He had made a vow never to harm the earth. It should be an easy vow to keep, he thought, for he wished the earth no harm. Yet as he considered, he wondered at the intent of the oath. Right now, the flameweavers were burning Binnesman’s garden. Was Gaborn bound by oath to fight the flameweavers, to stop them?

He listened deep in his heart, wondering, seeking to feel the earth’s will in this matter.

The fire on the hill suddenly grew brighter, or perhaps the firelight was now also reflecting from clouds of smoke above. The smell of sweet smoke was cloying. Across the river, a noman barked. Gaborn could hear others growling. It was said that nomen feared water. Gaborn hoped they feared it enough that they would not swim the river to search for him.

In the matter of the garden, Gaborn felt nothing. No urge to either stop the burning or to accept it. Certainly if Binnesman had wanted to fight for it, he’d have done so.

Gaborn silently slogged up from the river, went to Rowan, who still crouched among the willows.

He put his arm around her, held her, wondering what to do, where to hide. He wished the earth would hide him now, wished for some deep hole to crawl into. And he felt . . . a rightness on wishing that, felt that the earth would protect him that way.

“Rowan, do you know a place here in the city where we can hide? A cellar, a pit?”

“Hide? Aren’t we going to swim?”

“The water’s too shallow and too cold. You can’t swim it.” Gaborn licked his lips. “So I’m going to stay and fight Raj Ahten as best I can. He has soldiers and Dedicates here. I can best strike a blow against him if I stay.”

Rowan leaned close, seeking to warm herself. Her teeth chattered. He felt the tantalizing softness of her breasts against his chest, her hair blowing against his cheek. She was trembling, perhaps more from the cold than from fear. She’d gotten wet crawling through the stream, and she did not have Gaborn’s stamina to help her weather the cold.

“You’re staying because you’re afraid for me,” she whispered, teeth chattering. “But I can’t stay. Raj Ahten will demand an accounting . . .”

It was common for a new king to take an accounting of all his people, to find out who owed money to the kingdom. Of course, Raj Ahten’s facilitators would be there, looking for potential Dedicates. When Raj Ahten’s men learned that Rowan had been a Dedicate for the dead queen, they would probably torment her.

“Perhaps,” Gaborn said. “We can worry about that later. But now we need to hide. So tell me of such a place: a hole. A place where the scent is strong.”

“The spice cellars?” Rowan whispered. “Up by the King’s stables.”