“Please,” Borenson shouted again. He hobbled next to Gaborn now, not more than an arm’s length away. His whole head shook, and his hands trembled as he pulled at his own hair. He dared not look up, but kept his eyes at Gaborn’s feet. “Please—you, ah, you don’t understand! Myrrima was in that castle!” he pointed to Longmot and wailed, “Myrrima came. Take my—my metabolism then. Let me know nothing until this war is over!”

Gaborn shrank back a step in horror, wondering. “Are you certain?” he asked trying to sound calm, trying to sound reasonable when all reason left him. Gaborn had felt other deaths—his father’s, Chemoise’s father’s, even King Sylvarresta’s. But he had not felt Myrrima’s. “Have you seen her? Have you seen her body?”

“She rode from Bannisferre yesterday, to be here in the battle, with me. She was in the castle.” Borenson’s voice broke, and he fell to his knees and sobbed.

Gaborn had felt so right when he matched Borenson and Myrrima. He’d thought he felt another Power guide him, the powers of the earth coursing through him. Surely he had not felt impressed to match them so that they could meet so tragic an end?

“No,” Gaborn said more firmly, deciding. He would not take Borenson’s endowment, even if the guilt did promise to destroy him. Kingdoms were at stake. He could not afford such mercy, no matter how it rankled him.

Borenson dropped to his knees, put both hands palm-forward on the ground. It was the traditional stance of prisoners in war who offered themselves for beheading. He cried, “If you will not take my endowment, then take my head!”

“I will not kill you,” Gaborn answered. “If you give your life to me, I will take it—glad for the bargain. I choose you. Serve me. Help me defeat Raj Ahten!”

Borenson shook his head and began to sob, great racking sobs that left him breathless. Gaborn had never seen anything like that from the warrior, felt stunned to learn the man was capable of experiencing such pain.

Gaborn put his hands on Borenson’s shoulders, signaling for him to rise, but Borenson only knelt, weeping.

“Milady?” someone called.

Down in the fields below Gaborn, utter silence reigned. Groverman and a hundred other knights now drew near, aghast. Staring at Borenson in horror. Wondering what they should do. Some knight had called Iome, but she only held her father’s head, rocking it, almost oblivious of her surroundings.

After a long moment, Iome looked up. Her eyes filled with tears. She bent to kiss her father goodbye, on the forehead.

. Her father had not even known her at the last, Gaborn realized. He’d forgotten her existence, or did not recognize her, robbed of glamour. That seemed perhaps the worst blow of all.