The symbol on this forcible reminded Iome of an eagle flying with a giant spider dripping from its mouth. Yet the sinuous lines on the rune varied greatly in thickness, curled at odd yet seeming natural angles. The symbol for stamina. Dewynne had always been healthy—never sick a day of her life. Now Lord Sylvarresta would need her stamina in battle, need it desperately if he took a serious wound.

The facilitator kept chirping in his high voice, then suddenly cried with a throaty growl, making earthy sounds—like lava bubbling, like lions roaring in the wilderness.

The end of the forcible began to glow. Its blood metal blossomed from a dull rusty rose to a fierce titanium white.

Dewynne screamed “Ah, by the Powers, it hurts!” and struggled away from the burning rune. Sweat poured from her as if she had a raging fever. Her face contorted in pain.

Her jaw quivered, and her back arched off the cot. She began panting, sweat streaming from her face.

Iome held the woman, forcing her down, forcing her still. A strong soldier took Dewynne’s right arm so that she couldn’t break contact with the forcible, spoil the spell.

“Look at my father,” Iome said, trying to distract Dewynne from the pain. “Look to your lord! He’ll protect you. He loves you. My father has always loved you, just as you love him. He’ll protect you. Just keep looking at your lord.”

Iome shot a fierce glare at the facilitator, so he moved a bit, opening Dewynne’s view.

“Ah, and I thought having a child hurt!” Dewynne sobbed, yet she turned and looked fondly at King Sylvarresta. It was necessary. It was necessary for her to remember why she had to pass through this pain. It was necessary for her to want this, to want to give up her stamina more than anything else in the world. And the only way to keep her focused on this desire was to put the object of her devotion before her eyes.

King Sylvarresta, a strong man in his mid-thirties, was stripped to the waist, and sat on a stone in the courtyard. His long auburn hair fell down round his shoulders, and his wavy beard was neatly trimmed. At the moment, his armorer was trying to get him to put on a leather underjerkin in preparation for the full mail, but Sylvarresta needed to keep his upper torso bare so that the facilitator could apply the runes of power.

The King’s chancellor, Rodderman, was demanding that Lord Sylvarresta go out to the walls now, to bolster the courage of his people, while the King’s old sage, Chamberlain Inglorians, urged him to stay, to get as many endowments as possible.

King Sylvarresta elected to stay. He glanced Iome’s way, caught Dewynne’s eyes, and just held the suffering woman with his gaze.