“Yes . . . yes, he comes often enough,” Myrrima said, clearly discomfited. “I—pardon me if I troubled you, my lord. I did not mean to be presumptuous. Oh . . .”

Myrrima turned and began to run.

“Stop,” Gaborn said, letting just a little of the power of his Voice take her.

She stopped as if she’d been struck by a fist, turned to face him. As did several other people nearby.

Unprepared for the command, they obeyed as if it had come from their own minds. When they saw that they were not the object of his attention, some stared at him curiously while a few started away, unnerved by the appearance of a Runelord in their midst.

Suddenly, Borenson hovered at Gaborn’s back, with the Days.

“Thank you for stopping, Myrrima,” Gaborn said.

“You—may someday be my king,” she answered, as if she’d reasoned out her response.

“Do you think so?” Gaborn said. “Do you think Iome will have me?” The question startled her. Gaborn continued. “Please, tell me. You are a perceptive woman, and beautiful. You would do well at court. I value your opinion.”

Gaborn held his breath, waiting for her frank assessment. She couldn’t know how important her answer was to him. Gaborn needed this alliance. He needed Heredon’s strong people, its impregnable fortresses, its wide-open lands, ready to till. True, his own Mystarria was a rich land—ripe, its markets sprawling and crowded—but after years of struggle the Wolf Lord Raj Ahten had finally conquered the Indhopalese Kingdoms, and Gaborn knew that Raj Ahten would not stop there. By spring, he would either invade the barbarian realms of Inkarra or he would turn north to the kingdoms in Rofehavan.

In reality, it didn’t matter where the Wolf Lord attacked next. In the wars to come, Gaborn knew he’d never be able to adequately defend his people in Mystarria. He needed this land.

Even though Heredon had not seen a major war in four hundred years, the realm’s great battlements remained intact. Even the fortress at lowly Tor Ingel, set among the cliffs, could be defended better than most of Gaborn’s estates in Mystarria. Gaborn needed Heredon. He needed Iome’s hand in marriage.

More important, though he dared not admit it to anyone, something deep inside told him that he needed Iome herself. An odd compulsion drew him here, against all common sense. As if invisible fiery threads were connected to his heart and mind. Sometimes at night he’d lie awake, feeling the tug, an odd glowing sensation that spread outward from the center of his chest, as if a warm stone lay there. Those threads seemed to pull him toward Iome. He’d fought the urge to seek her hand for a year now, until he could fight no more.

Myrrima studied Gaborn once again with her marvelous frankness. Then laughed easily. “No,” she said. “Iome will not have you.”