Moments later, they headed into the forest, into the deep gloom. The trees gave shelter from the brief rain showers. For another hour they rode, as the darkness deepened, until they reached some old trail in a burn.

There, as they rode, another monarch butterfly flew up out of some weeds. Iome’s father reached for it, called out.

“Halt!” Iome shouted, leaping from her saddle. She ran to her father, who sat askew, listening to his force horse breathe, lamely reaching a hand out.

“Bu-er-fly!” he shouted, grasping at the golden monarch that flashed ahead, as if racing the horses. “Bu-er-fly! Bu-er-fly!” Tears streamed from her father’s eyes, tears of joy. If there was any pain behind those tears, any recognition of what he’d lost, Iome could not see it. These were tears of discovery.

Iome’s heart pounded. She grabbed her father’s face, tried to pull him close. She’d hoped he would regain some wit, enough to talk. Now he had it. If he knew one word, he could learn more. He’d experienced his “wakening”—that moment when the connection between a new Dedicate and his lord became firm, when the bounds of an endowment solidified.

In time, her father might learn her name, might know she loved him desperately. In time he might learn to control his bowels, feed himself.

But for the moment, as she tried to pull him close, he saw her ruined face, cried out in terror, and drew away.

King Sylvarresta was strong, so much stronger than her. With his endowments, he easily tore from her grasp, and pushed her so hard that she feared he’d broken her collarbone.

It did not matter. The pain did not diminish her joy.

Gaborn rode back to them, leaned over on his mount, and took King Sylvarresta’s hand. “Here now, milord, don’t be afraid,” he soothed. He pulled the King’s hand toward Iome, put the King’s palm on the back of her hand, let him pet it. “See? She’s nice. This is Iome, your beautiful daughter.”

“Iome,” Iome said. “Remember? Do you remember me?”

But if the King remembered her, he did not show it. His wide eyes were full of tears. He stroked her hand, but for the moment he could give her nothing more.

“Iome,” Gaborn whispered, “you need to get back on your horse. I know you can’t hear them, but mastiffs are howling in the woods behind us. We don’t have time to waste.”

Iome’s heart pounded so hard she feared it would stop. Darkness could not be far away. The rain had momentarily halted.

“All right,” she said, and leapt on her horse. In the distance, war dogs began to bay, and nearby some lone wolf raised its voice in answer.

27

THE UNFAVORED