df.therunelords-第62部分
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outh。 It was hard to move such a big man。
No； it was not his weight that made dragging him difficult。 Instead it was the way he clutched her； grasping fiercely at her shoulders； his powerful fingers digging into her skin like claws； his legs unable to relax enough to walk。
She felt she had failed him years before； when she'd let him go south to fight Raj Ahten。 She'd feared he would never return； that he'd be killed。 She'd hoped her fear had been only a child's concerns。 But now； after his years as a prisoner； Chemoise imagined she'd had a premonition； perhaps a cold certainty sent from her ancestors beyond the grave。
So now she carried not only her father； but also the weight of her failure all those years before； a weight that somehow tangled with her feelings of inadequacy at having found herself pregnant。 Her； the Princess's Maid of Honor。
The western Great Hall in the Dedicates' Keep was huge； three stories tall； where fifteen hundred men slept on any given night。 Smooth walnut planks covered the floors； and each wall held a huge hearth so the room could be kept fortably warm all winter。
The eastern Great Hall； on the far side of the bailey； held a third as many women。
〃Where。。。？〃 Chemoise's father asked as she dragged him past the rows of pallets where Dedicates lay。
〃South； to Longmont； I think；〃 Chemoise said。 〃Raj Ahten has ordered you to be brought。〃
〃South；〃 her father whispered a worried acknowledgment。
Chemoise struggled to drag her father past a man who'd soiled his bed。 If she'd had time； she'd have cared for the fellow。 But the wain would leave any moment； and she couldn't risk being separated from her father。 〃You。。e？〃 her father asked。
〃Of course；〃 Chemoise said。 She could not really promise such a thing。 She could only throw herself on the mercy of Raj Ahten's men； hope they'd let her care for her father。 They'd allow it； she told herself。 Dedicates needed caretakers。
〃No！〃 her father grumbled。 He quit trying to walk； suddenly let his feet drag； making her stagger to one side。 She bore the weight； tried to carry him against his will。
〃Let die！〃 he whispered fiercely。 〃Feed。。。feed poison。 Make sick。 We die。〃
It worried her how he pleaded。 Killing himself was the only way he could strike back at Raj Ahten。 Yet Chemoise could not bear the thought of killing any of these men； even though she knew that life for them would be horrible； chained to some dirty floor。 She had to hope that her father would return someday； whole； undefiled。
Chemoise hugged her father； bore him through the big oak door； into the light。 The fresh wind carried the smell of rain。 Everywhere； Raj Ahten's troops rushed to and fro； seeking the King's treasury and armory above the kitchens。 She heard glass break down the street； the cries of merchants。
She dragged her father to the huge； covered wain in the bailey。 The sides and roof of the wain were made of thick oak planks； with only a thin grate to provide any light or fresh air。 One of Raj Ahten's soldiers grabbed her father by the scruff of the neck； lifted him into the wain with no more care than if he were a sack of grain。
〃Ah； de last；〃 the soldier said in a thick Muyyatin accent。
〃Yes；〃 she said。 The Raj's vectors were all in the wagon。 The guard turned。
Chemoise glanced down the road through the portcullis gate； startled； Iome； King Sylvarresta； two Days； and Prince Orden were riding fine horses down Market Street toward the city gates。
She wanted to ride with them； or to shout a blessing to help them on their way。
She waited while the guard wrestled her father through the door。 The wagon shifted with the movement。 At the front of the wagon； some horsemen expertly began to back four heavy horses into their traces； hitching them to the axletree。
Chemoise climbed up the wagon steps； looked in。 Fourteen Dedicates lay on straw inside the shadowed wagon。 The place smelled fetid； of old sweat and urine that had worked into the floorboards and walls。 Chemoise looked for a place to sit among the defeated menthe blind； the deaf； the idiots。 At that moment； the guard was laying her father on the hay。 He glanced over his shoulder at Chemoise。
〃No！ You no get！〃 the guard shouted； hurrying up to push her back from the wagon door。
〃Butmy father！ My father is there！〃 Chemoise cried。
〃No！ You no e！〃 the guard said； pushing her。
Chemoise backed pletely out the door of the great wagon； tried to find her footing on the ladder behind。 The guard shoved her。
She fell hard to the packed dirt of the bailey。
