Borenson stood dumbfounded, like a boy caught stealing apples. His face told that he’d considered the match, hoped for it.

“I told you I thought you’d do well in court,” Gaborn said to Myrrima. “I’d like you to be in my court.”

Certainly the woman would take his meaning. No Runelord could marry her. The best she could hope for would be some merchant prince, burdened by adolescent lust.

Gaborn offered her a position of power—more than she could normally hope for—with an honorable and decent man whose life doomed him to a strange and lonely existence. It was no promise of love, but then Myrrima was a pragmatic woman who had taken the beauty of her sisters, the wisdom of her mother. Having taken these endowments, she would now have to assume responsibility for her impoverished kin. She knew the burden of power. She’d be a perfect woman to hold a place in Mystarria.

She looked up into Borenson’s eyes for a long moment, face and mouth suddenly hard, as she considered the offer. Gaborn could see that now that the proposal was made, she realized what a momentous decision this was.

Almost imperceptibly, she nodded, sealing the bargain.

Borenson offered none of the hesitancy that Myrrima had found with Gaborn. He reached out and took her slender hand in both fists.

He said, “You must understand, fair lady, that no matter how sturdy my love for you grows, my first loyalty will always be to my lord.”

“As it should be,” Myrrima said softly, with a slight nod.

Gaborn’s heart leapt. I have won her love as surely as Borenson shall, he thought.

At this moment, he felt strange—as if gripped by some great power. It seemed he could feel that power, like a buffeting wind, encircling—invisible, potent, overawing.

Gaborn’s pulse raced. He glanced around, certain the source of this emotion must have a cause—a shifting in the earth in preparation for a quake, an approaching thunderstorm. But he saw nothing out of the normal. Those around him did not seem troubled.

Yet he could feel . . . the earth preparing to move beneath his feet—the rocks to twist or breathe or shout.

It was a distinctly odd sensation.

As suddenly as the rush of power had come, it dissipated. Like a gust of wind passing over a meadow, unseen, but subtly disturbing all in its wake.

Gaborn wiped perspiration from his brow, worried. I’ve come a thousand miles to heed a distant, unheard call. And now I feel this?

It seemed madness. He asked the others, “Do you—do you feel anything?”

3

OF KNIGHTS AND PAWNS