The move was unexpected, quick as a fish jumping for a fly, and Borenson felt her lips brush his for only a moment.

He placed the pear in her hand and left, and for a long hour afterward he could not quite remember what pain had brought him to that pool, with roses of red and white bobbing among the golden leaves.

He managed to find his mount, then rode at leisure, letting the horse graze as it walked; soon enough he reached the little meadow outside Bannisferre where Myrrima’s cottage lay among the wild daisies.

Blue smoke curled up from a cooking fire, and one of Myrrima’s ugly sisters—Inette, he recalled her name—stood feeding grain to the scrawny black chickens at the front door.

As he rode up, Inette looked up at him, a smile on her ruined face. The smile quickly faded. “You all right?”

“No,” Borenson said. “Where’s Myrrima?”

“A messenger came through town,” Inette said. “Troops are gathering. Lord Orden is at Longmot. She—Myrrima left last night. Many of the boys from town have gone to fight.”

All the ease of heart he’d felt for the past hour now drained from him. “To Longmot!” Borenson shouted. “Why?”

“She wants to be with you!” Inette answered.

“This—this won’t be a picnic or a day at the fair!” Borenson shouted.

“She knows,” Inette whispered. “But you’re betrothed. If you live through it, she wants to live with you. And if you don’t . . .”

Borenson hung his head, thinking furiously. Sixty miles. Nearly sixty miles to Longmot. She could not have walked there in a night, even in a pair of nights.

“Did she travel afoot?”

Inette shook her head numbly. “Some boys from town went. In a wagon . . .”

Too late. Too late. Borenson spun his horse, raced to catch her.

35

BETWEEN STRONG ARMS

Gaborn heard Iome cry out as he rode toward Longmot. Her cry was so startling that at first he feared that she’d been shot with an arrow. For hours now they had been traveling, stopping every few minutes to switch horses, and Iome had not made a single complaint. He slowed and turned in his saddle to look back.

He saw at first that King Sylvarresta sat in his saddle, head nodding. The King clutched the pom of his saddle with both hands. He wept softly, breathing in gasps. Tears streamed from his eyes.

Iome, too was hunched. “Gaborn, stop. We’ve got to stop!” she cried, taking the reins of her father’s horse.

“What’s wrong?” Gaborn asked.

“Gaagh,” King Sylvarresta said.

“Our Dedicates are dying,” Iome said. “He . . . I don’t know if my father has the strength to go on.”

Gaborn felt an overwhelming sadness envelop him. “Borenson. I should have guessed.” He felt dazed. “I am so sorry, Iome.”