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