But Gaborn’s father was another matter. Orden was a self-proclaimed “pragmatist” when it came to taking endowments—a man who took endowments freely offered but who, as a younger man, had also engaged in the dubious act of purchasing endowments. He seemed to Iome to verge on being more than pragmatic. He seemed morally suspect. He was too successful at winning the trust of lesser men; he purchased endowments far too cheaply and too often, both for himself and his troops. Indeed, Gaborn’s father was said to personally hold over a hundred endowments.

Yet, even then, Iome knew that Gaborn’s father, King Orden, was no Raj Ahten. He’d never “forced a peasant’s gift,” collecting some poor farmer’s brawn in lieu of back taxes. He’d never won a maiden’s love and then asked her to give him an endowment as well as her heart.

“Forgive me,” Iome said, “I spoke Orden an injustice. I’m overwrought. He has been a good friend, and a decent king to his people. Yet I have a nagging fear that your father will use Heredon as a shield. And when we buckle under Raj Ahten’s blow, he will toss us aside and flee the battlefield. That would be the wise thing to do.”

“Then you don’t know my father,” Gaborn said. “He is a true friend.” He was still hurt, yet his tone carried such liquid notes of sincerity that Iome wondered briefly how many endowments of Voice Gaborn owned. How many mutes do you have in your service? she almost asked, sure it must be a dozen.

“Your father won’t throw his life away in our defense. Surely you know better.”

Gaborn said coldly, “He’ll do what he must.”

“I wish it were not so,” Iome whispered. Almost unwillingly she glanced down into the Dedicates’ Keep. Against the far wall stood one of her father’s smelly idiots, a woman whose mind was so drained of wit that she could no longer control her own bowels; she was being led to the dining hall by a blind man. Together, they weaved around an old fellow whose metabolism was so slowed that he could only shuffle from one room to another in the course of a day—and he was lucky to move at all, for many who were drained of metabolism would simply fall into an enchanted sleep, waking only when the lord who held their endowment died. The sight repulsed her.

As Runelords, Iome and her family were heirs to great boons from their subjects, but at a horrifying cost.

“Your compassion does you credit, Princess Sylvarresta, but my father has not earned your disrespect. Little more than his pragmatism has shielded our kingdoms from Raj Ahten this past dozen years.”