〃Ees military。 For just military；〃 the guard said； with a chopping motion of his hand。
〃Wait！〃 Chemoise cried。 〃My father is in there！〃
The guard stared impassively； as if a daughter's love for her father was a foreign concept。
The guard rested his hand on the hilt of the curved dagger in his belt。 Chemoise knew there would be no reasoning； no mercy。
With a shout and a whistle； the driver of the huge wain urged the horses from the Dedicates' Keep。 Guards ran before and behind the wagon。
Chemoise couldn't follow the wagon to Longmont。 She knew she'd never see her father again。
Chapter 22
A HARD CHOICE
As Borenson smiled at Gaborn； watched the Prince suddenly reach the realization that Raj Ahten had e primarily to slay him and his father； a blackness came over Borenson's minda cloud of despair。
He saw King Sylvarresta； told himself； I am not death。 I am not the destroyer。
He'd always tried to be a good soldier。 Though he lived by the sword； he did not enjoy killing。 He fought because he sought to protect othersto spare the lives of his friends； not to take the lives of his foes。 Even his rades…in…arms did not understand this。 Though he smiled in battle； he smiled not in glee or from bloodlust。 He did so because he'd learned long ago that the fey smile struck terror into the hearts of his opponents。
He had an assignment from his King： to kill the Dedicates of Raj Ahten； even though those Dedicates might he his lord's oldest and dearest friends； even if the Dedicate was the King's own son。
Borenson saw at a glance that King Sylvarresta had given his endowment。 The idiot king no longer knew how to seat a horse。 He leaned forward； eyes wide with fright； moaning incoherently； tied to the pommel of his saddle。
There； Borenson assumed； beside the King rode Iome or the Queenhe could not tell whichall the glamour leached from her； skin as rough as cracked leather。 Unrecognizable。
I am not death； Borenson told himself； though he knew he'd have to bring death to these two。 The thought sickened him。
I have feasted at that King's table； Borenson told himself； remembering past years when Orden took Hostenfest with Sylvarresta。 The smells of roast pork and new wine and turnips had always been strong at the tablefresh bread with honey； oranges from Mystarria。 Sylvarresta had always been generous with his wine； free with his jokes。
Had Borenson not thought the King too high above Borenson's own station； he'd have been proud to call him friend。
On the Isle of Thwynn； where Borenson was born； the code of hospitality was clear： to rob or kill someone who fed you was dastardly。 Those who did so were afforded no mercy when slain。 Borenson had once seen a man stoned near to death for merely affronting his host。
Borenson had ridden here hoping that he would not have to carry out his King's orders； hoping that the Dedicates' Keep would be so well guarded he'd never have a chance to gain entry； hoping that King Sylvarresta would have refused to grant an endowment to Raj Ahten。
Iome。 Borenson recognized the Princess now； not from her features but from her graceful build。 He remembered one late night； seven years past； when he'd been sitting in the King's Keep beside a roaring fire； drinking mulled wine； while Orden and Sylvarresta traded humorous tales of hunts long past。 On that occasion； young Iome； wakened by the loud laughter beneath her room； had e to listen。
To Borenson's surprise； the Princess had e into the room and sat on his lap； where her feet could be near the fire。 She had not sought out the King's lap； or that of one of the King's own guards。 She'd chosen him； and just sat by the fire； gazing dreamily at his red beard。 She'd been beautiful even as a child； and he'd felt protective； imagining that someday he might have a daughter so fine。
Now Borenson smiled at Gaborn； tried to hide his rage； his own self…loathing； at the duty he must perform。 I am not death。
The dead enemy's warhorse had run downhill； stood now； ears back； regarding the situation calmly。 Iome rode to it； whispered softly； and took its reins。 The warhorse tried to nip her； Iome slapped its armored face； letting it know she was in mand。 She brought the horse to Borenson。
She sat rigidly as she drew near； her yellowed eyes filled with fear。 She said； 〃Here； Sir Borenson。〃
Borenson didn't take the reins immediately。 She was within striking range as she leaned near。 Borenson could slap her with a mailed fist； break her neck without drawing a weapon。 Yet here she stood； offering him a service； his host once again。 He stood； unable to strike。
〃You've done my people a great service this day；〃 she said； 〃dislod
