By killing men in Castle Sylvarresta, Borenson had robbed Raj Ahten of many endowments of grace. The Runelord had been hoarding it, had drawn it from hundreds of men at the castle. Which meant he felt overbalanced in brawn. This would leave him muscle-bound, lacking agility. Perhaps, given such imbalance, King Orden might stand a chance against the Wolf Lord.

So Borenson hoped he’d accomplished his job. He couldn’t bear to think his incompetence might cost Orden this battle. Couldn’t bear—couldn’t stomach the shame that coursed through him when he thought of King Sylvarresta and Iome, still alive.

Sparing those two had cost the lives of dozens of others. Sparing them lent power to Raj Ahten.

A small amount of power, true. But if Borenson and some other assassins struck Raj Ahten’s Dedicates at the right time, the Wolf Lord might reach some unfortunate proportion.

Today I hunt Raj Ahten, Borenson told himself, and he let a killing mood seep through every muscle and bone, blanket him like a cloak.

Today I am death. Today I hunt him, and nothing else.

In his imagination, he practiced killing, preparing his every fiber, his every response for cold murder. He imagined how it would be when he met Raj Ahten’s scouts here, miles north of Longmot, along the road. He’d ride them down, impale them on his lance so that their warm blood washed him in a wave, leaving no witnesses. Then he’d steal a uniform and ride pell-mell to the battle lines, bursting in on Raj Ahten, as if delivering a message. His message would be death.

The warriors of Inkarra claimed that War was a dark lady, and that those men who served her best gained her favor. They claimed she was a Power, like Earth or Air, Fire or Water.

Yet in the Kingdoms of Rofehavan, it was said that War was but one aspect of Fire, and that no one should serve it.

But the damned Inkarrans should know, Borenson thought. They were masters of war.

Borenson had never sought the Dark Lady’s favor, had never addressed her before, but now a prayer formed on his lips, an ancient prayer he’d heard from others but never dared voice himself.

“Take me in your arms, Dark Lady, take me.
Wrap me in grave clothes, and let your sweet breath
lie cold on my cheeks. Let darkness steal
over me, and fill me with your power.
Today, I call to you. Today, I am death.”

As he rode, Borenson began to smile, then to laugh a deep, throaty chuckle that seemed to rumble from someplace outside him, to well up from the hills or from the trees.

52

A PERFECT DAY