling star would arch through the sky like an arrow shot from the bow of the heavens. Shortly after midwinter, for three days after Bride's Feast, it was normal for the heavens to put on a display like this, but not now.

“When you write the book of my life,” Gaborn asked,
“will you tell the world that it pained me to use my friends? Will you write that I wished evil upon no man, even my enemies?”

The Days answered, “It is said that ‘Deeds reveal the inner man, even when he would cloak himself in fine words.'”

“Yet sometimes deeds tell only half a tale,” Gaborn said. “I don't like using this child, Averan. She should be allowed to grow into a beautiful woman, with sons and daughters of her own, and a husband that loves her true. Your book will only tell that I used her badly. It shames me that I must use her at all.”

“Your sentiments will be added as a footnote,” the Days said.

“Thank you,” Gaborn said sincerely.

A shout rose in the distance, hailing Gaborn. Gaborn looked south. A knight rode hard toward him, a flaming brand in his hand. He recognized the scout who had been with Averan and Binnesman.

“Yes?” Gaborn called.

“Milord,” the knight said, riding closer, “I've been looking for you. I thought you should know: the girl Averan ate of the reaver. She's very ill.”

Gaborn went cold. “How ill?”

“She cried out a few times, and sweat began to pour from her. Then she fell to the ground and began to convulse. She bit her tongue badly, and swallowed some blood. She was choking on it—”

“By the Powers!” Gaborn swore. What have I done?

“I got a knife between her teeth and pried her mouth open, but we had to put her on her belly lest she smother in her own blood. We can't get drink down her at all.”

Gaborn leapt down from the rock, ran to his horse.

“Binnesman and his wylde are doing their best to keep her alive,” the scout said.

He swung up onto his mount, urged it galloping back to the south. He came up on a small knot of men all in a circle.

Two lords held Averan pinned to the ground, so that she wouldn't hurt herself as she convulsed. Her eyes were rolled back in her head, showing white, and her eyelids quivered. Her breath came out in great wheezes.

Binnesman stood over her, swinging his staff slowly, as he finished a higher incantation.

The stench told Gaborn that she'd retched, and wet puddles in the ash showed the remains of her meal.

He turned away in disgust. After long minutes, Binnesman came to his side, put a hand on his shoulder.

“The reaver she ate must have been near death. It was suffering greatly. She had hardly finished eating, when she cried out, ‘I'm dying. I'm dying.'”

Gaborn dared not say anything.

“She regurgitated most of the meal,” Binnesman said. “In doing so, I suspect she saved her life.”

Gaborn shook his head, confounded, unable to think what to do next. “And perhaps because of it, we have lost ours.”

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