Sons of the Oak by David Farland Page B

to hide them, the runes that the forcibles branded into their skin would mark them for what they were.
    And it would leave them only half alive, as she’d left Gaborn only half alive when she sacrificed him for the good of her people.
    â€œVery well,” Iome said, letting out a sigh. “If my children cannot protect themselves, then we will have to protect them.” She gave Borenson a long, appraising look. “Sir Borenson, you were once the greatest warrior of our generation. With a few endowments, you could be again.”
    Borenson went to the window and looked away, uncertain what to say, considering the offer. He had thought about this many times, and had turned it down just as many.
    He had taken endowments when he was young, and in doing so, had turned strong men into weaklings, wise men into fools, hale men into sicklings—all so that their attributes would be bound into him.
    But for what?

    When a lord took endowments, those who gave them, his Dedicates, lost their attributes and stood in need of protection, protection that never seemed quite ample.
    For once Borenson took endowments, every lord and brigand would know that the easiest way to take him down would be to kill his Dedicates, stripping Borenson of the attributes that they magically channeled to him.
    Thus, in the past, those who had served Borenson the best had all paid with their lives.
    Worse than that, Borenson himself had been forced to play the assassin, slaughtering the Dedicates of Raj Ahten, killing more than two thousand in a single night. Many of those had been men and women that were numbered among his friends. Others were just children.
    Nine years past, Borenson had put away his weapons and sworn to become a man of peace.
    But now, he wondered, dare I take this charge without also taking endowments?
    I made that choice long ago, he decided. When I became a father.
    â€œMy daughter Erin is still in diapers,” Borenson said. “If I were to take three or four endowments of metabolism, she’d be ten when I died of old age.”
    â€œSo you dare not make my mistake?” Iome said.
    Borenson had not meant to offer this painful reminder, but Iome had to understand what he was faced with.
    â€œI want to grow old with my children. I want to watch them marry and have my grandbabies, and be there to give them advice when they need. I don’t want to take endowments of metabolism. And without those, the rest would be almost meaningless.”
    It was true. A man might take great endowments of grace and brawn and stamina, but that would not make him a great warrior—not if an opponent charged into battle with three or four endowments of metabolism. Borenson would die in a blur to a weaker man before he could ever land a blow.
    â€œVery well,” Iome said. “I not only respect your position, I wish that I had been as wise in my youth. But if you will not take the endowments necessary to ensure my son’s safety, then I will be forced to ensure his safety. At least, I’ll come with you as far as I can.”
    Borenson felt astonished. He had not expected her to abandon her kingdom. At the most, he’d thought that she might only accompany him to the
border. He gave her an appraising look. “As far as you can, milady?” Then he asked tenderly, “How far will that be?”
    Iome knew what he meant. She hid the signs of aging from others, but she could not hide them from herself. Though she had been on the earth for less than twenty-five years, her endowments of metabolism had aged her more than a hundred. She moved like a panther, but she could feel the end coming. Her feet had begun to swell; she had lost sensation in her legs. Iome felt fragile, ready to break.
    â€œYou and my son had the same warning,” she said. “‘Hide.’ But my husband’s last words to me were, ‘I go to ride the Great Hunt. I await you.’”
    Iome continued. “I