It was odd, but the image came to mind with such force that Gaborn could not think to say anything else. Words did not suffice for what he felt, for he could literally feel his hand wrapping around the worn wooden handles of the plow, feel the strain of the lines from the ox cutting into his back, feel the keen edge of the plow biting into the soil, turning over dark dirt, discovering worms. He could taste the metallic tang of soil in his mouth, see fields and forests streaming out before him. His pockets were heavy with seeds, ready to plant.

He felt as if he were experiencing all these things at once, and he wondered if any gardener had really ever felt such a keen thrill of anticipation as the one that assailed him at this moment. Oddest of all, Gaborn had never done these things—had never hitched himself to a plow or stooped to plant the earth.

Yet he wished at this moment that he had. He wished that at this very second, he stood in the earth.

Myrrima looked at him strangely. Gaborn’s Days gave no reply, playing the invisible observer.

But Borenson’s eyes shone with laughter. “Milord, I think you have had too much air today. Your face is pale and sweaty. Do you feel well?”

“I feel . . . very . . . healthy,” Gaborn said, wondering if he was ill. Wondering if he was mad. Few weaknesses ever impaired a Runelord. An endowment of wit could repair a lord with poor memory, an endowment of stamina could bolster a sickly king. But madness . . .

“Well then,” Gaborn said, suddenly wanting to be alone with his thoughts, to consider what could cause these profound feelings of . . . planting, “I think you two should spend some time getting acquainted—the afternoon.”

“My lord, I am your body—” Borenson said, not willing to leave his side. Gaborn could count the times on his fingers when Borenson had been away for more than a night.

“And I will be lounging in a hostel, with nothing more dangerous than a joint of pork before me.” Borenson could hardly refuse. Custom dictated that he go privately to the woman’s house to beg her hand in marriage. With a witless mother and no father, custom might be somewhat circumvented in this case, but it could not be put aside entirely.

“Are you certain? I don’t think this is wise,” Borenson said, his manner becoming deadly earnest. Gaborn was in a strange country, after all, and he was heir apparent to the wealthiest nation in Rofehavan.

“Just go, will you?” Gaborn urged them, smiling. “If it makes you feel better, I promise that as soon as I lunch, I will go to my room and bolt the door.”

“We’ll be back well before dark,” Myrrima said.

Gaborn said, “_No, I’ll seek out your home. I’d like to meet your kind sisters, and your mother.”